A to Z Classics - Bram Stoker - The Complete Novels

Towards morning, as I suppose the needs of the waking day became more present to my mind in the gradual process of awakening, the bent of my thoughts began to be more practical; the Saint and His Majesty of the Serpents began to disappear, and the two dim cuirassiers, who, with the money-chest, had through the earlier hours of the night been passing far athwart my dreams, appearing and disappearing equally mysteriously, took a more prominent, or, perhaps, a more real part. Then I seemed to see Murdock working in a grave, whose sides were ever crumbling in as he frantically sought the treasure-chest, while the gun-carriage, rank with the slime of the bog, was high above him on the brink of the grave, projected blackly against the yellow moon. Every time this scene in its myriad variations came round, it changed to one where the sides of the grave began to tumble in, and Murdock in terror tried to scream out, but could make no sound, nor could he make any effort to approach Norah, whose strong hands were stretched out to aid him.

With such a preparation for waking, is it any wonder that I suddenly started broad awake, with a strong sense of something forgotten, and found that it was four o’clock, and time to get ready for my journey? I did not lose anytime, and after a hot cup of tea, which the cheery Mrs. Keating had herself prepared for me, was on my way under Andy’s care to Recess, where we were to meet the “long-car” to Galway.

Andy was, for a wonder, silent, and as I myself felt in a most active frame of mind, this rather gave me an opportunity for some amusement. I waited for a while to see if he would suggest any topic in his usual style; but as there was no sign of a change, I began:

“You are very silent to-day, Andy. You are sad. What is it?”

“I’m thinkin’.”

“So I thought, Andy. But who are you thinking of?”

“Faix, I’m thinkin’ iv poor Miss Norah there wid ne’er a bhoy on the flure at all, at all; an’ iv the fairy girrul at Knocknacar — the poor craythur waitin’ for some kind iv a leprachaun to come back to her. They do say, yer ‘an’r, that the fairies is mighty fond iv thim leprachauns intirely. Musha! but it’s a quare thing that weemen of all natures thinks a power more iv minkind what is hard to be caught nor iv them that follys them an’ is had aisy!”

“Indeed, Andy.” I felt he was getting on dangerous ground, and thought it would be as well to keep him to generalities if I could.

“Shure, they do tell me so; that the girruls, whether fairies or weemin, is more fond iv lukin’ out fur leprachauns, or min, if that’s their kind, than the clargy is iv killin’ the divil — an’ they’ve bin at him fur thousands iv years, an’ him not turned a hair.”

“Well, Andy, isn’t it only natural, too? If we look at the girls and make love to them, why shouldn’t they have a turn too, poor things, and make love to us? Now you would like to have a wife, I know; only that you’re too much afraid of any woman.”

“Thrue for ye! But shure an’ how could I go dhrivin’ about the counthry av I had a wife iv me own in wan place? It’s meself that’s welkim everywhere, jist because any wan iv the weemen might fear I’d turn the laugh on her whin I got her home; but a car-dhriver can no more shpake soft to only wan girrul nor he can dhrive his car in his own shanty.”

“Well, but, Andy, what would you do if you were to get married?”

“Faix, surr, an’ the woman must settle that whin she comes. But, begor, it’s not for a poor man like me — nor for the likes iv me — that the fairies does be keepin’ their eyes out. I tell yer ‘an’r that poor min isn’t iv much account anyhow! Shure, poverty is the worst iv crimes; an’ there’s no hidin’ it like th’ others. Patches is saw a mighty far way off; and, shure enough, they’re more frightfuller nor even the polis!”

“By George, Andy,” said I, “I’m afraid you’re a cynic.”

“A cynic, surr; an’, faix, what sin am I up to now?”

“You say poverty is a crime.”

“Begor, but it’s worse! Most crimes is forgave afther a bit; an’ the law is done wid ye whin ye’re atm’ yer skilly. But there’s some people — aye! an’ lashins iv thim too — what’d rather see ye in a good shute iv coffin than in a bad shute iv clothes!”

“Why, Andy, you’re quite a philosopher!”

“Bedad, that’s quare; but whisper me now, surr, what kind iv a thing’s that?”

“Well, it’s a very wise man — one who loves wisdom.”

“Begor, yer ‘an’r, lovin’ girruls is more in my shtyle; but I thought maybe it was some new kind iva Protestan’.”

“Why a Protestant?”

“Sorra wan iv me knows! I thought maybe they can believe even less nor the ould wans.”

Andy’s method of theological argument was quite too difficult for me, so I was silent; but my companion was not. He, however, evidently felt that theological disquisition was no more his forte than my own, for he instantly changed to another topic:

“I’ll be goin’ back to Knockcalltecrore to-morra, yer ‘an’r. I’ve been tould to call fur Mr. Caicy, th’ attorney — savin’ yer prisence — to take him back to Carnaclif. Is there any missage ye’d like to send to any wan?”

He looked at me so slyly that his meaning was quite obvious.

“Thanks, Andy, but I think not, unless you tell Mr. Dick that we have had a pleasant journey this morning.”

“Nothin’ but that? — to nobody?”

“Who to, for instance, Andy?”

“There’s Miss Norah, now. Shure girruls is always fond iv gettin’ missages, an’ most iv all from people what they’re not fond iv!”

“Meaning me?”

“Oh yis, oh yis, if there’s wan more nor another what she hates the sight iv, it’s yer ‘an’r. Shure didn’t I notice it in her eye ere yistherday night, beyant at the boreen gate? Faix, but it’s a nice eye Miss Norah has. Now, yer ‘an’r, wouldn’t an eye like that be betther for a young gintleman to luk into, than the quare eye iv yer fairy girrul — the wan that ye wor lukin’ for, an’ didn’t find?”

The sly way in which Andy looked at me as he said this was quite indescribable. I have seen sly humor in the looks of children where the transparent simplicity of their purpose was a foil to their manifest intention to pretend to deceive. I have seen the arch glances of pretty young women when their eyes contradicted with resistless force the apparent meaning of their words; but I have never seen any slyness which could rival that of Andy. However, when he had spoken as above, he seemed to have spent the last bolt in his armory; and for the remainder of the drive to Recess he did not touch again on the topic, or on a kindred one.

When I was in the hotel porch waiting the arrival of the long-car, Andy came up to me:

“What day will I be in Galway for yer ‘an’r?”

“How do you mean, Andy? I didn’t tell you I was coming back.”

Andy laughed a merry, ringing laugh.

“Begor, yer ‘an’r, d’ye think there’s only wan way iv tellin’ things? Musha! But spache’d be a mighty precious kind iv a thing if that was the way.”

“But, Andy, is not speech the way to make known what you wish other people to know?”

“Ah, go to God! I’d like to know if ye take it for granted whin ask a girrul a question an’ she says ‘no’, that she manes it, or that she intends ayther that ye should think she manes it. Faix, it’d be a harrd wurrld to live in, if that was so; an’ there’d be mighty few widdys in it ayther!”

“Why widows, Andy?”

“Shure, isn’t wives the shtuff that widdys is made iv?”

“Oh, I see. I’m learning, Andy — I’m getting on.”

“Yis, yer ‘an’r. Ye haven’t got on the long cap now, but I’m afeerd it’s only a leather medal ye’d get as yit. Niver mind, surr! Here’s the long-car comin’; an’ whin ye tellygraph to Misther Dick to sind me over to Galway fur to bring ye back, I’ll luk up Miss Norah an’ ax her to condescind to give ye some lessons in the differ betwixt ‘yes’ an’ ‘no’ as shpoke by girruls. I’m tould now, it’s a mighty intherestin’ kind iv a shtudy for a young gintleman.”