It is wonderful how soon the London season comes to an end; and, in
fact, it is difficult to say when its tide is really at the flood.
Single men--and they are necessary ingredients for gaiety wherever
there are young ladies--single men seldom go to town much before the
Derby. Then comes Ascot, for which meeting they leave the metropolis,
and enjoy some quiet retreat in the neighbourhood of Windsor, taking
with them many potables and what _they_ call a "dog cook." After Ascot
people begin to think about going away, and before you know where you
are three more weeks have elapsed, and it is July. Dear, what a
scatter there is then!--some off to Norway, some to Cowes, some to
Caithness, and some to Galway. Those that remain for Goodwood are sure
to go to Newmarket; and the man who sticks religiously to the
pavement, and resists the allurements of all the above-mentioned
resorts, only does so because he is meditating a trip to California,
Kamtschatka, or the Rocky Mountains, and is so preoccupied with
portable soup, patent saddle-bags, bowie-knives, and revolvers that he
might just as well be at his ultimate destination in person for all
the benefit one gets from his society. I confess I don't like the end
of the season. You keep on trying to be gay, whilst your friends are
dropping off and disappearing one by one. Like the survivor in some
horrid pestilence, you know your time must come too; but you shut your
eyes to the certainty, and greet every fresh departure with a gaiety
more forced and a smile more and more hopeless.
Well, _my_ London season too was drawing to its close, and I confess I
had enjoyed it very much. What with my morning gallops and afternoon
saunters (for John had returned to his allegiance, and came to take me
out regularly, although he always joined Miss Molasses' party when he
got into the Park); what with Aunt Deborah's tiresome cold, which
obliged me to go about a good deal by myself, and the agreeable
society of Frank Lovell, who never missed an opportunity of being with
us, I had been very happy, and I was quite sorry to think it was all
so soon to come to an end. John was already talking of a fishing
excursion to Norway, and actually proposed that I should accompany
him; an arrangement which Aunt Deborah declared "was totally
impracticable," and which I confess I do not myself think would have
been a very good plan. I had made several pleasant acquaintances,
amongst whom I may number Lady Scapegrace--that much-maligned dame
having taken a great fancy to me ever after the affair of the bull,
and proving, when I came to know her better, a very different person
from what the world gave her credit for being. With all her
faults--the chief of which were an uncontrollable temper and much too
strong feelings for the nineteenth century--she had a warm,
affectionate heart, and was altogether an energetic, straightforward
woman, very much in earnest, whether for good or evil. But there was
one thing that vexed me considerably amongst all my regrets for past
pleasures and castles in the air for the future, and this was the
conduct of Captain Lovell. What did he mean? I couldn't make him out
at all. One day calling on my aunt at eleven in the morning, and
staying to luncheon, and making himself so agreeable to _her_, and
bringing bouquets of the loveliest flowers (which I know came from
Harding's or else direct from Covent Garden) to _me_; and then going
away as if he had fifty more things to say, and lingering over his
farewell as if he was on the eve of departure for China instead of
Mayfair, and joining me again in the Park, and asking me if I was
going to the Opera, and finding out all my engagements and intentions,
as if he couldn't possibly live five minutes out of my sight; and
then, perhaps, never coming near us for days together, till even my
aunt "wondered what had become of that pleasant Captain Lovell;" and
when he met me in the Park, taking off his hat with a civil bow, as if
he had only been introduced the night before. All this I couldn't make
out, and I didn't half like, as I told Lady Scapegrace one hot
morning, sitting with her in her boudoir. I was a good deal at Lady
Scapegrace's now, and the more so because that was the place of all
others at which I was least likely to meet Sir Guy. "Men are so
uncertain, my dear," said her ladyship, sitting in a morning
deshabille, with her long black hair combed straight out over her
shoulders and reaching nearly to her knees. "If you ask me candidly
whether he _means_ anything, I tell you I think Frank Lovell a
shocking flirt." "_Flirt!_" I replied, half crying with vexation.
"It's time enough for him to _flirt_ with me when I give him any
encouragement. But I don't, Lady Scapegrace, and I never will. I hope
I'm too proud for that. Only when a man is always in _one's pocket_
wherever one goes; when he sends one bouquets, and rides out in the
rain to get one's bracelet mended, and watches one from a corner of
the room if one happens to be dancing with anybody else, and looks
pleased when one is dull and cross when one laughs--why, he either
does prefer, or ought to prefer, one's society to that of Miss
Molasses and Mrs. Lumley, and that is why I tell you I can't quite
make out Captain Lovell."
"Don't talk of that odious woman," exclaimed Lady Scapegrace, between
whom and Mrs. Lumley there was a polite feud of some years' standing.
"She is ready and willing to jump down Frank Lovell's throat, or any
one else's for the matter of that, so bold as she is, and so utterly
regardless--such stories, my dear. But take my advice, Kate: play that
cheerful cousin of yours against Master Frank. I never knew it fail
yet if you only go the right way to work. Men are not only very vain,
but very jealous. Don't let him think you are going _to marry_ your
cousin, or he may consider it a capital arrangement and a sort of
matter-of-course affair, which is all in his favour. Men like Frank
always prefer other people's property, and I have no doubt he would be
over head and ears in love with you if you were not single. So don't
be going to marry Mr. Jones, but just appeal to him about every
earthly thing you do or say, look after him when he leaves the room,
as if you couldn't bear him out of your sight. Get Frank to abuse him
if you can, and then fight his battles fiercely; and directly the
latter thinks there is a rival in the field he will be down on his
knees, you mark my words, in two days' time at the furthest. I think I
ought to know what men are, my dear" (and to do Lady Scapegrace
justice, she had studied that variety of the creation to some purpose,
or she was much maligned). "I know that they can't, any of them, see
three yards before their noses, and that you can turn and twist them
which way you will if you only go upon this principle--that they are
full of vanity and self-conceit, and totally deficient in brains."
"But I'm sure Captain Lovell's a clever man," said I, not disposed to
come to quite such sweeping conclusions as those of my monitress;
"and--and--I don't mean to say that I _care_ about him, Lady
Scapegrace, but still it mightn't answer with _him_, and--and--I
shouldn't like to lose him altogether."
"Pooh! Lose him! Fiddlestick!" rejoined her ladyship. "You'll see. He
is to join our party at Greenwich this afternoon. By the way, when Sir
Guy heard you were coming, he proposed to drive us all down on that
horrid coach. But I told him we should be taken for the people that
_usually_ occupy it, and nothing should induce me to go; so that plan
was given up. But you and I will go down in the barouche, and I'll
call for you, and we'll take Mr. Jones with us. And mind you're very
civil to him, and only notice the other in a quiet, good-humoured
way--for he mustn't think you do it out of pique--and before the
whitebait is on the table you'll see he'll be a different man. But now
you must go--there's a dear. I'll call for you at five. It's too bad
to turn you out; but I'm never at home to any one between three and
half-past four. Good-bye, dear, good-bye."
And Lady Scapegrace kissed me most affectionately, and promised to
call for me punctually at five, till which hour I cannot make out why
her time was always engaged.
As I tripped downstairs, hoping to make my escape without being
attended by the whole establishment to open the house-door, whom
should I come across but odious Sir Guy, in a sort of scarlet fancy
dress, which I concluded was his morning "demi-toilette." He actually
had the effrontery to propose that I should accompany him to the
stable, and that he should then "show me _his_ boudoir--hey? You look
like a rose this morning, Miss Coventry. Should like to transplant
you. What?" And whilst he stood dodging and grinning on the stairs, I
managed to slip by him and get safe into the street. I wonder _when_
men think they are beginning to grow old! I am sure Sir Guy fancies he
is still in the flower of his youth, and so charming that nobody can
resist him.
What a pleasant day we had! Only we four--Lady Scapegrace, Cousin
John, Captain Lovell, and I. We went down in Lady Scapegrace's
barouche, and walked in Greenwich Park, and adjourned to a nice room
with a bay window, and such a lookout over the river, blushing rose
colour in the evening sun. And the whitebait was so good, and the
champagne-cup so nice; and we were all in such spirits, and Frank was
so kind and attentive and agreeable I couldn't find it in my heart to
be cross to him. So it ended in our making up any little imaginary
differences we may have had and becoming better friends than ever. As
we sat in the balcony over the river--the two gentlemen smoking their
after-dinner cigars, and we ladies sipping our coffee--I thought I had
never enjoyed an evening so much; and even John, who was generally
dreadfully afraid of Lady Scapegrace, became quite lively and gallant
(for him), and they laughed and talked and joked about all sorts of
things; while Frank leant over my shoulder and conversed more gravely
than was his habit; and I listened, and thought him pleasanter even
than usual. By the way, that lilac bonnet never quite lost the odour
of tobacco afterwards.
"How quick the time passes!" said Frank, with almost a sigh. "Can't we
_do_ anything to put off horrid London and home and bed? Let's all go
to Vauxhall."
"What do _you_ say, Mr. Jones?" inquired Lady Scapegrace, who was
always ready for a lark; "you're our _chaperon_, you know. Do you
think you can be responsible?"
"Oh yes, John!" I exclaimed. "You promised to take me once before the
end of the season. We shall never have such another chance."
"This is a capital night to go," remarked Frank, "because there is a
new riding-woman; and you can take a lesson, Miss Coventry, in case
you should wish to perform in public." Cousin John could not possibly
hold out against all three; and although I think in his heart he did
not entirely approve, the carriage was ordered, the bill paid, and we
were rolling along through the cool summer night _en route_ for
Vauxhall.
"My dear," said Lady Scapegrace to me as we sidled through the
entrance of that place of amusement, and the gentlemen remained behind
to pay, "you are doing anything but what I told you; scarcely three
words have you spoken to your cousin, who, by the way, is very
pleasant. _I_ think I shall _take him up_ and improve him on my own
account; but as for you, my dear, I can see plainly it's all over with
you."
"And you _really_ leave town to-morrow?" said Frank as we walked arm
in arm up one of those shaded alleys which lead to the "Hermit," or
the "Gipsy," or some other excuse for a _tête-à-tête_ not too much
under the lamps. By the way, why is it that a party never can keep
together at Vauxhall? Lady Scapegrace and I had particularly
stipulated that we were not to separate under any circumstances.
"Whatever happens, do let us keep together," we mutually implored at
least ten times during the first five minutes, and yet no sooner did
we pair off arm in arm than the distance began gradually to increase,
till we found ourselves in "couples," totally independent of each
other's proceedings. In this manner we saw the horsemanship, and the
acrobats, and the man with the globe, and all the other eccentricities
of the circus. I really think I could have ridden quite as nicely as
Madame Rose d'Amour had I been mounted on an equally well-broken
animal with the one which curvetted and caracoled under that
much-rouged and widely-smiling dame. They do look pretty too at a
little distance those histrionic horsewomen, with their trappings and
their spangles and their costume of Francis I. I often wonder whether
people really rode out hawking, got up so entirely regardless of
expense, in the days of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. From the
horsemanship we went to see the people dance, which they did with a
degree of vigour and hilarity such as might be introduced in a
modified form with great advantage into good society; and here we came
across Cousin John and Lady Scapegrace just in time to witness a short
and abrupt interview between the latter and Sir Guy. Yes, there was
Sir Guy, with the flower in his mouth and all, dancing, actually
_dancing_--and he can't be much less than sixty--with a little smart
lady, wearing the most brilliant colour and the blackest eyelashes and
the reddest lips and the lightest eyes I ever saw upon a human being.
The little lady, whose hair, moreover, was dressed _à l'Impératrice_,
thereby imparting additional boldness to a countenance not remarkable
for modesty, frisked and whisked round Sir Guy with a vivacity that
must have been of Parisian growth; whilst the Baronet laboured
ponderously along with true British determination, like a man who
habitually wears very thick shoes and is used to take his own time. In
the course of his evolutions he brought his foot down heavily on the
skirt of a lady's dress, and turning round to apologize found himself
face to face with his wife! To do him justice he was not the least
taken aback--anger rather than confusion seemed to be his dominant
feeling; and although he tried to smother a rising oath in a laugh, or
rather a grin, it was such a muscular contraction of the mouth as does
not give me the idea of a smile.
"Come out for a lark too, my lady, hey?" said the Baronet, studiously
interposing his large person between "my lady" and his partner.
"Reminds one of Paris; dance with anybody, whether one knows them or
not." And Sir Guy tried to look as if he was telling the truth with
indifferent success. But Lady Scapegrace's face was a perfect study; I
never saw a countenance so expressive of scorn--intense scorn--and
yet, as it seemed to me, not so much of him as of herself.
"I am glad you amuse yourself, Sir Guy," she said very quietly; but
her lip was as white as ashes while she spoke. "I should think this
place must suit you exactly. Mr. Jones, we shall be late for the
fireworks." And she swept on, taking no further notice of the
discomfited Sir Guy, whilst Frank and I followed in her wake, feeling
rather awkward even at witnessing this ill-timed _rencontre_.
"And so you leave town to-morrow, Miss Coventry?" said Frank; and I
thought his voice shook a little whilst he spoke. "I shall ride down
Lowndes Street every day, and think how deserted it looks. No more
walks in the morning for _me_, no more pleasant rides in the
afternoons; I shall send my hacks home and sulk by myself, for I shall
be miserable when my friends are gone. Do you know, Miss Coventry"--I
listened, all attention; how could I tell what he might _not_ be going
to say?--"do you know that I have never had courage to ask you
something till to-night?" (Goodness! I thought, _now_ it's coming, and
my heart beat as it does when I'm going out hunting.) "I want you to
give me" (a lock of my hair, thinks I. Well, I don't know; perhaps I
may)--"I want you to give me--Miss Horsingham's receipt for making
barley-water; but I know it's a long business to write out, and I'm
afraid of being troublesome." So that was all, was it? I felt half
inclined to laugh, and more than half inclined to cry; but turning
round I was somewhat consoled to find Lady Scapegrace and her cavalier
close behind us; and I do confess I rather attributed Frank's
extremely moderate request to their immediate vicinity; there was no
opportunity, however, of renewing the subject. John had said all he
_had_ to say to his companion. John soon gets high and dry with these
smart ladies, and they seem mutually tired of each other; so we got
the carriage and took our departure, Frank pressing my hand as he bade
me farewell, and whispering, "_Au revoir_, Miss Coventry; something
tells me it won't be very long before we meet again." What _could_ he
mean?