“No, she can’t. I want her! I don’t care who is going to be married; I’m ill, and I want Maud to nurse me. My head is smashing. I believe it’s sunstroke, for I sat out yesterday without a hat. I shall go crazy in a moment if somebody doesn’t do something!” cried Nan loudly; and her sisters stared in dismay at her flushed, heated face. It was so evident that she was in pain that even Agatha submitted to a postponement of the longed-for “talk,” and the conclave broke up for the time being, the sisters separating, to go off in various directions: Lilias to be petted and cross-questioned by the two schoolgirls; Elsie to indite a melancholy entry in her diary, beginning, “Yet another example of the strange intermingling of joy and pain”: and Maud to lead Nan to her own room, and devote herself to the work of nursing, at which she was so clever. Perhaps Nan’s head was really aching, perhaps the morning’s excitement had brought on an attack of neuralgia, but whatever her ailment, she certainly made the worst of it, groaning and rolling her eyes to the ceiling as one in mortal agony; for she was wise enough to realise that nothing would take Maud so much out of herself as the necessity of waiting upon another.
When Mrs Rendell entered the room, and recognised the odours of eau-de-Cologne, menthol, and sal volatile, her first thought was of poor brokenhearted Maud; but, behold! it was Maud who was playing doctor, and buxom Nan who lay prone upon the bed.
A few inquiries and expressions of sympathy were spoken, and then a gesture bade Maud follow into another room. She went, shrinking from the ordeal, yet longing to have it over, and for a few minutes mother and daughter gazed at one another in silence. The girl’s face was grave and set, but self-composed in comparison with that of Mrs Rendell, which was quivering with distress.
“My dear child! What can I say to you? I can never forgive myself for my part in this disappointment. I should not have spoken as I did the other day, but I thought at the time that it was the right thing to do, and I had no doubts on the subject. What can I do to help you, dear, through this difficult time?”
“Speak as little as possible about it, mother, please,” said Maud softly. She pressed her lips together, wincing with pain, and Mrs Rendell’s eyes flashed a look of approval in reply.
Of Spartan bravery herself, it delighted her to see her daughter bracing herself up to bear her trouble without useless outcry and repining.
“I quite agree, darling,” she said warmly. “After to-day we will never mention the subject; but there are one or two things which must be said first. To begin with, Ned has no suspicion of our mistake. I took care of that; and it may help you to know that, after all, we were not so very far from the truth. He spoke quite openly, and it seems that for the first two or three years you were the attraction! He said he had been sincerely attached to you, but that he saw you regarded him simply as a friend. Then Lilias came home, with her more demonstrative ways; he turned to her for comfort, and now,”—She stopped with a little eloquent gesture, while Maud gave a groan of pain.
“Oh, mother, that is hard—to think that it came so near, and that I spoiled my life by my own mistake! I suppose my very anxiety not to show how much I cared made me seem stiff and constrained; but I never meant him to take it in that way. It makes it worse than ever, and yet I’m glad too. It’s a comfort to feel it was not all imagination.”
“I thought you would feel it so; that is why I told you. But you must not talk of your life being spoiled, dear. These are early days, and I hope there are many, many blessings which still remain open to you. It is a great mistake to think that marriage is the only gate to happiness. A single woman may have a most full and useful life.”
“Yes, mother!” assented Maud dutifully. Poor Maud! her heart died down within her as she spoke, and her thoughts flew away to old Mary Robins in her lodging, and Miss Evans in her stuffy little cottage, and she wondered if it were really, really possible that she—Maud Rendell—could ever grow like them, and feel satisfied with the duties and pleasures which constituted their lives! “Full and useful!” It sounded estimable enough; but her young heart hungered for happiness also, and at the moment that seemed lost for ever. The downcast face was so pitiful that the tears came into Mrs Rendell’s eyes as she watched it.