"He nivver went home at all last night. And to-day mornin' they found the little boat capsized beyant at the head. O God, help the poor mother! What'll the poor woman do at all?"
"Drowned!" Clodagh said again—"drowned! Larry drowned!"
Hannah stepped forward, as though she expected her to fall; but she motioned her away.
"How did it happen?" she asked in a vague, thin voice.
"'Twas the storm! Sure, 'twas the storm!"
"But Larry was the best sailor in Carrigmore!"
She said the words involuntarily; but as they left her lips, they brought into being a new thought. She stood upright, and by a strange, slow process of suggestion, her eyes travelled to the mantelpiece, where the bundle of notes still protruded from under the clock.
What if Larry had quailed before the thought of confessing his losses to the querulous mother, who could so ill spare the money he had squandered? What if Larry had not fought the storm last night as it might have been fought? She suddenly contemplated last night's play from Larry's point of view—contemplated Larry's losses by light of the hard monetary straits that Ireland breeds.
Her blood seemed to turn to water; she felt like one beyond the pale of human emotion or superhuman help.
"Leave me to myself, Hannah!" she said faintly. "I want to be alone."