Mary Marie Part 18

And I was so glad to stay! It made me very happy--that letter. It made Mother happy, too. She liked it, and she thought it was very, very kind of Father to be willing to give me up almost three whole months of his six, so I could go to school here. And she said so. She said once to Aunt Hattie that she was almost tempted to write and thank him. But Aunt Hattie said, "Pooh," and it was no more than he ought to do, and that _she_ wouldn't be seen writing to a man who so carefully avoided writing to _her_. So Mother didn't do it, I guess.

But I wrote. I had to write three letters, though, before I got one that Mother said would do to send. The first one sounded so _glad_ I was staying that Mother said she was afraid he would feel hurt, and that would be too bad--when he'd been so kind. And the second one sounded as if I was so _sorry_ not to go to Andersonville the first of April that Mother said that would never do in the world. He'd think I didn't _want_ to stay in Boston. But the third letter I managed to make just glad enough to stay, and just sorry enough not to go. So that Mother said it was all right. And I sent it. You see I _asked_ Mother to help me about this letter. I knew she wouldn't cry and moan about being jealous this time. And she didn't. She was real excited and happy over it.

_April_.

Well, the last chocolate drop went yesterday. There were just seventy-six pieces in that two-pound box. I counted them that first day. Of course, they were fine and dandy, and I just loved them; but the trouble is, for the last week I've been eating such snippy little pieces. You see, every day, without thinking, I'd just naturally pick out the biggest pieces. So you can imagine what they got down to toward the last--mostly chocolate almonds.

As for the self-discipline--I don't see as I feel any more disciplined than I did before, and I _know_ I want chocolates just as much as ever. And I said so to Mother.

But Mother _is_ queer. Honestly she is. And I can't help wondering--is she getting to be like Aunt Jane?

Now, listen to this:

Last week I had to have a new party dress, and we found a perfect darling of a pink silk, all gold beads, and gold slippers to match.

And I knew I'd look perfectly divine in it; and once Mother would have got it for me. But not this time. She got a horrid white muslin with dots in it, and a blue silk sash, suitable for a child--for any child.

Of course, I was disappointed, and I suppose I did show it--some. In fact, I'm afraid I showed it a whole lot. Mother didn't say anything _then_; but on the way home in the car she put her arm around me and said:

"I'm sorry about the pink dress, dear. I knew you wanted it. But it was not suitable at all for you--not until you're older, dear."

She stopped a minute, then went on with another little hug:

"Mother will have to look out that her little daughter isn't getting to be vain, and too fond of dress."

I knew then, of course, that it was just some more of that self-discipline business.

But Mother never used to say anything about self-discipline.

_Is_ she getting to be like Aunt Jane?

_One week later._

She is.

I _know_ she is now.

I'm learning to cook--_to cook_! And it's Mother that says I must. She told Aunt Hattie--I heard her--that she thought every girl should know how to cook and to keep house; and that if she had learned those things when she was a girl, her life would have been quite different, she was sure.

Of course, I'm not learning in Aunt Hattie's kitchen. Aunt Hattie's got a new cook, and she's worse than Olga used to be--about not wanting folks messing around, I mean. So Aunt Hattie said right off that we couldn't do it there. I am learning at a Domestic Science School, and Mother is going with me. I didn't mind so much when she said she'd go, too. And, really, it is quite a lot of fun--really it is. But it _is_ queer--Mother and I going to school together to learn how to make bread and cake and boil potatoes! And, of course, Aunt Hattie laughs at us. But I don't mind. And Mother doesn't, either.

But, oh, how Aunt Jane would love it, if she only knew!

_May_.

Something is the matter with Mother, certainly. She's acting queerer and queerer, and she _is_ getting to be like Aunt Jane. Why, only this morning she hushed me up from laughing so loud, and stopped my romping up and down the stairs with Lester. She said it was noisy and unladylike--and only just a little while ago she just loved to have me laugh and play and be happy! And when I said so to her this morning, she said, yes, yes, of course, and she wanted me to be happy now, only she wished to remind me that very soon I was going back to my father in Andersonville, and that I ought to begin now to learn to be more quiet, so as not to trouble him when I got there.

Now, what do you think of that?

And another thing. What _do_ you suppose I am learning about _now_?

You'd never guess. Stars. Yes, _stars_! And that is for Father, too.

Mother came into my room one day with a book of Grandfather's under her arm. She said it was a very wonderful work on astronomy, and she was sure I would find it interesting. She said she was going to read it aloud to me an hour a day. And then, when I got to Andersonville and Father talked to me, I'd _know_ something. And he'd be pleased.

She said she thought we owed it to Father, after he'd been so good and kind as to let me stay here almost three whole months of his six, so I could keep on with my school. And that she was very sure this would please him and make him happy.

And so, for 'most a week now, Mother has read to me an hour a day out of that astronomy book. Then we talk about it. And it _is_ interesting. Mother says it is, too. She says she wishes _she'd_ known something about astronomy when she was a girl; that she's sure it would have made things a whole lot easier and happier all around, when she married Father; for then she would have known something about something _he_ was interested in. She said she couldn't help that now, of course; but she could see that _I_ knew something about such things. And that was why she was reading to me now. Then she said again that she thought we owed it to Father, when he'd been so good to let me stay.

It seems so funny to hear her talk such a lot about Father as she does, when before she never used to mention him--only to say how afraid she was that I would love him better than I did her, and to make me say over and over again that I didn't. And I said so one day to her--I mean, I said I thought it was funny, the way she talked now.

She colored up and bit her lip, and gave a queer little laugh. Then she grew very sober and grave, and said:

"I know, dear. Perhaps I am talking more than I used to. But, you see, I've been thinking quite a lot, and I--I've learned some things. And now, since your father has been so kind and generous in giving you up to me so much of his time, I--I've grown ashamed; and I'm trying to make you forget what I said--about your loving me more than him. That wasn't right, dear. Mother was wrong. She shouldn't try to influence you against your father. He is a good man; and there are none too many good men in the world--No, no, I won't say that," she broke off.

But she'd already said it, and, of course, I knew she was thinking of the violinist. I'm no child.

She went on more after that, quite a lot more. And she said again that I must love Father and try to please him in every way; and she cried a little and talked a lot about how hard it was in my position, and that she was afraid she'd only been making it harder, through her selfishness, and I must forgive her, and try to forget it. And she was very sure she'd do better now. And she said that, after all, life wasn't in just being happy yourself. It was in how much happiness you could give to others.

Oh, it was lovely! And I cried, and she cried some more, and we kissed each other, and I promised. And after she went away I felt all upraised and holy, like you do when you've been to a beautiful church service with soft music and colored windows, and everybody kneeling.

And I felt as if I'd never be naughty or thoughtless again. And that I'd never mind being Mary now. Why, I'd be glad to be Mary half the time, and even more--for Father.

But, alas!

Listen. Would you believe it? Just that same evening Mother stopped me again laughing too loud and making too much noise playing with Lester; and I felt real cross. I just boiled inside of me, and said I hated Mary, and that Mother _was_ getting to be just like Aunt Jane. And yet, just that morning--

Oh, if only that hushed, stained-window-soft-music feeling _would_ last!

_June_.

Well, once more school is done, my trunk is all packed, and I'm ready to go to Andersonville. I leave to-morrow morning. But not as I left last year. Oh, no. It is very, very different. Why, this year I'm really _going_ as Mary. Honestly, Mother has turned me into Mary _before I go_. Now, what do you think of that? And if I've got to be Mary there and Mary here, too, when can I ever be _Marie_? Oh, I know I _said_ I'd be willing to be Mary half, and maybe more than half, the time. But when it comes to really _being_ Mary out of turn extra time, that is quite another thing.

And I am Mary.

Listen:

I've learned to cook. That's Mary.

I've been studying astronomy. That's Mary.

I've learned to walk quietly, speak softly, laugh not too loudly, and be a lady at all times. That's Mary.

And now, to add to all this, Mother has had me _dress_ like Mary. Yes, she began two weeks ago. She came into my room one morning and said she wanted to look over my dresses and things; and I could see, by the way she frowned and bit her lip and tapped her foot on the floor, that she wasn't suited. And I was glad; for, of course, I always like to have new things. So I was pleased when she said: