You are a strange servant, she said from her pillows, rather
haughtily.
Martha sat up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and
laughed, without seeming the least out of temper.
Eh! I know that, she said. If there was a grand Missus at
Misselthwaite I should never have been even one of th under
housemaids. I might have been let to be scullerymaid but I d never have
been let upstairs. I m too common an I talk too much Yorkshire. But
this is a funny house for all it s so grand. Seems like there s neither
Master nor Mistress except Mr. Pitcher an Mrs. Medlock. Mr. Craven, he
won t be troubled about anythin when he s here, an he s nearly always
away. Mrs. Medlock gave me th place out o kindness. She told me she
could never have done it if Misselthwaite had been like other big
houses.
Are you going to be my servant? Mary asked, still in her imperious
little Indian way.
Martha began to rub her grate again.
I m Mrs. Medlock s servant, she said stoutly. An she s Mr.
Craven s but I m to do the housemaid s work up here an wait on you a
bit. But you won t need much waitin on.
Who is going to dress me? demanded Mary.
Martha sat up on her heels again and stared. She spoke in broad
Yorkshire in her amazement.
Canna tha dress thysen! she said.
What do you mean? I don t understand your language, said Mary.
Eh! I forgot, Martha said. Mrs. Medlock told me I d have to be
careful or you wouldn t know what I was sayin . I mean can t you put on
your own clothes?
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