Complete Works of Bram Stoker

by Bram Stoker

  Jerry grew more and more despondent as the days wore on. Katey’s bright looks and hopeful words were now of no avail, and slowly and surely the conviction grew on her that sorrow, hopeless and overwhelming, was coming into their lives. Jerry began to feel, in all its force, how great had been his folly in leaving Dublin. Whilst he worked he kept thinking to himself, how different all would have been had he remained at home. Here sickness and trouble would have been his surest titles to the help and sympathy of his many friends; but in London, amid strangers where the maxim of life seemed to be sauve qui peut — a maxim which might be translated ‘Every man for himself - all was different, and to be down in the world was to be trampled upon.

  Whenever he thought thus, there came to Jerry a fierce temptation to lose sight of his misery as other men lost sight of theirs - in that hell-cauldron, which is picturesquely termed ‘the bowl.’ He resisted this temptation for a time, but he felt that his resolution was giving way. He would have returned to Dublin but for lack of means, and he had not yet fallen so low as to beg for assistance.

  One day he was reprimanded in good round terms by his superior for some seeming fault. He answered temperately, and was told to ‘shut up.’ He did shut up, for he felt that he dared not risk his present employment.

  That day at dinner hour he went to Grinnell’s and drank recklessly. When a man who resists temptation for a time suddenly gives way to it, his fall is mighty. Jerry was unable to return to his work, and after a drunken sleep in the taproom was left at home in the evening still half stupefied.

  Katey saw what had happened; and none can imagine her anguish save those who have known and felt some terrible sorrow - some sorrow where there was no thought of self. She did not wish for death, because she thought of her children; but too surely she saw that Jerry had been drinking to drown his care, and she knew that till the care disappeared - which could now only be at death - the remedy would be attempted again and again.

  And she was right. Shakspere was right, too, when he wrote:

  ‘Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.’

  When a naturally good disposition is warped or bent in a wrong direction all the strength that had been for good works now for evil; and in proportion to the natural strength of character is the speediness of the complete ruin. Day after day Jerry visited Grinnell’s, and day by day he grew more of a sot. He very seldom got drunk, because he felt that such would involve his dismissal; but he was nearly always in a state of’fuddle.’

  Katey’s life grew harder and harder to bear, but she strove ever with herself, and determined that no effort, active or passive, either of action or endurance, should be wanting on her part to reclaim her husband. She used to wait up for Jerry no matter what hour he stayed out till, and never made his coming home unpleasant by showing that she had been sitting up or suffering anxiety from his absence.

  A couple of times when she thought it likely that she would see him she peeped through the door of Grinnell’s, and each time saw Jerry either drinking or playing cards, or following both pursuits at once. The gambling was a new phase of vice to her, for she did not know that the one sin follows hard on the track of the other.

  Jerry had, indeed, gone down the hill. With no friends round him to arrest his downward course, but surrounded by a troop of evil companions who wished to see him as low or lower than themselves, he was falling, falling still. At such times Katey had stood shivering in the doorway, shrinking out into the night each time anyone entered the house or left it, but coming back again and again as if fascinated. She noticed that Jerry in his play seemed to have always bad luck, and to always play recklessly. It was heartbreaking work to her standing thus an unseen witness of the fall of the man she loved better than herself, and oftentimes the temptation to go in and try to induce him to leave the place became almost too strong for her. She retained herself, however, overcome for the time by the deadly fear that any overt act of hers might shear away the last thread of her influence over him.

  At last one evening the temptation to enter became too strong. Jerry had seemingly worse luck than usual, and drank more accordingly. He got exceedingly quarrelsome, and before anyone could interfere a fight had arisen. It was not a long fight, for the bystanders were numerous, and soon choked off the combatants the way men choke off fighting dogs.

  Jerry’s opponent - none other than Sebright - regained command of his temper in a few seconds; but as for Jerry himself, his rage was frightful. He would not be pacified or appeased in any way, but continued to rage and storm with purple swollen face and voice hoarse from passion and drink. Katey saw that they were making him worse by holding him the way they did, and irritating him. She could stand it no longer. She pushed open the door and entered.

  At the sound of the opening door all turned round in fear that the newcomer was a policeman, and in the universal movement Jerry was released. Seeing a pretty young woman enter - for Katey, despite her long spell of hardship and suffering, was a pretty young woman still - the men who did not know her began what they called ‘being civil.’ Jerry knew instinctively that Katey would not have entered the public-house without some cause, and his conscience told him that that cause was his own misconduct; and so in his semi-drunken rage he determined to vent his anger, which was half for himself, on her. In addition, he heard the sotto voce remarks of the other men, and this inflamed him still more. He came angrily forward, and said to his wife in hard, stern angry tones -

  ‘What brings you here?’

  The suddenness of the question, and the tone of it, took Katey by surprise, and she had to pause before replying. Her embarrassment was increased by the glare of light, and the rude admiring eyes turned upon her.

  Jerry repeated his question with his face inflamed and his right hand raised. It was the first time Jerry’s hand had ever been raised to her in anger, and it was no wonder that poor Katey covered her face and wept. This seemed to make Jerry more angry still. He took her by the arm roughly, and shook her, saying -

  ‘At it again. Cryin’ - always cryin’.’ Then, again, with a sudden change, ‘What brings you here, I say - what brings you here?’

  Katey lifted her head, and looked at him pleadingly through her tears. ‘Come home, Jerry; come home.’

  ‘I’ll not go home. Go you home and don’t dare to watch or follow me again. Out of this, I say - out of this.’

  ‘Oh, Jerry, Jerry, don’t send me away to-night. Oh, Jerry, you’re hurting me; indeed you are. I’ll go quietly. Do let me go, Jerry. Look at all the men. It is ashamed of my life I am.’

  ‘Out of this, I say.’

  ‘Oh, Jerry, come home.’

  For answer Jerry lifted his hand and struck her in the face. The blow was a severe one, but Katey did not seem to feel it. The pain in her heart at the spirit which prompted the blow was so great that no outward pain would have touched her for the moment. With the courage and resolution of utter despair - for what could now be worse since Jerry had struck her - she clung to him, crying almost wildly -

  ‘Come home, come home.’

  Jerry dashed her aside, and ran over to the counter.

  ‘Give me brandy,’ he said to Grinnell, ‘quick, man, give me brandy.’

  Grinnell was in nowise backward, and gave him as he desired. He drank off two or three glasses one after the other despite all Katey could do to prevent him.

  After this his coming home was a matter of mere labour, for he got too drunk to stand or to think, and lay on the floor like a log.

  Katey looked round appealingly for help. Sebright and Mons, the only two men whom she knew, had both disappeared, for both of them retained sufficient pride to make them anxious to avoid the gaze of the injured woman. The help came from an unexpected quarter. Grinnell, who had hitherto been leaning complacently across the bar, came from behind it, and said very gently -

  ‘Let me help you.’

  Katey was so anxious about Jerry that she did not notice the strangeness of the offer com
ing from such a man, but answered gratefully —

  ‘Oh, thank you, sir. God will bless you.’

  Grinnell smiled softly to himself, but Katey did not see the smile.

  The pot-boy was sent for a cab, and, when it came, was put in charge of the bar, whilst Grinnell helped Katey to take home her husband. There was lots of assistance to put him into the cab, but, as she could not get him out herself, Grinnell went with her himself. When the vehicle began to move, Grinnell said softly -

  ‘This is a very sad affair.’

  ‘Oh, sad indeed,’ sighed Katey.

  ‘I wish to God,’ said Grinnell, with intensity of voice, ‘that I had known of you before. Your husband would not have got drink in my house.’

  ‘God bless you, sir, for these words. Oh, you will help me to keep him straight now, will you not?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You see,’ said Katey, feeling that a palliation of her husband’s conduct was necessary, ‘the poor fellow has had much trouble and sorrow, and he was badly treated at the theatre.’

  ‘I know it - I know it,’ said Grinnell, with indignation. ‘Didn’t the whole neighbourhood ring with it, and the people cry shame on old Meredith. Why, I couldn’t stand it, and it was no business of mine. I only wished to see justice. I amn’t so bad as I look. I went to him, and says I - “Look you here, sir,” says I, “you’re doin’ wrong. Here’s the best workman in London, and the best fellow, too,” says I, “and you’re losin’ him and doin’ a wrong thing. And don’t you expect to gain by it,” says I, “for wickedness never prospers,” says I, “and I tell you what,” says I, “some of the other theatres will get hold of him, and then won’t you be sorry. I have a good deal of influence,” says I, “and I’ll use it all for him” ‘ -

  He was going on thus when the cab stopped. He helped Katey to lift out Jerry, and between them they carried him up to the room.

  Grinnell waited a few minutes only, and said good night to Katey in a most friendly manner.

  ‘I will call round in the morning and see how he goes on,’ he said, ‘and if you want anything that I have, you know it is quite at your disposal.’

  ‘Oh, sir, I wouldn’t for the world. I have no money, and I wouldn’t for the world have Jerry feel that I owed money for anything.’

  Grinnell gave a sudden unintentional laugh. ‘Don’t yon fret about that,’ he said. ‘O’Sullivan owes me myself too much money already to let that trouble him.’

  Katey put her hand on her heart at this fresh blow, but said nothing.

  Grinnell went on:

  ‘But that doesn’t matter. Lord bless you. He’s as welcome as the flowers of May. I’m too fond of him to let a trifle of money vex him.’ Then he went out.

  Katey, despite her prejudice, could not but feel better disposed towards him. The narrative of what he had done for Jerry in going to the manager, touched her deeply, and she said to herself:-

  ‘Well, we should never judge by appearances. It is a lesson to us.’

  Had she known that in all Grinnell had said there was not one single word of truth, she might have thought differently.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT

  Katey watched by her husband for a long time till at last she cried herself to sleep. Her sleep was troubled by horrid dreams of care and sorrow, and nameless and formless horrors. She did not wake however. When we dream thus of awful things, and do not wake, the effect is much more wearing on the nervous system than if we did; and so in the morning when Katey woke she felt chilled and miserable. She started up, and in the half-light of the early morning found that she was alone. Jerry had waked early, and had hurriedly got up, struck with remorse when he remembered the previous evening, and not daring to meet the face of his wife. Katey was at once in deadly fear, for her woman’s weakness prompted thoughts of terrible possibilities. She got up quickly and went down into the street.

  She looked right and left for any sign of him, and after wavering between them finally with an instinct, pitiful since it had such a genesis, took her way towards Grinnell’s, feeling that she would find her husband there.

  Her instinct was not deceived. When she peeped in through the door of the public-house she saw Jerry standing by the bar with a glass in his hand, which Grinnell was filling. A man does not hold his glass in such a way unless it is being refilled, and this poor Katey knew by instinct. She shuddered as she looked - for she saw that Jerry was drinking to get drunk quickly.

  Indeed it was a sorry and a pitiful picture - one which man or woman with a human heart in their bosom would shudder to see. In the grey light of the wintry morning the working man with clothing tossed, and hair unkempt - with feverous look and bloodshot eyes, drinking his rum at a draught, and taking it from the hand of one who, with soiled finery and unwashed face, might have stood for the picture of ‘Debauch.’

  Grinnell’s sharp eyes saw Katey as she peeped, but he did not seem to notice. Presently he spoke loudly, so loudly that Katey could hear.

  ‘Now, O’Sullivan, that will freshen you, I hope, and make you think clearly, but I won’t give you any more, so don’t ask me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Jerry, in amazement, for up to that moment Grinnell had been pressing him to drink.

  ‘Never mind what I mean; only I won’t give you any more.’

  ‘Are you jokin’?’

  ‘I am not.’

  Jerry looked at him angrily a moment, and then flattening his hat down on his head, said:

  ‘Oh, very well - oh, very well. Then I’ll go somewhere else.’

  Katey was afraid he would see her, so left the doorway and hurried down the street.

  Jerry came home about breakfast-time in a frightfully bad humour. He had had just enough of liquor to make him wish for more, and having tried to get credit several places and been refused, felt a savage disappointment. The sight of Katey’s disfigured face in no wise tended to mollify him, and he spoke to her with a harshness that was almost savage:

  ‘Why don’t you put somethin’ on your face?’

  Katey did not know what to say, so remained silent.

  ‘Put somethin’ on it, I tell you. Am I to be always made wretched by you?’

  Katey could only murmur:

  ‘Always, Jerry? Always?’ and began to cry.

  ‘Stop your cryin’, I tell you. Here - I’ll not stay here any longer. No wonder I have to keep away when I find nothin’ here but tears.’

  ‘Jerry, dear, I won’t cry,’ said Katey, in affright, lest he should go out. ‘I won’t cry, dear, and I’ll cover up my face - only don’t go out yet. Look, I am not cryin’ now. See, I’m laughin’.’

  ‘Stop your laughin’, I say. There isn’t much to laugh at here.’

  This was too much for Katey, and again she broke down. Jerry got up to go out; she went to the door, and standing before it, said:

  ‘For God’s sake, Jerry, don’t go out yet.’

  ‘Let me go, I say. Will you dare to stop me.’

  ‘Oh, Jerry, for the sake of the children, don’t go out. For the sake of the love you used to have’ -

  ‘Out of the way, I say.’

  ‘Oh, Jerry.’

  ‘Let me go, I tell you. You won’t. Then take that,’ and again he struck her. She cowered away with a low wail. As he left the room, Jerry said, with an effort at self-justification:

  ‘I see the way to manage you, now. Take care that you don’t rouse the devil in me.’

  Katey was sobbing still when Grinnell came to ask ‘how Jerry was this morning.’ She felt glad to see him on account of his refusing to give Jerry drink, and shook him warmly by the hand.

  Grinnell looked at her without speaking, but manifestly taking notice of her bruised face; then he turned away and seemed as if drying an unostentatious tear. Katey felt drawn towards him by the manifestation of sympathy; and so it was with an open heart that she commenced to thank him for his promise to assist in reclaiming Jerry.

&nb
sp; ‘Don’t distress yourself,’ he said after some talk, ‘you see the influence I have over him, not only personally, but from my position, is ever great. He owes me money’ - Katey winced, he noticed it, and kept harping on that string — ‘he owes me, I may say, a good deal of money, not that I want him to pay me yet, or that I ever mean to press him for it, but owing me a good deal of money, you know, I can put the screw on him any time I like. For instance, if he did anything to offend me, or if anyone belonging to him got in my way, and I wished it, I could put my thumb on him and crush him like a fly.’

  Katey laid her hand on his arm and asked him pleadingly -

  ‘Oh, don’t talk like that, it seems so dreadful to me that it frightens me.’

  ‘There, there, my dear,’ he answered, patting her shoulder, ‘don’t fret, I do not mean to crush him like a fly. I only mention it to show you what I could do if I had occasion to. You see when a man is down the hill the best thing for him is to have some determined friend who can crack the whip over his head.’

  Katey began to get frightened, she did not know why. She was without knowing from what cause getting a repulsion and fear for the man before her. It might be, she thought, when she asked herself the question, from his hideous aspect, which was enough to alarm anyone. The thought of Jerry being in the power of anyone was a bitter one to her, but that of Jerry being in the power of this man was too dreadful to be realised.

  Grinnell, who was watching her closely, saw that some idea of the kind was in her mind, and tried with all his might to banish it. He made kind promises, he offered to do generous acts, he spoke kindly and tenderly to Katey, using every means to rule her reason. But still that instinct which is above all reason spoke in her, and whispered her even not to trust to him. Grinnell saw that he was not making way in her good graces, and took his leave shortly, showing by his manner that he was hurt, though not offended.