“Oh yes, long ago; his condition is the result of sunstroke, and they said he—he ought to be—put away in an asylum; but of course his home is his asylum.”
Her visitor was not so clear about this, and there was no doubt that now and then the captain’s eyes had an alarmingly mad expression.
“Can you manage to come and see him occasionally, or is it asking too much?”
“I’ll come with pleasure; I have my evenings off—the car never goes out at night, as you may know; but I’m only Owen Wynyard, late of the Red Hussars, in this house, if you please, Mrs. Ramsay.”
“Of course; and I shall be only too thankful to see you whenever you can spare us an hour,” and she opened the door and let him out.
From this time forth there commenced an intimacy between the chauffeur and the Ramsays. He not only spent an hour now and then with the captain, smoking, playing picquet, and talking over old times, but he gave Mrs. Ramsay valuable assistance with her boarders, treated bites, thorns, and other casualties with a practised hand; on one occasion sat up at night with a serious case of distemper; on another, traced and captured a valuable runaway. He admired her for her unquenchable spirit, energy, and pluck, and helped in the kennel with the boy she employed, and undertook to exercise the most boisterous dogs of an evening. These thoroughly enjoyed their excursions with an active companion, who, however, maintained a strict but kindly discipline; and, of a bright moonlight night, it was no uncommon sight to meet the chauffeur, four or five miles from Ottinge, accompanied by, not only Joss, but by several of Mrs. Ramsay’s paying guests.
The friendship between the captain and the chauffeur naturally did not pass unnoticed, and the verdict of the Drum was that the young fellow, having spare time on his hands, had been “took on as a sort of keeper at Ivy House, and gave a help with the kennel and the old man—and the old man was growing worse.”
Leila had arranged to pay a flying visit to Brodfield when her brother went there to fetch the motor, and he found her awaiting him in a gloomy sitting-room of that once celebrated posting-inn—the Coach and Horses.
“Three months are gone!” she said, after their first greetings, “so far so good, ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute!”
“There are a good many pas yet! It’s awfully nice to see you, Sis, and be myself for once in a way,” and then he proceeded to unfold his experience with Captain Ramsay.