Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
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.
[Illustration:
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
CHAPTER PAGE
I. PATIENCE ON A GATE, 1
II. IN THE VERANDAH, 10
III. AN EARLY VISIT, 19
IV. ANGEL IN EXCELSIS, 27
V. THE LUCKNOW ROAD, 34
VI. LATE FOR MESS, 42
VII. MRS. DAWSON'S DRESSES, 48
VIII. THE PICNIC, 58
IX. THE BEQUEST, 66
X. A CHALLENGE, 78
XI. WHO IS SHE? 92
XII. ANGEL IMPARTS A SECRET, 98
XIII. ANGEL'S WINGS ARE CLIPPED, 105
XIV. PHILIP'S LOVE AFFAIR, 115
XV. LOLA, 126
XVI. GRANDMAMMA, 134
XVII. THE UNEXPECTED, 146
XVIII. DINNER FOR TWO, 159
XIX. THE PARTING GUESTS, 175
XX. A DESTROYING ANGEL, 183
XXI. "THINK IT OVER," 193
XXII. "A WHITE ELEPHANT AND A WHITE ROSE," 209
XXIII. ANGEL DECLINES A PENNY FOR HER THOUGHTS, 217
XXIV. THE SOOTHSAYER, 228
XXV. THE CHITACHAR CLUB, 239
XXVI. IN ANGEL'S TENT, 255
XXVII. "THE SIN," 266
XXVIII. MAKING FRIENDS, 277
XXIX. LAST YEAR'S NEST, 286
XXX. A WHITED SEPULCHRE, 291
XXXI. FISHING FOR AN INVITATION, 296
XXXII. BY PROXY, 303
XXXIII. EXPLANATION, 313
XXXIV. A REFUGEE, 320
XXXV. A GOOD BILLET, 330
XXXVI. JOINT HOSTESS, 337
XXXVII. IN GARHWAL, 344
XXXVIII. INTERLOPERS, 355
XXXIX. TO DIE WITH YOU, 365
XL. THE INTRUDER, 375
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.