by R S Surtees
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE TENDER PROP PARRIED.
WHEN THE “LOT” is in the window and the ladies are seen flitting from shop to shop asking for their bills, and those great horse god-mothers, the bathing women, are touting for their tips, it is about time for young gentlemen to be making up their minds, and perhaps for young ladies too, provided they can manage it. So thought our friend, Mr. Admiration Jack, who, though in no hurry to interrupt the pleasant interlocutory process, yet thought that Miss Rosa would be expecting the delicate offer, and that he ought to be making it. He had no doubt that she was desperately in love with him, and was only afraid that Mamma might think he was trifling with her beautiful daughter’s feelings if he did not make it. But for this he would have preferred going on a little longer in the eyeing, sighing line, rather than bring matters to a crisis and precipitate those terrible inquiries that immediately follow on the heels of an offer, and prove the downfall to so many flattering prospects. He knew by sad experience what a sudden revulsion takes place as soon as the smoothly gliding broad gauge of sentiment is exchanged for the jolting cross-roads of the end of the journey. How the heretofore smiling affable Mamma suddenly becomes serious — talks of the responsibility of her situation, as if something had happened she was quite unprepared for, and from being all ease and confidence takes to asking the most pointed pertinent questions that ever were propounded. No Old Bailey Barrister, no Detective Policeman, can probe a pocket with such dexterity as some comely matter-of-fact mothers. They will almost find out how much money a man has in his purse at the moment, and yet appear to be thinking of something else all the while.
All this Mr. Bunting knew and felt, and he would gladly have postponed the day of reckoning were it not that our fair friends departure from the Rocks, opened as it were, a fresh epoch in the matter, and made it necessary cither to come to a direct understanding or to make arrangements for carrying on the siege. Our fat friend from the country gave him little uneasiness, for he could never suppose that any young lady would prefer such an uninteresting looking cub as Jasper to himself. So after due consideration of the matter, reviewing the cause of former failures — all of which he now considered most fortunate — he came to the conclusion that this wax the right young lady, and that he ought to be offering to “love and to cherish her,” or, as the countryman repeated it, “to go to London for cherries for her.”
In a general way the offer does not require much making. The lady is often far more afraid that she won’t get it than that she will. To have an admirer and not bring him to book is considered unskillful. The most hopeless suitors are often encouraged for the mere vanity of the thing; so much admired, so many offers, which are strung together just as boys string eggs upon a line. This big one Brown, this green one Jones, this yellow one Robinson. It is only in cases like the present, where the lady has two strings to her bow, that there is any difficulty, the danger of course being that of saying “Yes” to the wrong one. Not that the lovely ones care much for throwing a man over, but then it requires a little dexterity, and it is best when the right man comes first and the other is let gently down amidst a profusion of good wishes and gratitude. The difficulty is in knowing which is the right one, and as everybody flatters and magnifies up to the offer, a lady may well be bewildered. It is not until the thing is considered settled that people begin to pull the parties to pieces, find out that the young lady has nothing and the gentleman is all faults. In this case there had been great fluctuations both in the minds of Miss Rosa and Mamma as to the relative pretensions of our suitors, Miss not unfrequently leaning towards the Castle, which she thought would be so nice to date her letters from, and Mamma dwelling on the solid advantages of our Banker, who had money enough to build whatever he liked with. At this juncture Mr. Bunting’s pretensions had rather improved in consequence of young Plutus’s escapade with the cards getting bruited abroad, and of course finding its way to Sea-View Place.
The amount lost, though large, was greatly exaggerated, besides which Mamma thought the mere fret of Jasper’s playing was greatly against her beautiful daughter’s happiness. Rosa could not always be with him to keep him right, added to which his before-mentioned intimacy with the Ostler’s son at home, which she used to make light of, was now under the beneficial influence of competition brought more prominently forward. Oh dear! she began to be alarmed. Altogether the Bunting funds rose a little; Mamma was more smiling and Miss more winning. If she did not encourage an offer she at all events showed no disposition to let Mr. Bunting go. It is a subtle game that of “Who has the heart?” which nobody can fathom who is not in the secret. Sometimes one seems to have it, sometimes the other, just like the pea under the thimble. Like the pea and the thimble, too, it is a dangerous one; for though competition may produce ardour and emulation, yet one suitor backing out may frighten away the other, and so leave the fair maiden lonely at last.
Then the ladies will rise in reprobation of her conduct — censure her heartless duplicity — declare she is rightly served — and say they don’t pity her in the least. No matter how ill soever a woman behaves to a man let him never complain, let him,
“leave her to the ladies,
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge,
To prick and sting her they will do the business amongst them.
Mr. Bunting having settled in his own mind that he ought to be advancing nearer the fortifications of the heart, proceeded to take advantage of the opportunities their walks afforded for inquiring more particularly into the whereabouts of their country residence, the summer fêtes, the whiter balls, the hunting, the shooting, the coursing capabilities generally. From her he learnt that the county, like most others, was divided into two sets; that the venison-giving Duke of Tergiversation reigned over one party, and Lord Lavender over the other; that the Duchess gave splendid balls, and the Duke magnificent dinners; that the shooting was very good, and the coursing particularly so, though, lady like, she rather confused the greyhounds with Jonathan Jobling’s harriers — not an unnatural mistake, seeing that they are both licensed to kill hares. The mention of Jonathan’s harriers elicited the fact that the Duke kept foxhounds, whose Scotch huntsman, Mr. Haggis, was always at variance with Jonathan for disturbing their country. “Perfect repose,” Miss Rosa, observing, “being essential to the comforts of a fox.” Altogether she drew such a flattering picture of their county society and sports, that Mr. Bunting became quite enamoured of it. He really should like to pay it a visit.
Miss said nothing.
A man with a couple of hones might see a good deal of sport, he supposed.
Miss supposed he might.
This was drawing on, and another question, “Would she be glad to see him?” would about settle the point. Miss felt the coming pressure and stepped a little on to Mamma, who was swinging her brown parasol leisurely in front, apparently out of ear-shot but just within hearing. Our hero put on also and was presently alongside of our heroine again.
“Would she be glad to see him if he came?” enquired he, sotto voce.
Miss pretended not to hear.
“What is that bird?” asked she. “Is it a cormorant?” pointing with her pink-laced parasol to one over-head.
Mr. Bunting looked up. “No, a crow, a carrion crow,” replied he, turning to see if there was any confusion visible in her face.
No, she was quite composed. She couldn’t have heard him, thought he. Just then they came to the anti-crinoline revolving stile, at the bottom of Verbena Lane, and Mamma having gone in and out, clever, Miss came up measuring her circumference with its capabilities and wishing herself well through. She wondered her Mamma had come that way from the Downs when there were so many others open to her, where they would not have met anyone, meaning Jasper. She then put down her parasol, and contracting her dimensions with both hands, placed herself in the obstacle while her gallant swain worked the wheel, and got her through without crease or injury.
“Thanks,” smiled s
he, fluffing herself out, as she tripped away from the trap.
Mr. Bunting then revolved on his own account, and quickly followed her.
“I must put that question again,” thought he, as ho regained his position. Mamma, however, was rather too near. “What a beautiful sunflower!” exclaimed he, drawing Miss Rosa’s attention to a great staring one in a little paled garden on the left of the lane. Miss stopped to look and thought it was a large one. Didn’t know that she particularly admired sunflowers though.
Well, Mr. Bunting didn’t know that he did either, but still they were showy.
That diversion led them back into the country and enabled Mr. Bunting to get Miss Rosa into her flower-garden at Privett Grove among the verbenas, the heliotropes, the pansies, &c. Mr. Bunting became suddenly fond of flowers and would like to dig her garden for her.
Miss said nothing.
“Would she let him?”
“Yes, if he liked,” replied she dryly.
“Well, but would she be glad to see him?” asked he, returning to the old question.
“Mamma will be glad to see you,” replied the skilful tactician, tripping up to her parent.
“Mamma will be glad to see you,” muttered Mr. Bunting, repeating the answer. Ho bad never had such a one before. What did it mean? But ere he could arrive at any satisfactory solution of the mystery, the ladies turned from the bye-lane into the semi-secluded region of Poplar Place, where under
“the variable shade
By the light quivering aspen made,”
poor Miss Snowball was taking a last sad adieu of Captain Languisher (the writings not suiting), and our Mend feeling that he had done as much as was necessary to propitiate Mamma and entitle him to continue his advances, restored his conversation into its usual airy nothingness, amidst a sufficiency of which he accompanied the ladies to their door. He was not asked in, because Mend Jasper was expected to be there, as in truth he was, lolling on the ricketty sofa, reading Bell’s Life in London of the previous Sunday. And Mr. Bunting being thus bowed off, the ladies entered the house, and Miss nodding Mamma into the dining-room, recounted what our hero had said, to which Mamma thought Rosa had given a capital answer. Miss then tripped up-stairs to the drawing master, and received him as though she thought of nobody but him. No crow, no sun-flower, no garden, no nothing was visible in her sweetly smiling face.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE DEPARTURE.
THOUGH WE LEFT Miss Rosa with the drawing-master, it was not for the purpose of superintending the performance of her crayons, but for the unsentimental one of preparing for their journey home. It was arranged they should all go together. “Time was hup,” as the old stage-coachmen used to say when they disturbed the passengers at their hasty meals, and another day would see them all off. The last day at any place is always a testy, disagreeable one; half the things one wants are packed up, and every room has a littery, untidy look. The servants are hurried and jaded, what between their own business and ours, and don’t know what to do first. Then tiresome people keep calling, knowing that we “will be at home to them,” and so the day wears on without getting half through the work. The meals are ill-cooked and uncomfortable — breakfast on the day of departure particularly so — all odds and ends together. Then just as we are starting, come the last of the lingering bills, those that won’t bear inspection; the milkman with that marvellous score; the publican with an equally long one; the baker for supplementary muffins. Who. is the midst of cording, and tieing, and directing, can resuscitate the memory of those manifold measures. Nothing for it, but to pay and resolve never to have any bills for the future, pay for everything at the time, soap, sand, sugar, sticks, and all. But when the next time comes we just go on as before, being sure we can remember what is got. But let us away. The “key” delivered to the dirty charwoman, then come the cabs for the voluminous crinoline and innumerable parcels and packages that stuff every pocket and tower upon the roof, making the cab look like a haystack. Heavens, how it would have astonished a stage-coachman of the olden time to have seen the quantity of luggage each passenger claims to have carried now-a-days!
Dress has made a marvellous spring since the introduction of railways. Ladies, whose mothers used to get all their things into a moderate sized box and a carpet-bag, travel with great piano-forte-case-like packages, so numerous that they are obliged to be numbered for fear they forget how many they have. And the more they take the more they want to take, till each lady looks as if she ought to have a luggage-van to herself. Then, to see them attempt the entry of a moderate sized carriage; the utter disproportion of the door to the “object,” as it may well be called, that seeks admission! The absurdity of fashion might be tolerated if it inconvenienced only the wearer; but when one lady, extends herself to the size of two, she necessarily takes up the room of two, and must exclude some one else from a seat. A family coach has now no chance of accommodating a family. One full-blown sister must go instead of two natural sized girls. The only advantage we see in the absurdity is, that it forms a sort of graduated scale of gentility; the more extravagant a woman is in her hoops, the less inclined we are to think her a lady. It is only the vulgar who go into extremes, and make themselves look like curtains to bathing-machines.
Well, at length all is ready for a start in Sea-View Place. Mamma and Miss take last looks at themselves in the mirror, hoping they have not forgotten any thing, and down they proceed on the descent of the stairs to the cabs.
The privileged beggar is at the street door, hat in hand, hoping for residuary halfpence, and numerous noses are flattening against the windows of the adjoining houses to see the fair visitors depart, who squeeze into their fly, amidst the speculations by the fair as to the probable result of the visit, and wondering what Miss’s name will be next. Bang goes the door; “Station!” cries the footman; whip goes the driver, and away the top-heavy vehicle rolls away along the east end of Sea-View Place, and so into Triton Lane, making for the broad Victoria Road, leading to the railway.
“Stop!” suddenly cries Miss Rosa, starting up in her seat, as they diverge into Triton Lane.
“What’s the matter?” asks Mamma, looking if Ross has left her watch.
The watch is there, but she has forgotten our old Mend the musical snuff-box, though she had put it on the centre of the mantel-piece, on purpose that she might see and carry it away in her hand. If she had put it on the centre of the table, she most likely would, but what lady can be expected to see anything save her own pretty face above the mantel-piece.
“Stop!” cries Mamma, poking the footman in the back through the let-down front window with her parasol.
“Stop!” repeats he to the driver, and forthwith the cumbrous vehicle stops, and John Thomas is touching his hat at the door.
“Oh, dear!” exclaims Mrs. McDermott, in a half timid, half propitiatory tone, “Oh dear! I’m afraid we’ve forgotten the murical box. It’s on the drawing-room mantel-piece. I wish you would just step back and see.”
“Yez, ‘um,” says John, thinking how long it will take him to go.
“And then come after us as quickly as you can to the station, you know.”
“Yez, ‘um,” says John, fore-fingering his hat.
“Go on then,” cries Mrs. McDermott to the driver, and forthwith the ponderous vehicle is again nid-nodding on its way to the station.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE ROSEBERRY ROCKS STATION.
PEOPLE GENERALLY SEE more of a station on leaving a place than they do on arriving; for, on arriving, every body’s business seems to be to expedite every body else, and hurry them through as quickly as ever they can. “Cab, sir?” is the first sound that greets an arrival, and every porter seems anxious to get a traveller into one. Then the cabs come pouring in from some invisible source in such continuous line, that one might almost fancy they passed round and round the station, just as the handful of sham soldiers that compose the standing army at a theatre pass at the back and the front of t
he stage until the gods in the gallery begin to laugh at their familiar faces. On a departure, travellers, especially those who have been left behind once or twice, generally manage to have a little time on hand to take their tickets, get a bun, and secure seats. This done, they feel somewhat comfortable, and compose themselves for a stare.
It is a lively scene; all the gaiety of the packet-service without the sickness. Indeed, it is better than the packet-service; for while the tea air, salt water, and stuffy cabin, deter ladies from expensive dress, so the spacious comfort, and perfect shelter of the railway station, invite a liberal display of clothes. The Roseberry Rocks Station was built quite on the “money-no-object” principle of the early development of railways, — light, lofty, spacious, and elegant, — with a fine holiday air about it. The white marble stands in the highly decorated refreshment rooms are piled with the most tempting viands, solids, fluids, fruits, sweets of all sorts. Every thing looks so nice and fresh, that a stranger helps himself boldly without troubling to inquire when the tarts or the cakes were made — so necessary at some stations — where they have always a last week’s sandwich or pie ready to foist upon the unwary.
Nor is food for the mind forgotten in providing for that of the body. The books look so new and gay, and, above all, are so cheap — a shilling for what used to cost a guinea a few years since.
One of the peculiarities of modern travel is the great demand there is for books, a book to prevent people seeing the country being quite as essential as a bun to prevent their being hungry. Formerly, a newspaper was considered rather an extravagance, and one paper in a coach was quite enough for the crew. It passed round and round till they had all had enough — though papers were not of the table-cloth size in those days — a single sheet, no supplement, and sevenpence the price. Some people say that they have seen the country till they are tired of it, and know all the views and scenery on the line. True, but that is not making any allowance for the change produced by the seasons, the buds, the leaves, the hay, the grass, the corn, the “tormots,” the sowing, the reaping, the stacking. A railway ride presents a rapid panorama of agriculture; a passenger sees that transition from good to bad farming, from good to bad land, from drained to undrained soil, in a quick, pointed, forcible, unmistakeable way, provided he will but look.
