LOLA
SINCE Angel had left Ramghur the hot winds of three seasons had swept
over her mother's grave, killed the plants in pots, and defaced the
lettering on the cheap headstone (Mr. Shafto was in error for once.)
The dead woman who lay beneath was absolutely forgotten, even by her
dirzee, who now owned a thriving shop in the bazaar. A community
fluctuates in an Indian station more than in any part of the Empire,
and to the present inhabitants of the cantonment, the name of Lena
Wilkinson failed to conjure up any figure whatever, much less a pretty
face and an unrivalled toilette. The Ram Gunga bridge was complete at
last, and Philip Gascoigne was free; free to enjoy a year's holiday in
Europe, and the weeks and days in Angel's almanac were now crossed off
down to the one which had a big red circle drawn around it, the date
when he was due to arrive in London. To do the young man justice, after
he had called upon his tailor, his first visit was to a certain girl's
school at Wimbledon. How _distraite_ Angel had been all the morning,
secretly trembling with anticipation and agitation; and her hands
were as ice, her heart was beating in her throat, as she opened the
drawing-room door. There stood a gentleman in a long frock coat, with a
hat in his hand. He had Philip's eyes. Somehow she had always pictured
him in his khaki uniform or blue patrol jacket.
For his part, when a tall, graceful girl glided into the room, he
scarcely recognised her. But it was the old Angel who flew at him with
a cry of "Philip," flung her arms round his neck, and sobbed for joy.
Then she led him to the window, and there they scrutinised one another
exhaustively. He was but little altered, though there were lines on
his forehead, and two or three silver hairs on his temple. Angel was
naturally the most changed of the two; her thin, pinched features; her
white, dried-up skin, had given place to the bloom of health and a
delicate complexion; her blue eyes were no longer sharply suspicious,
but soft and gentle; and the hard little mouth was wreathed in happy
smiles.
Yes—Shafto was right. The child was going to be a beauty after all.
"Let me have a good look at you," said Gascoigne, he was Captain
Gascoigne now; "I want to see if I can find any trace of the old Angel?"
She coloured, and laughed, as she replied, "No—not even a goose quill,
or a pin feather. I've forgotten every word of Hindustani. I can't
dance or crack my fingers, and I hate the sight of curry. Well, what do
you think of me?" she asked, tossing back her hair with a laugh, and a
heightened colour.
"I think you have grown—at least four inches," he responded
deliberately.
"And you have grown grey," she retorted quickly; "I see some grey hairs
there above your ear."
"Then, Angel," he said, "I hope you will respect them."
"Always, always," she promised gaily. "Oh, cousin Philip, I began to
be afraid you were never coming home; I do hope you will think I have
worked well."
"I am sure of that; I felt immensely proud of your sketches, and I have
given your swagger tea-cosy to Mrs. Gordon."
"It was intended for you—and for the old red teapot," she protested.
"Far too smart for that, Angel; and I hear you are proficient in French
and dancing, and the riding master's best pupil."
"Just because I'm not afraid and always take the pulling chestnut," she
responded, "and that is only an amusement. I'm not good at German or
arithmetic. People think I am cleverer than I am."
"Oh, people do think you clever?" he said with affected surprise.
"Only" (with a blush) "the other girls."
"You and I must have some holidays together, Angel, and go up the
river, and see the pictures and do some _matinées_. I shall be in
London for a couple of months."
"Only a couple of months," she exclaimed in a tone of dismay, "and how
the time will fly—and then?"
"Then I am going to Norway to fish—and now I must be returning to
town."
* * * * *
Captain Gascoigne proved as good as his word. He frequently came
down to Wimbledon and took Angela and one of her schoolfellows to
_matinées_, picture-galleries, flower-shows, dog-shows, and concerts,
gave them tea and ices, and delivered them at home ere nightfall.
Latterly he invited Angel alone, as he became aware that she was
excessively jealous of his society, grudged every word he spoke to her
friend, and desired to have him all to herself. In spite of her gentle
and refined manners, her cultured accent and docility, he was conscious
that beneath that disguise, lived the old impetuous, forcible spirit,
who loved him with the same fierce love which she had lavished upon
her mother. The sight of this flame, when it occasionally burst out,
in a word or a glance, seriously alarmed him. He had nothing wherewith
to meet it but a cool affection, and a certain vague pride in the
pretty, charming child, the delicate rosebud that had developed out of
a wild little thorn-bush. What he could not repay in affection, Philip
endeavoured to make up in indulgence: as it was, the pair went on the
river, and to Hampton Court; he loaded her with gifts, and every one of
the other girls envied Angel her guardian. One misfortune they shared
in common: neither of them had a home. Angel was compelled to spend
her holidays at school, and he, to make his headquarters in rooms at
Duke Street. Mrs. Craven-Hargreaves was dead, Mr. Hargreaves lived in
Paris, the boys were abroad, Earlsmead was let, and Lola was the only
member of the family in England. Mrs. Waldershare was a notable beauty;
were not her full-length portraits exhibited in the Academy and the New
Gallery? She had fulfilled her husband's hopes, and proved to be a wife
to dazzle the multitude, a star of the chandeliers, of garden parties,
of race lawns, and stately receptions. Where was the Lola who cooked
blackbirds, climbed trees, and ran wild? There was no trace of her in
the capricious beauty who was admired, worshipped, and spoiled.
On a certain May morning when the Row was crowded, and the
rhododendrons were a blaze of colour, as Philip and Angela sauntered
onwards, they found themselves face to face with a party of four—two
smart guardsmen, and two brilliant ladies. One of these came to a
sudden halt, and gave a little faint exclamation, as she offered her
white gloved hand to Captain Gascoigne.
"Who would have thought of seeing you?" she drawled. "Are you in
England?"
"He is in London," burst out the old Angel with an irrepressible flash
of Ramghur, for Philip's speech was slow in coming. The other lady
tittered, and the two men took the measure of this grave stranger whom
"Mrs. Wal" had distinguished with her notice.
"I came home a month ago," he said at last.
"And who is the child?" she continued, in her leisurely voice.
"A little cousin—Angela Gascoigne."
"I never knew you had one."
"How are they all?" inquired Philip with an effort, "your father and
the boys?"
"Billy is in Egypt and Edgar in India. Haven't you come across him?"
"No; I wish I had, but India is larger than you suppose. Is your
father at Earlsmead?" he continued.
"No, he lives in Paris by preference. Earlsmead is let, and so
modernised and changed—you'd hardly know it—electric light, white
paint, Tottenham Court Road furniture. You are horrified, but I don't
mind. I shall never see it again—and besides I am modern myself," and
she laughed. "Let me introduce you to Colonel Danvers." The men bowed.
"Captain Gascoigne is a very old friend of mine," she added gaily,
"our acquaintance dates from our high chairs in the nursery." As she
talked on, Angela stood by, regarding her with close attention and a
steady stare. A stare which absorbed every item of the face before
her, the languorous dark eyes, fluffy brown hair, delicate complexion,
and flexible red mouth. She also absorbed a general impression of
an elegant toilette, with soft lace and rustling silk, and drooping
feathers, a long glittering chain, and the perfume of heliotrope. This
was Lola, hateful, cruel, heartless woman—Lola of the photograph.
"Where are you staying?" she resumed. "Oh, the Rag, I remember, is your
club. You'll come and see me, won't you, Phil?"
"Thank you," he rejoined somewhat stiffly.
"I'll look over my engagement book and drop you a line. We are blocking
up the whole place, I see. Good-bye," and she smiled, nodded, and moved
on.
Angel turned and stared after her. She watched the pale lilac gown and
black plumed hat as their wearer made a majestic progress through the
crowd, with a nod here, a bow there; at last she stepped into an open
carriage, followed by the other lady, and was whirled out of the park.
Then the child seemed to awake from a sort of trance, and realised that
her attitude was equally rude and remarkable.
"What are you doing, Angel?" inquired her cousin; "what are you
thinking of?"
"I'm——" and she glanced up at him—his face looked white, or was it
the glare?—"thinking, that I hate her."
"What on earth do you mean?" he asked sharply.
"I mean the lady in the black hat, who spoke to you—who knew you in
the nursery——" rejoined Angel in gasps. "I've seen—her before—she
is a doll—a wicked doll."
"You are mistaken, you have never seen her in your life, and she
is neither a doll, nor wicked. You should not say such things," he
remonstrated sternly.
"But I may think them," she retorted rebelliously.
"No, you may not."
"What is her name?" she asked, with a kind of sob.
"Mrs. Waldershare—I have known her nearly all my life."
They walked on for a considerable time in dead silence.
"Are you vexed with me, cousin Phil?" faltered Angel at length, and in
a faint voice. Her eyes were deep with devotion and darkened with tears.
"No, but I wish you would not take sudden dislikes to people, Angel,
and sit in judgment at a moment's notice."
"I can't help it. I make up my mind, and I like and dislike then and
there. There is—love at first sight."
"Is there? Well, you can't know anything about _that_."
"No, but I can understand hate at first sight," and she drew a long,
intense breath.
"The sooner you turn that current of thought out of your mind the
better for yourself, Angel. You should only look for good in other
people. It always pays. Come along now, and let us feed the ducks."
With respect to Captain Gascoigne's own sensations, he had been
prepared for the encounter ever since he had returned to London, and
had steeled himself to meet his former _fiancée_ with true British
self-possession. Moreover, he had caught sight of her at a theatre and
dining in a smart restaurant, so the first edge of the sharp wind had
been tempered.
In a short time he and Angel were absorbed in feeding the ducks,
oblivious of their recent little scene, and presently they went off
to lunch in Piccadilly, and "do" a _matinée_ in the Strand. This was
not the only momentous encounter that the couple experienced; within a
month a second was impending, which made a still greater impression on
them both.