Kate Coventry | Page 3

For my
part, I only wish I had been born a man--that's to say, if I could keep
my own ideas and feelings. To be sure, I should lose a good many
personal adornments; not that I'm vain enough to consider myself a
beauty, but still one cannot help being anxious about one's own
appearance, particularly if one has a full-length glass in one's bedroom.
I need not be ashamed to own that I know I've got bright eyes, and
good teeth, and a fresh colour, and loads of soft brown hair, and not a
bad figure--so my dressmaker tells me; though I think myself I look
best in a riding-habit. Altogether you can't call that a perfect fright; but,
nevertheless, I think if I might I would change places with Cousin John.
He has no Aunt Deborah to be continually preaching propriety to him.
He can go out when he likes without being questioned, and come in
without being scolded. He can swagger about wherever he chooses
without that most odious of encumbrances called a chaperon; and
though I shouldn't care to smoke as many cigars as he does (much as I
like the smell of them in the open air), yet I confess it must be
delightfully independent to have a latchkey.
I often wonder whether other people think Cousin John good-looking. I
have known him so long that I believe I can hardly be a fair judge. He
is fresh-coloured, to be sure, and square and rather fat, and when he
smiles and shows all his white teeth, he has a very pleasant appearance;
but I think I admire a man who looks rather more of a roué--not like

Colonel Bingham exactly, whose face is all wrinkles and whiskers, but
a little care-worn and jaded, as if he was accustomed to difficulties, and
had other things to occupy his thoughts besides his horses and his
dinner. I don't like a man that stares at you; and I don't like a man that
can't look you in the face. He provokes me if he is all smiles, and I've
no patience with him if he's cross. I'm not sure I know exactly what
does please me best, but I do know that I like Cousin John's constant
good-humour, and the pains he takes to give me a day's amusement
whenever he can, or what he calls "have Cousin Kate out for a lark."
And this brings me back to Aunt Deborah and the expedition to Ascot,
a thing of all others I fancied was so perfectly delightful.
"My dear," said Aunt Deborah as she folded her lavender-gloved hands,
"if it wasn't for the weather and my rheumatism, I'd accompany you
myself; but I do consider that Ascot is hardly a place for my niece to be
seen at without a chaperon, and with no other protector than John
Jones--John Jones," repeated the old lady reflectively--"an excellent
young man, doubtless (I heard him his Catechism when he was so high),
but still hardly equal to so responsible a charge as that of Miss
Coventry."
I knew this was what John calls a "back-hander" at me, but I can be so
good-tempered when I've anything to gain; therefore I only said,--
"Well, aunt, of course you're the best judge, and I don't care the least
about going; only when John calls this afternoon, you must explain it
all to him, for he's ordered the carriage and the luncheon and
everything, and he'll be so disappointed."
I've long ago found out that if you want to do anything you should
never seem too anxious about it.
Aunt Deborah is fonder of John than she likes to confess. I know why,
because I overheard my old nurse tell the housekeeper when I was quite
a little thing; and what I hear, especially if I'm not intended to hear it, I
never forget. There were three Miss Horsinghams, all with white
hands--poor mamma, Aunt Deborah, and Aunt Dorcas. Now Aunt
Deborah wanted to marry old David Jones (John's papa). I can just

remember him--a snuffy little man with a brown wig, but perhaps he
wasn't always so; and David Jones, who was frightened at Aunt
Deborah's black eyes, thought he would rather marry Aunt Dorcas.
Why the two sisters didn't toss up for him I can't think; but he did
marry Aunt Dorcas, and Aunt Deborah has been an old maid ever since.
Sometimes even now she fixes her eyes on Cousin John, and then takes
them off with a great sigh. It seems ridiculous in an old lady, but I don't
know that it is so. That's the reason my cousin can do what he likes
with Aunt Deborah; and that's the reason why, when he called on that
rainy afternoon, he persuaded her