by Bram Stoker
“Exactly. Now Murdock’s house is as safe as a church. I must look at his new house when I go up to-morrow.” As I really did not care about Murdock’s future, I asked no further questions; so we sat in silence and smoked in the gathering twilight. There was a knock at the door. I called, “Come in.” The door opened slowly, and through a narrow opening Andy’s shock head presented itself.
“Come in, Andy,” said Dick. “Come here and try if you can manage a glass of punch.” “Begor!” was Andy’s sole expression of acquiescence.
The punch was brewed and handed to him. “Is that as good as Widow Kelligan’s?” I asked him.
Andy grinned: “All punch is good, yer ‘an’rs. Here’s both yer good healths, an’ here’s The Girls’ an’” — turning to me, ‘“the Bog.’” He winked, threw up his hand — and put down the empty glass. “Glory be to God!” was his grace after drink. “Well, Andy! what is it?” said Dick. “I’ve heerd,” said he, “that yer ‘an’rs isn’t goin’ in the mornin’ to Shleenanaher, and I thought that yez couldn’t do betther nordhrive over to Knocknacarto-morra an’ spind the day there.”
“And why Knocknacar?” said I. Andy twirled his cap between his hands in a sheepish way. I felt that he was acting a part, but could not see any want of reality. With a little hesitation he said: “I’ve gotherfrom what yer ‘an’rs wor sayin’ on the car this mornin’, that yez is both intherested in bogs, an’ there’s the beautifulest bit iv bog in all the counthry there beyant. An’, moreover, it’s a lovely shpot intirely. If you gintlemin have nothin’ betther to do, ye’d dhrive over there — if ye’d take me advice.” “What kind of bog is it, Andy?” said Dick. “Is there anythin’ peculiar about it. Does it shift?”
Andy grinned a most unaccountable grin. “Begor, it does, surr!” he answered, quickly. “Sure, all bogs does shift!” And he grinned again. “Andy,” said Dick, laughing, “you have some joke in your mind. What is it?” “Oh, sorra wan, surr — ask the masther there.” As it did not need a surgical operation to get the joke intended into the head of a man — of whatever nationality — who understood Andy’s allusion, and as I did not want to explain it, I replied: “Oh, don’t ask me, Andy; I’m no authority on the subject,” and I looked rather angrily at him, when Dick was not looking.
Andy hastened to put matters right; he evidently did not want to lose his day’s hire on the morrow: “Yer ‘an’rs, ye may take me wurrd for it. There’s a bog beyant at Knocknacar which’II intherestyez intirely; I remimber it meself a lot higher up the mountain whin Iwas a spalpeen, an’ it’s been crawlin’ down iver since. It’s a mightyquare shpot, intirely!” This settled the matter, and we arranged forthwith to start early on the following morning for Knocknacar, Andy, before he left, having a nightcap — out of a tumbler. We we re asti r fa i rly ea rly i n the mo rni ng, a nd ha vi ng finished a breakfast sufficiently substantial to tide us over till dinner-time, we started on our journey. The mare was in good condition for work, the road was level and the prospect fine, and altogether we enjoyed our drive immensely. As we looked back we could see Knockcalltecrore rising on the edge of the coast away to our right, and seemingly surrounded by a network of foam- girt islands, for a breeze was blowing freshly from the southwest.
At the foot of the mountain — or, rather, hill — there was a small, clean-looking sheebeen. Here Andy stopped and put up the mare; then he brought us up a narrow lane bounded by thick hedges of wild brier to where we could see the bog which was the object of our visit. Dick’s foot was still painful, so I had to give him an arm, as on yesterday. We crossed over two fields, from which the stones had been collected and placed in heaps. The land was evidently very rocky, for here and there — more especially in the lower part — the gray rock cropped up in places. At the top of the farthest field, Andy pointed out an isolated rock rising sharply from the grass.
“Look there, yer’an’rs; whin I remimber first, that rock was as far aff from the bog as we are now from the boreen; an’ luk at it now: why, the bog is close to it, so it is.” He then turned and looked at a small heap of stones. “Murther! but there is a quare thing. Why that heap, nota yearago, was as high as the top iv that rock. Begor, it’s bein’ buried, it is!” Dick looked quite excited as he turned to me and said:
“Why, Art, old fellow, here is the very thing we were talking about. This bog is an instance of the gradual changing of the locality ofa bog by the filtration of its water through the clay beds resting on the bed-rock. I wonder if the people here will let me make some investigations!
Andy, who owns this land?” “Oh, I can tell yer’an’r that well enough; it’s Mishter Moriartyfrom Knockcalltecrore. Him, surr,” turning to me, “that ye seen at Widda Kelligan’s that night in the shtorm.”
“Does he farm it himself?”
“No, surr — me father rints it. The ould mare was riz on this very shpot.”
“Do you think your father will let me make some investigations here, if I get Mr. Moriarty’s permission also?”
“Throth, an’ he will, surr — wid all the plisure in life — iv coorse,” he added, with native shrewdness, “if there’s no harrum done to his land — or, if there’s harrum done, it’s ped for.”
“All right, Andy,” said I; “I’ll be answerable for that part of it.”
We went straight away with Andy to see the elder Sullivan. We found him in his cabin at the foot of the hill — a hale old man of nearly eighty, with all his senses untouched, and he was all that could be agreeable. I told him who I was, and that I could afford to reimburse him if any damage should be done. Dick explained to him that, so farfrom doing harm, what he would do would probably prevent the spreading of the bog, and would in such case much enhance the value of his holding, and in addition give him the use of a spring on his land. Accordingly we went back to make further investigations. Dick had out his note-book in an instant, and took accurate note of everything; he measured and probed the earth, tapped the rocks with the little geological hammerwhich he always carried, and finally set himself down to make an accurate map of the locality, I acting as his assistant in the measurements. Andy left us for a while, but presently appeared, hot and flushed. As he approached, Dick observed: “Andy has been drinking the health of all his relatives. We must keep him employed here, or we maygeta spill going home.” The object of his solicitude came and sat on a rock beside us, and looked on. Presently he came over, and said to Dick:
“Yer ‘an’r, can I help ye in yer wurrk? Sure, if ye only want wan hand to help ye, mayhap mine id do. An’ thin his ‘an’r here might hop up to the top ivthe mountain; there’s a mighty purty view there intirely, an’ he could enjoy it, though ye can’t get up wid yer lame fut.” “Good idea!” said Dick. “You go up on top, Art. This is very dull work, and Andy can hold the tape for me as well as you or any one else. You can tell me all about it when you come down.”
“Do, yer ‘an’r. Tell him all ye see!” said Andy, as I prepared to ascend. “If ye go up soft be the shady parts, mayhap ye’d shtrike another bit of bog be the way.” I had grown so suspicious of Andy’s double entente, that I looked at him keenly, to see if there was any fresh joke on; but his face was immovably grave, and he was seemingly intent on the steel tape which he was holding.
I proceeded up the mountain. It was a very pleasant one to climb, or rather, to ascend, for it was nearlyall covered with grass. Here and there, on the lower half, were clumps of stunted trees, all warped eastwards by the prevailing westerly wind — alders, mountain-ash, and thorn. Higher up these disappeared, but there was still a pleasant sprinkling of hedge-rows. As the verdure grew on the south side higher than on the north or west, I followed it and drew near the top. As I got closer, I heard some one singing. “By Jove,” said I to myself, “the women of this country have sweet voices!” — indeed, this was by no means the first time I had noticed the fact. I listened, and as I drew nearer to the top of the hill I took care not to make any noise which might disturb the singer. It was an odd sen
sation to stand in the shadow of the hill-top, on that September day, and listen to Ave Maria sung by the unknown voice of an unseen singer.
I made a feeble joke all to myself: “My experience of the girls of the west is that of voxet proeteria nihil” There was an infinity of pathos in the voice — some sweet, sad yearning, as though the earthly spirit was singing with an unearthly voice — and the idea came on me with a sense of conviction that some deep unhappiness underlay that appeal to the Mother of Sorrows. I listened, and somehow felt guilty. It almost seemed that I was profaning some shrine of womanhood, and I took myself to task severely in something of the following strain: “That poor girl has come to this hill-top for solitude. She thinks she is alone with Nature and Nature’s God, and pours forth her soul freely; and you, wretched, tainted man, break in on the sanctity of her solitude — of her prayer. For shame! for shame!” Then — men are all hypocrites — I stole guiltily forward to gain a peep at the singer who thus communed with Nature and Nature’s God, and the sanctity of whose solitude and prayer I was violating.
A tuft of heath grew just at the top; behind this I crouched, and parting its luxuriance looked through.
For my pains I only saw a back, and that back presented in the most ungainly way of which graceful woman is capable. She was seated on the ground, not even raised upon a stone. Her knees were raised to the level of her shoulders, and her outstretched arms confined her legs below the knees — she was, in fact, in much the same attitude as boys are at games of cock-fighting. And yet there was something very touching in the attitude — something of self-oblivion so complete that I felt a renewed feeling of guiltiness as an intruder. Whether her reasons be aesthetic, moral, educational, or disciplinary, no self- respecting woman ever sits in such a manner when a man is by.
The song died away, and then there was a gulp and a low suppressed moan. Her head drooped between her knees, her shoulders shook, and I could see that she was weeping. I wished to get away, but for a few moments I was afraid to stir lest she should hear me. The solitude, now that the vibration of her song had died out of the air, seemed oppressive. In those few seconds a new mood seemed to come over her. She suddenly abandoned her dejected position, and, with the grace and agility of a young fawn, leaped to her feet. I could see that she was tall and exquisitely built, on the slim side — what the French call svelte. With a grace and pathos which were beyond expression she stretched forth her arms towards the sea, as to something that she loved, and then, letting them fall by her side, remained in a kind of waking dream. I slipped away, and when I was well out of sight ran down the hill about a hundred yards, and then commenced the re-ascent, making a fair proportion of noise as I came, now striking at the weeds with my heavy stick, now whistling, and again humming a popular air. When I gained the top of the hill I started as though surprised at seeing anyone, much less a girl, in such a place. I think I acted the part well: again I say that at times the hypocrite in us can be depended upon. She was looking straight towards me, and certainly, so far as I could tell, took me in good faith. I doffed my hat and made some kind of stammering salutation, as one would to a stranger — the stammering not being, of course, in the routine of such occasions, but incidental to the special circumstances. She made me a graceful courtesy and a blush overspread her cheeks. I was afraid to look too hard at her, especially at first, lest I should frighten her away, but I stole a glance towards her at every moment when I could. How lovely she was! I had heard that along the west coast of Ireland there are traces of Spanish blood and Spanish beauty, and here was a living evidence of the truth of the hearsay. Not even at sunset in the parades of Madrid or Seville, could one see more perfect beauty of the Spanish type — beauty perhaps all the more perfect for being tempered with northern calm. As I said, she was tall and beautifully proportioned. Her neck was long and slender, gracefully set in her rounded shoulders, and supporting a beautiful head, borne with the free grace of the lily on its stem. There is nothing in woman more capable of complete beauty than the head, and crowned as this head was with a rich mass of hair as black and as glossy as the raven’s wing, it was a thing to remember. She wore no bonnet, but a gray homespun shawl was thrown loosely over her shoulders; her hair was coiled in one rich mass at the top and back of her head, and fastened with an old- fashioned tortoise-shell comb. Her face was a delicate oval, showing what Rossetti calls “the pure wide curve from ear to chin.” Luxuriant black eyebrows were arched over large black-blue eyes swept by curling lashes of extraordinary length, and showed off the beauty of a rounded, ample forehead — somewhat sunburnt, be it said. The nose was straight and wide between the eyes, with delicate sensitive nostrils; the chin wide and firm, and the mouth full and not small, with lips of scarlet, forming a perfect Cupid’s bow, and just sufficiently open to show two rows of small teeth, regular and white as pearls. Her dress was that of a well-to-do peasant — a sort of body or jacket of printed chintz overa dress or petticoat of homespun of the shade of crimson given by a madder dye. The dress was short, and showed trim ankles in gray homespun with pretty feet in thick, country-made, wide-toed shoes. Her hands were shapely, with long fingers, and were very sunburnt and manifestly used to work. As she stood there, with the western breeze playing with her dress and tossing about the stray ends of her raven tresses, I thought that I had never in my life seen anything so lovely. And yet she was onlya peasant girl, manifestly and unmistakably, and had no pretence of being anything else.
She was evidently as shy as I was, and fora little while we were both silent. As is usual, the woman was the first to recover her self-possession, and while I was torturing my brain in vain for proper words to commence a conversation, she remarked: “What a lovely view there is from here! I suppose, sir, you have never been on the top of this hill before?” “Never,” said I, feeling that I was equivocating if not lying. “I had no idea that there was anything so lovely here.” I meant this to have a double meaning, although I was afraid to make it apparent to her. “Do you often come up here?” I continued.
“Not very often. It is quite a long time since I was here last; but the view seems fairer and dearer to me every time I come.” As she spoke the words, my memory leaped back to that eloquent gesture as she raised her arms. I thought I might as well improve the occasion and lay the foundation for another meeting without giving offence or fright, so I said: “This hill is quite a discovery; and as lam likely to be here in this neighborhood for some time, I dare say I shall often find myself enjoying this lovely view.”
She made no reply or comment whatever to this statement. I looked overthe scene, and it was certainlya fit setting for so lovely a figure; but it was the general beauty of the scene, and not, as had hitherto been the case, one part of it only, that struck myfancy. Away on the edge of the coast-line rose Knockcalltecrore; but it somehow looked lower than before, and less important. The comparative insignificance was, of course, due to the fact that I was regarding it from a superior altitude, but it seemed to me that it was because it did not now seem to interest me so much. That sweet voice through the darkness seemed very far away now; here was a voice as sweet, and in such habitation! The invisible charm with which Shleenanaher had latterly seemed to hold me, or the spell which it had laid upon me, seemed to pass away, and I found myself smiling that I should ever have entertained such an absurd idea.
Youth is not naturally stand off, and before many minutes the two visitors to the hill-top had laid aside reserve and were chatting freely. I had many questions to ask of local matters, for I wanted to find out what I could of my fair companion without seeming to be too inquisitive; but she seemed to fight shy of all such topics, and when we parted my ignorance of her name and surroundings remained as profound as it had been at first. She, however, wanted to know all about London. She knew it only by hearsay; for some of the questions which she asked me were amazingly simple; manifestly she had something of the true peasant belief that London is the only home of luxury, power, and learning. She was so frank, h
owever, and made her queries with such a gentle modesty, that something within my heart seemed to grow and grow; and the conviction was borne upon me that I stood before my fate. Sir Geraint’s ejaculation rose to my lips:
“Here, by God’s rood, is the one maid for me!”
One thing gave me much delight. The sadness seemed to have passed quite away — for the time, at all events. Her eyes, which had at first been glassy with recent tears, were now lit with keenest interest, and she seemed to have enti rely forgotten the cause of her sorrow.
“Good!” thought I to myself, complacently. “At least I have helped to brighten her life, though it be but for one hour.”
Even while I was thinking she rose up suddenly — we had been sitting on a bowlder — ”Goodness! how the time passes!” she said; “I must run home at once.” “Let me see you home,” I said, eagerly. Her great eyes opened, and she said, with a grave simplicity that took me “way down” to use American slang: “Why?”
“Just to see that you get home safely,” I stammered.
She laughed merrily.
“No fearfor me. I’m safer on this mountain than anywhere in the world — almost,” she added, and the grave, sad look stole again over her face. “Well, but I would like to,” I urged. Again she answered, with grave, sweet seriousness:
“Oh no, sir; that would not do. What would folk say to see me walking with a gentleman like you?” The answer was conclusive. I shrugged my shoulders because I was a man, and had a man’s petulance under disappointment; and then I took off my hat and bowed — not ironically, but cheerfully, so as to set her at ease; for I had the good fortune to have been bred a gentleman. My reward came when she held out her hand frankly and said: “Good-bye, sir,” gave a little graceful curtsey, and tripped away over the edge of the hill.