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KATE COVENTRY
An Autobiography
Edited by
G. J. WHYTE-MELVILLE
[Illustration: Now began a battle in good earnest.]
T. Nelson and Sons
1909
CONTENTS.
Chapter I 3
Chapter II 15
Chapter III 24
Chapter IV 35
Chapter V 46
Chapter VI 58
Chapter VII 66
Chapter VIII 77
Chapter IX 89
Chapter X 103
Chapter XI 114
Chapter XII 125
Chapter XIII 138
Chapter XIV 151
Chapter XV 163
Chapter XVI 175
Chapter XVII 188
Chapter XVIII 201
Chapter XIX 214
Chapter XX 228
Chapter XXI 241
Chapter XXII 254
Chapter XXIII 267
Chapter XXIV 274
KATE COVENTRY.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
CHAPTER I.
"Kate," said Aunt Deborah to me as we sat with our feet on the fender
one rainy afternoon--or, as we were in London, I should say one rainy
morning--in June, "I think altogether, considering the weather and
what not, it would be as well for you to give up this Ascot
expedition, my dear."
I own I felt more than half inclined to cry--most girls would have
cried--but Aunt Deborah says I am very unlike the generality of women;
and so, although I had ordered a peach-coloured mantle, and such a
bonnet as can only be seen at Ascot on the Cup Day, I kept back my
tears, and swallowed that horrid choking feeling in my throat, whilst
I replied, with the most careless manner I could assume, "Goodness,
aunt, it won't rain for ever: not that I care; but think what a
disappointment for John!"
I must here be allowed the privilege of my sex, to enter on a slightly
discursive explanation as to who Aunt Deborah is and who I am, not
forgetting Cousin John, who is good-nature itself, and without whom I
cannot do the least bit. My earliest recollections of Aunt Deborah,
then, date from a period when I was a curly-headed little thing in a
white frock (not so very long ago, after all); and the first occasion
on which I can recollect her personality with any distinctness was on
a certain birthday, when poor grandfather said to me in his funny way,
"Kate, you romp, we must get you a rocking-horse."
Aunt Deborah lifted up her hands and eyes in holy horror and
deprecation. "A rocking-horse, Mr. Coventry," said she; "what an
injudicious selection! (Aunt Deborah likes to round her periods, as
the book-people say.) The child is a sad tomboy already, and if you
are going to teach her to ride, _I_ won't answer for the consequences
in after-life, when the habits of our youth have become the second
nature of our maturity."
Imagine such sentiments so expressed by a tall austere lady, with high
manly features, piercing dark eyes, a _front_ of jet-black hair coming
low down on a somewhat furrowed brow. Cousin John says all dark women
are inclined to be cross; and I own I think we _blondes_ have the best
of it as far as good temper is concerned. My aunt is not altered in
the slightest degree from what she was then. She dresses invariably in
gray silks of the most delicate shades and texture; carries spectacles
low down upon her nose, where they can be of no earthly use except for
inspection of the carpet; and wears lavender kid gloves at all hours
of the day and night--for Aunt Deborah is vain of her hand, and
preserves its whiteness as a mark of her birth and parentage. Most
families have a crotchet of some sort on which they plume themselves;
some will boast that their scions rejoice one and all in long noses;
others esteem the attenuated frames which they bequeath to their
descendants as the most precious of legacies; one would not part with
his family squint for the finest pair of eyes that ever adorned an
Andalusian maiden; another cherishes his hereditary gout as a
priceless patent of nobility; and even insanity is prized in
proportion to the tenacity with which it clings to a particular race.
So the Horsinghams never cease talking of the Horsingham hand; and if
I want to get anything out of Aunt Deborah, I have only to lend her a
pair of my gloves, and apologize to her for their being so _large_
that she can get both her hands into one.
Now the only thing we ever fall out about is what my aunt calls
_propriety_. I had a French governess once who left because I pinned
the tail of Cousin John's kite to her skirt, and put white mice in her
work-box; and she was always lecturing me about what she called "_les
convenances_." Aunt Deborah don't speak much French, though she says
she understands it perfectly, and she never lets me alone about
propriety. When I came home from church that rainy Sunday with Colonel
Bingham, under his umbrella (a cotton one), Aunt Deborah lectured me
on the impropriety of such a thing--though the Colonel is forty if he
is a day, and told me repeatedly he was a "safe old gentleman." I
didn't think him at all dangerous, I'm sure. I rode a race against Bob
Dashwood the other morning, once round the inner ring, down Rotten
Row, to finish in front of Apsley House, and beat him all to ribbons.
Wasn't it fun? And didn't I kick the dirt in his face? He looked like
a wall that's been fresh plastered when he pulled up. I don't know who
told Aunt Deborah. It wasn't the coachman, for he said he wouldn't;
but she heard of it somehow, and of course she said it was _improper_
and unladylike, and even _unfeminine_--as if anything a woman does can
be unfeminine. I know Bob didn't think so, though he got the worst of
it every way.
To be sure, we women are sadly kept down in this world, whatever we
shall be in the next. If they would only let us try, I think we could
beat the "lords of the creation," as they call themselves, at
everything they undertake. Dear me, they talk about our weakness and
vanity--why, they never know their own minds for two minutes together;
and as for vanity, only tell a man you think him good-looking, and he
falls in love with you directly; or if that is too great _a
bounce_--and indeed very few of them have the slightest pretensions to
beauty--you need only hint that he rides gallantly, or waltzes nicely,
or wears neat boots, and it will do quite as well. I recollect
perfectly that Cousin Emily made her great marriage--five thousand a
year and the chance of a baronetcy--by telling her partner in a
quadrille, quite innocently, that "she should know his figure
anywhere." The man had a hump, and one leg shorter than the other; but
he thought Emily was dying for him, and proposed within a fortnight.
Emily is an artless creature--"good, common-sense," Aunt Deborah calls
it--and so she threw over Harry Bloomfield and married the hump and
the legs that didn't match and the chance of the baronetcy forthwith;
and now they say he beats her, and I think it serves her right.
But we women--gracious! if we only take the trouble we can turn the
whole male sex round our little fingers. Who ever saw half a dozen of
us hovering and watching and fussing round a masculine biped, thankful
even to be _snubbed_ rather than not noticed at all. Who ever saw us
fetch and carry like so many retrievers, and "sit up," so to speak,
for a withered rose-bud at the fag end of an over-blown bouquet. Not
that we don't love flowers in their proper places, and _keep_ them
too, sometimes long after their colour has faded and their perfume
gone; but we don't make a parade of such things, and have the grace to
be ashamed of ourselves when we are so foolish.
But it's quite different with men. They give in to us about everything
if we only insist--and it's our own fault if we don't insist; for, of
course, if they find us complying and ready to oblige, why, there's no
end to their audacity. "Give 'em an inch, and they take an ell."
However, they do try to keep us down as much as they can. Now there's
that very exercise of riding that they are so proud of. They get us a
side-saddle, as they call it, of enormous weight and inconvenience, on
which they plant pommels enough to impale three women; they place us
in an attitude from which it is next to impossible to control a horse
should he be violent, and in a dress which ensures a horrible accident
should he fall; added to which, they constantly give us the worst
quadruped in the stable; and yet, with all these drawbacks, such is
our own innate talent and capacity, we ride many an impetuous steed in
safety and comfort that a man would find a dangerous and
incontrollable "mount." For my part, I only wish I had been born a
man--that's to say, if I could keep my own ideas and feelings. To be
sure, I should lose a good many personal adornments; not that I'm vain
enough to consider myself a beauty, but still one cannot help being
anxious about one's own appearance, particularly if one has a
full-length glass in one's bedroom. I need not be ashamed to own that
I know I've got bright eyes, and good teeth, and a fresh colour, and
loads of soft brown hair, and not a bad figure--so my dressmaker tells
me; though I think myself I look best in a riding-habit. Altogether
you can't call _that_ a perfect fright; but, nevertheless, I think if
I might I would change places with Cousin John. _He_ has no Aunt
Deborah to be continually preaching _propriety_ to _him_. He can go
out when he likes without being questioned, and come in without being
scolded. He can swagger about wherever he chooses without that most
odious of encumbrances called a chaperon; and though I shouldn't care
to smoke as many cigars as he does (much as I like the smell of them
in the open air), yet I confess it must be delightfully independent to
have a latchkey.
I often wonder whether other people think Cousin John good-looking. I
have known him so long that I believe I can hardly be a fair judge. He
is fresh-coloured, to be sure, and square and rather fat, and when he
smiles and shows all his white teeth, he has a very pleasant
appearance; but I think I admire a man who looks rather more of a
_roué_--not like Colonel Bingham exactly, whose face is all wrinkles
and whiskers, but a little care-worn and jaded, as if he was
accustomed to difficulties, and had other things to occupy his
thoughts besides his horses and his dinner. I don't like a man that
stares at you; and I don't like a man that can't look you in the face.
He provokes me if he is all smiles, and I've no patience with him if
he's cross. I'm not sure I know exactly what does please me best, but
I _do_ know that I like Cousin John's constant good-humour, and the
pains he takes to give me a day's amusement whenever he can, or what
he calls "have Cousin Kate out for a lark." And this brings me back to
Aunt Deborah and the expedition to Ascot, a thing of all others I
fancied was so perfectly delightful.
"My dear," said Aunt Deborah as she folded her lavender-gloved hands,
"if it wasn't for the weather and my rheumatism, I'd accompany you
myself; but I do consider that Ascot is hardly a place for _my_ niece
to be seen at without a chaperon, and with no other protector than
John Jones--John Jones," repeated the old lady reflectively--"an
excellent young man, doubtless (I heard him his Catechism when he was
_so_ high), but still hardly equal to so responsible a charge as that
of Miss Coventry."
I knew this was what John calls a "back-hander" at me, but I can be
_so_ good-tempered when I've anything to gain; therefore I only
said,--
"Well, aunt, of course you're the best judge, and I don't care the
least about going; only when John calls this afternoon, you must
explain it all to him, for he's ordered the carriage and the luncheon
and everything, and he'll be so disappointed."
I've long ago found out that if you want to do anything you should
never seem too anxious about it.
Aunt Deborah is fonder of John than she likes to confess. I know why,
because I overheard my old nurse tell the housekeeper when I was quite
a little thing; and what I hear, especially if I'm not intended to
hear it, I never forget. There were three Miss Horsinghams, all with
white hands--poor mamma, Aunt Deborah, and Aunt Dorcas. Now Aunt
Deborah wanted to marry old David Jones (John's papa). I can just
remember him--a snuffy little man with a brown wig, but perhaps he
wasn't always so; and David Jones, who was frightened at Aunt
Deborah's black eyes, thought he would rather marry Aunt Dorcas. Why
the two sisters didn't toss up for him I can't think; but he _did_
marry Aunt Dorcas, and Aunt Deborah has been an old maid ever since.
Sometimes even now she fixes her eyes on Cousin John, and then takes
them off with a great sigh. It seems ridiculous in an old lady, but I
don't know that it is so. That's the reason my cousin can do what he
likes with Aunt Deborah; and that's the reason why, when he called on
that rainy afternoon, he persuaded her to let me go down to Ascot with
him all alone by our two selves the following day.
How pleasant it is to wake on the morning of a gala day, to hear the
carts and cabs rumbling and clattering in the streets, and to know
that you must get up early, and be off directly after breakfast, and
will have the whole livelong day to amuse yourself in. What a bright
sunshiny morning it was, and what fun I had going with John in a
hansom cab to Paddington--I like a hansom cab, it goes so fast--and
then down to Windsor by the train in a carriage full of such smart
people, some of whom I knew quite well by name, though not to speak
to. The slang aristocracy, as they are called, muster in great force
at Ascot. Nor could anything be more delightful than the drive through
Windsor Forest up to the Course--such a neat phaeton and pair, and
John and I like a regular Darby and Joan sitting side by side. Somehow
that drive through Windsor Forest made me think of a great many things
I never think of at other times. Though I was going to the races, and
fully prepared for a day of gaiety and amusement, a half-melancholy
feeling stole over me as we rolled along amongst those stately old
trees, and that lovely scenery, and those picturesque little places
set down in that abode of beauty. I thought how charming it would be
to saunter about here in the early summer mornings or the still summer
nights, and listen to the thrush and the blackbird and the nightingale
in the copse; and then I thought I would not care to wander here
_quite_ alone, and that a whisper might steal on my ear, sweeter than
the note of the thrush and the nightingale; and that there might be a
somebody without whom all that sylvan beauty would be a blank, but
with whom any place would become a fairyland. And then I fell to
wondering who that somebody would be; and I looked at Cousin John, and
felt a little cross--which was very ungrateful; and a little
disappointed--which was very unjust.
"Here we are, Kate: that's the Grand Stand, and we'll have the
carriage right opposite; and the Queen's not come, and we're in heaps
of time; and there's Frank Lovell," exclaimed the unconscious John as
we drove on to the Course, and my daydreams were effectually dispelled
by the gay scene which spread itself before my eyes.
As I took John's arm and walked into the enclosure in front of the
stand, I must confess that the first impression on my mind was
this--"Never in my life have I seen so many well-dressed people
collected together before;" and when the Queen drove up the Course
with her brilliant suite of carriages and outriders, and the mob of
gentlemen and ladies cheered her to the echo, I was such a goose that
I felt as if I could have cried. After a time I got a little more
composed, and looked about at the different toilettes that surrounded
me. I own I saw nothing much neater than my own; and I was pleased to
find it so, as nothing gives one greater confidence in a crowd than
the consciousness of being well dressed. But what I delighted in more
than all the bonnets and gowns in the universe were those dear horses,
with their little darlings of jockeys. If there is one thing I like
better than another, it is a thoroughbred horse. What a gentleman he
looks amongst the rest of his kind! How he walks down the Course, as
if he knew his own value--self-confident, but not vain--and goes
swinging along in his breathing-gallop as easily and as smoothly as if
I was riding him myself, and he was proud of his burthen! When
Colonist won the Cup, I felt again as if I could have cried. It was a
near race, and closely contested the whole way from the distance in. I
felt my blood creeping quite chill, and I could perfectly understand
then the infatuation men cherish about racing, and why they ruin their
wives and children at that pursuit. What a relief it was when the
number was up, and I could be quite satisfied that the dear bay horse
had won. As for the little jockey that rode him, I could and _would_
have kissed him! Just then Cousin John came back to me, with his
sunny, laughing face, and I naturally asked him, "Had he won his
money?" John never bets; but he replied, "I'm just as pleased as if
I'd won a fortune; only think, Frank Lovell has landed twelve
hundred!" "Well," I replied, "I am glad of it--which is very good of
me, seeing that I don't know Mr. Lovell." "Don't know Frank Lovell!"
exclaimed John. "The greatest friend I have in the world." (Men's
friends always are the greatest in the world.) "I'll introduce him to
you; there he is--no he isn't. I saw him a moment ago." And forthwith
John launched into a long biography of his friend Frank Lovell--how
that gentleman was the nicest fellow and the finest rider and the best
shot in the universe; how he knew more about racing than any man of
his age, and had been in more difficulties, and got out of them
better, and robbed the public generally with a more plausible air; how
he sang a capital song, and was the pleasantest company, and had more
brains than the world gave him credit for (as indeed might easily be
the case); how he was very good-looking, and very agreeable, and met
with great success (whatever that means) in society; how Lady
Scapegrace was avowedly in love with him; and he had thrown over
pretty Miss Pinnifer because he wouldn't leave the army, and six
months afterwards was obliged to sell his commission, when Outsider
won the "Two Thousand;" together with various other details, which
lasted till it was time to have luncheon, and go back to Windsor to
catch the four o'clock train. Though evidently such a hero of John's,
I confess I didn't like what I heard of Frank Lovell at all.