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.