The Jewel of Seven Stars by Bram Stoker (books to read in your 20s TXT) 📕

Chapter I A Summons in the Night

It all seemed so real that I could hardly imagine that it had ever

occurred before; and yet each episode came, not as a fresh step in the

logic of things, but as something expected. It is in such a wise that

memory plays its pranks for good or ill; for pleasure or pain; for weal

or woe. It is thus that life is bittersweet, and that which has been

done becomes eternal.

 

Again, the light skiff, ceasing to shoot through the lazy water as when

the oars flashed and dripped, glided out of the fierce July sunlight

into the cool shade of the great drooping willow branches—I standing up

in the swaying boat, she sitting still and with deft fingers guarding

herself from stray twigs or the freedom of the resilience of moving

boughs. Again, the water looked golden-brown under the canopy of

translucent green; and the grassy bank was of emerald hue. Again, we

sat in the cool shade, with the myriad noises of nature both without and

within our bower merging into that drowsy hum in whose sufficing

environment the great world with its disturbing trouble, and its more

disturbing joys, can be effectually forgotten. Again, in that blissful

solitude the young girl lost the convention of her prim, narrow

upbringing, and told me in a natural, dreamy way of the loneliness of

her new life. With an undertone of sadness she made m e feel how in that

spacious home each one of the household was isolated by the personal

magnificence of her father and herself; that there confidence had no

altar, and sympathy no shrine; and that there even her father’s face was

as distant as the old country life seemed now. Once more, the wisdom of

my manhood and the experience of my years laid themselves at the girl’s

feet. It was seemingly their own doing; for the individual “I” had no

say in the matter, but only just obeyed imperative orders. And once

again the flying seconds multiplied themselves endlessly. For it is in

the arcana of dreams that existences merge and renew themselves, change

and yet keep the same—like the soul of a musician in a fugue. And so

memory swooned, again and again, in sleep.

 

It seems that there is never to be any perfect rest. Even in Eden the

snake rears its head among the laden boughs of the Tree of Knowledge.

The silence of the dreamless night is broken by the roar of the

avalanche; the hissing of sudden floods; the clanging of the engine bell

marking its sweep through a sleeping American town; the clanking of

distant paddles over the sea…. Whatever it is, it is breaking the

charm of my Eden. The canopy of greenery above us, starred with

diamond-points of light, seems to quiver in the ceaseless beat of

paddles; and the restless bell seems as though it would never cease….

 

All at once the gates of Sleep were thrown wide open, and my waking ears

took in the cause of the disturbing sounds. Waking existence is prosaic

enough—there was somebody knocking and ringing at someone’s street door.

 

I was pretty well accustomed in my Jermyn Street chambers to passing

sounds; usually I did not concern myself, sleeping or waking, with the

doings, however noisy, of my neighbours. But this noise was too

continuous, too insistent, too imperative to be ignored. There was some

active intelligence behind that ceaseless sound; and some stress or need

behind the intelligence. I was not altogether selfish, and at the

thought of someone’s need I was, without premeditation, out of bed.

Instinctively I looked at my watch. It was just three o’clock; there

was a faint edging of grey round the green blind which darkened my room.

It was evident that the knocking and ringing were at the door of our own

house; and it was evident, too, that there was no one awake to answer

the call. I slipped on my dressing-gown and slippers, and went down to

the hall door. When I opened it there stood a dapper groom, with one

hand pressed unflinchingly on the electric bell whilst with the other he

raised a ceaseless clangour with the knocker. The instant he saw me the

noise ceased; one hand went up instinctively to the brim of his hat, and

the other produced a letter from his pocket. A neat brougham was

opposite the door, the horses were breathing heavily as though they had

come fast. A policeman, with his night lantern still alight at his

belt, stood by, attracted to the spot by the noise.

 

“Beg pardon, sir, I’m sorry for disturbing you, but my orders was

imperative; I was not to lose a moment, but to knock and ring till

someone came. May I ask you, sir, if Mr. Malcolm Ross lives here?”

 

“I am Mr. Malcolm Ross.”

 

“Then this letter is for you, sir, and the bro’am is for you too, sir!”

 

I took, with a strange curiosity, the letter which he handed to me. As

a barrister I had had, of course, odd experiences now and then,

including sudden demands upon my time; but never anything like this. I

stepped back into the hall, closing the door to, but leaving it ajar;

then I switched on the electric light. The letter was directed in a

strange hand, a woman’s. It began at once without “dear sir” or any

such address:

 

“You said you would like to help me if I needed it; and I believe you

meant what you said. The time has come sooner than I expected. I am in

dreadful trouble, and do not know where to turn, or to whom to apply. An

attempt has, I fear, been made to murder my Father; though, thank God,

he still lives. But he is quite unconscious. The doctors and police

have been sent for; but there is no one here whom I can depend on. Come

at once if you are able to; and forgive me if you can. I suppose I

shall realise later what I have done in asking such a favour; but at

present I cannot think. Come! Come at once! MARGARET TRELAWNY.”

 

Pain and exultation struggled in my mind as I read; but the mastering

thought was that she was in trouble and had called on me—me! My

dreaming of her, then, was not altogether without a cause. I called out

to the groom:

 

“Wait! I shall be with you in a minute!” Then I flew upstairs.

 

A very few minutes sufficed to wash and dress; and we were soon driving

through the streets as fast as the horses could go. It was market

morning, and when we got out on Picadilly there was an endless stream of

carts coming from the west; but for the rest the roadway was clear, and

we went quickly. I had told the groom to come into the brougham with me

so that he could tell me what had happened as we went along. He sat

awkwardly, with his hat on his knees as he spoke.

 

“Miss Trelawny, sir, sent a man to tell us to get out a carriage at

once; and when we was ready she come herself and gave me the letter and

told Morgan—the coachman, sir—to fly. She said as I was to lose not a

second, but to keep knocking till someone come.”

 

“Yes, I know, I know—you told me! What I want to know is, why she sent

for me. What happened in the house?”

 

“I don’t quite know myself, sir; except that master was found in his

room senseless, with the sheets all bloody, and a wound on his head. He

couldn’t be waked nohow. “Twas Miss Trelawny herself as found him.”

 

“How did she come to find him at such an hour? It was late in the

night, I suppose?”

 

“I don’t know, sir; I didn’t hear nothing at all of the details.”

 

As he could tell me no more, I stopped the carriage for a moment to let

him get out on the box; then I turned the matter over in my mind as I

sat alone. There were many things which I could have asked the servant;

and for a few moments after he had gone I was angry with myself for not

having used my opportunity. On second thought, however, I was glad the

temptation was gone. I felt that it would be more delicate to learn

what I wanted to know of Miss Trelawny’s surroundings from herself,

rather than from her servants.

 

We bowled swiftly along Knightsbridge, the small noise of our well-appointed vehicle sounding hollowly in the morning air. We turned up

the Kensington Palace Road and presently stopped opposite a great house

on the left-hand side, nearer, so far as I could judge, the Notting Hill

than the Kensington end of the avenue. It was a truly fine house, not

only with regard to size but to architecture. Even in the dim grey

light of the morning, which tends to diminish the size of things, it

looked big.

 

Miss Trelawny met me in the hall. She was not in any way shy. She

seemed to rule all around her with a sort of high-bred dominance, all

the more remarkable as she was greatly agitated and as pale as snow. In

the great hall were several servants, the men standing together near the

hall door, and the women clinging together in the further corners and

doorways. A police superintendent had been talking to Miss Trelawny;

two men in uniform and one plain-clothes man stood near him. As she

took my hand impulsively there was a look of relief in her eyes, and she

gave a gentle sigh of relief. Her salutation was simple.

 

“I knew you would come!”

 

The clasp of the hand can mean a great deal, even when it is not

intended to mean anything especially. Miss Trelawny’s hand somehow

became lost in my own. It was not that it was a small hand; it was fine

and flexible, with long delicate fingers—a rare and beautiful hand; it

was the unconscious self-surrender. And though at the moment I could

not dwell on the cause of the thrill which swept me, it came back to me

later.

 

She turned and said to the police superintendent:

 

“This is Mr. Malcolm Ross.” The police officer saluted as he answered:

 

“I know Mr. Malcolm Ross, miss. Perhaps he will rem ember I had the

honour of working with him in the Brixton Coining case.” I had not at

first glance noticed who it was, my whole attention