INTO GARHWAL
ROCKSTONE Chotah-Bilat, the joint address of Mrs. Gascoigne and Mrs.
Waldershare, was a large well-appointed bungalow, overlooking the
prettiest side of the station, approached through a steep terraced
garden, full of great bushes of ancient geraniums, and straggling rose
trees, and flanked by a few pines.
The house was sufficiently roomy to accommodate half a dozen people;
and here the two inmates lived their separate lives, together and yet
apart. The partnership was so harmonious as to excite a certain degree
of admiration as well as envy; for it is a painful fact that these
house-sharing schemes are not invariably a success.
Mrs. Waldershare was charmed with what she termed "a Himalayan
Paradise"; her own chief friends were comfortably established at the
Casino Hotel, or the Club, and she made a number of new acquaintances.
The constant whirl of picnics, tiffins, dinners, dances, incidental to
a gay hill station, the opportunity of exhibiting her toilettes, of
living without expense, and of enjoying an occasional "game"—all this
comprised a phase of existence supremely to Lola's taste. She possessed
her own roulette board, and both board and owner were in flattering
request. The board accompanied Mrs. Waldershare to luncheon parties,
and to teas and dinners at "the Wigwam," and elsewhere. The Wigwam was
a pretty little house, occupied by a smart married couple, much given
to play of every description; their gay suppers were notorious, and
their guests might have been discovered guiltily creeping in to their
respective homes, with the dawn. Angel had not paid the usual round
of calls, or embarked on the flood-tide of entertainments. She felt
no inclination to dance, and suffered from constant neuralgia, and
depression. One or two of her friends had sought her, but she declined
their invitations; and when a lady resides in an out-of-the-way
locality, in a sequestered bungalow, and is disinclined to entertain,
or to be entertained, people in the full swing of the season have no
leisure to cultivate such a recluse—and leave her severely alone. Mrs.
Gascoigne was to be seen at church (at St. John's, in the Wilderness)
on Sunday; on week days, rambling far along the unfrequented
hill-tracks, merely accompanied by two dogs. To Angel's intimates,
Mrs. Waldershare professed a devoted attachment to the dear, sweet
girl, a keen anxiety respecting her health, and declared that she was
"just a little bit run down," all this being accompanied by effusive
encomiums. To her own circle she proclaimed that her house-mate was
"peculiar." This, with a significance that led strangers to suppose
that Mrs. Gascoigne was eccentric to the verge of imbecility. Lola's
manner to Angel was perfect. A mixture of the tender elder sister, and
the sincerely attached friend; but she and her hostess did not see
much of one another, except at breakfast. Soon after this meal, Mrs.
Waldershare's gaily-costumed jampannies (they wore black and yellow
livery, and yellow turbans) carried their charming burden away for the
whole day, she merely returning home in order to dress, or occasionally
to receive the General and Sir Capel. No apologies were necessary,
for Angel appreciated solitude, and they each went their own way; for
that was understood in an unwritten bond. But when the monsoon broke
in the middle of June, the rain descended in steady gray sheets, and
roared and battered on the zinc roof of Rockstone, there were no more
gay jaunts or excursions down into Chotah-Bilat. The six hill-men
shed their wasp-like costumes, and huddled in their brown blankets,
or "cumlies," squatted round like a huka, talking scandal and money
matters, in their quarters among the pines.
Their employer sat indoors, beside a blazing log fire, inditing sweet
little notes on a knee-pad, and knitting ties in becoming shades of
purse silk. Angel crouched on the large, square-shaped fender-stool
(which was hollow underneath, and a retreat dear to the dogs) and read,
and sewed, and talked. For a whole week these two were condemned to
a species of solitary confinement. At first, they discoursed of the
elements (how Mrs. Waldershare railed against the rains!—the life of
India), the forthcoming great fancy ball, and the Chamoli Lake. From
lake to Philip was but a short step, and by-and-by Angel found herself
listening with eager ears, to stories of her husband's childhood and
boyhood. By degrees these anecdotes were merged into tales of Philip as
a youth, as a young man—as (here Angel's interest was breathless)—a
lover.
Clever Lola drew a sketch of those four supreme years with the hand
of a true artist, permitting the listener's warm imagination to colour
and fill in the outlines. Angel contemplated the picture which her own
brain completed, with a mixture of anguish, jealousy, and despair. How
Philip had loved Lola! though Lola never once said so in plain, cold
English; but a broken-off sentence, a look, a quick sigh, imparted more
than words. And he had written to _her_ daily, whilst she, his wife,
hungered for two weeks for a line. But then, oh most exacting Angel,
there is no daily post in Garhwal; letters had to come one hundred and
fifty miles by a very casual Dâk runner.
Lola gave her companion the impression of recalling these poignant
recollections, with the deepest reluctance, and all the time the
game—which lasted for eight whole days—afforded her the keenest
enjoyment. She was as a cat playing with a mouse, and at the end of the
play her victim's heart was as lacerated as any little tortured corpse.
Angel acknowledged that she had brought this misery entirely upon
herself; her anxiety for information had led her into a very cavern of
despair. Philip still loved Lola, for according to that lady's dictum,
which she humbly accepted, "It is a law of the universe, for a man to
love one woman, and none other"; and when Lola turned her wonderful
eyes upon her—those eyes, large, mysterious, sad, and visionary—Angel
felt that she could not be otherwise than truthful and good. Oh, she
must tear that secret feeling of repulsion out of her heart, and be as
sincerely attached to Lola, as Lola was to her. She would love her, and
befriend her, loyally and faithfully—for Philip's sake.
A gleam of fine weather, a break in the rains, released the two
prisoners, and each hastened to repair to her familiar haunts; Lola
to the assembly rooms, the Wigwam, and the polo-ground, Angel to take
her walks abroad, as far as possible from the giddy throng. She longed
to see Philip again, to contemplate him from a new point of view, to
endeavour to discover his real attitude towards Lola. But perhaps he
would never tell her the truth, he could be a mystery when he chose.
Lola was, and ever would be, first in his heart, and she must make up
her mind to accept the second place. Angel was absolutely miserable,
and as she lingered on the hillsides, watching the ghostly white mists
creeping up between the mountains, and filling every ravine and valley,
till they touched the spot where she stood, and overwhelmed her, she
felt as if a great cloud from which there was no escape, had suddenly
descended upon her life.
In these days of their mistress's inaction and depression, Sam and
John offered much mute sympathy, and protection. They did not forsake
her in order to seek their own amusement—no, not even to meet their
friends and foes upon the Mall, but formed her constant bodyguard. At
night, Sam occupied the most comfortable chair in her room, whilst John
sprawled outside the door on a mat. And he never failed to rise and
bark, in order to announce the tardy return of the other lady,—for
which officious act, Mrs. Waldershare would have gladly had him
poisoned.
Early one morning in July, an imposing head overseer, two chuprassis,
and a dozen stout hill-men, were to be found assembled in front of
Rockstone. The overseer had brought a letter from "Gascoigne Sahib,"
and the lady was to start at once, before there was more rain. Angel's
heart leaped at the message, it was her order of release. She made
joyful preparations for immediate departure—indeed, these preparations
had been completed for weeks.
"And pray what is to become of poor me?" inquired Lola in a doleful
voice, "where am I to go?"
"You can stay here, till the end of our term of course," responded her
hostess.
"And the servants?"
"They can remain too—I am only taking the ayah with me."
"Then I shall ask Mrs. Lacy to keep me company," announced the guest.
"I shall be so wretched without you, you dear, sweet, unselfish girl."
And this bold lie had a flavour of the truth,—Lola would miss Angel in
many ways.
"Very well," assented her hostess, "do just what you please." She was
so anxious to depart that she was prepared to promise anything—oh
anything, in order to escape. Yes, it had come to that. As long as
she was within reach of Lola's extraordinary personal charm, she felt
benumbed, a strange, unhappy, powerless mortal. Lola's magnetism
and will force were so strong, that Angel shivered inwardly as she
realised that if her companion had exerted them to throw obstacles
in her path, she would have succumbed, and relinquished this journey
to Garhwal. But Lola was content to be left in sole possession of an
extremely comfortable bungalow,—which I regret to say, subsequently
became notorious as a gambling den; in fact, the Wigwam sank into
insignificance in comparison to Rockstone, for here the play was
higher, the seclusion unsurpassed, and the dinners (at Colonel
Gascoigne's expense) quite admirable. How little did that officer
suppose that the house which he rented, and of which he was the
ostensible master, went by the name of "The Den of Thieves."
Angel was presently carried away in her dandy, and as she reached the
shoulder of the first hill, drew a long breath—she was conscious of a
delightful sense of being released at last, of a sundering of bonds, a
recovery of her own individuality. She thoroughly enjoyed the journey,
and being borne along higher, and yet higher, into a cooler, clearer
atmosphere. First through a part of Kumaon (oh most beautiful Kumaon,
with your forests, and lakes, ravines and passes, your exquisite
glimpses of the snows, and the plains!) The party gradually left behind
them, flat-roofed houses with carved fronts, standing deep in waving
yellow crops, and jungles of dahlias and sunflowers, and surrounded by
walnut and peach trees. They encountered long strings of melancholy
pack ponies with deformed hocks, the result of their bondage from
foal time, square-faced women, wearing short heavy skirts and silver
ornaments—these latter heirlooms—and now and then a stout little
Ghoorka or a shikari. Each night Angel and her ayah halted at a dâk
bungalow, where elaborate preparations had been made for the reception
of the Engineer's mem sahib. As they advanced further into Garwhary,
they met flocks of little goats, laden with salt and borax, herded by
Bhotias—dirty-looking people with Tartar features, and greasy black
hair. The country grew stranger and sterner, they passed along the
edges of fathomless ravines, between rugged inaccessible mountains, and
Angel realised for the first time the inspiring effect of a wild and
brooding solitude, where the almost awful silence was only broken by
the muttering of her Pahari bearers, as they passed about the Huka, the
scream of a kite, or the bleating of a belated sheep.
One march out of Chamoli, Philip met the party. He seemed glad to see
Angel, not to speak of Sam and John, who had journeyed thus far in
charge of the coolies, and howled passionate protests at being carried
through such splendid sporting country. And what did they not descry,
as they were borne along? Monkeys, great lungoors, who threw stones,
and gibbered at the party—what dogs of flesh and blood could endure
such indignities!
"And how is your lake getting on?" inquired Angel; "nearly full?"
"Rising—slowly but surely. I think it will brim over in about three
weeks—perhaps less. It depends on the rains. I'm glad you've got away
all right, before the next burst, which is bound to be heavy."
"I began to despair of coming at all—and oh, I was so sick of Bilat."
"How is Lola?" he inquired.
"Very well."
"She is not sick of Bilat, I gather from your letter?"
"No—she is very gay—and in immense request."
"When does she join Edgar?"
"Possibly not at all. I think she is going to join the little baronet
in holy matrimony."
"No?" incredulously. "You are not serious?"
"At least he is anxious to marry her,—and honoured me with his
confidence."
"Oh, did he?" ejaculated her listener, and for a whole half-mile Philip
never once opened his lips, and Angel's heart was sore, she felt
convinced that he was thinking of Lola. No, on the contrary, he was
buried in a somewhat abstruse mathematical calculation connected with
the rainfall. He seldom thought of Lola—now.
"I hope you will be comfortable, Angel," he said at last, "we have run
you up a sort of little cabin, well above the water-line; some of the
fellows are in tents, and native huts."
"Why, how many are there?" she asked.
"Only three or four. Evans of the Civil Service; Hichens Jones of the
D.W.P.; young Brady of the Engineers, a boy with the richest brogue in
India."
"How nice—I love a brogue."
"Then you will certainly take to Brady. He is a bright lad—though not
very polished—and here is the Lake coming into view—look."
Angel got out of her jampan, and stood to gaze at it, where it lay
locked among the mountains. Chamoli Lake was much larger and far
more beautiful than she expected. It looked majestically still and
dignified, as if it had been lying in the lap of the mountains from
ages remote, instead of being the three months' old child of the rains
and the snows. In colour it was a wonderful limpid green, its face was
placid and inscrutable, and yet it embodied the dread of thousands.
The slip, which left a mark like a scar, had fallen from the side of a
precipitous hill, five thousand feet above the bed of the river, and
carried the rocks and débris from the right bank, across the valley,
and half-way up the hill. There, its energy expended, the mass slipped
down into the bed of the stream, forming a dam, composed of masses
of enormous rocks. Close to this barrier, but well above it, was a
telegraph station, and half a mile further on, at a point outside the
dam, and overlooking the lake, and the valley into which it would
escape, was a collection of flat stone-roofed huts, the village of
Dhuri. Further still, an encampment, a large rest house, and several
recently erected wooden huts. One of these had been reserved for Mrs.
Gascoigne, and furnished with a certain amount of rude comfort. As
she stood at the entrance of her dwelling, and surveyed the great
still lake among its towering mountains, the narrow rocky valley
with its twisting gorges, and precipitous walls, she found the scene
extraordinarily soothing to her spirit—it was so wild—so strange—and
so peaceful.
A considerable amount of life was stirring in the camp, and among
the huts. There were goats, and big Bhotia ponies, as well as
Bhotias themselves. Government officials, telegraph men, signallers,
sub-inspectors, and linesmen, also various eagerly interested
villagers. There appeared to be incessant traffic between the village,
the telegraph, post, and the encampment. Mrs. Gascoigne was elected a
member of the little Mess in the Inspection House. They were a cheery
party of six in all, who laid their hearts at the feet of this girl
resembling a white slender delicate flower (the stalk was of steel).
The new recruit's contribution of stores, newspapers, and books proved
extremely welcome, and she soon felt perfectly at home, and became the
established housekeeper and hostess of the party. Angel took a keen
interest in the action of the lake, the gradual rising of the water,
the precautions, and daily measurements and calculations. Colonel
Gascoigne, on whom lay the responsibility, locked up in that sheet
of water, was engaged continually, riding down to other telegraph
stations, inspecting cuttings, and protecting the canal works. But his
subordinate, Mr. Brady, occasionally took Mrs. Gascoigne about with
him. She explored the villages and scrambled up the mountains, rode
down the valley on a shaggy Bhotia pony; and in the exquisite mountain
air, with its slight hint of the adjacent snowy range, recovered her
colour and her spirits. One morning, as she and Mr. Brady and the two
dogs were climbing a hill in search of butterflies, he suddenly called
out, as he craned over a rock:
"By the pipers that played before Moses! I see a party below on the
road making for the camp—a lady—no less, in a dandy—and two men. We
shall be a fashionable hill station before we know where we are. Who
can they be?"
Angel stood up and leant over to survey the travellers, and controlled
her disagreeable surprise as she recognised Lola, Sir Cupid, and the
general.