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-stairs. 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 plates full 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 honorable 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 paid 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 honorable, 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; while, 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 while 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 among 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 of 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