There might possibly be a child, but children--never! But he doubted
even regarding a child, for no word had come to him concerning that
possibility. He was even most puzzled at the tone and substance of their
letters. From the beginning there had been no reproaches, no excitement,
no railing, but studied kindness and conventional statements, through
which Mrs. Armour's solicitous affection scarcely ever peeped. He had
shot his bolt, and got--consideration, almost imperturbability. They
appeared to treat the matter as though he were a wild youth who would not
yet mend his ways. He read over their infrequent letters to him; his to
them had been still more infrequent. In one there was the statement that
"she was progressing favourably with her English"; in another, that "she
was riding a good deal"; again, that "she appeared anxious to adapt
herself to her new life."

At all these he whistled a little to himself, and smiled bitterly. Then,
all at once, he got up and straightway burned them all. He again tried
to put the matter behind him for the present, knowing that he must face
it one day, and staving off its reality as long as possible. He did his
utmost to be philosophical and say his quid refert, but it was easier
tried than done; for Jacques Pontiac's words kept rankling in his mind,
and he found himself carrying round a vague load, which made him
abstracted occasionally, and often a little reckless in action and
speech. In hunting bear and moose he had proved himself more daring than
the oldest hunter, and proportionately successful. He paid his servants
well, but was sharp with them.

He made long, hard expeditions, defying the weather as the hardiest of
prairie and mountain men mostly hesitate to defy it; he bought up much
land, then, dissatisfied, sold it again at a loss, but subsequently made
final arrangements for establishing a very large farm. When he once