“They’re well enough as they go,” she replied loftily, “though I’m not saying they haven’t their drawbacks. Seems to me they might have made the rooms bigger while they was about it, and put in a deal more cupboards and shelves. Furniture’s right enough, I suppose, though I don’t hold with oak myself. Mahogany’s a deal more tasty,” Mrs. Bell finished, with her nose in the air; “but there, you couldn’t expect an old gentleman to go thinking o’ things like that!”
“Ay, but that’s just what he did think about!” Mrs. Clapham defended him stoutly, hurt by this callous assessing of the old man’s gift. “I was at his Lancashire place more than once, and, my goodness, but wasn’t it grand! And he took every bit as much pains wi’ these spots as he ever did with his own. I reckon he chose oak for t’ houses because he thought it would last.”
“Ay, but fashions change, even in almshouses,” Mrs. Bell observed, truthfully enough, and with a sententious air. “I don’t say they won’t last our time. I don’t say they’re not good enough for you and me. But it’s queer to me, all the same, if the folks as come after don’t want summat a sight different!”
“Ah, well, they’ll do me all right, and a bit over!” Mrs. Clapham laughed, getting ready for stirring. Her heart had settled back into its usual stride, and her legs felt really like legs, instead of bundles of cotton-wool. “I’ll best be moving on again, though I’ve been glad of the rest. Happen you’ll be kind enough to give me the key.”
Mrs. Bell moved reluctantly to the mantelpiece, and from a large canister extracted a small doorkey with a dangling label. As the oldest tenant she had charge of the keys whenever the houses fell vacant, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she could bring herself to hand them over.
“I hardly reckoned on you being up so soon,” she remarked rather crossly, and still retaining the key. “Folks don’t always come the first day; I don’t know why, I’m sure. Happen they don’t care that much, or they feel a bit delicate-like about claiming their rights.... Not but what you can do as you choose,” she added quickly, as the charwoman flushed, “so don’t go thinking I mean to be nasty.”
“I just had to come!” the other answered, almost apologetically. She was now on her newly-restored legs, and drawing nearer the precious key. “Come to that, the house has been mine a sight o’ years, after a manner o’ speaking!” she finished, with spirit. “And anyway, I can’t rest till I’ve seen about getting it cleaned.”
“Nay, what, you’ll find it clean enough, if that’s all!” Mrs. Bell exclaimed eagerly, moving the key further out of her reach. “When anybody dies, the governors always has it done special.”
“Not what I call clean!”... Mrs. Clapham’s voice was regal and her head went up in the air. Her tone was that of the recognised artist, whose dictum on his own subject is beyond dispute. “Governors mean well enough by it, I don’t doubt,” she admitted kindly, “but it’ll be mighty queer, all the same, if it’s clean enough to suit me!”
She held out her hand firmly, but her hostess still clung to the dear possession. “Ay, well, then, I’d best come and show you round,” was her last desperate expedient; but Mrs. Clapham would have none of that, either.