Kate Coventry by G. J. Whyte-Melville

Page 1 of 118

KATE COVENTRY

An Autobiography

Edited by

G. J. WHYTE-MELVILLE

[Illustration: Now began a battle in good earnest.]

T. Nelson and Sons 1909

CONTENTS.

Chapter I 3 Chapter II 15 Chapter III 24 Chapter IV 35 Chapter V 46 Chapter VI 58 Chapter VII 66 Chapter VIII 77 Chapter IX 89 Chapter X 103 Chapter XI 114 Chapter XII 125 Chapter XIII 138 Chapter XIV 151 Chapter XV 163 Chapter XVI 175 Chapter XVII 188 Chapter XVIII 201 Chapter XIX 214 Chapter XX 228 Chapter XXI 241 Chapter XXII 254 Chapter XXIII 267 Chapter XXIV 274

KATE COVENTRY.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

CHAPTER I.

"Kate," said Aunt Deborah to me as we sat with our feet on the fender one rainy afternoon--or, as we were in London, I should say one rainy morning--in June, "I think altogether, considering the weather and what not, it would be as well for you to give up this Ascot expedition, my dear."

I own I felt more than half inclined to cry--most girls would have cried--but Aunt Deborah says I am very unlike the generality of women; and so, although I had ordered a peach-coloured mantle, and such a bonnet as can only be seen at Ascot on the Cup Day, I kept back my tears, and swallowed that horrid choking feeling in my throat, whilst I replied, with the most careless manner I could assume, "Goodness, aunt, it won't rain for ever: not that I care; but think what a disappointment for John!"

I must here be allowed the privilege of my sex, to enter on a slightly discursive explanation as to who Aunt Deborah is and who I am, not forgetting Cousin John, who is good-nature itself, and without whom I cannot do the least bit. My earliest recollections of Aunt Deborah, then, date from a period when I was a curly-headed little thing in a white frock (not so very long ago, after all); and the first occasion on which I can recollect her personality with any distinctness was on a certain birthday, when poor grandfather said to me in his funny way, "Kate, you romp, we must get you a rocking-horse."

Aunt Deborah lifted up her hands and eyes in holy horror and deprecation. "A rocking-horse, Mr. Coventry," said she; "what an injudicious selection! (Aunt Deborah likes to round her periods, as the book-people say.) The child is a sad tomboy already, and if you are going to teach her to ride, _I_ won't answer for the consequences in after-life, when the habits of our youth have become the second nature of our maturity."

Imagine such sentiments so expressed by a tall austere lady, with high manly features, piercing dark eyes, a _front_ of jet-black hair coming low down on a somewhat furrowed brow. Cousin John says all dark women are inclined to be cross; and I own I think we _blondes_ have the best of it as far as good temper is concerned. My aunt is not altered in the slightest degree from what she was then. She dresses invariably in gray silks of the most delicate shades and texture; carries spectacles low down upon her nose, where they can be of no earthly use except for inspection of the carpet; and wears lavender kid gloves at all hours of the day and night--for Aunt Deborah is vain of her hand, and preserves its whiteness as a mark of her birth and parentage. Most families have a crotchet of some sort on which they plume themselves; some will boast that their scions rejoice one and all in long noses; others esteem the attenuated frames which they bequeath to their descendants as the most precious of legacies; one would not part with his family squint for the finest pair of eyes that ever adorned an Andalusian maiden; another cherishes his hereditary gout as a priceless patent of nobility; and even insanity is prized in proportion to the tenacity with which it clings to a particular race. So the Horsinghams never cease talking of the Horsingham hand; and if I want to get anything out of Aunt Deborah, I have only to lend her a pair of my gloves, and apologize to her for their being so _large_ that she can get both her hands into one.

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