Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics

when in Galway, to give Mr. Caicy instructions as to transferring the two properties — Norah’s and her father’s.

      When Dick came home he and I had a long talk on affairs, and I saw that he thoroughly understood all about the purchase of the whole mountain. Then we said goodnight, and I retired.

      I did not sleep very well. I think I was too happy; and out of the completeness of my happiness there seemed to grow a fear — some dim, haunting dread of a change — something which would reverse the existing order of things. And so in dreams the Drowsy God played at ball with me: now throwing me to a dizzy height of joy, and then, as I fell swiftly through darkness, arresting my flight into the nether gloom with some new sweet hope. It seemed to me that I was awake all the night; and yet I knew I must have slept, for I had distinct recollections of dreams in which all the persons and circumstances lately present to my mind were strangely jumbled together. The jumble was kaleidoscopic; there was an endless succession of its phases, but the pieces all remained the same. There were moments when all seemed aglow with rosy light, and hard on them others horrid with the gloom of despair or fear; but in all the dominating idea was the mountain standing against the sunset, always as the embodiment of the ruling emotion of the scene, and always Norah’s beautiful eyes shone upon me. I seemed to live over again in isolated moments all the past weeks; but in such a way that the legends and myths and stories of Knockcalltecrore which I had heard were embodied in each moment. Thus, Murdock had always a part in the gloomy scenes, and got inextricably mixed up with the King of the Snakes. They freely exchanged personalities, and at one time I could see the Gombeen Man defying St. Patrick, while at another the Serpent seemed to be struggling with Joyce, and, after twisting round the mountain, being only beaten off by a mighty blow from Norah’s father, rushing to the sea through the Shleenanaher.

      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