Читать книгу Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels - A to Z Classics - Страница 9

The next morning was a bitter one. Katey had been crying all night, whilst Jerry lay in his drunken sleep, tears which even her prayers could not stop. To her this fall of Jerry’s was but the beginning of the end, and she had wept as one who looks into the future, and sees there the moving shadow of hopeless misery, blighting and darkening everything. Towards morning her tears had stopped, partly from exhaustion, and partly because she had made a noble effort to overcome her feelings, in order that Jerry might see hope, and not despair, in her face, when he awoke.

Now, as the pale cold light was stealing in through the little window, all seemed cheerless indeed.

There is something dreadfully severe in the test of early morning light. Under it everything assumes its most real aspect; there is no use trying to hide or conceal anything from it, for out the truth will surely come. Those who fear it have no option but to shut it out altogether, and wait in darkness or artificial light, till a sun that has shone on more iniquity and untruth can look on them and their deeds, without crying shame to all the world.

Poor Katey had cause for her grief. As she sat up in their poor bed, nursing her baby, and shivering with cold and misery, the light fell on Jerry’s face — a changed face to her — for on it was still the remains of a stupid frown, and the old firmness of the mouth had not yet returned. For the first time she noticed the cut on her husband’s head, and with a cry, suppressed lest it should wake him, bent over to look at it. She was terribly frightened, for she had not had even a suspicion that he had been hurt. Now, having placed her baby beside her, she made a careful examination, and was horrified at the appearance which the wound presented. It was carefully dressed, but the very carefulness of the dressing increased her fear, for she should not see the actual extent of the wound, but could only fear, and of course she feared the worst. So she watched and waited till the morning light grew clearer and clearer, and then at his usual hour Jerry awoke.

There are different ways of waking, and those who take the trouble to study the matter can see for themselves how much good or evil conscience has to do with it. Jerry awoke with an evil conscience, that which makes “cowards of us all,” and as the whole of yesterday, with its temptation, yielded to and its last prolonged debauch, rushed back upon his mind, he covered his eyes with his hands to shut out the reproach which he felt should be in the eyes of his wife. Katey saw the motion and understood it, and it wrung her heart with a bitter pain. She put her arms round his neck and said, with the tenderness that can only be in the voice of a loving wife exercising the sweet woman’s virtue of forgiveness:

“Oh, Jerry, Jerry, don’t turn from me. Look to me, Jerry, dear. Can you find love and comfort anywhere but in the heart of your wife.”

Jerry could not look her in the face, but blindly groping, as if in the dark, he put his arms round her and hid his face in her bosom.

Neither spoke for a while, but Katey rocked his head on her breast, as a while ago she had rocked her baby’s. Presently she said:

“Don’t speak, Jerry, not one word to me. Let me dress your poor hurt head, and then you can go to your work amongst your mates, knowing that there is no cloud between us.”

Jerry raised his head and looked at her, with his eyes full of honest tears and his mouth with something of the old firmness. He held her from him, at arm’s length, in a loving way, and said, slowly:

“Katey, I have done wrong. Don’t speak. I must say it, for it is true; but I hope it will be the last time. Trust me this once, and you won’t have more cause for fear.”

He did not wish her to answer, and so she stayed silent.

All that day Jerry worked very hard, and resisted all temptations, both those from within — for his excess of the night before had parched him — and those from his friends; and he went home that night to Katey with a good conscience.

The next day was the same, and the next, and the next. Thus his old confidence in himself came back to him: “Ye that stand take heed lest ye fall.” With his confidence came a temptation to do things to test it, and conscious of his own strength of purpose, Jerry went across to Grinnell’s “just to prove,” he thought to himself, “that I am not afraid.”

Great efforts were made by those present, who included Mons, Sebright, and Popham, to induce him to take something, but he consistently refused, but with good humour. Still he felt it pleasant to be in a cheerful room amongst a lot of companions, much better than grubbing away at piles of wood grimy with the dust of months, and he thought that now that he felt how strong he was he would often take a run across the road and hear some of the gossip of the day between his spells of work.

These days were pleasant for Katey, for she saw that Jerry was quite his old self, and she was beginning to get reconciled to the new life. Jerry never told her of his visits to Grinnell’s, for he thought to himself, “What is the use of telling her. There is no harm in it, but she will only be imagining harm, and worrying herself about nothing.”

Sebright came to see him one evening. Katey made her husband’s friend welcome, as every good wife does. The two men chatted pleasantly, Katey occasionally joining in. She saw that Jerry enjoyed the evening, and she herself, devoid as she was of friends, enjoyed it too, and asked their guest to come again. He was not a man to stand on ceremony in such matters, and he did come again, and his visits grew more frequent till at last his coming was a matter to be expected every second night or so.

Mons also paid a visit, and was made welcome, and repeated his visits also. Katey did not like either man, but she disliked the latter. She had known Sebright long ago, and he had at least the title of old acquaintanceship to be liked; but Mons was a newcomer, and one that she felt was, for her husband’s sake, not to be encouraged.

Thus things went on for some time. Occasionally letters came from Dublin telling of the progress of affairs. At last Katey received one, which she opened with some curiosity, as the writing was not familiar to her. It ran as follows:

Dear Mrs. Katey

I have some news to tell you wh you will be glad to hear. I am going to be married. You will never guess who to, wh is Miss M’Anaspie, who I met at your home. Margaret — that is, Miss M’Anaspie, desires me to say she hopes you’re well, and that my young god-son or god-daughter, or whatever the brat is, is quite well. I hope some day to be something else but a god-father. [Here was inserted in a feminine hand — “Don’t mind him; he is a wretch.”] We, who we is I and Margaret — Miss M’Anaspie — are going over to London on our honeymoon, and hope to see you. Margaret — Miss M’Anaspie — says you are sure to live in some wretched hole, but you will not mind us going if we don’t; provided, Margaret — Miss M’Anaspie — says that her new clothes won’t get spoiled by going upstairs like a corkscrew to a garret, or down a slippery ladder into a cellar, where your head knocks above you in the grating, and your feet slip and you fall amongst the oysters, and shrimps, and prawns. But we will go all the same. Wishing you all the good wishes wh you wish — in which I join [written in a female hand again] — we remain, dear madam, yours respectfully.

John Muldoon.

PS — I hope Jerry hasn’t taken to drinking yet.

This letter made poor Katey very unhappy. There was in it a tone of selfish heartlessness which would have made its contents a matter of indifference only for two or three of the remarks it contained.

“What right have they,” Katey thought indignantly, “to think that Jerry would take to drinking? “Has he taken to it yet,” indeed, as if Jerry would be a drunkard? My Jerry, that never was drunk but once, and that never goes near a public-house now. And why did they think we lived in a garret, or a cellar either. I’ll be bound there isn’t as clean or as comfortable a room in John Muldoon’s house as this very room. It’s like their impudence.” And so ran on the little woman’s thoughts till something within her whispered, “Pride, Katey, pride. Take care of pride. Keep your room clean and nice, and it won’t matter whether they think you live in a garret or anywhere else.”

In time Mr. and Mrs. Muldoon came over to London, and, after sending a message to Katey that she might be prepared, they paid her a visit. Mrs. Muldoon was radiant with every colour in the rainbow, and from the number of garments floating and flying about her looked of such portentous dimensions that her little stout husband seemed like a dwarf.

John Muldoon, however, did not consider himself a dwarf by any means, and was as proud of his wife “as a dog with a tin tail.” Mrs. Muldoon was most patronisingly affectionate as became her exalted rank and her blushing condition. She kissed Katey several times, and disported herself with the children, whom she took turn about on her knees until she got tired of them

Her conduct towards the baby was worthy of note. Towards it she displayed an amount of affectionate curiosity worthy of all praise. She dandled it in her hands, she kissed it, she cuddled it, she almost strangled it, and by her unskilful nursing managed to inflict on it much pain in the way of pins.

Katey stood by, now smiling, now anxious, as the child seemed pleased or unhappy.

Suddenly, without any apparent cause, Mrs. Muldoon stood up and said —

“John, dear, I think we have stayed a long time. Mrs. Katey will want to get back to her work.” And so, taking her husband’s arm, went away, after a hurried farewell.

Katey was distressed, for she feared there was some offence, and the tone adopted by her new relative was gall and wormwood to her womanly feelings. For they had not wished to see Jerry, but merely asked for him. It was only, however, that the bride was tired of the visit, and wished to see some more of the sights of London.

A letter came from Parnell one day which gave Katey great pleasure. One sentence in it ran as follows:

Never forget that you must be your husband’s Guardian Angel in case he falls into any temptation. Above all things remember that your hold on him is stronger while there is perfect confidence. When there is between man and wife a shadow of suspicion or doubt — when either hesitates to tell a secret or confess a fault, not knowing how it may be received — then there is over their lives the shadow of a dark future. Never keep a secret, then, except when it is not your own, from your husband, and strive so to act that he conceal nothing from you.

As she read this the little woman said to herself with a mixture of pride and thoughtfulness:

“There are no secrets between Jerry and me, thank God. Sure there isn’t a thought of my heart I wouldn’t tell him, and I know that he tells me everything.”

This thought tended to perfect the happiness which, now that Jerry was going along so steadily and prosperously, was her natural condition.

A few evenings after, whilst Jerry was at the theatre, Sebright came in. In the course of conversation he happened to mention Grinnell’s name.

“Who is Grinnell?” asked Katey.

“Don’t you know Grinnell? Why he is a friend of Jerry’s.”

“A friend of Jerry’s! how odd that he never mentioned him to me. What is he?”

“He keeps the public-house opposite the stage door of the Stanley.”

Katey’s heart seemed to turn to stone, but she did not choose to let Sebright see her feeling lest it should do harm, and so, for the present, let the matter drop.

When her visitor had gone she was in a dreadful state of mind. She longed to cry with a bitter longing, but feared to, lest Jerry should find her eyes red on his return from work, and so she bravely bore her sorrow — the sorrow that followed the thought of her husband’s concealment.

When Jerry returned he found her bright and cheerful as usual, and in a talking humour. He had had a hard and long day’s work, and was now quite in a humour for a quiet chat. Katey had been thinking over Sebright’s remark, and had come to the conclusion that as Jerry had not told her about Grinnell he had some object in his concealment, and that to force a confession would be to put him in the wrong at the very outset. Accordingly she began her conversation, with the object of trying to invite his confidence.

After talking over the state of things at the theatre, to which she had been several times, Jerry’s companions, and daily life, she asked him —

“What do you do all the evening, Jerry? It must be very slow work for you.”

“Well, it’s slow at times; but, as a rule, there’s plenty to do. So that with looking after the cellars, and the flies, and the wings, and trying to keep the men square and sober, my time isn’t idle I can tell you.”

“Is it hard to keep the men sober?”

“Isn’t it. They’d be always over in Grinnell’s if I let them”

“What is Grinnell’s?”

“A public-house over the way.”

“And is Grinnell the proprietor?”

“He is, and a good fellow too — very pleasant and sociable.”

Jerry was thinking that the present was a good time to tell his wife that he sometimes went in, but did not drink anything; but such a look of fear came over her face, despite all her efforts, that he did not care to go on, and hastily turned aside the current of conversation.

Katey felt that the shadow was growing, but yet feared to say anything more at present lest Jerry should be hurt.

Poor little woman; she was in great doubt, pitiable doubt, and as she had no one near to advise her, was driven almost into despair. In her perplexity she wrote to Parnell a tender little letter, full of love for her husband, and asking earnestly for advice. The answer came in a way that she did not expect, for one day, shortly after, whilst she was busily engaged over her washing-tub a tall man, none other than Parnell himself, walked in.

Katey looked at him in amazement, and gave a low, glad cry, and, as she was, without even thinking of her wet hands and arms, ran over and put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

Whilst she was in this attitude Jerry came in, and, seeing his wife with her arms round a man’s neck, for he did not at first recognise Parnell — not expecting to see him — gave vent to an indignant “Hullo!” Parnell turned his head round, and Katey peeped over his shoulder at her husband. When Jerry saw who it was he nearly shook his hand off and pressed him into a chair, asking him all sorts of questions, without giving him time to reply.

Parnell told him all the Dublin news; amongst other things giving him a description of Muldoon’s wedding, at which they all laughed heartily.

When dinner was over, Jerry had to hurry back to his work, and Parnell remained to talk with Katey. Katey did not delay, but proceeded to tell her trouble in full, Parnell listening quietly, and looking very grave. When she had finished, he took her hand in his and said —

“I do not like Jerry’s keeping back anything from you, but this matter will be all right, I hope and believe.”

He was interrupted by the voice of the landlady calling out, “Mrs. O’Sullivan, here’s a boy wants you to go down to the theatre as quick as ever you can, something has happened.”

Katey, with a deadly fear in her heart, hurried with Parnell down to the theatre.