by Bram Stoker
“What did ye sign, Phelim?”
“There wor two papers. Wan was a writin’ iv some kind, that in considheration iv the money lent an’ his own land - which I was to take over if the money wasn’t paid at the time appointed - he was to get me lease from me: an’ the other was a power of attorney to Enther Judgment for the amount if the money wasn’t paid at the right time. I thought I was all safe as I could repay him in the time named, an’ if the worst kem to the worst I might borry the money from some wan else - for the lease is worth the sum tin times over - an’ repay him. Well! what’s the use of lookin’ back, anyhow! I signed the papers - that was a year ago, an’ one week. An’ a week ago the time was up!” He gulped down a sob, and went on:-
“Well! ye all know the year gone has been a terrible bad wan, an’ as for me it was all I could do to hould on - to make up the money was impossible. Thrue the lad cost me next to nothin’, for he arned his keep be exthra work, an’ the girl, Norah, kem home from school and laboured wid me, an’ we saved every penny we could. But it was all no use! - we couldn’t get the money together anyhow. Thin we had the misfortin wid the cattle that ye all know of; an’ three horses, that I sould in Dublin, up an’ died before the time I guaranteed them free from sickness” Here Andy struck in:-
“Thrue for ye! Sure there was some dhreadful disordher in Dublin among the horse cattle, intirely; an’ even Misther Docther Perfesshinal Ferguson himself couldn’t git undher it!” Joyce went on:-
“An’ as the time grew nigh I began to fear, but Murdock came down to see me whin I was alone, an’ tould me not to throuble about the money an’ not to mind about the sheriff, for he had to give him notice. ‘An’,’ says he, ‘I wouldn’t, if I was you, tell Norah anythin’ about it, for it might frighten the girl - for weemin is apt to take to heart things like that that’s only small things to min like us.’ An’ so, God forgive me, I believed him; an’ I niver tould me child anything about it - even whin I got the notice from the sheriff. An’ whin the Notice tellin’ of the sale was posted up on me land, I tuk it down meself so that the poor child wouldn’t be frightened - God help me!” He broke down for a bit, but then went on:-
“But somehow I wasn’t asy in me mind, an’ whin the time iv the sale dhrew nigh I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer, an’ I tould Norah. That was only yisterday, and look at me to-day! Norah agreed wid me that we shouldn’t trust the Gombeen, an’ she sent me off to the Galway Bank to borry the money. She said I was an honest man an’ farmed me own land, and that the bank might lind the money on it. An’ sure enough whin I wint there this mornin’ be appointment, wid the Coadjuthor himself to inthroduce me, though he didn’t know why I wanted the money - that was Norah’s idea, and the Mother Superior settled it for her - the manager, who is a nice gintleman, tould me at wanst that I might have the money on me own note iv hand. I only gave him a formal writin’, an’ I took away the money. Here it is in me pocket in good notes; they’re wet wid the lake but I’m thankful to say all safe. But it’s too late, God help me!” Here he broke down for a minute, but recovered himself with an effort:-
“Anyhow the bank that thrusted me musn’t be wronged. Back the money goes to Galway as soon as iver I can get it there. If I am a ruined man I need’nt be a dishonest wan! But poor Norah! God help her! it will break her poor heart.”
There was a spell of silence only broken by sympathetic moans. The first to speak was the priest.
“Phelim Joyce, I told you a while ago, in the midst of your passion, that God knows what He is doin’, and works in His own way. You’re an honest man, Phelim, and God knows it, and, mark me, He won’t let you nor yours suffer. ‘I have been young,’ said the Psalmist, ‘and now am old; and I have not seen the just forsaken, nor his seed seeking bread.’ Think of that, Phelim! - may it comfort you and poor Norah. God bless her! but she’s the good girl. You have much to be thankful for, with a daughter like her to comfort you at home and take the place of her poor mother, who was the best of women; and with such a boy as Eugene, winnin’ name and credit, and perhaps fame to come, even in England itself. Thank God for His many mercies, Phelim, and trust Him.”
There was a dead slience in the room. The stern man rose, and coming over took the priest’s hand.
“God bless ye, Father!” he said, “it’s the true comforter ye are.”
The scene was a most touching one; I shall never forget it. The worst of the poor man’s trouble seemed now past. He had faced the darkest hour; he had told his trouble, and was now prepared to make the best of everything - for the time at least - for I could not reconcile to my mind the idea that that proud, stern man, would not take the blow to heart for many a long day, that it might even embitter his life.
Old Dan tried comfort in a practical way by thinking of what was to be done. Said he:-
“Iv course, Phelim, it’s a mighty throuble to give up yer own foine land an’ take Murdock’s bleak shpot instead, but I daresay ye will be able to work it well enough. Tell me, have ye signed away all the land, or only the lower farm? I mane, is the Cliff Fields yours or his?”
Here was a gleam of comfort evidently to the poor man. His face lightened as he replied:-
“Only the lower farm, thank God! Indeed, I couldn’t part wid the Cliff Fields, for they don’t belong to me - they are Norah’s, that her poor mother left her - they wor settled on her, whin we married, be her father, and whin he died we got them. But, indeed, I fear they’re but small use be themselves; shure there’s no wather in them at all, savin’ what runs off me ould land; an’ if we have to carry wather all the way down the hill from - from me new land” - this was said with a smile, which was a sturdy effort at cheerfulness - “it will be but poor work to raise anythin’ there - ayther shtock or craps. No doubt but Murdock will take away the sthrame iv wather that runs there now. He’ll want to get the cliff lands, too, I suppose.”
I ventured to ask a question:-
“How do your lands lie compared with Mr. Murdock’s?”
There was bitterness in’ his tone as he answered, in true Irish fashion:
“Do you mane me ould land, or me new?”
“The lands that were - that ought still to be yours,” I answered.
He was pleased at the reply, and his face softened as he replied:-
“Well, the way of it is this. We two owns the West side of the hill between us. Murdock’s land - I’m spakin’ iv them as they are, till he gets possession iv mine - lies at the top iv the hill; mine lies below. My land is the best bit on the mountain, while the Gombeen’s is poor soil, with only a few good patches here and there. Moreover, there is another thing. There is a bog which is high up the hill, mostly on his houldin’, but my land is free from bog, except one end of the big bog, an’ a stretch of dry turf, the best in the counthry, an’ wid’ enough turf to last for a hundhred years, it’s that deep.”
Old Dan joined in:-
“Thrue enough! that bog of the Gombeen’s isn’t much use anyhow. It’s rank and rotten wid wather. Whin it made up its mind to sthay, it might have done betther!”
“The bog? Made up its mind to stay! What on earth do you mean?” I asked. I was fairly puzzled.
“Didn’t ye hear talk already,” said Dan, “of the shiftin’ bog on the mountain?”
“I did.”
“Well, that’s it! It moved an’ moved an’ moved longer than anywan can remimber. Me grandfather wanst tould me that whin he was a gossoon it wasn’t nigh so big as it was when he tould me. It hasn’t shifted in my time, and I make bould to say that it has made up its mind to settle down where it is. Ye must only make the best of it, Phelim. I daresay ye will turn it to some account.”
“I’ll try what I can do, anyhow. I don’t mane to fould me arms an’ sit down op-pawsit me property an’ ate it!” was the brave answer.
For myself, the whole idea was most interesting. I had never before even heard of a shifting bog, and I determined to visit it before I left this part of the country.
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br /> By this time the storm was beginning to abate. The rain had ceased, and Andy said we might proceed on our journey. So after a while we were on our way; the wounded man and I sitting on one side of the car, and Andy on the other. The whole company came out to wish us God-speed, and with such comfort as good counsel and good wishes could give we ventured into the inky darkness of the night.
Andy was certainly a born car-driver. Not even the darkness, the comparative strangeness of the road, or the amount of whisky-punch which he had on board could disturb his driving in the least; he went steadily on. The car rocked and swayed and bumped, for the road was a bye one, and in but poor condition - but Andy and the mare went on alike unmoved. Once or twice only, in a journey of some three miles of winding bye-lanes, crossed and crossed again by lanes or water-courses, did he ask the way. I could not tell which was road-way and which water-way, for they were all water-courses at present, and the darkness was profound. Still, both Andy and Joyce seemed to have a sense lacking in myself, for now and again they spoke of things which I could not see at all. As, for instance, when Andy asked:-
“Do we go up or down where the road branches beyant?” Or again: “I disremimber, but is that Micky Dolan’s ould apple three, or didn’t he cut it down? an’ is it Tim’s fornent us on the lift?”
Presently we turned to the right, and drove up a short avenue towards a house. I knew it to be a house by the light in the windows, for shape it had none. Andy jumped down and knocked, and after a short colloquy, Joyce got down and went into the Doctor’s house. I was asked to go too, but thought it better not to, as it would only have disturbed the Doctor in his work; and so Andy and I possessed our souls in patience until Joyce came out again, with his arm in a proper splint. And then we resumed our journey through the inky darkness.
However, after a while either there came more light into the sky, or my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, for I thought that now and again I beheld “men as trees walking.”
Presently something dark and massive seemed outlined in the sky before us - a blackness projected on a darkness - and, said Andy, turning to me:-
“That’s Knockcalltecrore; we’re nigh the foot iv it now, and pretty shortly we’ll be at the enthrance iv the boreen, where Misther Joyce’ll git aff.”
We plodded on for a while, and the hill before us seemed to overshadow whatever glimmer of light there was, for the darkness grew more profound than ever; then Andy turned to my companion:-
“Sure, isn’t that Miss Norah I see sittin’ on the sthyle beyant?” I looked eagerly in the direction in which he evidently pointed, but for the life of me I could see nothing.
“No! I hope not,” said the father, hastily. “She’s never come out in the shtorm. Yes! It is her, she sees us.”
Just then there came a sweet sound down the lane:-
“Is that you, father?”
“Yes! my child; but I hope you’ve not been out in the shtorm.”
“Only a bit, father; I was anxious about you. Is it all right, father; did you get what you wanted?” She had jumped off the stile and had drawn nearer to us, and she evidently saw me, and went on in a changed and shyer voice:-
“Oh! I beg your pardon, I did not see you had a stranger with you.”
This was all bewildering to me; I could hear it all - and a sweeter voice I never heard - but yet I felt like a blind man, for not a thing could I see, whilst each of the three others was seemingly as much at ease as in the daylight.
“This gentleman has been very kind to me, Norah. He has given me a seat on his car, and indeed he’s come out of his way to lave me here.”
“I am sure we’re all grateful to you, sir; but, father where is your horse? Why are you on a car at all? Father, I hope you haven’t met with any accident - I have been so fearful for you all the day.” This was spoken in a fainter voice; had my eyes been of service, I was sure I would have seen her grow pale.
“Yes, my darlin’, I got a fall on the Curragh Hill, but I’m all right. Norah dear! Quick, quick! catch her, she’s faintin’! - my God! I can’t stir!”
I jumped off the car in the direction of the voice, but my arms sought the empty air. However, I heard Andy’s voice beside me:-
“All right! I have her. Hould up, Miss Norah; yer dada’s all right, don’t ye see him there, sittin’ on me car. All right, sir, she’s a brave girrul! she hasn’t fainted.”
“I am all right,” she murmured faintly; “but, father, I hope you are not hurt?”
“Only a little, my darlin’, just enough for ye to nurse me a while; I daresay a few days will make me all right again. Thank ye, Andy; steady now, till I get down; I’m feelin’ a wee bit stiff.” Andy evidently helped him to the ground.
“Good night, Andy, and good night you too, sir, and thank you kindly for your goodness to me all this night. I hope I’ll see you again.” He took my hand in his uninjured one, and shook it warmly.
“Good night,” I said, and “good-bye: I am sure I hope we shall meet again.”
Another hand took mine as he relinquished it - a warm, strong one - and a sweet voice said, shyly:-
“Good night, sir, and thank you for your kindness to father.”
I faltered “Good night,” as I raised my hat; the aggravation of the darkness at such a moment was more than I could equably bear. We heard them pass up the boreen, and I climbed on the car again.
The night seemed darker than ever as we turned our steps towards Carnaclif, and the journey was the dreariest one I had ever taken. I had only one thought which gave me any pleasure, but that was a pretty constant one through the long miles of damp, sodden road - the warm hand and the sweet voice coming out of the darkness, and all in the shadow of that mysterious mountain, which seemed to have become a part of my life. The words of the old story-teller came back to me again and again:-
“The Hill can hould tight enough! A man has raysons - sometimes wan thing and sometimes another - but the Hill houlds him all the same!”
And a vague wonder grew upon me as to whether it could ever hold me, and how!
GREATER LOVE
We was just standin’ here at about eleven in the evenin’, an’ the moon was beginnin’ to rise. We could see the little patch of light growin’ bigger an’ bigger, just as it is now, an’ we knew that before many moments the light would be up over the sea. My back was to the sea, an’ Bill was leanin’ agin’ the handrail, just like you now.
It ain’t much, sir, after all; leastwise to you; but it was, aye, an’ it is, a deal to me, for it has all my life in it, such as it is. There’s a deal of poetry an’ story-tellin’ in books; but, Lor’ bless ye, if ye could see the heart right through of even such men as me, you’d have no need o’ books when you wanted poetry and romance. I often think that them chaps in them don’t feel a bit more nor we do when things is happenin’; it’s only when they’re written down that they become heroes an’ martyrs, an’ suchlike. Why, Bill was as big a hero as any of them. I often wished as how I could write, that I might tell all about him.
Howsumdever, if I can’t write, I can talk, an’ if you’re not in a hurry, an’ll wait till I tell you all, I’ll be proud. It does me good to talk about Bill.
Well, when I turned round an’ faced Bill I see his eyes with the light in ‘em, an’ they was glistenin’. Bill gives a big gulp, an’ says to me:
“Joe, the world’s a big place, big enough for you an’ me to live in without quarrelin’. An’, mayhap, the same God as made one woman would make another, an’ we might both live an’ be happy. You an’ me has been comrades for long, an’ God knows that, next to Mary, I’d be sad to see you die, so whatever comes, we won’t quarrel or think hard of one another, sure we won’t, Joe.”
He put out his hand, an’ I took it sudden. We held hands for a long time. I thought he was in low spirits, and I wished to cheer him, so I says:
“Why, Bill, who talks o’ dyin’ that’s as hearty as we?”
He shook his head sadly, an�
�� says he:
“Joe, I don’t vally my life at a pin’s head, an’ I ain’t afraid to die. For her sake or for yours - aye, even for her pleasure - I’d - No matter. Just see if I turn coward if I ever get the chance to do her a service.”
Well, we stood there for a long time. Neither of us said a word, for I didn’t like to speak, although I would several times have liked to ask him a question. An’ then I gave up wishin’ to speak, an’ began to think, like him.
I thought of all the time Bill an’ me had been friends an’ comrades, an’ how fond we were both of Mary, an’ she of us. Ye see, when we was all children, the little thing took such a fancy for both of us that we couldn’t help likin’ her for it, and so we became, in course of time, like big brothers to her. She would come down on the shore with Bill an’ me an’ sit quiet all the day an’ never say a word or do anything to annoy us or put us out. Sometimes we’d go out sailin’, an’ then she would come an’ sit beside whoever was steerin’ till he’d ask her to come up an’ sit on his knee. Then she’d put up her little arms round his neck an’ kiss him, an’ would stay as quiet as a mouse till she’d have to change her place. That was the way, sir, that we both came to be so fond of her.
