Farmer Hunt stood leaning over his farmyard gate with the reflective,
and at the same time pleasantly expectant, expression of the man who
awaits at any moment a summons to dinner. To him, picking her steps
cautiously down the muddy lane which led to his premises, came old
Becky Melmouth, her skirts tilted high and an empty basket on her arm.
Farmer Hunt nodded at her good-humouredly, and hailed her as soon as
she was within hearing.
“What!” cried he. “Have ye brought me another of ’em?”
“I’ve a-brought ye two,” returned Becky triumphantly. “But maybe you’re
too busy to attend to me just now,” she added, with a glance that was
half apologetic and half appealing.
“Oh, I can spare a minute for that,” said the farmer good-naturedly.
“Brewery hooter’s not gone yet, and we don’t have dinner till one. Step
in, Mrs. Melmouth.”
He preceded her into the house, and led the way to a small parlour,
empty save for a large yellow cat which lay curled up on the hearthrug.
With a mysterious air which assorted with the cautious glance thrown
round by Becky as she closed the door, he proceeded to unlock a large
oak chest, and thrusting in his hand, drew forth a faded worsted
stocking. As he handed this to the old woman the contents chinked
with a portentous sound. Mrs. Melmouth’s eyes glistened, and her rosy
wrinkled face wreathed itself with smiles, as she slowly undid the knot
at the upper end, and thrust in her hand. A further chinking sound
ensued, and she looked jubilantly up at the farmer.
“There be a lot on ’em now,” she remarked.
“Ah, sure!” he agreed. “An’ you be bringin’ two shillin’ more, you do
say?”
“Two shillin’ an’ a thruppenny bit,” corrected Becky gleefully. “I be
doin’ uncommon well wi’ my eggs an’ chicken jist now.”
“Dear heart alive! Keep the thruppence, ’ooman!” cried Mr. Hunt, with a
certain amount of impatience. “It ’ull maybe buy you a relish of some
sort as ’ull make ye fancy your victuals more. I reckon you do scrimp
too much.”
Becky pursed up her lips and shook her head.
“I’d sooner save it,” said she. “Can I have the book, sir.”
“Ah, sure ye can,” returned the farmer, and, after rummaging a moment
in the chest, he produced a small account-book with a pencil attached
to it by means of a much-worn bit of string.
Becky meanwhile had been fumbling for her spectacles, and having
now assumed them, she proceeded to enter the sum she had so proudly
mentioned, to her banking account.
“How much does that make?” she added, peering up at Mr. Hunt through
her glasses; her toothless gums parted in a smile which was already
rapturous.
“Let me see,” returned he, taking the book from her hand; “last time
I reckoned it up there was forty pound in it, an’ you’ve a-been here
twice since--and again to-day. You’ve got in that there wold stockin’,
Mrs. Melmouth, forty pound four shillin’ an’ ninepence. It do do
ye credit,” he added handsomely; “ah! that it do. ’Tisn’t many a
hard-workin’ body same as yourself would put by half so much. Ye’ve put
in over nine pound since I took charge of it for ye.”
“An’ that’s ten year ago come Michaelmas,” said Becky, with modest
pride. “But Melmouth an’ me had been savin’ for thirty year afore that.”
“An’ you yourself ’ull go on savin’ for another thirty year, I
shouldn’t wonder,” said Mr. Hunt, with a jovial laugh. “There ye be so
strong upon your legs as ever you was, an’ never sick nor sorry, be ye?”
“Well, not to speak on, thanks be,” responded Becky. “But I could feel
a deal easier-like in my mind if I could settle who it’s all to go to
when I be gone. I be puzzled what to do--ah! that I be. Thicky wold
stockin’ do lay upon my heart jist same as a lump o’ lead.”
“It didn’t ought to be such a trouble to ye,” said Mr. Hunt. “Divide
it, Mrs. Melmouth. Divide it fair and square among your nevvies and
nieces.”
“No,” cried Mrs. Melmouth, shaking her head vehemently and sucking in
her breath at the same time. “No-o-o, sir, ’twouldn’t never do, that
wouldn’t. It must go all in a lump. Melmouth and me settled it that
way years an’ years ago. He’d save a shillin’, d’ye see, an’ I’d scrape
together another to put to it, an’ so we’d go on--for a rainy day, he’d
say--but no rainy day ever did come----”
“And what a good thing that was,” chimed in the farmer; “there isn’t
many folks can say the same.”
“Very like there bain’t. Thanks be, as I do say, Mester Hunt; thanks be
for all mercies! But there ’tis, d’ye see.” Here her face assumed an
anxious expression and she dropped her voice cautiously. “Who’s it to
go to? Rector do tell I, I ought to be makin’ my will.”
“True enough,” said Mr. Hunt judiciously; “so you ought, Becky, so you
ought.”
“Well, but,” resumed Mrs. Melmouth, “who’s to have it? Melmouth, he
wer’ set on its going in a lump. Says he often an’ often, ‘Let it go in
a lump, Becky, whatever you do do. Settle it as you do like’--he did
say--‘for the dibs belongs to both on us equal. Let Simon (that’s my
nevvy) have ’em, or let ’em go to Rosy’--Rosy be his sister’s oldest
maid--‘but don’t divide ’em,’ says he; ‘let ’em go in a lump.’”
Here Becky paused, and the farmer looked at her in silence, scratching
his jaw in a non-committal manner.
“Sometimes,” resumed Becky, “it do seem as if ’twould be right to
leave it to Simon, him bein’ a man an’ my own flesh an’ blood. That
there bit o’ money--’twas me first had the notion o’ puttin’ it by,
and, as Melmouth did often use to say, there couldn’t be no savin’
done in the house wi’out I put my shoulder to the wheel. But, there!
Rosy--Melmouth was oncommon fond o’ Rosy’s mother, and o’ Rosy herself
when she was a little maid.”
“Ah! you haven’t seen Mrs. Tuffin an’ her family since they shifted to
Sturminster?” put in the farmer as she paused.
Mrs. Melmouth shook her head.
“I often wish I could,” she said; “but ’tis so far.”
“An’ have ye seen Simon?” inquired the farmer. “He be a dairy chap,
bain’t he?--’tis some time since he went to service.”
“Ah! he’ve a-got a very good place t’other side o’ Darchester. He do
write beautiful letters to my sister at Christmas. There, they be jist
same’s as if they come out of a book.”
“P’r’aps they are out of a book,” suggested Mr. Hunt. “There did
use to be a book about letter-writin’ when I was a young chap; but
what it wanted to say was never same as what I wanted to say, and my
mother--poor soul! couldn’t spell the long words, so I did give up
using it. But since ye haven’t seen either of these two young folks for
so long, Mrs. Melmouth, why not ax ’em both to come and stop wi’ ye,
an’ see which ye do like the best? You’d soon find out then what they
was both made on, an’ I’d pick out the one as did please ye most to
leave the stockin’ to.”
“Well, there, that’s a notion,” said Becky reflectively. “I mid do
that, I mid very well do that. Easter week, Simon mid very well get a
holiday--an’ Rosy--I mid ask her mother to spare her to me at the same
time.”
“Do!” said Farmer Hunt encouragingly. “I’ll reckon ye’ll find ’tis a
very good notion.”
“I reckon I will--and thank you, Farmer, for puttin’ it into my mind.
There, I should never ha’ thought on’t.”
“Two heads is better than one, ye see,” said Mr. Hunt.
And then he locked up the stocking again, handed Mrs. Melmouth her
basket, and betook himself to his midday meal with the comfortable
sensation which follows on a good-natured act that has cost nothing.
Mrs. Melmouth left the house and trudged homewards, revolving the new
idea in her mind. Simon could have the back bedroom, and Rosy could
sleep with her; ’twas a very good notion to have ’em both together;
a man always gave a deal o’ trouble in a house, and Rosy could help
a bit. Not but what Simon must make himself useful too. His aunt
privately resolved to hold over the setting of the potatoes until he
came; the bit o’ work he might do then would go a good way towards his
keep, reflected the thrifty soul.
With much thought and care she penned her invitations that afternoon;
they were brief and to the point, intimating in each case the writer’s
wish to become better acquainted with the young relative in question.
Rosy’s answer came by return of post, written in a beautiful, round,
clear hand which did credit to her schooling, and accepting with
rapture. Simon’s reply did not come to hand for two or three days. It
was ill-spelt and ill-written on a somewhat dirty piece of ruled paper,
which looked as if it had been torn off the bottom of a bill:--
“Dear Ant,” it said, “i don’t know if i can be spaired, but if the bos
is willin i will cum. Yours truly nevew, S. FRY.”
His aunt pursed up her lips as she perused this document.
“He mid ha’ taken a bit more pains,” she said to herself; “he ha’n’t
got this out of a book, anyhow.”
It was possible, indeed, that even _The Complete Letter-Writer_ did
not contain a missive from a young man who had been asked to spend his
holidays with an aunt in the country, and that Simon, in consequence,
was thrown on his own resources.
“But he don’t seem so very anxious to come,” she thought. “He mid
ha’ said ‘Thank ye,’ too--Rosy did seem to be far more thankful. But
Simon--p’r’aps he means better nor what he says.”
With this charitable reflection Becky laid aside the letters and went
to feed her chickens.
Rosy, who was living at home, and in consequence not tied down to any
particular date, arrived a day before the other guest. She was a pretty
girl of the dark-haired, clear-skinned type so often to be seen in
Dorset; her eyes were brown like her hair, and her complexion matched
her name to a nicety. The carrier dropped her and her tin box at the
corner of the lane which led to Mrs. Melmouth’s cottage, and she came
staggering down to her aunt’s door bent in two beneath the weight of
her belongings. Mrs. Melmouth stood on the threshold and watched her.
“That’s right,” she remarked, as the girl set down her trunk and
straightened herself, breathless and laughing, “I be main glad to see
ye. Ye be sich a handy maid, my dear. There, I declare ye’ve just come
in nice time to get the tea.”
Now Rosy, who was tired and thirsty after her long jolting in the
carrier’s van, had half-expected to find tea ready. She felt a little
bewildered and slightly annoyed on being sent first to the well and
then to the woodshed, and then having to reach down the best china from
the top shelf, and, moreover, to dust it, conscious all the time of
wearing her best frock with sleeves too tight at the wrist to turn up
comfortably. It was a very crestfallen Rosy indeed who finally sat down
to partake of that particularly well-earned cup of tea.
But Mrs. Melmouth was radiant.
“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!”
If she had hoped that her matutinal labours would leave her free for
the remainder of the day she was disappointed. Mrs. Melmouth gave her
a pressing invitation to assist her at the wash-tub, having, as she
informed her with an engaging smile, expressly saved up the dirty linen
for her that week.
“To wash on Good Friday!” exclaimed Rosy, aghast. “Dear, to be sure,
aunt, ’tis the unluckiest thing you can do.”
“Unlucky? Fiddlesticks!” retorted Mrs. Melmouth. “A good day for a good
deed--so say I.”
Rosy therefore remained immersed in suds during the greater part of
that day; and though at first she could have cried with vexation, she
soon found herself amused by the old woman’s talk; and with every fresh
excursion to the hedge her spirits went up. The air was so fresh,
the sunshine so bright, the clean, wet linen smelt quite nice, she
thought, here in the country. Then the hedge itself, with its little
red leaf-buds gaping here and there so as to show the crumpled-up baby
leaves within--it had an attraction of its own; and she could never be
tired of looking at the primroses that studded the bank beneath.
As she stood by the hedge on one occasion after having tastefully
disposed the contents of a basket on its prickly surface, she was
hailed by a voice from the road.
“Be this Widow Melmouth’s?”
The girl peered over the hedge at the speaker, her curly hair flapping
in the breeze, her cheeks pinker than ever, partly from her recent
exertions, partly from excitement. There stood a stalwart young
countryman in corduroys and leggings, a bundle in one hand, a stout
stick in the other. He had a brown, good-humoured face, with twinkling
blue eyes, and a smile that displayed the most faultless teeth in the
world.
“This be Widow Melmouth’s, bain’t it?” he repeated, altering the form
of his question.
“It be,” returned Rosy; then she nodded towards the house. “My aunt’s
inside,” said she.
Both, from opposite sides of the hedge, directed their steps towards
the gate.
“Your aunt?” said the young man. “Then we be cousins, I suppose?”
And thereupon as each paused beside the gate, and before Rosy had time
to realise his intentions, he leaned across and kissed her.
“How dare you!” cried Rosy, springing back and rubbing her cheek
vigorously, while tears of anger started to her eyes. “How dare you,
Mr. Fry? Cousins, indeed! We be no such thing, and I’ll trouble you not
to take liberties. You’ll find your aunt indoor.”
With that she stalked back to her wash-tub.
“He’s come,” she announced as she passed Mrs. Melmouth, who was engaged
in rinsing out a few fine things in a crock.
“Who? Simon! I’m glad to hear it. Ye’d best come out a minute and make
acquaintance.”
“I’ve made quite acquaintance enough,” retorted Rosy, plunging her arms
into the suds. “He’s an impudent chap!”
“I’ll go warrant you are a bit jealous,” said Mrs. Melmouth, and with a
chuckle she went forth to greet her guest.
Indeed, from the very first it seemed evident that Rosy had good cause
for jealousy. Mrs. Melmouth seemed never tired of commenting on Simon’s
likeness to her family, prefacing her remarks with the assertion that
she had always been dearly fond of Sister Mary. She further observed
two or three times during the course of the evening that blood was
certainly thicker than water, and that a body should think o’ their own
afore lookin’ round for other folks. Poor Rosy, hot and tired after
her exertions at the wash-tub, took these hints in rather evil part;
not, indeed, that she was of a grasping nature, but that she had an
indefinable feeling of having been unfairly dealt with.
Simon, however, saw nothing amiss; it was apparent that he looked upon
his visit solely and wholly as an “outing,” and had no ulterior views
as to his aunt’s testamentary dispositions. If he had ever heard of her
savings he had evidently forgotten about them; he had left home young,
and, except for the wonderful epistolary effort which he sent to his
mother each Christmas, corresponded little with his family. He admired
Rosy very much, and could not understand why she was so short in her
speech and stand-off in her manner. It was perhaps her repellent tone
and evident moodiness which caused Mrs. Melmouth to lay so much stress
on Simon’s various good qualities.
During the course of the evening young Fry remarked with a yawn and a
stretch that he intended to have a good sleep on the morrow.
“Jist about,” he added emphatically. “Ah! ’twill be summat to hear
clock strikin’ and to turn over warm an’ snug thinkin’ I needn’t get up
to drive up the cows. To-morrow’s Saturday, too--if I were yonder I’d
ha’ had to clean out fifteen pigstyes afore breakfast.”
“Think of that!” said Mrs. Melmouth. “’Tater-settin’s different,
bain’t it? Ye wouldn’t mind so much gettin’ up a bit early to set
’taters--would ye, Simon?”
Simon’s jaw dropped, and he looked ruefully at his relative.
“I thought I wer’ goin’ to have a real hollerday for once,” he said
hesitatingly. “There, if you do want me to do any little job for ye
in a small way I don’t mind doin’ of it. But settin’ ’taters! You’ve
a goodish bit o’ ground, an’ there is but the two days--I did look to
have my sleep out to-morrow,” he concluded desperately.
“I did count on ye,” persisted Mrs. Melmouth mildly. “Ah! so did I.
Said I to myself, ‘I’ll save up them ’taters ’gainst the time my nevvy
do come’--I says. ‘He be a good-natured young man,’ I says, ‘and I know
he will do what I do ax him.’ ’Tis beautiful weather for early risin’,
Simon, my dear, and you’ll feel the air so nice and fresh while you’re
workin’. I’ll have a dew-bit ready for ye. Ye won’t disapp’int me, I’m
sure.”
“Oh! I’ll not disapp’int ye,” returned Simon dolefully. “I can’t work
on Sunday, of course,” he added, brightening up a little. “That’s
summat, an’ if I work real hard to-morrow I mid have a chance o’
gettin’ off a bit on Monday. Where be the ’taters, aunt? If we was to
cut up some o’ the sets to-night, we’d get on faster to-morrow.”
“Ah, to be sure,” agreed his aunt with alacrity. “I’ll fetch a basket
of ’em in a minute, an’ Rosy there can help ye. She’ll be busy
to-morrow cleanin’ up indoor; but she’ll give you a hand to-night.”
But Rosy now felt the time had come for her to assert herself. She
glanced at the drawerful of stockings which lay on the chair beside
her, and then raised her eyes to her aunt’s face.
“I know nothin’ about cuttin’ up sets,” said she, “an’ I don’t fancy
sich work. I’ve got all this darnin’ to do. That’s enough for anybody,
I think.”
“Oh, very well,” responded Mrs. Melmouth with some dudgeon. “I’ll help
you then, Simon. I’ll fetch ’taters, an’ then I’ll help you.”
When she returned she found Simon and Rosy sitting as she had left
them, in absolute silence, Simon drumming on the table and looking
dubiously at Rosy, who darned away without raising her eyes.
“There’s an odd stocking here,” she remarked snappishly, as her aunt
sat down. “What am I to do with that?”
Mrs. Melmouth, gazing at her sternly, determined to profit by the
opportunity her niece had unconsciously presented to her, and to give
her the lesson she deserved.
“That there stockin’,” she said impressively, as she took it from the
heap and held it up for their inspection, “that there stockin’ is more
vallyable nor it do look. It is feller to one what’s worth farty pound.”
Both exclaimed and stared.
“I’ve always kep’ it for that,” resumed Mrs. Melmouth. “’Tis nigh upon
farty year old--an’ the feller to it is worth farty pound. Your uncle
and me did begin savin’ the very year we was first married, an’ I’ve
a-gone on ever since. When Melmouth died there was over thirty pound in
it. I didn’t like to have so much money about, livin’ here all alone,
so I axed Farmer Hunt to take charge on’t for me. That’s ten year ago.
Well, since then I’ve a-gone on pinchin’ an’ scrapin’, a shillin’ here,
a sixpence there, till I’ve got together nigh upon ten pound more.”
“Well, I never heerd o’ such a thing!” exclaimed Simon heartily. “Ye
must have been wonderful clever an’ contrivin’, Aunt Becky!”
“Ah, I’ll take that much credit to myself,” replied his aunt. “I do
truly think I was. But there it be now, an’ it be all to go in a lump
to one o’ you two. I mid as well tell you straight-out. ’Tis to go in a
lump--Melmouth an’ me settled it that way. ‘We saved it between us, an’
you can leave it,’ he says, ‘either to my niece or to your nevvy--but
it must go in a lump.’”
“Well, I’m sure!” said Simon; and then he looked dubiously at Rosy, who
was holding her curly head very high. “’Twas very well said o’ the wold
gentleman,” he continued lamely.
“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.”
“Now look ’ee here,” said Simon, and his usually merry eyes flashed
angrily; “this here bit o’ business bain’t to my likin’ no ways. What
do I care for the wold stockin’? I can earn enough to keep myself--ah,
that I can--an’ I could keep a wife, too, if I wanted one; an’ what’s
farty pound? The wold ’ooman had best keep it to be buried with.”
“For shame!” cried Rosy. “’Tis pure ongrateful of ye to speak so, and
Aunt Becky so took up wi’ ye.”
“Well, I can’t help it,” returned the young man bluntly. “The job
bain’t to my likin’. I did come out for a hollerday, and here I be
ordered to set ’taters--an’ what’s more, I get nothin’ but cross looks
and sharp words what I don’t deserve.”
“I’m sure your aunt speaks civil enough,” said Rosy in a somewhat
mollified tone.
“An’ so she mid,” responded he promptly. “She mid very well be civil
when she do expect so much. But there’s others what’s uncivil, and
’tis that what I can’t abide. I’ve a good mind,” he added gloomily,
“to cut an’ run--yes, I have,” he cried resolutely. “I’d sooner be
cleanin’ out pigstyes nor be treated so unkind as you do treat I. But
for that matter, my mother ’ull be glad enough to see I. I’ll step
home-along--that’s the very thing I’ll do; I’ll step home-along.”
“Oh, but what will Aunt Becky say?” cried Rosy in alarm.
“Aunt Becky be blowed!” exclaimed Simon with decision. “Let her say
what she pleases. I’ll leave her an’ you to make it up together. ’Tis
more nor flesh an’ blood can stand to be treated as you’ve a-treated I
since I did come to this house.”
“Oh, please--please don’t go!” gasped the girl. “There, I really didn’t
mean--I--I--I only thought my aunt a bit unjust.”
“Well, and very like she was,” said Simon magnanimously. “I think the
money what was saved out o’ the man’s wage did ought to go to the man’s
folk. You’ve the best right to that there stockin’, Miss Rosy, and I’ll
not bide here to stand in your light.”
This was heaping coals of fire on Rosy’s pretty head with a vengeance.
She looked up in Simon’s face with a smile, though there were tears
in her eyes, and she impulsively dropped the carpet and held out two
little sunburnt hands.
“Oh, please, Mr. Fry,” she said pleadingly, “please, Simon, do stay--do
’ee now. I’ll--I’ll--I’ll never be unkind again!”
“Is that a true promise, my maid?” asked Simon very tenderly.
Mrs. Melmouth, chancing at that moment to emerge from her house with
the view of ascertaining how the young folks’ labours were progressing,
discovered them standing in this most compromising attitude; Simon
clasping both Rosy’s hands, Rosy looking earnestly into his face; and
thereupon, true to her instincts, rated the couple soundly for their
idleness. In two minutes Rosy had returned to her carpet with a flaming
face, and Simon was walking slowly towards the potato-plot. As their
aunt, still full of virtuous indignation, was returning to the house,
her nephew’s tones fell distinctly on her ear:--
“How would it be if I was to give you a hand wi’ they things first, my
maid, and then you could be helping me wi’ the sets?”
“Well, I declare,” commented Mrs. Melmouth, stopping short, “I believe
they’ve started coortin’. It do really seem like it. Well, I never!”
She was turning about in preparation for a fresh outpouring of wrath,
when she was struck by a sudden idea, and paused just as Rosy, with a
nervous glance towards herself, walked sheepishly up to Simon, trailing
the carpet behind her.
“We’d certainly get on much faster,” she said, speaking ostensibly to
Simon, but really for her aunt’s benefit.
“I d’ ’low ye would,” said Mrs. Melmouth; and suddenly her brow
cleared, and she turned once more to go indoors with a good-humoured
smile. “I d’ ’low you’ll get on fast enough--wi’ the coortin’. But that
’ud be the best way o’ settlin’ it,” she added to herself--“I’ll leave
the wold stockin’ in a lump to ’em both.”