Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics
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:
“Walked here, very tired; sleep here to-night; probably return to-morrow.”
The long walk did me good, for it made me thoroughly tired, and that night, despite my anxiety of mind, I slept well — I went to sleep with Norah’s name on my lips.
The next day I arrived at Carnaclif about mid-day. I found that Dick had taken Andy to Knockcalltecrore. I waited until it was time to leave, and then started off. About half a mile from the foot of the boreen I went and sat in a clump of trees, where I could not be seen, but from which I could watch the road, and presently saw Dick passing along on Andy’s car. When they had quite gone out of sight, I went on my way to the Cliff Fields.
I went with mingled feelings: there was hope, there was joy at the remembrance of yesterday, there was expectation that I would see her again — even though the result might be unhappiness — there was doubt, and there was a horrible haunting dread. My knees shook, and I felt weak as I climbed the rocks. I passed across the field and sat on the table-rock.
Presently she came to join me. With a queenly bearing she passed over the ground, seeming to glide rather than to walk. She was very pale, but as she drew near I could see in her eyes a sweet calm.
I went forward to meet her, and in silence we shook hands. She motioned to the bowlder, and we sat down. She was less shy than yesterday, and seemed in many subtle ways to be, though not less girlish, more of a woman.
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 rainbow on 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