“Oh, just a plaster o’ earth, or a couple o’ lily leaves. One is as good as t’other. Well, I’m a-goin’,” struggling to his feet; “an old gaffer like me keeps early hours.”
As Wynyard handed him his stick, he slapped him smartly on the back, and it was evident from this accolade that the “shover” was now made free of the Drum.
The newcomer looked about him, some were playing dominoes, some cards, one or two were reading the day’s papers, and all the time the Captain sat immovable in a corner, and his eyes never moved from Wynyard. Such cold, impassive staring made him feel uncomfortable, and settling his reckoning he presently followed old Thunder’s example and went home.
Captain Ramsay, whose fixed attention had made the stranger so uneasy, had once been a popular officer in a popular regiment, and when quartered in India had fallen in love with and married the Hon. Kathleen Brian (daughter of an impoverished viscount) who was on a visit to relatives in Simla. The first year was rapturously happy for both of them, and then one day, when out pig-sticking near Cawnpore, Captain Ramsay had his topee knocked off, and in the excitement of the chase galloped on, with the result that he was knocked over by a sunstroke. Sunstroke was followed by brain fever, and he nearly died. Ultimately he was invalided home, and, owing to ill-health, obliged to leave the Service. Nor was this all. He seemed to become another man, his character underwent a complete change; he was quarrelsome and morose, fought with his own family, insulted his wife’s people, and developed into an Ishmael. He invested his money in the maddest ventures, and rapidly dispersed his entire fortune (Kathleen was penniless), and now nothing remained but his small pension. Year by year he became more disagreeable, restless, and strange. The couple wandered from place to place, from lodging to lodging. Vainly his wife’s relatives implored her to leave him; he was “impossible,” her health was suffering; she, who had been so pretty, at twenty-seven looked prematurely faded and haggard; but Kathleen was obstinate, and would go her own way and stick to her bad bargain. Her brothers did not know, and would never know, the Jimmy she had married—so clever, amusing, good-looking, the life of his company, a first-rate officer, and a matchless horseman; the man who got up the regimental theatricals, ran the gymkhana, was editor of the regimental paper, and so devoted to her always. No, no, she would never abandon him, though every year he grew worse, and more brusque, excitable, and unsociable; and every year saw them sinking still further in the social scale.
At last an aged uncle died, and left Captain Ramsay Ivy House, Ottinge, with its old-fashioned furniture, linen, books, and plate. This windfall, with his pension, would keep them going, and at best it afforded a retreat and a hiding-place. The neighbourhood with flattering alacrity had called on Captain and the Hon. Mrs. Ramsay, and she was declared to be charming, so agreeable and still handsome. She duly returned their visits in a hired fly, left her husband’s cards, Captain J. V. Ramsay, and made his excuses.
It soon was evident that the Ramsays were desperately poor, and did not intend to keep a trap or entertain; that he was queer, and only to be met about the fields and lanes, or in the Drum; but by degrees the neighbours came to know Mrs. Ramsay better, and to like her extremely. She had travelled, was a brilliant conversationalist, and a sound bridge player; she was also an Honourable—one of the many daughters of Lord Ballingarry of Moyallan Castle—so the neighbours bought her little ‘Poms,’ recommended the hotel to their friends, lent her carriages or motors, sent her game and books, and did their best for her. But Captain Ramsay was beyond any one’s assistance; he refused to see people, or to know Ottinge. He went abroad generally with the bats and the owls, along lonely roads and footpaths; his daily paper and the Drum were his sole resources, and only that, at long intervals, a shrivelled figure was caught sight of shuffling up the High Street, the neighbourhood would have forgotten that Captain Ramsay existed.
Lady Kesters sent papers and wrote weekly letters to J. Owen, Holiday Cottage, Ottinge. But her brother’s replies were short, vague, and unsatisfactory, and in answer to a whole sheet of reproaches, he dedicated a wet Sunday afternoon to his sister. He began:—
“Dear Leila,—I had your letter yesterday, and it’s a true bill that I am a miserable correspondent, and that my notes are as short and sweet as a donkey’s gallop. I only got twenty marks in composition when I passed. Now, however, I’m going to put my back into this letter, and send you a long scrawl, and, as you command me, all details—no matter how insignificant. I am writing in my room, because the kitchen is full of young women—Mrs. Hogben’s at-home day, I suppose! The parlour windows are never opened, the atmosphere is poisonous, and thick with the reek of old furniture. So here I am! I’ve faked up a table by putting blocks under the yellow box, for the washstand is impossible. This room is old and low; if I stand upright in some places, my head is likely to go through the ceiling, and in others my legs to go through the floor; but I know the lie of the land now. The window looks into a big orchard, and beyond that are miles of flat country; but you’ve seen Ottinge, so I spare you local colour. I am all right here. Mrs. Hogben is a rare good sort, and does me well, washing included, for twenty-three shillings a week, and I make out my own bills—as she neither reads nor writes, but takes it out in talking. When I had a cold, she made me a decoction called ‘Tansie Tea’ and insisted on my swallowing it—the fear of another dose cured me. Her son Tom is a decent chap, and we are pals; he works at the Manor as second gardener of two. As to the ladies there, I am disappointed in Miss Parrett; you told me they were both ‘old dears.’ Susan really is an old dear, but, in my opinion, Miss P. is an old D. Possibly you only knew her as a tea-drinking, charming hostess, full of compliments and sweetness; the real Miss Bella is a bully, vain of her money, and shamelessly mean.
“The Manor is a nice, sunny house, flat on the ground, with great oak beams and rum windows, and a splendid garden enclosed in yew hedges run to seed; they are trying to get it in order, clipping the yews and digging out the moss, but two men and a boy are not enough, and Miss P. is too stingy to employ more. As I’ve little to do, I sometimes lend a hand. The motor is a faked-up old rattle-trap, all paint and smart cushions; but its inside is worn out. Miss Parrett is under the impression that petrol is not a necessity, and I have such desperate work to get it, and she always cross-examines me so sharply, and gives the money as such a personal favour, that one would suppose I wanted the beastly thing for my own consumption. It is a riddle to me why she ever bought the car. She is afraid to go out in it, and won’t let her sister use it alone. I’ve been here four weeks; it’s been out six times, always at a crawl, and within a four-mile radius. Miss Parrett likes to pay visits to show off her ‘beautiful’ car; but I feel like a Bath-chair man!
“One day we went over to Westmere, the Davenants’ old place, where you used to stay. The Woolcocks, who have it now, are enormously rich, go-ahead people, and the married daughter pounced on me as Owen the steward on board ship! No one here has any idea who I am, and I keep a shut mouth; and when I do talk, I try to copy Tom Hogben. There are few gentry about,—that is, in Ottinge; the parson, Mr. Morven, the Parretts’ brother-in-law, comes in sometimes and gives advice about the garden. He is a cheery sort, elderly, a widower, and a splendid preacher—thrown away on this dead-and-alive spot. His sermons are sensible and modern, and you’ve something to carry away and think of, instead of wanting to shy hymn-books, or go to sleep. The church is a tremendous age, and restored—the Ottinge folk are very proud of it. In one chancel, the north chancel, lie our kin the Davenants; there is a fine window, erected by a certain Edward Davenant to the memory of his wife, the lady in a pink scarf—quite a smart get-up of, say, a hundred years ago, is represented as one of the angels, and he himself is among the disciples. Both were copied from family portraits. What do you think of the idea?