# The Angel of the White Feet

Extracted from Windsor magazine, v25 1906-07, pp. 177-184. Accompanying illustrations by G. C. Wilmshurst omitted. Sometimes, perhaps all too briefly, a shadowy dream can become tangible.
The Angel of the White Feet
By TOM GALLON
WHEN the long-lost brother of Mrs. Sims suddenly took it into his head to die, and so in a fashion proclaim himself to the world at last, he remembered that he had a sister, and that he had a very considerable fortune; on an impulse he united the two of them. Mrs. Sims, on receiving the news, instantly determined to be a lady, and to make her son, in direct consequence, a gentleman. Which determination showed, on her part, that she had not reckoned with Nature.
As it might be possible that in London, wherein she had occupied a very humble position indeed, people might point the finger of knowledge at her, she determined to blaze forth in all her new glory in the simpler region of the country. The good lady quite forgot that she might have moved from one district to another in London, and blazed to her heart's content, after leaving the old life behind her; she did not reckon on the fact that the country, of which she knew nothing, would either exclude her altogether, or pick her to pieces mercilessly. However, the idea obtained possession of her, and she rented, with the assistance of her son, a substantial house in a pretty neighbourhood in Sussex, and began to dream of cows and pigs and other necessary adjuncts to her new existence.
The son—Mr. Albert Sims—was of a different order from his mother. He had had leanings towards some sort of culture; had even, in the midst of a mean occupation, been able to attend evening classes and to improve himself generally in a vague and indefinite fashion. True, the mark of the Cockney was upon him, and would not be entirely eradicated; and the country did not appeal to him.
To begin with, the sight of Mrs. Sims, in a black silk mantle, and with a little ivory-topped umbrella, and with a black bonnet mysteriously trimmed with "bugles," which she insisted upon thrusting very far back on her head, wandering in a country lane, seemed incongruous. However hard Albert endeavoured to live up to his part of the business, by dressing in knickerbockers and a Norfolk jacket, he yet felt that both he and his mother were oddities and altogether out of place. Again, there was nothing to do—no shops to be seen—no gallery of a theatre (although, of course, it would not have been the gallery now, under these improved conditions of finance) to which he could go. Fond though he was of the old lady, he yet discovered that an evening alone with her, in the dead silence of the country, was not an unmixed blessing.
One or two people called upon them—and then called no more. For Mrs. Sims openly avowed to the kindly vicar of the parish that she "preferred chapel, and a tin one at that"; and the ladies who called did not find in Mrs. Sims a responsive spirit. Albert Sims endeavoured to heal the breach by going to church; but he made the mistake of appearing there—the better to seem at his ease—in that knickerbocker suit; and determined never again to face the glare of angry eyes that greeted him on that one occasion.
So it came about that he wandered unhappily in by-lanes, striving hard to understand the inward beauty of the country—of its trees and its flowers, and its streams and its skies; while Mrs. Sims cheerfully fed the chickens she had purchased, with the wrong kind of food, and wondered petulantly why they were so obstinate in the matter of eggs.
And Albert fell in love. Let it not be supposed for a moment that he began to worship the buxom proportions of some dairymaid, or that he lingered alone in the twilight of autumn evenings with some country wench who was captivated by his London appearance. That was where his dim strivings after culture taught Albert Sims what he should do; rather beautifully, and very pathetically, he worshipped from afar, and worshipped someone he could never under any circumstances approach. Which was characteristic, in a sense, of Albert Sims.
I must apologise at this point for that unkindly reference to Nature at the beginning of my story. Nature had been wiser than it would appear; for she had made Albert Sims that finest and gentlest of all things—a gentleman of her own. Cockney he might be—but he had the real instinct of fineness that nothing can smother. When he met his divinity in a country lane, he knew enough to stand aside and to let her pass, or to open a gate for her, and take off his cap as she went through; but he never spoke. Once or twice he got as his reward a little, frank smile and an inclination of the girlish head; but that was all. But that was enough.
She was but a girl—apparently some eighteen or twenty years of age. He met her first cantering along a dusty road; he met her again driving, with a firm, free hand on the reins, a somewhat spirited mare. And he went home on each occasion to dream about her; to sit through a long, silent evening opposite his unsuspecting mother, and to wonder how that mother would get on with his divinity. For although it was all hopeless, he had brought his dreams so far as that.
He had, of course, found out who she was and where she lived. There was a great house standing in a great park on the top of a hill some three or four miles from where he lived; and it was occupied by a certain white-haired, fierce-moustached man, known as General Hartigan. The young lady was Miss Olivia Hartigan, his only child; and she had but recently come from abroad to keep house for her father. That much Albert Sims had learned from his garrulous mother and from the gossip of the little village near at hand. She rode and she drove all over the countryside, and she came with some frequency upon the little, timid man in the knickerbocker suit, wandering aimlessly in the lanes. And always she gave him that frank look, and sometimes, when he stood aside for her in a narrow place or opened a gate for her, that frank smile.
Of course, it was all hopeless and impossible; Albert Sims told himself that, bitterly enough, again and again. He told himself so especially one night, when he sat alone before the fire and reviewed all the circumstances. It was a wild and blustering night, with the wind and the rain pounding at the shutters, and making that country into which he had been plunged seem more desolate and undesirable than usual.
Mrs. Sims had gone to bed; the servants had retired; Albert was left alone. He had been making a pretence of reading; but the book had fallen from his grasp, and he lay back in his chair, looking at the fire, and dreaming the unsatisfactory dreams that had been with him so long.
"On'y suppose at this present moment she was sittin' there—an' smilin' across at me in that way she smiles, with 'er eyes wrinklin' up, and the dimples showin'. Suppose she was to lean forward, an' look at me—an' speak; an' I was to know that she was goin' to sit 'ere every night of our lives—just 'er an' me an'—— No—not mother. She don't fit in with mother, some'ow. Mother's all right in 'er little way—one o' the best; but she ain't quite there with Miss Olivia 'Artigan, Miss Olivia!"
He sighed, and got up, and took a turn or two about the room; stood listening for a moment to the howling wind and the driving rain. Coming back to the fireplace again, he stood there, looking down at it with a smile upon his face, and shaking his head at it in a whimsical fashion.
"Not for you, Albert Sims; she ain't of your class. You know you love 'er, you silly fool; an' you'll never so much as touch 'er 'and or 'ear 'er voice. If you was to see 'er now, you wouldn't know what to say to 'er; you'd simply blush and stammer—you know you would. What's the good of all the money? She wouldn't look at you if you was made of gold. Ah, well—I'll get to bed."
He had turned round to extinguish the light, when he stopped suddenly, listening. He had a curious feeling that he had heard a faint cry and a knocking at the door—had heard it above the howling of the storm. A little startled, he passed from the room into the hall and listened again; this time he was certain that someone was at the door, beating softly upon it and calling to be let in.
Vague remembrances of stories of lonely houses at night, and of men who came to them for robbery or murder, came into his mind; he hesitated and looked towards the stairs. But the voice crying so insistently and the light knocking on the door were not to be ignored; he swiftly undid the bolts and bars and threw back the door. A figure darted in and leaned for a moment against the wall in the darkness, panting and striving for breath. It was a woman, but he could not see the face.
"You're got caught in the storm," he whispered weakly.
She seemed to nod; she could not speak yet. He threw open the door of the room from which he had come, and motioned towards it; she swayed a little in moving, and he caught her arm and guided her into the room. And then in a moment he saw who the visitor was.
It was Olivia Hartigan. She appeared to be almost wet through; she shuddered as she drew near to the fire and crouched over it. As for Mr. Albert Sims, he stood still, staring at her in perplexity and not saying a word. It was the girl who broke the silence; she began to laugh a little as she spoke.
"Really, I'm very sorry; I hope I didn't startle you. I saw a light—the first I'd seen for an hour or more; and I think I was frightened of the darkness and the storm; I seemed to be all alone in the world. I'm so sorry."
"Not at all, miss," said Albert, in a voice scarcely above a whisper. "I'm sure you're very welcome; it ain't a nice night—is it?"
"It's awful!" she said, looking round at him for a moment. "I've had a terrible experience; smashed up my dog-cart miles from home, and nearly smashed up myself. Then I got assistance from an inn, and they wanted me to stop the night. But it was a low place, with coarse men drinking and smoking in the only room available—and I didn't like the look of the place at all. I got away and set out to walk—and then, of course, lost my way."
"And got round 'ere?" added Albert.
"Yes. What a cheerful room you've got here!" She looked round about with her bright eyes as she spoke. "I am glad I found the place. I was horribly frightened."
"I'm afraid you're 'orribly wet, miss," he said.
She looked down at her draggled skirts; she gave a glance at the windows that rattled under the fury of the storm; and she laughed a little ruefully. "I am wet," she replied.
Now, of course the proper thing for Mr. Albert Sims to have done would have been to rouse his mother and the servants: to have had the lady properly dried and looked after, and in all probability put to bed. But Mr. Albert Sims did nothing of the kind. True, for a moment he glanced upwards, as though remembering the stout, comfortable mother who slept above; but that was all. So far as the young lady was concerned, he might have been utterly alone in the house, for any suggestion he made as to feminine help.
"I think I know who you are," she said, looking at him steadily.
"Indeed, miss?"
"Yes. You're the—the gentleman I've seen so often walking about the lanes here—aren't you?"
"Yes, miss. You see, I ain't quite used to the country yet," went on Albert Sims, "an' I'm takin' 'er gradually. It's only what you might call a noddin' acquaintance at present, miss; but I shall get on better in time. The country takes a lot o' knowin'."
"Yes, indeed. I shouldn't have lost myself to-night, only it happens that I've been away from here since I was a little child. Do you know," she broke off, to add—with another rueful laugh—"I'm really dreadfully wet. Are you all alone here?"
Albert Sims gulped, and spoke. "Quite alone, miss," he said, lowering his voice.
"Oh!" She appeared to think deeply for a moment or two, and yet not to be in the least disconcerted or afraid; it was rather as though she were trying to remember what was the correct attitude for her to adopt under the circumstances.
"Does that make any difference?" asked Albert Sims.
"Just a little," she confessed. "You see, the difficulty is this: I can't go out in this storm, and I ought not to stay here."
"An' yet you'll catch your death of cold if you keep those things on," he supplemented.
She nodded. "It's only my skirt—and my—my stockings," she said.
"If a dressin'-gown would be any good, miss, or even a pair of soft slippers," suggested Albert, "I dare say it could be managed. And, of course, I could retire if you so much as say the word, miss."
"That's very kind of you; I could manage very well, then," she said, with a grateful smile. "I feel as though I should never be dry again," she added, with a shudder.
Mr. Albert Sims went swiftly from the room and cautiously mounted the stairs. His heart was beating fast, for this was an adventure indeed. As he went up in the darkness, all sorts of impossible ideas crowded in upon his brain. Of how he might, by some great good fortune, keep her there for ever; hold her there, in the room in the firelight, with the storm raging outside? and neither of them ever growing any older, or ever changing, or ever being disturbed by anyone else; just a little world of warmth and brightness, of which they were the only inhabitants. He crept quietly past his mother's door and gained his own room, got a heavy, warm dressing-gown and a pair of felt slippers, and glided down again. Coming to the door of the room in which the gill was, he stopped outside, and whispered through the opening, without daring to look in.
"I've got what you want, miss; I'll just pass 'em in, with your leave," he said.
"Thank you so much," replied the bright voice from within. Albert Sims dropped the dressing-gown and the slippers just inside the door, keeping his face averted; and then sauntered about for a moment or two in the hall, smiling vaguely to himself. He heard with satisfaction the increased howling of the storm outside.
After a moment or two the door was opened, and the girl stood there, looking out at him. She was enveloped in the big dressing-gown; it swept to the ground and trailed upon it. She was laughing shyly. "You can come in," she said.
"I should like you to speak soft, miss, if you wouldn't mind," said Albert Sims, as he followed her into the room.
"Why?" She turned and flashed the question at him.
"Oh, nothin', miss," he replied uneasily. "On'y I like to speak quietly—seems more natural, some'ow—at night. I suppose it's bein' alone in the place makes me wish it—I always do it myself," he added feebly.
"Oh, very well—I'll speak only in whispers," she said, laughing. "You've no idea how wet I was," she went on, seating herself in the chair usually occupied by Mrs. Sims, and stretching out her feet luxuriously. "By the way—I don't think I know your name."
But Albert Sims did not answer. He had been struck dumb by the sight of two naked white feet enveloped in the clumsy felt slippers. He saw but an inch or two of the slim ankles; the dressing-gown was drawn closely about her. The feet themselves were lost in the slippers—slippers to be thereafter for ever glorified!
"You haven't told me your name?"
"Sims," he stammered—"Albert Sims, miss. You needn't tell me yours; I know it already. In a manner o' speakin', miss"—Albert Sims was very bashful indeed at this point, and ran a finger nervously along the edge of the table near which he stood—"in a manner o' speakin', I've taken rather an interest in you, miss."
"Have you?" She flashed a glance up at him for a moment, and then looked again at the fire. "In what way?"
"It's a bit 'ard to explain," said Albert, dropping into a chair, and still keeping that safe distance between them. "All the gels—young ladies, I mean, miss—I've met before haven't bin quite like you."
"No?"
"Not a bit," he replied, growing bolder, and shaking his head vigorously. "Always something about 'em that put you off, if you can understand my meaning, miss. Just w'en you was pritty sure you might be likin' a young lady, she'd say or do somethin' that knocked it all out of your 'ead—say or do somethink that seemed to 'urt you."
She nodded gravely at the fire. "I think I understand," she said.
"I suppose you don't often dream, miss—do you?" he asked, after a little pause.
"Why, yes—sometimes," she laughed.
"I mean w'en you're not exactly asleep," said Albert Sims awkwardly. "I mean the sort of dream that comes to you of what you'd like to be—an' like to do—an' all that sort of thing. It was you first started me dreamin' down 'ere, miss," he added softly.
"I started you? What do you mean?"
"You see, miss—I 'adn't seen anything like you before—nothin' clean an' fine an' strong like you. The young ladies I'd known used to giggle if you looked at 'em; there wasn't one of 'em 'ad your style of eyes, that knew 'ow to look straight at a man—as if 'e was a man, miss."
"Thank you, Mr. Sims," she said, almost in a whisper.
"There wasn't one of 'em, for instance, that would have sat where you're sittin' to-night—all alone with a man—in a friendly spirit—an' not made a fuss about it. I give you my word, there wasn't one of 'em that wouldn't 'ave thought the man would be likely to say somethin' 'e ought not to say."
Her eyes regarded him steadily. "Thank you again, Mr. Sims," she said.
"Consequently, miss, you'll understand that I've come to find myself lookin' at you—an' thinkin' about you—an' even goin' so far as to presume to dream about you—in a manner I shouldn't 'ave done with—with anyone else. It's a liberty, I know; but I 'ope it's one you'll excuse, miss."
She did not immediately reply; she gazed into the fire, with her elbows on her knees, and her chin in her palms. When at last she spoke, she spoke, indeed, as though almost to herself.
"Tell me," she said softly—"tell me what you dreamed about me."
"It ain't easy, miss," said Mr. Albert Sims, rubbing his hands on his knees. "In the first place, I 'ad a sort of wish—an idea, you might call it—that I was a gentleman. Foolish—wasn't it?"
"Go on, please," she said.
"Then I thought that perhaps it might 'appen that you was in trouble—an' needed some assistance—an' that I—of course always as a gentleman, you'll understand, miss—was able to 'elp you."
"As you have done to-night," she said.
"That's the funny part of it, miss," said Albert Sims, with a pleased smile. "I was sittin' 'ere this very evening, listenin' to the storm, and—and"—he made a deprecatory movement with his hands—"an' takin' the liberty, miss, of thinkin' about you. An I then in a moment—you was at the door—an' it was in my power to do something for you. I shall be glad and grateful to remember that, miss, as long as I live; it's a memory I wouldn't part with."
"Dreams are not everything, Mr. Sims. They come to us, as you say, out of the night and the darkness—and they come to us in impossible shapes." She made a movement to indicate the uncouth dressing-gown and slippers. "Some of them are good to remember——"
"I'm sure of that, miss," whispered Albert Sims heartily.
"—And some are best forgotten. Some day you'll touch the realities of life, Mr. Sims; some day some woman with the frank eyes you admire will look into your soul—and you'll begin to dream about her."
"Not while—by your leave, miss—I can dream about—about somebody else."
She did not laugh; there was that curious quality in her that made her appreciate the silent homage of the man, as much as she appreciated the delicacy and the strangeness of the whole situation. She knew that wherever she went, and whatever she did in any after life, this night must be stamped indelibly upon her remembrance—never to be effaced—always to be held as some poor, tender, sacred, secret thing that was worth remembering. Their lives from this time would lie far apart—could not, indeed, by any possibility touch; yet the homage of the man was hers, and would be hers always. In justice to that she must be gracious to him now, on this one night of his life.
They talked about many things; and Albert Sims found himself telling her—first of all people on earth—something of his own dreams and hopes; whispering to her of that inner life that no one else had ever touched.
With the complete confidence of a child almost, she presently slumbered in the great chair; while the common man, like some knight of old, guarded her. Presently she roused herself, and laughed softly, and turned smiling sleepy eyes upon him. And by that time, in some miraculous fashion, he had got hot coffee ready for her and was pressing it upon her. She drank it gratefully, beginning to chatter again the while.
"I can see the daylight coming already," she said, "and I'm going back again. You see, it will all be quite simple, because the General—that's my father, you know—is away in London; he doesn't come back till later. He'd be dreadfully frightened if he knew I'd been away like this. Besides"—she flashed another glance at him—"the General would not understand—would he?"
He did not answer. The dream was over; his divinity was going out of his life, just as strangely as she had come into it. He was not the man to detain her; he was, above all, the man who could understand that for the future they met only as strangers, and that this night was buried between them. With a muttered apology, he went out of the room and paced up and down in the hall outside for some time; when she softly called him in again, the white feet were hidden, and she was ready to start.
With a curious certainty in her mind that he knew what to do, she left everything to him; for that first and last time she depended wholly upon him. When presently he came to summon her, she followed and found him standing outside the house in the rain-sodden road, with the little pony-carriage that belonged to Mrs. Sims, ready to start. The dawn was not yet so fully come but that a few faint stars still lingered in the sky; they both looked up at them for a moment as they stood there in the pure, still air.
"I begin to understand the country a bit," said Albert Sims. "Nature seems a bit nearer just now, miss."
They drove along in silence for some little time; the girl was the first to speak. And in a curious fashion Albert Sims knew, before she said a word, what she was to say, and how she would say it.
"I should be a proud and happy girl," she said, looking straight before her, and with a curious flush upon her face—"because two good men dream of me."
"Two?" He asked mechanically.
"Yes—you—and another. Far away in another country, where men carry their lives in their hands, and help to bear the burden of a mighty Empire, there is a man who dreams of me—just as I dream of him. He is to come back to me in a year or two—sure of finding me waiting."
"'E must be one o' the best," said Albert Sims, clearing his throat a little.
"He is," said the girl, with a little proud tilt of her chin. "I shall tell him about you; he will understand."
They came at last to a gate, where she asked him to stop. As they stood for a moment in the road, she looked fully into his eyes, and smiled, and held out her hand.
He took it and held it for a long minute.
"We shall not meet again, Mr. Sims."
"Of course not," he whispered; then he gave a little queer laugh. "You only came to me in a dream, you know."
"Only in a dream," she repeated. "Good-bye!"
She was gone, and the gate had closed behind her. Mr. Albert Sims drove home slowly, with a smile upon his face, as the dawn mounted in the sky.
Copyright 1906, by Tom Gallon, in the United States of America.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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