What a pleasant day we had! Only we four—Lady Scapegrace, Cousin John, Captain Lovell, and I. We went down in Lady Scapegrace's barouche, and walked in Greenwich Park, and adjourned to a nice room with a bay window, and such a lookout over the river, blushing rose colour in the evening sun. And the whitebait was so good, and the champagne-cup so nice; and we were all in such spirits, and Frank was so kind and attentive and agreeable I couldn't find it in my heart to be cross to him. So it ended in our making up any little imaginary differences we may have had and becoming better friends than ever. As we sat in the balcony over the river—the two gentlemen smoking their after-dinner cigars, and we ladies sipping our coffee—I thought I had never enjoyed an evening so much; and even John, who was generally dreadfully afraid of Lady Scapegrace, became quite lively and gallant (for him), and they laughed and talked and joked about all sorts of things; while Frank leant over my shoulder and conversed more gravely than was his habit; and I listened, and thought him pleasanter even than usual. By the way, that lilac bonnet never quite lost the odour of tobacco afterwards.
"How quick the time passes!" said Frank, with almost a sigh. "Can't we do anything to put off horrid London and home and bed? Let's all go to Vauxhall."
"What do you say, Mr. Jones?" inquired Lady Scapegrace, who was always ready for a lark; "you're our chaperon, you know. Do you think you can be responsible?"
"Oh yes, John!" I exclaimed. "You promised to take me once before the end of the season. We shall never have such another chance."
"This is a capital night to go," remarked Frank, "because there is a new riding-woman; and you can take a lesson, Miss Coventry, in case you should wish to perform in public." Cousin John could not possibly hold out against all three; and although I think in his heart he did not entirely approve, the carriage was ordered, the bill paid, and we were rolling along through the cool summer night en route for Vauxhall.
"My dear," said Lady Scapegrace to me as we sidled through the entrance of that place of amusement, and the gentlemen remained behind to pay, "you are doing anything but what I told you; scarcely three words have you spoken to your cousin, who, by the way, is very pleasant. I think I shall take him up and improve him on my own account; but as for you, my dear, I can see plainly it's all over with you."
"And you really leave town to-morrow?" said Frank as we walked arm in arm up one of those shaded alleys which lead to the "Hermit," or the "Gipsy," or some other excuse for a tête-à-tête not too much under the lamps. By the way, why is it that a party never can keep together at Vauxhall? Lady Scapegrace and I had particularly stipulated that we were not to separate under any circumstances. "Whatever happens, do let us keep together," we mutually implored at least ten times during the first five minutes, and yet no sooner did we pair off arm in arm than the distance began gradually to increase, till we found ourselves in "couples," totally independent of each other's proceedings. In this manner we saw the horsemanship, and the acrobats, and the man with the globe, and all the other eccentricities of the circus. I really think I could have ridden quite as nicely as Madame Rose d'Amour had I been mounted on an equally well-broken animal with the one which curvetted and caracoled under that much-rouged and widely-smiling dame. They do look pretty too at a little distance those histrionic horsewomen, with their trappings and their spangles and their costume of Francis I. I often wonder whether people really rode out hawking, got up so entirely regardless of expense, in the days of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. From the horsemanship we went to see the people dance, which they did with a degree of vigour and hilarity such as might be introduced in a modified form with great advantage into good society; and here we came across Cousin John and Lady Scapegrace just in time to witness a short and abrupt interview between the latter and Sir Guy. Yes, there was Sir Guy, with the flower in his mouth and all, dancing, actually dancing—and he can't be much less than sixty—with a little smart lady, wearing the most brilliant colour and the blackest eyelashes and the reddest lips and the lightest eyes I ever saw upon a human being. The little lady, whose hair, moreover, was dressed à l'Impératrice, thereby imparting additional boldness to a countenance not remarkable for modesty, frisked and whisked round Sir Guy with a vivacity that must have been of Parisian growth; whilst the Baronet laboured ponderously along with true British determination, like a man who habitually wears very thick shoes and is used to take his own time. In the course of his evolutions he brought his foot down heavily on the skirt of a lady's dress, and turning round to apologize found himself face to face with his wife! To do him justice he was not the least taken aback—anger rather than confusion seemed to be his dominant feeling; and although he tried to smother a rising oath in a laugh, or rather a grin, it was such a muscular contraction of the mouth as does not give me the idea of a smile.
"Come out for a lark too, my lady, hey?" said the Baronet, studiously interposing his large person between "my lady" and his partner. "Reminds one of Paris; dance with anybody, whether one knows them or not." And Sir Guy tried to look as if he was telling the truth with indifferent success. But Lady Scapegrace's face was a perfect study; I never saw a countenance so expressive of scorn—intense scorn—and yet, as it seemed to me, not so much of him as of herself.
"I am glad you amuse yourself, Sir Guy," she said very quietly; but her lip was as white as ashes while she spoke. "I should think this place must suit you exactly. Mr. Jones, we shall be late for the fireworks." And she swept on, taking no further notice of the discomfited Sir Guy, whilst Frank and I followed in her wake, feeling rather awkward even at witnessing this ill-timed rencontre.
"And so you leave town to-morrow, Miss Coventry?" said Frank; and I thought his voice shook a little whilst he spoke. "I shall ride down Lowndes Street every day, and think how deserted it looks. No more walks in the morning for me, no more pleasant rides in the afternoons; I shall send my hacks home and sulk by myself, for I shall be miserable when my friends are gone. Do you know, Miss Coventry"—I listened, all attention; how could I tell what he might not be going to say?—"do you know that I have never had courage to ask you something till to-night?" (Goodness! I thought, now it's coming, and my heart beat as it does when I'm going out hunting.) "I want you to give me" (a lock of my hair, thinks I. Well, I don't know; perhaps I may)—"I want you to give me—Miss Horsingham's receipt for making barley-water; but I know it's a long business to write out, and I'm afraid of being troublesome." So that was all, was it? I felt half inclined to laugh, and more than half inclined to cry; but turning round I was somewhat consoled to find Lady Scapegrace and her cavalier close behind us; and I do confess I rather attributed Frank's extremely moderate request to their immediate vicinity; there was no opportunity, however, of renewing the subject. John had said all he had to say to his companion. John soon gets high and dry with these smart ladies, and they seem mutually tired of each other; so we got the carriage and took our departure, Frank pressing my hand as he bade me farewell, and whispering, "Au revoir, Miss Coventry; something tells me it won't be very long before we meet again." What could he mean?