“But who lives round the village? Are there any big places?”
“There’s a good few within ten miles. The Wardes of Braske, the Cranmers of Wells Castle, the Woolcocks of Westmere Park—it was the Davenants’ for hundreds of years, and Woolcocks’ father he was an iron-monger!”
“An ironmaster,” corrected her son, with a touch of impatience.
“Well, ’tis all the same. The Davenants were real great folk, and the Hogbens served them for many a day; indeed, the late Sir Henry Davenant shot Hogben’s father himself.” She folded her arms as she made the announcement, and looked at her lodger as much as to say, “What do you think of that?”
“Shot! What do you mean—on purpose?”
“No, ’twas a pheasant he was mistook for—but he killed Tom Hogben stone dead in the top cover, and then sent a carriage to fetch him home. Of course the shooting was given accidental, and the family had a pension; and I will say this, the Davenants were always free and never a mite afraid of spending money, till every stiver was gone.”
“What you call open-handed.”
“Yes, and the last of the gentlemen, when the place was ate up of a mortgage, lived in a bit of a cottage by the roadside, and was just as proud and grand as if he had forty servants. This Ottinge is a mighty queer quarrelling sort o’ place, as you will soon see for yourself. Last year a parson come, when Mr. Morven was in Switzerland with the General—a very gay, pleasant young man, a-visitin’ everywhere, and talkin’ to every one, and amusin’ the parish, and gettin’ up cricket, and concerts, so when he left they gathered up to make him a present, and bought him a lovely clock (as he preferred to a bit of a ink-bottle); but it just shows up Ottinge! there was so much wicked jealousy and ill-feelin’ that there was no one to give it to him—you see, one wouldn’t let the other!—and he’d never have got it at all, only, at the last, they stuck in a child—a little girl, as no one wanted to get the better of—and so that settled it, but it may give ye some idea of the place.”
“Ye see my mother hasn’t a good word for it,” put in Tom; “but I’m Ottinge, and was born here.”
“As to the gentlefolk,” continued Mrs. Hogben almost as glibly as if she were reading aloud, “there’s the doctor and his wife. She is gayish, and great at theatricals and games—no harm, though. Ay, ’tis a dull place for young folk, and only fit for some to come and end their days. There’s the Woolcocks of Westmere Park—terrible rich—they bought the Park when the Davenants were broke, as I tell’d ye. They keep a crowd of servants, and three motors. There’s mister and missus, and a son and two daughters—one of them’s married. They give a fair lot of employment too—but still, folks ’ud rayther have the old fam’ly.”