A to Z Classics - Bram Stoker - The Complete Novels

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 hilltop 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 way for 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 my friend. 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: