THE GOMBEEN MAN.
“God save all here,” said the man as he entered.
Room was made for him at the fire. He no sooner came near it and tasted
the heat than a cloud of steam arose from him.
“Man! but ye’re wet,” said Mrs. Kelligan. “One’d think ye’d been in the
lake beyant!”
“So I have,” he answered, “worse luck! I rid all the way from Galway
this blessed day to be here in time, but the mare slipped coming down
Curragh Hill and threw me over the bank into the lake. I wor in the
wather nigh three hours before I could get out, for I was foreninst the
Curragh Rock an’ only got a foothold in a chink, an’ had to hold on wid
me one arm for I fear the other is broke.”
“Dear! dear! dear!” interrupted the woman. “Sthrip yer coat off,
acushla, an’ let us see if we can do anythin’.”
He shook his head, as he answered:—
“Not now, there’s not a minute to spare. I must get up the Hill at
once. I should have been there be six o’clock. But I mayn’t be too
late yit. The mare has broke down entirely. Can any one here lend me a
horse?”
There was no answer till Andy spoke:—
“Me mare is in the shtable, but this gintleman has me an’ her for the
day, an’ I have to lave him at Carnaclif to-night.”
Here I struck in:—
“Never mind me, Andy! If you can help this gentleman, do so: I’m better
off here than driving through the storm. He wouldn’t want to go on,
with a broken arm, if he hadn’t good reason!”
The man looked at me with grateful eagerness:—
“Thank yer honour, kindly. It’s a rale gintleman ye are! An’ I hope
ye’ll never be sorry for helpin’ a poor fellow in sore throuble.”
“What’s wrong, Phelim?” asked the priest. “Is there anything troubling
you that any one here can get rid of?”
“Nothin’, Father Pether, thank ye kindly. The throuble is me own
intirely, an’ no wan here could help me. But I must see Murdock
to-night.”
There was a general sigh of commiseration; all understood the situation.
“Musha!” said old Dan Moriarty, _sotto voce_. “An’ is that the way of
it! An’ is he too in the clutches iv that wolf? Him that we all thought
was so warrum. Glory be to God! but it’s a quare wurrld it is; an’ it’s
few there is in it that is what they seems. Me poor frind! is there
any way I can help ye? I have a bit iv money by me that yer welkim to
the lend iv av ye want it.”
The other shook his head gratefully:—
“Thank ye kindly, Dan, but I have the money all right; it’s only the
time I’m in trouble about!”
“Only the time! me poor chap! It’s be time that the divil helps Black
Murdock an’ the likes iv him, the most iv all! God be good to ye if he
has got his clutch on yer back, an’ has time on his side, for ye’ll
want it!”
“Well! anyhow, I must be goin’ now. Thank ye kindly, neighbours all.
When a man’s in throuble, sure the goodwill of his frinds is the
greatest comfort he can have.”
“All but one, remember that! all but one!” said the priest.
“Thank ye kindly, Father, I shan’t forget. Thank ye Andy: an’ you,
too, young sir, I’m much beholden to ye. I hope, some day, I may have
it to do a good turn for ye in return. Thank ye kindly again, and good
night.” He shook my hand warmly, and was going to the door, when old
Dan said:—
“An’ as for that black-jawed ruffian, Murdock—” He paused, for the door
suddenly opened, and a harsh voice said:—
“Murtagh Murdock is here to answer for himself!”—It was my man at the
window.
There was a sort of paralyzed silence in the room, through which came
the whisper of one of the old women:—
“Musha! talk iv the divil!”
Joyce’s face grew very white; one hand instinctively grasped his riding
switch, the other hung uselessly by his side. Murdock spoke:—
“I kem here expectin’ to meet Phelim Joyce. I thought I’d save him the
throuble of comin’ wid the money.” Joyce said in a husky voice:—
“What do ye mane? I have the money right enough here. I’m sorry I’m
a bit late, but I had a bad accident—bruk me arrum, an’ was nigh
dhrownded in the Curragh Lake. But I was goin’ up to ye at once, bad as
I am, to pay ye yer money, Murdock.” The Gombeen Man interrupted him:—
“But it isn’t to me ye’d have to come, me good man. Sure, it’s the
sheriff, himself, that was waitin’ for ye’, an’ whin ye didn’t
come”—here Joyce winced; the speaker smiled—“he done his work.”
“What wurrk, acushla?” asked one of the women. Murdock answered slowly:—
“He sould the lease iv the farrum known as the Shleenanaher in open
sale, in accordance wid the terrums of his notice, duly posted, and wid
warnin’ given to the houldher iv the lease.”
There was a long pause. Joyce was the first to speak:—
“Ye’re jokin’, Murdock. For God’s sake say ye’re jokin’! Ye tould me
yerself that I might have time to git the money. An’ ye tould me that
the puttin’ me farrum up for sale was only a matther iv forrum to let
me pay ye back in me own way. Nay! more, ye asked me not to te tell
any iv the neighbours, for fear some iv them might want to buy some iv
me land. An’ it’s niver so, that whin ye got me aff to Galway to rise
the money, ye went on wid the sale, behind me back—wid not a soul by
to spake for me or mine—an’ sould up all I have! No! Murtagh Murdock,
ye’re a hard man I know, but ye wouldn’t do that! Ye wouldn’t do that!”
Murdock made no direct reply to him, but said seemingly to the company
generally:—
“I ixpected to see Phelim Joyce at the sale to-day, but as I had some
business in which he was consarned, I kem here where I knew there’d be
neighbours—an’ sure so there is.”
He took out his pocket-book and wrote names, “Father Pether Ryan,
Daniel Moriarty, Bartholomew Moynahan, Andhrew McGlown, Mrs. Katty
Kelligan—that’s enough! I want ye all to see what I done. There’s
nothin’ undherhand about me! Phelim Joyce, I give ye formial notice
that yer land was sould an’ bought be me, for ye broke yer word to
repay me the money lint ye before the time fixed. Here’s the Sheriff’s
assignmint, an’ I tell ye before all these witnesses that I’ll proceed
with ejectment on title at wanst.”
All in the room were as still as statues. Joyce was fearfully still
and pale, but when Murdock spoke the word “ejectment” he seemed to
wake in a moment to frenzied life. The blood flushed up in his face
and he seemed about to do something rash; but with a great effort he
controlled himself and said:—
“Mr. Murdock, ye won’t be too hard. I got the money to-day—it’s
here—but I had an accident that delayed me. I was thrown into the
Curragh Lake and nigh drownded an’ me arrum is bruk. Don’t be so close
as an hour or two—ye’ll never be sorry for it. I’ll pay ye all, and
more, and thank ye into the bargain all me life; ye’ll take back the
paper, won’t ye, for me childhren’s sake—for Norah’s sake?”
He faltered; the other answered with an evil smile:—
“Phelim Joyce, I’ve waited years for this moment—don’t ye know me
betther nor to think I would go back on meself whin I have shtarted on
a road? I wouldn’t take yer money, not if ivery pound note was spread
into an acre and cut up in tin-pound notes. I want yer land—I have
waited for it, an’ I mane to have it!—Now don’t beg me any more, for I
won’t go back—an’ tho’ its many a grudge I owe ye, I square them all
before the neighbours be refusin’ yer prayer. The land is mine, bought
be open sale; an’ all the judges an’ coorts in Ireland can’t take it
from me! An’ what do ye say to that now, Phelim Joyce?”
The tortured man had been clutching the ash sapling which he had used
as a riding whip, and from the nervous twitching of his fingers I knew
that something was coming. And it came; for, without a word, he struck
the evil face before him—struck as quick as a flash of lightning—such
a blow that the blood seemed to leap out round the stick, and a vivid
welt rose in an instant. With a wild, savage cry the Gombeen Man jumped
at him; but there were others in the room as quick, and before another
blow could be struck on either side both men were grasped by strong
hands and held back.
Murdock’s rage was tragic. He yelled, like a wild beast, to be let get
at his opponent. He cursed and blasphemed so outrageously that all were
silent, and only the stern voice of the priest was heard:—
“Be silent Murtagh Murdock! Aren’t you afraid that the God overhead
will strike you dead? With such a storm as is raging as a sign of His
power, you are a foolish man to tempt Him.”
The man stopped suddenly, and a stern dogged sullenness took the place
of his passion. The priest went on:—
“As for you, Phelim Joyce, you ought to be ashamed of yourself; ye’re
not one of my people, but I speak as your own clergyman would if he
were here. Only this day has the Lord seen fit to spare you from a
terrible death; and yet you dare to go back of His mercy with your
angry passion. You had cause for anger—or temptation to it, I know—but
you must learn to kiss the chastening rod, not spurn it. The Lord knows
what He is doing for you as for others, and it may be that you will
look back on this day in gratitude for His doing, and in shame for
your own anger. Men, hold off your hands—let those two men go; they’ll
quarrel no more—before me at any rate, I hope.”
The men drew back. Joyce held his head down, and a more despairing
figure or a sadder one I never saw. He turned slowly away, and leaning
against the wall put his face between his hands and sobbed. Murdock
scowled, and the scowl gave place to an evil smile as looking all
around he said:—
“Well, now that me work is done, I must be gettin’ home.”
“An’ get some wan to iron that mark out iv yer face,” said Dan. Murdock
turned again and glared around him savagely as he hissed out:—
“There’ll be iron for some one before I’m done. Mark me well! I’ve
never gone back or wakened yit whin I promised to have me own turn.
There’s thim here what’ll rue this day yit! If I am the shnake on the
hill—thin beware the shnake. An’ for him what shtruck me, he’ll be in
bitther sorra for it yit—him an’ his!” He turned his back and went to
the door.
“Stop!” said the priest. “Murtagh Murdock, I have a word to say to
you—a solemn word of warning. Ye have to-day acted the part of Ahab
towards Naboth the Jezreelite; beware of his fate! You have coveted
your neighbour’s goods—you have used your power without mercy; you
have made the law an engine of oppression. Mark me! It was said of
old that what measure men meted should be meted out to them again. God
is very just. ‘Be not deceived, God is not mocked. For what things a
man shall sow, those also shall he reap.’ Ye have sowed the wind this
day—beware lest you reap the whirlwind! Even as God visited his sin
upon Ahab the Samarian, and as He has visited similar sins on others
in His own way—so shall He visit yours on you. You are worse than the
land-grabber—worse than the man who only covets. Saintough is a virtue
compared with your act! Remember the story of Naboth’s vineyard, and
the dreadful end of it. Don’t answer me! Go and repent if you can, and
leave sorrow and misery to be comforted by others—unless you wish to
undo your wrong yourself. If you don’t—then remember the curse that may
come upon you yet!”
Without a word Murdock opened the door and went out, and a little
later we heard the clattering of his horse’s feet on the rocky road to
Shleenanaher.
When it was apparent to all that he was really gone a torrent of
commiseration, sympathy and pity broke over Joyce. The Irish nature is
essentially emotional, and a more genuine and stronger feeling I never
saw. Not a few had tears in their eyes, and one and all were manifestly
deeply touched. The least moved was, to all appearance, poor Joyce
himself. He seemed to have pulled himself together, and his sterling
manhood and courage and pride stood by him. He seemed, however, to
yield to the kindly wishes of his friends; and when we suggested that
his hurt should be looked to, he acquiesced:—
“Yes, if you will. Betther not go home to poor Norah and distress her
with it. Poor child! she’ll have enough to bear without that.”
His coat was taken off, and between us we managed to bandage the wound.
The priest, who had some surgical knowledge, came to the conclusion
that there was only a simple fracture. He splinted and bandaged the
arm, and we all agreed that it would be better for Joyce to wait until
the storm was over before starting for home. Andy said he could take
him on the car, as he knew the road well, and that, as it was partly on
the road to Carnaclif, we should only have to make a short detour and
would pass the house of the doctor, by whom the arm could be properly
attended to.
So we sat around the fire again, whilst, without, the storm howled and
the fierce gusts which swept the valley seemed at times as if they
would break in the door, lift off the roof, or in some way annihilate
the time-worn cabin which gave us shelter.
There could, of course, be only one subject of conversation now, and
old Dan simply interpreted the public wish, when he said:—
“Tell us, Phelim, sure we’re all friends here! how Black Murdock got
ye in his clutches? Sure any wan of us would get you out of thim if he
could.”
There was a general acquiescence. Joyce yielded himself, and said:—
“Let me thank ye, neighbours all, for yer kindness to me and mine this
sorraful night. Well! I’ll say no more about that; but I’ll tell ye how
it was that Murdock got me into his power. Ye know that boy of mine,
Eugene?”
“Oh! and he’s the fine lad, God bless him! an’ the good lad too!”—this
from the women.
“Well! ye know too that he got on so well whin I sint him to school
that Dr. Walsh recommended me to make an ingineer of him. He said he
had such promise that it was a pity not to see him get the right start
in life, and he gave me, himself, a letther to Sir George Henshaw, the
great ingineer. I wint and seen him, and he said he would take the
boy. He tould me that there was a big fee to be paid, but I was not to
throuble about that—at any rate, that he himself didn’t want any fee,
and he would ask his partner if he would give up his share too. But the
latther was hard up for money. He said he couldn’t give up all fee,
but that he would take half the fee, provided it was paid down in dhry
money. Well! the regular fee to the firm was five hundhred pounds, and
as Sir George had giv up half an’ only half th’ other half was to be
paid, that was possible. I hadn’t got more’n a few pounds by me—for
what wid dhrainin’ and plantin’ and fencin’ and the payin’ the boy’s
schoolin’, and the girl’s at the Nuns’ in Galway, it had put me to
the pin iv me collar to find the money up to now. But I didn’t like to
let the boy lose his chance in life for want of an effort, an’ I put
me pride in me pocket an’ kem an’ asked Murdock for the money. He was
very smooth an’ nice wid me—I know why now—an’ promised he would give
it at wanst if I would give him security on me land. Sure he joked an’
laughed wid me, an’ was that cheerful that I didn’t misthrust him. He
tould me it was only forrums I was signin’ that’d never be used”—— Here
Dan Moriarty interrupted him:—
“What did ye sign, Phelim?”
“There wor two papers. Wan was a writin’ iv some kind, that in
considheration iv the money lent an’ his own land—which I was to take
over if the money wasn’t paid at the time appointed—he was to get me
lease from me: an’ the other was a power of attorney to Enther Judgment
for the amount if the money wasn’t paid at the right time. I thought I
was all safe as I could repay him in the time named, an’ if the worst
kem to the worst I might borry the money from some wan else—for the
lease is worth the sum tin times over—an’ repay him. Well! what’s the
use of lookin’ back, anyhow! I signed the papers—that was a year ago,
an’ one week. An’ a week ago the time was up!” He gulped down a sob,
and went on:—
“Well! ye all know the year gone has been a terrible bad wan, an’ as
for me it was all I could do to hould on—to make up the money was
impossible. Thrue the lad cost me next to nothin’, for he arned his
keep be exthra work, an’ the girl, Norah, kem home from school and
laboured wid me, an’ we saved every penny we could. But it was all
no use!—we couldn’t get the money together anyhow. Thin we had the
misfortin wid the cattle that ye all know of; an’ three horses, that
I sould in Dublin, up an’ died before the time I guaranteed them free
from sickness.” Here Andy struck in:—
“Thrue for ye! Sure there was some dhreadful disordher in Dublin among
the horse cattle, intirely; an’ even Misther Docther Perfesshinal
Ferguson himself couldn’t git undher it!” Joyce went on:—
“An’ as the time grew nigh I began to fear, but Murdock came down to
see me whin I was alone, an’ tould me not to throuble about the money
an’ not to mind about the sheriff, for he had to give him notice.
‘An’,’ says he, ‘I wouldn’t, if I was you, tell Norah anythin’ about
it, for it might frighten the girl—for weemin is apt to take to heart
things like that that’s only small things to min like us.‘ An’ so, God
forgive me, I believed him; an’ I niver tould me child anything about
it—even whin I got the notice from the sheriff. An’ whin the Notice
tellin’ of the sale was posted up on me land, I tuk it down meself so
that the poor child wouldn’t be frightened—God help me!” He broke down
for a bit, but then went on:—
“But somehow I wasn’t asy in me mind, an’ whin the time iv the sale
dhrew nigh I couldn’t keep it to meself any longer, an’ I tould
Norah. That was only yisterday, and look at me to-day! Norah agreed
wid me that we shouldn’t trust the Gombeen, an’ she sent me off to
the Galway Bank to borry the money. She said I was an honest man an’
farmed me own land, and that the bank might lind the money on it. An’
sure enough whin I wint there this mornin’ be appointment, wid the
Coadjuthor himself to inthroduce me, though he didn’t know why I wanted
the money—that was Norah’s idea, and the Mother Superior settled it
for her—the manager, who is a nice gintleman, tould me at wanst that I
might have the money on me own note iv hand. I only gave him a formal
writin’, an’ I took away the money. Here it is in me pocket in good
notes; they’re wet wid the lake, but I’m thankful to say all safe.
But it’s too late, God help me!” Here he broke down for a minute, but
recovered himself with an effort:—
“Anyhow the bank that thrusted me musn’t be wronged. Back the money
goes to Galway as soon as iver I can get it there. If I am a ruined man
I needn’t be a dishonest wan! But poor Norah! God help her! it will
break her poor heart.”
There was a spell of silence only broken by sympathetic moans. The
first to speak was the priest.
“Phelim Joyce, I told you a while ago, in the midst of your passion,
that God knows what He is doin’, and works in His own way. You’re an
honest man, Phelim, and God knows it, and, mark me, He won’t let you
nor yours suffer. ‘I have been young,’ said the Psalmist, ‘and now
am old; and I have not seen the just forsaken, nor his seed seeking
bread.’ Think of that, Phelim!—may it comfort you and poor Norah. God
bless her! but she’s the good girl. You have much to be thankful for,
with a daughter like her to comfort you at home and take the place of
her poor mother, who was the best of women; and with such a boy as
Eugene, winnin’ name and credit, and perhaps fame to come, even in
England itself. Thank God for His many mercies, Phelim, and trust Him.”
There was a dead silence in the room. The stern man rose, and coming
over took the priest’s hand.
“God bless ye, Father!” he said, “it’s the true comforter ye are.”
The scene was a most touching one; I shall never forget it. The worst
of the poor man’s trouble seemed now past. He had faced the darkest
hour; he had told his trouble, and was now prepared to make the best of
everything—for the time at least—for I could not reconcile to my mind
the idea that that proud, stern man, would not take the blow to heart
for many a long day, that it might even embitter his life.
Old Dan tried comfort in a practical way by thinking of what was to be
done. Said he:—
“Iv course, Phelim, it’s a mighty throuble to give up yer own foine
land an’ take Murdock’s bleak shpot instead, but I daresay ye will be
able to work it well enough. Tell me, have ye signed away all the land,
or only the lower farm? I mane, is the Cliff Fields yours or his?”
Here was a gleam of comfort evidently to the poor man. His face
lightened as he replied:—
“Only the lower farm, thank God! Indeed, I couldn’t part wid the
Cliff Fields, for they don’t belong to me—they are Norah’s, that her
poor mother left her—they wor settled on her, whin we married, be her
father, and whin he died we got them. But, indeed, I fear they’re but
small use be themselves; shure there’s no wather in them at all, savin’
what runs off me ould land; an’ if we have to carry wather all the way
down the hill from—from me new land”—this was said with a smile, which
was a sturdy effort at cheerfulness—“it will be but poor work to raise
anythin’ there—ayther shtock or craps. No doubt but Murdock will take
away the sthrame iv wather that runs there now. He’ll want to get the
cliff lands, too, I suppose.”
I ventured to ask a question:—
“How do your lands lie compared with Mr. Murdock’s?”
There was bitterness in his tone as he answered, in true Irish fashion:
“Do you mane me ould land, or me new?”
“The lands that were—that ought still to be yours,” I answered.
He was pleased at the reply, and his face softened as he replied:—
“Well, the way of it is this. We two owns the West side of the hill
between us. Murdock’s land—I’m spakin’ iv them as they are, till he
gets possession iv mine—lies at the top iv the hill; mine lies below.
My land is the best bit on the mountain, while the Gombeen’s is poor
soil, with only a few good patches here and there. Moreover, there is
another thing. There is a bog which is high up the hill, mostly on his
houldin’, but my land is free from bog, except one end of the big bog,
an’ a stretch of dry turf, the best in the counthry, an’ wid’ enough
turf to last for a hundhred years, it’s that deep.”
Old Dan joined in:—
“Thrue enough! that bog of the Grombeen’s isn’t much use anyhow. It’s
rank and rotten wid wather. Whin it made up its mind to sthay, it might
have done betther!”
“The bog? Made up its mind to stay! What on earth do you mean?” I
asked. I was fairly puzzled.
“Didn’t ye hear talk already,” said Dan, “of the shiftin’ bog on the
mountain?”
“I did.”
“Well, that’s it! It moved an’ moved an’ moved longer than anywan can
remimber. Me grandfather wanst tould me that whin he was a gossoon it
wasn’t nigh so big as it was when he tould me. It hasn’t shifted in my
time, and I make bould to say that it has made up its mind to settle
down where it is. Ye must only make the best of it, Phelim. I daresay
ye will turn it to some account.”
“I’ll try what I can do, anyhow. I don’t mane to fould me arms an’ sit
down op-pawsit me property an’ ate it!” was the brave answer.
For myself, the whole idea was most interesting. I had never before
even heard of a shifting bog, and I determined to visit it before I
left this part of the country.
By this time the storm was beginning to abate. The rain had ceased, and
Andy said we might proceed on our journey. So after a while we were on
our way; the wounded man and I sitting on one side of the car, and Andy
on the other. The whole company came out to wish us God-speed, and with
such comfort as good counsel and good wishes could give we ventured
into the inky darkness of the night.
Andy was certainly a born car-driver. Not even the darkness, the
comparative strangeness of the road, or the amount of whisky-punch
which he had on board could disturb his driving in the least; he went
steadily on. The car rocked and swayed and bumped, for the road was
a bye one, and in but poor condition—but Andy and the mare went on
alike unmoved. Once or twice only, in a journey of some three miles of
winding bye-lanes, crossed and crossed again by lanes or water-courses,
did he ask the way. I could not tell which was roadway and which
water-way, for they were all water-courses at present, and the darkness
was profound. Still, both Andy and Joyce seemed to have a sense lacking
in myself, for now and again they spoke of things which I could not see
at all. As, for instance, when Andy asked:—
“Do we go up or down where the road branches beyant?” Or again: “I
disremimber, but is that Micky Dolan’s ould apple three, or didn’t he
cut it down? an’ is it Tim’s fornent us on the lift?”
Presently we turned to the right, and drove up a short avenue towards a
house. I knew it to be a house by the light in the windows, for shape
it had none. Andy jumped down and knocked, and after a short colloquy,
Joyce got down and went into the Doctor’s house. I was asked to go
too, but thought it better not to, as it would only have disturbed the
Doctor in his work; and so Andy and I possessed our souls in patience
until Joyce came out again, with his arm in a proper splint. And then
we resumed our journey through the inky darkness.
However, after a while either there came more light into the sky, or
my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, for I thought that now and
again I beheld “men as trees walking.”
Presently something dark and massive seemed outlined in the sky before
us—a blackness projected on a darkness—and, said Andy, turning to me:—
“That’s Knockcalltecrore; we’re nigh the foot iv it now, and pretty
shortly we’ll be at the enthrance iv the boreen, where Misther Joyce’ll
git aff.”
We plodded on for a while, and the hill before us seemed to overshadow
whatever glimmer of light there was, for the darkness grew more
profound than ever; then Andy turned to my companion:—
“Sure, isn’t that Miss Norah I see sittin’ on the shtyle beyant?” I
looked eagerly in the direction in which he evidently pointed, but for
the life of me I could see nothing.
“No! I hope not,” said the father, hastily. “She’s never come out in
the shtorm. Yes! It is her, she sees us.”
Just then there came a sweet sound down the lane:—
“Is that you, father?”
“Yes! my child; but I hope you’ve not been out in the shtorm.”
“Only a bit, father; I was anxious about you. Is it all right, father;
did you get what you wanted?” She had jumped off the stile and had
drawn nearer to us, and she evidently saw me, and went on in a changed
and shyer voice:-
“Oh! I beg your pardon, I did not see you had a stranger with you.”
This was all bewildering to me; I could hear it all—and a sweeter voice
I never heard—but yet I felt like a blind man, for not a thing could I
see, whilst each of the three others was seemingly as much at ease as
in the daylight.
“This gentleman has been very kind to me, Norah. He has given me a seat
on his car, and indeed he’s come out of his way to lave me here.”
“I am sure we’re all grateful to you, sir; but, father, where is your
horse? Why are you on a car at all? Father, I hope you haven’t met with
any accident—I have been so fearful for you all the day.” This was
spoken in a fainter voice; had my eyes been of service, I was sure I
would have seen her grow pale.
“Yes, my darlin’, I got a fall on the Curragh Hill, but I’m all right.
Norah dear! Quick, quick! catch her, she’s faintin’!—my God! I can’t
stir!”
I jumped off the car in the direction of the voice, but my arms sought
the empty air. However, I heard Andy’s voice beside me:—
“All right! I have her. Hould up, Miss Norah; yer dada’s all right,
don’t ye see him there, sittin’ on me car. All right, sir, she’s a
brave girrul! she hasn’t fainted.”
“I am all right,” she murmured, faintly; “but, father, I hope you are
not hurt?”
“Only a little, my darlin’, just enough for ye to nurse me a while; I
daresay a few days will make me all right again. Thank ye, Andy; steady
now, till I get down; I’m feelin’ a wee bit stiff.” Andy evidently
helped him to the ground.
“Good night, Andy, and good night you too, sir, and thank you kindly
for your goodness to me all this night. I hope I’ll see you again.” He
took my hand in his uninjured one, and shook it warmly.
“Good night,” I said, and “good-bye: I am sure I hope we shall meet
again.”
Another hand took mine as he relinquished it—a warm, strong one—and a
sweet voice said, shyly:—
“Good night, sir, and thank you for your kindness to father.”
I faltered “Good night,” as I raised my hat; the aggravation of the
darkness at such a moment was more than I could equably bear. We heard
them pass up the boreen, and I climbed on the car again.
The night seemed darker than ever as we turned our steps towards
Carnaclif, and the journey was the dreariest one I had ever taken. I
had only one thought which gave me any pleasure, but that was a pretty
constant one through the long miles of damp, sodden road—the warm hand
and the sweet voice coming out of the darkness, and all in the shadow
of that mysterious mountain, which seemed to have become a part of
my life. The words of the old story-teller came back to me again and
again:—
“The Hill can hould tight enough! A man has raysons—sometimes wan thing
and sometimes another—but the Hill houlds him all the same!”
And a vague wonder grew upon me as to whether it could ever hold me,
and how!