“As a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings.”
For a week or so after their return, Mrs. Malloy found herself, in
spite of her philosophy, growing bitter. She compared her life, replete
with all the bodily comforts that wealth procures, with that of other
women, who knew not the luxury of ease and comfort and beautiful
environments, but who, nevertheless, were surrounded by the dear ones
who alone make happiness.
She looked around her house, which in the minutest detail evidenced
exquisite refinement of taste, and thought with despair that in a few
weeks those rooms would be empty,—empty of the presence of her best
beloved.
But something occurred which obliterated her reflections, and roused
all the strength and courage of her character. Robert became very ill
with typhoid fever, and for days it was impossible to foresee the
issue.
During his delirium he was like a child who dreads the dark, except
that the thing he feared was the monastery, that haven of rest for
which he had longed. He would beg his mother piteously to keep Margie
from pushing him through the gates.
One day he returned from the Crossway leading into the Valley, and
smiled a sane, rational smile. And simultaneous with his recovery, fell
the scales from his eyes.
He looked at the havoc anxiety had wrought in his mother’s face. Back
of the ever-ready smile, was a look he was beginning to understand.
And from having doubts as to his duty to fulfill his vows, he became
positive that his place was with her. As day after day he thought it
out, he felt horror of himself for the wrong he had unconsciously
intended.
Finally he told his mother. He begged her forgiveness for ever having
contemplated leaving her after his father’s death, and promised that in
the years to come he would try to make it up to her. She clasped him in
her arms, and murmured incoherent words of love, as she pressed her
face to his dark curls, as a mother does with a baby. “Oh, mother mine,
has it meant so much to you?” he asked in sorrow.
“So much more than you can ever know,” she answered, “but this moment
compensates for a whole lifetime of suffering!”
After a pause, during which he stroked her hand in silence, Mrs. Malloy
said gently, “Robert, I don’t want to rush in where angels would fear
to tread, so just stop me if the subject pains you,—but I don’t
understand why Margie refused to marry you.”
“She didn’t exactly refuse me, Mother,” he said hesitatingly; and then
he told her of their conversation.
His mother regarded him, during the recital, with amazement, amusement,
and consternation. When he had finished she observed quietly: “My son,
I see I neglected an important part of your education. You are not
schooled in woman-lore.”
A little later a telegram went out to Meg from her, saying, “I need
you. Come.”