Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics

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.

      “I thought I would look in, Art, as I saw the light under your door, and knew that you had not gone to bed. I only wanted to tell you this: You don’t know what a relief it is to me to be able to speak of it to any living soul — how maddening it is to me to work for that scoundrel Murdock. You can understand now why I flared up at him so suddenly ere yesterday. I have a strong conviction on me that his service is devil’s service as far as my happiness is concerned, and that I shall pay some terrible penalty for it.”

      “Nonsense, old fellow,” said I, “Norah only wants to see you to know what a fine fellow you are. You won’t mind my saying it, but you are the class of man that any woman would be proud of!”

      “Ah! old chap,” he answered sadly, “I’m afraid it will never get that far. There isn’t, so to speak, a fair start for me. She has seen me already — worse luck! — has seen me doing work which must seem to her to aid in ruining her father. I could not mistake the scornful glance she has thrown on me each time we have met. However, che sara sara! It’s not use fretting beforehand. Goodnight!”

Chapter 7 — Vanished

      We were all astir shortly after daylight on Monday morning. Dick’s foot was well enough for his walk to Knockcalltecrore, and Andy came with me to Knocknacar, as had been arranged, for I wanted his help in engaging laborers and beginning the work. We got to the sheebeen about nine o’clock, and Andy, having put up the mare, went out to get laborers. As I was morally certain that at that hour in the morning there would be no chance of seeing my unknown on the hill-top, I went at once to the bog, taking my map with me and studying the ground where we were to commence operations.

      Andy joined me in about half an hour with five men — all he had been able to get in the time. They were fine strapping young fellows and seemed interested in the work, so I thought the contingent would be strong enough. By this time I had the ground marked out according to the plan, and so, without more ado, we commenced work.

      We had attacked the hill some two hundred feet lower down than the bog, where the land suddenly rose steeply from a wide sloping extent of wilderness of invincible barrenness. It was over this spot that Sutherland hoped ultimately to send the waters of the bog. We began at the foot and made a trench some four feet wide at the bottom, and with sloping walls, so that when we got in so far the drain would be twenty feet deep, the external aperture would measure about twice as much.

      The soil was heavy and full of moderatesized bowlders, but was not unworkable, and among us we came to the conclusion that a week of solid work would, bar accidents and our coming across unforeseen difficulties, at any rate break the back of the job. The men worked in sections — one marking out the trench by cutting the surface to some foot and a half deep, and the others following in succession. Andy sat on a stone hard by, filled his pipe, and endeavoured in his own cheery way to relieve the monotony of the labor of the others. After about an hour he grew tired and went away — perhaps it was that he became interested in a country car, loaded with persons, that came down the road and stopped a few minutes at the sheebeen on its way to join the main road to Carnaclif.

      Things went steadily on for some time. The men worked well, and I possessed my soul in such patience as I could, and studied the map and the ground most carefully. When dinner-time came the men went off each to his own home, and as soon as the place was free from them I hurried to the top of the mountain. The prospect was the same as yesterday. There was the same stretch of wild moor and rugged coast, of clustering islands and foam-girt rocks, of blue sky laden with such masses of luminous clouds as are only found in Ireland. But all was to me dreary and desolate, for the place was empty and she was not there. I sat down to wait with what patience I could. It was dreary work at best; but at any rate there was hope — and its more immediate kinsman, expectation — and I waited. Somehow the view seemed to tranquillise me in some degree. It may have been that there was some unconscious working of the mind which told me, in some imperfect way, that in a region quite within my range of vision nothing could