"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.