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.