Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics
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 I went to 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 I reached the foot of the mountain I found 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 6 — Confidences
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 by any 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 preliminary drainage, for we 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 over the 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 joy and 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 her feet and 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.
“Hullo, Andy!” I said. “What on earth do you want?”
“Yer ‘an’r’II parden me, but I’m jist off wid 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,