Complete Works of Bram Stoker (18 page)

An’, sure enough, whin I wint there this mornin’ be appointment, wid the Coadjuthor himself to inthroduce me, though he didn’t know why I wanted the money  —  that was Norah’s idea, and the Mother Superior settled it for her  —  the manager, who is a nice gintleman, tould me at wanst that I might have the money on me own note iv hand. I only gave him a formal writin’, an’ I took away the money. Here it is in me pocket in good notes; they’re wet wid the lake, but, I’m thankful to say, all safe. But it’s too late, God help me!” Here he broke down for a minute, but recovered himself with an effort:

“Anyhow, the bank that thrusted me musn’t be wronged. Back the money goes to Galway as soon as iver I can get it there. If I am a ruined man, I needn’t be a dishonest wan! But poor Norah! God help her! it will break her poor heart.”

There was a spell of silence, only broken by sympathetic moans. The first to speak was the priest: “Phelim Joyce, I told you a while ago, in the midst of your passion, that God knows what he is doin’, and works in his own way. You’re an honest man, Phelim, and God knows it, and, mark me, he won’t let you nor yours suffer. ‘I have been young,’ said the Psalmist, ‘and now am old; and I have not seen the just forsaken, nor his seed seeking bread.’ Think of that, Phelim!  —  may it comfort you and poor Norah. God bless her, but she’s the good girl! You have much to be thankful for, with a daughter like her to comfort you at home and take the place of her poor mother, who was the best of women; and with such a boy as Eugene, winnin’ name and credit, and perhaps fame to come, even in England itself. Thank God for his many mercies, Phelim, and trust him.”

There was a dead silence in the room. The stern man rose, and coming over took the priest’s hand.

“God bless ye, Father!” he said, “it’s the true comforter ye are.”

The scene was a most touching one; I shall never forget it. The worst of the poor man’s trouble seemed now past. He had faced the darkest hour; he had told his trouble, and was now prepared to make the best of everything  —  for the time at least  —  for I could not reconcile to my mind the idea that that proud, stern man, would not take the blow to heart for many a long day, that it might even embitter his life. Old Dan tried comfort in a practical way by thinking of what was to be done. Said he: “Iv course, Phelim, it’s a mighty throuble to give up yer own foine land an’ take Murdock’s bleak shpot instead, but I dare say ye will be able to work it well enough. Tell me, have ye signed away all the land, or only the lower farm? I mane, is the Cliff Fields yours or his?” Here was a gleam of comfort evidently to the poor man.

His face lightened as he replied: “Only the lower farm, thank God! Indeed, I couldn’t part wid the Cliff Fields, for they don’t belong to me  —  they are Norah’s, that her poor mother left her  —  they wor settled on her, whin we married, be her father, and whin he died we got them. But, indeed, I fear they’re but small use by themselves; shure, there’s no wather in them at all, savin’ what runs off me ould land; an’ if we have to carry wather all the way down the hill from  —  from me new land”  —  this was said with a smile, which was a sturdy effort at cheerfulness  —  ”it will be but poor work to raise anythin’ there  —  ayther shtock or craps. No doubt but Murdock will take away the sthrame iv wather that runs there now. He’ll want to get the cliff lands, too, I suppose.”

I ventured to ask a question:

“How do your lands lie compared with Mr. Murdock’s?”

There was a bitterness in his tone as he answered, in true Irish fashion: “Do you mane me ould land, or me new?” “The lands that were  —  that ought still to be yours,” I answered.

He was pleased at the reply, and his face softened as he replied:

“Well, the way of it is this. We two owns the west side of the Hill between us. Murdock’s land  —  I’m spakin’ iv them as they are, till he gets possession iv mine  —  lies at the top iv the Hill; mine lies below. My land is the best bit on the mountain, while the Gombeen’s is poor soil, with only a few good patches here and there. Moreover, there is another thing. There is a bog which is high up the Hill, mostly on his houldin’, but my land is free from bog, except one end of the big bog, an’ a stretch of dry turf, the best in the counthry, an’ wid enough turf to last for a hundhred years, it’s that deep.”

Old Dan joined in:

“Thrue enough! that bog of the Gombeen’s isn’t much use anyhow. It’s rank and rotten wid wather. Whin it made up its mind to sthay, it might have done betther!”

“The bog? Made up its mind to stay! What on earth do you mean?” I asked. I was fairly puzzled.

“Didn’t ye hear talk already,” said Dan, “of the Shiftin’ Bog on the mountain?”

“I did.”

“Well, that’s it. It moved an’ moved an’ moved longer than anywan can remimber. Me grandfather wanst tould me that whin he was a gossoon it wasn’t nigh so big as it was when he tould me. It hasn’t shifted in my time, and I make bould to say that it has made up its mind to settle down where it is. Ye must only make the best of it, Phelim. I dare say ye will turn it to some account.”

“I’ll try what I can do, anyhow. I don’t mane to fould me arms an’ sit down oppawsit me property an’ ate it!” was the brave answer.

For myself, the whole idea was most interesting. I had never before even heard of a shifting bog, and I determined to visit it before I left this part of the country.

By this time the storm was beginning to abate. The rain had ceased, and Andy said we might proceed on our journey. So after a while we were on our way; the wounded man and I sitting on one side of the car, and Andy on the other. The whole company came out to wish us God-speed, and with such comfort as good counsel and good wishes could give we ventured into the inky darkness of the night.

Andy was certainly a born car-driver. Not even the darkness, the comparative strangeness of the road, or the amount of whiskey-punch which he had on board could disturb his driving in the least; he went steadily on. The car rocked and swayed and bumped, for the road was a by one, and in but poor condition; but Andy and the mare went on alike unmoved. Once or twice only, in a journey of some three miles of winding by-lanes, crossed and crossed again by lanes or watercourses, did he ask me the way. I could not tell which was road-way and which water-way, for they were all watercourses at present, and the darkness was profound. Still, both Andy and Joyce seemed to have a sense lacking in myself, for now and again they spoke of things which I could not see at all. As, for instance, when Andy asked: “Do we go up or down where the road branches beyant?” Or again: “I disremimber, but is that Micky Dolan’s ould apple-three, or didn’t he cut it down? an’ is it Tim’s fornent us on the lift?” Presently we turned to the right, and drove up a short avenue towards a house. I knew it to be a house by the light in the windows, for shape it had none. Andy jumped down and knocked, and after a short colloquy, Joyce got down and went into the doctor’s house. I was asked to go too, but thought it better not to, as it would only have disturbed the doctor in his work; and so Andy and I possessed our souls in patience until Joyce came out again, with his arm in a proper splint. And then we resumed our journey through the inky darkness.

However, after a while, either there came more light into the sky, or my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, for I thought that now and again I beheld “men as trees walking.”

Presently something dark and massive seemed outlined in the sky before us  —  a blackness projected on a darkness  —  and, said Andy, turning to me: “That’s Knockcalltecrore; we’re nigh the foot iv it now, and pretty shortly we’ll be at the enthrance iv the boreen, where Misther Joyce’ll git aff.”

We plodded on for a while, and the hill before us seemed to overshadow whatever glimmer of light there was, for the darkness grew more profound than ever; then Andy turned to my companion: “Sure, isn’t that Miss Norah I see sittin’ on the sthile beyant?” I looked eagerly in the direction in which he evidently pointed, but for the life of me I could see nothing. “No, I hope not,” said the father, hastily. “She’s never come out in the shtorm. Yes, It is her; she sees us.” Just then there came a sweet sound down the lane:

“Is that you, father?” “Yes, my child; but I hope you’ve not been out in the shtorm.”

“Only a bit, father; I was anxious about you. Is it all right, father? Did you get what you wanted?” She had jumped off the stile and had drawn nearer to us, and she evidently saw me, and went on in a changed and shyer voice: “Oh, I beg your pardon. I did not see you had a stranger with you.”

This was all bewildering to me. I could hear it all  —  and a sweeter voice I never heard  —  but yet I felt like a blind man, for not a thing could I see, while each of the three others was seemingly as much at ease as in the daylight. “This gentleman has been very kind to me, Norah. He has given me a seat on his car, and indeed he’s come out of his way to lave me here.” I am sure we’re all grateful to you, sir; but, father, where is your horse? Why are you on a car at all? Father, I hope you haven’t met with any accident  —  I have been so fearful for you all the day.” This was spoken in a fainter voice; had my eyes been of service, I was sure I would have seen her grow pale.

“Yes, my darlin’, I got a fall on the Curragh Hill, but I’m all right. Norah dear! Quick, quick! catch her, she’s faintin’!  —  my God! I can’t stir!”

I jumped off the car in the direction of the voice, but my arms sought the empty air. However, I heard Andy’s voice beside me:

“All right; I have her. Hould up, Miss Norah; yer dada’s all right. Don’t ye see him there, sittin’ on me car? All right, sir; she’s a brave girrul! She hasn’t fainted.”

“I am all right,” she murmured, faintly; “but, father, I hope you are not hurt?”

“Only a little, my darlin’  —  just enough for ye to nurse me a while; I dare say a few days will make me all right again. Thank ye, Andy; steady now, till I get down; I’m feelin’ a wee bit stiff.” Andy evidently helped him to the ground. “Good-night, Andy, and good-night you too, sir, and thank you kindly for your goodness to me all this night. I hope I’ll see you again.” He took my hand in his uninjured one, and shook it warmly.

“Good-night,” I said, and “good-bye: I am sure I hope we shall meet again.”

Another hand took mine as he relinquished it  —  a warm, strong one  —  and a sweet voice said, shyly: “Good-night, sir, and thank you for your kindness to father.”

I faltered “Good-night”, as I raised my hat; the aggravation of the darkness at such a moment was more than I could equably bear. We heard them pass up the boreen, and I climbed on the car again.

The night seemed darker than ever as we turned our steps towards Carnaclif, and the journey was the dreariest one I have ever taken. I had only one thought which gave me any pleasure, but that was a pretty constant one through the long miles of damp, sodden road  —  the warm hand and the sweet voice coming out of the darkness, and all in the shadow of that mysterious mountain, which seemed to have become a part of my life. The words of the old story-teller came back to me again and again: “The Hill can hould tight enough! A man has raysons  —  sometimes wan thing and sometimes another  —  but the Hill houlds him all the same!”

And a vague wonder drew upon me as to whether it could ever hold me, and how!

CHAPTER IV

 
Some six weeks elapsed before my visits to Irish friends were completed, and I was about to return home. I had had everywhere a hearty welcome: the best of sport of all kinds, and an appetite beyond all praise, and one pretty well required to tackle with any show of success the excellent food and wine put before me. The West of Ireland not only produces good viands in plenty and of the highest excellence, but there is remaining a keen recollection, accompanied by tangible results, of the days when open house and its hospitable accompaniments made wine- merchants prosperous  —  at the expense of their customers.

In the midst of all my pleasure, however, I could not shake from my mind  —  nor, indeed, did I want to  —  the interest which Shleenanaher and its surroundings had created in me. Nor did the experience of that strange night, with the sweet voice coming through the darkness in the shadow of the Hill, become dim with the passing of the time. When I look back and try to analyse myself and my feelings, with the aid of the knowledge and experience of life received since then, I think that I must have been in love. I do not know if philosophers have ever undertaken to say whether it is possible for a human being to be in love in the abstract  —  whether the something which the heart has a tendency to send forth needs a concrete objective point! It may be so; the swarm of bees goes from the parent hive with only the impulse of going  —  its settling is a matter of chance. At any rate I may say that no philosopher, logician, metaphysician, psychologist, or other thinker, of whatsoever shade of opinion, ever held that a man could be in love with a voice. True that the unknown has a charm  —  omne ignotum pro magnifico. If my heart did not love, at least it had a tendency to worship. Here I am on solid ground; for which of us but can understand the feelings of those men of old in Athens, who devoted their altars “To the Unknown God?” I leave the philosophers to say how far apart, or how near, are love and worship: which is first in historical sequence, which is greatest or most sacred! Being human, I cannot see any grace or beauty in worship without love. However, be the cause what it might, I made up my mind to return home via Carnaclif. To go from Clare to Dublin by way of Galway and Mayo is to challenge opinion as to one’s motive. I did not challenge opinion; I distinctly avoided doing so, and I am inclined to think that there was more of Norah than of Shleenanaher in the cause of my reticence. I could bear to be “chaffed” about a superstitious feeling respecting a mountain, or I could endure the same process regarding a girl of whom I had no high ideal, no sweet illusive memory. I would never complete the argument, even to myself  —  then; later on, the cause or subject of it varied! It was not without a certain conflict of feelings that I approached Carnaclif, even though on this occasion I approached it from the south, whereas on my former visit I had come from the north. I felt that the time went miserably, slowly, and yet nothing would have induced me to admit so much. I almost regretted that I had come, even while I was harrowed with thoughts that I might not be able to arrive at all at Knockcalltecrore. At times I felt as though the whole thing had been a dream; and again as though the romantic nimbus with which imagination had surrounded and hallowed all things must pass away and show that my unknown beings and my facts of delicate fantasy were but stern and vulgar realities. The people at the little hotel made me welcome with the usual effusive hospitable intention of the West. Indeed, I was somewhat nettled at how well they remembered me, as, for instance, when the buxom landlady said: “I’m glad to be able to tell ye, sir, that yer car-man, Andy Sullivan, is here now. He kem with a commercial from Westport to Roundwood, an’ is on his way back, an’ hopin’ for a return job. I think ye’ll be able to make a bargain with him if ye wish.” I made to this kindly speech a hasty, and, I felt, an ill- conditioned reply, to the effect that I was going to stay in the neighborhood for only a few days and would not require the car. I then went to my room and locked my door, muttering a malediction on officious people. I stayed there for some time, until I thought that probably Andy had gone on his way, and then ventured out. I little knew Andy, however. When I came to the hall, the first person that I saw was the cheerful driver, who came forward to welcome me: “Musha! but it’s glad I am to see yer ‘an’r. An’ it’ll be the proud man I’ll be to bhring ye back to Westport wid me.”