CHAPTER XXIIIAN HOUR OF LIBERTY
Thewhite flowers had been gathered on Saturday in the Manor garden, and it was now Monday. Miss Parrett had adventured a drive to Westmere, returning home by four o’clock, and the car being washed and put away betimes, the chauffeur found himself at liberty. The glowing and golden September evening was enticing, and, whistling for Joss, he set out for a good long stretch before supper. On this occasion, man and dog deserted the low country and the water-meadows, and climbed the hills which sheltered the village. Their road lay by a grassy cart-track, which ran sometimes between high hedges, sometimes along a headland, with here and there a hoary old gate—it was chiefly used in harvest-time (indeed, wisps of fresh hay and straw were still clinging to the bushes), and was the short-cut to Shrapton-le-Steeple, a hamlet which lay eight miles south of Ottinge. The track emerged upon a bare plateau, from whence was a fine view of the surrounding country, and here was also a sharp freshness in the air, which the man inhaled with unmistakable enjoyment. Here, too, in the banks, were inviting burrows, and these afforded the dog an absorbing interest, as he drew their savour into his nostrils with long-drawn sniffs of ecstatic satisfaction.
After a tramp of between three and four miles, Wynyard threw himself down on a tempting patch ofgrass, drew out his case, and lit one of Martin Kesters’ excellent cigars. His eyes roamed meditatively over the broad landscape below, stretching away into the dim distance—the spreading uplands splashed with orange gorse, dotted with sheep and cattle, with here and there a rust-coloured farmhouse, whose pale blue smoke lazily ascended into the cool clear air. Wynyard enjoyed the scene and the sensation of absolute freedom; at least he was out of livery—he glanced at his shabby tweed coat—beyond the reach of orders, and master of himself! Not much to boast of! To think that this job was the only one he could take on when driven into a corner by circumstances and Uncle Dick! He had no head, that was his trouble, although he could keep it at a pinch—and wasn’t this what was called a paradox? If he were only clever with his tongue and his pen, like Leila, and had her talent for languages and for organisation, her genius for saying and doing the right thing!
As he unconsciously picked bits of grass, his thoughts returned to Aurea and their recent meeting in the Manor garden. Her confusion and her vivid blush held for him a most stupendous significance. Memory and imagination had magnified the occasion, until it seemed to be the one important event in his whole life!
If, by any chance, Aurea cared for him, and saw in him something more than her aunts’ civil man-servant, why should he not present himself in his true character? The gruff replies in imitation of Tom Hogben were surely an unnecessary handicap? Anyway, he had let himself go on the night of the accident, hustling and ordering on the spur of the moment, sending Miss Morven for water, Miss Susan for wood—though nodoubt they were both too much upset to have noticed anything besides the tragedy.
Possibly a change of manner would make a difference, and Aurea was so bright, and so wonderfully clear-sighted, she might divine something of his situation, and wait. “Wait!” repeated incredulous common sense, “wait eighteen months till he had cast off his shackles!” On the other hand, Bertie Woolcock loomed large. Undoubtedly he would not wait, nor would Aurea’s own relations. The Rector himself was a good, unworldly old scribbler, but the people that mattered, such as Miss Parrett and General and Mrs. Morven, they would never allow their niece to refuse many thousands a year and Woolcock, in order to keep faith with a mysterious and penniless chauffeur. And Bertie undoubtedly meant business; he was continually appearing at the Rectory or the Manor, charged with paltry messages and unnecessary notes—any excuse or none served him! He even attended evening church, where he openly and shamelessly worshipped the Rector’s daughter, and not the Rector’s God.
As Wynyard contemplated Woolcock’s position and the desperate obstacles that lay in his own path, he picked many blades of grass. Naturally he disliked his rival; he remembered him when he was in the upper fourth at Eton, a big, loutish fellow—not of course in Pop—and an awful duffer at games; who never did anything for himself, that others could be bullied into doing for him. “Woolly” was now a stout, sleek, well-groomed man of thirty, with a heavy red face, a lethargic manner, and—in the company of respectable women—a great talent for silence.
Supposing that Aurea was talked over? Westmere was a temptation. No; he could not face such a hideouspossibility—yet he was penniless and gagged. Woolly, a rich man and free; he, a prisoner to a promise and in a false position—a position which compelled him to touch his cap, not only to his lady-love, but to his rival! and the latter salutation made him feel murderous.
Woolly had tons of money; he was so rich that possibly he had never seen a penny! His attentions to Aurea, his rides, his churchgoing, his marked civilities to Miss Parrett, paraded themselves before Wynyard’s mental sight—and the old Polly bird was all for the match! Why, that very afternoon, as she was leaving Westmere, she had held a long, mysterious “last word” conversation with Mrs. Waring before she bundled into the car, and squeaked out “Home—and go slowly!” Meanwhile, Woolcock’s fluffy-haired sister stood on the steps with her hands on her hips, a newly lit cigarette in her mouth, the very embodiment of triumphant satisfaction!
Undoubtedly a solemn treaty had been signed and sealed. He had no powerful allies, how could he interfere? His mind groped round the puzzle in confusion and despair. If his own forefathers had not been such crazy, spendthrift fools, he would not have found himself in this maddening situation. To think that his great-grandfather had lost thousands of pounds and hundreds of acres, racing snails on the dining-room mahogany, against another lunatic! However, the original place still remained in the family, also the most important heirlooms, and these werepucka(good old Indian word!) and not those of other people.
If he could only hold on to the end, and put in his time fairly and squarely, he might yet see Aurea at Wynyard—though at present his prospects were blank; all he had to his name was his weekly wages, and thesewages, figuratively, bore him into the presence of Miss Parrett. What an old bully she was! how she brow-beat and hectored her unfortunate sister, and what a jabbering impostor! talking incessantly of all she did, and was going to do, but leaving everything in the way of work to Miss Susan and her niece—whilstshetrotted round spying and scolding.
As Wynyard reclined against the bank smoking, absorbed in his reflections—and Joss was equally engrossed in an adjacent ditch—a far-away sound broke faintly on their ears. In a few seconds this had resolved itself into the regular “thud, thud, thud,” of a galloping horse, and here he came into sight—a chestnut in a lather, with streaming reins, and exultant tail, carrying an empty side saddle.
Wynyard instantly recognised Aurea’s weedy thoroughbred, and, flinging away his cigar, ran forward, but the animal, bound for his stable, was not thus to be captured and detained; with a snort of defiance, he made a violent swerve, and tore on, hotly pursued by Joss.