“An’ a very good notion too,” said Jim approvingly, sidling the while towards Mrs Wharton, and winking solemnly as he intercepted her somewhat startled gaze. “’Tis a very good job as ye’ve settled the matter that way, my lad—’twas the very thing me an’ your mother was thinkin’ o’ proposin’ to ye.”
“Eh, feyther, ye’d never be so cruel as to want to turn me fro’ the door,” gasped Maimie, her ready tears bursting forth.
“Well,” exclaimed Luke, “an’ that’s a pretty thing, I will say. Have ye the face to tell me, mother, as you an’ Mester Barnes had made it up between ye to get shut of us—your own flesh ’an blood, for the sake o’ takin’ up wi’ each other?”
Barnes, who had by this time reached Mrs Wharton’s chair, gave her a warning nudge with his elbow, and winked again.
“Nay, lad, me an’ your mother is not for turnin’ ye out, but if you an’ our Maimie have settled everything between yourselves we haven’t nothin’ to say, have we Lizzie? ’Tis a very good thing for young folks to earn their own livin’—a very good thing.”
Luke and Maimie looked at each other blankly. The bomb which they had expected to discharge with such deadly effect had unaccountably fizzled off; nobody seemed a penny the worse for it. On the contrary, this plan, which they had expected to be so strenuously opposed, appeared to suit the older couple to a nicety.
“Well,” said Luke, drawing a long breath, “what I says I’ll stick to. If you’ll keep your word to me, Maimie, I’ll keep mine to you. ’Tis a bit hard to turn out of the old place after bein’ brought up to look for somethin’ so different, an’ I doubt you’ll find it a bit hard too, my lass, to settle down in a little small cottage—I doubt if your mother were alive—or my poor feyther, as thought such a dale o’ me—”
He broke off, choking; there were tears in his blue eyes.
Mrs Wharton could stand it no longer; rising hurriedly from her chair, she pushed the farmer on one side, and, squeezing herself round the table, threw her arms round Luke’s neck.
“Nay, my lad,” she cried, “nay, dunnot believe it. Dunnot think as your mother could ever be that ’ard. Ye shannot be treated no worse nor if your feyther wer alive—maybe a bit better, for our gaffer were wonderful masterful, and I doubt he’d not be the one to turn out to make room for thee the same as I’m thinkin’ o’ doin’.”
Luke, who had been warmly returning his mother’s embrace, now jerked up a somewhat ruffled head, his flushed face disclosing distinct traces of tears.
“What’s that ye say, mother?” he asked.
Meanwhile Jim had been shaking his head waggishly at Maimie, and uplifting an admonitory forefinger.
“Well, of all the little noddies! So I’m goin’ to turn thee out, am I, to shift for thysel’. Water’s thicker nor blood, I s’pose, ho, ho, ho!”
He laughed prodigiously at his own wit, and Maimie dashed away her tears and smiled a doubtful smile.
“Mester Barnes and me,” said Mrs Wharton solemnly, “have made up we’re minds for to get wed, him bein’ in want of a missus an’ me bein’ that awful lonesome wi’out your poor feyther, Luke, as I feel I mun put soombry in’s place.”
“Very well said,” interpolated the farmer, in a deep and admiring growl.
“At same time,” continued Mrs Wharton, “we both knows our dooty to our childer, an’ we think the best way o’ settlin’ the matter ’ud be for me to live here at arter we are wed, and for you, Luke, to stop on at the Pit wi’ Maimie for your missus. Mester Barnes an’ me,” she added, looking towards her newly-chosen partner for confirmation of her words, “’ull give an eye to things from time to time—me inside an’ him out. An’ ye’ll have to pay me rent for the place, ye know, Luke—”
“Allowin’ yoursel’ a fair profit, o’ course,” interposed Farmer Barnes, “a fair profit.”
“An’ Mester Barnes bein’ a lovin’ feyther, an’ mindful o’ what his poor missus ’ud wish,” continued the widow, “’ull help ye to start, my lad—for stock an’ that. Ah, ye may be sure we’s both do the best we can for our own flesh an’ blood.”
Luke smiled broadly on his future stepfather, and gripped his sunburnt hand, murmuring heartily: “’Tis very well done o’ you, I’m sure. Very handsome—ah, that ’tis.”
Maimie had crossed over to Mrs Wharton and was uttering on her side profuse expressions of gratitude and satisfaction.
Jim Barnes himself, however, looked slightly puzzled, and presently took occasion to murmur surreptitiously in Mrs Wharton’s ear:
“Ye had the last word arter all, Lizzie, my dear!”
THE MISSUS’S CHAIR
When the congregation of St Mary’s Church, Thornleigh, came gaily forth on Christmas Day, pausing in the porch and on the steps, and almost blocking the gateway as they exchanged cheery greetings and good wishes with friends and neighbours, old Joe Makin loitered behind. He spoke to no one, scarcely venturing to show himself, it would appear, till the merry groups had dispersed and the last gleeful youngster had come clattering down from his place in the choir, and scampered off to join the family circle.
When all at last was still, Joe came slowly out, pulling his hat-brim down over his eyes, and looking neither to right nor to left. Instead of, however, descending the steps that led to the lich-gate he went hobbling round to the rear of the church, and then paused before one of the graves.
The headstone bore the name of Annie, only child of Joseph and Mary Makin, and recorded her death as having taken place at a date full thirty-five years distant. Lower down was another inscription in memory of the aforesaid Mary Makin, who had departed this life, it seemed, but a few months before that very Christmas Day.
Joe looked round to assure himself that no one was in sight, and then, stooping stiffly, endeavoured to brush away with his hand the slight sprinkling of snow which had fallen on the little mound. Drawing a pair of scissors from his capacious pocket, he clipped the grass here and there where it had grown rank, muttering to himself the while.
“’Tisn’t much harm, I don’t think—nay, it canna be much harm, though it is Christmas Day, just to fettle it up a bit for our Mary. Hoo allus liked everything gradely—eh, that hoo did. Now hoo must have a bit o’ green to mak her know ’tis Christmas—ah, and the little ’un too. Annie shall have a sprig wi’ some pratty berries on’t.”
He took from beneath his coat two sprigs of holly, and after some difficulty succeeded in sticking them upright into the half-frozen ground, the larger one at the head of the grave, the smaller, all gay with red berries, at the foot.
“Theer, owd lass,” he said, straightening himself at last, “thou shall have a bit o’ green at head o’ thy bed same as ever—eh, I could wish I were a-layin’ theer aside o’ thee—Can’st thou see the berries, little wench, wheer thou art, up yon?—Well—I mun be off a-whoam now. Eh, but the grave looks gradely.”
Somewhat comforted by this reflection he turned about, and set off homewards.
There were few loiterers in the village street; every one was indoors, either preparing for, or already partaking of, the Christmas dinner. When Lancashire folks make merry they like, as they say, to have plenty “to mak’ merry wi’.” For weeks, nay, months past, thrifty housewives had been looking forward to this day, and not a little self-denial had been practised in order to ensure the keeping of it with becoming lavishness. From every house that Joe passed issued sounds of cheerful bustle, jests and laughter; he could see the firelight glancing on the window-panes, and catch glimpses of wonderful decorations in the way of cut paper and greenery. Here and there a little head would be pressed against the shining pane to watch for some belated guest; now and again he would hear a greeting exchanged between one and another; “Merry Christmas, owd lad!” “The same to you, man!” And then the chairs would draw up and there would be a clatter of plates, and a very babel of acclamations would declare the goose or the bit o’ beef to be the finest that ever was seen. Joe was going to have a goose for his Christmas dinner; he had always subscribed to a goose club in his missus’s time, and he had not yet learned to get into new ways; but the thought of that goose of which he was to partake in absolute solitude served only to increase his melancholy.
Poor Mary! how she would have enjoyed it—and she lay yonder in the cold ground.
When he arrived at his cottage he took the door-key from its usual hiding-place behind the loose brick under the ivy, and let himself in.
Widow Prescott, who “did for him” now, had made everything ready before she had taken her departure for her own home. A savoury smell came from the oven where the goose and the pudding (sent as usual from the Hall) were keeping hot; the cloth was laid, the hearth swept up; the good woman had even garnished the place with a sprig of green, here and there; but the table was laid for one, and the missus’s chair stood against the wall. Joe stood still and looked at it, slowly shaking his head.
“Eh, theer it stands,” he said, speaking aloud, according to his custom, “theer it stands. Eh dear, an’ her and me have sat opposite to each for such a many years! And theer’s the cheer empty, and here am I all by mysel’, and it’s Christmas Day!”
He wiped his eyes and shook his head again; then he slowly divested himself of his hat and coat, which he hung up behind the door, set the goose and potatoes on the table, and sat down.
“For what we are about to receive—” began Joe, dismally, and then he suddenly got on to his feet again. “I’ll have that theer cheer at the table as how ’tis,” said he, and hobbled across the floor towards it.
Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, he continued in an altered voice, “Pull up, missus, draw a bit nearer, lass. That’s it. Now we’s get to work.”
He dragged the chair over to the table, and set a plate in front of it, and a knife and fork, and reached down a cup from the dresser.
“We’s have a cup o’ tea jest now,” said he; “thou allus liked a cup o’ tea to thy dinner.”
Returning to his place he sat down once more.
“I’ll mak’ shift to think thou’s theer,” he said. “I’ll happen be able to eat a bit if I can fancy thou’s theer. I reckon thou’rt very like to be near me somewheer, owd lass; thou an’ me as was never parted for a day for nigh upon forty year, ’tisn’t very like as thou’d let me keep Christmas all by mysel’.”
He was so busy talking to himself that he did not notice that the latch of the house door, which opened directly into the place, was lifted, as though by a hesitating hand, and that the door itself was softly pushed a very little way open.
Taking up the carving-knife he cut a slice from the breast of the goose.
“Wilt have a little bit?” he asked, looking towards the empty chair.
“Yes, please,” said a little voice behind him; the door was opened and closed again, and little feet came pattering hastily across the floor.
Joe dropped the knife and fork and looked round; a small figure stood at his elbow, a dimpled face surmounted by a very mop of yellow curls, was eagerly lifted to meet his gaze.
“Hullo!” cried Joe.
“Hullo!” echoed the little creature, and catching hold of his sleeve, the child added in a tone of delighted anticipation, “Please, I could like a bit.”
“Why, whose little lass are you?” inquired the old man. “And what brings ye out on Christmas Day? Why, thou’rt starved wi’ cowd, an’ never a hat a-top of all they curls, an’ not so much as a bit o’ shawl to hap thee round. What’s thy name, my wench?”
“Jinny, please, Mr Makin,” announced she; “Jinny Frith. I am John Frith’s little lass—John o’ Joe’s, ye know.”
“I know,” said he; “and what brings ye out in the cowd?”
Here the little face became overcast, and the little lip drooped.
“Mother put me in the wash-house,” said she. “Hoo wouldn’t let me sit at table; hoo put me in the wash-house, and I saw your fire shinin’ through the window, and I thought I’d come and ax ye to let me come in and warm mysel’.”
“Well, an’ so I will,” returned Joe, heartily. “Put ye in the wash-house, did hoo? Well, and that’s a tale. Hoo’s thy stepmother, isn’t hoo? Ah, I mind it now, I mind hearin’ thy feyther ’ad getten a new wife.”
Jinny nodded, “An’ a lot o’ new childer!” she announced. “There’s Tommy, an’ Teddy, an’ Maggie, an’ Pollie, mother brought ’em all wi’ her.”
“Ah, she was a widow, was she?” queried Joe, interested.
“An’ there’s quite a new baby,” continued Jinny, opening her eyes wide, “a new, little, wee baby. That’s my own sister. Hoo’s so bonny, nobbut when hoo cries. Hoo cried jest now along o’ me makin’ a noise, and mother was some mad.”
“Well, but your mother didn’t ought to have put ye in the wash-house for that,” returned Joe. “You didn’t go for to wakken the babby a-purpose. Theer, coom nigh the fire and warm thysel’ a bit. Eh, what little cowd hands. What’s that theer on thy arm?”
Jinny turned her chubby arm and examined the mark reflectively.
“I know!” she cried, “’twas where mother hit me with a spoon yesterday. I wer’ reachin’ for the sugar.”
“Hoo hit ye, did hoo?” cried Joe, with a sort of roar. “My word! the woman mun ha’ a hard heart to hit a little lass same as thee. What was feyther doing, eh?”
“Feyther was eatin’ his breakfast,” responded Jinny. “He said hoo didn’t ought to hit me—and then hoo got agate o’ bargein’ at him.”
“Well, well,” commented Joe, who had been chafing the little cold hands throughout the recital, “the poor man’s pretty well moidered, I reckon. But coom! the goose ’ull soon be as cowd as thee if we don’t give over talkin’ an’ start eatin’. Thou’d like a bit o’ goose, wouldn’t thou?”
“Eh, I would!” cried Jinny, with such whole-souled earnestness that he laughed again.
Breaking from him she clambered into the chair opposite to his own—poor Mary’s chair. And there she sat, her feet a long way from the floor, but the better able on that account to give certain little kicks to the table in token of ecstasy.
Joe looked across at her: how strange to see that chubby face, and golden head, in the place of the kindly wrinkled countenance which had so often smiled affectionately back at him from between the closely pleated frills of Mary’s antiquated cap! But the chair was no longer empty, and, though Joe sighed as he took up his knife and fork, he thought that the tangible vision of the expectant little face was, on the whole, more conducive to dispel loneliness than the most determined attempts at make-believe.
“Hoo’s not theer,” he muttered; “hoo’ll never be theer no more, but it’s a good job as yon little lass chanced to look in—’tis better nor the wash-house for the little thing, as how ’tis.”
Who shall say how Jinny revelled in the goose, and the stuffing, and the apple-sauce—particularly in the apple-sauce? It was pleasant to see the solemnity with which she presently selected the biggest potato in the dish, and, sliding down from her chair, marched round the table to bestow it on her host.
“You deserve it,” said she, with a quaintly condescending air—“you are so good. Besides you are the owdest,” she added as an after thought.
“Well, to be sure!” ejaculated Joe, leaning back in his chair the better to clap his hands.
Then, of course, Jinny was obliged to peel the potato for Joe, and to cut it up for him; she would in fact have liked to feed him, had not a timely suggestion as to the advisability of continuing her own dinner recalled her attention to that very important matter.
When the pudding came, she insisted on measuring plates to make quite sure that Joe was not defrauding himself of any portion of his just share; and was altogether so judicious and patronising, not to say motherly, that the old man partook of the repast to an accompaniment of perpetual chuckles. His delight was greatest, perhaps, when Jinny insisted on “siding” the dinner things at the conclusion of the meal, a task which she accomplished with most business-like dexterity. One by one she carried away dishes and plates—having first taken the precaution of setting the buttery door ajar—then she swept up the floor, and folded the cloth, in a somewhat lop-sided manner it must be owned, but with an air which left no doubt of her own consciousness of efficiency.
“I’ll wash up by and by,” she remarked, as she returned to Joe’s side.
“Eh, we’ll not ax thee to do that,” replied he. “Thou art a wonderful little lass. Thou art, for sure! And nobbut six! Thou’s a gradely headpiece under they curls o’ thine.”
“My curls is all comin’ off,” remarked Jinny, with a little toss of the head that carried them.
“What!” cried Joe, almost jumping from his chair.
“Mother’s goin’ to cut them all off,” explained the child. “They take such a time brushin’ out—and sometimes hoo pulls ’em an’ hoo’s vexed when I cry. So hoo says, Off they must come. Daddy axed hoo to leave ’em till Christmas, but I ’spect hoo’ll have ’em off to-morrow.”
“Well, that beats all!” cried Joe, as profoundly moved with indignation as though the decree had gone forth that Jinny must lose her head instead of her hair. “I should think that any woman as is a woman, or for the matter o’ that, anybody wi’ a heart in their breast, ought to be glad and proud to comb out they curls. For the matter o’ that I’d be willin’ to comb ’em out mysel’, if that’s all the trouble. Coom over here of a mornin’, my wench, with thy brush an’ comb, and I’ll see to you.”
“Will ye, Mr Makin?” said Jinny, clapping her hands. “Eh, ye are good! Didn’t I say ye was good? The goodest mon—I—ever—did—see,” she added with emphasis. “I wish I was your little lass,” she remarked, after a pause.
“Do ye?” returned Joe, setting aside the pipe which he had been about to fill, and drawing her towards him. “Ye’d never like to live wi’ an owd mon same as me,” he pursued in a hesitating tone. “Nay, of course, ye wouldn’t; ye’d be awful dull.”
Jinny shook her head till her curls made a yellow nimbus. “I wouldn’t!” she cried with emphasis. “I’d love to live here wi’ you, Mr Makin. You’d be my daddy then, wouldn’t ye? Were you ever a daddy, Mr Makin?”
“A long time ago,” said Joe, “I had a little lass o’ my own, and she’d curly hair mich the same as thine and bonny blue e’en. Her little bed is up yon in the top chamber.”
“If I was your little lass I could sleep in her little bed, couldn’t I?” returned Jinny, who was a practical young person. “Daddy’s got a lot of new childer—and I could like to have a new daddy. I’d like you for my daddy, Mr Makin,” she insisted.
“Well,” returned Joe, uplifting her dimpled chin with his rugged forefinger, “’tis a notion that; I reckon I could do wi’ thee very well.”
“I’d sleep—in—that—little—bed—up—yon,” resumed Jinny, in a sort of chant, “and I’d sit in this here chair.”
With some difficulty she dragged over the missus’s chair to the opposite side of the hearth, and climbed into it. There she sat with her curly head leaning against the back, a little hand on each of its wooden arms, and her chubby legs dangling. It was the missus’s chair, but Joe did not chide the presumptuous little occupant. On the contrary, he gave a sort of one-sided nod at her, and winked with both eyes together.
“Now you are as grand as the Queen,” said he.
While they were chuckling together over this sally, there came a sound of hasty steps without, followed by a knock on the door; and John Frith thrust in his head.
“Eh, thou’rt theer!” he cried. “My word, Jinny, what a fright thou’s gi’en me. I thought thou was lost.”
Joe removed his pipe from his mouth, and gazed at the newcomer sternly.
“Hoo’s here, reet enough,” he returned. “Sit still, Jinny,” as the child, abashed, began to get down from the chair; “thou’s no need to stir—coom in if ye are coming, John,” he added, over his shoulder, “an’ shut yon door. The wind blows in strong enough to send us up the chimbley—Jinny and me.”
John obediently closed the door, and came forward. He was a big, loose-limbed, good-natured looking fellow, without much headpiece the neighbours said, but with his heart in the right place. As he now advanced, his face wore an expression, half of amusement, half of concern.
“Eh, whoever’d ha’ thought of her runnin’ off here!” he ejaculated. “Theer’s sich a to-do at our place as never was. Some on ’em thought hoo’d fallen down the well. Eh, Jinny, thou’lt catch it from mother. Why didn’t thou stop i’ th’ wash-house?”
Jinny began to whimper, but before she could reply, Joe Makin took up the cudgels in her defence.
“Stop in the wash-house indeed!” cried he. “Yo’ did ought to be ashamed o’ yo’rsel’, John Prescott. Stop in th’ wash-house on Christmas Day, to be starved wi’ cowd, an’ clemmed wi’ hunger. ‘I dunno how yo’ can call yo’rsel’ a mon an’ say sich a thing—yo’, as is her feyther an’ all.”
“Eh, dear o’ me,” cried John, “’tis enough to drive a mon distracted, what wi’ one thing an’ what wi’ another. I ax naught but a quiet life. Jinny, hoo woke the babby, and the missus, hoo got in one of her tantrums, an’ the childer was all fightin’ an’ skrikin’, an’ the whole place upside down—eh, theer’s too many on ’em yonder an’ that’s the truth, but if I say a word hoo’s down on me.”
“Yo’re a gradely fool to ston’ it, then!” retorted Joe. “The mon should be gaffer in his own house.”
“Oh, I don’t say but what he ought to be,” responded John, with a sheepish smile, “but ’tis easier said than done, mon: I weren’t a-goin’ to leave the little lass in the wash-house,” he added in an explanatory tone, “I were goin’ to let her out reet enough on the quiet. I’d saved a bit o’ dinner for her, too—”
“Oh, yo’ had, had yo’?” interrupted Joe, ironically. “Coom now, that’s summat. You weren’t goin’ to let her clem on Christmas Day—well done! ’Twas actin’ like a mon, that was—yo’ may be proud o’ that, John. I tell yo’ what,” cried Joe, thumping the table, “since yo’ take no more thought for your own flesh an’ blood nor that, yo’ may mak’ a present o’ the little lass to me.”
“Mak’ a present!” stammered the other, staring at him.
“Ah,” returned Joe, sternly, “you don’t vally her no more nor if hoo wer’ an owd dish-clout—lettin’ her be thrown out in the wash-house an’ all—but I’m made different. Your house is too full, yo’ say—well mine’s empty—awful empty,” he added with something like a groan. “Theer’s too many on yo’ yon, at your place—well, then, I’ll take Jinny off ye.”
John still stared at him without speaking, and Joe continued vehemently.
“I say I’ll take her off yo’. There’ll ’appen be more peace at yo’r place when the little wench is out of the road; an’ they curls o’ hers may stop on her head instead o’ being cut off an’ thrown in the midden—an’ if hoo axes for a bit o’ sugar hoo shan’t get hit wi’ a spoon. Theer now,” he summed up sternly.
John scratched his head and reflected. Jinny was his own flesh and blood, and he loved her after his fashion; but there was no doubt things were very uncomfortable at home, and if she were not there, there was likely to be more peace. If Joe really meant what he said he might be worth hearkening to.
“Yo’ seem to have taken a wonderful fancy to the little lass,” he said hesitatingly; “hoo’s a good little lass enough, but—I reckon yo’re laughin’ at me.”
“I wer’ never more in earnest i’ my life,” said Joe. “Coom, it mun be one way or t’other. Mun I have her?”
“Oh, you can have her reet enough!” returned the father, with a shamefaced laugh. “Would ye like to live here, Jinny?”
“Eh, I would!” she cried. “Eh, that I would! He shall be my new daddy.”
A pang shot through her own father’s heart.
“An’ yo’ll think no more o’ the owd one now, I reckon,” he said.
Jinny looked from one to the other quickly.
“Two daddies!” she said emphatically, adding after a pause. “Two daddies and no mother—that’s what I’d like.”
“Poor little lass!” said John, with something like a groan. “I reckon thou would; I doubt I can’t blame thee.”
“’Tis settled, then; I can keep her?” cried Joe eagerly.
“Ah,” returned John, backing towards the door, “’tis reet—yo’ can keep her.”
As the door closed behind him, Jinny returned to her big elbow chair, and once more taking possession of it, folded her hands on her lap and announced triumphantly that she was the little missus.
“Bless thy bonny face,” cried Joe, “and so thou art.”
THE RULES O’ THE HOUSE
Jinny Whiteside had kept herself without being beholden to anybody since she found herself an orphan at the age of twenty-eight. She took in washing, she went out charing; during her spare hours she worked in her garden; but her main source of income came from letting her two small spare bedrooms. Her cottage was situated at such a convenient distance from the little wayside station, that the constantly changing porters who earned their living there, invariably became her lodgers.
One sunshiny May day the outgoing porter took leave of his landlady—having been removed to a more important station—and after giving him a hearty Godspeed, she stood watching his departing figure, until she was presently hailed by the voice of the porter who had come to take his place. Looking round, she observed that his eyes were fixed on her with a gaze that was half-amused and half-enquiring. Jinny Whiteside was a pleasant enough sight that bright morning. She wore the bedgown and petticoat which many of her neighbours condemned as old-fashioned, but which she would have scorned to discard; her print sleeves were rolled up high on her sturdy arms, her fair hair shone like satin, and her sunburnt face was smooth and comely still in spite of her five-and-thirty years.
“Good day to yo’, missus,” said the new porter.
“Good day,” returned Jinny, removing her arms from the gate on which she had been leaning. “Yo’n coom about the lodging, I reckon?”
“How dun yo’ know that?” said he. “Theer’s other cotes i’ this place besides yo’rs.”
“Cotes enough,” agreed Jinny. “Yo’ can go an’ see ’em if yo’n a mind.”
“I reckon I’ll have a look round here first,” retorted he. “’Tis a pratty place, an’ I doubt by the looks on yo’ yo’re wan as ’ud mak’ a mon comfortable.”
Jinny, with an unmoved face, led the way into the cottage and piloted him upstairs, throwing open the door of the room just vacated by her last lodger. The newcomer stepped past her with a laugh; the highest part of the sloping ceiling touched his head.
“Not mich room to turn,” he observed.
“Yo’n no need to turn, wi’out it’s to turn in,” replied Jinny, surveying him calmly, with her hand resting on her hip; “or mayhap,” she continued reflectively, “yo’d fancy turnin’ out. I’m not one to beg and pray yo’ to lodge wi’ me again your will.”
“How mich are you axin’?” said the visitor, grinning appreciatively at this sally.
She named her terms, adding, “Tak’ it or leave it.”
“I’ll tak’ it,” said he. “Theer, that job’s sattled. Now then, missus—Mrs Whiteside; that’s yo’r name, isn’t it?”
“Miss Whiteside,” corrected Jinny, preceding him down the stairs, “I were never wed.”
“Oh,” said he, with a quizzical look, “what were the lads about? Well, Miss Whiteside, I hope you are satisfied?”
“I’ll let yo’ know that at the week-end,” said Jinny. “What met yo’r name be?”
“Luke Kershaw,” responded he.
“Well, ’tis as good a name as any other. Theer’s one thing, Luke, yo’ mun keep to the rules o’ the house. Yo’ll find out about ’em soon enough,” she added, in reply to his questioning look. “Fetch yo’r things now, I mun get agate wi’ my wark.”
When Luke returned dinner was set forth, and his fellow-lodger, who was likewise his fellow-servant at the railway station, was already seated. Miss Whiteside set before them a deep dish, containing thick slices of bacon done after the incomparable rustic fashion, and emitting a most appetising odour; and jerking open the oven-door, produced therefrom a tin full of smoking potatoes, nicely browned in dripping, which she rapidly proceeded to transfer to the hot dish lying ready to hand before the fire.
“My word,” exclaimed Luke, rubbing his hands, “this is what yo’ may call a gradely do, John. Does yon lass treat yo’ so well every day?”
“Noan so ill,” interpolated Jinny, “though ’tisn’t always bacon day. Now then, pull up, an’ we’s ax a blessin’.”
Luke duly drew his chair to the table, but instead of folding his hands and bending his head after the manner of his comrade, stared at Miss Whiteside with a sarcastic smile. Jinny eyed him sharply, dumped a portion of bacon and potatoes on a plate, and remarking with some asperity—
“Christians get sarved first in this cote,” handed it to John. Then, turning abruptly to Luke, and keeping her big spoon poised in the air, she added: “Mayhap yo’ didn’t know sayin’ grace at meal-times is one o’ my rules.”
“Naw, I didn’t,” admitted Kershaw, still grinning.
“Well, yo’ know now, then,” resumed Jinny, “an’ don’t yo’ be for forgettin’ it.”
She helped him to his allotted portion, but, as Luke jealously imagined, curtailed his allowance of bacon fat, though she had generously spooned a large quantity of it into John’s plate.
He made no remark, however, and fell to with appetite, remarking after a pause, that the folks at the public hadn’t sent up his little beer-barrel yet.
“Thot’s another thing,” said his landlady, raising her eyes from her plate. “I ought haply to ha’ named it this morn, for ye’ll ha’ the trouble o’ takin’ back that order now. I don’t allow nobry to sup beer i’ this place.”
“Eh! my word!” cried Luke, supplementing the ejaculation with an oath. “Yo’ want it all yo’r own way i’ this cote, I reckon.”
“I don’t allow no ill language neither,” observed Jinny. “If yo’ can’t get along wi’out usin’ bad words yo’ needn’t be at the trouble of unpackin’ that box o’ yo’rn.”
“Theer, don’t get vexed,” put in John, in a stage whisper to his fellow workman. “Humour her a bit, mon. Yo’ll not rue it at arter, an’ so I tell yo’. A mon met search far an’ wide afore he found hisself so weel done-to as we find ourselves here.”
“What mun I drink then?” cried Luke sullenly. “Dry water!”
“Yo’ can have coffee same as the rest on us,” returned Jinny. “It’s b’ilin’ on the fire now, an’ ’ull be ready as soon as yo’ are, I doubt. Ate yo’r bacon an’ don’t let’s hear so mich talk.”
“Is talk forbidden too?” enquired Luke, with a dawning smile.
“Not when it’s gradely talk,” responded his hostess. “If yo’n anything to say, say it, but I’ll not be moidered wi’ grumblin’s an’ growlin’s.”
John plunged at once into an account of a chance meeting with an old crony of his, who was also, it seemed a friend of Miss Whiteside’s, describing with a good deal of dry humour his encounter with this gentleman, who was, it appeared, more nor a little set up since he had shifted to Liverpool. Jinny seemed much tickled, and interrupted the speaker every now and then by a burst of laughter—very fresh and pleasant laughter, her blue eyes twinkling the while in a way that was equally pleasant. She was in such a good humour that at the conclusion of the repast Luke was emboldened to produce his pipe, and, after tentatively polishing it on his coat sleeve, held it out to her.
“Can I smoke,” he asked ingratiatingly, “or is that again the rules too?”
“Well,” said Miss Whiteside, surveying him reflectively, “if yo’ was ony kin o’ mine I’d ha’ summat to say to yo’, but if yo’ choose to weer yo’r brass on baccy it’s nobry’s business but yo’r own. It keeps yo’ quiet, an’ so long as yo’ stick to coffee for yo’r drink, theer’s no harm in’t as far as I can see. Say grace afore yo’ leave the table though.”
This time Luke, if he did not openly join in the devotions, had the good taste to sit quiet, and to keep his features composed and his eyes downcast till the “Amen,” after which he lit his pipe and fell to smoking in silence. John, who was no smoker, adjourned to the bench in the porch, and, drawing a newspaper from his pocket, began to read. Meanwhile Jinny “sided” the things, singing to herself in a high, clear voice. Presently, catching up a bucket, she went out; the creaking of a windlass was heard, and in another minute she returned, the pail brimming over with water.
“Yo’n a well here, I see,” observed Luke, removing his pipe. “I couldn’t make out what the screeching was. Yo’ are rale owd-fashioned folks hereabouts.”
“Noan the war for thot,” said Jinny. “Yo’ Manchester folks is so stuck-up yo’ reckon to find pumps an’ taps an’ sich like i’ th’ country. But yo’ll ha’ to put up wi’ us same as yo’ find us. When yo’r for cl’anin’ yo’, yo’ll ha’ to fill bucket for yo’rsel’, same as John yonder.”
“Eh, I’ll fill it,” responded Luke; “’tisn’t so very mich trouble. I’d ha’ filled yon for yo’ too if I’d ha’ knowed what yo’ was arter.”
“Nay, I’d as soon do for mysel’, thank yo’,” retorted Jinny. “I never was one as fancied bein’ behowden to folks. Theer, ’tis striking one,” as the cuckoo-clock on the chimney-piece gave out a quavering note, “yo’d best be steppin’.”
Luke rose, pocketed his pipe, and followed John, who had already folded up his newspaper and left his place in the porch. They walked away together in silence until they were out of earshot, and then Luke, with a slow grin and a backward jerk of his head towards the cottage, remarked:—
“Th’ owd lass seems awful religious.”
“She’s thot,” agreed John, “but she’s one o’ the better mak’ for all that. She dunnot preach nowt as she dunnot put i’ practice, mon.”
“Well, I dunnot howd wi’ bein’ put upon as how ’tis,” retorted Luke defiantly. “I’m one as dunnot like to sup coffee when I’ve a mind to sup beer, an’ to be set down to say grace, same as if I was a babby.”
“We’re all babbies here,” said John, with a grin. “I could laugh by times of a Sunday morn, when we all sets out for church same as the infants in the school.”
“Church!” exclaimed Luke, his voice becoming almost falsetto in its indignation. “Tell yo’ what—she’ll find she’s got hold o’ the wrong mak’ o’ chap for they games. ’Twas a rule as I made long ago.”
John laughed to himself in a way which increased the new porter’s ire.
“What do yo’ mean by that?” he enquired sharply; “theer’s nought to laugh at as I can see.”
“I’m nobbut thinkin’ yo’ll change yo’r tune afore long, same as the rest on us,” returned the other. “We all has to give in to Miss Whiteside. Jem Phillips, as has just gone, he thought he’d have his own way about comin’ home late fro’ the public, but she soon let him know.”
“I’ll let her know then,” growled Luke, in the depths of his brown beard.
That very evening his resolution was put to the test. He had preserved an ominous and gloomy silence throughout supper, which, though plentiful and comfortably served, was rendered in a manner distasteful to him by the compulsory devotions which had preceded it; and observed in a loud voice at its conclusion, that he intended to step out to the “Blue Lion.” Jinny received the information disapprovingly but calmly.
“I’m not responsible for what yo’ do outside o’ this house; yo’ can be as great a fool as yo’ like,” she said. “As long as yo’ coom back sober, an’ not too late,” she added with emphasis. “Ten’s my hour for going to bed; I don’t say but what I met stretch a point now an’ then, an’ stop up till half-past ten, but folks as comes home later nor that ’ull find theirsel’s locked out.”
“Eleven’s closin’ time,” said Luke, sulkily. “I suppose yo’ think yo’rsel’ better able to make laws nor the government.”
“I makes laws for my own house,” responded Miss Whiteside with dignity. “I always kept my ’ouse respectable, an’ I’ll go on doin’ of it. No house can be respectable as takes a lodger out o’ they crowd o’ shoutin’, singin’ wastrels as nobbut cooms whoam when they’re turned out o’ the public. If one o’ my lodgers is sich a noddy as to go to the public at all he mun walk out o’ his own free will, an’ not wait to be turned out.”
“Of his own free will, indeed!” commented Luke, with an angry laugh; “theer’s not mich free will left to ony chap as bides i’ this cote.”
“Please yo’rself an’ yo’ please me,” said Jinny. “I don’t want to keep nobry here against their will, but if yo’ reckon to lodge here yo’ must do same as I tell yo’.”
“I’ve more nor half a mind to tak’ yon wench at her word,” muttered Kershaw, as he strode away, accompanied by John, whom he had persuaded to join him for a single glass, though, as the latter explained, in a general way he was temperance.
“Yo’ll do same as the rest on us—yo’ll give in. Eh, mon, yo’ll not rue it I tell yo’; I’ve been a dale ’appier an ’a dale better sin’ Miss Whiteside took me in hand. An’ Mary Frith, as I’m keepin’ coompany with, says often an’ often she blesses the day I went to lodge wi’ her.”
They went into the “Blue Lion,” and John duly had his glass, and departed amid the mirth of the assembled company. One facetious person enquired, with apparent innocence, but nudging his neighbour the while, if Luke did not intend to accompany him.
“We know the rules o’ the ’ouse,” he cried. “Miss Whiteside ’ull be on the lookout for ye, lad.”
Luke’s only response was to order himself another three-penn’orth; but being further pressed, he announced with great valour his intention of showing yon wumman as she’d not get the better of him. Nevertheless, when ten o’clock drew near, he began to fidget. Would Jinny really carry out her threat of locking him out if he did not appear at the appointed time? It was raining heavily, someone had recently reported, he was tired, and the memory of the snug little room under the roof appealed to him forcibly; moreover he would infallibly become the laughing-stock of the place if Jinny was as good as her word. When another quarter of an hour had passed, therefore, he arose, stretched himself, and remarked with feigned unconcern, that he was dog tired and would be glad to turn in. The wag aforesaid pulled out a huge Waterbury watch.
“Mak’ the best use o’ yo’r legs, mon,” he exclaimed. “Yo’ have but ten minutes to do the job. She’ll be gettin’ the bolt ready ’iled.”
Luke deemed it best to feign unconsciousness of the other’s meaning, and went slouching out of the house with as much dignity as was compatible with a devil-may-care aspect. He whistled loudly as he sauntered down the lane, but once he had fairly left the inn and its occupants behind, he took to his heels and ran. As he approached Jinny’s cottage, he observed with alarm that there was no light in the kitchen windows, though, as he sent the little gate swinging on its hinges, a faint ray shot through the keyhole of the door. He lifted the latch but the door did not yield. Then he struck the upper panel heavily with his clenched fist.
“Yo’d best open this door, missus,” he shouted out, in a voice thick with anger, “else I’d think nothin’ at all o’ breakin’ it down.”
There was a grinding of bolts within, and the door was flung open, revealing Miss Whiteside, flat candlestick in hand.
“Now look yo’ here, missus,” cried Luke, propping the door open with his broad shoulder, “a bargain’s a bargain! Half-past ten was the time yo’ named an’ it wants three minutes to that now.”
“It does nought o’ the kind,” responded Jinny indignantly. “Cuckoo’s gone five minutes sin’.”
“Cuckoo’s wrong then,” retorted Luke roughly, and he dangled his watch in the flickering light in order to confute her. Just as Jinny was shrilly asserting her belief in the infallibility of her cuckoo, the church clock struck the half-hour.
“Theer! What do yo’ mak’ o’ thot?” cried Luke, restoring his watch to his fob, and stepping past her; “church clock can’t be wrong, can it?”
Jinny, unexpectedly confounded, fell to re-bolting the door again without speaking, and her lodger, triumphant in the consciousness of having had the last word, marched up to bed.
Luke was awake early on the following morning, yet, when he came downstairs to draw up a bucketful of water from the well, he found that his hostess must have been astir long before him. The kitchen had been scrubbed and sanded, a bright fire burnt on the hearth, and a most savoury smell of coffee and bacon greeted his nostrils. Moreover, Miss Whiteside, kneeling before the fire, was toasting a large round of bread.
“Yon smells gradely,” said Luke, pausing in the doorway.
Jinny glanced over her shoulder.
“It’s yo’,” she remarked. “I got yo’r breakfast in good time, knowing yo’ have to be on duty o’ mornin’s.”
“Coom,” said Kershaw with a gleeful swing of the bucket, “that’s reet. I call that proper thoughtful. I reckoned I’d happen have to tak’ a bite along wi’ me, seein’ it’s so early.”
“Nay,” responded Jinny graciously, as she scraped the burnt corner off the toast; “I’m for sendin’ a man off to his wark wi’ some heart in him—wi’out it’s too early for him to have a appetite. Poor John ’ull have to come back for his breakfast. I couldn’t expect the lad to be hungry at five o’clock i’ the mornin’, though I made him a nice cup o’ tea before he went, an’ I’ll do the same by yo’ next week when ’tis yo’r turn to be the early bird.”
“Well, yo’re something like a stirrin’ body—I’ll say that!” cried Luke approvingly; and he hurried out to the well, filled his bucket, and performed his ablutions, all with the least possible loss of time, for really the sights and smells in that comfortable kitchen made him feel most uncommonly hungry.
Jinny had finished toasting the second round by the time he appeared, and was covering the table with a coarse, clean, white cloth.
“Now then,” cried Luke in high good humour, “if the meal’s ready the mon is.”
He set a chair in Jinny’s place, and fetched another for himself, and was about to sit down, when Jinny, who had methodically arranged plates and cups upon the table, glanced at him reprovingly.
“Prayers first,” she remarked.
“Well, I’m ready—fire away,” grunted Luke, bending his head and folding his hands in the approved fashion.
“Grace is one thing,” observed Jinny, “an’ prayers another. Yo’ll go down on your knees, Luke Kershaw, along o’ me an’ say a word to yo’r Maker afore yo’ breaks bread i’ this house.”
“I’m d—d if I do!” shouted Luke, thumping the table. “I’m about tired o’ bein’ missus’d an’ so I tell yo’. Pray away as much as yo’ like, Miss Whiteside—I’ll step outside an’ yo’ can call me when yo’re ready.”
Jinny shot a glance at him, and then, with the precision which characterised all her actions, removed one plate, one cup and saucer, and one knife and one fork from the table.
“Them as hasn’t the decency to thank the Giver, dunnot want the gifts,” she observed, and flopped down on her knees by the settle in the corner.
“What mak’ o’ talk’s that?” enquired Luke somewhat shamefacedly.
“Yo’ know well enough,” responded she. “This here’s a Christian house, I say, an’ I’ll not set at table wi’ nobry as dunnot begin the day as a Christian should.”
Luke made a step towards the door, and then glanced back at the hearth. The two rounds of toast standing at right angles to each other were as brown as brown could be; the bacon was done to perfection.
“A mon must eat,” he said, speaking more to himself than to her. “A chap can’t do his work wi’out he’s fed, but I’ll look out for another lodgin’ afore the day goes by.”
Jinny, with her head buried in her hands, was too much absorbed to heed him. Luke, after another moment’s hesitation, came shambling across the kitchen, and popped himself down beside her.
“Dunno be too long, that’s all,” he observed in a wrathful whisper.
Miss Whiteside glanced at him between her fingers, and then obligingly began to pray aloud. The devotions in which Luke was invited, or rather commanded, to share, were not of very long duration, and something about the simple, familiar words evoked in him an unwonted sense of shame, which was increased by Jinny’s comment on concluding:
“’Twere scarce worth while to make such a fuss, were it?”
He relinquished the idea of seeking lodgings elsewhere, and moreover unpacked and stowed away his few possessions with a certain sense of satisfaction. Jinny herself came upstairs before he had finished, and immediately took possession of such garments as required mending. The day passed peacefully away. Luke, in fact, was lamb-like throughout the ensuing week, not only as regarded saying his grace and refraining from protest when the need for beer at the midday meal made itself felt, but even returning home from the “Blue Lion” before the church clock struck ten. All in fact went smoothly until Saturday evening when Jinny announced, in her sharp, imperative manner, that she expected “both lads” to be ready for church at a quarter to eleven sharp.
“It’ll take us all that time to get theer,” she observed, with the corner of her eye on Luke.
“Yo’d best look sharp an’ see that yo’re ready,” observed the latter, addressing himself to John.
“He knows right enough,” said Miss Whiteside quickly. “It’s yo’ as ’ull have to look sharp.”
“I’m not goin’,” rejoined Kershaw firmly.
“Nay, but you are,” responded Jinny, uplifting her voice. “’Tis the rule o’ the house. I’ve never had a lodger yet as didn’t go to church.”
“Yo’ll have one now, then,” retorted Luke, tapping the ashes out of his pipe and rising.
“There’s sausages for breakfast to-morrow,” remarked Jinny, with apparent irrelevance.
Luke burst out laughing:—
“Yo’ think I’m a child, I doubt,” he said. “No breakfast for a bad lad. Well, it won’t hurt me to go wi’out my breakfast for once. I’m not goin’ to church—I tell yo’ plain. Yo’ have yo’r rules an’ I have mine. I fell out wi’ a parson once as took on hissel’ to interfere wi’ me, an’ I says to him what I says to yo’—‘I’ll never set foot ’ithin a church again’—an’ I wunnot.”
He got up and went out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Jinny was nonplussed for once; but nevertheless, following her elementary mode of procedure, prepared such an appetising breakfast on the following morning, as she hoped would touch the heart of even the most hardened sinner. Luke, however, did not put himself in the way of being softened; he rose even earlier than his landlady; dressed himself sullenly in his working-clothes, and went off for a solitary ramble along the shore.
The Rector met Miss Whiteside on her way to church.
“What, only one companion!” he cried, laughing.
“Only one, sir,” said Jinny, dropping a staid curtsey.
“How is that? I thought there were no black sheep in your fold.”
“Step a bit up the road, John, do,” remarked Jinny in a loud aside; as soon as this injunction had been obeyed, she turned to the Rector. “I doubt my new lodger’s a black ’un—leastways not altogether black. He keeps all my rules nobbut this ’un. He’ve dropped beer an’ bad words, an’ he says his prayers an’ grace an’ all, an’ he comes a-whoam by ten—but he says ’tis his rule not to go to church—I don’t know how to mak’ ’un do it, that’s the worst on’t. I’ve mended all his clothes this week so I can’t get even wi’ un wi’ leavin’ ’em in holes. He didn’t have no breakfast this mornin’ but I can’t go on cuttin’ off his victuals for long. The mon works ’ard, an’ wants ’em.”
The Rector laughed.
“Have you ever tried persuasion?” he said. “Sometimes when threats fail coaxing prevails. He can’t be a bad fellow if he does all you say.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say he was bad,” she agreed meditatively. “I never thought o’ tryin’ persuasion,” she added. “My way is to serve ’em out if they don’t do what I tell ’em.”
The Rector laughed again:
“‘A spoonful of honey catches more flies than a pint of vinegar’,” he remarked; “have you ever heard that saying?”
Jinny had not, but conceded that it met be true enough; she followed John with a pensive look.
Kershaw did not return for dinner, nor yet for tea; he did not, in fact, put in an appearance until late in the evening, when, if truth be told, he was considerably the worse for drink. He went straight upstairs to bed without pausing a moment in the kitchen.
Next morning, when he came in for his breakfast, this being his week for early duty at the station, he expected a severe lecture, but Jinny set his food before him with a pleasant smile.
“Oh,” growled Luke sarcastically, “yo’ll gie me summat to eat to-day, will yo’? Well, I can do wi’ a bit at after yesterday. Bread and cheese were my dinner yesterday. I had to walk nigh upon six mile afore I could get it.”
“Yo’r dinner was waitin’ for yo’ here,” responded Jinny, with mild dignity. “’Twas keepin’ hot for yo’ all the afternoon.”
“I thought haply yo’ was goin’ to punish me by makin’ me clem all day. Yo’ was some mad wi’ me, wasn’t yo?”
“Nay, nay,” replied Jinny, still mildly, “not mad. I were nobbut sorry.”
All that week she redoubled her attentions to Luke, and when Saturday night came he was astonished and abashed when she put a little parcel into his hands. It contained a tie of the brightest hues and the richest texture obtainable for a shilling.
“If yo’ll weer that to-morrow, Luke,” she said graciously, “I’ll feel proper proud steppin’ along aside of yo’.”
Luke gazed hesitatingly, first at the tie, then at Jinny’s beaming face; then folding up the little packet he tendered it back to her.
“I couldn’t tak’ it on false pertences,” he faltered. “I’m no church-goer.”
Jinny swallowed down what appeared to be a lump in her throat. “Keep it all the same, an’ weer it to-morrow,” she said. “Theer’s one thing yo’ can do. Yo’ll not ha’ no objections to waitin’ outside the gate for me, an’ walkin’ home along of me?”
Luke eyed her suspiciously, but consented after a moment’s hesitation, reflecting that she could not possibly force him to go in.
He duly sat on the wall outside the church on the following day, and escorted Miss Whiteside home, feeling somewhat ashamed of himself, as he noted her chastened air and heard the heavy sigh which now and then escaped from her.
That afternoon, however, her continued affability emboldened him to make a request on his own account. It was such a lovely day, and he was free—would not Miss Whiteside go for a walk with him? Jinny, startled, began to refuse with her usual abruptness, but checked herself midway, and consented instead.
They strolled out together along a narrow path, which led past meadows and cornfields to a little wood. While they sat there, resting on a mossy bank, the church bells began to ring, now on one side of them, now on the other. Luke glanced sarcastically at his companion.
“I reckon yo’re wishin’ yo’rself theer an’ not here?”
Jinny looked up with a start.
“Wheer?” she asked, and turned very red. Luke stared, laughed, and then suddenly grew serious, blushing too. Silence reigned for a moment and then he said:
“I doubt I’d best tell yo’ why I’m so set again church-goin’. ’Tisn’t altogether along o’ not wishin’ to be put upon. When I were a young chap a parson comed between me an’ the lass I were a-coortin’.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Jinny distantly.
“Ah, he did. She was a sarvent lass an’ couldn’t get out above once a fortnight. I didn’t see so mich on her I could afford to lose the time she spent in church, and parson he barged at her for not goin’. Well, I geet my back set up along of it, an’ I towd her one day she mun mind me an’ not parson. Well she wouldn’t, so I gave up a-walkin’ wi’ her, an’ she took up wi’ another chap, an’ I promised mysel’ I’d never go to church again as long as I lived—an’ I’ve kept my word.”
“Well, if yo’ll excuse me, I think yo’re nothing but a noddy!” cried Jinny, with decidedly more vinegar than honey in her tone. She sprang to her feet, shaking out her dress.
“I doubt I will go to church arter all,” she added.
“Nay, a promise is a promise,” returned Luke, catching her by the arm. “Sit yo’ down again, an’ tell me why yo’ reckon I’m a noddy.”
“Well, a body can’t think it anything but foolish to go on a-keepin’ up spite along of a wench same’s that,” cried she, twitching away her arm, but making no further effort to leave him. “She couldn’t be worth mich if she could go takin’ up wi’ another chap so quick.”
“That’s true,” agreed Luke. “She was in a hurry to forget me.”
“She mun ha’ been a leet-minded snicket not worth frettin’ arter,” pursued Jinny warmly. “An’ she can’t ha’ had a bit o’ sperrit neither. She ought to ha’ stood up to yo’ an’ showed yo’ yo’ was doin’ her no harm an’ yo’rself no good. If I’d ha’ bin in her shoes—” She stopped short, colouring again to the roots of her hair.
“Set yo’ down again, do,” said Luke persuasively. “What ’ud yo’ ha’ done if yo’d been in her shoes, Jinny?”
Jinny sat down, but for once in her life was dumbfounded; she did not dare raise her eyes to Luke’s face.
“Theer’s no knowin’ what yo’ met ha’ done wi’ me if yo’d ha’ bin in Mary’s shoes,” he went on. “Yo’ve a wonderful manageable way wi’ yo’, Miss Whiteside.”
“I don’t seem able to manage yo’ though,” said Jinny inconsequently. “I’ve had lodgers, a-mony of ’em, an’ I’ve took a interest in ’em all, an’ they allus did what I wanted—all of ’em, nobbut yo’. Yo’re the first as ever refused to do what I axed yo’.”
“Coom,” cried Luke indignantly. “I’m sure I’ve gived in to yo’ more’n I’ve ever gived in to a wumman before. I’ve done all as yo’ axed me—nay, yo’ didn’t ax me, yo’ ordered me, an’ I’m not one as likes to be ordered by a wumman—but I gived in all but the one thing—I’ve gived yo’ my rayson for that.”
“’Twasn’t no rayson at all,” said Jinny. “Coom now, Luke, yo’ owned up to me about that a minute ago. Coom, I’ll not order yo’ no more—I’ll ax yo’ gradely—happen yo’ll do it if I ax yo’ proper?”
Her blue eyes were shining with eagerness, her lips were parted with an arch smile.
“Happen I would,” admitted Luke. “Let’s hear yo’ do it.”
“Well then Luke, ha’ done wi’ foolishness,” she said in her most persuasive tones. “Promise yo’ll coom to church same as any other Christian.”
“That’s not axin’ me proper,” said Luke. “I care nowt at all about any other Christian. Say it this way, Jinny—‘Will yo’ coom to church wi’ me?’”
“Will yo’ coom to church,” she began falteringly, and then broke off for Luke had seized her hand—“Whativer are yo’ drivin’ at?”
“Theer, I’ll ax the question mysel’,” cried Luke. “Will yo’ go to church wi’ me, Jinny? If yo’ll gie me your promise, I’ll walk i’ your footsteps all my days, my dear.”
Jinny presumably gave her promise, for when they presently emerged from the wood they were walking arm-in-arm. Whether he subsequently fulfilled his resolve of following meekly in her footsteps, is a moot point, for Luke was a person of strong individuality; but Jinny liked him none the less for that, and one thing is certain: she saw to it that he kept the rules of the house.