THE CATASTROPHE.
As we drew closer to the mountain, and recognized our whereabouts by
the various landmarks, my dread seemed to grow. The night was now well
on, and there were signs of the storm abating; occasionally the wind
would fall off a little, and the rain beat with less dreadful violence.
In such moments some kind of light would be seen in the sky—or, to
speak more correctly, the darkness would be less complete—and then the
new squall which followed would seem by contrast with the calm to smite
us with renewed violence. In one of these lulls we saw for an instant
the mountain rise before us, its bold outline being shown darkly
against a sky less black. But the vision was swept away an instant
after by a squall and a cloud of blinding rain, leaving only a dreadful
memory of some field for grim disaster. Then we went on our way even
more hopelessly; for earth and sky, which in that brief instant we had
been able to distinguish, were now hidden under one unutterable pall of
gloom.
On we went slowly. There was now in the air a thunderous feeling, and
we expected each moment to be startled by the lightning’s flash or the
roar of Heaven’s artillery. Masses of mist or sea fog now began to be
borne landward by the passing squalls. In the time that elapsed between
that one momentary glimpse of Knockcalltecrore and our arrival at the
foot of the boreen a whole lifetime seemed to me to have elapsed, and
in my thoughts and harrowing anxieties I recalled—as drowning men are
said to do before death—every moment, every experience since I had
first come within sight of the western sea. The blackness of my fears
seemed only a carrying inward of the surrounding darkness, which was
made more pronounced by the flickering of our lanterns, and more dread
by the sounds of the tempest with which it was laden.
When we stopped in the boreen, Dick and I hurried up the hill, whilst
Andy, with whom we left one of the lanterns, drew the horse under
the comparative shelter of the wind-swept alders, which lined the
entrance to the lane. He wanted a short rest before proceeding to Mrs.
Kelligan’s, where he was to stop the remainder of the night, so as to
be able to come for us in the morning.
As we came near Murdock’s cottage Dick pressed my arm.
“Look!” he called to me, putting his mouth to my ear so that I could
hear him, for the storm swept the hill fiercely here, and a special
current of wind came whirling up through the Shleenanaher. “Look! he
is up even at this hour. There must be some villainy afloat!”
When we got up a little farther he called to me again in the same way.
“The nearest point of the bog is here; let us look at it.” We diverged
to the left, and in a few minutes were down at the edge of the bog.
It seemed to us to be different from what it had been. It was raised
considerably above its normal height, and seemed quivering all over in
a very strange way. Dick said to me very gravely:—
“We are just in time. There’s something going to happen here.”
“Let us hurry to Joyce’s,” I said, “and see if all is safe there.”
“We should warn them first at Murdock’s,” he said. “There may not be a
moment to lose.” We hurried back to the boreen and ran on to Murdock’s,
opened the gate, and ran up the path. We knocked at the door, but there
was no answer. We knocked more loudly still, but there came no reply.
“We had better make certain,” said Dick, and I could hear him more
easily now, for we were in the shelter of the porch. We opened the
door, which was only on the latch, and went in. In the kitchen a candle
was burning, and the fire on the hearth was blazing, so that it could
not have been long since the inmates had left. Dick wrote a line of
warning in his pocket-book, tore out the leaf, and placed it on the
table where it could not fail to be seen by anyone entering the room.
We then hurried out, and up the lane to Joyce’s.
As we drew near we were surprised to find a light in Joyce’s window
also. I got to the windward side of Dick, and shouted to him:—
“A light here also! there must be something strange going on.” We
hurried as fast as we could up to the house. As we drew close the door
was opened, and through a momentary lull we heard the voice of Miss
Joyce, Norah’s aunt:—
“Is that you, Norah?”
“No!” I answered.
“Oh! is it you, Mr. Arthur? Thank God ye’ve come! I’m in such terror
about Phelim an’ Norah. They’re both out in the shtorm, an’ I’m nigh
disthracted about them.”
By this time we were in the house, and could hear each other speak,
although not too well even here, for again the whole force of the gale
struck the front of the house, and the noise was great.
“Where is Norah? Is she not here?”
“Oh no! God help us! Wirrastru! wirrastru!” The poor woman was in such
a state of agitation and abject terror that it was with some difficulty
we could learn from her enough to understand what had occurred. The
suspense of trying to get her to speak intelligibly was agonizing, for
now every moment was precious; but we could not do anything or make any
effort whatever until we had learned all that had occurred. At last,
however, it was conveyed to us that early in the evening Joyce had
gone out to look after the cattle, and had not since returned. Late at
night old Moynahan had come to the door half drunk, and had hiccoughed
a message that Joyce had met with an accident and was then in Murdock’s
house. He wanted Norah to go to him there, but Norah only was to go
and no one else. She had at once suspected that it was some trap of
Murdock’s for some evil purpose, but still she thought it better to go,
and accordingly called to Hector, the mastiff, to come with her, she
remarking to her aunt “I am safe with him, at any rate.” But Hector
did not come. He had been restless, and groaning for an hour before,
and now on looking for him they had found him dead. This helped to
confirm Norah’s suspicions, and the two poor women were in an agony of
doubt as to what they should do. Whilst they were discussing the matter
Moynahan had returned—this time even drunker than before—and repeated
his message, but with evident reluctance. Norah had accordingly set to
work to cross-examine him, and after a while he admitted that Joyce was
not in Murdock’s house at all—that he had been sent with the message
and told when he had delivered it to go away to mother Kelligan’s and
not to ever tell anything whatever of the night’s proceedings—no matter
what might happen or what might be said. When he had admitted this
much he had been so overcome with fright at what he had done that he
began to cry and moan, and say that Murdock would kill him for telling
on him. Norah had told him he could remain in the cottage where he
was, if he would tell her where her father was, so that she could go
to look for him; but that he had sworn most solemnly that he did not
know, but that Murdock knew, for he told him that there would be no
chance of seeing him at his own house for hours yet that night. This
had determined Norah that she would go out herself, although the storm
was raging wildly, to look for her father. Moynahan, however, would not
stay in the cottage, as he said he would be afraid to, unless Joyce
himself were there to protect him; for if there were no one but women
in the house Murdock would come and murder him and throw his body into
the bog, as he had often threatened. So Moynahan had gone out into the
night by himself, and Norah had shortly after gone out also, and from
that moment she—Miss Joyce—had not set eyes on her, and feared that
some harm had happened.
This the poor soul told us in such an agony of dread and grief that
it was pitiful to hear her, and we could not but forgive the terrible
delay. I was myself in deadly fear, for every kind of harrowing
possibility rose before me as the tale was told. It was quite evident
that Murdock was bent on some desperate scheme of evil; he either
intended to murder Norah or to compromise her in some terrible way. I
was almost afraid to think of the subject. It was plain to me that by
this means he hoped, not only to gratify his revenge, but to get some
lever to use against us, one and all, so as to secure his efforts in
searching for the treasure. In my rage against the cowardly hound,
I almost lost sight of the need of thankfulness for one great peril
avoided.
However, there was no time at present for further thought—action,
prompt and decisive, was vitally necessary. Joyce was absent—we had no
clue to where he could be. Norah was alone on the mountain, and with
the possibility of Murdock assailing her, for he, too, was abroad—as we
knew from the fact of his being away from his house.
We lost not a moment, but went out again into the storm. We did not,
however, take the lantern with us, as we found by experience that its
occasional light was in the long run an evil, as we could not by its
light see any distance, and the grey of the coming dawn was beginning
to show through the abating storm, with a faint indication that before
long we should have some light.
We went down the hill westward until we came near the bog, for we had
determined to make a circuit of it as our first piece of exploration,
since we thought that here lay the most imminent danger. Then we
separated, Dick following the line of the bog downward whilst I went
north, intending to cross at the top and proceed down the farther side.
We had agreed on a signal, if such could be heard through the storm,
choosing the Australian “coo-ee,” which is the best sound to travel
known.
I hurried along as fast as I dared, for I was occasionally in utter
darkness. Although the morning was coming with promise of light, the
sea-wind swept inland masses of swiftly-driving mist, which, whilst
they encompassed me, made movement not only difficult and dangerous,
but at times almost impossible. The electric feeling in the air had
become intensified, and each moment I expected the thunderstorm to
burst.
Every little while I called, “Norah! Norah!” in the vain hope that,
whilst returning from her search for her father, she might come within
the sound of my voice. But no answering sound came back to me, except
the fierce roar of the storm laden with the wild dash of the breakers
hurled against the cliffs and the rocks below.
Even then, so strangely does the mind work, the words of the old song,
“The Pilgrim of Love,” came mechanically to my memory, as though I had
called “Orinthia” instead of “Norah:”—
“Till with ‘Orinthia’ all the rocks resound.”
On, on I went, following the line of the bog, till I had reached the
northern point, where the ground rose and began to become solid. I
found the bog here so swollen with rain that I had to make a long
detour so as to get round to the western side. High up on the hill
there was, I knew, a rough shelter for the cattle; and as it struck
me that Joyce might have gone here to look after his stock, and that
Norah had gone hither to search for him, I ran up to it. The cattle
were there, huddled together in a solid mass behind the sheltering wall
of sods and stones. I cried out as loudly as I could from the windward
side, so that my voice would carry:—
“Norah! Norah! Joyce! Joyce! Are you there? Is anyone there?”
There was a stir amongst the cattle and one or two low “moos” as they
heard the human voice, but no sound from either of those I sought; so I
ran down again to the further side of the bog. I knew now that neither
Norah nor her father could be on this point of the hill, or they would
have heard my voice; and as the storm came from the west, I made a
zigzag line going east to west as I followed down the bog so that I
might have a chance of being heard—should there be anyone to hear. When
I got near to the entrance to the Cliff Fields I shouted as loudly as
I could, “Norah! Norah!” but the wind took my voice away as it would
sweep thistles down, and it was as though I made the effort but no
voice came, and I felt awfully alone in the midst of a thick pall of
mist.
On, on I went, following the line of the bog. Lower down there was some
shelter from the storm, for the great ridge of rocks here rose between
me and the sea, and I felt that my voice could be heard further off.
I was sick at heart and chilled with despair, till I felt as if the
chill of my soul had extended even to my blood; but on I went with set
purpose, the true doggedness of despair.
As I went I thought I heard a cry through the mist—Norah’s voice! It
was but an instant, and I could not be sure whether my ears indeed
heard, or if the anguish of my heart had created the phantom of a
voice to deceive me. However, be it what it might, it awoke me like
a clarion; my heart leaped and the blood surged in my brain till I
almost became dizzy. I listened to try if I could distinguish from what
direction the voice had come.
I waited in agony. Each second seemed a century, and my heart beat like
a trip-hammer. Then again I heard the sound—faint, but still clear
enough to hear. I shouted with all my power, but once again the roar of
the wind overpowered me; however, I ran on towards the voice.
There was a sudden lull in the wind—a blaze of lightning lit up the
whole scene, and, some fifty yards before me, I saw two figures
struggling at the edge of the rocks. In that welcome glance,
infinitesimal though it was, I recognized the red petticoat which,
in that place and at that time, could be none other than Norah’s. I
shouted as I leapt forward; but just then the thunder broke overhead,
and in the mighty and prolonged roll every other sound faded into
nothingness, as though the thunderclap had come on a primeval
stillness. As I drew near to where I had seen the figures, the thunder
rolled away, and through its vanishing sound I heard distinctly Norah’s
voice:—
“Help! Help! Arthur! Father! Help! Help!” Even in that wild moment my
heart leaped, that of all names, she called on mine the first—Whatever
men may say, Love and Jealousy are near kinsmen!
I shouted in return, as I ran, but the wind took my voice away—and then
I heard her voice again, but fainter than before:—
“Help! Arthur—Father! Is there no one to help me now!” And then the
lightning flashed again, and in the long jagged flash we saw each
other, and I heard her glad cry before the thunderclap drowned all
else. I had seen that her assailant was Murdock, and I rushed at him,
but he had seen me too, and before I could lay hands on him he had let
her go, and with a mighty oath which the roll of the thunder drowned,
he struck her to the earth and ran.
I raised my poor darling, and, carrying her a little distance, placed
her on the edge of the ridge of rocks beside us, for by the light in
the sky, which grew paler each second, I saw that a stream of water
rising from the bog, was flowing towards us. She was unconscious—so I
ran to the stream and dipped my hat full of water to bring to revive
her. Then I remembered the signal of finding her, and putting my hands
to my lips I sounded the “Coo-ee,” once, twice. As I stood I could
see Murdock running to his house, for every instant it seemed to grow
lighter, and the mist to disperse. The thunder had swept away the
rain-clouds, and let in the light of the coming dawn.
But even as I stood there—and I had not delayed an unnecessary
second—the ground under me seemed to be giving way. There was a strange
shudder or shiver below me, and my feet began to sink. With a wild
cry—for I felt that the fatal moment had come—that the bog was moving,
and had caught me in its toils, I threw myself forward towards the
rock. My cry seemed to arouse Norah like the call of a trumpet. She
leaped to her feet, and in an instant seemed to realize my danger, and
rushed towards me. When I saw her coming I shouted to her:—
“Keep back! keep back.” But she did not pause an instant, and the only
words she said were:—
“I am coming, Arthur! I am coming!”
Half way between us there was a flat-topped piece of rock, which raised
its head out of the surrounding bog. As she struggled towards it, her
feet began to sink, and a new terror for her was added to my own. But
she did not falter a moment, and, as her lighter weight was in her
favour, with a great effort she gained it. In the meantime I struggled
forward. There was between me and the rock a clump of furze bushes; on
these I threw myself, and for a second or two they supported me. Then
even these began to sink with me, for faster and faster, with each
succeeding second, the earth seemed to liquify and melt away.
Up to now I had never realized the fear, or even the possibility, of
death to myself—hitherto all my fears had been for Norah. But now came
to me the bitter pang which must be for each of the children of men on
whom Death has laid his icy hand. That this dread moment had come there
was no doubt; nothing short of a miracle could save me!
No language could describe the awful sensation of that melting away of
the solid earth—the most dreadful nightmare would be almost a pleasant
memory compared with it.
I was now only a few feet from the rock whose very touch meant safety
to me—but it was just beyond my reach! I was sinking to my doom!—I
could see the horror in Norah’s eyes, as she gained the rock and
struggled to her feet.
But even Norah’s love could not help me—I was beyond the reach of her
arms, and she no more than I could keep a foothold on the liquifying
earth. Oh! that she had a rope and I might be saved! Alas! she had
none—even the shawl that might have aided me had fallen off in her
struggle with Murdock.
But Norah had, with her woman’s quick instinct, seen a way to help me.
In an instant she had had torn off her red petticoat of heavy homespun
cloth and thrown one end to me. I clutched and caught it with a
despairing grasp—for by this time only my head and hands remained above
the surface.
“Now, O God! for strength!” was the earnest prayer of her heart, and my
thought was:—
“Now, for the strong hands that that other had despised!”
Norah threw herself backward with her feet against a projecting piece
of the rock, and I felt that if we could both hold out long enough I
was saved.
Little by little I gained! I drew closer and closer to the rock!
Closer! closer still! till with one hand I grasped the rock itself,
and hung on, breathless, in blind desperation. I was only just able to
support myself, for there was a strange dragging power in the viscous
mass that held me, and greatly taxed my strength, already exhausted
in the terrible struggle for life. The bog was beginning to move! But
Norah bent forward, kneeling on the rock, and grasped my coat collar in
her strong hands. Love and despair lent her additional strength, and
with one last great effort she pulled me upward—and in an instant more
I lay on the rock safe and in her arms.
During this time, short as it was, the morning had advanced, and the
cold grey mysterious light disclosed the whole slope before us dim in
the shadow of the hill. Opposite to us, across the bog, we saw Joyce
and Dick watching us, and between the gusts of wind we faintly heard
their shouts.
To our right, far down the hill, the Shleenanaher stood out boldly,
its warder rocks struck by the grey light falling over the hill-top.
Nearer to us, and something in the same direction, Murdock’s house rose
a black mass in the centre of the hollow.
But as we looked around us, thankful for our safety, we grasped
each other more closely, and a low cry of fear emphasized Norah’s
shudder—for a terrible thing began to happen.
The whole surface of the bog, as far as we could see it in the dim
light, became wrinkled, and then began to move in little eddies, such
as one sees in a swollen river. It seemed to rise and rise till it grew
almost level with where we were, and instinctively we rose to our feet
and stood there awestruck, Norah clinging to me, and with our arms
round each other.
The shuddering surface of the bog began to extend on every side to even
the solid ground which curbed it, and with relief we saw that Dick and
Joyce stood high up on a rock. All things on its surface seemed to
melt away and disappear, as though swallowed up. This silent change or
demoralization spread down in the direction of Murdock’s house—but when
it got to the edge of the hollow in which the house stood, it seemed to
move as swiftly forward as water leaps down a cataract.
Instinctively we both shouted a warning to Murdock—he, too, villain
though he was, had a life to lose. He had evidently felt some kind of
shock or change, for he came rushing out of the house full of terror.
For an instant he seemed paralyzed with fright as he saw what was
happening. And it was little wonder! for in that instant the whole
house began to sink into the earth—to sink as a ship founders in a
stormy sea, but without the violence and turmoil that marks such a
catastrophe. There was something more terrible—more deadly in that
silent, causeless destruction than in the devastation of the earthquake
or the hurricane.
The wind had now dropped away; the morning light struck full over the
hill, and we could see clearly. The sound of the waves dashing on the
rocks below, and the booming of the distant breakers filled the air—but
through it came another sound, the like of which I had never heard,
and the like of which I hope, in God’s providence, I shall never hear
again—a long, low gurgle, with something of a sucking sound; something
terrible—resistless—and with a sort of hiss in it, as of seething
waters striving to be free.
Then the convulsion of the bog grew greater; it almost seemed as if
some monstrous living thing was deep under the surface and writhing to
escape.
By this time Murdock’s house had sunk almost level with the bog. He had
climbed on the thatched roof, and stood there looking towards us, and
stretching forth his hands as though in supplication for help. For a
while the superior size and buoyancy of the roof sustained it, but then
it too began slowly to sink. Murdock knelt, and clasped his hands in a
frenzy of prayer.
And then came a mighty roar and a gathering rush. The side of the hill
below us seemed to burst. Murdock threw up his arms—we heard his wild
cry as the roof of the house, and he with it, was in an instant sucked
below the surface of the heaving mass.
Then came the end of the terrible convulsion. With a rushing sound, and
the noise of a thousand waters falling, the whole bog swept, in waves
of gathering size, and with a hideous writhing, down the mountain-side
to the entrance of the Shleenanaher—struck the portals with a sound
like thunder, and piled up to a vast height. And then the millions
of tons of slime and ooze, and bog and earth, and broken rock swept
through the Pass into the sea.
Norah and I knelt down, hand-in-hand, and with full hearts thanked God
for having saved us from so terrible a doom.
The waves of the torrent rushing by us at first came almost level with
us; but the stream diminished so quickly, that in an incredibly short
time we found ourselves perched on the top of a high jutting rock,
standing sharply up from the sloping sides of a deep ravine, where but
a few minutes before the bog had been. Carefully we climbed down, and
sought a more secure place on the base of the ridge of rocks behind
us. The deep ravine lay below us, down whose sides began to rattle
ominously, here and there, masses of earth and stones deprived of their
support below where the torrent had scoured their base.
Lighter and lighter grew the sky over the mountain, till at last one
red ray shot up like a crack in the vault of heaven, and a great light
seemed to smite the rocks that glistened in their coat of wet. Across
the ravine we saw Joyce and Dick beginning to descend, so as to come
over to us. This aroused us, and we shouted to them to keep back, and
waved our arms to them in signal; for we feared that some landslip
or some new outpouring of the bog might sweep them away, or that the
bottom of the ravine might be still only treacherous slime. They saw
our gesticulations, if they did not hear our voices, and held back.
Then we pointed up the ravine, and signalled them that we would move up
the edge of the rocks. This we proceeded to do, and they followed on
the other side, watching us intently. Our progress was slow, for the
rocks were steep and difficult, and we had to keep eternally climbing
up and descending the serrated edges, where the strata lapped over each
other; and besides we were chilled and numbed with cold.
At last, however, we passed the corner where was the path down to the
Cliff Fields, and turned eastwards up the hill. Then in a little while
we got well above the ravine, which here grew shallower, and could
walk on more level ground. Here we saw that the ravine ended in a deep
cleft, whence issued a stream of water. And then we saw hurrying up
over the top of the cleft Joyce and Dick.
Up to now, Norah and I had hardly spoken a word. Our hearts were too
full for speech; and, indeed, we understood each other, and could
interpret our thoughts by a subtler language than that formulated by
man.
In another minute Norah was clasped in her father’s arms. He held her
close, and kissed her, and cried over her; whilst Dick wrung my hand
hard. Then Joyce left his daughter, and came and flung his arms round
me, and thanked God that I had escaped; whilst Norah went up to Dick,
and put her arms round him, and kissed him as a sister might.
We all went back together as fast as we could; and the sun that rose
that morning rose on no happier group—despite the terror and the
trouble of the night. Norah walked between her father and me, holding
us both tightly, and Dick walked on my other side with his arm in
mine. As we came within sight of the house, we met Miss Joyce—her face
grey with anxiety. She rushed towards us, and flung her arms round
Norah, and the two women rocked each other in their arms; and then we
all kissed her—even Dick, to her surprise. His kiss was the last, and
it seemed to pull her together; for she perked up, and put her cap
straight—a thing which she had not done for the rest of us. Then she
walked beside us, holding her brother’s hand.
We all talked at once and told the story over and over again of the
deadly peril I had been in, and how Norah had saved my life; and here
the brave girl’s fortitude gave way. She seemed to realize all at once
the terror and the danger of the long night, and suddenly her lips grew
white, and she would have sunk down to the ground only that I had seen
her faint coming and had caught her and held her tight. Her dear head
fell over on my shoulder, but her hands never lost their grasp of my
arm.
We carried her down toward the house as quickly as we could; but before
we had got to the door she had recovered from her swoon, and her first
look when her eyes opened was for me, and the first word she said was—
“Arthur! Is he safe?”
And then I laid her in the old arm-chair by the hearth-place, and took
her cold hands in mine, and kissed them and cried over them—which
I hoped vainly that no one saw. Then Miss Joyce, like a true
housekeeper, stirred herself, and the flames roared up the chimney, and
the slumbering kettle on the chain over the fire woke and sang again;
and it seemed like magic, for all at once we were all sipping hot
whiskey punch, and beginning to feel the good effects of it.
Then Miss Joyce hurried away Norah to change her clothes, and Dick
and I went with Joyce, and we all rigged ourselves out with whatever
came to hand; and then we came back to the kitchen and laughed at each
other’s appearance. We found Miss Joyce already making preparations for
breakfast, and succeeding pretty well, too.
And then Norah joined us, but she was not the least grotesque; she
seemed as though she had just stepped out of a band-box—she seemed so
trim and neat, with her grey jacket and her Sunday red petticoat. Her
black hair was coiled in one glorious roll round her noble head, and
there was but one thing which I did not like, and which sent a pang
through my heart—a blue and swollen bruise on her ivory forehead where
Murdock had struck her that dastard blow! She saw my look and her eyes
fell, and when I went to her and kissed the wound and whispered to her
how it pained me, she looked up at me and whispered so that none of the
others could hear:—
“Hush! hush! Poor soul, he has paid a terrible penalty; let us forget
as we forgive!” And then I took her hands in mine and stooped to kiss
them, whilst the others all smiled happily as they looked on; but she
tried to draw them away, and a bright blush dyed her cheeks as she
murmured to me:—
“No! no, Arthur! Arthur dear, not now! I only did what anyone would do
for you!” and the tears rushed to her eyes.
“I must! Norah,” said I, “I must! for I owe these brave hands my life!”
and I kissed them and she made no more resistance. Her father’s voice
and words sounded very true as he said:-
“Nay, daughter, it is right that he should kiss those hands this
blessed mornin’, for they took a true man out of the darkness of the
grave!”
And then my noble old Dick came over too, and he raised those dear
hands reverently to his lips, and said very softly:—
“For he is dear to us all!”
By this time Miss Joyce had breakfast well under way, and one and all
we thought that it was time we should let the brightness of the day and
the lightness of our hearts have a turn; and Joyce said heartily:—
“Come now! Come now! Let us sit down to breakfast; but first let us
give thanks to Almighty God that has been so good to us, and let us
forgive that poor wretch that met such a horrible death. Rest to his
soul!”
We were all silent for a little bit, for the great gladness of our
hearts, that came through the terrible remembrance thus brought home to
us, was too deep for words. Norah and I sat hand in hand, and between
us was but one heart, and one soul, and one thought—and all were
filled with gratitude.
When once we had begun breakfast in earnest a miniature babel broke
out. We had each something to tell and much to hear; and for the latter
reason we tacitly arranged, after the first outbreak, that each should
speak in turn.
Miss Joyce told us of the terrible anxiety she had been in ever since
she had seen us depart, and how every sound, great or small—even the
gusts of wind that howled down the chimney and made the casements
rattle—had made her heart jump into her mouth, and brought her out
to the door to see if we or any of us were coming. Then Dick told us
how, on proceeding down the eastern side of the bog, he had diverged
so as to look in at Murdock’s house to see if he were there, but had
found only old Moynahan lying on the floor in a state of speechless
drunkenness, and so wet that the water running from his clothes had
formed a pool of water on the floor. He had evidently only lately
returned from wandering on the hillside. Then as he was about to go on
his way he had heard, as he thought, a noise lower down the hill, and
on going towards it had met Joyce carrying a sheep which had its leg
broken, and which he told him had been blown off a steep rock on the
south side of the hill. Then they two had kept together after Dick had
told him of our search for Norah, until we had seen them in the coming
grey of the dawn. Next Joyce took up the running, and told us how he
had been working on the top of the mountain when he saw the signs of
the storm coming so fast that he thought it would be well to look after
the sheep and cattle, and see them in some kind of shelter before the
morning. He had driven all the cattle which were up high on the hill
into the shelter where I had found them, and then had gone down the
southern shoulder of the hill, placing all the sheep and cattle in
places of shelter as well as he could, until he had come across the
wounded one, which he took on his shoulders to bring it home, but which
had since been carried away in the bursting of the bog. He finished by
reminding me jocularly that I owed him something for his night’s work,
for the stock was now all mine.
“No!” said I, “not for another day. My purchase of your ground and
stock was only to take effect from after noon of the 28th, and we are
now only at the early morning of that day; but at any rate I must thank
you for the others,” for I had a number of sheep and cattle which Dick
had taken over from the other farmers whose land I had bought.
Then I told over again all that had happened to me. I had to touch on
the blow which Norah had received, but I did so as lightly as I could;
and when I said “God forgive him!” they all added softly, “Amen!”
Then Dick put in a word about poor old Moynahan:—
“Poor old fellow, he is gone also. He was a drunkard, but he wasn’t all
bad. Perhaps he saved Norah last night from a terrible danger. His
life mayhap may leaven the whole lump of filth and wickedness that went
through the Shleenanaher into the sea last night!”
We all said “Amen” again, and I have no doubt that we all meant it with
all our hearts.
Then I told again of Norah’s brave struggle and how, by her courage and
her strength, she took me out of the very jaws of a terrible death. She
put one hand before her eyes—for I held the other close in mine—and
through her fingers dropped her welling tears.
We sat silent for a while, and we felt that it was only right and
fitting when Joyce came round to her and laid his hand on her head and
stroked her hair as he said:—
“Ye have done well, daughter—ye have done well!”