Wynyard was a handy man, and got through his work rapidly and well. He fetched many cans of water, and presently moved on to the drawing-room—another low room with heavily beamed ceiling and a polished oak floor. The apartment was without carpet or curtains, and scantily furnished with various old chairs, settees and cabinets, ranged against the wall. He was sitting outside on the sill, whistling under his breath, polishing his last casement, when he heard, through the half-open door, a clear young voice talking with animation, and a girl came into the room laughing—followed by an Aberdeen terrier on a leash. As she advanced, he noticed that she had wild rose colouring, wavy dark hair, merry dark eyes, and an expression of radiant vitality. Tom was right! Here, no doubt, was Miss Aurea, the prettiest girl in ten parishes!
As Wynyard looked again at this arresting vision something strange seemed to stir in his heart and come to life. First impressions have a value distinct from the settled judgment of long experience.
“What a floor, Susie!” exclaimed the young lady. “Really, we must get Aunt Bella to give a dance;” and as she spoke she began to hum the “Merry Widow Waltz,” and to execute some remarkably neat steps, accompanied by the terrier, who struggled round in her wake, barking indignantly.
“Mackenzie, you are an odious partner!” addressing the animal; then to her aunt, “I’ve brought him on the chain, and he has me on the chain; he is so strong! We have accosted and insulted every single village dog, and frightened Mrs. Watkins’ cats into hysterics! However, he can’t get loose and murder poor gentlemanly Joss! Oh, we little knew what we were doing when we accepted Mac as a darling puppy!”
“I must confess that I never care for these aggressive, stiff-necked Aberdeens, and I don’t pretend to like Mac. To tell you the honest truth, I’m mortally afraid of him!”
“But he must be exercised, Susan. And now we must exercise ourselves, and begin on this room. I’ve sent over the curtains, and they are ready to go up.”
Suddenly she noticed the stranger, who was polishing a distant window. “Why, I thought it was Hogben!” she muttered. “Who is it, Susie?” and she looked over at Wynyard with an air of puzzled interest.
“The new chauffeur, my dear,” was the triumphant response. “He only came yesterday; his name is Owen.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the girl, turning her back to the window and speaking in a low voice. “And didn’t he object?”
“No; but I fancy he doesn’t like it. He seems a nice civil young fellow. Lady Kesters found him for us.”