"I shall miss you sadly, Kate; but if you enjoy your visit I shall be
quite satisfied."
It was Aunt Deborah who spoke. Dear Aunt Deborah! I felt as if I had
not been half attentive enough to her lately. I had selfishly been so
taken up with my own thoughts and my own schemes that I had neglected
my poor suffering relative, and now my heart smote me for my want of
consideration. Aunt Deborah had not left the house since our return
from Dangerfield. She looked worn and old, but had the same kind
smile, the same measured accents as ever. Though she endured a good
deal of pain and was kept in close confinement, she never complained:
patient and quiet, she had a kind word for every one; and even her
maid avowed that "missus's" temper was that of an angel. "Hangel," the
maid called it, but it was perfectly true. Aunt Deborah must have had
something very satisfactory to look forward to, or she never would
have been so light-hearted. One thing I remarked, she was fonder of
John than ever.
"I won't go, my dear aunt," was my reply, for my conscience smote me
hard. "I won't go; I don't care about it; I had much rather stay and
nurse you here."
But Aunt Deborah wouldn't hear of it.
"No, no," said she, "my dear; you are at the right age to enjoy
yourself. I don't know much about Scamperley, and I have a far more
charitable opinion of Lady Scapegrace than the world in general; but I
dare say you will have a pleasant party, and I can trust you anywhere
with John."
There it was, John again--always John--and I knew exactly what John
thought of me; and it made me thoroughly despise myself. I reflected
that if I were John, I should have a very poor opinion of my cousin; I
should consider her silly, vacillating, easily deceived, and by no
means to be depended upon; more than woman in her weaknesses, and less
than woman in her affections. "What a character! and what a contempt
he must have for me!"
My cousin called to take me to the railway, and to accompany me as a
chaperon on a visit to Sir Guy and Lady Scapegrace, who were, as
usual, "entertaining a distinguished party of fashionables at their
residence, Scamperley." By the way, what an odd phrase that same
"entertaining" always sounds to my ear. When I learn that the Marquis
of Mopes has been "entertaining" his friends, the Duke of Drearyshire,
Count and Countess Crotchet, Viscount Inane, Sir Simon and Lady
Sulkes, the Honourable Hercules Heavyhead, etc., etc., at his splendid
seat, Boudoir Castle, I cannot refrain from picturing to myself the
dignified host standing on his bald head for the amusement of his
immovable visitors, or otherwise, forgetful of his usual staid
demeanour, performing ludicrous antics, projecting disrespectful
"larks," to woo a smile from those stolid countenances in vain! Sir
Guy might be "entertaining," too, in this way, but hardly in any
other. What a disagreeable man he was! although I could not help
acknowledging his good nature in coming to fetch us from the station
himself.
As we emerged from the railway carriage, the first object that greeted
my eyes was Sir Guy's great gaudy drag, with its three piebalds and a
roan. The first tones that smote on my ear were those of his hoarse
harsh voice (how it jarred upon my nerves!) in loud obstreperous
welcome.
"Thought you'd come by this train, Miss Coventry," shouted Sir Guy
from the box, without making the slightest demonstration of
descending; "laid Frank five to two on the event.--Done him again,
hey, Frank--_I knew_ what you'd be up to; brought the drag over on
purpose. Now then, give us your hand; one foot on the box, one on the
roller-bolt, and now you're landed. Jones, my boy, get up behind. I've
sent the van for servants and luggage. 'Gad! what a pretty maid you've
got. Let 'em go, and sit tight!"
So we rolled smoothly out, the piebalds shaking their harness and
trotting merrily along, the roan placed on the off-side, for the
purpose of sustaining whatever amount of punishment our charioteer
thought fit to inflict.
Behold me, then, seated on the box of Sir Guy Scapegrace's drag! a
pretty position for a young lady who, during the last month or two,
had been making daily resolutions of amendment as to _slang_ conduct
and general levity of demeanour. How I hated myself, and loathed the
very sight of _him_, as I looked at my companion. Sir Guy was redder
and fatter than when I had seen him last; his voice was more
dissonant, his neckcloth more alarming, his jewellery more prominent,
his hat closer shaved and the flower in his mouth less like a flower
than ever. How came I there? Why, because I was piqued, and hurt, and
reckless. I was capable of almost any enormity. John's manner to me in
the train had well-nigh driven me mad. So quiet, so composed, so cold,
so kind and considerate, but a kindness and consideration such as that
with which one treats a child. He seemed to feel he was my superior;
he seemed even to soothe and pity me. I would have given worlds to
have spoken frankly _out_ to him, to have asked him what I had done to
offend him, even to have brought him back to that topic upon which I
felt he would never enter more. But it was impossible. I dared not
wound that kind, generous heart again--I dared not trust _myself_. No,
he was only "Cousin John" now; he had said so himself. Surely he need
not have given me up quite so easily; surely I was worthy of an effort
at least: yet I _knew_ it had been my own fault--though I would not
allow it even to myself--and this I believe it was that rankled and
gnawed at my heart till I could hardly bear my own identity. It was a
relief to do everything I could think of to annoy him. To heap
self-contempt on my wicked head, to show him I was reckless of his
good opinion as of my own, to lay up a store of agonizing reproaches
for the future, to gnash my teeth, as it were, and nerve myself into a
savage indifference for the present. Nay, there was even a diabolical
_pleasure_ in it. Frank Lovell occupied the seat behind me: at another
time I might have been gratified at his near neighbourhood, and
annoyed to think he should have been paying so long a visit to
Scamperley. I was startled to find how little I cared. He leaned over
and whispered to me occasionally, and seemed pleased with the marked
encouragement I gave him. After all, I could not help liking Frank
very much; and was not my cousin at the back of the coach, to witness
all that took place? But Sir Guy would not allow me to be
"monopolized," as he called it.
"You've lost your roses sadly in London, Miss Coventry," said he,
poking his odious face almost under my bonnet, and double-thonging the
off-wheeler most unmercifully. "Never mind; I think a woman looks best
when she is pale. Egad, you've more colour now, though. Don't be
angry, it's only my way; you know I'm your slave."
"Sir Guy don't _mean_ to be rude," whispered Frank, for I confess I
was beginning to get indignant; and the Baronet went on,--
"Do you remember our picnic at Richmond, Miss Coventry, and my promise
that if ever you honoured me by taking a place on my coach you should
_drive_? Take hold of 'em now, there's a good girl; you ought to know
something about the ribbons, and the next four miles is quite
straight, and a dead flat."
I was in that state of mind that I should not have had the least
scruple in upsetting the coach and risking the lives of all upon it,
my own included; but I know not what imp of evil prompted me to turn
round and call to my cousin at the back,--
"John, do you think I could drive four horses?"
"Pray don't," whispered Frank Lovell, who seemed to disapprove of the
whole proceeding; but I did not heed him, for my cousin never answered
till I asked him again.
"Do as you like, Kate," was his reply, "only I shouldn't advise you to
try;" but he looked very grave, and seriously hurt and annoyed.
This was enough for me. I laughed aloud. I was determined to provoke
him, and I changed places with Sir Guy. He showed me how to part and
hold the reins; he lectured me on the art of putting horses together;
he got into a state of high good-humour, and smiled, and swore, and
patronized me, and had the effrontery to call me a "d--d fine girl,"
and I never boxed his ears, though I confess to having been once or
twice sorely tempted. In short, I flirted with him shamefully, and
even Frank got grave and out of sorts. At last Sir Guy removed the
flower from his mouth, and pulled out his cigar-case.
"Have a weed, Miss Coventry!" said he, with his detestable leer. "Of
course you smoke; any one who can tool 'em along as you do _must_ be
able to smoke. Mine are very mild, let me choose one for you."
I accepted his offer, though I had considerable misgivings as to
whether it would not make me sick. I looked round to see how my cousin
approved of all these goings on, and particularly this last cigar
movement. He was sitting with his back to us, reading the morning
newspaper, apparently totally indifferent to my proceedings. That
decided me. I would have smoked now if there had been a barrel of
gunpowder under my nose. I didn't care how sick it made me! I lit my
cigar from Sir Guy's, I suffered him to put his horrid red face close
to mine. I flirted, and laughed, and drove, and puffed away as if I
had been used to these accomplishments all my life. I rattled through
the turnpike without stopping to pay, as if it were a good joke. I
double-thonged a sleeping carter over the face and eyes as I passed
him. My near leader shied at a wheelbarrow, and I _almost_ swore as I
rated him and flanked him, and exclaimed,--
"Confound you, _I'll_ teach you to keep straight!"
As we drove into the Park at Scamperley--for I fearlessly rounded the
avenue turn, and vowed I would not abandon the reins till I had
delivered my load at the front door--even Frank was completely
disgusted. My cousin took not the slightest notice, but kept his seat
with his back turned to the horses, and was still deep in his
newspaper. Sir Guy was delighted; he shouted, and grinned, and swore
more than ever. I was a "trump"--I was a "girl of the right sort"--I
was a "well-bred one"--I had no end of "devil" in me--I was fit to be
a "queen!" Whilst the object of all these polished encomiums could
willingly have burst out crying at a moment's notice; indeed, she
would have found it an unspeakable relief; and felt as she had never
felt before, and as she trusts in heaven she may never feel again.
It was a lovely spot Scamperley--beautiful as a dream--with the quiet
woodland beauty of a real English place. Such timber! Such an avenue!
I wonder if any of the sporting dandies and thoughtless visitors who
came down "to stay with Scapegrace" because he had more pheasants and
better "dry" (meaning champagne) than anybody else ever thought of the
many proprietors those old oaks and chestnuts had seen pass away, the
strange doings they must have witnessed as generation after generation
of Scapegraces lived their short hour and went to their account,
having done all the mischief they could, for they were a wild, wicked
race from father to son. The present Baronet's childhood was nursed in
profligacy and excess. Sir Gilbert had been a fitting sire to Sir Guy,
and drank, and drove, and sinned, and turned his wife out-of-doors,
and gathered his boon companions about him, and placed his heir, a
little child, upon the table, and baptized him, in mockery, with
blood-red wine; and one fine morning he was found dead in his
dressing-room, with a dark stream stealing slowly along the floor.
They talked of "broken blood-vessels," and "hard living," and "a full
habit;" but some people thought he had died by his own hand; and the
dressing-room was shut up and made a lumber-room of, and nobody ever
used it any more. However, it was the only thing to save the family. A
long minority put the present possessor fairly on his legs again, and
the oaks and the chestnuts were spared the fate that had seemed too
surely awaiting them. Nor was this the only escape they had
experienced. A Scapegrace of former days had served in the
Parliamentary army during his father's lifetime; had gone over to the
king at his death; had fought at Edgehill and Marston Moor--and to do
Sir Neville justice, he could fight like a demon; had abandoned the
royal cause when it was hopeless, and, by betraying his sovereign,
escaped the usual fate and amercement of malcontent--the Protector
remarking, with a certain solemn humour, "that Sir Neville was an
instrument in the hand of the Lord, but that Satan had a share in him,
which doubtless he would not fail to claim in due time." So Sir
Neville lived at Scamperley in abundance and honour, and preserved his
oaks and his rents, and professed the strictest Puritanism; and died
in a fit brought on by excessive drinking to the success of the
Restoration, when he heard that Charles had landed, and the king was
really "to enjoy his own again." He was succeeded by his grandson Sir
Montague, the best-looking, the best-hearted, and the weakest of his
race. There was a picture of him hanging over against the great
staircase--a handsome, well-proportioned man, with a woman's beauty of
countenance, and more than womanly softness of expression. Lady
Scapegrace and I have stopped and gazed at it for hours.
"He's not very like the present Baronet, my dear," she would say, her
haughty features gathering into a sneer--and Lady Scapegrace's sneer
was that of Mephistopheles himself; "he is beautiful, exceedingly. I
love to look at his hazel eyes, his low antique brow, his silky
chestnut hair, and his sweet melancholy smile. Depend upon it, Kate,
no man with such a smile as that is ever capable of succeeding in any
one thing he undertakes. I don't care what his intellect may be, I
don't care what animal courage he may possess, however dashing his
spirit, however chivalrous his sentiments--so surely as he has woman's
strength of affection, woman's weakness of heart, so surely must he go
to the wall. I have seen it a hundred times, Kate, and I never knew it
otherwise."
Since the affair of the bull Lady Scapegrace had contracted a great
affection for me, and would have me to roam about the house with her
for hours. She was a clever, intellectual woman, without one idea or
sentiment in common with her husband. In this state of mental
widowhood she had consoled herself by study, amongst other things; and
the history of the family into which she had married afforded her
ample materials for reflection and research. She had collected every
scrap of writing, every private memorandum, letter, and document that
could throw any light upon the subject; and I verily believe she could
have concocted a highly interesting volume, detailing the exploits and
misdeeds, the fortunes and misfortunes, of the Scapegraces.
"I know all about him, Kate," she would proceed, fixing her great
hollow eyes upon my face, and laying her hand on my arm, as was her
habit when interested. "He is my pet amongst the family, though I
despise him thoroughly. You see that distant castle, sufficiently
badly painted, in the corner of the picture? That was the residence of
her who exercised such a fatal influence over the life of poor Sir
Montague. All his little sonnets, some of them touching and pretty
enough, are addressed to 'The Lady Mabel.' I have found two or three
of his love-letters, probably returned by her, tied up in a faded bit
of ribbon; there is also one note from the lady to her admirer; such a
production, Kate! Not a word but what is misspelt, not a sentence of
common grammar in the whole of it; and yet this was the woman he broke
his heart for! Look well at him, my dear, and you will see why. With
all its beauty, such a face as that was made to be imposed upon. The
Lady Mabel, however, seems to have been a notable strong-minded
personage enough. She acknowledges the receipt of her lover's letters;
which, however, without condescending to give any further explanation,
she avers 'came to hand at an untoward moment,' and finishes by
sending him a receipt for making elderflower wine--assuring him, with
a certain sly malice, that it is 'a sovereign specific against colic,
vertigo, and all ailments of the heart and stomach!' What a contrast
to his protestations endorsed, 'These, with haste--ride--ride--ride!'
which many a good horse must have been spurred and hurried to deliver.
How he rings the changes upon his unalterable and eternal devotion!
How he implores 'his dear heart' never to forget him! and calls her
'his sweet life,' and protests that 'he welcomes the very night-breeze
blowing from the castle, because it must have swept past the windows
of his love!' and pours out his foolish heart like a child pouring
water into a sieve. Lady Mabel, however, seems to have been proof
against sentiment, as she undoubtedly was against good looks. From all
that I can gather, she appears to have made use of her adorer in
furtherance of sundry political schemes, such as were so numerous at
that period, and to have thrown him away, like a rusty blade, when she
had no further occasion for his services. I cannot help thinking she
despised him thoroughly. There are certain bills and memoranda, with
his signature attached, relating to levies of men and great purchases
of arms, which look as if he had plunged into some desperate
enterprise, doubtless at her instigation; and in his sonnets there are
frequent allusions to 'winning her by the sword,' 'loving her to the
death,' and such Quixotic protestations, that look as if he had at one
time meditated an unusually daring stroke. He was a fool," said Lady
Scapegrace reflectively, "but he was a fine fellow, too, to throw
wealth, life, and honour at the feet of a woman who was not worth a
throb of that kind, generous heart, a drop of that loyal, gallant
blood!
"Then he married, I can't quite make out why, as there is a
considerable gap in the correspondence of the family about this time,
only partially connected by the diary of an old chaplain, who seems to
have been formerly tutor to Sir Montague, and to have cherished a
great regard for his pupil. The lady was a foreigner and a Romanist;
and although we have no picture of her, we gather from the reverend
chronicler that she was 'low of stature, dark-browed, and swarthy in
complexion,' though he gallantly adds that she was 'doubtless pleasing
to the eyes of those who loved such southern beauty.' At the wedding
it appears that Lady Mabel was present; and 'my good master's attire
and ornaments,' consisting of 'peach-coloured doublet, and
pearl-silken hose, and many gems of unspeakable price, dazzling to the
sight of humble men,' are detailed with strange minuteness and
fidelity. Even the plume in his hat and the jewelled hilt of his
rapier are dwelt upon at considerable length. But notwithstanding his
magnificence, the worthy chaplain did not fail to remark that 'my good
master seemed ill at ease, and the vertigo seizing him during the
ceremony, he must have fallen had I not caught him something cunningly
under the arm-pits, assisted by worthy Master Holder and one of the
groomsmen.' The chaplain, who seems to have been as blind as became
his reverend character, cannot forbear from expressing his admiration
of the Lady Mabel, whom he describes as 'fair and comely in colour,
like the bloom of the spring rose; of a buxom stature, and of a lofty
gait and gestures withal.' What was she doing at Sir Montague's
wedding? No wonder the old attack of 'vertigo,' which her elderflower
wine seems rather to have increased, should have come on again.
"One thing is pretty clear, the Baronet detested his wife (the
Scapegraces have generally owned that amiable weakness, my dear). I
think it must have been in consequence of her religion that he became
so strenuous a supporter of the opposite faith. At last he joined
Monmouth, and still the correspondence seems to have gone on, for the
night before Sedgmoor he wrote her a letter. Such a letter, Kate! I
was lucky enough to get it from a descendant of the lady, who was
under great obligations to me; I'll show it you to-morrow. No man with
_that mouth_ could have written such a letter, except when death was
looking him in the face. I often think when she got it she must have
given way at last. But it was too late. He was killed in the first
charge made by the royal troops. His own regiment, raw recruits and
countrymen, turned at the first shot; but he died like a Scapegrace,
waving his hat and cheering them on. We are rather proud of him in the
family, after all. Compared with the rest of them, his was a harmless
life and a creditable end."
"But what became of Lady Mabel?" I asked; for I confess I was a little
interested in this disjointed romance of long-past days.
"Did you ever know a thoroughly unfeeling person in your life that did
not prosper?" was her ladyship's reply; and again her features writhed
into the Mephistopheles' sneer. "Lady Mabel married an earl, and had
sons and daughters, and lived to a green old age. I have seen a
picture of her at fifty, and she was still 'fair and comely and buxom'
as when she dazzled the old chaplain's eyes and broke Sir Montague's
heart. Yes, yes, Kate, there's nothing like a _sensible_ woman; she's
the evergreen in the garden, and blooms, and buds, and puts forth
fresh shoots, when the rose is lying withered and trampled into the
earth; but for all that, she has never had the charm of the rose, and
never can have."
Such is a specimen of one of my many conversations with Lady
Scapegrace, whom I liked more and more the better I knew her. But I
have been anticipating sadly during my drive of Sir Guy's coach up Sir
Guy's avenue. When I reached the front door, with all my recklessness,
I felt glad to see no head poking out of windows--above all, no
_female_ witness to my unwomanly conduct. I felt thoroughly ashamed of
myself as I got down from the box; and I confess it was with feelings
of intense relief that a polite groom of the chambers informed me,
with many apologies, "her ladyship and all the ladies had gone to
dress," and handed me over, with a courtly bow, to a tidy elderly
woman, in a cap that could only belong to a housekeeper. She conducted
me to my room, and consigned me to Gertrude, already hard at work
unpacking upon her knees.