Complete Works of Bram Stoker
Page 24
“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.
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.