ON KNOCKNACAR.
When Sutherland and I had finished dinner that evening we took up the
subject of bogs where we had left it in the morning. This was rather
a movement of my own making, for I felt an awkwardness about touching
on the special subject of the domestic relations of the inhabitants of
Knockcalltecrore. After several interesting remarks, Dick said:—
“There is one thing that I wish to investigate thoroughly, the
correlation of bog and special geological formations.”
“For instance?” said I.
“Well, specially with regard to limestone. Just at this part of the
country I find it almost impossible to pursue the investigation any
more than Van Troil could have pursued snake studies in Iceland.”
“Is there no limestone at all in this part of the country?” I queried.
“Oh yes, in lots of places, but as yet I have not been able to find
any about here. I say ‘as yet’ on purpose, because it seems to me that
there must be some on Knockcalltecrore.”
Needless to say the conversation here became to me much more
interesting; Dick went on:—
“The main feature of the geological formation of all this part of the
country is the vast amount of slate and granite, either in isolated
patches or lying side by side. And as there are instances of limestone
found in quaint ways, I am not without hopes that we may yet find the
same phenomenon.”
“Where do you find the instances of these limestone formations?” I
queried, for I felt that as he was bound to come back to, or towards
Shleenanaher, I could ease my own mind by pretending to divert his from
it.
“Well, as one instance, I can give you the Corrib River—the stream that
drains Lough Corrib into Galway Bay; in fact, the river on which the
town of Galway is built. At one place one side of the stream all is
granite, and the other is all limestone; I believe the river runs over
the union of the two formations. Now, if there should happen to be a
similar formation, even in the least degree, at Knockcalltecrore, it
will be a great thing.
“Why will it be a great thing?” I asked.
“Because there is no lime near the place at all; because with limestone
on the spot a hundred things could be done that, as things are at
present, would not repay the effort. With limestone we could reclaim
the bogs cheaply all over the neighbourhood—in fact a lime-kiln there
would be worth a small fortune. We could build walls in the right
places; I can see how a lovely little harbour could be made there at a
small expense. And then beyond all else would be the certainty—which
is at present in my mind only a hope or a dream—that we could fathom
the secret of the shifting bog, and perhaps abolish or reclaim it.”
“This is exceedingly interesting,” said I, as I drew my chair closer.
And I only spoke the exact truth, for at that moment I had no other
thought in my mind. “Do you mind telling me more, Dick? I suppose you
are not like Lamb’s Scotchman that will not broach a half-formed idea!”
“Not the least in the world. It will be a real pleasure to have such a
good listener. To begin at the beginning, I was much struck with that
old cavity on the top of the hill. It is one of the oddest things I
have ever seen or heard of. If it were in any other place or amongst
any other geological formation I would think its origin must have been
volcanic. But here such a thing is quite impossible. It was evidently
once a lake.”
“So goes the legend. I suppose you have heard it?”
“Yes! and it rather confirms my theory. Legends have always a base in
fact; and whatever cause gave rise to the myth of St. Patrick and the
King of the Snakes, the fact remains that the legend is correct in at
least one particular—that at some distant time there was a lake or pond
on the spot.”
“Are you certain?”
“A very cursory glance satisfied me of that. I could not go into
the matter thoroughly, for that old wolf of mine was so manifestly
impatient that I should get to his wild-goose chase for the lost
treasure-chest, that the time and opportunity were wanting. However, I
saw quite enough to convince me.”
“Well, how do you account for the change? What is your theory regarding
the existence of limestone?”
“Simply this, that a lake or reservoir on the top of a mountain means
the existence of a spring or springs. Now springs in granite or hard
slate do not wear away the substance of the rock in the same way as
they do when they come through limestone. And moreover, the natures of
the two rocks are quite different. There are fissures and cavities in
the limestone which are wanting, or which are at any rate not so common
or perpetually recurrent in the other rock. Now if it should be, as I
surmise, that the reservoir was ever fed by a spring passing through a
streak or bed of limestone, we shall probably find that in the progress
of time the rock became worn and that the spring found a way in some
other direction—either some natural passage through a gap or fissure
already formed, or by a channel made for itself.”
“And then?”
“And then the process is easily understandable. The spring naturally
sent its waters where there was the least resistance, and they found
their way out on some level lower than the top of the hill. You
perhaps noticed the peculiar formation of the hill, specially on its
west side—great sloping tables of rock suddenly ended by a wall of a
different stratum—a sort of serrated edge all the way down the inclined
plane; you could not miss seeing it, for it cuts the view like the
teeth of a saw! Now if the water, instead of rising to the top and then
trickling down the old channel, which is still noticeable, had once
found a vent on one of those shelving planes it would gradually fill
up the whole cavity formed by the two planes, unless in the meantime
it found some natural escape. As we know, the mountain is covered in
a number of places with a growth or formation of bog, and this water,
once accumulating under the bog, would not only saturate it, but would
raise it—being of less specific gravity than itself—till it actually
floated. Given such a state of things as this, it would only require
sufficient time for the bog to become soft and less cohesive than when
it was more dry and compact, and you have a dangerous bog, something
like the Carpet of Death that we spoke of this morning.”
“So far I can quite understand.” said I. “But if this be so, how can
the bog shift as this one has undoubtedly done? It seems, so far, to be
hedged with walls of rock. Surely these cannot move.”
Sutherland smiled. “I see you do apprehend! Now we are at the second
stage. Did you notice as we went across the hill side that there were
distinct beds or banks of clay?”
“Certainly! do they come in?”
“Of course! If my theory is correct, the shifting is due to them.”
“Explain!”
“So far as I can. But here I am only on surmise, or theory pure and
simple. I may be all wrong, or I may be right—I shall know more before
I am done with Shleenanaher. My theory is that the shifting is due to
the change in the beds of clay, as for instance by rains washing them
by degrees to lower levels—this is notably the case in that high clay
bank just opposite the Snake’s Pass. The rocks are fixed, and so the
clay becomes massed in banks between them, perhaps aided in the first
instance by trees falling across the chasm or opening. But then the
perpetually accumulating water from the spring has to find a way of
escape; and as it cannot cut through the rock it rises to the earth
bed, till it either tops the bed of clay which confines it or finds a
gap or fissure through which it can escape. In either case it makes
a perpetually deepening channel for itself, for the soft clay yields
little by little to the stream passing over it, and so the surface
of the outer level falls, and the water escapes, to perhaps find new
reservoirs ready made to receive it, and a similar process as before
takes place.”
“Then the bog extends and the extended part takes the place of the old
bog which gradually drains.”
“Just so! but such would of course depend on the level; there might
be two or more reservoirs, each with a deep bottom of its own and
united only near the surface; or if the bank or bed of clay lay on the
surface of one shelving rock, the water would naturally drain to the
lowest point and the upper land would be shallow in proportion.”
“But,” I ventured to remark, “if this be so, one of two things must
happen; either the water would wear away the clay so quickly, that the
accumulation would not be dangerous, or else the process would be a
very gradual one, and would not be attended with such results as we
are told of. There would be a change in the position of the bog, but
there would not be the upheaval and complete displacement and chaos
that I have heard of, for instance, with regard to this very bog of
Knockcalltecrore.
“Your ‘if’ is a great peacemaker! If what I have supposed were all,
then the result would be as you have said; but there are lots of other
supposes; as yet we have only considered one method of change. Suppose,
for instance, that the water found a natural means of escape—as, for
instance, where this very bog sends a stream over the rocks into the
Cliff Fields—it would not attack the clay bed at all, unless under
some unusual pressure. Then suppose that when such pressure had come
the water did not rise and top the clay bed, but that it found a
small fissure part of the way down. Suppose there were several such
reservoirs as I have mentioned—and from the formation of the ground I
think it very likely, for in several places jutting rocks from either
side come close together, and suggest a sort of gap or canon in the
rock formation, easily forming it into a reservoir. Then if the barrier
between the two upper ones were to be weakened, and a sudden weight of
water were to be thrown on the lower wall; suppose such wall were to
partially collapse, and bring down, say, a clay bank, which would make
a temporary barrier loftier than any yet existing, but only temporary;
suppose that the quick accumulation of waters behind this barrier
lifted the whole mass of water and slime and bog to its utmost height.
Then, when such obstruction had been reached, the whole lower barrier,
weakened by infiltration and attacked with sudden and new force, would
give way at once, and the stream, kept down from above by the floating
bog, would force its way along the bed rock and lift the whole spongy
mass resting on it. Then with this new extent of bog suddenly saturated
and weakened—demoralized as it were—and devoid of resisting power,
the whole floating mass of the upper bog might descend on it, mingle
with it, become incorporated with its semi-fluid substance, and form a
new and dangerous quagmire incapable of sustaining solid weight, but
leaving behind on the higher level only the refuse and sediment of its
former existence—all the rubble and grit too heavy to float, and which
would gradually settle down on the upper bed rock.”
“Really, Dick, you put it most graphically. What a terrible thing it
would be to live on the line of such a change.”
“Terrible, indeed! At such a moment a house in the track of the
movement—unless it were built on the rock—would go down like a ship in
a storm. Go down solid and in a moment, without warning and without
hope!”
“Then with such a neighbour as a shifting bog, the only safe place
for a house would be on a rock.”—Before my eyes, as I spoke, rose the
vision of Murdock’s house, resting on its knoll of rock, and I was glad
for one reason that there, at least, would be safety for Joyce—and his
daughter.
“Exactly! Now Murdock’s house is as safe as a church. I must look at
his new house when I go up to-morrow.”
As I really did not care about Murdock’s future, I asked no further
questions; so we sat in silence and smoked in the gathering twilight.
There was a knock at the door. I called “Come in.” The door opened
slowly, and through a narrow opening Andy’s shock head presented itself.
“Come in, Andy!” said Dick. “Come here and try if you can manage a
glass of punch!”
“Begor!” was Andy’s sole expression of acquiescence. The punch was
brewed and handed to him.
“Is that as good as Widow Kelligan’s?” I asked him. Andy grinned:—
“All punch is good, yer ’an’rs. Here’s both yer good healths, an’
here’s ‘The Girls’ an’”—turning to me, “‘the Bog.’” He winked, threw up
his hand—and put down the empty glass. “Glory be to God” was his grace
after—drink.
“Well, Andy! what is it?” said Dick.
“I’ve heerd,” said he, “that yer ’an’rs isn’t goin’ in the mornin’ to
Shleenanaher, and I thought that yez couldn’t do betther nor dhrive
over to Knocknacar to-morra an’ spind the day there.”
“And why Knocknacar?” said I.
Andy twirled his cap between his hands in a sheepish way. I felt that
he was acting a part, but could not see any want of reality. With a
little hesitation he said:—
“I’ve gother from what yer ’an’rs wor sayin’ on the car this mornin’,
that yez is both intherested in bogs—an’ there’s the beautifulest bit
iv bog in all the counthry there beyant. An’, moreover, it’s a lovely
shpot intirely. If you gintlemin have nothin’ betther to do, ye’d
dhrive over there—if ye’d take me advice.”
“What kind of bog is it, Andy?” said Dick. “Is there anythin’ peculiar
about it. Does it shift?”
Andy grinned a most unaccountable grin:—
“Begor, it does, surr!” he answered quickly. “Sure all bogs does
shift!” And he grinned again.
“Andy,” said Dick, laughing, “you have some joke in your mind. What is
it?”
“Oh, sorra wan, surr—ask the masther there.”
As it did not need a surgical operation to get the joke intended
into the head of a man—of whatever nationality—who understood Andy’s
allusion, and as I did not want to explain it, I replied:—
“Oh, don’t ask me, Andy; I’m no authority on the subject,” and I
looked rather angrily at him, when Dick was not looking.
Andy hastened to put matters right—he evidently did not want to lose
his day’s hire on the morrow:—
“Yer ’an’rs! ye may take me wurrd for it—there’s a bog beyant at
Knocknacar which’ll intherest yez intirely—I remimber it meself a lot
higher up the mountain whin I was a spalpeen—an’ it’s been crawlin’
down iver since. It’s a mighty quare shpot intirely!”
This settled the matter, and we arranged forthwith to start early on
the following morning for Knocknacar, Andy, before he left, having a
nightcap—out of a tumbler.
We were astir fairly early in the morning, and having finished a
breakfast sufficiently substantial to tide us over till dinner time, we
started on our journey. The mare was in good condition for work, the
road was level and the prospect fine, and altogether we enjoyed our
drive immensely. As we looked back we could see Knockcalltecrore rising
on the edge of the coast away to our right, and seemingly surrounded by
a network of foam-girt islands, for a breeze was blowing freshly from
the south-west.
At the foot of the mountain—or rather, hill—there was a small,
clean-looking sheebeen. Here Andy stopped and put up the mare; then he
brought us up a narrow lane bounded by thick hedges of wild briar to
where we could see the bog which was the object of our visit. Dick’s
foot was still painful, so I had to give him an arm, as on yesterday.
We crossed over two fields, from which the stones had been collected
and placed in heaps. The land was evidently very rocky, for here and
there—more especially in the lower part—the grey rock cropped up in
places. At the top of the farthest field, Andy pointed out an isolated
rock rising sharply from the grass.
“Look there, yer ’an’rs; whin I remimber first, that rock was as far
aff from the bog as we are now from the boreen—an’ luk at it now! why,
the bog is close to it, so it is.” He then turned and looked at a small
heap of stones. “Murther! but there is a quare thing. Why that heap,
not a year ago, was as high as the top iv that rock. Begor, it’s bein’
buried, it is!”
Dick looked quite excited as he turned to me and said:—
“Why, Art, old fellow! here is the very thing we were talking about.
This bog is an instance of the gradual changing of the locality of
a bog by the filtration of its water through the clay beds resting
on the bed-rock. I wonder if the people here will let me make some
investigations! Andy, who owns this land?”
“Oh, I can tell yer ’an’r that well enough; it’s Misther Moriarty from
Knockaltecrore. Him, surr,” turning to me, “that ye seen at Widda
Kelligan’s that night in the shtorm.”
“Does he farm it himself?”
“No, surr—me father rints it. The ould mare was riz on this very
shpot.”
“Do you think your father will let me make some investigations here, if
I get Mr. Moriarty’s permission also?”
“Throth, an’ he will, surr—wid all the plisure in life—iv coorse,”
he added, with native shrewdness, “if there’s no harrum done to his
land—or, if there’s harrum done, it’s ped for.”
“All right, Andy,” said I; “I’ll be answerable for that part of it.”
We went straight away with Andy to see the elder Sullivan. We found him
in his cabin at the foot of the hill—a hale old man of nearly eighty,
with all his senses untouched, and he was all that could be agreeable.
I told him who I was, and that I could afford to reimburse him if any
damage should be done. Dick explained to him that, so far from doing
harm, what he would do would probably prevent the spreading of the bog,
and would in such case much enhance the value of his holding, and in
addition give him the use of a spring on his land. Accordingly we went
back to make further investigations. Dick had out his note-book in an
instant, and took accurate note of everything; he measured and probed
the earth, tapped the rocks with the little geological hammer which he
always carried, and finally set himself down to make an accurate map
of the locality, I acting as his assistant in the measurements. Andy
left us for a while, but presently appeared, hot and flushed. As he
approached, Dick observed:—
“Andy has been drinking the health of all his relatives. We must keep
him employed here, or we may get a spill going home.”
The object of his solicitude came and sat on a rock beside us, and
looked on. Presently he came over, and said to Dick:—
“Yer ’an’r, can I help ye in yer wurrk? Sure, if ye only want wan hand
to help ye, mayhap mine id do. An’ thin his ’an’r here might hop up to
the top iv the mountain; there’s a mighty purty view there intirely,
an’ he could enjoy it, though ye can’t get up wid yer lame fut.”
“Good idea!” said Dick. “You go up on top, Art. This is very dull work,
and Andy can hold the tape for me as well as you or anyone else. You
can tell me all about it when you come down.”
“Do, yer ’an’r. Tell him all ye see!” said Andy, as I prepared to
ascend. “If ye go up soft be the shady parts, mayhap ye’d shtrike
another bit of bog be the way.”
I had grown so suspicious of Andy’s _double entente_, that I looked at
him keenly, to see if there was any fresh joke on; but his face was
immovably grave, and he was seemingly intent on the steel tape which he
was holding.
I proceeded up the mountain. It was a very pleasant one to climb, or
rather to ascend, for it was nearly all covered with grass. Here and
there, on the lower half, were clumps of stunted trees, all warped
eastwards by the prevailing westerly wind—alders, mountain-ash, and
thorn. Higher up these disappeared, but there was still a pleasant
sprinkling of hedgerows. As the verdure grew on the south side higher
than on the north or west, I followed it and drew near the top. As I
got closer, I heard some one singing. “By Jove,” said I to myself, “the
women of this country have sweet voices!”—indeed, this was by no means
the first time I had noticed the fact. I listened, and as I drew nearer
to the top of the hill, I took care not to make any noise which might
disturb the singer. It was an odd sensation to stand in the shadow of
the hill-top, on that September day, and listen to _Ave Maria_ sung
by the unknown voice of an unseen singer. I made a feeble joke all to
myself:—
“My experience of the girls of the West is that of _vox et præterea
nihil_.”
There was an infinity of pathos in the voice—some sweet, sad yearning,
as though the earthly spirit was singing with an unearthly voice—and
the idea came on me with a sense of conviction that some deep
unhappiness underlay that appeal to the Mother of Sorrows. I listened,
and somehow felt guilty. It almost seemed that I was profaning some
shrine of womanhood, and I took myself to task severely in something of
the following strain:—
“That poor girl has come to this hill top for solitude. She thinks
she is alone with Nature and Nature’s God, and pours forth her soul
freely; and you, wretched, tainted man, break in on the sanctity of her
solitude—of her prayer. For shame! for shame!”
Then—men are all hypocrites!—I stole guiltily forward to gain a peep
at the singer who thus communed with Nature and Nature’s God, and the
sanctity of whose solitude and prayer I was violating.
A tuft of heath grew just at the top; behind this I crouched, and
parting its luxuriance looked through.
For my pains I only saw a back, and that back presented in the most
ungainly way of which graceful woman is capable. She was seated on the
ground, not even raised upon a stone. Her knees were raised to the
level of her shoulders, and her outstretched arms confined her legs
below the knees—she was, in fact, in much the same attitude as boys are
at games of cock-fighting. And yet there was something very touching
in the attitude—something of self-oblivion so complete that I felt a
renewed feeling of guiltiness as an intruder.—Whether her reasons be
æsthetic, moral, educational, or disciplinary, no self-respecting woman
ever sits in such a manner when a man is by.
The song died away, and then there was a gulp and a low suppressed
moan. Her head drooped between her knees, her shoulders shook, and I
could see that she was weeping. I wished to get away, but for a few
moments I was afraid to stir lest she should hear me. The solitude,
now that the vibration of her song had died out of the air, seemed
oppressive. In those few seconds a new mood seemed to come over her.
She suddenly abandoned her dejected position, and, with the grace and
agility of a young fawn, leaped to her feet. I could see that she was
tall and exquisitely built, on the slim side—what the French call
_svelte_. With a grace and pathos which were beyond expression she
stretched forth her arms towards the sea, as to something that she
loved, and then, letting them fall by her side, remained in a kind of
waking dream.
I slipped away, and when I was well out of sight, ran down the hill
about a hundred yards, and then commenced the re-ascent, making a fair
proportion of noise as I came—now striking at the weeds with my heavy
stick, now whistling, and again humming a popular air.
When I gained the top of the hill I started as though surprised at
seeing any one, much less a girl, in such a place. I think I acted the
part well—again I say that at times the hypocrite in us can be depended
upon! She was looking straight towards me, and certainly, so far as I
could tell, took me in good faith. I doffed my hat and made some kind
of stammering salutation as one would to a stranger—the stammering not
being, of course, in the routine of such occasions, but incidental to
the special circumstances. She made me a graceful curtsey, and a blush
overspread her cheeks. I was afraid to look too hard at her, especially
at first, lest I should frighten her away, but I stole a glance towards
her at every moment when I could.
How lovely she was! I had heard that along the West coast of Ireland
there are traces of Spanish blood and Spanish beauty; and here was a
living evidence of the truth of the hearsay. Not even at sunset in
the parades of Madrid or Seville, could one see more perfect beauty
of the Spanish type—beauty perhaps all the more perfect for being
tempered with northern calm. As I said, she was tall and beautifully
proportioned. Her neck was long and slender, gracefully set in her
rounded shoulders, and supporting a beautiful head borne with the
free grace of the lily on its stem. There is nothing in woman more
capable of complete beauty than the head, and, crowned as this head was
with a rich mass of hair as black and as glossy as the raven’s wing,
it was a thing to remember. She wore no bonnet, but a grey homespun
shawl was thrown loosely over her shoulders; her hair was coiled in
one rich mass at the top and back of her head, and fastened with
an old-fashioned tortoiseshell comb. Her face was a delicate oval,
showing what Rossetti calls “the pure wide curve from ear to chin.”
Luxuriant black eyebrows were arched over large black-blue eyes swept
by curling lashes of extraordinary length, and showed off the beauty of
a rounded, ample forehead—somewhat sunburnt, be it said. The nose was
straight and wide between the eyes, with delicate sensitive nostrils;
the chin wide and firm, and the mouth full and not small, with lips of
scarlet, forming a perfect Cupid’s bow, and just sufficiently open to
show two rows of small teeth, regular and white as pearls. Her dress
was that of a well-to-do peasant—a sort of body or jacket of printed
chintz over a dress or petticoat of homespun of the shade of crimson
given by a madder dye. The dress was short, and showed trim ankles in
grey homespun with pretty feet in thick country-made wide-toed shoes.
Her hands were shapely, with long fingers, and were very sunburnt and
manifestly used to work.
As she stood there, with the western breeze playing with her dress and
tossing about the stray ends of her raven tresses, I thought that I
had never in my life seen anything so lovely. And yet she was only a
peasant girl, manifestly and unmistakably, and had no pretence of being
anything else.
She was evidently as shy as I was, and for a little while we were
both silent. As is usual, the woman was the first to recover her
self-possession, and whilst I was torturing my brain in vain for proper
words to commence a conversation, she remarked:—
“What a lovely view there is from here. I suppose, sir, you have never
been on the top of this hill before?”
“Never,” said I, feeling that I was equivocating if not lying. “I had
no idea that there was anything so lovely here.” I meant this to have a
double meaning, although I was afraid to make it apparent to her. “Do
you often come up here?” I continued.
“Not very often. It is quite a long time since I was here last; but the
view seems fairer and dearer to me every time I come.” As she spoke the
words, my memory leaped back to that eloquent gesture as she raised her
arms.
I thought I might as well improve the occasion and lay the foundation
for another meeting without giving offence or fright, so I said:—
“This hill is quite a discovery; and as I am likely to be here in
this neighbourhood for some time, I dare say I shall often find myself
enjoying this lovely view.”
She made no reply or comment whatever to this statement. I looked over
the scene, and it was certainly a fit setting for so lovely a figure;
but it was the general beauty of the scene, and not, as had hitherto
been the case, one part of it only that struck my fancy. Away on the
edge of the coast-line rose Knockcalltecrore; but it somehow looked
lower than before, and less important. The comparative insignificance
was of course due to the fact that I was regarding it from a superior
altitude, but it seemed to me that it was because it did not now seem
to interest me so much. That sweet voice through the darkness seemed
very far away now—here was a voice as sweet, and in such a habitation!
The invisible charm with which Shleenanaher had latterly seemed to hold
me—or the spell which it had laid upon me, seemed to pass away, and I
found myself smiling that I should ever have entertained such an absurd
idea.
Youth is not naturally stand off, and before many minutes the two
visitors to the hill-top had laid aside reserve and were chatting
freely. I had many questions to ask of local matters, for I wanted
to find out what I could of my fair companion without seeming to be
too inquisitive; but she seemed to fight shy of all such topics, and
when we parted my ignorance of her name and surroundings remained as
profound as it had been at first. She, however, wanted to know all
about London. She knew it only by hearsay; for some of the questions
which she asked me were amazingly simple—manifestly she had something
of the true peasant belief that London is the only home of luxury,
power, and learning. She was so frank, however, and made her queries
with such a gentle modesty, that something within my heart seemed to
grow, and grow; and the conviction was borne upon me that I stood
before my fate. Sir Geraint’s ejaculation rose to my lips:—
“Here, by God’s rood, is the one maid for me!”
One thing gave me much delight. The sadness seemed to have passed quite
away—for the time at all events. Her eyes, which had at the first been
glassy with recent tears, were now lit with keenest interest, and she
seemed to have entirely forgotten the cause of her sorrow.
“Good!” thought I to myself complacently. “At least I have helped to
brighten her life, though it be but for one hour.”
Even whilst I was thinking she rose up suddenly—we had been sitting on
a boulder—“Goodness! how the time passes!” she said; “I must run home
at once.”
“Let me see you home,” I said eagerly. Her great eyes opened, and she
said with a grave simplicity that took me “way down” to use American
slang:-
“Why?”
“Just to see that you get home safely,” I stammered. She laughed
merrily:—
“No fear for me. I’m safer on this mountain than anywhere in the
world—almost,” she added, and the grave, sad look stole again over her
face.
“Well, but I would like to,” I urged. Again she answered with grave,
sweet seriousness:—
“Oh, no, sir: that would not do. What would folk say to see me walking
with a gentleman like you?” The answer was conclusive. I shrugged
my shoulders because I was a man, and had a man’s petulance under
disappointment; and then I took off my hat and bowed—not ironically,
but cheerfully, so as to set her at ease—for I had the good fortune to
have been bred a gentleman. My reward came when she held out her hand
frankly and said:—
“Good-bye, sir,” gave a little graceful curtsey, and tripped away over
the edge of the hill.
I stood bareheaded looking at her until she disappeared. Then I went to
the edge of the little plateau and looked over the distant prospect of
land and sea, with a heart so full that the tears rushed to my eyes.
There are those who hold that any good emotion is an act of prayer! If
this be so, then on that wild mountain-top as fervent a prayer as the
heart of man is capable of went up to the Giver of all good things!
When I reached the foot of the mountain I found Dick and Andy waiting
for me at the sheebeen. As I came close Dick called out:—
“What a time you were, old chap. I thought you had taken root on the
hill-top! What on earth kept you?”
“The view from the top is lovely beyond compare,” I said, as an evasive
reply.
“Is what ye see there more lovelier nor what ye see at Shleenanaher?”
said Andy with seeming gravity.
“Far more so!” I replied instantly and with decision.
“I tould yer ’an’r there was somethin’ worth lukin’ at,” said he. “An’
may I ask if yer ’an’r seen any bog on the mountain?”
I looked at him with a smile. I seemed to rather like his chaff now.
“Begor I did, yer ’an’r,” I answered, mimicking his accent.
We had proceeded on our way for a long distance, Andy apparently quite
occupied with his driving—Dick studying his note-book, and I quite
content with my thoughts—when Andy said, apropos of nothing and looking
at nobody:—
“I seen a young girrul comin’ down the hill beyant, a wee while before
yer ’an’r. I hope she didn’t disturb any iv yez?”
The question passed unnoticed, for Dick apparently did not hear and I
did not feel called upon to answer it.
I could not have truthfully replied with a simple negative or positive.