CHAPTER LXXI

PRIVETT GROVE

MR. BUNTING did not accommodate the peripatetic stationer with his stud, but got Mr. Kerby, the veterinary surgeon, to patch them up as well as he could for walking purposes. By judicious feeding a broken-winded animal may be made available for slow work and quiet purposes. Having ascertained through the medium of the electric telegraph that there was no such person then known at 51A, Sligo Mews, as Peter Crankey, Captain Cavendish Chichester’s groom, or any such horses there as his own Bard or the Kitten, Mr. Bunting became somewhat resigned to his unlucky fate, and treated the ailments of his horses as colds they had caught on the journey down. It would ill become a man of his knowledge and experience to admit he had been victimised in any such ridiculous way. So he determined to accommodate himself to their coughing, and consoled himself with the thought that it would have been worse if they had been glandered. If he could not hunt them, he could at all events ride to the place, that he had adopted the pleasures of the chase for the purpose of getting to, so Mr. Kerby, having done all he could in the way of mitigation of their complaint, and prescribed the best course of treatment, Mr. Bunting wrote to London for new saddles and bridles in lieu of the wretched things he had got with the horses, and prepared for carrying out his designs in another quarter. Meanwhile he added to his obligations to Mr. Buckwheat by borrowing a second set of accoutrements of him for his groom’s horse.

We need not say there was great excitement in Privett Grove in consequence of Mr. Bunting’s arrival in the country, Mamma and Miss both felt that matters were coming to a crisis, and upon the right application of the little words “Yes” and “No” depended a world of comfort, or the contrary. Whichever way it was, they could not but feel that they might sometimes think they had taken the wrong man. It therefore behoved them to be most wary and circumspect. Mr. Bunting was certainly a most agreeable man, but then they knew little or nothing of him (intrinsically at least), while, as regarded Jasper, there was no doubt whatever about him, though he certainly was a cool, indifferent suitor. Even Miss Rosa’s return to ringlets, which was all done to please him, seemed to produce little or no effect upon him. “Ringlets,” said he, eyeing the rich glossy curls— “Ringlets, well I think you look better in them!” was all he said.

Now, however, it was clear that Mr. Bunting’s presence would quicken him if there was any quicksilver in him; at all events Mrs. Goldspink would see that it was not a case of necessity, and instruct Jasper accordingly. And though it might perhaps be better if Jasper were to declare first, yet there was no reason why Mr. Bunting should not be encouraged and put in the right way. Hitherto Miss Rosa had played her cards with the utmost skill and discretion, holding Bunting on but yet keeping him back, just as a skilful sportsman rides a young horse up to a leap, but won’t let him go over till he likes. How much longer that game could be played was now the question for consideration. There could be no doubt that Mr. Bunting was safe, or he would not have come down into the country, and as it was clear Miss Rosa could not take both, there was no reason why she should not take the best. The matter was one of deep and serious consideration, and Mrs. McDermott well knew what a commotion our hero’s appearance would make in the country where courting could not be carried on upon the double entry principle of large towns. Matters, therefore, had now about come to a crisis, and Mr. Bunting, it was clear, must be disposed of one way or other. So thought our friend himself, who, as soon as calling time approached on the day after the road interview, with the aid of Bonville perfected an elaborate costume for the occasion. Crop and the coughing horses too turned out not so far amiss, and another friendly sun smiled brightly on the scene.

A swell in London is a swell anywhere, and Mr. Bunting’s smart hat, purple and black tie, careful collar, curiously cut coat, ample pantaloons, and highly polished boots, contrasted with the rough, harsh, matter-of-fact overcoats and mud defiers of the people he met on the road. Great was the curiosity he excited as he wandered leisurely along, trying to keep down the coughs by the evenness of the pace. Mr. Hodge told Mrs. Hodge when he got home that he had met such a smart gentleman, with such a smart groom after him; and Mrs. Hodge wondered who it could be—where he came from, and whither he was going. Mr. and Mrs. Woodbine met Bunting as they drove the steady old family horse, who went dwelling along in his trot as though he half thought he was pulling the cart and ought to be walking; and the Woodbines were lost in astonishment at the glossy lavender-coloured kids!—clean on, too. And did you see the groom’s buck-skins, boots, and belt round his waist? The latter was considered the greatest curiosity, and old Jack Chaffey, the road man, who worked by the day, ceased revolving the mud, and resting his chin on the top of his scraper, asked every man, woman, and child who came along what it could mean. Dear me, he had never seen such a thing as that before, and he had seen a vast of queer sights, but never such a queer sight as that before. And not being able to get any satisfactory solution of the mystery, he revolved the mud a few more times, and calmly awaited the coming of the next traveller. Meanwhile Mr. Bunting held leisurely on at his own pace, wholly absorbed on the object of his mission, so much so, indeed, that although he had studied the map pretty accurately so as not to have to ask any questions, he overshot the Crosland turn, and was riding away for Old Bridge End, when he met Margery Meggison, the rag gatherer, who, in reply to his inquiry if he was anywhere near Privett Grove, exclaimed, “Privett Grove! why, you be riding away from it!” Margery then having told him so much, thought to have her innings, and said, “It’ll be Mrs. McDermott’s you’re wanting, I ’spose?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Bunting, boldly.

“Or Miss, whether, now?” asked the crone, fixing her little beady black eyes intently upon him.

“Well, either,” smiled Mr. Bunting.

“Ah, Miss will do best for you,” replied Margery; “Miss will do best for you. Now,” continued she, “do you see yon stacks by the barn on the hill?”

“Yes,” replied our friend.

“Well, then, a little to the left of them are some trees. That’s Privett Grove. Follow this road till you come to the turn, then take the one to the right and it leads past the gate.”

“Thanks,” said Mr. Bunting, chucking her a shilling.

“Good luck to you!” exclaimed the woman, delighted at his generosity.

Mr. Bunting then raised a short trot to get a little in advance of his informant. He was presently at the turn, presently at the gate, and presently in sight of the beloved spot.

Privett Grove was a pretty place even in winter, perhaps nicer to look at than to live in. It was an up-and-downy, in-and-outy sort of place with odd doors, odd windows, odds and ends altogether. You went up a step into the dining-room, and down a step into the drawing-room; the larder was where the library ought to be, and the scullery had usurped the place of the shoe-house. However, it was no time for criticism, and Mr. Bunting felt as if he could love everything about it —the road, the rails, the roller, the very chimney-pots themselves. It wore a holiday aspect both inside and out; for Old Gaiters having duly discharged the duties of groom had undertaken that of gardener, and scratched the road with a rake from the gate up to the door. All the stray leaves that had been careering about for weeks and weeks, were now caught and consigned to the cow-house. The drawing-room was put into a sort of semi-review order, the Kidderminster carpet uncovered, but the flowered chintz allowed to remain on the sofa and chairs. If, however, the sofa was covered, its worsted-worked cushions were exhibited in a way that looked as if they were going to be raffled for. There was that triumph of the art, Melrose by moonlight, all worked by Miss Rosa before she was fourteen; there was Slingsby Priory, and Coppenthorpe Castle, and a Cockatoo of most conspicuous colours. We don’t know how many stocking heels might be left undarned in order that she might work them, but that is not to the point. Our old acquaintance John Thomas was prepared to expect company, while Perker, the maid, saw by the way Miss Rosa twisted and turned and examined herself in each glass in succession, that she was bent on display. She had on her new lilac and black droguet, her neat waist set off with a band and a rich cut steel clasp, an embroidered muslin collar and sleeves trimmed with lilac-coloured ribbon. Very neat shoes and stockings completed her costume, in which she smiled complacently on herself in the cheval glass. Still it was not surmised in the kitchen who was the cause of all this commotion, and it was not until Owen Ashford came coughing and grunting up to the house that Perker became alive to the importance of the occasion.

“My gracious!” exclaimed she, clasping her hands, “if here isn’t Mr. What’s-his-name!” adding, “shall forget my own next.” So saying, she slipped noiselessly down the back stairs, ejaculating “Mr. Bunting!” and took up a position at the green baize-covered door connecting the little entrance hall with the back passage and offices.

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, now went the bell, in reply to Crop’s summons, who had dismounted for the purpose. “Clear the way, woman,” cried the footman, hurrying up to where Perker was now listening, in her greatly distended petticoats. Having brushed past the impediment he let the door swing to upon her, and advanced becomingly up the entrance.

“Ladies at home?” now asked Mr. Bunting, in a careless sort of way, that but ill accorded with his feelings, giving at the same time a smile of recognition to the man.

“Yes, sir,” replied the obsequious servant, bowing to the compliment, whereupon Mr. Bunting alighted, feeling pretty well assured that the eyes of England were upon him, and proceeded to follow his pilot into the house—the beloved house that might be his, marble slab, Louis Quatorze clock, stuffed Ptarmigan and all. Passing all these, our hero, following the footman, turned to the right, and a bright red rug proclaimed the door of the room of presentation.

As they say first impressions are everything, it was lucky this was not Mr. Bunting’s first appearance, for John Thomas, forgetting to warn him of the downward descent into the drawing-room, just as our friend had put on his most captivating smile, and arranged something pleasant to say to both of the ladies, in he went in the head-foremost sort of style that a clown tumbles on to the stage, completely putting to flight smile, simper, sentiment, all he had got to say.

A trifle of this sort would be nothing to most men, but to a man like our hero, who went so much on appearances, it was sadly vexatious. He knew there was nothing made a man look so ridiculous as a descent of this kind, and there was nothing he dreaded so much as looking ridiculous, especially before her. It was therefore some minutes ere he got his nerves composed and his ideas sufficiently restored to their former order, so as to start from the place where he had left mother and daughter, viz., the railway station at Roseberry Rocks. Having done ample justice to the charms of that beautiful place—the Rocks we mean, not the station—Mr. Bunting next drew a few mutual acquaintances casually before them, and despite Mrs. McDermott’s efforts (who had a présentiment of what was coming) to turn the conversation, at length asked in a careless sort of way, if they had seen anything of their fat friend young Mr. Goldfinch since they left.

“Gold-spink,” replied Mrs. McDermott, with an emphasis on the “spink.” “Goldspink—oh, yes, we see him occasionally,” said she; “he lives near here, you know.”

“Oh, does he?” replied Mr. Bunting, as though he had no idea of anything of the sort.

Mrs. McDermott here gave the bell-handle a turn, which John Thomas answered by bringing a silver tray with seed cake and some capital sherry; for the late Mr. McDermott was a great connoisseur, and had left her an excellent stock; which, however, Mr. Bunting declining, the conversation again resumed its former current of inquiry and recital: what they had been doing since they parted; where they had been, where they were going; and though Miss told of her hunt with the Duke of Tergiversation’s hounds, she said nothing of Lord Marchhare, or of his lordship’s decoration of her pony’s head with the fox’s brush.

They then talked about hunting generally, Mr. Jessop’s hounds, the Duke of Tergiversation’s hounds, Mr. Jonathan Jobling’s harriers; and Mr. Bunting expressed his astonishment at meeting Miss Rosa the day before. Shouldn’t have known her if it hadn’t been for her hat, never having seen her on horseback before, or with her hair in ringlets.

Then Mamma took up the running, and asked Mr. Bunting how he liked Rosa in ringlets; and though our hero was too good a judge to say anything decidedly against them, yet both Mamma and Miss saw that he preferred her hair plain. And the discussion reminded them of the interview in Seaview Place, when our other hero Jasper, first saw Rosa with her hair plain; and an inward something whispered to them both, “What if the whole thing should ultimately turn upon the question of Plain or Ringlets?” Less important points have decided these momentous matrimonial matters.

And after a prolonged sit, during the whole of which Mrs. McDermott pertinaciously remained in the room, as the shades of evening began to draw on, Mr. Bunting at length asked leave to ring for his horses; and Mamma, having paved the way for another visit, an arrangement that Miss certified with a sweet smile and a shake of her ungloved hand, he at length backed himself out of the presence, taking care of the step as he left.

The last cough of the groom’s horse having died out on the cold evening air, Mamma and Miss resolved themselves into a committee to consider the whole matter. The pros and cons we are not at liberty to publish, but the debate lasted long after Mr. Bunting had coughed his way back to his uncomfortable quarters at Burton St. Leger.