The village of Westbourne was what Americans would call a stylish place,
though situated deep in the heart of Derbyshire. Most of its houses had
green palings and flowers in front; there was a circulating library, a
milliner's shop, and a ladies' boarding-school, within its bounds; and
from each extremity of its larger and smaller street--for Westbourne had
only two--outlying cottages of various names dotted the surrounding
fields. The largest of these, and decidedly the handsomest, belonged, as
the door-plate set forth, to Mr Harry Phipps Bunting. It had been called
Bunting Cottage, ever since the late possessor--after having made what
his neighbours esteemed a fortune, by himself keeping the circulating
library, and his spouse the boarding-school--built it by way of
consolation for the second year of his widowhood, and retired there from
business to hold high gentility in his latter days with his only
daughter and heiress, Miss Jenny. At least half of Westbourne believed
that in the said arrangements Mr Bunting had his eye on a second and
somewhat superior match: in short, those good people averred that the
handsome cottage was neither more nor less than a substantial snare for
Mrs Phipps, the widow of a captain and second-cousin of a baronet, who,
with a small annuity and an only son, lived in the odour of great rank
and fashion in a neat brick-house at the other end of the village.
But if Mr Bunting had indeed indulged in speculations on the widow's
heart, they were cut short by a sudden summons to take the journey on
which his early partner had preceded him; and Miss Jenny was left the
undisputed heiress of all his gains and gatherings, now amounting to a
comfortable sum in a London bank, besides the newly-built cottage. None
of the village remembered the time when Miss Jenny was young--not but
that there were older ladies in the community, and few who wore their
years so well--but a matronly staidnees and industry, a solidity of
manner and appearance, had grown so early on the lady, that she had no
youth, and scarcely any childhood, in the recollection of her
neighbours, and she was now on the shady side of thirty.
Miss Jenny might have had suitors, had her encouragement been more
liberal: where is the maiden of fortune who might not? But she had no
admirers, though there was not a more popular woman in Westbourne. Time
out of mind she was known to have a good advice and a helping-hand for
all who required either. The help was always kindly given, and the
advice generally judicious: indeed, if Miss Jenny had a weakness, it was
the love of direction and counsel-giving; and by that breach the strong
citadel of her heart was won. There was no house in Westbourne that gave
her abilities half such scope as that of Mrs Captain Phipps--so the lady
continued to style herself. Miss Jenny's father had advised there till
he departed; after which event, the widow and her son confided in his
heiress. Master Harry Phipps was not what would be called a successful
young man. He was not either wild or remarkably stupid, as the world
goes; his mother knew him to be a dear domestic fellow, who would play
the flute or dominos for weeks of evenings in her back-parlour. He had
taken one prize at college and sundry at school; had the reputation of
being almost a beau, and, at least in Westbourne society, half a wit;
and was a tall, fair-faced, lathy young man, dressing well, and looking
rather genteel, in spite of an overgrown boyishness which hung about him
and kept the Master fastened to his name, though he had left twenty-five
behind him. Master Harry had made attempts on law, physic, and divinity,
without completing the studies requisite for any of those learned
professions; somehow he had always got disgusted when just half-way, and
at the time of our tale, had a serious notion of civil engineering. The
fates, nevertheless, chalked out another line for Master Harry Phipps.
How it first came about the keenest-eared gossips in Westbourne never
knew, but the widow's son was observed to become a frequent visitor at
the cottage as the days of Miss Jenny's mourning for her father expired.
In these expeditions he was occasionally supported by Mrs Captain
Phipps, who at length told her confidential friends, and they informed
the village, that her son was about to marry, and take the name of
Bunting. Some said that Miss Jenny insisted on the latter step as a
badge of her perpetual sovereignty; some that it was a provision in her
father's will, the old gentleman having been heard to hope that none but
Buntings would ever inhabit the cottage; but while they disputed that
point the wedding came off with a liberal distribution of cards, cake,
and gloves, a breakfast, at which Mrs Captain Phipps presided, and an
excursion of three weeks to the Lakes; after which, Mr and Mrs Phipps
Bunting, having got a new door-plate, and an additional crest on the
spoons, settled down comfortably at home, where our story found them.
There they were duly visited and made due returns, even to their
uttermost acquaintance. Evening parties wore got up for their benefit,
as Westbourne gentility dictated. A few responses were given at the
cottage, and people learned to call them the Buntings. When these
occurrences and the talk concerning them were fairly over, it was
surprising how little things had altered. Mrs Phipps Bunting
superintended everything, from the napery in the drawers to the
bee-hives in the garden, with so much of her old and independent
activity, that people caught themselves occasionally calling her Miss
Jenny. As for her lord, he was Master Harry still. Matrimony made no
change in him. On Sundays he dressed himself and went to church with Mrs
Phipps Bunting. On week-days, he said he studied, paid little visits,
took small excursions, and came home to dinner. Even bachelors agreed
that he lived under the mildest form of gynecocracy. Mrs Captain Phipps
gave him good advices at the one end of the village, Mrs Phipps Bunting
kept him all right at the other; and between them an indescribable
amount of nobodyism grew and gathered around him.
Mr Phipps Bunting--as the best bred of his neighbours now endeavoured to
call him--was doubtless not less contented than most men in the married
state. Miss Jenny--that was--made a noble housekeeper, that was natural
to her; she was not given to storms nor temper, nor fault-finding, nor
what is called gaiety: they had kind country neighbours; and Mrs Phipps
Bunting sometimes spoke of her mother's relatives, who were known to be
fine people in London.
There was no appearance of change when the second of their wedded years
commenced; but one December morning an extraordinary event occurred at
the cottage, for Harry received a letter. It came from Charles Lacy, an
old college-friend, whose achievements in the fast line had furnished
him with many a joke and tale. He had been till lately a briefless
barrister, but had just fallen heir to a neat property in an adjoining
county, bequeathed him by a distant relative, his advent to which he
intended celebrating with a notable bachelors' party, and Harry's
presence was requested, together with that of many a college comrade.
'I think I'll go,' said Harry, in a hesitating tone, as the note was
read at the breakfast-table.
'Of course you will, dear,' said Mrs Bunting. 'And now that I think of
it; something must be done with that parlour chimney, it smokes so. Just
send up the mason on your way to the coach.'
The vehicle thus mentioned was an old stager which passed through
Westbourne daily, carrying passengers to sundry of the unrailwayed towns
on its track; and within two hours from the receipt of the invitation Mr
Phipps Bunting, well wrapped up, and better warned against taking cold,
with his best things in a carpet bag and his lady's commands delivered
to the mason, took possession of an inside seat on his way to Charles
Lacy's domicile.
How the bachelors' party proceeded in that locality, and how the
failings of the parlour chimney were corrected at the cottage,
imaginative readers may suppose; but on the third day after Harry's
departure there arrived a note, stating that his host had invited him to
remain a fortnight that they were to have shooting in the fine frosty
weather he thought he might stay. Mrs. Phipps Bunting sent her
approbation by return of post. There was a colony of rats to be
expatriated, a clearing out of the coal cellar to be achieved, and a
bottling of cider to get forward, under which considerations she
concluded he was better out of the way; but all these things were
accomplished, and more than the specified time elapsed, when another
note came to say that Lacy positively would not let Harry home without
seeing his uncle, the great barrister, who lived in the nearest assize
town; and the legal protector of Miss Jenny 'thought he might go on that
visit.'
There was a graver and more lengthy reply to that communication; but the
fates forbade that Harry should read Mrs Bunting's in time. Charles
Lacy's housekeeper had a standing-order to put all letters into a huge
card-bracket, which that young gentleman affirmed had been presented to
him by an heiress of L.20,000 in her own right; and Mrs Bunting's
epistle was placed in the receptacle--for before its arrival Harry had,
like an undutiful husband, started with Charles for the house of his
uncle. The old barrister, though not one of the brightest, was among the
successful of his profession, and kept a hospitable, easy-going house,
with a maiden sister and two dashing nephews, in a comfortable English
country town, at one end of which was a railway station for the coming
and going of London trains. Our Harry had been always an agreeable,
commodious fellow. There were no angles on his temper to come in contact
with those of other people: rich uncle, maiden aunt, and sporting
nephews, all joined in requesting his stay from week to week; while
three successive notes were in turn committed to the card-bracket on
Charles Lacy's mantelpiece.
'Harry, my boy,' said that gay gentleman, as they stood looking at a
passing train, 'what do you say to a run for London? I have another
uncle there--a first-rate solicitor in the firm of Grindley, Blackmore,
& Co. Ours is a legal family. Grindley and the old hen would be glad to
see us; and I'll introduce you to the Blackmores, a delightful mother
and four daughters; all charming girls with three thousand a piece. I
wish you could only hear Clementina Blackmore sing _Will you still be
true to me?_ Harry, if ever I am so left to myself as to think of
marrying, that's the girl!'
Let us now suppose that a quantity of additional pressing took
place--that the nephews offered to go along as Christmas was
coming--that Harry sent home another note to say 'he thought he might
go'--and that long before it reached the cottage, he was installed at
the house of Mr Grindley in London, who, as his nephew promised, divided
a capital legal business with his partner Mr Blackmore.
The proverb which says, 'Out of sight out of mind,' was by this time in
course of being fulfilled as regarded the good woman at the cottage. In
the revival of old associations his college-friend partially forgot that
Harry was a family man, and the easy gentleman himself never thought of
intruding the circumstance on people's notice. To do him justice, he had
a remarkably single look; all his acquaintances called him Harry Phipps.
It was therefore no marvel that the unsuspecting household of Blackmore
received him as a bachelor.
The papa of it was a hard-witted, busy lawyer; the mamma an excessively
fine lady; and the four daughters pretty, accomplished,
fashionable-looking girls, from twenty-two--their mamma said
seventeen--upwards, who judiciously came out in different lines; for
Miss Blackmore was metaphysical, Miss Caroline sentimental, Miss Maria
fast, and Miss Clementina musical. Between the last mentioned and
Charles Lacy a strong and not discouraged flirtation was in progress,
which afforded Harry better than ordinary opportunities for cultivating
that domestic circle. It was not every day he would have such a house to
call at, and Harry did his best to be popular. He hunted up high-life
gossip for Mrs Blackmore; he admired the solicitor's law-stories after
dinner; he was the humble servant of all the young ladies in turn, but
his chief devoirs were paid to the fast Maria. The reason was that the
fast Maria would have it so. She thought him, it is true--as she said
once to a confidential friend--a sort of goosey-goosey-gander, but he
polked capitally, was a personable fellow--and Maria was a spinster.
Christmas was coming, and Harry stood high in favour with all the
Blackmores. The senior miss found out that he had a philosophic mind;
Miss Caroline said she knew there was a little romance about him--he had
been disappointed in first-love or something; and Charles Lacy had an
intuitive suspicion that the old people would soon begin to inquire
regarding his income and prospects. The idea was excessively amusing,
but yet somewhat alarming. He thought Harry was carrying it on too
far--he was. Hadn't he better give Clementina a hint? But then
Clementina would think he ought to have done so long ago. Charles was
puzzled, and he did not like to be puzzled. He would have nothing more
to do with it. He would wash his hands of it. How was he obliged to know
that they were not aware of Harry's being tied up? The whole thing was
really uncomfortable, and he did not like anything that was
uncomfortable. He would take Harry to task for his enormity, and then
think no more about it. Meditating thus, he entered Mrs Blackmore's
drawing-room one forenoon early enough to find mamma and the young
ladies hard at Berlin wool--they were finishing Christmas presents--all
but Maria, for whose amusement Harry was turning over a volume of
sporting prints at a little table by themselves.
'We are all industrious to-day,' said Mrs Blackmore, 'on account of our
country cousin--a dear odd creature. She has sent us hampers and baskets
full of everything nice, for I don't know how long. The girls can
scarcely remember when she was here last, and it would be such a comfort
to her to have some of their work. Do, Maria, try and finish that
purse.'
Charles and Harry had heard of that 'dear odd country cousin' ever since
they first entered the house. The turkeys and chickens she sent had been
described in their hearing till they thought they had eaten them. From
the conversation of her relatives Harry concluded her to be a spinster
or widow of an uninteresting age. However, the threatened arrival
created a new employment for him in the shape of holding purse-silk for
Miss Maria to wind; and owing perhaps to the quietness of this
employment--perhaps to its occupying so long a time--the awkwardness of
his position began to stare him in the face. He began to think he was a
bad fellow--although it was all Charles's fault. He did not know that
Miss Maria thought him a goosey-goosey-gander, but he began at last to
hate her all the same--we are so liable to hate those we are conscious
of injuring! He became in truth afraid of her--she haunted him. He knew
he ought to do something, but he did not know what to do. He had all his
life acted under advice, and he now felt as if he had broken from his
moorings, and was on the wide, wide sea, drifting at the mercy of this
calamity.
At the moment we have arrived at, things had come to an alarming climax.
In reply to his bewildered look Charles had turned away with
severity--washing his hands of it--to join Miss Clementina in the
corner; and the rest of the family, who seemed suddenly to find
themselves _de trop_, scattered away to other parts of the room. Now
Miss Maria was a fast girl, and Harry knew it. She looked wicked, as if
determined upon a _coup d'etat_; and he began to perspire all over. The
skein fared badly. At this moment some slight diversion was made in his
favour by a servant appearing with a message regarding somebody in the
back-parlour; whereupon Mrs Blackmore went hastily down stairs; and
Harry's eyes followed her wistfully: he thought he should like to get
out.
'Oh, girls,' said Caroline, returning in a few minutes, 'it is poor
cozy, and mamma is bringing her up for us all to comfort her. She has
lost I don't know how much money by the failure of that horrid Skinner's
bank; and what's worse, she can't find her husband.'
'He ought to be sent home wherever he is,' replied Maria; 'I'm sure she
was just too good to him. Oh, Mr Harry Phipps, what a sad set you men
are! I declare you are ravelling again.'
Harry, colouring to the roots of the hair, bent forward to plead some
unintelligible excuse; the fast Maria took hold of his finger as if she
was cross; and at that instant another finger was pressed upon his
shoulder, and looking up, he gazed into the eyes of his wife!
For some seconds Harry and his spouse looked at each other as if unable
to believe their eyes; but the lady's good sense at last prevailed, and
gulping down something which would have come out with most women, she
gently shook her husband's hand, now liberated from the purse-silk, with
'Harry, love, I am so glad to find you here. I was really afraid that
worse had happened than the failure of Skinner & Co.'
Harry replied in rather an indistinct tone, though Charles Lacy ever
after vowed he did wonderfully, considering the looks of Mrs Blackmore
and her daughters. As for Maria she retired from silk and all, without a
word about deceivers, which was also remarkable. Sense in the person of
Mrs Bunting for once appeared contagious. The Blackmores, one and all,
tacitly agreed that there had been no mistake whatever in the family,
beyond the droll particular of their not recognising in a gentleman
introduced to them as Mr Harry Phipps the husband of a lady whom they
had been accustomed to address as Mrs Bunting. By the failure of Skinner
& Co. poor Mrs Bunting had lost everything but the cottage and furniture
at Westbourne; a fact which she learned only on her arrival in London to
pay a long-projected visit to her mother's relatives, the Blackmores.
The Buntings in due time went home. We have reason to believe that there
was never even a curtain-lecture delivered on the subject of the
purse-silk. When we last visited Westbourne, Mrs Phipps Bunting was as
active, as good-natured, and as popular as ever; but people had
forgotten to say Master Harry, for Henry Phipps Bunting, Esquire, had
been appointed Her Majesty's stamp-distributer for the district. He was
also invested with a couple of agencies for certain absent proprietors;
but he never again 'thought he might go' on sporting-excursions; and no
family could have imagined him to be a bachelor, for ever since he set
fairly to work, a more married-like man we never saw.