That night again I kept dreaming—dreaming in the same nightmare fashion as before. But although the working of my imagination centred round Knockcalltecrore and all it contained, and although I suffered dismal tortures from the hideous dreams of ruin and disaster which afflicted me, I did not on this occasion arouse the household. In the morning when we met, Dick looked at my pale face and said:—
“Dreaming again, Art! Well, please God, it’s all nearly over now. One more day, and Norah will be away from Knockcalltecrore.”
The thought gave me much relief. The next morning—on Thursday, 28th of October—we should be on our way to Galway en route for London, whilst Dick would receive on my behalf possession of the property which I had purchased from Murdock. Indeed his tenure ended at noon this very day; but we thought it wiser to postpone taking possession until after Norah had left. Although Norah’s departure meant a long absence from the woman I loved, I could not regret it, for it was after all but a long road to the end I wished for. The two years would soon be over. And then!—and then life would begin in real earnest, and along its paths of sorrow as of joy Norah and I should walk with equal steps.
Alas! for dreaming! The dreams of the daylight are often more delusive than even those born of the glamour of moonlight or starlight, or of the pitchy darkness of the night!
It had been arranged that we were not on this day to go over to Knockcalltecrore, as Norah and her father wanted the day together. Miss Joyce, Norah’s aunt, who usually had lived with them, was coming back to look after the house. So after breakfast Dick and I smoked and lounged about, and went over some business matters, and we arranged many things to be done during my absence. The rain still continued to pour down in a perfect deluge—the roadway outside the hotel was running like a river, and the wind swept the rain-clouds so that the drops struck like hail. Every now and again, as the gusts gathered in force, the rain seemed to drive past like a sheet of water; and looking out of the window, we could see dripping men and women trying to make headway against the storm. Dick said to me:—
“If this rain holds on much longer it will be a bad job for Murdock. There is every fear that if the bog should break under the flooding he will suffer at once. What an obstinate fool he is—he won’t take any warning! I almost feel like a criminal in letting him go to his death—ruffian though he is; and yet what can one do? We are all powerless if anything should happen.” After this we were silent. I spoke the next:—
“Tell me, Dick, is there any earthly possibility of any harm coming to Joyce’s house in case the bog should shift again? Is it quite certain that they are all safe?”
“Quite certain, old fellow. You may set your mind at rest on that score. In so far as the bog is concerned, she and her father are in no danger. The only way they could run any risk of danger would be by their going to Murdock’s house, or by being by chance lower down on the hill, and I do not think that such a thing is likely to happen.”
This set my mind more at ease, and while Dick sat down to write some letters I continued to look at the rain.
By-and-by I went down to the tap-room, where there were always a lot of peasants, whose quaint speech amused and interested me. When I came in one of them, whom I recognized as one of our navvies at Knocknacar, was telling something, for the others all stood round him. Andy was the first to see me, and said as I entered:—