CHAPTER LXXX

PRIVETT GROVE AGAIN

“WONDER where we are,” now observed Mr. Bunting, looking about him, as their mutually receding steps soon put a wide space between our friends and the field.

“I know,” replied the Jug. “This is Okers Over; that (nodding to a little hamlet embedded among large bare-branched trees beneath the shelter of a swelling hill) is Bluemeadows; at the back of it we get upon Bleakendale edge, and can either go home by the road or the fields, whichever you like.”

“My name’s ‘easy,’ ” replied Mr. Bunting; adding, “I suppose there’s nothing to do before dinner?”

“Nothing, unless you’ll like to go to the kennel and look over the hounds.”

“No—no; not in my way,” rejoined our hero; “that’s an old-fashioned proceeding,” added he.

“Well, then, we’ll just saunter quietly home by the road,” rejoined the Jug, dropping the reins on the neck of the now subdued Billy Rough’un, and diving into his side-pocket for the conversation-stopping weed. He presently had a large Lopez cigar, blowing a cloud round his harvest-moon face. The two then jogged on quietly together through Filterton, Swimingdale, and the little villages of Lofield and Upton. After passing the corn-mill the road rises over Warringborough Hill, and though no great hand at recognising a country, it somehow struck Mr. Bunting that he had seen this one before—stacks by a barn—chimneys among trees—it was very like the ground about Privett Grove.

“What place is that?” now asked he, trotting his horse up alongside Billy Rough’un.

“That,” rejoined the Jug, “that,” repeated he, with his usual careless indifference, “that’s what’s-its-name— where the widow with the pretty daughter lives.”

“Thought so,” said Mr. Bunting, gaily.

“What, do you know them?” asked the Jug.

“A little,” replied Mr. Bunting, “a little.”

“Suppose we call,” suggested the Jug.

“With all my heart,” replied our hero.

“If you know them well, I can take you a short cut to the stables through the fields,” said the Jug, pointing to a weak place in the hedge they were passing, where the hoof marks of a horse were still visible—this being one of the Jug’s short cuts to cover.

“Perhaps we may as well go the front way,” observed Mr. Bunting, our hero knowing that ladies do not like to be taken by surprise.

“P’raps we may,” assented the Jug, thinking to finish his cigar. So saying he passed the place and plodded on to the gate. “This is the way in,” said he, opening and pushing it back, as if his companion was a perfect stranger to Privett Grove. The Jug then, having thrown his cigar-end away, produced a black pocket-comb, and, uncovering his bristles, proceeded to give them and his stubbly whiskers a good stirring up. He then ridded the comb out and offered it to our friend, who, however, preferred giving his curls a run through with his fingers to availing himself of it. So the Jug pocketed it without further to do. This performance brought them to the diverging road to the stables, which the Jug, pointing out, said, “Shall we put our horses up and go in, or how?”

“Better go up to the house and inquire if they are at home, which will give the ladies time to put on their best bibs and tuckers.”

“Well,” said the Jug, turning Billy Rough’un’s head up the road. The horses then paced quietly on, wondering what was going to happen. The “invisible guardian” of the house saw the approaching guests and gave the alarm ere the vociferous door-bell responded to the hearty summons of the Jug. He pulled as if he would pull the knob out of the socket.

The difference of the sexes is strikingly shown in the matter of visitors. Ladies are always at home to them; gentlemen, never. As soon as the bell sounds, the ladies whip away their uncompany-like work, and after glancing at themselves in the mirror, subside into a company posture; while the gentlemen hurry away to intercept the servant, and whisper lowly but vehemently “not at home” as he passes. Sometimes, indeed, the excommunicating order is general and positive—“never at home to any one;” while the exceptional guests of the ladies are few and far between. Of course we are speaking of middle life, one servant being quite unequal to exclude or to carry in the card of a caller in high life —there must be a shoal of them there to do that.

Our old friend John Thomas, in well-put-on clean stockings and neatly-stringed shoes, smiled as he opened wide the door for admission; whereupon the Jug, who was better pleased with Billy Rough’un, said, “if Mr. Bunting would give him his horse, he would take them round to the stable and get them some gruel;” so saying he laid hold of Merrylegs’ bridle and trudged away to the diverging road he had coveted before. Arrived at the stable, with the aid of Old Gaiters he got what he wanted, and having thrown a sheet over each horse, he returned to the front door, where he found the footman waiting to receive him. Following his guide, he presently made the head-foremost descent into the drawing-room that our hero had done on a former occasion. Indeed he did worse, for he almost landed in Mrs. McDermott’s lap, who was contemplating her daughter and Mr. Bunting as they sat upon the sofa— wondering if he was to be any “thing more” to her or not, and all that sort of thing. “Oh dear, that door!” exclaimed she, as the Jug recovered himself after his stumble; “oh dear, that door! wish we could devise some means of curing it—it is so disagreeable making such a sudden descent.”

“It is,” said the Jug, who now felt the full effect of the truism.

Miss Rosa then came forward to greet our unaffected friend, after which they all got into places again, and the chirp of conversation was presently renewed—surprised at seeing them together—supposed they had been hunting—harriers, and so on.

Cake and wine presently made its appearance, and were placed on the table, whereupon the Jug, after a good steady stare at the cut-glass decanter, arose from his chair, and, helping bumpers all round, proceeded to distribute them—one to Mamma, one to Miss, one to Mr. Bunting, and, of course, one to himself. The ladies looked at theirs, Mr. Bunting sipped at his, but the Jug, after ruminating over a good mouthful, finally swallowed it, and then took off the rest at a gulp.

“Good wine,” said he to Mrs. McDermott, nursing the glass on his knee, as if he meant to have another— “good wine! McKinnel’s, I should say,” smacking his thick lips.

“No, it is some I have had in the house a long time,” replied Mrs. McDermott, with a sigh; whereupon the Jug, seeing he had touched a wrong chord, helped himself to another glass, which very soon went the same way as the first one. Still he sat with his empty glass on his knee, as though he might be tempted to fill it again.

“Won’t you take a little cake?” now asked Mrs. McDermott, inclining her hand towards it.

“Thank you,” replied the Jug—“thank you, I will presently,” then, recollecting himself, he added, “Won’t you take a little, Mam?”

Mrs. McDermott declined, so did Miss Rosa, and Mr. Bunting, who was making play on the sofa, would not take any either.

The Jug then, after a pause, looked first at the cake, then at the wine, then at his feet, and finally rising, helped himself to a good thick slice of cake.

“Good eating requires good drinking,” observed he to Mrs. McDermott, as he helped himself to another glass of wine, and then resumed his seat by her side.

“So it does,” assented Mrs. McDermott, “and hunting makes people hungry.”

“Very,” replied the Jug, munching away at the cake.

“Mr. Jovey Jessop is very fond of hunting, I suppose,” said she.

“Very,” replied the Jug.

“I wonder he doesn’t get married,” observed Mrs. McDermott, “he would be much more comfortable with a wife, I should think.”

“Humph—don’t know that,” thought the Jug, taking a liberal mouthful of wine.

“Plenty of elegant, accomplished girls in the world,” observed Mrs. McDermott, looking at her daughter.

“No doubt,” replied the Jug—“no doubt,” adding, after a pause, “only, for my part, I don’t know but I would rather have a wife that could set a good dinner on the table than one that could talk Greek.”

“Well, but she might do both,” observed Mamma.

“Seldom,” replied the Jug—“seldom—all go for show—happy medium’s the thing—happy medium’s the thing,” finishing the contents of his glass as he spoke.

Mamma then lowered her voice, and a subdued confidential conversation ensued between her and the Jug, which greatly facilitated Mr. Bunting’s approaches to the daughter. He felt that he got on better with her than he had done since the Pic Nic at Roseberry Rocks. He almost thought he might offer.

The friends were so comfortable that each waited for the other to give the hint to rise, and if the premature shades of one of those short winter days that appear so impossible in the fine long drawn ones of summer had not begun to obscure the room, there is no saying but they might have sat over the dinner-hour at Appleton Hall. The Jug’s inward monitor, however, coinciding with the waning day, caused him to haul up his great warming-pan of a watch, when dangling it by its jack-chain, he asked his companion if he knew what o’clock it was? Of course—“With her conversing,” Mr. Bunting had forgotten “all time,” and was perfectly astonished when he was told what it was, but there was no gain-saying the fact, or that they had sat quite long enough for a call—so the Jug rising, and helping himself to another glass of sherry en passant, asked permission to ring the bell for the horses.

And now, while they are bringing them, we will retrograde a little, and tell how Miss Rosa came to be in a more affable humour than usual.