“I would like to know where that boat is goin’ when she sails,” Fergus said, but instantly his thoughts turned to something else. He pulled out his watch and looked at it.
“Would anyone know a new day if the clocks did not chime?” he asked himself in a puzzled way. “I suppose not. It’ll soon be here, the new day.... There, the clocks are beginnin’. Damn them! Damn them!... If it had been anyone but my sister! Why did she come to Scotland? Landlord, priest, and that arch-scoundrel, McKeown, livin’ on her earnin’s. I suppose she’ll send home money even now, and some of it’ll go to the priest to buy crucifixes and pictures of the Virgin, and some of it to the landlord to buy flounces for his wife, and some will go to Farley McKeown. I was goin’ to pay a surprise visit and I was livin’ on that goin’ home for a long while. Ah! but the world is out at elbow. And I’m drunk!”
He stuck both his hands under his belt again and approached the edge of the wharf. Three dark forms slunk out of the shadows and drew in on the sailor. Only when they were beside him did anything warn him of danger. He looked round into the face of the one-armed soldier, whose loose sleeve was fluttering in the wind.
“Ah! ye swine!” Fergus exclaimed and struggled with the belt which prisoned his hands. But the three men were on top of him and the effort was futile. In an instant he was flung outwards and dropped with a splash into the water that seemed to rise and meet him as he fell. It was as cold as ice and the belt held taut despite his efforts to break free. He had a moment to wonder. “Why did he want to drown me?” he asked himself. His mouth filled and he swallowed. He was now going down head first, but slowly. He made another effort to free his hands, but was unsuccessful. Then he resigned himself to his fate, and consciousness began to ebb from him. He felt that he had forgotten something that was very important, not to himself but to somebody else. Then came complete darkness, and the book of life, as man knows it, was closed forever to Fergus Ryan.
CHAPTER XXXI
DESPAIR
I
THE light on the mantelpiece grew faint, flickered and was going out; the wick, short and draggled, no longer reached the oil. The fire died down and only one red spark could be seen glowing in the white ashes. Twelve of the clock struck out slowly and wearily, as if the chimes were tired of their endless toil. On the floor beside the door a pile of sovereigns, scattered broadcast, glowed bright even under the dying light; the figure on the black crucifix showed very white, save where the daub of red paint told of the Saviour’s wounded side.
Norah sat on the bare floor, one leg stretching out, her hands clasped tightly round the knee of the other, which was almost drawn up to her chin. Action was clogged within her, a terrible black monotony was piled around and above her; a silence, not even broken by sighs, had taken possession of the girl.
Old Meg rapped at the door many times before Norah heard her; then she rose, poured some oil into the lamp and turned up the light. Afterwards, not because she wanted to, but because she was desirous of hiding from everybody that which had taken place within the room during the last few hours, she lifted the gold pieces and stuffed them into the pocket of her dress.
“Norah Ryan! Norah Ryan!” the old woman was crying outside the door. A dim, hazy thought of all the good things which the gold would buy for her child crossed Norah’s mind as she opened the door.