"Oh, Indiana. She went off on Circus nearly three hours ago."
"Why didn't she stop for me?"
"I suppose she thought one's company, two's a crowd," answered
Stillwater.
"You never know when Circus is going to cut up his games," remarked
Glen, gloomily.
"Tell me about Circus now," said Mr. Stillwater scornfully, "don't I
know Circus by this time?"
"Do you think anything could have happened?" asked Mrs. Stillwater in
alarm.
"I've yet to see the horse that Indiana couldn't manage. I never saw
two people understand each other better than she and Circus. He fretted
and fumed when she jumped on his back this morning, then he did his
great act. Stood right up on his hind legs, and looked around for
applause. But she sat him like a rock. The two of them made the
prettiest picture you ever saw. Well, she got him so, that he trotted
off with her like Mary's little lamb. Indiana has a way with a horse."
"I think I hear her now," said Glen, walking down to the gate, and
flinging it open.
"Look at that boy!" said Stillwater. "See, how his face lights up!"
"It's only natural," answered Mrs. Stillwater. "They all feel like that
towards Indiana."
"No," said Stillwater, watching Glen, "not just like that."
"Yes," interpolated Mrs. Bunker, "he's the same as the rest."
"No," persisted Mr. Stillwater. "Not quite the same. Look at him out
there! He's a fine lad."
They glanced at him, standing bare-headed, holding the gate and
watching. His small, finely shaped head, with its well-modeled features,
showing in relief against the sycamore tree near the gate.
"He fought well for his country," continued Stillwater.
"There are others," said Mrs. Bunker tersely.
"That's all right," responded Stillwater, while the clatter of horses
hoofs came nearer. "Not all of them went like him--willing to give
their heart's blood."
"Hurrah!" cried Indiana, entering the gate at full gallop, riding
straddle, breathless, hatless, her yellow hair streaming behind her.
Sitting aloft Circus, who was a tall horse, she looked like a little
boy, a very young, tender, pretty boy, whose hair his mother could not
yet bring herself to cut. She circled the mound in the centre of the
garden, and pulled Circus up tightly at the steps. He reared at the
suddenness of the check. Indiana sank forward on his neck, spent with
her ride, and circled his head with her arms.
"No more tricks, Circus," she murmured. "The show's over; we're just
beat out, Circus." Glen took her in his arms, and lifted her bodily off
the horse. A stable boy led him away. His shining black coat was
covered with flecks of foam.
"Give me a drink, someone!" said Indiana.
"Not now, Indiana," pleaded Mrs. Stillwater, "you're so warm."
"I'm parched, I tell you," said Indiana, stamping her foot, and pressing
her hand to her throat.
Glen ran quickly to the well, and returned with the tin cup, which he
held to Indiana's lips.
"Slowly," he said, holding the cup.
"It's warm," she said, snatching the cup, and spilling the remainder of
the water.
"Why didn't you stop for me?" asked Glen.
"I wanted to ride alone," answered Indiana, sinking down on the step.
"I wanted to think--"
"Think," echoed Stillwater.
"Think," repeated Mrs. Bunker. "Writing a book, Indiana?"
"Think!" said Glen. "If Indiana's taking these notions, I guess I'd
better say good bye." He put on his cap.
"Don't mind them, darling," said Mrs. Stillwater. She drew Indiana's
head down on her shoulder, feeling her hot cheeks and forehead
solicitously.
"She's so warm--"
"What's the use of riding yourself out like that, Indiana?" said Mrs.
Bunker.
"Grandma Chazy," cried Indiana, starting up. "I'd rather have one mad
gallop like that if it were the death of me, than take a slow gait for
the rest of my life."
"Indiana!" exclaimed Mrs. Stillwater.
"That's only the sporting spirit in her, mother," said Stillwater. "She
comes by it honestly." He smiled as he recalled a few venturesome
dealings of his own within the last year, which had not culminated as he
would have wished. Stillwater was one of the men who could enjoy a
laugh at his own expense.
"There was a devil in me, this morning," said Indiana, fiercely, "and I
just rode it down."
"Indiana!"
"That's only young blood, mother. You can't expect her to be the same as
we old-timers." He glanced slyly at Mrs. Bunker, who poked him with her
needle.
"I was on the war path," said Indiana. "If I hadn't gone out with
Circus, I--I--well, you'd have just scattered, that's all."
"Bet yer life," chuckled Stillwater.
"Is my dress finished?" asked Indiana, burying her face in the pink and
white folds on Mrs. Stillwater's lap.
"Just a stitch or two more, dear. I've been working on it all morning."
"It looks so nice and cool. I want to put it on."
"So you shall, dear," said Mrs. Stillwater, in the tone one uses to a
fractious baby.
"Just leave my hair alone, Glen," exclaimed Indiana, turning suddenly
around on him, with flashing eyes.
"All right, Indiana," he said, meekly.
"Come now, darling; come up stairs and when you've had your bath, I'll
dress you up and brush your hair nicely. It's all tangled."
"I didn't mean to be cross, Glen," said Indiana, with a sudden change of
mood, as Mrs. Stillwater took her hand and led her through the kitchen.
"Oh, that's all right, Indiana!"
Glen Masters had known Indiana all her life. When she was born, the
six-year old Glen came to see the baby, and stood by her cradle, sucking
his thumb in solemn-eyed wonder. Not having any brothers or sisters of
his own, he adopted her immediately; and he loved to be tyrannized over
by the petted baby girl, who kicked and scratched him one minute, and
the next caressed him with her little, soft, fat palms. His father had
risen in the world very much the same way as Stillwater. They had been
ranchmen together.
Stillwater lit a meerschaum pipe and puffed it slowly. Glen followed
his example.
"There's two birds building a nest up in that sycamore," said
Stillwater. "Hear them twitter? They're just as happy as can be."
Glen lounged on the step, looking dreamily up at the sky.
"Well, how are things going on over at the farm?" inquired Stillwater.
"Oh, we'll show some livestock at the County Fair that can't be beat."
His eyes smiled a challenge at Stillwater.
"No competition," chuckled Stillwater, "but just you come over to the
barn. I want to show you something. 'Farming ain't no fad with Friend
Masters,' but I'll meet him at Phillipi."
"When you men once get with the livestock, that's the last we see of
you. Dinner's ready as soon as Indiana's dressed," said Mrs. Bunker, as
they sauntered off laughing.
It was the custom of the family to partake of dinner farm style, in the
large kitchen. The first bell, which Kitty rang daily, was for the
family, the second summoned the farm hands.
Glen and Stillwater, by chance, not by any intention of punctuality,
emerged from the farm, just as the first bell resounded from the house.
It was then that Glen thought fit to stop and utter a very vital
question.
"Mr. Stillwater, I want to ask you what you think of my chances
with--with Indiana?"
Glen was oblivious to the fact that he had not chosen a very propitious
time or spot, to broach such a subject. The dinner bell had just
sounded and Mr. Stillwater had been working since five o'clock that
morning, to gain an appetite. Then, the mid-day sun poured down on them
where they stood, and an Indiana sun is hot in May.
"Your chances with Indiana?" The repetition was merely a subterfuge to
gain time, as Indiana's father had not the remotest idea how to answer
her young suitor. Glen's preference had been an open secret for a long
time; but he had never openly broached the subject, not even to Indiana.
"Yes!"
"Oh--oh, I think they're all right, my boy--why shouldn't they be?"
Stillwater looked about him as though challenging earth and heaven to
contradict.
"That's exactly what I think," said Glen, grasping the other's hand.
"Why shouldn't they be?"
Stillwater's heart sank as he looked into the young fellow's glowing,
hopeful eyes. He strongly suspected that Indiana would not accept her
old playmate in the character of a lover. But he could not bring
himself to tell Glen this. He felt deeply for the son of his oldest
friend.
"I've known her all her life, Mr. Stillwater," said Glen, as though this
was a fact unknown to Stillwater.
"Is that so, my boy?" said Stillwater, accepting the information
seriously.
"And it is my conviction that I understand her better than anyone
living; better even than yourself!"
"You do?" said Stillwater. "Well, that's wonderful!"
"It is, and that's why I don't see how Indiana could marry anyone else."
"Anyone else but you?" repeated Stillwater with deference.
"Precisely; anyone else but me. Can't you see it yourself? A stranger
wouldn't understand her. He wouldn't have the remotest idea how to
treat her. I know all her faults."
"Are you positive about that?"
"Positive."
"Well, it's a great thing to know the worst beforehand."
"Then I can rely on your co-operation in this matter, Mr. Stillwater?"
"You can," said Mr. Stillwater. "I'd like to see it. I've known you
from a little lad and you're the son of my oldest friend. I'm with
you--you can figure what that's worth." He himself knew how little his
wishes would weigh with his opiniative little daughter, in such a case.
Glen also realized that fact only too well. What they _said_ was merely
a matter of form. They both felt there was a certain etiquette
attendant on the subject. "Thank you, Mr. Stillwater. I'm glad to think
you consider me a proper husband for Indiana."
"Don't mention it, my boy! and now, I want to give you a little advice.
Don't spring anything on Indiana!"
Glen looked at him inquiringly.
"Don't be too sudden--"
"Indiana has already received several offers, but I don't believe anyone
of them was a shock to her," answered Glen dryly. He thought also, "How
can a fellow be sudden with a girl he's known ever since she had short,
yellow rings curling all over her head, and wasn't sure on her feet."
"She expected those offers, but she never dreams of such a thing from
you."
"No, I don't suppose she does," said Glen, gloomily.
"Of course, we can't tell anything about _her_. One never knows what
sort of a notion Indiana's going to take. I don't want to discourage
you--but don't stake your whole life on this thing, my boy. It won't
do--it never does."
Glen drew a deep breath, and turned his head away.
"Put your cap on! The sun's hotter than July."
"Oh, Manila has schooled me to this--and worse, if it comes." He
compressed his lips, and gazed ahead, past the farm, to the utmost line
of horizon, and beyond that.
"You're a true soldier, my boy. Face the music--we've all got to,
sooner or later."
The dinner bell rang again with menace in its brassy tones.
"We'd better go back to the house. They'll give us Hail Columbia! Brace
up, Glen, and remember--I'm with you!"
Over on the farm-house porch Mrs. Bunker was saying to Kitty: "It's the
last of those men, once they get with the live-stock."
"Here they are," said Kitty. "Why, Mr. Stillwater! Dinner's ready long
ago."
"Don't get excited, Kitty; keep cool. This is the hot part of the day.
Do you observe that the sun has approached its meridian, Kitty? No
occasion for rush here. Rest and quiet, Kitty--that's my cure. Say,
look at Indiana! Isn't she the sweetest thing that ever happened?"
She peeped from behind her mother, dressed in the simple pink and white
dimity. Her hair had been smoothly brushed, and hung in one long braid.
She looked like a fair and happy child, of not more than fifteen;
laughing, refreshed from sleep. Glen gazed at her, but said nothing.
His recent confession to Indiana's father, had the effect of making him
conscious and tongue-tied. There was a large orchard on the farm, where
lay the afternoon shade. The family repaired there, according to the
daily custom, as soon as dinner was over. Hammocks hung in the trees and
Kitty spread shawls on the ground, and brought pillows galore.
Glen sat in the midst of the group, tuning his mandolin, which he kept
at the farm. Glen and his mandolin were associated. All invitations
issued to him included the clause, "Bring your mandolin!" He seldom
made a social visit without it, except on doleful occasions, such as
funerals or visits of condolence.
He was hailed with joy whenever he appeared with his frank smile and his
mandolin. In the West, there is a keen appreciation of impromptu
pleasure.
In the orchard the fruit trees had fully blossomed, the grass was still
a young, tender green. Through the masses of delicate pink and white
color, shone here and there, glimpses of the exquisite blue sky. There
is little to admire, as far as scenery is concerned, in this flat
country, over which one can travel for miles without seeing a rolling
meadow, or a sign of a hill. But one can rave over the skies of
Indiana, sometimes brilliantly, sometimes softly tenderly blue. Their
peculiar azure is not reproduced in any other country of the world. The
color ran out when the skies of Indiana were painted, and never renewed,
in order that they should remain unique. The secret belongs to the
Universe.
*CHAPTER IV.*
*Springtime.*
"The blossoms are commencing to fall," said Mrs. Stillwater, shaking
three or four petals off her work. Her hands were never idle, and they
were now manipulating some fleecy white wool. "What a pity it can't
always be like this--the trees look so beautiful. I could content
myself here all summer--"
"Well, I won't say that," said Mrs. Bunker. "There's no place hotter on
earth, than Indiana in summer. But if it would always be as pleasant as
now--I like the seashore in July--"
"You mean," interrupted Stillwater, lying under a low-spreading apple
tree, with a handkerchief spread over his face, "that you like the
'life' at the seashore. There's no affinity between you and the ocean
that I know of."
"Well, have it that way, if you will. I like 'the life at the
seashore.'"
Mrs. Bunker looked defiantly up from the red rose which she was
embroidering, with a little less energy perhaps, than in the morning.
"Particularly, as we are buried alive in the Adirondacks during August,
September and October."
"Buried alive?"
"Buried alive!" Mrs. Bunker looked around triumphantly, enjoying the
sensation her words had occasioned. Indiana had thrown down her book
which she was reading, lying on her back. Glen stopped thrumming
pensive snatches of melody. Mrs. Stillwater gave her mother a startled
glance and Stillwater threw the handkerchief from his face and raised
himself to a sitting posture.
"Well, I never saw such a woman! Buried alive! Buried--why, you have
the camp filled with company. Didn't I have to put up tents for them
last year; the place looked as if there was an army bivouacing on it--"
"Oh, yes; I can make a good time for myself wherever I am--but when
we're alone there--it's so still, I'm afraid of the sound of my own
voice, and jump for joy if I see a chipmunk peeping out of its hole.
There's something spry about them, at all attempts. The natives would
do well to imitate them. Such a slow lot--and those guides with their
drawling voices. The world just stops, when you get up to the
Adirondacks."
"I'm never so happy," remarked Glen, "as when I'm in the forests and on
those lakes. It's the real thing. City life goes against my grain,
somehow."
"I always feel quite natural in the woods," said Indiana. "Just as
though I belonged there, with the other wild things."
"When did those English friends of yours say they were coming up,
grandma?" inquired Mr. Stillwater, in a muffled voice, having again
taken shelter under the handkerchief, after recovering from the last of
the many shocks he was in the habit of receiving from his mother-in-law.
"They said September, but I have a shrewd idea they'll get tired of
travelling before then. They may arrive the latter part of August.
They'll be glad to see a little home life once more."
"Friends of yours, Mrs. Bunker?" inquired Glen, with a slight frown.
"Yes; Lord Canning and his uncle, Lord Nelson Stafford. They belong to
a representative noble English family. I met them at Cannes last year--"
"Lord Canning is a very distinguished looking gentleman," said Mrs.
Stillwater.
"His face inspires trust, if I'm not mistaken," remarked her husband.
"I promised to show him the sights," said Indiana, with a mischievous
smile.
"How kind and disinterested of you," remarked Glen, in a very sarcastic
voice.
"What do you mean by that?" demanded Indiana.
"I mean you intended to make an impression on him, by the time you were
through with the sights," answered Glen, with a pale face.
"And supposing I did," said Indiana, provokingly. "It wouldn't be the
first time I have made an impression, nor will it be the last."
"Oh, well, I suppose you must have someone to flirt with," said Glen,
resignedly.
"Now, children, don't quarrel! You know what that New York oracle said:
'Rest and quiet.'"
"I never flirted with you," said Indiana.
"I should hope not," answered Glen, in a very dignified manner.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean that I intend to be taken seriously, or not at all."
They all gasped at this temerity from such an unexpected quarter.
Stillwater peeped at Indiana from under the corner of his handkerchief.
"No man has ever yet dictated to me," said Indiana, majestically.
"It's more than I'd do," murmured Stillwater.
"Men are generally only too glad if I will tolerate them on any terms,"
continued Indiana.
"Well, I'm not like others; but never mind, Indiana--that's true
enough--I ought to be glad to be tolerated on any terms." He smiled
resignedly around on the circle. He was afraid he had gone too far. At
all events, their little skirmishes generally ended this way. Indiana
felt a slight misgiving as she took up her book again. Glen, her slave
and comrade, was one person, but Glen, who wished to be taken seriously,
with a pale set face and glowing eyes, was another.
"What are you making, ma?" inquired Stillwater.
"A little woolen cape, with a darling hood attached, for Indiana. Just
to put on her when she's roaming after dinner in the mountains. It's so
chilly there, when the sun goes down."
"You're always making something for her," said Stillwater.
"She's the best mother I ever had," remarked Indiana, proudly fingering
her little dimity skirt.
Mrs. Stillwater blushed with happiness, and looked with almost tearful
love on this child, who showed such unparalleled appreciation of her
mother's efforts.
"Sing 'My Georgia Lady Love,' Glen!" said Mrs. Bunker.
Glen struck a few notes on his mandolin and sang in a very pleasing
baritone.
"My Georgia Lady Love, my Southern Queen,
How your brown eyes do shine like stars above,
There's not a girl can equal you,
My Georgia Lady Love--Love."
"Kitty, you were never so welcome in your life," said Stillwater, as
Kitty appeared with the tea-tray. She was followed by a farm-hand
carrying a table and a camp-stool. Mrs. Bunker seated herself, and
commenced pouring out the tea.
"Go ahead with the second verse, Glen!"
"One day I said, 'I love you, Sue,
Believe me, gal, I will be true.'
She slowly dropped her head,
And then she softly said:
'Mister Johnson, 'deed I loves you too.
My Georgia Lady Love, my Southern Queen."
"There's a circus to-night," volunteered Kitty.
"Circus!" exclaimed Mrs. Bunker.
"Oh, I want to go," said Indiana.
"Let's stuff the big hay wagon full of straw and pillows," cried Mrs.
Bunker. "It's full moon; we'll have a grand ride, eh, Ratio?"
Ratio looked visibly delighted.
"Well, you know what he said, 'Rest and quiet.'"
"Pa, you're forever quoting that old mummy," said Indiana. "He's like
the ghost in Hamlet. It's settled; we'll go."
"Well, what's the matter, Kitty? Got anything on your mind?"
"No, sir; but Jim Tuttle's invited me to the circus, and I'd like to go,
if the ladies don't object."
"Not at all, not at all," said Stillwater, with an amiable wave of his
hand. Kitty left the orchard in high glee.
"She did well to ask you, instead of me, sly thing," said Mrs. Bunker.
"That girl's too fond of pleasure."
"Now grandma--we were young ourselves, once."
"Speak for yourself, Ratio. I'm going to the kitchen to make some
taffy. There's just enough time for it to cool. We'll take it along
and give it to all the youngsters."
"Well, ma, there's a nice breeze blowing, the sun's going down. What do
you say to a short spin?"
"Yes, father."
"Well, get ready. I'll have the buckboard here in five minutes." He
rose, shaking off the blossoms which powdered his coat like snow.
"There's some on your hair, ma; they're so pretty."
Indiana rose lazily from the grass, also shaking off a shower of
blossoms, and leaned against a low-spreading apple tree, extending her
arms on the branches each side of her.
Glen gazed at her, still thrumming his mandolin.
"Do you think you'll come to Narragansett with us, this summer?" said
Indiana, looking idly up through the branches.
"What for?" said Glen, gloomily. "To see you dance and flirt with a lot
of--of simpering idiots."
Indiana laughed. Every time she moved, the blossoms fell upon her
shoulders, neck and hair.
"Don't you like me to enjoy myself?"
"Not with other men."
"Oh, that's selfish!"
"Maybe," said Glen.
There was silence, broken only by the thrumming of the mandolin and the
twitter of birds from the recesses of the trees.
"It's sad, the way those blossoms fall on you, Indiana."
Indiana shook the branches, and peeped out laughing through the thick
shower which followed.
"You look like a part of the tree," said Glen. "Like a wood-sprite, a
Dryad--or something."
"Or something," said Indiana, "is very illustrative to the mind."
"I like you best as you are here about the farm," continued Glen,
watching her steadily with his dark eyes, and continuing his eternal
thrumming. "Just as you are now, in that simple dress your mother made
for you, with your hair hanging like that--I always liked your hair
hanging--do you remember, Indiana?"
"Yes, you always liked it, Glen."
"It went rather hard with me, when you first put it up, and wore long
dresses. It seemed as though that were going to be the end of all our
good times."
"But it wasn't, Glen?"
"No; you were the same old Indiana, although you looked more--the woman.
Then you discovered your own power, and you took to breaking hearts.
You were very apt at that business, for one so young."
"You forget," said Indiana, with a sly smile, "there was Grandma Chazy."
"That's true. An old soldier in camp put you on to all the principal
maneuvers."
They both laughed, looking around cautiously, like naughty children, as
though Mrs. Bunker might be hiding somewhere among the trees.
"I fought shy of you for awhile, then--I was young and unworldly." From
Glen's seriously reminiscent expression, he might have been looking back
upon another self of twenty or thirty years ago. "And I could not
justify your practices at that time. I don't know whether you noticed
the difference in me?"
"Only that you made yourself scarce when there was anyone else around."
"I accepted the inevitable after a while; but when I see you in the
midst of a crowd of men, dealing out dances and smiles, you appear to me
like some stranger, with a marvellous resemblance to a girl I once
played with, called Indiana. Here, in the country, and up in the
Adirondacks you are the real Indiana."
"That's nonsense! We can't be girl and boy forever. There's something
else in life--I suppose."
"What?" said Glen.
"I don't know," answered Indiana impatiently, "but it's individual.
People must discover it for themselves--"
"Have you?" asked Glen.
"No," answered Indiana.
"I have," said Glen.
"Tell me."
"Not now."
"This sort of life is all very well, but in order to develop, one must
see the world, must be of the world. I don't believe in a groove."
"Your mother did," said Glen.
"How can you compare me to ma? She's the old-fashioned type, bless her
heart!"
"Look at this day," said Glen irrelevantly. "I believe in enjoying what
we have. This is one day out of life. There'll never be another like
this--not just like this. The blossoms are going--"
"They'll come again, next year," said Indiana.
"Yes, but we may be different, that's the trouble. I'd like to keep
this day--everything is so young and tender and spring-like--and you're
part of it all. The sun sinking over there; the rosy clouds above our
heads--there's a soft, pink light on the whole orchard--it's shining
down, through the branches, on your face. I wish there was an
artist--the best in the world--living hereabouts. I'd jump on my wheel,
and bring him in a trice, with his color-box and his canvas. But it
would be even too late--to catch this light. I'd have him paint the
whole thing with you in the foreground, among the blossoms--that glow on
your face. I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'"
*[Illustration: "I'd call the picture, 'Indiana.'"
(missing from book)]*
"And you, Glen? You wouldn't be in it at all."
"I'd own the picture," said Glen.
A slight breeze swept through the orchard, bringing a snowy shower from
the trees. There was a tinkling of bells, not far away.
"The cows have just come home," said Indiana. "Glen, what will you do
with yourself this summer, if you don't go with us to Narragansett?"
"I'll stay with the folks, till you all go up to the camp. Then I'll
join you on our old hunting grounds--if you want me--"
"Why!" exclaimed Indiana. "It wouldn't seem like the Adirondacks, if
you weren't there."
Glen smiled gratefully.
"How are the folks?"
"Well, thanks. They were talking about you, to-day."
"I'll ride over there to-morrow."
"They'll be glad to see you. They love you just--just like a daughter."
"I like people to love me," said Indiana.
"So do I," answered Glen. He gazed around him. Nature so beautifully
revealed just then, inspired him to speak. "There are not many days like
this," he thought, "and now, it is measured by moments. Before it is
over I will tell her!" He leaned over his mandolin, watching a little
brown bug struggle through the grass, then he gazed upward. The rosy
light still lingered on the orchard.
"Before it fades, I will ask her." Stillwater's caution recurred to
him. "'Don't spring anything on Indiana!' He didn't make allowances for
a moment like this," thought Glen. "He didn't think it was going to be
such a day." He was very pale, and his fingers shook slightly as they
laid the mandolin down on the grass.
"Do you think you could love me, Indiana?" he said, simply.
"Why, I've loved you all my life, Glen."
"I don't mean that way, Indiana." He took up his mandolin again,
nervously.
"I don't know any other way, Glen," she answered, pitifully.
"Not now; but don't you think you could?"
"No, Glen."
"Try me; let's be engaged for a little while, then if you can't love
me--"
"Glen, it's no use--I've known you too long."
"Indiana, you don't know what you're saying--you're killing me,
Indiana!"
"Glen! Glen!" She threw herself down beside him, and smoothed and
patted his hair, soothing him as though he had fallen and hurt himself.
He seized her hands, and held them tightly.
"Life means nothing to me, without you, Indiana--you're the key to it.
Look here; suppose I was given a beautiful book to read, in a foreign
language--the greatest ever written--it would be mere print, wouldn't
it? But suppose someone translated it for me, and all its beauty became
suddenly revealed. You translate life for me that way, Indiana; _don't
you understand_?"
"Yes, yes, Glen. But if I marry you, that will be the end. You're too
much a part of the old life--"
"The old life, Indiana? Isn't that the best life?"
"Not for me."
"You don't know what you're saying. If I live to be a hundred, I want to
live true to the old life, to the old ideals and the old truths, even
the simple ones I learned at home, when I was a little lad."
"You're a good fellow, Glen; shake hands with me!"
"Won't you think about it, Indiana?"
"No, dear! I hate to say it--but I want to be straight with you.
Something tells me it's not the right thing for us to marry. Don't say
any more--don't try to persuade me--it's no use."
"All right, Indiana."
"Don't look like that, Glen! you'll break my heart. Life isn't over for
you, because--of this. It's a beautiful world still--look at the
blossoms, look at the day!"
"It's not the same," said Glen, holding his hand to his eyes. "It'll
never be the same."
"Oh, yes, it will, dear; after a while. I don't want to lose you, Glen;
you'll be my dear old friend still. Say you will!"
"Do you remember when I went to the war, Indiana? You gave me a lock of
your hair, and I carried it over my heart. It was a charm, a little
yellow lock--it brought me back to you alive. You cried when you gave it
to me, and said, 'God keep you, Glen!'"
"And I say it now! Wherever we both happen to be, until I die, 'God
keep you, Glen!'" She broke down, and sobbed on his breast.
He smoothed her hair mechanically, murmuring, "A little yellow lock--I
carried it over my heart, always. They might have found it if I hadn't
come back. I wish that I hadn't, now--I wish that I hadn't!"
"Glen! What are you saying?" She held her hand over his mouth. "We'll
go on just the same; you mustn't say anything to the others. We'll keep
our own secret, and you'll come to the camp this August?"
"It'll never be the same," repeated Glen, monotonously.
Suddenly they heard the sound of wheels, and Stillwater's voice shouting
to Jim Tuttle.
"I must be getting home," said Glen stupidly, like a person just
awakened from sleep.
"Why, aren't you going to the circus, Glen?"
"Circus?"
"Don't break up the party!"
"All right, Indiana."
It was not a merry circus party, as far as the younger members were
concerned, but the others were lively, and failed to see anything
strange in their behaviour. Indiana asked someone to dare her to jump
down in the ring, and ride better than the lady equestrian, but they all
wisely refrained from doing so. Glen sat in the center of the wagon and
tinkled his mandolin faithfully, for the amusement of the party. They
dropped him at his own gate, to which they drove, singing hilariously,
Kitty bringing up the rear in a buggy with Jim Tuttle.
"Hello, neighbor Stillwater!" called a voice from one of the farm-house
windows.
"It's father," said Glen.
"Hello, Masters!"
"Is this what you call 'rest and quiet?'"
"Well, I don't believe in too much of a good thing; good-night."
"Good-night; good luck to you all."
"Merrily we roll along," sang Mrs. Bunker.
Glen leaned against the gate after they had gone, listening to their
voices in the distance.
"Have a good time, Glen?"
"Yes, father!"
The window closed. Glen laughed bitterly, leaning against the gate;
then the laugh changed to a sob.
"I don't want much, I ask so little, dear God; _only Indiana_."
*CHAPTER V.*
*Camp Indiana.*
"I'm tired of the model farm. I wouldn't care to spend another spring
here."
"Indiana, your love of change will bode you no good, some day."
"I come by it honestly, Grandma Chazy--you're always on the go."
"Don't compare yourself to me, Indiana. I'm an old woman."
"You'd be hopping mad, if anyone else called you that."
"I can take a privilege which I wouldn't allow to others," said Mrs.
Bunker, sweetly. "I mean I'm an old woman compared to you, Indiana; I
have experience and discretion, to back up my roving spirit."
"Em--n!" said Indiana.
She was lying on a nest of pillows, reading, surrounded by dormer
windows, in one of the upper rooms of the farm-house.
"Look at pa out there in the rain with his rubber coat and hat. He's a
sight! Wonder if Glen will be over to-day."
"Appears to me, you're always looking for Glen."
"There's no one else to look for, here, is there?"
"Girls your age generally do attach themselves to the man who's around."
"I'm no more attached to Glen than I ever was. Everybody likes him.
He's a good fellow."
"That's true. Do you think you'll marry him?"
"What's your opinion on that matter, Grandma Chazy?"
"I think you'd regret it all your life; he's only a boy."
"Yes, but he's a good fellow."
"You said that before."
Glen had kept away for a week or so after the moonlight circus party,
and in that time became morbid and melancholy. Indiana dominated him
completely. He racked his brain, hour after hour, trying to remember
the exact words in which she had uttered such and such a remark, with
her exact tone of voice and the exact expression of her eyes at the
time. Sometimes in his sleep he heard her calling "Glen dear! Glen
dear! Glen dear!" her childish name for him, in a helpless, frightened
voice. He would awaken with a terrible fear that she might be ill or in
trouble. Compared with this awful anxiety oppressing him in the night,
his past misery seemed nothing. He resolved that if Indiana only kept
well and happy he would ask nothing more of life. Again, he heard her
laughing in his dreams, mockingly, tantalizingly; laughing, laughing,
laughing, until his brain reeled, and he thought, "This is the laugh
that drives men mad." Then, when taking bicycle rides on the moonlight
nights of his week's absence, her face seemed to flash upon him suddenly
in dark places, like that of a sweet ghost. Haunted like this, the idea
of seeing her in reality once more was like the conventional promise of
Heaven. He resolved to resume their old footing. "Indiana wishes it,
and anything is better than not to see her." He appeared again at the
model farm, humble and deferential to Indiana's slightest wish, grateful
for her every look and word. With her tender heart and warm sympathies
she pitied him intensely. She tried to establish their old comradeship.
The loyal little soul hated to lose a friend.
Glen felt life was worth living once more. There is a magic flower,
tiny, and blue as the sky. This is the forget-me-not bloom of hope. It
sheds a sweet and subtle fragrance which enchants the soul, and charms
the eyes, so that they see a wonderful light on all things. But when
the flower perishes, there is an end to the spell. The glamour fades
before the eyes, the soul is seized with an aching grief. But the
witch-flower of hope will bloom again, if it is not plucked by the root.
"I'm getting a little bit tired of it myself, here," remarked Mrs.
Bunker. "Well, it'll be time to pack up soon; I expect to enjoy myself
this summer."
Indiana, watching the rain, forebore to answer. There were times when
Mrs. Bunker's constant desire for pleasure rather palled on her.
Mid-summer at a fashionable seaside resort proved to be merely a
repetition of other summers. Indiana enjoyed herself, after the manner
of the young and thoughtless; dancing, bathing, flirting, and laughing.
But after the glare of the sea and the kaleidoscope of life on the
shore, after falling asleep every night to the echoes of the very latest
dance music, mingled with the eternal dash of the waves, the woods
beckoned her invitingly.
It was the middle of August before the Stillwater's were installed in
the mountains. They arrived at the primitive station early in the
morning, and were met by one of the two guides yearly engaged for the
season. There was a large mountain wagon, without a cover, awaiting
them, and a pair of fresh-looking ponies. Indiana jumped up nimbly, and
took the reins, while Haller, the guide, packed in the rest of the
family and Kitty, all looking rather sleepy, from their all-night
travel. The other servants had preceded them by some days.
"All right!" shouted Indiana, starting at a brisk trot. It was only
twenty minutes' drive from the station to a landing, where they were met
by a trim little naptha launch with "The Indiana" painted newly, in
bright letters, upon the prow. She puffed slowly up one of the largest
lakes in the Adirondacks, buried in the very heart of the mountains.
The latter are higher in this particular region, the scenery wilder than
elsewhere. Nature had designed a beautiful color scheme from the lake;
the rich, vivid green of the banks, fretted with enormous rocks and
crags, the darker background of the immediate mountains, in their
funereal dress of pine and balsam, and beyond the pale tracery of the
distant ranges. It was a dull morning, and the grey atmosphere gave a
touch of desolation to the wild environment of the lake.
"It's lonesome as the grave," said Mrs. Bunker. "Throw me that cape,
please, Mr. Haller. I'm chilly."
"Yer be?" said Haller, with a certain contortion of his serious face,
which was intended for a smile. "Waal, 'tis cool, mornin's."
"How are the evenings? Cold, I suppose?"
Haller cogitated for the space of five minutes. No one answers a
question thoughtlessly in these regions; and after sojourning there some
time, one learns not to interrogate at random. "Waal," he said at
length, "'tis cool evenin's."
"None of the leaves have changed yet," said Indiana, after closely
inspecting the banks on either side.
"No; they ain't changin'. Waal, thar's bin no frost, ter speak
of--thar's bin no frost, ter speak of."
"Is it going to storm?" inquired Mrs. Stillwater, shivering, with a
heavy plaid shawl wrapped about her.