CHAPTER XXVTHE CHITACHAR CLUB
Thislong, leisurely tour through the crops, the villages, the jungles, brought Angel into more intimate touch with India than in all the previous years she had been in the country. Her knowledge of the language was an immense assistance to her; she had a keen enjoyment of the picturesque, a quick eye for character, and the rural life and scenery offered her a profoundly interesting study. Many an afternoon, accompanied by an escort of the camp dogs, including her own fox terriers, Sam and John, she took long walks or rides in its vicinity. These excursions afforded her far more pleasure than sitting under the tent flies, watching, with irrepressible yawns the interminable chess tournament between Mrs. Gordon and the collector—chess being a form of amusement which was beyond her intellectual grasp—or listening to Mr. Lindsay as he read aloud,—and he read extremely well,—choice bits of Ruskin, Walter Pater, and Rossetti.
But Angel required more variety—more actual life. She made her way into the huts of the peasant women, and talked to them eagerly, as they spun, or ground millet, or she joined the children among the crops, as they scared the flocks of monkeys and parrots, and cut grass for the buffaloes. Some were old friends she had made two years previously, and one and all welcomed the fair lady, and confided to hertheir joys, their sorrows, and their schemes. How well she appeared to understand; she gave them small presents, of amazing magnificence in their eyes, and a sympathy that was still more surprising.
How hard their lives were, she said to herself continually—lives of unceasing, monotonous toil, though they had not to bear the winter cold and privations of the English poor, but too often famine and pestilence stalked hand-in-hand through their land. And yet how cheerful they appeared, how they loved their plot of land, trusted their affairs to their family priest, their future to the village god, found their amusements in the veriest trifles, and were content with their fate.
But the beautiful, fair English lady was not content with her fate—oh, no; much less with that which her clear eyes discerned, the fate which was rapidly overtaking her best friend.
The camp sometimes found itself in the vicinity of a large station, where it had its own quarters in the dignified seclusion of a mango tope, far aloof from bungalows, barracks, and bazaar. It came to pass that one morning Mr. Gordon's tents were pitched under a grove, not far from Chitachar cantonment, an out-of-the-way place, with a small garrison, and a sociable community. The chief residents called on Mrs. Gordon, the party were made honorary members of mess and club, the bazaar master sent an oblation of flowers and fruit, and the nearest local Thalukdar galloped in with his ragged horsemen to pay his respects to the Commissioner. Chitachar had been a post of importanceprevious to the mutiny, much fighting had it witnessed; here and there a small walled-in space, resembling a garden, exhibited not merely shrubs and flowering trees, but tombstones. Desperate actions had been fought in unexpected localities, and even now it was whispered that the old commissariat stores,—formerly a fort,—were well supplied with water and ammunition, "in case anything should happen." Surely nothing could ever disturb the calm of this peaceful spot, with its plains of green turf, the resort of cricketers and children, and its bungalows embowered in roses, its majestic trees and English-looking church?
Mr. Gordon liked Chitachar; it was his first station in India; thirty years previously he had arrived here as a raw-boned Scotchman, dour, clever, and sternly determined to get on. Here, he had lived in one of the cheapest bungalows in the cheapest fashion; here he had learnt Hindustani, self-confidence, and self-control. Here, he had nearly been fool enough to marry the daughter of a railway contractor; here, he returned a great man, travelling in semi-regal state, drawing a large income, the little king of the whole district.
Mrs. Gordon, Mr. Lindsay, and Angel, availed themselves promptly of the use of the station club. It was a modest establishment in comparison to the one at Ramghur: merely a long, flat-roofed building opening on the road, and overlooking the green plain, surrounded with bungalows and gardens. Immediately in front were two tennis courts, and a raised structure resembling a band-stand, where people assembled to drink tea. In the interior were two largerooms, divided by a screen; in one, stood a venerable billiard table, in the other, a round table covered with magazine and papers. The walls of both were lined with books, and at the back ran dressing-rooms, and a lair, where the club peon boiled hot water, and made out the accounts. The resources of the club were pathetically limited, nevertheless it was most popular; all the community assembled there every afternoon, and many people at home in Cheltenham, Bayswater, and elsewhere, still cherish kindly memories of the Chitachar club.
When Mrs. Gordon and her small party entered this popular resort, it was empty; the members were playing badminton or polo, or riding and driving in the neighbourhood (there was a choice of no less than four routes, including the cutcha road, and the old boat bridge). No one was to be found on the premises but a bearer, who was dressing the lamps, and a dog, who lay in the verandah catching flies.
"What furniture!" said Angel, looking about her. "Did you ever see such a sofa, and such chairs—they must have come out of the ark."
"More likely they came out of some bungalow looted in the Mutiny forty years ago, and then sold back to 'the sahibs,'" said Lindsay; "what tales they might tell!"
"I am glad they are not gifted with speech," said Angel, with a shudder.
"And the funny old prints, and the funny rules," said Mrs. Gordon, now criticising in her turn. "Any new books? No, as old as the hills," taking up twoor three, "and the magazines of last year. I wonder how it feels to live in such a sleepy hollow?"
"Rather agreeable," replied Lindsay. "I think I shall come here for the rest cure. I find they have the daily papers, including thePi," glancing at thePioneer. "Mrs. Gascoigne, did you see that nice little part about your husband? I meant to tell you yesterday."
"Where?" asked Angel eagerly, coming to the table as she spoke.
He placed the paper before her, and indicated the place, as she sank into a chair.
"Not much to do here?" he remarked, turning to the other lady, who was now rooting among the book shelves, and raised a flushed face and pair of dusty gloves.
"What do you think?" she cried, "there is a first edition of 'Adam Bede,' one volume missing, and a battered copy of Dr. Syntax—a first edition of 'Vilette'—what treasures!"
"I should not be surprised if you unearthed one of the books of the Vedas in a place like this," said Lindsay, contemptuously, "or the manuscript copy of 'Æsop's Fables.'"
"I don't suppose the club has bought any new novels within the memory of living man," said Mrs. Gordon.
"Probably not," said Lindsay. "I have no doubt that local topics and station gossip, amply supply the place of current fiction. There is nothing novel or interesting in the place. I am convinced that even the latest news is last year's scandal."
"How you do despise this poor old place!" remonstratedMrs. Gordon. "I don't believe they ever gossip here, except about cooks and the price of kerosene oil. It's not at all a bad little club; it is quiet and unpretentious, and——"
"And dull," supplemented Lindsay with energy. "Come, let us go for a walk outside, and take a turn round the polo ground. What do you say, Mrs. Gascoigne? Or are you too grand, in consequence of your husband's achievements, to be seen withus?"
"Thank you, I think I'll remain in this funny old club," she replied, raising her head with a smile. "I want to look at the papers—perhaps I shall steal some of the books, and hear some of the gossip? At any rate, I can find my way back alone."
As she spoke, she reached for a weekly illustrated, and the other two, with an unacknowledged sense of relief, walked forth side by side into the beautiful Eastern evening.
Angel sat with her elbows planted on the table, absorbed in a story, till she was roused by footsteps and voices, the sound of ponies clattering up to the door, of men shouting for syces: people poured in, as it were, in a body. She felt a little shy, and hid herself as well as she could behind her paper. Those who noticed her casually, merely saw the top of a hat, and a white sleeve, and took for granted that she was one of the strangers from the camp.
Billiard balls began to be knocked about, lamps were lit, several ladies came to the table, some took up papers, and all talked.
"And so the Evanses have got their orders," said a deep voice beside Angel, addressing hervis-à-vis,a handsome, rather haggard woman of thirty, dressed in a pretty pink cotton and a fashionable hat.
"I'm very sorry," she responded, "we shall miss them dreadfully—I've bespoke their cook."
"Well, he will console you—being the best in the station. I wanted him myself," said Deep Voice; "now I must wait till you go."
"But I shall probably carry him off," retorted the other lady with a laugh. "Any news in the papers?"
"Not a word," replied Deep Voice, "I read them all this morning," pushing over thePioneer. "There is something about a man I knew when I was a girl—a Colonel Gascoigne—he has got on wonderfully—he can't be forty. We come from the same part of the world."
"Oh!" indifferently, reaching for the paper with a jingling of bangles, "was he, by any chance, the Gascoigne who broke his heart for Lola Waldershare?"
"Why," ejaculated Deep Voice, leaning forward and speaking with unexpected animation, "of course he was—she was Lola Hargreaves then. We lived within a mile of one another—my father was the rector of Earlsmead. I remember as if it happened last week, how excited we were when Philip and Lola were engaged; she was only about sixteen—they had always been devoted to one another, and made such a pretty pair, as romantic-looking as Paul and Virginia—and as young;" she paused, slightly out of breath.
"Do go on," drawled Pink Gown, "I know Virginia—shewas not drowned—and she did not marry Paul."
"No, though they were engaged for years. Mr. Hargreaves, her father, got into terrible difficulties, and Lola gave up Philip, and married an enormously rich old man—simply to save her family from ruin."
"Oh!" exclaimed the other lady—it was a most eloquent, incredulous monosyllable—"and, pray, what became of Paul?"
"He came tearing home from some place abroad, but it was all no good—it was a question of money and mortgages, and keeping the old place. He was frightfully cut up, for he was madly in love with Lola; he went straight off to India, where, I believe, he has remained ever since."
All this time Angel was wedged in tightly between the deep voice on one side, and a lady who was conscientiously doing theWorldacrostic on the other. Her parasol she had flung down on the middle of the table, where it was now half covered with papers; she, herself, was entirely concealed behind the weeklyPuppet Show, though she could not see a picture, or read a line of print. Should she dash down her screen, snatch her parasol, and fly? While she was anxiously debating the question, Pink Dress said:
"Mr. Waldershare is dead, and his widow is not wealthy; in fact, she is cut off with an annuity of four hundred pounds a year, so perhaps she will come out here and look for her old love."
"Too late," announced Deep Voice, with tragicemphasis (she had the voice of a stage queen); "he is married—he married two years ago."
"Oh, really; I did not know."
"If you had been out here two years ago, you would have heard a good deal about it. He married his ward, a giddy child, who ran away to him from school. When she arrived, he was fearfully taken aback—and so was the station."
"I suppose Mrs. Grundy kicked and screamed?"
"Yes; she did not believe in a guardian of six-and-thirty and a ward of eighteen; so, although Major Gascoigne moved heaven and earth to get out of it, he was forced to marry the girl."
There was a choking gasp beside Deep Voice, which she attributed to a dog under the table (for dogs and children were alike admitted into the Chitachar club).
"And how does Paul hit it off with the child of impulse?" inquired Pink Dress.
"Oh, pretty well—on the non-intervention system."
"I see—gives her her head—and she turns the heads of the station subalterns?"
"I cannot say; I never heard anything about her, except that she is very pretty. Her grandmother is Lady Augusta Gascoigne."
"You don't say so! Then Virginia the second is noingénue," and Pink Gown nodded her hat till the feathers waved again.
"Lola was lovely," continued her friend, with enthusiasm. "She was deeply attached to Philip, and she sacrificed her happiness for her family. Oh, it was wonderful."
"You mean that she was really in love with this young Gascoigne?"
"Oh, yes," speaking with all her heart.
"Then if she ever comes across her first love—if they meet now she is free——"
This aspiration was just beyond the limits of Angel's fortitude; she put down her screen very quickly, and exhibited a ghastly face, as she bent over, murmured something to Mrs. Deep Voice, then rose to her feet, with a faint, "Will you kindly?" to her neighbours, as she extricated her chair; but she carried her head with the pride of all the "De Roncevalles," as she walked slowly out of the Chitachar club. Several men, who were smoking in the verandah, followed the girl's graceful figure with approving eyes, as she stepped out into the cool starlight.
"One of the ladies from the camp," remarked one. "She is pretty enough if she did not look so confoundedly seedy."
There was a clear young moon, as well as the bright stars, to light Angel back to the tent. Everyone else had their chokedar in waiting, with his big stick and lantern, as the roads were frequented by Karites—(a deadly form of small snake resembling a bit of a broken branch on which the unwary may tread, and die within the hour). Karites had no respect whatever for the moon—she belonged to them—but they were afraid of big moons held close to them, accompanied by clumping sticks, and slid away nervously when they were approaching.
Angel hurried homewards, totally ignorant of her danger, and as she rushed along, she noticed twofigures,—at whom the young moon stared with merciless severity. They were advancing very slowly—yes, halting occasionally to talk—but oh, she had no heart for other people's troubles now. To think of Lola, whom she had detested, giving up Philip—the idea was almost too immense to grasp—and marrying an old man, in order to save her family. Oh, what self-sacrifice, what a common, selfish, every-day creature she was in comparison! Such nobility was beyond her reach, and if Mr. Waldershare had died a year sooner, if she had not rushed out so madly and hampered Philip with herself, he and Lola might have been happy after all. As she stumbled into her tent, and flung herself on her bed, she was once more the old emotional Angel, agonising with the misery of her aching heart. There were three people who were bound to be unhappy—two as long as she lived and stood between them, and she was the younger by many years. What a prospect! Angel was experiencing the hopeless agony of an exceptional soul; the closing of adverse powers round a passionate strength, that would carve its way freely, and as she crushed her face into her pillow she moaned:
"Oh, poor Philip—poor Lola—and poor me!"
"What did she say to you?" asked Pink Gown eagerly, as soon as Angel had trailed away into the verandah. "I never saw such a pair of tragic blue eyes; she was white to the very lips. Do you think she has been taken ill? You know that tope is notoriously feverish."
"You will never guess what she said," stutteredthe other lady, who was almost purple in the face, and whose expression and gaspings threatened apoplexy. "She—she—said, 'Excuse me—but I think I ought to tell you—that I am—Mrs. Gascoigne.'"
Sensation.
A sensation which circulated round the table, and thrilled the little circle; such a sensation had not been experienced since the hailstones in the thunderstorm had broken the skylight, and hopped about on the billiard-table. On the present occasion, the sensation was limited to the ladies, and a proud woman was she, who could rehearse effectively the little scene, as she sat at dinner, to the partner of her joys and jokes. In about twenty minutes' time, when the ladies had somewhat recovered from the shock, and had done their best to recall and recapitulate what had been said—and what hadnotbeen said—Mrs. Fitzjohn and Mrs. Danvers, the deep-voiced matron, resumed their conversation, the latter was really eager to talk of her old friend Lola.
"Is it not strange that you and I should be discussing Lola Hargreaves, and that just here in this little out-of-the-way station, are two of her friends. The world is a small place. Have you seen her lately?"
"About a year ago; but I only know her as Mrs. Waldershare, and I would not call myself—her friend——"
"No?" sitting up rather aghast. "She used to be such a nice girl, and so pretty, and popular."
"Oh, she is very good-looking indeed, but I would scarcely label her asnice. She is a desperate gambler—that is no secret. Mr. Waldershare found herout, and had twice to pay enormous sums she lost at Monte Carlo."
"Dear me—it seems incredible."
"Yes, for she is so charming and seductive—she deceives casual acquaintances. All the world gaped when they read the epitome of Reuben Waldershare's will, and that he left a million and a half, and to his wife nothing but a pittance and her personal belongings."
"Then—then——" stammered the parson's daughter, "I'm afraid—she must have been foolish?"
"If you mean that she flirted—no, never, unless there was something to gain by it. But she is one of those what I call trampling women, who are determined to get all the good out of life—no matter who suffers."
"My dear Mrs. Fitzjohn," said Deep Voice, and in that voice there was a loud note of indignation, "Lola Hargreaves was never likethis. She sacrificed herself entirely for her family, as I've told you. Mr. Waldershare helped her father, and saved him from disgrace—saved the estates, too. I was her bridesmaid," speaking as if this alone were a certificate of virtue. "And I never saw anyone look so white in my life. Oh yes, she sacrificed herself—we all felt that."
"Sacrificed herself for—herself," retorted Pink Gown, vindictively, "I'm afraid she must be greatly changed since you knew her."
"I do not see why she should."
"Her one passion is gambling."
"Oh, well, of course it is in the family—her father ruined himself."
"I went home with her on board ship from Egypt; she always made me think of Cleopatra, the serpent of the old Nile; she was so long and willowy, and seemed to twine and glide about, and to fascinate. She only exercised her fascinations on rich men, and that but seldom; but if they went and sat by her deck-chair they were lost! Mr. Waldush would talk to them, and dazzle them, and then say: 'Shall we have a little game?' She won large sums, and never showed the smallest excitement, and when she gathered up her winnings with her long white lingers, would say, in her sweetest manner, 'Oh, you should have played this, or that, card.' She is a marvellous player; and has the brain of a mathematician, the men declared."
"I'm glad she has even that," rejoined her bridesmaid, with considerable heat. "I speak of Lola as I found her, and I stick to the fact that she gave up Gascoigne to save Earlsmead from going to the hammer, and to provide for her mother and brothers," and there was more than a suspicion of sharpness in the key.
"And I," said Mrs. Fitzjohn, "stick to the fact that Earlsmead went to the hammer; that the pecuniary help was comparatively insignificant. I speak with authority, as my sister is married to Edgar Hargreaves, Lola's eldest brother. The place is gone from him and his heirs for ever; they can just barely get along, and no more. Lola had no idea of marrying a sub. in the Sappers when she could marry a millionaire with forty thousand ayear—she said so; and I know that she gave old Mr. Waldershare any amount of encouragement; in fact, she threw herself at his feet." Mrs. Danvers, of the Deep Voice, threw up her head indignantly, and glared at her opponent, but made no reply. "Lola Waldershare is one of those women who knows exactly what she wants—and gets it."
"She did not gain much by her marriage, at any rate," argued her bridesmaid, with a sneer.
"Only ten years' enjoyment of every imaginable luxury," retorted the other lady; "carriages, diamonds, society, admiration, excitement, the spending of immense sums of money—on herself——" Mrs. Danvers merely gave a dry, incredulous cough, and began to put on her gloves. "I fancy she is rather at a loose end now," resumed Mrs. Hargreaves's sister, speaking in a cool but acrimonious key; "roaming about, most likely, seeking whom she may devour. If she ranges out here, she will probably fasten on the Gascoignes; and I shall be sincerely sorry for that pretty, conscientious girl, who gave us all such a shock just now."
"If she 'ranges out here,' as you so elegantly express it, she will have no occasion to fasten on anyone," rejoined Mrs. Danvers, with temper; "her home will be with me, her girl friend, her bridesmaid. I shall ask her—indeed, I shall wire to her—at once."
"I doubt if she would find scope for her enchantments in Chitachar," said Mrs. Fitzjohn; "there is not an open carriage, a roulette board, or a rich man, in the station. However, you may send offyour telegram, and enjoy her society immediately," and she pointed to a list of arrivals at Bombay.
"The sooner I see her, the better I shall be pleased," said Mrs. Danvers, in a voice resembling the trumpeting of an elephant. "I shall send a wire now. I can't think how I overlooked the passenger lists."
As she spoke she put down the paper, pushed back her chair, and left the table.
At any rate, she had secured that consolation prize, 'the last word.' And if Lola Waldershare did nothing else, if she never set foot in the station, at least she had been the means of occasioning a lasting antagonism between two of the very few ladies, in the Chitachar Club.