Complete Works of Bram Stoker (29 page)

The following day Mr. Caicy turned up at the hotel according to his promise. He openly told Mrs. Keating, of whom he had often before been a customer, that he had business with Mr. Murdock. He was, as usual with him, affable to all, “passing the time of day” with the various inhabitants of all degrees, and, as if a stranger, entering into conversation with me as we sat at lunch in the coffee- room. When we were alone he whispered to me that all was ready; that he had made an examination of the title, for which Murdock had sent him all the necessary papers, and that the deed was complete and ready to be signed. He told me he was going over that day to Knockcalltecrore, and would arrange that he would be there the next day, and that he would take care to have some one to witness the signatures.

On the following morning, when Dick went off with Andy to Knocknacar, and Mr. Caicy drove over to Knockcalltecrore, where I also shortly took my way on another car.

We met at Murdock’s house. The deed was duly completed, and Mr. Caicy handed over to Murdock the letter from the bank where the lodgment had been made.

The land was now mine; and I was to have possession on the 27th of October. Mr. Caicy took the deed with him, and with it took also instructions to draw out a deed making the property over to Richard Sutherland. He went straight away to Galway; while I, in listless despair, wandered out on the hill-side to look at the view.

CHAPTER X

 
I went along the mountain-side until I came to the great ridge of rocks which, as Dick had explained to me, protected the lower end of Murdock’s farm from the westerly wind. I climbed to the top to get a view, and then found that the ridge was continuous, running as far as the Snake’s Pass where I had first mounted it. Here, however, I was not, as then, above the sea, for I was opposite what they had called the Cliff Fields, and a very strange and beautiful sight it was. Some hundred and fifty feet below me was a plateau of seven or eight acres in extent, and some two hundred and fifty feet above the sea. It was sheltered on the north by a high wall of rock like that I stood on, serrated in the same way, as the strata ran in similar layers. In the centre there rose a great rock, with a flat top some quarter of an acre in extent. The whole plateau, save this one bare rock, was a mass of verdure. It was watered by a small stream which fell through a deep, narrow cleft in the rocks, where the bog drains itself from Murdock’s present land. The after-grass was deep, and there were many clumps of trees and shrubs  —  none of them of considerable height except a few great stone-pines which towered aloft and dared the fury of the western breeze. But not all the beauty of the scene could hold my eyes, for seated on the rocky table in the centre, just as I had seen her on the hill-top at Knocknacar, sat a girl to all intents the ditto of my unknown.

My heart gave a great bound, and in the tumult of hope that awoke within my breast the whole world seemed filled with sunshine. For an instant I almost lost my senses; my knees shook, and my eyes grew dim. Then came a horrible suspense and doubt. It was impossible to believe that I should see my Unknown here when I least expected to see her. And then came the man’s desire of action.

I do not know how I began. To this day I cannot make out whether I took a bee-line for that isolated table of rock, and from where I was slid or crawled down the face of the rock, or whether I made a detour to the same end. All I can recollect is that Ifound myself scrambling over some large bowlders, and then passing through the deep, heavy grass at the foot of the rock. Here I halted to collect my thoughts: a moment sufficed. I was too much in earnest to need any deliberation, and there was no choice of ways. I only waited to be sure that I would not create any alarm by unnecessary violence.

Then I ascended the rock. I did not make more noise than I could help, but I did not try to come silently. She had evidently heard steps, for she spoke without turning round.

“Am I wanted?” Then, as I was passing across the plateau, my step seemed to arouse her attention; for at a bound she leaped to her feet, and turned with a glad look that went through the shadow of my soul, as the sunshine strikes through the mist.

“Arthur!” She almost rushed to meet me, but stopped suddenly, for an instant grew pale, and then a red flush crimsoned her face and neck. She put up her hands before herface, and I could see the tears drop through her fingers.

As for myself, I was half dazed. When I saw that it was indeed my Unknown a wild joy leaped to my heart; and then came the revulsion from my long pent-up sorrow and anxiety; and as I faltered out, “At last! at last!” the tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. There is, indeed, a dry-eyed grief, but its corresponding joy is as often smitten with sudden tears.

In an instant I was by her side, and had her hand in mine. It was only for a moment, for she withdrew it with a low cry of maidenly fear; but in that moment of gentle, mutual pressure a whole world had passed, and we knew that we loved.

We were silent for a time, and then we sat together on a bowlder, she edging away from me shyly. What matters it of what we talked? There was not much to say  —  nothing that was new  —  the old, old story that has been told since the days when Adam, waking, found that a new joy had entered into his life. For those whose feet have wandered in Eden there is no need to speak; for those who are yet to tread the hallowed ground there is no need either  —  for in the fulness of time their knowledge will come. It was not till we had sat some time that we exchanged any sweet words: they were sweet, although to anyone but ourselves they would have seemed the most absurd and soulless commonplaces.

We spoke, and that was all. It is of the nature of love that it can from airy nothings win its own celestial food. Presently I said  —  and I pledge my word that this was the first speech that either of us had made, beyond the weather and the view, and such lighter topics: “Won’t you tell me your name? I have so longed to know it, all these weary days.” “Norah  —  Norah Joyce. I thought you knew.” This was said with a shy lifting of the eyelashes, which were as suddenly and as shyly dropped again. “Norah!” As I spoke the word  —  and my whole soul was in its speaking  —  the happy blush overspread her face again. “Norah! What a sweet name  —  Norah! No, I did not know it; if I had known it, when I missed you from the hill-top at Knocknacar, I should have sought you here.”

Somehow her next remark seemed to chill me: “I thought you remembered me, from that night when father came home with you?” There seemed some disappointment that I had so forgotten.

“That night,” I said, “I did not see you at all. It was so dark that I felt like a blind man; I only heard your voice.” “I thought you remembered my voice.” The disappointment was still manifest. Fool that I was!  —  that voice, once heard, should have sunk into my memory forever.

“I thought your voice was familiar when I heard you on the hill-top; but when I saw you, I loved you from that moment; and then every other woman’s voice in the world went, for me, out of existence!” She half arose, but sat down again, and the happy blush once more mantled her cheek. I felt that my peace was made. “My name is Arthur.” Here a thought struck me  —  struck me for the first time, and sent through me a thrill of unutterable delight: the moment she had seen me she had mentioned my name  —  all unconsciously, it is true, but she had mentioned it. I feared, however, to alarm her by attracting her attention to it as yet, and went on: “Arthur Severn  —  but I think you know it.”

“Yes; I heard it mentioned up at Knocknacar.”

“Who by?”

“Andy, the driver. He spoke to my aunt and me when we were driving down, the day after we  —  after we met on the hill-top the last time.”

Andy! And so my jocose friend knew all along! Well, wait! I must be even with him!

“Your aunt?”

“Yes; my aunt Kate. Father sent me up to her, for he knew it would distress me to see all our things moved from our dear old home  —  all my mother’s things. And father would have been distressed to see me grieved, and I to see him. It was kind of him; he is always so good to me.” “He is a good man, Norah  —  I know that; I only hope he won’t hate me.” “Why?” This was said very faintly. “For wanting to carry off his daughter. Don’t go, Norah. For God’s sake, don’t go! I shall not say anything you do not wish; but if you only knew the agony I have been in since I saw you last  —  when I thought I had lost you  —  you would pity me  —  indeed you would! Norah, I love you! No! you must listen to me  —  you must! I want you to be my wife  —  I shall love and honor you all my life! Don’t refuse me, dear; don’t draw back  —  for I love you!  —  I love you!” There, it was all out. The pent-up waters find their own course.

For a minute, at least, Norah sat still. Then she turned to me very gravely, and there were tears in her eyes: “Oh, why did you speak like that, sir? why did you speak like that? Let me go!  —  let me go! You must not try to detain me!” I stood back, for we had both risen. “I am conscious of your good intention  —  of the honor you do me  —  but I must have time to think. Good-bye!” She held out her hand. I pressed it gently  —  I dared not do more  —  true love is very timid at times! She bowed to me, and moved off. A sudden flood of despair rushed over me  —  the pain of the days when I thought I had lost her could not be soon forgotten, and I feared that I might lose her again. “Stay, Norah! stay one moment!” She stopped and turned round. “I may see you again, may I not? Do not be cruel! May I not see you again?” A sweet smile lit up the perplexed sadness of her face. “You may meet me here to-morrow evening, if you will,” and she was gone. To-morrow evening! Then there was hope; and with gladdened heart I watched her pass across the pasture and ascend a path over the rocks. Her movements were incarnate grace; her beauty and her sweet presence filled the earth and air. When she passed from my sight, the sunlight seemed to pale and the warm air to grow chill. For a long while I sat on that table rock, and my thoughts were of heavenly sweetness  —  all, save one which was of earth  —  one brooding fear that all might not be well  —  some danger I did not understand.

And then I too arose, and took my way across the plateau, and climbed the rock, and walked down the boreen on my wayfor Carnaclif. And then, and for the first time, did a thought strike me  —  one which for a moment made my blood run cold  —  Dick!

Aye, Dick! What about him? It came to me with a shudder, that my happiness  —  if it should be my happiness  —  must be based on the pain of myfriend. Here, then, there was perhaps a clew to Norah’s strange gravity! Could Dick have made a proposal to her? He admitted having spoken to her. Why should he, too, not have been impulsive? Why should it not be that he, being the first to declare himself, had got a favorable answer, and that now Norah was not free to choose? How I cursed the delay in finding her; how I cursed and found fault with everyone and everything! Andy, especially, came infer my ill-will. He, at any rate, knew that my unknown of the hill-top at Knocknacar was none other than Norah.

And yet, stay! who but Andy persisted in turning my thoughts to Norah, and more than once suggested my paying a visit to Shleenanaher to see her? No; Andy must be acquitted at all points; common justice demanded that.

Who, then, was I to blame? Not Andy  —  not Dick, who was too noble and too loyal a friend to give any cause for such a thought. Had he not asked me at the first if the woman of my fancy was not this very woman; and had he not confessed his own love only when I answered him that it was not? No; Dick must be acquitted from blame.

Acquitted from blame! Was that justice? At present he was in the position of a wronged man, and it was I who had wronged him, in ignorance certainly, but still the wrong was mine. And now what could I do? Should I tell Dick? I shrank from such a thing; and as yet there was little to tell. Not till to-morrow evening should I know my fate; and might not that fate be such that it would be wiser not to tell Dick of it? Norah had asked for time to consider my offer. If it should be that she had already promised Dick, and yet should have taken time to consider another offer, would it be fair to tell Dick of such hesitation, even though the result was a loyal adherence to her promise to him? Would such be fair either to him or to her? No; he must not be told  —  as yet, at all events.

How, then, should I avoid telling him, in case the subject should crop up in the course of conversation? I had not told him of any of my late visits to Knockcalltecrore, although, God knows! they were taken not in my own interest, but entirely in his; and now an explanation seemed impossible.

Thus revolving the situation in my mind as I walked along, I came to the conclusion that the wisest thing I could do was to walk to some other place and stay there for the night. Thus I might avoid questioning altogether. On the morrow I could return to Carnaclif, and go over to Shleenanaher at such a time that I might cross Dick on the way, so that I might see Norah and get her answer without anyone knowing of my visit. Having so made up my mind, I turned my steps towards Roundwood, and when I arrived there in the evening sent a wire to Dick: “Walked here, very tired; sleep here to-night; probably return to-morrow.” The long walk did me good, for it made me thoroughly tired, and that night, despite my anxiety of mind, I slept well  —  I went to sleep with Norah’s name on my lips. The next day I arrived at Carnaclif about mid-day. I found that Dick had taken Andy to Knockcalltecrore. I waited until it was time to leave, and then started off. About half a mile from the foot of the boreen I went and sat in a clump of trees, where I could not be seen, but from which I could watch the road, and presently saw Dick passing along on Andy’s car. When they had quite gone out of sight, I went on my way to the Cliff Fields. I went with mingled feelings: there was hope, there was joy at the remembrance of yesterday, there was expectation that I would see her again  —  even though the result might be unhappiness  —  there was doubt, and there was a horrible haunting dread. My knees shook, and I felt weak as I climbed the rocks. I passed across the field and sat on the table-rock. Presently she came to join me. With a queenly bearing she passed over the ground, seeming to glide rather than to walk. She was very pale, but as she drew near I could see in her eyes a sweet calm. I went forward to meet her, and in silence we shook hands. She motioned to the bowlder, and we sat down. She was less shy than yesterday, and seemed in many subtle ways to be, though not less girlish, more of a woman.