THE LUCKNOW ROAD
"AND now for a good spin along the Lucknow road," said Gascoigne when
they had extricated themselves from the teeming bazaar.
Oh, Lucknow road! How many times have you resounded to the steady tramp
of armed men, the clattering of hoofs, the rumble of guns! What battles
have been fought to guard you, what nameless graves of gallant fellows
are scattered among the crops in your vicinity! But to-night all is
peace; the moon rides high in the heavens, and the whole landscape
seems flooded in silvery white. The pace at which Sally travelled
created a current of fresh air, as she sped past tombs, shrines,
villages, and between long avenues of trees. The bare, flat plains
were just forty miles from the foot of the Himalayas, and in the cold
weather the scene presented an unbroken stretch of rich cultivation.
A sea of yellow waves, wheat and barley, sugar-cane, feathery white
cotton, and acres and acres of poppies. Now the crops were gathered,
and all that remained was a barren expanse parched to a dull dusty
brown. The very trees, with their grey trunks and leafless branches,
gave the scene a bleak and wintry appearance, although the air was like
a furnace. It was a still, breathless night, save for the croaking of
frogs, or the humming of a village tom-tom, and the couple in the
dogcart were as silent as their surroundings, absorbing the swiftly
changing scene without exchanging a word, each being buried in their
own reflections. Angel's thoughts were pleasant ones; her busy brain
was occupied with visions of future triumphs—not unconnected with her
present position, and her new hat.
Gascoigne's inner self was far, far away across the sea. He was
driving with a little girl through deep country lanes, a girl then
his playfellow, later his divinity, now lost to him, and figuratively
laid in a grave and wrapped in roses and lavender. On the tombstone
the strong god Circumstance had inscribed, "Here lies the love of
Philip Gascoigne." The man was thinking of his love, the child of her
new hat, and the four-legged animal of her supper. Once or twice he
had been on the point of turning, but a piteous little voice beside
him had pleaded, "Oh, please, not yet; oh, just another mile, well,
half-a-mile," and they had passed the tenth milestone before Sally was
pulled up and her head set once more towards Ramghur.
"Oh, dear," cried Angel, coming out of a dream, "I'm so sorry we are
going back. I began to think I was in heaven."
"Upon my word, you are a funny child," exclaimed her cousin. "I don't
fancy the hot weather in the North-West is many people's notion of
Paradise."
"But there are horses and chariots there. At all events," she argued,
"the Bible says so."
"Do you read the Bible much, Angel?"
"Yes. I love the Book of Revelations, which tells all about gold and
jewels and horses. I always read it on Sundays."
"And what do you read on week-days?"
"I have not much time. I sew a good deal for mother, and there are
lessons, and going out walking with those children to the club gardens
twice a day," and she gave a little impatient sigh. Gascoigne looked
down at the small figure perched beside him, with pitying eyes, and
thought of her dreary, colourless life.
"I'm reading a book now," she announced complacently.
"And what is it called?"
"The Mysteries of Paris."
"The _what_?"
"The Mysteries of Paris," raising her thin voice. "I heard Mrs. Du
Grand telling mother it was thrilling—and so wicked. She rooted it out
of the old stock in the Library."
"It's not fit for you to read."
"Have _you_ read it?" she asked sharply.
"No, and don't want to. Does your mother allow you to read such stuff?"
"Mother does not know—she would not mind."
"I'm certain she would—it's a bad—I mean a grown-up book, and not fit
for you."
"I've only read as far as two chapters—and it's so stupid."
"Then mind you don't read more, Angel, nor any grown-up books, if you
would like to please _me_. Hullo, sit tight," he added quickly, as a
white bullock suddenly rose from beside a shrine, starting Sally out
of her wits. She made a violent spring across the road—a spring that
tested every buckle in her harness—and nearly capsized the cart. Then
she broke away into a frantic gallop, with the trap rocking at her
heels.
"No fear, Angel; you hold on to me," said Gascoigne.
"But I'm not afraid," rejoined a bold, clear voice. "I'm never afraid
when I'm with you, Philip."
"It's all right," he said presently, as Sally's racing pace slackened
and she gradually came back to her bit. "Sally is a coward; she thought
she saw a ghost."
"Yes; and it was only an old bullock," scoffed the child. "But, cousin
Phil, there _are_ real ghosts, you know."
"Where?"
"Oh," spreading out her hands, "everywhere, all over the world—in the
station—yes, and in your bungalow."
"My poor, simple Angel! Who has been cramming you with this rot?"
"The servants," she promptly replied; "and I've heard other people
talking. The cook's brother is your bearer, and yet, he would not go
into your compound after dark if you gave him one hundred rupees."
"Then he is a foolish man," pronounced Gascoigne; "not that I am likely
to offer him his price."
"They say," resumed the child, "where you keep your boxes and polo
sticks used to be the dining-room, and that servants in queer old
liveries can still be seen there."
"Then I wish to goodness they'd clean up my saddles whilst they wait.
And is that all?"
"No; an officer in uniform, a strange uniform not worn now, comes
running in with a drawn sword, and chases a pretty lady from room to
room. She wears a white muslin dress, and black satin shoes. He kills
her in the front verandah—and her screams are awful."
"Dear me, Angel, what a blood-curdling tragedy! but you don't mean to
say you believe it?"
"Oh, yes; Ibrahim says it is well known. There is another—I heard Mrs.
Jones telling it to mother, and she said she knew it was true. Shall I
go on?"
"Yes, if you like—it is quite an Indian night's entertainment."
"Well," beginning in a formal little voice, "some gentlemen were
driving up from the station; they were very late, and they saw a mess
house all lit up, and the compound packed with carriages and bullock
bandies, and they said, 'Why, it is a big ball, and we never heard a
word about it.' So they stopped on the road and looked on. They could
see right into the room, and there were crowds of people dancing—but
the strange thing was, there was not one face they knew."
"Well, I'm not surprised at that," exclaimed her listener derisively.
"Please don't interrupt—they drove on after a while——"
"They ought to have gone in to supper."
"_Philip!_" she expostulated. "Next morning they asked about the great
ball in the cavalry lines, and people thought they were joking; there
had not been a dance for weeks, but these men were quite positive, and
they rode down to have a look at the house. It had not been used for
years and years, and was crammed with rubbish and old broken furniture;
the compound was all grass and weeds, and there was not a trace or mark
of a carriage."
"And what did they make of that?" inquired Gascoigne.
"Oh, people just shook their heads, and said something about an old
story, and the mutiny, and that a great many ladies were killed in that
messhouse one night—and the servants have heaps of tales."
"I don't want to hear their tales, and I wish you would not listen to
them," he said sharply.
"Why?" with a look of bewildered injury, "how can I help it, when they
are talking all round me? The ayah's sister and her niece come in, and
bring a huka and sit on the floor of the nursery and gossip when mother
is out, and I can't sleep; they talk, ever so much, all the station
gup, oh, _such_ stories. Why are you so solemn, cousin Phil?" she asked
suddenly, gazing up at his face in the moonlight; "why are you so
grave; what are you thinking about?"
"Then I will tell you, Angel; I am thinking about _you_—it is full
time you were at home."
"So I am at home. Here we are—the gate is open. Oh, what a shy!" as
Sally executed a deep curtsey to a long black shadow.
"I mean England," giving Sally a flip; "would you not like to go there?"
"No; for I don't want to leave mother. Anyway, she cannot afford to
send me to school. She owes such a _lot_ of money; there she is on
the verandah watching for us; and oh! I am so sorry this drive is
over—thank you a million thousand times."
"I am afraid we are rather late," he called out to Mrs. Wilkinson, "but
I've brought her back safe and sound."
"Yes, thank goodness; it is after eight o'clock, and I began to be
nervous."
"I'm sorry I am behind time, but it is such a fine moonlight night, and
Angel has been telling me stories."
"Oh, she's good enough at that!" sneered Colonel Wilkinson, with
terrible significance. "Now, Angel, go off to your bed," he added
peremptorily; "the ayah has kept some cold rice pudding for you—mind
you eat it," and he waved her out of his sight. Then, turning his
attention to the child's charioteer, and refusing to notice his wife's
anxious signals, he continued, "I say, Gascoigne, if you don't mind,
you'll be late for mess!"
It was all very well for Lena to suggest his staying to share pot
luck, but Lena was not the housekeeper, or aware that the bill of fare
consisted of a little soup and some brain cutlets.
"The bugle went five minutes ago," he concluded. Gascoigne promptly
accepted the hint (not that he craved for an invitation—were not
Colonel Wilkinson's dinners notorious?) and with a hasty good-bye
immediately drove away.
Surely, this must have been one of the happiest days of Angel's
existence; her mother was prepared to find her in raptures, when she
came to see her in her cot that night. She was therefore astonished to
discover the child in tears, sobbing softly under her breath—the cold
rice-pudding untouched, and spurned.
"Darling, what is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Wilkinson anxiously. "Are
you sick?"
"No," sniffed her daughter in a lachrymose key.
"But you have not eaten your supper," she expostulated; "are you sure
you are quite well, dearie?"
"I am—quite—well."
"Then," now stirred to indignation, "do you mean to tell me, that after
your delightful drive, and all your beautiful presents, you greedy,
insatiable child, you are crying yourself to sleep?"
A heartrending sob was the sole reply to this question.
Mrs. Wilkinson's thoughts flew to her spouse; he had been particularly
impatient of Angel lately. She bent over the cot, and whispered into
the ear of the little head buried in its pillow:
"Tell me, darling, what has happened? What is the trouble—who——?"
And a muffled voice moaned like some wounded animal:
"Phil—cousin Phil—he—he——" a burst of sobs interrupted her.
"He what?" impatiently.
"Oh, mummy, he never said good-bye to me."