Part 13

“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.

LADY LUCY

JOHN COTLEY closed his account-book—blotting the last entry carefully, for he was an orderly man—and laid it in its accustomed place in the drawer of his high desk. Then, rising from the tall stool on which he had been seated for an hour and more, he passed his hands across his brow, and looked through the mullioned window at the fast darkening landscape.

“It grows late,” quoth he. “Molly will be in a taking at my keeping supper waiting so long, but I must stretch my legs first, after all this sitting.”

As he stood in the wainscotted hall without, in the act of taking down his hat, he was startled by loud rapping at the great wooden gates of the yard, which had been closed and bolted for the night, together with the sound of several voices raised in unison. He threw open the hall-door and stood for a moment on the threshold, listening; and the rapping was repeated, and the voices called—some gruffly and some shrilly:—

“Let us in—you there! Let us in! What, is everyone in the place dead or deaf?”

John went slowly down the flagged path between the lavender hedges, and began with a grating, grinding sound to draw back the heavy bolts, the voices on the other side of the stout oak portals keeping up, meanwhile, a running commentary of impatient ejaculations, intermingled with little bursts of laughter.

“Now, good fellow, who ever you may be, put a little goodwill into your efforts.”

“Fie! what a disagreeable noise! Sir, ’tis to be wished that your master would expend a pennyworth of oil on this screeching ironwork.”

“La! what a time the rascal takes! Pray, Hodge, or Giles, or whatever thy name may be, tell us who lives here. We had thought you deaf; and now, faith, it would seem as if you were dumb.”

“Nay, Tufty, do not distract the poor yokel. These rustics have not wit enough to attend to more than one thing at a time. Tug away at thy bolt, good man, and let us in; it grows chilly here.”

At length, with a final shriek, the last bolt was withdrawn from its rusty hasp, and the doors parted in the middle under John’s hand; then, removing his round hat, he was preparing, with his usual gravity, to enquire the reason of this unexpected visit, when, with many expressions of relief and satisfaction, a party of what seemed to be very grand folk brushed past him into the enclosure. There was a rustling of silken skirts, a waving of long feathers—a diffusion of sweet strange odours—such odours as had never yet greeted the honest country nostrils of John Cotley, though they would have been familiar enough to any frequenter of high company in town; odours of powder and pomatum, and the scented bags that women of fashion lay among their tuckers. Thus the ladies filed past, one, two, and three; and then the gentlemen came—very fine gentlemen, indeed. John could see, even in the dim light, the glitter of gold lace and sparkling buckles, the pale gleam of silk-stockinged legs and powdered heads.

“La, how sweet it smells,” cried one of the ladies. “What is it? Roses, think you—gilly-flowers? Nay, ’tis lavender! See these ghostly hedges are all of lavender.”

“Madam,” cried one of the gallants, “’twould please me better could I smell some savoury stew. Ghostly, did you say? I vow the whole place looks ghostly. Not a light in all those ancient windows.”

“Pray, you there, you, fellow; leave the gate and try and find thy tongue. Does anybody live here, and is it possible to obtain refreshment and a night’s lodging?”

“I live here,” said John, somewhat ruffled by the tone. “As to your second question, before answering it I will first ask one or two of my own. What may this company be, and why do they seek admittance into my house at such an hour?”

“Why, what a churl is this!”

“By gad, ’tis his house, Harry. We’ve been discussing the place in the presence of its owner; but we must needs be civil, it seems, if we would dine and sleep under cover. Sir, you behold a noble company of travellers, or, if you prefer it, a travelling company of noblemen and ladies, journeying from Bristol Hotwells, where they have been sojourning for the good of their health. Their coach, having taken a wrong turn, has inconveniently broken down on that abominable mixture of marsh and stones which you are pleased in these parts to term a road. As it is late and the ladies are hungry and tired, the gentlemen athirst, the best horse lame, the front wheel damaged, and the postboy drunk, we deem it better to push no further to-night. Therefore, finding no inn within a radius of ten miles, and descrying your house—which seemed to us a building of some importance—we have come to throw ourselves upon your hospitality for the night.”

“Sir,” returned John simply, “I am sorry for your misfortune, and will do my best to entertain you, though, being a plain man and a bachelor, I fear the accommodation I can offer you is not such as these ladies are accustomed to.”

“Well said, man! you can but do your best,” cried the gentleman called Harry, clapping John on his brawny shoulder. “Come, lead the way, and we’ll all promise not to be over fastidious. Something to drink.”

John led the way into the house, baring his head as he passed the ladies, and the party trooped after him into a panelled parlour, where the dim outlines of cumbrous articles of furniture might be discerned in the dusk. Drawing a tinder-box from his pocket, he struck a light, and having ignited the candles on the mantelshelf, turned to face his visitors.

The flickering light revealed to them the sunburnt face and well-knit figure of a man of about five-and-twenty, with brown hair and brown eyes, and an expression of shy kindliness.

As he looked in bewilderment from one to the other of his guests, dazzled by the medley of fine clothes and trinkets, here marking the gleam of white teeth, there a pair of dancing eyes, yonder the flutter of powdered locks, out of the confusion there seemed to detach itself—one face. A small face, round which the hair fell in natural curls untouched by powder; laughing eyes, a mouth at once sweet and roguish; a bloom that even John’s unsophisticated eyes instantly recognised as being wholly natural, yet such as he had never beheld on the solid cheeks of the rustic damsels of the neighbourhood.

Forgetful of his good manners, Cotley stared mutely at this lovely face, until recalled to himself by a murmur of amusement from the rest of the party.

“When you have recovered your tongue, mine host, we shall be glad if you will introduce yourself,” remarked one of the gentlemen. “I myself must own to no little curiosity about you. Pray, man, are you a hermit, that you live thus in what seems to be absolute solitude? Split me, if I’ve seen a living soul about the place except yourself!”

“Sir,” returned the other, with a start and a blush, “my name is John Cotley, at your service. I am, as I think is easily seen, a gentleman of somewhat limited means. Had you come before sundown you might have observed a few of my labourers busy on the premises—when they leave, I own, with the exception of my old housekeeper, I am alone in the house.” Looking round on the curious and surprised faces he added, stiffly, with a certain boyish pride: “My family met with reverses before I succeeded to this small estate, and, if I am to live here at all, I must perforce practise great economy and see but little company.”

“Poor fellow!” said a soft voice, which was not meant to reach his ears; but John heard nevertheless, and marked that the bright eyes of the youthful beauty were fixed on him with an expression at once of interest and compassion.

But the others were not so considerate—

“Economy!” quoth Tufty, with a grimace.

“Sir,” cried Harry earnestly, “you have my sympathy, but I trust for all our sakes that there is at least some drinkable beer to be had on your premises.”

“Or at any rate a dish of tea,” put in one of the elder ladies. “Pray, sir, let the matter have your attention, for I assure you we are positively faint.”

“A roast fowl would not come amiss,” added the other matron, whose appearance was indeed suggestive of good-living, for her large person seemed to be bursting out of her silk sacque, and her face was as plump as it was good-humoured. “Such a thing should easy be come by in the country—a platter of ham and eggs with it.”

She paused, looking almost beseechingly at her bewildered entertainer.

“Speed, sir,” chimed in Tufty, “speed—despatch for heaven’s sake!”

“Sirs,—ladies, I go at once,” cried John, starting towards the door. “Meanwhile be seated, I beg. I regret with all my heart I have no good entertainment to offer you, but I will do my best.”

He hastened from the room, shouting lustily for “Molly,” and, after what seemed to the impatient guests an interminable delay, the heavy door was thrown open, and an old woman entered, carrying a tablecloth. The master of the house followed, bearing a tray, on which, in the midst of a shining array of plates and glasses, knives and forks, a toby jug of goodly proportions occupied the place of honour. They proceeded, awkwardly enough, to lay the table, and the housekeeper, having retired, presently returned, staggering under the weight of another huge tray, on which were set forth such homely viands as the house could provide: a round of cold salt beef, a crusty loaf, a dish of ham and eggs. When all was set upon the table John stood hesitating a moment, and then going straight up to the owner of the unpowdered curls begged leave to hand her to a chair.

“’Fore George, the manners of these country bumpkins want mending as well as their gates!” cried Tufty. “Sir, do you not see that Her Grace is yet standing?” and he waved his hand in the direction of the stout lady already alluded to.

“Her Grace!” stammered John, somewhat taken aback, and then he added bluntly—

“Madam, I will come back for you so soon as I have conducted this lady to the table.”

“Why, sir,” returned she, with a jolly laugh, “I protest I like your unceremoniousness. ’Tis a refreshing change. And after all you could not be expected to divine my quality. ’Tis not often, I wager, that you entertain a Duchess in this solitary place.”

“Madam,” responded John gravely, “I must own that I have never before been privileged to offer hospitality to persons of such consequence; but I can truthfully say that my desire to serve you is not more ardent than before my knowledge of your station. I would fain do all in my power to succour and entertain any lady in distress.”

“Very prettily said,” returned she. “There, my good sir, we will dispense with ceremony for to-night. Pray sit by Lady Lucy since your unbiassed choice has fallen on her. My friend, Lord Tuftington, will escort me; and you, Lady Olivia, will no doubt allow Sir Harry to be your companion.”

“Faith, madam, so that we may at once attack that round of beef, I have no objection to make,” responded Lady Olivia, hurrying towards the board.

Meanwhile Molly stood gaping, and John himself was a little taken aback on hearing of the exalted rank of all his self-invited guests. Yet, with a certain natural dignity, he took his place as master of the house, and proceeded to dispense hospitality.

He soon found, indeed, that these noble folks were as affable in manner as gay in humour. Sir Harry proceeded to pour out foaming beakers of ale for as many of the company as desired to partake of it; and, somewhat to John’s surprise, everyone with the exception of Lady Lucy accepted this homely beverage; even Her Grace the Duchess quaffed her tumbler with unfeigned approval. Lord Tuftington served the ham and eggs, and Lady Olivia, with great good-humour and a firm hand, cut slices from the crusty loaf which she laughingly tossed across the table to each member of the party.

Meanwhile Lady Lucy sat toying with an egg, speaking little, though every now and then her face lit up with smiles over some ridiculous sally from Tufty or Sir Harry. Once or twice John caught a curious glance shot at him from beneath her long curling dark lashes, and with each of them he felt as though that manly heart of his, hitherto untouched by love for woman, were being drawn from out his bosom. Fain would he have sat by her side in mute ecstacy, but his guests plied him incessantly with questions, and appeared to be excessively diverted by the simplicity of his answers.

All at once the Duchess threw down her knife and fork with a little scream—

“Lord!” she cried, “we have left that booby of a postboy to his own devices. What if he should have made off with all our property! Quick, somebody, see to him!”

“Nay, Duchess,” returned Tufty, with his mouth full, “the fellow was dead drunk, and the best horse dead lame—they will stick in the mud safe enough till morning.”

“But surely our valises should be brought in?” cried Lady Olivia. “If by any accident the fellow should abscond, we shall arrive in town without so much as a change of linen.”

“Madam, we are all in the like plight,” observed Sir Harry; “and in any case, if the lad had given us the slip he would be miles away by now, and it would be useless to pursue him.”

“You cannot, I am sure, be serious,” said Lady Lucy, looking from one to the other with large, startled eyes. “You would not be so inhuman as to leave the poor man exposed to the weather all night. And the horses—think of the horses. Surely they too need food and shelter.”

Neither of the gentlemen seemed in the least touched by her appeal, and, though the Duchess and Lady Olivia continued loud protestations and entreaties, both Sir Harry and Lord Tuftington continued their repast without offering to move.

John looked from one to the other of these worthies with astonished disapproval. Indeed, from the first, both gentlemen had impressed him unfavourably. Their voices were loud, their laughter excessive: Lord Tuftington interlarded his conversations with strange expletives, while Sir Harry helped himself perpetually from the beer-jug. He was surprised to observe on nearer view that the latter’s dress was at once tawdry and slovenly; his gold lace was tarnished, his ruffles soiled; as he held the jug aloft on one occasion, John actually detected a rent in his fine peach-coloured coat.

After a pause, broken only by the lamentations of the elder ladies, Lucy turned hesitatingly to her host—

“Do you not think, sir,” she said pathetically, “that it is cruel to leave the poor horses standing in the road all night?”

“Ma’am,” cried John, starting up, “with your leave I will at once go and see after them.”

“And bring my valise, good sir,” besought Lady Olivia—“the smallest valise in the boot.”

“Pray, Mr Cotley, try to bring all our property—all at least that is portable.”

“Certainly, ladies,” returned John, “I shall be happy to carry some of the baggage myself, and to direct your servant to bring the remainder hither.”

“I am obliged to you, sir,” replied the Duchess, with a somewhat embarrassed air, “but you must know that with the exception of the postboy we are unattended at present.”

“’Tis a pity, indeed, my dear,” put in Lady Olivia, “that we should have left all our servants behind.”

“But, ladies, remember,” put in Sir Harry, with half-tipsy gravity, “that we are travelling incog.”

“Perhaps the postboy may help me,” said John.