The Jewel of Seven Stars, Bram Stoker [books to read for self improvement txt] 📗
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The Jewel of Seven Stars
by Bram Stoker
To Eleanor and Constance Hoyt
Contents
I A Summons in the Night
II Strange Instructions
III The Watchers
IV The Second Attempt
V More Strange Instructions
VI Suspicions
VII The Traveller’s Loss
VIII The Finding of the Lamps
IX The Need of Knowledge
X The Valley of the Sorcerer
XI A Queen’s Tomb
XII The Magic Coffer
XIII Awaking From the Trance
XIV The Birth-Mark
XV The Purpose of Queen Tera
XVI The Cavern XVII Doubts and Fears
XVIII The Lesson of the “Ka”
XIX The Great Experiment
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
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