“One of the old hens, sir; they’re not so bad when you boil ’em. I’ll make up some herb sauce to help the old lady down.”
Now whether it was the warmth of the fire, or the frank freshness of Mrs. Winnie’s manner, John Gore found himself telling her enough of the truth to set the woman in her heartily at his service. She forgot her pudding in her sympathy, even so far as to stir the air with a wooden spoon and to spill jam upon the table. John Gore had come to the pith of the matter when he saw her flourish the spoon threateningly in the direction of the back-yard door.
“Will, you little spying rogue, get you out and look for the eggs.”
“There ain’t none,” came the retort; “t’ birds be moultin’.”
“Don’t answer me, young man; do what I tell ye.” And she made a step forward that sent the youngster running for fear of the spoon.
Mrs. Winnie turned to her pudding, casting a look now and again at the grim, brown-faced man in the ingle-nook.
“You move me—powerful, sir. As sure as I love my man, sir, coming to him as a clean maid as I did, with all my linen and my savings, if it be no liberty on my part—I’ll ask to serve you—as you please. Come into this house as yours, sir; come and go, and we’ll ask no questions. My man and I will thank God for it, that we can give you service for what you did.”
John Gore felt that he could trust her, and Mrs. Winnie had no less trust in him. She was a shrewd woman, with some knowledge of the world in her own blunt way, and more sentiment and warmth in her than one would have guessed by the masterfulness of her manner.
“I shall be very grateful to you,” said, the man, simply.
“Why, there, sir, it’s little enough. There sha’n’t be any poking of noses round Furze Farm, I can tell you that. I have a tongue—and a tongue, and my man is a man o’ sense. Order your own goings, sir, and we’ll just mind our business.”