CHAPTER IXTHE BEQUEST
Althoughthe 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 withtheir 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 shallscream," 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 atwoanna 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 andgenerosity, 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 youare 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,neverforget 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, "thewhite 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, "onlydon'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.