Kate Coventry: An Autobiography

by G. J. Whyte-Melville

"He's not very like the present Baronet, my dear," she would say, her haughty features gathering into a sneer—and Lady Scapegrace's sneer was that of Mephistopheles himself; "he is beautiful, exceedingly. I love to look at his hazel eyes, his low antique brow, his silky chestnut hair, and his sweet melancholy smile. Depend upon it, Kate, no man with such a smile as that is ever capable of succeeding in any one thing he undertakes. I don't care what his intellect may be, I don't care what animal courage he may possess, however dashing his spirit, however chivalrous his sentiments—so surely as he has woman's strength of affection, woman's weakness of heart, so surely must he go to the wall. I have seen it a hundred times, Kate, and I never knew it otherwise."

Since the affair of the bull Lady Scapegrace had contracted a great affection for me, and would have me to roam about the house with her for hours. She was a clever, intellectual woman, without one idea or sentiment in common with her husband. In this state of mental widowhood she had consoled herself by study, amongst other things; and the history of the family into which she had married afforded her ample materials for reflection and research. She had collected every scrap of writing, every private memorandum, letter, and document that could throw any light upon the subject; and I verily believe she could have concocted a highly interesting volume, detailing the exploits and misdeeds, the fortunes and misfortunes, of the Scapegraces.

"I know all about him, Kate," she would proceed, fixing her great hollow eyes upon my face, and laying her hand on my arm, as was her habit when interested. "He is my pet amongst the family, though I despise him thoroughly. You see that distant castle, sufficiently badly painted, in the corner of the picture? That was the residence of her who exercised such a fatal influence over the life of poor Sir Montague. All his little sonnets, some of them touching and pretty enough, are addressed to 'The Lady Mabel.' I have found two or three of his love-letters, probably returned by her, tied up in a faded bit of ribbon; there is also one note from the lady to her admirer; such a production, Kate! Not a word but what is misspelt, not a sentence of common grammar in the whole of it; and yet this was the woman he broke his heart for! Look well at him, my dear, and you will see why. With all its beauty, such a face as that was made to be imposed upon. The Lady Mabel, however, seems to have been a notable strong-minded personage enough. She acknowledges the receipt of her lover's letters; which, however, without condescending to give any further explanation, she avers 'came to hand at an untoward moment,' and finishes by sending him a receipt for making elderflower wine—assuring him, with a certain sly malice, that it is 'a sovereign specific against colic, vertigo, and all ailments of the heart and stomach!' What a contrast to his protestations endorsed, 'These, with haste—ride—ride—ride!' which many a good horse must have been spurred and hurried to deliver. How he rings the changes upon his unalterable and eternal devotion! How he implores 'his dear heart' never to forget him! and calls her 'his sweet life,' and protests that 'he welcomes the very night-breeze blowing from the castle, because it must have swept past the windows of his love!' and pours out his foolish heart like a child pouring water into a sieve. Lady Mabel, however, seems to have been proof against sentiment, as she undoubtedly was against good looks. From all that I can gather, she appears to have made use of her adorer in furtherance of sundry political schemes, such as were so numerous at that period, and to have thrown him away, like a rusty blade, when she had no further occasion for his services. I cannot help thinking she despised him thoroughly. There are certain bills and memoranda, with his signature attached, relating to levies of men and great purchases of arms, which look as if he had plunged into some desperate enterprise, doubtless at her instigation; and in his sonnets there are frequent allusions to 'winning her by the sword,' 'loving her to the death,' and such Quixotic protestations, that look as if he had at one time meditated an unusually daring stroke. He was a fool," said Lady Scapegrace reflectively, "but he was a fine fellow, too, to throw wealth, life, and honour at the feet of a woman who was not worth a throb of that kind, generous heart, a drop of that loyal, gallant blood!

"Then he married, I can't quite make out why, as there is a considerable gap in the correspondence of the family about this time, only partially connected by the diary of an old chaplain, who seems to have been formerly tutor to Sir Montague, and to have cherished a great regard for his pupil. The lady was a foreigner and a Romanist; and although we have no picture of her, we gather from the reverend chronicler that she was 'low of stature, dark-browed, and swarthy in complexion,' though he gallantly adds that she was 'doubtless pleasing to the eyes of those who loved such southern beauty.' At the wedding it appears that Lady Mabel was present; and 'my good master's attire and ornaments,' consisting of 'peach-coloured doublet, and pearl-silken hose, and many gems of unspeakable price, dazzling to the sight of humble men,' are detailed with strange minuteness and fidelity. Even the plume in his hat and the jewelled hilt of his rapier are dwelt upon at considerable length. But notwithstanding his magnificence, the worthy chaplain did not fail to remark that 'my good master seemed ill at ease, and the vertigo seizing him during the ceremony, he must have fallen had I not caught him something cunningly under the arm-pits, assisted by worthy Master Holder and one of the groomsmen.' The chaplain, who seems to have been as blind as became his reverend character, cannot forbear from expressing his admiration of the Lady Mabel, whom he describes as 'fair and comely in colour, like the bloom of the spring rose; of a buxom stature, and of a lofty gait and gestures withal.' What was she doing at Sir Montague's wedding? No wonder the old attack of 'vertigo,' which her elderflower wine seems rather to have increased, should have come on again.

"One thing is pretty clear, the Baronet detested his wife (the Scapegraces have generally owned that amiable weakness, my dear). I think it must have been in consequence of her religion that he became so strenuous a supporter of the opposite faith. At last he joined Monmouth, and still the correspondence seems to have gone on, for the night before Sedgmoor he wrote her a letter. Such a letter, Kate! I was lucky enough to get it from a descendant of the lady, who was under great obligations to me; I'll show it you to-morrow. No man with that mouth could have written such a letter, except when death was looking him in the face. I often think when she got it she must have given way at last. But it was too late. He was killed in the first charge made by the royal troops. His own regiment, raw recruits and countrymen, turned at the first shot; but he died like a Scapegrace, waving his hat and cheering them on. We are rather proud of him in the family, after all. Compared with the rest of them, his was a harmless life and a creditable end."

"But what became of Lady Mabel?" I asked; for I confess I was a little interested in this disjointed romance of long-past days.

"Did you ever know a thoroughly unfeeling person in your life that did not prosper?" was her ladyship's reply; and again her features writhed into the Mephistopheles' sneer. "Lady Mabel married an earl, and had sons and daughters, and lived to a green old age. I have seen a picture of her at fifty, and she was still 'fair and comely and buxom' as when she dazzled the old chaplain's eyes and broke Sir Montague's heart. Yes, yes, Kate, there's nothing like a sensible woman; she's the evergreen in the garden, and blooms, and buds, and puts forth fresh shoots, when the rose is lying withered and trampled into the earth; but for all that, she has never had the charm of the rose, and never can have."

Such is a specimen of one of my many conversations with Lady Scapegrace, whom I liked more and more the better I knew her. But I have been anticipating sadly during my drive of Sir Guy's coach up Sir Guy's avenue. When I reached the front door, with all my recklessness, I felt glad to see no head poking out of windows—above all, no female witness to my unwomanly conduct. I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself as I got down from the box; and I confess it was with feelings of intense relief that a polite groom of the chambers informed me, with many apologies, "her ladyship and all the ladies had gone to dress," and handed me over, with a courtly bow, to a tidy elderly woman, in a cap that could only belong to a housekeeper. She conducted me to my room, and consigned me to Gertrude, already hard at work unpacking upon her knees.

CHAPTER XX.

A very pretty little room it was; none of your enormous dreary state-apartments, dull as a theatre in the daytime, with a bed like a mourning coach, and corners of gloom and mystery, uncomfortable even at noon, and fatal to the nerves when seen by the light of a solitary wax-candle. On the contrary, it was quite the room for a young lady: pink hangings tinted one's complexion with that roseate bloom which the poet avers is as indispensable to woman as "man's imperial front"—whatever that means—is to the male biped. A dark carpet with a rich border relieved the light-coloured paper, picked out sparingly with flowers; the toilet-table was covered with a blushing transparency of pink under white, like sunset on snow—perhaps I should rather say like a muslin dress over a satin slip; and there was a charming full-length glass, in which I could contemplate my whole person from top to toe, without slanting it an inch off the perpendicular. The lookout was into Lady Scapegrace's garden, a little bijou of a place, that bore ample witness to the good taste of its mistress. Every shrub had been transplanted under her own eye, every border filled according to her personal directions. She tied her own carnations, and budded her own roses, like the most exemplary clergyman's wife in England. I do believe she would have been a good wife to anybody but Sir Guy.