PHILIP'S LOVE AFFAIR
PHILIP GASCOIGNE, whom this history chiefly concerns, was the only
child of a distinguished officer who late in life had prevailed on a
beautiful and charming woman to accept his gallant heart and honorable
name. General Gascoigne had settled down in a fine old manor house
in the heart of Kent, and there turned his sword into a ploughshare,
which latter implement, according to his old club comrades, had dug
his grave. He died when his boy was nine years of age, having survived
sufficiently long to imbue the little fellow with some of his own
high ideas of truth and honour, discipline and self-command. Within a
short distance of "Earlsmead" Manor was Earlsmead Park, the stately
home of the Craven-Hargreaves. Venetia Gascoigne and Mary Hargreaves
had been schoolfellows and were close friends, and little Philip
grew up almost as one of the Hargreaves family, which consisted of
two fine manly boys, and a girl named Lola—a child with a cloud of
frizzy bronze hair, and a pair of irresistible dark eyes; she was the
youngest of the three, and the spoiled darling of the household. Mr.
Craven-Hargreaves was an agreeable, dapper little gentleman, who had
been in debt ever since he left Eton, and was existing (and more or
less enjoying life) on the forbearance of his creditors. He was rarely
at home, save in the shooting season, and the burthen of the family
cares fell on his wife's graceful shoulders. The boys had to be sent
to school, and the _pros_ and _cons_ connected with this outlay cost
their mother many anxious hours. Philip Gascoigne preceded them to
Harrow, there being no question of expense regarding his education,
for when his father died, honoured and regretted, he left behind him
the best traditions of a soldier and a gentleman, he also left an
unexpectedly large provision for his family. Philip was three years
older than Lola, and had been her bond slave ever since she could
walk alone. It was always "Phil and Lola" who were partners in games,
forays, excursions, and scrapes. What halcyon days those were, when the
eldest of the quartette was but twelve; and everything they entered
into was a pure and unalloyed delight, from nutting, and fishing, and
cricket, and riding, to play—at robbers and smugglers in the woods,
making fires and roasting apples, potatoes—also, sad to relate,
blackbirds and thrushes—returning home grubby, weary, and happy, with
but scant appetite for schoolroom tea. One day Philip and Lola, who
had been despatched on an errand to the village, surprised some boys
who were drowning a puppy in a pond. Philip instantly interfered to
save it, tore off his jacket and swam to the rescue. Subsequently, all
dripping like a water-god, he had fought Bill Lacy, of the "Leg of
Mutton Inn," and had thrashed him soundly, whilst Lola stood by with
the shivering puppy in her arms, alternately screaming encouragement
and defiance. Then when the bruised and bleeding victor turned to her,
for his jacket, and his meed of praise, she had rewarded him in her
own impulsive fashion—she kissed him then and there before all the
boys in Earlsmead village. It was an unseemly and indecent spectacle
in the eyes of Mrs. Grundy (who lived over the Post Office), Miss
Craven-Hargreaves, of the Park, acting as backer in a street fight,
and awarding as prize her kisses. It was true that she was but eight
years of age and her champion eleven, and consequently the misdemeanour
was suffered to pass. Some said she was a fine courageous little miss;
others, that she was a bold piece, who would come to no good yet, but
all agreed that she had plenty of pluck, and would sooner or later
marry the General's boy.
* * * * *
When Lola was seventeen—and oh! what a fascinating sweet
seventeen—Philip found his tongue, and they became engaged.
Contemporary matrons lifted their hands in horror. A lad of twenty, who
had only just left Sandhurst! But other far-seeing and less ambitious
individuals pointed out that young Gascoigne was a fairly good match,
he must succeed to at least a thousand a year, and expectations, whilst
the Hargreaves might expect the bailiffs at any moment.
Within the next twelve months Philip lost his mother—whom he
worshipped; even Lola had not disturbed her from her niche—and the
long impending crash came at the Park. Mr. Hargreaves fled with a
portmanteau to the south of France—his plea was health—and left his
wife to face the storm alone. The storm developed into a typhoon, a
tempest of howling creditors; mortgages were foreclosed, the park was
let to graziers, and, as a final climax, there was a sale—an auction,
at the house itself. The family pictures, portraits by Gainsborough,
Raeburn, and Romney, went to the highest bidder. The treasured silver
and tapestries, as well as carriage and horses, were scattered far and
wide. After a storm—a calm—the Hargreaves boys obtained commissions,
the Park had found a tenant, Mrs. Hargreaves and Lola went abroad, and
Philip Gascoigne, now a full-blown sapper, was despatched to Gibraltar.
He and Lola corresponded faithfully. They were to be married when he
was four-and-twenty, and already he was collecting rugs, Moorish trays,
and old carpets suitable for a lady's drawing-room, when he received a
letter from Lola to say that her father was once more in difficulties,
_frightful_ difficulties; he had been gambling on the Stock Exchange,
hoping to recoup his fortune, and had had every penny of his own (as
well as other people's pennies) swept away. Philip wired to place
all his available funds at Lola's disposal; but what was a mere five
thousand pounds, when the deficit amounted to ten times the sum? Mr.
Hargreaves did everything on a grand scale. He was a born gambler, it
was hereditary; his grandfather had once lost thirty thousand pounds,
after playing two nights and a day, and sitting up to his knees in
cards. His worthy descendant had gone even more rapidly to work,
staked all on a "chance" and lost—lost the estates which had been in
the family since the reign of Edward the Fourth—lost his head—his
hopes—his honour.
The next mail brought still heavier news to a certain good-looking
subaltern in barracks at Gibraltar.
Lola wrote formally to dissolve her engagement. She was about to marry
Mr. Reuben Waldershare, one of her father's creditors, who would cancel
his debt, and buy back Earlsmead. Thus she saved her parent, and
averted ruin from her people. Mr. Waldershare was enormously rich and
generous.
Philip succeeded in obtaining leave on urgent private affairs that same
hour, and journeyed to England that same night.
* * * * *
The Craven-Hargreaves had taken a house in London for the season. At
four o'clock in the afternoon Gascoigne presented himself at 146 Mount
Street, and inquired for Miss Hargreaves. The man—who was not an
Earlsmead servant, and knew not Master Philip—said:
"Yes, sir, Miss Hargreaves is at home. Who shall I say?" and he
preceded the visitor up the stairs, and ushered him into a pretty green
and white drawing-room with a resonant—"Mr. Gascoigne, if you please."
Secretly, the lady did not please.
Lola was alone, sitting on a low sofa, with her back to the light, and
surrounded by morocco and velvet jewel-cases. She was dressed in a
white gown, and wore a large picture hat, her gloves and parasol lay
on a chair near her, and in her hands she held a row of great pearls.
A tea equipage waited, the spirit-lamp flamed, and Lola's toilette
betokened careful thought. The room was fragrant with exquisite
La France roses, an arm-chair was drawn up invitingly near the
sofa—evidently some one was expected, but obviously that some one was
not Philip Gascoigne.
"Philip," she almost screamed, as the door closed and she rose to her
feet, her face white to the lips, "_what_ has brought you?"
"You can easily guess," he replied, as he came forward; "your letter."
"Yes—of course," and she held out both her hands; "but, oh, why did
you come?—it only makes it harder."
"You are talking in riddles," he answered sharply. "I want you to
tell me the truth—face to face. Why do you wish to break off our
engagement? Why does my return make anything _worse_?"
"Because—seeing you brings everything back—and I am going to marry
Mr. Waldershare."
She turned away and averted her face to hide her emotion.
A long silence followed this announcement, and at last Philip said:
"Well, I don't suppose anything could be worse than that!"
As he spoke, Lola sank back on the sofa, and stealthily displaced some
of the jewel-cases under the big brocade cushions.
"Will you listen to me?" she said piteously.
"Oh, yes, I am here to listen. I have come a thousand miles since
Monday to listen—and to speak."
"Phil, when you hear all you will be twice as sorry for me as you are
for yourself. Do you know that we are ruined?"
"I gathered as much," he replied gravely.
"Father has been gambling on the Stock Exchange—he has lost
everything. Earlsmead, that has been centuries in the family; and not
only that—it is not merely ruin—it is disgrace," and as she spoke,
Lola put her hands over her eyes.
"Disgrace," repeated Gascoigne. "It is impossible."
"It is not really father's doing," she sobbed. "He got mixed up with
shady people, and lent them his good name—and now it is smirched, or
will be—the catastrophe is impending—the only door of escape is—Mr.
Waldershare. He will advance money—he will stifle scandal—he is
enormously rich——"
"And the reason for his liberality?" demanded Philip in a harsh key.
"Is here," replied Lola, laying her hand on her breast. "I marry him to
save our good name—and Earlsmead."
"In short, you sell yourself for your family?" he cried.
"I think you might say—sacrifice myself—for my family," she answered
softly, and her eyes were eloquent.
"And _I_ am also to be sacrificed?"
"Always remember that you are free—whilst I am bound—for life."
"And you are prepared to throw me over, to marry a man old enough to be
your father?" he questioned.
"Yes; but, after all, what is age! and"——(home-thrust) "your own
mother—dear Aunt Venetia—did the same."
Philip now began to pace the room, whilst Lola looked furtively at the
clock. At last he came to a halt, and said:
"What does your mother say?"
"Nothing, poor dear, for she _knows_. The boys, Edgar and Billy, are
simply furious with me. They have not seen the family skeleton—they
think I am doing this—because—Mr. Waldershare is fabulously rich—and
they say I have no more heart than a sea anemone. Bill declares that I
was always greedy, and took more than my share of jam and the pony, and
neither of them will come to the wedding. They will never forgive me,
and neither will you——" and Lola buried her face in a cushion, and
wept—that is to say, drew long, gasping sighs.
"Listen to me, Lola," said her lover, authoritatively; "I have a
suggestion to make." She looked up quickly, and dried her eyes with a
scrap of lace. "My idea is not as mad as it sounds. I have ten thousand
pounds in the funds. It is my own, and yours. Let us pay your father's
most pressing claims with this—always remember that it is yours as
much as mine. I will leave the service, and we will all go to New
Zealand, you and I—your father and mother—and the boys, if they like?"
Lola sat erect, and stared at him fixedly and gasped; but he was too
full of his subject, and too profoundly in earnest, to notice her
expression.
"You see," he resumed, "I am a really fair practical engineer, and I'll
build our quarters; your father and I can farm. There is a splendid
breed of horses, a fine climate, a fine country; we will make a fresh
start in life; we shall all be together—what do you say, Lola? If you
agree, I'll set about the move to-day," and he confronted her eagerly.
"What do I say to, emigrating to New Zealand?" she repeated, in a
queer, choked voice, "to living in a back block, and—doing the
washing?" Then, in a totally different key. "Of course, I'd be
happy—anywhere with _you_, Phil, in 'No Man's Land' or Timbuctoo—your
offer is like yourself—it reminds me of the time you sold your watch
to help Billy out of a hole. But this hole is too big—ten thousand
would be a mere drop in the ocean. Philip," she continued, as she
rose and came towards him, "it is no use trying to play hide-and-seek
with fate. My fate is to redeem my father's name. You are the man I
love—Mr. Waldershare is the man I shall marry. Can't you see it with
my eyes? You know our home—you are one of _us_—don't make it harder
for me. I must go my own way."
"And I am to go to the devil," he said hoarsely.
"Oh, don't talk like that," she remonstrated; "it is not like you——"
"I don't know what I'm like—or where I am to-day. In one blow I lose
everything."
"How?" she inquired.
"You were everything to me."
"And in future I must be nothing but a memory. Mr. Waldershare has
had a hint—a girl told him—of our boy and girl attachment. He is
desperately in love."
"So am I," cried her companion.
"Desperately jealous."
"So am I," he reiterated.
"I may never see you or write to you again, Phil; it will be the
best," she urged piteously, and never had she looked so lovely. "It is
terrible for you—it is ten times worse for me. Some day you will be
sorry for me—not now, you are too sorry for yourself."
She was alarmingly pale and nervous, her eyes wandered anxiously to the
clock; nothing that Philip could urge would shake her from her purpose.
She remained as white and as immovable as marble; her decision was
irrevocable—the step was irretrievable. She was sacrificing herself
for others, and "it"—the announcement of the engagement—was already
in the papers.
With urgent entreaties to leave her, an impassioned farewell, and
a torrent of tears, Lola sent Philip from her presence—and, oh!
the relief, when she saw him depart! As he stood on the doorstep, a
hansom dashed up, and for a moment Gascoigne beheld his supplanter.
The man descended heavily, a clumsy, elderly individual, with a
big nose, bulging eyes, and a short grey beard. In a second the
visitor recognised his rival, a well-set-up, gallant young fellow,
whose handsome face looked white and haggard, a man of attractive
personality, in short, a most formidable opponent. No, no, he and Lola
were best apart; there would be no correspondence, no old playfellow
nonsense, no sentiment. He was peculiarly alive to the disparity in his
and Lola's age, and set his face as a flint against younger men. Mr.
Waldershare was in the iron trade; his first wife had been a homely
body, who had assisted him to lay the foundation of his colossal
fortune. He might almost call himself "the Iron King;" now he was in
quest of an "Iron Queen," and that with the eye of a keen, practical
man of business. She must be the very best article on the market;
young, well-born, and an undeniable beauty. Lola Hargreaves answered
these requirements; added to which she had a certain amount of indolent
ambition, and a delicate appreciation of the good things of life.
It was true that her father was on the verge of bankruptcy, and mixed
up with a sultry business connected with a mine, but his forebears had
been crusaders, their monuments and deeds were extant in print and
marble. Mr. Waldershare respected a fine pedigree—the one thing his
thousands could not purchase—so he decided to marry Lola Hargreaves.
That Lola had "a friend," he was aware; he had unexpectedly come face
to face with him, a good-looking, manly young fellow, he did not
propose to place himself in competition with a man of half his years,
so he issued an edict—"Lola must drop young Gascoigne," and Lola
obeyed. The interview in Mount Street had changed the whole course of
Philip's life at one stroke; he had lost friends, sweetheart, home—for
Earlsmead would be closed to him, and the boys naturally would avoid
the man their sister had jilted. He exchanged immediately into the
Indian service, with the stern resolve to woo the goddess of war, and
to enlist under the standard of ambition. By-and-by, as she predicted,
he became intensely sorry for Lola. He admired her lofty principles,
her noble character, her unselfish devotion, and she was enshrined in
his memory with the lustre of a treasure that is lost.