Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics

the sex or the world would have fallen into such an absurd hope. When I came in with Dick, Norah — in spite of some marked hints, privately and secretly given to her — did not make either the slightest remark on my appearance or the faintest suggestion as to improving it.

      She had not been idle in the afternoon. The room, which was always tidy, was as prettily arranged as the materials would allow. There were some flowers and flag-leaves and grasses tastefully placed about, and on the table in a tumbler was a bunch of scarlet poppies. The table-cloth, although of coarse material, was as white as snow, and the plates and cups, of common white and blue, were all that was required.

      When Joyce came in from his bedroom, where he had been tidying himself, he looked so manly and handsome in his dark frieze coat with horn buttons, his wide, unstarched shirt-collar, striped waistcoat, and cord breeches, with gray stockings, that I felt quite proud of him. There was a natural grace and dignity about him which suited him so well, that I had no wish to see him other than a peasant. He became the station, and there was no pretence. He made a rough kind of apology to us both:

      “I fear ye’ll find things a bit rough, compared with what you’re accustomed to, but I know ye’ll not mind. We have hardly got settled down here yit; and me sisther, who always lives with us, is away with me other sisther that is sick, so Norah has to fare by herself; but, gentlemen both — you, Mr. Sutherland, and you, Arthur — you’re welcome.”

      We sat down to table, and Norah insisted on doing all the attendance herself. I wanted to help her, and, when she was taking up a plate of cakes from the hearth, stooped beside her and said:

      “May not I help, Norah? Do let me!”

      “No — no, dear,” she whispered. “Don’t ask me now — I’m a little strange yet — another time. You’ll be very good, won’t you, and help me not to feel awkward?”

      Needless to say, I sat at table for the rest of the meal and feasted my eyes on my darling, while, in common with the others, I enjoyed the good things placed before us. But when she saw that I looked too long and too lovingly, she gave me such an imploring glance from her eloquent eyes, that for the remainder of the time I restrained both the ardor of my glance and its quantity within modest bounds.

      Oh, but she was fair and sweet to look upon! Her dark hair was plainly combed back and coiled modestly round her lovely head. She had on her red petticoat and chintz body, that she knew I admired so much; and on her breast she wore a great scarlet poppy, whose splendid colour suited well with her dark and noble beauty. At the earliest opportunity, when tea was over, I whispered to her:

      “My darling, how well the poppy suits you. How beautiful you are. You are like the Goddess of Sleep!” She put her finger to her lips with a happy smile, as though to forbid me to pay compliments — before others. I suppose the woman has never yet been born — and never shall be — who would not like to hear her praises from the man she loves.

      I had eaten potato-cakes before, but never such as Norah had made for us; possibly they seemed so good to me because I knew that her hands had made them. The honey, too, was the nicest I had tasted — for it was made by Norah’s bees. The butter was perfect — for it was the work of her hands!

      I do not think that a happier party ever assembled round a tea-table. Joyce was now quite reconciled to the loss of his daughter, and was beaming all over; and Dick’s loyal nature had its own reward, for he too was happy in the happiness of those he loved — or else I was, and am, the most obtuse fool, and he the most consummate actor, that has been. As for Norah and myself, I know we were happy — as happy as it is given to mortals to be.

      When tea was over, and Norah fetched her father’s pipe and lighted it for him, she said to me with a sweet blush, as she called me by my name for the first time before a stranger:

      “I suppose, Arthur, you and Mr. Sutherland would like your own cigars best; but if you care for a pipe there are some new ones here,” and she pointed them out. We lit our cigars, and sat round the fire; for in this damp weather the nights were getting a little chilly. Joyce sat on one side of the fire and Dick on the other. I sat next to Dick, and Norah took her place between her father and me, sitting on a little stool beside her father and leaning her head against his knees, while she took the hand that was fondly laid over her shoulder and held it in her own. Presently, as the gray autumn twilight died away, and as the light from the turf-fire rose and fell, throwing protecting shadows, her other hand stole towards my own, which was waiting to receive it; and we sat silent for a spell, Norah and I in an ecstasy of quiet happiness.

      By-and-by we heard a click at the latch of the gate, and firm, heavy footsteps coming up the path. Norah jumped up and peeped out of the window.

      “Who is it, daughter?” said Joyce.

      “Oh father, it is Murdock! What can he want?”

      There was a knock at the door. Joyce rose up, motioning to us to sit still, laid aside his pipe, and went to the door and opened it. Every word that was spoken was perfectly plain to us all.

      “Good-evenin’, Phelim Joyce.”

      “Good-evenin’. You want me?”

      “I do.” Murdock’s voice was fixed and firm, as of one who has I made up his mind.

      “What is it?”

      “May I come in? I want to shpake to ye particular.”

      “No, Murtagh Murdock. Whin a man comes undher me roof by me own consint, I’m not free wid him to spake me mind the same as whin he’s outside. Ye haven’t thrated me well, Murdock, Ye’ve been hard wid me; and there’s much that I can’t forgive!”

      “Well! if I did, ye gev me what no other man has ever gave me yit widout repintin’ it sore. Ye sthruck me a blow before all the people, an’ I didn’t strike ye back.”

      “I did, Murtagh; an’ I’m sorry for it. That blow has been hangin’ on me conscience iver since. I would take it back if I could; God knows that is thrue. Much as ye wronged me, I don’t want such a thing as that to remimber when me eyes is closin’. Murtagh Murdock, I take it back, an’ gladly. Will ye let me?”

      “I will — on wan condition.”

      “What is it?”

      “That’s what I’ve kem here to shpake about; but I’d like to go in.”

      “No, ye can’t do that — not yit, at any rate, till I know what ye want. Ye must remimber, Murtagh, that I’ve but small rayson to thrust ye.”

      “Well, Phelim, I’ll tell ye, tho’ it’s mortial hard to name it shtandin’ widout the door like a thramp. I’m a warrum man; I’ve a power iv money put by, an’ it brings me in much.”

      “I know! I know!” said the other bitterly. “God help me! but I know too well how it was gother up.”

      “Well, niver mind that now; we all know that. Anyhow, it is gother up. An’ them as finds most fault wid the manes, mayhap’d be the first to get hould iv it av they could. Well, anyhow, I’m warrum enough to ask any girrul in these parts to share it wid me. There’s many min and weemin between this and Galway, that’d like to talk over the fortin iv their daughter wid Murtagh Murdock, for all he’s a gombeen man.”

      As he spoke the clasp of Norah’s hand and mine grew closer. I could feel in her clasp both a clinging, as for protection, and a restraining power on myself. Murdock went on:

      “But there’s none of thim girls what I’ve set me harrt on — except wan!” He paused.

      Joyce said, quietly:

      “An’ who, now, might that be?”

      “Yer own daughther, Norah Joyce!” Norah’s hand restrained me as I was instinctively rising.

      “Go on!” said Joyce, and I could notice that there was a suppressed passion in his voice.

      “Well,