A GRIM WARNING.
I cannot say the night was a happy one. There were moments when I
seemed to lose myself and my own anxieties in thoughts of Norah and the
future, and such moments were sweet to look back on—then as they are
now; but I slept only fitfully and dreamt frightfully.
It was natural enough that my dreams should centre around
Knockcalltecrore; but there was no good reason why they should all
be miserable or terrible. The Hill seemed to be ever under some
uncomfortable or unnatural condition. When my dreams began, it was
bathed in a flood of yellow moonlight, and at its summit was the giant
Snake, the jewel of whose crown threw out an unholy glare of yellow
light, and whose face and form kept perpetually changing to those of
Murtagh Murdock.
I can now, with comparatively an easy effort, look back on it all, and
disentangle or give a reason for all the phases of my thought. The
snake “wid side whiskers” was distinctly suggested the first night I
heard the legend at Mrs. Kelligan’s; the light from the jewel was a
part of the legend itself; and so on with every fact and incident.
Presently, as I dreamt, the whole Mountain seemed to writhe and shake
as though the great Snake was circling round it, deep under the earth;
and again this movement changed into the shifting of the bog. Then
through dark shadows that lay athwart the hill I could see the French
soldiers, with their treasure-chest, pass along in dusky, mysterious
silence, and vanish in the hill side. I saw Murdock track them; and,
when they were gone, he and old Moynahan—who suddenly and mysteriously
appeared beside him—struggled on the edge of the bog, and, with a
shuddering wail, the latter threw up his arms and sank slowly into the
depths of the morass. Again Norah and I were wandering together, when
suddenly Murdock’s evil face, borne on a huge serpent body, writhed up
beside us; and in an instant Norah was whirled from my side and swept
into the bog, I being powerless to save her or even help her.
The last of all my dreams was as follows:—Norah and I were sitting on
the table rock in the Cliff Fields; all was happy and smiling around
us. The sun shone and the birds sang, and as we sat hand in hand, the
beating of our hearts seemed a song also. Suddenly there was a terrible
sound—half a roar, as of an avalanche, and half a fluttering sound,
as of many great wings. We clung together in terror, waiting for the
portent which was at hand. And then over the cliff poured the whole
mass of the bog, foul-smelling, fœtid, terrible, and of endless might.
Just as it was about to touch us, and as I clasped Norah to me, so
that we might die together, and whilst her despairing cry was in my
ear, the whole mighty mass turned into loathsome, writhing snakes,
sweeping into the sea!
I awoke with a scream which brought nearly every one in the hotel into
my bedroom. Dick was first, and found me standing on the floor, white
and drunk with terror.
“What is it, old fellow?—oh! I see, only a nightmare! Come on! he’s all
right; it’s only a dream!” and almost before I had realized that the
waking world and not the world of shadows was around me, the room was
cleared and I was alone. I lit a candle and put on some clothes; as it
was of no use trying to sleep again after such an experience, I got a
book and resolutely set to reading. The effort was successful, as such
efforts always are, and I quite forgot the cause of my disturbance in
what I read. Then the matter itself grew less interesting....
There was a tap at my door. I started awake—it was broad daylight, and
the book lay with crumpled leaves beside me on the floor. It was a
message to tell me that Mr. Sutherland was waiting breakfast for me.
I called out that I would be down in a few minutes, which promise I
carried out as nearly as was commensurate with the requirements of the
tub and the toilet. I found Dick awaiting me; he looked at me keenly as
I came in, and then said heartily:—
“I see your nightmare has not left any ill-effects. I say! old chap, it
must have been a whopper—a regular Derby winner among nightmares—worse
than Andy’s old corncrake. You yelled fit to wake the dead. I would
have thought the contrast between an ordinary night and the day you are
going to have would have been sufficient to satisfy anyone without such
an addition to its blackness.” Then he sung out in his rich voice:—
“Och, Jewel, kape dhramin’ that same till ye die,
For bright mornin’ will give dirty night the black lie.”
We sat down to breakfast, and I am bound to say, from the trencher
experience of that meal, that there is nothing so fine as an appetiser
for breakfast, as a good preliminary nightmare.
We drove off to Knockcalltecrore. When we got to the foot of the hill
we stopped as usual. Andy gave me a look which spoke a lot, but he did
not say a single word—for which forbearance I owed him a good turn.
Dick said:—
“I want to go round to the other side of the hill, and shall cross over
the top. I shall look you up, if I may, at Joyce’s about two o’clock.”
“All right,” I said; “we shall expect you,” and I started up the hill.
When I got to the gate, and opened it, there was a loud, deep barking,
which, however, was instantly stilled. I knew that Norah had tied up
the mastiff, and I went to the door. I had no need to knock; for as I
came near, it opened, and in another instant Norah was in my arms. She
whispered in my ear when I had kissed her:—
“I would like to have come out to meet you, but I thought you would
rather meet me here!” Then, as we went into the sitting-room,
hand-in-hand, she whispered again:—
“Aunt has gone to buy groceries, so we are all alone. You must tell me
all about everything.”
We sat down close together, still hand-in-hand, and I told her all that
we had done since I had left. When I had finished the Paris part of the
story, she put up her hands before her face, and I could see the tears
drop through her fingers.
“Norah! Norah! Don’t cry, my darling! What is it?”
“Oh, Arthur, I can’t help it! It is so wonderful—more than all I ever
longed or wished for!” Then she took her hands away, and put them in
mine, and looked me bravely in the face, with her eyes half-laughing
and half-crying, and her cheeks wet, and said:—
“Arthur, you are the Fairy Prince! There is nothing that I can wish
for that you have not done—even my dresses are ready by your sweet
thoughtfulness. It needs an effort, dear, to let you do all this—but
I see it is quite right—I must be dressed like one who is to be your
wife. I shall think I am pleasing you afresh, every time I put one of
them on; but I must pay for them myself. You know I am quite rich now.
I have all the money you paid for the Cliff Fields; father says it
ought to go in such things as will fit me for my new position, and will
not hear of taking any of it.”
“He is quite right, Norah, my darling—and you are quite right, too—all
shall be just as you wish. Now tell me all about everything since I
went away.”
“May I bring in Turco? he is so quiet with me; and he must learn to
know you and love you, or he wouldn’t be any friend of mine.” She
looked at me lovingly, and went and brought in the mastiff, by whom I
was forthwith received into friendship.
That was indeed a happy day! We had a family consultation about the
school; the time of beginning was arranged, and there was perfect
accord amongst us. As Dick and I drove back through the darkness, I
could not but feel that, even if evil were looming ahead of us, at
least some of us had experienced what it is to be happy.
It had been decided that after a week’s time—on the 28th October—Norah
was to leave for school. Her father was to bring her as far as London,
and Mr. Chapman was to take her over to Paris. This was Joyce’s own
wish; he said:—
“‘Twill be betther for ye, darlin’, to go widout me. Ye’ll have quite
enough to do for a bit, to keep even wid the girls that have been
reared in betther ways nor you, widout me there to make little iv ye.”
“But, father,” she remonstrated, “I don’t want to appear any different
from what I am! And I am too fond of you, and too proud of you, not to
want to appear as your daughter.”
Her father stroked her hair gently as he answered:—
“Norah! my darlin’, it isn’t that. Ye’ve always been the good and
dutiful daughter to me; an’ in all your pretty life there’s not wan
thing I wish undone or unsaid. But I’m older than you, daughter, an’
I know more iv the world; an’ what I say, is best for ye—now, and in
yer future. I’m goin’ to live wid Eugene; an’ afther a while I suppose
I, too, ’ll be somethin’ different from what I am. An’ thin, whin I’ve
lived awhile in a city, and got somethin’ of city ways, I’ll come an’
see ye, maybe. Ye must remimber, that it’s not only of you we’ve to
think, but of th’ other girls in the school. I don’t want to have any
of them turnin’ up their noses at ye—that’s not the way to get the best
out iv school, me dear; for I suppose school is like everywhere else in
the world—the higher ye’re able to hould yer head, the more others’ll
look up to ye!”
His words were so obviously true, that not one of us had a word to
say, and the matter was acquiesced in _nem. con._ I myself got leave
to accompany the party as far as London—but not beyond. It was further
arranged that Joyce should take his daughter to Galway, to get some
clothes for her—just enough to take her to Paris—and that when in Paris
she should have a full outfit under the direction of Madame Lepechaux.
They were to leave on Friday, so as to have the Saturday in Galway; and
as Norah wanted to say good-bye on the Sunday to old schoolfellows and
friends in the convent, they would return on Monday, the 25th October.
Accordingly, on the morning after next, Joyce took a letter for me to
Mr. Caicy, who was to pay to him whatever portion of the purchase-money
of his land he should require, and whom I asked to give all possible
assistance in whatever matters either he or Norah might desire. I would
have dearly liked to have gone myself with them, but the purpose and
the occasion were such that I could not think of offering to go. On the
day fixed they left on the long car from Carnaclif. They started in
torrents of rain, but were as well wrapped up as the resources of Dick
and myself would allow.
When they had gone, Dick and I drove over to Knockcalltecrore. Dick
wished to have an interview with Murdock, regarding his giving up
possession of the land on the 27th, as arranged.
We left Andy as usual at the foot of the hill, and went up to Murdock’s
house. The door was locked; and although we knocked several times, we
could get no answer. We came away, therefore, and went up the hill, as
Dick wished me to see where, according to old Moynahan, was the last
place at which the Frenchmen had been seen. As we went on and turned
the brow of the mound, which lay straight up—for the bog-land lay in a
curve round its southern side—we saw before us two figures at the edge
of the bog. They were those of Murdock and old Moynahan. When we saw
who they were, Dick whispered to me:—
“They are at the place to which I changed the mark, but are still on
Joyce’s land.”
They were working just as Dick and I had worked with Murdock, when
we had recovered the gun-carriage, and were so intent on the work at
which they toiled with feverish eagerness, that they did not see us
coming; and it was only when we stood close beside them that they were
conscious of our presence. Murdock turned at once with a scowl and a
sort of snarl. When he saw who it was, he became positively livid with
passion, and at once began to bombard us with the foulest vituperation.
Dick pressed my arm, as a hint to keep quiet and leave the talking to
him, and I did nothing; but he opposed the Gombeen Man’s passion with
an unruffled calm. Indeed, he seemed to me to want even to exasperate
Murdock to the last degree. When the latter paused for a second for
breath, he quietly said:—
“Keep your hair on, Murdock! and just tell me quietly why you are
trespassing; and why, and what, you are trying to steal from this
property?”
Murdock made no answer, so Dick went on:—
“Let me tell you that I act for the owner of this land, who bought it
as it is, and I shall hold you responsible for your conduct. I don’t
want to have a row needlessly, so if you go away quietly, and promise
to not either trespass here again, or try to steal anything, I shall
not take any steps. If not, I shall do as the occasion demands.”
Murdock answered him with the most manifestly intentional insolence:—
“You! ye tell me to go away! I don’t ricognize ye at all. This land
belongs to me frind, Mr. Joyce, an’ I shall come on it whin I like,
and do as I like. Whin me frind tells me not to come here, I shall
shtay away. Till then I shall do as I like!”
Said Dick:—
“You think that will do to bluff me because you know Joyce is away
for the day, and that, in the meantime, you can do what you want, and
perhaps get out of the bog some property that does not belong to you. I
shall not argue with you any more; but I warn you that you will have to
answer for your conduct.”
Murdock and Moynahan continued their pulling at the rope. We waited
till the haul was over, and saw that the spoil on this occasion was a
part of the root of a tree. Then, when both men were sitting exhausted
beside it, Dick took out his note-book, and began to make notes of
everything. Presently he turned to Murdock, and said:—
“Have you been fishing, Mr. Murdock? What a strange booty you have
brought up! It is really most kind of you to be aiding to secure the
winter firing for Mr. Joyce and my friend. Is there anything but
bogwood to be found here?”
Murdock’s reply was a curse and a savage scowl; but old Moynahan joined
in the conversation:—
“Now, I tould ye, Murtagh, that we wur too low down!”
“Shut up!” shouted the other, and the old man shrank back as if he had
been struck. Dick looked down, and seemed to be struck by the cross of
loose stones at his feet, and said:—
“Dear me! that is very strange—a cross of stones. It would almost seem
as if it were made here to mark something; but yet”—here he lifted one
of the stones—“it cannot have been long here; the grass is fresh under
the stones.” Murdock said nothing, but clenched his hands and ground
his teeth. Presently, however, he sent Moynahan back to his house to
get some whiskey. When the latter was out of earshot, Murdock turned to
us, and said:—
“An’ so, ye think to baffle me! do ye? Well! I’ll have that money
out—if I have to wade in yer blood. I will, by the livin’ God!” and he
burst into a string of profanities that made us shudder.
He was in such deadly earnest that I felt a pity for him, and said
impulsively:—
“Look here! if you want to get it out, you can have a little more time
if you like, if only you will conduct yourself properly. I don’t want
to be bothered looking for it. Now, if you’ll only behave decently, and
be something like a civilized being, I’ll give you another month if you
want it!”
Again he burst out at me with still more awful profanities. He didn’t
want any of my time! He’d take what time he liked! God Himself—and
he particularized the persons of the Trinity—couldn’t balk him, and
he’d do what he liked; and if I crossed his path it would be the worse
for me! And, as for others, that he would send the hard word round
the country about me and my leman!—I couldn’t be always knocking the
ruffian down, so I turned away and called to Dick:—
“Coming!” said Dick, and he walked up to Murdock and knocked him down.
Then, as the latter lay dazed on the grass, he followed me.
“Really,” he said, apologetically, “the man wants it. It will do him
good!”
Then we went back to Carnaclif.
These three days were very dreary ones for me: we spent most of the
time walking over Knockcalltecrore and making plans for the future.
But, without Norah, the place seemed very dreary!
We did not go over on the Monday, as we knew that Joyce and Norah would
not get home until late in the evening, and would be tired. Early,
however, on the day after—Tuesday—we drove over. Joyce was out, and
Dick left me at the foot of the boreen, so when I got to the house I
found Norah alone.
The dear girl showed me her new dresses with much pride; and presently
going to her room put on one of them, and came back to let me see how
she looked. Her face was covered with blushes. Needless to say that I
admired the new dress, as did her father, who just then came in.
When she went away to take off the dress Joyce beckoned me outside.
When we got away from the house he turned to me; his face was very
grave, and he seemed even more frightened than angry.
“There’s somethin’ I was tould while I was away, that I think ye ought
to know.”
“Go on, Mr. Joyce!”
“Somebody has been sayin’ hard things about Norah!”
“About Norah! Surely there is nobody mad enough or bad enough to speak
evil of her.”
“There’s wan!” He turned as he spoke, and looked instinctively in the
direction of Murdock’s house.
“Oh, Murdock! as he threatened—what did he say?”
“Well, I don’t know. I could only get it that somebody was sayin’
somethin’, an’ that it would be well to have things so that no wan
could say anythin’ that we couldn’t prove. It was a frind tould me—and
that’s all he would tell! Mayhap he didn’t know any more himself; but I
knew him to be a frind!”
“And it was a friendly act, Mr. Joyce. I have no doubt that Murdock has
been sending round wicked lies about us all! But thank God! in a few
days we will be all moving, and it doesn’t matter much what he can do.”
“No! it won’t matter much in wan way, but he’s not goin’, all the same,
to throw dirt on me child. If he goes on I’ll folly him up!”
“He won’t go on, Mr. Joyce. Before long, he’ll be out of the
neighbourhood altogether. To tell you the truth, I have bought the
whole of his land, and I get possession of it to-morrow; and then I’ll
never let him set foot here again. When once he is out of this, he
will have too much other wickedness on hand to have time to meddle with
us!”
“That’s thrue enough! Well! we’ll wait an’ see what happens—but we’ll
be mighty careful all the same.”
“Quite right,” I said, “we cannot be too careful in such a matter!”
Then we went back to the house, and met Norah coming into the room in
her red petticoat, which she knew I liked. She whispered to me! oh so
sweetly:—
“I thought, dear, you would like me to be the old Norah, to-day. It is
our last day together in the old way.” Then hand-in-hand we went down
to the Cliff Fields, and sat on the table-rock for the last time, and
feasted our eyes on the glorious prospect, whilst we told each other
our bright dreams of the future.
In the autumn twilight we came back to the house; Dick had, in the
meantime, come in, and we both stayed for tea. I saw that Dick had
something to tell me, but he waited until we were going home before he
spoke.
It was a sad parting with Norah that night; for it was the last day
together before she went off to school. For myself, I felt that
whatever might be in the future—and I hoped for much—it was the last
time that I might sit by the firelight with the old Norah. She, too,
was sad, and when she told me the cause of her sadness, I found that it
was the same as my own.
“But oh! Arthur, my darling, I shall try—I shall try to be worthy of my
great good fortune—and of you!” she said, as she put her arms round my
neck, and leaning her head on my bosom, began to cry.
“Hush! Norah. Hush, my darling!” I said, “you must not say such things
to me. You, who are worthy of all the good gifts of life. Oh, my dear!
my dear! I am only fearful that you may be snatched away from me by
some terrible misfortune—I shall not be happy till you are safely away
from the shadow of this fateful mountain and are beginning your new
life.”
“Only one more day!” she said. “To-morrow we must settle up
everything—and I have much to do for father—poor father! how good he is
to me. Please God! Arthur, we shall be able some day to repay him for
all his goodness to me!” How inexpressibly sweet it was to me to hear
her say “we” shall be able, as she nestled up close to me.
Ah! that night! Ah! that night!—the end of the day when, for the last
time, I sat on the table-rock with the old Norah that I loved so well.
It almost seemed as if Fate, who loves the keen contrasts of glare and
gloom, had made on purpose that day so bright, and of such flawless
happiness!
As we went back to Carnaclif Dick told me what had been exercising his
mind all the afternoon. When he had got to the bog he found that it had
risen so much that he thought it well to seek the cause. He had gone at
once to the place where Murdock had dammed up the stream that ran over
into the Cliff Fields, and had found that the natural position of the
ground had so far aided his efforts that the great stones thrown into
the chine had become solidified with the rubbish by the new weight of
the risen bog into a compact mass, and unless some heroic measure, such
as blowing up the dam, should be taken, the bog would continue to rise
until it should flow over the lowest part of the solid banks containing
it.
“As sure as we are here, Art,” he said, “that man will do himself to
death. I am convinced that if the present state of things goes on, with
the bog at its present height, and with this terrible rainfall, there
will be another shifting of the bog—and then, God help him, and perhaps
others too! I told him of the danger, and explained it to him—but he
only laughed at me and called me a fool and a traitor—that I was doing
it to prevent him getting his treasure—his treasure, forsooth!—and then
he went again into those terrible blasphemies—so I came away; but he is
a lost man, and I don’t see how we can stop him.” I said earnestly:—
“Dick, there’s no danger to them—the Joyces—is there?”
“No!” he answered, “not the slightest—their house is on the rock, high
over the spot, and quite away from any possible danger.”
Then we relapsed into silence, as we each tried to think out a solution.
That night it rained more heavily than ever. The downfall was almost
tropical—as it can be on the West Coast—and the rain on the iron roof
of the stable behind the hotel sounded like thunder; it was the last
thing in my ears before I went to sleep.
That night again I kept dreaming—dreaming in the same nightmare fashion
as before. But although the working of my imagination centred round
Knockcalltecrore and all it contained, and although I suffered dismal
tortures from the hideous dreams of ruin and disaster which afflicted
me, I did not on this occasion arouse the household. In the morning
when we met, Dick looked at my pale face and said:—
“Dreaming again, Art! Well, please God, it’s all nearly over now. One
more day, and Norah will be away from Knockcalltecrore.”
The thought gave me much relief. The next morning—on Thursday, 28th of
October—we should be on our way to Galway _en route_ for London, whilst
Dick would receive on my behalf possession of the property which I had
purchased from Murdock. Indeed his tenure ended at noon this very day;
but we thought it wiser to postpone taking possession until after Norah
had left. Although Norah’s departure meant a long absence from the
woman I loved, I could not regret it, for it was after all but a long
road to the end I wished for. The two years would soon be over. And
then!—and then life would begin in real earnest, and along its paths of
sorrow as of joy Norah and I should walk with equal steps.
Alas! for dreaming! The dreams of the daylight are often more delusive
than even those born of the glamour of moonlight or starlight, or of
the pitchy darkness of the night!
It had been arranged that we were not on this day to go over to
Knockcalltecrore, as Norah and her father wanted the day together.
Miss Joyce, Norah’s aunt, who usually had lived with them, was coming
back to look after the house. So after breakfast Dick and I smoked and
lounged about, and went over some business matters, and we arranged
many things to be done during my absence. The rain still continued to
pour down in a perfect deluge—the roadway outside the hotel was running
like a river, and the wind swept the rain-clouds so that the drops
struck like hail. Every now and again, as the gusts gathered in force,
the rain seemed to drive past like a sheet of water; and looking out of
the window, we could see dripping men and women trying to make headway
against the storm. Dick said to me:—
“If this rain holds on much longer it will be a bad job for Murdock.
There is every fear that if the bog should break under the flooding
he will suffer at once. What an obstinate fool he is—he won’t take
any warning! I almost feel like a criminal in letting him go to his
death—ruffian though he is; and yet what can one do? We are all
powerless if anything should happen.” After this we were silent. I
spoke the next:—
“Tell me, Dick, is there any earthly possibility of any harm coming to
Joyce’s house in case the bog should shift again? Is it quite certain
that they are all safe?”
“Quite certain, old fellow. You may set your mind at rest on that
score. In so far as the bog is concerned, she and her father are in
no danger. The only way they could run any risk of danger would be by
their going to Murdock’s house, or by being by chance lower down on the
hill, and I do not think that such a thing is likely to happen.”
This set my mind more at ease, and while Dick sat down to write some
letters I continued to look at the rain.
By-and-by I went down to the tap-room, where there were always a lot
of peasants, whose quaint speech amused and interested me. When I came
in one of them, whom I recognized as one of our navvies at Knocknacar,
was telling something, for the others all stood round him. Andy was the
first to see me, and said as I entered:—
“Ye’ll have to go over it all agin, Mike. Here’s his ’an’r, that is
just death on to bogs—an’ the like,” he added, looking at me slyly.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Oh, not much, yer ’an’r, except that the bog up at Knocknacar has run
away intirely. Whin the wather rose in it, the big cuttin’ we med tuk
it all out, like butthermilk out iv a jug. Begor! there never was seen
such a flittin’ since the wurrld begun. An’ more betoken, the quare
part iv it is that it hasn’t left the bit iv a hole behind it at all,
but it’s all mud an’ wather at the prisint minit.”
I knew this would interest Dick exceedingly, so I went for him. When
he heard it he got quite excited, and insisted that we should go off
to Knocknacar at once. Accordingly Andy was summoned, the mare was
harnessed, and with what protection we could get in the way of wraps,
we went off to Knocknacar through the rain storm.
As we went along we got some idea of the damage done—and being done—by
the wonderful rainfall. Not only the road was like a river, and the
mountain streams were roaring torrents, but in places the road was
flooded to such a dangerous depth that we dared not have attempted the
passage only that, through our repeated journeys, we all knew the road
so well.
However, we got at last to Knocknacar, and there found that the
statement we heard was quite true. The bog had been flooded to such a
degree that it had burst out through the cutting which we had made, and
had poured in a great stream over all the sloping moorland on which we
had opened it. The brown bog and black mud lying all over the stony
space looked like one of the lava streams which mark the northern side
of Vesuvius. Dick went most carefully all over the ground wherever
we could venture, and took a number of notes. Indeed, the day was
beginning to draw in, when, dripping and chilled, we prepared for our
return journey through the rain. Andy had not been wasting his time in
the sheebeen, and was in one of his most jocular humours; and when we
too were fortified with steaming hot punch we were able to listen to
his fun without wanting to kill him.
On the journey back, Dick—when Andy allowed him speech—explained to me
the various phenomena which we had noticed. When we got back to the
hotel it was night. Had the weather been fine we might have expected
a couple more hours of twilight; but with the mass of driving clouds
overhead, and the steady downpour of rain, and the fierce rush of the
wind, there was left to us not the slightest suggestion of day.
We went to bed early, for I had to rise by daylight for our journey on
the morrow. After lying awake for some time listening to the roar of
the storm and the dash of the rain, and wondering if it were to go on
for ever, I sank into a troubled sleep.
It seemed to me that all the nightmares which had individually
afflicted me during the last week returned to assail me collectively
on the present occasion. I was a sort of Mazeppa in the world of
dreams. Again and again the fatal hill and all its mystic and terrible
associations haunted me!—Again the snakes writhed around and took
terrible forms! Again she I loved was in peril! Again Murdock seemed to
arise in new forms of terror and wickedness! Again the lost treasure
was sought under terrible conditions; and once again I seemed to sit
on the table-rock with Norah, and to see the whole mountain rush down
on us in a dread avalanche, and turn to myriad snakes as it came! And
again Norah seemed to call to me, “Help! help! Arthur! Save me! Save
me!” And again, as was most natural, I found myself awake on the floor
of my room—though this time I did not scream—wet and quivering with
some nameless terror, and with Norah’s despairing cry in my ears.
But even in the first instant of my awakening I had taken a resolution
which forthwith I proceeded to carry into effect. These terrible
dreams—whencesoever they came—must not have come in vain! The grim
warning must not be despised! Norah was in danger, and I must go to her
at all hazards!
I threw on my clothes and went and woke Dick. When I told him my
intention he jumped up at once and began to dress, whilst I ran
downstairs and found Andy, and set him to get out the car at once.
“Is it goin’ out agin in the shtorm ye are? Begor! ye’d not go widout
some rayson, an’ I’m not the bhoy to be behind whin ye want me. I’ll be
ready, yer ’an’r, in two skips iv a dead salmon!” and Andy proceeded
to make, or rather complete, his toilet, and hurried out to the stable
to get the car ready. In the mean time Dick had got two lanterns and a
flask, and showed them to me.
“We may as well have them with us. We do not know what we may want in
this storm.”
It was now past one o’clock, and the night was pitchy dark. The rain
still fell, and high overhead we could hear the ceaseless rushing of
the wind. It was a lucky thing that both Andy and the mare knew the
road thoroughly, for otherwise we never could have got on that night.
As it was, we had to go much more slowly than we had ever gone before.
I was in a perfect fever. Every second’s delay seemed to me like an
hour. I feared—nay more, I had a deep conviction—that some dreadful
thing was happening, and I had over me a terrible dread that we should
arrive too late.