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‘Oh, no! Not for the governess!’ Miss Gateshead said, shocked.
‘It may rain!’ he pointed out.
She laughed. ‘Pooh, I shan’t melt in a shower of rain!’
‘You might take a chill,’ insisted John severely. ‘I don’t think Mrs Stockton can be at all an amiable person!’
‘Oh, do not say so! I am in such a quake already, in case I do not give satisfaction!’ said Miss Gateshead. ‘And there are nine children – only fancy! – so that I might be employed there for years!’
She seemed to regard this prospect with satisfaction, but Mr Cranbrook had no hesitation in favouring her with his own quite contrary views on such a fate.
The landlord came in, bearing the leg of mutton, which he set down on a massive sideboard. His wife, a decent-looking, stout woman in a mob-cap, arranged various removes on the table, bobbed a curtsy to Miss Gateshead, and asked if she would care for a glass of porter, or some tea.
Miss Gateshead accepted the offer of tea, and, after a moment’s hesitation, untied the strings of her bonnet, and laid this demure creation down on the settle. Her curls, unconfined, showed a tendency to become a trifle wayward, but, rather to John’s disappointment, she rigorously smoothed them into decorum.
The man in the moleskin waistcoat folded his journal, and bore it to the table, propping it up against a tarnished cruet, and continuing laboriously to peruse it. His attitude indicated that he preferred his own company, so his fellow-guests abandoned any ideas they might have had of including him in their chat, and took their places at the other end of the board. The landlady dumped a pot of tea at Miss Gateshead’s elbow, flanking it with a chipped jug of milk, and a cup and saucer; and John bespoke a pint of ale, informing Miss Gateshead, with his ingenuous grin, that home-brewed was one of the things he had chiefly missed in Portugal.
‘And what for you, sir?’ asked Mrs Fyton, addressing herself to the man at the bottom of the table.
‘Mr Waggleswick’ll take a heavy-wet as usual,’ said her spouse, sharpening the carving-knife.
It was at this point that John, suppressing an involuntary chuckle, discovered the twinkle in Miss Gateshead’s eye. They exchanged looks brimful of merriment, each perfectly understanding that the other found the name of Waggleswick exquisitely humorous.
The soup, ladled from a large tureen, was nameless and savourless, but Miss Gateshead and Mr Cranbrook, busily engaged in disclosing to one another their circumstances, family histories, tastes, dislikes, and aspirations, drank it without complaint. Mr Waggleswick seemed even to like it, for he called for a second helping. The mutton which followed the soup was underdone and tough, and the side-dish of broccoli would have been improved by straining. Mr Cranbrook grimaced at Miss Gateshead, and remarked during one of the landlord’s absences from the room that the quality of the dinner made him fearful of the condition of the bedchambers.
‘I don’t think they can enjoy much custom here,’ said Miss Gateshead wisely. ‘It is the most rambling old place, but no one seems to be staying here but ourselves, and you can lose yourself in the passages! In fact, I did,’ she added, sawing her way through the meat on her plate. ‘I have not dared to look at the sheets, but I have the most old-fashioned bed, and I asked them not to make up the fire again because it was smoking so dreadfully. And what is more I haven’t seen a chambermaid, and you can see there is no waiter, so I am sure they don’t expect guests.’
‘Well, I don’t think you should be putting up at a place little better than a hedge-tavern!’ said John.
‘Mrs Stockton wrote that it was cheap, and the landlady would take care of me,’ she explained. ‘Indeed, both she and the landlord have been most obliging, and if only the sheets are clean I am sure I shall have nothing to regret.’
Some cheese succeeded the mutton, but as it looked more than a little fly-blown the two young persons left Mr Waggleswick to the sole enjoyment of it, and retired again to the settle by the fire. The room being indifferently lit by a single lamp suspended above the table Mr Waggleswick elected to remain in his place with his absorbing journal. When he had finished his repast he noisily picked his teeth for some time, but at last pushed back his chair, and took himself off.
Miss Gateshead, who had been covertly observing him, whispered: ‘What a strange-looking man! I don’t like him above half, do you?’
‘Well, he is not precisely handsome, I own!’ John replied, grinning.
‘His nose is crooked!’
‘Broken. I dare say he is a pugilist.’
‘How horrid! I am glad I am not alone with him here!’
That made him laugh. ‘Why, we can’t accuse him of forcing his attentions on us, I am sure!’
‘Oh, no! But there is something about him which I cannot like. Did you notice how he watched you?’
‘Watched me? He barely raised his eyes above the newspaper!’
‘He did when he thought you were not looking at him. I know he was listening to every word we said, too. I have the oddest feeling that he may even be listening now!’
‘I would wager a large sum he is consuming another of his heavy-wets in the tap rather!’ replied John.
The door opened as he spoke, and Miss Gateshead’s nervous start was infectious enough to make him look round sharply. But it was only the landlady who came into the room, with a tray, on which she began to pile the plates and cutlery. She remarked that it was a foggy night, so that she had tightly closed the shutters in the bedrooms.
‘Get a lot of fog hereabouts, we do,’ she said, wiping a spoon on her apron, and casting it into a drawer in the sideboard. ‘Like a blanket it’ll be before morning, but it’ll clear off. I come from Norfolk myself, but a body gets used to anything. It’s the clay.’
