Complete Works of Bram Stoker (24 page)

And so we talked  —  talked in simple companionship; and the time fled by on golden wings. No word of love was spoken or even hinted at, but with joyand gratitude unspeakable I began to realise that we were en rapport. And, more than this, I realised that the beautiful peasant girl had great gifts  —  a heart of gold, a sweet, pure nature, and a rare intelligence. I gathered that she had had some education, though not an extensive one, and that she had followed up at home such subjects as she had learned in school. But this was all I gathered. I was still as ignorant as ever of her name, and all else beside, as when I had first heard her sweet voice on the hill-top.

Perhaps I might have learned more had there been time; but the limit of my knowledge had been fixed. The time had fled so quickly, because so happily, that neither of us had taken account of it; and suddenly, as a long red ray struck overthe hill-top from the sun, now preparing for his plunge into the western wave, she jumped to her feet with a startled cry:

“The sunset! What am I thinking of! Good-night! goodnight! No, you must not come  —  it would never do! Goodnight!” And before I could say a word, she was speeding down the eastern slope of the mountain. The revulsion from such a dream of happiness made me for the moment ungrateful; and I felt that it was with an angry sneer on my lip that I muttered, as I looked at her retreating form: “Why are the happy hours so short, while misery and anxiety spread out endlessly?”

But as the red light of the sunset smote my face, a better and a holierfeeling came to me; and there on the top of the hill I knelt and prayed, with a directness and fervor that are the spiritual gifts of youth, that every blessing might light on her  —  the arriere pensee being  —  her, my wife. Slowly I went down the mountain after the sun had set; and when I got to the foot I stood bareheaded for a long time, looking at the summit which had given me so much happiness.

Do not sneer or make light of such moments, ye whose lives are gray. Would to God that the gray-haired and gray- souled watchers of life, could feel such moments once again!

I walked home with rare briskness, but did not feel tired at all by it; I seemed to tread on air. As I drew near the hotel I had some vague idea of hurrying at once to my own room, and avoiding dinner altogether as something too gross and carnal for my present exalted condition; but a moment’s reflection was sufficient to reject any such folly. I therefore achieved the other extreme, and made Mrs. Keating’s kindly face beam by the vehemence with which I demanded food. I found that Dick had not yet returned  —  a fact which did not displease me, as it insured me a temporary exemption from Andy’s ill-timed banter, which I did not feel in a humor to enjoy at present. I was just sitting down to mydinnerwhen Dickarrived. He, too, had a keen appetite; and it was not until we had finished our fish, and were well into our roast duck, that conversation began. Once he was started, Dick was full of matters to tell me. He had seen Moriarty  —  that was what had kept him so late  —  and had got his permission to investigate and experiment on the bog. He had thought out the whole method of work to be pursued, and had, during Murdock’s dinner-time, made to scale a rough diagram for me to work by. We had our cigars lit before he had exhausted himself on this subject. He had asked me a few casual questions about my walk, and, so as not to arouse any suspicions, I had answered him vaguely that I had had a lovely day, had enjoyed myself immensely, and had seen some very pretty things  —  all of which was literally and exactly true. I had then asked him as to how he had got on with his operations in connection with the bog. It amused me to think how small and secondary a place Shleenanaher, and all belonging to it, now had in my thoughts. He told me that they had covered a large portion of the new section of the bog; that there was very little left to do now, in so far as the bog was concerned; and he descanted on the richness and the fine position of Murdock’s new farm. “It makes me angry,” said he, “to think that that human- shaped wolf should get hold of such a lovely spot, and oust such a good fellow as the man whom he has robbed  —  yes, it is robbery, and nothing short of it. I feel something like a criminal myself for working for such a wretch at all.”

“Never mind, old chap,” said I; “you can’t help it. Whatever he may have done wrong, you have had neither act nor part in it. It will all come right in time.” In my present state of mind I could not imagine that there was, or could be, anything in the world that would not come all right in time.

We strolled into the street, and met Andy, who immediately hurried up to me: “Good-evenin’, yer ‘anr’! An’ did ye give me insthructions to me father?” “I did, Andy; and he asked me to tell you that all shall be done exactly as you wish.”

“Thank yer ‘an’r.” He turned away, and my heart rejoiced, for I thought I would be free from his badinage; but he turned and came back, and asked, with a servility which I felt to be hypocritical and assumed:

“Any luck, yer ‘an’r, wid bogs to-day?” I know I got red as I answered him: “Oh, I don’t know  —  yes, a little  —  not much.” “Shure, an’ I’m glad to hear it, surr; but I might have known be the luk iv ye and be yer shtep. Faix, it’s aisy known whin a man has been lucky wid bogs!” The latter sentence was spoken in a pronounced “aside.”

Dick laughed, for although he was not in the secret he could see that there was some fun intended. I did not like his laugh, and said hotly: “I don’t understand you, Andy!” “Is it undershtand me ye don’t do? Well, surr, if I’ve said anythin’ that I shouldn’t, I ax yer pardon. Bogs isn’t to be lightly shpoke iv at all, at all;” then, after a pause: “Poor Miss Norah!” “What do you mean?” said I. “Shure yer ‘an’r, I was only pityin’ the poor crathur. Poor thing! but this’ll be a bitther blow to her intirely!” The villain was so manifestly acting a part, and he grinned at me in such a provoking way, that I got quite annoyed. “Andy, what do you mean?  —  out with it!” I said, hotly. “Mane, yer ‘an’r? Shure nawthin’. All I mane is, poor Miss Norah! Musha! but it’ll be the sore thrial to her. Bad cess to Knocknacar, anyhow!” “This is infernal impertinence! Here  —  ” I was stopped by Dick’s hand on my breast: “Easy, easy, old chap! What is this all about? Don’t get angry, old man. Andy is only joking, whatever it is. I’m not in the secret myself, and so can give no opinion; but there is a joke somewhere. Don’t let it go beyond a joke.” “All right, Dick,” said I, having had time to recover my temper. “The fact is that Andy has started some chaff on me about bogs  —  meaning girls thereby  —  every time he mentions the word to me; and now he seems to accuse me in some way about a girl that came to meet her father that night I left him home at Knockcalltecrore. You know Joyce, that Murdock has ousted from his farm. Now, look here, Andy! You’re a very good fellow, and don’t mean any harm; but I entirely object to the way you’re going on. I don’t mind a button about a joke. I hope I’m not such an ass as to be thin-skinned about a trifle, but it is another matter when you mention a young lady’s name alongside mine. You don’t think of the harm you may do. People are very talkative, and generally get a story the wrong end up. If you mention this girl  —  whatever her name is  —  ” “Poor Miss Norah!” struck in Andy, and then ostentatiously corrected himself  —  ”I big yer’anVs pardon, Miss Norah, I mane.”  —  ”this Miss Norah  —  along with me,” I went on, “and especially in that objectionable form, people may begin to think she is wronged in some way, and you may do heran evil that you couldn’t undo in all your lifetime. As for me, I never even saw the girl. I heard her speak in the dark for about half a minute, but I never set eyes on her in my life. Now, let this be the last of all this nonsense! Don’t worry me any more; but run in and tell Mrs. Keating to give you a skinful of punch, and to chalk it up to me.”

Andy grinned, ducked his head, and made his exit into the house as though propelled or drawn by some unseen agency. When I remarked this to Dick he replied, “Some spirit draws him, I dare say.” Dick had not said a word beyond advising me not to lose my temper. He did not appear to take any notice of my lecture to Andy, and puffed unconcernedly at his cigartill the driver had disappeared. He then took me by the arm, and said:

“Let us stroll a bit up the road.” Arm in arm we passed out of the town and into the silence of the common. The moon was rising, and there was a soft, tender light over everything. Presently, without looking at me, Dick said: “Art, I don’t want to be inquisitive or to press for any confidences, but you and I are too old friends not to be interested in what concerns each other. What did Andy mean? Is there any girl in question?” I was glad to have a friend to whom to open my mind, and without further thought I answered: “There is, Dick.” Dick grasped my arm and looked keenly into my face, and then said: “Art, answer me one question  —  answer me truly, old fellow, by all you hold dear  —  answer me on your honor.”

“I shall, Dick. What is it?” “Is it Norah Joyce?” I had felt some vague alarm from the seriousness of his manner, but his question put me at ease again, and with a high heart, I answered: “No, Dick, it is not.” We strolled on, and after a pause, that seemed a little oppressive to me, he spoke again:

“Andy mentioned a poor ‘Miss Norah’  —  don’t get riled, old man  —  and you both agreed that a certain young lady was the only one alluded to. Are you sure there is no mistake? Is not your young lady called Norah?” This was a difficult question to answer, and made me feel rather awkward. Being awkward, I got a little hot: “Andy’s an infernal fool. What I said to him  —  you heard me  —  ” “Yes; I heard you.”  —  ”was literally and exactly true. I never set eyes on Norah Joyce in my life. The girl I mean  —  the one you mean also  —  was one I saw by chance yesterday  —  and to-day  —  on the top of Knocknacar.” “Who is she?”  —  there was a more joyous sound in Dick’s voice.

“Eh  —  eh,” I stammered; “the fact is, Dick, I don’t know.”

“What is her name?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know her name?”

“No.”

“Where does she come from?” “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about her except this, Dick  —  that I love her with all my heart and soul!” I could not help it  —  I could not account for it  —  but the tears rushed to my eyes, and I had to keep my head turned away from Dick lest he should notice me. He said nothing, and when I had surreptitiously wiped away what I thought were unmanly tears of emotion, I looked round at him. He, too, had his head turned away and, if my eyes did not deceive me, he, too, had some unmanly signs of emotion.

“Dick,” said I. He turned on the instant. We looked in one another’s faces, and the story was all told. We grasped hands warmly.

“We’re both in the same boat, old boy,” said he. “Who is it, Dick?”

“Norah Joyce!”  —  I gave a low whistle.

“But,” he went on, “you are well ahead of me. I have never even exchanged a word with her yet. I have only seen her a couple of times; but the whole world is nothing to me beside her. There, I’ve nothing to tell. Veni, Vidi, Victus sum!  —  I came, I saw, I was conquered. She has beauty enough, and if I’m not an idiot, worth enough to conquer a nation.  —  Now, tell me all about yours.”

“There’s nothing to tell, Dick; as yet I have only exchanged a few words. I shall hope to know more soon.” We walked along in silence, turning our steps back to the hotel.

“I must hurry and finish up my plans to-night so as to be ready for you to-morrow. You won’t look on it as a labor to go to Knocknacar, old chap,” said he, slapping me on the back.

“Nor you to go to Shleenanaher,” said I, as we shook hands and parted for the night. It was quite two hours after this when I began to undress for bed. I suppose the whole truth, however foolish, must be told, but those two hours were mainly spent in trying to compose some suitable verses to my unknown. I had consumed a vast amount of paper  —  consumed literally, for what lover was ever yet content to trust his unsuccessful poetic efforts to the waste basket? and my grate was thickly strewn with filmy ashes. Hitherto the Muse had persistently and successfully evaded me. She did not even grant me a featherfrom her wing, and my “woful ballad made to my mistress’ eyebrow” was among the things that were not. There was a gentle tap at the door. I opened it, and saw Dick with his coat off. He came in. “I thought I would look in, Art, as I saw the light under your door, and knew that you had not gone to bed. I only wanted to tell you this: You don’t know what a relief it is to me to be able to speak of it to any living soul  —  how maddening it is to me to work for that scoundrel Murdock. You can understand now why I flared up at him so suddenly ere yesterday. I have a strong conviction on me that his service is devil’s service as far as my happiness is concerned, and that I shall pay some terrible penalty for it.”

“Nonsense, old fellow,” said I, “Norah only wants to see you to know what a fine fellow you are. You won’t mind my saying it, but you are the class of man that any woman would be proud of!” “Ah! old chap,” he answered sadly, “I’m afraid it will never get that far. There isn’t, so to speak, a fair start for me. She has seen me already  —  worse luck!  —  has seen me doing work which must seem to her to aid in ruining her father. I could not mistake the scornful glance she has thrown on me each time we have met. However, che sara sara! It’s not use fretting beforehand. Goodnight!”

CHAPTER VII

We were all astir shortly after daylight on Monday morning. Dick’s foot was well enough for his walk to Knockcalltecrore, and Andy came with me to Knocknacar, as had been arranged, for I wanted his help in engaging laborers and beginning the work. We got to the sheebeen about nine o’clock, and Andy, having put up the mare, went out to get laborers. As I was morally certain that at that hour in the morning there would be no chance of seeing my unknown on the hill-top, I went at once to the bog, taking my map with me and studying the ground where we were to commence operations. Andyjoined me in about half an hour with five men  —  all he had been able to get in the time. They were fine strapping young fellows and seemed interested in the work, so I thought the contingent would be strong enough. By this time I had the ground marked out according to the plan, and so, without more ado, we commenced work. We had attacked the hill some two hundred feet lower down than the bog, where the land suddenly rose steeply from a wide sloping extent of wilderness of invincible barrenness. It was over this spot that Sutherland hoped ultimately to send the waters of the bog. We began at the foot and made a trench some four feet wide at the bottom, and with sloping walls, so that when we got in so far the drain would be twenty feet deep, the external aperture would measure about twice as much. The soil was heavy and full of moderate-sized bowlders, but was not unworkable, and among us we came to the conclusion that a week of solid work would, bar accidents and our coming across unforeseen difficulties, at any rate break the back of the job. The men worked in sections  —  one marking out the trench by cutting the surface to some foot and a half deep, and the others following in succession. Andy sat on a stone hard by, filled his pipe, and endeavoured in his own cheery way to relieve the monotony of the labor of the others. After about an hour he grew tired and went away  —  perhaps it was that he became interested in a country car, loaded with persons, that came down the road and stopped a few minutes at the sheebeen on its way to join the main road to Carnaclif. Things went steadily on for some time. The men worked well, and I possessed my soul in such patience as I could, and studied the map and the ground most carefully. When dinner-time came the men went off each to his own home, and as soon as the place was free from them I hurried to the top of the mountain. The prospect was the same as yesterday. There was the same stretch of wild moor and rugged coast, of clustering islands and foam-girt rocks, of blue sky laden with such masses of luminous clouds as are only found in Ireland. But all was to me dreary and desolate, for the place was empty and she was not there. I sat down to wait with what patience I could. It was dreary work at best; but at any rate there was hope  —  and its more immediate kinsman, expectation  —  and I waited. Somehow the view seemed to tranquillise me in some degree. It may have been that there was some unconscious working of the mind which told me, in some imperfect way, that in a region quite within my range of vision nothing could long remain hidden or unknown. Perhaps it was the stilly silence of the place. There was hardly a sound  —  the country people were all within doors at dinner, and even the sounds of their toil were lacking. From the west came a very faint breeze, just enough to bring the far-off, eternal roarof the surf. There was scarcely a sign of life. The cattle far below were sheltering under trees, or in the shadows of hedges, or standing still knee-deep in the pools of the shallow streams. The only moving thing which I could see was the car which had left so long before, and was now far off, and was each moment becoming smaller and smaller as it went into the distance.