ANGEL
MISS GREGSON dropped her knitting on to her knee and surveyed her
former pupil critically as she stood leaning against the window. What
a picture the girl made! The back of her head was particularly pretty,
as little curls lay at the nape of her neck and shone with streaks of
gold. She was slim and tall and graceful in all her movements.
"How pretty she is!" sighed her companion. "But how unstable!"
Miss Gregson had been sent for when Mr. Dennison, Sheila's uncle, had
died, and knowing, and loving the girl she had hastened to Friars Court
to find her former pupil full of tears and regrets that, during her
uncle's lifetime she had not thought more of him and of his comfort.
She reproached herself with sobs for having indulged so much in her
own pleasures and interests to the exclusion of his; and had been
so absorbed in them that she had not noticed how much her uncle was
failing in health till a week before he died.
Once aroused, however, she had thrown up all her engagements and had
devoted herself to him. She was so depressed and unlike herself for the
first week or two after his death, that Miss Gregson had hoped that the
sharp lesson she had had was about to change her former pupil's whole
view of life and duty, and was gratified when Sheila asked her to stay
on with her and act as her chaperon.
During the weeks that followed Miss Gregson had looked in vain for
her hopes to be realized. No sooner had the girl entered into her
inheritance, for Mr. Dennison had left the whole of his property to
her, than she regained her usual high spirits, and began to propound to
her harried companion all kinds of wild and impossible schemes. Happily
she tired of the thought of them before she had time to carry them out;
but many a time her long-suffering chaperon felt her heart sink at some
of the proposals. As now she sat gazing at the girl, who stood looking
out of the window with a somewhat plaintive expression of face, Miss
Gregson was taken aback by her companion suddenly turning round upon
her, her eyes full of mischief and raillery.
"No," she said, "I shall never tire of you, you are so delightfully
quaint."
"Quaint, my dear?" questioned Miss Gregson, taking up her knitting
again.
"Yes, quaint. You would never guess the real reason that prompted me to
ask you to stay on with me. It was your homoeopathic box that did it."
Miss Gregson looked up perplexed.
"You were delicious over that," continued Sheila. "Don't you remember
one day when I was a child, Farmer Smith's bull ran at us, and after we
had scrambled over the gate you made me sit down by the roadside, and
taking your little box out of your pocket, insisted on us both taking
ignatia to quiet our nerves? How I laughed over that afterwards."
Miss Gregson flushed and gave a forced laugh. She was not pleased, but
would not let Sheila know this on any account.
"I do hope you still have that box, with the rows and rows of pilules.
I'm sure you'll want it while you live with me. I am quite conscious
that I am at times surprising, and that it would never do for a person
with really weak nerves to act as my chaperon. Besides, those little
pilules give me infinite amusement. Do you still believe in them? I
hope you do."
Sheila had left the window and had sunk into an armchair, where she sat
studying her companion's face with eyes full of laughter.
Miss Gregson looked up at the girl with a magnanimous smile. She felt
vexed with her, but was not going to show it.
"I shall certainly not offer any more of them to you," she said, "as
you laugh at them. But yes; I still have faith in them and always
shall."
"Oh, how quaint you are! I shall certainly never tire of you,
particularly as you still believe in those pilules." Then after a
moment's pause the girl continued: "I really don't think I can call you
Miss Gregson any longer; it is so formal. What is your Christian name;
let me see, is it Maria?"
"Why do you want to know? You are not thinking I hope of calling me by
it? I certainly should not approve of that."
"I shouldn't dare!" laughed Sheila. "You surprise me so by putting your
foot down suddenly that I feel I really can't take liberties with you.
But you have not told me your name. Am I right, is it Maria?"
"Maria? No, it's Angelina."
Sheila was on the point of giving a little shriek of laughter at the
information. The name seemed so incongruous, but she stopped herself in
time.
"Then I shall call you Miss Angel," she said, "or rather Angel without
the Miss. You can't possibly think I am taking a liberty in calling you
Angel. No one could. Indeed you ought to be flattered," she added, as
her companion made a sound of remonstrance. "Besides you are an angel.
You've been one to me anyhow."
"My dear, don't talk nonsense. I greatly prefer my surname."
"But I don't. It tires me to say Miss Gregson every time I want to call
your attention. You are Angel from henceforth, and you mustn't mind,
for it is really a great compliment."
Miss Gregson knew it was no use to expostulate, so resigned herself to
her fate, fervently hoping that her erratic little friend would forget
it. But in this she was disappointed.