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.