“‘Twill be betther for ye, darlin’, to go widout me. Ye’ll have quite enough to do for a bit to keep even wid the girls that have been reared in betther ways nor you, widout me there to make little iv ye.”
“But, father,” she remonstrated, “I don’t want to appear any different from what I am. And I am too fond of you, and too proud of you, not to want to appear as your daughter.”
Her father stroked her hair gently as he answered:
“Norah, my darlin’, it isn’t that. Ye’ve always been the good and dutiful daughter to me; an’ in all your pretty life there’s not wan thing I wish undone or unsaid. But I’m older than you, daughter, an’ I know more iv the world; an’ what I say is best for ye — now, and in yer future. I’m goin’ to live wid Eugene; an’ afther a while I suppose I, too, ‘II be somethin’ different from what l am. An’ thin, whin I’ve lived a while in a city, and got somethin’ of city ways, I’ll come an’ see ye, maybe. Ye must remember that it’s not only of you we’ve to think, but of th’ other girls in the school. I don’t want to have any of them turnin’ up their noses at ye; that’s not the way to get the best out iv school, my dear; for I suppose school is like everywhere else in the world: the higher ye’re able to hould yer head, the more others’ll look up to ye.”
His words were so obviously true, that not one of us had a word to say, and the matter was acquiesced in nem. con. I myself got leave to accompany the party as far as London, but not beyond. It was further arranged that Joyce should take his daughter to Galway to get some clothes for her — just enough to take her to Paris — and that when in Paris she should have a full outfit under the direction of Madame Lepecheaux. They were to leave on Friday, so as to have the Saturday in Galway; and as Norah wanted to say goodbye on the Sunday to old school-fellows and friends in the convent, they would return on Monday, the 25th of October. Accordingly, on the morning after next, Joyce took a letter for me to Mr. Caicy, who was to pay to him whatever portion of the purchase-money of his land he should require, and whom I asked to give all possible assistance in whatever matters either he or Norah might desire. I would have dearly liked to have gone myself with them, but the purpose and the occasion were such that I could not think of offering to go. On the day fixed they left on the long car from Carnaclif. They started in torrents of rain, but were as well wrapped up as the resources of Dick and myself would allow.
When they had gone Dick and I drove over to Knockcalltecrore. Dick wished to have an interview with Murdock, regarding his giving up possession of the land on the 27th, as arranged.
We left Andy as usual at the foot of the Hill, and went up to Murdock’s house. The door was locked; and although we knocked several times, we could get no answer. We came away, therefore, and went up the Hill, as Dick wished me to see where, according to old Moynahan, was the last place at which the Frenchmen had been seen. As we went on and turned the brow of the mound, which lay straight up — for the bog-land lay in a curve round its southern side — we saw before us two figures at the edge of the bog. They were those of Murdock and old Moynahan. When we saw who they were, Dick whispered to me:
“They are at the place to which I changed the mark, but are still on Joyce’s land.”
They were working just as Dick and I had worked with Murdock, when we had recovered the gun-carriage, and were so intent on the work at which they toiled with feverish eagerness that they did not see us coming; and it was only when we stood close beside them that they were conscious of our presence. Murdock turned at once with a scowl and a sort of snarl. When he saw who it was he became positively livid with passion, and at once began to bombard us with the foulest vituperation. Dick pressed my arm, as a hint to keep quiet and leave the talking to him, and I did nothing; but he opposed the Gombeen Man’s passion with an unruffled calm. Indeed, he seemed to me to want even to exasperate Murdock to the last degree. When the latter paused for a second for breath, he quietly said:
“Keep your hair on, Murdock, and just tell me quietly why you are trespassing; and why, and what, you are trying to steal from this property?”
Murdock made no answer, so Dick went on:
“Let me tell you that I act for the owner of this land, who bought it as it is, and I shall hold you responsible for your conduct. I don’t want to have a row needlessly, so if you go away quietly, and promise to not either trespass here again, or try to steal anything, I shall not take any steps. If not, I shall do as the occasion demands.”
Murdock answered him with the most manifestly intentional insolence:
“You! ye tell me to go away! I don’t ricognise ye at all. This land belongs to me frind, Mr. Joyce, an’ I shall come on it whin I like; and do as I like. Whin me frind tells me not to come here, I shall shtay away. Till then I shall do as I like.”
Said Dick:
“You think that will do to bluff me because you know Joyce is away for the day, and that, in the mean time, you can do what you want, and perhaps get out of the bog some property that does not belong to you. I shall not argue with you any more; but I warn you that you will have to answer for your conduct.”
Murdock and Moynahan continued their pulling at the rope. We waited till the haul was over, and saw that the spoil on this occasion was a part of the root of a tree. Then, when both men were sitting exhausted beside it, Dick took out his note-book, and began to make notes of everything. Presently he turned to Murdock, and said:
“Have you been fishing, Mr. Murdock? What a strange booty you have brought up! It is really most kind of you to be aiding to secure the winter firing for Mr. Joyce and my friend. Is there anything but bog-wood to be found here?”
Murdock’s reply was a curse and a savage scowl; but old Moynahan joined in the conversation:
“Now, I tould ye, Murtagh, that we wur too low down.”
“Shut up!” shouted the other, and the old man shrank back as if he had been struck.
Dick looked down, and seemed to be struck by the cross of loose stones at his feet, and said:
“Dear me! that is very strange — a cross of stones! It would almost seem as if it were made here to mark something; but yet” — here he lifted one of the stones — “it cannot have been long here; the grass is fresh under the stones.”
Murdock said nothing, but clinched his hands and ground his teeth. Presently, however, he sent Moynahan back to his house to get some whiskey. When the latter was out of ear-shot, Murdock turned to us, and said:
“An’ so ye think to baffle me, do ye? Well, I’ll have that money out if I have to wade in yer blood. I will, by the livin’ God!” and he burst into a string of profanities that made us shudder.
He was in such deadly earnest that I felt a pity for him, and said impulsively:
“Look here, if you want to get it out, you can have a little more time if you like, if only you will conduct yourself properly. I don’t want to be bothered looking for it. Now, if you’ll only behave decently, and be something like a civilised being, I’ll give you another month if you want it.”
Again he burst out at me with still more awful profanities. He didn’t want any of my time. He’d take what time he liked. God himself — and he particularised the persons of the Trinity — couldn’t balk him, and he’d do what he liked; and if I crossed his path it would be the worse for me! And, as for others, that he would send the hard word round the country about me and my leman. I couldn’t be always knocking the ruffian down, so I turned away and called to Dick.
“Coming,” said Dick, and he walked up to Murdock and knocked him down. Then, as the latter lay dazed on the grass, he followed me.
“Really,” he said, apologetically, “the man wants it. It will do him good.”
Then we went back to Carnaclif.