CHAPTER LVII

THE PROVINCIALS

BUT where and oh where, in the midst of all this Princing and this pop, crack, banging, are our heros Jack and Jasper gone? The latter, to be sure, we have recently seen in connection with his little bill and his race-horse; but Mr. Bunting has been lost sight of, while waiting for that time when “Mamma would be glad to see him,” as intimated by Miss Rosa and confirmed by her prudent parent herself at the Rocks. The reader, perhaps, will not attach much importance to Lord Marchhare’s attentions to Miss Rosa, though they had undoubtedly the effect of consoling her for Mr. Bunting’s absence. Our friend Jasper was still looked upon as the ultimate harbour of refuge if nothing better could be done; but in this enterprising gad-about world there is no saying what a day or an hour may produce. Jasper of course had the run of Privett Grove in a domestic cat sort of way, but there was no pressing or hinting that he ought to be offering. If the Bunting funds had not gone up, the Goldspink ones had rather fallen, and Mrs. McDermott would like a little more information about Mr. Bunting, if she only knew where to get it.

Cupid has the advantage over all other sportsmen in his season being continuous. His arrow flies as freely in the frosts of winter as in the heat of summer. Winter had now established her full supremacy, the trees and hedges were leafless, and would-be sportsmen had now no excuse left for not taking the field in pursuance of the summer announcements. Some men are desperately keen so long as the corn is in the ground. Our friend Mr. Bunting, though not a “six days a-week, and more if possible man,” could hunt a little just as he could shoot a little, and fish a little, especially when so doing would forward his views in other respects. Though absent, he was still true to the pretty hat, and longed for the day when he would be restored to its company. Meanwhile he spun several yards of bad verse in praise of our beauty.

As hunting runs a good deal in streams, the current of which generally sets one way, all for the grass, a man may make many inquiries in London ere he gets much information respecting a remote country. Of course if he falls in with a man of the land he will hear how the Scrambleford are the finest hounds in the world, how there is no such huntsman as Tootles, how their country is next to the Quorn, and a chap who can go over it can go anywhere; but for any reliable directions as to quarters and so on, he might as well ask what hounds there are in the moon.

Mr. Bunting felt the full force of this observation, as in the course of his peregrinations he varied the usual conversation about the weather, by asking any hunting-man with whom he came in contact, if he could tell him anything about the Duke of Tergiversation’s hounds.

“Why yes, Sir Simpson Scamper knew there was such a pack, because he saw them advertised, but where they hunted he hadn’t the slightest idea in the world. Didn’t ’spose they were a pack that anybody ever went to see— rig’lar provincials—he made no doubt.”

“Why, what the deuce can you want with the Duke of Tergiversation’s hounds?” exclaimed Mr. Rowley Rushington, on being interrogated on the same subject —“Why, what the deuce can you want with the Duke of Tergiversation’s hounds?” repeated he, eyeing Mr. Bunting suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing,” quoth he, “nothing particular, see them, that’s all,” stuttered our conscience-stricken hero, trying to turn the conversation.

“Oh fiddle-de-dee; one pack is very much like another now-a-days. If you want to hunt, go into a good country —costs no more than a bad one—not so much generally.”

So Mr. Bunting profited very little by his inquiries, and felt it advisable to discontinue them.

Of course, if a man goes into a country solely for hunting, his best plan is first to ascertain where the kennel is, and then to look out for accommodation somewhere in the neighbourhood, but in a case of this sort, where the hunting was a secondary consideration—indeed subservient to something else—the plan was to see what locality would be most convenient to the something else.

For this purpose Mr. Bunting conned the large map of the country hanging against the wall of the sinecure library, or rather sleeping-room of the Polyanthus Club, putting his forefinger on the modestly denoted Privett Grove, and then casting about for the Castle, Mayfield, and other familiar though yet unexplored places. He felt himself quite at home with them, though he had never seen them, so often had he talked them over with Miss and Mamma, when—

“With them conversing, he,” &c.

Mayfield was certainly what the country-people call most “contagious” to Privett Grove—but then it was wide of the castle, added to which our friend would have to encounter his fat rival with his dirty five-pound notes at every turn and corner. Heatherfield was nearer the Castle, but wide of the railway, and Cotfield Court did not seem likely to be large enough to accommodate a gentleman of his luxurious requirements. Burton St. Leger seemed larger, and a reference to a certain expensive topographical dictionary, showed that it boasted three inns, viz., the Marquis of Cornwallis, the Saracen’s Head, and the Malt Shovel. Upon the whole, therefore, after mature deliberation, and all the available information he could obtain about the Duke’s derided country, he determined to throw himself upon the resources of Burton St. Leger. To this end he then began to prepare himself, and ultimately made the arrangement we shall presently disclose.