“Look, Eric dear!” she exclaims, as she hurries in, and holds up a big bunch of fine black grapes for him to view. “Look what I’ve got you!”
But Eric’s eyes are closed, and the hectic flush has given way to a deathly pallor. He has made his last effort on this earth.
She sets the things down on the rickety table with a low cry, and comes over to the bedside.
“Eric,” she pleads, “look at Maggie, Eric, poor Maggie; she’s brought you such nice things.”
He opens his big eyes, the brilliant gleam in them has died out; there is a dead, heavy, vacant look in them.
“I’m going, Maggie,” she hears him mutter; “tell Father Vaughan I did tell all. There’s mother, Maggie; how pretty she looks. She’s in a garden full of flowers and fruits and pretty things. The sun is so bright and the air so pure. And there’s Léonie—dear, pretty little Léonie. Don’t hold me, Maggie; I must go to her, I must——”
And Maggie, bending over her twin brother, hears his voice grow still, feels on her cheek the last breath of life that goes forth with these words, for Eric Fortescue is dead.
Poor Maggie! She is weak, and ill, and suffering. For weeks she has worked hard to support her brother, and watched by his bedside in her spare hours. She has stinted herself of food to buy him little delicacies. But of late, work has been hard to get, and during the last week she has obtained but scant employment, barely sufficient to buy bread with. At this moment food has not passed her lips for thirty-six hours, and the last bite she had, was a few crusts soaked in water, the remnants of some bread from the crumb of which she had made her brother a little bread and milk. Poor Maggie! It is as well. He wants no bread and milk now.
But she does not cry or sob when she knows it is all over. She merely closes the dull, staring, lustreless eyes, smooths the worn coverlet once more, joins his hands as if in prayer, and drawing a small crucifix from her chest, kisses it, and places it between his thin white fingers. Then she turns to Evie Ravensdale.
“He is dead, your Grace,” she says meekly; “it is God’s will. I will never forget your kindness in forgiving him. Poor Eric! he was a good lad if he had not been led astray. Can I fetch you a cab, your Grace?”