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.