A rolling stone

The morning succeeding the motor’s first trip proved depressingly wet; thick mists of cold spring rain shrouded the outlook from the Manor, beat down upon the pleasure ground, and made pools in the hollows of the drive.

Miss Parrett, who was, as the servants expressed it, “dodging” in and out of the sitting-room, issuing commands and then withdrawing them, fastened upon the chauffeur the moment he came for orders.

No, the car would not be required, and he could go some errands into the village.

“Mind you don’t go loitering and gossiping,” she added. “I know your sort, chattering with the maids. Remember that your time belongs to me;” and she pointed a stumpy forefinger at her knitted jacket. “I’ve a note for Miss Morven at the Rectory, and another for Ivy House, and I want some things at Topham’s shop. I’ll give you a list. You can go into the schoolroom and wait.”

Calm with excessive rage Wynyard entered the schoolroom, where he found Miss Susan with a handkerchief tied over her head, and an apron over her dress, unpacking dusty china from a battered case.

“Such a day!” she exclaimed cheerfully; “and they say it’s going to last—so we shall be very busy, and make use of you.”

“All right, miss,” he assented shortly; the accusation of “chattering with maids” still left its sting.

“We are going to get up the cases of old books and china, and unpack them here. The carpenter is putting shelves in the library; but he is such a lazy fellow, I don’t expect he will come out in this weather.”

“There you are as usual, Susan, talking and idling people,” said her sister, entering with two notes and a list; and in another moment Wynyard had been dispatched.

First of all he went to the Rectory, and here the door was opened by Mr. Morven himself, attended by Mackenzie, who immediately stiffened from head to tail, and growled round the chauffeur’s legs, evidently recognising in him the ally of his mortal foe. Mr. Morven was a squarely built elderly man with a grey beard, a benevolent expression, and the eyes of the dreamer.

As he took the note he glanced at the messenger, and his eyes dilated with the intentness of a surprised stare. Wynyard’s type was not common in the parish; somehow Mrs. Hogben’s lodger did not correspond with his surroundings.

“I see this is for my daughter,” he said, and beckoning to a parlour-maid he handed it to her. “Just come into my study, will you, till the answer is written,” leading the way across a wide hall panelled in oak. Through an open door Wynyard caught a glimpse of the drawing-room, and was conscious of a faded carpet, fresh chintz, books, old china, a glowing fire, and a fragrant atmosphere. The general impression of the Rectory, with its oaken staircase, family portraits, and bowls of potpourri, was delightful but fleeting; it seemed a peaceful, flower-scented old house, of spotless neatness.

“You’re a newcomer, I believe?” said the Rector, preceding him into a room lined with books from floor to ceiling, and seating himself at a writing-table. “Miss Parrett’s chauffeur?” and he smiled to himself at some reminiscence. “I see they are making use of you. Church of England?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you have any sort of voice—tenor, baritone, or bass—we shall be glad to have you in the choir; our tenor is getting on; he must be close on seventy.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much good, sir.”

“Well, if you don’t sing, you look like a cricketer, eh? I must get something out of you, you know;” and he laughed pleasantly.

“Oh yes, I can play cricket all right.”

“If you can bowl a bit, with Miss Parrett’s leave, I’ll put you into the village club; we rather fancy ourselves, and a young man of your stamp will be an acquisition.” At this moment Aurea entered, carrying an enormous cardboard box.

“Good-morning,” she said. “I see aunt sent you for the lampshade, and here it is.”

“What a size!” exclaimed her father. “Why, you must have robbed your best hat! I declare it’s not fair to a man to ask him to be seen with such a thing going through the village.”

“Not half so bad as seeing people go down the street with a black bottle in either hand!” retorted his daughter.

“I don’t mind, sir,” said Wynyard, taking up the box as he spoke.

“Please tell Aunt Bella I will be after you in two or three minutes,” said Aurea; then to her father, “She wants to unpack grandpapa’s books at last!”

“You mean that she wants you to unpack the books,” corrected Mr. Morven; “you might steal a few for me, eh? I suppose you will be away all day?” and he looked at her rather wistfully.

“No, no, dear, I’ll be back soon after tea.” To Owen: “Straight on, it’s an easy door.”

As Wynyard turned in the hall and backed out, box in hand, he had a vision of pretty Miss Aurea perched on the arm of his chair, with her arm round her father’s neck. Lucky old beggar!

His next errand was to the shop—Topham’s—and as he lingered irresolutely in the rain, staring up and down the street, he was overtaken by a brisk figure in an aquascutum and motor cap.

“I see you are searching for our emporium,” she began, “and I’ll show it to you—in fact, I’m going in myself to get some brass-headed carpet nails.”

The shop stood sideways to the street, as if anxious for concealment, and was the most astonishing place of its kind that Wynyard had ever entered. A stall in an Indian bazaar was tame and tidy in comparison. The house was old and low, the shop of narrow dimensions; it widened out as it ran back, and lost itself in a sort of tumbledown greenhouse. The smell was extraordinary, so varied, penetrating, and indescribable—and small wonder, he said to himself, when he had inspected the stock!

An oldish woman with a long nose (the Ottinge nose) stood stiffly behind the counter; at her left the window was full of stale confectionery, biscuit tins, sticky sweets in glass bottles, oranges and apples in candle boxes; heaps of Rickett’s blue, and some fly-blown advertisements.

Behind Mrs. Topham were two shelves dedicated to “the library,” which consisted of remarkably dirty and battered sixpenny novels; these she hired to the village at the generous price of a penny a volume for one week. To the left of the entrance were more shelves, piled with cheap toys, haberdashery, and china; and here ended the front of the shop. Concealed by a low screen were tins of oil, a barrel of ginger ale on tap, and a large frying-pan full of dripping. The remainder of the premises was abandoned to the greengrocery business on a large scale—onions, potatoes, and cabbages in generous profusion.

“Good-morning, Mrs. Topham,” said Miss Morven. “What a wet day! How is your cough?”

“Oh, I’m amongst the middlings, miss. What can I do for you?”

“I want some brass-headed carpet nails, and my aunts have sent a list;” and she motioned to Wynyard.

Mrs. Topham seized upon it with her long, yellow fingers (they resembled talons)—the Manor were good customers.

“You can send over the things, Mrs. Topham; but I want the nails now.”

“I’m sure, miss, I’ve got ’em, but I can’t just rightly think where they be.”

As she spoke, she turned out a drawer and rummaged through it violently, and then another; the contents of these gave one an idea of what is seriously understood by the word “chaos”: wool, toffee, night-lights, dog biscuits, and pills were among the ingredients.

“Try the blue box,” suggested Aurea, who was evidently acquainted with the resources of the establishment.

The blue box yielded nothing but a quantity of faded pink ribbon, a few postcards of the church and Drum, a dozen tennis balls, some small curling-pins, and several quires of black-edged paper.

“Why, if that isn’t the very thing I was looking for last week!” exclaimed Mrs. Topham, as she pounced on the paper. “And now Miss Jakes she’s bin and got it over at Brodfield; ’tis a cruel chance to be near a big town—and so there’s for you!”

As the search for nails promised to be protracted, Miss Morven turned to Wynyard and said—

“You need not wait; please take the lampshade on, and say that I’m coming.”

But before returning to the Manor he had yet another errand to fulfil—a note for Mrs. Ramsay at Ivy House. Here he rang repeatedly, he even gave heavy single knocks with the bulbous brass knocker, but received no reply beyond the distant barking of indignant dogs. At last he went round and discovered a large paved yard, but no human being. Then he ventured to approach one of the sitting-room windows and peered in—a comfortable dining-room with a cheerful fire, but empty. No, just underneath the window on a sofa lay an elderly man fast asleep. He wore grey woollen socks on his slipperless feet, an empty tumbler stood on a chair beside him—and this at eleven o’clock in the morning. (True, O. Wynyard, but it had contained no stronger drink than hot water.)

He had the intention of rapping at the pane, but changed his mind and retired to the door, and as he waited he heard a voice above him calling out in a rich brogue—

“Bad scran to ye, Fanny, if there isn’t a young gentleman below wid a big band-box, and he is afther pullin’ out the bell by the roots; ’tis a shame to lave him standin’ in all the pours of rain! An’ such a lovely big man!”

At this moment the hall door was opened by a tall dark woman in a mackintosh and motor cap, with two frantic fox-terriers on the lead, and a self-possessed French bulldog in dignified attendance.

“I’m afraid you’ve been waiting,” she said, in a soft brogue. “I was away at the kennels, the servants were upstairs, and the Captain is asleep.” Then, opening the note (as well as the fox-terriers would permit), she glanced over it, and the messenger glanced at her—a woman of thirty-five, with a thin, well-bred face, black hair, and very long lashes. When she lifted them, he saw that her eyes were of a blue-black shade, both sad and searching—the whole expression of her face seemed to be concentrated in their pupils.

“Please tell Miss Parrett I’ll come to tea. I’ve no time to write. I have to take the dogs out.” The fox-terriers were straining hard at their leash. “They must have exercise; and when these come back, there are three more.”

As she spoke, Wynyard could hear the injured yelping of their disappointed companions.

“Now, don’t open the little dogs’ room,” she called to an elderly woman in the background, who gave the amazing answer—

“And what would ail me?”

“And mind that the Captain has his broth at twelve.” Then she stepped out into the beating rain, and Wynyard was surprised to find that Mrs. Ramsay was about to accompany him.

“I’m going your way,” she explained; “it’s the safest. These two are new dogs, and I’m rather afraid to go near the Rectory; their Aberdeen is such a quarrelsome beast—always trailing his coat.”

“Mackenzie?”

“Ah, and so you know him?” she said, with a smile; “you weren’t long in making his acquaintance.”

Wynyard exhibited his left hand, and a severe bite.

“I suppose he was trying to kill Joss; that’s his profession—a killer of other dogs.”

“You seem to have a good many of them,” as an afterthought, “ma’am.”

“Yes; they are not all my own. I take in boarders—only six at a time, and they must be small, no invalids accepted. I look after them for people who go abroad, or from home for a few weeks. I am fond of dogs, so I combine business and pleasure.”

“Yes, ma’am; but they must be a trouble and a responsibility—other people’s pets.”

“I have to take my chance! Some are so nice, it just breaks my heart to part with them. Indeed, there’s Tippy here, the bulldog, I’m pretending he is sick—isn’t it a shame of me? Some are surly, others so sporting, that half my time is spent in scouring the country, and looking into rabbit holes. Others are quarrelsome, or chase, snap, and kill fowl and get me into great trouble. I never keep them on an hour after their time is up. You are the Miss Parretts’ chauffeur, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is this your first situation?” eyeing him keenly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Why did she ask such a question? Did she, to use the good old expression, “smell a rat”?

“I’m afraid you will find Ottinge terribly dull. I wonder how you discovered a place so far from everywhere—just the back of beyond?” and she looked at him interrogatively—her dark blue eyes were extraordinarily piercing.

To this impertinent remark no reply was necessary, as it brought them precisely to the Manor gate. The lady nodded, and walked on quickly—a slim, active, resolute figure, with the straining fox-terriers dragging at her hands, the little bulldog trotting sedately at her heels. The group passed steadily out towards the open country, with the light rain drifting down upon them. What queer people one came across in Ottinge! Miss Parrett, the ill-tempered old bully, the Hon. Mrs. Ramsay, with her soft voice and expressive eyes, eking out a living by making herself a slave to strangers’ dogs.

“Oh, so she sent a verbal message, did she?” snorted Miss Parrett. “Well, when I was a girl,”—turning to her sister—“and people asked me out, I always wrote them a proper note; but manners are not what they were in my day. Oh, if my dear, courteous father could only know of some of the things that are done, he would turn in his grave!”

Miss Parrett was fond of quoting the old Colonel, and insisting upon his devotion to herself; whilst, if the truth were known, they had been bitterly antagonistic to one another during his lifetime, and the Manor was the frequent scene of acrimonious quarrelling, unfilial gibes, and furious rejoinders.

It was fully a quarter of an hour later when Miss Morven arrived with the brass-headed carpet nails.

“I knew she had them!” she declared triumphantly; “for she got a lot for us last winter, so I ransacked the shop, and, after a long search, where do you think I found them, Susan?”

“In her pocket, to be sure!”

“No, not quite—probably I shall next time. In one of the brown teapots she has on sale! She was surprised—I wasn’t! She is getting quite dotty, and won’t have help; and there is Dilly, her pretty, flighty granddaughter, with nothing to do but flirt!”

All that day Wynyard worked zealously, assisting the carpenter (who had come after all) and in unpacking and dusting books that had not seen daylight for thirty years. On this occasion, in spite of Miss Parrett’s condescending invitation, he dined at Holiday Cottage.

That very same evening Mrs. Ramsay came to tea at the Manor, and was fervent in her admiration of the drawing-room, which praise Miss Parrett absorbed with toothless complacency, saying in her quavering bleat—

“I’m so glad you like it. Of course it was my taste, and my ideas, and they are my things; but Aurea and Susan helped me—yes, and the chauffeur made himself useful.”

Wynyard, who was working close by, felt inclined to laugh out loud. It seemed to him that he was everything but a chauffeur: window-cleaner, carpet-layer, messenger, and assistant carpenter—a good thing he was naturally pretty handy. And although all these extra burdens had been laid upon him, the first impulse to throw up the situation had died away; he did not mind what jobs the old lady set him to do, but would take them as all in the day’s work, for he had no intention of leaving Ottinge at present—he must have some consideration for Leila!

After tea, when Miss Parrett was engaged in scolding her domestics and writing violent postcards to her tradesmen, Mrs. Ramsay drew Aurea into the drawing-room.

“Well, me dear,” and her dark eyes danced, “I did not say a word before your aunts, but I’ve seen the remarkable chauffeur! I assure you, when I opened the door and found him standing there with a large box, you might have knocked me down with the traditional feather! I was taking the new dogs out for a run, and so we walked together to this gate.”

“What do you think of him?” asked Aurea, carelessly, as she rearranged some daffodils in a blue bowl.

“What do I think? I think—although he scarcely opened his lips—that there is some mystery attached to him, and that he is a gentleman.”

“Why do you say so?” inquired the girl, anxious to hear her own opinion endorsed. “He is not a bit smarter than the Woolcocks’ men.”

“Oh, it’s not exactly smartness, me dear, it’s the ‘born so’ air which nothing can disguise. His matter-of-course lifting his cap, walking on the outside, opening the gate, and, above all, his boots.”

“Boots!”

“Yes, his expensive aristocratic shooting boots; I vow they come from Lobbs. Jimmy got his there—before he lost his money.”

“Perhaps the chauffeur bought them second-hand?” suggested Aurea.

Mrs. Ramsay ignored the remark with a waving hand.

“I cannot think what has induced a man of his class to come and bury himself here in this God-forsaken spot.”

“Ottinge-in-the-Marsh is obliged to you!”

“Now, you know what I mean, Aurea. You are a clever girl. I put the question to him, and got no satisfactory answer. Is it forgery, murder, piracy on the high seas, somebody’s wife—or what?” She rested her chin on her hand, and nodded sagaciously at her companion. “I understand that he has been working indoors a good deal, and helping you and Miss Susan.” She paused significantly. “You must have seen something of him. Tell me, darling, how did you find him?”

“Most useful, wonderfully clever with his hands, strong, obliging, and absolutely speechless.”

“Ah! Does he have his meals here?”

“No.”

“Dear me, what a cruel blow for the maid-servants! Did he come from a garage?”

“No; a friend of Aunt Bella’s found him.”

“A woman friend?”

“Yes; she gave him an excellent character.”

“And what of hers?”

“Oh, my dear Kathleen, she is Lady Kesters, a tremendously smart Society lady, awfully clever, too, and absolutely sans reproche!”

“Is that so?” drawled Mrs. Ramsay. “Well, somehow or other, I’ve an uneasy feeling about her protégé. There is more than meets the eye with respect to that young man’s character, believe me. My woman’s instinct says so. I’m sorry he has come down and taken up your aunt’s situation, for I seem to feel in me bones that he will bring trouble to some one.”

“Oh, Kathleen! You and your Irish superstitions!” and Aurea threw up her hands, clasping them among her masses of hair, and stared into her friend’s face and laughed.

“Well, dear, if he does nothing worse, he will have half the girls in love with him, and breaking their hearts. It’s too bad of him, so good-looking, and so smart, coming and throwing the ‘comether’ over this sleepy little village. Believe me, darlin’, he has been turned out of his own place; and it would never surprise me if he was just a nice-looking young wolf in sheep’s clothing!”

“Oh, what it is to have the nice, lurid, Celtic imagination!” exclaimed Aurea. “I don’t think the poor man would harm a fly. Joss has taken to him as a brother—and——”

“Miss Morven as—a sister?”

“Now, what are you two conspiring about?” inquired Miss Susan, entering, brisk, smiling, and inquisitive.

“I’m only discussing your chauffeur, me darlin’ Miss Susan. I notice that several of the village girls drop in on Mrs. Hogben—you see I live opposite—and they expose their natural admiration without scruple or reserve.”

“Owen is a useful young man, if he is a bit ornamental—isn’t he, Aurea? I’m going to get him to help me in the greenhouse, for I don’t believe, at this rate, that we shall ever use the car.”