“Here we are at Mrs. Hogben’s,” she announced, and, opening a gate, walked up the flagged path leading to an old two-storeyed cottage, and a broadly built, elderly woman, with a keen, eager face and a blue checked apron, came to meet them, hastily wiping her wet hands.
“Here is your lodger, Mrs. Hogben; his name is Owen,” explained Miss Susan; and Mrs. Hogben’s astonishment was so complete that she so far forgot herself as to drop him half a curtsey. “You have given him the top back-room, I understand?” continued Miss Susan, “and, remember, it’s not to be more than half-a-crown a week; he will arrange about his board himself.”
“Yes, Miss Susan; to be sure, Miss Susan.”
“And you will do his washing moderately, and cook, and make him comfortable, won’t you?”
“Of course, Miss Susan.”
“I don’t suppose you will eat meat more than once a day,” turning to him, “eh?”
“I can’t say, miss,” he answered, with a slow smile, “a good deal would depend upon the meat.”
“Well, I think you will find everything here all right. Mrs. Hogben’s son, Tom, is one of our gardeners, and you can come up in the morning with him. Good-evening to you!” Wynyard touched his cap, and she hurried off. He stood and watched her for a moment, the slim, straight-backed figure tripping up the village towards the tall grey church, which dominated the place.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Hogben had looked him over from head to foot; her sharp, appraising eyes, rested with satisfaction on her lodger; taken, womanlike, by a handsome face, she said in a pleasant voice—
“So you’re the shover! My word, it do seem main funny, them ladies a-settin’ up of a motor—and last year they hadn’t as much as a wheelbarrow. Folks do say all the money—and it’s a lot—has gotten to Miss Parrett’s head, but she was always a terrible hard, headstrong old woman. Now, Miss Susan there is a nice friendly lady; all the place is main fond of Miss Susan.”