Angel by B.M. Croker

WEEK by week the great camp moved on in its stately, deliberate fashion, through its accustomed districts. There was not as much variety in the daily life as in the ever changing surroundings. Donald Gordon was absorbed in heavy official work by day, and heavy unofficial work by night. Mrs. Gordon and Alan Lindsay were unconsciously absorbed in one another, and pretty Mrs. Gascoigne-with her old head on young shoulders-appeared to be absorbed in her own thoughts. She was curiously silent and grave; not a trace of gay, vivacious, chattering Angel remained.

Mr. Lindsay and Mrs. Gordon mutually wondered at the transformation, and solemnly compared notes. Mrs. Gordon attributed her friend's depression to the absence of her husband, whilst Alan Lindsay declared that it was due to the absence of amusements. How little did either of them suppose that the true cause of Mrs. Gascoigne's low spirits lay in themselves. Angel's quick suspicion, which had sprung to existence by the old well, had grown from that hour, till it became a strong, able-bodied fact, which thrust itself on an unwilling confidante, and made its voice heard; it declared lustily that there was more than mere gratitude and pure idyllic friendship in Alan Lindsay's attitude towards Elinor Gordon; something in his voice, in his manner, told tales. Was it possible that at thirty-six years of age, love, strong, impassioned love, had overtaken her friend after all? But no, Elinor dared not entertain him; she was a woman who would bar such an ill-timed visitor out-yes, with her own hand, she who had been the adviser, comforter, example of so many, whose influence as a good woman radiated afar, she to whom all the girls and young men came with their difficulties, drawn by her personal magnetism, who helped so many over "the bad places" of life, to whom everyone looked up. The noble, unselfish wife of tyrannical Donald Gordon, was she likely to fall from her high estate? As soon the moon and stars. Yet as the couple talked together so earnestly and so exclusively, the truth became more and more evident-it came and stared Angel in the face, and frightened her; she felt as if she were looking on at some terrible human tragedy, and of which she was the sole and helpless spectator. This man, Alan Lindsay, had found his fate too late; his fate was a jewel belonging to one who never valued it. And Elinor? To her thoughts and feelings Angel had no clue; sometimes her spirits were unusually gay, her laugh ringing and girlish; sometimes when she and Angel sat alone she looked almost old and haggard; her book or her work lay forgotten in her lap, her gaze was absent and introspective. Sometimes, as she sewed, she heaved a sudden but profound sigh.