The one maid-of-all-work came in and asked the young lady if she would not like to go to a room and wash her face and hands.
Wynnette decidedly would like it, and said so.
The girl was a fresh, wholesome-looking English lass, with rosy cheeks and rippling red hair. She wore a dark blue dress of some cheap woolen material, with a white apron and white collar.
She led the young lady out into the hall again, and up a flight of broad stone steps to an upper hall, and thence into a front bed chamber, immediately over the parlor.
Here again were the whitewashed walls, clean bare floor, the broad, white-shaded window, the open fireplace filled with evergreens, the polished wooden chairs, ranged along the walls, and all the dainty neatness of the room below. There were, besides, a white-curtained bed, with a strip of carpet on each side of it; a white-draped dressing table with an oval glass, and a white-covered washstand, with white china basin and ewer. In a word, it was a pure, fresh, dainty, and fragrant white room.
“Oh, what a nice place! Oh, how I should like to stay here to-night, instead of going further!” exclaimed Wynnette, appreciatively.
The girl made no reply, but began to lay out towels on the washstand, and to pour water from the ewer into the basin.
“This is a very lonesome country, though, isn’t it?” inquired Wynnette, who was bound to talk.
“There’s not a many gentry, ma’am. There be mill hands and pitmen mostly about here,” said the girl.
“Mill hands and pitmen! I saw no mills nor mines, either, as we drove along.”
“No, ma’am; but they beant far off. The hills do hide them just about here; but you might seen the high chimneys—I mean the tops of ’em and the smoke.”
“Are they pitmen down there in the barroom?”
“In the taproom? Yes, ma’am. Mill hands, and farm hands, too. They do come in at this hour for their beer and ’bacco.”
“Do you have many more customers besides these men?”
“Not ivery day, ma’am; but we hev the farmers on their way to Middlemoor market stop here; and—and the gentry coming and going betwixt the station and Fell Hall, or Middlemoor Court, or Anglewood Manor, ma’am.”
“How far is Anglewood Manor from this?”
“About five miles, ma’am.”
“‘Five!’ Why, I thought it wasn’t more than four. The coachman told us it was only six from the station and we have come two.”
“That was Anglewood village, I reckon, ma’am. That is only four miles from here; but Anglewood Manor is a short mile beyant that.”
“Ah! Who keeps this inn? There is no name on the sign.”
“No, ma’am. It’s ‘T’ Whoit Coo.’ It allers hev been ‘T’ Whoit Coo,’ ma’am.”
“But who keeps it?” persisted inquisitive Wynnette.
“Oo! Me mawther keeps it, iver sin’ feyther deed, ma’am. Mawther tends bar hersen, and Jonah waits and waters horses, and cleans boots, and does odd jobs, and I be chambermaid.”
“Ah! and who is Jonah?”
“Me brawther.”
“Ah! And so your mother, your brother, and yourself do all the work and run the hotel?”
“Yes, ma’am. It would no pay us else,” replied the “Maid of the Inn,” who seemed to be as much inclined to be communicative as Wynnette was to be inquisitive.
“Oh, well, it is lucky that you are all able to do so. But you have not told me your name yet.”
“Mine be Hetty Kirby, ma’am. Brawther Jonah’s be Jonah, and mawther’s be the Widow Kirby,” definitely replied the girl.
“‘Kirby!’ Oh—why——Tell me, did you have a relation named John Kirby go to America once upon a time?”
“Yes, ma’am, a long time ago, before I can remember, me Oncle John Kirby, me feyther’s yo’ngest brawther, went there and never come back.”
“Oh! And—is your grandfather living?”
The “Maid of the Inn” stared. What was all this to the young lady? Wynnette interpreted her look and explained:
“Because, if he is living, I have got a letter and a bundle for him from his son in New York.”
“Oh, Law! hev you, though, ma’am? Look at thet, noo! What wonders in this world. The grandfeyther is living, ma’am, but not in Moorton. He be lately coom to dwell wi’ ‘is son Job, me Oncle Job, who be sexton at Anglewood church.”
“Sexton at Anglewood church! Is your uncle sexton at Anglewood church? And does your grandfather, old Mr. Kirby, live with him?”
The maid of the inn stared again. Why should this strange young lady take so much interest in the Kirbys?
Again Wynnette interpreted her look, and explained:
“Because if your grandfather does live there, it will save us a journey to Moorton, as we are going to Anglewood, and can give him the letter and parcel without turning out of our way,” she said; but she was also thinking that if this old Kirby, to whom she was bringing letters and presents from his son in America, was the father of the sexton at Anglewood church, an inmate of his cottage, and probably assistant in his work, these circumstances might greatly facilitate their admission into vaults and mausoleums which the party had come to see, but which might otherwise have been closed to them.
“Oh, ma’am,” said Hetty, “would you mind letting mawther see the letter and parcel?”
“No, certainly not; but I have no right to let her open either of them, you know.”
“She shawnt, ma’am; but it wull do the mawther good to see the outside ’n ’em. And o’ Sunday, when she goes to church, she can see the grandfeyther, and get to read t’ letter. And there be t’ bell, ma’am. And we mun goo doon to tea.”
Wynnette was ready, and went downstairs, attended by the girl.
A dainty and delicious repast was spread upon the table. Tea, whose rich aroma filled the room and proved its excellence, muffins, sally-lunns, biscuits, buttered toast, rich milk, cream and butter, fried chicken, poached eggs, sliced tongue and ham, radishes, pepper grass, cheese, marmalade, jelly, pound cake and plum cake.
Wynnette’s eyes danced as she saw the feast.
“It is as good as a St. Mary’s county spread! And I couldn’t say more for it if I were to talk all day!” she exclaimed, as she took her place at the head of the table to pour out the tea.
Mr. Force asked a blessing, just as he would have done if he had been at home, and then the three hungry travelers “fell to.”
“Father,” said Wynnette, when she had poured out the tea, which Hetty began to hand around, “do you know the Widow Kirby who keeps this hotel——”
“Inn, my dear—inn,” amended the squire. “I am so happy to find myself in an old-fashioned inn that I protest against its being insulted with the name of hotel.”
“All right, squire,” said Wynnette.
“‘A sweet by any other smell would name as rose,’
or words to that effect. The landlady of this hostelry—I should say tavern—I mean inn—the landlady of this inn is the Widow Kirby, sister-in-law to the baggage master who took care of Joshua, and from whom we brought the letter and parcel, you know. And this young person is his niece, and the man who drove us here is his nephew. And his brother is sexton at Anglewood Church, and his father lives there. Now! What do you think of that?”
“We knew from the baggage master that the Kirbys lived in Lancashire, so we need not be surprised to find them here.”
“But, papa, Lancashire is a large place.”
“My love, it has been said that the habitable globe is but a small place, and we are always sure to meet some of the same people everywhere.”
“Now, the widow wants to see the letter and the parcel—the outside of them, I mean.”
“Well, there is no objection,” said the squire. And he made a move to reach his valise.
But Le hastily anticipated him and brought it.
The kind-hearted squire unlocked the case, found the letter and the parcel, and gave them into the hands of the young waitress.
“Oo! Thanky’, sir. Thanky’, ma’am. Thanky’,” she said, and continued to say, bobbing courtesies, and turning over and staring at the letter and the parcel as she took them out of the room.
“Wynnette, my dear, you find out everything; but you have missed your vocation. You ought to have been a newspaper correspondent or a detective.”
“I know it, papa. I know it!” exclaimed the girl, with a very demonstrative sigh. “And that’s the complaint with most of us. We’re nearly all out of place, and therefore in pain, like dislocated limbs. And that’s what’s the matter with humanity. Almost all its members are put out of joint.”
The rich glow of the summer sunset was slowly fading from the west.
Lights were brought in by the factotum, Jonah, who placed two on the tea table, and then proceeded to light the two that stood upon the mantelpiece.
Having done this, the man stood waiting orders.
“Have you put up the carriage?” inquired Mr. Force.
“Naw, maister. The carriage be waiting.”
“Well, then, you may just as well put it up. It is growing dark, and I do not feel like crossing the moor at this time of night. We will stay here, if you can let us have bedrooms.”
“Surely, maister, we ha’ rooms enough. I’ll call Hetty.”
The chambermaid was called, and bringing the letter and parcel, still unopened, and her “mawther’s” duty and thanks to the gentlefolks for letting her see the outside of them.
Hetty, on being interviewed on the subject of sleeping accommodations, declared in effect that “The White Cow” could provide comfortable quarters for the whole party, for if the two gentlemen would share the double-bedded chamber over the taproom, the young lady could have the large single-bedded chamber over the parlor.
“That will be perfectly lovely. I did long to sleep in that very room, at least for one night,” said Wynnette, without waiting for any one else to speak.
“All right, then. That will do. We will stay. Eh, Le?” said the squire, turning to his young companion.
“Certainly, uncle. The half of a large bedded chamber is ample space for one used to a hammock,” replied Le.
So it was settled, and as the travelers were fatigued, they retired early.