Angel: A sketch in Indian ink

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