CHAPTER VIIMRS. HOGBEN AT HOME
Miss Susanpreceded Owen, and as he stalked along the great flagged passage, he noted her trim, light figure, quantity of well-dressed, grizzled hair, and brisk, tripping walk, and he made up his mind—although they had not as yet exchanged a word—that he liked her immeasurably the better of the sisters! HowcouldLeila say they were “dear old things!” Miss Parrett was neither more or less than an ill-bred, purse-proud little bully. On their way out he caught sight, through open doors, of other rooms with mullioned windows, and more vague efforts at refurnishing and embellishment.
“We are not long here,” explained Miss Susan, reaching for her hat off a peg, and they crossed a vestibule opening into a huge enclosed yard, “though we lived here as children; it’s only lately we have come back to our own—or rather my sister’s own,” she corrected, with a little nervous laugh. “The Manor has been occupied by a farmer for twenty-five years, and was really in a dreadful state of neglect: the roof and upper floors dropping to pieces, and everything that should have been painted was neglected, and everything that should not have been painted,waspainted.”
In the yard a small black spaniel, who was chained to his kennel, exhibited convulsions of joy on beholding Miss Susan. As she stooped to unfasten the prisoner, heinstantly rushed at Wynyard, but after a critical examination received him with civility.
“You are highly favoured,” remarked the lady; “Joss, although a nobody himself, is most particular as to who he knows. He means to know you.”
“I’m glad of that—I like dogs. What breed is he?”
“That is a question we are so often asked. His mother is a prize poodle, his father a small black spaniel. We have never quite decided what we shall bring him up as, sometimes we think we’ll clip him and pass him off as a poodle.”
“Oh, he is much more of a spaniel—look at his ears and tail,” objected the new chauffeur. “Of course heisa bit too leggy.”
“Yes; I’m afraid poor Joss’s appearance is against him, but his heart is in the right place.”
“Dogs’ hearts always are.”
“Joss is so sporting, if he only had a chance,” continued Miss Susan. “He swims like a fish and is crazy after water-fowl—that is the spaniel side. The poodle blood makes him clever, sly, inquisitive, and as mischievous as a monkey.”
“Is he your dog, miss?”
“No, he belongs to my sister, though she does not care for animals; but she says a dog about the place makes a topic of conversation for callers. We country folk are often hard up; the weather and gardens are our chief subjects. Joss is a capital watch—though I hate to see him chained here day after day. I believe a young dog requires liberty—yes, and amusement—as much as a human being.” She glanced at Owen. “You will think me silly!”
“No, miss, I’m entirely of your opinion.”
“And poor Joss leads such a dull life; there are noyoung people to take him out, and no dogs of his own class in the village, and now”—as she began to draw the bolts of a coach-house door, but Owen came forward—“here is the motor;” and, taking a long breath, she ejaculated, “There!”
There indeed was the car, newly painted, and dark green, as described. It was a closed motor brougham to hold four. Owen examined it critically, and with the eye of an expert. Within the last few days he had become rather wise respecting cars. This was an old-fashioned machine, which had seen a great deal of hard wear, and would not stand much rough usage—no, nor many long journeys.
“Isn’tit nice?” said Miss Susan, “and do look at all the lovely pockets inside,” opening the door as she spoke.
“Yes; but I don’t see any Stepney wheel,” he said.
“Why, it has four—what more do you want?”
To which he replied by another question:
“Where did Miss Parrett get hold of it?”
“Oh, she bought it through an advertisement from a gentleman who had ordered a larger car, and as he didn’t want two—indeed, he made rather a favour of selling it—he parted with this one, a bargain.”
“Oh—a bargain!” he repeated helplessly.
“Well, I suppose itwascheap for five hundred?”
Wynyard made no reply; in his opinion the machine would have been dear at fifty. It was evident that some unscrupulous rascal had foisted an old-fashioned rattle-trap upon these ignorant and unsuspicious ladies.
“My sister is so nervous,” exclaimed Miss Susan, “and I don’t think she will use the car as much as she supposes. Even in a cab she sits all the time with her eyes closed and her hands clenched. She would neverhave purchased the motor, only our brother-in-law, the parson here—who is rather a wag in his way—chaffed her, and, just to contradict him, she bought one within a week!”
Miss Susan was evidently a talker, and Wynyard listened in civil silence as, chattering incessantly, she accompanied him down the drive and out into the village street.
“Now I am going to take you to your lodgings, where I hope you will be comfortable,” and she looked at him with a kindly little smile. “There is where we lived for thirty years,” pointing to a pretty old red cottage, with a paved walk through a charming garden—at present gay with daffodils and crocus.
“Do you know I planted every one of those bulbs myself,” she said; “I’m a great gardener—my sister only potters. The gardens at the Manor have run to seed like the house, and it will take a long time to put them straight. After we left it, on my father’s death, the tenant was a farmer, and only lately my sister has bought it back. A relative we never saw left Bella all his fortune, and money comes just alittlestrange to her at first. We have always been poor—and so sometimes she—is——”
Miss Susan faltered, blushed, and came to a full stop; she felt conscious that she was forgetting herself, and talking to this stranger—a man-servant—as if he were her equal! Her tongue always ran away with her; unfortunately, she could not help it, and it was absolutely true, as Bella repeatedly told her, “she wasmuchtoo familiar with the lower orders!”
“Ahem! I dare say you will find Ottinge dull after London. Do you know London?” she inquired, after a conscious silence.
“Yes, miss, I know it well.”
“There’s no one much of your stamp in the village; they are all Ottinge born and bred, and you seem to be a superior sort of young man.”
“I don’t think I’m at all superior, miss; anyway, I’ve got to earn my bread the same as other people.”
“Here we are at Mrs. Hogben’s,” she announced, and, opening a gate, walked up the flagged path leading to an old two-storeyed cottage, and a broadly built, elderly woman, with a keen, eager face and a blue checked apron, came to meet them, hastily wiping her wet hands.
“Here is your lodger, Mrs. Hogben; his name is Owen,” explained Miss Susan; and Mrs. Hogben’s astonishment was so complete that she so far forgot herself as to drop him half a curtsey. “You have given him the top back-room, I understand?” continued Miss Susan, “and,remember, it’s not to be more than half-a-crown a week; he will arrange about his board himself.”
“Yes, Miss Susan; to be sure, Miss Susan.”
“And you will do his washing moderately, and cook, and make him comfortable, won’t you?”
“Of course, Miss Susan.”
“I don’t suppose you will eat meat more than once a day,” turning to him, “eh?”
“I can’t say, miss,” he answered, with a slow smile, “a good deal would depend upon the meat.”
“Well, I think you will find everything here all right. Mrs. Hogben’s son, Tom, is one of our gardeners, and you can come up in the morning with him. Good-evening to you!” Wynyard touched his cap, and she hurried off. He stood and watched her for a moment, the slim, straight-backed figure tripping up the village towards the tall grey church, which dominated the place.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Hogben had looked him over from head to foot; her sharp, appraising eyes, rested with satisfaction on her lodger; taken, womanlike, by a handsome face, she said in a pleasant voice—
“So you’re the shover! My word, it do seem main funny, them ladies a-settin’ up of a motor—and last year they hadn’t as much as a wheelbarrow. Folks do say all the money—and it’s a lot—has gotten to Miss Parrett’s head, but she was always a terrible hard, headstrong old woman. Now, Miss Susan there is a nice friendly lady; all the place is main fond of Miss Susan.”
“She seems—a good sort.”
“Yes, and quite girlish still, and gay in herself, though well over fifty, and thinks nothing a trouble. You’ll be takin’ your meals here?”
“Yes, with your permission, Mrs. Hogben.”
“We don’t have many high notions of food—just plain and plenty, ye understand?”
“That will suit me all right.”
“I’ll give you your victuals in the little parlour,” and she opened the door into a small gloomy room, with dead geraniums in the window, a round table in the middle, a horse-hair sofa against the wall, and shells upon the mantelpiece. Evidently the apartment was rarely used; it smelt intolerably of musty hay, and was cold as a vault.
“I think, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll take my meals in the kitchen.”
“All right,” she assented, “there’s only me and Tom. Now come away up, and I’ll show you your room.”
The stairs, which climbed round a massive wooden post, were so narrow, so low, and so steep, that getting up was by no means an easy performance.
“Eh, but you’re a fine big man!” declared Mrs. Hogben admiringly, “and somehow you don’t seem tofit in a place of this size; it’s main old too—some say as old as the Manor.”
“Oh, I shall fit all right,” he answered, looking about his chamber.
It was very low and scrupulously clean: the window was on a level with the bare boards, there was a wooden bed, with a patchwork quilt, a chest of drawers, a washstand, and a rush-bottomed chair.
“I shall want a bath,” he announced abruptly.
“A bath! Well, I never!”
“Yes; or, if the worst comes to the worst, an old wash-tub.”
“Oh,” reflecting, “I do believe Mrs. Frickett at the Drum has a tin one she’d lend—no one there wants it.”
“I’ll carry up the water myself.”
“Will you so? I suppose your box is at the house, and Tom will bring it down on the barrow. He will be in to his tea directly. Here he is,” as the sound of clumping boots ascended from below.
When confronted with Tom, Wynyard found him to be a man of thirty, in rough working clothes, with one of the finest faces he had ever seen, a square forehead, clear-cut features, and a truly noble and benevolent expression. The general effect was considerably marred by the fact that Tom wore his thick brown hair several inches too long, and a fringe of whiskers framed his face and met under his chin, precisely as his father’s and grandfather’s had done.
“Tom, here be Miss Parrett’s shover,” announced his mother, “the man-servant, you know, as will bide with us. You’ll take him in hand, and show him about, eh?”
“Ay, ay,” agreed Tom, seating himself heavily at table; then, addressing the guest—
“It’s very tricky weather?”
“Yes, it generally is in April.”
Tom stared hard at the newcomer. The young man used grand words, had a strong look in his face, was well set-up—and clean-shaved of a Wednesday!
“Yer from London, eh? One can see that. Ye must be as hungry as a dog.” With an impulse of hospitality, he pushed the loaf towards him, and subsequently experienced a sense of relief and pleasure as he noticed the new chap’s hands, the hands of a working man!
The meal consisted of home-made bread, boiled eggs, cold bacon, and tea. The two hungry men made considerable ravages on bread and bacon, and no attempts at conversation. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hogben’s sharp eyes and wits were still engaged in taking stock of the newcomer. He did not say much, but when he did speak, it was the pure talk of gentry-folk; yet, he was not uppish, his coat was well worn, and he spoke quite humble-like to Miss Susan.
After a short silence, Mrs. Hogben—a notable gossip—undertook the talking for all three.
“Of course it was Miss Parrett herself as come here about a room for you, Mr. Owen, and says she to me, ‘I want you to take a respectable young man on reasonable terms; of course I can’t have him at the Manor, on account of the maids.’”
“Why not?” inquired her lodger, with his mouth full.
“’Cause,” with a laugh, “she thought you might be making love to them, I expect! And says she, ‘Mrs. Hogben, you having no daughters, and no young woman in the house, it will be quite safe.’”
“Oh, I see,” he assented, with an amused smile.
“Though for that matter,” and she nodded at Tom,“I’m going to have a daughter-in-law one of these days.”
Tom buried his face in a mug and spluttered.
“Ay, it’s Dilly Topham, and a main pretty girl too; but Tom will mindher.”
“Miss Parrett is terrible strict,” said Tom, recovering his self-possession, “and this do be a model village”; and he winked at Wynyard.
“I’m none so sure!” objected his mother; “there’s a good lot of beer and quarrelling at the Drum, especially of a Saturday night; and there was Katie Punnett—well—well—I say no more.”
“Oh, the girls are all right, mother.”
“Some on ’em; of course that’s Missie’s doing—she’s so friendly with ’em, so nice and so gay; but a good few of the Ottinge girls is of no account. There’s Mrs. Watkins with three big young women on her hands; they won’t stay in service at no price, and they won’t do a turn at home. Their mother holds the house together, and has them, as well as her man, to work for, poor soul!”
“Oh, Watkins, he does ’is share as carrier,” protested Tom.
“I don’t know whatyoucall a share, Tom,” said his mother sharply. “I know of a cold winter’s morning she gets up and milks the cows, and takes the milk round herself, and comes back, and there’s not a fire lit, and them four lazy sacks are all still abed—ay, and asleep. I’ve gone in of an afternoon, too, and seen Maudie and Brenda stretched on their backs a-reading penny novels—it’s all they care for, that and dress, and young men; if I was their mother I’d let out at them!” and she paused for breath. “Inever had no schoolin’, and I’m not sorry; laziness and light readin’ is the plague.”
“Well, Watkins—he don’t read overmuch.”
“No, but he smokes and drinks, and is main idle. You know yourself I offered him the good grass off the orchard for the cutting, for his horse—lovely grass it were, too—but it were too much trouble, and he grazes the poor beast along the road in every one’s way instead. And there’s Jake Roberts—his father left him a fine business as wheelwright and carpenter, and he has let it all go over to Shrapton-le-Steeple ’cause it was too much fag, and he lives on his wife’s washing.”
“Ye see how my mother is down on Ottinge,” said Tom, with another wink, “not being an Ottinge woman herself.”
“No, thank the Lord! I’m from another part, and all for work. But I’ll say this—that Ottinge is the healthiest spot ye ever put yer foot in. We gets the free air for miles over the pastures, and at the back we’re in shelter from the hills between us and Brodfield—that’s the big town ten miles off.”
“So you have no doctor?” said Wynyard.
“Indeed we have, and a good doctor too; there is not much call for him or for medicines. Ottinge isn’t as big as it looks; though so rambling and showy, it’s real small.”
“Are there many gentry around?” inquired the stranger.
“There’s the parson, Mr. Morven—his lady is dead. She wur a Parrett, and handsome. He’s a good man, but terrible bookish, and just awful for readin’ and writin’. There’s Captain and the Honourable Mrs. Ramsay, as live nearly opposite in the house covered with ivy, and three rows of long windows, inside the little brick wall.Theyare not much use; she sells plants and cuttings, and little Pom puppies now and then, and keeps what she calls a ‘Dogs’ Hotel or Boarding-House’; did yeever!” and Mrs. Hogben laughed. “Ay, and she advertises it too! She’s so terrible busy with dogs, and takes them walking out, and has all sorts o’ food for them, and young Bob Watkins as their servant. Her father was a lord they make out, and her husband, the Captain, he got some sort of stroke in the Indies and is queer—some say from drink, some say from a stroke, some say from both. He never goes into no company, but walks the roads and lanes of an evening a-talkin’ to himself right out loud. Then he slopes up to the Drum, and though he was an army officer, he sits cheek by jowl with common men, drinkin’ his glass, and smokin’ his pipe. However, he is quiet enough—quiet as the dead—and Mrs. Ramsay is good pay.”
“That’s something,” remarked her listener, and his tone was dry.
“There’s a rare bit o’ money in Ottinge, though ye mightn’t think it,” continued Mrs. Hogben, delighted to have a listener after her own heart; “folks being well left, and mostly having a snug house, and nothing going out but quit rent.”
“But who lives round the village? Are there any big places?”
“There’s a good few within ten miles. The Wardes of Braske, the Cranmers of Wells Castle, the Woolcocks of Westmere Park—it was the Davenants’ for hundreds of years, and Woolcocks’ father he was an iron-monger!”
“An ironmaster,” corrected her son, with a touch of impatience.
“Well, ’tis all the same. The Davenants were real great folk, and the Hogbens served them for many a day; indeed, the late Sir Henry Davenant shot Hogben’s father himself.” She folded her arms as she made theannouncement, and looked at her lodger as much as to say, “What do you think ofthat?”
“Shot! What do you mean—on purpose?”
“No, ’twas a pheasant he was mistook for—but he killed Tom Hogben stone dead in the top cover, and then sent a carriage to fetch him home. Of course the shooting was given accidental, and the family had a pension; and I will say this, the Davenants were always free and never a mite afraid of spending money, till every stiver was gone.”
“What you call open-handed.”
“Yes, and the last of the gentlemen, when the place was ate up of a mortgage, lived in a bit of a cottage by the roadside, and was just as proud and grand as if he had forty servants. This Ottinge is a mighty queer quarrelling sort o’ place, as you will soon see for yourself. Last year a parson come, when Mr. Morven was in Switzerland with the General—a very gay, pleasant young man, a-visitin’ everywhere, and talkin’ to every one, and amusin’ the parish, and gettin’ up cricket, and concerts, so when he left they gathered up to make him a present, and bought him a lovely clock (as he preferred to a bit of a ink-bottle); but it just shows up Ottinge! there was so much wicked jealousy and ill-feelin’ that there was no one togiveit to him—you see, one wouldn’t let the other!—and he’d never have got it at all, only, at the last, they stuck in a child—a little girl, as no one wanted to get the better of—and so that settled it, but it may give yesomeidea of the place.”
“Ye see my mother hasn’t a good word for it,” put in Tom; “but I’m Ottinge, and was born here.”
“As to the gentlefolk,” continued Mrs. Hogben almost as glibly as if she were reading aloud, “there’sthe doctor and his wife. She is gayish, and great at theatricals and games—no harm, though. Ay, ’tis a dull place for young folk, and only fit for some to come and end their days. There’s the Woolcocks of Westmere Park—terrible rich—they bought the Park when the Davenants were broke, as I tell’d ye. They keep a crowd of servants, and three motors. There’s mister and missus, and a son and two daughters—one of them’s married. They give a fair lot of employment too—but still, folks ’ud rayther have the old fam’ly.”
“My mother goes round telling of folk here and there, and she’s left out the one that mattersmost, that starts everything in the village, and is the prettiest girl—bar one—in ten parishes—and that’s Miss Aurea!”
“Why, Miss Aurea, of course, she’s not to be overlooked,” said Mrs. Hogben, “not nowhere—Miss Parrett’s niece, and the parson’s daughter; but she’s not here now, she’s a-stoppin’ up in London with her father’s brother the General—often she does be there—the only child to go round in three families.”
Wynyard said to himself that he was actually better posted up in village gossip than Mrs. Hogben; she did not know, ashedid, that Miss Aurea had returned home!
“She manages her aunt wonderful, that she do; indeed, she manages most things.”
“She’s awful taken up with settling the Manor House and the garden,” added Tom; “she has a lucky hand, and a real love for flowers.”
“Ay, and folk do say that Woolcock of Westmere, the only son, has a real love forher,” supplemented Mrs. Hogben, as she rose and pushed back her chair; “it would be a sensible thing to wed old family to good money.”
The newcomer rose also, picked up his cap, andwalked to the open door. He had heard the latest news of Ottinge-in-the-Marsh, and now he intended to have a look round the village itself.
“I believe I’ll take a bit of a stroll and smoke a pipe,” he said, as he put on his cap and went out.
“What do you think of the new lodger, Tom?” asked his mother, as she noisily collected plates and cups.
“I think—it’s hard to say yet; but I likes him. He’s not our sort, though.”
“Why not? He’s had a good eddication, that’s sure, and talks up in his head like gentry, but his hands is just the hands of a working man; and look at his box—that’s no class!”
In the opinion of Mrs. Hogben the box settled the question, and she went off into the scullery and closed the door with a slam of finality.