LIEUTENANT WYNYARD
It was an undeniable fact that the chauffeur spent much more time in
the Manor grounds than driving the car. The car was rarely used, and
anything was better than loafing about the yard or the village with his
hands in his pockets--one of the unemployed. Wynyard liked the fresh
smell of the earth, and growing things, the songs of birds--especially
of the blackbird, with his leisurely fluting note.
The garden, which lay to the left of the house, overlooked meadows, and
was evidently as ancient as the Manor itself. It was also one after
the heart of Bacon, “Spacious and fair, encompassed with a stately
hedge.” The farmer, who had neglected the roof and upper floors of the
dwelling, had suffered these same yew hedges to grow as they pleased;
and they now required a great deal of labour in trimming them to
moderate proportions. The soil was rich--anything and everything seemed
to flourish in the garden, which was intersected by broad gravelled
walks that crossed one another at regular intervals; these were lined
by a variety of old-fashioned plants--myrtle, lavender, and sweetbrier,
grown to gigantic dimensions; here were also Madonna Lilies, London
Pride, Hollyhocks, Sweet-William, and bushes of out-of-date roses, such
as the “York and Lancaster,” and other Georgian survivals. Precisely
in the middle of the garden, where four walks met, was a hoary sundial,
which bore the inscription, “TIME TRIES ALL.” A path, leading direct
from the sundial to an ancient bowling-green, was enclosed with rustic
arches, and in the summer time the Manor pergola was a veritable tunnel
of roses, and one of the sights of the neighbourhood.
And here it was that the unemployed chauffeur spent most of his time,
clipping intractable hedges, planting, pruning, and digging. Such
occupation removed him effectually from the orbit of his enemy--Miss
Parrett--who merely pottered about the beds immediately surrounding the
house. This was Miss Susan’s realm--she was the family gardener; his
volunteered labour also afforded Wynyard the now rare and priceless
privilege of seeing Miss Morven when she ran in to talk to her aunt
and help in the greenhouse--since, thanks to her active exertions, the
Manor had been set in order, and her visits were no longer of daily
occurrence. Now and then he caught sight of her, walking with Mrs.
Ramsay and her “guests,” motoring with Mrs. Waring, or riding with her
father. Once or twice they had passed him in the lanes at a late hour,
riding fast, pursued by the panting Mackenzie. His best opportunity
of meeting the young lady was at choir practice, and here he admired
Miss Morven, not only for her sweet, clear voice, but her marvellous
tact and admirable skill, the way she pacified Pither, the cranky old
organist (a fine musician), and smoothed down rivals who claimed to
sing solos, applauded the timid, and gently repressed the overbold. It
was delightful to watch her consulting and advising and encouraging;
but how could any one escape from the effect of that girl’s beauty and
contagious spirits? or withstand the influence of the subtle power
called charm?
On Sundays she sat in the Rector’s pew, facing the square enclosure
of the Woolcocks, over which hung stately hatchments and memorials of
the Davenant family; and from his corner in the choir Wynyard noted,
with secret uneasiness and wrath, how the heir of Westmere--a squarely
built, heavy young squire--kept his worshipping eyes fastened upon
Aurea’s clear-cut profile. After all, what was it to him? he asked
himself furiously. Young Woolcock was heir to twenty thousand a year,
and what was _he_ at present? but her aunts’ servant!
There had been a good deal of excited speculation in the village
respecting Wynyard--as to who he really was, and where he came from.
But although some swore he had been a soldier, and others vowed he had
been a sailor, no one was any the wiser than the first day that he had
arrived at Mrs. Hogben’s, followed by his yellow tin box. “Ay, he could
hold his tongue, that was sure; and was always ready enough to lend an
ear to other people’s affairs--but tight as an oyster with regard to
his own.”
Miss Susan, who felt towards him a kindness that was almost maternal,
tormented by curiosity, had done her utmost to pump him. One day, in
the greenhouse, she had seemed to see her opportunity. He had read off
a French name on a label, and his accent and glibness were perfection.
“Ah! I see you have had a good education, Owen,” she remarked, beaming
at him over her glasses.
“Oh, middling, miss.”
“You keep a boy to clean the motor, I hear!”
“Only once or twice, miss, when my hand was sore. His people are poor,
and a shilling doesn’t come amiss.”
“I feel certain,” clearing her throat, “that you are not accustomed to
this sort of life, Owen.” As she spoke, she kept her clear blue eyes
on his face, and looked at him with the direct simplicity of a child.
“I am interested in you, Owen. Do tell me about yourself, you know I
wish you well.”
“Miss Susan,” and he straightened his shoulders and set down the pot
he was holding, “you received my reference from Lady Kesters--and I
believe it was all right?”
Miss Susan became very red indeed, and the garden scissors slipped from
her thumb. There was something unusual in the young man’s tone and
glance.
“If you or Miss Parrett find that I am not giving satisfaction----”
“Oh no, no, no!” she broke in breathlessly, “I--I’m afraid I’m rather
inquisitive--but I take a real interest in you, and you have been
_such_ a help to me--and I feel so friendly towards you--but, I won’t
ask you any more questions.”
This little scene was subsequently related to Aurea, as she and her
aunt drank tea together at the Rectory, and Miss Susan imparted to the
girl--between bites of buttered toast--her own eager speculations.
Mystery has a wonderful charm! A handsome young man, who was both
reserved and obliging, who, it was known, was respected in the Drum,
and kept to himself, and whom she believes to be one of her own
class--offers a dangerous attraction for a girl of twenty! Aurea
debated the puzzle in the abysmal depth of her own heart, and when a
girl once allows her thoughts to dwell persistently upon a man--no
matter what his station--her interest in him is bound to develop far
beyond the bounds of everyday acquaintance!
Aurea was startled to discover that her mind was dwelling on the
chauffeur more than was desirable; he occupied too large a share of
her thoughts, though she did her utmost to expel him, and fill them
with other matters--such, for instance, as the parish almshouses, the
clothing club, and the choir--but a taciturn, mysterious young man,
figuratively, thrust himself head and shoulders above these commonplace
matters. Owen had a good voice, and had been impressed into the
choir--a rollicking hunting song, sung at the Drum, had betrayed him.
It was customary there, on certain nights, to sit round in a circle and
call upon the members for entertainment, and Owen’s “John Peel” had
established his reputation.
Aurea was secretly annoyed by the way that girls on practice nights set
their caps at the newcomer--boldly attracting his attention, appealing
to his opinion, nudging one another significantly, and giggling and
simpering when they spoke to him. And he? He met them half-way, shared
hymn-books, found places, and talked, and seemed to be entirely happy
and at ease in their company. Why not? He was ostensibly of their
own class. He had not flinched from accepting a peppermint from Lily
Jakes,--on the contrary, had received it with effusion,--and the
overblown rosebud, tossed at him by Alexandra Watkins, had subsequently
decorated his buttonhole.
Aurea contemplated these signs of good fellowship with stifled
irritation. Was she envious, because the chauffeur, her aunts’ servant,
usually so monosyllabic and self-contained, could laugh and talk with
these village girls? At this appalling arraignment her face flamed, she
shrank in horror from her own thoughts. No, no, no, a hundred thousand
times no!
Still, it must be confessed that, strive as she would, she could not
help wondering and speculating about Owen, the chauffeur--whether she
saw him vigorously washing the car, or trundling a wheelbarrow in the
garden; zealously as he worked, it seemed to her observant eye that
he looked as if he had not been accustomed to such employment. Who was
he? The answer to this question came to her unexpectedly, and in a most
unlikely place.
Aurea and her Aunt Susan went to Brodfield one afternoon, in order to
execute various commissions for the Manor; the car was grudgingly lent
for the occasion. There would have been no expedition, only that Miss
Parrett was out of a certain shade of pink wool, the new cook was out
of tapioca, and Miss Susan was a little out of sorts, and declared that
“a drive in the air would cure her.” The car waited at the post office,
whilst the ladies accomplished their different errands in different
shops. Aurea was the first to finish, and was sauntering slowly up the
street, when she noticed that rare sight--a soldier in uniform--a smart
Hussar on furlough, with a friend in mufti, coming towards her. As they
passed the car, they glanced at it, and the soldier started, made a
sort of halt, stared stupidly, and brought his hand to the salute! Yes,
and the chauffeur gave him a little nod, and put his finger to his cap!
(apparently unconscious of Miss Morven’s vicinity).
As the two men approached, talking loudly, she overheard the Hussar
say, as he strutted by--
“Well I’m damned, if that fellow on the car wasn’t Lieutenant Wynyard!
I was in his troop at Lucknow--a rare smart officer, too. What’s his
little game?”
“You’d better go back and arsk ’im,” suggested the other, with a loud
laugh.
“Not _me_,” and they were out of earshot.
Aurea felt dumbfounded, as she moved on and got into her place. Susan,
of course, was lingering as usual, chattering and last-wording to
acquaintances, and she was not sorry to have a few moments to herself,
to sit and meditate on her surprising discovery. So Owen’s real name
was Wynyard--and he had been an officer in a Hussar regiment. What
_was_ his game?
And her first impressions were justified; he was a gentleman, in spite
of Joey’s authoritative verdict and Mrs. Ramsay’s gloomy forebodings.
What dreadful thing had he done to be compelled to live under an
assumed name, and bury himself, of all places, in Ottinge?
Aurea was now more deeply interested and puzzled than ever! She and
Susan had no secrets from one another--for Susan was so young in her
mind and heart that she seemed to be almost Aurea’s contemporary!
From the first they liked the chauffeur, and though they had not said
much, each was conscious of the other’s opinion. Now that Aurea knew
his name and former status for a fact, strange to relate, she resolved
to have just this one little secret from Susan--and keep the knowledge
to herself!
On the way home she proved an unusually silent and unsympathetic
companion. Her conversation was jerky and constrained; she was not in
the least interested in the scraps of local news that her aunt had
collected in street and shops, but appeared to be lost in a maze of
speculation and abstraction.