Passion Week.
Her mother was reading the Lessons for the Day. Mary waited till she had
finished.
"Mamma--what was the matter with Aunt Charlotte?"
"I'm sure I don't know. Except that she was always thinking about getting
married. Whatever put Aunt Charlotte in your head?"
Her mother looked up from the Prayer Book as she closed it. Sweet and
pretty; sweet and pretty; young almost, as she used to look, and
tranquil.
"It's my belief," she said, "there wouldn't have been anything the matter
with her if your Grandmamma Olivier hadn't spoiled her. Charlotte was as
vain as a little peacock, and your Grandmamma was always petting and
praising her and letting her have her own way."
"If she'd had her own way she'd have been married, and then perhaps she
wouldn't have gone mad."
"She might have gone madder," said her mother. "It was a good thing for
you, my dear, you didn't get your way. I'd rather have seen you in your
coffin than married to Maurice Jourdain."
"Whoever it had been, you'd have said that."
"Perhaps I should. I don't want my only daughter to go away and leave me.
It would be different if there were six or seven of you."
Her mother's complacence and tranquillity annoyed her. She hated her
mother. She adored her and hated her. Mamma had married for her own
pleasure, for her passion. She had brought you into the world, without
asking your leave, for her own pleasure. She had brought you into the
world to be unhappy. She had planned for you to do the things that she
did. She cared for you only as long as you were doing them. When you left
off and did other things she left off caring.
"I shall never go away and leave you," she said.
She hated her mother and she adored her.
An hour later, when she found her in the garden kneeling by the violet
bed, weeding it, she knelt down beside her, and weeded too.