CHAPTER LXXXVIII

THE GRAND INQUISITION

NEXT day at eleven o’clock, for Mamma had made the appointment an hour earlier than she told Mr. Bunting to come, in order that she might, what she called, “insense Mr. Ballivant into the case,” a Hassenden fly drove up to the door, from which emerged a stout, elderly gentleman, in a shiny black coat and vest, a puddingy white cravat with flowing ends, and drab shorts and continuations, who, despite John Thomas’s caution, presently came head foremost into the drawing-room. After a series of stumbles, which looked very like bringing him on his knees altogether, he at length recovered his legs, and began with the bow that he intended for entering, Mrs. McDermott having apologised as usual for the step, then backed him into a well-cushioned chair, and drawing her own straight-backed one close up to him, proceeded in a voluble manner to explain all how and about the cause of her wanting him.

Mr. Ballivant was well through the morning of life, and, moreover, had had three wives, with a numerous family by each, though never a penny with any, so that he was quite past all the romance and sentiment of the thing, and looked upon matrimony in a conveyancing point of view. A beautiful young lady about to be tranferred to a well-looking gentleman, provided said gentleman satisfied the expectations of Mamma.

“Query—what are the expectations?” As much as she can get of course, replied Mr. Ballivant, answering his own question; and he thought he saw his way to what was wanted.

Mr. Ballivant was rather a good hand at this sort of work, and had tied some couples up so tightly that they were almost starved themselves in order that their descendants might live. Moreover he knew there was competition in this case, and though he did not like Sivin-and-Four, he had no objection to his paper. So he thought what with one or other of the gentlemen, he would have a very good job, and doubtless get a large slice of sugary almondy bride-cake, of which he was particularly fond—as indeed we all are, only somehow we seldom get any now—cards are a very poor substitute for cake. Punctual to his appointment, scarcely had the drawing-room clock ceased striking eleven, for it was always an hour in arrear, when Mr. Bunting (who had come unattended, and put up Puffing Billy, as Sore-eyed Sam called the gray, himself) was seen wending his way past the window, making for the front door. A gentle tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, of the bell, was quickly followed by the tramp of John Thomas’s feet at the open door.

“He will show him into the parlour,” observed Mrs. McDermott, as Mr. Ballivant began fidgetting and getting himself ready to rise for a presentation—“he will show him into the parlour, and now before we go,” continued she, gathering herself up, and growing urgent as she spoke, “Don’t forget to ask him about his castle, whether it has turrets and towers and everything becoming,” adding, “Rosa would like a nice place—now mind the step,” continued she, leading the way to the door, and pointing to the unfortunate impediment, which being cleared, she continued her course along the passage, giving Mr. Ballivant a similar caution as to the ascending step at the parlour door. That being opened, Mr. Bunting was discovered warming his hands before a spluttering fire, after a rather chilly ride, rendered more irksome by the unfortunate infirmity of his horse, who, indeed, seemed to get worse in his wind instead of better.

Mrs. McDermott advanced and received him most cordially, apologising for the badness of the fire, fearing he was cold, and then introducing Mr. Ballivant to warm him, after a few common-places about the weather, she said she would retire, as she really knew nothing about business, and they would do much better without her. So saying, she gave her crinoline a twirl, observing as she sailed away, that they would find her in the drawing-room when they were done. And in another second our hero found himself alone with his father confessor, pic-nics, polkas, sonnets, regattas, witchery of all sorts, coming at last to the dull shrine of Plutus. Half an hour would settle the hopes and aspirations of half a-year.

Mr. Ballivant was a rough man but an honest one, and treated every thing in a cool business-like way.

“Well, now,” said he, scrutinising our dandified friend attentively as the rustle of the departing petticoats subsided, “I ’spose you know what I’ve come for. I’ve nothing to do with your looks, or your manners, or your figure, or nothing of that sort—those the ladies will please themselves about—but just to inquire into your circumstances, what you have got, and what you will do, in short.”

“Just so,” replied Mr. Bunting, who knew the point quite as well as Mr. Ballivant did.

“Miss McDermott will have a purty fortune,” observed Mr. Ballivant, beginning by enhancing his offering, “and for looks, I think, I may say she is unsurpassed.”

“She’s beautiful!” exclaimed Mr. Bunting enthusiastically, “and as good as she’s beautiful; in fact,” added he, “hers is

‘Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.”’

“Well, then, we’ll not go into that point either,” interrupted Mr. Ballivant, “but just dot down what you think we should do.” So saying, he placed a couple of chairs side by side at the table, and diving into his outside coat pocket, drew forth a sheet of note paper, and a little brown Russia leather inkstand.

“Always travel with my own implements,” observed he, unscrewing the top of the inkstand, and placing it before him; “ladies’ pens never write, only scratch,” continued he, taking one of his own out. He then put on a pair of formidable-looking tortoise-shell rimmed spectacles, through which, having glanced at the great broad nib of his pen, he smoothed out his paper, and after a good steady stare at our friend, as though he were about to take his portrait, said, “What shall we begin with, land or cash, £. s.d.?”

“Ah, Sir, I see it’s the old Hudibrastic story,

exclaimed Mr. Bunting, “everything tied up now-a-days.”

“Safe bind, safe find,” replied Mr. Ballivant, nothing moved by Mr. Bunting’s poetry; but moving his pen as if he wished to be writing.

Seeing there was no help for it, Mr. Bunting began with his money, rehearsing his oft-repeated lesson with the ease of a charity school-boy saying his catechism, so much in consols, so much in Indian debentures, so much in railway shares, &c., all of which Mr. Ballivant recorded in tremendous thick mile-stone-like letters as Mr. Bunting spoke.

When Mr. Ballivant invited him to his land, our hero went very delicately over that part of his story, observing that he did not exactly know how they could make it the subject of a settlement, inasmuch as it was forest which yielded an uncertain income—much or little— dependent of course upon the quantity of wood they cut; but Mr. Ballivant having duly consulted the nib of his pen, thought Mr. Coupler, the conveyancer, would make something of it, at all events he would record the name, age, and acreage of the wood. And our hero having supplied him with these particulars, and given him a good deal of visionary information into the bargain, referring him to “Daftun on Planting” in corroboration of what he said, tried to have his own innings by asking about the “purty fortune” which his interrogator had mentioned at starting.

Mr. Bunting had been to Doctors’ Commons, and knew that Mamma had the property for life. This turn rather threw the man-of-law off his point, and put him upon the evasive tack.

“Yes, she would have a purty fortune—purty fortune for a lady at least,” replied Mr. Ballivant, feeling that Mr. Bunting was going to pinch him in return.

“Well, but is it in possession?” asked our friend.

“Possession? yes, in possession—possession of her Mamma—Mrs. McDermott, at least.”

“Ah, that’s another matter,” replied our hero. “It will be a long time before her Mamma is done with—at least I hope so.”

Mr. Ballivant hoped so too.

“Well, but Mr. Bunting supposed her Mamma would make Miss Rosa an allowance?”

Mr. Ballivant really could not answer that question.

The two then sat mute for a while, Ballivant conning over the result of his inquiries as it appeared in his great thick penmanship; Bunting considering whether he should ask Ballivant if, in the event of Mrs. McDermott marrying again, any part of the fortune went away from her. He had forgotten to look at that part of the will, the Jug not being then in the field. Thinking that might be too pointed a question, he essayed to put it sideways: “They talk of Madam marrying again,” observed he, rubbing his hands with ill-counterfeited glee.

“Do they?” replied the man of law, raising his brows, as if he had never heard of it before.

“Most likely all talk,” suggested Mr. Bunting.

“Most likely,” assented Mr. Ballivant, casting back in his mind for something he felt he had forgot. He could not hit it off—he had milked his man clean as to his means, and could not think of any other topic. He was sure Mr. Bunting was desperately in love, and would do anything unreasonable in the way of a settlement, which is always a most desirable state of mind in which to have a young man. Ballivant then restored his little stumpy pen to its case, and after again conning his notes, arose and held them to the fire to dry the great cesspools of ink of which they were composed. Mr. Bunting, feeling like a man retiring from a witness-box, arose too, saying, “then I suppose that will be all you’ll want with me?”

“I think so,” replied Mr. Ballivant, tardily, “I think so; all at present at least—stay!—save the name of your solicitor;” which Mr. Bunting having given him, our hero then shook hands with his executioner, and gladly retired to his charmer. She was all smiles, radiance, and affability; and Mamma, under pretence of seeing about luncheon, presently hurried away to the scene of the inquisition. Mr. Ballivant was just unlimbering his great tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles and pocketing his implements of torture as she entered.

“Well, what have you made out?” exclaimed Mrs. McDermott, with bated breath hastening up to him.

“Well, mum, I think he’ll do,” replied Mr. Ballivant, slowly and sententiously, “I think he’ll do.”

“You do, do you!” exclaimed Mrs. McDermott.

“Yes, mum, I think he will—he has a purty fortune.”

“How much?” asked she, coming at once to the point.

“Well, that I can’t exactly say, mum, until I make further inquiries; but I should say he has a purty fortune—yes, a purty fortune. And Miss Rosa, I told him, would have a purty fortune too.”

“Yes, when I’m done with it,” rejoined Mrs. McDermott.

“Certainly,” assented Mr. Ballivant, who suspected as much.

“It’s not a case of necessity, you know,” whispered Mrs. McDermott; “Rosa has another string to her bow, and a good one.”

“Perhaps so, mum,” assented Mr. Ballivant, “perhaps so, mum; but there’s an old saying, you know, mum, about the two stools, that you’ll perhaps remember, mum.”

“There’s no fear of that in this case,” asserted Mamma.

“Well, as far as this gentleman is concerned I should say not,” replied Mr. Ballivant.

“Nor the other either,” rejoined Mrs. McDermott.

“Then Miss Rosa is well laid in, and no doubt something will come of it; meanwhile I will make some inquiries and report progress to you as quickly as I can.” So saying, Mr. Ballivant made a sort of crab-like movement towards the door, in which he was checked by the following exclamation from Mamma:

“But how about the Castle, is there a keep and a dungeon, and everything proper?”

“Oh, the Castle!” exclaimed Mr. Ballivant, stamping as he recollected himself; “I knew there was something I’d forgotten. It was the Castle! How provoking! Had a flag-staff in my mind all the time, and somehow it got carried quite away to sea.”

“Oh yes, there should be a flag-staff too! you know,” replied Mamma, “else how would people know when they are at home.”

“Well then, mum, I really quite forgot all about it,” said Mr. Ballivant, honestly. “I really forgot all about it, thinking of the more important points. Shall I make an excuse for seeing Mr. Bunting again?”

“I hardly know,” mused Mrs. McDermott, “I hardly know. Perhaps we could manage an opportunity after luncheon.”

“Luncheon I never take, mum, thank’ee,” replied Mr. Ballivant, hauling up a great gold watch by its new blue ribbon from his fob. “I dine at three, and it will take me that time to get home; but I’ll tell you what I can do, mum, I can make the inquiries by letter along with the others I have to institute.”

“Well, that may do perhaps,” observed Mrs. McDermott,” or Rosa might make them herself of Mr. Bunting.”

“Certainly,” assented Mr. Ballivant; “or we might both make them, and then we could see how the stories agreed.”

“That would do,” said Mrs. McDermott, apparently satisfied, and now leading the way to the door. “Rosa!” exclaimed she, as she got into the passage, “Rosa! Mr. Ballivant is going away, dear!” whereupon our fair heroine broke off her tête-à-tête with our friend, and came out of the drawing-room at once to greet and bid Mr. Ballivant good-bye.

Ballivant bowed low to our beauty, who graciously tendered him her hand, which encouraged the grand inquisitor to repeat the opinion to her he had previously expressed to Mamma, namely, that he thought Mr. Bunting would do; adding, that “he hoped he would make her a good husband, which he was sure she deserved to have;” and that being about as much gallantry as he could muster at the moment, he turned to Mamma, saying, “Still you know, mum, it is well to be prudent, and I would advise you to keep Miss back a little for the present.” Whereupon Rosa, forgetting she had left the drawing-room door open, replied gaily, “Oh, you needn’t be afraid of me, Mr. Ballivant! you needn’t be afraid of me, I’m not one of the sentimental sort,” a hearing that was anything but agreeable to our hero, who thought himself quite irresistible.

The old cast-iron-like cab-horse, having waited at the door for his cargo, Mr. Ballivant was presently in the fetid vehicle, and the harsh steps being raised, the dirty driver whipped lazily away, quite unconscious of the sensation the appearance of his passenger was creating in the country. “What’s up?” was the question at many a dinner and tea-table that day as Ballivant’s vehicle was traced to Privett Grove. Was it the Jug? or was it Miss Rosa? or was it the young Banker? or who? They would like uncommonly to know. Meanwhile, Mr. Ballivant having driven away from the door, Miss Rosa tripped gaily back to our friend and embraced him, as if she was the most loving, affectionate lady in the world—as if it was a regular case of Perish Savoy! with regard to the gentleman’s feelings. And Puffing Billy, late Owen Ashford, having at length got Mr. Bunting home, he packed up his grandfather’s Daftun and sent it by book-post to Mr. Ballivant, in corroboration of what he had said about the capabilities of his forest. And Rosa, reviewing the past, really thought that the gipsey’s prophecy was going to come true. And considering that Ballivant was satisfied, we really see no reason for forbidding the banns.

Let us now return to other parties who will be instrumental in unravelling the mystery.