She felt her face burning, and no wonder! Well, at any rate the scene had given her a shock—it had roused her to the knowledge of her own feelings. It was with difficulty her maidenly reticence could put the thing into thought, but it simply came to this—she had arrived, at last, at the clear realisation that the daughter of the Rector of Ottinge was in love with her aunts’ chauffeur! She whispered it to herself and Mackenzie! How did it sound? How would it sound when talked abroad, all over the parish and the county? What would people say? When she thought of her Aunt Bella, she actually laughed aloud, and Mackenzie, whom she had disturbed, raised his head and gave a low growl.
The chauffeur disturbed her—even now her pulses were racing; she had never felt like this when in the company of Bertie Woolcock—no, nor any of Aunt Morven’s young eligibles—but this man affected her differently. Was it because she knew that he cared for her? Was it because he was handsome, reserved, and self-reliant? Was it because there was a mystery about him? No; it was simply because he was himself; his voice was still speaking to her inward ear—“It would be impossible for me to tell you!” Nevertheless, his eyes had been eloquent, and, since the truth must be confessed, her heart was in a wild whirl of happiness.
But why was he here in retreat? Surely not because he had done anything disgraceful? Mrs. Ramsay liked him, and said he had been such a comfort to her husband and herself; her father liked him, so did Susan, so did the village; the dogs adored him—all but Mackenzie, an exception who proved the rule!
Yes, she would give her heart to the chauffeur—as a matter of fact it was not a case of giving; it was already bestowed—and keep the knowledge to herself. No one should ever know—above all, he should not know. “Time Tries All.” His affairs might improve; some day he might be able to throw off his chauffeur’s disguise and be himself; meanwhile, she determined to avoid him, and never again enter the Manor garden when there was a chance of meeting him; as to the green motor, she had, as she assured him, done with it for ever.
CHAPTER XXIII
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.