_UN MAUVAIS QUART D’HEURE._
When we were strolling back to the hotel Dick said to me:—
“Cheer up, old fellow! You needn’t be the least bit downhearted. Go
soon and see Joyce. He will not stand in the girl’s way, you may be
sure. He is a good fellow, and loves Norah dearly—who could help it!”
He stopped for a moment here, and choked a great sob, but went on
bravely:—
“It is only like her to be willing to sacrifice her own happiness; but
she must not be let do that. Settle the matter soon! Go to-morrow to
see Joyce. I shall go up to Knocknacar instead of working with Murdock;
it will leave the coast clear for you.” Then we went into the hotel;
and I felt as if a great weight had been removed.
When I was undressing I heard a knock. “Come in,” I called, and Dick
entered. Dear old fellow! I could see that he had been wrestling
with himself, and had won. His eyes were red, but there was a noble
manliness about him which was beyond description.
“Art,” said he, “I wanted to tell you something, and I thought it
ought to be told now. I wouldn’t like the night to close on any wrong
impression between you and me. I hope you feel that my suspicion about
fair-play and the rest of it is all gone.”
“I do! old fellow! quite.”
“Well, you are not to get thinking of me as in any way wronged in the
matter, either by accident or design. I have been going over the whole
matter to try and get the heart of the mystery; and I think it only
fair to say that no wrong could be done to me. I never spoke a single
word to Norah in my life. Nor did she to me. Indeed, I have seen her
but seldom, though the first time was enough to finish me. Thank God!
we have found out the true state of affairs before it was too late. It
might have been worse, old lad! it might have been worse! I don’t think
there’s any record—even in the novels—of a man’s life being wrecked
over a girl he didn’t know. We don’t get hit to death at sight, old
boy! It’s only skin deep this time, and though skin deep hurts the
most, it doesn’t kill! I thought I would tell you what I had worked
out, for I knew we were such old friends that it would worry you and
mar your happiness to think I was wretched. I hope—and I honestly
expect—that by to-morrow I shall be all right, and able to enjoy the
sight of both your happiness—as, please God! I hope such is to be.”
We wrung each other’s hands; and I believe that from that moment we
were closer friends than ever. As he was going out Dick turned to me,
and said:—
“It is odd about the legend, isn’t it! The Snake is in the Hill still,
if I am not mistaken. He told me all about your visits and the sale of
the land to you, in order to make mischief. But his time is coming; St.
Patrick will lift that crozier of his before long!”
“But the Hill holds us all!” said I; and as I spoke there was an
ominous feeling over me. “We’re not through yet; but it will be all
right now.”
The last thing I saw was a smile on his face as he closed the door.
The next morning Dick started for Knocknacar. It had been arranged the
night before that he should go on Andy’s car, as I preferred walking to
Shleenanaher. I had more than one reason for so doing, but that which
I kept in the foreground of my own mind—and which I almost persuaded
myself was the chief—if not the only reason—was that I did not wish to
be troubled with Andy’s curiosity and impertinent badinage. My real and
secret reason, however, was that I wished to be alone so that I might
collect my thoughts, and acquire courage for what the French call _un
mauvais quart d’heure_.
In all classes of life, and under all conditions, this is an ordeal
eminently to be dreaded by young men. No amount of reason is of
the least avail to them—there is some horrible, lurking, unknown
possibility which may defeat all their hopes, and may, in addition,
add the flaming aggravation of making them appear ridiculous! I
summed up my own merits, and, not being a fool, found considerable
ground for hope. I was young, not bad looking—Norah loved me; I had no
great bogey of a past secret or misdeed to make me feel sufficiently
guilty to fear a just punishment falling upon me; and, considering all
things, I was in a social position and of wealth beyond the dreams of a
peasant—howsoever ambitious for his daughter he might be.
And yet I walked along those miles of road that day with my heart
perpetually sinking into my boots, and harassed with a vague dread
which made me feel at times an almost irresistible inclination to run
away. I can only compare my feelings, when I drew in sight of the
hill-top, with those which animate the mind of a young child when
coming in sight of the sea in order to be dipped for the first time.
There is, however, in man some wholesome fear of running away, which
at times either takes the place of resolution, or else initiates
the mechanical action of guiding his feet in the right direction—of
prompting his speech and regulating his movement. Otherwise no young
man, or very few at least, would ever face the ordeal of asking the
consent of the parents of his _inamorata_. Such a fear stood to me now;
and with a seeming boldness I approached Joyce’s house. When I came to
the gate I saw him in the field not far off, and went up to speak to
him.
Even at that moment, when the dread of my soul was greatest, I could
not but recall an interview which I had had with Andy that morning, and
which was not of my seeking, but of his.
After breakfast I had been in my room, making myself as smart as I
could, for of course I hoped to see Norah—when I heard a knock at
the door, timid but hurried. When I called to “come in,” Andy’s head
appeared; and then his whole body was by some mysterious wriggle
conveyed through the partial opening of the door. When within, he
closed it, and, putting a finger to his lip, said in a mysterious
whisper:—
“Masther Art!”
“Well Andy! what is it?”
“Whisper me now! Shure I don’t want to see yer ’an’r so onasy in yer
mind.”
I guessed what was coming, so interrupted him, for I was determined to
get even with him.
“Now, Andy! if you have any nonsense about your ‘Miss Norah,’ I don’t
want to hear it.”
“Whisht! surr; let me shpake. I mustn’t kape Misther Dick waitin’. Now
take me advice! an’ take a luk out to Shleenanaher. Ye may see some wan
there what ye don’t ixpect!”—this was said with a sly mysteriousness,
impossible to describe.
“No! no! Andy,” said I, looking as sad as I could, “I can see no one
there that I don’t expect.”
“They do say, surr, that the fairies does take quare shapes; and your
fairy girrul may have gone to Shleenanaher. Fairies may want to take
the wather like mortials.”
“Take the water, Andy! what do ye mean?”
“What do I mane! why what the quality does call say-bathin’. An’ maybe,
the fairy girrul has gone too!”
“Ah! no, Andy,” said I, in as melancholy a way as I could, “my fairy
girl is gone. I shall never see her again!”
Andy looked at me very keenly; and then a twinkle came in his eye and
he said, slapping his thigh:—
“Begor! but I believe yer ’an’r is cured! Ye used to be that melancholy
that bedad it’s meself what was gettin’ sarious about ye; an’ now it’s
only narvous ye are! Well! if the fairy is gone, why not see Miss
Norah? Sure wan sight iv her ’d cure all the fairy spells what iver was
cast. Go now, yer ’an’r, an’ see her this day!”
I said with decision, “No, Andy, I will not go to-day to see Miss
Norah. I have something else to do!”
“Oh, very well!” said he with simulated despondency. “If yer ’an’r
won’t, of course ye won’t! but ye’re wrong. At any rate, if ye’re in
the direction iv Shleenanaher, will ye go an’ see th’ ould man? Musha!
but I’m thinkin’ it’s glad he’d be to see yer ’an’r.”
Despite all I could do, I felt blushing up to the roots of my hair.
Andy looked at me quizzically; and said oracularly, and with sudden
seriousness:—
“Begor! if yer fairy girrul is turned into a fairy complately, an’ has
flew away from ye, maybe ould Joyce too ’d become a leprachaun! Hould
him tight whin ye catch him! Remimber, wid leprachauns, if ye wance let
thim go ye may niver git thim agin. But if ye hould thim tight, they
must do whatsumiver ye wish! So they do say—but maybe I’m wrong—I’m
itherfarin’ wid a gintleman as was bit be a fairy, and knows more nor
mortials does about thim! There’s the masther callin’. Good bye, surr,
an’ good luck!” and with a grin at me over his shoulder, Andy hurried
away. I muttered to myself:—
“If anyone is a fairy, my bold Andy, I think I can name him. You seem
to know everything!”
This scene came back to me with renewed freshness. I could not but
feel that Andy was giving me some advice. He evidently knew more than
he pretended; indeed, he must have known all along of the identity of
my unknown of Knocknacar with Norah. He now also evidently knew of my
knowledge on the subject; and he either knew or guessed that I was off
to see Joyce on the subject of his daughter.
In my present state of embarrassment, his advice was a distinct light.
He knew the people, and Joyce especially; he also saw some danger
to my hopes, and showed me a way to gain my object. I knew already
that Joyce was a proud man, and I could quite conceive that he was an
obstinate one; and I knew from general experience of life that there is
no obstacle so difficult to surmount as the pride of an obstinate man.
With all the fervour of my heart I prayed that, on this occasion, his
pride might not in any way be touched, or arrayed against me.
When I saw him I went straight towards him, and held out my hand. He
seemed a little surprised, but took it. Like Bob Acres, I felt my
courage oozing out of the tips of my fingers, but with the remnant of
it threw myself into the battle:—
“Mr. Joyce, I have come to speak to you on a very serious subject.”
“A sarious subject! Is it concarnin’ me?”
“It is.”
“Go on! More throuble, I suppose?”
“I hope not, most sincerely. Mr. Joyce, I want to have your permission
to marry your daughter!” If I had suddenly turned into a bird and flown
away, I do not think I could have astonished him more. For a second or
two he was speechless, and then said, in an unconscious sort of way:—
“Want to marry me daughter!”
“Yes, Mr. Joyce! I love her very dearly! She is a pearl amongst women;
and if you will give your permission, I shall be the happiest man on
earth. I can quite satisfy you as to my means. I am well to do; indeed,
as men go, I am a rich man.”
“Aye! sir, I don’t doubt. I’m contint that you are what you say. But
you never saw me daughter—except that dark night when you took me home.”
“Oh yes, I have seen her several times, and spoken with her; but,
indeed, I only wanted to see her once to love her!”
“Ye have seen her—and she never tould me! Come wid me!” He beckoned me
to come with him, and strode at a rapid pace to his cottage, opened
the door, and motioned me to go in. I entered the room—which was both
kitchen and living room—to which he pointed. He followed.
As I entered, Norah, who was sewing, saw me and stood up. A rosy blush
ran over her face; then she grew as white as snow as she saw the stern
face of her father close behind me. I stepped forward, and took her
hand; when I let it go, her arm fell by her side.
“Daughter!”—Joyce spoke very sternly, but not unkindly. “Do you know
this gentleman?”
“Yes, father!”
“He tells me that you and he have met several times. Is it thrue?”
“Yes, father; but—”
“Ye never tould me! How was that?”
“It was by accident we met.”
“Always be accident?” Here I spoke:—
“Always by accident—on her part.” He interrupted me:—
“Yer pardon, young gentleman! I wish me daughter to answer me! Shpeak,
Norah!”
“Always, father!—except once, and then I came to give a message—yes! it
was a message, although from myself.”
“What missage?”
“Oh father! don’t make me speak! We are not alone! Let me tell you,
alone! I am only a girl—and it is hard to speak.”
His voice had a tear in it, for all its sternness, as he answered:—
“It is on a subject that this gentleman has spoke to me about—as mayhap
he has spoke to you.”
“Oh father!”—she took his hand, which he did not withdraw, and, bending
over, kissed it and hugged it to her breast. “Oh father! what have I
done that you should seem to mistrust me? You have always trusted me;
trust me now, and don’t make me speak till we are alone!”
I could not be silent any longer. My blood began to boil, that she I
loved should be so distressed—whatsoever the cause, and at the hands of
whomsoever, even her father.
“Mr. Joyce, you must let me speak! You would speak yourself to save
pain to a woman you loved.” He turned to tell me to be silent, but
suddenly stopped; I went on:—“Norah,” he winced as I spoke her name,
“is entirely blameless. I met her quite by chance at the top of
Knocknacar when I went to see the view. I did not know who she was—I
had not the faintest suspicion; but from that moment I loved her. I
went next day, and waited all day in the chance of seeing her; I did
see her, but again came away in ignorance even of her name. I sought
her again, day after day, day after day, but could get no word of
her; for I did not know who she was, or where she came from. Then, by
chance, and after many weary days, again I saw her in the Cliff Fields
below, three days ago. I could no longer be silent, but told her that
I loved her, and asked her to be my wife. She asked a while to think,
and left me, promising to give me an answer on the next evening. I came
again; and I got my answer.” Here Norah, who was sobbing, with her face
turned away, looked round, and said:—
“Hush! hush! You must not let father know. All the harm will be done!”
Her father answered in a low voice:—
“All that could be done is done already, daughter. Ye never tould me!”
“Sir! Norah is worthy of all esteem. Her answer to me was that she
could not leave her father, who was all alone in the world!” Norah
turned away again, but her father’s arm went round her shoulder. “She
told me I must think no more of her; but, sir, you and I, who are men,
must not let a woman, who is dear to us both make such a sacrifice.”
Joyce’s face was somewhat bitter as he answered me:—
“Ye think pretty well of yerself, young sir, whin ye consider it a
sacrifice for me daughter to shtay wid the father, who loves her, and
who she loves. There was never a shadda on her life till ye came!” This
was hard to hear, but harder to answer, and I stammered as I replied:—
“I hope I am man enough to do what is best for her, even if it were
to break my heart. But she must marry some time; it is the lot of the
young and beautiful!” Joyce paused a while, and his look grew very
tender as he made answer softly:—
“Aye! thrue! thrue! the young birds lave the nist in due sayson—that’s
only natural.” This seemed sufficient concession for the present; but
Andy’s warning rose before me, and I spoke:—
“Mr. Joyce, God knows! I don’t want to add one drop of bitterness to
either of your lives! only tell me that I may have hope, and I am
content to wait and to try to win your esteem and Norah’s love.”
The father drew his daughter closer to him, and with his other hand
stroked her hair, and said, whilst his eyes filled with tears:—
“Ye didn’t wait for me esteem to win her love!” Norah threw herself
into his arms and hid her face on his breast. He went on:—
“We can’t undo what is done. If Norah loves ye—and it seems to me
that she does—do I shpeak thrue, daughter?” The girl raised her face
bravely, and looked in her father’s eyes:—
“Yes! father.” A thrill of wild delight rushed through me. As she
dropped her head again, I could see that her neck had
“The colour of the budding rose’s crest.”
“Well! well!” Joyce went on, “Ye are both young yit. God knows what
may happen in a year! Lave the girl free a bit to choose. She has not
met many gentlemen in her time; and she may desave herself. Me darlin’!
whativer is for your good shall be done, plase God!”
“And am I to have her in time?” The instant I had spoken I felt that I
had made a mistake; the man’s face grew hard as he turned to me:—
“I think for me daughter, sir, not for you! As it is, her happiness
seems to be mixed up with yours—lucky for ye. I suppose ye must meet
now and thin; but ye must both promise me that ye’ll not meet widout me
lave, or, at laste, me knowin’ it. We’re not gentlefolk, sir, and we
don’t undherstand their ways. If ye were of Norah’s and me own kind, I
mightn’t have to say the same; but ye’re not.”
Things were now so definite that I determined to make one more effort
to fix a time when my happiness might be certain, so I asked:—
“Then if all be well, and you agree—as please God you shall when you
know me better—when may I claim her?”
When he was face to face with a definite answer Joyce again grew stern.
He looked down at his daughter and then up at me, and said, stroking
her hair:—
“Whin the threasure of Knockcalltecrore is found, thin ye may claim her
if ye will, an’ I’ll freely let her go!” As he spoke, there came before
my mind the strong idea that we were all in the power of the Hill—
that it held us; however, as lightly as I could I spoke:—
“Then I would claim her now!”
“What do ye mane?”—this was said half anxiously, half fiercely.
“The treasure of Knockcalltecrore is here; you hold her in your arms!”
He bent over her:—
“Aye! the threasure sure enough—the threasure ye would rob me of!” Then
he turned to me, and said sternly, but not unkindly:—
“Go, now! I can’t bear more at prisent; and even me daughter may wish
to be for a while alone wid me!” I bowed my head and turned to leave
the room; but as I was going out, he called me back:—
“Shtay! Afther all, the young is only young. Ye seem to have done but
little harm—if any.” He held out his hand; I grasped it closely, and
from that instant it seemed that our hearts warmed to each other.
Then I felt bolder, and stepping to Norah took her hand—she made no
resistance—and pressed it to my lips, and went out silently. I had
hardly left the door when Joyce came after me.
“Come agin in an hour,” he said, and went in and shut the door.
Then I wandered to the rocks and climbed down the rugged path into the
Cliff Fields. I strode through the tall grass and the weeds, rank with
the continuous rain, and gained the table rock. I climbed it, and sat
where I first had met my love, after I had lost her; and, bending,
I kissed the ground where her feet had rested. And then I prayed as
fervent a prayer as the heart of a lover can yield, for every blessing
on the future of my beloved; and made high resolves that whatsoever
might befall, I would so devote myself that, if a man’s efforts could
accomplish it, her feet should never fall on thorny places.
I sat there in a tumult of happiness. The air was full of hope, and
love, and light; and I felt that in all the wild glory and fulness of
nature the one unworthy object was myself.
When the hour was nearly up I went back to the cottage; the door was
open, but I knocked on it with my hand. A tender voice called to me to
come in, and I entered.
Norah was standing up in the centre of the room. Her face was radiant,
although her sweet eyes were bright with recent tears; and I could see
that in the hour which I had passed on the rock, the hearts of the
father and the child had freely spoken. The old love between them had
taken a newer and fuller and more conscious life—based, as God has
willed it with the hearts of men, on the parent’s sacrifice of self for
the happiness of the child.
Without a word I took her in my arms. She came without bashfulness
and without fear; only love and trust spoke in every look, and every
moment. The cup of our happiness was full to the brim; and it seemed as
though God saw, and, as of old with His completed plan of the world,
was satisfied that all was good.
We sat, hand in hand, and told again and again the simple truths that
lovers tell; and we built bright mansions of future hope. There was no
shadow on us, except the shadow that slowly wrapped the earth in the
wake of the sinking sun. The long, level rays of sunset spread through
the diamond panes of the lattice, grew across the floor, and rose on
the opposite wall; but we did not heed them until we heard Joyce’s
voice behind us:—
“I have been thinkin’ all the day, and I have come to believe that it
is a happy day for us all, sir. I say, though she is my daughter, that
the man that won her heart should be a proud man, for it is a heart
of gold. I must give her to ye. I was sorry at the first, but I do it
freely now. Ye must guard and kape, and hould her as the apple of your
eye. If ye should ever fail or falter, remimber that ye took a great
thrust in takin’ her from me that loved her much, and in whose heart
she had a place—not merely for her own sake, but for the sake of the
dead that loved her.” He faltered a moment, but then coming over, put
his hand in mine, and while he held it there, Norah put her arm around
his neck, and laying her sweet head on his broad, manly breast, said
softly:—
“Father, you are very good, and I am very, very happy!” Then she took
my hand and her father’s together, and said to me:—
“Remember, he is to be as your father, too; and that you owe him all
the love and honour that I do!”
“Amen,” I said, solemnly; and we three wrung each others’ hands.
Before I went away, I said to Joyce:—
“You told me I might claim her when the treasure of the Hill was found.
Well! give me a month, and perhaps, if I don’t have the one you mean, I
may have another.” I wanted to keep, for the present, the secret of my
purchase of the old farm, so as to make a happy surprise when I should
have actual possession.
“What do ye mane?” he said.
“I shall tell you when the month is up,” I answered; “or if the
treasure is found sooner—but you must trust me till then.”
Joyce’s face looked happy as he strolled out, evidently leaving me a
chance of saying good-bye alone to Norah; she saw it too, and followed
him.
“Don’t go father!” she said. At the door she turned her sweet face to
me, and with a shy look at her father, kissed me, and blushed rosy red.
“That’s right, me girl,” said Joyce, “honest love is without shame! Ye
need never fear to kiss your lover before me.”
Again we stayed talking for a little while. I wanted to say good-bye
again; but this last time I had to give the kiss myself. As I looked
back from the gate, I saw father and daughter standing close together;
he had his arm round her shoulder, and the dear head that I loved lay
close on his breast, as they both waved me farewell.
I went back to Carnaclif, feeling as though I walked on air; and
my thoughts were in the heaven that lay behind my footsteps as I
went—though before me on the path of life.