"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.