ANGEL IN EXCELSIS
PUNCTUAL to the moment, Philip Gascoigne arrived to take his little
cousin for the promised drive, and Angel's eyes shone like stars when
she descried his smart dogcart spinning up the approach. Sally Lunn, or
"Mad" Sally, a good-looking bay, stud-bred, in hard condition, enjoyed
the reputation of being the fastest trotter, as well as the most
hot-tempered and eccentric animal, in the station; only those blessed
with a cool head and no nerves were competent to manage her. Here she
came, pulling double, and tossing flecks of foam over her bright brass
harness.
Mrs. Wilkinson felt a secret thrill of thankfulness that it was not
about to be her lot to sit behind this excitable creature, the author
of a lengthy chapter of accidents. However, Mrs. Wilkinson's little
daughter did not share these fears. She had been dressed and ready for
an hour, and now ran quickly down the steps, in a clear starched frock,
her hat restored, her hair elaborately crimped, climbed into the cart
with the agility of a monkey, and took her place with the dignity of
a queen. It is true that her shapely little black legs dangled in a
somewhat undignified fashion. Nevertheless she declined a footstool
with a gesture of contempt—nor was Sally disposed to linger. In
another moment the dogcart swung out of the gate, and was humming down
the road at the rate of eleven miles an hour. Angel, very upright, with
her hair streaming behind her, elation in her pose; Gascoigne sitting
square and steady, giving his full attention to his impetuous trapper.
"Thank goodness, Philip is a first-rate whip," exclaimed Mrs.
Wilkinson, as she turned her eyes from this fleeting vision and rested
them on her husband, "otherwise I would never trust the child with that
animal."
"Bah, there's no fear," protested Colonel Wilkinson from his long
chair, taking up a paper as he spoke. "You may trust _her_ with any
animal; and Gascoigne knows what he's about—he understands horses; but
I'm blessed if I understand him. He must be hard up for company when he
calls for that brat."
"She is his cousin, you see," answered her parent, "and—Richard——" a
pause; long pauses were a peculiarity of Mrs. Wilkinson's conversation.
"Well?" impatiently. "What?"
"He thinks she looks so white and thin, and he has offered to send her
up to the hills for three months—at his own expense. What do you say?"
Colonel Wilkinson reflected for some seconds behind the pages of his
"Pioneer." He detested Angel; an arrogant, insolent little ape, whose
shrill treble broke into and amended his best stories, who never shed
a tear, no matter what befell her at his hands, and who laughed in his
face when he stormed. He would be rid of her—but he would also be
renouncing his authority. Angel was his step-daughter—Gascoigne was
only her father's cousin. Her keep was nominal, and the station would
talk. No—certainly _no_.
"What do I say?" he repeated, emerging with considerable crackling from
behind his screen. "I say no, and I call the offer confounded cheek on
the part of Gascoigne. What is good enough for my own children is good
enough for her. They are not going to budge this season."
"But the boys are so much younger, Richard, dear," ventured his wife.
"Well, I won't have Gascoigne interfering with a member of my family,
cousin or no cousin. Some day he will find out what a little devil she
is, for all her angel name and angel face," and with this depressing
prophecy Colonel Wilkinson retired once more behind his "Pioneer."
Meanwhile the "little devil" was in the seventh heaven, as she and her
Jehu bowled along the straight flat road, overtaking and passing every
other vehicle—a triumph dear to Angel.
"Look here, young 'un, where would you like me to drive you—you shall
choose the route," said Gascoigne suddenly.
"Right in front of the club, then past the railway station and through
the bazaar," was her prompt and unexpected answer.
"Good Lord, what a choice! And why?"
"Just that people may see me," replied Angel, and she put out her hand
and touched his arm, as she added, "See me—driving with _you_."
"No great sight; but, all the same, you shall have your way—you don't
often get it, do you?"
Angel made no reply beyond a queer little laugh, and they sped through
the cantonments, meeting the remnant who were left taking their dutiful
airing. These did not fail to notice the "Wilkinson's Angel," as she
was called, seated aloft beside Captain Gascoigne, pride in her port,
her little sharp face irradiated with the serene smile of absolute
content. The two Miss Brewers, in their rickety pony carriage, envied
the child fully as much as she could have desired. Mrs. Dawson stared,
bowed, and looked back; so did some men on their way to rackets.
"Well, Gascoigne was a good sort, and it was just the kind of thing he
would do—give up his game to take a kid for a spin into the country.
Why, he was making straight for the bazaar." The bazaar was narrow and
thronged with ekkas, camels, bullock carts, and cattle, as well as
crammed with human beings. As Gascoigne steered carefully in and out
of the crowd, a bright idea flashed upon him. There was Narwainjees, a
large general shop which sold everything from Paris hats to pills and
night lights. He pulled up sharply at the entrance and said, "I say,
Angel, I want you to come in here and choose yourself a hat."
"A hat," she echoed. "Oh, Philip, I—I—shall be too happy."
"All right, then," lifting her down as he spoke; "you can try what it
feels like to be too happy. I can't say I know the sensation myself."
As the oddly-matched couple now entered the shop hand in hand, the
smart, soldierly young man and the shabby little girl, an obsequious
attendant emerged from some dark lair. At this time of year business
was slack, and the atmosphere of the ill-ventilated premises was
reeking with oil, turmeric, and newly-roasted coffee.
"I want to look at some trimmed hats for this young lady," explained
her cavalier.
"Oh, Phil," she whispered, squeezing his hand tightly in her tiny
grasp, "it's the very first time I've been called a young lady."
"And won't be the last, we will hope," he answered.
"Have some iced lemonade, sir?" said a stout man in a gold skull-cap
and thin white muslin draperies.
"No, thank you—but you, Angel—will you have some?" asked her cousin.
"I should love it," and she put her lips greedily to a brimming
tumbler of her favourite beverage. Undoubtedly Angel was tasting every
description of pleasure to-day.
"And now for the hats; here they come!" announced her companion, as a
languid European assistant appeared with two in either hand.
"Oh, how lovely!" cried Angel, setting down the glass and clasping her
hands in rapturous admiration.
These hats, be it known, were the usual stock in trade of a native
shop up country, models that no sane woman in England would purchase
or be seen in; massive satin or velvet structures, with lumps of
faded flowers and tarnished gilt buckles, one more preposterous
than another, all equally dusty, tumbled, and expensive, and all
intended for full-grown wearers—if such could be beguiled into buying
them. Gascoigne took a seat and proceeded to watch his protégée's
proceedings with the keenest amusement, and exhibited no desire to cut
short her few blissful moments. Angel was absolutely happy, not had
been, or was to be, but actually happy in the present moment—and the
sight of such a condition is extremely rare.
The mite in short frock treated the shopwoman with all the airs of a
grown customer, and was even more _difficile_ and critical than her
own mamma. First she tried on one hat, then another; and to see the
little top-heavy figure, glass in hand, strutting and backing in front
of a great spotty mirror, and contemplating herself from every point
of view with the most anxious solemnity, was to all concerned a truly
entertaining spectacle. Several torpid assistants had collected at a
respectable distance, enjoying the comedy with faint grins as Angel
gravely appeared, and disappeared, under various monstrosities. For a
time she was sorely divided between a scarlet plush tam-o'-shanter and
a green straw with yellow flowers. Finally it was a bright blue satin
toque with mother-of-pearl buckles which captured her affections. She
put it on, and took it off, then put it on again, whilst Gascoigne and
the European attendant watched her attentively.
"I say, Angel, that won't do," he said, breaking the spell at last;
"no, nor any single one of the lot. You'd look like an owl in an ivy
bush."
"Oh, Philip, not really," she protested, and her eyes grew large with
amazement.
"No, none of them are suitable. That thing you've on weighs pounds;
you'd want a man to carry it. I'll tell you what, perhaps this young
lady here will fit you out with a nice straw hat, and trim it."
"Oh, yes, sir," she assented briskly. "I believe I have what will
answer exactly," producing a pile of plain straws. "Try this on, missy."
But it was such a bare, uninteresting-looking article. Two great tears
stood in Angel's eyes. These she bravely winked away, and said with a
gulp, "Very well, Phil; I suppose you know best."
"I'll make it so smart, missy," said the sympathetic attendant, "with
big bows of fresh white ribbon."
"And roses? Oh, Philip, say I am to have roses?" she pleaded with
clasped hands, and a voice that was tragic.
"Yes, roses by all means, if they are indispensable to your happiness."
"Oh, they are—and pink ones."
"Then we will leave the matter entirely to you," said Gascoigne to the
milliner, as he stood up; "a child's hat, you know, not a May bush."
And Miss Harris, who was rarely favoured with such a customer, gave Mr.
Gascoigne an emphatic promise, and her sweetest smile. As a solace from
being parted from her beloved blue toque, her cousin presented Angel
with a large box of chocolates, a bottle of perfume, a silver thimble,
and a doll, and the little creature returned to the dogcart with her
arms full and her face radiant.