"I shall miss you sadly, Kate; but if you enjoy your visit I shall be quite satisfied."

It was Aunt Deborah who spoke. Dear Aunt Deborah! I felt as if I had not been half attentive enough to her lately. I had selfishly been so taken up with my own thoughts and my own schemes that I had neglected my poor suffering relative, and now my heart smote me for my want of consideration. Aunt Deborah had not left the house since our return from Dangerfield. She looked worn and old, but had the same kind smile, the same measured accents as ever. Though she endured a good deal of pain and was kept in close confinement, she never complained: patient and quiet, she had a kind word for every one; and even her maid avowed that "missus's" temper was that of an angel. "Hangel," the maid called it, but it was perfectly true. Aunt Deborah must have had something very satisfactory to look forward to, or she never would have been so light-hearted. One thing I remarked, she was fonder of John than ever.

"I won't go, my dear aunt," was my reply, for my conscience smote me hard. "I won't go; I don't care about it; I had much rather stay and nurse you here."

But Aunt Deborah wouldn't hear of it.

"No, no," said she, "my dear; you are at the right age to enjoy yourself. I don't know much about Scamperley, and I have a far more charitable opinion of Lady Scapegrace than the world in general; but I dare say you will have a pleasant party, and I can trust you anywhere with John."

There it was, John again—always John—and I knew exactly what John thought of me; and it made me thoroughly despise myself. I reflected that if I were John, I should have a very poor opinion of my cousin; I should consider her silly, vacillating, easily deceived, and by no means to be depended upon; more than woman in her weaknesses, and less than woman in her affections. "What a character! and what a contempt he must have for me!"

My cousin called to take me to the railway, and to accompany me as a chaperon on a visit to Sir Guy and Lady Scapegrace, who were, as usual, "entertaining a distinguished party of fashionables at their residence, Scamperley." By the way, what an odd phrase that same "entertaining" always sounds to my ear. When I learn that the Marquis of Mopes has been "entertaining" his friends, the Duke of Drearyshire, Count and Countess Crotchet, Viscount Inane, Sir Simon and Lady Sulkes, the Honourable Hercules Heavyhead, etc., etc., at his splendid seat, Boudoir Castle, I cannot refrain from picturing to myself the dignified host standing on his bald head for the amusement of his immovable visitors, or otherwise, forgetful of his usual staid demeanour, performing ludicrous antics, projecting disrespectful "larks," to woo a smile from those stolid countenances in vain! Sir Guy might be "entertaining," too, in this way, but hardly in any other. What a disagreeable man he was! although I could not help acknowledging his good nature in coming to fetch us from the station himself.

As we emerged from the railway carriage, the first object that greeted my eyes was Sir Guy's great gaudy drag, with its three piebalds and a roan. The first tones that smote on my ear were those of his hoarse harsh voice (how it jarred upon my nerves!) in loud obstreperous welcome.

"Thought you'd come by this train, Miss Coventry," shouted Sir Guy from the box, without making the slightest demonstration of descending; "laid Frank five to two on the event.—Done him again, hey, Frank—I knew what you'd be up to; brought the drag over on purpose. Now then, give us your hand; one foot on the box, one on the roller-bolt, and now you're landed. Jones, my boy, get up behind. I've sent the van for servants and luggage. 'Gad! what a pretty maid you've got. Let 'em go, and sit tight!"

So we rolled smoothly out, the piebalds shaking their harness and trotting merrily along, the roan placed on the off-side, for the purpose of sustaining whatever amount of punishment our charioteer thought fit to inflict.

Behold me, then, seated on the box of Sir Guy Scapegrace's drag! a pretty position for a young lady who, during the last month or two, had been making daily resolutions of amendment as to slang conduct and general levity of demeanour. How I hated myself, and loathed the very sight of him, as I looked at my companion. Sir Guy was redder and fatter than when I had seen him last; his voice was more dissonant, his neckcloth more alarming, his jewellery more prominent, his hat closer shaved and the flower in his mouth less like a flower than ever. How came I there? Why, because I was piqued, and hurt, and reckless. I was capable of almost any enormity. John's manner to me in the train had well-nigh driven me mad. So quiet, so composed, so cold, so kind and considerate, but a kindness and consideration such as that with which one treats a child. He seemed to feel he was my superior; he seemed even to soothe and pity me. I would have given worlds to have spoken frankly out to him, to have asked him what I had done to offend him, even to have brought him back to that topic upon which I felt he would never enter more. But it was impossible. I dared not wound that kind, generous heart again—I dared not trust myself. No, he was only "Cousin John" now; he had said so himself. Surely he need not have given me up quite so easily; surely I was worthy of an effort at least: yet I knew it had been my own fault—though I would not allow it even to myself—and this I believe it was that rankled and gnawed at my heart till I could hardly bear my own identity. It was a relief to do everything I could think of to annoy him. To heap self-contempt on my wicked head, to show him I was reckless of his good opinion as of my own, to lay up a store of agonizing reproaches for the future, to gnash my teeth, as it were, and nerve myself into a savage indifference for the present. Nay, there was even a diabolical pleasure in it. Frank Lovell occupied the seat behind me: at another time I might have been gratified at his near neighbourhood, and annoyed to think he should have been paying so long a visit to Scamperley. I was startled to find how little I cared. He leaned over and whispered to me occasionally, and seemed pleased with the marked encouragement I gave him. After all, I could not help liking Frank very much; and was not my cousin at the back of the coach, to witness all that took place? But Sir Guy would not allow me to be "monopolized," as he called it.

"You've lost your roses sadly in London, Miss Coventry," said he, poking his odious face almost under my bonnet, and double-thonging the off-wheeler most unmercifully. "Never mind; I think a woman looks best when she is pale. Egad, you've more colour now, though. Don't be angry, it's only my way; you know I'm your slave."

"Sir Guy don't mean to be rude," whispered Frank, for I confess I was beginning to get indignant; and the Baronet went on,—

"Do you remember our picnic at Richmond, Miss Coventry, and my promise that if ever you honoured me by taking a place on my coach you should drive? Take hold of 'em now, there's a good girl; you ought to know something about the ribbons, and the next four miles is quite straight, and a dead flat."

I was in that state of mind that I should not have had the least scruple in upsetting the coach and risking the lives of all upon it, my own included; but I know not what imp of evil prompted me to turn round and call to my cousin at the back,—

"John, do you think I could drive four horses?"

"Pray don't," whispered Frank Lovell, who seemed to disapprove of the whole proceeding; but I did not heed him, for my cousin never answered till I asked him again.

"Do as you like, Kate," was his reply, "only I shouldn't advise you to try;" but he looked very grave, and seriously hurt and annoyed.

This was enough for me. I laughed aloud. I was determined to provoke him, and I changed places with Sir Guy. He showed me how to part and hold the reins; he lectured me on the art of putting horses together; he got into a state of high good-humour, and smiled, and swore, and patronized me, and had the effrontery to call me a "d—d fine girl," and I never boxed his ears, though I confess to having been once or twice sorely tempted. In short, I flirted with him shamefully, and even Frank got grave and out of sorts. At last Sir Guy removed the flower from his mouth, and pulled out his cigar-case.

"Have a weed, Miss Coventry!" said he, with his detestable leer. "Of course you smoke; any one who can tool 'em along as you do must be able to smoke. Mine are very mild, let me choose one for you."

I accepted his offer, though I had considerable misgivings as to whether it would not make me sick. I looked round to see how my cousin approved of all these goings on, and particularly this last cigar movement. He was sitting with his back to us, reading the morning newspaper, apparently totally indifferent to my proceedings. That decided me. I would have smoked now if there had been a barrel of gunpowder under my nose. I didn't care how sick it made me! I lit my cigar from Sir Guy's, I suffered him to put his horrid red face close to mine. I flirted, and laughed, and drove, and puffed away as if I had been used to these accomplishments all my life. I rattled through the turnpike without stopping to pay, as if it were a good joke. I double-thonged a sleeping carter over the face and eyes as I passed him. My near leader shied at a wheelbarrow, and I almost swore as I rated him and flanked him, and exclaimed,—

"Confound you, I'll teach you to keep straight!"

As we drove into the Park at Scamperley—for I fearlessly rounded the avenue turn, and vowed I would not abandon the reins till I had delivered my load at the front door—even Frank was completely disgusted. My cousin took not the slightest notice, but kept his seat with his back turned to the horses, and was still deep in his newspaper. Sir Guy was delighted; he shouted, and grinned, and swore more than ever. I was a "trump"—I was a "girl of the right sort"—I was a "well-bred one"—I had no end of "devil" in me—I was fit to be a "queen!" Whilst the object of all these polished encomiums could willingly have burst out crying at a moment's notice; indeed, she would have found it an unspeakable relief; and felt as she had never felt before, and as she trusts in heaven she may never feel again.

It was a lovely spot Scamperley—beautiful as a dream—with the quiet woodland beauty of a real English place. Such timber! Such an avenue! I wonder if any of the sporting dandies and thoughtless visitors who came down "to stay with Scapegrace" because he had more pheasants and better "dry" (meaning champagne) than anybody else ever thought of the many proprietors those old oaks and chestnuts had seen pass away, the strange doings they must have witnessed as generation after generation of Scapegraces lived their short hour and went to their account, having done all the mischief they could, for they were a wild, wicked race from father to son. The present Baronet's childhood was nursed in profligacy and excess. Sir Gilbert had been a fitting sire to Sir Guy, and drank, and drove, and sinned, and turned his wife out-of-doors, and gathered his boon companions about him, and placed his heir, a little child, upon the table, and baptized him, in mockery, with blood-red wine; and one fine morning he was found dead in his dressing-room, with a dark stream stealing slowly along the floor. They talked of "broken blood-vessels," and "hard living," and "a full habit;" but some people thought he had died by his own hand; and the dressing-room was shut up and made a lumber-room of, and nobody ever used it any more. However, it was the only thing to save the family. A long minority put the present possessor fairly on his legs again, and the oaks and the chestnuts were spared the fate that had seemed too surely awaiting them. Nor was this the only escape they had experienced. A Scapegrace of former days had served in the Parliamentary army during his father's lifetime; had gone over to the king at his death; had fought at Edgehill and Marston Moor—and to do Sir Neville justice, he could fight like a demon; had abandoned the royal cause when it was hopeless, and, by betraying his sovereign, escaped the usual fate and amercement of malcontent—the Protector remarking, with a certain solemn humour, "that Sir Neville was an instrument in the hand of the Lord, but that Satan had a share in him, which doubtless he would not fail to claim in due time." So Sir Neville lived at Scamperley in abundance and honour, and preserved his oaks and his rents, and professed the strictest Puritanism; and died in a fit brought on by excessive drinking to the success of the Restoration, when he heard that Charles had landed, and the king was really "to enjoy his own again." He was succeeded by his grandson Sir Montague, the best-looking, the best-hearted, and the weakest of his race. There was a picture of him hanging over against the great staircase—a handsome, well-proportioned man, with a woman's beauty of countenance, and more than womanly softness of expression. Lady Scapegrace and I have stopped and gazed at it for hours.

"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.