CONFIDENCES.
The next day Sutherland would have to resume his work with
Murdock—but on his newly-acquired land. I could think of his visit to
Knockcalltecrore without a twinge of jealousy; and for my own part I
contemplated a walk in a different direction. Dick was full of his
experiment regarding the bog at Knocknacar, and could talk of nothing
else—a disposition of things which suited me all to nothing, for I had
only to acquiesce in all he said, and let my own thoughts have free and
pleasant range.
“I have everything cut and dry in my head, and I’ll have it all on
paper before I sleep to-night,” said the enthusiast. “Unfortunately, I
am tied for a while longer to the amiable Mr. Murdock; but since you’re
good enough, old fellow, to offer to stay to look after the cutting,
I can see my way to getting along. We can’t begin until the day after
to-morrow, for I can’t by any possibility get old Moriarty’s permission
before that. But then we’ll start in earnest. You must get some men up
there and set them to work at once. By to-morrow evening I’ll have an
exact map ready for you to work by, and all you will have to do will be
to see that the men are kept up to the mark, look at the work now and
then and take a note of results. I expect it will take quite a week or
two to make the preliminary drainage, for we must have a decided fall
for the water. We can’t depend on less than twenty or thirty feet,
and I should not be surprised if we want twice as much. I suppose I
shan’t see you till to-morrow night; for I’m going up to my room now,
and shall work late, and I must be off early in the morning. As you’re
going to have a walk I suppose I may take Andy, for my foot is not
right yet?”
“By all means,” I replied, and we bade each other good night.
When I went to my own room I locked the door and looked out of the open
window at the fair prospect bathed in soft moonlight. For a long time
I stood there. What my thoughts were I need tell no young man or young
woman, for without shame I admitted to myself that I was over head and
ears in love. If any young person of either sex requires any further
enlightenment, well! then, all I can say is that their education in
life has been shamefully neglected, or their opportunities have been
scant; or, worse still, some very grave omission has been made in their
equipment for the understanding of life.—If any one, not young, wants
such enlightenment I simply say—‘sir or madam, either you are a fool or
your memory is gone!’
One thing I will say, that I never felt so much at one with my kind;
and before going to bed I sat down and wrote a letter of instructions
to my agent, directing him to make accurate personal inquiries all over
the estate, and at the forthcoming rent-day make such remissions of
rent as would relieve any trouble or aid in any plan of improvements
such as his kinder nature could guess at or suggest.
I need not say that for a long time I did not sleep, and although
my thoughts were full of such hope and happiness that the darkness
seemed ever changing into sunshine, there were, at times, such
harrowing thoughts of difficulties to come, in the shape of previous
attachments—of my being late in my endeavours to win her as my wife—of
my never been able to find her again—that, now and again, I had to
jump from my bed and pace the floor. Towards daylight I slept, and
went through a series of dreams of alternating joy and pain. At first
hope held full sway, and my sweet experience of the day became renewed
and multiplied. Again I climbed the hill and saw her and heard her
voice—again the tearful look faded from her eyes—again I held her hand
in mine and bade good-bye, and a thousand happy fancies filled me with
exquisite joy. Then doubts began to come. I saw her once more on the
hill-top—but she was looking out for some other than myself, and a
shadow of disappointment passed over her sweet face when she recognized
me. Again, I saw myself kneeling at her feet and imploring her love,
while only cold, hard looks were my lot; or I found myself climbing
the hill, but never able to reach the top—or on reaching it finding it
empty. Then I would find myself hurrying through all sorts of difficult
places—high, bleak mountains, and lonely wind-swept strands—dark paths
through gloomy forests, and over sun-smitten plains, looking for
her whom I had lost, and in vain trying to call her—for I could not
remember her name. This last nightmare was quite a possibility, for I
had never heard it.
I awoke many times from such dreams in an agony of fear; but after a
time both pleasure and pain seemed to have had their share of my sleep,
and I slept the dreamless sleep that Plato eulogizes in the “Apologia
Socratis.”
I was awakened to a sense that my hour of rising had not yet come by a
knocking at my door. I opened it, and on the landing without saw Andy
standing, cap in hand.
“Hullo, Andy!” I said. “What on earth do you want?”
“Yer ’an’r ’ll parden me, but I’m jist off wid Misther Sutherland; an’
as I undherstand ye was goin’ for a walk, I made bould t’ ask yer ’an’r
if ye’ll give a missage to me father?”
“‘Certainly, Andy! With pleasure.”
“Maybe ye’d tell him that I’d like the white mare tuk off the grash
an’ gave some hard ’atin’ for a few days, as I’ll want her brung into
Wistport before long.”
“All right, Andy! Is that all?”
“That’s all, yer ’an’r.” Then he added, with a sly look at me:—
“May be ye’ll keep yer eye out for a nice bit o’ bog as ye go along.”
“Get on, Andy,” said I. “Shut up! you ould corncrake.” I felt I could
afford to chaff with him as we were alone.
He grinned, and went away. But he had hardly gone a few steps when he
returned and said, with an air of extreme seriousness:—
“As I’m goin’ to Knockcalltecrore, is there any missage I kin take for
ye to Miss Norah?”
“Oh, go on!” said I. “What message should I have to send, when I never
saw the girl in my life?”
For reply he winked at me with a wink big enough to cover a perch of
land, and, looking back over his shoulder so that I could see his grin
to the last, he went along the corridor—and I went back to bed.
It did not strike me till a long time afterwards—when I was quite
close to Knocknacar—how odd it was that Andy had asked me to give the
message to his father. I had not told him I was even coming in the
direction—I had not told anyone—indeed, I had rather tried to mislead
when I spoke of taking a walk that day, by saying some commonplace
about ‘the advisability of breaking new ground’ and so forth. Andy had
evidently taken it for granted; and it annoyed me somewhat that he
could find me so transparent. However, I gave the message to the old
man, to which he promised to attend, and had a drink of milk, which is
the hospitality of the west of Ireland farmhouse. Then, in the most
nonchalant way I could, I began to saunter up the hill.
I loitered awhile here and there on the way up. I diverted my steps now
and then as if to make inquiry into some interesting object. I tapped
rocks and turned stones over, to the discomfiture of various swollen
pale-coloured worms and nests of creeping things. With the end of my
stick I dug up plants, and made here and there unmeaning holes in the
ground as though I were actuated by some direct purpose known to myself
and not understood of others. In fact I acted as a hypocrite in many
harmless and unmeaning ways, and rendered myself generally obnoxious to
the fauna and flora of Knocknacar.
As I approached the hill-top my heart beat loudly and fast, and a
general supineness took possession of my limbs, and a dimness came over
my sight and senses. I had experienced something of the same feeling
at other times in my life—as, for instance, just before my first fight
when a school boy, and when I stood up to make my maiden speech at the
village debating society. Such feelings—or lack of feelings—however, do
not kill; and it is the privilege and strength of advancing years to
know this fact.
I proceeded up the hill. I did not whistle this time, or hum, or make
any noise—matters were far too serious with me for any such levity. I
reached the top—and found myself alone! A sense of blank disappointment
came over me—which was only relieved when, on looking at my watch, I
found that it was as yet still early in the forenoon. It was three
o’clock yesterday when I had met—when I had made the ascent.
As I had evidently to while away a considerable time, I determined to
make an accurate investigation of the hill of Knocknacar—much, very
much fuller than I had made as yet. As my unknown had descended the
hill by the east, and would probably make the ascent—if she ascended
at all—by the same side; and as it was my object not to alarm her, I
determined to confine my investigations to the west side. Accordingly I
descended about half way down the slope, and then commenced my prying
into the secrets of Nature under a sense of the just execration of me
and my efforts on the part of the whole of the animate and inanimate
occupants of the mountain side.
Hours to me had never seemed of the same inexhaustible proportions as
the hours thus spent. At first I was strong with a dogged patience; but
this in time gave way to an impatient eagerness, that merged into a
despairing irritability. More than once I felt an almost irresistible
inclination to rush to the top of the hill and shout, or conceived
an equally foolish idea to make a call at every house, cottage and
cabin, in the neighbourhood. In this latter desire my impatience was
somewhat held in check by a sense of the ludicrous; for as I thought
of the detail of the doing it, I seemed to see myself when trying to
reduce my abstract longing to a concrete effort, meeting only jeers and
laughter from both men and women—in my seemingly asinine effort to make
inquiries regarding a person whose name even I did not know, and for
what purpose I could assign no sensible reason.
I verily believe I must have counted the leaves of grass on portions
of that mountain. Unfortunately, hunger or thirst did not assail me,
for they would have afforded some diversion to my thoughts. I sturdily
stuck to my resolution not to ascend to the top until after three
o’clock, and I gave myself much _kudos_ for the stern manner in which I
adhered to my resolve.
My satisfaction at so bravely adhering to my resolution, in spite of
so much mental torment and temptation, may be imagined when, at the
expiration of the appointed time, on ascending to the hill-top, I saw
my beautiful friend sitting on the edge of the plateau and heard her
first remark after our mutual salutations:—
“I have been here nearly two hours, and am just going home! I have been
wondering and wondering what on earth you were working at all over the
hillside! May I ask, are you a botanist?”
“No!”
“Or a geologist?”
“No!”
“Or a naturalist?”
“No!”
There she stopped; this simple interrogation as to the pursuits of a
stranger evidently struck her as unmaidenly, for she blushed and turned
away.
I did not know what to say; but youth has its own wisdom—which is
sincerity—and I blurted out:—
“In reality I was doing nothing; I was only trying to pass the time.”
There was a query in the glance of the glorious blue-black eyes and in
the lifting of the ebon lashes; and I went on, conscious as I proceeded
that the ground before me was marked “Dangerous”:—
“The fact is, I did not want to come up here till after three, and the
time seemed precious long, I can tell you.”
“Indeed, but you have missed the best part of the view. Between one and
two o’clock, when the sun strikes in between the islands—Cusheen there
to the right, and Mishcar—the view is the finest of the whole day.”
“Oh, yes,” I answered, “I know now what I have missed.”
Perhaps my voice betrayed me. I certainly felt full of bitter regret;
but there was no possibility of mistaking the smile which rose to
her eyes and faded into the blush that followed the reception of the
thought.
There are some things which a woman _cannot_ misunderstand or fail to
understand; and surely my regret and its cause were within the category.
It thrilled through me, with a sweet intoxication, to realize that she
was not displeased. Man is predatory even in his affections, and there
is some conscious power to him which follows the conviction that the
danger of him—which is his intention—is recognized.
However, I thought it best to be prudent, and to rest on success—for a
while, at least. I therefore commenced to talk of London, whose wonders
were but fresh to myself, and was rewarded by the bright smile that had
now become incorporated with my dreams by day and by night.
And so we talked—talked in simple companionship; and the time fled by
on golden wings. No word of love was spoken or even hinted at, but
with joy and gratitude unspeakable I began to realize that we were _en
rapport_. And more than this, I realized that the beautiful peasant
girl had great gifts—a heart of gold, a sweet, pure nature, and a rare
intelligence. I gathered that she had had some education, though not an
extensive one, and that she had followed up at home such subjects as
she had learned in school. But this was all I gathered. I was still as
ignorant as ever of her name, and all else beside, as when I had first
heard her sweet voice on the hill-top.
Perhaps I might have learned more, had there been time; but the limit
of my knowledge had been fixed. The time had fled so quickly, because
so happily, that neither of us had taken account of it; and suddenly,
as a long red ray struck over the hill-top from the sun now preparing
for his plunge into the western wave, she jumped to her feet with a
startled cry:—
“The sunset! What am I thinking of! Good-night! good-night! No, you
must not come—it would never do! Good night!” And before I could say a
word, she was speeding down the eastern slope of the mountain.
The revulsion from such a dream of happiness made me for the moment
ungrateful; and I felt that it was with an angry sneer on my lip that I
muttered as I looked at her retreating form:—
“Why are the happy hours so short—whilst misery and anxiety spread out
endlessly?”
But as the red light of the sunset smote my face, a better and a holier
feeling came to me; and there on the top of the hill I knelt and
prayed, with the directness and fervour that are the spiritual gifts
of youth, that every blessing might light on her—the _arrière pensée_
being—her, my wife. Slowly I went down the mountain after the sun had
set; and when I got to the foot, I stood bareheaded for a long time,
looking at the summit which had given me so much happiness.
Do not sneer or make light of such moments, ye whose lives are grey.
Would to God that the grey-haired and grey-souled watchers of life,
could feel such moments once again!
I walked home with rare briskness, but did not feel tired at all by
it—I seemed to tread on air. As I drew near the hotel, I had some vague
idea of hurrying at once to my own room, and avoiding dinner altogether
as something too gross and carnal for my present exalted condition;
but a moment’s reflection was sufficient to reject any such folly. I
therefore achieved the other extreme, and made Mrs. Keating’s kindly
face beam by the vehemence with which I demanded food. I found that
Dick had not yet returned—a fact which did not displease me, as it
insured me a temporary exemption from Andy’s ill-timed banter, which I
did not feel in a humour to enjoy at present.
I was just sitting down to my dinner when Dick arrived. He too had a
keen appetite; and it was not until we had finished our fish, and were
well into our roast duck, that conversation began. Once he was started,
Dick was full of matters to tell me. He had seen Moriarty—that was
what had kept him so late—and had got his permission to investigate
and experiment on the bog. He had thought out the whole method of work
to be pursued, and had, during Murdock’s dinner-time, made to scale
a rough diagram for me to work by. We had our cigars lit before he
had exhausted himself on this subject. He had asked me a few casual
questions about my walk, and, so as not to arouse any suspicions, I
had answered him vaguely that I had had a lovely day, had enjoyed
myself immensely, and had seen some very pretty things—all of which
was literally and exactly true. I had then asked him as to how he had
got on with his operations in connection with the bog. It amused me to
think how small and secondary a place Shleenanaher, and all belonging
to it, now had in my thoughts. He told me that they had covered a
large portion of the new section of the bog—that there was very little
left to do now, in so far as the bog was concerned; and he descanted on
the richness and the fine position of Murdock’s new farm.
“It makes me angry,” said he, “to think that that human-shaped wolf
should get hold of such a lovely spot, and oust such a good fellow as
the man whom he has robbed—yes! it is robbery, and nothing short of it.
I feel something like a criminal myself for working for such a wretch
at all.”
“Never mind, old chap,” said I; “you can’t help it. Whatever he may
have done wrong, you have had neither act nor part in it. It will all
come right in time!” In my present state of mind I could not imagine
that there was, or could be, anything in the world that would not come
all right in time.
We strolled into the street, and met Andy, who immediately hurried up
to me:—
“Good evenin’, yer ’an’r! An’ did ye give me insthructions to me
father?”
“I did, Andy; and he asked me to tell you that all shall be done
exactly as you wish.”
“Thank yer ’an’r.” He turned away, and my heart rejoiced, for I thought
I would be free from his badinage; but he turned and came back, and
asked with a servility which I felt to be hypocritical and assumed:—
“Any luck, yer ’an’r, wid bogs to-day?” I know I got red as I answered
him:—
“Oh, I don’t know! Yes! a little—not much.”
“Shure an’ I’m glad to hear it, surr! but I might have known be the luk
iv ye and be yer shtep. Faix! it’s aisy known whin a man has been lucky
wid bogs!” The latter sentence was spoken in a pronounced “aside.”
Dick laughed, for although he was not in the secret he could see that
there was some fun intended. I did not like his laugh, and said hotly:—
“I don’t understand you, Andy!”
“Is it undershtand me ye don’t do? Well, surr, if I’ve said anythin’
that I shouldn’t, I ax yer pardon. Bogs isn’t to be lightly shpoke iv
at all, at all!” then, after a pause:—“Poor Miss Norah!”
“What do you mean?” said I.
“Shure yer ’an’r, I was only pityin’ the poor crathur. Poor thing,
but this’ll be a bitther blow to her intirely!” The villain was so
manifestly acting a part, and he grinned at me in such a provoking way,
that I got quite annoyed.
“Andy, what do you mean? out with it!” I said hotly.
“Mane, yer ’an’r? Sure nawthin’. All I mane is, poor Miss Norah! Musha,
but it’ll be the sore thrial to her. Bad cess to Knocknacar anyhow!”
“This is infernal impertinence! Here——” I was stopped by Dick’s hand on
my breast:—
“Easy, easy, old chap! What is this all about? Don’t get angry, old
man. Andy is only joking, whatever it is. I’m not in the secret myself,
and so can give no opinion; but there is a joke somewhere. Don’t let it
go beyond a joke.”
“All right, Dick,” said I, having had time to recover my temper. “The
fact is that Andy has started some chaff on me about bogs—meaning
girls thereby—every time he mentions the word to me; and now he seems
to accuse me in some way about a girl that came to meet her father
that night I left him home at Knockcalltecrore. You know, Joyce, that
Murdock has ousted from his farm. Now, look here, Andy! You’re a very
good fellow, and don’t mean any harm; but I entirely object to the way
you’re going on. I don’t mind a button about a joke. I hope I’m not
such an ass as to be thin-skinned about a trifle, but it is another
matter when you mention a young lady’s name alongside mine. You don’t
think of the harm you may do. People are very talkative, and generally
get a story the wrong end up. If you mention this girl—whatever her
name is——”
“Poor Miss Norah!” struck in Andy, and then ostentatiously corrected
himself—“I big yer ’an’r’s pardon, Miss Norah, I mane.”
“This Miss Norah along with me,” I went on, “and especially in that
objectionable form, people may begin to think she is wronged in some
way, and you may do her an evil that you couldn’t undo in all your
lifetime. As for me, I never even saw the girl. I heard her speak in
the dark for about half a minute, but I never set eyes on her in my
life. Now, let this be the last of all this nonsense! Don’t worry me
any more; but run in and tell Mrs. Keating to give you a skinful of
punch, and to chalk it up to me.”
Andy grinned, ducked his head, and made his exit into the house as
though propelled or drawn by some unseen agency. When I remarked this
to Dick he replied, “Some spirit draws him, I dare say.”
Dick had not said a word beyond advising me not to lose my temper. He
did not appear to take any notice of my lecture to Andy, and puffed
unconcernedly at his cigar till the driver had disappeared. He then
took me by the arm and said:—
“Let us stroll a bit up the road.” Arm in arm we passed out of the town
and into the silence of the common. The moon was rising, and there was
a soft, tender light over everything. Presently, without looking at me,
Dick said:—
“Art, I don’t want to be inquisitive or to press for any confidences,
but you and I are too old friends not to be interested in what concerns
each other. What did Andy mean? Is there any girl in question?”
I was glad to have a friend to whom to open my mind, and without
further thought I answered:—
“There is, Dick!”
Dick grasped my arm and looked keenly into my face, and then said:
“Art! Answer me one question—answer me truly, old fellow, by all you
hold dear—answer me on your honour!”
“I shall, Dick! What is it?”
“Is it Norah Joyce?” I had felt some vague alarm from the seriousness
of his manner, but his question put me at ease again, and, with a high
heart, I answered:—
“No! Dick. It is not.” We strolled on, and after a pause, that seemed a
little oppressive to me, he spoke again:—
“Andy mentioned a poor ‘Miss Norah’—don’t get riled, old man—and you
both agreed that a certain young lady was the only one alluded to. Are
you sure there is no mistake? Is not your young lady called Norah?”
This was a difficult question to answer, and made me feel rather
awkward. Being awkward, I got a little hot:—
“Andy’s an infernal fool. What I said to him—you heard me——”
“Yes! I heard you.”
“—— was literally and exactly true. I never set eyes on Norah Joyce
in my life. The girl I mean, the one you mean also, was one I saw by
chance yesterday—and to-day—on the top of Knocknacar.”
“Who is she?”—there was a more joyous sound in Dick’s voice.
“Eh! eh!” I stammered. “The fact is, Dick, I don’t know.”
“What is her name?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know her name?”
“No.”
“Where does she come from?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about her, except this, Dick, that
I love her with all my heart and soul!” I could not help it—I could not
account for it —but the tears rushed to my eyes, and I had to keep my
head turned away from Dick lest he should notice me. He said nothing,
and when I had surreptitiously wiped away what I thought were unmanly
tears of emotion, I looked round at him. He, too, had his head turned
away and, and if my eyes did not deceive me, he too had some unmanly
signs of emotion.
“Dick!” said I. He turned on the instant. We looked in one another’s
faces, and the story was all told. We grasped hands warmly.
“We’re both in the same boat, old boy,” said he.
“Who is it, Dick?”
“Norah Joyce!”—— I gave a low whistle.
“But,” he went on, “you are well ahead of me. I have never even
exchanged a word with her yet. I have only seen her a couple of times;
but the whole world is nothing to me beside her. There! I’ve nothing
to tell. _Veni, Vidi, Victus sum!_—I came, I saw, I was conquered. She
has beauty enough, and if I’m not an idiot, worth enough to conquer a
nation!—Now, tell me all about yours.”
“There’s nothing to tell, Dick; as yet I have only exchanged a few
words. I shall hope to know more soon.” We walked along in silence,
turning our steps back to the hotel.
“I must hurry and finish up my plans to-night so as to be ready for you
to-morrow. You won’t look on it as a labour to go to Knocknacar, old
chap!” said he, slapping me on the back.
“Nor you to go to Shleenanaher,” said I, as we shook hands and parted
for the night.
It was quite two hours after this when I began to undress for bed. I
suppose the whole truth, however foolish, must be told, but those two
hours were mainly spent in trying to compose some suitable verses to
my unknown. I had consumed a vast amount of paper—consumed literally,
for what lover was ever yet content to trust his unsuccessful poetic
efforts to the waste basket?—and my grate was thickly strewn with filmy
ashes. Hitherto the Muse had persistently and successfully evaded me.
She did not even grant me a feather from her wing, and my ‘woeful
ballad made to my mistress’ eyebrow’ was amongst the things that were
not. There was a gentle tap at the door. I opened it, and saw Dick with
his coat off. He came in.
“I thought I would look in, Art, as I saw the light under your door,
and knew that you had not gone to bed. I only wanted to tell you this.
You don’t know what a relief it is to me to be able to speak of it to
any living soul—how maddening it is to me to work for that scoundrel
Murdock. You can understand now why I flared up at him so suddenly ere
yesterday. I have a strong conviction on me that his service is devil’s
service as far as my happiness is concerned—and that I shall pay some
terrible penalty for it.”
“Nonsense, old fellow,” said I, “Norah only wants to see you to know
what a fine fellow you are. You won’t mind my saying it, but you are
the class of man that any woman would be proud of!”
“Ah! old chap,” he answered sadly, “I’m afraid it will never get that
far. There isn’t, so to speak, a fair start for me. She has seen me
already—worse luck!—has seen me doing work which must seem to her to
aid in ruining her father. I could not mistake the scornful glance she
has thrown on me each time we have met. However, _che sara sara_! It’s
no use fretting beforehand. Good night!”