The Complete Works of L M Montgomery

by L. M. Montgomery

  “Miss Dew dear,” said Susan earnestly, laying down her knitting and gazing imploringly into Rebecca’s little black eyes, “you have seen something of what Mary Maria Blythe is like in the time you have been here. But you do not know the half . . . no, nor yet the quarter. Miss Dew dear, I feel that I can trust you. May I open my heart to you in strict confidence?”

  “You may, Miss Baker.”

  “That woman came here in June and it is my opinion she means to stay here the rest of her life. Everyone in this house detests her . . . even the doctor has no use for her now, hide it as he will and does. But he is clannish and says his father’s cousin must not be made to feel unwelcome in his house. I have begged,” said Susan, in a tone which seemed to imply she had done it on her knees, “I have begged Mrs. Dr. to put her foot down and say Mary Maria Blythe must go. But Mrs. Dr. is too softhearted . . . and so we are helpless, Miss Dew . . . completely helpless.”

  “I wish I had the handling of her,” said Rebecca Dew, who had smarted considerably herself under some of Aunt Mary Maria’s remarks. “I know as well as anyone, Miss Baker, that we must not violate the sacred proprieties of hospitality, but I assure you, Miss Baker, that I would let her have it straight.”

  “I could handle her if I did not know my place, Miss Dew. I never forget that I am not mistress here. Sometimes, Miss Dew, I say solemnly to myself, ‘Susan Baker, are you or are you not a door-mat?’ But you know how my hands are tied. I cannot desert Mrs. Dr. and I must not add to her troubles by fighting with Mary Maria Blythe. I shall continue to endeavour to do my duty. Because, Miss Dew dear,” said Susan solemnly, “I could cheerfully die for either the doctor or his wife. We were such a happy family before she came here, Miss Dew. But she is making our lives miserable and what is to be the outcome I cannot tell, being no prophetess, Miss Dew. Or rather, I can tell. We will all be driven into lunatic asylums. It is not any one thing, Miss Dew . . . it is scores of them, Miss Dew . . . hundreds of them, Miss Dew. You can endure one mosquito, Miss Dew . . . but think of millions of them!”

  Rebecca Dew thought of them with a mournful shake of her head.

  “She is always telling Mrs. Dr. how to run her house and what clothes she should wear. She is always watching me . . . and she says she never saw such quarrelsome children. Miss Dew dear, you have seen for yourself that our children never quarrel . . . well, hardly ever . . .”

  “They are among the most admirable children I have ever seen, Miss Baker.”

  “She snoops and pries . . .”

  “I have caught her at it myself, Miss Baker.”

  “She’s always getting offended and heart-broken over something but never offended enough to up and leave. She just sits around looking lonely and neglected until poor Mrs. Dr. is almost distracted. Nothing suits her. If a window is open she complains of draughts. If they are all shut she says she does like a little fresh air once in a while. She cannot bear onions . . . she cannot even bear the smell of them. She says they make her sick. So Mrs. Dr. says we must not use any. Now,” said Susan grandly, “it may be a common taste to like onions, Miss Dew dear, but we all plead guilty to it at Ingleside.”

  “I am very partial to onions myself,” admitted Rebecca Dew.

  “She cannot bear cats. She says cats give her the creeps. It does not make any difference whether she sees them or not. Just to know there is one about the place is enough for her. So that poor Shrimp hardly dare show his face in the house. I have never altogether liked cats myself, Miss Dew, but I maintain they have a right to wave their own tails. And it is, ‘Susan, never forget that I cannot eat eggs, please,’ or ‘Susan, how often must I tell you I cannot eat cold toast?’ or ‘Susan, some people may be able to drink stewed tea but I am not in that fortunate class.’ Stewed tea, Miss Dew! As if I ever offered anyone stewed tea!”

  “Nobody could ever suppose it of you, Miss Baker.”

  “If there is a question that should not be asked she will ask it. She is jealous because the doctor tells things to his wife before he tells them to her . . . and she is always trying to pick news out of him about his patients. Nothing aggravates him so much, Miss Dew. A doctor must know how to hold his tongue, as you are well aware. And her tantrums about fire! ‘Susan Baker,’ she says to me, ‘I hope you never light a fire with coal-oil. Or leave oily rags lying around, Susan. They have been known to cause spontaneous combustion in less than an hour. How would you like to stand and watch this house burn down, Susan, knowing it was your fault?’ Well, Miss Dew dear, I had my laugh on her over that. It was that very night she set her curtains on fire and the yells of her are ringing in my ears yet. And just when the poor doctor had got to sleep after having been up for two nights! What infuriates me most, Miss Dew, is that before she goes anywhere she goes into my pantry and counts the eggs. It takes all my philosophy to refrain from saying, ‘Why not count the spoons, too?’ Of course the children hate her. Mrs. Dr. is just about worn out keeping them from showing it. She actually slapped Nan one day when the doctor and Mrs. Dr. were both away . . . slapped her . . . just because Nan called her ‘Mrs Mefusaleh’ . . . having heard that imp of a Ken Ford saying it.”

  “I’d have slapped her,” said Rebecca Dew viciously.

  “I told her if she ever did the like again I would slap her. ‘An occasional spanking we do have at Ingleside,’ I told her, ‘but slapping never, so put that in pickle.’ She was sulky and offended for a week but at least she has never dared to lay a finger on one of them since. She loves it when their parents punish them, though. ‘If I was your mother,’ she says to Little Jem one evening. ‘Oh ho, you won’t ever be anybody’s mother,’ said the poor child . . . driven to it, Miss Dew, absolutely driven to it. The doctor sent him to bed without his supper, but who would you suppose, Miss Dew, saw that some was smuggled up to him later on?”

  “Ah, now, who?” chortled Rebecca Dew, entering into the spirit of the tale.

  “It would have broken your heart, Miss Dew, to hear the prayer he put up afterwards . . . all off his own bat, ‘O God, please forgive me for being impertinent to Aunt Mary Maria. And O God, please help me to be always very polite to Aunt Mary Maria.’ It brought the tears into my eyes, the poor lamb. I do not hold with irreverence or impertinence from youth to age, Miss Dew dear, but I must admit that when Bertie Shakespeare Drew threw a spit-ball at her one day . . . it just missed her nose by an inch, Miss Dew . . . I waylaid him at the gate on his way home and gave him a bag of doughnuts. Of course I did not tell him why. He was tickled over it . . . for doughnuts do not grow on trees, Miss Dew, and Mrs. Second Skimmings never makes them. Nan and Di . . . I would not breathe this to a soul but you, Miss Dew . . . the doctor and his wife never dream of it or they would put a stop to it . . . Nan and Di have named their old china doll with the split head after Aunt Mary Maria and whenever she scolds them they go out and drown her . . . the doll I mean . . . in the rainwater hogshead. Many’s the jolly drowning we have had, I can assure you. But you could not believe what that woman did the other night, Miss Dew.”

  “I’d believe anything of her, Miss Baker.”

  “She would not eat a bite of supper because her feelings had been hurt over something, but she went into the pantry before she went to bed and ate up a lunch I had left for the poor doctor . . . every crumb, Miss Dew dear. I hope you will not think me an infidel, Miss Dew, but I cannot understand why the Good Lord does not get tired of some people.”

  “You must not allow yourself to lose your sense of humour, Miss Baker,” said Rebecca Dew firmly.

  “Oh, I am very well aware that there is a comical side to a toad under a harrow, Miss Dew. But the question is, does the toad see it? I am sorry to have bothered you with all this, Miss Dew dear, but it has been a great relief. I cannot say these things to Mrs. Dr. and I have been feeling lately that if I did not find an outlet I would burst.”

  “How well I know that feeling, Miss Baker.”

  “And now, Miss Dew dear,” said Susan, getting up briskly
, “what do you say to a cup of tea before bed? And a cold chicken leg, Miss Dew?”

  “I have never denied,” said Rebecca Dew, taking her well-baked feet out of the oven, “that while we should not forget the Higher Things of Life good food is a pleasant thing in moderation.”

  Chapter 12

  Gilbert had his two weeks’ snipe shooting in Nova Scotia . . . not even Anne could persuade him to take a month . . . and November closed in on Ingleside. The dark hills, with the darker spruces marching over them, looked grim on early falling nights, but Ingleside bloomed with firelight and laughter, though the winds come in from the Atlantic singing of mournful things.

  “Why isn’t the wind happy, Mummy?” asked Walter one night.

  “Because it is remembering all the sorrow of the world since time began,” answered Anne.

  “It is moaning just because there is so much dampness in the air,” sniffed Aunt Mary Maria, “and my back is killing me.”

  But some days even the wind blew cheerfully through the silvery grey maple wood and some days there was no wind at all, only mellow Indian summer sunshine and the quiet shadows of the bare trees all over the lawn and frosty stillness at sunset.

  “Look at that white evening star over the lombardy in the corner,” said Anne. “Whenever I see anything like that I am minded to be just glad I am alive.”

  “You do say such funny things, Annie. Stars are quite common in P. E. Island,” said Aunt Mary Maria . . . and thought: “Stars indeed! As if no one ever saw a star before! Didn’t Annie know of the terrible waste that was going on in the kitchen every day? Didn’t she know of the reckless way Susan Baker threw eggs about and used lard where dripping would do quite as well? Or didn’t she care? Poor Gilbert! No wonder he had to keep his nose to the grindstone!”

  November went out in greys and browns: but by morning the snow had woven its old white spell and Jem shouted with delight as he rushed down to breakfast.

  “Oh, Mummy, it will soon be Christmas now and Santa Claus will be coming!”

  “You surely don’t believe in Santa Claus still?” said Aunt Mary Maria.

  Anne shot a glance of alarm at Gilbert, who said gravely: “We want the children to possess their heritage of fairyland as long as they can, Aunty.”

  Luckily Jem had paid no attention to Aunt Mary Maria. He and Walter were too eager to get out into the new wonderful world to which winter had brought its own loveliness. Anne always hated to see the beauty of the untrodden snow marred by footprints; but that couldn’t be helped and there was still beauty and to spare at eventide when the west was aflame over all the whitened hollows in the violet hills and Anne was sitting in the living-room before a fire of rock maple. Firelight, she thought, was always so lovely. It did such tricksy, unexpected things. Parts of the room flashed into being and then out again. Pictures came and went. Shadows lurked and sprang. Outside, through the big unshaded window, the whole scene was elvishly reflected on the lawn with Aunt Mary Maria apparently sitting stark upright . . . Aunt Mary Maria never allowed herself to “loll” . . . under the Scotch pine.

  Gilbert was “lolling” on the couch, trying to forget that he had lost a patient from pneumonia that day. Small Rilla was trying to eat her pink fists in her basket; even the Shrimp, with his white paws curled in under his breast, was daring to purr on the hearth-rug, much to Aunt Mary Maria’s disapproval.

  “Speaking of cats,” said Aunt Mary Maria pathetically . . . though nobody had been speaking of them . . . “do all the cats in the Glen visit us at night? How anyone could have slept through the caterwauling last night I really am at a loss to understand. Of course, my room being at the back I suppose I get the full benefit of the free concert.”

  Before anyone had to reply Susan entered, saying that she had seen Mrs. Marshall Elliott in Carter Flagg’s store and she was coming up when she had finished her shopping. Susan did not add that Mrs. Elliott had said anxiously, “What is the matter with Mrs. Blythe, Susan? I thought last Sunday in church she looked so tired and worried. I never saw her look like that before.”

  “I can tell you what is the matter with Mrs. Blythe,” Susan had answered grimly. “She had got a bad attack of Aunt Mary Maria. And the doctor cannot seem to see it, even though he does worship the ground she walks on.”

  “Isn’t that like a man?” said Mrs. Elliott.

  “I am glad,” said Anne, springing up to light a lamp. “I haven’t seen Miss Cornelia for so long. Now we’ll catch up with the news.”

  “Won’t we!” said Gilbert dryly.

  “That woman is an evil-minded gossip,” said Aunt Mary Maria severely.

  For the first time in her life, perhaps, Susan bristled up in defence of Miss Cornelia.

  “That she is not, Miss Blythe, and Susan Baker will never stand by and hear her so miscalled. Evil-minded, indeed! Did you ever hear, Miss Blythe, of the pot calling the kettle black?”

  “Susan . . . Susan,” said Anne imploringly.

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Dr. dear. I admit I have forgotten my place. But there are some things not to be endured.”

  Whereupon a door was banged as doors were seldom banged at Ingleside.

  “You see, Annie?” said Aunt Mary Maria significantly. “But I suppose as long as you are willing to overlook that sort of thing in a servant there is nothing anyone can do.”

  Gilbert got up and went to the library where a tired man might count on some peace. And Aunt Mary Maria, who didn’t like Miss Cornelia, betook herself to bed. So that when Miss Cornelia came in she found Anne alone, drooping rather limply over the baby’s basket. Miss Cornelia did not, as usual, start in unloading a budget of gossip. Instead, when she had laid aside her wraps, she sat down beside Anne and took her hand.

  “Anne dearie, what is the matter? I know there’s something. Is that jolly old soul of a Mary Maria just tormenting you to death?”

  Anne tried to smile.

  “Oh, Miss Cornelia . . . I know I’m foolish to mind it so much . . . but this has been one of the days when it seems I just cannot go on enduring her. She . . . she’s simply poisoning our life here . . .”

  “Why don’t you just tell her to go?”

  “Oh, we can’t do that, Miss Cornelia. At least, I can’t and Gilbert won’t. He says he could never look himself in the face again if he turned his own flesh and blood out of doors.”

  “Cat’s hindfoot!” said Miss Cornelia eloquently. “She’s got plenty of money and a good home of her own. How would it be turning her out of doors to tell her she’d better go and live in it?”

  “I know . . . but Gilbert . . . I don’t think he quite realises everything. He’s away so much . . . and really . . . everything is so little in itself . . . I’m ashamed . . .”

  “I know, dearie. Just those little things that are horribly big. Of course a man wouldn’t understand. I know a woman in Charlottetown who knows her well. She says Mary Maria Blythe never had a friend in her life. She says her name should be Blight not Blythe. What you need, dearie, is just enough backbone to say you won’t put up with it any longer.”

  “I feel as you do in dreams when you’re trying to run and can only drag your feet,” said Anne drearily. “If it were only now and then . . . but it’s every day. Meal times are perfect horrors now. Gilbert says he can’t carve roasts any more.”

  “He’d notice that,” sniffed Miss Cornelia.

  “We can never have any real conversations at meals because she is sure to say something disagreeable every time anyone speaks. She corrects the children for their manners continually and always calls attention to their faults before company. We used to have such pleasant meals . . . and now! She resents laughter . . . and you know what we are for laughing. Somebody is always seeing a joke . . . or used to be. She can’t let anything pass. Today she said, ‘Gilbert, don’t sulk. Have you and Annie quarrelled?’ Just because we were quiet. You know Gilbert is always a little depressed when he loses a patient he thinks ought to have lived. And then she lec
tured us on our folly and warned us not to let the sun go down on our wrath. Oh, we laughed at it afterwards . . . but just at the time! She and Susan don’t get along. And we can’t keep Susan from muttering asides that are the reverse of polite. She more than muttered when Aunt Mary Maria told her she had never seen such a liar as Walter . . . because she heard him telling Di a long tale about meeting the man in the moon and what they said to each other. She wanted to scour his mouth out with soap and water. She and Susan had a battle royal that time. And she is filling the children’s minds with all sorts of gruesome ideas. She told Nan about a child who was naughty and died in its sleep and Nan is afraid to go to sleep now. She told Di that if she were always a good girl her parents would come to love her as well as they loved Nan, even if she did have red hair. Gilbert really was very angry when he heard that and spoke to her sharply. I couldn’t help hoping she’d take offence and go . . . even though I would hate to have anyone leave my home because she was offended. But she just let those big blue eyes of her fill with tears and said she didn’t mean any harm. She’d always heard that twins were never loved equally and she’d been thinking we favoured Nan and that poor Di felt it! She cried all night about it and Gilbert felt that he had been a brute . . . and apologized.”

  “He would!” said Miss Cornelia.

  “Oh, I shouldn’t be talking like this, Miss Cornelia. When I ‘count my mercies’ I feel it’s very petty of me to mind these things . . . even if they do rub a little bloom off life. And she isn’t always hateful . . . she is quite nice by spells . . .”

  “Do you tell me so?” said Miss Cornelia sarcastically.

  “Yes . . . and kind. She heard me say I wanted an afternoon tea-set and she went to Toronto and got me one . . . by mail order! And, oh, Miss Cornelia, it’s so ugly!”