ANGEL

[Pg ii]

[Pg iii]

[Pg iv]

[Pg v]

DEDICATED TO A. PERRIN

[Pg vii]

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 [Pg 2] 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 [Pg 3] 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 [Pg 4] 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 [Pg 5] 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 [Pg 6] 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."

[Pg 7]

"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 [Pg 8] 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 [Pg 9] 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.

[Pg 10]

CHAPTER II IN THE VERANDAH

Before the station clock had chimed six the following morning, every soul in the Wilkinsons' bungalow was astir. The portly head of the house, clad in lily-white drill, and mounted on a lily-white charger, had ambled off at daybreak, to preside over the cantonment rations. In the long west verandah, the bamboo blinds were already down in order to keep out the blinding glare, and behind these "chicks" the entire family was assembled. Three podgy, pasty-faced children were solemnly playing at bazaar, and buying, selling, and chaffering, in ludicrous but unconscious imitation of their elders. The fourth was a mere spectator in the arms of the fat ayah who with her understudy kept order among the infants. Occasionally a shrill exclamation, a whimper, or a howl, arose from their corner, but taking them en masse, Beany, Pinky Tod, and Baba were unemotional and well-behaved infants. They ate well, slept well, and conducted themselves sedately. Nevertheless, it must be confessed that they were not fair to see, but then we all know that it is better to be good than beautiful. A painful

illustration of this axiom was beside them, in the shape of their half-sister Angel, who with puckered brows and compressed lips, was labouring away at a handsewing [Pg 11] machine, and turning out yards of faultlessly hemmed frills. She was pretty, all the ladies said so—indeed, she said so herself—but even the dog boy was aware that Missy Angel was not good, did not want to be good, and made no secret of the terrible fact. Angel assured her brothers that it was a thousand times nicer to be wicked. She would not eat cold curry, she refused to go to bed at seven o'clock, she laughed at her kind papa, and sang when the ayahs scolded her.

Not far from Angel squatted the dirzee, a thin, grave-eyed man in spotless white clothes and turban. He was holding a piece of muslin between two of his toes, and cutting down a neatly marked crease with a pair of gigantic scissors. This was Kadir Bux, a capable workman, and Mrs. Wilkinson's much coveted treasure. Nor was Mrs. Wilkinson herself idle, although she reclined on a long cane lounge, propped up with cushions. She was intently occupied in trimming a smart evening bodice. One glance proved sufficient, to assure us that the lady was clever with her fingers, for she turned and twisted the lace with the audacious familiarity of a practised hand. It is said, that could they but discover it, everyone is endowed with a special gift; there are thousands of mortals who go through life unconscious of their own capacities, but Mrs. Wilkinson was one of those more fortunate beings who had found her metier, and gloried in its exercise. She was an accomplished milliner and a really firstclass dressmaker. In all the province there was not a woman who could put in

a sleeve, tie a bow, or hang a skirt as well as Angel's mamma. Once upon [Pg 12] a time—and that time not very distant—Mrs. Wilkinson had been a beauty, but continuous hot seasons on the plains, harassing money cares, and indifferent health had combined to filch her of her good looks. There were hard lines about her mouth, her cheeks had fallen in, and her complexion—only appeared in the evening. Of course, in early morning deshabille we do not expect to see a lady at her best. Still, her carelessly arranged hair was abundant, her features were delicate, and her blue eyes had not yet lost the power of their spell. Black-lashed, plaintive blue eyes, what had they not achieved for their owner? How much she owes to them. What difficulties surmounted, what favours granted—what friends! They resembled in potency some fabled talisman; their mistress had but to wish, look, and possess. Fortunately, Mrs. Wilkinson's ambition was of a moderate character. She merely desired to be the best-dressed woman in her circle, that is to say station, and hitherto her pre-eminence had

been supreme.

"The Mrs. Wilkinson who dresses so well," enjoyed a fame that went beyond the bounds of her own province, and had even been echoed in much maligned Madras.

Just at present this celebrity, her eldest born, and her faithful dirzee were labouring hard in order to maintain this far-reaching reputation. The scene in which they slaved was no bad imitation of the workroom of some smart dressmaker. Chairs were piled with materials, the matting was littered with scraps of lace, muslin, and calico; patterns and fashion-plates lay scattered around, and in the foreground [Pg 13] was a wicker dress-stand, surmounted by an exact model of Mrs. Wilkinson's own graceful figure—a costly but indispensable possession. At this moment it was attired in an elaborate white ball skirt and low satin bodice, and at a little distance appeared to be one of the party in the verandah.

To slave for days, nay weeks, at her sewing machine, to cut up, contrive and piece, scanty materials; to ponder for hours over patterns, confer with an unimaginative native, cope with failures, and plunge into debt, were a few of the drawbacks to Mrs. Wilkinson's pre-eminence. But inconvenience, anxiety, and self-denial were forgotten when she appeared in an incomparable "success," conscious of triumph, aware that she was the cynosure of all eyes, and that even in church she absorbed the attention of half the congregation. It is true that certain rivals, women with ungrudging husbands, replenished their wardrobes from London and Paris. Nevertheless, with even these, this talented artiste was able to compete, for she was endowed with the gift of wearing, as well as of designing, her matchless toilettes. Her figure was slender and graceful, and in a smart evening gown, with just the least little touch on her cheeks, Mrs. Wilkinson still held her own in a ballroom; her dancing was perfection, and, next to dress, her sole passion.

As for the lady's past, despite her craze for dress and dancing, it was extraordinarily monotonous, and uneventful.

Miss Lena Shardlow, a charming but penniless orphan, had arrived at Simla, some years before this [Pg 14] story opens, on a cold weather visit to distant relations, who invited her out, in the benevolent hope that Lena's pretty face would prove her fortune. If, as they afterwards declared, she had played her cards properly, Lena might have married a member of Council; it was true that he had already seen the grave close over two wives, also that he was neither young nor comely, but he could offer Lena a splendid position as his wife, and a fine pension as his widow. The girl had many admirers—indeed, she was the success of the season. Among these admirers was Tony Gascoigne, a feather-brained junior subaltern in the Silver Hussars. Tony was handsome and well connected, but reckless and impecunious. In an evil moment a brother officer had advised him "not to make a fool of himself with the little Shardlow girl," and the warning proved immediately fatal. He married her within six weeks—her friends were not present at the ceremony—and brought his lovely bride

down to Umballa in insuppressed triumph. Sad to relate, this triumph proved but short-lived—it was cruelly slain in the regimental orderly room, and died by the hand of Tony's commanding officer. Colonel St. Oriel had a strong prejudice against married subalterns, and a married subaltern of a year's standing was only surpassed by the notorious miscreant who had actually joined his regiment with a wife and a perambulator.