I must despair of being able in simple narrative to convey the
remotest idea of the dullness of Dangerfield Hall; but as during my
residence there I beguiled the weary hours by keeping a diary (bound
in blue velvet, with brass clasps and a Bramah lock), I have it in my
power, by transcribing a few of its pages, to present to my readers my
own impressions of life in that well-regulated establishment. I put
things down just as they happened, with my own reflections, more or
less philosophical, on the events of each day. My literary labours
were invariably carried on after the family had retired for the night;
and I may observe that a loose white dressing-gown, trimmed with
Mechlin lace and pink ribbons--one's hair, of course, being "taken
down"--is a costume extremely well adapted to the efforts of
composition. I take a day from the diary at random.
_Thursday_.--Up at half-past seven; peeped in the glass the instant I
was out of bed, and wondered how Cousin Amelia looks when she wakes.
Yellowish, I should think, and by no means captivating, particularly
if she wears a nightcap. I don't care how ugly a woman is, she has no
right to look anything but _fresh_ in the morning; and yet how few
possess this advantage! Nothing like open air and plenty of exercise;
_saving_ one's complexion is undoubtedly the very way to spoil it. Saw
Brilliant and White Stockings going to exercise in the Park. What
coddles they look on these fine autumn mornings, covered with
clothing! Felt very _keen_ about hunting; the same feeling always
comes on at the fall of the leaf; shouldn't wonder if I could jump a
gate, with my present nerves. Should like once in my life to _plant_ a
field of horsemen, and show these gentlemen how a woman _can_ ride.
Interrupted in my daydreams by Lady Horsingham's bell, and huddled on
my things in a tremendous hurry; forced to wash my hands in _cold_
water, which made the tips of my fingers as red as radishes for the
rest of the day. Got down to prayers by half-past eight, and took Aunt
Deborah her tea and toast from the breakfast-table at nine.
Breakfast dull, and most of the party cross: Aunt Horsingham is
generally out of humour at breakfast-time, particularly on Sundays.
Cousin Amelia suggested my towels were too coarse: "they had rubbed a
colour into my cheeks like a dairymaid's." John said I looked like a
rose--a tea-rose, he added, as I handed him his cup. Cousin John is
getting quite poetical, and decidedly improved since he left London. I
wonder whom he got that letter from that was lying on his plate when
he came down. I am _not_ curious, but I just glanced at the direction,
and I am certain it was in a lady's hand. Not that it's any business
of mine; only I should think Miss Molasses would hardly have the face
to _write_ to him. I wonder whether there is anything between John and
Miss Molasses. I asked him, half spitefully, the other day how he
could bear to be parted from her now the season was over; and he
seemed so pleased at my taking an interest in the thing at all that I
had no patience to go on with my cross-questioning. I don't think
she's good enough for John, I must confess; but he is easily imposed
on by young ladies--as indeed, for that matter, are the rest of his
great thick-headed sex. When breakfast was over and Cousin Amelia went
off as usual to practise her music for an hour or two, I thought I
might steal away for a visit to my favourites in the stable; indeed I
saw John at the front door in a hideous wide-awake, with a long cigar
in his mouth. But I was waylaid by Aunt Horsingham; and as these
visits to the stable are strictly forbidden, I was obliged to follow
her into the drawing-room, and resign myself for the whole morning to
that dreadful worsted-work, more especially as it was coming on a
drizzling mist, and there was no pretext for my usual walk.
"I am glad to see you getting more sociable, Kate," said Lady
Horsingham, in her dry, harsh voice, as I took a seat beside her and
opened my work-basket. "It is never advisable for any young lady to
affect singularity, and I have observed with some concern that your
demeanour on many occasions is very unlike that of the rest of your
sex."
I never give in to Aunt Horsingham--after all she's not _my own_
aunt--so I answered as pertly as ever I could:
"No: you mean I don't spend the morning in looking in the glass and
talking evil of my neighbours; I don't scream when I see a beetle, or
go into convulsions because there's a mouse in the room. I've got two
legs, very good legs, Aunt Horsingham--shall I show you them?--and I
like to use them, and to be out of doors amongst the trees and the
grass and the daisies, instead of counting stitches for work that
nobody wants or writing letters that nobody reads. I had rather give
Brilliant a good 'bucketing' (Aunt Horsingham shuddered; I knew she
would, and used the word on purpose) over an open heath or a line of
grass than go bodkin in a chariot, seven miles an hour, and both
windows up. Thank you, Aunt Horsingham; you would like to make a fine
lady of me--a useless, sickly, lackadaisical being instead of a
healthy, active, light-hearted woman. Much obliged to you; I had
rather stay as I am."
"Miss Coventry," said my aunt, who was completely posed by my
volubility, and apparently shocked beyond the power of expression at
my opinions--"Miss Coventry," she repeated, "if these are indeed your
sentiments, I must beg--nay, I must insist--on your keeping them to
yourself whilst under _this_ roof.--Amelia, my dear" (to my cousin,
who was gliding quietly into the room)--"Amelia, go back to your music
for ten minutes.--I must insist, Miss Coventry, that you do not
inoculate _my_ daughter with these pernicious doctrines--this mistaken
view of the whole duties and essentials of your sex. Do you think
_men_ appreciate a woman who, if she had but a beard, would be exactly
like one of themselves? Do you think they like to see their ideal hot
and dishevelled, plastered with mud, and draggled with wet? Do you
think they wish her to be strong and independent of them, and perhaps
their superior at those very sports and exercises on which they plume
themselves? Do you think they are to be taken by storm, and, so to
speak, bullied into admiration? You're wrong, Kate, you're wrong; and
I believe I am equally wrong to talk to you in this strain, inasmuch
as the admiration of the other sex ought to be the last thing coveted
or thought of by a young person of yours."
"I'm sure, aunt, I don't want the men to admire me," I replied; "but I
would not give much for the admiration of one who could be jealous of
me for so paltry a cause as my riding better than himself; and as for
ideals, I don't know much about such things, but I think a man's ideal
may do pretty well what she likes, and he is sure to think everything
she _does_ do is perfect. Besides, I don't see why I should _bully_
him into liking me because I'm fond of the beautiful 'out of doors'
instead of the fireside. And courageous women, like courageous men,
are generally a deal more gentle than the timid ones. I've known
ladies who would not venture into a carriage or a boat who could wage
a war of words bitterer than the veriest trooper would have at his
command; and I've heard Cousin John say that there is scarcely an
instance of a veritable heroine in history, from Joan of Arc
downwards, who was not in her private life as sweet, as gentle, and as
womanly as she was high-couraged and undaunted when the moment came
that summoned her energies to the encounter. Unselfishness is the
cause in both cases, you may depend. People that are always so
dreadfully afraid something is going to happen to them think a great
deal more of self than anything else; and the same cause which makes
them tremble at imaginary danger for their own sakes will make them
forgetful of real sufferings in which they themselves have no share. I
had rather be a hoyden, Aunt Horsingham, and go on in my own way. I
have much more enjoyment; and, upon my word, I don't think I'm one bit
a worse member of society than if I was the most delicate fine lady
that ever fainted away at the overpowering smell of a rose leaf or the
merry peal of a noisy child's laugh."
My aunt lifted up her hands and gave in, for the return of Cousin
Amelia from the music-room effectually prevented further discussion;
and we beguiled the time till luncheon by alternate fits of scandal
and work, running through the characters of most of the neighbours
within twenty miles, and completely demolishing the reputation of _my_
friend, as they called her--lively, sarcastic little Mrs. Plumridge.
John was off rabbit-shooting, so of course he did not appear at that
meal so essential to ladies; and after Cousin Amelia, by way of being
delicate, had got through two cutlets, the best part of a chicken, a
plateful of rice-pudding, and a large glass of sherry, I ventured to
propose to her that if the afternoon held up we should have a walk.
"I'm not equal to much fatigue," said she, with a languid air and a
heavy look about her eyes which I attributed to the luncheon; "but if
you like we'll go to the garden and the hothouses, and be back in time
for a cup of tea at five o'clock."
"Anything to get out of the house," was my reply, and forthwith I
rushed upstairs, two steps at a time, to put on my things; whilst my
aunt whispered to her daughter, loud enough for me to hear, "She
really ought to have been a man, Emmy; did you ever see such a hoyden
in your life?"
It was pleasant to get out even into that formal garden. The day was
soft and misty, such as one often finds it towards the close of
autumn--dark without being chill--and the withered leaves strewed the
earth in all the beauty of wholesome natural decay. Autumn makes some
people miserable; I confess it is the time of year that I like best.
Spring makes me cross if it's bad weather, and melancholy if it's
fine. Summer is very enjoyable certainly, but it has a luxuriance of
splendour that weighs down my spirits; and in those glorious hot,
dreamy haymaking days I seem unable to identify myself sufficiently
with all the beauty around me, and to pine for I don't exactly know
what. Winter is charming when it don't freeze, with its early
candle-light and long evenings; but autumn combines everything that to
me is most delightful--the joys of reality and the pleasures of
anticipation. Cousin Amelia don't think so at all.
"A nasty raw day, Kate," she remarked as we emerged from the hothouse
into the moist, heavy air. "How I hate the country! except whilst the
strawberries are ripe. Let's go back to the house, and read with our
feet on the fender till tea-time."
"Not yet, Emmy," I pleaded, for I really pined for a good walk; "let's
go on the highroad as far as the milestone--it's market day at
Muddlebury, and we shall see the tipsy farmers riding home and the
carriers' carts with their queer-looking loads; besides, think what a
colour you'll have for dinner. Come on, there's a dear!"
The last argument was unanswerable; and Cousin Amelia putting her best
foot foremost, we soon cleared the garden and the approach, and
emerged on the highroad three miles from Muddlebury, and well out of
the sight of the windows of Dangerfield Hall. As we rose the hill, on
the top of which is perched the well-known milestone, and my cousin
began already to complain of fatigue, the sound of hoofs behind us
caused us both to stop and look round.
"It's cavalry," said Amelia, who jumps rather rapidly to conclusions,
and is no judge of a horse.
"It's a stud," was my reply; "somebody coming to hunt with 'the
Heavy-top.' Let's stand in this gateway and see them pass." We took up
a position accordingly; and if I felt keen about the commencement of
the season previously, how much more so did I become to watch the
string of gallant well-bred horses now jogging quietly towards us with
all the paraphernalia and accessories of the chase!
Two, four, six, and a hack, all clothed and hooded, and packed for
travelling. Such a chestnut in the van, with a minute boy on him, who
cannot have weighed four stone; strong, flat, sinewy legs (the
chestnut's, not the boy's), hocks and thighs clean, full, and muscular
as Brilliant's, only twice the size; a long, square tail, and a wicked
eye. How I _should_ like to ride that chestnut! Then a brown and two
bays, one of the latter scarcely big enough for a hunter, to my fancy,
but apparently as thoroughbred as Eclipse; then a gray, who seemed to
have a strong objection to being led, and who held back and dragged at
his rein in a most provoking manner; and lastly, by the side of a
brown hack that I fancied I had seen before, a beautiful black horse,
the very impersonation of strength, symmetry, courage, speed, and all
that a horse should be.
"Ask the groom whose they are," whispered Amelia as he went by. "I
don't quite like to speak to him; he looks an impudent fellow with
those dark whiskers."
I should like to see the whiskers that would frighten _me_; so I
stepped boldly out into the road, and accosted him at once.
"Whose horses are those, my man?" I asked, with my most commanding
air.
"Captain Lovell's, miss," was the reply. My heart jumped into my
mouth, and you might have knocked me down with a feather.
"Captain Lovell's!" exclaimed Amelia; "why, that's your old flirt,
Kate. I see it all now." But I hardly heard her, and when I looked up
the horses were a mile off, and we were retracing our steps towards
Dangerfield Hall.
What a happy day this has been, and how unpromising was its beginning!
And yet I don't know why I should have been so happy. After all, there
is nothing extraordinary in Captain Lovell's sending down a stud of
horses to hunt with so favourite a pack as "the Heavy-top" hounds. I
wish I had summoned courage to ask the man when his master was coming
and where he was going to stay; but I really couldn't do it--no, not
if my life depended on it. All the way home Cousin Amelia laughed and
sneered and chattered, and once she acknowledged I was "the
best-tempered girl in the world;" but I am sure I have not an idea why
I deserve this character. Her words fell perfectly unheeded on my ear.
I was glad to get to the solitude of my own room, when it was time to
dress for dinner, that I might have the luxury, if it was only for
five minutes, of _thinking_ undisturbed. But there was Aunt Deborah to
be attended to; for poor Aunt Deborah, I am sorry to say, is by no
means well. And Gertrude came in "to do my hair;" and then the
dinner-bell rang, and the wearisome meal, and the long evening dragged
on in their accustomed monotony. But I did not find it as dull as
usual, though I was more rejoiced than ever when the hand-candles came
and we were dismissed to go to bed.
And now they are all fast asleep, and I can sit at my open window and
think, think, think as much as I like. What a lovely night it is! The
mist has cleared off, and the moat is glistening in the moonlight, and
the old trees are silvered over and blackened alternately by its
beams; the church tower stands out massively against the sky. How dark
the old belfry looks on such a night as this, contrasting with the
white tombstones in the churchyard, and the slated roof shimmering
above the aisle! There is a faint breeze sighing amongst the few
remaining leaves, now rising into a pleading whisper, now dying away
with a sad, unearthly moan. The deer are moving restlessly about the
Park, now standing out in bold relief on some open space brightened by
the moonlight, now flitting like spectres athwart the shade.
Everything breathes of romance and illusion; and I do believe it is
very bad for one to be watching here, dreaming wide awake, instead of
snoring healthily in bed. I wonder what he is about at this moment.
Perhaps smoking a cigar out of doors, and enjoying this beautiful
night. I wonder what he is thinking of. Perhaps, after all, he's
stewed up in some lamplit drawing-room talking nonsense to Lady
Scapegrace and Mrs. Lumley, or playing that odious whist at his club.
Well, I suppose I may as well go to bed. One more look into the night,
and then--hark! what is it? how beautiful, how charming! Distant music
from the wood at the low end of the Park. The deer are all listening,
and now they troop down towards the noise in scores. How softly it
dies away and rises again! 'Tis a cornet-à-piston, I think, and though
not very skilfully played it sounds heavenly by moonlight. I never
thought that old air of "You'll Remember Me" half so beautiful before.
Who can it be? I have never heard it since I came here. It can't be
Captain Lovell's groom; it's not quite impossible it might be Captain
Lovell himself. Ah, if I thought that! Well, it has ceased now. I may
as well go to bed. What a happy day this has been, and what dreams I
shall have!