A to Z Classics - Bram Stoker - The Complete Novels

Dick turned to him, and said, heartily:

“You’re quite right, Mr. Joyce, and I’m afraid I acted like a cad. Here, you clear off! Your very presence seems to infect better men than yourself, and brings them something nearer to your level. Mr. Joyce, forgive me; I promise I’ll take your good lesson to heart.”

They both came into the room; and Norah and I looking out of the window — my arm being around her — saw Murdock pass down the path and out at the gate.

We all took our places once again around the fire. When we sat down Norah instinctively put her hands behind her, as if to hide them — that ruffian’s words had stung her a little; and as I looked, without, however, pretending to take any notice, I ground my teeth. But with Norah such an ignoble thought could be but a passing one. With a quick blush she laid her hand open on my knee, so that, as the fire-light fell on it, it was shown in all its sterling beauty. I thought the opportunity was a fair one, and I lifted it to my lips and said:

“Norah, I think I may say a word before your father and my friend. This hand — this beautiful hand,” and I kissed it again, “is dearer to me a thousand times, because it can do, and has done, honest work; and I only hope that in all my life I may be worthy of it.” I was about to kiss it yet again, but Norah drew it gently away. Then she shifted her stool a little, and came closer to me.

Her father saw the movement, and said simply:

“Go to him, daughter. He is worth it — he sthruck a good blow for ye this night.” And so we changed places, and she leaned her head against my knee; her other hand — the one not held in mine — rested on her father’s knee.

There we sat and smoked, and talked for an hour or more. Then Dick looked at me and I at him, and we rose. Norah looked at me lovingly as we got our hats. Her father saw the look, and said:

“Come, daughter; if you’re not tired, suppose we see them down the boreen.”

A bright smile and a blush came in her face; she threw a shawl over her head, and we went all together. She held her father’s arm and mine; but by-and-by the lane narrowed, and her father went in front with Dick, and we two followed.

Was it to be wondered at, if we did lag a little behind them, and if we spoke in whispers? Or, if now and again, when the lane curved and kindly bushes projecting threw dark shadows, our lips met?

When we came to the open space before the gate we found Andy. He pretended to see only Dick and Joyce, and saluted them:

“Begor, but it’s the fine night, it is, Misther Dick, though more betoken the rain is comin’ on agin soon. A fine night, Misther Joyce; and how’s Miss Norah? — God bless her! Musha! but it’s sorry I am that she didn’t walk down wid ye this fine night! An’ poor Masther Art — I suppose the fairies has got him agin?” Here he pretended to just catch sight of me. “Yer’an’r, but it’s the sorraful man I was; shure, an’ I thought ye was tuk aff be the fairies — or, mayhap, it was houldin’ a leprachaun that ye wor. An’ my! but there’s Miss Norah, too, comin’ to take care iv her father! God bless ye, Miss Norah, Acushla, but it’s glad I am to see ye!”

“And I’m always glad to see you, Andy,” she said, and shook hands with him.

Andy took her aside, and said, in a staccato whisper intended for us all:

“Musha! Miss Norah, dear, may I ax ye somethin’?”

“Indeed you may, Andy. What is it?”

“Well, now, it’s throubled in me mind l am about Masther Art — that young gintleman beyantye, talkin’t’ yer father;” the hypocritical villain pointed me out, as though she did not know me. I could see in the moonlight the happy smile on her face as she turned towards me.

“Yes; I see him,” she answered.

“Well, Miss Norah, the fairies got him on the top iv Knocknacar, and ivir since he’s been wandherin’ round lukin’fur wan iv thim. I thried to timpt him away be tellin’ him iv nice girruls iv these parts — real girruls, not fairies. But he’s that obstinate he wouldn’t luk at wan iv thim — no, nor listen to me, ayther.”

“Indeed!” she said, her eyes dancing with fun.

“An’, Miss Norah, dear, what kind iva girrul d’ye think he wanted to find?”

“I don’t know, Andy. What kind?”

“Oh, begor! but it’s meself can tell ye! Shure, it’s a long, yalla, dark girrul, shtreaky — like — like he knows what — not quite a faymale nagur, wid a rid petticoat, an’ a quare kind iv an eye!”

“Oh, Andy!” was all she said, as she turned to me smiling.

“Get along, you villain!” said I, and I shook my fist at him in fun; and then I took Norah aside, and told her what the “quare kind iv an eye” was that I had sought — and found.

Then we two said “Good-night” in peace, while the others in front went through the gate. We took — afterwards — a formal and perfectly decorous farewell, only shaking hands all round, before Dick and I mounted the car. Andy started off at a gallop, and his “Git up, ye ould corn-crake!” was lost in our shouts of “Goodbye!” as we waved our hats. Looking back, we saw Norah’s hands waving as she stood with her father’s arm around her, and her head laid back against his shoulder, while the yellow moonlight bathed them from head to foot in a sea of celestial light. And then we sped on through the moonlight and the darkness alike, for the clouds of the coming rain rolled thick and fast across the sky.

But for me the air was all aglow with rosy light, and the car was a chariot flying swiftly to the dawn!

The next day was Sunday; and after church I came over early to Knockcalltecrore, and had a long talk with Norah about her school project. We decided that the sooner she began the better — she because, as she at first alleged, every month of delay made school a less suitable place for her — I because, as I took care not only to allege but to reiterate, as the period had to be put in, the sooner it was begun the sooner it would end, and so the sooner would my happiness come.

Norah was very sweet, and shyly told me that if such was my decided opinion, she must say that she too had something of the same view.

“I do not want you to be pained, dear, by any delay,” she said, “made by your having been so good to me; and I love you too well to want myself to wait longer than is necessary;” an admission that was an intoxicating pleasure to me.

We agreed that our engagement was, if not to be kept a secret, at least not to be spoken of unnecessarily. Her father was to tell her immediate relatives, so that there would not be any gossip at her absence, and I was to tell one or two of my own connections — for I had no immediate relatives — and perhaps one or two friends who were rather more closely connected with me than those of my own blood. I asked to be allowed to tell also my solicitor, who was an old friend of my father’s, and who had always had more than merely professional relations with me. I had reasons of my own for telling him of the purposed change in my life, for I had important matters to execute through him, so as to protect Norah’s future in case my own death should occur before the marriage was to take place. But of this, of course, I did not tell her.

We had a happy morning together, and when Joyce came in we told him of the conclusion we had arrived at. He fully acquiesced; and then, when he and I were alone, I asked him if he would prefer to make the arrangements about the schools himself or by some solicitor he would name, or that should all be done by my solicitor. He told me that my London solicitor would probably know what to do better than anyone in his own part of the world; and we agreed that I was to arrange it with him.