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.”