IN ANGEL'S TENT
SEVERAL guests from the station were added to the camp dinner
table, the Commissioner's Khansamah contrived an impressive
_mènu_, and a dazzling display of plate and flowers. The wine was
incomparable—though the host greatly preferred Scotch whisky—and
everything and everyone contributed to a pleasant evening, except
Donald Gordon, who, as usual, devoured the meal in silence, and Mrs.
Gascoigne, who was depressingly dumb, and most startlingly pale. In
answer to enquiries, she pleaded a bad headache, and after the ladies
had risen, departed to her tent.
The camp moved on the following morning, and as Angel rode past the
insignificant little club, she gazed at it with a curious expression
on her face. To her, it represented the temple of truth. Well, after
all—truth was everything, she said to herself,—nothing else was of
the same value, hopes and fears, rights and wrongs, shrivelled to dust,
in the presence of truth.
Days went by, and Angel still remained silent, pale, and self-absorbed,
her spirits occasionally rising to their normal height, then falling
far below zero. One evening, as she was going to bed, and sat brushing
her mane of hair with listless hand, the tent flap was abruptly raised,
and Mrs. Gordon entered.
"My dear child," she said, "I'm not going to stand this any longer.
What is the matter? Even my husband has noticed you—it is something
more than a common headache. Now, Angel, surely you will tell me?"
"Yes," she answered with sudden passion, and she tossed her hair back,
and looked fixedly at her visitor. "It is not a headache which hurts
me—but a terrible heartache."
"What!" in a horrified voice. "Oh, no, Angel—no."
"Yes—sit down there on my bed, and I will tell you all about it—and
then——" heaving a quick breath, "you will have to tell me—something."
Mrs. Gordon accepted the invitation in puzzled silence, and Angel
pursued.
"You remember the evening we were at Chitachar Club, rummaging among
all the fusty old books, and how I stayed behind, and joked about
listening to gossip—when you and Mr. Lindsay went out?"
Mrs. Gordon nodded, and coloured faintly.
"I heard more gossip than I expected! After a time a crowd came in,
and two ladies sat close beside me, so closely that I could hardly
move my elbows. They began to discuss a certain Mrs. Waldershare, a
widow"—here Angel stood erect in the middle of the tent, with a mantle
of flowing fair hair over her white dressing-gown—"who jilted Philip
years ago." Mrs. Gordon sat erect and gave a little gasp. "He was
always devoted to her, ever since they were playfellows,—now she is
free—but he is married."
"Why, of course he is!" cried Mrs. Gordon, recovering her wits, "what
nonsense this is, Angel. Why are you so tragic? you only want a dagger
to be Lady Macbeth!"
"Please let me go on—the lady said 'Yes, he is married to a mere chit,
a child, his ward, who ran away to him from school—he had to marry
her, though he moved heaven and earth to get out of it.' Now"—and here
Angel took a deep breath, and turned a pair of agonised eyes on her
companion—"tell me—dear—good friend—is this the truth, that the
station opinion was so strong, that Philip was—forced—to marry—me?
Yes, yes, you have grown red—my God!—it is true." And Angel threw
her brush to the end of the tent, and suddenly sank on the ground, and
buried her head in her hands.
Mrs. Gordon instantly bent over, and put her arms tenderly round the
girl, whose form now shook with hard, dry sobs.
"And, oh! I loved him so," she moaned, "and he married me from
pity—you remember what the fortune-teller said—that a man had married
me at the bidding of a woman—that woman was _you_—" she cried
suddenly, raising her head, and wrenching herself free. "Oh, how could
you degrade me like that? How could you—be so wicked?"
"Now listen to me, Angel," urged her friend soothingly. "Do hear what I
have to say."
"No, no, no," she sobbed, "you will try to excuse it—you will tell me
lies."
"I will not, Angel—upon my honour."
Angel flung back her hair, and stood up expectant, whilst Mrs. Gordon
resumed her place on the camp cot.
"When—when—" she began, and her lips felt hard and dry, "you came
out so suddenly, you were guilty of a most unpardonable act—it was
very wrong."
"It was very wrong to vilify my mother," interrupted the girl
passionately.
"Perhaps so, but you know you undertook the trip, half as a joke,
thanks to your giddy young friend; you never realised the years that
had drawn you and Philip closer together, that he was comparatively
young, and unmarried, that you were a grown-up woman. If you had—you
would not have come—confess, that this fact struck you the instant you
met him? Come, now, Angel, be honest."
"Yes, of course, I will be honest—you are right—it did, and I was
simply horrified," admitted Angel gravely. "I had expected a man, a
little stout, and bald, and grey—you see, I had no photograph to guide
me, and six or seven years are ages at my time of life, more than
twenty later on. The moment I saw Philip, I realised the awful mistake
I had made, and felt almost inclined to turn and run away back into the
wet jungle, but I pulled myself together, and did my best to carry it
off with a high hand; there was nothing else to do."
"I know that Mrs. Flant and her sister discovered you
_tête-à-tête_—you, a young girl, and unchaperoned. Then it seems
that you attracted Miss Ball's admirer, this was too much for her
forbearance; to avenge herself she told a story to the station, she
and Mrs. Flant whispered that they did not believe you were only just
out—or as simple as you pretended. They said you had possibly—no,
I won't go on," as Angel's face grew fixed and ghastly. "The talk
had become a clamour by the time Philip appeared; perhaps you may
understand the whisperings, the silences, and the curt refusals of our
invitations, that puzzled us so much?"
"I understand—all—_now_."
"Then of course Philip had to be told. At first he absolutely refused
to believe his ears, but the lie had had a long start, and was strong
and unflinching. He did not wish to marry you——"
"So the other woman said."
"He thought you much too young; he declared you should see the world,
and make your choice, and not be put off with a dull old bachelor. He
was thinking of you, he was indeed, Angel," trying to reach Angel's
hand, but she twisted it away, "he loves you very sincerely, and
loyally in his own way. Has he not made you an admirable husband? There
is the answer to that silly woman's chatter. Don't you believe, my
dear," and she now took Angel's hand firmly in hers, "that he loves
you?"
"Yes," rudely snatching her fingers away, "precisely as he did
when I was a little girl at school, not with all his soul, and all
his strength, as he loved Lola—not"—drawing a long breath, and
transfixing her friend with her eyes—"as Alan Lindsay—loves you."
"Angel! What do you mean!" stammered the receiver of this rude shock,
and the slumbering fire in her dark eyes kindled to a blaze. "How dare
you?"
"Why should I not dare?" demanded the girl fiercely, "this is the
place and time for plain speaking—lip to lip and eye to eye. Philip
is straight, as they called him—_he_ would never make love to a
married woman—not even," and she gave an odd laugh, "to his own wife.
He is careful of my health, of the horses I ride, the people I know,
he jumps up when I enter a room, he hurries to fetch me a wrap, but he
never—_never_ kisses my work, or my book, when I am not looking—nor
waits patiently for hours to have a word with me—alone—as a man we
know, waits for—you."
"Angel—Mrs. Gascoigne," said her listener, who had suddenly assumed
all the dignity of the wife of the Commissioner, "you have taken leave
of your senses. You have had—a—a—sunstroke."
"No—no—I am quite sane, thank you," she replied, "and perfectly
cool-headed; you may remember that as a child I was very sharp at
seeing things that never occurred to other people. The faculty has
not deserted me. I believe all women are possessed of an instinct,
and recognise love when they see it. Dear Elinor, do forgive me," she
pleaded, and her voice broke, "because I love you, and I have so few
to love. If I do not speak to you—who will dare? My sight is terribly
keen—I cannot help it—I cannot help seeing that Philip does not love
me—that Alan Lindsay does love you." She paused for a moment, threw
back her hair, and went on, standing directly before her companion, who
sat on the side of the cot with a countenance as expressionless as a
mask, "You are beautiful—you are sympathetic—you are good," continued
the girl in a clear ringing voice, "all the world knows you, as the
admirable wife of—a block—of Aberdeen granite. Half the young men
and the girls in the district have come under your influence—which
has always been noble and pure. It is as far-reaching and penetrating
as the sun—it is your responsibility; and now love has come to claim
you—and you are in danger, or why these long walks, and absorbing
conversations, and early strolls to see the sun rise, and late
strolls to see the moon rise? No one has recognised the danger but we
three—you and I and Mr. Lindsay. You must send him away—before it is
too late."
With her white robe, flowing locks, and earnest and impassioned face,
Angel might almost have stood for a picture of her namesake.
"It is strange," began her companion in a husky voice, "that you should
be exhorting me—a woman who is fourteen years older than yourself—who
remembers you a child."
"Yes, it is strange—it is, I'm afraid, unpardonable. I expect you will
send me back to Marwar to-morrow, and I am ready to go. I feel that
I must speak, and risk your friendship—for your own sake;" then she
added, "Oh, have I not said, and seen—what is true?"
The immediate answer was long delayed, then suddenly Mrs. Gordon bent
her head upon her hands, and burst into tears; at last she looked up
with streaming eyes, and said:
"Yes, your vision is clear;—I will not palter or fight off, or
equivocate,—I do love Alan. Oh, what a relief it is to speak aloud,
what I have scarcely dared to whisper to my own heart. Love has come to
me at last; hitherto I have starved in the midst of plenty, now cruel
fate has brought me a great gift—which I may not accept. I nursed Alan
back to life—he had gone to the very edge of the grave, and he says
my voice recalled him; that he loved me, only dawned upon me recently;
he has never dared to tell me in so many words, but I know it, and
the fact fills me with almost intolerable joy. My husband is cold and
formal; I was freezing into the same mould. Alan has melted my heart;
I've warmed my hands before the fire of life——"
"Yes," interrupted Angel, finishing the quotation, "but it does not
sink—nor are you ready to depart! Elinor, I beseech you, send Mr.
Lindsay away. You are not as other women—you have a name and example
to live up to; your influence has been like a star, which, if it falls,
means black darkness to hundreds."
"You need not be afraid, Angel," said Mrs. Gordon with a sob; "I will
never succumb—with God's help—but you do not realise what it is, to
starve and shiver for years, and then be offered your heart's desire,
only to refuse it; a supreme influence seems to have taken possession
of me, undefinable, and impalpable, but real and actual, as light or
the electric current. But I see that you despise me; in your eyes I
have fallen from my high estate," and she rose and threw her arms
tightly round Angel. "Yes, I despise myself."
"Promise me that you will send him away," whispered Angel.
"Yes, yes—that I promise. When we return to Marwar, he goes to
England, and we shall never—never—meet again. Oh—never."
"Goes to England?" repeated Angel, incredulously.
"He succeeded to his property some time ago, but has kept the matter
quiet, and remains out in India for——"
"For your sake," interrupted Angel; "I understand. Well, I hope he will
go soon."
Mrs. Gordon shivered involuntarily.
"It is strange—or is it not strange—that your husband has never
noticed how friendly Mr. Lindsay is—with you?"
"No, no; he attributes it all entirely to himself. It would be
impossible for him to realise that I could attract anyone in that way."
"And he is an old mole, grubbing away at the story of the love of
Shireen and Ferhad, and never sees the real story which is enacted
before his eyes."
"Oh, Angel, don't say such things, my dear—they hurt—they hurt."
"Yes, the truth is painful," acknowledged Angel. "I am brutal to
you—because it hurts me. It is the truth that my husband's heart
belongs to another woman. I cannot blame him; once and for ever, it is
as it should be—and she is so beautiful, not only her face, but her
character is lovely and noble. It is all a little hard on me, yet truth
forces me to confess that there is no one to reproach but myself. Oh,
what ease and comfort it would give me if I could blame some one. I
threw myself upon Philip without thought or reflection, and I have cast
myself between him and the woman he loves, and is now free to marry
him—only for me—only for me—they would both be happy. I learnt all
this at the little Chitachar Club. Listeners certainly hear bad news of
themselves."
"My dear Angel, you are much too sensitive—you are morbid,"
interrupted her friend; "but you know the saying,
'Le temps passe,
L'eau coule,
Le cœur oublie.'
Philip has forgotten his first love years ago."
"No, no; Philip never forgets anything, and I should never have heard
about Lola, only in the way I did. They loved each other as children.
They love one another still. As I lie there on this little bed, do you
know that I sometimes pray to die—a quiet, easy death—to sleep, and
never wake. It would mean so much happiness to others—and—here she
choked down a sob—"I don't think anyone would be very sorry, or miss
me much—except the dogs, and you."
"Oh, Angel!" exclaimed her companion, "my dear child, you must
_not_ talk like this. I cannot imagine where you get hold of such
extraordinarily wild ideas. If anything happened to you—it would break
Philip's heart; he——"
"He," interrupted his wife, "would marry Lola within six months—or
less. I hope so—tell him."
"Elinor," growled a voice, outside the flap of the tent, "what the
devil do you mean by having lights burning at this hour and talking
and disturbing people, and keeping Mrs. Gascoigne out of her bed? Go
back to your own tent at once—come, don't dawdle," and Elinor, having
embraced her guest, swiftly obeyed her lord and master.
It was noticed that the delightful cold weather camp, usually so
bracing and health-giving, had evidently been of no benefit to the two
friends. When they returned to the station, people declared that they
had never seen Mrs. Gordon look so fagged—no, not in the cholera year
even, when she had nearly worked herself to death; and pretty Mrs.
Gascoigne had not only lost her colour, but her spirits.
What had they been doing to themselves, or one another? Was it possible
that they had quarrelled?