Stillwater's expression became serious. He had at first intentionally
made light of the matter. Now, as Thurston's resolution remained
unshaken, things commenced to assume a graver aspect. "Now, look here,
Thurston, we won't have her staying over night with us. The place for a
young wife is under her husband's roof."
"Then use your authority to convince her of that fact."
"Do you think I haven't done so, already?" asked Stillwater, now
intensely grave. "Do you think I came here alone to-night without doing
all I could to get her to come with me? She never told us, until the
evening was half over, that you forbade her to go--on account of Sunday,
and your mother, an old-fashioned kind of a woman. Well, we wanted to
clear her out then and there--we begged, and we prayed, and we bullied
her, and she gave it back to us, as good as she got it." He laughed at
the remembrance of the scene in their rooms at the hotel. Thurston
listened in anxious suspense. "And Grandma Chazy became so mad she
nearly slapped her. But do you think she'd budge? Not a foot."
Thurston went over and sat down on the lounge near the fire, his head on
his hand, in a hopeless attitude. It was becoming worse and worse. She
persisted in her defiance and contempt of him, showing it openly to her
family. She had no compunction for what she had done--none. Before
Stillwater's arrival, he had allowed himself to think of her coming to
him, asking prettily for forgiveness, or even one look from her
deep-blue eyes would have been enough. He would have taken her then, so
gladly, so thankfully, to his heart. If he had reproached her, it would
have been tenderly--the chiding which is in itself love. If she had
made one step towards him, he would have met her with three. But she
would give him no chance to show her how freely, how generously, he
could forgive for the asking. It is easy for love to ask forgiveness of
love. But when there is none--this secret wound pricked him sorely. His
head sank lower on his hand.
"Come on, come on," said Stillwater, persuasively. "She don't mean
anything. And I'll tell you something--she's afraid to come home. I
know that little, uneasy laugh of hers--with her eyes full of tears.
She's done wrong, she's sorry, and she wants you to come and make it up.
Won't you come, Thurston--won't you?" He bent down, looking into the
younger man's face. There was a pathetic appeal in his voice.
Thurston shook his head. "When I think of you three old people,
helpless against that slip of a girl--it appalls me."
Stillwater took his hat and coat from the chair where he had laid them.
"Then I'll tell you what it is--she won't come home until you do come
after her. That's her ultimatum."
Thurston rose. "And this is mine," he answered, sternly. "My mother's
house closes at twelve o'clock, and if she does not return at that time,
the doors will be closed for the night."
"I'll tell her," said Stillwater, with an indescribable expression. "I
warn you," pausing at the door, "you're making a very hard time for
yourself. Good night."
Thurston stood motionless, thinking deeply, for some moments after
Stillwater left the room. Then he rang for Jennings. The old man
responded, with an anxious expression. "Jennings, Lady Canning may not
return to-night," said Thurston, in a measured tone. "She will probably
remain with her people. Naturally, she wants to see as much of them as
possible."
"Yes, yer lordship."
"Lock up at the usual hour and go to bed. If she is not here by that
time, she will not return."
"Yes, yer lordship." After he left the room, as he was crossing the
hall, he heard a slow, familiar step, a soft rustle of silk, on the
stairs. He looked up with a sudden throb of fear, and saw Lady Canning
descending. He knew she thought his little mistress was ill in bed with
a headache, and the contingency that she might come home at any moment
appalled him. He hurried back to the library. "Milady, sir, milady!"
he ejaculated. "She's coming down the stairs."
"Heavens," thought Thurston, "I thought she was safe for the night.
Don't look so anxious, Jennings."
When Lady Canning entered, he greeted her with a bright smile, taking
both her hands in his. Jennings pushed a chair up to the fire.
"Mother, this is unusual. What keeps you up at this hour?"
"I've had so much to think of, since this afternoon. I wasn't at all
sleepy."
She looked at Thurston with wide-awake, luminous eyes, as he placed a
footstool under her feet. "How is Indiana? Is she sleeping?"
"Yes," answered Thurston.
"I'm glad of that, poor little thing! Such a cruel surprise! The
excitement was too much for her."
"Yes, the excitement," repeated Thurston, mechanically.
Jennings left the room, after he had brushed some imaginary ashes from
the hearth and arranged the curtains. Thurston showed no sign of the
strain under which he was suffering, as he talked gently with his
mother. Once in a while his eyes sought the clock, and his ears,
preternaturally sharpened by anxiety, heard an imaginary hansom, bearing
Indiana homeward. Their conversation reverted to his wife's people.
"I don't object to the father and mother," said Lady Canning. "We have
one great point of sympathy--our love for Indiana. But the
grandmother--Thurston, is she quite well balanced?"
Thurston laughed. "She's a shining light, mother--a prominent member of
women's clubs." Lady Canning shuddered. "A very shrewd, clever woman."
"It's wonderful how people differ in their conception of things," said
Lady Canning, with a sigh. "If she were my mother, I should consider it
necessary for her to have a personal attendant. What do you think she
said to me? That 'I ought to make more out of myself,' and if I would
come over to the hotel, she'd fix me up." Lady Canning looked at her
son with a shocked expression. He laughed involuntarily, and she
finally joined him, seeing the amusing side of Mrs. Bunker's remark.
"Well, we'll get along with them, won't we?" continued Lady Canning,
taking Thurston's hand affectionately in hers. "They have given us our
Indiana. I'm going to make a great effort for her sake. I'm going to
present her myself at the first drawing-room of the season."
"Mother!" exclaimed Thurston, in surprise.
"Yes, I'm coming out of my retirement, after twenty years, and we'll
make a sensation, I promise you." She patted his hand, feeling that the
grateful love in his eyes was ample reward for all this resolution had
cost her. "She's brightened my life so much since she came. I'm
beginning to take an interest in things, for the first time since I lost
your dear father."
"I'm very glad of that, very glad, mother--and happy."
"Now, may I creep in and kiss her good-night, when I go upstairs?" asked
Lady Canning, rising.
"I wouldn't, mother," answered Thurston, quietly.
"I won't wake her," assured Lady Canning.
"I think you had better not, mother," said Thurston, in the same quiet
tone.
"Very well, just as you say. I can't blame you, even if you are
over-anxious. Give her my love and a kiss." She paused at the door,
looking thoughtfully in his face. "We must love her very much,
Thurston. And if there are any faults, we must deal gently with them,
because--she is very young, and from what I saw of her people, she could
have had no bringing up whatever."
It seemed strange to hear his mother pleading for Indiana just at that
moment. "Good-night, mother." She put her arms about his neck and
kissed him. He threw himself in a chair, after she left the room,
feeling deeply depressed. "If there are any faults, we must deal gently
with them." His mother's words always carried their own weight. Her
unconscious intercession had touched his heart. He was ready to do
everything, to make every extenuation, but he felt a dull premonition
that Indiana would ask for none. Neither would she care. This was the
worst. His hidden wound throbbed painfully.
Jennings crept into the room. When he saw Thurston, sitting with his
head bowed upon his hands, his face became an image of distress. He
looked at the clock, then back again to the hopeless figure in the
chair. Thurston raised his head suddenly. "What are you prowling about
for, Jennings?"
"I--I just looked in to see after that danged fire," said Jennings, in
confusion, tottering to the fire and poking the logs.
Thurston smiled. "There's no sign of it going out, Jennings. Find a
more plausible excuse."
"Won't you have a cold bite, sir?" asked Jennings, piteously. "You
never touched the dinner."
Thurston shook his head, opening a book.
"A glass of wine, sir?"
"Nothing, Jennings. Don't bother, there's a good fellow--and don't come
crawling in and out continually. I can't read; it disturbs me."
"Very well, sir," in a heart-broken voice. He went to the door, then
tottered back again. "Another log on, sir, if you're not going to bed?
But perhaps you are going to bed?"
"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!"
[Illustration: "I--I--what have I said? I didn't mean it."]
"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.
She was right. When he entered and saw the picture by the
fire--Indiana, sitting in her white wrap, with the tea-tray before her,
and Jennings standing near--he paused for a moment. Jennings took the
tray and left the room. Thurston felt neither curious nor interested to
know why she had stayed there all night. He himself had not closed his
eyes. He had summoned all his strength to make a certain resolution,
one which he considered imperative, after his wife's passionate avowal
of hate and regret. All else--things which at another time he would have
accounted strange--seemed trivial and unimportant. He had relinquished
all hope of winning his wife's love. He saw himself weaving the gray
web of his life until the end. Indiana gave one swift glance at his
face as he approached the fire, then quickly averted her eyes.
"I have weighed existing circumstances as fairly as possible, and have
concluded that our case is hopeless," began Thurston, without
preliminaries. Indiana, her hands tightly clasped, her eyes gazing
straight before her, listened with strained attention. "I have tried to
awaken you, gradually, to the personal responsibility of your new
position. My confidence was strong in my own power to win a love that,
to me, was worth waiting for--worth the winning." He covered his eyes
with his hand, then went on, with an effort. "My courage has gone. The
dread of a repetition of last night's frenzy--degrading to us
both--between husband and wife--horrible!" His agitation would not
permit him to continue. He turned from her and paced the room. Finally,
he stopped and looked at her motionless figure. "Have you anything to
say?"
Her lips trembled, she shook her head, trying to restrain an hysterical
outburst of sobs. Then she rose to go to her room.
"One moment," said Thurston, sternly. "I do not wish your maid to see
you like this. You must help yourself this morning, and--I shall
breakfast with my mother. When you are quite composed and ready to
receive her, she will come to you--as she thinks you retired early last
night with a headache."
"Ah, she doesn't know!" exclaimed Indiana. "I'm glad of that--very
glad."
"Your people were talking of going to Paris in a week or so--you will go
with them--on a pleasure trip." Indiana, leaning against the table,
lifted her eyes wonderingly to his. He met her gaze, proudly and
relentlessly. "You will go with them to America--on a pleasure trip. I
will break it to my mother, slowly--that you are not coming back."
A deathlike faintness passed over Indiana as she listened to his calm,
passionless voice, pronouncing sentence upon her. She could not, at
that moment, utter a word of pleading or remonstrance. He seemed like a
rock of relentless justice, against which she might hurl herself, only
to be dashed in pieces.
"You see, I have made it very easy for you to drop the shackles of the
tyrant and regain your lost and coveted freedom," he added, bitterly.
She grasped the edge of the table desperately with her small hands. "If
you had only loved me," cried Thurston, despairingly, "it might have
been different! But how could I expect it? You have never been taught
to love--to sacrifice for love. Only to be loved--to demand sacrifices
from others." Gathering all her strength, Indiana moved to the door.
He held it open for her, and she passed him with averted eyes, looking
dazed and hopeless. "Indiana!" he cried, involuntarily, as she
disappeared down the long hall. By a great effort he prevented himself
from rushing after her. Sinking down in a chair, he buried his face in
his hands. He had spoken the final words between them--there was no
retraction now. But so utterly had the serene and smiling little witch
taken possession of his heart, he felt, that in exorcising her he was
plucking it bodily from his breast. Only the necessity of appearing
composed before his mother rescued him from succumbing utterly to his
despair.
Indiana had not heard Thurston's smothered cry. She climbed the stairs
laboriously, clinging to the banisters. There seemed to be iron weights
hanging to her limbs. But this was the result of lying for so many
hours on the hard floor, in the cold library. Consciousness, too, seemed
fading away from her. She only wished to retain it until she reached
her room; then, she felt, she would be quite satisfied to part with it
forever. Thurston's last words echoed in her ears, "You have never been
taught to love--to sacrifice for love--only to be loved--to demand
sacrifices from others." That was what Jennings meant when he said that
he looked back with satisfaction on his life, knowing he had served a
loved master faithfully. Even Jennings realized the spirit of love,
while--reaching her bed at last, she pushed back the covers and coiled
herself in its soft depths. Thoughts floated mistily in her brain. "I
have missed many things--to love, to serve, to sacrifice. Perhaps it was
not all my fault--not all." She lapsed into unconsciousness, but it was
the unconsciousness of which nature makes use to soothe exhausted and
tired humanity--sleep.
At noon she awoke of her own accord, wonderfully refreshed morally and
physically. Things assumed a new aspect. The very knowledge of her
love gave her happiness. One supreme fact remained, in spite of all
that had passed--she loved her husband, and he her. It was impossible,
she argued, that her conduct of last night could have utterly killed a
love as deep as she knew his to be. The only barrier between them was
his wounded love and pride, one which she thought she could easily break
with her two small hands.
Jennings knocked, and whispered that Mrs. Bunker and her father and
mother were below. He had told them she was asleep. Did she wish to
give any message?
"Don't say anything. I'll be down in a little while, Jennings." She
dismissed him with a reassuring smile and a nod.
"Her little leddyship looked so smiling--maybe it's all come right
again," thought Jennings, in delight, as he descended the stairs.
"So they're all there," mused Indiana. "I shall act as if nothing is
the matter." She continued the process of dressing, without a maid. A
cold bath brought the bloom back to her cheeks. Her eyes were very
bright, yet tender. She donned an airy, rose-colored morning-gown,
dotted here and there with black velvet bows. Standing at her
dressing-table, putting another black velvet bow in the fluffy, yellow
puffs of her hair, a sudden misgiving assailed her--that her power to
win him back might not be as strong as she imagined. She shivered at
the remembrance of his stern, implacable face, when he entered the
library that morning. What if he would not retract his words, remaining
strong in his determination that they should part? Her face looked
piteously back at her from the glass. "Well, I, too, am strong--very
strong," she thought, bravely. "I am his wife--and I love him." She
bent forward and kissed her face in the mirror. "Good luck to us,
Indiana," she said, with a laugh, followed by a rush of tears. "We'll
fight for our happiness--won't we?"
The family were sitting below in the library with Thurston and Lord
Stafford. No one, so far, had ventured a remark or asked a question
relating to the night before.
Mrs. Bunker, finally, tired of discussing matters which did not interest
her, and anxious to know something relating to the subject uppermost in
all their minds, went to the window, pretending that she wished to see
if her hansom was still waiting, well aware Lord Stafford would follow
her.
"You look charming this morning, Mrs. Bunker," remarked Lord Stafford,
gallantly joining her, as she expected, in the window embrasure.
"So Indiana is sleeping it off," observed Mrs. Bunker, confidentially.
"I am sure I don't know," answered Lord Stafford, twirling his
moustache.
"You were with Thurston when we came?"
"Yes," said Lord Stafford, indifferently.
"Well, he told you?" queried Mrs. Bunker, in an exasperated tone.
"Thurston said nothing, and, of course, I couldn't ask."
"Well, you English are the closest-mouthed people. They've had a row.
Haven't you any curiosity to know how it ended?"
"I'm burning to find out," answered Lord Stafford, calmly.
"There's nothing burning about you--except your cigar," said Mrs.
Bunker, contemptuously, "and that's going out."
"So it is--thank you."
"Let me hold the match, your hand is trembling, mine is as firm as a
rock."
"Ah, I'm getting on--but you have discovered the secret of eternal
youth."
"We had a time getting her home," said Mrs. Bunker, in a low voice,
ignoring this last remark. "Do you think her mother and father had any
influence with her? Not a bit. Grandma Chazy did it. I sent the poor,
deluded parents to bed, and I put on a wrapper and fussed about my room,
while she sat by herself in the parlor, working herself up into a rage
about her husband's tyranny, and rushing to the window, every time a cab
passed, to see if he was coming. Well, I grew tired of this, so I went
to bed. When she had worn herself out, she put her head into my room.
'Grandma Chazy, where shall I sleep?' 'On the sofa, dear. Throw your
cloak over you. I've only a single bed, or I would offer you half.' She
slammed the door, in a rage. About a half hour later, 'Grandma Chazy, I
guess I'll go home.' 'Is that so, dear? Going--good night.' And I
fell asleep, apparently."
"Mrs. Bunker," remarked Lord Stafford, "if I ever marry, it shan't be an
American."
"Oh yes, you will, because you say you won't."
"Oh, then I shan't marry at all--that's the safest way."
"The most dangerous," assured Mrs. Bunker, mockingly. "A man is never
safe from marriage until he is married."
"Ha, ha, ha! Very good. Mrs. Bunker, you are really the liveliest
woman I have ever met."
"Well, I'm not going to waste my day here," said Mrs. Bunker, decidedly.
"I want to see the shops and take Indiana along. Thurston," advancing
into the room, "I'm dying to see Indiana."
Thurston looked at her gravely.
"My dear Mrs. Bunker, I have plans for the future, which it is best you
should know before you see Indiana."
Mr. and Mrs. Stillwater looked anxious, but Mrs. Bunker took his words
lightly.
"Don't make any plans, Thurston. And don't look so serious. You've made
up your mind to something--I can see that--but she'll upset it all in a
jiffy. You don't know Indiana."
"No," answered Thurston, without relaxing his gravity of expression,
"and I never shall. Mr. Stillwater, your daughter is very anxious to go
with you to Paris--and I have consented."
"Thurston, how good of you to let her!" cried Mrs. Stillwater,
innocently. "It is the only thing to complete my happiness."
"I don't approve of it," said Mrs. Bunker.
"I am about making arrangements for a long trip--for scientific
purposes," continued Thurston, in a slow, mechanical voice. "I will be
away from England for some time, and I think it advisable your daughter
should go home with you--until my mission is over."
Mr. Stillwater folded his arms, looking keenly into Thurston's eyes.
"Well, of course, nothing would suit us better; but, my dear fellow--is
it good for a young married couple to separate so soon?"
"No, it is not good."
"Then must you go?" asked Mr. Stillwater.
Thurston raised his eyes, meeting Stillwater's piercing glance,
steadily. "I must go."
Mrs. Stillwater was so overcome with joy at the prospect of having
Indiana at home once more, she failed to see anything strange in the
arrangement. "Of course, we're sorry, Thurston, but if you're obliged to
go away, it's quite natural you should want to leave Indiana with us."
"I, for one, don't like it," added Stillwater, decidedly.
"How long do you expect to be away?" inquired Mrs. Stillwater.
"For several months--perhaps forever." His voice broke. He turned from
them all and leaned his forehead against the mantel, gazing with
hopeless eyes into the fire. The others looked at one another in
apprehensive silence.
"Good morning, everybody," said a gay, sweet voice. They all looked, in
relieved surprise, at Indiana, smiling in answer to her greeting. Her
cheeks were as rosy as her gown. Her eyes seemed to laugh with
happiness. Thurston stared at her, aghast at this apparent
heartlessness. "Her eyes have not looked so happy since I married her,"
he thought. "It's the prospect of freedom. My resolution was well
taken--I'm glad, for her sake. What a charming little face--like a
cherub. Ah, if she had only loved me!"
Indiana went to Lord Stafford, with outstretched hands. "Dear Uncle
Gerald, you want to kiss me good-morning, don't you? Well, you shall."
She put up her mouth to be kissed. Then she flitted airily to Mr.
Stillwater, put her arms about his neck and nestled to his breast. "You
dear old pop, I love you so!" She rubbed her face against his. "I was
naughty last night, wasn't I? Don't tell anybody. You forgive me, don't
you? There!" She kissed him a number of times, and then floated out of
his arms, a rose-colored cloud, over to her mother. "You old goosie, you
were afraid I wouldn't come home. Why didn't you take me by the
shoulders and push me out? But you couldn't be harsh with your little
Indy, your baby, your only one. I love you so!" Mrs. Stillwater
pressed her joyfully to her breast, murmuring caressing words, and
kissing her hair. Finally, releasing herself, Indiana looked at Mrs.
Bunker, undecided how she should approach her. She had been severely
scolded by that lady the night before.
Mrs. Bunker frowned at her, then smiled. "You little monkey," she said,
then shook her finger warningly. Indiana answered by a good-natured
grimace, then she went to Thurston.
"Good morning, Thurston," she said, after a swift glance, demurely
offering her cheek. Thurston hesitated. "Ah, here's dear Lady Canning,"
continued Indiana, artfully, still standing in an expectant position.
Thurston bent down quickly and touched his lips to her cheek.
"I have been so worried about this child," said Lady Canning, taking
Indiana's outstretched hands, when she had greeted the others very
graciously. "I wanted to see you last night, dear, but Thurston wouldn't
let me. Are you sure you feel quite well again?" She seated herself,
drawing Indiana to her side and looking anxiously in her face.
"Splendid," replied Indiana, sinking down on her knees and putting her
arm about Lady Canning's waist. "It was a bad spell--while it lasted,
but when it passes off I always feel better. I won't have another for a
long time--I hope never." She peeped slyly under her eyelashes at
Thurston. "A bad spell is good for something--it makes me realize how
much everybody loves me, and how much I love everybody--and I do love
you, dear Lady Canning."
"Darling!" murmured Lady Canning, quite overcome, pressing Indiana's
head to her breast.
"There now, who can resist Indiana," said Mrs. Stillwater. "Darling,
your husband says you are going to Paris with us."
"Am I?" asked Indiana, in a surprised voice. She turned to Lady
Canning. "I want you to scold Thurston, dear. He's too good. He's
given in, because they're dying for me to go to Paris with them. But I
wouldn't think of such a thing. I wouldn't leave him--or you, dear Lady
Canning."
"Oh, Indy!" exclaimed Mrs. Stillwater, in a hurt and jealous tone.
"Indiana," said Stillwater, watching her face, "Thurston says you can
home with us, if you like, while he's on his trip."
"What trip?" asked Indiana, quickly.
"Is it possible you have not given up that idea, Thurston?" questioned
Lady Canning, severely. She turned apologetically to Mrs. Stillwater.
"He always had an insane desire to go to the North Pole, but I thought
marriage had cured him of it. Indiana, put your foot down on that idea,
once and for all."
"I put my foot down!" exclaimed Indiana. "Oh dear no--he's the master.
But let us hope he will think better of it." She folded her hands
severely, bearing with the highest degree of equanimity the astonished
looks of her family.
Thurston, who at first could scarcely give credence to what he heard,
concluded she was playing the hypocrite in order to win sympathy for
herself, and at the same time divert it from him, putting him in the
character of a heartless husband.
"That little monkey's playing for something," thought Mrs. Bunker, "and
she'll win her game, as sure as I'm her grandmother. Well, Indiana,
it's settled, then, that you're not going to Paris with us."
"Grandma Chazy, I'm a married woman," answered Indiana, with an offended
air, "I can't be running about like a young girl." Lady Canning nodded
approvingly.
"I must get out of this," exclaimed Mrs. Bunker, desperately. "I feel
choked for air. We're going to do some shopping. Indiana, do you want
to come?"
"Well, considering Indiana was so ill, I think it advisable for her to
remain quietly at home to-day," said Lady Canning. "But I should be
very pleased to have you all dine with us this evening."
Indiana heard Lady Canning with a sensation of relief. She was
suffering a tension of suspense. And she felt that to go out with her
family and keep up this semblance of light-heartedness would have been
an unendurable strain.
"There, what did I tell you?" remarked Mrs. Bunker to Thurston, when
they were on the point of leaving. "Where are your plans now?" He made
no answer, standing, determined and pale, by the mantel, and following
Indiana's every move as she flitted from one to the other, kissing them
good-bye. "Good morning, Lady Canning," said Mrs. Bunker. "I wish I
had your complexion. Yes, I do."
"Come early," pleaded Indiana, clinging to her mother, "and we'll have a
good, long talk before dinner, my dearest mother--and--and--after to-day
we'll spend all our time together."
"I think it's a shame you can't go with us. You're perfectly well?"
"No, Lady Canning's right--I have a headache. I was excited last
night--at the hotel."
"Your color's so bright--perhaps you're feverish," observed Mrs.
Stillwater, anxiously. "Indy, is it all right between you and
Thurston?"
"Yes--mother--it's all right." Mrs. Stillwater looked at her with an
anxious expression. But Indiana met her gaze hopefully. "Don't worry,
mother," she said. "I love Thurston, and he loves me--so it's all
right, isn't it?"
"Yes, my darling," sighed Mrs. Stillwater, greatly relieved.
"Even if--if things don't go as they should sometimes," said Indiana,
wistfully, "they come right after a while--don't they--when people
really love each other?"
"Nothing matters, so long as you love each other," Mrs. Stillwater
assured her, with the wisdom of her long matrimonial experience.
Indiana watched them driving off, from the window--her mother and father
in one hansom, Mrs. Bunker and Lord Stafford in another. The latter had
manifested a desire to go shopping. He thought seriously of joining the
party on their Parisian trip.
"Thurston," asked Lady Canning, in a very serious voice, "is there
anything wrong between you and your wife?" Indiana, at the window,
listened with every nerve.
"Nothing, mother," answered Thurston, purposely refraining from one
glance at the little figure standing in the shadow of the curtains.
"Then what has driven you to this sudden resolve? How could you think
of doing such a cruel thing?"
"I mean to do it, mother."
Lady Canning looked at her son with very displeased eyes. "Thurston,
you are developing an exceedingly bad temper. You--you have never
before acted in such an inconsistent, inconsiderate manner. And with
such a sweet wife. You don't deserve her."
"Mother, don't scold him," said Indiana, pleadingly. Thurston cast on
her an indescribable look.
Jennings appeared then, and announced that the carriage was waiting to
take Lady Canning for her morning drive. She sat in displeased silence,
until her maid brought her bonnet and cloak. Before she left the room,
she turned severely to Thurston. "I do do not wish to see you again
until you tell me you have abandoned this fool-hardy, heartless idea,
for good and all." She took Indiana in her arms. "My darling, forgive
him, for my sake."
"I will, dear Lady Canning," said Indiana, angelically. "I--it's very
weak, I know, but I couldn't be angry with him--no matter what he did."
Thurston stared at her, aghast at such hypocrisy. Indiana led Lady
Canning out into the hall. "Don't worry," she whispered, as Jennings
held the door open for her to pass to the carriage. "It will be all
right, I'll manage him." When she returned to the library, Thurston was
staring into the fire. She approached quietly, and he raised his eyes,
to see her standing meekly before him, her hands clasped in a childish
fashion.
"You have played your part well," he said, bitterly.
Indiana raised her eyes supplicatingly, then dropped them again. "I
wasn't acting," she said, innocently.
"It's well that you can be so light-hearted, when I am suffering
tortures," he continued, with an involuntary burst of grief and
bitterness.
"No, no, I was acting--but I felt the part. I do love everybody, and I
want to be good again and make up."
"Cease playing the spoilt child," said Thurston, wearily. "Last night's
performance can never be repeated under my roof--never shall be. You
can tell your own story. Paint me the brutal husband--the tyrant. I
shall not contradict you. I am resolved upon one thing--to leave
England." He stared hopelessly into the fire again, leaning his
forehead on the mantel.
"I suppose it's no use--asking you--to--forgive me," she said, watching
him sharply. He turned quickly, and she dropped her eyes. "If--if
there won't be a repetition," she continued, her lips quivering like
those of a child on the verge of tears.
"You cannot change your nature," he replied, coldly, not allowing
himself to believe in the sincerity of this contrition.
[Illustration: "I will have love to help me."]
"No, and that's why you're very wrong in being so hard with me. I was
good, wasn't I? For three months and then, when the folks rushed down
on me, like a river breaking a dam, I broke out--that's all." She
raised her arms, with a long, despairing sigh. "Thurston, if you will
go away, may I stay with your mother?"
"Indiana, you don't know how I suffer--you cannot. As long as all the
love is on my side, my wishes will be commands to you; my plans for your
welfare and happiness--domination. There should be no such question
between a man and wife who love each other. It could not have ended
otherwise. A union without the sacred seal of love--is cursed." He went
from her to the door, terribly agitated, wishing they could part
finally, then and there, in order to spare himself the further torture
of looking at Indiana with the thought that he had renounced her.
"Thurston, you'll shake hands with me--won't you?" she asked,
imploringly, a look of terror dawning in her eyes. He extended his
hand, with averted gaze. Indiana grasped it quickly, then held it for
dear life. "You shall listen to me," she pleaded, in a voice vibrating
with intense emotion, her breast heaving, her eyes dilating, until they
looked almost black under the yellow hair. "I won't let you go until
you've heard it. All my life I've queened it over people, delighting to
feel my own power--to make the poor things who loved me bend to my will.
Last night I saw the horror in your face when you turned from
me--leaving me alone with my uncontrolled, undisciplined nature.
Thurston, how could you expect me to be different? It wouldn't be
natural if I were. I wanted to queen it over my husband--to be put up
on a pedestal and worshipped. I thought it was enough if I let him love
me--but I never knew it was better to love than to be loved, to serve
than to be served." She looked into his face with piteous eyes, and
said, in a low, frightened voice, "Thurston, take my two hands--hold
them fast--while I step down from my throne--and then, when we stand
together, side by side, I can whisper in your ear--I never could up
there--that I love you."
"Indiana, for God's sake, don't play with me again!" he cried,
passionately.
She drew his head down to her and kissed him. "Thurston, husband," she
murmured, in a low, wondering voice, "I love you better than myself."
"Indiana!" He pressed her to his heart, with the feeling that they were
on holy ground, even standing at the altar, and the sacred seal had just
been set to their union.
Indiana raised her head, the tears trembling on her lashes. "I'll never
break out again."
"Yes, you will, but next time I will have love to help me. Indiana,
look at me--look at me. I cannot realize it--my wife loves me! Do you
remember one day, in the Adirondacks, out on the lake, at that weird
place called the Devil's Pulpit? I think--yes, it was the first day I
spent with you--you wanted a story, and I gave you a part of my inmost
life--do you remember?"
"Yes, I remember--how clearly I remember. The great, black rock hanging
over us; the blue mountains in the distance; your voice, telling me of
the weaver--"
"Indiana, his dream has come true--at last. 'And the web, transformed
into a gleaming fabric of light, gladdened the soul of the weaver.'"
Indiana drew a little space away, quoting his own words, with uplifted
hands, "'And as he wove he heard singing, a choir of beautiful, jubilant
voices.'"
Thurston looked into her eyes, then held out his arms. "I hear them,
Indiana!"