“Got on all right!” she cried. “How can you say so? when you told me yourself that you had half killed a man! However, as you and I are confederates in this most risky enterprise, I feel sure you will do your utmost for my sake. Think of the uproar and scandal if Miss Parrett were to discover that you were my brother—late of Eton College and the Red Hussars. Explanation would be impossible; I should be compelled to flee the country!”
CHAPTER VI
FIRST IMPRESSIONS
The train which bore Wynyard to his situation was slow, and lingered affectionately at every station; nevertheless he enjoyed the leisurely journey. He was glad to be in England once more! His eyes feasted greedily on the long stretches of quiet, secluded country, nice hunting fences, venerable villages crowding round a church steeple, and stately old halls buried in hollows, encompassed by their woods.
The afternoon was well advanced when he saw “Catsfield” on a large board staring him in the face, and, realising that he had reached his destination, seized his bag, sprang out, and went in search of his luggage—a corded tin box of a remarkably vivid yellow. His sister had insisted upon this, instead of his old battered portmanteau, as a part of his disguise. A portmanteau, she declared, would give him away at once! For, no matter how dilapidated and travel-stained, a portmanteau conferred a certain position upon its owner!
There were but two people on the platform of the forlorn little station, which seemed to have no business and no belongings, but had, as it were, sat down helplessly to rest in the middle of a sweeping plain of pasture.
Outside the entrance no cabs or vehicles were to be seen, merely an unpainted spring-cart drawn by a hairy bay mare. In reply to the traveller’s inquiries, the porter said—
“Oh no, there’s no call for flies here, sir, no work for ’em; the cart was sent for a man-servant, and he ain’t come. To Ottinge? Yes, sir, he’d take your luggage, I dessay, and you, too, if you wouldn’t despise driving with him.”
“I wouldn’t despise driving with any one; but, as I’m rather stiff and dusty, I’ll walk. You say Ottinge is four miles across the fields and seven by the road.” “Here,” addressing the driver in the cart, “if you are going to Ottinge, will you take my bag and box, and I’ll give you a shilling?”
“All right, master; ’eave ’em in, Pete. Where to, sir?”
“Miss Parrett’s, the Manor;” then, turning to the porter, “can you point me out the short-cut?”