CHAPTER LXIX

THE SURPRISE

UST as our hero had got his sick horse nursed so far on his way home, as to about the place where Archy Ellenger overtook him in the morning, the animal, pricking his ears; gave a sudden start, and looking a-head, a flowing grey habit appeared upon the scene, borne by a careering white pony. It was now Mr. Bunting’s turn to start, for though an unfriendly hedge immediately concealed it from his view, a certain inward something whispered it was her. “Her” certainly he thought, and his heart throbbed at the sight. Another instant and the invidious hedge, descending into a cut and laid one, revealed the accuracy of the conjecture. “Her” it certainly was, in flowing ringlets too, which danced merrily in the sun to the motion of the pony. Mr. Goldspink’s opinion had come to her ears, and caused Rosa to resume her ante-Roseberry-Rocks-style of dressing her bright silken tresses.

Miss started too, for between ourselves, gentle reader, she thought, at first sight, that the approaching horseman was Lord Marchhare, and the worthlessness of the gipsy’s prophecy flashed upon her mind—What, if after all she should be a duchess! The fates seemed propitious to the idea. As she got nearer however, the delusion was gradually dispelled, for beneath the black cap she now recognised first the dark whiskers, and then the familiar features of our friend.

“Why, Mr. Bunting!” exclaimed she, opening wide her beautiful blue eyes, as she reined in her ambling white palfrey beside him.

“Why, Mr. Bunting, who would have thought of seeing you here!” tendering her pretty little primrose-coloured kid-gloved hand as she spoke—half wondering if the gipsy was going to be right after all.

“Why, Miss Rosa, who would have thought of seeing you!” responded our delighted friend, seizing the proffered hand and pressing it fervently, adding, “This is indeed an unexpected pleasure.”

Up then came Old Gaiters, the groom gardener, on the yawning ewe-necked bay mare, which had been left immeasurably in the lurch by the quick-footed volatile pony. Gaiters and the mare had many a weary trash about the country after Miss Rosa, that neither his age nor the qualities of his steed qualified him for. Having succeeded in stopping the great boring brute, a few yards below them, he now sat staring and wondering who the smart gentleman in scarlet could be, and thinking he might do for his lady. Being down wind, Gaiters’s position would have been rather inconvenient if the parties had had anything particular to say, but being chiefly confined to questions and answers it did not make much matter.

“And have you had a run?” asked Miss Rosa, as soon as the proper Privett Grove enquiries were over, “Have you had a run?” repeated she, with evident interest.

“Why, yes—no (hem), yes,” replied Mr. Bunting in the hesitating sort-of-way of a man who does not know much about it.

“A good one!” exclaimed she with undiminished zeal.

“Why, yes, no, yes, in fact I hardly can tell you,” replied he, “for my horse isn’t well, and I was obliged to pull up at the end of (hem) time.”

“What! have you had a fall?” now asked Miss Rosa, as she saw Owen Ashford’s dirty side.

“My horse has,” replied Mr. Bunting dryly, adding, “he’s not quite up to the mark you see—got a little cold in coming down—so I thought it best to give in.”

Just then Owen Ashford gave a hearty confirmatory “cough, wheeze, grunt.”

“Ah, I see he has,” rejoined Miss Rosa. “Must have his feet put in warm water and a little gruel, when he goes to bed; but tell me,” added she, “who was out?”

“Who was out?” repeated Mr. Bunting, “Who was out? Ah, there you ask me a question I can hardly answer. I was like the new boy in the school you see, where, though they all knew me, I didn’t know them.”

“Well, was Lord Marchhare there?” asked Miss Rosa, coming at once to the point.

“Lord Marchhare was there,” replied Mr. Bunting, “also a Duke and a Prince somebody.”

“Prince Pirouetteza,” suggested Miss Rosa.

“I dare say that was the name,” said Mr. Bunting carelessly, “a beardy gentleman on a capering white horse, who rode like a trooper.”

“And which way did the hounds go?” asked Miss Rosa.

“Oh, over the hills and far away. I haven’t the slightest idea where. One hill is much the same as another to a stranger.”

“True,” assented Miss Rosa, thinking she might as well give up her intended hound hunt, and accompany her faithful beau on his homeward way.

With this resolution, she touched her pony lightly with her pink-tasselled riding whip, and Mr. Bunting giving Owen Ashford a hint with his heel to proceed, the two passed Old Gaiters, who presently getting his horse hauled round the same way, the trio proceeded on their homeward way.

The reality of the scene being now realised, Miss dismissed her Marchhareish ideas, and proceeded to talk to her watering-place acquaintance, Mr. Bunting, asked when he came, where he was going, as though she hadn’t the slightest idea what had brought him down into the country. So they proceeded at a pace peculiarly adapted to Owen Ashford’s infirmities, along the nice grass-sided road cheered with the rays of a bright winter’s sun.

At length a harsh matter-of-fact white guide post stood in the angle of two road ends, one black hand pointing to Burton St. Leger, another to Mayfield, and Owen Ashford giving such a series of grunts as sounded very like coming to a period or full stop, the interesting pair at length parted, Miss again shaking hands with our hero, and assuring him that they (not Mamma only) would be happy to see him at Privett Grove, and then cantering away to announce the all-important arrival to her parent. And our delighted friend having followed her as far as he could with his eyes, then proceeded leisurely along the reverse road, inwardly congratulating himself on the result of the day’s adventures, and wondering what would be the result of the expedition.