CHAPTER XII

MR. BUNTING IN BED

too susceptible hero, Mr. Bunting, awoke the next morning in his elegant sea-commanding lodgings— we beg pardon, apartments—in Calliope Crescent, full of intense ardour, and the most devoted admiration. Desperately smitten, as he had often been; he thought he never—no never—had had his too diligent eyes drawn into such bondage before. So perfect and so peerless, fair Rosa seemed created of every creature best; and the more Mr. Bunting thought of her, the more he was enamoured, and the stronger his poetical effusions came gushing to his assistance. He paraphrased the poet—

and so on, through a good serviceable quotation that we are sorry we have not room for here, until Christian Bonville, his Swiss valet, fearing his master might run his own breakfast-hour, and his faithful servant’s dinner one together, came in with a can of hot water to announce that it was mid-day. Our friend, we may observe, though not possessing the magnificent wealth for which Mrs. Trattles gave him credit, had nevertheless all the comforts and elegancies of single life, including a neat groom, and a couple of saddle-horses, standing at the Pegasus livery and bait stables, in the Hippona Road. So, though we opened that he was ruined by his grand-father’s buying a book, the reader will have the goodness to take that expression figuratively, and consider it merely meant that he hadn’t as much money as he might—had all things gone straight (or rather, had his Oaks gone straight), a condition of things peculiar to most people.

Mr. Bunting being thus disturbed by the entrance of Bonville, banished his poetical effusions, as he threw aside the muslin-curtain of his canopied French bed, and bounded on to the floor, a hero or not in the eyes of his valet, accordingly perhaps as he paid him. The long and elaborate process of ablution, and of brushing, and combing, and curling, and waxing a dandy into his first or chrysalis state of existence, being at length got through, Mr. Bunting appeared in the pea-green balcony of his sitting-room-window, in Nankin peg-tops, an elegant cerulean blue Turkish silk dressing-gown, with massive red tassels, and lily-of-the-valley worked slippers. He then stood slightly bent forward, leaning with either hand resting on the rich fantastic-patterned railing as if he were going to address a constituency for or against the Reform Bill, but in reality scanning the gay passers-by below. Very light and lively they all looked. The wide-extended flags scarce sufficed for the voluminous muslins that came circling along with a rotundity of sail fit only for a pantomime. Then where two sets of moving balloons met, there had to be a divergence on to the road, to the risk of some one being ridden over by the Howe’s and Cushing-ites, who came trooping along at best pace, with every variety of feather fluttering in their hats. Up-and-down, up-and-down they went, the same to-day as yesterday— the same as it will be again to-morrow—perpetual motion hacks! And as Mr. Bunting stood basking in the warm sun, looking at the beauties, appropriating the steeds to their respective stables, and wondering why ladies did not amplify themselves on horseback as well as on foot, and thinking of “Punch’s” admirable picture of Mr. Spratt putting, or another not putting Mrs. Spratt up, a sudden something struck his eye—a sort of fore-boding of mischief, and a fuller look revealed Mrs. Bolsterworth sailing along with her spoon, and an expression of countenance that as good as said, “I am thy evil genius, John!” Whereupon, in hopes that he hadn’t been seen, he backed out of the balcony into his room and rang the bell for his breakfast.

That appetiteless meal at length over, and the “Post” discussed, for the “Times” was too strong feeding for our friend, the aid of Bonville was again enlisted, and with much thought, and after many changes, and much rummaging in the overflowing wardrobes and drawers, a get-up was at last accomplished that Mr. Bunting thought would be very telling. Full of—

“With thee conversing I forget all time,”

he then turned out of doors, endeavouring to conceal his anxiety and eager watchfulness by pretended listless careless indifference. But as he stopped and chatted, and seemed ready to go anywhere with anybody, he kept a watchful eye to the west, his heart beating and his pulse throbbing at each appearing petticoat. And though many came and many met and many passed, still the one magic circle was wanting, and Mr. Bunting at length returned disheartened and dispirited to his home. Why he had his stroll for nothing will appear in the next chapter.