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- Herausgeber: Masterpiece Everywhere
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
This collection gathers together the works by Bram Stoker in a single, convenient, high quality, and extremely low priced Kindle volume! The Complete Novels : The Primrose Path The Snake's Pass The Watter's Mou' The Shoulder of Shasta Dracula Miss Betty The Mystery of the Sea The Jewel of Seven Stars The Man Lady Athlyne The Lady of the Shroud The Lair of the White Worm
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Table of Contents
The Primrose PathThe Snake’s PassThe Watter’s Mou’The Shoulder of ShastaDraculaMiss BettyThe Mystery of the SeaThe Jewel of Seven StarsThe ManLady AthlyneThe Lady of the ShroudThe Lair of the White WormLandmarks
Cover
The Primrose Path
First published: 1875
Chapter 1 — A Happy Home
Chapter 2 — To and Fro
Chapter 3 — An Opening
Chapter 4 — The New Life
Chapter 5 — How the New Life Began
Chapter 6 — A Summons
Chapter 7 — Katey’s Trials
Chapter 8 — Down the Hill
Chapter 9 — The Trail of the Serpent
Chapter 10 — The End of the Journey
Chapter 1 — A Happy Home
“I wonder will any of them come, Jerry?”
The pretty little woman’s face got puckered all over with baby wrinkles, more suitable to the wee pink face that lay on her bosom than to her own somewhat pale one, as she made the remark.
Jerry looked up from his newspaper and gazed at her lovingly for a moment before he answered, his answer being a confident smile with a knowing shake of the head from side to side as who should say — “Oh, you little humbug, pretending to distress yourself with doubts. Of course, they’ll come — all of them.”
Katey seemed to lose her trouble in his smile — it is wonderful what comforters love and sympathy are. She drew close to her husband and held down the tiny bald pink head for him to kiss, and then, leaning her cheek against his, said in a soft cooing voice, half wifely, half motherly, “Oh, Jerry, isn’t he a little beauty.”
Children are quite as jealous as dogs and cats in their own way, and instinctively the urchin sprawling on the hearth-rug came over and pulled at his mother’s dress, saying plaintively “Me too, mammy — me too.”
Jerry took the child on his knee. “Eh, little Jerry, your nose is out of joint again; isn’t it?”
A mother is jealous as well as her child, and this mother answered — “Oh, no, Jerry, sure I don’t love him less because I have to take care of the little mite.”
Further conversation was stopped by a knock at the door.
“That’s some of them stayin’ away,” said Jerry, as he went out to open the door.
As may be seen, Jerry and his wife expected company, the doubts as to whose arrival was caused by the extreme inclemency of the weather, and as the occasion of the festivities was an important one, the doubts were strong.
Jerry O’Sullivan was a prosperous man in his line of life. His trade was that of a carpenter, and as he had, in addition to large practical skill and experience gained from unremitting toil, a considerable share of natural ability, was justly considered by his compeers to be the makings of a successful man.
Three years before he had been married to his pretty little wife, whose sweet nature, and care for his comfort, and whose desire to perfect the cheerfulness of home, had not a little aided his success, and kept him on the straight path.
If every wife understood the merits which a cheerful home has above all other places in the eyes of an ordinary man, there would be less brutality than there is amongst husbands, and less hardships and suffering amongst wives.
The third child has just been christened, and some friends and relatives were expected to do honour to the occasion, and now the knock announced the first arrival.
Whilst Jerry went to the door, Katey arranged the child’s garments so as to make him look as nice as possible, and also fixed her own dress, somewhat disturbed by maternal cares. In the meantime little Jerry flattened his nose against the window pane in a vain desire to see the appearance of the first arrival. Little Katey stood by him looking expectant as though her eyes were with her brother’s.
Mrs. Jerry’s best smile showed that the newcomer, Mr. Parnell, was a special friend. After shaking hands with him she stood close to him, and showed him the baby, looking up into his dark strong face with a smile of perfect trust. He was so tall that he had to stoop to kiss the baby, although the little mother raised it in her arms for him. He said very tenderly —
“Let me hold him a minute in my arms.”
He lifted him gently as he spoke, and bending his head, said reverently: —
“God bless him. Suffer little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.”
Katey’s eyes were full of tears as she took him back, and she thanked the big man with a look too full of sacred feeling for even a smile.
Jerry stood by in silence. He felt much, although he did not know what to say.
Another knock was heard, and again Jerry’s services were required. This time there was a large influx, for three different bodies had joined just at the door. Much laughter was heard in the hall, and then they all entered. The body consisted of seven souls all told.
Place aux dames. We Irishmen must give first place always to the ladies. Of these there were four. Jerry’s mother and her assistant, Miss M’Anaspie, and Katey’s two sisters, one older and one younger than herself. The men were, Mr. Muldoon, Tom Price, and Patrick Casey.
Jerry’s mother was a quiet dignified old lady, very gentle in manner, but with a sternness of thought and purpose which shone through her gentleness and forbid any attempt at imposition, as surely as the green light marks danger at a railway crossing. She had a small haberdashery shop, by which she was reputed amongst her friends to have realised a considerable amount of money. Miss M’Anaspie was her assistant, and was asked by Katey to be present out of pure kindness. She had originally set her cap at Jerry, and had very nearly succeeded in her aim. It was no small evidence of Katey’s genuine goodness of nature and her perfect trust of her husband that she was present; for most women have a feeling of possible hostility, or, at least, maintain an armed neutrality towards the former flames of the man that they love. Miss M’Anaspie was tall and buxom, and of lively manners, quite devoid of bashfulness. It puzzled many of her friends how, with her desire to be married, she had not long ago succeeded in accomplishing her wish. Katey’s sisters were pleasant, quiet girls, both engaged to be married — Jane to Price, and Mary to Casey, the former man being a blacksmith, and the latter an umbrella-maker, both being sturdy young fellows, and looking forward to being shortly able to marry.
Mr. Muldoon was the great man of the occasion. He was a cousin of Mrs. O’Sullivan’s, and was rich.
He had a large Italian warehouse, which he managed well, and consequently was exceedingly prosperous. Personally he was not so agreeable as he might have been. He was small, and stout, and ugly, with keen eyes, a sharply-pointed nose; was habitually clean-shaven, and kept his breast stuck out like that of a pouter pigeon. He always dressed gorgeously, and on the present occasion, as he considered that he was honouring his poor relations, had got himself up to a pitch of such radiance that his old servant had commented on his appearance as he had left home. His trousers were of the lightest yellow whipcord; his coat was blue; his waistcoat was red velvet, with blue glass buttons; and in the matter of green tie, high collar, and large cuffs he excelled. His watch chain, of massive gold, with the “pint of seals” attached to the fob-chain after the manner of the bucks of the last generation was alone worthy of respect. His temper was not pleasant, for he was dictatorial to the last degree, and had a very unpleasant habit, something like Frederick the Great, of considering any difference of opinion as an insult intentionally offered to himself.
A man like this may be a pleasant enough companion so long as he goes with the tide, he thinking that it is the tide which goes with him; but when occasion of difference arises, the social horizon at once becomes overcast with angry clouds which gather quickly till the storm has burst. Oftentimes, as in nature — the great world of elements — the storm clears the air.
Mr. Muldoon had been asked as an act possibly likely to benefit the new olive branch, for the Italian grocer was unmarried, and might at some future time, so thought Jerry and Katey in their secret hearts, take in charge the destinies of the new infant to-day made John Muldoon O’ Sullivan.
When the party entered the room Mr. Muldoon had advanced to Mrs. Jerry, and, as she was a pretty little woman, had kissed her in a semi-paternal way which made Miss M’Anaspie giggle. Mr. Muldoon looked round half indignantly, for he felt that his dignity was wounded. He considered that Miss M’Anaspie, of whose very name he was ignorant, was a forward young person, and in his mind determined to let her understand so before the evening was over.
After a few minutes the introductions had all been accomplished, and everybody knew everybody else. There was great kissing of the baby, great petting of the two elder children, for whose delectation sundry sweets were produced from mysterious pockets, and much laughter and good-humoured jesting.
Mr. Muldoon prided himself upon being a good hand at saying smart things, and felt that the present occasion was not one to be thrown away. Being a bachelor, he considered that his most proper attitude was that of ignorance — utter ignorance regarding babies in general, and this one in particular. When he was shown the baby he put up his eyeglass, and said:
“What is this?”
“Oh, Mr. Muldoon,” said the mother, almost reproachfully. “Sure, don’t you know this is the new baby?”
“Oh! oh! indeed. It is very bald.”
“It won’t be long so, then,” interrupted Miss M’Anaspie pertly. You can make it your heir, if you will.” Her English method of aspiration pointed the joke.
Mr. Muldoon looked at her almost savagely, but said nothing. He did not want to commit himself to any intention of aiding the child’s career; and he was obliged to remain silent. He mentally scored another black mark against the speaker.
Presently he spoke again.
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“A boy.”
“And are these boys or girls?” He pointed as he spoke to little Jerry and little Katey.
Miss M’Anaspie answered again — “Neither. They are half of each.”
“Dear me,” said Mr. Muldoon. “Can that be?”
“Don’t you see,” said Miss M’Anaspie in a tone which implied the addition of the words you silly old fool, “one is a boy and the other a girl.”
Mr. Muldoon made another black mark in his mental note-book, and ignoring his opponent, as he already considered Miss M’Anaspie, spoke again to Katey.
“And are these all yours? Three children; and you have been married — let me see, how long?”
“Three years and two months.”
“Why, at this rate, what will you do in twenty years. Just fancy twenty children. Really, Mrs. Katey, you should take the pledge.”
Katey did not know what to answer, and so stayed silent. Miss M’Anaspie turned away to hide an imagined blush, and Mr. Muldoon feeling that he had said something striking, began to unbend and mix with the rest of the company in a better humour than he had been in for some time.
The table was ready set with all the materials for comfort, and as the teapot was basking inside the fender beside a dish of highly buttered cake, the work of Mrs. Jerry herself, and the kettle singing songs of a bacchanalian character on the fire, promise of comfort to the foes and friends of Father Mathew was not wanting.
There was great arranging of places at the table. Jane and Mary with their sweethearts managed to monopolise one entire side, sitting alternately like the bread and ham in the pile of sandwiches before them.
Mr. Muldoon was put next to Katey, and Jerry had his mother on his right hand, she being supported on the other side by Mr. Parnell. This left Miss M’Anaspie to take her seat without choice, between the two eldest men of the party.
She did not shrink from the undertaking, however, but sat down, saying pertly to the company, but to no one in particular —
“My usual luck. Never mind. I like to have an old man on each side of me.”
Mr. Muldoon liked to be thought young — most middle-aged bachelors do — and he looked his disapprobation of the remark so strongly that a silence fell on all.
The dowager Mrs. O’Sullivan said quietly —
“You let your tongue run too fast, Margaret. You forget Mr. Muldoon is a new friend of yours, and not an old one.”
Miss M’Anaspie had already seen that she had made a mistake, and was only waiting for an opportunity of correcting it, so she seized it greedily.
“I am so awfully sorry. I hope, sir, I did not offend. Indeed I wished to please. I thought that young people wished to be thought old. I know that I did when I was young.”
“That was some time ago,” whispered Pat Casey to Mary, who laughed too suddenly, and was nearly caught at it.
Mr. Muldoon was mollified. He thought to himself that perhaps the poor girl did not mean to give offence; that she was a clever girl; much nicer after all than most girls; however that he would have an eye on her, and see what she was like.
For some time the consumption of the good things occupied the attention of everybody. Mrs. Jerry handed a cup of tea to Mr. Parnell before any of the rest of the men, saying —
“I know you like that better than anything else.”
“That I do,” he answered heartily. “There is as much virtue in this as there is evil in beer, and whisky, and gin, and all other abominations.”
No one felt inclined to take up, at present at all events, the total-abstinence glove thus thrown down, and so the subject dropped.
It would have done one good to have seen the care which Katey’s sisters took of their sweethearts, piling up their plates with everything that was nice, and keeping them as steadily at work as if they had been engaged in a contest as to who should consume the largest quantity in the smallest time. This was a species of friendly rivalry in which the men found equal pleasure with the girls.
It is quite wonderful the difference between the appetites of successful and unsuccessful lovers.
Mr. Muldoon and Miss M’Anaspie during the progress of the meal became fast friends, at least so it would seem, for they bandied, unchecked, pleasantries of a nature usually only allowed amongst intimate friends. Both Jerry and his wife were much amazed, for both stood somewhat in awe of the great man with whom they would never have attempted to make any familiarity.
By the time the heavy part of the eating was done, the whole assemblage was in hearty good humour.
Katey began to clear away the things, having given the baby in charge to her mother-in-law. The moment she began, however, Mary and Jane started up and insisted that they should do the work, and on her showing signs of determination forced her into the arm-chair, and placed the two sweethearts on guard over her, threatening them with various pains and penalties in event of their failing in their trust.
Seeing the other girls at work, Miss MAnaspie insisted on helping also, and they were too kind-hearted not to make her welcome in the little kindly office.
The next addition to the working staff was Mr. Muldoon, who, to the astonishment of every one who knew him, clamoured loudly for work, evidently bent on going wherever Miss M’Anaspie went, and on helping her in her every task.
It was a sight to see the great man work. He evidently felt that he was extending and being more friendly with his inferiors than, perhaps, in justice to his own position he was warranted in doing; and he took some pains to let every one see that he was playing at work. His ignorance of the simplest domestic offices was preternatural. He did not know how to carry even a plate without putting it somewhere he ought not, or spilling its contents over some one; and he managed to break a tumbler and two plates just to show, like Beaumarchais and the watch, that that sort of thing was not in his line.
Mrs. Jerry did not know Pope’s lines about the perfection of a woman’s manner and temper, wherein he puts as the culmination of her virtues, “And mistress of herself though china fall;” but she had the good temper and the good manner of nature, which is above all art, and although, woman-like, the wreck of her household goods went to her heart, she said nothing, but looked as sweet as if the breakage pleased her. Truly, Jerry O’Sullivan had a sweet wife and a happy home. Prosperity seemed to be his lot in life.
Chapter 2 — To and Fro
When all was made comfortable for the after sitting, the conversation grew lively. The position of persons at table tends to further cliquism, and to narrow conversation to a number of dialogues, and so the change was appreciated.
The most didactic person of the company was Mr. Parnell, who was also the greatest philosopher; and the idea of general conversation seemed to have struck him. He began to comment on the change in the style of conversation.
“Look what a community of feeling does for us. Half an hour ago, when we were doing justice to Mrs. O’Sullivan’s good things, all our ideas were scattered. There was, perhaps, enough of pleasant news amongst us to make some of us happy, and others of us rich, if we knew how to apply our information; but still no one got full benefit, or the opportunity of full benefit, from it.”
Here Price whispered something in Jane’s ear, which made her blush and laugh, and tell him to “go along.”
Parnell smiled and said gently —
“Well, perhaps, Tom, some of the thoughts wouldn’t interest the whole of us.”
Tom grinned bashfully, and Parnell reverted to his theme. He was a great man at meetings, and liked to talk, for he knew that he talked well.
“Have any of you ever looked how some rivers end?”
“What end?” asked Mr. Muldoon, and winked at Miss M’Anaspie.
“The sea end. Look at the history of a river. It begins by a lot of little streams meeting together, and is but small at first. Then it grows wider and deeper, till big ships mayhap can sail in it, and then it goes down to the sea.”
“Poor thing,” said Mr. Muldoon, again winking at Margaret.
“Ay, but how does it reach the sea? It should go, we would fancy, by a broad open mouth that would send the ships out boldly on every side and gather them in from every point. But some do not do so — the water is drawn off through a hundred little channels, where the mud lies in shoals and the sedges grow, and where no craft can pass. The river of thought should be an open river — be its craft few or many — if it is to benefit mankind.”
Miss M’Anaspie who had, whilst he was speaking, been whispering to Mr. Muldoon, said, with a pertness bordering on snappishness:
“Then, I suppose, you would never let a person talk except in company. For my part, I think two is better company than a lot.”
“Not at all, my dear. The river of thought can flow between two as well as amongst fifty; all I say is that all should benefit.”
Here Mr. Muldoon struck in. He had all along felt it as a slight to himself that Parnell should have taken the conversational ball into his own hands. He was himself extremely dogmatic, and no more understood the difference between didacticism and dogmatism than he comprehended the meaning of that baphometic fire-baptism which set the critics of Mr. Carlyle’s younger days a-thinking.
“For my part,” said he, “I consider it an impertinence for any man to think that what he says must be interesting to every one in a room.”
This was felt by all to be a home thrust at Parnell, and no one spoke. Parnell would have answered, not in anger, but in good-humoured argument, only for an imploring look on Katey’s face, which seemed to say as plainly as words —
“Do not answer. He will be angry, and there will only be a quarrel.”
And so the subject dropped.
The men mixed punch, all except Mr. Muldoon, who took his whisky cold, and Parnell, who took none. The former looked at the latter with a sort of semi-sneer, and said — “Do you mean to say you don’t take either punch or grog?”
“Well,” said Parnell, “I didn’t mean to say it, but now that you ask me I do say it. I never touch any kind of spirit, and, please God, I never will.”
“Don’t you think,” said Muldoon, “that that is setting yourself above the rest of us a good deal. We’re not too good for our liquor, but you are. That’s about the long and the short of it.”
“No, no, my friend, I say nothing of the kind. Any man is too good for liquor.”
Jerry thought the conversation was getting entirely too argumentative, so he cut in — “But a little liquor needn’t be bad for a chap if he doesn’t take too much?”
“Ay, there it is,” said Parnell, “if he doesn’t take too much. But he does take too much, and the end is that it works his ruin, body and soul.”
“Whose?”
It was Miss M’Anaspie who asked the question, and it fell like a bombshell.
Parnell, however, was equal to the emergency.
“Whose?” he repeated. “Whose? Everyone’s who begins and doesn’t know where he may leave off.” Miss M’Anaspie felt that she was answered, and looked appealingly at Mr. Muldoon, who at once came to the rescue.
“Everyone is a big word. Do you mean to tell me that every man that drinks a pint of beer or a glass of whisky, goes straight to the devil?”
“No, no; indeed I do not. God forbid that I should say any such thing. But look how many men that mean only to take one glass, are persuaded to take two, and then the wits begin to go, and they take three or four, and five, ay, and more, sometimes. Why, men and women” — he rose from his chair as he spoke, with his face all aglow, with earnestness and belief in his words, “look around you and see the misery that everywhere throngs the streets. See the pale, drunken, wasted-looking men, with sunken eyes, and slouching gait. Men that were once as strong and hard-working, and upright as any here, ay, and could look you in the face as boldly as any here. Look at them now! Afraid to meet your eyes, trembling at every sound; mad with passion one moment and with despair the next.”
The tide of his thought was pouring forth with such energy that no one spoke; even Mr. Muldoon was afraid at the time to interrupt him. He went on:
“And the women, too, God help us all. Look at them and see what part drink plays in their wretched lives. Listen to the laughter and the cries that wake the echoes in the streets at night. You that have wives, and mothers and,” (this with a glance at Tom and Pat) “sweethearts, can you hear such laughter and cries and not shudder? If you can, then when next you hear it think of what it would be for you to hear some voice that you love raised like that.”
Mr. Muldoon could not stand it any longer and spoke out:
“But come now, I can’t see how all the misery and wretchedness of the world is to be laid on a simple glass of beer.”
“Hear, hear,” said Miss M’Anaspie.
Parnell’s reply was allegorical. “Do you see how the oak springs from the acorn — the bird from the egg? I tell you that if there were no spirits there would be less sin, and shame, and sorrow than there is.”
“Oh, yes,” said Muldoon. “It would be a beautiful world entirely, and everybody would have everything, and nobody would want nothing, and we’d all be grand fellows. Eh, Miss Margaret, what do you think?”
“Hear, hear,” said Miss M’Anaspie, more timidly than before, however, at the same time looking over at Mrs. O’Sullivan, who was looking not too well pleased at her.
“Ah, sir,” said Parnell, sadly, “God knows that we, men and women, are not what we ought to be, and sin will be in the world, I suppose, till the time that is told. But this I say, that drink is the greatest enemy that man has on earth.”
“Why, you’re quite an enthusiast,” said Mr. Muldoon; “one would think you were inspired.”
“I would I were inspired. I wish my voice was of gold, and that I could make men hear me all over the world, and that I could make the stars ring again with cries against the madness that men bring upon themselves.”
“Upon my life,” said Mr. Muldoon, “you should be on the stage. You have missed your vocation. By the way, what is your vocation?”
“I am a hatter.”
Miss M’Anaspie blurted out suddenly, “Mad as a hatter,” and then suddenly got red in the face, and shut up completely as she saw her employer’s eye fixed on her with a glare almost baleful in its intensity.
Mr. Muldoon laughed loudly, and slapped his fat knees as he ejaculated — “Brayvo, brayvo. One for his nob — mad as a hatter. That accounts for the enthusiasm.” Then, seeing a look of such genuine pain on Katey’s face that even his obtuseness could not hide from him how deeply he was hurting her, added — “Of course, Mr. Parnell, I am only joking; but still it is not bad — mad as a hatter. Ha, ha!”
No one said anything more, and no one laughed; and so the matter was dropped.
Jerry felt that a gloom had fallen on the assemblage, and tried to lift it by starting a new topic.
“Do you know,” said he, “I had a letter from John Sebright the other day, and he tells me if you want to make money England’s the place.”
“Indeed,” said his mother, satirically.
Going to England was an old “fad” of Jerry’s, and one which had caused his mother many an anxious hour of thought, and many a sleepless night.
“Yes,” answered Jerry, “he says there is more work there than here, and better paid; and that a man has ten chances for gettin’ on for one he has here.”
“The one chance often wins when the ten fail,” said Parnell.
“And it’s worse losing ten pounds than one,” added Margaret.
“And some girls’ tongues are as long as ten,” said Mrs. O’Sullivan, who could not bear anything which tended to make light of her wishes with regard to Jerry, and so determined to put a stop to Miss M’Anaspie’s volubility.
Mr. Muldoon, however, came to the rescue.
“And some girls who have been for ten years in misery and discomfort find sometimes that one year brings them all they want.”
Miss M’Anaspie put her handkerchief before her face, and again dead silence fell on the assembly. Parnell broke it.
“Jerry, put the idea out of your head. You know that you couldn’t go now even if you wanted, and there is no use sighing for what can’t be.”
“I don’t know that,” said Jerry argumentatively. “I could go now with Katey and the young ones, just as well as if I was a boy still; ay, and better, for she would keep me out of harm.”
Parnell said with great feeling, “That’s right, Jerry; stick up for the wife and stick to her too, for she’s worth it. Do you but keep to your wife, and the home that she will always make for you, as long as you let her, and you may go when and where you will, and your hands will find work.”
Katey began to cry. She was still a little delicate, and anything which touched her feelings upset her very much. There was an immediate rush of all the women in the room to comfort her.
Jerry offered her some of his punch, but she put the glass aside, saying —
“No, no, dear, I never take it.”
“Come, come,” said Mr. Muldoon, “Mrs. Katey, this will never do, you must take it. It is good for you.”
“No, it is good for no one.”
“Come now, Mr. Parnell,” said Mr. Muldoon, “don’t you know a sup of liquor would do her good? Tell her so.”
“No, no,” said Katey, “I know myself.”
Parnell spoke —
“I cannot say, but it is good as a medicine, and as a medicine one may take it without harm.”
“Capital thing to be sick sometimes,” said Muldoon, winking at Tom and Pat, and laughing at his own joke.
Parnell did not like to let a point go unquestioned on a subject on which he felt deeply, so he answered
“When you are sick, your wish is to be well again, and the medicine that seems nice to you when well, is only in sickness but medicine after all.”
Once more Mr. Muldoon began to get angry, and said, with a determination to fight the argument — à I’outrance —
“Why, man, you would make the world a hell with all your self-denials. Do you think life would be worth having if every enjoyment of it, great and little, was to be suppressed. The world is bad enough, goodness knows, already, without making a regular hell of it.”
“Hell is a big word.”
“It is a big word, and I mean it to be a big word.”
“Ah, it is like enough to hell already,” said Parnell sadly.
“On account of all the bad spirits,” added Miss M’Anaspie.
“Laugh, my child. Laugh whilst you may. Heaven grant that the day may never come when you cannot laugh at such thoughts. Ay, truly, the world is hard enough as it is. Bad enough, and the devil is abroad enough, and too much.”
“Oh, he’s on earth is he?”
“Yes, Mr. Muldoon, he is, to and fro, he walks always.”
Whilst he was speaking he was drawing in his note-book.
Miss M’Anaspie got curious to know what he was doing, and asked him.
In reply he handed her the book.
She took it eagerly, and then passed it on to all the others in turn.
He had drawn an allegorical picture under which he had written — “To and Fro.”
The picture represented a road through a moor to a village, seen lying some distance away, the spire of its church shadowed by a passing cloud. The moor was bleak, with, in the foreground, a clump of blasted trees, and in the distance a ruined house. On the road two travellers were journeying, both seated on the same horse — a sorry nag. One of them was booted and spurred, and wore a short cloak, a slouched hat, under which the lineaments showed ghastly, for the face was but that of a skull. The other, who rode pick-a-back, was clad as the German romances love to clothe their demon when he walks the earth, with trunk hose and pointed shoes, a long floating cloak, and peaked cap with cock’s feathers. On his arm he bore a basket full of bottles, and as he clutched his grisly companion he laughed with glee, bending his head as men do when their enjoyment is in perspective rather than an actuality.
From beneath a stone a viper had raised itself, and seemed to salute the travellers with its forked tongue.
When the picture came into Mrs. O’Sullivan’s hands, she fixed her spectacles and held it up a little to let the most light possible fall on it. Then she spoke —
“God bless us and save us, but that’s an awful thing. Where did you see that, Mr. Parnell?”
“I never saw it, ma’am, except in my mind, and I see it there often enough. You, young men, mind the lesson of that picture, for it is truth. Death and the devil go together, and so sure as the devil grips hold of you, death is not far off, you may be sure, in some form or other, waiting, waiting, waiting.”
Mr. Muldoon saw that the subject of drinking was coming in again, and said maliciously — “And this is all from a glass of beer.”
“Ay, if you will,” said Parnell. “That’s how it begins — that which is the curse of Ireland in our own time; and which, so surely as Irishmen will not use the wit and strength that God has given them, will drag her from her throne.”
Jerry got into the conversation:
“One thing John Sebright tells me, that there is less drunkenness in England than here.”
“Don’t you believe him,” said Parnell. “That man means mischief to you. He wants to entice you to England, and then live on you when he gets you there. For Heaven’s sake put that idea of going away out of your head. You’re very well here as you are; and let well alone.”
Jerry’s mother spoke also. “John Sebright is a nice chap to quote sobriety as a virtue. Do you remember how often I gave you money to pay his fines to keep him out of prison after his drunken freaks, for the sake of his poor dead and gone mother. Why, that chap could no more tell truth than he could work, and that’s saying a good deal.”
“Well, drink or no drink, mother, England’s a grand place, anyhow, and there’s lots of money going there.”
Parnell rose up from his chair and said severely — “Jerry O’ Sullivan, do you know what you are talking about? True, that England is rich, but is money all that a man is to seek after? If the good men leave poor Ireland to make a little more money for themselves, what is to become of her? Is it not as if she was sold for money; and if you look at the real difference of wages — the wages that good sober men that can work, get here and there, a poor price she would be sold for after all.”
“I don’t like that way of putting it,” said Jerry, rather testily. “In fact I have almost made up my mind to go, and I don’t think I’m selling my country at all at all, and I wish you wouldn’t say such things.”
Parnell said nothing for a few moments. Then he tore the picture out of his note-book and handed it to him saying —
“Jerry, old boy, if you ever do go, keep that in your purse, and if ever you go to pay for liquor for yourself or others, just think what it means.”
When the party rose up to go they found that Katey had been crying quietly, and her eyes were red and swollen.
Jerry O’Sullivan’s home was happy, and his poor, good little wife feared a change.
Chapter 3 — An Opening
Jerry O’Sullivan’s desire to go to England was no mere transient wish. As has been told, he had had for years a strong desire to try his fortune in a country other than his own; and although the desire had since his marriage fallen into so sound a sleep that it resembled death, still it was not dead but sleeping.
Deep in the minds of most energetic persons lies some strong desire, some strong ambition, or some resolute hope, which unconsciously moulds, or, at least, influences their every act. No matter what their circumstances in life may be, or how much they may yield to those circumstances for a time, the one idea remains ever the same. This is, in fact, one of the secrets of how individual force of character comes out at times. The great idea, whatever it may be, sits enthroned in the mind, and round it gather subordinate wishes and resolves, as the feudal nobles round the King, and so goes on the chain down the whole gamut of man’s nature from the taming or suppression of his wildest passions down to the commonplace routine of his daily life.
And yet we wonder at times to see, when occasion offers, with what astonishing rapidity certain individuals assert themselves, and how, when a strange circumstance arises, some new individual arises along with it, as though the man and the hour were predestined for each other.
We need not wonder if we will but think that all along the man was ready, girt in his armour, resolved in his cause, and merely awaiting, although, perhaps, he knew it not, the opportunity to manifest himself.
Whilst Jerry had been working — and working so honestly and well that he was on the high road to success — he never once abandoned in his secret heart the idea of seeking a wider field for his exertion. Truly, Alexander has his prototypes in every age and country; and men even try to look ever beyond the horizon of their hopes, sighing for new worlds when the victories of the old have been achieved.
From the receipt of Sebright’s letter, Jerry had found the old wish reviving stronger than ever. He was so prosperous that the idea of failure in work seemed too far away to be easily realised; and his home was so happy that domestic trouble was absolutely beyond his comprehension.
The holy admonition — “Ye that stand take heed lest ye fall,” should be ever before the minds of men.
Katey saw her husband’s secret wish gradually growing into a resolve, with unutterable pain; and tried to combat Jerry’s views but hopelessly. At first he listened, and argued the matter over fairly in all its aspects, being ever kind-hearted and tender, and seeming to thoroughly sympathise with her views; but as the weeks wore on, he began to take a different tone, and without losing any of his kindness or tenderness to express more decided opinions and intentions. The change was so gradual that even Katey’s wifely love, and the acuteness which is the handmaiden of love, could see no cause for change, nor could mark any time as being the period of a definite change.
In fact, the masculine resolution was asserting itself over the feminine, and acting and reacting in itself, but constantly in the direction of settled purpose.
With the feeling of power which a man of average mental calibre feels over a woman of similar status amongst her own sex, comes a fuller purpose — a more decided, definite resolve to the man himself. Thus, Jerry, whilst arguing with his wife, had been all the time strengthening his own resolve, and working himself up to the belief that immediate action was necessary to his success in life.
Wives, be careful how you argue with your husbands, for you walk on a ridge between two precipices. If you allow a half-formed wish to be the parent of immediate action on your husband’s part, without raising a warning voice should you see danger that he does not, then you do him a wrong which will surely recoil on your own head and the heads of your children. But if, on the other hand, you persistently combat with argument wishes which should be furthered or opposed with the patent truths of the heart’s experience, then you will surely fail, for you will be fighting reality with vacuity — opposing steel with air-drawn daggers of the fancy.
Katey’s position was very painful. She felt that her speaking to her husband was a duty which her wifely vow, as much as her wifely love, called on her to fulfil; but at the same time she felt with that subtle instinct of true love which never errs and never lies, that she was sapping the foundations of her husband’s love and weakening the influence which she had over him. Poor Katey! her lot was a hard one, but she felt — and she was right — that where duty points the way, then the way must be walked whatever be the misery of the journey, and wherever the road may lead.
Jerry’s mother, too, was fretted by her son’s determination. He never spoke of it to her, but she heard it from their mutual friends, and the very fact of his being reticent on the point caused her more pain by raising doubts as to his motive, not only for going, but concealing his wish from her. Jerry had a two-fold reason for his silence. Firstly, he did not wish to give her pain, and thought that by keeping silent on the point she would be spared at least the agony of looking forward to his departure. In this, Jerry, like many of his fellows, fell into the same error, which leads the hunted ostrich to hide its head in the sand — the error which we make when we think that shutting our eyes means shutting out the danger which we wish to avoid. Again, Jerry wished to avoid pain to himself.
The analysis of a sensual nature shows two evil qualities, which, although not always expressed, are, nevertheless, ruling powers — obstinacy and cruelty. No matter how these qualities may be counterbalanced by other qualities as good as these are bad, or no matter how well they are disguised, these two evil powers have here their home. Obstinacy in its hardest light is the adherence to a line of action begun for its end to be gained rather than for its duty; and cruelty is almost its logical consequence, for it is by its direct or indirect means that obstacles are cleared away or points of vantage unworthily gained. Jerry’s nature was a sensual one, although it had ever been held in check.
The power of evil has a home in every human heart. In one it is a palace vast and splendid, so splendid and vast that to the onlooker there are no dark nooks, no gloomy corners, but where all is so rich and noble that there is dignity in everything. In another it is a shooting-box only visited for motives of pleasure. In another it is an office where gold and secrecy are synonymous terms. In another it is a villa.
In another a lowly hut. In Jerry it was the last; but no one is to suppose that because it was a hut, that, therefore, it was unimportant. The residents in palaces are usually to a certain extent migratory, but the inhabitants of huts are seldom absentees, and every Irishman knows that a perpetually resident peasant is better for a country than a lordly absentee.
Thus Jerry’s devil, although living in a small house, was still always there, and was ever on the spot when opportunities occurred.
One change — one decided change — came which Katey regretted exceedingly, and that was in his friendship for Parnell. Hitherto the two men had been excellent friends, and Jerry’s success in some little business ventures was largely due to Parnell’s wise counsel. But now the two men were seldom together, and the elder one seemed to have lost all his old influence over his companion.
Parnell saw the change as well as Katey, and was deeply grieved. He, however, saw, whilst he saw the change, what danger there was in alluding to it, and so as he was one of those men who feel it almost as much a breach of duty to be silent on certain occasions as to bespeak falsely, wisely kept aloof and waited for a fitting opportunity for speaking earnestly to Jerry without the risk of offending him
Jerry, too, knew of the change in himself, and felt a sort of hostile indignation with all who opposed openly or tacitly his determination.
This was the first manifestation of the cruelty of his nature.
His mother was broken-hearted, and in her grief, when arguing with him, unwisely gave play to her bitterness, and so hardened up one of the softest spots in his heart. She abused Sebright also, and, as some
of the charges which she brought against him were manifestly absurd, Jerry took occasion to think, and to express his thoughts, that they were all absurd.
The devil works through love as well as hatred, and his blows are more deadly when we who strike and we who bear alike heed them not.
One day there came a letter from John Sebright, which influenced Jerry vitally. It was as follows:
Kingficher Arms, Sundy.
Dear Jerry
You had better come over here at wanse, there is a place to sute you in a theatre called the Stanly, where the wants a carpentre to manage for them; he must be a good man or he won’t doo, and the wagis is fine, not to say exsiv, and the place esy and the people nice, you had best tri for it at wanse, and don’t let the chance slip, or you will be a damd fool, and not worth gettin’ another, don’t let your mother or your wife keep you back, as the will tri to, for weemen isn’t able to do bisms, but men is; an’ the maneger has a nefew, who is a friend o’ mine an’ a capatle felo, an’ a hed like iren, an’mony is goin’ heer lik water, an’ a man with your hed wood make a fortin in no tim, which let me no at wanse til I tel the nephew, which if you give me a £1 tu give him to speek for you, it will be all rite, and send the money by return to me, care of Mrs. Smith, Kingficher Arms, Welbred-street, London, and i remane yours trooly.
John Sebright.
P.S. — don’t sho this to your wif or mother, or the’l think i wance to mak you cum, an’ av corse mi motivs is disintrested, as I’m wel off miself an’ quit hapy.
P.S. 2. — if you tel the weemen tel them I’m goin’ to be marrid to a good woman ho is very pias an’ charetable an’ wel off don’t forget the £1.
Jerry was no fool, and very clearly he saw through the motive of the writer of this precious epistle, but there were passages in it which interested him deeply. Notwithstanding the mean selfishness of the man’s thoughts, and the vile English in which they were expressed, he could not shut his eyes to certain things which they suggested, chiefly the opening as theatrical carpenter.
Jerry had never heard of the Stanley Theatre, and even now had not the ghost of an idea what it was like or of what class; nevertheless, he could not help thinking that it might be something good. London has a big name, and people who live out of it have traditionally an idea that everything there is great, and rich, and flourishing, and happy.
The people who live in it can tell a different story, and point to hundreds and thousands of the poorest and most wretched creatures that exist on the face of God’s beautiful world — the world that He has made beautiful, but that man has defaced with sin.
Jerry was in that state in which a man finds everything which happens exactly suiting his own views. His eyes — the eyes of his inner self — were so full of his project that they were incapable of seeing anything but what bore on its advancement. He shut his eyes to dangers and defects and difficulties, and like many another man leaped blindly into the dark.
Sometimes to leap in the dark is the perfection of wisdom and courage combined; but this is when the gloom which is round us is a danger, from which we must escape at any hazard, and not when we make an artificial night by wilfully shutting our eyes upon the glory of the sun.
Jerry wrote to Sebright, enclosing a Post-office order for one pound and telling him to lose no time about seeing after the situation for him.
He said not a word about what he had done, even to poor little Katey, who saw with the eyes of her love that he was keeping something back from her.
It was the first secret of their married life, and the bright eyes were dim from silent weeping as the little wife rose the morning after the letter to London was despatched.
Several days elapsed before Jerry got any reply from London; and the interval was an unhappy time for both him and his wife. Katey’s grief grew heavier and heavier to her since she had no one to tell it to; and Jerry felt that there was a shadow between them. He recked not that it was the shadow of his own selfish desire — the spectre of the future — that stood between them.
Katey’s lot was hard. The sweetest blessing of marriage is that it halves our sorrows and doubles our joys; and so far as her present life went Katey was a widow in this respect — but without the sweet consolation that married trust had never died.
Jerry’s anxiety made the home trouble light. He had, like most men to whom the world behind the curtain is as unknown as were the mysteries of Isis to a Neophyte, a strange longing to share in the unknown life of the dramatic world. Moth-like he had buzzed around the footlights when a boy, and had never lost the slight romantic feeling which such buzzing ever inspires. Once or twice his professional work had brought him within the magic precincts where the stage-manager is king, and there the weirdness of the place, with its myriad cords and chains, and traps, and scenes, and flies, had more than ever enchanted him.
The chance now offered of employment was indeed a temptation. If he should be able to adopt the new life he would have an opportunity of combining his romantic taste and his trade experience, and would be moreover in that wider field for exertion to which he had long looked forward.
And so he waited with what patience he could, and shut his eyes as close as possible to the growing miseries of his home.
At last a letter came from Sebright, telling him that he had got the place, and one also from the manager, stating that he would have to be at work in a fortnight’s time, and stating the salary, which was very liberal.
Face to face with the situation, Jerry found that the sooner he told his wife the better. He took the day to think over his plans, and when he went home in the evening he went prepared to tell her.
There was about him a tenderness unusual of late — a tenderness which reminded Katey of the first days of their married life and of the time when her first child was born; and so the little woman’s heart was touched, and woman-like she could not fear, nor even see troubles in the light of her husband’s smile. Jerry himself felt the change in her manner, and his tenderness grew. He took her on his knees, as in their old courting days, and a few sweet whispered words brought the colour to her cheek, and the old light into her eyes. Then it was that Jerry felt how hard was the news which he had to tell, and he half repented of his resolution. He thought of the happy home which he was breaking up, and of the anguish of the little wife and mother who was to be taken away from all her friends and relatives to begin the world anew amongst strangers. But the time was come when he must speak, for to delay would be cruel, and so he began with a huskiness in his throat which was not usual to him “Katey, dear, I’ve some news for you.” Katey’s arms tightened round his neck. “Oh, and good news too, Jerry, I know by your tenderness to me tonight. Jerry dear, have you given up the wild idea?”
