Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels. A to Z Classics

to-morrow. Look, dear, I have got back your tools.”

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

      “Don’t ask me, Jerry.”

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

      “Jerry, I sold my wedding ring.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      She fell as if struck by lightning.

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

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

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

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

      The Snake’s Pass

      First published: 1890

       Chapter 1 — A Sudden Storm

       Chapter 2 — The Lost Crown of Gold

       Chapter 3 — The Gombeen Man

       Chapter 4 — The Secrets of the Bog

       Chapter 5 — On Knocknacar

       Chapter 6 — Confidences

       Chapter 7 — Vanished

       Chapter 8 — A Visit to Joyce

       Chapter 9 — My New Property

       Chapter 10 — In the Cliff Fields

       Chapter 11 — “Un Mauvais Quart d’Heure”

       Chapter 12 — Bog-Fishing and Schooling

       Chapter 13 — Murdock’s Wooing

       Chapter 14 — A Trip to Paris

       Chapter 15 — A Midnight Treasure Hunt

       Chapter 16 — A Grim Warning

       Chapter 17 — The Catastrophe

       Chapter 18 — The Fulfilment

Chapter 1 — A Sudden Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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