"A WHITE ELEPHANT AND A WHITE ROSE"
THE tour of a Commissioner in camp in the cold weather means a march
from place to place, visiting certain villages and districts, holding
official courts for the inhabitants, granting interviews, receiving
petitions, looking into taxation and the working of the code,
inspecting new works—such as canals and roads—and perhaps opening
a local hospital, or attending some high native feast. The tour is
intended to bring the great man into touch with the people. The camp
is struck every morning soon after dawn, and the party ride on to the
next encampment (there are invariably two sets of tents). Here they
arrive in time for early breakfast, after which the chief transacts
business, then comes the evening ride, a little shooting, a group
round the log fire, and early to bed. Such is the usual programme, and
as far as the working portion was concerned, an exact epitome of Mr.
Gordon's routine, but he rarely went for an evening ride, and seldom
joined his wife and her guest by the camp fire, and the two ladies
appeared gracefully resigned to his desertion. Donald Gordon's manners
were gruff, his conversation monosyllabic, his opinions startling; for
instance, he had been heard to suggest the lethal chamber for half
the women who were born! By a strange paradox, he burnt much midnight
oil, writing his great Persian epic, in praise of the beautiful
Shireen—Queen of Chrosroes of the Golden Spears—and her lover,
Ferhad the sculptor. But this streak of romance in his character never
appeared in broad daylight; the midnight poet, with his rushing pen,
his eyes aflame, one hand grasping his red, flowing beard, was by
midday surly, hard-headed, rugged Donald Gordon, the clear-sighted,
prompt, able administrator, who managed the great area over which
he ruled, and his various collectors and subordinates, with amazing
address; who said aloud things that others scarcely dared to whisper,
was a pillar of the Empire, and a genius in his way.
Angel Gascoigne, who shared in all the pomp and circumstance of
the Commissioner's semi-royal progress, enjoyed this, her first
experience of a camp, most thoroughly. The life was interesting, it
was novel, it never hasted, never rested—what more could any girl
desire? The beautiful tract through which they passed, be it snipe
district or tiger district, waving crops, or forest lands, impressed
the new-comer with its free atmosphere, the Biblical simplicity of
the lives of the people, odd bits of folklore, and the weird stories
connected with their camping-grounds, each and all appealed to Angel's
quick imagination. She and her hostess enjoyed many rides and walks,
explorations, and _tête-à-tête_ discussions, though occasionally a
police officer or a collector joined the camp for a day or two, and
then the talk at dinner veered towards the revenue, the floods, or the
records. Now and then Major Gascoigne cut across the country, caught up
the party, and remained a short time. Angel hailed these visits with
a deep but secret joy—though he by no means gave her the lion's share
of his attention—it was a _solitude à trois_. He brought books and
papers, which he read to the ladies as they worked under the trees; he
brought them scraps of news, the latest station joke; he brought with
him a quickened enjoyment of the lazy, long days, and when he departed,
he left them the anticipation of his return.
One evening Mrs. Gordon was detained by a servant just as they were
about to start for a stroll, and Major Gascoigne and his cousin went
on alone. They left the white tents behind them, and sauntered down to
a ruined well, such as one sees in the prints of Rebecca, or the Woman
of Samaria. When they had reached it, Angel sat down on a broken step
and said, "Let us wait here—she won't be long," nodding towards the
distant camp. "I have something to show you," she continued, looking up
at her companion. "I have had a long letter from grandmamma this mail."
"Really?" he exclaimed; "and what has she to say?"
"That she misses me dreadfully, and is sorry for our quarrel. If I will
forgive her, she will forgive me, and will be glad if I will return to
live with her—for nothing."
Gascoigne gave a faint exclamation of surprise.
"She will lodge my passage money at once," continued the girl. "I have
only to send a wire—perhaps you would read her letter?" and she held
it up to him. Philip took it and read it over, slowly; Lady Augusta's
writing was scratchy and illegible, but he gathered that she was
devoted to her grandchild, and the whole epistle breathed a passionate
longing to see her once more.
Yes, it was all very well, he said to himself, as he mechanically
folded up the letter, but why should an injurious influence be exerted
over this fresh young life? Angel, although such an old, worldly-wise
child of nine, was, thanks to Miss Morton, and a curious twist in her
own character, as simple as nine, at the age of nineteen, simple-minded
and sincere, for all her gay flirtations and her physical sorceries.
Yet this letter was the key to his difficulties. If Angel returned home
to her grandmother, the Lady Augusta Gascoigne, who dared lift up a
voice against her?—and he was free! He looked at the girl's profile
against the crimson sunset, and asked himself, Was he free? Had he not,
like all her acquaintance, fallen under the spell of this charming,
bewitching, destroying Angel? What was she thinking about as she sat
motionless, her face turned fixedly towards the West—that she would
return to the West once more? No, no, no. He would never suffer her to
pass into Lady Augusta's hands again.
Suddenly the impulse came upon him there and then—he determined to
speak.
"What do you say?" she asked. "Have you anything to suggest—any
alternative?" and her eyes were full of frank earnestness.
"Yes," he replied, "that you remain out here."
"How? Do you mean with Mrs. Gordon?—what an awful incubus for
her—always."
"No—Angel——" and, as he spoke, he took off his cap and twisted it
in his hands, and stood before her bare-headed. "But as—_my wife_."
"Wife," she repeated, and a flood of colour rushed into her face. "Of
course, this is a joke," she exclaimed, rising and speaking with a
firm, almost passionate dignity.
"No—you and I are old friends, Angel—I—see—I've rather startled
you—but I've been considering this question for some time. I'm
seventeen years older than you are—I'm not the sort of lover—or
husband you might naturally expect—but I'll do—my very best to make
you happy."
All the time he was speaking Angel looked at him steadily, her colour
had faded, she now was white to her lips. As he concluded, she cast
down her eyes, and seemed to address the stones at her feet, as she
whispered in a strange, subdued voice: "Why do you say all this? You
don't love me, cousin Philip—and I—look for so much love—because
I've had so little." Then raising her eyes by a strenuous act of will,
and speaking in a firmer tone, she continued:
"You think I am a foolish, impulsive schoolgirl—you wish to give me a
home, but grandmamma offers me the same—a home, and to make me happy."
"I believe I can do better than your grandmother."
"And that would not be saying much, would it?" she retorted. "I
gathered from the way people looked, and hinted—you know I was always
clever at finding things out—that it was very wrong of me to have
rushed headlong to India. I placed you in a dilemma—you were quite at
your wits' end to know how to dispose of your white elephant—and now,
you are asking me to marry you—and thus settle the difficulty."
Her faltering words cast a revealing glare on the situation—there was
absolute truth in what she said.
"I am not," and she caught her breath sharply, "as silly as I seem—I
expect—in short—I will have more than you can give. You cannot make
me happy unless you love me—what you offer me is imitation. It is
not big enough, or strong enough, to hold me—I want real love, not
make-believe. I—am sure—it has cost you a great deal—to—to——" she
hesitated, "speak! and I thank you—but I will go home by next mail,
and live with grandmamma after all."
As she came to this decision and a full stop, Angel sat down breathless
and trembling. But now that the treasure was slipping from his grasp,
the prize not so easily attained as he supposed, of course Gascoigne
closed his hand upon it greedily.
"Angel, listen to me," he cried impetuously. "Don't talk of
make-believes, and your grandmother, and such wild nonsense—I do love
you—not in a romantic story-book fashion, but sincerely and faithfully
in my own way. I was engaged once to a girl—you know?"
"Yes," she assented sharply.
"That came to an end ten years ago. You are the only woman I shall ever
love again—I swear." He spoke in a tone of grave restrained emotion.
Angel still sat with her eyes on the ground, and made no sign whatever.
Truly, this Angel was a stranger, an alien, and ill-understood!
"It was for your own sake I have been holding back," he resumed with
an effort—was he sure that he was speaking the truth? "I am a busy,
self-centred man—I live in a groove—I feared your gay young life
would be dull—with me."
"Never dull with you, Philip—you know that," she murmured under her
breath.
"Will you think it over, and give me an answer when I come out on
Wednesday?"
Angel made no reply. Her cousin looked at her downcast eyes, her
twitching nostrils, and resumed, "If you wish to return home, of course
I will do all in my power to help you." As he continued his voice was
less steady, some inward barrier seemed to have given way under a
confused pressure of emotion. "If you decide to stay—and I hope from
my heart you will—then," and he stooped and kissed her hand, "when I
come again, wear a flower in your dress."
* * * * *
Mrs. Gordon was sitting under the fly of her tent engrossed in a
novel, when Major Gascoigne galloped up on Wednesday afternoon, having
covered the forty miles which lay between Marwar and the camp in an
extraordinarily short time. He had three horses posted on the road, and
the bay Arab he rode was in a lather. Why this unusual haste? was Mrs.
Gordon's mental interrogation. The reply came in a flash of prophetic
insight. She interpreted her visitor's strange air of repressed
excitement, his reckless ride; he had spoken to Angel, and had come for
her reply.
"Where is Angel?" he asked, as soon as he had dismounted and exchanged
a few words of greeting.
"Down by the well near the tamarinds, reading. Perhaps you will take
her these letters?" suggested clever Mrs. Gordon, selecting two from a
budget he had delivered; "and bring her back to tea."
"All right," he replied, "I'll be postman;" and without further
parley, but with suspicious alacrity, he departed. In a short time he
came in sight of Angel. She was sitting under the shade of an ancient
tamarind—no tree in all the world is more beautiful; a book lay
unheeded on her lap.
Would it be yes?—or would it be no? Philip was astonished at the
fluttering of his nerves, the thumping of his heart. As he approached
nearer, Angel stood up, and then came slowly to meet him. He looked at
her eagerly; there were red roses in her cheeks—and a white one in her
dress!