The village, which lay under the shelter of some low hills, was long and straggling; red, hunched-up houses and high-roofed, black barns had turned their backs on the pasture, and a hoary church, with a high slated spire and surrounded by a bodyguard of trees, stood sentry at one end of Ottinge-in-the-Marsh. At the other, and almost opposite to where he had halted, was an ancient grey manor house of considerable pretensions, set in creepers and encircled by yew hedges. A stone-faced, sunk fence and a high wooden gate separated him from this property, and, as far as he could judge, the only way he could reach the village was by intruding into the grounds. He looked up and down and could see nothing but a fence abutting on the meadows, and, further on, the backyards and gardens of the villagers. Like the thundering ass he was, he had lost his way! He tried the wooden gate, found it padlocked, and vaulted over—a bold trespasser! As he alighted, a little figure, which had been stooping over a flower-bed, raised itself with a jerk, and he found himself face to face with a bunchy old lady, trowel in hand. She wore a short jacket made of Gordon tartan and a knitted hood with shabby brown strings.
For a moment the two surveyed one another fixedly: she, recognising that she was confronting a tall, handsome young man of six or seven-and-twenty; he, that he was gazing at a little woman, with grey hair worn in loops at either side of a flattish face which was animated by a pair of quick, suspicious eyes—round and black as those of a bird.
“There is no right-of-way through these grounds!” she announced, in a high reedy voice, something like a child’s, but more authoritative; and as she opened her mouth it was apparent that she was toothless as a newborn babe.
“I’m awfully sorry,” said the interloper, cap in hand, “but I’m afraid I’ve missed the footpath and lost my bearings. I want to get into the village.”
“Well, you’re in the village here,” she answered tartly. “You’ve only to go down that avenue,” pointing with her trowel; “the Drum is on the left. I suppose you are come about the fishing?”
“Thank you—no—I’ve nothing to do with fishing.”
Once more he took off his cap. She bowed from her waist as if it was hinged, and again indicated his direction.
“The Manor?” echoed a yokel, in answer to Wynyard’s question; “why,” with a grin, “yer just come out o’ it, mister!”
He accordingly retraced his steps down the short drive and rang at the hall door, which was at the side of the dignified old house, and over the lintel of which was the date, 1569, in deeply cut figures. A smart parlour-maid answered the clanging bell, and stared in round-eyed surprise.
“Can I see Miss Parrett?” he asked; “my name is Owen. I’m the new chauffeur.”