"THINK IT OVER"
THE Reverend Arthur Eliot, "Padre Eliot," as his people called him,
was a notable figure in society, an active, well-built man of six or
seven and thirty, with a square, clean-shaven face and an exceedingly
sweet smile. He never preached longer than fifteen minutes, he was
an admirable bowler, played a hard set of tennis and sang a good
song. All this went far to account for his popularity. He was also
unmarried—though this in India is unimportant—but, more than all,
he was a fearless, outspoken pastor, whose example and works did far
more good amongst his flock, especially the young men, than constant
services and ornate ritual.
He worked indefatigably among the soldiers and Eurasians, their wives
and children, and strove to provide occupation and amusement for them
all, fully endorsing Dr. Watt's opinion respecting "Satan and idle
hands." In sickness and in health it was the Padre they all turned to,
and many a poor soul had leaned on his arm, as it groped its way to
another world. He lived plainly and simply in a little cheap bungalow,
and was a near neighbour to Major Gascoigne, between whom and himself
there existed a most cordial friendship. The Padre was such a busy
man that Gascoigne knew, the instant he saw him, that only important
business had brought him to call in the golden hours of the morning.
"Hullo, Gascoigne," he said cheerily, as he entered, "I am glad to see
you back."
"Yes, thank you, only arrived last night. I've had a tremendously big
job up the hills—they all seemed determined to run down into the
plains; I never remember such rains," and he threw himself into a
chair, and tossed his cap on the table.
"And now you are home for good," said the Padre, and his face took a
more serious expression, as he sat erect and crumpled his terai hat in
his vigorous hands.
"Look here, Gascoigne," he continued with an effort, "I've come to have
a good square jaw with you, about something that will be disagreeable,
but you know it's the Padre's duty to stand in the forefront, when
talking has to be done."
"I know," assented his companion. "I suppose you want me to take back
Johnson, the overseer—I honestly would if I could—I'm sorry for his
family—I've given him two chances."
"My dear fellow," interrupted the chaplain, stretching out his hand,
"it is not that at all. I've come to speak to you about Miss Gascoigne,
your ward."
"What about Miss Gascoigne?" inquired her cousin. His manner stiffened,
and his voice assumed an Arctic coolness.
"I suppose you know how a station gossips—in the billiard-room,
barracks, and bazaar?"
"I suppose I do," he said contemptuously.
"Have you any notion of the talk there has been respecting Miss
Gascoigne?"
"Every new-comer has to pass through that ordeal—by tongue,"
interrupted the other man with a gesture of impatience.
"Please allow me to finish," protested his friend gravely. "Of course
you are not likely to hear a breath—no one would venture to tell you;
but the air is thick with rumours concerning your cousin and yourself."
"And where do I come in?" he asked sharply, "in what character?"
"The usual character a man assumes when a very pretty woman is in
question—the _rôle_ of lover."
Gascoigne kicked over a footstool, and rose to his feet. He had grown
suddenly white.
"Who dares to couple our names in that way?" he asked hoarsely. The
veins in his temples swelled, and his eyes flashed.
"Most people," was the staggering reply; "you see, you and she
were alone at your forest bungalow. Mrs. Flant has been drawing a
highly-coloured picture of your _ménage_—she has thrown out hints."
"To which no one who knows her will listen," broke in Gascoigne.
"Oh, yes, I regret to say, that there is a large class who like to hear
ill-doings attributed to others—especially when those others have been
_sans peur_, and _sans reproche_."
Gascoigne stared at the Padre for some seconds. At last he spoke. "I'll
tell you the plain facts, Eliot. Ten years ago I adopted my little
cousin, and took over the charge from her dying mother. I sent the
child to England and educated her; latterly her grandmother has given
her a home. They have had a violent quarrel, and the impulsive girl
came straight off to me. She arrived exactly two hours before Mrs.
Flant and her sister. I need scarcely say that her unexpected descent
embarrassed me a good deal. That's the whole affair—I know it is
unnecessary to explain myself to you"——
"Quite," was the laconic reply, "but you are in an awkward position,
as guardian to a young lady; and one of such a remarkable and out of
the common character. When you accepted the post she was a child—now
you have a beautiful woman on your hands. You are a young man, and
unmarried. This gives the enemy occasion to blaspheme."
Gascoigne muttered something which is absolutely unsuitable for print.
Aloud he said, "I wish I were seventy years of age. I suppose that
would shut people's mouths?"
"It would simplify matters, certainly," acquiesced the Padre. "Miss
Gascoigne did an extraordinarily foolish thing when she rushed out
to India and hurled herself into your charge. She never realised the
gravity of the step she was taking. I gather that she is a girl to act
first, and then to sit down and think? In the present instance she will
have to sit down and repent in sackcloth and ashes for the injury she
has done to herself—and you."
"Oh, never mind me," broke in his companion impatiently, "what is to be
done about her? I cannot offer her a home here—I cannot leave her with
the Gordons—I have promised not to send her back to England—what _am_
I to do?" and Gascoigne, who had been pacing the room with his hands
behind his back, suddenly came to a halt, directly in front of his
pastor.
"Why cannot you have her to live here?" asked Mr. Eliot, gravely.
"Why?" echoed the other man, "good Lord—is not your visit a plain
answer to the question? If people are such brutes as to make a scandal
out of—"
Mr. Eliot extended his hand with a gesture of deprecation.
"Oh, then, go on," said Gascoigne impatiently; "tell me what I can do?
Say the word."
"You can—marry her," was the totally unexpected answer.
Gascoigne's reply was equally astonishing; it took the form of a long
pause, and then a loud derisive laugh. "I—marry Angel!" he cried at
last. "Excuse me, but the idea is too absurd."
"I fail to see anything ridiculous about it," rejoined the Padre. "I
think it would be a capital match. You are a man in the prime of life,
she is a charming girl—is there any just cause or impediment?"
"Twenty."
"Give me one, then," he asked impatiently.
"She is a mere child."
"No; she is a grown-up woman."
"We—would be a most incongruous couple, a butterfly, and a black
working ant."
"I cannot see that."
"Besides, Angel is not to be disposed of in such a summary fashion; she
would laugh at the bare idea."
"Is she not well disposed to you?" and Padre Eliot eyed him
searchingly.
"Oh, yes; as a child she was extremely fond of me."
"'_On revient toujours a ses premiers amours_,'" quoted his visitor
with significance.
"Eliot, you are a clever fellow, and my friend," said Gascoigne,
suddenly, "but you are neither going to talk me, or quote me, into
matrimony. I have never—that is to say, not for years—thought of
marrying."
"Then it is time you did," rejoined his visitor, with decision. "It is
a great mistake for a man to put off marrying too long; marriage is an
honourable estate. It is not good for man to live alone."
"Well, I find the estate extremely comfortable. There was peace in Eden
till Eve appeared, and I, too, can quote scripture, 'Physician, heal
_thyself_.'"
"Yes, I thought you knew," and Mr. Eliot's face grew grave; "I've had
my romance—she died."
Gascoigne did not reply.
"I've had my romance—she jilted me," he merely said.
"I did not know."
"Pardon me, I'm sorry for you; but marriage would change the whole
current of my life."
"And make it deeper and broader and more unselfish," suggested his
visitor.
"I never realised that I was selfish—I expect I am! I like my own
way, my own pursuits, my own friends. I would be selfish, indeed, if
I brought a gay young life to share my fossilised routine. Eliot," he
continued, still more forcibly, "speaking as man to man, surely there
is some way of escape from this situation? Help me, for my mind is not
fruitful in devices. I am thinking of Angel, not of myself. Is she
to be compelled to marry a man she has always looked on as a sort of
uncle, simply because a wicked woman has started an infernal scandal?
What is your opinion?"
"You have already had it," now rising. "I have told you what I came
here to say. Scandal is hard to stifle, even when it has not a tittle
of foundation—evil minds continue to repeat. 'There is no smoke
without a fire.' I believe there is no fire, nothing but the cold,
wet sticks of early companionship. I say, that I know you to be a
good fellow, Gascoigne; Miss Angel is a beautiful, high-spirited,
warm-hearted girl. Accept what fate sends you—marry her if you can,
and be thankful."
"That is your last word?"
"Yes; I say no more. Think it over, my dear fellow," and here he laid
his hand affectionately on the shoulder of his friend; "you might see
Mrs. Gordon. Women are instinctively clever and quick-witted in these
affairs. Think it over," and with this injunction Mr. Eliot put his
terai hat on his head, and hastily took his departure.
* * * * *
For some time after the Padre had left him, Major Gascoigne remained
sitting in a chair, mentally benumbed. By-and-by he roused himself with
an effort, and set all his wits to work upon the subject so brusquely
brought to his knowledge. The more he reviewed the question, the less
he liked it. He knew how a breath of gossip can tarnish a stainless
name, whether at home or abroad; how no amount of rubbing will remove
the speck of rust which eats it away. Poor Eliot, he was sorry he had
raked up a dead memory. Eliot was too emotional, too sensitive about
his flock, very easily frightened—and all parsons were match-makers.
There must be _some_ way out of the wood. He would change his clothes
at once, swallow some breakfast, and ride over and talk the thing out
with Mrs. Gordon. She was generally sewing or writing all the morning
in the north verandah. Then he suddenly recalled the fact that his
hostess had seemed a little grave and preoccupied the previous evening;
that once or twice he had caught her gazing at him with a mysterious
expression—that once or twice she had been about to say something to
him during the morning ride, and paused; and that she had given him an
unusually pressing invitation to "come over soon—and tell her all the
news."
Major Gascoigne was perfectly correct in his surmise. As he walked up
to the north verandah, Mrs. Gordon rose, and held out her hand; in the
other were several letters.
"Do come and sit down," she said. "You are the very person I was
thinking about, and particularly wish to see." As she concluded she
held up a letter, and said: "This is _all_ about you."
"Then it is bound to be stupid," he rejoined, heaving a dog out of
a chair, and taking its place. "I've come over to have a talk with
you—great wits, you see, jump together; but, bar all jokes, I shall be
glad if your wit will clear up a puzzle for me."
Mrs. Gordon looked at him inquiringly, and faintly coloured as she
said:
"You have had a visit from Mr. Eliot, good, brave man."
"Good, yes; but there was no particular question of courage," said
Major Gascoigne, rather sharply. "Did you fear I would knock him down,
or shoot him?" and his tone was sarcastic.
"I'm thinking of moral courage," she answered quickly. "It required a
certain amount to go and beard you—and tell you—that you had been
tried by the tribunal of the station and sentenced to—marry——"
"Angel," he supplemented, half under his breath.
"Yes, it appears that Mrs. Flant has been assiduously spreading
reports," continued his companion, "and nothing will appease Mrs.
Grundy—short of—your marriage."
"And is it not shameful?" he broke out, with a ring of passion in his
voice, "that I should have to marry that poor child, in order to shut
Mrs. Flant's mouth?"
"To shut everyone's mouth," corrected Mrs. Gordon; "even Donald says
it is desirable. Mrs. Flant has the pen of a ready writer, as well as
hosts of correspondents—she has a hideous mind, and, you see, you were
promoted over her brother's head."
"Simply because he was incompetent. An unmitigated duffer—his work was
notorious. I'm still patching and repairing and destroying."
"I always thought it was a hazardous experiment, your taking charge of
Angel," observed Mrs. Gordon, as she meditatively surveyed her visitor.
What a handsome fellow he was! with his sun-bronzed, clear-cut face—at
present clouded with gloom. What an excellent husband he would make;
it was a pity he was unmarried, and only (she secretly felt assured)
some extraordinarily tidal wave of circumstance such as the present,
would ever sweep him into the net matrimonial. He would be so much
happier with a wife. And Angel? With a woman's instinctive knowledge
of another, Mrs. Gordon knew that Angel—beautiful, bewitching,
fascinating Angel—loved no one as she did this good-looking, dark-eyed
cousin, who lay back in his chair with his hands locked behind his
head, his gaze riveted on his well-cut riding boots, and an expression
of tragic protestation on his countenance.
Angel was not in love yet. She loved him (there is a difference)—she
loved him as the champion of her childhood, the bond between her and
her mother, her ideal, champion, and friend. This love was well hidden
away from all unsympathetic eyes, for Angel had made no foolish boast,
when she had declared that she would conceal her feelings, but the
love, a rare, strong, pure love, was there.
Once or twice it had peeped out timidly, and Mrs. Gordon had seen it.
She was a born match-maker; of her matches she was inordinately proud,
and generally with good reason. She felt that she had contributed to
the happiness of many, and that, just at the critical moment, she had
supplied the little look, or hint, or word, that brought the whole
story to a happy ending.
As she sat with her eyes fastened reflectively on her visitor, she
rapidly made up her mind that he should marry Angel. The "talk" would
eventually blow over; in fact, if she were to dress herself up as a
Japanese, or a negress, and go to the club, the talk would instantly
be diverted to herself. So much for talk! Here was a tide in Philip's
affairs and Angel's, and she resolved to take it at the flood.
"I think you and Angel would be an ideal couple," she said. "I'm sure
you would make her happy."
"What!" he exclaimed, struggling back out of a day dream; "you are not
in earnest?"
"You would be April and July."
"No, but a March hare, and a Michaelmas goose," he retorted,
scornfully. "I'm much too old for her."
Mrs. Gordon made no effort to combat this statement—her husband was
seventeen years her senior. Was not her bleak married life an awful
warning to other girls?
"She would have someone to lean on," she resumed; "someone to guide
her."
"I'm not sure that she'd care about _that_," her visitor protested,
with a short laugh.
"She always—liked you—she likes you still. The king can do no wrong,"
she urged, insistently.
"He would do her a great wrong if he asked her to be his queen to
silence lying tongues. A gay young fellow of five-and-twenty, who
dances well and is a good polo player, is far more in Angel's line that
I am—even supposing she would have me—which she would not." Here
Mrs. Gordon made a gesture of dissent. "I'm too settled in my ways.
After a man passes the twenties, and gets on into the thirties without
marrying, he does not want a wife—she's a sort of extra."
"What heresy," cried his listener, indignantly.
"Besides, you know, I—was once—in love with another girl."
"Oh, yes; but that was twelve years ago," said his listener, quickly;
"she is no girl now. You cannot pretend you have not got over that. We
all know that men's hearts, like crabs' claws, grow again."
"What heresy," he repeated, with a laugh; "but, come, Mrs. Gordon, let
us be serious. Surely you can suggest some nice retired family in a
hill station who would receive Angel? I'll allow her four hundred a
year—a family with girls preferred."
"No," she replied; "for although Mrs. Flant's hints are abominable
falsehoods, her lie has had three weeks' start. Whilst you have been
absent it has been travelling rapidly, and growing like a snowball.
How are you to overtake it? and what family of girls would receive a
young woman—with a—story?" The lady's methods were cruel, but it was
all for the good of the subject, and his ultimate happiness; the end
justified the means. "Angela's name has been bandied about; you must
change it from Miss to Mrs."
"I'll be——" he began, and pulled himself up. "I shall go straight off
to Mrs. Flant, and cram her words down her throat, and make her eat
them. If she were a man, I declare, I would flog her. What is her tale?"
"Merely a hill idyll—which she discovered one stormy evening."
"But Angel came out in the _Arabia_; she had only the start of Mrs.
Flant by about one hundred moments, and there are two hundred witnesses
to prove it."
"True, but if you make a stir, you stir up mud," was Mrs. Gordon's
damping rejoinder. "You will make matters worse. At present, talk is
confined within a certain limited radius; surely you don't wish Angel
to be the talk of India?"
Here came Angel running, in a flowing, white gown, with a note in her
hand. She was accompanied by two frolicking puppies, and looked like
the spirit of youth.
"Good morning again, Philip," she said; then glancing at her
friend, she continued, "I declare, you two are like a couple of
conspirators—where is the dark lantern? Who is to be the victim?"
"You are," was Mrs. Gordon's unexpected reply. "We are meditating
carrying you off into camp for six weeks."
"How delightful—there's nothing I shall enjoy so much. Are you going
to invite Philip?" glancing at him.
"I don't think I can get away," he stammered—"at least, not for more
than a couple of days at a time."
"I always had an idea that there was next to no work in India; that it
was all racing and polo, and dancing and flirting."
"Well, my dear child, you see you were wrong," said Mrs. Gordon. "Who
is the note from, my dear?"
"Only a line from Miss Lennox, to say that she and her sister regret
that they cannot come over to have a game of tennis this evening—such
a funny stiff little note," and she tendered it to her hostess between
two fingers, whilst Mrs. Gordon's and Major Gascoigne's eyes met in a
glance of quick significance.
* * * * *
As Major Gascoigne was walking home across the parade-ground, a
pony-carriage and pair of fat Pegu ponies drew up on the road, and
awaited him. Then a lady's head was poked out from under the hood, and
a smiling face, crowned by an Ellwood helmet, said:
"So pleased to see you back again."
"Thank you, Mrs. Wiggins," he rejoined.
"I want to be the first to congratulate you on your beautiful
cousin—she is lovely—everyone is talking of her, and no wonder. And
when is it to be?"
"When is—what to be?" he asked stiffly.
"Oh, come, come, you need not play the ostrich with me," and with a
laugh and a flip at her ponies, the lady rattled rapidly away, and
subsequently bragged of her encounter.
Angel's guardian frequently visited to the Commissioner's bungalow.
He came to dine, to early tea, to ride, to accompany Angel and Mrs.
Gordon to church or the band. Angel was radiantly happy, and, thanks
to her friend's precautions, totally unconscious of the net which was
closing round herself and Philip. Mrs. Gordon was merely an interested
looker-on, she saw both sides of the drama, she was both before and
behind the scenes. On one side there was Major Gascoigne, restrained,
reserved, reluctant, and yet who could resist the charm of the daily
companionship of the delightful girl who was his ward? There was Angel,
whose whole mind seemed to be centred in the wish to please Philip—and
to wonder what he thought of her?
Public opinion was favourable to the marriage—public opinion was
strong. Those who envied Major Gascoigne his careless bachelor life,
those who resented his lack of reciprocity, those mothers whom he had
disappointed, all desired to hurry him to the altar.
He could resist, but he had decided not to resist, for, after all,
Angel was the most beautiful and charming girl he knew. She was
unspoiled, he believed that she cared for him, and that he could make
her happy.
Under these reassuring reflections, he decided to accept his
fate—Angel. It was not a hard fate, a fate much envied of many, and
particularly—of all people—by Shafto. It was true that he had spoken
of marriage as a mere "episode" in a man's life—he trusted the opinion
would never reach Angel's ears. He was not madly, wildly, in love,
no—but he thought he would be lucky if she became his wife.
He would prefer to remain unmarried for the next ten years, and carve
out his career unweighted with an encumbrance. Truly, these were very
cold-blooded ideas to be harboured by the lover of a bewitching beauty
of nineteen. On the other hand, when he became grey, and stiff in the
joints, and the meridian of life and its glories had waned, he would be
nothing but a lonely, leather-faced veteran, with not a soul belonging
to him, and with no one to whom he could leave his money, except
Angel's children. Again the charm of his independent life rose into
his vision, his happy, quiet hours, his beloved book, his absorbing
interest for his work. Must this all be relinquished? Was it true, as
a comrade had declared, that his heart was composed of an entrenchment
tool? Swayed this way, and that, Philip was ashamed of his vacillation.
For once he found himself in strange conflict with his own character.
The faculty of promptly making up his mind—what had become of it?
Fresh from the charm of Angel's voice and manner, he determined to
speak the very next day.
But when the morning came, the cool, clear morning, it brought counsel,
it brought a multitude of papers that absorbed all his thoughts and
time. After several hours of this detachment, his mind returned to the
attitude of indecision, his ideas were again readjusted.
Whilst Philip was thus balancing his feeling and weighing the _pros_
and _cons_, the Gordons went away into camp, for the Commissioner's
usual cold weather tour, and they took Angel with them.