A ROLLING STONE




_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

  DIANA BARRINGTON
  A BIRD OF PASSAGE
  BEYOND THE PALE
  HER OWN PEOPLE
  THE CAT’S-PAW
  THE COMPANY’S SERVANT
  KATHERINE THE ARROGANT
  BABES IN THE WOOD, ETC.




  A
  ROLLING STONE

  BY
  B. M. CROKER

  “L’amour est un vrai recommenceur.”--BUSSY-RABUTIN

  LONDON
  F. V. WHITE & CO. LTD.
  17 BUCKINGHAM STREET, STRAND, W.C.
  1911




CONTENTS


    CHAP.                                 PAGE

       I. LADY KESTERS                       1

      II. BROTHER AND SISTER                12

     III. THE LAST WORD GOES BEGGING        29

      IV. LEILA’S IDEA                      37

       V. PLANS AND THREATS                 45

      VI. FIRST IMPRESSIONS                 49

     VII. MRS. HOGBEN AT HOME               58

    VIII. OTTINGE-IN-THE-MARSH              72

      IX. THE NEW CHAUFFEUR                 77

       X. AS HANDY MAN                      86

      XI. THE TRIAL TRIP                    97

     XII. THE DOGS’ HOTEL                  107

    XIII. THE DRUM AND ITS PATRONS         120

     XIV. LIEUTENANT WYNYARD               132

      XV. BY WATER                         139

     XVI. TWO PRISONERS                    146

    XVII. LADY KESTERS HAS MISGIVINGS      155

   XVIII. THE REASON WHY                   166

     XIX. OWEN THE MATCHMAKER              174

      XX. SUDDEN DEATH                     184

     XXI. BY THE SUNDIAL                   200

    XXII. AUREA’S REFLECTIONS              209

   XXIII. AN HOUR OF LIBERTY               212

    XXIV. ON YAMPTON HILL                  217

     XXV. LADY KESTERS AT THE DRUM         226

    XXVI. THE OBSTACLE                     234

   XXVII. SCANDAL ABOUT MISS SUSAN         243

  XXVIII. A NEW SITUATION                  251

    XXIX. TOTTIE TOYE                      261

     XXX. MASHAM--THE MOTORIST             267

    XXXI. TAKING RISKS                     274

   XXXII. AN EXPLANATION                   284

  XXXIII. SITUATION THE FOURTH             289

   XXXIV. SIR RICHARD AS CHAPERON          294

    XXXV. REINSTATED                       300

   XXXVI. BY MOONLIGHT                     306




A ROLLING STONE




A ROLLING STONE




CHAPTER I

LADY KESTERS


After a day of strenuous social activities, Lady Kesters was enjoying a
well-earned rest, reposing at full length on a luxurious Chesterfield,
with cushions of old brocade piled at her back and a new French novel
in her hand. Nevertheless, her attention wandered from Anatole France;
every few minutes she raised her head to listen intently, then, as a
little silver clock chimed five thin strokes, she rose, went over to a
window, and, with an impatient jerk, pulled aside the blind. She was
looking down into Mount Street, W., and endeavouring to penetrate the
gloom of a raw evening towards the end of March.

It was evident that the lady was expecting some one, for there were two
cups and saucers on a well-equipped tea-table, placed between the sofa
and a cheerful log fire.

As the mistress of the house peers eagerly at passers-by, we may avail
ourselves of the opportunity to examine her surroundings. There is
an agreeable feeling of ample space, softly shaded lights, and rich
but subdued colours. The polished floor is strewn with ancient rugs;
bookcases and rare cabinets exhibit costly contents; flowers are in
profusion; the air is heavily scented with white lilac; and a multitude
of magazines and papers lie scattered about in careless abundance. _The
Hibbert Journal_, the _Clarion_, _Le Revue des deux mondes_, and the
_Spectator_ indicate a Catholic taste; but we look in vain for a piano,
a pet dog, or a workbasket.

As Lady Kesters turns from the window, it is seen that she is tall
and slim, with dark, expressive eyes, a delicate, tip-tilted nose,
and remarkably square chin; her figure, which is faultless, shows to
admirable advantage in a simple gown of clinging black material.

And whilst she once more subsides into her sofa and book, we may
venture to introduce a little sketch of her personal history.

Leila Wynyard and her brother Owen were the orphan children of a
dashing cavalry officer, who was killed at polo, leaving family
and creditors to the benevolence of his relations. Sir Richard,
his brother, undertook charge of the boy, the girl--some years his
senior--fell to the lot of a maiden aunt who lived in Eaton Terrace,
and maintained considerable dignity in a small house, on an income to
correspond. Leila had lessons and masters, her teeth, complexion, and
deportment were objects of anxious solicitude; at eighteen she was
brought out and presented, and hopes were entertained that, in her
first or second season, she would make a suitable match, and secure
a husband and a home. The girl carried herself with grace, had fine
dark eyes, and fine fashionable connections; these latter combined to
take her into society, and exhibit her at Ascot and Hurlingham, as
well as balls and the opera. She visited historical country seats and
notable Scottish moors, and was, so to speak, passed along from one
house-party to another; and yet, despite her friends’ exertions, Leila
Wynyard failed to “go off.” Perhaps the truth lay in the simple fact
that the lady herself was disinclined to move on; and often joked over
her social failure with her Aunt Eliza, who had a keen sense of humour
and no mind to lose the light of her old age.

On the other hand, Leila Wynyard was known to be penniless! (for what
is a hundred a year?--it scarcely keeps some women in hats) had no
surpassing accomplishments to lift her out of the ruck; it was also
whispered that she had an independent character, and a sharp tongue!

No one could deny that Miss Wynyard’s air was distinguished. Some men
considered her a brilliant conversationalist, and extraordinarily
clever--but these are rarely the attributes of the women they marry!

Time sped along, Miss Wynyard had been out for nine seasons, was spoken
of in the family as “poor Leila,” and now relegated to the worst spare
room, expected to make herself useful, “do the flowers,” write notes,
and take over the bores. In short, she was about to step into the
position of permanent poor relation, when, to the amazement of the
whole connection, Leila married herself off with triumphant success!
Alone she did it! Her uncle, Sir Richard Wynyard, owner of the family
title and estates, was an old bachelor, who lived in a gloomy town
house in Queen’s Gate, but spent most of his time at his club. At
uncertain intervals he repaid hospitalities received, and entertained
his friends at dinner under his own roof--he scorned the fashionable
craze of assembling one’s guests at a restaurant. These banquets were
well done--wine, ménu, and attendance being beyond criticism. They
would also have been insupportably dull, but for the officiating
hostess; and, thanks to Miss Wynyard’s admirable supervision, they were
usually an enviable success.

The company were of a respectable age--the host’s contemporaries--old
club friends or City folk, with their sedate and comfortable wives.
Miss Wynyard introduced an element of youth and vivacity into the
gathering, selected flowers for the table decoration, had a word about
the savouries and dessert, and, on the evening itself, radiant and
well dressed, enjoyed herself prodigiously--for Leila had the flair of
the born hostess--a gift that had no opportunity for expanding in the
limited space at home.

On one of these occasions, a certain Martin Kesters sat on Miss
Wynyard’s right hand--a plain, elderly man, of few words and many
thoughts, with rugged features, grizzled whiskers, and a made tie!--a
melancholy and reluctant guest who rarely dined abroad, and had
martyrised himself to please and appease his old schoolfellow, Dick
Wynyard.

The brilliant Leila, who adored playing hostess and giving her talents
full scope, drew him out with surprising subtlety, listened to his
opinions with flattering deference, put him at his ease and in good
humour with himself, and won, so to speak, his heart! She was not aware
that Mr. Kesters was a wealthy widower, and mainly responsible for the
enormous increase in her uncle’s fortunes; but this would not have
made an atom of difference. Her attention would have been precisely
the same had he been a penniless curate; she could see that he was
overpowered by his partner--a magnificent matron who talked exclusively
of royalties--his answers were short and gruff;--evidently he was bored
to death and longing to be at home; and she instantly made up her mind
to capture his interest and rivet his attention.

Leila was on her mettle that night, and achieved a notable success.
How she shone! Even Sir Richard was amazed--he was proud of, and not
a little afraid of, his clever niece; as for Mr. Kesters, he watched
her furtively, noted her upright grace, her animation, her delightful
smile, her art of saying the right thing--and saying it well--her
insidious dexterity in leading the conversation into interesting
channels, yet never obtruding her own personality. It was _not_ the
excellence of the champagne that made every one at the table feel
themselves unusually shining and brilliant. No, poor souls! they were
but the pale reflection of this luminous star.

Then the girl’s appearance--she was a girl to his fifty-six years--of
superb health and vitality. What an inmate for a dull, drab home--what
a stimulating companion for a lonely man!

It was a cosy little party of eight, and at a sign from the hostess,
three matrons arose and preceded her up to the ghostly drawing-room,
there to feel depressingly flat and to sip very superior coffee. After
some devastating comments on the British climate and the British
domestic, two of the quartette retired, whispering, to a sofa, in order
to discuss a cure--leaving Miss Wynyard and Lady Billing _tête-à-tête_.

“This room is rather a dreadful specimen of Early Victorian,” said
Leila, waving an apologetic spoon. “I fought so hard for these loose
chintz covers and lamp-shades; but everything else is as it was in
grandmamma’s time--there she is, between the windows, in yellow satin
and ringlets! The venerable servants who still survive will not hear of
a change. Do look at the carpet; it must be fifty years of age. How old
things _wear_!”

“I wonder Sir Richard does not live in a flat near his club,” suggested
her ladyship in diamonds and velvet; “so much more comfortable and
up-to-date.”

“Yes; but then this is the family town house, and he is never quite
sure that he won’t marry.”

“Marry!” repeated Lady Billing, “what an idea!”

“It is his favourite threat”--and Leila laughed--“if the cooking is
bad, the coal indifferent, or the servants too autocratic.”

“But isn’t your brother his heir?” opening her eyes to their widest
extent. “How would he like that?”

“Oh, I really don’t think Owen would care a straw; he is rather
happy-go-lucky, and never thinks of the future. After all, Uncle Dick
is not an old man, and I don’t see why he should not please himself. I
may dance at his wedding yet!”

“I suppose there is no particular lady in the case?” inquired the other
judicially.

Miss Wynyard smiled, and shook her head.

“Do you know, my dear, that you have made an important conquest this
evening?” Then, in answer to Miss Wynyard’s gaze of amazement, “Mr.
Kesters,” she added, with impressive solemnity.

“Mr.--_Kesters_?” repeated Leila.

“Your neighbour at dinner, you know. He was simply swept off his
feet--any one could see that!” and she flourished a puffy hand.

“Well, I hope he has recovered his equilibrium by now. Why, we never
met till eight o’clock.”

“He rarely goes anywhere. He is just a money-spinner--enormously
rich--he can make money, but he does not know how to spend or enjoy it.”

“That’s easily learnt,” declared the young lady, with a gay laugh; “I’d
give him lessons with pleasure.”

“Oh, my dear, it is not so easy to spend, when you have the habit of
years of economy. His wife was terribly close; they say she counted the
potatoes and matches! She was his cousin, and had a nice fortune.”

“So, then, he is a widower?”

“Yes, this five years; he lives alone in Eaton Square--such a frowzy
house--it has never known a spring cleaning! Mrs. Kesters and I
exchanged calls. She would not allow the windows to be opened; loved
King Charles dogs (horrid things) and parrots; dressed on thirty pounds
a year; and her only extravagance was patent medicines. The premises
simply reeked of them! Latterly, she was a helpless invalid, and since
her death Mr. Kesters goes nowhere, just occupies a couple of rooms,
and devotes himself to business. Business is his pleasure. He is a
mighty man in the City--though he is so shy and reserved in society. I
declare you quite woke him up to-night; I’ve known him for years, and I
never saw him so animated.”

“I suppose I hit on a lucky topic--he told me such interesting things
about mining and minerals.”

“_Gold_ especially; they say everything he touches turns to that! My
husband and he are rather friendly, and once or twice he has dined with
us, scarcely uttered a word, and looked as if he was going to sleep.
Oh, here they are!” as the door opened, and the two ladies on the sofa
suddenly concluded a mysterious and confidential conversation, and sat
expectant and erect. But the men as one man made straight for Miss
Wynyard.

Later, as the guests departed, Mr. Kesters lingered to the last, and
his host said fussily--

“I say, look here, Martin, I suppose you have your carriage, and you
may as well take my niece home; you are going in her direction.”

“My dear uncle, why should you victimise Mr. Kesters?” she protested;
“I shall return as I came, in a hansom.”

But Mr. Kesters intervened with unexpected gallantry, and declared
that to escort Miss Wynyard was an honour that he could not forgo.
Subsequently he conducted her down to a shabby, “one-horse”
brougham--the coachman’s legs were wrapped in a specially odoriferous
stable rug--and conveyed her to Eaton Terrace. As he took leave of her
at the hall door, he ventured to put a timid question.

He was such a near neighbour--might he come and call?

“Yes, of course,” assented the lady; “Aunt Eliza will be delighted to
see you--we are always at home on Sundays, four to six.”

Subsequently Mr. Kesters became a regular visitor, and met with Aunt
Eliza’s approval; and, before many Sundays had elapsed, a paragraph
concerning the names of Wynyard and Kesters appeared in the _Morning
Post_.

And so poor Leila became rich Leila! and, from being an insignificant
relation, a person of considerable social importance. Until her
marriage few had discovered Mrs. Kesters’ beauty--her cleverness had
never been disputed. Now, as the result of a visit to Paris, armed with
a cheque-book, she glorified her appearance, wore charming frocks and
exquisite jewels, and, with her fine air and admirable figure, it was
impossible “to pass her unnoticed in a crowd.”

Mrs. Kesters organised changes other than personal: the gloomy abode
in Eaton Square was sold, its contents dispatched to an auction
room--including two old stuffed parrots, and the mangy remains of her
predecessor’s King Charles; another house was taken and furnished
regardless of expense, a motor purchased, and a staff of experienced
servants engaged. In a surprisingly short time Mrs. Martin Kesters
of 202 Mount Street, Grosvenor Square, had become a popular member
of society. Her little dinners and luncheons were famous, not alone
for the quality of the menu, but also of the guests. Martin, too,
had been transformed as by a wand! His whiskers disappeared, he was
persuaded to change his tailor, and given a good conceit of himself.
He felt ten years younger, brisk, energetic, prepared to enjoy his
money and the Indian summer of his life. Instead of being taciturn,
he talked; instead of going to sleep after dinner, he patronised
the theatre; he learnt to play bridge and golf. In the society of
ladies his manners had become assured, and he no longer was at a
helpless loss to know what to say, or stumbled clumsily over their
trains. For all these new accomplishments he had to thank Leila; and
he was devoted to his brilliant and charming wife. She was more or
less in touch with political people, and clever men, and women that
mattered. The fascinating Mrs. Kesters was successful in drawing-room
diplomacy and the delicate art of pulling strings; and, to her
husband’s astonishment, he had found himself a K.C.B., and elected to
an exclusive club--sitting on important committees, dining in stately
houses, and entertaining notable guests.

Lady Kesters’ connections held up their hands, cast up their eyes,
and declared that “Leila was _too_ wonderful!” She had changed a
dull, plodding, City man into a well-turned-out, agreeable, bland
individual--who was her abject slave--and she had become a leader in
her own particular set. Her relatives repeated, “Who would have thought
Leila had it _in_ her?” But Leila had, so to speak, always “had it
in her.” “It” represented brains, tact, a passion for affairs and
managing, a hidden and ambitious spirit, and an active and impatient
longing to taste responsibility and power.

       *       *       *       *       *

The clock pointed to a quarter past five. Lady Kesters took up the
silver caddy and was proceeding to ladle out tea, when the door opened,
a servant announced “Mr. Wynyard,” and a remarkably good-looking young
man entered the room.

Before he could speak, Lady Kesters turned to the butler, and said--

“Payne, if any one should call, I am not at home.”

“Very good, my lady,” he replied, and softly closed the door.

A maid, who happened to be on the landing, witnessed the recent arrival
and overheard the order, now winked at Payne with easy impudence, and
gave a significant sniff.

“I don’t know what you’re sniffing about,” he said peevishly. “I
suppose you will allow her ladyship to receive her own brother in peace
and comfort, seeing as he is just back from South America, and she
hasn’t laid eyes on him for near a year.”

“Oh, so that’s her brother, is it?” said the young woman; “and an
uncommonly fine young chap--better looking than her ladyship by long
chalks!”

“You go down to your tea and leave her ladyship’s looks alone. I don’t
know what you’re doing hanging about this landing at such an hour of
the day.”

Payne was an old servant in the Wynyard family, and he was aware it had
been generally said that “Master Owen had the looks and Miss Leila the
brains.” Master Owen was always a wild, harum-scarum young fellow, and
it wasn’t at all unlikely that he had got into one of his scrapes. With
this conviction implanted in his mind, Payne deliberately descended the
stairs, issued an edict to one of the footmen, and retired into his
lair and the evening paper.




CHAPTER II

BROTHER AND SISTER


“Well,” began Lady Kesters, as the door closed, “I suppose you have
seen him?”

“I have very much seen him,” replied her brother, who had thrown
himself into a chair; “I did a sprint across the park, because I know
your ladyship cannot bear to be kept waiting. Everything must be done
to the minute in this establishment.”

“Yes,” she agreed; “and you come from a country where time is no
object--everything is for ‘To-morrow.’ Now, tell me about Uncle
Richard. Was he furious?”

“No; I believe I would have got off better if he had been in a rage. He
received me in a ‘more in sorrow than in anger’ frame of mind, spoke as
deliberately as if he had written his speech, and learnt it by heart;
he meant every word he said.”

“I doubt it,” said his sister, who had been filling the teapot, and now
closed the lid with a decisive snap. “Let me hear all you can remember.”

“He said he had done his best for me since I was a kid--his only
brother’s son and his heir,--that he had sent me to Eton----”

“As if you didn’t know that!” she interrupted.

“Engineered me into the Service----”

“Yes, yes, yes!” with a wave of her hand. “Tell me something new.”

“He says that he is sick of me and my failures--is that new?”

“What does he propose?” asked Lady Kesters.

“He proposes that, for a change, I should try and get along by myself,
and no longer hang on to other people.”

“Well, there is some sense in that.”

“He says that if I continue as I’ve begun, I’ll develop into the awful
loafer who haunts men’s clubs, trying to borrow half a sov. from old
pals, and worrying them with begging letters.”

“A pretty future for _you_, Owen!”

“He swears I must work for my living and earn my daily bread; and that,
if, for two years from now, I can maintain myself honourably in this
country or the Continent--Asia, Africa, and America are barred--and
neither get into debt, prison, or any matrimonial entanglement----” he
paused for a moment to laugh.

“Yes, yes,” said his sister impatiently; “and if you comply with all
these conditions?”

“He will reinstate me, put me into Wynyard to take the place of his
agent, and give me a handsome screw. But if I play the fool, he takes
his solemn oath he will leave everything he possesses to a hospital,
and all I shall come in for will be the bare estate, an empty house,
and an empty title--and _that_ he hopes to keep me out of for the next
thirty years!”

“No doubt he will,” agreed his sister; “we are--bar accidents--a
long-lived stock.”

“He also said that he was only fifty-six; he might marry; a Lady
Wynyard----”

“No fear of that,” she interposed; “the old servants will never permit
it, and never receive her. But how are you to earn your living and your
daily bread?”

“That, he declares, is entirely _my_ affair. Of course he doesn’t
expect much from a wooden-headed duffer like me; he knows I’ve no
brains, and no, what he calls ‘initiative or push.’ He doesn’t care
a rap if I sweep a crossing or a chimney, as long as I am able to
maintain myself, become independent, and learn to walk alone.”

“So that is Uncle Richard’s programme!” said Lady Kesters reflectively.
“Now, let’s have some tea,” and she proceeded to pour it out. “The
little cakes are cold and stodgy, but try these sandwiches. Martin
is away to-night--he had to go to a big meeting in Leeds, and won’t
be home. I shall send for your things. I suppose you are at your old
quarters in Ryder Street?”

“Yes; they have been awfully decent to me, and kept my belongings when
I was away.”

“And you must come here for a week, and we will think out some scheme.
I wish you could stay on and make your home here. But you know Martin
has the same sort of ideas as Uncle Richard; he began, when he was
eighteen, on a pound a week, and made his own way, and thinks every
young man should do the same.”

“I agree with him there--though it may sound funny to hear me say so,
Sis. I hope you don’t imagine I’ve come back to loaf; I shall be only
too glad to be on my own.”

“I suppose you have no money at all?” she inquired, as she replenished
his teacup.

“I have fifteen pounds, if you call that nothing, all my London kit, a
pair of guns, and a gold watch.”

“But what brought you back so suddenly? You did not half explain to me
this morning, when you tumbled from the skies.”

“Well, you see,” he began, as he rose and put down his cup, “the
Estancia I was on was of the wrong sort, as it happened, and a rotten
bad one. Uncle Richard was tremendously keen to deport me, and he
took hold of the first thing he heard of, some crazy advice from a
blithering old club fogey who did not know a blessed thing about the
country. The Valencia Estancia, a horse-breeding one, was far away
inland--not one of those nearer Buenos Ayres and civilisation,--it
belonged to a native. The proprietor, Vincino, was paralysed from a bad
fall, and the place was run by a ruffian called Murcia. I did not mind
roughing it; it’s a splendid climate, and I liked the life itself well
enough. I got my fill of riding, and a little shooting--duck, and a
sort of partridge--and I appreciated the freedom from the tall hat and
visiting card.”

“You never used many of those!” she interposed.

“No. From the first I never could stand Murcia; he was such an oily
scoundrel, and an awful liar; so mean and treacherous and cruel, both
to men and animals. He drank a lot of that frightfully strong spirit
that’s made out there--fermented cane--and sometimes he was stark mad,
knocking the servants and the peons about; and as to the horses, he was
a fiend to them. He killed lots of the poor brutes by way of training;
lassoed them--and broke their hearts. It made my blood boil, and, as
much as I could, I took over the breaking-in business. When I used to
jaw him and remonstrate, it made him wild, and he always had his knife
into me on the sly.”

“How?”

“The stiffest jobs, the longest days, the largest herds, were naturally
for the English ‘Gringo.’”

“What is that?”

“A dog. He never called it to my face--he was too much of the
cur--but we had several shakes up, and the last was _final_. One
afternoon I caught him half-killing a wretched woman that he said had
been stealing coffee. It was pay-day, all the employés, to a man and
child, were assembled in the patio--you know what that is? An enclosed
courtyard with the house round it. This was a grand old dilapidated
Spanish Estancia, with a fine entrance of great iron gates. It was a
warm, still sort of afternoon. As I cantered across the campo I heard
harrowing shrieks, and, when I rode in, I soon saw what was up! Murcia,
crazy with drink, was holding a wretched creature by her hair and
belabouring her with a cattle-whip, whilst the crowd looked on, and no
one stirred a finger.”

“You did?” leaning forward eagerly.

“Rather! I shouted to him to hold hard, and he only cursed; so I jumped
off the horse and went for him straight. He dropped his victim and
tried to lay on to me with the whip; but the boot was on the other leg,
and I let him have it, I can tell you. It was not a matter of fists,
but flogging. My blood was up, and I scourged that blackguard with all
my soul and all my strength. He ran round and round the patio yelling,
whilst the crowd grinned and approved. I settled some of Murcia’s
scores on the spot and paid for many blows and outrages! In the end he
collapsed in the dust, grovelling at my feet, blubbering and groaning,
‘a worm and no man.’ I think that’s in the Bible. Yes, I gave that
hulking, drunken brute a thrashing that he will never forget--and those
who saw it won’t forget it either. Naturally, after such a performance
I had to clear. You may do a lot of things out there; you may even
shoot a man, but you must never lay hands on an overseer; so I made
tracks at once, without pay, bonus, character, or anything except the
adoration of the employés, my clothes, and a few pounds. Murcia would
have run me in, only he would have shown up badly about the woman.
Well, I came down country in a cattle-train, and found I was just short
of coin to pay my way home.”

Leila stared into the fire in silence; her warm imagination transported
her to the scene her brother had described. She, too, was on the campo,
and heard the cries of the woman; she saw the Englishman gallop through
the gates, saw the cowardly crowd, the maddened ruffian, the victim,
and the punishment!

“But what did you do with your salary?” she asked, after an
expressively long pause; “surely you had no way of spending it?”

“That’s true. As I was to have a bonus, you know, on the year, my
salary was small, and I got rid of it easily enough.”

“Cards!” she supplemented; “oh, of course. My dear Owen, I’m afraid you
are hopeless!”

“Yes, I suppose it’s hereditary! After the day’s work there was nothing
to do. All the other chaps gambled, and I could not stand with my hands
in my pockets looking on; so I learnt the good old native game of
‘Truco,’ but I had no luck--and lost my dollars.”

“And after your arrival at Buenos Ayres in the cattle-train, what
happened?”

“Well, naturally, I had no spare cash to spend in that little Paris:
the Calle Florida, and the Café Florian, and Palermo Park, saw nothing
of _me_, much less the magnificent Jockey Club. I searched about for a
cast home! I was determined to get back to the Old Country, for I knew
I’d do no good out there--I mean in Buenos Ayres; so I went down to
the Digue, where the big liners lie, and cadged for a job. I believe
they are pretty sick of chaps asking for a lift home, and I had some
difficulty in getting a berth; but, after waiting several days, I got
hold of a captain to listen to me. I offered to stoke.”

“Owen!”

“Yes; but he said, ‘You look like a stoker, don’t you? Why, you’re a
gentleman! You couldn’t stand the engine-room for an hour. However, as
I see you are not proud and they are short of hands in the stewards’
pantry, they might take you on to wash plates.’”

Lady Kesters made no remark; her expression was sufficiently eloquent.

“‘All right,’ I agreed, ‘I’ll do my little best.’ So I was made over
to the head steward. We carried a full number of passengers that trip,
and, when one of the saloon waiters fell sick, I was promoted into his
place, as I was clean and civil. Needless to say, I was thankful to get
away from the horrors of greasy plates and the fag of cleaning knives.
I can wait pretty well, the ladies liked me--yes, and I liked them--and
when we docked at Southampton yesterday, Owen, as they called me,
received nearly six pounds in tips, not to speak of a steamer chair and
a white umbrella!”

As he concluded, he walked over to the fire and stood with his back
to it. His sister surveyed him reflectively; she was thinking how
impossible it was to realise that her well-bred, smart-looking brother,
in his admirably cut clothes, and air of easy self-possession, had,
within twenty-four hours, been a steward at the beck and call of the
passengers on a liner. However, all she said was--

“So at any rate you have made a start, and begun to earn money already.”

“Oh, that’s nothing new. I was never quite broke;” and, diving into
his pocket, he produced a little parcel, which he tossed into her lap.

“For me?”

“For who else?”

He watched her attentively as she untied the narrow bit of red and
yellow ribbon, unfolded a flat box, and discovered a beautiful plaque
or clasp in old Spanish paste. The design was exquisite, and the
ornament flashed like a coruscation of Brazilian diamonds.

“Oh, Owen, how perfect!” she gasped; “but how dare you? It must have
cost a fortune--as much as your passage money,” and she looked up at
him interrogatively.

“Never mind; it was a bargain. I picked it up in a queer, poky little
shop, and it’s real old, old Spanish--time of Ferdinand and Isabella
they said--and I felt I’d like to take something home to you; it will
look jolly well on black, eh?”

“Do you know it’s just the sort of thing that I have been aching
to possess,” she said, now holding it against her gown. “If you
had searched for a year you couldn’t have given me anything I
liked so much--so beautiful in itself, so rare and ancient, and so
uncommon that not one of my dear friends can copy it. Oh, it’s a
_treasure_”--standing up to look at her reflection as she held the
jewel against her bodice--“but all the same, it was wicked of you to
buy it!”

“There are only the two of us, Sis, and why shouldn’t I give myself
that pleasure?”

“What a pretty speech!” and she patted his arm approvingly.

At this moment Payne entered, salver in hand.

“A telegram for you, my lady.”

“Oh,” picking it up, and tearing it open, “it’s from Martin. He is
detained till Saturday--three whole days;” then, turning to the butler,
she said, “You can take away the tea-table.”

As soon as the tea-things were removed, and Payne and his satellite
had departed, Lady Kesters produced a gold case, selected a cigarette,
settled herself comfortably in a corner of the sofa, and said--

“Now, Owen, light up, and let us have a pow-wow! Have you any plan in
your head?”

“No,” he answered, “I’m afraid my head is, as usual, pretty empty, and
of course this ultimatum of Uncle Richard’s has been a bit of a facer;
I was in hopes he’d give me another chance.”

“What sort of chance?”

“Something in South Africa.”

“Something in South Africa has been the will-o’-the-wisp that has
ruined lots of young men,” she said; “you would do no good there, O.
You haven’t enough push, originality, or cheek; I believe you would
find yourself a tram conductor in Cape Town.”

“Then what about India? I might get a billet on some tea
estate--yes--and some shooting as well!”

“Tea-planters’ assistants, as far as I can gather, don’t have much
time for shooting. There is the tea-picking to look after, and the
coolies to overseer in all weathers. I believe the work in the rains is
awful and the pay is poor--you’d be much more likely to get fever than
shooting. Have you any other scheme?”

She glanced at her brother, who was lying back in an arm-chair, his
hands clasped behind his head, his eyes fixed on the fire. Yes, Owen
was undeniably good to look at, with his clean-shaven, clear-cut face,
well-knit figure, and length of limb. He shook his head, but after a
moment said--

“Now let us have your ideas, Sis. You are always a sure draw!”

“What about matrimony?” she asked composedly, and without raising her
eyes.

He turned and surveyed her with a stare of ironical amusement.

“On the principle that what is not enough for one will support two--eh?”

“How can you be so silly! I don’t mean love in a cottage; I’m thinking
of an heiress. There are several, so to speak, on the market, and I
believe I could marry you off remarkably well, if you were not too
critical; there is Miss Goldberger--a really good sort--enormously
rich, an orphan, and hideous to the verge of fascination. She is in the
racing set--and----”

“No, thank you, Sis,” he broke in; “I’d rather drive a ’bus or motor
any day than live on my wife’s fortune. If I married one of your rich
friends I should hate it, and I guarantee that she’d soon hate _me_;
anyway, I’m not keen on getting married. So, as the young men in shops
say, ‘and the next article, please?’”

“Of course I know I need not again waste my breath talking to you of
business. Martin got you a capital opening in Mincing Lane, and you
threw it up; he’d taken a lot of trouble, and he is rather sore about
it still. He fancies you look down on the City.”

“I? He never made a greater mistake! The City would soon look down on
me. I’m no good at figures; I’ve no business ability or smart alacrity.
If I had not taken myself off, I’d soon have been chucked out; besides,
I never could stick in an office all day from ten to six. I’d much
rather wash plates! I want something that will keep me in the open air
all the time, rain or shine; and if I had to do with horses, so much
the better. How about a place as groom--a breaker-in of young hunters?”

“Not to be thought of!” she answered curtly.

“No?” then drawing out another cigarette, “do you know, I’ve half a
mind to enlist. You see, I know something of soldiering--and I like it.
I’d soon get my stripes, and for choice I’d pick the ‘Death and Glory
Boys.’”

“Yes; you may like soldiering as an officer, with a fair allowance,
a couple of hunters, and polo ponies; but I’m not sure that Trooper
Wynyard would care for stables, besides his drill and work, and I may
be wrong, but I think you have a couple of troop horses to do up.”

“Oh, I could manage all right! I’m rather handy with horses, though
I must confess the bronchos I’ve been riding lately did not get much
grooming.”

“No, no, Owen, I’m dead against enlisting, remember that,” she said
authoritatively. “I shall go and interview Uncle Richard to-morrow
morning, and have a tooth-and-nail combat on your behalf, find out if
he means to stick to his intention, or if _I_ can’t persuade him to
give you a job on the estate, say as assistant agent, that would suit
you?”

“You’re awfully clever, Sis,” said the young man, now rising and
leaning against the chimneypiece, “and in every respect the head of
the family. It’s downright wonderful how successfully you manage other
people’s affairs, and give one a push here and a hand there. I am aware
that you have immense and far-reaching--er--influence. You have been
the making of Kesters.”

His sister dismissed the statement with an impatient jerk of her
cigarette.

“Oh yes, you have,” he went on doggedly. “He was formerly a common
or garden wealthy man, whose daytime was divided between meals and
business; now he’s a K.C.B., sits on all sorts of boards, has a fine
place in the country, shoots a bit, is a Deputy-Lieutenant, and I don’t
know what all--and _you’ve_ done it! But there is one person you cannot
manage or move, and that is Uncle Richard; he is like a stone figure
that all the wind and sun and rain may beat on, and he never turns a
hair.”

“How you do mix your metaphors!” she exclaimed; “who ever saw a stone
image with hair upon it! Well,” rising to stand beside him, “I shall
see what _I_ can do in the morning. Now, let us put the whole thing
out of our heads and have a jolly evening. Shall we go to a theatre? I
suppose you’ve not been inside one since you were last in town?”

“Oh yes, I was at theatres in Buenos Ayres, the Theatre Doria, a sort
of music hall, where I saw some ripping dancing.”

“I’ll telephone for stalls at something. You may as well have all the
fun you can before you start off to plough your lonely furrow.”

“It’s awfully good of you, Sis. I’m a frightful nuisance to the
family--something between a bad penny and a black sheep!”

“No, Owen, you know perfectly well you are neither,” she protested, as
she lit another cigarette. “You mentioned just now there are only the
two of us, and it would be rather strange if we did not stick by one
another. And there is this to be said, that although you’ve been wild
and extravagant, and your gambling and practical joking were shocking,
all the time you remain a gentleman; and there are two things in your
favour--you don’t drink----”

“No, thank God!” he responded, with emphasis.

“As far as I know you have never been mixed up with women--eh, Owen?”
and she looked at him steadily.

“No. To tell you the truth, I give them a wide berth. I’ve seen some
pretty awful affairs they had a hand in. To be candid, I’m a little shy
of your sex.”

“That is funny, Owen,” she replied, “considering it was on account of a
woman you have just been thrown out of a job.”

“You could hardly expect a man to stand by and see a brute like Murcia
knocking a poor creature about--half-killing her--and never interfere!”

“No, of course; but you must not make the mistake of being too
chivalrous--chivalry is costly--and it is my opinion that it has cost
you a good deal already. That detestable de Montfort was not the first
who let you in, or persuaded you to pull his chestnuts out of the fire.
Come now, own up--confess to the others.”

“No--no”--and he smiled--he had a charming smile--“there is such a
thing as honour among thieves.”

“That’s all very noble and generous, my dear brother, but some of the
thieves were _not_ honourable.”

Her dear brother made no reply; he was staring fixedly into the fire
and thinking of Hugo de Montfort. How little had he imagined, when he
backed Hugo’s bill, that the scribbling of his signature would make
such an awful change in his own life!

Hugo and he had been at Eton in the same house; they had fagged
together, sat side by side in chapel, and frequently shared the
same scrapes. Later they had lost sight of one another, as Owen had
struggled into the Service and gone out to India. Some years later,
when stationed at the depôt, he and de Montfort had come across one
another once more.

Hugo de Montfort was a self-possessed young man, with sleek black
hair and a pair of curiously unreadable grey eyes: an idler about
town--clever, crafty, unscrupulous, and much given to cards and racing.

He welcomed his old pal Wynyard with enthusiasm--and secretly marked
him for his own. Wynyard--so said report--was a nailing rider, a good
sort, popular, and known to be the nephew and heir of a rich, unmarried
uncle; so he played the rôle of old schoolfellow and best pal for all
it was worth.

The plausible, insidious scoundrel, who lived by his wits, was on his
last legs--though he kept the fact a secret--was seen everywhere,
carried a bold front, and owned a magnificent 60 h.p. motor, which
was useful in more ways than one. He was staying at the Métropôle at
Folkestone, and, struck by a bright idea--so he declared--motored over
to Canterbury one fine Sunday morning, and carried off his friend to
lunch.

As they sat smoking and discussing recent race meetings, weights, and
jockeys, de Montfort suddenly put down his cigar and said--

“I say, look here, Owen, old man. I’m in rather a tight fix this week.
I want two thousand to square a bookie--and, like the real sporting
chap you are--will you back my name on a bill?”

Owen’s expression became unusually grave; backing a bill was an
iniquity hitherto unknown to him. Uncle Dick had recently paid up
handsomely, and he had given certain promises; and, indeed, had
curtailed his expenses, sold two of his ponies, and had made up his
mind to keep strictly within his allowance.

“Of course it’s a mere form,” pursued de Montfort, in his swaggering,
off-hand way, “I swear to you. Do you think I’d ask you, if it was not
safe as a church! I’ll have the coin in a fortnight; but just at the
moment I’m terribly short, and you know yourself what racing debts
mean. So I come to you, my old pal, before any one; you are such a
rare, good, generous, open-handed sort! Don’t for a moment suppose that
_you_ will be responsible,” declared this liar; “I’ll take up the bill
when it falls due; I’d as soon let in my own mother as a pal like you.”

In short, Hugo was so urgent and so plausible, that his victim was
persuaded and carried away by eloquence and old memories, accompanied
de Montfort to a writing-table, where he signed O. St. J. Wynyard--and
repented himself before his signature had been blotted!

Two days later Owen received a beautiful silver cigarette-case,
inscribed, as a token of friendship from de Montfort, and this was
succeeded by an alarming silence. When the time approached for
the bill to fall due, Wynyard wrote anxious epistles to his old
schoolfellow--who appeared to be one of the crowd who believe that
letters answer themselves! Then he went up to town and sought him at
his rooms and club; no one could give him any tidings of Hugo beyond
the fact that he was abroad--a wide and unsatisfactory address. He sent
distracted telegrams to some of the runaway’s former haunts; there was
no reply. The fatal day arrived, and Owen was compelled to interview
his uncle and make a clean breast of the whole business; and his uncle
was furious to the verge of apoplexy.

“They used to say,” he shouted, “put the fool of the family into the
army; but _my_ fool shall not remain in the Service! I’ll pay up the
two thousand you’ve been robbed of for the sake of my name--and out
you go! Send in your papers to-day!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Lady Kesters was contemplating her face in the overmantle, which also
reflected her brother’s unusually grave visage.

“Owen,” she said, “what a pity it is that I hadn’t your looks and you
my brains.”

They presented a contrast, as they examined one another in the glass.
The woman’s dark, irregular face, her keen, concentrated expression;
the man with clear-cut features, sleepy, deep-set grey eyes, and
close-cropped light brown hair.

“I think you are all right as you are, Sis,” he remarked, after a
reflective pause.

“But you are not,” she snapped. “Now, if you had my head. Oh, how I
long to be a man! I’d have gone into Parliament. I’d have helped to
manage the affairs of a nation instead of the affairs of a family. I’d
have worked and slaved and made myself a name--yes, and gone far!”

“What’s the good of going far?” he asked, in a lazy voice.

“Ah,” she exclaimed, with a touch of passion, “you have no ambition;
you don’t even know what the word means! Look at the men in the
Commons, who have worked themselves up from nothing to be powers in
the land, whose influence is far-reaching, whose voices are heard at
the ends of the earth. What would be your ambition, come now?” and she
surveyed him with sparkling eyes.

“Certainly not to go into Parliament,” he answered, “and sit in the
worst atmosphere in London for eight months of the year.”

“Well, at least it’s an electrical atmosphere, charged with vitality!
And your ambition?” she persisted.

“To win the Grand National, riding my own horse, since you must know.”

“Pooh!” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers with a gesture of scorn,
“and what a paltry aim!--the yells of a raving mob, a ‘para’ in the
papers, and the chance of breaking your neck.”

“Better than breaking something else! I’m told that a political career,
with its incessant work, crushing disappointments, worry, and fag, has
broken many a fellow’s heart.”

“Heart! Nonsense; I don’t believe you have one. Well, now, as we are
dining early, you had better see about your things from Ryder Street,
and I will go and ’phone for stalls for _The Giddy Girl_.”




CHAPTER III

THE LAST WORD GOES BEGGING


Sir Richard Wynyard, aged fifty-six, was a little, grey,
square-shouldered man, with a good heart and bad temper. His father,
the notorious Sir Fulke, had put his two sons into the army, given
them small and irregularly paid allowances, and then abandoned them
to their own devices, whilst he squandered the family patrimony on
horses and cards. When Richard, his heir, was quartered in Dublin, he
fell desperately in love with a beautiful Irish girl; but, painfully
aware of his own empty purse, he was too prudent to marry--unlike his
reckless younger brother, who adventured a runaway match on a captain’s
pay and debts. Major Wynyard made no sign, much as this silence cost
him, and when, after his father’s death, he had at last a roof to
offer--Wynyard, a stately old place, although somewhat dismantled--he
sought his lady-love in haste, but, alas! he was months too late; she
had already been summoned to another home,--the beautiful Rose O’Hara,
his heart’s desire, was dead.

This was said to have been Sir Richard’s sole love-affair, and the
one grief of his life. The late baronet’s reckless extravagance had
shattered the fortunes of his descendants; his heir found himself
compelled to let the land, close the Hall, sell off the horses, and
take up his abode with his mother in the town house in Queen’s Gate;
where he lived and how, was indifferent to him, he seemed to have no
heart for anything. This was attributed to his supreme disgust at
inheriting such a legacy of debt; but the real truth was that the loss
of the beautiful Rose had temporarily stunned her lover.

Lady Wynyard, once a celebrated beauty, was now a weak and withered old
dowager, tyrannically ruled by her servants. When she, too, was carried
to the ancestral vault, her son still remained in the gloomy family
abode, and, more from apathy than anything else, fell under the thrall
of her retainers.

Between his father’s and his mother’s debts, Sir Richard found himself
sorely pressed, and he took Martin Kesters, his schoolfellow and
friend, into his confidence.

“I shall be a crippled man all my life,” he declared; “it will take
years to nurse the property into anything like what it was in my
grandfather’s day; and, by that time, that young chap, Owen, will step
into my shoes.”

“Well, Dick, if you don’t mind a bit of risk,” said his companion, “I
know a thing that will set you on your legs and make your fortune;
but it’s not absolutely certain. Still, if it comes off, you get five
hundred per cent. for your money, and become a semi-millionaire. It’s
an Australian gold-mine, and I believe it’s going to boom!”

“Anything is better than this half-and-half existence,” said Sir
Richard impatiently. “You have a long head, Martin, and I’ll take your
tip and put on all I can scrape. I’ll mortgage some outlying land, sell
some of the good pictures and the library, and be either a man or a
mouse. For once in my life I’ll do a big gamble. If I win, you say it’s
a big thing; if I lose, it means a few hundreds a year and a bedroom
near my club for the rest of my days. I take no middle course--I’ll be
a rich man or a pauper.”

And Sir Richard was as good as his word; he scraped up fifteen thousand
pounds, staked the whole sum on his venture--and won.

Subsequently, he cleared the property, invested in some securities,
began to feel at ease in the world, and travelled widely. Having
known the pinch and humiliation of genteel poverty and practised
stern self-denial in his youth, Sir Richard was naturally the
last man to have any sympathy with a nephew--a restless, reckless
scatter-brain--who was following in the footsteps of his squandering
forefathers. The good-looking young scapegrace must have a sharp
lesson, and learn the value of money and independence.

Lady Kesters’ promised interview with her uncle took place. He was fond
of Leila in his own brusque fashion, and secretly plumed himself on
having manœuvred her marriage.

“Well, Leila, I suppose you have come about this precious brother of
yours?” he began, as she was ushered into the smoking-room.

“Of course I have, Uncle Dick,” she replied, as she imprinted a kiss
upon his cheek and swept into a chair. “Something must be done!” and
she looked at him with speculative eagerness.

“There I agree with you,” he answered. “And Owen is the man to do it.
God helps those who help themselves!”

“Owen is most anxious to make another start; but it is not easy for a
soldier man, brought up as he has been.”

“Brought up as a rich man’s heir,” broke in her uncle, with a quick,
impatient movement; “more fool the rich man! I gave the fellow a good
education, good allowance, good send-off. I got him into his father’s
old regiment, and made him a decent allowance; he did fairly well in
India, I admit; but as soon as he came home to the depôt, he seemed
to have lost his head. Why, I believe the young scamp actually kept
racers, and as for his hunters, I never saw finer cattle in my life!
One day, when I happened to run down to Canterbury to visit him, I
noticed a servant exercising a couple of horses--such a pair! I was
bound to stop and admire them, and the groom informed me that they
belonged to Lieutenant Wynyard of the Red Hussars; and Mr. Wynyard’s
uncle hadn’t as much as a donkey to his name!”

“But could have thousands if he chose,” interposed Leila. “As for
racing, it was only his hunters Owen put into regimental steeplechases
and that sort of thing.”

“And that sort of thing came devilish expensive!” snapped Sir Richard,
who was now pacing the room. “I had to pay his debts. I paid them
_twice_, and he promised on his word of honour to turn over a new
leaf. The next thing he did was to back a bill for an infernal young
swindler, and let me in for two thousand pounds--that was the last
straw!”

“Yes, I know it was,” assented his niece; “but really, Uncle Dick,
Owen was not so much to blame as you believe. He was very steady out
in India for four years; coming home, as you say, went to his head; he
did not realise that money does not go nearly as far here--especially
in an expensive cavalry regiment. He kept polo ponies and racing ponies
in Lucknow, and could not understand that he could not do the same
at home. As to the bill, he is not suspicious, or sharp at reading
character, and is staunch to old friends--or those he mistakes for
friends--as in the case of young de Montfort. He had never heard what a
‘wrong un’ he turned out; they were at Eton----”

“Yes, I know--same house--same puppy-hole!” growled her uncle.

“And when Mr. de Montfort looked up Owen and told him a pathetic and
plausible tale about his affairs, and swore on his word of honour that
his signature was a mere formality--and----”

“Cleared off to Spain and left _me_ to pay!” interposed Sir Richard,
coming to a halt.

“Owen had to pay too,” retorted his sister, with a touch of bitterness.

“You mean that I made him leave the Service? Yes, I could not afford to
go on supporting an extravagant young ass.”

“Owen is not brilliant, Uncle Dick, but he is no fool.”

“A fool and another man’s money are soon parted. Life was made too easy
for the chap--very different to what _I_ found it at his age. I had no
hunters, no dozens of silk shirts, and rows of polo boots; _I_ never
was to be met lounging down Piccadilly as if the whole earth belonged
to me.”

“Well, at least, Uncle Dick, you were never compelled to give up a
profession you adored, when you were barely five-and-twenty.”

“I’ve given up a lot,” he answered forcibly, “and when I was older
than him; but never mind _me_; we are talking of Owen. After leaving
the Hussars, Kesters took him on, and got him a capital billet in the
City--a nice soft berth, ten to four, but my gentleman could not stand
an office stool and tall hat, and in five months he had chucked----”

Leila nodded. It was impossible to deny this indictment.

“So then it was my turn again; and I thought a little touch of real
work would be good for the future Sir Owen Wynyard, and, after some
trouble, I heard of a likely opening in the Argentine on the Valencia
Estancia, well out of the way of towns and temptation--a horse-breeding
ranch, too. You see I studied the fellow’s tastes, eh?” And Sir Richard
twirled his eyeglasses by the string--a trick of his when he considered
that he had scored a point.

“I gave him his passage and outfit, and put a few hundreds into the
concern as a spec. and to insure him an interest, and within twelve
months here he is back again on my hands--the proverbial rolling
stone!” He cleared his throat, and continued: “Now, Leila, my girl, you
have a head on your shoulders, and you know that these rolling stones
find their way to the bottom, and I am going to block my specimen in
good time. I suppose he told you what I said to him yesterday?”

“Yes; he came straight to Mount Street from seeing you.”

“He has got to shift for himself for two years, to earn his bread,
with or without butter, to guarantee that he does not take a penny
he has not worked for, that he does not get into debt or any
matrimonial engagement; should he marry a chorus-girl, by Jove I’ll
burn down Wynyard! If, by the end of that time, he turns up a steady,
industrious, independent member of society, I will make him my
agent--he shall have an adequate allowance, the house to live in, and
most of my money when I am dead!”

Lady Kesters was about to speak, but with a hasty gesture her uncle
interposed.

“I may as well add that I think myself safe in offering this prize, for
it’s my belief that Owen will never win it. He has the family fever in
his veins--the rage for gambling--and he is like the patriarch Reuben,
‘unstable as water and cannot excel.’ At the end of six months he will
be penniless, and you and Kesters will have to come to his rescue; for
my part _I_ wash my hands of him.”

“Uncle Dick,” she said, rising, “I think you are too hard on Owen;
he would not have come back from South America if he had not had a
row with the manager of the Estancia: surely you could not expect an
English gentleman--an Englishman--to stand by and see a poor woman
nearly beaten to death?”

“Oh,” with an impatient whirl of his glasses, “the fellow has always as
many excuses as an Irishman!”

“I think you are unjust,” she said, with a flash in her dark eyes.
“I admit that Owen has been extravagant and foolish, but he was not
worse, or half as bad, as many young men in his position. Are you quite
determined? Won’t you give Owen another chance--or even half a chance?”

“No; his future is now in his own hands, and I stick to what I’ve
said,” he declared, with irritable vehemence. “You came here, my
clever Leila, to talk me over. Oh, you are good at that, but it’s no
go this time! I am honestly giving the boy his only remedy. Let me
see,” sitting down at his bureau, “what is the date? Yes--look here--I
make an entry. I give Owen two years from to-day to work out his
time--to-day is the thirty-first of March.”

“But why not wait until to-morrow, and make it the first of April?”
suggested his niece, with a significant and seductive smile.

“Leila,” he spluttered, “I’m astonished at you! You jeer at me because
I’m not disposed to keep your beloved brother as an ‘_objêt de luxe_,’
eh?”

“I don’t jeer, Uncle Dick, and I am sorry my tongue was too many for
me; but I can see both sides of the question, and it _is_ hard that,
after indulging Owen as a boy, sending him to Eton, putting him into
the Hussars, and letting him become accustomed to the Service, sport,
and society, you suddenly pull up and throw him out in the world to
sink or swim. What can he do?”

“That is for him to find out, and, since he wouldn’t pull up, I must.”

“Listen to me,” she said, rising and coming closer to him; “supposing
Owen were to give you a promise in writing that he would stick steadily
to one situation for two years, what would you say then?”

“I’d say that the promise would not be worth the paper it was written
on!” he answered, with gruff emphasis. “Give _me_ deeds, not documents.”

“Oh, so that is your opinion and your last word?”

“It’s my opinion--yes--but as to the last word, of course it’s _your_
perquisite!” and he chuckled complacently.

Lady Kesters stood for a moment looking steadily at her uncle, and he
as steadily at her. Then she slowly crossed the room and touched a bell
to summon a footman, who presently ushered her out of the house.




CHAPTER IV

LEILA’S IDEA


As Lady Kesters motored home in her smart new Rolls-Royce, her
expression was unusually grave; for once Uncle Dick had proved
invulnerable, and she was overpowered with surprise; for her ladyship
was so accustomed “to push the world before her,” to borrow an Irish
expression, that any little resistance affected her in the nature of a
shock.

Her brother was awaiting her in the smoking-room, and as she entered
and threw off her furs, he said--

“So it was no go, Leila! Your embassy was a failure; defeat is written
on your face--ahem--I told you so!”

“Now, Owen, I call this base ingratitude. I’ve wasted my whole morning
fighting for you, I am worsted in the battle, and you receive me with
grins and gibes!”

“You see, I can understand Uncle Dick’s attitude; he is pretty sick of
me, and I don’t blame him; after all, when you come to think of it, why
should he support a healthy, able-bodied duffer simply because he is
his nephew?”

“Worse than that,” amended his sister, “his heir! _I_ can understand
his attitude even better than you, Owen. As a young man he never had
any real fling, and could scarcely afford cabs and clothes or anything
he wanted. He was hampered by a hopelessly extravagant father.”

“And now in his old age he is tormented by a spendthrift nephew.”

“Yes, and I can’t exactly explain; but I grasp the situation. You have
had, what as a young man he never enjoyed--that is to say, a splendid
time--and chiefly at his expense. He must feel just a little bit sore.”

“No; old Dick is a rattling good sort, and I don’t agree with you,
Leila. It’s not so much the money he grudges, but that he thinks I’ll
never do any good. I’ve no ballast. I’ve got to sally out into the
world, like the hero in a fairy tale, and prove myself!”

“Yes, my dear brother; you practically start to-day, March the 31st,
and do you know that I’ve got an idea,--and from Purdon, of all people.
He is rather smart looking, and might pass for a gentleman, till he
opens his mouth; besides, I happen to know that his mother lives in
Fulham, and keeps a small greengrocer’s shop.”

“Yes, but your idea? You don’t want me to start in that line, do you?”

“No,” with an irrepressible smile; “I want you to become a chauffeur!”

“A chauffeur!” he repeated, subsiding into an adjacent arm-chair; “but
why?”

“But why not?”

“Well, of course, I used to drive a car--and yes--your idea isn’t half
bad; a chauffeur gets about the world for nothing, has fair pay, and,
by all accounts, bar washing the car, a fairly good time.”

“You need not be thinking of a good time, Owen; but put all idea of
amusement out of your head, and make up your mind that, during the next
two years, you will be _doing_ time--as a punishment for your crimes!
Now, to be practical, you must have a certificate, and you and I will
run into the country for the next day or two, and you shall drive
the car; of course you are out of practice, and Purdon shall give you
tips. I suppose you know all about magnetos, carburetters, and speed? I
expect in a week you will qualify and pass, and there you are!”

“Yes, my lady, in a new black leather suit. I’ll do my best; I see
you’ve fixed it up.”

She nodded assent. He was accustomed to Leila’s fixing up of his
affairs, and never disputed her authority.

“You can take the car out in the morning, and get accustomed to the
traffic. I think you will make an excellent chauffeur, as you have a
strong head and no nerves.”

“Perhaps I may, and I’ve a sort of taste for mechanics. As a kid, you
remember, I was mad to be an engine-driver.”

“Yes; you were always blowing things up, or breaking them down, or
taking them to pieces.”

“I dare say I’ll have something of the breaking down and taking to
pieces in my new career.”

“Only it’s so frightfully risky; you might go in for being an
airman--_that’s_ where you could make money!”

“Yes, with a two to one chance of breaking my neck.”

“Think of ten thousand pounds earned in a few hours! All the same it’s
out of the question, I couldn’t bear the anxiety, it’s too dangerous;
though I see the day coming when airships will displace motors, and I
shall be flying over to Paris to dine and do a theatre.”

“Meanwhile, give me mother earth and a 60 h.p. car! Well, so it’s
settled,” he said, jumping to his feet and tossing the stump of his
cigarette into the fire; “yes, I’ll be a chauffeur all right--but what
about the pay?”

“I expect you start at two guineas a week, with or without clothes, and
find yourself.”

“A hundred a year, and an open-air billet! I say, I shall do
splendidly. Leila, I feel that Uncle Dick’s prize is already in my
hand.”

“Don’t be too sure of that! Bear in mind that some situations may not
suit you, that you may not suit them, and be thrown out of employment.”

“That’s true; it has happened to me twice already--the Army and the
ranch--and I’ve no luck.”

“What do you mean, Owen?”

“I mean that nothing comes _my_ way; other chaps get all they want in
big things, or little. Don’t you know the sort that fall across people
they wish to meet, that get the best corners at a shoot, the best hands
at cards, that win big sweepstakes and lotteries, come in for fine
legacies, and, at a good old age, die very comfortably in their beds?”

His sister nodded.

“I have one peculiarity. I can’t call it gift, and it’s of no earthly
value. I only wish it was marketable; I’d pass it on like a shot.”

“What is it--second sight?”

“No, that’s all bosh! It’s--it’s--I don’t know how to put it--the being
on the spot when out-of-the-way affairs come off,--sensational things,
accidents, discoveries, deaths. They seem to drop into my day’s work in
an extraordinary way; sometimes I begin to think I’ve got the Evil Eye!”

“Now _that’s_ nonsense if you like! You have knocked about a good deal
for the last seven years, and naturally seen far more than people at
home.”

“Well, anyhow, I wish this queer sort of fate would change, and shove
me towards something different--a good post.”

“And you believe you’d keep it?”

“Anyway, I’d do my little best. My three weeks as steward were a
breaking-in.”

“But you were acting all the time, Owen--you know you love it! and you
realised that there was a limit to the experience?”

“No, honour bright, I wasn’t playing the fool. I am quick and ready,
and not afraid of work. I say, look here,” and he took his hands out of
his pockets and held them up, the palms towards her.

“Oh, oh, my poor dear boy! they are like--like--leather! Like a working
man’s, only clean!”

“Well, I never was a kid-glove chap, and the reins have hardly been out
of them for twelve months. I’m fairly good with my hands, although an
awful duffer with my head.”

“Just the opposite to me,” declared his sister; “I can scarcely sew a
button on, and I can’t do up a parcel or tie a knot. But to return to
our business. Once you have a certificate, the next thing will be to
find you a situation. You had better begin in some very quiet country
place--a long way from Town and talk--and I will recommend you.”

“_You!_” and he burst into a loud laugh.

“Oh yes, you may laugh; but who else is there? We do not wish to invite
the world into our family laundry.”

“Thank you, Leila.”

“Don’t be silly! I will give you an excellent character,” she continued
imperturbably, “as a sober, respectable young man, most careful,
obliging, and anxious to please.”

“Well, that sounds all right.”

“And you must really be, as the French advertisements say, ‘_un
chauffeur sérieux_,’ and promise not to play the fool, and I shall get
you a nice situation that I happen to know of, with two old ladies.”

“O Lord!” he expostulated; “can’t you make it a couple of old
gentlemen? I’d much rather go to them.”

“Yes, no doubt you would,” she answered; “but you cannot pick and
choose, and this place seems the very one for a start. These are the
two Miss Parretts.”

“I say, what a name! Any cats?”

“I believe they are an old French family--de Palairet, and have the
dark eyes and animation of the race,--but they are so long in England,
they have become Parrett.”

“De Palairet _is_ rather a mouthful. And whereabouts do the old birds
nest?”

“In a remote part of Midshire. I came across them when I stayed with
our cousins, the Davenants, down at Westmere; when I was a girl I went
there every summer, but now the family place is sold.”

“Yes, the Davenants are broke. Young Davenant was in the Hussars with
me, and was frightfully hard up.”

“The two Miss Parretts lived in the village of Ottinge--
Ottinge-in-the-Marsh--in a little old red cottage. They had
two maids, two cats, and a sweet garden. The original property was in
the neighbourhood, and the family manor of the Parretts. The father
of these old ladies, Colonel Parrett, married in India, when he was a
sub., a planter’s daughter, simply because he, they say, was _dared_ to
make her an offer--and whatever a Parrett is dared to do--they do.”

“I say, I think I shall like them! I shall dare them to double my
salary.”

“The first Mrs. Parrett died and left a baby, your future mistress.
Her father sent her home, and married, years later, an Irish girl,
and again his wife died and left him with two more girls. One married
the village parson, the other lived with her father and sister in
the Manor. After the death of Colonel Parrett, it was found that he
had squandered all his money putting it into follies: the Manor was
mortgaged to the chimneys, the daughters had to turn out, and for years
lived in genteel poverty. Now comes a turn of Fortune’s wheel! Some
distant Parrett relative bequeathed a heap of money to Miss Parrett,
and she and Miss Susan have gone back to the Manor. Bella Parrett must
be well over seventy; Susan is about fifty, has the youngest heart I
ever knew in an elderly body, and is the most unselfish creature in the
world. Miss Parrett is an egotistical old person, full of pedigree and
importance, but always delightfully sweet and affectionate to _me_. She
looks obstinate and self-willed, and I feel positive that some one has
dared her to buy a motor! I had a letter from her the other day, asking
me to take up the character of a cook; she mentioned that she was about
to purchase a most beautiful automobile upholstered in green morocco
leather,--think of that! and would soon be looking for a nice, steady,
respectable young man as chauffeur, and”--pointing at her brother with
an ivory paper knife--“here he is!”

“Is he?” he responded doubtfully, “I’m not so sure.”

“Yes. I admit that it will be hideously dull, and I can absolutely
guarantee you against any sensational experiences. It is just a sleepy
little country place, with few big people in the neighbourhood: no
racing, shockingly bad hunting--not that this will affect _you_--but
it will be an ideal spot for putting in the time. You will never see
a soul you know; I’ll keep you well supplied with books, papers, and
news, and steal down to see you now and then, ‘under the rose.’”

“Don’t, don’t!” he protested, with a laugh, “think of my spotless
character.”

“Yes; but I shall come all the same! The place is notoriously healthy,
I dare say you may get some good fishing, you will hardly have anything
to do--they won’t go out much--of course you’ll pay a boy to clean the
car, and I’ve no doubt that the old ladies will take an enormous fancy
to you and leave you a fortune, and you will be just as happy as the
day is long.”

“Oh, all right. Then, in that case, my dear Sis, since you say there is
a chance of a great fortune and good fishing, you may book me for the
situation by the next post.”




CHAPTER V

PLANS AND THREATS


When the choice of Owen’s future employment was duly imparted to his
uncle and brother-in-law, the latter received it with approval, the
former with a series of alarming explosions.

“His nephew--his heir--a common chauffeur! Outrageous! Why not enlist,
and be the King’s servant, if livery he _must_ wear?” Then, in a tone
of angry sarcasm, “I see--I see his reason. The fellow will be gadding
round, making believe to himself it’s his own machine; to many young
asses, driving a car is an extraordinary pleasure. Yes, that’s why he
hit on it!” and he slapped his leg with a gesture of triumph.

“You are wrong, Uncle Richard, it was _I_ who hit on it,” protested the
culprit. “Owen never had an idea of being a chauffeur till I suggested
it.”

“That’s likely enough; his ideas are few and far between. Well, now
look here, Leila, I forbid him to adopt your plan.”

“But, my dear uncle, have you not washed your hands of him for the next
two years?” she demanded, with raised brows. “Do you really think you
are consistent?”

“But a greasy chauffeur, got up in black leather, like a boot----”

“The pay is not bad, it’s a job he can manage, and, after all, you
will allow that Owen must live; or are you going to say, ‘_Je n’en vois
pas la necessité_’?”

“Umph! I wonder, Leila, where you got that tongue of yours?”

“And,” dismissing the question with an airy gesture, “I know of a nice
quiet place in a country village, with two darling old maiden ladies,
where he will be, so to speak, out at grass, with his shoes off!”

“Oh yes,” he snarled, “_I_ know your quiet, wicked little country
village, with the devil peeping behind the hedges and finding plenty
for an idle young man to do. Villages are pestilential traps, swarming
with pretty girls. Just the place where Owen will fall into the worst
scrape of all--matrimony. He is a good-looking chap; they’ll all be
after him!”

“I don’t believe there’s a woman in Ottinge under forty, and I
never saw a more hard-featured lot--never. You know I stayed in the
neighbourhood with the Davenants years ago.”

“Another thing--no one can take Owen for anything but a gentleman!” and
Sir Richard put up his glasses and surveyed his niece, with an air as
much as to say, “There’s a poser!”

“Oh yes. He has only to show his hands, worn with manual labour, and
I’ll tell him to grow his hair long, wear gaudy ties, and hold his
tongue.”

“Well, have your own way! But, as sure as I’m a living sinner, harm
will come of this mad idea; it’s nothing more or less than play-acting.
He’d much better have gone on the stage when he was about it.”

“Unfortunately, there’s one objection,--it is the most precarious of
all professions; for an amateur it would be hard work and _no_ pay. In
five years Owen might, with great luck, be earning thirty shillings a
week. Oh, I’ve thought over no end of plans, I can assure you, Uncle
Dick, and the chauffeur scheme is by far the most promising.”

“Of course you always get the better of me in _talk_; but I’ve my own
opinion. You and Owen will make a fine hash of his affairs between
you. Bear in mind that I won’t have the Wynyard name made little of in
a stinking garage. He is not to use it, or to let any one know he is
a Wynyard, and that’s flat; and you can tell him that, as sure as he
takes service as Owen Wynyard, I’ll marry--and to that I stick!” and
with this announcement, and a very red face, he snatched up his hat and
departed.

Sir Martin Kesters, on the other hand, saw nothing derogatory in his
brother-in-law’s employment, and warmly applauded the scheme. At
twenty-six Owen should be learning independence; moreover, it was his
wife’s plan, and, in his opinion, everything she said or did was right.
“I think it’s a sound scheme,” he said. “If money is wanted, Leila, you
know where to get it.”

“No, no; Owen has a little, and he must not touch a halfpenny that he
has not earned--it’s in the bond; and he will have nothing to spend
money on down there. I don’t believe there’s a billiard-table or a pack
of cards in the place.”

“The typical hamlet, eh? Half a dozen cottages, a pump, and an
idiot--poor devil!”

“Owen or the idiot?”

“Both. All the same, Leila, I feel sure that, now you’ve taken Owen in
hand, he will come out on top.”

Wynyard fell in with everything, without question or argument, and
cheerfully accepted his sister’s arrangements, with the exception of
the ties. He drew the line at an orange satin with green spots, or
even a blue with scarlet horse-shoes.

No, he declared, nothing would induce him to be seen in them; he was
always a quiet dresser. He could wear a muffler, hold his tongue, or
even drop his h’s if necessary; but he barred making an object of
himself, and suggested that she should offer the discarded ties as a
birthday present to Payne.

“He’d give notice. Payne, in his unprofessional kit, looks like a chief
justice. Well, I won’t insist on the ties, but you must promise to be
_very_ countrified and dense. You know you can take off any one’s way
of talking in the most remarkable way, and do Uncle Richard to the
life!”

“One of my rare accomplishments; and as to being dense, why, it’s my
normal condition.”

“Oh yes, you may joke! But I do hope you won’t let the cat out of the
bag, Owen, or allow any one to suspect that ‘things are not what they
seem!’ I wonder how you will manage in the kitchen and stables, and if
you will be unmasked?”

“Well, I promise to do my best to pick up the local manners and patois,
and, my dear Leila, you appear to forget that for the last year I’ve
lived among a very mixed lot, and got on all right.”

“Got on all right!” she cried. “How _can_ you say so? when you told
me yourself that you had half killed a man! However, as you and I
are confederates in this most risky enterprise, I feel sure you will
do your utmost for my sake. Think of the uproar and scandal if Miss
Parrett were to discover that you were _my_ brother--late of Eton
College and the Red Hussars. Explanation would be impossible; I should
be compelled to flee the country!”




CHAPTER VI

FIRST IMPRESSIONS


The train 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 hairy bay 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 among the 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 within measurable 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 a child’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 a lingering 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.

“So _you_ are 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. What _was_ his 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 strictly _sober_,” 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 drive _very_ slowly 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 shall expect 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.

“_My_ chauffeur, Susan, if you please,” corrected Miss Parrett, “seeing
that I am paying his wages and he is to drive _my_ car.”

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 country
_quietly_--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 of the country. I wish you would come
with us, Bella, won’t you?”

“I don’t require you to invite me to use my _own_ car, 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 to _keep_ it. 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.”




CHAPTER VII

MRS. HOGBEN AT HOME


Miss Susan preceded 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! How _could_ Leila 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, _was_ painted.”

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, he instantly 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 he _is_ a 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 no young 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’t_ it 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 it _was_ cheap 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 never
have 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 a _little_
strange 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 was _much_ too
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 to fit 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 mind
_her_.”

“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 what _you_ call 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. “_I_ never 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. _They_ are 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 ye ever!”
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 the
announcement, and looked at her lodger as much as to say, “What do you
think of _that_?”

“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 to _give_ it 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 ye
_some_ idea 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’s the 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 matters _most_, 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, as _he_ did, 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 for _her_,” 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, and walked 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.




CHAPTER VIII

OTTINGE-IN-THE-MARSH


Wynyard strolled out into the little front garden along the red
brick path to the wooden gate; as he closed this, he observed that
it bore in large characters the enticing name of “Holiday Cottage.”
He smiled rather grimly as he looked back at his new residence,
a wood and plaster construction, bowed in the upper storey, with
small, insignificant windows. Then he glanced up and down the empty
thoroughfare, and was struck by the deathlike silence of the place.
What had become of the residents of Ottinge? A flock of soiled, white
ducks waddling home in single file from the marshes, and a wall-eyed
sheep-dog, were the only live objects in sight.

Ottinge was undeniably ancient and picturesque, a rare field for an
artist; the houses were detached--no two alike--and appeared to have
been built without the smallest attempt at regularity. Some stood
sideways at right angles; others had turned their backs upon the
street, and overlooked the fields; many were timbered; several were
entirely composed of black boarding; one or two were yellow; but the
majority were of rusty brick, with tiled and moss-grown roofs. Wynyard
noticed the ivy-clad house or “dogs’” hotel, with its three rows of
long, prim windows, and close by another of the same class, with a
heavy yew porch that recalled a great moustache. On its neat green
gate was affixed a brass plate and the inscription--D. BOAS, M.D.
Farther on at intervals were more houses and a few scattered shops;
these looked as if they were anxious to conceal their identity, and
only suffered a limited display of their wares. Chief among them was
one double-fronted, with tins of pressed beef and oatmeal on view, and
above the door the worthy signboard--T. HOAD, Grocer. “Quality is my
Watchword.” Next came John Death, Butcher, with a wide window, over
which an awning had been discreetly lowered.

Almost every house had its front garden, with a brick wall or palings
between it and the road. One, with a flagged path, an arbour, and a
bald, white face, exhibited a square board close under the eaves,
on which was briefly inscribed the seductive invitation, “TEA.” An
adjoining neighbour, with absolutely bare surroundings, had affixed to
his porch the notice, “CUT FLOWERS”; and, from the two advertisements,
it was evident that the all-penetrating motor had discovered the
existence of Ottinge-in-the-Marsh!

The next object of note--and in daring proximity to the church--was the
Drum Inn; an undoubtedly ancient black-and-white building, with dormer
windows, an overhanging top storey, and stack of imposing chimneys.
It was strikingly picturesque without (if cramped and uncomfortable
within), and stood forth prominently into the street considerably in
advance of its neighbours, as if to claim most particular attention; it
was a fact that the Drum had been frequently sketched, and was also the
subject of a (locally) popular postcard.

The tall church, grey and dignified, was a fitting conclusion to this
old-world hamlet; parts of it were said to date from the seventh
century. Splendid elms and oaks of unknown age sheltered the stately
edifice, and close by, the last house in Ottinge, was the dignified
Queen Anne rectory. Surrounded by shaven lawns and an imposing extent
of garden walls, it had an appearance of mellow age, high breeding, and
prosperity. The sitting-room windows stood open, the curtains were not
yet drawn, and Wynyard, noticing one or two flitting figures, permitted
his mind to wonder if one of these was Miss Aurea, who, so to speak,
ran the village, ruled the Manor, and was, according to Thomas Hogben,
the prettiest girl--bar one--in ten parishes?

Pipe in mouth, the explorer wandered along for some distance, and
presently came to a farmhouse, encircled by enormous black barns and
timbered outhouses, with thatched, sloping roofs; but there was no
smoke from the farm chimney, no sound from stables or byre; the yard
was covered with grass, the very duck-pond was dry. A former tenant
and his family, finding the old world too strong for them, had fled to
Canada many years previously, and ever since Claringbold’s farm had
remained empty and desolate. In autumn, the village urchins pillaged
the orchard; in winter, wandering tramps encamped in the outhouses.
Never again would there be a sound of lowing cows, the humming of
threshing gear, the shouts of carters encouraging their horses, or
children’s voices calling to their dogs.

The newcomer leant his arms upon the gate and surveyed the low, flat
country with its distant, dark horizon. Then he turned to contemplate
the hills behind the church, dotted with sheep and lambs and scored
with lanes; he must learn his bearings in this new locality, as behoved
his duty as chauffeur. He had now inspected Ottinge from end to end,
from the low-lying grey Manor, projecting into its fields, to the Queen
Anne rectory, a picture of mellowed peace.

So here he was to live, no matter what befell. He wondered what would
befall, and what the next year held in store for him? For nearly an
hour he remained leaning on the stout old gate, giving his thoughts
a free rein, and making stern resolutions. Somehow he did not feel
drawn to his billet, nor yet to Miss Parrett, but he resolved that
he would play the game, and not disappoint Leila. She had, as usual,
taken her own line; but had he chosen his fate he would have preferred
a rough-and-tumble town life, active employment in some big garage,
and to be thrown among men, and not a pack of old women! However, in a
town he might be spotted by his friends; here, in this dead-and-alive
village, his position was unassailable, and possibly Leila was
right--it was her normal attitude.

At last he recognised that the soft April night had fallen, bats were
flitting by, the marsh frogs’ concert had commenced--it was time to go
back to Holiday Cottage, and turn in, for no doubt the Hogbens were
early birds.

The ceiling of his room was so low that he hit his head violently
against a beam, and uttered an angry swear word.

The place, which held an atmosphere of yellow soap and dry rot, was
palsied with age; a sloping, creaking floor shook ominously under his
tread; if it collapsed, and he were precipitated into the kitchen, what
an ignominious ending!

In a short time Mrs. Hogben’s new lodger had stretched himself upon his
narrow, lumpy bed, and, being tired, soon fell asleep, and slept like
the proverbial log, until he was awoke by daylight streaming in at the
window, and the sound of some one labouring vigorously at the pump. He
looked at his watch--seven o’clock--he must rise at once and dress, and
see what another day had in store for him.




CHAPTER IX

THE NEW CHAUFFEUR


As the new arrival wandered up the street, and inspected the village,
he had been under the impression that the place was deserted--he
scarcely saw a soul; but this was the way of Ottinge folk, they spent
most of their time (especially of an evening) indoors, and though
he was not aware of it, Ottinge had inspected him! Girls sewing in
windows, men lounging in the Drum, women shutting up their fowl,
all had noted the stranger, and wondered who this fine, tall young
gentleman might be? An hour later they were amazed to learn that he was
no more and no less than the Parretts’ new chauffeur, who was lodging
with Sally Hogben--Sally, who could talk faster and tell more about a
person in five minutes than another in twenty. This intelligence--which
spread as water in a sponge--created a profound sensation, and shared
the local interest with the news of the sudden death of Farmer Dunk’s
best cow.

The following morning it was the turn of the chauffeur to be surprised.
When he repaired to the Manor, to report himself and ask for orders, he
encountered Miss Parrett herself in the hall, who informed him, in her
shrillest bleat, that as she did not propose to use the car that day,
and as there was nothing else for him to do, he could put in his time
by cleaning windows. When Wynyard heard Miss Parrett’s order, his face
hardened, the colour mounted to his forehead, and he was on the point
of saying that he had been engaged as chauffeur, and not as charwoman;
but a sharp mental whisper arrested the words on his lips:

“Are you going to throw up your situation within twenty-four hours, and
be back on Leila’s hands after all the trouble she has taken for you?”
demanded this peremptory voice. “You must begin at the bottom of the
ladder if you want to get to the top. Let this old woman have her own
way, and bully you--and if you take things quietly, and as they come,
your affairs will mend.”

After what seemed to Miss Parrett a most disrespectful silence, during
which she glared at Owen with her little burning eyes, and mumbled with
her toothless jaws, he said slowly--

“All right, ma’am. I’ve never cleaned windows yet, but I’ll do my best;
perhaps you will give me something to clean them with?”

“Go through that door and you will find the kitchen,” said Miss
Parrett. “The cook will give you cloths, soap, and a bucket of water.
You may begin in the dining-room;” and pointing towards the servants’
quarters, she left him. As he disappeared, Susan, who had overheard the
last sentence, boldly remonstrated--

“Really, Bella, that young man is not supposed to undertake such jobs!
He was only engaged as chauffeur, and I’m sure if you set him to do
housework, he will leave.”

“Let him, and mind your own business, Susan,” snapped her sister. “He
is in _my_ employment, and I cannot afford to pay him two guineas a
week--six shillings a day--for doing nothing. I am not a millionaire!
As it is, my hand is never out of my pocket.”

“But you engaged him to drive the car, and if you are afraid to go out
in it, is that his fault?” argued Susan, with surprising courage.

“Who says I’m afraid?” demanded Miss Parrett furiously. “Susan, you
forget yourself. I shall have the car to-morrow, and motor over to call
on the Woolcocks.”

Meanwhile Owen passed into the back premises, which were old and
spacious. Here, in a vast kitchen overlooking a great paved yard, he
found a tall woman engaged in violently raking out the range. She
started as he entered, and turned a handsome, ill-tempered face upon
him.

“Can you let me have some cloths and a bucket of hot water?” he asked
in his clear, well-bred voice.

“Yes, sir,” she answered, going to a drawer. “What sort of
cloths--flannels or rubbers?”

“Something for cleaning windows.”

“Oh, laws, so you’re the new chauffeur! Well, I never!” And, leaving
the drawer open, she turned abruptly, leant her back to the dresser,
and surveyed him exhaustively.

He nodded.

“And so that’s the sort of work the old devil has set you to? Lady
Kesters engaged me for this place, and by all accounts she did the
same kindness by you and me! I understood as this was a proper
establishment, with a regular housekeeper and _men_--a butler at least
and a couple of footmen; there isn’t as much as a page-boy. It’s
a swindle! I suppose you take your meals with us?” (Here, with an
animated gesture, she dismissed an inquisitive kitchen-maid.)

“No; I board myself.”

Her face fell. This good-looking chauffeur would be some one to flirt
with, and her voice took a yet sharper key.

“You’re from London, I can see, and so am I. Lord! this is a
change”--now casting herself into a chair. “Ye see, I was ordered
country air, and so I came--the wages being fair, and assistance given;
and thinking we were in a park, I brought my bicycle, and expecting
there’d be some society, I brought a couple of ball-gowns, and find
this!” and her expression was tragic.

“Have you been here long?” he asked civilly.

“Two weeks too long. I give notice next day, and am going at the month,
and you won’t be long after me, _I_ bet! Do you bike?”

“No,” he answered rather shortly.

“Well, anyway, you’ve the use of your legs! To-morrow is my evening
out, so you come round here at five, and I’ll give you a nice cup o’
tea, and we’ll go for a stroll together. We _ought_ to be friendly,
seeing as we both come from Lady Kesters’ recommendation.”

To walk out with the cook! This was ten times worse than
window-cleaning! Wynyard was beating his brain for some civil excuse
when Miss Parrett herself appeared in the doorway--an accusing and
alarming figure.

“This is a nice way you waste my time!” she exclaimed, with an angry
glance at both. “You and cook gossiping together and idling. Where are
the cloths and the hot water, young man?”

The cook, grumbling audibly and insolently, went back to the dresser,
and Miss Parrett, with folded arms, waited dramatically in the kitchen
till Wynyard was provided for. He then walked off with a brief “Thank
you” to his fellow-culprit. As he passed along the flagged passage he
caught Miss Parrett’s shrill voice saying--

“Now, I’ll not have you flirting with that young man, so I warn you!
I’ll have no carryings-on in _my_ house.”

Then a door was slammed with thunderous violence, and there was silence.

No, by Jove, he could not stand it, he said to himself as he set down
his bucket, and wrung out a cloth; like the cook, he, too, would
depart, and in his next situation stipulate for no women. Of course
Leila would be disappointed, and he was sorry; but Leila would never
ask him to put up with _this_! He would give a week’s notice and
advertise; he had enough money to keep him going for a while, and his
certificate.

Presently he set to work on the dining-room, where there were three old
casemented, mullioned windows; to clean these he stood on the lawn, and
had begun his job when Miss Susan entered, smiling and radiating good
humour.

“I dare say you don’t know much about this sort of work,” she began
apologetically, “and I’ll just show you! You have to use lots of clean
water, and stand outside on the lawn--no fear of breaking your neck.”
Then in another tone she added, “I’ll see you are not asked to do this
again; at present we are rather short-handed, but by and by everything
will go smoothly.” She was about to add something more, when her sister
put her head in at the door, and called out--

“Now, do come away, Susan, and don’t stand gossiping with the young
man, and idling him at his work. He has wasted half an hour with the
cook already!”

Wynyard, as he rubbed away at the panes, whistled gaily whilst his mind
dwelt on many matters, amongst others of how strange that he should
be down in this queer, God-forsaken village, living in a labourer’s
cottage, and employed in cleaning windows! Well, he had Miss Susan’s
word for it that he would not be asked to do it again; she was a good
sort, with a nice, cheery face, and such a pair of twinkling blue eyes.
Then he thought of the tragic cook, also sent by Leila, and he laughed
aloud. The house wanted a lot of servants, and as far as he could
gather the staff was short-handed; probably Miss Aurea would see to all
this, since she managed every one in Ottinge, did as she liked, and was
the prettiest girl within ten parishes!

Wynyard was a handy man, and got through his work rapidly and
well. He fetched many cans of water, and presently moved on to the
drawing-room--another low room with heavily beamed ceiling and a
polished oak floor. The apartment was without carpet or curtains, and
scantily furnished with various old chairs, settees and cabinets,
ranged against the wall. He was sitting outside on the sill, whistling
under his breath, polishing his last casement, when he heard, through
the half-open door, a clear young voice talking with animation, and a
girl came into the room laughing--followed by an Aberdeen terrier on a
leash. As she advanced, he noticed that she had wild rose colouring,
wavy dark hair, merry dark eyes, and an expression of radiant vitality.
Tom was right! Here, no doubt, was Miss Aurea, the prettiest girl in
ten parishes!

As Wynyard looked again at this arresting vision something strange
seemed to stir in his heart and come to life. First impressions have a
value distinct from the settled judgment of long experience.

“What a floor, Susie!” exclaimed the young lady. “Really, we must
get Aunt Bella to give a dance;” and as she spoke she began to hum
the “Merry Widow Waltz,” and to execute some remarkably neat steps,
accompanied by the terrier, who struggled round in her wake, barking
indignantly.

“Mackenzie, you _are_ an odious partner!” addressing the animal; then
to her aunt, “I’ve brought him on the chain, and he has me on the
chain; he is so strong! We have accosted and insulted every single
village dog, and frightened Mrs. Watkins’ cats into hysterics! However,
he can’t get loose and murder poor gentlemanly Joss! Oh, we little knew
_what_ we were doing when we accepted Mac as a darling puppy!”

“I must confess that I never care for these aggressive, stiff-necked
Aberdeens, and I don’t pretend to like Mac. To tell you the honest
truth, I’m mortally afraid of him!”

“But he must be exercised, Susan. And now we must exercise ourselves,
and begin on this room. I’ve sent over the curtains, and they are ready
to go up.”

Suddenly she noticed the stranger, who was polishing a distant window.
“Why, I thought it was Hogben!” she muttered. “Who is it, Susie?” and
she looked over at Wynyard with an air of puzzled interest.

“The new chauffeur, my dear,” was the triumphant response. “He only
came yesterday; his name is Owen.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the girl, turning her back to the window and speaking
in a low voice. “And didn’t he _object_?”

“No; but I fancy he doesn’t like it. He seems a nice civil young
fellow. Lady Kesters found him for us.”

“Did she? I sincerely hope he is a better find than the cook. What a
fury! Even Aunt Bella is afraid of her!”

“She has a splendid character from her late mistress.”

“I dare say, in order to pass her on at any price. She’s a first-rate
cook, but a regular demon.”

“My dear, they all have tempers--it’s the fire, poor things. Now, about
the chauffeur----”

At this moment the object of her conversation threw up the sash and
stepped into the room--a fine figure in his clean blue shirt, turned up
to the elbows, well-cut breeches, and neat leather leggings.

“I’ve finished this room, miss,” he said, addressing himself to Miss
Susan. “What am I to do next?” and his eyes rested upon her with
respectful inquiry.

“No more windows to-day, thank you, Owen. I expect it is nearly your
dinner-hour.”

“Shall you require the car this afternoon, miss?”

“No; but it will certainly be wanted to-morrow,--eh, Aurea?”

“Then I’d better take her out and give her a turn;” and with this
remark he picked up his bucket and rags, and walked out of the room.

During this brief conversation, Aurea stood by listening with all her
ears, and making mental notes. Her aunt’s new chauffeur, with his
clean, tanned, high-bred face, spoke like an educated man.

“My dear Susie,” she inquired, “where did Lady Kesters get hold of such
a superior person?”

“I’m sure I can’t tell you. She said she had known his family all
her life, and that they were most respectable people. Chauffeurs are
supposed to be smart, and well-groomed, eh?”

Yes, but there was more than this about the late window-cleaner--
something in his gait, carriage, and voice, and, unless she was greatly
mistaken, the new employé was a gentleman; but with unusual prudence
Aurea contrived to keep her suspicion to herself. Aloud she said--

“Well, now, let us see about the carpet! This room ought to be settled
at once--pictures up, and curtains; there’s no place to ask visitors
into, and you’ve been here six months. You are lazy, Miss Susan
Parrett--this _is_ sleepy hollow.”

“Oh, my dear child, you know perfectly well it’s your Aunt Bella; and
she won’t make up her mind. What’s done one day is taken down another.
What _is_ that awful row?”

“It’s Mackenzie and Joss,” cried Aurea, dashing towards the door.
Mackenzie, at large and unnoticed, had stealthily followed the
chauffeur out of the room, and stolen a march upon his deadly
enemy--Miss Parrett’s impudent and interloping mongrel. The result of
this dramatic meeting was a scene in the hall, where Miss Parrett,
mounted on a chair, looked on, uttering breathless shrieks of “Aurea!
Aurea! it’s all _your_ fault!” whilst round and round, and to and fro,
raged the infuriated animals, snarling and growling ferociously, their
teeth viciously fastened in each other’s flesh.

Mackenzie, the more experienced, able-bodied, and malevolent of the
two, had Joss by the throat--Joss, for his part, was steadily chewing
through Mackenzie’s fore-leg.

Here Wynyard came to the rescue, and, though severely bitten, succeeded
after some difficulty in separating the combatants; he and Miss Aurea
somehow managed it between them, but he had borne the brunt of the
fray, the forefront of the battle.

A good deal of personal intimacy is involved in such encounters, and
by the time the panting Mackenzie was hauled away by the collar, and
the furious Joss had been incarcerated in the dining-room, the new
chauffeur and Miss Morven were no longer strangers.




CHAPTER X

AS HANDY MAN


The chauffeur was informed that there were no orders for the car the
following morning, as “Miss Parrett was suffering from neuralgia in her
face,” and also--though this was not mentioned in the bulletin--a sharp
pain in her temper.

Aurea, an early visitor, radiating gaiety, was on this occasion
unaccompanied by Mackenzie. Mackenzie, aged six years, was the village
tyrant and dictator. He also had been accustomed to consider himself a
dog of two houses--the Rectory and the Red Cottage; and when the Red
Cottage had moved to the Manor, and installed an animal of low degree
as its pet, he was naturally filled with wrath and resentment, and on
two opportunities the intruder had narrowly escaped with many deep
bites, and his life!

Aurea found her Aunt Bella trotting about the premises and passages,
with the knitted hood over her head, and key-basket in hand.

“Not going out to-day!” she exclaimed; “but it’s lovely, Aunt Bella.
The air is so deliciously soft--it would do you no end of good.”

“My dear Aurea,” she piped, “I know you don’t allow any one in Ottinge
to call their soul their own, and I must ask you to leave _me_ my body,
and to be the best judge of my ailments--and state of health.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Aunt Bella; I meant no harm. Well, then, if you
are not going to use the car yourself, perhaps Susan and I could take
it over to Westmere? The Woolcocks have a large house-party, and Joey
and her husband are there.”

Miss Parrett closed her eyes tightly--a sure hoisting of the storm
cone--and screwed up her little old face till it resembled an over-ripe
cream cheese.

“_Really_, Aurea! I don’t know what the world is coming to! How dare
you propose such a thing! Take out my car for the first time without
_me_! But, of course, I know I’m only a cipher in my own house!”--an
almost hourly complaint.

“But do think of the chauffeur, Aunt Bella; is he to have nothing to
do?” Here this crafty girl touched a sensitive nerve--a responsive key.

“Plenty for him to do; there’s enough work in the house for twenty
chauffeurs: unpacking the book boxes and china--never opened since your
grandfather’s death--staining the floors, and putting up the curtains,
and laying carpets. If you and Susan _are_ going to settle the
drawing-room at last, he may help you. I can’t spare Jones or Hogben
from the garden.”

“Very well, we must have some one to lift the heavy things, and stand
on ladders. Where is he?”

“Outside in the hall, awaiting my orders,” replied Miss Parrett, with
magnificent dignity, folding her hands over what had once been a neat
waist, but now measured thirty inches.

Yes, the chauffeur was in the hall, cap in hand, attended by the
grateful Joss, and had overheard the foregoing conversation.

Miss Parrett came forth as she concluded her speech, and issued her
commands.

“Owen, you are to help my sister and Miss Morven in settling the
drawing-room. Be careful how you handle things, and don’t break
anything; and you may have your dinner here for to-day, with the other
servants.”

“Very good, ma’am,” he assented.

But with respect to dinner with the servants, it was really very _bad_.
He would be compelled to fence with the London cook, and keep her and
her civil proposals at arm’s length--no easy job!

From ten o’clock till half-past one, Wynyard spent an agreeable and
busy time in the service of Miss Susan and her niece. His boast to his
sister that he was “clever with his hands” was fully justified. He
hung the chintz and white curtains with the skill of an upholsterer,
he laid the dark blue felt on the floor, stretched it and nailed it
neatly in its place, whilst Aurea stood by, and gave directions, and
sometimes--such was her zeal--went down on her knees beside him, and
pulled and dragged too, exertions which enabled her associate to
realise the perfect curve of cheek and neck, and the faint perfume of
her glorious hair!

And all this time industrious Miss Susan sewed on rings, fitted loose
chintz covers, and talked incessantly. She did not appear to find
the presence of the chauffeur the slightest restraint--indeed, he
was so quiet and kept his personality so steadily in the background,
that as aunt and niece chatted and conferred, measured and altered,
they seemed to have entirely forgotten his existence, and as the old
drawing-room was full of nooks, angles, and deep windows, he was
not only out of mind, but also out of sight. Meanwhile, he enjoyed
the rôle of audience, especially in listening to Miss Aurea! What a
gay, light-hearted girl! And in her playful arguments with her aunt,
he realised the delightful camaraderie that existed between them.
Her chaff was so amusing that, although he was not included in the
conversation, he often felt inclined to echo Miss Susan’s appreciative
laugh. Never had he come across any one who had attracted him so much;
the more he saw of Miss Morven the more he admired her! Possibly this
was because for the last twelve months he had not been brought in
contact with a happy, high-spirited English girl--or was it because in
this out-of-the-world village he had met his fate?

As Wynyard hung curtains, and put in screws, he stole swift glances at
Miss Susan’s busy helper, noticed her slim elegance, her infectious
smile, and lovely face. It was a ridiculous, but absolutely true fact,
that to see a really beautiful, charming, and unaffected girl, one must
come to Ottinge-in-the-Marsh!

Meanwhile, as he worked in the background, he gathered up many crumbs
of conversation, and scraps of family and local news. He learned that
Mr. Morven’s great work on _The Mithraic Heresy and Its Oriental
Origin_ was nearly complete, that the Manor cook had given notice, and
that no one had rented the fishing.

“The Woolcocks have a houseful at Westmere,” so said Miss Susan, “and
their staff of servants had recently enjoyed a sensational turning out.
Joey Waring and her husband are there, just back from their winter
trip.”

“And how is Joe?” inquired Aurea.

“Her hair is twice as fluffy, and she is louder, noisier, and talks ten
times more than ever!”

“Now, Susan, you know that is impossible!”

“Yes; Kathleen declares that you can hear her laugh as you pass the
park gates.”

“What! a whole mile away! She must have mistaken one of the peacocks
for Joey, and however loud she laughs and talks, she never says an
unkind word of any one.”

“No, a good, kind little soul! but I wonder Captain Waring can stand
her, and her chatter does not drive him crazy.”

“On the contrary, he adores her, and is enormously proud of her flow
of animation and conversation. You see, he is so silent himself, Joey
is his antithesis; and Joey is worshipped at home, for in a family of
large, heavy, silent people, a little gabbling creature is appreciated.
Tell me about Kathleen.”

“Oh, Kathleen is, as usual, very busy and cheery; she has three new
boarders--hungry and quarrelsome.”

“And he?”

“Just as usual too, dear. You know he never can be better.”

“But he may grow worse!”

“Oh, don’t speak of such a thing! Think of Kathleen.”

“Yes; and I think Kathleen is a saint--so brave and unselfish. Now,
where shall we put the old Palairet mirrors?”

“You had better consult your Aunt Bella.”

“My dear, good Susan!” (This was the style in which she addressed
her relative.) “Don’t you know your own sister by this time? She has
been here nearly seven months, and you are not half settled yet--only
bedrooms and dining-room--and I have undertaken to help you finish off
in three days.”

“Yes, but that’s nonsense, though I must say you’ve worked miracles
this morning--curtains, covers, carpet; but there was no question of
where they had to go. As to pictures, mirrors, and cabinets, it will
take your aunt a twelvemonth to decide how to place them.”

“I shall decide, and place them to-day,” rejoined the girl, with calm
decision; “if I ask Aunt Bella, they will be tried on every wall, till
our backs are broken, and then taken down after all. The round glass
between the windows,”--looking about and speaking with authority--“the
other over the mantelpiece, the Chinese cabinet in that niche--they are
just made for one another--the Charles the First black bureau from the
schoolroom just here, and the screen from her bedroom by the door.”

“My dear child, you”--and she broke into a laugh--“you wouldn’t _dare_!”

“Would I not? Just wait and see. The room is charming, and when it’s
finished Auntie B. will be enchanted! You may leave her to me. Oh,” in
another tone to Wynyard, who had come forward in search of some wire,
“you _have_ worked well. It must be your dinner-hour. We shall be ready
to start again at half-past two o’clock, and then the parlour-maid will
help you with the furniture.”

“Very well, miss,” he answered.

As Aurea walked off, followed by Miss Susan, Wynyard the imposter
assured himself that Miss Morven was quicker witted than her aunts. He
had noticed her expression of keen attention as he discussed a matter
of a curtain pole with her relative, and it was quite possible that she
already had an inkling of the truth! He must be careful and wary not to
give himself away or utter a word beyond “Yes, miss,” and “No, miss.”
He was already attending closely to the speech of Tom Hogben, and had
marked the scantiness and laziness of his vocabulary; how he never said
more than he could help, and used the words, “Sure-ly,” and “I dunno,”
and “ye see,” and “’ee” for “he,” and “I be” for “I am,” and resolved
to imitate him.

The meal in the servants’ hall proved an even more trying ordeal than
he anticipated, and was altogether so disagreeable to the new chauffeur
that, sooner than face it again, he determined to fast.

The London cook (Miss Hicks) and four maids were present, also the
boot-boy--a clumsy yokel, who was in terrified attendance. Owen sat
on Miss Hicks’ right hand, and received all her attention, the best
helpings, and daintiest morsels of a solid and satisfying meal.

She would scarcely suffer the other servants to address him, though
the rosy-cheeked parlour-maid made bold and even desperate attempts.
She plied him with questions, compliments, and information. For his
part, he proved a disappointing guest, and did not afford Miss Hicks
much satisfaction; she came to the conclusion that in spite of his
fine figure and good looks the chauffeur was a dull sort of chap, and
terribly backward at taking a hint. When she nudged him with her elbow,
and pressed his foot under the table, there was no response--in fact,
he moved a bit away! However, she laid the flattering unction to her
soul that the poor fellow was _shy_. He was duly favoured with the
cook’s candid opinion of the place and their employers, namely, that
Miss P. was an old terror, was a shocking one for running after lords
and ladies, and talking grand, yet that mean and sneaking she would
frighten you! She and Miss Norris, housekeeper at the Rectory, were
cuts, only for the Rector; anyway, Norris never came to the Manor.
Miss Susan was a lady, but a giddy old thing, so fond of gadding and
amusement, and laws! what a one to talk! As for Miss Aurea----

No, he could not sit by and hear Miss Aurea dissected, and with an
excuse that he wanted to have a pipe before he went back to his job,
the chauffeur pushed away his unfinished cheese, and with a civil
farewell took his departure.

The afternoon was a busy one: the mirrors were put up, pictures were
hung, but with many incursions and interruptions from Miss Parrett.
Joss, the dog, was also in and out, and seemed inclined to attach
himself to Wynyard.

Miss Parrett, still hooded, sat upright in an arm-chair, offering
irritating criticisms, and quarrelling vigorously as to the position
of pictures and articles of furniture; the old lady was altogether
extremely troublesome and argumentative, and gave double work.
Thoroughly alive to the fact that her niece had good taste, she was
jealous of her activities, and yet wished to see the old rooms arranged
to the best advantage--as the result would redound to her personal
credit.

It was an immense relief to the three harassed workers when the
parlour-maid entered and announced--

“If you please, Miss Parrett, Lady Mary Cooper has called, and I’ve
shown her into the study.”

“You mean the library,” corrected her mistress. “Say I’m coming;” and
she trotted over to a glass, removed her hood, and called upon Aurea to
arrange her cap.

“Time Lady Mary _did_ call!” she grumbled. “We are here seven months.”

“She has been abroad,” said Susan; “and, anyway, she’s not much of a
visitor.”

“Well, she is our own cousin, at any rate.”

“Our cousin--Lady Mary!” repeated Miss Susan. “I do declare, Bella, you
have a craze for cousins. Why, we scarcely know the woman!”

“Now, Susan, don’t argue! She _is_ our relative; her great-great-aunt
married a Davenant, and I suppose you will allow that they are our kin?
I have no time to explain now;” and she pattered off, abandoning the
workers to their own devices.

“Your Aunt Bella is so funny about relations! People I’ve never heard
of she will say are our own cousins.”

“Yes, to the tenth generation,” agreed Aurea, “if they are well born.
Aunt Bella has pedigree on the brain--for myself, I think it a bore.”

It was strange that Miss Parrett, who, on her mother’s side, was
the granddaughter of a rough Hoogly pilot, should be as haughty and
exclusive as if she were an Austrian princess. In the neighbourhood it
had become a well-established joke that, if any one of importance and
old family was mentioned before Miss Parrett, she was almost sure to
announce--

“Oh, I don’t know much about them personally, but they are our cousins!”

By six o’clock the task of arranging the drawing-room was completed.
Wynyard had been assisted by the rosy-cheeked maid in bringing tables,
cabinets, and china from other rooms, and they really had, as Miss
Susan declared, “worked like blacks.”

“It _is_ a dear old room!” said Aurea, surveying the apartment with
unconcealed complacency. “When the bowls are filled with flowers,
and we have a bridge table, and a jigsaw puzzle, we shall be
perfect--old-fashioned, and in the fashion.”

“Glad you think so!” said a little bleating voice in the doorway. “Lady
Mary asked for you, Susan, and I told her you were out, or she’d have
wanted to come poking in here. So”--looking about--“you’ve brought the
black cabinet out of the schoolroom! Who gave you leave to do that?
And”--she threw out a quivering forefinger--“the blue china bowls from
the spare room, and _my_ screen! You take too much upon yourself,
Aurea Morven! You should have consulted me. I am tired of telling you
that I will _not_ be a cipher in my own house!”

Aurea coloured vividly. Did her aunt forget that the chauffeur was
present? Really, Aunt Bella was too bad. She glanced at the young man,
who was standing on the steps straightening a picture; apparently he
was absorbed in his task, and to all appearances had not heard the
recent conversation.

“Oh, I’m so sorry you don’t like the room, Aunt Bella!” said Aurea,
seating herself in a high old chair, crossing her neat feet, and
folding her hands.

“Sorry!”--and Miss Parrett sniffed--“that’s what you always say!”

“Now, my dear, please don’t be so cross,” she replied, unabashed;
“you know, in your heart, you are delighted, and as proud of this
drawing-room as a peacock with two tails.”

“_Aurea!_” shrieked her aunt.

“You have been here seven months, and you’ve not a single place in
which to receive visitors. Look, now, at Lady Mary--you had her in
the musty old study--and why?”--waving an interrogative hand--“simply
because for months you could not make up your mind about the
arrangement of this room. All the county have called--the first
calls--and carried off the first impressions. None of your lovely old
things were to be seen, but waiting to be settled.”

“Aurea, I will not suffer----”

“Please do let me finish, dear. Before I left, you may remember how you
and I talked it all over--cabinets, china, sofas--and settled exactly
where everything was to fit. I come back at the end of a month and I
find nothing done; so I’ve made up my mind to work here for several
days. I’ve asked the padré to spare me. This room is finished, and
looks extremely nice; the next I take in hand will be the den! Now,
as it’s after six o’clock, I’m afraid I must be off;” and she arose,
stooped down, and kissed her aunt on the forehead, adding--

“Of course I know, dear, that you are immensely obliged to me, and
so you need not say anything. Good-bye--good-bye, Susie,” waving her
hand, and she was gone, leaving Miss Parrett in the middle of the room
temporarily speechless.

“Well--up--on my word!” and she took a long breath.

“After all, Bella, Aurea has made the room perfectly charming,” said
Miss Susan, with unusual courage. “It’s the prettiest in the whole
neighbourhood; the old things never were half seen before. She sewed
the curtains herself, and, until to-day, we’ve never had any decent
place to ask visitors to sit down in.”

“Oh yes, it’s all very well, but if she hadn’t my nice old things to
work with, she couldn’t have made up such a room. Yes, I’m always
just--every one says my sense of justice is my strong point--and I
admit that she helped; what I object to is Aurea’s way--her way,” she
repeated, “of just doing exactly whatever she chooses, and smiling in
your face. She leads the whole of Ottinge by the nose, from the parson,
her father, down to Crazy Billy.” And Wynyard, who was listening to
this declaration, told himself that he was not surprised.

Miss Parrett was not particularly attached to her niece, although she
was by no means indifferent to her fascinating personality, and a sunny
face that brought light and gaiety into the house; but this wizened old
woman of seventy-four grudged the girl her youth, and was animated by
the natural antagonism of one who has lived, towards one who has life
before her!




CHAPTER XI

THE TRIAL TRIP


At last, with considerable pomp and circumstance, after a whole week of
procrastination, Miss Parrett ventured to inaugurate her motor.

She appeared in a long fur cloak and gigantic sable stole--a shapeless
bundle, resembling a well-to-do bear, with a cross human face. Susan,
who, after all, was but fifty, looked unusually trim and young in
a neat tailor-made, and becoming toque, whilst Aurea--who had been
permitted to share in the triumph--was so pretty herself, that one
scarcely noticed what she wore, merely that she exercised marvellous
dexterity in the matter of introducing a large black hat into the
interior of the car.

The household were collected for this supreme event: the cook, scowling
and scornful, three maids, Hogben, Jones the head gardener, and
the boot-boy, all assembled to witness the start--even Joss was in
attendance. The motor (in truth a whited sepulchre) had been recently
done up, and with its good-looking driver in smart leather coat and
cap, presented an imposing appearance as it sped down the drive.

Miss Parrett closed her eyes, and when it swung out of the gate with a
slight lurch, she gave a loud scream, but as it glided up the street,
and she noticed that all eyes were on her car (there was Mrs. Ramsay
at her door, and the doctor’s wife too), she became comparatively
composed. At the gate of the Rectory the Rector awaited the great
sight, and waved a valedictory stick; then they sped along easily, and,
being now out of the village, Wynyard put on the second speed, but was
instantly arrested by Miss Parrett’s protesting cries.

“Tell him to stop!” she called to her sister. “Supposing we met
something. There!” as they passed the local carrier’s cart within three
yards.

“Owen, you are not to go so fast!” commanded Susan. “Miss Parrett is
nervous.”

He obediently slowed down to eight miles an hour, and as the old
machine joggled along, bumping and shaking, the window-glasses
rattling, the chauffeur was conscious of a feeling of angry contempt,
instead of the usual partiality which a driver reserves for his own
car. He had heard that a driver should be in tune with his machine, but
how could any sane man be in sympathy with this bone-shaker? He was
confident that after a long journey, or any extra strain, the old thing
would collapse and fall to pieces.

After many directions, and not one poor little adventure, they entered
a long avenue leading to an imposing Tudor house with picturesque
chimney-stacks, situated in a great park. This was once the family seat
of the Davenants--cousins of the Wynyards; and as she saw the end of
her journey, Miss Parrett’s courage mounted. When the car was crawling,
or, better still, at a full stop, she was extremely fond of motoring
and not the least nervous.

As the visitors approached the hall door, they overtook a large and
lively house-party, who were returning from the golf links to tea. They
included Mr. Woolcock--a burly figure in knickerbockers, and brilliant
stockings,--his vivacious married daughter, Mrs. Wade Waring, commonly
known as “Joey,” her husband, and half a dozen guests--altogether a
smart and cheerful crowd.

After the first noisy greetings had subsided, Mrs. Waring seized upon
Aurea; she, to use her own expression, “_adored_ the girl.” Aurea
Morven was so pretty to look at, so gay, and so natural, it was a sin
to have her buried in Ottinge; and she secretly designed her for her
future sister-in-law. Aurea was just the wife for Bertie. He was heavy,
dull, and stodgy--a complete contrast to herself, with her animated
face, lively gestures, wiry figure, and ceaseless flow of chatter.

As, arm in arm, she was conducting her friend indoors, she halted for a
moment to look back.

“So that’s the wonderful new motor!” she exclaimed dramatically. “I
say, where did you find such a tophole chauffeur? Why,” she screamed,
“I know him! It’s _Owen_; he was a saloon steward on the _Anaconda_!”
and Wynyard, seeing that he was recognised, made a virtue of necessity,
and touched his cap.

“Why, Owen,” hastily descending the steps as she spoke, “fancy you on
dry land! So you’ve given up the sea, and taken to a new trade. How do
you like it?”

“It’s all right, thank you, ma’am,” he answered, with an impassive face.

“I hope you got the beautiful white-covered umbrella I left for you?”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

“I was afraid the stewardess might bag it! I thought it would be useful
to you in Buenos Ayres, when you were walking in the Calle Florida with
your best girl!” and she surveyed him with twinkling eyes.

“Come, come, Joey!” expostulated her father; “you are blocking up the
gangway, and we all want our tea. Let the man take his car round.”

“But only think, dad, he was my pet steward coming home,” declared his
lively daughter; “on rough days he brought me chicken broth on deck,
and was _so_ sympathetic--just a ministering angel! Toby will tell you
what a treasure he was, too. He always had a match on him, always knew
the time, and the run, and was the best hand to tuck a rug round me I
_ever_ knew!”

Long before the conclusion of this superb eulogy, (delivered in a
high-pitched voice from the steps), its subject had found a refuge in
the yard.

“Isn’t it extraordinary how one comes across people?” continued Joey,
as she led Aurea indoors. “Fancy your chauffeur being one of the
stewards on the _Anaconda_!”

“What’s that you say about my chauffeur?” demanded Miss Parrett, with
arrogant solemnity, who had been a disapproving witness of the recent
scene. (She considered Joey Waring a shockingly fast, vulgar little
person, who absorbed far too much of the general conversation and
attention; but as she was the wife of a wealthy man, and the sister of
a notable _parti_, she dissembled her dislike, or believed she did.
But Joey was aware that the eldest “Polly” considered her a terribly
inferior, frivolous sort of person.)

“I’m only saying how odd it is to find a steward turned into a
chauffeur! I do hope he is experienced, dear Miss Parrett, and that
he won’t bring you or the car to grief. I call him quite dangerously
good-looking, don’t you?”

To this preposterous question Miss Parrett made no reply, merely
squeezed up her eyes, tossed her head, and as she followed Mrs.
Woolcock into the drawing-room her feathers were still quivering.

After tea Mrs. Waring carried Aurea off to her room to enjoy a good
gossip, and to exhibit some of the treasures she had collected during
her recent trip. Joey and her husband were enterprising travellers; he,
a big, silent man--the opposite of his lively little wife--was also a
mighty sportsman.

“Now, let me hear what you have been doing with yourself, Aurea,” said
the lady, after a long and animated description of her own experiences
in the West Indies and Buenos Ayres. “You have been up in town, I know.
Do tell me all about your love-affairs--I know they are legion. Do
confide in little Joey!”

“My love-affairs!” and the girl laughed. “I have none; and if I had,
Joey, you are about the worst confidante I could find. All particulars
would be given out no later than at dinner to-night, and you’d put my
most heart-breaking experience in such a light, that every one would be
shrieking with laughter.”

“Well, anyway, you are heart-whole so far, eh?”

“Yes; I think I may admit that.”

“And so your Aunt Bella has set up a motor; what possessed her?” And
she stared into the girl’s face, with a pair of knowing, light grey
eyes. “She’s as nervous as a cat!”

“Aunt Bella was possessed by the spirit of contradiction. And, talking
of the car, do tell me some more about the chauffeur.”

“Or the waiter that was,” lighting another cigarette. “He was awfully
quick and civil; every one liked Owen.”

“Did it strike you, Joey, that he was something above his class--er--in
fact, a gentleman?” And as Aurea asked the question she coloured
faintly.

“No, my dear,” rejoined her friend, with decision. “I have not a scrap
of imagination, or an ounce of romance in my composition. Such an
idea never dawned on me. You see, Toby and I go about the world so
much; although we have two big houses, we almost live in hotels, and
I am accustomed to being served by men with nice voices and agreeable
manners, who speak several foreign languages. _So_ sorry to dispel
your illusions, but Owen waited to the manner born. He may have been
trained in some big house, and been a gentleman’s gentleman. I fancy
he is a roving character. I think some one said he had been on a ranch
up-country.”

Aurea looked out of the window, and was silent. Joey knew the world,
and Joey, for all her free-and-easy ways and her noisy manners, was _au
fond_ a sensible, practical, little person.

“I dare say you are right, Joey,” she remarked at last.

“Why, of course I am! I grant you that the man is rather an unusual
type of chauffeur, to come down to a dull situation in a dull little
village; but, for goodness’ sake, don’t run away with the idea that he
is some swell in disguise, for he is _not_; he is just ‘off the cab
rank’--no more and no less. I admit his good looks, but that’s nothing.
One of the handsomest young men I ever saw was a London carriage groom.
I give you my word, his eyelashes were half an inch long! In these
days, too, there are such hideous scandals about women and their smart
chauffeurs, that one cannot be too reserved or too careful.”

“Joey!” cried Aurea, turning on her with a crimson face.

“Oh, I’m not thinking of you, darling; you are as cold and austere as
Diana herself. I do wish you were not so icy to some one--you know who
I mean.”

But Aurea’s expression was not encouraging, and her vivacious companion
continued--

“Isn’t this a darling old place?” rising and looking over the Italian
gardens and sloping lawns. “Somehow I always feel sorry for those
Davenants, and as if we had no business here, and it was still theirs.
We have their heirlooms too--the Davenants’ Vandyke, the lacquered
cabinets, the Chippendale chairs. Dad bought them, as they matched
the place; but _we_ don’t fit in. Dad and mum were far happier in
London; keeping up a great estate and a great position is an awful
strain when one was not caught young. Do you know, the servants are a
frightful trial; they find the country dull. And at the last ball we
had, nearly all the hired waiters were intoxicated; they drank most of
the champagne, and one of them handed a lemonade to Lord Mottisfont,
and said there was no fiz left! The mum was so mortified she wept, poor
dear.”

“Well, everything always seems to go smoothly, quite London fashion,
and without a hitch,” said Aurea consolingly.

“Yes, but not behind the scenes; and the Mum sometimes makes such
horrible blunders in etiquette, such as sending in a baronet’s wife
before a countess--and the countess looked pea-green! Altogether it’s a
fag. When Bertie marries I expect pater will make him over the place. I
wouldn’t mind reigning here myself--would you, Aurea?”

“What a silly question, Joey! I’m not cut out for reigning anywhere.”

“Only in people’s hearts, eh?” stroking her cheek with a finger. “Isn’t
that a pretty speech? Well, come along, I want to show you the pretty
things I collected abroad--my fans and lace and embroideries.”

But just at this moment a maid entered, and said--

“If you please, ma’am, I was to say that Miss Parrett’s car is at the
door, and she’s waiting for Miss Morven.”

The drive home was made by another road (in spite of Miss Parrett’s
querulous protestations, and it was evident that the sooner she could
abandon the motor the better she would be pleased). Susan, on the other
hand, was anxious to see more of the country, and make a detour round
by a little town, eight miles away.

“Why, it’s nothing,” she protested; “it’s not worth taking out the car
for a run over to Westmere--one might as well walk!”

“One would think it was _your_ car, to hear you talking, Susan;” and
Miss Parrett threw herself back in the corner, and closed her eyes,
only to open them again immediately, as they sped along the empty,
country roads between hedges already green.

“There’s Hopfield Hill!” she exclaimed, suddenly sitting bolt upright.
“I’m not going down that in a motor, so don’t suppose it, either of
you.”

“But it’s three-quarters of a mile long, and you have a blister on your
heel,” expostulated her sister. “Come, Bella, don’t be foolish.”

“_Don’t_ argue; if it was twenty miles I’d walk it. This thing gives me
palpitation as it is.”

In spite of Aurea’s and Miss Susan’s prayers, vows, and assurances,
Miss Parrett descended at the top of a long hill, insisted that her
companions should accompany her, and together the trio tramped down
in the mud, whilst the chauffeur sped along merrily, and awaited them
at the base. On their way home by a narrow byroad they nearly met
with a nasty accident. A cart, drawn by a young horse, was coming out
of a gate as the motor approached, and there was an exciting scene.
The boy who was driving lost his head, the horse reared and plunged,
Miss Parrett shrieked, and the motor--which was jammed into the
bank--shuddered all over; but, after a moment--a critical moment--all
was well--all but Miss Parrett, who collapsed into her corner, and
announced that she had spasms of the heart, and was dying!

Ultimately they reached the Manor without further trouble; the dying
lady was restored with brandy and water, and Owen the chauffeur spent
the next two hours in cleaning the muddy car. This was the part of the
job he loathed. Just as he had completed his task, he beheld, to his
discomfiture, the cook stepping delicately across the yard, carrying a
black bottle in one hand, and a wineglass in the other.

“Good-evening to you, Mr. Owen. My word! you do look hot after all your
fag with the car. Beastly work, ain’t it? I’ve just run over with a
glass of ginger wine--it’s my own.”

“Thank you, Miss Hicks. It’s awfully good of you, but it’s a thing I
never touch,” he answered politely.

“Then what do you say to a pint o’ beer, or a cup o’ tea?”

“No--er--I’m about done,” pulling down his sleeves; “and I’m going.”

“The old girl seems a bit upset,” remarked the cook, who had come out
for conversation; “she’s awful frightened of the car.”

“She needn’t be,” he answered shortly.

“Not with _you_ a-driving, I’m sure, Mr. Owen. I wish I could have a
run in it, eh? There was a chauffeur as I knew in London--rather a pal
of mine--that used to give his friends fine drives, as much as down to
Brighton, when the family was out of town. He were a treat, I can tell
you!”

“Was he? I’d say he was a thief--unless he used his own petrol.”

“Oh, come now, you’re mighty strict and proper, I can see. Chapel, I
suppose?”

“No; you’re wrong there.”

“Look here, what’s the use of being so stand-off and so stiff--it’s
downright _silly_; you and me, as it were, coming to this cruel place
from the same reference. Won’t you call round and take me for a nice
walk on Sunday afternoon?”

“No; you’re very kind--but I can’t.”

“Why, what else have you to do?” her eyes kindling. What else had he to
do? Lie on his bed and smoke, and read Leila’s papers. And there were
other alternatives; he could take a long stretch, say ten miles out and
back, or he might go to evening service and gaze at Aurea Morven!

“My word! you are a stupid!” declared Miss Hicks; “even if you have a
young woman up in town, she won’t mind. _Have_ you a young lady?” and
her bold eyes were searching.

Had he? He had! His young lady was Miss Aurea, her mistress’s
niece--Aurea or no other; and as he put on his coat he looked his
tormentor steadily in the face and answered--

“Yes, I have.”

“Oh, so that’s it! I see! And you’re hurrying off to write to her?
Well,”--spitefully--“I can tell you one thing for yer comfort, there’s
no post out of Ottinge before Monday morning!”

“Isn’t there? That’s a pity. Well, good-evening to you, Miss Hicks;”
and he walked off, leaving Miss Hicks gaping after him. She, however,
consoled herself with a couple of glasses of ginger wine, before
re-entering the house.




CHAPTER XII

THE DOGS’ HOTEL


The morning succeeding the motor’s first trip proved depressingly wet;
thick mists of cold spring rain shrouded the outlook from the Manor,
beat down upon the pleasure ground, and made pools in the hollows of
the drive.

Miss Parrett, who was, as the servants expressed it, “dodging” in and
out of the sitting-room, issuing commands and then withdrawing them,
fastened upon the chauffeur the moment he came for orders.

No, the car would not be required, and he could go some errands into
the village.

“Mind you don’t go loitering and gossiping,” she added. “I know your
sort, chattering with the maids. Remember that your time belongs to
me;” and she pointed a stumpy forefinger at her knitted jacket. “I’ve
a note for Miss Morven at the Rectory, and another for Ivy House, and
I want some things at Topham’s shop. I’ll give you a list. You can go
into the schoolroom and wait.”

Calm with excessive rage Wynyard entered the schoolroom, where he found
Miss Susan with a handkerchief tied over her head, and an apron over
her dress, unpacking dusty china from a battered case.

“Such a day!” she exclaimed cheerfully; “and they say it’s going to
last--so we shall be very busy, and make use of you.”

“All right, miss,” he assented shortly; the accusation of “chattering
with maids” still left its sting.

“We are going to get up the cases of old books and china, and unpack
them here. The carpenter is putting shelves in the library; but he is
such a lazy fellow, I don’t expect he will come out in this weather.”

“There you are as usual, Susan, talking and idling people,” said her
sister, entering with two notes and a list; and in another moment
Wynyard had been dispatched.

First of all he went to the Rectory, and here the door was opened by
Mr. Morven himself, attended by Mackenzie, who immediately stiffened
from head to tail, and growled round the chauffeur’s legs, evidently
recognising in him the ally of his mortal foe. Mr. Morven was a
squarely built elderly man with a grey beard, a benevolent expression,
and the eyes of the dreamer.

As he took the note he glanced at the messenger, and his eyes dilated
with the intentness of a surprised stare. Wynyard’s type was not common
in the parish; somehow Mrs. Hogben’s lodger did not correspond with his
surroundings.

“I see this is for my daughter,” he said, and beckoning to a
parlour-maid he handed it to her. “Just come into my study, will
you, till the answer is written,” leading the way across a wide hall
panelled in oak. Through an open door Wynyard caught a glimpse of the
drawing-room, and was conscious of a faded carpet, fresh chintz, books,
old china, a glowing fire, and a fragrant atmosphere. The general
impression of the Rectory, with its oaken staircase, family portraits,
and bowls of potpourri, was delightful but fleeting; it seemed a
peaceful, flower-scented old house, of spotless neatness.

“You’re a newcomer, I believe?” said the Rector, preceding him into
a room lined with books from floor to ceiling, and seating himself at
a writing-table. “Miss Parrett’s chauffeur?” and he smiled to himself
at some reminiscence. “I see they are making use of you. Church of
England?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you have any sort of voice--tenor, baritone, or bass--we shall be
glad to have you in the choir; our tenor is getting on; he must be
close on seventy.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much good, sir.”

“Well, if you don’t sing, you look like a cricketer, eh? I must get
something out of you, you know;” and he laughed pleasantly.

“Oh yes, I can play cricket all right.”

“If you can bowl a bit, with Miss Parrett’s leave, I’ll put you into
the village club; we rather fancy ourselves, and a young man of your
stamp will be an acquisition.” At this moment Aurea entered, carrying
an enormous cardboard box.

“Good-morning,” she said. “I see aunt sent you for the lampshade, and
here it is.”

“What a size!” exclaimed her father. “Why, you must have robbed your
best hat! I declare it’s not fair to a man to ask him to be seen with
such a thing going through the village.”

“Not half so bad as seeing people go down the street with a black
bottle in either hand!” retorted his daughter.

“I don’t mind, sir,” said Wynyard, taking up the box as he spoke.

“Please tell Aunt Bella I will be after you in two or three minutes,”
said Aurea; then to her father, “She wants to unpack grandpapa’s books
at last!”

“You mean that she wants you to unpack the books,” corrected Mr.
Morven; “you might steal a few for me, eh? I suppose you will be away
all day?” and he looked at her rather wistfully.

“No, no, dear, I’ll be back soon after tea.” To Owen: “Straight on,
it’s an easy door.”

As Wynyard turned in the hall and backed out, box in hand, he had a
vision of pretty Miss Aurea perched on the arm of his chair, with her
arm round her father’s neck. Lucky old beggar!

His next errand was to the shop--Topham’s--and as he lingered
irresolutely in the rain, staring up and down the street, he was
overtaken by a brisk figure in an aquascutum and motor cap.

“I see you are searching for our emporium,” she began, “and I’ll show
it to you--in fact, I’m going in myself to get some brass-headed carpet
nails.”

The shop stood sideways to the street, as if anxious for concealment,
and was the most astonishing place of its kind that Wynyard had ever
entered. A stall in an Indian bazaar was tame and tidy in comparison.
The house was old and low, the shop of narrow dimensions; it
widened out as it ran back, and lost itself in a sort of tumbledown
greenhouse. The smell was extraordinary, so varied, penetrating, and
indescribable--and small wonder, he said to himself, when he had
inspected the stock!

An oldish woman with a long nose (the Ottinge nose) stood stiffly
behind the counter; at her left the window was full of stale
confectionery, biscuit tins, sticky sweets in glass bottles, oranges
and apples in candle boxes; heaps of Rickett’s blue, and some fly-blown
advertisements.

Behind Mrs. Topham were two shelves dedicated to “the library,” which
consisted of remarkably dirty and battered sixpenny novels; these she
hired to the village at the generous price of a penny a volume for
one week. To the left of the entrance were more shelves, piled with
cheap toys, haberdashery, and china; and here ended the front of the
shop. Concealed by a low screen were tins of oil, a barrel of ginger
ale on tap, and a large frying-pan full of dripping. The remainder of
the premises was abandoned to the greengrocery business on a large
scale--onions, potatoes, and cabbages in generous profusion.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Topham,” said Miss Morven. “What a wet day! How is
your cough?”

“Oh, I’m amongst the middlings, miss. What can I do for you?”

“I want some brass-headed carpet nails, and my aunts have sent a list;”
and she motioned to Wynyard.

Mrs. Topham seized upon it with her long, yellow fingers (they
resembled talons)--the Manor were good customers.

“You can send over the things, Mrs. Topham; but I want the nails now.”

“I’m sure, miss, I’ve got ’em, but I can’t just rightly think where
they be.”

As she spoke, she turned out a drawer and rummaged through it
violently, and then another; the contents of these gave one an idea
of what is seriously understood by the word “chaos”: wool, toffee,
night-lights, dog biscuits, and pills were among the ingredients.

“Try the blue box,” suggested Aurea, who was evidently acquainted with
the resources of the establishment.

The blue box yielded nothing but a quantity of faded pink ribbon, a
few postcards of the church and Drum, a dozen tennis balls, some small
curling-pins, and several quires of black-edged paper.

“Why, if that isn’t the very thing I was looking for last week!”
exclaimed Mrs. Topham, as she pounced on the paper. “And now Miss Jakes
she’s bin and got it over at Brodfield; ’tis a cruel chance to be near
a big town--and so there’s for you!”

As the search for nails promised to be protracted, Miss Morven turned
to Wynyard and said--

“You need not wait; please take the lampshade on, and say that I’m
coming.”

But before returning to the Manor he had yet another errand to
fulfil--a note for Mrs. Ramsay at Ivy House. Here he rang repeatedly,
he even gave heavy single knocks with the bulbous brass knocker, but
received no reply beyond the distant barking of indignant dogs. At last
he went round and discovered a large paved yard, but no human being.
Then he ventured to approach one of the sitting-room windows and peered
in--a comfortable dining-room with a cheerful fire, but empty. No, just
underneath the window on a sofa lay an elderly man fast asleep. He wore
grey woollen socks on his slipperless feet, an empty tumbler stood on a
chair beside him--and this at eleven o’clock in the morning. (True, O.
Wynyard, but it had contained no stronger drink than hot water.)

He had the intention of rapping at the pane, but changed his mind
and retired to the door, and as he waited he heard a voice above him
calling out in a rich brogue--

“Bad scran to ye, Fanny, if there isn’t a young gentleman below wid
a big band-box, and he is afther pullin’ out the bell by the roots;
’tis a shame to lave him standin’ in all the pours of rain! An’ such a
lovely big man!”

At this moment the hall door was opened by a tall dark woman in a
mackintosh and motor cap, with two frantic fox-terriers on the lead,
and a self-possessed French bulldog in dignified attendance.

“I’m afraid you’ve been waiting,” she said, in a soft brogue. “I was
away at the kennels, the servants were upstairs, and the Captain is
asleep.” Then, opening the note (as well as the fox-terriers would
permit), she glanced over it, and the messenger glanced at her--a woman
of thirty-five, with a thin, well-bred face, black hair, and very long
lashes. When she lifted them, he saw that her eyes were of a blue-black
shade, both sad and searching--the whole expression of her face seemed
to be concentrated in their pupils.

“Please tell Miss Parrett I’ll come to tea. I’ve no time to write. I
have to take the dogs out.” The fox-terriers were straining hard at
their leash. “They must have exercise; and when these come back, there
are three more.”

As she spoke, Wynyard could hear the injured yelping of their
disappointed companions.

“Now, don’t open the little dogs’ room,” she called to an elderly woman
in the background, who gave the amazing answer--

“And what would ail me?”

“And mind that the Captain has his broth at twelve.” Then she stepped
out into the beating rain, and Wynyard was surprised to find that Mrs.
Ramsay was about to accompany him.

“I’m going your way,” she explained; “it’s the safest. These two are
new dogs, and I’m rather afraid to go near the Rectory; their Aberdeen
is such a quarrelsome beast--always trailing his coat.”

“Mackenzie?”

“Ah, and so you know him?” she said, with a smile; “you weren’t long in
making his acquaintance.”

Wynyard exhibited his left hand, and a severe bite.

“I suppose he was trying to kill Joss; that’s his profession--a killer
of other dogs.”

“You seem to have a good many of them,” as an afterthought, “ma’am.”

“Yes; they are not all my own. I take in boarders--only six at a time,
and they must be small, no invalids accepted. I look after them for
people who go abroad, or from home for a few weeks. I am fond of dogs,
so I combine business and pleasure.”

“Yes, ma’am; but they must be a trouble and a responsibility--other
people’s pets.”

“I have to take my chance! Some are so nice, it just breaks my heart
to part with them. Indeed, there’s Tippy here, the bulldog, I’m
pretending he is sick--_isn’t_ it a shame of me? Some are surly, others
so sporting, that half my time is spent in scouring the country, and
looking into rabbit holes. Others are quarrelsome, or chase, snap, and
kill fowl and get me into great trouble. I never keep _them_ on an hour
after their time is up. You are the Miss Parretts’ chauffeur, aren’t
you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is this your first situation?” eyeing him keenly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Why did she ask such a question? Did she, to use the good old
expression, “smell a rat”?

“I’m afraid you will find Ottinge terribly dull. I wonder how you
discovered a place so far from everywhere--just the back of beyond?”
and she looked at him interrogatively--her dark blue eyes were
extraordinarily piercing.

To this impertinent remark no reply was necessary, as it brought them
precisely to the Manor gate. The lady nodded, and walked on quickly--a
slim, active, resolute figure, with the straining fox-terriers
dragging at her hands, the little bulldog trotting sedately at her
heels. The group passed steadily out towards the open country, with the
light rain drifting down upon them. What queer people one came across
in Ottinge! Miss Parrett, the ill-tempered old bully, the Hon. Mrs.
Ramsay, with her soft voice and expressive eyes, eking out a living by
making herself a slave to strangers’ dogs.

“Oh, so she sent a verbal message, did she?” snorted Miss Parrett.
“Well, when _I_ was a girl,”--turning to her sister--“and people asked
me out, I always wrote them _a proper note_; but manners are not what
they were in my day. Oh, if my dear, courteous father could only know
of some of the things that are done, he would turn in his grave!”

Miss Parrett was fond of quoting the old Colonel, and insisting upon
his devotion to herself; whilst, if the truth were known, they had been
bitterly antagonistic to one another during his lifetime, and the Manor
was the frequent scene of acrimonious quarrelling, unfilial gibes, and
furious rejoinders.

It was fully a quarter of an hour later when Miss Morven arrived with
the brass-headed carpet nails.

“I _knew_ she had them!” she declared triumphantly; “for she got a lot
for us last winter, so I ransacked the shop, and, after a long search,
where do you think I found them, Susan?”

“In her pocket, to be sure!”

“No, not quite--probably I shall next time. In one of the brown teapots
she has on sale! She _was_ surprised--I wasn’t! She is getting quite
dotty, and won’t have help; and there is Dilly, her pretty, flighty
granddaughter, with nothing to do but flirt!”

All that day Wynyard worked zealously, assisting the carpenter (who had
come after all) and in unpacking and dusting books that had not seen
daylight for thirty years. On this occasion, in spite of Miss Parrett’s
condescending invitation, he dined at Holiday Cottage.

That very same evening Mrs. Ramsay came to tea at the Manor, and was
fervent in her admiration of the drawing-room, which praise Miss
Parrett absorbed with toothless complacency, saying in her quavering
bleat--

“I’m so glad you like it. Of course it was _my_ taste, and my ideas,
and they are my things; but Aurea and Susan helped me--yes, and the
chauffeur made himself useful.”

Wynyard, who was working close by, felt inclined to laugh out loud. It
seemed to him that he was everything but a chauffeur: window-cleaner,
carpet-layer, messenger, and assistant carpenter--a good thing he was
naturally pretty handy. And although all these extra burdens had been
laid upon him, the first impulse to throw up the situation had died
away; he did not mind what jobs the old lady set him to do, but would
take them as all in the day’s work, for he had no intention of leaving
Ottinge at present--he must have some consideration for Leila!

       *       *       *       *       *

After tea, when Miss Parrett was engaged in scolding her domestics and
writing violent postcards to her tradesmen, Mrs. Ramsay drew Aurea into
the drawing-room.

“Well, me dear,” and her dark eyes danced, “I did not say a word before
your aunts, but I’ve _seen_ the remarkable chauffeur! I assure you,
when I opened the door and found him standing there with a large box,
you might have knocked me down with the traditional feather! I was
taking the new dogs out for a run, and so we walked together to this
gate.”

“What do you think of him?” asked Aurea, carelessly, as she rearranged
some daffodils in a blue bowl.

“What do I think? I think--although he scarcely opened his lips--that
there is some mystery attached to him, and that he is a gentleman.”

“Why do you say so?” inquired the girl, anxious to hear her own opinion
endorsed. “He is not a bit smarter than the Woolcocks’ men.”

“Oh, it’s not exactly smartness, me dear, it’s the ‘born so’ air which
nothing can disguise. His matter-of-course lifting his cap, walking on
the outside, opening the gate, and, above all, his _boots_.”

“Boots!”

“Yes, his expensive aristocratic shooting boots; I vow they come from
Lobbs. Jimmy got his there--before he lost his money.”

“Perhaps the chauffeur bought them second-hand?” suggested Aurea.

Mrs. Ramsay ignored the remark with a waving hand.

“I cannot think what has induced a man of his class to come and bury
himself here in this God-forsaken spot.”

“Ottinge-in-the-Marsh is obliged to you!”

“Now, you know what I mean, Aurea. You are a clever girl. I put the
question to him, and got no satisfactory answer. Is it forgery, murder,
piracy on the high seas, somebody’s wife--or what?” She rested her chin
on her hand, and nodded sagaciously at her companion. “I understand
that he has been working indoors a good deal, and helping you and Miss
Susan.” She paused significantly. “You must have seen something of him.
Tell me, darling, how did you find him?”

“Most useful, wonderfully clever with his hands, strong, obliging, and
absolutely speechless.”

“Ah! Does he have his meals here?”

“No.”

“Dear me, what a cruel blow for the maid-servants! Did he come from a
garage?”

“No; a friend of Aunt Bella’s found him.”

“A woman friend?”

“Yes; she gave him an excellent character.”

“And what of hers?”

“Oh, my dear Kathleen, she is Lady Kesters, a tremendously smart
Society lady, awfully clever, too, and absolutely _sans reproche_!”

“Is that so?” drawled Mrs. Ramsay. “Well, somehow or other, I’ve an
uneasy feeling about her protégé. There is more than meets the eye with
respect to that young man’s character, believe me. My woman’s instinct
says so. I’m sorry he has come down and taken up your aunt’s situation,
for I seem to feel in me bones that he will bring trouble to some one.”

“Oh, Kathleen! You and your Irish superstitions!” and Aurea threw up
her hands, clasping them among her masses of hair, and stared into her
friend’s face and laughed.

“Well, dear, if he does nothing worse, he will have half the girls
in love with him, and breaking their hearts. It’s too bad of him, so
good-looking, and so smart, coming and throwing the ‘comether’ over
this sleepy little village. Believe me, darlin’, he has been turned out
of his own place; and it would never surprise _me_ if he was just a
nice-looking young wolf in sheep’s clothing!”

“Oh, what it is to have the nice, lurid, Celtic imagination!” exclaimed
Aurea. “I don’t think the poor man would harm a fly. Joss has taken to
him as a brother--and----”

“Miss Morven as--a sister?”

“Now, what are you two conspiring about?” inquired Miss Susan,
entering, brisk, smiling, and inquisitive.

“I’m only discussing your chauffeur, me darlin’ Miss Susan. I notice
that several of the village girls drop in on Mrs. Hogben--you see I
live opposite--and they expose their natural admiration without scruple
or reserve.”

“Owen is a useful young man, if he is a bit ornamental--isn’t he,
Aurea? I’m going to get him to help me in the greenhouse, for I don’t
believe, at this rate, that we shall _ever_ use the car.”




CHAPTER XIII

THE DRUM AND ITS PATRONS


Mrs. Hogben had 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, and _she_ wasn’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 grey eyes. 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 to
_us_. 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 to live 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 as _that_;
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, the _best_--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 oblige _her_. 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. _My_ advice 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 a corner, 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 caught sight 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 were
  _both_ ‘old dears.’ Susan really is an old dear, but, in my opinion,
  Miss P. is an old _D._ Possibly you only knew her as a tea-drinking,
  charming hostess, full of compliments 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 me _why_ she 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, a hundred 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 off _me_. 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 are primitive 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 in _that_ picture, 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 to think 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.”




CHAPTER XIV

LIEUTENANT WYNYARD


It was an undeniable fact that the chauffeur spent much more time in
the Manor grounds than driving the car. The car was rarely used, and
anything was better than loafing about the yard or the village with his
hands in his pockets--one of the unemployed. Wynyard liked the fresh
smell of the earth, and growing things, the songs of birds--especially
of the blackbird, with his leisurely fluting note.

The garden, which lay to the left of the house, overlooked meadows, and
was evidently as ancient as the Manor itself. It was also one after
the heart of Bacon, “Spacious and fair, encompassed with a stately
hedge.” The farmer, who had neglected the roof and upper floors of the
dwelling, had suffered these same yew hedges to grow as they pleased;
and they now required a great deal of labour in trimming them to
moderate proportions. The soil was rich--anything and everything seemed
to flourish in the garden, which was intersected by broad gravelled
walks that crossed one another at regular intervals; these were lined
by a variety of old-fashioned plants--myrtle, lavender, and sweetbrier,
grown to gigantic dimensions; here were also Madonna Lilies, London
Pride, Hollyhocks, Sweet-William, and bushes of out-of-date roses, such
as the “York and Lancaster,” and other Georgian survivals. Precisely
in the middle of the garden, where four walks met, was a hoary sundial,
which bore the inscription, “TIME TRIES ALL.” A path, leading direct
from the sundial to an ancient bowling-green, was enclosed with rustic
arches, and in the summer time the Manor pergola was a veritable tunnel
of roses, and one of the sights of the neighbourhood.

And here it was that the unemployed chauffeur spent most of his time,
clipping intractable hedges, planting, pruning, and digging. Such
occupation removed him effectually from the orbit of his enemy--Miss
Parrett--who merely pottered about the beds immediately surrounding the
house. This was Miss Susan’s realm--she was the family gardener; his
volunteered labour also afforded Wynyard the now rare and priceless
privilege of seeing Miss Morven when she ran in to talk to her aunt
and help in the greenhouse--since, thanks to her active exertions, the
Manor had been set in order, and her visits were no longer of daily
occurrence. Now and then he caught sight of her, walking with Mrs.
Ramsay and her “guests,” motoring with Mrs. Waring, or riding with her
father. Once or twice they had passed him in the lanes at a late hour,
riding fast, pursued by the panting Mackenzie. His best opportunity
of meeting the young lady was at choir practice, and here he admired
Miss Morven, not only for her sweet, clear voice, but her marvellous
tact and admirable skill, the way she pacified Pither, the cranky old
organist (a fine musician), and smoothed down rivals who claimed to
sing solos, applauded the timid, and gently repressed the overbold. It
was delightful to watch her consulting and advising and encouraging;
but how could any one escape from the effect of that girl’s beauty and
contagious spirits? or withstand the influence of the subtle power
called charm?

On Sundays she sat in the Rector’s pew, facing the square enclosure
of the Woolcocks, over which hung stately hatchments and memorials of
the Davenant family; and from his corner in the choir Wynyard noted,
with secret uneasiness and wrath, how the heir of Westmere--a squarely
built, heavy young squire--kept his worshipping eyes fastened upon
Aurea’s clear-cut profile. After all, what was it to him? he asked
himself furiously. Young Woolcock was heir to twenty thousand a year,
and what was _he_ at present? but her aunts’ servant!

There had been a good deal of excited speculation in the village
respecting Wynyard--as to who he really was, and where he came from.
But although some swore he had been a soldier, and others vowed he had
been a sailor, no one was any the wiser than the first day that he had
arrived at Mrs. Hogben’s, followed by his yellow tin box. “Ay, he could
hold his tongue, that was sure; and was always ready enough to lend an
ear to other people’s affairs--but tight as an oyster with regard to
his own.”

Miss Susan, who felt towards him a kindness that was almost maternal,
tormented by curiosity, had done her utmost to pump him. One day, in
the greenhouse, she had seemed to see her opportunity. He had read off
a French name on a label, and his accent and glibness were perfection.

“Ah! I see you have had a good education, Owen,” she remarked, beaming
at him over her glasses.

“Oh, middling, miss.”

“You keep a boy to clean the motor, I hear!”

“Only once or twice, miss, when my hand was sore. His people are poor,
and a shilling doesn’t come amiss.”

“I feel certain,” clearing her throat, “that you are not accustomed to
this sort of life, Owen.” As she spoke, she kept her clear blue eyes
on his face, and looked at him with the direct simplicity of a child.
“I am interested in you, Owen. Do tell me about yourself, you know I
wish you well.”

“Miss Susan,” and he straightened his shoulders and set down the pot
he was holding, “you received my reference from Lady Kesters--and I
believe it was all right?”

Miss Susan became very red indeed, and the garden scissors slipped from
her thumb. There was something unusual in the young man’s tone and
glance.

“If you or Miss Parrett find that I am not giving satisfaction----”

“Oh no, no, no!” she broke in breathlessly, “I--I’m afraid I’m rather
inquisitive--but I take a real interest in you, and you have been
_such_ a help to me--and I feel so friendly towards you--but, I won’t
ask you any more questions.”

This little scene was subsequently related to Aurea, as she and her
aunt drank tea together at the Rectory, and Miss Susan imparted to the
girl--between bites of buttered toast--her own eager speculations.
Mystery has a wonderful charm! A handsome young man, who was both
reserved and obliging, who, it was known, was respected in the Drum,
and kept to himself, and whom she believes to be one of her own
class--offers a dangerous attraction for a girl of twenty! Aurea
debated the puzzle in the abysmal depth of her own heart, and when a
girl once allows her thoughts to dwell persistently upon a man--no
matter what his station--her interest in him is bound to develop far
beyond the bounds of everyday acquaintance!

Aurea was startled to discover that her mind was dwelling on the
chauffeur more than was desirable; he occupied too large a share of
her thoughts, though she did her utmost to expel him, and fill them
with other matters--such, for instance, as the parish almshouses, the
clothing club, and the choir--but a taciturn, mysterious young man,
figuratively, thrust himself head and shoulders above these commonplace
matters. Owen had a good voice, and had been impressed into the
choir--a rollicking hunting song, sung at the Drum, had betrayed him.
It was customary there, on certain nights, to sit round in a circle and
call upon the members for entertainment, and Owen’s “John Peel” had
established his reputation.

Aurea was secretly annoyed by the way that girls on practice nights set
their caps at the newcomer--boldly attracting his attention, appealing
to his opinion, nudging one another significantly, and giggling and
simpering when they spoke to him. And he? He met them half-way, shared
hymn-books, found places, and talked, and seemed to be entirely happy
and at ease in their company. Why not? He was ostensibly of their
own class. He had not flinched from accepting a peppermint from Lily
Jakes,--on the contrary, had received it with effusion,--and the
overblown rosebud, tossed at him by Alexandra Watkins, had subsequently
decorated his buttonhole.

Aurea contemplated these signs of good fellowship with stifled
irritation. Was she envious, because the chauffeur, her aunts’ servant,
usually so monosyllabic and self-contained, could laugh and talk with
these village girls? At this appalling arraignment her face flamed, she
shrank in horror from her own thoughts. No, no, no, a hundred thousand
times no!

Still, it must be confessed that, strive as she would, she could not
help wondering and speculating about Owen, the chauffeur--whether she
saw him vigorously washing the car, or trundling a wheelbarrow in the
garden; zealously as he worked, it seemed to her observant eye that
he looked as if he had not been accustomed to such employment. Who was
he? The answer to this question came to her unexpectedly, and in a most
unlikely place.

Aurea and her Aunt Susan went to Brodfield one afternoon, in order to
execute various commissions for the Manor; the car was grudgingly lent
for the occasion. There would have been no expedition, only that Miss
Parrett was out of a certain shade of pink wool, the new cook was out
of tapioca, and Miss Susan was a little out of sorts, and declared that
“a drive in the air would cure her.” The car waited at the post office,
whilst the ladies accomplished their different errands in different
shops. Aurea was the first to finish, and was sauntering slowly up the
street, when she noticed that rare sight--a soldier in uniform--a smart
Hussar on furlough, with a friend in mufti, coming towards her. As they
passed the car, they glanced at it, and the soldier started, made a
sort of halt, stared stupidly, and brought his hand to the salute! Yes,
and the chauffeur gave him a little nod, and put his finger to his cap!
(apparently unconscious of Miss Morven’s vicinity).

As the two men approached, talking loudly, she overheard the Hussar
say, as he strutted by--

“Well I’m damned, if that fellow on the car wasn’t Lieutenant Wynyard!
I was in his troop at Lucknow--a rare smart officer, too. What’s his
little game?”

“You’d better go back and arsk ’im,” suggested the other, with a loud
laugh.

“Not _me_,” and they were out of earshot.

Aurea felt dumbfounded, as she moved on and got into her place. Susan,
of course, was lingering as usual, chattering and last-wording to
acquaintances, and she was not sorry to have a few moments to herself,
to sit and meditate on her surprising discovery. So Owen’s real name
was Wynyard--and he had been an officer in a Hussar regiment. What
_was_ his game?

And her first impressions were justified; he was a gentleman, in spite
of Joey’s authoritative verdict and Mrs. Ramsay’s gloomy forebodings.
What dreadful thing had he done to be compelled to live under an
assumed name, and bury himself, of all places, in Ottinge?

Aurea was now more deeply interested and puzzled than ever! She and
Susan had no secrets from one another--for Susan was so young in her
mind and heart that she seemed to be almost Aurea’s contemporary!

From the first they liked the chauffeur, and though they had not said
much, each was conscious of the other’s opinion. Now that Aurea knew
his name and former status for a fact, strange to relate, she resolved
to have just this one little secret from Susan--and keep the knowledge
to herself!

On the way home she proved an unusually silent and unsympathetic
companion. Her conversation was jerky and constrained; she was not in
the least interested in the scraps of local news that her aunt had
collected in street and shops, but appeared to be lost in a maze of
speculation and abstraction.




CHAPTER XV

BY WATER


Miss Parrett felt slightly embarrassed and uncomfortable when people
remarked how seldom her motor was seen! “Was it not satisfactory?” they
inquired. The old lady also recognised that her chauffeur was doing the
work of a really capital gardener, and was Susan’s right hand; this
annoyed her excessively. She disliked the idea that her employé was
slaving to please her sister; and accordingly changed her tactics, gave
instructions for the car to go out twice a week with Miss Susan and
Miss Morven, or Miss Susan and Mrs. Ramsay.

Susan and her niece had promptly availed themselves of this permission,
and seized the opportunity of penetrating into far-away villages and to
distant country seats; and the poor old motor, at their request, was
racketted along at its best speed, as they were bound to be in Ottinge
before dark, in order that the car might be washed. If they, by any
chance, were a little late, they were received at the hall door by Miss
Parrett, in cold silence, watch in hand.

After the recent heavy rains, the low, marshy country was flooded, and,
returning one afternoon from a twenty-mile expedition, at a sharp turn
in the road where the ground sloped steeply, the motor ran into a wide
sheet of water--a neighbouring river had burst its banks. There was no
going back, that was impossible. Miss Susan for once lost her nerve,
and, putting her head out, asked the chauffeur piteously--

“What shall we do?”

“There’s only one thing for it, miss,” he answered promptly. “I don’t
think the water is deep, and I’ll keep straight on--as near as I can
guess--in the middle of the road; you see, there are ditches at either
side, and I can’t turn; but you need not be nervous--as long as the
water doesn’t reach the magneto you are all right.”

But, as they crept forward cautiously, the water was gradually rising;
it rose and rose, till it stole in under the door, and then the motor
came to a full stop.

“_Now_, what’s going to happen?” demanded Miss Susan excitedly.

“I see the road is not more than fifty yards ahead, and the water is
shallower. We have stuck in the worst part.”

“But what is to become of us, my good man? Are _we_ to sit here all
night--and the motor may blow up?”

“I’ll go to a farmhouse and borrow a couple of horses, and I dare say
after a bit I can start her again.”

“And are we to remain here, Owen, and be half-drowned? You know my
sister will be _crazy_ if we are not home by seven.”

“There’s one thing I could do, Miss Susan,” he replied, “that is if you
have no objection; I can carry you and Miss Morven through the water,
and put you out on the road high and dry. I think I might get a trap in
Swingford village; you could drive home, and I’ll bring the car along
to-morrow. It seems the only thing to be done.”

After this suggestion there ensued a long and animated consultation
between aunt and niece; at last Miss Susan, raising her voice, said--

“Very well, Owen, I see no alternative; you can take me first--I am a
light weight.”

Owen now descended from his place and waded to the door, which he
opened.

“All right, Miss Susan, you may depend on me. I won’t drop you.”

“How am I to manage?” she asked shame-facedly.

“It’s quite easy! Just put your arms round my neck, miss, and hold
tight.”

After a moment’s coy reluctance--it was the first time in her life she
had ever put her arms round a man’s neck--Miss Susan timidly embraced
him.

“Hold on,” he commanded, and, lifting her bodily out of the car as
if she were a child, waded away, striding and splashing up to his
middle in water. When he had carefully deposited her on dry land, the
chauffeur returned for the young lady, who, it must be confessed,
awaited him with a wildly beating heart; it seemed to her that in his
air there was actually a look of mastery and triumph. If he had been an
ordinary chauffeur, such as the Woolcocks’, she would not have minded;
but this man--this Lieutenant Wynyard, who was of her own class--oh,
how she shrank from this enforced ordeal; she felt deeply reluctant and
ashamed.

However, she asked no questions, made no hysterical protests, but rose
as he appeared, put her arms on his shoulders--though she would rather
have waded up to her neck--and was borne into the stream, upon which
a laggard moon had recently arisen. Little, little did Aurea guess
that, as she leant her head upon his leather shoulder, how Owen, the
chauffeur, had to fight with a frantic, almost overmastering, desire to
kiss her! And what an outcry there would have been, not merely from
the young lady herself, but the sole witness, her maiden aunt!

Fortunately, with a superhuman effort, he pulled himself together,
steadied his racing pulses, and thrust the dreadful idea behind him, as
he struggled to the end of his task, and presently placed Miss Morven
high and dry on the road beside her relative. Then, leaving the rescued
ladies to one another’s company, he set off to a village two miles
distant to hunt up some conveyance.

As Wynyard tramped along in his wet clothes, he had it out with his
ego. For all his youth and hot blood, he had always a cool power
of judgment--as far as his own acts were concerned--and he was now
prepared to discuss the present situation with himself. Since he
had held Miss Aurea’s light form in his arms, felt her sweet breath
on his cheek, he knew there was no use in playing the ostrich, and
that he was hopelessly in love--had been in love since the very
first time he had set eyes upon her! Looking back at the matter,
calmly and dispassionately, he realised that it was not on account of
Leila’s disappointment that he stayed on, and did not throw up his
situation--as Miss Parrett’s exasperating behaviour so often tempted
him to do. He remained at Ottinge solely to be near Aurea; it was for
Aurea that he kept his temper, slaved in the garden, and sang in the
choir; yet he could not say a word to Aurea, or endeavour to ingratiate
himself like other more fortunate young men; he had his bond to
remember, and his hands were tied--yes, and his tongue too. Was ever
any fellow in such a fix? And such was the contrariness of life, he had
gone about the world when he was free, and had never once met a girl he
thought of twice--and here he was always thinking of Aurea, yet dared
not disclose his feelings; meanwhile, some luckier fellow would come
along and make up to her and marry her! And at the thought he stopped
and ground his heel into the earth with savage force.

There was Bertie Woolcock, rolling in money, heir to that fine place;
and he would have one year and ten months’ start, whilst _he_ was left
at the post! Oh, it was enough to drive him mad to think of! Well,
Bertie had never held her in his arms, at any rate,--he had; how she
had trembled, poor darling! Yes, he was that to the good.

“Mean beast!” apostrophising himself; “when you know that the girl
could not help herself, and would have given everything she possessed
to get out of such a dilemma!” What would Leila say? Should he tell
her? No; she would only laugh (he could hear her laugh) and ask, “What
are you going to marry on, even if Uncle Dick lets you off?”

He had two pounds two shillings a week, and if he made love to her
niece, Miss Parrett would naturally and properly send him about his
business. Oh, it was all an infernal muddle--there was no way out of
it--nothing to do but hide his feelings and bide his time; the wild,
haunting refrain of an old negro camp hymn came into his head, “And
hold the Lion down! and hold the Lion down!” Well, he was holding the
lion down, and a thundering hard job he found it!

He had no reason to suspect that Aurea ever thought of him--why should
she? She was always polite, gracious--no more. His only little scrap of
comfort lay in the fact that he believed Miss Susan liked him--liked
him really, in a nice, sentimental, proper, old-maid fashion! She
was romantic, so said her niece, who bantered her on her passion for
promoting love-affairs and love-matches--he had heard her taunt her
playfully with the fact. Undoubtedly Miss Susan was his good friend,
and that was the sole morsel of comfort he could offer himself!

Presently Wynyard reached a sleepy little village, unearthed a
carrier’s cart, horse, and man, and returned to the place where the two
ladies were awaiting him with the liveliest impatience.

That evening, at nine o’clock, Miss Susan, who had deposited her niece
at the Rectory, arrived at home in a carrier’s cart--the sole available
mode of conveyance. Her sister, who had been roaming about the hall and
passages, accompanied by Mrs. Ramsay, wringing her hands and whimpering
that “Susan had been killed,” was considerably relieved. But, as soon
as her fears were subdued, she became frightfully excited respecting
the fate of her beautiful motor, which, by all accounts, had been left
standing in the middle of a river--five miles from home.

“Oh, I assure you it will be all right, Bella; please don’t worry
yourself. Owen will manage.”

“Owen, indeed!” she echoed angrily; “it’s my opinion that he manages
_you_--you think a great deal too much of that young man; there’s
something at the back of him--it would never surprise me if some day he
went off with that motor, and we never saw him again.”

“My dear sister! You know you are overwrought, or you would never talk
such rubbish.”

“If the motor was stuck in the middle of a river, I should like to
know how you and Aurea got out of it without being half-drowned?” she
demanded judicially.

“Oh, we got out of it very simply, and it was as easy as kiss my hand,”
rejoined Miss Susan, with a gay laugh. “The only person that got wet
was Owen; he carried us.”

“_What!_” cried Mrs. Ramsay, with dancing eyes; “carried you and
Aurea--how?”

“Why, in his arms--where else? First he took me, then he took her; and
we were no more trouble to him than if we had been a couple of babies.”

“Well, upon my word,” snorted Miss Parrett, casting up her hands,
“I think the whole thing is scandalous! You and Aurea flying about
the country, and spending most of your time in the motor, going here
and going there, coming home at night alone in a carrier’s cart, and
telling me you left the motor in the middle of a river, and that you
were carried out of it in the arms of the chauffeur! and that without a
blush on your faces! Upon my word, Susan Parrett, I don’t know what’s
coming to you! Either you are going mad, or you are falling into your
second childhood.”

Miss Parrett was profoundly relieved to see her valuable car arrive
on its own horse-power the following afternoon. It certainly looked
rather limp and sorry for itself, and did not recover from its
adventures in the river for some time. Water had a fatal effect upon
its organisation; indeed, its condition became so serious that it had
to be sent to a garage, there to be overhauled--and a bill, which was
the result, proved one of Miss Parrett’s favourite grievances for the
ensuing six months.




CHAPTER XVI

TWO PRISONERS


By the middle of June Miss Susan had departed to visit friends in the
south of England, escorting her niece as far as London, where she was
to spend some weeks with General and Mrs. Morven. The motor was in
hospital at Brodfield, and Owen, the chauffeur, had absolutely nothing
to do; no gardening, no greenhouse, no car. Miss Parrett was now the
undisputed ruler of Ottinge--manor and village--and he kept out of
her way in a crafty, not to say cowardly, fashion; when at home, Miss
Susan and her niece had intervened as buffers between him and Miss
Parrett’s despotic rudeness. Doubtless her bullying and browbeating
were a legacy from her burly grandfather, the Hoogly Pilot; indeed,
she was positively so insulting with regard to repairs, his bill for
petrol, and the extraordinary--the incredible quantity he wasted, that
sooner than face her and have rows, he more than once paid for it out
of his own pocket! But do not let it be for a moment supposed that the
chauffeur was afraid of the old lady; he was afraid of himself--afraid
that if she became altogether insupportable, he might lose, in one and
the same moment, his temper, and his situation!

When Bella Parrett reigned alone, it was a sore time for the Manor,
and especially for Joss. The old lady did not care for any animals or
pets, save a venerable green and blue parrot--her own contemporary.
She had accepted Joss, a gift from Mr. Woolcock, as she was assured
that, having no man living at the Manor, a dog was a necessity in
case of robbers, but chiefly because Miss Parrett half suspected that
the Martingales--neighbours of the Woolcocks--were anxious to possess
the said amusing little puppy. Joss was often in disgrace; but what
could one expect of an idle young dog, without companions, education,
or pursuits? When Susan was at home all went well; she looked after
him and screened his failings, and took him out--though her sister
frequently expostulated, and said--

“Now, I won’t have the creature attaching himself to you, Susan; he
must learn to know that he is _my_ dog!”

All the same, she never troubled about “her dog’s” food or sleeping
quarters, and it was actually Susan who paid for his licence!

Now Susan was absent, also his good friend Aurea--and Joss was in
confinement and deep disgrace; even before his friends’ departure he
had been under a black cloud. His youthful spirits were uncontrollable;
Joss had inherited the keen sporting instincts of his father, with the
intellectual faculties of his accomplished mother, Colette, the poodle,
and was both bold and inquisitive. Recently, the wretched animal had
chewed off the tail of a magnificent tiger-skin, and concealed it,
no one knew where! Miss Parrett hoped he had eaten it--as it was
cured with arsenic--but more likely it had been stored in one of his
many bone larders. He had poked his nose into a valuable jar, upset,
and smashed it! he had come in all wet and muddy from a rat-hunting
excursion in the river, and recouped his exhausted energies by a
luxurious siesta in Miss Parrett’s own bed--and there was also a
whispered and mysterious communication respecting the disappearance of
a best and most expensive _front_, which had undoubtedly gone to the
same limbo as the tiger’s tail!

“The brute is worse than a dozen monkeys,” declared his furious
mistress, and he was accordingly bestowed on a farmer, who lived miles
away near Catsfield, merely to return, accompanied by a piece of rope,
the same evening. After this, the word “poison” was breathed; but
luckily for Joss, Ottinge did not possess a chemist. Finally he was
condemned to a fare of cold porridge, and solitary confinement in an
empty stable--being suffered to roam loose at night after the house was
closed.

The chauffeur and the brown dog had a good deal in common; they were
both young and both captives in their way. Oh, those long, endless
summer days, when the young man hung about the yard, with nothing to
do, awaiting orders, unable to undertake any job in case the car should
be wanted. When he called each morning for Miss Parrett’s instructions,
and to ask if she would require the motor, the invariable reply was
that “she would let him know _later_.”

The first time they met, Miss Parrett had taken a dislike to the
chauffeur, and this dislike had recently been increased by an
outrage of more recent date. She had seen Owen, her paid servant, in
convulsions of laughter at her expense; yes, laughing exhaustively at
his mistress! This was on the occasion of a ridiculous and distressing
incident which had taken place one sultry afternoon in the garden. The
Rector and his daughter were helping Susan to bud roses--a merry family
party; the chauffeur was neatly trimming a box border, Hogben raking
gravel, Miss Parrett herself, hooded like a hawk, was poking and
prowling around. All at once she emerged from a tool-shed, bearing in
triumph a black bottle, which she imprudently shook.

“I’d like to know what _this_ is?” she demanded, in her shrillest pipe.
The answer was instantaneous, for the liquor being “up,” there was a
loud explosion, a wild shriek, and in a second Miss Parrett’s identity
was completely effaced by the contents of a bottle of porter. The too
inquisitive lady presented a truly humiliating spectacle. Hood, face,
hands, gown, were covered with thick cream-coloured foam; it streamed
and dripped, whilst she gasped and gurgled, and called upon “Susan!”
and “Aurea!”

As the stuff was removed from her eyes by the latter--anxiously kind,
but distinctly hysterical--almost the first object to catch the old
lady’s eye was the chauffeur, at a little distance, who, such was his
enjoyment of the scene, was actually holding his sides! He turned away
hastily, but she could see that his shoulders were shaking, and told
herself then that she would never forgive him. She bided her time to
award suitable punishment for his scandalous behaviour--and the time
arrived.

The malicious old woman enjoyed the conviction that she was holding
this too independent chauffeur a prisoner on the premises, precisely
as she kept the detestable Joss tied up in the stables. Joss rattled
and dragged at his chain, and occasionally broke into melancholy howls,
whilst the other paced to and fro in the red-tiled yard, thinking
furiously and smoking many more cigarettes than were good for him.

Accustomed from childhood to a life of great activity, to be, perforce,
incarcerated hour after hour, awaiting the good--or evil--pleasure of
an old woman who was afraid to use her motor, exasperated Wynyard to
the last degree. The car was ready, he was ready; usually about six
o’clock Miss Parrett would trot out in her hood and announce in her
bleating voice--

“Owen, I shall not require the car to-day!”

Sometimes she would look in on a humble, fawning culprit in the stable,
and say, as she contemplated his beseeching eyes--

“Hah! you bad dog, you _bad_ dog! I wish to goodness you were dead--and
you shall wish it yourself before I’ve done with you!”

It was not impossible that these amiable visitations afforded Miss
Parrett a delicious, and exquisite satisfaction.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Drum Inn closed at ten o’clock, and even before the church clock
struck, the Hogbens had retired; but the former Hussar officer,
accustomed to late hours, and with the long summer night seducing him,
found it impossible to retire to his three-cornered chamber--where the
walls leant towards him so confidentially, and the atmosphere reeked of
dry rot. No, he must breathe the sweet breath of the country, have some
exercise, and walk himself weary under the open sky.

Mrs. Hogben--who had now absolute confidence in her lodger, and told
him all her most private family affairs--entrusted him with the
door-key, that is to say, she showed him the hole in which--as all the
village knew--it was concealed. Sometimes it was one in the morning
when the chauffeur crept upstairs in stockinged feet, accompanied by
Joss--yes, _Joss_! There were a pair of them, who had equally enjoyed
their nocturnal wanderings. The dog slept on a bit of sacking, in his
confederate’s room, till Mrs. Hogben was astir, then he flew back to
the Manor, and crept through the same hole in the yew hedge by which,
in answer to a welcome whistle, he had emerged the preceding evening.
Behold him sitting at the kitchen door when the kitchen-maid opened it,
the personification of injured innocence--a poor, neglected, hungry
animal, who had been turned out of doors for the whole long night.

These were delightful excursions: over meadows and brooks, through deep
glens and plantations, the two black sheep scoured the country, and, as
far as human beings were concerned, appeared to have earth and heaven
to themselves. Wynyard roamed hither and thither as the freak took him,
and surrendered himself to the intoxication that comes of motion in the
open air--a purely animal pleasure shared with his companion.

They surprised the dozing cattle, and alarmed astonished sheep, sent
families of grazing rabbits scuttling to their burrows; they heard the
night-jar, the owl, and the corn-crake; bats flapped across their path,
and in narrow lanes the broad shoulders of Wynyard broke the webs of
discomfited spiders. The extraordinary stillness of the night was what
impressed the young man; sometimes, from a distance of four or five
miles, he could hear, with startling distinctness, the twelve measured
strokes of Ottinge church clock.

During these long, aimless rambles, what Joss’ thoughts were, who
can say? Undoubtedly he recalled such excursions in ecstatic dreams.
Wynyard, for his part, took many pleasure trips into the land of
fancy, and there, amidst its picturesque glamour and all its doubts,
distractions, and hopes, his sole companion was Aurea! Nothing but the
hope of her return sustained and kept him day after day, pacing the
Manor yard, in a sense _her_ prisoner! His devotion would have amazed
his sister; she could not have believed that Owen, of all people,
would have been so enslaved by a girl, could have become a dumb, humble
worshipper, satisfied to listen to her laugh, to catch a radiant glance
of her dark eyes, and, when he closed the door of the car, to shield
her dainty skirt with reverent fingers.

Presently there came a spell of bad weather, the rain sweeping across
the country in great grey gusts and eddying whirls, moaning and howling
through the village, making the venerable trees in Mrs. Hogben’s
orchard quite lively in their old age, lashing each other with their
hoary arms, in furious play.

It was impossible for Wynyard to spend the entire evening indoors over
Mrs. Hogben’s fire, listening to tales of when “she was in service,”
though he was interested to hear that Miss Alice Parrett as was--Mrs.
Morven--“was the best of the bunch, and there wasn’t a dry eye when she
was buried.” He also learned that Mr. Morven was rich for a parson,
and had once kept a curate, well paid, too; but the curate had been
terribly in love with Miss Aurea, and of course she wouldn’t look at
him--a little red-haired, rat-faced fellow! and so he had gone away,
and there was no more regular curate, only weekends, when Mr. Morven
went abroad for his holiday. And now and then Mrs. Hogben would fall
into heartrending reminiscences of her defunct pigs.

“Afore _you_ come, Jack, I kep’ pigs,” she informed him; “one a year. I
bought un at Brodfield--a nice little fellow--for fifteen shillings to
a pound, and fattened un up, being so much alone all day, I could never
help making sort of free with the pig, and petting un. He always knew
me, and would eat out of my hand, and was a sort of companion, ye see?”

“Yes,” assented Wynyard, though he did not see, for in his mind’s eye
he was contemplating Aurea Morven.

“Well, of course, he grew fat, and ready for the butcher, and when he
was prime, he had to go--but it just broke my heart, so it did; for
nights before I couldn’t sleep for crying,” here she became lachrymose;
“but it had to be, and me bound to be about when the men came, and the
cries and yells of him nigh drove me wild; though, of course, once he
was scalded and hung up, and a fine weight, it wor a nice thing to have
one’s own pork and bacon.”

Her companion nodded sympathetically.

“Howsomever, the last time I was so rarely fond of the pig, and his
screams and carryings-on cut me so _cruel_, that I made a vow, then and
there, I’d never own another, but take a lodger instead--and you, Jack,
be the _first_!”

“I’m sure I’m flattered,” rejoined Wynyard, with an irony entirely
wasted on his companion, who, with her skirt turned over her knees,
and her feet generously displayed, sat at the other side of the fire,
thoroughly enjoying herself.

“Tom is out,” he said, and this remark started her at once into another
topic, and a series of bitter complaints of Dilly Topham--Tom’s girl.

“The worst of it is, she’s mighty pretty, ain’t she?” she asked
querulously.

“She is,” he admitted. Dilly was a round-faced, smiling damsel, with
curly brown hair and expressive blue eyes--a flirt to her finger-tips.
It was also true that she did lead poor Tom a life, and encouraged a
smart young insurance agent, with well-turned, stockinged calves, and a
free-wheel bicycle.

“I’d never put up with her,” declared Mrs. Hogben, “only for her
grandmother.”

“Why her grandmother?” he questioned lazily.

“Bless your dear heart, old Jane Topham has been a miser all her
life. Oh, she’s a masterpiece, she is, and lives on the scrapings of
the shop; she hasn’t had a gown this ten year, but has a fine lump of
money in the Brodfield Bank, and Dilly is all she’s got left, and the
apple of her eye. Dilly will have a big fortune--only for that, I’d put
her to the door, with her giggling and her impudence, yes I would, and
that’s the middle and the two ends of it!”

When Wynyard had heard more than enough of Dilly’s doings and
misdoings, and the biographies and tragedies of his predecessors (the
pigs), he went over to the Drum, listened to discussions, and realised
the prominent characteristics of the English rustic--reluctance to
accept a new idea. Many talked as if the world had not moved for thirty
years, and evinced a dull-witted contentment, a stolid refusal to look
facts in the face; but others, the younger generation, gave him a new
perspective--these read the papers, debated their contents, and took a
keen interest in their own times.

Wynyard generally had a word with old Thunder, and played a game of
chess with Pither, the organist. Captain Ramsay was established in his
usual place--smoking, silent, and staring. So intent was his gaze,
so insistently fixed, that Wynyard invariably arranged to sit with
his back to him, but even then he seemed to feel the piercing eyes
penetrating the middle of his spine!

One evening Captain Ramsay suddenly rose, and shuffled out of his
corner--an usual proceeding, for he remained immovable till closing
time (ten o’clock). He came straight up to where Wynyard was bending
over the chess-board, considering a move, and laying a heavy hand on
his shoulder, and speaking in a husky voice, said--

“I say--_Wynyard_--don’t you know me?”




CHAPTER XVII

LADY KESTERS HAS MISGIVINGS


At this amazing question the chauffeur started violently, looked up
into the anxious, sunken eyes gazing into his own, and answered--

“No, to the best of my belief, I’ve never seen you before--never till I
came here.”

The man’s worn face worked with violent emotion--which he vainly
struggled to subdue.

“What!” he demanded, in a high, hoarse key, “have you forgotten
Lucknow?--and Jim Ramsay of the Seventh? Impossible!”

Wynyard glanced at him and again shook his head.

After a long pause, expressive of indignant incredulity--

“Why, man alive, you and I were at school together! Don’t you remember
your poky little room over the churchyard, and how we fagged for Toler,
and played hard rackets?”

As Wynyard still remained irresponsive, suddenly, to his horror, the
questioner burst into tears and tottered unsteadily towards the door,
wringing his hands, uttering loud convulsive sobs, and exclaiming, “As
a dead man out of mind! As a dead man out of mind! Tell them to sound
the Last Post!”

There was a loud murmur from the card-players, and old Thunder,
turning about and addressing the company, said--

“Poor old chap, ’e’s worse nor ever. At school together”--to
Wynyard--“Lor’ bless me! why, ye might be his son! I suppose ’e’s a
stranger to ye, mister?”

“Yes; I never laid eyes on him before.”

“He’s a-going off his nut,” declared a voice from the nap table; “he
did ought to be put away--he did.”

“Ay,” agreed the organist, addressing Wynyard, “his good lady won’t
hear of it; but it’s my opinion that he is no longer safe to himself
or others--it’s the loose and at-home lunatics that commit these awful
crimes ye read of in the papers, and makes your blood run cold.”

Wynyard made no reply. He had more than once heard Pither himself
spoken of as a madman and a crazy fellow; but _he_ was merely
eccentric. As for Captain Ramsay, he was lost in conjecture as to how
that unfortunate and afflicted gentleman had got hold of his _real_
name?

This mystery was solved no later than the next evening. In the lovely,
soft June twilight he was walking past the Claringbold’s empty farm,
and here came upon the captain, who was leaning over the gate, and
signalled imperatively to him with his stick.

“Look here!” he called out, and Wynyard stood still. “You’ve been a
puzzle to me for nearly six weeks--and at last I’ve got you.”

“Got _me_!”

“Of course you are Owen Wynyard; you and I knew one another long ago.
Why, man! we were schoolfellows, almost like brothers, and afterwards,
when our two regiments lay in Lucknow--why, God bless me! it’s over
thirty years ago!”

Captain Ramsay had got hold of his right name, but otherwise he was a
raving lunatic.

“You are Owen Wynyard, aren’t you?” he asked impatiently.

“Yes, I am, but I don’t use the Wynyard here; and I must beg you to
keep it to yourself.”

“Oh, all right; in one of your old scrapes, my boy! Money scarce! Ha
ha!” and he laughed hysterically. “So you’re lying doggo from the
Soucars, but why _here_?”

“That’s my business,” he answered sharply.

“Come, come, don’t be so grumpy and short with me, Owen. You were
always such a rare good-tempered chap. What has changed you, eh?
Now, come along home with me, and we will have a good ‘bukh’ over
old times,” and, as he spoke, his grasp--a fierce, possessive
clutch--tightened painfully on his prisoner’s arm.

“But,” objected the victim, “I was going for a turn.”

“No, you are not; you are coming straight home with me. My wife will
be glad to make your acquaintance. I forget if you’ve met her?” and he
touched his forehead. “I’m a little funny here, Owen. India, my boy!
she takes it out of all of us one way or another--teeth, hair, liver,
brains. Come on now--right about turn!” he concluded facetiously.

There was no use in resistance or in having a violent personal struggle
with the lunatic--nothing for it but to submit; and, in spite of his
reluctance, Wynyard was conducted, as if in custody, right up to the
door of Ivy House. Were he to refuse to enter, he knew there would only
be a scene in the street, a gaping crowd, and an unpleasant exposure.

“Look, look, Tom!” cried Mrs. Hogben, pointing to the opposite house,
“if the captain hasn’t got hold of our young fellow, and a-walkin’
him home as if he had him in charge--he has took a fancy to him, I do
declare!”

“There’s more nor one has took a fancy to Owen,” remarked Tom, with
gruff significance; “but, as to the captain--well--I’d rather it was
him--nor me.”

The captain entered his house with a latchkey and an air of importance;
there was a light in the square hall, and a door at one side was ajar.
He called out--

“Katie, Katie, come and see what _I_ have found for you!”

A door was opened wide, and there stood Mrs. Ramsay in a tea-gown, with
a little black Pom. in her arms. She looked amazed, as well she might,
but instantly dissembled her surprise, and said--

“Good-evening--I see my husband has invited you in for a smoke?”

“Smoke!” said Captain Ramsay, passing into the drawing-room,
and beckoning Wynyard to follow him. As he did so, he glanced
apologetically at the lady of the house, and it struck him then that he
was looking into a face that had seen all the sorrows of the world.

The room was furnished with solid old furniture, but Mrs. Ramsay’s
taste--or was it Miss Morven’s--had made it a charming and restful
retreat, with pretty, soft wall-paper, rose-shaded lamps, flowers, a
quantity of books, and a few Indian relics--such as a brass table, a
phoolcarrie or two, and some painted Tillah work which he recognised as
made near Lucknow.

“Katie,” resumed her husband, after a pause, “I know you will be
pleased to hear I’ve met a very old friend,” and he laid his hand
heavily on Wynyard’s shoulder. “Let me introduce Captain Wynyard--Owen
Wynyard of the Red Hussars. He and I were quartered together in
Lucknow, a matter of thirty-three years ago--why, I knew him, my dear,
long before I ever set eyes on _you_!”

As he concluded, he gazed at her with his dark shifty eyes, and Wynyard
noticed the nervous twitching of his hands.

“I’m sure I’m delighted to make your acquaintance,” she said, with
the utmost composure, though her lips were livid. Jim was getting
worse--this scene marked a new phase of his illness--another milestone
on the road to dementia.

“We were inseparable, Katie, I can tell you, and went up together for
our leave to Naini Tal, and stayed at the club, rowed in the regatta,
had a ripping time, and went shooting in Kumaon. I say, Owen, do you
remember the panther that took your dog near Bhim Tal--and how you got
him?”

Wynyard nodded assent--in for a penny, in for a pound! He was
impersonating a dead man, and what was a dead dog more or less?

“Do you remember the cairn we raised over him, and he was so popular,
every one who knew him, that passed up or down, placed a stone on it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to go and smoke in the dining-room?” suggested Mrs.
Ramsay. “Jim, I’ll ring for Mary to light the lamp, she does not know
you are in.”

“No, no, I’ll go myself,” and he shuffled into the hall.

“He has taken you for some one else, of course, poor fellow!” she said,
turning quickly to Wynyard, and speaking under her breath.

“Yes,” he answered, “for my father--but please keep this to
yourself--I’ve always heard I am extraordinarily like him.”

“Then humour him, humour him, _do_. You see how bright and happy this
imaginary meeting has made him. Oh, it will be so kind of you to talk
to him of India--he loves it--how I wish you knew the country--you
must pretend, and I will coach you. Lucknow is very hot, and gay, not
far----”

“But I needn’t pretend,” he broke in, “I know the country--yes--and
Lucknow too. I was there with my father’s old regiment.”

She stared at him for a moment in bewildered astonishment.

“I say, you won’t give me away, will you?” he added anxiously.

“No; is it likely? If you will only come and talk to him of an evening
now and then, it will be truly one of the good deeds that will be
scored up to you in heaven. Ah, here he is, and the lamp.”

“Now come along, Owen,” he said briskly. “Here you are, I’ve got my
best tobacco for you. Let’s have a bukh!”

And what a bukh it was! Captain Ramsay carried on most of the
conversation, and as he discoursed of old friends, of shikar, of camps
and manœuvres, racing and polo, his sunken eyes kindled, he became
animated; it was another personality to that of the silent, drooping
figure known to Ottinge. Wynyard, as he listened and threw in a word
or two, could now dimly realise the good-looking smart officer in this
poor stranded wreck.

Mrs. Ramsay, who had brought her work and her little dog, sat somewhat
apart, beyond the shaded lamp’s rays, listened, wondered, and inwardly
wept. What vital touch to a deadened mind had kindled these old
memories? What a mysterious organ was the human brain!

And the taciturn chauffeur, he too was changed--it was another
individual; he sat there, smoking, his elbow on the table, discussing
army matters (now obsolete), notable generals, long dead and gone,
the hills and plains of India, the climate--that, at least, was
unchanged--with extraordinary coolness and adaptability. The guest was
playing the rôle of being his own father, with astounding success. And
what a good-looking young fellow! she noticed his clear-cut features,
the well set-on head, the fine frame, the distinguished looking brown
hand that lay carelessly on the table. The scene was altogether
amazing; this sudden recognition seemed to have aroused Jim from a
long, long mental slumber. Was it a sign of recovery--or was it a
symptom of the end?

When at last Owen rose to go, Captain Ramsay made no effort to detain
him, but sat, with his head thrown back and his eyes fixed on the
opposite wall, lost in a reverie of ghastly vacuity.

It was Mrs. Ramsay who accompanied her guest into the hall, and
inquired, in her everyday manner--

“And when is the motor of Ottinge coming back?”

“I am to fetch it to-morrow.”

Then, in another voice, almost a whisper, she added--

“I am so grateful to you. My husband and your father seem to have been
like brothers--and you really managed wonderfully. You have given Jim
such pleasure, and, poor fellow, he has so little!” Her eyes were dim
as she looked up, “Even I, who am with him always, see a change. I am
afraid he is growing worse.”

“Why not better?” asked Wynyard, with forced cheerfulness. “Have you
seen a mental specialist?”

“Oh yes, long ago; his condition is the result of sunstroke, and they
said he--he ought to be--put away in an asylum; but of course his home
is his asylum.”

Her visitor was not so clear about this, and there was no doubt that
now and then the captain’s eyes had an alarmingly mad expression.

“Can you manage to come and see him occasionally, or is it asking too
much?”

“I’ll come with pleasure; I have my evenings off--the car never goes
out at night, as you may know; but I’m only Owen Wynyard, late of the
Red Hussars, in this house, if you please, Mrs. Ramsay.”

“Of course; and I shall be only too thankful to see you whenever you
can spare us an hour,” and she opened the door and let him out.

From this time forth there commenced an intimacy between the chauffeur
and the Ramsays. He not only spent an hour now and then with the
captain, smoking, playing picquet, and talking over old times, but he
gave Mrs. Ramsay valuable assistance with her boarders, treated bites,
thorns, and other casualties with a practised hand; on one occasion
sat up at night with a serious case of distemper; on another, traced
and captured a valuable runaway. He admired her for her unquenchable
spirit, energy, and pluck, and helped in the kennel with the boy she
employed, and undertook to exercise the most boisterous dogs of an
evening. These thoroughly enjoyed their excursions with an active
companion, who, however, maintained a strict but kindly discipline;
and, of a bright moonlight night, it was no uncommon sight to meet the
chauffeur, four or five miles from Ottinge, accompanied by, not only
Joss, but by several of Mrs. Ramsay’s paying guests.

The friendship between the captain and the chauffeur naturally did not
pass unnoticed, and the verdict of the Drum was that the young fellow,
having spare time on his hands, had been “took on as a sort of keeper
at Ivy House, and gave a help with the kennel and the old man--and the
old man was growing worse.”

Leila had arranged to pay a flying visit to Brodfield when her brother
went there to fetch the motor, and he found her awaiting him in a
gloomy sitting-room of that once celebrated posting-inn--the Coach and
Horses.

“Three months are gone!” she said, after their first greetings, “so far
so good, _ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute_!”

“There are a good many _pas_ yet! It’s awfully nice to see you, Sis,
and be myself for once in a way,” and then he proceeded to unfold his
experience with Captain Ramsay.

“Oh, how ghastly! The poor lunatic talking away to you, and taking
you for our father! Imagine him recognising you by the likeness, and
skipping thirty-three years! No one else suspects you, do they?”

“His wife knows my real name, and that’s all; I had to tell her, but
she is safe as a church. Miss Susan has been curious.”

“Bless her dear simple heart!”

“I say amen to that; but of all the mean, purse-proud, tyrannical old
hags, give me Bella Parrett! She’s always bragging of her family, too,
and her crest--in my opinion it ought to be a civet cat!”

“Oh, Owen,” and she laughed, “it’s not often that you are stirred to
such indignation.”

“Ah, you don’t know her.”

“Apparently not. Well, what do you say to a move, and to better
yourself? I believe I could find you a capital place in Somersetshire,
not so retired, more in the world, and with quite smart people.”

“No, thanks, I’ll stick to this now--anyway till Christmas.”

“But, Owen, when the old woman and the motor are so objectionable--by
the way, I must inspect it before you start to-morrow--why remain?”

“Oh, I’ve got the hang of the place now. I know the people, I’ve
comfortable quarters--and--er--I like Miss Susan----”

“Do you like any one else, Owen, come?”

“I like the parson, and the schoolmaster, and Tom Hogben.”

“Well, well, well!” throwing herself back, “I see you won’t give me
your confidence! I am positively certain there is some one in Ottinge
you like much better than the parson and the schoolmaster--or even Miss
Susan.”

“I swear there is not,” he answered, boldly confronting her. (Aurea was
not in Ottinge, but visiting her rich London relatives, doing a bit of
the season with, to borrow the native term, “Mrs. General Morven.”)

Leila was puzzled. Owen, she knew, was a hopelessly bad liar, and his
face looked innocence itself.

“I’ve got a box for the theatre here--a company on tour. We may as well
go--you can sit in the back,” she said, rising.

“All right; it’s to be hoped none of the Ottinge folk will be there,
and spot me!”

“Not they! Don’t you know your Ottinge by this time? Is it likely that
any one of them would come all this way to see a mere play?”

“Miss Susan might, she loves an outing and any little bit of amusement;
but she’s not at home, and if she was, she would not get the use of the
motor.”

“The theatre is only across the square--it’s quite near, so we may
as well walk;” and they did. Lady Kesters in a high black dress, her
brother in a dark suit, passed unnoticed among the crowd, and enjoyed
the entertainment.

The next morning Lady Kesters left Brodfield by the ten o’clock train
for London, having previously inspected the celebrated green gem at the
garage. She even got into it, examined it critically, and laughed as
she descended.

“Oh, what a take in! What a shame to have cheated those poor old women!
Why, Owen, I believe it must be years and years old!”

“And a bad machine always; strong when you want it to be weak, and weak
when it should be strong. Some of these days it will play me a trick,
I’m sure.”

“What, that old bone-shaker! No, no. Well, I’m afraid you must soon be
starting--as you say Miss Parrett awaits you, watch in hand--and so
must I. It’s been awfully good to see you, and find you are getting
on so well--‘a chauffeur almost to the manner born.’ Martin takes a
profound interest in our enterprise.”

“He keeps me supplied with lots of tobacco and A1 cigars. Tell him that
Miss Susan asked me if I got them in the village? and Miss Parrett,
who is as sharp as a razor, inquired how I could _afford_ to buy them?
I ventured to offer a couple to the doctor--I told him they were a
present; he took them like a lamb, and asked no questions.”

“What! does a lamb smoke? Well, I’ll tell Martin how much his offerings
are appreciated, and that you really are fit--and quite happy, eh?”

“Yes, tell him that neither of you need worry about me; I’m all right
at Ottinge.”

But when, an hour later, Lady Kesters gazed meditatively on the flying
Midlands, with her thoughts concentrated upon her brother, she was by
no means so sure, that he _was_ all right at Ottinge!




CHAPTER XVIII

THE REASON WHY


Whilst Ottinge had been dozing through lovely summer days, Aurea Morven
was enjoying a certain amount of the gay London season. General and
Mrs. Morven had no family--Aurea was their only young relative, the
Parretts’ only niece, the parson’s only child; and, though she was the
light of the Rectory, he was not selfish, and shared and spared her
company. Besides, as Mrs. Morven said, “Edgar had his literary work,
his large correspondence, his parish, and Jane Norris to look after
him, and it was out of the question to suppose that a girl with such
beauty and attractiveness was to be buried in an out-of-the-way hole
like Ottinge-in-the-Marsh--although her father and her aunts _did_ live
there!” Mrs. Morven, a masterful lady on a large scale, who carried
herself with conscious dignity, looked, and was a manager--a manager
of ability. She was proud of the general’s pretty niece, enjoyed
chaperoning her and taking her about, and anticipated her making a
notable match; for, besides her pretty face, and charming, unspoiled
nature, Aurea was something of an heiress.

It seemed to this clear-sighted lady that her niece was changed of
late, her spontaneous gaiety had evaporated, once or twice she had
sudden fits of silence and abstraction, and, although she laughed and
danced and appeared to enjoy herself, refused to take any of her
partners seriously, and shortened her visit by three weeks!

Miss Susan had arrived at Eaton Place for a couple of days. It
was arranged by the girl that she and her aunt were to leave town
together--though the general and his wife pleaded for a longer visit,
offering Aurea, as a temptation, a ball, a Windsor garden-party, and
Sandown--the filial daughter shook her head, with smiling decision; she
had promised the Padre, and, besides, she wanted to get back to the
garden before the best of the roses were over! Theatre dinners were
breaking up at the Ritz, and a stream of smart people were gradually
departing eastward. Among the crowd in the hall, awaiting her motor,
stood Lady Kesters, superb in diamonds and opera mantle. She and Miss
Susan caught sight of one another at the same moment, and Miss Susan
immediately began to make her way through the throng.

“So glad to meet you!” gasped the elder lady. “I called yesterday
afternoon, but you were out.”

“Yes, so sorry--I was down in the country. Do come and lunch to-morrow.”

“I wish I could, but, unfortunately, we are going home. Let me
introduce my niece, Aurea Morven--Lady Kesters.”

Lady Kesters smiled and held out her hand. Could this extremely pretty
girl be the reason of Owen’s surprising contentment? She looked at her
critically. No country mouse, this! her air and her frock were of the
town. What a charming face and marvellous complexion--possibly due to
the Marsh air!

“I have known your aunts for years”; and, though addressing Miss
Susan, she looked straight at Aurea, as she asked, “And how is the new
chauffeur suiting you?”

The girl’s colour instantly rose, but before she could speak, Miss
Susan flung herself on the question.

“Oh, very well indeed--most obliging and civil--has been quite a
treasure in the house and garden.”

Lady Kesters raised her delicately pencilled eyebrows and laughed.

“The chauffeur--_gardening_! How funny!”

“You see, Bella is so nervous in a motor, it is not often wanted, and
Owen likes to help us. We find him rather silent and reserved about
himself; he gives the impression of being a bit above his place?” and
she looked at Lady Kesters interrogatively.

“Really?”

“I suppose you can tell me something about him--as you said you’d known
him for years?” continued Miss Susan, with unconcealed eagerness. “I
am, I must confess, just a little curious. Where does he come from? Has
he any belongings?”

“Oh, my dear lady, do you think it necessary to look into
your chauffeur’s past! I believe he comes from Westshire, his
people--er--er--lived on my grandfather’s property; as to his
belongings--ah! there is my husband! I see he has found the
car at last, and I must fly! So sorry you are leaving town
to-morrow--_good_-bye!” Lady Kesters now understood her brother’s
reluctance to leave Ottinge--she had seen the reason why.

Miss Susan and her niece travelled down to Catsfield together, were met
in state by the motor and luggage-cart, and created quite a stir at the
little station. Miss Morven had such a heap of boxes--one as big as
a sheep trough--that the cart was delayed for nearly a quarter of an
hour, and Peter, the porter, for once had a job:

The ladies found that, in their absence, the neighbourhood had
awakened; there were large house-parties at Westmere and Tynflete, and
not a few smart motors now to be seen skimming through the village.
It was a fact that several tourists had visited the church, and had
“tea” at Mrs. Pither’s, and patronised her neighbour’s “cut flowers.”
The old church was full on Sundays, dances and cricket matches were in
prospect, and Miss Morven, the countryside beauty, was immediately in
enviable request.

Miss Parrett had relaxed her hold, so to speak, upon the car, and lent
it daily, and even nightly, to her niece and sister; indeed, it seemed
that she would almost do anything with the motor than use it herself;
and though she occasionally ventured to return calls at a short
distance, it was undoubtedly pain and grief to her to do so--and, on
these occasions, brandy and heart-drops were invariably secreted in one
of its many pockets.

Owen, the automaton chauffeur, was the reluctant witness of the many
attentions showered upon his lady-love, especially by Bertie Woolcock,
who was almost always in close attendance, and put her in the car with
many voluble regrets and urgent arrangements for future meetings. He
would linger by the door sometimes for ten minutes, prolonging the
“sweet sorrow,” paying clumsy compliments, and making notes of future
engagements upon his broad linen cuff. He little suspected how dearly
the impassive driver longed to descend from his seat and throttle him;
but once he did remark to the lady--

“I say, what a scowling brute you have for a chauffeur!”

Meanwhile, Miss Susan looked on and listened to Bertie’s speeches with
happy complacency. Bertie was heir to twenty thousand a year, and it
would be delightful to have her darling Aurea living at Westmere, and
established so near home.

One evening, returning from a garden-party, Miss Susan and her niece
had a narrow escape of being killed. Aurea was seated in front--she
disliked the stuffy interior, especially this warm weather; they had
come to a red triangle notice, “Dangerous to Cyclists,” and were about
to descend a long winding hill--the one hill of the neighbourhood.
Just as they commenced the descent with the brake hard on, it suddenly
broke, and in half a second the car had shot away!

Wynyard turned his head, and shouted, “Sit tight!” and gave all his
mind to steering; he took the whole width of the road to get round
the first corner, and then the hill made an even sharper drop; the
car, which was heavy, gathered momentum with every yard, and it seemed
impossible to reach the bottom of the hill without some terrible
catastrophe. Half-way down was another motor. Wynyard yelled, sounded
the horn, and flashed by; a pony-trap, ascending, had a narrow escape
of being pulverised in the green car’s mad flight. Then, to the
driver’s horror, he saw a great wagon and horses on the road near the
foot of the hill, and turned cold with the thought that there might not
be room to get by. They missed it by a hair’s-breadth, and continued
their wild career. At last they came to the level at the foot of the
slope, and Wynyard pulled up, after the most exciting two minutes he
had ever experienced. He glanced at his two companions; they were both
as white as death--and so was he! Miss Susan, for once, was speechless,
but at last she signed that she wished to get out, and Wynyard helped
her to the bank, on which she collapsed, inarticulate and gasping.

“It’s a good thing Aunt Bella was not with us,” said Aurea, and her
voice sounded faint; “_this_ time she really would have died! What
happened?” turning to Owen.

“The brake rod broke, miss--the old car is rotten,” he added viciously.

“Old car!” repeated Susan, who, though her nerves were in a badly
shattered condition, had at last found utterance.

“Very old and crazy--and you never know what she is going to do next,
or what trick she will play you--and you ladies have been giving her a
good deal of work lately.”

“If you had lost your head, Owen!” exclaimed Miss Susan.

“I hope I don’t often do that, miss,” he answered steadily.

“If you had not had splendid nerve, we would all have been killed; why,
we just shaved that wagon by a hair’s-breadth--that would have been a
smash! We were going so fast.”

He made no reply, but moved away to examine the machine.

“Of course it would have been death, Aurea, and I don’t want to go like
that!”

“I should hope not, Susie.”

“I don’t think I shall be afraid when it comes--I shall feel like a
child whose nurse has called it away to go to sleep; but I’d prefer to
go quietly, and not like some crushed insect.”

Wynyard, as he worked at the car, could not help overhearing snatches
of the conversation between aunt and niece; the latter said--

“The other day I was watching a flock of sheep in the meadows; the
shepherd was with them, and they were all collected about him so
trustfully. By his side was a man in a long blue linen coat. I said
to myself, ‘There is death among them; poor innocents, they don’t know
it.’ That’s like death and us--we never know who he has marked, or
which of the flock is chosen.”

“He nearly chose us to-day--but he changed his mind.”

Aurea nodded, and then she went on--

“As to that odious motor, every one says Aunt Bella was shamefully
taken in; but she would not listen to advice, she would buy it--she
liked the photo. The car is medieval, and, what’s more, it’s
unlucky,--it’s malignant! and you remember when we met the runaway
horse and cart near Brodfield; I was sitting outside, and I declare it
seemed to struggle to get into the middle of the road, and _meet_ them!
you remember what Goethe said about the demoniac power of inanimate
things?”

“Now, my dear child, that’s nonsense!” expostulated Miss Susan. “I had
a poor education, and I’ve never read a line of Goethe’s; if he wrote
such rubbish, I had no loss!”

“Well, you will allow that the car did its very best to destroy us
to-day! And Mrs. Ramsay told me a man she knew recognised it by its
number--and that it once ran over and killed a girl on a bicycle, and
the people sent it to auction, where some one bought it for a song,
passed it on to Aunt Bella, and here it is!”

“The car will be all right now, Miss Susan,” announced the chauffeur,
touching his cap; “there are no more hills, we are on the flat, and
I can take you home safely; but I’m afraid she will have to go to
Brodfield again to-morrow.”

“Owen, do you believe in a motor being unlucky?” she asked, rising as
she spoke.

“I can’t say I do, miss; I don’t know much about them.”

“What do you mean?--not know about motors!”

“Oh,” correcting himself, “I mean with respect to their characters,
miss; it’s said that there are unlucky engines, and unlucky ships, and
submarines--at least they have a bad name. I can’t say that this car
and I have ever, what you may call, taken to one another.”

And with this remark, he tucked in Aurea’s smart white skirt, closed
the door, mounted to his place, and proceeded steadily homewards.




CHAPTER XIX

OWEN THE MATCHMAKER


Undoubtedly it was hard on Wynyard that, at a time when his own
love-affair was absorbing his soul and thoughts, he should be burthened
with the anxieties of another--in fact, with two others--those of Tom
Hogben and Dilly Topham.

For some weeks Tom had been unlike himself, silent, dispirited,
and almost morose, giving his mother short answers or none; yet,
undoubtedly, it _is_ galling to be accused of a bilious attack when it
is your heart that is affected.

Mrs. Hogben was dismayed. What had come over her boy? Her lodger, too,
was concerned, for Tom, hitherto sober, now brought with him at times a
very strong suggestion of raw whisky! At last he was received into his
confidence--the communication took place over an after-dinner pipe in
the Manor grounds.

During the dog-days, the atmosphere of Mrs. Hogben’s little kitchen
was almost insupportable--such was the reek of soap-suds, soda, and
the ironing blanket; and Wynyard suggested that he and Tom should
carry their dinner, and eat it in the old summer-house on the Manor
bowling-green.

“We’ll be out of your road,” he added craftily, “and save ourselves the
tramp here at midday.”

At first Tom did not see precisely eye-to-eye with his comrade; he
liked his victuals “conformable”--and to be within easy reach of the
loaf, pickle jar, and--though this was not stated--the Drum!

But after one trial he succumbed. There was no denying it was rare and
cool in the old thatched tea-house, and his mother, who was thankful to
get rid of “two big chaps a-crowding her up--so awkward at her busiest
laundry season,”--provided substantial fare in the shape of cold meat
and potatoes, home-made bread, and cheese--and, for Tom, the mordant
pickles such as his soul loved. The pair, sitting at their meal,
presented a curious contrast, although both in rough working clothes,
and their shirt-sleeves.

The chauffeur, erect, well-groomed, eating his bread and cheese with
the same relish, and refinement as if he were at mess.

The gardener, exhibiting a four days old beard, and somewhat earthy
hands, as he slouched over the rustic table, bolting his food with the
voracity of a hungry dog.

They were both, in their several ways, handsome specimens of British
manhood. Hogben, for all his clownish manners, had good old blood in
his veins; he could, had he known the fact, have traced and established
his pedigree back to King Henry the Sixth!

Wynyard’s progenitors had never been submerged; their names were
emblazoned in history--a forebear had distinguished himself in the
tilting ring, and achieved glory at Agincourt.

Possibly, in days long past, the ancestors of these two men had fought
side by side as knight and squire--who knows?

Having disposed of his last enormous mouthful, closed his clasp-knife,
and produced his pipe, Hogben threw himself back on the seat, and
said--

“Look here, mate, I want a bit of a talk with ’ee.”

“Talk away, Tom,” he replied, as he struck a match. “You have fifteen
minutes and a clear course.”

“Oh, five will do me. As fer the course, it bain’t clear, and that’s
the truth. It’s like this, Jack, I’m in a mort o’ trouble along o’
Dilly Topham.”

Wynyard nodded, the news had not taken him by surprise.

“An’ you, being eddicated, and having seen London and life--and no
doubt well experienced with young females--might give me a hand.”

Wynyard nodded again--Tom was undoubtedly about to make a clean breast
of it. So he lit his cigarette, and prepared to listen.

“Dilly and I was children together--I’m five year older nor she--and
my mother, being a widder, I had to start to work when I was ten, with
a milk round--and indeed long afore--so my schoolin’ wasn’t much,
as ye may know! ’Owever, Dilly and I was always goin’ to be married
for fun; and she grew up a main pretty girl, and then it was agreed
on in earnest. Well, now she gives me the go-by! Most days she won’t
look near me, and she never comes ’ere; she’s got a gold bangle from
some other chap, and when I ask about it, she gives me a regular
doing, and says I’m to mind me own business! What do ye say to that?
It’s the insurance fellow, I’ll go bail, from Brodfield; if I catch
him--I’ll--I’ll bash ’is ’ead in--so I will--’im and ’is legs! What am
I to do--I ask you as a friend?”

“Well, Tom, I’m not as experienced as you suppose,” said Wynyard, after
a thoughtful pause, “but, if I were in your shoes, I’ll tell you just
exactly my plan of operations.”

“Ay, let’s have ’em right away.”

“First of all I’d have my hair cut, and trim myself about a bit.”

“What! an old blossom like me?”

“Yes; shave that fringe of yours altogether, and wear your hair like
mine,” running his hand over his cropped head. “I declare, I could not
live with a mop like yours! And you may not know it, Tom, but you are
an awfully good-looking fellow.”

“Eh--am I?” with slow complacency. “They do say so of Ottinge folk;
they are mostly of fine old blood, come down in the world--and the only
thing that’s stuck is the features--especially the nose.”

“I can’t tell you anything about that, but I’m certain of one
thing--you must give up whisky.”

“Ay”--reddening--“must I so?”

“Don’t let it get a hold, or it may never leave you.”

“Ay, but sometimes when I’m down, the devil ’e comes, and ’e says,
‘You go and ’ave a _drink_, Tom, it will do you good’; and ’e keeps on
a-whisperin’ ‘Go and ’ave a drink, Tom, go and ’ave a drink, Tom,’ and
so I goes at last, and ’as three or four!”

“Tell the devil to shut up, and do you go to the barber.”

“’E’s away this week thatching,” was the amazing reply.

“Well, when he comes back get shaved, and you won’t know yourself!
Then I’d like to give you one of my old coats, and a tie, and a few
collars--we are about the same size--and Miss Dilly won’t recognise
you; and after that, mind you take no notice of her; but share your
hymn-book with Nellie Hann--ask her out walking of an evening, and I
bet you anything you like, you will have Miss Dilly after you like a
shot!”

“Well, mate, I’ll do it,” said Tom moodily; “but it’s a tricky
business walkin’ with another girl--she might take notions--and if it
falls out badly with Dilly, I’ll drown myself, but thank you all the
same.”

After a long and brooding silence, Tom struggled to his feet and
scratched his head--

“If ye understood what it was to be _set_ on a girl--you would know
what a misery I feel; but you are not built that way, as any one can
see--and now I must go back to my job, or I’ll have the old lady on
to me. She stands in the landing window, a-watching like a cat at a
mouse-hole. It’s not so much the work--as that she likes to see us
_a-slaving_. Well, I’ll take yer advice, and I am much obliged to ye.”
And, shouldering his spade, Tom lurched away, with long uneven strides.

“Now, what did you do that for?” Wynyard asked himself. “You silly
idiot! giving advice and putting your finger in other people’s pies.
Why should you meddle?”

No answer being forthcoming from the recesses of his inner
consciousness, he rose and stretched himself, and presently returned to
his struggle with a contrary old lawn-mower.

By chance, the very next evening, on the road to Brodfield, Wynyard
came upon Dilly and the insurance agent; they were evidently about to
part, and were exchanging emphatic last words. He accosted them in a
cheery, off-hand manner, and after a few trivial remarks about the
weather, and the heat, said--

“As I suppose you are going back, Miss Topham, we might as well walk
together. May I have the honour of your company?”

Dilly beamed and giggled, the agent glowered and muttered
inarticulately; but he was a little in awe of the chauffeur chap, with
his quiet manners, steady eye, and indefinable suggestion of a reserve
force never exerted--and with a snort and a “So long, Miss Dilly!” he
mounted his bike, and sped homewards.

Dilly was both amazed and enchanted. So, after all, she had made an
impression on this quiet, good-looking Owen chap! and for him, did he
wish to “walk out with her,” she was ready--to speak the brutal, naked
truth--to throw over both Ernest Sands and Tom Hogben.

“I’m glad to have met you like this,” he said, as they proceeded side
by side.

“Oh yes,” she responded eagerly, “so am I--awfully glad!”

“Because I want to have a word about Tom.”

“Oh--_Tom_,” with inexpressible scorn, “I’ve just about done with Tom!”

“Done for him, you mean! You’re breaking his heart; he’s a topping good
chap, I know, for I live in the house with him.”

Here, indeed, was a bitter disappointment for Miss Dilly. So the smart
chauffeur was merely talking to her as a friend of Tom’s!

“I say,” he continued, “do you think it’s playing the game to be
carrying on with this other chap, if you are engaged to Tom?”

“Who says so?” she demanded sharply.

“He does--Ottinge does.”

“Laws! A lot of jangling old women! Much I care what they say!” and she
tossed her head violently.

“You need not tell me that.”

“Why?” she snapped.

“Because you meet a young man you are not engaged to, and walk miles
with him through the lanes after sundown.”

“Well, I’m sure! Why mayn’t I have a friend if I choose?”

“It is entirely a matter of opinion; if I were in Tom’s shoes, Miss
Dilly, and knew of this evening’s outing, I’d give you the chuck at
once, and have nothing more to do with you.”

“Oh--_you_!”--insolently--“they say you’re a sort of half gentleman as
has got into some trouble. Why don’t you mind your own affairs? Come
now!”

“Tom is my friend and my affair.”

“Bah! a working man and a gentleman--friends! Go on!” and she stared at
him defiantly.

“Yes, he is; and I won’t stand by and see his life spoiled, if I can
help it.”

“Well, then,” and she burst into sudden tears, “it’s his mother as is
spoiling it--not me.”

“How do you make that out?”

“Wasn’t we pledged four year ago, and I took his ring, and there’s
Maggie Tuke engaged years after me, and nicely set up in her own house
now, with a gramaphone and a big glass--yes, and Nellie Watkin too; and
I’ve got to wait and wait till Mrs. Hogben pleases. _She_ won’t give up
Tom, so there it is! Oh, of course she’s all butter and sugar to a good
lodger like you, but she’s as hard as a turnpike, and she’s waiting on
till my grandmother comes forward--and that she’ll never do. Why, she
grudges me a bit of chocolate, let alone a fortin’.”

“Oh, so that’s it, is it?”

“Yes, that’s it, since you must know; and I tell you I’m not going on
playing this ’ere waiting game no longer--I’m about fed up, as they
say; I’m twenty-six, and I’ve told Ernest as I’m going to break it off
with Hogben.”

“Come now, which do you like the best?” asked Wynyard, amazed at his
own impertinence, “Tom or Ernest?”

“Why, Tom, of course, but what’s the good?”

“Look here, will you promise not to hate me--and will you let me see
what I can do?”

For a moment she gazed at him with an air of profound mistrust; at last
she muttered in a peevish voice--

“Yes, you can’t make things no worse, anyway--and that’s certain sure.”

This was not a very gracious permission, but Miss Topham wiped her
eyes and held out her hand; at the moment, by most provoking bad luck,
the Rector and his daughter dashed by in a dog-cart, and the former,
recognising him, called back a cheery “Good-night, Owen!”

“Is it possible that the fellow has cut out Tom Hogben, and is making
up to Dilly Topham?” he said to his daughter.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” she answered stiffly.

“I should not have thought she was _his_ sort; but one never can tell!
At any rate, she was crying and holding his hand--there must be an
understanding between them, eh?”

But Aurea made no reply; apparently she was engrossed in watching a
long train of rooks flying quickly homewards--drifting across the
rose-tinted sky--and had not heard the question. Her father glanced at
her; her pretty lips were very tightly compressed, one would almost
suppose that something had annoyed Aurea!

       *       *       *       *       *

That evening, when Tom was at the Drum, Wynyard had a serious
conversation with Mrs. Hogben--a really straight and private talk,
respecting her son and his love-affair. “If Leila were to see me now!”
he said to himself, “trying to engineer this job, how she would laugh!”
To his landlady he pointed out that one was not always young, and
that Tom and Dilly had been engaged four years. (He had a vague idea
that Tom’s wages and Tom’s company all to herself, were considerable
factors in his mother’s reluctance to name the wedding-day.)

And for once Wynyard was positively eloquent! He put down his pipe, and
spoke. He pleaded as he had never in his life pleaded for himself--he
felt amazed by his own arguments! Mrs. Hogben was thunder-struck;
generally, the fellow had not a word to throw to a dog, and now to hear
him talk!

“Think, Mrs. Hogben,” he urged, “what is Tom to wait for? He has his
twenty-five shillings a week and this house--it’s his, I understand,”
and he paused. “If Dilly gives him up who will blame her? She has
waited--and for what?” Another dramatic pause. “_You_ are waiting for
Mrs. Topham to die. She is likely to hold on another ten or twenty
years. You say this is a healthy place--and she may even see you out;
it’s a way old people have--they get the living habit, and hold on in
spite of no end of illnesses. And I tell you plainly that if Dilly
throws over Tom--as she threatens--Tom will go to the bad; and then
perhaps you will be sorry and blame yourself when it’s too late.”

By this time Mrs. Hogben was in tears.

“And so I’m to turn out, am I?--out of the house I was in ever since
I married and the house where my poor husband died of ‘roses on the
liver’” (_cirrhosis_) “and let that giddy girl in on all my good china
and linen,” she sobbed stertorously.

“No, not by any means--there’s room for all! I shall not always be
here, you know. Well, Mrs. Hogben,” rising, “I hope you will forgive me
for intruding into your family affairs, but just think over what I have
said to you; you know I mean well, and I’m Tom’s friend,” and with this
declaration her lodger bade her good-night, and climbed up the creaking
stairs into his crooked chamber.

The immediate result of the chauffeur’s interference was the
transformation of Tom into a smart, clean-shaven young man--who openly
neglected his lady-love, actually escorted her hated rival from evening
church, and remained to share the family supper of pig’s cheek and
pickles. Owen’s prescription had a marvellous effect; for, three weeks
after this too notorious entertainment, it was officially given out at
the Drum that Tom and Dilly Topham were to be wed at Christmas--and
to make their home with Sally Hogben. On hearing this, so to speak,
postscript, various maids and matrons were pleased to be sarcastic
respecting the two Mrs. Hogbens, and wished them both “joy.”




CHAPTER XX

SUDDEN DEATH


There had been an outbreak of festivities in the neighbourhood of
lethargic Ottinge; the climax of these was a grand ball given by Mrs.
Woolcock at Westmere, to celebrate her youngest daughter’s engagement
to Lord Lowestoff. Every one who was any one--and indeed not a few
nobodies--were bidden as guests; Mrs. Woolcock liked to see her rooms
crammed to suffocation. No expense was spared--the arrangements were
made on a lavish scale. On this occasion the extra waiters and other
luxuries were imported from London by special train, and a carefully
selected house-party provided the bride-elect with a ready-made court
that intervened between the future peeress and the vulgar herd.
Dancing took place in the great drawing-room (in old days it was
called the White Saloon), and through its wide, open windows humble
spectators--such as coachmen and chauffeurs--were at liberty to look
on, to wonder, and to criticise.

The Misses Parrett and their niece were present. Miss Parrett--who had
nerved herself for the ordeal with a glass and a half of port--had
motored to Westmere through the darkness, with great, flaring lamps--a
truly heart-shaking experience! but she was determined to exhibit her
new velvet gown and her new diamonds. Her satisfaction with her own
appearance was such that, before she embarked on her venture into
the night and the motor, her household were summoned to a private
view--precisely as if she were a young beauty or a bride!

The old lady, who bore an absurd resemblance to a black velvet
penwiper, enjoyed the ball immensely, and took a number of mental
photographs; she also “took the wall” of various obnoxious people who
had dared to patronise her in her days of poverty. Her particular
satellites, stout widows and anxious-looking spinsters, rallied around
her, ardently admiring her toilette, and listened patiently to her
boring recollections of the balls she had attended years ago; but, in
point of fact, they were more keenly interested in the ball of to-night
and their prospects respecting escorts to the supper-table.

Much as she was engrossed in herself and her own importance, Miss
Parrett could not help noticing that her niece was singled out
for special attention by Bertie Woolcock. This, though a genuine
satisfaction to her, was no pleasure to her chauffeur, who, from a
coign of vantage on the lawn, commanded a capital view of the gay
scene--the illuminated room, the constant circulation of black and
white, and sometimes coloured, figures. Among these Miss Morven was
pre-eminent--the undisputed beauty of the evening--wearing a filmy
white gown, with a sparkling ornament glittering in her dark hair; she
looked radiantly lovely and radiantly happy, as she floated lightly by.

The chauffeur’s watchful eyes noted that she had (quite unnecessarily)
bestowed three waltzes on that blundering elephant, Bertie Woolcock;
how red and hot he looked--more as if he were threshing than dancing!
What would _he_ not give for just a couple of turns with the belle of
the ball! The band was “Iffs” and the floor seemed to be ripping!
Well, there was nothing for it but to wait as an outsider, and to hold
on to his patience with both hands.

After the great ball--its glories, shortcomings, surprises, and
failures--had died away into a nine days’ wonder, there were several
cricket matches, and Ottinge discovered, to its supreme elation, that
they had a notable man in Miss Parrett’s chauffeur! (This became
evident when the local eleven assembled for their evening practice
in the Manor fields.) The fame of Owen’s batting actually brought
old Thunder on the scene; for he, too, had been a fine cricketer,
long before gout had seized upon him and he had subsided into carpet
slippers.

“Ottinge _v._ Westmere” was a two days’ match, and the last day at the
park included a garden-party, arranged, as Mrs. Woolcock murderously
expressed it, “to kill off all the neighbours!”

“I say, Miss Morven,” said Bertie Woolcock, greeting her and her father
on their very late arrival. “We are catching it hot now, though Ottinge
was nearly out at three o’clock; that chauffeur fellow of your aunts’
has made sixty runs for his side. I hope you sympathise with us--we
shall lose the match.”

“No, no indeed, Ottinge for ever!” she replied. “Where is the
chauffeur?” glancing round.

“Out in the field now.”

For some time she did not discover him, standing, a good way off,
bareheaded, and in well-fitting flannels. He looked every inch a
gentleman! What a contrast to poor Bertie, who seemed, in comparison, a
great slouching yokel.

“He’s a good-looking chap, isn’t he?” said the Rector, with the
complacency of a man who is alluding to one of his own parishioners.

“Yes,” admitted young Woolcock in a grudging tone, “I suppose he is--a
ladies’ beauty! One hears such a lot of sultry stories, in these days,
about women being mashed on their chauffeurs, and runaway matches. For
my part, I call a chauffeur a rank idler--a chap who sits all day,
looks as solemn as an undertaker, and gets spoiled by the ladies.” Then
to Aurea, “Now, come over to the tent, Miss Morven, my mother has kept
a place for you.”

The match proved close and exciting. Westmere had a strong team, and
Aurea looked on with intense interest; the Park was in, and out in the
field were Dr. Boas, Hogben, Jones, Owen, and others. Time went on, the
last man was in, and making runs--the fate of the match hung in the
balance, when it was brought to an end by a capital catch; Owen had not
merely to run at top speed, but to stoop suddenly to catch the ball--a
fine effort--which was loudly and deservedly applauded.

“_He_ knows all about it,” remarked a man who was standing beside
Aurea. “He is a public school boy, I’ll bet my hat. What is he doing in
Ottinge? A chauffeur! Good Lord! Some young swell in disgrace with his
family.”

Miss Morven mentally endorsed this speech; but actually she shrugged
her shoulders.

Miss Susan beamed at the victory--Owen’s triumphs were hers. She felt
as proud of his cricket and his songs at the Parish Hall Concerts as if
he had been her own flesh and blood--other elderly spinsters have been
known to take young men into the recesses of their empty and innocent
hearts.

When the match was over, she kept her eye on the hero of the occasion,
and, seeing him getting into his coat and preparing to depart, she
beckoned eagerly, and then hurried towards him with outstretched hands.

“Congratulate you, Owen! I do feel so proud of you!”

“Thank you, miss. I’m going to fetch the car--it’s getting late.”

“Can you tell me the time?”

He pulled out his watch from his breast-pocket, and hastily touched--as
luck would have it--the wrong spring; the back flew open, and a small
photograph, no bigger than a finger-nail, fell upon the grass. In a
second Owen had put his foot upon it, swooped, and snatched it up.
Whether from stooping or otherwise, his colour was higher than usual,
as he boldly confronted Miss Susan, whose face had become unusually
grave--for, unless her eyes deceived her (and she had capital sight)
the treasure was a photograph of her niece Aurea, cut out of a group of
“First Aid” recently taken at the Rectory! She had recognised it in one
lightning glance!

However, the chauffeur met her eyes imperturbably, as he replaced
the little scrap, opened the face of his watch, and announced, with
staggering self-possession--

“Half-past six, Miss Susan.”

Miss Susan turned hastily away, her maiden mind in a violent commotion.
So Owen, the chauffeur, carried Aurea’s photograph about with him in
his watch! What did it mean? Well, of course, it could only mean one
thing, he was--and who could wonder--in love with the girl! Yes, and
the conviction gave Miss Susan a violent shock; she was scandalised,
she was pleased, and she was _not_ pleased--a peculiar and contrary
state of mind. She determined to keep the amazing revelation to
herself. Aurea must not be told on any account--it might put disturbing
ideas into her head--it would not be proper; and for one whole week
Miss Susan contained her mighty secret, which secret disagreed with her
both mentally and physically. She was short and snappy--a new phase of
her character--ate little, avoided the garden, and mainly subsisted on
tea. At the end of seven long days she found her endurance had reached
its limits, and, sitting with her back to the dim light of the Rectory
drawing-room, Susan Parrett solemnly divulged to her niece the tale of
her significant discovery.

Was she shocked? Did she turn red and white? No, indeed; Aurea received
the astonishing information with a peal of laughter.

“Oh, my dearest Susie, what a tale! Why, it was no more my photograph
than yours! Am I the only young woman that is known to Owen, the
chauffeur?”

This clever girl was so insistent and so amused that she actually
persuaded her deluded aunt that her eyes had deceived her, and she had
made a ridiculous and silly mistake--yet all the time the girl’s own
heart sang to the tune that the story was _true_.

This silent chauffeur was a gentleman who had been in the Service,
and he carried her picture inside his watch. These two facts were of
profound interest to Aurea Morven, and she turned them over in her
mind many, many times a day; the result being, that she held herself
as much as possible aloof from her aunts’ employé. When she did avail
herself of the car, it was never to sit, as heretofore, outside by the
driver, but within the stuffy interior. She shrank from coming into
contact with a man who was seldom, to tell the honest truth, out of
her thoughts. To garden-parties and tennis tournaments she now hailed
her father, instead of accompanying Susan; and together they drove in
the Rectory dog-cart--this arrangement entailing not a few excuses and
pleadings, that were not too firmly based on the truth--and the poor
forsaken car remained in the coach-house, or took Miss Parrett out for
a brief and agonising airing.

In consequence of all this, the car’s driver had more time than ever
on his hands! The summer days are long, and, when off duty, he saw
a good deal of the Ramsays. The captain seemed of late to have sunk
into a further depth of mental lethargy, and to have lost much of his
affectionate interest in his old schoolfellow, Owen Wynyard.

“I am giving up the dogs for the present,” announced Mrs. Ramsay one
morning at the kennels, as he brought back three leg-weary companions.
“I find I must not continue what absorbs so much of my time and carries
me from home--though you are so good, and have undertaken the three
worst characters--they’re just as wild as goats.”

“But I like them,” he declared; “they are capital company, and give me
an object for my tramps--these two fox-terriers and the little beagle
and I are great chums. We have done a fine round this morning--they
have had the time of their lives! Just look at them!” and she looked
and smiled at their bespattered legs, lolling tongues, and happy eyes.

“Oh, I am sure of that,” she replied; “for they are three town dogs!
However, I must send the poor fellows away, all the same. I want to be
with Jim altogether, and without his knowing it. You see, he will never
allow me to walk with him; and he always fancies he is being watched,
and looks behind him every now and then. All the same, I mean to follow
him.”

Wynyard listened in silence. Mrs. Ramsay was, in his opinion, little
short of a saint; for years and years she had devoted her own
individual life to this unhappy madman. It was for him she slaved
to increase their small income, trading in plants and cuttings, and
keeping other people’s dogs. With the money she earned she made Ivy
House homelike and comfortable. The captain’s food, drink, tobacco,
and surroundings were of a class that the exterior of the place did
not seem to warrant, and were accepted by him as a matter of course.
Nothing could induce him to believe that their income was less than a
thousand a year; he had no recollection of his money losses. But this
long-drawn-out effort and strain was beginning to tell on his wife.
There were many white strands in her thick black hair, many lines in
her face; she had grown thin and haggard, her beautiful Irish eyes
were sunken, and wore an expression of tragic anxiety. She alone knew
what she dreaded, and at last she put her fears into words--not to
old friends like the Parson, or Susan Parrett, but to this recent
acquaintance, this young Wynyard, who knew so much already.

“Tell me, Owen, don’t you think that Jim looks rather strange of late?”
she asked him, in a low voice.

“No--much as usual.”

“He sleeps so badly, and has no appetite, and seems horribly depressed.
Oh, I feel miserable about him!” and she buried her face in her thin
hands.

“I wish I could do something, Mrs. Ramsay. Would you like me to stop
here at night--you know you’ve only to say the word,” he urged, in a
boyish tone that was irresistible.

“Oh no, no, no; but it’s awfully good of you to offer. It’s not at
night, but when he is out by himself that is so trying. I do follow
as much as I dare. You see,” now lowering her voice, “once this mental
breakdown of his took the form of suicide”--and here her voice sank
to a whisper--“he tried to hang himself in Claringbold’s barn; but I
caught him just in time, and it never got out. That was years ago;
and afterwards he made a wonderful recovery. Now, it seems to me more
like a decay of will-power and memory, with occasional outbreaks of
violence--I can manage him then--but it’s the dying of the mind!” and
she gave a little sob.

“If I may speak plainly, Mrs. Ramsay, I really think you should get an
experienced man to look after him at once. I know nothing of mental
disease, but I’m sure it’s not right for you to be alone here with him,
and just two maids and old Mary.”

“You mean for me to get a keeper? No; I couldn’t do it; and think of
what people would suppose.”

Poor innocent lady! Did she imagine for a moment that all Ottinge did
not know for a fact that her husband was insane?

“You might let them suppose he had come to help with the dogs,” he
suggested, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Of course--of course--what a splendid idea!”

“And you will send for him to-morrow, won’t you? Or would you like me
to wire or write to-night? I know some one in London who would see
about this.”

(Leila would have been considerably astonished if her brother’s first
commission from Ottinge was to dispatch a keeper for a male lunatic!)

“I must consult Dr. Boas. Thank you very much. I won’t do anything in a
hurry.”

“Won’t you? Why not? I think you should see Dr. Boas at once.”

“Well, then, I will to-morrow. Jim complains of his head--he often
does, but now he says the pain is like a saw, and he can’t stand it.
Then he imagines he is back in the Service, and expecting to be warned
for parade or a court martial, and talks very strangely. Dr. Boas has
gone away to a funeral, and won’t be back till to-night, and then I
must confess Jim doesn’t like him; he likes no one but you, and some of
the dogs--and _me_, of course,” she added, with a sickly smile.

“Shall I come in this evening?”

“Oh, do; you _are_ a kind fellow! Even if he never speaks now, sure I
know he loves to see you sitting there. Ah, here he is, and I must go
and coax him to eat some dinner!”

To his visitor’s surprise, Captain Ramsay was unusually animated and
talkative that night, and mentioned many little details about his
father, and recalled certain daredevil deeds, acts of generosity, and
even nascent love-affairs.

“I say, Owen, you remember the pretty girl up at Simla--the dark-eyed
one you were so mad about--and how you swore you’d run away with her,
and marry her in spite of her father, the General, and the whole
family? Oh, of course I know--what a duffer I am! You eloped, tore down
the hill by special dâk, and were married at Saharanpore. Where is she
now?”

Wynyard made no reply. Captain Ramsay’s wandering memory had evidently
evoked a vision of his dark-eyed and remarkably pretty mother. She had
run away with the handsome Hussar officer, and had, in consequence,
been cast off by her relations.

“Dead?” inquired the other after a pause.

Wynyard nodded.

“Ah, well, we shall all be dead one day--some sooner--and some later,”
and he fell into one of his sudden silences.

“I think he is better!” whispered his wife to Wynyard, as they parted
at the hall door. “Didn’t he seem almost himself this evening? And he
took great notice of Topsy and Darkie, and made their dinner himself.”

Two days later, as the chauffeur was leaving Mrs. Hogben’s cottage
after his midday meal, preparatory to getting ready the car, Mrs.
Ramsay suddenly appeared at her gate and beckoned to him frantically.
She looked white and frightened.

“Jim went off this morning,” she began, “and hasn’t been home since. He
never did this before. Oh, I _ought_ to have taken your advice,” and
she wrung her hands. “I’ve been searching for him since eight o’clock.”

“Did he speak to any one before he left the house?” inquired Wynyard.

“No. Fanny saw him going out in a terrible hurry; he had on a pair of
white gloves, and said he would be late for parade.”

“Poor fellow!”

“And the stupid girl never said one word to me till she brought me my
hot water at eight o’clock.”

“I’m just off with the car, taking Miss Susan to a croquet tournament,
or I’d go and have a look round. What about the policeman?”

“The policeman! Why, he cannot walk! He weighs sixteen stone.”

“Well, anyway, if you don’t mind, I’ll send Tom Hogben and Jones; they
know the country, and will keep a shut mouth. I’ll just tell them now,”
and he hurried away.

Although Miss Susan had no money wherewith to buy diamonds, sables,
and motor cars, she contrived to extract a great deal of pleasure out
of her elderly spinster life. She enjoyed mild little tea-parties,
followed by bridge at sixpence a hundred--and received her partner’s
scoldings with disarming humility. Her one passion was croquet. “Miss
S. Parrett” was a notable player--her name appeared in print in
connection with local tournaments; her arm was steady, her aim was
deadly, and, not only this, she played the game with her head as well
as with her hands.

On the present occasion Miss Susan had lured her reluctant niece to a
meeting at Upstreet--a village about ten miles from Ottinge; in fact,
she made such a point of Aurea’s company, of Aurea’s support--whether
in success or failure--that the girl felt compelled to go--and, at
any rate, she took a sincere pride in Susan’s modest triumphs. The
tournament was prolonged till seven o’clock; Miss Susan was detained,
being in the Finals. Dusk was closing on the world when the two ladies,
with two prizes (salad bowl and a silver cigarette-case), took their
departure. The prize-winner, in exuberant spirits, uttering effusive
expressions of enjoyment and thanks, had talked herself into the car,
and there were so many after-thoughts and messages that even the
chauffeur became impatient with his dear Miss Susan; he was desperately
anxious to get home and hear the result of the search for Captain
Ramsay.

It was an unusually close evening--there was thunder in the air--and
the interior of the motor was stuffy even with the windows down on both
sides--and how they rattled! The old machine trundled along at its best
speed, as if inspired by the fear of Miss Parrett awaiting its arrival,
watch in hand. Its driver had another and more well-grounded dread in
his mind.

The ladies within discussed the recent party, the play, the prizes, and
the guests.

“The Wendovers were there; did you see them?” said Miss Susan--“Mrs.
Wendover and Gertrude. I thought they both looked very ill.”

“Yes, and I believe it was from hunger, Susan,” was her niece’s
surprising reply. “I never saw such a tea as they had--surreptitiously.
It’s shameful to watch, I know, but I was not playing, and happened to
be sitting near, and could not help myself. I felt so frightfully sorry
for them--I was inclined to cry!”

“My dear girl, surely you are not in earnest?”

“I only wish I wasn’t. Gertrude had a whole plate of sandwiches,
besides cakes; she took them quietly, when no one was looking, and
devoured them ravenously, and her mother pocketed several buns and
lumps of sugar.”

“But why? I don’t understand.”

“Because probably they have nothing to eat at home! Mrs. Lucas, the
parson’s wife, told me in confidence that they are almost penniless;
the little money they had has been lost in some bank that tempted
people with high interest and then went smash. The Wendovers cling to
the old cottage--it’s their own--but they have no servant; they do
their own washing and, very early in the morning, their own doorstep!
Everything is spick and span still. After dark they steal out and
collect firewood and apples, and even field turnips, and yet they hold
up their heads and ‘pretend.’ I heard Mrs. Wade pressing them to have
cake and tea--and they declined.”

“Have they no friends or relations?”

“I don’t know. Mrs. Lucas said she did not like to ask for their
confidence. She always has them to supper on Sundays, and sends them
eggs; but she is poor enough herself with eight children. She thinks
the Wendovers will break down now that the winter is coming, and yet
they won’t allow any one to guess that they are destitute.”

“Dear, dear, dear, how shocking! What _is_ to be done, Aurea?”

“I’ve just had my allowance, and I’ll post them a five-pound note
to-morrow anonymously, and I’ll get something later on from dad.”

“Yes, yes, yes, and I must see what I can do too. Poverty is cruel--a
terrible thing--what a trial of one’s character!”

“It is indeed, and so are riches sometimes. They seem to change
people’s dispositions--if they come in for a fortune.”

“That’s true; but I do hope, dear child, you are not thinking of your
poor Aunt Bella?”

“Aunt Bella was much nicer when she lived in the Red Cottage, dined at
one o’clock, and put a penny in the plate.”

“Oh, now, Aurea, I can’t let you say that; she is very proud of you,
and a dear, kind sister to me. Why, only last week she gave me a lovely
lace parasol, and when she writes to me it is always ‘My own darling
Susan.’”

Aurea was silent. She was thinking of darling Susan’s many
deprivations, humiliations, and hardships.

“We all have our foibles, have we not, Aurea, my child?”

“Oh, I know that, Susan, and I----”

Whatever Aurea was going to add was cut short by her aunt’s piercing
scream. From some thick bushes on the left bank, a tall figure had
shot out; there was a lightning rush, a shout from the chauffeur,
who jammed on the brake, then a violent swerve, an upheaval, and a
sickening, crunching sensation.

A man had deliberately flung himself in front of the car, which had
gone over him, then stopped abruptly, shuddering throughout its rickety
frame.

The driver sprang off and dragged from beneath the wheels a limp and
motionless body. Yes, his vague fears had been justified.

“It’s Captain Ramsay!” he called to Aurea, who had already hurled
herself into the road. “I’m afraid he is done for. Stay where you are.”

As he spoke, he raised a limp and bleeding figure in his arms, which he
carried to the hedgerow; next, he took off his coat and laid him upon
it, and ran and lit a motor lamp. All his actions were surprisingly
prompt and vigorous.

“Now, will you come over here, miss?” he called to Susan
authoritatively, but she was almost beside him. In a crisis, simple,
talkative Susan was another person, and could rise to the occasion.
“And you, Miss Morven, try and find some water--we passed a stream just
now; bring it in anything--your hat or--yes, the salad bowl! I’m afraid
it’s a bad business,” he continued, “and his head is all cut--and his
wrist--it’s an artery. Miss Susan, fetch a stick quickly, quickly, and
I’ll make a tourniquet.”

The chauffeur seemed to have taken complete command of the
situation; he ordered the ladies hither and thither, he bandaged up
Captain Ramsay’s head with Aurea’s white scarf--which he tore into
strips--whilst Aurea stood by, eager to help, but trembling like an
aspen. She had never heard a man moan, or witnessed such a scene.

“I think I’ve fixed him up just for the moment,” said Owen, rising,
“and now I’ll fetch the doctor. You two ladies won’t mind stopping,
will you?”

“Certainly not! What do you think we are made of?” rejoined Miss Susan.
“Here,”--now sinking down--“place his head in my lap, and just go as
hard as ever you can!”

“He is in a very bad way, I’m afraid, and I really don’t like leaving
you, but there’s no help for it.” Then, after sticking a flaring lamp
on the ground beside them, he climbed into his place and sped away.

In less than half an hour he had returned, accompanied by Dr. Boas;
they found the poor sufferer still alive and moaning, his head
supported by Miss Susan, and his lips bathed by her niece.

“I half expected this,” said the doctor, as he knelt beside Captain
Ramsay. “Internal injuries,” he announced, after a rapid examination,
“and fatal.”

“The stretcher and the parish nurse will be here presently,” said Owen;
and, hearing a familiar voice, Captain Ramsay slowly opened his eyes
and asked--

“Oh, it’s cold. Where am I? Where’s Katie?”

As he recognised Owen bending over him, he murmured--

“Wynyard, Wynyard--hold on--I’m coming!”

“You see he is off his head,” said Miss Susan, “poor fellow; he did not
know what he was doing.”

Then, as the chauffeur relieved her of the dying man’s weight, he
regained consciousness, and, again opening his eyes, he whispered
“_Wynyard!_” and passed away in the arms of Wynyard’s son.




CHAPTER XXI

BY THE SUNDIAL


A long time had elapsed since a tragedy or an inquest had taken place
in Ottinge; the last had occurred twenty years previously, when Joe
Watkins (a village name), being jealous, had thrown his wife down a
well, and, despite her prayers, entreaties, and screams, had left her
to drown, for which crime he had paid the extreme penalty of the law in
Brodfield Gaol.

A suicide was something entirely foreign to the character of the
community, and the topic was exhaustively debated in the Drum.
Joe Thunder gave it as _his_ opinion that the remains of Captain
Ramsay--speaking from recollection--would be buried with a stake at
a cross-roads--probably at Crampton, being nearest. The village was
stirred out of its normal lethargy and, secretly, rather proud of being
the scene of a sensation, and newspaper paragraphs.

The Parson and Miss Morven spent the night succeeding Captain Ramsay’s
death at Ivy House, and were anxious to carry his widow off to the
Rectory; but she preferred to remain in her own home until after the
funeral, and then leave Ottinge. All Mrs. Ramsay’s little world, gentle
and simple, had shown her their kindness and sympathy: the Rector
looked after business matters, Miss Susan had undertaken correspondence
(she enjoyed letter-writing), Wynyard took charge of the dogs, whilst
Aurea gave personal attendance and warm affection.

The inquest was conducted as quietly and as speedily as possible,
thanks to the good offices of Dr. Boas; the verdict returned was
“suicide whilst of unsound mind,” and the jury offered their sincere
condolences with the widow. At the funeral Ottinge was proud to note
a lord and two honourables appearing as mourners, and the remains of
Captain Ramsay received Christian interment in the churchyard; there
was no word of cross-roads--much less a stake!

Afterwards, Mrs. Ramsay’s brothers, who were guests at the Rectory,
took their departure, and it was generally known that their sister
would follow them to Ireland within a week. Her obstinate persistence
in for years clinging to a man who by rights should be in an asylum
had alienated her friends; but now that he was no more, there reigned
a great peace. The boarder dogs had been abruptly dispersed, and
Wynyard, who obtained special leave, personally conducted several
parties over the fields to Catsfield station, and wound up matters
out of doors. Aurea did the same within--but they rarely met. She was
surprised to discover the footing on which her aunts’ chauffeur stood
at Ivy House. Till now she knew little of their acquaintance; it was a
before-breakfast and after-dark affair.

It was also Wynyard’s task to collect and sort and pack the Captain’s
belongings, by his widow’s particular desire.

“I like to have you about,” she said. “Is it not wonderful how well we
have got to know one another, and how much we have in common, since I
opened the hall door to you, a stranger, that wet morning last April?
Jim was devoted to you, and you were so good to him--sitting here,
evening after evening, talking and listening and playing picquet with
that poor fellow. Oh, Owen, if you had known him as your father and
I knew him, you would understand why I, forsaking all my own people,
clung to him till the _end_!”

“Yes, you did that!” he answered, with emphasis.

“Only think of the tragedy of his life,” she resumed, in a broken
voice, “the last fifteen years, all through a branch knocking off his
sun topee and his determination to get first spear. Oh, what a little
thing to mean so much! The way of life.”

Wynyard, the handy man, packed up cases containing old Indian relics,
such as faded photographs, horns, bear skins, khaki uniforms, Sam Brown
belts, packets of tiger claws, and all sorts of rubbish dear to Mrs.
Ramsay. Among the collection was a photograph album, aged at least
thirty years, and considerably the worse for Indian rains and Ottinge
damp.

“I think this must be your father,” said Mrs. Ramsay, pointing to the
old-fashioned carte-de-visite of a handsome man in Hussar uniform, “and
this is your mother opposite,” indicating a pretty, dark-eyed girl
holding up a puppy. “You see, she was fond of dogs, like you and me! Do
you care to have them?” drawing them out as she spoke.

“Yes, thank you most awfully, I should. It’s funny that I should come
upon my people and hear so much of them in Ottinge of all the world! I
don’t remember either of them, for my mother died when I was two years
old, and my father was killed at polo--it killed her too--and then my
sister and I were sent home.”

“So you have a sister?”

“I have very much a sister,” and he laughed; “she has all the family
brains--and her own as well.”

“I will not allow that, Mr. Wynyard; it was marvellous how, with a few
hints from me, you threw yourself into a life before you were born.
Isn’t it strange that I am the only one in Ottinge who knows your real
name?”

“Except Miss Morven,” he corrected. “You know he recognised me, and
said ‘Wynyard.’”

“Yes, but no doubt she believes he was wandering. You don’t wish your
surname to be known here, do you?”

“No, my christian name does as well.”

“I must confess I wonder you remain! You are so young, and life here
is deadly dull for such as you, with all the years and energies before
you,” and she looked at him interrogatively. It was dusk; she was
sitting in the deep drawing-room window, her slim figure silhouetted
against the fading light. Wynyard had been nailing down some cases, and
came and stood, hammer in hand, in the middle of the room. She knew
perfectly well why he remained in the sleepy village; it was because
Aurea Morven had glorified Ottinge.

“I believe I know your secret,” she remarked suddenly. He made no
reply. Mrs. Ramsay was no doubt thinking of Aurea, whilst he was
dwelling on the bargain with his uncle. Should he tell her? They had
of late been drawn so much to one another--she already knew half
his story, and had just given him the photographs of his father and
mother--her husband and his father had been like brothers--yes--he
would!

And there in the semi-dusk, leaning his hands on the back of a chair,
in as few words as possible, he related his tale, and how he had made a
solemn compact for two years, which compact he was bound to keep to the
letter and the bitter end.

“And it’s a good deal more bitter than I expected,” he concluded.

Listening with tightly folded hands, the slim figure in black accorded
him her entire sympathy. Now she was in possession of all his
confidence, and such was his unhappy plight, he was desperately in love
with a girl, and could neither speak nor show a sign--nor make his real
position known. What an amazing state of affairs! Did Aurea recognise
in Wynyard a silent worshipper? And was it not true that love and smoke
cannot be concealed?

“You will keep this to yourself, I know,” he said. “I’m not _sure_ that
I’m within my right in telling you, but somehow I had to.”

“You may be certain I shall never breathe it till you give me
permission,” she answered, drawing a long breath; “but what an
extraordinary man your uncle must be!”

“Yes, he is eccentric; but I believe he is right--this sort of
apprenticeship will do me a jolly lot of good. I know more of the
people now I’m one of them. Many a thing I’ve learnt here, that I’d
never have had a glimpse of, and I must tell you fair and square that I
gave Uncle Dick a lot of bother in the way of my debts.”

“Hereditary extravagance--your father--a younger son--drove a
four-in-hand, you know. Ah, here comes Aurea,” as the little gate
swung. “I half promised to go over there this evening.”

“Then good-bye, I’m off; I’ll finish the packing to-morrow,” and he
escaped through the back garden.

It was abundantly evident that of late Miss Morven avoided him, and he
had not spoken to her since the tragic occasion when they both hung
over a dying man on the high road to Upstreet.

More than six months had gone by since he had come to Ottinge;
sometimes it seemed an endless time, at others as but yesterday. One
thing was clear and stationary in his mind--his living among working
people had opened the eyes of a future landowner, given him a better
estimate of his responsibilities, and a sympathy and understanding that
nothing could obliterate.

At last Ivy House was closed; the blinds were drawn down, the key hung
in Mrs. Hogben’s bedroom, and the memory of the recent catastrophe had
become a little dim. It was three weeks since the Captain had killed
himself, and other events had begun to press upon public attention.
Since the tragedy Aurea had absolutely refused to drive in the motor,
to her Aunt Bella’s great annoyance; she was painfully anxious to have
it in daily use, for she feared that being the cause of a man’s death
might depreciate the car’s value! And when the girl announced she would
never get into it again, she was furious, and her face assumed a dull
red shade as she asked--

“Do you mean to tell me that, if there’s an accident to a carriage, or
if a cart runs over somebody, that cart is never to be used? How could
people get on?” she demanded. “I never heard of such affected nonsense.
And now I suppose you will go and give my nice car a bad name? As if it
could help the madman throwing himself under it!”

“I’ll say nothing about it, Aunt Bella, you know that perfectly well;
but if you had been in the motor yourself and felt the _crunch_, I
don’t think you would have cared ever to drive in it again.”

“Rubbish--you are hysterical! You should get Dr. Boas to give you a
tonic and go away somewhere for a change; only you are too much away
from your father as it is--every one says so. It was remarked to me
only the other day.”

“It is funny, Aunt Bella, how many people make nasty remarks about me
to you. Do you suppose that they think you like hearing them?” and she
laughed, and before Miss Parrett could find her breath or an answer had
left her.

It was a fact that Miss Parrett cultivated a cordon of idle, elderly
women, who came to tea or lunch or to spend the day, who were aware
that Miss Parrett had “a good deal in her power to bestow” (not only
in the form of fruit and vegetables), and who knew that, even more
than talking of herself and her wonderful successes in her youth, her
many broken-hearted lovers, she liked to discuss her pretty, popular
niece and to listen to their hostile criticisms. Miss Parrett was
openly jealous of this girl’s ascendancy in Ottinge, where _she_ was
the great lady. After all, Aurea was only a sort of half-niece, and she
could leave her money where she liked. This notification was promptly
repeated, and received with unqualified and respectful approval, by the
two Miss Dabbs and Mrs. Forbes Cattermole and her freckled daughters.
On these occasions, when Aurea was the topic, and her appearance,
manners, and customs were figuratively placed under the microscope, and
then exhaustively debated, the entrance of Miss Susan was invariably
followed by an abrupt and awkward silence.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a lovely afternoon--Saturday--the third day of September, and
the chauffeur was working in the Manor garden close by the sundial,
repairing some of the rose pergolas with nails and wire. Suddenly, to
his delight, he beheld Miss Morven coming through the yew arch nearest
to the house--a slim white figure in a dark green frame--with her hat
over her arm, and accompanied by Joss, who, in exuberant joy, was
leaping his own height from the ground.

As the young lady sauntered slowly up the broad walk, she stopped every
now and then to pick flowers from the luxuriant borders on either hand.
As these were white, she was evidently gathering them for the church.
He watched, surreptitiously, her wonderfully supple figure, her lithe
grace, as she stooped and stretched hither and thither. Aurea had grown
thin, her lovely colour had certainly faded, no doubt she had not yet
recovered from the shock of Captain Ramsay’s horribly sudden death.

By and by his vicinity was discovered to her by Joss, who had been
dashing about among the cabbages in chase of an historic pheasant, and
now accorded him a rapturous acknowledgment. He had just finished his
task, and stepped out into the walk; as the young lady approached he
touched his cap, and she halted for a moment and said, with obvious
hesitation--

“A lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, miss;” and then he ventured to add, “You never come out in the
car now?”

“No,” she answered, “never again; it’s a juggernaut!”

“I would not say that!” he protested. “What happened could not have
been helped; of course, it’s an old machine and out of date”--(he was
thinking of the 60 h.p. Napier at Westmere)--“and requires a lot of
humouring to get her to run at all, and if put to too high a pressure
might go to pieces--still----”

But here Miss Morven interrupted with a hasty gesture, and, laying her
flowers upon the sundial, turned to face him fully, and said--

“I’m rather surprised”--she paused for a moment, and then
resumed--“that when you saw what a dull sort of place this was, and
what a wretched old car you had to drive, you stayed on. You really
have no proper job; my aunt’s motoring is absurd. I cannot imagine why
you remain here.”

“Can you not, miss?” he answered, in a low voice, his gaze fixed on
the sundial and its motto, “Time Trieth All.” Suddenly raising his
eyes, he met hers steadily--for one unguarded moment the truth was in
his face!--and there was a thrill of passion in his voice as he added,
“Then, in that case, I am afraid it would be impossible for me to tell
you.”

For as long as one could count ten, there was an expressive silence,
only broken by the crashing of cabbage leaves, the notes of wood
pigeons, the boom of a passing bee.

Miss Morven remained motionless, but the trembling of her lip indicated
the tension of her self-control, and a wave of sudden colour invaded
her cheeks, and raced up into her wavy dark hair. This tell-tale blush
betrayed that she knew as well as the chauffeur, his sole reason for
remaining in Ottinge.

Then without a word she lifted the flowers, and, holding herself
unusually erect, the slim white figure proceeded down the walk that led
towards the old bowling-green.

Wynyard, as he stood watching her, asked himself, Was she also passing
out of his life? In another moment a yew hedge had hid her from his
eyes.

“I believe I’ve done it now!” he muttered. “I could not help it; she
knows, and is ready to kill me for my presumption! She will tell her
aunts, and I shall get the sack.”

He picked up a small blossom that Aurea had dropped on the sundial,
opened his watch, and carefully placed the little flower along with the
little photograph. When people are in love, what irrational follies
tempt them!




CHAPTER XXII

AUREA’S REFLECTIONS


But Aurea had no intention of “telling her aunts”; on the contrary, she
crossed the old bowling-green in order to avoid the Manor, and returned
home across the meadows that led by Claringbold’s Farm. In the dim hall
of the Rectory she encountered Norris--who, of an afternoon, often
haunted that vicinity--and said, as she handed her the flowers--

“Will you please fill the church vases? I’ve rather a headache from the
sun.”

The girl really did feel considerably dazed and bewildered, and passed
into the drawing-room, where she ruthlessly dislodged Mac from her
own particular pet chair. Mac vacated the seat with an air of injured
deliberation, found another, and sighed as heavily as if he were a
human being.

The time had come for thinking things out, and his mistress, having
seated herself, prepared to hold a court of inquiry on Aurea Morven.
One would suppose that she really had had a sunstroke like poor Captain
Ramsay! What mad impulse had urged her to question the chauffeur? At
the moment, she seemed to be listening to another personality speaking
by her lips. She felt a fluttering in her throat as she told herself
that this inscrutable young man was certainly in love with her. Behold,
she summoned her evidence! The photograph in the watch, the village
concert, when, after a rousing camp song, he had given, as an encore,
“I’ll sing thee songs of Araby”; she believed that the words were
addressed to herself, that the singer was pouring out his soul to
_her_. Possibly other girls shared her conviction, and had taken it
to their tender and palpitating hearts. When the last note had died
away in a ringing silence, Ottinge recognised a gentleman’s song and a
gentleman’s voice; after a pause of astonishment, there came a storm of
belated clapping and applause, and one or two timid female voices were
heard to cry out “Encore!” Some of the rustic audience grinned, and
declared that the words were no good, and damned nonsense, but the tune
was pretty enough; it was whistled in the street within the week.

Aurea summed up the photograph, the song, and the recent interview
by the sundial; the recollection of Owen’s voice, the look in his
extremely expressive grey eyes, set her heart beating. At the same time
she blamed herself for her amazing indiscretion. She, who had lately
avoided this gentleman chauffeur at choir practice, at the Manor, and
in the village--she, who knew that he treasured her photo, to actually
accost him in the garden, and demand what he meant by remaining in
Ottinge!

She felt her face burning, and no wonder! Well, at any rate the scene
had given her a shock--it had roused her to the knowledge of her own
feelings. It was with difficulty her maidenly reticence could put
the thing into thought, but it simply came to this--she had arrived,
at last, at the clear realisation that the daughter of the Rector of
Ottinge was in love with her aunts’ chauffeur! She whispered it to
herself and Mackenzie! How did it sound? How would it sound when talked
abroad, all over the parish and the county? What would people say?
When she thought of her Aunt Bella, she actually laughed aloud, and
Mackenzie, whom she had disturbed, raised his head and gave a low growl.

The chauffeur disturbed her--even now her pulses were racing; she
had never felt like this when in the company of Bertie Woolcock--no,
nor any of Aunt Morven’s young eligibles--but this man affected her
differently. Was it because she knew that he cared for her? Was it
because he was handsome, reserved, and self-reliant? Was it because
there was a mystery about him? No; it was simply because he was
himself; his voice was still speaking to her inward ear--“It would
be impossible for me to tell you!” Nevertheless, his eyes had been
eloquent, and, since the truth must be confessed, her heart was in a
wild whirl of happiness.

But why was he here in retreat? Surely not because he had done anything
disgraceful? Mrs. Ramsay liked him, and said he had been such a comfort
to her husband and herself; her father liked him, so did Susan, so did
the village; the dogs adored him--all but Mackenzie, an exception who
proved the rule!

Yes, she would give her heart to the chauffeur--as a matter of fact
it was not a case of giving; it was already bestowed--and keep the
knowledge to herself. No one should ever know--above all, _he_ should
not know. “Time Tries All.” His affairs might improve; some day he
might be able to throw off his chauffeur’s disguise and be himself;
meanwhile, she determined to avoid him, and never again enter the Manor
garden when there was a chance of meeting him; as to the green motor,
she had, as she assured him, done with it for ever.




CHAPTER XXIII

AN HOUR OF LIBERTY


The white 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 of grass, 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 no doubt
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 hideous possibility--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 were _pucka_ (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 these wages, 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--whilst _she_ trotted 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.




CHAPTER XXIV

ON YAMPTON HILL


It was not the horse, but the horse’s rider that was of consequence.
Where was she? What had happened? Spurred by an agony of apprehension,
Wynyard ran in the direction from which the runaway had appeared. In
five minutes’ time a speck, and then a figure came into sight, and this
presently resolved itself into Miss Morven--apparently unhurt. She,
too, had been running; her habit was splashed, she carried her hat in
her hand, her beautiful hair was becomingly loosened, and she had a
brilliant colour.

As Wynyard slowed down to a walk, she called to him--

“Have you seen my horse?”

“Yes; he must be in Ottinge by this time,” was the comforting rejoinder.

“Why didn’t you stop him?”

“It would have wasted a lot of time, and I wanted to see what had
happened to you.--I was afraid you’d had a spill.”

This was not the ever silent and respectful chauffeur to whom Miss
Morven had been hitherto accustomed; but no less a person than
Lieutenant Wynyard, late of the Red Hussars, who, in a cheery voice,
addressed her as an equal--as no doubt he was. So be it. She instantly
decided to abandon herself to the situation. Possibly he would now
confide something about himself, and how and why he came to be in her
aunts’ service. So, after a momentary hesitation, she replied--

“Oh no, I only got off to open a gate, and Rufus broke away. I suppose
I shall have to walk home!”

To this Wynyard secretly and joyfully agreed, but merely said--

“I see you are alone.”

“Yes; father and I rode over to Shrapton-le-Steeple; he wanted to see
Mr. Harnett, a literary friend, and Mr. Harnett had so much to show and
to say that he persuaded father to stay and dine, as there is a moon,
and I came home by the short-cut. I must be three miles from Ottinge?”
and she halted and deliberately looked about her.

“Yes,” he replied; “a good three miles.”

(Oh, a very good three miles, during which he would have Aurea’s
undivided company--what a piece of luck!)

For some little time the couple proceeded in silence--a sensitive
silence. During the interval since their last meeting, they had
accomplished a vast amount of very special thinking--many disturbing,
dominating, and dangerous thoughts had entered the young lady’s brain,
and she said to herself--

“I must keep perfectly composed, and if ever he intends to speak
freely, now--now is the time! To think of us two alone on Yampton
Hills, three miles away from home!”

Somehow those three miles held a thrilling prospect. Wynyard, for his
part, was longing to utter what was in his mind; here was his one grand
opportunity; and yet for several hundred yards a strange silence hung
between them, though the man was burning to speak and the girl was
longing to listen; meanwhile moments, precious as life itself, were
ebbing fast! At last the conversation began to trickle; the topics
were the choir, the boy scouts, old Thunder’s pig, and Mrs. Hogben’s
face-ache--a spent cartridge in the path introduced sport and shooting.

“I wonder why men are so keen on killing things?” said Aurea.

“I believe we inherit it from our ancestors, who had to kill wild
creatures or starve. I must say I like shooting.”

“Oh, do you!”--a blank pause--“the only sport I can imagine any
pleasure in, is hunting.”

“Do you hunt?”

“No; I only wish I did; but Aunt Bella thinks it so improper for a
woman to follow the hounds, and father could not escort me.”

“But parsons do hunt.”

“They did; a vicar of Ottinge actually kept hounds. Father says he only
left a dozen dusty books in the library, but a hundred dozen of sound
wine in the cellar.”

“Yes, those were the good old days!”

“I’m not so sure that they were superior to our own times. What do you
say?”

“That I hope you will always have a good time, Miss Morven.”

Miss Morven coloured and bit her lip, but resumed--

“If I only might hunt, I would be bound to have a good time.”

“Is your horse a clever jumper?”

“No; he either blunders on his head, or sits down.”

“Doesn’t sound very promising!” and they both laughed. “Anyway,
it’s a rotten, bad country,” said Wynyard, with a contemptuous wave
of his hand; “the uplands are full of rabbit holes, and as for the
lowlands--you’d want a boat! You should see Leicestershire--big fields
and sound turf.”

“Yes; but I’m afraid I can’t hunt in Leicestershire from Ottinge,” she
answered, with a smile; “and I have some hopes of sport this winter.
Mrs. Waring, who is tremendously keen, wants me to go out with her.”

“On a pillion?”

“No; her brother has a capital horse, not up to his weight, that
would just carry me. He is so anxious that I should try it; it jumps
beautifully.”

“And what does Miss Parrett say?”

“I think Mrs. Waring may talk her over, and Mr. Woolcock promises to
look after me.”

This information roused Wynyard’s ire, his face hardened, and his tone
was dry as he said--

“Woolcock is too heavy to hunt, except pounding along the road. He must
weigh seventeen stone!”

“Very likely; but he is going to do a cure before the season opens.”

“Why not a couple of hours with the garden roller, and save the donkey?”

Miss Morven took no notice of this impudent suggestion--merely flicked
her habit with her hunting crop, and he continued--

“Westmere is a fine old place.”

“Yes, isn’t it? The hall and galleries are real Tudor, and the park is
lovely.”

“How would you like to live there?”

“I?” and as she turned to him her air was lofty. “What a--a--an
extraordinary question!”

“Yes,” he replied, with hasty penitence; “please forgive me, it was
more than extraordinary, it was impertinent.”

“By the way (it was, after all, the girl who broke the ice), I must
ask you to excuse me for my inquisitive question the other day in the
garden.”

“You wanted to know why I hung on at Ottinge, with little or nothing
to do?” and he paused. “I think you do know, Miss Morven, in fact, I’m
sure you know. I’d be only too glad to speak out, but my hands and
tongue are tied. I’ve given a promise I’m bound to keep, and between
you and my absolute confidence, there stands at present an enormous
obstacle.”

“Oh!”

“I ought to tell you that I’m not what I seem.”

“Of course,” with a touch of impatience, “you are a gentleman by birth;
I’ve always known that.”

“Nor am I here in my own name--only my christian name; but I’ve never
done anything to disgrace it, I give you my word of honour.” As he came
to a halt and faced her, and the setting sun shone into his truthful
eyes and touched his crisp brown locks, the glow of the evening air
seemed to give added force to his personality. “I’ve played the
fool--the silly ass--and I’ve got to pay. How I wish I might talk to
you openly, and tell you all about myself!”

“I wish you might,” repeated the girl, and her voice shook; an
emotional tension had crept into the situation--her pulses beat wildly,
and her mind was in a tumult.

“You cannot imagine what it is to be in my fix,” he continued, speaking
with low, passionate intensity; “for months and months to love some one
with all my soul, and never be able to open my lips.”

“It must be trying,” she answered, now moving on, with her eyes on the
ground.

“And when I’m free, I may be too late!” he said gloomily.

“You may,” she assented; “for how could some one guess?”

“That’s it! That is what is the awful part of the whole thing; but,
look here, Miss Morven, let me state a case. Supposing you knew a
fellow in such a hole, and felt that you cared for him, and could trust
him and stick to him, as it were, blindly for a time; supposing he
were your social equal, and had a clean record, and that you knew he
worshipped your very shadow--would”--and here he looked straight into
her face--“_you_ wait?” To this question, impetuously delivered, there
followed a silence.

“This is a sort of problem, isn’t it?” she faltered at last, “like the
Hard Cases in Vanity Fair?”

“No, by Jove, part of it is God’s truth! but I’m only talking like an
idiot. Of course no girl that ever was born could do it.”

“I’m not so sure,” she murmured, with her eyes on the ground, her heart
beating in hurried thumps.

“Miss Morven--Aurea,” he went on, now moved out of all discretion, and
casting self-control to the winds, “you are the only girl I’ve ever
cared for in all my life. I fell in love with you the first moment I
ever saw you, when you danced with Mackenzie in the Manor drawing-room.
This meeting to-day has been the one good turn luck has done me in
three years--and I seize upon it perhaps unlawfully; perhaps it’s not
just cricket, my talking to you in this way, but it’s my only chance,
so I snatch it, for I may never see you alone again--and all is fair in
love and war.”

At this moment he caught sight of a stout figure, far below, labouring
up the winding lane; it was Miss Morven’s maid, Norris. He recognised
her bright blue gown. Oh, the precious moments were numbered, and it
was now--or never!

“What do you say?” he demanded, coming to a standstill.

“But what can I say?” she rejoined, lifting her startled eyes to his.
“I don’t know anything about you. You cannot even tell me your name.”
(Naturally she did not mention that it was already known to her.) “It’s
all rather bewildering, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s simply crazy,” he admitted; “here am I, your aunts’
chauffeur, receiving weekly wages, living like a working man, telling
you, with the most audacious and astounding impertinence, that I’ve
been in love with you for months. You know that I’m of your own class,
but who I am, or where I come from, I refuse to disclose. No wonder you
feel dazed.” They were now within sight of the village and of Norris.
“Look here, Miss Morven,” he continued, and his voice was a little
hoarse, “I see your maid coming, and my priceless, precious time is
running out. Let me ask you one question; supposing I were not Owen,
the chauffeur, but had fair prospects, good friends, and say a thousand
a year to start with--would you--marry me?”

Aurea knew perfectly well that she would marry him if he had only a few
hundreds a year, no prospects, and no friends; but she took refuge in
that nice, useful, and evasive word “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps”--he stooped and kissed her gloved hand--“perhaps--will keep
me going! Even if I don’t see you, I shall _live_ on that one little
word for the next eighteen months. I don’t suppose I shall have another
opportunity of speaking to you.”

Here he was interrupted by Norris, who suddenly appeared round a bend
in the lane, puffing like a grampus, her hat on the back of her head,
and her face crimson from exertion.

“Oh, Miss Aurea!” she screamed, as she halted and held her fat sides,
“such a cruel fright as you give me--and the three men gone by the
road looking to find your corpse! and I ran this way, after your horse
come home all loose and wild. Are you hurt?”

“No; he only broke away when I was opening a gate, and I had to walk,”
replied the young lady with wonderful composure.

Norris threw a sharp glance at the chauffeur.

“And couldn’t _he_ have helped you? What was he about?”

“I’m afraid, like yourself, I was looking for Miss Morven,” he replied.

Norris turned from him with a sniff of disparagement, and, addressing
herself to her mistress, said--

“And where’s the Rector?”

“He is dining with Mr. Harnett.”

“Tut, tut, tut! And he will stay half the night talking books, and
there are a brace of grouse for dinner--kept to the hour--and all he
will get at Harnett’s will be green vegetables, like a goat--he’s a
sexagenarian!”

At this Aurea laughed and the chauffeur smiled; he was now walking
alongside of Miss Aurea, as much at his ease as if he were a gentleman!
Norris turned on him abruptly, and said--

“Look here, young man, you’d better be getting on--it’s your
supper-time, and Mother Hogben won’t keep it hot for you.”

“It’s very good of you to think of my supper,” he replied, with a touch
of hauteur; “but I’m not in any hurry.”

He spoke to her as her superior; his was the voice and air of the
ruling and upper class, and Norris’ dislike to the insolent young
ne’er-do-well suddenly flared into active hatred. Meanwhile, he walked
with them to the very end of the lane, and opened the side gate for
Miss Morven and herself; and as he held it, he took off his cap to Miss
Aurea and said--

“Good-night--miss.”

As mistress and maid crossed the lawn, the latter burst out--

“I can’t abide that young fellow, with his fine manners and his taking
off his cap like a lord! Miss Aurea dear, I’m thinking the Rector would
not be too well pleased to see you in the lanes a-walking out like any
village girl along of your aunts’ chauffeur.”

“Norris, how dare you speak to me in such a way!” cried Aurea
passionately. And yet, why be furious? She _had_ been “a-walking out”
precisely like any other country girl.

“Well, well, well, dearie, don’t be angry. I’m only giving you a hint
for your good, and I know you are a real lady, as proud as proud, and
as high-minded as a queen or an angel. Still and all, I’m mighty glad
that none of our _talkers_ happened to come across you!”




CHAPTER XXV

LADY KESTERS AT THE DRUM


Jane Norris, who had been Aurea’s nurse, was now her maid and
housekeeper, a most efficient individual in both capacities. Jane was
a woman of fifty, with a round, fat face, a complacent double chin, a
comfortable figure, and a quantity of ginger-coloured hair--of which
she was unreasonably vain. Jane had also a pair of prominent brown eyes
(which gave the impression of watchfulness), a sharp tongue, a very
sincere affection for her child, and an insatiable appetite for gossip.
She was left in sole charge of the Rector and Rectory when Aurea was
absent, and considered herself a person of paramount importance in the
community, not only on account of her position at the Rectory, but
also for being the happy possessor of a real fur coat, a gold watch,
and, last, but by no means least, considerable savings. Her circle was
naturally contracted and select; her intimates, the village dressmaker,
Miss Poult--who had many clients in the neighbourhood--Mrs. Frickett,
of the Drum; and Mrs. Gill, the schoolmistress. (Mrs. Hogben, who took
in washing, needless to say, was not in her set.) Miss Norris had a
_flair_ for uncloaking scandals, and was a veritable Captain Cook in
the way of making marvellous and unsuspected discoveries. She had
always been particularly anxious to explore the chauffeur’s past and
to learn what she called the “geography” of this young man. Hitherto
the young man had defeated her efforts, and baffled her most insidious
inquiries. He did not drink or talk or give himself away; he did not
carry on with girls, or encourage them. Oh, it was an old head on young
shoulders, and there was something about him that was not fair and
square--and _she_ was bound to know it!

Miss Norris had been occasionally disturbed by a vague apprehension
(resembling some persistent and irritating insect) that her mistress
was interested in this good-looking stranger, but she thrust the idea
angrily aside. Miss Aurea was not like those bold, chattering minxes
who were always throwing themselves in his way! She was really ashamed
of herself, and her wicked mind. Of course, Miss Aurea would make a
grand match, and marry young Woolcock--who was just crazy about her,
as all the world knew--and _she_ would go with her as maid to Westmere
Park. But the vision of her young lady and the chauffeur talking to her
so earnestly in the hill lane had excited her fears, and she resolved
to give Miss Aurea something to think of, and put her from speaking to
the upsetting, impudent fellow--who got more notice and made more talk
in Ottinge than the Rector himself!

Aurea, who had been accustomed to Norris ever since the days of socks
and strapped shoes, regarded her as a friend, and even suffered her to
gossip (mildly) as she dressed her hair, for she said to herself--

“The poor thing has no one else to talk to all day long”--Simple
Aurea!--“being set in authority over the other servants, and must have
some safety-valve.”

The night after her walk with Wynyard, Aurea slept but little; she was
thinking, and wondering, and happy. As she dressed, she was unusually
abstracted, and when Norris began her _coiffure_, she did not as usual
read the Psalms for the day, but sat with crossed hands in a trance of
meditation, whilst her maid brushed her soft and lustrous locks. After
twice clearing her throat with energetic significance, Norris began--

“So Mrs. Ramsay is letting the house for six months, I hear?”

“Yes,” was the languid reply.

“To a sort of county inspector; the chauffeur fellow showed him
in--_he_ has a finger in every one’s pie.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Norris.”

“Well, anyway, he did a lot for Mrs. Ramsay,” she answered, with
significance. “He was in and out at all hours--some think he is
good-looking--and ladies like him.”

“What ladies?”

“Well, now, Miss Aurea, you know I don’t intend any harm, but the talk
is that your aunt, Miss Susan, makes too great a pet of him. Why,
half his day he’s helping her in the garden or potting plants in the
greenhouse; and she lends him books, and talks and makes a fuss of him,
just as if he were in her own station.”

Norris’ speech was so rapid, such a cataract of words, that her young
mistress had not been able to interrupt; at last she broke in--

“How wicked of people!” endeavouring to wrench her hair away. “Poor
Aunt Susan--so good, unselfish, and kind--not even spared! Oh, it’s
too abominable! I’m ashamed of you, Norrie; how can you listen to such
things?”

“Indeed, Miss Aurea, I said just what you said, and that Miss Susan
was too old; but they say there is no fool like an old one--and some
folk _will_ gossip. And there was Mrs. Lambert, who married a boy that
was at school with her own son. You know there’s not much to talk of
here--now the Ramsays are gone. As for the young man, as I told you
to-night, _I_ never held a good opinion of him; he’s too secret and too
off-hand to please _me_. He goes out of a night for exercise, so he
says, walking the country till daybreak; but that’s just a blind. Who
is he with?--tell me that?”

Aurea remembered, with a sudden stinging pang, how she and her father
had overtaken him one evening escorting Dilly Topham. Dilly had been
crying, and she was holding his hand!

“Why, I saw him myself in the theatre at Brodfield,” resumed Norris,
“and he had a young woman with him--so he had.”

“And why not?” bravely demanded Aurea, but her lips were white.

“The two were in a box, and he sat back--but _I_ knew him--and
afterwards they walked together to the Coach and Horses Hotel, the best
in Brodfield. She was tall and slim, and wore a long coat and black
lace scarf over her head--I call it very bold in the public street.”

“One of his friends,” explained Aurea, with a stoical indifference her
heart belied; and to cut short any further disclosures, she released
herself from her handmaiden’s clutches and knelt down to say her
prayers.

By a disagreeable and curious coincidence, Miss Morven received that
same evening ample confirmation of Norris’ arraignment!

Lady Kesters had decided to pay her brother another visit, and wrote to
announce that, as she and Martin were within fifty miles, she would
fly down to see him for a few hours.

  “I’ll come to Brodfield by train and motor over. Don’t breathe a word
  to the Parretts. I can put up at the Drum and meet you there. I’ve
  ever so much to say and hear; your letters are miserable, and I’ve
  not seen you for more than two months. Martin is off to America in
  October--he has to look after some business--and I am going with him,
  as I want to see the country, but I shudder to think of the crossing.
  Uncle Dick is at Carlsbad. If you come over to the churchyard about
  six to-morrow, I shall be there. I’ll hire a car for the day and get
  back to Brodfield for the night, and rush to Rothes next morning with
  the milk; if you will make an appointment, I can meet you, and go for
  a stroll and a talk.”

A smart Napier and a motor-veiled lady were not now a startling novelty
in Ottinge--it was the highway to many places; but the 40 h.p. motor
and lady who put up at the Drum was a refreshing novelty--and a novelty
invested in mystery.

The Drum jutted out obtrusively; the front faced down the road towards
the Manor, and one side was parallel to the street, and whoever entered
or left was well in evidence. Lady Kesters asked for dinner and a
sitting-room, as if such were a matter of course! The sole sitting-room
was just across the passage from the bar and overlooked the street. It
was oak-panelled, very low, the walls were decorated with cheap prints
and faded photographs of cricket groups, there was a round table, three
or four chairs, and an overpowering atmosphere of stale beer.

“Oh, let me see--I’ll have some tea and roast chicken,” announced the
traveller.

“Chicken, ma’am?” repeated Mrs. Frickett, and her tone was dubious. “I
don’t know as I can run to that. The hens is roosting now.”

“Oh, well,”--impatiently--“bacon and eggs. I’ll go and take a turn
about the village.”

With her veil drawn over her face, Lady Kesters walked out, went
slowly up to the church, and critically inspected the Parsonage. Then,
just inside the churchyard, she discovered her brother sitting on a
tombstone. As he sprang to meet her, she exclaimed--

“Are you smiling at Grief?”

“Hullo, Sis, this is most awfully good of you! How are you? Very fit?”

“Yes. Do come out of this horribly dismal rendezvous, and let us go
down one of the lanes, and talk.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“No, only hungry. I’ve ordered a meal at the Drum. I’m tired of
sitting in a train or motor, and glad of a walk. Well, Owen, so far so
good--six months are gone--hurrah!”

“Yes, thank goodness, but it’s been a pretty stiff job.”

“An uphill business, and terribly dull! Again I repeat, would you like
to move? You could so easily better yourself.”

“No, I stop on till the car breaks up.”

Lady Kesters raised her eyebrows.

“Well, I can only hope that blest epoch will be _soon_! I met Miss
Susan, you know, and the crafty old thing was fishing to find out who
you are? She has her suspicions, but I gave her no assistance. The
niece was with her--Miss Aurea----” She paused expressively, then went
on, “Owen--she’s a remarkably pretty girl.”

He nodded.

“Yes, I understand your reason for remaining in Ottinge; it is
beautiful--simplicity itself.” She looked at her brother attentively.
“Are you making love to her?”

“I--her aunts’ chauffeur?”

“Nonsense! _Are_ you in love with her?” she persisted. “Come, tell the
truth, my dear boy. Why should you not take _me_ into your confidence?
Are you?”

“Well--I am.”

“And she?”

“Don’t I tell you that I’m only her aunts’ chauffeur, and my tongue is
tied? All the same, Sis--it’s beastly hard lines.”

“Then, Owen, you really ought to go away; you’ll soon forget her and
Ottinge. I’ll find you another opening at once.”

“No, I won’t stir yet,” he answered doggedly.

“You are wrong, and on your head be it! I wish you could come out to
America with us; but foreign countries are barred.”

“Why are you and Martin off there?” artfully changing the subject.

“Partly business--chiefly, indeed. He has not been well, and I can’t
allow him to go alone; but, anyway, I’m looking forward to the trip.
Tell me, how are you off for money?”

“All right; I fare sumptuously on a pound a week and washing extra.”

“I suppose you live on bacon? That’s to be _my_ dinner.”

“Bacon--eggs--fowl--steak. Mrs. Hogben is a mother to me, and a real
good sort.”

“I must say I think you look rather thin, Owen.”

“I’m glad of it; I’m as fit as a fiddle, and made sixty runs last week
for Ottinge. They little dream that I was in the Eton Eleven! Hullo!
here are some people coming. I say--what a bore!”

No less than two couples now approached arm in arm; as they passed,
they stared hard, and even halted to look back.

“What _will_ they think, Owen?” and she laughed gaily.

“I don’t care a blow what they think!” he answered recklessly; “but all
the same you’d better return to the Drum alone.”

“Well, mind you come in this evening--I start at nine; you can pretend
my chauffeur is your pal--pretend anything!”

“Oh, I’m good enough at _pretending_; it’s now my second nature! Joking
apart, you ought to be going back to the inn, and getting something to
eat.”




CHAPTER XXVI

THE OBSTACLE


At seven o’clock Wynyard went boldly to the Drum and inquired for the
lady who was stopping there.

Mrs. Frickett stared at him with a stony expression in her dull grey
eyes. She had heard of his airs and his impudence from Norris.

“Will she see you?” she asked, and her tone was aggressively insolent.

“Oh yes,” was the ready answer; “it’s business.”

“Oh, if it’s business----” and she gave an incredulous sniff and,
flinging open the parlour door, ushered him into the presence of his
sister.

Lady Kesters had removed her cap and motor coat, and was seated at
the table in a careless attitude, leaning her head on her hand and
smoking a cigarette. The door was exactly opposite to the taproom, and
the assembled crowd enjoyed a rare and unexpected spectacle. A woman
smoking--ay, and looking as if she were well used to it and enjoying
herself--a lady, too--there was a string of pearls round her throat,
and the hand that supported her dark head was ablaze with diamonds.
Ottinge had heard and read that females were taking to tobacco, and
here was the actual demonstration before their gloating eyes. A fine,
handsome young madam, too, with a car in the yard--ay, and a friend to
visit her! They craned over to catch a glimpse of the figure ushered
in by Mrs. Frickett. The man’s back and shoulders had a familiar look.
Why, if it wasn’t Owen, Miss Parrett’s chauffeur! The immediate result
of this astounding discovery was a deadly and expressive silence.

Since Wynyard had parted with his sister he had made up his mind to
tell her all about Aurea. He longed to share his secret with some one,
and who could be better than Leila? She would give him her sympathy
and--what was more--a helping hand; if any one could unravel a hopeless
tangle, it was she. After a little commonplace talk, in a few abrupt
sentences he commenced to state his case.

“Ah!” she exclaimed as he paused, and she dabbed the end of her
cigarette on the old oak table, “so it’s all coming out now! You show
your good sense, Owen, in confiding in _me_--two heads are better than
one. I’ve seen the young lady; she is distractingly pretty--and I think
I approve.”

“Think!” The words were a text upon which her brother delivered to his
astounded listener an address of such emotional eloquence, that she sat
and stared in bewildered silence.

As he spoke, he strode about the room, carried away by his adorable
subject--Aurea’s beauty, her cleverness, her unselfishness, her simple
and single-hearted disposition, her good influence in Ottinge, her
delicious voice, and her entrancing smile. Oh, it was a wonderful
relief to share with another the raptures so long bottled up in his own
breast!

In the middle of his discourse, the door, which was flung open to
admit “two lemonades,”--Owen had warned his sister against the deadly
Drum coffee,--revealed to a profoundly interested tap, young Owen, the
shover, “a-walkin’ and a-talkin’ and a-carryin’ on like old Billy, and
in such a takin’ as never was seen.”

“She’s his sweetheart, ’tis sure!” suggested one sightseer.

“Nay, more likely his missus,” argued another; “she was a-laughin’ at
him!”

As the door closed Leila threw her cigarette into the grate with a
quick, decided gesture, and, leaning both elbows on the table, said, as
she looked up at her brother--

“It’s an extraordinary entanglement, my dear boy. You are in love--for
the first and only time in your life. Of course I can believe as much
of that as I like!”

“You can!” His voice was sharp and combative.

“In love with an angel. I may tell you that she really is a
fellow-creature! You think she likes you, but for one solid year and
a half you may not impart to her who you are, or where you come from,
or even your name--I mean your surname. You are at liberty to inform
her that you are ‘Owen St. John Willoughby FitzGibbon’--a nice long
string!--but must never breathe the magic word ‘Wynyard.’”

“No, you know I can’t,” he answered irritably.

“You are her aunts’ servant now, though you will be, if you live, Sir
Owen Wynyard of Wynyard; but you may not give her the faintest hint, as
you must stick to your bargain with Uncle Dick and he to his with you.
Now, let me consider,” and she held up a finger: “if you speak, and
reveal your identity, and become engaged, you lose a fortune.”

“Yes,” he agreed, a trifle dryly.

“If you don’t speak, you run a great chance of losing the young lady!
Mr. Woolcock is on the spot, and as willing as Barkis. Westmere is
close by--an ever-enticing temptation--and he has the goodwill of the
girl’s relations.”

“Yes, that’s a true bill; it’s wonderful how you grasp things.”

“What grounds have you for supposing the girl would wait for eighteen
months in absolute ignorance of who you were? Have you ever spoken to
her, as her equal?”

“Yes, once,” and he described their walk two days previously. “I stated
a similar case; I made the most of my time, and asked her what _she_
would do under such circumstances.”

“My dear Owen,”--and she looked at him with an expression of wonder in
her eyes--“I am simply staggered at your presumption!”

“Yes, so was I; but, you see, it was my only chance, and I snatched it.”

“And what did she answer. That it was evident you were an uncertified
lunatic!”

“No; she said ‘Perhaps.’”

“‘Je m’en vais, chercher un grand peut-être,’ as some one said on his
death-bed.”

“Don’t talk French--or of death-beds, Sis.”

“No, I won’t. I see that your divinity is a clever, modern young woman,
who refuses to commit herself. Look here, Owen, I won’t tease you any
more; this situation is such that it even baffles the activity of _my_
clever and contriving mind! I’m afraid I can do nothing at present;
but when we return from America, I shall make a point of cultivating
General and Mrs. Morven, on account of the girl. I’ll cultivate the
girl for your sake, and ask her to stay in Mount Street. Possibly she
may open her heart to me, and tell me everything! I have a wonderful
knack of extracting similar confidences even from my housemaids! I
shall listen sympathetically, advise sagaciously, and urge her to stick
to you!”

“Yes, I know that once you take a thing in hand, Sis, it goes like an
express train; but you will be away for six months--six months is a
long time.”

“Time!”--springing to her feet--“and talking of time, I must be off.
Ring the bell, my dear boy, and order the car at once.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Morven had been dining at the Manor. She had endured a long,
leaden evening playing draughts with her Aunt Bella; she played so
carelessly that Bella had repeatedly huffed her, and eventually won
with six kings to the good! After their niece’s departure, the sisters
were for once unanimous in their opinion: they had never seen Aurea
looking so well, as that night.

“What a rose-blush complexion, what clear, glowing eyes!” said Susan,
with enthusiasm.

“Yes,” agreed Miss Parrett, who was putting away the draught-board,
“she’s got _my_ skin, and her mother’s eyes. I’ve often been asked if I
were painted!” she announced, with serene complacency.

Susan felt inclined to say, “And _were_ you?” but her courage failed
her. Bella could never see a joke! She had no recollection of Bella’s
beauty--Bella’s complexion, as long as she could remember it, had
been the colour of mutton fat--but Bella was twenty-five years her
senior--and no doubt her bloom had withered early.

“The girl looks to me--as if--as if----”

“Bertie Woolcock had proposed!” supplemented Bella. “Yes, I shouldn’t
wonder.”

“No--not that.”

“Then what?” snapped her sister. “As if--and you stop; it’s a dreadful
habit not to be able to finish a sentence--it shows a weak intellect.”

“Well, since you must have it, Bella--as if she were in love.”

“So she is--with young Woolcock.”

“Nonsense,” repeated Susan, with unusual decision.

“Susan, don’t you dare to say ‘nonsense’ when _I_ say a thing is so;
you forget yourself. Aurea will be married to Herbert Woolcock before
Christmas--that is pretty well settled. And now you may lock up the
silver; I am going to bed.”

       *       *       *       *       *

As Miss Morven was proceeding homewards, and, as usual, unattended (in
spite of her Aunt Bella’s repeated remonstrances), she passed the Drum,
and noticed a motor in waiting, and also a light in a conspicuous part
of the premises--the little, bulging, front sitting-room. Here two
figures were sharply outlined on the yellow blind. As Aurea looked, she
saw a man and woman standing face to face; the man put his hands on
the woman’s shoulders and stooped and kissed her. She recognised his
profile in that instant--it was the profile of Owen Wynyard!

Although brother and sister had taken leave of one another, when they
reached the car Wynyard looked up at the sky and said--

“It’s a splendid night; I believe I’ll go on with you to Brodfield, and
walk back.”

The motor overtook Miss Morven as she reached the Rectory gate; here
she stood for a moment in the shadow of the beech trees, and as the
car and its occupants swung into the full light of the last lamp (oil)
in Ottinge, she had a view of the back of the woman’s head--a woman
talking eagerly to her companion, who faced her in an easy attitude,
cigar in hand. The man was her aunts’ chauffeur. As the car glided by,
he laughed an involuntary, appreciative, and familiar laugh that spoke
of years of intimacy--a laugh that pierced the heart of its unseen
listener with the force and agony of a two-edged sword.

For a moment the girl felt stunned; then she began to experience the
shock of wounded pride, of insulted love, of intolerable humiliation.

So the dark-haired lady was “the Obstacle!” That impassioned
declaration on Yampton Hill had been--what? Mr. Wynyard was merely
experimenting on her credulity; he wished to discover how far he might
go, how much she would believe? A gay Hussar, who had got into such
trouble that he was compelled to hide his whereabouts and name, until
he could return to the world after a decent interval of obscurity and
repentance! Meanwhile, he played the mysterious adorer, and amused
himself with “a country heart,” _pour passer le temps_.

And yet--and yet--when she recalled his steadfast eyes, the tremulous
ardour of his bearing in the garden, and, on the hillside, he had
looked in desperate earnest.

“Yes,” jeered another voice, “and in deadly earnest in the Drum window!”

And she? She had actually believed that he was hopelessly in love; and
she, who had been ready to stand by him against all her kindred, who
had blushed and trembled before his eyes and voice, had kissed her own
glove where his lips had pressed it! As these memories raced through
her brain an awful sensation of sinking down into the solid earth
possessed her. Aurea groped blindly for the gate and rested her head
upon it. It seemed to her as if, under the shade of those beeches, a
something not of this world, some terrible and relentless force, had
fought and wrested from her, her unacknowledged hopes, and her happy
youth.

Half an hour later she toiled up the drive with dragging, unsteady
steps. Prayers were over when she entered the library--a white ghost of
herself, and, with a mumbled apology, she went over and bade her father
good-night, and touched his cheek with lips that were dry and feverish.
He, simple, blind man, absorbed in proofs, barely lifted his head, and
said--

“Good-night, my child, sleep well!”

And his child, evading Norris with a gesture of dismissal, hurried to
the seclusion of her own apartment, and locked the door.

Three days later, Miss Morven left home somewhat unexpectedly; but it
was conceded even by her Aunt Bella that the shock of Captain Ramsay’s
death had upset the girl. She wanted a change, and a lively place and
lively society would divert her mind.

Wynyard had not once seen her since their never-to-be-forgotten walk,
and the news of her departure came as a shock--although his outward
composure was admirable--when he was informed that Miss Morven had
left home, to be followed by her father. The Rector would return in
three weeks, but Ottinge was not likely to see his daughter for a
considerable time. Miss Davis had taken over the surplices, Miss Jones
the girls’ sewing-class, and Miss Norris the altar flowers.

Wynyard put artful and carefully guarded inquiries, respecting her
niece, to his friend, Miss Susan, who was never reticent, and talked as
long as she found a sympathetic and intelligent listener.

“Well, indeed, Owen, I must confess Miss Morven’s going was a great
surprise,” she volunteered, in a burst of confidence, as she swiftly
snipped off dead leaves. “I’d no idea of it till she came to me on
Wednesday, and asked me to help her pack, and take over some of her
parish accounts. She looked pale and not a bit like herself; though
she said she was all right, I didn’t believe her. It struck me she had
had some sort of shock, she looked as if she hadn’t slept, but she
wouldn’t see the doctor, and was quite vexed at the idea. Dr. Boas told
me it was really the reaction of the dreadful tragedy that she and I
witnessed. So I’m glad she’s gone, though I miss her terribly!”

And what was her loss to his? Wynyard had believed he was on the point
of establishing a firm if inarticulate understanding--at least he had
shown his colours, and she had said “Perhaps.” This morsel of comfort
was all that remained to him; and oh, the many, many things that he
could and should have said during that memorable walk! These unspoken
sentences tormented him with cruel persistency. Had he wasted the
opportunity of a lifetime?




CHAPTER XXVII

SCANDAL ABOUT MISS SUSAN


Before Aurea had departed--and her departure was, as we know, in the
nature of a flight--she had paid the necessary visit of ceremony to
her Aunt Bella, who imagined herself to be busy making plum jam, but
was really obstructing the operations and straining the forbearance
of the new cook to a dangerous limit. The old lady trotted into the
drawing-room with sticky outstretched fingers, and announced--

“Susan is out laying the croquet ground--the old bowling-green; you may
go and find her.”

“If you don’t mind sending for her, Aunt Bella.”

“Oh, I know you like giving your orders! Then ring the bell. Well, and
so you are off to-morrow?”

“Yes, father will come up later; he has a good deal of work in hand,
and he wants to go over to Hillminster once or twice.”

“I know; I’m lending him my car on Friday.”

“Aunt Bella, I do wish you’d sell it!” said Aurea, speaking on an
irrepressible impulse; “do get rid of it.”

“Rid of it! you silly, excitable girl, certainly not. I’m more likely
to get rid of the chauffeur; he does not know his place, and he does
other people’s jobs, too, in my time. He exercised Katie’s dogs, and
attended the Hanns’ sick pony, and, when the carrier lost his horse,
I believe he doctored it and probably killed it--and they sent round
for subscriptions for another, _I_ gave ten shillings--handsome, I call
it!--and what do you think I saw in the list afterwards? ‘J. O., One
Guinea.’ My own servant giving double--such unheard of impertinence!
But Susan has spoiled him; I blame _her_. She talks to him as if he
were an equal; I declare, if she were a girl, I’d be in a fine fright.”

Aurea maintained a pale silence.

“Yes; and Mrs. Riggs and others have remarked to me that they really
thought it was dangerous to have such a good-looking young man about
the place, though _I_ don’t think him good-looking--a conceited,
dressed-up puppy. Oh, here’s Susan. Susan,”--raising her voice--“you
see, Aurea sends for _you_ now!”

“And welcome! Now, my dear child, come along; I want to show you my--I
mean--the new croquet ground; it’s going to be splendid! Won’t you come
out and have a look at it?”

“No, thank you, Susan. It will be something to see when I come back.
Let me get your hat, and we will stroll up together to the Rectory.”

“Oh, very well, my dear; but I’d like you to see the croquet lawn. Owen
has made it. He really is worth half a dozen of Tom Hogben--and it’s as
level as a billiard-table.”

But nothing would induce Aurea to change her mind.

       *       *       *       *       *

Miss Susan accompanied her brother-in-law over to Hillminster, where
he was due at a Diocesan meeting; it was thirty miles off, and he
had suggested the train, but Miss Susan assured him, with eloquence,
that “it was ten times better to motor, and to go through nice,
out-of-the-way parts of the country, and see dear old villages and
churches, instead of kicking your heels in odd little waiting-rooms,
trying to catch one’s cross-country slow coach, and catching a cold
instead.” It happened that Mr. Morven had arranged to spend the night
with friends in the Cathedral Close, but Susan Parrett was bound to
be home before sunset; only on these conditions was she suffered to
undertake this unusually long expedition with the precious car.

“Yes, Bella, I’ll be back without fail,” she declared; “though I’d like
to stay for the three o’clock service in the Cathedral,” and she gazed
at her tyrant appealingly.

“Not to be thought of,” was the inflexible reply; “you will be here at
six.--Remember the motor must be washed and put away, and the evenings
are already shortening.”

The run was made without any mishap, and accomplished under three
hours. It happened to be market day in Hillminster, the main street was
crowded with vehicles, and Miss Susan could not but admire the neat and
ready manner in which their driver steered amongst carts, wagons, gigs,
and carriages, with practised dexterity.

Presently they drove into the yard of the Rose Inn, and there alighted.
Mr. Morven and his sister-in-law were lunching with the Dean in the
Close, and Miss Susan notified to Owen, ere she left him, that she
proposed to start at half-past two sharp, adding--

“For, if we are late, Miss Parrett is so nervous, you know.”

The drive home began propitiously; but after a while, and in the mean
way so peculiar to motors, the car, when they were about ten miles out
of Hillminster, and a long distance from any little village or even
farmhouse, began to exhibit signs of fatigue. For some time Wynyard
coaxed and petted her; he got out of the machine several times and
crawled underneath, and they staggered along for yet another mile,
when there was a dead halt of over an hour. Here Miss Susan sat on the
bank, talking with the fluency of a perennial fountain, and offering
encouragement and advice.

Once more they set out, and, before they had gone far, met a boy on a
bicycle, and asked him the way to the nearest forge?

With surprising volubility and civility, this boy told them to go ahead
till they came to a certain finger-post, not to mind the finger-post,
but to turn down a lane, and in a quarter of a mile they would come to
the finest forge in the country! The misguided pair duly arrived at
the finger-post, turned to the left as directed, and descended a steep
lane--so narrow that the motor brushed the branches on either side, and
Miss Susan wondered what would become of them if they met a cart? They
crept on and on till they found themselves in some woods, with long
grass drives or rides diverging on either side--undoubtedly they were
now on the borders of some large property! The lane continued to get
worse and worse--in fact, it became like the stony bed of a river, and
the motor, which had long been crawling like some sick insect, finally
collapsed, and, so to speak, gave up the ghost! The axle had broken;
there it lay upon its side with an air of aggravating helplessness! and
it was after six o’clock by Miss Susan’s watch!

“Now,” she inquired, with wide-open eyes, “what is to be done?”

“We must go and look for some farmhouse; I’m afraid you will have to
pass the night there, Miss Susan, unless they can raise a trap of some
sort!”

“Oh, but I’m bound to get home,” she protested, “if I have to walk the
whole way. How far should you say we were from Ottinge?”

“Well, I’m not very sure--I don’t know this part of the country--but I
should think about fifteen miles. You might manage to send a telegram
to Miss Parrett,--in fact, I wouldn’t mind walking there myself, but of
course I must stick by the car.”

“See!” she exclaimed, “there are chimneys in the hollow--red
chimneys--among those trees.” And she was right.

As they descended the hill, in a cosy nook at the foot they discovered,
hiding itself after the manner of old houses, an ancient dwelling with
imposing chimney-stacks, and immense black out-buildings. Here Miss
Susan volubly told her story to a respectable elderly woman, who,
judging by her pail and hands, had evidently just been feeding the
calves.

“I don’t know as how I can help you much,” she said; “this is Lord
Lambourne’s property as you’ve got into somehow. Whatever brought you
down off the high road, ma’am?”

“We were told to come this way by a boy on a bicycle. We asked him to
direct us to a forge.”

“The young limb was just a-making game of you, he was! There ain’t a
forge nearer than five miles, and my master took the horses in there
this afternoon; he’s not back yet.”

“I suppose,” said Miss Susan, “that you have no way of sending me in to
Ottinge--no cart or pony you could hire me?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am. Where be Ottinge?”

Here was ignorance, or was it envy?

“Then I don’t know what I’m to do,” said Miss Susan helplessly. “My
sister will be terribly anxious, and I’m sure the motor won’t be fit to
travel for quite a long time. What do you think, Owen?”

“I think that the motor is about done!” he answered, with emphatic
decision. “To-morrow morning I must get a couple of horses somewhere,
and cart her home. I wonder if this good woman could put you up for
the night? This lady and I,” he explained, “went to Hillminster from
Ottinge to-day, and were on our way home when the motor broke down; and
I don’t think there’s any chance of our getting to Ottinge to-night.”

“Oh yes, I can put the two of you up,” she said, addressing Miss Susan,
“both you and your son.”

Miss Susan became crimson.

“I am Miss Parrett of Ottinge,” she announced, with tremulous dignity;
“that is to say, Miss Susan Parrett.”

“I’m sure I beg your pardon, Miss Parrett; I can find you a bed for
the night. This is a rare big house--it were once a Manor--and we have
several empty bedrooms--our family being large, and some of the boys
out in the world. Mayhap you’d like something to eat?”

“I should--very much,” replied Miss Susan, whose face had cooled, “tea
or milk or anything!”

At this moment a respectable-looking, elderly man rode up, leading
another horse.

“Hullo, Hetty,” he said to his wife, “I see you ha’ company, and
there’s a sort of motor thing all smashed up, a-lyin’ there in the Blue
Gate Lane.”

“It’s my motor,” explained Miss Susan, “and we have walked down here
just to see what you and your wife could do for us.”

“Our best, you may be sure, ma’am,” rejoined the farmer, and descended
heavily from his horse, then led the pair towards the stables, where
he was followed by Wynyard, who gave him a hand with them and borrowed
their services for the morrow.

A meal was served in the very tidy little sitting-room, where Miss
Susan found that places had been laid for Owen and herself; it was
evident that the farmer’s wife considered him--if not her son--her
equal! To this arrangement she assented, and, in spite of his
apologies, Miss Susan and her chauffeur for once had supper together
without any mutual embarrassment.

Afterwards, he went out to a neighbouring farm to see if he could
hire a pony-trap for the following day, and although Miss Susan was
painfully nervous about her sister, she was secretly delighted with a
sense of freedom and adventure, and slept soundly in the middle of a
high feather-bed--in a big four-poster--into which it was necessary to
ascend by steps.

Owing to vexatious delays in securing a trap, driver, and harness, it
was tea-time the next afternoon when Miss Susan drove sedately up to
the hall door at the Manor.

Miss Parrett was prostrate, and in the hands of the doctor! The
telegram, dispatched at an early hour from the nearest office to
Moppington, was--on a principle that occasionally prevails in
out-of-the-way places--delivered hours after Miss Susan had set the
minds of her little world at rest! There had been an exciting rumour
in the village--emanating from the Drum--that “Miss Susan had eloped
with the good-looking shover,” at any rate no one could deny that they
had gone to Hillminster the day before, had probably been married at
the registry office, and subsequently fled! The Drum was crowded
with impassioned talkers, Mrs. Hogben was besieged, and the whole of
Ottinge was pervaded by a general air of pleasurable anticipation. One
fact was certain, that, up till three o’clock of this, the following
afternoon, neither of the runaways had returned! However, just as it
had gone four, here was Miss Susan--bringing to some a distinct feeling
of disappointment--seated erect in a little basket carriage, drawn by
an immense cart-horse, driven at a foot pace by a boy; and a couple of
hours later she was followed by the motor, this time on a lorry, and,
undoubtedly, also, on what is called “its last legs.”

When everything had been exhaustively explained to Miss Parrett, she,
having solemnly inspected the remains of her beautiful green car and
heard what its repairs were likely to cost, heard also the price which
she would be offered for it--fifteen pounds--broke into a furious
passion and declared, with much vehemence and in her shrillest pipe,
that never, never more would she again own a motor!

And, since the motor had ceased to be required, there was no further
use for a chauffeur, and once more Owen Wynyard was looking for a
situation.




CHAPTER XXVIII

A NEW SITUATION


The venerable green motor, whose value by an expert had been so
brutally assessed, was not considered worth repair, yet Miss Bella
Parrett could not endure to part with a possession which had cost
five hundred pounds, for fifteen sovereigns; so it was thrust into a
coach-house, shut in the dark with cobwebs and rats, and abandoned to
its fate.

Miss Susan, who enjoyed motoring and liked the chauffeur, was
exceedingly anxious that Bella should purchase another car, but of
course she was powerless, being next to penniless herself; indeed, at
the outside, her income amounted to one hundred a year--less income
tax. The mere word _motor_ seemed now to operate upon her wealthy
sister as a red rag to a bull; for the loss of five hundred pounds
rankled in her heart like a poisoned arrow.

The old lady had decided for a brougham, a middle-aged driver, and
a steady horse. (It may here be added that the animal, which was
coal-black and had a flowing tail, came out of the stables of an
undertaker, and was as sedate and slow as any funeral procession could
desire.)

As for Wynyard, his fate was sealed! A chauffeur without a car is as a
swan upon a turnpike road. He had had visions of proposing himself as
coachman--for he did not wish to leave the village, and the vicinity
of Aurea Morven--but Miss Parrett had other plans. In her opinion Owen,
the chauffeur, was too good-looking to remain about the place--on
account of the maids--and indeed her sister Susan treated him with most
shocking familiarity, and spoke to him almost as if he were her equal.
Her quick little eyes had also noticed in church that, during her
brother-in-law’s most eloquent sermon, the chauffeur’s attention was
concentrated upon her niece Aurea; and so, without any preamble, she
called him into the library and handed him his pay, a month in advance,
promised a first-rate reference, and waved him from her presence.

And Wynyard’s occupation was gone! There would be no more expeditions
in the ramshackle old motor, no more potting of geraniums for Miss
Susan, no more clipping of hedges, or singing in the choir. He must
depart.

Departures, to be effective, should be abrupt; possibly Wynyard was
unconscious of this, but the following day he left for London; his
yellow tin box went over in a cart to Catsfield, whilst he walked to
the station across the fields by the same road as he had come. His
absence caused an unexpected blank in the little community; the Hogbens
regretted him sorely, he was such a cheery inmate, and gave no trouble.
His absence was deplored at the Drum; the village dogs looked for him
in vain; his voice was missed in the choir; other people missed him who
shall be nameless; and Joss howled for a week.

Wynyard had written to his sister to inform her that, owing to the
breakdown of the dilapidated old car, he was once more out of a job,
and found, in reply, that she was on the eve of sailing for America.
He went round to see her in Mount Street, two days before she started.

“You are looking remarkably fit, Owen,” she said, “and the Parretts
can’t say too much for you; indeed, in Susan’s letter I observe a tone
of actual distress! Six months of the time have passed. I suppose you
have saved a little money?”

“I have twenty pounds in the bank, and a couple of sovereigns to go on
with. Of course I must look out for another billet at once.”

“And on this occasion you will take with you a really well-earned
character. You have no debts and no matrimonial entanglements--eh? What
about Miss Morven?”

“I’ve never laid eyes on her since I saw you.”

“How is that?”

“She’s been in London.”

“And now _you_ are here--ah!”

“I didn’t follow her, as you seem to suppose. I wasn’t likely to get
another billet in Ottinge, and anyway, I was a bit tired of having Miss
Parrett’s heel on my neck.”

“Tired of ‘ordering yourself humbly and lowly to all your betters,’
poor boy! But to return to the young lady; are you still thinking of
her?”

Was he not always thinking of her? But he merely nodded.

“You haven’t written?”

“No; I’m not such a sweep as all that!”

“But, Owen, didn’t you wring a sort of half promise from the
unfortunate girl? I know it was only ‘perhaps,’ but _château qui
parle--femme qui écoute_.”

“I think it will be all right.”

“And that her ‘perhaps’ is as good as another’s solemn vow! I must say
you show extraordinary confidence in yourself and in her, and yet you
scarcely know one another.”

“No, not in the usual dancing, dining-out, race-going style; I give
in to that, or, indeed, in the ordinary way at all. She only saw me
driving or washing the motor, or doing a bit of gardening.”

“And you think you were so admirable in these occupations that you
captured her heart! Owen, I’m seeing you in quite a new light, and
I think you are deceiving yourself. I expect the young woman has
forgotten you by this time. London has--attractions.”

“Time will tell; anyhow, she’s refused the great Bertie Woolcock.”

“No!” incredulously, “who told you? When did you hear it?”

“It was all over Ottinge a week ago, and I heard it at the Drum. I was
also given to understand that Miss Parrett was fit to be tied!”

“If she had an inkling of her late chauffeur’s pretensions, a strait
waistcoat would hardly meet the occasion. How I wish we could take
you with us to America; but it’s not in the bond. Martin has a great
deal of capital invested out there; he is not very strong, and after
we have put all his business through, we are going to spend the winter
in Florida. We shall not be back before April, and then I will keep
my promise. I am so sorry, dear old boy, that I shall be out of the
country while you are ‘dreeing your weird’ and not able to help you;
but of course Uncle Dick’s great object is for you to learn absolute
independence. I will give you my permanent address and a code-book, and
if anything happens for good or bad, you must cable. We have let this
house for six months--to friends. We may as well have it aired, and
have the good rent! Every one lets now--even dukes and duchesses! I
wonder what your next billet will be? You had better advertise.”

“What shall I say?” he asked.

“Let me think.” After a moment she rose and went to her writing-table,
scribbled for a few moments, and brought him the following: ‘As
chauffeur, smart young man, experienced, aged 26, steady, well
recommended, wants situation. Apply---- Office of this paper.’ “Just
send this to the _Car_, the _Morning Post_, the _Field_, _Country
Life_; it will cost you altogether about twenty-five shillings, and
I’ll pay for it.”

“No, no, Sis,” he protested, “that’s not in the bond. And, as it is,
you are keeping up my club subscription.”

“Pooh!” she exclaimed, “what’s that? I hope this time you will get
into a nice rich family who have a good car, and that you will be able
to have a little more variety than in your last place, and no young
ladies. You will be sure and write to me every week?”

At this moment the door opened and Sir Martin Kesters entered, and
paused in the doorway.

“Hullo, Owen, glad to see you,” holding out his hand; “so you are back?”

“Only temporarily--for a day or two.”

“You’ve done six months, and the worst is over.”

“Well, I hope so; but one never can tell.”

“Upon my word, I don’t know how you stood it. Leila described the
place. I’m not a gay young fellow of six-and-twenty, and a week would
have seen me out of it; but six months----” and he gazed at him in
blank astonishment.

“Oh, well,” apologetically, “I’ve learnt all sorts of things. I’m
quite a fair gardener, and can clip a hedge too; I know how to physic
dogs, and fasten up the back of a blouse.”

“_Owen!_” exclaimed his sister, “_I_ am present!”

“It was only Mrs. Hogben; she had no woman in the house, and Tom’s
hands were generally dirty, and she said she looked upon me as her
other son. She is a rare good old soul, and I’d do more for her than
that.”

“You must feel as if you’d been underground, and come up for a
breather,” said his brother-in-law.

“My breather must be short; but I’m not going to take any situation
with ladies.”

“Why so proud and particular? They won’t all be Miss Parretts!”

“Oh, you women are so irregular, unpunctual, and undecided--yes, and
nervous. Even Miss Susan clawed me by the arm when we took a sharp
turn.”

“I hope the next year will fly,” said Sir Martin; “I tried my hand on
your uncle, you know--did Leila tell you? I have got him to make it
eighteen months hard labour--and eighteen months it is.”

“No! I say--that is splendid news! How awfully good of you!”

“I fancy he’s a little bit indulgent now; he finds that you can stick
it, and have brought such a magnificent character.”

“Profound regrets,” supplemented Leila, “if not tears. Ah, here is
dinner! I don’t suppose you’ve _dined_ since you were here in April;
come along, Owen, we are quite alone, and let us drink your health.”

Two days later Wynyard saw his sister and her husband off from Euston
by the White Star Express, and felt that his holiday--his breathing
time, was over. He must get into harness at once. His one hope, as he
wandered about the streets, was that he might catch sight of Aurea.
By all accounts, she was staying in Eaton Place; more than once he
walked over there, and strolled up and down on the opposite side, and
gazed at No. 303 as if he would see through the walls. But it was no
use--telepathy sometimes fails; Aurea never appeared, and, had she
done so--though he was not aware of the sad fact--she would not have
vouchsafed the smallest notice of her aunts’ former employé.

The daily post brought several replies to Owen’s advertisements. When
he had looked through and sorted them, he found that, after all, the
most tempting was from a woman--a certain Mrs. Cavendish Foote, whose
address was Rockingham Mansions, S.W.

The lady announced that she required a really smart, experienced
chauffeur for town--she had a new Renault car; he would have to live
out, and she offered him four guineas a week, and to find himself in
clothes and minor repairs. She wrote from Manchester. He replied,
forwarding his references, and she engaged him by telegram, saying she
would be back in London the following day, when he was to enter her
service, and call to interview her.

It seemed to him that this was good enough! He would rather like a job
in town for a change--the more particularly as Aurea and her father
were staying with General Morven in Eaton Place, and now and then he
might obtain a glimpse of her! He glanced through the other letters
before finally making up his mind; one was from a nobleman in the north
of Scotland, who lived thirty miles from a railway station. He thought
of the bitter Scotch winters, and how he would be cut off from all
society but that of the servants’ hall; no, that was no good. Another
was from a lady who was going on tour to the south of France and Italy.
The terms she offered were low, and she preferred as chauffeur, a
married man. There were several others, but on the whole the situation
in London seemed to be the best. He debated as to whether he should put
on his chauffeur clothes or not, but decided against it, and, hailing a
taxi-cab, found himself at Rockingham Mansions in ten minutes.

These were a fine set of flats, with carpeted stairs, imposing hall,
and gorgeously liveried attendants. He asked to be shown to Mrs.
Cavendish Foote’s address. It was No. 20 on the third floor. The door
was opened by a smart maid with a very small cap, an immensely frizzled
head, and sallow cheeks.

“To see Mrs. Cavendish Foote on business?” she repeated, and ushered
him into the tiny hall, which was decorated with a curious assortment
of pictures, stuffed heads, arms, and looking-glasses.

“Oh, bring him in here,” commanded a shrill treble voice, and Wynyard
found himself entering a large sitting-room, where he was saluted by an
overwhelming perfume of scent, and the angry barking of a tiny black
Pom. with a pink bow in his hair.

The apartment had been recently decorated; the prevailing colours
were white and pink--white walls, into which large mirrors had been
introduced--pink curtains, pink carpets, pink and white chintz. Two or
three half-dead bouquets stood in vases, an opera cloak and a feather
boa encumbered one chair, a motor coat another, several papers and
letters were strewn upon the floor, and on a long lounge under the
windows, a lady--white and pink to match her room--lay extended at full
length, her shapely legs crossed, and a cigarette in her mouth. She
wore a loose pink _negligé_--the wide sleeves exhibiting her arms bare
to the shoulder.

“Hullo!” she exclaimed, when she caught sight of Wynyard, as he emerged
from behind the screen.

“Mrs. Cavendish Foote, I presume?” he inquired.

“Right-o!” she answered, suddenly assuming a sitting posture; “and who
may _you_ be?”

“I’ve come about the situation as chauffeur.”

“The chauffeur!” she screamed. “Good Lord! why, I’m blessed if you
ain’t a toff!”

“Is that a drawback?” he asked gravely.

“Well, no--I suppose, rather an advantage! I thought you were my
manager, or I wouldn’t have let you in,” and she pulled down her
sleeves, and threw the stump of her cigarette into the fireplace. “You
see, though I’m Mrs. Cavendish Foote, my professional name is Tottie
Toye. I dare say, you have seen me on the boards?”

“Yes, I have had the pleasure,” he answered politely.

“Oh my!” she ejaculated. “Well, anyhow, you’ve got pretty manners. Can
you drive?”

“Yes.”

“I mean in London traffic. I don’t want to get smashed up, you know; if
I break a leg, where am I? How long were you in your last place?”

“Six months.”

“And your reason for leaving?”

“They gave up keeping a motor.”

“_Idiots!_” she exclaimed. “I couldn’t live without mine! Your job will
be to take me to the shop, and fetch me back at night, and to run me
about London in the daytime, and out into the country on Sundays--home
on Monday night. Do you think you can manage all that?”

“I think so.”

“The car is in the garage close to this. I dare say you would like to
take her out for a run and try her? I shall want you this evening at
seven o’clock.”

“Very well,” he agreed.

“I suppose you’re one of these gentlemen that have come down in the
world, and, of course, a chauffeur has a ripping good time. I like your
looks. By the way, what’s your name?”

“Owen.”

“And I suspect you are at this game, because you are _owing_
money--eh?” and she burst into a shriek of laughter at her own joke.
“Well, life has its ups and downs! If it was all just flat, I should be
bored stiff. I’ve had some queer old turns myself.”

At this moment the door opened, and a stout, prosperous-looking
gentleman made his appearance--red-faced, blue-chinned, wonderfully got
up, with shining hair, and shining boots.

“Hullo, Tottie!” he exclaimed; “who have we got here?” glancing
suspiciously at Owen. “A new Johnny--eh--you _naughty_ girl?”

“No, no, dear old man,” she protested; “and do you know, that you
are twenty minutes late? so I have given him your precious time.
This”--waving her hand at Owen--“is Mr. Cloake, my manager. Mr. Cloake,
let me present you to my new chauffeur.”




CHAPTER XXIX

TOTTIE TOYE


Miss Tottie Toye’s Renault was a beauty, and, after the old rickety
green car, it afforded Wynyard a real pleasure to handle it. He took
it for a trial turn to Bushey, in order to get accustomed to its
mechanism--for every motor has its peculiar little ways and its own
little tempers--and punctually at seven o’clock he was at Rockingham
Mansions, awaiting his employer, the dancer.

Presently, heralded by her high, shrill voice, she appeared,
accompanied by a melancholy young man, and bringing with her such a
reek of scent, that it almost deadened the petrol. Tottie was wrapped
in a magnificent pink velvet cloak trimmed with ermine, and, as she
stepped into the car, turned to her companion and said--

“Teddy boy, just look at my beautiful new chauffeur! Isn’t he like a
young duke?”

Teddy grunted some inaudible reply, slammed the door of the car with
unnecessary violence, and they were off. The London streets at this
hour were swarming with motor busses, cars, cabs, and carriages--people
going to dinners or the play. It was rather different to the empty
roads in the neighbourhood of Ottinge, but Wynyard managed to thread
his way to the theatre dexterously and speedily, and, when the lady
jumped out of the car at the stage door, she clapped him on the back
and said--

“You’ll do all right! Come round for me again at eleven--and don’t be
getting into any mischief.”

He touched his cap and moved away. Precisely at eleven o’clock he was
waiting, and after some delay Tottie reappeared, in a condition of the
highest excitement, screaming with laughter and carrying a gigantic
bouquet. She was accompanied by a very _prononcée_ lady and three young
men. With a good deal of noisy talking and chaffing they all packed
themselves into the car, sitting on one another’s knees, and fared to
the Savoy, where they had supper. Here again he waited outside until
twelve o’clock and closing time; and as he sat, a motionless figure,
a great deal of London life drifted by him: the rolling “Limousine,”
emblem of luxury--broken-down, hopeless-looking men--members of the
dreadful army of the unemployed--flaming women with the scarlet sign of
sin in high relief. What a diabolical existence!

At twelve his party reappeared--noisier and more hilarious than ever.
It struck him that Tottie’s lady friend and two of the young men had
had quite as much supper as was good for them. Once more they crammed
into the car, the party returned to the flat to play bridge, and he at
last was released!

So this was now his life! late hours, excursions into the country
on Sundays, trips to Brighton, to Folkestone, to Margate; he had
no leisure, for, when Tottie was not making use of the car, the
good-natured little creature--unlike Bella Parrett--lent it to her
friends, and her friends made unreasonable use of it. They were all
of the same class as herself: exuberant youths, who imagined that
they were seeing life; prettily painted, beautifully dressed young
women, whom the men called by their christian names; certain elderly
gentlemen; and now and then a portly dame, who was spoken of as “Ma.”

On one occasion, in Bond Street, Tottie and some of her vivacious
companions were shopping--a showy party, with loud voices and louder
clothes, scrambling into the motor at the door of a shop--when who
should pass by but Sir Richard Wynyard! He glared at them, then glanced
at the chauffeur. _What!_ his own nephew in the middle of such a rowdy
crew! Owen touched his cap to him, but he vouchsafed no notice, and,
with a glassy stare, stalked on.

Another time, as Wynyard was waiting outside a theatre, Aurea
Morven and her uncle were coming out. She looked so pretty--lovely,
indeed--in a white cloak with a knot of silver ribbon in her dark hair.
Fortunately, she did not recognise him, for at the moment Tottie dashed
out of the stage door in a violent hurry, followed by two women and a
man, and called authoritatively--

“Go ahead, Owen, old boy! The ‘Troc.’ as hard as you can tear!”

Wynyard had been in the present situation for six weeks, and, although
the pay was good and punctual, he found the life wearing. He never knew
what it was to have a day off--or any time to himself; other employés
had Sundays--Sunday to him was the heaviest day in the whole week.
Tottie, besides her professional engagements, appeared to live in an
irregular round of luncheons, suppers, bridge, and balls--of a certain
class. She was madly extravagant, and seemed to take a peculiar delight
in throwing away her money. The sallow-cheeked parlour-maid, who had a
fancy for Wynyard, and generally contrived to have a word with him when
she came downstairs with cloaks or shoes--informed him in confidence
that “the missus was a-goin’ it!”

“But what can you expect?” she asked, with her nose in the air. “Her
mother kept a tripe shop; she ain’t no class! Of course the money’s
good as long as it’s there; but I don’t fancy these sort of fast
situations. Give _me_ gentry.”

“But Mrs. Foote’s all right,” protested Wynyard; “it’s her friends that
are such a queer lot--and, I’m afraid, they cheat her.”

“You bet they do! And as to her being all right--I should say she was
all wrong, if you ask _me_. She’s no more Mrs. Cavendish Foote than
I am; she was divorced three years ago. Cavendish Foote--he was a
young fool on the Stock Exchange; she broke him, and now he’s gone to
America.”

An exceedingly unpleasant idea had lately been born in Owen’s mind; it
was this--that his employer had taken a fancy to _him_. She leant with
unnecessary weight on his arm when she stepped in and out of the motor;
summoned him to her sitting-room on various pretexts to give him notes;
offered cigarettes, talked to him confidentially, and begged him “to
look upon her as a friend.”

“I like you, Owen, I swear I do, and I’d do a lot for you, so I would
too--and don’t you make any mistake about that!”

Wynyard found this state of affairs extremely embarrassing--especially
when they went for trips into the country alone, and, wrapped up in
furs, she would come and sit beside him, and tell him of all her
successes; stop at inns, order lunch, and invite him to share the meal,
and drink champagne! But this he steadily declined. The cooler and more
reserved he was, naturally the more _empressé_ she became; and one of
her pals, in his hearing, had loudly chaffed her on being “_mashed on
her chauffeur_.”

Once or twice, she found some one to mind the car, and gave him a
ticket for the theatre, in order that he might witness her performance.
Tottie really was marvellous; it was no wonder that she was earning two
hundred pounds a week! Her dancing, her agility, her vivacity, and her
impudence, enraptured each nightly audience. There was something in her
gaiety and her unstudied animation that reminded him of Aurea Morven;
yet to think of the two in the same moment was neither more or less
than profanation--the one was a sort of irresponsible imp, whilst the
other resembled a beautiful and benevolent fairy.

It was early in December, Tottie had run over to Paris with Mr. Cloake
and suitable pals, and Wynyard had got his neck out of the collar for
a few days. In fact, he had insisted on a holiday, and treated himself
to a dinner at his club. Here he met some old friends--that is to say,
young men of his own age, who had been at Eton, or in the Service with
him. He always looked well turned out, and none of them ever thought of
asking “What are you doing now?” except a schoolfellow, who said--

“I say, old man, we don’t often see _you_ here! What’s your job? I know
the uncle has cut up rusty, and that you are on your own. Fellows say
that you are down in some big steel works at Sheffield, and they have
seen you out with the hounds.”

“No, they’re wrong--that’s a bad shot. I don’t mind telling you, old
pal, that I’m a _chauffeur_.”

His friend stared, and then burst out into a roar of laughter.

“Yes, I’m the chauffeur of the well-known Tottie Toye.”

This information seemed to leave the other not only solemn, but
speechless--which being the case, Wynyard went on to impart to him in
confidence all the particulars of his uncle’s manifesto, and how he
was endeavouring to keep himself in independence, without as much as a
penny stamp from one of his relatives.

“I’ve done eight months,” he said, “and I’ve saved thirty pounds. I
seem to see the Winning Post.”

“By George!” exclaimed his friend, “I don’t know how you can stick it.
Fancy being mixed up with Tottie and her crowd!”

“Oh, for that matter, I’ve nothing to say to them. ‘Needs must when the
devil drives,’ and the pay is good.”

“I believe Tottie has a mania for spending money. She has been twice
married; her extravagance is crazy, and her generosity boundless--of
course, she is robbed all round. Now she has got into the hands of a
fellow called Cloake--and unless I’m mistaken the end is near. Get out
of it as soon as you can, Wynyard, my friend.”

“I believe I shall. I can’t say it’s a job I fancy.”

“Look here, I’ve an idea. There’s a friend of mine--Masham--an
enormously rich chap, a bachelor, mad keen about motoring--racing, you
know. He was in the Paris to Berlin race--and has been over to Long
Island--and on the slightest provocation would be off to Timbuctoo!
He’s looking for a man, not so much to drive--but, of course, he must
be a chauffeur--as to go about with him--a gentleman. I should say it
was the very billet for you--_if_ he doesn’t kill you! It’s not every
one’s job; he is so confoundedly rash, and is always ready to take
risks.”

“I don’t mind that,” said Wynyard; “‘nothing venture--nothing have.’”

“He wants a smart chap--a well-bred ’un--with no nerves. Shall I
undertake the delicate negotiation? I expect you’d suit him down to the
ground!”




CHAPTER XXX

MASHAM--THE MOTORIST


“I’ll go over and have a jaw with him; you stay here till I come back,”
said Wynyard’s friend, rising as he spoke.

Ten minutes later, he appeared accompanied by a clean-shaven,
bullet-headed little man--with a brick-coloured complexion, sleek black
hair, a pair of small, piercing grey eyes, and the shoulders of a
Hercules.

“Wynyard, let me introduce you to Masham, the celebrated motorist.
Masham, this is my old chum Wynyard; we were in the same house at Eton.
He is in want of a job--you are in want of a chauffeur--and here you
are!” Then, with a wave of his hand, he added, “Now, I’ll leave you to
worry it out between you. You will find me in the card-room,” and he
took his departure.

“Well,” said Masham, throwing himself back in an arm-chair, and
stretching out his legs, “our mutual friend has been telling me all
about you, and how you are an Army chap, awfully sportin’, and have no
nerves to speak of.”

“Yes, I shouldn’t call myself--er--nervous,” said Wynyard, lighting a
cigarette.

“I suppose Eustace has told you that I’m motor mad? Motoring is my fad.
I expect I’ve put in more miles than any man of my age in England. On
these long journeys I like to have a pal who can drive a bit, is a
gentleman, and has got his head screwed on the right way. By the bye,
are you a married man?”

“No.”

“Good! That’s all right. Well, the ordinary chauffeur palls a bit after
a time, and you can’t well have him to dine with you--and--er--in
fact--he’s not your _own_ sort! On the other hand, there are one’s
relatives and chums; but some of these--and I’ve sampled a good
few--know nothing of the mechanism of a car--racer and runabout,
it’s all one to _them_--and they bar going with me. I put them in a
first-class blue funk when my speed is eighty miles an hour, and hats
and things fly out of the car. Of course, it’s not always possible; but
sometimes in the very early mornings on those long flat roads in France
I let her out! I tell you, it’s an experience. However, the last time
when I got her up to ninety kilometres, at the first halt, my chauffeur
got off and left me! I’m not a bad sort to deal with, as old Eustace
can tell you; you just let me alone, and you’ll be all right. You live
with me--same quarters, same table--and your billet will be that of
chauffeur-companion--_compagnon de voyage_--with an eye to the car and
to take the wheel now and then. If you can talk French it will be an
advantage; but I don’t suppose you picked up much French at Eton?”

“I picked it up when I was a small boy. I had a French nurse,” replied
Wynyard, “and I can get along all right.”

“Good! My idea is to motor down to Biarritz, then across to
Marseilles, and afterwards, with a look in at Monte, take part in some
international racing. Who were you with last, or who are you with now?”

“Just at present I’m chauffeur to Tottie Toye.”

“My great aunt!”

“Well, you see, when she engaged me from an advertisement, she
represented herself as Mrs. Cavendish Foote--the terms were liberal,
and I agreed.”

“Yes, and when you saw her?” His little eyes twinkled.

“I must confess I was rather taken aback; theatrical folk are not much
in my line--irregular hours and sudden odd jobs--sometimes I’ve been
out with the car till three in the morning. However, it was a question
of money, and I took it.”

“May I ask what she pays you?”

“Four guineas a week.”

“I’ll go one better than that. I’ll give you three hundred a
year--twenty-five pounds a month, and all found; but, mark you, you had
better insure your life, for I’ve had some uncommonly narrow squeaks.”

“I’ll take the risk,” said Wynyard. “Would you mind telling me what is
_your_ idea of a narrow squeak?”

“Well, once crossing a railway line an express missed me by twenty
seconds; another was when the car ran backwards down a pass in the
Tyrol, and over the bridge at the bottom; that time the chauffeur was
killed. I’m keeping his family, of course--and henceforth I bar married
men! I broke three ribs and a leg; however, we won’t dwell on these
unpleasant memories. Do you think you will be ready to start in a week?
The car is down at Coventry. I’ll fetch her up day after to-morrow.”

“I shall be ready; but I have one stipulation to make.”

“All right--let’s have it.”

“As a chauffeur my name is Owen--not Wynyard.”

“Same thing to me. Uncle objects, eh?”

“I suppose Miss Toye will accept a week’s notice?”

“Of course she will,” declared Masham. “We will have a day or two at
Brookwood, to see how the car travels, and then cross the Channel. Have
a drink?”

“Thank you, a small whisky and large soda.”

Mr. Masham ordered for himself a large whisky and a very small soda;
indeed, the soda water in his glass was a negligible quantity.

“I don’t drink much--but I take it strong,” he remarked as he gulped
it down, “and I never smoke--bad for the nerves;” and then he began to
discourse of motors and the class and style he believed in. He believed
in single-cylinder machines, a short wheel base, wide handle-bars, and
a large petrol tank. He did not believe in the aeroplane craze, and,
indeed, became both hot and excited when Wynyard introduced the subject.

“Madness! Wild goose business! Can come to nothing--look at the
accidents! Stick to Mother Earth, _I_ say! I’m an earth man--a motor
man. The sea for fish, the sky for birds, earth for humans. I bar both
air and sea.”

After a few minor arrangements, Wynyard took leave of Mr. Masham,
went in search of his friend, and informed him that all was fixed up;
he had accepted the post of companion-chauffeur to the celebrated
Harry Masham, and was about to tender his resignation to the equally
celebrated Tottie Toye.

       *       *       *       *       *

During Lady Kesters’ stay in the United States, she had kept up a brisk
correspondence with her brother, and written long and enthusiastic
descriptions of her impressions of New York, Washington, and Boston;
for his part, he had sent her somewhat scanty news. The following, is
one of his longest letters:--

  “DEAR LEILA,--I am still with Miss T. Toye, and giving (I hope)
  satisfaction and saving hand over fist. I can’t say, however, that
  the berth is congenial. I am kept pretty busy, taking Tottie to the
  theatre, fetching her home, motoring her about town to shops and
  restaurants, and dashing into the country for weekends. In Town, I
  wear my goggles as much as possible. I tell her my eyes are weak--I
  dare say she doesn’t believe me! I’m not proud, but I don’t want my
  old friends to spot me as Tottie’s chauffeur. The other day I was
  in Bond Street in the afternoon, with a car full of a noisy painted
  crew, and they attracted the attention of no less a person than
  _Uncle Dick_. He stared at them, and then at me. I thought he was
  going to have an apoplectic seizure, and I’m sure he thinks I’ve
  gone to the devil! Perhaps you’d let him know that I’ve got to live,
  and Tottie pays well, and her money is as good as another’s. All
  the same, I am not sure that I can stand her much longer; she and
  her particular lot are a bit too rowdy. The other night a fellow
  dared her to kiss me as she got out of the motor, and, by Jove! she
  _did_. I was not at all grateful. I was nearly stifled, and I’ve
  not got the better of her scented embrace yet. She talks of buying
  another car--price fifteen hundred pounds--simply because Vixie
  Beaufort has a better one than hers, and she’s not going to be beat.
  She has a funny way of asking all sorts of people to supper, and is
  surprised when the crowd turns up; and sometimes she forgets her
  party altogether, and sups out, then the boot is on the other foot!
  She plays bridge of a sort, and loses her money (and her temper),
  and throws the cards at her partner. The frizzy parlour-maid is
  my informant; she comes down with cloaks and furs, and generally
  contrives to have a word with me. She says the place is getting too
  hot, and if I will leave, _she_ will! Think of that! I’m glad to hear
  such good news of Martin. I expect you will both be home by April,
  and by that time I should not wonder if I were in another situation.
  Ryder Street will always find--Your affectionate brother,

                                                                 “O. W.”

To this he received a long reply from Florida. Martin was better,
shares were booming, and The Palm Branch was the most delicious spot on
earth. No wonder that Florida boasted the largest hotel in the world;
the climate, the tropical flowers and fruit, the bicycling and bathing,
and the immense variety of visitors were all a delightful novelty.

She went on to say--

  “I do wish you were with us; there are such charming girls to be met
  and known--bright, well-bred, intellectual, and fascinating. I am in
  love with several of them myself. I hope we shall be back in Mount
  Street at the end of April; meanwhile we are sunning ourselves here.
  Take my advice, and give the vivacious Tottie notice, and try for
  nice country place with some wealthy old squire who is not _exigeant_
  with respect to work, and would only require to be motored to the
  Sessions or to church; in such a place, you can lie perdue instead
  of flaring about town with Tottie and Co. I would be perfectly happy
  if you were here, dear old boy; the only drawback to my enjoyment is
  the fear that you are hard worked, and hard up! Bear this in mind,
  ‘Time and tide run through the longest day;’ in ten months you will
  be settled at Wynyard, and your _own_ master.”

As it happened, there was no occasion for Wynyard to formally tender
his resignation to Miss Toye. The morning after his interview with Mr.
Masham, when he arrived at the garage where the car was kept, another
chauffeur came up to him with a sympathetic grin upon his face.

“Hullo, Jack--your car is took! There’s an execution in your missus’
flat, and the men came round ’ere first thing. Very nippy, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” rejoined Wynyard. He walked
over to the place where the car was always garaged, and it was empty;
everything was gone--even to the oil cans!

“There, now, you see it’s a true bill,” said the other man, who had
followed him. “Tottie Toye is broke; there was a great burst-up at the
theatre, and she has cut it.”

This was true. Wynyard now remembered that the last time he had driven
Tottie from the hall there had been something of a scene at the stage
door--loud talking, an eager crowd, and Mr. Cloake, very red and
excited, had supported Tottie into the motor, apparently in hysterics
and tears. He went round to the flat, and discovered that men were
already in possession, busily making an inventory of its contents.
Tottie had effected her escape with all her jewels, her best clothes,
and her dog, and was reported to be at San Sebastian.

It seemed to Wynyard that something was bound to happen to whoever
employed him--one time it was a breakdown, now the bailiffs.

Before he and his new employer went abroad, they spent several days
at Brookwood, and here the new chauffeur was first introduced to the
machine--a long, bare, business-looking car, built for speed, not
comfort, and painted a dull slate colour.

“She’s as ugly as she can stick!” admitted her owner; “but she runs
sweetly and is a magnificent machine; has won three big races, a grand
goer, and ab-so-lutely reliable!”

Flying round the track at Brookwood she certainly bore out her
reputation for speed; but as to whether she was absolutely reliable,
remained to be proved.




CHAPTER XXXI

TAKING RISKS


Early in January Wynyard found himself on the Continent, roaming hither
and thither as dictated by the caprice of his employer. First they went
to Paris, then, leaving behind them the intricacies of the traffic,
departed from that gay city by the Port de Choisy for Mellun, Sens, and
Dijon. From Dijon (the Charing Cross of motors) they sped across to
Biarritz, over the Pyrenees to Madrid, then back to the Riviera, _via_
Carcassonne and Toulouse.

It was Masham’s custom to start at daybreak; the car was on the wing
as soon as the birds. They swept along the great straight highways,
by quiet sleeping farms, through low-hanging mists, and now and then
past an old white-faced château, staring sternly from amidst its
woods--or again, a gaudy red villa smothered in lime trees. Masham had
not overstated the case when he declared that he “took risks.” Once or
twice, when they hummed along wide, empty roads, as the wind roared
past their ears, and the engine vibration was such that every nerve was
ajar, it appeared to the chauffeur that he was trusting his life to
a madman! _Speed_, his employer’s passion, seemed to grow insatiable
with time--his appetite for eating up, with furious haste, miles and
miles and miles, and ever hurrying onwards to the unattainable horizon,
increased with indulgence. The intoxication of motion appeared to lift
him completely out of himself--and to change his personality.

Wynyard had once quoted to his friend, “Needs must when the devil
drives!” Now at times he could readily believe that the old gentleman
himself was holding the steering-wheel!

Sometimes, as they tore through villages, they left a track of
whirling feathers--the remains of a flock of geese or poultry; and
Masham boasted, to his chauffeur’s disgust, that once, between Pau and
Biarritz, he and his machine had been the death of five dogs. On more
than one occasion, when his excitement was frenzied, and he undoubtedly
saw _red_, Wynyard had endeavoured to wrest the steering-wheel from
his employer. They had several narrow escapes, and many of their skids
were neither more nor less than hair-raising. Wynyard’s face, which was
tanned and weather-beaten, displayed several new lines, and sometimes
wore a very grim expression, as the car whirled round a sharp corner
with a single and defiant hoot! But these risks were his price; it was
all in the day’s work, for three hundred a year.

It seemed strange that he was unable to find a commonplace situation,
which offered the happy medium; either he drove an old doddering car at
infrequent intervals, or he was bound to this grey racer, like Ixion to
his wheel.

Excepting on the occasions when Masham was specially reckless, the
situation was all right. They lived at the best hotels, and he sat at
the same table with his employer--whose talk was ever and always of the
car, or other people’s cars--of petrol, garages, tyres, and racing. He
was a man of one idea.

His companion-chauffeur was a good deal staggered by the large quantity
of cognac absorbed by his patron; but it never appeared to affect
his nerves, and merely rendered him unsociable and morose. His one,
all-devouring ambition was to win a race for the highest speed, and to
be known as the most daring and successful motorist in Europe! When
they stopped at hotels he herded with his kind--after the manner of
golfers and racing people--comparing cars, speeds, weights, and prices,
talking knowingly of “mushroom valves” and the “new sliding sleeve
engine.” On such occasions, instead of being, as usual, somewhat stolid
and glum, he became extraordinarily animated and eloquent!

Masham was a man of good family, his own master, and the non-resident
owner of a fine property in the north of England, which, in order to
indulge his passion for speed, he neglected shamefully.

Arrived at Nice, he put up at one of the fashionable hotels, running
over daily to Monte Carlo, which, in the month of March, was crammed.
On these expeditions, he was accompanied by his companion, and the
car was garaged, whilst its owner took what he called “a turn in the
rooms.” He played for high stakes, generally put down a _mille_ note,
and was uncannily lucky. This good fortune he attributed to the little
silver figure of a certain saint, which he clutched in one hand, whilst
he staked with the other; this saint was his mascot. He never remained
long in the Casino, being too impatient and restless; and when he had
made a round of his favourite tables, would sally forth in search of
refreshment, or to saunter about the square and the exquisite gardens.
His companion did not gamble--strong as were inherited instincts, and
hot as was the gambling fever which ran in his blood;--he had no money
to lose, and the prize he wished to win was Aurea Morven.

Naturally, Masham came across many acquaintances in such a
cosmopolitan rendezvous as “Monte.” Wynyard also encountered several
familiar faces, and, one afternoon, as he was passing through a great
crowd at the “Café de Paris,” a light hand was laid on his arm, and,
looking down, he was astonished to meet the upturned blue eyes of Mrs.
Ramsay--Mrs. Ramsay in black, but no longer in weeds; Mrs. Ramsay
another woman, and ten years younger; Mrs. Ramsay self-confident,
prosperous, and handsome.

“Why, it’s _Owen_!” she exclaimed. “Who would have thought of seeing
you here?”

He smiled affirmatively, and glanced at her companions round the
tea-table. Ottinge was strongly represented: here were the Rector and
Miss Aurea, also General and Mrs. Morven, and a smart young man in
attendance on the younger lady.

“Hullo, Owen!” exclaimed Mr. Morven, rising and shaking hands; “this
_is_ an unexpected meeting!” and he stared with puzzled interest at the
erect figure, high-bred face, unimpeachable grey suit, and Homburg hat.

“I’m not over here to gamble,” he continued. “We are at Mentone, and
I’ve come to have a look at this pretty, wicked place.”

“It’s pretty wicked by all accounts!” replied Wynyard, speaking now, as
Mr. Morven noted, in the tone of equal to equal.

“Aurea,” he said, turning to his daughter, “don’t you see Owen?”

Miss Morven--who had entirely regained her beauty, and was charmingly
dressed--glanced up from underneath her immense rose-wreathed hat,
and coolly surveyed her former lover. She was, if possible, prettier
than ever, he said to himself, as he doffed his hat in acknowledgment
of her curt nod; but her eyes, as they met his, resembled two dark
pools--frozen. For some unknown and unguessed-at reason, Aurea was no
longer friendly to him--much less anything nearer--and the discovery
seemed to plant a dagger in his throat. He found it desperately
difficult to utter a word, much less to carry on a brisk conversation
with the Rector and Mrs. Ramsay. General and Mrs. Morven were, he
concluded, the important elderly couple who sat at the other side of
the table, and the young man, who was engrossing Miss Morven’s sole
attention, was some idle ass, who wore his hair parted in the middle,
and three rings on his left hand. He hated him then and there!

Meanwhile, Miss Morven encouraged him, and kept up a conversation
in low, confidential tones. Her hat concealed her face, and Wynyard
realised, for the first time in his life, how rude a hat could be!
This black hat, garlanded with pink flowers, was but too eloquently
expressive of the fact, that its wearer desired to ignore the
existence--much less the presence--of her aunts’ late employé.

However, the Rector and Mrs. Ramsay were most anxiously disposed to
make amends for Miss Morven’s detachment.

“What do you think of the gardens?” inquired the former, indicating the
flower-beds that lay between them and the Casino--a blaze of velvet
violas. “Quite in your line, eh?”

Wynyard muttered an inarticulate assent--all his thoughts were
concentrated on Aurea.

“I’m glad to see you are getting on,” resumed the Rector cheerily;
“prospects improving, eh?”

“I’m afraid not,” answered the chauffeur; his mind full of this
gentleman’s only daughter, and the haughty little face which was so
studiously concealed.

“What are you doing now, eh?”

“I’m with Masham, a man who has a racing motor, as useful companion.”

“Oh, by Jove, I know him!” broke in the General. “Masham’s the wildest
driver in England, or, indeed, Europe--a racing lunatic--wish you
safely out of his company! Is he here?”

“Yes, in the rooms; and I’m just loafing about till he is ready to go
back to Nice.”

“You have never asked about poor dear little Ottinge,” interposed Mrs.
Ramsay, with an injured air,--Mrs. Ramsay who had hitherto been a
silent and much interested spectator of Wynyard and Aurea. What _was_
the matter with the girl?

“And how is Ottinge?” he inquired, turning to the Rector.

“Oh, pretty well, thank you. Young Hogben is married to Dilly Topham.
I must say I never thought _that_ would come off, but it has; and they
seem fairly happy. Old Mrs. Topham, however, gave no dowry; she cannot
bear to part with a penny, but she sent a present of three jars of
mouldy jam, and a broken-down lamp.”

“Miss Parrett has been dangerously ill,” supplemented Mrs. Ramsay, “but
is better. Old Thunder has bought a donkey and a bath-chair; and oh,
sad news indeed!--how _am_ I to tell you?--Mackenzie is no more.”

“I can bear up,” he answered, with a short laugh. This was ungrateful,
for was it not Mackenzie who had introduced him to Aurea?

“He was kicked by a horse, and was killed on the spot,” said the
Rector; “I think, Mrs. Ramsay, you show a very unneighbourly spirit.”

“But I never considered myself the neighbour of Mackenzie!” she
argued, “just the opposite--and he was not an estimable character. A
good man should not own a bad dog.”

“Oh, well, give a dog a bad name----”

“And Mackenzie deserved it,” she interrupted; “he was the village
bully. If he met a smaller dog, it was death for the small dog; if one
of his own size, he passed on. You know, or you may not know, that, at
teas at the Rectory, he sat on the laps of timid ladies, devoured their
offerings, and intimidated them with growls--they dared not displace
him.” Then, turning her head, “Aurea, we are talking of Mackenzie and
his enormities.”

“Oh, are you?” she rejoined, with civil indifference.

“Yes,” resumed Mrs. Ramsay; “and is not it well known that he attacked
a solitary visitor in the Rectory drawing-room--whose furs affronted
him--and tore her muff to shreds with ferocious satisfaction? I believe
her screams could be heard at the Drum, and she had to be restored with
brandy and burnt feathers.”

“You would delight Dr. Johnson, my dear lady,” said the Parson; “he
loved a good hater.”

“Oh, if you only knew how he treated and maltreated my poor paying
guests,”--and she looked at Wynyard--“_you_ remember the beagle, and
how you doctored him; only for you he would have died.”

“Yes; but the beagle survives--Mackenzie is no more. _De mortuis nil
nisi bonum._”

To hear this chauffeur with a ready Latin quotation in his mouth! What
was the world coming to? thought Mrs. Morven, who had finished her tea,
and was now playing the part of a dignified audience.

“We are all at the Hôtel des Montaignes, Mentone,” continued Mrs.
Ramsay; “I want you to come over and see me, will you?”

“I should be delighted, but my time is not my own--perhaps I can get
off on Sunday. May I write?”

“Do; and I shall expect to hear that you are coming to lunch.”

“Here is Masham,” he announced, as the muscular, brick-faced gentleman
pushed and elbowed his way towards them.

“Hullo, Owen, ready to start, eh? We must get a move on.”--“Oh,” to the
General, “glad to see you--splendid weather out here, eh?”

At this moment a party of compatriots arrived, and figuratively
swallowed up General and Mrs. Morven, the Rector, Mrs. Ramsay, and even
the celebrated Mr. Masham. Here was Wynyard’s opportunity, and, as
usual, he seized upon it without ceremony. It was impossible that Aurea
(who was rarely out of his thoughts), whose little word, “perhaps,” had
buoyed him up on many stormy waters, meant what her looks and attitude
implied. Resolutely he came up to her, ignoring the glassy stare of her
companion, and said--

“Miss Morven--has forgotten me--_perhaps_?”

Miss Morven looked up at him with an expression of delicate disdain.
Could this self-possessed young lady, in a wonderful hat and Parisian
frock, be the self-same girl who had stood beside him on Yampton Hill,
with loosened hair and spattered habit?

After a reflective pause, she murmured--

“No, I’ve not forgotten my aunts’--er--chauffeur; but I do not think we
were ever--_acquainted_.”

Wynyard had wonderful self-command, but mentally he reeled; he felt as
if some one had suddenly dealt him a terrible blow between the eyes.
Outwardly he turned a sudden, pallid white, and drew back, as Miss
Morven rose, picked up her parasol, and said to her companion--

“_Now_, if you like, I will go down to the Condamine and see the motor
boats.”

And, almost at the same moment, Mr. Masham claimed his companion and
hurried him away to the garage.

“I say,” said the General to his brother (he usually prefaced his
remarks with “I say”), “who was the young stranger who seemed to know
Ottinge? ’Pon my word, he deserves a medal for the discovery. Wait, I
seem to know his face! Yes, I’ve got it. Wynyard of the Red Hussars--he
went the pace--uncle cut up rough--he’s in my club.”

“No, for once you are a bit out! You will be amused to hear that that
good-looking, well-set-up young man was Bella’s chauffeur.”

“Nonsense!”

“It’s a sober fact. I liked him,” continued the Rector; “he has good
manners--manners make the man--I had him in the choir, and he’s a
first-class cricketer. I always, between you and me, believed him to be
a gentleman who was expiating some--er--mistake. I declare, Susan was
actually fond of him, and he turned the heads, unintentionally--I’ll
say that for him--of every girl in the village.”

“Well, I’m blowed! He is the very image of Dick Wynyard’s heir--next to
the baronetcy and property. Old Dick never speaks of him now, and I’ve
not seen him about for nearly two years. Mrs. Ramsay, what do you say
to a village romance, and a chauffeur being as like a young swell as
two peas?”

“Oh,” replied the lady, deliberately moulding on her gloves, “truth
is stranger than fiction; I’ve known some funny things in my life. I
always liked Owen, and I am glad to see he is getting up in the world.”

“Up!” repeated the General; “if he is companion to Masham, he is much
more likely to leave the world altogether--and that at an early date!
Well, Edgar, Aurea has gone off with young Beauclerc and his people to
the boats. Shall we go to La Turbie as arranged, and have the honour of
escorting the two ladies?”

And then, with one consent, they rose with a loud noise of scraping
chairs, and passed into the square in single file.




CHAPTER XXXII

AN EXPLANATION


Mrs. Ramsay’s trip to the Sunny South was accounted for by the fact
that she had recently come into possession of a comfortable fortune,
left to her by her godfather “in recognition and admiration,” said the
will, “of the noble way in which Kathleen Ramsay had carried out her
marriage vow--for better or worse.”

The widow had gladly accepted an invitation, and joined the Morven
party. She was extremely fond of Aurea, the girl’s sunny nature and
light-heartedness was a grateful tonic for her own sad frame of mind;
but she now felt deeply indignant with her friend for her treatment
of Mr. Wynyard, and could not have believed her capable of such
snobbishness, had she not witnessed it with her own eyes. She had
noticed his hurried address, Aurea’s quick reply, and then his face.
_What_ had the girl said, to thus turn him into stone? Personally, she
liked Owen immensely! was deeply in his debt, and ready to forward
his happiness and his interests to the best of her ability. Kathleen
Ramsay, a woman of warm feelings and responsive susceptibilities, would
have been delighted to promote a love-match between Owen Wynyard and
Aurea Morven.

Aurea’s unexpected attitude had filled her with amazement and rage; she
could hardly restrain herself, but managed to hold her peace--and that
with pain and grief--for four whole days; at the end of the time, she
received a letter from Aurea’s lover, which caused her restraint to
break all bonds:--

  “DEAR MRS. RAMSAY,--I find it will be impossible for me to go over
  and see you, as we are leaving for Milan to-morrow. I should have
  liked to have had a long talk with you--you and I have few secrets
  from one another--but, as the Rector and Miss Morven are in your
  hotel, I could not have faced them again, and given Miss Morven
  the trouble of cutting me for a second time. You suspected me, I
  know, and I may tell you that it was Aurea Morven who kept me in
  Ottinge for six months; that, chiefly for her sake, I took on a
  detestable job in Town, and engaged to risk my neck with this crazy
  motorist; for every week that I was earning my bread and keeping
  my promise, was bringing me, I believed, nearer to _her_. To the
  best of my knowledge I have never given her any reason to think
  ill of me; on the contrary, I have striven tremendously hard to
  make myself more worthy of her, and the other day, when I met her
  accidentally, I thought it was a wonderful piece of good luck for
  me; instead of which, it was the blackest day I’ve ever known. She
  refused to remember or recognise me. I have only six months more to
  work off--sometimes I think I’ll chuck the whole thing and enlist; I
  would, only for my sister. What’s the good of trying? I’m afraid this
  is a beastly sort of letter, but....”

Some words were scratched out, but read, very carefully, and held up to
the light, they were faintly decipherable.

  “I sometimes feel as if I were going mad--I don’t care now if we have
  some bad accident. I only hope it will kill me.--Yours sincerely,

                                                         “OWEN WYNYARD.”

It was the Honourable Mrs. Ramsay, daughter of the late, and sister of
the present, Viscount Ballingarry--and not Katie--who, that evening,
entered Aurea’s bedroom immediately after a knock. She discovered her
young victim in a charming white _negligé_ and a rose silk petticoat,
engaged in brushing her magnificent hair. There was war in the
visitor’s face as she seated herself, and, after a moment’s expressive
silence, fired her first gun.

“Aurea, I want you to tell me why you were so amazingly, so cruelly,
rude to Owen, your aunts’ chauffeur?”

Miss Aurea, after a glance at her friend, coolly replied--

“Why should _I_ be called upon to do the polite to my aunts’
_ci-devant_ employé?”

“Aurea! This is not you--there must be some crooked turn in you, or
there’s some other detestable girl in your body!”

“It is Aurea Morven, I assure you,” and she drew herself together with
a quick movement; “and I do not wish to hear anything of Owen, the
chauffeur. _I_ know more about him than you suppose.”

“You don’t know a quarter as much as I do!” retorted Mrs. Ramsay with
decision, and her eyes gleamed.

“I know that he was on a ranch in South America, that he was a waiter
on the _Anaconda_----”

“Oh yes, go on.”

“That he was probably in the Army, that he is in disgrace with his
family, and came to hide himself in Ottinge till the storm, whatever
it was, blew over! and that a tall dark lady came to meet him at
Brodfield, and even at the Drum.”

“How do you know?” inquired Mrs. Ramsay.

“I saw her--I saw him kissing a woman at the Drum as I passed; all
Ottinge might have done the same! Their shadows were on the blind.
I saw him and the woman drive away; they passed me in a motor, he,
leaning back delightfully at his ease, and she bending over him as if
she adored him! And this is not second-hand news, for I witnessed it
myself.”

“Why should you be so furious, Aurea? Aurea, _I_ know why!” and her
tone was vibrating and sarcastic.

The girl turned upon her with flashing eyes; but, before she could
speak, Mrs. Ramsay said--

“You say your news is first-hand--so is mine; I promised to keep Mr.
Wynyard’s secret.”

“Oh yes, I knew his name was Wynyard,” interrupted Aurea.

“Of course--my poor old man uttered it with his last breath. He was
fond of Owen; he mistook him for his friend and schoolfellow--Owen’s
father--and Owen allowed him to think so. I pledged myself to silence,
but even _he_ would permit me to break it now. The lady who came to
see Owen, and who has so excited your wrath, was”--speaking very
deliberately--“his sister, Lady Kesters.”

Aurea’s tortoiseshell brush fell to the floor with a resounding clang.
Then, in a very few words, Mrs. Ramsay--impulsive, eloquent, and
Irish--laid the whole story of Sir Richard’s bargain before the girl,
who stood listening as if in a dream.

“Mr. Wynyard was so good to my poor husband, and, indeed, to me, I’ll
never, never forget it. And, you see, Jimmy knew his father and mother,
whom he could not remember, and one night in the dusk, just before I
left, he told me his whole story. Of course I had always known he was
the son of Captain Wynyard, and that he himself had been in the Red
Hussars, but I did _not_ know why he was earning his bread as your
aunts’ chauffeur! He never said a word of you, but I understood--I
realised the attraction that kept him, a young man of the world, in
out-of-the-way Ottinge. He opened his heart to me that August night,
and now, Aurea, you have broken it.”

“I?”

“Don’t pretend,” she cried passionately, and she looked at her almost
threateningly; “don’t add to your sins. _You_ know as well as I do how
you treated him--certainly not as a lady should do; why, if I were
to meet one of the Brodfield fly-drivers here I’d give him a civil
greeting. You were outrageously rude--you overdid it. My only comfort
is that, to be so jealous, you must have been extremely fond of him.”

Aurea coloured--she could blush furiously--and her complexion was very
pink indeed, as seen through long strands of hair.

Then she sat down rather suddenly, and said--

“What’s done is done--and never can be undone!” and buried her face in
her hands.

Whereupon the Honourable Mrs. Ramsay, having said her say, and “rubbed
it in” remorselessly, quietly effected her departure.




CHAPTER XXXIII

SITUATION THE FOURTH


It was evident that some kind of armistice or _pourparlers_ had been
arranged between Mrs. Ramsay and her misguided young companion,
for, when the General, the Rector, and Mrs. Morven returned to
England, home, and duty, these ladies still remained abroad, and went
together to a small and picturesque village in the very heart of the
Alpes-Maritimes. Aurea longed for some such quiet retreat, where she
could hide herself, and recover from a blow which had still left its
quivering traces. Love and happiness were possibly within her reach,
and she had, in all ignorance, cast them aside; her widowed chaperone
understood and sympathised, and, though it was she who had inflicted
the wound, she was absolved.

In the inn of a little mountain village the friends spent three weeks
far from the giddy crowds, aloof from luxury, and the world. Here
were thick cups, thin candles, good coffee, and sour bread. What
long walks and talks they enjoyed, and how fully the girl opened her
innocent heart to the experienced, world-worn matron! Letters were
rare, and newspapers ignored; in Aurea’s mental condition, what were
to her the fate of plays, of Cabinets, yea, of nations? She was never
likely to hear tidings of _him_ through the Press; but here Aurea was
wrong. The unexpected--as is so frequently the case--declared itself.
One afternoon the two ladies walked to a town at some distance, and
as they waited for a well-deserved _café complét_, Mrs. Ramsay idly
glanced over an old and fly-blown copy of the continental _Daily Mail_,
and the following paragraph caught her eye and seemed to stab her in
the face:--

  “The neighbourhood of Villo, near Turin, has been shocked by a
  terrible accident, which took place yesterday. Mr. H. Masham, the
  well-known racing motorist, returning victorious from a competition,
  in order to avoid a wagon, dashed into a hillside at full speed.
  The motor turned over completely; he and the chauffeur were pinned
  underneath. Mr. Masham was dead when extricated, and there are no
  hopes of the recovery of his companion.”

Mrs. Ramsay made a desperate attempt to hide the paper, but it was
impossible to hide her own white face, and Aurea insisted on reading
the paragraph. When she had grasped its contents, she turned to her
friend for a moment with great, agonised, unseeing eyes, and for the
first time in her life of twenty-one years Aurea Morven fainted.

That same hour Mrs. Ramsay despatched a reply-paid telegram to the
Italian Hospital, asking for immediate tidings of Mr. Owen, and the
answer received was--

“Owen left yesterday--address unknown.”

Well, at any rate, he was still in the land of the living, and from
this important fact Miss Morven must extract such comfort as she
deserved.

The truth was, that the chauffeur’s injuries were not so severe as
had been supposed--a few cuts and bruises, a slight concussion, and a
broken collar-bone. His fine constitution had speedily carried him out
of the doctor’s hands, and when Wynyard returned to London, it was to
find that his sister and her husband had arrived as a part of the great
tide that flows annually from the West. Lady Kesters had heard of her
brother’s accident in New York, and spent a small fortune in cables,
and now they met again, after a separation of six months, with mutual
satisfaction; but, in spite of her insistence, Wynyard firmly resisted
his sister’s invitation to take up his quarters in Mount Street.

“No, no,” he answered, “that is not in the bond; I’ll get through on
my own. I’ve only four months to work off. I can run in and out till I
find another place.”

“What about money, my dear boy? Your stay in that Italian hospital must
have been expensive.”

“I was heavily insured against accidents; after my first week with
Masham--when I realised his style of driving, I took out a policy for
fifteen hundred pounds!”

“I wonder you dare get into a motor,” she said. “I don’t see how you
can possibly have any nerve left.”

“Oh, I’m not such a wreck as all that; and, considering everything,
I got off uncommonly well. I’m sure poor Masham was insane. He
certainly looked it at times. It’s my experience that there are quite
a good-sized crowd of lunatics about at large; I’ve knocked up against
one or two lately. Masham always prophesied he would be killed in a
motor accident--and seemed rather to glory in the prospect.”

“You do tumble into the queerest situations--old maids, dancers,
madman! I must confess I cannot understand why you remained with him,
carrying your life in your hands?”

“In Masham’s hands, you mean!” corrected her brother; “he seldom
allowed me to drive.”

“And if you had been killed, where, pray, did I come in--or Aurea
Morven?”

       *       *       *       *       *

Owen Wynyard’s next situation as chauffeur was with a certain Mrs.
Buckingham Brune, a wealthy matron who had a fine place in the north of
England. Miss Weedon, her daughter by a first marriage, was a notable
heiress, and her mother was determined that she should make an alliance
befitting her great fortune and fame. Her father, Sir Jacob Weedon, the
son of a peasant, had risen to wealth and honour solely through his
own active brain and dogged industry. He had not the smallest desire
to conceal his origin, and often alluded to the days when he was “a
poor, half-fed body”; and his coal-pick actually hung as a glorious
trophy over the chimneypiece in his smoking-room. But his wife was of
a different type; she smothered (when possible) his reminiscences,
and desired, since his death, to soar to other worlds--on the wings
of Ermentrude’s fortune; but Betsy Ermentrude, a simple maiden in her
prime, inherited her father’s character and ideas, and had no craving
for super-society or to wear the coronet of a peeress. Her mother had
married a second time, a good-looking young man, many years her junior;
he was a lazy member of an impoverished family, who had no objection
to a luxurious home, hunters, motors, pocket-money, and the best of
shooting. It was considered (among his intimates) that Toby Brune had
dropped into a “nice soft thing.” They were not, however, thinking
of Mrs. Brune, who was notoriously as hard as nails, but of Toby’s
enviable surroundings.

Miss Weedon made no rash assertions, never took exception to her
mother’s gay guests, but quietly made up her mind that, as her parent
had pleased herself, she would do likewise, and shape her own life.
Betsy was a slight, sandy-haired girl with appealing blue eyes, a
determined mouth, and a radiant smile. Her figure was willowy and
graceful; in short, she was unnecessarily pretty for an heiress.

This was the entourage in which the chauffeur now found himself, his
sole stipulation being to “live out.” He had no desire to mix with
the great staff of servants, and found comfortable quarters at one
of the gate lodges. The family owned no less than three fine cars;
the one Wynyard drove was a Panhard--the exclusive possession of Miss
Weedon and her friends. Mrs. Brune toured the country in a magnificent
Mercédès. She was a stout, black-haired lady, with a short neck and a
full meridian. To make her look young and slender was the hopeless task
of milliner and maid. Their employer had, however, contrived to squeeze
herself into the best society, was a clever, pushing woman, who had
early acquired the art of “Who to know, and who not to know.” Her cook
was a notable French chef, and smart guests, who stayed at the Court,
invariably carried away with them the happy tidings that “they had been
done remarkably well, and indirect everything was topping!”

Mrs. Buckingham Brune, for her husband’s benefit, rented a fine moor
in Scotland, and here the family were luxuriously established for
August and September. Owen, by special permission, lived with one of
the keepers, and was chiefly employed to fetch guests to and from the
station, or to motor the ladies to the neighbouring sights.

Occasionally Miss Weedon adventured forth alone, and, at a discreet
distance from the lodge, picked up a certain young man--who, as it
happened, was an acquaintance of the chauffeur’s. Miss Weedon’s
love-affairs were not precisely his business, but they had his sympathy
and, if desired, his sanction. Supposing Teddy Wantage were anxious
to marry the heiress and they liked one another, supposing he were
man enough to carry her off--who was to stand in their way? Not he!
He detested Mrs. Buckingham Brune, her preposterous pretensions, and
shameless tuft-hunting, and was fully prepared to help old lame-dog
Teddy over an awkward matrimonial stile.




CHAPTER XXXIV

SIR RICHARD AS CHAPERON


Sir Richard Wynyard was passing through Edinburgh on his way to London;
he had been shooting up in Perthshire, and found, as he drove up to
Waverley Station, that he had missed his train by two minutes--this,
and the fact that he felt some acute twinges of gout, combined to make
him a little short in his manner. As he had an hour’s wait, he pushed
up to the book-stall, gruffly demanded an English paper, and tossed a
copper in payment. The copper missed its goal, fell with a clang on
the flags, and a young man, who was also buying papers--a chauffeur
chap,--turned about, and Sir Richard found that he was face to face
with his nephew--also that he was extremely glad of the meeting. The
baronet was beginning to feel a bit lonely in life; now that old
age was reaching for him, he experienced the lack of some personal
belongings, of comfort and hope in the future, and a sense of exclusion
and loneliness invaded him, especially in those hours when he lay awake
’twixt dark and dawn. His nearest of kin, Leila and Owen, had been out
of touch with him for many months--Leila away in the United States, and
Owen working his life or death sentence.

He had been terribly frightened at the time of Mr. Masham’s accident,
had sorely repented of his bargain with his heir, and repeatedly said
to himself, “There was no doubt that motoring was an infernally risky
business.”

“Hullo, Owen!” he exclaimed, “what are you doing here?”

“I’m driving a car. My people have just gone off by the express.”

“Um--quite fit now?” looking him over from head to foot.

“Yes, thanks; I’m all right.”

“And what’s your job?”

“I’m chauffeur to Mrs. Buckingham Brune, of Ashbourne Court. She’s up
here on a moor just now.”

“Buckingham Brune--yes--yes--I know--enormously rich; daughter, a great
heiress--let’s see--a quarter of a million--Miss Weedon?”

“She was Miss Weedon till an hour ago; now she’s Mrs. Wantage! I
brought her in from the lodge this morning, attended the wedding, and
saw the runaway couple off ten minutes ago.”

“Bless my soul!” Sir Richard gave a little stagger. “What! eh? You
don’t mean it! I say, what a fellow you are for being in the thick of
rows and bothers!”

“Oh, no bother to _me_,” replied his nephew carelessly; “I’m only a
chauffeur, not a chaperon; but I must say I’m awfully glad Wantage
brought it off!”

“And what a haul--half a million!”

“Yes; but, upon my honour, I don’t believe he was thinking of the
money. She’s an uncommonly nice girl.”

Sir Richard’s face expressed scornful incredulity.

“Pity you didn’t go in for her yourself, eh!” Then, after a meditative
pause, “I expect there will be a holy row! What will her mother say?”

“That remains to be heard! She wanted her daughter to marry that
drunken little sweep, Vippen--he’s staying there now.”

“Lord Vippen?”

He nodded.

“And it’s my painful duty to face the music, and deliver the fatal
letter.”

Sir Richard gave a long whistle.

“Yes; it’s a job I don’t half fancy. Well, I must be getting a move
on--the car is just outside.” Then, holding out his hand, “I’m awfully
glad to have seen you, Uncle Dick, and looking so fit.”

“I say, Owen,” suddenly taking him by the arm and leading him aside,
“_I’ve_ had enough of this.”

His nephew stared at him interrogatively.

“Let’s cry quits--time’s up--all but a few weeks! You have done
uncommonly well, and I was an old idiot.”

“No, I don’t think so, sir. I believe it was quite a sound idea; but,
since you’ve given me the word, I must confess I’m not sorry it’s
finished.”

“And I’ll tell you what, my boy--you gave me a jolly good fright the
time Masham was killed.”

“Nothing to my own fright when the car turned over; but, I say, I must
be off to Hillstan--it’s thirty miles away--and do my errand. Where
shall I find you when I come back? I’m fairly safe to get the kick
out, and I expect I’ll have to walk to our nearest drivelling little
station.”

“Look here, Owen, I’ll hire a car. I’ll telephone now, and go with you,
and this other can fetch us back--we’ll have a good talk.”

Owen was secretly amused, though his face was impassive. Here was
Uncle Dick, extraordinarily eager for his company, actually chartering
a motor, and grudging him out of his sight for a couple of hours! He
never dreamt of the old man’s hungry heart--how, at times, life seemed
empty and hopeless--and he had nothing to look forward to but the
grave.

The narrow escape of his nephew had brought home to him that he was
really fond of the scapegrace now confronting him; even in a holland
coat and chauffeur’s cap, what a handsome, well-set-up young fellow!
And there was something different in this Owen: a look of decision,
manliness, and independence in his face; a strain of confidence in
his speech; even if he were not the future Sir Owen Wynyard, this
individual was undeniably capable of “hoeing his own row.”

He felt proud of this nephew, who seemed to be years older than the
Owen of the Red Hussars or Owen of the ranch--here was a full-grown
man! As a boy, Owen had never been afraid to look him squarely in the
face, but now his nephew’s eyes seemed to dominate him altogether. Was
it the younger generation knocking at the door?

“Mind you, if we meet Mrs. Brune, and you are in her car, she will run
you in for a Joy rider!” said his nephew, with a grin.

“Well, perhaps you’d better go alone. I was only thinking of backing
you up when she tackles you.”

“Awfully good of you. I’ll get you to back me up in earnest in another
direction.”

“As long as it’s not a bill!” and Sir Richard actually laughed.

“No, no; I’ve lots of money for a chauffeur--here’s the car, a 45 h.p.
Panhard--isn’t she a beauty?” he said, as they arrived at the station
entrance. “I’ll get it over as soon as I can, and bring my traps to the
Station Hotel.”

“Yes, I dine at eight sharp--good luck to you!” and he waved his hand
to his nephew, and then stood watching him as he steered through the
traffic with admirable judgment, and presently sped out of sight.

Then Sir Richard collected his luggage, engaged rooms at the hotel,
ordered a special reconciliation dinner, and wired to Lady Kesters,
“Have seen Owen--all is square. Expect us to-morrow.”

At eight o’clock uncle and nephew, in glossy shirts and evening-dress,
sat down _tête-à-tête_, to enjoy their oysters.

“And what about Mrs. Buckingham Brune?” inquired Sir Richard.

“She took it better than I expected. At first I thought she was going
to strike me, and I was in for a bad time; but when she heard that
Wantage was no pauper, and that his maternal uncle was a duke, she
calmed down, and I expect after a little time they will be all right.
She actually got the _Peerage_ and looked him up on the spot--my word
did not count! However, we parted friends; and she sent me over in the
car and offered me a splendid reference.”

“Oh, so you got round her! And what are your own plans, my boy?”

“The agency--and Wynyard--and----”

“Oh, that’s of course,” he interrupted; “but I mean now--to-morrow?”

“To-morrow I’d like to run up to Lossiemouth.”

“For golf--yes; but why not Berwick? It’s much handier!”

“Well, you see, Uncle Dick, I’m not specially interested in any one in
Berwick; but there’s a girl up north that interests me more than any
one in the world.”

“_Ah!_” hastily emptying his champagne glass, and putting it down with
a jerk.

“Now I’m no longer in service, and have some prospects, I want to find
out if she will marry me!”

“So it’s got as far as that, has it?”

“No, it has not even started. Last time we met, she would not speak to
me.”

“And what are you going on, then?”

“A mere chance. I believe there was a--a--misunderstanding, so a
friend told me; anyway, she’s the only girl I could ever care for.”

Sir Richard became more and more interested. Could it be possible that
Owen had inherited such loyal devotion from himself?

“Who is she?” he asked.

“She is Miss Morven, daughter of the Rector at Ottinge and the
Parretts’ niece. She sometimes came out in the motor, and I used to see
her in the garden.”

“And how did you make love to her--language of flowers, hey?”

“No; I never was anything but the chauffeur. I see by the _Scotsman_
she is up at Lossiemouth with her uncle, General Morven.”

“What--old Charlie Morven! Why, I know him. I’ll go up there with you
and see you through--and take him out of your way.”

“Do--it will be awfully decent of you; but Miss Morven may not have
anything to do with _me_!”

“What! not marry my nephew with Wynyard at his back and a fine fat
fortune! Nonsense, nonsense! Here, waiter, just fetch me a _Bradshaw_.”
Then to his companion, “I’ll wire for rooms to-night, and we will make
a start for Lossiemouth first thing to-morrow morning.”




CHAPTER XXXV

REINSTATED


It was dinner time in one of the larger hotels at Lossiemouth--a soft
September evening, the windows stood wide, admitting the warm salt air,
and above the clattering of plates and voices, one occasionally caught
the murmuring of the North Atlantic, the creak of an oar, or the scream
of a seagull. At a table in one corner a party of three were seated--a
party that were, as a rule, accorded an unusual and flattering amount
of attention--a white-moustached soldier, a dignified, elderly lady
(whose grey hair was undoubtedly dressed by a maid), and a remarkably
pretty, dark-eyed girl. They were in mourning, but nothing so deep as
to suggest an overwhelming calamity; the young lady wore white, the
elder black crêpe-de-chine, the man black studs and a black tie, and
their names in the hotel register were “Major-General, Mrs., and Miss
Morven, London.”

Miss Parrett was no more; a sudden attack of “her bronchitis”--she
always spoke as if it were an exclusive possession--had hurried her out
of existence. She had, however, executed her will, and after elaborate
directions respecting her funeral, her monument, and her hatchment,
it was found that she had bequeathed all she possessed to her sister
Susan, with the exception of her automobile, which was left to her dear
friend, Mrs. Maria Wiggens; and whether this memento was instigated by
generosity or malice, is a debated question until the present hour.
There were no legacies to charities, or even the smallest souvenir
for her special little clique. The contents of the testament were a
sore disappointment to some, but few grudged Miss Susan independence
and fortune, for she knew how to make excellent use of both. Isabella
Parrett was no more, and Susan, her sister, reigned in her stead.

The Morven family, who were not real heart-and-soul golfers, were
beginning to weary of the one perpetual subject that surrounded them
from morning till night. The difficulties of the fifth tee, vivid
descriptions of the various approaches, bunkers, and greens, had palled
somewhat--even on the General. He secretly languished for the society
of some one who had been in the Service, and a chance of discussing
the late manœuvres as described in the daily Press. New arrivals
were always a matter of interest, and here came two--ushered by the
head waiter. There was a certain stir and a good deal of staring as
a little elderly gentleman, with very square shoulders, and a young
man--possibly his son--approached.

“I say!” ejaculated General Morven, laying down his spoon, “if here
isn’t old Dicky Wynyard!” and he rose from his seat and made signals.
“Yes--and his nephew.”

Aurea looked up with startled eyes, and became suddenly white. There
was Owen approaching in the wake of his uncle; he wore an air of
complete self-possession, the usual dinner-coat, and had undoubtedly
cast off the rôle of chauffeur.

“I say, this _is_ good luck!” exclaimed the General, extending a genial
hand. “Fancy meeting you up here, Sir Richard! I did not know you ever
came North! Hullo, Wynyard, glad to see you. I’ve not come across you
in the club for ages.”

“Yes; I’ve been recommended to Lossiemouth to get the real,
unadulterated air straight from the North Pole and to have a little
golf, and I’ve brought this young fellow along with me,” Sir Richard
answered, lying boldly and with ease; his nephew was positively
staggered by such fluent proficiency.

“I think you know my wife,” said the General. “Yes; let me introduce
you to my niece, Miss Morven.”

Sir Richard bowed, and said--

“And allow me to present my nephew, Mr. Wynyard--Mrs. Morven,” and,
accompanying his introduction with a sharp glance, “Miss Morven.”

“Mr. Wynyard and I have already met,” she announced, in a faint voice.

“That’s all right, then,” said her uncle heartily. “Now we all know one
another,” and he rubbed his hands. “Sir Richard, will you sit at our
table? There is lots of room for five.”

“Thanks, we shall be delighted.”

“How did you discover Lossiemouth?” inquired Mrs. Morven when the
newcomers were seated.

“Well, the fact is, I never heard of it till lately, and then a friend
strongly advised me to try it--he said it was just the place to suit
me.” He glanced complacently at his nephew, as much as to claim
approval. “I’m uncommonly glad to meet you, General; we can have some
rounds together. What’s your handicap?”

As the two older men talked, Mrs. Morven proceeded to cultivate the
younger, and Aurea for once felt herself out in the cold and--what was
more serious--indescribably ill at ease. She dropped her fork, helped
herself twice to salt, and crumbled her uncle’s bread.

It was evident that Owen, or, rather, Mr. Wynyard, had made his peace
and was reinstated in his proper niche in society. Why had he come
to Lossiemouth? Why was Sir Richard looking at her so keenly with
his little searching eyes? Why was Owen making himself so extremely
agreeable to her aunt?--listening, with reverent sympathy, to a
harrowing description of her neuralgia, and a still more harrowing
account of the death of her beautiful prize blue Persian--run over by a
motor in Eaton Place.

“Think of it! A motor--a motor going over a cat!”

“I’m afraid motors are no respecter of persons or cats. As to dogs,
they are killed by the dozen.”

Mrs. Morven shuddered, sipped her claret, and turned the subject to
books and fiction.

“I hope you have brought something fresh? Our stock is nearly
exhausted.”

“I’m afraid not, only a couple of magazines; I was reading a thriller
in the train. The worst of it is, that just as you become passionately
interested and something tremendous is going to happen, you are choked
off by a full-page advertisement of pills or boot polish. I like my
fiction undiluted; don’t you?”

Aurea was amazed at this flow of conversation from the monosyllabic
Owen. Evidently Owen was one individual, and Mr. Wynyard another. She
was even more impressed by the quiet confidence of his manner. Had he
noted her embarrassment and nervousness? Suddenly he turned to her, and
said--

“And how is Ottinge, Miss Morven?”

The question was so unexpected that for an instant she could not find
her voice; there seemed to be an obstruction in her throat, but she
managed to reply--

“It is much as usual.”

“What! no change in twelve months!” he exclaimed, in a key of surprise.
“Oh, but, of course, the world flows very deliberately in that sleepy
old village. And how is Mrs. Ramsay?”

“Very well; she generally has a houseful of nephews and nieces, very
Irish and lively.”

“And the Hogbens--are they flourishing?”

“Yes, old Mrs. Topham is dead; she left a great deal of money in
unexpected places. Tom and Dilly are comparatively rich, and have moved
into Claringsbold.”

“So Miss Susan will have to look out for another gardener?”

“Yes; but she keeps three and a boy. She has a beautiful Panhard
landaulet.”

“I say--you don’t mean it!”

“And she is talking of putting up a conservatory, and has begun to
build a cottage hospital.”

“I won’t recognise the place. Is the Drum still standing? Have you a
rink and a theatre?”

Aurea smiled.

“And how is my dear old pal, Joss?”

“Getting a little stout for want of exercise.”

“I’d no idea you knew Ottinge so well,” put in Mrs. Morven. “What a
memory you have!”

“For some things, my memory is like a rat-trap, and for others my mind
is a blank.”

“I suppose you stayed at Westmere for the shooting?” broke in the
General.

“No; but”--and he glanced at Aurea--“I’ve often been there. What has
become of Bertie Woolcock?”

“Oh, by Jove! didn’t you hear? He went off to India to shoot big game,
and got caught himself! A very pretty, smart American girl he met on
board ship--no money--so on this occasion Uncle Sam has scored as
regards the dollars.”

By this time dinner had been brought to a close with large cups of
milky coffee, and the Morven party rose and drifted into the hall.
It was Aurea’s custom to sit out on the verandah with her uncle
as he smoked; her aunt betook herself and her neuralgia into the
drawing-room and there sat knitting amidst an agreeable circle of
matrons--chiefly Scotch. To-night, she half expected Aurea to accompany
her, and the young lady herself was undecided. The two elder men were
lingering in the hall, lighting up, and had already commenced an
animated discussion.--Owen had not yet produced his cigar case.--She
was on the point of following her chaperon, much as she disliked
sitting indoors this exquisite September night, when he said--

“Will you come for a stroll with me?”

She nodded assent, and turned to reach for her wrap with a fast beating
heart. The door had already closed on Mrs. Morven’s stately form, and
the young couple walked out through the porch, with a matter of course
air, and crossed the road towards the golf links and the beach. Sir
Richard followed them with his keen little eyes, but General Morven was
far too much engrossed in a Service grievance to see beyond his nose.




CHAPTER XXXVI

BY MOONLIGHT


As it was a lovely evening, many other couples were on the links or the
shore, lured abroad by the beauty of the scene, the clear radiance of
the northern sky, and the brilliance of a harvest moon. A soft, almost
languorous little breeze, stirred the long coarse grass among the
dunes--perhaps it had stolen across the bay from those dark mountains
of Rossshire, carrying tender messages from the purple heather?
To-night, the great burners in the lighthouse had a sinecure, for it
was as bright as day. From a villa overlooking the sea, a violin and
piano flooded the air with sounds that seemed to evoke the very spirit
of romance--a passionate triumph of the greatest gift in life.

As Aurea and her companion descended to the shore, they had scarcely
exchanged a word beyond Wynyard’s “Mind that stone,” and “Let us get
away from the crowd, right down to the sea.”

Aurea felt inwardly agitated, but determined to do her utmost to
exercise self-control. She knew instinctively that the most critical
hour in her life was about to strike. In a somewhat unsteady voice she
broke the silence--a woman sometimes does speak first.

“You are the very last person in the world I expected to see.”

He turned and faced her.

“Why?”

“For several reasons.”

“Can you guess the reason why I came up to Lossiemouth, and why I have
asked you to come out with me? I am a free man since yesterday; the
yoke is off, the gag is out of my mouth, and I want to repeat what I
told you on Yampton Hill--that I love you.”

There was a long pause, broken by the soft whispering of the ebbing
waves.

“I wonder you do!” said the girl at last; her voice broke as she added,
“after Monte Carlo.”

“Well, yes; I admit that that was pretty bad, and quite bowled me over;
but Mrs. Ramsay explained--she has been a good friend to me.”

“I did not know you had a sister,” continued Aurea, with a sort of sob.

“You knew nothing about me, and now you shall hear everything;” and in
a few hurried sentences he told her of India, Canterbury, and the bill,
his debts, of the City office, and the ranch.

“You see, Uncle Dick’s patience was fairly worn out, and, honestly, I
don’t wonder. I was always coming back on his hands; so he gave me the
two years’ sentence to earn my own bread, and be independent. I’m an
awful duffer in many ways, and I talked it over with Leila--my sister,
you know. I had to make a start at once, for one thing, and I’d no
chance of any good billet--everything now is examinations, or capital.
I suggested enlisting or breaking horses, but she put forward the
chauffeur scheme; it was rather a crazy idea, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know. You were a capital driver--even Bertie Woolcock allowed
that!”

“Well, anyway, Leila foisted me on your aunts--it was pretty cool, I’ll
admit--and just at first--I--well--I felt I couldn’t stand it. I’d had
a fairly rough time in the Argentine--it wasn’t that--but----”

“I know,” she broke in, “it was Aunt Bella.”

“I was not used to old ladies, and she was so--er--peculiar; I believe,
to the last, she thought I sold or drank the petrol. Well, I’d made
up my mind to clear out, and then--I saw you, and I decided to hold
on--yes, like grim death. It was a lucky day for me when you came to
the Manor--otherwise, I’d have gone away, and no doubt drifted about,
and become a regular slacker; but you held me fast. I settled down, I
made the best of the job, and took everything as it came in the day’s
work--for your sake.”

Aurea nodded.

“I got to like the Ottinge folk, and to know them and their rustic
ways, and, living as a working man, it was a splendid chance for me to
learn many things I was as ignorant of, as that stone. I used to sit in
the tap and listen to the talk, and got to see things from a different
perspective. And I’d some good times, too, at choir practice, and penny
readings, and the night of the servants’ ball at Westmere, when I had
one delicious waltz with you--do you remember?”

“I do, indeed, and how Bertie Woolcock snatched me away, and said
ladies should never dance with men-servants, and I replied, that his
mother had opened the ball with the butler!”

“You had him there; and then came my London situation, and the time
with Masham, and now it’s all over. I met Uncle Dick yesterday by
chance, and he has been a brick. We had a rare good old talk last
night, and I told him the history of the last eighteen months. I’m to
manage the property, go into the Yeomanry, live at Wynyard--it’s a big
rambling old house--and he thinks I ought to marry; what do _you_ say?”

Aurea was silent.

“My sister declares that in all her life she never heard of anything so
outrageously audacious and impertinent, as my imploring you to accept
me blindfold; and, as it is--you know so little of me. Why, we never
sat at table together till to-night. I’ve always been below the salt!”

As he ceased speaking and awaited her reply, Aurea plucked up her
courage and said: “But I do know you--I know you are kind and patient,
and good-tempered, and to be trusted.”

“And you do care for me?”

“Yes--I--always did--though I fought against it; and most of the time I
knew your name was Wynyard, and that you’d been in the Service.”

“But how on earth did you find it out?”

“By chance, from a Hussar in Brodfield; as he passed I heard him say to
his companion, ‘That’s Lieutenant Wynyard,’ but I kept the information
to myself.”

“And now there are no longer any secrets between us--you and I belong
to one another, don’t we?”

As Aurea, with a slight but significant gesture, assented, he drew her
close to him, she yielded, and he stooped and kissed her.

Someone in the villa above was playing Tschaikowsky’s “Chant sans
paroles,” and its tender and exquisite harmonies seemed an appropriate
accompaniment to the scene upon the shore.

It was ten o’clock, and Mrs. Morven, who was knitting and counting,
frowning and thinking, suddenly overheard a long-legged lassie, with a
tawny mane, say to her mother, in a tone of repressed excitement--

“Mother--only think! You know the pretty girl--the one we all admire--I
saw her on the beach just now, a good bit away, and she was crying I’m
sure--and the young gentleman who came at dinner time _kissed her_!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Morven rolled up her stocking, arose with deliberate dignity, and
sailed forth into the hall, where she found her husband and Sir Richard
talking to one another, with great animation, on the subject of rubber
shares.

“Where,” she inquired, with a dramatic gesture, “is Aurea? and,”
casting a keen glance at Sir Richard, “where is Mr. Wynyard?”

The General could put two and two together as well as most men. Yes, it
would do--nice young fellow--old family--baronetcy--and lots of money;
and, nodding at his companion with undisguised significance, he said,
as he rose--

“I say, Sir Richard, I suppose you and I will have to make a
search-party and bring our young people home!” (Our young people!)

Perhaps it is unnecessary to add that the same young people were by
no means grateful for their disinterested exertions. That night, at a
very late hour, Aurea confided to her aunt that she was engaged to Owen
Wynyard. Mrs. Morven, who had accompanied her niece to her bedroom,
stood by the table, knitting in hand--an embodiment of the judicial
British matron.

“Engaged! What nonsense, my dear girl! Why, you don’t know him! Where
have you met him?”

“Oh yes, I do; I knew him at Ottinge. He was Aunt Bella’s chauffeur for
six months.”

Mrs. Morven took two hurried steps to a chair, sat down upon it, and
gasped.

“Your aunts’ chauffeur!” she exclaimed at last. New and bright ideas
suddenly dawned upon her mental horizon. She never remembered to have
heard her niece mention the chauffeur--though more than once she
had spoken disparagingly of the green car. This silence, she now
realised, had held a most deadly significance. Yes, she saw it all--the
good-looking chauffeur had been at the bottom of _everything_: of
Aurea’s indifference to young men, her indifference to amusement--was
he the reason that last winter her niece’s brilliant young beauty had
become tarnished? She looked up at her to-night; Aurea was supremely
lovely.

“I see I have stunned you, Aunt Maggie.”

“And he was at Monte Carlo. Yes; I now remember him perfectly. I
thought the face was familiar; but why a chauffeur?”

“For the reason I refer you to his humpy little old uncle; but it’s all
right now.”

“Of course he is Leila Hesters’ brother, and Sir Richard’s
heir--Wynyard of Wynyard. Yes; I remember hearing that the young man
was very wild and extravagant, raced and gambled. However, he is
remarkably good-looking, and has charming manners; no doubt he has sown
his wild oats--I don’t envy him being in your Aunt Parrett’s service
for six months!” (These ladies had detested one another.) “_That_ was
enough punishment for anything! I suppose he really was employed--not
make-believe?”

“Make-believe! Employed! I should just think so--washing the car,
gardening, clipping hedges, cleaning windows----”

“Good heavens!” throwing up her delicate hands; “what possessed him to
stay?”

Aurea laughed and coloured, and then said--

“Well, Aunt Maggie--I--I suppose _I_ had something to say to it.”

“He must be extraordinarily devoted! Why, he must adore you, my dear!
I’m sure your uncle would never have cleaned windows and washed cars
for _me_! Ha! ha! well, Aurea, I confess I like your--er--chauffeur.”

“But he’s not a chauffeur now, and will soon have a motor of his own.
He is his uncle’s agent; we are to live at Wynyard, and have a splendid
allowance. Owen means to do a lot for the tenants, and I’m to take over
the village girls--oh, we have had such a talk!”

“A talk! Yes, no doubt. What will your father and Susan say?”

“They will be enchanted; they are both fond of Owen; indeed, for one
whole day, the village was thrilled with the idea that Susan and Owen
had _eloped_!” and she related the story with so much of her old
spirit, that her aunt lay back in her chair and laughed till she wept.

“I believe I shall like young Wynyard,” she repeated, as she dried her
eyes, “and you know your uncle and I look on you, Aurea, as our own
child, so the General will have a word in the settlements; and when you
marry, you shall have my emerald necklace. Good-night, dearest. I must
go off and talk this over with my old man. I declare I feel so excited,
that I’m sure I shall not sleep a wink.”

And what of Aurea, to whom Destiny had brought a rapturous fate within
the last two hours? She pulled up the blind, opened wide the window,
and, leaning her arms on the sill, gazed upon the scene--the gently
heaving ocean, the vast, limitless firmament, the silver moonlight--and
wondered, was any girl in all the wide world as happy as herself?


THE END


_Printed by_ MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED, _Edinburgh_




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.