Kate Coventry Part 10

"Of course I do, John," was my reply. "Haven't we known each other from childhood, and are you not like a brother to me?"

John's face fell a little and his voice shook as he spoke. "Am I never to be more than a brother to you--never to obtain a greater interest in you, a larger share of your regard than I have now? Listen to me, Kate; I have something to tell you, and I can put it off no longer.

This delay, this uncertainty day by day, I do believe will drive me mad. Kate, I promised Aunt Deborah faithfully that I would never enter on this subject till you came of age, and you know by your father's will you don't come of age till you're five-and-twenty. 'By that time, John,' said my aunt, 'Kate will have seen plenty of others, and be old enough to know her own mind. If she takes you then, she takes you with her eyes open, and she won't get tired of you and find out she likes some one else better. Promise me, John, that you'll wait till then.'

And I did promise, Kate; but I can't keep my word--I can't wait in this state of anxiety and uncertainty, and perhaps lose you after all.

It's too great a stake to play for if one is to be kept so long in suspense, and I have resolved to be put out of my pain one way or the other."

John paused. I had never seen him so excited before. He was quite hot, though the night was keen and frosty; his arm trembled as mine leant upon it; and though his cigar was gone out, he kept puffing away, utterly unconscious of the fact. He seemed to expect an answer. I hesitated; I did not know what to reply. I had got so accustomed to Cousin John that I never looked upon him in any other light than that of a favourite brother, a constant companion and friend. Moreover, I was not prepared to take any such decisive step as that to which he now seemed to be urging me. There is a great difference between _liking_ people and giving them power of life and death over one for the rest of one's days. I will not say that the image of another did not rise before me in all its winning beauty as I had seen it last, scarcely one short week ago. Altogether I did not know what to say; so I wisely said nothing, but walked on, looking straight before me, with an uncomfortable feeling that I was driven into a corner, and should ere long be compelled to do that which is always distasteful to our liberty-loving s.e.x--namely, to "make up my mind."

John too walked on for a few paces in silence. We were at the corner of Lowndes Street. There was not a soul to be seen but our two selves.

All at once he stopped short under the light of a lamp and looked me full in the face.

"Kate," said he, in a grave, deliberate voice, "you know what I mean--Yes or No?"

I shook like a leaf. What would I have given to have been able to take counsel of one of my own s.e.x--Mrs. Lumley, Aunt Deborah, or even cold, pitiless Lady Horsingham! But I had to choose for myself. I felt that the turning-point of my destiny had arrived--that the game was in my own hand, and that now I ought to decide one way or the other. I shrank from the responsibility. Like a very woman, I adopted a middle course.

"Give me time, John," I pleaded--"give me time to weigh matters over in my own mind. This is an affair that equally concerns the happiness of each of us. Do not let us decide in a hurry. Aunt Deborah was quite right: her wishes ought to be my law. When I am five-and-twenty it will be soon enough to enter on this subject again. In the interval, believe me, John, I have the greatest regard and esteem for you."

"Nothing more, Kate," said John, looking as if he didn't know whether he was pleased or annoyed--"nothing but _esteem_?"

"Well, I mustn't say any more," was my reply; "but you know you have _that_."

John's face brightened considerably. "And in the meantime, Kate," he urged, "you won't allow yourself to be entangled with any one else?"

"Of course not," was my vigorous disclaimer; and by this time we had arrived at my aunt's door, and it was time to say good-night.

"What's the matter, Kate?" exclaimed Mrs. Lumley, when I called to lunch with her the following day, according to promise. "You look pale and worried. For goodness' sake tell me what has happened. Have you found out _the rover_ transferring his adoration to Miss Mola.s.ses? or did _mon cousin_ take advantage of the hour and the opportunity to lecture us last night on our love of admiration and general levity of conduct? Tell me all about it, dear. We shan't be disturbed. I'm not 'at home' to a soul; and my old man is busy dissecting an earwig, so he's quite safe till dinner-time. Sit you down on the sofa, out with your pocket-handkerchief, and make a clean breast of it!"

I told her the whole of my conversation with my cousin the previous night, only suppressing the unflattering opinions he had thought fit to express of my present _confidante_. "And oh, Mrs. Lumley," I exclaimed as I concluded, "how could I sleep a wink last night, with all this to hara.s.s and reproach me? No wonder I'm pale and worried and perfectly miserable. I feel I'm behaving shamefully to John, and not at all rightly towards Captain Lovell. I know I ought to come to an understanding with my cousin, and that Frank ought to be more explicit with me. I couldn't have given a decided answer last night if my life had depended on it. I can't give up the one without knowing exactly whether he means honestly (if I thought he did, Mrs. Lumley, nothing should induce me to throw him over); and I don't like to make the other miserable, which I am sure I should do if I refused him point-blank; nor do I think I could do at all well without him, accustomed as I have been to depend upon him for everything from childhood. So I have wavered and prevaricated, and behaved disingenuously, almost falsely; and what must he think of me now?"

"Think of you, my dear?" replied my worldly friend; "why, of course, he thinks of you more than ever. There is nothing like uncertainty, Kate, to keep them well up to the collar. You should always treat men like the beasts of the field. If you want to retain the upper hand of him, ride an adorer as you do Brilliant, my dear--a light hand, with just enough liberty to make him fancy he is going quite at his ease; and then, when he is getting a little careless and least expects it, give him such a jerk as makes his fine mouth smart again. He'll wince with the pain, and very likely rear straight on end; but he'll be all on his haunches well under control, and go on much the pleasanter during the rest of the day. Never mind how much they suffer; it's very good for them, and they will like you all the better for it."

"That may answer very well with some," I replied, "but I should be afraid to try the experiment too often. I am sure Brilliant would break away altogether if I used _him_ so. And I think the very man that minds it most would be the least likely to stand a repet.i.tion of such treatment. No, Mrs. Lumley; I fear I must now choose between Frank and my cousin. The latter has behaved honourably, considerately, and kindly, and like a thorough gentleman. The former seems to think I am to be at his beck and call, indeed, whenever he chooses. He has never been to see me during the whole of this past week. At Dangerfield he was as little careful of my reputation as he was of his own limbs. Did I tell you how nearly drowned he was, crossing the moat? How you would have laughed, you wicked, unfeeling woman, if you had heard the splash that cold, snowy night! And then to disguise himself like a tramp, and stop those runaway ponies at the risk of his life, that he might speak three words to me before I went away. I will say for him that he is afraid of nothing; but I cannot conceal from myself which has behaved best towards _me_. And yet, Mrs. Lumley," I concluded, rising and walking off to the window, "I would rather have Frank for a lover than Cousin John for a husband."

"Many people would suggest there was no impossibility in your having both; but I don't give such bad advice as that," replied Mrs. Lumley.

"However, Kate, do nothing in a hurry--that's my counsel. I grant you, I think Master Frank a very slippery gentleman. I do know some _curious_ stories about him; but I never tell tales out of school. In the meantime you are, after all, only suffering from an _embarras de richesses_; it's far better to have too many suitors than none at all.

Come, I'll take you out shopping with me till five; then we'll have some tea, and you can go home quietly to dinner and ask Aunt Deborah's leave to join me at the French play. I've got a capital box, and I'll send the carriage for you. Wait half a second, whilst I put on my bonnet."

So we went off shopping, and we had our tea, and I found no objections from Aunt Deborah to my going out again in the evening; and I was so restless I did not the least grudge the trouble of dressing, or anything to take me away from my own thoughts. But all the afternoon and all the evening I made up my mind that I would give up Frank Lovell. A little resolution was all that was needed. It was plain he did not _really_ care for me. Why, he wasn't even in London, though he knew quite well I had been there more than a week. Very likely I shouldn't see him all the winter, and my heart sank as I thought how much easier this would make my sacrifice. At all events, I determined, when I did see him, to be cold, and demure, and unmoved--to show him unmistakably that I belonged to another; in which Spartan frame of mind I betook myself to the French play.

Alas, alas! Well may the bard complain,--

"Woman's vows are writ in water; Woman's faith is traced in sand."

Who should be in the back of the box but Frank Lovell himself!

Mischievous Mrs. Lumley, was this your doing? Before I went away I had promised to meet him next morning in the park, and he was to _explain all_.

CHAPTER XVII.

I hope I have as much command of countenance as falls to the lot of any lady who don't paint; but when I returned from my walk in the Park the following morning I must have looked flushed or excited, or in some way different from usual. I met John at the corner of Lowndes Street, and he stopped short, and looked me piercingly in the face.

"Where have you been, Kate?" said he, without waiting to bid me "good-morning" or anything.

"A little stroll in the Park, John," was my reply.

"By yourself?" he asked, and his face looked pale and grave.

I cannot tell a story, so I hesitated and stammered,--

"No, not exactly--at least I met an acquaintance near the Serpentine."

"Have you any objection to telling me who it was?" said John, and his voice sounded very strange.

"Good gracious! what's the matter?" I asked, in my turn. "Has anything happened? Are you ill, John? you look quite upset."

"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. G.o.d 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 n.o.bler 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 cl.u.s.tering 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 a.s.sume a tenderer t.i.tle: we never know their value but by their loss.

"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 n.o.ble, 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 const.i.tution. 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!"