IN THE CLIFF FIELDS.
I went along the mountain-side until I came to the great ridge of
rocks which, as Dick had explained to me, protected the lower end of
Murdock’s farm from the westerly wind. I climbed to the top to get a
view, and then found that the ridge was continuous, running as far as
the Snake’s Pass where I had first mounted it. Here, however, I was
not as then above the sea, for I was opposite what they had called the
Cliff Fields, and a very strange and beautiful sight it was.
Some hundred and fifty feet below me was a plateau of seven or eight
acres in extent, and some two hundred and fifty feet above the sea. It
was sheltered on the north by a high wall of rock like that I stood
on, serrated in the same way, as the strata ran in similar layers. In
the centre there rose a great rock with a flat top some quarter of an
acre in extent. The whole plateau, save this one bare rock, was a mass
of verdure. It was watered by a small stream which fell through a deep
narrow cleft in the rocks, where the bog drained itself from Murdock’s
present land. The after-grass was deep, and there were many clumps
of trees and shrubs—none of them of considerable height except a few
great stone-pines which towered aloft and dared the fury of the western
breeze. But not all the beauty of the scene could hold my eyes—for
seated on the rocky table in the centre, just as I had seen her on
the hill-top at Knocknacar, sat a girl to all intents the ditto of my
unknown.
My heart gave a great bound, and in the tumult of hope that awoke
within my breast the whole world seemed filled with sunshine. For an
instant I almost lost my senses; my knees shook, and my eyes grew dim.
Then came a horrible suspense and doubt. It was impossible to believe
that I should see my unknown here when I least expected to see her. And
then came the man’s desire of action.
I do not know how I began. To this day I cannot make out whether I took
a bee-line for that isolated table of rock, and from where I was, slid
or crawled down the face of the rock, or whether I made a detour to the
same end. All I can recollect is that I found myself scrambling over
some large boulders, and then passing through the deep heavy grass at
the foot of the rock.
Here I halted to collect my thoughts—a moment sufficed. I was too much
in earnest to need any deliberation, and there was no choice of ways. I
only waited to be sure that I would not create any alarm by unnecessary
violence.
Then I ascended the rock. I did not make more noise than I could help;
but I did not try to come silently. She had evidently heard steps, for
she spoke without turning round:—
“Am I wanted?” Then, as I was passing across the plateau, my step
seemed to arouse her attention; for at a bound she leaped to her feet,
and turned with a glad look that went through the shadow on my soul, as
the sunshine strikes through the mist.
“Arthur!” She almost rushed to meet me; but stopped suddenly—for an
instant grew pale—and then a red flush crimsoned her face and neck.
She put up her hands before her face, and I could see the tears drop
through her fingers.
As for myself, I was half-dazed. When I saw that it was indeed my
unknown, a wild joy leaped to my heart; and then came the revulsion
from my long pent-up sorrow and anxiety; and as I faltered out—“At
last! at last!”—the tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. There is, indeed,
a dry-eyed grief, but its corresponding joy is as often smit with
sudden tears.
In an instant I was by her side, and had her hand in mine. It was only
for a moment, for she withdrew it with a low cry of maidenly fear—but
in that moment of gentle, mutual pressure, a whole world had passed,
and we knew that we loved.
We were silent for a time, and then we sat together on a boulder—she
edging away from me shyly.
What matters it of what we talked? There was not much to say—nothing
that was new—the old, old story that has been told since the days when
Adam, waking, found that a new joy had entered into his life. For those
whose feet have wandered in Eden, there is no need to speak; for those
who are yet to tread the hallowed ground, there is no need either—for
in the fulness of time their knowledge will come.
It was not till we had sat some time that we exchanged any sweet
words—they were sweet, although to any one but ourselves they would
have seemed the most absurd and soulless commonplaces.
We spoke, and that was all. It is of the nature of love that it can
from airy nothings win its own celestial food!
Presently I said—and I pledge my word that this was the first speech
that either of us had made, beyond the weather and the view, and such
lighter topics:—
“Won’t you tell me your name? I have so longed to know it, all these
weary days.”
“Norah—Norah Joyce! I thought you knew.”
This was said with a shy lifting of the eyelashes, which were as
suddenly and as shyly dropped again.
“Norah!” As I spoke the word—and my whole soul was in its speaking—the
happy blush overspread her face again. “Norah! What a sweet name!
Norah! No, I did not know it; if I had known it, when I missed you from
the hill-top at Knocknacar, I should have sought you here.”
Somehow her next remark seemed to chill me:—
“I thought you remembered me, from that night when father came home
with you?”
There seemed some disappointment that I had so forgotten.
“That night,” I said, “I did not see you at all. It was so dark, that I
felt like a blind man—I only heard your voice.”
“I thought you remembered my voice.”
The disappointment was still manifest. Fool that I was!—that voice,
once heard, should have sunk into my memory for ever.
“I thought your voice was familiar when I heard you on the hill-top;
but when I saw you, I loved you from that moment—and then every other
woman’s voice in the world went, for me, out of existence!” She half
arose, but sat down again, and the happy blush once more mantled her
cheek—I felt that my peace was made. “My name is Arthur.” Here a
thought struck me—struck me for the first time, and sent through me
a thrill of unutterable delight. The moment she had seen me she had
mentioned my name—all unconsciously, it is true—but she had mentioned
it. I feared, however, to alarm her by attracting her attention to it
as yet, and went on:—“Arthur Severn—but I think you know it.”
“Yes; I heard it mentioned up at Knocknacar.”
“Who by?”
“Andy the driver. He spoke to my aunt and me when we were driving down,
the day after we—after we met on the hill-top the last time.”
Andy! And so my jocose friend knew all along! Well, wait! I must be
even with him!
“Your aunt?”
“Yes; my aunt Kate. Father sent me up to her, for he knew it would
distress me to see all our things moved from our dear old home—all
my mother’s things. And father would have been distressed to see me
grieved, and I to see him. It was kind of him; he is always so good to
me.”
“He is a good man, Norah—I know that; I only hope he won’t hate me.”
“Why?”—This was said very faintly.
“For wanting to carry off his daughter. Don’t go, Norah. For God’s
sake, don’t go! I shall not say anything you do not wish; but if you
only knew the agony I have been in since I saw you last—when I thought
I had lost you—you would pity me—indeed you would! Norah, I love you!
No! you must listen to me—you must! I want you to be my wife—I shall
love and honour you all my life! Don’t refuse me, dear; don’t draw
back—for I love you!—I love you!”
There, it was all out. The pent-up waters find their own course.
For a minute, at least, Norah sat still. Then she turned to me very
gravely, and there were tears in her eyes:—
“Oh, why did you speak like that, sir?—why did you speak like that? Let
me go!—let me go! You must not try to detain me!”—I stood back, for we
had both risen—“I am conscious of your good intention—of the honour
you do me—but I must have time to think. Good-bye!”
She held out her hand. I pressed it gently—I dared not do more—true
love is very timid at times!—She bowed to me, and moved off.
A sudden flood of despair rushed over me—the pain of the days when I
thought I had lost her could not be soon forgotten, and I feared that I
might lose her again.
“Stay, Norah!—stay one moment!” She stopped and turned round. “I may
see you again, may I not? Do not be cruel!—may I not see you again?”
A sweet smile lit up the perplexed sadness of her face:—
“You may meet me here to-morrow evening, if you will,” and she was gone.
To-morrow evening! Then there was hope; and with gladdened heart I
watched her pass across the pasture and ascend a path over the rocks.
Her movements were incarnate grace; her beauty and her sweet presence
filled the earth and air. When she passed from my sight, the sunlight
seemed to pale and the warm air to grow chill.
For a long while I sat on that table-rock, and my thoughts were of
heavenly sweetness—all, save one which was of earth—one brooding fear
that all might not be well—some danger I did not understand.
And then I too arose, and 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 clue 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
favourable 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 in for 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 boulder, 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. Oh 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 the 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 boulder, 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 aery 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 our last kiss, and parted beneath the shadow of the
rock, I watched her depart through the gloaming to her own home; and
then I too took my way. At the foot of the Boreen I met Murdock, who
looked at me in a strange manner, and merely growled some reply to my
salutation.
I felt that I could never meet Dick to-night. Indeed, I wished to see
no human being, and so I sat for long on the crags above the sounding
sea; and then wandered down to the distant beach. To and fro I went all
the night long, but ever in sight of the hill, and ever and anon coming
near to watch the cottage where Norah slept.
In the early morning, I took my way to Roundwood, and going to bed,
slept until late in the day.
When I woke, I began to think of how I could break my news to Dick. I
felt that the sooner it was done the better. At first I had a vague
idea of writing to him from where I was, and explaining all to him; but
this, I concluded, would not do—it seemed too cowardly a way to deal
with so true and loyal a friend—I would go now and await his arrival at
Carnaclif, and tell him all, at the earliest moment when I could find
an opportunity.
I drove to Carnaclif, and waited his coming impatiently, for I
intended, if it were not too late, to afterwards drive over to
Shleenanaher, and see Norah—or at least the house she was in.
Dick arrived a little earlier than usual, and I could see from the
window that he was grave and troubled. When he got down from the car,
he asked if I were in, and being answered in the affirmative, ordered
dinner to be put on the table as soon as possible, and went up to his
room.
I did not come down until the waiter came to tell me that dinner was
ready. Dick had evidently waited also, and followed me down. When he
came into the room, he said heartily:—
“Hallo! Art, old fellow, welcome back, I thought you were lost,” and
shook hands with me warmly.
Neither of us seemed to have much appetite, but we pretended to eat,
and sent away platesfull of food, cut up into the smallest proportions.
When the apology for dinner was over, Dick offered me a cigar, lit his
own, and said:—
“Come out for a stroll on the sand, Art; I want to have a chat with
you.” I could feel that he was making a great effort to appear hearty,
but there was a hollowness about his voice, which was not usual. As we
went through the hall, Mrs. Keating handed me my letters, which had
just arrived.
We walked out on the wide stretch of fine hard sand, which lies
westwards from Carnaclif when the tide is out, and were a considerable
distance from the town before a word was spoken. Dick turned to me, and
said:—
“Art! what does it all mean?”
I hesitated for a moment, for I hardly knew where to begin—the
question, so comprehensive and so sudden, took me aback. Dick went on:—
“Art! two things I have always believed; and I won’t give them up
without a struggle. One is that there are very few things that, no
matter how strange or wrong they look, won’t bear explanation of some
kind; and the other is that an honourable man does not grow crooked in
a moment. Is there anything, Art, that you would like to tell me?”
“There is, Dick! I have a lot to tell; but won’t you tell me what you
wish me to speak about?” I was just going to tell him all, but it
suddenly occurred to me that it would be wise to know something of what
was amiss with him first.
“Then I shall ask you a few questions! Did you not tell me that the
girl you were in love with was not Norah Joyce?”
“I did; but I was wrong. I did not know it at the time—I only found it
out, Dick, since I saw you last!”
“Since you saw me last! Did you not then know that I loved Norah Joyce,
and that I was only waiting a chance to ask her to marry me?”
“I did!” I had nothing to add here; it came back to me that I had
spoken and acted all along without a thought of my friend.
“Have you not of late payed many visits to Shleenanaher; and have you
not kept such visits quite dark from me?”
“I have, Dick.”
“Did you keep me ignorant on purpose?”
“I did! But those visits were made entirely on your account.”—I
stopped, for a look of wonder and disgust spread over my companion’s
face.
“On my account! on my account! And was it, Arthur Severn, on my account
that you asked, as I presume you did, Norah Joyce to marry you—I take
it for granted that your conduct was honourable, to her at any rate—the
woman whom I had told you I loved, and that I wished to marry, and
that you assured me that you did not love, your heart being fixed on
another woman? I hate to speak so, Art! but I have had black thoughts,
and am not quite myself—was this all on my account?” It was a terrible
question to answer, and I paused; Dick went on:—
“Was it on my account that you, a rich man, purchased the home that
she loved; whilst I, a poor one, had to stand by and see her father
despoiled day by day, and, because of my poverty, had to go on with a
hateful engagement, which placed me in a false position in her eyes?”
Here I saw daylight. I could answer this scathing question:—
“It was, Dick—entirely on your account!” He drew away from me, and
stood still, facing me in the twilight as he spoke:—
“I should like you to explain, Mr. Severn—for your own sake—a statement
like that.”
Then I told him, with simple earnestness, all the truth. How I had
hoped to further his love, since my own seemed so hopeless—how I had
bought the land intending to make it over to him, so that his hands
might be strong to woo the woman he loved—how this and nothing else
had taken me to Shleenanaher; and that whilst there I had learned that
my own unknown love and Norah were one and the same—of my proposal to
her; and here I told him humbly how in the tumult of my own passion
I had forgotten his—whereat he shrugged his shoulders—and of my long
anxiety till her answer was given. I told him that I had stayed away
the first night at Roundwood, lest I should be betrayed into any speech
which would lack in loyalty to him as well as to her. And then I told
him of her decision not to leave her father—touching but lightly on the
confession of her love, lest I should give him needless pain; I did not
dare to avoid it lest I should mislead him to his further harm. When I
had finished he said softly:—
“Art, I have been in much doubt!”
I thought a moment, and then remembered that I had in my pocket the
letters which had been handed to me at the hotel, and that amongst them
there was one from Mr. Caicy at Galway. This letter I took out and
handed to Dick.
“There is a letter unopened. Open it and it may tell you something. I
know my word will suffice you; but this is in justice to us both.”
Dick took the letter and broke the seal. He read the letter from Caicy,
and then holding up the deed so that the dying light of the west should
fall on it, read it. The deed was not very long. When he finished it
he stood for a moment with his hands down by his sides; then he came
over to me, and laying his hands, one of which grasped the deed, on my
shoulders, said:—
“Thank God, Art, there need be no bitterness between me and thee—all
is as you say, but oh! old fellow!”—and here he laid his head on my
shoulder and sobbed—“my heart is broken! All the light has gone out of
my life!”
His despair was only for a moment. Recovering himself as quickly as he
had been overcome, he said:—
“Never mind, old fellow, only one of us must suffer; and, thank God! my
secret is with you alone—no one else in the wide world even suspects.
She must never know! Now tell me all about it; don’t fear that it will
hurt me. It will be something to know that you are both happy. By the
way, this had better be torn up; there is no need for it now!” Having
torn the paper across, he put his arm over my shoulder as he used to do
when we were boys; and so we passed into the gathering darkness.
Thank God for loyal and royal manhood! Thank God for the heart of a
friend that can suffer and remain true! And thanks, above all, that the
lessons of tolerance and forgiveness, taught of old by the Son of God,
are now and then remembered by the sons of men.