CHAPTER XIXTHE PARTING GUESTS
Themorning succeeding the arrivals, and the storm, was cloudless. There are few things more beautiful, or more treacherous, than a break in the rains in the Himalayas. The sun shone brilliantly, the sky was a dense turquoise blue, against which stood out a far-away range of jagged white peaks. A stillness lay upon the deep, dim valleys beneath the forest bungalow, there was scarcely a sound besides the twitter of birds, and the thunder of a water-course.
Miss Ball was standing in the verandah pulling on her gloves, and contemplating the scene. The party were on the eve of departure.
"What a delicious spot this is," she exclaimed, rapturously, to Major Gascoigne; "isn't it perfectly lovely, Bella? I should like to come here for my honeymoon."
"You must first get hold of the bridegroom," declared her sister in a tart voice. Fanny's disappointments had begun to have a wearing effect upon that lady's patience, and this early start, and the natural apprehension of a detestable, if not dangerous journey, had somewhat darkened her outlook on life.
"The bungalow is always at Miss Ball's disposal," replied the host gallantly. "And now we must be getting under weigh, as we have a long march before us."
In ten minutes the verandah was empty, the last coolie had disappeared among the trees, Abdul, the Khansamah, free from further anxieties, retired to his charpoy, and his huka. It proved to be a day of thrilling adventures, of almost hair-breadth escapes. Mrs. Flant emphatically declared that she could not face certain obstacles, but she managed to progress, thanks to her escort's cool determination, and ruthlessly deaf ear to her agonised exclamations. Miss Ball, on the back of a stalwart hill-man, cut a sufficiently ridiculous figure; she had not the nerve to skirt a certain frowning precipice on her own feet. The path was narrow, the drop apparently fathomless, her fears and protestations entailed twenty minutes' delay. She angrily refused to follow her sister's example to be led across blindfolded by Gascoigne, she simply sat in her jampan (hill-chair), and there lifted up her voice and wept.
Whatever Major Gascoigne's mental remarks were, outwardly, he was the personification of politeness, encouragement, and cajolery. At last the lady was persuaded, and was hoisted on the back of a grunting Pahari with the shoulders of an Atlas, and with her eyelids squeezed tightly together, her long feet dangling helplessly, was safely borne to the other side. Thus she got across one of the "bad bits." Whatever obstacles they encountered, their leader never flinched. He worked hard in his shirt sleeves, with his own hands; he led, decoyed, and coaxed the two sisters and the ayah along crumbling tracks, over water-courses, and from rock to rock amid boiling torrents. It was the hardest day'swork that he ever remembered. If a fourth clinging coward had been on his hands, Gascoigne felt that he was bound to succumb. But Angel, luckily for him, had no fear. She was blessed with a wonderful head and a cool courage, was amazingly active, and swung herself from rock to rock, from root to root, or walked along a six-inch path precisely as if she were a Pahari maiden. Her guardian's time being engrossed with repairs, enticements, and the charge of three agonised companions, he had but scant opportunity of talking to her; but once, when the worst part of the journey was behind them, the ladies were ahead in their jampans, the two fell into one another's society, as they passed through a forest of rhododendrons.
"Well—that's over!" said Gascoigne, as he drew a long breath, took off his hat, and mopped his head with his handkerchief.
"You won't offer to be squire of dames again in a hurry?" said Angel, with a mischievous laugh. "I never saw such cowards. They were as bad as the ayah—they gibbered."
"I suppose it's constitutional," he replied; "they could not help their feelings."
"At least they might have concealed them," rejoined the girl, indignantly.
"Do you always conceal yours, Angel?"
"I do my best—I'm trying hard; I can with some things," she answered, "and if I were afraid, I'd rather die than show it."
"I am quite certain of that," he replied, "but you have a stout heart, I cannot fancy your being afraidof anything. I've a letter here for Mrs. Gordon—will you give it to her? It will explain——" he hesitated.
"—me," she supplemented briskly.
"Yes, she will be delighted to have you. She is very much alone, her husband is absorbed in his work—and they have no children."
"Is she nice?" inquired his companion.
"She is one of the best women I've ever known."
"Yet she may be extremely disagreeable," argued Angela.
"No, she is charming, and so popular. She is sympathetic, clear-headed, and practical—everyone takes their troubles to Mrs. Gordon."
"And you are sending her your trouble by rail?"
"Nonsense, Angel, she will look upon you as a great boon, and be infinitely obliged to me. I am sure you will like her."
"Why should you be sure?" she protested; "sometimes I like the people I ought not to like, and don't like the people I ought to like—and there is no dependence on me."
"What a way to talk," he exclaimed. "It will be strange if you and Mrs. Gordon don't hit it off."
"Do you think I shall shock her—as I do you?"
"I was not aware that I was shocked. She is a good woman, who is not narrow-minded, and her friends are many and various. Lucky is the young man or girl, who, on first coming out, falls into her sphere. There are very few people who have not been the better for Mrs. Gordon's influence."
"And yet she cannot influence her own husband," Remarked Angel drily. "He is still a bear."
"Unfortunately he is—and a grizzly bear at that," admitted Gascoigne. "He has no interest in life beyond his work, which includes personal ambition, a certain class of Persian love-songs—and perhaps—his liver."
"What a mixture!" she ejaculated. "Well, I shall insist on his taking an interest inme, and before long, you will hear of his spouting Persian love-songs, as we stroll up and down among roses, and bul-buls."
Gascoigne burst into a loud, involuntary laugh, as the incongruous picture tickled his imagination. His laugh rang down through the forest trees, and reached the ladies, who looked at one another with peculiar significance.
"Oh, yes," resumed Angel, "I intend to influence ursa Major; through him I shall influence his wife; through her, I shall influence the whole province. I shall be like a pebble thrown into a pool, whose ripples go far;" then in a voice, "When shall you be down, Philip?"
"In three weeks or a month, and meanwhile I know, Angel, you will be happy with Mrs. Gordon; she will introduce you to the people—and show you the ropes."
"Oh, but I know the ropes," said Angel, kicking a pine cone before her, "I've not forgotten my India. Kind, hospitable, intimate old India, with your mysterious under life, your tragedies, and comedies, and scandals. I love you still," and she paused for a moment to kiss her hand to a distant peep of the far-away blue plains. "Can anything be more exquisite than this view?" she continued. "Look atthe ferns and moss growing on the trees, the carpets of wild orchids, the stern purple mountains; I should like to remain in these hills—they seem to draw me to them. I was born in the Himalayas, you know. Well, I suppose I must leave them," and she heaved a sigh. "It is a pity, for I feel as if I could be sogoodup here."
"I trust that you can be good anywhere?" said Gascoigne.
"Oh, I don't know," she rejoined. "I am so sensitive to climate. I love the sunshine, it makes me good-natured and generous, but I always feel so wicked in an east wind! As for my sensations in a stuffy, three-berth cabin, with two sea-sick companions—but I spare you. By the way, one of my fellow-sufferers, a Mrs. Farquhar, gave me an urgent invitation to visit her at Umballa."
Gascoigne most devoutly wished that Angel had accepted this offer, and thus given him even a few days' breathing-space.
He looked at his ward, as she walked lightly beside him. She was so natural, so simple, yet so worldly wise; and she was distractingly pretty—not many men would have been so painfully anxious to rid themselves of such a companion.
She would certainly turn the heads of all the young fellows in Marwar. What a prospect for him! Already he beheld himself at a wedding, giving away the hand of the most lovely bride. Yes, of course, it would not be long before Angel was carried off; she was a girl of unusual attractions, and with this hope in his heart he became quite hilarious. She would make a far happier marriageunder his and Mrs. Gordon's auspices than under that of her heartless and worldly old grandmother.
On second thoughts, Major Gascoigne accompanied the party the whole way to the railway, and saw them off, although it entailed an immense ride afterwards.
He wished to despatch a long explanatory wire to Mrs. Gordon, so that Angel might not burst upon her as she had done on him; nor need the child have all the awkwardness of announcing herself, and producing her credentials. He secured tickets, saw to refreshments, baggage, servants, and then came the taking leave of the three ladies. Angel had half expected him to kiss her, but he merely gave her a warm handshake. He was very funny now, so odd, and stiff, and changed, yet just the same dear old Philip. And thus Angel set off in the little tin-pot railway to Marwar, where she was to live under Mrs. Gordon's chaperonage, turn the heads of all the young men, and to meet her fate. As Philip turned his hired pony once more towards the hill, and a thirty-five mile ride, leaving his own steed to follow, his thoughts accompanied a party in the little black train now panting through the Terai.
And as he regained, late at night, his now deserted bungalow, his thoughts dwelt, as he smoked, over the extraordinary incidents of the last twenty-four to thirty hours. What experiences had been compassed into them, like a meat-lozenge of emotions.
As in his mind's eye, her guardian again beheld that charming child flitting about his room; remembered her speaking and sunny eyes, he told himselfthat his ward had far surpassed his expectations. Surpassed?—his expectations had never ventured upon such an ideal, and he made up his mind that he would be extremely difficult to please, as her guardian, and that it was only some real good fellow who would have his consent to marry Angel. Then he set his memory to work. He deliberately passed all his friends, and his acquaintances, in critical review—no, there was not one of them worthy to dust her shoes!