A to Z Classics - Bram Stoker - The Complete Novels

“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.

The following week was a time to me of absolute bitterness. I went each day to Knocknacar, where the cutting was proceeding at a rapid rate. I haunted the hilltop, but without the slightest result. Dick had walked over with me on Sunday, and had been rejoiced at the progress made; he said that if all went well we could about Friday next actually cut into the bog. Already there was a distinct infiltration through the cutting, and we discussed the best means to achieve the last few feet of the work so as not in any way to endanger the safety of the men working.

All this time Dick was in good spirits. His meeting with Norah’s father had taken a great and harrowing weight off his mind, and to him all things were now possible in the future. He tried his best to console me for my disappointment. He was full of hope — indeed he refused to see anything but a delay, and I could see that in his secret heart he was not altogether sorry that my love affair had received a temporary check. This belief was emphasised by the tendency of certain of his remarks to the effect that marriages between persons of unequal social status were inadvisable — he, dear old fellow, seemingly in his transparent honesty unaware that he was laying himself out with all his power to violate his own principles.

But all the time I was simply heart-broken. To say that I was consumed with a burning anxiety would be to understate the matter; I was simply in a fever. I could neither eat nor sleep satisfactorily, and, sleeping or waking, my brain was in a whirl of doubts, conjectures, fears, and hopes. The most difficult part to bear was my utter inability to do anything. I could not proclaim my love or my loss on the hill-top; I did not know where to make inquiries, and I had no idea who to inquire for. I did not even like to tell Dick the full extent of my woes.