CHAPTER XXXV

MISS ROSA AT MAYFIELD

THE first thing that strikes a returning traveller after a visit to great places, is the extreme smallness and littleness of everything he before thought great and good. It is the same sort of feeling that pervades a man on revisiting the scene of his school-boy days, when he finds lofty hills reduced to very low ones, large houses become extremely small, and broad rivers mere brooks. Thus it was with our fair friends on their return from Roseberry Rocks. Everything seemed stunted and dwarfed. The well-laurelled drive from the Thorn Tree Road up to the house seemed narrow and short; the house contracted, the trim lawn lessened, and the garden half its former size.

But it is the small country towns that show to most disadvantage after visiting such places as London or Roseberry Rocks. The people seem so sleepy and slow—the shops so small and unstocked—the keepers so easy and stupid. They are generally eating, and don’t seem to care much whether they serve a customer or not. So it was with the star-fish-shaped town of Mayfield, stretching its finger-like streets out upon the rich green meadows around. One such is a type of the whole. A square stone-towered church on one side of a market-place, a brick town-hall upon arches in the middle, with a perpetually “going” but never gone mugger behind, large stone or flaming red brick houses with green doors and bright brass knockers alternating with inns and smaller houses around, and the aforesaid finger-like streets stretching out in all directions, generally tapering towards turnpike gates in the distance. And yet these outlandish places generally contain an amazing amount of comfortable self-complacency—the residents thinking there are no such people as themselves, that they give the tone to the rest of the world. The men stand staring with their great gummy hands deep in their trouser-pockets, criticising each horse and passer-by, and regulating the affairs of the nation, while the ladies sweep about like meandering shower-baths, thinking they set the fashion and all others follow them. Then on a Thursday, the market-day, when the natives ferment into activity, what a conglomeration of consequence takes place, town and country stupidity amalgamate, and everything is settled off-hand—George Brown, the wise man of the place, saying a thing, and everybody else repeating it, for what “George” says must be right, and from his decision there is no appeal.

It was on a fine autumnal day that our fair friend drove herself and Mamma in their neat basket-carriage drawn by the pretty white pony, Miss, with her glossy hair in braids, under the piquant Spanish hat and blue feather, into the good town of Mayfield, just at the high ’Change of market time, to the delight of the Hawbucks and the charm of the Chawbacons, who declared they had never seen “nothin’ so pretty afore.” She created quite a sensation. Mrs. Winfield, the eating-housekeeper, desisted from carving a goose; Mr. Sanders, the grocer, upset all the currants; Geordey Ribstone, the itinerant apple-man, trundled his laden barrow over Mrs. Cream, the butter-woman’s toes; while Mr. Shepherd, the grazier, who was handling a heifer, broke clean away, and came bounding over the cattle-pens to get a nearer look at the lady. All were in ecstasies about her, and her health was drunk at the farmers’ ordinary at the Fox and Hounds, the Hare and Hounds, and the Greyhound and Hare. Still Miss felt the insignificance of the triumph, and would gladly have exchanged it for a glorious hour at Roseberry Rocks—with the gentlemen all praising, and the ladies abusing her. And when having purchased a pennyworth of pins at one place, and a halfpennyworth of ribbon at another, she drove to Mrs. Muslins, the modiste at the corner of Hay Street, who has her millinery on one side of the shop, and books and muffins on the other, Rosa saw a painful difference between it and Madame Bergamotte’s beautiful bonnet-shop, to which she had paid so many satisfactory visits. And having looked at the “World of Fashion,” and bought the current Number of “Punch,” she resumed her charioteership, and trotted briskly up the south side of the Market Place to our banker’s private door. Mrs. Goldspink, of course, being at home, the pony was left in charge of the boy, while “Sairey,” the maid, announced the visitors; and the healthy looks and smart hat having been duly discussed, our travellers proceeded to pour out all their watering-place exploits and intelligence, Mamma drawing Mr. Bunting’s name to and fro in a triumphant sort of way, as if to let Mrs. Goldspink see they were not wholly dependent upon Jasper.

That genius was playing skittles at the Bear and Ragged Staff skittle-ground, and this being market-day, and the time of year when farmers mortgage their stack-yards to raise the forthcoming rent, our Banker himself sported his oak or rather his wainscot, on which was nailed a card containing the following characteristic notice:—

“Call on a Business man in Business Hours only on Business. Transact your Business and go about your Business, in order to give him time to finish his Business.

With which caution staring him in the face, it would require a bold man to intrude into our Banker’s den. So the ladies having talked till they were tired, at length took their departure, to the great delight of many half-holiday children all crowding round the pretty white pony with the beautiful blue ribbons at its head. And Mamma having resumed her seat, Miss gathered her smart wash-leather reins, and at a light touch of the parasol’d whip, the pony whisked its long silky tail and trotted off gaily with its head towards home. Mrs. Goldspink then resolved herself into a committee of taste, and decided that Miss had come home very airified, and might have Mr. Bunting, if she liked. Their Jasper was not a young man to be sneezed at. Indeed she didn’t know such another, and altogether Mrs. Goldspink was not very well pleased, and thought that the “girl” looked a great deal better with her hair in ringlets than as she now had it. Wished she mightn’t have got her head turned by her trip.