“There, little one,” she said to a creamer she took from a shelf, stuffing a piece of paper into it, “that will be grand to keep your heart from crackin’ while you’re away from home.” Then, looking aimlessly about the room, she put the pitcher back again upon the shelf and went over to the latticed light where stood a pot of tall fuchsias. With her finger she counted the blossoms: “Twenty blossoms an’ fifty buds; that’s less than this time last year. You must grow, little hearts,” she said. “Ow! he’ll be comin’ back an’ not a thing done,” she continued, hastening to a pile of plates that had stood in the same place for almost a week. “My! but the lads wore the bench slidin’ in an’ out, an’ here’s a rough place; I’ll call Eilio to make it smooth. Eilio!” she called, then brushed her hand uncertainly over her forehead. “He’s not here,” she said. “Ow! there’s the candlesticks. I’d most forgotten ye, ten—a dozen bright eyes; that’s a many for old Maggie,—I’m old now, yes, I am,—a dozen bright eyes for one old woman; aye, an’ for Gabriel, too, the lad’d not do without ye. In ye go!” And she took them all and threw them clattering into an empty box. “Hwi, hwi, now go to sleep while mam sings a lullabye—a sweet lullabye—a little lullabye—shoo! Here, Gwennie bach, here, darlin’—it’s—it’s just a bit of tea-cake mam made for ye—it’s rich, most too rich for a little one an’, dear little heart, it’s plums in it an’—an’——” And with a moan Maggie slipped to the slate flaggings, the empty plate breaking upon the stones.
So Gabriel found her lying huddled upon the hearth, her cap awry, her eyes closed, her mouth open and her breath coming harshly. Out in the barn he had heard the call for Eilio and stopped to wonder what it meant. Then followed a great clatter, and shortly a crash as of breaking china.
“Mam,” he said, gathering her head awkwardly into his arms, “mam, are ye hurt?”
There was no answer.
“Mam,” he whispered, staring at her, “what is it?” Still the eyelids, puffed and blue, lay unstirred. “Och!” he cried, “mam, mam, can’t ye speak?”
Tremblingly Gabriel picked her up and carried her over to the couch. He fetched water and wrung out his handkerchief in it and bathed Maggie’s head. He dropped on his knees beside her and clumsily loosened her cap and blouse. He thought he had killed Maggie, and he saw now that he had done so without making even an effort to keep what might have saved her life. The sense of righteousness had gone completely out of him, and his satisfied and valiant soul was crumpled into a wretched little wad, the very thought of which sickened him. Year after year she had taken the brunt of all the trouble of their home, and there was no sorrow that had not rested its head on her bosom, and, soothed by her hand, found its peace there. Gabriel bathed her face with the cool water; still no sign of consciousness stirred the bland look of the mouth. She had worn herself out in his service, and now at the last he had been willing, without an effort to see her point of view, to sacrifice her on the altar of his self-righteousness. He was a man; steward or no steward, he could have fought for her rights. Even if he had not won, if the landlord had proved as obdurate as the steward was corrupt, why the fight might have heartened Maggie for what must come. He not only had not fought for her, but he had been cruel to her, leaving her wholly alone at a time when she most needed support and sympathy.
“Poor little mam!” he whispered, helpless with the thought that he might be helpless to do anything for her any more.
With a sigh Maggie opened her eyes and smiled at him.
“Lad, are ye here?”