But when the morning came, the cool, clear morning, it brought counsel, it brought a multitude of papers that absorbed all his thoughts and time. After several hours of this detachment, his mind returned to the attitude of indecision, his ideas were again readjusted.
Whilst Philip was thus balancing his feeling and weighing the pros and cons, the Gordons went away into camp, for the Commissioner's usual cold weather tour, and they took Angel with them.
CHAPTER XXII
"A WHITE ELEPHANT AND A WHITE ROSE"
The tour of a Commissioner in camp in the cold weather means a march from place to place, visiting certain villages and districts, holding official courts for the inhabitants, granting interviews, receiving petitions, looking into taxation and the working of the code, inspecting new works—such as canals and roads—and perhaps opening a local hospital, or attending some high native feast. The tour is intended to bring the great man into touch with the people. The camp is struck every morning soon after dawn, and the party ride on to the next encampment (there are invariably two sets of tents). Here they arrive in time for early breakfast, after which the chief transacts business, then comes the evening ride, a little shooting, a group round the log fire, and early to bed. Such is the usual programme, and as far as the working portion was concerned, an exact epitome of Mr. Gordon's routine, but he rarely went for an evening ride, and seldom joined his wife and her guest by the camp fire, and the two ladies appeared gracefully resigned to his desertion. Donald Gordon's manners were gruff, his conversation monosyllabic, his opinions startling; for instance, he had been heard to suggest the lethal chamber for half the women who were born! By a strange paradox, he burnt much midnight oil, writing his great Persian epic, in praise of the beautiful Shireen—Queen of Chrosroes of the Golden Spears—and her lover, Ferhad the sculptor. But this streak of romance in his character never appeared in broad daylight; the midnight poet, with his rushing pen, his eyes aflame, one hand grasping his red, flowing beard, was by midday surly, hard-headed, rugged Donald Gordon, the clear-sighted, prompt, able administrator, who managed the great area over which he ruled, and his various collectors and subordinates, with amazing address; who said aloud things that others scarcely dared to whisper, was a pillar of the Empire, and a genius in his way.
Angel Gascoigne, who shared in all the pomp and circumstance of the Commissioner's semi-royal progress, enjoyed this, her first experience of a camp, most thoroughly. The life was interesting, it was novel, it never hasted, never rested—what more could any girl desire? The beautiful tract through which they passed, be it snipe district or tiger district, waving crops, or forest lands, impressed the new-comer with its free atmosphere, the Biblical simplicity of the lives of the people, odd bits of folklore, and the weird stories connected with their camping-grounds, each and all appealed to Angel's quick imagination. She and her hostess enjoyed many rides and walks, explorations, and tête-à-tête discussions, though occasionally a police officer or a collector joined the camp for a day or two, and then the talk at dinner veered towards the revenue, the floods, or the records. Now and then Major Gascoigne cut across the country, caught up the party, and remained a short time. Angel hailed these visits with a deep but secret joy—though he by no means gave her the lion's share of his attention—it was a solitude à trois. He brought books and papers, which he read to the ladies as they worked under the trees; he brought them scraps of news, the latest station joke; he brought with him a quickened enjoyment of the lazy, long days, and when he departed, he left them the anticipation of his return.
One evening Mrs. Gordon was detained by a servant just as they were about to start for a stroll, and Major Gascoigne and his cousin went on alone. They left the white tents behind them, and sauntered down to a ruined well, such as one sees in the prints of Rebecca, or the Woman of Samaria. When they had reached it, Angel sat down on a broken step and said, "Let us wait here—she won't be long," nodding towards the distant camp. "I have something to show you," she continued, looking up at her companion. "I have had a long letter from grandmamma this mail."
"Really?" he exclaimed; "and what has she to say?"
"That she misses me dreadfully, and is sorry for our quarrel. If I will forgive her, she will forgive me, and will be glad if I will return to live with her—for nothing."
Gascoigne gave a faint exclamation of surprise.