CHAPTER XIIITHE DRUM AND ITS PATRONS
Mrs. Hogbenhad lost no time in giving her lodger explicit instructions as to what was expected of him in Ottinge! Her lecture assumed a negative form. He was not to take out any one’s girl, or there’d be trouble; he was not to talk too much politics, or there’d be more trouble; he was not to drink and get fuddled and fighting, or there was the Bench and a fine; as to amusement, there was cricket, Mrs. Topham’s Library, and the Drum Inn, for his evenings.
The good woman said to herself, “The motor is always washed and put away by six o’clock, and if he comes here, he must either sit in his room or in the kitchen, andshewasn’t a-goin’ to have that blocked up with young girls, and never a chair for herself and her own friends.”
Wynyard readily took the hint; at Ottinge one must do as Ottinge did, and he cheerfully accompanied Tom over to the Drum a few evenings after his arrival.
“What sort of liquor do they keep, Tom?” he asked, as they crossed the street.
“Well, some be better nor some, but there’s no bad beer; the old stuff here is rare and strong, but it comes pretty dear.”
The low, wainscoted taproom, with its sanded floor, was full of day-labourers, herds, ploughmen, cow-men, and carters taking their bit of pleasure,talking loudly and disjointedly, drinking beer in mugs, or playing the ever-popular game of “ring.” Here, for the first time in his life, Wynyard was brought into personal contact, as man to man, with the agricultural world as it is. In the more exclusive bar were to be found farmers, owners of certain comfortable red houses scattered up and down the street, the organist, the schoolmaster, the grocer—in short, the moneyed patrons of the hostelry. Several were talking over village affairs, discussing politics, racing, artificial manures, or cattle. Some were playing draughts, some were reading the daily papers, others were doing nothing. Of these, one was a bent, gentlemanly individual in a grey tweed suit, with a grey moustache, a grey, sunken, vacant face, who sat aloof smoking a brier pipe—his eyes staring into vacancy. Another was a white-haired, shrunken old man, who wore green carpet slippers, and occupied a cushioned arm-chair, and the best seat near the fire. This was Joe Thunder, the oldest inhabitant, ninety-three years of age his last birthday. Once upon a time he had seen the world—and other worlds; now he was comfortably moored in a fine, substantial cottage with a garden back and front, kept bees, was an authority on roses, and filled the post of the patriarch of Ottinge.
All newcomers were formally presented to Daddy Thunder, and as Tom pushed Wynyard in his direction he said—
“This be the Parrett ladies’ new man, daddy.” To Owen, “Daddy, here, he knows the place well, and can tell ye all about it, better nor any, though he wasn’t Ottinge born.”
Daddy slowly removed his long clay pipe, and inspected the stranger with a pair of shrewd little greyeyes. He had rosy cheeks, a benevolent, even sweet expression, and looked fifteen years younger than his age.
“Ye come fra’ London?” he began agreeably.
“Yes, sir, three days ago. It’s a good long journey.”
“Ay, mister,” nodding his white head expressively. “Ye don’t belong tous. Yer speech—like the Bible chap—bewrayeth ye—y’re no working man!”
“I am, indeed,” rejoined Wynyard quickly, “and working for my bread the same as the rest of the company; it’s all I have to look to—my two hands.”
“Nay, is that so?” and he glanced at him incredulously. “Well, I’ve bin here a matter o’ twenty year, and I never see one o’ your make a-comin’ in and settin’ in the Drum. There’s ’im,” and he indicated the bent figure in the corner, whose pipe was in his hand, his eyes riveted on the stranger with a look of startled inquiry.
“That’s the Captain, but ’e’s no account. ’E comes in and ’e sits and maybe listens; ’e never speaks. They do say ’e ’ad a soort o’ stroke in India, and ’is brain ’as melted like, but ’e is ’armless enough—anyhow, ’is lady won’t put ’im away.”
“I suppose you’ve lived here a long time?” said Wynyard, drawing forward a chair, and placing it so as to sit with his back to the said Captain, whose stare was disagreeably steady.
“Twenty year, more or less. I am a south country man, and my daughter she married and settled ’ere, and ’er ’usband died; an’ as there was only the two on us, I come along to keep ’er company, and to die ’ere, since I was gettin’ pretty old, being over seventy; but, Lor’ bless ye! that’s twenty-two year ago, and ’ere I be still gettin’ about, and doin’ a bit o’ gardenin’. The air is grand—nothing ails me but gout,” holding out a crippled hand. “This isn’t the place to die in—it’s the place tolive in. It keeps ye alive. Why, I’m ninety-three. Oh, it’s what ye may call a terrible lively place.”
This was not his listener’s opinion, who would have instituted instead the word “deadly.”
“You must have seen a great deal in ninety-three years,” said Wynyard, lighting his pipe.
“Lor’ bless ye, yes; and I’ve a wunnerful memory.”
“Do you remember the days of Napoleon?”
“What—old Bony! Nay,” a little offended, “I’m not as old asthat; but I do mind a talk o’ ’is funeral in France.”
“I beg your pardon, I’m an awful duffer at dates. You remember Wellington?”
“Oh ay, ’e was only the other day, so to speak.”
“And what else do you remember?”
“Well, as a lad, I remember I was terrible afeerd o’ the press gang.”
“The press gang?”
“Ay; that come pokin’ round after able-bodied men for the Navy, and kidnappin’ ’em away to sea, and keepin’ them there, whether or no, for years, and their families at home starvin’.”
“I say, what times!”
“Ay, so they was. I’ve seen two men ’angin’ in chains on Camley Moor when I was about ten—it were for sheep-stealin’, and put the fear o’ death on me. Surely I can ’ear them chains a-clankin’ now!”
Wynyard felt as if he had been suddenly precipitated into another world. Here he was, sitting talking to a live man, who discoursed familiarly of hanging in chains, and the press gang!
“Would you take something, sir?” he asked. “I’d like to drink your health.”
“Ay, ay, I don’t mind ’avin’ a glass wi’ ye.Ginders! Ginders!” raising his voice, “give us a taste of yer old beer, thebest—two half-pints;” and, as they were brought, he looked at Wynyard, and said, “To ye, young sir, and good luck to ye in Ottinge; may ye live as long as I do!”
“Thank you; have you any prescription for your wonderful health?”
“Ay, I have so. Look ’ere, I’ve not tasted medicine for fifty year. I don’t hold wi’ doctors. I only eat twice a day—my breakfast at eight, and my dinner at two. My daughter she do mike me a cup o’ tea at six, but I don’t want it, and it’s only to obligeher. Work—work’s the thing when yer young. I mind bein’ in the train one day, and a great heavy man complainin’ o’ his pore ’ealth, and ’is inside, and another says, ‘I can tell ye o’ a cure, master, and a sure one.’ ‘What’s that?’ ses ’e, all alive. ‘Rise of a mornin’ at four o’clock, and mow an acre before ye break yer fast, and go on mowing all day—that will cure ye—ye’ll be a new man.’ ‘I’d be a dead un,’ ses ’e.Myadvice is: no medicine, short commons, lots of work, and there ye are, and ye’ll live to maybe a hundred.”
“But what about cuts and wounds? How do you doctor them?”
“Oh, just a plaster o’ earth, or a couple o’ lily leaves. One is as good as t’other. Well, I’m a-goin’,” struggling to his feet; “an old gaffer like me keeps early hours.”
As Wynyard handed him his stick, he slapped him smartly on the back, and it was evident from this accolade that the “shover” was now made free of the Drum.
The newcomer looked about him, some were playing dominoes, some cards, one or two were reading the day’s papers, and all the time the Captain sat immovable in acorner, and his eyes never moved from Wynyard. Such cold, impassive staring made him feel uncomfortable, and settling his reckoning he presently followed old Thunder’s example and went home.
Captain Ramsay, whose fixed attention had made the stranger so uneasy, had once been a popular officer in a popular regiment, and when quartered in India had fallen in love with and married the Hon. Kathleen Brian (daughter of an impoverished viscount) who was on a visit to relatives in Simla. The first year was rapturously happy for both of them, and then one day, when out pig-sticking near Cawnpore, Captain Ramsay had his topee knocked off, and in the excitement of the chase galloped on, with the result that he was knocked over by a sunstroke. Sunstroke was followed by brain fever, and he nearly died. Ultimately he was invalided home, and, owing to ill-health, obliged to leave the Service. Nor was this all. He seemed to become another man, his character underwent a complete change; he was quarrelsome and morose, fought with his own family, insulted his wife’s people, and developed into an Ishmael. He invested his money in the maddest ventures, and rapidly dispersed his entire fortune (Kathleen was penniless), and now nothing remained but his small pension. Year by year he became more disagreeable, restless, and strange. The couple wandered from place to place, from lodging to lodging. Vainly his wife’s relatives implored her to leave him; he was “impossible,” her health was suffering; she, who had been so pretty, at twenty-seven looked prematurely faded and haggard; but Kathleen was obstinate, and would go her own way and stick to her bad bargain. Her brothers did not know, and would never know, the Jimmy she had married—so clever, amusing, good-looking, the life of his company, a first-rate officer,and a matchless horseman; the man who got up the regimental theatricals, ran the gymkhana, was editor of the regimental paper, and so devoted to her always. No, no, she would never abandon him, though every year he grew worse, and more brusque, excitable, and unsociable; and every year saw them sinking still further in the social scale.
At last an aged uncle died, and left Captain Ramsay Ivy House, Ottinge, with its old-fashioned furniture, linen, books, and plate. This windfall, with his pension, would keep them going, and at best it afforded a retreat and a hiding-place. The neighbourhood with flattering alacrity had called on Captain and the Hon. Mrs. Ramsay, and she was declared to be charming, so agreeable and still handsome. She duly returned their visits in a hired fly, left her husband’s cards, Captain J. V. Ramsay, and made his excuses.
It soon was evident that the Ramsays were desperately poor, and did not intend to keep a trap or entertain; that he was queer, and only to be met about the fields and lanes, or in the Drum; but by degrees the neighbours came to know Mrs. Ramsay better, and to like her extremely. She had travelled, was a brilliant conversationalist, and a sound bridge player; she was also an Honourable—one of the many daughters of Lord Ballingarry of Moyallan Castle—so the neighbours bought her little ‘Poms,’ recommended the hotel to their friends, lent her carriages or motors, sent her game and books, and did their best for her. But Captain Ramsay was beyond any one’s assistance; he refused to see people, or to know Ottinge. He went abroad generally with the bats and the owls, along lonely roads and footpaths; his daily paper and the Drum were his sole resources, and only that, at long intervals, a shrivelled figure was caughtsight of shuffling up the High Street, the neighbourhood would have forgotten that Captain Ramsay existed.
Lady Kesters sent papers and wrote weekly letters to J. Owen, Holiday Cottage, Ottinge. But her brother’s replies were short, vague, and unsatisfactory, and in answer to a whole sheet of reproaches, he dedicated a wet Sunday afternoon to his sister. He began:—
“Dear Leila,—I had your letter yesterday, and it’s a true bill that I am a miserable correspondent, and that my notes are as short and sweet as a donkey’s gallop. I only got twenty marks in composition when I passed. Now, however, I’m going to put my back into this letter, and send you a long scrawl, and, as you command me, all details—no matter how insignificant. I am writing in my room, because the kitchen is full of young women—Mrs. Hogben’s at-home day, I suppose! The parlour windows are never opened, the atmosphere is poisonous, and thick with the reek of old furniture. So here I am! I’ve faked up a table by putting blocks under the yellow box, for the washstand is impossible. This room is old and low; if I stand upright in some places, my head is likely to go through the ceiling, and in others my legs to go through the floor; but I know the lie of the land now. The window looks into a big orchard, and beyond that are miles of flat country; but you’ve seen Ottinge, so I spare you local colour. I am all right here. Mrs. Hogben is a rare good sort, and does me well, washing included, for twenty-three shillings a week, and I make out my own bills—as she neither reads nor writes, but takes it out in talking. When I had a cold, she made me a decoction called ‘Tansie Tea’ and insisted on my swallowing it—the fear of another dose cured me. Her son Tom is a decent chap, and we are pals; he works at the Manor as second gardener of two. As to the ladies there, I am disappointed in Miss Parrett; you told me they wereboth‘old dears.’ Susan really is an old dear, but, in my opinion, Miss P. is an oldD.Possibly you only knew her as a tea-drinking, charming hostess, full ofcompliments and sweetness; the real Miss Bella is a bully, vain of her money, and shamelessly mean.“The Manor is a nice, sunny house, flat on the ground, with great oak beams and rum windows, and a splendid garden enclosed in yew hedges run to seed; they are trying to get it in order, clipping the yews and digging out the moss, but two men and a boy are not enough, and Miss P. is too stingy to employ more. As I’ve little to do, I sometimes lend a hand. The motor is a faked-up old rattle-trap, all paint and smart cushions; but its inside is worn out. Miss Parrett is under the impression that petrol is not a necessity, and I have such desperate work to get it, and she always cross-examines me so sharply, and gives the money as such a personal favour, that one would suppose I wanted the beastly thing for my own consumption. It is a riddle to mewhyshe ever bought the car. She is afraid to go out in it, and won’t let her sister use it alone. I’ve been here four weeks; it’s been out six times, always at a crawl, and within a four-mile radius. Miss Parrett likes to pay visits to show off her ‘beautiful’ car; but I feel like a Bath-chair man!“One day we went over to Westmere, the Davenants’ old place, where you used to stay. The Woolcocks, who have it now, are enormously rich, go-ahead people, and the married daughter pounced on me as Owen the steward on board ship! No one here has any idea who I am, and I keep a shut mouth; and when I do talk, I try to copy Tom Hogben. There are few gentry about,—that is, in Ottinge; the parson, Mr. Morven, the Parretts’ brother-in-law, comes in sometimes and gives advice about the garden. He is a cheery sort, elderly, a widower, and a splendid preacher—thrown away on this dead-and-alive spot. His sermons are sensible and modern, and you’ve something to carry away and think of, instead of wanting to shy hymn-books, or go to sleep. The church is a tremendous age, and restored—the Ottinge folk are very proud of it. In one chancel, the north chancel, lie our kin the Davenants; there is a fine window, erected by a certain Edward Davenant to the memory of his wife, the lady in a pink scarf—quite a smart get-up of, say, ahundred years ago, is represented as one of the angels, and he himself is among the disciples. Both were copied from family portraits. What do you think of the idea?“Mr. Morven has let me in for singing in the choir; you should see me in a surplice—it barely comes to my knees, and makes me feel so shy! Thanks to the choir, I’ve got to know the organist, and the schoolmaster—a very decent chap; I go and smoke a pipe there of an evening, and also a young farmer who has promised me some fishing when I can get off—that’s not often. There is no village club, as you may remember, and the men of the place assemble at the Drum Inn. I drop in there sometimes, though, just as often, I take a tramp over the country, accompanied by the Manor dog, who has adopted me, and often does ‘a night out.’ Mrs. Hogben leaves the door on the latch. She also told me I should go to the Drum along with Tom, as she thought I was a bit dull; so to the Drum I go, to show I’m not above my mates, and I have a glass of beer and a pipe, and hear all the village news, and the village elders discussing parish rates, socialism, free trade, the price of stock, and how Jakes’ Bob is going into the grocery, and Harry Tews’ spring cabbage has failed!“There is one queer figure there: a broken-down, decrepit officer, Captain Ramsay, whose wife lives in the village and keeps a dogs’ hotel. He looks as if he drank, and is always muddled, or else he is mad. He speaks to no one, but he never takes his eye offme. I tell you, Sis, I don’t half like it—though I swear he has never seen me before.“Well, I hope Martin is better. I’m sorry he has been feeling a bit cheap; it’s a pity I can’t send him some of this air—splendid; there’s an old chap of ninety-three in the place—still going strong.“Your papers are a godsend. I pass them on to the schoolmaster, and he lends me books; but although I seem to do little, I never have much time for reading. I’m getting on all right, and intend to stick to the old birds, the green car, and Ottinge; though, as it said in the Psalms this morning, it does seem to be a ‘land where all things are forgotten.’ At any rate our ways areprimitive and virtuous—we have one policeman, he sings bass in the choir,—and we hold little conversation with the outer world. Indeed, news—other than local—is despised. The sweep is our postman, and the village softy limps round with the papers when he thinks of it. I’m about to be enrolled in the Ottinge Cricket Club, and I’m looking forward to some sport. They little guess that I played in the Eton eleven! Here endeth this epistle, which must count as a dozen and thirteen.—Your affectionate brother,“O. St. J. W.”
“Dear Leila,—I had your letter yesterday, and it’s a true bill that I am a miserable correspondent, and that my notes are as short and sweet as a donkey’s gallop. I only got twenty marks in composition when I passed. Now, however, I’m going to put my back into this letter, and send you a long scrawl, and, as you command me, all details—no matter how insignificant. I am writing in my room, because the kitchen is full of young women—Mrs. Hogben’s at-home day, I suppose! The parlour windows are never opened, the atmosphere is poisonous, and thick with the reek of old furniture. So here I am! I’ve faked up a table by putting blocks under the yellow box, for the washstand is impossible. This room is old and low; if I stand upright in some places, my head is likely to go through the ceiling, and in others my legs to go through the floor; but I know the lie of the land now. The window looks into a big orchard, and beyond that are miles of flat country; but you’ve seen Ottinge, so I spare you local colour. I am all right here. Mrs. Hogben is a rare good sort, and does me well, washing included, for twenty-three shillings a week, and I make out my own bills—as she neither reads nor writes, but takes it out in talking. When I had a cold, she made me a decoction called ‘Tansie Tea’ and insisted on my swallowing it—the fear of another dose cured me. Her son Tom is a decent chap, and we are pals; he works at the Manor as second gardener of two. As to the ladies there, I am disappointed in Miss Parrett; you told me they wereboth‘old dears.’ Susan really is an old dear, but, in my opinion, Miss P. is an oldD.Possibly you only knew her as a tea-drinking, charming hostess, full ofcompliments and sweetness; the real Miss Bella is a bully, vain of her money, and shamelessly mean.
“The Manor is a nice, sunny house, flat on the ground, with great oak beams and rum windows, and a splendid garden enclosed in yew hedges run to seed; they are trying to get it in order, clipping the yews and digging out the moss, but two men and a boy are not enough, and Miss P. is too stingy to employ more. As I’ve little to do, I sometimes lend a hand. The motor is a faked-up old rattle-trap, all paint and smart cushions; but its inside is worn out. Miss Parrett is under the impression that petrol is not a necessity, and I have such desperate work to get it, and she always cross-examines me so sharply, and gives the money as such a personal favour, that one would suppose I wanted the beastly thing for my own consumption. It is a riddle to mewhyshe ever bought the car. She is afraid to go out in it, and won’t let her sister use it alone. I’ve been here four weeks; it’s been out six times, always at a crawl, and within a four-mile radius. Miss Parrett likes to pay visits to show off her ‘beautiful’ car; but I feel like a Bath-chair man!
“One day we went over to Westmere, the Davenants’ old place, where you used to stay. The Woolcocks, who have it now, are enormously rich, go-ahead people, and the married daughter pounced on me as Owen the steward on board ship! No one here has any idea who I am, and I keep a shut mouth; and when I do talk, I try to copy Tom Hogben. There are few gentry about,—that is, in Ottinge; the parson, Mr. Morven, the Parretts’ brother-in-law, comes in sometimes and gives advice about the garden. He is a cheery sort, elderly, a widower, and a splendid preacher—thrown away on this dead-and-alive spot. His sermons are sensible and modern, and you’ve something to carry away and think of, instead of wanting to shy hymn-books, or go to sleep. The church is a tremendous age, and restored—the Ottinge folk are very proud of it. In one chancel, the north chancel, lie our kin the Davenants; there is a fine window, erected by a certain Edward Davenant to the memory of his wife, the lady in a pink scarf—quite a smart get-up of, say, ahundred years ago, is represented as one of the angels, and he himself is among the disciples. Both were copied from family portraits. What do you think of the idea?
“Mr. Morven has let me in for singing in the choir; you should see me in a surplice—it barely comes to my knees, and makes me feel so shy! Thanks to the choir, I’ve got to know the organist, and the schoolmaster—a very decent chap; I go and smoke a pipe there of an evening, and also a young farmer who has promised me some fishing when I can get off—that’s not often. There is no village club, as you may remember, and the men of the place assemble at the Drum Inn. I drop in there sometimes, though, just as often, I take a tramp over the country, accompanied by the Manor dog, who has adopted me, and often does ‘a night out.’ Mrs. Hogben leaves the door on the latch. She also told me I should go to the Drum along with Tom, as she thought I was a bit dull; so to the Drum I go, to show I’m not above my mates, and I have a glass of beer and a pipe, and hear all the village news, and the village elders discussing parish rates, socialism, free trade, the price of stock, and how Jakes’ Bob is going into the grocery, and Harry Tews’ spring cabbage has failed!
“There is one queer figure there: a broken-down, decrepit officer, Captain Ramsay, whose wife lives in the village and keeps a dogs’ hotel. He looks as if he drank, and is always muddled, or else he is mad. He speaks to no one, but he never takes his eye offme. I tell you, Sis, I don’t half like it—though I swear he has never seen me before.
“Well, I hope Martin is better. I’m sorry he has been feeling a bit cheap; it’s a pity I can’t send him some of this air—splendid; there’s an old chap of ninety-three in the place—still going strong.
“Your papers are a godsend. I pass them on to the schoolmaster, and he lends me books; but although I seem to do little, I never have much time for reading. I’m getting on all right, and intend to stick to the old birds, the green car, and Ottinge; though, as it said in the Psalms this morning, it does seem to be a ‘land where all things are forgotten.’ At any rate our ways areprimitive and virtuous—we have one policeman, he sings bass in the choir,—and we hold little conversation with the outer world. Indeed, news—other than local—is despised. The sweep is our postman, and the village softy limps round with the papers when he thinks of it. I’m about to be enrolled in the Ottinge Cricket Club, and I’m looking forward to some sport. They little guess that I played in the Eton eleven! Here endeth this epistle, which must count as a dozen and thirteen.—Your affectionate brother,
“O. St. J. W.”
Lady Kesters read this letter quickly, then she went over it very deliberately; finally she handed it to her husband.
“He seems perfectly happy and satisfied, though he detests Miss Parrett and says the car is an old rattle-trap. He has no pals, very little to do, and has taken to gardening and singing in the choir.” She paused expressively. “Somehow I don’t see Owen inthatpicture, do you?”
“Can’t say I do,” replied her husband.
“Just the last sort of life to suit him, I should have thought. Martin, do you suppose that’s a faked-up letter, and he wrote it to relieve my mind?”
“No; the chap hasn’t it in him to fake anything. I’d rather like to hear his attempts at the local dialect!”
“Then tell me what you really think; I see you have something in your head.”
“My dear, I’m astonished you don’t see it for yourself! You are ten times as clear-sighted as I am,” and he hesitated; “why, of course, there’s a young woman in the case.”
“He never mentions her!” objected his wife.
“A deadly symptom.”
“Some village girl—no. And he is bound not tothink of any love-affair or entanglement for two whole years.”
“How long has he been at Ottinge—four weeks, eh?” She nodded.
“Well, I believe that, in spite of your uncle and you, Owen is in love with some one already.”