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.