“To-morrow,” said she, “I’ll get ye to make that there back room ready for my nevvy.”
“Your nephew?” echoed Rosy, somewhat taken aback.
It had been well enough surmised by the Tuffin family that Aunt Becky had a tidy sum put by, though they were as ignorant of the precise amount as of the receptacle in which she had stored it. The invitation to Rosy had awakened certain half-formed hopes in the girl’s own breast, as well as in those of her parents, and she looked very blank at the announcement that a rival aspirant was so soon to come upon the scene.
“Ah!” said Mrs. Melmouth, stirring her tea vigorously, “my nevvy, Simon Fry. He be comin’ to spend his hollerday here. That room ’ull want a good doin’ out,” she continued placidly, “an’ there’s a lot o’ wold things there as ’ull have to be shifted afore you can get to work. But ye can get up pretty early—it’ll be ready time enough, I dare say. He’ll not be here much afore tea-time.”
Rosy had formed certain private plans as to the disposal of her Good Friday; there were friends of her mother’s to visit, old playmates of her own to look up—these, being of the same age as herself, would doubtless have some little jaunt in view. And now the whole day was to be spent in cleaning up for Simon Fry. Simon, who was nephew by blood to Aunt Becky, while she was only niece by marriage—there could not be much doubt as to who would prove the favourite. Rosy felt she had been inveigled from her home on false pretences; it was not out of affection that Mrs. Melmouth had sent for her, but simply to secure her help with the housework and to make her wait upon Mr. Simon Fry.
Her aunt glanced at her sharply as she flushed and bit her lip, but made no remark; and presently Rosy regained her good humour.
For was it not the sweetest of spring evenings, and were not the thrushes singing in the wood just behind the cottage, and were there not primroses in bloom on either side of the path that led to the gate? Rosy could see them through the open door and fancied she could smell them, and the breeze that lifted her curly hair from her brow was refreshing after her stuffy drive and recent labours. She had come from a back street in Sturminster, where the air was not of the same quality, and the surroundings far less inviting.
“’Tis nice to live in the country, aunt,” said she with a bright smile.
Next morning she rose with the lark, and being strong and capable had got Mr. Simon’s room into excellent order before breakfast. As she made the bed she could not resist giving a vicious thump or two to the pillow.
“Set ye up, indeed,” she murmured. “Ye may make your own bed arter this, Mr. Dairy Chap!”