“No, we will not walk,” he said, “but let us sit there on the coping and be quiet—quiet in that roar between the hills.” Suddenly he swung round, caught me by the shoulders and held me gently so.
“I have a pain at my heart, Marmion, as if I’d heard my death sentence; such as a soldier feels who knows that Death looks out at him from iron eyes. You smile: I suppose you think I am mad.”
I saw that it was best to let him speak his mind. So I answered: “Not mad, my friend. Say on what you like. Tell me all you feel. Only, for God’s sake be brave, and don’t give up until there’s occasion. I am sure you exaggerate your danger, whatever it is.”
“Listen for a minute,” said he: “I had a brother Edward, as good a lad as ever was; a boisterous, healthy fellow. We had an old nurse in our family who came from Irish hills, faithful and kind to us both. There came a change over Edward. He appeared not to take the same interest in his sports. One day he came to me, looking a bit pale, and said: ‘Galt, I think I should like to study for the Church.’ I laughed at it, yet it troubled me in a way, for I saw he was not well. I told Martha, the nurse. She shook her head sadly, and said: ‘Edward is not for the Church, but you, my lad. He is for heaven.’
“‘For heaven, Martha?’ laughed I.
“‘In truth for heaven,’ she replied, ‘and that soon. The look of his eye is doom. I’ve seen it since I swaddled him, and he will go suddenly.’
“I was angry, and I said to her,—though she thought she spoke the truth,—‘This is only Irish croaking. We’ll have the banshee next.’
“She got up from her chair and answered me solemnly: ‘Galt Roscoe, I HAVE heard the banshee wail, and sorrow falls upon your home. And don’t you be so hard with me that have loved you, and who suffers for the lad that often and often lay upon my breast. Don’t be so hard; for your day of trouble comes too. You, not he, will be priest at the altar. Death will come to him like a swift and easy sleep; but you will feel its hand upon your heart and know its hate for many a day, and bear the slow pangs of it until your life is all crushed, and you go from the world alone, Love crying after you and not able to save you, not even the love of woman—weaker than death.... And, in my grave, when that day comes beside a great mountain in a strange land, I will weep and pray for you; for I was mother to you too, when yours left you alone bewhiles, never, in this world, to come back.’
“And, Marmion, that night towards morning, as I lay in the same room with Edward, I heard his breath stop sharply. I jumped up and drew aside the curtains to let in the light, and then I knew that the old woman spoke true.... And now!... Well, I am like Hamlet—and I can say with him: ‘But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart—but it is no matter!”’....
I tried to laugh and talk away his brooding, but there was little use, his convictions were so strong. Besides, what can you do with a morbidness which has its origin in fateful circumstances?