Part 2 (2/2)
”Dear, I hope she'll win!” is my ardent rejoinder.
”Thank you, Kate,” says kind Cousin John, who concludes I take an unusual interest in his speculations; and forthwith we proceed to criticize the three animals brought to the post, and to agree that Captain Lovell's Parachute is far the best-looking of the lot; or, as Sir Guy Scapegrace says to the well-pleased owner, ”If make and shape go for anything, Frank, she ought to beat them, as far as they can see.”
Sir Guy is _chaperoning_ a strange-looking party of men and women, who have been very noisy since luncheon-time. He is attired in a close-shaved hat (which he had the effrontery to take off to me, but I looked the other way), a white coat, and a red neckcloth, the usual flower in his mouth being replaced for the occasion by a large cigar.
Captain Lovell hopes ”I admire his mare--she has a look of Brilliant from here, Miss Coventry. 'Baby Larkins' of the Lancers is to ride; and The Baby will do her justice if any one can. He's far the best of the young ones now.”
”Do you mean his name is 'Baby'?” said I, much amused, ”or that you call him so because he is such a child? He looks as if he ought to be with mamma still.” ”We always call him 'Baby' in the Lancers,”
explained Frank, ”because he joined us so very _young_. He is nineteen, though you would guess him about twelve; but he's got the brains of a man of sixty and the nerves of a giant. Ah! Parachute, you may kick, old girl, but you won't get rid of _that_ child!”
And sure enough ”The Baby” sat like a rock, with a grim smile, and preserving throughout a silence and _sang froid_ which nothing seemed able to overcome. Two more seedy-looking animals made up the entry.
The lamer one of the two was ridden by a stout major with a redundancy of moustaches, the other by a lanky cornet of Heavy Dragoons, who seemed not to know where on earth to dispose of his arms and legs, besides finding his cap somewhat in his way, and being much embarra.s.sed with his whip. They gallop up and down before starting, till I wonder how any galloping can be left for the race; and after a futile attempt or two they get away, The Baby making strong running, the stout Major waiting closely upon his infantine antagonist, while the long cornet, looming like a windmill in the distance, brings up the rear.
”Parachute still making running,” says John, standing erect in his stirrups, his honest face beaming with excitement. ”Woa, horse!--Stand still, White-Stockings--now they reach the turn, and The Baby takes a pull--Gad, old Ganymede's coming up. Well done, Major--no, the old one's flogging. Parachute wins. Now, Baby!--now Major--the horse!--the mare!--Best race I ever saw in my life--a dead heat--Ha! ha! ha!” The latter explosion of mirth is due to the procrastinated arrival of the long cornet, who flogs and works as religiously home as if he had a hundred more behind him, and who reaches the weighing enclosure in time to ascertain with his own eyes that Ganymede has won, the lame plater who rejoices in that cla.s.sical appellation having struggled home first by a head, ”notwithstanding,” as the sporting papers afterwards expressed themselves, ”the judicious riding and beautiful finish of that promising young jockey, Mr. B. Larkins.” The Baby himself, however, is unmoved as usual, nodding to Parachute's disappointed owner without moving a muscle of his countenance. He merely remarks, ”Short of work, Frank. Told you so afore I got up,”
and putting on a tiny white overcoat like a plaything, disappears, and is seen no more.
What a confusion there is in getting away! Sir Guy Scapegrace has a yearly bet with young Phaethon, who wanted to invite me on his box, as to which shall get first to Kensington on their way back to town. You would suppose Sir Guy was very happy at home by his anxiety to be off.
The two drags are soon b.u.mping and rolling and rattling along the sward. The narrow lane through which they must make their way is completely blocked up with spring-vans, and tax-carts, and open carriages, and shut carriages, and broughams, and landaus, and every description of vehicle that ever came out of Long Acre; whilst more four-horse coaches, with fast teams and still faster loads, are thundering in the rear. Slang reigns supreme; and John Gilpin's friend, who had a ”ready wit,” would here meet with his match. Nor are jest and repartee (what John calls ”chaff”) the only missiles bandied about. Toys, knocked off ”the sticks” for the purpose, darken the air as they fly from one vehicle to another, and the broadside from a well-supplied coach is like that of a seventy-four. Fun and good-humour abound, but confusion gets worse confounded. Young Phaethon's wheel is locked with a market-gardener's, who is accompanied by two sisters-in-law and the suitors of those nowise disconcerted damsels, all more or less intoxicated. Thriftless has his near leader in the back-seat of a pony-carriage, and Sir Guy's off-wheeler is over the pole. John and I agree to make a detour, have a pleasant ride in the country, never mind about dinner, and so get back to London by moonlight. As we reach a quiet, sequestered lane, and inhale the pleasant fragrance of the hawthorn--always sweetest towards nightfall--we hear a horse's tramp behind us, and are joined by Frank Lovell, who explains with unnecessary distinctness that ”he always makes a practice of _riding back_ from Hampton to avoid the crowd, and always comes _that_ way.” If so, he must be in the habit of taking a considerable detour. But he joins our party, and we ride home together.
How beautifully the moon shone upon the river as we crossed Kew Bridge that calm, silent, summer night! How it flickered through their branches and silvered over the old trees, and what a peaceful, lovely landscape it was! I thought Frank's low, sweet voice quite in keeping with the time and the scene. As we rode together, John lagging a good deal behind (that bay horse of John's never _could_ walk with White Stockings), I could not help thinking how much I had misunderstood Captain Lovell's character. What a deal of feeling--almost of romance--there was under that conventional exterior which he wore before the world! I liked him so much more now I came to know him better. I was quite sorry when we had to wish him ”good-night” and John and I rode thoughtfully home through the quiet streets. I thought my cousin's manner was altered too, though I scarce knew how. His farewell sounded more constrained, more polite than usual, when he left me at Aunt Deborah's door. And whilst I was undressing I reflected on all the proceedings of the day, and tried to remember what I had done that could possibly have displeased good-natured John.
The more I went over it, backwards and forwards, the less could I make of it. ”Can it be possible,” I thought at last; ”can it be possible that Cousin John----” And here I popped out my candle and jumped into bed.
CHAPTER VI.
I really had not courage to take my usual canter the morning after Hampton Races. I did not feel as if I could face the umbrella and the cigar at the rails in ”the Ride,” and yet I rang the bell once for my maid to help me on with my habit, and had my hand on it more than once to order my horse; but I thought better of it. Poor Aunt Deborah's cold was still bad, though she was downstairs; so I determined to take care of her, in common grat.i.tude, and give her the advantage of my agreeable society. I am very fond of Aunt Deborah in my own way, and I know there is nothing she likes so much as a ”quiet morning with Kate.”
The hours pa.s.sed off rather slowly till luncheon-time. I did forty-two st.i.tches of worsted-work--I never do more than fifty at a time, unless it's ”grounding”--and I got off Hannah More because Aunt Deborah was too hoa.r.s.e to read to _me_, and I really cannot read that excellent work to _her_ without laughing; but I thought luncheon never would be ready, and when it did come I couldn't eat any. However, I went upstairs afterwards, and smoothed my hair and set my collar straight, and was glad to hear Aunt Deborah give her usual order that she was ”at home” with her usual solemnity. I had not been ten minutes in the drawing-room before a knock at the door brought my heart into my mouth, and our tragic footman announced ”Captain Lovell” in his most tragic voice. In marched Frank, who had never set eyes on my aunt in his life, and shook hands with _me_, and made _her_ a very low bow, with a degree of effrontery that nothing but a _man_ could ever have been capable of a.s.suming. Aunt Deborah drew herself up--and she really is very formidable when she gets on her _high horse_--and looked first at me, and then at Frank, and then at me again; and I blushed like a fool, and hesitated, and introduced ”Captain Lovell” to ”My aunt, Miss Horsingham!” and I didn't the least know what to do next, and had a great mind to make a bolt for it and run upstairs. But our visitor seemed to have no misgivings whatever, and smoothed his hat and talked about the weather as if he had known us all from childhood. I have often remarked that if you only deprive a man of the free use of his hands there is no difficulty which he is unable to face. Give him something to handle and keep fidgeting at, and he seems immediately to be in his element, never mind what it is--a paper-knife and a book to open, or a flower to pull in pieces, or a pair of scissors and a bit of thread to snip, or even the end of a stick to suck--and he draws inspiration, and what is more to the purpose, _conversation_, from any and all of these sources.
But let him have his hands entirely to himself, give him nothing to ”lay hold of,” and he is completely dumbfoundered on the spot. Here was Frank brus.h.i.+ng and smoothing away at his hat till it shone like black satin, and facing my aunt with a gallantry and steadiness beyond all praise; but I believe if I could have s.n.a.t.c.hed it away from him and hid it under the sofa, he would have been routed at once, and must have fled in utter bewilderment and dismay. After my aunt had replied courteously enough to a few commonplace observations, she gave one of her ominous coughs, and I trembled for the result.
”Captain _Beville_,” said my aunt. ”I think I once knew a family of your name in Hamps.h.i.+re--the New Forest, if I remember rightly.”
”Excuse me,” said Frank, nowise disconcerted, and with a sly glance at me, ”my name is Lovell.”
”Oh,” replied my aunt, with a considerable a.s.sumption of stateliness, ”then--ahem!--Captain _Greville_, I don't think I have ever had the pleasure of meeting you before.”
And my aunt looked as if she didn't care whether she ever met him again. This would have been a ”poser” to most people; but Frank applied himself diligently to his hat, and opened the trenches in his own way.
”The fact is, Miss Horsingham,” said he, ”that I have taken advantage of my intimacy with your nephew to call upon you without a previous introduction, in hopes of ascertaining what has become of an old brother officer of mine, a namesake of yours, and consequently, I should conclude, a relative. There is, I believe, only one family in England of your name. Excuse me, Miss Horsingham, for so personal a remark, but I am convinced he must have been a near connection from a peculiarity which every one who knows anything about our old English families is aware belongs to yours: my poor friend Charlie had a beautiful 'hand.' _You_, madame, I perceive, own the same advantage; therefore I am convinced you must be a near connection of my old comrade. You may think me impertinent, but there is no mistaking 'the Horsingham hand.'”
Aunt Deborah gave in at once.
”I cannot call to mind at this moment any relative of mine who is likely to have served with you” (nor was this to be wondered at, the warrior _aux blanches mains_ being a fabulous creation of wicked Frank); ”but I have no doubt, Captain Lovell, that you are correct. I have great pleasure in making your acquaintance, particularly as you seem well acquainted with our belongings. Do you stay any length of time in town?”
”I seldom remain till the end of the season; but this year I think I shall. By the way, Miss Horsingham, I saw a curious old picture the other day in the West of England, purporting to be a portrait of the celebrated 'Ysonde of Brittany, with the White Hand,' in which I traced a strong resemblance to some of the Horsinghams, with whom I am acquainted. Yours is, I believe, an old Norman family; and as I am a bit of an antiquary” (O Frank, Frank!), ”I consulted my friend Sir J.
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