A VISIT TO JOYCE.
With renewed hope I set out in the morning for Knocknacar.
It is one of the many privileges of youth that a few hours’ sleep will
change the darkest aspect of the entire universe to one of the rosiest
tint. Since the previous evening, sleeping and waking, my mind had been
framing reasons and excuses for the absence of...!—it was a perpetual
grief to me that I did not even know her name. The journey to the
mountain seemed longer than usual; but, even at the time, this seemed
to me only natural under the circumstances.
Andy was to-day seemingly saturated or overwhelmed with a superstitious
gravity. Without laying any personal basis for his remarks, but
accepting as a stand-point his own remark of the previous evening
concerning my having seen a fairy, he proceeded to develop his fears
on the subject. I will do him the justice to say that his knowledge
of folklore was immense, and that nothing but a gigantic memory
for detail, cultivated to the full, or else an equally stupendous
imagination working on the facts that momentarily came before his
view, could have enabled him to keep up such a flow of narrative and
legend. The general result to me was, that if I had been inclined to
believe such matters I would have remained under the impression that,
although the whole seaboard, with adjacent mountains, from Westport
to Galway, was in a state of plethora as regards uncanny existences,
Knocknacar, as a habitat for such, easily bore off the palm. Indeed,
that remarkable mountain must have been a solid mass of gnomes,
fairies, pixies, leprachauns, and all genii, species and varieties
of the same. No Chicago grain-elevator in the early days of a wheat
corner could have been more solidly packed. It would seem that so
many inhabitants had been allured by fairies, and consequently had
mysteriously disappeared, that this method of minimisation of the
census must have formed a distinct drain on the local population,
which, by the way, did not seem to be excessive.
I reserved to myself the right of interrogating Andy on this subject
later in the day, if, unhappily, there should be any opportunity. Now
that we had drawn near the hill, my fears began to return.
Whilst Andy stabled the mare I went to the cutting and found the
men already at work. During the night there had evidently been a
considerable drainage from the cutting, not from the bog but entirely
local. This was now Friday morning, and I thought that if equal
progress were made in the two days, it would be quite necessary that
Dick should see the working on Sunday, and advise before proceeding
further.
As I knew that gossip and the requirements of his horse would keep Andy
away for a little while, I determined to take advantage of his absence
to run up to the top of the hill, just to make sure that no one was
there. It did not take long to get up, but when I arrived there was no
reward, except in the shape of a very magnificent view. The weather was
evidently changing, for great clouds seemed to gather from the west and
south, and far away over the distant rim of the horizon the sky was as
dark as night. Still the clouds were not hurrying as before a storm,
and the gloom did not seem to have come shoreward as yet; it was rather
a presage of prolonged bad weather than bad itself. I did not remain
long, as I wished to escape Andy’s scrutiny. Indeed, as I descended the
hill I began to think that Andy had become like the “Old Man of the
Sea,” and that my own experience seemed likely to rival that of Sinbad.
When I arrived at the cutting I found Andy already seated, enjoying his
pipe. When he saw me he looked up with a grin, and said audibly:—
“The Good People don’t seem to be workin’ so ’arly in the mornin’! Here
he is safe an’ sound amongst us.”
That was a very long day. Whenever I thought I could do so, without
attracting too much attention, I strolled to the top of the hill, but
only to suffer a new disappointment.
At dinner-time I went up and sat all the time. I was bitterly
disappointed, and also began to be seriously alarmed. I seemed to have
lost my unknown.
When the men got back to their work, and I saw Andy beginning to climb
the hill in an artless, purposeless manner, I thought I would kill
two birds with one stone, and, whilst avoiding my incubus, make some
inquiries. As I could easily see from the top of the hill, there were
only a few houses all told in the little hamlet; and including those
most isolated, there were not twenty in all. Of these I had been in the
sheebeen and in old Sullivan’s, so that a stroll of an hour or two,
properly organized, would cover the whole ground; and so I set out on
my task to try and get some sight or report of my unknown. I knew I
could always get an opportunity of opening conversation by asking for a
light for my cigar.
It was a profitless task. Two hours after I had started I returned to
the top of the hill as ignorant as I had gone, and the richer only by
some dozen or more drinks of milk, for I found that the acceptance of
some form of hospitality was an easy opening to general conversation.
The top was still empty, but I had not been there a quarter of an hour
when I was joined by Andy. His first remark was evidently calculated to
set me at ease:—
“Begor, yer ’an’r comes to the top iv this hill nigh as often as I do
meself.”
I felt that my answer was inconsequential as well as ill-tempered:—
“Well, why on earth, Andy, do you come so often? Surely there is no
need to come, unless you like it.”
“Faix! I came this time lest yer ’an’r might feel lonely. I niver see a
man yit be himself on top iv a hill that he didn’t want a companion—iv
some kind or another.”
“Andy,” I remarked, as I thought, rather cuttingly, “you judge life
and men too much by your own experience. There are people and emotions
which are quite out of your scope—far too high, or perhaps too low, for
your psychic or intellectual grasp.”
Andy was quite unabashed. He looked at me admiringly.
“It’s a pity yer ’an’r isn’t a mimber iv Parlyment. Shure, wid a flow
iv language like that, ye could do anythin’!”
As satire was no use I thought I would draw him out on the subject of
the fairies and pixies.
“I suppose you were looking for more fairies; the supply you had this
morning was hardly enough to suit you, was it?”
“Begor, it’s meself is not the only wan that does be lukin’ for the
fairies!” and he grinned.
“Well, I must say, Andy, you seem to have a good supply on hand.
Indeed, it seems to me that if there were any more fairies to be
located on this hill it would have to be enlarged, for it’s pretty
solid with them already, so far as I can gather.”
“Augh! there’s room for wan more! I’m tould there’s wan missin’ since
ere yistherday.”
It was no good trying to beat Andy at this game, so I gave it up and
sat silent. After a while he asked me:—
“Will I be dhrivin’ yer ’an’r over to Knockcalltecrore?”
“Why do you ask me?”
“I’m thinking it’s glad yer ’an’r will be to see Miss Norah.”
“Upon my soul, Andy, you are too bad. A joke is a joke, but there are
limits to it; and I don’t let any man joke with me when I prefer not.
If you want to talk of your Miss Norah, go and talk to Mr. Sutherland
about her. He’s there every day and can make use of your aid! Why on
earth do you single me out as your father confessor? You’re unfair to
the girl, after all, for if I ever do see her I’m prepared to hate her.”
“Ah! yer ’an’r wouldn’t be that hard! What harrum has the poor crathur
done that ye’d hate her—a thing no mortial man iver done yit?”
“Oh, go on! don’t bother me any more; I think it’s about time we were
getting home. You go down to the sheebeen and rattle up that old
corncrake of yours; I’ll come down presently and see how the work goes
on.”
He went off, but came back as usual; I could have thrown something at
him.
“Take me advice, surr—pay a visit to Shleenanaher, an’ see Miss Norah!”
and he hurried down the hill.
His going did me no good; no one came, and after a lingering glance
around, and noting the gathering of the rain clouds, I descended the
hill.
When I got up on the car I was not at all in a talkative humour, and
said but little to the group surrounding me. I heard Andy account for
it to them:—
“Whisht! don’t notice his ’an’r’s silence! It’s stupid wid shmokin’
he is. He lit no less nor siventeen cigars this blissed day. Ax the
neighbours av ye doubt me. Gee up!”
The evening was spent with Dick as the last had been. I knew that he
had seen his girl; he knew that I had not seen mine, but neither had
anything to tell. Before parting he told me that he expected to shortly
finish his work at Knockcalltecrore, and asked me if I would come over.
“Do come,” he said, when I expressed a doubt. “Do come, I may want a
witness,” so I promised to go.
Andy had on his best suit, and a clean wash, when he met us smiling in
the early morning, “Look at him,” I said, “wouldn’t you know he was
going to meet his best girl?”
“Begor,” he answered, “mayhap we’ll all do that same!”
It was only ten o’clock when we arrived at Knockcalltecrore, and went
up the boreen to Murdock’s new farm. The Gombeen Man was standing at
the gate with his watch in his hand. When we came up, he said:—
“I feared you would be late. It’s just conthract time now. Hadn’t
ye betther say good-bye to your frind an’ git to work?” He was so
transparently inclined to be rude, and possibly to pick a quarrel, that
I whispered a warning to Dick. To my great satisfaction he whispered
back:—
“I see he wants to quarrel; nothing in the world will make me lose
temper to-day.” Then he took out his pocket-book, searched for and
found a folded paper; opening this he read: “‘and the said Richard
Sutherland shall be at liberty to make use of such assistant as he may
choose or appoint whensoever he may wish during the said engagement
at his own expense.’ You see, Mr. Murdock, I am quite within the four
walls of the agreement, and exercise my right. I now tell you formally
that Mr. Arthur Severn has kindly undertaken to assist me for to-day.”
Murdock glared at him for a minute, and then opened the gate and said:—
“Come in, gintlemin.” We entered.
“Now, Mr. Murdoch!” said Dick, briskly, “what do you wish done to-day?
Shall we make further examination of the bog where the iron indication
is, or shall we finish the survey of the rest of the land?”
“Finish the rough survey!”
The operation was much less complicated than when we had examined the
bog. We simply “quartered” the land, as the Constabulary say when they
make search for hidden arms; and taking it bit by bit, passed the
magnet over its surface. We had the usual finds of nails, horseshoes,
and scrap iron, but no result of importance. The last place we examined
was the house. It was a much better built and more roomy structure
than the one he had left. It was not, however, like the other, built
on a rock, but in a sheltered hollow. Dick pointed out this to me, and
remarked:—
“I don’t know but that Joyce is better off, all told, in the exchange.
I wouldn’t care myself to live in a house built in a place like this,
and directly in the track of the bog.”
“Not even,” said I, “if Norah was living in it too?”
“Ah, that’s another thing! With Norah I’d take my chance and live in
the bog itself, if I could get no other place.”
When this happened, our day’s work was nearly done, and very soon we
took our leave for the evening, Murdock saying, as I thought rather
offensively:—
“Now, you, sir, be sure to be here in time on Monday morning.”
“All right!” said Dick, nonchalantly; and we passed out. In the boreen,
he said to me:—
“Let us stroll up this way, Art,” and we walked up the hill towards
Joyce’s house, Murdock coming down to his gate and looking at us. When
we came to Joyce’s gate, we stopped. There was no sign of Norah; but
Joyce himself stood at his door. I was opening the gate when he came
forward.
“Good evening, Mr. Joyce,” said I. “How is your arm? I hope quite well
by this time. Perhaps you don’t remember me—I had the pleasure of
giving you a seat up here in my car, from Mrs. Kelligan’s, the night
of the storm.”
“I remember well,” he said; “and I was thankful to you, for I was in
trouble that night—it’s all done now.” And he looked round the land
with a sneer, and then he looked yearningly towards his old farm.
“Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Sutherland,” said I.
“I ask yer pardon, sir. An’ I don’t wish to be rude—but I don’t want to
know him. He’s no frind to me and mine!”
Dick’s honest, manly face grew red with shame. I thought he was going
to say something angrily, so cut in as quickly as I could:—
“You are sadly mistaken, Mr. Joyce; Dick Sutherland is too good a
gentleman to do wrong to you or any man. How can you think such a
thing?”
“A man what consorts wid me enemy can be no frind of mine!”
“But he doesn’t consort with him; he hates him. He was simply engaged
to make certain investigations for him as a scientific man. Why, I
don’t suppose you yourself hate Murdock more than Dick does.”
“Thin I ax yer pardon, sir,” said Joyce. “I like to wrong no man, an’
I’m glad to be set right.”
Things were going admirably, and we were all beginning to feel at ease,
when we saw Andy approach. I groaned in spirit—Andy was gradually
taking shape to me as an evil genius. He approached, and making his
best bow, said:—
“Fine evenin’, Misther Joyce. I hope yer arrum is betther—an’ how is
Miss Norah?”
“Thank ye kindly, Andy; both me arm and the girl’s well.”
“Is she widin?”
“No! she wint this mornin’ to stay over Monday in the convent. Poor
girl! she’s broken-hearted, lavin’ her home and gettin’ settled here. I
med the changin’ as light for her as I could—but weemin takes things to
heart more nor min does, an’ that’s bad enough, God knows!”
“Thrue for ye,” said Andy. “This gintleman here, Masther Art, says he
hasn’t seen her since the night she met us below in the dark.”
“I hope,” said Joyce, “you’ll look in and see us, if you’re in these
parts, sir, whin she comes back. I know she thought a dale of your
kindness to me that night.”
“I’ll be here for some days, and I’ll certainly come, if I may.”
“And I hope I may come, too, Mr. Joyce,” said Dick, “now that you know
me.”
“Ye’ll be welkim, sir.”
We all shook hands, coming away; but as we turned to go home, at the
gate we had a surprise. There, in the boreen, stood Murdock—livid with
fury. He attacked Dick with a tirade of the utmost virulence. He called
him every name he could lay his tongue to—traitor, liar, thief, and
indeed exhausted the whole terminology of abuse, and accused him of
stealing his secrets and of betraying his trust. Dick bore the ordeal
splendidly; he never turned a hair, but calmly went on smoking his
cigar. When Murdock had somewhat exhausted himself and stopped, he said
calmly:—
“My good fellow, now that your ill-manners are exhausted, perhaps you
will tell me what it is all about?”
Whereupon Murdock opened again the vials of his wrath. This time he
dragged us all into it—I had been brought in as a spy, to help in
betraying him, and Joyce had suborned him to the act of treachery. For
myself I fired up at once, and would have struck him, only that Dick
laid his hand on me, and in a whisper cautioned me to desist.
“Easy, old man—easy! Don’t spoil a good position. What does it matter
what a man like that can say? Give him rope enough! we’ll have our turn
in time, don’t fear!”
I held back, but unfortunately Joyce pressed forwards. He had his say
pretty plainly.
“What do ye mane, ye ill-tongued scoundhrel, comin’ here to make a
quarrel? Why don’t ye shtay on the land you have robbed from me, and
lave us alone? I am not like these gintlemen here, that can afford to
hould their tongues and despise ye—I’m a man like yerself, though I
hope I’m not the wolf that ye are—fattenin’ on the blood of the poor!
How dare you say I suborned any one—me that never told a lie, or done a
dirty thing in me life? I tell you, Murtagh Murdock, I put my mark upon
ye once—I see it now comin’ up white through the red of yer passion!
Don’t provoke me further, or I’ll put another mark on ye that ye’ll
carry to yer grave!”
No one said a word more. Murdock moved off and entered his own house;
Dick and I said “good night” to Joyce again, and went down the boreen.