"Yes," uttered Indiana, in a frightened voice, "a deep, white scar."
"You did that." She recoiled, looking at it in horror. "You threw a
pair of scissors at me--in one of your tantrums."
"Oh, no, no, no!"
"You were too young to remember, and they took you away so that the
sight of the blood shouldn't frighten you."
"Oh, Glen!" cried Indiana, "how could I? And you're always so good--you
never even hated me for it. Oh, Glen!" She took his head in her hands
and kissed the scar impulsively. "Forgive me--forgive me!"
"Indiana, is there a chance for me?"
"No."
"You're not going to marry that Englishman?" he said, fiercely.
"He hasn't asked me."
"Would you?"
"I don't know, Glen. Promise me you won't say anything to him about
that," pointing to the scar.
"I've never thought of it myself," said Glen, sadly, "since then. I'm
sorry I told you if--"
"Thank you for telling me. I'm glad I know. It hurts me, though--right
here." She put her hand to her heart.
"Indiana!"
"Now I'm blue, but I'll get over it. To think I could hurt you, or
anybody, like that."
"Oh, Indy, don't think about it. This scar is healed--long ago. You've
hurt me here, far worse than that." He took her hand and pressed it to
his heart. "There's a wound here it'll take many a long day to heal."
"Oh, Glen! Oh, Glen!" she moaned, piteously, trying to wrest her hand
away. But he held it tightly over his heart.
"I don't know what you want--I don't believe you know yourself--I don't
believe you realize what you're doing--you're too young to know. You're
throwing away a rare, pure love, Indiana, as though it were a soiled
ribbon. I'm not a man of the world, but I know what that means in
life--you don't. It's all that counts in the long run. I don't say
another man couldn't love you, but no one will ever love you
better--remember that, won't you? And that mine is not a love which has
sprung up suddenly--it has taken deep roots in my life."
"It's horrible to think I could hurt anyone like that," repeated
Indiana, mechanically, looking at the scar on his forehead.
"That's the least. Think of the wound here," he repeated. "You could
heal it, Indiana." He opened his arms. He might have won her by his
very insistence, if it were not that the idea of another--a different
life from what she had known--had shed its glamour upon her, the glamour
of the new and strange. She would not trust herself to look at his
dark, quivering face, but turned away and mounted the stairs, slowly, to
her room, seeing him very clearly as she went, standing with his arms
extended.
Later, Mrs. Stillwater found Glen sitting alone on the balcony, looking
vacantly on the lake. He did not notice her, until she went up to him,
putting her arm about his neck.
"What's the matter, Glen?"
"Indy won't have me--"
"You've asked her, then?"
Glen nodded.
"I'm so sorry, so sorry." She smoothed his hair gently. "I've always
hoped it would be--some day."
"I haven't given--up--hope--yet," he said, doggedly.
She kept smoothing his hair, until Lord Canning joined them. Then Glen
rose abruptly and went up to his room.
"Our young hero seems depressed," said Lord Canning, quietly.
"It's about Indiana," replied Mrs. Stillwater, very much distressed.
"He's a fine fellow, but, if you'll pardon me for saying so, Mrs.
Stillwater, he's not the right husband for your daughter."
"He understands her better than a stranger would. He'd get along with
her, I'm sure."
"Is it so difficult to get along with her?" enquired Lord Canning.
"Oh, I didn't mean that," replied Mrs. Stillwater, quickly. "There's no
one more lovable and easy, if she's studied."
"What do you think of me as a husband for your daughter?" said Lord
Canning, quietly.
"Lord Canning, you're not in earnest?"
"Why not? I should like to take my place in the matrimonial
competition, if you have no objection."
She looked at him, standing there with such apparent composure. "What
objection could I have to a man like you? But, I'm not the one to be
consulted. Whatever Indy decides, I must be satisfied with. Oh, dear!
Oh, dear!"
"Mrs. Stillwater, the idea is evidently disagreeable to you?"
"Oh no, not at all. But Indiana's so young, and you live so far
away--and she is so unfit to be alone--without us. But don't consider
me--I have nothing whatever to say."
"I had a pressing correspondence to-day, Lord Canning," said Stillwater,
emerging upon the balcony. His wife put her hand on his shoulder.
"Father! Father!"
"Well, mother, what is it?"
"Lord Canning wants to marry Indy?"
"Does he?" asked Stillwater, composedly. "Too bad--too bad."
His wife sighed heavily, and was on the point of leaving them, when Lord
Canning took her hand, looking sympathetically into her eyes. "Why not
stay and help me out?"
"Oh, I really must go--Indy's waiting for me. I never let anyone do
anything for her. I always lay out her dresses, and brush her hair, and
wait on her. She gets cross if I don't--and I love to do it."
"You don't approve of me, Mrs. Stillwater?"
"I do," she answered, tremulously. "I like you very much--you're such a
nice, modest man for your position. Will you--" she hesitated, he still
held her hand, looking inquiringly into her eyes, "will you wait a while
and think it over before you ask Indy?"
"I have waited and thought it over well," replied Lord Canning, in a
very decided tone. "I know this is very unusual, but, for the life of
me, I couldn't ask a young woman to marry me until I was sure I would be
acceptable to her parents."
"You are, you are," assured Mrs. Stillwater, quickly, "but it will be a
great trial to lose her--that's what I was thinking of--only that." The
tears rushed to her eyes. She turned and mounted the stairs, hastily.
"Mother is naturally upset when she thinks of Indy getting married,"
said Stillwater, who had been gravely listening.
"Naturally," agreed Lord Canning. "Suppose we walk down to the lake," he
added, with an Englishman's dislike of being overheard.
"Marrying young runs in our family," remarked Stillwater, as they
descended the steps. "My wife was sixteen, when she married, and
grandma only fifteen. There's always somebody turning up, wanting to
marry Indiana. But she's never been serious about anyone, I'm happy to
say."
Lord Canning looked meditatively upon the ground, pushing, with the tip
of his shoe, the thick layer of pine needles. Finally he looked up,
smiling. "If I could make her serious about me, would you object?"
"Why should I?" asked Stillwater, dryly. "I don't have to live with
you."
"Oh, no," replied Lord Canning, accepting the remark in a serious sense,
"there's no possible necessity for it." Stillwater gave an involuntary
chuckle, and, seating himself on a rustic bench built between two trees,
offered his would-be son-in-law a cigar. "I ought to feel very much
honored, Lord Canning, but I haven't reached that stage of imperialism,
although my mother-in-law is a fiend on that subject. American women
generally are. They're natural imperialists. They head a despotic
monarchy at home." He laughed heartily, while his guest surveyed him
gravely, lighting his cigar.
"Mr. Stillwater, I hope you do not consider my title against me?"
"Oh, not at all, not at all," smoking, in a very comfortable position.
"It might help you with Indiana. It would be a new fad for her. You
know we all have our fads. It's a good thing for us, too. Personally I
like you. I like you very much. But--er--" he hesitated, studying the
lake. There was plainly something on his mind which he considered should
be said. Finally he rose, placing his hand kindly on Lord Canning's
shoulder. "I want to give you a quiet piece of advice, and if you don't
take it I want you to consider it as never having been said--will you?"
"I will, sir," said Lord Canning, gravely.
"Don't marry my daughter!"
"Why?"
"It'll never pan out. Your ways are not her ways; her thoughts and your
thoughts are as far apart as--as if she spoke Chinese and you
Pennsylvania Dutch."
"Mr. Stillwater, I am not easily frightened. The more difficulties I
encounter, the more determined I am to win."
"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.
Lady Canning, talking in her low, distinct tones, dispensed the tea from
a very old massive tea-service. Indiana noticed that she never raised
her voice, and she dropped her own insensibly. She was, wisely, not too
profuse in her praises of her apartments, quick to see that Lady Canning
was not of a nature to appreciate much demonstration. But she continued
to show her gratitude delicately by an opportune remark now and then.
"I have not heard much from your Uncle Nelson," remarked Lady Canning.
"Oh, don't worry about him," laughed Indiana. "He's enjoying himself
immensely--isn't he, Thurston?"
"Yes, my darling. He has really quite assimilated himself with the
American life, mother."
"Indeed! You surprise me. One would have thought at his age, that that
would have been very difficult--"
"Oh, not at all," interrupted Indiana. "You see, my grandmother has
taken him in charge. They go out together, everywhere."
"Your grandmother," repeated Lady Canning, raising her eyebrows. "And
she is able to go out--everywhere?"
Indiana gave vent to a burst of merriment, then checked herself,
suddenly. Her laughter had sounded very loud in those quiet
surroundings. "Grandma Chazy enjoys life more than any of us. She's
full of health and spirits."
"Remarkable, is it not, Thurston?"
"Women don't grow old in the States, mother."
"They take all they can, out of life, to the last gasp," explained
Indiana.
"I should not like to censure women of another environment to my own,"
said Lady Canning. "But at a certain age, I think it better fitting to
prepare oneself for the next life, than to still seek enjoyment from
this. How does it appear to you, my dear child?"
Indiana hesitated, then met Thurston's eyes fixed anxiously upon her.
"As you say, Lady Canning, I think it would be better fitting," she
answered, seriously.
"I'm glad you agree with me," said Lady Canning, well pleased. "From
this one example, Thurston, I am inclined to think that my ideas and
Indiana's run very much in the same groove."
"So it seems," he answered, stroking her hand, and watchful of Indiana,
whose face, however, maintained its serious expression. From this
conversation, Lady Canning was artfully led by her daughter-in-law into
delivering a homily on the seriousness of life, and the necessity of
control, where the pleasure-loving instincts of the young were
concerned. Indiana took every opportunity of agreeing with her, sitting
up stiffly, like a flaxen-haired doll, in the high backed chair, nodding
at intervals, and with an expression of grave self-importance, that
contrasted oddly with her rosebud prettiness. Meeting Thurston's eyes,
which were fixed upon her in open surprise, she frowned reprovingly, and
drew herself up a little more stiffly. "This is a very happy moment for
me," said Lady Canning, with a gentle sigh, "to have you with me again,
Thurston--with your wife--I can hardly realize it yet. I think Indiana
and I are going to be very congenial, Thurston. Come here, and sit down
by me, my dear child."
Indiana obeyed, and Lady Canning took her hand and patted it gently.
"Now I have a son and a daughter. I hope you will be happy in your new
home, my dear."
"Thank you, Lady Canning," said Indiana, "I intend to be happy."
"That's right. Now, though we have much to say, I think it advisable to
reserve it for this evening. It is best that I should rest until
dinner."
"I hope this has not been too much excitement for you, mother," said
Thurston, solicitously, giving her his arm.
"Pleasant excitement will not harm me, but I must be careful. I will
see you at dinner, Indiana." She kissed her on the forehead. Thurston
led her to the door, Indiana accompanying them.
"I did not know you were such an artist in dissimulation, Indiana," said
Thurston, taking her head in his hands and gazing into her mischievous
eyes.
"To what are you referring, may I ask?" she inquired, in a dignified
tone.
"Why, the tactics you have begun with my mother. She thinks you are a
perfect paragon."
"And, am I not?" drawing herself up.
"Yes," answered Thurston, laughing and kissing her hands.
Indiana found dinner a slow and tedious ceremony. It was noiselessly
served, without the clatter of a dish or the sound of a footfall. At
intervals, Jennings' old face peered into hers, consulting her wishes in
a whisper. Their places were set very far apart at the large, round
table, handsomely equipped with heavy silver and crystal, as though for
a formal banquet, and decorated with white roses and maidenhair fern, in
honor of the bride. She had selected from her trousseau a French gown
of white satin, showing her childish neck. The maid had dressed her
yellow hair in puffs in the correct English style. She was very quiet
during dinner. Her head still felt a little unsteady from the steamer,
and when Thurston or Lady Canning spoke, their voices sounded very far
away.
Her impressions that first night in her new home were most indistinct.
She had a floating conception during dinner of old mahogany, silver, and
armor. Later, in the library, as she listened to Thurston entertaining
his mother with details of his American trip, she was the victim of a
feeling of unreality, inspired by surroundings altogether new and so
entirely old. The candle-light seemed to point, with long, mysterious
fingers, to the books which lined the walls, indicating dark and magic
secrets locked between their ancient covers, and to waver upon the faded
figures in the Gobelin tapestries until they appeared to move, endowed
with life. Lady Canning, leaning back near the fire, with her fine,
pinched features, her white, fragile hands resting motionless upon the
arms of her chair, seemed like a figure moulded in wax.
When his mother retired, Thurston took Indiana through the house.
Jennings solemnly preceded them, lighting up the rooms. Standing in the
background, he nodded his head from time to time in corroboration, as
Thurston explained the family portraits and related the histories of
various heirlooms.
As the first months in England slowly passed, Indiana's single life
seemed like a dream to her. Her marriage proved the changing of every
condition, as she had wished. And she preferred to think she had acted
for the best. One fact gave her a great and unselfish pleasure. She
had won Lady Canning's love, completely, by pursuing the artful policy
with which she had started, based on a very shrewd idea of the elder
woman's character.
Thurston missed her old spontaneity, and watched her closely, unknown to
her. His loving solicitude, which often tried to discover delicately if
she missed her old life, or if there was anything lacking in the new
which he could supply, only made her impatient. She professed to be
perfectly happy, yet he sometimes felt as though he had caged a bird,
who refused to sing. Still the bird had flown willingly into his hand.
His tender worship had won nothing from her, so far, but an amiable
tolerance. They were in the position of queen and vassal. His pride
suffered bitterly at times. His hope that she would learn to love him
had grown into a great and secret longing. He felt it to be the only
solution of them both. His very existence was now based on this
consummation. The best of life is given to building a beautiful fabric
of spider's webs, colored with the passing tints of the rainbow--because
there is an everlasting charm in that which fades before the eyes, and
can be demolished by a touch.
*CHAPTER XIV.*
*Transplantation.*
Lord Stafford arrived in England some months later. He drove up to the
house one Sunday morning an hour earlier than he was expected. Lady
Canning and Indiana had not yet come home from church. After welcoming
him, with tears of joy, Jennings tottered upstairs to tell Thurston.
Lord Stafford went into the library and, with a sense of happiness to be
again in his old surroundings, toasted himself once more before an
English fire.
"Uncle Nelson!" exclaimed Thurston, rushing into the room.
"Thurston, my boy!"
Relinquishing his hand, Lord Stafford subjected his nephew to a critical
survey.
"Well," said Thurston, laughing, "is the examination satisfactory?"
"You've changed--for the better," answered his uncle with a puzzled
expression. "More vivacity. In fact, you've grown younger."
"I'll explain. I was an old bachelor. Now, I am a young married man."
They both laughed heartily.
"So the international combination has panned out, as we say in the
States?"
"Worked like a charm from the start," said Thurston.
"Remarkable. And with your mother?"
"Mother has completely succumbed to Indiana, and spoils her shockingly."
"I'm very glad of that, I'm sure. I've been homesick ever since I saw
you off with your bride, but I was really afraid to come home until the
new wife had fitted into the new conditions."
"You don't know my Indiana. Wait until you see how well she fits into
the new conditions." They heard the sound of carriage-wheels. Thurston
hurried to the window, his face lighting up. "Here they are--here's my
wife!"
Lord Stafford met them at the door of the library. "My dear sister!"
folding her in his arms.
"Nelson, I'm very glad to have you at home, you wanderer! You look
marvellously well, and tanned by the sun. Have you seen our dear little
daughter? Where are you, Indiana?" Thurston had drawn her to the fire
and was taking off her gloves.
"Here, dear Lady Canning," said Indiana demurely, with a strong effort
at an English accent. "How do you do, Uncle Nelson?" She offered her
cheek, which he kissed, then surveyed her with great curiosity. She
looked the personification of English maidenhood, dressed in a plain,
gray gown, without any pretension to style of cut. A little bonnet, tied
under her chin, rested on her yellow puffs. She stood there, very
demure and quiet, still holding her prayer-book.
"And how do you find our sweet child looking, Nelson?" inquired Lady
Canning, sinking into an arm-chair.
"By George, I should say I found her very much changed!"
"For the better, dear Uncle Nelson?" said Indiana, sweetly.
"When we transplant a flower," remarked Lady Canning, "we must watch it
very carefully for a time, lest it wither in the process. Indiana is a
most flexible little person. She appears to have taken root in our soil
so easily. She had not been here a week when she was perfectly at
home."
"Thanks to your good advice, Lady Canning. You have taken so much
trouble with me."
"To be frank, Nelson, Indiana was a most agreeable surprise. When
Thurston wrote me that he had selected a wife in the wilds of America, I
felt ill with fright. I couldn't find out anything about the place, and
the name suggested horrible visions of half-breeds and wild girls who
climb trees and ride horses bareback."
"America is a very large country, dear Lady Canning," said Indiana.
"There are tree-climbers and bareback riders in the uncivilized parts, I
believe." Thurston turned away to conceal a laugh. "In fact, I myself
must have appeared--er--strange to you at first, did I not, dear Lady
Canning?"
"Oh, no! Only a little rasping quality in the voice, which has since
greatly modified."
"That is our climate, dear Lady Canning. The sharp winds have a
tendency to pitch our voices in a high key."
"And your gowns, dear, were a little too modern--too expensive for a
young wife. You don't mind my saying it, Indiana?"
Indiana gave her an angelic smile. "I am so grateful to you. Lady
Canning has given me the real English taste in the selection of a gown,"
parading before Lord Stafford, who, inserting his monocle, inspected her
seriously. "Dowdy, isn't it?" she whispered, as Lady Canning bent over
the fire, warming her hands. "I adore Irish poplins, Scotch plaids,
English cheviots--and seed-cake. My first bonnet! Isn't it a love?"
She tossed her head waggishly in Lord Stafford's face, so that a bunch
of Prince-of-Wales feathers tickled his nose. "So unbecoming!" she
added in his ear. Lady Canning turned, with an expression of smiling
satisfaction.
"In my time, dear, as soon as a girl married, she wore a bonnet with
strings. That's always the sign of a matron in England. You know there
must be something to distinguish the married from the single woman."
"Yes, certainly, I approve of it," said Indiana. "Then there can be no
fear of any mistakes being made by strangers." She heaved a deep sigh
of conscious virtue. Lord Stafford dropped his monocle and fell into a
chair, laughing unrestrainedly.
"You've caught on, Indiana! Ha, ha, ha, ha! As they say in the
States--you've mashed them cold all 'round! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
"Dear Nelson," said Lady Canning, severely, "what do you mean by such
expressions? They appear to me very vulgar. Is it really American,
Indiana?"
"Not at all, dear Lady Canning," said Indiana, reassuringly. "Those
expressions you have just heard," she shivered slightly, "are mere
barbarisms. They are used only by the natives of the uncultivated
wastes."
"The natives. A sort of dialect, I suppose, my darling. Go and lay off
your bonnet and smooth your hair."
Indiana pouted rebelliously at Thurston. "May I go?" Sweetly, "Thank
you very much."
She kissed Lady Canning and walked demurely to the door.
"Remarkable!" murmured Lord Stafford.
"The child has perfect manners," commented Lady Canning, with a sigh of
content, as Thurston followed Indiana from the room. "One would think
she had been born and bred in England, thanks to my policy, from the
very beginning. I don't allow her to call me mother--the child's too
young. It's a better moral effect--and, with a little tender firmness,
combined with just a spark of dignity that awes, I have accomplished
wonders. I shudder to think what would have been the results if I had
not been here. Thurston spoils her shockingly."
"Ah, does he? Very wrong of him, very unwise, I'm sure."
"Yes, is it not? But it's turned out very gratifyingly. You know how
averse I've always been to Thurston marrying a modern woman--one of
those editing magazines, forming clubs and racing women?" She
shuddered. "When Thurston broke it to me, I was very doubtful of the
results--very. But his heart carried him away. I don't wonder at it.
She's so bright, so clever, so amusing, so lovable. She must have come
from very fine stock."
"Very," answered Lord Stafford, seriously. "You should see Grandma
Chazy Bunker. She 'beats the band'--as they say in the States." He
regarded the ceiling with an expression of delightful reminiscence,
which broadened gradually into a laugh. He rose suddenly and approached
his sister. "Helena, I am going to let you into a little secret." He
looked around mysteriously, then added, in a loud whisper, "Indiana's
people are in London. They came over with me from America."
"Who?"
"Her father, mother, and grandmother, and, as they say in the
States"--Lady Canning braced herself from the shock which inevitably
followed this remark--"'they're going to make Indiana's hair curl!'"
"Speak English, if you please."
"They're going to give her a surprise party."
Lady Canning looked at him incredulously. "Do you mean to say they're
going to drop down on that poor child without sending her word?"
"You can bet your sweet life on it! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" He sank into
an arm-chair, overcome with mirth. The entire affair was a huge joke to
him, irrespective of the fact that his sister failed to perceive the
humor of his communication.
"What an undignified proceeding!" said Lady Canning, in shocked tones.
"Her grandmother, too!" Lord Stafford went off into another paroxysm of
mirth. "Why, the highest respect is due to their age in the way of
preparation."
"In America there's nothing gives so much pleasure as springing things
on a person. The surprise party is a national institution."
Lady Canning rose to her feet, perceptibly agitated. "My dear brother,
think of the shock to Indiana. It might be serious."
"'She won't turn a hair'--as we say in the States. She's a
thoroughbred! Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
"I'm very glad you told me. I must go and make some kind of a toilette
to receive them, and the housekeeper must be apprised."
"My dear sister, 'don't put yourself out'--as we say in the States."
"Poor Indiana! Most unheard-of proceedings!"
During dinner Indiana plied Lord Stafford with questions about her
family, all of which he answered seriously, with a knowing twinkle in
his eyes. Lady Canning regarded her unconscious face with growing
sympathy. She went to her rooms immediately after dinner. "I shall not
make my appearance," she thought, "until all the excitement is over. I
am upset enough as it is. I can scarcely look at that poor child--I
feel so badly for her."
Indiana, entering the library demurely, and seeing that Thurston and
Lord Stafford were alone, rushed toward them with a shrill little cry.
She laughed as they both started to their feet.
"I'm only giving vent to my repressed exuberance. I can be natural with
Uncle Nelson, can't I, Thurston?"
"Why not be natural with my mother? It pains me to see you playing a
part with her. She's not such a dreadful person."
Indiana smiled comically at Lord Stafford, sinking down upon the
hearth-rug at his feet. "The ingratitude of men! He asked me to make
his mother love him, and to succeed it was necessary to adapt myself to
her ways. If I had argued with her, he would have disagreed so
radically it would have been impossible to live under the same roof. I
know that it is a necessity at present, so I agree with her in
everything. Consequently, I'm the best, the most lovable girl in the
world. All the same, I own her, body and soul--that's my method of
subjugation. Of course, he's not satisfied. Nothing I do pleases him."
"Indiana!"
"Uncle Nelson, I'm frightfully good," continued Indiana, ignoring
Thurston, whose eyes were fastened upon her in mute and tender reproach.
"I've never been so good in my life"--she clasped her hands, raising her
eyes to the ceiling--"I feel like an angel--so sweet, so obedient, so
ordinary. Thurston doesn't appreciate it. He doesn't love me as much as
he did before we were married."
"Indiana!" exclaimed Thurston, seriously, "how can you say that?"
"I thought he was a gentleman of leisure, and he works harder than a
farm hand. He sits up half the night, reading and studying. If I had
known he was such a great scholar I wouldn't have married him."
"Indiana, do you mean that?"
"No,"--serious face--"I was only joking. Uncle Nelson, do you think he
will ever be a great man?"