We did not go over on the Monday, as we knew that Joyce and Norah would not get home until late in the evening, and would be tired. Early, however, on the day after — Tuesday — we drove over. Joyce was out, and Dick left me at the foot of the boreen, so when I got to the house I found Norah alone.
The dear girl showed me her new dresses with much pride; and presently going to her room put on one of them, and came back to let me see how she looked. Her face was covered with blushes. Needless to say that I admired the new dress, as did her father, who just then came in.
When she went away to take off the dress Joyce beckoned me outside. When we got away from the house he turned to me; his face was very grave, and he seemed even more frightened than angry.
“There’s somethin’ I was tould while I was away that I think ye ought to know.”
“Go on, Mr. Joyce.”
“Somebody has been sayin’ hard things about Norah.”
“About Norah! Surely there is nobody mad enough or bad enough to speak evil of her.”
“There’s wan.”
He turned as he spoke, and looked instinctively in the direction of Murdock’s house.
“Oh, Murdock, as he threatened. What did he say?”
“Well, I don’t know. I could only get it that somebody was sayin’ somethin’, an’ that it would be well to have things so that no wan could say anythin’ that we couldn’t prove. It was a frind tould me; and that’s all he would tell. Mayhap he didn’t know any more himself; but I knew him to be a frind.”
“And it was a friendly act, Mr. Joyce. I have no doubt that Murdock has been sending round wicked lies about us all. But, thank God, in a few days we will be all moving, and it doesn’t matter much what he can do.”
“No, it won’t matter much in wan way, but he’s not goin’, all the same, to throw dirt on me child. If he goes on I’ll folly him up.”
“He won’t go on, Mr. Joyce. Before long, he’ll be out of the neighborhood altogether. To tell you the truth, I have bought the whole of his land, and I get possession of it tomorrow; and then I’ll never let him set foot here again. When once he is out of this he will have too much other wickedness on hand to have time to meddle with us.”
“That’s thrue enough. Well, we’ll wait an’ see what happens; but we’ll be mighty careful all the same.”
“Quite right,” I said, “we cannot be too careful in such a matter.”
Then we went back to the house, and met Norah coming into the room in her red petticoat, which she knew I liked. She whispered to me, oh, so sweetly:
“I thought, dear, you would like me to be the old Norah, today. It is our last day together in the old way.” Then hand in hand we went down to the Cliff Fields, and sat on the table rock for the last time, and feasted our eyes on the glorious prospect, while we told each other our bright dreams of the future.
In the autumn twilight we came back to the house. Dick had, in the mean time, come in, and we both stayed for tea. I saw that Dick had something to tell me, but he waited until we were going home before he spoke.
It was a sad parting with Norah that night; for it was the last day together before she went off to school. For myself, I felt that whatever might be in the future — and I hoped for much — it was the last time that I might sit by the fire-light with the old Norah. She, too, was sad, and when she told me the cause of her sadness I found that it was the same as my own.
“But oh, Arthur, my darling, I shall try — I shall try to be worthy of my great good-fortune — and of you,” she said, as she put her arms round my neck, and leaning her head on my bosom, began to cry.
“Hush, Norah. Hush, my darling!” I said; “you must not say such things to me — you, who are worthy of all the good gifts of life. Oh, my dear, my dear! I am only fearful that you maybe snatched away from me by some terrible misfortune; I shall not be happy till you are safely away from the shadow of this fateful mountain, and are beginning your new life.”
“Only one more day,” she said. “To-morrow we must settle up everything — and I have much to do for father — poor father, how good he is to me! Please God, Arthur, we shall be able some day to repay him for all his goodness to me.” How inexpressibly sweet it was to me to hear her say “we” shall be able, as she nestled up close to me.
Ah, that night! Ah, that night! — the end of the day when, for the last time, I sat on the table rock with the old Norah that I loved so well. It almost seemed as if Fate, who loves the keen contrasts of glare and gloom, had made on purpose that day so bright, and of such flawless happiness.
As we went back to Carnaclif, Dick told me what had been exercising his mind all the afternoon. When he had got to the bog he found that it had risen so much that he thought it well to seek the cause. He had gone at once to the place where Murdock had dammed up the stream that ran over into the Cliff Fields, and had found that the natural position of the ground had so far aided his efforts that the great stones thrown into the chine had become solidified with the rubbish by the new weight of the risen bog into a compact mass, and unless some heroic measure, such as blowing up the dam, should be taken, the bog would continue to rise until it should flow over the lowest part of the solid banks containing it.
“As sure as we are here, Art,” he said, “that man will do himself to death. I am convinced that if the present state of things goes on, with the bog at its present height, and with this terrible rainfall, there will be another shifting of the bog, and then, God help him; and, perhaps, others too! I told him of the danger, and explained it to him; but he only laughed at me and called me a fool and a traitor; that I was doing it to prevent him getting his treasure — his treasure, forsooth! And then he went again into those terrible blasphemies, so I came away; but he is a lost man, and I don’t see how we can stop him.”
I said, earnestly:
“Dick, there’s no danger to them — the Joyces — is there?”
“No,” he answered, “not the slightest; their house is on the rock high over the spot, and quite away from any possible danger.”
Then we relapsed into silence, as we each tried to think out a solution.
That night it rained more heavily than ever. The downfall was almost tropical — as it can be on the west coast — and the rain on the iron roof of the stable behind the hotel sounded like thunder; it was the last thing in my ears before I went to sleep.
That night again I kept dreaming — dreaming in the same nightmare fashion as before. But although the working of my imagination centred round Knockcalltecrore and all it contained, and although I suffered dismal tortures from the hideous dreams of ruin and disaster which afflicted me, I did not on this occasion arouse the household. In the morning, when we met, Dick looked at my pale face and said:
“Dreaming again, Art! Well, please God, it’s all nearly over now. One more day, and Norah will be away from Knockcalltecrore.”
The thought gave me much relief. The next morning — on Thursday, the 28th of October — we should be on our way to Galway en route for London, while Dick would receive on my behalf possession of the property which I had purchased from Murdock. Indeed, his tenure ended at noon this very day; but we thought it wiser to postpone taking possession until after Norah had left. Although Norah’s departure meant a long absence from the woman I loved, I could not regret it, for it was after all but a long road to the end I wished for. The two years would soon be over. And then — and then life would begin in real earnest, and along its paths of sorrow as of joy Norah and I should walk with equal steps.
Alas for dreaming! The dreams of the daylight are often more delusive than even those born of the glamour of moonlight or starlight, or of the pitchy darkness of the night.
It