“Get on, Andy,” said I. “Shut up! you ould corncrake.” I felt I could afford to chaff with him as we were alone.
He grinned, and went away. But he had hardly gone a few steps when he returned and said, with an air of extreme seriousness:—
“As I’m goin’ to Knockcalltecrore, is there any missage I kin take for ye to Miss Norah?”
“Oh, go on!” said I. “What message should I have to send, when I never saw the girl in my life?”
For reply he winked at me with a wink big enough to cover a perch of land, and, looking back over his shoulder so that I could see his grin to the last, he went along the corridor—and I went back to bed.
It did not strike me till a long time afterwards—when I was quite close to Knocknacar—how odd it was that Andy had asked me to give the message to his father. I had not told him I was even coming in the direction—I had not told anyone—indeed, I had rather tried to mislead when I spoke of taking a walk that day, by saying some commonplace about ‘the advisability of breaking new ground’ and so forth. Andy had evidently taken it for granted; and it annoyed me somewhat that he could find me so transparent. However, I gave the message to the old man, to which he promised to attend, and had a drink of milk, which is the hospitality of the west of Ireland farmhouse. Then, in the most nonchalant way I could, I began to saunter up the hill.
I loitered awhile here and there on the way up. I diverted my steps now and then as if to make inquiry into some interesting object. I tapped rocks and turned stones over, to the discomfiture of various swollen pale-coloured worms and nests of creeping things. With the end of my stick I dug up plants, and made here and there unmeaning holes in the ground as though I were actuated by some direct purpose known to myself and not understood of others. In fact I acted as a hypocrite in many harmless and unmeaning ways, and rendered myself generally obnoxious to the fauna and flora of Knocknacar.
As I approached the hill-top my heart beat loudly and fast, and a general supineness took possession of my limbs, and a dimness came over my sight and senses. I had experienced something of the same feeling at other times in my life—as, for instance, just before my first fight when a school boy, and when I stood up to make my maiden speech at the village debating society. Such feelings—or lack of feelings—however, do not kill; and it is the privilege and strength of advancing years to know this fact.
I proceeded up the hill. I did not whistle this time, or hum, or make any noise—matters were far too serious with me for any such levity. I reached the top—and found myself alone! A sense of blank disappointment came over me—which was only relieved when, on looking at my watch, I found that it was as yet still early in the forenoon. It was three o’clock yesterday when I had met—when I had made the ascent.
As I had evidently to while away a considerable time, I determined to make an accurate investigation of the hill of Knocknacar—much, very much fuller than I had made as yet. As my unknown had descended the hill by the east, and would probably make the ascent—if she ascended at all—by the same side; and as it was my object not to alarm her, I determined to confine my investigations to the west side. Accordingly I descended about half way down the slope, and then commenced my prying into the secrets of Nature under a sense of the just execration of me and my efforts on the part of the whole of the animate and inanimate occupants of the mountain side.