Complete Works of Bram Stoker (23 page)

“Just to see that you get home safely,” I stammered.

She laughed merrily.

“No fearfor me. I’m safer on this mountain than anywhere in the world  —  almost,” she added, and the grave, sad look stole again over her face. “Well, but I would like to,” I urged. Again she answered, with grave, sweet seriousness:

“Oh no, sir; that would not do. What would folk say to see me walking with a gentleman like you?” The answer was conclusive. I shrugged my shoulders because I was a man, and had a man’s petulance under disappointment; and then I took off my hat and bowed  —  not ironically, but cheerfully, so as to set her at ease; for I had the good fortune to have been bred a gentleman. My reward came when she held out her hand frankly and said: “Good-bye, sir,” gave a little graceful curtsey, and tripped away over the edge of the hill.

I stood bareheaded looking at her until she disappeared. Then Iwentto the edge of the little plateau and looked over the distant prospect of land and sea, with a heart so full that the tears rushed to my eyes. There are those who hold that any good emotion is an act of prayer. If this be so, then on that wild mountain-top as fervent a prayer as the heart of man is capable of went up to the Giver of all good things! When Ireached the foot of the mountain Ifound Dick and Andy waiting for me at the sheebeen. As I came close Dick called out: “What a time you were, old chap. I thought you had taken root on the hill-top! What on earth kept you?” “The view from the top is lovely beyond compare,” I said, as an evasive reply. “Is what ye see there more lovelier nor what ye see at Shleenanaher?” said Andy, with seeming gravity. “Far more so!” I replied instantly and with decision. “I told yer ‘an’r there was somethin’ worth lukin’ at,” said he. “An’ may I ask if yer ‘an’r seen any bog on the mountain?”

I looked at him with a smile. I seemed to rather like his chaff now. “Begor I did, yer’an’r,” I answered, mimicking his accent.

We had proceeded on our way for a long distance, Andy apparently quite occupied with his driving, Dick studying his note-book, and I quite content with my thoughts, when Andy said, apropos of nothing and looking at nobody:

“I seen a young girrul comin’ down the hill beyant a wee while before yer’an’r. I hope she didn’t disturb any iv yez?” The question passed unnoticed, for Dick apparently did not hear, and I did not feel called upon to answer it. I could not have truthfully replied with a simple negative or positive.

CHAPTER VI

 
The next day Sutherland would have to resume his work with Murdock, but on his newly-acquired land. I could think of his visit to Knockcalltecrore without a twinge of jealousy; and, for my own part, I contemplated a walk in a different direction. Dick was full of his experiment regarding the bog at Knocknacar, and could talk of nothing else  —  a disposition of things which suited me all to nothing, for I had only to acquiesce in all he said, and let my own thoughts have free and pleasant range.

“I have everything cut and dry in my head, and I’ll have it all on paper before I sleep to-night,” said the enthusiast. “Unfortunately, I am tied for a while longer to the amiable Mr. Murdock; but since you’re good enough, old fellow, to offer to stay to look after the cutting, I can see my way to getting along. We can’t begin until the day after to-morrow, for I can’t byany possibility get old Moriarty’s permission before that. But then we’ll start in earnest. You must get some men up there and set them to work at once. By tomorrow evening I’ll have an exact map ready for you to work by, and all you will have to do will be to see that the men are kept up to the mark, look at the work now and then and take a note of results. I expect it will take quite a week or two to make the preliminarydrainage, forwe must have a decided fall for the water. We can’t depend on less than twenty or thirty feet, and I should not be surprised if we want twice as much. I suppose I sha’n’t see you till to-morrow night; for I’m going up to my room now, and shall work late, and I must be off early in the morning. As you’re going to have a walk I suppose I may take Andy, for my foot is not right yet?” “By all means,” I replied, and we bade each other goodnight.

When I went to my own room I locked the door and looked out of the open window at the fair prospect bathed in soft moonlight. For a long time I stood there. What my thoughts were I need tell no young man or young woman, for without shame I admitted to myself that I was over head and ears in love. If any young person of either sex requires any further enlightenment, well, then, all I can say is that their education in life has been shamefully neglected, or their opportunities have been scant; or, worse still, some very grave omission has been made in their equipment for the understanding of life. If any one not young wants such enlightenment, I simply say, “Sir, or madam, either you are a fool, or your memory is gone!”

One thing I will say, that I never felt so much at one with my kind; and before going to bed I sat down and wrote a letter of instructions to my agent, directing him to make accurate personal inquiries all overthe estate, and at the forthcoming rent-day make such remissions of rent that would relieve any trouble, or aid in any plan of improvements such as his kinder nature could guess at or suggest.

I need not say that for a long time I did not sleep, and although my thoughts were full of such hope and happiness that the darkness seemed ever changing into sunshine, there were, at times, such harrowing thoughts of difficulties to come  —  in the shape of previous attachments; of my being late in my endeavours to win her as my wife; of my never being able to find her again  —  that, now and again, I had to jump from my bed and pace the floor. Towards daylight I slept, and went through a series of dreams of alternating joyand pain. At first, hope held full sway, and my sweet experience of the day became renewed and multiplied; again, I climbed the hill and saw her and heard her voice; again, the tearful look faded from her eyes; again, I held her hand in mine and bade good-bye, and a thousand happy fancies filled me with exquisite joy. Then doubts began to come. I saw her once more on the hill-top, but she was looking out for some other than myself, and a shadow of disappointment passed over her sweet face when she recognised me. Again, I saw myself kneeling at herfeetand imploring her love, while only cold, hard looks were my lot; or I found myself climbing the hill, but never able to reach the top, or on reaching it finding it empty. Then I would find myself hurrying through all sorts of difficult places  —  high, bleak mountains, and lonely wind-swept strands, dark paths through gloomy forests, and over sun- smitten plains, looking for her whom I had lost, and in vain trying to call her, for I could not remember her name. This last nightmare was quite a possibility, for I had never heard it.

I awoke many times from such dreams in an agony of fear; but after a time both pleasure and pain seemed to have had their share of my sleep, and I slept the dreamless sleep that Plato eulogises in the “Apologia Socratis.” I was awakened to a sense that my hour of rising had not yet come by a knocking at my door. I opened it, and on the landing without saw Andy standing, cap in hand. “Holloa, Andy!” I said. “What on earth do you want?” “Yer’an’r’II parden me, but I’mjistoffwid Misther Sutherland; an’ as I undherstand ye was goin’ for a walk, I made bould t’ ask yer ‘an’r if ye’ll give a missage to me father?”

“Certainly, Andy, with pleasure.” “Maybe ye’d tell him that I’d like the white mare tuk off the grashan’ gave some hard ‘atin’ for a few days, as I’ll want her brung into Wistport before long.” “All right, Andy. Is that all?” “That’s all, yer ‘an’r.” Then he added, with a sly look at me:

“Maybe ye’ll keep yer eye out for a nice bit o’ bog as ye go along.”

“Get on, Andy,” said I. “Shut up, you ould corn-crake!” I felt I could afford to chaff with him, as we were alone. He grinned, and went away. But he had hardly gone a few steps when he returned and said, with an airof extreme seriousness:

“As I’m goin’ to Knockcalltecrore, is there any missage I kin take for ye to Miss Norah?” “Oh, go on!” said I. “What message should I have to send, when I never saw the girl in my life?” For reply he winked at me with a wink big enough to cover a perch of land, and, looking back over his shoulder so that I could see his grin to the last, he went along the corridor, and I went back to bed. It did not strike me till a long time afterwards  —  when I was quite close to Knocknacar  —  how odd it was that Andy had asked me to give the message to his father. I had not told him I was even coming in the direction  —  I had not told anyone; indeed, I had rather tried to mislead when I spoke of taking a walk that day, by saying some commonplace about “the advisability of breaking new ground,” and so forth. Andy had evidently taken itforgranted; and it annoyed me somewhat that he could find me so transparent. However, I gave the message to the old man, to which he promised to attend, and had a drink of milk, which is the hospitality of the West of Ireland farmhouse. Then, in the most nonchalant way I could, I began to saunter up the hill.

I loitered awhile here and there on the way up. I diverted my steps nowand then as if to make inquiry into some interesting object. I tapped rocks and turned stones over, to the discomfiture of various swollen pale-colored worms and nests of creeping things. With the end of my stick I dug up plants, and made here and there unmeaning holes in the ground, as though I were actuated by some direct purpose known to myself and not understood of others. In fact, I acted as a hypocrite in many harmless and unmeaning ways, and rendered myself generally obnoxious to the fauna and flora of Knocknacar.

As I approached the hill-top my heart beat loudly and fast, and a genuine supineness took possession of my limbs, and a dimness came over my sight and senses. I had experienced something of the same feeling at other times in my life  —  as, for instance, just before my first fight when a school-boy, and when I stood up to make my maiden speech at the village debating society. Such feelings  —  or lack of feelings  —  however, do not kill; and it is the privilege and strength of advancing years to know this fact.

I proceeded up the hill. I did not whistle this time, or hum, or make any noise; matters were far too serious with me for any such levity. I reached the top, and found myself alone! A sense of blank disappointment came over me, which was only relieved when, on looking at my watch, I found that it was as yet still early in the forenoon. It was three o’clock yesterday when I had met  —  when I had made the ascent.

As I had evidently to while awaya considerable time, I determined to make an accurate investigation of the hill of Knocknacar  —  much, very much, fuller than I had made as yet. As my unknown had descended the hill by the east, and would probably make the ascent  —  if she ascended at all  —  by the same side; and as it was my object not to alarm her, I determined to confine my investigations to the west side. Accordingly, I descended about half way down the slope, and then commenced my prying into the secrets of Nature under a sense of the just execration of me and my efforts on the part of the whole of the animate and inanimate occupants of the mountain-side.

Hours to me had never seemed of the same inexhaustible proportions as the hours thus spent. At first I was strong with a dogged patience; but this in time gave way to an impatient eagerness that merged into a despairing irritability. More than once I felt an almost irresistible inclination to rush to the top of the hill and shout, or conceived an equally foolish idea to make a call at every house, cottage, and cabin in the neighborhood. In this latter desire my impatience was somewhat held in check by a sense of the ludicrous; for, as I thought of the detail of the doing it, I seemed to see myself, when trying to reduce my abstract longing to a concrete effort, meeting only jeers and laughter from both men and women in my seemingly asinine effort to make inquiries regarding a person whose name even I did not know, and for what purpose I could assign no sensible reason. I verily believe I must have counted the leaves of grass on portions of that mountain. Unfortunately, hunger or thirst did not assail me, for they would have afforded some diversion to my thoughts. I sturdily stuck to my resolution not to ascend to the top until after three o’clock, and I gave myself much kudos for the stern manner in which I adhered to my resolve. My satisfaction at so bravely adhering to my resolution, in spite of so much mental torment and temptation, may be imagined when, at the expiration of the appointed time, on ascending to the hill-top, I saw my beautiful friend sitting on the edge of the plateau and heard her first remark after our mutual salutations: “I have been here nearly two hours, and amjust going home! I have been wondering and wondering what on earth you were working at all over the hill-side! May I ask, are you a botanist?”

“No.” “Or a geologist?”

“No.” “Or a naturalist?” “No.”

There she stopped; this simple interrogation as to the pursuits of a stranger evidently struck her as unmaidenly, for she blushed and turned away. I did not know what to say; but youth has its own wisdom  —  which is sincerity  —  and I blurted out: “In reality I was doing nothing; I was only trying to pass the time.”

There was a query in the glance of the glorious blue- black eyes and in the lifting of the ebon lashes; and I went on, conscious as I proceeded that the ground before me was marked “Dangerous”: “The fact is, I did not want to come up here till after three, and the time seemed precious long, I can tell you.” “Indeed. But you have missed the best part of the view. Between one and two o’clock, when the sun strikes in between the islands  —  Cusheen there to the right, and Mishear  —  the view is the finest of the whole day.” “Oh, yes,” I answered, “I know now what I have missed.”

Perhaps my voice betrayed me. I certainly felt full of bitter regret; but there was no possibility of mistaking the smile which rose to her eyes and faded into the blush that followed the reception of the thought.

There are some things which a woman cannot misunderstand or fail to understand; and surely my regret and its cause were within the category. It thrilled through me with a sweet intoxication, to realise that she was not displeased. Man is predatory even in his affections, and there is some conscious power to him which follows the conviction that the danger of him  —  which is his intention  —  is recognised. However, I thought it best to be prudent, and to rest on success  —  for a while, at least. I therefore commenced to talk of London, whose wonders were but fresh to myself, and was rewarded by the bright smile that had now become incorporated with my dreams by day and by night.