Part 10

"Now, don't misunderstand me," added Stillwater, quickly. "My daughter's no worse than any other man's daughter--women, as women, are all all alike. But we understand and know how to get along with them. I married very young, and I continued to live with my wife, my mother-in-law, and my daughter, all different dispositions, without quarrelling."

"Yes, I have observed and admired the equilibrium of your household. It would be very valuable to me to know how you manage it. Will you let me into the secret, Mr. Stillwater?"

"Ha, ha, ha! Easy enough--I give in!"

"You give in?" Lord Canning asked, incredulously.

"Every time," replied his host, proudly. "I never stand out against them, so they can't quarrel with me--and when they quarrel between themselves, I agree with them all--separately." He looked at his guest with a self-congratulatory expression.

"I'm afraid I could not adopt that method," he said quietly, flicking the ashes from his cigar.

"There," Stillwater exclaimed, triumphantly, "I told you it wouldn't do!" They heard Mrs. Bunker laughing in the woods with Lord Stafford, and presently she came through the trees, in her scarlet cape, bare-headed, followed by her guest carrying a wicker basket, brimful of balsam sprigs.

"We've been balsaming," she said.

"I beg pardon," remarked Lord Canning.

"Balsaming," she repeated. "That's what they call it here--picking balsam." She knocked his forehead lightly with her forefinger. "See it now--or shall I get a hammer?"

He laughed. "My stupidity must try your patience at times, Mrs. Bunker."

"I wanted some to fill the pillow I am making for Lord Stafford to take to England--when he goes." Lord Stafford offered her his arm, and, laughing, they continued their way to the camp.

"Then you haven't much faith in our speedy departure--although you drank the toast last night, Mrs. Bunker?"

"Not in yours--your nephew's, yes. But I don't imagine you'll go with him."

"Probably not, Mrs. Bunker. Under certain circumstances, I might consider it advisable to prolong my trip. And I must say the prospect of remaining in America is delightful to me--most delightful."

"The fact is, Lord Canning," continued Stillwater, "we spoil our children. We know it, but we can't help it. The girls, mind you--the boys are easy enough thrown on the world--but the girls," he smiled fondly, "the pretty, little, delicate girls--how can you help spoiling them? You should have seen Indy--" Lord Canning's face assumed an expression of deep interest. "A doll--you could have put her in a quart pitcher. She'd roll up her little sleeves, and fight and sass me--we'd roar at her. As she grew up, it grew with her, and now when she gets in a temper, we all scatter till she's over it. And then she creeps under your coat, like a little, white mouse, and loves you so, with her pretty hands and her soft face. Now, what can a man do?"

Lord Canning regarded his host reflectively. "You begin early to make a rough road for the girl's future husband, don't you?"

"Oh, no! Our people understand that every man is under the thumb of his wife, and is proud of it."

This assertion sounded astounding to the listener. Before, however, he could grasp its full value, he caught sight of Indiana's white dress among the pines. As he watched her coming toward them, her head making a light advancing spot among the dark trees, Stillwater's friendly warning faded from his mind as completely as though it had never been given.

"It all rests with her now," he thought.

"Why so serious?" said Indiana. "Let me into this secret discussion. If it's not snow and ice, and the North Pole, I know more about it than Lord Canning--and if it's not farming, I know more about it than pa."

"I guess I'll let you fight it out with Indiana," remarked Stillwater, dryly. He looked at her, with a sigh, then climbed slowly up to the camp.

"We were discussing many things," said Lord Canning, bashfully. "Marriage; the training of children--"

"Marriage--with pa?" replied Indiana, with a laugh. "He's absolutely ignorant on the subject."

"Remarkable," said Lord Canning, "considering he's seventeen years married."

"Oh, that was only a boy-and-girl affair. In those days it was a farm, a wife to do the housework--and they always lived happily."

"I wish it were as simple a matter with you as with your mother," ventured Lord Canning.

"I'm different from mother. If I were not, you would not--"

"What?" asked Lord Canning.

"Oh, nothing," stooping to pick up a sprig of balsam, which had fallen from Lord Stafford's basket.

"Let us follow that little trail down there beside the lake," suggested Lord Canning, "do you mind?"

The day had been sunless. The evening was still and gray, the air soft and balmy, without a tinge of frost. Through the trees that fringed the trail, they caught glimpses of the glassy lake mirroring the gray floating clouds, and great masses of autumn color, with sometimes the intervening dark shadow of a group of pines.

"Men to you are like a large correspondence, which is read carelessly, 'answered' scribbled on the envelopes, then piled into pigeon holes--forgotten."

"I always throw old letters away," said Indiana, sweetly. "I never accumulate rubbish."

"Oh!" said Lord Canning. He walked beside her for a little while, thinking deeply. "How silent it is here," he remarked, finally. "This soft carpet of pine needles muffles every footstep. It seems sacrilege almost, to speak. This trail seems to me like a dim, narrow aisle of a church, leading to the altar." He looked upward at the glimpse of gray sky. "Indiana, I am a very serious man. I accept life as worth living only with serious aims." They emerged upon a small open space in the woods, dimly lit, with a Turkish carpet of many-colored leaves. He drew Indiana down upon a fallen tree, covered with silvery patches of gray-green moss. "My ideal of a wife has been an intellectual woman of my own world and standing. But your little hands have bowled over, like a set of ninepins, all my long cherished traditions and ideas. You have taken possession of me, in a way which terrifies me. I am miserable away from you. I am miserable with you. I am restless, sleepless--you flit before me like a tantalizing will-o'-the-wisp, whose light draws, maddens me. My pen is idle, my mail lies upon the table--unanswered. Tell me, have I a chance with you--or let me go. Let me put the ocean between us, for self-preservation."

"I don't wish you to think I trifle with marriage because I have refused several offers," said Indiana, seriously. "It's not waywardness or frivolity."

"Indiana!"

"You admit, in your feeling for me, reason has no place. And that your ideal of a wife is something entirely different from myself."

"Yes," said Lord Canning. "Reason has no place. It is love--love alone."

"I want you to know me as I really am, then--if you are willing to take the chances--"

"Willing!" He raised her hand to his lips.

"I am very much spoiled," Indiana continued.

"You have all the imperfections which make you charming to a lover, you will have all the virtues which will make you--divine to your husband."

"I must have my own way--even when I'm wrong. I'm fond of change, nothing pleases me long. I'm quick tempered, spiteful--but I'm always sorry for it, after--always."

"Sweetheart, I have watched you closely. I have seen glimpses of splendid feeling and heart in you, that have become choked by indulgence. Other conditions will develop the good that is in you--I am quite confident of it."

She looked through the trees at the gray lake. "I could be different--it is in me--but--somehow--"

He watched her face, caressing her hand. "You will love my mother, dear. She is a type of English womanhood. She is not strong, and has lived a retired life for many years. Our house may be quiet for you--at first."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I'll make it lively enough."

"Darling!" He tried to draw her into his arms, but she resisted him.

"Wait."

"What more, pretty penitent?"

"Yes. I want you to promise me that when I'm mad and want to do inconsistent things, and have my own way--when it's not good for me--I want you to promise me, no matter how much you love me--that you won't give in."

He laughed at her earnest little face. "I'm afraid I shall--I feel now as if I shall let you do anything, I love you so."

"Then I won't marry you. I've tried to control myself, but I can't, because everybody's so afraid of me. It makes me much worse. You're the first man I've ever taken seriously."

"Do you love me, Indiana?"

"No. I'm tired of the model farm--I'm tired of Grandma Chazy--I'm tired of Washington and New York, and I want to go to England." His expression sank at this frank avowal, only to change again at her next words. "I--I feel that marriage to me must mean the changing of every condition--or--" she looked imploringly into his anxious eyes, "I won't make a success of my life--and I want to be something more than I am--something better." She added quickly, "And, I wouldn't marry you, if I did not think I could love you--some day."

"I believe in the love which comes after marriage," he said firmly. "Given a fairly matched pair, the man the stronger, and there's no danger. I'm sure I shall make you love me."

"And you promise--"

"I promise, no matter how much I suffer, I won't give in." He clasped her into his arms, and kissed her passionately. A sudden wave of color surged over her face, and she drew herself away, with downcast eyes. He watched her anxiously, holding her hand. Then he persuaded her to sit down beside him on the moss-grown trunk. "A little sleeping soul has been given my into my care," he thought, smoothing her hair gently. "I must cherish it until it wakes. After waiting--after infinite patience--her love, when given, will be all the sweeter. I shall prize it more than if it had been easily won. We must wait for the most precious things in life. That is the supreme lesson to learn--how to wait--so we shall be worthy of life's golden gift, when it comes. It must come--the very power of my own love for her--the very force of my will, must bring it. Life owes it to me--her love." He touched his lips to her hair.

"Now, let's go and tell the folks," said Indiana.

*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.