Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics

at me as he said this was quite indescribable. I have seen sly humor in the looks of children where the transparent simplicity of their purpose was a foil to their manifest intention to pretend to deceive. I have seen the arch glances of pretty young women when their eyes contradicted with resistless force the apparent meaning of their words; but I have never seen any slyness which could rival that of Andy. However, when he had spoken as above, he seemed to have spent the last bolt in his armory; and for the remainder of the drive to Recess he did not touch again on the topic, or on a kindred one.

      When I was in the hotel porch waiting the arrival of the long-car, Andy came up to me:

      “What day will I be in Galway for yer ‘an’r?”

      “How do you mean, Andy? I didn’t tell you I was coming back.”

      Andy laughed a merry, ringing laugh.

      “Begor, yer ‘an’r, d’ye think there’s only wan way iv tellin’ things? Musha! But spache’d be a mighty precious kind iv a thing if that was the way.”

      “But, Andy, is not speech the way to make known what you wish other people to know?”

      “Ah, go to God! I’d like to know if ye take it for granted whin ask a girrul a question an’ she says ‘no’, that she manes it, or that she intends ayther that ye should think she manes it. Faix, it’d be a harrd wurrld to live in, if that was so; an’ there’d be mighty few widdys in it ayther!”

      “Why widows, Andy?”

      “Shure, isn’t wives the shtuff that widdys is made iv?”

      “Oh, I see. I’m learning, Andy — I’m getting on.”

      “Yis, yer ‘an’r. Ye haven’t got on the long cap now, but I’m afeerd it’s only a leather medal ye’d get as yit. Niver mind, surr! Here’s the long-car comin’; an’ whin ye tellygraph to Misther Dick to sind me over to Galway fur to bring ye back, I’ll luk up Miss Norah an’ ax her to condescind to give ye some lessons in the differ betwixt ‘yes’ an’ ‘no’ as shpoke by girruls. I’m tould now, it’s a mighty intherestin’ kind iv a shtudy for a young gintleman.”

      There was no answering this Parthian shaft.

      “Good-bye, Andy,” I said, as I left a sovereign in his hand.

      “Good-luck, yer ‘an’r; though what’s the use ivwishin’ luck to a man, whin the fairies is wid him?”

      The last thing I saw was Andy waving his ragged hat as we passed the curve of the road round the lake before Recess was hidden from our view.

      When I got to Galway I found Mr. Caicy waiting for me. He was most hearty in his welcome, and told me that as there was nearly an hour to wait before the starting of the Dublin express, he had luncheon on the table, and that we could discuss our business over it. We accordingly adjourned to his house, and after explaining to him what I wanted done with regard to the purchase of the property at Knockcalltecrore, I told him that Dick knew all the details, and would talk them over with him when he saw him on the next evening.

      I began my eastward journey with my inner man in a most comfortable condition. Indeed, I concluded that there was no preparation for a journey like a bottle of “Sneyd’s 47” between two. I got to Dublin in time for the night mail, and on the following morning walked into Mr. Chapman’s office at half-past ten o’clock.

      He had all the necessary information for me; indeed, his zeal and his kindness were such that then and there I opened my heart to him, and was right glad that I had done so when I felt the hearty grasp of his hand as he wished me joy and all good fortune. He was, of course, on the side of prudence. He was my own lawyer and my father’s friend, and it was right and fitting that he should be. But it was quite evident that in the background of his musty life there was some old romance — musty old attorneys always have romances — so at least say the books. He entered heartily into my plan, and suggested that, if I chose, he would come with me to see the school and the school-mistress in Paris.

      “It will be better, I am sure,” he said, “to have an old man like myself with you, and who can in our negotiations speak for her father. Indeed, my dear boy, from being so old a friend of your father’s, and having no children of my own, I have almost come to look on you as my son, so it will not be much of an effort to regard Miss Norah as my daughter. The school-mistress will, in the long-run, be better satisfied with my standing in loco parentis than with yours.” It was a great relief to me to find my way thus smoothed, for I had half expected some objection or remonstrance on his part. His kind offer was, of course, accepted, and the next morning found us in Paris.

      We went to see the school and the school-mistress. All was arranged as we wished. Mr. Chapman did not forget that Norah wished to have all the extra branches of study, or that I wished to add all that could give a charm to her life. The school-mistress opened her eyes at the total of Norah’s requirements, which Mr. Chapman summed up as “all extras” — the same including the use of a saddle-horse, and visits to the opera and such performances as should be approved of, under the special care and with the special accompaniment of Madame herself.

      I could see that for the coming year Norah’s lines would lie in pleasant places in so far as Madame Lepecheaux could accomplish it. The date of her coming was to be fixed by letter, and as soon as possible.

      Mr. Chapman had suggested that it might be well to arrange with Madame Lepecheaux that Norah should be able to get what clothes she might require, and such matters as are wanted by young ladies of the position which she was entering. The genial French woman quite entered into the idea, but insisted that the representative of Norah’s father should come with her to the various magasins and himself make arrangements. He could not refuse; and as I was not forbidden by the unsuspecting lady, I came too.

      These matters took up some time, and it was not until the fifth day after I had left Connemara that we were able to start on our return journey. We left at night, and after our arrival in the early morning, went, as soon as we had breakfasted, to Mr. Chapman’s office to get our letters.

      I found two. The first I took to the window to read, where I was hidden behind a curtain, and where I might kiss it without being seen; for although the writing was strange to me — for I had never seen her handwriting — I knew that it was from Norah.

      Do any of us who arrive at middle life ever attempt to remember our feelings on receiving the first letter from the woman or the man of our love? Can there come across the long expanse of commonplace life, strewn as it is with lost beliefs and shattered hopes, any echo, any after-glow, of that time, any dim recollection of the thrill of pride and joy that flashed through us at such a moment? Can we rouse ourselves from the creeping lethargy of the contented acceptance of things, and feel the generous lifeblood flowing through us once again?

      I held Norah’s letter in my hand, and it seemed as though with but one more step I should hold my darling herself in my arms. I opened her letter most carefully; anything that her hands had touched was sacred to me. And then her message — the message of her heart to mine — sent direct and without intermediary, reached me:

      My dear Arthur,

      I hope you had a good journey, and that you enjoyed your trip to Paris. Father and I are both well, and we have had excellent news of Eugene, who has been promoted to more important work. We have seen Mr. Sutherland everyday. He says that everything is going just as you wish it. Mr. Murdock has taken old Bat Moynahan to live with him since you went; they are always together, and Moynahan seems to be always drunk. Father thinks that Mr. Murdock has some purpose on foot, and that it cannot be a good one. We shall all be glad to see you soon again. I am afraid this letter must seem very odd to you; but you know I am not accustomed to writing letters. You must believe one thing: that whatever I say to you, I feel and believe with all my heart. I got your letters, and I cannot tell you what pleasure they gave me, or how I treasure them. Father sends his love and duty. What could I send that words could carry? I may not try yet. Perhaps I shall be more able to do what I wish when I know more.

      Norah.