* * * *
*
“It is all perfectly right,” she said
to the old lady.
“Are the cigarettes there?”
“Yes: I noticed them particularly.”
“And flowers?”
“Yes, flowers too.”
“What time is it, my dear? I can’t
see.”
Maggie peered at the clock.
“It’s just after six, Auntie. Will
you have the candles?”
The old lady shook her head.
“No, my dear: my eyes can’t stand
the light. Why hasn’t the boy come?”
“Why, it’s hardly time yet. Shall
I bring him up at once?”
“Just for two minutes,” sighed the old
lady. “My head’s bad again.”
“Poor dear,” said Maggie.
“Sit down, my dearest, for a few minutes.
You’ll hear the wheels from here.... No,
don’t talk or read.”
There, then, the two women sat waiting.
* * * *
*
Outside the twilight was falling, layer on layer,
over the spring garden, in a great stillness.
The chilly wind of the afternoon had dropped, and
there was scarcely a sound to be heard from the living
things about the house that once more were renewing
their strength. Yet over all, to the Catholic’s
mind at least, there lay a shadow of death, from associations
with that strange anniversary that was passing, hour
by hour....
As to what Maggie thought during those minutes of
waiting, she could have given afterwards no coherent
description. Matters were too complicated to
think clearly; she knew so little; there were so many
hypotheses. Yet one emotion dominated the rest—expectancy
with a tinge of fear. Here she sat, in this peaceful
room, with all the homely paraphernalia of convalescence
about her—the fire, the bed laid invitingly
open with a couple of books, and a reading-lamp on
the little table at the side, the faint smell of sandalwood;
and before the fire dozed a peaceful old lady full
too of gentle expectation of her son, yet knowing
nothing whatever of the vague perils that were about
him, that had, indeed, whatever they were, already
closed in on him.... And that son was approaching
nearer every instant through the country lanes....
She rose at last and went on tiptoe to the window.
The curtains had not yet been drawn, and she could
see in the fading light the elaborate ironwork of
the tall gate in the fence, and the common road outside
it, gleaming here and there in puddles that caught
the green color from the dying western sky. In
front, on the lawn on this side, burned tiny patches
of white where the crocuses sprouted.
As she stood there, there came a sound of wheels,
and a carriage came in sight. It drew up at the
gate, and the door opened.
“He is come,” said the girl softly, as
she saw the tall ulstered figure appear from the carriage.
There was no answer, and as she went on tiptoe to
the fire, she saw that the old lady was asleep.
She went noiselessly out of the room, and stood for
an instant, every pulse racing with horrible excitement,
listening to the footsteps and voices in the hall.
Then she drew a long trembling breath, steadied herself
with a huge effort of the will, and went downstairs.
