by R S Surtees
People wanting to see the real essence of diplomacy should watch two discreet matronly ladies trying to outwit one another. They approach with all the caution of chess-players, and go quite as much upon looks as they do upon words. It is here that the people who dabble in ink-shed fail. They can’t see the effect of their observations, insinuations, aggravations — or whatever they indulge in. It is no uncommon thing to hear ladies say, “I would give anything to see So-and-so’s face when she reads this,” which shows the importance they attach to a view. Of course the invading party has the advantage, being ready primed for the occasion, with plenty of time for conning and calculating contingencies, and considering what they shall say if things take an unexpected turn. Upon this sort of mission Mrs. McDermott proceeded to visit her good Mend Mrs. Goldspink.
As the weather was cold, and Miss Rosa now worked her white pony severely, Mrs. McDermott drove into Mayfield in her brougham, Gaiters assuming a gaudy, many-buttoned, livery-coat for the purpose of piloting the ewe-necked mare, who looked much better in harness than she did when under the saddle. Of course Mrs. McDermott did not drive direct to the object of her mission, but hovered about the market-place, calling at the tinner’s, the glazier’s, the butcher’s, the baker’s, — the bonnet-shop. Our watchful banker, however, was on the look on.
“Sivin and four’s elivin, and sivin’s twenty-one — here’s Mrs. McD.,” said our Mend to himself, as through his little peephole in the bank window he saw her draw up and dart into the milliner’s—” and sivin’s twenty-eight — what a go it would be if she should happen to buy the bonnet Mrs. G.’s been barginin’ for.”
The visit to the bonnet-shop occupied more time than all the other calls put together, and “sivin and four” was interrupted in his peeping by a clerk coming in with a bill that he did not altogether approve of, for, though it had a good many names to it Cordy Brown’s among the number), there was not one that they were particularly fond of. So, after twisting, and turning, and considering it, the cleric at length returned with it from the little den, and passing behind the counter, handed it back to the old farmer who brought it, saying, “it was not quite convenient to do it just then.”
“Wy, wy,” replied the ancient, nothing daunted—” wy, wy — ar’ll call again in hafe an oour or so.”
Just as the clerk had got rid of the customer, the quiet rolling hum of a carriage was heard round the corner, which was quickly followed by a knock and a ring at the banker’s front door.
“That’s her!” said old Goldspink to himself, “that’s her — let’s see if she’s got the new bonnet.” So saying, he whipped up his clotty old pewter inkstand, and telling the junior clerk to replenish it, passed on through the bank into the parlour beyond, and was presently in command both of the street door and the house passage. He heard the quiet foot-fall of the maid, the opening of the front door, the enquiry and answer; saw the touch of the hat repetition at the brougham side, the turn of the plated-handle, and the falling open of the door — when out came a hat and feather.
“That’s it! green with a bunch of tiger lilies inside” exclaimed he. “That’s it! green with a bunch of tiger lilies inside! Was there ever such luck as that?” And our banker’s heart smote him when he remembered how he had advised Mrs. Goldspink to hold off, thinking to get the hat for something less than was asked.
Meanwhile Mrs. McDermott, very well pleased with her purchase, followed the maid up stairs, thinking that in all probability the discussion would open with a dissertation on the new head gear. But Mrs. Goldspink, who had seen the brougham meandering about the market-place and finally draw up at Mrs. Muslin’s, had her misgivings as to what might happen, and a very hasty glimpse as Mrs. McDermott alighted confirmed her worst fears. If Mrs. Muslin hadn’t got two bonnets exactly alike, which was not probable, she really believed Mrs. McDermott had bought hers. However she would soon see.
“Please, Mam, Mrs. McDermott,” now announced Sairey the maid, ushering the visitor into the low heavy-ceilinged apartment of the old house; whereupon Mrs. Goldspink, though perfectly aware who was coming, arose and greeted her with well-feigned surprise. She was “so glad” to see her—” quite charmed” — and thereupon she gave her a second squeeze, and then backed her down into an indifferently stuffed easy chair. Sure enough there was the coveted bonnet, looking all the more tempting from now being in the possession of another.
“Well and how are all here?” asked Mrs. McDermott “Pretty much as usual — pretty much as usual,” a something swelling in Mrs. Goldspink’s throat that nearly choked her. “How’s Rosa?” —
“Oh, Rosa’s quite well — Rosa’s quite well — had an unexpected visit from a gentleman she met at Roseberry Rocks.”
“Indeed,” replied Mrs. Goldspink, wondering if her visitor had bought the new bonnet to come and tell her of it in. However, she would not gratify her vanity by asking her any questions either about the beau or the bonnet. Coming in this sort-of-way looked rather like adding insult to injury, and Mrs. Goldspink was not a lady to be put upon. If Mrs. McDermott did not know Jasper’s worth, she did, and there was no occasion for any subserviency to her. Let Rosa take the gentleman she had met at Roseberry Rocks if she liked.
So contenting herself with the simple “Indeed,” she rose and rang for the conversation-stopping cake.
Mrs. McDermott was fairly posed; baffled upon two points, either of which would be enough to engage the undivided attention of most women. What could it mean? Somebody must have told. Her evil genius Mrs. Simey — that woman was always thwarting her. She would sound Mrs. Goldspink on the subject. “Had she seen their friend Mrs. Simey lately?”
No; Mrs. Goldspink hadn’t seen her she didn’t know when — certainly not since the autumn.
Then thought Mrs. McDermott it will be Mrs. Wedderbum; and she immediately transferred her stock of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness to her. Had Mrs. Goldspink seen Mrs. Wedderbum lately?
No; she hadn’t seen her either.
Mrs. McDermott was posed, for she could not think of any one else who owed her a good turn. So she sat mute, wondering what it meant. At length she took her departure, feeling assured that Jasper had fallen in with some one he liked better than Rosa, and thinking it was fortunate Mr. Bunting had come down. So the reader will understand the favourable circumstances under which our hero paid his second visit to Privett Grove.
CHAPTER LXXXII.
THE RIDE HOME.
THE READER WILL now understand how it was that Mr. Bunting felt he had made greater progress with Miss Rosa than he had done upon any recent occasion. The bonnet had stood his best friend, though the Jug had certainly contributed to his success. While our hero was plying his softest soft nonsense into Miss Rosa’s ear, the Jug was sherrying and enunciating some very comfortable domestic platitudes into “Mammas,” whom he inwardly settled was a very sensible, agreeable woman. He would be (sip) bound to say (sop) that (sip) lady would make a steady respectable man very (sop) comfortable — what nice sherry it was (gulph) — dare say’d she would have some port to correspond. The house too was very nice, barring the down step into the drawing-room. Where two could dine, three could dine (sip) — certainly capital sherry; and so the Jug with more gumption than he seemed to possess, proceeded to glance at the question of amalgamation, — Boyston Park, Appleton Hall horses, boot jack, picture and all. He didn’t see why it shouldn’t do. This double intercourse going on, it was not to the interest of either party to move an adjournment, and if the day had not done it for them, there is no saying how long they might have sat. Even the Jug’s “scoffla” might have been forgotten. At length, premature evening came to the rescue, and hinted that they ought to be going home.
However parties may watch one another, and think they read their feelings by their eyes, there is one proceeding that completely baffles them, namely, the amount of fervour put into the squeeze of the hand at parting. Without going into particulars, we may say that both our friends mo
unted their horses, each perfectly satisfied with the result of the visit. the Jug was even gay, and tried to strike up a tune as he jogged Billy Roughun down the carriage drive on to the road.
“Nice ladies,” said he, stooping to unlatch the gate, and swinging it open for our Mend to follow.
“Very” replied Mr. Bunting with an emphasis.
“No idea that you knew them,” observed the Jug reining up alongside our Mend. “No idea that you knew them. Have you ever been in this country before?”
“No,” replied our friend; “I met them in the summer at Roseberry Rocks.”
“Ah, I heard they were away somewhere,” observed the Jug, adding, “I didn’t know where it was.”
“It was there,” rejoined Mr. Bunting; and having given his companion this piece of information, he thought to have a little out of him in return. “Tell me,” said he, jerking his head back at it as he spoke, “is that place their own?”
“No; rented,” replied the Jug, seeing the point.
“Hem!” mused Mr. Bunting, doubting whether it was safe to go further with his inquiries. The Jug might tell Mamma, and that would not do.
The Jug then lighted a large Manilla cigar, and proceeded to fumigate his face, until he arrived at the first of a series of gaps by which he sought to lessen the distance to Appleton Hall, by a diagonal cut across country. Farmer Grafton, however, had anticipated the movement by making up the introductory gap in a more summary way than is usual in the middle of a hunting season.
“Rot the fellow!” exclaimed the Jug, halting before it, and looking at the stout perpendicular post with its strong interlacings of black thorn and white.
“Rot the fellow! he deserves to have a fresh hole bored in every rood of his fence,” repeated the Jug, putting Billy Rough’un close up to the place, and trying to pull the post out with his hand as he sat. It was too firmly driven in for that.
“I’ll have it out,” said he, dismounting and handing his horse to our hero.
The Jug then ascended the little mud bank, and after a series of struggles and wrestles, succeeded in drawing the post from its place. “Nasty unhandsome behaviour,” said he, knocking the other impediments out of the way as he spoke. “Nasty unhandsome behaviour; I nearly broke my neck in making this gap, and now he seeks to deprive me of the fruits of my labour.”
The road being now clear, the Jug resumed Billy Rough’un, and leading him over the gap, remounted with the post over his shoulder.
“What are you going to do with it?” now asked our hero.
“I’ll put it where they won’t get it again,” replied the Jug, rousing Billy Rough’un into a canter with a touch of the spur, and threading a variety of fences with a knowledge of outlets that was perfectly astonishing. Whenever Mr. Bunting thought they were irrecoverably pounded, the Jug solved the mystery with a swerve or a turn to some heretofore invisible opening. So they proceeded from fallow to pasture, from pasture to seeds, from seeds among turnips, in a sort of hands-across-and-back-again, down-the-middle-and-up-again dance of agricultural variety.
At length they approached a few cottages, in the little garden attached to one of which was a red-cloaked old woman gathering kindling wood from the fence.
“There, old girl!” cried the Jug, chucking the post over the hedge to her as he spoke—” There! there’s something to make the pot boil.”
“Thank you, sir,” cried the woman, hurrying to take it up, thinking what a fine fire it would make for the evening. “Thank you, sir,” repeated she as she clutched it.
“Shan’t be troubled with that again,” observed the Jug, now swinging back a very ricketty gate leading on to a very rutty road.
They kept its course for some half mile, when squeezing through a ragged belt of hr plantation, and availing themselves of a fallen place in the haw haw, the Jug “whoayed” Billy Rough’un as he got upon grass, and looking back, asked our hero if he knew where he was.
“Not the slightest idea,” replied Mr. Bunting, looking around.
“Home,” said the Jug, pointing to the stable lights twinkling in front.
“Who’d have thought it!” rejoined Mr. Bunting.
“Nothing like knowing a country,” observed the Jug.
“Nothing,” assented Mr. Bunting, adding, “I shouldn’t have thought we were half way there yet.”
“Nor should we,” replied the Jug, “if I hadn’t pulled out that post;” adding, “It’s not fair after a man has been at the trouble of studying a country, and establishing his gaps, to stop him in that sort of way.”
As our friends advanced over the green sward, the trod of horses’ feet became more frequent, until the grass was altogether obliterated with the repetition of their hoofs as the line of march led up to the stables.
Entering the yard, the Jug ‘gave one of his familiar holloas, which brought out as well Billy Button as the man who had the charge of Little Merrylegs.
Having taken the hare from the saddle, and given his orders for the morrow, the Jug led the way into the house by the same way as he had introduced Mr. Bunting on his first arrival.
“Anybody dine here?” asked he, as he met a footman in the passage leading into his bed-room.
“Yez-ir, Mr. Gurney Busbey does.”
“Oh, does he?” replied the Jug; “then we shall want an anchovy toast,” which meant a second bottle of port, Gurney Busbey being one of the gentlemen against whom it was the Jug’s office especially to provide, and very ready he was so to do. So Busbey and Boyston had their bottle a-piece of Hutton’s thirty-four port, while Mr. Jessop and our hero sipped their quiet bottle of Latour, and all arose apparently equally sober. And the Jug having at length seen his companion buttoned into his booby hutch, retired to his bed-room to rock in his chair, con over the events of the day; and about three o’clock in the morning, he returned a mental verdict to himself, that he “might do a great deal worse than” — the reader knows what. So saying, he off with his nankins and turned into bed.
CHAPTER LXXXIII.
BRAXFORTH BRIDGE.
BOOTS AND BREECHES again! What boys for boots and breeches! Here is Mr. Jovey Jessop all red and yellow, all hurry and confusion, as keen as if he had never seen a fox or a hound in his life. Here is the old hot and heavy Jug, too, red up to the crown; and here, too, is Mr. Bunting very smart and orthodox, moving leisurely about as an easy going exquisite ought to do. It will not be a hunt that will put Mr. Bunting out of his way.
“Horse on?” (munch, stanch, munch), asks Mr. Jessop with his nose well down to the porridge plate.
“Bide him myself,” grunts the Jug, trudging away to the well supplied plate-warmer at the fire for some kidneys.
“Take Mr. (slunch, munch) Bunting then with me,” observes Mr. Jessop, who is going on wheels.
“Thank you,” replies our hero, now falling too with his breakfast to be ready in time.—’
Munch, crunch, sip, sop, sup, was then the order of the day varied by occasional exclamations of tea! toast! egg! or whatever the party wanted, a footman hovering round the breakfast-table to supply all rising demands on the instant.
Mr. Jessop was done first—” Ten minutes!” exclaimed he, rising and looking at his watch as he wiped his mouth, and threw his napkin away; “Ten minutes if you please,” repeated he, hurrying out of the room.
“Sharp’s the (munch, crunch) word here,” observed the Jug; labouring away at the beef-steak and fried potatoes.
“So it seems,” replied Mr. Bunting, putting on a little more steam.
“Never knew (crunch) Jessop late in my (munch) life,” observed the Jug, filling his useful mouth full of muffin.
“By the (munch, crunch) way, you’ll not forget my (crunch, munch), boot jack,” observed he, looking up at Mr. Bunting.
“Oh no, I’ve laid it on the toillette table to be ready to bring down.”
“Thank ye,” replied the Jug, adding, “I nearly lost it one day by lending it to a friend, whose groom would insist that it
belonged to his master’s dressing-case, and was walking away with it under his arm when I met him.”
“Indeed,” replied Mr. Bunting, thinking it would have been no great matter if he had lost it.
“Bather a neat (munch, crunch) article,” observed the Jug between mouthfuls.
“Well, yes, no, middling,” replied Mr. Bunting from out of his tea cup—” the fact is,” said he, setting the empty vessel down, “I don’t know, but it would be better without the fold — the joint you know.”
“Why, so?” asked the Jug.
“The fact is, I have rather a fleshy frog, and it nipped me as I stood upon it.”
“Ah, well it bit me that way too once,” replied the Jug; “but that was because I hadn’t my (crunch) slipper on — should put your (munch) slipper on when you draw off your (crunch) boot.”
The clank of a spur followed by the crack of a whip now sounded in the entrance-hall, and just at the moment a quick stepping hay whisked round with the dog-cart, and pulled up at the front door.
“Now then! time’s up!” cried Mr. Jessop; and in rushed a footman to announce that “master was ready.”
“Well, then, adieu for the present,” said Mr. Bunting to the Jug, as he rose to obey the summons, and investing himself in a roomy Napoleon gray overcoat, he put on his hunting-cap, and was presently by his host’s side in the vehicle. The groom leaving hold of the horse’s head, at a “twit” from our master, after a half-pretence of a rear, the gallant bay shouldered the collar, and started away at the rate of ten miles an hour. Knowing that he would cool down of his own accord, Mr. Jessop just let him go, and after bowling through the Park, they shot past the dilapidated lodges, and got upon the newly-metalled Fillingdale road. The velocity gradually subsided, and quartering, and easing, and picking the way became the order of the day. So they proceeded, jolting and laughing, overtaking horsemen presenting various indications of the chase, one with spurs to his leather-leggings, another with a fine Malacca cane whip-stick in his hand, a third with an entire whip; then a man in mufti all but a hunting-cap, and presently the knowing, well-dressed grooms, jogging on by ones, by twos, and by threes. All touched or took off their hats to our master as he passed.