WHO IS SHE?
THE monsoon had broken at last, and the rain descended and the floods
came in drenching sheets. Red plains sprang to life, and became a
delicate green, frogs croaked hilariously, snakes were washed out of
their holes, sickly vegetation revived as if touched by some magician's
wand, and all the oleanders were in flower.
During the long, wet days, when nullahs were racing torrents and the
avenue a running stream—a joy to the ducks—Angel was constantly to
be found at the big bungalow, playing the _rôle_ of _enfant de la
maison_. She was permitted to wander through the empty rooms, and to
amuse herself to her heart's content. Her guardian was a good deal from
home; since the first burst of the rains had sorely tried the piers of
the new bridge over the Ram Gunga, every morning at an early hour he
wrapped himself in a mackintosh and leggings, mounted his horse, and
splashed away. Even in the afternoons Shafto and Angel frequently had
the premises to themselves; the former took but scant notice of his
companion, for ever since the "Sally episode" she had been unpardoned
and in his black books.
One afternoon he was enjoying a lazy spell, a sporting paper and
a cheroot, in the verandah; the "Imp," as he mentally called her,
was presumably amusing herself in the interior with the dogs or
the bearer's little girl—or both. He had, in fact, forgotten her
existence, and was absorbed in the weights for the Leger, when three
cold, moist fingers were laid on his cheek, and between his eyes and
the printed page was thrust a large photograph.
Naturally he started, exclaimed, and stared. Then he became conscious
that he was looking at the charming picture of a beautiful girl of
nineteen, with glorious eyes and a faint but bewitching smile. Shafto,
the ever-susceptible, seized the portrait in both hands and examined
it exhaustively. It had something to say for itself, too; across one
corner was inscribed, in a dashing calligraphy, the name "Lola." He
continued to study the face with a puzzled air, then turned and stared
at the child interrogatively.
Was this one of her mother's friends? To the best of his recollection,
he had never seen the face in Mrs. Wilkinson's drawing-room.
"Do you think she is pretty?" inquired Angel eagerly, as she met his
glance.
"Ra—ther," was his emphatic reply. "But who is she?—where the dickens
did you unearth her?"
"In Philip's room," was the unexpected response. "Oh, you need not
look so shocked, Mr. Billy Shafto," she cried audaciously; "I've not
stolen it! I was only searching for some paper to draw on—he generally
has lots—and I opened his shabby old leather box and found some. Two
lovely bits of cardboard, and in the middle—between them—this. Who
is she, do you know? Do you think—he is in love with her?" she asked
anxiously.
"I'll tell you what I do think," said Shafto, suddenly sitting erect,
"I think you ought to be well whipped."
Angel's pale face became pink to the roots of her hair.
"How dare you go and pry among Mr. Gascoigne's papers," he resumed,
"you infernal little monkey? You are a horrid, sneaking, sly little
imp."
"But what have I done?" she protested in a shrill key. "I was only
looking for something to draw on—and why shouldn't he have _one_ lady,
when you have eleven in your room? Yes, all in frames, and two of Mrs.
Giddy on your writing-table."
This was carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance!
For a moment her companion, who was now at boiling-point, struggled
desperately for composure and speech. At last he said with an effort:
"You just march back at once and put that photograph where you found
it."
As he spoke he drew the silver paper carefully over the face, as if
he would hide Philip's sweetheart from the elf's prying eyes. Angel
snatched it out of his hand with a jerk, and walked away without one
word; but she deliberately studied the photograph till she learnt the
face by heart. She learnt something more also, for as she replaced it,
on its original wrapping she read on the paper in the same bold scrawl,
"To Phil—with Lola's love."
So that was Philip's secret, thought Shafto; that was Philip's
lady-love, who, by all accounts, had chucked him. She had a lovely
face, a haunting face; what bad luck for poor old Phil!—and that
meddlesome imp had discovered his hidden skeleton, had dragged it
forth into daylight, and possibly exhibited it all round the servants'
quarters, and finally come to him and asked in her little fluting
voice, "_Who is she?_"
And here came Phil at last, in dripping condition on a dripping
horse—what a pair of drowned rats!
As soon as he had changed his clothes Gascoigne appeared in the
verandah, looked about, and said:
"Hullo, where is Angel? I thought she was coming over to make tea?"
"Oh, she has been here all right enough," rejoined his comrade grimly;
"very much here. I believe she has departed. I saw her flying across
the compound just now. Phil, that child, instead of making tea, has
been making hay in your room."
"Oh, has she?" he responded carelessly, as he lit a cheroot. "Well, she
can't do much harm there."
"I'm not so sure of that," retorted Shafto with tragic significance.
"She found the photograph of one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen,
and brought it out for information—awfully keen to know all about it."
Gascoigne jumped up suddenly, and took the cigar out of his mouth. His
face was stern as he looked fixedly at his friend.
"Billy, this is some of your chaff."
"I swear it's not," protested Shafto forcibly. "That prying imp was
rooting in your despatch box. Ah!" he concluded in a significant
undertone, as Gascoigne hurriedly left him.
After a short absence his friend returned, and resumed his seat without
one word.
"I made her put it back," continued his companion. "I always knew that
you'd be let in by that child, somehow."
"No," rejoined the other; "I let myself in—as you call it."
"You can't deny that she has made a rather brilliant beginning.
Smashing up a new dogcart, unearthing your most sacred possession, and
flaunting it round the house. What on earth are you going to do with
her?"
"I'm going to send her to school next week."
"And afterwards?"
"She will make her home with some nice family."
"Nice prospect for the nice family," remarked Shafto. "And after she
has quite done with the nice family?"
"That is far enough ahead," replied Gascoigne with a touch of
impatience. "Angel won't be grown up for years, and we may all be dead
by that time."
"Now, I call that a really cheerful way of looking at it. One thing is
certain, whoever is dead, Angel won't weep. She has no more heart than
a paving-stone."
"Why do you say that?" demanded her cousin quickly.
"Simply because it is patent to all the world that she has forgotten
her mother already. She never mentions her name——"
"That does not matter—that is no sign," argued her champion; "she
thinks more of her mother than the whole Wilkinson family put together.
The other morning, when there was a break in the rains and I was out
early, I saw a small figure staggering over towards the cemetery,
carrying a pot as large as herself. I kept behind, of course, and did
not let her see me; it was Angel, taking a plant to her mother's grave.
There's no stone up yet."
"No, nor ever will be," supplemented Shafto.
"The cemetery is more than a mile away," continued Gascoigne; "so you
will allow that it was rather a big job for a child of her age."
"Oh, yes," admitted her implacable adversary; "Angel's jobs are
generally on a large scale."
"She steals off every morning almost before light," resumed her
defender.
"What is the ayah about, to allow her to prowl at such an hour?"
"Oh, the ayah allows her to go her own way now; she can't control her,"
confessed her cousin.
"No, nor anyone else," muttered Shafto. "Look here," he added suddenly,
"I'll tell you something, Phil. That child is going to be a beauty."
"Nonsense—not she. You are mad about beauty," rejoined his friend
contemptuously.
"Yes, she is, and something out of the ordinary, too, if I am any
judge. This, I imagine, will complicate matters. Oh, my poor old boy, I
wouldn't be in _your_ shoes for a thousand pounds!"