A to Z Classics - Bram Stoker - The Complete Novels

“Shure, an’ I’m glad to hear it, surr; but I might have known be the luk iv ye and be yer shtep. Faix, it’s aisy known whin a man has been lucky wid bogs!” The latter sentence was spoken in a pronounced “aside.”

Dick laughed, for although he was not in the secret he could see that there was some fun intended. I did not like his laugh, and said hotly:

“I don’t understand you, Andy!”

“Is it undershtand me ye don’t do? Well, surr, if I’ve said anythin’ that I shouldn’t, I ax yer pardon. Bogs isn’t to be lightly shpoke iv at all, at all;” then, after a pause: “Poor Miss Norah!”

“What do you mean?” said I.

“Shure yer ‘an’r, I was only pityin’ the poor crathur. Poor thing! but this’ll be a bitther blow to her intirely!” The villain was so manifestly acting a part, and he grinned at me in such a provoking way, that I got quite annoyed.

“Andy, what do you mean? — out with it!” I said, hotly.

“Mane, yer ‘an’r? Shure nawthin’. All I mane is, poor Miss Norah! Musha! but it’ll be the sore thrial to her. Bad cess to Knocknacar, anyhow!”

“This is infernal impertinence! Here —”

I was stopped by Dick’s hand on my breast:

“Easy, easy, old chap! What is this all about? Don’t get angry, old man. Andy is only joking, whatever it is. I’m not in the secret myself, and so can give no opinion; but there is a joke somewhere. Don’t let it go beyond a joke.”

“All right, Dick,” said I, having had time to recover my temper. “The fact is that Andy has started some chaff on me about bogs — meaning girls thereby — every time he mentions the word to me; and now he seems to accuse me in some way about a girl that came to meet her father that night I left him home at Knockcalltecrore. You know Joyce, that Murdock has ousted from his farm. Now, look here, Andy! You’re a very good fellow, and don’t mean any harm; but I entirely object to the way you’re going on. I don’t mind a button about a joke. I hope I’m not such an ass as to be thin-skinned about a trifle, but it is another matter when you mention a young lady’s name alongside mine. You don’t think of the harm you may do. People are very talkative, and generally get a story the wrong end up. If you mention this girl — whatever her name is —”

“Poor Miss Norah!” struck in Andy, and then ostentatiously corrected himself — “I big yer ‘an’r’s pardon, Miss Norah, I mane.”

“This Miss Norah — along with me,” I went on, “and especially in that objectionable form, people may begin to think she is wronged in some way, and you may do her an evil that you couldn’t undo in all your lifetime. As for me, I never even saw the girl. I heard her speak in the dark for about half a minute, but I never set eyes on her in my life. Now, let this be the last of all this nonsense! Don’t worry me any more; but run in and tell Mrs. Keating to give you a skinful of punch, and to chalk it up to me.”

Andy grinned, ducked his head, and made his exit into the house as though propelled or drawn by some unseen agency. When I remarked this to Dick he replied, “Some spirit draws him, I dare say.”

Dick had not said a word beyond advising me not to lose my temper. He did not appear to take any notice of my lecture to Andy, and puffed unconcernedly at his cigar till the driver had disappeared. He then took me by the arm, and said:

“Let us stroll a bit up the road.”

Arm in arm we passed out of the town and into the silence of the common. The moon was rising, and there was a soft, tender light over everything. Presently, without looking at me, Dick said:

“Art, I don’t want to be inquisitive or to press for any confidences, but you and I are too old friends not to be interested in what concerns each other. What did Andy mean? Is there any girl in question?”

I was glad to have a friend to whom to open my mind, and without further thought I answered:

“There is, Dick.”

Dick grasped my arm and looked keenly into my face, and then said:

“Art, answer me one question — answer me truly, old fellow, by all you hold dear — answer me on your honor.”

“I shall, Dick. What is it?”

“Is it Norah Joyce?”

I had felt some vague alarm from the seriousness of his manner, but his question put me at ease again, and with a high heart, I answered:

“No, Dick, it is not.”

We strolled on, and after a pause, that seemed a little oppressive to me, he spoke again:

“Andy mentioned a poor ‘Miss Norah’ — don’t get riled, old man — and you both agreed that a certain young lady was the only one alluded to. Are you sure there is no mistake? Is not your young lady called Norah?”

This was a difficult question to answer, and made me feel rather awkward. Being awkward, I got a little hot:

“Andy’s an infernal fool. What I said to him — you heard me —”

“Yes! I heard you.”

“— was literally and exactly true. I never set eyes on Norah Joyce in my life. The girl I mean — the one you mean also — was one I saw by chance yesterday — and to-day — on the top of Knocknacar.”

“Who is she?” — there was a more joyous sound in Dick’s voice.

“Eh — eh,” I stammered; “the fact is, Dick, I don’t know.”

“What is her name?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know her name?”

“No.”

“Where does she come from?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about her except this, Dick — that I love her with all my heart and soul!” I could not help it — I could not account for it — but the tears rushed to my eyes, and I had to keep my head turned away from Dick lest he should notice me. He said nothing, and when I had surreptitiously wiped away what I thought were unmanly tears of emotion, I looked round at him. He, too, had his head turned away and, if my eyes did not deceive me, he, too, had some unmanly signs of emotion.

“Dick,” said I. He turned on the instant. We looked in one another’s faces, and the story was all told. We grasped hands warmly.

“We’re both in the same boat, old boy,” said he.

“Who is it, Dick?”

“Norah Joyce!” — I gave a low whistle.

“But,” he went on, “you are well ahead of me. I have never even exchanged a word with her yet. I have only seen her a couple of times; but the whole world is nothing to me beside her. There, I’ve nothing to tell. Veni, Vidi, Victus sum! — I came, I saw, I was conquered. She has beauty enough, and if I’m not an idiot, worth enough to conquer a nation. — Now, tell me all about yours.”

“There’s nothing to tell, Dick; as yet I have only exchanged a few words. I shall hope to know more soon.” We walked along in silence, turning our steps back to the hotel.

“I must hurry and finish up my plans to-night so as to be ready for you to-morrow. You won’t look on it as a labor to go to Knocknacar, old chap,” said he, slapping me on the back.

“Nor you to go to Shleenanaher,” said I, as we shook hands and parted for the night.

It was quite two hours after this when I began to undress for bed. I suppose the whole truth, however foolish, must be told, but those two hours were mainly spent in trying to compose some suitable verses to my unknown. I had consumed a vast amount of paper — consumed literally, for what lover was ever yet content to trust his unsuccessful poetic efforts to the waste basket? and my grate was thickly strewn with filmy ashes. Hitherto the Muse had persistently and successfully evaded me. She did not even grant me a feather from her wing, and my “woful ballad made to my mistress’ eyebrow” was among the things that were not. There was a gentle tap at the door. I opened it, and saw Dick with his coat off. He came in.