ANGEL

"A woman is a foreign land

Of which, though there he settle young,

A man will ne'er quite understand

The customs, politics, and tongue."

The Angel in the House.

ANGEL
A SKETCH IN
INDIAN
INK
By B. M. CROKER
Author of "Beyond the Pale,"
"Infatuation," etc.
NEW YORK
Dodd, Mead & Company
1901
R

Copyright, 1901,
By Dodd, Mead & Company.
THE BURR PRINTING HOUSE,
NEW YORK.

DEDICATED TO
A. PERRIN

CONTENTS

ANGEL

CHAPTER I
"PATIENCE ON A GATE"

It was the middle of March in the North-West Provinces, and the hot weather had despatched several heralds to Ramghur, announcing its imminent approach. Punkahs were swinging lazily in barrack rooms, the annual ice notice had made a round of the station, many families had quitted the sweltering cantonments for the misty Himalayas, and the brain fever bird had arrived! Moreover, the red-capped tennis boys were on half-pay, the polo ground was abandoned, the club reading-room had cancelled all the ladies' papers, and its long dim verandah presented a melancholy vista of empty chairs.

Outside in the gardens, and all over the district, cork trees, acacias, and stately teak upheld their naked branches, as if in agonised appeal to a pitiless blue sky, whilst their leaves, crisp and shrivelled, choked the neighbouring nullahs, or were chased up and down the dusty plains and roads by a howling hot wind.

At a corner where two of these roads met, and about a mile from the club, stood a large irregular bungalow, with a thatched roof and walls of a vivid pink complexion, as if it were blushing—as well it might—for its straggling and neglected compound. The gate of this was closed, and through its wooden bars a white-faced shabby little girl was gazing intently. Otherwise the premises appeared to be deserted; the servants were presumably smoking and gossiping in the bazaar, the stables were empty, the very dogs were out. No, there was not a living creature to be seen, except a couple of quarrelsome crows and this solitary child. Although Angel Gascoigne had elevated herself by standing on the second rung of the gate, she was unable to lean comfortably on the top bar, but peered below like some caged creature, for she was remarkably small for her age. Indeed, if any of her acquaintance had been suddenly called upon to name it, they would have answered, "Oh—Angel! She is about six." Nevertheless, it was nine years, and long, long years to Angel, since she had come into the world in a damp little bungalow in distant Dalhousie.

She wore a limp cotton frock, a pinafore to correspond, black stockings, much darned at the knees, and shapeless sand shoes ludicrously large for her fairy feet. Her arms and head were bare, the latter covered with a mane of sun-bleached locks; her face was small, pinched, and prematurely wise, but the features were delicate, and the whole countenance was illuminated by a pair of painfully wistful blue eyes. The child's pose was touching. She looked exactly what she was—forlorn, desolate, and neglected. For a whole hour she remained motionless at her post, and while she watched and waited, various vehicles had passed; among these, a large landau containing two languid women propped up with cushions and waving date leaf fans. They smiled and nodded affably to Angel, and as they rolled slowly by, young Mrs. Gordon said to the lady who was taking her for an airing:

"There is that poor child of Mrs. Wilkinson's. What a weird little face! It is positively disgraceful the way she is overlooked and left to servants."

"Yes," agreed her companion. "The result of her mother's second marriage. Colonel Wilkinson is wrapped up in his bank-book and his boys. Mrs. Wilkinson is wrapped up in her clothes. I do believe that woman's heart is composed of a reel of cotton, and unfortunate Cinderella is left in the kitchen—there is no fairy godmother for her. She ought to have been sent home years ago," continued Mrs. Jones, with the authority of one who is dealing with her friend's expenditure.

"There is no doubt of that," assented Mrs. Gordon, a very pretty Irish girl who had recently come to India as the wife of a civilian. "Some one told me the other day that Angel is twelve years of age."

"Oh, dear no," replied Mrs. Jones, with a touch of irritation, "I remember when she was born. I remember her mother when she came up to Simla, such a lovely girl, and that is not more than ten years ago. She had a host of admirers, and of course she took the least desirable; handsome, penniless, reckless Tony Gascoigne. They could not have done worse, either of them, if they had tried."

"And now since he is dead, and his widow has married again, it seems to me that it is poor little Gascoigne who suffers for that foolish match," declared the other lady. "The child should be at school—if only the money was forthcoming."

"But with Colonel Wilkinson's economies, and Lena Wilkinson's extravagances, there is not much prospect of that," rejoined Mrs. Jones, and the subject dropped.

The landau was succeeded by a smart victoria, in which was seated a stiff-backed lady in a dainty muslin gown. This was Mrs. Dawson, the Judge's wife, who vouchsafed no notice of Angel beyond a glance of stern disapproval. Next came an ekka packed with chattering native women, who laughed and made merry signals to the little figure on the gate, but the child took no notice of their blandishments, her face still retained its expression of rigid expectation. At last she stirred, there was a faint sound of muffled hoofs in the sandy lane which bordered the compound wall, and in another moment two men on horseback came into sight. These were comrades, who chummed together in a dilapidated bungalow at the back of Colonel Wilkinson's abode. The slight dark man, riding a few paces in advance, was Philip Gascoigne, a Royal Engineer, reputed to be the owner of the hardest head and the softest heart in the station. His companion, following on a flea-bitten grey, was Wilfred Shafto, subaltern in a crack regiment of native cavalry, a loose-jointed, long-legged youth, whose curly locks, gay blue eyes, and admirable profile, went far to justify his nickname of "Beauty Shafto." Besides his good looks, Shafto was endowed with an exuberant vitality and a stock of animal spirits, that even the hot weather failed to subdue. Both he and his chum were popular in the cantonment, being keen soldiers, cheery comrades, and, above all, good fellows; but Shafto only was a universal favourite, for he was a ladies' man. Yet, strange to say, it was not Shafto but Gascoigne who reined up in order to speak to the little girl at the gate. He merely gazed, grinned, and jeered, saying, "Hullo, a case of confined to barracks, young 'un!—in disgrace again, eh? I say, there's a five-act tragedy in that face, Phil. Don't be late for rackets," and shaking up his old Arab, he heartlessly cantered away.

"Well, Angel, what's the meaning of this?" inquired Gascoigne, leaning over his pony's neck. "Not in trouble, I hope?"

The child raised her great eyes to his, and slowly shook her head.

"Then what is the matter?" he repeated. "What have you been doing now?"

"I've not been doing anything," she protested in a clear but woeful treble. "Mother and Colonel Wilkinson have gone to Dolly Tollemache's birthday party, and taken all the children—but—I had"—here two crystal tears escaped from her long lashes—"no hat."

"Poor little soul!" exclaimed Gascoigne, "that was bad luck. What happened to your hat?"

"Beany threw it in the tank, and oh—I wanted to go so much." Her voice rose to a pitiful wail as she added, "Dolly is my friend—and there was a bran pie."

"And I am your friend as well as Dolly, am I not?" he urged.

"Oh, yes," and she gazed up at him with swimming eyes. "Of course—you are my cousin Philip—but you don't live with me, and I am so miserable," she faltered. "The servants push me about, and the children pinch me, and Colonel Wilkinson calls me a liar and—a little devil."

Here she broke down and, resting her head on her skinny arms, sobbed hysterically.

"He did not mean it, Angel," protested her cousin. "I am sure Colonel Wilkinson was not in earnest; he is a kind-hearted man, and looks the soul of good humour."

"Looks!" she flashed out furiously. "Yes, and he is good-humoured with the children, but you should see him when the bearer brings his account, or when a shop bill comes in. I wish you saw his looks then! And he hates me. Only this morning he said I was a viper on his hearth and a curse. Oh," with another outburst, "I wish I was dead—like my own father."

Gascoigne dismounted hastily and putting his hand upon her shoulder, said, "Come, Angel, this is very bad. You are a silly child, and imagine things—it's all the hot weather, and you are feeling a bit slack and out of sorts. You will soon be up in the hills, gathering pine cones and orchids."

"No, indeed I shan't," she rejoined, as she raised her head and confronted him with an expression of despair on her small tear-stained face. "Mother says she can't afford it this year. She is going to send baby to Mrs. Browne, but we must all stay down. Oh, how I hate Ramghur," and her eyes roved over their brick-coloured, dusty surroundings, "I wish I was dead."

"My poor Angel! this is melancholy news. Why should you cut yourself off at the age of nine? I hope you have a long and merry life before you."

"Why should I live?" she demanded fiercely, "no one wants me."

"Don't you think your mother wants you?"

"No," she answered breathlessly in gasps, "she has the children—she would never miss me. They went off in the bullock bandy, so dressed up and noisy, Pinky in mother's own blue sash, all going to enjoy themselves, and not one of them even looked back. The servants are at a funeral, and I've been alone the whole evening."

This pitiful tale was illustrated by a pathetic little face streaming with tears.

"Now then, listen to me, Angel," said the young man, impressively, "I believe you've been running about in the sun, and have got a touch of fever, and besides, you take things too much to heart."

"No I don't," she answered passionately, "everyone says I have no heart—and no one cares for me."

"That's bosh," he protested, "your mother cares—and so do I." Here he stooped, and dried her tears with his own handkerchief.

"Do you really, cousin Phil?" suddenly seizing his hand with her hot nervous fingers. "Really—not make-believe?"

"I never make-believe—really."

"Then—I am—glad," and now the elf clasped his arm, and looked up at him fixedly, "for I do love you, as much as mother, yes, and more than the whole big world."

"That's a large order, my child," stroking her cheek. "You have not seen the world yet—you won't repeat that in ten years' time. And now I must be off, or I shall be late. Look here," speaking from the saddle, "I'll come over to-morrow, and ask your mother if I may take you for a drive. How will that be, eh?"

"Not," clapping her hands ecstatically, "with Sally Lunn!"

"Why not with Sally, and for a good ten mile spin into the country beyond the railway."

"Oh, how splendid. And it's moonlight, too. I shan't sleep one wink for thinking of to-morrow."

"In that case I warn you, I shall leave you behind," he announced as he gathered up his reins. "Cheer up, Angel, and don't let me hear any more about dying. Good-bye," and wheeling his impatient pony, he turned her head towards the maidan, and galloped away over the flat parade ground which lay between the bungalow and the club, raising as he went a cloud of red dust.

Angel stood motionless staring after him, till a huge peepul tree hid him from her gaze. "A drive in his beautiful dogcart," she said to herself, "with its dark blue cushions and red wheels, and crazy Sally, the fastest trotter in Ramghur. Phil never took grown-up ladies for a drive—yet she was invited—she hoped he would go right through the bazaar so that everyone might see them! The Wallace children and that sneering Dodd boy. How delicious! But what was she to do for a hat?" As she stood pondering this momentous question, with an old, care-worn expression on her child's face, a fat ayah suddenly appeared near the bungalow and shrieked out in Hindustani:

"Missy Angel—what you doing there? Come away from the road, oh shameless one! Wicked child, without hat or topee. Supper is ready, come therefore at once. Think of what the Colonel Sahib will say if he sees thee thus."

This shrill invocation was all delivered in one breath. When it had concluded, the child turned about, slipped off the gate, and with unexpected alacrity ran up the drive, and was presently swallowed by the shadows of a long verandah.

CHAPTER II
IN THE VERANDAH

Before the station clock had chimed six the following morning, every soul in the Wilkinsons' bungalow was astir. The portly head of the house, clad in lily-white drill, and mounted on a lily-white charger, had ambled off at daybreak, to preside over the cantonment rations. In the long west verandah, the bamboo blinds were already down in order to keep out the blinding glare, and behind these "chicks" the entire family was assembled. Three podgy, pasty-faced children were solemnly playing at bazaar, and buying, selling, and chaffering, in ludicrous but unconscious imitation of their elders. The fourth was a mere spectator in the arms of the fat ayah who with her understudy kept order among the infants. Occasionally a shrill exclamation, a whimper, or a howl, arose from their corner, but taking them en masse, Beany, Pinky Tod, and Baba were unemotional and well-behaved infants. They ate well, slept well, and conducted themselves sedately. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that they were not fair to see, but then we all know that it is better to be good than beautiful. A painful illustration of this axiom was beside them, in the shape of their half-sister Angel, who with puckered brows and compressed lips, was labouring away at a handsewing machine, and turning out yards of faultlessly hemmed frills. She was pretty, all the ladies said so—indeed, she said so herself—but even the dog boy was aware that Missy Angel was not good, did not want to be good, and made no secret of the terrible fact. Angel assured her brothers that it was a thousand times nicer to be wicked. She would not eat cold curry, she refused to go to bed at seven o'clock, she laughed at her kind papa, and sang when the ayahs scolded her.

Not far from Angel squatted the dirzee, a thin, grave-eyed man in spotless white clothes and turban. He was holding a piece of muslin between two of his toes, and cutting down a neatly marked crease with a pair of gigantic scissors. This was Kadir Bux, a capable workman, and Mrs. Wilkinson's much coveted treasure. Nor was Mrs. Wilkinson herself idle, although she reclined on a long cane lounge, propped up with cushions. She was intently occupied in trimming a smart evening bodice. One glance proved sufficient, to assure us that the lady was clever with her fingers, for she turned and twisted the lace with the audacious familiarity of a practised hand. It is said, that could they but discover it, everyone is endowed with a special gift; there are thousands of mortals who go through life unconscious of their own capacities, but Mrs. Wilkinson was one of those more fortunate beings who had found her metier, and gloried in its exercise. She was an accomplished milliner and a really firstclass dressmaker. In all the province there was not a woman who could put in a sleeve, tie a bow, or hang a skirt as well as Angel's mamma. Once upon a time—and that time not very distant—Mrs. Wilkinson had been a beauty, but continuous hot seasons on the plains, harassing money cares, and indifferent health had combined to filch her of her good looks. There were hard lines about her mouth, her cheeks had fallen in, and her complexion—only appeared in the evening. Of course, in early morning deshabille we do not expect to see a lady at her best. Still, her carelessly arranged hair was abundant, her features were delicate, and her blue eyes had not yet lost the power of their spell. Black-lashed, plaintive blue eyes, what had they not achieved for their owner? How much she owes to them. What difficulties surmounted, what favours granted—what friends! They resembled in potency some fabled talisman; their mistress had but to wish, look, and possess. Fortunately, Mrs. Wilkinson's ambition was of a moderate character. She merely desired to be the best-dressed woman in her circle, that is to say station, and hitherto her pre-eminence had been supreme.

"The Mrs. Wilkinson who dresses so well," enjoyed a fame that went beyond the bounds of her own province, and had even been echoed in much maligned Madras.

Just at present this celebrity, her eldest born, and her faithful dirzee were labouring hard in order to maintain this far-reaching reputation. The scene in which they slaved was no bad imitation of the workroom of some smart dressmaker. Chairs were piled with materials, the matting was littered with scraps of lace, muslin, and calico; patterns and fashion-plates lay scattered around, and in the foreground was a wicker dress-stand, surmounted by an exact model of Mrs. Wilkinson's own graceful figure—a costly but indispensable possession. At this moment it was attired in an elaborate white ball skirt and low satin bodice, and at a little distance appeared to be one of the party in the verandah.

To slave for days, nay weeks, at her sewing machine, to cut up, contrive and piece, scanty materials; to ponder for hours over patterns, confer with an unimaginative native, cope with failures, and plunge into debt, were a few of the drawbacks to Mrs. Wilkinson's pre-eminence. But inconvenience, anxiety, and self-denial were forgotten when she appeared in an incomparable "success," conscious of triumph, aware that she was the cynosure of all eyes, and that even in church she absorbed the attention of half the congregation. It is true that certain rivals, women with ungrudging husbands, replenished their wardrobes from London and Paris. Nevertheless, with even these, this talented artiste was able to compete, for she was endowed with the gift of wearing, as well as of designing, her matchless toilettes. Her figure was slender and graceful, and in a smart evening gown, with just the least little touch on her cheeks, Mrs. Wilkinson still held her own in a ballroom; her dancing was perfection, and, next to dress, her sole passion.

As for the lady's past, despite her craze for dress and dancing, it was extraordinarily monotonous, and uneventful.

Miss Lena Shardlow, a charming but penniless orphan, had arrived at Simla, some years before this story opens, on a cold weather visit to distant relations, who invited her out, in the benevolent hope that Lena's pretty face would prove her fortune. If, as they afterwards declared, she had played her cards properly, Lena might have married a member of Council; it was true that he had already seen the grave close over two wives, also that he was neither young nor comely, but he could offer Lena a splendid position as his wife, and a fine pension as his widow. The girl had many admirers—indeed, she was the success of the season. Among these admirers was Tony Gascoigne, a feather-brained junior subaltern in the Silver Hussars. Tony was handsome and well connected, but reckless and impecunious. In an evil moment a brother officer had advised him "not to make a fool of himself with the little Shardlow girl," and the warning proved immediately fatal. He married her within six weeks—her friends were not present at the ceremony—and brought his lovely bride down to Umballa in insuppressed triumph. Sad to relate, this triumph proved but short-lived—it was cruelly slain in the regimental orderly room, and died by the hand of Tony's commanding officer. Colonel St. Oriel had a strong prejudice against married subalterns, and a married subaltern of a year's standing was only surpassed by the notorious miscreant who had actually joined his regiment with a wife and a perambulator.

It was whispered in the mess, that when "the old man" received cards and cake, he had actually gnashed his teeth. At any rate, the proud bridegroom was sent on detachment within twenty-four hours. A year later, when Tony and his wife were on leave in the hills, one wet black night, his pony lost his hind legs over the brink of a slippery khud, and Tony's book of life was closed at page twenty-three. He left a widow and a puny infant in a cheap bungalow, not a hundred yards from the scene of the tragedy. He also left many debts. At first poor Mrs. Gascoigne was stunned, then inconsolable, although her kind neighbours came forward to her assistance in a fashion peculiar to India. For weeks she remained in cloister-like seclusion, waiting for the monsoon to abate, before returning to England, where it would be her fate to live on distant relations and a pension of thirty pounds a year. Ere three months had elapsed, it was noticed that Major Wilkinson, of the Commissariat, despatched baskets of tempting fruit and rare flowers to a certain retired bungalow. These, as days went by, he boldly followed in person, and long before the year was out, an engagement was announced, and all the world of Dalhousie declared, that little Mrs. Gascoigne had done remarkably well for herself and her child. Major Wilkinson was neither young nor dashing, he had also the reputation of being "careful with his money." On the other hand, he was a sensible man, with savings in the Bank of Bengal, and a small property in New Zealand. The middle-aged Major was unmistakably in love with the pretty blue-eyed widow, but, to impart a secret, he had never exhibited the smallest enthusiasm for her offspring, and now that he had four sturdy olive branches of his own, indifference had developed into unconcealed aversion. Perhaps (for he was a model parent) he may have been a little jealous of his step-daughter's airy grace and high-bred features. Angel was an aristocrat to the tips of her shocking sand-shoes, whilst his own beloved progeny were undeniably bourgeois—stumpy, stolid, heavy children, whose faces recalled the colour and contour of a cream cheese. Although Colonel Wilkinson scaled sixteen stone, he was an active, bustling man—indeed some people considered him "fussy"—an excellent organiser and administrator in his official capacity, whilst at home in the domestic circle he saw to everything himself, thus relieving his Lena of all housekeeping cares. He checked the bazaar accounts, gave out the stores, oil and fodder, ordered the meals and hectored the servants—he even instructed the ayah, and harried the milkman—the only person over whom he had no control was the dirzee. Consequently Lena had nothing to do but compose costumes, amuse herself, and look pretty. In her heart of hearts, Angel, her firstborn, was her mother's favourite child, but no whisper of this weakness ever escaped her lips. She was too painfully aware, that Richard was excessively jealous of the claims of his family, whom he idolised.

Of course Angel ought to have been sent home, no one was more alive to this duty than her parent, but unhappily Mrs. Wilkinson had no private income; she was compelled to ask for every rupee she expended, and it was with difficulty she obtained a slender sum for the children's clothes. As for her own toilettes, her husband liked to see her in pretty gowns, he was proud of them, and of her, but when it came to paying—oh! that was another affair altogether. Every bill she presented to him entailed a battle—or at least an argument, and what of those bills, those frightful bills, she dared not let him see?

If Colonel Wilkinson growled savagely when called upon to disburse for Angel's meagre wardrobe, how could her mother hope for a substantial cheque to defray her outfit, passage, and education? Much as Colonel Wilkinson disliked the child, he had not the heart to open his purse strings and provide for her removal to another home and hemisphere.

Angel was naturally intelligent, and had picked up the art of reading and writing, without perceptible labour. The occasional lessons of an Eurasian schoolmistress had introduced her to the multiplication table, and the outlines of history and geography. She spoke Hindustani with the facility and correctness of an Indian-born child. She could sing the "Tazza Ba Tazza," and dance like a nautch girl, and the servants alternately bullied and feared her. They were all somewhat distrustful of "Missy Angel." She knew too much—she was too wise.

As Angel sat on the floor of the verandah, her sharp white face bent intently on the needle, her thin arm tirelessly turning the handle of the sewing machine, her thoughts were not with her task. She was wondering why the ayah's sister happened to wear a jacket of similar stuff to the piece which was sliding through her hands? Stolen of course—how, and when? Oh, what a pig Anima was; and it was late, and Philip had not come. Had he forgotten his promise, he who never forgot a promise? She rose stealthily, and went to a "chick," pulled it a little aside and peered out. Nothing to be seen but the brick-coloured compound, the sandy drive, the cork trees, a quiver in the heated air.

"Missy Angel, what you doing?" screamed the ayah, "what you looking for? Go back and sit down."

Angel returned to her post with noiseless steps, but as she resumed her task, she held up the muslin towards the ayah, and said:

"You see this, Anima? Some is stolen. I was only looking for the thief. Do you know her?"

CHAPTER III
AN EARLY VISIT

Anima ayah pounced upon the gage thus recklessly flung at her, and was proceeding to pour out the seven vials of her wrath in a lava-like stream, when, luckily for her challenger, the sound of hoofs outside, a spurred heel on the steps, created a diversion. Then a man's voice called up, "Hullo, Lena, are you at home?"

Instantly the dirzee seized the half-clad figure in his arms, and eloped with it indoors, whilst Angel sprang to the blind, dragged it back, and ushered in Philip Gascoigne.

"Well, little one," he said, taking her limp hand in his, "How are you to-day? Lena, please don't move." For Mrs. Wilkinson had struggled up, and now sat erect on her long cane lounge, vainly endeavouring to make the end of her old tea gown cover the toes of her shabby slippers.

"I'm only going to stay five minutes," continued her visitor, seating himself astride a chair. "How did you enjoy the children's party?"

"Not much," she answered with a laugh.

"And Angel—not at all, eh?"

"Angel!" cried Mrs. Wilkinson, suddenly raising her voice, "do stop that horrible machine, and run away and learn your lessons."

Angel paused in her labours, drew her beautifully marked eyebrows together, and looked curiously at her mother. Then she rose, handed her frill to the dirzee, and obediently withdrew, vanishing through one of the many doors into the interior of the bungalow—but not to learn her lessons. Oh no, she went straight to Mrs. Wilkinson's bedroom, hunted about for a certain library book, and settled herself comfortably on a sofa. There, stretched at full length, with a couple of cushions carefully arranged at her back, she resembled a small edition of her mother! Presently she opened the novel, found her place, and began to read. The name of the novel was "Moths."

In the meanwhile conversation in the verandah was proceeding; as soon as her daughter had disappeared, Mrs. Wilkinson resumed:

"I left Angel at home as a punishment; it's only the punishment she feels."

"She feels a good many things," rejoined Gascoigne. "What has she been up to now?"

"Oh, never mind," retorted the lady, with a touch of irritation. "You think Angel is an angel."

"Excuse me, I do not; but she is only a child—we were children ourselves. Why are you all so rough on her?"

"I'm sure I'm not rough on her," protested Mrs. Wilkinson in a highly injured key, "but she is always rubbing Richard up the wrong way—he is so sensitive, too, and only the other day she called him a 'mud cart officer.' Really, I can't imagine where she picks up her awful expressions."

"She picks up everything, I fancy—chaff and corn," remarked her cousin.

"At any rate, Richard simply detests her," continued Mrs. Wilkinson. "I keep her out of his way as much as possible, as he hates the very sight of her. He says you never know what she is going to do next; she plays the most unexpected tricks, she is heartless, untruthful, and fond of luxury."

Gascoigne broke into a short, incredulous laugh. "What! that thin, shabby little child. My dear Lena, she does not know what the word luxury means."

Her mother heaved a profound sigh as she answered, "Remember, I do not say these horrid things. I know that Angel is not heartless; she has strong feelings, she is devoted to me—and she simply worships you."

"Oh, bosh!" he exclaimed, with a gesture of protest.

"But it is true, I assure you, that in Angel's eyes you are something between a Fairy Prince and a Holy Saint, and quite perfect. She actually threw a milk jug at Pinky, because he said you were ugly."

Gascoigne laughed a hearty laugh, displaying his nice white teeth. He could well afford to despise Pinky's opinion, for, although no rival to Beauty Shafto, Gascoigne was a good-looking fellow, and made a conspicuous and agreeable figure in that somewhat squalid verandah, with his trim uniform and well-groomed air. His forehead and jaw were square, his eyes dark, cool, and penetrating; the whole expression indicated keen intelligence and absolute self-control.

Altogether it was an interesting face. A face that had left its impress on most people's memories.

"Threw the milk jug," he repeated; "that was scarcely the retort courteous; but I'm glad to see she made a bad shot," and he glanced at Pinky's round and stolid countenance. "What's all this finery for?" he continued, timidly touching the satin in her lap.

"To make me beautiful," she answered. "Men's garments are so hideous that women have to do double duty. I am going to wear this at the Giffards' cotillion to-morrow night."

"A dance, this weather. What lunacy!"

"It may seem so to you, who never enter a ballroom, but I must do something to keep myself going, and it's cool enough as yet, after eleven o'clock. Half-a-dozen waltzes are a better tonic for me than any amount of quinine."

"Long may you live to say so," he exclaimed, "but waltzing with the thermometer at 100, I should call the dance of death. Mind you don't overdo it, Lena mia," and he looked at her narrowly.

Lena Wilkinson was a delicate woman, thin and worn, with an insatiable appetite for excitement and amusement. Her social triumphs and secret labours drew heavily on the bank of a frail constitution, and no one but herself ever guessed how often she trembled on the verge of a serious breakdown.

"I say," resumed Gascoigne, "I came to ask if I may take Angel for a drive this evening? You have no objection, have you?" he added, as Mrs. Wilkinson's expression conveyed blank amazement. "At any rate, it will clear her out of Wilkinson's path for a couple of hours," he concluded persuasively.

"But she will think so much of it, and be so flattered and cock-a-hoop," protested her mother.

"Lena," and his eyes sparkled angrily, "do you grudge the poor kid even this little pleasure?"

"No, I don't," hastily relenting, "and I'm horrid. I was thinking that you never took me out."

"I shall be only too honoured. You have but to name your own time. I thought you hated a two-wheeled trap, or I'd have offered long ago."

"It's quite true, I do loathe high dog carts and pulling trotters. I've no courage now, and that Sally of yours goes like an express train. Ten years ago, how I should have loved it! What a curse it is to have nerves!"

"I expect you want a change to the hills. Angel tells me you are not going to stir this hot weather. Mind you, Lena, it is a mistake."

"Oh, I know; but Richard declares that he cannot possibly afford two establishments, and he must stay down. Angel looks bleached. Three hot seasons are enough to take the colour out of anyone, and are trying to a child. That is what makes her so cross, and dainty, and discontented."

"You ought to go away, Lena, if only for two months. You look run down yourself."

"Yes, and I feel run down, too." Here she paused, took up her work for a moment, and put in two or three stitches. "I sometimes wonder——" she began, and said no more.

"What do you sometimes wonder?" he inquired.

"It is only when I lie awake at night, listening to the jackals—they always make me feel so desperately depressed, and when I am quite in the blues I cannot help asking myself what would become of Angel if—anything happened to me?"

"What a dismal idea, an odious little blue devil!" he exclaimed. "You should light a lamp and read some cheery novel; that would soon chase him away."

"And I might fall asleep, and set the bungalow on fire."

"Look here, Lena," he resumed, hitching his chair a little closer, "you know I'm pretty well off; no debts, no wife."

"Fancy naming them in the same breath!" she protested with a laugh.

"Well, sometimes one brings the other," and he nodded his head gaily; then, lowering his voice, he continued, "I daresay it is hard for Wilkinson to make both ends meet, with heavy insurances, and all that sort of thing"—Wilkinson was scrupulously saving and investing half of his pay—"so—so——" Then, with a sudden rush, "If you'll just run up to the hills for three months, and take Angel and the boys—I'll make it all right—you know I'm your cousin."

"Yes," she assented rather bitterly, "and the only Gascoigne who ever deigned to take the smallest notice of me; but it can't be done, Phil. You are a dear good fellow to suggest it, and if the matter lay with me I'd accept it like a shot and be off to-morrow; but Richard would not hear of it."

"Well, then, let me send Angel, with an ayah, to some good boarding-house where the lady will look after her. Surely, he would make no objection to that. She would be out of his sight for months."

"Perhaps not; but he has such odd ideas, and although he does not want her here, I doubt if he would allow her to go elsewhere. There," starting up, "I hear him now. He is coming."

"At any rate, you might sound him, Lena, and I'll call in for Angel at half-past five."

"Hullo, Gascoigne—you here?" and a stout, breathless little man, with prodigious moustache and a shining round face, came puffing up the steps. "I tell you," he panted, "this day is going to be a corker!—my reins were mad hot, and Graham says there are five cases of heat apoplexy in hospital. Lena, we must have the cuscus tatties up at once."

"They say this season is to be something quite extra," remarked Gascoigne, who had risen to his feet.

"Yes, yes," cried Colonel Wilkinson, "the usual bazaar talk. But," mopping his face, "if this is the beginning, where shall we all be in the end of May—eh, Lena?"

"In the cemetery, perhaps," she suggested gravely.

"Come, come, old woman—none of your ghastly jokes. Hullo, Beany boy; well, my Pinkums. Ayah," in a sharper key, "what do you mean by letting Master Beany wear his best shoes?"

"They are all he has got, sahib—others done fall to pieces," she answered sullenly.

"Fall to grandmother! Let me see them. And I say, the children are to have plenty of ice in their milk to-day. I've ordered in two seers extra. Has Master Baba had his tonic? Here—you must all clear out of the verandah—it's like a furnace. Away you go!" and, raising his arms as if driving a flock of geese, he hustled the whole family precipitately indoors, whilst Gascoigne snatched up his whip and fled.

CHAPTER IV
ANGEL IN EXCELSIS

Punctual to the moment, Philip Gascoigne arrived to take his little cousin for the promised drive, and Angel's eyes shone like stars when she descried his smart dogcart spinning up the approach. Sally Lunn, or "Mad" Sally, a good-looking bay, stud-bred, in hard condition, enjoyed the reputation of being the fastest trotter, as well as the most hot-tempered and eccentric animal, in the station; only those blessed with a cool head and no nerves were competent to manage her. Here she came, pulling double, and tossing flecks of foam over her bright brass harness.

Mrs. Wilkinson felt a secret thrill of thankfulness that it was not about to be her lot to sit behind this excitable creature, the author of a lengthy chapter of accidents. However, Mrs. Wilkinson's little daughter did not share these fears. She had been dressed and ready for an hour, and now ran quickly down the steps, in a clear starched frock, her hat restored, her hair elaborately crimped, climbed into the cart with the agility of a monkey, and took her place with the dignity of a queen. It is true that her shapely little black legs dangled in a somewhat undignified fashion. Nevertheless she declined a footstool with a gesture of contempt—nor was Sally disposed to linger. In another moment the dogcart swung out of the gate, and was humming down the road at the rate of eleven miles an hour. Angel, very upright, with her hair streaming behind her, elation in her pose; Gascoigne sitting square and steady, giving his full attention to his impetuous trapper.

"Thank goodness, Philip is a first-rate whip," exclaimed Mrs. Wilkinson, as she turned her eyes from this fleeting vision and rested them on her husband, "otherwise I would never trust the child with that animal."

"Bah, there's no fear," protested Colonel Wilkinson from his long chair, taking up a paper as he spoke. "You may trust her with any animal; and Gascoigne knows what he's about—he understands horses; but I'm blessed if I understand him. He must be hard up for company when he calls for that brat."

"She is his cousin, you see," answered her parent, "and—Richard——" a pause; long pauses were a peculiarity of Mrs. Wilkinson's conversation.

"Well?" impatiently. "What?"

"He thinks she looks so white and thin, and he has offered to send her up to the hills for three months—at his own expense. What do you say?"

Colonel Wilkinson reflected for some seconds behind the pages of his "Pioneer." He detested Angel; an arrogant, insolent little ape, whose shrill treble broke into and amended his best stories, who never shed a tear, no matter what befell her at his hands, and who laughed in his face when he stormed. He would be rid of her—but he would also be renouncing his authority. Angel was his step-daughter—Gascoigne was only her father's cousin. Her keep was nominal, and the station would talk. No—certainly no.

"What do I say?" he repeated, emerging with considerable crackling from behind his screen. "I say no, and I call the offer confounded cheek on the part of Gascoigne. What is good enough for my own children is good enough for her. They are not going to budge this season."

"But the boys are so much younger, Richard, dear," ventured his wife.

"Well, I won't have Gascoigne interfering with a member of my family, cousin or no cousin. Some day he will find out what a little devil she is, for all her angel name and angel face," and with this depressing prophecy Colonel Wilkinson retired once more behind his "Pioneer."

Meanwhile the "little devil" was in the seventh heaven, as she and her Jehu bowled along the straight flat road, overtaking and passing every other vehicle—a triumph dear to Angel.

"Look here, young 'un, where would you like me to drive you—you shall choose the route," said Gascoigne suddenly.

"Right in front of the club, then past the railway station and through the bazaar," was her prompt and unexpected answer.

"Good Lord, what a choice! And why?"

"Just that people may see me," replied Angel, and she put out her hand and touched his arm, as she added, "See me—driving with you."

"No great sight; but, all the same, you shall have your way—you don't often get it, do you?"

Angel made no reply beyond a queer little laugh, and they sped through the cantonments, meeting the remnant who were left taking their dutiful airing. These did not fail to notice the "Wilkinson's Angel," as she was called, seated aloft beside Captain Gascoigne, pride in her port, her little sharp face irradiated with the serene smile of absolute content. The two Miss Brewers, in their rickety pony carriage, envied the child fully as much as she could have desired. Mrs. Dawson stared, bowed, and looked back; so did some men on their way to rackets.

"Well, Gascoigne was a good sort, and it was just the kind of thing he would do—give up his game to take a kid for a spin into the country. Why, he was making straight for the bazaar." The bazaar was narrow and thronged with ekkas, camels, bullock carts, and cattle, as well as crammed with human beings. As Gascoigne steered carefully in and out of the crowd, a bright idea flashed upon him. There was Narwainjees, a large general shop which sold everything from Paris hats to pills and night lights. He pulled up sharply at the entrance and said, "I say, Angel, I want you to come in here and choose yourself a hat."

"A hat," she echoed. "Oh, Philip, I—I—shall be too happy."

"All right, then," lifting her down as he spoke; "you can try what it feels like to be too happy. I can't say I know the sensation myself."

As the oddly-matched couple now entered the shop hand in hand, the smart, soldierly young man and the shabby little girl, an obsequious attendant emerged from some dark lair. At this time of year business was slack, and the atmosphere of the ill-ventilated premises was reeking with oil, turmeric, and newly-roasted coffee.

"I want to look at some trimmed hats for this young lady," explained her cavalier.

"Oh, Phil," she whispered, squeezing his hand tightly in her tiny grasp, "it's the very first time I've been called a young lady."

"And won't be the last, we will hope," he answered.

"Have some iced lemonade, sir?" said a stout man in a gold skull-cap and thin white muslin draperies.

"No, thank you—but you, Angel—will you have some?" asked her cousin.

"I should love it," and she put her lips greedily to a brimming tumbler of her favourite beverage. Undoubtedly Angel was tasting every description of pleasure to-day.

"And now for the hats; here they come!" announced her companion, as a languid European assistant appeared with two in either hand.

"Oh, how lovely!" cried Angel, setting down the glass and clasping her hands in rapturous admiration.

These hats, be it known, were the usual stock in trade of a native shop up country, models that no sane woman in England would purchase or be seen in; massive satin or velvet structures, with lumps of faded flowers and tarnished gilt buckles, one more preposterous than another, all equally dusty, tumbled, and expensive, and all intended for full-grown wearers—if such could be beguiled into buying them. Gascoigne took a seat and proceeded to watch his protégée's proceedings with the keenest amusement, and exhibited no desire to cut short her few blissful moments. Angel was absolutely happy, not had been, or was to be, but actually happy in the present moment—and the sight of such a condition is extremely rare.

The mite in short frock treated the shopwoman with all the airs of a grown customer, and was even more difficile and critical than her own mamma. First she tried on one hat, then another; and to see the little top-heavy figure, glass in hand, strutting and backing in front of a great spotty mirror, and contemplating herself from every point of view with the most anxious solemnity, was to all concerned a truly entertaining spectacle. Several torpid assistants had collected at a respectable distance, enjoying the comedy with faint grins as Angel gravely appeared, and disappeared, under various monstrosities. For a time she was sorely divided between a scarlet plush tam-o'-shanter and a green straw with yellow flowers. Finally it was a bright blue satin toque with mother-of-pearl buckles which captured her affections. She put it on, and took it off, then put it on again, whilst Gascoigne and the European attendant watched her attentively.

"I say, Angel, that won't do," he said, breaking the spell at last; "no, nor any single one of the lot. You'd look like an owl in an ivy bush."

"Oh, Philip, not really," she protested, and her eyes grew large with amazement.

"No, none of them are suitable. That thing you've on weighs pounds; you'd want a man to carry it. I'll tell you what, perhaps this young lady here will fit you out with a nice straw hat, and trim it."

"Oh, yes, sir," she assented briskly. "I believe I have what will answer exactly," producing a pile of plain straws. "Try this on, missy."

But it was such a bare, uninteresting-looking article. Two great tears stood in Angel's eyes. These she bravely winked away, and said with a gulp, "Very well, Phil; I suppose you know best."

"I'll make it so smart, missy," said the sympathetic attendant, "with big bows of fresh white ribbon."

"And roses? Oh, Philip, say I am to have roses?" she pleaded with clasped hands, and a voice that was tragic.

"Yes, roses by all means, if they are indispensable to your happiness."

"Oh, they are—and pink ones."

"Then we will leave the matter entirely to you," said Gascoigne to the milliner, as he stood up; "a child's hat, you know, not a May bush."

And Miss Harris, who was rarely favoured with such a customer, gave Mr. Gascoigne an emphatic promise, and her sweetest smile. As a solace from being parted from her beloved blue toque, her cousin presented Angel with a large box of chocolates, a bottle of perfume, a silver thimble, and a doll, and the little creature returned to the dogcart with her arms full and her face radiant.

CHAPTER V
THE LUCKNOW ROAD

"And now for a good spin along the Lucknow road," said Gascoigne when they had extricated themselves from the teeming bazaar.

Oh, Lucknow road! How many times have you resounded to the steady tramp of armed men, the clattering of hoofs, the rumble of guns! What battles have been fought to guard you, what nameless graves of gallant fellows are scattered among the crops in your vicinity! But to-night all is peace; the moon rides high in the heavens, and the whole landscape seems flooded in silvery white. The pace at which Sally travelled created a current of fresh air, as she sped past tombs, shrines, villages, and between long avenues of trees. The bare, flat plains were just forty miles from the foot of the Himalayas, and in the cold weather the scene presented an unbroken stretch of rich cultivation. A sea of yellow waves, wheat and barley, sugar-cane, feathery white cotton, and acres and acres of poppies. Now the crops were gathered, and all that remained was a barren expanse parched to a dull dusty brown. The very trees, with their grey trunks and leafless branches, gave the scene a bleak and wintry appearance, although the air was like a furnace. It was a still, breathless night, save for the croaking of frogs, or the humming of a village tom-tom, and the couple in the dogcart were as silent as their surroundings, absorbing the swiftly changing scene without exchanging a word, each being buried in their own reflections. Angel's thoughts were pleasant ones; her busy brain was occupied with visions of future triumphs—not unconnected with her present position, and her new hat.

Gascoigne's inner self was far, far away across the sea. He was driving with a little girl through deep country lanes, a girl then his playfellow, later his divinity, now lost to him, and figuratively laid in a grave and wrapped in roses and lavender. On the tombstone the strong god Circumstance had inscribed, "Here lies the love of Philip Gascoigne." The man was thinking of his love, the child of her new hat, and the four-legged animal of her supper. Once or twice he had been on the point of turning, but a piteous little voice beside him had pleaded, "Oh, please, not yet; oh, just another mile, well, half-a-mile," and they had passed the tenth milestone before Sally was pulled up and her head set once more towards Ramghur.

"Oh, dear," cried Angel, coming out of a dream, "I'm so sorry we are going back. I began to think I was in heaven."

"Upon my word, you are a funny child," exclaimed her cousin. "I don't fancy the hot weather in the North-West is many people's notion of Paradise."

"But there are horses and chariots there. At all events," she argued, "the Bible says so."

"Do you read the Bible much, Angel?"

"Yes. I love the Book of Revelations, which tells all about gold and jewels and horses. I always read it on Sundays."

"And what do you read on week-days?"

"I have not much time. I sew a good deal for mother, and there are lessons, and going out walking with those children to the club gardens twice a day," and she gave a little impatient sigh. Gascoigne looked down at the small figure perched beside him, with pitying eyes, and thought of her dreary, colourless life.

"I'm reading a book now," she announced complacently.

"And what is it called?"

"The Mysteries of Paris."

"The what?"

"The Mysteries of Paris," raising her thin voice. "I heard Mrs. Du Grand telling mother it was thrilling—and so wicked. She rooted it out of the old stock in the Library."

"It's not fit for you to read."

"Have you read it?" she asked sharply.

"No, and don't want to. Does your mother allow you to read such stuff?"

"Mother does not know—she would not mind."

"I'm certain she would—it's a bad—I mean a grown-up book, and not fit for you."

"I've only read as far as two chapters—and it's so stupid."

"Then mind you don't read more, Angel, nor any grown-up books, if you would like to please me. Hullo, sit tight," he added quickly, as a white bullock suddenly rose from beside a shrine, starting Sally out of her wits. She made a violent spring across the road—a spring that tested every buckle in her harness—and nearly capsized the cart. Then she broke away into a frantic gallop, with the trap rocking at her heels.

"No fear, Angel; you hold on to me," said Gascoigne.

"But I'm not afraid," rejoined a bold, clear voice. "I'm never afraid when I'm with you, Philip."

"It's all right," he said presently, as Sally's racing pace slackened and she gradually came back to her bit. "Sally is a coward; she thought she saw a ghost."

"Yes; and it was only an old bullock," scoffed the child. "But, cousin Phil, there are real ghosts, you know."

"Where?"

"Oh," spreading out her hands, "everywhere, all over the world—in the station—yes, and in your bungalow."

"My poor, simple Angel! Who has been cramming you with this rot?"

"The servants," she promptly replied; "and I've heard other people talking. The cook's brother is your bearer, and yet, he would not go into your compound after dark if you gave him one hundred rupees."

"Then he is a foolish man," pronounced Gascoigne; "not that I am likely to offer him his price."

"They say," resumed the child, "where you keep your boxes and polo sticks used to be the dining-room, and that servants in queer old liveries can still be seen there."

"Then I wish to goodness they'd clean up my saddles whilst they wait. And is that all?"

"No; an officer in uniform, a strange uniform not worn now, comes running in with a drawn sword, and chases a pretty lady from room to room. She wears a white muslin dress, and black satin shoes. He kills her in the front verandah—and her screams are awful."

"Dear me, Angel, what a blood-curdling tragedy! but you don't mean to say you believe it?"

"Oh, yes; Ibrahim says it is well known. There is another—I heard Mrs. Jones telling it to mother, and she said she knew it was true. Shall I go on?"

"Yes, if you like—it is quite an Indian night's entertainment."

"Well," beginning in a formal little voice, "some gentlemen were driving up from the station; they were very late, and they saw a mess house all lit up, and the compound packed with carriages and bullock bandies, and they said, 'Why, it is a big ball, and we never heard a word about it.' So they stopped on the road and looked on. They could see right into the room, and there were crowds of people dancing—but the strange thing was, there was not one face they knew."

"Well, I'm not surprised at that," exclaimed her listener derisively.

"Please don't interrupt—they drove on after a while——"

"They ought to have gone in to supper."

"Philip!" she expostulated. "Next morning they asked about the great ball in the cavalry lines, and people thought they were joking; there had not been a dance for weeks, but these men were quite positive, and they rode down to have a look at the house. It had not been used for years and years, and was crammed with rubbish and old broken furniture; the compound was all grass and weeds, and there was not a trace or mark of a carriage."

"And what did they make of that?" inquired Gascoigne.

"Oh, people just shook their heads, and said something about an old story, and the mutiny, and that a great many ladies were killed in that messhouse one night—and the servants have heaps of tales."

"I don't want to hear their tales, and I wish you would not listen to them," he said sharply.

"Why?" with a look of bewildered injury, "how can I help it, when they are talking all round me? The ayah's sister and her niece come in, and bring a huka and sit on the floor of the nursery and gossip when mother is out, and I can't sleep; they talk, ever so much, all the station gup, oh, such stories. Why are you so solemn, cousin Phil?" she asked suddenly, gazing up at his face in the moonlight; "why are you so grave; what are you thinking about?"

"Then I will tell you, Angel; I am thinking about you—it is full time you were at home."

"So I am at home. Here we are—the gate is open. Oh, what a shy!" as Sally executed a deep curtsey to a long black shadow.

"I mean England," giving Sally a flip; "would you not like to go there?"

"No; for I don't want to leave mother. Anyway, she cannot afford to send me to school. She owes such a lot of money; there she is on the verandah watching for us; and oh! I am so sorry this drive is over—thank you a million thousand times."

"I am afraid we are rather late," he called out to Mrs. Wilkinson, "but I've brought her back safe and sound."

"Yes, thank goodness; it is after eight o'clock, and I began to be nervous."

"I'm sorry I am behind time, but it is such a fine moonlight night, and Angel has been telling me stories."

"Oh, she's good enough at that!" sneered Colonel Wilkinson, with terrible significance. "Now, Angel, go off to your bed," he added peremptorily; "the ayah has kept some cold rice pudding for you—mind you eat it," and he waved her out of his sight. Then, turning his attention to the child's charioteer, and refusing to notice his wife's anxious signals, he continued, "I say, Gascoigne, if you don't mind, you'll be late for mess!"

It was all very well for Lena to suggest his staying to share pot luck, but Lena was not the housekeeper, or aware that the bill of fare consisted of a little soup and some brain cutlets.

"The bugle went five minutes ago," he concluded. Gascoigne promptly accepted the hint (not that he craved for an invitation—were not Colonel Wilkinson's dinners notorious?) and with a hasty good-bye immediately drove away.

Surely, this must have been one of the happiest days of Angel's existence; her mother was prepared to find her in raptures, when she came to see her in her cot that night. She was therefore astonished to discover the child in tears, sobbing softly under her breath—the cold rice-pudding untouched, and spurned.

"Darling, what is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Wilkinson anxiously. "Are you sick?"

"No," sniffed her daughter in a lachrymose key.

"But you have not eaten your supper," she expostulated; "are you sure you are quite well, dearie?"

"I am—quite—well."

"Then," now stirred to indignation, "do you mean to tell me, that after your delightful drive, and all your beautiful presents, you greedy, insatiable child, you are crying yourself to sleep?"

A heartrending sob was the sole reply to this question.

Mrs. Wilkinson's thoughts flew to her spouse; he had been particularly impatient of Angel lately. She bent over the cot, and whispered into the ear of the little head buried in its pillow:

"Tell me, darling, what has happened? What is the trouble—who——?"

And a muffled voice moaned like some wounded animal:

"Phil—cousin Phil—he—he——" a burst of sobs interrupted her.

"He what?" impatiently.

"Oh, mummy, he never said good-bye to me."

CHAPTER VI
LATE FOR MESS

The bungalow occupied by Captain Gascoigne and his friend was one of the largest in Ramghur. Sixty years previously, it had been the residence of the general commanding the district, and now it was let to a couple of bachelors, at the miserable rental of thirty rupees a month, for it happened to be deplorably out of repair, inconveniently out of the way, and enjoyed the reputation of being haunted. This unfortunate habitation stood in a spacious compound, whose limits were absorbed in the surrounding terra-cotta coloured plain, covered with yawning fissures, and tufts of bleached grass. A few mango trees, guava trees, and a dry well, indicated the remains of a once celebrated garden, whilst under the tamarinds were three or four weather-worn tombs, the resting-place of Mahomedan warriors, who had been buried on the battlefield long before the days of the English Raj.

An imposing range of servants' quarters (at present crowded, as the retinue harboured all their relations, as well as lodgers) and a long line of stables testified to the former importance of this tumble-down abode, whose big reception-rooms, once the heart of social life, were now filled with boxes, empty packing-cases, saddlery, and polo sticks, and were the resort of white ants, roof cats, and scorpions.

The present tenants had naturally selected the most weather-tight quarters, and these were in opposite ends of the venerable residence. As Gascoigne came whirling through the entrance gate, he was waylaid by three dogs, a fox-terrier, an Irish terrier, and a nondescript hound, and it was immediately evident that he belonged to them, from their yelps of hearty welcome, and the manner in which all three scuttled up the drive in the wake of Sally Lunn.

As the cart stopped, and the syce sprang down, Shafto appeared in the verandah. He wore the usual hot-weather mess dress, spotless white linen, and a coloured silk cummerband, and looked strikingly handsome as he stood bare-headed in the moonlight, gravely contemplating his comrade.

"Upon my soul, Phil, I began to think the brute had smashed you up at last! I've been sitting here listening hard for twenty minutes, precisely as if I were your anxious grandmother. I know Sally's trot half a mile away. What kept you?"

"Down dogs, down," cried their master, as he descended. "I had no notion it was so late, and for a drive, this is the best time of the whole day."

"Whole night you mean," corrected Shafto; "it's half-past eight—where have you been? Sally looks as if she had had enough for once."

"She's had about twenty-two miles," admitted her owner, now taking off his cap and subsiding into one of the two long chairs which furnished the verandah. "The Lucknow road is like a billiard table, and we made our own wind."

"We?" ejaculated his listener.

"Yes, I took that child Angel from next door; it was a rare treat for the poor little beggar, and she coaxed me to go on mile after mile."

"Oh, did she! Well, as long as she is only the angel next door I don't mind," said Shafto, tossing away the stump of a cigarette; "an angel in the house, I bar. This establishment is already the home of rest for lost dogs"—pointing to the trio—"ill-used ekka ponies, and a lame bullock. Don't, for God's sake, bring in a child."

"You need not alarm yourself," said his friend composedly. "I should not know what to do with her. The animals, at least, are grown up."

"And so is Angel—as old-fashioned as they make 'em. By the way, I forgot to ask you what she wanted yesterday?"

"Nothing," replied Gascoigne, stretching out his arms. "I say—Sally can pull—only to tell me that she was rather down on her luck."

"Not much luck to be down on, eh?" sneered his listener. "What with a smart mamma, a saving step-papa, and a squad of greedy little Wilkinsons, she must be a bit out of it, I should say. I wonder her father's people don't do something."

"Here you are," cried Gascoigne. "I am her father's cousin."

"Well, I won't permit you to interfere, or take her in; by Jove, no," said Shafto, springing to his feet. "Charity does not begin at this home. They say that, for all her fluffy hair and ethereal eyes, she is a cocksy, sly, mischievous little cat."

"Poor mite! Can't 'they' let even a child alone? They must be short of subjects."

"You allude to the station gossips, and no doubt times are bad—so many of their 'cases' are in the hills. Personally, I don't care for little girls with wistful eyes and a craving for chocolate."

"I know you don't," assented the other promptly. "You prefer well-grown young women with seductive black orbs and a craving for sympathy."

"Bosh! There's the mess bugle. You take half-an-hour to tub and change; you'll be late for dinner."

"Oh, I'll get something when I go over."

"Here," said Shafto, motioning to a syce to bring up his pony. Then, turning to his comrade, "You are a rum customer. Harder than nails, yet soft as putty in some ways."

"Oh, not as soft as Billy Shafto," he protested with a laugh.

"Yes. If a fellow is in a scrape—Gascoigne. Duty to do—Gascoigne. For the sick and afflicted—Gascoigne. Dinnerless to humour a child—Gascoigne." Whilst he spoke he put his foot in the stirrup and mounted, and as he wheeled about he gave a view hulloa, shouted "Vive Gascoigne!" and galloped down the avenue ventre à terre. For a moment Gascoigne and the dogs sat staring at the cloud of dust the pony's hoofs had raised behind him, and then the three animals gathered round to have a word or two with their master.

Each of these waifs had a history of his own. Train, the fox-terrier, was found in the railway station, a lost, distracted dog, evidently a stranger in a strange land, for he did not understand a word of Hindustani, and he shrank appalled from the blandishments of the Telegraph Baboo. He was middle-aged, English, and a gentleman. What was his past? Gunner, an Irish terrier, possibly country-born, had been left behind by a battery of artillery, suddenly ordered up country, and for weeks he had haunted their lines, heart-broken and starving; even now he constantly called at his old quarters, to see if they had come back?

Toko was a stray, brought in, in an emaciated condition, by the two others, and was believed to have been the property of a man who had died of cholera the previous rains. These three casuals were now beyond the reach of want, and were well looked after. They employed a dog boy, whose duty it was to wash, feed, and exercise them; but they were fiercely independent, and objected to going out for a walk at the end of a chain, merely to be tied up, whilst their attendant gambolled behind a wall with various other urchins. When not enjoying a scamper with their master they took themselves out with great decorum, and it was a funny sight to meet the three strolling leisurely along, precisely like their superiors, or cantering across the maidan almost abreast. Naturally, their friends and foes were identical, and it was a truly brave dog who dared to raise his bristles at the trio. They had their various individual tastes, and Train and Toko secretly felt that it was a pity to see a dog of Gunner's age and size so passionately addicted to chasing sparrows.

Gascoigne and the trio sat in the moonlight in front of the old bungalow, silently enjoying one another's society, till a neighbouring gurra, striking nine, warned Gascoigne that it was time to dress and dine. All the same he was not in the least hungry, and only for the susceptibilities of his bearer,—who was an abject slave to convention, and would have considered his conduct erratic and peculiar,—he would gladly have remained sitting in the verandah with his three dumb friends. Gascoigne's drive with Angel had resulted in a paradox—it had effectively taken away his appetite, and supplied him with food for reflection. Poor little neglected ne'er-do-well! What was to be her fate?

CHAPTER VII
MRS. DAWSON'S DRESSES

The hot weather was in full possession of Ramghur, and, as a natural consequence, the station became deserted. Various bragging individuals, who had announced their determination to "face it this year," had at the first boom of its artillery—that fierce midday blast,—closed their bungalows, distributed their pets and flowers, lent their cows, and carriages, among their friends, and departed precipitately to cooler regions. It was a sickly season; already the bazaar prediction had been more than justified. Only those whom duty or poverty chained to the cantonment were to be found at their posts, and these were to be seen, very late or very early, driving about the dusty roads, with haggard white faces.

It is a well-established fact, that one hot weather endured in company draws people more nearly together than a dozen cold seasons. There is a general relaxing of stiffness, a putting off of armour, a reliance on one another, and a liberal exchange of sympathy—and secrets;—undoubtedly a fellow feeling makes one wondrous kind. For example, if a cynic happened to remark what friends two sharply contrasting ladies had become, "Oh, they spent a hot weather together in Kalipore," would be accepted as an unanswerable reply. Moreover, it is undisputed, that some of the best matrimonial prizes have been snatched out of the heat of the plains, by maidens who clung to their parents, and braved the consequences. Thus, they occasionally made the acquaintance of some bored and solitary bachelor, who, failing to obtain leave, presently consoled himself with a wife.

The band of the Native Cavalry,—Mr. Shafto's Regiment,—played thrice a week in the club gardens, and then the pale remnant of Europeans (and many brilliant Eurasians) assembled to what the natives term "eat the air" and exchange the contents of letters from the hills, and the delinquencies of their domestics.

Everywhere beyond the gardens the atmosphere was that of a brickkiln. Within, among the trees, shrubs, and glistening foliage plants, the nostrils were greeted by the smell of hot earth, and a recently watered greenhouse,—that is an aroma peculiar to India. In the early morning, immediately after sunrise, the club was at its best; thronged with members who came to study the telegrams, glance at the papers, and pick up any stray crumbs of local news. It was thus that the youngest Miss Brewer first allured Mr. Pontefract into conversation on the subject of "a fire in the Bazaar." Hitherto he had thought of her (if he ever did think of her) as a plain, heavy young woman, who could neither ride nor dance, but just lob over the net at tennis. Now he discovered, thanks to the hot weather, that she was a surprisingly taking girl, with a good deal in her, including brains. She talked well (and shared his views on the subject of the club soda-water, and Sunday tennis); moreover, she was a devout listener.

Between listening and talking, the moments flew; at last, the increasing heat, and the clamour of the coppersmith bird, awakened the pair to the fact that it was seven o'clock, and much too late an hour to be abroad; and then, as Miss Brewer's pony carriage boasted a hood, she offered a seat to her new acquaintance, and enjoyed the pleasure and triumph of conveying the rising civilian to his own door. She carried him off in every sense of the word, in fact—she was a particularly "taking" girl. This drive was the prelude to greater events—to meetings at dawn, to walks after dark, to little dinners, little presents,—and an engagement. Yes, it was quite true, Tilly Brewer, the unprepossessing, the dowdy, was about to marry the best parti in Ramghur; and when the young ladies in the hills heard the tidings, they each and all registered a mental vow to remain below next season. It is so easy to make such resolutions when you are in a perfect climate.

The talk of the engagement created an agreeable break in the long monotonous days, and mere acquaintances exhibited quite an affectionate interest in Tilly's trousseau, presents, and prospects.

However, early in May, another topic cropped up which entirely eclipsed the marriage preparations, and afforded food for incessant discussion until the end of the rains; in fact, the story of "Mrs. Dawson's dresses" created such an uproar and commotion, that it got into some of the local papers, and every one of the letters home.

Mrs. Dawson, the Judge's wife, was a prim, spare woman of a certain age—and, it was said, uncertain temper. She had a cool, stiff manner, and an air of critical aloofness that seriously discounted her popularity. This lady was Mrs. Wilkinson's most serious rival in the matter of dress, and if her taste was less artistic, and her ideas lacked courage, she employed a court milliner, and owned a long purse. It must be admitted that her toilettes were both varied and expensive. "Stiff and old-maidish," was Mrs. Wilkinson's verdict—for she never soared to that lady's daring transformations, and condemned her dazzling triumphs as "theatrical and loud." Twice a year Mrs. Dawson received a large box or two from home, containing a fashionable outfit for the approaching season, and the envious pangs the arrival of these treasures occasioned Mrs. Wilkinson, no one—no, not even her closest friend—had ever guessed.

A consignment of costumes had recently arrived per ss. Arcadia, and Mrs. Dawson invited all her neighbours to inspect them. The dresses were to be on view for two succeeding afternoons, but their owner omitted to despatch a little note to Mrs. Wilkinson. She would see all the toilettes later on in public, and, meanwhile, as she might steal some of the novel ideas, and was quite capable of carrying away a Paris pattern "in her eye," the poor lady was cruelly excluded. Late one evening Mrs. Rattray dropped in on Mrs. Wilkinson, en route from the exhibition. She was a lively, fair woman, with an immense stock of superfluous enthusiasm. As soon as she had found a seat, and unfurled her fan, she began,

"Well, my dear, I've never seen such frocks as she has got this time."

"No," cried her hostess eagerly; "you have been to the show—do tell me all about them. I am dying to know what the dresses are like. French, of course—she said so."

"Yes," drawing a long breath. "There is a grey crêpe de chine and silver, like the moon in a mist, with very long, tight sleeves, and a sort of double skirt—it's a dream. There is a lemon satin with Egyptian embroidery and a long train, a black silk canvas with lace sleeves, piece lace—you could easily copy that; and there is a lovely mauve tea-gown, with a yoke of point d'Alençon, and knots of black velvet with long ends, to which I lost my heart—it's quite my style—but she never lends a pattern, you know."