“Why not? He’s had a good eddication, that’s sure, and talks up in his head like gentry, but his hands is just the hands of a working man; and look at his box—that’s no class!”
In the opinion of Mrs. Hogben the box settled the question, and she went off into the scullery and closed the door with a slam of finality.
CHAPTER VIII
OTTINGE-IN-THE-MARSH
Wynyard strolled out into the little front garden along the red brick path to the wooden gate; as he closed this, he observed that it bore in large characters the enticing name of “Holiday Cottage.” He smiled rather grimly as he looked back at his new residence, a wood and plaster construction, bowed in the upper storey, with small, insignificant windows. Then he glanced up and down the empty thoroughfare, and was struck by the deathlike silence of the place. What had become of the residents of Ottinge? A flock of soiled, white ducks waddling home in single file from the marshes, and a wall-eyed sheep-dog, were the only live objects in sight.
Ottinge was undeniably ancient and picturesque, a rare field for an artist; the houses were detached—no two alike—and appeared to have been built without the smallest attempt at regularity. Some stood sideways at right angles; others had turned their backs upon the street, and overlooked the fields; many were timbered; several were entirely composed of black boarding; one or two were yellow; but the majority were of rusty brick, with tiled and moss-grown roofs. Wynyard noticed the ivy-clad house or “dogs’” hotel, with its three rows of long, prim windows, and close by another of the same class, with a heavy yew porch that recalled a great moustache. On its neat green gate was affixed a brass plate and the inscription—D. Boas, M.D. Farther on at intervals were more houses and a few scattered shops; these looked as if they were anxious to conceal their identity, and only suffered a limited display of their wares. Chief among them was one double-fronted, with tins of pressed beef and oatmeal on view, and above the door the worthy signboard—T. Hoad, Grocer. “Quality is my Watchword.” Next came John Death, Butcher, with a wide window, over which an awning had been discreetly lowered.
Almost every house had its front garden, with a brick wall or palings between it and the road. One, with a flagged path, an arbour, and a bald, white face, exhibited a square board close under the eaves, on which was briefly inscribed the seductive invitation, “Tea.” An adjoining neighbour, with absolutely bare surroundings, had affixed to his porch the notice, “Cut Flowers”; and, from the two advertisements, it was evident that the all-penetrating motor had discovered the existence of Ottinge-in-the-Marsh!
The next object of note—and in daring proximity to the church—was the Drum Inn; an undoubtedly ancient black-and-white building, with dormer windows, an overhanging top storey, and stack of imposing chimneys. It was strikingly picturesque without (if cramped and uncomfortable within), and stood forth prominently into the street considerably in advance of its neighbours, as if to claim most particular attention; it was a fact that the Drum had been frequently sketched, and was also the subject of a (locally) popular postcard.
The tall church, grey and dignified, was a fitting conclusion to this old-world hamlet; parts of it were said to date from the seventh century. Splendid elms and oaks of unknown age sheltered the stately edifice, and close by, the last house in Ottinge, was the dignified Queen Anne rectory. Surrounded by shaven lawns and an imposing extent of garden walls, it had an appearance of mellow age, high breeding, and prosperity. The sitting-room windows stood open, the curtains were not yet drawn, and Wynyard, noticing one or two flitting figures, permitted his mind to wonder if one of these was Miss Aurea, who, so to speak, ran the village, ruled the Manor, and was, according to Thomas Hogben, the prettiest girl—bar one—in ten parishes?
Pipe in mouth, the explorer wandered along for some distance, and presently came to a farmhouse, encircled by enormous black barns and timbered outhouses, with thatched, sloping roofs; but there was no smoke from the farm chimney, no sound from stables or byre; the yard was covered with grass, the very duck-pond was dry. A former tenant and his family, finding the old world too strong for them, had fled to Canada many years previously, and ever since Claringbold’s farm had remained empty and desolate. In autumn, the village urchins pillaged the orchard; in winter, wandering tramps encamped in the outhouses. Never again would there be a sound of lowing cows, the humming of threshing gear, the shouts of carters encouraging their horses, or children’s voices calling to their dogs.
The newcomer leant his arms upon the gate and surveyed the low, flat country with its distant, dark horizon. Then he turned to contemplate the hills behind the church, dotted with sheep and lambs and scored with lanes; he must learn his bearings in this new locality, as behoved his duty as chauffeur. He had now inspected Ottinge from end to end, from the low-lying grey Manor, projecting into its fields, to the Queen Anne rectory, a picture of mellowed peace.