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.
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