“The chauffeur—gardening! How funny!”
“You see, Bella is so nervous in a motor, it is not often wanted, and Owen likes to help us. We find him rather silent and reserved about himself; he gives the impression of being a bit above his place?” and she looked at Lady Kesters interrogatively.
“Really?”
“I suppose you can tell me something about him—as you said you’d known him for years?” continued Miss Susan, with unconcealed eagerness. “I am, I must confess, just a little curious. Where does he come from? Has he any belongings?”
“Oh, my dear lady, do you think it necessary to look into your chauffeur’s past! I believe he comes from Westshire, his people—er—er—lived on my grandfather’s property; as to his belongings—ah! there is my husband! I see he has found the car at last, and I must fly! So sorry you are leaving town to-morrow—good-bye!” Lady Kesters now understood her brother’s reluctance to leave Ottinge—she had seen the reason why.
Miss Susan and her niece travelled down to Catsfield together, were met in state by the motor and luggage-cart, and created quite a stir at the little station. Miss Morven had such a heap of boxes—one as big as a sheep trough—that the cart was delayed for nearly a quarter of an hour, and Peter, the porter, for once had a job:
The ladies found that, in their absence, the neighbourhood had awakened; there were large house-parties at Westmere and Tynflete, and not a few smart motors now to be seen skimming through the village. It was a fact that several tourists had visited the church, and had “tea” at Mrs. Pither’s, and patronised her neighbour’s “cut flowers.” The old church was full on Sundays, dances and cricket matches were in prospect, and Miss Morven, the countryside beauty, was immediately in enviable request.
Miss Parrett had relaxed her hold, so to speak, upon the car, and lent it daily, and even nightly, to her niece and sister; indeed, it seemed that she would almost do anything with the motor than use it herself; and though she occasionally ventured to return calls at a short distance, it was undoubtedly pain and grief to her to do so—and, on these occasions, brandy and heart-drops were invariably secreted in one of its many pockets.
Owen, the automaton chauffeur, was the reluctant witness of the many attentions showered upon his lady-love, especially by Bertie Woolcock, who was almost always in close attendance, and put her in the car with many voluble regrets and urgent arrangements for future meetings. He would linger by the door sometimes for ten minutes, prolonging the “sweet sorrow,” paying clumsy compliments, and making notes of future engagements upon his broad linen cuff. He little suspected how dearly the impassive driver longed to descend from his seat and throttle him; but once he did remark to the lady—
“I say, what a scowling brute you have for a chauffeur!”