Kate Coventry: An Autobiography

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

Whatever may have been her carelessness of appearances and levity of manner, I think it was never for an instant supposed that she liked any human being half so much as she hated Sir Guy. Then, again, Sir Guy and Frank were fast friends, almost inseparable. They say Frank kept things right between the ill-assorted pair, and that his good offices had many a time interposed to prevent scenes of abuse and violence such as must have ended in a separation at least. I was not quite clear that Frank's regard for the coach-driving baronet was alone at the bottom of all this friendship. I cannot conceive two men much worse suited to each other; but Frank vowed, when I cross-questioned him on the subject, which I thought I had a right to do, that he was under the greatest possible obligations to Sir Guy, that the latter had even lent him money, and stood by him when such assistance was most valuable; and that he looked upon him as a brother, just as he looked upon her ladyship as a sister. It seems to have been quite a family party altogether. Frank warmed with the topic.

"You will hear me talked about with all sorts of people, Kate," said he, as we took about our twentieth turn, each of which I had protested should be the last; "but the world is so officious and mischief-making, you must never believe a word it says. They know I am ruined, and they choose to decide that I must be making up to some wealthy young lady. As if I was a man to marry for money; as if I cared for anything on earth but one person, and that for the sake of her own dear self alone! You ask me about Miss Molasses; you declare I am continually riding with her, and dancing with her, and what you ladies call 'paying her attention'—that yellow lackadaisical miss! Do you think I would marry her if she had half a million? Do you think I could stand those sentimental airs, that smattering of learning, and affectation of being poetical, and romantic, and blue—I, who have only lately learned what a woman should be, and what a treasure such a woman is? No, no; I have known the whole family from a child; I can't quite stand the lady part of it, but old Molasses is a right good fellow, and one must be civil to them all. No, no, Kate; with my many faults, I am a very different person from what you seem to think. I have my hopes and wishes, certainly, but——"

I can't possibly go on to relate the conclusion of Frank's rhapsody, but he took great pains to convince me that if there was ever a high-principled, pure-minded, much-injured individual, that exemplary character was the gentleman now walking by my side; and I was convinced, but at the same time not exactly satisfied. In thinking over the whole of our conversation, I could gather nothing very definite, nothing that led to any particular result, from it.

One thing was clear to my mind, and that was at all events a gratifying reflection. Frank did not seem to be aware that I had any worldly prospects whatever: it was evident that if he liked me he liked me entirely for myself. I confess I should not wish to be a great heiress; I should always be fancying that it was the "fine eyes of my casket," as the French say, which attracted my admirers, and I could not stand that. No, Frank was not mercenary, I was sure, and if even—why the competency I should be possessed of would be an agreeable surprise. If, indeed! Nothing was clear, nothing was settled. What a fool I was to dwell so upon an uncertainty, to anchor my hopes upon a dream! I was not at all comfortable that afternoon: the more I thought, the more I walked about my boudoir in a state of high fidget and restlessness. One thing, however, was consolatory—the frost was breaking. Already in London it was a decided thaw, and I went to pay Brilliant a visit in the stable.

Now I dare say I shall be considered very bold and unladylike, and unfeminine—that's the word—for owning that I do indeed enjoy paying my favourites a visit in their comfortable quarters. It's worth a good deal to see Brilliant's reception of me when I approach his stable. From the instant I enter his abode and he hears my voice, he begins to move restlessly to and fro, whisking his dear tail, cocking his ears, and pawing up his "litter," till indeed that word alone describes the state to which he reduces his bed; then when I go up to him he lays back his ears with sheer delight, and gives a jump, as if he was going to kick me, and whisks that thin tail about more than ever. I lay my cheek to his smooth soft skin, and he nestles his beautiful head in my arms, and pokes his pretty muzzle into my pockets, and seems to ask for bits of bread and sugar and other delicacies, all of which are conferred upon him forthwith. I am sure he has more sense than a dog, and a great deal more affection than most men. I don't care how slang and "bad style" people may think me, but I feel every one of those strong flat black legs, and look into his hoofs, hind-feet and all, and turn his rug up to see that he has been properly cleaned and treated as he deserves; for I love Brilliant, and Brilliant loves me. It has sometimes been my lot to have an aching heart, as I conclude it is the lot of all here below. Like the rest of my fellow-creatures, I have been stung by ingratitude, lacerated by indifference where I had a right to expect attachment; or, worst of all, forced to confess myself deceived where I had bestowed regard and esteem. When I feel sore and unhappy on any or all of these points, nothing consoles and softens me so much as the affection of a dumb animal, more particularly a horse. His honest grave face seems to sympathize in one's grief, without obtruding the impertinence of curiosity or the mockery of consolation. He gives freely the affection one has been disappointed in finding elsewhere, and seems to stand by one in his brute vigour and generous unreasoning nature like a true friend. I always feel inclined to pour my griefs into poor Brilliant's unintelligent ears, and many a tear have I shed nestling close to my favourite, with my arms round him like a child's round its nurse's neck. That very afternoon, when I had made sure there was no one else in the stable, I leaned my head against Brilliant's firm warm neck, and sobbed, like a fool as I was.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Gentlemen think it right to affect a contempt for stag-hunting, and many a battle have I had with Cousin John when he has provoked me by "pooh-poohing" that exhilarating amusement. I generally get the best of the argument. I put a few pertinent questions to him which he cannot answer satisfactorily. I ask him, "What is your principal object in going out hunting? Is it to learn the habits of the wild animal, or to watch the instinct of the hound that pursues him? Do you enjoy seeing a fox walked to death, as you call it, on a cold scenting day—or do you care for the finest hunting run that ever was seen in a woodland country? Have I not heard you say a hundred times, when questioned as to your morning sport, 'Oh, wretched! hounds never went any pace!—couldn't shake off the crowd—yes, we killed our fox; but the whole thing was dead slow?' or else exclaim, with a face of delight, 'The fastest thing I have seen for years! Eighteen minutes up wind, extra pace! not a soul but myself in the same field with them when they threw their heads up. Fox was back, of course, and we never recovered him, but it was by far the best gallop of the season?' It is evident to me that what you like is riding a good hunter fast over a stiff country—going a turn better than your neighbours, and giving your own skill that credit which is due to the superiority of your horse. You only consider the hounds as a fleeting object at which to ride; the fox as a necessary evil, without which all this 'rasping' and 'bruising' and 'cutting down,' as you call it in your ridiculous jargon, cannot be attained. Why, then, do you waste so much energy, and money, and civility, and 'soft-sawder,' to preserve the vulpine race? Why don't you all hunt with stag-hounds, or, better still, devote yourselves to a drag, when you may gallop and jump and bustle about, and upset your horses, and break your own necks to your heart's content?" To all of which John answers, as men invariably do when they are worsted, that "women can't enter into these things, and I am talking great nonsense about what I don't understand."

However, let him despise "the calf," as he termed it, as much as he liked, I was not going to be stewed up in London, with the wind at south-west, the thermometer 45°, and the mud over one's ankles, whilst Brilliant and White Stockings were eating their heads off in the stable, so I took advantage of John's good nature to exact a promise that he would take me down and show me her Majesty's stag-hounds in the field; and on the express stipulation that Mrs. Lumley should join our party, and that we should confine ourselves religiously to the lanes, I was promised the enjoyment of a day's hunting. John did everything I asked him now; he was even kinder than he used to be; but it was a different sort of kindness, and it cut me to the heart.

Still, the idea was enchanting: the Great Western made a delightful cover-hack. We sent our horses on by the early train. The place of meeting was scarcely three miles from the station, so we had time to settle ourselves comfortably in the saddle, and to avoid the fuss and parade of two ladies in their habits stepping out of a first-class carriage into the midst of a metropolitan field. I ran my eye jealously over the brown mare as Mrs. Lumley jogged quietly along by my side, and I confess I had my misgivings whilst contemplating the easy pliant seat and firm graceful figure of her mistress, the strong lengthy frame and beautiful proportions of the mare herself; but then Brilliant felt so light and elastic under me, the day was so soft and fresh, the country air so fragrant, and the dewdrops sparkling so brilliantly on the leafless hedges, that my courage rose with my spirits, and I felt as if I could ride anywhere or do anything in sheer gladness of heart.

"Mr. Jones is very strict," said my companion, taking the brown mare lightly on the curb, and putting her into a canter along a level piece of sward by the roadside; "he declares he only takes charge of us under the solemn promise that there is to be no jumping. For my part, I never do what I am told, Kate; do you?"