Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  But even in the first instant of my awakening I had taken a resolution which forthwith I proceeded to carry into effect. These terrible dreams, whencesoever they came, must not have come in vain; the grim warning must not be despised. Norah was in danger, and I must go to her at all hazards.

  I threw on my clothes and went and woke Dick. When I told him my intention he jumped up at once and began to dress, while I ran down-stairs and found Andy, and set him to get out the car at once. “Is it goin’ out agin in the shtorm ye are? Begor, ye’d not go widout some rayson, an’ I’m not the bhoy to be behind whin ye want me. I’ll be ready, yer’an’r, in two skips iva dead salmon;” and Andy proceeded to make, or rather complete, his toilet, and hurried out to the stable to get the car ready. In the mean time Dick had got two lanterns and a flask, and showed them to me.

  “We may as well have them with us. We do not know what we may want in this storm.”

  It was now past one o’clock, and the night was pitchy dark. The rain still fell, and high overhead we could hear the ceaseless rushing of the wind. It was a lucky thing that both Andy and the mare knew the road thoroughly, for otherwise we never could have got on that night. As it was, we had to go much more slowly than we had ever gone before.

  I was in a perfect fever. Every second’s delay seemed to me like an hour. I feared — nay more, I had a deep conviction — that some dreadful thing was happening, and I had over me a terrible dread that we should arrive too late.

  CHAPTER XVII

  As we drew closer to the mountain, and recognised our whereabouts bythe various landmarks, my dread seemed to grow. The night was now well on, and there were signs of the storm abating; occasionally the wind would fall off a little, and the rain beat with less dreadful violence. In such moments some kind of light would be seen in the sky — or, to speak more correctly, the darkness would be less complete — and then the new squall which followed would seem by contrast with the calm to smite us with renewed violence. In one of these lulls we sawforan instant the mountain rise before us, its bold outline being shown darkly against a sky less black. But the vision was swept away an instant after by a squall and a cloud of blinding rain, leaving onlya dreadful memory of some field forgrim disaster. Then we went on our way even more hopelessly; for earth and sky, which in that brief instant we had been able to distinguish, were now hidden under one unutterable pall of gloom.

  On we went slowly. There was now in the air a thunderous feeling, and we expected each moment to be startled by the lightning’s flash or the roar of heaven’s artillery. Masses of mist or sea-fog now began to be borne landward bythe passing squalls. In the time that elapsed between that one momentary glimpse of Knockcalltecrore and our arrival at the foot of the boreen a whole lifetime seemed to me to have elapsed, and in my thoughts and harrowing anxieties I recalled — as drowning men are said to do before death — every moment, every experience since I had first come within sight of the western sea. The blackness of myfears seemed onlya carrying inward of the surrounding darkness, which was made more pronounced by the flickering of our lanterns, and more dread by the sounds of the tempest with which it was laden. When we stopped in the boreen Dick and I hurried up the Hill, while Andy, with whom we left one of the lanterns, drew the horse underthe comparative shelter of the windswept alders which lined the entrance to the lane. He wanted a short rest before proceeding to Mrs. Kelligan’s, where he was to stop the remainder of the night, so as to be able to come for us in the morning. As we came near Murdock’s cottage Dick pressed my arm.

  “Look!” he called to me, putting his mouth to my ear so that I could hear him, for the storm swept the Hill fiercely here, and a special current of wind came whirling up through the Shleenanaher. “Look! he is up even at this hour.

  There must be some villany afloat!” When we got up a little farther he called to me again in the same way. “The nearest point of the bog is here; let us look at it.” We diverged to the left, and in a few minutes were down at the edge of the bog.

  It seemed to us to be different from what it had been. It was raised considerably above its normal height, and seemed quivering all over in a very strange way. Dick said to me, very gravely: “We are just in time. There’s something going to happen here.”

  “Let us hurry to Joyce’s,” I said, “and see if all is safe there.”

  “We should warn them first at Murdock’s,” he said. “There may not be a moment to lose.” We hurried back to the boreen, and ran on to Murdock’s, opened the gate, and ran up the path. We knocked at the door, but there was no answer. We knocked more loudly still, but there came no reply.

  “We had better make certain,” said Dick; and I could hear him more easily now, for we were in the shelter of the porch. We opened the door, which was only on the latch, and went in. In the kitchen a candle was burning, and the fire on the hearth was blazing, so that it could not have been long since the inmates had left. Dick wrote a line of warning in his pocket-book, tore out the leaf, and placed it on the table where it could not fail to be seen byanyone entering the room. We then hurried out, and up the lane to Joyce’s.

  As we drew near we were surprised to find a light in Joyce’s window also. I got to the windward side of Dick, and shouted to him:

  “A light here also; there must be something strange going on.” We hurried as fast as we could up to the house. As we drew close the door was opened, and through a momentary lull we heard the voice of Miss Joyce, Norah’s aunt:

  “Is that you, Norah?”

  “No,” I answered. “Oh, is it you, Mr. Arthur? Thank God, ye’ve come! I’m in such terror about Phelim and Norah. They’re both out in the shtorm, an’ I’m nigh disthracted about them.” By this time we were in the house, and could hear each other speak, although not too well even here, for again the whole force of the gale struck the front of the house, and the noise was great.

  “Where is Norah? Is she not here?”

  “Oh no, God help us! Wirrastru, wirrastru!” The poor woman was in such a state of agitation and abject terror that it was with some difficulty we could learn from her enough to understand what had occurred. The suspense of trying to get her to speak intelligibly was agonising, for now every moment was precious; but we could not do anything or make any effort whatever until we had learned all that had occurred. At last, however, it was conveyed to us that early in the evening Joyce had gone out to look after the cattle, and had not since returned. Late at night old Moynahan had come to the door half drunk, and had hiccoughed a message that Joyce had met with an accident, and was then in Murdock’s house. He wanted Norah to go to him there, but Norah only was to go and no one else. She had at once suspected that it was some trap of Murdock’s for some evil purpose, but still she thought it better to go, and accordingly called to Turco, the mastiff, to come with her, she remarking to her aunt, “I am safe with him, at any rate.” But Turco did not come. He had been restless and groaning for an hour before, and now on looking for him they had found him dead. This helped to confirm Norah’s suspicions, and the two poor women were in an agony of doubt as to what they should do. While they were discussing the matter Moynahan had returned, this time even drunker than before, and repeated his message, but with evident reluctance. Norah had accordingly set to work to cross-examine him, and after a while he admitted that Joyce was not in Murdock’s house at all — that he had been sent with the message and told when he had delivered it to go away to Mother Kelligan’s, and not to ever tell anything whatever of the night’s proceedings, no matter what might happen or what might be said. When he had admitted this much he had been so overcome with fright at what he had done that he began to cry and moan, and say that Murdock would kill him for telling on him. Norah had told him he could remain in the cottage where he was if he would tell her where her father was, so that she could go to look for him; but that he had sworn most solemnly that he did not know, but that Murdock knew, for he told him that there would be no chance of seeing him at his own house for hours yet
that night. This had determined Norah that she would go out herself, although the storm was raging wildly, to look for herfather. Moynahan, however, would not stay in the cottage, as he said he would be afraid to, unless Joyce himself were there to protect him; for if there were no one but women in the house Murdock would come and murder him and throw his body in the bog, as he had often threatened. So Moynahan had gone out into the night by himself, and Norah had shortly after gone out also, and from that moment she — Miss Joyce — had not set eyes on her, and feared that some harm had happened. This the poor soul told us in such an agony of dread and grief that it was pitiful to hear her, and we could not but forgive the terrible delay. I was myself in deadly fear, for every kind of harrowing possibility rose before me as the tale was told. It was quite evident that Murdock was bent on some desperate scheme of evil; he either intended to murder Norah or to compromise her in some terrible way. I was almost afraid to think of the subject. It was plainto me that by this means he hoped not only to gratify his revenge, but to get some lever to use against us, one and all, so as to secure his efforts in searching for the treasure. In my rage against the cowardly hound I almost lost sight of the need of thankfulness for one great peril avoided.

  However, there was no time at present for further thought — action, prompt and decisive, was vitally necessary. Joyce was absent — we had no clew to where he could be. Norah was alone on the mountain, and with the possibility of Murdock assailing her, for he, too, was abroad, as we knew from the fact of his being away from his house.

  We lost not a moment, but went out again into the storm. We did not, however, take the lantern with us, as we found by experience that its occasional light was in the long-run an evil, as we could not by its light see any distance, and the gray of the coming dawn was beginning to show through the abating storm, with a faint indication that before long we should have some light. We went down the Hill westward until we came near the bog, for we had determined to make a circuit of it as our first piece of exploration, since we thought that here lay the most imminent danger. Then we separated, Dick following the line of the bog downward while I went north, intending to cross at the top and proceed down the farther side. We had agreed on a signal, if such could be heard through the storm, choosing the Australian “coo-ee,” which is the best sound to travel known. I hurried along as fast as I dared, for I was occasionally in utter darkness. Although the morning was coming with promise of light, the sea wind swept inland masses of swiftly-driving mist, which, while they encompassed me, made movement not only difficult and dangerous, but at times almost impossible. The electric feeling in the air had become intensified, and each moment I expected the thunderstorm to burst.

  Every little while I called, “Norah! Norah!” in the vain hope that, while returning from her search for herfather, she might come within the sound of my voice. But no answering sound came back to me, except the fierce roar of the storm, laden with the wild dash of the breakers hurled against the cliffs and the rocks below. Even then, so strangely does the mind work, the words of the old song, “The Pilgrim of Love,” came mechanically to my memory, as though I had called “Orinthia” instead of “Norah”:

  “Till with ‘Orinthia’ all the rocks resound.”

  On, on I went, following the line of the bog, till I had reached the northern point, where the ground rose and began to become solid. I found the bog here so swollen with rain that I had to make a long detour so as to get round to the western side. High up on the Hill there was, I knew, a rough shelter for the cattle; and as it struck me that Joyce might have gone here to look after his stock, and that Norah had gone hither to search for him, I ran up to it. The cattle were there, huddled together in a solid mass behind the sheltering wall of sods and stones. I cried out as loudly as I could from the windward side, so that my voice would carry: “Norah! Norah! Joyce! Joyce! Are you there? Is anyone there?”

  There was a stir among the cattle and one or two low “moos” as they heard the human voice, but no sound from either of those I sought; so I ran down again to the farther side of the bog. I knew now that neither Norah nor her father could be on this point of the Hill, or they would have heard my voice; and as the storm came from the west, I made a zigzag line going east to west as I followed down the bog so that I might have a chance of being heard should there be anyone to hear. When I got near to the entrance to the Cliff Fields I shouted as loudly as I could, “Norah! Norah!” but the wind took my voice away as it would sweep thistles down, and it was as though I made the effort but no voice came, and I felt awfully alone in the midst of a thick pall of mist.

  On, on I went, following the line of the bog. Lower down there was some shelter from the storm, for the great ridge of rocks here rose between me and the sea, and I felt that my voice could be heard farther off. I was sick at heart and chilled with despair, till I felt as if the chill of my soul had extended even to my blood; but on I went with set purpose, the true doggedness of despair.

  As I went I thought I heard a cry through the mist — Norah’s voice. It was but an instant, and I could not be sure whether my ears indeed heard, or if the anguish of my heart had created the phantom of a voice to deceive me. However, be it what it might, it awoke me like a clarion; my heart leaped and the blood surged in my brain till I almost became dizzy. I listened to try if I could distinguish from what direction the voice had come. I waited in agony. Each second seemed a century, and my heart beat like a trip-hammer. Then again I heard the sound — faint, but still clear enough to hear. I shouted with all my power, but once again the roar of the wind overpowered me; however, I ran on towards the voice. There was a sudden lull in the wind — a blaze of lightning lit up the whole scene, and, some fifty yards before me, I saw two figures struggling at the edge of the rocks. In that welcome glance, infinitesimal though it was, I recognised the red petticoat which, in that place and at that time, could be none other than Norah’s. I shouted as I leaped forward; but just then the thunder broke overhead, and in the mighty and prolonged roll every other sound faded into nothingness, as though the thunder-clap had come on a primeval stillness. As I drew near to where I had seen the figures, the thunder rolled away, and through its vanishing sound I heard distinctly Norah’s voice: “Help! help! Arthur! Father! help! help!” Even in that wild moment my heart leaped, that of all names, she called on mine the first. — Whatever men may say, Love and Jealousy are near kinsmen!

  I shouted in return as I ran, but the wind took my voice away; and then I heard her voice again, but fainter than before:

  “Help! Arthur — father! Is there no one to help me now?” And then the lightning flashed again, and in the long jagged flash we saw each other, and I heard her glad cry before the thunder-clap drowned all else. I had seen that her assailant was Murdock, and I rushed at him, but he had seen me too, and before I could lay hands on him he had let her go, and with a mighty oath which the roll of the thunder drowned, he struck her to the earth and ran.

  I raised my poor darling, and, carrying her a little distance, placed her on the edge of the ridge of rocks beside us, for by the light in the sky, which grew paler each second, I saw that a stream of water rising from the bog was flowing towards us. She was unconscious; so I ran to the stream and dipped my hat full of water to bring to revive her. Then I remembered the signal of finding her, and putting my hands to my lips I sounded “coo-ee” once, twice. As I stood I could see Murdock running to his house, for every instant it seemed to grow lighter, and the mist to disperse. The thunder had swept away the rain-clouds, and let in the light of the coming dawn. But even as I stood there — and I had not delayed an unnecessary second — the ground under me seemed to be giving way. There was a strange shudder or shiver below me, and my feet began to sink. With a wild cry — for I felt that the fatal moment had come, that the bog was moving, and had caught me in its toils — I threw myself forward towards the rock. My cry seemed to arouse Norah like the call ofa trumpet. She leaped to herfeet, and in an instant seemed to rea
lise my danger, and rushed towards me. When I saw her coming I shouted to her: “Keep back! keep back.” But she did not pause an instant, and the only words she said were: “lam coming, Arthur, I am coming!”

  Half-way between us there was a flat-topped piece of rock, which raised its head out of the surrounding bog. As she struggled towards it, herfeet began to sink, and a new terror for her was added to my own. But she did not falter a moment, and, as her lighter weight was in herfavor, with a great effort she gained it. In the mean time I struggled forward. There was between me and the rock a clump of furze-bushes; on these I threw myself, and for a second or two they supported me. Then even these began to sink with me, for faster and faster, with each succeeding second, the earth seemed to liquify and melt away. Up to now I had never realised the fear, or even the possibility, of death to myself; hitherto all my fears had been for Norah. But now came to me the bitter pang which must be for each of the children of men on whom Death has laid his icy hand. That this dread moment had come there was no doubt; nothing short of a miracle could save me. No language could describe the awful sensation of that melting away of the solid earth; the most dreadful nightmare would be almost a pleasant memory compared with it.