The Sunday at Scamperley, I am sorry to say, was hardly observed with
that degree of respect and strictness which is due to the one sacred
day of the week. Very few people went to morning service, as indeed
the late hours overnight kept most of us in our rooms till eleven or
twelve o'clock, when we dawdled down to a breakfast that seemed to
lengthen itself out till luncheon-time. To be sure, when the latter
meal had been discussed, and we had marked our reverence for the day
by a conversation in which we expressed our disapproval of the
personal appearance, faults and foibles, and general character of our
friends, some of us would declare an intention of attending afternoon
church; on which subject much discussion would arise, and the
probability of the weather holding up would be volubly commented
on--the church being situated about a quarter of a mile from the
house, and the way to it through the Park being so completely
sheltered by evergreens that to have got wet, save in a downright
_pour_ of rain, was next to impossible. At last we would get under
way--the ladies mincing along with their magnificently covered
prayer-books, affecting an air of unwilling decorum; the dandies
carrying cloaks, shawls, and umbrellas for their respective goddesses,
and following them, so to speak, under protest, as if there was
something to be ashamed of in the whole proceeding. Lady Scapegrace
always went early, and quite by herself; she sat apart, too, from her
guests and relatives. Not so Sir Guy. It was his great delight to
create as much noise and confusion as possible, that on his entrance
the respectable yeomen and humble parishioners might be dazzled with
his glory, and whisper one to another, "That be Sir Guy," as he
marched to the front of his family pew in a blaze of wondrous apparel.
It was natural that he should create a sensation with his red face and
gaudy-coloured clothes, and huge, dyed whiskers, and the eternal
flower in his mouth, which was always on duty save when relieved by a
cigar or a toothpick. Pew it could scarcely with propriety be called,
inasmuch as it was more like a box at the opera than a seat in a place
of worship. We entered by a staircase outside the church, with a
private door of our own; passing through which we found ourselves in a
very comfortable chamber, with a good many chairs and sofas, a
handsome bookcase, and a blazing fire. This, again, led to a smaller
apartment, into which Sir Guy would swagger with much unnecessary
noise and bustle. Throwing up a large window, he leaned over as it
were from a hustings, and, behold! we were at church.
When the sermon was concluded Sir Guy shut the window down again, and
we took our departure, much edified, as may easily be imagined, by the
lessons of meekness and humility which we had received in so becoming
a manner. From church we invariably proceeded to the kennel, where a
stout, healthy-looking keeper paraded the Baronet's pointers and
setters for the inspection of the ladies. Here Sir Guy took entire
possession of me once more.
"Don't be alarmed, my dear," said he, as a great bull-headed,
black-and-white brute, surnamed Don, came blundering up and tried to
put his muddy paws on my dress. Sir Guy's affectation of the
"paternal," and his odious way of calling one "my dear," provoked me
intensely; and I gave Don such a crack over his double nose with my
parasol as broke the ivory handle of that instrument, and completely
quelled all further demonstrations of affection from the uninteresting
brute. Sir Guy was charmed.
"Hit him hard," said he; "he's got no friends. What a vixen it is! How
she punished my near leader the other day! I _love_ that girl!"
The latter sentence, be it observed, was spoken _sotto voce_, and
required, as indeed it received, no reply.
"What interesting creatures!" exclaimed Miss Molasses, indicating an
old pointer lady, who went swinging by with all the appearance of
having lately brought up a large and thirsty family. "Do tell me, can
that dog really _catch_ a hare?"
The keeper's face was a study; he was apparently a humorous
individual. But Miss Molasses addressed her remarks to Frank Lovell;
and Frank, as in duty bound, replied. That girl was evidently making
up to him, and, thinking he was fond of field-sports, pretended to
take an interest in everything connected with those pursuits for his
sake.
"Come and see the tame pheasants, Miss Coventry," said Sir Guy. I knew
what this meant: I knew it would entail a _tête-à-tête_ walk with my
aversion, and I cast an imploring look at Frank, as much as to say,
"_Do_ save me." He caught my meaning in an instant, and skilfully
interposed. Of course, as he accompanied us, so did Miss Molasses; but
Frank and I lingered a little behind the rest of the party, made a
wrong turn in the shrubbery, and found ourselves, I never knew exactly
how, taking a long walk all alone in the waning twilight. I don't know
what Aunt Deborah would have said to such proceedings, and I am quite
sure Lady Horsingham would have been unspeakably shocked; but these
Sunday walks were the custom of the country at Scamperley--and, after
all, it was not my doing, and consequently not my fault.
I wonder why it is that, in the very convenient code of morality which
the world has adopted for its private use, places and people should so
completely alter facts. You may do things with impunity in London that
would destroy the character of a Diana in the country; and, again,
certain rural practices, harmless--nay, even praiseworthy--when
confined to a picturesque domain, if flourished before the eyes of the
metropolis, would sink the performer to the lowest depths of social
degradation. It is not what you _do_ that matters one whit, but what
the world _thinks_ of your actions; and the gentlemen use a proverb
which I have often heard in connection with certain racing enormities,
that "One man may steal a horse, while another must not even _look at
a halter_:" and if this be the case with that sex who arrogate to
themselves the exclusive privilege of doing wrong, how much more does
the adage hold good with us poor, weak, trampled-upon women? Lady
Straitlace may do what she likes: she assumes a severe air in society,
is strict with her children, and harsh with her servants. In all ranks
of her acquaintance (of course below that of a countess) she visits
the slightest dereliction from female propriety with unrelenting
bitterness. Woe be to the trespasser, high or low! The weapon is
always ready to probe and gash and lacerate; the lash is constantly
raised, "swift to smite and never to spare." But who would venture to
speak a word against the decorum of Lady Straitlace? If she goes out
in the dark, 'tis to visit a sick friend; if she encourages young
Antinöus to be what ladies call continually "in her pocket," that is
only in order to give the lad good advice and keep him out of
mischief. Major Ramrod is never out of the house; but what then? The
visits of fifty Major Ramrods would not entitle the world to breathe a
whisper against a person of such strict propriety as Lady Straitlace.
But how that same forbearing world indemnifies itself on poor Mrs.
Peony! It is never tired of shrugging its worldly shoulders and
raising its worldly hands and eyebrows at the sayings and doings of
unfortunate Mrs. Peony.
"Did you hear of her going to the bachelors' ball with three gentlemen
in a fly?" (Nobody thinks it worth while to specify that the three
Lotharios consisted of her grandfather, her husband, and her nephew.)
"Did you see her drop her bracelet, to make young Stiffneck pick it
up? Do you know that she takes morning walks with Colonel Chanticleer,
and evening strolls with Bob Bulbul? She chatters, she laughs, she
flirts, she makes eyes; she's bad style, she's an odious woman; 'pon
my word, I don't know whether mamma will go on visiting her!"
And why should the world make this dead set at poor Mrs. Peony? She is
good-looking, soft-hearted, and unaffected; she laughs when she is
pleased, and cries when she is touched. She is altogether frank, and
natural, and womanly. Can these be good reasons for running her down?
Heavens knows! but run down she is, just as the hypocritical Lady
Straitlace is cried up. Well, we must take things as they are and make
the best of them. So Frank and I walked on through the pleasant fields
in the darkening twilight, and I, for one, enjoyed it excessively, and
was quite sorry when a great bell sounding from the house warned us
that it was time to return, and that our absence would too surely be
the subject of remark should we linger out of doors any longer. I
never knew Frank so agreeable; on every topic he was brilliant, and
lively, and amusing. Only once, in some casual remark about the
future, there was a shade of melancholy in his tone, more like what he
used to be formerly. Somehow, I don't think I liked him so well in his
best spirits; perhaps I was myself changed in the last few weeks. I
used often to think so. At first, during that walk, I feared lest
Frank should touch upon a topic which would have been far from
unwelcome a short time ago. I soon saw he had not the slightest
intention of doing so, and I confess I was immensely relieved. I had
dreaded the possibility of being obliged at last to give a decided
answer--of having my own fate in my own hands, and feeling totally
incapable of choosing for myself. But I might have spared my nerves
all such misgivings: my cavalier never gave me an opportunity of even
fancying myself in such a dilemma till just as we reached the house,
when, espying Mrs. Lumley and Miss Molasses returning from _their_
stroll, he started, coloured up a little, like a guilty man, and acted
as though he would have escaped their notice. I was provoked.
"Don't desert your colours, Captain Lovell," I said, in a firm voice;
"Miss Molasses is looking for you, even now."
"Unfeeling," muttered Frank, biting his lip, and looking really
annoyed. "O Miss Coventry! O Kate! give me an opportunity of
explaining all."
"Explain nothing," was my reply; "we understand each other perfectly.
It is time for me to go in and dress."
So I marched into the house, and left him looking foolish--if Frank
ever _could_ look foolish--on the doorstep. As I hurried along the
passages I encountered Lady Scapegrace.
"What's the matter, Kate?" said she, following me into my room; "you
look as if something had happened. No bad news, I trust, from Aunt
Deborah?"
I burst into tears. Kindness always overcomes me completely, and then
I make a fool of myself.
"Nothing's the matter," I sobbed out; "only I'm tired and nervous,
Lady Scapegrace, and I want to dress."
My hostess slipped quietly out of the room, and presently returned
with some sal volatile and water: she made me drink it every drop.
"I must have a talk to you, Kate," said she, "but not now; the
dinner-bell will ring in ten minutes." And she too hurried away to
perform her toilette.
As I get older I take to moralizing, and I am afraid I waste a good
deal of valuable time in speculating on the thoughts, ideas, and, so
to speak, the inner life of my neighbours. It is curious to observe a
large, well-dressed party seated at dinner, all apparently frank and
open as the day, full of fun and good humour, saying whatever comes
uppermost, and to all outward seeming laying bare every crevice and
cranny of their hearts, and then to reflect that each one of the
throng has a separate life, entirely distinct from that which he or
she parades before the public, cherished perhaps with a miser's care
or endured with a martyr's fortitude. Sir Guy, sitting at the bottom
of his table, drinking rather more wine than usual--perhaps because it
was Sunday, and the enforced decencies of the day had somewhat damped
his spirits--looked a jovial, thoughtless, merry country gentleman,
somewhat slang, it may be, not to say vulgar, but still open-hearted,
joyous, and hospitable. Was there no skeleton in Sir Guy's mental
cupboard? Were there no phantoms that _would_ rise up, like Banquo's
ghost, to their seat, unbidden, at his board? While he smacked his
great lips over those bumpers of dark red Burgundy, had he quite
forgotten the days of old--the friends he had pledged and made fools
of--the kind hearts he had loved and betrayed? Did he ever think of
Damocles and the hanging sword? Could he summon courage to look into
the future, or fortitude even to _think_ of the past? Sir Guy's was a
strong, healthy, sensuous nature, in which the physical far outweighed
the intellectual; and yet I verily believe his conscience sometimes
nearly drove him mad.
Then there was my lady, sitting at the top of her table, the very
picture of a courteous, affable, well-bred hostess; perhaps, if
anything, a little too placid and immovable in her outward demeanour.
Who would have guessed at the wild and stormy passions that could rage
beneath so calm a surface? Who would suppose that stately, reserved,
majestic-looking woman had the recklessness of a brigand and the
caprices of a child? A physiognomist might have marked the traces of
strong feelings in her deepened eyes and the lines about her
mouth--damages done by the hurricane, that years of calm can never
repair; but there had been a page or two in Lady Scapegrace's life
that, with all his acuteness, would have astonished Lavater himself.
Then there was Miss Molasses, the pink of propriety and
"what-would-mamma-say" young ladyism--cold as a statue, and, as old
Chaucer says, "upright as a bolt," but all the time over head and ears
in love with Frank Lovell, and ready to do anything he asked her at a
moment's notice. There was Frank himself, gay and _débonnair_:
outwardly the lightest-hearted man in the company; inwardly, I have
reason to know, tormented with misgivings and stung by self-reproach.
Playing a double game--attached to one woman and courting another,
despising himself thoroughly the while; hemmed in by difficulties and
loaded with debt, hampered by a bad book on "The Two Thousand," and
playing hide-and-seek even now with the Jews--Frank's real existence
was very different from the one he showed his friends. So with the
rest of the party. Old Mrs. Molasses was bothered by her maid; Mr.
Lumley puzzled by his beetles; his wife involved in a thousand schemes
of mischief-making, which kept her in perpetual hot water: all, even
honest Cousin John, were sedulously hiding their real thoughts from
their companions; all were playing the game with counters, of which
indeed they were lavish enough; but had you asked for a bit of
sterling coin, fresh from the Mint and stamped with the impress of
truth, they would have buttoned their pockets closer than ever--ay,
though you had been bankrupt and penniless, they would have seen you
further first, and _then they wouldn't_.
So we flirted, and talked, and laughed, and adjourned to the
drawing-room, where, after a proper interval, we were joined by the
gentlemen, who, in consideration of the day, consented for that one
evening in the week to forego their usual games of chance or skill,
such as whist, billiards, and cockamaroo. But the essential inanity of
a fashionable party requires to be amused, so we set round a large
table, and played at "letters," sedulously "shuffling" the handsome
ivory capitals as we gave each other long jaw-breaking words, the
difficulties of which were much enhanced by their being usually
misspelt, but which, nevertheless, formed a very appropriate vehicle
for what the world calls "flirtation." I can always find out other
people's words much quicker than my own, and whilst I was puzzling
over "centipede," and teasing Mrs. Lumley, who had given it me, for
the initial letter, I peeped over the shoulder of my next neighbour,
Miss Molasses, and made out clearly enough the word she had just
received from Frank Lovell. _She_ would not have discovered it for a
century, but I read it at a glance. I just _looked_ at Frank, who
blushed like a girl, took it back, vowing he had spelt it wrong, and
gave her another. Did he think to throw dust in my eyes? There is a
stage of mental suffering at which we grow naturally clear-sighted. I
had arrived at it long ago. Watching every action of my neighbours, I
had yet ears for all that was going on around. Sir Guy, occupying a
position on the hearth-rug, with his coat-tails over his arms, was
haranguing the clergyman of the parish, a quiet, meek little man, who
dined at Scamperley regularly on Sunday, and appeared frightened out
of his wits. He was a man of education and intellect, a ripe scholar,
a middling preacher, and a profound logician; but he was completely
overpowered by coarse, ignorant, noisy Sir Guy.
"Driving--hey?" said the Baronet; "we're all fond of driving, here,
Mr. Waxy: there's a young lady who will teach you to handle the
ribbons. Gad, she'd make the crop-eared mare step along. Have you got
the old mare still? Devilish good old mare!"
No child of man is too learned, or too quiet, or too humble, to feel
flattered at praise of his horse. Mr. Waxy blushed a moist yellow as
he replied,--
"Very good of you to remember her, Sir Guy; docile and safe, and
gentle withal, Sir Guy. But I don't drive her myself, Sir Guy," added
Mr. Waxy, raising his hands deprecatingly, as who should say, "Heaven
forbid!" "I don't drive myself, sir; no--no, my lad assumes the reins;
and notwithstanding the potency of your Scamperley ale, Sir Guy, we
manage to arrive pretty safe at our destination."
"Quite right, Mr. Waxy," vociferated Sir Guy. "Did I ever tell you
what happened to me once, when I took it into my head to drive my own
chariot home? Look ye here, sir, I'll tell you how it was. I was
unmarried then, Mr. Waxy, and as innocent as a babe, d'ye see? Well,
sir, I'd been to a _battue_ at my friend Rocketer's; and what with
staying to dinner, and a ball and a supper afterwards, it was very
late before I started for Scamperley, and all the servants were drunk,
as a matter of course. Why, sir, when I came out of the house there
were my carriage and horses standing in the line with some dozen
others, and devil a soul to look after 'em. What should you have done,
Mr. Waxy? Sworn like a trooper, I'll warrant it!"
Mr. Waxy shook his head with an air of mild deprecation.
"Well, sir," continued Sir Guy, "I'll tell you what I did. I jumped on
the box, Sir, before you could say Jack Robinson. I put on my own
coachman's box-coat, Sir, and drove 'em home myself. Thinks I, 'I'll
give the rascals a precious benefit: they'll have to walk every mile
of the way'--nine miles, and as dark as pitch, Mr. Waxy, as dark as
pitch! Well, sir, I'd a London footman, who was a sharpish fellow, and
used to dissipation in general; he heard the carriage drive off, and
ran to catch it. I gave _him_ a pretty good breather as I rattled down
the avenue. The fellow puffed like a grampus when he got up behind,
making no doubt it was all right, and he hadn't been found out. The
horses knew they were going home, and it wasn't long before I pulled
up at my own door. Down gets John, all officiousness and alacrity to
make up for past enormities, and rings a peal that might waken the
dead. Directly he hears them beginning to unbar he opens the
carriage-door and looks in. No master! The day was just dawning. I
shall never forget the fellow's face as he looked up, mistaking me,
muffled as I was in my own livery, for his fellow-servant.
"'I always told you how it would be, Peter,' said he, turning up a
face of drunken wisdom; 'and now it's come to pass. The devil's been
and took Sir Guy at last; and if he's as wicious there as he's been
here, it's a precious bad bargain for both of 'em!'"
Poor Mr. Waxy was obliged to laugh, but he took his departure
immediately; and of course, directly there was a move, the ladies went
to bed.
"Come to my room, Kate," whispered Lady Scapegrace, as we lighted our
hand-candles--"you can go the short way through the boudoir--I want to
speak a word with you."