Indiana, lying in the dark, tossed restlessly. Scattered scenes and personages of her old life and the new, floated through her mind, jumbled in a rare confusion. She counted and multiplied to induce sleep. Finally she thought of the formula children repeat when they play hide-and-seek—
"'Ena, mino, mina, mo, Catch a nigger by the toe. If he hollers let him go. Ena, mino, mina, mo. You're it—I'm out!'"
"Out of everything," she added, with a sob. "Oh, I can't sleep!" She tossed the pillows about desperately, feeling nervous and irritable, angry with herself, angry with Thurston and her family. The room was suddenly lit from the lamp on the centre-table. Indiana's dazzled eyes saw a tall figure standing before her. "Glen!"
Jennings retreated with a chuckle of delight. Indiana threw her arms about her old playmate's neck, and was on the point of kissing him, but drew suddenly back at the recollection that he had been her lover as well as her comrade.
"I'll bet you forgot, for the moment, you were married—now didn't you?"
Indiana nodded. Tears were not very far from her eyes. He pressed her hands, looking into her face. He felt both pain and joy—pain that she was another's, and joy at beholding her in the flesh once more, no matter under what circumstances.
"So you were the surprise," said Indiana, a little shyly. He looked so manly, so strikingly tall and handsome, as he stood there in his evening clothes. His dark eyes gazed at her in an unmistakably tender fashion. "Just as though I were not married at all," thought Indiana, with a sudden uprising of wifely virtue.
"I was the surprise," answered Glen, releasing her hands slowly.
"I was just trying to sleep, and, thinking of the old days when we played tag together and—"
"Yes," said Glen, eagerly.
"Oh, never mind," answered Indiana, brushing the tears from her eyes.
"The old days," repeated Glen, staring into the fire.
"They seem so far away, and it's only a few months, Glen. So much has happened—I suppose that's the reason."
He looked at her intently. There was a wistful expression in her eyes. She was paler and thinner, more thoughtful. He gathered his own conclusions from her appearance, aided by certain hints which the family had let fall. He knit his brows in a fierce scowl.
"What's the matter, Glen?"
"My old thoughts are working on me again—that's what it is—your mentioning the old days. They were the best after all, Indiana. Why, people are always raving over sunsets. You should have heard them on the steamer coming over. But once I saw a sunset far off in an orchard in Indiana—there's never been anything to compare with it since—there never will be—to the end of time."
"Sit down, Glen. Tell me all about yourself. You've changed so much for the better, I'm quite bewildered."
"It's worth crossing the ocean to hear that—from you," said Glen, with a superior air. "But I won't sit down here—the place chokes me. I've brought a hansom, and we'll jump in and take a spin about, till it's time to join the folks at dinner."
"I'm not going," said Indiana, without meeting his eyes. "My husband won't let me."
"Your husband won't let you? Poor child—so it's come to this!"
Indiana's pride rose in arms. "Don't waste any sympathy!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing. "I'm perfectly happy, I assure you."
"Yes, you look it," said Glen, skeptically. "I understand it's a case of jealousy. He's trying to wean you from your own people. I suppose I won't be allowed to see anything of you either. I'm glad they let me in this time, to get one glimpse of you. Next time it will be 'Not at home' or 'Engaged.' I'm very sorry you couldn't come this one night. It'll spoil the evening for all of us, and I had so much to tell you. But I won't keep you. Good-bye."
"Glen!" cried Indiana, clenching her hands and stamping her foot. "How can you act like that? I'm no prisoner. I can go if I want to—but I don't want to."
"That makes it worse than ever," replied Glen, seriously. "We sympathize with you, in the other case, but now we must have the pride not to beg when you turn upon us. Good night!"
This was more than Indiana could bear. "Glen, I'll go!" she exclaimed, desperately.
He came back slowly into the room, his eyes shining with joy. "Will you, Indiana?"
"Just sit down and I'll slip into a dress. I shan't be long, Glen."
"Yes."
"We'll have a good time, altogether, this one night." Her resolve, once taken, she threw scruples to the wind. Glen, walking restlessly up and down the room after she had gone to dress, spied her photograph on a cabinet. First looking suspiciously around him, he took possession of it and kissed it passionately.
"Poor little thing," he murmured, gazing on the photograph, and seating himself in a comfortable position, his feet on the table. "Now the first blaze of glory is over, and you find—you're in for life—what are you going to do, little western bobolink, with your wings clipped, and your little eyes peering over the cruel ocean? Oh, you'll never complain—you're too proud." He let the photograph fall, and buried his face in his hands.
Indiana rang for her maid, and dressed in feverish haste. She wished to leave the house without coming in contact again with Thurston. Slipping quietly down the stairs, she saw a light in his den. The door was not quite closed, and she peeped through the crack. He was sitting at his table, reading, in a patient attitude, his head propped on his hand. She passed the door, then, moved by a sudden impulse, went back and looked at him again. There was something which appealed to her in the solitary figure sitting there, in a pose so passive as to almost suggest hopelessness. She noticed the touch of gray in his hair, under the lamplight—that, too, appealed to her. She felt vaguely that his was not the face of a happy man, and also, in a vague sense, her conscience reproached her for being responsible. She remembered they had always been together since their marriage. Neither had taken any pleasure apart. She would have liked to have kissed him good-night, and gone with his sanction—but, she told herself, that would be impossible to gain. With an involuntary sigh she sped down to the library. Glen was still sitting, his face buried in his hands. The photograph had fallen on the floor.
"Here I am, Glen," throwing her white wrap in his lap. "It's not necessary to ask you how I look. I've completely stunned you." He looked at her with worshipping eyes. She had donned an airy, diaphanous white gown, and her cheeks were glowing, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "You've been looking at my new photo. Do you like it?"
"Oh, so-so," he answered, indifferently.
"Now I'm going to leave a message for Thurston." She sat down to the table and drew some writing materials towards her. Then she gnawed the end of the pen in some perplexity, looking a little grave.
"You're afraid," said Glen. "You're sorry—you'd like to back out."
"Not at all," answered Indiana, drawing herself up indignantly. "I know just what my husband will do. He won't say a word to anyone—he'll jump in a cab and follow me."
"And then—a family row."
"Not at all. My husband is too high-bred for any public display of feeling. He'll look cold and proud, I'll quiver my eyelids—and—he'll kiss me—that's all." She smiled triumphantly as she scribbled a hasty note.
"I know," agreed Glen, with a sigh. "You could soften anything—even stone."
"Do you know that my husband is an H.F.R.G.S.?" sealing the note.
"Is he? You quite astonish me."
"Now, what is it? Of course you don't know. Honorary Fellow Royal Geographical Society. They want him to lead an expedition to the North Pole. If I had said 'no,' he would have gone. It was a toss-up."
"What a shame he didn't go," remarked Glen, shaking his head dolefully. "What a loss to science! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!" He laughed so heartily, Indiana felt obliged to join him. "How jolly I am!" he thought, bitterly.
"Oh, I'm so excited!" exclaimed Indiana. "I love uncertainty of any kind."
"Women are born gamblers," observed Glen, fastening her wrap under her chin. Jennings entered, in answer to the bell.
"Jennings," said Indiana, with an indifferent air, "there's—there's a note on the table for—your master."
"Yes, yer little leddyship."
"Er—I shall be—"
"I hear someone coming downstairs," whispered Glen. "Quick, or Bluebeard will cut off our heads!"
"I feel like a bad boy, playing truant," laughed Indiana. "Scoot!" They ran, giggling quietly, into the hall. Jennings, with a horror-stricken face, tottered to the window, pushed aside the curtains hastily, and pressed his face against the glass.
Lord Stafford, entering the library then, saw him in this position and heard the sound of wheels. "Who's driving off, Jennings?"
Jennings started. "Her—her—little leddyship."
Lord Stafford looked at him incredulously. He had just been talking with Thurston, and Indiana was not likely to go out without him. They always remained at home on Sunday nights. "Impossible!"
"Her little leddyship's gone out with a gentleman from America," said Jennings.
A light broke on Lord Stafford. "Oh, evidently young Masters," he thought. He sank into a chair by the fire, pulling his moustache contemplatively. "Thurston was apparently unaware of the fact—something's up."
Thurston came into the library a moment later. "I thought you were dining out to-night, Uncle Nelson." He rubbed his hands, holding them over the fire.
Lord Stafford lit a cigarette, trying to appear unconcerned. "I shall be off in a minute."
"I'm as hungry as a bear," said Thurston, cheerily. "I must go and find Indiana. I left her asleep here. She is usually dressed and down by this time."
"Er—Thurston," commenced Lord Stafford. But Thurston had left the room before he could speak. Jennings, still standing near the window, was a little, old figure turned into stone. "By George," muttered Lord Stafford. "A pretty mess, this."
"Indiana's not upstairs!" exclaimed Thurston, when he entered again. "She may be with my mother. I did not think of that."
"Her little leddyship's gone out, sir," said Jennings, shrinking into the shadow of the curtains.
"Impossible!" exclaimed Thurston, loudly. "I left her asleep here." Lord Stafford put his hand warningly on his shoulder.
"Her little leddyship left a note," continued Jennings, peering over the table.
Thurston instantly saw the little white note lying among the books. He seized and read it quickly. His first expression of incredulous surprise faded away. His face became impassive.
"Will I serve dinner at eight, sir?"
"Certainly," answered Thurston, calmly crushing the note in his hand.
Lord Stafford looked at him inquiringly, as Jennings left the room.
"She has gone with Glen Masters to dine with her people—at the Cecil—and asks me to fetch her," said Thurston, slowly.
"Then it's all right." Lord Stafford felt, in a measure, relieved.
"It's not all right, by any means, Uncle Nelson," answered Thurston, in the same repressed voice. "My wife has gone against my express wishes."
"Ah, by George! Too bad!" exclaimed Lord Stafford, sympathetically. "You'll go and fetch her, of course?" Thurston failed to answer. An ash dropped loudly on the hearth.
"No," said Thurston, finally.
"Shall I go and fetch her?"
"No." The frozen monosyllable dropped from his lips like an icicle.
"What are you going to do?"
"I—I am going to wait up for my wife—like a good, obedient husband," he said, bitterly, dropping into a chair.