Angel: A sketch in Indian ink

A telegraph peon and a mounted orderly are passing through an entrance gate on which we find a board inscribed "Lieutenant-Colonel Gascoigne, R.E." It leads to a large bungalow, one of the highest rented in Marwar, and all its surroundings proclaim in a reserved and well-bred fashion that expense is no object; from the long row of well-filled stables—of which we catch a glimpse—to the smart, white-clothed servant, with silver crests on belt and turban, who runs briskly down the steps and extends a salver for our card. But we are not disposed to make a formal call; we have merely dropped in to see Philip and Angel, who have been man and wife for two years. They are to be found in a great cool room, at opposite ends of a hospitably-sized breakfast-table. Angel sits before the teapot in a listless manner; a portly fox-terrier squarely squatting on his haunches begs from her in vain.

Philip, in undress uniform, is reading a blue official, with a wrinkle between his brows. A pile of open telegrams lie at his right hand, whilst his breakfast cools. One realises at a glance that Philip is absorbed—that Angel is bored.

"Sit down, John," she said, sternly addressing the dog; "you have had two breakfasts already; you have no shame."

"I say," exclaimed her husband, suddenly folding up his document; "this is a nice business; I have to start for Garhwal at once."

Angel gave a sharp exclamation.

"There has been a tremendous landslip in the mountains, about a hundred and thirty miles north of Nani Tal."

"But if it is over, what can you do?" she protested.

"Prevent more damage, if possible. It seems to have been a unique catastrophe; a whole hill, four thousand feet high, has toppled over and jammed up the end of the valley, and turned the river Bela-Gunga into a lake five miles long."

"Does that matter? These hill Tals are so picturesque."

"Picturesque!" impatiently. "It won't be so picturesque when the snows melt and the rains come, and the lake which is filling slowly now bursts and floods a hundred and fifty miles of country."

"Oh, do you think it will be as bad as that?"

"I can tell you after I have inspected the place. I'm afraid I must be off to-morrow. I shall have a heap of things to get and do." He paused to summon a servant, and give an order in fluent Hindustani; "it's a God-forsaken spot, where there are no supplies," he resumed.

"Can't I go with you? Do take me for once," pleaded Angel. "I don't mind roughing it—I should enjoy it."

"You don't know what you are talking about," he interrupted. "There is scarcely a goat track; there will be little or no food—I'll sleep in a native hut and be out all day. It is a wild, lonely spot—impossible for a lady."

"You never take me," remonstrated Angel; "you volunteer, too—you like going."

"I do—it's my work," he answered coolly, now standing up and rapidly collecting his letters. Then he glanced over at his wife.

"Look here, old lady, I'll try and get back in three weeks. You must not take it to heart."

"I won't—if you will promise me one thing."

"Very well, I'll do my best, only"—now beckoning to his syce—"look sharp."

"Take me, the next time you go out in camp—promise?"

"All right, I will—if it is possible," he assented briskly. "Warn Hassan—he has to come with me and order in stores—usual thing. I must be off—I shall not be back to tiffin," and he hurried out.

"How keen he is to go, John, isn't he?" said Angel, leaning back in her chair, and bending her head so as to catch a glimpse of a rider and a bright bay horse dashing off from under the porch.

"Now I wonder what is to become of you, and me, and Sam?"

Their fate was speedily arranged. Angel went once more on tour with the Gordons; she was too young and attractive to be left at home alone, and since it was impossible for her husband to take her with him into Garhwal, Mrs. Gordon, who was extremely fond of Angel, and keenly enjoyed her companionship, carried her off into camp.

On the present occasion they were a party of four, which included Mr. Lindsay, collector of the district through which they were moving. As the Commissioner was obliged to consult with him for the purpose of inquiries into the loss of crops in these parts, owing to great floods, and hailstones, and the consequent required reduction of the demand for revenue. It was a serious business; the district had suffered heavily, the tax-gatherer must withhold his hand, and Mr. Lindsay's presence and assistance were essential. He had been a month in the camp, but he was an old friend of the Gordons—years ago Mrs. Gordon had nursed him through a dangerous attack of enteric, and they had been intimate ever since.

Moreover, he was one of Mr. Gordon's favourite collectors, unmarried, brilliantly clever, first man of his year, an exceedingly welcome figure in society. Nor did the fact that he had golden prospects detract from his popularity. He was a tall, spare, clean-shaven man, with a slight stoop, a square forehead and jaw, wavy chestnut hair, deep china blue eyes, and a well-cut, eloquent mouth; indeed, it was almost as eloquent as his clever blue eyes. He could talk well, think closely, act wisely; but he was neither an athlete nor a sportsman; every snipe in its jeel, or tiger in the Terai, might rest in peace without fear of Alan Lindsay. His tastes were social and academic, and found other outlets than a spinning fishing-reel, or central-fire cartridges.

One day, by a strange chance—in the whirligig of time—Angel found herself back in the same neighbourhood where she had accepted her guardian as her husband. She walked down to the old well and the tamarind trees one afternoon quite alone. Angel had come there on purpose to meditate and review the past, and found the locality absolutely unchanged. There were the same tufts of grass, the same cracked stones, the same red sunset—possibly the very same black ants. One might have quitted the scene but yesterday. She, too, was but little altered; only for the wedding ring on her finger it might almost be the very self-same Angel who had pledged her troth at this spot two years previously. She sat with her chin on her hand, her eyes fixed on the stretching plains, her thoughts very far away, as anyone could see, contemplating with an inward gaze the last two years. She recalled the whirl, the excitement, the importance of being a bride, a married girl with a fine house of her own, lovely presents, lovely frocks, tribes of friends, servants, carriages, horses—and a husband.

A domestic sovereign, her wishes were law. She was indulged and cherished in every possible way, but at the back of her mind there was a want; Philip, her first friend, did not love her as she loved him—she had bestowed her love with a fatal prodigality, whilst he merely cared for her as a pretty child, whom it was his pleasure to protect and indulge. Undoubtedly in his eyes—no matter what he said to the contrary—he still seemed to see her as a girl in a pigtail, instead of a woman who was clothed in the dignity of marriage. Nor had he attempted to bridge the gap of years—he was generally so serious—would it not have been wiser to have returned to grandmamma, who took nothing seriously but the pleasures of life! and—perhaps she would have married the young baron who had adored her. Surely it was better to be the one who was booted and spurred, than the one who was saddled and bridled.

Philip was entirely engrossed in his work. He had developed into an official of importance. His life seemed to belong not to himself, much less to her, but to the Imperial Government; telegraph peons, mounted orderlies, and busy messengers crowded round his office, and it was often seven o'clock in the evening when he appeared in her sitting-room, looking utterly weary and fagged. Nevertheless she was bound to confess that he never forgot to ask her how she had spent the day? who had been to see her? whom she had been to see? how she had amused herself? This was her rôle; she was to play, whilst he worked. Then when they went out to dinners he scarcely glanced at her dress, and, of course, during the evening she never exchanged a word with him. Little did his partners guess how his wife envied them! Clever men and clever women absorbed all her husband's attention as their right—and she was deserted.

Philip never appeared to realise that she looked for anything beyond a pretty home, pretty frocks, horses and dogs, flowers and books, and a running stream of amusement. He was thoughtful of her health and comfort, most particular in the choice of her servants and horses, and then, having loaded her with luxuries, he withdrew into his work, and it never seemed to occur to him that her life lacked anything, least of all his own companionship. Angel was proud, and she kept her sorrow to herself. Only on one occasion her feelings had broken their prison, and she had thrown out a hint to Mrs. Gordon, who promptly said:

"Where, oh Princess, is the crumpled roseleaf? What is your desire? What do you lack?"

"Love."

"My dear Angel!" she ejaculated.

"Yes—I've never had enough," she answered. "I feel something always starving and crying in my heart," she answered with a slight sob, and eyes full of tears.

"You silly, sentimental goose!" cried Mrs. Gordon. "You mean the sort of stuff one reads about in poetry, that flames and flares up, and goes out like a fire of straw?"

"No," rejoined the girl in a tone of repressed passion, "but a love that cannot endure separation—that turns away from everything in the world to you—that thinks of you—dreams of you—cannot live without you—and would die for you."

"My goodness, Angel!" exclaimed her friend, aghast; "but," she went on reflectively, "I believe I understand what you mean, though I have never experienced it myself, and"—with a short sigh—"never shall. I am thirty-six years of age, and I shall go to my grave never having seen what you speak of. The love you dream of is rare—it never came into my life."

"And what do you accept instead?" asked the girl sharply.

"Oh—community of interests—mutual forbearance and respect."

"Which means that you forbear—and all the world respects," broke in the old impulsive Angel. "Oh, Elinor," startled at her companion's face, "forgive me."

"Certainly, my dear; but of what have you to complain?"

"Philip," was the unexpected answer. "He treats me as a pretty petted child, who has to be cared for, amused, and supplied with toys."

"You forget that he has his work, his career. 'Love is of man's life a thing apart, 'tis woman's whole existence.' Do you want him to sit holding your hand, and swearing daily that he adores you?"

"Yes, I do," was her reckless reply. "I should never be tired of hearing it." Her companion looked at her helplessly.

"But, my dear child, Colonel Gascoigne has outgrown that age; he loves you very dearly."

"As one does a canary bird," broke in Angel; "I'm a woman—not a domestic pet."

"You are both," said Mrs. Gordon.

"I've tried my very best to make him jealous."

"What? Oh, Angel, you must be mad. That was playing with matches in a powder-mill. Do you want to ruin your life? Pray what was the result of your experiment?"

"Ignominious failure. Philip likes me to be popular and admired. I thought he would be annoyed if I went out driving with Major Shafto, who makes amends for his former hatred by an unbounded appreciation. I rode and drove with him, I danced with him five times running, and sat out conspicuously where Philip must see me; and all he said for my trouble and hours of boredom was, 'I'm so glad to find that you and old Billy are such capital friends. 'Twas never thus in childhood's hour!' and he laughed. I declare, I could have thrown a plate at him. Then I flirted desperately with General Warner, such an old darling! and Philip merely remarked, 'My dear child, the General is enchanted with you—poor old boy—he has a daughter of your age at home. I've not seen him so happy and so lively for ages.' Now," concluded Angel with a dramatic gesture, "what can you do with a husband like that?"

"I should leave him severely alone and try no more experiments. Pray tell me, Angel, could you be jealous?"

"I should think so," she answered in a flash, "furiously, fiendishly jealous; but that is a secret."

From this long digression we must return to Angel, where she was perched on the edge of the old well, thinking hard, as she rested her chin on her hand and watched with abstracted eyes the long line of cattle going towards their village, amid the usual cloud of powdery white dust. Suddenly she sat erect; she saw Mrs. Gordon and Alan Lindsay approaching her. What good friends they were! and yet people declared that there was no such thing as friendship between a man and a woman, that platonics were invariably platonic on one side alone. What would these scoffers say to Elinor Gordon and Alan Lindsay? Of course the fact of Mrs. Gordon having literally dragged Alan Lindsay out of the jaws of death was a strong and solid foundation for their liking—a woman always feels tenderly towards the patient she has nursed from infantile weakness back to strong, manly vigour; and they had so much in common, their minds seemed to reflect one another, they sometimes said the same thing, they liked the same books and authors, they held similar opinions on various interesting questions, and when they differed, it was delightful to hear them argue; it was like two expert swordsmen fighting with foils—and occasionally without them. They would talk and urge and exhort, whilst Mr. Gordon fell asleep after dinner and snored lustily in the tent verandah, or returned to his great Persian poem; and Angel, who took but scanty part in these brilliant debates, being generally put to the sword at once, sat and knitted a sock, full of thoughts of Philip.

Angel watched the advancing pair with the critical, far-seeing eyes of her childhood. How lovely Elinor was, with her soft dark eyes, her high-bred air. How happy she looked, almost radiant. They made a distinguished looking couple. They seemed born for one another. What a pity that—that—well, did Alan Lindsay ever think it was a pity? Was it honestly friendship only, on his part? Did she fancy that sometimes his voice and eyes—oh, how hateful! How dared she imagine such vile things? Was it possible that anyone would think of Elinor as aught but a martyr and a saint? Nevertheless Angel felt the waking of a presentiment as the couple arrived face to face with her, and within speaking distance.

"How solemn you look—what is the matter, Mrs. Gascoigne?" called out Lindsay, "you might be Patience on a monument, or an angel looking for truth at the bottom of this well."

"Am I—so—solemn?"

"I should think so," said Mrs. Gordon, laughing. "You look as if you were trying to stare into the future. Pray what did you see—what were you thinking about?—in short, a penny for your thoughts."

Angel felt herself colouring warmly; what would that vivacious, handsome couple say, were she to take them at their word, and tell them that she had grave misgivings of their five-years'-old friendship?

"No, no," she stammered with an effort at a joke, "my thoughts are not in the market—they are too valuable to be bestowed."

"I can guess where they were, my young Penelope—up in the Garhwal," said her friend. "And now to return good for evil, I beg to inform you that we were talking about you."

"What have you been saying?" she asked. "If it is bad, you won't tell me, of course?"

"We were calling the roll of our acquaintance, and have come to the conclusion that you are the most to be envied person we know in all the wide world."

"I?" with a short little laugh; "you are not in earnest?"

"Certainly we are," replied Mr. Lindsay; "and you say that with such an ungrateful air. You cannot deny that you have youth, health, sufficient wealth—the beauty I leave you to fill in yourself—many friends—and a devoted husband."

"Oh, yes, you mean a husband devoted to his profession," she answered with a smile. Was Mrs. Gascoigne in jest or earnest now? and Lindsay looked at her narrowly.

"We did not come out like the native women to spend our time holding forth by the well," put in Mrs. Gordon impatiently. "Angel, the word is—march. You must take a good stiff walk. Let us go over to the village," pointing to a far distant clump of trees, "and call on the weaver's wife."