Complete Works of Bram Stoker (30 page)

When we sat down I laid my hand on hers and said  —  and I felt that my voice was hoarse: “Well?”

She looked at me tenderly, and said, in a sweet, grave voice:

“My father has a claim on me that I must not overlook. He is all alone; he has lost my mother, and my brother is away, and is going into a different sphere of life from us. He has lost his land that he prized and valued, and that has been ours for a long, long time; and now that he is sad and lonely, and feels that he is growing old, how could I leave him? He that has always been so good and kind to me all my life!” Here the sweet eyes filled with tears. I had not taken away my hand, and she had not removed hers; this negative of action gave me hope and courage.

“Norah! answer me one thing: is there any other man between your heart and me?”

“Oh, no! no!” Her speech was impulsive; she stopped as suddenly as she began. A great weight seemed lifted from my heart, and yet there came a qualm of pity for my friend. Poor Dick! poor Dick! Again we were silent for a minute. I was gathering courage for another question. “Norah!”  —  I stopped; she looked at me.

“Norah, if your father had other objects in life, which would leave you free, what would be your answer to me?”

“Oh, do not ask me! do not ask me!” Her tone was imploring; but there are times when manhood must assert itself, even though the heart be torn with pity for woman’s weakness. I went on: “I must, Norah, I must! I am in torture till you tell me! Be pitiful to me! Be merciful to me! Tell me, do you love me? You know I love you, Norah. O God! how I love you! The world has but one being in it for me; and you are that one! With every fibre of my being  —  with all my heart and soul  —  I love you! Won’t you tell me, then, if you love me?” A flush as rosy as dawn came over her face, and timidly she asked me, “Must I answer? Must I?” “You must, Norah!” “Then, I do love you! God help us both! but I love you! I love you!” and tearing away her hand from mine, she put both hands before her face and burst into a passionate flood of tears. There could be but one ending to such a scene. In an instant she was in my arms. Her will and mine went down before a sudden flood of passion that burst upon us both. She hid her face upon my breast, but I raised it tenderly, and our lips met in one long, loving, passionate kiss. We sat on the bowlder, hand in hand, and whispering confessed to each other, in the triumph of our love, all those little secrets of the growth of our affection that lovers hold dear. That final separation, which had been spoken of but a while ago, was kept out of sight by mutual consent; the dead would claim its dead soon enough. Love lives in the present, and in the sunshine finds its joy.

Well, the men of old knew the human heart when they fixed upon the butterfly as the symbol of the soul; for the rainbow is but sunshine through a cloud, and love, like the butterfly, takes the colours of the rainbowon its airy wings!

Long we sat in that beauteous spot. High above us towered the everlasting rocks; the green of Nature’s planting lay beneath our feet; and far off the reflection of the sunset lightened the dimness of the soft twilight over the wrinkled sea.

We said little as we sat hand in hand; but the silence was a poem, and the sound of the sea and the beating of our hearts were hymns of praise to Nature and to Nature’s God.

We spoke no more of the future; for now that we knew that we were each beloved, the future had but little terror for us. We were content.

When we had taken our last kiss, and parted beneath the shadow of the rock, I watched her depart through the gloaming to her own home; and then, I too, took my way. At the foot of the boreen I met Murdock, who looked at me in a strange manner, and merely growled some reply to my salutation.

I felt that I could never meet Dick to-night. Indeed, I wished to see no human being, and so I sat for long on the crags above the sounding sea; and then wandered down to the distant beach. To and fro I went all the night long, but ever in sight of the Hill, and ever and anon coming near to watch the cottage where Norah slept.

In the early morning, I took my way to Roundwood, and going to bed, slept until late in the day.

When I woke I began to think of how I could break my news to Dick. I felt that the sooner it was done the better. At first I had a vague idea of writing to him from where I was, and explaining all to him; but this, I concluded, would not do; it seemed too cowardly a way to deal with so true and loyal a friend. I would go now and await his arrival at Carnaclif, and tell him all, at the earliest moment when I could find an opportunity.

I drove to Carnaclif, and waited his coming impatiently, for I intended, if it were not too late, to afterwards drive over to Shleenanaher, and see Norah  —  or at least the house she was in.

Dick arrived a little earlier than usual, and I could see from the window that he was grave and troubled. When he got down from the car he asked if I were in, and being answered in the affirmative, ordered dinner to be put on the table as soon as possible, and went up to his room.

I did not come down until the waiter came to tell me that dinnerwas ready. Dick had evidently waited also, and followed me down-stairs. When he came into the room, he said heartily:

“Holloa, Art, old fellow, welcome back! I thought you were lost,” and shook hands with me warmly.

Neither of us seemed to have much appetite, but we pretended to eat, and sent away plates full of food, cut up into the smallest proportions. When the apology for dinner was over, Dick offered me a cigar, lit his own, and said: “Come out for a stroll on the sand, Art; I want to have a chat with you.” I could feel that he was making a great effort to appear hearty, but there was a hollowness about his voice, which was not usual. As we went through the hall, Mrs. Keating handed me my letters, which had just arrived.

We walked out on the wide stretch of fine hard sand, which lies westwards from Carnaclif when the tide is out, and were a considerable distance from the town before a word was spoken. Dick turned to me, and said:

“Art, what does it all mean?” I hesitated for a moment, for I hardly knew where to begin. The question, so comprehensive and so sudden, took me aback. Dick went on: “Art, two things I have always believed, and I won’t give them up without a struggle. One is that there are very few things that, no matter how strange or wrong they look, won’t bear explanation of some kind; and the other is that an honorable man does not grow crooked in a moment. Is there anything, Art, that you would like to tell me?” “There is, Dick. I have a lot to tell; but won’t you tell me what you wish me to speak about?” I was just going to tell him all, but it suddenly occurred to me that it would be wise to know something of what was amiss with him first. “Then I shall ask you a few questions. Did you not tell me that the girl you were in love with was not Norah Joyce?” “I did; but I was wrong. I did not know it at the time; I only found it out, Dick, since I saw you last.” “Since you saw me last! Did you not then know that I loved Norah Joyce, and that I was only waiting a chance to ask her to marry me?” “I did.” I had nothing to add here; it came back to me that I had spoken and acted all along without a thought of myfriend.

“Have you not of late paid many visits to Shleenanaher; and have you not kept such visits quite dark from me?” “I have, Dick.”

“Did you keep me ignorant on purpose?”

“I did. But those visits were made entirely on your account.” I stopped, for a look of wonder and disgust spread over my companion’s face.

“On my account! on my account! And was it, Arthur Severn, on my account that you asked, as I presume you did, NorahJoyceto marry you  —  I take it for granted that your conduct was honorable, to her at any rate  —  the woman whom I had told you I loved, and that I wished to marry, and that you assured me that you did not love, your heart being fixed on another woman? I hate to speak so, Art, but I have had black thoughts, and am not quite myself. Was this all on my account?” It was a terrible question to answer, and I paused. Dick went on: “Was it on my account that you, a rich man, purchased the home that she loved; while, I, a poor one, had to stand by and see her father despoiled day by day, and, because of my poverty, had to go on with a hateful engagement, which placed me in a false position in her eyes?”

Here I saw daylight. I could answer this scathing question.

“It was, Dick, entirely on your account.” He drew away from me, and stood still, facing me in the twilight as he spoke:

“I should like you to explain, Mr. Severn, for your own sake, a statement like that.” Then I told him, with simple earnestness, all the truth. How I had hoped to further his love, since my own seemed so hopeless; how I had bought the land, intending to make it over to him, so that his hands might be strong to woo the woman he loved; how this and nothing else had taken me to Shleenanaher; and that while there I had learned that my own unknown love and Norah were one and the same; of my proposal to her  —  and here I told him humbly how in the tumult of my own passion I had forgotten his  —  whereat he shrugged his shoulders  —  and of my long anxiety till her answer was given. I told him that I had stayed away the first night at Roundwood, lest I should be betrayed into any speech which would lack in loyalty to him as well as to her. And then I told him of her decision not to leave her father, touching but lightly on the confession of her love, lest I should give him needless pain; I did not dare to avoid it lest I should mislead him to his further harm. When I had finished he said, softly: “Art, I have been in much doubt.” I thought a moment, and then remembered that I had in my pocket the letters which had been handed to me at the hotel, and that among them there was one from Mr. Caicy at Galway. This letter I took out and handed to Dick. “There is a letter unopened. Open it and it may tell you something. I know my word will suffice you; but this is in justice to us both.” Dick took the letter and broke the seal. He read the letterfrom Caicy, and then holding up the deed so that the dying light of the west should fall on it, read it. The deed was not very long. When he finished it he stood for a moment with his hands down by his sides; then he came over to me, and laying his hands, one of which grasped the deed, on my shoulders, said: “Thank God, Art, there need be no bitterness between me and thee! All is as you say; but oh, old fellow”  —  and here he laid his head on my shoulder and sobbed  —  ”my heart is broken! All the light has gone out of my life!” His despair was only for a moment. Recovering himself as quickly as he had been overcome, he said: “‘Nevermind, old fellow, only one of us must suffer; and, thank God! my secret is with you alone; no one else in the wide world even suspects. She must never know. Now tell me all about it; don’t fear that it will hurt me. It will be something to know that you are both happy. By the way, this had better be torn up; there is no need of it now!” Having torn the paper across, he put his arm over my shoulder as he used to do when we were boys; and so we passed into the gathering darkness. Thank God for loyal and royal manhood! Thank God for the heart ofa friend that can suffer and remaintrue! And thanks, above all, that the lessons of tolerance and forgiveness, taught of old by the Son of God, are nowand then remembered by the sons of men.

CHAPTER XI

 
When we were strolling back to the hotel Dick said to me:

“Cheer up, old fellow! You needn’t be the least bit downhearted. Go soon and see Joyce. He will not stand in the girl’s way, you may be sure. He is a good fellow, and loves Norah dearly  —  who could help it?” He stopped for a moment here, and choked a great sob, but went on bravely:

“It is only like her to be willing to sacrifice her own happiness; but she must not be let do that. Settle the matter soon. Go to-morrow to see Joyce. I shall go up to Knocknacar instead of working with Murdock; it will leave the coast clearforyou.” Then we went into the hotel,and I felt as if a great weight had been removed. When I was undressing I heard a knock. “Come in,” I called, and Dick entered. Dear old fellow! I could see that he had been wrestling with himself, and had won. His eyes were red, but there was a noble manliness about him which was beyond description.

“Art,” said he, “I wanted to tell you something, and I thought it ought to be told now. I wouldn’t like the night to close on any wrong impression between you and me. I hope you feel that my suspicion about fair play and the rest of it is all gone.”

“I do, old fellow, quite.”

“Well, you are not to get thinking of me as in anyway wronged in the matter, either by accident or design. I have been going overthe whole matter to try and get the heart of the mystery; and I think it only fair to say that no wrong could be done to me. I never spoke a single word to Norah in my life, nor did she to me. Indeed, I have seen her but seldom, though the first time was enough to finish me. Thank God, we have found out the true state of affairs before it was too late. It might have been worse, old lad, it might have been worse! I don’t think there’s any record  —  even in the novels  —  ofa man’s life being wrecked over a girl he didn’t know. We don’t get hit to death at sight, old boy. It’s only skin- deep this time, and though skin-deep hurts the most, it doesn’t kill. I thought I would tell you what I had worked out, for I knew we were such old friends that it would worry you and mar your happiness to think I was wretched. I hope, and I honestly expect, that by to-morrow I shall be all right, and able to enjoy the sight of both your happiness  —  as, please God, I hope such is to be.” We wrung each other’s hands, and I believe that from that moment we were closer friends than ever. As he was going out, Dick turned to me, and said: “It is odd about the legend, isn’t it? The Snake is in the Hill still, if I am not mistaken. He told me all about your visits and the sale of the land to you, in order to make mischief. But his time is coming; St. Patrick will lift that crozier of his before long.”

“But the Hill holds us all,” said I; and as I spoke there was an ominous feeling over me. “We’re not through yet; but it will be all right now.”

The last thing I saw was a smile on his face as he closed the door. The next morning Dick started for Knocknacar. It had been arranged the night before that he should go on Andy’s car, as I preferred walking to Shleenanaher. I had more than one reason for so doing, but that which I kept in the foreground of my own mind  —  and which I almost persuaded myself was the chief, if not the only reason  —  was that I did not wish to be troubled with Andy’s curiosity and impertinent badinage. My real and secret reason, however, was that I wished to be alone so that I might collect my thoughts, and acquire courage for what the French call un mauvais quart dfieure. In all classes of life, and under all conditions, this is an ordeal eminently to be dreaded by young men. No amount of reason is of the least avail to them; there is some horrible, lurking, unknown possibility which may defeat all their hopes, and may, in addition, add the flaming aggravation of making them appear ridiculous. I summed up my own merits, and, not being a fool, found considerable ground for hope. I was young, not bad-looking, Norah loved me; I had no great bogie of a past secret or misdeed to make me feel sufficiently guilty to feara just punishment falling upon me; and, considering all things, I was in a social position and of wealth beyond the dreams of a peasant  —  howsoever ambitious for his daughter he might be. And yet I walked along those miles of road that day with my heart perpetually sinking into my boots, and harassed with a vague dread which made me feel at times an almost irresistible inclination to run away. I can only compare my feelings, when I drew in sight of the hill-top, with those which animate the mind ofa young child when coming in sight of the sea in order to be dipped for the first time. There is, however, in man some wholesome fear of running away, which at times either takes the place of resolution, or else initiates the mechanical action of guiding his feet in the right direction  —  of prompting his speech and regulating his movements. Otherwise no young man, or very few at least, would ever face the ordeal of asking the consent of the parents of his inamorata. Such a fear stood to me now; and with a seeming boldness I approached Joyce’s house. When I came to the gate I saw him in the field not far off, and went up to speak to him. Even at that moment, when the dread of my soul was greatest, I could not but recall an interview which I had had with Andy that morning, and which was not of my seeking, but of his.