I hope I have as much command of countenance as falls to the lot of
any lady who don't paint; but when I returned from my walk in the Park
the following morning I must have looked flushed or excited, or in
some way different from usual. I met John at the corner of Lowndes
Street, and he stopped short, and looked me piercingly in the face.
"Where have you been, Kate?" said he, without waiting to bid me
"good-morning" or anything.
"A little stroll in the Park, John," was my reply.
"By yourself?" he asked, and his face looked pale and grave.
I cannot tell a story, so I hesitated and stammered,--
"No, not exactly--at least I met an acquaintance near the Serpentine."
"Have you any objection to telling me who it was?" said John, and his
voice sounded very strange.
"Good gracious! what's the matter?" I asked, in my turn. "Has anything
happened? Are you ill, John? you look quite upset."
"I insist upon knowing," answered he, without taking the slightest
notice of my tender inquiries after his health.
"Did you or did you not meet Captain Lovel this morning in Hyde Park?"
"Yes, I certainly _did_ meet him," I replied.
"Accidentally?" exclaimed my cousin.
"Why--no--not entirely," was my answer; "but the fact is----"
"Enough!" burst out John, breaking in upon my explanations with a
rudeness I had never before seen him exhibit. "Kate, I have been
deceived in you. I thought at least you were candid and
straightforward: I find you faithless, ungrateful, ungenerous! But I
will not reproach you," he added, checking himself by a strong effort:
"it is only natural, I conclude, for a woman to be false. I thought
you were different from the rest, and I was a fool for my pains. Kate,
let us understand each other at once. I offered you last night all
that man could give. I had a right to expect an answer then and there.
I _thought_ I had a favourable one, and I have spent twelve hours of
happiness. I now see that I have deceived myself. Perhaps I value my
own worth too highly; I own I feel sore and aggrieved, but _you_ shall
not be the sufferer. Kate, I am only 'Cousin John' once more. Give me
a few days to get over a natural disappointment, and you and I will be
friends and playfellows as we used to be. Shake hands, Kate: I spoke
harshly, in a moment of anger; it is over now. God bless you, dear!"
And with these words John walked away, and left me standing on that
eventful doorstep which seemed to witness all the changes and chances
of my life. How stately was his walk as he strode down the street! I
watched him all the way to the corner, but he never once looked back.
John was grown much handsomer of late; he used to be too ruddy and
prosperous-looking and boyish, but his countenance had altered
considerably in the last two or three months--only, seeing him every
day, I did not remark the change. Lady Scapegrace had found it out the
first. I perfectly remember her saying to me, on the day of our
Greenwich dinner,--
"My dear, your cousin has a great deal in him, if one did but know how
to get it _out_. You have no idea what a good-looking man he would be,
if you could only succeed in making him ill and unhappy."
Poor John! I am afraid I had made him unhappy, even now. It struck me
he had a nobler bearing than Captain Lovell himself; although, of
course, I could not think him so graceful, or so handsome, or half so
charming as my dear Frank. I rushed into the house and locked myself
in my boudoir, to think over and dwell upon the many events of that
most eventful morning--my happy walk, my delightful companion, whose
soft voice was still whispering in my ear, whose every look and
gesture I could recall, even to the wind freshening his handsome brow
and waving his clustering locks. How happy and contented I felt by his
side! And yet, there was a something. I was not satisfied; I was not
thoroughly at ease; my cousin's face would intrude itself upon my
thoughts. I could not get out of my head the tone of manly kindness
and regret in which he had last addressed me. I reflected on his
sincerity, his generosity, his undeviating fidelity and good-humour,
till my heart smote me to think of all he suffered for my sake; and I
began to wonder whether I was worthy of being so much cared for, and
whether I was justified in throwing all this faith and truth away.
Reader, have you ever lived for weeks and weeks in a place which bored
you to death? Have you learned to loathe every tree and shrub and
hedge-row in the dreary landscape? Have you shivered up and down the
melancholy walks, and yawned through the dull, dark rooms, till you
began to think the hour never would arrive that was to restore you
once again to liberty and light? And then, when the hour _has_ come at
last, have you been able to take your departure without some
half-reproachful feeling akin to melancholy--without some slight shade
of regret to think that much as you have hated it, you look upon it
all now for the _last_ time? Perhaps the sun breaks out and shines
upon the old place as you catch your last glimpse. Ah! it never used
to shine like that when you could see it from those windows every day;
you almost wish your departure had been put off till the morrow; you
think if you were back again, the walks would not be so very
melancholy, the rooms no longer so dull and gloomy. You sigh because
you are leaving it, and wonder at yourself for doing so. It is the
same thing with friends, and more especially with those who would fain
assume a tenderer title: we never know their value but by their loss.
"If it wasn't for Frank," I began to think, "I really believe I might
have been very happy with Cousin John. Of course, it's impossible now;
and, as he says himself, he'll never be anything but a cousin to me.
Poor John! he's a noble, true-hearted, unselfish, generous fellow."
But to return to my walk. When a lady and gentleman meet each other by
appointment, either at the edge of the Serpentine or elsewhere, their
conversation is not generally of a nature to be related in detail, nor
is it to be presumed that their colloquy would prove as interesting to
the general public as to themselves. What I learnt of Frank's private
history, his views, feelings, and intentions, on that morning, I may
as well give in my own words, suppressing divers interruptions,
protestations, and interjections, which, much as they added to its
zest, necessarily rather impeded the course of the narrative, and
postponed its completion till long after I ought to have been back at
luncheon.
Frank had been an only child, and spoiled as only children are in nine
cases out of ten. His father was a peer's second son, and married a
wealthy cotton-spinner's niece for the sake of her money, which money
lasted him about as long as his own constitution. When he died, the
widow was left with ten thousand pounds and the handsome, curly-pated,
mischievous boy. She soon followed her husband. Poor thing, she was
very fond of him, and he had neglected her shamefully. The boy went to
his uncle--the peer, not to his uncle the mill-owner--to be brought
up. Frank was consequently what the world calls a "well-bred one;" his
name was in the _Peerage_, though he had a first cousin once removed
who was but an industrious weaver. The peer, of course, sent him to
Eton.
"Ten thousand pounds," said that judicious relative, "will buy him his
commission. The lad's handsome and clever; he can play whist now
better than my boy's private tutor. By the time his ten thousand's
gone, we'll pick up an heiress for him. 'Gad! how like my poor brother
he is about the eyes!"
So Frank was started in life with a commission in the Light Dragoons,
an extremely good opinion of himself, and as much of his ten thousand
pounds as he had not already anticipated during the one term he spent
at Oxford before he was rusticated. By the way, so many of my
partners, and other young gentlemen with whom I am acquainted, have
gone through this process, that it was many years before I understood
the meaning of the term. For long I understood _rustication_ to be
merely a playful form of expression for "taking a degree;" and I was
the more confirmed in this impression from observing that those who
had experienced this treatment were spoken of with high respect and
approbation by their fellow-collegians.
What odd creatures young men are! I can understand their admiring
prowess in field-sports and athletic pursuits, just as I could
understand one's admiring a statesman, an author, an artist, or a
successful man in any pursuit of life; but why they should think it
creditable to get drunk, to run into debt, to set at defiance all the
rules and regulations enacted for their own benefit, and to conduct
themselves in unswerving opposition to the wishes of their nearest and
dearest friends, and all to do themselves as much harm as possible, is
more than I can comprehend. Girls are not wrong-headed like this.
Where the son is the source of all the annoyance, and ill-humour, and
retrenchment in a family, the daughter is generally the mainstay, and
comfort, and sunshine of the whole house. When shall we poor women be
done justice to? But to return to Frank. By his own account he was a
gambler, of course. A man turned loose upon the world, with such an
education as most English gentlemen deem befitting their sons, and
without means to indulge the tastes that education has led him to
acquire, is very likely to become so.
As a boy, the example of his elders teaches him to look upon frivolous
distinction as a great end and aim of life, whilst that of his
comrades leads him to neglect all study as dry, to despise all
application as "slow." At home he hears some good-looking, grown-up
cousin, or agreeable military uncle, admired and commented on for
being "such a capital shot," "such a good cricket-player," "such an
undeniable rider to hounds," what wonder the boy grows up thinking
that these accomplishments alone are the very essentials of a
gentleman? At school, if he makes an effort at distinction in
school-hours, he is stigmatized by his comrades as a "sap," and
derided for his pursuit of the very object it is natural to suppose he
has been sent there to attain. What wonder he hugs idleness as his
bosom-friend, and loses all his powers of application in their disuse.
Then come the realities of manhood, for which he is so ill prepared.
In the absence of all _useful_ knowledge and practical pursuits,
_amusement_ becomes the business of life. Human nature cannot be idle,
and if not doing good, is pretty sure to be doing harm. Pleasure,
excitement, and fashionable dissipation must be purchased, and paid
for pretty dearly, in hard coin of the realm. The younger son, with
his ten thousand pounds, must soar in the same flight, must "go as
fast" as his elder brother with ten thousand a year. How is it to be
done? Why, _of course_, he must _make_ money, if he can, by betting
and play. So it goes on smoothly enough for a time. The Arch-croupier
below, they say, arranges these matters for beginners; but the luck
turns at last. The capital is eaten into; the Jews are called in; and
the young gentleman is ruined. Frank, I think, at this time was in a
fair way of arriving pretty rapidly at the customary catastrophe. He
had gone through the whole educational process I have described above,
had been regularly and systematically "spoilt," was a habitual
gambler, and a confirmed "dandy." The ladies all liked him much, and I
confess I don't wonder at it. Always good-humoured, never sentimental
(I hate a sentimental man), invariably well dressed, with a very good
opinion of his own attractions, Frank could make himself agreeable in
all societies. He had never been troubled with shyness as a boy, and
in his manhood was as "cool a hand" as one would meet with often, even
in London. Then he had plenty of courage, which made the men respect
him; and, above all, was very good-looking--an advantage which,
doubtless, has a certain weight even with _our_ far-sighted and
reflective sex.
I never quite made out the rights of his _liaison_, or whatever people
call it, with Lady Scapegrace; nor do I think his own account entirely
satisfactory. He assured me that he met her first of all at a masked
ball in Paris, that she mistook him for some one else, and confided a
great deal to his ears which she would not have entrusted to any one
save the individual she supposed him to be; that when she discovered
her mistake she was in despair, and that his discretion and respect
for her feelings had made her his fast friend for life. I cannot tell
how this may be, but that they were great friends I have had reason to
know too well. He declared, however, that he looked upon her "quite as
a sister." I do not think, though she is always very kind to me, that
I should exactly like her for a _sister-in-law_. I certainly have
known Lady Scapegrace do most extraordinary things--such things as no
other woman would be permitted to do without drawing down the abuse of
the world. If she had been fair, and rosy, and pleasing, people would
have scouted her; but she was dark, and stern, and commanding. The
world was afraid of her, and it is very true that "in the world one
had better be feared than loved." Scandal did not _dare_ say all it
thought of Lady Scapegrace; and if she brought Frank Lovell home in
her carriage, or went to the opera alone with Count Coquin, or was
seen, day after day, perambulating Kensington Gardens arm in arm with
young Greenfinch of the Life Guards, instead of shouting and hissing,
and, so to speak, _pelting_ her off the stage, the world lifted its
fingers to its lips, shrugged up its worldly shoulders, and merely
remarked,--
"Always _was_ very odd, poor woman! Hers has been a curious
history--little cracked, I think, now--but what a handsome creature
she was years ago, when I left school, before _you_ were born, my
boy!"
Whatever may have been her carelessness of appearances and levity of
manner, I think it was never for an instant supposed that she liked
any human being half so much as she hated Sir Guy. Then, again, Sir
Guy and Frank were fast friends, almost inseparable. They say Frank
kept things right between the ill-assorted pair, and that his good
offices had many a time interposed to prevent scenes of abuse and
violence such as must have ended in a separation at least. I was not
quite clear that Frank's regard for the coach-driving baronet was
alone at the bottom of all this friendship. I cannot conceive two men
much worse suited to each other; but Frank vowed, when I
cross-questioned him on the subject, which I thought I had a right to
do, that he was under the greatest possible obligations to Sir Guy,
that the latter had even lent him money, and stood by him when such
assistance was most valuable; and that he looked upon _him_ as _a
brother_, just as he looked upon her ladyship as a sister. It seems to
have been quite a family party altogether. Frank warmed with the
topic.
"You will hear me talked about with all sorts of people, Kate," said
he, as we took about our twentieth turn, each of which I had protested
should be _the last_; "but the world is so officious and
mischief-making, you must never believe a word it says. They know I am
ruined, and they choose to decide that I must be making up to some
wealthy young lady. As if _I_ was a man to marry for money; as if I
cared for anything on earth but _one_ person, and _that_ for the sake
of her own dear self alone! You ask _me_ about Miss Molasses; you
declare I am continually riding with her, and dancing with her, and
what you ladies call 'paying her attention'--that yellow lackadaisical
miss! Do you think I would marry her if she had half a million? Do you
think I could stand those sentimental airs, that smattering of
learning, and affectation of being poetical, and romantic, and
blue--I, who have only lately learned what a woman should be, and what
a treasure such a woman is? No, no; I have known the whole family from
a child; I can't quite stand the lady part of it, but old Molasses is
a right good fellow, and one must be civil to them all. No, no, Kate;
with my many faults, I am a very different person from what you seem
to think. I have my hopes and wishes, certainly, but----"
I can't possibly go on to relate the conclusion of Frank's rhapsody,
but he took great pains to convince me that if there was ever a
high-principled, pure-minded, much-injured individual, that exemplary
character was the gentleman now walking by my side; and I was
convinced, but at the same time not exactly satisfied. In thinking
over the whole of our conversation, I could gather nothing very
definite, nothing that led to any particular result, from it.
One thing was clear to my mind, and that was at all events a
gratifying reflection. Frank did not seem to be aware that I had any
worldly prospects whatever: it was evident that if he liked me he
liked me entirely for myself. I confess I should not wish to be a
great heiress; I should always be fancying that it was the "fine eyes
of my casket," as the French say, which attracted my admirers, and I
could not stand that. No, Frank was not mercenary, I was sure, and if
even--why the competency I should be possessed of would be an
agreeable surprise. If, indeed! Nothing was clear, nothing was
settled. What a fool I was to dwell so upon an uncertainty, to anchor
my hopes upon a dream! I was not at all comfortable that afternoon:
the more I thought, the more I walked about my boudoir in a state of
high fidget and restlessness. One thing, however, was consolatory--the
frost was breaking. Already in London it was a decided thaw, and I
went to pay Brilliant a visit in the stable.
Now I dare say I shall be considered very bold and unladylike, and
_unfeminine_--that's the word--for owning that I do indeed enjoy
paying my favourites a visit in their comfortable quarters. It's worth
a good deal to see Brilliant's reception of me when I approach his
stable. From the instant I enter his abode and he hears my voice, he
begins to move restlessly to and fro, whisking his dear tail, cocking
his ears, and pawing up his "litter," till indeed that word alone
describes the state to which he reduces his bed; then when I go up to
him he lays back his ears with sheer delight, and gives a jump, as if
he was going to kick me, and whisks that thin tail about more than
ever. I lay my cheek to his smooth soft skin, and he nestles his
beautiful head in my arms, and pokes his pretty muzzle into my
pockets, and seems to ask for bits of bread and sugar and other
delicacies, all of which are conferred upon him forthwith. I am sure
he has more sense than a dog, and a great deal more affection than
most men. I don't care how _slang_ and "bad style" people may think
me, but I feel every one of those strong flat black legs, and look
into his hoofs, hind-feet and all, and turn his rug up to see that he
has been properly cleaned and treated as he deserves; for I _love_
Brilliant, and Brilliant loves me. It has sometimes been my lot to
have an aching heart, as I conclude it is the lot of all here below.
Like the rest of my fellow-creatures, I have been stung by
ingratitude, lacerated by indifference where I had a right to expect
attachment; or, worst of all, forced to confess myself deceived where
I had bestowed regard and esteem. When I feel sore and unhappy on any
or all of these points, nothing consoles and softens me so much as the
affection of a dumb animal, more particularly a horse. His honest
grave face seems to sympathize in one's grief, without obtruding the
impertinence of curiosity or the mockery of consolation. He gives
freely the affection one has been disappointed in finding elsewhere,
and seems to stand by one in his brute vigour and generous unreasoning
nature like a true friend. I always feel inclined to pour my griefs
into poor Brilliant's unintelligent ears, and many a tear have I shed
nestling close to my favourite, with my arms round him like a child's
round its nurse's neck. That very afternoon, when I had made sure
there was no one else in the stable, I leaned my head against
Brilliant's firm warm neck, and sobbed, like a fool as I was.