“Her children arise up and call her blessed.”
Meg, refreshed by her nap, was her usual sprightly self at dinner. Mrs.
Malloy looked weary and old, and had little to say. Robert, who dined
only by courtesy, his repast consisting of a bowl of bouillon,
conversed with Meg on the impersonal topics she selected.
He found it impossible to get on the old familiar footing. Even the
subject of Aunt Amelia, she treated with respect, refusing to see the
opportunities for ridicule which his polite inquiries furnished, and of
which, once, she would have taken advantage. She was bright and
gracious, but there was a new dignity about her, which forbade any
approach to the doorway of her emotions.
Robert had forborne to reproach his mother. Being by instinct and
breeding a gentleman, he did not say a word to wound her. Yet ever in
his deference, she was conscious of his resentment. She knew that he
attributed his failure to win Margie, to her interference. That, had he
been left alone to shape his fate, his desire would have led him back
to Valencia, there to woo and win the maiden in the old-fashioned
conventional manner.
And through her over-zeal, his bubble had burst,—the prize was beyond
his seeking!
She was very miserable in her self-communion. More so, perhaps, than
either of her companions. With Robert, hope was not by any means
extinct. With Margie, in spite of her schooling, and her wounded pride,
the warmth and glow of life came into her heart, as she looked across
at Robert, listened to his deep, expressive voice, and met his eyes,
containing the message of love he dared not speak.
As they started to leave the dining-room, Mrs. Malloy turned suddenly
white, and before Robert could catch her, she sank in a crumpled heap
on the floor. It was only a fainting spell, induced by her unhappiness
following so closely upon the exhaustion and anxiety attending Robert’s
illness.
But this they did not know, those two young creatures! To them it
resembled the sleep of death, and they both knelt beside her, frantic
with self-reproach, crying and calling to her to open her eyes and
speak. When she finally emerged from the swoon, she looked from one to
the other of them. Thinking she was dying, and that the wish she could
not frame in words was her last request, Meg sobbingly cried, “Yes,
dear Mrs. Malloy, I _will_ marry him if he wants me, for I do love
him.”
Whereupon Robert, putting his arm around Meg, said solemnly, “Mother
darling, it shall be as you wish. We love each other, and will send for
the priest at once if you say so.”
Mrs. Malloy closed her eyes from sheer weakness, but even in her
half-swoon the look of youth stole back to her features, and a
beneficent expression of peace came over them. When she felt strong
enough to speak, she asked to be helped to the couch.
The young couple bent over her solicitously, and when she again opened
her eyes, Robert asked in a low voice, “Shall I send for the doctor for
you, and the priest for us, Mother dear?”
She smiled faintly. “I do not need the doctor, for I simply fainted. As
for the priest, suit yourselves, but don’t send on my account, for I
think I will live till morning. And now, if Margie will come to help
me, I am going to my room to lie down. I would rather have you than a
servant, dear. Good-night, my boy. I will send Margie back to you
soon.”
A little later, Meg whispered to Robert, “I believe she fainted on
purpose!”