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Chapter 11 — “Un Mauvais Quart d’Heure”

      When we were strolling back to the hotel Dick said to me:

      “Cheer up, old fellow! You needn’t be the least bit downhearted. Go soon and see Joyce. He will not stand in the girl’s way, you may be sure. He is a good fellow, and loves Norah dearly — who could help it?”

      He stopped for a moment here, and choked a great sob, but went on bravely:

      “It is only like her to be willing to sacrifice her own happiness; but she must not be let do that. Settle the matter soon. Go to-morrow to see Joyce. I shall go up to Knocknacar instead of working with Murdock; it will leave the coast clear for you.” Then we went into the hotel, and I felt as if a great weight had been removed.

      When I was undressing I heard a knock. “Come in,” I called, and Dick entered. Dear old fellow! I could see that he had been wrestling with himself, and had won. His eyes were red, but there was a noble manliness about him which was beyond description.

      “Art,” said he, “I wanted to tell you something, and I thought it ought to be told now. I wouldn’t like the night to close on any wrong impression between you and me. I hope you feel that my suspicion about fair play and the rest of it is all gone.”

      “I do, old fellow, quite.”

      “Well, you are not to get thinking of me as in anyway wronged in the matter, either by accident or design. I have been going over the whole matter to try and get the heart of the mystery; and I think it only fair to say that no wrong could be done to me. I never spoke a single word to Norah in my life, nor did she to me. Indeed, I have seen her but seldom, though the first time was enough to finish me. Thank God, we have found out the true state of affairs before it was too late. It might have been worse, old lad, it might have been worse! I don’t think there’s any record — even in the novels — of a man’s life being wrecked over a girl he didn’t know. We don’t get hit to death at sight, old boy. It’s only skin-deep this time, and though skin-deep hurts the most, it doesn’t kill. I thought I would tell you what I had worked out, for I knew we were such old friends that it would worry you and mar your happiness to think I was wretched. I hope, and I honestly expect, that by to-morrow I shall be all right, and able to enjoy the sight of both your happiness — as, please God, I hope such is to be.”

      We wrung each other’s hands, and I believe that from that moment we were closer friends than ever. As he was going out, Dick turned to me, and said:

      “It is odd about the legend, isn’t it? The Snake is in the Hill still, if I am not mistaken. He told me all about your visits and the sale of the land to you, in order to make mischief. But his time is coming; St. Patrick will lift that crozier of his before long.”

      “But the Hill holds us all,” said I; and as I spoke there was an ominous feeling over me. “We’re not through yet; but it will be all right now.”

      The last thing I saw was a smile on his face as he closed the door.

      The next morning Dick started for Knocknacar. It had been arranged the night before that he should go on Andy’s car, as I preferred walking to Shleenanaher. I had more than one reason for so doing, but that which I kept in the foreground of my own mind — and which I almost persuaded myself was the chief, if not the only reason — was that I did not wish to be troubled with Andy’s curiosity and impertinent badinage. My real and secret reason, however, was that I wished to be alone so that I might collect my thoughts, and acquire courage for what the French call un mauvais quart d’heure.

      In all classes of life, and under all conditions, this is an ordeal eminently to be dreaded by young men. No amount of reason is of the least avail to them; there is some horrible, lurking, unknown possibility which may defeat all their hopes, and may, in addition, add the flaming aggravation of making them appear ridiculous. I summed up my own merits, and, not being a fool, found considerable ground for hope. I was young, not bad-looking, Norah loved me; I had no great bogie of a past secret or misdeed to make me feel sufficiently guilty to fear a just punishment falling upon me; and, considering all things, I was in a social position and of wealth beyond the dreams of a peasant — howsoever ambitious for his daughter he might be.

      And yet I walked along those miles of road that day with my heart perpetually sinking into my boots, and harassed with a vague dread which made me feel at times an almost irresistible inclination to run away. I can only compare my feelings, when I drew in sight of the hill-top, with those which animate the mind of a young child when coming in sight of the sea in order to be dipped for the first time.

      There is, however, in man some wholesome fear of running away, which at times either takes the place of resolution, or else initiates the mechanical action of guiding his feet in the right direction — of prompting his speech and regulating his movements. Otherwise no young man, or very few at least, would ever face the ordeal of asking the consent of the parents of his inamorata. Such a fear stood to me now; and with a seeming boldness I approached Joyce’s house. When I came to the gate I saw him in the field not far off, and went up to speak to him.

      Even at that moment, when the dread of my soul was greatest, I could not but recall an interview which I had had with Andy that morning, and which was not of my seeking, but of his.

      After breakfast I had been in my room, making myself as smart as I could, for, of course, I hoped to see Norah, when I heard a knock at the door, timid but hurried. When I called to “come in,” Andy’s head appeared; and then his whole body was by some mysterious wriggle conveyed through the partial opening of the door. When within, he closed it, and, putting a finger to his lip, said, in a mysterious whisper:

      “Masther Art!”

      “Well, Andy, what is it?”

      “Whisper me now! Shure, I don’t want to see yer ‘an’r so onasy in yer mind.”

      I guessed what was coming, so interrupted him, for I was determined to get even with him.

      “Now, Andy, if you have any nonsense about your ‘Miss Norah,’ I don’t want to hear it.”

      “Whisht, surr; let me shpake. I mustn’t kape Misther Dick waitin’. Now take me advice, an’ take a luk out to Shleenanaher. Ye may see some wan there what ye don’t ixpect.” This was said with a sly mysteriousness impossible to describe.

      “No, no, Andy,” said I, looking as sad as I could. “I can see no one there that I don’t expect.”

      “They do say, surr, that the fairies does take quare shapes; and your fairy girrul may have gone to Shleenanaher. Fairies may want to take the wather like mortials.”

      “Take the water, Andy! What do you mean?”

      “What do I mane! why what the quality does call say-bathin’. An’, maybe, the fairy girrul has gone too!”

      “Ah, no, Andy,” said I, in as melancholy a way as I could, “my fairy girl is gone. I shall never see her again.”

      Andy looked at me very keenly; and then a twinkle came in his eye, and he said, slapping his thigh:

      “Begor, but I believe yer ‘an’r is cured. Ye used to be that melancholy that, bedad, it’s meself what was gettin’ sarious about ye; an’ now it’s only narvous ye are. Well, if the fairy is gone, why not see Miss Norah? Sure wan sight iv her’d cure all the fairy spells what iverwas cast. Go now, yer ‘an’r, an’ see her this day!”

      I said with decision:

      “No, Andy, I will not go to-day to see Miss Norah. I have something else to do.”

      “Oh, very well!” said he with simulated despondency. “If yer ‘an’r won’t, of course ye won’t; but ye’re wrong. At any rate, if ye’re in the direction iv Shleenanaher, will ye go an’ see th’ ould man? Musha, but I’m thinkin’ it’s glad he’d be to see yer ‘an’r.”

      Despite all