Murdock opened again the vials of his wrath. This time he dragged us all into it — I had been brought in as a spy, to help in betraying him, and Joyce had suborned him to the act of treachery. For myself I fired up at once, and would have struck him, only that Dick laid his hand on me, and in a whisper cautioned me to desist.
"Easy, old man—easy! Don't spoil a good position. What does it matter what a man like that can say? Give him rope enough! we'll have our turn in time, don't fear!"
I held back, but unfortunately Joyce pressed forwards. He had his say pretty plainly.
"What do ye mane, ye ill-tongued scoundhrel, comin' here to make a quarrel? Why don't ye shtay on the land you have robbed from me, and lave us alone? I am not like these gintlemen here, that can afford to hould their tongues and despise ye—I'm a man like yerself, though I hope I'm not the wolf that ye are —fattenin' on the blood of the poor! How dare you say I suborned any one—me that never told a lie, or done a dirty thing in me life? I tell you, Murtagh Murdock, I put my mark upon ye once—I see it now comin' up white through the red of yer passion! Don't provoke me further, or I'll put another mark on ye that ye'll carry to yer grave!"
No one said a word more. Murdock moved off and entered his own house; Dick and I said " good night" to Joyce again, and went down the boreen.
CHAPTER IX.
My New Property.
The following week was a time to me of absolute bitterness. I went each day to Knocknacar, where the cutting was proceeding at a rapid rate. I haunted the hill-top, but without the slightest result. Dick had walked over with me on Sunday, and had been rejoiced at the progress made; he said that if all went well we could about Friday next actually cut into the bog. Already there was a distinct infiltration through the cutting, and we discussed the best means to achieve the last few feet of the work so as not in any way to endanger the safety of the men working.
All this time Dick was in good spirits. His meeting with Norah's father had taken a great and harrowing weight off his mind, and to him all things were now possible in the future. He tried his best to console me for my disappointment. He was full of hope—indeed he refused to see anything but a delay, and I could see that in his secret heart he was not altogether sorry that my love affair had received a temporary check. This belief was emphasized by the tendency of certain of his remarks to the effect that marriages between persons of unequal social status were inadvisable—he, dear old fellow, seemingly in his transparent honesty unaware that he was laying himself out with all his power to violate his own principles.
But all the time I was simply heartbroken. To say that I was consumed with a burning anxiety would be to to understate the matter; I was simply in a fever. I could neither eat nor sleep satisfactorily, and—sleeping or waking—my brain was in a whirl of doubts, conjectures, fears and hopes. The most difficult part to bear was my utter inability to do anything. I could not proclaim my love or my loss on the hill-top; I did not know where to make inquiries, and I had no idea who to inquire for. I did not even like to tell Dick the full extent of my woes.
Love has a modesty of its own, whose lines are boldly drawn, and whose rules are stern.
On more than one occasion I left the hotel secretly— after having ostensibly retired for the night—and wended my way to Knocknacar. As I passed through the sleeping country I heard the dogs bark in the cottages as I went by, but little other sound I ever heard except the booming of the distant sea. On more than one of these occasions I was drenched with rain—for the weather had now become thoroughly unsettled. But I heeded it not; indeed the physical discomfort—when I felt it— was in some measure an anodyne to the torture of my restless soul.
I always managed to get back before daylight, so as to avoid any questioning. After three or four days, however, the "boots" of the hotel began evidently to notice the state of my clothes and boots, and ventured to speak to me. He cautioned me against going out too much alone at night, as there were two dangers—one from the moonlighters who now and again raided the district, and who, being composed of the scum of the countryside—"corner-boys" and loafers of all kinds—would be only too glad to find an unexpected victim to rob; and the other, lest in wandering about I should get into trouble with the police under suspicion of being one of these very ruffians.
The latter difficulty seemed to me to be even more obnoxious than the former; and to avoid any suspicion I thought it best to make my night wanderings known to all. Accordingly, I asked Mrs. Keating to have some milk and bread and butter left in my room each night, as I would probably require something after my late walk. When she expressed surprise as to my movements, I told her that I was making a study of the beauty of the country by night, and was much interested in moonlight effects. This last was an unhappy setting forth of my desires, for it went round in a whisper amongst the servants and others outside the hotel, until at last it reached the ears of an astute Ulster-born policeman, from whom I was much surprised to receive a visit one morning. I asked him to what the honour was due. His answer spoke for itself:—
"From information received A come to talk till ye regardin' the interest ye, profess to take in moon-lichtin'."
"What on earth do you mean?" I asked.
"A hear ye're a stranger in these parts—an' as ye might take away a wrong impression weth ye—A thenk it ma duty to tell ye that the people round here are nothin' more nor less than leears—an' that ye mustn't believe a sengle word they say."
"Beally," said I, "I am quite in the dark. Do try and explain. Tell me what it is all about."
"Why, A lam that ye're always out at nicht ail over the country, and that ye've openly told people here that ye're interested in moon-lichtin'."
"My dear sir, some one is quite mad! I never said such a thing—indeed, I don't know anything about moon-lighting."
"Then why do ye go out at nicht?"
"Simply to see the country at night—to look at the views—to enjoy effects of moonlight."
"There ye are, ye see—ye enjoy the moonlicht effect."
"Good lord! I mean the view—the purely aesthetic effect—the chiaroscuro—the pretty pictures!"
"Oh, aye! A see now—A ken weel! Then A needn't trouble ye further. But let ma tell ye that it's a dangerous practice to walk out be nicht. There's many a man in these parts watched and laid for. Why in Knockcalltecrore there's one man that's in danger all the time. An' as for ye—why ye'd better be careful that yer nicht wanderins doesn't bring ye ento trouble," and he went away.
At last I got so miserable about my own love affair that I thought I might do a good turn to Dick; and so I determined to try to buy from Murdock his holding on Knockcalltecrore, and then to give it to my friend, as I felt that the possession of the place, with power to re-exchange with Joyce, would in no way militate against his interests with Norah.
"With this object in view I went out one afternoon to Knockcalltecrore, when I knew that Dick had arranged to visit the cutting at Knocknacar. I did not tell anyone where I was going, and took good care that Andy went with Dick. I had acquired a dread of that astute gentleman's inferences.
It was well in the afternoon when I got to Knockcalltecrore. Murdock was out at the edge of the bog making some investigations on his own account with the aid of the magnets. He flew into a great rage when he saw me, and roundly accused me of coming to spy upon him. I disclaimed any such meanness, and told him that he should be ashamed of such a suspicion. It was not my cue to quarrel with him, so I restrained myself as well as I could, and quietly told him that I had come on a matter of business.
He was anxious to get me away from the bog, and took me into the house; here I broached my subject to him, for I knew he was too astute a man for my going round the question to be of any use.
At first my offer was a confirmation of his suspicion of me as a spy; and, indeed, he did not burke this