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 yon remembered me, from that night when father came home with yon?"
There seemed some disappointment that I had so forgotten.
"That night," I said, " I did not see yon 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 yon 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