Читать книгу Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels - A to Z Classics - Страница 22

With renewed hope I set out in the morning for Knocknacar.

It is one of the many privileges of youth that a few hours’ sleep will change the darkest aspect of the entire universe to one of the rosiest tint. Since the previous evening, sleeping and waking, my mind had been framing reasons and excuses for the absence of It was a perpetual grief to me that I did not even know her name. The journey to the mountain seemed longer than usual; but, even at the time, this seemed to me only natural under the circumstances.

Andy was to-day seemingly saturated or overwhelmed with a superstitious gravity. Without laying any personal basis for his remarks, but accepting as a stand-point his own remark of the previous evening concerning my having seen a fairy, he proceeded to develop his fears on the subject. I will do him the justice to say that his knowledge of folk-lore was immense, and that nothing but a gigantic memory for detail, cultivated to the full, or else an equally stupendous imagination working on the facts that momentarily came before his view, could have enabled him to keep up such a flow of narrative and legend. The general result to me was, that if I had been inclined to believe such matters I would have remained under the impression that, although the whole seaboard, with adjacent mountains, from Westport to Galway, was in a state of plethora as regards uncanny existences, Knocknacar, as a habitat for such, easily bore off the palm. Indeed, that remarkable mountain must have been a solid mass of gnomes, fairies, pixies, leprachauns, and all genii, species and varieties of the same. No Chicago grain elevator in the early days of a wheat corner could have been more solidly packed. It would seem that so many inhabitants had been allured by fairies, and consequently had mysteriously disappeared, that this method of minimisation of the census must have formed a distinct drain on the local population, which, by the way, did not seem to be excessive.

I reserved to myself the right of interrogating Andy on this subject later in the day, if, unhappily, there should be any opportunity. Now that we had drawn near the hill, my fears began to return.

While Andy stabled the mare I went to the cutting and found the men already at work. During the night there had evidently been a considerable drainage from the cutting, not from the bog, but entirely local. This was now Friday morning, and I thought that if equal progress were made in the two days, it would be quite necessary that Dick should see the working on Sunday, and advise before proceeding further.

As I knew that gossip and the requirements of his horse would keep Andy away for a while, I determined to take advantage of his absence to run up to the top of the hill, just to make sure that no one was there. It did not take long to get up, but when I arrived there was no reward, except in the shape of a very magnificent view. The weather was evidently changing, for great clouds seemed to gather from the west and south, and faraway over the distant rim of the horizon the sky was as dark as night. Still, the clouds were not hurrying as before a storm, and the gloom did not seem to have come shoreward as yet; it was rather a presage of prolonged bad weather than bad itself. I did not remain long, as I wished to escape Andy’s scrutiny. Indeed, as I descended the hill I began to think that Andy had become like the “Old Man of the Sea,” and that my own experience seemed likely to rival that of Sindbad.

When I arrived at the cutting I found Andy already seated, enjoying his pipe. When he saw me he looked up with a grin, and said audibly:

“The Good People don’t seem to be workin’ so ‘arly in the mornin’. Here he is safe an’ sound among us.”

That was a very long day. Whenever I thought I could do so, without attracting too much attention, I strolled to the top of the hill, but only to suffer a new disappointment.

At dinner-time I went up and sat all the time. I was bitterly disappointed, and also began to be seriously alarmed. I seemed to have lost my Unknown.

When the men got back to their work, and I saw Andy beginning to climb the hill in an artless, purposeless manner, I thought I would kill two birds with one stone, and, while avoiding my incubus, make some inquiries. As I could easily see from the top of the hill, there were only a few houses all told in the little hamlet; and including those most isolated, there were not twenty in all. Of these I had been in the sheebeen and in old Sullivan’s, so that a stroll of an hour or two, properly organised, would cover the whole ground; and so I set out on my task to try and get some sight or report of my unknown. I knew I could always get an opportunity of opening conversation by asking for a light for my cigar.

It was a profitless task. Two hours after I had started I returned to the top of the hill as ignorant as I had gone, and the richer only by some dozen or more drinks of milk, for I found that the acceptance of some form of hospitality was an easy opening to general conversation. The top was still empty, but I had not been there a quarter of an hour when I was joined by Andy. His first remark was evidently calculated to set me at ease:

“Begor, yer ‘an’r comes to the top iv this hill nigh as often as I do meself.”

I felt that my answer was inconsequential as well as ill-tempered:

“Well, why on earth, Andy, do you come so often? Surely there is no need to come, unless you like it.”

“Faix, I came this time lest yer ‘an’r might feel lonely. I niver see a man yit be himself on top iv a hill that he didn’t want a companion iv some kind or another.”

“Andy,” I remarked, as I thought, rather cuttingly, “you judge life and men too much by your own experience. There are people and emotions which are quite out of your scope — far too high, or perhaps too low, for your psychic or intellectual grasp.”

Andy was quite unabashed. He looked at me admiringly.

“It’s a pity yer ‘an’r isn’t a mimber iv Parlyment. Shure, wid a flow iv language like that ye could do anythin’!”

As satire was no use, I thought I would draw him out on the subject of the fairies and pixies.

“I suppose you were looking for more fairies; the supply you had this morning was hardly enough to suit you, was it?”

“Begor, it’s meself is not the only wan that does be lukin’ for the fairies!” and he grinned.

“Well, I must say, Andy, you seem to have a good supply on hand. Indeed, it seems to me that if there were any more fairies to be located on this hill it would have to be enlarged, for it’s pretty solid with them already, as far as I can gather.”

“Augh! there’s room for wan more! I’m tould there’s wan missin’ since ere yistherday.”

It was no good trying to beat Andy at this game, so I gave it up and sat silent. After a while he asked me:

“Will I be dhrivin’ yer ‘an’r over to Knockcalltecrore?”

“Why do you ask me?”

“I’m thinking it’s glad yer ‘an’r will be to see Miss Norah.”

“Upon my soul, Andy, you are too bad. A joke is a joke, but there are limits to it; and I don’t let any man joke with me when I prefer not. If you want to talk of your Miss Norah, go and talk to Mr. Sutherland about her. He’s there everyday and can make use of your aid. Why on earth do you single me out as your father-confessor? You’re unfair to the girl, after all, for if I ever do see her I’m prepared to hate her.”

“Ah! yer ‘an’r wouldn’t be that hard! What harrum has the poor crathur done that ye’d hate her — a thing no mortial man iver done yit?”

“Oh, go on! don’t bother me any more; I think it’s about time we were getting home. You go down to the sheebeen and rattle up that old corn-crake of yours; I’ll come down presently and see how the work goes on.”

He went off, but came back as usual; I could have thrown something at him.

“Take me advice, surr: pay a visit to Shleenanaher, an’ see Miss Norah,” and he hurried down the hill.

His going did me no good; no one came, and after a lingering glance around, and noting the gathering of the rain clouds, I descended the hill.

When I got up on the car I was not at all in a talkative humor, and said but little to the group surrounding me. I heard Andy account for it to them:

“Whisht! don’t notice his ‘an’r’s silence! It’s stupid wid shmokin’ he is. He lit no less nor siventeen cigars this blessed day. Ax the neighbors av ye doubt me. Gee up!”

The evening was spent with Dick as the last had been. I knew that he had seen his girl; he knew that I had not seen mine, but neither had anything to tell. Before parting he told me that he expected to shortly finish his work at Knockcalltecrore, and asked me if I would come over.

“Do come,” he said, when I expressed a doubt; “do come, I may want a witness;” so I promised to go.

Andy had on his best suit, and a clean wash, when he met us smiling in the early morning. “Look at him,” I said; “wouldn’t you know he was going to meet his best girl?”

“Begor,” he answered, “mayhap we’ll all do that same!”

It was only ten o’clock when we arrived at Knockcalltecrore, and went up the boreen to Murdock’s new farm. The Gombeen Man was standing at the gate with his watch in his hand. When we came up, he said:

“I feared you would be late. It’s just conthract time now. Hadn’t ye betther say good-bye to your hind an’ git to work?”

He was so transparently inclined to be rude, and possibly to pick a quarrel, that I whispered a warning to Dick. To my great satisfaction he whispered back:

“I see he wants to quarrel; nothing in the world will make me lose temper to-day.” Then he took out his pocket-book, searched for and found a folded paper. Opening this he read: “‘and the said Richard Sutherland shall be at liberty to make use of such assistant as he may choose or appoint when soever he may wish during the said engagement at his own expense.’ You see, Mr. Murdock, I am quite within the four walls of the agreement, and exercise my right. I now tell you formally that Mr. Arthur Severn has kindly undertaken to assist me for to-day.” Murdock glared at him for a minute, and then opened the gate and said:

“Come in, gintlemin.” We entered.

“Now, Mr. Murdock!” said Dick, briskly, “what do you wish done to-day? Shall we make further examination of the bog where the iron indication is, or shall we finish the survey of the rest of the land?”

“Finish the rough survey.”

The operation was much less complicated than when we had examined the bog. We simply “quartered” the land, as the constabulary say when they make search for hidden arms; and taking it bit by bit, passed the magnet over its surface. We had the usual finds of nails, horseshoes, and scrap-iron, but no result of importance. The last place we examined was the house. It was a much better built and more roomy structure than the one he had left. It was not, however, like the other, built on a rock, but in a sheltered hollow. Dick pointed out this to me, and remarked:

“I don’t know but that Joyce is better off, all told, in the exchange. I wouldn’t care myself to live in a house built in a place like this, and directly in the track of the bog.”

“Not even,” said I, “if Norah was living in it too?”

“Ah, that’s another thing. With Norah I’d take my chance, and live in the bog itself, if I could get no other place.”

When this happened our day’s work was nearly done, and very soon we took our leave for the evening, Murdock saying, as I thought, rather offensively:

“Now, you, sir, be sure to be here in time on Monday morning.”

“All right,” said Dick, nonchalantly; and we passed out.

In the boreen he said to me:

“Let us stroll up this way, Art,” and we walked up the hill towards Joyce’s house, Murdock coming down to his gate and looking at us. When we came to Joyce’s gate we stopped. There was no sign of Norah; but Joyce himself stood at his door. I was opening the gate when he came forward.

“Good-evening, Mr. Joyce,” said I. “How is your arm? I hope quite well by this time. Perhaps you don’t remember me. I had the pleasure of giving you a seat up here in my car, from Mrs. Kelligan’s, the night of the storm.”

“I remember well,” he said; “and I was thankful to you, for I was in trouble that night; it’s all done now.” And he looked round the land with a sneer, and then he looked yearningly towards his old farm.

“Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Sutherland,” said I.

“I ax yer pardon, sir, an’ I don’t wish to be rude; but I don’t want to know him. He’s no frind to me and mine!”

Dick’s honest, manly face grew red with shame. I thought he was going to say something angrily, so cut in as quickly as I could:

“You are sadly mistaken, Mr. Joyce; Dick Sutherland is too good a gentleman to do wrong to you or any man. How can you think such a thing?”

“A man what consorts wid me enemy can be no frind of mine!”

“But he doesn’t consort with him; he hates him. He was simply engaged to make certain investigations for him as a scientific man. Why, I don’t suppose you yourself hate Murdock more than Dick does.”

“Thin I ax yer pardon, sir,” said Joyce. “I like to wrong no man, an’ I’m glad to be set right.”

Things were going admirably, and we were all beginning to feel at ease, when we saw Andy approach. I groaned in spirit; Andy was gradually taking shape to me as an evil genius. He approached, and making his best bow, said:

“Fine evenin’, Misther Joyce. I hope yer arrum is betther; an’ how is Miss Norah?”

“Thank ye kindly, Andy; both me arm and the girl’s well.”

“Is she widin?”

“No; she wint this mornin’ to stay over Monday in the convent. Poor girl, she’s broken-hearted, lavin’ her home and gettin’ settled here. I med the changin’ as light for her as I could; but weemin takes things to heart more nor min does, an’ that’s bad enough, God knows!”

“Thrue for ye,” said Andy. “This gintleman here, Mashter Art, says he hasn’t seen her since the night she met us below in the dark.”

“I hope,” said Joyce, “you’ll look in and see us, if you’re in these parts, sir, whin she comes back. I know she thought a dale of your kindness to me that night.”

“I’ll be here for some days, and I’ll certainly come, if I may.”

“And I hope I may come, too, Mr. Joyce,” said Dick, “now that you know me.”

“Ye’ll be welkim, sir.”

We all shook hands, coming away; but as we turned to go home, at the gate we had a surprise. There, in the boreen, stood Murdock, livid with fury. He attacked Dick with a tirade of the utmost virulence. He called him every name he could lay his tongue to — traitor, liar, thief, and, indeed, exhausted the whole terminology of abuse, and accused him of stealing his secrets and of betraying his trust. Dick bore the ordeal splendidly; he never turned a hair, but calmly went on smoking his cigar. When Murdock had somewhat exhausted himself and stopped, he said, calmly:

“My good fellow, now that your ill-manners are exhausted, perhaps you will tell me what it is all about?”

Whereupon Murdock opened again the phials of his wrath. This time he dragged us all into it — I had been brought in as a spy, to help in betraying him, and Joyce had suborned him to the act of treachery. For myself I fired up at once, and would have struck him, only Dick had laid his hand on me, and in a whisper cautioned me to desist.

“Easy, old man, easy! Don’t spoil a good position. What does it matter what a man like that can say? Give him rope enough; we’ll have our turn in time, don’t fear!”

I held back, but unfortunately Joyce pressed forward. He had his say pretty plainly.

“What do ye mane, ye ill-tongued scoundhrel, comin’ here to make a quarrel? Why don’t ye shtay on the land you have robbed from me, and lave us alone? I am not like these gintlemen here, that can afford to hould their tongues and despise ye; I’m a man like yerself, though I hope I’m not the wolf that ye are — fattenin’ on the blood of the poor! How dare you say I suborned any one — me that never told a lie, or done a dirty thing in me life? I tell you, Murtagh Murdock, I put my mark upon ye once — I see it now comin’ up white through the red of yer passion! Don’t provoke me further, or I’ll put another mark on ye that ye’ll carry to yer grave!”

No one said a word more. Murdock moved off and entered his own house; Dick and I said “goodnight” to Joyce again, and went down the boreen.