Anne of Ingleside - L. M. Montgomery [28]
‘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 Doctor 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 Doctor 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 Doctor 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 can’t bear onions… she can’t ever bear the smell of them. She says they make her sick. So Mrs Doctor 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 that 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,” says she 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 Doctor is just