The Snake's Pass/Chapter 06
The next day Sutherland would have to resume his work with Murdock—but on his newly-acquired land. I could think of his visit to Knockcalltecrore without a twinge of jealousy; and for my own part I contemplated a walk in a different direction. Dick was full of his experiment regarding the bog at Knocknacar, and could talk of nothing else—a disposition of things which suited me all to nothing, for I had only to acquiesce in all he said, and let my own thoughts have free and pleasant range.
"I have everything cut and dry in my head, and I'll have it all on paper before I sleep to-night," said the enthusiast. "Unfortunately, I am tied for a while longer to the amiable Mr. Murdock; but since you're good enough, old fellow, to offer to stay to look after the cutting, I can see my way to getting along. We can't begin until the day after to-morrow, for I can't by any possibility get old Moriarty's permission before that. But then we'll start in earnest. You must get some men up there and set them to work at once. By to-morrow evening I'll have an exact map ready for you to work by, and all you will have to do will be to see that the men are kept up to the mark, look at the work now and then and take a note of results. I expect it will take quite a week or two to make the preliminary drainage, for we must have a decided fall for the water. We can't depend on less than twenty or thirty feet, and I should not be surprised if we want twice as much. I suppose I shan't see you till to-morrow night; for I'm going up to my room now, and shall work late, and I must be off early in the morning. As you're going to have a walk I suppose I may take Andy, for my foot is not right yet?"
"By all means," I replied, and we bade each other good night.
When I went to my own room I locked the door and looked out of the open window at the fair prospect bathed in soft moonlight. For a long time I stood there. What my thoughts were I need tell no young man or young woman, for without shame I admitted to myself that I was over head and ears in love. If any young person of either sex requires any further enlightenment, well! then, all I can say is that their education in life has been shamefully neglected, or their opportunities have been scant; or, worse still, some very grave omisssion has been made in their equipment for the understanding of life.—If any one, not young, wants such enlightenment I simply say—'sir or madam, either you are a fool or your memory is gone!'
One thing I will say, that I never felt so much at one with my kind; and before going to bed I sat down and wrote a letter of instructions to my agent, directing him to make accurate personal inquiries all over the estate, and at the forthcoming rent-day make such remissions of rent as would relieve any trouble or aid in any plan of improvements such as his kinder nature could guess at or suggest.
I need not say that for a long time I did not sleep, and although my thoughts were full of such hope and happiness that the darkness seemed ever changing into sunshine, there were, at times, such harrowing thoughts of difficulties to come, in the shape of previous attachments—of my being late in my endeavours to win her as my wife—of my never been able to find her again—that, now and again, I had to jump from my bed and pace the floor. Towards daylight I slept, and went through a series of dreams of alternating joy and pain. At first hope held full sway, and my sweet experience of the day became renewed and multiplied. Again I climbed the hill and saw her and heard her voice—again the tearful look faded from her eyes—again I held her hand in mine and bade good-bye, and a thousand happy fancies filled me with exquisite joy. Then doubts began to come. I saw her once more on the hill-top—but she was looking out for some other than myself, and a shadow of disappointment passed over her sweet face when she recognized me. Again, I saw myself kneeling at her feet and imploring her love, while only cold, hard looks were my lot; or I found myself climbing the hill, but never able to reach the top—or on reaching it finding it empty. Then I would find myself hurrying through all sorts of difficult places—high, bleak mountains, and lonely wind-swept strands—dark paths through gloomy forests, and over sun-smitten plains, looking for her whom I had lost, and in vain trying to call her—for I could not remember her name. This last nightmare was quite a possibility, for I had never heard it.
I awoke many times from such dreams in an agony of fear; but after a time both pleasure and pain seemed to have had their share of my sleep, and I slept the dreamless sleep that Plato eulogizes in the "Apologia Socratis."
I was awakened to a sense that my hour of rising had not yet come by a knocking at my door. I opened it, and on the landing without saw Andy standing, cap in hand.
"Hullo, Andy!" I said. "What on earth do you want?"
"Yer 'an'r 'll parden me, but I'm jist off wid Misther Sutherland; an' as I undherstand ye was goin' for a walk, I made bould t' ask yer 'an'r if ye'll give a missage to me father?"
"Certainly, Andy! With pleasure."
"Maybe ye'd tell him that I'd like the white mare tuk off the grash an' gave some hard 'atin' for a few days, as I'll want her brung into Wistport before long."
"All right, Andy! Is that all?"
"That's all, yer 'an'r." Then he added, with a sly look at me:—
"May be ye'll keep yer eye out for a nice bit o' bog as ye go along."
"Get on, Andy," said I. "Shut up! you ould corncrake." I felt I could afford to chaff with him as we were alone.
He grinned, and went away. But he had hardly gone a few steps when he returned and said, with an air of extreme seriousness:—
"As I'm goin' to Knockcalltecrore, is there any missage I kin take for ye to Miss Norah?"
"Oh, go on!" said I. "What message should I have to send, when I never saw the girl in my life?"
For reply he winked at me with a wink big enough to cover a perch of land, and, looking back over his shoulder so that I could see his grin to the last, he went along the corridor—and I went back to bed.
It did not strike me till a long time afterwards—when I was quite close to Knocknacar—how odd it was that Andy had asked me to give the message to his father. I had not told him I was even coming in the direction—I had not told anyone—indeed, I had rather tried to mislead when I spoke of taking a walk that day, by saying some commonplace about 'the advisability of breaking new ground' and so forth. Andy had evidently taken it for granted; and it annoyed me somewhat that he could find me so transparent. However, I gave the message to the old man, to which he promised to attend, and had a drink of milk, which is the hospitality of the west of Ireland farmhouse. Then, in the most nonchalant way I could, I began to saunter up the hill.
I loitered awhile here and there on the way up. I diverted my steps now and then as if to make inquiry into some interesting object. I tapped rocks and turned stones over, to the discomfiture of various swollen pale-coloured worms and nests of creeping things. With the end of my stick I dug up plants, and made here and there unmeaning holes in the ground as though I were actuated by some direct purpose known to myself and not understood of others. In fact I acted as a hypocrite in many harmless and unmeaning ways, and rendered myself generally obnoxious to the fauna and flora of Knocknacar.
As I approached the hill-top my heart beat loudly and fast, and a general supineness took possession of my limbs, and a dimness came over my sight and senses. I had experienced something of the same feeling at other times in my life—as, for instance, just before my first fight when a school boy, and when I stood up to make my maiden speech at the village debating society. Such feelings—or lack of feelings—however, do not kill; and it is the privilege and strength of advancing years to know this fact.
I proceeded up the hill. I did not whistle this time, or hum, or make any noise—matters were far too serious with me for any such levity. I reached the top—and found myself alone! A sense of blank disappointment came over me—which was only relieved when, on looking at my watch, I found that it was as yet still early in the forenoon. It was three o'clock yesterday when I had met—when I had made the ascent.
As I had evidently to while away a considerable time, I determined to make an accurate investigation of the hill of Knocknacar—much, very much fuller than I had made as yet. As my unknown had descended the hill by the east, and would probably make the ascent—if she ascended at all—by the same side; and as it was my object not to alarm her, I determined to confine my investigations to the west side. Accordingly I descended about half way down the slope, and then commenced my prying into the secrets of Nature under a sense of the just execration of me and my efforts on the part of the whole of the animate and inanimate occupants of the mountain side.
Hours to me had never seemed of the same inexhaustible proportions as the hours thus spent. At first I was strong with a dogged patience; but this in time gave way to an impatient eagerness, that merged into a despairing irritability. More than once I felt an almost irresistible inclination to rush to the top of the hill and shout, or conceived an equally foolish idea to make a call at every house, cottage and cabin, in the neighbourhood. In this latter desire my impatience was somewhat held in check by a sense of the ludicrous; for as I thought of the detail of the doing it, I seemed to see myself when trying to reduce my abstract longing to a concrete effort, meeting only jeers and laughter from both men and women—in my seemingly asinine effort to make inquiries regarding a person whose name even I did not know, and for what purpose I could assign no sensible reason.
I verily believe I must have counted the leaves of grass on portions of that mountain. Unfortunately, hunger or thirst did not assail me, for they would have afforded some diversion to my thoughts. I sturdily stuck to my resolution not to ascend to the top until after three o'clock, and I gave myself much kudos for the stern manner in which I adhered to my resolve.
My satisfaction at so bravely adhering to my resolution, in spite of so much mental torment and temptation, may be imagined when, at the expiration of the appointed time, on ascending to the hill-top, I saw my beautiful friend sitting on the edge of the plateau and heard her first remark after our mutual salutations:—
"I have been here nearly two hours, and am just going home! I have been wondering and wondering what on earth you were working at all over the hill-side! May I ask, are you a botanist?"
"No!"
"Or a geologist?"
"No!"
"Or a naturalist?"
"No!"
There she stopped; this simple interrogation as to the pursuits of a stranger evidently struck her as unmaidenly, for she blushed and turned away.
I did not know what to to say; but youth has its own wisdom—which is sincerity—and I blurted out:—
"In reality I was doing nothing; I was only trying to pass the time."
There was a query in the glance of the glorious blue-black eyes and in the lifting of the ebon lashes; and I went on, conscious as I proceeded that the ground before me was marked "Dangerous":—
"The fact is, I did not want to come up here till after three, and the time seemed precious long, I can tell you."
"Indeed, But you have missed the best part of the view. Between one and two o'clock, when the sun strikes in between the islands—Cusheen there to the right, and Mishear—the view is the finest of the whole day."
"Oh, yes," I answered, "I know now what I have missed."
Perhaps my voice betrayed me. I certainly felt full of bitter regret; but there was no possibility of mistaking the smile which rose to her eyes and faded into the blush that followed the reception of the thought.
There are some things which a woman cannot misunderstand or fail to understand; and surely my regret and its cause were within the category.
It thrilled through me, with a sweet intoxication, to realize that she was not displeased. Man is predatory even in his affections, and there is some conscious power to him which follows the conviction that the danger of him—which is his intention—is recognized.
However, I thought it best to be prudent, and to rest on success—for a while, at least. I therefore commenced to talk of London, whose wonders were but fresh to myself, and was rewarded by the bright smile that had now become incorporated with my dreams by day and by night.
And so we talked—talked in simple companionship; and the time fled by on golden wings. No word of love was spoken or even hinted at, but with joy and gratitude unspeakable I began to realize that we were en rapport. And more than this, I realized that the beautiful peasant girl had great gifts—a heart of gold, a sweet, pure nature, and a rare intelligence. I gathered that she had had some education, though not an extensive one, and that she had followed up at home such subjects as she had learned in school. But this was all I gathered. I was still as ignorant as ever of her name, and all else beside, as when I had first heard her sweet voice on the hill-top.
Perhaps I might have learned more, had there been time; but the limit of my knowledge had been fixed. The time had fled so quickly, because so happily, that neither of us had taken account of it; and suddenly, as a long red ray struck over the hill-top from the sun now preparing for his plunge into the western wave, she jumped to heir feet with a startled cry:—
"The sunset! What am I thinking of! Good-night! good-night! No, you must not come—it would never do! Good night!" And before I could say a word, she was speeding down the eastern slope of the mountain.
The revulsion from such a dream of happiness made me for the moment ungrateful; and I felt that it was with an angry sneer on my lip that I muttered as I looked at her retreating form:—
"Why are the happy hours so short—whilst misery and anxiety spread out endlessly?"
But as the red light of the sunset smote my face, a better and a holier feeling came to me; and there on the top of the hill I knelt and prayed, with the directness and fervour that are the spiritual gifts of youth, that every blessing might light on her—the arrière pensée being—her, my wife. Slowly I went down the mountain after the sun had set; and when I got to the foot, I stood bareheaded for a long time, looking at the summit which had given me so much happiness.
Do not sneer or make light of such moments, ye whose lives are grey. Would to God that the grey-haired and grey-souled watchers of life, could feel such moments once again!
I walked home with rare briskness, but did not feel tired at all by it—I seemed to tread on air. As I drew near the hotel, I had some vague idea of hurrying at once to my own room, and avoiding dinner altogether as something too gross and carnal for my present exalted condition; but a moment's reflection was sufficient to reject any such folly. I therefore achieved the other extreme, and made Mrs. Keating's kindly face beam by the vehemence with which I demanded food. I found that Dick had not yet returned—a fact which did not displease me, as it insured me a temporary exemption from Andy's ill-timed banter, which I did not feel in a humour to enjoy at present.
I was just sitting down to my dinner when Dick arrived. He too had a keen appetite; and it was not until we had finished our fish, and were well into our roast duck, that conversation began. Once he was started, Dick was full of matters to tell me. He had seen Moriarty—that was what had kept him so late—and had got his permission to investigate and experiment on the bog. He had thought out the whole method of work to be pursued, and had, during Murdock's dinner-time, made to scale a rough diagram for me to work by. We had our cigars lit before he had exhausted himself on this subject. He had asked me a few casual questions about my walk, and, so as not to arouse any suspicions, I had answered him vaguely that I had had a lovely day, had enjoyed myself immensely, and had seen some very pretty things—all of which was literally and exactly true. I had then asked him as to how he had got on with his operations in connection with the bog. It amused me to think how small and secondary a place Shleenanaher, and all belonging to it, now had in my thoughts. He told me that they had covered a large portion of the new section of the bog—that there was very little left to do now, in so far as the bog was concerned; and he descanted on the richness and the fine position of Murdock's new farm.
"It makes me angry," said he, "to think that that human-shaped wolf should get hold of such a lovely spot, and oust such a good fellow as the man whom he has robbed—yes! it is robbery, and nothing short of it. I feel something like a criminal myself for working for such a wretch at all."
"Never mind, old chap," said I; "you can't help it. Whatever he may have done wrong, you have had neither act nor part in it. It will all come right in time!" In my present state of mind I could not imagine that there was, or could be, anything in the world that would not come all right in time.
We strolled into the street, and met Andy, who immediately hurried up to me:—
"Good evenin', yer 'an'r! An' did ye give me instructions to me father?"
"I did, Andy; and he asked me to tell you that all shall be done exactly as you wish."
"Thank yer 'an'r." He turned away, and my heart rejoiced, for I thought I would be free from his badinage; but he turned and came back, and asked with a servility which I felt to be hypocritical and assumed:—
"Any luck, yer 'an'r, wid bogs to-day?" I know I got red as I answered him:—
"Oh, I don't know! Yes! a little—not much."
"Shure an' I'm glad to hear it, surr! but I might have known be the luk iv ye and be yer shtep. Faix! it's aisy known whin a man has been lucky wid bogs!" The latter sentence was spoken in a pronounced "aside."
Dick laughed, for although he was not in the secret he could see that there was some fun intended. I did not like his laugh, and said hotly:—
"I don't understand you, Andy!"
"Is it undershtand me ye don't do? Well, surr, if I've said anythin' that I shouldn't, I ax yer pardon. Bogs isn't to be lightly shpoke iv at all, at all! " then, after a pause:—"Poor Miss Norah!"
"What do you mean?" said I.
"Shure yer 'an'r, I was only pityin' the poor crathur. Poor thing, but this'll be a bitther blow to her intirely!" The villain was so manifestly acting a part, and he grinned at me in such a provoking way, that I got quite annoyed.
"Andy, what do you mean? out with it!" I said hotly.
"Mane, yer 'an'r? Sure nawthin'. All I mane is, poor Miss Norah! Musha, but it'll be the sore thrial to her. Bad cess to Knocknacar anyhow!"
"This is infernal impertinence! Here" I was stopped by Dick's hand on my breast:—
"Easy, easy, old chap! What is this all about? Don't get angry, old man. Andy is only joking, whatever it is. I'm not in the secret myself, and so can give no opinion; but there is a joke somewhere. Don't let it go beyond a joke."
"All right, Dick," said I, having had time to recover my temper. "The fact is that Andy has started some chaff on me about bogs—meaning girls thereby—every time he mentions the word to me; and now he seems to accuse me in some way about a girl that came to meet her father that night I left him home at Knockcalltecrore. You know, Joyce, that Murdock has ousted from his farm. Now, look here, Andy! You're a very good fellow, and don't mean any harm; but I entirely object to the way you're going on. I don't mind a button about a joke. I hope I'm not such an ass as to be thin-skinned about a trifle, but it is another matter when you mention a young lady's name alongside mine. You don't think of the harm you may do. People are very talkative, and generally get a story the wrong end up. If you mention this girl—whatever her name is"
"Poor Miss Norah!" struck in Andy, and then ostentatiously corrected himself—"I big yer 'an'r's pardon, Miss Norah, I mane."
"This Miss Norah along with me," I went on, "and especially in that objectionable form, people may begin to think she is wronged in some way, and you may do her an evil that you couldn't undo in all your lifetime. As for me, I never even saw the girl. I heard her speak in the dark for about half a minute, but I never set eyes on her in my life. Now, let this be the last of all this nonsense! Don't worry me any more; but run in and tell Mrs. Keating to give you a skinful of punch, and to chalk it up to me."
Andy grinned, ducked his head, and made his exit into the house as though propelled or drawn by some unseen agency. When I remarked this to Dick he replied, "Some spirit draws him, I dare say."
Dick had not said a word beyond advising me not to lose my temper. He did not appear to take any notice of my lecture to Andy, and puffed unconcernedly at his cigar till the driver had disappeared. He then took me by the arm and said:—
"Let us stroll a bit up the road." Arm in arm we passed out of the town and into the silence of the common. The moon was rising, and there was a soft, tender light over everything. Presently, without looking at me, Dick said:—
"Art, I don't want to be inquistive or to press for any confidences, but you and I are too old friends not to be interested in what concerns each other. What did Andy mean? Is there any girl in question?"
I was glad to have a friend to whom to open my mind, and without further thought I answered:—
"There is, Dick!"
Dick grasped my arm and looked keenly into my face, and then said:
"Art! Answer me one question—answer me truly, old fellow, by all you hold dear—answer me on your honour!"
"I shall, Dick! What is it?"
"Is it Norah Joyce?" I had felt some vague alarm from the seriousness of his manner, but his question put me at ease again, and, with a high heart, I answered:—
"No! Dick. It is not." We strolled on, and after a pause, that seemed a little oppressive to me, he spoke again:—
"Andy mentioned a poor 'Miss Norah'—don't get riled, old man—and you both agreed that a certain young lady was the only one alluded to. Are you sure there is no mistake? Is not your young lady called Norah?" This was a difficult question to answer, and made me feel rather awkward. Being awkward, I got a little hot:—
"Andy's an infernal fool. What I said to him—you heard me"
"Yes! I heard you."
" was literally and exactly true. I never set eyes on Norah Joyce in my life. The girl I mean, the one you mean also, was one I saw by chance yesterday—and to-day—on the top of Knocknacar."
"Who is she?"—there was a more joyous sound in Dick's voice.
"Eh! eh!" I stammered. "The fact is, Dick, I don't know."
"What is her name?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know her name?"
"No."
"Where does she come from?"
"I don't know. I don't know anything about her, except this, Dick, that I love her with all my heart and soul!" I could not help it—I could not account for it—but the tears rushed to my eyes, and I had to keep my head turned away from Dick lest he should notice me. He said nothing, and when I had surreptitiously wiped away what I thought were unmanly tears of emotion, I looked round at him. He, too, had his head turned away and, and if my eyes did not deceive me, he too had some unmanly signs of emotion.
"Dick!" said I. He turned on the instant. We looked in one another's faces, and the story was all told. We grasped hands warmly.
"We're both in the same boat, old boy," said he.
"Who is it, Dick?"
"Norah Joyce!" I gave a low whistle.
"But," he went on, "you are well ahead of me. I have never even exchanged a word with her yet. I have only seen her a couple of times; but the whole world is nothing to me beside her. There! I've nothing to tell. Veni, Vidi, Victus sum!—I came, I saw, I was conquered. She has beauty enough, and if I'm not an idiot, worth enough to conquer a nation!—Now, tell me all about yours."
"There's nothing to tell, Dick; as yet I have only exchanged a few words. I shall hope to know more soon." We walked along in silence, turning our steps back to the hotel.
"I must hurry and finish up my plans to-night so as to be ready for you to-morrow. You won't look on it as a labour to go to Knocknacar, old chap!" said he, slapping me on the back.
"Nor you to go to Shleenanaher," said I, as we shook hands and parted for the night.
It was quite two hours after this when I began to undress for bed. I suppose the whole truth, however foolish, must be told, but those two hours were mainly spent in trying to compose some suitable verses to my unknown. I had consumed a vast amount of paper—consumed literally, for what lover was ever yet content to trust his unsuccessful poetic efforts to the waste basket?—and my grate was thickly strewn with filmy ashes. Hitherto the Muse had persistently and successfully evaded me. She did not even grant me a feather from her wing, and my 'woeful ballad made to my mistress' eyebrow' was amongst the things that were not. There was a gentle tap at the door. I opened it, and saw Dick with his coat off. He came in.
"I thought I would look in, Art, as I saw the light under your door, and knew that you had not gone to bed. I only wanted to tell you this. You don't know what a relief it is to me to be able to speak of it to any living soul—how maddening it is to me to work for that scoundrel Murdock. You can understand now why I flared up at him so suddenly ere yesterday. I have a strong conviction on me that his service is devil's service as far as my happiness is concerned—and that I shall pay some terrible penalty for it."
"Nonsense, old fellow," said I, "Norah only wants to see you to know what a fine fellow you are. You won't mind my saying it, but you are the class of man that any woman would be proud of!"
"Ah! old chap," he answered sadly, "I'm afraid it will never get that far. There isn't, so to speak, a fair start for me. She has seen me already—worse luck!—has seen me doing work which must seem to her to aid in ruining her father. I could not mistake the scornful glance she has thrown on me each time we have met. However, che sara sara! It's no use fretting beforehand. Good night!"