Part 14

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jennings entered slowly, followed by Glen Masters.

*CHAPTER XVIII.*

*Awakening.*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not at all," Thurston assured him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"About twelve hours."

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

"Lord Canning," he said, rising, "I don't feel near as confident, as I did when I came in. I was sure my platform was a just and equitable one, but since I've been watching you and listening, I begin to feel a little ashamed of myself."

"No occasion for it, I'm sure," Thurston replied, kindly.

"You're a fine fellow, and if Indiana's not happy with you, it's not your fault. It's the fault of your nationality--that's the only weak point I see in you."

"An Englishman and his nationality cannot be so easily divorced as a husband and wife," said Thurston, significantly.

Glen held out his hand. "Lord Canning, although it's against my own interests, I--I wish you luck."

"Thank you, sir. One moment, please," touching the bell, "the house is already closed for the night." They waited silently until Jennings appeared.

"Show this gentleman out, Jennings. Then lock the door securely."

"Yes, yer lordship."

"Good night," said Glen. He stepped back to the fire, where Thurston was standing, adding, confidentially, "You won't see me again. I shall keep out of the way. I won't move a step in this matter until I am quite convinced the case is hopeless with you. Good night."

When he reached the street, he found the cabman asleep on the box. He touched him on the shoulder.

"Where to, sir?"

"Anywhere--only drive," slipping a sovereign in his hand. The cabman whipped up his horse furiously. He had been following similar instructions since ten o'clock. It was now past midnight, and the handsome young American still persisted in his strange whim. He refrained, however, from fatiguing his brain with futile questions, realizing the fallacy of such a proceeding, when a sovereign reposed securely in his pocket.

Glen leaned comfortably back, lighting a cigarette. His dead hopes had risen that day from their ashes, and, like beautiful, deceiving phantoms, had melted into air. His equilibrium, the fortitude it had cost him so much to gain, had been shaken to their foundations by the thought that his cherished dream might still materialize. He saw Thurston's white, suffering face as he calmly said he would make the way of retreat very easy for Indiana. Well, he was worthy of her love. That was, at least, one solace. And he would win it in time. It was his right. With a sigh for his transient vision of happiness, the beautiful Fata Morgana which had charmed his eyes for such a brief space, Glen gathered all his moral forces to banish Indiana from his mind. His manhood was firmly building itself on the foundation of these accumulated efforts.

Thurston, still sitting up in the library, vainly attempted to read. It seemed as though his life were falling about him in ruins. He was mortified, humiliated, and incensed at Indiana. If she had no love for him, she could, at least, have shown more respect for the sacred tie which bound them, and should have refrained from discussing their relations and publishing the fact of her unhappiness.

Jennings crept in. He gave a sly glance at Thurston, who, with his head bent over his book, appeared to be reading. Then he opened the window softly and looked out. Hearing nothing, he closed it, but still waited, listening, in the shadow of the curtains. He felt it incumbent on him to share his master's vigil. Although he would not presume to express an opinion to Thurston, he had a firm belief that his little mistress would come home that night. Jennings' head swayed, and he dozed, his head against the window. Thurston, sitting with his head in his hands, was only dimly alive to his surroundings, his consciousness dulled, not by drowsiness, but a species of stupor. A knock sounded, very low and timid--then again, louder, more decided. Thurston started. Jennings, awakened suddenly, rubbed his eyes, wondering if he had heard aright. The knock was repeated, doubly and imperatively. Jennings hurried to the door, but Thurston, with a quick stride, brought his hand heavily down on the old man's shoulder.

"It's her little leddyship, sir. It's her--"

The words died on his lips as he met his master's determined gaze.

"Draw those curtains," directed Thurston, in a low, set voice.

Jennings obeyed. There was another knock. Thurston extinguished the lights. "She's at the door!" cried Jennings, desperately. "I must let--I--"

"I have said my doors will not be opened to-night--and I mean to keep my word. If you make one move to undo what I have done, in spite of the affection I have for you, I shall dismiss you on the spot."

The old man's head sank on his breast. "That I should live to see this night," he sobbed. "I love her--little--leddyship--and she--out there!" He slowly took the keys from his pocket and laid them on the table.

Thurston listened intently. "She has gone back to the cab," he thought. "She is speaking to the cabby." He heard the door of the cab slammed and the sound of receding wheels. "She has returned to the hotel. A little longer, and I might have--" He put his hand to his head, which was burning. "Jennings, I'll try and get an hour's sleep."

"Shall I help you, sir?"

"No, thank you. I shall probably come down again." He mounted the stairs heavily to his room, and threw himself, dressed as he was, upon the lounge. It was only to live, again and again, through the scene which had been enacted below. He heard the knock--first faint, then louder, still louder. He saw Jennings break down, sobbing, then take the keys from his pocket and lay them on the table. He listened intently. He heard the door of the cab slam. He heard it drive away--over his heart. She had forced him to this. And he had kept his word to her. He had not given in. She would never know, never care to know, perhaps, what it had cost him. He tossed restlessly.

Jennings still waited below in the library. Thurston had said he would come down again. There was no light but the fire, near which the old man stood, a little, heart-broken figure. Suddenly the sound of low sobbing fell on his ears. He lifted his head quickly, listening like a watchdog. Then he went to the door and looked into the hall. Hearing nothing, he approached the fire again. The faint sobbing continued. Jennings shivered with a slight sensation of fear. The sound was uncanny in the dark room, at that hour. Again he listened, every nerve on the alert. "It's outside," he suddenly concluded. He went to the window, opened it and peered out. The night was not utterly black, but lit faintly by the rays of a watery moon. Jennings distinguished a white object below on the steps.

"Jennings!" called a familiar voice.

"God! Her little leddyship--on the steps--in the cold!"

"Is it you, Jennings?"

"Yes, yer little leddyship," he whispered down, his body half out the window. "I can't open the door, yer leddyship. Hush! don't call out--wait!" He tottered to the hall, in fear of Thurston, and listened. Hearing nothing, he tottered back, trembling with excitement. "Yer little leddyship, there's those little iron bars--can't you find them? Put your hand through the ivy underneath. Ah, that's it. Now, if you could climb up, you're such a light, little body--I'd swing you easy enough over the balcony. That's right. Be careful. Ah, my heart stopped beating. Now, hold on with one hand and put up the other as high as you can." He drew her up gradually; she jumped lightly over the balcony and into the room. The fire was burning brightly. She crouched before it, shivering, and warming her hands.

"Oh, I'm so cold!" she cried. "I'm chilled to the bone!"

"Hush," whispered Jennings, in mortal fear. "Speak lower, yer little leddyship, if you don't want to ruin me."

"What's the meaning of this?" exclaimed Indiana. "Where's my husband?"

"Asleep."

"Asleep! You heard me, why didn't you open the door?"

"The master took the key from me."

Indiana rose from the fire with a horror-stricken face. "He heard me, then--he knew I was there?"

"You won't tell him I helped you in, yer little leddyship?" asked Jennings, clasping and unclasping his hands, in a nervous, frightened fashion. "He said he'd dismiss me on the spot--and he always keeps his word."

"Yes, he keeps his word," repeated Indiana, in a dazed tone, leaning against the table. "I won't tell--and I'm in now, thanks to you. It's a terrible thing to be locked out on a cold night." She shivered, folding her arms across her bare neck and shoulders. She had left her wrap on the step, in order to be disencumbered as she climbed up to the window.

"Jennings," called Thurston's voice. "Are you in here? I thought I heard someone moving."

"Go," whispered Indiana. Jennings slipped quietly from the room.

Thurston, feeling his way to the table, pressed the electric button of the lamp, then started slightly at beholding Indiana.

She faced him with clenched hands, panting with rage and excitement. "You locked me out," she said, hysterically.

"And you came in by the window," answered Thurston, coldly and calmly, giving a comprehensive glance at the open window.

"You heard me knock, and you left me on the doorstep."

"You had due warning."

"Yes, you sent me a nice message with my father--to make me look ridiculous in the eyes of my own family. I waited purposely till after one o'clock to prove to them that I was no servant, compelled to come home at a stated hour, or have the door shut in my face." Her fingers tore nervously at her gloves. "You are my husband--not my jailer, I am your wife--not your prisoner, to be let out on parole. I give you full liberty of action--if you do not give me the same, I shall take it. How dare you leave your wife out on the doorstep, like an outcast?--how dare you?"

"I dare do whatever is for your good."

"My good!" she repeated, with a cold laugh. "I am a child, then, to be lectured into silence, to be terrorized into submission. Ah, you do not know me! I will not live with you--I will never forgive you--until you come on your knees to me--on your knees!"

"I have not asked forgiveness. It is for you to do that. My wife must not outrage my sense of dignity and propriety. You have hurt and wounded me beyond pardon. The sacredness of my home relations has been violated and coarsely discussed. I am ashamed to raise my head before my own servants. And to make it, at last, unbearable--your old sweetheart calls me to account for your unhappiness. It is too galling--too humiliating!"

"Ah," exclaimed Indiana, "Glen did come, then?"

"At your invitation," said Thurston, quickly.

"What of it? He would not have locked me out--insulted me. Oh, I'm sorry I ever married you!" Thurston gave a suppressed cry of pain. "I mean it. I have never known a harsh word in my life. You--to treat me like this! I won't stand it, I tell you!" Losing all control, she took up a paper-cutter and snapped it in pieces in her rage. "I hate you--standing there like ice! I hate--" Thurston looked down into her face with an expression of horror and rushed from the room, slamming the door. "I--I--what have I said? I didn't mean it, Thurston," murmured Indiana, with a sudden revulsion of feeling. She stretched out her hands piteously, helpless and groping, like a frightened child. "Thurston, I didn't mean it. There was a rush of red before my eyes--it blinded me." She sank on her knees with a feeling of terror at the remembrance. "Thurston, I'm afraid," she sobbed, shudderingly. "Don't leave me here with myself." She struggled to her feet, trembling from head to foot. "Thurston, I'm sorry--forgive me--I love you--I--" She fell blindly against the door, then sank to the ground, shaking with sobs.

When the storm passed, her exhaustion was so great she felt powerless to mount the stairs to her room, and lay there on the floor, beside the door, throughout the night. Though stiff with cold, her moral distress would scarcely permit her to notice this physical discomfort. She was clutched tightly in the grasp of a terrible dread. That this sudden tidal wave of love had rushed over her heart too late. And if this proved true, she felt she would no longer have the courage to live. The fact had so suddenly awakened in her consciousness, as a flower might spring at once into full and perfect bloom, that her husband's love alone gave life significance. She fell, at intervals, from pure exhaustion, into a short, troubled sleep, awakening always with a remembrance of Thurston's horrified face as he rushed from the room, closing the door, as though he would shut her forever out of his life. When daylight came, she rose with an effort and threw herself upon the lounge.

*CHAPTER XIX.*

*"And as he Wove he heard Singing."*

Jennings, entering the library at an early hour that morning, started when he saw his little mistress lying there, still in her gown of the night before, one arm hanging listlessly down, her face buried in the pillows. The light was still burning in the lamp on the table.

"Yer little leddyship," said Jennings, softly, bending over her. She stirred and raised her head.

"I wasn't asleep, Jennings," she answered, in a pathetic voice. She looked like a little, pale wraith, in her white, crushed, tulle gown, a fragment of a cloud blown by chance into the old, gloomy room.

"You left this on the doorstep, yer little leddyship." He held her long, white wrap over his arm.

"Did I? Oh, so I did!" She took it and wrapped it about her shoulders, shivering. "I've been here all night long, Jennings," piteously, "and I'm so cold!"

"Poor bairn!" exclaimed Jennings, indignantly. He hurried from the room, then returned in a moment, and busied himself making a fire, muttering to himself--"Poor bairn, it's a shame, a shame!" Indiana watched his operations with interest, as she crouched, shivering, on the lounge. "Now, yer little leddyship." He wheeled a large armchair before the fire, and she nestled into it, holding her hands to the flame.

"Pile on the logs, Jennings, pile on the logs. That's right--a big, big blaze. Oh, I shall never be warm again. Who's that?" starting up, as some one knocked at the door.

"No one will come in, yer little leddyship," said Jennings, soothingly. "I ordered some tea and toast for you."

"Tea and toast," repeated Indiana, blissfully. "Tea and toast."

Jennings took the tray and closed the door, then drew a small tea-table up to the fire. She watched him eagerly, as he poured out the tea.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, Jennings," she said, gratefully, taking the cup from his shaking hand. "Oh, that's good! I've never tasted such delicious tea. Is it a new kind?"

Jennings shook his head, handing her the toast. "Yer little leddyship must be very hungry."

"Jennings, I can trust you--I know you won't say anything."

"No, yer little leddyship."

"Did I do so very wrong, did I, that I should be treated like this?" She caught her breath with a sob, the tears rising to her eyes.

"It was cruel, cruel, yer little leddyship," answered Jennings, in a heart-broken voice. "There, there--have another cup of tea--that'll comfort yer."

"Do the servants all like me, Jennings?" asked Indiana, eating the sugar out of her tea, like a child.

"They'd go through fire and water for yer little leddyship, every mother's soul of them," answered Jennings, enthusiastically. "And my lady--she's taken on a new lease of life."

Indiana smiled brightly through her tears. "How long have you really been with the family, Jennings?"

"Sixty years, yer little leddyship," said Jennings, turning out the light and arranging the books on the table. "My father was gamekeeper for his lordship's grandfather, and when I was ten years old I was taken into the house."

"Sixty years," repeated Indiana, dipping her toast in the tea and eating it with relish. "And have you never thought of bettering yourself, Jennings?"

Jennings drew himself up proudly. "Impossible to do better. It's a great satisfaction to look back on my life, and feel I have always done my duty faithfully."

"I suppose it is a great pleasure to serve those whom we respect," said Indiana, looking at him with interest.

"It's more than pleasure, yer little leddyship. To serve the right master, it's pupil and teacher, friend and friend."

The handle of the door turned slowly. Indiana, who had been coiled up, like a kitten, in the big armchair, put down her feet, which had been tucked under her, and straightened herself stiffly. In her nervousness she almost dropped her cup, and she looked piteously at Jennings, as though for help. It could be no other than Thurston, as the servants would have knocked, and no one else rose so early.