Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics
and was all safe. They told me that he was then white and scared-looking.”
Here Dick paused:
“Now, my difficulty is this: I know he tried to murder the man, but I am not in a position to prove it. No man could expect his word to be taken in such a matter and under such circumstances. And yet I am morally certain that he intends to murder him still. What should I do? To take any preventive steps would involve making the charge which I cannot prove. As yet neither of the men has the slightest suspicion that I am concerned in the matter in anyway, or that I even know of it. Now, may I not be most useful by keeping a watch and biding my time?”
I thought a moment, but there seemed to be only one answer.
“You are quite right, Dick. We can do nothing just at present. We must keep a sharp lookout, and get some tangible evidence of his intention — something that we can support, and then we can take steps against him. As to the matter of his threat to harm Norah, I shall certainly try to bring that out in a way we can prove, and then he shall have the hottest corner he ever thought of in his life.”
“Quite right that he should have it, Art; but we must think of her too. It would not do to have her name mixed up with any gossip. She will be going away very shortly, I suppose, and then his power to hurt her will be nil. In the mean time everything must be done to guard her.”
“I shall get a dog — a good savage one, this very day; that ruffian must not be able to even get near the house again —”
Dick interrupted me.
“Oh, I quite forgot to tell you about that. The very day after that night I got a dog and sent it up. It is the great mastiff that Meldon, the dispensary doctor, had — the one that you admired so much. I specially asked Norah to keep it for you, and train it to be always with her. She promised that she would always feed him herself and take him about with her. I am quite sure she understood that he was to be her protector.”
“Thank you, Dick,” I said, and I am sure he knew I was grateful.
By this time we had come near the house outside which the car stood. Andy was inside, and evidently did not expect our coming so soon, for he sat with a measure of stout half emptied before him on the table, and on each of his knees sat a lady — one evidently the mother of the other. As we appeared in the door-way he started up.
“Be the powdhers, there’s the masther! Git up, acushla!” — this to the younger woman, for the elder had already jumped up. Then to me: “Won’t ye sit down, yer ‘an’r. There’s only the wan chair, so ye see the shifts we’re dhruv to, whin there’s three iv us. I couldn’t put Mrs. Dempsey from off iv her own shtool, an’ she wouldn’t sit on me knee alone — the dacent woman — so we had to take the girrul on too. They all sit that way in these parts!”
The latter statement was made with brazen openness and shameless effrontery. I shook my finger at him:
“Take care, Andy. You’ll get into trouble one of these days.”
“Into throuble, for a girrul sittin’ on me knee! Begor, the Govermint’II have to get up more coorts and more polis if they want to shtop that ould custom. An’ more betoken, they II have to purvide more shtools, too. Mrs. Dempsey, whin I come round agin, mind ye kape a govermint shtool for me. Here’s the masther wouldn’t let any girrul sit on any wan’s knee. Begor, not even the quality nor the fairies! All right, yer ‘an’r, the mare’s quite ready. Good-bye, Mrs. Dempsey. Don’t forgit the shtool — an’ wan, too, for Biddy! Gee up, ye ould corn-crake!” and so we resumed our journey.
As we went along Dick gave me all details regarding the property which he and Mr. Caicy had bought for me. Although I had signed deeds and papers without number, and was owner in the present or in future of the whole hill, I had not the least idea of either the size or disposition of the estate. Dick had been all over it, and was able to supply me with every detail. As he went on he grew quite enthusiastic — everything seemed to be even more favorable than he had at first supposed. There was plenty of clay; and he suspected that in two or three places there was pottery clay, such as is found chiefly in Cornwall. There was any amount of water; and when we should be able to control the whole Hill and regulate matters as we wished, the supply would enable us to do anything in the way of either irrigation or ornamental development. The only thing we lacked, he said, was limestone, and he had a suspicion that limestone was to be found somewhere on the hill.
“I cannot but think,” said he, “that there must be a streak of limestone somewhere. I cannot otherwise account for the subsidence of the lake on the top of the Hill. I almost begin to think that that formation of rock to which the Snake’s Pass is due runs right through the Hill, and that we shall find that the whole top of it has similar granite cliffs, with the hollow between them possibly filled in with some rock of one of the later formations. However, when we get possession I shall make accurate search. I tell you, Art, it will well repay the trouble if we can find it. A limestone quarry here would be pretty well as valuable as a gold mine. Nearly all these promontories on the western coast of Ireland are of slate or granite, and here we have not got lime within thirty miles. With a quarry on the spot, we can not only build cheap and reclaim our own bog, but we can supply five hundred square miles of country with the rudiments of prosperity, and at a nominal price compared with what they pay now.”
Then he went on to tell me of the various arrangements effected — how those who wished to emigrate were about to do so, and how others who wished to stay were to have better farms given them on what we called “the main-land”; and how he had devised a plan for building houses for them — good solid stone houses, with proper offices and farmyards. He concluded what seemed to me like a somewhat modified day-dream:
“And if we can find the limestone — well, the improvements can all be done without costing you a penny; and you can have around you the most prosperous set of people to be found in the country.”
In such talk as this the journey wore on till the evening came upon us. The day had been a fine one — one of those rare sunny days in a wet autumn. As we went I could see everywhere the signs of the continuous rains. The fields were sloppy and sodden, and the bottoms were flooded; the bogs were teeming with water; the roads were washed clean — not only the mud but even the sand having been swept away, and the road-metal was everywhere exposed. Often, as we went along, Dick took occasion to illustrate his views as to the danger of the shifting of the bog at Knockcalltecrore by the evidence around us of the destructive power of the continuous rain.
When we came to the mountain gap where we got our first and only view of Knockcalltecrore from the Galway road, Andy reined in the mare, and turned to me, pointing with his whip.
“There beyant, yer ‘an’r, is Knockcalltecrore — the Hill where the threasure is. They do say that a young English gintleman has bought up the Hill, an’ manes to git the threasure for himself. Begor, perhaps he has found it already. Here, gee up, ye ould corn-crake! What the divil are ye kapin’ the quality waitin’ for?” and we sped down the road.
The sight of the Hill filled me with glad emotion, and I do not think that it is to be wondered at. And yet my gladness was as followed by an unutterable gloom — a gloom that fell over me the instant after my eyes took in the well-known hill struck by the falling sunset from the west. It seemed to me that all had been so happy and so bright and so easy for me, that there must be in store some terrible shock or loss to make the balance even, and to reduce my satisfaction with life to the level above which man’s happiness may not pass.
There was a curse on the hill! I felt it and realised it at that moment for the first time. I suppose I must have shown something of my brooding fear in my face, for Dick, looking round at me after a period of silence, said suddenly:
“Cheer up, Art, old chap! Surely you, at any rate, have no cause to be down on your luck. Of all men that live, I should think you ought to be about the very happiest.”
“That’s it, old fellow,” I answered. “I fear that there must be something terrible coming. I shall never be quite happy till Norah and all of us are quite away from the Hill.”