He, who had
always been so fearless, was now afraid of the day when he should
not return and she would be once more alone.
So he let his younger and eager followers do some of the battling,
though he never relaxed his vigilance, never took off his armor, so
to speak. But now he spent long days and quiet nights with Lydia
and his children. They entertained many guests, for the young people
were vigorous and laughter-loving, and George and Lydia never grew
old, never grew weary, never grew commonplace. All the year round
guests came to the hospitable country house--men and women of
culture, of learning, of artistic tastes, of congenial habits.
Scientists, authors, artists, all made their pilgrimages to this
unique household, where refinement and much luxury, and always a
glad welcome from the chief and his English wife, made their visits
long remembered. And in some way or other, as their children grew
up, those two seemed to come closer together once more. They walked
among the trees they had once loved in those first bridal days,
they rested by the river shore, they wandered over the broad meadows
and bypaths of the old estate, they laughed together frequently like
children, and always and ever talked of and acted for the good of
the Indian people who were so unquestionably the greatest interest
in their lives, outside their own children.
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