A TRIP TO PARIS.
The next day was Sunday; and after church I came over early to
Knockcalltecrore, and had a long talk with Norah about her school
project. We decided that the sooner she began the better—she because,
as she at first alleged, every month of delay made school a less
suitable place for her—I because, as I took care not only to allege but
to reiterate, as the period had to be put in, the sooner it was begun
the sooner it would end, and so the sooner would my happiness come.
Norah was very sweet, and shyly told me that if such was my decided
opinion, she must say that she too had something of the same view.
“I do not want you to be pained, dear, by any delay,” she said, “made
by your having been so good to me; and I love you too well to want
myself to wait longer than is necessary,”—an admission that was an
intoxicating pleasure to me.
We agreed that our engagement was, if not to be kept a secret, at least
not to be spoken of unnecessarily. Her father was to tell her immediate
relatives, so that there would not be any gossip at her absence, and
I was to tell one or two of my own connexions—for I had no immediate
relatives—and perhaps one or two friends who were rather more closely
connected with me than those of my own blood. I asked to be allowed to
tell also my solicitor, who was an old friend of my father’s, and who
had always had more than merely professional relations with me. I had
reasons of my own for telling him of the purposed change in my life,
for I had important matters to execute through him, so as to protect
Norah’s future in case my own death should occur before the marriage
was to take place. But of this, of course, I did not tell her.
We had a happy morning together, and when Joyce came in we told him
of the conclusion we had arrived at. He fully acquiesced; and then,
when he and I were alone, I asked him if he would prefer to make the
arrangements about the schools himself or by some solicitor he would
name, or that should all be done by my solicitor? He told me that my
London solicitor would probably know what to do better than anyone in
his own part of the world; and we agreed that I was to arrange it with
him.
Accordingly I settled with Norah that the next day but one I should
leave for London, and that when I had put everything on a satisfactory
footing I should return to Carnaclif, and so be for a little longer
able to see my darling. Then I went back to the hotel to write my
letters in time for post.
That afternoon I wrote to my solicitor, Mr. Chapman, and asked him to
have inquiries made, without the least delay, as to what was the best
school in Paris to which to send a young lady, almost grown up, but
whose education had been neglected. I added that I should be myself
in London within two days of my letter, and would hope to have the
information.
That evening I had a long talk on affairs with Dick, and opened to him
a project I had formed regarding Knockcalltecrore. This was that I
should try to buy the whole of the mountain, right away from where the
sandy peninsula united it to the mainland—for evidently it had ages ago
been an isolated sea-girt rock-bound island. Dick knew that already we
held a large part of it—Norah the Cliff Fields, Joyce the upper land
on the sea side, and myself the part that I had already bought from
Murdock. He quite fell in with the idea, and as we talked it over he
grew more and more enthusiastic.
“Why, my dear fellow,” he said, as he stood up and walked about the
room, “it will make the most lovely residence in the world, and will
be a fine investment for you. Holding long leases, you will easily be
able to buy the freehold, and then every penny spent will return many
fold. Let us once be able to find the springs that feed the bog, and
get them in hand, and we can make the place a paradise. The springs
are evidently high up on the hill, so that we can not only get water
for irrigating and ornamental purposes, but we can get power also!
Why, you can have electric light, and everything else you like, at the
smallest cost. And if it be, as I suspect, that there is a streak of
limestone in the hill, the place might be a positive mine of wealth as
well! We have not lime within fifty miles, and if once we can quarry
the stone here we can do anything. We can build a harbour on the south
side, which would be the loveliest place to keep a yacht in that ever
was known—quite big enough for anything in these parts—as safe as
Portsmouth, and of fathomless depth.
“Easy, old man!” I cried, for the idea made me excited too.
“But I assure you Art, I am within the truth!”
“I know it, Dick—and now I want to come to business!”
“Eh! how do you mean?” he said, looking puzzled.
Then I told him of the school project, and that I was going to London
after another day to arrange it. He was delighted, and quite approved.
“It is the wisest thing I ever heard of!” was his comment. “But how do
you mean about business?” he asked.
“Dick, this has all to be done; and it needs some one to do it. I am
not a scientist nor an engineer, and this project wants the aid of
both, or of one man who is the two. Will you do it for me—and for
Norah?”
He seemed staggered for a moment, but said heartily:
“That I will—but it will take some time!”
“We can do it within two years,” I answered, “and that is the time
that Norah will be away. It will help to pass it!” and I sighed.
“A long time, indeed, but oh, what a time, Art! Just fancy what you are
waiting for; there need be no unhappy moment, please God, in all those
months.”
Then I made him a proposition, to which he, saying that my offer was
too good, at first demurred. I reasoned with him, and told him that
the amount was little to me, as, thanks to my Great Aunt, I had more
than I ever could use; and that I wanted to make Norah’s country home
a paradise on earth—so far as love and work and the means at command
could do it; that it would take up all Dick’s time, and keep him for
the whole period from pursuing his studies; and that he would have to
be manager as well as engineer, and would have to buy the land for
me. I told him also my secret hope that in time he would take all my
affairs in hand and manage everything for me.
“Buying the land will, I fancy, be easy enough,” he said. “Two of the
farms are in the market now, and all round here land is literally going
abegging. However, I shall take the matter in hand at once, and write
you to London, in case there should be anything before you get back.”
And thus we settled that night that I was, if possible, to buy the
whole mountain. I wrote by the next post to Mr. Caicy, telling him that
I had a project of purchase in hand, and that Mr. Sutherland would do
everything for me during my absence, and that whatever he wished was to
be done. I asked him to come over and see Dick before the week was out.
The next day I spoke to Joyce, and asked him if he would care to sell
me the lease of the land he now held. He seemed rejoiced at the chance
of being able to get away.
“I will go gladly, though, sure enough, I’ll be sad for a while to lave
the shpot where I was born, and where I’ve lived all me life. But whin
Norah is gone—an’ sure she’ll never be back, for I’m thinkin’ that
after her school ye’ll want to get married at once—”
“That we shall!” I interrupted.
“An’ right enough too! But widout her the place will be that lonesome
that I don’t think I could abear it! Me sister ’ll go over to
Knocknacar to live wid me married sister there, that’ll be only too
happy to have her with her; and I’ll go over to Glasgow where Eugene
is at work. The boy wants me to come, and whin I wrote and tould him
of Norah’s engagement, he wrote at once askin’ me to lave the Hill and
come to him. He says that before the year is out he hopes to be able to
keep himself—an’ me, too, if we should want it—an’ he wrote such a nice
letter to Norah—but the girl will like to tell ye about that herself! I
can’t sell ye the Cliff Fields meself, for they belong to Norah; but if
ye like to ask her I’m sure she’ll make no objection.”
“I should be glad to have them,” I said, “but all shall be hers in two
years!”
And then and there we arranged for the sale of the property. I made
Joyce the offer; he accepted at once, but said it was more than it was
worth.
“No,” said I, “I shall take the chance! I intend to make improvements.”
Norah did not make any objection to her father selling the Cliff
Fields. She told me that as I wanted to have them, I might, of course;
but she hoped I would never sell the spot, as it was very dear to her.
I assured her that in this as in all other matters I would do as she
wished, and we sealed the assurance with——. Never mind! we sealed it!
I spent the afternoon there, for it was to be my last afternoon with
Norah until I came back from Paris. We went down for a while to the
Cliff Fields and sat on the table rock and talked over all our plans.
I told her I had a scheme regarding Knockcalltecrore, but that I did
not wish to tell her about it as it was to be a surprise. It needed a
pretty hard struggle to be able to keep her in the dark even to this
extent—there is nothing more sweet to young lovers than to share a
secret. She knew that my wishes were all for her, and was content.
When we got back to the cottage I said good-bye. This naturally took
some time—a first good-bye always does!—and went home to get my
traps packed ready for an early start in the morning—more especially
as I wished, when in Galway, to give Mr. Caicy instructions as to
transferring the two properties—Norah’s and her father’s.
When Dick came home, he and I had a long talk on affairs; and I saw
that he thoroughly understood all about the purchase of the whole
mountain. Then we said good-night, and I retired.
I did not sleep very well. I think I was too happy, and out of the
completeness of my happiness there seemed to grow a fear—some dim
haunting dread of a change—something which would reverse the existing
order of things. And so in dreams the Drowsy God played at ball with
me; now throwing me to a dizzy height of joy, and then, as I fell
swiftly through darkness, arresting my flight into the nether gloom
with some new sweet hope. It seemed to me that I was awake all the
night—and yet I knew I must have slept for I had distinct recollections
of dreams in which all the persons and circumstances lately present to
my mind were strangely jumbled together. The jumble was kaleidoscopic;
there was an endless succession of its phases, but the pieces all
remained the same. There were moments when all seemed aglow with rosy
light, and hard on them, others horrid with the gloom of despair or
fear; but in all, the dominating idea was the mountain standing against
the sunset, always as the embodiment of the ruling emotion of the
scene—and always Norah’s beautiful eyes shone upon me. I seemed to live
over again in isolated moments all the past weeks; but in such a way
that the legends and myths and stories of Knockcalltecrore which I had
heard were embodied in each moment. Thus, Murdock had always a part in
the gloomy scenes, and got inextricably mixed up with the King of the
Snakes. They freely exchanged personalities, and at one time I could
see the Gombeen Man defying St. Patrick, whilst at another the Serpent
seemed to be struggling with Joyce, and, after twisting round the
mountain, being only beaten off by a mighty blow from Norah’s father,
rushing to the sea through the Shleenanaher.
Towards morning, as I suppose the needs of the waking day became more
present to my mind in the gradual process of awakening, the bent of
my thoughts began to be more practical; the Saint and His Majesty of
the Serpents began to disappear, and the two dim cuirassiers who,
with the money chest, had through the earlier hours of the night been
passing far athwart my dreams—appearing and disappearing equally
mysteriously—took a more prominent, or, perhaps, a more real part.
Then I seemed to see Murdock working in a grave, whose sides were ever
crumbling in as he frantically sought the treasure chest, whilst the
gun-carriage, rank with the slime of the bog, was high above him on the
brink of the grave, projected blackly against the yellow moon. Every
time this scene in its myriad variations came round, it changed to one
where the sides of the grave began to tumble in, and Murdock in terror
tried to scream out, but could make no sound, nor could he make any
effort to approach Norah, whose strong hands were stretched out to aid
him.
With such a preparation for waking is it any wonder that I suddenly
started broad awake with a strong sense of something forgotten, and
found that it was four o’clock, and time to get ready for my journey.
I did not lose any time, and after a hot cup of tea, which the cheery
Mrs. Keating had herself prepared for me, was on my way under Andy’s
care to Recess, where we were to meet the “long car” to Galway.
Andy was, for a wonder, silent, and as I myself felt in a most active
frame of mind, this rather gave me an opportunity for some amusement.
I waited for a while to see if he would suggest any topic in his usual
style; but as there was no sign of a change, I began:—
“You are very silent to-day, Andy. You are sad! What is it?”
“I’m thinkin’!”
“So I thought, Andy. But who are you thinking of?”
“Faix, I’m thinkin’ iv poor Miss Norah there wid ne’er a bhoy on
the flure at all, at all; an’ iv the fairy girrul at Knocknacar—the
poor craythur waitin’ for some kind iv a leprachaun to come back to
her. They do say, yer ’an’r, that the fairies is mighty fond iv thim
leprachauns intirely. Musha! but it’s a quare thing that weemen of all
natures thinks a power more iv minkind what is hard to be caught nor iv
thim that follys thim an’ is had aisy!”
“Indeed! Andy.” I felt he was getting on dangerous ground, and thought
it would be as well to keep him to generalities if I could.
“Shure they do tell me so; that the girruls, whether fairies or weemen,
is more fond iv lukin’ out fur leprachauns, or min if that’s their
kind, than the clargy is iv killin’ the divil—an’ they’ve bin at him
fur thousands iv years, an’ him not turned a hair.”
“Well! Andy, isn’t it only natural, too? If we look at the girls and
make love to them, why shouldn’t they have a turn too, poor things, and
make love to us? Now you would like to have a wife, I know; only that
you’re too much afraid of any woman.”
“Thrue for ye! But shure an’ how could I go dhrivin’ about the counthry
av I had a wife iv me own in wan place? It’s meself that’s welkim
everywhere, jist because any wan iv the weemen might fear I’d turn the
laugh on her whin I got her home; but a car-dhriver can no more shpake
soft to only wan girrul nor he can dhrive his car in his own shanty.”
“Well! but Andy, what would you do if you were to get married?”
“Faix, surr, an’ the woman must settle that whin she comes. But, begor!
it’s not for a poor man like me—nor for the likes iv me—that the
fairies does be keepin’ their eyes out. I tell yer ’an’r that poor min
isn’t iv much account anyhow! Shure poverty is the worst iv crimes; an’
there’s no hidin’ it like th’ others. Patches is saw a mighty far way
off; and shure enough they’re more frightfuller nor even the polis!”
“By George! Andy,” said I, “I’m afraid you’re a cynic.”
“A cynic, sir; an’, faix, what sin am I up to now?”
“You say poverty is a crime.”
“Begor! but it’s worse! Most crimes is forgave afther a bit; an’ the
law is done wid ye whin ye’re atin’ yer skilly. But there’s some
people—aye! an’ lashins iv thim too—what’d rather see ye in a good
shute iv coffin than in a bad shute iv clothes!”
“Why, Andy, you’re quite a philosopher!”
“Bedad, that’s quare; but whisper me now, surr, what kind iv a thing’s
that?”
“Well! it’s a very wise man—one who loves wisdom.”
“Begor! yer ’an’r, lovin’ girruls is more in my shtyle; but I thought
maybe it was some new kind iv a Protestan’.”
“Why a Protestant?”
“Sorra wan iv me knows! I thought maybe they can believe even less nor
the ould wans.”
Andy’s method of theological argument was quite too difficult for me,
so I was silent; but my companion was not. He, however, evidently felt
that theological disquisition was no more his _forte_ than my own, for
he instantly changed to another topic:—
“I’ll be goin’ back to Knockcalltecrore to-morra, yer ’an’r. I’ve been
tould to call fur Mr. Caicy, th’ attorney—savin’ yer prisence—to take
him back to Carnaclif. Is there any missage ye’d like to send to any
wan?” He looked at me so slyly that his meaning was quite obvious.
“Thanks, Andy, but I think not; unless you tell Mr. Dick that we have
had a pleasant journey this morning.”
“Nothin’ but that?—to nobody?”
“Who to, for instance, Andy?”
“There’s Miss Norah, now! Shure girruls is always fond iv gettin’
missages, an’ most iv all from people what they’re not fond iv!”
“Meaning me?”
“Oh, yis! oh, yis! if there’s wan more nor another what she hates the
sight iv, it’s yer ’an’r! Shure didn’t I notice it in her eye ere
yistherday night, beyant at the boreen gate? Faix! but it’s a nice eye
Miss Norah has! Now, yer ’an’r, wouldn’t an eye like that be betther
for a young gintleman to luk into, than the quare eye iv yer fairy
girrul—the wan that ye wor lukin’ for, an’ didn’t find!”
The sly way in which Andy looked at me as he said this was quite
indescribable. I have seen sly humour in the looks of children where
the transparent simplicity of their purpose was a foil to their
manifest intention to pretend to deceive. I have seen the arch glances
of pretty young women when their eyes contradicted with resistless
force the apparent meaning of their words; but I have never seen any
slyness which could rival that of Andy. However, when he had spoken
as above, he seemed to have spent the last bolt in his armoury; and
for the remainder of the drive to Recess he did not touch again on the
topic, or on a kindred one.
When I was in the hotel porch waiting the arrival of the long car, Andy
came up to me:—
“What day will I be in Galway for yer ’an’r?”
“How do you mean, Andy? I didn’t tell you I was coming back.”
Andy laughed a merry, ringing laugh:—
“Begor! yer ’an’r, d’ye think there’s only wan way iv tellin’ things?
Musha! but spache ’d be a mighty precious kind iv a thing if that was
the way!”
“But, Andy, is not speech the way to make known what you wish other
people to know?”
“Ah, go to God! I’d like to know if ye take it for granted whin ye
ask a girrul a question an’ she says ‘no,’ that she manes it—or that
she intends ayther that ye should think she manes it. Faix! it ’d be
a harrd wurrld to live in, if that was so; an’ there ’d be mighty few
widdys in it ayther!”
“Why widows, Andy?”
“Shure, isn’t wives the shtuff that widdys is made iv!”
“Oh! I see. I’m learning, Andy—I’m getting on!”
“Yis! yer ’an’r. Ye haven’t got on the long cap now; but I’m afeerd
it’s only a leather medal ye’d get as yit. Niver mind! surr. Here’s the
long car comin’; an’ whin ye tellygraph to Misther Dick to sind me over
to Galway fur to bring ye back, I’ll luk up Miss Norah an’ ax her to
condescind to give ye some lessons in the differ betwixt ‘yes’ an’ ‘no’
as shpoke by girruls. I’m tould now, it’s a mighty intherestin’ kind iv
a shtudy for a young gintleman!”
There was no answering this Parthian shaft.
“Good-bye! Andy,” I said, as I left a sovereign in his hand.
“Good luck! yer ’an’r; though what’s the use iv wishin’ luck to a man,
whin the fairies is wid him!”
The last thing I saw was Andy waving his ragged hat as we passed the
curve of the road round the lake before Recess was hidden from our view.
When I got to Galway I found Mr. Caicy waiting for me. He was most
hearty in his welcome; and told me that as there was nearly an hour to
wait before the starting of the Dublin express, he had luncheon on the
table, and that we could discuss our business over it. We accordingly
adjourned to his house, and after explaining to him what I wanted done
with regard to the purchase of the property at Knockcalltecrore, I told
him that Dick knew all the details, and would talk them over with him
when he saw him on the next evening.
I began my eastward journey with my inner man in a most comfortable
condition. Indeed, I concluded that there was no preparation for a
journey like a bottle of ‘Sneyd’s 47’ between two. I got to Dublin in
time for the night mail, and on the following morning walked into Mr.
Chapman’s office at half-past ten o’clock.
He had all the necessary information for me; indeed, his zeal and his
kindness were such that then and there I opened my heart to him, and
was right glad that I had done so when I felt the hearty grasp of
his hand as he wished me joy and all good fortune. He was, of course,
on the side of prudence. He was my own lawyer and my father’s friend;
and it was right and fitting that he should be. But it was quite
evident that in the background of his musty life there was some old
romance—musty old attorneys always have romances—so at least say the
books. He entered heartily into my plan; and suggested that, if I
chose, he would come with me to see the school and the schoolmistress
in Paris.
“It will be better, I am sure,” he said, “to have an old man like
myself with you, and who can in our negotiations speak for her father.
Indeed, my dear boy, from being so old a friend of your father’s, and
having no children of my own, I have almost come to look on you as my
son, so it will not be much of an effort to regard Miss Norah as my
daughter. The schoolmistress will, in the long run, be better satisfied
with my standing _in loco parentis_ than with yours.” It was a great
relief to me to find my way thus smoothed, for I had half expected some
objection or remonstrance on his part. His kind offer was, of course,
accepted; and the next morning found us in Paris.
We went to see the school and the schoolmistress. All was arranged as
we wished. Mr. Chapman did not forget that Norah wished to have all the
extra branches of study, or that I wished to add all that could give a
charm to her life. The schoolmistress opened her eyes at the total of
Norah’s requirements, which Mr. Chapman summed up as “all extras”—the
same including the use of a saddle-horse, and visits to the opera and
such performances as should be approved of, under the special care and
with the special accompaniment of Madame herself.
I could see that for the coming year Norah’s lines would lie in
pleasant places in so far as Madame Lepecheaux could accomplish it. The
date of her coming was to be fixed by letter, and as soon as possible.
Mr. Chapman had suggested that it might be well to arrange with Madame
Lepecheaux that Norah should be able to get what clothes she might
require, and such matters as are wanted by young ladies of the position
which she was entering. The genial French woman quite entered into the
idea, but insisted that the representative of Norah’s father should
come with her to the various _magasins_ and himself make arrangements.
He could not refuse; and as I was not forbidden by the unsuspecting
lady, I came too.
These matters took up some time, and it was not until the fifth day
after I had left Connemara that we were able to start on our return
journey. We left at night, and after our arrival in the early morning
went, as soon as we had breakfasted, to Mr. Chapman’s office to get our
letters.
I found two. The first I took to the window to read, where I was
hidden behind a curtain, and where I might kiss it without being seen;
for, although the writing was strange to me—for I had never seen her
handwriting—I knew that it was from Norah.
Do any of us who arrive at middle life ever attempt to remember our
feelings on receiving the first letter from the woman or the man of
our love? Can there come across the long expanse of commonplace life,
strewn as it is with lost beliefs and shattered hopes, any echo—any
after-glow—of that time, any dim recollection of the thrill of pride
and joy that flashed through us at such a moment? Can we rouse
ourselves from the creeping lethargy of the contented acceptance of
things, and feel the generous life-blood flowing through us once again?
I held Norah’s letter in my hand, and it seemed as though with but one
more step, I should hold my darling herself in my arms. I opened her
letter most carefully; anything that her hands had touched was sacred
to me. And then her message—the message of her heart to mine—sent
direct and without intermediary, reached me:—
“MY DEAR ARTHUR,—
“I hope you had a good journey, and that you enjoyed your trip
to Paris. Father and I are both well; and we have had excellent
news of Eugene, who has been promoted to more important work.
We have seen Mr. Sutherland every day. He says that everything
is going just as you wish it. Mr. Murdock has taken old Bat
Moynahan to live with him since you went; they are always
together, and Moynahan seems to be always drunk. Father thinks
that Mr. Murdock has some purpose on foot, and that it cannot
be a good one. We shall all be glad to see you soon again. I
am afraid this letter must seem very odd to you; but you know
I am not accustomed to writing letters. You must believe one
thing—that whatever I say to you, I feel and believe with
all my heart. I got your letters, and I cannot tell you what
pleasure they gave me, or how I treasure them. Father sends his
love and duty. What could I send that words could carry? I may
not try yet. Perhaps I shall be more able to do what I wish,
when I know more.
“NORAH.”
The letter disappointed me! Was any young man ever yet satisfied with
written words, when his medium had hitherto been rosy lips, with the
added commentary of loving eyes? And yet when I look back on that
letter from a peasant girl, without high education or knowledge of the
world, and who had possibly never written a letter before except to her
father or brother, or a girl friend, and but few even of these—when I
read in every word its simplicity and truth, and recognise the _arrière
pensée_ of that simple phrase, “whatever I say to you I feel and think
with all my heart,” I find it hard to think that any other letter that
she or anyone else could have written, could have been more suitable,
or could have meant more.
When I had read Norah’s letter over a few times, and feared that Mr.
Chapman would take humorous notice of my absorption, I turned to the
other letter, which I knew was from Dick. I brought this from the
window to the table, beside which I sat to read it, Mr. Chapman being
still deep in his own neglected correspondence.
I need not give his letter in detail. It was long and exhaustive, and
told me accurately of every step taken and everything accomplished
since I had seen him. Mr. Caicy had made his appearance, as arranged,
and the two had talked over and settled affairs. Mr. Caicy had lost
no time, and fortune had so favoured him that he found that nearly
all the tenants on the east side of the hill wished to emigrate, and
so were anxious to realize on their holdings. The estate from which
they held was in bankruptcy; and as a sale was then being effected,
Mr. Caicy had purchased the estate, and then made arrangements for all
who wished to purchase to do so on easy terms from me. The nett result
was, that when certain formalities should be complied with, and certain
moneys paid, I should own the whole of Knockcalltecrore and the land
immediately adjoining it, together with certain other parcels of land
in the neighbourhood. There were other matters of interest also in his
letter. He told me that Murdock, in order to spite and injure Joyce,
had completed the damming up of the stream which ran from his land into
the Cliff Fields by blocking with great stones the narrow chine in the
rocks through which it fell; that this, coupled with the continuous
rains had made the bog rise enormously, and that he feared much there
would be some disaster. His fear was increased by what had taken place
at Knocknacar. Even here the cuttings had shown some direful effects
of the rain; the openings, made with so much trouble, had become
choked, and as a consequence the bog had risen again, and had even
spread downwards on its original course. Alarmed by these things,
Dick had again warned Murdock of the danger in which he stood from
the position of his house; and further, from tampering with the solid
bounds of the bog itself. Murdock had not taken his warnings in good
part—not any better than usual—and the interview had, as usual, ended
in a row. Murdock had made the quarrel the occasion of ventilating his
grievance against me for buying the whole mountain, for by this time it
had leaked out that I was the purchaser. His language, Dick said, was
awful. He cursed me and all belonging to me. He cursed Joyce and Norah,
and Dick himself, and swore to be revenged on us all, and told Dick
that he would balk me of finding the treasure—even if I were to buy
up all Ireland, and if he had to peril his soul to forestall me. Dick
ended his description of his proceedings characteristically:—“In fact,
he grew so violent, and said such insulting things of you and others,
that I had to give him a good sound thrashing.”
“Others”—that meant Norah, of course—good old Dick! It was just as
well for Mr. Murdock’s physical comfort, and for the peace of the
neighbourhood, that I did not meet him then and there; for, under
these favouring conditions, there would have been a continuance of his
experiences under the hands of Dick Sutherland.
Then Dick went on to tell me at greater length what Norah had conveyed
in her letter—that, since I had left, Murdock had taken Bat Moynahan
to live with him, and kept him continually drunk; that the two of them
were evidently trying to locate the whereabouts of the treasure; and
that, whenever they thought they were not watched, they trespassed on
Joyce’s land, to get near a certain part of the bog.
“I mean to watch them the first dark night,” wrote Dick, at the close
of his letter; “for I cannot help thinking that there is some devilment
on foot. I don’t suppose you care much for the treasure—you’ve got
a bigger treasure from Knockcalltecrore than ever was hidden in it
by men—but, all the same, it is yours after Murdock’s time is up;
and, as the guardian of your interest, I feel that I have a right
to do whatever may be necessary to protect you. I have seen, at
times, Murdock give such a look at Moynahan out of the corners of
his eyes—when he thought no one was looking—that, upon my soul, I am
afraid he means—if he gets the chance—to murder the old man, after he
has pumped him of all he knows. I don’t want to accuse a man of such
an intention, without being able to prove it, and of course have said
nothing to a soul; but I shall be really more comfortable in my mind
when the man has gone away.”
By the time I had finished the letter, Mr. Chapman had run through
his correspondence—vacation business was not much in his way—and we
discussed affairs.
The settlement of matters connected with my estate, and the
purchase of Knockcalltecrore, together with the making of certain
purchases—including a ring for Norah—kept me a few days in London;
but at length all was complete, and I started on my trip to the
West of Ireland. Before leaving, I wrote to Norah that I would be
at Knockcalltecrore on the morning of the 20th October; and also to
Dick, asking him to see that Andy was sent to meet me at Galway on
the morning of the 19th—for I preferred rather to have the drive
in solitude, than to be subjected to the interruptions of chance
fellow-passengers.
At Dublin Mr. Caicy met me, as agreed; and together we went to various
courts, chambers, offices, and banks—completing the purchase with
all the endless official formalities and eccentricities habitual to
a country whose administration has traditionally adopted and adapted
every possible development of all belonging to red-tape.
At last, however, all was completed; and very early the next morning
Mr. Caicy took his seat in the Galway express, in a carriage with the
owner of Knockcalltecrore, to whom he had been formally appointed Irish
law agent.
The journey was not a long one, and it was only twelve o’clock when we
steamed into Galway. As we drew up at the platform, I saw Dick, who
had come over to meet me. He was, I thought, looking a little pale and
anxious; but as he did not say anything containing the slightest hint
of any cause for such a thing, I concluded that he wished to wait until
we were alone. This, however, was not to be for a little while; for Mr.
Caicy had telegraphed to order lunch at his house, and thither we had
to repair. We walked over; although Andy, who was in waiting outside
the station, grinning from ear to ear, offered to “rowl our ’an’rs over
in half a jiffey.”
Lunch over, and our bodies the richer for some of Mr. Caicy’s excellent
port, we prepared to start. Dick took occasion to whisper to me:—
“Some time on the road propose to walk for a bit, and send on the car.
I want a talk with you alone, without making a mystery!”
“All right, Dick. Is it a serious matter?”
“Very serious!”