"No, but she is breaking her heart, poor little soul."
"Odious little beast, she has no heart to break—that's where you make a mistake. Where are you off to?"
"To send out all the syces in the place to chase Sally—she went towards the railway."
"Oh, I'll run her down; but, mind you, Phil, next time you see her she'll have broken knees," and with this agreeable prophecy he galloped away. There was no sign of Sally all that night, but various rumours respecting her were afloat in the Club. One lady had seen a ghostly horse and trap dash up at her door at dark, and when a servant ran to the steps the horse had wheeled sharp round, plunged through a low hedge, cart and all, and vanished.
Later, an empty vehicle and a galloping steed had been viewed beyond the jail. At eight o'clock the next morning the syce reappeared with a quadruped said to be the runaway animal, coated from head to tail with sweat and red dust; her very eyes were half closed. Who could believe that this dirty, demoralised, limping creature was smart Sally Lunn? Yet it was Sally, and, marvellous to relate, her knees were unblemished. She had been captured five miles out in the open country on her back in a dry nullah, with the trap under her. The shattered remains of the vehicle followed soberly on the Ryot's bullock cart—it was minus a wheel, a shaft, also mats, lamps, cushions, but these were subsequently collected in various parts of the cantonment—and their owner came to the conclusion that he had got out of the business far better than he expected. Sally was terribly nervous and wild for weeks; the cart was despatched to Lucknow to be repaired—and there were no more drives for Angel.
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.