Complete Works of Bram Stoker (25 page)

So I sat for quite an hour with my heart half sick with longing, but she never came. Then I thought I heard a step coming up the path at the far side. My heart beat strangely. I sat silent, and did not pretend to hear. She was walking more slowly than usual, and with a firmer tread. She was coming. I heard the steps on the plateau, and a voice came:

“Och! an’ isn’t it a purty view, yer’an’r?” I leaped to my feet with a feeling that was positively murderous. The revulsion was too great, and I broke into a burst of semi- hysterical laughter. There stood Andy, with ragged red head and sun-scorched face, in his garb of eternal patches, bleached and discolored by sun and rain into a veritable coat of many colours, gazing at the view with a rapt expression, and yet with one eye half closed in a fixed but unmistakable wink, as though taking the whole majesty of nature into his confidence. When he heard my burst of laughter he turned to me quizzically:

“Musha! but it’s the merry gentleman yer’an’r is this day. Shure, the view here is the laughablest thing I ever see!” and he affected to laugh, but in such a soulless, unspontaneous way that it became a real burlesque. I waited for him to go on. I was naturally very vexed, but I was afraid to say anything lest I might cause him to interfere in this affair  —  the last thing on earth that I wished for. He did go on  —  no one ever found Andyabashed or ill at ease:

“Begor! but yer ‘an’r lepped like a deer when ye heerd me shpake. Did ye think I was goin’ to shoot ye? Faix, an’ I thought that ye wor about to jump from aff iv the mountain into the say, like a shtag.” “Why, what do you know about stags, Andy? There are none inthis part of the country, are there?” Ithought Iwould drag a new subject across his path. The ruse of the red herring drawn across the scent succeeded. “Phwhat do I know iv shtags? Faix, I know this, that there does be plinty in me lard’s demesne beyant at Wistport. Shure, wan iv thim got out last autumn an’ nigh ruined me garden. He kem in at night an’ ate up all me cabbages an’ all the vigitables I’d got. I frightened him away a lot iv times, but he kem back all the same. At last I could shtand him no longer, and I wint meself an’ complained to the lard. He tould me he was very sorryfur the damage he done, ‘an’,’ sez he, ‘Andy, I think he’s a bankrup’,’ sez he, ‘an’ we must take his body.’ ‘How is that, me lard?’ sez I. Sez he, ‘I give him to ye, Andy. Do what ye like wid him.’ An’ wid that I wint home an’ I med a thrap iv a clothes-line wid a loop in it, an’ I put it betune two threes; and, shure enough in the night I got him.”

“And what did you do with him, Andy?” said I.

“Faith, surr, I shkinned him and ate him.” He said this just in the same tone in which he would speak of the most ordinary occurrence, leaving the impression on one’s mind that the skinning and eating were matters done at the moment and quite off-hand.

I fondly hoped that Andy’s mind was now in quite another state from his usual mental condition; but I hardly knew the man yet. He had the true humorist’s persistence, and before I was ready with another intellectual herring he was off on the original track.

“I thrust I didn’t dishturb yer ‘an’r. I know some gintlemin likes to luk at views and say nothin’. I’m tould that a young gintleman like yer ‘an’r might be up on top iva mountain like this, an’ he’d luk at the view so hard day afther day that he wouldn’t even shpake to a purty girrul  —  if there was wan forninst him all the time!”

“Then they lied to you, Andy.” I said this quite decisively.

“Faix, yer’an’r, an’ it’s glad lam to hear that same, for I wouldn’t like to think that a young gintleman was afraid of a girrul, however purty she might be.” “But, tell me, Andy,” I said, “what idiot could have started such an idea? And even if it was told to you, how could you be such a fool as to believe it?” “Me belave it! Surr, I didn’t belave a wurrd iv it  —  not until I met yer ‘an’r.” His face was quite grave, and I was not sorry to find him in a sober mood, for I wanted to have a serious chat with him. It struck me that he, having relatives at Knocknacar, might be able to give me some information about my unknown. “Until you met me, Andy! Surely I never gave you any ground for holding such a ridiculous idea.” “Begor, yer ‘an’r, but ye did. But p’r’aps I had betther not say a ny mo re  —  ye r’ a n’ r m i g htn’11 i ke i t.” This both surprised and nettled me, and I was determined now to have it out, so I said, “You quite surprise me, Andy. What have I ever done? Do not be afraid; out with it,” for he kept looking at me in a timorous kind of way. “Well, then, yer ‘an’r, about poor Miss Norah.”

This was a surprise, but I wanted to know more.

“Well, Andy, what about her?” “Shure, an’ didn’t you refuse to shpake iv her intirely an’ sot on me fur only mintionin’ her  —  an’ she wan iv the purtiest girruls in the place?” “My dear Andy,” said I, “I thought I had explained to you last night all about that. I don’t suppose you quite understand; but it might do a girl in her position harm to be spoken about with a  —  a man like me.”

“Wid a man like you  —  an’ for why? Isn’t she as good a girrul as iver broke bread?” “Oh, it’s not that, Andy; people might think harm.”

“Think harrum! Phwhat harrum, an’ who’d think it?” “Oh, you don’t understand; a man in your position can hardly know.”

“But, yer ‘an’r, I don’t git comprehindin’. What harrum could there be, an’ who’d think it? The people here is all somethin’ iv me own position  —  workin’ people  —  an’ whin they knows a girrul is a good, dacent girrul, why should they think harrum because a nice young gintleman goes out iv his way to shpake to her? Doesn’t he shpake to the quality like himself, an’ no wan thinks any harrum ivayther iv them?”

Andy’s simple, honest argument made me feel ashamed of the finer sophistries belonging to the more artificial existence of those of my own station.

“Sure, yer ‘an’r, there isn’t a bhoy in Connaught that wouldn’t like to be shpoke of wid Miss Norah. She’s that good, that even the nuns in Galway, where she was at school, loves her and thrates her like wan iv themselves, for all she’s a Protestan’.”

“My dear Andy,” said I, “don’t you think you’re a little hard on me? You’re putting me in the dock, and trying me for a series of offences that I never even thought of committing with regard to heroranyone else. Miss Norah may be an angel in petticoats, and I’m quite prepared to take it for granted that she is so; your word on the subject is quite enough for me. But just please to remember that I never set eyes on her in my life. The only time I was ever in her presence was when you were by yourself, and it was so dark that I could not see her, to help her when she fainted. Why, in the name of common-sense, you should keep holding her up to me, I do not understand.”

“But yer’an’r said that it might do her harrum even to mintion her wid you.”

“Oh, well, Andy, I give it up  —  it’s no use trying to explain. Either you wont understand, or I am unable to express myself properly.”

“Surr, there can be only one harrum to a girrul from a gintleman”  —  he laid his hand on my arm, and said this impressively; whatever else he may have ever said injest, he was in grim earnest now  —  ”an’ that’s whin he’s a villain. Ye wouldn’t do the black thrick, and desave a girrul that thrusted ye?”

“No, Andy, no! God forbid! I would rather go to the highest rock on some island there beyond, where the surf is loudest, and throw myself into the sea, than do such a thing. No, Andy; there are lots of men that hold such matters lightly, but Idon’tthink I’m one of them. Whatever sins I have, or may ever have upon my soul, I hope such a one as thatmW never be there.”

All the comment Andy made was, “I thought so.” Then the habitual quizzical look stole over his face again, and he said:

“There does be some that does fear braches iv promise. Mind ye, a man has to be mighty careful on the subiect, for some weemin is that cute there’s no bein’ up to them.”

Andy’s sudden change to this new theme was a little embarrassing, since the idea leading to it  —  or rather preceding it  —  had been one purely personal to myself; but he was off, and I thought it better that he should go on.

“Indeed!” said I. “Yes, surr. Oh my, but they’re cute. The first thing that a girrul does when a man looks twice at her, is t’ ask him to write her a letther, an’ thin she has him  —  tight.”

“How so, Andy?” “Well, ye see, surr, when you’re writin’ a letther to a girrul, ye can’t begin widouta ‘My dear’ ora ‘Mydarlin’, an’ thin she has the grip iv the law onto ye! An’ ye do be badgered be the counsillors, an’ ye do be frowned at be the judge, an’ ye do be laughed at be the people, an’ ye do have to pay yer money, an’ there ye are!” “I say, Andy,” said I, “I think you must have been in trouble yourself in that way; you seem to have it all off pat.”

“Oh, throth, not me, yer ‘an’r. Glory be to God! but I niver was a defindant in me life  —  an’ more betoken, I don’t want to be  —  but I was wance a witness in a case ivthe kind.”

“And what did you witness?” “Faix, I was called to prove that I seen the gintleman’s arrum around the girrul’s waist. The counsillors made a deal out iv that  —  just as if it warn’t only manners to hould up a girrul on a car!”

“What was the case, Andy? Tell me all about it.” I did not mind his waiting, as it gave me an excuse for stavinq on the top of the hill. I knew I could easily qet rid of him when she came  —  if she came  —  by sending him on a message.

“Well, this was a young woman what had an action agin Shquire Murphy, iv Ballynashoughlin himself  —  a woman as was no more nor a mere simple governess!” It would be impossible to convey the depth of social unimportance conveyed by his tone and manner; and coming from a man of “shreds and patches,” it was more than comic. Andy had his good suit of frieze and homespun; but while he was on mountain duty, he spared these and appeared almost in the guise of a scarecrow.

“Well, what happened?”

“Faix, whin she tould hershtory the shquire’s councillor luked up at the jury, an’ he whispered a wurrd to the shquire and his ‘an’rwrote outa shlip iv paperan’ handed it to him, an’ the councillor ups an’ says he: ‘Me lard and gintlemin iv the jury, me client is prepared to have the honor iv the lady’s hand if she will so, for let by-gones be by-gones.’ An’, sure enough, theywas married on the Sunday next four weeks; an’ there she is nowdhrivin’ him about the counthry in her pony-shay, an’ all the quality comin’ to tay in the garden, an’ she as affable as iver to all the farmers round. Aye, an’ be the hokey, the shquire himself sez that it was a good day for him whin he sot eyes on her first, an’ that he don’t know why he was such a damn fool as iver to thry to say ‘no’ to her, or to wish it.”

“Quite a tale with a moral, Andy. Bravo, Mrs. Murphy.”

“A morial is it? Now, may I make bould to ask yer ‘an’r what morial ye take out iv it?”

“The moral, Andy, that I see is, When you see the right woman go for herforall you’re worth, and thank God for giving you the chance.” Andyjumped up and gave me a great slap on the back. “Hurroo! more power to yer elbow! but it’s a bhoy afther me own h’arrty’ are. I big yer pardon, surr, for the liberty; but it’s mighty glad lam.”

“Granted, Andy; I like a man to be hearty, and you certainlyare. But whyare you so glad about me?” “Because I like yer’an’r. Shure in all me life I niver see so much iv a young gentleman as I’ve done iv yer ‘an’r. Surr, I’m an ould man compared wid ye  —  I’m the beginnin’ iv wan, at any rate  —  an’ I’d like to give ye a wurrd iv advice; git marrid while ye can! I tell ye this, surr, it’s not whin the hair is beginnin’ to git thin on to the top ivyer head that a nice young girrul ‘ill love ye for yerself. It’s the people that goes all their lives makin’ moneyand lukin’ after all kinds iv things that’s no kind iv use to thim, that makes the mishtake. Suppose ye do git marrid when ye’re ould and bald, an’ yer legs is shaky, an’ ye want to be let sit close to the fire in the warrum corner, an’ ye’ve lashins iv money that ye don’t know what to do wid! Do you think that it’s thin that yer wives does be dhramin’ ivye all the time and worshippin’ the ground ye thrid? Not a bit iv it! They do be wantin’  —  aye and thryin’ too  —  to help God away wid ye!” “Andy,” said I, “you preach, on a practical text, a sermon that any and every young man ought to hear.” I thought I saw an opening here for gaining some information, and at once jumped in.

“By Jove! you set me off wishing to marry! Tell me, is there any pretty girl in this neighborhood that would suit a young man like me?” “Oho! begor, there’s girruls enough to shute any man.”

“Aye, Andy  —  but pretty girls!” “Well surr, thatdepinds. Now what might be yer’anVs idea iva purtygirrul?” “My dear Andy, there are so many different kinds of prettiness that it is hard to say.” “Faix, an’ I’ll tell ye if there’s a girrul to shute in the counthry, for bedad I think I’ve seen thim all. But you must let me know what would shute ye best?” “How can I well tell that, Andy, when I don’t know myself? Show me the girl, and I’ll very soon tell you.” “Unless I was to ax yer’an’r questions;” this was said very slyly.

“Go on, Andy; there is nothing like the Socratic method.” “Very well, thin; I’ll ax two kinds iv things, an’ yer’an’r will tell me which ye’d like the best.” “All right, go on.” “Long or short?” “Tall; not short, certainly.” “Fat or lane?”

“Fie! fie! Andy, for shame; you talk as if they were cattle or pigs.”

“Begor, there’s only wan kind ivfatan’ lane that I knows of; but avye like I’ll call it thick or thin; which is it?” “Not too fat, but certainly not skinny.” Andy held up his hands in mock horror:

“Yer ‘an’r shpakes as if ye was talkin’ iv powlthry.” “I mean, Andy,” said I, with a certain sense of shame, “she is not to be either too fat or too lean, as you put it.” “Ye mane ‘shtreakyT “Streaky!” said I, “what do you mean?” He answered promptly:

“Shtreaky  —  thick an’ thin  —  like belly bacon.” I said nothing. I felt certain it would be useless and out of place. He went on: “Nixt, fair or dark?” “Dark, by all means.” “Dark be it, surr. What kind iveyes might she have?” “Ah! eyes like darkness on the bosom of the azure deep!”

“Musha! but that’s a quare kind iveye fur a girrul to have intirely! Is she to be all dark, surr, or only the hair of her?” “I don’t mean a nigger, Andy!” I thought I would be even with him for once in a way. He laughed heartily. “Oh, my, but that’s a good wan. Be the hokey, a girrul can be dark enough fur any man widout bein’ a naygur. Glory be to God, but I niver seen a faymale naygur meself, but I suppose there’s such things; God’s very good to all his craythurs! But, barrin’ naygurs, must she be all dark?” “Well, not of necessity, but I certainly preferwhat we call a brunette.”