A to Z Classics - Bram Stoker - The Complete Novels

I awoke with a scream which brought nearly everyone in the hotel into my bedroom. Dick was first, and found me standing on the floor, white and drunk with terror.

“What is it, old fellow? Oh, I see, only a nightmare! Come on; he’s all right; it’s only a dream!” and almost before I had realised that the waking world and not the world of shadows was around me, the room was cleared and I was alone. I lit a candle and put on some clothes; as it was of no use trying to sleep again after such an experience, I got a book and resolutely set to reading. The effort was successful, as such efforts always are, and I quite forgot the cause of my disturbance in what I read. Then the matter itself grew less interesting...

There was a tap at my door. I started awake. It was broad daylight, and the book lay with crumpled leaves beside me on the floor. It was a message to tell me that Mr. Sutherland was waiting breakfast for me. I called out that I would be down in a few minutes, which promise I carried out as nearly as was commensurate with the requirements of the tub and the toilet. I found Dick awaiting me; he looked at me keenly as I came in, and then said, heartily:

“I see your nightmare has not left any ill effects. I say, old chap, it must have been a whopper — a regular Derby winner among nightmares — worse than Andy’s old corncrake. You yelled fit to wake the dead. I would have thought the contrast between an ordinary night and the day you are going to have would have been sufficient to satisfy any one without such an addition to its blackness.”

Then he sung out in his rich voice:

Och, Jewel, kape dhramin’ that same till ye die,

For bright mornin’ will give dirty night the black lie.

We sat down to breakfast, and I am bound to say, from the trencher experience of that meal, that there is nothing so fine as an appetizer for breakfast as a good preliminary nightmare.

We drove off to Knockcalltecrore. When we got to the foot of the hill we stopped as usual. Andy gave me a look which spoke a lot, but he did not say a single word — for which forbearance I owed him a good turn. Dick said:

“I want to go round to the other side of the hill, and shall cross over the top. I shall look you up, if I may, at Joyce’s about two o’clock.”

“All right,” I said; “we shall expect you,” and I started up the Hill.

When I got to the gate and opened it there was a loud, deep barking, which, however, was instantly stilled. I knew that Norah had tied up the mastiff, and I went to the door. I had no need to knock; for as I came near it opened, and in another instant Norah was in my arms. She whispered in my ear when I had kissed her:

“I would like to have come out to meet you, but I thought you would rather meet me here.”

Then, as we went into the sitting-room, hand in hand, she whispered again:

“Aunt has gone to buy groceries, so we are all alone. You must tell me all about everything.”

We sat down close together, still hand in hand, and I told her all that we had done since I had left. When I had finished the Paris part of the story, she put up her hands before her face, and I could see the tears drop through her fingers.

“Norah, Norah, don’t cry, my darling! What is it?”

“Oh, Arthur, I can’t help it! It is so wonderful — more than all I ever longed or wished for!”

Then she took her hands away, and put them in mine, and looked me bravely in the face, with her eyes half laughing and half crying, and her cheeks wet, and said:

“Arthur, you are the Fairy Prince! There is nothing that I can wish for that you have not done — even my dresses are ready by your sweet thoughtfulness. It needs an effort, dear, to let you do all this, but I see it is quite right: I must be dressed like one who is to be your wife. I shall think I am pleasing you afresh every time I put one of them on; but I must pay for them myself. You know I am quite rich now. I have all the money you paid for the Cliff Fields; father says it ought to go in such things as will fit me for my new position, and will not hear of taking any of it.”

“He is quite right, Norah, my darling, and you are quite right, too; all shall be just as you wish. Now tell me all about everything since I went away.”

“May I bring in Turco? he is so quiet with me; and he must learn to know you and love you, or he won’t be any friend of mine.” She looked at me lovingly, and went and brought in the mastiff, by whom I was forthwith received into friendship.

That was indeed a happy day. We had a family consultation about the school; the time of beginning was arranged, and there was perfect accord among us. As Dick and I drove back through the darkness, I could not but feel that, even if evil were looming ahead of us, at least some of us had experienced what it is to be happy.

It had been decided that after a week’s time — on the 28th of October — Norah was to leave for school. Her father was to bring her as far as London, and Mr. Chapman was to take her over to Paris. This was Joyce’s own wish. He said:

“‘Twill be betther for ye, darlin’, to go widout me. Ye’ll have quite enough to do for a bit to keep even wid the girls that have been reared in betther ways nor you, widout me there to make little iv ye.”

“But, father,” she remonstrated, “I don’t want to appear any different from what I am. And I am too fond of you, and too proud of you, not to want to appear as your daughter.”

Her father stroked her hair gently as he answered:

“Norah, my darlin’, it isn’t that. Ye’ve always been the good and dutiful daughter to me; an’ in all your pretty life there’s not wan thing I wish undone or unsaid. But I’m older than you, daughter, an’ I know more iv the world; an’ what I say is best for ye — now, and in yer future. I’m goin’ to live wid Eugene; an’ afther a while I suppose I, too, ‘II be somethin’ different from what l am. An’ thin, whin I’ve lived a while in a city, and got somethin’ of city ways, I’ll come an’ see ye, maybe. Ye must remember that it’s not only of you we’ve to think, but of th’ other girls in the school. I don’t want to have any of them turnin’ up their noses at ye; that’s not the way to get the best out iv school, my dear; for I suppose school is like everywhere else in the world: the higher ye’re able to hould yer head, the more others’ll look up to ye.”

His words were so obviously true, that not one of us had a word to say, and the matter was acquiesced in nem. con. I myself got leave to accompany the party as far as London, but not beyond. It was further arranged that Joyce should take his daughter to Galway to get some clothes for her — just enough to take her to Paris — and that when in Paris she should have a full outfit under the direction of Madame Lepecheaux. They were to leave on Friday, so as to have the Saturday in Galway; and as Norah wanted to say goodbye on the Sunday to old school-fellows and friends in the convent, they would return on Monday, the 25th of October. Accordingly, on the morning after next, Joyce took a letter for me to Mr. Caicy, who was to pay to him whatever portion of the purchase-money of his land he should require, and whom I asked to give all possible assistance in whatever matters either he or Norah might desire. I would have dearly liked to have gone myself with them, but the purpose and the occasion were such that I could not think of offering to go. On the day fixed they left on the long car from Carnaclif. They started in torrents of rain, but were as well wrapped up as the resources of Dick and myself would allow.

When they had gone Dick and I drove over to Knockcalltecrore. Dick wished to have an interview with Murdock, regarding his giving up possession of the land on the 27th, as arranged.