We've got such a sweet little house in Lowndes Street--to my mind the
very best situation in London. When I say _we_, of course I mean Aunt
Deborah and myself. We live together, as I hope we always shall do, as
Aunt Deborah says, till "one of us is married." And notwithstanding
the difference of our ages we get on as comfortably as any two forlorn
maidens can. Though a perfect fairy palace within, our stronghold is
guarded by no giant, griffin, dragon, or dwarf; nothing more frightful
than a policeman, whose measured tread may be heard at the midnight
hour pacing up and down beneath our windows. "It's a great comfort,"
says Aunt Deborah, "to know that assistance is close at hand. I am a
lone woman, Kate, and I confess to feeling nervous when I lie awake."
I quite agree with my aunt, though I'm not nervous, but I must say I
like the idea of being watched over during the hours of sleep; and
there is something romantic in hearing the regular tramp of the
sentinel whilst one is curled up snug in bed. I don't much think it
always is the policeman--at least I know that one night when I got up
to peep if it was a constable, he was wrapped in a very loose cloak,
such as is by no means the uniform of the force, and was besides,
unquestionably, smoking a cigar, which I am given to understand is not
permitted by the regulations when on duty. I watched the glowing light
for at least ten minutes, and when I went to bed again, I could not
get to sleep for wondering who the amateur policeman could be.
But the house is a perfect jewel of its kind. _Such_ a pretty
dining-room, _such_ a lovely drawing-room, opening into a
conservatory, with a fountain and gold-fish, to say nothing of flowers
(I am passionately fond of flowers), and _such_ a boudoir of my own,
where nobody ever intrudes except my special favourites--Cousin John,
for instance, when he is not in disgrace--and which I have fitted up
and furnished quite to my own taste. There's the "Amazon" in gilt
bronze, and a bas-relief from the Elgin marbles--not coloured like
those flaxen-haired abominations at Sydenham, but pure and simple as
the taste that created it; and an etching Landseer did for me himself
of my little Scotch terrier growling; and a veritable original sketch
of Horace Vernet--in which nothing is distinguishable save a phantom
charger rearing straight up amongst clouds of smoke. Then I've put up
a stand for my riding-whips, and a picture of my own thoroughbred
favourite horse over the chimney-piece; altogether, Aunt Deborah
describes the apartment exactly when she says to me, as she does about
once a week, "My dear, if you were a _man_, I should say your room was
fitted up in the most perfect taste; but as you happen to be a young
lady, I won't say what I think, because I know you won't agree with
me;" and I certainly do not agree with Aunt Deborah upon a great many
subjects.
However, there's no situation like Lowndes Street. I'm not going to
tell the number, nor at which end of the street we live; for it's very
disagreeable to have people riding by and stopping to alter their
stirrup-leathers, and squinting up at one's drawing-room windows where
one sits working in peace, and then cantering off and trotting by
again, as if something had been forgotten. No; if curiosity is so very
anxious to know where I live, let it look in the _Court Guide_; for my
part, I say nothing, except that there are always flowers in the
balcony, and there's no great singularity about that. But there are
two great advantages connected with a "residence in Belgravia," which
I wonder are not inserted in the advertisements of all houses to let
in that locality. In the first place, a lady may walk about all the
forenoon quite alone, without being hampered by a maid or hunted by a
footman; and in the second, she is most conveniently situated for a
morning ride or walk in the Park; and those are about the two
pleasantest things one does in London.
Well, the same conversation takes place nearly every morning at
breakfast between Aunt Deborah and myself (we breakfast early, never
after half-past nine, however late we may have been the night before).
Aunt Deborah begins,--
"My dear, I hope we shall have a quiet morning together; I've directed
the servants to deny me to all visitors; and if you'll get your work,
I will proceed with my readings from excellent Mrs. Hannah More."
Kate.--"Thank you, aunt; Hannah More amuses me very much"--(I confess
that prim moralist does make me laugh).
_Aunt Deborah_ (reprovingly).--"Instructive, Kate, not amusing;
certainly not ludicrous. If you'll shut the door we'll begin."
_Kate_.--"Can't we put it off for an hour? I must get my ride, you
know, aunt. What's the use of horses if one don't ride?"
_Aunt Deborah_.--"Kate, you ride too much; I don't object to the
afternoons with John Jones, but these morning scampers are really
quite uncalled for; they're spoiling your figure and complexion; it's
improper--more, it's unfeminine; but as you seem determined upon it,
go and get your ride, and come back a little sobered;" and
Kate--that's me--disappears into the boudoir, from which she emerges
in about five minutes with the neatest habit and the nicest hat, and
her hair done in two such killing plaits--John Jones says I never look
so well as when I've got my hair dressed for riding.
I always go out for these morning excursions quite alone. Aunt Deborah
fought for a long time, and insisted on my taking the coachman; but he
is an old family servant, and I soon knocked him up completely. In the
first place, the ride is always soft, and I hate going _slow_, so he
used to get a dreadful stitch in his side trying to keep up with me on
one of the high-actioned coach-horses; then he didn't see the fun of
having two horses to clean when he got home instead of one; so when he
found he couldn't get another helper, we begged him off between us,
and I go out now unencumbered by that excellent and pursy old man.
After all, I ought to be able to take care of myself. I have ridden
ever since I was five years old; and if habit is second nature, as
Aunt Deborah says, I'm sure my habit ought to be natural enough to me.
I recollect as well as if it was yesterday, when poor papa put me on a
shaggy Shetland pony, and telling me not to be frightened, gave it a
thump, and started me off by myself. I wasn't the least bit afraid, I
know that. It was a new sensation, and delightful; round and round the
field we went, I shaking my reins with one hand, and holding on a
great flapping straw hat with the other; the pony grunting and
squeaking, with his mane and tail floating on the breeze, and papa
standing in the middle, waving his hat and applauding with all his
might. After that I was qualified to ride anything; and by the time I
was twelve, there wasn't a hunter in the stables that I wouldn't get
on at a moment's notice. I am ashamed to confess that I have even
caught the loose cart-horses in a field, and ridden them without
saddle or bridle. I never was beat but once, and that was at Uncle
Horsingham's when I was about fifteen. He had bought a mare at
Tattersall's for his daughter to ride, and brought her down to
Dangerfield, thinking she would conduct herself like the rest of her
species. How well I remember my governess's face when she gave me
leave to go to the stable with Sir Harry and look over the new
purchase. I was a great pet of Uncle Horsingham; and as Cousin Amelia
was not much of an equestrian, he proposed that I should get upon the
chestnut mare first, and try her paces and temper before his daughter
mounted her. As we neared the stables out came one of the grooms with
a sidesaddle on his head, and the longest face I ever beheld.
"O Sir 'Arry," said he--I quote his exact words--"that new mare's a
wicious warmint; afore I was well into the stable, she ups and lets
out at me just above the knee: I do believe as my thigh's broke."
"Nonsense, man," said my uncle; "put the saddle on and bring her out."
Presently the chestnut mare appeared; and I saw at once that she was
not in the best of humours. But I was young, full of spirits, and
fresh from lessons; so, fearing if one of the men should venture to
mount her she might show temper, and I should lose my ride, I made a
sign to the head-groom to give me a hand; and before my uncle had time
to exclaim, "For goodness sake, Kate!" I was seated, muslin dress and
all, on the back of the chestnut mare. What she did I never could
quite make out; it seemed to me that she crouched as if she was going
to lie down, and then bounded into the air, with all four legs off the
ground. I was as near gone as possible; but for the only time in my
life I caught hold of the pommel with my right hand, and that saved
me. In another instant she had broke from the groom's hold, and was
careering along the approach like a mad thing. If I had pulled at her
the least she would have run away with me.
Luckily, the park was roomy, and the old trees far apart; so when we
got upon the grass I knew who would be mistress. I gave her a rousing
good gallop, shook my reins and patted her, to show her how confident
I was, and brought her back to my uncle as quiet as a lamb.
Unfortunately, however, the mare had taken a dislike to certain stone
pillars which supported the stable gates, and nothing would induce her
to pass them. Flushed with success, I borrowed my uncle's riding-whip
to punish her; and now began a battle in good earnest. She reared and
plunged, and wheeled round and round, and did all she knew to get rid
of me; whilst I flogged and jerked, and screamed at her (I didn't
swear, because I didn't know how), and vowed in my wicked little heart
I would be killed rather than give in. During the tussle we got nearer
and nearer to a certain large pond about a hundred yards from the
stable gates, at which the cattle used to water in the quiet summer
afternoons. I knew it wasn't very deep, for I had seen them standing
in it often. By the time we were close on the brink the whole
household had turned out to see "Miss Kate killed;" and just as I hit
the mare a finishing cut over the ears, I caught a glimpse of my
governess in an attitude of combined shame, horror, and disgust that I
shall never forget. The next moment we were overhead in the pond, the
mare having dashed blindly in, caught her fore-feet in the bridle, and
rolled completely over. What a ducking I got to be sure! But it was
nothing to the scolding I had to endure afterwards from all the
females of the family, including my governess; only Uncle Horsingham
stuck up for me, and from that time till the day of his death vowed he
had "never known but one plucky fellow in the world, and that was his
little niece Kate."
No wonder I feel at home on Brilliant, who never did wrong in his
life, who will eat out of my hand, put his foot in my apron-pocket,
follow me about like a dog, and is, I am firmly persuaded, the very
best horse in England. He is quite thoroughbred, though he has never
been in training--and is as beautiful as he is good. Bright bay, with
such black legs, and such a silky mane and tail! I know lots of ladies
whose hair is coarser than Brilliant's. Fifteen hands three inches,
and Cousin John says well up to his weight--an honest fourteen stone.
With the smallest nose, and the leanest head, and the fullest dark
eye, and the widest, reddest nostril--his expression of countenance,
when a little blown, is the most beautiful I ever beheld; and not a
white mark about him except a tiny star in the very middle of his
forehead; I know it well, for I have kissed it often and often. The
picture over my chimney-piece does not half do him justice; but then,
to be sure, its _pendant_, painted by the same artist, and
representing my other horse, White Stockings, flatters that very plain
and excellent animal most unblushingly.
Of all delights in the world give me my morning canter up the park on
Brilliant. Away we go, understanding each other perfectly; and I am
quite sure that he enjoys as much as I do the bright sunshine and the
morning breeze and the gleaming Serpentine, with its solitary swan,
and its hungry ducks, and its amphibious dogs continually swimming for
the inciting stick, only rescued to produce fresh exertions; and the
rosy children taking their morning walk; and, above all, the _liberty_
of London before two o'clock in the day, when the real London begins.
I pat Brilliant's smooth, hard neck, and he shakes his head, and
strikes an imaginary butterfly with one black fore-leg, and I draw my
rein a thought tighter, and away we go, much to the admiration of that
good-looking man with moustachios who is leaning on his umbrella close
to the rails, and smoking the cigar of meditation as if the park was
his own.
I often wondered who that man was. Morning after morning have I seen
him at the same place, always with an umbrella, and always with a
cigar. I quite missed him on the Derby day, when of course he was gone
to Epsom (by-the-bye, why don't we go to the Derby just as much as to
Ascot?); and yet it was rather a relief, too, for I had got almost shy
about passing him. It seemed so absurd to see the man every day and
never to speak; besides, I fancied, though of course it could only be
fancy, that he looked as if he was expecting me. At last I couldn't
help blushing, and I thought he saw it; for I'm sure he smiled, and
then I was so provoked with myself that I sent Brilliant up the ride
at a pace nothing short of a racehorse could have caught.