GRANDMAMMA
THREE weeks later, on a broiling June afternoon, as Angel and her
guardian were strolling down the shady side of Bond Street on their way
to strawberry ices, they passed a carriage waiting outside a shop, in
which was seated a slight, smart lady, with a great white feather boa
round her neck, a wonderful toque on her head, and a tiny dog on her
arm. She was directly facing them, and as the couple came closer she
beckoned to Philip imperiously; he approached at once, and swept off
his hat.
"Do you mean to tell me that you were going to pass me by, Philip
Gascoigne?" she demanded in a high, reedy voice. "Don't you know who I
am?"
"Why, of course I do, Aunt Augusta," he protested; "but I did not
recognise you at the moment—the light was in my eyes. I hope you are
well?"
"Yes, I'm always well, thank you. I'm only just back from Aix. When did
you return?"
"About two months ago."
"And never called—or left a card. Oh, you young men of the present
day!"
"I did call, but the house was in curl-papers," rejoined Philip. "I
gave my card to an old woman in the area." (He was not enthusiastic
about his aunt by marriage, between whom and his mother lay a great
gulf; Lady Augusta looked with scorn on her country sister-in-law,
who employed a local dressmaker, and was a frumpish, prudish, handsome
creature, devoted to her books, her garden, and her boy.)
Lady Augusta's quick eyes presently travelled to Philip's companion;
the painted face behind the white veil grew rigid. At last she said, in
a strangely forced voice:
"I need—not ask—who she is. She is—Antony's girl."
As she spoke she fumbled for her long-handled glasses, and held them to
her eyes. Her hand and her voice were both shaking as she said, "Come
here, child."
Angel gravely advanced in her most approved school manners, and
confronted the lady who was so curiously inspecting her, with serious
eyes.
"Pray, do you know who I am?"
"No, ma'am," answered Angel.
"Can you guess?" asked the lady sharply.
She shook her head and waited.
"Well then, I'll tell you; I am your grandmother."
"Grandmother," repeated Angel incredulously, and her face grew quite
pink. She glanced interrogatively at Philip. Was this lady joking, or
was she mad?
"I see you can hardly believe your ears; it does seem ludicrous,"
said Lady Augusta; "but I was married when I was not much older than
herself," she explained to her nephew in an aside, "Well, child, what
have you got to say? I suppose you have a tongue?"
Poor Angel, thus adjured, immediately gave utterance to the wrong
thing. "Are—you my—mother's mother?" she inquired, and there was a
note of keen anxiety in her voice.
"Oh dear, no," rejoined the newly-found relative in a tone of fierce
repudiation. "I am your father's mother, Lady Augusta Gascoigne; he was
my youngest son. Philip," turning to him, "I must have a talk with you.
Get into the carriage, and let me drive you both back to tea."
As this was an offer not to be despised, an opportunity he dare not let
slip—for it might be of some benefit to Angel—Captain Gascoigne and
his charge accepted the unexpected invitation, and the next minute they
were seated in Lady Augusta's landau. Once arrived at Hill Street, she
led the way up to her drawing-room, and there discovered her daughter
extended on the sofa, engrossed in a book. Eva at once struggled up
awkwardly, letting a large piece of coarse knitting roll to the floor.
She was a thin, high-shouldered woman, with a mass of coarse red
hair and a droop in one of her eyelids, keenly sensitive of her own
shortcomings, and much prone to good nature and good works.
"So this is what you call working for the Deep Sea Mission?" exclaimed
her parent as she rustled across the room. "See—I have brought Philip
Gascoigne."
Philip advanced promptly and took her limp hand, and said, "It is ages
since we have met, cousin Eva." But she was not listening to him. Her
eyes were riveted on the tall child who followed him.
"It is Antony's girl," explained her mother brusquely. "Yes, the
likeness is—amazing."
Eva's face worked convulsively. Antony had been her favourite brother;
he, the flower of the flock, with his gay blue eyes and light-hearted
character; she, the wretched ugly duckling; yet they had been
inseparable, and she had cried herself to sleep for many nights after
his departure for India, full of spirits, hopes, and courage. Then had
come scrapes, debts, his deplorable marriage and his death; and now
after all these years—fifteen years—he seemed to have returned to
life in the steadfast face of his blue-eyed daughter. For a moment she
could not speak for emotion; then she came forward and took both of
Angel's hands in hers, and said:
"Oh, my dear, my dear—I am glad to see you—I am your Aunt Eva!"
"Eva is my second name," said Angel softly. Miss Gascoigne's white face
coloured vividly.
"And what is your first?"
"Angel." This was another family name.
Tea was brought in by two men-servants with considerable circumstance
and pomp, and Angel's little worldly heart beat high when she
realised that all these fine things, the silver, the footmen, the
pretty pictures and surroundings, belonged to her grandmamma—and her
grandmamma belonged to her. Meanwhile Lady Augusta talked incessantly
to Philip, questioned him sharply respecting his service and his
prospects, wandering away to race-meetings and her book on Goodwood,
with here and there a highly-spiced item of news; but all the time she
watched her granddaughter narrowly, her manners, her way of eating,
sitting, speaking. Fortunately Miss Morton's pupil came forth from that
ordeal unscathed. Angel, for her part, glanced uneasily from time to
time at this old young lady, with the pretty slim figure, the pretty
fresh toilette, the faded eyes and wrinkled hands, the beautiful
complexion, and the wealth of sandy hair.
"Eva," said her mother suddenly, "you can take this child away to the
conservatory and show her the canaries. I want to have a quiet chat
with Philip now; and you may make each other's acquaintance," she added
indulgently. Miss Gascoigne rose with alacrity, and led the way to a
small greenhouse which jutted out over the back landing, where hung
various cages of shrill canaries. But the visitors did not look at
these—only at one another.
"Dear child, how glad I am to know you!" said her aunt, taking Angel's
face between her hands and gazing once more into a pair of sweet
familiar eyes. "I hope we shall often see you. Now my mother never told
me of your existence. She is a strange woman—but I believe she is
pleased with you."
"I did not know that I had a grandmother—or an aunt—until to-day,"
said the child. "I am so astonished—the girls will be so surprised
when I tell them I have a grannie and an aunt all this time in London.
I always thought—grandmothers—were different."
"Your grandmother is different to most people," granted her aunt.
"And why has she never asked me here—nor written to me—why does
she stare at me as if there were something odd about me? _Is_ there
anything odd about me, Aunt Eva."
"No indeed, my dear."
"There must be some reason—do please tell me—why I never heard of
you till to-day. I am twelve years old."
"Your grandmother was very much vexed when your father married,"
explained Miss Gascoigne with obvious reluctance.
"Why?" came the question, like a blow.
"Oh, because he was a mere boy, only twenty-two, and she did not like
your mother. My dear, you must never speak of her here," she continued,
lowering her voice till it became a whisper.
"Do you suppose that I shall ever come to a house where I may not speak
of my mother?" blazed Angel.
"There, I see you have your father's spirit!" exclaimed her aunt. "He
and I were always such friends, I nearly broke my heart when he died.
You will come here, Angel, I know—because you would like to give me
pleasure—you will love me for his sake."
"Oh, well—perhaps," acquiesced the girl, to whom her father's name
conveyed no impression beyond that derived from a faded photograph of a
fair youth in a gorgeous uniform.
"Have I any more aunts or uncles?"
"Two aunts—Lady Harchester and Lady Lorraine. You are not likely to
meet them—they seldom come here. You and I are going to be great
friends, Angel. You must write to me and I will write to you—and go
and see you—often."
* * * * *
"Not much of the Shardlow about the child," remarked Lady Augusta
complacently. "Quite a Gascoigne, or rather—I see a great resemblance
to myself."
Philip made no reply. He was unable to agree with this opinion, and put
his hand to his mouth to hide a smile.
"And now I want to ask your plans. What are your ideas? So far, I must
confess, she does you credit."
"She does credit to Miss Morton and herself. I believe I shall keep her
at school till she is eighteen," he answered thoughtfully, "and then
try and place her with some nice people who will take an interest in
her and make her happy. Indeed, I am at the present moment looking out
for some such family who will receive her for her holidays; it's rather
rough on her to have to spend them at school."
"If you mean that as a hit at me, Philip," said his listener, "I do not
mind in the least; my conscience is clear. When her father disgraced
himself by that wretched marriage, he and his were _dead_ to me. Still
when I saw the child this afternoon, something in her expression gave
my heart-strings a tug. I felt agitated—besides the child resembles
me—the only grandchild that is like me. It will be rather odd if,
after all, Antony's girl turned out to be the prop of my old age. But I
am going too fast, am I not?"
"Well, I don't quite follow you—yet."
"Look here, Philip," she resumed briskly, "I am willing to receive
Angela for her holidays"—this was an unexpected concession. "She can
come up for a week-end at first; if she pleases me I will give her a
home—when she leaves school; but on payment. I may as well have the
money as strangers. My jointure is but moderate, and I have great
expenses. Angela will require a maid, and to be suitably dressed and
taken about and properly introduced, as befits my granddaughter. What
do you think of my proposal?"
"I think it is an excellent idea, and I agree to it most heartily," he
answered; "that is, if you approve of Angela, and she is happy with
you."
"Oh, she is sure to be happy with me," was the vainglorious reply; "and
of course I shall feel the greatest interest in her, and take good care
that she makes a brilliant match. She shall marry to please _me_."
If Philip knew anything of Angel, there would be two opinions on that
subject.
"She will be a far more congenial companion than Eva, who, since
her silly love affair with a doctor she met at Aix, has been the
personification of seven wet blankets."
"Why did she not marry him?" inquired the simple bachelor.
"Because I put my foot down. A widower with two children—a mere
nobody, too. Eva declared that he was the best, most benevolent and
brilliant of men, and devoted to her. But that was rubbish; he only
wanted her ten thousand pounds."
After this visit there were several teas and luncheons in Hill Street,
not a few conferences in the drawing-room, and confidences in the
conservatory. On one of these occasions—when all the preliminaries had
been successfully arranged—Lady Augusta plumed herself like one of her
own canaries as she remarked:
"It was a lucky day for you, Philip, when you met me in Bond Street. I
have relieved you of your 'young girl of the sea,' otherwise I'm sure I
don't know what would have been your fate—such an impossible position
too—you, quite a young man, guardian to a pretty girl; you would
either have had to marry her—or get a chaperon."
"Oh, I should never have come to that," he replied with unexpected
decision. "Angel will be in England, if not with you, with others;
and with six thousand miles of sea and land between us, surely we can
dispense with a chaperon."
* * * * *
In due time Captain Gascoigne returned to the East, _via_ America and
Japan, and Angel passed into the hands of her grandmother. She grew
up and left school with sincere regret, and many injunctions from
Miss Morton, who deplored the departure of her favourite pupil, and
contemplated her future with considerable apprehension. She had heard
of Lady Augusta Gascoigne as a lively, worldly matron, fond of cards,
racing, and racketing. What a guide and counsellor for a girl of
eighteen!
"Miss Angel Gascoigne—by her grandmother, Lady Augusta Gascoigne," was
a notification in a _Morning Post_, succeeding a March Drawing Room,
and the "imp" was launched. She came out and enjoyed her first season,
and was warmly welcomed in a set in which the only disqualification was
a failure to be smart!
Angel was not the least afraid of granny, whom she alternately amazed,
amused, delighted, and defied. She reversed the situation of aunt
and niece, and was Eva's steady support, confidante, adviser, and
idol. She made the house gay with her songs, her light laugh, her
flitting foot, her radiant young personality. Her cousins and aunts
were electrified when they first met "Miss Gascoigne;" her aunt was
almost always "Poor Miss Eva." Their attempts at patronage were easily
disposed of; the quick wit and cool self-possession of the Angel of
Ramghur combined with the grace and _aplomb_ of the Angel of Hill
Street was more than a match for the Harchesters and Lorraine girls.
Seeing that she refused to pose as a mere nobody and a poor relation,
they changed their point of view and became her sworn allies, admirers,
and friends. Immediately after the London season Lady Augusta and her
family left Hill Street for Aix-les-Bains.
* * * * *
During the time when Angel had been growing up and blooming into a
beautiful and somewhat despotic girl, her guardian and cousin had
developed into an enthusiastic worker, a would-be Empire builder. At
first, his duty had been among the canals and the distribution of
the water supply; he had to see that every village received its due
share of water; in the slack season he had to superintend works of
construction and repair. He had no society, and no amusements. These
years of solitude had a certain effect on his character. He spent
his time marching from one canal to another, accumulating stores of
experience regarding the conditions under which the peasants lived;
his work was tedious and monotonous, but Gascoigne was a young man of
active habits and observant eye; he was never dull, and his character
was setting into the solitary mould. His manners were a little stern.
His feelings were under iron control, but he was always tender to
animals and suffering. From the canals Gascoigne was promoted to the
frontier, thanks to a little war. Here he had distinguished himself so
brilliantly that he was decorated, and wrote D.S.O. after his name.
He enjoyed the hardships; the keen, exciting existence, the smell of
powder, the chances of life and death, stirred his pulses. Indeed,
once or twice he and death had met face to face; but he kept these
encounters to himself, and they were only talked about in the men's
tents, or a word was dropped in the messroom. He never got into the
papers—and yet he was known by hundreds as "Sangar" Gascoigne.
It happened when the night had closed in rain, and rolling clouds
blotted out the camp lights, that he and a handful had gone back in
the dark to look up some stragglers, and had beaten off the wolfish
Afghans, and stood by their wounded till dawn and relief. It was an
experience to turn a man's hair white and it turned one man's brain.
Let those who know what night brings to the wounded and "cut off"
testify if their fears were not well founded?
The hardships, the horrors, the honours, of a short but fierce campaign
had left their marks on Philip; this and the two years' solitary canal
duty had changed him, perhaps, even more in the same period than his
pretty cousin Angela.
He was again in the North-West Provinces, responsible for a great
district, and well worthy of responsibility, though but thirty-seven
years of age. He was self-reliant, able, and energetic, and if
reserved and given to sarcasm, Gascoigne was popular, being generous
and hospitable to a fault. His bungalow was well appointed; all that
it wanted was a mistress (so said the ladies of the station). But
Philip Gascoigne's thoughts did not lean towards matrimony; his tastes
were solitary and simple; when away on duty or on the frontier, no one
lived a harder or more frugal life. He was well inured to the Indian
climate, master of several tongues; he had a capital head for ideas, a
mathematical mind; his heart was in his work, his profession was his
idol. Work with him amounted to a passion, and had effectually chased
love from his thoughts. He was one of the men whom luxury and decadence
had left untouched, and upon whom the executive business of the Empire,
in its remoter parts, could depend. Gascoigne was so good-looking,
cheery, popular, and eligible that many women spread their nets in the
sight of that _rara avis_, an agreeable, invulnerable bachelor. Over a
series of years he had successfully eluded every effort to "catch him,"
and kept all would-be mothers-in-law politely at a distance.
By this time he was given up as a hopeless case, and one indignant
matron had said in her wrath:
"Major Gascoigne will let every chance of a suitable wife go by, and
when he is in his dotage will make a fool of himself by marrying a girl
in her teens."
But so far Major Gascoigne was a long way from dotage, or the
fulfilment of this disastrous prediction.