Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics

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 whatsumiver ye 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, l am 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 her father.

      “Mr. Joyce, you must let me speak! You would speak yourself to save pain to a woman you loved.” He turned to tell me to be silent, but suddenly stopped. I went on: “Norah” — he winced as I spoke her name — “is entirely blameless. I met her quite by chance at the top of Knocknacar when I went to see the view. I did not know who she was — I had not the faintest suspicion; but from that moment I loved her. I went next day, and waited all day in the chance of seeing her; I did see her, but again came away in ignorance even of her name. I sought her again, day after day, day after day, but could get no word of her; for I did not know who she was, or where she came from. Then, by chance, and after many weary days, again I saw her in the Cliff Fields below, three days ago. I could no longer be silent, but told her that I loved her, and asked her to be my wife. She asked a while to think, and left me, promising to give me an answer on the next evening. I came again, and I got my answer.”

      Here Norah, who was sobbing, with her face turned away, looked round, and said:

      “Hush! hush! You must not let father know. All the harm will be done!”

      Her father answered in a low voice:

      “All that could be done is done already, daughter. Ye never tould me!”

      “Sir, Norah is worthy of all esteem. Her answer to me was that she could not leave her father, who was all alone in the world.” Norah turned away again, but her father’s arm went round her shoulder. “She told me I must think no more of her; but, sir, you and I, who are men, must not let a woman, who is dear to us both make such a sacrifice.”

      Joyce’s face was somewhat bitter as he answered me:

      “Ye think pretty well of yerself, young sir, whin ye consider it a sacrifice for me daughter to shtay wid the father, who loves her, and who she loves. There was never a shadda on her life till ye came.”

      This was hard to hear, but harder to answer, and I stammered as I replied:

      “I hope I am man enough to do what is best for her, even if it were to break my heart. But she must marry some time; it is the lot of the young and beautiful.”

      Joyce paused a while, and his look grew very tender as he made answer, softly:

      “Aye, thrue, thrue! The young birds lave the nist in due sayson — that’s only natural.”

      This seemed sufficient concession for the present; but Andy’s warning rose before me, and I spoke:

      “Mr. Joyce, God knows I don’t want to add one drop of bitterness to either of your lives! Only tell me that I may have hope, and I am content to wait and to try to win your esteem and Norah’s love.”