CHAPTER XI
WHO IS SHE?
The monsoon had broken at last, and the rain descended and the floods came in drenching sheets. Red plains sprang to life, and became a delicate green, frogs croaked hilariously, snakes were washed out of their holes, sickly vegetation revived as if touched by some magician's wand, and all the oleanders were in flower.
During the long, wet days, when nullahs were racing torrents and the avenue a running stream—a joy to the ducks—Angel was constantly to be found at the big bungalow, playing the rôle of enfant de la maison. She was permitted to wander through the empty rooms, and to amuse herself to her heart's content. Her guardian was a good deal from home; since the first burst of the rains had sorely tried the piers of the new bridge over the Ram Gunga, every morning at an early hour he wrapped himself in a mackintosh and leggings, mounted his horse, and splashed away. Even in the afternoons Shafto and Angel frequently had the premises to themselves; the former took but scant notice of his companion, for ever since the "Sally episode" she had been unpardoned and in his black books.
One afternoon he was enjoying a lazy spell, a sporting paper and a cheroot, in the verandah; the "Imp," as he mentally called her, was presumably amusing herself in the interior with the dogs or the bearer's little girl—or both. He had, in fact, forgotten her existence, and was absorbed in the weights for the Leger, when three cold, moist fingers were laid on his cheek, and between his eyes and the printed page was thrust a large photograph.
Naturally he started, exclaimed, and stared. Then he became conscious that he was looking at the charming picture of a beautiful girl of nineteen, with glorious eyes and a faint but bewitching smile. Shafto, the ever-susceptible, seized the portrait in both hands and examined it exhaustively. It had something to say for itself, too; across one corner was inscribed, in a dashing calligraphy, the name "Lola." He continued to study the face with a puzzled air, then turned and stared at the child interrogatively.
Was this one of her mother's friends? To the best of his recollection, he had never seen the face in Mrs. Wilkinson's drawing-room.
"Do you think she is pretty?" inquired Angel eagerly, as she met his glance.
"Ra—ther," was his emphatic reply. "But who is she?—where the dickens did you unearth her?"
"In Philip's room," was the unexpected response. "Oh, you need not look so shocked, Mr. Billy Shafto," she cried audaciously; "I've not stolen it! I was only searching for some paper to draw on—he generally has lots—and I opened his shabby old leather box and found some. Two lovely bits of cardboard, and in the middle—between them—this. Who is she, do you know? Do you think—he is in love with her?" she asked anxiously.
"I'll tell you what I do think," said Shafto, suddenly sitting erect, "I think you ought to be well whipped."
Angel's pale face became pink to the roots of her hair.
"How dare you go and pry among Mr. Gascoigne's papers," he resumed, "you infernal little monkey? You are a horrid, sneaking, sly little imp."
"But what have I done?" she protested in a shrill key. "I was only looking for something to draw on—and why shouldn't he have one lady, when you have eleven in your room? Yes, all in frames, and two of Mrs. Giddy on your writing-table."
This was carrying the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance! For a moment her companion, who was now at boiling-point, struggled desperately for composure and speech. At last he said with an effort:
"You just march back at once and put that photograph where you found it."
As he spoke he drew the silver paper carefully over the face, as if he would hide Philip's sweetheart from the elf's prying eyes. Angel snatched it out of his hand with a jerk, and walked away without one word; but she deliberately studied the photograph till she learnt the face by heart. She learnt something more also, for as she replaced it, on its original wrapping she read on the paper in the same bold scrawl, "To Phil—with Lola's love."
So that was Philip's secret, thought Shafto; that was Philip's lady-love, who, by all accounts, had chucked him. She had a lovely face, a haunting face; what bad luck for poor old Phil!—and that meddlesome imp had discovered his hidden skeleton, had dragged it forth into daylight, and possibly exhibited it all round the servants' quarters, and finally come to him and asked in her little fluting voice, "Who is she?"
And here came Phil at last, in dripping condition on a dripping horse—what a pair of drowned rats!
As soon as he had changed his clothes Gascoigne appeared in the verandah, looked about, and said:
"Hullo, where is Angel? I thought she was coming over to make tea?"
"Oh, she has been here all right enough," rejoined his comrade grimly; "very much here. I believe she has departed. I saw her flying across the compound just now. Phil, that child, instead of making tea, has been making hay in your room."
"Oh, has she?" he responded carelessly, as he lit a cheroot. "Well, she can't do much harm there."
"I'm not so sure of that," retorted Shafto with tragic significance. "She found the photograph of one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen, and brought it out for information—awfully keen to know all about it."
Gascoigne jumped up suddenly, and took the cigar out of his mouth. His face was stern as he looked fixedly at his friend.
"Billy, this is some of your chaff."
"I swear it's not," protested Shafto forcibly. "That prying imp was rooting in your despatch box. Ah!" he concluded in a significant undertone, as Gascoigne hurriedly left him.
After a short absence his friend returned, and resumed his seat without one word.
"I made her put it back," continued his companion. "I always knew that you'd be let in by that child, somehow."
"No," rejoined the other; "I let myself in—as you call it."
"You can't deny that she has made a rather brilliant beginning. Smashing up a new dogcart, unearthing your most sacred possession, and flaunting it round the house. What on earth are you going to do with her?"
"I'm going to send her to school next week."
"And afterwards?"
"She will make her home with some nice family."
"Nice prospect for the nice family," remarked Shafto. "And after she has quite done with the nice family?"
"That is far enough ahead," replied Gascoigne with a touch of impatience. "Angel won't be grown up for years, and we may all be dead by that time."
"Now, I call that a really cheerful way of looking at it. One thing is certain, whoever is dead, Angel won't weep. She has no more heart than a paving-stone."
"Why do you say that?" demanded her cousin quickly.
"Simply because it is patent to all the world that she has forgotten her mother already. She never mentions her name——"
"That does not matter—that is no sign," argued her champion; "she thinks more of her mother than the whole Wilkinson family put together. The other morning, when there was a break in the rains and I was out early, I saw a small figure staggering over towards the cemetery, carrying a pot as large as herself. I kept behind, of course, and did not let her see me; it was Angel, taking a plant to her mother's grave. There's no stone up yet."
"No, nor ever will be," supplemented Shafto.
"The cemetery is more than a mile away," continued Gascoigne; "so you will allow that it was rather a big job for a child of her age."
"Oh, yes," admitted her implacable adversary; "Angel's jobs are generally on a large scale."
"She steals off every morning almost before light," resumed her defender.
"What is the ayah about, to allow her to prowl at such an hour?"
"Oh, the ayah allows her to go her own way now; she can't control her," confessed her cousin.
"No, nor anyone else," muttered Shafto. "Look here," he added suddenly, "I'll tell you something, Phil. That child is going to be a beauty."
"Nonsense—not she. You are mad about beauty," rejoined his friend contemptuously.
"Yes, she is, and something out of the ordinary, too, if I am any judge. This, I imagine, will complicate matters. Oh, my poor old boy, I wouldn't be in your shoes for a thousand pounds!"