CHAPTER VIFIRST IMPRESSIONS
Thetrain which bore Wynyard to his situation was slow, and lingered affectionately at every station; nevertheless he enjoyed the leisurely journey. He was glad to be in England once more! His eyes feasted greedily on the long stretches of quiet, secluded country, nice hunting fences, venerable villages crowding round a church steeple, and stately old halls buried in hollows, encompassed by their woods.
The afternoon was well advanced when he saw “Catsfield” on a large board staring him in the face, and, realising that he had reached his destination, seized his bag, sprang out, and went in search of his luggage—a corded tin box of a remarkably vivid yellow. His sister had insisted upon this, instead of his old battered portmanteau, as a part of his disguise. A portmanteau, she declared, would give him away at once! For, no matter how dilapidated and travel-stained, a portmanteau conferred a certain position upon its owner!
There were but two people on the platform of the forlorn little station, which seemed to have no business and no belongings, but had, as it were, sat down helplessly to rest in the middle of a sweeping plain of pasture.
Outside the entrance no cabs or vehicles were to be seen, merely an unpainted spring-cart drawn by a hairybay mare. In reply to the traveller’s inquiries, the porter said—
“Oh no, there’s no call for flies here, sir, no work for ’em; the cart was sent for a man-servant, and he ain’t come. To Ottinge? Yes, sir, he’d take your luggage, I dessay, and you, too, if you wouldn’t despise driving with him.”
“I wouldn’t despise driving with any one; but, as I’m rather stiff and dusty, I’ll walk. You say Ottinge is four miles across the fields and seven by the road.” “Here,” addressing the driver in the cart, “if you are going to Ottinge, will you take my bag and box, and I’ll give you a shilling?”
“All right, master; ’eave ’em in, Pete. Where to, sir?”
“Miss Parrett’s, the Manor;” then, turning to the porter, “can you point me out the short-cut?”
“Yes, sir, straight over the fields. First you go along this ’ere road to the left, down a lane, then over the water-meadows and a wooden bridge—ye can see the spire of Ottinge Church, and if you steer to that, you can’t go far out. Thank you,” touching his cap in acknowledgment of sixpence.
As the stranger moved off with an even, swinging stride, the two men stared after him with a gape of astonishment.
“I’m jiggered if I don’t believe that’s the motor chap after all!” said the driver; “why, he looks like a regular toff, and talks high. I was bid to fetch a young man, so I was, but there was no word of a gentleman—and I know he’s boarding at Sally Hogben’s.”
“It’s a queer start,” agreed the porter; “he’s a likely looking fellow. I expect he’ll make rare work amongthe maids!” as his eyes followed the active figure in tweeds and leather gaiters, till it was lost to sight round a bend in the road.
“That soort o’ chap won’t be long with them two old women, you may take your oath. Lor’ bless ye, he’d cut his throat! Why, you haven’t a good glass o’ beer nor a pretty girl in the parish.”
“I’m none so sure o’ that!” retorted the driver, giving the bay a smack with the reins, preparatory to starting; “there’s a fair tap at the Drum, and a couple o’ rare pretty faces in our church.”
“Is that so? I’m not to say busy on Sunday—one down and one up—and maybe I’ll just step over and have a look at ’em.”
“Eh, ye might go furder and fare worse! Well, I’m off,” and he rattled away in his clumsy cart, with the gay new box for its only load.
It was about four o’clock on a lovely afternoon in April; the air was sweet and stimulating, and the newcomer was conscious of a sense of exhilaration and satisfaction, as he looked across the stretch of meadows lying in the sunlight.
Wynyard was country-bred, and the familiar sights and sounds awakened pleasant memories. He noted the bleating of lambs, the cries of plover, the hedges powdered with thorn, and the patches of primroses. Everything was so rural and so restful—such a contrast to the roar of London, the skimming taxis, the hooting and clanking of motors, and the reek of petrol; he had stepped aside from the glare and noise into a byway. As he strode along, steering steadily for the church spire, his spirits rose with every step; he vaulted stiles, leapt lazy little streams, and, coming to a river, which he crossed by a rickety wooden bridge, found that he was withinmeasurable distance of his destination, and paused for a moment to survey it.
The village, which lay under the shelter of some low hills, was long and straggling; red, hunched-up houses and high-roofed, black barns had turned their backs on the pasture, and a hoary church, with a high slated spire and surrounded by a bodyguard of trees, stood sentry at one end of Ottinge-in-the-Marsh. At the other, and almost opposite to where he had halted, was an ancient grey manor house of considerable pretensions, set in creepers and encircled by yew hedges. A stone-faced, sunk fence and a high wooden gate separated him from this property, and, as far as he could judge, the only way he could reach the village was by intruding into the grounds. He looked up and down and could see nothing but a fence abutting on the meadows, and, further on, the backyards and gardens of the villagers. Like the thundering ass he was, he had lost his way! He tried the wooden gate, found it padlocked, and vaulted over—a bold trespasser! As he alighted, a little figure, which had been stooping over a flower-bed, raised itself with a jerk, and he found himself face to face with a bunchy old lady, trowel in hand. She wore a short jacket made of Gordon tartan and a knitted hood with shabby brown strings.
For a moment the two surveyed one another fixedly: she, recognising that she was confronting a tall, handsome young man of six or seven-and-twenty; he, that he was gazing at a little woman, with grey hair worn in loops at either side of a flattish face which was animated by a pair of quick, suspicious eyes—round and black as those of a bird.
“There is no right-of-way through these grounds!” she announced, in a high reedy voice, something like achild’s, but more authoritative; and as she opened her mouth it was apparent that she was toothless as a newborn babe.
“I’m awfully sorry,” said the interloper, cap in hand, “but I’m afraid I’ve missed the footpath and lost my bearings. I want to get into the village.”
“Well, you’re in the village here,” she answered tartly. “You’ve only to go down that avenue,” pointing with her trowel; “the Drum is on the left. I suppose you are come about the fishing?”
“Thank you—no—I’ve nothing to do with fishing.”
Once more he took off his cap. She bowed from her waist as if it was hinged, and again indicated his direction.
“The Manor?” echoed a yokel, in answer to Wynyard’s question; “why,” with a grin, “yer just come out o’ it, mister!”
He accordingly retraced his steps down the short drive and rang at the hall door, which was at the side of the dignified old house, and over the lintel of which was the date, 1569, in deeply cut figures. A smart parlour-maid answered the clanging bell, and stared in round-eyed surprise.
“Can I see Miss Parrett?” he asked; “my name is Owen. I’m the new chauffeur.”
“The chauffeur!” she repeated, with incredulous emphasis. “Oh!—If you will just step inside, I’ll let her know;” and, tripping before him down a long, resounding, flagged passage—which seemingly ran the length of the house—she ushered him into a low-pitched room, with heavy oak beams, and mullioned windows facing south, overlooking the meadows he had recently crossed—a vast, spreading stretch of flat country outlined by a horizon of woods—possibly those of some great demesne.
“I’ll tell Miss Parrett,” said the maid, as, with alingering look at the new arrival, she closed the door.
The chauffeur awaited an interview for some time, as it took Miss Parrett at least ten minutes to recover her amazement, and invest herself with becoming dignity. That man the chauffeur! Why, she had actually mistaken him for a gentleman; but, of course, in these socialistic days, the lower orders dressed and talked like their betters; and she registered a mental vow to keep the creature firmly in his place. The fact that she had supposed her new chauffeur to be a visitor who rented the fishing, was an error she never forgave herself—and the origin of her secret animosity to Wynyard.
The room into which he had been ushered was heavily wainscoted in oak; the chimneypiece, a most beautiful specimen of carving—but some ignorant hand had painted the whole with a sickly shade of pea-green! Various tables and chairs, which had seen better days, were scattered about; it was not a show apartment, but evidently the retreat where people did all sorts of odd jobs. A coil of picture wire, curtain rings, and a pile of chintz patterns, were heaped on the round centre table, and a stack of wall-papers littered the floor. A snug, sunny, cheerful sort of den, which would make an A1 smoking-room. Precisely as the chauffeur arrived at this opinion, the door was flung open, and Miss Parrett ambled in.
“Soyouare my new chauffeur!” she began, in a shrill voice, as she surveyed him with an air of acrid self-assertion.
“Yes, ma’am,” and Owen, as he looked at her, was conscious of a nascent antagonism.
“Your name, I understand, is Owen. What’s your christian name?”
He coloured violently. Whatwashis christian name?
“St. John,” he answered, after a momentary hesitation. (It was his second name.) “That is—I mean to say—John.”
“St. John, what affectation! Of course it’s John—plain John. I’ve engaged you on the recommendation of my friend, Lady Kesters. She says you are steady, efficient, and strictlysober,” looking him up and down; “she mentioned you were smart—I suppose she meant your clothes, eh?”
Wynyard made no reply, but kept his gaze fixed steadily on a crack in the floor, and the old woman continued—
“Of course Lady Kesters knows you personally?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I hope I shall find you satisfactory and experienced.”
“I hope so, ma’am.”
“And not above your place—ahem!”—clearing her throat—“I have recently purchased a most beautiful motor, and I engaged you to drive it, and take great care of it; it is lined with real morocco leather, and cost, second-hand, five hundred pounds.” As she paused for a moment to see if he was properly impressed, he repeated his parrot’s cry of—
“Yes, ma’am.”
“My sister and I propose to use it for paying calls at a distance. You must driveveryslowly and carefully, and keep the car in perfect order, and spotlessly clean.”
“I’ll do my best, ma’am,” he assented.
“Your wages will be, from to-day, two guineas a week. You will live in the village. We have arranged for you to board with a most respectable woman, and trust you will give her as little trouble as possible, and we shallexpect to see you in church at least once on Sunday. You may join the Young Men’s Christian Association, and the choir—and——”
But here he interrupted.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but I don’t think there’s anything about church attendance and singing in our agreement. Sunday, I presume, will be my day off, and I shall be glad of some exercise.”
“You never mean to tell me you don’t go to church?” she demanded, fixing him with her little beady eyes; “as to exercise, you will get plenty of that in the week—doing odd jobs and going messages. We are only here about six months, and not nearly settled yet.”
“I,” he was about to add, “go to church when I please;” but at this critical moment the door again opened, and another lady, much younger than his inquisitor, entered briskly. She had a long thin face, a kindly expression, and a pair of bright blue eyes which opened to their widest extent as she looked at Wynyard.
“I heard our new chauffeur had come,” she began, rather breathlessly.
“Mychauffeur, Susan, if you please,” corrected Miss Parrett, “seeing that I am paying his wages and he is to drivemycar.”
Miss Susan coloured faintly, and answered with a nervous laugh—
“Yes, yes, dear, of course—of course.”
“His name is Owen—John Owen—and I have been telling him of his duties, and how we only require to be driven about the countryquietly—no dashing, no racing, no touring.”
“Yes, my dear sister, that is all very well for you who are nervous; but I do love motoring, and I hope this young man will take me for miles, and let me see something ofthe country. I wish you would come with us, Bella, won’t you?”
“I don’t require you to invite me to use myowncar, Susan,” rejoined Bella, with crushing dignity. Wynyard gathered that an increase of riches had not been to the moral advantage of Miss Parrett, and felt sorry for her snubbed relation; but Susan, a valiant soul, took what the gods had given her or withheld, with extraordinary philosophy, was never offended, envious, or out of temper, and recovered from these humiliations with the elasticity of an indiarubber ball.
“You left London early?” said Miss Parrett, turning to him.
“Yes, ma’am, at nine o’clock.”
Susan started at the sound of his voice; he spoke like a gentleman!
“Then, no doubt you are ready for something to eat? Susan, you may take the young man down the village and introduce him to Mrs. Hogben, and, on the way, you can show him the motor.” Then, to Wynyard, “And as you find it, I shall expect you tokeepit. I will give you further orders in the morning.” Then, in the voice of a person speaking to a child: “Now, go with Miss Susan. You won’t be long?” she added, addressing her sister; “there are those letters to be answered.”
“No; but anyway I must run up to the Rectory. I’ve just had a note from Aurea; she came home last night.”