Maria is Venomous.
“Come in,” said Aunt Anne, in response to a knock, and Maria Bell entered, to stand for a moment watching while a few entries were made diligently in the housekeeping book. Then Aunt Anne raised her head and coughed, a signal which Maria knew of old as premonitor of a scolding, and, to ward it off, struck first.
“Oh, much better, ma’am, thank you,” she said hastily; “and it’s very kind of you to ask. I’m getting as strong as I was before I went to the hospital, and I think the wine you gave me has done me a deal of good. I hope master’s much better this morning, ma’am.”
“Yes; your master is much better, Maria.”
“I’m very glad, ma’am, for more reasons than one.” Aunt Anne had made up and rehearsed a speech relative to the neglect of certain duties, now that Maria was back, and that though she had been ill, and allowances would be made and she would still be well cared for, she was not to expect that she was to lead a life of idleness, especially as there was now an invalid permanently in the house. But Maria’s manner and that addition or qualifying of her joy at her master’s improvement, quite drove the admonitory remarks out of her head by exciting curiosity.
“Eh?” she exclaimed, “for more reasons than one, Maria? What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, nothing, ma’am,” said the woman, tightening her lips, and taking up the hem of her apron to arrange in plaits.
“Maria, you know, and have known for years, how I hate and detest mystery. I desire that you tell me what you mean.”
“Nothing at all, ma’am, indeed. I really—that is—I am very glad that master is better—that’s all.”
“That is not all, Maria. I despise hints, as you well know.”