And here it was that the unemployed chauffeur spent most of his time, clipping intractable hedges, planting, pruning, and digging. Such occupation removed him effectually from the orbit of his enemy--Miss Parrett--who merely pottered about the beds immediately surrounding the house. This was Miss Susan’s realm--she was the family gardener; his volunteered labour also afforded Wynyard the now rare and priceless privilege of seeing Miss Morven when she ran in to talk to her aunt and help in the greenhouse--since, thanks to her active exertions, the Manor had been set in order, and her visits were no longer of daily occurrence. Now and then he caught sight of her, walking with Mrs. Ramsay and her “guests,” motoring with Mrs. Waring, or riding with her father. Once or twice they had passed him in the lanes at a late hour, riding fast, pursued by the panting Mackenzie. His best opportunity of meeting the young lady was at choir practice, and here he admired Miss Morven, not only for her sweet, clear voice, but her marvellous tact and admirable skill, the way she pacified Pither, the cranky old organist (a fine musician), and smoothed down rivals who claimed to sing solos, applauded the timid, and gently repressed the overbold. It was delightful to watch her consulting and advising and encouraging; but how could any one escape from the effect of that girl’s beauty and contagious spirits? or withstand the influence of the subtle power called charm? On Sundays she sat in the Rector’s pew, facing the square enclosure of the Woolcocks, over which hung stately hatchments and memorials of the Davenant family; and from his corner in the choir Wynyard noted, with secret uneasiness and wrath, how the heir of Westmere--a squarely built, heavy young squire--kept his worshipping eyes fastened upon Aurea’s clear-cut profile. After all, what was it to him? he asked himself furiously. Young Woolcock was heir to twenty thousand a year, and what was _he_ at present? but her aunts’ servant! There had been a good deal of excited speculation in the village respecting Wynyard--as to who he really was, and where he came from. But although some swore he had been a soldier, and others vowed he had been a sailor, no one was any the wiser than the first day that he had arrived at Mrs. Hogben’s, followed by his yellow tin box. “Ay, he could hold his tongue, that was sure; and was always ready enough to lend an ear to other people’s affairs--but tight as an oyster with regard to his own.” Miss Susan, who felt towards him a kindness that was almost maternal, tormented by curiosity, had done her utmost to pump him. One day, in the greenhouse, she had seemed to see her opportunity. He had read off a French name on a label, and his accent and glibness were perfection. “Ah! I see you have had a good education, Owen,” she remarked, beaming at him over her glasses. “Oh, middling, miss.” “You keep a boy to clean the motor, I hear!”