BY THE SUNDIAL
A long time had elapsed since a tragedy or an inquest had taken place
in Ottinge; the last had occurred twenty years previously, when Joe
Watkins (a village name), being jealous, had thrown his wife down a
well, and, despite her prayers, entreaties, and screams, had left her
to drown, for which crime he had paid the extreme penalty of the law in
Brodfield Gaol.
A suicide was something entirely foreign to the character of the
community, and the topic was exhaustively debated in the Drum.
Joe Thunder gave it as _his_ opinion that the remains of Captain
Ramsay--speaking from recollection--would be buried with a stake at
a cross-roads--probably at Crampton, being nearest. The village was
stirred out of its normal lethargy and, secretly, rather proud of being
the scene of a sensation, and newspaper paragraphs.
The Parson and Miss Morven spent the night succeeding Captain Ramsay’s
death at Ivy House, and were anxious to carry his widow off to the
Rectory; but she preferred to remain in her own home until after the
funeral, and then leave Ottinge. All Mrs. Ramsay’s little world, gentle
and simple, had shown her their kindness and sympathy: the Rector
looked after business matters, Miss Susan had undertaken correspondence
(she enjoyed letter-writing), Wynyard took charge of the dogs, whilst
Aurea gave personal attendance and warm affection.
The inquest was conducted as quietly and as speedily as possible,
thanks to the good offices of Dr. Boas; the verdict returned was
“suicide whilst of unsound mind,” and the jury offered their sincere
condolences with the widow. At the funeral Ottinge was proud to note
a lord and two honourables appearing as mourners, and the remains of
Captain Ramsay received Christian interment in the churchyard; there
was no word of cross-roads--much less a stake!
Afterwards, Mrs. Ramsay’s brothers, who were guests at the Rectory,
took their departure, and it was generally known that their sister
would follow them to Ireland within a week. Her obstinate persistence
in for years clinging to a man who by rights should be in an asylum
had alienated her friends; but now that he was no more, there reigned
a great peace. The boarder dogs had been abruptly dispersed, and
Wynyard, who obtained special leave, personally conducted several
parties over the fields to Catsfield station, and wound up matters
out of doors. Aurea did the same within--but they rarely met. She was
surprised to discover the footing on which her aunts’ chauffeur stood
at Ivy House. Till now she knew little of their acquaintance; it was a
before-breakfast and after-dark affair.
It was also Wynyard’s task to collect and sort and pack the Captain’s
belongings, by his widow’s particular desire.
“I like to have you about,” she said. “Is it not wonderful how well we
have got to know one another, and how much we have in common, since I
opened the hall door to you, a stranger, that wet morning last April?
Jim was devoted to you, and you were so good to him--sitting here,
evening after evening, talking and listening and playing picquet with
that poor fellow. Oh, Owen, if you had known him as your father and
I knew him, you would understand why I, forsaking all my own people,
clung to him till the _end_!”
“Yes, you did that!” he answered, with emphasis.
“Only think of the tragedy of his life,” she resumed, in a broken
voice, “the last fifteen years, all through a branch knocking off his
sun topee and his determination to get first spear. Oh, what a little
thing to mean so much! The way of life.”
Wynyard, the handy man, packed up cases containing old Indian relics,
such as faded photographs, horns, bear skins, khaki uniforms, Sam Brown
belts, packets of tiger claws, and all sorts of rubbish dear to Mrs.
Ramsay. Among the collection was a photograph album, aged at least
thirty years, and considerably the worse for Indian rains and Ottinge
damp.
“I think this must be your father,” said Mrs. Ramsay, pointing to the
old-fashioned carte-de-visite of a handsome man in Hussar uniform, “and
this is your mother opposite,” indicating a pretty, dark-eyed girl
holding up a puppy. “You see, she was fond of dogs, like you and me! Do
you care to have them?” drawing them out as she spoke.
“Yes, thank you most awfully, I should. It’s funny that I should come
upon my people and hear so much of them in Ottinge of all the world! I
don’t remember either of them, for my mother died when I was two years
old, and my father was killed at polo--it killed her too--and then my
sister and I were sent home.”
“So you have a sister?”
“I have very much a sister,” and he laughed; “she has all the family
brains--and her own as well.”
“I will not allow that, Mr. Wynyard; it was marvellous how, with a few
hints from me, you threw yourself into a life before you were born.
Isn’t it strange that I am the only one in Ottinge who knows your real
name?”
“Except Miss Morven,” he corrected. “You know he recognised me, and
said ‘Wynyard.’”
“Yes, but no doubt she believes he was wandering. You don’t wish your
surname to be known here, do you?”
“No, my christian name does as well.”
“I must confess I wonder you remain! You are so young, and life here
is deadly dull for such as you, with all the years and energies before
you,” and she looked at him interrogatively. It was dusk; she was
sitting in the deep drawing-room window, her slim figure silhouetted
against the fading light. Wynyard had been nailing down some cases, and
came and stood, hammer in hand, in the middle of the room. She knew
perfectly well why he remained in the sleepy village; it was because
Aurea Morven had glorified Ottinge.
“I believe I know your secret,” she remarked suddenly. He made no
reply. Mrs. Ramsay was no doubt thinking of Aurea, whilst he was
dwelling on the bargain with his uncle. Should he tell her? They had
of late been drawn so much to one another--she already knew half
his story, and had just given him the photographs of his father and
mother--her husband and his father had been like brothers--yes--he
would!
And there in the semi-dusk, leaning his hands on the back of a chair,
in as few words as possible, he related his tale, and how he had made a
solemn compact for two years, which compact he was bound to keep to the
letter and the bitter end.
“And it’s a good deal more bitter than I expected,” he concluded.
Listening with tightly folded hands, the slim figure in black accorded
him her entire sympathy. Now she was in possession of all his
confidence, and such was his unhappy plight, he was desperately in love
with a girl, and could neither speak nor show a sign--nor make his real
position known. What an amazing state of affairs! Did Aurea recognise
in Wynyard a silent worshipper? And was it not true that love and smoke
cannot be concealed?
“You will keep this to yourself, I know,” he said. “I’m not _sure_ that
I’m within my right in telling you, but somehow I had to.”
“You may be certain I shall never breathe it till you give me
permission,” she answered, drawing a long breath; “but what an
extraordinary man your uncle must be!”
“Yes, he is eccentric; but I believe he is right--this sort of
apprenticeship will do me a jolly lot of good. I know more of the
people now I’m one of them. Many a thing I’ve learnt here, that I’d
never have had a glimpse of, and I must tell you fair and square that I
gave Uncle Dick a lot of bother in the way of my debts.”
“Hereditary extravagance--your father--a younger son--drove a
four-in-hand, you know. Ah, here comes Aurea,” as the little gate
swung. “I half promised to go over there this evening.”
“Then good-bye, I’m off; I’ll finish the packing to-morrow,” and he
escaped through the back garden.
It was abundantly evident that of late Miss Morven avoided him, and he
had not spoken to her since the tragic occasion when they both hung
over a dying man on the high road to Upstreet.
More than six months had gone by since he had come to Ottinge;
sometimes it seemed an endless time, at others as but yesterday. One
thing was clear and stationary in his mind--his living among working
people had opened the eyes of a future landowner, given him a better
estimate of his responsibilities, and a sympathy and understanding that
nothing could obliterate.
At last Ivy House was closed; the blinds were drawn down, the key hung
in Mrs. Hogben’s bedroom, and the memory of the recent catastrophe had
become a little dim. It was three weeks since the Captain had killed
himself, and other events had begun to press upon public attention.
Since the tragedy Aurea had absolutely refused to drive in the motor,
to her Aunt Bella’s great annoyance; she was painfully anxious to have
it in daily use, for she feared that being the cause of a man’s death
might depreciate the car’s value! And when the girl announced she would
never get into it again, she was furious, and her face assumed a dull
red shade as she asked--
“Do you mean to tell me that, if there’s an accident to a carriage, or
if a cart runs over somebody, that cart is never to be used? How could
people get on?” she demanded. “I never heard of such affected nonsense.
And now I suppose you will go and give my nice car a bad name? As if it
could help the madman throwing himself under it!”
“I’ll say nothing about it, Aunt Bella, you know that perfectly well;
but if you had been in the motor yourself and felt the _crunch_, I
don’t think you would have cared ever to drive in it again.”
“Rubbish--you are hysterical! You should get Dr. Boas to give you a
tonic and go away somewhere for a change; only you are too much away
from your father as it is--every one says so. It was remarked to me
only the other day.”
“It is funny, Aunt Bella, how many people make nasty remarks about me
to you. Do you suppose that they think you like hearing them?” and she
laughed, and before Miss Parrett could find her breath or an answer had
left her.
It was a fact that Miss Parrett cultivated a cordon of idle, elderly
women, who came to tea or lunch or to spend the day, who were aware
that Miss Parrett had “a good deal in her power to bestow” (not only
in the form of fruit and vegetables), and who knew that, even more
than talking of herself and her wonderful successes in her youth, her
many broken-hearted lovers, she liked to discuss her pretty, popular
niece and to listen to their hostile criticisms. Miss Parrett was
openly jealous of this girl’s ascendancy in Ottinge, where _she_ was
the great lady. After all, Aurea was only a sort of half-niece, and she
could leave her money where she liked. This notification was promptly
repeated, and received with unqualified and respectful approval, by the
two Miss Dabbs and Mrs. Forbes Cattermole and her freckled daughters.
On these occasions, when Aurea was the topic, and her appearance,
manners, and customs were figuratively placed under the microscope, and
then exhaustively debated, the entrance of Miss Susan was invariably
followed by an abrupt and awkward silence.
* * * * *
It was a lovely afternoon--Saturday--the third day of September, and
the chauffeur was working in the Manor garden close by the sundial,
repairing some of the rose pergolas with nails and wire. Suddenly, to
his delight, he beheld Miss Morven coming through the yew arch nearest
to the house--a slim white figure in a dark green frame--with her hat
over her arm, and accompanied by Joss, who, in exuberant joy, was
leaping his own height from the ground.
As the young lady sauntered slowly up the broad walk, she stopped every
now and then to pick flowers from the luxuriant borders on either hand.
As these were white, she was evidently gathering them for the church.
He watched, surreptitiously, her wonderfully supple figure, her lithe
grace, as she stooped and stretched hither and thither. Aurea had grown
thin, her lovely colour had certainly faded, no doubt she had not yet
recovered from the shock of Captain Ramsay’s horribly sudden death.
By and by his vicinity was discovered to her by Joss, who had been
dashing about among the cabbages in chase of an historic pheasant, and
now accorded him a rapturous acknowledgment. He had just finished his
task, and stepped out into the walk; as the young lady approached he
touched his cap, and she halted for a moment and said, with obvious
hesitation--
“A lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, miss;” and then he ventured to add, “You never come out in the
car now?”
“No,” she answered, “never again; it’s a juggernaut!”
“I would not say that!” he protested. “What happened could not have
been helped; of course, it’s an old machine and out of date”--(he was
thinking of the 60 h.p. Napier at Westmere)--“and requires a lot of
humouring to get her to run at all, and if put to too high a pressure
might go to pieces--still----”
But here Miss Morven interrupted with a hasty gesture, and, laying her
flowers upon the sundial, turned to face him fully, and said--
“I’m rather surprised”--she paused for a moment, and then
resumed--“that when you saw what a dull sort of place this was, and
what a wretched old car you had to drive, you stayed on. You really
have no proper job; my aunt’s motoring is absurd. I cannot imagine why
you remain here.”
“Can you not, miss?” he answered, in a low voice, his gaze fixed on
the sundial and its motto, “Time Trieth All.” Suddenly raising his
eyes, he met hers steadily--for one unguarded moment the truth was in
his face!--and there was a thrill of passion in his voice as he added,
“Then, in that case, I am afraid it would be impossible for me to tell
you.”
For as long as one could count ten, there was an expressive silence,
only broken by the crashing of cabbage leaves, the notes of wood
pigeons, the boom of a passing bee.
Miss Morven remained motionless, but the trembling of her lip indicated
the tension of her self-control, and a wave of sudden colour invaded
her cheeks, and raced up into her wavy dark hair. This tell-tale blush
betrayed that she knew as well as the chauffeur, his sole reason for
remaining in Ottinge.
Then without a word she lifted the flowers, and, holding herself
unusually erect, the slim white figure proceeded down the walk that led
towards the old bowling-green.
Wynyard, as he stood watching her, asked himself, Was she also passing
out of his life? In another moment a yew hedge had hid her from his
eyes.
“I believe I’ve done it now!” he muttered. “I could not help it; she
knows, and is ready to kill me for my presumption! She will tell her
aunts, and I shall get the sack.”
He picked up a small blossom that Aurea had dropped on the sundial,
opened his watch, and carefully placed the little flower along with the
little photograph. When people are in love, what irrational follies
tempt them!