THE FULFILMENT.
When breakfast was finished, Dick proposed that we should go now and
look in the full daylight at the effect of the shifting of the bog. I
suggested to Norah that perhaps she had better not come as the sight
might harrow her feelings, and, besides, that she would want some rest
and sleep after her long night of terror and effort. She point blank
refused to stay behind, and accordingly we all set out, having now had
our clothes dried and changed, leaving only Miss Joyce to take care of
the house.
The morning was beautiful and fresh after the storm. The deluge of rain
had washed everything so clean that already the ground was beginning
to dry, and as the morning sun shone hotly there was in the air that
murmurous hum that follows rain when the air is still. And the air was
now still—the storm seemed to have spent itself, and away to the West
there was no sign of its track, except that the great Atlantic rollers
were heavier and the surf on the rocks rose higher than usual.
We took our way first down the hill, and then westward to the
Shleenanaher, for we intended, under Dick’s advice, to follow, if
possible, up to its source the ravine made by the bog. When we got to
the entrance of the Pass we were struck with the vast height to which
the bog had risen when its mass first struck the portals. A hundred
feet overhead there was the great brown mark, and on the sides of the
Pass the same mark was visible, declining quickly as it got seaward and
the Pass widened, showing the track of its passage to the sea.
We climbed the rocks and looked over. Norah clung close to me, and my
arm went round her and held her tight as we peered over and saw where
the great waves of the Atlantic struck the rocks three hundred feet
below us, and were for a quarter of a mile away still tinged with the
brown slime of the bog.
We then crossed over the ravine, for the rocky bottom was here laid
bare, and so we had no reason to fear waterholes or pitfalls. A small
stream still ran down the ravine and, shallowing out over the shelf
of rock, spread all across the bottom of the Pass, and fell into the
sea—something like a miniature of the Staubach Fall, as the water
whitened in the falling.
We then passed up on the west side of the ravine, and saw that the
stream which ran down the centre was perpetual—a live stream, and not
merely the drainage of the ground where the bog had saturated the
earth. As we passed up the hill we saw where the side of the slope had
been torn bodily away, and the great chasm where once the house had
been which Murdock took from Joyce, and so met his doom. Here there was
a great pool of water—and indeed all throughout the ravine were places
where the stream broadened into deep pools, and again into shallow
pools where it ran over the solid bed of rock. As we passed up, Dick
hazarded an explanation or a theory:—
“Do you know it seems to me that this ravine or valley was once before
just as it is now. The stream ran down it and out at the Shleenanaher
just as it does now. Then by some landslips, or a series of them, or
by a falling tree, the passage became blocked, and the hollow became
a lake, and its edges grew rank with boggy growth; and then, from one
cause and another—the falling in of the sides, or the rush of rain
storms carrying down the detritus of the mountain, and perpetually
washing down particles of clay from the higher levels—the lake became
choked up; and then the lighter matter floated to the top, and by
time and vegetable growth became combined. And so the whole mass
grew cohesive and floated on the water and slime below. This may
have occurred more than once. Nay, moreover, sections of the bog may
have become segregated or separated by some similarity of condition
affecting its parts, or by some formation of the ground, as by the
valley narrowing in parts between walls of rock so that the passage
could be easily choked. And so, solid earth formed to be again softened
and demoralized by the later mingling with the less solid mass above
it. It is possible, if not probable, that more than once, in the
countless ages that have passed, this ravine has been as we see it—and
again as it was but a few hours ago!”
No one had anything to urge against this theory, and we all proceeded
on our way.
When we came to the place where Norah had rescued me, we examined the
spot most carefully, and again went over the scene and the exploit.
It was almost impossible to realize that this great rock, towering
straight up from the bottom of the ravine, had, at the fatal hour,
seemed only like a tussock rising from the bog. When I had climbed to
the top I took my knife and cut a cross on the rock, where my brave
girl’s feet had rested, to mark the spot.
Then we went on again. Higher up the hill we came to a place, where, on
each side a rocky promontory, with straight deep walls, jutted into the
ravine, making a sort of narrow gateway or gorge in the valley. Dick
pointed it out:—
“See! here is one of the very things I spoke of, that made the bog
into sections or chambers, or tanks, or whatever we should call them.
More than that, here is an instance of the very thing I hinted at
before—that the peculiar formation of the Snake’s Pass runs right
through the hill! If this be so!—but we shall see later on.”
On the other side was, we agreed, the place where old Moynahan had said
the Frenchmen had last been seen. Dick and I were both curious about
the matter, and we agreed to cross the ravine and make certain, for,
if it were the spot, Dick’s mark of the stones in the Y shape would be
a proof. Joyce and Norah both refused to let us go alone, so we all
went up a little further, where the sides of the rock sloped on each
side, and where we could pass safely, as the bed was rock and quite
smooth with the stream flowing over it in a thin sheet.
When we got to the bottom, Joyce, who was looking round, said suddenly:—
“What is that like a square block behind the high rock on the other
side?” He went over to it, and an instant after, gave a great cry and
turned and beckoned to us. We all ran over—and there before us, in
a crescent-shaped nook, at the base of the lofty rock, lay a wooden
chest. The top was intact, but one of the lower corners was broken,
as though with a fall; and from the broken aperture had fallen out a
number of coins, which we soon found to be of gold.
On the top of the chest we could make out the letters R. F. in some
metal, discoloured and corroded with a century of slime, and on its
ends were great metal handles—to each of which something white was
attached. We stooped to look at them, and then Norah, with a low cry,
turned to me, and laid her head on my breast, as though to shut out
some horrid sight. Then we investigated the mass that lay there.
At each end of the chest lay a skeleton—the fleshless fingers grasping
the metal handle. We recognized the whole story at a glance, and our
hats came off.
“Poor fellows!” said Dick, “they did their duty nobly. They guarded
their treasure to the last.” Then he went on. “See! they evidently
stepped into the bog, straight off the rock, and were borne down
at once, holding tight to the handles of the chest they carried—or
stay”—and he stooped lower and caught hold of something:—
“See how the bog can preserve! this leather strap attached to the
handles of the chest each had round his shoulder, and so, willy nilly,
they were dragged to their doom. Never mind! they were brave fellows
all the same, and faithful ones—they never let go the handles—look!
their dead hands clasp them still. France should be proud of such sons!
It would make a noble coat of arms, this treasure chest sent by freemen
to aid others—and with two such supporters!”
We looked at the chest and the skeletons for a while, and then Dick
said:—
“Joyce, this is on your land—for it is yours till to-morrow—and you may
as well keep it—possession is nine points of the law—and if we take the
gold out, the government can only try to claim it. But if they take it,
we may ask in vain!” Joyce answered:—
“Take it I will, an’ gladly; but not for meself. The money was sent for
Ireland’s good—to help them that wanted help, an’ plase God! I’ll see
it doesn’t go asthray now!”
Dick’s argument was a sensible one, and straightway we wrenched the top
off the chest, and began to remove the gold; but we never stirred the
chest or took away those skeleton hands from the handles which they
grasped.
It took us all, carrying a good load each, to bring the money to
Joyce’s cottage. We locked it in a great oak chest, and warned Miss
Joyce not to say a word about it. I told Miss Joyce that if Andy came
for me he was to be sent on to us, explaining that we were going back
to the top of the new ravine.
We followed it up further, till we reached a point much higher up on
the hill, and at last came to the cleft in the rock whence the stream
issued. The floor here was rocky, and it being so, we did not hesitate
to descend, and even to enter the chine. As we did so, Dick turned to
me:—
“Well! it seems to me that the mountain is giving up its secrets
to-day. We have found the Frenchmen’s treasure, and now we may expect,
I suppose, to find the lost crown! By George! though, it is strange!
they said the Snake became the Shifting Bog, and that it went out, by
the Shleenanaher!—as we saw the bog did.”
When we got well into the chine, we began to look about us curiously.
There was something odd—something which we did not expect. Dick was the
most prying, and certainly the most excited of us all. He touched some
of the rock, and then almost shouted:—
“Hurrah! this a day of discoveries.—Hurrah! hurrah!”
“Now, Dick, what is it?” I asked—myself in a tumult, for his
enthusiasm, although we did not know the cause, excited as all.
“Why! man, don’t you see! this is what we have wanted all along.”
“What is? Speak out, man dear! We are all in ignorance!” Dick laid his
hand impressively on the rock:—
“Limestone! There is a streak of it here, right through the
mountain—and, moreover, look! look!—this is not all nature’s work—these
rocks have been cut in places by the hands of men!” We all got very
excited, and hurried up the chine; but the rocks now joined over our
heads, and all was dark beyond, and the chine became a cave.
“Has anyone a match—we must have a light of some kind here,” said Joyce.
“There is the lantern in the house. I shall run for it. Don’t stir
until I get back,” I cried; and I ran out and climbed the side of the
ravine, and got to Joyce’s house as soon as I could. My haste and
impetuosity frightened Miss Joyce, who called in terror:—
“Is there anything wrong—not an accident I hope?”
“No! no! we only want to examine a rock, and the place is dark. Give us
the lantern quick, and some matches.”
“Aisy! aisy, alanna!” she said. “The rock won’t run away!”
I took the lantern and matches and ran back. When we had lit the
lantern, Norah suggested that we should be very careful, as there might
be foul air about. Dick laughed at the idea.
“No foul air here, Norah; it was full of water a few hours ago,” and
taking the lantern, he went into the narrow opening. We all followed,
Norah clinging tightly to me. The cave widened as we entered, and we
stood in a moderate sized cavern, partly natural and partly hollowed
out by rough tools. Here and there, were inscriptions in strange
character, formed by straight vertical lines something like the old
telegraph signs, but placed differently.
“Ogham!-one of the oldest and least known of writings,” said Dick, when
the light fell on them as he raised the lantern.”
At the far end of the cave was a sort of slab or bracket, formed of a
part of the rock carven out. Norah went towards it, and called us to
her with a loud cry. We all rushed over, and Dick threw the light of
the lantern on her; and then exclamations of wonder burst from us also.
In her hand she held an ancient crown of strange form. It was composed
of three pieces of flat gold joined all along one edge, like angle
iron, and twisted delicately. The gold was wider and the curves bolder
in the centre, from which they were fined away to the ends and then
curved into a sort of hook. In the centre was set a great stone, that
shone with the yellow light of a topaz, but with a fire all its own!
Dick was the first to regain his composure and, as usual, to speak:—
“The Lost Crown of Gold!—the crown that gave the hill its name, and was
the genesis of the story of St. Patrick and the King of the Snakes!
Moreover, see, there is a scientific basis for the legend. Before this
stream cut its way out through the limestone, and made this cavern,
the waters were forced upwards to the lake at the top of the hill, and
so kept it supplied; but when its channel was cut here—or a way opened
for it by some convulsion of nature, or the rending asunder of these
rocks—the lake fell away.”
He stopped, and I went on:—
“And so, ladies and gentlemen, the legend is true, that the Lost Crown
would be discovered when the water of the lake was found again.”
“Begor! that’s thrue, anyhow!” said the voice of Andy in the entrance.
“Well, yer ’an’r, iv all the sthrange things what iver happened, this
is the most sthrangest! Fairies isn’t in it this time, at all, at all!”
I told Andy something of what had happened, including the terrible
deaths of Murdock and Moynahan, and sent him off to tell the head
constable of police, and any one else he might see. I told him also of
the two skeletons found beside the chest.
Andy was off like a rocket. Such news as he had to tell would not come
twice in a man’s lifetime, and would make him famous through all the
country-side. When he was gone, we decided that we had seen all that
was worth while, and agreed to go back to the house, where we might be
on hand to answer all queries regarding the terrible occurrences of
the night. When we got outside the cave, and had ascended the ravine,
I noticed that the crown in Norah’s hands had now none of the yellow
glare of the jewel, and feared the latter had been lost. I said to her:—
“Norah, dear! have you dropped the jewel from the crown?”
She held it up, startled, to see; and then we all wondered again—for
the jewel was still there, but it had lost its yellow colour, and
shone with a white light, something like the lustre of a pearl seen in
the midst of the flash of diamonds. It looked like some kind of uncut
crystal, but none of us had ever seen anything like it.
We had hardly got back to the house when the result of Andy’s mission
began to be manifested. Every soul in the country-side seemed to come
pouring in to see the strange sights at Knockcalltecrore. There was a
perfect babel of sounds; and every possible and impossible story, and
theory, and conjecture was ventilated at the top of the voice of every
one, male and female.
The head constable was one of the first to arrive. He came into the
cottage, and we gave him all the required details of Murdock’s and
Moynahan’s death, which he duly wrote down, and then went off with Dick
to go over the ground.
Presently there was a sudden silence amongst the crowd outside, the
general body of which seemed to continue as great as ever from the
number of new arrivals—despite the fact that a large number of those
present had followed Dick and the head constable in their investigation
of the scene of the catastrophe. The silence was as odd as noise would
have been under ordinary circumstances, so I went to the door to see
what it meant. In the porch I met Father Ryan, who had just come from
the scene of the disaster. He shook me warmly by the hand, and said
loudly, so that all those around might hear:—
“Mr. Severn, I’m real glad and thankful to see ye this day. Praise be
to God, that watched over ye last night, and strengthened the arms of
that brave girl to hold ye up.” Here Norah came to join us; and he took
her warmly by both hands, whilst the people cheered:—
“My! but we’re all proud of ye! Remember that God has given a great
mercy through your hands—and ye both must thank Him all the days of
your life! And those poor men that met their death so horribly—poor
Moynahan, in his drunken slumber! Men! it’s a warning to ye all!
Whenever ye may be tempted to take a glass too much, let the fate of
that poor soul rise up before ye and forbid ye to go too far. As for
that unhappy Murdock, may God forgive him and look lightly on his sins!
I told him what he should expect—that the fate of Ahab and Jezebel
would be his. For as Ahab coveted the vineyard of his neighbour
Naboth, and as Jezebel wrought evil to aid him to his desire, so this
man hath coveted his neighbour’s goods and wrought evil to ruin him.
And now behold his fate, even as the fate of Ahab and Jezebel! He went
without warning and without rites—and no man knows where his body lies.
The fishes of the sea have preyed on him, even as the dogs on Jezebel.”
Here Joyce joined us, and he turned to him:—
“And do you, Michael Joyce, take to heart the lesson of God’s goodness!
Ye thought when yer land and yer house was taken that a great wrong was
done ye, and that God had deserted ye; and yet so inscrutable are His
ways that these very things were the salvation of ye and all belonging
to ye. For in his stead you and yours would have been swept in that
awful avalanche into the sea!”
And now the head constable returned with Dick, and the priest went
out. I took the former aside and asked him if there would be any need
for Norah to remain, as there were other witnesses to all that had
occurred. He told me that there was not the slightest need. Then he
went away after telling the people that we all had had a long spell of
trouble and labour, and would want to be quiet and have some rest. And
so, with a good feeling and kindness of heart which I have never seen
lacking in this people, they melted away; and we all came within the
house, and shut the door, and sat round the fire to discuss what should
be done. Then and there we decided that the very next day Norah should
start with her father, for the change of scene would do her good, and
take her mind off the terrible experiences of last night.
So that day we rested. The next morning Andy was to drive Joyce and
Norah and myself off to Galway, en route for London and Paris.
In the afternoon Norah and I strolled out together for one last look
at the beautiful scene from our table-rock in the Cliff Fields. Close
as we had been hitherto, there was now a new bond between us; and when
we were out of sight of prying eyes—on the spot where we had first
told our loves, I told her of my idea of the new bond. She hung down
her head, but drew closer to me as I told her how much more I valued
my life since she had saved it for me—and how I should in all the two
years that were to come try hard that every hour should be such as she
would like me to have passed.
“Norah, dear!” I said, “the bar you place on our seeing each other in
all that long time will be hard to bear, but I shall know that I am
enduring for your sake.” She turned to me, and with earnest eyes looked
lovingly into mine as she said:—
“Arthur! dear Arthur, God knows I love you! I love you so well that I
want to come to you, if I can, in such a way that I may never do you
discredit; and I am sure that when the two years are over—and, indeed,
they will not go lightly for me—you will not be sorry that you have
made the sacrifice for me. Dear! I shall ask you when we meet on our
wedding morning if you are satisfied.”
When it was time to go home we rose up, and—it might have been that
the evening was chilly—a cold feeling came over me, as though I still
stood in the shadow of the fateful hill. And there in the Cliff Fields
I kissed Norah Joyce for the last time!
* * * * *
The two years sped quickly enough, although my not being able to see
Norah at all was a great trial to me. Often and often I felt tempted
almost beyond endurance to go quietly and hang round where she was
so that I might get even a passing glimpse of her; but I felt that
such would not be loyal to my dear girl. It was hard not to be able
to tell her, even now and again, how I loved her, but it had been
expressly arranged—and wisely enough too—that I should only write
in such a manner as would pass, if necessary, the censorship of the
schoolmistress. “I must be,” said Norah to me, “exactly as the other
girls are—and, of course, I must be subject to the same rules.” And so
it was that my letters had to be of a tempered warmth, which caused me
now and again considerable pain.
My dear girl wrote to me regularly, and although there was not any of
what her schoolmistress would call “love” in her letters, she always
kept me posted in all her doings; and with every letter it was borne in
on me that her heart and feelings were unchanged.
I had certain duties to attend to with regard to my English property,
and this kept me fairly occupied.
Each few months I ran over to the Knockcalltecrore, which Dick was
transforming into a fairyland. The discovery of the limestone had, as
he had conjectured, created possibilities in the way of building and of
waterworks of which at first we had not dreamed. The new house rose on
the table-rock in the Cliff Fields. A beautiful house it was, of red
sandstone with red tiled roof and quaint gables, and jutting windows
and balustrades of carven stone. The whole Cliff Fields were laid out
as exquisite gardens, and the murmur of water was everywhere. None of
this I ever told Norah in my letters, as it was to be a surprise to her.
On the spot where she had rescued me we had reared a great stone—a
monolith whereon a simple legend told the story of a woman’s strength
and bravery. Round its base were sculptured the history of the mountain
from its legend of the King of Snakes down to the lost treasure and the
rescue of myself. This was all carried out under Dick’s eye. The legend
on the stone was:—
NORAH JOYCE
a Brave Woman
on this spot
by her Courage and Devotion
saved a man’s life.
At the end of the first year Norah went to another school at Dresden
for six months; and then, by her own request to Mr. Chapman, was
transferred to an English school at Brighton, one justly celebrated
amongst Englishwomen.
These last six months were very, very long to me; for as the time drew
near when I might claim my darling the suspense grew very great, and I
began to have harrowing fears lest her love might not have survived the
long separation and the altered circumstances.
I heard regularly from Joyce. He had gone to live with his son
Eugene, who was getting along well, and was already beginning to
make a name for himself as an engineer. By his advice his father had
taken a sub-section of the great Ship Canal, then in progress of
construction, and with the son’s knowledge and his own shrewdness and
energy was beginning to realize what to him was a fortune. So that the
purchase-money of Shleenanaher, which formed his capital, was used to a
good purpose.
At last the long period of waiting came to an end. A month before
Norah’s school was finished, Joyce went to Brighton to see her, having
come to visit me beforehand. His purpose and mine was to arrange all
about the wedding, which we wanted to be exactly as she wished. She
asked her father to let it be as quiet as possible, with absolutely no
fuss—no publicity, and in some quiet place where no one knew us.
“Tell Arthur,” she said, “that I should like it to be somewhere near
the sea, and where we can get easily on the Continent.”
I fixed on Hythe, which I had been in the habit of visiting
occasionally, as the place where we were to be married. Here, high
over the sea level, rises the grand old church where the bones of so
many brave old Norsemen rest after a thousand years. The place was so
near to Folkestone that after the wedding and an informal breakfast we
could drive over to catch the mid-day boat. I lived the requisite time
in Hythe, and complied with all the formalities.
I did not see my darling until we met in the church-porch, and then
I gazed on her with unstinted admiration. Oh! what a peerless beauty
she was! Every natural grace and quality seemed developed to the full.
Every single grace of womanhood was there—every subtle manifestation of
high breeding—every stamp of the highest culture. There was no one in
the porch—for those with me delicately remained in the church when they
saw me go out to meet my bride—and I met her with a joy unspeakable.
Joyce went in and left her with me a moment—they had evidently arranged
to do so—but when we were quite alone she said to me with a very
serious look:—
“Mr. Severn, before we go into the church answer me one question—answer
me truthfully, I implore you!” A great fear came upon me that at the
last I was to suffer the loss of her I loved—that at the moment when
the cup of happiness was at my lips it was to be dashed aside—and it
was with a hoarse voice and a beating heart I answered:—
“I shall speak truly, Norah! What is it?” She said very demurely:—
“Mr. Severn! are you satisfied with me?” I looked up and caught the
happy smile in her eyes, and for answer took her in my arms to kiss
her: but she said:—
“Not yet, Arthur! not yet! What would they say? And besides, it would
be unlucky.” So I released her, and she took my arm, and as we came up
the aisle together I whispered to her:—
“Yes, my darling! Yes! yes! a thousand times. The time has been long,
long; but the days were well spent!” She looked at me with a glad,
happy look as she murmured in my ear:—
“We shall see Italy soon, dear, together. I am so happy!” and she
pinched my arm.
That was a very happy wedding, and as informal as it was happy. As
Norah had no bridesmaid, Dick, who was to have been my best man, was
not going to act; but when Norah knew this she insisted on it, and said
sweetly:—
“I should not feel I was married properly unless Dick took his place.
And as to my having no bridesmaid, all I can say is, if we had half so
good a girl friend, she would be here, of course!”
This settled the matter, and Dick with his usual grace and energy
carried out the best man’s chief duty of taking care of his principal’s
hat.
There were only our immediate circle present, Joyce and Eugene, Miss
Joyce—who had come all the way from Knocknacar, Mr. Chapman, and Mr.
Caicy—who had also come over from Galway specially. There was one
other old friend also present, but I did not know it until I came out
of the vestry, after signing the register, with my wife on my arm.
There, standing modestly in the background, and with a smile as
manifest as a ten acre field, was none other than Andy—Andy so well
dressed and smart that there was really nothing to distinguish him from
any other man in Hythe. Norah saw him first, and said heartily:—
“Why, there is Andy! How are you, Andy?” and held out her hand. Andy
took it in his great fist, and stooped and kissed it as if it had been
a saint’s hand and not a woman’s:—
“God bless and keep ye, Miss Norah darlin’—an’ the Virgin and the
saints watch over ye both.” Then he shook hands with me.
“Thank you, Andy!” we said both together, and then I beckoned Dick and
whispered to him.
We went back to breakfast in my rooms, and sat down as happy a party as
could be—the only one not quite comfortable at first being Andy. He and
Dick both came in quite hot and flushed. Dick pointed to him:—
“He’s an obstinate, truculent villain, is Andy. Why, I had to almost
fight him to make him come in. Now, Andy, no running away—it is Miss
Norah’s will!” and Andy subsided bashfully into a seat. It was fully
several minutes before he either smiled or winked. We had a couple of
hours to pass before it became time to leave for Folkestone; and when
breakfast was over, one and then another said a few kindly words. Dick
opened the ball by speaking most beautifully of our own worthiness,
and of how honestly and honourably each had won the other, and of the
long life and happiness that lay, he hoped and believed, before us.
Then Joyce spoke a few manly words of his love for his daughter and
his pride in her. The tears were in his eyes when he said how his one
regret in life was that her dear mother had to look down from Heaven
her approval on this day, instead of sharing it amongst us as the best
of mothers and the best of women. Then Norah turned to him and laid her
head on his breast and cried a little—not unhappily, but happily, as a
bride should cry at leaving those she loves for one she loves better
still.
Of course both the lawyers spoke, and Eugene said a few words
bashfully. I was about to reply to them all, when Andy got up and
crystallized the situation in a few words:—
“Miss Norah an’ yer ’an’r, I’d like, if I might make so bould, to say
a wurrd fur all the men and weemen in Ireland that ayther iv yez iver
kem across. I often heerd iv fairies, an’ Masther Art knows well how he
hunted wan from the top iv Knocknacar to the top iv Knockcalltecrore,
and I won’t say a wurrd about the kind iv a fairy he wanted to find—not
even in her quare kind iv an eye—bekase I might be overlooked, as the
masther was; and more betoken, since I kem here Masther Dick has tould
me that I’m to be yer ’an’r’s Irish coachman. Hurroo! an’ I might get
evicted from that same houldin’ fur me impidence in tellin’ tales iv
the Masther before he was married; but I’ll promise yez both that
there’ll be no man from the Giant’s Causeway to Cape Clear what’ll
thry, an’ thry hardher, to make yer feet walk an’ yer wheels rowl in
aisy ways than meself. I’m takin’ a liberty, I know, be sayin’ so much,
but plase God! ye’ll walk yer ways wid honour an’ wid peace, believin’
in aich other an’ in God—an’ may He bless ye both, an’ yer childher,
and yer childher’s childher to folly ye. An’ if iver ayther iv yez
wants to shtep into glory over a man’s body, I hope ye’ll not look past
poor ould Andy Sullivan!”
Andy’s speech was quaint, but it was truly meant, for his heart was
full of quick sympathy, and the honest fellow’s eyes were full of tears
as he concluded.
Then Miss Joyce’s health was neatly proposed by Mr. Chapman and
responded to in such a way by Mr. Caicy that Norah whispered me that
she would not be surprised if Aunt took up her residence in Galway
before long.
And now the hour was come to say good-bye to all friends. We entered
our carriage and rolled away, leaving behind us waving hands, loving
eyes, and hearts that beat most truly.
And the great world lay before us with all the possibilities of
happiness that men and women may win for themselves. There was never a
cloud to shadow our sun-lit way; and we felt that we were one.
[Colophon]
CHISWICK PRESS:—C. WHITTINGHAM AND CO., TOOKS COURT,
CHANCERY LANE.