Bram Stoker - Bram Stoker - The Complete Novels

Jerry walked home on set purpose, and entered the garret where Katey, wearied out of her long waiting, lay asleep in bed. The first things he saw was the tool basket on the table, beside a bottle and glass. He pulled off his coat and flung it on the table, and hurled the basket on to the floor. Katey woke with the noise, and the children woke also, and sat up with their little eyes fixed with terror. Jerry went to the bedside and caught Katey’s hand. “Get up,” he said. Katey was rising, when he pulled her impatiently out on the floor, bringing down the bed also.

Katey rose and stood before him. She saw that something dreadful was the matter, and thought that he had got into more fresh trouble. She said to him lovingly, “Oh, Jerry, if there is trouble, sure I am here to share it with you. Jerry — we will begin fresh to-morrow. Look, dear, I have got back your tools.”

“How did you get them? Where did the money come from?”

“Don’t ask me, Jerry.”

“Where did the money come from — answer me at once, or” — He spoke so savagely that she grew cold.

“Jerry, I sold my wedding ring.”

Jerry laughed — the hard, cold laugh of a demon. “Time for you to sell it.”

She saw that there was some hidden meaning in his words, and asked him what he meant. “I mean that when you have a husband in every man, you need no ring.”

“For shame, Jerry, for shame. What have I done to deserve all this?”

Jerry grew furious. The big veins stood out on his forehead and his eyes rolled.

“Done!” he said. “Done! What about Grinnell?”

Then without another word, or if the very idea was too much for him, he stooped and picked up a hammer which had rolled out of the tool-basket.

Katey saw the act and screamed, for she read murder in his eyes. He clutched her by the arm and raised the hammer; she struggled wildly, but he shook her off, and then, with a glare like that of a wild beast, struck her on the temple.

She fell as if struck by lightning.

When he saw her lying on the floor, with the blood streaming round her and forming a pool, the hammer dropped from his hand, and he stood as one struck blind.

So he stood a moment, then knelt beside her and tried to coax her back to life.

“Katey, Katey, what have I done? Oh, God, what have I done? I have murdered her. Oh? the drink! the drink! Why didn’t I stay at home and this wouldn’t have happened?”

He stopped suddenly, and, rushing over to the tool-basket, took up a chisel, and with one fierce motion drew it across his throat, and fell down beside the body of his wife.

First published: 1890

Chapter 1 — A Sudden Storm

Chapter 2 — The Lost Crown of Gold

Chapter 3 — The Gombeen Man

Chapter 4 — The Secrets of the Bog

Chapter 5 — On Knocknacar

Chapter 6 — Confidences

Chapter 7 — Vanished

Chapter 8 — A Visit to Joyce

Chapter 9 — My New Property

Chapter 10 — In the Cliff Fields

Chapter 11 — “Un Mauvais Quart d’Heure”

Chapter 12 — Bog-Fishing and Schooling

Chapter 13 — Murdock’s Wooing

Chapter 14 — A Trip to Paris

Chapter 15 — A Midnight Treasure Hunt

Chapter 16 — A Grim Warning

Chapter 17 — The Catastrophe

Chapter 18 — The Fulfilment

Between two great mountains of grey and green, as the rock cropped out between the tufts of emerald verdure, the valley, almost as narrow as a gorge, ran due west towards the sea. There was just room for the roadway, half cut in the rock, beside the narrow strip of dark lake of seemingly unfathomable depth that lay far below between perpendicular walls of frowning rock. As the valley opened, the land dipped steeply, and the lake became a foam-fringed torrent, widening out into pools and miniature lakes as it reached the lower ground. In the wide terrace-like steps of the shelving mountain there were occasional glimpses of civilization emerging from the almost primal desolation which immediately surrounded us — clumps of trees, cottages, and the irregular outlines of stone-walled fields, with black stacks of turf for winter firing piled here and there. Far beyond was the sea — the great Atlantic — with a wildly irregular coast-line studded with a myriad of clustering rocky islands. A sea of deep dark blue, with the distant horizon tinged with a line of faint white light, and here and there, where its margin was visible through the breaks in the rocky coast, fringed with a line of foam as the waves broke on the rocks or swept in great rollers over the level expanse of sands.

The sky was a revelation to me, and seemed almost to obliterate memories of beautiful skies, although I had just come from the south, and had felt the intoxication of the Italian night, where, in the deep blue sky, the nightingale’s note seems to hang as though its sound and the colour were but different expressions of one common feeling.

The whole west was a gorgeous mass of violet and sulphur and gold — great masses of storm-cloud piling up and up till the very heavens seemed weighted with a burden too great to bear. Clouds of violet, whose centres were almost black, and whose outer edges were tinged with living gold; great streaks and piled up clouds of palest yellow deepening into saffron and flame-color which seemed to catch the coming sunset and to throw its radiance back to the eastern sky.

The view was the most beautiful that I had ever seen; and accustomed as I had been only to the quiet pastoral beauty of a grass country, with occasional visits to my great aunt’s well-wooded estate in the south of England, it was no wonder that it arrested my attention and absorbed my imagination. Even my brief half-a-year’s travel in Europe, now just concluded, had shown me nothing of the same kind.

Earth, sea, and air all evidenced the triumph of Nature, and told of her wild majesty and beauty. The air was still — ominously still. So still was all, that through the silence, that seemed to hedge us in with a sense of oppression, came the booming of the distant sea, as the great Atlantic swell broke in surf on the rocks or stormed the hollow caverns of the shore.

Even Andy, the driver, was for the nonce awed into comparative silence. Hitherto, for nearly forty miles of a drive, he had been giving me his experiences — propounding his views — airing his opinions; in fact, he had been making me acquainted with his store of knowledge touching the whole district and its people — including their names, histories, romances, hopes and fears — all that goes to make up the life and interest of a country-side.

No barber — taking this tradesman to illustrate the popular idea of loquacity in excelsis — is more consistently talkative than an Irish car-driver to whom has been granted the gift of speech. There is absolutely no limit to his capability, for every change of surrounding affords a new theme and brings on the tapis a host of matters requiring to be set forth.

I was rather glad of Andy’s “brilliant flash of silence” just at present, for not only did I wish to drink in and absorb the grand and novel beauty of the scene that opened out before me, but I wanted to understand as fully as I could some deep thought which it awoke within me. It may have been merely the grandeur and beauty of the scene — or perhaps it was the thunder which filled the air that July evening — but I felt exalted in a strange way, and impressed at the same time with a new sense of the reality of things. It almost seemed as if through that opening valley, with the mighty Atlantic beyond and the piling up of the storm-clouds overhead, I passed into a new and more real life.

Somehow I had of late seemed to myself to be waking up. My foreign tour had been gradually dissipating my old sleepy ideas, or perhaps overcoming the negative forces that had hitherto dominated my life; and now this glorious burst of wild natural beauty — the majesty of nature at its fullest — seemed to have completed my awakening, and I felt as though I looked for the first time with open eyes on the beauty and reality of the world.