MAKING FRIENDS
DURING that long official feast, Angel's thoughts were distracted and
confused. They were engrossed by a couple lower down the table—of
these she could only catch occasional glimpses—conveying a fleeting
vision of a handsome dark profile and gold shoulder cords, and a
lovely white throat, a dazzling chain, a dazzling face: besides all
the heart-sickness occasioned by this picture she had on her left hand
Alan Lindsay, sternly determined to endow her with his confidence—she
fiercely resolved not to receive it. What a situation for one helpless
young woman! No wonder that her appetite was miserable, her remarks
vague and erratic, her face white, and her expression fixed—Mrs.
Crabbe, who sat opposite, was delighted to hear her partner declare
that he had "never seen any one go off so soon as Mrs. Gascoigne."—To
know that her husband and his beautiful first love were dining
_vis-à-vis_, drinking to one another with their eyes—no—no—Philip
was not like that! To know, that beside her sat the avowed lover of
her dearest friend, who was only awaiting an opportunity to pour his
cause into her ear, was almost too much for the endurance of any girl
of two-and-twenty. And Angel's right-hand neighbour afforded her no
support; he was as useless as a stuffed figure, being both deaf and
shy. However, she summoned her courage, girded herself for the fray,
and rose to the occasion. Even as a child she had a wonderful spirit.
Time after time she turned the conversation when it approached her
friend.
"How heartless you are!" exclaimed Lindsay, when they had arrived at
the first _entrée_. "I declare, you have no humanity, no sympathy—you
are a stone."
"Very well—I am," she answered doggedly, "and I have no sympathy to
spare for you."
"Pray, why not? Eve always thought you so broad, and so bright, almost
like an American girl. Certainly the American climate is favourable to
intellectual vivacity."
"Intellect has nothing to do with the present case," said Angel
sharply, "and no American girl would support your views."
"I'm not so sure of that, Mrs. Gascoigne. It is easy to get a divorce
in the States—they are sensible people; why should a man and woman
who are totally discordant be compelled to live together in misery all
their lives? It's worse than penal servitude—what is there to bind
them?"
"Their vows," she answered gravely.
Lindsay shrugged his shoulders, and gave a queer little laugh.
"I am so glad you are going away," said Angel, with undeniable rudeness.
"Yes, and so am I," he answered imperturbably, "if I do not go alone."
"_Of course_, you will go alone."
"Why of course? Why should not Elinor accompany me?" he asked, dropping
his voice.
Mrs. Gascoigne became suddenly very red; her hand shook a little.
"He will set us free—we will marry in six months, and begin a new
existence. What a maddening thing life is—a mass of mistakes. One's
hands are tied, and fate comes and mocks at us—but I intend to cut the
cords. Here is Elinor's life wasted with a boor, who values her less
than a quire of foolscap, whilst I would lay down my life for her." In
the midst of this heroic speech potatoes were offered and declined.
"Listen," he continued eagerly, "my plan is this——"
"Hush," said Angel, "not so loud. Mrs. Crabbe opposite is exhibiting
the liveliest interest in your conversation,—and I don't want to hear
any more."
"You must hear," he said inflexibly.
"Well, if I must, I suppose I must. I cannot escape from the table—I
won't agree with one word you say—so you are warned."
"I want Elinor to come to England with me. I am now a wealthy man;
after six months she will become my wife, and we shall be unutterably
happy."
"For a year—perhaps, and then you will both begin to realise your
mistake; you will regret your career, and she will be grieving for her
downfall. You will be each other's punishment; Elinor will feel intense
remorse, knowing what her evil example means to so many, and that her
life's work is destroyed. She will become old, worn, and unsatisfied,
and you will be disillusioned."
"You talk like a seer, Mrs. Gascoigne," he sneered.
"I am far-sighted," she admitted quietly.
"Don't you know—do you not see that it would be for Elinor's happiness
to cast off this hideous life of pretence, and become my second self,
my wife, the mistress of my dear old home?"
"She would be mad to listen to you," said Angel fiercely; "she will
suffer, when you leave; she will mourn as for a death—oh, it will be
a hard trial, but it is better to suffer and be strong now, and get it
over, than to endure agonies of shame later on, and always. She will
never listen to your plan. If she did, I would hold her back by main
force; if she went she would have to drag _me_ along with her. I will
never let her go."
"I always thought you were her friend, and wished for her happiness."
"I am her friend—and I do not wish for her disgrace."
"Why are you so narrow-minded? Many _divorcés_ are in society; and
Elinor is so sweet and so good—her influence will always be felt
wherever she goes."
"No, not when it is known that she has left her husband—with you.
You must practise before you preach; and if I have read Mr. Gordon's
character correctly, he will never divorce his wife."
"So," after a long pause Lindsay said, "you are not on my side?"
"No, nor ever will be—and what a discussion for a dinner-party!"
"It was my only opportunity. I asked Du Visne—he's a pal of mine—to
send us in together if possible."
"If he had known your object, he would have turned you out; now let us
talk of anything—or nothing else. Ah! I see people putting on their
gloves; thank goodness, we are going at last."
* * * * *
As Angel sat in the drawing-room, mechanically turning over a book of
photographs, too unnerved to mix with other women and talk gossip or
chiffons, she suddenly looked up and found Lady Eustace beside her, who
said:
"Mrs. Gascoigne, here is a lady who is most anxious to make your
acquaintance. Let me introduce Mrs. Waldershare, a very old friend of
your husband's."
Angel rose, and held out her hand in silence.
Was this the pretty girl that they said Philip had married? mentally
asked Lola, as with one comprehensive glance she criticised her
substitute. Why, her complexion was like a sheet of white paper, and
her collar-bones stood out in pitiful prominence; but she had wonderful
eyes, and her figure was graceful, her dress elegant.
"I felt that you and I ought to know one another as soon as possible,"
said Lola in her drawling voice; "you know Philip and I are such old,
old friends; we were girl and boy together, and I should so much like
to be friends with his wife."
"Thank you," said Angel, faintly. What a namby-pamby creature! thought
her listener—aloud, "Do let us go over and take possession of that
most delicious-looking sofa and have a good, comfortable talk—before
the men come," and she led the way with admirable grace. "I think," she
continued, settling herself with a cushion at her back, "these little
after-dinner chats are such opportunities for seeing something of other
women," and she nodded over at Angel with a delightful expression of
good fellowship; she was considerably startled by the expression in the
girl's eyes. What did they say?
They conveyed a grave, almost awed admiration; now Lola loved
admiration, and accepted it greedily from any source, from a
crossing-sweeper upwards. That Philip's wife should admire her with
those great tragic blue eyes was funny. She always had an idea that
Philip's wife would not care for her. This simple chit would care for
her, and be exceedingly useful. She meant to place herself under the
dear child's nice white wing—yes, and her name was Angel.
"Have you any children?" she asked softly.
Angel blushed to the roots of her hair, and shook her head.
"But dozens of dogs, I am sure! Philip was always crazy about dogs and
horses, yes, and all sorts of horrid things, toads and tortoises and
tadpoles. You are quite young," she resumed; "oh, how I wish I were
your age!"
"I should not mind exchanging," said Angel, with a faint smile.
"I only wish we could," rejoined Lola with emphasis; "oh, you can't
think how bitterly I cried the day I was thirty!"
"Really? Why should you mind, and you look so young." And then with an
effort she asked, "Are you staying in Marwar, or just passing through?"
"Oh, I am staying with the Blaines for a day or two, then going
up country to my brother Edgar. I've come out to spend a year in
India. I think I shall like it immensely, and I hope it will like
me. The country is so bright and sunny, and everyone so cheery and
so hospitable. I've met several people that I came out with on board
ship, and we feel quite like old friends. There's Captain Hailes of the
Muleteers, and the little Tudor boy, Sir Capel Tudor; we called him
Cupid. He is ridiculously devoted to me. By the way," she went on in
another key, "I suppose you have heard that Philip and I were engaged
once," and she looked at her with a half-bantering expression.
"Yes, I know," responded the other gravely.
"For quite a long time—nearly four years. You won't," and she raised
herself about half-an-inch and lightly touched Angel's hand, which hung
limply over the back of the sofa, "you won't like me any the less—for
being fond of him—will you, dear?"
"No, certainly not," with an eloquent gesture.
"In fact, it constitutes a bond between us—and you won't care for him
any less," and she looked up into Angel's serious eyes, "because he
used to like—me?"
"No," and then ensued a long pause.
"It was a funny marriage, was it not?" she resumed suddenly.
"What—whose?" asked her bewildered listener.
"Why, yours, dear. He was a hardened bachelor, and you were such a
child. But it has turned out very well," another pause, "hasn't it,
dear?"
"Oh, yes," blushing, and feeling curiously embarrassed.
"What a dear you are! I'm going to be so fond of you; I know at once,
when I like people or not. And you?"
"No, I'm not like that—it is too soon."
"Never too soon to begin a liking, dear."
"But I admire you more than anyone I've ever seen," said Angel
impulsively.
"Come, that's a good start," patting her arm with a touch of patronage.
"By-and-by, I believe, when you know me—you will pity me."
"Pity _you_?" gazing at this lovely, languorous creature, with her
shining gown, her shining jewels, her shining eyes.
"Ah! you are too young to know the tragedy of giving up, of
annihilating self; of being misrepresented, slandered, and beggared.
Well, I will tell you all about it some day. I'm coming to see you
to-morrow. I am told newcomers call first. And here are the men. Do
look at my little travelling friend, Sir Cupid. Ah, there is Phil,"
and she beckoned him with her fan. "Dear old Phil, how good it is
to see you—how you bring back old times. Your wife and I have been
making such friends, and having a long chat. Now," as he looked
interrogatively from one to the other, "I'm going to have a good long
talk with _you_." As Lola spoke, she rose and laid a small hand upon
his sleeve, and with a little gay nod to Angel, glided away with Philip
into the great verandah.
Angel sat up and gazed after the couple—Philip slight, erect, and
soldierly, his head a little bent, his hands behind his back. No, he
had not offered Lola his arm.
And Lola moving beside him with her graceful, undulating walk, looking
up, and talking quickly all the time. She felt, as she watched them
slowly disappear into the sitting-out verandah, as if the sun had been
extinguished by a huge black cloud.
Lola was an enchantress. She herself had felt her influence, and was
powerless. As she sat in a sort of dream, she heard a man's voice say,
"Is she not ripping? Old Graydon lost his heart to her coming out."
"Yes," said another, "and young Tudor lost two hundred pounds to her,
which is ten times worse." But, of course, they were not alluding to
anyone she knew.
The _tête-à-tête_ in the verandah lasted till carriages began to come
rumbling under the big porch, and when Philip and Lola reappeared, she
looked conspicuously radiant.