THE UNEXPECTED
IT was the month of September in the Himalayas, when the rains are
heaviest, landslips frequent, and whole hillsides crumble and slide
into the valley with a sound of thunder, that Major Gascoigne was
summoned up to Kumaon in order to cope with a series of disasters.
Bridges had been destroyed by racing torrents, roads were washed away;
such floods had not visited these regions for twenty years, so said the
hill folk, and traffic between the stations of Shirani and Chotah-Bilat
was practically at an end. It was not that the roads were impassable,
but that there were no roads whatever. The common route by the river
(to reach the so-called staircase) was now a boiling torrent, which
had risen in its fury and torn away pieces of the great cart road,
and dragged down and swallowed walls, buttress, bridges. Under these
circumstances, when troops were waiting to march, and most people were
moving towards the plains, transport and traffic were paralysed, and
loud was the outcry.
Major Gascoigne had taken possession of the engineers' house, a
little building far away from road and river, perched high among the
rhododendrons over the valley, consisting merely of two rooms, verandah
and cook-house, and furnished to meet the simple requirements of one
man. Philip liked the isolated spot, where he heard nothing but the
crow of the jungle cock and the roar of the water. It was one of his
favourite halting-places when he came up on inspection duty. No cell
could be more solitary, or absolutely out of the track of the world.
Here he worked at his book on fortifications, here he kept a store of
favourite authors, here he was happy; it was his asylum—his cave. The
cave was beautifully situated, and, although it commanded a sweeping
view of the neighbouring hills and distant snows, yet, to the cursory
eye, the little brown house was almost buried amid rhododendrons,
oak and tall tree ferns. The last week in September witnessed many
landslips, several accidents, and much rain. Since daybreak the
"Engineer Sahib" had been personally superintending the damming of
a fissure and the construction of a temporary bridge. Towards three
o'clock in the afternoon, tired, mud-stained, and extremely hungry, he
set his pony's head towards home. After a long _détour_ they scrambled
up the slippery, greasy path, crossed with great tree-roots, and at
last reached their destination.
Here Gascoigne gave the pony to his attendant, and called out
impatiently, "Qui hye."
Instead of the usual prompt answer to this summons, the glass door into
the verandah opened very slowly and a grey-haired ayah, in a red cloth
jacket, appeared and signed to him to be silent. But Gascoigne was not
a man to take orders from strangers in his own house, and he walked up
the steps, motioned her aside, and entered the sitting-room.
There on the shabby cane lounge was extended a fair-haired woman—a
mere girl, with one hand under her head, the other hanging limply
down, fast, fast asleep. A little cloth jacket was thrown over her
feet, a hat with wet feathers lay on his writing-table among all his
most sacred papers, and a damp umbrella dripped steadily in a corner.
Evidently a traveller who had mistaken his cave for the Dâk Bungalow.
This was Gascoigne's first idea. He looked at her a second time, and it
struck him that there was something familiar in the shape of the face,
the pencilled dark brows, the delicate nostrils, and he experienced a
sudden spasm of horror as he realised that he was contemplating—Angel!
Angel, whom he believed to be established with her grandmother in
Haute Savoy, from whom he had received a cheery letter quite recently.
Unquestionably her talent for executing the unexpected was supreme. It
bordered on the miraculous. He suddenly recalled Shafto's prophecy that
"her future course was incalculable," as he closed the door softly,
and, beckoning the ayah to a distance, said:
"Where have you come from?"
"Bombay, sahib," was her prompt reply. "Missy and one lady engaged me
two days ago, the other mem-sahib going up country. At junction, my
missy asking there, and people telling sahib no in Marwar, sahib in
jungle and all roads gone," she paused to take breath, and resumed,
"but that missy coming all the same, plenty bad way, no littley small
path for one dog, missy never fraiding, she only laugh and tell coolie
men to go on—go on—I plenty fraiding, missy only wanting to come to
sahib—soon—soon—quick."
The sahib impatiently motioned the woman away, and she swiftly
disappeared in the direction of the cook-house. Here was a pretty
business, a nice dilemma in which Angel had placed him. Major
Gascoigne, as he sat on the steps, an outcast from his own retreat, was
in what Billy Hargreaves would have termed one of his "cold" passions.
He had looked upon Angel as a solved problem—a charge made over to her
grandmother on payment of so much per annum. She sent him charming,
vivacious, and, yes, affectionate letters—such as a girl would
write to an uncle or a brother; some day he expected she would marry
(according to her grandmother, her admirers were as the sand of the sea
in multitude), and then the last fraction of responsibility would fall
from his shoulders.
Oh, why had he ever been such a cursed fool as to take the child at
all? he asked himself bitterly, but when he recalled her mother's
eyes—those eloquent, dying eyes, his heart told him the reason. He
must get rid of Angel at once, but how, when, and where? The bearer
now humbly craved his attention. He assured him that he had done all
in his power to "keep the missy out;" as he spoke his expression
became so tragic that Gascoigne was compelled to smile. As well as his
recollection served him, should that Miss wish to enter, "to keep her
out" was a hopeless task. He desired his somewhat ruffled factotum to
prepare dinner, to pitch his tent, and make him some sort of shakedown;
"the Miss Sahib" would occupy the bungalow that night, and leave early
in the morning.
It would be impossible to take Angel away that evening; the roads were
unsafe, and there was another storm brewing. As he stood watching the
clouds rolling up, and listening to the rumble of distant thunder, his
mind groping for some means of speeding this most unwelcome "Angel in
the house," a slight movement caused him to turn his head. There was
his ward in the doorway, and against the dark background she stood
forth a vision of youth, beauty, and joy. Yes, although her hair was
tumbled, and she was obviously but half awake, Angela was a sight to
make an old man young!
She came quickly towards him with outstretched hands. No, _no!_ he was
certainly not going to kiss her.
"Oh, Phil!" she exclaimed. "Dear old Phil—of course you are horrified
to see _me_," and she looked up with lovely laughing eyes into his
grave face. "But I really could not stand granny any longer—her
gambling, and her friends, and her behaviour were quite too much for
me. I just made up my mind at a moment's notice—and came away. When
I explain everything, I am as certain of your approval as that I am
standing here."
"Had you better not sit down?" said her host, dragging forward a
verandah chair.
"Thank you," sinking into it and looking about her. "How perfectly
delicious it is! Well, to go on with my story—I said to myself, why
endure this dreadful life—when I can always go to Philip? He is my
guardian, not grandmamma—so I sold my diamond ring for ninety pounds,
and came straight off. I did not wire or write, in case you might
forbid me to start. Now I'm here, of course, you cannot send me back.
Now I've come such a long, long way to find you—oh, do look a little
bit glad to see me," and she leant forward and laughed.
Angel was completely at her ease; her manner was that of a girl who had
had all men under her feet. To Major Gascoigne the world had suddenly
become topsy-turvy; this was Angel's house, he was the unexpected
interloper, the runaway ward—and her attitude represented gracious
welcome.
"Yes; but, Angel," he began, making a vague effort to withstand this
momentary vertigo, "although I am glad to see you, I am not pleased to
see you—here."
"But why not?" she asked with an air of bewildered injury. "This is my
native land—you are my legal guardian. I belong to you, and not to
grandmamma. Oh, dear cousin Philip, do be nice. We have not met for
six years—think of that—do not look so stern—please be glad to see
me. _Please_," urged this audacious and distracting creature, with the
indescribable eyes and smile.
Well, after all, Philip Gascoigne was only a man. He succumbed, he
relaxed, he threw dull care and dull disapproval from him—figuratively
tumbled them both over the khud.
"You must be starving," he said; "what would you like to have?"
"Tea, please," was the prompt reply; "and I will make it. It will be
like old times. I suppose the dear red teapot is no more?"
"Strange to say, it still exists, and is here."
"Then I shall be glad to meet it immediately; and remember, I shall
never forgive you for giving the tea-cosy to that Mrs. Gordon. You
don't know the pains it cost, the hours, and the tears, I stitched
into it—my first piece of fancy work."
No doubt the ayah had already ordered tea, it was so speedily brought
into the verandah. Angel made it, and poured it out, chattering all the
time, whilst the solemn, black, bearded servant watched her furtively
with shocked but admiring eyes. Truly, these white women were handsome,
but shameless. A quick order in fluent Hindustani caused him to start;
the old familiar tongue had run to meet Angel in Bombay—in three days
it was once more her own.
When tea was over and cleared away the young lady placed her elbows on
the table, and resting her pretty face between her hands, said:
"I know you are dying to hear all about me—and I will tell you."
"May I smoke?" inquired the master of the house.
"Certainly you may, and I will keep you company," was the startling
rejoinder, as Angel suddenly produced a pretty silver cigarette-case,
held out her hand for a match, and proceeded to light up.
"You must know"—here she blew a cloud—"if you did not guess it from
my letters, that granny and I did not hit it off. Of course my holidays
were like trial trips, and nothing really to go by; our boilers did not
explode, and we did not ram one another; but when I left Wimbledon last
Christmas, and became a permanent affliction in Hill Street, it was
different. I was too independent for granny; I did not take to racing,
or cards, or the young men of her set."
"But they took to you, by all accounts," interposed her listener.
"Oh, yes; but I soon let them see that the three-tailed Basha—pick up
my handkerchief—come when you're called—style they affected to other
girls would not go down with me. I snubbed them severely for a little
change, and they liked it; the more I snubbed them, the more they
grovelled, thankful for a word, ready to die for a smile. That is the
attitude young men should assume towards young ladies," and Angela blew
a ring of smoke, and watched it with calm approval. "When I came away,
snubbing was the latest craze—the rage."
"It would depend upon who she was," said Gascoigne. "How would it work
if the young lady were snub-nosed?"
"Oh—that is too difficult a question," said Angela with a gesture of
fatigue.
"Why were you so death on these unfortunate youths? Why did they not
meet with your approval?"
"Who could approve of creatures with a quarter of a yard of collar,
and an inch of forehead, and whose only two adjectives were 'rippin'
and 'rotten'?" demanded Angel. "Granny was vexed because I would not
afford her the glory of a fashionable wedding, for she looked upon my
obstinacy as a sinful waste of good matches. I would not marry myself,"
continued the girl imperturbably, "but I got Aunt Eva married—not
quite the same thing in granny's eyes! Oh, she _was_ furious. Her
match-making fizzled out"—extending her hand dramatically—"but mine
was a grand success."
"So Eva married the doctor after all?"
"Oh yes, an old love affair—lights like tinder," and Angel blew a
great cloud of smoke from her nostrils. "Aunt Eva was my father's
favourite sister, otherwise the butt of the family, because she was
plain, unselfish, good, and cowardly. Dr. Marsh, who attended granny,
noted her, admired her, and proposed. Eva would have been only too
madly, wildly happy to say yes, but there was an uproar in the house.
Granny nearly had a fit. She set her sisters on to talk poor Eva to
death, and Eva submitted and caved in. She was very miserable, just
granny's drudge; when I came to Hill Street I soon found that I was to
be aunt—and she niece. I advised, scolded, lectured, and comforted
her; assured her that she had her own life to live, not granny's,
who had had a very good time. In short, I raised the standard of
rebellion!" Here Angel laughed, and looked over at her companion with
mischievous and triumphant eyes.
"And there was war in Hill Street," said Gascoigne, wondering how
he was to deal with this daring insurrectionary charge, in whom the
elements were mixed indeed.
"Civil war, I should call it," she responded. "I took the poor little
love affair in hand and patched up the pieces. I scraped acquaintance
with Dr. Marsh. He is a good man, works among the poor as well as the
rich, and has a very keen sense of honour."
Gascoigne now threw away his unfinished cheroot and sat forward with
folded hands. Was he dreaming, or was he listening to little pig-tailed
Angel?
"He could not endure snubs," she continued composedly. "He had a modest
opinion of himself, and had retired into his shell. By the way," she
asked suddenly, "am I boring you? All this interested me so keenly that
I forget that it may be deadly dull to other people."
"No—no, pray go on. I am all ears, and keenly interested too."
"Well, I had a long talk with Dr. Marsh; then I met him in the Academy
by appointment. I told him I wanted him to explain a subject to me;
when he arrived Eva was with me. They were mutually surprised. I told
him the 'subject' was in the gem room—and then—I lost them. Was I not
clever?" and she laughed like a child of nine.
"Very," came the somewhat gloomy assent.
"Aunt Eva has money of her own; she is past forty, quite old. Why
should she not choose her own life, and have some little happiness
before she dies?"
"Why not indeed?" he echoed mechanically.
"Because she was so yielding, so timid, so old-fashioned, so afraid of
granny, who used the fact of her being her mother—a thing poor Eva
could not help—as a reason for making her a slave for life. But I set
her free," she announced in a clear, ringing voice. "Yes, Dr. Marsh was
at Aix; he married Eva there. I was bridesmaid, witness, everything.
They went off to spend the honeymoon in the Tyrol, and I was left to
face—grandmamma."
"But you dared not—and bolted—I see."
"No, no," indignantly. "I'm not like that. Grandmamma was furious at
first, but I talked her round in two days. Dr. Marsh is a gentleman,
cultivated, and presentable. He has a large practice. Granny began to
see reason and to calm down. It was partly over an Italian Prince that
we came to grief: Granny was so insistent, so shamelessly throwing
me at his head, I could not endure it. He got on my nerves—and so
did Aix. The dressing four times a day, the baths, the gossip, the
gambling. I said to myself, I really must get away from all this, or
I shall develop into a woman like granny. Granny can have one of the
Lorraine girls to launch into life instead of me—she is not half so
stiff-necked or headstrong."
"Are you stiff-necked and headstrong?"
"Oh, yes, so Miss Morton used to say. A friend of mine, Mrs. Friske,
heard my groans and lamentations, and said, 'Why don't you go out to
your guardian? He is elderly; your home is really with him. India is
much better than this.' We talked it all over one night—she is very
quick, clever, and impulsive—and I thought it out, and made up my
mind to leave granny. I would not have done it so suddenly, but that
one evening we had a terrible scene, oh——" and she caught her breath
sharply. "I can never forget the things she dared to say of my—mother.
We had not spoken of her before. I just packed up all my smart French
frocks, sold my ring, Mrs. Friske took my passage from Marseilles,
and away we went on board the _Arabia_. It was all so easy. We had
a delightful time—lots of nice people coming out—and Mrs. Friske
chaperoned me to Basaule Junction. In spite of the awful state of the
hills, I came on straight, the wretched ayah gibbering and screaming
behind me, for I particularly wanted to arrive before grandmamma's
letter." Angel drew a long breath, and said, "That's all—I've
finished. Now it is your turn to speak, cousin Philip. Since I am here,
what are you going to do with me?" and she looked up at him with a gaze
of amused expectation.
"I shall take you down to Marwar to-morrow," was his prompt reply, "and
as soon as the monsoon is over, send you—home."
"No, no, no, Philip," she remonstrated in a piteous key. "I won't go
back. I realise now," putting her cigarette into the ash-tray, "that
I have been—mad. I'd no idea you were so young." As she spoke she
faltered a little, and a sudden wave of colour dyed her cheeks. It was
her first and sole token of embarrassment. "You are not the grey-haired
fatherly person I expected to see. You were getting grey years ago,
and I thought—you'd be different. I've so much imagination—I've an
excellent memory. I remembered how good you were to me when I was
an odious, friendless child, and I—imagined—that you—would be
pleased—to have me."
Her lower lip quivered as she concluded, and her eyes darkened with
unshed tears. This was more than Saint Antony could have withstood.
Philip Gascoigne was amazed to hear himself saying—or surely a
stranger spoke: "Why, Angel, of course I am delighted to see you.
Your coming has taken me aback, that is all; and I am a hardened old
bachelor, not at all accustomed to young ladies."
"No, nor being turned out of your house into the wet jungle," she
supplemented with a watery smile.
"If I am not so old as you expected, you are much older than I dreamt
of. I always seem to see you in my mind's eye with a fair pigtail, and
frock just reaching to your ankles."
"If you wish, I can return to both within the hour," she rejoined with
a hysterical laugh. At this moment the ayah made her appearance round a
corner, and said in her whining voice:
"Gussal tiar, Miss Sahib."
"It's my bath," she said. "I really must go and change. I feel such a
grub ever since I left Bombay. _Au revoir_," and she sprang up, and
left her guardian to his undisturbed reflections.