by R S Surtees
“And have you had a run?” asked Miss Rosa, as soon as the proper Privett Grove enquiries were over, “Have you had a run?” repeated she, with evident interest.
“Why, yes — no, (hem) yes,” replied Mr. Bunting in the hesitating sort-of-way of a man who does not know much about it.
“A good one!” exclaimed she with undiminished zeal.
“Why, yes, no, yes, in fact I hardly can tell you,” replied he, “for my horse is’nt well, and I was obliged to pull up at the end of (hem) time.”
“What! have you had a fall?” now asked Miss Rosa, os she saw Owen Ashford’s dirty side.
“My horse has” replied Mr. Bunting dryly, adding, “he’s not quite up to the mark you see — got a little cold in coming down — so I thought it best to give in.”
Just then Owen Ashford gave a hearty confirmatory “cough, wheese, grunt.”
“Ah, I see he has,” rejoined Miss Rosa. “Must have his feet put in warm water and a little gruel, when he goes to bed; but tell me,” added she, “who was out?” —
“Who was out?” repeated Mr. Bunting, “Who was out? Ah, there you ask me a question I can hardly answer. I was like the new boy in the school you see, where, though they all knew me, I didn’t know them.”
“Well, was Lord Marchhare there?” asked Miss Rosa, coming at once to the point.
“Lord Marchhare was there,” replied Mr. Bunting, “also the Duke, and a Prince somebody.”
“Prince Pirouetteza,” suggested Miss Rosa.
“I dare say that was the name,” said Mr. Bunting carelessly, “a beardy gentleman on a capering white horse, who rode like a trooper.”
“And which way did the hounds go?” asked Miss Rosa.
“Oh, over the hills and far away. I haven’t the slightest idea where. One hill is much the same as another to a stranger.”
“True,” assented Miss Rosa, thinking she might as well give up her intended hound hunt, and accompany her faithful beau on his homeward way. —
With this resolution, she touched her pony lightly with her pink-tasselled riding whip, and Mr. Bunting giving Owen Ashford a hint with his heel to proceed, the two passed Old Gaiters, who presently getting his horse hauled round the same way, the trio proceeded on their homeward way.
The reality of the scene being now realised, Miss dismissed her Marchhareish ideas, and proceeded to talk to her watering-place acquaintance, Mr. Bunting, asked when he came, where he was going, as though she hadn’t the slightest idea what had brought him down into the country. So they proceeded at a pace peculiarly adapted to Owen Ashford’s infirmities, along the nice grass-sided road cheered with the rays of a bright winter’s sun. —
At length a harsh matter-of-fact white guide post stood in the angle of two road ends, one black hand pointing to Burton St. Leger, another to Mayfield, and Owen Ashford giving such a series of grunts as sounded very like coming to a period or full stop, the interesting pair at length parted, Miss again shaking hands with our hero, and assuring him that THEY (not Mamma only) would be happy to see him at Privett Grove, and then cantering away to announce the all-important arrival to her parent. And our delighted friend having followed her as far as he could with his eyes, then proceeded leisurely along the reverse road, inwardly congratulating himself on the result of the day’s adventures, and wondering what would be the result of the expedition.
CHAPTER LXX.
THE EXQUISITE
AS OUR NOW thrice-happy hero descended Holmeside Hill, which commands a full view of Burton St. Leger, and the surrounding country, he saw a well-muffled-up man riding a badly clipped brown horse with a big knee, who checking his horse as they approached, stopped altogether as they met.
“Mr. Bunting isn’t it, sir?” asked the man hesitatingly, touching his hat as he spoke.
“It is,” replied our hero, wondering what anybody could want with him.
“I wish to speak a word with you sir, if you please sir,” said the man, sawing away at his hat.
“Well, speak away,” replied Mr. Bunting.
“I much fear that horse of yours is broken-winded, sir,” observed the man, eyeing our friend intently as he spoke.
“What horse!” exclaimed Mr. Bunting, wondering how the man could know anything about Owen Ashford’s ailments.
“Well, sir, the horse I’ve been seeing — the horse at the Cornwallis Inn — the bay horse.”
“The bay horse!” exclaimed Mr. Bunting— “the bay horse! Why you don’t mean to say there’s anything the matter with the bay horse?”
“Indeed, I do, sir,” replied the man solemnly.
“How do you know?” demanded Mr. Bunting anxiously.
“Why, sir, they sent for me to come and see him. I’m Mr. Kerby the veterinary surgeon, and they sent for me to come and see him — he’d stopped in his gallop at exercise, and they could hardly get him home.”
“Stopped in his gallop,” muttered Mr. Bunting, “stopped in his gallop — what business had they to gallop him? Dare say, they’ve done it themselves.”
“Oh, no, sir,” replied Mr. Kerby, with a semi-smile and shake of his head. “It’s an old complaint sir, — an old complaint.”
“Well, but what makes you think he’s broken-winded?” demanded our hero.
“I see he’s broken-winded, sir — there’s no mistake about that, can tell a broken-winded horse in the dark.”
“Humph!” mused Mr. Bunting, feeling that as he had never had a broken-winded horse, he was not in a position to contradict the Yet.
There is nothing like experience for making people wise. The man who has had a splented or a spavined horse is always looking out for splents and spavins. A man who has had a glandered one invests every horse with a running at the nose with glanders. So with other complaints.
“I don’t think that horse is altogether as he should be,” now observed Mr. Kerby, after a pause, during which he had a good stare at Owen Ashford.
“What — this!” exclaimed Mr. Bunting, slapping the horse’s side.
“Indeed, I think not,” replied the man, “I don’t like the heaving of his flanks.” —
“Why you don’t mean to say he’s broken-winded too?” replied Mr. Bunting incredulously.
“I much suspect he is,” rejoined the man, who had wormed the history of the exchange of horses out of the groom.
“Nay, then!” ejaculated Mr. Bunting, superciliously.
“Will you allow me to try him, sir?” asked Mr. Kerby.
“With all my heart,” replied Mr. Bunting, dropping the reins quite resignedly, thinking he might as well know the worst at once.
Mr. Kerby then alighted, and leaving his own sedate nag to crop the short herbage by the road-side, he approached Owen Ashford, and under the well-known pretence of hitting him in the ribs, elicited the expected grunt.
“I said so,” observed the man, with a nod of confidence.
“What! do you mean to say he’s broken-winded too?” asked Mr. Bunting in disgust.
“Just as bad as the other,” replied the man, with a chuck of his chin—” Just as bad as the other.”
“The deuce!” growled Mr. Bunting.
“Never saw two brokener winded animals in all my life,” observed the Yet, half to himself and half to our hero.
A gleam of light then shone upon our friend’s mind, and he began to perceive, what we doubt not the sporting reader has seen all along — namely, what caused the mirth and merriment of the people in the Sligo Mews. The advertisement, like most specious offers, was too good to be true, and our hero had aided the robbery by his own proposal for an exchange of horses. But for this he would most likely only have lost a fifty pound deposit and got a broken-winded animal for the money, whereas, in addition to his losing his horses, he was saddled with two broken-winded ones. This was very soon painfully apparent, for happening to turn that very evening to the too seductive Times’ Supplement, he found the horse temptation had been changed from the loan of two splendid hunters int
o an advertisement of a superb lady’s horse for sale. Thus it ran:
“A CHRISTMAS PRESENT!
HIGHLY BROKEN LAST’S HORSE! — To be disposed of for one-half its real value, or let, subject to approval of purchase, ‘JEWEL,’ one of the neatest and most highly broken LADY’S HORSES in the metropolis, with saddle, bridle, and everything complete. This animal is perfection, both in action, temper, docility, and appearance, and has been constantly ridden by a lady up to the present time, whose great anxiety is to get it well placed. Colour silver dun, with flowing mane and tail, Arab-like head, with clean legs and fashionable action. Any length of trial allowed. To save trouble, no dealer need apply. Ask for Matthew, Miss Holloway’s groom, 51 A, Sligo Mews, Rochester Square.”
And thus the inhabitants of Sligo Mews are kept in a constant state of amusement by watching the flys that dock to each fresh advertisement; stout gentlemen with corpulent umbrellas hurrying up from the country thinking to do the generous at a cheap rate; languishing young gentlemen, with hands up to the hilts in their peg-top trowser-pockets, wondering if the “Jewel” would do for dear Mary Anne or Eleanor Jane; verdant gentlemen thinking to get a ride for nothing, and wonderfully disappointed at being asked for a “deposit knowing grooms passing on with a smile as soon as “Matthew” presented himself, and less confident coachmen hesitating whether or not to go in according to master’s or mistress’s orders. Often and rapidly as A51 is cleared out, Aaron Levy the landlord fills up the vacancy with fresh Crankeys and Matthews’s, so brisk is the trade, and so yielding the seams of British greenness and greediness.
One reason why this horse-cheating prospers is that parties axe ashamed to admit they have been duped, and part with the poor animals to the first person who makes them an offer, or who perhaps will take them in a gift. This is generally some confederate of the swindlers who thus get them back to operate with again under other names Indeed a suspicious-looking stranger arrived at the Malt-Shovel Inn at Burton St Leger, with a packet of pens and general stationery, and had several dialogues with sore-eyed Sam as they lounged against the railings in front of the Lord Cornwallis Inn, the burthen of which generally was that he wondered such a genilman as Mr. Bunting would ride a broken-winded oss, for which he expressed his willingness to give sometimes three, sometimes four, and sometimes even as much as four pound ten. Indeed, at length he got so valiant that he wouldn’t mind giving ten pounds for the two, if it would be any accommodation to the “Squire.” And there can be no doubt that where the whole thing turns upon looks, a five pound note would be extremely well invested upon a horse that would immediately convert the five pound note into fifty or perhaps a-hundred.
No one, taking either Owen Ashford or the Exquisite out of the stable on trial, would hesitate to deposit a fifty pound note or give a cheque on his banker, if he had not the money with him, for that amount, conditional on the safe return of the horse; indeed would think he was let rather cheaply off for that amount. Half an hour however, would undeceive him, but when he came back he might knock and ring a long time at 51A before he got admitted. Meanwhile all Sligo Mews would be alive from one end to the other, and numerous would be the inquiries if he didn’t wish he “might get it.”
It may appear cruel, but considering the torture these poor animals undergo to furbish them up for their share of the deception, it would be a greater kindness for a dupe to give them to the nearest horse-slaughterer rather than prolong their existence by selling them back to these barbarous ruffians. The dupe would at all events aid in the suppression of the fraud, as far as he was concerned, an object that we hope to promote by thus detailing the adventures of Captain Cavendish Chichester’s horses. —
CHAPTER LXXI.
PRIVETT GROVE.
MR. BUNTING DID not accommodate the peripatetic stationer with his stud, but got Mr. Kerby, the veterinary surgeon, to patch them up as well as he could for walking purposes. By judicious feeding a broken-winded animal may be made available for slow work and quiet purposes. Having ascertained through the medium of the electric telegraph that there was no such person then known at 51 A, Sligo Mews, as Peter Crankey, Captain Cavendish Chichester’s groom, or any such horses there as his own Bard or the Kitten, Mr. Bunting became somewhat resigned to his unlucky fate, and treated the ailments of his horses as colds they had caught on the journey down. It would ill become a man of his knowledge and experience to admit he had been victimised in any such ridiculous way. So he determined to accommodate himself to their coughing, and consoled himself with the thought that it would have been worse if they had been glandered. If he could not hunt them, he could at all events ride to the place, that he had adopted the pleasures of the chase for the purpose of getting to, so Mr. Kerby, having done all he could in the way of mitigation of their complaint, and prescribed the best course of treatment, Mr. Bunting wrote to London for new saddles and bridles in lieu of the wretched things he had got with the horses, and prepared for carrying out his designs in another quarter. Meanwhile he added to his obligations to Mr. Buckwheat by borrowing a second set of accoutrements of him for his groom’s horse.
We need not say there was great excitement in Privett Grove in consequence of Mr. Bunting’s arrival in the country, Mamma and Miss both felt that matters were coming to a crisis, and upon the right application of the little words “Yes” and “No” depended a world of comfort, or the contrary. Whichever way it was, they could not but feel that they might sometimes think they had taken the wrong man. It therefore behoved them to be most wary and circumspect. Mr. Bunting was certainly a most agreeable man, but then they knew little or nothing of him (intrinsically at least), while, as regarded Jasper, there was no doubt whatever about him, though he certainly was a cool indifferent suitor. Even Miss Rosa’s return to ringlets, which was all done to please him, seemed to produce little or no effect upon him. “Ringlets,” said he, eyeing the rich glossy curls—” Ringlets, well I think you look better in them!” was all he said.
Now, however, it was clear that Mr. Bunting’s presence would quicken him if there was any quicksilver in him: at all events Mrs. Goldspink would see that it was not a case of necessity, and instruct Jasper accordingly. And though it might perhaps be better if Jasper were to declare first, yet there was no reason why Mr. Bunting should not be encouraged and put in the right way. Hitherto Miss Rosa had played her cards with the utmost skill and discretion, holding Bunting on but yet keeping him back, just as a skillful sportsman rides a young horse up to a leap, but won’t let him go over till he likes. How much longer that game could be played was now the question for consideration. There could be no doubt that Mr. Bunting was safe, or he would not have come down into the country, and as it was clear Miss Rosa could not take both, there was no reason why she should not take the best. The matter was one of deep and serious consideration, and Mrs. McDermott well knew what a commotion our hero’s appearance would make in the country where courting could not be carried on upon the double entry principle of large towns. Matters, therefore, had now about come to a crisis, and Mr. Bunting, it was clear, must be disposed of one way or other. So thought our friend himself, who, as soon as calling time approached on the day after the road interview, with the aid of Bonville perfected an elaborate costume for the occasion. Crop and the coughing horses too turned out not so far amiss, and another friendly sun smiled brightly on the scene.
A swell in London is a swell anywhere, and Mr. Bunting’s smart hat, purple and black tie, careful collar, curiously cut coat, ample pantaloons, and highly polished boots, contrasted with the rough, harsh, matter-of-fact overcoats and mud defiers of the people he met on the road. Great was the curiosity he excited as he wandered leisurely along, trying to keep down the coughs by the evenness of the pace. Mr. Hodge told Mrs. Hodge when he got home that he had met such a smart gentleman, with such a smart groom after him; and Mrs. Hodge wondered who it could be — where he came from, and whither he was going. Mr and Mrs. Woodbine met Bunting as they drove the steady old family hor
se, who went dwelling along in his trot as though he half thought he was pulling the cart and ought to be walking; and the Woodbines were lost in astonishment at the glossy lavender-coloured kids! — clean on, too. And did you see the groom’s buck-skins, boots, and belt round his waist? The latter was considered the greatest curiosity, and old Jack Chaffey, the road man, who worked by the day, ceased revolving the mud, and resting his chin on the top of his scraper, asked every man woman and child who came along what it could mean. Dear me, he had never seen such a thing as that before, and he had seen a vast of queer sights, but never such a queer sight as that before. And not being able to get any satisfactory solution of the mystery, he revolved the mud a few more times, and calmly awaited the coming of the next traveller. Meanwhile Mr. Bunting held leisurely on at his own pace, wholly absorbed on the object of his mission, so much so, indeed, that although he had studied the map pretty accurately so as not to have to ask any questions, he overshot the Crosland turn, and was riding away for Old Bridge End, when he met Margery Meggison, the rag gatherer, who, in reply to his inquiry if he was anywhere near Privett Grove, exclaimed, “Privett Grove! why, you be riding away from it!” Margery then having told him so much, thought to have her innings, and said, “It’ll be Mrs. McDermott’s you’re wanting, I ‘spose?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Bunting, boldly.
“Or Miss, whether, now?” asked the crone, fixing her little beady block eyes intently upon him.
“Well, either,” smiled Mr. Bunting.
“Ah, Miss will do best for you,” replied Margery; “Miss will do best for you. Now,” continued she, “do you see you stacks by the barn on the hill?”
“Yes,” replied our friend.
“Well, then, a little to the left of them are some trees. That’s Privett Grove. Follow this road till you come to the turn, then take the one to the right and it leads past the gate.”
