Kate Coventry: An Autobiography

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

"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!"