CHAPTER XIX
THE PARTING GUESTS
The morning succeeding the arrivals, and the storm, was cloudless. There are few things more beautiful, or more treacherous, than a break in the rains in the Himalayas. The sun shone brilliantly, the sky was a dense turquoise blue, against which stood out a far-away range of jagged white peaks. A stillness lay upon the deep, dim valleys beneath the forest bungalow, there was scarcely a sound besides the twitter of birds, and the thunder of a water-course.
Miss Ball was standing in the verandah pulling on her gloves, and contemplating the scene. The party were on the eve of departure.
"What a delicious spot this is," she exclaimed, rapturously, to Major Gascoigne; "isn't it perfectly lovely, Bella? I should like to come here for my honeymoon."
"You must first get hold of the bridegroom," declared her sister in a tart voice. Fanny's disappointments had begun to have a wearing effect upon that lady's patience, and this early start, and the natural apprehension of a detestable, if not dangerous journey, had somewhat darkened her outlook on life.
"The bungalow is always at Miss Ball's disposal," replied the host gallantly. "And now we must be getting under weigh, as we have a long march before us."
In ten minutes the verandah was empty, the last coolie had disappeared among the trees, Abdul, the Khansamah, free from further anxieties, retired to his charpoy, and his huka. It proved to be a day of thrilling adventures, of almost hair-breadth escapes. Mrs. Flant emphatically declared that she could not face certain obstacles, but she managed to progress, thanks to her escort's cool determination, and ruthlessly deaf ear to her agonised exclamations. Miss Ball, on the back of a stalwart hill-man, cut a sufficiently ridiculous figure; she had not the nerve to skirt a certain frowning precipice on her own feet. The path was narrow, the drop apparently fathomless, her fears and protestations entailed twenty minutes' delay. She angrily refused to follow her sister's example to be led across blindfolded by Gascoigne, she simply sat in her jampan (hill-chair), and there lifted up her voice and wept.
Whatever Major Gascoigne's mental remarks were, outwardly, he was the personification of politeness, encouragement, and cajolery. At last the lady was persuaded, and was hoisted on the back of a grunting Pahari with the shoulders of an Atlas, and with her eyelids squeezed tightly together, her long feet dangling helplessly, was safely borne to the other side. Thus she got across one of the "bad bits." Whatever obstacles they encountered, their leader never flinched. He worked hard in his shirt sleeves, with his own hands; he led, decoyed, and coaxed the two sisters and the ayah along crumbling tracks, over water-courses, and from rock to rock amid boiling torrents. It was the hardest day's work that he ever remembered. If a fourth clinging coward had been on his hands, Gascoigne felt that he was bound to succumb. But Angel, luckily for him, had no fear. She was blessed with a wonderful head and a cool courage, was amazingly active, and swung herself from rock to rock, from root to root, or walked along a six-inch path precisely as if she were a Pahari maiden. Her guardian's time being engrossed with repairs, enticements, and the charge of three agonised companions, he had but scant opportunity of talking to her; but once, when the worst part of the journey was behind them, the ladies were ahead in their jampans, the two fell into one another's society, as they passed through a forest of rhododendrons.
"Well—that's over!" said Gascoigne, as he drew a long breath, took off his hat, and mopped his head with his handkerchief.
"You won't offer to be squire of dames again in a hurry?" said Angel, with a mischievous laugh. "I never saw such cowards. They were as bad as the ayah—they gibbered."