JOINT HOSTESS
AND thus Mrs. Waldershare was established as Mrs. Gascoigne's chaperone
and companion; and the station, who considered it a most excellent
arrangement, and but yet another proof of her husband's good sense,
cried Wah! wah! They had been duly informed of the ancient friendship
which had existed between his parents and Mrs. Waldershare's. There
was no mention of a love affair—crafty Lola had set back the intimacy
a whole generation—it was discreetly cloaked in the mantle of years.
Mrs. Nobbs, who acted as spokeswoman for Mrs. Grundy, eagerly assured
every one she met that she highly approved of the move. It was most
unbecoming (favourite word) for a young married woman to be left
alone, and Mrs. Waldershare was such a quiet, sensible, charming
chaperone,—and so clever. Truly she was marvellously clever; in some
gradual, inexplicable fashion, she assumed the lead of the household.
Yes, without sound, or beat of drum. She was joint hostess, not guest;
there was a solid, resistless force in her character that Angel was
powerless to combat. At early morning, or afternoon tea, it was no
uncommon thing for her to find Mrs. Waldershare already seated before
the teapot. This position carries a certain status with it, and
Lola's visitors went so far as to assume from the air of nonchalant
hospitality with which she offered cream and cakes, that she was
"sharing expenses."
This was precisely how she wished it to be understood. To Angel, a
sort of guest at her own table, she offered playful apologies, and
assurances that "she was the best tea maker in England, and liked to
save her dear child trouble."
But there was one lady who regarded the new _ménage_ with the gravest
misgivings, and this was Mrs. Gordon, who, before departing to the
hills, had confided her fears to Padre Eliot.
"I do not trust Mrs. Waldershare," she said.
"Why not?" he asked, "she is quiet, and handsome, and ladylike."
"She is a clever, crafty woman, not too scrupulous in money matters. I
believe"—lowering her voice—"that she gambles! Of course, I have no
business to have prejudices and to hear gossip."
"It is not like you, certainly," he said, with his broad smile. "I
believe there has been gambling in the station somewhere, recently; one
or two boys have been hard hit,—but why suspect a lady?"
"It is more than suspicion. How I wish Colonel Gascoigne had not left
Angel with that woman. It is like leaving a lamb to a wolf."
"She shall not devour her—I'll see to that," he said, playfully.
"No, but she will use her as her blind, and her banker."
"Well, I think you may trust Mrs. Gascoigne," he said, "her conduct
has always given evidence of extraordinary good sense, and a certain
amount of latent force." As Mrs. Gordon had excellent reason to
acquiesce in this dictum, she was silent.
But her instinct had not deceived her, day by day—nay, hour by hour,
Angel fell more and more under the elder woman's influence. It was as
if she had been hypnotised, she surrendered her will to her, and took
up a subordinate position with unquestioning resignation. Although the
clever widow was careful not to offend any of the girl's prejudices
and susceptibilities, the household was ordered to Mrs. Waldershare's
liking,—and the servants hated her almost as bitterly as the dogs.
Never put out, never excited, the lady rolled along over all little
obstacles, a veritable Juggernaut of self. She instituted late
hours—Angel was naturally an early bird. She enjoyed elaborate and
dainty meals, Angel preferred very simple fare; she liked long drives
in the moonlight, sometimes keeping the horses out till midnight;
occasionally she took Mrs. Lacy with her, or Sir Capel, and Angel
remained at home. Lola was so clever, so seductive, so persuasive,
that everything she said or did had the air of being absolutely
faultless—the one and only speech or action possible under the
circumstances.
She and her hostess sat a good deal together in the darkened
drawing-room, for now that the weather was warmer, punkahs were moving,
"tatties" were installed. Mrs. Waldershare knitted silk ties and
socks with firm white fingers, whilst Angel drew, and sometimes they
scarcely exchanged a word in an hour. Lola was not talkative, she never
talked simply for the sake of conversation. Her silence impressed
Angel far more than speech; she felt that Lola could tell her so much
if she would, yes, so much about Philip, and she was sensible of a
certain awe, and the strivings and painful contortions of a never-to-be
appeased curiosity, and what was worse, a sleepless jealousy. She was
humbly conscious that she was far inferior to this calm, beautiful,
dignified creature, and as she stole long glances at her companion,
she would tell her envious heart that Philip had been engaged to her
for four years, twice as long as she had been his wife. He had known
Lola for thirty years! How could a man outgrow a love like that? It was
rooted in his very childhood. Lola had some dim intuition of what was
passing in her companion's thoughts, and smiled, saying to herself,
"Silly girl, she is always wondering. How wretched I could make her if
I chose!"
Although the station was emptying, there were still a number of people
in Marwar, and Mrs. Gascoigne, at Mrs. Waldershare's suggestion,
had a few friends to dinner now and then. On the occasion of Lola's
birthday—so-called—Angel gave a little party and asked the heroine of
the occasion to invite her own guests. Mrs. Lacy, Sir Capel, Captain
Hailes, and the General were among these, and the little affair went
off admirably. As usual, all the organisation and trouble were Angel's
share; she took great pains with the mènu, the mènu cards, and the
flowers (Lola was so critical), whilst Lola had, as customary, all the
enjoyment. She was arrayed in a marvellous and filmy gown, and wore a
beautiful diamond heart and arrow—surprisingly similar to one that
Crackett, the Delhi hawker, had been offering for sale. Her health was
drunk, and she made a pretty speech. After dinner, there was music, and
at eleven o'clock the General and several others took their departure.
Then Mrs. Waldershare, with a widely encompassing flash of her dark
eyes, suggested "Cards," adding "the night is just beginning." Angel's
pale face expressed not merely fatigue but dismay, and her friend
exclaimed, "No, no, dear—we won't bore you. You look so tired, Mrs.
Lacy will excuse you, won't you?" appealing to that lady, who replied:
"Certainly, I hope Mrs. Gascoigne will not be ceremonious with me."
"And I'll play hostess, and see them off the premises," said Lola,
playfully. Accepting this assurance, and offering many apologies,
Angel, who had a bad neuralgic headache, thankfully retired to bed,
and after a long time fell asleep. She seemed to have slept for hours
when she awoke with a violent start, aroused by a sound like the
overturning of a chair. Could it be burglars? She sat up and listened
with a beating heart. Then she heard a cock crow—it must be close on
dawn. She struck a match, lighted a candle, jumped out of bed, and got
into her dressing-gown, and waited. Surely there were steps and voices
outside; was it in the ante-room, or where? Had she obeyed her first
impulse, and gone into the drawing-room, she would have discovered the
cardparty, consisting of four men and two ladies, just breaking up.
They had risen from the table.
"Look here," said Lola, carelessly handing a bit of notepaper to
Captain Hailes. "I make it that."
He glanced at the total, and became suddenly white—nay, grey—but
rallied, and said, "It's all right, I expect."
"Been hard hit, eh, Hailes?" enquired the little baronet, playfully. "I
come off only seventy to the bad."
Yes, they had been gambling; and how dissipated it all looked, the
candles flaring in their sockets, the lamps smoking, tablecloth awry,
and cards scattered over the floor.
Angel, who had looked at her watch, and seen that the hour was four
o'clock, came out into the ante-room, candle in hand. Here she was
suddenly confronted by a figure with a shawl over her head—Tile.
"Oh, what is the matter?" she enquired, breathlessly.
"I've been feeling so ill, ma'am," she moaned, "such a turn as I've
had. It's this climate as does not suit me. I feel like dying and I
was—coming to ask if you had such a thing as a medicine chest?"
"Of course I have," replied Mrs. Gascoigne, profoundly relieved; "it is
in my own room. Come with me and I will doctor you," turning back as
she spoke. "How do you feel?"
"All cold and shivers like—and a sort of quaking in my inside."
"Oh then, perhaps," opening a cupboard, "this cordial will do you
good. At least it will do you no harm." As Angel spoke, she seized a
bottle, and a measuring-glass.
By-and-by, as Tile crept stealthily to her own quarters, she
encountered her mistress, who had been extinguishing lamps and candles,
and setting the drawing-room straight.
"I met her in the doorway," she whispered with a scared face. "I told
her I was took ill, and she gave me a cordial—she is as innocent as a
lamb."
"My goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Waldershare, her eyes widening in alarm,
"that _was_ a narrow escape."