“Nay, I don’t doubt but what we’ll get along grand.” Mrs. Bell permitted herself the ghost of an approving smile, pleased to find that the new-comer was obviously taking things in the right spirit. “Me and Mrs. Bendrigg and Mrs. Cann—we’ve all settled as you’ll do. But we’re mighty particular up here, all the same,” she added hastily, as if fearful of being too lenient. “We’ve a right to be, come to that, being folks chosen, as you might say. For instance, we don’t hold wi’ being out after ten o’clock——”
“Nay, what, I’ll be in my bed by nine!” Mrs. Clapham interjected quickly.
“—Or having over many callers——”
“I don’t look for a great deal.”
“—Or taking on followers or suchlike rubbish——”
Mrs. Clapham began to chuckle at that, partly involuntarily, and partly from a desire to please, but stopped hurriedly when she discovered that the remark had not been meant for a joke.
“Not that there’s many rules of any kind,” Mrs. Bell continued, ignoring her mistake; “not, that is, as was framed by old Mr. T. There’s no children allowed, of course, and we have to be right strict about not using t’ wash-house out of our turn. But there’s one or two customs and suchlike as has kind of grown up among ourselves. For instance, we’ve a sort o’ rule not to go popping over often into each other’s spots. (Nay, I can’t tell you how often too often is; you must bide and see for yourself.) Not to borrow overmuch from other folks, neither—I’ve seen a deal o’ bad blood come o’ that. Not to be peering at other folks’ gardens to see if they’re shaping better than ourn, or to take up more o’ the man’s time than our rightful share. Not to go setting t’ kitchen chimbly afire, or chattin’ to people out in the road——”
“I don’t fancy I’ll give any trouble over any o’ them things,” Mrs. Clapham put in, feeling she simply couldn’t stand another sentence just then that began with the word “not.” It was just Mrs. Bell’s way, she was saying diligently to herself, and she must do her best not to mind it. Nearly everybody had their “way,” which you had to poke through before you discovered the person underneath. When she had succeeded in poking through Mrs. Bell’s, they would no doubt get on like smoke. Martha Jane, though, would never have understood Mrs. Bell’s peculiar “way,” and it was more than certain that Mrs. Bell would never have understood Martha Jane’s. In the safety of possession Mrs. Clapham could afford to chuckle at the thought of Martha Jane faced with these various ordinances—Martha Jane, who never bought anything she could manage to borrow, who was throng as a magpie about other people’s affairs, and was always idling and chattering out in the street!
“Nay, you’ll find me easy enough to do with,” she hastened to affirm again, fearful that Mrs. Bell might fish up another rule. “I’ve had a pretty hard life, one way and another, and all I’m asking for is a bit o’ quiet. It’ll be summat new for me to find myself with only my own spot to see to, and such a handsome-like spot at that!”
She looked admiringly, as she spoke, round the cosy little kitchen with its excellent furniture and sensible grate, and its owner had to repress a quiver of pride before producing the requisite sniff.