But even the thought of the sweet little bedroom didn’t move Maggie Howland. Tildy presently brought up a meagre supper, of which the mother and daughter partook almost in silence. Then Mrs. Howland went to her room, where she fell fast asleep, and Maggie had the drawing-room to herself. She had arranged a sort of extempore bed on the hard sofa, and was about to lie down, when Tildy opened the door.
“I say,” said Tildy, “ain’t he cunnin’?”
“What do you mean, Matilda?” said Maggie.
“Oh my,” said Tildy, “wot a ’arsh word! Does you know, missie, that he’s arsked me to go down to Clap’am presently to ’elp wait on your ma? If you’re there, miss, it’ll be the ’eight of ’appiness to me.” 88
“I may as well say at once, Matilda, that I shall not be there.”
“You don’t like ’im, then?” said Tildy, backing a step. “And ’e is so enticin’—the prettiest ways ’e ’ave—at least, that’s wot me and Mrs. Ross thinks. We always listen on the stairs for ’im to greet your ma. We like ’im, that we do.”
“I have an old dress in my trunk, Tildy, which I will give you. You can manage to make it look quite nice for your new post as parlor-maid at Laburnum Villa. But now go, please; for I must be alone to think.”
Tildy went. She crept downstairs to the kitchen regions. There she met Mrs. Ross.
“The blessed young lady’s full of ructions,” said Tildy.
“And no wonder,” replied Mrs. Ross. “She’s a step above Martin, and Martin knows it.”