THE BEQUEST
ALTHOUGH the temperature was that of a bake-house, and not a breath
of air stirred the drowsy bamboos, or the long seed-pods of the bare
acacias; yet, as Mrs. Wilkinson was driven homewards, her teeth
chattered, and her hands were as cold as ice—premonitory symptoms
of a severe attack of fever. Bitterly she now blamed herself for her
folly in lingering by the riverside, and she recalled what the river's
bosom carried with a gasping shudder. Was it a warning to her? No, no;
she was but nine-and-twenty—her life was not yet half spent. She drew
the sleeping child into her arms, and oh, how warm the little creature
felt, in her own deathly cold embrace!
* * * * *
In a day or two it became widely known that Mrs. Wilkinson was
dangerously ill—hers was no mere ordinary local fever, but a really
grave case. The doctor's closed gharry drove into the corner compound
three times a day; kind neighbours came late and early, bringing ice,
jelly, and all manner of delicacies, hoping to tempt the appetite of
the invalid, and to eke out Colonel Wilkinson's meagre catering. Mrs.
Rattray, who had no family cares, took up her post in the sick-room,
and relieved a trained nurse, whilst other ladies—and this is ever
an action of fatal significance—carried off the children with their
toys, ayahs, and sleeping-cots; but Angel ran home every night and lay
on the mat outside her mother's door.
"If you move me, or touch me, I shall _scream_," such was her
diabolical threat, and as Angel was known to be a child of her word,
she was suffered to remain undisturbed. There she stayed, hour after
hour, wide awake, and motionless as a stone. In spite of all efforts
on the part of the doctor and nurses, the patient grew worse—the
fever, like an internal fire, seemed to consume the slender thread
of her existence. The verandah was now utterly deserted, even by the
dirzee; the plants were withered and black from want of water; insolent
crows promenaded over the matting, and the voices of the servants were
hushed. One could almost guess from the exterior of the premises that
the mistress of the house lay dying within. Colonel Wilkinson sat alone
in his dim little office; he had not the heart to read or write, or
even to tot up his accounts. An occasional low conference with Mrs.
Rattray or the doctor, and a spare and solitary meal, alone broke the
hot, heavy hours.
These whisperings conveyed bad news; his wife's condition was extremely
grave, and he could not hold himself blameless. Instead of investing
those six thousand rupees in jute and cotton mills, he ought to have
sent her and her children to the hills. He was face to face with his
own conscience. He confessed to himself that he was too fond of money.
Was this a case of saving money and losing life? Remorse is a stern
acquaintance, and Colonel Wilkinson blamed himself bitterly. Sad to
relate, in spite of all these searchings of heart, such is the force
of habit, and so strongly was he held by the grasp of avarice, within
half an hour of his self-condemnation Colonel Wilkinson was out in the
compound announcing to the milkman "that, now the children were from
home, one measure was sufficient;" and he took the same opportunity of
informing his cook "that a _two_ anna chicken was ample for broth."
That same evening the bulletin was more favourable; the patient
had recovered consciousness; she ceased to ramble about gores and
whalebone, dresses and debts; she slept for several hours, and in the
morning begged to see the children. Afterwards she talked for some time
with Colonel Wilkinson, and gave him two bills to settle—bills which
she would never have ventured to show him had she been in her normal
state of health.
"Please pay these, Richard," she faltered; "they have been a terrible
nightmare on my mind for months." Colonel Wilkinson pooh-poohed the
accounts, and thrust them unexamined into his pocket. His spirits
rose—he became sanguine. He declared to Mrs. Rattray that "when Lena
could think of bills she was on the mend, and he was determined to
write for a house at Mussouri by the night's post (even now he grudged
a rupee or two for a telegram) and move her at once. She would be all
right as soon as she was out of Ramghur. All she wanted was a change."
In the midst of their conference, both Colonel Wilkinson and Mrs.
Rattray were a good deal taken aback by hearing the sick woman express
a desire to speak to Philip Gascoigne.
"Gascoigne, my dear," expostulated her husband; "what an extraordinary
idea! Oh, you must not think of seeing him—it would be extremely bad
for you."
"It will be worse for me if I do not see him," she answered, with an
unexpected force. "I have something to say to him; please do not worry,
but send for him at once."
An invalid's whim must necessarily be humoured, and whilst her husband
went away to despatch a note, Lena Wilkinson desired her ayah to dress
her hair—yes, to get the irons and crimp and curl it, and then array
her in a pink satin tea-jacket, fasten a row of pearls round her
neck, and bring her her rings and bangles. Mrs. Rattray assisted at
this melancholy toilette; she was well aware of the patient's ruling
passion—a passion strong in death. There, in the open wardrobe from
which the ayah had brought the tea-jacket, hung rows of pretty gowns,
and conspicuous among them that copy of Mrs. Dawson's white silk which
she and Mrs. Wilkinson had manufactured with such mischievous enjoyment.
As soon as the dressing up of the weak and gasping moribund was
concluded, when she was propped up with pillows, her fan and
handkerchief placed beside her, she faltered out:
"Give me some of the medicine—a double dose—yes, and when Mr.
Gascoigne comes show him in at once." Then, as she looked at Mrs.
Rattray, "I wish to see him alone—on family business."
"Cannot Colonel Wilkinson——" began her friend persuasively.
But she cut her short with a quick gesture of dissent.
"Very well, dear," agreed her nurse, "I will bring him in the moment he
arrives; but promise me not to talk much, or to let him stay more than
five minutes."
"Oh, I promise nothing; it is for him to do that," panted the invalid.
"But I—won't keep him long."
When the visitor, greatly bewildered, was ushered into a large darkened
room, with a slowly moving punkah, he was prepared to see a certain
change in his cousin Lena, but he was horrified when he beheld her,
half sitting up, arrayed in pink satin and pearls, her hair elaborately
dressed, her eyes glittering with fever—death in her face. Oh, why did
Mrs. Rattray lend herself to this frightful mockery? He glanced over at
that blameless lady, who obviously avoided his eye.
"Well, Phil—so good of you to come," said the invalid in a weak voice.
"I'm a little better to-day, and I want so much to have a talk with
you."
As she concluded, Mrs. Rattray, who had placed a chair for the visitor,
stole out on tip-toe, dropping the purdah softly behind her.
"You should not talk, or see anyone, Lena," he protested, still
standing, "and I am not going to stay."
"Oh, yes, just for a few minutes," she pleaded, laying a burning hand
on his wrist, "for I have something most urgent to say to you, and
until I say it I cannot rest in peace. It is about Angel; sit down,
won't you," pointing to the chair, "and where I can see you."
Gascoigne obeyed her in silence.
"Philip," she continued, gazing at him with her wonderfully eloquent
blue eyes, "I am—going to die."
He raised his hand in a quick gesture of protest.
"No," she resumed. "Listen—you can speak for the next forty years—I
shall be dumb for ever—in a few hours. Philip, I shall die happy—yes,
quite happy—if you will promise me one thing."
He glanced at her, and bent his head.
"Will you—take charge of Angel?"
This request was succeeded by a silence only broken by the wheezy
creaking of the punkah rope. Philip Gascoigne was not naturally
impulsive, a promise from him carried its full weight. The singular
difference between Philip and his house-mate was this, that Shafto
performed less than he promised, whilst Gascoigne was ever better than
his word. He turned away his gaze from those two all-compelling tragic
eyes, looked down on the floor, and strove to rally his scattered
senses. He must immediately realise what this promise signified. It
meant that he should educate Angel, and become her guardian; there
was no one else to accept the post, as far as he could see. Tony's
relations had cast him off when he married; Lena was a penniless
orphan. There remained but Colonel Wilkinson. As he pondered the
question, the dying woman seemed to devour him with her eyes. At last
he looked up and met them steadily, and said:
"Yes, Lena, I will."
"I know I am asking an enormous favour," she whispered. "I am imposing
on your youth and generosity, but I am desperate, and to whom else
can I turn? You are the only Gascoigne I know, and you understand
that Richard and Angel could never live together. He detests her; she
loathes him. On the other hand—she loves you."
Gascoigne was about to speak, but once more she prevented him.
"It is a strange legacy to bequeath to a young man, and you are but
six-and-twenty, Phil—I am leaving in your charge a child of nine,
uneducated, undisciplined, and born and bred in India. But you are well
off—you have a private income, and she will not cost you much. Once
educated, she can earn her own living, and give you no more trouble—if
you will only tide her over the next seven years. Philip," she
continued in a louder voice, suddenly raising herself with an immense
effort, "if you will do this good action, I believe it will bring you a
great blessing—dying people see far, and I can see—that."
Here she paused, and fell back on her pillows completely exhausted.
"I will certainly carry out your wishes, Lena," he answered
impressively. "I will send Angel home, educate her, provide for her,
and watch over her always—or until she marries."
"Oh, you dear, dear fellow!" sobbed Mrs. Wilkinson, with tears running
down her sunken cheeks. "Words cannot thank you—Angel will—give
you—deeds."
"After all, she is my cousin, Lena—I have no belongings——"
"No, not yet," interposed his listener; "and it is not to every man I
would trust the child; but you are honourable and high-minded—you
will be her big brother."
"I will be her guardian; I am nearly twenty years older than she is."
"Only seventeen, Philip," corrected his cousin. "Well, at any rate,
some day Angel will repay you—I feel an inspiration to tell you this."
"But I don't want any payment, Lena."
"You have lifted a load from my heart. It would have been impossible
for Angel to have remained with Richard; they are like fire and oil,
and what would have been her fate? Oh, Philip, it is such a tender
little heart, and how she will miss me! Poor Dick, he only sees
her faults, not her good qualities. She is strong-willed, jealous,
reckless, and revengeful, but she will do anything for love. She would
die for a person she loved. Remember that love is the key to her
nature, _never_ forget that. I may confess to you now that Angel is my
favourite child, my own little fluffy-haired baby; when we two were all
alone in the world, then she was all the world to me."
"Lena," he said, suddenly leaning forward, and speaking with a touch of
passion in his voice, "you may rely on me—I will do all I can to make
her happy."
"I know you won't be stern, Philip; you will make allowances for her
odd, wild ways; you will love her a little—and oh, do forgive me for
the charge I am laying on your young shoulders."
"There is nothing to forgive—that's all nonsense, you know," he said.
"Anyway, I would have looked after Angel; I am her next of kin out
here."
"Yes, poor darling; and only for you she would be destitute indeed. I
have nothing to leave her but these," and Mrs. Wilkinson touched, as
she spoke, her pearl necklace and bangles. "Her father was lavishly
extravagant and gave me this," indicating a splendid diamond ring, "and
though often hard up, I have never parted with it. I somehow felt that
Angel had a claim on it. Let her have it when she is eighteen."
"Certainly," he answered; "but I trust you may live to wear it
yourself, Lena. Why should you not pull through?"
"Oh, I don't know—I may—I may," she faltered; "but now I have
told you my wishes I will not keep you. Good-bye," and she held out
her hand, and as he took it she turned away her face and burst into
low, agonising sobs. She had entirely exhausted her last reserve of
strength. Mrs. Rattray now entered the room and beckoned the visitor
out, saying:
"Lena is completely overwrought; she has been talking too long, but she
was so painfully anxious to see you—we could not refuse her."
The trained nurse came forward, and as Mrs. Rattray dropped the
curtain before the door of the sick-room, she looked up at Gascoigne
interrogatively.
"She wanted you to promise something," she said.
"Yes; if she should die, I am going to take charge of Angel."
The lady's face expressed the blankest amazement.
"You," she repeated—"you. Why, you are only a boy yourself."
"I am six-and-twenty, and seventeen years older than the child—a
pretty good start."
"Yes, now; but not much of a start when she grows up—and girls grow up
so fast, once they enter their teens."
"At present Angel is in single figures," he rejoined, "and small for
her age—I think I shall be able to look after her."
"Well, I must say you are very generous," exclaimed Mrs. Rattray, "and
I'm sure you have set poor Lena's mind at rest. I admire you—no, you
need not blush—for your Quixotism, but I think you have undertaken a
thankless and a dangerous task."
With these words Mrs. Rattray once more raised the purdah and
disappeared. In the drawing-room Gascoigne found Angel all alone; her
eyes looked dim; they had great purple marks round them, the result of
weeping and wakefulness. Her wan little face seemed smaller than ever,
but it was calm and tearless.
She stood for a moment gazing intently at her cousin, and nursing her
elbows, a favourite attitude. At last she said:
"Cousin Philip, do you think she is going to die?" Her face convulsed
as she asked the question, but she went on, "Answer me as if I were
grown up."
"I hope not," he replied; "your mother is very ill still, but a shade
better than she was yesterday. We will hope for the best. Would you
care to come out with me for a little turn?"
But Angel shook her head impatiently, and darted away out of sight.
* * * * *
That same evening Mrs. Wilkinson gave Mrs. Rattray full elaborate
directions respecting her funeral, and the children's mourning,
no black except sashes—they had ribbon of the exact width at
Narainswamy's—she hated the idea of a shroud, and desired to be buried
in a white dress, "_the_ white dress," she added, "since in it I caught
my death."
All these injunctions, delivered in a low voice and quiet, every-day
manner, were a severe ordeal for her friend. Presently, when Colonel
Wilkinson came in to say good-night, he was bidden a solemn good-bye.
He was much startled, agitated, and shaken, and broke down completely.
Then her mother sent for Angel, who ran in in stockinged feet, climbed
on the bed, and threw her arms tightly about her, as if she would never
release her again.
"Oh, my own poor baby," murmured the sick woman, "I am going—to leave
you."
"No, mummy," she returned breathlessly; "no, no, never!"
"I can only talk to you a little, darling, and you must listen to every
word I say," urged her mother in a whisper. "Philip will take care of
you—I have given you to him. He has promised to send you to England
and have you educated. Never forget how generous this is—always obey
him and be good. I have promised for you—I want you to be so happy."
"And oh, mummy, I only want to go with you!" was the answer in a
smothered voice.
"You will try and overcome your faults, darling—and be good for my
sake—won't you?"
"I'll be good—I'll be anything," she wailed, "only don't leave me!
Oh, mummy, mummy!" and the child clung tightly to the dying woman, and
broke into hard, dry sobs.
"Very well, darling, you shall stay," and her mother put her arm round
her as she spoke; "no one shall separate us—yet."
Colonel Wilkinson was much disturbed and incensed when he heard that,
whilst he had been dismissed with a few hurried sentences, Angel had
been suffered to pass the night on her mother's bed.
Worn out with watching and grief, the little creature had fallen into
the deep sleep of utter exhaustion, and was barely conscious as Mrs.
Rattray took her in her arms and carried her away.
When the fierce May sun rose and glared down into the corner bungalow,
Angela's mother still slumbered—but hers was the sleep of death.