I was living my own love-story too keenly to be put off
with imaginary ones. Music held me for a little while; but through it I
was listening--listening for his coming, or for the telegram that should
announce the arrival of his boat at Southampton. I used to look across
at the lighted table by the fire where my grandparents played cribbage
night after night, and wonder at the quiet old faces. Would Anthony and
I come to be like that? So interested in the chance of a card, so
content to sit quietly in a chimney-corner? I could not believe it of
Anthony. He would be always like a sword, like a flame.
I went and came now to Brosna as one who had a right. I would come in
upon Terence Murphy scrubbing a floor or polishing silver or some such
thing, and he would look up as my shadow fell on him.
"Any news, Miss Bawn?"
"None, Terence, not yet."
"Ah, well; sure, it's on its way. There's nothing like being ready in
time."
Day after day now he lit the fires in Anthony's rooms. Day after day I
went across and gathered the little lavender primulas, the faint, garden
primroses, the crocuses and violets and wall-flowers, and filled bowls
and vases with them. I believe Terence Murphy used to wait up till the
small hours, lest by chance his master should come unannounced.
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