"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.