CHAPTER XIII
ANGEL'S WINGS ARE CLIPPED
Lady Augusta Gascoigne was the daughter of a marquis, the widow of a baronet, and our little Angel's grandmamma. She lived in a small house in Hill Street, with her daughter Eva, a plain, awkward, distressingly shy woman of seven-and-thirty, who remained on her parents' hands as a hopelessly unmarketable article, when her two younger sisters had made brilliant matches, and covered their chaperon with glory. But Eva's sole suitor was an ineligible, who had been dismissed with indignation and contumely, and as Miss Gascoigne disliked society and dress, she had subsided into genteel obscurity—her mother's housekeeper and drudge.
Lady Augusta was blessed with an iron constitution and the vigor of perpetual youth; with her slender figure, well-poised head, and active movements, she appeared at a little distance to be about thirty, albeit the remorseless Peerage stated her years to be three-score. She wore her clothes with grace, employed a French maid—well versed in "the art of beauty"—and got all her gowns in Paris. She patronized the turf, the theatre, and the most popular foreign Spas; her supper and roulette parties were renowned. She carried on her correspondence by telegram, and lived in a perpetual whirl. Her ladyship still retained the remains of considerable beauty; her nose was delicately chiselled (and came out well in her photographs); her eyes were blue, very quick, and rather closely set together; her hair, which had once been red, had faded to a pale sandy shade, and was marvellously crimped and curled—and matched. She was exceedingly vivacious, cheery, and popular, always well-dressed, always well posted in the earliest news, the newest story, and the coming scandal, and men thronged around Lady Augusta like flies about a pot of honey. She was constantly in evidence; her comings and goings, her little dinners and race parties were faithfully recorded. She was smart, her friends were smart, her turn-out was smart, and when she appeared at church parade "wearing her sables," or at the opera "wearing her diamonds," or merely driving down Sloane Street with "a bunch of violets tucked into her coat," were not all these doings chronicled in the Society papers?
Lady Augusta was thoroughly satisfied with her surroundings and herself, and put all painful thoughts, such as the memory of her two dead sons, far from her. She was entirely without heart or sympathy, and turned her back on sickness, suffering, and all disagreeables. She was quick to seize on, and enjoy, every passing pleasure, and declared herself a philosopher—but people who disapproved of this callous and volatile lady called her by another name.
Immediately after the death of Mrs. Wilkinson, Philip Gascoigne wrote to Lady Augusta, and informed her that he had undertaken the charge of her granddaughter, and if not actually requiring her sanction, at any rate deferring to her opinion, and asking advice respecting the child's education. To this announcement, Angel's grandmamma replied by the following mail, declaring that she had hitherto been under the impression that Tony's child had died in infancy, and that whilst she warmly applauded Philip's benevolence, she failed to feel the faintest interest in the offspring of the late Mrs. Wilkinson, and that any authority that might be supposed to lie with her, she transferred to him with all her heart. Her ladyship went on to say that he was a bold man to saddle himself with a girl of nine; born and brought up in India, and that his wisest course would be to send her to some cheap hill school, or convent out there, when, later on, she could become a governess or a nun. When was he coming home, and when was he going to marry? With a few items of society gossip, the letter was concluded by his affectionate Aunt Augusta. A more cool and heartless epistle the recipient had never perused. As soon as he had mastered its contents, he tore it into little pieces across and across, and tossed it into the paper basket—even Colonel Wilkinson was not more anxious to repudiate the child than her own grandmother.
By this time the friendless little waif had arrived in England safely, and one of her early letters will best describe her impressions. It was written over three sheets of foreign paper, with much underlining, scratching out, and bad spelling.
"Tenterden House, Wimbledon.
"My dear Phil,—I sent you one letter from Suez, and I now write this from school which I hate, and every moment I wish I was back in your verandah playing with the dogs, and mending your soks. This is a half-holiday and instead of going to the hokky I am scribbling to you. I have so much to tell you. First of all about Mrs. Dawson, she was middling kind to me on borde ship but I ran all messages and sowed buttons on her boots, and brought her brandy when she was very sick. All the time I was making up my mind to tell her about the dresses, I hated to have to do it, but I felt that she ought to know and not have to wonder all her life. So one day when she was awfully ill and week, lying back with her eyes shut, some voice inside my head said Do it now, now is the time, she cannot beet you. And I said, Mrs. Dawson I am going to make your mind easy, it was I who cut up all your dresses. I am very sorry, they were beautiful, and if I could give them back now I would. I've nothing to give you to make up with, but my gold bangell, the only nice thing that I have cousin Phil, and that you gave me; so I took it off, and offered it to her. She had opened her eyes ever so wide, and at first looked quite stupid and queer; then she got very red and fierce and wriggled up and panted for breath. At last she said only you are a little orfan I don't know what I would do with you, land you at Malta I believe. There's your bangell and she flung it out of the port hole, and said now tell me you little feend what you did it for. And I told her the truth that it was to punish her for her unkindness to my mummy, and this made her quite crazy. She jumped up, and took me by the shoulders and turned me out of the cabbin. She never speekes to me now, but she has told everyone, and no one ever talks to me, and one child said go away you little cat my mama says I am not to allow you to come near me you ought to be in Jale. So I did not gain much by telling the truth that time you see. I lost all my friends and my dear dear bangell. This school is a big red house with long passages and great bair rooms and a bell rings for everything, getting up prayers lessons play. Oh I do hate that bell. There are forty girls and I am not the youngest only the smallest in the lowest class. Miss Morton thinks me dreadfully bakward, and so I am, except in sowing, but she was surprised to hear that I had read Vanity Fair and Byron's pomes and could say Shelly's skylark by hart. The other girls are very prim, some tell lies as bad as Anima any day, some are greedy, as greedy as Pinky, some are very nice, but they all think me odd and wild. I like to make them stair, so I jabber Hindustani and crack my finger-joints. I have no friends here except the second housemaid the cat and the drill serjant. He says I am made of yres, and he has been in India but only in Madras. I have been in lots of skrapes already dear Phil I don't believe I am suitable for skool, I'de much rather have lived with you, and had a pretty young governess like Miss Dove who teeches embroidrey. There are some pretty girls too, they all think me so ugly, but I don't mind. Give each of the dogs a kiss from me and three to Sally just in the middle of her nose, and tell the bearers little girl I have not forgotten her, and tell Toady Dodd I am learning french and german and dancing and am going to be akom—clever, I cant spell the big word, it will vex him awfully. Be sure you write me long long long letters, you cannot think how I watch the clock on male days. If you forget me, I pray that I may take small pox and dye,—I am every yours truly,
"Angel."
But Angel was not forgotten. Some description of letter found its way into her eager hands, two out of four mail days. Her quivering white face, as the letters were distributed, caused a pang of pity in the hearts of the womenkind who witnessed it. Angel's feelings were ten years in advance of her age and her associates. As weeks and months went on, she began to spread her short wings, and to evince her personality, and was presently notorious as the most idle, clever, mischievous, and unruly girl in the whole school. She could learn, she had unusual capabilities, but she much preferred playing tricks, scribbling poetry, and affording unlimited fun to her class, among whom, thanks to the freshness and audacity of her ideas, she assumed the position of ring-leader and queen. She received punishment with the most staggering sang-froid. What was to be done with a child who did not mind being sent to bed, rather liked dry bread than otherwise, and heartily enjoyed her own society? Her example was spreading like an epidemic among the juniors; idleness, daring feats, and flat disobedience were the fashion since the Indian child had introduced them. At last Miss Morton sent for the culprit, and interviewed her in her own sanctum, a room that had witnessed not a few tears and scenes. Miss Morton was a clever, handsome woman of forty, admirably fitted for her position. All her girls looked up to her, not a few loved her; her influence bore fruit in many and many a future home.
When the slight fair child in deep mourning was ushered in, and surveyed the room and its occupants with critical blue eyes, she said:
"Little Angela Gascoigne, you may sit down," Angela took a seat, and sedately folded her arms. This action, did Miss Morton but know, portended mortal defiance.
"Angela, you are old and intelligent beyond your years," continued her teacher; "you are not yet ten, but you have seen as much of life as many girls of eighteen."
Angela's eyes complacently admitted the fact.
"I therefore talk to you, as if you were almost grown up," resumed Miss Morton. Angela inclined her head gravely in acknowledgment of the compliment. "I must confess, that although you have read the most advanced literature, your mind is pure and child-like. On the other hand, in your small way, you are an anarchist, you rebel against every law. What do you propose to do with your life? You have influence, you have brains, have you decided to grow up an ill weed, and to do as much harm as you can?"
No reply. Angela gazed at the flowers, the water-colours, the clock, finally into Miss Morton's eyes.
"Angela Gascoigne," she continued, "answer me."
"No," breathed Angel in a quick whisper.
"Very well, then bear in mind that you will have to change your ways; you must work as do other girls, conform to the school rules. You have been endowed with gifts that are uncommon, and yet you only misuse them, in order to make your companions as idle and reckless as yourself. Unless you undertake to improve, and give me your word that you will show a good example for the future, I shall be obliged to write to your guardian, and ask him to remove you at once."
Angel's face grew pale, her eyes looked black, and tragic.
"I hate school!" she burst out, passionately.
"In that case, you may be sure that school will hate you," was the prompt rejoinder, "and the sooner you leave it the better. But why do you hate school?"
"I don't know."
"What a silly answer for an intelligent girl! Then I can tell you; the reason is, because you are unaccustomed to rules, and regularity; it is a different life to the one you have led. I am aware that you are an orphan. Tell me, dear child," now leaning towards her, "do you love no one in the whole world, not even yourself? Come—won't you speak to me?" she pleaded very low.
"Yes," rejoined the child, straightening her little figure, "I love Philip."
"You mean Mr. Gascoigne, your guardian?"
Angel nodded, and her face worked, despite her precocious self-control.
"Then don't you think he will be very sorry to hear that you refuse to accept any of the advantages he has provided for you? I know that he hopes to see you an accomplished girl, and you can easily learn if you please. Don't you think it will grieve him when I am compelled to say that I cannot keep you among my pupils—because of your idleness; that with your intensely strong individuality, you influence them for ill, and I am obliged to remove a bad example from among them?"
"Are you going to write—this—to Philip?" cried Angel, with a gesture of horror.
"Yes, and at once, unless you will promise me that it is not necessary."
"I will promise anything—to please him."
"Then address yourself to your lessons—begin to-day—put away your foolish impish tricks, Angel," urged her companion; "your success lies in your own hands. Don't you think it will be much better for your guardian to be proud of you than to hear you are expelled?"
"Does that mean sent away in—disgrace?" stammered the child with characteristic directness.
"Yes, but I see that you have made up your mind; and, instead of being a trial to myself and others, you can, and will be, a help. You have some one to please, some one to surprise, some one to whose coming you can look forward—have you not thought of that?"
"Oh, I am always thinking of that," rejoined Angel, impetuously, and, to Miss Morton's amazement, she wept, as she faltered, "I have only Philip in all the world. I would rather die than that he should think—badly of me—I will try, yes, I will work. Oh, I never dreamt of Philip. Tell me what I am to do, and I will do everything to please him and surprise him when he comes home.—Yes, and I wish to please you too."
Then Miss Morton took the little rebel in her arms and kissed her tenderly, and Angel quietly submitted to her caress; since her mother died few women had kissed her. From that hour, she won the child's heart.
Tea was brought in, and the teacher and her pupil had a nice, long, comfortable talk about India. Angel gave her companion many fresh views of the natives of Hindustan, and the sun went down upon another of Miss Morton's conquests.
In a short time, the weird-faced, wiry little Anglo-Indian had made extraordinary progress, she worked conscientiously and incessantly—to please Philip.
Her letters were a source of surprise and embarrassment to her guardian, written in a clear, small hand, with unexceptional orthography; they breathed a spirit of passionate attachment, a selfless love, that was inexhaustible.
And what had he to offer in exchange for this dear child's single-hearted devotion? Nothing but a trivial, and lukewarm, affection.