Part 13

"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?"