A DESTROYING ANGEL
CAPTAIN SHAFTO was taking tea with Mrs. Gordon in the great important
looking drawing-room, which befitted the wife of a Commissioner,
and future Lieutenant-Governor. She was, although five-and-thirty,
a strikingly attractive woman, with sweet dark eyes, a sympathetic
voice, a graceful carriage, and supreme tact. On the other hand, Billy
Shafto's beauty had been somewhat tarnished by several bad "go's" of
fever, a series of hot seasons in the plains, and roughing it on an
Afghan campaign, but he was still good-looking, popular, and unmarried.
As his hostess was about to add sugar to his tea, a telegram was
brought to her by a scarlet chuprassi, and presented with a deep salaam.
She picked it carelessly off the salver, and, glancing at it, said, "It
is probably from Donald to say he cannot be home till to-morrow—the
new assessment is so tedious." But as she read the telegram she gave a
little gasp, and said, "From Major Gascoigne. You"—and she looked at
it again—"will never guess what it's about."
"Of course I can," replied Shafto with the utmost confidence;
"he is going to be married, though I'm blessed if I can guess to
whom—everyone tells you first, you are the Queen of Matchmakers, and
the universal confidante—yes, poor Phil, gone at last."
"No, you are quite cold—try again," she said.
"Again——" he repeated, and his eyes travelled thoughtfully round the
pillared room, with its immense palms, imposing mirrors, and ottomans,
an awe-inspiring official room, offering dim suggestions of future
receptions.
"I give it up—stop, no I don't," and he slapped his knee, "it's about
_Angel_."
"Yes, you are wonderfully quick, I must say, but why did you think of
her?"
"I always knew she'd give him trouble yet."
"I don't know about the trouble, but she has joined him in the hills
without a moment's notice."
Shafto gave a loud laugh. "That's Angel all the world over! I was
always dead against Phil taking over charge of that girl. I knew
he'd be let in. Here she comes out, I'll venture to say, as wild and
unmanageable as ever. What the dickens is he going to do with her?"
"Well, for the present," said Mrs. Gordon with a faint smile, "he is
sending her down to _me_. I daresay, ultimately, he will arrange for
her return to England."
"From what I remember of Angel I fancy there will be two words to that.
He might place her with some family; there are no end of girls out here
now, as paying guests—but it's a day after the fair. As long as she is
unmarried, he will be in hot water. You never know where you are with
Angel, or where she will have you."
"You seem to have a bad opinion of her, poor girl," remarked the lady.
"Well, yes—and with good reason. What does Phil say?"
"'Angela arrived yesterday unexpectedly. Am sending her to you by four
o'clock train. Please meet, and receive her, and pardon P. G.'"
"Umph," muttered Shafto, as he folded up the telegram, "she will be
here at ten to-morrow. Shall I meet her and bring her up? I knew her in
pinafores."
"Thank you so much, for Donald expects me to be at breakfast. I will
send down the carriage and a chuprassi, and have the room all ready."
"I wonder what she will be like?" said the man with a meditative air.
"A little creature with fluffy hair—rather silent and frightened,"
suggested the lady; and as Shafto always received whatever Mrs.
Gordon said as gospel, he was searching for the counterpart of this
description in the morning train. Mrs. Flant and her sister greeted him
agreeably, and he explained that he had not come to meet them—but that
Mrs. Gordon had sent him to receive a friend.
"Perhaps I am the individual," suggested a tall, striking-looking
pretty girl; "is her name Gascoigne?"
"You don't mean to say that you are Angel?" he exclaimed, grasping her
hand; "I never would have known you."
"No," rather drily, "but I recognise you. You are Captain Shafto."
He coloured with pleasure, till she added, "who always so strongly
disapproved of me."
"Now, there your excellent memory is at fault," was his mendacious
reply, "who could ever have disapproved of _you_?" for he had fallen
in love with this smiling vision on the spot. "Let me get your
luggage out—I suppose your ayah is somewhere—the carriage is here,"
and he bustled about, proud and important, and all the way back to
the Commissioner's, as they sat opposite to one another in the roomy
landau, Shafto the Scorner was feverishly endeavoring to win the smiles
and good will of this exquisite and rather disdainful Angel. He was her
first victim—and by no means the last.
Mrs. Gordon welcomed the traveller warmly, kissed her, took her to her
best guest chamber, and sent her in a _recherché_ breakfast.
Meanwhile she read the epistle that was, so to speak, Angel's letter
of credit. So she had escaped from her grandmother, and all the
stimulating froth of modern society, and cast herself into the arms of
her guardian. Poor, poor Philip! never a ladies' man—though many women
found him most interesting and attractive—what was he to do, with this
wild and beautiful ward?
* * * * *
In a surprisingly short time Miss Gascoigne had made her presence
felt in Marwar. Mrs. Gordon had submitted to be enslaved; her stolid,
self-engrossed husband had expressed his admiration, Shafto was her
bond servant, and within a week Mrs. Gordon, popular Mrs. Gordon, had
never remembered in all her experience such a rush of young men's
cards and calls. Angel had unpacked her pretty toilettes—toilettes
that threw her mother's home-made costumes completely into the
shade—which she wore with an every-day grace. Lovely, fascinating,
maddening, was the station verdict, as they saw the girl in carriage,
or on horseback; such a creature had not adorned for twenty years,
and oh! what a charge for Philip Gascoigne. Meanwhile Angel revived
old memories, captured the affections of Mrs. Gordon, threw out many
queries respecting Philip, and embarked on a series of flirtations.
Mrs. Flant and Miss Ball at first posed to the station as her original
friends and sponsors. They were important on the subject; she had been
given into their care by Major Gascoigne, and it was with them that
she had travelled from Khartgodam. She was a delightful companion, so
amusing and so vivacious. But as days flew by a change came o'er the
spirit of their dream, for among the crowd who had flocked to Angela's
standard was a certain Mr. Tarletan in the D. P. W., who had sworn, or,
at least whispered, allegiance to Fanny Ball. This put a completely new
complexion on Angela's character. Miss Ball was some years over thirty,
a slender young woman, whose admirers and good looks were visibly
deserting her, and her sister was painfully anxious to see Fanny
settled. Fanny had been foolish, and let so many good chances slip
through her fingers; Mr. Tarletan represented the last of these; it was
really a most serious matter. He had been asked to the house, lavishly
entertained, and taken out to dances; he had spent a whole expensive
month with the Flants in the hills, on the strength of his attentions:
did the man suppose he was going to get out of that for _nothing_?
But this mean-spirited miscreant ignored all bonds and claims, and
prostrated himself at the feet of the adorable Angel. His greetings to
Mrs. Flant were offhand and brief, his answers to her questions curt,
his pressing engagements fictional. As he had seven hundred rupees a
month, and good prospects, Mrs. Flant was not going to suffer him to
escape; she accordingly turned to her most seasoned and formidable
weapon—her tongue.
As soon as Mrs. Flant began to "talk" there were whispers; hitherto
there were no two male opinions respecting Miss Gascoigne's beauty, her
figure, her vivacity, her charm—now there were no two female opinions
respecting her—reputation. Mrs. Scott had requested Mrs. Gordon in a
peculiarly pointed manner, not to bring Miss Gascoigne to her dance,
and Mrs. Gordon had replied with stately emphasis: "Certainly not, and
I shall remain at home with my guest." Then Mrs. Scott had grown pink,
red, scarlet—a Commissioner's wife is a dangerous woman to snub (in
India), and Mrs. Gordon was the wife of a Commissioner. "Of course you
are the last to hear the station scandal," she burst out, "and there is
such a thing as being too charitable. You don't know what people are
saying about Philip Gascoigne and his—ward."
"You need not hesitate. She is his ward—what more?"
"When Mrs. Flant discovered——"
"Oh, Mrs. Flant is a Christopher Columbus for—new scandals and mare's
nests."
"Well, at any rate, she surprised Major Gascoigne and his ward in a
lonely bungalow in the hills, perfectly happy and at home together. She
says she believes they were there for weeks."
"And even so?"
"Mrs. Gordon," rising and evidently preparing to shake the dust off
her feet, "if you had young people—you would never be so lax. Miss
Gascoigne is pretty in a certain odd French style—she is grown up, and
what is Major Gascoigne?"
"Her guardian—her mother——"
"No," interrupting wildly; "an attractive bachelor in the prime of
life—many people consider him the handsomest man in the station."
"But what has that got to do with the question?"
"Oh, my dear Mrs. Gordon!" Here Mrs. Scott shrugged her shoulders,
and with a dramatic "Good afternoon," stalked out of the great
drawing-room. It was in the air, and in people's eyes. Mrs. Gordon
felt it, and saw it, although Angel at her side, all white muslin, and
smiles, was as innocent as any May-day lamb, who fails to see in the
approaching figure in a blue overall—the arbiter of its fate.
* * * * *
Whilst the station was simmering to boiling-point, Major Gascoigne
returned to Marwar, and dined at the Gordons' on the night of his
arrival. He arrived late, just in time to take his partner in to
dinner; it was not a so-called "Burra Khana," but merely a friendly
informal affair, half-a-dozen of the station boys, a couple "passing
through," Angel, and himself. As for Angel, it seemed to him that his
prognostications had been fulfilled. She looked brilliantly lovely,
yes, that was the adjective, her colour was like a rose, her eyes
shone. She carried herself with an air, though she chattered any
quantity of fascinating nonsense. She was irresistible, and all the
boys bowed down before her, like the sheaves of Joseph's brethren.
He thought Mrs. Gordon looked a little worn and anxious, possibly
her Indian bear had been unusually selfish and savage. Poor woman,
when she married Gordon twelve years previously, a pretty, simple
country clergyman's daughter, longing to see the East, and strongly
recommended to the bear by his maiden aunts—he had come home to look
for a wife precisely as he would for a camera or a bicycle—she little
dreamt of the life that she was doomed to live, the stones for bread,
the serpents for fish, and yet how she kept her sorrows to herself,
what reticence, self-control, and womanly dignity; who ever heard her
complain of a hard taskmaster, his iron rule, and her barren life?
After dinner Angel sang; it seemed to be expected as part of the
evening's entertainment. Major Gascoigne leant against the wall in
the background, and marvelled and listened. She stood behind her
accompanist and facing the room, and when Angel opened her mouth to
sing she still continued to look charming. She wore a white dress
trimmed with shining silver, it had a low neck and long sleeves,
according to the fashion; a few crimson roses were fastened in the
bodice, a little chain and locket encircled her long throat; the
expression of her eyes was interesting to watch—what passion lay
dormant in those deep blue orbs—who would be the happy man on whom
they would ultimately smile? There was no question that his ward
possessed the fatal gift, and he could hardly realise that this
charming, enchanting and destroying Angel was the little forlorn
creature whom he had educated and befriended. He thought of her
grandmother's furious letter, which had swiftly followed on the
runaway; it was evidently written when the heart of the writer was hot
within her. It said, "Angel is her mother's own daughter, though I was
never brought into personal contact with that adventuress, who robbed
me of my youngest son. It was about this woman that we quarrelled, her
daughter and I; in a fury she left me, and fled to you; regardless of
appearances, duty, or gratitude. I wash my hands of her absolutely, and
I deplore your fate."
When the party was breaking up, Philip Gascoigne snatched a few words
with his ward, who was closely invested by her admirers. They were
planning a riding party for the following morning; any number of
perfect horses were preferred for her selection, her usual mount being
lame.
"I will send over a pretty little Arab, that will carry you perfectly,"
suggested her guardian.
"Thank you very much, Philip, but I've almost decided to ride Captain
de Horsay's polo pony, who can't bear women, and shies when he sees
one—riding him will be an experience."
"You may say so," put in Captain de Horsay's rival, "much better ride
my stud bred—you'll never hold him."
"Well, I shall try, and if he bolts, he can boast that he ran away with
a lady, and his character as a woman-hater will be gone. Yes, please,
Captain de Horsay, I'll have Schopenhauer at half-past six."
The riding party, which consisted of Mrs. Gordon, Angel, Philip,
and four men, duly came off, and though Schopenhauer ran away with
the lady, she thought it great fun, but the pony's excitability
and eccentricities precluded all chance of enjoying a comfortable
_tête-à-tête_ with anyone. She was, however, an admirable horsewoman,
whatever her driving might be, and the black pony had undoubtedly met
his match. Gascoigne took leave of the party outside the Commissioner's
bungalow, and galloped straight home. As he entered his cool
sitting-room, he was rather surprised to discover the station chaplain
occupying his own especial arm-chair.