She managed to make friends with us somehow soon after we came, and when we weren’t at tea or dinner when she came in, she would have an awful attack of the spasms, and, of course, at first I used to say, “Have a little brandy, or a little gin,” and she never said “No.”
I had managed to stop her calling so often when Mr. Saxon started that story about the Mr. Smith who had died in Australia. She heard of it, and she was certain it was her husband, and down she came to our place and insisted on seeing the agents.
We tried to get rid of her, saying they weren’t in, but she said she’d stay till they did come in, and at last Mr. Saxon had to see her to try and get rid of her.
But once she got in his room, there she stuck. It was no good his saying the man Smith had been in Australia fifty years—she knew better. For everything he said she had an argument ready, and she demanded the name of his employers, and I don’t know what; and as he had some writing to do he got out of temper, and then she slanged him, and said he was in the conspiracy, and at last he put her out of his room and locked the door.
We got her away after she’d shouted at him outside his door for a quarter of an hour; but when he went out the next morning for a walk she was waiting for him, and she followed him and the Swedish gentleman through the village, shouting at them, till everybody came out of their doors, and Mr. Saxon had to run fast to get away from her, because she couldn’t run far with three or four complete sets of clothes on.
When Mr. Saxon returned he came in the back way and sat down in a chair.
“Good heavens, Mary Jane,” he said, “that old woman will drive me mad! Can’t she be put in the pound?”
I said it was a pity he had put that story about, because it would never do to say there was no Mr. Smith—all the other people would be so indignant. He must think of something to persuade Mrs. Smith it wasn’t her husband.
“I know,” said the Swedish gentleman; “we must show her a photograph of the real Mr. Smith, and say that’s the man. Then she can’t say it’s her husband.”
“But I don’t carry photographs about with me,” said Mr. Saxon. Then he asked me if I had one.