Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics

a few steps when he returned and said, with an air of extreme seriousness:

      “As I’m goin’ to Knockcalltecrore, is there any missage I kin take for ye to Miss Norah?”

      “Oh, go on!” said I. “What message should I have to send, when I never saw the girl in my life?”

      For reply he winked at me with a wink big enough to cover a perch of land, and, looking back over his shoulder so that I could see his grin to the last, he went along the corridor, and I went back to bed.

      It did not strike me till a long time afterwards — when I was quite close to Knocknacar — how odd it was that Andy had asked me to give the message to his father. I had not told him I was even coming in the direction — I had not told anyone; indeed, I had rather tried to mislead when I spoke of taking a walk that day, by saying some commonplace about “the advisability of breaking new ground,” and so forth. Andy had evidently taken it for granted; and it annoyed me somewhat that he could find me so transparent. However, I gave the message to the old man, to which he promised to attend, and had a drink of milk, which is the hospitality of the West of Ireland farmhouse. Then, in the most nonchalant way I could, I began to saunter up the hill.

      I loitered awhile here and there on the way up. I diverted my steps now and then as if to make inquiry into some interesting object. I tapped rocks and turned stones over, to the discomfiture of various swollen pale-colored worms and nests of creeping things. With the end of my stick I dug up plants, and made here and there unmeaning holes in the ground, as though I were actuated by some direct purpose known to myself and not understood of others. In fact, I acted as a hypocrite in many harmless and unmeaning ways, and rendered myself generally obnoxious to the fauna and flora of Knocknacar.

      As I approached the hill-top my heart beat loudly and fast, and a genuine supineness took possession of my limbs, and a dimness came over my sight and senses. I had experienced something of the same feeling at other times in my life — as, for instance, just before my first fight when a school-boy, and when I stood up to make my maiden speech at the village debating society. Such feelings — or lack of feelings — however, do not kill; and it is the privilege and strength of advancing years to know this fact.

      I proceeded up the hill. I did not whistle this time, or hum, or make any noise; matters were far too serious with me for any such levity. I reached the top, and found myself alone! A sense of blank disappointment came over me, which was only relieved when, on looking at my watch, I found that it was as yet still early in the forenoon. It was three o’clock yesterday when I had met — when I had made the ascent.

      As I had evidently to while away a considerable time, I determined to make an accurate investigation of the hill of Knocknacar — much, very much, fuller than I had made as yet. As my unknown had descended the hill by the east, and would probably make the ascent — if she ascended at all — by the same side; and as it was my object not to alarm her, I determined to confine my investigations to the west side. Accordingly, I descended about half way down the slope, and then commenced my prying into the secrets of Nature under a sense of the just execration of me and my efforts on the part of the whole of the animate and inanimate occupants of the mountain-side.

      Hours to me had never seemed of the same inexhaustible proportions as the hours thus spent. At first I was strong with a dogged patience; but this in time gave way to an impatient eagerness that merged into a despairing irritability. More than once I felt an almost irresistible inclination to rush to the top of the hill and shout, or conceived an equally foolish idea to make a call at every house, cottage, and cabin in the neighborhood. In this latter desire my impatience was somewhat held in check by a sense of the ludicrous; for, as I thought of the detail of the doing it, I seemed to see myself, when trying to reduce my abstract longing to a concrete effort, meeting only jeers and laughter from both men and women in my seemingly asinine effort to make inquiries regarding a person whose name even I did not know, and for what purpose I could assign no sensible reason.

      I verily believe I must have counted the leaves of grass on portions of that mountain. Unfortunately, hunger or thirst did not assail me, for they would have afforded some diversion to my thoughts. I sturdily stuck to my resolution not to ascend to the top until after three o’clock, and I gave myself much kudos for the stern manner in which I adhered to my resolve.

      My satisfaction at so bravely adhering to my resolution, in spite of so much mental torment and temptation, may be imagined when, at the expiration of the appointed time, on ascending to the hill-top, I saw my beautiful friend sitting on the edge of the plateau and heard her first remark after our mutual salutations:

      “I have been here nearly two hours, and am just going home! I have been wondering and wondering what on earth you were working at all over the hill-side! May I ask, are you a botanist?”

      “No!”

      “Or a geologist?”

      “No!”

      “Or a naturalist?”

      “No!”

      There she stopped; this simple interrogation as to the pursuits of a stranger evidently struck her as unmaidenly, for she blushed and turned away.

      I did not know what to say; but youth has its own wisdom — which is sincerity — and I blurted out:

      “In reality I was doing nothing; I was only trying to pass the time.”

      There was a query in the glance of the glorious blue-black eyes and in the lifting of the ebon lashes; and I went on, conscious as I proceeded that the ground before me was marked “Dangerous”:

      “The fact is, I did not want to come up here till after three, and the time seemed precious long, I can tell you.”

      “Indeed. But you have missed the best part of the view. Between one and two o’clock, when the sun strikes in between the islands — Cusheen there to the right, and Mishear — the view is the finest of the whole day.”

      “Oh, yes,” I answered, “I know now what I have missed.”

      Perhaps my voice betrayed me. I certainly felt full of bitter regret; but there was no possibility of mistaking the smile which rose to her eyes and faded into the blush that followed the reception of the thought.

      There are some things which a woman cannot misunderstand or fail to understand; and surely my regret and its cause were within the category.

      It thrilled through me with a sweet intoxication, to realise that she was not displeased. Man is predatory even in his affections, and there is some conscious power to him which follows the conviction that the danger of him — which is his intention — is recognised.

      However, I thought it best to be prudent, and to rest on success — for a while, at least. I therefore commenced to talk of London, whose wonders were but fresh to myself, and was rewarded by the bright smile that had now become incorporated with my dreams by day and by night.

      And so we talked — talked in simple companionship; and the time fled by on golden wings. No word of love was spoken or even hinted at, but with joy and gratitude unspeakable I began to realise that we were en rapport. And, more than this, I realised that the beautiful peasant girl had great gifts — a heart of gold, a sweet, pure nature, and a rare intelligence. I gathered that she had had some education, though not an extensive one, and that she had followed up at home such subjects as she had learned in school. But this was all I gathered. I was still as ignorant as ever of her name, and all else beside, as when I had first heard her sweet voice on the hill-top.

      Perhaps I might have learned more had there been time; but the limit of my knowledge had been fixed. The time had fled so quickly, because so happily, that neither of us had taken account of it; and suddenly, as a long red ray struck over the hill-top from the sun, now preparing for his plunge into the western wave, she jumped to her feet with a startled cry:

      “The sunset! What am I thinking of! Good-night! goodnight! No, you must not come — it would never do! Goodnight!” And before I could say a word, she was speeding down the eastern slope of the mountain.