I was not sorry to be once again fairly settled in Lowndes Street.
Even in the winter London has its charms. People don't watch
everything you do or carp at everything you say. If there is more
apparent constraint, there is more real liberty than in the country.
Besides, you have so much society, and everybody is so much pleasanter
in the metropolis during December than July. The frost had set in
again harder than ever. Brilliant and White Stockings, like
"Speir-Adam's steeds," were compelled to "bide in stall." John was
lingering at the Lloyds or elsewhere in the Principality, though
expected back every day. Aunt Deborah was still weak, and had only
just sufficient energy to forbid Captain Lovell the house, and insist
on my never speaking to him. I can't think what she had found out or
what Aunt Horsingham had told her; but this I know, that if ever I
have a daughter, and I don't want her to like Mr. Dash, or to be
continually thinking about him, I shall not forbid her to speak to
him; nor shall I take every opportunity of impressing on her that he
is wild, unprincipled, reckless, and dissipated, and that the only
redeeming points about him are his agreeable conversation and his good
looks. Altogether, I should have been somewhat dull had it not been
for Mrs. Lumley; but of that vivacious lady I saw a good deal, and I
confess took a far greater pleasure in her society than on our first
acquaintance I should have esteemed possible. When I am ill at ease
with myself, not thoroughly satisfied with my own conduct, I always
like the society of _fast_ people; their liberality of sentiment and
general carelessness of demeanour convey no tacit reproach on my own
want of restraint, and I feel more at home with them than with such
severe moralists as Aunt Horsingham or hypocritical Cousin Amelia. So
I drove and shopped and visited with Mrs. Lumley--nay, I was even
permitted as a great favour to dine with her on one or two occasions,
Aunt Deborah only stipulating that there should be no male addition to
the party except Mr. Lumley himself, or, as the lady of the house
termed him, "her old man."
I confess I liked the "old man," and so I think in her own way did his
wife. Why she married him I cannot think, more particularly as he had
not then succeeded to the comfortable fortune they now enjoy: he was
little, old, ugly, decrepit, and an invalid, but he was good nature
and contentment personified. I believe he had great talents--for all
his want of physical beauty he had a fine head--but these talents were
wholly and unsparingly devoted to one pursuit: he was an entomologist.
With a black beetle and a microscope he was happy for the day. Piles
upon piles of manuscripts had he written upon the forms and
classification of the bluebottle fly. He could tell you how many legs
are flourished by the house-spider, and was thoroughly versed in the
anatomy of the common gnat. This pursuit, or science as he called it,
engrossed his whole attention. It was fortunate he had such an
absorbing occupation, inasmuch as his general debility prevented his
entering into any amusement out of doors. His wife and he seemed to
understand each other perfectly.
"My dear," he would say when listening to some escapade that it would
have been scarcely prudent to trust to most husbands' ears, "I never
interfere with your butterflies, and you never trouble yourself about
mine. I must, however, do myself the justice to observe that you get
tired of your insects infinitely the soonest of the two."
He never inquired where she went or what she did, but late or early
always received her with the same quiet welcome, the same sly,
good-humoured smile. I firmly believe that with all her levity,
whatever scandal might say, she was a good wife to him. He trusted her
implicitly; and I think she felt his confidence deserved to be
respected. Such was not the opinion of the world, I am well aware; but
we all know the charitable construction it is so eager to put on a
fair face with a loud laugh and a good set of teeth. Dear me! if he
looked for a lady that had never been _talked about_, Cæsar might have
searched London for a wife in vain. Good Mr. Lumley professed a great
affection for me, and would occasionally favour me with long and
technical dissertations on the interior economy of the flea, for
example; and once in the fullness of his heart confided to his wife
that "Miss Coventry was really a _dear_ girl; it's my belief, Madge,
that if she'd been a man she'd have been a naturalist." These little
dinners were indeed vastly agreeable. Nobody had such a comfortable
house or such a good cook or so many pretty things as Mrs. Lumley. Her
"old man" seemed to enjoy the relaxation of ladies' society after his
morning labours and researches. With me he was good-humoured and full
of fun; at his wife's jokes and stories, most of them somewhat
scandalous, he would laugh till he cried.
"I'm responsible for you, Miss Coventry," he would say with a sly
laugh. "You're not fit to be trusted with Madge; upon my life, I
believe she is the wildest of the two. If you won't have the carriage,
I must walk back with you myself.--How far is it, Madge? Do you think
I can _stay the distance_, as you sporting people term it in your
inexplicable jargon?"
"Why, you know you can't get a hundred yards, you foolish old man,"
laughed his wife. "A nice chaperon you'd make for Kate. Why, she'd
have to carry you, and you know you'd tumble off even then. No, no;
you and I will stay comfortably here by the fire, and I'll give you
your tea and put you tidily to bed. I shan't be home any other night
this week. Kate has a convoy coming for her;--haven't you, Kate?--_Le
beau cousin_ will take the best possible care of us; and even prim
Aunt Deborah won't object to our walking back with _him_. I believe he
came up from Wales on purpose. What would somebody else give to take
the charge off his hands?--You needn't blush, Kate; I can see through
a millstone as far as my neighbours. I'm not quite such a fool as I
look;--am I, 'old man'?--There's the doorbell.--John, ask Mr. Jones if
he won't step up and have some tea." We were sitting by a blazing fire
in the boudoir, a snug and beautiful little room, to which no one was
admitted but the lady's especial favourites; even the "old man" never
entered it during the day.
"Mr. Jones's compliments, and he hopes you'll excuse him, ma'am," was
the footman's answer on his return; "but it's very late, and he
promised to bring Miss Coventry back by eleven."
"Well, I'm sure," said Mrs. Lumley, "if I was you, Kate, I shouldn't
stand his anticipating his authority in this way. Never mind; be a
good girl, and do as you're bid--pop your bonnet on. Shall I lend you
an extra shawl? There, you may give my 'old man' a kiss, if you like.
Bless him! he's gone fast asleep. Good-night, Kate; mind you come to
luncheon to-morrow, there's a dear." So saying, Mrs. Lumley bid me a
most affectionate farewell; and I found myself leaning on John's arm,
to walk home through the clear frosty night.
I do like perambulating London streets by gaslight--of course with a
gentleman to take care of one. It is so much pleasanter than being
stewed up in a brougham. How I wish it was the fashion for people to
take their bonnets out to dinner with them, and walk back in the cool
fresh air! If it is delightful even in winter, how much more so in the
hot summer nights of the season! Your spirits rise and your nerves
brace themselves as you inhale the midnight air, with all its smoky
particles, pure by comparison with that which has just been poisoning
you in a crowded drawing-room. Your cavalier asks leave to indulge in
his "weed," and you enjoy its fragrance at second-hand as he puffs
contentedly away and chats on in that prosy, confidential sort of
manner which no _man_ ever succeeds in assuming, save with a cigar in
his mouth. John lit his, of course, but was less communicative, to my
fancy, than usual. After asking me if I had "enjoyed a pleasant
evening," and whether "I _preferred_ walking," he relapsed into a
somewhat constrained silence. I too walked on without speaking. Much
as I love the night, it always makes me rather melancholy; and I dare
say we should have got to Lowndes Street without exchanging a
syllable, had not some imp of mischief prompted me to cross-examine my
cousin a little upon his _séjour_ in Wales, and to quiz him half
spitefully on his supposed _penchant_ for pretty Fanny Lloyd. John
_rose_ freely in a moment.
"I know where you pick up all this nonsense, Kate," he burst out quite
savagely; "I know where half the scandal and half the mischief in
London originates! With that odious woman whose house we have just
quitted, whose tongue cannot be still for a single moment; who never
by any chance speaks a word of truth, and who is seldom so happy as
when she is making mischief. I pity that poor decrepit husband of
hers, though he ought to keep her in better order; yet it _is_ a hard
case upon any man to be tied to such a Jezebel as _that_."
"The Jezebel, as you call her, John," I interposed quietly, "is my
most intimate friend."
"That's exactly what I complain of," urged my cousin; "that's my great
objection to her, Kate; that's one of the things that I do believe are
driving me out of my senses day by day. You know I don't wish you to
associate with her; you know that I object extremely to your being
seen everywhere in her company. But you don't care: the more I
expostulate the more obstinate and wilful you seem to become."
It is my turn to be angry now.
"Obstinate and wilful indeed!" I repeated, drawing myself up. "I
should like to know what right you have to apply such terms to _me_!
Who gave _you_ authority to choose my society for me, or to determine
where I shall go or what I shall do? You presume on your relationship,
John; you take an ungenerous advantage of the regard and affection
which I have always entertained for you."
John was mollified in an instant.
"_Do_ you entertain regard and affection for me, Kate?" said he; "do
you value my good opinion and consider me as your dearest and best
friend?"
"Of course I do, John," was my reply. "Haven't we known each other
from childhood, and are you not like a brother to me?"
John's face fell a little and his voice shook as he spoke. "Am I never
to be more than a brother to you--never to obtain a greater interest
in you, a larger share of your regard than I have now? Listen to me,
Kate; I have something to tell you, and I can put it off no longer.
This delay, this uncertainty day by day, I do believe will drive me
mad. Kate, I promised Aunt Deborah faithfully that I would never enter
on this subject till you came of age, and you know by your father's
will you don't come of age till you're five-and-twenty. 'By that time,
John,' said my aunt, 'Kate will have seen plenty of others, and be old
enough to know her own mind. If she takes you then, she takes you with
her eyes open, and she won't get tired of you and find out she likes
some one else better. Promise me, John, that you'll wait till then.'
And I did promise, Kate; but I can't keep my word--I can't wait in
this state of anxiety and uncertainty, and perhaps lose you after all.
It's too great a stake to play for if one is to be kept so long in
suspense, and I have resolved to be put out of my pain one way or the
other."
John paused. I had never seen him so excited before. He was quite hot,
though the night was keen and frosty; his arm trembled as mine leant
upon it; and though his cigar was gone out, he kept puffing away,
utterly unconscious of the fact. He seemed to expect an answer. I
hesitated; I did not know what to reply. I had got so accustomed to
Cousin John that I never looked upon him in any other light than that
of a favourite brother, a constant companion and friend. Moreover, I
was not prepared to take any such decisive step as that to which he
now seemed to be urging me. There is a great difference between
_liking_ people and giving them power of life and death over one for
the rest of one's days. I will not say that the image of another did
not rise before me in all its winning beauty as I had seen it last,
scarcely one short week ago. Altogether I did not know what to say; so
I wisely said nothing, but walked on, looking straight before me, with
an uncomfortable feeling that I was driven into a corner, and should
ere long be compelled to do that which is always distasteful to our
liberty-loving sex--namely, to "make up my mind."
John too walked on for a few paces in silence. We were at the corner
of Lowndes Street. There was not a soul to be seen but our two selves.
All at once he stopped short under the light of a lamp and looked me
full in the face.
"Kate," said he, in a grave, deliberate voice, "you know what I
mean--Yes or No?"
I shook like a leaf. What would I have given to have been able to take
counsel of one of my own sex--Mrs. Lumley, Aunt Deborah, or even cold,
pitiless Lady Horsingham! But I had to choose for myself. I felt that
the turning-point of my destiny had arrived--that the game was in my
own hand, and that now I ought to decide one way or the other. I
shrank from the responsibility. Like a very woman, I adopted a middle
course.
"Give me time, John," I pleaded--"give me time to weigh matters over
in my own mind. This is an affair that equally concerns the happiness
of each of us. Do not let us decide in a hurry. Aunt Deborah was quite
right: her wishes ought to be my law. When I am five-and-twenty it
will be soon enough to enter on this subject again. In the interval,
believe me, John, I have the greatest regard and esteem for you."
"Nothing more, Kate," said John, looking as if he didn't know whether
he was pleased or annoyed--"nothing but _esteem_?"
"Well, I mustn't say any more," was my reply; "but you know you have
_that_."
John's face brightened considerably. "And in the meantime, Kate," he
urged, "you won't allow yourself to be entangled with any one else?"
"Of course not," was my vigorous disclaimer; and by this time we had
arrived at my aunt's door, and it was time to say good-night.
"What's the matter, Kate?" exclaimed Mrs. Lumley, when I called to
lunch with her the following day, according to promise. "You look pale
and worried. For goodness' sake tell me what has happened. Have you
found out _the rover_ transferring his adoration to Miss Molasses? or
did _mon cousin_ take advantage of the hour and the opportunity to
lecture us last night on our love of admiration and general levity of
conduct? Tell me all about it, dear. We shan't be disturbed. I'm not
'at home' to a soul; and my old man is busy dissecting an earwig, so
he's quite safe till dinner-time. Sit you down on the sofa, out with
your pocket-handkerchief, and make a clean breast of it!"
I told her the whole of my conversation with my cousin the previous
night, only suppressing the unflattering opinions he had thought fit
to express of my present _confidante_. "And oh, Mrs. Lumley," I
exclaimed as I concluded, "how could I sleep a wink last night, with
all this to harass and reproach me? No wonder I'm pale and worried and
perfectly miserable. I feel I'm behaving shamefully to John, and not
at all rightly towards Captain Lovell. I know I ought to come to an
understanding with my cousin, and that Frank ought to be more explicit
with me. I couldn't have given a decided answer last night if my life
had depended on it. I can't give up the one without knowing exactly
whether he means honestly (if I thought he did, Mrs. Lumley, nothing
should induce me to throw him over); and I don't like to make the
other miserable, which I am sure I should do if I refused him
point-blank; nor do I think I could do at all well without him,
accustomed as I have been to depend upon him for everything from
childhood. So I have wavered and prevaricated, and behaved
disingenuously, almost falsely; and what must he think of me now?"
"Think of you, my dear?" replied my worldly friend; "why, of course,
he thinks of you more than ever. There is nothing like uncertainty,
Kate, to keep them well up to the collar. You should always treat men
like the beasts of the field. If you want to retain the upper hand of
him, ride an adorer as you do Brilliant, my dear--a light hand, with
just enough liberty to make him fancy he is going quite at his ease;
and then, when he is getting a little careless and least expects it,
give him such a jerk as makes his fine mouth smart again. He'll wince
with the pain, and very likely rear straight on end; but he'll be all
on his haunches well under control, and go on much the pleasanter
during the rest of the day. Never mind how much they suffer; it's very
good for them, and they will like you all the better for it."
"That may answer very well with some," I replied, "but I should be
afraid to try the experiment too often. I am sure Brilliant would
break away altogether if I used _him_ so. And I think the very man
that minds it most would be the least likely to stand a repetition of
such treatment. No, Mrs. Lumley; I fear I must now choose between
Frank and my cousin. The latter has behaved honourably, considerately,
and kindly, and like a thorough gentleman. The former seems to think I
am to be at his beck and call, indeed, whenever he chooses. He has
never been to see me during the whole of this past week. At
Dangerfield he was as little careful of my reputation as he was of his
own limbs. Did I tell you how nearly drowned he was, crossing the
moat? How you would have laughed, you wicked, unfeeling woman, if you
had heard the splash that cold, snowy night! And then to disguise
himself like a tramp, and stop those runaway ponies at the risk of his
life, that he might speak three words to me before I went away. I will
say for him that he is afraid of nothing; but I cannot conceal from
myself which has behaved best towards _me_. And yet, Mrs. Lumley," I
concluded, rising and walking off to the window, "I would rather have
Frank for a lover than Cousin John for a husband."
"Many people would suggest there was no impossibility in your having
both; but I don't give such bad advice as that," replied Mrs. Lumley.
"However, Kate, do nothing in a hurry--that's my counsel. I grant you,
I think Master Frank a very slippery gentleman. I do know some
_curious_ stories about him; but I never tell tales out of school. In
the meantime you are, after all, only suffering from an _embarras de
richesses_; it's far better to have too many suitors than none at all.
Come, I'll take you out shopping with me till five; then we'll have
some tea, and you can go home quietly to dinner and ask Aunt Deborah's
leave to join me at the French play. I've got a capital box, and I'll
send the carriage for you. Wait half a second, whilst I put on my
bonnet."
So we went off shopping, and we had our tea, and I found no objections
from Aunt Deborah to my going out again in the evening; and I was so
restless I did not the least grudge the trouble of dressing, or
anything to take me away from my own thoughts. But all the afternoon
and all the evening I made up my mind that I would give up Frank
Lovell. A little resolution was all that was needed. It was plain he
did not _really_ care for me. Why, he wasn't even in London, though he
knew quite well I had been there more than a week. Very likely I
shouldn't see him all the winter, and my heart sank as I thought how
much easier this would make my sacrifice. At all events, I determined,
when I did see him, to be cold, and demure, and unmoved--to show him
unmistakably that I belonged to another; in which Spartan frame of
mind I betook myself to the French play.
Alas, alas! Well may the bard complain,--
"Woman's vows are writ in water;
Woman's faith is traced in sand."
Who should be in the back of the box but Frank Lovell himself!
Mischievous Mrs. Lumley, was this your doing? Before I went away I had
promised to meet him next morning in the park, and he was to _explain
all_.