Chapter 13: Murdock’s Wooing

I think it was a real pleasure to Dick to get Norah’s message that he was expected to tea that evening. Like the rest of his sex, he was not quite free from vanity; for when I told him, his first act was to look down at himself ruefully, and his first words were:—

“But I say, old lad! look at the mess I’m in; and these clothes are not much, anyhow.”

“Never mind, Dick, you are as good as I am.”

“Oh, well!” he laughed, “if you’ll do, I suppose I needn’t mind. We’re both pretty untidy. No, begad,” he added, looking me all over, “you’re not out of the perpendicular with regard to cleanliness, anyhow. I say, Art! who’s been tidying you up? Oh! I see! Forgive me, old lad; and quite natural, too! Miss Joyce should see you blush, Art! Why, you are as rosy as a girl!”

“Call her ‘Norah,’ Dick! it is more natural, and I am sure she will like it better. She is to look on you as a brother, you know!”

“All right, Art,” he answered heartily, “but you must manage it for me, for I think I should be alarmed to do so unless I got a lead; but it will come easy enough after the first go off. Remember, we both always thought of her as ‘Norah!’”

We went down towards the brook and met with Andy, who had the car all ready for us.

“Begor yer ‘an’rs,” said he, “I thought yez was lost intirely, or that the fairies had carried yez off; both iv yez this time.”—This with a sly look at me, followed by a portentous wink to Dick. “An’ I’m thinkin’ it’s about time fur somethin’ to ate. Begor! but me stummick is cryin’ out that me throat is cut!”

“You’re quite right, Andy, as to the fact,” said Dick, “but you are a little antecedent.”

“An’ now what’s that, surr? Begor! I niver was called that name afore. Shure, an’ I always thry to be dacent—divvle a man but can tell ye that! Antidacent indeed! Well now! what nixt?”

“It means, Andy, that we are going to be carried off by the fairies, and to have some supper with them too; and that you are to take this half-crown, and go over to Mother Kelligan’s, and get her to try to dissipate that unnatural suspicion of capital offence wreaked on your thoracic region. Here, catch! and see how soon you can be off!”

“Hurroo! Begor, yer ‘an’r, it’s the larned gintleman y’ are! Musha! but ye ought to be a councillor intirely! Gee-up! ye ould corncrake!” and Andy was off at full speed.

When we had got rid of him, Dick and I went down to the brook, and made ourselves look as tidy as we could. At least Dick did; for, as to myself, I purposely disarranged my hair—unknown to Dick—in the hope that Norah would take me in hand again, and that I might once more experience the delicious sensation of a toilet aided by her sweet fingers.

Young men’s ideas, however, are very crude; no one who knew either the Sex or the World would have fallen into such an absurd hope. When I came in with Dick, Norah—in spite of some marked hints, privately and secretly given to her—did not make either the slightest remark on my appearance, or the faintest suggestion as to improving it.

She had not been idle in the afternoon. The room, which was always tidy, was as prettily arranged as the materials would allow. There were some flowers, and flag-leaves, and grasses tastefully placed about; and on the table, in a tumbler, was a bunch of scarlet poppies. The tablecloth, although of coarse material, was as white as snow, and the plates and cups, of common white and blue, were all that was required.

When Joyce came in from his bedroom, where he had been tidying himself, he looked so manly and handsome in his dark frieze coat with horn buttons, his wide unstarched shirt-collar, striped waistcoat, and cord breeches, with grey stockings, that I felt quite proud of him. There was a natural grace and dignity about him which suited him so well, that I had no wish to see him other than a peasant. He became the station, and there was no pretence. He made a rough kind of apology to us both:—

“I fear ye’ll find things a bit rough, compared with what you’re accustomed to, but I know ye’ll not mind. We have hardly got settled down here yit; and me sisther, who always lives with us, is away with me other sisther that is sick, so Norah has to fare by herself; but gentlemen both—you, Mr. Sutherland; and you, Arthur—you’re welcome!

We sat down to table, and Norah insisted on doing all the attendance herself. I wanted to help her, and, when she was taking up a plate of cakes from the hearth, stooped beside her and said:—

“May not I help, Norah? Do let me!”

“No—no, dear,” she whispered. “Don’t ask me now—I’m a little strange yet—another time. You’ll be very good, won’t you, and help me not to feel awkward?”

Needless to say I sat at table for the rest of the meal, and feasted my eyes on my darling, whilst in common with the others I enjoyed the good things placed before us. But when she saw that I looked too long and too lovingly, she gave me such an imploring glance from her eloquent eyes, that for the remainder of the time I restrained both the ardour of my glance and its quantity within modest bounds.

Oh! but she was fair and sweet to look upon! Her dark hair was plainly combed back, and coiled modestly round her lovely head. She had on her red petticoat and chintz body, that she knew I admired so much; and on her breast she wore a great scarlet poppy, whose splendid colour suited well her dark and noble beauty. At the earliest opportunity, when tea was over, I whispered to her:—

“My darling, how well the poppy suits you. How beautiful you are. You are like the Goddess of Sleep!” She put her finger to her lips with a happy smile, as though to forbid me to pay compliments—before others. I suppose the woman has never yet been born—and never shall be—who would not like to hear her praises from the man she loves.

I had eaten potato-cakes before, but never such as Norah had made for us; possibly they seemed so good to me because I knew that her hands had made them. The honey, too, was the nicest I had tasted—for it was made by Norah’s bees. The butter was perfect—for it was the work of her hands!

I do not think that a happier party ever assembled round a tea-table. Joyce was now quite reconciled to the loss of his daughter, and was beaming all over; and Dick’s loyal nature had its own reward, for he too was happy in the happiness of those he loved—or else I was, and am, the most obtuse fool, and he the most consummate actor, that has been. As for Norah and myself, I know we were happy—as happy as it is given to mortals to be.