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.”