CHAPTER LXIV

MR. BUNTING ARRIVES AT BURTON ST. LEGER

T was a great boon to the sporting world when railways enabled them to follow their callings in distant countries,—the shooter to fly down to the Highlands, the fox-hunter to move about with his horses, taking a hunt wherever he liked, instead of the old weary five-and-twenty or thirty miles a-day trail by the road, with the rest required at the end of the journey. Then when the groom’s tardy letter arrived, saying the horses were safe, and the hounds at so-and-so, there was the clear day necessary for giving him his orders, with the uncertainty of getting a seat by the coach, and the withdrawal from all the occupations of life for the one pursuit, that a change of the weather might prevent. As the long looked for day approached, how anxiously the weather was studied, and references made to former seasons. What was so mortifying to a packed-up Londoner rushing out of town at night, as seeing the ominous champagne-glass-like rind on the shop windows, as he hurried along to the coach office, Hatchett’s or the White Horse Cellar, say, and finding as he got off the stones the first freezing breath of a frost spread over the road that gradually ripened into blackness as they proceeded, stopping the up-shot of the wheels as the coach rolled noisily over the hard surface, the guard aggravating his discomfiture by apparently superfluous twang, twang, twangs of the horn. Or, again, our friend having got to his journey’s end, with a few hours left for a thaw between the sheets prior to dressing for hunting, to be aroused to the fact that the country was half-a-foot under snow! No help for it but to stay on in hopes of a change, or undergo the toil and trouble of a return journey. Now, if a sportsman is stopped by the weather he just shoots back again, with as much ease as the sporting cockney of old used to make the return journey from Croydon. But we are receding in our progress, and must be getting our hero down into the country.

If Mr. Bunting had been bent solely on hunting he would have felt as many a man has felt who goes from home for that purpose, that the trouble was greater than the pleasure—that in fact there is nothing like hunting from home. The little station he stopped at, the little carriage he got into, the deep jolting cross roads he had to encounter, above all, the gloomy aspect of Burton St. Leger, and the dismal desertion of the Lord Cornwallis Inn, would have brought his sporting ardour down quickly to zero, and made him wish himself back at the Polyanthus Club. As it was, however, the near approach to the land of the fair lady, invested each scene with a charm, just as gallant Don Quixote turned all his troubles and disasters into glory.

The Cornwallis Inn was really very nice, the rooms were really very good, the tablecloth was very clean, the castors, those excellent criterions of comfort, were well supplied, and if the old landlord did smoke bad tobacco, that might be easily remedied by getting him some good. Fortunately, too, Rebecca Mary had somewhat reconciled Crop to his quarters, so there was no one to grumble but Bonville the valet, who received the usual attention that a man does who speaks broken English.

A sportsman of the old school on arriving at his quarters would have repaired to the stable to see how his horses were lodged, but that sort-of-thing has exploded, and the poor creatures are now left a good deal to chance and the care of the groom.

Now that is all very well where a groom is a groom, but as not one in ten calling himself so, really is one, the personal inspection cannot be safely dispensed with. However, Mr. Bunting did dispense with it, and busied himself with his own delectable self, and in speculating on his charmer, and the probable success of his trip. He wondered where he would meet with her first—he wondered how she would receive him—he wondered how Mamma would receive him—he wondered how they would look. He wondered if the fat boy was still in attendance—he wondered whether the fat boy’s father was rich—he wondered whether Privett Grove was the McDermott’s own—he wondered how they got it—he wondered whether it was a pretty place. He thought he would ride Owen Ashford over the next day and see. And so amidst a world of musing pleasant meditations, he sat at a very white-ash-burning fire, and sipped the best part of a pint of earthy sherry, ere he retired to the heavy tapestried low four-post bed, and the enjoyment of the fine linen. Thus, amidst pleasant dreams and anticipations of the morrow, our too susceptible hero passed a very tranquil night. Even in the morning when he arose, and a too truthful sun revealed the real poverty and dilapidation of the place, the grass growing on the road, almost up to the inn door, the ghosts of trees haunting the spacious green, he took courage, and thought of the summer glories of Roseberry Rocks, the mysteries of muslin and gossamer dresses. Then, when after breakfast Mrs. Muldoon, arrayed in a dyed-brown silk dress, came, smoothing her black satin machinery-laced apron, in at the door, to hope he had “slept” well, and to inquire what he would like to have for dinner; he availed himself of the opportunity, of having a word with her on the locality of Burton St. Leger generally. And a better person he could not have applied to, for in addition to good local knowledge, she had great powers of gossip, and knew the history of every house in the neighbourhood, as well as any register-office keeper. How there was company at the Castle, how there was a great Prince with an immense retinue of servants staying there, how they had had a great gunning match, where they had killed three hundred brace of pheasants, and two hundred hares, and how there were to be other great doings. Then descending to more ordinary mortals, she informed him that the large stone house he saw on the opposite hill was Freeland’s Lawn, Squire Springfield’s, that two of the young ladies there were going to be married; then from Freeland’s Lawn she got to Somerville Tower on the other side of the river where she said there were three beautiful girls with very large fortunes; thence, by a skilful manœuvre, Mr. Bunting brought her round to Mayfield, and managed to draw up to Miss Rosa through the medium of Goldspink’s bank.

“Did she know Goldspink’s bank?” he asked as though he had some of its notes, or a letter of credit upon it.

“Know Goldspink’s bank!” repeated Mrs. Muldoon in a tone of astonishment at the idea of any one asking such a question, “Know Goldspink’s bank! I should think everybody knew Goldspink’s bank with its fi-pun notes.”

“What, it’s a good bank is it?” asked Mr. Bunting, with apparent unconcern.

“Good enough, I dare say,” replied the hostess, “Good enough,” as if she had no great opinion of it either. Sivin and four had charged ten and a-half per cent. for discounting one of old Matty’s bills, during the hard times, hence her displeasure.

“Rich?” asked Mr. Bunting in a tone of indifference.

“Oh rich aye, rich enough my w—o—r—d, they know how to make money there; but if I mistake not, the young ’un will spend some of it for them one of these days.”

“What, there’s a son is there?” asked Mr. Bunting, as if he had never heard of him before. “Is he a partner?” added he.

“No, partner, no!” sneered Mrs. Muldoon, “they hadn’t need take such bodies as him into banks. He’s just a young wild ne’er-do-well sort of a body.”

“What does he do?” asked our hero, warming with his subject.

“Do!” sneered Mrs. Muldoon, “Do! he’s always doing some foolish act or another; they say he’s lost a vast of money by gambling, and now he’s taken up with a low fellow to go upon the turf. My w—o—r—rd, but they’ll clear him out there. He’d better let that alone.”

“Who has he taken up with?” asked Mr. Bunting.

“Oh, you’ll know nothing about him, you’ll know nothing about him,” replied Mrs. Muldoon. “He was a dirty ragged boy only the other day, and now he’s dressed out in finger rings, and an Albert chain, and calls for hock and sober water.”

“What fun!” exclaimed Mr. Bunting, seeing who the gentleman was she was imitating.

“Fun! I see no fun in it,” replied Mrs. Muldoon. “I like to see people ’sociate with their equals, and not with such rubbish as this boy does.”

“Why don’t they get him married?” asked Mr. Bunting, well knowing that the ladies consider matrimony a cure for everything.

“Well, they did talk about that too,” replied Mrs. Muldoon, smoothing her apron, and gathering her recollections, “they did talk about that too, and to a very pretty girl; but somehow I think he’s not a-going to make anything of it.”

“Why not?” inquired our now anxious friend.

“Why not!” replied Mrs. Muldoon, “Why not! Well, in the first place, he’s been such a long time about it; in the second place they have been brought up too much together like; and in the third—though this is strictly confidential, having had it from her maid— Miss has been away from home this summer, and picked up another beau—a fine gentleman, with large——”

Just as the conversation got to this interesting point, Crop, after a tap at the thin back door, popped his sleek head into the room to ask if his master had any orders for him, whereupon Mrs. Muldoon withdrew, leaving them to arrange matters together; and Crop’s report of the horses being somewhat favourable—at all events not prohibitory—our friend determined to sally out in quest of adventure as soon as they could be got ready. Who knows, thought he, but kind fortune might lead him in Miss Rosa’s way, at all events he would reconnoitre the country, and be better prepared for the coming campaign.

So with the aid of Bonville, he accomplished a radiant costume, and with palpitating heart took his place before the fire, there to await the trampling of the horses to call him away. As ill luck however would have it, the too brilliant morning sun had suddenly become obscured with dull leadeny clouds, and just as Mr. Bunting was consulting his diminutive watch to see what time it was, a sudden bash of sleet dashed across the window, as if some idle boy had thrown a handful of peas against it. And when our friend went into the bay to see what it really was, such a driving storm rebounded from the ground, as gave little hopes of amendment. Here then was a pretty predicament for a club gentleman from town, with nothing to amuse him but the inscriptions on the panes—the “Martha Bakers’ ” and “Betsey Jones’ ” of former service, or the fervid effusion of poetical bag-man. No books, no papers, no billiards, nothing but the old paste and scissors Mayfield Mercury parading its list of agents, and “enormous circulation,” with price currents, and an elegant assortment of quack doctors’ advertisements.

However, there was no mistake about the day—it was final and conclusive. Not the most sanguine young lady, bent on her first ball, could see any hopes in that heavy horizon. The atmosphere looked as if it might be wrung out like a wet sheet. So, with a sigh, Mr. Bunting cast his hat peevishly on the horse-hair sofa, inwardly wishing that Crop had kept out of the room. And it is a remarkable fact, that though he presently sought another interview with his landlady, and tried her in a variety of ways, he could not get her to resume the interrupted conversation. Whether her womanly wit had suggested that this stranger might be the young banker’s rival, or Mrs. Muldoon was indebted to Bonville or to Crop for the information, or whether Miss Perker’s confidential communication had returned more vividly to her recollection on getting down-stairs is immaterial, she would go to any place rather than Mayfield, and talk of any person rather than either young or old Goldspink. So our friend had to discuss the mutton chop beef steak, beef steak mutton chop question, without the piquant sauce that subject would have given the object of his choice. One thing however consoled him, namely, that Miss Perker had spoken well of him, which showed that the pink satin scarf had not been misapplied. So having got all the information he could out of Mrs. Muldoon, he at length let her withdraw to carry out his orders and respond to the repeated tap, tap, taps, of her drunken husband on the round table. Meanwhile the wind blew, the rain beat, and the whole aspect of the firmament denoted a hopelessly wet afternoon. So our friend was thrown on his own resources, aided by Patteson’s Itinerary, and a very old copy of Cary’s Cross Roads. But stay! we did the old Mayfield Mercury injustice with regard to its contents, for, in addition to the leading articles before-mentioned, it gave the meets of the hounds, from which Mr. Bunting gleaned that the Duke of Tergiversation was not the lord paramount of the country, for while his Grace’s pack only figured as a two days a-week one, the hounds of another gentleman, namely, those of Mr. Jovey Jessop hunted four; and though Jovey’s meets were generally wide of Burton St. Leger, yet when the Duke was at home and wanted his guests well galloped, Jovey hunted the east side or his county, in return for Baxterley Woods and other covers that the Duke gave him,—that is to say, let him draw,—for the Duke, early in life, had promised his mother never to give anything away, and most rigidly adhered to his word. And now, as, we are sorry to say, the tempestuous weather that greeted our hero continued unremittingly during the whole of the first, and also of the following day, we will here take advantage of the opportunity of introducing Mr. Jessop with a certain peculiar appendage of his to our readers.