ANGEL IMPARTS A SECRET
IT was the evening before Angel's departure for England. Her
luggage was carefully labelled, her roll of wraps was strapped, all
arrangements were complete. She was to travel under the neatly trimmed
wing of Mrs. Dawson, leaving Ramghur at dawn. Gascoigne had intended
accompanying his charge to Bombay, but duty could not spare him—no,
not even to escort her to the railway station; he had just received an
urgent telegram which called him away that night, and had walked over
to take leave of Angel, followed by the three. They were all pacing up
and down Colonel Wilkinson's desolate verandah, the man and child side
by side, the dogs in close attendance. It was a cool evening in the
rains, and the sun had recently set in a blaze of dramatic magnificence.
"Now, Angel," said the young man after a short silence, "you are going
to be a credit to me, I know."
"Yes, I am," she answered with superb self-confidence; "I'll do
anything you like, only tell me what I am to do."
"Think three times before you speak," he suggested.
"Oh, I shall hate that," she rejoined with a shrug.
"But you know you often blurt out things that you really don't mean,
and that get you into trouble."
"Um—yes," she admitted with a pout, "and what else?"
"Never be afraid to speak the truth."
"I'm not—not a little bit," she proclaimed.
"Mind you stick to that—it's more than most of your elders can say.
You will write to me every week, and let me know how you get on?"
"Yes; and you will answer my letters—they will be the only ones I
shall get."
"You may be sure I shall write, and the dogs, too; they shall send you
their photographs."
"Oh, Philip," she exclaimed, "how I wish you were coming home before
two long years! I shall mark off the weeks till I see you, beginning
to-morrow; and I'll save up every single one of my secrets to tell you."
"I don't think they will give you much trouble."
"Oh, won't they? I know quantities of secrets. Shall I tell you one
now?"
"Yes, if you like," he rejoined indifferently, "as long as it is your
own property; I don't want to listen to other people's affairs."
"But this one is my own, my very own—Philip. You must promise me not
to tell anyone _ever_."
"How solemn and important you look!" he laughed; "what can this mighty
secret be? Yes, I see you are panting to tell me—I promise. Now for
it."
"Then listen," she began mysteriously, "no—first come inside," and she
beckoned him to follow her into the drawing-room; then she ran to the
different half-doors and peeped furtively around, whilst her cousin
waited to hear the important disclosure with an expression of amused
toleration. What a little actress she was, darting about from door to
door! At last she came up to him, looked him straight in the face,
folded her hands, and said in a voice that quivered with triumph:
"It was _I_—who cut up Mrs. Dawson's dresses."
"What do you say?" gasped her companion, staring incredulously into the
small white face.
"She wouldn't let me go home with her, if she knew, would she?" and
Angel cracked the joints of all her fingers, native style, as if she
were letting off a succession of squibs.
"You are not in earnest, Angel?—not about the dresses?" he
expostulated, with bated breath.
"But I am," she retorted sharply; "she never asked mother to see
them—and mother cried. So I just took the dirzee's scissors and
ran out in the dusk," illustrating the action with her skinny arms,
"through your compound; then I crawled into Mrs. Dawson's verandah—I
believe the chokedar took me for a dog. No one else was watching—I
stole into her room and just cut everything to pieces. Oh, my, it was
fun—snipping the feathers, tearing the _crêpe_, and hacking away at
the satin. You should have seen the room. I was very sorry for the
pretty things—but I had to do it, and all quick, quick as lightning,
for of course if Mrs. Dawson had caught me she would have killed me.
Then I crept out, and got behind a pillar and away into the shadows,
through a hole in the wall, and home." She paused breathless with
exultation, and her listener, as he scrutinised the small, ruthless
countenance, began to realise that his responsibilities were heavier
than he anticipated, and that there was more of the imp than the angel
in his little ward.
"Why do you look so queer?" she cried suddenly. "I only did it because
I loved my mummy; I would do as much for _you_ to-morrow. Why don't you
speak?—are you shocked?"
"Yes—I should think I was. I am wondering what your mother would have
said to this," he demanded sternly.
"Oh, mummy would have scolded and pretended to be angry," she answered,
with an air of serene conviction, "but in her heart all the time she
would be _so_ glad."
And as she pronounced this opinion, she nursed her elbows and nodded
her head reassuringly.
"Well, Angel," said her cousin after a painful silence, "I would not
have believed this story from any lips but your own. I can hardly
credit what you tell me. I am sorry to find that you are different to
what I thought you were, a mischievous, vindictive, cunning child."
For an instant the little culprit looked stunned, as if she could not
believe her ears.
"Oh, Phil!" she cried in a voice of intense anguish. "Don't say it—I'm
not—I'm not—and I'm going away to-morrow, and you are angry with me.
Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do?"
And she wrung her tiny hands in a wild frenzy of grief.
"It is certainly time you went home, Angel," he returned steadily,
"and if you love me, as you say, I implore you to play no more of
these monkey tricks. I hate treacherous, underhand ways. Think of all
the damage you did. You destroyed what must have cost a great deal of
money."
"But, Phil, you don't understand," she pleaded, and tears rained down
her face; "I did all for mummy, my own mummy, and now"—her voice
rising to a wail—"she is dead, and you are angry—oh, what shall I do,
what shall I do?"
She flung herself downwards on the sofa in the abandonment of her
grief, and buried her head in the cushion.
"Come now, Angel," said her cousin, stooping over her, "don't cry like
this—your secret has given me an unexpected shock, and shown me a side
of your character that—frightens me—but," as her sobs shook her, "sit
up and dry your eyes, little girl. As this is our last evening, I will
say no more. You will be good, won't you?" he whispered, stroking her
hair.
"Yes, yes, if you will love me," and she raised herself and looked at
him with piteous, entreating eyes.
"All right, then," he agreed, "that's a bargain. I will love you if you
are good. Hullo, here comes Colonel Wilkinson."
"Oh, then," starting up, "we must say good-bye." Gascoigne sat down
beside the child, and was about to stoop and kiss her, when she flung
her arms round his neck and pressed her lips to his with the passion of
a desolate, forlorn creature who was parting, perhaps for ever, with
her only friend.
Her action was the more surprising, since she was a child who recoiled
from endearments, and coldly turned away her face when ladies would
have caressed her. As suddenly as she had embraced her cousin, she
released and pushed him from her with violence and ran out of the room.
Her stepfather, who encountered Angel in the doorway, now advanced,
rubbing his hands complacently.
"So she's quite broken down, I see. That's just her one redeeming
point—her affection for you. She has no feeling for anyone else. Just
fancy, she never expressed the smallest regret at being parted from her
dear little brothers, and when the ayah said, 'This is the last time
you will ever have tea together,' she tossed her head and said, 'So
much the better.' Can you imagine such appalling heartlessness? I tell
you candidly, Gascoigne, that you will have your hands full."
"I think not," rejoined her visitor; "not in the sense you mean—I
suppose you will be leaving before long?"
"Yes, I'm getting rid of all the big things by degrees," replied the
Colonel, "the bullock, bandy, and piano and victoria; I advertised
them, and got my price," and as he announced this gratifying fact he
seemed to swell with triumph. It was true that he had obtained double
their value for his shabby, worn-out possessions, and had administered
severe disappointments to various harmless and deluded people; in whose
nostrils the very name of Wilkinson stinks until the present day.
"I am sending some refreshments with Angel," he continued with a gust
of generosity, "hard-boiled eggs, lemonade, and biscuits. You will see
that I get the bottles and basket back from Bombay, won't you—like a
good fellow?"
"It will be rather difficult," rejoined the good fellow, wondering if
the avaricious wretch, who grudged the value of a few annas, would also
require the egg-shells. "But I'll see what can be done." After a few
words respecting luggage, labels, tickets, and, above all, an early
start, the men parted. Gascoigne strolled back to his quarters, a prey
to some anxious thoughts. What passion was embodied in the child's puny
embrace, and was it to be, as Shafto predicted, a millstone about his
neck as long as ever he lived? There was no blinking the fact, that
he had accepted a serious charge. Angel was totally apart from other
little girls of her age who cared for chocolates and dolls. She was
only interested in human puppets, in the serious things of life, her
feelings and emotions far transcended her years. She was a child in a
thousand, for good or evil. Clever, resolute, unscrupulous, secret,
yes, she was all that, but she was also devoted, unselfish, and
faithful.
Her future would be a matter of profound anxiety; fortunately the
thread of her fate lay in no hand save his own.