IN WHICH THE ANCIENT IS SURPRISED
A cheery place, at all times, is the kitchen of an English inn, a
comfortable place to eat in, to talk in, or to doze in; a place with
which your parlors and withdrawing-rooms, your salons (a la the three
Louis) with their irritating rococo, their gilt and satin, and
spindle-legged discomforts, are not (to my mind) worthy to compare.
And what inn kitchen, in all broad England, was ever brighter, neater,
and more comfortable than this kitchen of "The Bull," where sweet Prue
held supreme sway, with such grave dignity, and with her two
white-capped maids to do her bidding and behests?—surely none. And
surely in no inn, tavern, or hostelry soever, great or small, was there
ever seen a daintier, prettier, sweeter hostess than this same Prue of
ours.
And her presence was reflected everywhere, and, if ever the kitchen of
an inn possessed a heart to lose, then, beyond all doubt, this kitchen
had lost its heart to Prue long since; even the battered cutlasses
crossed upon the wall, the ponderous jack above the hearth, with its
legend: ANNO DOMINI 1643, took on a brighter sheen to greet her when
she came, and as for the pots and pans, they fairly twinkled.
But today Prue's eyes were red, and her lips were all a-droop, the
which, though her smile was brave and ready, the Ancient was quick to
notice.
"Why, Prue, lass, you've been weepin'!"
"Yes, grandfer."
"Your pretty eyes be all swole—red they be; what's the trouble?"
"Oh! 'tis nothing, dear, 'tis just a maid's fulishness—never mind me,
dear."
"Ah! but I love 'ee, Prue—come, kiss me—theer now, tell me all about
it—all about it, Prue."
"Oh, grandfer!" said she, from the hollow of his shoulder, "'tis
just—Jarge!" The old man grew very still, his mouth opened slowly,
and closed with a snap.
"Did 'ee—did 'ee say—Jarge, Prue? Is it—breekin' your 'eart ye be
for that theer poachin' Black Jarge? To think—as my Prue should come
down to a poachin'—"
Prudence slipped from his encircling arm and stood up very straight and
proud—there were tears thick upon her lashes, but she did not attempt
to wipe them away.
"Grandfer," she said very gently, "you mustn't speak of Jarge to me
like that—ye mustn't—ye mustn't because I—love him, and if—he
ever—comes back I'll marry him if—if he will only ax me; and if
he—never comes back, then—I think—I shall—die!" The Ancient took
out his snuff-box, knocked it, opened it, glanced inside, and—shut it
up again.
"Did 'ee tell me as you—love—Black Jarge, Prue?"
"Yes, grandfer, I always have and always shall!"
"Loves Black Jarge!" he repeated; "allus 'as—allus will! Oh, Lord!
what 'ave I done?" Now, very slowly, a tear crept down his wrinkled
cheek, at sight of which Prue gave a little cry, and, kneeling beside
his chair, took him in her arms. "Oh, my lass!—my little Prue—'tis
all my doin'. I thought—Oh, Prue, 'twere me as parted you! I
thought—" The quivering voice broke off.
"'Tis all right, grandfer, never think of it—see there, I be smilin'!"
and she kissed him many times.
"A danged fule I be!" said the old man, shaking his head.
"No, no, grandfer!"
"That's what I be, Prue—a danged fule! If I do go afore that theer
old, rusty stapil, 'twill serve me right—a danged fule I be! Allus
loved 'im—allus will, an' wishful to wed wi' 'im! Why, then," said the
Ancient, swallowing two or three times, "so 'ee shall, my sweet—so 'ee
shall, sure as sure, so come an' kiss me, an' forgive the old man as
loves 'ee so."
"What do 'ee mean, grandfer?" said Prue between two kisses.
"A fine, strappin' chap be Jarge; arter all, Peter, you bean't a patch
on Jarge for looks, be you?"
"No, indeed, Ancient!"
"Wishful to wed 'im, she is, an' so she shall. Lordy Lord! Kiss me
again, Prue, for I be goin' to see Squire—ay, I be goin' to up an'
speak wi' Squire for Jarge an' Peter be comin' too."
"Oh, Mr. Peter!" faltered Prudence, "be this true?" and in her eyes was
the light of a sudden hope.
"Yes," I nodded.
"D'you think Squire'll see you—listen to you?" she cried breathlessly.
"I think he will, Prudence," said I.
"God bless you, Mr. Peter!" she murmured. "God bless you!"
But now came the sound of wheels and the voice of Simon, calling,
wherefore I took my hat and followed the Ancient to the door, but there
Prudence stopped me.
"Last time you met wi' Jarge he tried to kill you. Oh, I know, and
now—you be goin' to—"
"Nonsense, Prue!" said I. But, as I spoke, she stooped and would have
kissed my hand, but I raised her and kissed her upon the cheek,
instead. "For good luck, Prue," said I, and so turned and left her.
In the porch sat Job, with Old Amos and the rest, still in solemn
conclave over pipes and ale, who watched with gloomy brows as I swung
myself up beside the Ancient in the cart.
"A fule's journey!" remarked Old Amos sententiously, with a wave of his
pipe; "a fule's journey!"
The Ancient cast an observing eye up at the cloudless sky, and also
nodded solemnly.
"Theer be some fules in this world, Peter, as mixes up rabbits wi'
pa'tridges, and honest men—like Jarge—wi' thieves, an' lazy
waggabones—like Job—but we'll show 'em, Peter, we'll show 'em—dang
'em! Drive on, Simon, my bye!"
So, with this Parthian shot, feathered with the one strong word the
Ancient kept for such occasions, we drove away from the silenced group,
who stared mutely after us until we were lost to view. But the last
thing I saw was the light in Prue's sweet eyes as she watched us from
the open lattice.