“But oh! Arthur, my darling, I shall try—I shall try to be worthy of my great good fortune—and of you!” she said, as she put her arms round my neck, and leaning her head on my bosom, began to cry.
“Hush! Norah. Hush, my darling!” I said, “you must not say such things to me. You, who are worthy of all the good gifts of life. Oh, my dear! my dear! I am only fearful that you may be snatched away from me by some terrible misfortune—I shall not be happy till you are safely away from the shadow of this fateful mountain and are beginning your new life.”
“Only one more day!” she said. “To-morrow we must settle up everything—and I have much to do for father—poor father! how good he is to me. Please God! Arthur, we shall be able some day to repay him for all his goodness to me!” How inexpressibly sweet it was to me to hear her say “we” shall be able, as she nestled up close to me.
Ah! that night! Ah! that night!—the end of the day when, for the last time, I sat on the table-rock with the old Norah that I loved so well. It almost seemed as if Fate, who loves the keen contrasts of glare and gloom, had made on purpose that day so bright, and of such flawless happiness!
As we went back to Carnaclif Dick told me what had been exercising his mind all the afternoon. When he had got to the bog he found that it had risen so much that he thought it well to seek the cause. He had gone at once to the place where Murdock had dammed up the stream that ran over into the Cliff Fields, and had found that the natural position of the ground had so far aided his efforts that the great stones thrown into the chine had become solidified with the rubbish by the new weight of the risen bog into a compact mass, and unless some heroic measure, such as blowing up the dam, should be taken, the bog would continue to rise until it should flow over the lowest part of the solid banks containing it.
“As sure as we are here, Art,” he said, “that man will do himself to death. I am convinced that if the present state of things goes on, with the bog at its present height, and with this terrible rainfall, there will be another shifting of the bog—and then, God help him, and perhaps others too! I told him of the danger, and explained it to him—but he only laughed at me and called me a fool and a traitor—that I was doing it to prevent him getting his treasure—his treasure, forsooth!—and then he went again into those terrible blasphemies—so I came away; but he is a lost man, and I don’t see how we can stop him.” I said earnestly:—
“Dick, there’s no danger to them—the Joyces—is there?”
“No!” he answered, “not the slightest—their house is on the rock, high over the spot, and quite away from any possible danger.”
Then we relapsed into silence, as we each tried to think out a solution.
That night it rained more heavily than ever. The downfall was almost tropical—as it can be on the West Coast—and the rain on the iron roof of the stable behind the hotel sounded like thunder; it was the last thing in my ears before I went to sleep.