Was she so fine? she could not help asking herself. She had put on the plainest things she had. A black silk dress and a black mantle, a white silk bonnet and a black veil. All good things, certainly, but plain, and not new. She began to feel that reproaches were cast upon her which she did not deserve: but they were not the less telling upon her heart.
Did she dread going into the Rectory? Did she dread the reproaches she might be met with there?—the coldness? the slights? If so, she did not find them. She was met by the most considerate kindness, and perhaps it wrung her heart all the more.
They had seen her coming, and Rose ran forward to meet her in the hall, and kissed her; Reginald came boisterously out with a welcome; a chart in one hand, parallel-rulers and a pair of compasses in the other: he was making a pretence of work, was pricking off a ship’s place in the chart. The Rector and Isaac were not at home.
“Is mamma in bed?” she asked of Rose.
“Yes. But her cold is better this evening. She will be so glad to see you.”
Maria went up the stairs and entered the room alone. The anxious look of trouble on Mrs. Hastings’s face, its feverish hue, struck her forcibly, as she advanced with timidity, uncertain of her reception. Uncertain of the reception of a mother? With an eagerly fond look, a rapid gesture of love, Mrs. Hastings drew Maria’s face down to her for an embrace.
It unhinged Maria. She fell on her knees at the side of the bed, and gave vent to a passionate flood of tears. “Oh mother, mother, I could not help it!” she wailed. “It has been no fault of mine.”
Mrs. Hastings did not speak. She put her arm round Maria’s neck, and let it rest there. But the sobs were redoubled.
“Don’t, child!” she said then. “You will make yourself ill. My poor child!”
“I am ill, mamma; I think I shall never be well again,” sobbed Maria, losing some of her reticence. “I feel sometimes that it would be a relief to die.”