Her Lord and Master

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Her Lord and Master CHAPTER XIII. England. "Jennings!" "Yes, yer leddyship!" "I thought I heard carriage wheels." "Not yet, yer leddyship." Lady Canning sighed, and Jennings sank stiffly on his knees and poked the fire, as he had done innumerable times within the hour. "Her leddyship will be ill," he mumbled to himself over the fire. "It's a terrible strain for her leddyship." "Jennings!" "Yes, yer leddyship." "Look again! I thought I heard them—this time." Jennings rose with difficulty, pushed aside the heavy draperies that screened the library windows, and peered through the fog. "Not yet—yer leddyship." He adjusted the curtains carefully with his shaking fingers. "Will I bring the tea, yer leddyship?" "No, Jennings, I will have tea with my son and his young wife." "His lordship may not arrive for sometime—yer leddyship may be faint." "Yes, but nevertheless, I am firmly resolved to wait, Jennings." She closed her eyes with an expression of resignation. "Very well, yer leddyship," said Jennings, in a heart-broken voice. He left the room noiselessly. Lady Canning sat motionless in her large arm-chair near the fire. Approaching seventy years of age, there were still remnants of beauty in those fine, delicately cut features, slightly pinched through illness. Her calm, impassive face seemed to have outlived every stage of emotion, or lived through the emotional stage, without having experienced the emotions. For twenty years since the death of her husband she had maintained the strictest seclusion. A cobweb of ivory-tinted lace rested on her white, carefully dressed hair, and a fichu of the same was drawn over her attenuated shoulders. The room in which she sat was a proper frame for her personality. It was filled with objects, some of rare value, that had mellowed with age. The years had taken from everything its element of aggressiveness. The tapestries, the paintings, the books, the furniture, blended into harmony of soft and faded hues. Lady Canning suffered considerable excitement at the prospect of seeing her only son once more, after an absence of ten months, not to speak of a certain anxiety regarding her daughter-in-law. Thurston had written, "I will not describe Indiana. I wish you to form your own impressions." "My dear son had no idea I would suffer any suspense regarding his wife," she reflected, "otherwise he would have written me every particular. He doubtless thought I would have every confidence in his judgment. And my fears have probably not the slightest foundation. It seems impossible that my son should select a woman for his wife who would be unfitted for the position. And yet, it appears strange he should have gone so far away from home to choose a daughter for me. It is quite natural I should have preferred him to marry a woman in his own sphere, from another old, conservative English family. I should have felt surer, then, that there would have been no after-complications. There are so few left of the real conservative families. The watchword of the others is 'Progress.' They grasp, all too quickly, every new idea that claims to be an improvement on the old. But we are more careful—we cling to our traditions—our old ideals of life. There are none better. There is Lady Isabel Waring—still unmarried, not a beauty—but great caste—great caste. She would have been devoted to me." Lady Canning sighed and opened her eyes. Jennings was lighting the candles in the tall, many-branching candelabras on the mantel. The Canning mansion, in common with other old London homes, had been fitted up with every modern improvement, including electric lights; but Lady Canning, when she was alone, still clung to the old-fashioned candle-light, claiming it was softer, more agreeable for her eyes. Jennings was still allowed to perform the function of many years, much to his delight. He had a deep-rooted hatred of all innovations. "This suspense is quite natural," thought Lady Canning, "in spite of my confidence in Thurston. I am a mother. A mother fears everything—and hopes everything." Jennings suddenly paused in his occupation and inclined his head, listening. Then he blew out his taper, and hurried to the window. "They're here, yer leddyship! Yer leddyship!" His voice quivered with excitement, and he looked apprehensively at his mistress, as though he feared she might faint or give way in some respect. She rose, supporting herself upon a cane. "Jennings," she said in a strong voice, "you had better join the other servants in the hall. You will be the first for whom your master will look." "Ye—es, yer leddyship." "I am prepared for anything," thought Lady Canning. "But no matter how unfavorably I may be impressed at first sight, I must control my feelings for Thurston's sake. He will naturally be sensitive regarding her." Thurston presented a beaming face to the servants, lining the hall, as he entered with his bride. Before he greeted them, he took Indiana in his arms and pressed a kiss on her lips. "Welcome to your new home, my dearest wife! I'm glad to see you all," he added, in heartfelt tones. "Jennings, you're looking well!" He pressed both the old man's hands in his. "Welcome home, yer lordship, yer lordship!" "Indiana, this is Jennings. You've heard me speak of him. He's been in the family since I was a child." Indiana's blue eyes smiled into those of the old Scotchman. "How do you do, Jennings?" she said, with a friendly handshake. Jennings carried her hand, with a shaking motion, to his lips. "His lordship's young wife," he murmured, looking with ecstatic delight into her face. "My mother, Jennings?" "Her leddyship's well, yer lordship. Her leddyship's in the library." He hurried before them, but Thurston rushed past him, carrying Indiana on his arm, his hand clasped on hers. They laughed back at the old man, and he echoed the laugh childishly, with tears in his eyes. "You can't announce us, Jennings!" cried Thurston. Lady Canning was still standing, with stately repose, by the fire. There was no trace, on her calm face, of the agitation she had been suffering, beyond an expression of pleasurable anticipation—the only visible sign of feeling in which she would allow herself to indulge. "Mother!" "My dear son!" He held her in a prolonged embrace. When he finally released her, she applied a morsel of lace to her eyes. "My wife, mother," he said in a voice of immeasurable content and pride, placing Indiana in her arms. "Your daughter, Indiana." Lady Canning was conscious of holding a morsel of humanity in her arms and of pressing her lips to a childish cheek. Then, as she surveyed her, she received an impression of something very young and small, with the coloring of an apple-blossom, whose deep-blue eyes met hers, struggling between consciousness, laughter and tears. Realizing that her vague fears had no worse foundation than this childish creature, daintily costumed, her relief was so great that she took her in her arms again and pressed another kiss on her forehead. Though Thurston had been perfectly confident of the effect Indiana would produce, he was none the less delighted at this mark of favorable impression. "My dear child," said Lady Canning, "you must look upon me as a mother—you are still too young to be without one." In order to control her tears, Indiana bit her handkerchief, which she was nervously rolling in her hands. The difference between her mother's last despairing kiss and the touch of Lady Canning's calm lips, was too strong. "You no doubt wish to go to your apartments now, my dear," said Lady Canning, kindly. "Yes, I should," agreed Indiana with a little, nervous laugh. She was quite indifferent about going to her apartments just then, but there was such a sure assumption of her acquiescence in Lady Canning's tone it was almost equivalent to an order. "Thurston, ring for Watson. We will have tea presently. You are longing for some tea, my dear, are you not?" "Yes," said Indiana, feeling that it was expected of her to say so. "Watson, show Lady Canning her apartment. They have been newly furnished for you, my dear child, and I have not only followed Thurston's written injunctions, but, in addition, carried out some of my own." Thurston raised her hand, which he was holding, to his lips. She smiled on him fondly. "I hope you will like your rooms, Indiana." "I am sure I shall, Lady Canning," said Indiana, with a bright smile and a mental resolve to like them very much. She had recovered from the tearful stage and felt now quite equal to her surroundings. "And you will find your maid a very competent person—she brought the highest references," added Lady Canning. Thurston led her to the door, pressing a kiss on her forehead. "Is everyone old here?" thought Indiana, as Watson, a very elderly woman with snow-white hair, led the way, mounting the stairs with difficulty. "I don't like old people to wait on me. I shall feel more like waiting on them." However, she found the maid Lady Canning had selected, a very young, cheerful person. The gloomy impression she had received below was counteracted by her own suite of rooms, which were cheerfully and lightly furnished, in the daintiest of coloring. The boudoir was hung in shades varying from rose to palest pink; the ceiling hollowed and tinted to imitate a sea-shell; fairy-like crystal fixtures gleamed from the walls. There were a few treasures of art here and there amidst the draperies. A Greuze, hung in the best light, attracted Indiana immediately. Pink roses filled every available spot, in fragile vases of Venetian glass of the dolphin design. Indiana felt an impulse of gratitude toward Lady Canning for these preparations, in which loving care and the most exquisite taste were apparent. Minute attention had been paid to detail—no possible contrivance for her comfort overlooked. The maid told her that Lady Canning, herself, had arranged the flowers in the boudoir and upon the dressing-table. "I must have acted like a fool at first," thought Indiana, fastening a pink rose, from one of the vases, in the breast of her travelling-dress, before going down. "When she said something about being a mother to me—that set me off. Poor ma! I hope she isn't fretting. I can't forget dad yet, as he looked when he wished me good-bye." Stillwater had not allowed his wife to go down to the steamer—he thought she had suffered enough. Mrs. Bunker remained with her daughter. When Indiana waved her handkerchief as the steamer left the dock, he thought of the day when she was laid in his arms. "She is very young, Thurston," remarked Lady Canning, after Indiana had left the library, "a mere child." "A mere child," echoed Thurston, with a very tender intonation. "You are right, mother." He sat down close beside her, taking her hand in his. "Yet I was instantly attracted to her. You, too, will soon feel the charm that she exercises, all unconsciously. I have no words to tell you how I love her." His face grew very serious. "That is quite enough to recommend her. She must certainly have exceptional qualities. A very fortunate girl to have inspired such a love in you—I daresay she fully realizes that." Thurston smiled involuntarily. Indiana took his devotion as a matter of course. "She has a winning smile," said Lady Canning. "I could see she was quite effected by the warmth of my reception—I no doubt remind her of her own mother. She is very young to marry and leave home. But perhaps after all her youth is in her favor. She is such a child it will be easy to mould her—don't you think so, Thurston?" "Er—yes, of course, mother," answered Thurston, pulling his mustache in some perplexity. He foresaw an endless vista of trouble in case of any perceptible effort to mould Indiana. "We must not expect too much of the child," continued Lady Canning. "Be sure you do not make such a mistake in the beginning, Thurston. Coming from a place where there is no idea of caste, she will naturally make many mistakes. It will take time before she can fit into her position as she should. You see, Thurston, I am ready to make every allowance for your wife." He bent down and kissed her frail white hands. There was a large measure of reverence in his love for her. "I have given Indiana my Greuze, Thurston." "Your Greuze, of which you've always been so fond?" "Yes. I believe in the influence of fine arts upon the young. Your wife's mind is now budding out, drinking every new impression as eagerly as a flower drinks the dew. It is for us to see that those impressions are of the highest nature." Indiana entered, very bright and smiling. She went immediately up to Lady Canning and kissed her. "I don't know how to thank you for all the trouble you have taken, Lady Canning." Lady Canning smiled in a gratified manner. "I am amply repaid, if you are pleased, my dear child." Jennings then brought in the tea. He looked so aged, Indiana felt like jumping up and taking the tray from him, at the same time pushing him gently into an arm-chair. He was a little, thin old man with sharp features and blue eyes, his snow-white hair plastered smoothly on each side of his head. He had been in the family since a boy, and, as is generally so in such cases, his individuality, his interests, or, properly speaking, his entire life, had become absorbed in those whom he had served. His position now was purely nominal, consisting principally of light duties, which kept him in near proximity to the family. Lady Canning, talking in her low, distinct tones, dispensed the tea from a very old massive tea-service. Indiana noticed that she never raised her voice, and she dropped her own insensibly. She was, wisely, not too profuse in her praises of her apartments, quick to see that Lady Canning was not of a nature to appreciate much demonstration. But she continued to show her gratitude delicately by an opportune remark now and then. "I have not heard much from your Uncle Nelson," remarked Lady Canning. "Oh, don't worry about him," laughed Indiana. "He's enjoying himself immensely—isn't he, Thurston?" "Yes, my darling. He has really quite assimilated himself with the American life, mother." "Indeed! You surprise me. One would have thought at his age, that that would have been very difficult—" "Oh, not at all," interrupted Indiana. "You see, my grandmother has taken him in charge. They go out together, everywhere." "Your grandmother," repeated Lady Canning, raising her eyebrows. "And she is able to go out—everywhere?" Indiana gave vent to a burst of merriment, then checked herself, suddenly. Her laughter had sounded very loud in those quiet surroundings. "Grandma Chazy enjoys life more than any of us. She's full of health and spirits." "Remarkable, is it not, Thurston?" "Women don't grow old in the States, mother." "They take all they can, out of life, to the last gasp," explained Indiana. "I should not like to censure women of another environment to my own," said Lady Canning. "But at a certain age, I think it better fitting to prepare oneself for the next life, than to still seek enjoyment from this. How does it appear to you, my dear child?" Indiana hesitated, then met Thurston's eyes fixed anxiously upon her. "As you say, Lady Canning, I think it would be better fitting," she answered, seriously. "I'm glad you agree with me," said Lady Canning, well pleased. "From this one example, Thurston, I am inclined to think that my ideas and Indiana's run very much in the same groove." "So it seems," he answered, stroking her hand, and watchful of Indiana, whose face, however, maintained its serious expression. From this conversation, Lady Canning was artfully led by her daughter-in-law into delivering a homily on the seriousness of life, and the necessity of control, where the pleasure-loving instincts of the young were concerned. Indiana took every opportunity of agreeing with her, sitting up stiffly, like a flaxen-haired doll, in the high backed chair, nodding at intervals, and with an expression of grave self-importance, that contrasted oddly with her rosebud prettiness. Meeting Thurston's eyes, which were fixed upon her in open surprise, she frowned reprovingly, and drew herself up a little more stiffly. "This is a very happy moment for me," said Lady Canning, with a gentle sigh, "to have you with me again, Thurston—with your wife—I can hardly realize it yet. I think Indiana and I are going to be very congenial, Thurston. Come here, and sit down by me, my dear child." Indiana obeyed, and Lady Canning took her hand and patted it gently. "Now I have a son and a daughter. I hope you will be happy in your new home, my dear." "Thank you, Lady Canning," said Indiana, "I intend to be happy." "That's right. Now, though we have much to say, I think it advisable to reserve it for this evening. It is best that I should rest until dinner." "I hope this has not been too much excitement for you, mother," said Thurston, solicitously, giving her his arm. "Pleasant excitement will not harm me, but I must be careful. I will see you at dinner, Indiana." She kissed her on the forehead. Thurston led her to the door, Indiana accompanying them. "I did not know you were such an artist in dissimulation, Indiana," said Thurston, taking her head in his hands and gazing into her mischievous eyes. "To what are you referring, may I ask?" she inquired, in a dignified tone. "Why, the tactics you have begun with my mother. She thinks you are a perfect paragon." "And, am I not?" drawing herself up. "Yes," answered Thurston, laughing and kissing her hands. Indiana found dinner a slow and tedious ceremony. It was noiselessly served, without the clatter of a dish or the sound of a footfall. At intervals, Jennings' old face peered into hers, consulting her wishes in a whisper. Their places were set very far apart at the large, round table, handsomely equipped with heavy silver and crystal, as though for a formal banquet, and decorated with white roses and maidenhair fern, in honor of the bride. She had selected from her trousseau a French gown of white satin, showing her childish neck. The maid had dressed her yellow hair in puffs in the correct English style. She was very quiet during dinner. Her head still felt a little unsteady from the steamer, and when Thurston or Lady Canning spoke, their voices sounded very far away. Her impressions that first night in her new home were most indistinct. She had a floating conception during dinner of old mahogany, silver, and armor. Later, in the library, as she listened to Thurston entertaining his mother with details of his American trip, she was the victim of a feeling of unreality, inspired by surroundings altogether new and so entirely old. The candle-light seemed to point, with long, mysterious fingers, to the books which lined the walls, indicating dark and magic secrets locked between their ancient covers, and to waver upon the faded figures in the Gobelin tapestries until they appeared to move, endowed with life. Lady Canning, leaning back near the fire, with her fine, pinched features, her white, fragile hands resting motionless upon the arms of her chair, seemed like a figure moulded in wax. When his mother retired, Thurston took Indiana through the house. Jennings solemnly preceded them, lighting up the rooms. Standing in the background, he nodded his head from time to time in corroboration, as Thurston explained the family portraits and related the histories of various heirlooms. As the first months in England slowly passed, Indiana's single life seemed like a dream to her. Her marriage proved the changing of every condition, as she had wished. And she preferred to think she had acted for the best. One fact gave her a great and unselfish pleasure. She had won Lady Canning's love, completely, by pursuing the artful policy with which she had started, based on a very shrewd idea of the elder woman's character. Thurston missed her old spontaneity, and watched her closely, unknown to her. His loving solicitude, which often tried to discover delicately if she missed her old life, or if there was anything lacking in the new which he could supply, only made her impatient. She professed to be perfectly happy, yet he sometimes felt as though he had caged a bird, who refused to sing. Still the bird had flown willingly into his hand. His tender worship had won nothing from her, so far, but an amiable tolerance. They were in the position of queen and vassal. His pride suffered bitterly at times. His hope that she would learn to love him had grown into a great and secret longing. He felt it to be the only solution of them both. His very existence was now based on this consummation. The best of life is given to building a beautiful fabric of spider's webs, colored with the passing tints of the rainbow—because there is an everlasting charm in that which fades before the eyes, and can be demolished by a touch. CHAPTER XIV. Transplantation. Lord Stafford arrived in England some months later. He drove up to the house one Sunday morning an hour earlier than he was expected. Lady Canning and Indiana had not yet come home from church. After welcoming him, with tears of joy, Jennings tottered upstairs to tell Thurston. Lord Stafford went into the library and, with a sense of happiness to be again in his old surroundings, toasted himself once more before an English fire. "Uncle Nelson!" exclaimed Thurston, rushing into the room. "Thurston, my boy!" Relinquishing his hand, Lord Stafford subjected his nephew to a critical survey. "Well," said Thurston, laughing, "is the examination satisfactory?" "You've changed—for the better," answered his uncle with a puzzled expression. "More vivacity. In fact, you've grown younger." "I'll explain. I was an old bachelor. Now, I am a young married man." They both laughed heartily. "So the international combination has panned out, as we say in the States?" "Worked like a charm from the start," said Thurston. "Remarkable. And with your mother?" "Mother has completely succumbed to Indiana, and spoils her shockingly." "I'm very glad of that, I'm sure. I've been homesick ever since I saw you off with your bride, but I was really afraid to come home until the new wife had fitted into the new conditions." "You don't know my Indiana. Wait until you see how well she fits into the new conditions." They heard the sound of carriage-wheels. Thurston hurried to the window, his face lighting up. "Here they are—here's my wife!" Lord Stafford met them at the door of the library. "My dear sister!" folding her in his arms. "Nelson, I'm very glad to have you at home, you wanderer! You look marvellously well, and tanned by the sun. Have you seen our dear little daughter? Where are you, Indiana?" Thurston had drawn her to the fire and was taking off her gloves. "Here, dear Lady Canning," said Indiana demurely, with a strong effort at an English accent. "How do you do, Uncle Nelson?" She offered her cheek, which he kissed, then surveyed her with great curiosity. She looked the personification of English maidenhood, dressed in a plain, gray gown, without any pretension to style of cut. A little bonnet, tied under her chin, rested on her yellow puffs. She stood there, very demure and quiet, still holding her prayer-book. "And how do you find our sweet child looking, Nelson?" inquired Lady Canning, sinking into an arm-chair. "By George, I should say I found her very much changed!" "For the better, dear Uncle Nelson?" said Indiana, sweetly. "When we transplant a flower," remarked Lady Canning, "we must watch it very carefully for a time, lest it wither in the process. Indiana is a most flexible little person. She appears to have taken root in our soil so easily. She had not been here a week when she was perfectly at home." "Thanks to your good advice, Lady Canning. You have taken so much trouble with me." "To be frank, Nelson, Indiana was a most agreeable surprise. When Thurston wrote me that he had selected a wife in the wilds of America, I felt ill with fright. I couldn't find out anything about the place, and the name suggested horrible visions of half-breeds and wild girls who climb trees and ride horses bareback." "America is a very large country, dear Lady Canning," said Indiana. "There are tree-climbers and bareback riders in the uncivilized parts, I believe." Thurston turned away to conceal a laugh. "In fact, I myself must have appeared—er—strange to you at first, did I not, dear Lady Canning?" "Oh, no! Only a little rasping quality in the voice, which has since greatly modified." "That is our climate, dear Lady Canning. The sharp winds have a tendency to pitch our voices in a high key." "And your gowns, dear, were a little too modern—too expensive for a young wife. You don't mind my saying it, Indiana?" Indiana gave her an angelic smile. "I am so grateful to you. Lady Canning has given me the real English taste in the selection of a gown," parading before Lord Stafford, who, inserting his monocle, inspected her seriously. "Dowdy, isn't it?" she whispered, as Lady Canning bent over the fire, warming her hands. "I adore Irish poplins, Scotch plaids, English cheviots—and seed-cake. My first bonnet! Isn't it a love?" She tossed her head waggishly in Lord Stafford's face, so that a bunch of Prince-of-Wales feathers tickled his nose. "So unbecoming!" she added in his ear. Lady Canning turned, with an expression of smiling satisfaction. "In my time, dear, as soon as a girl married, she wore a bonnet with strings. That's always the sign of a matron in England. You know there must be something to distinguish the married from the single woman." "Yes, certainly, I approve of it," said Indiana. "Then there can be no fear of any mistakes being made by strangers." She heaved a deep sigh of conscious virtue. Lord Stafford dropped his monocle and fell into a chair, laughing unrestrainedly. "You've caught on, Indiana! Ha, ha, ha, ha! As they say in the States—you've mashed them cold all 'round! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" "Dear Nelson," said Lady Canning, severely, "what do you mean by such expressions? They appear to me very vulgar. Is it really American, Indiana?" "Not at all, dear Lady Canning," said Indiana, reassuringly. "Those expressions you have just heard," she shivered slightly, "are mere barbarisms. They are used only by the natives of the uncultivated wastes." "The natives. A sort of dialect, I suppose, my darling. Go and lay off your bonnet and smooth your hair." Indiana pouted rebelliously at Thurston. "May I go?" Sweetly, "Thank you very much." She kissed Lady Canning and walked demurely to the door. "Remarkable!" murmured Lord Stafford. "The child has perfect manners," commented Lady Canning, with a sigh of content, as Thurston followed Indiana from the room. "One would think she had been born and bred in England, thanks to my policy, from the very beginning. I don't allow her to call me mother—the child's too young. It's a better moral effect—and, with a little tender firmness, combined with just a spark of dignity that awes, I have accomplished wonders. I shudder to think what would have been the results if I had not been here. Thurston spoils her shockingly." "Ah, does he? Very wrong of him, very unwise, I'm sure." "Yes, is it not? But it's turned out very gratifyingly. You know how averse I've always been to Thurston marrying a modern woman—one of those editing magazines, forming clubs and racing women?" She shuddered. "When Thurston broke it to me, I was very doubtful of the results—very. But his heart carried him away. I don't wonder at it. She's so bright, so clever, so amusing, so lovable. She must have come from very fine stock." "Very," answered Lord Stafford, seriously. "You should see Grandma Chazy Bunker. She 'beats the band'—as they say in the States." He regarded the ceiling with an expression of delightful reminiscence, which broadened gradually into a laugh. He rose suddenly and approached his sister. "Helena, I am going to let you into a little secret." He looked around mysteriously, then added, in a loud whisper, "Indiana's people are in London. They came over with me from America." "Who?" "Her father, mother, and grandmother, and, as they say in the States"—Lady Canning braced herself from the shock which inevitably followed this remark—"'they're going to make Indiana's hair curl!'" "Speak English, if you please." "They're going to give her a surprise party." Lady Canning looked at him incredulously. "Do you mean to say they're going to drop down on that poor child without sending her word?" "You can bet your sweet life on it! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" He sank into an arm-chair, overcome with mirth. The entire affair was a huge joke to him, irrespective of the fact that his sister failed to perceive the humor of his communication. "What an undignified proceeding!" said Lady Canning, in shocked tones. "Her grandmother, too!" Lord Stafford went off into another paroxysm of mirth. "Why, the highest respect is due to their age in the way of preparation." "In America there's nothing gives so much pleasure as springing things on a person. The surprise party is a national institution." Lady Canning rose to her feet, perceptibly agitated. "My dear brother, think of the shock to Indiana. It might be serious." "'She won't turn a hair'—as we say in the States. She's a thoroughbred! Ha, ha, ha, ha!" "I'm very glad you told me. I must go and make some kind of a toilette to receive them, and the housekeeper must be apprised." "My dear sister, 'don't put yourself out'—as we say in the States." "Poor Indiana! Most unheard-of proceedings!" During dinner Indiana plied Lord Stafford with questions about her family, all of which he answered seriously, with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. Lady Canning regarded her unconscious face with growing sympathy. She went to her rooms immediately after dinner. "I shall not make my appearance," she thought, "until all the excitement is over. I am upset enough as it is. I can scarcely look at that poor child—I feel so badly for her." Indiana, entering the library demurely, and seeing that Thurston and Lord Stafford were alone, rushed toward them with a shrill little cry. She laughed as they both started to their feet. "I'm only giving vent to my repressed exuberance. I can be natural with Uncle Nelson, can't I, Thurston?" "Why not be natural with my mother? It pains me to see you playing a part with her. She's not such a dreadful person." Indiana smiled comically at Lord Stafford, sinking down upon the hearth-rug at his feet. "The ingratitude of men! He asked me to make his mother love him, and to succeed it was necessary to adapt myself to her ways. If I had argued with her, he would have disagreed so radically it would have been impossible to live under the same roof. I know that it is a necessity at present, so I agree with her in everything. Consequently, I'm the best, the most lovable girl in the world. All the same, I own her, body and soul—that's my method of subjugation. Of course, he's not satisfied. Nothing I do pleases him." "Indiana!" "Uncle Nelson, I'm frightfully good," continued Indiana, ignoring Thurston, whose eyes were fastened upon her in mute and tender reproach. "I've never been so good in my life"—she clasped her hands, raising her eyes to the ceiling—"I feel like an angel—so sweet, so obedient, so ordinary. Thurston doesn't appreciate it. He doesn't love me as much as he did before we were married." "Indiana!" exclaimed Thurston, seriously, "how can you say that?" "I thought he was a gentleman of leisure, and he works harder than a farm hand. He sits up half the night, reading and studying. If I had known he was such a great scholar I wouldn't have married him." "Indiana, do you mean that?" "No,"—serious face—"I was only joking. Uncle Nelson, do you think he will ever be a great man?" Lord Stafford glanced amusedly at Thurston. "I hope so." "Oh, as great as Thomas Carlyle? Don't say yes, because I'll run away. You know what Jane Carlyle said about the wives of men of genius? They're more miserable even—than—than doctors' wives. Thurston has symptoms. He sits up all night and writes like Carlyle. Between times the old crank used to go out in the back yard, and sit on the fence and smoke a pipe—in his night-shirt. That's the next thing I'll get." The two men laughed heartily. "You little witch," exclaimed Thurston, catching her up in his arms and kissing her, "you are simply irresistible!" "Now, I'll give you an imitation of a chipmunk," cried Indiana, in high spirits, jumping up on a lounge, and imitating to perfection a chipmunk sitting on its haunches and nibbling a nut. Lord Stafford applauded, while Thurston watched the door, his mind divided between admiration for his little wife's clever imitation, and fear that his mother might enter during the performance. "Do you remember the night we all went on a moonlight picnic to the Falls—and Glen was so jealous—poor Glen!—and we sang 'On the Banks of the Wabash'?— 'Oh, the moonlight's fair to-night along the Wabash, From the field there comes the breath of new-mown hay, Through the sycamores the candle-lights are gleaming, On the banks of the Wabash, far away.'" Her voice quivered and she sank upon the ground, sobbing like a child, with her head against the table. Thurston made one quick step toward her and gathered her up in his arms. "My darling, don't cry! You break my heart." He pressed her to his breast, smoothing her hair mechanically. A hopeless expression had settled in his eyes. Lord Stafford looked at them miserably, then considered the best thing to do, under the circumstances, was to make his escape in the quietest manner possible. Thurston sank into a chair, holding his wife closely to his heart. "I know you're homesick—unhappy," he whispered. "I feel it, and I'm helpless against it. What can I do?" "Nothing of the kind," she said, lifting her head suddenly. "There—I frightened Uncle Nelson away!" She slipped from his arms to the floor. "I'm not homesick. I mean—not all the time." She gave a piteous little gulp. "That song upset me, and I had a terrible longing just to get a look at dad and mother and Grandma Chazy, and then pack them all home again." Thurston heaved a sigh from his heart. "I wish you wouldn't take me so seriously, Thurston," she continued, in an aggrieved voice. "Don't watch every quiver of my eyes, and think it's a tragedy. Discipline's a very good thing for me—I like it. But I wish you wouldn't believe every word I say. It's aggravating enough when your mother does it." "I'll try not to. But I want to follow your thoughts—I want to be one with my wife." He drew her to him, gazing with yearning tenderness into her eyes. "It's difficult to—to adjust my slow emotions to your rapidly changing ones. You force my sympathy—and repel it—in a breath. Your moods change with the minutes. But all that wouldn't matter if I were sure you were learning to love me—to give only a little, in return for my deep affection. That would set my heart at rest and smooth away all difficulties." He looked beseechingly into her eyes. But she silently evaded his glance. Her face had grown suddenly very serious. "Indiana!" "I—I was thinking—perhaps it was wrong to marry you—but I did not love anybody else—and I will try." "Indiana, if you knew how your words stab me. You have a terrible capacity for torturing." "Now you're sorry you married me." "Sorry!" he repeated, intensely. "I'd give up my life sooner than you—I try to control my love, but I can't keep it always smothered. I don't want to frighten you, child—for you are only a child yet—but I shall keep my word when I said I will make you love me." He pressed her passionately in his arms. "Indiana!" "Thurston!" she murmured, for the moment yielding to his embrace. A discreet cough sounded in the room. Thurston released his wife instantly. Jennings came toward them, holding a salver out with a hand which shook more than usual. There was also a certain rigidity in his face, from the effort to conceal emotion of some kind. Thurston took the card from the salver, with a vague impression that there was something strange in Jennings' behavior. Then his own expression changed into incredulous surprise. He read, with a rising inflection of the voice which ended in a shout: "Mr. and Mrs. Stillwater—Mrs. Chazy Bunker, Indiana, U.S.A." CHAPTER XV. "I Shall Keep My Promise." Indiana, with a scream of joy, flung herself into her father's arms. He had followed Jennings closely. Also Mrs. Stillwater and Mrs. Bunker. The latter embraced Thurston exuberantly, then Mrs. Stillwater threw her arms about his neck, and immediately tore herself away from him, crying. "That'll do, father. Let me have one kiss—oh!" She was almost hysterical with excitement. "That'll do, father." He finally gave Indiana over to her mother, who pressed her to her breast, with inarticulate expressions of love. Stillwater then shook hands with Thurston, who had met the onslaught calm and smiling, though inwardly rejoiced for his wife's sake. "Come," said Mrs. Bunker, with a beaming face, "pass her round." "You dear old things," cried Indiana, "this is what I call a surprise! Now sit down, all of you." She pulled her father and mother down on the lounge, sitting between them. Mrs. Stillwater gazed at her, speechless with happiness. Stillwater smoothed her hair tenderly, pressing her head against his breast. "Tell me all the news. How's everybody at home? Anybody engaged—or married? How did you happen to come? What put it in your heads? How long are you going to stay? How—?" "Good gracious!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunker, "one at a time, Indy." Thurston stood aside, watching Indiana's radiant face, with an unselfish joy and an impulse of gratitude to the kindly chance which had brought her loved ones at the very moment when they were so urgently needed. Then he withdrew quietly, thinking she would like to be alone with them. He also wished to acquaint his mother with the surprise. "I've come over only for one thing," said Mrs. Stillwater. "That's to see you, Indiana. After you left, and the excitement was over, I couldn't settle down again. My body was there, but my heart and soul were following you over the water. I don't know how we ever let you go," her eyes filled, "and I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to come over to see for myself if you were happy." She looked yearningly into Indiana's face. "My dear mother," said Indiana, tenderly, pressing her cheek to hers, "my dear, kind, loving mother!" "Mary," said Stillwater, severely. "It's done now, and we must make the best of it." The spectacle of his wife and child clasped in each other's arms, affected him to an intense degree. During the term of Indiana's engagement and marriage, he had found it necessary to be stern with his gentle wife—without stringent measures—from pure fear that she would collapse utterly. His severity served also as a moral brace, when he himself was concerned. Jennings entered in his usual noiseless fashion. "Would yer little leddyship like tea served?" "Yes, if you please, Jennings," answered Indiana, assuming her English accent. "Father, Jennings has been a butler in our family all his life." Every eye was centred upon Jennings, who bowed with a most self-congratulatory expression, and walked proudly from the room. "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 pæan 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.

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