So here he was to live, no matter what befell. He wondered what would befall, and what the next year held in store for him? For nearly an hour he remained leaning on the stout old gate, giving his thoughts a free rein, and making stern resolutions. Somehow he did not feel drawn to his billet, nor yet to Miss Parrett, but he resolved that he would play the game, and not disappoint Leila. She had, as usual, taken her own line; but had he chosen his fate he would have preferred a rough-and-tumble town life, active employment in some big garage, and to be thrown among men, and not a pack of old women! However, in a town he might be spotted by his friends; here, in this dead-and-alive village, his position was unassailable, and possibly Leila was right—it was her normal attitude.

At last he recognised that the soft April night had fallen, bats were flitting by, the marsh frogs’ concert had commenced—it was time to go back to Holiday Cottage, and turn in, for no doubt the Hogbens were early birds.

The ceiling of his room was so low that he hit his head violently against a beam, and uttered an angry swear word.

The place, which held an atmosphere of yellow soap and dry rot, was palsied with age; a sloping, creaking floor shook ominously under his tread; if it collapsed, and he were precipitated into the kitchen, what an ignominious ending!

In a short time Mrs. Hogben’s new lodger had stretched himself upon his narrow, lumpy bed, and, being tired, soon fell asleep, and slept like the proverbial log, until he was awoke by daylight streaming in at the window, and the sound of some one labouring vigorously at the pump. He looked at his watch—seven o’clock—he must rise at once and dress, and see what another day had in store for him.

CHAPTER IX
THE NEW CHAUFFEUR

As the new arrival wandered up the street, and inspected the village, he had been under the impression that the place was deserted—he scarcely saw a soul; but this was the way of Ottinge folk, they spent most of their time (especially of an evening) indoors, and though he was not aware of it, Ottinge had inspected him! Girls sewing in windows, men lounging in the Drum, women shutting up their fowl, all had noted the stranger, and wondered who this fine, tall young gentleman might be? An hour later they were amazed to learn that he was no more and no less than the Parretts’ new chauffeur, who was lodging with Sally Hogben—Sally, who could talk faster and tell more about a person in five minutes than another in twenty. This intelligence—which spread as water in a sponge—created a profound sensation, and shared the local interest with the news of the sudden death of Farmer Dunk’s best cow.

The following morning it was the turn of the chauffeur to be surprised. When he repaired to the Manor, to report himself and ask for orders, he encountered Miss Parrett herself in the hall, who informed him, in her shrillest bleat, that as she did not propose to use the car that day, and as there was nothing else for him to do, he could put in his time by cleaning windows. When Wynyard heard Miss Parrett’s order, his face hardened, the colour mounted to his forehead, and he was on the point of saying that he had been engaged as chauffeur, and not as charwoman; but a sharp mental whisper arrested the words on his lips:

“Are you going to throw up your situation within twenty-four hours, and be back on Leila’s hands after all the trouble she has taken for you?” demanded this peremptory voice. “You must begin at the bottom of the ladder if you want to get to the top. Let this old woman have her own way, and bully you—and if you take things quietly, and as they come, your affairs will mend.”

After what seemed to Miss Parrett a most disrespectful silence, during which she glared at Owen with her little burning eyes, and mumbled with her toothless jaws, he said slowly—