“Well, Watkins—he don’t read overmuch.”
“No, but he smokes and drinks, and is main idle. You know yourself I offered him the good grass off the orchard for the cutting, for his horse—lovely grass it were, too—but it were too much trouble, and he grazes the poor beast along the road in every one’s way instead. And there’s Jake Roberts—his father left him a fine business as wheelwright and carpenter, and he has let it all go over to Shrapton-le-Steeple ’cause it was too much fag, and he lives on his wife’s washing.”
“Ye see how my mother is down on Ottinge,” said Tom, with another wink, “not being an Ottinge woman herself.”
“No, thank the Lord! I’m from another part, and all for work. But I’ll say this—that Ottinge is the healthiest spot ye ever put yer foot in. We gets the free air for miles over the pastures, and at the back we’re in shelter from the hills between us and Brodfield—that’s the big town ten miles off.”
“So you have no doctor?” said Wynyard.
“Indeed we have, and a good doctor too; there is not much call for him or for medicines. Ottinge isn’t as big as it looks; though so rambling and showy, it’s real small.”
“Are there many gentry around?” inquired the stranger.
“There’s the parson, Mr. Morven—his lady is dead. She wur a Parrett, and handsome. He’s a good man, but terrible bookish, and just awful for readin’ and writin’. There’s Captain and the Honourable Mrs. Ramsay, as live nearly opposite in the house covered with ivy, and three rows of long windows, inside the little brick wall. They are not much use; she sells plants and cuttings, and little Pom puppies now and then, and keeps what she calls a ‘Dogs’ Hotel or Boarding-House’; did ye ever!” and Mrs. Hogben laughed. “Ay, and she advertises it too! She’s so terrible busy with dogs, and takes them walking out, and has all sorts o’ food for them, and young Bob Watkins as their servant. Her father was a lord they make out, and her husband, the Captain, he got some sort of stroke in the Indies and is queer—some say from drink, some say from a stroke, some say from both. He never goes into no company, but walks the roads and lanes of an evening a-talkin’ to himself right out loud. Then he slopes up to the Drum, and though he was an army officer, he sits cheek by jowl with common men, drinkin’ his glass, and smokin’ his pipe. However, he is quiet enough—quiet as the dead—and Mrs. Ramsay is good pay.”
“That’s something,” remarked her listener, and his tone was dry.
“There’s a rare bit o’ money in Ottinge, though ye mightn’t think it,” continued Mrs. Hogben, delighted to have a listener after her own heart; “folks being well left, and mostly having a snug house, and nothing going out but quit rent.”