DINNER FOR TWO
WHILST the young lady was changing her dress Gascoigne had another
interview with his bearer, ere retiring into the damp tent to remove
his wet clothes.
"Look here," he said, "you must do all you can to make the place nice
for the Miss Sahib—tidy it up—and, I say, isn't there a lamp-shade?"
Abdullah assented with solemn complacency.
"There are no flowers, or dessert, but there's some chocolate—and see
that the cook does not spare his stores, and has an eye to the ayah and
coolies; they have all to be ready for an early start to-morrow." And
having issued these orders, he departed to his damp quarters, where he
experienced exasperating difficulties in finding his belongings, which
had been hurled into the tent pell-mell. He had no looking-glass; he
was actually obliged to do his tie at the back of his silver flask. How
a woman upset a house! As Gascoigne searched wildly for a handkerchief,
his thoughts were inhospitable—his mental expressions impassioned.
Meanwhile the bearer, thus put on his mettle, bustled about with
feverish activity; he, like all natives, thoroughly enjoyed a crisis,
an unexpected situation, a novelty, a commotion. He was also full of
resource, but here his resources were so limited he had nothing to
draw upon save his master's wardrobe, and he put it under contribution
without delay.
The old lamp-shade was gracefully draped with yards of soft red
silk—his master's cummerbund; the effect was so splendid and
stimulating that he brought forth a certain treasured red and gold
dress sash, and twisted it round the lamp with a quantity of beautiful
forest leaves. This was the table decoration, and it looked extremely
pretty and elegant. A blue military cape covered the deficiencies of a
table, a plaid railway rug draped the shabby cane lounge, Gascoigne's
two most cherished silk ties looped back the short window curtains,
and when the deft-handed Abdul had placed lighted candles in every
available spot and considered his work critically, he felt a thrill of
honest satisfaction—the warm glow of an artist who beholds his ideal
realised! The result was a transformation, and a success.
When dinner was ready, he went and knocked on the visitor's door;
it opened promptly, and the young lady appeared; such a dazzling
apparition that Abdul fell back three paces. Angel had dressed her hair
elaborately—she abjured a fringe—it was parted in the middle, and
turned back in great masses, and gathered up in a knot low on her neck,
with one or two rebellious little curls peeping over her forehead. She
wore a dark trailing skirt, and a white silk and lace blouse, with
close-fitting lace sleeves. Nor were the little decorative touches
which add so much to a toilette omitted; she wore turquoise ornaments,
a picturesque silver belt, and a band of black velvet enhanced the
whiteness of her throat. All three items gave Angel an impression
of "full dress," and Gascoigne, as he surveyed this dainty vision,
mentally did homage.
"I am rather smart—compared to what I was an hour ago," she said,
addressing her host, "and considering that I only brought one small box
with me—I left my luggage at the Junction, tons of trunks—oh, I am so
fond of my frocks!" An hereditary passion, reflected her guardian.
(As Angel talked she was furtively scrutinising Philip, who had
exchanged his wet riding kit for the irreproachable white shirt, black
tie, and dinner coat of the period.)
"You are dazzling, I admit," he exclaimed, with a smile. "I feel as if
I could only look at you through smoked glass." The girl laughed as she
seated herself and glanced round.
"What a transformation scene—how pretty the table is! Why, we might
be dining _tête-à-tête_ at Prince's, and going on to a theatre. But I
remember how clever native servants are—how they make a grand show out
of nothing."
Here Philip recognised with a gasp his wardrobe, so to speak,
decorating the table—yes, and the room.
"Especially our troupe," she continued; "Colonel Wilkinson saw to that."
"Have you any news of him?"
"Oh, yes," carefully helping herself to salt; her hands and wrists were
exquisite. "He married again years ago, a woman with no end of money.
She must have escaped from some lunatic asylum; don't let us talk of
him. Let us eat, drink, and be merry."
"You won't get very merry on soda-water," he protested. "Have some
claret?"
"I never touch it, thank you. Granny said it made one's nose red."
"And so you and Lady Augusta never hit it off after all?" he remarked.
"No; she was such a Saturday-to-Monday sort of grandmother! Always
rushing here, and there, and back again, never at home except when
she was asleep, always 'showing herself' somewhere, as she called it,
always in the movement. I did not mind until she began to drag me with
her, and insisted on showing _me_. Then she always dressed like my
twin sister. Pray, what granddaughter could tolerate that?" Angel's
expression became tragic, and Gascoigne laughed, quite a gay young
laugh.
"I assure you that granny has the ditto of this very blouse I'm
wearing; and," speaking with increased energy, "one of the last
scenes I had with her was to prevent her wearing a white muslin
gown; of course, it was drowned in lace, but imagine white muslin at
sixty-five," and she gave an impatient and despondent sigh.
"It might have been seventy in the shade," acquiesced Gascoigne,
ironically. "I'm afraid she must have been an immense responsibility. I
can sympathise with you there."
"Oh, it was not really that," and Angel's voice suddenly became the
grave utterance of a much older woman. Her eyes looked dark and tragic
as she leant a little forward and said, "It was the closed door between
us—we never spoke of my mother." Angel communicated this fact as if
she were alluding to some holy saint, and Philip, the hypocrite, bent
his head in profound sympathy. "No, never till that once," resumed
the girl. "It was the first and the last time. Our opinions were so
opposed, it was as if two furious, long-leashed creatures had been
suddenly let loose at one another's throats." After a little silence,
during which she meditatively broke up bread, Angel suddenly looked
over at her companion, and said: "Tell me, how do you like the way I do
my hair now?"
Philip gasped mentally, but brought out an adequate reply.
"Immensely—last time you wore it down your back."
"And so"—here she leant her elbows on the table, and locked her pretty
hands, and looked over them at her guardian, "you are really going to
take me down to Marwar to-morrow."
"I am really," he answered promptly, "weather permitting."
"How I hope the weather will not permit. I'd a million times rather
stay up here in the jungle, the real delightful jungle, within reach of
white bread, the post-office, and hairpins. I could sit and read, and
dream, and sketch, and ride up and down the valleys for months, and be
so happy. What a shame it is that one cannot enjoy what one _likes_."
"Unfortunately we often like what is bad for us," said her guardian
drily.
Angel drew a sigh of assent, and then resumed, "We never would have
found this place, only for one of my jampannis, whose brother is in
your service; he knew the way; was it not luck?"
"Yes," agreed Major Gascoigne. (But _was_ it?)
"The road was _nil_—in places it had slipped a hundred feet. We just
crawled along the precipices inch by inch, clinging on to roots and
branches, tooth and nail."
"I must say it was very plucky of you to come."
"Oh, I did not mind a bit," said Angel carelessly. "And so your home is
in Marwar?"
"Yes; I'm only up here on duty. There are several people you know in
Marwar."
"Really?" raising her perfectly pencilled brows.
"Mrs. Gordon, for instance."
"Yes, to whom you presented my tea-cosy. I shall certainly take it
back. Wasn't she a pretty dark-eyed woman, with a horrid old bearish
husband?"
"What a memory you have!" he exclaimed. "And there is Shafto."
"Who always hated me," making room for the bearer to remove the cloth;
"you cannot deny that." When the bearer had departed she put her elbows
on the table, and, confronting her companion, said:
"Cousin Philip, I try to speak the truth to you—and I'll speak
it now. I see that in rushing out here to you I've acted on a mad
impulse—worse, perhaps, than cutting up Mrs. Dawson's dresses. I
don't stop to think; I act; when I shop, I buy what I want, and—think
afterwards if I can afford it. I never count the cost." She paused for
breath. "I did not leave grandmamma without good-bye. I walked into her
room when she was going to bed. I wanted to catch the night _rapide to_
Marseilles, and said: 'I've come to say good-bye—as I'm off.' 'Where
to?' she screamed. 'India,' I replied. I won't repeat what she said,
but—well, she prophesied evil things. Her prophecy will not come true.
I am resolved to be prudent, and obedient. I will do whatever you
wish, but oh! cousin Phil," stretching out her pretty hands, "please
don't send me home—oh, please don't!"
"Very well, then, I won't," he replied, little knowing that he had thus
sealed his fate; but, thanks to the sorceress, he was in a condition of
mind in which to-day blotted out to-morrow.
It was an extraordinary experience. Would he awake and find he had been
dreaming? or was he really sitting _tête-à-tête_ in this lonely spot,
with the most bewitching girl he had ever seen? As he sat endeavouring
to focus his somewhat slow ideas—perhaps he was too reflective to
be quite good company—Angela rose and began to walk about the room,
critically inspecting the contents.
"I always made very free with your belongings, and your house," she
said, "and"—with a laugh—"your horse. I see several little things
that I remember so well," and she touched them as she spoke. "This
old battered blotter and ink-bottle, and the frame with your mother's
likeness—how sweet she looks." She took up the faded photograph, gazed
at it for a long time, kissed it, and put it down very gently. "I see
you have a lot of books—um—um-um—Fortifications—Mathematics—how
dry! except 'Soldiers Three' and 'Vanity Fair.' I love 'Vanity Fair,'
and, do you know," turning about with the volume in her hand, "I was
always a little sorry for Becky."
"Pooh! she would have sneered at your sympathy," rejoined Gascoigne.
"She never pitied herself."
"No, she despised herself. How I wish Dobbin had not been endowed with
such large feet, otherwise I believe he would be almost my favourite
hero."
"Only his feet stand in the way—alas! poor Dobbin."
"Yes—ah, here you have something modern," opening another book:
"La seul rêve interesse
Vive sans rêve qui est ce.
Et J'aime La Princesse Lointaine!"
she quoted; "what a swing it has! Why, it is only seven o'clock," she
announced, with one of her sudden changes of manner. "What can we do to
amuse ourselves?"
And he realised, as she looked eagerly at him, that here was a young
thing full of spirit and playfulness.
Angel, as she turned and surveyed her guardian where he still sat at
table, the rose-shaded lamp throwing a becoming light on his clear-cut,
dark face, and deep-set eyes, acknowledged with a sudden stab that here
was a man as young, attractive, and marriageable, as many of her late
admirers. The title of uncle or guardian was a ridiculous misfit.
For his part, he was wondering what he was to do with this graceful,
radiant creature, full of life, will, vitality, and imagination.
Perhaps it was just as well that she had broken away from Lady Augusta
and her pernicious influence; but where was she to live? What was he to
do with her? If he had been twenty years older.
Her question roused him, and he answered:
"I have no accomplishments whatever, and I throw myself upon your
generosity."
"Well, I am very frivolous," she acknowledged, airily; "it is in my
blood, and I know some parlour tricks." As she concluded she swept
into the next room, and presently returned carrying a gaily-beribboned
mandoline, and two packs of cards. "These were so useful on board
ship," she explained, as she sat down; "made me quite run after. Ever
so many people invited me to stay, but I told them I was coming out to
my guardian." She paused, and then coloured vividly as she recalled
the extraordinary contrast between the ideal grey-haired picture she
carried in her mind's eye, and this young and vigorous reality. As she
talked, she dealt out the cards. What pretty hands!—Gascoigne assured
himself that he was in love—with her hands. "You play cards, of
course?" she enquired, looking up at him with her direct gaze.
"Yes; whist only—strict whist, mind you; no Bumble puppy."
"Oh, that is because you belong to a scientific corps," with a shrug
of extreme commiseration. "Nevertheless, your education is far from
complete. I'll teach you euchre, poker, picquet, and ever so many good
games of patience. Here is one for two," and she began to deal and
explain.
The lesson proved so interesting that the couple were completely
absorbed, and deaf to the rising of the storm, the crashing and
clashing of trees around them, the roar of the downpour on the roof,
and the thunder of the mountain torrents.
After the cards, music. Angel took up and tuned her gay mandoline,
seated herself in a low chair, and began to play and sing. Her
voice was not powerful; it was sweet, it was delicious, and had
been admirably taught. The fair syren sang several songs to
Philip—spell-bound (as well as an enraptured audience of servants,
jampannis, and coolies, who were secretly jostling one another in the
back verandah, and among them was the ayah, who assumed the airs of a
manager who introduces to the public a wonderful "Diva" whom _he_ has
discovered).
Philip leant back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the singer; she was
giving "La Belle Napoli" with extraordinary charm and verve. What a
pretty picture she presented, with her gay mandoline, her expressive
face, her graceful pose—he would never forget this evening—never. It
seemed as if the very goddess of youth and joy had descended on his
shabby little home! Suddenly the music ended with a crash, and Angela
half rose and cried:
"Who—are those women—looking in through the window?"
Gascoigne started up as if he had been struck; he followed her glance,
and beheld a pair of weird visages glowering through the darkness. The
face of Mrs. Flant—a woman with a tongue—and the face of her sister,
Miss Ball, both acquaintances from Marwar.
These two ladies had been in desperate extremities; they had, in spite
of all advice, insisted on descending—roads or no roads—to Marwar
for a ball. Their jampannis and coolies had missed the path, night
had fallen, the storm had burst, and there they all were benighted
in the jungle. Even the hill-men were at a loss, and grunted to one
another interrogatively. One man remembered, as if by inspiration,
the engineer's bungalow, and to this, after a weary toil and many
interruptions, they made their way. There was a light—how welcome to
the poor, forlorn ladies struggling far below in outer darkness. At
last they reached the long-prayed-for shelter, crawled out of their
jampans, and looked in at the window, whilst some of their bearers ran,
shouting, to the servants' quarters. The recent and somewhat noisy
arrival was, to the inmates, drowned by the roar of the elements. The
two ladies gazed in—there was barely room for both their faces in the
little window, and this was what they saw. An extravagantly-illuminated
room, a crimson-shaded lamp on the table, cards scattered in all
directions, comfort to correspond. Major Gascoigne, in evening dress,
leaning back in his chair, smoking, listening with obvious rapture to a
pretty girl—yes, a smartly-dressed girl—a complete stranger to them,
who was evidently supremely at home, and singing to a gaily-decorated
mandoline. What a picture of dissipation! Could they believe their
eyes? Was this how Major Gascoigne, the eligible but impregnable
bachelor, spent the time when he was supposed to be deeply immersed in
his work—and his duty?
Mrs. Flant rapped her knuckles against the window pane; the summons was
imperious. Gascoigne jumped to his feet; his face was a shade graver,
as he said:
"It is some people who have lost their way."
"Why, of course, it never rains but it pours," said Angel, putting
down the mandoline with a gesture of impatience, as her cousin opened
the door and admitted the drenched wayfarers.
These entered with cold, suspicious eyes, and brought with them a gust
of icy, driving rain, which caused the lamp to flare.
"We lost our way," announced Mrs. Flant, from the depth of the prim
waterproof, "and were so thankful to see your light, Major Gascoigne. I
declare, when it came in sight I said a little prayer."
"I'm glad you managed to make me out," was his mendacious reply. "Let
me introduce Miss Gascoigne, my cousin," indicating Angel; "she will
look after you. Angel, this is Mrs. Flant and her sister, Miss Ball. I
leave them in your hands, whilst I see about their coolies and dinner."
"How cosy," said Mrs. Flant, "how—ah"—searching for an
adjective—"comfortable you are."
"Yes, a charming little—hiding-place, an ideal retreat," echoed her
sister, with peculiar significance.
"Is it not?" assented Angel, hastily gathering up the cards, and
putting away the mandoline, whilst the weather-beaten, hungry women
devoured her with their eyes.
A graceful, willow-like figure, light brown hair, dressed by a maid;
a pretty face and such lovely clothes, a French gown, turquoise
ornaments, a vague sniff of violets—an up-to-date young lady, with a
pair of extremely penetrating dark blue eyes, and a self-possession
that was at once colossal and superb.
"Do let me help you—I can lend you some dry things," she said,
ushering them into her bedroom, already made comfortable.
On the dressing-table her silver-backed brushes and mirrors were
arranged, her scent-bottles, books, dressing-gown, and slippers, all
indicated the bower of a dainty and somewhat extravagant occupant.
Angel gave practical assistance. She lent her dressing-gown and
tea-jacket—her shoes were, unfortunately, too small—she assisted her
visitors to remove their dripping garments, summoned the ayah, gave her
voluble directions, and took her departure.
The bearer, who was now positively at his wits' end with three ladies
to provide for—as well as all their retinue to house—was almost
in despair. However, he provided soup, a stew, and anchovy toast.
Meanwhile the new arrivals conferred together in hissing whispers.
"Well," said Mrs. Flant, "I would not have believed it. I'll never
trust a man again."
To which announcement her sister replied with a snort:
"Yes; and, of all people, Major Gascoigne—a sort of monk, whom all the
world believes to be a hardworking recluse, and to only tolerate women
when he comes down to Marwar. That he should have—this person—hidden
away——"
"Well, we must just put a good face on it," said Mrs. Flant
philosophically, "and be civil—any port in a storm, you know."
"Did you notice her gown?" said her sister, speaking, as it were, in
italics. "It must have cost a fortune—simple—yet so French; and look
at her dressing-case," and Miss Ball cast up her eyes in pious horror.
After the ladies had reappeared in the "person's" garments,
refreshments were brought in, to which they paid serious attention.
They partook of whiskies and sodas, began to recover from their fright
and their astonishment, and found their tongues.
"You never saw anything like the road between this and Shiram's,"
remarked Mrs. Flant.
"Oh, I think I can imagine it," replied Angel, "as I came over part of
that way this morning."
"You? Not really?" in an incredulous key.
"Yes, I only arrived a few hours before you"—the girl was obviously
speaking the truth; she was a lady—"I came out in the _Arabia_ on
Monday."
"Then the Mactears were on board?" with a judicial air.
"Yes, they were in the next cabin to us—to the friend I came out with."
"I'm afraid you won't have a favourable first impression of India,"
said Miss Ball.
"Oh, but I was born here. I was in India till I was nine years old.
Philip is my guardian, you know," and then she laughed, as she added,
"We have all taken him by storm to-day."
"But you were expected, surely?"
"No—no more than you were."
"We never heard that Major Gascoigne had a ward," remarked Miss Ball,
trenchantly.
"If you had been in Ramghur nine years ago, you would have heard all
about me. Here he comes," as Philip entered and beheld the ladies
cheered and clothed, and in a right state of mind. Evidently they were
getting on capitally with Angela, and this was important, though she
was too simple to guess at her guardian's reason for being particularly
civil to his guests. Mrs. Flant had a sharp tongue; she lived in his
station, knew all his friends, and was capable of making a very fine
story out of this evening's _rencontre_. Angel rather wondered at her
cousin's affability, and how well he talked. After a while he said:
"You three ladies had better turn in soon, as you'll have a long day
to-morrow; you will have to share the same room," he explained, "and to
rough it a good deal, I'm afraid."
"Not half as much as you in a wet tent," cried Angela.
"Oh, I'm all right. To-morrow," addressing himself to Mrs. Flant, "I
will do my best to get you on down to Khartgodam."
"You are so anxious to be rid of us," cried Miss Ball, coquettish, in
Angel's charming tea-jacket with its faint perfume of lilac.
"Oh, no, not at all, but my cousin is most anxious to get down to Mrs.
Gordon."
"Oh, do _you_ know Mrs. Gordon?"
"She has known her since she was a child," replied Major Gascoigne.
Angel sat by and marvelled. "I will accompany you myself, and put you
across the bad bits. But I cannot get leave—in fact, I would not
take it, the district is in such an awful condition, and I shall be
obliged if you will take charge of my cousin, and hand her over to Mrs.
Gordon."
"Oh, we shall be only too delighted," said Mrs. Flant. "It will be so
nice all travelling together. It was quite providential our finding the
bungalow."
"For me also," he replied. "I was just wondering how Angel really was
to travel, and your turning up here is a piece of wonderful good luck."
Angel opened her eyes to their widest extent. Was her guardian an
accomplished hypocrite? His countenance, when he had descried those two
white faces peering in at the window, had expressed amazement, horror,
and disgust.