Complete Works of Bram Stoker (36 page)

“But I assure you, Art, I am within the truth.” “I know it, Dick; and now I want to come to business.” “Eh! how do you mean?” he said, looking puzzled. Then I told him of the school project, and that I was going to London after another day to arrange it. He was delighted, and quite approved. “It is the wisest thing I ever heard of!” was his comment. “But how do you mean about business?” he asked. “Dick, this has all to be done; and it needs some one to do it. I am not a scientist nor an engineer, and this project wants the aid of both, or of one man who is the two. Will you do it for me  —  and for Norah?” He seemed staggered for a moment, but said heartily:

“That I will; but it will take some time.” “We can do it within two years,” I answered, “and that is the time that Norah will be away. It will help to pass it;” and I sighed.

“A long time, indeed, but oh, what a time, Art! Just fancy what you are waiting for; there need be no unhappy moment, please God, in all those months.” Then I made him a proposition, to which he, saying that myofferwas too good, at first demurred. I reasoned with him, and told him that the amount was little to me, as, thanks to my great aunt, I had more than I ever could use; and that I wanted to make Norah’s country-home a paradise on earth, so far as love and work and the means at command could do it; that it would take up all Dick’s time, and keep him for the whole period from pursuing his studies; and that he would have to be manager as well as engineer, and would have to buy the land for me. I told him also my secret hope that in time he would take all my affairs in hand and manage everything for me. “Buying the land will, I fancy, be easy enough,” he said. “Two of the farms are in the market now, and all round here land is literally going a-begging. However, I shall take the matter in hand at once, and write you to London, in case there should be anything before you get back.” And thus we settled that night that I was, if possible, to buy the whole mountain. Iwrote bythe next post to Mr. Caicy, telling him that I had a project of purchase in hand, and that Mr. Sutherland would do everything for me during myabsence, and that whatever he wished was to be done. I asked him to come over and see Dick before the week was out.

The next day I spoke to Joyce, and asked him if he would care to sell me the lease of the land he now held. He seemed rejoiced at the chance of being able to get away.

“I will go gladly, though, sure enough, I’ll be sad for awhile to lave the shpot where I was born, and where I’ve lived all me life. But whin Norah is gone  —  an’ sure she’ll never be back, for I’m thinkin’ that after her school ye’ll want to get married at once  —  ” “That we shall!” I interrupted. “An’ right enough too. But widout her the place will be that lonesome that I don’t think I could a-bear it! Me sister”II go over to Knocknacar to live wid me married sister there, that’ll be only too happy to have herwith her; and I’ll go over to Glasgow, where Eugene is at work. The boy wants me to come, and whin I wrote and tould him of Norah’s engagement, he wrote at once askin’ me to lave the Hill and come to him. He says that before the year is out he hopes to be able to keep himself  —  and me, too, if we should want it; an’ he wrote such a nice letter to Norah  —  but the girl will like to tell ye about that herself. I can’t sell ye the Cliff Fields meself, for they belong to Norah; but if ye like to ask her I’m sure she’ll make no objection.” “I should be glad to have them,” I said, “but all shall be hers in two years.” And then and there we arranged for the sale of the property. I made Joyce the offer; he accepted at once, but said it was more than it was worth. “No,” said I, “I shall take the chance. I intend to make improvements.” Norah did not make any objection to her father selling the Cliff Fields. She told me that as I wanted to have them, I might, of course; but she hoped I would never sell the spot, as it was very dear to her. I assured her that in this, as in all other matters, I would do as she wished, and we sealed the assurance with  —  never mind; we sealed it. I spent the afternoon there, for it was to be my last afternoon with Norah until I came back from Paris. We went down for a while to the Cliff Fields, and sat on the table rock and talked overall our plans. I told her I had a scheme regarding Knockcalltecrore, but that I did not wish to tell her about it, as it was to be a surprise. It needed a pretty hard struggle to be able to keep her in the dark even to this extent  —  there is nothing more sweet to young lovers than to share a secret. She knew that my wishes were all for her, and was content. When we got back to the cottage I said good-bye. This naturally took some time  —  a first good-bye always does  —  and went home to get my traps packed ready for an early start in the morning, more especially as I wished, when in Galway, to give Mr. Caicy instructions as to transferring the two properties  —  Norah’s and her father’s.

When Dick came home he and I had a long talk on affairs, and I saw that he thoroughly understood all about the purchase of the whole mountain. Then we said goodnight, and I retired. I did not sleep very well. I think I was too happy; and out of the completeness of my happiness there seemed to growa fear  —  some dim, haunting dread of a change  —  something which would reverse the existing order of things. And so in dreams the Drowsy God played at ball with me: now throwing me to a dizzy height of joy, and then, as I fell swiftly through darkness, arresting my flight into the nether gloom with some new sweet hope. It seemed to me that I was awake all the night; and yet I knew I must have slept, for I had distinct recollections of dreams in which all the persons and circumstances lately present to my mind were strangely jumbled together. The jumble was kaleidoscopic; there was an endless succession of its phases, but the pieces all remained the same. There were moments when all seemed aglow with rosy light, and hard on them others horrid with the gloom of despair or fear; but in all the dominating idea was the mountain standing against the sunset, always as the embodiment of the ruling emotion of the scene, and always Norah’s beautiful eyes shone upon me. I seemed to live over again in isolated moments all the past weeks; but in such a way that the legends and myths and stories of Knockcalltecrore which I had heard were embodied in each moment. Thus, Murdock had always a part in the gloomy scenes, and got inextricably mixed up with the King of the Snakes. They freely exchanged personalities, and at one time I could see the Gombeen Man defying St. Patrick, while at another the Serpent seemed to be struggling with Joyce, and, after twisting round the mountain, being only beaten off by a mighty blow from Norah’s father, rushing to the sea through the Shleenanaher. Towards morning, as I suppose the needs of the waking day became more present to my mind in the gradual process of awa keni ng, the bent of my thoug hts bega n to be more practical; the Saint and His Majesty of the Serpents began to disappear, and the two dim cuirassiers, who, with the money-chest, had through the earlier hours of the night been passing farathwart mydreams, appearing and disappearing equally mysteriously, took a more prominent, or, perhaps, a more real part. Then I seemed to see Murdock working in a grave, whose sides were ever crumbling in as he frantically sought the treasure-chest, while the gun-carriage, rank with the slime of the bog, was high above him on the brink of the grave, projected blackly against the yellow moon. Every time this scene in its myriad variations came round, it changed to one where the sides of the grave began to tumble in, and Murdock in terror tried to scream out, but could make no sound, nor could he make any effort to approach Norah, whose strong hands were stretched out to aid him. Withsucha preparation for waking, is it any wonder that I suddenly started broad awake, with a strong sense of something forgotten, and found that it was four o’clock, and time to get ready for my journey? I did not lose anytime, and after a hot cup of tea, which the cheery Mrs. Keating had herself prepared for me, was on my way under Andy’s care to Recess, where we were to meet the “long-car” to Galway.

Andy was, for a wonder, silent, and as I myself felt in a most active frame of mind, this rather gave me an opportunity for some amusement. I waited for a while to see if he would suggest any topic in his usual style; but as there was no sign of a change, I began: “You are very silent to-day, Andy. You are sad. What is it?”

“I’m thinkin’.”

“So I thought, Andy. But who are you thinking of?” “Faix, I’m thinkin’ iv poor Miss Norah there wid ne’er a bhoyon the flure at all, at all; an’ iv the fairy girrul at Knocknacar  —  the poor craythurwaitin’ for some kind iva leprachaun to come back to her. They do say, yer ‘an’r, that the fairies is mighty fond ivthim leprachauns intirely. Musha! but it’s a quare thing that weemen of all natures thinks a power more iv minkind what is hard to be caught nor ivthem thatfollys them an’ is had aisy!”

“Indeed, Andy.” I felt he was getting on dangerous ground, and thought it would be as well to keep him to generalities if I could.

“Shure, they do tell me so; that the girruls, whether fairies orweemin, is more fond iv lukin’ out fur leprachauns, or min, if that’s their kind, than the clargy is iv killin’ the divil  —  an’ they’ve bin at him fur thousands iv years, an’ him not turned a hair.”

“Well, Andy, isn’t it only natural, too? If we look at the girls and make love to them, why shouldn’t they have a turn too, poor things, and make love to us? Now you would like to have a wife, I know; only that you’re too much afraid of any woman.”

“Thrue for ye! But shure an’ how could I go dhrivin’ about the counthry av I had a wife iv me own in wan place? It’s meself that’s welkim everywhere, jist because any wan iv the weemen might fear I’d turn the laugh on her whin I got her home; but a car-dhriver can no more shpake soft to only wan girrul nor he can dhrive his car in his own shanty.”

“Well, but, Andy, what would you do if you were to get married?”

“Faix, surr, an’ the woman must settle that whin she comes. But, begor, it’s not for a poor man like me  —  nor for the likes iv me  —  that the fairies does be keepin’ their eyes out. I tell yer ‘an’r that poor min isn’t iv much account anyhow! Shure, poverty is the worst iv crimes; an’ there’s no hidin’ it like th’ others. Patches is sawa mightyfarway off; and, shure enough, they’re more frightfuller nor even the polis!”

“By George, Andy,” said I, “I’m afraid you’re a cynic.”

“A cynic, surr; an’, faix, what sin am I up to now?”

“You say poverty is a crime.”

“Begor, but it’s worse! Most crimes is forgave afther a bit; an’ the law is done wid ye whin ye’re atin’ yer skilly. But there’s some people  —  aye! an’ lashins ivthim too  —  what’d rather see ye in a good shute iv coffin than in a bad shute iv clothes!”

“Why, Andy, you’re quite a philosopher!”

“Bedad, that’s quare; but whisper me now, surr, what kind iva thing’s that?”

“Well, it’s a very wise man  —  one who loves wisdom.”

“Begor, yer ‘an’r, lovin’ girruls is more in my shtyle; but I thought maybe it was some new kind iva Protestan’.”

“Why a Protestant?”

“Sorra wan iv me knows! I thought maybe they can believe even less nor the ould wans.”

Andy’s method of theological argument was quite too difficult for me, so I was silent; but my companion was not. He, however, evidently felt that theological disquisition was no more his forte than my own, for he instantly changed to another topic:

“I’ll be goin’ back to Knockcalltecrore to-morra, yer ‘an’r. I’ve been tould to call fur Mr. Caicy, th’ attorney  —  savin’ yer prisence  —  to take him back to Carnaclif. Is there any missage ye’d like to send to any wan?” He looked at me so slyly that his meaning was quite obvious. “Thanks, Andy, but I think not, unless you tell Mr. Dick that we have had a pleasant journey this morning.”

“Nothin’ but that?  —  to nobody?” “Who to, for instance, Andy?” “There’s Miss Norah, now. Shure girruls is always fond iv gettin’ missages, an’ most iv all from people what they’re not fond iv!” “Meaning me?” “Oh yis, oh yis, if there’s wan more nor another what she hates the sight iv, it’s yer’an’r. Shure didn’t I notice it in her eye ere yistherday night, beyant at the boreen gate? Faix, but it’s a nice eye Miss Norah has. Now, yer ‘an’r, wouldn’t an eye like that be bettherfora young gintleman to luk into, than the quare eye iv yer fairy girrul  —  the wan that ye wor lukin’ for, an’ didn’t find?” The sly way in which Andy looked at me as he said this was quite indescribable. I have seen sly humor in the looks of children where the transparent simplicity of their purpose was a foil to their manifest intention to pretend to deceive. I have seen the arch glances of pretty young women when their eyes contradicted with resistless force the apparent meaning of their words; but I have never seen any slyness which could rival that of Andy. However, when he had spoken as above, he seemed to have spent the last bolt in his armory; and forthe remainder of the drive to Recess he did not touch again on the topic, or on a kindred one. When Iwas inthe hotel porch waiting the arrival of the long-car, Andy came up to me: “What day will I be in Galway for yer’an’r?” “How do you mean, Andy? I didn’t tell you I was coming back.”

Andy laughed a merry, ringing laugh. “Begor, yer ‘an’r, d’ye think there’s only wan way ivtellin’ things? Musha! butspache’d be a mighty precious kind iv a thing if that was the way.” “But, Andy, is not speech the way to make known what you wish other people to know?” “Ah, go to God! I’d like to know if ye take it for granted whin ask a girrul a question an’ she says ‘no’, that she manes it, or that she intends ayther that ye should think she manes it. Faix, it’d be a harrd wurrld to live in, if that was so; an’ there’d be mightyfewwiddys in it ayther!” “Why widows, Andy?” “Shure, isn’t wives the shtuff that widdys is made iv?”

“Oh, I see. I’m learning, Andy  —  I’m getting on.” “Yis, yer ‘an’r. Ye haven’t got on the long cap now, but I’m afeerd it’s only a leather medal ye’d get as yit. Niver mind, surr! Here’s the long-car comin’; an’ whin ye tellygraph to Misther Dick to sind me over to Galway fur to bring ye back, I’ll luk up Miss Norah an’ ax her to condescind to give ye some lessons in the differ betwixt ‘yes’ an’ ‘no’ as shpoke by girruls. I’m tould now, it’s a mighty intherestin’ kind iva shtudyfora young gintleman.” There was no answering this Parthian shaft. “Good-bye, Andy,” I said, as I left a sovereign in his hand.