Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics

say ye will be able to work it well enough. Tell me, have ye signed away all the land, or only the lower farm? I mane, is the Cliff Fields yours or his?”

      Here was a gleam of comfort evidently to the poor man. His face lightened as he replied:

      “Only the lower farm, thank God! Indeed, I couldn’t part wid the Cliff Fields, for they don’t belong to me — they are Norah’s, that her poor mother left her — they wor settled on her, whin we married, be her father, and whin he died we got them. But, indeed, I fear they’re but small use by themselves; shure, there’s no wather in them at all, savin’ what runs off me ould land; an’ if we have to carry wather all the way down the hill from — from me new land” — this was said with a smile, which was a sturdy effort at cheerfulness —”it will be but poor work to raise anythin’ there — ayther shtock or craps. No doubt but Murdock will take away the sthrame iv wather that runs there now. He’ll want to get the cliff lands, too, I suppose.”

      I ventured to ask a question:

      “How do your lands lie compared with Mr. Murdock’s?”

      There was a bitterness in his tone as he answered, in true Irish fashion:

      “Do you mane me ould land, or me new?”

      “The lands that were — that ought still to be yours,” I answered.

      He was pleased at the reply, and his face softened as he replied:

      “Well, the way of it is this. We two owns the west side of the Hill between us. Murdock’s land — I’m spakin’ iv them as they are, till he gets possession iv mine — lies at the top iv the Hill; mine lies below. My land is the best bit on the mountain, while the Gombeen’s is poor soil, with only a few good patches here and there. Moreover, there is another thing. There is a bog which is high up the Hill, mostly on his houldin’, but my land is free from bog, except one end of the big bog, an’ a stretch of dry turf, the best in the counthry, an’ wid enough turf to last for a hundhred years, it’s that deep.”

      Old Dan joined in:

      “Thrue enough! that bog of the Gombeen’s isn’t much use anyhow. It’s rank and rotten wid wather. Whin it made up its mind to sthay, it might have done betther!”

      “The bog? Made up its mind to stay! What on earth do you mean?” I asked. I was fairly puzzled.

      “Didn’t ye hear talk already,” said Dan, “of the Shiftin’ Bog on the mountain?”

      “I did.”

      “Well, that’s it. It moved an’ moved an’ moved longer than anywan can remimber. Me grandfather wanst tould me that whin he was a gossoon it wasn’t nigh so big as it was when he tould me. It hasn’t shifted in my time, and I make bould to say that it has made up its mind to settle down where it is. Ye must only make the best of it, Phelim. I dare say ye will turn it to some account.”

      “I’ll try what I can do, anyhow. I don’t mane to fould me arms an’ sit down oppawsit me property an’ ate it!” was the brave answer.

      For myself, the whole idea was most interesting. I had never before even heard of a shifting bog, and I determined to visit it before I left this part of the country.

      By this time the storm was beginning to abate. The rain had ceased, and Andy said we might proceed on our journey. So after a while we were on our way; the wounded man and I sitting on one side of the car, and Andy on the other. The whole company came out to wish us God-speed, and with such comfort as good counsel and good wishes could give we ventured into the inky darkness of the night.

      Andy was certainly a born car-driver. Not even the darkness, the comparative strangeness of the road, or the amount of whiskey-punch which he had on board could disturb his driving in the least; he went steadily on. The car rocked and swayed and bumped, for the road was a by one, and in but poor condition; but Andy and the mare went on alike unmoved. Once or twice only, in a journey of some three miles of winding by-lanes, crossed and crossed again by lanes or watercourses, did he ask me the way. I could not tell which was road-way and which water-way, for they were all watercourses at present, and the darkness was profound. Still, both Andy and Joyce seemed to have a sense lacking in myself, for now and again they spoke of things which I could not see at all. As, for instance, when Andy asked:

      “Do we go up or down where the road branches beyant?” Or again: “I disremimber, but is that Micky Dolan’s ould apple-three, or didn’t he cut it down? an’ is it Tim’s fornent us on the lift?”

      Presently we turned to the right, and drove up a short avenue towards a house. I knew it to be a house by the light in the windows, for shape it had none. Andy jumped down and knocked, and after a short colloquy, Joyce got down and went into the doctor’s house. I was asked to go too, but thought it better not to, as it would only have disturbed the doctor in his work; and so Andy and I possessed our souls in patience until Joyce came out again, with his arm in a proper splint. And then we resumed our journey through the inky darkness.

      However, after a while, either there came more light into the sky, or my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, for I thought that now and again I beheld “men as trees walking.”

      Presently something dark and massive seemed outlined in the sky before us — a blackness projected on a darkness — and, said Andy, turning to me:

      “That’s Knockcalltecrore; we’re nigh the foot iv it now, and pretty shortly we’ll be at the enthrance iv the boreen, where Misther Joyce’ll git aff.”

      We plodded on for a while, and the hill before us seemed to overshadow whatever glimmer of light there was, for the darkness grew more profound than ever; then Andy turned to my companion:

      “Sure, isn’t that Miss Norah I see sittin’ on the sthile beyant?” I looked eagerly in the direction in which he evidently pointed, but for the life of me I could see nothing.

      “No, I hope not,” said the father, hastily. “She’s never come out in the shtorm. Yes, It is her; she sees us.”

      Just then there came a sweet sound down the lane:

      “Is that you, father?”

      “Yes, my child; but I hope you’ve not been out in the shtorm.”

      “Only a bit, father; I was anxious about you. Is it all right, father? Did you get what you wanted?”

      She had jumped off the stile and had drawn nearer to us, and she evidently saw me, and went on in a changed and shyer voice:

      “Oh, I beg your pardon. I did not see you had a stranger with you.”

      This was all bewildering to me. I could hear it all — and a sweeter voice I never heard — but yet I felt like a blind man, for not a thing could I see, while each of the three others was seemingly as much at ease as in the daylight.

      “This gentleman has been very kind to me, Norah. He has given me a seat on his car, and indeed he’s come out of his way to lave me here.”

      “I am sure we’re all grateful to you, sir; but, father, where is your horse? Why are you on a car at all? Father, I hope you haven’t met with any accident — I have been so fearful for you all the day.” This was spoken in a fainter voice; had my eyes been of service, I was sure I would have seen her grow pale.

      “Yes, my darlin’, I got a fall on the Curragh Hill, but I’m all right. Norah dear! Quick, quick! catch her, she’s faintin’! — my God! I can’t stir!”

      I jumped off the car in the direction of the voice, but my arms sought the empty air. However, I heard Andy’s voice beside me:

      “All right; I have her. Hould up, Miss Norah; yer dada’s all right. Don’t ye see him there, sittin’ on me car? All right, sir; she’s a brave girrul! She hasn’t fainted.”

      “I am all right,” she murmured, faintly; “but, father, I hope you are not hurt?”