Kate Coventry: An Autobiography

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

"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.