More loving than such love there flamed up in Joanna the desire for clear knowledge, for the deep and free admission in which alone our failures may find their absolution, even their vindication. Oh, when she came to die, might there be one that kept knowledge of her, rather than many that self-sparingly loved, forgave, and so annulled her!

Mabel, though she was again at home, this time with her husband, did not come to Glasgow. Neither did she write to Joanna. But she was at some pains to explain both omissions in a letter to Georgie. She hinted at certain of “poor darling Aunt Juley’s” confidences during her stay at La France Quadrant over a year ago. She was “awfully sorry” that under the circumstances, and as a sincere person, she felt unable to express the usual kind of sympathy with Joanna. And so, as she wished not only to preserve her own integrity but to avoid giving unnecessary pain, it was better, wasn’t it, that she should not stand with them by the grave? She would be with them in spirit. Joanna, with her hatred of false conventionality, would be the first, she hazarded, to appreciate her genuineness. This had not been an easy letter to write.

And along with the letter, Mabel sent an anchor of violets, of which the too faint natural scent had been fortified by liberal sprinklings of Ess. Bouquet.

Joanna was grateful to Georgie for the wrath she displayed over both the letter and the flowers. The perfumed anchor was picked out of its box with the tongs and thrown upon the fire to frizzle. Georgie hugged her sister and swore she would never forgive Mabel, who after all couldn’t help being a sneak, as she had been born so. But the cousin’s accusation remained with Joanna and tortured her.

Unkindness … neglect … and was there something besides? Certainly Mabel had implied a more direct guilt. Joanna remembered the strange gladness she had felt during these few minutes alone with her dead mother before the world had broken in with its lying and vulgar clamour of lamentation. And now – it was true – except for a moment, to give and get assurances of love beyond all question, to give and get the kiss of perfect, clear-eyed understanding, she would not have her mother back. A thousand times, no! Was she then at heart her mother’s murderer? Perhaps she was. But even so, coming from Mabel, the charge was foul. Mabel, who knew them all! Mabel, who with nods and smiles had from the very first, urged on the breaking of the household. O! Mabel, more hateful and destructive than any murderer, what degradation to be blown upon by such as you!

These miseries weighed so heavily on Joanna that at first she hardly felt the stroke of outward shame that now fell on the family. And when she did feel it, she inclined almost to welcome it as a distraction.