“I couldn’t make up my mind no ways,” resumed Mrs. Melmouth, “till at last I wer’ advised to have you both here together and see for myself which I do like the best. So if you do have to make yourselves a bit obligin’, it’ll p’r’aps be worth your while. Ye mid be sure my choice will fall on the most obligin’.”
Rosy smiled disdainfully and returned to her darning. It was easy to see, she thought, on whom the choice would fall.
Simon eyed her askance, realising now the reason of the girl’s evident aversion to himself, but he made no comment beyond an occasional ejaculation under his breath. “Farty pound! Well now! I’m sure ’twas very well thought on,” and the like.
Next morning, just when Simon’s slumbers were at their deepest and sweetest, he was awakened by an imperative hammering and scratching at the partition which separated his room from that of Mrs. Melmouth; and thereupon dutifully, if somewhat reluctantly, he arose, and soon afterwards found his way to the garden.
Early as it was, Rosy was already at work shaking sundry bits of carpet, worn almost threadbare and terribly dusty.
“Let me give you a hand,” exclaimed Simon gallantly. “Sich work’s too hard for a maid.”
“No, thank ye,” returned Rosy sharply. “I shan’t get much credit anyway; but what I said I’d do, I’ll do,” and she gave another vicious shake to the ragged carpet.
“I be pure sorry you should think I want to rob ye of any credit,” observed Simon mournfully. “There, you do seem to ha’ turned again’ me terrible; and ’tis quite other-way wi’ me—I did like ’ee from the first.”
“No thanks to ye, then!” retorted Rosy; and, snatching up a stick, she began to belabour the mat with so meaning an air that Simon felt as if the onslaught were committed on his own shoulders.
“I wish you’d get on with your work,” she exclaimed presently. “You’re the favourite, and you’ll get the reward, but you mid jist so well do summat to earn it.”