That was indeed a happy day! We had a family consultation about the school; the time of beginning was arranged, and there was perfect accord amongst us. As Dick and I drove back through the darkness, I could not but feel that, even if evil were looming ahead of us, at least some of us had experienced what it is to be happy.
It had been decided that after a week’s time—on the 28th October—Norah was to leave for school. Her father was to bring her as far as London, and Mr. Chapman was to take her over to Paris. This was Joyce’s own wish; he said:—
“‘Twill be betther for ye, darlin’, to go widout me. Ye’ll have quite enough to do for a bit, to keep even wid the girls that have been reared in betther ways nor you, widout me there to make little iv ye.”
“But, father,” she remonstrated, “I don’t want to appear any different from what I am! And I am too fond of you, and too proud of you, not to want to appear as your daughter.”
Her father stroked her hair gently as he answered:—
“Norah! my darlin’, it isn’t that. Ye’ve always been the good and dutiful daughter to me; an’ in all your pretty life there’s not wan thing I wish undone or unsaid. But I’m older than you, daughter, an’ I know more iv the world; an’ what I say, is best for ye—now, and in yer future. I’m goin’ to live wid Eugene; an’ afther a while I suppose I, too, ’ll be somethin’ different from what I am. An’ thin, whin I’ve lived awhile in a city, and got somethin’ of city ways, I’ll come an’ see ye, maybe. Ye must remimber, that it’s not only of you we’ve to think, but of th’ other girls in the school. I don’t want to have any of them turnin’ up their noses at ye—that’s not the way to get the best out iv school, me dear; for I suppose school is like everywhere else in the world—the higher ye’re able to hould yer head, the more others’ll look up to ye!”
His words were so obviously true, that not one of us had a word to say, and the matter was acquiesced in nem. con. I myself got leave to accompany the party as far as London—but not beyond. It was further arranged that Joyce should take his daughter to Galway, to get some clothes for her—just enough to take her to Paris—and that when in Paris she should have a full outfit under the direction of Madame Lepechaux. They were to leave on Friday, so as to have the Saturday in Galway; and as Norah wanted to say good-bye on the Sunday to old schoolfellows and friends in the convent, they would return on Monday, the 25th October. Accordingly, on the morning after next, Joyce took a letter for me to Mr. Caicy, who was to pay to him whatever portion of the purchase-money of his land he should require, and whom I asked to give all possible assistance in whatever matters either he or Norah might desire. I would have dearly liked to have gone myself with them, but the purpose and the occasion were such that I could not think of offering to go. On the day fixed they left on the long car from Carnaclif. They started in torrents of rain, but were as well wrapped up as the resources of Dick and myself would allow.
When they had gone, Dick and I drove over to Knockcalltecrore. Dick wished to have an interview with Murdock, regarding his giving up possession of the land on the 27th, as arranged.
We left Andy as usual at the foot of the hill, and went up to Murdock’s house. The door was locked; and although we knocked several times, we could get no answer. We came away, therefore, and went up the hill, as Dick wished me to see where, according to old Moynahan, was the last place at which the Frenchmen had been seen. As we went on and turned the brow of the mound, which lay straight up—for the bog-land lay in a curve round its southern side—we saw before us two figures at the edge of the bog. They were those of Murdock and old Moynahan. When we saw who they were, Dick whispered to me:—
“They are at the place to which I changed the mark, but are still on Joyce’s land.”