CHAPTER XVIIIDINNER FOR TWO
Whilstthe young lady was changing her dress Gascoigne had another interview with his bearer, ere retiring into the damp tent to remove his wet clothes.
"Look here," he said, "you must do all you can to make the place nice for the Miss Sahib—tidy it up—and, I say, isn't there a lamp-shade?"
Abdullah assented with solemn complacency.
"There are no flowers, or dessert, but there's some chocolate—and see that the cook does not spare his stores, and has an eye to the ayah and coolies; they have all to be ready for an early start to-morrow." And having issued these orders, he departed to his damp quarters, where he experienced exasperating difficulties in finding his belongings, which had been hurled into the tent pell-mell. He had no looking-glass; he was actually obliged to do his tie at the back of his silver flask. How a woman upset a house! As Gascoigne searched wildly for a handkerchief, his thoughts were inhospitable—his mental expressions impassioned.
Meanwhile the bearer, thus put on his mettle, bustled about with feverish activity; he, like all natives, thoroughly enjoyed a crisis, an unexpected situation, a novelty, a commotion. He was also full of resource, but here his resources were so limited he had nothing to draw upon save his master's wardrobe, and he put it under contribution without delay.
The old lamp-shade was gracefully draped with yards of soft red silk—his master's cummerbund; the effect was so splendid and stimulating that he brought forth a certain treasured red and gold dress sash, and twisted it round the lamp with a quantity of beautiful forest leaves. This was the table decoration, and it looked extremely pretty and elegant. A blue military cape covered the deficiencies of a table, a plaid railway rug draped the shabby cane lounge, Gascoigne's two most cherished silk ties looped back the short window curtains, and when the deft-handed Abdul had placed lighted candles in every available spot and considered his work critically, he felt a thrill of honest satisfaction—the warm glow of an artist who beholds his ideal realised! The result was a transformation, and a success.
When dinner was ready, he went and knocked on the visitor's door; it opened promptly, and the young lady appeared; such a dazzling apparition that Abdul fell back three paces. Angel had dressed her hair elaborately—she abjured a fringe—it was parted in the middle, and turned back in great masses, and gathered up in a knot low on her neck, with one or two rebellious little curls peeping over her forehead. She wore a dark trailing skirt, and a white silk and lace blouse, with close-fitting lace sleeves. Nor were the little decorative touches which add so much to a toilette omitted; she wore turquoise ornaments, a picturesque silver belt, and a band of black velvet enhanced the whiteness of her throat. All three items gave Angel an impression of "full dress," and Gascoigne,as he surveyed this dainty vision, mentally did homage.
"I am rather smart—compared to what I was an hour ago," she said, addressing her host, "and considering that I only brought one small box with me—I left my luggage at the Junction, tons of trunks—oh, I am so fond of my frocks!" An hereditary passion, reflected her guardian.
(As Angel talked she was furtively scrutinising Philip, who had exchanged his wet riding kit for the irreproachable white shirt, black tie, and dinner coat of the period.)
"You are dazzling, I admit," he exclaimed, with a smile. "I feel as if I could only look at you through smoked glass." The girl laughed as she seated herself and glanced round.
"What a transformation scene—how pretty the table is! Why, we might be diningtête-à-têteat Prince's, and going on to a theatre. But I remember how clever native servants are—how they make a grand show out of nothing."
Here Philip recognised with a gasp his wardrobe, so to speak, decorating the table—yes, and the room.
"Especially our troupe," she continued; "Colonel Wilkinson saw to that."
"Have you any news of him?"
"Oh, yes," carefully helping herself to salt; her hands and wrists were exquisite. "He married again years ago, a woman with no end of money. She must have escaped from some lunatic asylum; don't let us talk of him. Let us eat, drink, and be merry."
"You won't get very merry on soda-water," he protested. "Have some claret?"
"I never touch it, thank you. Granny said it made one's nose red."
"And so you and Lady Augusta never hit it off after all?" he remarked.
"No; she was such a Saturday-to-Monday sort of grandmother! Always rushing here, and there, and back again, never at home except when she was asleep, always 'showing herself' somewhere, as she called it, always in the movement. I did not mind until she began to drag me with her, and insisted on showingme. Then she always dressed like my twin sister. Pray, what granddaughter could tolerate that?" Angel's expression became tragic, and Gascoigne laughed, quite a gay young laugh.
"I assure you that granny has the ditto of this very blouse I'm wearing; and," speaking with increased energy, "one of the last scenes I had with her was to prevent her wearing a white muslin gown; of course, it was drowned in lace, but imagine white muslin at sixty-five," and she gave an impatient and despondent sigh.
"It might have been seventy in the shade," acquiesced Gascoigne, ironically. "I'm afraid she must have been an immense responsibility. I can sympathise with you there."
"Oh, it was not really that," and Angel's voice suddenly became the grave utterance of a much older woman. Her eyes looked dark and tragic as she leant a little forward and said, "It was the closed door between us—we never spoke of my mother." Angel communicated this fact as if she were alluding to some holy saint, and Philip, the hypocrite, bent his head in profound sympathy. "No, never till thatonce," resumed the girl. "It was the first and the last time. Our opinions were so opposed, it was as if two furious, long-leashed creatures had been suddenly let loose at one another's throats." After a little silence, during which she meditatively broke up bread, Angel suddenly looked over at her companion, and said: "Tell me, how do you like the way I do my hair now?"
Philip gasped mentally, but brought out an adequate reply. "Immensely—last time you wore it down your back."
"And so"—here she leant her elbows on the table, and locked her pretty hands, and looked over them at her guardian, "you are really going to take me down to Marwar to-morrow."
"I am really," he answered promptly, "weather permitting."
"How I hope the weather will not permit. I'd a million times rather stay up here in the jungle, the real delightful jungle, within reach of white bread, the post-office, and hairpins. I could sit and read, and dream, and sketch, and ride up and down the valleys for months, and be so happy. What a shame it is that one cannot enjoy what onelikes."
"Unfortunately we often like what is bad for us," said her guardian drily.
Angel drew a sigh of assent, and then resumed, "We never would have found this place, only for one of my jampannis, whose brother is in your service; he knew the way; was it not luck?"
"Yes," agreed Major Gascoigne. (Butwasit?)
"The road wasnil—in places it had slipped a hundred feet. We just crawled along the precipicesinch by inch, clinging on to roots and branches, tooth and nail."
"I must say it was very plucky of you to come."
"Oh, I did not mind a bit," said Angel carelessly. "And so your home is in Marwar?"
"Yes; I'm only up here on duty. There are several people you know in Marwar."
"Really?" raising her perfectly pencilled brows.
"Mrs. Gordon, for instance."
"Yes, to whom you presented my tea-cosy. I shall certainly take it back. Wasn't she a pretty dark-eyed woman, with a horrid old bearish husband?"
"What a memory you have!" he exclaimed. "And there is Shafto."
"Who always hated me," making room for the bearer to remove the cloth; "you cannot deny that." When the bearer had departed she put her elbows on the table, and, confronting her companion, said:
"Cousin Philip, I try to speak the truth to you—and I'll speak it now. I see that in rushing out here to you I've acted on a mad impulse—worse, perhaps, than cutting up Mrs. Dawson's dresses. I don't stop to think; I act; when I shop, I buy what I want, and—think afterwards if I can afford it. I never count the cost." She paused for breath. "I did not leave grandmamma without good-bye. I walked into her room when she was going to bed. I wanted to catch the nightrapide toMarseilles, and said: 'I've come to say good-bye—as I'm off.' 'Where to?' she screamed. 'India,' I replied. I won't repeat what she said, but—well, she prophesied evil things. Her prophecy will not come true. I am resolved to be prudent, and obedient. I willdo whatever you wish, but oh! cousin Phil," stretching out her pretty hands, "please don't send me home—oh, please don't!"
"Very well, then, I won't," he replied, little knowing that he had thus sealed his fate; but, thanks to the sorceress, he was in a condition of mind in which to-day blotted out to-morrow.
It was an extraordinary experience. Would he awake and find he had been dreaming? or was he really sittingtête-à-têtein this lonely spot, with the most bewitching girl he had ever seen? As he sat endeavouring to focus his somewhat slow ideas—perhaps he was too reflective to be quite good company—Angela rose and began to walk about the room, critically inspecting the contents.
"I always made very free with your belongings, and your house," she said, "and"—with a laugh—"your horse. I see several little things that I remember so well," and she touched them as she spoke. "This old battered blotter and ink-bottle, and the frame with your mother's likeness—how sweet she looks." She took up the faded photograph, gazed at it for a long time, kissed it, and put it down very gently. "I see you have a lot of books—um—um-um—Fortifications—Mathematics—how dry! except 'Soldiers Three' and 'Vanity Fair.' I love 'Vanity Fair,' and, do you know," turning about with the volume in her hand, "I was always a little sorry for Becky."
"Pooh! she would have sneered at your sympathy," rejoined Gascoigne. "She never pitied herself."
"No, she despised herself. How I wish Dobbinhad not been endowed with such large feet, otherwise I believe he would be almost my favourite hero."
"Only his feet stand in the way—alas! poor Dobbin."
"Yes—ah, here you have something modern," opening another book:
"La seul rêve interesseVive sans rêve qui est ce.Et J'aime La Princesse Lointaine!"
she quoted; "what a swing it has! Why, it is only seven o'clock," she announced, with one of her sudden changes of manner. "What can we do to amuse ourselves?"
And he realised, as she looked eagerly at him, that here was a young thing full of spirit and playfulness.
Angel, as she turned and surveyed her guardian where he still sat at table, the rose-shaded lamp throwing a becoming light on his clear-cut, dark face, and deep-set eyes, acknowledged with a sudden stab that here was a man as young, attractive, and marriageable, as many of her late admirers. The title of uncle or guardian was a ridiculous misfit.
For his part, he was wondering what he was to do with this graceful, radiant creature, full of life, will, vitality, and imagination. Perhaps it was just as well that she had broken away from Lady Augusta and her pernicious influence; but where was she to live? What was he to do with her? If he had been twenty years older.
Her question roused him, and he answered:
"I have no accomplishments whatever, and I throw myself upon your generosity."
"Well, I am very frivolous," she acknowledged, airily; "it is in my blood, and I know some parlour tricks." As she concluded she swept into the next room, and presently returned carrying a gaily-beribboned mandoline, and two packs of cards. "These were so useful on board ship," she explained, as she sat down; "made me quite run after. Ever so many people invited me to stay, but I told them I was coming out to my guardian." She paused, and then coloured vividly as she recalled the extraordinary contrast between the ideal grey-haired picture she carried in her mind's eye, and this young and vigorous reality. As she talked, she dealt out the cards. What pretty hands!—Gascoigne assured himself that he was in love—with her hands. "You play cards, of course?" she enquired, looking up at him with her direct gaze.
"Yes; whist only—strict whist, mind you; no Bumble puppy."
"Oh, that is because you belong to a scientific corps," with a shrug of extreme commiseration. "Nevertheless, your education is far from complete. I'll teach you euchre, poker, picquet, and ever so many good games of patience. Here is one for two," and she began to deal and explain.
The lesson proved so interesting that the couple were completely absorbed, and deaf to the rising of the storm, the crashing and clashing of trees around them, the roar of the downpour on the roof, and the thunder of the mountain torrents.
After the cards, music. Angel took up and tunedher gay mandoline, seated herself in a low chair, and began to play and sing. Her voice was not powerful; it was sweet, it was delicious, and had been admirably taught. The fair syren sang several songs to Philip—spell-bound (as well as an enraptured audience of servants, jampannis, and coolies, who were secretly jostling one another in the back verandah, and among them was the ayah, who assumed the airs of a manager who introduces to the public a wonderful "Diva" whomhehas discovered).
Philip leant back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the singer; she was giving "La Belle Napoli" with extraordinary charm and verve. What a pretty picture she presented, with her gay mandoline, her expressive face, her graceful pose—he would never forget this evening—never. It seemed as if the very goddess of youth and joy had descended on his shabby little home! Suddenly the music ended with a crash, and Angela half rose and cried:
"Who—are those women—looking in through the window?"
Gascoigne started up as if he had been struck; he followed her glance, and beheld a pair of weird visages glowering through the darkness. The face of Mrs. Flant—a woman with a tongue—and the face of her sister, Miss Ball, both acquaintances from Marwar.
These two ladies had been in desperate extremities; they had, in spite of all advice, insisted on descending—roads or no roads—to Marwar for a ball. Their jampannis and coolies had missed the path, night had fallen, the storm had burst, and there they all were benighted in the jungle. Even thehill-men were at a loss, and grunted to one another interrogatively. One man remembered, as if by inspiration, the engineer's bungalow, and to this, after a weary toil and many interruptions, they made their way. There was a light—how welcome to the poor, forlorn ladies struggling far below in outer darkness. At last they reached the long-prayed-for shelter, crawled out of their jampans, and looked in at the window, whilst some of their bearers ran, shouting, to the servants' quarters. The recent and somewhat noisy arrival was, to the inmates, drowned by the roar of the elements. The two ladies gazed in—there was barely room for both their faces in the little window, and this was what they saw. An extravagantly-illuminated room, a crimson-shaded lamp on the table, cards scattered in all directions, comfort to correspond. Major Gascoigne, in evening dress, leaning back in his chair, smoking, listening with obvious rapture to a pretty girl—yes, a smartly-dressed girl—a complete stranger to them, who was evidently supremely at home, and singing to a gaily-decorated mandoline. What a picture of dissipation! Could they believe their eyes? Was this how Major Gascoigne, the eligible but impregnable bachelor, spent the time when he was supposed to be deeply immersed in his work—and his duty?
Mrs. Flant rapped her knuckles against the window pane; the summons was imperious. Gascoigne jumped to his feet; his face was a shade graver, as he said:
"It is some people who have lost their way."
"Why, of course, it never rains but it pours," saidAngel, putting down the mandoline with a gesture of impatience, as her cousin opened the door and admitted the drenched wayfarers.
These entered with cold, suspicious eyes, and brought with them a gust of icy, driving rain, which caused the lamp to flare.
"We lost our way," announced Mrs. Flant, from the depth of the prim waterproof, "and were so thankful to see your light, Major Gascoigne. I declare, when it came in sight I said a little prayer."
"I'm glad you managed to make me out," was his mendacious reply. "Let me introduce Miss Gascoigne, my cousin," indicating Angel; "she will look after you. Angel, this is Mrs. Flant and her sister, Miss Ball. I leave them in your hands, whilst I see about their coolies and dinner."
"How cosy," said Mrs. Flant, "how—ah"—searching for an adjective—"comfortable you are."
"Yes, a charming little—hiding-place, an ideal retreat," echoed her sister, with peculiar significance.
"Is it not?" assented Angel, hastily gathering up the cards, and putting away the mandoline, whilst the weather-beaten, hungry women devoured her with their eyes.
A graceful, willow-like figure, light brown hair, dressed by a maid; a pretty face and such lovely clothes, a French gown, turquoise ornaments, a vague sniff of violets—an up-to-date young lady, with a pair of extremely penetrating dark blue eyes, and a self-possession that was at once colossal and superb.
"Do let me help you—I can lend you some drythings," she said, ushering them into her bedroom, already made comfortable.
On the dressing-table her silver-backed brushes and mirrors were arranged, her scent-bottles, books, dressing-gown, and slippers, all indicated the bower of a dainty and somewhat extravagant occupant. Angel gave practical assistance. She lent her dressing-gown and tea-jacket—her shoes were, unfortunately, too small—she assisted her visitors to remove their dripping garments, summoned the ayah, gave her voluble directions, and took her departure.
The bearer, who was now positively at his wits' end with three ladies to provide for—as well as all their retinue to house—was almost in despair. However, he provided soup, a stew, and anchovy toast. Meanwhile the new arrivals conferred together in hissing whispers.
"Well," said Mrs. Flant, "I would not have believed it. I'll never trust a man again."
To which announcement her sister replied with a snort:
"Yes; and, of all people, Major Gascoigne—a sort of monk, whom all the world believes to be a hardworking recluse, and to only tolerate women when he comes down to Marwar. That he should have—this person—hidden away——"
"Well, we must just put a good face on it," said Mrs. Flant philosophically, "and be civil—any port in a storm, you know."
"Did you notice her gown?" said her sister, speaking, as it were, in italics. "It must have cost afortune—simple—yet so French; and look at her dressing-case," and Miss Ball cast up her eyes in pious horror.
After the ladies had reappeared in the "person's" garments, refreshments were brought in, to which they paid serious attention. They partook of whiskies and sodas, began to recover from their fright and their astonishment, and found their tongues.
"You never saw anything like the road between this and Shiram's," remarked Mrs. Flant.
"Oh, I think I can imagine it," replied Angel, "as I came over part of that way this morning."
"You? Not really?" in an incredulous key.
"Yes, I only arrived a few hours before you"—the girl was obviously speaking the truth; she was a lady—"I came out in theArabiaon Monday."
"Then the Mactears were on board?" with a judicial air.
"Yes, they were in the next cabin to us—to the friend I came out with."
"I'm afraid you won't have a favourable first impression of India," said Miss Ball.
"Oh, but I was born here. I was in India till I was nine years old. Philip is my guardian, you know," and then she laughed, as she added, "We have all taken him by storm to-day."
"But you were expected, surely?"
"No—no more than you were."
"We never heard that Major Gascoigne had a ward," remarked Miss Ball, trenchantly.
"If you had been in Ramghur nine years ago, you would have heard all about me. Here he comes," asPhilip entered and beheld the ladies cheered and clothed, and in a right state of mind. Evidently they were getting on capitally with Angela, and this was important, though she was too simple to guess at her guardian's reason for being particularly civil to his guests. Mrs. Flant had a sharp tongue; she lived in his station, knew all his friends, and was capable of making a very fine story out of this evening'srencontre. Angel rather wondered at her cousin's affability, and how well he talked. After a while he said:
"You three ladies had better turn in soon, as you'll have a long day to-morrow; you will have to share the same room," he explained, "and to rough it a good deal, I'm afraid."
"Not half as much as you in a wet tent," cried Angela.
"Oh, I'm all right. To-morrow," addressing himself to Mrs. Flant, "I will do my best to get you on down to Khartgodam."
"You are so anxious to be rid of us," cried Miss Ball, coquettish, in Angel's charming tea-jacket with its faint perfume of lilac.
"Oh, no, not at all, but my cousin is most anxious to get down to Mrs. Gordon."
"Oh, doyouknow Mrs. Gordon?"
"She has known her since she was a child," replied Major Gascoigne. Angel sat by and marvelled. "I will accompany you myself, and put you across the bad bits. But I cannot get leave—in fact, I would not take it, the district is in such an awful condition, and I shall be obliged if you will take charge of my cousin, and hand her over to Mrs. Gordon."
"Oh, we shall be only too delighted," said Mrs. Flant. "It will be so nice all travelling together. It was quite providential our finding the bungalow."
"For me also," he replied. "I was just wondering how Angel really was to travel, and your turning up here is a piece of wonderful good luck."
Angel opened her eyes to their widest extent. Was her guardian an accomplished hypocrite? His countenance, when he had descried those two white faces peering in at the window, had expressed amazement, horror, and disgust.