and far off the reflection of the sunset lightened the dimness of the
soft twilight over the wrinkled sea.

We said little, as we sat hand in hand; but the silence was a poem,
and the sound of the sea, and the beating of our hearts were hymns of
praise to nature and to nature’s God.

We spoke no more of the future; for now that we knew that we were each
beloved, the future had but little terror for us. We were content!

When we had taken our last kiss, and parted beneath the shadow of the
rock, I watched her depart through the gloaming to her own home; and
then I too took my way. At the foot of the Boreen I met Murdock, who
looked at me in a strange manner, and merely growled some reply to my
salutation.

I felt that I could never meet Dick to-night. Indeed, I wished to see
no human being, and so I sat for long on the crags above the sounding
sea; and then wandered down to the distant beach. To and fro I went all
the night long, but ever in sight of the hill, and ever and anon coming
near to watch the cottage where Norah slept.

In the early morning, I took my way to Roundwood, and going to bed,
slept until late in the day.

When I woke, I began to think of how I could break my news to Dick. I
felt that the sooner it was done the better. At first I had a vague
idea of writing to him from where I was, and explaining all to him; but
this, I concluded, would not do—it seemed too cowardly a way to deal
with so true and loyal a friend—I would go now and await his arrival at
Carnaclif, and tell him all, at the earliest moment when I could find
an opportunity.

I drove to Carnaclif, and waited his coming impatiently, for I
intended, if it were not too late, to afterwards drive over to
Shleenanaher, and see Norah—or at least the house she was in.

Dick arrived a little earlier than usual, and I could see from the
window that he was grave and troubled. When he got down from the car,
he asked if I were in, and being answered in the affirmative, ordered
dinner to be put on the table as soon as possible, and went up to his
room.

I did not come down until the waiter came to tell me that dinner was
ready. Dick had evidently waited also, and followed me down. When he
came into the room, he said heartily:—

“Hallo! Art, old fellow, welcome back, I thought you were lost,” and
shook hands with me warmly.

Neither of us seemed to have much appetite, but we pretended to eat,
and sent away platesfull of food, cut up into the smallest proportions.
When the apology for dinner was over, Dick offered me a cigar, lit his
own, and said:—

“Come out for a stroll on the sand, Art; I want to have a chat with
you.” I could feel that he was making a great effort to appear hearty,
but there was a hollowness about his voice, which was not usual. As we
went through the hall, Mrs. Keating handed me my letters, which had
just arrived.

We walked out on the wide stretch of fine hard sand, which lies
westwards from Carnaclif when the tide is out, and were a considerable
distance from the town before a word was spoken. Dick turned to me, and
said:—

“Art! what does it all mean?”

I hesitated for a moment, for I hardly knew where to begin—the
question, so comprehensive and so sudden, took me aback. Dick went on:—

“Art! two things I have always believed; and I won’t give them up
without a struggle. One is that there are very few things that, no
matter how strange or wrong they look, won’t bear explanation of some
kind; and the other is that an honourable man does not grow crooked in
a moment. Is there anything, Art, that you would like to tell me?”

“There is, Dick! I have a lot to tell; but won’t you tell me what you
wish me to speak about?” I was just going to tell him all, but it
suddenly occurred to me that it would be wise to know something of what
was amiss with him first.

“Then I shall ask you a few questions! Did you not tell me that the
girl you were in love with was not Norah Joyce?”

“I did; but I was wrong. I did not know it at the time—I only found it
out, Dick, since I saw you last!”

“Since you saw me last! Did you not then know that I loved Norah Joyce,
and that I was only waiting a chance to ask her to marry me?”

“I did!” I had nothing to add here; it came back to me that I had
spoken and acted all along without a thought of my friend.

“Have you not of late payed many visits to Shleenanaher; and have you
not kept such visits quite dark from me?”

“I have, Dick.”

“Did you keep me ignorant on purpose?”

“I did! But those visits were made entirely on your account.”—I
stopped, for a look of wonder and disgust spread over my companion’s
face.

“On my account! on my account! And was it, Arthur Severn, on my account
that you asked, as I presume you did, Norah Joyce to marry you—I take
it for granted that your conduct was honourable, to her at any rate—the
woman whom I had told you I loved, and that I wished to marry, and
that you assured me that you did not love, your heart being fixed on
another woman? I hate to speak so, Art! but I have had black thoughts,
and am not quite myself—was this all on my account?” It was a terrible
question to answer, and I paused; Dick went on:—

“Was it on my account that you, a rich man, purchased the home that
she loved; whilst I, a poor one, had to stand by and see her father
despoiled day by day, and, because of my poverty, had to go on with a
hateful engagement, which placed me in a false position in her eyes?”

Here I saw daylight. I could answer this scathing question:—

“It was, Dick—entirely on your account!” He drew away from me, and
stood still, facing me in the twilight as he spoke:—

“I should like you to explain, Mr. Severn—for your own sake—a statement
like that.”

Then I told him, with simple earnestness, all the truth. How I had
hoped to further his love, since my own seemed so hopeless—how I had
bought the land intending to make it over to him, so that his hands
might be strong to woo the woman he loved—how this and nothing else
had taken me to Shleenanaher; and that whilst there I had learned that
my own unknown love and Norah were one and the same—of my proposal to
her; and here I told him humbly how in the tumult of my own passion
I had forgotten his—whereat he shrugged his shoulders—and of my long
anxiety till her answer was given. I told him that I had stayed away
the first night at Roundwood, lest I should be betrayed into any speech
which would lack in loyalty to him as well as to her. And then I told
him of her decision not to leave her father—touching but lightly on the
confession of her love, lest I should give him needless pain; I did not
dare to avoid it lest I should mislead him to his further harm. When I
had finished he said softly:—

“Art, I have been in much doubt!”

I thought a moment, and then remembered that I had in my pocket the
letters which had been handed to me at the hotel, and that amongst them
there was one from Mr. Caicy at Galway. This letter I took out and
handed to Dick.

“There is a letter unopened. Open it and it may tell you something. I
know my word will suffice you; but this is in justice to us both.”

Dick took the letter and broke the seal. He read the letter from Caicy,
and then holding up the deed so that the dying light of the west should
fall on it, read it. The deed was not very long. When he finished it
he stood for a moment with his hands down by his sides; then he came
over to me, and laying his hands, one of which grasped the deed, on my
shoulders, said:—

“Thank God, Art, there need be no bitterness between me and thee—all
is as you say, but oh! old fellow!”—and here he laid his head on my
shoulder and sobbed—“my heart is broken! All the light has gone out of
my life!”

His despair was only for a moment. Recovering himself as quickly as he
had been overcome, he said:—

“Never mind, old fellow, only one of us must suffer; and, thank God! my
secret is with you alone—no one else in the wide world even suspects.
She must never know! Now tell me all about it; don’t fear that it will
hurt me. It will be something to know that you are both happy. By the
way, this had better be torn up; there is no need for it now!” Having
torn the paper across, he put his arm over my shoulder as he used to do
when we were boys; and so we passed into the gathering darkness.

Thank God for loyal and royal manhood! Thank God for the heart of a
friend that can suffer and remain true! And thanks, above all, that the
lessons of tolerance and forgiveness, taught of old by the Son of God,
are now and then remembered by the sons of men.

                              CHAPTER XI.

                      _UN MAUVAIS QUART D’HEURE._

When we were strolling back to the hotel Dick said to me:—

“Cheer up, old fellow! You needn’t be the least bit downhearted. Go
soon and see Joyce. He will not stand in the girl’s way, you may be
sure. He is a good fellow, and loves Norah dearly—who could help it!”
He stopped for a moment here, and choked a great sob, but went on
bravely:—

“It is only like her to be willing to sacrifice her own happiness; but
she must not be let do that. Settle the matter soon! Go to-morrow to
see Joyce. I shall go up to Knocknacar instead of working with Murdock;
it will leave the coast clear for you.” Then we went into the hotel;
and I felt as if a great weight had been removed.

When I was undressing I heard a knock. “Come in,” I called, and Dick
entered. Dear old fellow! I could see that he had been wrestling
with himself, and had won. His eyes were red, but there was a noble
manliness about him which was beyond description.

“Art,” said he, “I wanted to tell you something, and I thought it
ought to be told now. I wouldn’t like the night to close on any wrong
impression between you and me. I hope you feel that my suspicion about
fair-play and the rest of it is all gone.”

“I do! old fellow! quite.”

“Well, you are not to get thinking of me as in any way wronged in the
matter, either by accident or design. I have been going over the whole
matter to try and get the heart of the mystery; and I think it only
fair to say that no wrong could be done to me. I never spoke a single
word to Norah in my life. Nor did she to me. Indeed, I have seen her
but seldom, though the first time was enough to finish me. Thank God!
we have found out the true state of affairs before it was too late. It
might have been worse, old lad! it might have been worse! I don’t think
there’s any record—even in the novels—of a man’s life being wrecked
over a girl he didn’t know. We don’t get hit to death at sight, old
boy! It’s only skin deep this time, and though skin deep hurts the
most, it doesn’t kill! I thought I would tell you what I had worked
out, for I knew we were such old friends that it would worry you and
mar your happiness to think I was wretched. I hope—and I honestly
expect—that by to-morrow I shall be all right, and able to enjoy the
sight of both your happiness—as, please God! I hope such is to be.”

We wrung each other’s hands; and I believe that from that moment we
were closer friends than ever. As he was going out Dick turned to me,
and said:—

“It is odd about the legend, isn’t it! The Snake is in the Hill still,
if I am not mistaken. He told me all about your visits and the sale of
the land to you, in order to make mischief. But his time is coming; St.
Patrick will lift that crozier of his before long!”

“But the Hill holds us all!” said I; and as I spoke there was an
ominous feeling over me. “We’re not through yet; but it will be all
right now.”

The last thing I saw was a smile on his face as he closed the door.

The next morning Dick started for Knocknacar. It had been arranged the
night before that he should go on Andy’s car, as I preferred walking to
Shleenanaher. I had more than one reason for so doing, but that which
I kept in the foreground of my own mind—and which I almost persuaded
myself was the chief—if not the only reason—was that I did not wish to
be troubled with Andy’s curiosity and impertinent badinage. My real and
secret reason, however, was that I wished to be alone so that I might
collect my thoughts, and acquire courage for what the French call _un
mauvais quart d’heure_.

In all classes of life, and under all conditions, this is an ordeal
eminently to be dreaded by young men. No amount of reason is of
the least avail to them—there is some horrible, lurking, unknown
possibility which may defeat all their hopes, and may, in addition,
add the flaming aggravation of making them appear ridiculous! I
summed up my own merits, and, not being a fool, found considerable
ground for hope. I was young, not bad looking—Norah loved me; I had no
great bogey of a past secret or misdeed to make me feel sufficiently
guilty to fear a just punishment falling upon me; and, considering all
things, I was in a social position and of wealth beyond the dreams of a
peasant—howsoever ambitious for his daughter he might be.

And yet I walked along those miles of road that day with my heart
perpetually sinking into my boots, and harassed with a vague dread
which made me feel at times an almost irresistible inclination to run
away. I can only compare my feelings, when I drew in sight of the
hill-top, with those which animate the mind of a young child when
coming in sight of the sea in order to be dipped for the first time.

There is, however, in man some wholesome fear of running away, which
at times either takes the place of resolution, or else initiates
the mechanical action of guiding his feet in the right direction—of
prompting his speech and regulating his movement. Otherwise no young
man, or very few at least, would ever face the ordeal of asking the
consent of the parents of his _inamorata_. Such a fear stood to me now;
and with a seeming boldness I approached Joyce’s house. When I came to
the gate I saw him in the field not far off, and went up to speak to
him.

Even at that moment, when the dread of my soul was greatest, I could
not but recall an interview which I had had with Andy that morning, and
which was not of my seeking, but of his.

After breakfast I had been in my room, making myself as smart as I
could, for of course I hoped to see Norah—when I heard a knock at
the door, timid but hurried. When I called to “come in,” Andy’s head
appeared; and then his whole body was by some mysterious wriggle
conveyed through the partial opening of the door. When within, he
closed it, and, putting a finger to his lip, said in a mysterious
whisper:—

“Masther Art!”

“Well Andy! what is it?”

“Whisper me now! Shure I don’t want to see yer ’an’r so onasy in yer
mind.”

I guessed what was coming, so interrupted him, for I was determined to
get even with him.

“Now, Andy! if you have any nonsense about your ‘Miss Norah,’ I don’t
want to hear it.”

“Whisht! surr; let me shpake. I mustn’t kape Misther Dick waitin’. Now
take me advice! an’ take a luk out to Shleenanaher. Ye may see some wan
there what ye don’t ixpect!”—this was said with a sly mysteriousness,
impossible to describe.

“No! no! Andy,” said I, looking as sad as I could, “I can see no one
there that I don’t expect.”

“They do say, surr, that the fairies does take quare shapes; and your
fairy girrul may have gone to Shleenanaher. Fairies may want to take
the wather like mortials.”

“Take the water, Andy! what do ye mean?”

“What do I mane! why what the quality does call say-bathin’. An’ maybe,
the fairy girrul has gone too!”

“Ah! no, Andy,” said I, in as melancholy a way as I could, “my fairy
girl is gone. I shall never see her again!”

Andy looked at me very keenly; and then a twinkle came in his eye and
he said, slapping his thigh:—

“Begor! but I believe yer ’an’r is cured! Ye used to be that melancholy
that bedad it’s meself what was gettin’ sarious about ye; an’ now it’s
only narvous ye are! Well! if the fairy is gone, why not see Miss
Norah? Sure wan sight iv her ’d cure all the fairy spells what iver was
cast. Go now, yer ’an’r, an’ see her this day!”

I said with decision, “No, Andy, I will not go to-day to see Miss
Norah. I have something else to do!”

“Oh, very well!” said he with simulated despondency. “If yer ’an’r
won’t, of course ye won’t! but ye’re wrong. At any rate, if ye’re in
the direction iv Shleenanaher, will ye go an’ see th’ ould man? Musha!
but I’m thinkin’ it’s glad he’d be to see yer ’an’r.”

Despite all I could do, I felt blushing up to the roots of my hair.
Andy looked at me quizzically; and said oracularly, and with sudden
seriousness:—

“Begor! if yer fairy girrul is turned into a fairy complately, an’ has
flew away from ye, maybe ould Joyce too ’d become a leprachaun! Hould
him tight whin ye catch him! Remimber, wid leprachauns, if ye wance let
thim go ye may niver git thim agin. But if ye hould thim tight, they
must do whatsumiver ye wish! So they do say—but maybe I’m wrong—I’m
itherfarin’ wid a gintleman as was bit be a fairy, and knows more nor
mortials does about thim! There’s the masther callin’. Good bye, surr,
an’ good luck!” and with a grin at me over his shoulder, Andy hurried
away. I muttered to myself:—

“If anyone is a fairy, my bold Andy, I think I can name him. You seem
to know everything!”

This scene came back to me with renewed freshness. I could not but
feel that Andy was giving me some advice. He evidently knew more than
he pretended; indeed, he must have known all along of the identity of
my unknown of Knocknacar with Norah. He now also evidently knew of my
knowledge on the subject; and he either knew or guessed that I was off
to see Joyce on the subject of his daughter.

In my present state of embarrassment, his advice was a distinct light.
He knew the people, and Joyce especially; he also saw some danger
to my hopes, and showed me a way to gain my object. I knew already
that Joyce was a proud man, and I could quite conceive that he was an
obstinate one; and I knew from general experience of life that there is
no obstacle so difficult to surmount as the pride of an obstinate man.
With all the fervour of my heart I prayed that, on this occasion, his
pride might not in any way be touched, or arrayed against me.

When I saw him I went straight towards him, and held out my hand. He
seemed a little surprised, but took it. Like Bob Acres, I felt my
courage oozing out of the tips of my fingers, but with the remnant of
it threw myself into the battle:—

“Mr. Joyce, I have come to speak to you on a very serious subject.”

“A sarious subject! Is it concarnin’ me?”

“It is.”

“Go on! More throuble, I suppose?”

“I hope not, most sincerely. Mr. Joyce, I want to have your permission
to marry your daughter!” If I had suddenly turned into a bird and flown
away, I do not think I could have astonished him more. For a second or
two he was speechless, and then said, in an unconscious sort of way:—

“Want to marry me daughter!”

“Yes, Mr. Joyce! I love her very dearly! She is a pearl amongst women;
and if you will give your permission, I shall be the happiest man on
earth. I can quite satisfy you as to my means. I am well to do; indeed,
as men go, I am a rich man.”

“Aye! sir, I don’t doubt. I’m contint that you are what you say. But
you never saw me daughter—except that dark night when you took me home.”

“Oh yes, I have seen her several times, and spoken with her; but,
indeed, I only wanted to see her once to love her!”

“Ye have seen her—and she never tould me! Come wid me!” He beckoned me
to come with him, and strode at a rapid pace to his cottage, opened
the door, and motioned me to go in. I entered the room—which was both
kitchen and living room—to which he pointed. He followed.

As I entered, Norah, who was sewing, saw me and stood up. A rosy blush
ran over her face; then she grew as white as snow as she saw the stern
face of her father close behind me. I stepped forward, and took her
hand; when I let it go, her arm fell by her side.

“Daughter!”—Joyce spoke very sternly, but not unkindly. “Do you know
this gentleman?”

“Yes, father!”

“He tells me that you and he have met several times. Is it thrue?”

“Yes, father; but—”

“Ye never tould me! How was that?”

“It was by accident we met.”

“Always be accident?” Here I spoke:—

“Always by accident—on her part.” He interrupted me:—

“Yer pardon, young gentleman! I wish me daughter to answer me! Shpeak,
Norah!”

“Always, father!—except once, and then I came to give a message—yes! it
was a message, although from myself.”

“What missage?”

“Oh father! don’t make me speak! We are not alone! Let me tell you,
alone! I am only a girl—and it is hard to speak.”

His voice had a tear in it, for all its sternness, as he answered:—

“It is on a subject that this gentleman has spoke to me about—as mayhap
he has spoke to you.”

“Oh father!”—she took his hand, which he did not withdraw, and, bending
over, kissed it and hugged it to her breast. “Oh father! what have I
done that you should seem to mistrust me? You have always trusted me;
trust me now, and don’t make me speak till we are alone!”

I could not be silent any longer. My blood began to boil, that she I
loved should be so distressed—whatsoever the cause, and at the hands of
whomsoever, even her father.

“Mr. Joyce, you must let me speak! You would speak yourself to save
pain to a woman you loved.” He turned to tell me to be silent, but
suddenly stopped; I went on:—“Norah,” he winced as I spoke her name,
“is entirely blameless. I met her quite by chance at the top of
Knocknacar when I went to see the view. I did not know who she was—I
had not the faintest suspicion; but from that moment I loved her. I
went next day, and waited all day in the chance of seeing her; I did
see her, but again came away in ignorance even of her name. I sought
her again, day after day, day after day, but could get no word of
her; for I did not know who she was, or where she came from. Then, by
chance, and after many weary days, again I saw her in the Cliff Fields
below, three days ago. I could no longer be silent, but told her that
I loved her, and asked her to be my wife. She asked a while to think,
and left me, promising to give me an answer on the next evening. I came
again; and I got my answer.” Here Norah, who was sobbing, with her face
turned away, looked round, and said:—

“Hush! hush! You must not let father know. All the harm will be done!”
Her father answered in a low voice:—

“All that could be done is done already, daughter. Ye never tould me!”

“Sir! Norah is worthy of all esteem. Her answer to me was that she
could not leave her father, who was all alone in the world!” Norah
turned away again, but her father’s arm went round her shoulder. “She
told me I must think no more of her; but, sir, you and I, who are men,
must not let a woman, who is dear to us both make such a sacrifice.”
Joyce’s face was somewhat bitter as he answered me:—

“Ye think pretty well of yerself, young sir, whin ye consider it a
sacrifice for me daughter to shtay wid the father, who loves her, and
who she loves. There was never a shadda on her life till ye came!” This
was hard to hear, but harder to answer, and I stammered as I replied:—

“I hope I am man enough to do what is best for her, even if it were
to break my heart. But she must marry some time; it is the lot of the
young and beautiful!” Joyce paused a while, and his look grew very
tender as he made answer softly:—

“Aye! thrue! thrue! the young birds lave the nist in due sayson—that’s
only natural.” This seemed sufficient concession for the present; but
Andy’s warning rose before me, and I spoke:—

“Mr. Joyce, God knows! I don’t want to add one drop of bitterness to
either of your lives! only tell me that I may have hope, and I am
content to wait and to try to win your esteem and Norah’s love.”

The father drew his daughter closer to him, and with his other hand
stroked her hair, and said, whilst his eyes filled with tears:—

“Ye didn’t wait for me esteem to win her love!” Norah threw herself
into his arms and hid her face on his breast. He went on:—

“We can’t undo what is done. If Norah loves ye—and it seems to me
that she does—do I shpeak thrue, daughter?” The girl raised her face
bravely, and looked in her father’s eyes:—

“Yes! father.” A thrill of wild delight rushed through me. As she
dropped her head again, I could see that her neck had

    “The colour of the budding rose’s crest.”

“Well! well!” Joyce went on, “Ye are both young yit. God knows what
may happen in a year! Lave the girl free a bit to choose. She has not
met many gentlemen in her time; and she may desave herself. Me darlin’!
whativer is for your good shall be done, plase God!”

“And am I to have her in time?” The instant I had spoken I felt that I
had made a mistake; the man’s face grew hard as he turned to me:—

“I think for me daughter, sir, not for you! As it is, her happiness
seems to be mixed up with yours—lucky for ye. I suppose ye must meet
now and thin; but ye must both promise me that ye’ll not meet widout me
lave, or, at laste, me knowin’ it. We’re not gentlefolk, sir, and we
don’t undherstand their ways. If ye were of Norah’s and me own kind, I
mightn’t have to say the same; but ye’re not.”

Things were now so definite that I determined to make one more effort
to fix a time when my happiness might be certain, so I asked:—

“Then if all be well, and you agree—as please God you shall when you
know me better—when may I claim her?”

When he was face to face with a definite answer Joyce again grew stern.
He looked down at his daughter and then up at me, and said, stroking
her hair:—

“Whin the threasure of Knockcalltecrore is found, thin ye may claim her
if ye will, an’ I’ll freely let her go!” As he spoke, there came before
my mind the strong idea that we were all in the power of the Hill—
that it held us; however, as lightly as I could I spoke:—

“Then I would claim her now!”

“What do ye mane?”—this was said half anxiously, half fiercely.

“The treasure of Knockcalltecrore is here; you hold her in your arms!”
He bent over her:—

“Aye! the threasure sure enough—the threasure ye would rob me of!” Then
he turned to me, and said sternly, but not unkindly:—

“Go, now! I can’t bear more at prisent; and even me daughter may wish
to be for a while alone wid me!” I bowed my head and turned to leave
the room; but as I was going out, he called me back:—

“Shtay! Afther all, the young is only young. Ye seem to have done but
little harm—if any.” He held out his hand; I grasped it closely, and
from that instant it seemed that our hearts warmed to each other.
Then I felt bolder, and stepping to Norah took her hand—she made no
resistance—and pressed it to my lips, and went out silently. I had
hardly left the door when Joyce came after me.

“Come agin in an hour,” he said, and went in and shut the door.

Then I wandered to the rocks and climbed down the rugged path into the
Cliff Fields. I strode through the tall grass and the weeds, rank with
the continuous rain, and gained the table rock. I climbed it, and sat
where I first had met my love, after I had lost her; and, bending,
I kissed the ground where her feet had rested. And then I prayed as
fervent a prayer as the heart of a lover can yield, for every blessing
on the future of my beloved; and made high resolves that whatsoever
might befall, I would so devote myself that, if a man’s efforts could
accomplish it, her feet should never fall on thorny places.

I sat there in a tumult of happiness. The air was full of hope, and
love, and light; and I felt that in all the wild glory and fulness of
nature the one unworthy object was myself.

When the hour was nearly up I went back to the cottage; the door was
open, but I knocked on it with my hand. A tender voice called to me to
come in, and I entered.

Norah was standing up in the centre of the room. Her face was radiant,
although her sweet eyes were bright with recent tears; and I could see
that in the hour which I had passed on the rock, the hearts of the
father and the child had freely spoken. The old love between them had
taken a newer and fuller and more conscious life—based, as God has
willed it with the hearts of men, on the parent’s sacrifice of self for
the happiness of the child.

Without a word I took her in my arms. She came without bashfulness
and without fear; only love and trust spoke in every look, and every
moment. The cup of our happiness was full to the brim; and it seemed as
though God saw, and, as of old with His completed plan of the world,
was satisfied that all was good.

We sat, hand in hand, and told again and again the simple truths that
lovers tell; and we built bright mansions of future hope. There was no
shadow on us, except the shadow that slowly wrapped the earth in the
wake of the sinking sun. The long, level rays of sunset spread through
the diamond panes of the lattice, grew across the floor, and rose on
the opposite wall; but we did not heed them until we heard Joyce’s
voice behind us:—

“I have been thinkin’ all the day, and I have come to believe that it
is a happy day for us all, sir. I say, though she is my daughter, that
the man that won her heart should be a proud man, for it is a heart
of gold. I must give her to ye. I was sorry at the first, but I do it
freely now. Ye must guard and kape, and hould her as the apple of your
eye. If ye should ever fail or falter, remimber that ye took a great
thrust in takin’ her from me that loved her much, and in whose heart
she had a place—not merely for her own sake, but for the sake of the
dead that loved her.” He faltered a moment, but then coming over, put
his hand in mine, and while he held it there, Norah put her arm around
his neck, and laying her sweet head on his broad, manly breast, said
softly:—

“Father, you are very good, and I am very, very happy!” Then she took
my hand and her father’s together, and said to me:—

“Remember, he is to be as your father, too; and that you owe him all
the love and honour that I do!”

“Amen,” I said, solemnly; and we three wrung each others’ hands.

Before I went away, I said to Joyce:—

“You told me I might claim her when the treasure of the Hill was found.
Well! give me a month, and perhaps, if I don’t have the one you mean, I
may have another.” I wanted to keep, for the present, the secret of my
purchase of the old farm, so as to make a happy surprise when I should
have actual possession.

“What do ye mane?” he said.

“I shall tell you when the month is up,” I answered; “or if the
treasure is found sooner—but you must trust me till then.”

Joyce’s face looked happy as he strolled out, evidently leaving me a
chance of saying good-bye alone to Norah; she saw it too, and followed
him.

“Don’t go father!” she said. At the door she turned her sweet face to
me, and with a shy look at her father, kissed me, and blushed rosy red.

“That’s right, me girl,” said Joyce, “honest love is without shame! Ye
need never fear to kiss your lover before me.”

Again we stayed talking for a little while. I wanted to say good-bye
again; but this last time I had to give the kiss myself. As I looked
back from the gate, I saw father and daughter standing close together;
he had his arm round her shoulder, and the dear head that I loved lay
close on his breast, as they both waved me farewell.

I went back to Carnaclif, feeling as though I walked on air; and
my thoughts were in the heaven that lay behind my footsteps as I
went—though before me on the path of life.

                             CHAPTER XII.

                      BOG-FISHING AND SCHOOLING.

When I got near home, I met Dick, who had strolled out to meet me.
He was looking much happier than when I had left him in the morning.
I really believe that now that the shock of his own disappointment
had passed, he was all the happier that my affair had progressed
satisfactorily. I told him all that had passed, and he agreed with
the advice given by Joyce, that for a little while, nothing should be
said about the matter. We walked together to the hotel, I hurrying the
pace somewhat, for it had begun to dawn upon me that I had eaten but
little in the last twenty-four hours. It was prosaic, but true; I was
exceedingly hungry. Joy seldom interferes with the appetite; it is
sorrow or anxiety which puts it in deadly peril.

When we got to the hotel, we found Andy waiting outside the door. He
immediately addressed me:—

“‘Och musha! but it’s the sad man I am this day! Here’s Masther Art giv
over intirely to the fairies. An’ its leprachaun catchin’, he has been
onto this blissed day. Luk at him! isn’t it full iv sorra he is. Give
up the fairies, Masther Art!—Do thry an make him, Misther Dick!—an’
take to fallin’ head over ears in love wid some nice young girrul.
Sure, Miss Norah herself, bad as she is, ’d be betther nor none at all,
though she doesn’t come up to Masther Art’s rulin’!”

This latter remark was made to Dick, who immediately asked him:—

“What is that, Andy?”

“Begor! yer ’an’r, Masther Art has a quare kind iv a girrul in his eye
intirely, wan he used to be lukin’ for on the top iv Knocknacar—the
fairy girrul yer ’an’r,” he added to me in an explanatory manner.

“I suppose, yer ’an’r,” turning to me, “ye haven’t saw her this day?”

“I saw nobody to answer your description, Andy; and I fear I wouldn’t
know a fairy girl if I saw one,” said I, as I passed into the house
followed by Dick, whilst Andy, laughing loudly, went round to the back
of the house, where the bar was.

That was, for me at any rate, a very happy evening. Dick and I sat
up late and smoked, and went over the ground that we had passed, and
the ground that we were, please God, to pass in time. I felt grateful
to the dear old fellow, and spoke much of his undertakings both at
Knocknacar and at Knokcalltecrore. He told me that he was watching
carefully the experiment at the former place as a guide to the latter.
After some explanations, he said:—

“There is one thing there which rather disturbs me. Even with the
unusual amount of rain which we have had lately, the flow or drain of
water from the bog is not constant; it does not follow the rains as I
expected. There seems to be some process of silting, or choking, or
damming up the walls of what I imagine to be the different sections or
reservoirs of the bog. I cannot make it out, and it disturbs me; for
if the same process goes on at Knockcalltecrore, there might be any
kind of unforeseen disaster in case of the shifting of the bog. I am
not at all easy about the way Murdock is going on there. Ever since
we found the indication of iron in the bog itself, he has taken every
occasion when I am not there to dig away at one of the clay banks that
jut into it. I have warned him that he is doing a very dangerous thing,
but he will not listen. To-morrow, when I go up, I shall speak to him
seriously. He went into Galway with a cart the night before last, and
was to return by to-morrow morning. Perhaps he has some game on. I must
see what it is.”

Before we parted for the night we had arranged to go together in the
morning to Knockcalltecrore, for of course I had made up my mind that
each day should see me there.

In the morning, early, we drove over. We left Andy, as usual, in the
boreen at the foot of the hill, and walked up together. I left Dick at
Murdock’s gate, and then hurried as fast as my legs could carry me to
Joyce’s.

Norah must have had wonderful ears. She heard my footsteps in the
lane, and when I arrived at the gate she was there to meet me. She
said, “Good morning,” shyly, as we shook hands. For an instant she
evidently feared that I was going to kiss her, there in the open where
someone might see; but almost as quickly she realized that she was safe
so far, and we went up to the cottage together. Then came my reward;
for, when the door was closed, she put her arms round my neck as I took
her in my arms, and our lips met in a sweet, long kiss. Our happiness
was complete. Anyone who has met the girl he loved the day after
his engagement to her, can explain why or how—if any explanation be
required.

Joyce was away in the fields. We sat hand in hand, and talked for a
good while; but I took no note of time.

Suddenly Norah looked up. “Hush!” she said. “There is a step in the
boreen; it is your friend, Mr. Sutherland.” We sat just a little
further apart and let go hands. Then the gate clicked, and even I heard
Dick’s steps as he quickly approached. He knocked at the door; we both
called out “Come in” simultaneously, and then looked at each other and
blushed. The door opened and Dick entered. He was very pale, but in a
couple of seconds his pallor passed away. He greeted Norah cordially,
and she sweetly bade him welcome; then he turned to me:—

“I am very sorry to disturb you, old fellow, but would you mind coming
down to Murdock’s for a bit? There is some work which I wish you to
give me a hand with.”

I started up and took my hat, whispered good-bye to Norah, and went
with him. She did not come to the door; but from the gate I looked back
and saw her sweet face peeping through the diamond pane of the lattice.

“What is it, Dick?” I asked, as we went down the lane.

“A new start to-day. Murdock evidently thinks we have got on the track
of something. He went into Galway for a big grapnel; and now we are
making an effort to lift it—whatever ‘it’ is—out of the bog.”

“By Jove!” said I, “things are getting close.”

“Yes,” said Dick. “And I am inclined to think he is right. There is
most probably a considerable mass of iron in the bog. We have located
the spot, and are only waiting for you, so as to be strong enough to
make a cast.”

When we got to the edge of the bog we found Murdock standing beside a
temporary jetty, arranged out of a long plank, with one end pinned to
the ground and the centre supported on a large stone, placed on the
very edge of the solid ground, where a rock cropped up. Beside him was
a very large grappling-iron, some four feet wide, attached to a coil of
strong rope. When we came up, he saluted me in a half surly manner, and
we set to work, Dick saying, as we began:—

“Mr. Severn, Mr. Murdock has asked us to help in raising something
from the bog. He prefers to trust us, whom he knows to be gentlemen,
than to let his secret be shared in with anyone else.”

Dick got out on the end of the plank, holding the grapnel and a coil of
the rope in his hand, whilst the end of the coil was held by Murdock.

I could see from the appearance of the bog that someone had been lately
working at it, for it was all broken about as though to make a hole in
it, and a long pole that lay beside where I stood was covered with wet
and slime.

Dick poised the grapnel carefully, and then threw it out. It sank into
the bog, slowly at first, but then more quickly; an amount of rope ran
out which astonished me, for I knew that the bog must be at least so
deep.

Suddenly the run of the rope ceased, and we knew that the grapnel had
gone as far as it could. Murdock and I then held the rope, and Dick
took the pole and poked and beat a passage for it through the bog up to
the rock where we stood. Then he, too, joined us, and we all began to
pull.

For a few feet we pulled in the slack of the rope. Then there was a
little more resistance for some three or four feet, and we knew that
the grapnel was dragging on the bottom. Suddenly there was a check, and
Murdock gave a suppressed shout:—

“We have got it! I feel it! Pull away for your lives!”

We kept a steady pull on the rope. At first there was simply a dead
weight, and in my own mind I was convinced that we had caught a piece
of projecting rock. Murdock would have got unlimited assistance and
torn out of the bog whatever it was that we had got hold of, even if
he had to tear up the rocks by the roots; but Dick kept his head, and
directed a long steady pull.

There was a sudden yielding, and then again resistance. We continued
to pull, and then the rope began to come, but very slowly, and there
was a heavy weight attached to it. Even Dick was excited now. Murdock
shut his teeth, and scowled like a demon; it would have gone hard with
anyone who came then between him and his prize. As for myself, I was in
a tumult. In addition to the natural excitement of the time, there rose
to my memory Joyce’s words:—“When the treasure is found you may claim
her if you will;”—and, although the need for such an occasion passed
away with his more free consent, the effect that they had at the time
produced on me remained in my mind.

Here, then, was the treasure at last; its hiding for a century in the
bog had come to an end.

We pulled and pulled. Heavens! how we tugged at that rope. Foot after
foot it came up through our hands, wet and slimy, and almost impossible
to hold. Now and again it slipped from each of us in turns a few
inches, and a muttered “steady! steady!” was all the sound heard. It
took all three of us to hold the weight, and so no one could be spared
to make an effort to further aid us by any mechanical appliance. The
rope lay beside us in seemingly an endless coil. I began to wonder if
it would ever end. Our breath began to come quickly, our hands were
cramped. There came a new and more obstinate resistance. I could not
account for it. Dick cried out:—

“It is under the roots of the bog; we must now take it up straight. Can
you two hold on for a moment? and I shall get on the plank.” We nodded,
breath was too precious for unnecessary speech.

Dick slacked out after we had got our feet planted for a steady
resistance. He then took a handful of earth, and went out on the plank
a little beyond the centre and caught the rope. When he held it firmly
with his clay-covered hands, he said:—

“Come now, Art. Murdock, you stay and pull.” I ran to him, and, taking
my hands full of earth, caught the rope also.

The next few minutes saw a terrible struggle. Our faces were almost
black with the rush of blood in stooping and lifting so long and so
hard, our hands and backs ached to torture, and we were almost in
despair, when we saw the bog move just under us. This gave us new
courage and new strength, and with redoubled effort we pulled at the
rope.

Then up through the bog came a large mass. We could not see what
it was, for the slime and the bog covered it solidly; but with a
final effort we lifted it. Each instant it grew less weighty as the
resistance of the bog was overcome, and the foul slimy surface fell
back into its place and became tranquil. When we lifted and pulled the
mass on the rock bank, Murdock rushed forward in a frenzied manner, and
shouted to us:—

“Kape back! Hands off! It’s mine, I say, all mine! Don’t dar even to
touch it, or I’ll do ye a harrum! Here, clear off! this is my land!
Go!” and he turned on us with the energy of a madman and the look of a
murderer.

I was so overcome with my physical exertions that I had not a word to
say, but simply in utter weariness threw myself upon the ground; but
Dick, with what voice he could command, said:—

“You’re a nice grateful fellow to men who have helped you! Keep your
find to yourself, man alive; we don’t want to share. You must know that
as well as I do, unless your luck has driven you mad. Handle the thing
yourself, by all means. Faugh! how filthy it is!” and he too sat down
beside me.

It certainly was most filthy. It was a shapeless irregular mass, but
made solid with rust and ooze and the bog surface through which it had
been dragged. The slime ran from it in a stream; but its filth had
no deterring power for Murdock, who threw himself down beside it and
actually kissed the nauseous mass as he murmured:—

“At last! at last! me threasure! All me own!”

Dick stood up with a look of disgust on his handsome face:—

“Come away, Art; it’s too terrible to see a man degraded to this pitch.
Leave the wretch alone with his god!” Murdock turned to us, and said
with savage glee:—

“No! shtay! Sthay an’ see me threasure! It’ll make ye happy to think of
afther! An’ ye can tell Phelim Joyce what I found in me own land—the
land what I tuk from him.” We stayed.

Murdock took his spade and began to remove the filth and rubbish from
the mass. And in a very few moments his discovery proclaimed itself.

There lay before us a rusty iron gun-carriage! This was what we had
dragged with so much effort from the bottom of the bog; and beside it
Murdock sat down with a scowl of black disappointment.

“Come away!” said Dick. “Poor devil, I pity him! It is hard to find
even a god of that kind worthless!” And so we turned and left Murdock
sitting beside the gun-carriage and the slime, with a look of baffled
greed which I hope never to see on any face again.

We went to a brook at the foot of the hill, Andy being by this time
in the sheebeen about half a mile off. There we cleansed ourselves as
well as we could from the hideous slime and filth of the bog, and then
walked to the top of the hill to let the breeze freshen us up a bit if
possible. After we had been there for a while, Dick said:—

“Now, Art, you had better run back to the cottage. Miss Joyce will be
wondering what has become of you all this time, and may be frightened.”
It was so strange to hear her—Norah, my Norah—called “Miss Joyce,” that
I could not help smiling—and blushing whilst I smiled. Dick noticed and
guessed the cause. He laid his hand on my shoulder, and said:—

“You will hear it often, old lad. I am the only one of all your friends
privileged to hear of her by the name you knew her by at first. She
goes now into your class and amongst your own circle; and, by George!
she will grace it too—it or any circle—and they will naturally give to
her folk the same measure of courtesy that they mete to each other. She
is Miss Joyce—until she shall be Mrs. Arthur Severn!”

What a delicious thrill the very thought sent through me!

I went up to the cottage, and on entering found Norah still alone.
She knew that I was under promise not to tell anything of Murdock’s
proceedings, but noticing that I was not so tidy as before—for my
cleansing at the brook-side was a very imperfect one—went quietly and
got a basin with hot water, soap, and a towel, and clothes brush, and
said I must come and be made very tidy.

That toilet was to me a sweet experience, and is a sweet remembrance
now. It was so wifely in its purpose and its method, that I went
through it in a languorous manner—like one in a delicious dream. When,
with a blush, she brought me her own brush and comb and began to
smooth my hair, I was as happy as it is given to a man to be. There
is a peculiar sensitiveness in their hair to some men, and to have
it touched by hands that they love is a delicious sensation. When my
toilet was complete Norah took me by the hand and made me sit down
beside her. After a pause, she said to me with a gathering blush:—

“I want to ask you something.”

“And I want to ask you something,” said I. “Norah, dear! there is one
thing I want much to ask you.”

She seemed to suspect or guess what I was driving at, for she said:—

“You must let me ask mine first.”

“No, no!” I replied. “You must answer me; and then, you know, you will
have the right to ask what you like.”

“But I do not want any right.”

“Then it will be all the more pleasure to me to give a favour—if there
can be any such from me to you.”

Masculine persistence triumphed—men are always more selfish than
women—and I asked my question:—

“Norah, darling—tell me when will you be mine—my very own? When shall
we be married?”

The love-light was sweet in her eyes as she answered me with a blush
that made perfect the smile on her lips:—

“Nay! You should have let me ask my question first.”

“Why so, dearest?”

“Because, dear, I am thinking of the future. You know, Arthur, that I
love you, and that whatever you wish, I would and shall gladly do; but
you must think for me too. I am only a peasant girl—”

“Peasant!” I laughed. “Norah, you are the best lady I have ever seen!
Why, you are like a queen—what a queen ought to be!”

“I am proud and happy, Arthur, that you think so; but still I am only a
peasant! Look at me—at my dress. Yes! I know you like it, and I shall
always prize it because it found favour in your eyes!” She smiled
happily, but went on:—

“Dear, I am speaking very truly. My life and surroundings are not
yours. You are lifting me to a higher grade in life, Arthur, and I want
to be worthy of it and of you. I do not want any of your family or your
friends to pity you and say, ‘Poor fellow, he has made a sad mistake.
Look at her manners—she is not of us.’ I could not bear to hear or to
know that such was said—that anyone should have to pity the man I love,
and to have that pity because of me. Arthur, it would break my heart!”

As she spoke the tears welled up in the deep dark eyes and rolled
unchecked down her cheeks. I caught her to my breast with the sudden
instinct of protection, and cried out:—

“Norah! no one on earth could say such a thing of you—you who would
lift a man, not lower him. You could not be ungraceful if you tried;
and as for my family and friends, if there is one who will not hold out
both hands to you and love you, he or she is no kin or friend of mine.”

“But, Arthur, they might be right! I have learned enough to know that
there is so much more to learn—that the great world you live in is so
different from our quiet, narrow life here. Indeed, I do not mean to
be nervous as to the future, or to make any difficulties; but, dear, I
should like to be able to do all that is right and necessary as your
wife. Remember, that when I leave here I shall not have one of my own
kin or friends to tell me anything—from whom I could ask advice. They
do not themselves even know what I might want—not one of them all! Your
world and mine, dear, are so different—as yet.”

“But, Norah, shall I not be always by your side to ask?”—I felt very
superior and very strong as well as very loving as I spoke.

“Yes, yes; but oh! Arthur—can you not understand—I love you so that I
would like to be, even in the eyes of others, all that you could wish.
But, dear, you must understand and help me here. I cannot reason with
you. Even now I feel my lack of knowledge, and it makes me fearful.
Even now”—her voice died away in a sob, and she hid her beautiful eyes
with her hand.

“My darling! my darling!” I said to her passionately—all the true lover
in me awake—“Tell me what it is that you wish, so that I may try to
judge with all my heart.”

“Arthur! I want you to let me go to school—to a good school for a
while—a year or two before we are married. Oh! I should work so hard! I
should try so earnestly to improve—for I should feel that every hour of
honest work brought me higher and nearer to your level!”

My heart was more touched than even my passion gave me words to
tell—and I tried, and tried hard, to tell her what I felt—and in my
secret heart a remorseful thought went up: “What have I done in my life
to be worthy of so much love!”

Then, as we sat hand in hand, we discussed how it was to be done—for
that it was to be done we were both agreed. I had told her that we
should so arrange it that she should go for awhile to Paris, and then
to Dresden, and finish up with an English school. That she could learn
languages, and that amongst them would be Italian; but that she would
not go to Italy until we went together—on our honeymoon. She bent her
head and listened in silent happiness; and when I spoke of our journey
together to Italy, and how we would revel in old-world beauty—in the
softness and light and colour of that magic land—the delicate porcelain
of her shell-like ear became tinged with pink, and I bent over and
kissed it. And then she turned and threw herself on my breast, and hid
her face.

As I looked I saw the pink spread downward and grow deeper and deeper,
till her neck and all became flushed with crimson. And then she put
me aside, rose up, and with big brave eyes looked me full in the face
through all her deep embarrassment, and said to me:—

“Arthur, of course I don’t know much of the great world, but I suppose
it is not usual for a man to pay for the schooling of a lady before she
is his wife—whatever might be arranged between them afterwards. You
know that my dear father has no money for such a purpose as we have
spoken of, and so if you think it is wiser, and would be less hardly
spoken of in your family, I would marry you before I went—if—if you
wished it. But we would wait till after I came from school to—to—to go
to Italy,” and whilst the flush deepened almost to a painful degree,
she put her hands before her face and turned away.

Such a noble sacrifice of her own feelings and her own wishes—and
although I felt it in my heart of hearts I am sure none but a woman
could fully understand it—put me upon my mettle, and it was with truth
I spoke:—

“Norah, if anything could have added to my love and esteem for you,
your attitude to me in this matter has done it. My darling, I shall try
hard all my life to be worthy of you, and that you may never, through
any act of mine, decline for a moment from the standard you have fixed.
God knows I could have no greater pride or joy than that this very
moment I should call you my wife. My dear! my dear! I shall count the
very hours until that happy time shall come. But all shall be as you
wish. You will go to the schools we spoke of, and your father shall pay
for them. He will not refuse, I know, and what is needed he shall have.
If there be any way that he would prefer—that suits your wishes—it
shall be done. More than this! if he thinks it right, we can be married
before you go, and you can keep your own name until my time comes to
claim you.”

“No! no! Arthur. When once I shall bear your name I shall be too proud
of it to be willing to have any other. But I want, when I do bear it,
to bear it worthily—I want to come to you as I think your wife should
come.”

“My dear, dear Norah—my wife to be—all shall be as you wish.”

Here we heard the footsteps of Joyce approaching.

“I had better tell him,” she said.

When he came in she had his dinner ready. He greeted me warmly.

“Won’t ye stay?” he said. “Don’t go unless ye wish to!”

“I think, sir, Norah wants to have a chat with you when you have had
your dinner.”

Norah smiled a kiss at me as I went out. At the door I turned and said
to her:—

“I shall be in the Cliff Field in case I am wanted.”

I went there straightway, and sat on the table rock in the centre of
the fields, and thought and thought. In all my thought there was no
cloud. Each day—each hour seemed to reveal new beauties in the girl I
loved, and I felt as if all the world were full of sunshine, and all
the future of hope; and I built new resolves to be worthy of the good
fortune which had come upon me.

It was not long before Norah came to me, and said that she had told her
father, and that he wished to speak with me. She said that he quite
agreed about the school, and that there would be no difficulty made by
him on account of any false pride about my helping in the task. We had
but one sweet minute together on the rock, and one kiss; and then, hand
in hand, we hurried back to the cottage, and found Joyce waiting for
us, smoking his pipe.

Norah took me inside, and, after kissing her father, came shyly and
kissed me also, and went out. Joyce began:—

“Me daughter has been tellin’ me about the plan of her goin’ to school,
an’ her an’ me’s agreed that it’s the right thing to do. Of coorse,
we’re not of your class, an’ if ye wish for her it is only right an’
fair that she should be brought up to the level of the people that
she’s goin’ into. It’s not in me own power to do all this for her, an’
although I didn’t give her the schoolin’ that the quality has, I’ve
done already more nor min like me mostly does. Norah knows more nor
any girl about here—an’ as ye’re to have the benefit of yer wife’s
schoolin’, I don’t see no rayson why ye shouldn’t help in it. Mind
ye this—if I could see me way to do it meself, I’d work me arms off
before I’d let you or any one else come between her an’ me in such
a thing. But it’d be only a poor kind of pride that’d hurt the poor
child’s feelins, an’ mar her future—an’ so it’ll be as ye both wish. Ye
must find out the schools an’ write me about them when ye go back to
London.” I jumped up and shook his hand.

“Mr. Joyce, I am more delighted than I can tell you; and I promise, on
my honour, that you shall never in your life regret what you have done.”

“I’m sure of that—Mr.—Mr.—”

“Call me Arthur!”

“Well! I must do it some day—Arthur—an’ as to the matther that Norah
told me ye shpoke of—that, if I’d wish it, ye’d be married first. Well!
me own mind an’ Norah’s is the same—I’d rather that she come to you as
a lady at wance—though God knows! it’s a lady she is in all ways I iver
see one in me life—barrin’ the clothes!”

“That’s true, Mr. Joyce! there is no better lady in all the land.”

“Well, that’s all settled. Ye’ll let me know in good time about the
schools, won’t ye? an’ now I must get back to me work,” and he passed
out of the house, and went up the hillside.

Then Norah came back, and with joy I told her that all had been
settled; and somehow, we seemed to have taken another step up the
ascent that leads from earth to heaven—and that all feet may tread,
which are winged with hope.

Presently Norah sent me away for a while, saying that she had some work
to do, as she expected both Dick and myself to come back to tea with
them; and I went off to look for Dick.

I found him with Murdock. The latter had got over his disappointment,
and had evidently made up his mind to trust to Dick’s superior
knowledge and intelligence. He was feverishly anxious to continue his
search, and when I came up we held a long discussion as to the next
measure to be taken. The afternoon faded away in this manner before
Murdock summed up the matter thus:—

“The chist was carried on the gun-carriage, and where wan is th’ other
is not far off. The min couldn’t have carried the chist far, from what
ould Moynahan sez. His father saw the min carryin’ the chist only a wee
bit.” Dick said:—

“There is one thing, Murdock, that I must warn you about. You have been
digging in the clay bank by the edge of the bog. I told you before
how dangerous this is; now, more than ever, I see the danger of it.
It was only to-day that we got an idea of the depth of the bog, and
it rather frightens me to think that with all this rain falling you
should be tampering with what is more important to you than even the
foundations of your house. The bog has risen far too much already,
and you have only to dig perhaps one spadeful too much in the right
place and you’ll have a torrent that will sweep away all you have. I
have told you that I don’t like the locality of your house down in the
hollow. If the bog ever moves again, God help you! You seem also to
have been tampering with the stream that runs into the Cliff Fields.
It is all very well for you to try to injure poor Joyce more than you
have done—and that’s quite enough, God knows!—but here you are actually
imperilling your own safety. That stream is the safety valve of the
bog, and if you continue to dam up that cleft in the rock you will
have a terrible disaster. Mind now! I warn you seriously against what
you are doing. And besides, you do not even know for certain that the
treasure is here. Why, it may be anywhere on the mountain, from the
brook below the boreen to the Cliff Fields; is the off chance worth the
risk you run?” Murdock started when he mentioned the Cliff Fields, and
then said suddenly:—

“If ye’re afraid ye can go. I’m not.”

“Man alive!” said Dick, “why not be afraid if you see cause for fear?
I don’t suppose I’m a coward any more than you are, but I can see a
danger, and a very distinct one, from what you are doing. Your house
is directly in the track in which the bog has shifted at any time this
hundred years; and if there should be another movement, I would not
like to be in the house when the time comes.”

“All right!” he returned doggedly, “I’ll take me chance; and I’ll find
the threasure, too, before many days is over!”

“Well; but be reasonable also, or you may find your death!”

“Well, if I do that’s me own luk out. Ye may find yer death first!”

“Of course I may, but I see it my duty to warn you. The weather these
last few weeks back has been unusually wet. The bog is rising as it is.
As a matter of fact, it is nearly a foot higher now than it was when I
came here first; and yet you are doing what must help to rise it higher
still, and are weakening its walls at the same time.” He scowled at me
as he sullenly answered:—

“Well, all I say is I’ll do as I like wid me own. I wouldn’t give up me
chance iv findin’ the threasure now—no, not for God himself!”

“Hush! man; hush!” said Dick sternly, as we turned away. “Do not tempt
Him, but be warned in time!”

“Let Him look out for Himself, an’ I’ll look out for meself,” he
answered with a sneer. “I’ll find the threasure—an’ if need be in spite
iv God an’ iv the Divil too!”

                             CHAPTER XIII.

                           MURDOCK’S WOOING.

I think it was a real pleasure to Dick to get Norah’s message that he
was expected to tea that evening. Like the rest of his sex, he was not
quite free from vanity; for when I told him, his first act was to look
down at himself ruefully, and his first words were:—

“But I say, old lad! look at the mess I’m in; and these clothes are not
much, anyhow.”

“Never mind, Dick, you are as good as I am.”

“Oh, well!” he laughed, “if you’ll do, I suppose I needn’t mind. We’re
both pretty untidy. No, begad,” he added, looking me all over, “you’re
not out of the perpendicular with regard to cleanliness, anyhow. I say,
Art! who’s been tidying you up? Oh! I see! Forgive me, old lad; and
quite natural, too! Miss Joyce should see you blush, Art! Why, you are
as rosy as a girl!”

“Call her ‘Norah,’ Dick! it is more natural, and I am sure she will
like it better. She is to look on you as a brother, you know!”

“All right, Art,” he answered heartily, “but you must manage it for
me, for I think I should be alarmed to do so unless I got a lead; but
it will come easy enough after the first go off. Remember, we both
always thought of her as ‘Norah!’”

We went down towards the brook and met with Andy, who had the car all
ready for us.

“Begor yer ’an’rs,” said he, “I thought yez was lost intirely, or that
the fairies had carried yez off; both iv yez this time.”—This with
a sly look at me, followed by a portentous wink to Dick. “An’ I’m
thinkin’ it’s about time fur somethin’ to ate. Begor! but me stummick
is cryin’ out that me throat is cut!”

“You’re quite right, Andy, as to the fact,” said Dick, “but you are a
little antecedent.”

“An’ now what’s that, surr? Begor! I niver was called that name afore.
Shure, an’ I always thry to be dacent—divvle a man but can tell ye
that! Antidacent indeed! Well now! what nixt?”

“It means, Andy, that we are going to be carried off by the fairies,
and to have some supper with them too; and that you are to take this
half-crown, and go over to Mother Kelligan’s, and get her to try to
dissipate that unnatural suspicion of capital offence wreaked on your
thoracic region. Here, catch! and see how soon you can be off!”

“Hurroo! Begor, yer ’an’r, it’s the larned gintleman y’ are! Musha! but
ye ought to be a councillor intirely! Gee-up! ye ould corncrake!” and
Andy was off at full speed.

When we had got rid of him, Dick and I went down to the brook, and
made ourselves look as tidy as we could. At least Dick did; for, as to
myself, I purposely disarranged my hair—unknown to Dick—in the hope
that Norah would take me in hand again, and that I might once more
experience the delicious sensation of a toilet aided by her sweet
fingers.

Young men’s ideas, however, are very crude; no one who knew either the
Sex or the World would have fallen into such an absurd hope. When I
came in with Dick, Norah—in spite of some marked hints, privately and
secretly given to her—did not make either the slightest remark on my
appearance, or the faintest suggestion as to improving it.

She had not been idle in the afternoon. The room, which was always
tidy, was as prettily arranged as the materials would allow. There were
some flowers, and flag-leaves, and grasses tastefully placed about;
and on the table, in a tumbler, was a bunch of scarlet poppies. The
tablecloth, although of coarse material, was as white as snow, and the
plates and cups, of common white and blue, were all that was required.

When Joyce came in from his bedroom, where he had been tidying himself,
he looked so manly and handsome in his dark frieze coat with horn
buttons, his wide unstarched shirt-collar, striped waistcoat, and cord
breeches, with grey stockings, that I felt quite proud of him. There
was a natural grace and dignity about him which suited him so well,
that I had no wish to see him other than a peasant. He became the
station, and there was no pretence. He made a rough kind of apology to
us both:—

“I fear ye’ll find things a bit rough, compared with what you’re
accustomed to, but I know ye’ll not mind. We have hardly got settled
down here yit; and me sisther, who always lives with us, is away with
me other sisther that is sick, so Norah has to fare by herself; but
gentlemen both—you, Mr. Sutherland; and you, Arthur—you’re welcome!

We sat down to table, and Norah insisted on doing all the attendance
herself. I wanted to help her, and, when she was taking up a plate of
cakes from the hearth, stooped beside her and said:—

“May not I help, Norah? Do let me!”

“No—no, dear,” she whispered. “Don’t ask me now—I’m a little strange
yet—another time. You’ll be very good, won’t you, and help me not to
feel awkward?”

Needless to say I sat at table for the rest of the meal, and feasted my
eyes on my darling, whilst in common with the others I enjoyed the good
things placed before us. But when she saw that I looked too long and
too lovingly, she gave me such an imploring glance from her eloquent
eyes, that for the remainder of the time I restrained both the ardour
of my glance and its quantity within modest bounds.

Oh! but she was fair and sweet to look upon! Her dark hair was plainly
combed back, and coiled modestly round her lovely head. She had on her
red petticoat and chintz body, that she knew I admired so much; and on
her breast she wore a great scarlet poppy, whose splendid colour suited
well her dark and noble beauty. At the earliest opportunity, when tea
was over, I whispered to her:—

“My darling, how well the poppy suits you. How beautiful you are. You
are like the Goddess of Sleep!” She put her finger to her lips with a
happy smile, as though to forbid me to pay compliments—before others. I
suppose the woman has never yet been born—and never shall be—who would
not like to hear her praises from the man she loves.

I had eaten potato-cakes before, but never such as Norah had made for
us; possibly they seemed so good to me because I knew that her hands
had made them. The honey, too, was the nicest I had tasted—for it was
made by Norah’s bees. The butter was perfect—for it was the work of her
hands!

I do not think that a happier party ever assembled round a tea-table.
Joyce was now quite reconciled to the loss of his daughter, and was
beaming all over; and Dick’s loyal nature had its own reward, for he
too was happy in the happiness of those he loved—or else I was, and am,
the most obtuse fool, and he the most consummate actor, that has been.
As for Norah and myself, I know we were happy—as happy as it is given
to mortals to be.

When tea was over, and Norah fetched her father’s pipe and lighted it
for him, she said to me with a sweet blush, as she called me by my name
for the first time before a stranger:—

“I suppose, Arthur, you and Mr. Sutherland would like your own cigars
best; but if you care for a pipe there are some new ones here,” and she
pointed them out. We lit our cigars, and sat round the fire; for in
this damp weather the nights were getting a little chilly. Joyce sat
on one side of the fire and Dick on the other. I sat next to Dick, and
Norah took her place between her father and me, sitting on a little
stool beside her father and leaning, her head against his knees, whilst
she took the hand that was fondly laid over her shoulder and held it in
her own. Presently, as the grey autumn twilight died away, and as the
light from the turf fire rose and fell, throwing protecting shadows,
her other hand stole towards my own—which was waiting to receive it;
and we sat silent for a spell, Norah and I in an ecstasy of quiet
happiness.

By-and-by we heard a click at the latch of the gate, and firm, heavy
footsteps coming up the path. Norah jumped up, and peeped out of the
window.

“Who is it, daughter?” said Joyce.

“Oh father! it is Murdock! What can he want?”

There was a knock at the door. Joyce rose up, motioning to us to sit
still, laid aside his pipe, and went to the door and opened it. Every
word that was spoken was perfectly plain to us all.

“Good evenin’, Phelim Joyce!”

“Good evenin’! You want me?”

“I do.” Murdock’s voice was fixed and firm, as of one who has made up
his mind.

“What is it?”

“May I come in? I want to shpake to ye particular.”

“No, Murtagh Murdock! Whin a man comes undher me roof by me own
consint, I’m not free wid him to spake me mind the same as whin he’s
outside. Ye haven’t thrated me well, Murdock. Ye’ve been hard wid me;
and there’s much that I can’t forgive!”

“Well! if I did, ye gev me what no other man has ever gave me yit
widout repintin’ it sore. Ye sthruck me a blow before all the people,
an’ I didn’t strike ye back.”

“I did, Murtagh; an’ I’m sorry for it. That blow has been hangin’ on me
conscience iver since. I would take it back if I could; God knows that
is thrue. Much as ye wronged me, I don’t want such a thing as that to
remimber when me eyes is closin’. Murtagh Murdock, I take it back, an’
gladly. Will ye let me?”

“I will—on wan condition.”

“What is it?”

“That’s what I’ve kem here to shpake about; but I’d like to go in.”

“No! ye can’t do that—not yit, at any rate, till I know what ye want.
Ye must remimber, Murtagh, that I’ve but small rayson to thrust ye!”

“Well, Phelim, I’ll tell ye; tho’ it’s mortial hard to name it
shtandin’ widout the door like a thramp! I’m a warrum man; I’ve a power
iv money put by, an’ it brings me in much.”

“I know! I know!” said the other bitterly. “God help me! but I know too
well how it was gother up.”

“Well! niver mind that now; we all know that. Anyhow, it _is_ gother
up. An’ them as finds most fault wid the manes, mayhap ’d be the first
to get hould iv it av they could. Well, anyhow, I’m warrum enough to
ask any girrul in these parts to share it wid me. There’s many min and
weemin between this and Galway, that’d like to talk over the fortin iv
their daughter wid Murtagh Murdock—for all he’s a gombeen man.”

As he spoke, the clasp of Norah’s hand and mine grew closer. I could
feel in her clasp both a clinging, as for protection, and a restraining
power on myself. Murdock went on:—

“But there’s none of thim girls what I’ve set me harrt on—except wan!”
He paused. Joyce said quietly:—

“An’ who, now, might that be?”

“Yer own daughther, Norah Joyce!” Norah’s hand restrained me as I was
instinctively rising.

“Go on!” said Joyce, and I could notice that there was a suppressed
passion in his voice:—

“Well, I’ve set me harrt on her; and I’m willin’ to settle a fortin on
her, on wan condition.”

“And what, now, might that be?”—the tone was of veiled sarcasm.

“She’ll have all the money that I settle on her to dale wid as she
likes—that is, the intherest iv it—as long as she lives; an’ I’m to
have the Cliff Fields that is hers, as me own to do what I like wid,
an’ that them an’ all in them belongs to me.” Joyce paused a moment
before answering:—

“Is that all ye have to say?” Murdock seemed nonplussed, but after a
slight pause he answered:—

“Yis!”

“An’ ye want me answer?”

“Iv coorse!”

“Thin, Murtagh Murdock, I’d like to ask ye for why me daughter would
marry you or the like of you? Is it because that yer beauty ’d take a
young girl’s fancy—you that’s known as the likest thing to a divil in
these parts! Or is it because of yer kind nature? You that tried to
ruin her own father, and that drove both her and him out of the home
she was born in, and where her poor mother died! Is it because yer
characther is respicted in the counthry wheriver yer name is known?——”
Here Murdock interrupted him:—

“I tould ye it’s a warrum man I am”—he spoke decisively, as if his
words were final—“an’ I can, an’ will, settle a fortin on her.” Joyce
answered slowly and with infinite scorn:—

“Thank ye, Mr. Murtagh Murdock, but me daughter is not for sale!”

There was a long pause. Then Murdock spoke again, and both suppressed
hate and anger were in his voice:—

“Ye had betther have a care wid me. I’ve crushed ye wance, an’ I’ll
crush ye agin! Ye can shpake scornful yerself, but mayhap the girrul
would give a different answer.”

“Then, ye had betther hear her answer from herself. Norah! Come here,
daughter! Come here!”

Norah rose, making an imperative sign to me to keep my seat, and with
the bearing of an empress passed across to the door and stood beside
her father. She took no notice whatever of her wooer.

“What is it, father?”

“Now, Murdock, spake away! Say what ye have to say; an’ take yer answer
from her own lips.” Murdock spoke with manifest embarrassment:—

“I’ve been tellin’ yer father that I’d like ye for me wife!”

“I’ve heard all you said!”

“An’ yer answer?”

“My father has answered for me!”

“But I want me answer from yer own lips. My! but it’s the handsome
girrul ye are this night!”

“My answer is ‘No!’” and she turned to come back.

“Shtay!” Murdock’s voice was nasty, so nasty that instinctively I
stood up. No person should speak like that to the woman I loved. Norah
stopped. “I suppose ye won’t luk at me because ye have a young shpark
on yer hands. I’m no fool! an’ I know why ye’ve been down in the
Fields. I seen yez both more nor wance; an’ I’m makin’ me offer knowin’
what I know. I don’t want to be too hard on ye, an’ I’ll say nothin’ if
ye don’t dhrive me to. But remimber ye’re in me power; an’ ye’ve got to
plase me in wan way or another. I knew what I was doin’ whin I watched
ye wid yer young shpark! Ye didn’t want yer father to see him nigh the
house! Ye’d betther be careful, the both of ye. If ye don’t intind to
marry me, well, ye won’t; but mind how ye thrate me or shpake to me,
here or where there’s others by; or be th’ Almighty! I’ll send the ugly
whisper round the counthry about ye——”

Flesh and blood could not stand this. In an instant I was out in the
porch, and ready to fly at his throat; but Norah put her arm between us.

“Mr. Severn!” she said in a voice which there was no gainsaying, “my
father is here. It is for him to protect me here, if any protection
is required from a thing like that!” The scorn of her voice made even
Murdock wince, and seemed to cool both Joyce and myself, and also Dick,
who now stood beside us.

Murdock looked from one to another of us for a moment in amazement, and
then with a savage scowl, as though he were looking who and where to
strike with venom, he fixed on Norah—God forgive him!

“An’ so ye have him at home already, have ye! An’ yer father prisent
too, an’ a witness. It’s the sharp girrul ye are, Norah Joyce, but I
suppose this wan is not the first!” I restrained myself simply because
Norah’s hand was laid on my mouth; Murdock went on:—

“An’ so ye thought I wanted ye for yerself! Oh no! It’s no bankrup’s
daughther for me; but I may as well tell ye why I wanted ye. It was
because I’ve had in me hands, wan time or another, ivery inch iv this
mountain, bit be bit, all except the Cliff Fields; and thim I wanted
for purposes iv me own—thim as knows why, has swore not to tell”—this
with a scowl at Dick and me—“But I’ll have thim yit; an’ have thim too
widout thinkin’ that me wife likes sthrollin’ there wid sthrange min!”

Here I could restrain myself no longer; and to my joy on the
instant—and since then whenever I have thought of it—Norah withdrew
her hand as if to set me free. I stepped forward, and with one blow
fair in the lips knocked the foul-mouthed ruffian head over heels. He
rose in an instant, his face covered with blood, and rushed at me.
This time I stepped out, and with an old football trick, taking him on
the breast-bone with my open hand, again tumbled him over. He arose
livid—but this time his passion was cold—and standing some yards off,
said, whilst he wiped the blood from his face:—

“Wait! Ye’ll be sorry yit ye shtruck that blow! Aye! ye’ll both be
sorry—sad an’ sorry—an’ for shame that ye don’t reckon on! Wait!”—I
spoke out:—

“Wait! yes, I shall wait, but only till the time comes to punish you.
And let me warn you to be careful how you speak of this lady! I have
shown you already how I can deal with you personally; next time—if
there be a next time——” Here Murdock interrupted _sotto voce_—

“There ’ll be a next time; don’t fear! Be God but there will!” I went
on:—

“I shall not dirty my hands with you but I shall have you in gaol for
slander.”

“Gaol me, is it?” he sneered. “We’ll see. An’ so ye think ye’re going
to marry a lady, whin ye make an honest woman iv Norah Joyce, do ye?
Luk at her! an’ it’s a lady ye’re goin’ to make iv her, is it? An’ thim
hands iv hers, wid the marks iv the milkin’ an’ the shpade on to them.
My! but they’ll luk well among the quality! won’t they?” I was going to
strike him again, but Norah laid her hand on my arm; so smothering my
anger as well as I could, I said:—

“Don’t dare to speak ill of people whose shoes you are not worthy to
black; and be quick about your finishing your work at Shleenanaher, for
you’ve got to go when the time is up. I won’t have the place polluted
by your presence a day longer than I can help.”

Norah looked wonderingly at me and at him, for he had given a manifest
start. I went on:—

“And as for these hands”—I took Norah’s hands in mine—“perhaps the time
may come when you will pray for the help of their honest strength—pray
with all the energy of your dastard soul! But whether this may be or
not, take you care how you cross her path or mine again, or you shall
rue it to the last hour of your life. Come, Norah, it is not fit that
you should contaminate your eyes or your ears with the presence of this
wretch!” and I led her in. As we went I heard Joyce say:—

“An’ listen to me! Niver you dare to put one foot across me mearin’
again; or I’ll take the law into me own hands!”

Then Dick spoke:—

“An’ hark ye, Mr. Murdock! remember that you have to deal with me also
in any evil that you attempt!” Murdock turned on him savagely:—

“As for you, I dismiss ye from me imploymint. Ye’ll niver set foot on
me land agin! Away wid ye!”

“Hurrah!” shouted Dick. “Mr. Joyce, you’re my witness that he has
discharged me, and I am free.” Then he stepped down from the porch, and
said to Murdock, in as exasperating a way as he could:—

“And, dear Mr. Murdock, wouldn’t it be a pleasure to you to have it
out with me here, now? Just a simple round or two—to see which is the
best man? I am sure it would do you good—and me too! I can see you are
simply spoiling for a fight. I promise you that there will be no legal
consequences if you beat me, and if I beat you I shall take my chance.
Do let me persuade you! Just one round;” and he began to take off his
coat. Joyce, however, stopped him, speaking gravely:—

“No! Mr. Sutherland, not here! and let me warn ye, for ye’re a younger
man nor me, agin such anger. I sthruck that man wance, an’ it’s sorry I
am for that same! No! not that I’m afeered of him”—answering the query
in Dick’s face—“but because, for a full-grown man to sthrike in anger
is a sarious thing. Arthur there sthruck not for himself, but for an
affront to his wife that’s promised, an’ he’s not to be blamed.” Norah
here took my arm and held it tight; “but I say, wid that one blow that
I’ve sthruck since I was a lad on me mind, ‘Never sthrike a blow in
anger all yer life long, unless it be to purtect one ye love!’” Dick
turned to him, and said heartily:—

“You’re quite right, Mr. Joyce, and I’m afraid I acted like a cad.
Here! you clear off! Your very presence seems to infect better men than
yourself, and brings them something nearer to your level. Mr. Joyce,
forgive me! I promise I’ll take your good lesson to heart.”

They both came into the room; and Norah and I looking out of the
window—my arm being around her—saw Murdock pass down the path and out
at the gate.

We all took our places once again around the fire. When we sat down
Norah instinctively put her hands behind her, as if to hide them—that
ruffian’s words had stung her a little; and as I looked, without,
however, pretending to take any notice, I ground my teeth. But with
Norah such an ignoble thought could be but a passing one; with a quick
blush she laid her hand open on my knee, so that, as the firelight
fell on it, it was shown in all its sterling beauty. I thought the
opportunity was a fair one, and I lifted it to my lips and said:—

“Norah! I think I may say a word before your father and my friend. This
hand—this beautiful hand,” and I kissed it again, “is dearer to me a
thousand times, because it can do, and has done, honest work; and I
only hope that in all my life I may be worthy of it.” I was about to
kiss it yet again, but Norah drew it gently away. Then she shifted her
stool a little, and came closer to me. Her father saw the movement, and
said simply:—

“Go to him, daughter. He is worth it!—he sthruck a good blow for ye
this night.” And so we changed places, and she leaned her head against
my knee; her other hand—the one not held in mine—rested on her father’s
knee.

There we sat and smoked and talked for an hour or more. Then Dick
looked at me and I at him, and we rose. Norah looked at me lovingly as
we got our hats. Her father saw the look, and said:—

“Come, daughter! if you’re not tired, suppose we see them down the
boreen.”

A bright smile and a blush came in her face; she threw a shawl over her
head, and we went all together. She held her father’s arm and mine; but
by-and-by the lane narrowed, and her father went in front with Dick,
and we two followed.

Was it to be wondered at, if we did lag a little behind them?—and if
we spoke in whispers?—or, if now and again, when the lane curved and
kindly bushes projecting threw dark shadows, our lips met?

When we came to the open space before the gate, we found Andy. He
pretended to see only Dick and Joyce, and saluted them:—

“Begor! but it’s the fine night, it is, Misther Dick, though more
betoken the rain is comin’ on agin soon. A fine night, Misther Joyce!
and how’s Miss Norah?—God bless her! Musha! but it’s sorry I am that
she didn’t walk down wid ye this fine night! An’ poor Masther Art—I
suppose the fairies has got him agin?” Here he pretended to just catch
sight of me. “Yer ’an’r, but it’s the sorraful man I was—shure, an’ I
thought ye was tuk aff be the fairies—or, mayhap, it was houldin’ a
leprachaun that ye wor. An’ my! but there’s Miss Norah, too, comin’ to
take care iv her father! God bless ye, Miss Norah, Acushla!—but it’s
glad I am to see ye!”

“And I’m always glad to see you, Andy,” she said, and shook hands with
him.

Andy took her aside, and said, in a staccato whisper intended for us
all:—

“Musha! Miss Norah, dear, may I ax ye somethin’?”

“Indeed you may, Andy. What is it?”

“Well, now, it’s throubled in me mind I am about Masther Art—that young
gintleman beyant ye, talkin’ t’ yer father!” the hypocritical villain
pointed me out, as though she did not know me. I could see in the
moonlight the happy smile on her face as she turned towards me.

“Yes, I see him!” she answered.

“Well, Miss Norah, the fairies got him on the top iv Knocknacar, and
ivir since he’s been wandherin’ round lukin’ fur wan iv thim. I thried
to timpt him away be tellin’ him iv nice girruls iv these parts—real
girruls, not fairies. But he’s that obstinate he wouldn’t luk at wan iv
thim—no, nor listen to me, ayther.”

“Indeed!” she said, her eyes dancing with fun.

“An’, Miss Norah, dear, what kind iv a girrul d’ye think he wanted to
find?”

“I don’t know, Andy—what kind?”

“Oh, begor! but it’s meself can tell ye! Shure, it’s a long, yalla,
dark girrul, shtreaky—like—like he knows what—not quite a faymale
nagur, wid a rid petticoat, an’ a quare kind iv an eye!”

“Oh, Andy!” was all she said, as she turned to me smiling.

“Get along, you villain!” said I, and I shook my fist at him in fun;
and then I took Norah aside, and told her what the “quare kind iv an
eye” was that I had sought—and found.

Then we two said “Good-night” in peace, whilst the others in front
went through the gate. We took—afterwards—a formal and perfectly
decorous farewell, only shaking hands all round, before Dick and I
mounted the car. Andy started off at a gallop, and his “Git up, ye
ould corncrake!” was lost in our shouts of “Good-bye!” as we waved our
hats. Looking back, we saw Norah’s hands waving as she stood with her
father’s arm around her, and her head laid back against his shoulder,
whilst the yellow moonlight bathed them from head to foot in a sea of
celestial light.

And then we sped on through the moonlight and the darkness alike, for
the clouds of the coming rain rolled thick and fast across the sky.

But for me the air was all aglow with rosy light, and the car was a
chariot flying swiftly to the dawn!

                             CHAPTER XIV.

                           A TRIP TO PARIS.

The next day was Sunday; and after church I came over early to
Knockcalltecrore, and had a long talk with Norah about her school
project. We decided that the sooner she began the better—she because,
as she at first alleged, every month of delay made school a less
suitable place for her—I because, as I took care not only to allege but
to reiterate, as the period had to be put in, the sooner it was begun
the sooner it would end, and so the sooner would my happiness come.

Norah was very sweet, and shyly told me that if such was my decided
opinion, she must say that she too had something of the same view.

“I do not want you to be pained, dear, by any delay,” she said, “made
by your having been so good to me; and I love you too well to want
myself to wait longer than is necessary,”—an admission that was an
intoxicating pleasure to me.

We agreed that our engagement was, if not to be kept a secret, at least
not to be spoken of unnecessarily. Her father was to tell her immediate
relatives, so that there would not be any gossip at her absence, and
I was to tell one or two of my own connexions—for I had no immediate
relatives—and perhaps one or two friends who were rather more closely
connected with me than those of my own blood. I asked to be allowed to
tell also my solicitor, who was an old friend of my father’s, and who
had always had more than merely professional relations with me. I had
reasons of my own for telling him of the purposed change in my life,
for I had important matters to execute through him, so as to protect
Norah’s future in case my own death should occur before the marriage
was to take place. But of this, of course, I did not tell her.

We had a happy morning together, and when Joyce came in we told him
of the conclusion we had arrived at. He fully acquiesced; and then,
when he and I were alone, I asked him if he would prefer to make the
arrangements about the schools himself or by some solicitor he would
name, or that should all be done by my solicitor? He told me that my
London solicitor would probably know what to do better than anyone in
his own part of the world; and we agreed that I was to arrange it with
him.

Accordingly I settled with Norah that the next day but one I should
leave for London, and that when I had put everything on a satisfactory
footing I should return to Carnaclif, and so be for a little longer
able to see my darling. Then I went back to the hotel to write my
letters in time for post.

That afternoon I wrote to my solicitor, Mr. Chapman, and asked him to
have inquiries made, without the least delay, as to what was the best
school in Paris to which to send a young lady, almost grown up, but
whose education had been neglected. I added that I should be myself
in London within two days of my letter, and would hope to have the
information.

That evening I had a long talk on affairs with Dick, and opened to him
a project I had formed regarding Knockcalltecrore. This was that I
should try to buy the whole of the mountain, right away from where the
sandy peninsula united it to the mainland—for evidently it had ages ago
been an isolated sea-girt rock-bound island. Dick knew that already we
held a large part of it—Norah the Cliff Fields, Joyce the upper land
on the sea side, and myself the part that I had already bought from
Murdock. He quite fell in with the idea, and as we talked it over he
grew more and more enthusiastic.

“Why, my dear fellow,” he said, as he stood up and walked about the
room, “it will make the most lovely residence in the world, and will
be a fine investment for you. Holding long leases, you will easily be
able to buy the freehold, and then every penny spent will return many
fold. Let us once be able to find the springs that feed the bog, and
get them in hand, and we can make the place a paradise. The springs
are evidently high up on the hill, so that we can not only get water
for irrigating and ornamental purposes, but we can get power also!
Why, you can have electric light, and everything else you like, at the
smallest cost. And if it be, as I suspect, that there is a streak of
limestone in the hill, the place might be a positive mine of wealth as
well! We have not lime within fifty miles, and if once we can quarry
the stone here we can do anything. We can build a harbour on the south
side, which would be the loveliest place to keep a yacht in that ever
was known—quite big enough for anything in these parts—as safe as
Portsmouth, and of fathomless depth.

“Easy, old man!” I cried, for the idea made me excited too.

“But I assure you Art, I am within the truth!”

“I know it, Dick—and now I want to come to business!”

“Eh! how do you mean?” he said, looking puzzled.

Then I told him of the school project, and that I was going to London
after another day to arrange it. He was delighted, and quite approved.

“It is the wisest thing I ever heard of!” was his comment. “But how do
you mean about business?” he asked.

“Dick, this has all to be done; and it needs some one to do it. I am
not a scientist nor an engineer, and this project wants the aid of
both, or of one man who is the two. Will you do it for me—and for
Norah?”

He seemed staggered for a moment, but said heartily:

“That I will—but it will take some time!”

“We can do it within two years,” I answered, “and that is the time
that Norah will be away. It will help to pass it!” and I sighed.

“A long time, indeed, but oh, what a time, Art! Just fancy what you are
waiting for; there need be no unhappy moment, please God, in all those
months.”

Then I made him a proposition, to which he, saying that my offer was
too good, at first demurred. I reasoned with him, and told him that
the amount was little to me, as, thanks to my Great Aunt, I had more
than I ever could use; and that I wanted to make Norah’s country home
a paradise on earth—so far as love and work and the means at command
could do it; that it would take up all Dick’s time, and keep him for
the whole period from pursuing his studies; and that he would have to
be manager as well as engineer, and would have to buy the land for
me. I told him also my secret hope that in time he would take all my
affairs in hand and manage everything for me.

“Buying the land will, I fancy, be easy enough,” he said. “Two of the
farms are in the market now, and all round here land is literally going
abegging. However, I shall take the matter in hand at once, and write
you to London, in case there should be anything before you get back.”
And thus we settled that night that I was, if possible, to buy the
whole mountain. I wrote by the next post to Mr. Caicy, telling him that
I had a project of purchase in hand, and that Mr. Sutherland would do
everything for me during my absence, and that whatever he wished was to
be done. I asked him to come over and see Dick before the week was out.

The next day I spoke to Joyce, and asked him if he would care to sell
me the lease of the land he now held. He seemed rejoiced at the chance
of being able to get away.

“I will go gladly, though, sure enough, I’ll be sad for a while to lave
the shpot where I was born, and where I’ve lived all me life. But whin
Norah is gone—an’ sure she’ll never be back, for I’m thinkin’ that
after her school ye’ll want to get married at once—”

“That we shall!” I interrupted.

“An’ right enough too! But widout her the place will be that lonesome
that I don’t think I could abear it! Me sister ’ll go over to
Knocknacar to live wid me married sister there, that’ll be only too
happy to have her with her; and I’ll go over to Glasgow where Eugene
is at work. The boy wants me to come, and whin I wrote and tould him
of Norah’s engagement, he wrote at once askin’ me to lave the Hill and
come to him. He says that before the year is out he hopes to be able to
keep himself—an’ me, too, if we should want it—an’ he wrote such a nice
letter to Norah—but the girl will like to tell ye about that herself! I
can’t sell ye the Cliff Fields meself, for they belong to Norah; but if
ye like to ask her I’m sure she’ll make no objection.”

“I should be glad to have them,” I said, “but all shall be hers in two
years!”

And then and there we arranged for the sale of the property. I made
Joyce the offer; he accepted at once, but said it was more than it was
worth.

“No,” said I, “I shall take the chance! I intend to make improvements.”

Norah did not make any objection to her father selling the Cliff
Fields. She told me that as I wanted to have them, I might, of course;
but she hoped I would never sell the spot, as it was very dear to her.
I assured her that in this as in all other matters I would do as she
wished, and we sealed the assurance with——. Never mind! we sealed it!

I spent the afternoon there, for it was to be my last afternoon with
Norah until I came back from Paris. We went down for a while to the
Cliff Fields and sat on the table rock and talked over all our plans.
I told her I had a scheme regarding Knockcalltecrore, but that I did
not wish to tell her about it as it was to be a surprise. It needed a
pretty hard struggle to be able to keep her in the dark even to this
extent—there is nothing more sweet to young lovers than to share a
secret. She knew that my wishes were all for her, and was content.

When we got back to the cottage I said good-bye. This naturally took
some time—a first good-bye always does!—and went home to get my
traps packed ready for an early start in the morning—more especially
as I wished, when in Galway, to give Mr. Caicy instructions as to
transferring the two properties—Norah’s and her father’s.

When Dick came home, he and I had a long talk on affairs; and I saw
that he thoroughly understood all about the purchase of the whole
mountain. Then we said good-night, and I retired.

I did not sleep very well. I think I was too happy, and out of the
completeness of my happiness there seemed to grow a fear—some dim
haunting dread of a change—something which would reverse the existing
order of things. And so in dreams the Drowsy God played at ball with
me; now throwing me to a dizzy height of joy, and then, as I fell
swiftly through darkness, arresting my flight into the nether gloom
with some new sweet hope. It seemed to me that I was awake all the
night—and yet I knew I must have slept for I had distinct recollections
of dreams in which all the persons and circumstances lately present to
my mind were strangely jumbled together. The jumble was kaleidoscopic;
there was an endless succession of its phases, but the pieces all
remained the same. There were moments when all seemed aglow with rosy
light, and hard on them, others horrid with the gloom of despair or
fear; but in all, the dominating idea was the mountain standing against
the sunset, always as the embodiment of the ruling emotion of the
scene—and always Norah’s beautiful eyes shone upon me. I seemed to live
over again in isolated moments all the past weeks; but in such a way
that the legends and myths and stories of Knockcalltecrore which I had
heard were embodied in each moment. Thus, Murdock had always a part in
the gloomy scenes, and got inextricably mixed up with the King of the
Snakes. They freely exchanged personalities, and at one time I could
see the Gombeen Man defying St. Patrick, whilst at another the Serpent
seemed to be struggling with Joyce, and, after twisting round the
mountain, being only beaten off by a mighty blow from Norah’s father,
rushing to the sea through the Shleenanaher.

Towards morning, as I suppose the needs of the waking day became more
present to my mind in the gradual process of awakening, the bent of
my thoughts began to be more practical; the Saint and His Majesty of
the Serpents began to disappear, and the two dim cuirassiers who,
with the money chest, had through the earlier hours of the night been
passing far athwart my dreams—appearing and disappearing equally
mysteriously—took a more prominent, or, perhaps, a more real part.
Then I seemed to see Murdock working in a grave, whose sides were ever
crumbling in as he frantically sought the treasure chest, whilst the
gun-carriage, rank with the slime of the bog, was high above him on the
brink of the grave, projected blackly against the yellow moon. Every
time this scene in its myriad variations came round, it changed to one
where the sides of the grave began to tumble in, and Murdock in terror
tried to scream out, but could make no sound, nor could he make any
effort to approach Norah, whose strong hands were stretched out to aid
him.

With such a preparation for waking is it any wonder that I suddenly
started broad awake with a strong sense of something forgotten, and
found that it was four o’clock, and time to get ready for my journey.
I did not lose any time, and after a hot cup of tea, which the cheery
Mrs. Keating had herself prepared for me, was on my way under Andy’s
care to Recess, where we were to meet the “long car” to Galway.

Andy was, for a wonder, silent, and as I myself felt in a most active
frame of mind, this rather gave me an opportunity for some amusement.
I waited for a while to see if he would suggest any topic in his usual
style; but as there was no sign of a change, I began:—

“You are very silent to-day, Andy. You are sad! What is it?”

“I’m thinkin’!”

“So I thought, Andy. But who are you thinking of?”

“Faix, I’m thinkin’ iv poor Miss Norah there wid ne’er a bhoy on
the flure at all, at all; an’ iv the fairy girrul at Knocknacar—the
poor craythur waitin’ for some kind iv a leprachaun to come back to
her. They do say, yer ’an’r, that the fairies is mighty fond iv thim
leprachauns intirely. Musha! but it’s a quare thing that weemen of all
natures thinks a power more iv minkind what is hard to be caught nor iv
thim that follys thim an’ is had aisy!”

“Indeed! Andy.” I felt he was getting on dangerous ground, and thought
it would be as well to keep him to generalities if I could.

“Shure they do tell me so; that the girruls, whether fairies or weemen,
is more fond iv lukin’ out fur leprachauns, or min if that’s their
kind, than the clargy is iv killin’ the divil—an’ they’ve bin at him
fur thousands iv years, an’ him not turned a hair.”

“Well! Andy, isn’t it only natural, too? If we look at the girls and
make love to them, why shouldn’t they have a turn too, poor things, and
make love to us? Now you would like to have a wife, I know; only that
you’re too much afraid of any woman.”

“Thrue for ye! But shure an’ how could I go dhrivin’ about the counthry
av I had a wife iv me own in wan place? It’s meself that’s welkim
everywhere, jist because any wan iv the weemen might fear I’d turn the
laugh on her whin I got her home; but a car-dhriver can no more shpake
soft to only wan girrul nor he can dhrive his car in his own shanty.”

“Well! but Andy, what would you do if you were to get married?”

“Faix, surr, an’ the woman must settle that whin she comes. But, begor!
it’s not for a poor man like me—nor for the likes iv me—that the
fairies does be keepin’ their eyes out. I tell yer ’an’r that poor min
isn’t iv much account anyhow! Shure poverty is the worst iv crimes; an’
there’s no hidin’ it like th’ others. Patches is saw a mighty far way
off; and shure enough they’re more frightfuller nor even the polis!”

“By George! Andy,” said I, “I’m afraid you’re a cynic.”

“A cynic, sir; an’, faix, what sin am I up to now?”

“You say poverty is a crime.”

“Begor! but it’s worse! Most crimes is forgave afther a bit; an’ the
law is done wid ye whin ye’re atin’ yer skilly. But there’s some
people—aye! an’ lashins iv thim too—what’d rather see ye in a good
shute iv coffin than in a bad shute iv clothes!”

“Why, Andy, you’re quite a philosopher!”

“Bedad, that’s quare; but whisper me now, surr, what kind iv a thing’s
that?”

“Well! it’s a very wise man—one who loves wisdom.”

“Begor! yer ’an’r, lovin’ girruls is more in my shtyle; but I thought
maybe it was some new kind iv a Protestan’.”

“Why a Protestant?”

“Sorra wan iv me knows! I thought maybe they can believe even less nor
the ould wans.”

Andy’s method of theological argument was quite too difficult for me,
so I was silent; but my companion was not. He, however, evidently felt
that theological disquisition was no more his _forte_ than my own, for
he instantly changed to another topic:—

“I’ll be goin’ back to Knockcalltecrore to-morra, yer ’an’r. I’ve been
tould to call fur Mr. Caicy, th’ attorney—savin’ yer prisence—to take
him back to Carnaclif. Is there any missage ye’d like to send to any
wan?” He looked at me so slyly that his meaning was quite obvious.

“Thanks, Andy, but I think not; unless you tell Mr. Dick that we have
had a pleasant journey this morning.”

“Nothin’ but that?—to nobody?”

“Who to, for instance, Andy?”

“There’s Miss Norah, now! Shure girruls is always fond iv gettin’
missages, an’ most iv all from people what they’re not fond iv!”

“Meaning me?”

“Oh, yis! oh, yis! if there’s wan more nor another what she hates the
sight iv, it’s yer ’an’r! Shure didn’t I notice it in her eye ere
yistherday night, beyant at the boreen gate? Faix! but it’s a nice eye
Miss Norah has! Now, yer ’an’r, wouldn’t an eye like that be betther
for a young gintleman to luk into, than the quare eye iv yer fairy
girrul—the wan that ye wor lukin’ for, an’ didn’t find!”

The sly way in which Andy looked at me as he said this was quite
indescribable. I have seen sly humour in the looks of children where
the transparent simplicity of their purpose was a foil to their
manifest intention to pretend to deceive. I have seen the arch glances
of pretty young women when their eyes contradicted with resistless
force the apparent meaning of their words; but I have never seen any
slyness which could rival that of Andy. However, when he had spoken
as above, he seemed to have spent the last bolt in his armoury; and
for the remainder of the drive to Recess he did not touch again on the
topic, or on a kindred one.

When I was in the hotel porch waiting the arrival of the long car, Andy
came up to me:—

“What day will I be in Galway for yer ’an’r?”

“How do you mean, Andy? I didn’t tell you I was coming back.”

Andy laughed a merry, ringing laugh:—

“Begor! yer ’an’r, d’ye think there’s only wan way iv tellin’ things?
Musha! but spache ’d be a mighty precious kind iv a thing if that was
the way!”

“But, Andy, is not speech the way to make known what you wish other
people to know?”

“Ah, go to God! I’d like to know if ye take it for granted whin ye
ask a girrul a question an’ she says ‘no,’ that she manes it—or that
she intends ayther that ye should think she manes it. Faix! it ’d be
a harrd wurrld to live in, if that was so; an’ there ’d be mighty few
widdys in it ayther!”

“Why widows, Andy?”

“Shure, isn’t wives the shtuff that widdys is made iv!”

“Oh! I see. I’m learning, Andy—I’m getting on!”

“Yis! yer ’an’r. Ye haven’t got on the long cap now; but I’m afeerd
it’s only a leather medal ye’d get as yit. Niver mind! surr. Here’s the
long car comin’; an’ whin ye tellygraph to Misther Dick to sind me over
to Galway fur to bring ye back, I’ll luk up Miss Norah an’ ax her to
condescind to give ye some lessons in the differ betwixt ‘yes’ an’ ‘no’
as shpoke by girruls. I’m tould now, it’s a mighty intherestin’ kind iv
a shtudy for a young gintleman!”

There was no answering this Parthian shaft.

“Good-bye! Andy,” I said, as I left a sovereign in his hand.

“Good luck! yer ’an’r; though what’s the use iv wishin’ luck to a man,
whin the fairies is wid him!”

The last thing I saw was Andy waving his ragged hat as we passed the
curve of the road round the lake before Recess was hidden from our view.

When I got to Galway I found Mr. Caicy waiting for me. He was most
hearty in his welcome; and told me that as there was nearly an hour to
wait before the starting of the Dublin express, he had luncheon on the
table, and that we could discuss our business over it. We accordingly
adjourned to his house, and after explaining to him what I wanted done
with regard to the purchase of the property at Knockcalltecrore, I told
him that Dick knew all the details, and would talk them over with him
when he saw him on the next evening.

I began my eastward journey with my inner man in a most comfortable
condition. Indeed, I concluded that there was no preparation for a
journey like a bottle of ‘Sneyd’s 47’ between two. I got to Dublin in
time for the night mail, and on the following morning walked into Mr.
Chapman’s office at half-past ten o’clock.

He had all the necessary information for me; indeed, his zeal and his
kindness were such that then and there I opened my heart to him, and
was right glad that I had done so when I felt the hearty grasp of
his hand as he wished me joy and all good fortune. He was, of course,
on the side of prudence. He was my own lawyer and my father’s friend;
and it was right and fitting that he should be. But it was quite
evident that in the background of his musty life there was some old
romance—musty old attorneys always have romances—so at least say the
books. He entered heartily into my plan; and suggested that, if I
chose, he would come with me to see the school and the schoolmistress
in Paris.

“It will be better, I am sure,” he said, “to have an old man like
myself with you, and who can in our negotiations speak for her father.
Indeed, my dear boy, from being so old a friend of your father’s, and
having no children of my own, I have almost come to look on you as my
son, so it will not be much of an effort to regard Miss Norah as my
daughter. The schoolmistress will, in the long run, be better satisfied
with my standing _in loco parentis_ than with yours.” It was a great
relief to me to find my way thus smoothed, for I had half expected some
objection or remonstrance on his part. His kind offer was, of course,
accepted; and the next morning found us in Paris.

We went to see the school and the schoolmistress. All was arranged as
we wished. Mr. Chapman did not forget that Norah wished to have all the
extra branches of study, or that I wished to add all that could give a
charm to her life. The schoolmistress opened her eyes at the total of
Norah’s requirements, which Mr. Chapman summed up as “all extras”—the
same including the use of a saddle-horse, and visits to the opera and
such performances as should be approved of, under the special care and
with the special accompaniment of Madame herself.

I could see that for the coming year Norah’s lines would lie in
pleasant places in so far as Madame Lepecheaux could accomplish it. The
date of her coming was to be fixed by letter, and as soon as possible.

Mr. Chapman had suggested that it might be well to arrange with Madame
Lepecheaux that Norah should be able to get what clothes she might
require, and such matters as are wanted by young ladies of the position
which she was entering. The genial French woman quite entered into the
idea, but insisted that the representative of Norah’s father should
come with her to the various _magasins_ and himself make arrangements.
He could not refuse; and as I was not forbidden by the unsuspecting
lady, I came too.

These matters took up some time, and it was not until the fifth day
after I had left Connemara that we were able to start on our return
journey. We left at night, and after our arrival in the early morning
went, as soon as we had breakfasted, to Mr. Chapman’s office to get our
letters.

I found two. The first I took to the window to read, where I was
hidden behind a curtain, and where I might kiss it without being seen;
for, although the writing was strange to me—for I had never seen her
handwriting—I knew that it was from Norah.

Do any of us who arrive at middle life ever attempt to remember our
feelings on receiving the first letter from the woman or the man of
our love? Can there come across the long expanse of commonplace life,
strewn as it is with lost beliefs and shattered hopes, any echo—any
after-glow—of that time, any dim recollection of the thrill of pride
and joy that flashed through us at such a moment? Can we rouse
ourselves from the creeping lethargy of the contented acceptance of
things, and feel the generous life-blood flowing through us once again?

I held Norah’s letter in my hand, and it seemed as though with but one
more step, I should hold my darling herself in my arms. I opened her
letter most carefully; anything that her hands had touched was sacred
to me. And then her message—the message of her heart to mine—sent
direct and without intermediary, reached me:—

       “MY DEAR ARTHUR,—

    “I hope you had a good journey, and that you enjoyed your trip
    to Paris. Father and I are both well; and we have had excellent
    news of Eugene, who has been promoted to more important work.
    We have seen Mr. Sutherland every day. He says that everything
    is going just as you wish it. Mr. Murdock has taken old Bat
    Moynahan to live with him since you went; they are always
    together, and Moynahan seems to be always drunk. Father thinks
    that Mr. Murdock has some purpose on foot, and that it cannot
    be a good one. We shall all be glad to see you soon again. I
    am afraid this letter must seem very odd to you; but you know
    I am not accustomed to writing letters. You must believe one
    thing—that whatever I say to you, I feel and believe with
    all my heart. I got your letters, and I cannot tell you what
    pleasure they gave me, or how I treasure them. Father sends his
    love and duty. What could I send that words could carry? I may
    not try yet. Perhaps I shall be more able to do what I wish,
    when I know more.

                                                            “NORAH.”

The letter disappointed me! Was any young man ever yet satisfied with
written words, when his medium had hitherto been rosy lips, with the
added commentary of loving eyes? And yet when I look back on that
letter from a peasant girl, without high education or knowledge of the
world, and who had possibly never written a letter before except to her
father or brother, or a girl friend, and but few even of these—when I
read in every word its simplicity and truth, and recognise the _arrière
pensée_ of that simple phrase, “whatever I say to you I feel and think
with all my heart,” I find it hard to think that any other letter that
she or anyone else could have written, could have been more suitable,
or could have meant more.

When I had read Norah’s letter over a few times, and feared that Mr.
Chapman would take humorous notice of my absorption, I turned to the
other letter, which I knew was from Dick. I brought this from the
window to the table, beside which I sat to read it, Mr. Chapman being
still deep in his own neglected correspondence.

I need not give his letter in detail. It was long and exhaustive, and
told me accurately of every step taken and everything accomplished
since I had seen him. Mr. Caicy had made his appearance, as arranged,
and the two had talked over and settled affairs. Mr. Caicy had lost
no time, and fortune had so favoured him that he found that nearly
all the tenants on the east side of the hill wished to emigrate, and
so were anxious to realize on their holdings. The estate from which
they held was in bankruptcy; and as a sale was then being effected,
Mr. Caicy had purchased the estate, and then made arrangements for all
who wished to purchase to do so on easy terms from me. The nett result
was, that when certain formalities should be complied with, and certain
moneys paid, I should own the whole of Knockcalltecrore and the land
immediately adjoining it, together with certain other parcels of land
in the neighbourhood. There were other matters of interest also in his
letter. He told me that Murdock, in order to spite and injure Joyce,
had completed the damming up of the stream which ran from his land into
the Cliff Fields by blocking with great stones the narrow chine in the
rocks through which it fell; that this, coupled with the continuous
rains had made the bog rise enormously, and that he feared much there
would be some disaster. His fear was increased by what had taken place
at Knocknacar. Even here the cuttings had shown some direful effects
of the rain; the openings, made with so much trouble, had become
choked, and as a consequence the bog had risen again, and had even
spread downwards on its original course. Alarmed by these things,
Dick had again warned Murdock of the danger in which he stood from
the position of his house; and further, from tampering with the solid
bounds of the bog itself. Murdock had not taken his warnings in good
part—not any better than usual—and the interview had, as usual, ended
in a row. Murdock had made the quarrel the occasion of ventilating his
grievance against me for buying the whole mountain, for by this time it
had leaked out that I was the purchaser. His language, Dick said, was
awful. He cursed me and all belonging to me. He cursed Joyce and Norah,
and Dick himself, and swore to be revenged on us all, and told Dick
that he would balk me of finding the treasure—even if I were to buy
up all Ireland, and if he had to peril his soul to forestall me. Dick
ended his description of his proceedings characteristically:—“In fact,
he grew so violent, and said such insulting things of you and others,
that I had to give him a good sound thrashing.”

“Others”—that meant Norah, of course—good old Dick! It was just as
well for Mr. Murdock’s physical comfort, and for the peace of the
neighbourhood, that I did not meet him then and there; for, under
these favouring conditions, there would have been a continuance of his
experiences under the hands of Dick Sutherland.

Then Dick went on to tell me at greater length what Norah had conveyed
in her letter—that, since I had left, Murdock had taken Bat Moynahan
to live with him, and kept him continually drunk; that the two of them
were evidently trying to locate the whereabouts of the treasure; and
that, whenever they thought they were not watched, they trespassed on
Joyce’s land, to get near a certain part of the bog.

“I mean to watch them the first dark night,” wrote Dick, at the close
of his letter; “for I cannot help thinking that there is some devilment
on foot. I don’t suppose you care much for the treasure—you’ve got
a bigger treasure from Knockcalltecrore than ever was hidden in it
by men—but, all the same, it is yours after Murdock’s time is up;
and, as the guardian of your interest, I feel that I have a right
to do whatever may be necessary to protect you. I have seen, at
times, Murdock give such a look at Moynahan out of the corners of
his eyes—when he thought no one was looking—that, upon my soul, I am
afraid he means—if he gets the chance—to murder the old man, after he
has pumped him of all he knows. I don’t want to accuse a man of such
an intention, without being able to prove it, and of course have said
nothing to a soul; but I shall be really more comfortable in my mind
when the man has gone away.”

By the time I had finished the letter, Mr. Chapman had run through
his correspondence—vacation business was not much in his way—and we
discussed affairs.

The settlement of matters connected with my estate, and the
purchase of Knockcalltecrore, together with the making of certain
purchases—including a ring for Norah—kept me a few days in London;
but at length all was complete, and I started on my trip to the
West of Ireland. Before leaving, I wrote to Norah that I would be
at Knockcalltecrore on the morning of the 20th October; and also to
Dick, asking him to see that Andy was sent to meet me at Galway on
the morning of the 19th—for I preferred rather to have the drive
in solitude, than to be subjected to the interruptions of chance
fellow-passengers.

At Dublin Mr. Caicy met me, as agreed; and together we went to various
courts, chambers, offices, and banks—completing the purchase with
all the endless official formalities and eccentricities habitual to
a country whose administration has traditionally adopted and adapted
every possible development of all belonging to red-tape.

At last, however, all was completed; and very early the next morning
Mr. Caicy took his seat in the Galway express, in a carriage with the
owner of Knockcalltecrore, to whom he had been formally appointed Irish
law agent.

The journey was not a long one, and it was only twelve o’clock when we
steamed into Galway. As we drew up at the platform, I saw Dick, who
had come over to meet me. He was, I thought, looking a little pale and
anxious; but as he did not say anything containing the slightest hint
of any cause for such a thing, I concluded that he wished to wait until
we were alone. This, however, was not to be for a little while; for Mr.
Caicy had telegraphed to order lunch at his house, and thither we had
to repair. We walked over; although Andy, who was in waiting outside
the station, grinning from ear to ear, offered to “rowl our ’an’rs over
in half a jiffey.”

Lunch over, and our bodies the richer for some of Mr. Caicy’s excellent
port, we prepared to start. Dick took occasion to whisper to me:—

“Some time on the road propose to walk for a bit, and send on the car.
I want a talk with you alone, without making a mystery!”

“All right, Dick. Is it a serious matter?”

“Very serious!”

                              CHAPTER XV.

                       A MIDNIGHT TREASURE HUNT.

When, some miles on our road, we came to a long stretch of moorland, I
told Andy to stop till we got off. This being done, I told him to go on
and wait for us at the next house, as we wished to have a walk.

“The nixt house?” queried Andy, “the very nixt house? Must it be that
same?”

“No, Andy!” I answered, “the next after that will do equally well, or
the third if it is not too far off. Why do you want to change?”

“Well, yer ’an’r, to tell ye the thruth there’s a girrul at the house
beyant what thinks it’s a long time on the road I am widout doin’
anythin’ about settlin’ down, an’ that its time I asked her fortin,
anyhow. Musha! but it’s afeerd I am to shtop there, fur maybe she’d
take advantage iv me whin she got me all alone, an’ me havin’ to wait
there till yez come. An’ me so softhearted, that maybe I’d say too much
or too little.”

“Why too much or too little?”

“Faix! if I said too much I might be settled down before the month was
out; an’ if I said too little I might have a girrul lukin’ black at
me iv’ry time I dhruv by. The house beyant it is a public, an’ shure I
know I’m safe there anyhow—if me dhrouth’ll only hould out!”

I took the hint, and Andy spun my shilling in the air as he drove off.
Dick and I walked together, and when he was out of earshot I said:—

“Now, old fellow, we are alone! What is it?”

“It’s about Murdock.”

“Not more than you told me in your letter, I hope. I owe you a good
turn for that thrashing you gave him!”

“Oh, that was nothing; it was a labour of love! What I want to speak of
is a much more serious affair.”

“Nothing to touch Norah, I hope?” I said anxiously.

“This individual thing is not, thank God! but everything which that
ruffian can do to worry her or any of us will be done. We’ll have to
watch him closely.”

“What is this new thing?”

“It is about old Moynahan. I am in serious doubt and anxiety as to what
I should do. At present I have only suspicion to go on, and not the
faintest shadow of proof, and I really want help and advice.”

“Tell me all about it.”

“I shall! exactly as I remember it; and when I have told you, you may
be able to draw some conclusion which can help us.”

“Go on! but remember I am, as yet, in ignorance of what it is all
about. You must not take any knowledge on my part for granted.”

“I’ll bear it in mind. Well! you remember what I said in my letter,
that I had a suspicion of Murdock, and intended watching him?” I
nodded. “Two nights after I had written that, the evening was dark
and wet—just the weather I would have chosen myself had I had any
mysterious purpose on hand. As soon as it got dark I put on my black
waterproof and fishing boots and a sou’wester, and then felt armed for
any crouching or lying down that might be required. I waited outside
Murdock’s house in the laneway, where I could see from the shadows on
the window that both men were in the house. I told you that old Bat
Moynahan had taken up his residence entirely with the Gombeen Man——”

“And that he was always drunk!”

“Exactly! I see you understand the situation. Presently I heard a
stumble on the stone outside the porch, and peeping in through the
hedge I saw Murdock holding up old Moynahan. Then he shut the door
and they came down the path. The wind was by this time blowing pretty
strongly, and made a loud noise in the hedgerows, and bore in the roar
of the surf. Neither of the men could hear me, for I took care as I
followed them to keep on the leeward side, and always with something
between us. Murdock did not seem to have the slightest suspicion that
any one was even on the hill side, let alone listening, and he did not
even lower his tone as he spoke. Moynahan was too drunk to either know
or care how loud he spoke, and indeed both had to speak pretty loud
in order to be heard through the sound of the growing storm. The rain
fell in torrents, and the men passed down the boreen stumbling and
slipping. I followed on the other side of the hedge, and I can tell you
I felt grateful to the original Mackintosh, or Golosh, or whatever was
the name of the Johnny who invented waterproof. When they had reached
the foot of the hill, they went on the road which curves round by the
south-east, and I managed to scramble through the fir wood without
losing sight of them. When they came to the bridge over the stream,
where it runs out on the north side of the Peninsula, they turned up
on the far bank. I slipped over the bridge behind them, and got on the
far side of the fringe of alders. Here they stopped and sheltered for a
while, and as I was but a few feet from them I heard every word which
passed. Murdock began by saying to Moynahan:—

“‘Now, keep yer wits about ye, if ye can. Ye’ll get lashins iv dhrink
whin we get back, but remimber ye promised to go over the ground where
yer father showed ye that the Frinchmin wint wid the gun carriage an’
the horses. Where was it now that he tuk ye?’ Moynahan evidently made
an effort to think and speak:—

“‘It was just about this shpot wheer he seen thim first. They crast
over the sthrame—there wor no bridge thin nigher nor Galway—an’ wint up
the side iv the hill sthraight up.’

“‘Now, couldn’t ye folla the way yer father showed ye? Jist think. It’s
all dark, and there’s nothin’ that ye know to confuse ye—no threes what
has growed up since thin. Thry an’ remimber, an’ ye’ll have lashins iv
dhrink this night, an’ half the goold whin we find it.”

“‘I can go! I can show the shpot! Come on.’ He made a sudden bolt down
into the river, which was running unusually high. The current almost
swept him away; but Murdock was beside him in a moment, crying out:—

“‘Go an! the wather isn’t deep! don’t be afeerd! I’m wid ye.’ When I
heard this I ran round and across the bridge, and was waiting behind
the hedge on the road when they came up again. The two men went up the
hill straight for perhaps a hundred yards, I still close to them; then
Moynahan stopped:—

“‘Here’s about the shpot me father tould me that he seen the min whin
the moon shone out. Thin they went aff beyant,’ and he pointed to
the south. The struggle through the stream had evidently sobered him
somewhat, for he spoke much more clearly.

“‘Come on thin,’ cried Murdock, and they moved off.

“‘Here’s wheer they wint to, thin,’ said Moynahan, as he stopped on the
south side of the hill—as I knew it to be from the louder sound of the
surf which was borne in by the western gale. ‘Here they wor, jist about
here, an’ me father wint away to hide from thim beside the big shtone
at the Shleenanaher so that they wouldn’t see him.’ Then he paused,
and went on in quite a different voice:—

“There, now I’ve tould ye enough for wan night. Come home! for it’s
chilled to the harrt I am, an’ shtarved wid the cowld. Come home! I’ll
tell no more this night.’ The next sound I heard was the popping of a
cork, and then the voice of Murdock in a cheery tone:—

“‘Here, take a sup of this, ould man. It’s chilled we both are, an’
cramped wid cowld. Take a good dhraw, ye must want it if ye’re as bad
as I am!’ The gurgle that followed showed that he had obeyed orders;
this was confirmed within an incredibly short time by his voice as he
spoke again.

“‘Me father hid there beyant. Come on!’ We all, each in his own way,
moved down to the Shleenanaher, and stood there. Moynahan spoke first.

“‘From here, he seen them jist over the ridge iv the hill. I can go
there now; come on!’ He hurried up the slope, Murdock holding on to
him. I followed, now crouching low, for there was but little shelter
here. Moynahan stopped and said:—

“‘It was just here!’

“‘How do ye know?’ asked Murdock doubtfully.

“‘How do I know! Hasn’t me father been over the shpot wid me a score iv
times; aye, an’ a hundhred times afore that be himself. It was here, I
tell ye, that he seen the min wid the gun carriage for the last time.
Do ye want to arguey it?’

“‘Not me!’ said Murdock, and as he spoke I saw him stoop—for as I was
at the time lying on the ground I could see his outline against the
dark sky. He was looking away from me, and as I looked too I could see
him start as he whispered to himself:—

“‘Be God! but it’s thrue! there’s the gun carriage!’ There it was! Art,
true enough before my eyes, not ten feet away on the edge of the bog!
Moynahan went on:—

“‘Me father tould me that the mountain was different at that time; the
bog only kem down about as low as this. Musha! but its the quare lot
it has shifted since thin!’ There was a pause, broken by Murdock, who
spoke in a hoarse, hard voice:—

“‘An’ where did he see them nixt?’ Moynahan seemed to be getting
drunker and drunker, as was manifest in his later speech; his dose of
whiskey had no doubt been a good one.

“‘He seen them next to the north beyant—higher up towards Murdock’s
house.’

“‘Towards Murdock’s house! Ye mane Joyce’s?’

“‘No, I mane Black Murdock’s; the wan he had before he robbed Joyce.