CHAPTER XXA DESTROYING ANGEL
Captain Shaftowas taking tea with Mrs. Gordon in the great important looking drawing-room, which befitted the wife of a Commissioner, and future Lieutenant-Governor. She was, although five-and-thirty, a strikingly attractive woman, with sweet dark eyes, a sympathetic voice, a graceful carriage, and supreme tact. On the other hand, Billy Shafto's beauty had been somewhat tarnished by several bad "go's" of fever, a series of hot seasons in the plains, and roughing it on an Afghan campaign, but he was still good-looking, popular, and unmarried. As his hostess was about to add sugar to his tea, a telegram was brought to her by a scarlet chuprassi, and presented with a deep salaam.
She picked it carelessly off the salver, and, glancing at it, said, "It is probably from Donald to say he cannot be home till to-morrow—the new assessment is so tedious." But as she read the telegram she gave a little gasp, and said, "From Major Gascoigne. You"—and she looked at it again—"will never guess what it's about."
"Of course I can," replied Shafto with the utmost confidence; "he is going to be married, though I'm blessed if I can guess to whom—everyone tells you first, you are the Queen of Matchmakers, and the universal confidante—yes, poor Phil, gone at last."
"No, you are quite cold—try again," she said.
"Again——" he repeated, and his eyes travelled thoughtfully round the pillared room, with its immense palms, imposing mirrors, and ottomans, an awe-inspiring official room, offering dim suggestions of future receptions.
"I give it up—stop, no I don't," and he slapped his knee, "it's aboutAngel."
"Yes, you are wonderfully quick, I must say, but why did you think of her?"
"I always knew she'd give him trouble yet."
"I don't know about the trouble, but she has joined him in the hills without a moment's notice."
Shafto gave a loud laugh. "That's Angel all the world over! I was always dead against Phil taking over charge of that girl. I knew he'd be let in. Here she comes out, I'll venture to say, as wild and unmanageable as ever. What the dickens is he going to do with her?"
"Well, for the present," said Mrs. Gordon with a faint smile, "he is sending her down tome. I daresay, ultimately, he will arrange for her return to England."
"From what I remember of Angel I fancy there will be two words to that. He might place her with some family; there are no end of girls out here now, as paying guests—but it's a day after the fair. As long as she is unmarried, he will be in hot water. You never know where you are with Angel, or where she will have you."
"You seem to have a bad opinion of her, poor girl," remarked the lady.
"Well, yes—and with good reason. What does Phil say?"
"'Angela arrived yesterday unexpectedly. Am sending her to you by four o'clock train. Please meet, and receive her, and pardon P. G.'"
"Umph," muttered Shafto, as he folded up the telegram, "she will be here at ten to-morrow. Shall I meet her and bring her up? I knew her in pinafores."
"Thank you so much, for Donald expects me to be at breakfast. I will send down the carriage and a chuprassi, and have the room all ready."
"I wonder what she will be like?" said the man with a meditative air.
"A little creature with fluffy hair—rather silent and frightened," suggested the lady; and as Shafto always received whatever Mrs. Gordon said as gospel, he was searching for the counterpart of this description in the morning train. Mrs. Flant and her sister greeted him agreeably, and he explained that he had not come to meet them—but that Mrs. Gordon had sent him to receive a friend.
"Perhaps I am the individual," suggested a tall, striking-looking pretty girl; "is her name Gascoigne?"
"You don't mean to say that you are Angel?" he exclaimed, grasping her hand; "I never would have known you."
"No," rather drily, "but I recognise you. You are Captain Shafto." He coloured with pleasure, till she added, "who always so strongly disapproved of me."
"Now, there your excellent memory is at fault," was his mendacious reply, "who could ever have disapproved ofyou?" for he had fallen in love withthis smiling vision on the spot. "Let me get your luggage out—I suppose your ayah is somewhere—the carriage is here," and he bustled about, proud and important, and all the way back to the Commissioner's, as they sat opposite to one another in the roomy landau, Shafto the Scorner was feverishly endeavoring to win the smiles and good will of this exquisite and rather disdainful Angel. He was her first victim—and by no means the last.
Mrs. Gordon welcomed the traveller warmly, kissed her, took her to her best guest chamber, and sent her in arecherchébreakfast.
Meanwhile she read the epistle that was, so to speak, Angel's letter of credit. So she had escaped from her grandmother, and all the stimulating froth of modern society, and cast herself into the arms of her guardian. Poor, poor Philip! never a ladies' man—though many women found him most interesting and attractive—what was he to do, with this wild and beautiful ward?
In a surprisingly short time Miss Gascoigne had made her presence felt in Marwar. Mrs. Gordon had submitted to be enslaved; her stolid, self-engrossed husband had expressed his admiration, Shafto was her bond servant, and within a week Mrs. Gordon, popular Mrs. Gordon, had never remembered in all her experience such a rush of young men's cards and calls. Angel had unpacked her pretty toilettes—toilettes that threw her mother's home-made costumes completely into the shade—which she wore with an every-day grace. Lovely, fascinating, maddening, was the station verdict, asthey saw the girl in carriage, or on horseback; such a creature had not adorned for twenty years, and oh! what a charge for Philip Gascoigne. Meanwhile Angel revived old memories, captured the affections of Mrs. Gordon, threw out many queries respecting Philip, and embarked on a series of flirtations.
Mrs. Flant and Miss Ball at first posed to the station as her original friends and sponsors. They were important on the subject; she had been given into their care by Major Gascoigne, and it was with them that she had travelled from Khartgodam. She was a delightful companion, so amusing and so vivacious. But as days flew by a change came o'er the spirit of their dream, for among the crowd who had flocked to Angela's standard was a certain Mr. Tarletan in the D. P. W., who had sworn, or, at least whispered, allegiance to Fanny Ball. This put a completely new complexion on Angela's character. Miss Ball was some years over thirty, a slender young woman, whose admirers and good looks were visibly deserting her, and her sister was painfully anxious to see Fanny settled. Fanny had been foolish, and let so many good chances slip through her fingers; Mr. Tarletan represented the last of these; it was really a most serious matter. He had been asked to the house, lavishly entertained, and taken out to dances; he had spent a whole expensive month with the Flants in the hills, on the strength of his attentions: did the man suppose he was going to get out of that fornothing? But this mean-spirited miscreant ignored all bonds and claims, and prostrated himself at the feet of theadorable Angel. His greetings to Mrs. Flant were offhand and brief, his answers to her questions curt, his pressing engagements fictional. As he had seven hundred rupees a month, and good prospects, Mrs. Flant was not going to suffer him to escape; she accordingly turned to her most seasoned and formidable weapon—her tongue.
As soon as Mrs. Flant began to "talk" there were whispers; hitherto there were no two male opinions respecting Miss Gascoigne's beauty, her figure, her vivacity, her charm—now there were no two female opinions respecting her—reputation. Mrs. Scott had requested Mrs. Gordon in a peculiarly pointed manner, not to bring Miss Gascoigne to her dance, and Mrs. Gordon had replied with stately emphasis: "Certainly not, and I shall remain at home with my guest." Then Mrs. Scott had grown pink, red, scarlet—a Commissioner's wife is a dangerous woman to snub (in India), and Mrs. Gordon was the wife of a Commissioner. "Of course you are the last to hear the station scandal," she burst out, "and there is such a thing as being too charitable. You don't know what people are saying about Philip Gascoigne and his—ward."
"You need not hesitate. She is his ward—what more?"
"When Mrs. Flant discovered——"
"Oh, Mrs. Flant is a Christopher Columbus for—new scandals and mare's nests."
"Well, at any rate, she surprised Major Gascoigne and his ward in a lonely bungalow in the hills, perfectly happy and at home together. She says she believes they were there for weeks."
"And even so?"
"Mrs. Gordon," rising and evidently preparing to shake the dust off her feet, "if you had young people—you would never be so lax. Miss Gascoigne is pretty in a certain odd French style—she is grown up, and what is Major Gascoigne?"
"Her guardian—her mother——"
"No," interrupting wildly; "an attractive bachelor in the prime of life—many people consider him the handsomest man in the station."
"But what has that got to do with the question?"
"Oh, my dear Mrs. Gordon!" Here Mrs. Scott shrugged her shoulders, and with a dramatic "Good afternoon," stalked out of the great drawing-room. It was in the air, and in people's eyes. Mrs. Gordon felt it, and saw it, although Angel at her side, all white muslin, and smiles, was as innocent as any May-day lamb, who fails to see in the approaching figure in a blue overall—the arbiter of its fate.
Whilst the station was simmering to boiling-point, Major Gascoigne returned to Marwar, and dined at the Gordons' on the night of his arrival. He arrived late, just in time to take his partner in to dinner; it was not a so-called "Burra Khana," but merely a friendly informal affair, half-a-dozen of the station boys, a couple "passing through," Angel, and himself. As for Angel, it seemed to him that his prognostications had been fulfilled. She looked brilliantly lovely, yes, that was the adjective, her colour was like a rose, her eyes shone. She carried herself with an air, though she chattered any quantity of fascinating nonsense. She was irresistible, and all theboys bowed down before her, like the sheaves of Joseph's brethren.
He thought Mrs. Gordon looked a little worn and anxious, possibly her Indian bear had been unusually selfish and savage. Poor woman, when she married Gordon twelve years previously, a pretty, simple country clergyman's daughter, longing to see the East, and strongly recommended to the bear by his maiden aunts—he had come home to look for a wife precisely as he would for a camera or a bicycle—she little dreamt of the life that she was doomed to live, the stones for bread, the serpents for fish, and yet how she kept her sorrows to herself, what reticence, self-control, and womanly dignity; who ever heard her complain of a hard taskmaster, his iron rule, and her barren life?
After dinner Angel sang; it seemed to be expected as part of the evening's entertainment. Major Gascoigne leant against the wall in the background, and marvelled and listened. She stood behind her accompanist and facing the room, and when Angel opened her mouth to sing she still continued to look charming. She wore a white dress trimmed with shining silver, it had a low neck and long sleeves, according to the fashion; a few crimson roses were fastened in the bodice, a little chain and locket encircled her long throat; the expression of her eyes was interesting to watch—what passion lay dormant in those deep blue orbs—who would be the happy man on whom they would ultimately smile? There was no question that his ward possessed the fatal gift, and he could hardly realise that this charming, enchanting and destroying Angel was the little forlorncreature whom he had educated and befriended. He thought of her grandmother's furious letter, which had swiftly followed on the runaway; it was evidently written when the heart of the writer was hot within her. It said, "Angel is her mother's own daughter, though I was never brought into personal contact with that adventuress, who robbed me of my youngest son. It was about this woman that we quarrelled, her daughter and I; in a fury she left me, and fled to you; regardless of appearances, duty, or gratitude. I wash my hands of her absolutely, and I deplore your fate."
When the party was breaking up, Philip Gascoigne snatched a few words with his ward, who was closely invested by her admirers. They were planning a riding party for the following morning; any number of perfect horses were preferred for her selection, her usual mount being lame.
"I will send over a pretty little Arab, that will carry you perfectly," suggested her guardian.
"Thank you very much, Philip, but I've almost decided to ride Captain de Horsay's polo pony, who can't bear women, and shies when he sees one—riding him will be an experience."
"You may say so," put in Captain de Horsay's rival, "much better ride my stud bred—you'll never hold him."
"Well, I shall try, and if he bolts, he can boast that he ran away with a lady, and his character as a woman-hater will be gone. Yes, please, Captain de Horsay, I'll have Schopenhauer at half-past six."
The riding party, which consisted of Mrs. Gordon, Angel, Philip, and four men, duly came off,and though Schopenhauer ran away with the lady, she thought it great fun, but the pony's excitability and eccentricities precluded all chance of enjoying a comfortabletête-à-têtewith anyone. She was, however, an admirable horsewoman, whatever her driving might be, and the black pony had undoubtedly met his match. Gascoigne took leave of the party outside the Commissioner's bungalow, and galloped straight home. As he entered his cool sitting-room, he was rather surprised to discover the station chaplain occupying his own especial arm-chair.