AN HOUR OF LIBERTY
The white flowers had been gathered on Saturday in the Manor garden,
and it was now Monday. Miss Parrett had adventured a drive to Westmere,
returning home by four o’clock, and the car being washed and put away
betimes, the chauffeur found himself at liberty. The glowing and
golden September evening was enticing, and, whistling for Joss, he
set out for a good long stretch before supper. On this occasion, man
and dog deserted the low country and the water-meadows, and climbed
the hills which sheltered the village. Their road lay by a grassy
cart-track, which ran sometimes between high hedges, sometimes along a
headland, with here and there a hoary old gate--it was chiefly used in
harvest-time (indeed, wisps of fresh hay and straw were still clinging
to the bushes), and was the short-cut to Shrapton-le-Steeple, a hamlet
which lay eight miles south of Ottinge. The track emerged upon a bare
plateau, from whence was a fine view of the surrounding country, and
here was also a sharp freshness in the air, which the man inhaled
with unmistakable enjoyment. Here, too, in the banks, were inviting
burrows, and these afforded the dog an absorbing interest, as he drew
their savour into his nostrils with long-drawn sniffs of ecstatic
satisfaction.
After a tramp of between three and four miles, Wynyard threw himself
down on a tempting patch of grass, drew out his case, and lit one of
Martin Kesters’ excellent cigars. His eyes roamed meditatively over
the broad landscape below, stretching away into the dim distance--the
spreading uplands splashed with orange gorse, dotted with sheep and
cattle, with here and there a rust-coloured farmhouse, whose pale
blue smoke lazily ascended into the cool clear air. Wynyard enjoyed
the scene and the sensation of absolute freedom; at least he was out
of livery--he glanced at his shabby tweed coat--beyond the reach of
orders, and master of himself! Not much to boast of! To think that
this job was the only one he could take on when driven into a corner
by circumstances and Uncle Dick! He had no head, that was his trouble,
although he could keep it at a pinch--and wasn’t this what was called
a paradox? If he were only clever with his tongue and his pen, like
Leila, and had her talent for languages and for organisation, her
genius for saying and doing the right thing!
As he unconsciously picked bits of grass, his thoughts returned to
Aurea and their recent meeting in the Manor garden. Her confusion and
her vivid blush held for him a most stupendous significance. Memory and
imagination had magnified the occasion, until it seemed to be the one
important event in his whole life!
If, by any chance, Aurea cared for him, and saw in him something more
than her aunts’ civil man-servant, why should he not present himself in
his true character? The gruff replies in imitation of Tom Hogben were
surely an unnecessary handicap? Anyway, he had let himself go on the
night of the accident, hustling and ordering on the spur of the moment,
sending Miss Morven for water, Miss Susan for wood--though no doubt
they were both too much upset to have noticed anything besides the
tragedy.
Possibly a change of manner would make a difference, and Aurea was so
bright, and so wonderfully clear-sighted, she might divine something
of his situation, and wait. “Wait!” repeated incredulous common sense,
“wait eighteen months till he had cast off his shackles!” On the other
hand, Bertie Woolcock loomed large. Undoubtedly he would not wait, nor
would Aurea’s own relations. The Rector himself was a good, unworldly
old scribbler, but the people that mattered, such as Miss Parrett
and General and Mrs. Morven, they would never allow their niece to
refuse many thousands a year and Woolcock, in order to keep faith with
a mysterious and penniless chauffeur. And Bertie undoubtedly meant
business; he was continually appearing at the Rectory or the Manor,
charged with paltry messages and unnecessary notes--any excuse or
none served him! He even attended evening church, where he openly and
shamelessly worshipped the Rector’s daughter, and not the Rector’s God.
As Wynyard contemplated Woolcock’s position and the desperate obstacles
that lay in his own path, he picked many blades of grass. Naturally
he disliked his rival; he remembered him when he was in the upper
fourth at Eton, a big, loutish fellow--not of course in Pop--and an
awful duffer at games; who never did anything for himself, that others
could be bullied into doing for him. “Woolly” was now a stout, sleek,
well-groomed man of thirty, with a heavy red face, a lethargic manner,
and--in the company of respectable women--a great talent for silence.
Supposing that Aurea was talked over? Westmere was a temptation. No; he
could not face such a hideous possibility--yet he was penniless and
gagged. Woolly, a rich man and free; he, a prisoner to a promise and in
a false position--a position which compelled him to touch his cap, not
only to his lady-love, but to his rival! and the latter salutation made
him feel murderous.
Woolly had tons of money; he was so rich that possibly he had never
seen a penny! His attentions to Aurea, his rides, his churchgoing, his
marked civilities to Miss Parrett, paraded themselves before Wynyard’s
mental sight--and the old Polly bird was all for the match! Why, that
very afternoon, as she was leaving Westmere, she had held a long,
mysterious “last word” conversation with Mrs. Waring before she bundled
into the car, and squeaked out “Home--and go slowly!” Meanwhile,
Woolcock’s fluffy-haired sister stood on the steps with her hands on
her hips, a newly lit cigarette in her mouth, the very embodiment of
triumphant satisfaction!
Undoubtedly a solemn treaty had been signed and sealed. He had no
powerful allies, how could he interfere? His mind groped round the
puzzle in confusion and despair. If his own forefathers had not been
such crazy, spendthrift fools, he would not have found himself in
this maddening situation. To think that his great-grandfather had
lost thousands of pounds and hundreds of acres, racing snails on the
dining-room mahogany, against another lunatic! However, the original
place still remained in the family, also the most important heirlooms,
and these were _pucka_ (good old Indian word!) and not those of other
people.
If he could only hold on to the end, and put in his time fairly and
squarely, he might yet see Aurea at Wynyard--though at present his
prospects were blank; all he had to his name was his weekly wages,
and these wages, figuratively, bore him into the presence of Miss
Parrett. What an old bully she was! how she brow-beat and hectored her
unfortunate sister, and what a jabbering impostor! talking incessantly
of all she did, and was going to do, but leaving everything in the way
of work to Miss Susan and her niece--whilst _she_ trotted round spying
and scolding.
As Wynyard reclined against the bank smoking, absorbed in his
reflections--and Joss was equally engrossed in an adjacent ditch--a
far-away sound broke faintly on their ears. In a few seconds this had
resolved itself into the regular “thud, thud, thud,” of a galloping
horse, and here he came into sight--a chestnut in a lather, with
streaming reins, and exultant tail, carrying an empty side saddle.
Wynyard instantly recognised Aurea’s weedy thoroughbred, and, flinging
away his cigar, ran forward, but the animal, bound for his stable, was
not thus to be captured and detained; with a snort of defiance, he made
a violent swerve, and tore on, hotly pursued by Joss.