“Yes, sir, straight over the fields. First you go along this ’ere road to the left, down a lane, then over the water-meadows and a wooden bridge—ye can see the spire of Ottinge Church, and if you steer to that, you can’t go far out. Thank you,” touching his cap in acknowledgment of sixpence.
As the stranger moved off with an even, swinging stride, the two men stared after him with a gape of astonishment.
“I’m jiggered if I don’t believe that’s the motor chap after all!” said the driver; “why, he looks like a regular toff, and talks high. I was bid to fetch a young man, so I was, but there was no word of a gentleman—and I know he’s boarding at Sally Hogben’s.”
“It’s a queer start,” agreed the porter; “he’s a likely looking fellow. I expect he’ll make rare work among the maids!” as his eyes followed the active figure in tweeds and leather gaiters, till it was lost to sight round a bend in the road.
“That soort o’ chap won’t be long with them two old women, you may take your oath. Lor’ bless ye, he’d cut his throat! Why, you haven’t a good glass o’ beer nor a pretty girl in the parish.”
“I’m none so sure o’ that!” retorted the driver, giving the bay a smack with the reins, preparatory to starting; “there’s a fair tap at the Drum, and a couple o’ rare pretty faces in our church.”
“Is that so? I’m not to say busy on Sunday—one down and one up—and maybe I’ll just step over and have a look at ’em.”
“Eh, ye might go furder and fare worse! Well, I’m off,” and he rattled away in his clumsy cart, with the gay new box for its only load.
It was about four o’clock on a lovely afternoon in April; the air was sweet and stimulating, and the newcomer was conscious of a sense of exhilaration and satisfaction, as he looked across the stretch of meadows lying in the sunlight.
Wynyard was country-bred, and the familiar sights and sounds awakened pleasant memories. He noted the bleating of lambs, the cries of plover, the hedges powdered with thorn, and the patches of primroses. Everything was so rural and so restful—such a contrast to the roar of London, the skimming taxis, the hooting and clanking of motors, and the reek of petrol; he had stepped aside from the glare and noise into a byway. As he strode along, steering steadily for the church spire, his spirits rose with every step; he vaulted stiles, leapt lazy little streams, and, coming to a river, which he crossed by a rickety wooden bridge, found that he was within measurable distance of his destination, and paused for a moment to survey it.