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.

CHAPTER XIV
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.