EXPLANATION
"BUT you cannot study the Rajah's pictures any longer," continued
Colonel Gascoigne, in a rough and dominant tone, and as he spoke he
struck a match, and confronted, as he anticipated, Alan Lindsay—Mr.
Lindsay, white as a ghost, and evidently shattered by some great mental
storm.
"Shall we go home?" he suggested politely, as he struck another match,
and lighted the way to the head of the stairs, the two picture-seers
following him down in somewhat awed silence.
At the foot of the steps stood Angel's pony cart, with its lamps
alight, and her husband's horse.
"Well, good-bye, Mr. Lindsay," she said in a cool, clear voice, as she
turned to him in the entrance. "I will write to you sometimes. Philip,
Mr. Lindsay is leaving for England."
"Good-bye, Gascoigne," he said hoarsely, and he held out his hand, but
Colonel Gascoigne affected not to see it.
"Oh, good-bye," he said, shortly. "Angel, get in. I will drive you
home"; to the syce, "bring on my horse." He whipped up the cob, and
they flew down the avenue, leaving Alan Lindsay in the dim, dewy
garden, to find his way back to the cantonment on foot and alone.
Colonel Gascoigne drove very fast, but he never uttered one word, nor
did Angel. She was thinking of the miserable man from whom she had
been so unceremoniously parted, and a little of her husband. He was
extremely angry; never had she known him to be angry, but Angel was
not the least afraid of him. She had done nothing to be ashamed of,
and once or twice she had felt a mad, almost uncontrollable desire to
scream with laughter. Was Philip really jealous—at last? How funny!
Philip's head was seething with new ideas. He saw himself from a novel
point of view, racked by many incongruous feelings—the furiously,
justly incensed husband. Should he speak now? No, he would wait till
after dinner, and then have it out with her.
He dashed up under the porch, alighted, handed out his wife with his
usual courtesy, who walked up the steps without a word, and by the
light of the great verandah lamp he caught a glimpse of her face; it
recalled the Angel of Ramghur, when she was in one of her most defiant
moods. They had a dinner-party that evening, and Mrs. Gascoigne,
dressed with her accustomed taste, was exceptionally animated and gay,
and played hostess to perfection. Certainly Angel, as of old, had a
hard, fierce, untamed spirit; she met his glances without wincing, and
they spoke, when occasion required, with Arctic politeness. Then when
the last carriage had rumbled off, and his wife was trailing away to
her room, Gascoigne came in from the verandah, and said:
"Stop—I wish to speak to you—Angel."
"Yes?" The yes was interrogative—sinking gracefully into an easy-chair.
"I am not a jealous man," he began, abruptly.
"Who said you were?" It was the Angel of Ramghur who retorted.
"I have"—struggling hard for complete self-command—"trusted you
absolutely, as if you were my very right hand, and eyes——"
"But you could not believe your eyes this evening, I suppose?" she
interrupted carelessly, and she looked up at him, and then at her white
satin shoe.
"No, I returned home early to take you for a ride; I heard you had gone
off towards the polo, and followed. At the polo, some one said, 'If you
are looking for Mrs. Gascoigne, I saw her driving towards the Palace.'
I came on, and discovered you there with—Lindsay—alone. I heard him
say, 'I leave my heart—my life behind me,' and you answered, 'You will
be brave—you will go.' He is going—you are to write to him. What does
it all mean?—Angel—for God's sake—tell me the truth?"
"I invariably tell you the truth," she answered calmly; "they say that
children and fools always do that—I wonder which I am?"
"But children and fools do _not_ always tell the truth," he objected
sharply.
"When did I ever tell you a lie?" she demanded, and her eyes clouded
over,—sure prediction of a storm.
"Never, I must honestly admit. Do you—and here I ask a plain
question—love Lindsay? He is handsome, he is fascinating, and madly in
love—all this I am sane enough to see."
"You don't see much beyond your own nose in these matters," was Angel's
unexpected rejoinder.
"At any rate, I won't see my name disgraced," he answered roughly.
"It is my name—as much as yours," she retorted haughtily. "What are
you driving at?"
"Lindsay—is he—no, I can't say it!"
"I should hope not. My fancy flies with yours, you see. I am sorry you
are so much annoyed."
"Annoyed!" he repeated.
"Then the expression is inadequate; I conclude—that words fail you.
You wish to ask me if Alan Lindsay is my lover? Is that what you desire
to express?"
He nodded his head.
"He was out in camp with me for two months."
"He was."
"If I tell you a secret will you swear to keep it?"
"Your secrets are generally startling, but on the present occasion who
runs may read. Lindsay was in camp with you for two months; picturesque
surroundings, propinquity, a very pretty married woman—I see it
all—he made love to you."
"Wrong—guess again."
"Why guess—there was no one else."
"Pray, what do you call Mrs. Gordon?"
"I call her the best woman I have ever known—surely her influence——"
Angel raised her slender white hand in protest, and said:
"Here is my secret—please keep it. Alan Lindsay is in love—with Mrs.
Gordon."
"_Angel!_" cried her husband, with a vehemence that brought Sam out of
his bed, and caused the ayah to creep to a doorway.
"It is perfectly true," she continued calmly. "He is madly, wildly,
irretrievably devoted to her."
"And she?" with an incredulous jeer.
"The same. It dawned upon me when I was in camp; I saw it coming long
before it occurred to them—I was always sharp, you know."
Colonel Gascoigne suddenly sat down and rested his elbow on the table,
and stared hard at his wife. His mind was a battlefield of conflicting
ideas. Angel had never told him an untruth—no, not even at Ramghur;
and, as for Mrs. Gordon, had she not years of good deeds to speak for
her?
"They are absolutely suited to each other," continued Angel, suddenly
changing her position; she no longer lounged with crossed knees,
dangling arms, and a swinging little satin-clad foot. She sat up, leant
forward with clasped hands and expressive eyes—"yes, they are made
for one another—their ideas and tastes are identical, but that wooden
old wretch, who always recalls the god Odin to me, sits between them
and bars their road to happiness." She drew a long breath. "Yes," and
her voice thrilled strangely, her colour rose and her eyes flashed,
"it seems a perfectly hopeless muddle; there are two lives wrecked for
a life which is selfish, stolid, emotionless, and cruel. If _I_ were
Elinor, I should run away with Alan Lindsay; why should I sacrifice
everything to a greedy, solid block of self, who merely regards his
wife as a cook-housekeeper, without wages—a housekeeper who may never
dare to give warning?"
Gascoigne sat up electrified; was this fiercely eloquent, passionate,
beautiful creature the rather languid, limp, every-day Angel?
"You look amazed," she cried triumphantly, "and well you may. Am I not
preaching heresy, I, a married woman? Since I have told you so much, I
will tell you more. She"—throwing out her arms dramatically—"would
have gone off with Alan only for me." Gascoigne stared at his wife; he
could not speak.
"I am much stronger than I look," resumed Angel; "who would believe
that I, who am but two-and-twenty, could influence Mrs. Gordon, who, as
you once boasted to me, could influence a province!"
"Who, indeed?" he echoed; but when he saw Angel in this exalted mood he
was prepared to believe in her victories.
"She was only drawn gradually to the brink, inch by inch, step by step;
and, oh, she struggled so hard. Alan Lindsay is clever, plausible,
eloquent. I found her on the brink; I sounded the recall—the trumpet
of the assembly of good people, in her ear. I dragged her back by moral
force."
"Yes?"
"She is nearly dead, she is in a state of mental collapse, the fight
was so desperate, the struggle betwixt love and duty so severe. _I_
fought for duty," and Angel nodded her head at her stupefied listener.
"I'm not sure that I shall do it always—I fought well—I turned the
tide of battle. Alan Lindsay has accepted his dismissal and his fate.
As a small, small alleviation, he may write to _me_."
There was a long pause, broken only once more by the girl's thin,
clear voice inquiring: "What have you got to say to me, Philip?"
He rose with a sudden impulse and came towards her.
"I say—that you are an Angel—a wingless Angel," and he stooped down
and kissed her.
"So much for jealousy!" she exclaimed, and laughed.