The Sunday at Scamperley, I am sorry to say, was hardly observed with that degree of respect and strictness which is due to the one sacred day of the week. Very few people went to morning service, as indeed the late hours overnight kept most of us in our rooms till eleven or twelve o'clock, when we dawdled down to a breakfast that seemed to lengthen itself out till luncheon-time. To be sure, when the latter meal had been discussed, and we had marked our reverence for the day by a conversation in which we expressed our disapproval of the personal appearance, faults and foibles, and general character of our friends, some of us would declare an intention of attending afternoon church; on which subject much discussion would arise, and the probability of the weather holding up would be volubly commented on—the church being situated about a quarter of a mile from the house, and the way to it through the Park being so completely sheltered by evergreens that to have got wet, save in a downright pour of rain, was next to impossible. At last we would get under way—the ladies mincing along with their magnificently covered prayer-books, affecting an air of unwilling decorum; the dandies carrying cloaks, shawls, and umbrellas for their respective goddesses, and following them, so to speak, under protest, as if there was something to be ashamed of in the whole proceeding. Lady Scapegrace always went early, and quite by herself; she sat apart, too, from her guests and relatives. Not so Sir Guy. It was his great delight to create as much noise and confusion as possible, that on his entrance the respectable yeomen and humble parishioners might be dazzled with his glory, and whisper one to another, "That be Sir Guy," as he marched to the front of his family pew in a blaze of wondrous apparel. It was natural that he should create a sensation with his red face and gaudy-coloured clothes, and huge, dyed whiskers, and the eternal flower in his mouth, which was always on duty save when relieved by a cigar or a toothpick. Pew it could scarcely with propriety be called, inasmuch as it was more like a box at the opera than a seat in a place of worship. We entered by a staircase outside the church, with a private door of our own; passing through which we found ourselves in a very comfortable chamber, with a good many chairs and sofas, a handsome bookcase, and a blazing fire. This, again, led to a smaller apartment, into which Sir Guy would swagger with much unnecessary noise and bustle. Throwing up a large window, he leaned over as it were from a hustings, and, behold! we were at church.

When the sermon was concluded Sir Guy shut the window down again, and we took our departure, much edified, as may easily be imagined, by the lessons of meekness and humility which we had received in so becoming a manner. From church we invariably proceeded to the kennel, where a stout, healthy-looking keeper paraded the Baronet's pointers and setters for the inspection of the ladies. Here Sir Guy took entire possession of me once more.

"Don't be alarmed, my dear," said he, as a great bull-headed, black-and-white brute, surnamed Don, came blundering up and tried to put his muddy paws on my dress. Sir Guy's affectation of the "paternal," and his odious way of calling one "my dear," provoked me intensely; and I gave Don such a crack over his double nose with my parasol as broke the ivory handle of that instrument, and completely quelled all further demonstrations of affection from the uninteresting brute. Sir Guy was charmed.

"Hit him hard," said he; "he's got no friends. What a vixen it is! How she punished my near leader the other day! I love that girl!"

The latter sentence, be it observed, was spoken sotto voce, and required, as indeed it received, no reply.

"What interesting creatures!" exclaimed Miss Molasses, indicating an old pointer lady, who went swinging by with all the appearance of having lately brought up a large and thirsty family. "Do tell me, can that dog really catch a hare?"

The keeper's face was a study; he was apparently a humorous individual. But Miss Molasses addressed her remarks to Frank Lovell; and Frank, as in duty bound, replied. That girl was evidently making up to him, and, thinking he was fond of field-sports, pretended to take an interest in everything connected with those pursuits for his sake.

"Come and see the tame pheasants, Miss Coventry," said Sir Guy. I knew what this meant: I knew it would entail a tÊte-À-tÊte walk with my aversion, and I cast an imploring look at Frank, as much as to say, "Do save me." He caught my meaning in an instant, and skilfully interposed. Of course, as he accompanied us, so did Miss Molasses; but Frank and I lingered a little behind the rest of the party, made a wrong turn in the shrubbery, and found ourselves, I never knew exactly how, taking a long walk all alone in the waning twilight. I don't know what Aunt Deborah would have said to such proceedings, and I am quite sure Lady Horsingham would have been unspeakably shocked; but these Sunday walks were the custom of the country at Scamperley—and, after all, it was not my doing, and consequently not my fault.

I wonder why it is that, in the very convenient code of morality which the world has adopted for its private use, places and people should so completely alter facts. You may do things with impunity in London that would destroy the character of a Diana in the country; and, again, certain rural practices, harmless—nay, even praiseworthy—when confined to a picturesque domain, if flourished before the eyes of the metropolis, would sink the performer to the lowest depths of social degradation. It is not what you do that matters one whit, but what the world thinks of your actions; and the gentlemen use a proverb which I have often heard in connection with certain racing enormities, that "One man may steal a horse, while another must not even look at a halter:" and if this be the case with that sex who arrogate to themselves the exclusive privilege of doing wrong, how much more does the adage hold good with us poor, weak, trampled-upon women? Lady Straitlace may do what she likes: she assumes a severe air in society, is strict with her children, and harsh with her servants. In all ranks of her acquaintance (of course below that of a countess) she visits the slightest dereliction from female propriety with unrelenting bitterness. Woe be to the trespasser, high or low! The weapon is always ready to probe and gash and lacerate; the lash is constantly raised, "swift to smite and never to spare." But who would venture to speak a word against the decorum of Lady Straitlace? If she goes out in the dark, 'tis to visit a sick friend; if she encourages young AntinÖus to be what ladies call continually "in her pocket," that is only in order to give the lad good advice and keep him out of mischief. Major Ramrod is never out of the house; but what then? The visits of fifty Major Ramrods would not entitle the world to breathe a whisper against a person of such strict propriety as Lady Straitlace. But how that same forbearing world indemnifies itself on poor Mrs. Peony! It is never tired of shrugging its worldly shoulders and raising its worldly hands and eyebrows at the sayings and doings of unfortunate Mrs. Peony.

"Did you hear of her going to the bachelors' ball with three gentlemen in a fly?" (Nobody thinks it worth while to specify that the three Lotharios consisted of her grandfather, her husband, and her nephew.) "Did you see her drop her bracelet, to make young Stiffneck pick it up? Do you know that she takes morning walks with Colonel Chanticleer, and evening strolls with Bob Bulbul? She chatters, she laughs, she flirts, she makes eyes; she's bad style, she's an odious woman; 'pon my word, I don't know whether mamma will go on visiting her!"

And why should the world make this dead set at poor Mrs. Peony? She is good-looking, soft-hearted, and unaffected; she laughs when she is pleased, and cries when she is touched. She is altogether frank, and natural, and womanly. Can these be good reasons for running her down? Heavens knows! but run down she is, just as the hypocritical Lady Straitlace is cried up. Well, we must take things as they are and make the best of them. So Frank and I walked on through the pleasant fields in the darkening twilight, and I, for one, enjoyed it excessively, and was quite sorry when a great bell sounding from the house warned us that it was time to return, and that our absence would too surely be the subject of remark should we linger out of doors any longer. I never knew Frank so agreeable; on every topic he was brilliant, and lively, and amusing. Only once, in some casual remark about the future, there was a shade of melancholy in his tone, more like what he used to be formerly. Somehow, I don't think I liked him so well in his best spirits; perhaps I was myself changed in the last few weeks. I used often to think so. At first, during that walk, I feared lest Frank should touch upon a topic which would have been far from unwelcome a short time ago. I soon saw he had not the slightest intention of doing so, and I confess I was immensely relieved. I had dreaded the possibility of being obliged at last to give a decided answer—of having my own fate in my own hands, and feeling totally incapable of choosing for myself. But I might have spared my nerves all such misgivings: my cavalier never gave me an opportunity of even fancying myself in such a dilemma till just as we reached the house, when, espying Mrs. Lumley and Miss Molasses returning from their stroll, he started, coloured up a little, like a guilty man, and acted as though he would have escaped their notice. I was provoked.

"Don't desert your colours, Captain Lovell," I said, in a firm voice;
"Miss Molasses is looking for you, even now."

"Unfeeling," muttered Frank, biting his lip, and looking really annoyed. "O Miss Coventry! O Kate! give me an opportunity of explaining all."

"Explain nothing," was my reply; "we understand each other perfectly.
It is time for me to go in and dress."

So I marched into the house, and left him looking foolish—if Frank ever could look foolish—on the doorstep. As I hurried along the passages I encountered Lady Scapegrace.

"What's the matter, Kate?" said she, following me into my room; "you look as if something had happened. No bad news, I trust, from Aunt Deborah?"

I burst into tears. Kindness always overcomes me completely, and then
I make a fool of myself.

"Nothing's the matter," I sobbed out; "only I'm tired and nervous,
Lady Scapegrace, and I want to dress."

My hostess slipped quietly out of the room, and presently returned with some sal volatile and water: she made me drink it every drop.

"I must have a talk to you, Kate," said she, "but not now; the dinner-bell will ring in ten minutes." And she too hurried away to perform her toilette.

As I get older I take to moralizing, and I am afraid I waste a good deal of valuable time in speculating on the thoughts, ideas, and, so to speak, the inner life of my neighbours. It is curious to observe a large, well-dressed party seated at dinner, all apparently frank and open as the day, full of fun and good humour, saying whatever comes uppermost, and to all outward seeming laying bare every crevice and cranny of their hearts, and then to reflect that each one of the throng has a separate life, entirely distinct from that which he or she parades before the public, cherished perhaps with a miser's care or endured with a martyr's fortitude. Sir Guy, sitting at the bottom of his table, drinking rather more wine than usual—perhaps because it was Sunday, and the enforced decencies of the day had somewhat damped his spirits—looked a jovial, thoughtless, merry country gentleman, somewhat slang, it may be, not to say vulgar, but still open-hearted, joyous, and hospitable. Was there no skeleton in Sir Guy's mental cupboard? Were there no phantoms that would rise up, like Banquo's ghost, to their seat, unbidden, at his board? While he smacked his great lips over those bumpers of dark red Burgundy, had he quite forgotten the days of old—the friends he had pledged and made fools of—the kind hearts he had loved and betrayed? Did he ever think of Damocles and the hanging sword? Could he summon courage to look into the future, or fortitude even to think of the past? Sir Guy's was a strong, healthy, sensuous nature, in which the physical far outweighed the intellectual; and yet I verily believe his conscience sometimes nearly drove him mad.

Then there was my lady, sitting at the top of her table, the very picture of a courteous, affable, well-bred hostess; perhaps, if anything, a little too placid and immovable in her outward demeanour. Who would have guessed at the wild and stormy passions that could rage beneath so calm a surface? Who would suppose that stately, reserved, majestic-looking woman had the recklessness of a brigand and the caprices of a child? A physiognomist might have marked the traces of strong feelings in her deepened eyes and the lines about her mouth—damages done by the hurricane, that years of calm can never repair; but there had been a page or two in Lady Scapegrace's life that, with all his acuteness, would have astonished Lavater himself. Then there was Miss Molasses, the pink of propriety and "what-would-mamma-say" young ladyism—cold as a statue, and, as old Chaucer says, "upright as a bolt," but all the time over head and ears in love with Frank Lovell, and ready to do anything he asked her at a moment's notice. There was Frank himself, gay and dÉbonnair: outwardly the lightest-hearted man in the company; inwardly, I have reason to know, tormented with misgivings and stung by self-reproach. Playing a double game—attached to one woman and courting another, despising himself thoroughly the while; hemmed in by difficulties and loaded with debt, hampered by a bad book on "The Two Thousand," and playing hide-and-seek even now with the Jews—Frank's real existence was very different from the one he showed his friends. So with the rest of the party. Old Mrs. Molasses was bothered by her maid; Mr. Lumley puzzled by his beetles; his wife involved in a thousand schemes of mischief-making, which kept her in perpetual hot water: all, even honest Cousin John, were sedulously hiding their real thoughts from their companions; all were playing the game with counters, of which indeed they were lavish enough; but had you asked for a bit of sterling coin, fresh from the Mint and stamped with the impress of truth, they would have buttoned their pockets closer than ever—ay, though you had been bankrupt and penniless, they would have seen you further first, and then they wouldn't.

So we flirted, and talked, and laughed, and adjourned to the drawing-room, where, after a proper interval, we were joined by the gentlemen, who, in consideration of the day, consented for that one evening in the week to forego their usual games of chance or skill, such as whist, billiards, and cockamaroo. But the essential inanity of a fashionable party requires to be amused, so we set round a large table, and played at "letters," sedulously "shuffling" the handsome ivory capitals as we gave each other long jaw-breaking words, the difficulties of which were much enhanced by their being usually misspelt, but which, nevertheless, formed a very appropriate vehicle for what the world calls "flirtation." I can always find out other people's words much quicker than my own, and whilst I was puzzling over "centipede," and teasing Mrs. Lumley, who had given it me, for the initial letter, I peeped over the shoulder of my next neighbour, Miss Molasses, and made out clearly enough the word she had just received from Frank Lovell. She would not have discovered it for a century, but I read it at a glance. I just looked at Frank, who blushed like a girl, took it back, vowing he had spelt it wrong, and gave her another. Did he think to throw dust in my eyes? There is a stage of mental suffering at which we grow naturally clear-sighted. I had arrived at it long ago. Watching every action of my neighbours, I had yet ears for all that was going on around. Sir Guy, occupying a position on the hearth-rug, with his coat-tails over his arms, was haranguing the clergyman of the parish, a quiet, meek little man, who dined at Scamperley regularly on Sunday, and appeared frightened out of his wits. He was a man of education and intellect, a ripe scholar, a middling preacher, and a profound logician; but he was completely overpowered by coarse, ignorant, noisy Sir Guy.

"Driving—hey?" said the Baronet; "we're all fond of driving, here, Mr. Waxy: there's a young lady who will teach you to handle the ribbons. Gad, she'd make the crop-eared mare step along. Have you got the old mare still? Devilish good old mare!"

No child of man is too learned, or too quiet, or too humble, to feel flattered at praise of his horse. Mr. Waxy blushed a moist yellow as he replied,—

"Very good of you to remember her, Sir Guy; docile and safe, and gentle withal, Sir Guy. But I don't drive her myself, Sir Guy," added Mr. Waxy, raising his hands deprecatingly, as who should say, "Heaven forbid!" "I don't drive myself, sir; no—no, my lad assumes the reins; and notwithstanding the potency of your Scamperley ale, Sir Guy, we manage to arrive pretty safe at our destination."

"Quite right, Mr. Waxy," vociferated Sir Guy. "Did I ever tell you what happened to me once, when I took it into my head to drive my own chariot home? Look ye here, sir, I'll tell you how it was. I was unmarried then, Mr. Waxy, and as innocent as a babe, d'ye see? Well, sir, I'd been to a battue at my friend Rocketer's; and what with staying to dinner, and a ball and a supper afterwards, it was very late before I started for Scamperley, and all the servants were drunk, as a matter of course. Why, sir, when I came out of the house there were my carriage and horses standing in the line with some dozen others, and devil a soul to look after 'em. What should you have done, Mr. Waxy? Sworn like a trooper, I'll warrant it!"

Mr. Waxy shook his head with an air of mild deprecation.

"Well, sir," continued Sir Guy, "I'll tell you what I did. I jumped on the box, Sir, before you could say Jack Robinson. I put on my own coachman's box-coat, Sir, and drove 'em home myself. Thinks I, 'I'll give the rascals a precious benefit: they'll have to walk every mile of the way'—nine miles, and as dark as pitch, Mr. Waxy, as dark as pitch! Well, sir, I'd a London footman, who was a sharpish fellow, and used to dissipation in general; he heard the carriage drive off, and ran to catch it. I gave him a pretty good breather as I rattled down the avenue. The fellow puffed like a grampus when he got up behind, making no doubt it was all right, and he hadn't been found out. The horses knew they were going home, and it wasn't long before I pulled up at my own door. Down gets John, all officiousness and alacrity to make up for past enormities, and rings a peal that might waken the dead. Directly he hears them beginning to unbar he opens the carriage-door and looks in. No master! The day was just dawning. I shall never forget the fellow's face as he looked up, mistaking me, muffled as I was in my own livery, for his fellow-servant.

"'I always told you how it would be, Peter,' said he, turning up a face of drunken wisdom; 'and now it's come to pass. The devil's been and took Sir Guy at last; and if he's as wicious there as he's been here, it's a precious bad bargain for both of 'em!'"

Poor Mr. Waxy was obliged to laugh, but he took his departure immediately; and of course, directly there was a move, the ladies went to bed.

"Come to my room, Kate," whispered Lady Scapegrace, as we lighted our hand-candles—"you can go the short way through the boudoir—I want to speak a word with you."