Complete Works of Bram Stoker (31 page)

After breakfast I had been in my room, making myself as smart as I could, for, of course, I hoped to see Norah, when I heard a knock at the door, timid but hurried. When I called to “come in,” Andy’s head appeared; and then his whole body was by some mysterious wriggle conveyed through the partial opening of the door. When within, he closed it, and, putting a finger to his lip, said, in a mysterious whisper: “Masther Art!”

“Well, Andy, what is it?”

“Whisper me now! Shure, I don’t want to see yer’an’r so onasyinyer mind.” I guessed what was coming, so interrupted him, for I was determined to get even with him.

“Now, Andy, if you have any nonsense about your ‘Miss Norah,’ I don’t want to hear it.” “Whisht, surr; let me shpake. I mustn’t kape Misther Dick waitin’. Now take me advice, an’ take a luk out to Shleenanaher. Ye may see some wan there what ye don’t ixpect.” This was said with a sly mysteriousness impossible to describe.

“No, no, Andy,” said I, looking as sad as I could. “I can see no one there that I don’t expect.” “They do say, surr, that the fairies does take quare shapes; and your fairy girrul may have gone to Shleenanaher. Fairies may want to take the wather like mortials.”

“Take the water, Andy! What do you mean?” “What do I mane! why what the quality does call say- bathin’. An’, maybe, the fairy girrul has gone too!”

“Ah, no, Andy,” said I, in as melancholy a way as I could, “my fairy girl is gone. I shall never see her again.”

Andy looked at me very keenly; and then a twinkle came in his eye, and he said, slapping his thigh: “Begor, but I believe yer ‘an’r is cured. Ye used to be that melancholy that, bedad, it’s meself what was gettin’ sarious about ye; an’ now it’s only narvous ye are. Well, if the fairy is gone, why not see Miss Norah? Sure wan sight iv her’d cure all the fairy spells what iverwas cast. Go now, yer ‘an’r, an’ see her this day!” I said with decision, “No, Andy, I will not go to-day to see Miss Norah. I have something else to do.” “Oh, very well!” said he with simulated despondency. “If yer ‘an’r won’t, of course ye won’t; but ye’re wrong. At any rate, if ye’re in the direction iv Shleenanaher, will ye go an’ see th’ ould man? Musha, but I’m thinkin’ it’s glad he’d be to see yer’an’r.”

Despite all I could do, I felt blushing up to the roots of my hair. Andy looked at me quizzically, and said oracularly, and with sudden seriousness: “Begor! if yer fairy girrul is turned into a fairy complately, an’ has flew away from ye, maybe ould Joyce too’d become a leprachaun! Hould him tight whin ye catch him! Remimber, wid leprachauns, if ye wance let thim go ye may nivergitthim agin. But if ye hould thim tight, they must do whatsumiverye wish. So they do say  —  but maybe I’m wrong  —  I’m intherfarin’ wid a gintleman as was bit be a fairy, and knows more nor mortials does about thim. There’s the masther callin’. Good-bye, surr, an’ good luck!” and with a grin at me over his shoulder, Andy hurried away.

I muttered to myself: “If any one is a fairy, my bold Andy, I think I can name him. You seem to know everything!” This scene came back to me with renewed freshness. I could not but feel that Andy was giving me some advice. He evidently knew more than he pretended; indeed, he must have known all along of the identity of my Unknown of Knocknacar with Norah. He now also evidently knew of my knowledge on the subject; and he either knew or guessed that I was off to see Joyce on the subject of his daughter. In my present state of embarrassment, his advice was a distinct light. He knew the people, and Joyce especially; he also saw some danger to my hopes, and showed me a way to gain my object. I knew already that Joyce was a proud man, and I could quite conceive that he was an obstinate one; and I knew from general experience of life that there is no obstacle so difficult to surmount as the pride of an obstinate man. With all the fervor of my heart I prayed that, on this occasion, his pride might not in anyway be touched or arrayed against me. When I saw him I went straight towards him, and held out my hand. He seemed a little surprised, but took it. Like Bob Acres, I felt my courage oozing out of the tips of my fingers, but with the remnant of it threw myself into the battle:

“Mr. Joyce, I have come to speak to you on a very serious subject.”

“A sarious subject! Is it concarnin’ me?”

“It is.”

“Go on. More throuble, I suppose?” “I hope not, most sincerely. Mr. Joyce, I want to have your permission to marry your daughter.” If I had suddenly turned into a bird and flown away, I do not think I could have astonished him more. For a second or two he was speechless, and then said, in an unconscious sort of way: “Want to marry me daughter!”

“Yes, Mr. Joyce. I love her very dearly. She is a pearl among women; and if you will give your permission, I shall be the happiest man on earth. I can quite satisfy you as to my means. I am well to do; indeed, as men go, I am a rich man.”

“Aye, sir, I don’t doubt. I’m contint that you are what you say. But you never saw me daughter, except that dark night when you took me home.”

“Oh yes, I have seen her several times, and spoken with her; but, indeed I only wanted to see her once to love her.”

“Ye have seen her, and she never tould me! Come wid me!” He beckoned me to come with him, and strode at a rapid pace to his cottage, opened the door, and motioned me to go in. I entered the room  —  which was both kitchen and living-room  —  to which he pointed. He followed.

As I entered, Norah, who was sewing, saw me and stood up. A rosy blush ran over her face; then she grew as white as snow as she saw the stern face of her father close behind me. I stepped forward, and took her hand; when I let it go, her arm fell by her side. “Daughter”  —  Joyce spoke very sternly, but not unkindly  —  ”do you know this gentleman?”

“Yes, father.”

“He tells me that you and he have met several times. Is it thrue?”

“Yes, father, but  —  ” “Ye never tould me! How was that?”

“It was by accident we met.” “Always be accident?” Here I spoke:

“Always by accident  —  on her part.” He interrupted me: “Yer pardon, young gentleman. I wish me daughter to answer me! Shpeak, Norah!” “Always, father, except once, and then I came to give a message  —  yes! it was a message, although from myself.”

“What missage?” “Oh father, don’t make me speak! We are not alone. Let me tell you alone, lam only a girl, and it is hard to speak.”

His voice had a tear in it, for all its sternness, as he answered:

“It is on a subject that this gentleman has spoke to me about  —  as mayhap he has spoke to you.”

“Oh, father!”  —  she took his hand, which he did not withdraw, and, bending over, kissed it and hugged it to her breast  —  oh, father, what have I done that you should seem to mistrust me? You have always trusted me; trust me now, and don’t make me speak till we are alone!” I could not be silent any longer. My blood began to boil, that she I loved should be so distressed, whatsoever the cause, and at the hands of whomsoever, even herfather.

“Mr. Joyce, you must let me speak! You would speak yourself to save pain to a woman you loved.” He turned to tell me to be silent, but suddenly stopped. I went on: “Norah”  —  he winced as I spoke her name  —  ”is entirely blameless. I met her quite by chance at the top of Knocknacar when I went to see the view. I did not know who she was  —  I had not the faintest suspicion; but from that moment I loved her. I went next day, and waited all day in the chance of seeing her; I did see her, but again came away in ignorance even of her name. I sought her again, day after day, day after day, but could get no word of her; for I did not know who she was, or where she came from. Then, by chance, and after many weary days, again I saw her in the Cliff Fields below, three days ago. I could no longer be silent, but told her that I loved her, and asked her to be my wife. She asked a while to think, and left me, promising to give me an answer on the next evening. I came again, and I got my answer.” Here Norah, who was sobbing, with her face turned away, looked round, and said: “Hush! hush! You must not let father know. All the harm will be done!” Herfather answered in a low voice: “All that could be done is done already, daughter. Ye never tould me!” “Sir, Norah is worthy of all esteem. Her answer to me was that she could not leave her father, who was all alone in the world.” Norah turned away again, but herfather’s arm went round her shoulder. “She told me I must think no more of her; but, sir, you and I, who are men, must not let a woman, who is dear to us both make such a sacrifice.” Joyce’s face was somewhat bitter as he answered me:

“Ye think pretty well of yerself, young sir, whin ye consider it a sacrifice for me daughter to shtay wid the father, who loves her, and who she loves. There was never a shadda on her life till ye came.” This was hard to hear, but harder to answer, and I stammered as I replied: “I hope I am man enough to do what is best for her, even if it were to break my heart. But she must marry some time; it is the lot of the young and beautiful.” Joyce paused a while, and his look grew very tender as he made answer, softly:

“Aye, thrue, thrue! The young birds lave the nist in due sayson  —  that’s only natural.” This seemed sufficient concession for the present; but Andy’s warning rose before me, and I spoke:

“Mr. Joyce, God knows I don’t want to add one drop of bitterness to either of your lives! Only tell me that I may have hope, and I am content to wait and to try to win your esteem and Norah’s love.”

The father drew his daughter closer to him, and with his other hand stroked her hair, and said, while his eyes filled with tears:

“Ye didn’t wait for me esteem to win her love.” Norah threw herself into his arms and hid herface on his breast.

He went on:

“We can’t undo what is done. If Norah loves ye  —  and it seems to me that she does  —  do I shpeak thrue, daughter? “ The girl raised herface bravely, and looked in her father’s eyes:

“Yes! father.” A thrill of wild delight rushed through me. As she dropped her head again, I could see that her neck had “The colour of the budding rose’s crest.”

“Well, well,” Joyce went on, “ye are both young yit. God knows what may happen in a year! Lave the girl free a bit to choose. She has not met many gentlemen in her time, and she maydesave herself. Me darlin’, whativer is foryour good shall be done, plase God!” “And am I to have her in time?” The instant I had spoken I felt that I had made a mistake; the man’s face grew hard as he turned to me: “I think for me daughter, sir, not for you. As it is, her happiness seems to be mixed up with yours  —  lucky for ye. I suppose ye must meet now and thin; but ye must both promise me that ye’II not meet widout me lave, or, at laste, me knowin’ it. We’re not gentle-folk, sir, and we don’t undherstand their ways. If ye were of Norah’s and me own kind, I mightn’t have to say the same; but ye’re not.” Things were now so definite that I determined to make one I more effort to fix a time when my happiness might be certain, so I asked: “Then if all be well, and you agree  —  as please God you shall when you know me better  —  when may I claim her?” When he was face to face with a definite answer Joyce again grew stern. He looked down at his daughter and then up at me, and said, stroking her hair: “Whin the threasure of Knockcalltecrore is found, thin ye may claim her if ye will, an’ I’ll freely let her go.” As he spoke, there came before my mind the strong idea that we were all in the power of the Hill  —  that it held us; however, as lightly as I could I spoke: “Then I would claim her now!” “What do ye mane?”  —  this was said half anxiously, half fiercely.

“The treasure of Knockcalltecrore is here; you hold her in your arms!” He bent over her: “Aye, the threasure sure enough  —  the threasure ye would rob me of.” Then he turned to me, and said sternly, but not unkindly: “Go, now; I can’t bear more at prisent, and even me daughter may wish to be for a while alone wid me.” I bowed my head and turned to leave the room; but as I was going out, he called me back: “Shtay! Afther all, the young is only young. Ye seem to have done but little harm  —  if any.” He held out his hand; I grasped it closely, and from that instant it seemed that our hearts warmed to each other. Then I felt bolder, and stepping to Norah took her hand  —  she made no resistance  —  and pressed it to my lips, and went out silently. I had hardly left the door when Joyce came after me. “Come agin in an hour,” he said, and went in and shut the door.

Then I wandered to the rocks and climbed down the rugged path into the Cliff Fields. I strode through the tall grass and the weeds, rank with the continuous rain, and gained the table rock. I climbed it, and sat where I first had met my love, after I had lost her; and, bending, I kissed the ground where her feet had rested. And then I prayed as fervent a prayer as the heart of a lover can yield, for every blessing on the future of my beloved; and made high resolves that whatsoever might befall, I would so devote myself that, if a man’s efforts could accomplish it, her feet should never fall on thorny places. I sat there in a tumult of happiness. The air was full of hope, and love, and light; and I felt that in all the wild glory and fulness of nature the one unworthy object was myself. When the hour was nearly up I went back to the cottage; the door was open, but I knocked on it with my hand. A tender voice called to me to come in, and I entered.

Norah was standing up in the centre of the room. Her face was radiant, although her sweet eyes were bright with recent tears; and I could see that in the hour which I had passed on the rock, the hearts of the father and the child had freely spoken. The old love between them had taken a newer and fuller and more conscious life  —  based, as God has willed it with the hearts of men, on the parent’s sacrifice of self for the happiness of the child. Without a word I took her in my arms. She came without bashfulness and without fear; only love and trust spoke in every look and every moment. The cup of our happiness was full to the brim; and it seemed as though God saw, and, as of old with His completed plan of the world, was satisfied that all was good.

We sat, hand in hand, and told again and again the simple truths that lovers tell; and we built bright mansions of future hope. There was no shadow on us, except the shadow that slowly wrapped the earth in the wake of the sinking sun. The long, level rays of sunset spread through the diamond panes of the lattice, grew across the floor, and rose on the opposite wall; but we did not heed them until we heard Joyce’s voice behind us: