Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  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.

  “Good-luck, yer ‘an’r; though what’s the use ivwishin’ luck to a man, whin the fairies is wid him?” The last thing I saw was Andy waving his ragged hat as we passed the curve of the road round the lake before Recess was hidden from our view. When I got to Galway I found Mr. Caicy waiting for me. He was most hearty in his welcome, and told me that as there was nearly an hour to wait before the starting of the Dublin express, he had luncheon on the table, and that we could discuss our business over it. We accordingly adjourned to his house, and after explaining to him what I wanted done with regard to the purchase of the property at Knockcalltecrore, I told him that Dick knew all the details, and would talk them over with him when he saw him on the next evening.

  I began my eastward journey with my inner man in a most comfortable condition. Indeed, I concluded that there was no preparation for a journey like a bottle of “Sneyd’s 47” between two. I got to Dublin in time for the night mail, and on the following morning walked into Mr. Chapman’s office at half-past ten o’clock. He had all the necessary information for me; indeed, his zeal and his kindness were such that then and there I opened my heart to him, and was right glad that I had done so when I felt the hearty grasp of his hand as he wished me joy and all good fortune. He was, of course, on the side of prudence. He was my own lawyerand myfather’s friend, and it was right and fitting that he should be. But it was quite evident that in the background of his musty life there was some old romance — musty old attorneys always have romances — so at least say the bo
oks. He entered heartily into my plan, and suggested that, if I chose, he would come with me to see the school and the school-mistress in Paris.

  “It will be better, I am sure,” he said, “to have an old man like myself with you, and who can in our negotiations speak for herfather. Indeed, my dear boy, from being so old a friend of your father’s, and having no children of my own, I have almost come to look on you as my son, so it will not be much of an effort to regard Miss Norah as my daughter. The school-mistress will, in the long-run, be better satisfied with my standing in loco parentis than with yours.” It was a great relief to me to find my way thus smoothed, for I had half expected some objection or remonstrance on his part. His kind offer was, of course, accepted, and the next morning found us in Paris.

  We went to see the school and the school-mistress. All was arranged as we wished. Mr. Chapman did not forget that Norah wished to have all the extra branches of study, or that I wished to add all that could give a charm to her life.

  The school-mistress opened her eyes at the total of Norah’s requirements, which Mr. Chapman summed up as “all extras” — the same including the use of a saddle-horse, and visits to the opera and such performances as should be approved of, under the special care and with the special accompaniment of Madame herself.

  I could see that for the coming year Norah’s lines would lie in pleasant places in so far as Madame Lepecheaux could accomplish it. The date of her coming was to be fixed by letter, and as soon as possible.

  Mr. Chapman had suggested that it might be well to arrange with Madame Lepecheaux that Norah should be able to get what clothes she might require, and such matters as are wanted by young ladies of the position which she was entering. The genial French woman quite entered into the idea, but insisted that the representative of Norah’s father should come with her to the various magasins and himself make arrangements. He could not refuse; and as I was not forbidden bythe unsuspecting lady, I came too.

  These matters took up some time, and it was not until the fifth day after I had left Connemara that we were able to start on our return journey. We left at night, and after our arrival in the early morning, went, as soon as we had breakfasted, to Mr. Chapman’s office to get our letters.

  I found two. The first I took to the window to read, where I was hidden behind a curtain, and where I might kiss it without being seen; for although the writing was strange to me — for I had never seen her handwriting — I knew that it was from Norah.

  Do any of us who arrive at middle life ever attempt to remember our feelings on receiving the first letter from the woman or the man of our love? Can there come across the long expanse of commonplace life, strewn as it is with lost beliefs and shattered hopes, any echo, any after-glow, of that time, any dim recollection of the thrill of pride and joy that flashed through us at such a moment? Can we rouse ourselves from the creeping lethargy of the contented acceptance of things, and feel the generous life-blood flowing through us once again?

  I held Norah’s letter in my hand, and it seemed as though with but one more step I should hold my darling herself in my arms. I opened her letter most carefully; anything that her hands had touched was sacred to me. And then her message — the message of her heart to mine — sent direct and without intermediary, reached me:

  “My dear Arthur, — I hope you had a good journey, and that you enjoyed your trip to Paris. Father and I are both well, and we have had excellent news of Eugene, who has been promoted to more important work. We have seen Mr. Sutherland everyday. He says that everything is going just as you wish it. Mr. Murdock has taken old Bat Moynahan to live with him since you went; they are always together, and Moynahan seems to be always drunk. Father thinks that Mr. Murdock has some purpose on foot, and that it cannot be a good one. We shall all be glad to see you soon again. I am afraid this letter must seem very odd to you; but you know I am not accustomed to writing letters. You must believe one thing: that whatever Isayto you, Ifeeland believe with all my heart. I got your letters, and I cannot tell you what pleasure they gave me, or how I treasure them. Father sends his love and duty. What could I send that words could carry? I may not try yet. Perhaps I shall be more able to do what I wish when I know more.

  Norah.”

  The letter disappointed me. Was any young man ever yet satisfied with written words, when his medium had hitherto been rosy lips, with the added commentary of loving eyes? And yet, when I look back on that letter from a peasant girl, without high education or knowledge of the world, and who had possibly never written a letter before except to her father or brother, or a girl friend, and but few even of these — when I read in every word its simplicity and truth, and recognise the arriere pensee of that simple phrase, “Whatever Isayto you Ifeel and think withall my heart,” Ifind it hard to think thatany other letter that she or anyone else could have written, could have been more suitable, or could have meant more.

  When I had read Norah’s letter over a few times, and feared that Mr. Chapman would take humorous notice of my absorption, I turned to the other letter, which I knew was from Dick. I brought this from the window to the table, beside which I sat to read it, Mr. Chapman being still deep in his own neglected correspondence.

  I need not give his letter in detail. It was long and exhaustive, and told me accurately of every step taken and everything accomplished since I had seen him. Mr. Caicy had made his appearance, as arranged, and the two had talked over and settled affairs. Mr. Caicy had lost no time, and fortune had so favored him that he found that nearly all the tenants on the east side of the hill wished to emigrate, and so were anxious to realise on their holdings. The estate from which they held was in bankruptcy; and as a sale was then being effected, Mr. Caicy had purchased the estate, and then made arrangements for all who wished to purchase to do so on easy terms from me. The net result was, that when certain formalities should be complied with, and certain moneys paid, I should own the whole of Knockcalltecrore and the land immediately adjoining it, together with certain other parcels of land in the neighborhood. There were other matters of interest also in his letter. He told me that Murdock, in order to spite and injure Joyce, had completed the damming up of the stream which ran from his land into the Cliff Fields by blocking with great stones the narrow chine in the rocks through which it fell; that this, coupled with the continuous rains had made the bog rise enormously, and that he feared much there would be some disaster. His fear was increased by what had taken place at Knocknacar. Even here the cuttings had shown some direful effects of the rain; the openings, made with so much trouble, had become choked, and as a consequence the bog had risen again, and had even spread downwards on its original course. Alarmed by these things, Dick had again warned Murdock of the danger in which he stood from the position of his house; and further, from tampering with the solid bounds of the bog itself. Murdock had not taken his warnings in good part — not any better than usual — and the interview had, as usual, ended in a row. Murdock had made the quarrel the occasion of ventilating his grievance against me for buying the whole mountain, for by this time it had leaked out that I was the purchaser. His language, Dick said, was awful. He cursed me and all belonging to me. He cursed Joyce and Norah, and Dick himself, and swore to be revenged on us all, and told Dick that he would balk me of finding the treasure, even if I were to buy up all Ireland, and if he had to peril his soul to forestall me. Dick ended his description of his proceedings characteristically: “In fact, he grew so violent, and said such insulting things of you and others, that I had to give him a good sound thrashing.” “Others” — that meant Norah, of course — good old Dick! It was just as well for Mr. Murdock’s physical comfort, and forthe peace of the neighborhood, that I did not meet him then and there; for, under these favoring conditions, there would have been a continuance of his experiences under the hands of Dick Sutherland. Then Dick went on to tell me at greater length what Norah had conveyed in her letter — that, since I had left, Murdock had taken Bat Moynahan to live with him, and kept h
im continually drunk; that the two of them were evidently trying to locate the whereabouts of the treasure; and that, whenever they thought they were not watched, they trespassed on Joyce’s land, to get near a certain part of the bog.

  “I mean to watch them the first dark night,” wrote Dick, at the close of his letter; “for I cannot help thinking that there is some devilment on foot. I don’t suppose you care much for the treasure — you’ve got a bigger treasure from Knockcalltecrore than ever was hidden in it by men — but, all the same, it is yours after Murdock’s time is up; and, as the guardian of your interest, Ifeel thatlhavea right to do whatever may be necessary to protect you. I have seen, at times, Murdock give such a look at Moynahan out of the corners of his eyes — when he thought no one was looking — that, upon my soul, I am afraid he means — if he gets the chance — to murder the old man, after he has pumped him of all he knows. I don’t want to accuse a man of such an intention, without being able to prove it, and of course have said nothing to a soul; but I shall be really more comfortable in my mind when the man has gone away.” Bythe time I had finished the letter, Mr. Chapman had run through his correspondence — vacation business was not much in his way — and we discussed affairs. The settlement of matters connected with my estate, and the purchase of Knockcalltecrore, together with the making of certain purchases — including a ring for Norah — kept me a few days in London; but at length all was complete, and I started on my trip to the west of Ireland.

  Before leaving, I wrote to Norah that I would be at Knockcalltecrore on the morning of the 20th of October; and also to Dick, asking him to see that Andy was sent to meet me at Galway on the morning of the 19th, for I preferred rather to have the drive in solitude than to be subjected to the interruptions of chance fellow-passengers.