Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  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.

  So I sat for quite an hour with my heart half sick with longing, but she never came. Then I thought I heard a step coming up the path at the far side. My heart beat strangely. I sat silent, and did not pretend to hear. She was walking more slowly than usual, and with a firmer tread. She was coming. I heard the steps on the plateau, and a voice came:

  “Och! an’ isn’t it a purty view, yer’an’r?” I leaped to my feet with a feeling that was positively murderous. The revulsion was too great, and I broke into a burst of semi- hysterical laughter. There stood Andy, with ragged red head and sun-scorched face, in his garb of eternal patches, bleached and discolored by sun and rain into a veritable coat of many colours, gazing at the view with a rapt expression, and yet with one eye half closed in a fixed but unmistakable wink, as though taking the whole majesty of nature into his confidence. When he heard my burst of laughter he turned to me quizzically:

  “Musha! but it’s the merry gentleman yer’an’r is this day. Shure, the view here is the laughablest thing I ever see!” and he affected to laugh, but in such a soulless, unspontaneous way that it became a real burlesque. I waited for him to go on. I was naturally very vexed, but I was afraid to say anything lest I might cause him to interfere in this affair — the last thing on earth that I wished for. He did go on — no one ever found Andyabashed or ill at ease:

  “Begor! but yer ‘an’r lepped like a deer when ye heerd me shpake. Did ye think I was goin’ to shoot ye? Faix, an’ I thought that ye wor about to jump from aff iv the mountain into the say, like a shtag.” “Why, what do you know about stags, Andy? There are none inthis part of the country, are there?” Ithought Iwould drag a new subject across his path. The ruse of the red herring drawn across the scent succeeded. “Phwhat do I know iv shtags? Faix, I know this, that there does be plinty in me lard’s demesne beyant at Wistport. Shure, wan iv thim got out last autumn an’ nigh ruined me garden. He kem in at night an’ ate up all me cabbages an’ all the vigitables I’d got. I frightened him away a lot iv times, but he kem back all the same. At last I could shtand him no longer, and I wint meself an’ complained to the lard. He tould me he was very sorryfur the damage he done, ‘an’,’ sez he, ‘Andy, I think he’s a bankrup’,’ sez he, ‘an’ we must take his body.’ ‘How is that, me lard?’ sez I. Sez he, ‘I give him to ye, Andy. Do what ye like wid him.’ An’ wid that I wint home an’ I med a thrap iv a clothes-line wid a loop in it, an’ I put it betune two threes; and, shure enough in the night I got him.”

  “And what did you do with him, Andy?” said I.

  “Faith, surr, I shkinned him and ate him.” He said this just in the same tone in which he would speak of the most ordinary occurrence, leaving the impression on one’s mind that the skinning and eating were matters done at the moment and quite off-hand.

  I fondly hoped that Andy’s mind was now in quite another state from his usual mental condition; but I hardly knew the man yet. He had the true humorist’s persistence, and before I was ready with another intellectual herring he was off on the original track.

  “I thrust I didn’t dishturb yer ‘an’r. I know some gintlemin likes to luk at views and say nothin’. I’m tould that a young gintleman like yer ‘an’r might be up on top iva mountain like this, an’ he’d luk at the view so hard day afther day that he wouldn’t even shpake to a purty girrul — if there was wan forninst him all the time!”

  “Then they lied to you, Andy.” I said this quite decisively.

  “Faix, yer’an’r, an’ it’s glad lam to hear that same, for I wouldn’t like to think that a young gintleman was afraid of a girrul, however purty she might be.” “But, tell me, Andy,” I said, “what idiot could have started such a
n idea? And even if it was told to you, how could you be such a fool as to believe it?” “Me belave it! Surr, I didn’t belave a wurrd iv it — not until I met yer ‘an’r.” His face was quite grave, and I was not sorry to find him in a sober mood, for I wanted to have a serious chat with him. It struck me that he, having relatives at Knocknacar, might be able to give me some information about my unknown. “Until you met me, Andy! Surely I never gave you any ground for holding such a ridiculous idea.” “Begor, yer ‘an’r, but ye did. But p’r’aps I had betther not say a ny mo re — ye r’ a n’ r m i g htn’11 i ke i t.” This both surprised and nettled me, and I was determined now to have it out, so I said, “You quite surprise me, Andy. What have I ever done? Do not be afraid; out with it,” for he kept looking at me in a timorous kind of way. “Well, then, yer ‘an’r, about poor Miss Norah.”

  This was a surprise, but I wanted to know more.

  “Well, Andy, what about her?” “Shure, an’ didn’t you refuse to shpake iv her intirely an’ sot on me fur only mintionin’ her — an’ she wan iv the purtiest girruls in the place?” “My dear Andy,” said I, “I thought I had explained to you last night all about that. I don’t suppose you quite understand; but it might do a girl in her position harm to be spoken about with a — a man like me.”

  “Wid a man like you — an’ for why? Isn’t she as good a girrul as iver broke bread?” “Oh, it’s not that, Andy; people might think harm.”

  “Think harrum! Phwhat harrum, an’ who’d think it?” “Oh, you don’t understand; a man in your position can hardly know.”

  “But, yer ‘an’r, I don’t git comprehindin’. What harrum could there be, an’ who’d think it? The people here is all somethin’ iv me own position — workin’ people — an’ whin they knows a girrul is a good, dacent girrul, why should they think harrum because a nice young gintleman goes out iv his way to shpake to her? Doesn’t he shpake to the quality like himself, an’ no wan thinks any harrum ivayther iv them?”