Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.




ANGEL




  "A woman is a foreign land
  Of which, though there he settle young,
  A man will ne'er quite understand
  The customs, politics, and tongue."
               THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.




[Illustration:
  ANGEL

  A SKETCH IN
  INDIAN
  INK

  _By_ B. M. CROKER

  _Author of_ "Beyond the Pale,"
  "Infatuation," etc.

  NEW YORK

  Dodd, Mead & Company
  1901
  R
]




  Copyright, 1901,

  By Dodd, Mead & Company.

  THE BURR PRINTING HOUSE,
  NEW YORK.




  DEDICATED TO

  A. PERRIN




CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                                           PAGE

        I. PATIENCE ON A GATE,                         1

       II. IN THE VERANDAH,                           10

      III. AN EARLY VISIT,                            19

       IV. ANGEL IN EXCELSIS,                         27

        V. THE LUCKNOW ROAD,                          34

       VI. LATE FOR MESS,                             42

      VII. MRS. DAWSON'S DRESSES,                     48

     VIII. THE PICNIC,                                58

       IX. THE BEQUEST,                               66

        X. A CHALLENGE,                               78

       XI. WHO IS SHE?                                92

      XII. ANGEL IMPARTS A SECRET,                    98

     XIII. ANGEL'S WINGS ARE CLIPPED,                105

      XIV. PHILIP'S LOVE AFFAIR,                     115

       XV. LOLA,                                     126

      XVI. GRANDMAMMA,                               134

     XVII. THE UNEXPECTED,                           146

    XVIII. DINNER FOR TWO,                           159

      XIX. THE PARTING GUESTS,                       175

       XX. A DESTROYING ANGEL,                       183

      XXI. "THINK IT OVER,"                          193

     XXII. "A WHITE ELEPHANT AND A WHITE ROSE,"      209

    XXIII. ANGEL DECLINES A PENNY FOR HER THOUGHTS,  217

     XXIV. THE SOOTHSAYER,                           228

      XXV. THE CHITACHAR CLUB,                       239

     XXVI. IN ANGEL'S TENT,                          255

    XXVII. "THE SIN,"                                266

   XXVIII. MAKING FRIENDS,                           277

     XXIX. LAST YEAR'S NEST,                         286

      XXX. A WHITED SEPULCHRE,                       291

     XXXI. FISHING FOR AN INVITATION,                296

    XXXII. BY PROXY,                                 303

   XXXIII. EXPLANATION,                              313

    XXXIV. A REFUGEE,                                320

     XXXV. A GOOD BILLET,                            330

    XXXVI. JOINT HOSTESS,                            337

   XXXVII. IN GARHWAL,                               344

  XXXVIII. INTERLOPERS,                              355

    XXXIX. TO DIE WITH YOU,                          365

       XL. THE INTRUDER,                             375




ANGEL




CHAPTER I

"PATIENCE ON A GATE"


IT was the middle of March in the North-West Provinces, and the hot
weather had despatched several heralds to Ramghur, announcing its
imminent approach. Punkahs were swinging lazily in barrack rooms, the
annual ice notice had made a round of the station, many families had
quitted the sweltering cantonments for the misty Himalayas, and the
brain fever bird had arrived! Moreover, the red-capped tennis boys were
on half-pay, the polo ground was abandoned, the club reading-room had
cancelled all the ladies' papers, and its long dim verandah presented a
melancholy vista of empty chairs.

Outside in the gardens, and all over the district, cork trees, acacias,
and stately teak upheld their naked branches, as if in agonised appeal
to a pitiless blue sky, whilst their leaves, crisp and shrivelled,
choked the neighbouring nullahs, or were chased up and down the dusty
plains and roads by a howling hot wind.

At a corner where two of these roads met, and about a mile from the
club, stood a large irregular bungalow, with a thatched roof and
walls of a vivid pink complexion, as if it were blushing—as well
it might—for its straggling and neglected compound. The gate of
this was closed, and through its wooden bars a white-faced shabby
little girl was gazing intently. Otherwise the premises appeared to
be deserted; the servants were presumably smoking and gossiping in
the bazaar, the stables were empty, the very dogs were out. No, there
was not a living creature to be seen, except a couple of quarrelsome
crows and this solitary child. Although Angel Gascoigne had elevated
herself by standing on the second rung of the gate, she was unable
to lean comfortably on the top bar, but peered below like some caged
creature, for she was remarkably small for her age. Indeed, if any of
her acquaintance had been suddenly called upon to name it, they would
have answered, "Oh—Angel! She is about six." Nevertheless, it was nine
years, and long, long years to Angel, since she had come into the world
in a damp little bungalow in distant Dalhousie.

She wore a limp cotton frock, a pinafore to correspond, black
stockings, much darned at the knees, and shapeless sand shoes
ludicrously large for her fairy feet. Her arms and head were bare, the
latter covered with a mane of sun-bleached locks; her face was small,
pinched, and prematurely wise, but the features were delicate, and
the whole countenance was illuminated by a pair of painfully wistful
blue eyes. The child's pose was touching. She looked exactly what she
was—forlorn, desolate, and neglected. For a whole hour she remained
motionless at her post, and while she watched and waited, various
vehicles had passed; among these, a large landau containing two
languid women propped up with cushions and waving date leaf fans. They
smiled and nodded affably to Angel, and as they rolled slowly by, young
Mrs. Gordon said to the lady who was taking her for an airing:

"There is that poor child of Mrs. Wilkinson's. What a weird little
face! It is positively disgraceful the way she is overlooked and left
to servants."

"Yes," agreed her companion. "The result of her mother's second
marriage. Colonel Wilkinson is wrapped up in his bank-book and his
boys. Mrs. Wilkinson is wrapped up in her clothes. I do believe
that woman's heart is composed of a reel of cotton, and unfortunate
Cinderella is left in the kitchen—there is no fairy godmother for
_her_. She ought to have been sent home years ago," continued Mrs.
Jones, with the authority of one who is dealing with her friend's
expenditure.

"There is no doubt of that," assented Mrs. Gordon, a very pretty Irish
girl who had recently come to India as the wife of a civilian. "Some
one told me the other day that Angel is twelve years of age."

"Oh, dear no," replied Mrs. Jones, with a touch of irritation, "I
remember when she was born. I remember her mother when she came up to
Simla, such a lovely girl, and that is not more than ten years ago. She
had a host of admirers, and of course she took the least desirable;
handsome, penniless, reckless Tony Gascoigne. They could not have done
worse, either of them, if they had tried."

"And now since he is dead, and his widow has married again, it seems
to me that it is poor little Gascoigne who suffers for that foolish
match," declared the other lady. "The child should be at school—if
only the money was forthcoming."

"But with Colonel Wilkinson's economies, and Lena Wilkinson's
extravagances, there is not much prospect of _that_," rejoined Mrs.
Jones, and the subject dropped.

The landau was succeeded by a smart victoria, in which was seated a
stiff-backed lady in a dainty muslin gown. This was Mrs. Dawson, the
Judge's wife, who vouchsafed no notice of Angel beyond a glance of
stern disapproval. Next came an ekka packed with chattering native
women, who laughed and made merry signals to the little figure on
the gate, but the child took no notice of their blandishments, her
face still retained its expression of rigid expectation. At last she
stirred, there was a faint sound of muffled hoofs in the sandy lane
which bordered the compound wall, and in another moment two men on
horseback came into sight. These were comrades, who chummed together in
a dilapidated bungalow at the back of Colonel Wilkinson's abode. The
slight dark man, riding a few paces in advance, was Philip Gascoigne,
a Royal Engineer, reputed to be the owner of the hardest head and the
softest heart in the station. His companion, following on a flea-bitten
grey, was Wilfred Shafto, subaltern in a crack regiment of native
cavalry, a loose-jointed, long-legged youth, whose curly locks, gay
blue eyes, and admirable profile, went far to justify his nickname of
"Beauty Shafto." Besides his good looks, Shafto was endowed with an
exuberant vitality and a stock of animal spirits, that even the hot
weather failed to subdue. Both he and his chum were popular in the
cantonment, being keen soldiers, cheery comrades, and, above all,
good fellows; but Shafto only was a universal favourite, for he was a
ladies' man. Yet, strange to say, it was not Shafto but Gascoigne who
reined up in order to speak to the little girl at the gate. _He_ merely
gazed, grinned, and jeered, saying, "Hullo, a case of confined to
barracks, young 'un!—in disgrace again, eh? I say, there's a five-act
tragedy in that face, Phil. Don't be late for rackets," and shaking up
his old Arab, he heartlessly cantered away.

"Well, Angel, what's the meaning of this?" inquired Gascoigne, leaning
over his pony's neck. "Not in trouble, I hope?"

The child raised her great eyes to his, and slowly shook her head.

"Then what is the matter?" he repeated. "What have you been doing now?"

"_I've_ not been doing anything," she protested in a clear but woeful
treble. "Mother and Colonel Wilkinson have gone to Dolly Tollemache's
birthday party, and taken all the children—but—I had"—here two
crystal tears escaped from her long lashes—"no hat."

"Poor little soul!" exclaimed Gascoigne, "that was bad luck. What
happened to your hat?"

"Beany threw it in the tank, and oh—I wanted to go so much." Her voice
rose to a pitiful wail as she added, "Dolly is _my_ friend—and there
was a bran pie."

"And I am your friend as well as Dolly, am I not?" he urged.

"Oh, yes," and she gazed up at him with swimming eyes. "Of course—you
are my cousin Philip—but you don't live with me, and I am so
miserable," she faltered. "The servants push me about, and the children
pinch me, and Colonel Wilkinson calls me a liar and—a little devil."

Here she broke down and, resting her head on her skinny arms, sobbed
hysterically.

"He did not mean it, Angel," protested her cousin. "I am sure Colonel
Wilkinson was not in earnest; he is a kind-hearted man, and looks the
soul of good humour."

"_Looks!_" she flashed out furiously. "Yes, and he is good-humoured
with the children, but you should see him when the bearer brings his
account, or when a shop bill comes in. I wish you saw his looks then!
And he hates me. Only this morning he said I was a viper on his hearth
and a curse. Oh," with another outburst, "I wish I was dead—like my
own father."

Gascoigne dismounted hastily and putting his hand upon her shoulder,
said, "Come, Angel, this is very bad. You are a silly child, and
imagine things—it's all the hot weather, and you are feeling a bit
slack and out of sorts. You will soon be up in the hills, gathering
pine cones and orchids."

"No, indeed I shan't," she rejoined, as she raised her head and
confronted him with an expression of despair on her small tear-stained
face. "Mother says she can't afford it this year. She is going to
send baby to Mrs. Browne, but we must all stay down. Oh, how I
hate Ramghur," and her eyes roved over their brick-coloured, dusty
surroundings, "I wish I was dead."

"My poor Angel! this is melancholy news. Why should you cut yourself
off at the age of nine? I hope you have a long and merry life before
you."

"Why should I live?" she demanded fiercely, "no one wants _me_."

"Don't you think your mother wants you?"

"No," she answered breathlessly in gasps, "she has the children—she
would never miss me. They went off in the bullock bandy, so dressed
up and noisy, Pinky in mother's own blue sash, all going to enjoy
themselves, and not one of them even looked back. The servants are at a
funeral, and I've been alone the whole evening."

This pitiful tale was illustrated by a pathetic little face streaming
with tears.

"Now then, listen to me, Angel," said the young man, impressively, "I
believe you've been running about in the sun, and have got a touch of
fever, and besides, you take things too much to heart."

"No I don't," she answered passionately, "everyone says I have no
heart—and no one cares for me."

"That's bosh," he protested, "your mother cares—and so do I." Here he
stooped, and dried her tears with his own handkerchief.

"Do you really, cousin Phil?" suddenly seizing his hand with her hot
nervous fingers. "Really—not make-believe?"

"I never make-believe—really."

"Then—I am—glad," and now the elf clasped his arm, and looked up at
him fixedly, "for I _do_ love you, as much as mother, yes, and more
than the whole big world."

"That's a large order, my child," stroking her cheek. "You have not
seen the world yet—you won't repeat that in ten years' time. And now I
must be off, or I shall be late. Look here," speaking from the saddle,
"I'll come over to-morrow, and ask your mother if I may take you for a
drive. How will that be, eh?"

"Not," clapping her hands ecstatically, "with Sally Lunn!"

"Why not with Sally, and for a good ten mile spin into the country
beyond the railway."

"Oh, how splendid. And it's moonlight, too. I shan't sleep one wink for
thinking of to-morrow."

"In that case I warn you, I shall leave you behind," he announced as he
gathered up his reins. "Cheer up, Angel, and don't let me hear any more
about dying. Good-bye," and wheeling his impatient pony, he turned her
head towards the maidan, and galloped away over the flat parade ground
which lay between the bungalow and the club, raising as he went a cloud
of red dust.

Angel stood motionless staring after him, till a huge peepul tree hid
him from her gaze. "A drive in his beautiful dogcart," she said to
herself, "with its dark blue cushions and red wheels, and crazy Sally,
the fastest trotter in Ramghur. Phil never took grown-up ladies for a
drive—yet she was invited—she hoped he would go right through the
bazaar so that everyone might see them! The Wallace children and that
sneering Dodd boy. How delicious! But what was she to do for a hat?"
As she stood pondering this momentous question, with an old, care-worn
expression on her child's face, a fat ayah suddenly appeared near the
bungalow and shrieked out in Hindustani:

"Missy Angel—what you doing there? Come away from the road, oh
shameless one! Wicked child, without hat or topee. Supper is ready,
come therefore at once. Think of what the Colonel Sahib will say if he
sees thee thus."

This shrill invocation was all delivered in one breath. When it had
concluded, the child turned about, slipped off the gate, and with
unexpected alacrity ran up the drive, and was presently swallowed by
the shadows of a long verandah.




CHAPTER II

IN THE VERANDAH


BEFORE the station clock had chimed six the following morning, every
soul in the Wilkinsons' bungalow was astir. The portly head of the
house, clad in lily-white drill, and mounted on a lily-white charger,
had ambled off at daybreak, to preside over the cantonment rations.
In the long west verandah, the bamboo blinds were already down in
order to keep out the blinding glare, and behind these "chicks" the
entire family was assembled. Three podgy, pasty-faced children were
solemnly playing at bazaar, and buying, selling, and chaffering, in
ludicrous but unconscious imitation of their elders. The fourth was a
mere spectator in the arms of the fat ayah who with her understudy kept
order among the infants. Occasionally a shrill exclamation, a whimper,
or a howl, arose from their corner, but taking them _en masse_, Beany,
Pinky Tod, and Baba were unemotional and well-behaved infants. They ate
well, slept well, and conducted themselves sedately. Nevertheless, it
must be confessed that they were not fair to see, but then we all know
that it is better to be good than beautiful. A painful illustration of
this axiom was beside them, in the shape of their half-sister Angel,
who with puckered brows and compressed lips, was labouring away at
a handsewing machine, and turning out yards of faultlessly hemmed
frills. She was pretty, all the ladies said so—indeed, she said so
herself—but even the dog boy was aware that Missy Angel was not good,
did not want to be good, and made no secret of the terrible fact.
Angel assured her brothers that it was a thousand times nicer to be
wicked. She would not eat cold curry, she refused to go to bed at seven
o'clock, she laughed at her kind papa, and sang when the ayahs scolded
her.

Not far from Angel squatted the dirzee, a thin, grave-eyed man in
spotless white clothes and turban. He was holding a piece of muslin
between two of his toes, and cutting down a neatly marked crease with
a pair of gigantic scissors. This was Kadir Bux, a capable workman,
and Mrs. Wilkinson's much coveted treasure. Nor was Mrs. Wilkinson
herself idle, although she reclined on a long cane lounge, propped up
with cushions. She was intently occupied in trimming a smart evening
bodice. One glance proved sufficient, to assure us that the lady was
clever with her fingers, for she turned and twisted the lace with the
audacious familiarity of a practised hand. It is said, that could
they but discover it, everyone is endowed with a special gift; there
are thousands of mortals who go through life unconscious of their own
capacities, but Mrs. Wilkinson was one of those more fortunate beings
who had found her metier, and gloried in its exercise. She was an
accomplished milliner and a really firstclass dressmaker. In all the
province there was not a woman who could put in a sleeve, tie a bow, or
hang a skirt as well as Angel's mamma. Once upon a time—and that time
not very distant—Mrs. Wilkinson had been a beauty, but continuous hot
seasons on the plains, harassing money cares, and indifferent health
had combined to filch her of her good looks. There were hard lines
about her mouth, her cheeks had fallen in, and her complexion—only
appeared in the evening. Of course, in early morning _deshabille_ we do
not expect to see a lady at her best. Still, her carelessly arranged
hair was abundant, her features were delicate, and her blue eyes had
not yet lost the power of their spell. Black-lashed, plaintive blue
eyes, what had they not achieved for their owner? How much she owes
to them. What difficulties surmounted, what favours granted—what
friends! They resembled in potency some fabled talisman; their mistress
had but to wish, look, and possess. Fortunately, Mrs. Wilkinson's
ambition was of a moderate character. She merely desired to be the
best-dressed woman in her circle, that is to say station, and hitherto
her pre-eminence had been supreme.

"The Mrs. Wilkinson who dresses so well," enjoyed a fame that went
beyond the bounds of her own province, and had even been echoed in much
maligned Madras.

Just at present this celebrity, her eldest born, and her faithful
dirzee were labouring hard in order to maintain this far-reaching
reputation. The scene in which they slaved was no bad imitation
of the workroom of some smart dressmaker. Chairs were piled with
materials, the matting was littered with scraps of lace, muslin, and
calico; patterns and fashion-plates lay scattered around, and in the
foreground was a wicker dress-stand, surmounted by an exact model
of Mrs. Wilkinson's own graceful figure—a costly but indispensable
possession. At this moment it was attired in an elaborate white ball
skirt and low satin bodice, and at a little distance appeared to be one
of the party in the verandah.

To slave for days, nay weeks, at her sewing machine, to cut up,
contrive and piece, scanty materials; to ponder for hours over
patterns, confer with an unimaginative native, cope with failures,
and plunge into debt, were a few of the drawbacks to Mrs. Wilkinson's
pre-eminence. But inconvenience, anxiety, and self-denial were
forgotten when she appeared in an incomparable "success," conscious of
triumph, aware that she was the cynosure of all eyes, and that even
in church she absorbed the attention of half the congregation. It is
true that certain rivals, women with ungrudging husbands, replenished
their wardrobes from London and Paris. Nevertheless, with even these,
this talented artiste was able to compete, for she was endowed with the
gift of wearing, as well as of designing, her matchless toilettes. Her
figure was slender and graceful, and in a smart evening gown, with just
the least little touch on her cheeks, Mrs. Wilkinson still held her own
in a ballroom; her dancing was perfection, and, next to dress, her sole
passion.

As for the lady's past, despite her craze for dress and dancing, it was
extraordinarily monotonous, and uneventful.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Lena Shardlow, a charming but penniless orphan, had arrived at
Simla, some years before this story opens, on a cold weather visit to
distant relations, who invited her out, in the benevolent hope that
Lena's pretty face would prove her fortune. If, as they afterwards
declared, she had played her cards properly, Lena might have married
a member of Council; it was true that he had already seen the grave
close over two wives, also that he was neither young nor comely, but he
could offer Lena a splendid position as his wife, and a fine pension as
his widow. The girl had many admirers—indeed, she was the success of
the season. Among these admirers was Tony Gascoigne, a feather-brained
junior subaltern in the Silver Hussars. Tony was handsome and well
connected, but reckless and impecunious. In an evil moment a brother
officer had advised him "not to make a fool of himself with the little
Shardlow girl," and the warning proved immediately fatal. He married
her within six weeks—her friends were not present at the ceremony—and
brought his lovely bride down to Umballa in insuppressed triumph.
Sad to relate, this triumph proved but short-lived—it was cruelly
slain in the regimental orderly room, and died by the hand of Tony's
commanding officer. Colonel St. Oriel had a strong prejudice against
married subalterns, and a married subaltern of a year's standing was
only surpassed by the notorious miscreant who had actually joined his
regiment with a wife and a perambulator.

It was whispered in the mess, that when "the old man" received cards
and cake, he had actually gnashed his teeth. At any rate, the proud
bridegroom was sent on detachment within twenty-four hours. A year
later, when Tony and his wife were on leave in the hills, one wet
black night, his pony lost his hind legs over the brink of a slippery
khud, and Tony's book of life was closed at page twenty-three. He left
a widow and a puny infant in a cheap bungalow, not a hundred yards from
the scene of the tragedy. He also left many debts. At first poor Mrs.
Gascoigne was stunned, then inconsolable, although her kind neighbours
came forward to her assistance in a fashion peculiar to India. For
weeks she remained in cloister-like seclusion, waiting for the monsoon
to abate, before returning to England, where it would be her fate to
live on distant relations and a pension of thirty pounds a year. Ere
three months had elapsed, it was noticed that Major Wilkinson, of the
Commissariat, despatched baskets of tempting fruit and rare flowers
to a certain retired bungalow. These, as days went by, he boldly
followed in person, and long before the year was out, an engagement was
announced, and all the world of Dalhousie declared, that little Mrs.
Gascoigne had done remarkably well for herself and her child. Major
Wilkinson was neither young nor dashing, he had also the reputation of
being "careful with his money." On the other hand, he was a sensible
man, with savings in the Bank of Bengal, and a small property in New
Zealand. The middle-aged Major was unmistakably in love with the pretty
blue-eyed widow, but, to impart a secret, he had never exhibited the
smallest enthusiasm for her offspring, and now that he had four sturdy
olive branches of his own, indifference had developed into unconcealed
aversion. Perhaps (for he was a model parent) he may have been a little
jealous of his step-daughter's airy grace and high-bred features.
Angel was an aristocrat to the tips of her shocking sand-shoes, whilst
his own beloved progeny were undeniably _bourgeois_—stumpy, stolid,
heavy children, whose faces recalled the colour and contour of a cream
cheese. Although Colonel Wilkinson scaled sixteen stone, he was an
active, bustling man—indeed some people considered him "fussy"—an
excellent organiser and administrator in his official capacity, whilst
at home in the domestic circle he saw to everything himself, thus
relieving his Lena of all housekeeping cares. He checked the bazaar
accounts, gave out the stores, oil and fodder, ordered the meals and
hectored the servants—he even instructed the ayah, and harried the
milkman—the only person over whom he had no control was the dirzee.
Consequently Lena had nothing to do but compose costumes, amuse
herself, and look pretty. In her heart of hearts, Angel, her firstborn,
was her mother's favourite child, but no whisper of this weakness
ever escaped her lips. She was too painfully aware, that Richard was
excessively jealous of the claims of his family, whom he idolised.

Of course Angel ought to have been sent home, no one was more alive to
this duty than her parent, but unhappily Mrs. Wilkinson had no private
income; she was compelled to ask for every rupee she expended, and
it was with difficulty she obtained a slender sum for the children's
clothes. As for her own toilettes, her husband liked to see her in
pretty gowns, he was proud of them, and of her, but when it came
to paying—oh! that was another affair altogether. Every bill she
presented to him entailed a battle—or at least an argument, and what
of those bills, those frightful bills, she dared not let him see?

If Colonel Wilkinson growled savagely when called upon to disburse for
Angel's meagre wardrobe, how could her mother hope for a substantial
cheque to defray her outfit, passage, and education? Much as Colonel
Wilkinson disliked the child, he had not the heart to open his purse
strings and provide for her removal to another home and hemisphere.

Angel was naturally intelligent, and had picked up the art of reading
and writing, without perceptible labour. The occasional lessons of an
Eurasian schoolmistress had introduced her to the multiplication table,
and the outlines of history and geography. She spoke Hindustani with
the facility and correctness of an Indian-born child. She could sing
the "Tazza Ba Tazza," and dance like a nautch girl, and the servants
alternately bullied and feared her. They were all somewhat distrustful
of "Missy Angel." She knew too much—she was too wise.

As Angel sat on the floor of the verandah, her sharp white face bent
intently on the needle, her thin arm tirelessly turning the handle
of the sewing machine, her thoughts were not with her task. She was
wondering why the ayah's sister happened to wear a jacket of similar
stuff to the piece which was sliding through her hands? Stolen of
course—how, and when? Oh, what a pig Anima was; and it was late, and
Philip had not come. Had he forgotten his promise, he who never forgot
a promise? She rose stealthily, and went to a "chick," pulled it a
little aside and peered out. Nothing to be seen but the brick-coloured
compound, the sandy drive, the cork trees, a quiver in the heated air.

"Missy Angel, what you doing?" screamed the ayah, "what you looking
for? Go back and sit down."

Angel returned to her post with noiseless steps, but as she resumed her
task, she held up the muslin towards the ayah, and said:

"You see this, Anima? Some is stolen. I was only looking for the thief.
Do _you_ know her?"




CHAPTER III

AN EARLY VISIT


ANIMA ayah pounced upon the gage thus recklessly flung at her, and was
proceeding to pour out the seven vials of her wrath in a lava-like
stream, when, luckily for her challenger, the sound of hoofs outside,
a spurred heel on the steps, created a diversion. Then a man's voice
called up, "Hullo, Lena, are you at home?"

Instantly the dirzee seized the half-clad figure in his arms, and
eloped with it indoors, whilst Angel sprang to the blind, dragged it
back, and ushered in Philip Gascoigne.

"Well, little one," he said, taking her limp hand in his, "How are you
to-day? Lena, please don't move." For Mrs. Wilkinson had struggled up,
and now sat erect on her long cane lounge, vainly endeavouring to make
the end of her old tea gown cover the toes of her shabby slippers.

"I'm only going to stay five minutes," continued her visitor, seating
himself astride a chair. "How did you enjoy the children's party?"

"Not much," she answered with a laugh.

"And Angel—not at all, eh?"

"Angel!" cried Mrs. Wilkinson, suddenly raising her voice, "do stop
that horrible machine, and run away and learn your lessons."

Angel paused in her labours, drew her beautifully marked eyebrows
together, and looked curiously at her mother. Then she rose, handed her
frill to the dirzee, and obediently withdrew, vanishing through one of
the many doors into the interior of the bungalow—but not to learn her
lessons. Oh no, she went straight to Mrs. Wilkinson's bedroom, hunted
about for a certain library book, and settled herself comfortably on
a sofa. There, stretched at full length, with a couple of cushions
carefully arranged at her back, she resembled a small edition of her
mother! Presently she opened the novel, found her place, and began to
read. The name of the novel was "Moths."

In the meanwhile conversation in the verandah was proceeding; as soon
as her daughter had disappeared, Mrs. Wilkinson resumed:

"I left Angel at home as a punishment; it's only the punishment she
feels."

"She feels a good many things," rejoined Gascoigne. "What has she been
up to now?"

"Oh, never mind," retorted the lady, with a touch of irritation. "You
think Angel _is_ an angel."

"Excuse me, I do not; but she is only a child—we were children
ourselves. Why are you all so rough on her?"

"I'm sure I'm not rough on her," protested Mrs. Wilkinson in a highly
injured key, "but she is always rubbing Richard up the wrong way—he
is so sensitive, too, and only the other day she called him a 'mud
cart officer.' Really, I can't imagine where she picks up her awful
expressions."

"She picks up everything, I fancy—chaff and corn," remarked her
cousin.

"At any rate, Richard simply detests her," continued Mrs. Wilkinson. "I
keep her out of his way as much as possible, as he hates the very sight
of her. He says you never know what she is going to do next; she plays
the most unexpected tricks, she is heartless, untruthful, and fond of
luxury."

Gascoigne broke into a short, incredulous laugh. "What! that thin,
shabby little child. My dear Lena, she does not know what the word
luxury means."

Her mother heaved a profound sigh as she answered, "Remember, I do not
say these horrid things. I know that Angel is not heartless; she has
strong feelings, she is devoted to me—and she simply worships _you_."

"Oh, bosh!" he exclaimed, with a gesture of protest.

"But it is true, I assure you, that in Angel's eyes you are something
between a Fairy Prince and a Holy Saint, and quite perfect. She
actually threw a milk jug at Pinky, because he said you were ugly."

Gascoigne laughed a hearty laugh, displaying his nice white teeth. He
could well afford to despise Pinky's opinion, for, although no rival
to Beauty Shafto, Gascoigne was a good-looking fellow, and made a
conspicuous and agreeable figure in that somewhat squalid verandah,
with his trim uniform and well-groomed air. His forehead and jaw were
square, his eyes dark, cool, and penetrating; the whole expression
indicated keen intelligence and absolute self-control.

Altogether it was an interesting face. A face that had left its impress
on most people's memories.

"Threw the milk jug," he repeated; "that was scarcely the retort
courteous; but I'm glad to see she made a bad shot," and he glanced at
Pinky's round and stolid countenance. "What's all this finery for?" he
continued, timidly touching the satin in her lap.

"To make me beautiful," she answered. "Men's garments are so hideous
that women have to do double duty. I am going to wear this at the
Giffards' cotillion to-morrow night."

"A dance, this weather. What lunacy!"

"It may seem so to you, who never enter a ballroom, but I must do
something to keep myself going, and it's cool enough as yet, after
eleven o'clock. Half-a-dozen waltzes are a better tonic for me than any
amount of quinine."

"Long may you live to say so," he exclaimed, "but waltzing with the
thermometer at 100, I should call the dance of death. Mind you don't
overdo it, Lena mia," and he looked at her narrowly.

Lena Wilkinson was a delicate woman, thin and worn, with an insatiable
appetite for excitement and amusement. Her social triumphs and secret
labours drew heavily on the bank of a frail constitution, and no one
but herself ever guessed how often she trembled on the verge of a
serious breakdown.

"I say," resumed Gascoigne, "I came to ask if I may take Angel for a
drive this evening? You have no objection, have you?" he added, as Mrs.
Wilkinson's expression conveyed blank amazement. "At any rate, it will
clear her out of Wilkinson's path for a couple of hours," he concluded
persuasively.

"But she will think so much of it, and be so flattered and
cock-a-hoop," protested her mother.

"Lena," and his eyes sparkled angrily, "do you grudge the poor kid even
this little pleasure?"

"No, I don't," hastily relenting, "and I'm horrid. I was thinking that
you never took _me_ out."

"I shall be only too honoured. You have but to name your own time. I
thought you hated a two-wheeled trap, or I'd have offered long ago."

"It's quite true, I do loathe high dog carts and pulling trotters. I've
no courage now, and that Sally of yours goes like an express train.
Ten years ago, how I should have loved it! What a curse it is to have
nerves!"

"I expect you want a change to the hills. Angel tells me you are not
going to stir this hot weather. Mind you, Lena, it is a mistake."

"Oh, I know; but Richard declares that he cannot possibly afford two
establishments, and he must stay down. Angel looks bleached. Three hot
seasons are enough to take the colour out of anyone, and are trying to
a child. That is what makes her so cross, and dainty, and discontented."

"You ought to go away, Lena, if only for two months. You look run down
yourself."

"Yes, and I feel run down, too." Here she paused, took up her work for
a moment, and put in two or three stitches. "I sometimes wonder——"
she began, and said no more.

"What do you sometimes wonder?" he inquired.

"It is only when I lie awake at night, listening to the jackals—they
always make me feel so desperately depressed, and when I am quite
in the blues I cannot help asking myself what would become of Angel
if—anything happened to me?"

"What a dismal idea, an odious little blue devil!" he exclaimed. "You
should light a lamp and read some cheery novel; that would soon chase
him away."

"And I might fall asleep, and set the bungalow on fire."

"Look here, Lena," he resumed, hitching his chair a little closer, "you
know I'm pretty well off; no debts, no wife."

"Fancy naming them in the same breath!" she protested with a laugh.

"Well, sometimes one brings the other," and he nodded his head gaily;
then, lowering his voice, he continued, "I daresay it is hard for
Wilkinson to make both ends meet, with heavy insurances, and all that
sort of thing"—Wilkinson was scrupulously saving and investing half of
his pay—"so—so——" Then, with a sudden rush, "If you'll just run up
to the hills for three months, and take Angel and the boys—I'll make
it all right—you know I'm your cousin."

"Yes," she assented rather bitterly, "and the only Gascoigne who ever
deigned to take the smallest notice of me; but it can't be done, Phil.
You are a dear good fellow to suggest it, and if the matter lay with me
I'd accept it like a shot and be off to-morrow; but Richard would not
hear of it."

"Well, then, let me send Angel, with an ayah, to some good
boarding-house where the lady will look after her. Surely, he would
make no objection to that. She would be out of his sight for months."

"Perhaps not; but he has such odd ideas, and although he does not
want her here, I doubt if he would allow her to go elsewhere. There,"
starting up, "I hear him now. He is coming."

"At any rate, you might sound him, Lena, and I'll call in for Angel at
half-past five."

"Hullo, Gascoigne—you here?" and a stout, breathless little man, with
prodigious moustache and a shining round face, came puffing up the
steps. "I tell you," he panted, "this day is going to be a corker!—my
reins were mad hot, and Graham says there are five cases of heat
apoplexy in hospital. Lena, we must have the cuscus tatties up at once."

"They say this season is to be something quite extra," remarked
Gascoigne, who had risen to his feet.

"Yes, yes," cried Colonel Wilkinson, "the usual bazaar talk. But,"
mopping his face, "if this is the beginning, where shall we all be in
the end of May—eh, Lena?"

"In the cemetery, perhaps," she suggested gravely.

"Come, come, old woman—none of your ghastly jokes. Hullo, Beany boy;
well, my Pinkums. Ayah," in a sharper key, "what do you mean by letting
Master Beany wear his best shoes?"

"They are all he has got, sahib—others done fall to pieces," she
answered sullenly.

"Fall to grandmother! Let _me_ see them. And I say, the children are
to have plenty of ice in their milk to-day. I've ordered in two seers
extra. Has Master Baba had his tonic? Here—you must all clear out
of the verandah—it's like a furnace. Away you go!" and, raising his
arms as if driving a flock of geese, he hustled the whole family
precipitately indoors, whilst Gascoigne snatched up his whip and fled.




CHAPTER IV

ANGEL IN EXCELSIS


PUNCTUAL to the moment, Philip Gascoigne arrived to take his little
cousin for the promised drive, and Angel's eyes shone like stars when
she descried his smart dogcart spinning up the approach. Sally Lunn, or
"Mad" Sally, a good-looking bay, stud-bred, in hard condition, enjoyed
the reputation of being the fastest trotter, as well as the most
hot-tempered and eccentric animal, in the station; only those blessed
with a cool head and no nerves were competent to manage her. Here she
came, pulling double, and tossing flecks of foam over her bright brass
harness.

Mrs. Wilkinson felt a secret thrill of thankfulness that it was not
about to be her lot to sit behind this excitable creature, the author
of a lengthy chapter of accidents. However, Mrs. Wilkinson's little
daughter did not share these fears. She had been dressed and ready for
an hour, and now ran quickly down the steps, in a clear starched frock,
her hat restored, her hair elaborately crimped, climbed into the cart
with the agility of a monkey, and took her place with the dignity of
a queen. It is true that her shapely little black legs dangled in a
somewhat undignified fashion. Nevertheless she declined a footstool
with a gesture of contempt—nor was Sally disposed to linger. In
another moment the dogcart swung out of the gate, and was humming down
the road at the rate of eleven miles an hour. Angel, very upright, with
her hair streaming behind her, elation in her pose; Gascoigne sitting
square and steady, giving his full attention to his impetuous trapper.

"Thank goodness, Philip is a first-rate whip," exclaimed Mrs.
Wilkinson, as she turned her eyes from this fleeting vision and rested
them on her husband, "otherwise I would never trust the child with that
animal."

"Bah, there's no fear," protested Colonel Wilkinson from his long
chair, taking up a paper as he spoke. "You may trust _her_ with any
animal; and Gascoigne knows what he's about—he understands horses; but
I'm blessed if I understand him. He must be hard up for company when he
calls for that brat."

"She is his cousin, you see," answered her parent, "and—Richard——" a
pause; long pauses were a peculiarity of Mrs. Wilkinson's conversation.

"Well?" impatiently. "What?"

"He thinks she looks so white and thin, and he has offered to send her
up to the hills for three months—at his own expense. What do you say?"

Colonel Wilkinson reflected for some seconds behind the pages of his
"Pioneer." He detested Angel; an arrogant, insolent little ape, whose
shrill treble broke into and amended his best stories, who never shed
a tear, no matter what befell her at his hands, and who laughed in his
face when he stormed. He would be rid of her—but he would also be
renouncing his authority. Angel was his step-daughter—Gascoigne was
only her father's cousin. Her keep was nominal, and the station would
talk. No—certainly _no_.

"What do I say?" he repeated, emerging with considerable crackling from
behind his screen. "I say no, and I call the offer confounded cheek on
the part of Gascoigne. What is good enough for my own children is good
enough for her. They are not going to budge this season."

"But the boys are so much younger, Richard, dear," ventured his wife.

"Well, I won't have Gascoigne interfering with a member of my family,
cousin or no cousin. Some day he will find out what a little devil she
is, for all her angel name and angel face," and with this depressing
prophecy Colonel Wilkinson retired once more behind his "Pioneer."

Meanwhile the "little devil" was in the seventh heaven, as she and her
Jehu bowled along the straight flat road, overtaking and passing every
other vehicle—a triumph dear to Angel.

"Look here, young 'un, where would you like me to drive you—you shall
choose the route," said Gascoigne suddenly.

"Right in front of the club, then past the railway station and through
the bazaar," was her prompt and unexpected answer.

"Good Lord, what a choice! And why?"

"Just that people may see me," replied Angel, and she put out her hand
and touched his arm, as she added, "See me—driving with _you_."

"No great sight; but, all the same, you shall have your way—you don't
often get it, do you?"

Angel made no reply beyond a queer little laugh, and they sped through
the cantonments, meeting the remnant who were left taking their dutiful
airing. These did not fail to notice the "Wilkinson's Angel," as she
was called, seated aloft beside Captain Gascoigne, pride in her port,
her little sharp face irradiated with the serene smile of absolute
content. The two Miss Brewers, in their rickety pony carriage, envied
the child fully as much as she could have desired. Mrs. Dawson stared,
bowed, and looked back; so did some men on their way to rackets.

"Well, Gascoigne was a good sort, and it was just the kind of thing he
would do—give up his game to take a kid for a spin into the country.
Why, he was making straight for the bazaar." The bazaar was narrow and
thronged with ekkas, camels, bullock carts, and cattle, as well as
crammed with human beings. As Gascoigne steered carefully in and out
of the crowd, a bright idea flashed upon him. There was Narwainjees, a
large general shop which sold everything from Paris hats to pills and
night lights. He pulled up sharply at the entrance and said, "I say,
Angel, I want you to come in here and choose yourself a hat."

"A hat," she echoed. "Oh, Philip, I—I—shall be too happy."

"All right, then," lifting her down as he spoke; "you can try what it
feels like to be too happy. I can't say I know the sensation myself."

As the oddly-matched couple now entered the shop hand in hand, the
smart, soldierly young man and the shabby little girl, an obsequious
attendant emerged from some dark lair. At this time of year business
was slack, and the atmosphere of the ill-ventilated premises was
reeking with oil, turmeric, and newly-roasted coffee.

"I want to look at some trimmed hats for this young lady," explained
her cavalier.

"Oh, Phil," she whispered, squeezing his hand tightly in her tiny
grasp, "it's the very first time I've been called a young lady."

"And won't be the last, we will hope," he answered.

"Have some iced lemonade, sir?" said a stout man in a gold skull-cap
and thin white muslin draperies.

"No, thank you—but you, Angel—will you have some?" asked her cousin.

"I should love it," and she put her lips greedily to a brimming
tumbler of her favourite beverage. Undoubtedly Angel was tasting every
description of pleasure to-day.

"And now for the hats; here they come!" announced her companion, as a
languid European assistant appeared with two in either hand.

"Oh, how lovely!" cried Angel, setting down the glass and clasping her
hands in rapturous admiration.

These hats, be it known, were the usual stock in trade of a native
shop up country, models that no sane woman in England would purchase
or be seen in; massive satin or velvet structures, with lumps of
faded flowers and tarnished gilt buckles, one more preposterous
than another, all equally dusty, tumbled, and expensive, and all
intended for full-grown wearers—if such could be beguiled into buying
them. Gascoigne took a seat and proceeded to watch his protégée's
proceedings with the keenest amusement, and exhibited no desire to cut
short her few blissful moments. Angel was absolutely happy, not had
been, or was to be, but actually happy in the present moment—and the
sight of such a condition is extremely rare.

The mite in short frock treated the shopwoman with all the airs of a
grown customer, and was even more _difficile_ and critical than her
own mamma. First she tried on one hat, then another; and to see the
little top-heavy figure, glass in hand, strutting and backing in front
of a great spotty mirror, and contemplating herself from every point
of view with the most anxious solemnity, was to all concerned a truly
entertaining spectacle. Several torpid assistants had collected at a
respectable distance, enjoying the comedy with faint grins as Angel
gravely appeared, and disappeared, under various monstrosities. For a
time she was sorely divided between a scarlet plush tam-o'-shanter and
a green straw with yellow flowers. Finally it was a bright blue satin
toque with mother-of-pearl buckles which captured her affections. She
put it on, and took it off, then put it on again, whilst Gascoigne and
the European attendant watched her attentively.

"I say, Angel, that won't do," he said, breaking the spell at last;
"no, nor any single one of the lot. You'd look like an owl in an ivy
bush."

"Oh, Philip, not really," she protested, and her eyes grew large with
amazement.

"No, none of them are suitable. That thing you've on weighs pounds;
you'd want a man to carry it. I'll tell you what, perhaps this young
lady here will fit you out with a nice straw hat, and trim it."

"Oh, yes, sir," she assented briskly. "I believe I have what will
answer exactly," producing a pile of plain straws. "Try this on, missy."

But it was such a bare, uninteresting-looking article. Two great tears
stood in Angel's eyes. These she bravely winked away, and said with a
gulp, "Very well, Phil; I suppose you know best."

"I'll make it so smart, missy," said the sympathetic attendant, "with
big bows of fresh white ribbon."

"And roses? Oh, Philip, say I am to have roses?" she pleaded with
clasped hands, and a voice that was tragic.

"Yes, roses by all means, if they are indispensable to your happiness."

"Oh, they are—and pink ones."

"Then we will leave the matter entirely to you," said Gascoigne to the
milliner, as he stood up; "a child's hat, you know, not a May bush."

And Miss Harris, who was rarely favoured with such a customer, gave Mr.
Gascoigne an emphatic promise, and her sweetest smile. As a solace from
being parted from her beloved blue toque, her cousin presented Angel
with a large box of chocolates, a bottle of perfume, a silver thimble,
and a doll, and the little creature returned to the dogcart with her
arms full and her face radiant.




CHAPTER V

THE LUCKNOW ROAD


"AND now for a good spin along the Lucknow road," said Gascoigne when
they had extricated themselves from the teeming bazaar.

Oh, Lucknow road! How many times have you resounded to the steady tramp
of armed men, the clattering of hoofs, the rumble of guns! What battles
have been fought to guard you, what nameless graves of gallant fellows
are scattered among the crops in your vicinity! But to-night all is
peace; the moon rides high in the heavens, and the whole landscape
seems flooded in silvery white. The pace at which Sally travelled
created a current of fresh air, as she sped past tombs, shrines,
villages, and between long avenues of trees. The bare, flat plains
were just forty miles from the foot of the Himalayas, and in the cold
weather the scene presented an unbroken stretch of rich cultivation.
A sea of yellow waves, wheat and barley, sugar-cane, feathery white
cotton, and acres and acres of poppies. Now the crops were gathered,
and all that remained was a barren expanse parched to a dull dusty
brown. The very trees, with their grey trunks and leafless branches,
gave the scene a bleak and wintry appearance, although the air was like
a furnace. It was a still, breathless night, save for the croaking of
frogs, or the humming of a village tom-tom, and the couple in the
dogcart were as silent as their surroundings, absorbing the swiftly
changing scene without exchanging a word, each being buried in their
own reflections. Angel's thoughts were pleasant ones; her busy brain
was occupied with visions of future triumphs—not unconnected with her
present position, and her new hat.

Gascoigne's inner self was far, far away across the sea. He was
driving with a little girl through deep country lanes, a girl then
his playfellow, later his divinity, now lost to him, and figuratively
laid in a grave and wrapped in roses and lavender. On the tombstone
the strong god Circumstance had inscribed, "Here lies the love of
Philip Gascoigne." The man was thinking of his love, the child of her
new hat, and the four-legged animal of her supper. Once or twice he
had been on the point of turning, but a piteous little voice beside
him had pleaded, "Oh, please, not yet; oh, just another mile, well,
half-a-mile," and they had passed the tenth milestone before Sally was
pulled up and her head set once more towards Ramghur.

"Oh, dear," cried Angel, coming out of a dream, "I'm so sorry we are
going back. I began to think I was in heaven."

"Upon my word, you are a funny child," exclaimed her cousin. "I don't
fancy the hot weather in the North-West is many people's notion of
Paradise."

"But there are horses and chariots there. At all events," she argued,
"the Bible says so."

"Do you read the Bible much, Angel?"

"Yes. I love the Book of Revelations, which tells all about gold and
jewels and horses. I always read it on Sundays."

"And what do you read on week-days?"

"I have not much time. I sew a good deal for mother, and there are
lessons, and going out walking with those children to the club gardens
twice a day," and she gave a little impatient sigh. Gascoigne looked
down at the small figure perched beside him, with pitying eyes, and
thought of her dreary, colourless life.

"I'm reading a book now," she announced complacently.

"And what is it called?"

"The Mysteries of Paris."

"The _what_?"

"The Mysteries of Paris," raising her thin voice. "I heard Mrs. Du
Grand telling mother it was thrilling—and so wicked. She rooted it out
of the old stock in the Library."

"It's not fit for you to read."

"Have _you_ read it?" she asked sharply.

"No, and don't want to. Does your mother allow you to read such stuff?"

"Mother does not know—she would not mind."

"I'm certain she would—it's a bad—I mean a grown-up book, and not fit
for you."

"I've only read as far as two chapters—and it's so stupid."

"Then mind you don't read more, Angel, nor any grown-up books, if you
would like to please _me_. Hullo, sit tight," he added quickly, as a
white bullock suddenly rose from beside a shrine, starting Sally out
of her wits. She made a violent spring across the road—a spring that
tested every buckle in her harness—and nearly capsized the cart. Then
she broke away into a frantic gallop, with the trap rocking at her
heels.

"No fear, Angel; you hold on to me," said Gascoigne.

"But I'm not afraid," rejoined a bold, clear voice. "I'm never afraid
when I'm with you, Philip."

"It's all right," he said presently, as Sally's racing pace slackened
and she gradually came back to her bit. "Sally is a coward; she thought
she saw a ghost."

"Yes; and it was only an old bullock," scoffed the child. "But, cousin
Phil, there _are_ real ghosts, you know."

"Where?"

"Oh," spreading out her hands, "everywhere, all over the world—in the
station—yes, and in your bungalow."

"My poor, simple Angel! Who has been cramming you with this rot?"

"The servants," she promptly replied; "and I've heard other people
talking. The cook's brother is your bearer, and yet, he would not go
into your compound after dark if you gave him one hundred rupees."

"Then he is a foolish man," pronounced Gascoigne; "not that I am likely
to offer him his price."

"They say," resumed the child, "where you keep your boxes and polo
sticks used to be the dining-room, and that servants in queer old
liveries can still be seen there."

"Then I wish to goodness they'd clean up my saddles whilst they wait.
And is that all?"

"No; an officer in uniform, a strange uniform not worn now, comes
running in with a drawn sword, and chases a pretty lady from room to
room. She wears a white muslin dress, and black satin shoes. He kills
her in the front verandah—and her screams are awful."

"Dear me, Angel, what a blood-curdling tragedy! but you don't mean to
say you believe it?"

"Oh, yes; Ibrahim says it is well known. There is another—I heard Mrs.
Jones telling it to mother, and she said she knew it was true. Shall I
go on?"

"Yes, if you like—it is quite an Indian night's entertainment."

"Well," beginning in a formal little voice, "some gentlemen were
driving up from the station; they were very late, and they saw a mess
house all lit up, and the compound packed with carriages and bullock
bandies, and they said, 'Why, it is a big ball, and we never heard a
word about it.' So they stopped on the road and looked on. They could
see right into the room, and there were crowds of people dancing—but
the strange thing was, there was not one face they knew."

"Well, I'm not surprised at that," exclaimed her listener derisively.

"Please don't interrupt—they drove on after a while——"

"They ought to have gone in to supper."

"_Philip!_" she expostulated. "Next morning they asked about the great
ball in the cavalry lines, and people thought they were joking; there
had not been a dance for weeks, but these men were quite positive, and
they rode down to have a look at the house. It had not been used for
years and years, and was crammed with rubbish and old broken furniture;
the compound was all grass and weeds, and there was not a trace or mark
of a carriage."

"And what did they make of that?" inquired Gascoigne.

"Oh, people just shook their heads, and said something about an old
story, and the mutiny, and that a great many ladies were killed in that
messhouse one night—and the servants have heaps of tales."

"I don't want to hear their tales, and I wish you would not listen to
them," he said sharply.

"Why?" with a look of bewildered injury, "how can I help it, when they
are talking all round me? The ayah's sister and her niece come in, and
bring a huka and sit on the floor of the nursery and gossip when mother
is out, and I can't sleep; they talk, ever so much, all the station
gup, oh, _such_ stories. Why are you so solemn, cousin Phil?" she asked
suddenly, gazing up at his face in the moonlight; "why are you so
grave; what are you thinking about?"

"Then I will tell you, Angel; I am thinking about _you_—it is full
time you were at home."

"So I am at home. Here we are—the gate is open. Oh, what a shy!" as
Sally executed a deep curtsey to a long black shadow.

"I mean England," giving Sally a flip; "would you not like to go there?"

"No; for I don't want to leave mother. Anyway, she cannot afford to
send me to school. She owes such a _lot_ of money; there she is on
the verandah watching for us; and oh! I am so sorry this drive is
over—thank you a million thousand times."

"I am afraid we are rather late," he called out to Mrs. Wilkinson, "but
I've brought her back safe and sound."

"Yes, thank goodness; it is after eight o'clock, and I began to be
nervous."

"I'm sorry I am behind time, but it is such a fine moonlight night, and
Angel has been telling me stories."

"Oh, she's good enough at that!" sneered Colonel Wilkinson, with
terrible significance. "Now, Angel, go off to your bed," he added
peremptorily; "the ayah has kept some cold rice pudding for you—mind
you eat it," and he waved her out of his sight. Then, turning his
attention to the child's charioteer, and refusing to notice his wife's
anxious signals, he continued, "I say, Gascoigne, if you don't mind,
you'll be late for mess!"

It was all very well for Lena to suggest his staying to share pot
luck, but Lena was not the housekeeper, or aware that the bill of fare
consisted of a little soup and some brain cutlets.

"The bugle went five minutes ago," he concluded. Gascoigne promptly
accepted the hint (not that he craved for an invitation—were not
Colonel Wilkinson's dinners notorious?) and with a hasty good-bye
immediately drove away.

Surely, this must have been one of the happiest days of Angel's
existence; her mother was prepared to find her in raptures, when she
came to see her in her cot that night. She was therefore astonished to
discover the child in tears, sobbing softly under her breath—the cold
rice-pudding untouched, and spurned.

"Darling, what is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Wilkinson anxiously. "Are
you sick?"

"No," sniffed her daughter in a lachrymose key.

"But you have not eaten your supper," she expostulated; "are you sure
you are quite well, dearie?"

"I am—quite—well."

"Then," now stirred to indignation, "do you mean to tell me, that after
your delightful drive, and all your beautiful presents, you greedy,
insatiable child, you are crying yourself to sleep?"

A heartrending sob was the sole reply to this question.

Mrs. Wilkinson's thoughts flew to her spouse; he had been particularly
impatient of Angel lately. She bent over the cot, and whispered into
the ear of the little head buried in its pillow:

"Tell me, darling, what has happened? What is the trouble—who——?"

And a muffled voice moaned like some wounded animal:

"Phil—cousin Phil—he—he——" a burst of sobs interrupted her.

"He what?" impatiently.

"Oh, mummy, he never said good-bye to me."




CHAPTER VI

LATE FOR MESS


THE bungalow occupied by Captain Gascoigne and his friend was one
of the largest in Ramghur. Sixty years previously, it had been the
residence of the general commanding the district, and now it was let
to a couple of bachelors, at the miserable rental of thirty rupees a
month, for it happened to be deplorably out of repair, inconveniently
out of the way, and enjoyed the reputation of being haunted. This
unfortunate habitation stood in a spacious compound, whose limits were
absorbed in the surrounding terra-cotta coloured plain, covered with
yawning fissures, and tufts of bleached grass. A few mango trees, guava
trees, and a dry well, indicated the remains of a once celebrated
garden, whilst under the tamarinds were three or four weather-worn
tombs, the resting-place of Mahomedan warriors, who had been buried on
the battlefield long before the days of the English Raj.

An imposing range of servants' quarters (at present crowded, as the
retinue harboured all their relations, as well as lodgers) and a long
line of stables testified to the former importance of this tumble-down
abode, whose big reception-rooms, once the heart of social life, were
now filled with boxes, empty packing-cases, saddlery, and polo sticks,
and were the resort of white ants, roof cats, and scorpions.

The present tenants had naturally selected the most weather-tight
quarters, and these were in opposite ends of the venerable residence.
As Gascoigne came whirling through the entrance gate, he was waylaid by
three dogs, a fox-terrier, an Irish terrier, and a nondescript hound,
and it was immediately evident that he belonged to them, from their
yelps of hearty welcome, and the manner in which all three scuttled up
the drive in the wake of Sally Lunn.

As the cart stopped, and the syce sprang down, Shafto appeared in the
verandah. He wore the usual hot-weather mess dress, spotless white
linen, and a coloured silk cummerband, and looked strikingly handsome
as he stood bare-headed in the moonlight, gravely contemplating his
comrade.

"Upon my soul, Phil, I began to think the brute had smashed you up
at last! I've been sitting here listening hard for twenty minutes,
precisely as if I were your anxious grandmother. I know Sally's trot
half a mile away. What kept you?"

"Down dogs, down," cried their master, as he descended. "I had no
notion it was so late, and for a drive, this is the best time of the
whole day."

"Whole night you mean," corrected Shafto; "it's half-past eight—where
have you been? Sally looks as if she had had enough for once."

"She's had about twenty-two miles," admitted her owner, now taking off
his cap and subsiding into one of the two long chairs which furnished
the verandah. "The Lucknow road is like a billiard table, and we made
our own wind."

"_We?_" ejaculated his listener.

"Yes, I took that child Angel from next door; it was a rare treat for
the poor little beggar, and she coaxed me to go on mile after mile."

"Oh, did she! Well, as long as she is only the angel next door I don't
mind," said Shafto, tossing away the stump of a cigarette; "an angel in
the house, I bar. This establishment is already the home of rest for
lost dogs"—pointing to the trio—"ill-used ekka ponies, and a lame
bullock. Don't, for God's sake, bring in a child."

"You need not alarm yourself," said his friend composedly. "I should
not know what to do with her. The animals, at least, are grown up."

"And so is Angel—as old-fashioned as they make 'em. By the way, I
forgot to ask you what she wanted yesterday?"

"Nothing," replied Gascoigne, stretching out his arms. "I say—Sally
can pull—only to tell me that she was rather down on her luck."

"Not much luck to be down on, eh?" sneered his listener. "What with
a smart mamma, a saving step-papa, and a squad of greedy little
Wilkinsons, she must be a bit out of it, I should say. I wonder her
father's people don't do something."

"Here you are," cried Gascoigne. "I am her father's cousin."

"Well, I won't permit you to interfere, or take her in; by Jove, no,"
said Shafto, springing to his feet. "Charity does not begin at this
home. They say that, for all her fluffy hair and ethereal eyes, she is
a cocksy, sly, mischievous little cat."

"Poor mite! Can't 'they' let even a child alone? They must be short of
subjects."

"You allude to the station gossips, and no doubt times are bad—so
many of their 'cases' are in the hills. Personally, I don't care for
little girls with wistful eyes and a craving for chocolate."

"I know you don't," assented the other promptly. "_You_ prefer
well-grown young women with seductive black orbs and a craving for
sympathy."

"Bosh! There's the mess bugle. You take half-an-hour to tub and change;
you'll be late for dinner."

"Oh, I'll get something when I go over."

"Here," said Shafto, motioning to a syce to bring up his pony. Then,
turning to his comrade, "You are a rum customer. Harder than nails, yet
soft as putty in some ways."

"Oh, not as soft as Billy Shafto," he protested with a laugh.

"Yes. If a fellow is in a scrape—Gascoigne. Duty to do—Gascoigne.
For the sick and afflicted—Gascoigne. Dinnerless to humour a
child—Gascoigne." Whilst he spoke he put his foot in the stirrup and
mounted, and as he wheeled about he gave a view hulloa, shouted "Vive
Gascoigne!" and galloped down the avenue _ventre à terre_. For a moment
Gascoigne and the dogs sat staring at the cloud of dust the pony's
hoofs had raised behind him, and then the three animals gathered round
to have a word or two with their master.

Each of these waifs had a history of his own. Train, the fox-terrier,
was found in the railway station, a lost, distracted dog, evidently
a stranger in a strange land, for he did not understand a word of
Hindustani, and he shrank appalled from the blandishments of the
Telegraph Baboo. He was middle-aged, English, and a gentleman. What was
his past? Gunner, an Irish terrier, possibly country-born, had been
left behind by a battery of artillery, suddenly ordered up country, and
for weeks he had haunted their lines, heart-broken and starving; even
now he constantly called at his old quarters, to see if _they_ had come
back?

Toko was a stray, brought in, in an emaciated condition, by the two
others, and was believed to have been the property of a man who had
died of cholera the previous rains. These three casuals were now beyond
the reach of want, and were well looked after. They employed a dog
boy, whose duty it was to wash, feed, and exercise them; but they were
fiercely independent, and objected to going out for a walk at the end
of a chain, merely to be tied up, whilst their attendant gambolled
behind a wall with various other urchins. When not enjoying a scamper
with their master they took themselves out with great decorum, and
it was a funny sight to meet the three strolling leisurely along,
precisely like their superiors, or cantering across the maidan almost
abreast. Naturally, their friends and foes were identical, and it was a
truly brave dog who dared to raise his bristles at the trio. They had
their various individual tastes, and Train and Toko secretly felt that
it was a pity to see a dog of Gunner's age and size so passionately
addicted to chasing sparrows.

Gascoigne and the trio sat in the moonlight in front of the old
bungalow, silently enjoying one another's society, till a neighbouring
gurra, striking nine, warned Gascoigne that it was time to dress
and dine. All the same he was not in the least hungry, and only
for the susceptibilities of his bearer,—who was an abject slave
to convention, and would have considered his conduct erratic and
peculiar,—he would gladly have remained sitting in the verandah with
his three dumb friends. Gascoigne's drive with Angel had resulted in a
paradox—it had effectively taken away his appetite, and supplied him
with food for reflection. Poor little neglected ne'er-do-well! What was
to be her fate?




CHAPTER VII

MRS. DAWSON'S DRESSES


THE hot weather was in full possession of Ramghur, and, as a natural
consequence, the station became deserted. Various bragging individuals,
who had announced their determination to "face it this year," had at
the first boom of its artillery—that fierce midday blast,—closed
their bungalows, distributed their pets and flowers, lent their cows,
and carriages, among their friends, and departed precipitately to
cooler regions. It was a sickly season; already the bazaar prediction
had been more than justified. Only those whom duty or poverty chained
to the cantonment were to be found at their posts, and these were to
be seen, very late or very early, driving about the dusty roads, with
haggard white faces.

It is a well-established fact, that one hot weather endured in
company draws people more nearly together than a dozen cold seasons.
There is a general relaxing of stiffness, a putting off of armour,
a reliance on one another, and a liberal exchange of sympathy—and
secrets;—undoubtedly a fellow feeling makes one wondrous kind. For
example, if a cynic happened to remark what friends two sharply
contrasting ladies had become, "Oh, they spent a hot weather together
in Kalipore," would be accepted as an unanswerable reply. Moreover,
it is undisputed, that some of the best matrimonial prizes have been
snatched out of the heat of the plains, by maidens who clung to their
parents, and braved the consequences. Thus, they occasionally made
the acquaintance of some bored and solitary bachelor, who, failing to
obtain leave, presently consoled himself with a wife.

The band of the Native Cavalry,—Mr. Shafto's Regiment,—played thrice
a week in the club gardens, and then the pale remnant of Europeans
(and many brilliant Eurasians) assembled to what the natives term "eat
the air" and exchange the contents of letters from the hills, and the
delinquencies of their domestics.

Everywhere beyond the gardens the atmosphere was that of a brickkiln.
Within, among the trees, shrubs, and glistening foliage plants, the
nostrils were greeted by the smell of hot earth, and a recently watered
greenhouse,—that is an aroma peculiar to India. In the early morning,
immediately after sunrise, the club was at its best; thronged with
members who came to study the telegrams, glance at the papers, and pick
up any stray crumbs of local news. It was thus that the youngest Miss
Brewer first allured Mr. Pontefract into conversation on the subject
of "a fire in the Bazaar." Hitherto he had thought of her (if he ever
did think of her) as a plain, heavy young woman, who could neither ride
nor dance, but just lob over the net at tennis. Now he discovered,
thanks to the hot weather, that she was a surprisingly taking girl,
with a good deal in her, including brains. She talked well (and shared
his views on the subject of the club soda-water, and Sunday tennis);
moreover, she was a devout listener.

Between listening and talking, the moments flew; at last, the
increasing heat, and the clamour of the coppersmith bird, awakened
the pair to the fact that it was seven o'clock, and much too late an
hour to be abroad; and then, as Miss Brewer's pony carriage boasted
a hood, she offered a seat to her new acquaintance, and enjoyed the
pleasure and triumph of conveying the rising civilian to his own door.
She carried him off in every sense of the word, in fact—she was a
particularly "taking" girl. This drive was the prelude to greater
events—to meetings at dawn, to walks after dark, to little dinners,
little presents,—and an engagement. Yes, it was quite true, Tilly
Brewer, the unprepossessing, the dowdy, was about to marry the best
_parti_ in Ramghur; and when the young ladies in the hills heard the
tidings, they each and all registered a mental vow to remain below
next season. It is so easy to make such resolutions when you are in a
perfect climate.

The talk of the engagement created an agreeable break in the long
monotonous days, and mere acquaintances exhibited quite an affectionate
interest in Tilly's trousseau, presents, and prospects.

However, early in May, another topic cropped up which entirely eclipsed
the marriage preparations, and afforded food for incessant discussion
until the end of the rains; in fact, the story of "Mrs. Dawson's
dresses" created such an uproar and commotion, that it got into some of
the local papers, and every one of the letters home.

Mrs. Dawson, the Judge's wife, was a prim, spare woman of a certain
age—and, it was said, uncertain temper. She had a cool, stiff manner,
and an air of critical aloofness that seriously discounted her
popularity. This lady was Mrs. Wilkinson's most serious rival in the
matter of dress, and if her taste was less artistic, and her ideas
lacked courage, she employed a court milliner, and owned a long purse.
It must be admitted that her toilettes were both varied and expensive.
"Stiff and old-maidish," was Mrs. Wilkinson's verdict—for she never
soared to that lady's daring transformations, and condemned her
dazzling triumphs as "theatrical and loud." Twice a year Mrs. Dawson
received a large box or two from home, containing a fashionable outfit
for the approaching season, and the envious pangs the arrival of these
treasures occasioned Mrs. Wilkinson, no one—no, not even her closest
friend—had ever guessed.

A consignment of costumes had recently arrived per ss. _Arcadia_, and
Mrs. Dawson invited all her neighbours to inspect them. The dresses
were to be on view for two succeeding afternoons, but their owner
omitted to despatch a little note to Mrs. Wilkinson. She would see all
the toilettes later on in public, and, meanwhile, as she might steal
some of the novel ideas, and was quite capable of carrying away a
Paris pattern "in her eye," the poor lady was cruelly excluded. Late
one evening Mrs. Rattray dropped in on Mrs. Wilkinson, _en route_ from
the exhibition. She was a lively, fair woman, with an immense stock of
superfluous enthusiasm. As soon as she had found a seat, and unfurled
her fan, she began,

"Well, my dear, I've never seen such frocks as she has got this time."

"No," cried her hostess eagerly; "you have been to the show—do tell me
all about them. I am dying to know what the dresses are like. French,
of course—she said so."

"Yes," drawing a long breath. "There is a grey _crêpe de chine_ and
silver, like the moon in a mist, with very long, tight sleeves, and
a sort of double skirt—it's a dream. There is a lemon satin with
Egyptian embroidery and a long train, a black silk canvas with lace
sleeves, piece lace—_you_ could easily copy that; and there is a
lovely mauve tea-gown, with a yoke of point d'Alençon, and knots of
black velvet with long ends, to which I lost my heart—it's quite my
style—but she never lends a pattern, you know."

"Yes," agreed her listener, "we all know that."

"Then there are hats, and toques, and feathers, and silk petticoats. I
never saw so many pretty things all at once. I think she got some smart
cousin to choose them, for they are not in the same style as her usual
dresses—really, you won't know her."

Further details, descriptions, and even sketches, prolonged the
interview for more than an hour. Meanwhile Angel sat growing in a
corner, totally unnoticed, but absorbing every word of the conversation
with a curious expression on her little elfish face.

"I must say, it is most marked, her not inviting you," said Mrs.
Rattray, as she rose at last. "Several people noticed it, and Mrs.
Gordon was wondering why you had not come; 'the show was so much in
your line.' Of course, I did not tell her why you stayed away; at any
rate, you will see one of the frocks on Sunday, a white Chinese silk,
much too young for Mrs. Dawson; I'm sure she is long past forty. Well,
good-bye, dear, I knew you'd be dying to hear all about the exhibition,
so I just ran in to tell you." And then Mrs. Rattray bustled out to her
victoria, leaving her stricken hostess to digest her news as best she
might. Alas! what were two or three pretty muslins, or even a new lilac
foulard, against Mrs. Dawson's battle array, gowns direct from Doucet
and Rouff? Oh, money must tell in the end! and, burying her face among
her sofa cushions,—for she was weak and run down,—Mrs. Wilkinson wept
long and bitterly, she who but five minutes ago had been all animation
and smiles.

Two mornings later, Mrs. Rattray encountered Mrs. Dawson in the club
library. Greatly to her surprise, the latter accosted her at once; for,
as a rule, she merely bestowed a cool nod.

"Have you heard about my dresses?" she began excitedly.

"But you forget that I have inspected them," said the other; "I never
saw anything half so exquisite, or so——"

"Exquisite no longer!" broke in Mrs. Dawson with a catch in her voice;
"what do you think? I had some friends to my little show yesterday, all
the gowns laid out in my bedroom, just as when you came,—and then we
went into the drawing-room to tea. After they had left, I sent for the
ayah, intending to help her to fold the things, and put them in tissue
paper." Here she paused for breath, and seemed curiously agitated.

"Why, yes, of course," assented Mrs. Rattray. She stood with her hands
on the back of a chair, facing the narrator, and wondering at her
emotion. It was something novel to see Mrs. Dawson, of all people, thus
mentally dishevelled.

"When I went into my room with a light," she resumed, "I found that all
my beautiful things had been cut to pieces—into little—little bits!"

"What!" cried Mrs. Rattray, raising her voice till it was almost a
scream.

"Yes, every one of them, and done most systematically—nothing escaped,
not even my poor feather fan, nor a hat, or a blouse. The ayah kept
crying, 'Look, look, look,' till I was sick of looking. Sleeves were
hacked out of dresses, great pieces slashed out of the bodices, skirts
cut right across, in all directions; even the artificial flowers were
torn to pieces, and the fingers snipped off my evening gloves." She
paused, and there was a dead silence, for Mrs. Rattray could find no
words adequate to the occasion. She simply stared, with her topee
pushed back, from her forehead, and her lips wide apart.

"And—the grey _crêpe_?" she stammered out at last.

"A rag now. The lemon satin only fit for patchwork. There is not
even enough left to make a sofa cushion. It was all done in about
half-an-hour—and with a huge pair of dirzee's scissors."

"But who did it?" cried her listener, breathlessly. "Have you no
suspicions?"

"No, that is the strange part of it; not a soul was seen or heard
about the premises. All the doors in the verandah were wide open, the
chokedar was on duty, and he saw no one."

"Then what does the ayah say?" inquired Mrs. Rattray judicially.

"Oh, she vows it was an evil spirit, and if she had not been idling
in her godown, but had come in directly the visitors had left,
this frightful affair would not have happened." Here Mrs. Dawson's
voice became husky; however, she soon recovered her self-possession,
and continued, "Nothing was taken—no, not even an inch of
ribbon—everything is there. So it was no thief. My husband will have
it that it was Captain Moore's monkey."

Mrs. Rattray drew a long breath. At last she inquired, with studied
deliberation:

"And what is your own opinion?"

"I believe it was the work of some one who knew more about clothes than
a dumb animal," responded the victim of the outrage; "and yet, it is
like a monkey's trick, so unnecessary, and so mischievous."

"So wicked, I call it," cried Mrs. Rattray. "I must say you are bearing
it marvellously well. It is more than I could do. I have no fortitude."

"What is the good of worrying? The thing is done; no amount of worrying
will restore my pretty frocks, and I cannot afford to replace them for
some time; that lemon satin cost forty guineas, and I'd be ashamed to
tell you what I paid for the lilac tea-gown."

"You have no clue?" reiterated Mrs. Rattray.

"Unfortunately, I have not even that small consolation. Monkey or
demon, it left no trace. Well now, I must be going—the sun is getting
so strong I have a dreadful headache as it is."

And Mrs. Dawson went sadly down the steps, crawled into her carriage,
and was driven away.

But Mrs. Rattray lingered yet awhile, despite the temperature, in order
to discuss the tragedy with Mrs. Jones. Ere they separated, she said,
"How pleased Mrs. Wilkinson will be! She will have it all her own way
now."

"Yes," assented her companion, "she lives to dress, and dresses to
live—it is only her clothes that hold her to earth. She is a mere
shadow. Don't you think she looks frightfully ill, and that it is
disgraceful that Colonel Wilkinson has kept her and the children down
for three hot weathers? I declare it is next door to murder, and if she
dies he ought to be hanged."

"She wants a change badly," admitted Mrs. Rattray, "but this news will
act as a restorer, equal to two months' hill air."

"Colonel Wilkinson is a shameless screw," resumed the other; "everyone
knows that he puts away half his pay monthly, that he never subscribes
to anything—'poverty and a large family' his cry—and that poor
Mrs. Wilkinson finds it almost impossible to get him to give her a
twenty-rupee dress."

"I think Mrs. Dawson might have asked her to her show; leaving one out
is always so pointed."

"But it was intended to be pointed. Mrs. Dawson was so afraid of having
her gowns copied," pleaded her friend.

"Not much to copy now, is there?" retorted Mrs. Rattray; "and is it not
strange that they have no suspicions, and no clue?"

"No, neither the one nor the other," rejoined Mrs. Jones, shaking her
head solemnly. But Mrs. Jones was mistaken; there _was_ a clue had Mrs.
Wilkinson's ayah suffered it to pass from her hands.

For one whole morning the dirzee's scissors were nowhere to be found,
and a dirzee, minus his scissors, is as a dragon without his horse.

Kadir Bux called upon all his gods to witness that he had left them in
his basket the previous day. Who, then, had taken them? At last, after
much loud talk, and an exhaustive search, the scissors were discovered
under a fashion book in the drawing-room, and, behold! there was a tiny
scrap of lemon satin stuck fast between the blades.

Then the ayah, who had unearthed them, looked Angel straight in the
eyes, and cried, "O child of the devil!"

But she put the tell-tale scrap into the cook-house fire,—and held her
tongue.




CHAPTER VIII

THE PICNIC


THE ruthless destruction of Mrs. Dawson's dresses supplied a subject
for conversation, not merely in the station, but also in the "Burra
Bazaar," where the most private concerns of the sahibs, and mem-sahibs,
are openly debated and discussed.

Speculation was active, but neither the station nor the bazaar could
hazard the vaguest conjecture, or trace even the ghost of a clue.

The devil theory was dismissed with the contempt which it deserved; the
monkey suggestion was equally scorned, since the defamed ape was dead,
having departed this life two days previous to the outrage, and thereby
established an unimpeachable _alibi_. If not the monkey, who then? And
echo cried, Who? all over the arid, torpid cantonment. There was no
reply, and the destruction of Mrs. Dawson's Europe frocks, like one of
the historical crimes that have baffled humanity, remains undiscovered
until the present day.

The next sensation was a moonlight picnic, given by the bachelors of
Ramghur; the rendezvous was the Chinglepat road five miles out, on a
low mound between the highway and the river. On the occasion the lady
moon appeared unusually large and brilliant, as if aware that she was
responsible for the feast; the night was still and breathless, but the
hock was still iced. Like most bachelor entertainments, the picnic was
a success; around and across the cloth flew corks, crackers, jokes,
and chaff; the poor hot-weather folk were eating, drinking, and making
merry just as if the thermometer did not stand at 98, and the merriest
and most animated member of the company was Mrs. Wilkinson. She wore a
charming white toilette, in which she totally eclipsed her rival, and
was not unconscious of the fact; but she was also aware at the back
of all her smiles that she herself was present entirely without her
doctor's knowledge, and felt like an escaped prisoner, who was bound
to be captured some day. But then she wanted so much to wear her new
dress. It was modelled from Mrs. Rattray's vivid description of one of
Mrs. Dawson's celebrated costumes, and was so exceedingly novel and
becoming that she felt it no more or less than her duty to exhibit this
ghost of a Paris toilette to her many admirers. To Mrs. Dawson it was
indeed a phantom frock.

All the world knew that Mrs. Wilkinson was amazingly clever, but how
could she reproduce a garment which she had never seen? Here was yet
another mystery. Angela, who by all domestic laws should have been
in bed and asleep, had been permitted to join the company as Mr.
Gascoigne's guest, and was supremely happy. She wore her new hat,
lavishly trimmed with roses, and her best and simplest manners. Her
host had brought her in his cart; indeed, he now drove her out daily,
as he believed that it did the wan little creature good to get fresh
air, such as it was, and it afforded one means of removing her from her
stepfather's orbit.

During these drives her cousin occasionally endeavoured in an awkward,
clumsy fashion to improve the young mind, which was at present "wax to
receive, and marble to retain;" his teaching was more adapted to a boy
than a girl. His lessons—a mere sentence—brief, but pithy, showed
her his abhorrence of lying, cowardice, and all mean actions. (Poor
Angel listened with a tingling face, for she lived in an atmosphere
of falsehood, and was conscious of certain small acts that were not
creditable, chiefly connected with jam, hair ribbons, and beads; but
in her heart Angel knew that she was no coward.) These seeds, casually
cast by the wayside, and as casually received, were planted, and
subsequently bore fruit, in the child's somewhat rocky little heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

To return to the moonlight picnic. Colonel Wilkinson was present
in a grey dirzee-made flannel suit rather tight for his rounded
proportions; his moustache was waxed to exaggeration; he wore a new
pink washing tie, and he made himself conspicuous in ushering guests
to their places, arranging the viands, concocting the salad, and
distributing the iced hock—for he was always exceedingly hospitable
in other people's houses. At present the company were assembled under
the vault of heaven, but the stout little officer presided at the end
of the tablecloth, with his fat legs crossed Buddha-wise, carved the
cold Guinea fowl and ham, and pressed delicacies on his neighbours so
assiduously, that a casual arrival would have supposed that in him
he beheld the host. No one could be more genial or convivial at his
neighbour's board than Richard Wilkinson, Lieutenant-Colonel.

Angel shared a rug with her mother, and now and then stole her hand
into hers and squeezed it gently, sure token of her absolute content;
the pair were seated exactly opposite to Mrs. Dawson, who looked
depressed and commonplace in an old-fashioned brown tussore garment.
The child contemplated her gravely, with a mysteriously complacent
expression in her large eyes; her stare exasperated the lady to such a
pitch that more than once she was on the point of addressing her; the
hot weather has a knack of warping people's tempers and reducing their
nerves to fiddle-strings, and the combination of Angel's curious gaze
and her mother's "model gown" was almost too much for Mrs. Dawson's
equanimity.

After dinner there were songs and games, and some wandered away in twos
and threes down to the river. This was a tributary of Mother Gunga, a
holy river, now much shrunken; its waters moved along with a deliberate
solemnity befitting a sacred stream. The farther bank was clothed with
tall reeds, and was the well-known haunt of alligators. Mrs. Wilkinson
and Mr. Shafto were looking for one in company, and as they gazed up
and down the banks more than one grey log of wood had misled them. Had
Mrs. Wilkinson's doctor been of the party, he would have assured her
that in those thin shoes and transparent dress, as she stood breathing
malaria on the brink of the sluggish stream, she was boldly courting
death.

"There are generally three or four big fellows at the bend," said
Shafto. "I've seen them when I come to that jheel to shoot snipe;" and
he stooped to pick up a stone.

"Oh, Mr. Shafto," gasped an agonised voice, "did you see it?"

"The alligator?" flinging a stone as he spoke. "Yes; there he goes.
Mark over. Watch him scuttling into the river."

"No, no, no," stammered Mrs. Wilkinson. "The face—the face of a
woman—floating past. It was just under the water."

"Why, I declare, you are quite upset!" exclaimed her companion. "I'm
most frightfully sorry you've seen—anything. Of course, you know that
the natives bring all their dead to the river?"

"Yes, yes," she assented, with a shiver. "I've not lived in Ramghur for
four years for nothing; but it gave me a shock. It looked like the face
of—a white woman."

"That was simply the effect of the moonlight," he responded. "Come
along; the river is making you morbid, and it's not a sound thing to
loiter near it after sundown—you know they say it's full of malaria.
Let me turn your thoughts inland. Now, there is something worth looking
at," and he pointed to the northern horizon, on which glimmered the
long line of snows.

"Ah, yes," she ejaculated. "How I love the Himalayas! my happiest days
have been spent there, and my saddest. I wonder if I shall ever see
them nearer than I do now?" and she sighed profoundly.

"Why, of course you will," rejoined Shafto promptly. "We shall all be
there next season, please goodness, and have a ripping time; and, I
say, Mrs. Wilkinson, at our first ball up there let me here and now
engage you for the first waltz."

"Very well," she agreed, with a forced laugh; "it's rather a long way
ahead, is it not?"

"Nothing like taking time by the forelock—a year soon runs round. Here
comes the Colonel," as the little squat figure bore down on them.

"I say, you good people," he bawled, "what about refreshments? Does
anyone want some iced coffee? Lena, I can recommend the brew of iced
milk punch."

His wife waved a negative, and then exclaimed, "Why, I see they are
beginning to go; the Gordons and the Rattrays are off."

"What a shame!" protested her host. Yes, two carriages had just driven
away—people who are obliged to rise at four o'clock cannot afford
to keep late hours, and by half-past ten the scene of recent revelry
was utterly deserted. A family of jackals supped right royally on the
remains of the cold viands, and an inquisitive alligator gulped down an
empty soda-water bottle.

       *       *       *       *       *

Angel, who was half-asleep, accompanied her mother in the victoria, and
Colonel Wilkinson accepted a seat in Mr. Gascoigne's dogcart. He was
by no means as stout-hearted as his figure would suggest, but held on
convulsively with one hand as they dashed up the bridge, and halted in
the middle of a sentence which he did not conclude until they were a
quarter of a mile away on the other side.

He had been discoursing of his own health, and then of his wife's
health, and imparting his fears to his Jehu.

"Lena was so delicate now, and so subject to fever," he declared. "She
has a weak heart, too, and must go to the hills next season; in fact,
they all wanted a change."

"Indeed they do," assented Gascoigne, with considerable warmth,
"especially Angela. She is too old to be in India."

"Then I wish I saw my way to sending her out of it," rejoined her
stepfather, "and the chance of never seeing her again."

To this aspiration Gascoigne made no reply.

"I suppose you think I'm a brute, now, don't you?" inquired his
companion.

"Since you will have it, I think you are a stepfather—that's all."

"But like a fellow in a story-book, eh? Come, now. Well, I'm an
honest, plain man"—the latter fact was sufficiently manifest—"and
I'll tell you the truth. I could have liked the child—not the same
way as my own, of course—but still well enough; and the only girl
too. But I cannot stand her; she is a double-faced, dangerous imp and
extraordinarily daring. When you think she is quiet and on her good
behaviour she is certain to be hatching something awful; she has a
talent for bringing off the most unexpected things. Ah, you laugh, but
I warn you, Gascoigne——"

Here he paused, for the sensitive mare had taken fright at a hideous
hog, who, with his great bristles all erect, went grunting across the
road, and broke into a wild gallop.

"Now, I say, young fellow," he shouted in agonised alarm, "no
foolery—no larking—don't let her get away, for God's sake! Remember,
I've a family depending on me," and as he spoke he clutched Gascoigne's
arm with the grip of the drowning.

"Oh, you'll be all right," answered the driver, angrily shaking off the
grasp; "there's no fear." He was disgusted with his guest, for whose
cowardice and meanness he had the most supreme contempt. He did not
permit Sally to "get away," but he suffered her to go at a pace that
brought his companion's heart into his mouth, and, as a natural result,
the remainder of the drive was silence.




CHAPTER IX

THE BEQUEST


ALTHOUGH the temperature was that of a bake-house, and not a breath
of air stirred the drowsy bamboos, or the long seed-pods of the bare
acacias; yet, as Mrs. Wilkinson was driven homewards, her teeth
chattered, and her hands were as cold as ice—premonitory symptoms
of a severe attack of fever. Bitterly she now blamed herself for her
folly in lingering by the riverside, and she recalled what the river's
bosom carried with a gasping shudder. Was it a warning to her? No, no;
she was but nine-and-twenty—her life was not yet half spent. She drew
the sleeping child into her arms, and oh, how warm the little creature
felt, in her own deathly cold embrace!

       *       *       *       *       *

In a day or two it became widely known that Mrs. Wilkinson was
dangerously ill—hers was no mere ordinary local fever, but a really
grave case. The doctor's closed gharry drove into the corner compound
three times a day; kind neighbours came late and early, bringing ice,
jelly, and all manner of delicacies, hoping to tempt the appetite of
the invalid, and to eke out Colonel Wilkinson's meagre catering. Mrs.
Rattray, who had no family cares, took up her post in the sick-room,
and relieved a trained nurse, whilst other ladies—and this is ever
an action of fatal significance—carried off the children with their
toys, ayahs, and sleeping-cots; but Angel ran home every night and lay
on the mat outside her mother's door.

"If you move me, or touch me, I shall _scream_," such was her
diabolical threat, and as Angel was known to be a child of her word,
she was suffered to remain undisturbed. There she stayed, hour after
hour, wide awake, and motionless as a stone. In spite of all efforts
on the part of the doctor and nurses, the patient grew worse—the
fever, like an internal fire, seemed to consume the slender thread
of her existence. The verandah was now utterly deserted, even by the
dirzee; the plants were withered and black from want of water; insolent
crows promenaded over the matting, and the voices of the servants were
hushed. One could almost guess from the exterior of the premises that
the mistress of the house lay dying within. Colonel Wilkinson sat alone
in his dim little office; he had not the heart to read or write, or
even to tot up his accounts. An occasional low conference with Mrs.
Rattray or the doctor, and a spare and solitary meal, alone broke the
hot, heavy hours.

These whisperings conveyed bad news; his wife's condition was extremely
grave, and he could not hold himself blameless. Instead of investing
those six thousand rupees in jute and cotton mills, he ought to have
sent her and her children to the hills. He was face to face with his
own conscience. He confessed to himself that he was too fond of money.
Was this a case of saving money and losing life? Remorse is a stern
acquaintance, and Colonel Wilkinson blamed himself bitterly. Sad to
relate, in spite of all these searchings of heart, such is the force
of habit, and so strongly was he held by the grasp of avarice, within
half an hour of his self-condemnation Colonel Wilkinson was out in the
compound announcing to the milkman "that, now the children were from
home, one measure was sufficient;" and he took the same opportunity of
informing his cook "that a _two_ anna chicken was ample for broth."

That same evening the bulletin was more favourable; the patient
had recovered consciousness; she ceased to ramble about gores and
whalebone, dresses and debts; she slept for several hours, and in the
morning begged to see the children. Afterwards she talked for some time
with Colonel Wilkinson, and gave him two bills to settle—bills which
she would never have ventured to show him had she been in her normal
state of health.

"Please pay these, Richard," she faltered; "they have been a terrible
nightmare on my mind for months." Colonel Wilkinson pooh-poohed the
accounts, and thrust them unexamined into his pocket. His spirits
rose—he became sanguine. He declared to Mrs. Rattray that "when Lena
could think of bills she was on the mend, and he was determined to
write for a house at Mussouri by the night's post (even now he grudged
a rupee or two for a telegram) and move her at once. She would be all
right as soon as she was out of Ramghur. All she wanted was a change."
In the midst of their conference, both Colonel Wilkinson and Mrs.
Rattray were a good deal taken aback by hearing the sick woman express
a desire to speak to Philip Gascoigne.

"Gascoigne, my dear," expostulated her husband; "what an extraordinary
idea! Oh, you must not think of seeing him—it would be extremely bad
for you."

"It will be worse for me if I do not see him," she answered, with an
unexpected force. "I have something to say to him; please do not worry,
but send for him at once."

An invalid's whim must necessarily be humoured, and whilst her husband
went away to despatch a note, Lena Wilkinson desired her ayah to dress
her hair—yes, to get the irons and crimp and curl it, and then array
her in a pink satin tea-jacket, fasten a row of pearls round her
neck, and bring her her rings and bangles. Mrs. Rattray assisted at
this melancholy toilette; she was well aware of the patient's ruling
passion—a passion strong in death. There, in the open wardrobe from
which the ayah had brought the tea-jacket, hung rows of pretty gowns,
and conspicuous among them that copy of Mrs. Dawson's white silk which
she and Mrs. Wilkinson had manufactured with such mischievous enjoyment.

As soon as the dressing up of the weak and gasping moribund was
concluded, when she was propped up with pillows, her fan and
handkerchief placed beside her, she faltered out:

"Give me some of the medicine—a double dose—yes, and when Mr.
Gascoigne comes show him in at once." Then, as she looked at Mrs.
Rattray, "I wish to see him alone—on family business."

"Cannot Colonel Wilkinson——" began her friend persuasively.

But she cut her short with a quick gesture of dissent.

"Very well, dear," agreed her nurse, "I will bring him in the moment he
arrives; but promise me not to talk much, or to let him stay more than
five minutes."

"Oh, I promise nothing; it is for him to do that," panted the invalid.
"But I—won't keep him long."

When the visitor, greatly bewildered, was ushered into a large darkened
room, with a slowly moving punkah, he was prepared to see a certain
change in his cousin Lena, but he was horrified when he beheld her,
half sitting up, arrayed in pink satin and pearls, her hair elaborately
dressed, her eyes glittering with fever—death in her face. Oh, why did
Mrs. Rattray lend herself to this frightful mockery? He glanced over at
that blameless lady, who obviously avoided his eye.

"Well, Phil—so good of you to come," said the invalid in a weak voice.
"I'm a little better to-day, and I want so much to have a talk with
you."

As she concluded, Mrs. Rattray, who had placed a chair for the visitor,
stole out on tip-toe, dropping the purdah softly behind her.

"You should not talk, or see anyone, Lena," he protested, still
standing, "and I am not going to stay."

"Oh, yes, just for a few minutes," she pleaded, laying a burning hand
on his wrist, "for I have something most urgent to say to you, and
until I say it I cannot rest in peace. It is about Angel; sit down,
won't you," pointing to the chair, "and where I can see you."

Gascoigne obeyed her in silence.

"Philip," she continued, gazing at him with her wonderfully eloquent
blue eyes, "I am—going to die."

He raised his hand in a quick gesture of protest.

"No," she resumed. "Listen—you can speak for the next forty years—I
shall be dumb for ever—in a few hours. Philip, I shall die happy—yes,
quite happy—if you will promise me one thing."

He glanced at her, and bent his head.

"Will you—take charge of Angel?"

This request was succeeded by a silence only broken by the wheezy
creaking of the punkah rope. Philip Gascoigne was not naturally
impulsive, a promise from him carried its full weight. The singular
difference between Philip and his house-mate was this, that Shafto
performed less than he promised, whilst Gascoigne was ever better than
his word. He turned away his gaze from those two all-compelling tragic
eyes, looked down on the floor, and strove to rally his scattered
senses. He must immediately realise what this promise signified. It
meant that he should educate Angel, and become her guardian; there
was no one else to accept the post, as far as he could see. Tony's
relations had cast him off when he married; Lena was a penniless
orphan. There remained but Colonel Wilkinson. As he pondered the
question, the dying woman seemed to devour him with her eyes. At last
he looked up and met them steadily, and said:

"Yes, Lena, I will."

"I know I am asking an enormous favour," she whispered. "I am imposing
on your youth and generosity, but I am desperate, and to whom else
can I turn? You are the only Gascoigne I know, and you understand
that Richard and Angel could never live together. He detests her; she
loathes him. On the other hand—she loves you."

Gascoigne was about to speak, but once more she prevented him.

"It is a strange legacy to bequeath to a young man, and you are but
six-and-twenty, Phil—I am leaving in your charge a child of nine,
uneducated, undisciplined, and born and bred in India. But you are well
off—you have a private income, and she will not cost you much. Once
educated, she can earn her own living, and give you no more trouble—if
you will only tide her over the next seven years. Philip," she
continued in a louder voice, suddenly raising herself with an immense
effort, "if you will do this good action, I believe it will bring you a
great blessing—dying people see far, and I can see—that."

Here she paused, and fell back on her pillows completely exhausted.

"I will certainly carry out your wishes, Lena," he answered
impressively. "I will send Angel home, educate her, provide for her,
and watch over her always—or until she marries."

"Oh, you dear, dear fellow!" sobbed Mrs. Wilkinson, with tears running
down her sunken cheeks. "Words cannot thank you—Angel will—give
you—deeds."

"After all, she is my cousin, Lena—I have no belongings——"

"No, not yet," interposed his listener; "and it is not to every man I
would trust the child; but you are honourable and high-minded—you
will be her big brother."

"I will be her guardian; I am nearly twenty years older than she is."

"Only seventeen, Philip," corrected his cousin. "Well, at any rate,
some day Angel will repay you—I feel an inspiration to tell you this."

"But I don't want any payment, Lena."

"You have lifted a load from my heart. It would have been impossible
for Angel to have remained with Richard; they are like fire and oil,
and what would have been her fate? Oh, Philip, it is such a tender
little heart, and how she will miss me! Poor Dick, he only sees
her faults, not her good qualities. She is strong-willed, jealous,
reckless, and revengeful, but she will do anything for love. She would
die for a person she loved. Remember that love is the key to her
nature, _never_ forget that. I may confess to you now that Angel is my
favourite child, my own little fluffy-haired baby; when we two were all
alone in the world, then she was all the world to me."

"Lena," he said, suddenly leaning forward, and speaking with a touch of
passion in his voice, "you may rely on me—I will do all I can to make
her happy."

"I know you won't be stern, Philip; you will make allowances for her
odd, wild ways; you will love her a little—and oh, do forgive me for
the charge I am laying on your young shoulders."

"There is nothing to forgive—that's all nonsense, you know," he said.
"Anyway, I would have looked after Angel; I am her next of kin out
here."

"Yes, poor darling; and only for you she would be destitute indeed. I
have nothing to leave her but these," and Mrs. Wilkinson touched, as
she spoke, her pearl necklace and bangles. "Her father was lavishly
extravagant and gave me this," indicating a splendid diamond ring, "and
though often hard up, I have never parted with it. I somehow felt that
Angel had a claim on it. Let her have it when she is eighteen."

"Certainly," he answered; "but I trust you may live to wear it
yourself, Lena. Why should you not pull through?"

"Oh, I don't know—I may—I may," she faltered; "but now I have
told you my wishes I will not keep you. Good-bye," and she held out
her hand, and as he took it she turned away her face and burst into
low, agonising sobs. She had entirely exhausted her last reserve of
strength. Mrs. Rattray now entered the room and beckoned the visitor
out, saying:

"Lena is completely overwrought; she has been talking too long, but she
was so painfully anxious to see you—we could not refuse her."

The trained nurse came forward, and as Mrs. Rattray dropped the
curtain before the door of the sick-room, she looked up at Gascoigne
interrogatively.

"She wanted you to promise something," she said.

"Yes; if she should die, I am going to take charge of Angel."

The lady's face expressed the blankest amazement.

"You," she repeated—"you. Why, you are only a boy yourself."

"I am six-and-twenty, and seventeen years older than the child—a
pretty good start."

"Yes, now; but not much of a start when she grows up—and girls grow up
so fast, once they enter their teens."

"At present Angel is in single figures," he rejoined, "and small for
her age—I think I shall be able to look after her."

"Well, I must say you are very generous," exclaimed Mrs. Rattray, "and
I'm sure you have set poor Lena's mind at rest. I admire you—no, you
need not blush—for your Quixotism, but I think you have undertaken a
thankless and a dangerous task."

With these words Mrs. Rattray once more raised the purdah and
disappeared. In the drawing-room Gascoigne found Angel all alone; her
eyes looked dim; they had great purple marks round them, the result of
weeping and wakefulness. Her wan little face seemed smaller than ever,
but it was calm and tearless.

She stood for a moment gazing intently at her cousin, and nursing her
elbows, a favourite attitude. At last she said:

"Cousin Philip, do you think she is going to die?" Her face convulsed
as she asked the question, but she went on, "Answer me as if I were
grown up."

"I hope not," he replied; "your mother is very ill still, but a shade
better than she was yesterday. We will hope for the best. Would you
care to come out with me for a little turn?"

But Angel shook her head impatiently, and darted away out of sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

That same evening Mrs. Wilkinson gave Mrs. Rattray full elaborate
directions respecting her funeral, and the children's mourning,
no black except sashes—they had ribbon of the exact width at
Narainswamy's—she hated the idea of a shroud, and desired to be buried
in a white dress, "_the_ white dress," she added, "since in it I caught
my death."

All these injunctions, delivered in a low voice and quiet, every-day
manner, were a severe ordeal for her friend. Presently, when Colonel
Wilkinson came in to say good-night, he was bidden a solemn good-bye.
He was much startled, agitated, and shaken, and broke down completely.
Then her mother sent for Angel, who ran in in stockinged feet, climbed
on the bed, and threw her arms tightly about her, as if she would never
release her again.

"Oh, my own poor baby," murmured the sick woman, "I am going—to leave
you."

"No, mummy," she returned breathlessly; "no, no, never!"

"I can only talk to you a little, darling, and you must listen to every
word I say," urged her mother in a whisper. "Philip will take care of
you—I have given you to him. He has promised to send you to England
and have you educated. Never forget how generous this is—always obey
him and be good. I have promised for you—I want you to be so happy."

"And oh, mummy, I only want to go with you!" was the answer in a
smothered voice.

"You will try and overcome your faults, darling—and be good for my
sake—won't you?"

"I'll be good—I'll be anything," she wailed, "only don't leave me!
Oh, mummy, mummy!" and the child clung tightly to the dying woman, and
broke into hard, dry sobs.

"Very well, darling, you shall stay," and her mother put her arm round
her as she spoke; "no one shall separate us—yet."

Colonel Wilkinson was much disturbed and incensed when he heard that,
whilst he had been dismissed with a few hurried sentences, Angel had
been suffered to pass the night on her mother's bed.

Worn out with watching and grief, the little creature had fallen into
the deep sleep of utter exhaustion, and was barely conscious as Mrs.
Rattray took her in her arms and carried her away.

When the fierce May sun rose and glared down into the corner bungalow,
Angela's mother still slumbered—but hers was the sleep of death.




CHAPTER X

A CHALLENGE


THUS ended the butterfly career of pretty Lena Wilkinson, who looked
surprisingly fair and girlish, as she lay with her hands crossed on
her heart, surrounded by white flowers. She had passed at dawn; sunset
witnessed her interment, and a considerable company—in fact, the whole
station—followed the coffin, which was covered with pale blue and
silver, by the dead woman's particular desire. The ground in the arid
cemetery was almost as hard as rock, and the _cortège_ was compelled
to halt for a time, whilst the grave was made ready and enlarged.
What a depressing scene for a newly-arrived exile! The brick-coloured
ground, weather-stained headstones, haggard clergyman, and wan-faced
assembly—the gay and glittering coffin waiting till inhospitable alien
soil was prepared to receive it. Over all was the stare of a triumphant
red sun, sinking slowly into the arms of a tropical night.

At last the service was concluded, and whilst the earth was noisily
flung upon the blue and silver coffin and the mourners were dispersing,
the station cynic, as he walked towards the gate, pronounced the
epitaph of the deceased:

"Poor Mrs. Wilkinson, she was like some delicate flower without
perfume, and as she never did anything bad, she will soon be forgotten."

A few days after the funeral Colonel Wilkinson was faintly surprised
to receive a visit from Philip Gascoigne. After one or two commonplace
remarks, the latter explained his errand.

"I came to speak to you about Angel," he said. "I do not know if Lena
told you that I am to take charge of her."

"By Jove! No, not a word," rejoined the widower, and his eyes
glistened. "Man alive, you don't mean that you are in _earnest_?"

"Yes," assented his visitor; "I propose to educate her, and as soon as
I can find a school and a travelling companion, to send her to England."

"Uncommonly handsome of you, I must say," exclaimed her stepfather. "It
will cost you a couple of hundred a year."

"Then you are satisfied that I relieve you of the child?" continued
Gascoigne, ignoring the money question.

"Satisfied," repeated his host; "satisfied, my dear fellow,
is not the word that expresses my feelings—devoutly
thankful—happy—enchanted—is more like it. My poor wife and I never
agreed about the child. I may say that she was the only subject on
which we ever disagreed. From my point of view she is a headstrong,
malicious little devil, who cannot be trusted her own length—you never
know what mine she will explode on you! My poor Lena held another
opinion, and believed her to be 'a little saint.'"

"Perhaps she is something between the two extremes," suggested her
cousin drily.

His companion's answer was a doubtful grunt, as he paced the room
tugging at his moustache. "I've been making plans," he resumed, now
pointing to a table littered with letters and officials; "I've decided
to chuck the service. This has been a great blow, and sickened me with
India. How can I soldier, and lug a family about with me? I shall go
and settle on my own property in New Zealand. Of course, I am bound to
marry again—this seems a heartless thing to say, and Lena only dead
a week, but what am I to do with all the children? It is a necessity
from a common-sense point of view—a housekeeper and a governess would
entail no end of bother and er—er——"

"Expense," suggested his companion sarcastically.

"Expense! Just so," seizing the word, "and I've been wondering what
I'm to do with Angel, badgering my brains with all sorts of schemes,
when in you walk and take her off my hands. It seems almost like a
miracle—the interposition of Providence," he added piously; "and now I
understand why Lena was so anxious to see you."

"Yes; it was to talk about Angel, and tell me her wishes respecting
her."

"And what were they?"

"That I was to be her guardian, and have absolute control over the
child," replied the young man. "I intend to educate and provide
for her. Oh yes, by the way, her mother wished her to have all her
jewellery."

"All her jewellery!" repeated Colonel Wilkinson. "Oh, I don't know
about that! I believe it is my property in the eye of the law—there
was no will, you see."

"But you have no girls, and at least you will scarcely care to keep
what Angel's father gave her mother?"

"I suppose you mean the diamond ring?" stammered Colonel Wilkinson, a
little cowed by the young man's manner. "Well, I'll think it over; but
look here, Gascoigne, I'm a firm believer in pen and ink; would you
mind writing me a letter, a formal letter, to say that you propose to
relieve me from all charges or responsibilities connected with Angela
Gascoigne?"

"Certainly, with pleasure; and on your side, I shall expect you to hand
me over any jewellery that belonged to her mother—at least, before she
became your wife."

"Um," grunted Colonel Wilkinson, "that ring is rather a big thing.
I've had it valued, and it's worth a hundred pounds." He took another
turn to the end of the room and back, then he halted in front of his
visitor and said, ungraciously, "Well, it's a bargain—you can have the
ring, and all the bangles, too; it's a cheap exchange for your written
agreement to rid me of a plague."

Philip Gascoigne experienced a most disagreeable sensation; he felt
precisely as if he had just purchased the child for a hundred pounds.
He instantly rose to end the interview, and said, "I will send you the
document as soon as I go home."

"And when will you be prepared to take over charge?" inquired the
anxious stepfather.

"Whenever I can make arrangements for her passage."

"And mourning," supplemented the other sharply; "you will provide
mourning, of course?"

"Yes; Mrs. Rattray will perhaps undertake her outfit for me. There is a
good deal to be done—we must wait until after the monsoon has broken;
but I think I can promise you that in six weeks you will have seen the
last of Angela."

"Thank God!" was the fervent rejoinder; "that will suit me down to
the ground. I won't be moving until the cold weather, not for several
months. I say, you won't forget the document, like a good fellow? Oh,
must you go? I say, have a lime and soda? No, by the way, we are out
of soda-water. Well, then, good-bye—I've a heap of business to get
through—you know your way out? Ta, ta."

As the visitor was about to cross the verandah a little figure issued
from a side door, and sprang on him and seized his arm in her grasp.
"I've been waiting for you for ages, Phil. Why did you stay with him so
long?"

"I've been telling Colonel Wilkinson that you are to be my charge,
Angel," responded her cousin, "and that in a few weeks' time I hope to
send you to England."

"And how much are you to pay?" she demanded bluntly.

"Pay," repeated the young man; "why should I pay anything?"

"Because he never gives without something in exchange." Angel had a
bad opinion of her fellow-creatures, and a piercing eye for a hidden
motive. "What do you think Ayah Anima is doing now by his orders?"

  "She gave them some broth without any bread,
  She whipped them——"

"No," interrupting the quotation with angry emphasis, "but selling all
my mummy's pretty frocks and hats in the patchery and bazaar! She is
taking them round among the soldiers' wives in barracks, _now_."

Gascoigne made no comment on this pitiful illustration of Colonel
Wilkinson's thrift; in his mind's eye, he already beheld various
reproductions of Mrs. Wilkinson at band and race meeting.

He diplomatically opened a fresh subject by asking, "How will you like
to go to England, Angel?"

"Oh, I shall be glad to get away from hateful Ramghur," she answered,
"but dreadfully sorry to leave you. I've no one but you now—have I,
Phil?"

"Oh, you'll make heaps of friends when you get home," was his evasive
reply.

"Who is to take me to England?" she asked sharply.

"I'm not certain," he replied, "and I've not had time to make
inquiries, but perhaps Mrs. Dawson."

"Mrs. Dawson," she echoed with an odd, elfish laugh; "she does not
like me—lots of people don't like me, cousin Phil," and she looked at
him wistfully—such a frail, friendless little creature, his heart was
filled with pity as he answered:

"I like you, Angel—that is something to begin with? Would you care to
come over and have tea with us this afternoon at four o'clock?"

"Oh yes, yes!" dancing up and down as she gleefully accepted; "and may
I pour it out?"

"You may, if we can raise a small teapot. Now there's the bell; run
away to your dinner."

A proud, not to say puffed-up, child was that which ran across to the
big bungalow in a newly starched frock and wide black sash. In the
verandah Angel found the two young men, who welcomed her cordially,
and made her sit between them and pour out tea. And what a pouring out
it was; what a slopping of milk it entailed, a dropping of the lid
of the teapot into the sugar-basin, and a spoon into the hot water!
Hosts and guest made tea and made merry together. There was a cake,
too, in which "the three" evinced a profound interest, and Angel
chattered incessantly to them and to her companions. Her satisfaction
was complete when she was conducted all over the premises and into the
stables, where Sally Lunn condescended to eat a piece of sugar-cane
from her hand. This visit was the precursor of many. Angel was accorded
the freedom of the bungalow, and spent many happy hours within its
walls, looking at pictures, making tea, or mending gloves for her
bachelor hosts.

Discipline at home was considerably relaxed. Colonel Wilkinson was
feverishly busy making ready for his move, and Great Sale, getting old
furniture re-covered, glued up, and varnished. Already the catalogue
was in the printer's hands, and the adjectives "splendid," "unique,"
"handsome," and "magnificent" were in extraordinary prominence.

Thanks to the preparations, which were going forward, Angel was spared
to her neighbours for many an afternoon. She was not a tiresome child,
as Shafto freely admitted; she was noiseless, the dogs liked her, the
bearer tolerated her, and when Gascoigne was absent she was content to
curl herself up in a chair with a book or a stocking.

Whenever he could afford time her cousin treated her to a drive; but in
these, the last days of a truly fearful hot season, driving had ceased
to be a joy. All the world was waiting for the rains, and gazing with
strained expectation at the great bank of black clouds to the westward,
on which the sheet lightning danced every night in dazzling diagrams.
This cloud-bank coming nearer, oh, so slowly! embodied the longed-for
rains.

For advice and guidance respecting his new charge, her cousin repaired
to Mrs. Rattray. Mrs. Rattray had been Mrs. Wilkinson's friend, and she
was a kind-hearted, practical woman. There were other ladies who would
gladly have advised the inexperienced young guardian, but he did not
believe in a multitude of counsellors.

Mrs. Gordon was charming, but she was too young—a mere girl herself!
Mrs. Dawson did not care for children, and was alarmingly stiff and
formal; so when it was possible he snatched half-an-hour in order
to confer with Mrs. Rattray over letters and telegrams, and matters
connected with Angel's passage, outfit, and destination.

Late one afternoon he called on this lady by appointment. Angel was
with him when he drove up to the Rattrays' neat bungalow, which stood
back from the road in a small enclosure, full of pretty shrubs and
flowering trees. It had two gates, both opening into the principal
thoroughfare in Ramghur.

"I'm going in here, Angel," announced her cousin. "I won't be more than
ten minutes, and you can wait in the cart."

"All right," she assented, but tendering two eager hands; "may I hold
the reins?"

"Very well; but only for show, mind," he said as he relinquished them.
"Promise me you won't attempt to drive."

"Yes, I'll promise," she assented reluctantly, for she had entertained
a glorious vision of trotting out at one gate, and whirling in at the
other.

With a brief order to the syce to remain at Sally's head, Gascoigne
went indoors. He had come to decide finally the choice of school for
Angel.

Mrs. Rattray could hardly restrain a smile, as she sat _vis-à-vis_ to
this good-looking young bachelor, who, with his elbows on the table and
his hands in his hair, was anxiously comparing two prospectuses. It was
really astonishing how soon he had accommodated himself to his novel
situation.

"I must say it is very good of you to adopt——"

"Don't!" he protested, raising his hand. "Please, Mrs. Rattray—every
second person I meet tells me the same thing—it is not."

"Very well," she interrupted; "then I will tell you something you have
not heard yet. I think you are rashly adventurous."

"I don't see that at all," he replied.

"You will find that Angela requires a strong hand—she is not the least
like any child I've ever known. I've not known many intimately—it is
true. She will soon pick up an education at home, for she is quick and
bright; but she has another education to forget, the education she has
acquired out here from servants."

"Oh, she's bound to forget that," said her cousin.

"Is she?" rejoined the lady doubtfully; "I hope so. Now I wonder if you
even faintly realise what you have undertaken?"

"I am not sure that I have come down to the bedrock of my
responsibilities—but I will do my best."

"Of course, I know that," said the lady. "But pray bear in mind that it
is not a stray pony or a lost dog to whom you are playing Providence.
You have assumed the charge of a human life, a child with a strange
nature, and who will be an extraordinary woman some day."

"Yes; but at present the woman, thank Heaven, is in the far-away
future, and I have only to do with a child."

"I hope Angel will never give you reason to regret your generosity."

"I'm sure she will be all right. You make far too much of the business.
I'm only sending my poor cousin's little orphan to school. She will
turn out well, if she falls into good hands," and here he held up
several letters and said: "It is for you to choose to whose keeping I
entrust her."

In the meantime the subject of this conversation sat in the cart
outside, enormously impressed by the importance of her position. To
other children who passed the gate she nodded with an air of splendid
condescension; they stared and stared and looked back enviously at the
little Gascoigne girl all alone in a dogcart, holding the reins. Truly,
these were some of Angela's proudest moments.

But one acquaintance, a bare-legged, freckled boy, in a striped cotton
suit, boldly walked up the drive between the shrubs, and proceeded to
interview little Gascoigne. This intruder was Toady Dodd, a youth of
eight, son of an impecunious house, and Angel's mortal enemy.

"Hullo!" he shouted, standing with hands in pockets and legs wide
apart; "what a swell we are, cocked up there!"

"Yes—miles up above you," she retorted sharply; "run away and steal
some more macaroons," a malicious reminder of some past evil deed.

"Are you going to drive?" he inquired, calmly ignoring the rude
suggestion, "or are you just there for show?"

Angel gave a brief nod.

"_What_ a show!" cried Toady, cutting a caper, and making a series of
hideous grimaces. Angel now leant over and lifted the whip out of its
socket, and began to handle it significantly.

"You're afraid to drive, ain't you?" he screamed. No reply; his
adversary was far too proud to record her promise.

"Drive out of the gate and back," urged the tempter, "and I'll never
say you're a coward again."

"I'm not a coward, you ugly, freckled toad," she screamed. "If you
don't mind, I shall hit you with the whip."

"First catch me," he shouted derisively, executing a war dance just out
of reach. Come now—I dare you—dare you—to hit the horse."

To touch Sally with the whip was not driving, argued the child with
herself; and consumed by a feminine desire to show off, and exasperated
by her tormentor, with a force really intended for _him_, she brought
the lash suddenly down on Sally's shining flank.

Instantly there was a vicious bang against the splash-board; Angel
felt herself shot into the air, and remembered no more. The shrieks
of Toady, the yells of the syce, and the sound of thundering hoofs
summoned Gascoigne to the steps. There he saw the syce picking himself
up with great care, he saw a white bunch and two black legs in the
middle of a croton bush, he saw a great cloud of dust flying down the
road—and that was all! He ran to the shrub and disentangled Angel,
who had gone in head foremost and was merely stunned and speechless.
The servant, however, found his tongue, when he discovered that his
injuries were not mortal.

"Missy Baba—beating with whip—horse done gone!"

Such was his brief explanation.

Meanwhile the real cause of all the mischief lurked under a great
creeper, and remained a palpitating spectator of the scene. As soon
as Angel had recovered her senses she began to exculpate herself in
sobbing gasps, "Oh, Philip, I didn't drive—I did _not_ drive. I only
touched Sally with the whip." And she burst into a storm of tears,
whilst the syce ran limping out, in order to raise the station and
catch the runaway.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was in a second-class "fitton" that Angel returned home. A fitton
is a ramshackle phaeton, drawn by a pair of bony ponies, and a
second-class fitton is precisely what it claims to be. From this lowly
equipage the delinquent was delivered over to her ayah, who awaited
her on the verandah with stolid dignity.

"And the dogcart and big horse," she cried, "what hath befallen
them?" But Miss Gascoigne merely shrugged her shoulders and stalked
off into her own apartment. Her cousin did not escape so easily; he
had dismissed the conveyance, and was proceeding on foot, when he
encountered his chum.

"I say, where are Sally and the trap?" asked Shafto.

"I've no notion," he answered; "in Jericho, for all I know."

"But," pulling up, "I say—bar jokes."

"Oh, yes, I bar jokes," agreed Gascoigne; "I left Angel holding the
reins when I was in at the Rattrays'. I heard a scrimmage, and when
I ran out Angel was in the bush, the syce on his back, and Sally was
nowhere. I believe the child touched her with the whip—at any rate,
she went through the station like greased lightning."

"Great Scotland!" ejaculated his friend, "and with the cart at her
heels—a mare that is worth a thousand rupees, and the trap new from
Dykes' last season. So much for Angel! Has she broken her neck?"

"No, but she is breaking her heart, poor little soul."

"Odious little beast, she has no heart to break—that's where you make
a mistake. Where are you off to?"

"To send out all the syces in the place to chase Sally—she went
towards the railway."

"Oh, I'll run her down; but, mind you, Phil, next time you see her
she'll have broken knees," and with this agreeable prophecy he galloped
away. There was no sign of Sally all that night, but various rumours
respecting her were afloat in the Club. One lady had seen a ghostly
horse and trap dash up at her door at dark, and when a servant ran to
the steps the horse had wheeled sharp round, plunged through a low
hedge, cart and all, and vanished.

Later, an empty vehicle and a galloping steed had been viewed beyond
the jail. At eight o'clock the next morning the syce reappeared with
a quadruped said to be the runaway animal, coated from head to tail
with sweat and red dust; her very eyes were half closed. Who could
believe that this dirty, demoralised, limping creature was smart Sally
Lunn? Yet it was Sally, and, marvellous to relate, her knees were
unblemished. She had been captured five miles out in the open country
on her back in a dry nullah, with the trap under her. The shattered
remains of the vehicle followed soberly on the Ryot's bullock cart—it
was minus a wheel, a shaft, also mats, lamps, cushions, but these were
subsequently collected in various parts of the cantonment—and their
owner came to the conclusion that he had got out of the business far
better than he expected. Sally was terribly nervous and wild for weeks;
the cart was despatched to Lucknow to be repaired—and there were no
more drives for Angel.




CHAPTER XI

WHO IS SHE?


THE monsoon had broken at last, and the rain descended and the floods
came in drenching sheets. Red plains sprang to life, and became a
delicate green, frogs croaked hilariously, snakes were washed out of
their holes, sickly vegetation revived as if touched by some magician's
wand, and all the oleanders were in flower.

During the long, wet days, when nullahs were racing torrents and the
avenue a running stream—a joy to the ducks—Angel was constantly to
be found at the big bungalow, playing the _rôle_ of _enfant de la
maison_. She was permitted to wander through the empty rooms, and to
amuse herself to her heart's content. Her guardian was a good deal from
home; since the first burst of the rains had sorely tried the piers of
the new bridge over the Ram Gunga, every morning at an early hour he
wrapped himself in a mackintosh and leggings, mounted his horse, and
splashed away. Even in the afternoons Shafto and Angel frequently had
the premises to themselves; the former took but scant notice of his
companion, for ever since the "Sally episode" she had been unpardoned
and in his black books.

One afternoon he was enjoying a lazy spell, a sporting paper and
a cheroot, in the verandah; the "Imp," as he mentally called her,
was presumably amusing herself in the interior with the dogs or
the bearer's little girl—or both. He had, in fact, forgotten her
existence, and was absorbed in the weights for the Leger, when three
cold, moist fingers were laid on his cheek, and between his eyes and
the printed page was thrust a large photograph.

Naturally he started, exclaimed, and stared. Then he became conscious
that he was looking at the charming picture of a beautiful girl of
nineteen, with glorious eyes and a faint but bewitching smile. Shafto,
the ever-susceptible, seized the portrait in both hands and examined
it exhaustively. It had something to say for itself, too; across one
corner was inscribed, in a dashing calligraphy, the name "Lola." He
continued to study the face with a puzzled air, then turned and stared
at the child interrogatively.

Was this one of her mother's friends? To the best of his recollection,
he had never seen the face in Mrs. Wilkinson's drawing-room.

"Do you think she is pretty?" inquired Angel eagerly, as she met his
glance.

"Ra—ther," was his emphatic reply. "But who is she?—where the dickens
did you unearth her?"

"In Philip's room," was the unexpected response. "Oh, you need not
look so shocked, Mr. Billy Shafto," she cried audaciously; "I've not
stolen it! I was only searching for some paper to draw on—he generally
has lots—and I opened his shabby old leather box and found some. Two
lovely bits of cardboard, and in the middle—between them—this. Who
is she, do you know? Do you think—he is in love with her?" she asked
anxiously.

"I'll tell you what I do think," said Shafto, suddenly sitting erect,
"I think you ought to be well whipped."

Angel's pale face became pink to the roots of her hair.

"How dare you go and pry among Mr. Gascoigne's papers," he resumed,
"you infernal little monkey? You are a horrid, sneaking, sly little
imp."

"But what have I done?" she protested in a shrill key. "I was only
looking for something to draw on—and why shouldn't he have _one_ lady,
when you have eleven in your room? Yes, all in frames, and two of Mrs.
Giddy on your writing-table."

This was carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance!
For a moment her companion, who was now at boiling-point, struggled
desperately for composure and speech. At last he said with an effort:

"You just march back at once and put that photograph where you found
it."

As he spoke he drew the silver paper carefully over the face, as if
he would hide Philip's sweetheart from the elf's prying eyes. Angel
snatched it out of his hand with a jerk, and walked away without one
word; but she deliberately studied the photograph till she learnt the
face by heart. She learnt something more also, for as she replaced it,
on its original wrapping she read on the paper in the same bold scrawl,
"To Phil—with Lola's love."

So that was Philip's secret, thought Shafto; that was Philip's
lady-love, who, by all accounts, had chucked him. She had a lovely
face, a haunting face; what bad luck for poor old Phil!—and that
meddlesome imp had discovered his hidden skeleton, had dragged it
forth into daylight, and possibly exhibited it all round the servants'
quarters, and finally come to him and asked in her little fluting
voice, "_Who is she?_"

And here came Phil at last, in dripping condition on a dripping
horse—what a pair of drowned rats!

As soon as he had changed his clothes Gascoigne appeared in the
verandah, looked about, and said:

"Hullo, where is Angel? I thought she was coming over to make tea?"

"Oh, she has been here all right enough," rejoined his comrade grimly;
"very much here. I believe she has departed. I saw her flying across
the compound just now. Phil, that child, instead of making tea, has
been making hay in your room."

"Oh, has she?" he responded carelessly, as he lit a cheroot. "Well, she
can't do much harm there."

"I'm not so sure of that," retorted Shafto with tragic significance.
"She found the photograph of one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen,
and brought it out for information—awfully keen to know all about it."

Gascoigne jumped up suddenly, and took the cigar out of his mouth. His
face was stern as he looked fixedly at his friend.

"Billy, this is some of your chaff."

"I swear it's not," protested Shafto forcibly. "That prying imp was
rooting in your despatch box. Ah!" he concluded in a significant
undertone, as Gascoigne hurriedly left him.

After a short absence his friend returned, and resumed his seat without
one word.

"I made her put it back," continued his companion. "I always knew that
you'd be let in by that child, somehow."

"No," rejoined the other; "I let myself in—as you call it."

"You can't deny that she has made a rather brilliant beginning.
Smashing up a new dogcart, unearthing your most sacred possession, and
flaunting it round the house. What on earth are you going to do with
her?"

"I'm going to send her to school next week."

"And afterwards?"

"She will make her home with some nice family."

"Nice prospect for the nice family," remarked Shafto. "And after she
has quite done with the nice family?"

"That is far enough ahead," replied Gascoigne with a touch of
impatience. "Angel won't be grown up for years, and we may all be dead
by that time."

"Now, I call that a really cheerful way of looking at it. One thing is
certain, whoever is dead, Angel won't weep. She has no more heart than
a paving-stone."

"Why do you say that?" demanded her cousin quickly.

"Simply because it is patent to all the world that she has forgotten
her mother already. She never mentions her name——"

"That does not matter—that is no sign," argued her champion; "she
thinks more of her mother than the whole Wilkinson family put together.
The other morning, when there was a break in the rains and I was out
early, I saw a small figure staggering over towards the cemetery,
carrying a pot as large as herself. I kept behind, of course, and did
not let her see me; it was Angel, taking a plant to her mother's grave.
There's no stone up yet."

"No, nor ever will be," supplemented Shafto.

"The cemetery is more than a mile away," continued Gascoigne; "so you
will allow that it was rather a big job for a child of her age."

"Oh, yes," admitted her implacable adversary; "Angel's jobs are
generally on a large scale."

"She steals off every morning almost before light," resumed her
defender.

"What is the ayah about, to allow her to prowl at such an hour?"

"Oh, the ayah allows her to go her own way now; she can't control her,"
confessed her cousin.

"No, nor anyone else," muttered Shafto. "Look here," he added suddenly,
"I'll tell you something, Phil. That child is going to be a beauty."

"Nonsense—not she. You are mad about beauty," rejoined his friend
contemptuously.

"Yes, she is, and something out of the ordinary, too, if I am any
judge. This, I imagine, will complicate matters. Oh, my poor old boy, I
wouldn't be in _your_ shoes for a thousand pounds!"




CHAPTER XII

ANGEL IMPARTS A SECRET


IT was the evening before Angel's departure for England. Her
luggage was carefully labelled, her roll of wraps was strapped, all
arrangements were complete. She was to travel under the neatly trimmed
wing of Mrs. Dawson, leaving Ramghur at dawn. Gascoigne had intended
accompanying his charge to Bombay, but duty could not spare him—no,
not even to escort her to the railway station; he had just received an
urgent telegram which called him away that night, and had walked over
to take leave of Angel, followed by the three. They were all pacing up
and down Colonel Wilkinson's desolate verandah, the man and child side
by side, the dogs in close attendance. It was a cool evening in the
rains, and the sun had recently set in a blaze of dramatic magnificence.

"Now, Angel," said the young man after a short silence, "you are going
to be a credit to me, I know."

"Yes, I am," she answered with superb self-confidence; "I'll do
anything you like, only tell me what I am to do."

"Think three times before you speak," he suggested.

"Oh, I shall hate that," she rejoined with a shrug.

"But you know you often blurt out things that you really don't mean,
and that get you into trouble."

"Um—yes," she admitted with a pout, "and what else?"

"Never be afraid to speak the truth."

"I'm not—not a little bit," she proclaimed.

"Mind you stick to that—it's more than most of your elders can say.
You will write to me every week, and let me know how you get on?"

"Yes; and you will answer my letters—they will be the only ones I
shall get."

"You may be sure I shall write, and the dogs, too; they shall send you
their photographs."

"Oh, Philip," she exclaimed, "how I wish you were coming home before
two long years! I shall mark off the weeks till I see you, beginning
to-morrow; and I'll save up every single one of my secrets to tell you."

"I don't think they will give you much trouble."

"Oh, won't they? I know quantities of secrets. Shall I tell you one
now?"

"Yes, if you like," he rejoined indifferently, "as long as it is your
own property; I don't want to listen to other people's affairs."

"But this one is my own, my very own—Philip. You must promise me not
to tell anyone _ever_."

"How solemn and important you look!" he laughed; "what can this mighty
secret be? Yes, I see you are panting to tell me—I promise. Now for
it."

"Then listen," she began mysteriously, "no—first come inside," and she
beckoned him to follow her into the drawing-room; then she ran to the
different half-doors and peeped furtively around, whilst her cousin
waited to hear the important disclosure with an expression of amused
toleration. What a little actress she was, darting about from door to
door! At last she came up to him, looked him straight in the face,
folded her hands, and said in a voice that quivered with triumph:

"It was _I_—who cut up Mrs. Dawson's dresses."

"What do you say?" gasped her companion, staring incredulously into the
small white face.

"She wouldn't let me go home with her, if she knew, would she?" and
Angel cracked the joints of all her fingers, native style, as if she
were letting off a succession of squibs.

"You are not in earnest, Angel?—not about the dresses?" he
expostulated, with bated breath.

"But I am," she retorted sharply; "she never asked mother to see
them—and mother cried. So I just took the dirzee's scissors and
ran out in the dusk," illustrating the action with her skinny arms,
"through your compound; then I crawled into Mrs. Dawson's verandah—I
believe the chokedar took me for a dog. No one else was watching—I
stole into her room and just cut everything to pieces. Oh, my, it was
fun—snipping the feathers, tearing the _crêpe_, and hacking away at
the satin. You should have seen the room. I was very sorry for the
pretty things—but I had to do it, and all quick, quick as lightning,
for of course if Mrs. Dawson had caught me she would have killed me.
Then I crept out, and got behind a pillar and away into the shadows,
through a hole in the wall, and home." She paused breathless with
exultation, and her listener, as he scrutinised the small, ruthless
countenance, began to realise that his responsibilities were heavier
than he anticipated, and that there was more of the imp than the angel
in his little ward.

"Why do you look so queer?" she cried suddenly. "I only did it because
I loved my mummy; I would do as much for _you_ to-morrow. Why don't you
speak?—are you shocked?"

"Yes—I should think I was. I am wondering what your mother would have
said to this," he demanded sternly.

"Oh, mummy would have scolded and pretended to be angry," she answered,
with an air of serene conviction, "but in her heart all the time she
would be _so_ glad."

And as she pronounced this opinion, she nursed her elbows and nodded
her head reassuringly.

"Well, Angel," said her cousin after a painful silence, "I would not
have believed this story from any lips but your own. I can hardly
credit what you tell me. I am sorry to find that you are different to
what I thought you were, a mischievous, vindictive, cunning child."

For an instant the little culprit looked stunned, as if she could not
believe her ears.

"Oh, Phil!" she cried in a voice of intense anguish. "Don't say it—I'm
not—I'm not—and I'm going away to-morrow, and you are angry with me.
Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?"

And she wrung her tiny hands in a wild frenzy of grief.

"It is certainly time you went home, Angel," he returned steadily,
"and if you love me, as you say, I implore you to play no more of
these monkey tricks. I hate treacherous, underhand ways. Think of all
the damage you did. You destroyed what must have cost a great deal of
money."

"But, Phil, you don't understand," she pleaded, and tears rained down
her face; "I did all for mummy, my own mummy, and now"—her voice
rising to a wail—"she is dead, and you are angry—oh, what shall I do,
what shall I do?"

She flung herself downwards on the sofa in the abandonment of her
grief, and buried her head in the cushion.

"Come now, Angel," said her cousin, stooping over her, "don't cry like
this—your secret has given me an unexpected shock, and shown me a side
of your character that—frightens me—but," as her sobs shook her, "sit
up and dry your eyes, little girl. As this is our last evening, I will
say no more. You will be good, won't you?" he whispered, stroking her
hair.

"Yes, yes, if you will love me," and she raised herself and looked at
him with piteous, entreating eyes.

"All right, then," he agreed, "that's a bargain. I will love you if you
are good. Hullo, here comes Colonel Wilkinson."

"Oh, then," starting up, "we must say good-bye." Gascoigne sat down
beside the child, and was about to stoop and kiss her, when she flung
her arms round his neck and pressed her lips to his with the passion of
a desolate, forlorn creature who was parting, perhaps for ever, with
her only friend.

Her action was the more surprising, since she was a child who recoiled
from endearments, and coldly turned away her face when ladies would
have caressed her. As suddenly as she had embraced her cousin, she
released and pushed him from her with violence and ran out of the room.
Her stepfather, who encountered Angel in the doorway, now advanced,
rubbing his hands complacently.

"So she's quite broken down, I see. That's just her one redeeming
point—her affection for you. She has no feeling for anyone else. Just
fancy, she never expressed the smallest regret at being parted from her
dear little brothers, and when the ayah said, 'This is the last time
you will ever have tea together,' she tossed her head and said, 'So
much the better.' Can you imagine such appalling heartlessness? I tell
you candidly, Gascoigne, that you will have your hands full."

"I think not," rejoined her visitor; "not in the sense you mean—I
suppose you will be leaving before long?"

"Yes, I'm getting rid of all the big things by degrees," replied the
Colonel, "the bullock, bandy, and piano and victoria; I advertised
them, and got my price," and as he announced this gratifying fact he
seemed to swell with triumph. It was true that he had obtained double
their value for his shabby, worn-out possessions, and had administered
severe disappointments to various harmless and deluded people; in whose
nostrils the very name of Wilkinson stinks until the present day.

"I am sending some refreshments with Angel," he continued with a gust
of generosity, "hard-boiled eggs, lemonade, and biscuits. You will see
that I get the bottles and basket back from Bombay, won't you—like a
good fellow?"

"It will be rather difficult," rejoined the good fellow, wondering if
the avaricious wretch, who grudged the value of a few annas, would also
require the egg-shells. "But I'll see what can be done." After a few
words respecting luggage, labels, tickets, and, above all, an early
start, the men parted. Gascoigne strolled back to his quarters, a prey
to some anxious thoughts. What passion was embodied in the child's puny
embrace, and was it to be, as Shafto predicted, a millstone about his
neck as long as ever he lived? There was no blinking the fact, that
he had accepted a serious charge. Angel was totally apart from other
little girls of her age who cared for chocolates and dolls. She was
only interested in human puppets, in the serious things of life, her
feelings and emotions far transcended her years. She was a child in a
thousand, for good or evil. Clever, resolute, unscrupulous, secret,
yes, she was all that, but she was also devoted, unselfish, and
faithful.

Her future would be a matter of profound anxiety; fortunately the
thread of her fate lay in no hand save his own.




CHAPTER XIII

ANGEL'S WINGS ARE CLIPPED


LADY AUGUSTA GASCOIGNE was the daughter of a marquis, the widow of a
baronet, and our little Angel's grandmamma. She lived in a small house
in Hill Street, with her daughter Eva, a plain, awkward, distressingly
shy woman of seven-and-thirty, who remained on her parents' hands as a
hopelessly unmarketable article, when her two younger sisters had made
brilliant matches, and covered their chaperon with glory. But Eva's
sole suitor was an ineligible, who had been dismissed with indignation
and contumely, and as Miss Gascoigne disliked society and dress, she
had subsided into genteel obscurity—her mother's housekeeper and
drudge.

Lady Augusta was blessed with an iron constitution and the vigor of
perpetual youth; with her slender figure, well-poised head, and active
movements, she appeared at a little distance to be about thirty, albeit
the remorseless Peerage stated her years to be three-score. She wore
her clothes with grace, employed a French maid—well versed in "the
art of beauty"—and got all her gowns in Paris. She patronized the
turf, the theatre, and the most popular foreign Spas; her supper and
roulette parties were renowned. She carried on her correspondence by
telegram, and lived in a perpetual whirl. Her ladyship still retained
the remains of considerable beauty; her nose was delicately chiselled
(and came out well in her photographs); her eyes were blue, very
quick, and rather closely set together; her hair, which had once been
red, had faded to a pale sandy shade, and was marvellously crimped
and curled—and matched. She was exceedingly vivacious, cheery, and
popular, always well-dressed, always well posted in the earliest news,
the newest story, and the coming scandal, and men thronged around
Lady Augusta like flies about a pot of honey. She was constantly in
evidence; her comings and goings, her little dinners and race parties
were faithfully recorded. She was smart, her friends were smart, her
turn-out was smart, and when she appeared at church parade "wearing her
sables," or at the opera "wearing her diamonds," or merely driving down
Sloane Street with "a bunch of violets tucked into her coat," were not
all these doings chronicled in the Society papers?

Lady Augusta was thoroughly satisfied with her surroundings and
herself, and put all painful thoughts, such as the memory of her two
dead sons, far from her. She was entirely without heart or sympathy,
and turned her back on sickness, suffering, and all disagreeables. She
was quick to seize on, and enjoy, every passing pleasure, and declared
herself a philosopher—but people who disapproved of this callous and
volatile lady called her by another name.

Immediately after the death of Mrs. Wilkinson, Philip Gascoigne wrote
to Lady Augusta, and informed her that he had undertaken the charge
of her granddaughter, and if not actually requiring her sanction, at
any rate deferring to her opinion, and asking advice respecting the
child's education. To this announcement, Angel's grandmamma replied
by the following mail, declaring that she had hitherto been under the
impression that Tony's child had _died_ in infancy, and that whilst
she warmly applauded Philip's benevolence, she failed to feel the
faintest interest in the offspring of the late Mrs. Wilkinson, and that
any authority that might be supposed to lie with her, she transferred
to him with all her heart. Her ladyship went on to say that he was a
bold man to saddle himself with a girl of nine; born and brought up in
India, and that his wisest course would be to send her to some cheap
hill school, or convent out there, when, later on, she could become a
governess or a nun. When was he coming home, and when was he going to
marry? With a few items of society gossip, the letter was concluded by
his affectionate Aunt Augusta. A more cool and heartless epistle the
recipient had never perused. As soon as he had mastered its contents,
he tore it into little pieces across and across, and tossed it into the
paper basket—even Colonel Wilkinson was not more anxious to repudiate
the child than her own grandmother.

By this time the friendless little waif had arrived in England safely,
and one of her early letters will best describe her impressions. It
was written over three sheets of foreign paper, with much underlining,
scratching out, and bad spelling.

  "TENTERDEN HOUSE, WIMBLEDON.

 "MY DEAR PHIL,—I sent you one letter from Suez, and I now write this
 from school which I hate, and every moment I wish I was back in
 your verandah playing with the dogs, and mending your soks. This is
 a half-holiday and instead of going to the hokky I am scribbling to
 you. I have so much to tell you. First of all about Mrs. Dawson, she
 was middling kind to me on borde ship but I ran all messages and sowed
 buttons on her boots, and brought her brandy when she was very sick.
 All the time I was making up my mind to _tell her_ about the dresses,
 I hated to have to do it, but I felt that she ought to know and not
 have to wonder all her life. So one day when she was awfully ill and
 week, lying back with her eyes shut, some voice inside my head said
 _Do it now_, now is the time, she cannot beet you. And I said, Mrs.
 Dawson I am going to make your mind easy, it was I who cut up all
 your dresses. I am very sorry, they were beautiful, and if I could
 give them back now I would. I've nothing to give you to make up with,
 but my gold bangell, the only nice thing that I have cousin Phil, and
 that you gave me; so I took it off, and offered it to her. She had
 opened her eyes ever so wide, and at first looked quite stupid and
 queer; then she got very red and fierce and wriggled up and panted
 for breath. At last she said only you are a little orfan I don't know
 what I would do with you, land you at Malta I believe. There's your
 bangell and she flung it out of the port hole, and said now tell me
 you little feend what you did it for. And I told her the truth that it
 was to punish her for her unkindness to my mummy, and this made her
 quite crazy. She jumped up, and took me by the shoulders and turned
 me out of the cabbin. She never speekes to me now, but she has told
 everyone, and no one ever talks to me, and one child said go away you
 little cat my mama says I am not to allow you to come near me you
 ought to be in Jale. So I did not gain much by telling the truth that
 time you see. I lost all my friends and my dear dear bangell. This
 school is a big red house with long passages and great bair rooms and
 a bell rings for everything, getting up prayers lessons play. Oh I do
 hate that bell. There are forty girls and I am not the youngest only
 the smallest in the lowest class. Miss Morton thinks me dreadfully
 bakward, and so I am, except in sowing, but she was surprised to hear
 that I had read Vanity Fair and Byron's pomes and could say Shelly's
 skylark by hart. The other girls are very prim, some tell lies as bad
 as Anima any day, some are greedy, as greedy as Pinky, some are very
 nice, but they all think me odd and wild. I like to make them stair,
 so I jabber Hindustani and crack my finger-joints. I have no friends
 here except the second housemaid the cat and the drill serjant. He
 says I am made of yres, and he has been in India but only in Madras.
 I have been in lots of skrapes already dear Phil I don't believe I am
 suitable for skool, I'de much rather have lived with you, and had a
 pretty young governess like Miss Dove who teeches embroidrey. There
 are some pretty girls too, they all think me so ugly, but I don't
 mind. Give each of the dogs a kiss from me and three to Sally just in
 the middle of her nose, and tell the bearers little girl I have not
 forgotten her, and tell Toady Dodd I am learning french and german and
 dancing and am going to be akom—clever, I cant spell the big word, it
 will vex him awfully. Be sure you write me long long long letters,
 you cannot think how I watch the clock on male days. If you forget me,
 I pray that I may take small pox and dye,—I am every yours truly,

  "ANGEL."

But Angel was not forgotten. Some description of letter found its way
into her eager hands, two out of four mail days. Her quivering white
face, as the letters were distributed, caused a pang of pity in the
hearts of the womenkind who witnessed it. Angel's feelings were ten
years in advance of her age and her associates. As weeks and months
went on, she began to spread her short wings, and to evince her
personality, and was presently notorious as the most idle, clever,
mischievous, and unruly girl in the whole school. She could learn,
she had unusual capabilities, but she much preferred playing tricks,
scribbling poetry, and affording unlimited fun to her class, among
whom, thanks to the freshness and audacity of her ideas, she assumed
the position of ring-leader and queen. She received punishment with
the most staggering _sang-froid_. What was to be done with a child who
did not mind being sent to bed, rather liked dry bread than otherwise,
and heartily enjoyed her own society? Her example was spreading like
an epidemic among the juniors; idleness, daring feats, and flat
disobedience were the fashion since the Indian child had introduced
them. At last Miss Morton sent for the culprit, and interviewed her in
her own sanctum, a room that had witnessed not a few tears and scenes.
Miss Morton was a clever, handsome woman of forty, admirably fitted
for her position. All her girls looked up to her, not a few loved her;
her influence bore fruit in many and many a future home.

When the slight fair child in deep mourning was ushered in, and
surveyed the room and its occupants with critical blue eyes, she said:

"Little Angela Gascoigne, you may sit down," Angela took a seat, and
sedately folded her arms. This action, did Miss Morton but know,
portended mortal defiance.

"Angela, you are old and intelligent beyond your years," continued her
teacher; "you are not yet ten, but you have seen as much of life as
many girls of eighteen."

Angela's eyes complacently admitted the fact.

"I therefore talk to you, as if you were almost grown up," resumed
Miss Morton. Angela inclined her head gravely in acknowledgment of
the compliment. "I must confess, that although you have read the most
advanced literature, your mind is pure and child-like. On the other
hand, in your small way, you are an anarchist, you rebel against every
law. What do you propose to do with your life? You have influence, you
have brains, have you decided to grow up an ill weed, and to do as much
harm as you can?"

No reply. Angela gazed at the flowers, the water-colours, the clock,
finally into Miss Morton's eyes.

"Angela Gascoigne," she continued, "answer me."

"No," breathed Angel in a quick whisper.

"Very well, then bear in mind that you will have to change your ways;
you must work as do other girls, conform to the school rules. You
have been endowed with gifts that are uncommon, and yet you only
misuse them, in order to make your companions as idle and reckless as
yourself. Unless you undertake to improve, and give me your word that
you will show a good example for the future, I shall be obliged to
write to your guardian, and ask him to remove you at once."

Angel's face grew pale, her eyes looked black, and tragic.

"I hate school!" she burst out, passionately.

"In that case, you may be sure that school will hate you," was the
prompt rejoinder, "and the sooner you leave it the better. But why do
you hate school?"

"I don't know."

"What a silly answer for an intelligent girl! Then I can tell you; the
reason is, because you are unaccustomed to rules, and regularity; it
is a different life to the one you have led. I am aware that you are
an orphan. Tell me, dear child," now leaning towards her, "do you love
no one in the whole world, not even yourself? Come—won't you speak to
me?" she pleaded very low.

"Yes," rejoined the child, straightening her little figure, "I love
Philip."

"You mean Mr. Gascoigne, your guardian?"

Angel nodded, and her face worked, despite her precocious self-control.

"Then don't you think he will be very sorry to hear that you refuse to
accept any of the advantages he has provided for you? I know that he
hopes to see you an accomplished girl, and you can easily learn if you
please. Don't you think it will grieve him when I am compelled to say
that I cannot keep you among my pupils—because of your idleness; that
with your intensely strong individuality, you influence them for ill,
and I am obliged to remove a bad example from among them?"

"Are you going to write—_this_—to Philip?" cried Angel, with a
gesture of horror.

"Yes, and at once, unless you will promise me that it is not necessary."

"I will promise anything—to please him."

"Then address yourself to your lessons—begin to-day—put away your
foolish impish tricks, Angel," urged her companion; "your success lies
in your own hands. Don't you think it will be much better for your
guardian to be proud of you than to hear you are expelled?"

"Does that mean sent away in—disgrace?" stammered the child with
characteristic directness.

"Yes, but I see that you have made up your mind; and, instead of being
a trial to myself and others, you can, and will be, a help. You have
some one to please, some one to surprise, some one to whose coming you
can look forward—have you not thought of that?"

"Oh, I am always thinking of that," rejoined Angel, impetuously,
and, to Miss Morton's amazement, she wept, as she faltered, "I have
only Philip in all the world. I would rather die than that he should
think—badly of me—I will try, yes, I will work. Oh, I never dreamt
of Philip. Tell me what I am to do, and I will do everything to please
him and surprise him when he comes home.—Yes, and I wish to please
you too."

Then Miss Morton took the little rebel in her arms and kissed her
tenderly, and Angel quietly submitted to her caress; since her mother
died few women had kissed her. From that hour, she won the child's
heart.

Tea was brought in, and the teacher and her pupil had a nice, long,
comfortable talk about India. Angel gave her companion many fresh views
of the natives of Hindustan, and the sun went down upon another of Miss
Morton's conquests.

In a short time, the weird-faced, wiry little Anglo-Indian had made
extraordinary progress, she worked conscientiously and incessantly—to
please Philip.

Her letters were a source of surprise and embarrassment to her
guardian, written in a clear, small hand, with unexceptional
orthography; they breathed a spirit of passionate attachment, a
selfless love, that was inexhaustible.

And what had he to offer in exchange for this dear child's
single-hearted devotion? Nothing but a trivial, and lukewarm,
affection.




CHAPTER XIV

PHILIP'S LOVE AFFAIR


PHILIP GASCOIGNE, whom this history chiefly concerns, was the only
child of a distinguished officer who late in life had prevailed on a
beautiful and charming woman to accept his gallant heart and honorable
name. General Gascoigne had settled down in a fine old manor house
in the heart of Kent, and there turned his sword into a ploughshare,
which latter implement, according to his old club comrades, had dug
his grave. He died when his boy was nine years of age, having survived
sufficiently long to imbue the little fellow with some of his own
high ideas of truth and honour, discipline and self-command. Within a
short distance of "Earlsmead" Manor was Earlsmead Park, the stately
home of the Craven-Hargreaves. Venetia Gascoigne and Mary Hargreaves
had been schoolfellows and were close friends, and little Philip
grew up almost as one of the Hargreaves family, which consisted of
two fine manly boys, and a girl named Lola—a child with a cloud of
frizzy bronze hair, and a pair of irresistible dark eyes; she was the
youngest of the three, and the spoiled darling of the household. Mr.
Craven-Hargreaves was an agreeable, dapper little gentleman, who had
been in debt ever since he left Eton, and was existing (and more or
less enjoying life) on the forbearance of his creditors. He was rarely
at home, save in the shooting season, and the burthen of the family
cares fell on his wife's graceful shoulders. The boys had to be sent
to school, and the _pros_ and _cons_ connected with this outlay cost
their mother many anxious hours. Philip Gascoigne preceded them to
Harrow, there being no question of expense regarding his education,
for when his father died, honoured and regretted, he left behind him
the best traditions of a soldier and a gentleman, he also left an
unexpectedly large provision for his family. Philip was three years
older than Lola, and had been her bond slave ever since she could
walk alone. It was always "Phil and Lola" who were partners in games,
forays, excursions, and scrapes. What halcyon days those were, when the
eldest of the quartette was but twelve; and everything they entered
into was a pure and unalloyed delight, from nutting, and fishing, and
cricket, and riding, to play—at robbers and smugglers in the woods,
making fires and roasting apples, potatoes—also, sad to relate,
blackbirds and thrushes—returning home grubby, weary, and happy, with
but scant appetite for schoolroom tea. One day Philip and Lola, who
had been despatched on an errand to the village, surprised some boys
who were drowning a puppy in a pond. Philip instantly interfered to
save it, tore off his jacket and swam to the rescue. Subsequently, all
dripping like a water-god, he had fought Bill Lacy, of the "Leg of
Mutton Inn," and had thrashed him soundly, whilst Lola stood by with
the shivering puppy in her arms, alternately screaming encouragement
and defiance. Then when the bruised and bleeding victor turned to her,
for his jacket, and his meed of praise, she had rewarded him in her
own impulsive fashion—she kissed him then and there before all the
boys in Earlsmead village. It was an unseemly and indecent spectacle
in the eyes of Mrs. Grundy (who lived over the Post Office), Miss
Craven-Hargreaves, of the Park, acting as backer in a street fight,
and awarding as prize her kisses. It was true that she was but eight
years of age and her champion eleven, and consequently the misdemeanour
was suffered to pass. Some said she was a fine courageous little miss;
others, that she was a bold piece, who would come to no good yet, but
all agreed that she had plenty of pluck, and would sooner or later
marry the General's boy.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Lola was seventeen—and oh! what a fascinating sweet
seventeen—Philip found his tongue, and they became engaged.
Contemporary matrons lifted their hands in horror. A lad of twenty, who
had only just left Sandhurst! But other far-seeing and less ambitious
individuals pointed out that young Gascoigne was a fairly good match,
he must succeed to at least a thousand a year, and expectations, whilst
the Hargreaves might expect the bailiffs at any moment.

Within the next twelve months Philip lost his mother—whom he
worshipped; even Lola had not disturbed her from her niche—and the
long impending crash came at the Park. Mr. Hargreaves fled with a
portmanteau to the south of France—his plea was health—and left his
wife to face the storm alone. The storm developed into a typhoon, a
tempest of howling creditors; mortgages were foreclosed, the park was
let to graziers, and, as a final climax, there was a sale—an auction,
at the house itself. The family pictures, portraits by Gainsborough,
Raeburn, and Romney, went to the highest bidder. The treasured silver
and tapestries, as well as carriage and horses, were scattered far and
wide. After a storm—a calm—the Hargreaves boys obtained commissions,
the Park had found a tenant, Mrs. Hargreaves and Lola went abroad, and
Philip Gascoigne, now a full-blown sapper, was despatched to Gibraltar.
He and Lola corresponded faithfully. They were to be married when he
was four-and-twenty, and already he was collecting rugs, Moorish trays,
and old carpets suitable for a lady's drawing-room, when he received a
letter from Lola to say that her father was once more in difficulties,
_frightful_ difficulties; he had been gambling on the Stock Exchange,
hoping to recoup his fortune, and had had every penny of his own (as
well as other people's pennies) swept away. Philip wired to place
all his available funds at Lola's disposal; but what was a mere five
thousand pounds, when the deficit amounted to ten times the sum? Mr.
Hargreaves did everything on a grand scale. He was a born gambler, it
was hereditary; his grandfather had once lost thirty thousand pounds,
after playing two nights and a day, and sitting up to his knees in
cards. His worthy descendant had gone even more rapidly to work,
staked all on a "chance" and lost—lost the estates which had been in
the family since the reign of Edward the Fourth—lost his head—his
hopes—his honour.

The next mail brought still heavier news to a certain good-looking
subaltern in barracks at Gibraltar.

Lola wrote formally to dissolve her engagement. She was about to marry
Mr. Reuben Waldershare, one of her father's creditors, who would cancel
his debt, and buy back Earlsmead. Thus she saved her parent, and
averted ruin from her people. Mr. Waldershare was enormously rich and
generous.

Philip succeeded in obtaining leave on urgent private affairs that same
hour, and journeyed to England that same night.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Craven-Hargreaves had taken a house in London for the season. At
four o'clock in the afternoon Gascoigne presented himself at 146 Mount
Street, and inquired for Miss Hargreaves. The man—who was not an
Earlsmead servant, and knew not Master Philip—said:

"Yes, sir, Miss Hargreaves is at home. Who shall I say?" and he
preceded the visitor up the stairs, and ushered him into a pretty green
and white drawing-room with a resonant—"Mr. Gascoigne, if you please."

Secretly, the lady did not please.

Lola was alone, sitting on a low sofa, with her back to the light, and
surrounded by morocco and velvet jewel-cases. She was dressed in a
white gown, and wore a large picture hat, her gloves and parasol lay
on a chair near her, and in her hands she held a row of great pearls.
A tea equipage waited, the spirit-lamp flamed, and Lola's toilette
betokened careful thought. The room was fragrant with exquisite
La France roses, an arm-chair was drawn up invitingly near the
sofa—evidently some one was expected, but obviously that some one was
not Philip Gascoigne.

"Philip," she almost screamed, as the door closed and she rose to her
feet, her face white to the lips, "_what_ has brought you?"

"You can easily guess," he replied, as he came forward; "your letter."

"Yes—of course," and she held out both her hands; "but, oh, why did
you come?—it only makes it harder."

"You are talking in riddles," he answered sharply. "I want you to
tell me the truth—face to face. Why do you wish to break off our
engagement? Why does my return make anything _worse_?"

"Because—seeing you brings everything back—and I am going to marry
Mr. Waldershare."

She turned away and averted her face to hide her emotion.

A long silence followed this announcement, and at last Philip said:

"Well, I don't suppose anything could be worse than that!"

As he spoke, Lola sank back on the sofa, and stealthily displaced some
of the jewel-cases under the big brocade cushions.

"Will you listen to me?" she said piteously.

"Oh, yes, I am here to listen. I have come a thousand miles since
Monday to listen—and to speak."

"Phil, when you hear all you will be twice as sorry for me as you are
for yourself. Do you know that we are ruined?"

"I gathered as much," he replied gravely.

"Father has been gambling on the Stock Exchange—he has lost
everything. Earlsmead, that has been centuries in the family; and not
only that—it is not merely ruin—it is disgrace," and as she spoke,
Lola put her hands over her eyes.

"Disgrace," repeated Gascoigne. "It is impossible."

"It is not really father's doing," she sobbed. "He got mixed up with
shady people, and lent them his good name—and now it is smirched, or
will be—the catastrophe is impending—the only door of escape is—Mr.
Waldershare. He will advance money—he will stifle scandal—he is
enormously rich——"

"And the reason for his liberality?" demanded Philip in a harsh key.

"Is here," replied Lola, laying her hand on her breast. "I marry him to
save our good name—and Earlsmead."

"In short, you sell yourself for your family?" he cried.

"I think you might say—sacrifice myself—for my family," she answered
softly, and her eyes were eloquent.

"And _I_ am also to be sacrificed?"

"Always remember that you are free—whilst I am bound—for life."

"And you are prepared to throw me over, to marry a man old enough to be
your father?" he questioned.

"Yes; but, after all, what is age! and"——(home-thrust) "your own
mother—dear Aunt Venetia—did the same."

Philip now began to pace the room, whilst Lola looked furtively at the
clock. At last he came to a halt, and said:

"What does your mother say?"

"Nothing, poor dear, for she _knows_. The boys, Edgar and Billy, are
simply furious with me. They have not seen the family skeleton—they
think I am doing this—because—Mr. Waldershare is fabulously rich—and
they say I have no more heart than a sea anemone. Bill declares that I
was always greedy, and took more than my share of jam and the pony, and
neither of them will come to the wedding. They will never forgive me,
and neither will you——" and Lola buried her face in a cushion, and
wept—that is to say, drew long, gasping sighs.

"Listen to me, Lola," said her lover, authoritatively; "I have a
suggestion to make." She looked up quickly, and dried her eyes with a
scrap of lace. "My idea is not as mad as it sounds. I have ten thousand
pounds in the funds. It is my own, and yours. Let us pay your father's
most pressing claims with this—always remember that it is yours as
much as mine. I will leave the service, and we will all go to New
Zealand, you and I—your father and mother—and the boys, if they like?"

Lola sat erect, and stared at him fixedly and gasped; but he was too
full of his subject, and too profoundly in earnest, to notice her
expression.

"You see," he resumed, "I am a really fair practical engineer, and I'll
build our quarters; your father and I can farm. There is a splendid
breed of horses, a fine climate, a fine country; we will make a fresh
start in life; we shall all be together—what do you say, Lola? If you
agree, I'll set about the move to-day," and he confronted her eagerly.

"What do I say to, emigrating to New Zealand?" she repeated, in a
queer, choked voice, "to living in a back block, and—doing the
washing?" Then, in a totally different key. "Of course, I'd be
happy—anywhere with _you_, Phil, in 'No Man's Land' or Timbuctoo—your
offer is like yourself—it reminds me of the time you sold your watch
to help Billy out of a hole. But this hole is too big—ten thousand
would be a mere drop in the ocean. Philip," she continued, as she
rose and came towards him, "it is no use trying to play hide-and-seek
with fate. My fate is to redeem my father's name. You are the man I
love—Mr. Waldershare is the man I shall marry. Can't you see it with
my eyes? You know our home—you are one of _us_—don't make it harder
for me. I must go my own way."

"And I am to go to the devil," he said hoarsely.

"Oh, don't talk like that," she remonstrated; "it is not like you——"

"I don't know what I'm like—or where I am to-day. In one blow I lose
everything."

"How?" she inquired.

"You were everything to me."

"And in future I must be nothing but a memory. Mr. Waldershare has
had a hint—a girl told him—of our boy and girl attachment. He is
desperately in love."

"So am I," cried her companion.

"Desperately jealous."

"So am I," he reiterated.

"I may never see you or write to you again, Phil; it will be the
best," she urged piteously, and never had she looked so lovely. "It is
terrible for you—it is ten times worse for me. Some day you will be
sorry for me—not now, you are too sorry for yourself."

She was alarmingly pale and nervous, her eyes wandered anxiously to the
clock; nothing that Philip could urge would shake her from her purpose.
She remained as white and as immovable as marble; her decision was
irrevocable—the step was irretrievable. She was sacrificing herself
for others, and "it"—the announcement of the engagement—was already
in the papers.

With urgent entreaties to leave her, an impassioned farewell, and
a torrent of tears, Lola sent Philip from her presence—and, oh!
the relief, when she saw him depart! As he stood on the doorstep, a
hansom dashed up, and for a moment Gascoigne beheld his supplanter.
The man descended heavily, a clumsy, elderly individual, with a
big nose, bulging eyes, and a short grey beard. In a second the
visitor recognised his rival, a well-set-up, gallant young fellow,
whose handsome face looked white and haggard, a man of attractive
personality, in short, a most formidable opponent. No, no, he and Lola
were best apart; there would be no correspondence, no old playfellow
nonsense, no sentiment. He was peculiarly alive to the disparity in his
and Lola's age, and set his face as a flint against younger men. Mr.
Waldershare was in the iron trade; his first wife had been a homely
body, who had assisted him to lay the foundation of his colossal
fortune. He might almost call himself "the Iron King;" now he was in
quest of an "Iron Queen," and that with the eye of a keen, practical
man of business. She must be the very best article on the market;
young, well-born, and an undeniable beauty. Lola Hargreaves answered
these requirements; added to which she had a certain amount of indolent
ambition, and a delicate appreciation of the good things of life.

It was true that her father was on the verge of bankruptcy, and mixed
up with a sultry business connected with a mine, but his forebears had
been crusaders, their monuments and deeds were extant in print and
marble. Mr. Waldershare respected a fine pedigree—the one thing his
thousands could not purchase—so he decided to marry Lola Hargreaves.
That Lola had "a friend," he was aware; he had unexpectedly come face
to face with him, a good-looking, manly young fellow, he did not
propose to place himself in competition with a man of half his years,
so he issued an edict—"Lola must drop young Gascoigne," and Lola
obeyed. The interview in Mount Street had changed the whole course of
Philip's life at one stroke; he had lost friends, sweetheart, home—for
Earlsmead would be closed to him, and the boys naturally would avoid
the man their sister had jilted. He exchanged immediately into the
Indian service, with the stern resolve to woo the goddess of war, and
to enlist under the standard of ambition. By-and-by, as she predicted,
he became intensely sorry for Lola. He admired her lofty principles,
her noble character, her unselfish devotion, and she was enshrined in
his memory with the lustre of a treasure that is lost.




CHAPTER XV

LOLA


SINCE Angel had left Ramghur the hot winds of three seasons had swept
over her mother's grave, killed the plants in pots, and defaced the
lettering on the cheap headstone (Mr. Shafto was in error for once.)
The dead woman who lay beneath was absolutely forgotten, even by her
dirzee, who now owned a thriving shop in the bazaar. A community
fluctuates in an Indian station more than in any part of the Empire,
and to the present inhabitants of the cantonment, the name of Lena
Wilkinson failed to conjure up any figure whatever, much less a pretty
face and an unrivalled toilette. The Ram Gunga bridge was complete at
last, and Philip Gascoigne was free; free to enjoy a year's holiday in
Europe, and the weeks and days in Angel's almanac were now crossed off
down to the one which had a big red circle drawn around it, the date
when he was due to arrive in London. To do the young man justice, after
he had called upon his tailor, his first visit was to a certain girl's
school at Wimbledon. How _distraite_ Angel had been all the morning,
secretly trembling with anticipation and agitation; and her hands
were as ice, her heart was beating in her throat, as she opened the
drawing-room door. There stood a gentleman in a long frock coat, with a
hat in his hand. He had Philip's eyes. Somehow she had always pictured
him in his khaki uniform or blue patrol jacket.

For his part, when a tall, graceful girl glided into the room, he
scarcely recognised her. But it was the old Angel who flew at him with
a cry of "Philip," flung her arms round his neck, and sobbed for joy.
Then she led him to the window, and there they scrutinised one another
exhaustively. He was but little altered, though there were lines on
his forehead, and two or three silver hairs on his temple. Angel was
naturally the most changed of the two; her thin, pinched features; her
white, dried-up skin, had given place to the bloom of health and a
delicate complexion; her blue eyes were no longer sharply suspicious,
but soft and gentle; and the hard little mouth was wreathed in happy
smiles.

Yes—Shafto was right. The child was going to be a beauty after all.

"Let me have a good look at you," said Gascoigne, he was Captain
Gascoigne now; "I want to see if I can find any trace of the old Angel?"

She coloured, and laughed, as she replied, "No—not even a goose quill,
or a pin feather. I've forgotten every word of Hindustani. I can't
dance or crack my fingers, and I hate the sight of curry. Well, what do
you think of me?" she asked, tossing back her hair with a laugh, and a
heightened colour.

"I think you have grown—at least four inches," he responded
deliberately.

"And you have grown grey," she retorted quickly; "I see some grey hairs
there above your ear."

"Then, Angel," he said, "I hope you will respect them."

"Always, always," she promised gaily. "Oh, cousin Philip, I began to
be afraid you were never coming home; I do hope you will think I have
worked well."

"I am sure of that; I felt immensely proud of your sketches, and I have
given your swagger tea-cosy to Mrs. Gordon."

"It was intended for you—and for the old red teapot," she protested.

"Far too smart for that, Angel; and I hear you are proficient in French
and dancing, and the riding master's best pupil."

"Just because I'm not afraid and always take the pulling chestnut," she
responded, "and that is only an amusement. I'm not good at German or
arithmetic. People think I am cleverer than I am."

"Oh, people do think you clever?" he said with affected surprise.

"Only" (with a blush) "the other girls."

"You and I must have some holidays together, Angel, and go up the
river, and see the pictures and do some _matinées_. I shall be in
London for a couple of months."

"Only a couple of months," she exclaimed in a tone of dismay, "and how
the time will fly—and then?"

"Then I am going to Norway to fish—and now I must be returning to
town."

       *       *       *       *       *

Captain Gascoigne proved as good as his word. He frequently came
down to Wimbledon and took Angela and one of her schoolfellows to
_matinées_, picture-galleries, flower-shows, dog-shows, and concerts,
gave them tea and ices, and delivered them at home ere nightfall.
Latterly he invited Angel alone, as he became aware that she was
excessively jealous of his society, grudged every word he spoke to her
friend, and desired to have him all to herself. In spite of her gentle
and refined manners, her cultured accent and docility, he was conscious
that beneath that disguise, lived the old impetuous, forcible spirit,
who loved him with the same fierce love which she had lavished upon
her mother. The sight of this flame, when it occasionally burst out,
in a word or a glance, seriously alarmed him. He had nothing wherewith
to meet it but a cool affection, and a certain vague pride in the
pretty, charming child, the delicate rosebud that had developed out of
a wild little thorn-bush. What he could not repay in affection, Philip
endeavoured to make up in indulgence: as it was, the pair went on the
river, and to Hampton Court; he loaded her with gifts, and every one of
the other girls envied Angel her guardian. One misfortune they shared
in common: neither of them had a home. Angel was compelled to spend
her holidays at school, and he, to make his headquarters in rooms at
Duke Street. Mrs. Craven-Hargreaves was dead, Mr. Hargreaves lived in
Paris, the boys were abroad, Earlsmead was let, and Lola was the only
member of the family in England. Mrs. Waldershare was a notable beauty;
were not her full-length portraits exhibited in the Academy and the New
Gallery? She had fulfilled her husband's hopes, and proved to be a wife
to dazzle the multitude, a star of the chandeliers, of garden parties,
of race lawns, and stately receptions. Where was the Lola who cooked
blackbirds, climbed trees, and ran wild? There was no trace of her in
the capricious beauty who was admired, worshipped, and spoiled.

On a certain May morning when the Row was crowded, and the
rhododendrons were a blaze of colour, as Philip and Angela sauntered
onwards, they found themselves face to face with a party of four—two
smart guardsmen, and two brilliant ladies. One of these came to a
sudden halt, and gave a little faint exclamation, as she offered her
white gloved hand to Captain Gascoigne.

"Who would have thought of seeing you?" she drawled. "Are you in
England?"

"He is in London," burst out the old Angel with an irrepressible flash
of Ramghur, for Philip's speech was slow in coming. The other lady
tittered, and the two men took the measure of this grave stranger whom
"Mrs. Wal" had distinguished with her notice.

"I came home a month ago," he said at last.

"And who is the child?" she continued, in her leisurely voice.

"A little cousin—Angela Gascoigne."

"I never knew you had one."

"How are they all?" inquired Philip with an effort, "your father and
the boys?"

"Billy is in Egypt and Edgar in India. Haven't you come across him?"

"No; I wish I had, but India is larger than you suppose. Is your
father at Earlsmead?" he continued.

"No, he lives in Paris by preference. Earlsmead is let, and so
modernised and changed—you'd hardly know it—electric light, white
paint, Tottenham Court Road furniture. You are horrified, but I don't
mind. I shall never see it again—and besides I am modern myself," and
she laughed. "Let me introduce you to Colonel Danvers." The men bowed.
"Captain Gascoigne is a very old friend of mine," she added gaily,
"our acquaintance dates from our high chairs in the nursery." As she
talked on, Angela stood by, regarding her with close attention and a
steady stare. A stare which absorbed every item of the face before
her, the languorous dark eyes, fluffy brown hair, delicate complexion,
and flexible red mouth. She also absorbed a general impression of
an elegant toilette, with soft lace and rustling silk, and drooping
feathers, a long glittering chain, and the perfume of heliotrope. This
was Lola, hateful, cruel, heartless woman—Lola of the photograph.

"Where are you staying?" she resumed. "Oh, the Rag, I remember, is your
club. You'll come and see me, won't you, Phil?"

"Thank you," he rejoined somewhat stiffly.

"I'll look over my engagement book and drop you a line. We are blocking
up the whole place, I see. Good-bye," and she smiled, nodded, and moved
on.

Angel turned and stared after her. She watched the pale lilac gown and
black plumed hat as their wearer made a majestic progress through the
crowd, with a nod here, a bow there; at last she stepped into an open
carriage, followed by the other lady, and was whirled out of the park.

Then the child seemed to awake from a sort of trance, and realised that
her attitude was equally rude and remarkable.

"What are you doing, Angel?" inquired her cousin; "what are you
thinking of?"

"I'm——" and she glanced up at him—his face looked white, or was it
the glare?—"thinking, that I hate her."

"What on earth do you mean?" he asked sharply.

"I mean the lady in the black hat, who spoke to you—who knew you in
the nursery——" rejoined Angel in gasps. "I've seen—her before—she
is a doll—a wicked doll."

"You are mistaken, you have never seen her in your life, and she
is neither a doll, nor wicked. You should not say such things," he
remonstrated sternly.

"But I may think them," she retorted rebelliously.

"No, you may not."

"What is her name?" she asked, with a kind of sob.

"Mrs. Waldershare—I have known her nearly all my life."

They walked on for a considerable time in dead silence.

"Are you vexed with me, cousin Phil?" faltered Angel at length, and in
a faint voice. Her eyes were deep with devotion and darkened with tears.

"No, but I wish you would not take sudden dislikes to people, Angel,
and sit in judgment at a moment's notice."

"I can't help it. I make up my mind, and I like and dislike then and
there. There is—love at first sight."

"Is there? Well, you can't know anything about _that_."

"No, but I can understand hate at first sight," and she drew a long,
intense breath.

"The sooner you turn that current of thought out of your mind the
better for yourself, Angel. You should only look for good in other
people. It always pays. Come along now, and let us feed the ducks."

With respect to Captain Gascoigne's own sensations, he had been
prepared for the encounter ever since he had returned to London, and
had steeled himself to meet his former _fiancée_ with true British
self-possession. Moreover, he had caught sight of her at a theatre and
dining in a smart restaurant, so the first edge of the sharp wind had
been tempered.

In a short time he and Angel were absorbed in feeding the ducks,
oblivious of their recent little scene, and presently they went off
to lunch in Piccadilly, and "do" a _matinée_ in the Strand. This was
not the only momentous encounter that the couple experienced; within a
month a second was impending, which made a still greater impression on
them both.




CHAPTER XVI

GRANDMAMMA


THREE weeks later, on a broiling June afternoon, as Angel and her
guardian were strolling down the shady side of Bond Street on their way
to strawberry ices, they passed a carriage waiting outside a shop, in
which was seated a slight, smart lady, with a great white feather boa
round her neck, a wonderful toque on her head, and a tiny dog on her
arm. She was directly facing them, and as the couple came closer she
beckoned to Philip imperiously; he approached at once, and swept off
his hat.

"Do you mean to tell me that you were going to pass me by, Philip
Gascoigne?" she demanded in a high, reedy voice. "Don't you know who I
am?"

"Why, of course I do, Aunt Augusta," he protested; "but I did not
recognise you at the moment—the light was in my eyes. I hope you are
well?"

"Yes, I'm always well, thank you. I'm only just back from Aix. When did
you return?"

"About two months ago."

"And never called—or left a card. Oh, you young men of the present
day!"

"I did call, but the house was in curl-papers," rejoined Philip. "I
gave my card to an old woman in the area." (He was not enthusiastic
about his aunt by marriage, between whom and his mother lay a great
gulf; Lady Augusta looked with scorn on her country sister-in-law,
who employed a local dressmaker, and was a frumpish, prudish, handsome
creature, devoted to her books, her garden, and her boy.)

Lady Augusta's quick eyes presently travelled to Philip's companion;
the painted face behind the white veil grew rigid. At last she said, in
a strangely forced voice:

"I need—not ask—who she is. She is—Antony's girl."

As she spoke she fumbled for her long-handled glasses, and held them to
her eyes. Her hand and her voice were both shaking as she said, "Come
here, child."

Angel gravely advanced in her most approved school manners, and
confronted the lady who was so curiously inspecting her, with serious
eyes.

"Pray, do you know who I am?"

"No, ma'am," answered Angel.

"Can you guess?" asked the lady sharply.

She shook her head and waited.

"Well then, I'll tell you; I am your grandmother."

"Grandmother," repeated Angel incredulously, and her face grew quite
pink. She glanced interrogatively at Philip. Was this lady joking, or
was she mad?

"I see you can hardly believe your ears; it does seem ludicrous,"
said Lady Augusta; "but I was married when I was not much older than
herself," she explained to her nephew in an aside, "Well, child, what
have you got to say? I suppose you have a tongue?"

Poor Angel, thus adjured, immediately gave utterance to the wrong
thing. "Are—you my—mother's mother?" she inquired, and there was a
note of keen anxiety in her voice.

"Oh dear, no," rejoined the newly-found relative in a tone of fierce
repudiation. "I am your father's mother, Lady Augusta Gascoigne; he was
my youngest son. Philip," turning to him, "I must have a talk with you.
Get into the carriage, and let me drive you both back to tea."

As this was an offer not to be despised, an opportunity he dare not let
slip—for it might be of some benefit to Angel—Captain Gascoigne and
his charge accepted the unexpected invitation, and the next minute they
were seated in Lady Augusta's landau. Once arrived at Hill Street, she
led the way up to her drawing-room, and there discovered her daughter
extended on the sofa, engrossed in a book. Eva at once struggled up
awkwardly, letting a large piece of coarse knitting roll to the floor.
She was a thin, high-shouldered woman, with a mass of coarse red
hair and a droop in one of her eyelids, keenly sensitive of her own
shortcomings, and much prone to good nature and good works.

"So this is what you call working for the Deep Sea Mission?" exclaimed
her parent as she rustled across the room. "See—I have brought Philip
Gascoigne."

Philip advanced promptly and took her limp hand, and said, "It is ages
since we have met, cousin Eva." But she was not listening to him. Her
eyes were riveted on the tall child who followed him.

"It is Antony's girl," explained her mother brusquely. "Yes, the
likeness is—amazing."

Eva's face worked convulsively. Antony had been her favourite brother;
he, the flower of the flock, with his gay blue eyes and light-hearted
character; she, the wretched ugly duckling; yet they had been
inseparable, and she had cried herself to sleep for many nights after
his departure for India, full of spirits, hopes, and courage. Then had
come scrapes, debts, his deplorable marriage and his death; and now
after all these years—fifteen years—he seemed to have returned to
life in the steadfast face of his blue-eyed daughter. For a moment she
could not speak for emotion; then she came forward and took both of
Angel's hands in hers, and said:

"Oh, my dear, my dear—I am glad to see you—I am your Aunt Eva!"

"Eva is my second name," said Angel softly. Miss Gascoigne's white face
coloured vividly.

"And what is your first?"

"Angel." This was another family name.

Tea was brought in by two men-servants with considerable circumstance
and pomp, and Angel's little worldly heart beat high when she
realised that all these fine things, the silver, the footmen, the
pretty pictures and surroundings, belonged to her grandmamma—and her
grandmamma belonged to her. Meanwhile Lady Augusta talked incessantly
to Philip, questioned him sharply respecting his service and his
prospects, wandering away to race-meetings and her book on Goodwood,
with here and there a highly-spiced item of news; but all the time she
watched her granddaughter narrowly, her manners, her way of eating,
sitting, speaking. Fortunately Miss Morton's pupil came forth from that
ordeal unscathed. Angel, for her part, glanced uneasily from time to
time at this old young lady, with the pretty slim figure, the pretty
fresh toilette, the faded eyes and wrinkled hands, the beautiful
complexion, and the wealth of sandy hair.

"Eva," said her mother suddenly, "you can take this child away to the
conservatory and show her the canaries. I want to have a quiet chat
with Philip now; and you may make each other's acquaintance," she added
indulgently. Miss Gascoigne rose with alacrity, and led the way to a
small greenhouse which jutted out over the back landing, where hung
various cages of shrill canaries. But the visitors did not look at
these—only at one another.

"Dear child, how glad I am to know you!" said her aunt, taking Angel's
face between her hands and gazing once more into a pair of sweet
familiar eyes. "I hope we shall often see you. Now my mother never told
me of your existence. She is a strange woman—but I believe she is
pleased with you."

"I did not know that I had a grandmother—or an aunt—until to-day,"
said the child. "I am so astonished—the girls will be so surprised
when I tell them I have a grannie and an aunt all this time in London.
I always thought—grandmothers—were different."

"Your grandmother is different to most people," granted her aunt.

"And why has she never asked me here—nor written to me—why does
she stare at me as if there were something odd about me? _Is_ there
anything odd about me, Aunt Eva."

"No indeed, my dear."

"There must be some reason—do please tell me—why I never heard of
you till to-day. I am twelve years old."

"Your grandmother was very much vexed when your father married,"
explained Miss Gascoigne with obvious reluctance.

"Why?" came the question, like a blow.

"Oh, because he was a mere boy, only twenty-two, and she did not like
your mother. My dear, you must never speak of her here," she continued,
lowering her voice till it became a whisper.

"Do you suppose that I shall ever come to a house where I may not speak
of my mother?" blazed Angel.

"There, I see you have your father's spirit!" exclaimed her aunt. "He
and I were always such friends, I nearly broke my heart when he died.
You will come here, Angel, I know—because you would like to give me
pleasure—you will love me for his sake."

"Oh, well—perhaps," acquiesced the girl, to whom her father's name
conveyed no impression beyond that derived from a faded photograph of a
fair youth in a gorgeous uniform.

"Have I any more aunts or uncles?"

"Two aunts—Lady Harchester and Lady Lorraine. You are not likely to
meet them—they seldom come here. You and I are going to be great
friends, Angel. You must write to me and I will write to you—and go
and see you—often."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Not much of the Shardlow about the child," remarked Lady Augusta
complacently. "Quite a Gascoigne, or rather—I see a great resemblance
to myself."

Philip made no reply. He was unable to agree with this opinion, and put
his hand to his mouth to hide a smile.

"And now I want to ask your plans. What are your ideas? So far, I must
confess, she does you credit."

"She does credit to Miss Morton and herself. I believe I shall keep her
at school till she is eighteen," he answered thoughtfully, "and then
try and place her with some nice people who will take an interest in
her and make her happy. Indeed, I am at the present moment looking out
for some such family who will receive her for her holidays; it's rather
rough on her to have to spend them at school."

"If you mean that as a hit at me, Philip," said his listener, "I do not
mind in the least; my conscience is clear. When her father disgraced
himself by that wretched marriage, he and his were _dead_ to me. Still
when I saw the child this afternoon, something in her expression gave
my heart-strings a tug. I felt agitated—besides the child resembles
me—the only grandchild that is like me. It will be rather odd if,
after all, Antony's girl turned out to be the prop of my old age. But I
am going too fast, am I not?"

"Well, I don't quite follow you—yet."

"Look here, Philip," she resumed briskly, "I am willing to receive
Angela for her holidays"—this was an unexpected concession. "She can
come up for a week-end at first; if she pleases me I will give her a
home—when she leaves school; but on payment. I may as well have the
money as strangers. My jointure is but moderate, and I have great
expenses. Angela will require a maid, and to be suitably dressed and
taken about and properly introduced, as befits my granddaughter. What
do you think of my proposal?"

"I think it is an excellent idea, and I agree to it most heartily," he
answered; "that is, if you approve of Angela, and she is happy with
you."

"Oh, she is sure to be happy with me," was the vainglorious reply; "and
of course I shall feel the greatest interest in her, and take good care
that she makes a brilliant match. She shall marry to please _me_."

If Philip knew anything of Angel, there would be two opinions on that
subject.

"She will be a far more congenial companion than Eva, who, since
her silly love affair with a doctor she met at Aix, has been the
personification of seven wet blankets."

"Why did she not marry him?" inquired the simple bachelor.

"Because I put my foot down. A widower with two children—a mere
nobody, too. Eva declared that he was the best, most benevolent and
brilliant of men, and devoted to her. But that was rubbish; he only
wanted her ten thousand pounds."

After this visit there were several teas and luncheons in Hill Street,
not a few conferences in the drawing-room, and confidences in the
conservatory. On one of these occasions—when all the preliminaries had
been successfully arranged—Lady Augusta plumed herself like one of her
own canaries as she remarked:

"It was a lucky day for you, Philip, when you met me in Bond Street. I
have relieved you of your 'young girl of the sea,' otherwise I'm sure I
don't know what would have been your fate—such an impossible position
too—you, quite a young man, guardian to a pretty girl; you would
either have had to marry her—or get a chaperon."

"Oh, I should never have come to that," he replied with unexpected
decision. "Angel will be in England, if not with you, with others;
and with six thousand miles of sea and land between us, surely we can
dispense with a chaperon."

       *       *       *       *       *

In due time Captain Gascoigne returned to the East, _via_ America and
Japan, and Angel passed into the hands of her grandmother. She grew
up and left school with sincere regret, and many injunctions from
Miss Morton, who deplored the departure of her favourite pupil, and
contemplated her future with considerable apprehension. She had heard
of Lady Augusta Gascoigne as a lively, worldly matron, fond of cards,
racing, and racketing. What a guide and counsellor for a girl of
eighteen!

"Miss Angel Gascoigne—by her grandmother, Lady Augusta Gascoigne," was
a notification in a _Morning Post_, succeeding a March Drawing Room,
and the "imp" was launched. She came out and enjoyed her first season,
and was warmly welcomed in a set in which the only disqualification was
a failure to be smart!

Angel was not the least afraid of granny, whom she alternately amazed,
amused, delighted, and defied. She reversed the situation of aunt
and niece, and was Eva's steady support, confidante, adviser, and
idol. She made the house gay with her songs, her light laugh, her
flitting foot, her radiant young personality. Her cousins and aunts
were electrified when they first met "Miss Gascoigne;" her aunt was
almost always "Poor Miss Eva." Their attempts at patronage were easily
disposed of; the quick wit and cool self-possession of the Angel of
Ramghur combined with the grace and _aplomb_ of the Angel of Hill
Street was more than a match for the Harchesters and Lorraine girls.
Seeing that she refused to pose as a mere nobody and a poor relation,
they changed their point of view and became her sworn allies, admirers,
and friends. Immediately after the London season Lady Augusta and her
family left Hill Street for Aix-les-Bains.

       *       *       *       *       *

During the time when Angel had been growing up and blooming into a
beautiful and somewhat despotic girl, her guardian and cousin had
developed into an enthusiastic worker, a would-be Empire builder. At
first, his duty had been among the canals and the distribution of
the water supply; he had to see that every village received its due
share of water; in the slack season he had to superintend works of
construction and repair. He had no society, and no amusements. These
years of solitude had a certain effect on his character. He spent
his time marching from one canal to another, accumulating stores of
experience regarding the conditions under which the peasants lived;
his work was tedious and monotonous, but Gascoigne was a young man of
active habits and observant eye; he was never dull, and his character
was setting into the solitary mould. His manners were a little stern.
His feelings were under iron control, but he was always tender to
animals and suffering. From the canals Gascoigne was promoted to the
frontier, thanks to a little war. Here he had distinguished himself so
brilliantly that he was decorated, and wrote D.S.O. after his name.
He enjoyed the hardships; the keen, exciting existence, the smell of
powder, the chances of life and death, stirred his pulses. Indeed,
once or twice he and death had met face to face; but he kept these
encounters to himself, and they were only talked about in the men's
tents, or a word was dropped in the messroom. He never got into the
papers—and yet he was known by hundreds as "Sangar" Gascoigne.

It happened when the night had closed in rain, and rolling clouds
blotted out the camp lights, that he and a handful had gone back in
the dark to look up some stragglers, and had beaten off the wolfish
Afghans, and stood by their wounded till dawn and relief. It was an
experience to turn a man's hair white and it turned one man's brain.
Let those who know what night brings to the wounded and "cut off"
testify if their fears were not well founded?

The hardships, the horrors, the honours, of a short but fierce campaign
had left their marks on Philip; this and the two years' solitary canal
duty had changed him, perhaps, even more in the same period than his
pretty cousin Angela.

He was again in the North-West Provinces, responsible for a great
district, and well worthy of responsibility, though but thirty-seven
years of age. He was self-reliant, able, and energetic, and if
reserved and given to sarcasm, Gascoigne was popular, being generous
and hospitable to a fault. His bungalow was well appointed; all that
it wanted was a mistress (so said the ladies of the station). But
Philip Gascoigne's thoughts did not lean towards matrimony; his tastes
were solitary and simple; when away on duty or on the frontier, no one
lived a harder or more frugal life. He was well inured to the Indian
climate, master of several tongues; he had a capital head for ideas, a
mathematical mind; his heart was in his work, his profession was his
idol. Work with him amounted to a passion, and had effectually chased
love from his thoughts. He was one of the men whom luxury and decadence
had left untouched, and upon whom the executive business of the Empire,
in its remoter parts, could depend. Gascoigne was so good-looking,
cheery, popular, and eligible that many women spread their nets in the
sight of that _rara avis_, an agreeable, invulnerable bachelor. Over a
series of years he had successfully eluded every effort to "catch him,"
and kept all would-be mothers-in-law politely at a distance.

By this time he was given up as a hopeless case, and one indignant
matron had said in her wrath:

"Major Gascoigne will let every chance of a suitable wife go by, and
when he is in his dotage will make a fool of himself by marrying a girl
in her teens."

But so far Major Gascoigne was a long way from dotage, or the
fulfilment of this disastrous prediction.




CHAPTER XVII

THE UNEXPECTED


IT was the month of September in the Himalayas, when the rains are
heaviest, landslips frequent, and whole hillsides crumble and slide
into the valley with a sound of thunder, that Major Gascoigne was
summoned up to Kumaon in order to cope with a series of disasters.
Bridges had been destroyed by racing torrents, roads were washed away;
such floods had not visited these regions for twenty years, so said the
hill folk, and traffic between the stations of Shirani and Chotah-Bilat
was practically at an end. It was not that the roads were impassable,
but that there were no roads whatever. The common route by the river
(to reach the so-called staircase) was now a boiling torrent, which
had risen in its fury and torn away pieces of the great cart road,
and dragged down and swallowed walls, buttress, bridges. Under these
circumstances, when troops were waiting to march, and most people were
moving towards the plains, transport and traffic were paralysed, and
loud was the outcry.

Major Gascoigne had taken possession of the engineers' house, a
little building far away from road and river, perched high among the
rhododendrons over the valley, consisting merely of two rooms, verandah
and cook-house, and furnished to meet the simple requirements of one
man. Philip liked the isolated spot, where he heard nothing but the
crow of the jungle cock and the roar of the water. It was one of his
favourite halting-places when he came up on inspection duty. No cell
could be more solitary, or absolutely out of the track of the world.
Here he worked at his book on fortifications, here he kept a store of
favourite authors, here he was happy; it was his asylum—his cave. The
cave was beautifully situated, and, although it commanded a sweeping
view of the neighbouring hills and distant snows, yet, to the cursory
eye, the little brown house was almost buried amid rhododendrons,
oak and tall tree ferns. The last week in September witnessed many
landslips, several accidents, and much rain. Since daybreak the
"Engineer Sahib" had been personally superintending the damming of
a fissure and the construction of a temporary bridge. Towards three
o'clock in the afternoon, tired, mud-stained, and extremely hungry, he
set his pony's head towards home. After a long _détour_ they scrambled
up the slippery, greasy path, crossed with great tree-roots, and at
last reached their destination.

Here Gascoigne gave the pony to his attendant, and called out
impatiently, "Qui hye."

Instead of the usual prompt answer to this summons, the glass door into
the verandah opened very slowly and a grey-haired ayah, in a red cloth
jacket, appeared and signed to him to be silent. But Gascoigne was not
a man to take orders from strangers in his own house, and he walked up
the steps, motioned her aside, and entered the sitting-room.

There on the shabby cane lounge was extended a fair-haired woman—a
mere girl, with one hand under her head, the other hanging limply
down, fast, fast asleep. A little cloth jacket was thrown over her
feet, a hat with wet feathers lay on his writing-table among all his
most sacred papers, and a damp umbrella dripped steadily in a corner.

Evidently a traveller who had mistaken his cave for the Dâk Bungalow.
This was Gascoigne's first idea. He looked at her a second time, and it
struck him that there was something familiar in the shape of the face,
the pencilled dark brows, the delicate nostrils, and he experienced a
sudden spasm of horror as he realised that he was contemplating—Angel!
Angel, whom he believed to be established with her grandmother in
Haute Savoy, from whom he had received a cheery letter quite recently.
Unquestionably her talent for executing the unexpected was supreme. It
bordered on the miraculous. He suddenly recalled Shafto's prophecy that
"her future course was incalculable," as he closed the door softly,
and, beckoning the ayah to a distance, said:

"Where have you come from?"

"Bombay, sahib," was her prompt reply. "Missy and one lady engaged me
two days ago, the other mem-sahib going up country. At junction, my
missy asking there, and people telling sahib no in Marwar, sahib in
jungle and all roads gone," she paused to take breath, and resumed,
"but that missy coming all the same, plenty bad way, no littley small
path for one dog, missy never fraiding, she only laugh and tell coolie
men to go on—go on—I plenty fraiding, missy only wanting to come to
sahib—soon—soon—quick."

The sahib impatiently motioned the woman away, and she swiftly
disappeared in the direction of the cook-house. Here was a pretty
business, a nice dilemma in which Angel had placed him. Major
Gascoigne, as he sat on the steps, an outcast from his own retreat, was
in what Billy Hargreaves would have termed one of his "cold" passions.
He had looked upon Angel as a solved problem—a charge made over to her
grandmother on payment of so much per annum. She sent him charming,
vivacious, and, yes, affectionate letters—such as a girl would
write to an uncle or a brother; some day he expected she would marry
(according to her grandmother, her admirers were as the sand of the sea
in multitude), and then the last fraction of responsibility would fall
from his shoulders.

Oh, why had he ever been such a cursed fool as to take the child at
all? he asked himself bitterly, but when he recalled her mother's
eyes—those eloquent, dying eyes, his heart told him the reason. He
must get rid of Angel at once, but how, when, and where? The bearer
now humbly craved his attention. He assured him that he had done all
in his power to "keep the missy out;" as he spoke his expression
became so tragic that Gascoigne was compelled to smile. As well as his
recollection served him, should that Miss wish to enter, "to keep her
out" was a hopeless task. He desired his somewhat ruffled factotum to
prepare dinner, to pitch his tent, and make him some sort of shakedown;
"the Miss Sahib" would occupy the bungalow that night, and leave early
in the morning.

It would be impossible to take Angel away that evening; the roads were
unsafe, and there was another storm brewing. As he stood watching the
clouds rolling up, and listening to the rumble of distant thunder, his
mind groping for some means of speeding this most unwelcome "Angel in
the house," a slight movement caused him to turn his head. There was
his ward in the doorway, and against the dark background she stood
forth a vision of youth, beauty, and joy. Yes, although her hair was
tumbled, and she was obviously but half awake, Angela was a sight to
make an old man young!

She came quickly towards him with outstretched hands. No, _no!_ he was
certainly not going to kiss her.

"Oh, Phil!" she exclaimed. "Dear old Phil—of course you are horrified
to see _me_," and she looked up with lovely laughing eyes into his
grave face. "But I really could not stand granny any longer—her
gambling, and her friends, and her behaviour were quite too much for
me. I just made up my mind at a moment's notice—and came away. When
I explain everything, I am as certain of your approval as that I am
standing here."

"Had you better not sit down?" said her host, dragging forward a
verandah chair.

"Thank you," sinking into it and looking about her. "How perfectly
delicious it is! Well, to go on with my story—I said to myself, why
endure this dreadful life—when I can always go to Philip? He is my
guardian, not grandmamma—so I sold my diamond ring for ninety pounds,
and came straight off. I did not wire or write, in case you might
forbid me to start. Now I'm here, of course, you cannot send me back.
Now I've come such a long, long way to find you—oh, do look a little
bit glad to see me," and she leant forward and laughed.

Angel was completely at her ease; her manner was that of a girl who had
had all men under her feet. To Major Gascoigne the world had suddenly
become topsy-turvy; this was Angel's house, he was the unexpected
interloper, the runaway ward—and her attitude represented gracious
welcome.

"Yes; but, Angel," he began, making a vague effort to withstand this
momentary vertigo, "although I am glad to see you, I am not pleased to
see you—here."

"But why not?" she asked with an air of bewildered injury. "This is my
native land—you are my legal guardian. I belong to you, and not to
grandmamma. Oh, dear cousin Philip, do be nice. We have not met for
six years—think of that—do not look so stern—please be glad to see
me. _Please_," urged this audacious and distracting creature, with the
indescribable eyes and smile.

Well, after all, Philip Gascoigne was only a man. He succumbed, he
relaxed, he threw dull care and dull disapproval from him—figuratively
tumbled them both over the khud.

"You must be starving," he said; "what would you like to have?"

"Tea, please," was the prompt reply; "and I will make it. It will be
like old times. I suppose the dear red teapot is no more?"

"Strange to say, it still exists, and is here."

"Then I shall be glad to meet it immediately; and remember, I shall
never forgive you for giving the tea-cosy to that Mrs. Gordon. You
don't know the pains it cost, the hours, and the tears, I stitched
into it—my first piece of fancy work."

No doubt the ayah had already ordered tea, it was so speedily brought
into the verandah. Angel made it, and poured it out, chattering all the
time, whilst the solemn, black, bearded servant watched her furtively
with shocked but admiring eyes. Truly, these white women were handsome,
but shameless. A quick order in fluent Hindustani caused him to start;
the old familiar tongue had run to meet Angel in Bombay—in three days
it was once more her own.

When tea was over and cleared away the young lady placed her elbows on
the table, and resting her pretty face between her hands, said:

"I know you are dying to hear all about me—and I will tell you."

"May I smoke?" inquired the master of the house.

"Certainly you may, and I will keep you company," was the startling
rejoinder, as Angel suddenly produced a pretty silver cigarette-case,
held out her hand for a match, and proceeded to light up.

"You must know"—here she blew a cloud—"if you did not guess it from
my letters, that granny and I did not hit it off. Of course my holidays
were like trial trips, and nothing really to go by; our boilers did not
explode, and we did not ram one another; but when I left Wimbledon last
Christmas, and became a permanent affliction in Hill Street, it was
different. I was too independent for granny; I did not take to racing,
or cards, or the young men of her set."

"But they took to you, by all accounts," interposed her listener.

"Oh, yes; but I soon let them see that the three-tailed Basha—pick up
my handkerchief—come when you're called—style they affected to other
girls would not go down with me. I snubbed them severely for a little
change, and they liked it; the more I snubbed them, the more they
grovelled, thankful for a word, ready to die for a smile. That is the
attitude young men should assume towards young ladies," and Angela blew
a ring of smoke, and watched it with calm approval. "When I came away,
snubbing was the latest craze—the rage."

"It would depend upon who she was," said Gascoigne. "How would it work
if the young lady were snub-nosed?"

"Oh—that is too difficult a question," said Angela with a gesture of
fatigue.

"Why were you so death on these unfortunate youths? Why did they not
meet with your approval?"

"Who could approve of creatures with a quarter of a yard of collar,
and an inch of forehead, and whose only two adjectives were 'rippin'
and 'rotten'?" demanded Angel. "Granny was vexed because I would not
afford her the glory of a fashionable wedding, for she looked upon my
obstinacy as a sinful waste of good matches. I would not marry myself,"
continued the girl imperturbably, "but I got Aunt Eva married—not
quite the same thing in granny's eyes! Oh, she _was_ furious. Her
match-making fizzled out"—extending her hand dramatically—"but mine
was a grand success."

"So Eva married the doctor after all?"

"Oh yes, an old love affair—lights like tinder," and Angel blew a
great cloud of smoke from her nostrils. "Aunt Eva was my father's
favourite sister, otherwise the butt of the family, because she was
plain, unselfish, good, and cowardly. Dr. Marsh, who attended granny,
noted her, admired her, and proposed. Eva would have been only too
madly, wildly happy to say yes, but there was an uproar in the house.
Granny nearly had a fit. She set her sisters on to talk poor Eva to
death, and Eva submitted and caved in. She was very miserable, just
granny's drudge; when I came to Hill Street I soon found that I was to
be aunt—and she niece. I advised, scolded, lectured, and comforted
her; assured her that she had her own life to live, not granny's,
who had had a very good time. In short, I raised the standard of
rebellion!" Here Angel laughed, and looked over at her companion with
mischievous and triumphant eyes.

"And there was war in Hill Street," said Gascoigne, wondering how
he was to deal with this daring insurrectionary charge, in whom the
elements were mixed indeed.

"Civil war, I should call it," she responded. "I took the poor little
love affair in hand and patched up the pieces. I scraped acquaintance
with Dr. Marsh. He is a good man, works among the poor as well as the
rich, and has a very keen sense of honour."

Gascoigne now threw away his unfinished cheroot and sat forward with
folded hands. Was he dreaming, or was he listening to little pig-tailed
Angel?

"He could not endure snubs," she continued composedly. "He had a modest
opinion of himself, and had retired into his shell. By the way," she
asked suddenly, "am I boring you? All this interested me so keenly that
I forget that it may be deadly dull to other people."

"No—no, pray go on. I am all ears, and keenly interested too."

"Well, I had a long talk with Dr. Marsh; then I met him in the Academy
by appointment. I told him I wanted him to explain a subject to me;
when he arrived Eva was with me. They were mutually surprised. I told
him the 'subject' was in the gem room—and then—I lost them. Was I not
clever?" and she laughed like a child of nine.

"Very," came the somewhat gloomy assent.

"Aunt Eva has money of her own; she is past forty, quite old. Why
should she not choose her own life, and have some little happiness
before she dies?"

"Why not indeed?" he echoed mechanically.

"Because she was so yielding, so timid, so old-fashioned, so afraid of
granny, who used the fact of her being her mother—a thing poor Eva
could not help—as a reason for making her a slave for life. But I set
her free," she announced in a clear, ringing voice. "Yes, Dr. Marsh was
at Aix; he married Eva there. I was bridesmaid, witness, everything.
They went off to spend the honeymoon in the Tyrol, and I was left to
face—grandmamma."

"But you dared not—and bolted—I see."

"No, no," indignantly. "I'm not like that. Grandmamma was furious at
first, but I talked her round in two days. Dr. Marsh is a gentleman,
cultivated, and presentable. He has a large practice. Granny began to
see reason and to calm down. It was partly over an Italian Prince that
we came to grief: Granny was so insistent, so shamelessly throwing
me at his head, I could not endure it. He got on my nerves—and so
did Aix. The dressing four times a day, the baths, the gossip, the
gambling. I said to myself, I really must get away from all this, or
I shall develop into a woman like granny. Granny can have one of the
Lorraine girls to launch into life instead of me—she is not half so
stiff-necked or headstrong."

"Are you stiff-necked and headstrong?"

"Oh, yes, so Miss Morton used to say. A friend of mine, Mrs. Friske,
heard my groans and lamentations, and said, 'Why don't you go out to
your guardian? He is elderly; your home is really with him. India is
much better than this.' We talked it all over one night—she is very
quick, clever, and impulsive—and I thought it out, and made up my
mind to leave granny. I would not have done it so suddenly, but that
one evening we had a terrible scene, oh——" and she caught her breath
sharply. "I can never forget the things she dared to say of my—mother.
We had not spoken of her before. I just packed up all my smart French
frocks, sold my ring, Mrs. Friske took my passage from Marseilles,
and away we went on board the _Arabia_. It was all so easy. We had
a delightful time—lots of nice people coming out—and Mrs. Friske
chaperoned me to Basaule Junction. In spite of the awful state of the
hills, I came on straight, the wretched ayah gibbering and screaming
behind me, for I particularly wanted to arrive before grandmamma's
letter." Angel drew a long breath, and said, "That's all—I've
finished. Now it is your turn to speak, cousin Philip. Since I am here,
what are you going to do with me?" and she looked up at him with a gaze
of amused expectation.

"I shall take you down to Marwar to-morrow," was his prompt reply, "and
as soon as the monsoon is over, send you—home."

"No, no, no, Philip," she remonstrated in a piteous key. "I won't go
back. I realise now," putting her cigarette into the ash-tray, "that
I have been—mad. I'd no idea you were so young." As she spoke she
faltered a little, and a sudden wave of colour dyed her cheeks. It was
her first and sole token of embarrassment. "You are not the grey-haired
fatherly person I expected to see. You were getting grey years ago,
and I thought—you'd be different. I've so much imagination—I've an
excellent memory. I remembered how good you were to me when I was
an odious, friendless child, and I—imagined—that you—would be
pleased—to have me."

Her lower lip quivered as she concluded, and her eyes darkened with
unshed tears. This was more than Saint Antony could have withstood.
Philip Gascoigne was amazed to hear himself saying—or surely a
stranger spoke: "Why, Angel, of course I am delighted to see you.
Your coming has taken me aback, that is all; and I am a hardened old
bachelor, not at all accustomed to young ladies."

"No, nor being turned out of your house into the wet jungle," she
supplemented with a watery smile.

"If I am not so old as you expected, you are much older than I dreamt
of. I always seem to see you in my mind's eye with a fair pigtail, and
frock just reaching to your ankles."

"If you wish, I can return to both within the hour," she rejoined with
a hysterical laugh. At this moment the ayah made her appearance round a
corner, and said in her whining voice:

"Gussal tiar, Miss Sahib."

"It's my bath," she said. "I really must go and change. I feel such a
grub ever since I left Bombay. _Au revoir_," and she sprang up, and
left her guardian to his undisturbed reflections.




CHAPTER XVIII

DINNER FOR TWO


WHILST the young lady was changing her dress Gascoigne had another
interview with his bearer, ere retiring into the damp tent to remove
his wet clothes.

"Look here," he said, "you must do all you can to make the place nice
for the Miss Sahib—tidy it up—and, I say, isn't there a lamp-shade?"

Abdullah assented with solemn complacency.

"There are no flowers, or dessert, but there's some chocolate—and see
that the cook does not spare his stores, and has an eye to the ayah and
coolies; they have all to be ready for an early start to-morrow." And
having issued these orders, he departed to his damp quarters, where he
experienced exasperating difficulties in finding his belongings, which
had been hurled into the tent pell-mell. He had no looking-glass; he
was actually obliged to do his tie at the back of his silver flask. How
a woman upset a house! As Gascoigne searched wildly for a handkerchief,
his thoughts were inhospitable—his mental expressions impassioned.

Meanwhile the bearer, thus put on his mettle, bustled about with
feverish activity; he, like all natives, thoroughly enjoyed a crisis,
an unexpected situation, a novelty, a commotion. He was also full of
resource, but here his resources were so limited he had nothing to
draw upon save his master's wardrobe, and he put it under contribution
without delay.

The old lamp-shade was gracefully draped with yards of soft red
silk—his master's cummerbund; the effect was so splendid and
stimulating that he brought forth a certain treasured red and gold
dress sash, and twisted it round the lamp with a quantity of beautiful
forest leaves. This was the table decoration, and it looked extremely
pretty and elegant. A blue military cape covered the deficiencies of a
table, a plaid railway rug draped the shabby cane lounge, Gascoigne's
two most cherished silk ties looped back the short window curtains,
and when the deft-handed Abdul had placed lighted candles in every
available spot and considered his work critically, he felt a thrill of
honest satisfaction—the warm glow of an artist who beholds his ideal
realised! The result was a transformation, and a success.

When dinner was ready, he went and knocked on the visitor's door;
it opened promptly, and the young lady appeared; such a dazzling
apparition that Abdul fell back three paces. Angel had dressed her hair
elaborately—she abjured a fringe—it was parted in the middle, and
turned back in great masses, and gathered up in a knot low on her neck,
with one or two rebellious little curls peeping over her forehead. She
wore a dark trailing skirt, and a white silk and lace blouse, with
close-fitting lace sleeves. Nor were the little decorative touches
which add so much to a toilette omitted; she wore turquoise ornaments,
a picturesque silver belt, and a band of black velvet enhanced the
whiteness of her throat. All three items gave Angel an impression
of "full dress," and Gascoigne, as he surveyed this dainty vision,
mentally did homage.

"I am rather smart—compared to what I was an hour ago," she said,
addressing her host, "and considering that I only brought one small box
with me—I left my luggage at the Junction, tons of trunks—oh, I am so
fond of my frocks!" An hereditary passion, reflected her guardian.

(As Angel talked she was furtively scrutinising Philip, who had
exchanged his wet riding kit for the irreproachable white shirt, black
tie, and dinner coat of the period.)

"You are dazzling, I admit," he exclaimed, with a smile. "I feel as if
I could only look at you through smoked glass." The girl laughed as she
seated herself and glanced round.

"What a transformation scene—how pretty the table is! Why, we might
be dining _tête-à-tête_ at Prince's, and going on to a theatre. But I
remember how clever native servants are—how they make a grand show out
of nothing."

Here Philip recognised with a gasp his wardrobe, so to speak,
decorating the table—yes, and the room.

"Especially our troupe," she continued; "Colonel Wilkinson saw to that."

"Have you any news of him?"

"Oh, yes," carefully helping herself to salt; her hands and wrists were
exquisite. "He married again years ago, a woman with no end of money.
She must have escaped from some lunatic asylum; don't let us talk of
him. Let us eat, drink, and be merry."

"You won't get very merry on soda-water," he protested. "Have some
claret?"

"I never touch it, thank you. Granny said it made one's nose red."

"And so you and Lady Augusta never hit it off after all?" he remarked.

"No; she was such a Saturday-to-Monday sort of grandmother! Always
rushing here, and there, and back again, never at home except when
she was asleep, always 'showing herself' somewhere, as she called it,
always in the movement. I did not mind until she began to drag me with
her, and insisted on showing _me_. Then she always dressed like my
twin sister. Pray, what granddaughter could tolerate that?" Angel's
expression became tragic, and Gascoigne laughed, quite a gay young
laugh.

"I assure you that granny has the ditto of this very blouse I'm
wearing; and," speaking with increased energy, "one of the last
scenes I had with her was to prevent her wearing a white muslin
gown; of course, it was drowned in lace, but imagine white muslin at
sixty-five," and she gave an impatient and despondent sigh.

"It might have been seventy in the shade," acquiesced Gascoigne,
ironically. "I'm afraid she must have been an immense responsibility. I
can sympathise with you there."

"Oh, it was not really that," and Angel's voice suddenly became the
grave utterance of a much older woman. Her eyes looked dark and tragic
as she leant a little forward and said, "It was the closed door between
us—we never spoke of my mother." Angel communicated this fact as if
she were alluding to some holy saint, and Philip, the hypocrite, bent
his head in profound sympathy. "No, never till that once," resumed
the girl. "It was the first and the last time. Our opinions were so
opposed, it was as if two furious, long-leashed creatures had been
suddenly let loose at one another's throats." After a little silence,
during which she meditatively broke up bread, Angel suddenly looked
over at her companion, and said: "Tell me, how do you like the way I do
my hair now?"

Philip gasped mentally, but brought out an adequate reply.
"Immensely—last time you wore it down your back."

"And so"—here she leant her elbows on the table, and locked her pretty
hands, and looked over them at her guardian, "you are really going to
take me down to Marwar to-morrow."

"I am really," he answered promptly, "weather permitting."

"How I hope the weather will not permit. I'd a million times rather
stay up here in the jungle, the real delightful jungle, within reach of
white bread, the post-office, and hairpins. I could sit and read, and
dream, and sketch, and ride up and down the valleys for months, and be
so happy. What a shame it is that one cannot enjoy what one _likes_."

"Unfortunately we often like what is bad for us," said her guardian
drily.

Angel drew a sigh of assent, and then resumed, "We never would have
found this place, only for one of my jampannis, whose brother is in
your service; he knew the way; was it not luck?"

"Yes," agreed Major Gascoigne. (But _was_ it?)

"The road was _nil_—in places it had slipped a hundred feet. We just
crawled along the precipices inch by inch, clinging on to roots and
branches, tooth and nail."

"I must say it was very plucky of you to come."

"Oh, I did not mind a bit," said Angel carelessly. "And so your home is
in Marwar?"

"Yes; I'm only up here on duty. There are several people you know in
Marwar."

"Really?" raising her perfectly pencilled brows.

"Mrs. Gordon, for instance."

"Yes, to whom you presented my tea-cosy. I shall certainly take it
back. Wasn't she a pretty dark-eyed woman, with a horrid old bearish
husband?"

"What a memory you have!" he exclaimed. "And there is Shafto."

"Who always hated me," making room for the bearer to remove the cloth;
"you cannot deny that." When the bearer had departed she put her elbows
on the table, and, confronting her companion, said:

"Cousin Philip, I try to speak the truth to you—and I'll speak
it now. I see that in rushing out here to you I've acted on a mad
impulse—worse, perhaps, than cutting up Mrs. Dawson's dresses. I
don't stop to think; I act; when I shop, I buy what I want, and—think
afterwards if I can afford it. I never count the cost." She paused for
breath. "I did not leave grandmamma without good-bye. I walked into her
room when she was going to bed. I wanted to catch the night _rapide to_
Marseilles, and said: 'I've come to say good-bye—as I'm off.' 'Where
to?' she screamed. 'India,' I replied. I won't repeat what she said,
but—well, she prophesied evil things. Her prophecy will not come true.
I am resolved to be prudent, and obedient. I will do whatever you
wish, but oh! cousin Phil," stretching out her pretty hands, "please
don't send me home—oh, please don't!"

"Very well, then, I won't," he replied, little knowing that he had thus
sealed his fate; but, thanks to the sorceress, he was in a condition of
mind in which to-day blotted out to-morrow.

It was an extraordinary experience. Would he awake and find he had been
dreaming? or was he really sitting _tête-à-tête_ in this lonely spot,
with the most bewitching girl he had ever seen? As he sat endeavouring
to focus his somewhat slow ideas—perhaps he was too reflective to
be quite good company—Angela rose and began to walk about the room,
critically inspecting the contents.

"I always made very free with your belongings, and your house," she
said, "and"—with a laugh—"your horse. I see several little things
that I remember so well," and she touched them as she spoke. "This
old battered blotter and ink-bottle, and the frame with your mother's
likeness—how sweet she looks." She took up the faded photograph, gazed
at it for a long time, kissed it, and put it down very gently. "I see
you have a lot of books—um—um-um—Fortifications—Mathematics—how
dry! except 'Soldiers Three' and 'Vanity Fair.' I love 'Vanity Fair,'
and, do you know," turning about with the volume in her hand, "I was
always a little sorry for Becky."

"Pooh! she would have sneered at your sympathy," rejoined Gascoigne.
"She never pitied herself."

"No, she despised herself. How I wish Dobbin had not been endowed with
such large feet, otherwise I believe he would be almost my favourite
hero."

"Only his feet stand in the way—alas! poor Dobbin."

"Yes—ah, here you have something modern," opening another book:

  "La seul rêve interesse
      Vive sans rêve qui est ce.
  Et J'aime La Princesse Lointaine!"

she quoted; "what a swing it has! Why, it is only seven o'clock," she
announced, with one of her sudden changes of manner. "What can we do to
amuse ourselves?"

And he realised, as she looked eagerly at him, that here was a young
thing full of spirit and playfulness.

Angel, as she turned and surveyed her guardian where he still sat at
table, the rose-shaded lamp throwing a becoming light on his clear-cut,
dark face, and deep-set eyes, acknowledged with a sudden stab that here
was a man as young, attractive, and marriageable, as many of her late
admirers. The title of uncle or guardian was a ridiculous misfit.

For his part, he was wondering what he was to do with this graceful,
radiant creature, full of life, will, vitality, and imagination.
Perhaps it was just as well that she had broken away from Lady Augusta
and her pernicious influence; but where was she to live? What was he to
do with her? If he had been twenty years older.

Her question roused him, and he answered:

"I have no accomplishments whatever, and I throw myself upon your
generosity."

"Well, I am very frivolous," she acknowledged, airily; "it is in my
blood, and I know some parlour tricks." As she concluded she swept
into the next room, and presently returned carrying a gaily-beribboned
mandoline, and two packs of cards. "These were so useful on board
ship," she explained, as she sat down; "made me quite run after. Ever
so many people invited me to stay, but I told them I was coming out to
my guardian." She paused, and then coloured vividly as she recalled
the extraordinary contrast between the ideal grey-haired picture she
carried in her mind's eye, and this young and vigorous reality. As she
talked, she dealt out the cards. What pretty hands!—Gascoigne assured
himself that he was in love—with her hands. "You play cards, of
course?" she enquired, looking up at him with her direct gaze.

"Yes; whist only—strict whist, mind you; no Bumble puppy."

"Oh, that is because you belong to a scientific corps," with a shrug
of extreme commiseration. "Nevertheless, your education is far from
complete. I'll teach you euchre, poker, picquet, and ever so many good
games of patience. Here is one for two," and she began to deal and
explain.

The lesson proved so interesting that the couple were completely
absorbed, and deaf to the rising of the storm, the crashing and
clashing of trees around them, the roar of the downpour on the roof,
and the thunder of the mountain torrents.

After the cards, music. Angel took up and tuned her gay mandoline,
seated herself in a low chair, and began to play and sing. Her
voice was not powerful; it was sweet, it was delicious, and had
been admirably taught. The fair syren sang several songs to
Philip—spell-bound (as well as an enraptured audience of servants,
jampannis, and coolies, who were secretly jostling one another in the
back verandah, and among them was the ayah, who assumed the airs of a
manager who introduces to the public a wonderful "Diva" whom _he_ has
discovered).

Philip leant back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the singer; she was
giving "La Belle Napoli" with extraordinary charm and verve. What a
pretty picture she presented, with her gay mandoline, her expressive
face, her graceful pose—he would never forget this evening—never. It
seemed as if the very goddess of youth and joy had descended on his
shabby little home! Suddenly the music ended with a crash, and Angela
half rose and cried:

"Who—are those women—looking in through the window?"

Gascoigne started up as if he had been struck; he followed her glance,
and beheld a pair of weird visages glowering through the darkness. The
face of Mrs. Flant—a woman with a tongue—and the face of her sister,
Miss Ball, both acquaintances from Marwar.

These two ladies had been in desperate extremities; they had, in spite
of all advice, insisted on descending—roads or no roads—to Marwar
for a ball. Their jampannis and coolies had missed the path, night
had fallen, the storm had burst, and there they all were benighted
in the jungle. Even the hill-men were at a loss, and grunted to one
another interrogatively. One man remembered, as if by inspiration,
the engineer's bungalow, and to this, after a weary toil and many
interruptions, they made their way. There was a light—how welcome to
the poor, forlorn ladies struggling far below in outer darkness. At
last they reached the long-prayed-for shelter, crawled out of their
jampans, and looked in at the window, whilst some of their bearers ran,
shouting, to the servants' quarters. The recent and somewhat noisy
arrival was, to the inmates, drowned by the roar of the elements. The
two ladies gazed in—there was barely room for both their faces in the
little window, and this was what they saw. An extravagantly-illuminated
room, a crimson-shaded lamp on the table, cards scattered in all
directions, comfort to correspond. Major Gascoigne, in evening dress,
leaning back in his chair, smoking, listening with obvious rapture to a
pretty girl—yes, a smartly-dressed girl—a complete stranger to them,
who was evidently supremely at home, and singing to a gaily-decorated
mandoline. What a picture of dissipation! Could they believe their
eyes? Was this how Major Gascoigne, the eligible but impregnable
bachelor, spent the time when he was supposed to be deeply immersed in
his work—and his duty?

Mrs. Flant rapped her knuckles against the window pane; the summons was
imperious. Gascoigne jumped to his feet; his face was a shade graver,
as he said:

"It is some people who have lost their way."

"Why, of course, it never rains but it pours," said Angel, putting
down the mandoline with a gesture of impatience, as her cousin opened
the door and admitted the drenched wayfarers.

These entered with cold, suspicious eyes, and brought with them a gust
of icy, driving rain, which caused the lamp to flare.

"We lost our way," announced Mrs. Flant, from the depth of the prim
waterproof, "and were so thankful to see your light, Major Gascoigne. I
declare, when it came in sight I said a little prayer."

"I'm glad you managed to make me out," was his mendacious reply. "Let
me introduce Miss Gascoigne, my cousin," indicating Angel; "she will
look after you. Angel, this is Mrs. Flant and her sister, Miss Ball. I
leave them in your hands, whilst I see about their coolies and dinner."

"How cosy," said Mrs. Flant, "how—ah"—searching for an
adjective—"comfortable you are."

"Yes, a charming little—hiding-place, an ideal retreat," echoed her
sister, with peculiar significance.

"Is it not?" assented Angel, hastily gathering up the cards, and
putting away the mandoline, whilst the weather-beaten, hungry women
devoured her with their eyes.

A graceful, willow-like figure, light brown hair, dressed by a maid;
a pretty face and such lovely clothes, a French gown, turquoise
ornaments, a vague sniff of violets—an up-to-date young lady, with a
pair of extremely penetrating dark blue eyes, and a self-possession
that was at once colossal and superb.

"Do let me help you—I can lend you some dry things," she said,
ushering them into her bedroom, already made comfortable.

On the dressing-table her silver-backed brushes and mirrors were
arranged, her scent-bottles, books, dressing-gown, and slippers, all
indicated the bower of a dainty and somewhat extravagant occupant.
Angel gave practical assistance. She lent her dressing-gown and
tea-jacket—her shoes were, unfortunately, too small—she assisted her
visitors to remove their dripping garments, summoned the ayah, gave her
voluble directions, and took her departure.

The bearer, who was now positively at his wits' end with three ladies
to provide for—as well as all their retinue to house—was almost
in despair. However, he provided soup, a stew, and anchovy toast.
Meanwhile the new arrivals conferred together in hissing whispers.

"Well," said Mrs. Flant, "I would not have believed it. I'll never
trust a man again."

To which announcement her sister replied with a snort:

"Yes; and, of all people, Major Gascoigne—a sort of monk, whom all the
world believes to be a hardworking recluse, and to only tolerate women
when he comes down to Marwar. That he should have—this person—hidden
away——"

"Well, we must just put a good face on it," said Mrs. Flant
philosophically, "and be civil—any port in a storm, you know."

"Did you notice her gown?" said her sister, speaking, as it were, in
italics. "It must have cost a fortune—simple—yet so French; and look
at her dressing-case," and Miss Ball cast up her eyes in pious horror.

After the ladies had reappeared in the "person's" garments,
refreshments were brought in, to which they paid serious attention.
They partook of whiskies and sodas, began to recover from their fright
and their astonishment, and found their tongues.

"You never saw anything like the road between this and Shiram's,"
remarked Mrs. Flant.

"Oh, I think I can imagine it," replied Angel, "as I came over part of
that way this morning."

"You? Not really?" in an incredulous key.

"Yes, I only arrived a few hours before you"—the girl was obviously
speaking the truth; she was a lady—"I came out in the _Arabia_ on
Monday."

"Then the Mactears were on board?" with a judicial air.

"Yes, they were in the next cabin to us—to the friend I came out with."

"I'm afraid you won't have a favourable first impression of India,"
said Miss Ball.

"Oh, but I was born here. I was in India till I was nine years old.
Philip is my guardian, you know," and then she laughed, as she added,
"We have all taken him by storm to-day."

"But you were expected, surely?"

"No—no more than you were."

"We never heard that Major Gascoigne had a ward," remarked Miss Ball,
trenchantly.

"If you had been in Ramghur nine years ago, you would have heard all
about me. Here he comes," as Philip entered and beheld the ladies
cheered and clothed, and in a right state of mind. Evidently they were
getting on capitally with Angela, and this was important, though she
was too simple to guess at her guardian's reason for being particularly
civil to his guests. Mrs. Flant had a sharp tongue; she lived in his
station, knew all his friends, and was capable of making a very fine
story out of this evening's _rencontre_. Angel rather wondered at her
cousin's affability, and how well he talked. After a while he said:

"You three ladies had better turn in soon, as you'll have a long day
to-morrow; you will have to share the same room," he explained, "and to
rough it a good deal, I'm afraid."

"Not half as much as you in a wet tent," cried Angela.

"Oh, I'm all right. To-morrow," addressing himself to Mrs. Flant, "I
will do my best to get you on down to Khartgodam."

"You are so anxious to be rid of us," cried Miss Ball, coquettish, in
Angel's charming tea-jacket with its faint perfume of lilac.

"Oh, no, not at all, but my cousin is most anxious to get down to Mrs.
Gordon."

"Oh, do _you_ know Mrs. Gordon?"

"She has known her since she was a child," replied Major Gascoigne.
Angel sat by and marvelled. "I will accompany you myself, and put you
across the bad bits. But I cannot get leave—in fact, I would not
take it, the district is in such an awful condition, and I shall be
obliged if you will take charge of my cousin, and hand her over to Mrs.
Gordon."

"Oh, we shall be only too delighted," said Mrs. Flant. "It will be so
nice all travelling together. It was quite providential our finding the
bungalow."

"For me also," he replied. "I was just wondering how Angel really was
to travel, and your turning up here is a piece of wonderful good luck."

Angel opened her eyes to their widest extent. Was her guardian an
accomplished hypocrite? His countenance, when he had descried those two
white faces peering in at the window, had expressed amazement, horror,
and disgust.




CHAPTER XIX

THE PARTING GUESTS


THE morning succeeding the arrivals, and the storm, was cloudless.
There are few things more beautiful, or more treacherous, than a break
in the rains in the Himalayas. The sun shone brilliantly, the sky was
a dense turquoise blue, against which stood out a far-away range of
jagged white peaks. A stillness lay upon the deep, dim valleys beneath
the forest bungalow, there was scarcely a sound besides the twitter of
birds, and the thunder of a water-course.

Miss Ball was standing in the verandah pulling on her gloves, and
contemplating the scene. The party were on the eve of departure.

"What a delicious spot this is," she exclaimed, rapturously, to Major
Gascoigne; "isn't it perfectly lovely, Bella? I should like to come
here for my honeymoon."

"You must first get hold of the bridegroom," declared her sister in
a tart voice. Fanny's disappointments had begun to have a wearing
effect upon that lady's patience, and this early start, and the natural
apprehension of a detestable, if not dangerous journey, had somewhat
darkened her outlook on life.

"The bungalow is always at Miss Ball's disposal," replied the host
gallantly. "And now we must be getting under weigh, as we have a long
march before us."

In ten minutes the verandah was empty, the last coolie had disappeared
among the trees, Abdul, the Khansamah, free from further anxieties,
retired to his charpoy, and his huka. It proved to be a day of
thrilling adventures, of almost hair-breadth escapes. Mrs. Flant
emphatically declared that she could not face certain obstacles, but
she managed to progress, thanks to her escort's cool determination,
and ruthlessly deaf ear to her agonised exclamations. Miss Ball, on
the back of a stalwart hill-man, cut a sufficiently ridiculous figure;
she had not the nerve to skirt a certain frowning precipice on her
own feet. The path was narrow, the drop apparently fathomless, her
fears and protestations entailed twenty minutes' delay. She angrily
refused to follow her sister's example to be led across blindfolded by
Gascoigne, she simply sat in her jampan (hill-chair), and there lifted
up her voice and wept.

Whatever Major Gascoigne's mental remarks were, outwardly, he was the
personification of politeness, encouragement, and cajolery. At last
the lady was persuaded, and was hoisted on the back of a grunting
Pahari with the shoulders of an Atlas, and with her eyelids squeezed
tightly together, her long feet dangling helplessly, was safely borne
to the other side. Thus she got across one of the "bad bits." Whatever
obstacles they encountered, their leader never flinched. He worked
hard in his shirt sleeves, with his own hands; he led, decoyed, and
coaxed the two sisters and the ayah along crumbling tracks, over
water-courses, and from rock to rock amid boiling torrents. It was
the hardest day's work that he ever remembered. If a fourth clinging
coward had been on his hands, Gascoigne felt that he was bound to
succumb. But Angel, luckily for him, had no fear. She was blessed
with a wonderful head and a cool courage, was amazingly active, and
swung herself from rock to rock, from root to root, or walked along a
six-inch path precisely as if she were a Pahari maiden. Her guardian's
time being engrossed with repairs, enticements, and the charge of
three agonised companions, he had but scant opportunity of talking to
her; but once, when the worst part of the journey was behind them, the
ladies were ahead in their jampans, the two fell into one another's
society, as they passed through a forest of rhododendrons.

"Well—that's over!" said Gascoigne, as he drew a long breath, took off
his hat, and mopped his head with his handkerchief.

"You won't offer to be squire of dames again in a hurry?" said Angel,
with a mischievous laugh. "I never saw such cowards. They were as bad
as the ayah—they gibbered."

"I suppose it's constitutional," he replied; "they could not help their
feelings."

"At least they might have concealed them," rejoined the girl,
indignantly.

"Do you always conceal yours, Angel?"

"I do my best—I'm trying hard; I can with some things," she answered,
"and if I were afraid, I'd rather die than show it."

"I am quite certain of that," he replied, "but you have a stout heart,
I cannot fancy your being afraid of anything. I've a letter here for
Mrs. Gordon—will you give it to her? It will explain——" he hesitated.

"—_me_," she supplemented briskly.

"Yes, she will be delighted to have you. She is very much alone, her
husband is absorbed in his work—and they have no children."

"Is she nice?" inquired his companion.

"She is one of the best women I've ever known."

"Yet she may be extremely disagreeable," argued Angela.

"No, she is charming, and so popular. She is sympathetic, clear-headed,
and practical—everyone takes their troubles to Mrs. Gordon."

"And you are sending her your trouble by rail?"

"Nonsense, Angel, she will look upon you as a great boon, and be
infinitely obliged to me. I am sure you will like her."

"Why should you be sure?" she protested; "sometimes I like the people I
ought not to like, and don't like the people I ought to like—and there
is no dependence on me."

"What a way to talk," he exclaimed. "It will be strange if you and Mrs.
Gordon don't hit it off."

"Do you think I shall shock her—as I do you?"

"I was not aware that I was shocked. She is a good woman, who is not
narrow-minded, and her friends are many and various. Lucky is the young
man or girl, who, on first coming out, falls into her sphere. There
are very few people who have not been the better for Mrs. Gordon's
influence."

"And yet she cannot influence her own husband," Remarked Angel drily.
"He is still a bear."

"Unfortunately he is—and a grizzly bear at that," admitted Gascoigne.
"He has no interest in life beyond his work, which includes personal
ambition, a certain class of Persian love-songs—and perhaps—his
liver."

"What a mixture!" she ejaculated. "Well, I shall insist on his taking
an interest in _me_, and before long, you will hear of his spouting
Persian love-songs, as we stroll up and down among roses, and bul-buls."

Gascoigne burst into a loud, involuntary laugh, as the incongruous
picture tickled his imagination. His laugh rang down through the forest
trees, and reached the ladies, who looked at one another with peculiar
significance.

"Oh, yes," resumed Angel, "I intend to influence ursa Major; through
him I shall influence his wife; through her, I shall influence the
whole province. I shall be like a pebble thrown into a pool, whose
ripples go far;" then in a voice, "When shall you be down, Philip?"

"In three weeks or a month, and meanwhile I know, Angel, you will be
happy with Mrs. Gordon; she will introduce you to the people—and show
you the ropes."

"Oh, but I know the ropes," said Angel, kicking a pine cone before
her, "I've not forgotten my India. Kind, hospitable, intimate old
India, with your mysterious under life, your tragedies, and comedies,
and scandals. I love you still," and she paused for a moment to kiss
her hand to a distant peep of the far-away blue plains. "Can anything
be more exquisite than this view?" she continued. "Look at the ferns
and moss growing on the trees, the carpets of wild orchids, the stern
purple mountains; I should like to remain in these hills—they seem to
draw me to them. I was born in the Himalayas, you know. Well, I suppose
I must leave them," and she heaved a sigh. "It is a pity, for I feel as
if I could be so _good_ up here."

"I trust that you can be good anywhere?" said Gascoigne.

"Oh, I don't know," she rejoined. "I am so sensitive to climate. I
love the sunshine, it makes me good-natured and generous, but I always
feel so wicked in an east wind! As for my sensations in a stuffy,
three-berth cabin, with two sea-sick companions—but I spare you. By
the way, one of my fellow-sufferers, a Mrs. Farquhar, gave me an urgent
invitation to visit her at Umballa."

Gascoigne most devoutly wished that Angel had accepted this offer, and
thus given him even a few days' breathing-space.

He looked at his ward, as she walked lightly beside him. She was so
natural, so simple, yet so worldly wise; and she was distractingly
pretty—not many men would have been so painfully anxious to rid
themselves of such a companion.

She would certainly turn the heads of all the young fellows in Marwar.
What a prospect for him! Already he beheld himself at a wedding, giving
away the hand of the most lovely bride. Yes, of course, it would
not be long before Angel was carried off; she was a girl of unusual
attractions, and with this hope in his heart he became quite hilarious.
She would make a far happier marriage under his and Mrs. Gordon's
auspices than under that of her heartless and worldly old grandmother.

On second thoughts, Major Gascoigne accompanied the party the whole way
to the railway, and saw them off, although it entailed an immense ride
afterwards.

He wished to despatch a long explanatory wire to Mrs. Gordon, so that
Angel might not burst upon her as she had done on him; nor need the
child have all the awkwardness of announcing herself, and producing
her credentials. He secured tickets, saw to refreshments, baggage,
servants, and then came the taking leave of the three ladies. Angel
had half expected him to kiss her, but he merely gave her a warm
handshake. He was very funny now, so odd, and stiff, and changed, yet
just the same dear old Philip. And thus Angel set off in the little
tin-pot railway to Marwar, where she was to live under Mrs. Gordon's
chaperonage, turn the heads of all the young men, and to meet her
fate. As Philip turned his hired pony once more towards the hill, and
a thirty-five mile ride, leaving his own steed to follow, his thoughts
accompanied a party in the little black train now panting through the
Terai.

And as he regained, late at night, his now deserted bungalow, his
thoughts dwelt, as he smoked, over the extraordinary incidents of the
last twenty-four to thirty hours. What experiences had been compassed
into them, like a meat-lozenge of emotions.

As in his mind's eye, her guardian again beheld that charming child
flitting about his room; remembered her speaking and sunny eyes,
he told himself that his ward had far surpassed his expectations.
Surpassed?—his expectations had never ventured upon such an ideal, and
he made up his mind that he would be extremely difficult to please,
as her guardian, and that it was only some real good fellow who would
have his consent to marry Angel. Then he set his memory to work. He
deliberately passed all his friends, and his acquaintances, in critical
review—no, there was not one of them worthy to dust her shoes!




CHAPTER XX

A DESTROYING ANGEL


CAPTAIN SHAFTO was taking tea with Mrs. Gordon in the great important
looking drawing-room, which befitted the wife of a Commissioner,
and future Lieutenant-Governor. She was, although five-and-thirty,
a strikingly attractive woman, with sweet dark eyes, a sympathetic
voice, a graceful carriage, and supreme tact. On the other hand, Billy
Shafto's beauty had been somewhat tarnished by several bad "go's" of
fever, a series of hot seasons in the plains, and roughing it on an
Afghan campaign, but he was still good-looking, popular, and unmarried.
As his hostess was about to add sugar to his tea, a telegram was
brought to her by a scarlet chuprassi, and presented with a deep salaam.

She picked it carelessly off the salver, and, glancing at it, said, "It
is probably from Donald to say he cannot be home till to-morrow—the
new assessment is so tedious." But as she read the telegram she gave a
little gasp, and said, "From Major Gascoigne. You"—and she looked at
it again—"will never guess what it's about."

"Of course I can," replied Shafto with the utmost confidence;
"he is going to be married, though I'm blessed if I can guess to
whom—everyone tells you first, you are the Queen of Matchmakers, and
the universal confidante—yes, poor Phil, gone at last."

"No, you are quite cold—try again," she said.

"Again——" he repeated, and his eyes travelled thoughtfully round the
pillared room, with its immense palms, imposing mirrors, and ottomans,
an awe-inspiring official room, offering dim suggestions of future
receptions.

"I give it up—stop, no I don't," and he slapped his knee, "it's about
_Angel_."

"Yes, you are wonderfully quick, I must say, but why did you think of
her?"

"I always knew she'd give him trouble yet."

"I don't know about the trouble, but she has joined him in the hills
without a moment's notice."

Shafto gave a loud laugh. "That's Angel all the world over! I was
always dead against Phil taking over charge of that girl. I knew
he'd be let in. Here she comes out, I'll venture to say, as wild and
unmanageable as ever. What the dickens is he going to do with her?"

"Well, for the present," said Mrs. Gordon with a faint smile, "he is
sending her down to _me_. I daresay, ultimately, he will arrange for
her return to England."

"From what I remember of Angel I fancy there will be two words to that.
He might place her with some family; there are no end of girls out here
now, as paying guests—but it's a day after the fair. As long as she is
unmarried, he will be in hot water. You never know where you are with
Angel, or where she will have you."

"You seem to have a bad opinion of her, poor girl," remarked the lady.

"Well, yes—and with good reason. What does Phil say?"

"'Angela arrived yesterday unexpectedly. Am sending her to you by four
o'clock train. Please meet, and receive her, and pardon P. G.'"

"Umph," muttered Shafto, as he folded up the telegram, "she will be
here at ten to-morrow. Shall I meet her and bring her up? I knew her in
pinafores."

"Thank you so much, for Donald expects me to be at breakfast. I will
send down the carriage and a chuprassi, and have the room all ready."

"I wonder what she will be like?" said the man with a meditative air.

"A little creature with fluffy hair—rather silent and frightened,"
suggested the lady; and as Shafto always received whatever Mrs.
Gordon said as gospel, he was searching for the counterpart of this
description in the morning train. Mrs. Flant and her sister greeted him
agreeably, and he explained that he had not come to meet them—but that
Mrs. Gordon had sent him to receive a friend.

"Perhaps I am the individual," suggested a tall, striking-looking
pretty girl; "is her name Gascoigne?"

"You don't mean to say that you are Angel?" he exclaimed, grasping her
hand; "I never would have known you."

"No," rather drily, "but I recognise you. You are Captain Shafto."
He coloured with pleasure, till she added, "who always so strongly
disapproved of me."

"Now, there your excellent memory is at fault," was his mendacious
reply, "who could ever have disapproved of _you_?" for he had fallen
in love with this smiling vision on the spot. "Let me get your
luggage out—I suppose your ayah is somewhere—the carriage is here,"
and he bustled about, proud and important, and all the way back to
the Commissioner's, as they sat opposite to one another in the roomy
landau, Shafto the Scorner was feverishly endeavoring to win the smiles
and good will of this exquisite and rather disdainful Angel. He was her
first victim—and by no means the last.

Mrs. Gordon welcomed the traveller warmly, kissed her, took her to her
best guest chamber, and sent her in a _recherché_ breakfast.

Meanwhile she read the epistle that was, so to speak, Angel's letter
of credit. So she had escaped from her grandmother, and all the
stimulating froth of modern society, and cast herself into the arms of
her guardian. Poor, poor Philip! never a ladies' man—though many women
found him most interesting and attractive—what was he to do, with this
wild and beautiful ward?

       *       *       *       *       *

In a surprisingly short time Miss Gascoigne had made her presence
felt in Marwar. Mrs. Gordon had submitted to be enslaved; her stolid,
self-engrossed husband had expressed his admiration, Shafto was her
bond servant, and within a week Mrs. Gordon, popular Mrs. Gordon, had
never remembered in all her experience such a rush of young men's
cards and calls. Angel had unpacked her pretty toilettes—toilettes
that threw her mother's home-made costumes completely into the
shade—which she wore with an every-day grace. Lovely, fascinating,
maddening, was the station verdict, as they saw the girl in carriage,
or on horseback; such a creature had not adorned for twenty years,
and oh! what a charge for Philip Gascoigne. Meanwhile Angel revived
old memories, captured the affections of Mrs. Gordon, threw out many
queries respecting Philip, and embarked on a series of flirtations.

Mrs. Flant and Miss Ball at first posed to the station as her original
friends and sponsors. They were important on the subject; she had been
given into their care by Major Gascoigne, and it was with them that
she had travelled from Khartgodam. She was a delightful companion, so
amusing and so vivacious. But as days flew by a change came o'er the
spirit of their dream, for among the crowd who had flocked to Angela's
standard was a certain Mr. Tarletan in the D. P. W., who had sworn, or,
at least whispered, allegiance to Fanny Ball. This put a completely new
complexion on Angela's character. Miss Ball was some years over thirty,
a slender young woman, whose admirers and good looks were visibly
deserting her, and her sister was painfully anxious to see Fanny
settled. Fanny had been foolish, and let so many good chances slip
through her fingers; Mr. Tarletan represented the last of these; it was
really a most serious matter. He had been asked to the house, lavishly
entertained, and taken out to dances; he had spent a whole expensive
month with the Flants in the hills, on the strength of his attentions:
did the man suppose he was going to get out of that for _nothing_?
But this mean-spirited miscreant ignored all bonds and claims, and
prostrated himself at the feet of the adorable Angel. His greetings to
Mrs. Flant were offhand and brief, his answers to her questions curt,
his pressing engagements fictional. As he had seven hundred rupees a
month, and good prospects, Mrs. Flant was not going to suffer him to
escape; she accordingly turned to her most seasoned and formidable
weapon—her tongue.

As soon as Mrs. Flant began to "talk" there were whispers; hitherto
there were no two male opinions respecting Miss Gascoigne's beauty, her
figure, her vivacity, her charm—now there were no two female opinions
respecting her—reputation. Mrs. Scott had requested Mrs. Gordon in a
peculiarly pointed manner, not to bring Miss Gascoigne to her dance,
and Mrs. Gordon had replied with stately emphasis: "Certainly not, and
I shall remain at home with my guest." Then Mrs. Scott had grown pink,
red, scarlet—a Commissioner's wife is a dangerous woman to snub (in
India), and Mrs. Gordon was the wife of a Commissioner. "Of course you
are the last to hear the station scandal," she burst out, "and there is
such a thing as being too charitable. You don't know what people are
saying about Philip Gascoigne and his—ward."

"You need not hesitate. She is his ward—what more?"

"When Mrs. Flant discovered——"

"Oh, Mrs. Flant is a Christopher Columbus for—new scandals and mare's
nests."

"Well, at any rate, she surprised Major Gascoigne and his ward in a
lonely bungalow in the hills, perfectly happy and at home together. She
says she believes they were there for weeks."

"And even so?"

"Mrs. Gordon," rising and evidently preparing to shake the dust off
her feet, "if you had young people—you would never be so lax. Miss
Gascoigne is pretty in a certain odd French style—she is grown up, and
what is Major Gascoigne?"

"Her guardian—her mother——"

"No," interrupting wildly; "an attractive bachelor in the prime of
life—many people consider him the handsomest man in the station."

"But what has that got to do with the question?"

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Gordon!" Here Mrs. Scott shrugged her shoulders,
and with a dramatic "Good afternoon," stalked out of the great
drawing-room. It was in the air, and in people's eyes. Mrs. Gordon
felt it, and saw it, although Angel at her side, all white muslin, and
smiles, was as innocent as any May-day lamb, who fails to see in the
approaching figure in a blue overall—the arbiter of its fate.

       *       *       *       *       *

Whilst the station was simmering to boiling-point, Major Gascoigne
returned to Marwar, and dined at the Gordons' on the night of his
arrival. He arrived late, just in time to take his partner in to
dinner; it was not a so-called "Burra Khana," but merely a friendly
informal affair, half-a-dozen of the station boys, a couple "passing
through," Angel, and himself. As for Angel, it seemed to him that his
prognostications had been fulfilled. She looked brilliantly lovely,
yes, that was the adjective, her colour was like a rose, her eyes
shone. She carried herself with an air, though she chattered any
quantity of fascinating nonsense. She was irresistible, and all the
boys bowed down before her, like the sheaves of Joseph's brethren.

He thought Mrs. Gordon looked a little worn and anxious, possibly
her Indian bear had been unusually selfish and savage. Poor woman,
when she married Gordon twelve years previously, a pretty, simple
country clergyman's daughter, longing to see the East, and strongly
recommended to the bear by his maiden aunts—he had come home to look
for a wife precisely as he would for a camera or a bicycle—she little
dreamt of the life that she was doomed to live, the stones for bread,
the serpents for fish, and yet how she kept her sorrows to herself,
what reticence, self-control, and womanly dignity; who ever heard her
complain of a hard taskmaster, his iron rule, and her barren life?

After dinner Angel sang; it seemed to be expected as part of the
evening's entertainment. Major Gascoigne leant against the wall in
the background, and marvelled and listened. She stood behind her
accompanist and facing the room, and when Angel opened her mouth to
sing she still continued to look charming. She wore a white dress
trimmed with shining silver, it had a low neck and long sleeves,
according to the fashion; a few crimson roses were fastened in the
bodice, a little chain and locket encircled her long throat; the
expression of her eyes was interesting to watch—what passion lay
dormant in those deep blue orbs—who would be the happy man on whom
they would ultimately smile? There was no question that his ward
possessed the fatal gift, and he could hardly realise that this
charming, enchanting and destroying Angel was the little forlorn
creature whom he had educated and befriended. He thought of her
grandmother's furious letter, which had swiftly followed on the
runaway; it was evidently written when the heart of the writer was hot
within her. It said, "Angel is her mother's own daughter, though I was
never brought into personal contact with that adventuress, who robbed
me of my youngest son. It was about this woman that we quarrelled, her
daughter and I; in a fury she left me, and fled to you; regardless of
appearances, duty, or gratitude. I wash my hands of her absolutely, and
I deplore your fate."

When the party was breaking up, Philip Gascoigne snatched a few words
with his ward, who was closely invested by her admirers. They were
planning a riding party for the following morning; any number of
perfect horses were preferred for her selection, her usual mount being
lame.

"I will send over a pretty little Arab, that will carry you perfectly,"
suggested her guardian.

"Thank you very much, Philip, but I've almost decided to ride Captain
de Horsay's polo pony, who can't bear women, and shies when he sees
one—riding him will be an experience."

"You may say so," put in Captain de Horsay's rival, "much better ride
my stud bred—you'll never hold him."

"Well, I shall try, and if he bolts, he can boast that he ran away with
a lady, and his character as a woman-hater will be gone. Yes, please,
Captain de Horsay, I'll have Schopenhauer at half-past six."

The riding party, which consisted of Mrs. Gordon, Angel, Philip,
and four men, duly came off, and though Schopenhauer ran away with
the lady, she thought it great fun, but the pony's excitability
and eccentricities precluded all chance of enjoying a comfortable
_tête-à-tête_ with anyone. She was, however, an admirable horsewoman,
whatever her driving might be, and the black pony had undoubtedly met
his match. Gascoigne took leave of the party outside the Commissioner's
bungalow, and galloped straight home. As he entered his cool
sitting-room, he was rather surprised to discover the station chaplain
occupying his own especial arm-chair.




CHAPTER XXI

"THINK IT OVER"


THE Reverend Arthur Eliot, "Padre Eliot," as his people called him,
was a notable figure in society, an active, well-built man of six or
seven and thirty, with a square, clean-shaven face and an exceedingly
sweet smile. He never preached longer than fifteen minutes, he was
an admirable bowler, played a hard set of tennis and sang a good
song. All this went far to account for his popularity. He was also
unmarried—though this in India is unimportant—but, more than all,
he was a fearless, outspoken pastor, whose example and works did far
more good amongst his flock, especially the young men, than constant
services and ornate ritual.

He worked indefatigably among the soldiers and Eurasians, their wives
and children, and strove to provide occupation and amusement for them
all, fully endorsing Dr. Watt's opinion respecting "Satan and idle
hands." In sickness and in health it was the Padre they all turned to,
and many a poor soul had leaned on his arm, as it groped its way to
another world. He lived plainly and simply in a little cheap bungalow,
and was a near neighbour to Major Gascoigne, between whom and himself
there existed a most cordial friendship. The Padre was such a busy
man that Gascoigne knew, the instant he saw him, that only important
business had brought him to call in the golden hours of the morning.

"Hullo, Gascoigne," he said cheerily, as he entered, "I am glad to see
you back."

"Yes, thank you, only arrived last night. I've had a tremendously big
job up the hills—they all seemed determined to run down into the
plains; I never remember such rains," and he threw himself into a
chair, and tossed his cap on the table.

"And now you are home for good," said the Padre, and his face took a
more serious expression, as he sat erect and crumpled his terai hat in
his vigorous hands.

"Look here, Gascoigne," he continued with an effort, "I've come to have
a good square jaw with you, about something that will be disagreeable,
but you know it's the Padre's duty to stand in the forefront, when
talking has to be done."

"I know," assented his companion. "I suppose you want me to take back
Johnson, the overseer—I honestly would if I could—I'm sorry for his
family—I've given him two chances."

"My dear fellow," interrupted the chaplain, stretching out his hand,
"it is not that at all. I've come to speak to you about Miss Gascoigne,
your ward."

"What about Miss Gascoigne?" inquired her cousin. His manner stiffened,
and his voice assumed an Arctic coolness.

"I suppose you know how a station gossips—in the billiard-room,
barracks, and bazaar?"

"I suppose I do," he said contemptuously.

"Have you any notion of the talk there has been respecting Miss
Gascoigne?"

"Every new-comer has to pass through that ordeal—by tongue,"
interrupted the other man with a gesture of impatience.

"Please allow me to finish," protested his friend gravely. "Of course
you are not likely to hear a breath—no one would venture to tell you;
but the air is thick with rumours concerning your cousin and yourself."

"And where do I come in?" he asked sharply, "in what character?"

"The usual character a man assumes when a very pretty woman is in
question—the _rôle_ of lover."

Gascoigne kicked over a footstool, and rose to his feet. He had grown
suddenly white.

"Who dares to couple our names in that way?" he asked hoarsely. The
veins in his temples swelled, and his eyes flashed.

"Most people," was the staggering reply; "you see, you and she
were alone at your forest bungalow. Mrs. Flant has been drawing a
highly-coloured picture of your _ménage_—she has thrown out hints."

"To which no one who knows her will listen," broke in Gascoigne.

"Oh, yes, I regret to say, that there is a large class who like to hear
ill-doings attributed to others—especially when those others have been
_sans peur_, and _sans reproche_."

Gascoigne stared at the Padre for some seconds. At last he spoke. "I'll
tell you the plain facts, Eliot. Ten years ago I adopted my little
cousin, and took over the charge from her dying mother. I sent the
child to England and educated her; latterly her grandmother has given
her a home. They have had a violent quarrel, and the impulsive girl
came straight off to me. She arrived exactly two hours before Mrs.
Flant and her sister. I need scarcely say that her unexpected descent
embarrassed me a good deal. That's the whole affair—I know it is
unnecessary to explain myself to you"——

"Quite," was the laconic reply, "but you are in an awkward position,
as guardian to a young lady; and one of such a remarkable and out of
the common character. When you accepted the post she was a child—now
you have a beautiful woman on your hands. You are a young man, and
unmarried. This gives the enemy occasion to blaspheme."

Gascoigne muttered something which is absolutely unsuitable for print.
Aloud he said, "I wish I were seventy years of age. I suppose that
would shut people's mouths?"

"It would simplify matters, certainly," acquiesced the Padre. "Miss
Gascoigne did an extraordinarily foolish thing when she rushed out
to India and hurled herself into your charge. She never realised the
gravity of the step she was taking. I gather that she is a girl to act
first, and then to sit down and think? In the present instance she will
have to sit down and repent in sackcloth and ashes for the injury she
has done to herself—and you."

"Oh, never mind me," broke in his companion impatiently, "what is to be
done about her? I cannot offer her a home here—I cannot leave her with
the Gordons—I have promised not to send her back to England—what _am_
I to do?" and Gascoigne, who had been pacing the room with his hands
behind his back, suddenly came to a halt, directly in front of his
pastor.

"Why cannot you have her to live here?" asked Mr. Eliot, gravely.

"Why?" echoed the other man, "good Lord—is not your visit a plain
answer to the question? If people are such brutes as to make a scandal
out of—"

Mr. Eliot extended his hand with a gesture of deprecation.

"Oh, then, go on," said Gascoigne impatiently; "tell me what I can do?
Say the word."

"You can—marry her," was the totally unexpected answer.

Gascoigne's reply was equally astonishing; it took the form of a long
pause, and then a loud derisive laugh. "I—marry Angel!" he cried at
last. "Excuse me, but the idea is too absurd."

"I fail to see anything ridiculous about it," rejoined the Padre. "I
think it would be a capital match. You are a man in the prime of life,
she is a charming girl—is there any just cause or impediment?"

"Twenty."

"Give me one, then," he asked impatiently.

"She is a mere child."

"No; she is a grown-up woman."

"We—would be a most incongruous couple, a butterfly, and a black
working ant."

"I cannot see that."

"Besides, Angel is not to be disposed of in such a summary fashion; she
would laugh at the bare idea."

"Is she not well disposed to you?" and Padre Eliot eyed him
searchingly.

"Oh, yes; as a child she was extremely fond of me."

"'_On revient toujours a ses premiers amours_,'" quoted his visitor
with significance.

"Eliot, you are a clever fellow, and my friend," said Gascoigne,
suddenly, "but you are neither going to talk me, or quote me, into
matrimony. I have never—that is to say, not for years—thought of
marrying."

"Then it is time you did," rejoined his visitor, with decision. "It is
a great mistake for a man to put off marrying too long; marriage is an
honourable estate. It is not good for man to live alone."

"Well, I find the estate extremely comfortable. There was peace in Eden
till Eve appeared, and I, too, can quote scripture, 'Physician, heal
_thyself_.'"

"Yes, I thought you knew," and Mr. Eliot's face grew grave; "I've had
my romance—she died."

Gascoigne did not reply.

"I've had my romance—she jilted me," he merely said.

"I did not know."

"Pardon me, I'm sorry for you; but marriage would change the whole
current of my life."

"And make it deeper and broader and more unselfish," suggested his
visitor.

"I never realised that I was selfish—I expect I am! I like my own
way, my own pursuits, my own friends. I would be selfish, indeed, if
I brought a gay young life to share my fossilised routine. Eliot," he
continued, still more forcibly, "speaking as man to man, surely there
is some way of escape from this situation? Help me, for my mind is not
fruitful in devices. I am thinking of Angel, not of myself. Is she
to be compelled to marry a man she has always looked on as a sort of
uncle, simply because a wicked woman has started an infernal scandal?
What is your opinion?"

"You have already had it," now rising. "I have told you what I came
here to say. Scandal is hard to stifle, even when it has not a tittle
of foundation—evil minds continue to repeat. 'There is no smoke
without a fire.' I believe there is no fire, nothing but the cold,
wet sticks of early companionship. I say, that I know you to be a
good fellow, Gascoigne; Miss Angel is a beautiful, high-spirited,
warm-hearted girl. Accept what fate sends you—marry her if you can,
and be thankful."

"That is your last word?"

"Yes; I say no more. Think it over, my dear fellow," and here he laid
his hand affectionately on the shoulder of his friend; "you might see
Mrs. Gordon. Women are instinctively clever and quick-witted in these
affairs. Think it over," and with this injunction Mr. Eliot put his
terai hat on his head, and hastily took his departure.

       *       *       *       *       *

For some time after the Padre had left him, Major Gascoigne remained
sitting in a chair, mentally benumbed. By-and-by he roused himself with
an effort, and set all his wits to work upon the subject so brusquely
brought to his knowledge. The more he reviewed the question, the less
he liked it. He knew how a breath of gossip can tarnish a stainless
name, whether at home or abroad; how no amount of rubbing will remove
the speck of rust which eats it away. Poor Eliot, he was sorry he had
raked up a dead memory. Eliot was too emotional, too sensitive about
his flock, very easily frightened—and all parsons were match-makers.
There must be _some_ way out of the wood. He would change his clothes
at once, swallow some breakfast, and ride over and talk the thing out
with Mrs. Gordon. She was generally sewing or writing all the morning
in the north verandah. Then he suddenly recalled the fact that his
hostess had seemed a little grave and preoccupied the previous evening;
that once or twice he had caught her gazing at him with a mysterious
expression—that once or twice she had been about to say something to
him during the morning ride, and paused; and that she had given him an
unusually pressing invitation to "come over soon—and tell her all the
news."

Major Gascoigne was perfectly correct in his surmise. As he walked up
to the north verandah, Mrs. Gordon rose, and held out her hand; in the
other were several letters.

"Do come and sit down," she said. "You are the very person I was
thinking about, and particularly wish to see." As she concluded she
held up a letter, and said: "This is _all_ about you."

"Then it is bound to be stupid," he rejoined, heaving a dog out of
a chair, and taking its place. "I've come over to have a talk with
you—great wits, you see, jump together; but, bar all jokes, I shall be
glad if your wit will clear up a puzzle for me."

Mrs. Gordon looked at him inquiringly, and faintly coloured as she
said:

"You have had a visit from Mr. Eliot, good, brave man."

"Good, yes; but there was no particular question of courage," said
Major Gascoigne, rather sharply. "Did you fear I would knock him down,
or shoot him?" and his tone was sarcastic.

"I'm thinking of moral courage," she answered quickly. "It required a
certain amount to go and beard you—and tell you—that you had been
tried by the tribunal of the station and sentenced to—marry——"

"Angel," he supplemented, half under his breath.

"Yes, it appears that Mrs. Flant has been assiduously spreading
reports," continued his companion, "and nothing will appease Mrs.
Grundy—short of—your marriage."

"And is it not shameful?" he broke out, with a ring of passion in his
voice, "that I should have to marry that poor child, in order to shut
Mrs. Flant's mouth?"

"To shut everyone's mouth," corrected Mrs. Gordon; "even Donald says
it is desirable. Mrs. Flant has the pen of a ready writer, as well as
hosts of correspondents—she has a hideous mind, and, you see, you were
promoted over her brother's head."

"Simply because he was incompetent. An unmitigated duffer—his work was
notorious. I'm still patching and repairing and destroying."

"I always thought it was a hazardous experiment, your taking charge of
Angel," observed Mrs. Gordon, as she meditatively surveyed her visitor.

What a handsome fellow he was! with his sun-bronzed, clear-cut face—at
present clouded with gloom. What an excellent husband he would make;
it was a pity he was unmarried, and only (she secretly felt assured)
some extraordinarily tidal wave of circumstance such as the present,
would ever sweep him into the net matrimonial. He would be so much
happier with a wife. And Angel? With a woman's instinctive knowledge
of another, Mrs. Gordon knew that Angel—beautiful, bewitching,
fascinating Angel—loved no one as she did this good-looking, dark-eyed
cousin, who lay back in his chair with his hands locked behind his
head, his gaze riveted on his well-cut riding boots, and an expression
of tragic protestation on his countenance.

Angel was not in love yet. She loved him (there is a difference)—she
loved him as the champion of her childhood, the bond between her and
her mother, her ideal, champion, and friend. This love was well hidden
away from all unsympathetic eyes, for Angel had made no foolish boast,
when she had declared that she would conceal her feelings, but the
love, a rare, strong, pure love, was there.

Once or twice it had peeped out timidly, and Mrs. Gordon had seen it.
She was a born match-maker; of her matches she was inordinately proud,
and generally with good reason. She felt that she had contributed to
the happiness of many, and that, just at the critical moment, she had
supplied the little look, or hint, or word, that brought the whole
story to a happy ending.

As she sat with her eyes fastened reflectively on her visitor, she
rapidly made up her mind that he should marry Angel. The "talk" would
eventually blow over; in fact, if she were to dress herself up as a
Japanese, or a negress, and go to the club, the talk would instantly
be diverted to herself. So much for talk! Here was a tide in Philip's
affairs and Angel's, and she resolved to take it at the flood.

"I think you and Angel would be an ideal couple," she said. "I'm sure
you would make her happy."

"What!" he exclaimed, struggling back out of a day dream; "you are not
in earnest?"

"You would be April and July."

"No, but a March hare, and a Michaelmas goose," he retorted,
scornfully. "I'm much too old for her."

Mrs. Gordon made no effort to combat this statement—her husband was
seventeen years her senior. Was not her bleak married life an awful
warning to other girls?

"She would have someone to lean on," she resumed; "someone to guide
her."

"I'm not sure that she'd care about _that_," her visitor protested,
with a short laugh.

"She always—liked you—she likes you still. The king can do no wrong,"
she urged, insistently.

"He would do her a great wrong if he asked her to be his queen to
silence lying tongues. A gay young fellow of five-and-twenty, who
dances well and is a good polo player, is far more in Angel's line that
I am—even supposing she would have me—which she would not." Here
Mrs. Gordon made a gesture of dissent. "I'm too settled in my ways.
After a man passes the twenties, and gets on into the thirties without
marrying, he does not want a wife—she's a sort of extra."

"What heresy," cried his listener, indignantly.

"Besides, you know, I—was once—in love with another girl."

"Oh, yes; but that was twelve years ago," said his listener, quickly;
"she is no girl now. You cannot pretend you have not got over that. We
all know that men's hearts, like crabs' claws, grow again."

"What heresy," he repeated, with a laugh; "but, come, Mrs. Gordon, let
us be serious. Surely you can suggest some nice retired family in a
hill station who would receive Angel? I'll allow her four hundred a
year—a family with girls preferred."

"No," she replied; "for although Mrs. Flant's hints are abominable
falsehoods, her lie has had three weeks' start. Whilst you have been
absent it has been travelling rapidly, and growing like a snowball.
How are you to overtake it? and what family of girls would receive a
young woman—with a—story?" The lady's methods were cruel, but it was
all for the good of the subject, and his ultimate happiness; the end
justified the means. "Angela's name has been bandied about; you must
change it from Miss to Mrs."

"I'll be——" he began, and pulled himself up. "I shall go straight off
to Mrs. Flant, and cram her words down her throat, and make her eat
them. If she were a man, I declare, I would flog her. What is her tale?"

"Merely a hill idyll—which she discovered one stormy evening."

"But Angel came out in the _Arabia_; she had only the start of Mrs.
Flant by about one hundred moments, and there are two hundred witnesses
to prove it."

"True, but if you make a stir, you stir up mud," was Mrs. Gordon's
damping rejoinder. "You will make matters worse. At present, talk is
confined within a certain limited radius; surely you don't wish Angel
to be the talk of India?"

Here came Angel running, in a flowing, white gown, with a note in her
hand. She was accompanied by two frolicking puppies, and looked like
the spirit of youth.

"Good morning again, Philip," she said; then glancing at her
friend, she continued, "I declare, you two are like a couple of
conspirators—where is the dark lantern? Who is to be the victim?"

"You are," was Mrs. Gordon's unexpected reply. "We are meditating
carrying you off into camp for six weeks."

"How delightful—there's nothing I shall enjoy so much. Are you going
to invite Philip?" glancing at him.

"I don't think I can get away," he stammered—"at least, not for more
than a couple of days at a time."

"I always had an idea that there was next to no work in India; that it
was all racing and polo, and dancing and flirting."

"Well, my dear child, you see you were wrong," said Mrs. Gordon. "Who
is the note from, my dear?"

"Only a line from Miss Lennox, to say that she and her sister regret
that they cannot come over to have a game of tennis this evening—such
a funny stiff little note," and she tendered it to her hostess between
two fingers, whilst Mrs. Gordon's and Major Gascoigne's eyes met in a
glance of quick significance.

       *       *       *       *       *

As Major Gascoigne was walking home across the parade-ground, a
pony-carriage and pair of fat Pegu ponies drew up on the road, and
awaited him. Then a lady's head was poked out from under the hood, and
a smiling face, crowned by an Ellwood helmet, said:

"So pleased to see you back again."

"Thank you, Mrs. Wiggins," he rejoined.

"I want to be the first to congratulate you on your beautiful
cousin—she is lovely—everyone is talking of her, and no wonder. And
when is it to be?"

"When is—what to be?" he asked stiffly.

"Oh, come, come, you need not play the ostrich with me," and with a
laugh and a flip at her ponies, the lady rattled rapidly away, and
subsequently bragged of her encounter.

Angel's guardian frequently visited to the Commissioner's bungalow.
He came to dine, to early tea, to ride, to accompany Angel and Mrs.
Gordon to church or the band. Angel was radiantly happy, and, thanks
to her friend's precautions, totally unconscious of the net which was
closing round herself and Philip. Mrs. Gordon was merely an interested
looker-on, she saw both sides of the drama, she was both before and
behind the scenes. On one side there was Major Gascoigne, restrained,
reserved, reluctant, and yet who could resist the charm of the daily
companionship of the delightful girl who was his ward? There was Angel,
whose whole mind seemed to be centred in the wish to please Philip—and
to wonder what he thought of her?

Public opinion was favourable to the marriage—public opinion was
strong. Those who envied Major Gascoigne his careless bachelor life,
those who resented his lack of reciprocity, those mothers whom he had
disappointed, all desired to hurry him to the altar.

He could resist, but he had decided not to resist, for, after all,
Angel was the most beautiful and charming girl he knew. She was
unspoiled, he believed that she cared for him, and that he could make
her happy.

Under these reassuring reflections, he decided to accept his
fate—Angel. It was not a hard fate, a fate much envied of many, and
particularly—of all people—by Shafto. It was true that he had spoken
of marriage as a mere "episode" in a man's life—he trusted the opinion
would never reach Angel's ears. He was not madly, wildly, in love,
no—but he thought he would be lucky if she became his wife.

He would prefer to remain unmarried for the next ten years, and carve
out his career unweighted with an encumbrance. Truly, these were very
cold-blooded ideas to be harboured by the lover of a bewitching beauty
of nineteen. On the other hand, when he became grey, and stiff in the
joints, and the meridian of life and its glories had waned, he would be
nothing but a lonely, leather-faced veteran, with not a soul belonging
to him, and with no one to whom he could leave his money, except
Angel's children. Again the charm of his independent life rose into
his vision, his happy, quiet hours, his beloved book, his absorbing
interest for his work. Must this all be relinquished? Was it true, as
a comrade had declared, that his heart was composed of an entrenchment
tool? Swayed this way, and that, Philip was ashamed of his vacillation.

For once he found himself in strange conflict with his own character.
The faculty of promptly making up his mind—what had become of it?
Fresh from the charm of Angel's voice and manner, he determined to
speak the very next day.

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.

"She will lodge my passage money at once," continued the girl. "I have
only to send a wire—perhaps you would read her letter?" and she held
it up to him. Philip took it and read it over, slowly; Lady Augusta's
writing was scratchy and illegible, but he gathered that she was
devoted to her grandchild, and the whole epistle breathed a passionate
longing to see her once more.

Yes, it was all very well, he said to himself, as he mechanically
folded up the letter, but why should an injurious influence be exerted
over this fresh young life? Angel, although such an old, worldly-wise
child of nine, was, thanks to Miss Morton, and a curious twist in her
own character, as simple as nine, at the age of nineteen, simple-minded
and sincere, for all her gay flirtations and her physical sorceries.

Yet this letter was the key to his difficulties. If Angel returned home
to her grandmother, the Lady Augusta Gascoigne, who dared lift up a
voice against her?—and he was free! He looked at the girl's profile
against the crimson sunset, and asked himself, Was he free? Had he not,
like all her acquaintance, fallen under the spell of this charming,
bewitching, destroying Angel? What was she thinking about as she sat
motionless, her face turned fixedly towards the West—that she would
return to the West once more? No, no, no. He would never suffer her to
pass into Lady Augusta's hands again.

Suddenly the impulse came upon him there and then—he determined to
speak.

"What do you say?" she asked. "Have you anything to suggest—any
alternative?" and her eyes were full of frank earnestness.

"Yes," he replied, "that you remain out here."

"How? Do you mean with Mrs. Gordon?—what an awful incubus for
her—always."

"No—Angel——" and, as he spoke, he took off his cap and twisted it
in his hands, and stood before her bare-headed. "But as—_my wife_."

"Wife," she repeated, and a flood of colour rushed into her face. "Of
course, this is a joke," she exclaimed, rising and speaking with a
firm, almost passionate dignity.

"No—you and I are old friends, Angel—I—see—I've rather startled
you—but I've been considering this question for some time. I'm
seventeen years older than you are—I'm not the sort of lover—or
husband you might naturally expect—but I'll do—my very best to make
you happy."

All the time he was speaking Angel looked at him steadily, her colour
had faded, she now was white to her lips. As he concluded, she cast
down her eyes, and seemed to address the stones at her feet, as she
whispered in a strange, subdued voice: "Why do you say all this? You
don't love me, cousin Philip—and I—look for so much love—because
I've had so little." Then raising her eyes by a strenuous act of will,
and speaking in a firmer tone, she continued:

"You think I am a foolish, impulsive schoolgirl—you wish to give me a
home, but grandmamma offers me the same—a home, and to make me happy."

"I believe I can do better than your grandmother."

"And that would not be saying much, would it?" she retorted. "I
gathered from the way people looked, and hinted—you know I was always
clever at finding things out—that it was very wrong of me to have
rushed headlong to India. I placed you in a dilemma—you were quite at
your wits' end to know how to dispose of your white elephant—and now,
you are asking me to marry you—and thus settle the difficulty."

Her faltering words cast a revealing glare on the situation—there was
absolute truth in what she said.

"I am not," and she caught her breath sharply, "as silly as I seem—I
expect—in short—I will have more than you can give. You cannot make
me happy unless you love me—what you offer me is imitation. It is
not big enough, or strong enough, to hold me—I want real love, not
make-believe. I—am sure—it has cost you a great deal—to—to——" she
hesitated, "speak! and I thank you—but I will go home by next mail,
and live with grandmamma after all."

As she came to this decision and a full stop, Angel sat down breathless
and trembling. But now that the treasure was slipping from his grasp,
the prize not so easily attained as he supposed, of course Gascoigne
closed his hand upon it greedily.

"Angel, listen to me," he cried impetuously. "Don't talk of
make-believes, and your grandmother, and such wild nonsense—I do love
you—not in a romantic story-book fashion, but sincerely and faithfully
in my own way. I was engaged once to a girl—you know?"

"Yes," she assented sharply.

"That came to an end ten years ago. You are the only woman I shall ever
love again—I swear." He spoke in a tone of grave restrained emotion.

Angel still sat with her eyes on the ground, and made no sign whatever.
Truly, this Angel was a stranger, an alien, and ill-understood!

"It was for your own sake I have been holding back," he resumed with
an effort—was he sure that he was speaking the truth? "I am a busy,
self-centred man—I live in a groove—I feared your gay young life
would be dull—with me."

"Never dull with you, Philip—you know that," she murmured under her
breath.

"Will you think it over, and give me an answer when I come out on
Wednesday?"

Angel made no reply. Her cousin looked at her downcast eyes, her
twitching nostrils, and resumed, "If you wish to return home, of course
I will do all in my power to help you." As he continued his voice was
less steady, some inward barrier seemed to have given way under a
confused pressure of emotion. "If you decide to stay—and I hope from
my heart you will—then," and he stooped and kissed her hand, "when I
come again, wear a flower in your dress."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Gordon was sitting under the fly of her tent engrossed in a
novel, when Major Gascoigne galloped up on Wednesday afternoon, having
covered the forty miles which lay between Marwar and the camp in an
extraordinarily short time. He had three horses posted on the road, and
the bay Arab he rode was in a lather. Why this unusual haste? was Mrs.
Gordon's mental interrogation. The reply came in a flash of prophetic
insight. She interpreted her visitor's strange air of repressed
excitement, his reckless ride; he had spoken to Angel, and had come for
her reply.

"Where is Angel?" he asked, as soon as he had dismounted and exchanged
a few words of greeting.

"Down by the well near the tamarinds, reading. Perhaps you will take
her these letters?" suggested clever Mrs. Gordon, selecting two from a
budget he had delivered; "and bring her back to tea."

"All right," he replied, "I'll be postman;" and without further
parley, but with suspicious alacrity, he departed. In a short time he
came in sight of Angel. She was sitting under the shade of an ancient
tamarind—no tree in all the world is more beautiful; a book lay
unheeded on her lap.

Would it be yes?—or would it be no? Philip was astonished at the
fluttering of his nerves, the thumping of his heart. As he approached
nearer, Angel stood up, and then came slowly to meet him. He looked at
her eagerly; there were red roses in her cheeks—and a white one in her
dress!




CHAPTER XXIII

ANGEL DECLINES A PENNY FOR HER THOUGHTS


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."




CHAPTER XXIV

THE SOOTHSAYER


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.

Thus they passed their days, and moved on from camping-ground to
camping-ground, through the poppy-fields, and the cane crops of the
fairest province; the four who sat at table together, two whom the
inevitable had overtaken, the surly, unconscious husband, and the
conscious looker-on.

       *       *       *       *       *

Occasionally the camp was pitched within a ride of some little station,
and visitors cantered out to early tea or tiffin. One day Mrs. Gordon
entertained three guests, a man in the Opium (the worst paid department
in India), his wife, and a girl who was on a visit with them, a pretty
little person with a round baby face, fluffy hair, a pair of hard
blue eyes, and an insatiable appetite for excitement. The party sat
out in the shade of the peepul trees after tea, within view of the
camp train—the horses and camels at their pickets, the dogs, the
cows, the groups of servants, the scarlet and gold chuprassis lounging
about waiting for orders, and the crowd of petitioners and villagers
besieging the office tent.

Miss Cuffe, the spoiled beauty of a tiny station, condescended to
remark that the scene was quite imposing and picturesque.

"Almost like what one would see at Drury Lane."

"O horror! the pomp and glory of the Sirdar, as embodied in a great
Indian encampment, compared to a pantomime."

"I suppose you miss the theatres, Miss Cuffe?" said Lindsay, who had
been released after a long day's work.

"You are right," she answered with a coquettish simper. "I do like a
show. I did all the plays before I came out."

"And we have nothing to offer you but snake-charmers, magic wallahs,
and fortune-tellers. I believe there is one in camp now, a renowned
Fakir who lives in this part of the world; his fame has travelled to
Agra."

"Oh, Mr. Lindsay, do, do send for him," pleaded Miss Cuffe.

"But I warn you that he is not pretty to look at; he generally
prophesies evil things, and is, as a rule, under the influence of
Bhang."

"I don't care in the least," she cried recklessly. "Do—do send for
him. What do you say, Mrs. Gascoigne and Mrs. Gordon?" appealing to
them.

"My fortune is told," replied Mrs. Gordon. "Fate cannot harm _me_; but
have the Fakir by all means, if Mr. Lindsay can persuade him to appear."

In another moment two messengers had been despatched in search of the
soothsayer. Miss Cuffe resolved to make the most of the brilliant
opportunity of cultivating Mr. Lindsay, the popular collector, who was
said to be next heir to seven thousand a year. The best way to interest
him, thought the shrewd little person, is to talk of his district and
his work.

"I am so ignorant, Mr. Lindsay," she remarked pathetically; "only just
two months in India. Do tell me what all the people round here," waving
her plump hands, "believe in?"

"What an immense question!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean the peasants?"

She nodded her head with an emphasis that was impressive, although all
the time she was neither thinking nor caring about the peasants, but
reflecting that here was a providential occasion for her to cement an
acquaintance with this charming and eligible _parti_; the coast was
clear from rivals; there was no one to absorb his devotion and claim
his attention but two stupid married ladies, who had been in camp for
weeks—and of whom he must be _so_ tired.

"Well, the peasant's mental horizon is rather limited," said Mr.
Lindsay. "He has some sort of belief in a Providence whose benevolence
is shown in restricting malignant heavenly powers from doing mischief."

"Yes," assented the girl, though she had not in the least grasped what
he meant. "And—what else?"

"Oh, well," said Lindsay, secretly amazed at this intelligent social
butterfly, "he trusts in a host of godlings who inhabit the pile of
stones which form the village shrine. He believes that he would live
for ever, were it not that some devil or witch plots against his life."

"And is that all that he believes in?" questioned Miss Cuffe; and she
raised her light blue eyes to her informant's dark ones, with a look of
tragic appeal.

"By no means. He believes that it is good to feed a Brahmin, that it is
wrong to tell a lie, unless to benefit yourself. He believes that if he
does an impious act he may be reborn as a rat or a worm; he believes
that woman is an inferior creature whom you may bully with impunity.
With a man, you must be more careful."

"But these are the extremely poor and uneducated," broke in Mrs.
Gordon. "The more enlightened are different; they encourage charity,
kindness, and simplicity; they are extremely devout—in that way they
put many of us to shame."

"And the women, how do they live? Have they no amusements?" inquired
Miss Cuffe, turning pointedly from her hostess to the more attractive
collector.

"Amusements? They do not know the meaning of the word. They work—I am
speaking of the peasants—from dawn till dark, helping their husbands
with the cultivation of the land, drawing water, cooking, weaving—they
are hags at thirty, and their only release from drudgery is an
occasional pilgrimage. You may see them marching for days packed in a
country cart which crawls along from week to week and stage to stage;
at last they reach their goal, Hurdwar—or Benares. They bathe and
worship and offer sacrifice—it is the one event of their lives, and
assures their future."

"One event," repeated Miss Cuffe. "How utterly miserable!—And what are
their every-day habits?"

"Conservative—they wear the same fashion for twenty centuries, their
food never varies, a little pepper and spices, the only relish—the
plough, the spinning wheel, and loom, remain unchanged in a thousand
years; of course, I am speaking of the villagers; the townsfolk have
watches, sewing-machines, gramaphones, and all manner of Europe
goods, and rubbish, but the Ryot has no money or time to waste
on such luxuries; it is all work, work, work, from generation to
generation—the Ryot is the mainspring of the Empire."

"Poor creatures," exclaimed Miss Cuffe, "what lives of hideous toil. I
suppose they don't know what happiness and love mean?"

"Oh, yes, they are sufficiently happy when they bring off a good
bargain, and they love their plot of land, their ancestral acre, with a
fierce devouring ardour, passing the love of women."

"How much you know," sighed Miss Cuffe admiringly; "how much you tell
me, that I never heard before."

"And here comes one who will possibly impart some events which are yet
to come," and Mr. Lindsay indicated the tall lanky figure which was
advancing in the wake of the chuprassis.

The Fakir was an old man, singularly emaciated. He wore a simple loin
cloth and a row of huge beads; his legs were bandy, his voice was bass,
his hair matted, in his eyes there was a piercing look bordering on
madness. He came straight up to Lindsay and salaamed, entirely ignoring
the opium wallah, and the three ladies.

"Take off your wedding ring, and lend it to me," whispered Miss Cuffe
to Angel, "and we will see if we cannot puzzle him."

"Shall I tell the stars of the Lord Sahib only?" asked the Fakir, "and
in his ear?"

"Oh, no," responded Lindsay, "the stars of the company, and one by one,
so that all may hear—what the fates have in store for them."

"Yes, what fun it will be," said Miss Cuffe. "Mrs. Ellis," to her
friend, "will you be done? Do, it will be so amusing."

"No, thank you," said the lady, "I am quite willing to listen to your
fortunes, but I beg to decline hearing mine."

"I have heard that this man is marvellous," said her husband, "and
greatly feared by all the neighbours."

"Certainly his looks are not attractive," remarked Angel; "he seems to
be getting impatient. Shall I break the ice—in other words, be done?"

There was an immediate chorus of assent, and she rose and came forward
to where the Fakir was squatting. He also rose and drew his lean form
to its full length. What a contrast the two figures presented, as they
stood face to face; denizens of the East and West. The pretty fair
English girl, with her dainty white gown, her little vanities of chains
and laces, her well-groomed air; and the half-naked Fakir, with his mop
of tangled hair, his starting ribs, his wild black eyes, his chest and
forehead daubed with ashes, and, as a background to the pair, a circle
of watching, eager retainers, the big tree stems, the white tents, and
the flat cultivated plains merging into the blue horizon.

Angel put out her hand; the fortune-teller glanced at it curiously,
then he looked up in her face with a strenuous stare, and there was a
silence only broken by Miss Cuffe's titter. At last it came, a sonorous
voice speaking as if pronouncing judgment.

"Oh, yea—thou art a wife."

"The servants told," giggled Miss Cuffe in an audible voice.

"Hush, hush," expostulated her friend, "he is speaking."

"Thou wast given to a man by a dead hand—" another pause—"he married
thee at the bidding of a woman—his foot is on thy heart—it is well,
lo! he is a man—and to be trusted." He paused again and salaamed to
the earth, a sign that he had concluded, and once more squatted upon
his heels.

"What? And is that all?" exclaimed Miss Cuffe, indignantly.

"I should think a little of that went a long way," observed Alan
Lindsay, "what more would you have? He is not an ordinary magic wallah
I can see, who promises jewels and lovers. He takes himself seriously."

The Fakir now beckoned solemnly to Mrs. Gordon, who, with a half
apologetic laugh, came forward. He looked her in the face with his
burning eyes, and said in a harsh voice:

"Where love should be—is emptiness. Where love should not be—lo!
there it is."

Angel glanced involuntarily at Mr. Lindsay; he had grown curiously
white.

"A shade cometh—I see no more." And again he dismissed his victim with
a profound salaam.

"Dear me, what rubbish it all is," protested Mrs. Gordon, as she took
her seat with a somewhat heightened colour.

"He is like Micaiah, the son of Imlah, who prophesied evil things; see,
he is beckoning Mr. Lindsay. I wonder what terrible message he will
deliver to him?"

"Lo, here are brains," announced the seer in his sonorous
Hindustani,—understood of all but the little spinster, "much riches. A
heart—some talk—sore trouble. Wisdom and honour come when the head is
white, and the heart is dead."

"Now for me," cried Miss Cuffe, rubbing her hands gleefully, and
ignorantly rushing on her fate. "I declare I am quite nervous. I
cannot bear his eyes. Mr. Lindsay, do please stand close beside me and
interpret." Then she beamed coquettishly on the grim native, as if she
would exhort good fortune by her smiles.

He looked at her, with fierce contempt, and said, "Lo, 'tis a weakling,
Miss Sahib, thou art a fool; the ring belongs to the tall sad girl,
with the hungry heart, and the daring spirit. Such a ring will never be
thine. I smell death."

"What does he say?" cried Miss Cuffe, as soon as she was dismissed. "Do
tell me at once, Mr. Lindsay; I hope it was something good?"

After an almost imperceptible pause, Mr. Lindsay replied, "He said
the ring was not yours, it belonged to Mrs. Gascoigne. I think he was
annoyed because you tried to get a rise out of him—he wouldn't work
properly. I shouldn't wonder if he had cast the evil eye upon the whole
lot of us."

"What a wretch!" she protested. "I am so sorry I asked you to send for
him. I never dreamt that he would be a repulsive old skeleton dealing
bad luck all round. It has not been such fun after all. Oh, here is
Mr. Gordon! Oh, Mr. Gordon," she cried, "do come and have your fortune
told;" and her little hard eyes glittered. Miss Cuffe did not like
the Commissioner, and saw no reason why he should be spared, when
misfortune was being dealt out.

"Give him ten rupees and he will make you a Viceroy," suggested the
opium wallah with a laugh. "Where is the fellow? Has he gone?"

Yes, he was nowhere to be seen; he had vanished mysteriously and
without payment. By Mr. Gordon's orders, the Fakir was searched for,
high and low; he desired to question him respecting a certain peculiar
murder case, but all search proved unavailing; the soothsayer had
disappeared.




CHAPTER XXV

THE CHITACHAR CLUB


THIS long, 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 her their 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 importance
previous 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 large rooms, 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 two or 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 the _Pi_,"
glancing at the _Pioneer_. "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!" remonstrated Mrs. 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 with _us_?"

"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 her _vis-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 the _Pioneer_. "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—she was 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 the _World_ acrostic 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 weekly _Puppet 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 tragic emphasis (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 no _ingénue_," 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 two figures,—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," stuttered the 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 had _not_ been 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 as
_nice_. She is a desperate gambler—that is no secret. Mr. Waldershare
found her out, 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 like _this_.
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 a year—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 off your
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.




CHAPTER XXVI

IN ANGEL'S TENT


SEVERAL guests from the station were added to the camp dinner
table, the Commissioner's Khansamah contrived an impressive
_mènu_, and a dazzling display of plate and flowers. The wine was
incomparable—though the host greatly preferred Scotch whisky—and
everything and everyone contributed to a pleasant evening, except
Donald Gordon, who, as usual, devoured the meal in silence, and Mrs.
Gascoigne, who was depressingly dumb, and most startlingly pale. In
answer to enquiries, she pleaded a bad headache, and after the ladies
had risen, departed to her tent.

The camp moved on the following morning, and as Angel rode past the
insignificant little club, she gazed at it with a curious expression
on her face. To her, it represented the temple of truth. Well, after
all—truth was everything, she said to herself,—nothing else was of
the same value, hopes and fears, rights and wrongs, shrivelled to dust,
in the presence of truth.

Days went by, and Angel still remained silent, pale, and self-absorbed,
her spirits occasionally rising to their normal height, then falling
far below zero. One evening, as she was going to bed, and sat brushing
her mane of hair with listless hand, the tent flap was abruptly raised,
and Mrs. Gordon entered.

"My dear child," she said, "I'm not going to stand this any longer.
What is the matter? Even my husband has noticed you—it is something
more than a common headache. Now, Angel, surely you will tell me?"

"Yes," she answered with sudden passion, and she tossed her hair back,
and looked fixedly at her visitor. "It is not a headache which hurts
me—but a terrible heartache."

"What!" in a horrified voice. "Oh, no, Angel—no."

"Yes—sit down there on my bed, and I will tell you all about it—and
then——" heaving a quick breath, "you will have to tell me—something."

Mrs. Gordon accepted the invitation in puzzled silence, and Angel
pursued.

"You remember the evening we were at Chitachar Club, rummaging among
all the fusty old books, and how I stayed behind, and joked about
listening to gossip—when you and Mr. Lindsay went out?"

Mrs. Gordon nodded, and coloured faintly.

"I heard more gossip than I expected! After a time a crowd came in,
and two ladies sat close beside me, so closely that I could hardly
move my elbows. They began to discuss a certain Mrs. Waldershare, a
widow"—here Angel stood erect in the middle of the tent, with a mantle
of flowing fair hair over her white dressing-gown—"who jilted Philip
years ago." Mrs. Gordon sat erect and gave a little gasp. "He was
always devoted to her, ever since they were playfellows,—now she is
free—but he is married."

"Why, of course he is!" cried Mrs. Gordon, recovering her wits, "what
nonsense this is, Angel. Why are you so tragic? you only want a dagger
to be Lady Macbeth!"

"Please let me go on—the lady said 'Yes, he is married to a mere chit,
a child, his ward, who ran away to him from school—he had to marry
her, though he moved heaven and earth to get out of it.' Now"—and here
Angel took a deep breath, and turned a pair of agonised eyes on her
companion—"tell me—dear—good friend—is this the truth, that the
station opinion was so strong, that Philip was—forced—to marry—me?
Yes, yes, you have grown red—my God!—it is true." And Angel threw
her brush to the end of the tent, and suddenly sank on the ground, and
buried her head in her hands.

Mrs. Gordon instantly bent over, and put her arms tenderly round the
girl, whose form now shook with hard, dry sobs.

"And, oh! I loved him so," she moaned, "and he married me from
pity—you remember what the fortune-teller said—that a man had married
me at the bidding of a woman—that woman was _you_—" she cried
suddenly, raising her head, and wrenching herself free. "Oh, how could
you degrade me like that? How could you—be so wicked?"

"Now listen to me, Angel," urged her friend soothingly. "Do hear what I
have to say."

"No, no, no," she sobbed, "you will try to excuse it—you will tell me
lies."

"I will not, Angel—upon my honour."

Angel flung back her hair, and stood up expectant, whilst Mrs. Gordon
resumed her place on the camp cot.

"When—when—" she began, and her lips felt hard and dry, "you came
out so suddenly, you were guilty of a most unpardonable act—it was
very wrong."

"It was very wrong to vilify my mother," interrupted the girl
passionately.

"Perhaps so, but you know you undertook the trip, half as a joke,
thanks to your giddy young friend; you never realised the years that
had drawn you and Philip closer together, that he was comparatively
young, and unmarried, that you were a grown-up woman. If you had—you
would not have come—confess, that this fact struck you the instant you
met him? Come, now, Angel, be honest."

"Yes, of course, I will be honest—you are right—it did, and I was
simply horrified," admitted Angel gravely. "I had expected a man, a
little stout, and bald, and grey—you see, I had no photograph to guide
me, and six or seven years are ages at my time of life, more than
twenty later on. The moment I saw Philip, I realised the awful mistake
I had made, and felt almost inclined to turn and run away back into the
wet jungle, but I pulled myself together, and did my best to carry it
off with a high hand; there was nothing else to do."

"I know that Mrs. Flant and her sister discovered you
_tête-à-tête_—you, a young girl, and unchaperoned. Then it seems
that you attracted Miss Ball's admirer, this was too much for her
forbearance; to avenge herself she told a story to the station, she
and Mrs. Flant whispered that they did not believe you were only just
out—or as simple as you pretended. They said you had possibly—no,
I won't go on," as Angel's face grew fixed and ghastly. "The talk
had become a clamour by the time Philip appeared; perhaps you may
understand the whisperings, the silences, and the curt refusals of our
invitations, that puzzled us so much?"

"I understand—all—_now_."

"Then of course Philip had to be told. At first he absolutely refused
to believe his ears, but the lie had had a long start, and was strong
and unflinching. He did not wish to marry you——"

"So the other woman said."

"He thought you much too young; he declared you should see the world,
and make your choice, and not be put off with a dull old bachelor. He
was thinking of you, he was indeed, Angel," trying to reach Angel's
hand, but she twisted it away, "he loves you very sincerely, and
loyally in his own way. Has he not made you an admirable husband? There
is the answer to that silly woman's chatter. Don't you believe, my
dear," and she now took Angel's hand firmly in hers, "that he loves
you?"

"Yes," rudely snatching her fingers away, "precisely as he did
when I was a little girl at school, not with all his soul, and all
his strength, as he loved Lola—not"—drawing a long breath, and
transfixing her friend with her eyes—"as Alan Lindsay—loves you."

"Angel! What do you mean!" stammered the receiver of this rude shock,
and the slumbering fire in her dark eyes kindled to a blaze. "How dare
you?"

"Why should I not dare?" demanded the girl fiercely, "this is the
place and time for plain speaking—lip to lip and eye to eye. Philip
is straight, as they called him—_he_ would never make love to a
married woman—not even," and she gave an odd laugh, "to his own wife.
He is careful of my health, of the horses I ride, the people I know,
he jumps up when I enter a room, he hurries to fetch me a wrap, but he
never—_never_ kisses my work, or my book, when I am not looking—nor
waits patiently for hours to have a word with me—alone—as a man we
know, waits for—you."

"Angel—Mrs. Gascoigne," said her listener, who had suddenly assumed
all the dignity of the wife of the Commissioner, "you have taken leave
of your senses. You have had—a—a—sunstroke."

"No—no—I am quite sane, thank you," she replied, "and perfectly
cool-headed; you may remember that as a child I was very sharp at
seeing things that never occurred to other people. The faculty has
not deserted me. I believe all women are possessed of an instinct,
and recognise love when they see it. Dear Elinor, do forgive me," she
pleaded, and her voice broke, "because I love you, and I have so few
to love. If I do not speak to you—who will dare? My sight is terribly
keen—I cannot help it—I cannot help seeing that Philip does not love
me—that Alan Lindsay does love you." She paused for a moment, threw
back her hair, and went on, standing directly before her companion, who
sat on the side of the cot with a countenance as expressionless as a
mask, "You are beautiful—you are sympathetic—you are good," continued
the girl in a clear ringing voice, "all the world knows you, as the
admirable wife of—a block—of Aberdeen granite. Half the young men
and the girls in the district have come under your influence—which
has always been noble and pure. It is as far-reaching and penetrating
as the sun—it is your responsibility; and now love has come to claim
you—and you are in danger, or why these long walks, and absorbing
conversations, and early strolls to see the sun rise, and late
strolls to see the moon rise? No one has recognised the danger but we
three—you and I and Mr. Lindsay. You must send him away—before it is
too late."

With her white robe, flowing locks, and earnest and impassioned face,
Angel might almost have stood for a picture of her namesake.

"It is strange," began her companion in a husky voice, "that you should
be exhorting me—a woman who is fourteen years older than yourself—who
remembers you a child."

"Yes, it is strange—it is, I'm afraid, unpardonable. I expect you will
send me back to Marwar to-morrow, and I am ready to go. I feel that
I must speak, and risk your friendship—for your own sake;" then she
added, "Oh, have I not said, and seen—what is true?"

The immediate answer was long delayed, then suddenly Mrs. Gordon bent
her head upon her hands, and burst into tears; at last she looked up
with streaming eyes, and said:

"Yes, your vision is clear;—I will not palter or fight off, or
equivocate,—I do love Alan. Oh, what a relief it is to speak aloud,
what I have scarcely dared to whisper to my own heart. Love has come to
me at last; hitherto I have starved in the midst of plenty, now cruel
fate has brought me a great gift—which I may not accept. I nursed Alan
back to life—he had gone to the very edge of the grave, and he says
my voice recalled him; that he loved me, only dawned upon me recently;
he has never dared to tell me in so many words, but I know it, and
the fact fills me with almost intolerable joy. My husband is cold and
formal; I was freezing into the same mould. Alan has melted my heart;
I've warmed my hands before the fire of life——"

"Yes," interrupted Angel, finishing the quotation, "but it does not
sink—nor are you ready to depart! Elinor, I beseech you, send Mr.
Lindsay away. You are not as other women—you have a name and example
to live up to; your influence has been like a star, which, if it falls,
means black darkness to hundreds."

"You need not be afraid, Angel," said Mrs. Gordon with a sob; "I will
never succumb—with God's help—but you do not realise what it is, to
starve and shiver for years, and then be offered your heart's desire,
only to refuse it; a supreme influence seems to have taken possession
of me, undefinable, and impalpable, but real and actual, as light or
the electric current. But I see that you despise me; in your eyes I
have fallen from my high estate," and she rose and threw her arms
tightly round Angel. "Yes, I despise myself."

"Promise me that you will send him away," whispered Angel.

"Yes, yes—that I promise. When we return to Marwar, he goes to
England, and we shall never—never—meet again. Oh—never."

"Goes to England?" repeated Angel, incredulously.

"He succeeded to his property some time ago, but has kept the matter
quiet, and remains out in India for——"

"For your sake," interrupted Angel; "I understand. Well, I hope he will
go soon."

Mrs. Gordon shivered involuntarily.

"It is strange—or is it not strange—that your husband has never
noticed how friendly Mr. Lindsay is—with you?"

"No, no; he attributes it all entirely to himself. It would be
impossible for him to realise that I could attract anyone in that way."

"And he is an old mole, grubbing away at the story of the love of
Shireen and Ferhad, and never sees the real story which is enacted
before his eyes."

"Oh, Angel, don't say such things, my dear—they hurt—they hurt."

"Yes, the truth is painful," acknowledged Angel. "I am brutal to
you—because it hurts me. It is the truth that my husband's heart
belongs to another woman. I cannot blame him; once and for ever, it is
as it should be—and she is so beautiful, not only her face, but her
character is lovely and noble. It is all a little hard on me, yet truth
forces me to confess that there is no one to reproach but myself. Oh,
what ease and comfort it would give me if I could blame some one. I
threw myself upon Philip without thought or reflection, and I have cast
myself between him and the woman he loves, and is now free to marry
him—only for me—only for me—they would both be happy. I learnt all
this at the little Chitachar Club. Listeners certainly hear bad news of
themselves."

"My dear Angel, you are much too sensitive—you are morbid,"
interrupted her friend; "but you know the saying,

  'Le temps passe,
  L'eau coule,
  Le cœur oublie.'

Philip has forgotten his first love years ago."

"No, no; Philip never forgets anything, and I should never have heard
about Lola, only in the way I did. They loved each other as children.
They love one another still. As I lie there on this little bed, do you
know that I sometimes pray to die—a quiet, easy death—to sleep, and
never wake. It would mean so much happiness to others—and—here she
choked down a sob—"I don't think anyone would be very sorry, or miss
me much—except the dogs, and you."

"Oh, Angel!" exclaimed her companion, "my dear child, you must
_not_ talk like this. I cannot imagine where you get hold of such
extraordinarily wild ideas. If anything happened to you—it would break
Philip's heart; he——"

"He," interrupted his wife, "would marry Lola within six months—or
less. I hope so—tell him."

"Elinor," growled a voice, outside the flap of the tent, "what the
devil do you mean by having lights burning at this hour and talking
and disturbing people, and keeping Mrs. Gascoigne out of her bed? Go
back to your own tent at once—come, don't dawdle," and Elinor, having
embraced her guest, swiftly obeyed her lord and master.

It was noticed that the delightful cold weather camp, usually so
bracing and health-giving, had evidently been of no benefit to the two
friends. When they returned to the station, people declared that they
had never seen Mrs. Gordon look so fagged—no, not in the cholera year
even, when she had nearly worked herself to death; and pretty Mrs.
Gascoigne had not only lost her colour, but her spirits.

What had they been doing to themselves, or one another? Was it possible
that they had quarrelled?




CHAPTER XXVII

"THE SIN"


COLONEL and Mrs. Gascoigne sat in their cool matted verandah drinking
early morning tea, and watching the malees splashing water over the
plants from their primitive earthern chatties, and the syce cutting
luscious green lucerne for the expectant horses. Their only companions
were the fox-terriers, Sam and John, and any description of the
Gascoigne _ménage_ which omitted these gentlemen would be inadequate
and incomplete. They were twins, and as unlike in appearance and
disposition as it was possible to be. Sam was a remarkably handsome
dog, exhibiting all the best points of his race. He had a black
face, bright tan eyebrows, and silky white ears; his disposition was
sporting, affectionate, easy-going, and game, but his intellect was not
brilliant. On the other hand, his brother was endowed with the master
mind; _he_ planned, and Sam carried out. It was John's great brain
that found means to extricate them when they got into nasty scrapes
connected with breakages, pet rabbit-killing, and egg scandals. In the
clever discovery of other dogs' bone stores in ferreting out useful
short cuts and rare sport, John was prominently to the front. Sam was a
determined hatter—and, alas, "catter"—of unwearying energy and speed,
but not insensible to luxury, caresses, and praise. He liked to lie
on a lady's lap—although he weighed twenty-one solid pounds of bone
and muscle. He liked to be petted, and to have his throat scratched,
and to repose in the middle of a soft down quilt (he being muddy or
otherwise); but he was so handsome, and so insinuating, that his wishes
were generally gratified.

Sam was a nice, simple, unaffected dog, and a general favourite.
John was stout, well set on his legs, with no approach to style or
pedigree; his head was too round, his nose too short—foolish people
declared he had "a pretty face," and judges admitted that his cat-like
paws were models. He abhorred all endearments and liberties—though
to gain certain ends he could beg and give the paw. He was fond of
music, and came and sat under the piano when Angel played, occasionally
accompanying her in soft, melodious howls. He also sang—to the
mandoline. He was a very duck in the water, which his brother loathed.
He was shamelessly greedy, and Sam was an ascetic. John was immensely
clever, and Sam was a fool. John was self-centred, impulsive, and
irritable. Occasionally he and his twin fought for no apparent reason,
almost to the death, and were only separated by being vigorously pumped
on, or torn, as it were, asunder. They were always badly mauled and
covered with blood; Sam was invariably the victor, and immediately set
himself to lick his brother's wounds, who received this Samaritan-like
attention with sullen toleration. On the sole occasion when John was
the best dog he bore himself most unchivalrously, lorded it over his
vanquished foe for twenty-four hours, and would not suffer him to come
into the presence of their joint mistress, or to approach within six
yards of his fat, vainglorious self.

But John had delivered his brother from the disagreeable consequences
of murder and theft, secured him excellent sport, and on one occasion
saved his life, returning home in the middle of the night, rousing the
household by his terrific howls, and leading forth a rescue party to
where Sam—ever the most enterprising—was smothering in a snake hole.
The couple thoroughly appreciated camp life, and, no doubt, bragged
prodigiously of their feats and escapades to other less lucky dogs whom
they met at the band-stand or in the club compound. At the present
moment they were shivering to be taken out. John sat on his hind legs,
his gaze pathetically fixed on Gascoigne's last piece of toast, for his
greed and presumption were unique. Sam divided his attention between
driving sparrows out of the verandah—those vulgar street boys of the
world—and keeping a sharp eye on his master's movements.

"I say," said Gascoigne, "these fellows have done themselves well in
camp! John is actually bloated; he has the figure of an alderman."
Angel laughed. "But I can't say as much for you," and he looked at her
steadily.

He was thinking how soon India robs a girl of her good looks. Angel was
white, her cheeks were hollow, her features had sharpened.

"I should hope not," she retorted; "surely you don't want _me_ to have
the figure of an alderman?"

"I should like to see a little flesh on your bones," and he reached
over and took up her limp hand and wrist. "What have you been doing to
yourself, Angel?"

"Nothing."

"And no one has done anything to you? What is it? You seem rather down
on your luck."

"Then appearances are deceitful," she answered, dragging away her hand.
"I—I"—Angel was unaccustomed to telling broad, flat-footed lies—at
last she brought out—"enjoyed myself _enormously_."

"Though there were only the three of you! Donald Gordon is an able man,
but a murderous bore—the compressed essence of a dozen wet blankets. A
little of his society goes far. Oh, but I forgot—you had that fellow
Lindsay. How did you like him?"

Angel coloured faintly; there was a moment's perceptible hesitation
before she said:

"I don't dislike him."

"Come! this _is_ enthusiastic praise! and yet he is quite a ladies'
man; far more at home reading poetry than pig-sticking; in fact, he
rides so badly that it makes me positively uncomfortable to see him. He
is an humbling spectacle on a horse."

"Um—yes; but I don't think clever people generally ride well—as a
rule," said Angel.

"Then there must be a crowd of clever people in Marwar! By the way, I'm
told that Lindsay came into his property about three or four months
ago—why on earth does he not clear out? A man with six thousand a year
is out of focus in India. What is his anchor out here, I wonder? A
woman?"

Angel blushed furiously—guiltily. Gascoigne looked at her in mild
surprise.

"How should I know?" she answered impatiently.

"He likes his work, just as you do yourself—he worked very hard
indeed."

"And when he had a little breathing time—how did he employ himself?"

"He played chess, and went for long walks and he read aloud—Rossetti
and Browning."

"Just what I would expect."

"You need not scoff; you read to us yourself—once upon a time."

"True, oh, Angel; but then—I was in love."

"_Were_ you?"

"Certainly I was. Shall I read to you now?" picking up the local paper.
"We are a little late this morning; my horse had to be shod."

"Yes, do read," assented his wife; "but there is never anything in the
paper now, but the plague—and the rupee."

"I say, listen to this," he exclaimed, beginning to read. "'Sad
Accident at Suchapore.' Why, you must have met her."

"I don't in the least know what you mean, and I hope I do not."

"It's a Miss Cuffe. 'We regret to record a fatal carriage accident at
Suchapore, which resulted in the death of Miss Mabel Cuffe, recently
arrived from England. She and a friend were driving in a dogcart, when
the horse took fright at an elephant, bolted, and upset the cart. The
unfortunate girl was thrown out, and killed on the spot. This painful
incident has thrown a gloom over the entire station.'"

"I should think so," exclaimed Angel. "How dreadful—and how soon."

"Dreadful—certainly," agreed Philip, looking at her interrogatively;
"but why soon?"

"It is such a short time since I saw her; it seems only the other day
we all had our fortunes told by a Fakir, and he said, when he looked at
Miss Cuffe's hand, 'I see death.' Of course she did not understand—and
she was not told—and it was only a fortnight ago."

"A mere coincidence," said Gascoigne; "I don't believe in these
predictions. Did you have your fortune told too?"

"Oh, yes, we all had, including Mrs. Gordon."

"And what did he tell you?"

Angel looked at him meditatively; she seemed to be making up her mind.
At last she said:

"He told me that I was married."

"That was nothing new or strange."

"No; but that my husband had married me at the bidding of—another
woman."

"That, at least, has the merit of novelty."

"And—truth?" she added quickly.

"Now, is it likely? I would be far more inclined to marry because a
woman told me _not_ to marry you. But I did not want any telling, did
I, Angela _mia_?" and he bent over and brushed her cheek with his
glove, and John instantly sat up, believing that it was something to
eat. "You must cheer up, and come for a good gallop. Remember there is
a big dinner at the Residency this evening."

"Do you think that a lively prospect?"

"No; I dread big dinners of thirty."

Here Gascoigne signed to the syces to bring up the horses, swung his
wife into her saddle, and in another moment they were crossing the
parade ground at a sharp canter, followed by Sam and John _ventre à
terre_.

       *       *       *       *       *

A big official dinner in India is a solemnity, not a festivity; people
are invited, and accept as a matter of duty. They do not anticipate
enjoyment; but the women look forward with keen expectation to
receiving their rightful precedence, and to exhibiting their newest
gowns. Angel, though but twenty-three, was a lady who sat among the
chief guests, thanks to her husband's position. As these were many
years her senior, she was generally most desperately bored. On the
present occasion, she contemplated the prospect with an involuntary
sigh, as she swept down the steps in a graceful white gown, and got
into the brougham, followed by Gascoigne, in all the usual evening war
paint of a Colonel of the Royal Engineers.

"What a dull evening we shall have!" she exclaimed, as she held out her
glove to be buttoned. "All oldish official people that we have met a
hundred times. We do take our pleasures sadly."

"Yes, if you call this function a pleasure," said her husband, as he
neatly completed his task. "I've a heap of work at home I ought to get
through, instead of eating for two mortal hours, and listening to Lady
Nobb—she is generally my fate. Her idea of conversation is a monologue
on missionaries."

"Well, at least, it saves you exerting yourself. Oh dear," and
Angel yawned, "if we could only have games or charades—or even
blindman's-buff."

"What a profane suggestion," ejaculated her husband.

"Yes, or see a few new faces; and here we are—and there is Lady Nobb
getting out of her carriage. Oh, Philip, she has on such a smart pink
silk petticoat—quite a wicked petticoat!"

"Then I shall certainly make it the basis of our conversation," said
Gascoigne, as he opened the door and jumped out.

In a few minutes "Colonel and Mrs. Gascoigne" had been received by the
aide-de-camp, and ushered into the great durbar room—a lofty, pillared
apartment, with palms, rare Persian carpets, rose-shaded lamps,
soft inviting lounges, beautiful curios, and many large photographs
scattered here and there (the signed gift of passing guests in return
for various favours received). In spite of Angel's melancholy forecast
it presented a brilliant scene, with brave men in uniform, and
beautiful women in their best array.

The new arrivals were formally presented to their Excellencies, with
whom they were on a most friendly every-day footing, and then drifted
away into the crowd.

"Quite a collection of strangers," said Alan Lindsay, as he attached
himself pointedly to Angel. "I must say I think it's hard lines on the
Lieutenant-Governor and Lady Eustace to have to invite every Tom, Dick,
and Harry who write their names in the book. I suppose you have seen
Mrs. Gordon to-day?" he added in a cautious undertone.

"No," very sharply.

"That is unusual, is it not?" he pursued; "she is not well—she was
'Darwaza Bund' when I called. I'm off in ten days' time, I—think."

"Oh, are you?" said Mrs. Gascoigne, in a more cordial tone. "How glad
you must be!"

"I'm not glad, you know I'm not, and why," he said, fixing her with
his keen eyes; "_you_ know all about it." He made a quick, eager
gesture and sat down on the sofa; then he bent his head towards her and
murmured, "Why—pretend?"

Colonel Gascoigne, who was engaged in discussing hydrostatics
and flying levels with a brother sapper, noticed this little
scene,—Lindsay's assured attitude, his confidential pose. He stared
for a second as if struck by some new idea, but at that instant his
attention was required elsewhere.

"Hullo!" exclaimed his companion, "I thought we were going to stay all
night, and I've seen the L. G. look twice at his watch. Here come the
Blaines, and a friend. By Jove, she _was_ worth waiting for."

Philip turned and glanced casually toward the entrance, and saw Sir
Evans Blaine, K.C.B., and Lady Blaine, charged with apologies, and in
the act of presenting their friend, "Mrs. Waldershare."

Lola! Yes, Lola herself, looking brilliantly lovely, a very queen of
society. She wore a long trailing black gown, which followed her in
sinuous lines along the soft white carpet, and shimmered as she moved,
like the scales of a fish. Her arms were covered with tightly-fitting
sleeves, her neck was very bare, according to the prevailing mode; the
black jet set off her white skin to great advantage. A slender chain of
diamonds encircled her throat and fell below her waist, and a diamond
comb or crown shone amid her piled-up dark hair. In one hand she held a
tiny painted fan, and she carried herself like a sovereign prepared to
receive the homage of her subjects.

Lola made a beautiful picture, as she stood talking with animation to
the Lieutenant-Governor and became the immediate cynosure of every eye.
To Lola, these were the moments that made life worth living.

Angel, who had been on the point of speaking sharply to Lindsay,
held her breath as this vision swam into her view. Horror, surprise,
admiration, chased one another through her brain. Her face looked white
and wan, all her girlish beauty seemed to shrivel up and fade, as she
realised that she and her rival were now within the lists.

Mr. Lindsay caught a glimpse of her expression, and exclaimed: "Oh the
bewitching widow! Sandys of my service came out with her on board ship;
she's just arrived from home. Isn't she a wonderful creation—and quite
lovely."

"Not very young," remarked a lady who sat near, "but well versed in the
arts of fascination. I would give a good deal to know the name of her
dressmaker!—what a wonderful gown."

"Yes," agreed Lindsay, "dramatic and realistic—it's not a gown—but a
personality."

"Do you know what she reminds me of," continued the lady eagerly—a
clever worn-looking woman, in a frumpish but expensive garment, a
woman whose children and whose heart were in England—"it is a picture
in a gallery in Munich. I stood before it for twenty minutes, and I
went back to look at it twice; it is of a beautiful woman, a dark
woman, with a face like hers—she is dressed entirely in a serpent,
a great dark blue serpent, wound round her body, whose head rests
confidentially over her shoulder. They are both beautiful, both
similar, both wickedly fascinating—and the name of the picture is 'The
Sin.'"

"My dear Mrs. Frobisher," cried Lindsay, with affected horror, "how
shocking—surely sin and this enchanting stranger have not even a
bowing acquaintance."

"Possibly not," she answered dryly, "but she and 'The Sin' are
identical in appearance."

"And now we are on the move," said Lindsay. "I am so fortunate as to
have the honour of taking you in to dinner, Mrs. Gascoigne."

Angel rose, and accepted the proffered arm in a sort of trance.
Had Lola and Philip met? Would they sit near each other? Her eyes
roved round anxiously, as she moved to her place at that exquisitely
decorated table, covered with lovely La France roses, shining silver,
and delicate ferns.

No, but it was almost worse, she said to herself with an inward groan;
they were seated exactly opposite to one another; and Lola had such
eloquent eyes!




CHAPTER XXVIII

MAKING FRIENDS


DURING that long official feast, Angel's thoughts were distracted and
confused. They were engrossed by a couple lower down the table—of
these she could only catch occasional glimpses—conveying a fleeting
vision of a handsome dark profile and gold shoulder cords, and a
lovely white throat, a dazzling chain, a dazzling face: besides all
the heart-sickness occasioned by this picture she had on her left hand
Alan Lindsay, sternly determined to endow her with his confidence—she
fiercely resolved not to receive it. What a situation for one helpless
young woman! No wonder that her appetite was miserable, her remarks
vague and erratic, her face white, and her expression fixed—Mrs.
Crabbe, who sat opposite, was delighted to hear her partner declare
that he had "never seen any one go off so soon as Mrs. Gascoigne."—To
know that her husband and his beautiful first love were dining
_vis-à-vis_, drinking to one another with their eyes—no—no—Philip
was not like that! To know, that beside her sat the avowed lover of
her dearest friend, who was only awaiting an opportunity to pour his
cause into her ear, was almost too much for the endurance of any girl
of two-and-twenty. And Angel's right-hand neighbour afforded her no
support; he was as useless as a stuffed figure, being both deaf and
shy. However, she summoned her courage, girded herself for the fray,
and rose to the occasion. Even as a child she had a wonderful spirit.
Time after time she turned the conversation when it approached her
friend.

"How heartless you are!" exclaimed Lindsay, when they had arrived at
the first _entrée_. "I declare, you have no humanity, no sympathy—you
are a stone."

"Very well—I am," she answered doggedly, "and I have no sympathy to
spare for you."

"Pray, why not? Eve always thought you so broad, and so bright, almost
like an American girl. Certainly the American climate is favourable to
intellectual vivacity."

"Intellect has nothing to do with the present case," said Angel
sharply, "and no American girl would support your views."

"I'm not so sure of that, Mrs. Gascoigne. It is easy to get a divorce
in the States—they are sensible people; why should a man and woman
who are totally discordant be compelled to live together in misery all
their lives? It's worse than penal servitude—what is there to bind
them?"

"Their vows," she answered gravely.

Lindsay shrugged his shoulders, and gave a queer little laugh.

"I am so glad you are going away," said Angel, with undeniable rudeness.

"Yes, and so am I," he answered imperturbably, "if I do not go alone."

"_Of course_, you will go alone."

"Why of course? Why should not Elinor accompany me?" he asked, dropping
his voice.

Mrs. Gascoigne became suddenly very red; her hand shook a little.

"He will set us free—we will marry in six months, and begin a new
existence. What a maddening thing life is—a mass of mistakes. One's
hands are tied, and fate comes and mocks at us—but I intend to cut the
cords. Here is Elinor's life wasted with a boor, who values her less
than a quire of foolscap, whilst I would lay down my life for her." In
the midst of this heroic speech potatoes were offered and declined.

"Listen," he continued eagerly, "my plan is this——"

"Hush," said Angel, "not so loud. Mrs. Crabbe opposite is exhibiting
the liveliest interest in your conversation,—and I don't want to hear
any more."

"You must hear," he said inflexibly.

"Well, if I must, I suppose I must. I cannot escape from the table—I
won't agree with one word you say—so you are warned."

"I want Elinor to come to England with me. I am now a wealthy man;
after six months she will become my wife, and we shall be unutterably
happy."

"For a year—perhaps, and then you will both begin to realise your
mistake; you will regret your career, and she will be grieving for her
downfall. You will be each other's punishment; Elinor will feel intense
remorse, knowing what her evil example means to so many, and that her
life's work is destroyed. She will become old, worn, and unsatisfied,
and you will be disillusioned."

"You talk like a seer, Mrs. Gascoigne," he sneered.

"I am far-sighted," she admitted quietly.

"Don't you know—do you not see that it would be for Elinor's happiness
to cast off this hideous life of pretence, and become my second self,
my wife, the mistress of my dear old home?"

"She would be mad to listen to you," said Angel fiercely; "she will
suffer, when you leave; she will mourn as for a death—oh, it will be
a hard trial, but it is better to suffer and be strong now, and get it
over, than to endure agonies of shame later on, and always. She will
never listen to your plan. If she did, I would hold her back by main
force; if she went she would have to drag _me_ along with her. I will
never let her go."

"I always thought you were her friend, and wished for her happiness."

"I am her friend—and I do not wish for her disgrace."

"Why are you so narrow-minded? Many _divorcés_ are in society; and
Elinor is so sweet and so good—her influence will always be felt
wherever she goes."

"No, not when it is known that she has left her husband—with you.
You must practise before you preach; and if I have read Mr. Gordon's
character correctly, he will never divorce his wife."

"So," after a long pause Lindsay said, "you are not on my side?"

"No, nor ever will be—and what a discussion for a dinner-party!"

"It was my only opportunity. I asked Du Visne—he's a pal of mine—to
send us in together if possible."

"If he had known your object, he would have turned you out; now let us
talk of anything—or nothing else. Ah! I see people putting on their
gloves; thank goodness, we are going at last."

       *       *       *       *       *

As Angel sat in the drawing-room, mechanically turning over a book of
photographs, too unnerved to mix with other women and talk gossip or
chiffons, she suddenly looked up and found Lady Eustace beside her, who
said:

"Mrs. Gascoigne, here is a lady who is most anxious to make your
acquaintance. Let me introduce Mrs. Waldershare, a very old friend of
your husband's."

Angel rose, and held out her hand in silence.

Was this the pretty girl that they said Philip had married? mentally
asked Lola, as with one comprehensive glance she criticised her
substitute. Why, her complexion was like a sheet of white paper, and
her collar-bones stood out in pitiful prominence; but she had wonderful
eyes, and her figure was graceful, her dress elegant.

"I felt that you and I ought to know one another as soon as possible,"
said Lola in her drawling voice; "you know Philip and I are such old,
old friends; we were girl and boy together, and I should so much like
to be friends with his wife."

"Thank you," said Angel, faintly. What a namby-pamby creature! thought
her listener—aloud, "Do let us go over and take possession of that
most delicious-looking sofa and have a good, comfortable talk—before
the men come," and she led the way with admirable grace. "I think," she
continued, settling herself with a cushion at her back, "these little
after-dinner chats are such opportunities for seeing something of other
women," and she nodded over at Angel with a delightful expression of
good fellowship; she was considerably startled by the expression in the
girl's eyes. What did they say?

They conveyed a grave, almost awed admiration; now Lola loved
admiration, and accepted it greedily from any source, from a
crossing-sweeper upwards. That Philip's wife should admire her with
those great tragic blue eyes was funny. She always had an idea that
Philip's wife would not care for her. This simple chit would care for
her, and be exceedingly useful. She meant to place herself under the
dear child's nice white wing—yes, and her name was Angel.

"Have you any children?" she asked softly.

Angel blushed to the roots of her hair, and shook her head.

"But dozens of dogs, I am sure! Philip was always crazy about dogs and
horses, yes, and all sorts of horrid things, toads and tortoises and
tadpoles. You are quite young," she resumed; "oh, how I wish I were
your age!"

"I should not mind exchanging," said Angel, with a faint smile.

"I only wish we could," rejoined Lola with emphasis; "oh, you can't
think how bitterly I cried the day I was thirty!"

"Really? Why should you mind, and you look so young." And then with an
effort she asked, "Are you staying in Marwar, or just passing through?"

"Oh, I am staying with the Blaines for a day or two, then going
up country to my brother Edgar. I've come out to spend a year in
India. I think I shall like it immensely, and I hope it will like
me. The country is so bright and sunny, and everyone so cheery and
so hospitable. I've met several people that I came out with on board
ship, and we feel quite like old friends. There's Captain Hailes of the
Muleteers, and the little Tudor boy, Sir Capel Tudor; we called him
Cupid. He is ridiculously devoted to me. By the way," she went on in
another key, "I suppose you have heard that Philip and I were engaged
once," and she looked at her with a half-bantering expression.

"Yes, I know," responded the other gravely.

"For quite a long time—nearly four years. You won't," and she raised
herself about half-an-inch and lightly touched Angel's hand, which hung
limply over the back of the sofa, "you won't like me any the less—for
being fond of him—will you, dear?"

"No, certainly not," with an eloquent gesture.

"In fact, it constitutes a bond between us—and you won't care for him
any less," and she looked up into Angel's serious eyes, "because he
used to like—me?"

"No," and then ensued a long pause.

"It was a funny marriage, was it not?" she resumed suddenly.

"What—whose?" asked her bewildered listener.

"Why, yours, dear. He was a hardened bachelor, and you were such a
child. But it has turned out very well," another pause, "hasn't it,
dear?"

"Oh, yes," blushing, and feeling curiously embarrassed.

"What a dear you are! I'm going to be so fond of you; I know at once,
when I like people or not. And you?"

"No, I'm not like that—it is too soon."

"Never too soon to begin a liking, dear."

"But I admire you more than anyone I've ever seen," said Angel
impulsively.

"Come, that's a good start," patting her arm with a touch of patronage.
"By-and-by, I believe, when you know me—you will pity me."

"Pity _you_?" gazing at this lovely, languorous creature, with her
shining gown, her shining jewels, her shining eyes.

"Ah! you are too young to know the tragedy of giving up, of
annihilating self; of being misrepresented, slandered, and beggared.
Well, I will tell you all about it some day. I'm coming to see you
to-morrow. I am told newcomers call first. And here are the men. Do
look at my little travelling friend, Sir Cupid. Ah, there is Phil,"
and she beckoned him with her fan. "Dear old Phil, how good it is
to see you—how you bring back old times. Your wife and I have been
making such friends, and having a long chat. Now," as he looked
interrogatively from one to the other, "I'm going to have a good long
talk with _you_." As Lola spoke, she rose and laid a small hand upon
his sleeve, and with a little gay nod to Angel, glided away with Philip
into the great verandah.

Angel sat up and gazed after the couple—Philip slight, erect, and
soldierly, his head a little bent, his hands behind his back. No, he
had not offered Lola his arm.

And Lola moving beside him with her graceful, undulating walk, looking
up, and talking quickly all the time. She felt, as she watched them
slowly disappear into the sitting-out verandah, as if the sun had been
extinguished by a huge black cloud.

Lola was an enchantress. She herself had felt her influence, and was
powerless. As she sat in a sort of dream, she heard a man's voice say,
"Is she not ripping? Old Graydon lost his heart to her coming out."

"Yes," said another, "and young Tudor lost two hundred pounds to her,
which is ten times worse." But, of course, they were not alluding to
anyone she knew.

The _tête-à-tête_ in the verandah lasted till carriages began to come
rumbling under the big porch, and when Philip and Lola reappeared, she
looked conspicuously radiant.




CHAPTER XXIX

LAST YEAR'S NEST


RESIDENCY parties invariably broke up in good time, and it was not more
than half-past ten when Colonel Gascoigne handed his wife into her
brougham, and set off, according to his custom, to walk home. To-night
he had unusual food for thought, as he proceeded at a leisurely pace,
smoking a most excellent Residency cheroot. So Lola had risen on the
horizon in the character of a fascinating widow, with all the liberty,
prestige, and self-possession usual to her class. How wonderful her
eyes were! He came to a momentary standstill as he recalled them, and
how her voice trembled as she talked of "long ago," and separation,
and the cruelty of circumstance, and misapprehension. She revived a
phase of his existence that he had almost forgotten; it was a little
difficult to realise that he had been madly in love with her once.
That was nearly fifteen years ago—how time flew—in the good old days
when she could play cricket and rounders, and did not know how to use
her eyes. These reflections were abruptly brought to a conclusion by
the appearance of a bare-headed lady in silvery opera cloak, who was
evidently awaiting him under an acacia tree by the edge of the maidan.

It was Angel, who, acting on a sudden impulse, had stopped the brougham
and descended, and sent it home empty. She felt that she must escape
from her own company, her own terrible thoughts. She must talk
to Philip about Lola without delay. No, she could not wait, even
half-an-hour, for she was mentally staggering under the impact of a new
sensation—the name of the sensation was jealousy. Her very soul was in
a fever. Naturally highly-strung, fervent, and impetuous, Angel's whole
being was centred in the longing to know what her husband thought of
Lola—what of her—_which_ of them did he love?

And as she stood by the roadside awaiting his coming, her heart seemed
to beat, "Lola, Lola, Lola," and the distant frogs chorussed "Lola,
Lola, Lola."

They were holding a reception in a neighbouring tank, safe from the
barbarous paddy bird, and the ruthless crane.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Oh, here you are at last!" said Angel; "it is such an exquisite night,
I thought I would walk home," adding apologetically, as she held up
her dainty shoe, "the road is as dry as a floor; let us go across the
parade-ground."

"All right," he assented; "it is too early for snakes. How hot it was
in that drawing-room, with those big lamps."

"It was," assented his wife, "but _you_ must have found it cooler—in
the verandah."

There was a significant pause, and then Colonel Gascoigne boldly broke
the ice at the thickest part.

"There is nothing so certain as the unexpected," he said; "who would
have thought of seeing Lola out here?"

"Who, indeed?" echoed Angel coolly; "and we were wishing so much for a
new face, though her face is not new to you. Everyone comes to India
nowadays. It would never surprise me if grandmamma appeared. There she
goes."

"What! your grandmother?"

"No, Mrs. Waldershare."

As she spoke a large open carriage bowled along the hard white road. It
contained the Blaines and their guest, who waved her fan to the pair,
with a gesture signifying approval and valediction.

"What do you think of her?" asked Philip, abruptly, as the horses'
hoofs died away in a distant clip-clop.

"I think she is beautiful," answered Angel, in a voice that carried
sincerity in its expression; "there can be but one opinion about that."

"I shouldn't have thought she was your style."

"Oh, yes, I admire dark people."

"Thank you, Angel; that is one to me. But you did not approve of her as
a child."

"No, I was prejudiced, and, of course, I was no judge; but now
that—that——" she hesitated. She was going to add, "that I know her
story——"

"That you have arrived at years of discretion or indiscretion," he
supplemented.

"Yes, now that I have arrived at years of experience, I do not wonder
that you adored her."

Philip did not remark the little falter in her voice.

"How do you know that I adored her?"

"Did you not?" was her quick counter question.

"Well, then—yes."

"And were distracted with misery when she married Mr. Waldershare?"

"So they said," and as he spoke he knocked the ash off his cheroot with
elaborate care.

"You have forgiven her"—and Angel caught her breath; "you forgave her
to-night?"

"I forgave her ten years ago; but, my dear child, do not let us rake up
the ashes of an old love affair that has been extinct for ages. I am
quite prepared to be civil to Lola, as an old playfellow and friend,
that's all. You will have to call on her, and ask her to dinner, and
all that sort of thing."

Angel came to a sudden dead stop, and stood very straight in her long
silvery cloak; her face was white as she gazed at her husband in the
moonlight, with her extraordinarily piercing blue eyes.

"Playfellow—friend," she repeated, "do you believe that she will ever
forget, or allow you to forget, that you were her old lover, her first
love—she _won't_," she added with sudden passion. "She reminded me of
it to-night, and declared that it was a bond between us."

"Then, my dear Angel, I leave her entirely in your hands," rejoined
Philip, with a smile. He had a rare but beautiful smile, inherited from
his mother. "She is an odd creature; she has an embarrassing way of
speaking her thoughts aloud. She thought that, and unawares it escaped
her lips. Lola is not young, she has plenty of sense, she knows that
fifteen years roll between the—the old days—and these, and that," now
laying his hand impressively upon Angel's arm, "there are no birds—in
last year's nest."

"But——" she began excitedly.

"But," he echoed, turning his head sharply, "here comes young Hailes,
running after us. He little dreams that you and I are discussing
abstract sentiment at eleven o'clock at night, in the middle of the
parade-ground."

"Oh, Mrs. Gascoigne," gasped Captain Hailes, breathlessly, "I believe
this is yours—you dropped it on the road—just now."

"Yes, and how very kind of you to take so much trouble—it really was
not worth it," said Angel, who inwardly wished both glove and finder a
thousand miles away. She was anxious to pursue the subject of Lola, her
opportunities for a _tête-à-tête_ with Philip were so rare; and this
odious but well-meaning Captain Hailes accompanied them all the way to
their own gate.




CHAPTER XXX

A WHITED SEPULCHRE


BEFORE continuing this history, it is necessary to say a few words
respecting Lola Waldershare. As Lola Hargreaves, ever lovely,
seductive, and smiling, by strangers and mere acquaintances, she was
looked upon as one of the most bewitching girls in the county. Her
beauty, youthful graces, and charm, threw a dazzling glamour over her
personality that her immediate surroundings were not blinded to her
faults; her brothers recognised her selfishness; her mother was aware
that her heart was hard as a nether millstone. Those who had little
dealings with Miss Hargreaves learnt that she was not particularly
truthful or scrupulous. The increasing straitness of the family
fortunes, the struggle to make a brave display abroad, the shifts,
shabbiness, and pinching, at home, the manœuvres to evade creditors,
and keep up appearances, had left their mark on Lola. Poverty was
hideous; humiliation was unendurable; and Lola was resolved to be rich.
A short season in London had shown her the value of her beauty; her
face was, and should be, her fortune; and long before Philip Gascoigne
had any idea of his fate, he had been mentally discarded by his
_fiancée_. Letters are deceptive, it is so much easier to deceive by
pen and ink than by word of mouth. What Mrs. Danvers had declared was
perfectly true; Lola had sacrificed herself—for herself. In marrying
Reuben Waldershare she attained her wishes—though she would have
been glad to eliminate two well-grown step-sons—and Mr. Waldershare,
for his part, was well satisfied with his bargain. Unfortunately, in
an evil moment he took his beautiful young wife to Monte Carlo, and
there the Hargreaves' demon, the gambling demon, awoke, and seized upon
her. The taint was in her blood; Lola was her father's own daughter.
At first she was contented to win small sums at roulette, which she
gleefully invested in hats and lace and trifling ornaments. After
a week, as the poison began to work, she increased her stakes, and
talked fluently of "douzaines" and "transversals" and "runs." She
relinquished expeditions to Nice, or into Italy. She grudged every
hour spent elsewhere than at the rooms. She had her own lucky table,
her lucky charm, and, above all, her system. Like most beginners, she
won largely, and Reuben Waldershare, who was obtrusively proud of his
clever, elegantly dressed, smart wife, liked to see people crane over
in order to watch her pretty eager face, as she sat with rolls of gold
rouleaux before her, her pencil busy, her eyes ablaze.

Little did he know that he had fired a mine the day he placed three
hundred pounds to his wife's account at the Credit Lyonnaise, and told
her half in joke, that was "a little sum to play with."

Mrs. Waldershare now played incessantly—and played high.

"I like to put a 'mile' note on one number," she declared with a gay
laugh; "I agree with an old man who sat next me, 'Ca vous donne des
emotions.'"

Mrs. Waldershare returned each winter to the Riviera as punctually as
a swallow, ostensibly in search of health, but in reality to gamble
continuously, extravagantly, and recklessly. She lost enormous sums;
her husband's pride now changed to alarm. The husband of the lovely
Mrs. Waldershare, who was winning to the envy and admiration of her
neighbours, was a different being to the man who had to disburse
staggering sums almost daily. Lola promised to give up gambling, and
never to touch a card or back a number. Her promises were invariably
broken—nothing would or could keep her away from the scene of her
gains and losses. She owed huge bills in London and Paris; the money
to pay these she had flung into the great gulf—she, whose luck was
astonishing, was now secretly selling her jewels—and wearing paste.
Mrs. Waldershare was again at Monte Carlo the year her husband died;
her fascinations were irresistible. A beautiful woman, thirty years his
junior, sweet, seductive, persuasive, her stolid elderly partner could
not withstand her. He was suddenly called away to Paris, on urgent
business, leaving Lola and her maid and many acquaintances at the Hotel
de Paris, but before he departed he extracted a solemn promise from
his wife that during his absence she would not enter the rooms, and
this promise she vowed to keep. The first day she went over to Nice,
the second day was wet, and seemingly endless, the third day something
drew her into the Casino in spite of herself. The talk of her friends,
of runs of colour, of great "coups," was too much for her miserable
little will; something, she afterwards declared, dragged her forcibly
into the Salle de Jeux. She went with a party, merely in order to
look on, but in twenty minutes' time, she was seated at the "trente et
quarante" with a card a pin, and a pile of gold in front of her. She
won—she won again the following day, and then she lost—lost—lost all
the money—lost her self-control—lost her head. She borrowed until she
could borrow no longer; in the frenzy of gambling, she drew a cheque
for a thousand pounds and signed it "Reuben Waldershare." All moral
sense expired, as she blotted the clever imitation of her husband's
signature. This money followed her other losses in one short day, and
then Lola was indeed desperate. She went at sundown and walked round
Monaco, and gazed thoughtfully over the wall at a spot which other
despairing eyes have measured, where there is a sheer precipice, lapped
by the blue-green Mediterranean.

No, no—looking down always made her sick and giddy, she could _not_ do
it. Life was sweet. Reuben would certainly forgive her—after all, what
was his, was hers.

When Mrs. Waldershare returned to the hotel, she found a telegram
awaiting her; it announced that her husband was ill with a sharp attack
of gout. She was requested to leave for Paris at once, and accompany
him home. After a few days, during which time Lola made herself
indispensable to the invalid, hourly hoping to seize a favourable
moment, and make her little confession; unfortunately the cheque
presented itself too promptly, and Reuben Waldershare, to whom such
an act as forgery appeared as great a crime as murder, was deaf to
all excuses and appeals. He raged with the deadly slow anger of a
phlegmatic nature; in this condition, he added a codicil to his will,
and having done so, died rather suddenly of gout in the stomach. And
now, Lola found herself a widow, with a small jointure and immense
debts. She endeavoured to patch up the wreck of her affairs, she tried
to beguile creditors, propitiate people she had snubbed, to make
friends with her cast-off relations, but she was alike in the black
books of her acquaintances and her tradespeople. She therefore resolved
to shift her sky, and come out to India, ostensibly to visit her
dearest brother Edgar (who had no desire for her company), and to see
something of the East. She brought with her a maid, a quantity of smart
gowns, a large stock of courage and enterprise, and a very small amount
of ready money.

In short, she had come out to seek her fortune, precisely like the
young adventurer one reads of in books of fairy and other tales. Marwar
was a capital centre, she had gathered this information _en route_;
Indian people were approachable, hospitable, and not too inquisitive;
appearances go far, when one sails away from a—reputation.

Then by a wonderful stroke of luck she encountered Philip Gascoigne;
as good-looking as ever; no longer the impetuous boy, the impassioned
subaltern, but a cool, self-reliant, distinguished Philip, with a fine
position, a heavy purse, and a dear, simple, appreciative wife. They
would be extremely useful, introduce her to the best society, save her
expense, and officiate as her sponsors.

These were a few of Mrs. Waldershare's reflections, as she drove into
the Gascoignes' compound the afternoon succeeding the dinner-party.




CHAPTER XXXI

FISHING FOR AN INVITATION


MRS. WALDERSHARE presented a most charming picture, as she rustled into
Mrs. Gascoigne's great drawing-room, with her exquisitely gloved hands
eagerly extended. Her _entrée_ was accompanied by the rustling of silk,
a faint jingling of beads, and atmosphere of heliotrope. She wore an
elaborate white dress, a black plumed hat, both unmistakably French and
expensive.

"Oh, I am so ashamed!" she exclaimed; "I had to pay one or two other
calls, and like a greedy child with sweets, I kept the best for the
last. I had not the faintest idea it was so late."

"Better late than never," said her hostess, politely, and the gong at
that moment sounded for tiffin.

"You will stay, won't you?" she urged, little knowing that her visitor
had carefully timed her arrival in order to be sure of catching Philip
at home; "I'll send away the gharry."

"Oh, thank you, I must confess it is a great temptation; but do you
think the Blaines will mind?" and she looked at her hostess appealingly.

"I can write a line if you like. Philip," turning about as her husband
entered, "here is Mrs. Waldershare—she will stay to lunch."

Lola gave her former lover her hand, and a long, expressing glance;
then as Angel hurried out, she said: "What a charming home you have,
Philip."

"I am glad you like it," he said cheerfully.

"How funny to think of this being your house, Philip, and of you being
married and happy." She gazed up at him with soft interrogation as she
spoke, then dropped her voice and said, "And I am solitary and homeless
and poor—all my life, I've stood aside for others and—given up."
One of Lola's chief accomplishments was to tell the most dramatic and
delightful lies.

"I can't say that you answer your own description," replied Gascoigne,
ignoring her touching insinuations. "I never saw anyone that looked
more fit."

"Ah, appearances are deceitful," rejoined the lady with a sigh; "but
how well you are looking—so little changed," another wistful glance.

"Won't you come into tiffin," said Angel, appearing suddenly. "I
have sent off a note to Mrs. Blaine," and she led the way into the
dining-room.

"What a delightful bungalow this is," remarked Lola, after she had
helped herself carefully to mayonnaise; "so much larger than the
Blaines'. Quite double the size."

"Yes, I suppose it is," assented Angel, carelessly.

"They have only one spare room. Of course they are not old friends,
only board ship acquaintances, and it was so good of them to put me up;
but I've got to turn out."

"You are going on to Edgar?" said her host.

"Oh, no, such a bore. The Edgars are moving, and won't be settled for
a whole month. She is marching with the regiment to Seetapore, so I am
going to take my chance in the Imperial Hotel here."

And Lola looked down, and sighed profoundly.

"Will it be very bad, do you think?" she asked, suddenly raising her
eyes to Angel.

"I'm sure I cannot say; I've never stayed in a hotel in India, but a
great many globe-trotters put up there in the cold weather."

Philip gazed at his wife. Was she unable to recognise a broad hint, or
was she intentionally and exceptionally dense?

"By the way," continued Angel, "have you not a friend at Chitachar? I
heard a lady mention that she had been your bridesmaid."

"Oh, yes, my dear, pray don't speak of her—such a dull creature, with
a voice like a fog-horn. Philip, you remember Lucy Worsley at the
Parsonage?"

"Oh, yes, of course I do. She was a good sort, and had a first-rate
Airedale terrier."

"She was densely stupid, and always had chilblains, even in summer.
She is out here now, and telegraphed me to go and stay with her"—Mrs.
Waldershare had made full inquiries respecting Chitachar;—"but I
really cannot move again so soon."

"What brought you out to India? What put it into your head to come
East?"

"The instinct of exploration, I think; and I wanted so much to see dear
old Edgar again, and"—with a crooked smile—"you. As one grows older,
especially when one has no home or ties, one gets restless, and hankers
for the friends of one's childhood—don't you think so, Mrs. Gascoigne?"

"No, I can't say that I ever hankered after the friends of my
childhood, except one," she replied; "I have four half-brothers, whom
I never wish to see again."

Lola opened her eyes, until they looked a size larger, and gazed at
Angel in astonishment, and then broke into a laugh.

"I suppose you had a different experience to mine—we had a very good
time, had we not, Philip?" she appealed to him in her sweet, persuasive
voice.

"Yes, we made things fairly lively for ourselves and others."

"It's one thing that cannot be taken from us—our memories. Do you
remember the day the piebald pony ran away with us, and jumped the
gate?"

"That is hardly a happy memory."

"No; but the picnics to Tancliffe Abbey, our cooking and dressing
up—our—oh"—with a quick little gesture of abandonment—"our
_everything_."

Gascoigne laughed. "We were awfully keen on half-raw potatoes, the
cinders of birds, and corking our faces on the smallest provocation.
How one's tastes change!"

"Aunt General Gascoigne, and dear Aunt Ven—how lovely she was,"
continued the guest. Philip shrank like a sensitive plant; he did not
wish her to speak of his mother. Lola, with her quick perception, was
instantly aware of this, and added in almost the next breath, "And do
you remember the nest in the Clock Tower, that I dared you to get?"

Philip rose and said, "I am afraid I must remember events of to-day,
and ask you to excuse me—I have to see the General before three. Angel
and you can have a talk, and she will drive you home after tea."

"Oh, I cannot stay to-day, I've heaps to do," protested Lola piteously;
"but I'll just smoke a cigarette with Mrs. Gascoigne—no, I really must
call her Angel—I daresay she smokes?"

"I did," acknowledged Angel, "but I've given it up."

"Why?"

Angel made no reply beyond a laugh; she had given it up to please
Philip. At last she said, "Well, I suppose we outgrow our habits."

"Do we? I never outgrow mine, and smoking gives us all the pleasures of
hope and of memory. Let us sit in two corners of this sofa and talk; I
do want to know you."

"It is very kind of you to say so," responded Angel quietly. Lola gave
a long comprehensive glance round the luxurious room, and blew a cloud
of smoke through her nostrils.

"You must be very well off," she remarked suddenly.

"We are," admitted her companion; "an old friend of Philip's mother, a
lover, I believe, died a year ago, and left him three thousand a year."

"Nonsense," sitting erect; "fancy remaining in this country."

"Philip likes it—his heart is in his work. He would hate to retire,
and just live in London clubs and in a house in Mayfair."

"What do you know of Mayfair?"

"Not much, but I lived there once." A pause, and then Angel suddenly
said, "Please tell me about Philip's mother."

"Oh, Aunt Ven, as we called her. She was beautiful; such a lovely
face, a little sad—a good woman. It was said that in her first season,
she took London by storm, also her second, and at the height of her
glory she dropped out of the firmament; and was seen no more."

"Was there not a reason?"

"None, beyond a mere surmise; people hinted at a love affair—and
a mischief-maker. Ten years after she reappeared as Mrs.
Gascoigne—married someone who did not expect a whole heart-devouring
passion. Her son," again that crooked smile, "you see has done the
same."

"You mean in marrying me," said Angel quickly.

Lola pulled herself together. Had that glass of Burgundy gone to her
head? She must be more wary. This kind of talk was so full of pitfalls.

"Of course," she replied, taking Angel's hand in hers, "you make him
far happier than I could have done, and you are just the right age—the
early twenties."

"But you look in the twenties yourself. How do you manage it?"

"Oh, I try to get the very most out of life, by keeping in touch with
what is pleasing. I never see or hear anything disagreeable—be gay,
and you remain young." And Lola released her companion's fingers with a
squeeze.

"But if you feel things terribly, and are sorry for people, and
animals, and misery?"

"Oh, that is fatal, it means bad nights, and wrinkles, and horrors; I
cannot afford to be emotional, I am a poor solitary woman. If you read
sad books, and sing sad songs, and mix with sad people, you become sad
yourself. Do you know that you look rather sad—it was the first thing
that struck me when I saw you."

"Oh, but I'm not," rejoined Angel, and the colour rose to her face;
"I'm really supposed to be rather frivolous and——"

"And here is my gharry coming back," interrupted the visitor, "and,
alas! I must go. I'll see you at the theatre this evening, won't I?
And you are going to see a great deal of _me_, dear. I hope you won't
mind." As she spoke, Mrs. Waldershare embraced the astonished Angel
with much _empressment_, went gracefully down the steps, ascended into
her hired conveyance, and was presently rattled away.




CHAPTER XXXII

BY PROXY


IN a surprisingly short time, Mrs. Waldershare had become one of the
most interesting personalities in Marwar. Her beauty, her toilettes,
her seductive manners, her air of being accustomed to the best the
world could offer, went far to promote her success. She was accepted
at her own valuation, and incidentally as a very old friend of the
Gascoignes, and was invited, _fêted_, admired, and imitated. The lady's
victoria was surrounded at the band, or polo; men schemed and struggled
for the honour of escorting her. She had graciously accommodated
herself to the deficiencies of the Imperial Hotel, and established
terms of intimacy with an exploring widow, with whom she chummed, and
gave charming little teas, tiffins, and suppers. Mrs. Waldershare was
extremely exclusive, and desired it to be understood that she only
wished to know "the nicest people." As she was a regular attendant at
church, and her air and deportment were unexceptional, "the nicest
people" were delightful to cultivate her acquaintance.

It is needless to mention that they knew nothing of the little games of
cards, which constituted such an attractive item at Mrs. Waldershare's
evening reunions, nor dreamt that it was close on sunrise when
they broke up, and that one or two of her guests returned to their
quarters with lighter pockets, and heavier hearts. There was never
a whisper of these gatherings in society, only in the bazaar, where
all is known, and where the fair widow was branded with a name that
we will not set down here. Captain Hailes and Sir Capel Tudor were
daily visitors at the Imperial Hotel; the former, on the strength of
a distant cousinship, the latter simply because he had enjoyed the
honour of being Mrs. Waldershare's fellow-passenger. He was a cheery,
boyish little fellow of two-and-twenty, keenly anxious to see, and do
everything. He and a friend had come out to India with the intention
of indulging their mutual taste for sport and mountaineering, but
Cupid had cast off his companion at Bombay, to follow the path of his
enchantress.

In spite of his uproarious spirits, his round, boyish face, and
curly locks, Sir Capel Tudor could be as doggedly obstinate as any
commissariat mule; he was rich, he was his own master, and after a
somewhat stormy scene at their hotel, the two comrades had parted, Sir
Capel to come up country in order to visit Agra and Delhi and other
historical places, and Mr. Hardy to coast down to Travancore, mentally
cursing one particular young fool—and all widows.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of course Mrs. Waldershare saw a good deal of the Gascoignes; she dined
with them, drove with Mrs. Gascoigne, who admired her still—admired
her graceful, gliding gait, her wonderful eyes, her wonderful gowns,
her wonderful and irresistible ways.

Angel was always severely truthful to herself, and she drew painful
comparisons between Lola's beauty, her fresh, English complexion (oh,
most innocent Angel, it was pain), her attractive manners, and her own
white face, her dull wit, her inability to shine, or even to attempt to
shine, when Lola was present; and what a fund of friends, experiences,
and memories she and Philip had in common, events that had happened
when she was in her ayah's arms—yes, and before she was born.

In this period, naturally the happiest of Philip's life, she had no
share; and as the pair talked, drawn on from subject to subject,
undoubtedly they sometimes forgot the third person, who sat half buried
in sofa cushions, aloof and silent, telling herself that she, not Lola,
was the outsider. She alone stood between Philip and this beautiful
woman, with whom he had so much in common—youth, dead and living
friends, memories, and first love. Angel had the power of keeping her
feelings to herself, but she could not keep her misery entirely out of
her face. Philip's anxious inquiries invariably met with a civil rebuff.

"You are as grave as a little old owl," he said one day. "I wish I knew
what is the matter."

"Nothing."

"Is there such a thing as nothing?"

"Don't ask absurd questions; I suppose I may look pale if I please."

"But _I_ don't please."

Angel quickly turned the conversation by a question:

"Do you know that Mrs. Gordon is really ill?"

"No; but I have not seen her about for ages—fever?"

"Yes; malarial fever. I believe she caught it in the district. I'm
going over to visit her now."

"All right; I'll call for you on my way from the club."

"Oh, do go for a ride, and take Sam and John."

"I'll see them further! Sam has killed two of the young pigeons, and
three of the Houdan chickens—quite a bag!"

"Yes; I shut him up in a godown for punishment."

"Much he cared."

"John cared. He sat outside and howled for an hour, and what do you
think he did?"

"Something with respect to refreshments."

"Yes. He brought a bone and pushed it under the door."

"I'll bet it was well picked. Now, I am off. Let me know if I can do
anything for Mrs. Gordon. You might take her over those new books and
picture-papers—and give her my love."

"What will Mr. Gordon say?" and Angel gave a rather hysterical laugh.

"Why should he say anything? He knows very well that we _all_ love her."

Mrs. Gordon had been keeping her room for some time, and received no
one but Mrs. Gascoigne. She looked miserably ill, but refused to stay
in bed; and as her husband did not believe in making a fuss over women,
or in encouraging them to remain on the sick list and upset the house,
the invalid was left a good deal alone.

Angel found her in her own special sanctum, wearing a soft silk
tea-gown, and an expression of utter weariness and lassitude.

"Yes," she replied, in answer to her friend's exclamation, "I am indeed
a wretched-looking specimen. I've had this fever before, and I know how
it takes it out of me—between the fever in my blood, and the fever
in my mind, I am almost extinct. See," and she held up an envelope,
"he will keep on writing to me, although I never answer his letters. I
think it is so cruel of him: and he comes here every day. His steamer
leaves Bombay on Saturday, but he swears he will not leave India till
he sees me again."

"Yes?"

"He will never see me again. No more than if I had died—I am dead, my
heart is dead."

"Oh, Elinor, don't say that. You love me a little, and so many, many
people love you."

"If they knew what you and I know, do you think they would love me?"

"Yes, and more than ever."

"But do you realise that I ache—yes, that is the word—to see Alan, to
hear his voice, to look at him even once more—before he goes away,"
and her voice shook, "for ever? Do you know that I have written to
him—oh, so many letters—mad, wild wicked letters, and destroyed them.
I believe there is another spirit in my body, not the old restrained
conscientious Elinor, but a mad, crazy spirit, who prates of love and
the world well lost. Oh, my dear, you see in me a very sick woman
mentally and physically—you are my doctor."

"What can I do for you?" and Angel laid her cool hand on her
companion's burning head. "Tell me. I will do anything to help you."

"You can meet Alan—take him my good-bye to-morrow. Tell him he must
leave on Saturday. People are all wondering why he stays on? and are
looking about for the inducement. Tell him I shall often think of him,
and pray for him, and pray that he may live a good unselfish life,
share his wealth with others, and be happy. When we are old, old people
we may perhaps meet—and that is all—except—good-bye."

"I will give him this message, and _how_ he will hate me!"

"No, no, he likes you." A long pause, then with an abrupt change of
tone, "And so Mrs. Waldershare is in Marwar?"

"Yes. She stayed for a few days with the Blaines, and now she has gone
to the Imperial Hotel because she wishes to be independent."

"What is she like?"

"She is dazzlingly beautiful, with great dark eyes that seem to go
right across her face."

"Yes, I hear she is very good-looking and alluring."

"And most fascinating; all the world admires her, and is making a fuss
about her. We are giving a dinner for her to-morrow, and have asked
the little baronet, and the Blaines, and Captain Hailes. Well, now, I
must go; I hear Philip talking to your husband. What about to-morrow?
When shall I see Mr. Lindsay? If he calls on me the servants will
hear every word—our house is so open—there are twelve doors in the
drawing-room. We might walk in the garden if it——"

"I'll tell you; drive down to the polo, and pick him up in your cart. I
hate to ask you to do this for me—do you think your husband will mind?"

"Oh, no, Philip is never jealous, you know that—if the worst came to
the worst, I'd tell him." Mrs. Gordon sat up and gasped. "Yes, I would,
Elinor, and I warn you beforehand. But I hope there is no question of
that. I will meet Mr. Lindsay to-morrow, give him your message, and
tell him that he must go home, that if he stayed here for years he
would not see you, or hear from you again. I shall be firm. There," and
she kissed her companion's hand, "I must go."

The following afternoon Colonel Gascoigne returned home early, in order
to take Angel for a ride; she looked wan and spiritless, like a flower
that was drooping. He blamed himself for leaving her in that great
empty bungalow; was it fair to her, to give up so much time to work,
and leave her alone?

And there was something on her mind—what?

"Could it be—Alan Lindsay?" he asked himself; and a voice answered,
"No; you deserve to be shot for the suspicion. Angel is not that sort."
No, retorted the little devil Jealousy; but most young women are "that
sort," when thrown for two months into the daily intimate, picturesque
society of one of the most well-endowed and irresistible of men. With
these voices still clamouring in his mental ears, he arrived at home,
and was informed that "the Mem Sahib had gone out in the cart, and
taken John Sahib and Sam Sahib towards the polo;" and he turned his
horse, and rode off in that direction. Angel was not at the polo, but
Mrs. Waldershare was there. She beckoned him gaily to her victoria, in
which sat two men, whilst a third worshipped upon the step.

"Where are you going to, Philip?" she inquired, with an air of playful
authority.

"Only for a ride. Have you seen Angel?"

"Your good Angel—oh, yes. She drove away just now with such a
nice-looking man! They went up the road towards the old palace. You
don't mean to say you are going _too_?" and Lola gave a wicked little
laugh; but Philip affected not to hear, and cantered off.

The palace was now used as a picture-gallery, it contained portraits of
many rajahs and nawabs, and stood in a beautiful garden. It lay beyond
the bazaars, about two miles from the polo. As Gascoigne rode along,
his head was in a whirl, the hot blood was thumping in his heart. What
did he mean to do? He could not say. He brought his horse to a walk,
and made an effort to control his rage, and endeavoured to analyse
his own sensations. What ailed him? Was this jealousy, or merely bad
temper? As he came in sight of the gates, he descried the portly figure
of John, just crossing the drive in chase of a squirrel. Yes, John had
betrayed the whereabouts of his mistress, and there, by the palace
entrance, stood her cart, pony, and syce. Meanwhile Angel had seen Alan
Lindsay at the polo, and carelessly offered him a seat. As he accepted
it with alacrity, she said:

"I have a message for you—several messages."

"Then don't deliver them here, for God's sake. Drive a bit up the road,
where we can talk face to face."

"All right," she replied; "I'll go up as far as the Suchar Palace; the
dogs love the gardens," and, as she spoke, Angel turned her pony's
head, and drove rapidly away; all the time they flew along she never
once opened her lips. Once at the palace, she sprang out, gave the
reins to her syce, and said to her companion:

"Let us go into the gallery; we can talk there undisturbed," and she
ran lightly up the stairs.

The gallery was lined on two sides with gorgeous portraits of princes
in brocade, white muslin, steel armour, or jewels; but the couple never
cast a glance at one of them, and Lindsay broke the silence by asking,
in a hoarse voice:

"Now, what is her message? What does she wish you to say for her?"

"I am to say good-bye," replied Angel, looking at him steadfastly.

"I won't listen to it."

"You have no choice; you must. She implores you to go home at once.
What is the use of remaining out here?"

"Because, even if I do not see her, I am near her—and that is
something."

"It is madness. Will you not do as she wishes?"

"You know well that I would die for her."

"And she asks much less than your life—only to go—to go—to go."

"One would suppose you were talking to a dog!" he said angrily.

"I have a great respect for some dogs," replied Angel; "you have no
respect for Elinor's wishes. Her mind is fixed, she will never see you
again; will you force her to leave Marwar?"

"I wish I could force her to leave it with me."

"There, you waste your time and breath! She has a strong will, she
is passionately sorry for herself and you—she is at the same time
deeply humiliated to find that she, a married woman, could suffer such
anguish. If you have any regard for her, any love for her, I beseech
you to leave Marwar. She is ill, she is miserable, she—oh, if you only
saw her as I saw her, you would never hesitate,—you cruel man."

By degrees Alan Lindsay, borne down by the force of Angel's arguments,
her expostulations, her appeals, gave way. The dusk had suddenly
fallen, as it does in India; these two, the pleader and the pleaded
with, could hardly distinguish each other's features.

"Do you realise that I leave my heart—my very life—behind me?" he
exclaimed.

"Yes, but you will be brave, you gain a victory; you will see it some
day as I see it—you will go."

"Angel," said a voice from the dusk. It was her husband who spoke, he
was close beside her, and she gave a perceptible start, but instantly
recovering, rejoined, with surpassing nonchalance.

"Oh, is it you, Philip? How unexpected. Mr. Lindsay and I—have been
looking at the pictures."

"Yes—that is evident to the meanest intelligence," replied Gascoigne,
and his voice had a suppressed sound, and Angel for once distinguished
a touch of sarcasm, never heard by her before.




CHAPTER XXXIII

EXPLANATION


"BUT you cannot study the Rajah's pictures any longer," continued
Colonel Gascoigne, in a rough and dominant tone, and as he spoke he
struck a match, and confronted, as he anticipated, Alan Lindsay—Mr.
Lindsay, white as a ghost, and evidently shattered by some great mental
storm.

"Shall we go home?" he suggested politely, as he struck another match,
and lighted the way to the head of the stairs, the two picture-seers
following him down in somewhat awed silence.

At the foot of the steps stood Angel's pony cart, with its lamps
alight, and her husband's horse.

"Well, good-bye, Mr. Lindsay," she said in a cool, clear voice, as she
turned to him in the entrance. "I will write to you sometimes. Philip,
Mr. Lindsay is leaving for England."

"Good-bye, Gascoigne," he said hoarsely, and he held out his hand, but
Colonel Gascoigne affected not to see it.

"Oh, good-bye," he said, shortly. "Angel, get in. I will drive you
home"; to the syce, "bring on my horse." He whipped up the cob, and
they flew down the avenue, leaving Alan Lindsay in the dim, dewy
garden, to find his way back to the cantonment on foot and alone.

Colonel Gascoigne drove very fast, but he never uttered one word, nor
did Angel. She was thinking of the miserable man from whom she had
been so unceremoniously parted, and a little of her husband. He was
extremely angry; never had she known him to be angry, but Angel was
not the least afraid of him. She had done nothing to be ashamed of,
and once or twice she had felt a mad, almost uncontrollable desire to
scream with laughter. Was Philip really jealous—at last? How funny!

Philip's head was seething with new ideas. He saw himself from a novel
point of view, racked by many incongruous feelings—the furiously,
justly incensed husband. Should he speak now? No, he would wait till
after dinner, and then have it out with her.

He dashed up under the porch, alighted, handed out his wife with his
usual courtesy, who walked up the steps without a word, and by the
light of the great verandah lamp he caught a glimpse of her face; it
recalled the Angel of Ramghur, when she was in one of her most defiant
moods. They had a dinner-party that evening, and Mrs. Gascoigne,
dressed with her accustomed taste, was exceptionally animated and gay,
and played hostess to perfection. Certainly Angel, as of old, had a
hard, fierce, untamed spirit; she met his glances without wincing, and
they spoke, when occasion required, with Arctic politeness. Then when
the last carriage had rumbled off, and his wife was trailing away to
her room, Gascoigne came in from the verandah, and said:

"Stop—I wish to speak to you—Angel."

"Yes?" The yes was interrogative—sinking gracefully into an easy-chair.

"I am not a jealous man," he began, abruptly.

"Who said you were?" It was the Angel of Ramghur who retorted.

"I have"—struggling hard for complete self-command—"trusted you
absolutely, as if you were my very right hand, and eyes——"

"But you could not believe your eyes this evening, I suppose?" she
interrupted carelessly, and she looked up at him, and then at her white
satin shoe.

"No, I returned home early to take you for a ride; I heard you had gone
off towards the polo, and followed. At the polo, some one said, 'If you
are looking for Mrs. Gascoigne, I saw her driving towards the Palace.'
I came on, and discovered you there with—Lindsay—alone. I heard him
say, 'I leave my heart—my life behind me,' and you answered, 'You will
be brave—you will go.' He is going—you are to write to him. What does
it all mean?—Angel—for God's sake—tell me the truth?"

"I invariably tell you the truth," she answered calmly; "they say that
children and fools always do that—I wonder which I am?"

"But children and fools do _not_ always tell the truth," he objected
sharply.

"When did I ever tell you a lie?" she demanded, and her eyes clouded
over,—sure prediction of a storm.

"Never, I must honestly admit. Do you—and here I ask a plain
question—love Lindsay? He is handsome, he is fascinating, and madly in
love—all this I am sane enough to see."

"You don't see much beyond your own nose in these matters," was Angel's
unexpected rejoinder.

"At any rate, I won't see my name disgraced," he answered roughly.

"It is my name—as much as yours," she retorted haughtily. "What are
you driving at?"

"Lindsay—is he—no, I can't say it!"

"I should hope not. My fancy flies with yours, you see. I am sorry you
are so much annoyed."

"Annoyed!" he repeated.

"Then the expression is inadequate; I conclude—that words fail you.
You wish to ask me if Alan Lindsay is my lover? Is that what you desire
to express?"

He nodded his head.

"He was out in camp with me for two months."

"He was."

"If I tell you a secret will you swear to keep it?"

"Your secrets are generally startling, but on the present occasion who
runs may read. Lindsay was in camp with you for two months; picturesque
surroundings, propinquity, a very pretty married woman—I see it
all—he made love to you."

"Wrong—guess again."

"Why guess—there was no one else."

"Pray, what do you call Mrs. Gordon?"

"I call her the best woman I have ever known—surely her influence——"

Angel raised her slender white hand in protest, and said:

"Here is my secret—please keep it. Alan Lindsay is in love—with Mrs.
Gordon."

"_Angel!_" cried her husband, with a vehemence that brought Sam out of
his bed, and caused the ayah to creep to a doorway.

"It is perfectly true," she continued calmly. "He is madly, wildly,
irretrievably devoted to her."

"And she?" with an incredulous jeer.

"The same. It dawned upon me when I was in camp; I saw it coming long
before it occurred to them—I was always sharp, you know."

Colonel Gascoigne suddenly sat down and rested his elbow on the table,
and stared hard at his wife. His mind was a battlefield of conflicting
ideas. Angel had never told him an untruth—no, not even at Ramghur;
and, as for Mrs. Gordon, had she not years of good deeds to speak for
her?

"They are absolutely suited to each other," continued Angel, suddenly
changing her position; she no longer lounged with crossed knees,
dangling arms, and a swinging little satin-clad foot. She sat up, leant
forward with clasped hands and expressive eyes—"yes, they are made
for one another—their ideas and tastes are identical, but that wooden
old wretch, who always recalls the god Odin to me, sits between them
and bars their road to happiness." She drew a long breath. "Yes," and
her voice thrilled strangely, her colour rose and her eyes flashed,
"it seems a perfectly hopeless muddle; there are two lives wrecked for
a life which is selfish, stolid, emotionless, and cruel. If _I_ were
Elinor, I should run away with Alan Lindsay; why should I sacrifice
everything to a greedy, solid block of self, who merely regards his
wife as a cook-housekeeper, without wages—a housekeeper who may never
dare to give warning?"

Gascoigne sat up electrified; was this fiercely eloquent, passionate,
beautiful creature the rather languid, limp, every-day Angel?

"You look amazed," she cried triumphantly, "and well you may. Am I not
preaching heresy, I, a married woman? Since I have told you so much, I
will tell you more. She"—throwing out her arms dramatically—"would
have gone off with Alan only for me." Gascoigne stared at his wife; he
could not speak.

"I am much stronger than I look," resumed Angel; "who would believe
that I, who am but two-and-twenty, could influence Mrs. Gordon, who, as
you once boasted to me, could influence a province!"

"Who, indeed?" he echoed; but when he saw Angel in this exalted mood he
was prepared to believe in her victories.

"She was only drawn gradually to the brink, inch by inch, step by step;
and, oh, she struggled so hard. Alan Lindsay is clever, plausible,
eloquent. I found her on the brink; I sounded the recall—the trumpet
of the assembly of good people, in her ear. I dragged her back by moral
force."

"Yes?"

"She is nearly dead, she is in a state of mental collapse, the fight
was so desperate, the struggle betwixt love and duty so severe. _I_
fought for duty," and Angel nodded her head at her stupefied listener.
"I'm not sure that I shall do it always—I fought well—I turned the
tide of battle. Alan Lindsay has accepted his dismissal and his fate.
As a small, small alleviation, he may write to _me_."

There was a long pause, broken only once more by the girl's thin,
clear voice inquiring: "What have you got to say to me, Philip?"

He rose with a sudden impulse and came towards her.

"I say—that you are an Angel—a wingless Angel," and he stooped down
and kissed her.

"So much for jealousy!" she exclaimed, and laughed.




CHAPTER XXXIV

A REFUGEE


IT was seven o'clock in the morning, and under the neem trees at the
far side of the parade-ground, Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Gascoigne are
walking their horses side by side. The former has completely recovered
from her sharp attack of fever, though her face is worn, and bears
the trace of suffering. She always appeared to great advantage in the
saddle, and sits her powerful black New Zealander with the ease of a
finished horsewoman. Mrs. Gordon is Irish.

Angel, looking slim and girlish, is mounted on an excitable chestnut,
stud-bred, called Carrots, who keeps snatching alternately at his
bridle, and snapping at his neighbour—although they are old friends,
were out in camp together, and have travelled many miles in company.

"I have a piece of news for you, Angel," said Mrs. Gordon. "I was
coming round to tell you, when we met. Donald has suddenly made up his
mind to go home for six months."

"Oh, Elinor! what you have been longing for the last three years. You
want a change—I am so glad—and so sorry."

"It was all thought of in the usual Indian eleventh hour scramble;
Donald finds he can get leave, and he is suddenly seized with a
desperate desire to see his book in print—the idea has been simmering
for a long time, last night it came to a boil. He wired for our
passages in the _Caledonia_ for next Friday."

"Next Friday—so soon?"

"Yes; and he has written to Alan Lindsay, telling him to meet us. He
thinks he will be so useful to him about publishing the book—and——"

"And?" said Angel, interrogatively.

"To Donald's surprise, I have decided to remain out here, and spend the
hot weather at Almora with the Byrnes."

Angel pushed back her Terai hat with her whip hand, and stared fixedly
at her friend.

"Mary Byrne is so delicate, and she has those four children to look
after—my god-child, the eldest little thing, is a cripple. No, I am
not going home."

"I believe you are right," announced Angel, after a pause; "but oh!
what a terrible disappointment—think of your people."

"I do think of them—and of many other things. I am always thinking
now. I wish to be a happy old woman—if ever I am an old woman—to try
and be faithful to my ideals, and to do my duty—nothing else matters."

"Do you believe in the doctrine of compensation? If you don't have some
things—there are others?"

"It would be a compensation, if you came to Almora, Angel."

Angel shook her head. She was engaged with her irritable young horse,
who, maddened by a fly, had broken into a mad frenzy of kicking,
culminating in two passionate buck jumps.

"He wants a good bucketing," said Mrs. Gordon; "you should take him
round the racecourse."

"I should," agreed his rider, a little out of breath, "but it's too
late this morning. Have you seen Mrs. Waldershare yet?"

"Yes; I returned her visit yesterday."

Angel's eyes instantly asked a dozen questions, in reply to which Mrs.
Gordon said: "I do not admire her."

"But don't you see that she is beautiful?"

"I see that she is a woman of the world. I can understand her
attraction for some, but I don't care for a slow, coiling manner, or
that crooked smile and drawl."

"Oh, Elinor, I've never known you so prejudiced," protested her
companion; "she sacrificed herself——"

"To marry a millionaire," interrupted Mrs. Gordon.

"And she has been so nice to me."

Mrs. Gordon glanced quickly at Angel. Where were her keen
susceptibilities? what had become of her usually sharp sight? How had
this good-looking, ingratiating, self-seeking widow managed to throw
dust in those clear eyes?

"So you don't like her," said Angel; "now I wonder why? You generally
classify people so indulgently—where would you place Mrs. Waldershare?"

"In the reptile house at the Zoo!" was the startling rejoinder. "I do
not often take a dislike to people, but when I do it is invincible." In
answer to her friend's face of blank astonishment, she continued: "I
sincerely hope you won't see much of her, Angel?"

"I cannot see much of her, even if I would, if that is any relief to
your mind, for I am going into Garhwal with Philip."

"Ah, that would not be in her trail; she would not care for roughing it
in a hut on buffaloes' milk and goats' flesh. Dear me, how vindictive I
am," she exclaimed with a laugh. "I wonder if I am growing bitter in my
old age?" Then, in a different tone, she continued: "How I shall miss
you, dear; you have been my life preserver. I was swept away into very
dark waters, which nearly closed over me. Now I have struggled back to
land, and I believe I shall see the sun once more."

"You will enjoy a great deal of sunshine yet, I hope," said Angel,
fervently.

"Reflected only," she answered, "but quite as much as I deserve. To
descend from these metaphors, this morning's sun is getting too strong,
I must go in. I'll come round and see you this evening," and, with
a wave of her whip, Mrs. Gordon turned homewards; and Angel, giving
Carrots his head at last, galloped across the parade-ground at full
speed. When she had gone more than half-way, she descried a man,
followed by two small white objects. It was Philip, returning from the
brigade office on foot. He signalled with his hand, which was full of
officials, and she charged up to him at once.

"Have your orders come?" she asked anxiously.

"No, but I expect them hourly. It is too late for you to be out this
hot morning, and high time you were up in the hills."

"Yes, in Garhwal—remember your promise, Phil."

"You may follow later, but I could not possibly take you _now_."

"Why not?"

"I shall have to make arrangements, and put up some kind of a house.
Angel, I warn you most solemnly that the life will be monotonous; you
won't like it—you have evolved an elysium out of your imagination. The
reality is—Tartar faces, Tartar fare, forbidding, barren mountains,
and a distinct flavour of central Asian squalor."

"So much the better," she answered recklessly. "I want to break new
ground, and explore a land beyond curling-pins and fashions; I am
longing for a change."

"_That_ you may certainly reckon on."

"I don't want a pretty hill station, with bands, and garden parties,
and three posts a day. I wish to get away from every one, among the
wild, bare mountains, catch the spirit of your work, and perhaps
overtake an adventure."

"Or be overtaken by one, in the shape of a bear or a landslip. Well, I
suppose you must have your way. I have arranged to rent Rockstone, the
Warings' house at the Chotah Bilat—you know it. It is very pretty and
secluded, sufficiently aloof from the madding crowd, and close to the
Colliers, who will look after you. By the end of May I shall either
come and fetch you or send a strong escort to bring you into Garhwal.
How will that suit you, Mrs. G.?"

"I suppose it will have to do," she answered, discontentedly; "but I
shall loathe being up at Bilhat by myself."

"Perhaps you can find some companion—Mrs. Gordon?"

"No, I've just been talking to her. Odin is taking six months' leave
to England, and she is going to Almora to do children's maid, and sick
nurse."

"Penance," muttered Gascoigne under his breath. "Hullo, I say—what
are _we_ overtaking?" and he pointed to a large bullock cart which had
just turned into their gate. It was heavily laden with boxes and trunks
of all shapes and descriptions. On the summit of the pile a steamer
chair was poised precariously, on which we can distinguish (though they
cannot) the name "Waldershare" in full-sized letters. A sharp-looking,
elderly maid, carrying a white umbrella, and a square green crocodile
case, followed the luggage on foot.

"Oh, some mistake," said Angel carelessly—"the wrong bungalow."

"By the way, I have a note for you," said Colonel Gascoigne, suddenly
searching among the papers in his hand. "I forgot all about it—a peon
came with it to the office; he said it was important," and as he spoke
he handed it up.

"Why, it's from Mrs. Waldershare," exclaimed Angel when she had torn
it open and glanced at the contents. She pushed her hat to the back of
her head—a trick of hers—pulled Carrots to a standstill, and read it
aloud.

 "DEAR ANGEL—You will be a good Angel to me, and take me under your
 wing, when I tell you that there is a case of small-pox in the hotel
 compound, a disease of which I have an unspeakable horror. I know
 you have an empty spare room and I am sure that Philip would not like
 to feel that his old playmate was enduring misery and risking danger.
 I have packed and sent off my luggage. Do please say I may come at
 once.—Your terrified, LOLA."

"Well?" said Angel, as she concluded, and looked down into Philip's
eyes.

"Of course your terrified Lola must come at once; we will send the
carriage over for her. I had no idea there was small-pox in the
station. The sooner you are off the better."

"And pray, what can I do with Mrs. Waldershare?" she inquired, stuffing
the note into her saddle pocket.

"Oh, she is bound to have made her own plans. By Jove, here she comes
in one of the hotel victorias."

       *       *       *       *       *

After hastily welcoming her guest, Mrs. Gascoigne hurried away to make
her arrangements for Lola, her maid, and her belongings, leaving the
two old playfellows _tête-à-tête_ in the verandah. Mrs. Waldershare
was suitably dressed in a cool white cambric, and a shady hat; a great
bunch of heliotrope was stuck in her belt. Her face was pathetically
pale, and her dark eyes were tragic, as she turned to her host and
said, with a quick, dramatic gesture:

"Oh, it is too bad of me to take you by storm in this way, but I am
such a miserable coward; though if anything did happen to me, there is
no one to care now," and her voice sank. "It is such a misfortune that
Edgar is on the march, and here I am, left adrift."

"You must not talk like this, Lola," interrupted Philip. "I am glad you
came to us,—you know you are welcome here. Don't trouble your head,
but make yourself at home. Angel will be delighted to have you. We were
only saying a few minutes ago that she must have a companion when I go
away."

"Oh," with a little gasp, "when are you going?"

"In a day or two, on duty into Garhwal, and Angel will be all by
herself, at any rate, until she goes to the hills."

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour later, Mrs. Waldershare, having seen her dresses unpacked, her
odds and ends arranged, and written off half-a-dozen notes—announcing
her change of address—dismissed Tile, her maid, and threw herself down
on a lounge with a sigh of inexpressible satisfaction.

Yes, she had managed it capitally, taken the position at a rush—"now
established here," and she glanced round the comfortable bedroom;
"here" she determined to remain.

"_J'y suis et j'y reste_," she murmured to herself with a smile. What
had become of the pale, distraught, excited, and apologetic Lola?

Philip was perfectly right when he declared that Lola was certain to
have made her plans, but if he had been an accomplished thought-reader,
and been able to fathom them, his surprise would have been unbounded.

Mrs. Waldershare's small supply of funds was ebbing rapidly; to
live in a suitable style, which includes a maid, a carriage, and
constant little dinners, costs a considerable sum even in India; and
at hotels, of course, it is a matter of ready money. The last week's
bill had proved a disagreeable surprise; the manager had thrown out
hints respecting late parties, and declared that other residents had
complained of loud talking, and carriage wheels, at unusual hours.

Mrs. Waldershare's reply was extremely dignified and crushing, but she
realised that it was time to execute a fresh manœuvre. People were
beginning to talk of moving to the hills; what was to become of her?
Moneyless, friendless, abandoned on the plains? Edgar had written
such a cool letter, announcing that he was sending his wife home, and
spending the hot weather in Seetapore, where, if she liked, Lola could
join him. In one sense, there could hardly be a warmer invitation! But
this scheme did not commend itself to his sister, who lay with her eyes
half-closed lazily contemplating her castles in the air. The Gascoignes
were wealthy and liberal (so every one said); generosity undoubtedly
begins with old friends. She would lay herself out to cultivate
Angel—she would be cautious; she resolved to walk, so to speak, on
tip-toe, so as never to awaken the young woman's dormant jealousy,
which she instinctively felt would be easily aroused. She and Philip
would be on "brother and sister," "old friends" footing; indeed, Philip
was now so cool, so detached, so indifferent, she could hardly bring
herself to believe that he had ever been her lover, and that she might
have been his wife for years and years, the mistress of this charming
house. No, she and this Philip would never have assimilated; he was
much too masterful, too strait-laced, and too austere.

She would play her cards carefully, with Angel; there must be fewer
cigarettes, and French novels, and _no_ roulette. As the older and more
experienced woman, she would influence her, and once they were alone,
she would gradually assume the lead, gain her confidence, and learn
her secrets; later on, accompany her to the delightful little chalet
that she heard had been rented in the hills, mix with the gay throng,
and marry. Possibly little Cupid—unless she could do better,—and
return home, Lady Tudor. All this would cost her nothing but a little
care, a little flattery, and a certain amount of invention. With
these satisfactory arrangements in her mind, Mrs. Waldershare's eyes
gradually closed, and she fell asleep into a deep and refreshing
slumber.

Before proceeding further, it may as well be stated that the small-pox
scare proved to be completely unfounded and was subsequently traced to
Mrs. Waldershare's ayah, who waited on that lady's lady's-maid.




CHAPTER XXXV

A GOOD BILLET


THE unexpected guest, pleading a nervous headache (the result of
fright), did not appear at tiffin, but emerged later in the afternoon,
wearing a subdued expression, and a fantastic loosely-fitting garment,
which gave the uninitiated occasion to marvel how it was put on? and
why it did not come off? It was a confection from Paris, more suitable
to a Parisian artiste than a respectable British widow, and the dogs
looked at each other and winked.

"I just slipped into this," explained Lola to her hostess. "It is so
deliciously light—quite the latest thing in tea-gowns," and she sank
into a chair with a complacent sigh.

"Oh, is it really? I thought it was a _sauté du lit_."

"You can have it copied if you like," kindly ignoring such deplorable
ignorance.

"Thank you," said Angel, demurely, "but it is not a style which would
suit me."

"No, dear, perhaps you _are_ a little too thin. I see you are having
tea out here," continued the uninvited guest. "How delightful! I
daresay some of my friends will drop in to inquire how I got over my
scare—you won't mind?"

"No, of course not; I shall be delighted to see them. Excuse me for a
moment, while I take this telegram to Philip," and Mrs. Waldershare was
left for a moment alone with Sam and John.

They both disliked her most cordially. She jeered at John, and made
rude remarks about his figure—he was extremely sensitive to ridicule.
She sat in Sam's favourite chair, and had once flung him off her lap
with a violence that hurt him. Then they abhorred the atmosphere of
heliotrope and pearl powder, and felt instinctively that the intruder
hated animals, and was a "human" to be most carefully avoided. As
they sat glaring at the interloper, and exchanging their opinions
of her, the lady's friends appeared in a hired landau, Sir Capel,
General Bothwell, and Mrs. Alley-Lacy, who was profanely known as Mrs.
Laissez-Aller, an exuberant, talkative woman of uncertain age and
proclivities, but who was obviously rich, agreeable, and beautifully
dressed, and had come to India, she declared, solely on account of her
health. She could not endure the English climate, and India was an
interesting change from Egypt, where she had wintered hitherto. Mrs.
Lacy might be classed as "an hotel lady," for she had no permanent
home and no permanent ties, and seemed well acquainted with all the
principal hostelries in Europe.

The third visitor was General Bothwell, retired; a wiry, dapper little
man, with a large authoritative-looking nose, a voice to correspond,
and a pointed snow-white beard. He entertained an extremely high
opinion of R. Bothwell, K.C.B., who once upon a time had carried out
an insignificant but successful expedition—and had lived upon his
reputation ever since. He was a terrible correspondent, the high priest
of bore, and his chief enjoyment in life consisted in asking questions,
expounding his views, and proclaiming what ought to be done under
certain circumstances. He had mentally conducted every recent campaign,
and, according to his own account, all the chief men at the War Office
were his personal friends, and he was their valuable adviser. A
widower with ample means, and ample time on his hands, he had just run
down to re-visit his old haunts in order to ascertain how the great
Indian Empire was getting on without him. The General had made Mrs.
Waldershare's acquaintance at the Imperial Hotel and admired her from a
paternal standpoint; her attitude to him and others was that of serene
friendliness and warm interest.

"Oh, how could you desert us, Mrs. Waldershare?" said Sir Capel,
accosting her dramatically.

"See, we have all come in a body to take you back," added Mrs. Lacy,
with a careful kiss.

"You have stolen a march," proclaimed the General; "these are
comfortable free quarters—a good billet. Better than the Imperial!"

"Yes; the Gascoignes have been most pressing," said Lola; "so kind.
They were greatly averse to my staying at an hotel."

She paused. The couple were coming out on the verandah, to find her and
the table thus surrounded. After a few minutes' greetings and talk,
General Bothwell said:

"So I hear you are off, Gascoigne. I met Hawkins at the gate, and he
told me."

"Yes; I've had a wire, and I leave to-morrow for Garhwal."

"About this lake scare—most unnecessary fuss, don't you think so, eh?"

"No; I'm on the other tack—better be sure than sorry."

"Please do explain all about it," said Mrs. Lacy; "I am so interested."

"The explanation is, that an enormous landslip has dammed up a large
valley, and a mountain river, and turned it into a lake, five miles
long and four hundred feet deep."

"That's big enough for canoeing," remarked Sir Capel.

"It's filling at the rate of three feet a day, and as soon as the water
reaches the top of the dam—say in a month or six weeks—the dam will
burst and flood a hundred and fifty miles of country."

"What a sight it will be! I'd give a lot to see it," said Sir Capel.
"Niagara broke loose in India."

"It will certainly be an unprecedented sight."

"And what measures are you engineer chaps taking?" inquired General
Bothwell, with his mouth full of bread and butter.

"Merely precautions. We cannot let the water off under control; all we
can do is to ensure that it escapes down the river bed—without loss of
life."

"Can't be many lives to lose up there," he argued.

"Yes; besides the villagers, there are thousands of pilgrims who pass
down to Hurdwar in May and June, and we are bound to know to a day—in
fact, to an hour—when the flood is due."

"What can you do?"

"We have established a temporary telegraph line from the lake to ten
stations where pilgrims halt, and at good points, from which to control
the traffic. Pillars are erected every half-mile to show the safe
limits out of reach of the flood, and all the principal bridges are
being dismantled. As soon as the water reaches the crest of the dam,
the official in charge will send a warning telegram, for the flood will
travel fast."

"I suppose the natives are terrified out of their senses?" asked Mrs.
Lacy.

"No, not in the least; they think it will pass quietly over the river
bed, and this is the view of the pilgrims, who are furious because
their ordinary route is forbidden."

"By Jove, and I don't wonder," said General Bothwell, combatively.
"Instead of arranging for the outlet of the water, a telegraph line has
been erected—no doubt at immense cost—to apprise people of the danger
of a flood which may come in a month, a year—or never!" and he laughed
derisively. "I think, whoever has hit on the _telegraph_ as a means of
dealing with an engineering difficulty, will look uncommonly foolish."

"I am the culprit," coolly confessed Gascoigne. "To divert the lake
otherwise would cost two million of rupees; India is poor, and there is
not time to erect masonry weirs, outfalls, and shoots."

"And so," said Sir Cupid, "you have resolved to let it slide? And you
believe there will be a big flood?"

"Yes, I am sure of it," replied Gascoigne, with emphasis.

"How I should like to see it."

"I shall see it," announced Angel. "Philip has promised to take me with
him."

"Much against his will," he supplemented, with a laugh.

"But I am going in spite of him," she answered, with a glance of gay
defiance. "I was born in the Himalayas; I am a hill woman."

"Yes; that is certain," said Sir Capel, promptly.

"Pray, how do you know?"

"Because you are not a plain woman."

"How can you be so ridiculous?" she remonstrated, impatiently.

"Surely you are not going off immediately," said Mrs. Alley-Lacy, "to
see this wonderful dam?" bringing out the last word with considerable
unction.

"No, not just yet. I wish I were!"

"And what will become of you?"

"Mrs. Gascoigne and I are going to look after one another," volunteered
Mrs. Waldershare, laying her hand on Angel's arm with an air of
affectionate proprietorship. "I shall take care of her. She is left
in my charge, is she not, Philip?" and she appealed to him with her
eloquent eyes.

Philip was considerably taken aback, but he rallied with his usual
elasticity, and said:

"Oh, Angel has an old head on young shoulders. I shall make her
responsible for the house—and I shall ask Padre Eliot to keep an eye
on both of you."

"Well, Gascoigne," said General Bothwell, standing up and shaking
crumbs out of his beard, "I must confess that I am amused at this
scheme of yours—_I_ don't believe in scaring people, you know. I think
you are on the wrong tack—the wrong tack—but you Engineer chaps are,
in my experience, the most pig-headed branch of the service."

"Still, sir, I think you must admit that we earn our bread and butter?"

"Butter—oh, yes!—you get more than enough of that," retorted the
General, pointedly.

"You won't get any butter in Garhwal," announced Sir Capel, "of any
sort or kind; only black bread and cucumbers—awful grub! I've been up
reading a lot about this water-shoot—all the same I wish you'd take me
with you, Gascoigne."

"In what capacity."

"Oh, as dhoby, dog boy, special correspondent—anything," and Sir Capel
put his hands together, and his head on one side, and looked extremely
ridiculous.

"No, no, my dear fellow," rejoined Gascoigne with a laugh, and a
significant glance at Mrs. Waldershare. "How could the ladies spare
you?"

In two days' time Colonel Gascoigne had left home, and Angel for once
was not disconsolate. She analysed her feelings, dug down deeply into
her motives, and the sensation she there discovered was not sorrow, but
relief. She had been dimly aware of a vague uneasiness, an intangible
dread of developments. All this was at an end now.




CHAPTER XXXVI

JOINT HOSTESS


AND thus Mrs. Waldershare was established as Mrs. Gascoigne's chaperone
and companion; and the station, who considered it a most excellent
arrangement, and but yet another proof of her husband's good sense,
cried Wah! wah! They had been duly informed of the ancient friendship
which had existed between his parents and Mrs. Waldershare's. There
was no mention of a love affair—crafty Lola had set back the intimacy
a whole generation—it was discreetly cloaked in the mantle of years.
Mrs. Nobbs, who acted as spokeswoman for Mrs. Grundy, eagerly assured
every one she met that she highly approved of the move. It was most
unbecoming (favourite word) for a young married woman to be left
alone, and Mrs. Waldershare was such a quiet, sensible, charming
chaperone,—and so clever. Truly she was marvellously clever; in some
gradual, inexplicable fashion, she assumed the lead of the household.
Yes, without sound, or beat of drum. She was joint hostess, not guest;
there was a solid, resistless force in her character that Angel was
powerless to combat. At early morning, or afternoon tea, it was no
uncommon thing for her to find Mrs. Waldershare already seated before
the teapot. This position carries a certain status with it, and
Lola's visitors went so far as to assume from the air of nonchalant
hospitality with which she offered cream and cakes, that she was
"sharing expenses."

This was precisely how she wished it to be understood. To Angel, a
sort of guest at her own table, she offered playful apologies, and
assurances that "she was the best tea maker in England, and liked to
save her dear child trouble."

But there was one lady who regarded the new _ménage_ with the gravest
misgivings, and this was Mrs. Gordon, who, before departing to the
hills, had confided her fears to Padre Eliot.

"I do not trust Mrs. Waldershare," she said.

"Why not?" he asked, "she is quiet, and handsome, and ladylike."

"She is a clever, crafty woman, not too scrupulous in money matters. I
believe"—lowering her voice—"that she gambles! Of course, I have no
business to have prejudices and to hear gossip."

"It is not like you, certainly," he said, with his broad smile. "I
believe there has been gambling in the station somewhere, recently; one
or two boys have been hard hit,—but why suspect a lady?"

"It is more than suspicion. How I wish Colonel Gascoigne had not left
Angel with that woman. It is like leaving a lamb to a wolf."

"She shall not devour her—I'll see to that," he said, playfully.

"No, but she will use her as her blind, and her banker."

"Well, I think you may trust Mrs. Gascoigne," he said, "her conduct
has always given evidence of extraordinary good sense, and a certain
amount of latent force." As Mrs. Gordon had excellent reason to
acquiesce in this dictum, she was silent.

But her instinct had not deceived her, day by day—nay, hour by hour,
Angel fell more and more under the elder woman's influence. It was as
if she had been hypnotised, she surrendered her will to her, and took
up a subordinate position with unquestioning resignation. Although the
clever widow was careful not to offend any of the girl's prejudices
and susceptibilities, the household was ordered to Mrs. Waldershare's
liking,—and the servants hated her almost as bitterly as the dogs.
Never put out, never excited, the lady rolled along over all little
obstacles, a veritable Juggernaut of self. She instituted late
hours—Angel was naturally an early bird. She enjoyed elaborate and
dainty meals, Angel preferred very simple fare; she liked long drives
in the moonlight, sometimes keeping the horses out till midnight;
occasionally she took Mrs. Lacy with her, or Sir Capel, and Angel
remained at home. Lola was so clever, so seductive, so persuasive,
that everything she said or did had the air of being absolutely
faultless—the one and only speech or action possible under the
circumstances.

She and her hostess sat a good deal together in the darkened
drawing-room, for now that the weather was warmer, punkahs were moving,
"tatties" were installed. Mrs. Waldershare knitted silk ties and
socks with firm white fingers, whilst Angel drew, and sometimes they
scarcely exchanged a word in an hour. Lola was not talkative, she never
talked simply for the sake of conversation. Her silence impressed
Angel far more than speech; she felt that Lola could tell her so much
if she would, yes, so much about Philip, and she was sensible of a
certain awe, and the strivings and painful contortions of a never-to-be
appeased curiosity, and what was worse, a sleepless jealousy. She was
humbly conscious that she was far inferior to this calm, beautiful,
dignified creature, and as she stole long glances at her companion,
she would tell her envious heart that Philip had been engaged to her
for four years, twice as long as she had been his wife. He had known
Lola for thirty years! How could a man outgrow a love like that? It was
rooted in his very childhood. Lola had some dim intuition of what was
passing in her companion's thoughts, and smiled, saying to herself,
"Silly girl, she is always wondering. How wretched I could make her if
I chose!"

Although the station was emptying, there were still a number of people
in Marwar, and Mrs. Gascoigne, at Mrs. Waldershare's suggestion,
had a few friends to dinner now and then. On the occasion of Lola's
birthday—so-called—Angel gave a little party and asked the heroine of
the occasion to invite her own guests. Mrs. Lacy, Sir Capel, Captain
Hailes, and the General were among these, and the little affair went
off admirably. As usual, all the organisation and trouble were Angel's
share; she took great pains with the mènu, the mènu cards, and the
flowers (Lola was so critical), whilst Lola had, as customary, all the
enjoyment. She was arrayed in a marvellous and filmy gown, and wore a
beautiful diamond heart and arrow—surprisingly similar to one that
Crackett, the Delhi hawker, had been offering for sale. Her health was
drunk, and she made a pretty speech. After dinner, there was music, and
at eleven o'clock the General and several others took their departure.
Then Mrs. Waldershare, with a widely encompassing flash of her dark
eyes, suggested "Cards," adding "the night is just beginning." Angel's
pale face expressed not merely fatigue but dismay, and her friend
exclaimed, "No, no, dear—we won't bore you. You look so tired, Mrs.
Lacy will excuse you, won't you?" appealing to that lady, who replied:

"Certainly, I hope Mrs. Gascoigne will not be ceremonious with me."

"And I'll play hostess, and see them off the premises," said Lola,
playfully. Accepting this assurance, and offering many apologies,
Angel, who had a bad neuralgic headache, thankfully retired to bed,
and after a long time fell asleep. She seemed to have slept for hours
when she awoke with a violent start, aroused by a sound like the
overturning of a chair. Could it be burglars? She sat up and listened
with a beating heart. Then she heard a cock crow—it must be close on
dawn. She struck a match, lighted a candle, jumped out of bed, and got
into her dressing-gown, and waited. Surely there were steps and voices
outside; was it in the ante-room, or where? Had she obeyed her first
impulse, and gone into the drawing-room, she would have discovered the
cardparty, consisting of four men and two ladies, just breaking up.
They had risen from the table.

"Look here," said Lola, carelessly handing a bit of notepaper to
Captain Hailes. "I make it that."

He glanced at the total, and became suddenly white—nay, grey—but
rallied, and said, "It's all right, I expect."

"Been hard hit, eh, Hailes?" enquired the little baronet, playfully. "I
come off only seventy to the bad."

Yes, they had been gambling; and how dissipated it all looked, the
candles flaring in their sockets, the lamps smoking, tablecloth awry,
and cards scattered over the floor.

Angel, who had looked at her watch, and seen that the hour was four
o'clock, came out into the ante-room, candle in hand. Here she was
suddenly confronted by a figure with a shawl over her head—Tile.

"Oh, what is the matter?" she enquired, breathlessly.

"I've been feeling so ill, ma'am," she moaned, "such a turn as I've
had. It's this climate as does not suit me. I feel like dying and I
was—coming to ask if you had such a thing as a medicine chest?"

"Of course I have," replied Mrs. Gascoigne, profoundly relieved; "it is
in my own room. Come with me and I will doctor you," turning back as
she spoke. "How do you feel?"

"All cold and shivers like—and a sort of quaking in my inside."

"Oh then, perhaps," opening a cupboard, "this cordial will do you
good. At least it will do you no harm." As Angel spoke, she seized a
bottle, and a measuring-glass.

By-and-by, as Tile crept stealthily to her own quarters, she
encountered her mistress, who had been extinguishing lamps and candles,
and setting the drawing-room straight.

"I met her in the doorway," she whispered with a scared face. "I told
her I was took ill, and she gave me a cordial—she is as innocent as a
lamb."

"My goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Waldershare, her eyes widening in alarm,
"that _was_ a narrow escape."




CHAPTER XXXVII

INTO GARHWAL


ROCKSTONE Chotah-Bilat, the joint address of Mrs. Gascoigne and Mrs.
Waldershare, was a large well-appointed bungalow, overlooking the
prettiest side of the station, approached through a steep terraced
garden, full of great bushes of ancient geraniums, and straggling rose
trees, and flanked by a few pines.

The house was sufficiently roomy to accommodate half a dozen people;
and here the two inmates lived their separate lives, together and yet
apart. The partnership was so harmonious as to excite a certain degree
of admiration as well as envy; for it is a painful fact that these
house-sharing schemes are not invariably a success.

Mrs. Waldershare was charmed with what she termed "a Himalayan
Paradise"; her own chief friends were comfortably established at the
Casino Hotel, or the Club, and she made a number of new acquaintances.
The constant whirl of picnics, tiffins, dinners, dances, incidental to
a gay hill station, the opportunity of exhibiting her toilettes, of
living without expense, and of enjoying an occasional "game"—all this
comprised a phase of existence supremely to Lola's taste. She possessed
her own roulette board, and both board and owner were in flattering
request. The board accompanied Mrs. Waldershare to luncheon parties,
and to teas and dinners at "the Wigwam," and elsewhere. The Wigwam was
a pretty little house, occupied by a smart married couple, much given
to play of every description; their gay suppers were notorious, and
their guests might have been discovered guiltily creeping in to their
respective homes, with the dawn. Angel had not paid the usual round
of calls, or embarked on the flood-tide of entertainments. She felt
no inclination to dance, and suffered from constant neuralgia, and
depression. One or two of her friends had sought her, but she declined
their invitations; and when a lady resides in an out-of-the-way
locality, in a sequestered bungalow, and is disinclined to entertain,
or to be entertained, people in the full swing of the season have no
leisure to cultivate such a recluse—and leave her severely alone. Mrs.
Gascoigne was to be seen at church (at St. John's, in the Wilderness)
on Sunday; on week days, rambling far along the unfrequented
hill-tracks, merely accompanied by two dogs. To Angel's intimates,
Mrs. Waldershare professed a devoted attachment to the dear, sweet
girl, a keen anxiety respecting her health, and declared that she was
"just a little bit run down," all this being accompanied by effusive
encomiums. To her own circle she proclaimed that her house-mate was
"peculiar." This, with a significance that led strangers to suppose
that Mrs. Gascoigne was eccentric to the verge of imbecility. Lola's
manner to Angel was perfect. A mixture of the tender elder sister, and
the sincerely attached friend; but she and her hostess did not see
much of one another, except at breakfast. Soon after this meal, Mrs.
Waldershare's gaily-costumed jampannies (they wore black and yellow
livery, and yellow turbans) carried their charming burden away for the
whole day, she merely returning home in order to dress, or occasionally
to receive the General and Sir Capel. No apologies were necessary,
for Angel appreciated solitude, and they each went their own way; for
that was understood in an unwritten bond. But when the monsoon broke
in the middle of June, the rain descended in steady gray sheets, and
roared and battered on the zinc roof of Rockstone, there were no more
gay jaunts or excursions down into Chotah-Bilat. The six hill-men
shed their wasp-like costumes, and huddled in their brown blankets,
or "cumlies," squatted round like a huka, talking scandal and money
matters, in their quarters among the pines.

Their employer sat indoors, beside a blazing log fire, inditing sweet
little notes on a knee-pad, and knitting ties in becoming shades of
purse silk. Angel crouched on the large, square-shaped fender-stool
(which was hollow underneath, and a retreat dear to the dogs) and read,
and sewed, and talked. For a whole week these two were condemned to
a species of solitary confinement. At first, they discoursed of the
elements (how Mrs. Waldershare railed against the rains!—the life of
India), the forthcoming great fancy ball, and the Chamoli Lake. From
lake to Philip was but a short step, and by-and-by Angel found herself
listening with eager ears, to stories of her husband's childhood and
boyhood. By degrees these anecdotes were merged into tales of Philip as
a youth, as a young man—as (here Angel's interest was breathless)—a
lover.

Clever Lola drew a sketch of those four supreme years with the hand
of a true artist, permitting the listener's warm imagination to colour
and fill in the outlines. Angel contemplated the picture which her own
brain completed, with a mixture of anguish, jealousy, and despair. How
Philip had loved Lola! though Lola never once said so in plain, cold
English; but a broken-off sentence, a look, a quick sigh, imparted more
than words. And he had written to _her_ daily, whilst she, his wife,
hungered for two weeks for a line. But then, oh most exacting Angel,
there is no daily post in Garhwal; letters had to come one hundred and
fifty miles by a very casual Dâk runner.

Lola gave her companion the impression of recalling these poignant
recollections, with the deepest reluctance, and all the time the
game—which lasted for eight whole days—afforded her the keenest
enjoyment. She was as a cat playing with a mouse, and at the end of the
play her victim's heart was as lacerated as any little tortured corpse.
Angel acknowledged that she had brought this misery entirely upon
herself; her anxiety for information had led her into a very cavern of
despair. Philip still loved Lola, for according to that lady's dictum,
which she humbly accepted, "It is a law of the universe, for a man to
love one woman, and none other"; and when Lola turned her wonderful
eyes upon her—those eyes, large, mysterious, sad, and visionary—Angel
felt that she could not be otherwise than truthful and good. Oh, she
must tear that secret feeling of repulsion out of her heart, and be as
sincerely attached to Lola, as Lola was to her. She would love her, and
befriend her, loyally and faithfully—for Philip's sake.

A gleam of fine weather, a break in the rains, released the two
prisoners, and each hastened to repair to her familiar haunts; Lola
to the assembly rooms, the Wigwam, and the polo-ground, Angel to take
her walks abroad, as far as possible from the giddy throng. She longed
to see Philip again, to contemplate him from a new point of view, to
endeavour to discover his real attitude towards Lola. But perhaps he
would never tell her the truth, he could be a mystery when he chose.
Lola was, and ever would be, first in his heart, and she must make up
her mind to accept the second place. Angel was absolutely miserable,
and as she lingered on the hillsides, watching the ghostly white mists
creeping up between the mountains, and filling every ravine and valley,
till they touched the spot where she stood, and overwhelmed her, she
felt as if a great cloud from which there was no escape, had suddenly
descended upon her life.

In these days of their mistress's inaction and depression, Sam and
John offered much mute sympathy, and protection. They did not forsake
her in order to seek their own amusement—no, not even to meet their
friends and foes upon the Mall, but formed her constant bodyguard. At
night, Sam occupied the most comfortable chair in her room, whilst John
sprawled outside the door on a mat. And he never failed to rise and
bark, in order to announce the tardy return of the other lady,—for
which officious act, Mrs. Waldershare would have gladly had him
poisoned.

Early one morning in July, an imposing head overseer, two chuprassis,
and a dozen stout hill-men, were to be found assembled in front of
Rockstone. The overseer had brought a letter from "Gascoigne Sahib,"
and the lady was to start at once, before there was more rain. Angel's
heart leaped at the message, it was her order of release. She made
joyful preparations for immediate departure—indeed, these preparations
had been completed for weeks.

"And pray what is to become of poor me?" inquired Lola in a doleful
voice, "where am I to go?"

"You can stay here, till the end of our term of course," responded her
hostess.

"And the servants?"

"They can remain too—I am only taking the ayah with me."

"Then I shall ask Mrs. Lacy to keep me company," announced the guest.
"I shall be so wretched without you, you dear, sweet, unselfish girl."
And this bold lie had a flavour of the truth,—Lola would miss Angel in
many ways.

"Very well," assented her hostess, "do just what you please." She was
so anxious to depart that she was prepared to promise anything—oh
anything, in order to escape. Yes, it had come to that. As long as
she was within reach of Lola's extraordinary personal charm, she felt
benumbed, a strange, unhappy, powerless mortal. Lola's magnetism
and will force were so strong, that Angel shivered inwardly as she
realised that if her companion had exerted them to throw obstacles
in her path, she would have succumbed, and relinquished this journey
to Garhwal. But Lola was content to be left in sole possession of an
extremely comfortable bungalow,—which I regret to say, subsequently
became notorious as a gambling den; in fact, the Wigwam sank into
insignificance in comparison to Rockstone, for here the play was
higher, the seclusion unsurpassed, and the dinners (at Colonel
Gascoigne's expense) quite admirable. How little did that officer
suppose that the house which he rented, and of which he was the
ostensible master, went by the name of "The Den of Thieves."

Angel was presently carried away in her dandy, and as she reached the
shoulder of the first hill, drew a long breath—she was conscious of a
delightful sense of being released at last, of a sundering of bonds, a
recovery of her own individuality. She thoroughly enjoyed the journey,
and being borne along higher, and yet higher, into a cooler, clearer
atmosphere. First through a part of Kumaon (oh most beautiful Kumaon,
with your forests, and lakes, ravines and passes, your exquisite
glimpses of the snows, and the plains!) The party gradually left behind
them, flat-roofed houses with carved fronts, standing deep in waving
yellow crops, and jungles of dahlias and sunflowers, and surrounded by
walnut and peach trees. They encountered long strings of melancholy
pack ponies with deformed hocks, the result of their bondage from
foal time, square-faced women, wearing short heavy skirts and silver
ornaments—these latter heirlooms—and now and then a stout little
Ghoorka or a shikari. Each night Angel and her ayah halted at a dâk
bungalow, where elaborate preparations had been made for the reception
of the Engineer's mem sahib. As they advanced further into Garwhary,
they met flocks of little goats, laden with salt and borax, herded by
Bhotias—dirty-looking people with Tartar features, and greasy black
hair. The country grew stranger and sterner, they passed along the
edges of fathomless ravines, between rugged inaccessible mountains, and
Angel realised for the first time the inspiring effect of a wild and
brooding solitude, where the almost awful silence was only broken by
the muttering of her Pahari bearers, as they passed about the Huka, the
scream of a kite, or the bleating of a belated sheep.

One march out of Chamoli, Philip met the party. He seemed glad to see
Angel, not to speak of Sam and John, who had journeyed thus far in
charge of the coolies, and howled passionate protests at being carried
through such splendid sporting country. And what did they not descry,
as they were borne along? Monkeys, great lungoors, who threw stones,
and gibbered at the party—what dogs of flesh and blood could endure
such indignities!

"And how is your lake getting on?" inquired Angel; "nearly full?"

"Rising—slowly but surely. I think it will brim over in about three
weeks—perhaps less. It depends on the rains. I'm glad you've got away
all right, before the next burst, which is bound to be heavy."

"I began to despair of coming at all—and oh, I was so sick of Bilat."

"How is Lola?" he inquired.

"Very well."

"She is not sick of Bilat, I gather from your letter?"

"No—she is very gay—and in immense request."

"When does she join Edgar?"

"Possibly not at all. I think she is going to join the little baronet
in holy matrimony."

"No?" incredulously. "You are not serious?"

"At least he is anxious to marry her,—and honoured me with his
confidence."

"Oh, did he?" ejaculated her listener, and for a whole half-mile Philip
never once opened his lips, and Angel's heart was sore, she felt
convinced that he was thinking of Lola. No, on the contrary, he was
buried in a somewhat abstruse mathematical calculation connected with
the rainfall. He seldom thought of Lola—now.

"I hope you will be comfortable, Angel," he said at last, "we have run
you up a sort of little cabin, well above the water-line; some of the
fellows are in tents, and native huts."

"Why, how many are there?" she asked.

"Only three or four. Evans of the Civil Service; Hichens Jones of the
D.W.P.; young Brady of the Engineers, a boy with the richest brogue in
India."

"How nice—I love a brogue."

"Then you will certainly take to Brady. He is a bright lad—though not
very polished—and here is the Lake coming into view—look."

Angel got out of her jampan, and stood to gaze at it, where it lay
locked among the mountains. Chamoli Lake was much larger and far
more beautiful than she expected. It looked majestically still and
dignified, as if it had been lying in the lap of the mountains from
ages remote, instead of being the three months' old child of the rains
and the snows. In colour it was a wonderful limpid green, its face was
placid and inscrutable, and yet it embodied the dread of thousands.
The slip, which left a mark like a scar, had fallen from the side of a
precipitous hill, five thousand feet above the bed of the river, and
carried the rocks and débris from the right bank, across the valley,
and half-way up the hill. There, its energy expended, the mass slipped
down into the bed of the stream, forming a dam, composed of masses
of enormous rocks. Close to this barrier, but well above it, was a
telegraph station, and half a mile further on, at a point outside the
dam, and overlooking the lake, and the valley into which it would
escape, was a collection of flat stone-roofed huts, the village of
Dhuri. Further still, an encampment, a large rest house, and several
recently erected wooden huts. One of these had been reserved for Mrs.
Gascoigne, and furnished with a certain amount of rude comfort. As
she stood at the entrance of her dwelling, and surveyed the great
still lake among its towering mountains, the narrow rocky valley
with its twisting gorges, and precipitous walls, she found the scene
extraordinarily soothing to her spirit—it was so wild—so strange—and
so peaceful.

A considerable amount of life was stirring in the camp, and among
the huts. There were goats, and big Bhotia ponies, as well as
Bhotias themselves. Government officials, telegraph men, signallers,
sub-inspectors, and linesmen, also various eagerly interested
villagers. There appeared to be incessant traffic between the village,
the telegraph, post, and the encampment. Mrs. Gascoigne was elected a
member of the little Mess in the Inspection House. They were a cheery
party of six in all, who laid their hearts at the feet of this girl
resembling a white slender delicate flower (the stalk was of steel).
The new recruit's contribution of stores, newspapers, and books proved
extremely welcome, and she soon felt perfectly at home, and became the
established housekeeper and hostess of the party. Angel took a keen
interest in the action of the lake, the gradual rising of the water,
the precautions, and daily measurements and calculations. Colonel
Gascoigne, on whom lay the responsibility, locked up in that sheet
of water, was engaged continually, riding down to other telegraph
stations, inspecting cuttings, and protecting the canal works. But his
subordinate, Mr. Brady, occasionally took Mrs. Gascoigne about with
him. She explored the villages and scrambled up the mountains, rode
down the valley on a shaggy Bhotia pony; and in the exquisite mountain
air, with its slight hint of the adjacent snowy range, recovered her
colour and her spirits. One morning, as she and Mr. Brady and the two
dogs were climbing a hill in search of butterflies, he suddenly called
out, as he craned over a rock:

"By the pipers that played before Moses! I see a party below on the
road making for the camp—a lady—no less, in a dandy—and two men. We
shall be a fashionable hill station before we know where we are. Who
can they be?"

Angel stood up and leant over to survey the travellers, and controlled
her disagreeable surprise as she recognised Lola, Sir Cupid, and the
general.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

INTERLOPERS


"SEE what a magnet you are!" cried Sir Capel, striking a comic attitude
as Angel descended the path towards him—the other travellers had
passed on unconscious of her vicinity.

"Am I? I was not aware of it before," she said. "Sir Capel Tudor, let
me introduce Mr. Brady, my husband's assistant."

"—who is worked to death," he supplemented with a grin and a bow.

"You do not appear to be in any immediate danger," rejoined Sir Capel,
pointing derisively to the butterfly net, "is it very laborious?"

"Oh, merely an hour off duty. What has brought you out to the back of
beyond?"

"An all-consuming curiosity," replied the little traveller, addressing
himself particularly to Angel. "I've been hearing no end about the
flood that is to be, and will be, the sight of the century, and I am
mad keen to see it."

"But why?"

"A great lake bursting from its prison at a stated hour. The telegraph
bell rings, and half a province is instantly inundated. That's about
it? So here I am."

"So I see," said Angel. "But what has brought Mrs. Waldershare and the
general?"

"She came because she required a complete change, and wanted to be with
you—she's awfully fond of you, you know. And the general is here
for the diametrically opposite cause to that which has brought me. He
swears it's all a mare's nest, and has come to see what will _not_
happen, and to crow."

"Rather a long journey to undertake to see nothing," remarked Mr. Brady
drily, "and I think his crow will turn into a cackle. I wonder where
the dickens you're all going to live. We are a tight fit as it is, and
there's a lot of rain coming—you won't care about a tent?"

"I don't care where you stick me, I'm not particular. When do you think
the great water-shoot will come off?"

"Within the next two days, according to the Colonel's calculation.
He has gone twenty miles down the Alakanda valley to-day, to inspect
the preparations; bridges have been dismantled, the canal protected,
villages cleared out, cattle driven off—and all is ready."

"Did you bring any letters, or papers, or news?" inquired Angel, who
had been puzzling her brains as to how these three newcomers were to be
lodged and fed.

"No, I believe the general has a couple of papers. By the way," and
his merry face became grave, "there _is_ a bit of news—bad news at
that—you remember Hailes?"

"Captain Hailes? Why, of course I do."

"Well, he has been awfully down on his luck lately, severe financial
crisis, talked of losing his commission, and all that. I thought it was
just a touch of liver; I'd no idea he was really so hard up."

"Old Hailes likes to gamble a bit," remarked Mr. Brady.

"Poor chap, he will gamble no more. Last Monday he went out to the
Tarani dâk bungalow, saying he was going to shoot shicor, and, by
George," and the round merry eyes looked tragic, "he shot himself."

"How frightful," said Angel, pausing aghast, "accidental, of course."

"No," shaking his head, "on purpose. It seems he had been playing high
and lost his last shilling, and had not the courage to begin life at
the foot of the ladder. He left a note for his mother, and one for Mrs.
Waldershare, which she destroyed. They asked for it at the inquest, but
she said it was private and most painful. Chotah-Bilat is enormously
exercised. Mrs. Waldershare feels the business terribly, she knew him
so well; you see, he was a sort of connection—that is partly what
brought her here, to get away from the talk—and the—place. She is all
right on the march, and has picked up, and been quite cheerful. Indeed,
to hear the general squabbling with his coolies over a few annas was
enough to make a cat laugh. But mind you don't breathe a word—about
Hailes."

"You may be sure I won't," she answered emphatically.

"I'm glad I caught sight of you," continued Sir Capel in a confidential
undertone, "and was able to give you this hint about Lola. She's
awfully cut up. By Jove! women do say beastly things of one another.
They have all got their knives in her just because she's so much better
looking than themselves."

By this time the party were descending the hill to the encampment, and
had overtaken the other travellers, who appeared to imagine that their
visit was not merely welcome, but to be accepted in the light of an
immense condescension. Mr. Brady, who was acting host in the absence
of his senior officer, was immediately enslaved by the charming widow
and her magical eyes. With such eyes, the gift of speech was almost
superfluous.

"I wish I knew where to put you?" he said, helplessly, as soon as they
had partaken of an excellent lunch. "Mrs. Waldershare, you are most
welcome to my tent, and all my worldly goods."

"Oh, I hate a tent," she answered, ungratefully; "it's always so dark,
I can never see to do my hair. The general finds that there are two
capital quarters side by side about a hundred yards lower down."

"Yes," he added, "I took a look at them just now, not at all
bad—temporary wooden huts, apparently new and clean. Mrs. Waldershare
will have one, I'll occupy the other. Sir Capel prefers a tent. We
don't expect spring beds and electric light on the borders of Thibet."

"If we get the common necessaries, we consider ourselves lucky,"
said Angel; "supplies are so scarce, and there are hardly any tracks
passable for ponies. Those two huts were erected by mistake before
Philip came here, and are considered much too near the possible
flood-mark to be safe. They have been condemned."

The general laughed disagreeably, and said: "My dear lady, the water
won't come within a hundred feet of them, even on the most imbecile
computation, and I shall have my things moved down at once, and yours,"
turning to Mrs. Waldershare.

Mr. Brady opened his mouth to remonstrate, but the general, armed
with the decision acquired by years of authority, silenced him by a
gesture. As General Bothwell herded a tribe of clamorous coolies in the
direction of these two somewhat tempting asylums, Mr. Brady turned to
Angel, and said:

"It's no good my talking to the old boy; but when the Colonel comes
back, he will soon 'haunk' him out of that. There was a lot of rain
last night, and the water is within twelve feet of the top."

"I think you had better share my hut," said Angel to her lady guest;
"it will be a squeeze, but those below are considered dangerous—at
least Philip says so."

"Don't you think he is fidgety, and bothers too much about things,"
rejoined Lola, who in her secret heart had a profound contempt for a
man she had hoodwinked, and rated his intellect at a far lower value
than her own, since her French fables, and her tenacious memory of the
dates of the English sovereigns had been, in schooldays, superior to
his.

"No, no; I'll go and explore, dear, and do you come with me, and help
me to settle in." In a few minutes three figures might have been seen
scrambling down to a ledge far below the camp—Mrs. Waldershare, Angel,
and her ayah, laden with pillows, rugs, and bags. The "Interlopers,"
as Mr. Brady termed them, had brought (as is usual all over the Bengal
Presidency) their own bedding, also tiffin baskets, spirit lamps, and
Indiarubber baths, and by the time that Colonel Gascoigne and his staff
rode up to the Government rest-house, the strangers were already footed
in the camp, and flowered forth at the dinner-table. Philip, who was
tired after a rough ride of forty miles, and a brain-exhausting day,
at first received the intelligence of the invasion with exasperating
incredulity; but when he heard the general's rasping voice, and Sir
Capel's reckless laugh, he realised that Angel, his wife, was not
jesting, but in deadly earnest.

Then he asked himself angrily if it was not enough to have all the
strain of this unique and imminent catastrophe laid upon his shoulders,
and to have to make arrangements for the feeding and shelter of
about fifty fellow-workers, but to be saddled now, at the eleventh
hour, with three useless sightseers? Indeed, the general was not a
mere placid spectator, he was a most malignant critic, who wrote
his own impressions to the papers, both local and otherwise. That
evening, at dinner, eleven souls were crammed round the little dâk
bungalow tables, two joined together, and even in this place, on the
confines of civilisation, Angel was compelled to respect the order of
"precedence"—the general sat next her—as his right—and Lola was
placed at her host's right hand.

"Oh, Philip, we have made ourselves so comfy," she remarked, playfully;
"I am afraid we have invaded you, but there are those two unoccupied
huts going a-begging."

"Those huts are condemned, and you must turn out of them to-morrow," he
said shortly.

"Pray why?" with a little defiant laugh.

"Merely because they are unsafe."

"So _you_ think. General Bothwell holds the opposite opinion. What an
alarmist you are."

"No, I merely know my business, and I am responsible for your lives."

"Supposing I elect to stay?" she said with an indolent smile.

"I hope you will not, as I should be compelled to have you carried away
by force, the same as a fakir, who established himself in his old cave.
He has twice returned, and twice been ignominously removed."

"Perhaps the third time will be the charm?" she said gaily.

"The third time will be his death. The lake will not last more than
thirty-six hours."

"Then we are just in the nick of time to see what Sir Capel calls the
great water shoot."

"I doubt if you will see much; I believe the dam will go at night."

"Oh, how depressing you are! When we have come all this distance in
order to see the sight and, as the guide books say, any other objects
of interest! What do you do of an evening?" she inquired.

"We go to bed early, we are mostly dog tired; sometimes we have songs.
Angel has a mandoline, Brady has a voice, and occasionally we have a
round game of cards."

"Cards!" and her eyes glittered, "oh, do let us have a round game
to-night."

Mr. Brady figuratively leapt at the proposal, so did Mr. Jones
and Sir Capel; Angel was obliged to join as hostess, and
brought out cards and counters, but they only played for half
anna—_i.e._, half-penny—points, and by ten o'clock the lights
had been extinguished, the company had dispersed, led by Mrs.
Waldershare—_vingt-et-un_ at half-penny points! The game was a waste
of time, and in no sense worth the candle.

       *       *       *       *       *

The windows of heaven had opened; there had been torrents of rain
during the night, now subsided to a thick penetrating mist; but there
was a sort of tension in the atmosphere, as if in preparation or
expectation of some awful revelation of nature. The general and Mrs.
Waldershare, in spite of the former's furious remonstrances, and her
pathetic appeals, had been driven out of their temporary shelter; she,
to share Angel's quarters, and he, to grumble in a leaky tent.

"Gascoigne was incompetent, grossly ignorant, and pig-headed." These
were a few of General Bothwell's growls. He had arrived on the scene,
as special, uninvited correspondent, and hoped to make a good deal of
fun and some money out of the affair. Indeed he had already drafted a
terrible indictment of the engineer officer in charge. The thought of
this deadly document afforded him warm comfort, when he was face to
face with Gascoigne's cold iron will, which refused to relax one inch
of authority.

General Bothwell scoffed at all precautions, he was a severely trying
guest. His jibes, suggestions, and opinions, were as maddening as the
stings of a swarm of hornets to a man whose hands are tied.

About midday, a telegram from the station was sent all down the line
"Clear, lake overtopped." Telegrams now came incessantly to the
inspection house, only a mile below the station, and everyone was aware
that the great event was imminent. At two o'clock in the afternoon
the wire said, "Dam cutting back rapidly." At five o'clock, "A heavy
rush of water has passed over dam. Lake has fallen twenty feet."
Half-an-hour later, "Lake has fallen thirty feet." So far all seemed
to be going well. The flood was passing away slowly, but steadily; at
this rate, it would keep to the bed of the river, and not rise more
than twenty feet, and if the dam was not further breached there would
be no great flood! General Bothwell was boisterously jubilant, most
disagreeably triumphant, the long prepared for affair had ended in
smoke after all; nothing could be seen with the heavy rain and mist,
but the lake had commenced falling, and there was no Niagara—no
catastrophe.

At seven o'clock the company, clad in mackintoshes, flocked in to
dinner; only two were absent, Mr. Brady and Mr. Hichens.

Lola, who had been lying on Angel's bed reading a novel, appeared
yawning, with somewhat dishevelled hair and sleepy eyes.

"So the great affair has fizzled out," she remarked, "and the mist is
so dense nothing can be seen. How boring!"

The general appeared a little later. He had dropped a rupee in his
tent, and could not find it. He was singularly fond of money—if it
had been a copper coin he would have kept the company waiting all the
same.

The dinner had commenced—indeed, it was half over—when there was a
shout outside, the usual stentorian cry of the telegraph boy, "Tal
agiar, tal agiar!" and a long message was handed to Gascoigne. He read
it, and with a hasty apology hurried out; but he returned in a moment
to say:

"The lake will escape in an hour. I'm going up to the dam now."

"But I thought it was _we_ who were to escape—not the lake," sneered
Lola, reaching for the salt. She paused, saltspoon in hand, and gave a
sharp exclamation. "My luck is gone—oh, I've lost my luck!" and the
face she turned to Angel was as white as a sheet.

"Why, what do you mean? What is it?"

"A little charm I always wear on my bangle. I would not lose it for
anything in the whole world. Oh, I shall never be happy until I find
it."

"Perhaps it is in my hut," suggested Angel. "When did you last see it?"

"This morning, when I was turning out of that other cabin—which now
seems to have been so unnecessary. Oh, I would not lose my lucky charm
for a thousand pounds."

"I daresay we shall find it. I'll help you as soon as you have
finished. We will get a big hurricane lantern, and search everywhere.
Is it very valuable—and what is it like?"

"It has brought me no end of fortune," said Lola, rising as she spoke.
"I must, and will find it—though it is only a little diamond skull."




CHAPTER XXXIX

TO DIE WITH YOU


THE search in Angel's hut proved fruitless, although the dhurries were
taken up, and the ayah passed her slim nervous hand over every inch
of the floor, whilst her mistress held aloft the lantern, and Mrs.
Waldershare—otherwise passive—poured forth passionate lamentations.

"I'm certain I lost it in the lower hut," she announced, with a catch
in her breath. "Give me the light, and I will go and look for it
myself—I can never rest until it is found."

"But the lake," objected Angel. "There may be great risk. Philip says
it will come down in an hour."

"Bah! I am not afraid," rejoined Lola, with profound scorn. "Those huts
are well above water-mark, and it is only eight o'clock. I shall not be
more than a few minutes; but I don't know the path in the dark. Ayah,
you come, and I will give you five rupees."

In reply to this appeal and bribe, the ayah shook her head, and said:

"No, no, mem sahib—that not good—plenty water soon—soon coming."

"Then I'll have to go alone—for go I will," she announced excitedly.

"I can show you the way," said Angel, putting on her waterproof, and
taking the lantern; "we can be there and back in twenty minutes, if we
hurry."

In another instant the ladies had disappeared into the darkness, Angel
in advance, carrying the hurricane lantern. There was a heavy, dazzling
mist, through which they could barely discern great lights flaming
at the posts all the way down the valley (to mark the danger limit).
These, in the darkness, twinkled like a street of stars, and how the
lake growled within its prison, with the savage snarling of some wild
beast straining at its leash.

"Where are you off to?" asked the general, as the couple hurried by the
mess verandah, in which he stood endeavouring to light his pipe.

"To the lower hut to search for an ornament," promptly answered Mrs.
Waldershare.

"Plucky woman! But I don't think you run any risk, beyond breaking your
necks in the dark. I shall come and look after you, as soon as I have
started this pipe."

On their way to the hut, the couple encountered Mr. Brady—that is to
say, he met Mrs. Waldershare, for Angel was already half-way down the
path, her feet winged by some indescribable presentiment.

"Hallo, I say! what are you doing here?" he panted, for he had been
running fast.

"Only going to the hut for a moment to look for something I have lost."

"For God's sake, don't," he cried. "Better lose what ever it is, than
your life—mind you, I warn you that the dam can only hold another ten
minutes."

He had an important message to deliver, and could not delay, although
probably he would have done so had he dreamt that Mrs. Gascoigne was
already standing on dangerous ground. Lola smiled to herself as she
hurried downwards. What a fright they were all in. Lose her life! There
was no fear of that; and she would risk a good deal to find her little
diamond skull—her fetish.

In five minutes' time Mrs. Waldershare was on her knees going over the
floor of the hut, ayah-fashion, with her bare hands; her hair had come
adrift, and fell in one great coil on her shoulders. Her companion
held the light a little way above the searcher's head. At last, after
considerable delay, Lola lifted her head.

"Here it is," she cried, with an audible sob of relief, raising herself
in a kneeling position; "see, the ring is broken. A fortune-teller told
me that my star would be in the ascendant as long as I had the skull.
Now I have found it, I am happy. What luck! What," she repeated, in
another and a sharper key, as the hut rocked violently, and the rest of
the sentence was drowned in a long, loud, shattering crash.

There was a peal of thunder, reverberating far among the mountains—the
roar of the lake released from bondage, rushing headlong to devastate
the country.

"The dam—it is gone!" cried Angel, as the sound died away. "There is
not a second to lose; we must fly. Come," and she flung open the door.
As she did so the hut reeled over, and a wave of cold water splashed
across the threshold. Outside, the drizzle, as illuminated by the
lantern, was impregnated with thick red dust, which spread over an
area of ten miles. Lola was still on her knees, as if turned to stone,
apparently paralysed with horror. The flood was rising in the room,
and the hut shivered and trembled like some live thing. "Come, Lola,
you must make a dash for your life," urged Angel, placing the lamp in
the window, and reaching out to help her to rise. "Every moment it is
getting worse."

As Lola staggered to her feet, a wave half filled the hut, and she
seemed to lose her reason, and broke into a shrill, wild, unbroken
scream—it was hardly like the human voice—minute after minute it
continued, and every minute it became wilder and more piercing.
Suddenly Gascoigne stood in the doorway. He had returned from the dam,
only to learn, to his horror, that his wife and Mrs. Waldershare had
gone down to the condemned quarters.

"I can only take one," he said, huskily, and his eyes rested on Angel.

She was farthest away; Lola cowered between her and the door. Lola was
crazy with terror, having the fear of death before her eyes, the sound
of many waters in her ears. As she stood, in a frenzy, panting like
some hunted creature, she was almost unrecognisable, transformed by her
emotions. Her livid face, starting eyes, wet, streaming hair, belonged
to another woman.

"It means—death?" she questioned, with chattering teeth, and read the
tragic answer in the man's set, white face. "Then take—_me_—_me_!"
she shrieked, and she sprang on him like a leopardess, clung to his
neck with locked arms, and the whole weight of a strongly-built,
frantic, desperate woman. He was muscular, and in hard condition,
but could he ever have released himself from that cruel clutch, the
death-grip of mortal fear, the pitiless hold of the drowning? "Oh,
Philip, you loved me first," she sobbed; "save me—save me—_me_."

Angel surveyed this terrible scene with a gaze of wide-eyed horror. Of
course he must save Lola.

"Yes, Phil," she said, coming nearer, and her voice was clear and
decided. "Go; don't waste precious time. Philip, I intend to stay. Save
her first; you can," and she faltered for a second, "come back."

Angel held aloft the lantern as she spoke, and her husband, without a
word, turned, and splashed with his burthen out into the black night;
the water swept him off his feet, for one or two strokes, whilst Lola,
who was now demented, and a dead weight, nearly dragged him under.

"There is Jim Hailes. No, I'm not coming—they say I killed him—no, I
won't die—why should I die? Who said I won his money? There, take it
back—a shocking sight, they said. Don't let the Gascoignes hear—no,
no, _I'm_ not going to the funeral!"

All this was screamed out at the pitch of her voice into Philip's
ear, as he staggered with her up the hill. He toiled onwards with the
strength of ten men, for the sake of the figure with the light in her
hand, whom he had abandoned for this miserable creature—Angel, his
wife. He was resolved to save her, or perish with her. He recalled her
face of lofty courage—how her eyes shone in the light, as if she were
inspired by the very spirit of self-sacrifice, whilst she held the
lantern and urged him to escape—with Lola. As soon as the party on
the hill descried Gascoigne, they rushed to meet him, and he hastily
relinquished his burden, and fled down the hill, passing a stricken
figure in a tree, whose shouts for help proclaimed that the General was
in difficulties.

       *       *       *       *       *

When her husband had departed with his first love in his arms, Angel
stood in the doorway up to her knees in water, holding the lantern to
guide them to safety; then, as the flood rose higher and higher, she
began to realise the chilly fact, that they had escaped,—and that she
was left to face death alone.

She endeavoured to fix her mind on the grim visitor who would claim her
young life within the next few minutes, but visions of a gay seaside
pier, with the waves lapping underneath and around, accompanied by the
strains of the Santiago waltz, into her brain. The memory, under such
circumstances, was inexpressibly awful. Was she to pass away with the
sound of dance music in her ears—here among the turbulent black waters
of a runaway lake in the heart of the Himalayas? Well, at least, she
had given herself for Lola—her life for that of another. The thought
soothed her, and comforted her heart, and Philip would never forget
her—sacrifice; she would live for ever, enshrined in his memory; to
attain this was—her recompense.

The hut was above the strong mud-current, otherwise it would have been
immediately overwhelmed and carried away by the first rush of the
torrent; but, as it was, it still clung to its foundations, although
the water scoured enormous holes in the floor. Angel had climbed
up into the window-seat, where she crouched with her lantern, and
endeavoured to pray. How her heart plunged at each lurch the building
gave; the water was now half-way up the wall, and the end might come at
any moment. The hut would soon be swept away, then Philip would see her
light floating down on the wild flood, and be sorry when it went out.
Oh, he would know what _that_ meant!

At this moment the door burst open, and Philip himself half swam, half
waded in. Yes, he had come back for her; she was desperately glad, and
yet it meant two lives, instead of one! He was exhausted, and almost
breathless, as he made his way over to her, and gasped out:

"We have just one chance, Angel—the roof; you trust yourself to me."

She nodded—for she could not speak.

"We will have to go outside, and there is no time to spare." As he
spoke he lifted her down, and guided her through water, now shoulder
deep. Then he swung himself up by the door, took the lantern from her,
and drew her on the roof beside him. When this feat was accomplished he
gave a sigh of relief.

"The hut is bound to go," he exclaimed; "if it capsizes don't grab hold
of me. I'll manage to keep you afloat. I know you have a stout heart,
Angel. We are luckily in a sort of backwater, and will only catch the
edge of the flood. We may be carried along and caught in some trees
lower down—that's just our one chance."

The hut, which had been rocking and shivering as if about to take some
desperate plunge, suddenly staggered, gave a wild lurch, and went more
than half under water.

"Oh, this must be the end, now we die," said Angel, clinging to Philip.
But no, the stout wooden structure righted itself, spun round, and
slowly embarked on the breast of the wild, dark current. What a sight
it was, the roaring volume of ungovernable water racing furiously
through the valley, and carrying with it, besides whole trees and logs
and branches, the frail raft on which these two human beings clung
together, with the hurricane lantern between them. The channel was in a
condition resembling a storm at sea, and more than once the couple were
nearly washed off the roof by the waves that broke over it. The night
was as black as a wolf's mouth.

At first they maintained an unbroken silence as they were hurried to
what they both believed to be their death. Gascoigne, his arm around
Angel, held her closely to him. Then at last he spoke:

"Why did you go down to the hut, Angel?"

"For Lola, to show her the way—she had lost something—I thought there
was time."

"But Brady had warned her, and—tell me why you stood back and implored
me to take her first?"

"Because—it had to be—one or the other," she stammered. "I knew that
you loved her—I only—stood between you. You had escaped—oh, _why_
did you come back?" and she gave a little sob.

"Because I love you, Angel. Surely you know that?" and he drew her
still closer to him. "I don't say much—not half enough—I seem cold,
but I feel deeply. It is late in the day to tell you that now! It is
true that a man has two soul sides—one to face the world,—another
to show the woman he loves—you have scarcely seen—your—side—but I
swear by the God before whom we may appear in another moment—that I
would rather die with you, than live with Lola."

Angel bent her head upon his shoulder. The long pent-up tide of
her misgivings and misery broke loose, and she wept from a mixture
of rapture and grief. Alas! death was now doubly bitter; it meant
shipwreck in sight of the haven.

The flood travelled with great force and extraordinary velocity; in
less than ten minutes the roof was being dizzily whirled through a
mountainous gorge, and the branches of huge trees seemed extended like
arms, to bar its way and snatch it from its fate. By one hoary old
oak the hut became momentarily entangled; the opportunity, the _one_
chance, had come. Gascoigne, who had tied the lantern to his arm, and
fastened Angel's mackintosh round her waist and to his belt, now sprang
for his life, for both their lives, caught the branch, and swung safely
into the tree. But not a moment too soon; the raft was already under
weigh, rapidly moving off, to be presently dashed to pieces among the
narrow, rocky gorges of the Alakanda valley.

The tree, an old evergreen oak, was not a particularly safe asylum with
the hungry dark tide surging below, eager to swallow the refugees, but
a rescue party was approaching.

When Sir Capel and Mr. Brady had hurried down to where the hut had
been, there was nothing to be seen but a racing tide of whirling black
water covered with blocks of solid foam: the hut was gone. But what was
that twinkling on the flood? a light far ahead—not a boat—what boat
could live in that mad current?

"They are on the roof," yelled Mr. Brady, "and they may be caught in
the trees two miles down. Come on, come on," and, setting an example,
he started away at a run, followed by Sir Capel and half-a-dozen
others. Thanks to their timely assistance, in less than an hour the
two who had so narrowly escaped the great flood were brought into
camp, wet, benumbed, and exhausted, but profoundly thankful for their
deliverance.




CHAPTER XL

THE INTRUDER


THE great Chamoli landslip thus fulfilled its threat; the long-expected
catastrophe had come, and gone. The lake had fallen five hundred feet
in two hours, and worked the anticipated havoc over a large tract of
country; enormous masses of trees and débris came down with the flood,
bridges were carried away, and also many miles of roads. Of three
native towns, and several villages, not a vestige remained. The passage
of so large a volume of water through one hundred and fifty miles of
valley, in the darkest hour of the night, unattended by the loss of a
single life, was attributed to the services rendered by the temporary
telegraph line, and the excellent work accomplished by Colonel
Gascoigne, who received the thanks and congratulations of the Viceroy.

The only individual who suffered personally from the effect of the
inundation was the once irresistible Lola Waldershare. For some months
after the disaster she remained with the Gascoignes, a helpless
imbecile, and ultimately returned to England under the charge of a
hospital nurse, a mental and physical wreck.

The general and Sir Capel left Garhwal with a revised opinion of
themselves, and other people. To the younger man, the trip afforded a
magnificent experience. He had been brought into touch with Nature at
her grandest, with human unselfishness, and heroic courage.

General Bothwell's nerves were shattered by his adventure during
the flood, and he who had come to crow departed, figuratively,
draggle-tailed and crestfallen. His carefully indited letters were
never despatched to the press, as his prognostications had been
stultified; and he returned to Chotah-Bilat in a condition of collapse,
a silent and much wiser man. Doubtless, by-and-by he will recover his
poise, and brag and bore and browbeat as mercilessly as ever.

Donald Gordon died suddenly of heat apoplexy in the Red Sea, and the
story of the loves of Shireen and Ferhad is lost to the reading world.
It is unlikely that his widow will marry—her life is dedicated to
others and to good works, and her self-imposed penance has apparently
no end. She is godmother to Angel's infant, and as she placed her in
the arms of Padre Eliot at the font pronounced her name to be Elinor.

Sam and John flourish, as they deserve. The sole drawback to their
domestic comfort is the baby. Between themselves—though never to other
dogs—they stigmatize her as an intruder and a nuisance. To impart the
truth, they are unaffectedly jealous.

However, as Sam has more than once been discovered reposing in the
child's cot, and John accompanies the perambulator, and condescends
to accept sponge-cakes and rusks, she may yet be acknowledged by her
four-footed rivals, and all will be well.


       *       *       *       *       *


Transcriber's Notes.

1. Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

2. Line 6601 Page 173: "We never heard that Major Gascoigne had a
ward," remarked Miss Brewer, trenchantly.

'Miss Brewer' changed to 'Miss Ball'. Just three paragraphs earlier Mr.
Gasgoyne referred to the "THREE" ladies. Only three ladies were
present; Mrs. Flant, her sister Miss Ball and Angela.