BY PROXY
IN a surprisingly short time, Mrs. Waldershare had become one of the
most interesting personalities in Marwar. Her beauty, her toilettes,
her seductive manners, her air of being accustomed to the best the
world could offer, went far to promote her success. She was accepted
at her own valuation, and incidentally as a very old friend of the
Gascoignes, and was invited, _fêted_, admired, and imitated. The lady's
victoria was surrounded at the band, or polo; men schemed and struggled
for the honour of escorting her. She had graciously accommodated
herself to the deficiencies of the Imperial Hotel, and established
terms of intimacy with an exploring widow, with whom she chummed, and
gave charming little teas, tiffins, and suppers. Mrs. Waldershare was
extremely exclusive, and desired it to be understood that she only
wished to know "the nicest people." As she was a regular attendant at
church, and her air and deportment were unexceptional, "the nicest
people" were delightful to cultivate her acquaintance.
It is needless to mention that they knew nothing of the little games of
cards, which constituted such an attractive item at Mrs. Waldershare's
evening reunions, nor dreamt that it was close on sunrise when
they broke up, and that one or two of her guests returned to their
quarters with lighter pockets, and heavier hearts. There was never
a whisper of these gatherings in society, only in the bazaar, where
all is known, and where the fair widow was branded with a name that
we will not set down here. Captain Hailes and Sir Capel Tudor were
daily visitors at the Imperial Hotel; the former, on the strength of
a distant cousinship, the latter simply because he had enjoyed the
honour of being Mrs. Waldershare's fellow-passenger. He was a cheery,
boyish little fellow of two-and-twenty, keenly anxious to see, and do
everything. He and a friend had come out to India with the intention
of indulging their mutual taste for sport and mountaineering, but
Cupid had cast off his companion at Bombay, to follow the path of his
enchantress.
In spite of his uproarious spirits, his round, boyish face, and
curly locks, Sir Capel Tudor could be as doggedly obstinate as any
commissariat mule; he was rich, he was his own master, and after a
somewhat stormy scene at their hotel, the two comrades had parted, Sir
Capel to come up country in order to visit Agra and Delhi and other
historical places, and Mr. Hardy to coast down to Travancore, mentally
cursing one particular young fool—and all widows.
* * * * *
Of course Mrs. Waldershare saw a good deal of the Gascoignes; she dined
with them, drove with Mrs. Gascoigne, who admired her still—admired
her graceful, gliding gait, her wonderful eyes, her wonderful gowns,
her wonderful and irresistible ways.
Angel was always severely truthful to herself, and she drew painful
comparisons between Lola's beauty, her fresh, English complexion (oh,
most innocent Angel, it was pain), her attractive manners, and her own
white face, her dull wit, her inability to shine, or even to attempt to
shine, when Lola was present; and what a fund of friends, experiences,
and memories she and Philip had in common, events that had happened
when she was in her ayah's arms—yes, and before she was born.
In this period, naturally the happiest of Philip's life, she had no
share; and as the pair talked, drawn on from subject to subject,
undoubtedly they sometimes forgot the third person, who sat half buried
in sofa cushions, aloof and silent, telling herself that she, not Lola,
was the outsider. She alone stood between Philip and this beautiful
woman, with whom he had so much in common—youth, dead and living
friends, memories, and first love. Angel had the power of keeping her
feelings to herself, but she could not keep her misery entirely out of
her face. Philip's anxious inquiries invariably met with a civil rebuff.
"You are as grave as a little old owl," he said one day. "I wish I knew
what is the matter."
"Nothing."
"Is there such a thing as nothing?"
"Don't ask absurd questions; I suppose I may look pale if I please."
"But _I_ don't please."
Angel quickly turned the conversation by a question:
"Do you know that Mrs. Gordon is really ill?"
"No; but I have not seen her about for ages—fever?"
"Yes; malarial fever. I believe she caught it in the district. I'm
going over to visit her now."
"All right; I'll call for you on my way from the club."
"Oh, do go for a ride, and take Sam and John."
"I'll see them further! Sam has killed two of the young pigeons, and
three of the Houdan chickens—quite a bag!"
"Yes; I shut him up in a godown for punishment."
"Much he cared."
"John cared. He sat outside and howled for an hour, and what do you
think he did?"
"Something with respect to refreshments."
"Yes. He brought a bone and pushed it under the door."
"I'll bet it was well picked. Now, I am off. Let me know if I can do
anything for Mrs. Gordon. You might take her over those new books and
picture-papers—and give her my love."
"What will Mr. Gordon say?" and Angel gave a rather hysterical laugh.
"Why should he say anything? He knows very well that we _all_ love her."
Mrs. Gordon had been keeping her room for some time, and received no
one but Mrs. Gascoigne. She looked miserably ill, but refused to stay
in bed; and as her husband did not believe in making a fuss over women,
or in encouraging them to remain on the sick list and upset the house,
the invalid was left a good deal alone.
Angel found her in her own special sanctum, wearing a soft silk
tea-gown, and an expression of utter weariness and lassitude.
"Yes," she replied, in answer to her friend's exclamation, "I am indeed
a wretched-looking specimen. I've had this fever before, and I know how
it takes it out of me—between the fever in my blood, and the fever
in my mind, I am almost extinct. See," and she held up an envelope,
"he will keep on writing to me, although I never answer his letters. I
think it is so cruel of him: and he comes here every day. His steamer
leaves Bombay on Saturday, but he swears he will not leave India till
he sees me again."
"Yes?"
"He will never see me again. No more than if I had died—I am dead, my
heart is dead."
"Oh, Elinor, don't say that. You love me a little, and so many, many
people love you."
"If they knew what you and I know, do you think they would love me?"
"Yes, and more than ever."
"But do you realise that I ache—yes, that is the word—to see Alan, to
hear his voice, to look at him even once more—before he goes away,"
and her voice shook, "for ever? Do you know that I have written to
him—oh, so many letters—mad, wild wicked letters, and destroyed them.
I believe there is another spirit in my body, not the old restrained
conscientious Elinor, but a mad, crazy spirit, who prates of love and
the world well lost. Oh, my dear, you see in me a very sick woman
mentally and physically—you are my doctor."
"What can I do for you?" and Angel laid her cool hand on her
companion's burning head. "Tell me. I will do anything to help you."
"You can meet Alan—take him my good-bye to-morrow. Tell him he must
leave on Saturday. People are all wondering why he stays on? and are
looking about for the inducement. Tell him I shall often think of him,
and pray for him, and pray that he may live a good unselfish life,
share his wealth with others, and be happy. When we are old, old people
we may perhaps meet—and that is all—except—good-bye."
"I will give him this message, and _how_ he will hate me!"
"No, no, he likes you." A long pause, then with an abrupt change of
tone, "And so Mrs. Waldershare is in Marwar?"
"Yes. She stayed for a few days with the Blaines, and now she has gone
to the Imperial Hotel because she wishes to be independent."
"What is she like?"
"She is dazzlingly beautiful, with great dark eyes that seem to go
right across her face."
"Yes, I hear she is very good-looking and alluring."
"And most fascinating; all the world admires her, and is making a fuss
about her. We are giving a dinner for her to-morrow, and have asked
the little baronet, and the Blaines, and Captain Hailes. Well, now, I
must go; I hear Philip talking to your husband. What about to-morrow?
When shall I see Mr. Lindsay? If he calls on me the servants will
hear every word—our house is so open—there are twelve doors in the
drawing-room. We might walk in the garden if it——"
"I'll tell you; drive down to the polo, and pick him up in your cart. I
hate to ask you to do this for me—do you think your husband will mind?"
"Oh, no, Philip is never jealous, you know that—if the worst came to
the worst, I'd tell him." Mrs. Gordon sat up and gasped. "Yes, I would,
Elinor, and I warn you beforehand. But I hope there is no question of
that. I will meet Mr. Lindsay to-morrow, give him your message, and
tell him that he must go home, that if he stayed here for years he
would not see you, or hear from you again. I shall be firm. There," and
she kissed her companion's hand, "I must go."
The following afternoon Colonel Gascoigne returned home early, in order
to take Angel for a ride; she looked wan and spiritless, like a flower
that was drooping. He blamed himself for leaving her in that great
empty bungalow; was it fair to her, to give up so much time to work,
and leave her alone?
And there was something on her mind—what?
"Could it be—Alan Lindsay?" he asked himself; and a voice answered,
"No; you deserve to be shot for the suspicion. Angel is not that sort."
No, retorted the little devil Jealousy; but most young women are "that
sort," when thrown for two months into the daily intimate, picturesque
society of one of the most well-endowed and irresistible of men. With
these voices still clamouring in his mental ears, he arrived at home,
and was informed that "the Mem Sahib had gone out in the cart, and
taken John Sahib and Sam Sahib towards the polo;" and he turned his
horse, and rode off in that direction. Angel was not at the polo, but
Mrs. Waldershare was there. She beckoned him gaily to her victoria, in
which sat two men, whilst a third worshipped upon the step.
"Where are you going to, Philip?" she inquired, with an air of playful
authority.
"Only for a ride. Have you seen Angel?"
"Your good Angel—oh, yes. She drove away just now with such a
nice-looking man! They went up the road towards the old palace. You
don't mean to say you are going _too_?" and Lola gave a wicked little
laugh; but Philip affected not to hear, and cantered off.
The palace was now used as a picture-gallery, it contained portraits of
many rajahs and nawabs, and stood in a beautiful garden. It lay beyond
the bazaars, about two miles from the polo. As Gascoigne rode along,
his head was in a whirl, the hot blood was thumping in his heart. What
did he mean to do? He could not say. He brought his horse to a walk,
and made an effort to control his rage, and endeavoured to analyse
his own sensations. What ailed him? Was this jealousy, or merely bad
temper? As he came in sight of the gates, he descried the portly figure
of John, just crossing the drive in chase of a squirrel. Yes, John had
betrayed the whereabouts of his mistress, and there, by the palace
entrance, stood her cart, pony, and syce. Meanwhile Angel had seen Alan
Lindsay at the polo, and carelessly offered him a seat. As he accepted
it with alacrity, she said:
"I have a message for you—several messages."
"Then don't deliver them here, for God's sake. Drive a bit up the road,
where we can talk face to face."
"All right," she replied; "I'll go up as far as the Suchar Palace; the
dogs love the gardens," and, as she spoke, Angel turned her pony's
head, and drove rapidly away; all the time they flew along she never
once opened her lips. Once at the palace, she sprang out, gave the
reins to her syce, and said to her companion:
"Let us go into the gallery; we can talk there undisturbed," and she
ran lightly up the stairs.
The gallery was lined on two sides with gorgeous portraits of princes
in brocade, white muslin, steel armour, or jewels; but the couple never
cast a glance at one of them, and Lindsay broke the silence by asking,
in a hoarse voice:
"Now, what is her message? What does she wish you to say for her?"
"I am to say good-bye," replied Angel, looking at him steadfastly.
"I won't listen to it."
"You have no choice; you must. She implores you to go home at once.
What is the use of remaining out here?"
"Because, even if I do not see her, I am near her—and that is
something."
"It is madness. Will you not do as she wishes?"
"You know well that I would die for her."
"And she asks much less than your life—only to go—to go—to go."
"One would suppose you were talking to a dog!" he said angrily.
"I have a great respect for some dogs," replied Angel; "you have no
respect for Elinor's wishes. Her mind is fixed, she will never see you
again; will you force her to leave Marwar?"
"I wish I could force her to leave it with me."
"There, you waste your time and breath! She has a strong will, she
is passionately sorry for herself and you—she is at the same time
deeply humiliated to find that she, a married woman, could suffer such
anguish. If you have any regard for her, any love for her, I beseech
you to leave Marwar. She is ill, she is miserable, she—oh, if you only
saw her as I saw her, you would never hesitate,—you cruel man."
By degrees Alan Lindsay, borne down by the force of Angel's arguments,
her expostulations, her appeals, gave way. The dusk had suddenly
fallen, as it does in India; these two, the pleader and the pleaded
with, could hardly distinguish each other's features.
"Do you realise that I leave my heart—my very life—behind me?" he
exclaimed.
"Yes, but you will be brave, you gain a victory; you will see it some
day as I see it—you will go."
"Angel," said a voice from the dusk. It was her husband who spoke, he
was close beside her, and she gave a perceptible start, but instantly
recovering, rejoined, with surpassing nonchalance.
"Oh, is it you, Philip? How unexpected. Mr. Lindsay and I—have been
looking at the pictures."
"Yes—that is evident to the meanest intelligence," replied Gascoigne,
and his voice had a suppressed sound, and Angel for once distinguished
a touch of sarcasm, never heard by her before.