Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics
the time that elapsed between that one momentary glimpse of Knockcalltecrore and our arrival at the foot of the boreen a whole lifetime seemed to me to have elapsed, and in my thoughts and harrowing anxieties I recalled — as drowning men are said to do before death — every moment, every experience since I had first come within sight of the western sea. The blackness of my fears seemed only a carrying inward of the surrounding darkness, which was made more pronounced by the flickering of our lanterns, and more dread by the sounds of the tempest with which it was laden.
When we stopped in the boreen Dick and I hurried up the Hill, while Andy, with whom we left one of the lanterns, drew the horse under the comparative shelter of the windswept alders which lined the entrance to the lane. He wanted a short rest before proceeding to Mrs. Kelligan’s, where he was to stop the remainder of the night, so as to be able to come for us in the morning.
As we came near Murdock’s cottage Dick pressed my arm.
“Look!” he called to me, putting his mouth to my ear so that I could hear him, for the storm swept the Hill fiercely here, and a special current of wind came whirling up through the Shleenanaher. “Look! he is up even at this hour. There must be some villany afloat!”
When we got up a little farther he called to me again in the same way.
“The nearest point of the bog is here; let us look at it.” We diverged to the left, and in a few minutes were down at the edge of the bog.
It seemed to us to be different from what it had been. It was raised considerably above its normal height, and seemed quivering all over in a very strange way. Dick said to me, very gravely:
“We are just in time. There’s something going to happen here.”
“Let us hurry to Joyce’s,” I said, “and see if all is safe there.”
“We should warn them first at Murdock’s,” he said. “There may not be a moment to lose.” We hurried back to the boreen, and ran on to Murdock’s, opened the gate, and ran up the path.
We knocked at the door, but there was no answer. We knocked more loudly still, but there came no reply.
“We had better make certain,” said Dick; and I could hear him more easily now, for we were in the shelter of the porch. We opened the door, which was only on the latch, and went in. In the kitchen a candle was burning, and the fire on the hearth was blazing, so that it could not have been long since the inmates had left. Dick wrote a line of warning in his pocket-book, tore out the leaf, and placed it on the table where it could not fail to be seen by anyone entering the room. We then hurried out, and up the lane to Joyce’s.
As we drew near we were surprised to find a light in Joyce’s window also. I got to the windward side of Dick, and shouted to him:
“A light here also; there must be something strange going on.” We hurried as fast as we could up to the house. As we drew close the door was opened, and through a momentary lull we heard the voice of Miss Joyce, Norah’s aunt:
“Is that you, Norah?”
“No,” I answered.
“Oh, is it you, Mr. Arthur? Thank God, ye’ve come! I’m in such terror about Phelim and Norah. They’re both out in the shtorm, an’ I’m nigh disthracted about them.”
By this time we were in the house, and could hear each other speak, although not too well even here, for again the whole force of the gale struck the front of the house, and the noise was great.
“Where is Norah? Is she not here?”
“Oh no, God help us! Wirrastru, wirrastru!”
The poor woman was in such a state of agitation and abject terror that it was with some difficulty we could learn from her enough to understand what had occurred. The suspense of trying to get her to speak intelligibly was agonising, for now every moment was precious; but we could not do anything or make any effort whatever until we had learned all that had occurred. At last, however, it was conveyed to us that early in the evening Joyce had gone out to look after the cattle, and had not since returned. Late at night old Moynahan had come to the door half drunk, and had hiccoughed a message that Joyce had met with an accident, and was then in Murdock’s house. He wanted Norah to go to him there, but Norah only was to go and no one else. She had at once suspected that it was some trap of Murdock’s for some evil purpose, but still she thought it better to go, and accordingly called to Turco, the mastiff, to come with her, she remarking to her aunt, “I am safe with him, at any rate.” But Turco did not come. He had been restless and groaning for an hour before, and now on looking for him they had found him dead. This helped to confirm Norah’s suspicions, and the two poor women were in an agony of doubt as to what they should do. While they were discussing the matter Moynahan had returned, this time even drunker than before, and repeated his message, but with evident reluctance. Norah had accordingly set to work to cross-examine him, and after a while he admitted that Joyce was not in Murdock’s house at all — that he had been sent with the message and told when he had delivered it to go away to Mother Kelligan’s, and not to ever tell anything whatever of the night’s proceedings, no matter what might happen or what might be said. When he had admitted this much he had been so overcome with fright at what he had done that he began to cry and moan, and say that Murdock would kill him for telling on him Norah had told him he could remain in the cottage where he was if he would tell her where her father was, so that she could go to look for him; but that he had sworn most solemnly that he did not know, but that Murdock knew, for he told him that there would be no chance of seeing him at his own house for hours yet that night. This had determined Norah that she would go out herself, although the storm was raging wildly, to look for her father. Moynahan, however, would not stay in the cottage, as he said he would be afraid to, unless Joyce himself were there to protect him; for if there were no one but women in the house Murdock would come and murder him and throw his body in the bog, as he had often threatened. So Moynahan had gone out into the night by himself, and Norah had shortly after gone out also, and from that moment she — Miss Joyce — had not set eyes on her, and feared that some harm had happened.
This the poor soul told us in such an agony of dread and grief that it was pitiful to hear her, and we could not but forgive the terrible delay. I was myself in deadly fear, for every kind of harrowing possibility rose before me as the tale was told. It was quite evident that Murdock was bent on some desperate scheme of evil; he either intended to murder Norah or to compromise her in some terrible way. I was almost afraid to think of the subject. It was plain to me that by this means he hoped not only to gratify his revenge, but to get some lever to use against us, one and all, so as to secure his efforts in searching for the treasure. In my rage against the cowardly hound I almost lost sight of the need of thankfulness for one great peril avoided.
However, there was no time at present for further thought — action, prompt and decisive, was vitally necessary. Joyce was absent — we had no clew to where he could be. Norah was alone on the mountain, and with the possibility of Murdock assailing her, for he, too, was abroad, as we knew from the fact of his being away from his house.
We lost not a moment, but went out again into the storm. We did not, however, take the lantern with us, as we found by experience that its occasional light was in the long-run an evil, as we could not by its light see any distance, and the gray of the coming dawn was beginning to show through the abating storm, with a faint indication that before long we should have some light.
We went down the Hill westward until we came near the bog, for we had determined to make a circuit of it as our first piece of exploration, since we thought that here lay the most imminent danger. Then we separated, Dick following the line of the bog downward while I went north, intending to cross at the top and proceed down the farther side. We had agreed on a signal, if such could be heard through the storm, choosing the Australian “coo-ee,” which is the best sound to travel known.
I hurried along as fast as I dared, for I was occasionally in utter darkness. Although the morning was coming with promise of light, the sea wind swept inland masses of swiftly-driving mist, which, while they encompassed me, made movement not only difficult and