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.”
The father drew his daughter closer to him, and with his other hand stroked her hair, and said, whilst his eyes filled with tears:—