Chapter VI: Part 6

"Em--em--lack of ambition," said Stillwater, "that's the trouble with this country. I could see it before I was two hours landed. The Britishers are too well-satisfied with themselves. Life's too easy. They haven't had to grow up with a new town--they ought to have been in my shoes, eh, mother?"

Mrs. Bunker walked about, surveying the room.

"Father--mother--grandmother!" exclaimed Indiana, taking the centre of the room. "I have married into a great family. None of your new nobility. We are one of the few unadulterated families in England, which has never married out of its sphere--except in my case. And I shall assimilate, not diverge. No one speaks of progression here. All are sublimely content. New ideas are shunned, as modern depravity, by her ladyship. Look about you, at these old family relics--"

"I expect to see a ghost every moment," interrupted Mrs. Bunker, affecting to shiver.

"It's like a nasty old vault," whispered Mrs. Stillwater, confidentially, to her husband.

"There's nothing better than us," remarked Indiana, with a toss of her head. "Nothing, from an ancestral point of view."

"Indiana, drop that English accent," said Mrs. Bunker, sharply, "it's too affected."

"Hush!" answered Indiana, looking toward the door. Thurston entered, with Lady Canning on his arm.

Indiana approached her with a very marked change of manner, speaking in soft, low English tones. "My dear Lady Canning, I have had such a delightful surprise. This is my father and mother."

"My dear Mrs. Stillwater, I am really delighted. And Mr. Stillwater."

"And this is my grandmother," continued Indiana.

"Your grandmother!" exclaimed Lady Canning, staring in surprise at the vivacious and essentially modern woman before her. Mrs. Bunker, on this occasion, wore a very becoming, extremely youthful hat.

"It's difficult to realize, isn't it?" remarked Mrs. Bunker, laughing and flattered at Lady Canning's astonishment. "We consider it criminal in the States for a woman not to look at least ten years younger than she really is. I've always been regarded as a remarkable woman for my age."

"The costume is deceiving," answered Lady Canning, regarding Mrs. Bunker's fashionable attire with disapproving eyes. "At first glance I thought you were a young woman, Mrs.--er--"

"Bunker," smiling graciously.

"Mrs. Bunker. However, on close inspection, I see you are not."

Having thus summarily thrown cold water on Mrs. Bunker's enthusiasm, Lady Canning proceeded on Thurston's arm to her usual chair by the fire, Lord Stafford, entering shortly after, exchanged laughing greetings with his fellow-travellers.

"Lady Canning, I wouldn't harbor any old bachelors," remarked Mrs. Bunker, her irrepressible spirits rising to the surface again. "If he were my brother, I'd just turn him out, and he would be obliged to marry for a shelter."

"Mrs. Bunker," said Lord Stafford, "I once heard a Yankee farmer say, 'An old hoss that's been jogging along a good many years alone, is always good to jog along a few years more, but if you yoke him with another hoss, he's winded at once, and goes to the wall.' Ha, ha, ha, ha!"

Indiana, who was sitting at the tea-table, strained her eyes and ears, trying to hear everything that was said. At one time she became so absorbed, making anxious and involuntary comparisons between her relatives and Thurston's, that she forgot to pour out the tea, while Jennings stood anxiously watching her, waiting for the cups.

"And how do you find your daughter looking, Mrs. Stillwater?" inquired Lady Canning.

Mrs. Stillwater, sitting near the elder lady by the fire, shook her head dolefully. "Her color's not as high as it used to be. I suppose it's living in these dark, musty rooms. And she's used to flying about in the open air."

"Mother!" exclaimed Indiana.

"What is it, Indiana?" answered Mrs. Stillwater, starting.

Indiana gave her a warning glance. "You don't take sugar, do you?"

"No, dear," answered Mrs. Stillwater, quite oblivious to the glance, "Don't wait on me. Shall I pour the tea?"

"Sit down, dear Mrs. Stillwater," said Lady Canning. "Indiana always does her duty as mistress of the house. No doubt you miss her very much. I can understand that."

"I'll tell you frankly, I was very much against it, she's the only one we have. I begged her not to do it. I even warned Thurston against her. One must give in to Indiana in order to get along with her, and, living with a mother-in-law, I was afraid of it."

Lady Canning laughed quietly.

"Mother!" exclaimed Indiana.

"Yes, dear," answered Mrs. Stillwater. She went over to Indiana and bent over her.

"Stop that," whispered Indiana.

Mrs. Stillwater looked at her with a piteous expression, then sank down into a chair near the tea-table.

"This cup is for Lady Canning. No, Jennings, I'll take it to her myself."

Mrs. Stillwater watched her jealously as she waited on Lady Canning, and drank her tea with a vague feeling of disappointment in her reunion with Indiana. Mr. Stillwater inspected, with interest, various objects in the room, walking about with Thurston, their cups in their hands.

"There's a solidity about all this, which speaks for itself," said Mr. Stillwater. "It's no use talking, a man can't buy it." Thurston called his attention to a tapestry. "Yes, I know--Gobelin--very fine. I admire it right here, because it belongs here. But when our millionaires import other people's old furniture, even that of princes and cardinals, and put it in their brand-new American homes--it seems to me snobbery. The only value of an antique is when it belongs to a nation."

"I agree with you, Mr. Stillwater."

After some further conversation, Lady Canning said, gently, to Indiana, "My darling, will you excuse me now? I know you have much to say to your people." She shook hands graciously with them all. "Now, when will you come and dine with us?"

"Oh, we'll run in any old time," said Mrs. Bunker.

"We won't wait for invitations," added Mr. Stillwater. "We'll run over to breakfast or supper, just as the spirit moves us. We'll take possession while we're here."

"You will always be very welcome whenever you care to come," answered Lady Canning. "But we are not used to being taken unawares." She bowed with a set smile, as she left the room leaning on her brother's arm. But her presence was still felt by a perceptible chill in the atmosphere. Thurston, however, soon dispelled the restraint. He took them through the house, entertaining them with histories of different family relics, to which they listened with interest. Then they adjourned to his own particular den, where all the trophies of his travels were collected. Finally Indiana carried them off to her apartments, leaving Thurston in his den. When they were all comfortably installed in the boudoir, Indiana, leaning on her mother's breast, looked thoughtfully up in her face and then at the others. She could scarcely realize that they were substantial creations.

"Indiana Stillwater," said Mrs. Bunker, "the way you crawl to that woman is very un-American."

"In England it's the custom for people to pay great respect to their elders."

"That's a nice slap in the face for us," remarked Mrs. Bunker.

"Grandma Chazy, you don't want the deference due to age," answered Indiana, propitiatingly. "You won't for many years, I hope. Think of treating ma and pa like that. They wouldn't like it a bit."

"No," said Mrs. Stillwater, "we're satisfied as long as you love us. But don't let anyone else take our place." She pressed her lips to Indiana's soft hair, crying silently. Indiana tightened her arms about her mother's waist, unaware of the tears that were falling on her yellow puffs.

"Well, then," said Mrs. Bunker, "just put on your things and come and have supper with us at the hotel. All the Americans in town will be there, beside the English celebrities. Come along. I'll show you the whole push."

"I'd love to go."

"We'll have a good time, if it is Sunday night. Well, what are you sitting there for? Get your things on."

"I must ask my husband," said Indiana, slowly, the eager sparkle suddenly dying in her eyes.

Mrs. Bunker sank down in the chair, from which she had sprung in her enthusiasm. "Indiana Stillwater, I never thought you would turn out such a spiritless kind of a woman. Of course it's none of my business, but if you start in this way, you'll lose your entire individuality."

"It's not so, Grandma Chazy. I do just as I like. I allow no one to compel me."

"You're quite right to ask your husband, and, if it's against his religious views, you stay home and read the Bible to his mother." Mrs. Bunker went to the mirror, arranging her hat, as if the question had been settled.

"It's not so!" exclaimed Indiana, rising and stamping her foot. "You don't understand the conditions of life over here."

"It's the thing in London now, to dine out on Sunday nights. You can't tell me, Indiana Stillwater."

"It may be the thing, but we don't do it. Must I tell you again I have married into a very conservative family?"

"We're not good enough for you, now," replied Mrs. Bunker, sarcastically.

"I'll always love my own people, but I won't be blind to their faults. We lack culture and repose."

"You may be right, Indy," said Mr. Stillwater, hitherto a silent listener. "But if you keep cultivating a field of wheat right along, you'll cultivate it till it doesn't produce anything. They're running to seed fast here--and we're still bearing strong. Repose! Let them have it. Thank heaven, we youngsters are always on our feet. Now, mother!" Mrs. Stillwater was crying. At the sight of her tears Indiana capitulated.

"I'll come, mother," she said, despairingly, throwing herself on her knees beside her.

"Darling!" cried Mrs. Stillwater. "Don't you think we ought to ask Thurston?"

"I'll ask him, of course," said Indiana, "but I'm sure he won't come."

"We'll manage without him," said Mrs. Bunker. "On second thoughts, I think we'll send for you, Indiana." She looked significantly at the others. "We'll send for her at eight o'clock." They nodded. "That'll just give you time to dress. We've another surprise in store for you." They all laughed.

"Ah, don't tell me. It's so nice to look forward to something one don't expect."

"Take off that dowdy thing," directed Mrs. Bunker. "Go back to your trousseau."

"We turned you out better than that," commented Stillwater, looking her over. Indiana pouted like a child, teased. Thurston emerged from his den as they descended the stairs. Lord Stafford also joined them below in the library.

"Thurston," asked Stillwater, taking him aside, "has she broken out yet?" Thurston shook his head, laughing.

Stillwater took Indiana in his arms.

"Goodbye. God bless you!"

Mrs. Bunker kissed her vehemently.

"I couldn't let you go," whispered Mrs. Stillwater. "If I wasn't sure I'd see you to-night."

Indiana sank into a chair as they all left the room, Thurston and Lord Stafford accompanying them to the door. Her thoughts were in a whirl. Her pride had been hurt at the idea her family should think she was not utterly a free agent, and that was one of the main reasons why she had consented to join them that night. Then they brought her old life back so forcibly. If her relatives had suffered in comparison with Thurston's, her present life now suffered in comparison with the old--its freedom, and lack of obligation. She realized now that she had been truly queen of her own territory. She heard them all laughing and talking below. Gradually their voices died away, the voices of her old life. She felt a sense of loneliness.

It was early spring, when Jennings made it a rule to light the candles later. Everything in the room had faded into the growing dusk. The old objects so easily blended with a waning light. Indiana heard Thurston laughing heartily with Lord Stafford, as they ascended the stairs.

"All in the dark, sweetheart!" He touched the electric button of the lamp on the table, revealing Indiana, buried in one of the big chairs, gazing dismally before her. The smile died on his face.

"Oh, go on! Don't mind me!" exclaimed Indiana. "Laugh at them! Ridicule them! Tell me you don't want them to darken your doors again. I'm ready for anything."

"Indiana!" exclaimed Thurston, justly hurt at this unreasonable outburst. "How can you? I wasn't laughing in that way. I find your people very witty and amusing. As for separating you from them, I hope we shall see as much of them as we possibly can. Grandma Chazy is a new creation for us. We simply revel in her. She'll make a sensation wherever she goes. I shouldn't wonder if she would marry well and settle down in England. There now, the storm's over." He smoothed the hair back from her forehead with a soothing touch. "Poor little thing, she's had a shock. I hate surprises myself. Lie down for an hour and rest. Come," lifting her up from the chair, "I'll put you on the sofa."

"No, no!" protested Indiana, "there's no time. I--I have promised to go out." He looked at her in astonishment. "The folks wouldn't take 'no' for an answer," affecting not to notice his surprise, "and naturally, they want me with them as much as possible."

"Naturally!" said Thurston, coldly. If she wished to go out with her family, why had she not consulted him first, he thought, instead of considering it sufficient to merely apprise him of her intention.

"I won't ask you to waste your night," she said, carelessly, endeavoring to make it apparent that she was quite innocent of any departure from the conventional order of things. He looked at her again, in astonishment. Why should she assume a night spent with her was wasted? It was an evident fact he was not wanted. "But, you can call for me," she wound up, airily.

"Where?"

"Oh, they've mapped out a programme," she answered, irrelevantly. "Grandma Chazy knows what's to be seen." She turned to leave the room, as though summarily dismissing the subject.

"I am only your husband, it is true, but I think I have a right to know, if my wife goes out, where she is going."

Indiana paused half way to the door. "I'm going to dine with them at the Cecil, where they are stopping." He was silent. She waited, in some suspense, for a remark, her hand on the door.

"I am sorry to disappoint you--but I cannot permit you to go," he said, at length, slowly. "It's not the place for Lady Canning. It may be all very well for strangers--sight-seers--but London is our home. These places are resorts for foreigners, professional women, men-about-town, and others, who delight to bask in the public eye. I have another reason. I do not wish you to be seen in public, until I have formally presented you--as my wife." He approached her and removing her hand gently from the handle of the door, led her back into the room. She went unwillingly, her head drooping. "Indiana," he put his hand under her chin and lifted her face, so that her eyes met his. "I don't wish to force you, but to convince you. Admit it would be a very foolish and inconsistent thing to do."

"Yes, but that's just why I want to do it," she answered, wilfully deaf to the note of appeal in his voice.

"You child! Come now," he forced her gently to lie down on the sofa. "Quiet that eager little mind of yours," tucking her carefully in a rug. "Shut those restless American eyes and sleep for a while. Dream yourself into good humor again." He closed her eyes, patting her cheek tenderly.

"Thurston, they've got a surprise for me," she said, piteously.

"What, another!" he exclaimed. "Your nerves won't stand any more surprises to-night. Now, in one hour, I shall come in and awaken my sleeping beauty with a kiss." Indiana made a little grimace and shut her eyes tightly. He watched her for a moment.

"Asleep already," bending over her, "or sulking--which?"

She flung the rug from her, suddenly sitting up. "Thurston, I want to go. Thurston, why can't I go?"

"Because you yourself have acknowledged it would not be right," he answered, coldly. Her small, red lips drooped plaintively, she coiled herself up on the sofa in a disconsolate attitude. Thurston stood watching her. The sad, little face staring at the fire, stirred his sympathy. This was the first request he had ever refused. He felt an impulse to press her against his heart and beg her not to grieve--to tell her that he felt her disappointment far deeper than she herself could have any idea of. But pride prevented him. He had lately been chary in his demonstrations. His nature, which at first had sung a paean over the mere fact that she was his, rejoicing in the lavish display of its love, gradually conscious of no hint of response, only a tacit acceptance, had crept back into its cloak of reserve. He suffered from the repression, becoming at times the victim of a terrible discouragement--that sinking of the heart, inevitable to the thought that one has given one's very best in vain. He realized what a frail structure he had builded--that beautiful fairy fabric of spider's webs, illuminated with the tints of the rainbow. Standing, watching Indiana, Thurston remembered the day when she had promised to marry him--that gray, soft, still evening in autumn. It had been like a tender poem. He had likened the little path between the trees upon which they walked, to the dim, narrow aisle of a church, leading to the altar. It had led them to the altar, but he had failed yet to realize the dream, the infinite suggestion beyond. He felt they were still kneeling there. He and the church had done their part. It needed Indiana only to make the bond complete. He suffered in a great measure for her sake alone. Could she respect her own womanhood as his wife when she failed to love him, he asked himself. She, too, might be suffering, without his knowledge. The little figure maintained its disconsolate position. It was only a trivial matter, after all, but he did not want her to harbor the least resentment against him.

"Indiana," he said, tenderly, placing his hand on her head, "do you remember the day I asked you to be my wife? Do you forget already the condition upon which you accepted me?"

"What condition?" asked Indiana, innocently.

"That I should not give in."

"Oh!" exclaimed Indiana, falling back on the sofa. If he brought up that justification, there was no longer any ground to argue upon.

"I have never in my life broken my word once given. This is our first difference. I must keep my promise to you. No matter how much I suffer, I will not give in." He tucked her in the rug again, extinguished the lamp, and left the room.

*CHAPTER XVI.*

*An Escapade*

Indiana, lying in the dark, tossed restlessly. Scattered scenes and personages of her old life and the new, floated through her mind, jumbled in a rare confusion. She counted and multiplied to induce sleep. Finally she thought of the formula children repeat when they play hide-and-seek--

"'Ena, mino, mina, mo,
Catch a nigger by the toe.
If he hollers let him go.
Ena, mino, mina, mo.
You're it--I'm out!'"

"Out of everything," she added, with a sob. "Oh, I can't sleep!" She tossed the pillows about desperately, feeling nervous and irritable, angry with herself, angry with Thurston and her family. The room was suddenly lit from the lamp on the centre-table. Indiana's dazzled eyes saw a tall figure standing before her. "Glen!"

Jennings retreated with a chuckle of delight. Indiana threw her arms about her old playmate's neck, and was on the point of kissing him, but drew suddenly back at the recollection that he had been her lover as well as her comrade.

"I'll bet you forgot, for the moment, you were married--now didn't you?"

Indiana nodded. Tears were not very far from her eyes. He pressed her hands, looking into her face. He felt both pain and joy--pain that she was another's, and joy at beholding her in the flesh once more, no matter under what circumstances.

"So you were the surprise," said Indiana, a little shyly. He looked so manly, so strikingly tall and handsome, as he stood there in his evening clothes. His dark eyes gazed at her in an unmistakably tender fashion. "Just as though I were not married at all," thought Indiana, with a sudden uprising of wifely virtue.

"I was the surprise," answered Glen, releasing her hands slowly.

"I was just trying to sleep, and, thinking of the old days when we played tag together and--"

"Yes," said Glen, eagerly.

"Oh, never mind," answered Indiana, brushing the tears from her eyes.

"The old days," repeated Glen, staring into the fire.

"They seem so far away, and it's only a few months, Glen. So much has happened--I suppose that's the reason."

He looked at her intently. There was a wistful expression in her eyes. She was paler and thinner, more thoughtful. He gathered his own conclusions from her appearance, aided by certain hints which the family had let fall. He knit his brows in a fierce scowl.

"What's the matter, Glen?"

"My old thoughts are working on me again--that's what it is--your mentioning the old days. They were the best after all, Indiana. Why, people are always raving over sunsets. You should have heard them on the steamer coming over. But once I saw a sunset far off in an orchard in Indiana--there's never been anything to compare with it since--there never will be--to the end of time."

"Sit down, Glen. Tell me all about yourself. You've changed so much for the better, I'm quite bewildered."

"It's worth crossing the ocean to hear that--from you," said Glen, with a superior air. "But I won't sit down here--the place chokes me. I've brought a hansom, and we'll jump in and take a spin about, till it's time to join the folks at dinner."

"I'm not going," said Indiana, without meeting his eyes. "My husband won't let me."

"Your husband won't let you? Poor child--so it's come to this!"

Indiana's pride rose in arms. "Don't waste any sympathy!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. "I'm perfectly happy, I assure you."

"Yes, you look it," said Glen, skeptically. "I understand it's a case of jealousy. He's trying to wean you from your own people. I suppose I won't be allowed to see anything of you either. I'm glad they let me in this time, to get one glimpse of you. Next time it will be 'Not at home' or 'Engaged.' I'm very sorry you couldn't come this one night. It'll spoil the evening for all of us, and I had so much to tell you. But I won't keep you. Good-bye."

"Glen!" cried Indiana, clenching her hands and stamping her foot. "How can you act like that? I'm no prisoner. I can go if I want to--but I don't want to."

"That makes it worse than ever," replied Glen, seriously. "We sympathize with you, in the other case, but now we must have the pride not to beg when you turn upon us. Good night!"

This was more than Indiana could bear. "Glen, I'll go!" she exclaimed, desperately.

He came back slowly into the room, his eyes shining with joy. "Will you, Indiana?"

"Just sit down and I'll slip into a dress. I shan't be long, Glen."

"Yes."

"We'll have a good time, altogether, this one night." Her resolve, once taken, she threw scruples to the wind. Glen, walking restlessly up and down the room after she had gone to dress, spied her photograph on a cabinet. First looking suspiciously around him, he took possession of it and kissed it passionately.

"Poor little thing," he murmured, gazing on the photograph, and seating himself in a comfortable position, his feet on the table. "Now the first blaze of glory is over, and you find--you're in for life--what are you going to do, little western bobolink, with your wings clipped, and your little eyes peering over the cruel ocean? Oh, you'll never complain--you're too proud." He let the photograph fall, and buried his face in his hands.

Indiana rang for her maid, and dressed in feverish haste. She wished to leave the house without coming in contact again with Thurston. Slipping quietly down the stairs, she saw a light in his den. The door was not quite closed, and she peeped through the crack. He was sitting at his table, reading, in a patient attitude, his head propped on his hand. She passed the door, then, moved by a sudden impulse, went back and looked at him again. There was something which appealed to her in the solitary figure sitting there, in a pose so passive as to almost suggest hopelessness. She noticed the touch of gray in his hair, under the lamplight--that, too, appealed to her. She felt vaguely that his was not the face of a happy man, and also, in a vague sense, her conscience reproached her for being responsible. She remembered they had always been together since their marriage. Neither had taken any pleasure apart. She would have liked to have kissed him good-night, and gone with his sanction--but, she told herself, that would be impossible to gain. With an involuntary sigh she sped down to the library. Glen was still sitting, his face buried in his hands. The photograph had fallen on the floor.

"Here I am, Glen," throwing her white wrap in his lap. "It's not necessary to ask you how I look. I've completely stunned you." He looked at her with worshipping eyes. She had donned an airy, diaphanous white gown, and her cheeks were glowing, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "You've been looking at my new photo. Do you like it?"

"Oh, so-so," he answered, indifferently.

"Now I'm going to leave a message for Thurston." She sat down to the table and drew some writing materials towards her. Then she gnawed the end of the pen in some perplexity, looking a little grave.

"You're afraid," said Glen. "You're sorry--you'd like to back out."

"Not at all," answered Indiana, drawing herself up indignantly. "I know just what my husband will do. He won't say a word to anyone--he'll jump in a cab and follow me."

"And then--a family row."

"Not at all. My husband is too high-bred for any public display of feeling. He'll look cold and proud, I'll quiver my eyelids--and--he'll kiss me--that's all." She smiled triumphantly as she scribbled a hasty note.

"I know," agreed Glen, with a sigh. "You could soften anything--even stone."

"Do you know that my husband is an H.F.R.G.S.?" sealing the note.

"Is he? You quite astonish me."

"Now, what is it? Of course you don't know. Honorary Fellow Royal Geographical Society. They want him to lead an expedition to the North Pole. If I had said 'no,' he would have gone. It was a toss-up."

"What a shame he didn't go," remarked Glen, shaking his head dolefully. "What a loss to science! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" He laughed so heartily, Indiana felt obliged to join him. "How jolly I am!" he thought, bitterly.

"Oh, I'm so excited!" exclaimed Indiana. "I love uncertainty of any kind."

"Women are born gamblers," observed Glen, fastening her wrap under her chin. Jennings entered, in answer to the bell.

"Jennings," said Indiana, with an indifferent air, "there's--there's a note on the table for--your master."

"Yes, yer little leddyship."

"Er--I shall be--"

"I hear someone coming downstairs," whispered Glen. "Quick, or Bluebeard will cut off our heads!"

"I feel like a bad boy, playing truant," laughed Indiana. "Scoot!" They ran, giggling quietly, into the hall. Jennings, with a horror-stricken face, tottered to the window, pushed aside the curtains hastily, and pressed his face against the glass.

Lord Stafford, entering the library then, saw him in this position and heard the sound of wheels. "Who's driving off, Jennings?"

Jennings started. "Her--her--little leddyship."

Lord Stafford looked at him incredulously. He had just been talking with Thurston, and Indiana was not likely to go out without him. They always remained at home on Sunday nights. "Impossible!"

"Her little leddyship's gone out with a gentleman from America," said Jennings.

A light broke on Lord Stafford. "Oh, evidently young Masters," he thought. He sank into a chair by the fire, pulling his moustache contemplatively. "Thurston was apparently unaware of the fact--something's up."

Thurston came into the library a moment later. "I thought you were dining out to-night, Uncle Nelson." He rubbed his hands, holding them over the fire.

Lord Stafford lit a cigarette, trying to appear unconcerned. "I shall be off in a minute."

"I'm as hungry as a bear," said Thurston, cheerily. "I must go and find Indiana. I left her asleep here. She is usually dressed and down by this time."

"Er--Thurston," commenced Lord Stafford. But Thurston had left the room before he could speak. Jennings, still standing near the window, was a little, old figure turned into stone. "By George," muttered Lord Stafford. "A pretty mess, this."

"Indiana's not upstairs!" exclaimed Thurston, when he entered again. "She may be with my mother. I did not think of that."

"Her little leddyship's gone out, sir," said Jennings, shrinking into the shadow of the curtains.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Thurston, loudly. "I left her asleep here." Lord Stafford put his hand warningly on his shoulder.

"Her little leddyship left a note," continued Jennings, peering over the table.

Thurston instantly saw the little white note lying among the books. He seized and read it quickly. His first expression of incredulous surprise faded away. His face became impassive.

"Will I serve dinner at eight, sir?"

"Certainly," answered Thurston, calmly crushing the note in his hand.

Lord Stafford looked at him inquiringly, as Jennings left the room.

"She has gone with Glen Masters to dine with her people--at the Cecil--and asks me to fetch her," said Thurston, slowly.

"Then it's all right." Lord Stafford felt, in a measure, relieved.

"It's not all right, by any means, Uncle Nelson," answered Thurston, in the same repressed voice. "My wife has gone against my express wishes."

"Ah, by George! Too bad!" exclaimed Lord Stafford, sympathetically. "You'll go and fetch her, of course?" Thurston failed to answer. An ash dropped loudly on the hearth.

"No," said Thurston, finally.

"Shall I go and fetch her?"

"No." The frozen monosyllable dropped from his lips like an icicle.

"What are you going to do?"

"I--I am going to wait up for my wife--like a good, obedient husband," he said, bitterly, dropping into a chair.

*CHAPTER XVII.*

*Late Visitors*

The great bronze clock on the mantel struck eleven. Thurston paced the library restlessly. His mother had retired, as usual, a little after ten. He had thought it best to keep from her the fact of Indiana's escapade; excusing her absence from dinner on the score of a nervous headache, due to the surprise she had received that afternoon. He had impressed upon his mother the necessity of perfect rest and quiet, for that night, at least. Lady Canning had promised not to disturb her, confiding to Thurston that she had anticipated his wife would suffer bad effects from such a "cruel shock," as she expressed it. He wished to save Indiana from the blame his mother would be sure to attach to her, if she knew the truth. He could not brook the idea that his wife should fall one iota from her esteem. And he also wished his mother's belief in his happiness to remain undisturbed. She would have suffered intense anxiety, on his account, if she had suspected there was any flaw in his marital relations. He hoped that some blessed future period would see his union, with Indiana, established on the solid rock of mutual love. Until then his unhappiness was his own secret, one which he guarded jealously. The inference his household might take from Indiana's action, was a source of great mortification to him. He went to the window and looked out. The thought rankled in him that if she had felt the slightest respect or love, she could not have treated his wishes with such contempt. When he turned back into the room, Jennings was standing at the door, looking at him wistfully.

"Well, what is it?" he asked, in a quick, sharp tone.

"I'll keep up the fire, sir, it's a bit sharp out to-night," answered Jennings, apologetically. Thurston continued to pace the floor, while Jennings piled fresh logs on the fire, shaking his head and muttering, as he was sometimes in the habit of doing. Suddenly there was an imperative knock upon the front door. "Ah, here she is, now, sir!" exclaimed Jennings, struggling to his feet. "Here's her little leddyship." He hurried from the room, chuckling with delight. Thurston's eyes were illumined with a sudden flash of joy and he rushed to the door to meet his wife. But the movement was an involuntary one. On second thought he sat down to the table, took up a book and endeavored to appear disinterested. "Why," he thought, remembering anew the facts of her absence, "should he act as though she had done nothing wrong. That in itself would be a condonation of her offence." He turned his head slowly, as Jennings came back to the room, followed hurriedly by Stillwater, holding his overcoat and opera hat. Thurston rose, his expression of cold and assumed indifference changing to one of deep disappointment and anger.

"Where's my wife--where is she?" he demanded, with an uncontrollable burst of passion.

"She's all right, my boy, she's all right," answered Stillwater, in a conciliating tone, beneath which there was a trace of embarrassment. "She's at the hotel, with mother and Grandma Chazy. And I came to bring you back to finish up the evening with us."

"Thank you, very much," said Thurston, sinking into his chair.

"Now, you're mad. You won't be so foolish as to make a fuss about nothing." Thurston looked at him, in incomprehending surprise.

"Mr. Stillwater, do you know that my wife left the house against my express wish and command? Drove away from my door on Sunday evening with a gentleman not her husband."

"Yes, I know all about it, my boy," answered Stillwater. "But it was only Glen--just the same as her own brother."

"My household does not know that. The appearance of such a proceeding is not favorable."

"I know--but it's Indiana's way of doing things," said Stillwater, rather impatiently. "Just because you said she shouldn't, she would. Now, if you handled her a little better--you'll excuse me, but I've known her longer than you--"

"You may have known her longer, but I doubt if you understand her better. As to handling her, as you call it, I will never stoop to bribe or cajole her into doing her duty."

"That's all right," continued Stillwater. He was there on an errand of conciliation, and, though his son-in-law's argument seemed absurdly precise and conventional, and he assured himself that he did not approve of any such cut-and-dried policy, he was determined to carry out his intention. "I approve of the stand you are taking, but commence after we're gone. It seems rather mean to spoil mother's holiday, doesn't it? Now come along, and Indy will receive you with open arms. It'll be all right, I promise you."

Thurston felt irritated by his father-in-law's free-and-easy good nature, his light way of disposing of a matter which struck the core of all that was sacred to him.

"I am very sorry to mar your pleasure," he answered, firmly and coldly. "This is the first time my wife has openly defied my wishes. It must be the last. If I give in, it will be the beginning of endless repetitions. And I shall fall in line behind her, like a good American husband."

Stillwater took a slight exception to these last words, uttered in a bitterly sarcastic tone. "It's not such a terrible thing to be an American husband," he said, in an offended voice. "I'm one--I don't look very bad on it, do I?"

Thurston smiled. "My dear father-in-law, if I were an American, I would consider it the acme of bliss to be in the leading-strings of my pretty wife. But I'm an Englishman and--"

"You're not built that way," interrupted Stillwater, with an explosion of mirth. Thurston shrugged his shoulders and joined in the laugh. "Come along, Thurston," said Stillwater, feeling more at his ease. "Come along. She's only a mite. She's done wrong, she knows it, and she's mighty uncomfortable." Thurston's spirits rose at this. Then she was not utterly without heart or conscience, where he was concerned. Stillwater watched his face, keeping his hand on his shoulder. "Now come, and when you get her home, read her the riot act."

Thurston shook his head. "I'm very sorry."

Stillwater's expression became serious. He had at first intentionally made light of the matter. Now, as Thurston's resolution remained unshaken, things commenced to assume a graver aspect. "Now, look here, Thurston, we won't have her staying over night with us. The place for a young wife is under her husband's roof."

"Then use your authority to convince her of that fact."

"Do you think I haven't done so, already?" asked Stillwater, now intensely grave. "Do you think I came here alone to-night without doing all I could to get her to come with me? She never told us, until the evening was half over, that you forbade her to go--on account of Sunday, and your mother, an old-fashioned kind of a woman. Well, we wanted to clear her out then and there--we begged, and we prayed, and we bullied her, and she gave it back to us, as good as she got it." He laughed at the remembrance of the scene in their rooms at the hotel. Thurston listened in anxious suspense. "And Grandma Chazy became so mad she nearly slapped her. But do you think she'd budge? Not a foot."

Thurston went over and sat down on the lounge near the fire, his head on his hand, in a hopeless attitude. It was becoming worse and worse. She persisted in her defiance and contempt of him, showing it openly to her family. She had no compunction for what she had done--none. Before Stillwater's arrival, he had allowed himself to think of her coming to him, asking prettily for forgiveness, or even one look from her deep-blue eyes would have been enough. He would have taken her then, so gladly, so thankfully, to his heart. If he had reproached her, it would have been tenderly--the chiding which is in itself love. If she had made one step towards him, he would have met her with three. But she would give him no chance to show her how freely, how generously, he could forgive for the asking. It is easy for love to ask forgiveness of love. But when there is none--this secret wound pricked him sorely. His head sank lower on his hand.

"Come on, come on," said Stillwater, persuasively. "She don't mean anything. And I'll tell you something--she's afraid to come home. I know that little, uneasy laugh of hers--with her eyes full of tears. She's done wrong, she's sorry, and she wants you to come and make it up. Won't you come, Thurston--won't you?" He bent down, looking into the younger man's face. There was a pathetic appeal in his voice.

Thurston shook his head. "When I think of you three old people, helpless against that slip of a girl--it appalls me."

Stillwater took his hat and coat from the chair where he had laid them. "Then I'll tell you what it is--she won't come home until you do come after her. That's her ultimatum."

Thurston rose. "And this is mine," he answered, sternly. "My mother's house closes at twelve o'clock, and if she does not return at that time, the doors will be closed for the night."

"I'll tell her," said Stillwater, with an indescribable expression. "I warn you," pausing at the door, "you're making a very hard time for yourself. Good night."

Thurston stood motionless, thinking deeply, for some moments after Stillwater left the room. Then he rang for Jennings. The old man responded, with an anxious expression. "Jennings, Lady Canning may not return to-night," said Thurston, in a measured tone. "She will probably remain with her people. Naturally, she wants to see as much of them as possible."

"Yes, yer lordship."

"Lock up at the usual hour and go to bed. If she is not here by that time, she will not return."

"Yes, yer lordship." After he left the room, as he was crossing the hall, he heard a slow, familiar step, a soft rustle of silk, on the stairs. He looked up with a sudden throb of fear, and saw Lady Canning descending. He knew she thought his little mistress was ill in bed with a headache, and the contingency that she might come home at any moment appalled him. He hurried back to the library. "Milady, sir, milady!" he ejaculated. "She's coming down the stairs."

"Heavens," thought Thurston, "I thought she was safe for the night. Don't look so anxious, Jennings."

When Lady Canning entered, he greeted her with a bright smile, taking both her hands in his. Jennings pushed a chair up to the fire.

"Mother, this is unusual. What keeps you up at this hour?"

"I've had so much to think of, since this afternoon. I wasn't at all sleepy."

She looked at Thurston with wide-awake, luminous eyes, as he placed a footstool under her feet. "How is Indiana? Is she sleeping?"

"Yes," answered Thurston.

"I'm glad of that, poor little thing! Such a cruel surprise! The excitement was too much for her."

"Yes, the excitement," repeated Thurston, mechanically.

Jennings left the room, after he had brushed some imaginary ashes from the hearth and arranged the curtains. Thurston showed no sign of the strain under which he was suffering, as he talked gently with his mother. Once in a while his eyes sought the clock, and his ears, preternaturally sharpened by anxiety, heard an imaginary hansom, bearing Indiana homeward. Their conversation reverted to his wife's people.

"I don't object to the father and mother," said Lady Canning. "We have one great point of sympathy--our love for Indiana. But the grandmother--Thurston, is she quite well balanced?"

Thurston laughed. "She's a shining light, mother--a prominent member of women's clubs." Lady Canning shuddered. "A very shrewd, clever woman."

"It's wonderful how people differ in their conception of things," said Lady Canning, with a sigh. "If she were my mother, I should consider it necessary for her to have a personal attendant. What do you think she said to me? That 'I ought to make more out of myself,' and if I would come over to the hotel, she'd fix me up." Lady Canning looked at her son with a shocked expression. He laughed involuntarily, and she finally joined him, seeing the amusing side of Mrs. Bunker's remark. "Well, we'll get along with them, won't we?" continued Lady Canning, taking Thurston's hand affectionately in hers. "They have given us our Indiana. I'm going to make a great effort for her sake. I'm going to present her myself at the first drawing-room of the season."

"Mother!" exclaimed Thurston, in surprise.

"Yes, I'm coming out of my retirement, after twenty years, and we'll make a sensation, I promise you." She patted his hand, feeling that the grateful love in his eyes was ample reward for all this resolution had cost her. "She's brightened my life so much since she came. I'm beginning to take an interest in things, for the first time since I lost your dear father."

"I'm very glad of that, very glad, mother--and happy."

"Now, may I creep in and kiss her good-night, when I go upstairs?" asked Lady Canning, rising.

"I wouldn't, mother," answered Thurston, quietly.

"I won't wake her," assured Lady Canning.

"I think you had better not, mother," said Thurston, in the same quiet tone.

"Very well, just as you say. I can't blame you, even if you are over-anxious. Give her my love and a kiss." She paused at the door, looking thoughtfully in his face. "We must love her very much, Thurston. And if there are any faults, we must deal gently with them, because--she is very young, and from what I saw of her people, she could have had no bringing up whatever."

It seemed strange to hear his mother pleading for Indiana just at that moment. "Good-night, mother." She put her arms about his neck and kissed him. He threw himself in a chair, after she left the room, feeling deeply depressed. "If there are any faults, we must deal gently with them." His mother's words always carried their own weight. Her unconscious intercession had touched his heart. He was ready to do everything, to make every extenuation, but he felt a dull premonition that Indiana would ask for none. Neither would she care. This was the worst. His hidden wound throbbed painfully.

Jennings crept into the room. When he saw Thurston, sitting with his head bowed upon his hands, his face became an image of distress. He looked at the clock, then back again to the hopeless figure in the chair. Thurston raised his head suddenly. "What are you prowling about for, Jennings?"

"I--I just looked in to see after that danged fire," said Jennings, in confusion, tottering to the fire and poking the logs.

Thurston smiled. "There's no sign of it going out, Jennings. Find a more plausible excuse."

"Won't you have a cold bite, sir?" asked Jennings, piteously. "You never touched the dinner."

Thurston shook his head, opening a book.

"A glass of wine, sir?"

"Nothing, Jennings. Don't bother, there's a good fellow--and don't come crawling in and out continually. I can't read; it disturbs me."

"Very well, sir," in a heart-broken voice. He went to the door, then tottered back again. "Another log on, sir, if you're not going to bed? But perhaps you are going to bed?"

"No, I shall sit up and read." The page before him was a blur. It lacked but a few minutes of twelve. If she would only come, no matter how--whether stormy, sulking or weeping--if she would only come. Even at the very last moment, to show him that she had, at least, some compunction--that she realized, in even a slight measure, what was owing him!

After putting another log on the fire, Jennings opened the window and looked out. Then he closed it, with a sigh, and stood in the shadow of the draperies watching Thurston, with his heart in his eyes. The clock commenced to strike. Thurston, sitting with his head over his book, ceased to hope. Every silvery chime fell on his head with a dull weight of pain. What had she not left him to infer from the fact of her not coming? Contempt, indifference, even fear. At the last stroke of twelve he raised his head and looked over at Jennings. The old man was the image of misery. Answering the command in Thurston's eyes, he slowly took a bunch of keys from his pocket. "I'll only put up the chain, yer lordship, in case--" He looked imploringly at Thurston.

"Lock it fast," answered Thurston. "Take the key out as usual, and go at once to bed."

The old man made a silent motion of assent, and tottered to the door. Suddenly there was a loud knock.

"Ah, here she is at last!" cried Jennings. "Here's her little leddyship!"

Thurston sprang to his feet with an involuntary exclamation of joy. "My wife, my Indiana," he thought. "She has come at the very last moment--a sudden impulse to do right. Thank heaven!"

Jennings entered slowly, followed by Glen Masters.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*Awakening.*

"This is rather a late visit, Lord Canning," began Glen, in a slightly embarrassed manner. He also refrained from offering his hand. "But I--I left the folks about ten o'clock, and I--I've been driving about the city trying to collect my thoughts."

Thurston silently offered him a chair, suffering the reaction of his sudden access of joy.

"Indiana told me you generally sit up after she retires, so I waited late to find you alone and have it out with you."

Thurston met Glen's intense gaze with one of polite surprise. "Oh, indeed! I was not aware there was any subject to be thrashed out between you and me."

"Indiana's unhappy. I can't see it--it--it--breaks my heart."

"You are a very young man, sir," answered Thurston, coldly, "and closely connected with my wife and her family, otherwise I should consider this a piece of impertinence."

"I don't mean it in that way. I'm square and above board, and I hate anything clandestine. This is a case of a husband and wife, and another man who loves her. I'm the other man. Now kick me out."

"I should assuredly do so, if you were an Englishman. But in your case I will only beg you to explain your meaning--I am always willing to learn." He felt obliged to take Glen seriously, yet he was conscious of feeling amused, in spite of his suffering.

"Er--have a cigarette?" asked Glen, offering his case. Though he had been braced with confidence when he entered, he felt now very much embarrassed and at a disadvantage. "Indiana won't be likely to come in, will she? I hope she's safe in bed."

"No, it's not likely," answered Thurston, evasively, taking a cigarette, which he omitted to light.

"I want to keep her out of it, if I can," said Glen. He leaned back in his chair, smoking. "I'm not much of a talker, and this helps me." He puffed furiously. "But I'm a great thinker. I've lived alone a considerable part of my life, and my way of doing things may not be considered strictly constitutional. However, that don't say I'm wrong."

"Not at all," Thurston assured him.

"Do you believe that the pursuit of happiness is the highest aim of life?" asked Glen, in a very important manner.

"That depends whose happiness a man is pursuing. You are evidently after mine."

"Ha, ha! Very good. But I mean, is making others happy the highest aim?"

"Possibly. My highest aim at present is to see my wife perfectly happy."

"Ah, that's the point. And, as we both want the same thing, there will be no difficulty in joining forces and accomplishing it."

"I fail to see how you can help to those results," remarked Thurston, far from being infected with the same friendly spirit of co-operation.

"That's what I came to tell you," said Glen, boyishly. "I'm the only one who really understands Indiana. I know how to get at her true feelings better than all her folks put together." Thurston half smiled at this assertion, which frankly ignored him--the husband. Glen puffed his cigarette, thoughtfully, watching the rings of smoke, as they widened and disappeared. "I saw the end of it from the first," he continued, in a superior tone. "Like all young girls, Indy wanted something new. I'm not blaming her--but--she's not happy. She never can be happy, away from her own home and people."

"Are you here as my wife's ambassador?" asked Thurston, icily.

"Well, no, not exactly," responded Glen, uneasily. "But she didn't object, when I told her I was going to have it out with you."

"It will be interesting to know what your intentions are against me."

"I--I want to tell you the thing don't work--I don't see how you could expect it. I want, in a perfectly open and straightforward way, to discuss the means to the desired end--her happiness."

Thurston smiled wearily. "This would all be very farcical if there were not a very serious question for me at the root of it, and which my wife's conduct to-night has made me realize very keenly. I suppose she was discussing me, during your rather unconventional hansom-ride this evening?"

"Yes, she was--and--er--not favorably. Now, what do you propose to do?"

Thurston rose, answering, very sternly and coldly. "Prove to my own satisfaction if it is true, that my wife is not, and never can be, happy in her new home. I shall not ask her, because she does not know herself what is good for her. I am egotistical enough to think that I understand her better than her own family--and even better than you. And I am convinced that a few years away from her own country, and her own people, will convert the spoilt child into a splendid, self-controlled woman. If I am mistaken, I assure you, the way of retreat shall be made very easy for her."

"Er--how long will it take to discover all this--a lifetime?"

"About twelve hours."

Glen looked at him thoughtfully, feeling that, owing to his jealousy, he had always been unjustly prejudiced against Indiana's husband. There was a consciousness of right, a dignity in Thurston's bearing, which impressed him. And beneath the calm, cold manner in which he had spoken, Glen recognized an undercurrent of pain. It dawned on him, suddenly, that the other's composure was only repression, and the man was suffering. He also appreciated the unfailing courtesy with which he had been treated.