Mary was ten in eighteen seventy-three.
Aunt Charlotte was ill, and nobody was being kind to her. She had given
her Sunday bonnet to Harriet and her Sunday gown to Catty; so you knew
she was going to be married again. She said it was prophesied that she
should be married in eighteen seventy-three.
The illness had something to do with being married and going continually
to Mr. Marriott's church and calling on Mr. Marriott and writing letters
to him about religion. You couldn't say Aunt Charlotte was not religious.
But Papa said he would believe in her religion if she went to Mr. Batty's
church or Mr. Farmer's or Mr. Propart's. They had all got wives and Mr.
Marriott hadn't. Papa had forbidden Aunt Charlotte to go any more to Mr.
Marriott's church.
Mr. Marriott had written a nice letter to Uncle Victor, and Uncle Victor
had taken Papa to see him, and the doctor had come to see Aunt Charlotte
and she had been sent to bed.
Aunt Charlotte's room was at the top of the tall, thin white house in the
High Street. There was whispering on the stairs. Mamma and Aunt Lavvy
stood at the turn; you could see their vexed faces. Aunt Charlotte called
to them to let Mary come to her. Mary was told she might go if she were
very quiet.
Aunt Charlotte was all by herself sitting up in a large white bed. A
Bible propped itself open, leaves downwards, against the mound she made.
There was something startling about the lengths of white curtain and the
stretches of white pillow and counterpane, and Aunt Charlotte's very
black eyebrows and hair and the cover of the Bible, very black, and her
blue eyes glittering.
She was writing letters. Every now and then she took up the Bible and
picked out a text and wrote it down. She wrote very fast, and as she
finished each sheet she hid it under the bed-clothes, and made a sign to
show that what she was doing was a secret.
"Love God and you'll be happy. Love God and you'll be happy," she said.
Her eyes pointed at you. They looked wise and solemn and excited.
A wide flat piece of counterpane was left over from Aunt Charlotte. Mary
climbed up and sat in it with her back against the foot-rail and looked
at her. Looking at Aunt Charlotte made you think of being born.
"Aunt Charlotte, do _you_ know what being born is?"
Aunt Charlotte looked up under her eyebrows, and hid another sheet of
paper. "What's put that in your head all of a sudden?"
"It's because of my babies. Catty says I couldn't have thirteen all under
three years old. But I could, couldn't I?"
"I'm afraid I don't think you could," Aunt Charlotte said.
"Why not? Catty _won't_ say why."
Aunt Charlotte shook her head, but she was smiling and looking wiser and
more solemn than ever. "You mustn't ask too many questions," she said.
"But you haven't told me what being born is. I know it's got something to
do with the Virgin Mary."
Aunt Charlotte said, "Sh-sh-sh! You mustn't say that. Nice little girls
don't think about those things."
Her tilted eyes had turned down and her mouth had stopped smiling. So you
knew that being born was not frightening. It had something to do with the
things you didn't talk about.
And ye--how could it? There was the Virgin Mary.
"Aunt Charlotte, don't you _wish_ you had a baby?"
Aunt Charlotte looked frightened, suddenly, and began to cry.
"You mustn't say it, Mary, you mustn't say it. Don't tell them you said
it. They'll think I've been talking about the babies. The little babies.
Don't tell them. Promise me you won't tell."