A cheery place, at all times, is the kitchen of an English inn, a
comfortable place to eat in, to talk in, or to doze in; a place
with which your parlors and withdrawing-rooms, your salons (a la
the three Louis) with their irritating rococo, their gilt and
satin, and spindle-legged discomforts, are not (to my mind)
worthy to compare.
And what inn kitchen, in all broad England, was ever brighter,
neater, and more comfortable than this kitchen of "The Bull,"
where sweet Prue held supreme sway, with such grave dignity, and
with her two white-capped maids to do her bidding and behests?
--surely none. And surely in no inn, tavern, or hostelry soever,
great or small, was there ever seen a daintier, prettier, sweeter
hostess than this same Prue of ours.
And her presence was reflected everywhere, and, if ever the
kitchen of an inn possessed a heart to lose, then, beyond all
doubt, this kitchen had lost its heart to Prue long since; even
the battered cutlasses crossed upon the wall, the ponderous jack
above the hearth, with its legend: ANNO DOMINI 1643, took on a
brighter sheen to greet her when she came, and as for the pots
and pans, they fairly twinkled.
But today Prue's eyes were red, and her lips were all a-droop,
the which, though her smile was brave and ready, the Ancient was
quick to notice.
"Why, Prue, lass, you've been weepin'!"
"Yes, grandfer."
"Your pretty eyes be all swole--red they be; what's the trouble?"
"Oh! 'tis nothing, dear, 'tis just a maid's fulishness--never
mind me, dear."
"Ah! but I love 'ee, Prue--come, kiss me--theer now, tell me all
about it--all about it, Prue."
"Oh, grandfer!" said she, from the hollow of his shoulder, "'tis
just--Jarge!" The old man grew very still, his mouth opened
slowly, and closed with a snap.
"Did 'ee--did'ee say--Jarge, Prue? Is it--breekin' your 'eart ye
be for that theer poachin' Black Jarge? To think--as my Prue
should come down to a poacbin'--"
Prudence slipped from his encircling arm and stood up very
straight and proud--there were tears thick upon her lashes, but
she did not attempt to wipe them away.
"Grandfer," she said very gently, "you mustn't speak of Jarge to
me like that--ye mustn't--ye mustn't because I--love him, and if
--he ever--comes back I'll marry him if--if he will only ax me;
and if he--never comes back, then--I think--I shall--die!" The
Ancient took out his snuff-box, knocked it, opened it, glanced
inside, and--shut it up again.