A REFUGEE
IT was seven o'clock in the morning, and under the neem trees at the
far side of the parade-ground, Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Gascoigne are
walking their horses side by side. The former has completely recovered
from her sharp attack of fever, though her face is worn, and bears
the trace of suffering. She always appeared to great advantage in the
saddle, and sits her powerful black New Zealander with the ease of a
finished horsewoman. Mrs. Gordon is Irish.
Angel, looking slim and girlish, is mounted on an excitable chestnut,
stud-bred, called Carrots, who keeps snatching alternately at his
bridle, and snapping at his neighbour—although they are old friends,
were out in camp together, and have travelled many miles in company.
"I have a piece of news for you, Angel," said Mrs. Gordon. "I was
coming round to tell you, when we met. Donald has suddenly made up his
mind to go home for six months."
"Oh, Elinor! what you have been longing for the last three years. You
want a change—I am so glad—and so sorry."
"It was all thought of in the usual Indian eleventh hour scramble;
Donald finds he can get leave, and he is suddenly seized with a
desperate desire to see his book in print—the idea has been simmering
for a long time, last night it came to a boil. He wired for our
passages in the _Caledonia_ for next Friday."
"Next Friday—so soon?"
"Yes; and he has written to Alan Lindsay, telling him to meet us. He
thinks he will be so useful to him about publishing the book—and——"
"And?" said Angel, interrogatively.
"To Donald's surprise, I have decided to remain out here, and spend the
hot weather at Almora with the Byrnes."
Angel pushed back her Terai hat with her whip hand, and stared fixedly
at her friend.
"Mary Byrne is so delicate, and she has those four children to look
after—my god-child, the eldest little thing, is a cripple. No, I am
not going home."
"I believe you are right," announced Angel, after a pause; "but oh!
what a terrible disappointment—think of your people."
"I do think of them—and of many other things. I am always thinking
now. I wish to be a happy old woman—if ever I am an old woman—to try
and be faithful to my ideals, and to do my duty—nothing else matters."
"Do you believe in the doctrine of compensation? If you don't have some
things—there are others?"
"It would be a compensation, if you came to Almora, Angel."
Angel shook her head. She was engaged with her irritable young horse,
who, maddened by a fly, had broken into a mad frenzy of kicking,
culminating in two passionate buck jumps.
"He wants a good bucketing," said Mrs. Gordon; "you should take him
round the racecourse."
"I should," agreed his rider, a little out of breath, "but it's too
late this morning. Have you seen Mrs. Waldershare yet?"
"Yes; I returned her visit yesterday."
Angel's eyes instantly asked a dozen questions, in reply to which Mrs.
Gordon said: "I do not admire her."
"But don't you see that she is beautiful?"
"I see that she is a woman of the world. I can understand her
attraction for some, but I don't care for a slow, coiling manner, or
that crooked smile and drawl."
"Oh, Elinor, I've never known you so prejudiced," protested her
companion; "she sacrificed herself——"
"To marry a millionaire," interrupted Mrs. Gordon.
"And she has been so nice to me."
Mrs. Gordon glanced quickly at Angel. Where were her keen
susceptibilities? what had become of her usually sharp sight? How had
this good-looking, ingratiating, self-seeking widow managed to throw
dust in those clear eyes?
"So you don't like her," said Angel; "now I wonder why? You generally
classify people so indulgently—where would you place Mrs. Waldershare?"
"In the reptile house at the Zoo!" was the startling rejoinder. "I do
not often take a dislike to people, but when I do it is invincible." In
answer to her friend's face of blank astonishment, she continued: "I
sincerely hope you won't see much of her, Angel?"
"I cannot see much of her, even if I would, if that is any relief to
your mind, for I am going into Garhwal with Philip."
"Ah, that would not be in her trail; she would not care for roughing it
in a hut on buffaloes' milk and goats' flesh. Dear me, how vindictive I
am," she exclaimed with a laugh. "I wonder if I am growing bitter in my
old age?" Then, in a different tone, she continued: "How I shall miss
you, dear; you have been my life preserver. I was swept away into very
dark waters, which nearly closed over me. Now I have struggled back to
land, and I believe I shall see the sun once more."
"You will enjoy a great deal of sunshine yet, I hope," said Angel,
fervently.
"Reflected only," she answered, "but quite as much as I deserve. To
descend from these metaphors, this morning's sun is getting too strong,
I must go in. I'll come round and see you this evening," and, with
a wave of her whip, Mrs. Gordon turned homewards; and Angel, giving
Carrots his head at last, galloped across the parade-ground at full
speed. When she had gone more than half-way, she descried a man,
followed by two small white objects. It was Philip, returning from the
brigade office on foot. He signalled with his hand, which was full of
officials, and she charged up to him at once.
"Have your orders come?" she asked anxiously.
"No, but I expect them hourly. It is too late for you to be out this
hot morning, and high time you were up in the hills."
"Yes, in Garhwal—remember your promise, Phil."
"You may follow later, but I could not possibly take you _now_."
"Why not?"
"I shall have to make arrangements, and put up some kind of a house.
Angel, I warn you most solemnly that the life will be monotonous; you
won't like it—you have evolved an elysium out of your imagination. The
reality is—Tartar faces, Tartar fare, forbidding, barren mountains,
and a distinct flavour of central Asian squalor."
"So much the better," she answered recklessly. "I want to break new
ground, and explore a land beyond curling-pins and fashions; I am
longing for a change."
"_That_ you may certainly reckon on."
"I don't want a pretty hill station, with bands, and garden parties,
and three posts a day. I wish to get away from every one, among the
wild, bare mountains, catch the spirit of your work, and perhaps
overtake an adventure."
"Or be overtaken by one, in the shape of a bear or a landslip. Well, I
suppose you must have your way. I have arranged to rent Rockstone, the
Warings' house at the Chotah Bilat—you know it. It is very pretty and
secluded, sufficiently aloof from the madding crowd, and close to the
Colliers, who will look after you. By the end of May I shall either
come and fetch you or send a strong escort to bring you into Garhwal.
How will that suit you, Mrs. G.?"
"I suppose it will have to do," she answered, discontentedly; "but I
shall loathe being up at Bilhat by myself."
"Perhaps you can find some companion—Mrs. Gordon?"
"No, I've just been talking to her. Odin is taking six months' leave
to England, and she is going to Almora to do children's maid, and sick
nurse."
"Penance," muttered Gascoigne under his breath. "Hullo, I say—what
are _we_ overtaking?" and he pointed to a large bullock cart which had
just turned into their gate. It was heavily laden with boxes and trunks
of all shapes and descriptions. On the summit of the pile a steamer
chair was poised precariously, on which we can distinguish (though they
cannot) the name "Waldershare" in full-sized letters. A sharp-looking,
elderly maid, carrying a white umbrella, and a square green crocodile
case, followed the luggage on foot.
"Oh, some mistake," said Angel carelessly—"the wrong bungalow."
"By the way, I have a note for you," said Colonel Gascoigne, suddenly
searching among the papers in his hand. "I forgot all about it—a peon
came with it to the office; he said it was important," and as he spoke
he handed it up.
"Why, it's from Mrs. Waldershare," exclaimed Angel when she had torn
it open and glanced at the contents. She pushed her hat to the back of
her head—a trick of hers—pulled Carrots to a standstill, and read it
aloud.
"DEAR ANGEL—You will be a good Angel to me, and take me under your
wing, when I tell you that there is a case of small-pox in the hotel
compound, a disease of which I have an unspeakable horror. I know
you have an empty spare room and I am sure that Philip would not like
to feel that his old playmate was enduring misery and risking danger.
I have packed and sent off my luggage. Do please say I may come at
once.—Your terrified, LOLA."
"Well?" said Angel, as she concluded, and looked down into Philip's
eyes.
"Of course your terrified Lola must come at once; we will send the
carriage over for her. I had no idea there was small-pox in the
station. The sooner you are off the better."
"And pray, what can I do with Mrs. Waldershare?" she inquired, stuffing
the note into her saddle pocket.
"Oh, she is bound to have made her own plans. By Jove, here she comes
in one of the hotel victorias."
* * * * *
After hastily welcoming her guest, Mrs. Gascoigne hurried away to make
her arrangements for Lola, her maid, and her belongings, leaving the
two old playfellows _tête-à-tête_ in the verandah. Mrs. Waldershare
was suitably dressed in a cool white cambric, and a shady hat; a great
bunch of heliotrope was stuck in her belt. Her face was pathetically
pale, and her dark eyes were tragic, as she turned to her host and
said, with a quick, dramatic gesture:
"Oh, it is too bad of me to take you by storm in this way, but I am
such a miserable coward; though if anything did happen to me, there is
no one to care now," and her voice sank. "It is such a misfortune that
Edgar is on the march, and here I am, left adrift."
"You must not talk like this, Lola," interrupted Philip. "I am glad you
came to us,—you know you are welcome here. Don't trouble your head,
but make yourself at home. Angel will be delighted to have you. We were
only saying a few minutes ago that she must have a companion when I go
away."
"Oh," with a little gasp, "when are you going?"
"In a day or two, on duty into Garhwal, and Angel will be all by
herself, at any rate, until she goes to the hills."
* * * * *
An hour later, Mrs. Waldershare, having seen her dresses unpacked, her
odds and ends arranged, and written off half-a-dozen notes—announcing
her change of address—dismissed Tile, her maid, and threw herself down
on a lounge with a sigh of inexpressible satisfaction.
Yes, she had managed it capitally, taken the position at a rush—"now
established here," and she glanced round the comfortable bedroom;
"here" she determined to remain.
"_J'y suis et j'y reste_," she murmured to herself with a smile. What
had become of the pale, distraught, excited, and apologetic Lola?
Philip was perfectly right when he declared that Lola was certain to
have made her plans, but if he had been an accomplished thought-reader,
and been able to fathom them, his surprise would have been unbounded.
Mrs. Waldershare's small supply of funds was ebbing rapidly; to
live in a suitable style, which includes a maid, a carriage, and
constant little dinners, costs a considerable sum even in India; and
at hotels, of course, it is a matter of ready money. The last week's
bill had proved a disagreeable surprise; the manager had thrown out
hints respecting late parties, and declared that other residents had
complained of loud talking, and carriage wheels, at unusual hours.
Mrs. Waldershare's reply was extremely dignified and crushing, but she
realised that it was time to execute a fresh manœuvre. People were
beginning to talk of moving to the hills; what was to become of her?
Moneyless, friendless, abandoned on the plains? Edgar had written
such a cool letter, announcing that he was sending his wife home, and
spending the hot weather in Seetapore, where, if she liked, Lola could
join him. In one sense, there could hardly be a warmer invitation! But
this scheme did not commend itself to his sister, who lay with her eyes
half-closed lazily contemplating her castles in the air. The Gascoignes
were wealthy and liberal (so every one said); generosity undoubtedly
begins with old friends. She would lay herself out to cultivate
Angel—she would be cautious; she resolved to walk, so to speak, on
tip-toe, so as never to awaken the young woman's dormant jealousy,
which she instinctively felt would be easily aroused. She and Philip
would be on "brother and sister," "old friends" footing; indeed, Philip
was now so cool, so detached, so indifferent, she could hardly bring
herself to believe that he had ever been her lover, and that she might
have been his wife for years and years, the mistress of this charming
house. No, she and this Philip would never have assimilated; he was
much too masterful, too strait-laced, and too austere.
She would play her cards carefully, with Angel; there must be fewer
cigarettes, and French novels, and _no_ roulette. As the older and more
experienced woman, she would influence her, and once they were alone,
she would gradually assume the lead, gain her confidence, and learn
her secrets; later on, accompany her to the delightful little chalet
that she heard had been rented in the hills, mix with the gay throng,
and marry. Possibly little Cupid—unless she could do better,—and
return home, Lady Tudor. All this would cost her nothing but a little
care, a little flattery, and a certain amount of invention. With
these satisfactory arrangements in her mind, Mrs. Waldershare's eyes
gradually closed, and she fell asleep into a deep and refreshing
slumber.
Before proceeding further, it may as well be stated that the small-pox
scare proved to be completely unfounded and was subsequently traced to
Mrs. Waldershare's ayah, who waited on that lady's lady's-maid.