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.