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Authors: Laura Amy Schlitz
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pleadingly, “Ma’am.”
Neither the excuse nor the “ma’am” succeeded in softening Victoria’s wrath. “It was very wrong of you. To read other people’s letters is vulgar. Dishonest — and vulgar — and wrong. And what were you doing in my room?”
Maud’s eyes darted back and forth, looking for an answer. She caught sight of the bookcase door, which was still ajar. She spoke breathlessly. “Please, Aunt Victoria, I didn’t have anything to read.”
This was a watertight lie. Both the Hawthorne sisters understood that Maud had a hunger for books that could not be satisfied.
“You ought to have waited and asked me for a book. You had no right to enter my room, and still less right to read my letter.”
“Why don’t Hyacinth write to me?”
The question surprised them both. Maud had not expected to ask, and Victoria was not prepared to answer. The old woman sidestepped the issue. “ Why doesn’t, not Why don’t. ”
“Why doesn’t she, then?” persisted Maud. “I’ve written her. I’ve written her three times, and she doesn’t write back.”
“That is beside the point.” Victoria swept aside Maud’s argument with the wave of a hand. “Don’t try to distract me, Maud. You have done wrong, and you are going to be punished.”
Maud had to choose between looking pleading and looking proud. She calculated the choice. Victoria was too indignant to be softened by pleading. Maud lifted her chin bravely: the child martyr.
“Go upstairs,” said Victoria slowly, and Maud realized that Victoria hadn’t yet figured out what the punishment ought to be. “Go upstairs and — take out your arithmetic book. You will do problems in long division for the next two hours. I will inspect your work tomorrow, and if you haven’t done enough, you will work during playtime.”
Privately Maud decided this was not too bad. If she had to do the arithmetic, she would miss her walk in the dreary garden.
“You will not come downstairs for the rest of the day,” Victoria continued, “and none of us will speak to you until tomorrow morning. Muffet will bring your supper on a tray.”
Cheered to learn there would be supper, Maud started to leave the room.
“Wait!” Victoria’s voice was commanding. “Haven’t you something to say to me?”
“What?” stammered Maud.
“Don’t say what !” snapped Victoria. “It’s rude! Oughtn’t you apologize to me?”
Maud put her hands behind her back. During her years at the Asylum, she had mastered the art of the insincere apology. “I’m sorry I read your letter, ma’am,” she said in a tone of voice that was grave and polite but didn’t sound sorry in the least.
“I accept your apology,” said Victoria. Her forgiveness was as frosty as Maud’s apology was false.
When the clock struck six, Muffet brought the supper tray, putting an end to Maud’s struggles with long division. Maud was surprised how glad she was to see the hired woman. She was used to being alone on the third floor, but the knowledge that she was being punished made her solitude irksome. She threw down her pencil and shoved her books to the floor, making room for the supper tray.
The plates were generously full: fried pork, corn bread, and apple fritters. Maud had anticipated that there would be no dessert, but there was a large bowl of Muffet’s bread pudding, with a thick crust of cinnamon and sugar on top. Maud looked at Muffet’s swarthy, unjudging face, and felt an urge to throw her arms around her. She pointed to the bowl and nodded. “Thank you,” she said, pronouncing the words very clearly, as if that would enable the deaf woman to hear.
Muffet stepped closer. She took her forefinger and drew a line on Maud’s face, starting from the eye and descending down the cheek. Maud pulled back, and then understood. “Oh!” she said. “You think I’ve been crying!” She imitated Muffet’s gesture and shook her head. “Not crying,” she said firmly.
Muffet
Neither the excuse nor the “ma’am” succeeded in softening Victoria’s wrath. “It was very wrong of you. To read other people’s letters is vulgar. Dishonest — and vulgar — and wrong. And what were you doing in my room?”
Maud’s eyes darted back and forth, looking for an answer. She caught sight of the bookcase door, which was still ajar. She spoke breathlessly. “Please, Aunt Victoria, I didn’t have anything to read.”
This was a watertight lie. Both the Hawthorne sisters understood that Maud had a hunger for books that could not be satisfied.
“You ought to have waited and asked me for a book. You had no right to enter my room, and still less right to read my letter.”
“Why don’t Hyacinth write to me?”
The question surprised them both. Maud had not expected to ask, and Victoria was not prepared to answer. The old woman sidestepped the issue. “ Why doesn’t, not Why don’t. ”
“Why doesn’t she, then?” persisted Maud. “I’ve written her. I’ve written her three times, and she doesn’t write back.”
“That is beside the point.” Victoria swept aside Maud’s argument with the wave of a hand. “Don’t try to distract me, Maud. You have done wrong, and you are going to be punished.”
Maud had to choose between looking pleading and looking proud. She calculated the choice. Victoria was too indignant to be softened by pleading. Maud lifted her chin bravely: the child martyr.
“Go upstairs,” said Victoria slowly, and Maud realized that Victoria hadn’t yet figured out what the punishment ought to be. “Go upstairs and — take out your arithmetic book. You will do problems in long division for the next two hours. I will inspect your work tomorrow, and if you haven’t done enough, you will work during playtime.”
Privately Maud decided this was not too bad. If she had to do the arithmetic, she would miss her walk in the dreary garden.
“You will not come downstairs for the rest of the day,” Victoria continued, “and none of us will speak to you until tomorrow morning. Muffet will bring your supper on a tray.”
Cheered to learn there would be supper, Maud started to leave the room.
“Wait!” Victoria’s voice was commanding. “Haven’t you something to say to me?”
“What?” stammered Maud.
“Don’t say what !” snapped Victoria. “It’s rude! Oughtn’t you apologize to me?”
Maud put her hands behind her back. During her years at the Asylum, she had mastered the art of the insincere apology. “I’m sorry I read your letter, ma’am,” she said in a tone of voice that was grave and polite but didn’t sound sorry in the least.
“I accept your apology,” said Victoria. Her forgiveness was as frosty as Maud’s apology was false.
When the clock struck six, Muffet brought the supper tray, putting an end to Maud’s struggles with long division. Maud was surprised how glad she was to see the hired woman. She was used to being alone on the third floor, but the knowledge that she was being punished made her solitude irksome. She threw down her pencil and shoved her books to the floor, making room for the supper tray.
The plates were generously full: fried pork, corn bread, and apple fritters. Maud had anticipated that there would be no dessert, but there was a large bowl of Muffet’s bread pudding, with a thick crust of cinnamon and sugar on top. Maud looked at Muffet’s swarthy, unjudging face, and felt an urge to throw her arms around her. She pointed to the bowl and nodded. “Thank you,” she said, pronouncing the words very clearly, as if that would enable the deaf woman to hear.
Muffet stepped closer. She took her forefinger and drew a line on Maud’s face, starting from the eye and descending down the cheek. Maud pulled back, and then understood. “Oh!” she said. “You think I’ve been crying!” She imitated Muffet’s gesture and shook her head. “Not crying,” she said firmly.
Muffet
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