“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.