THE PARTING GUESTS
THE morning succeeding the arrivals, and the storm, was cloudless.
There are few things more beautiful, or more treacherous, than a break
in the rains in the Himalayas. The sun shone brilliantly, the sky was
a dense turquoise blue, against which stood out a far-away range of
jagged white peaks. A stillness lay upon the deep, dim valleys beneath
the forest bungalow, there was scarcely a sound besides the twitter of
birds, and the thunder of a water-course.
Miss Ball was standing in the verandah pulling on her gloves, and
contemplating the scene. The party were on the eve of departure.
"What a delicious spot this is," she exclaimed, rapturously, to Major
Gascoigne; "isn't it perfectly lovely, Bella? I should like to come
here for my honeymoon."
"You must first get hold of the bridegroom," declared her sister in
a tart voice. Fanny's disappointments had begun to have a wearing
effect upon that lady's patience, and this early start, and the natural
apprehension of a detestable, if not dangerous journey, had somewhat
darkened her outlook on life.
"The bungalow is always at Miss Ball's disposal," replied the host
gallantly. "And now we must be getting under weigh, as we have a long
march before us."
In ten minutes the verandah was empty, the last coolie had disappeared
among the trees, Abdul, the Khansamah, free from further anxieties,
retired to his charpoy, and his huka. It proved to be a day of
thrilling adventures, of almost hair-breadth escapes. Mrs. Flant
emphatically declared that she could not face certain obstacles, but
she managed to progress, thanks to her escort's cool determination,
and ruthlessly deaf ear to her agonised exclamations. Miss Ball, on
the back of a stalwart hill-man, cut a sufficiently ridiculous figure;
she had not the nerve to skirt a certain frowning precipice on her
own feet. The path was narrow, the drop apparently fathomless, her
fears and protestations entailed twenty minutes' delay. She angrily
refused to follow her sister's example to be led across blindfolded by
Gascoigne, she simply sat in her jampan (hill-chair), and there lifted
up her voice and wept.
Whatever Major Gascoigne's mental remarks were, outwardly, he was the
personification of politeness, encouragement, and cajolery. At last
the lady was persuaded, and was hoisted on the back of a grunting
Pahari with the shoulders of an Atlas, and with her eyelids squeezed
tightly together, her long feet dangling helplessly, was safely borne
to the other side. Thus she got across one of the "bad bits." Whatever
obstacles they encountered, their leader never flinched. He worked
hard in his shirt sleeves, with his own hands; he led, decoyed, and
coaxed the two sisters and the ayah along crumbling tracks, over
water-courses, and from rock to rock amid boiling torrents. It was
the hardest day's work that he ever remembered. If a fourth clinging
coward had been on his hands, Gascoigne felt that he was bound to
succumb. But Angel, luckily for him, had no fear. She was blessed
with a wonderful head and a cool courage, was amazingly active, and
swung herself from rock to rock, from root to root, or walked along a
six-inch path precisely as if she were a Pahari maiden. Her guardian's
time being engrossed with repairs, enticements, and the charge of
three agonised companions, he had but scant opportunity of talking to
her; but once, when the worst part of the journey was behind them, the
ladies were ahead in their jampans, the two fell into one another's
society, as they passed through a forest of rhododendrons.
"Well—that's over!" said Gascoigne, as he drew a long breath, took off
his hat, and mopped his head with his handkerchief.
"You won't offer to be squire of dames again in a hurry?" said Angel,
with a mischievous laugh. "I never saw such cowards. They were as bad
as the ayah—they gibbered."
"I suppose it's constitutional," he replied; "they could not help their
feelings."
"At least they might have concealed them," rejoined the girl,
indignantly.
"Do you always conceal yours, Angel?"
"I do my best—I'm trying hard; I can with some things," she answered,
"and if I were afraid, I'd rather die than show it."
"I am quite certain of that," he replied, "but you have a stout heart,
I cannot fancy your being afraid of anything. I've a letter here for
Mrs. Gordon—will you give it to her? It will explain——" he hesitated.
"—_me_," she supplemented briskly.
"Yes, she will be delighted to have you. She is very much alone, her
husband is absorbed in his work—and they have no children."
"Is she nice?" inquired his companion.
"She is one of the best women I've ever known."
"Yet she may be extremely disagreeable," argued Angela.
"No, she is charming, and so popular. She is sympathetic, clear-headed,
and practical—everyone takes their troubles to Mrs. Gordon."
"And you are sending her your trouble by rail?"
"Nonsense, Angel, she will look upon you as a great boon, and be
infinitely obliged to me. I am sure you will like her."
"Why should you be sure?" she protested; "sometimes I like the people I
ought not to like, and don't like the people I ought to like—and there
is no dependence on me."
"What a way to talk," he exclaimed. "It will be strange if you and Mrs.
Gordon don't hit it off."
"Do you think I shall shock her—as I do you?"
"I was not aware that I was shocked. She is a good woman, who is not
narrow-minded, and her friends are many and various. Lucky is the young
man or girl, who, on first coming out, falls into her sphere. There
are very few people who have not been the better for Mrs. Gordon's
influence."
"And yet she cannot influence her own husband," Remarked Angel drily.
"He is still a bear."
"Unfortunately he is—and a grizzly bear at that," admitted Gascoigne.
"He has no interest in life beyond his work, which includes personal
ambition, a certain class of Persian love-songs—and perhaps—his
liver."
"What a mixture!" she ejaculated. "Well, I shall insist on his taking
an interest in _me_, and before long, you will hear of his spouting
Persian love-songs, as we stroll up and down among roses, and bul-buls."
Gascoigne burst into a loud, involuntary laugh, as the incongruous
picture tickled his imagination. His laugh rang down through the forest
trees, and reached the ladies, who looked at one another with peculiar
significance.
"Oh, yes," resumed Angel, "I intend to influence ursa Major; through
him I shall influence his wife; through her, I shall influence the
whole province. I shall be like a pebble thrown into a pool, whose
ripples go far;" then in a voice, "When shall you be down, Philip?"
"In three weeks or a month, and meanwhile I know, Angel, you will be
happy with Mrs. Gordon; she will introduce you to the people—and show
you the ropes."
"Oh, but I know the ropes," said Angel, kicking a pine cone before
her, "I've not forgotten my India. Kind, hospitable, intimate old
India, with your mysterious under life, your tragedies, and comedies,
and scandals. I love you still," and she paused for a moment to kiss
her hand to a distant peep of the far-away blue plains. "Can anything
be more exquisite than this view?" she continued. "Look at the ferns
and moss growing on the trees, the carpets of wild orchids, the stern
purple mountains; I should like to remain in these hills—they seem to
draw me to them. I was born in the Himalayas, you know. Well, I suppose
I must leave them," and she heaved a sigh. "It is a pity, for I feel as
if I could be so _good_ up here."
"I trust that you can be good anywhere?" said Gascoigne.
"Oh, I don't know," she rejoined. "I am so sensitive to climate. I
love the sunshine, it makes me good-natured and generous, but I always
feel so wicked in an east wind! As for my sensations in a stuffy,
three-berth cabin, with two sea-sick companions—but I spare you. By
the way, one of my fellow-sufferers, a Mrs. Farquhar, gave me an urgent
invitation to visit her at Umballa."
Gascoigne most devoutly wished that Angel had accepted this offer, and
thus given him even a few days' breathing-space.
He looked at his ward, as she walked lightly beside him. She was so
natural, so simple, yet so worldly wise; and she was distractingly
pretty—not many men would have been so painfully anxious to rid
themselves of such a companion.
She would certainly turn the heads of all the young fellows in Marwar.
What a prospect for him! Already he beheld himself at a wedding, giving
away the hand of the most lovely bride. Yes, of course, it would
not be long before Angel was carried off; she was a girl of unusual
attractions, and with this hope in his heart he became quite hilarious.
She would make a far happier marriage under his and Mrs. Gordon's
auspices than under that of her heartless and worldly old grandmother.
On second thoughts, Major Gascoigne accompanied the party the whole way
to the railway, and saw them off, although it entailed an immense ride
afterwards.
He wished to despatch a long explanatory wire to Mrs. Gordon, so that
Angel might not burst upon her as she had done on him; nor need the
child have all the awkwardness of announcing herself, and producing
her credentials. He secured tickets, saw to refreshments, baggage,
servants, and then came the taking leave of the three ladies. Angel
had half expected him to kiss her, but he merely gave her a warm
handshake. He was very funny now, so odd, and stiff, and changed, yet
just the same dear old Philip. And thus Angel set off in the little
tin-pot railway to Marwar, where she was to live under Mrs. Gordon's
chaperonage, turn the heads of all the young men, and to meet her
fate. As Philip turned his hired pony once more towards the hill, and
a thirty-five mile ride, leaving his own steed to follow, his thoughts
accompanied a party in the little black train now panting through the
Terai.
And as he regained, late at night, his now deserted bungalow, his
thoughts dwelt, as he smoked, over the extraordinary incidents of the
last twenty-four to thirty hours. What experiences had been compassed
into them, like a meat-lozenge of emotions.
As in his mind's eye, her guardian again beheld that charming child
flitting about his room; remembered her speaking and sunny eyes,
he told himself that his ward had far surpassed his expectations.
Surpassed?—his expectations had never ventured upon such an ideal, and
he made up his mind that he would be extremely difficult to please,
as her guardian, and that it was only some real good fellow who would
have his consent to marry Angel. Then he set his memory to work. He
deliberately passed all his friends, and his acquaintances, in critical
review—no, there was not one of them worthy to dust her shoes!