by Bram Stoker
That was a warrm night, I’m telling ye! The man from Shorrox’ had wine galore wid his mate; an’ afther, whin the plates an’ dishes was tuk away an’ the nuts was brought in, Hogan got up an’ proposed his health, an’ wished him prosperity in his new line. Iv coorse he had to dhrink that; an’ thin others got up, an’ there was more toasts dhrunk than there was min in the room, till the man, him not bein’ used to whiskey-punch, began to git onsartin in his shpache. So they gev him more toasts — ‘Ireland as a nation’, an’ ‘Home Rule’, an’ ‘The ruimory iv Dan O’Connell’, an’ ‘Bad luck to Boney’, an’ ‘God save the Queen’, an’ ‘More power to Manchesther’, an’ other things what they thought would plaze him, him bein’ English. Long hours before it was time for the house to shut, he was as dhrunk as a whole row of fiddlers, an’ kep shakin’ hands wid ivery man an’ promisin’ thim to open a new line in Home Rule, an’ sich nonsinse. So they tuk him up to the door iv the Queen’s Room an’ left him there.
He managed to undhress himself all except his hat, and got into bed wid the corp iv th’ ould attorney-man, an’ thin an’ there fell asleep widout noticin’ him.
Well, prisintly he woke wid a cowid feelin’ all over him. He had lit no candle, an’ there was only the light from the passage comm’ in through the glass over the door. He felt himself nigh fallin’ out iv the bed wid him almost on the edge, an’ the cowld shtrange gindeman lyin’ shlap on the broad iv his back in the middle. He had enough iv the dhrink in him to be quarrelsome.
‘I’ll throuble ye,’ sez he, ‘to kape over yer own side iv the bed — or I’ll soon let ye know the rayson why.’ An’ wid that he give him a shove. But iv coorse the ould attorney-man tuk no notice whatsumiver.
‘Y’are not that warrm that one’d like to lie contagious to ye,’ sez he. ‘Move over, I say, to yer own side!’ But divil a shtir iv the corp.
Well, thin he began to get fightin’ angry, an’ to kick an’ shove the corp; but not gittin’ any answer at all, he turned round an’ hit him a clip on the side iv the head.
‘Gitup,’ he sez, ‘iv ye’re a man at all, an’ put up yer dooks.’
Then he got more madder shrill, for the dhrink was shtirrin’ in him, an’ he kicked an’ shoved an’ grabbed him be the leg an’ the arrm to move him.
‘Begor!’ sez he, ‘but ye’re the cowldest chap I iver kem anigh iv. Musha! but yer hairs is like icicles.’
Thin he tuk him be the head, an’ shuk him an’ brung him to the bedside, an’ kicked him clane out on to the flure on the far side iv the bed.
‘Lie there,’ he sez, ‘ye ould blast furnace! Ye can warrm yerself up on the flure till tomorra.’
Be this time the power iv the dhrink he had tuk got ahoult iv him agin, an’ he fell back in the middle iv the bed, wid his head on the pilla an’ his toes up, an’ wint aff ashleep, like a cat in the frost.
By-an’-by, whin the house was about shuttin’ up, the watcher from th’ undhertaker’s kem to sit be the corp till the mornin’, an’ th’ attorney him bein’ a Protestan’ there was no candles. Whin the house was quite, wan iv the girris, what was coortin’ wid the watcher, shtole into the room.
‘Are ye there, Michael?’ sez she.
‘Yis, me darlint!’ he sez, comm’ to her; an’ there they shtood be the door, wid the lamp in the passage shinin’ on the red heads iv the two iv thim.
‘I’ve come,’ sez Katty, ‘to kape ye company for a bit, Michael; for it’s crool lonesome worrk sittin’ there alone all night. But I mustn’t shtay long, for they’re all goin’ to bed soon, when the dishes is washed up.’
‘Give us a kiss,’ sez Michael.
‘Oh, Michael!’ sez she: ‘kissin’ in the prisince iv a corp! It’s ashamed iv ye I am.’
‘Sorra cause, Katty. Sure, it’s more respectful than any other way. Isn’t it next to kissin’ in the chapel? — an’ ye do that whin ye’re bein’ married. If ye kiss me now, begor but I don’t know as it’s mortial nigh a weddin’ it is! Anyhow, give us a kiss, an’ we’ll talk iv the rights an’ wrongs iv it aftherwards.’
Well, somehow, yer ‘ann’rs, that kiss was bern’ gave — an’ a kiss in the prisince iv a corp is a sarious thing an’ takes a long time. Thim two was payin’ such attintion to what was going on betune thim that they didn’t heed nothin’, whin suddint Katty stops, and sez: ‘Whist! what is that?’
Michael felt creepy too, for there was a quare sound comm’ from the bed. So they grabbed one another as they shtud in the doorway an looked at the bed almost afraid to breathe till the hair on both iv thim began to shtand up in horror; for the corp rose up in the bed, an’ they seen it pointin’ at thim, an’ heard a hoarse voice say, ‘It’s in hell I am — Divils around me! Don’t I see thim burnin’ wid their heads like flames? an’ it’s burnin’ lam too — burnin’, burnin’, burnin’! Me throat is on fire, an’ me face is burnin’! Wather! wather! Give me wather, if only a dhrop on me tongue’s tip!’
Well, thin Katty let one screetch out iv her, like to wake the dead, an’ tore down the passage till she kem to the shtairs, and tuk a flyin’ lep down an’ fell in a dead faint on the mat below; and Michael yelled ‘murdher’ wid all his might.
It wasn’t long till there was a crowd in that room, I tell ye; an’ a mighty shtrange thing it was that sorra wan iv the graziers had even tuk his coat from aff iv him to go to bed, or laid by his shtick. An’ the widdy too, she was as nate an’ tidy as iver, though seemin’ surprised out iv a sound shleep, an’ her clothes onto her, all savin’ a white bedgown, an’ a candle in her hand. There was some others what had been in bed, min an’ wimin wid their bare feet an’ slippers on to some iv thim, wid their bracers down their backs, an’ their petticoats flung on anyhow. An’ some iv thim in big nightcaps, an’ some wid their hair all screwed up in knots wid little wisps iv paper, like farden screws iv Limerick twist or Lundy Foot snuff. Musha! but it was the ould weemin what was afraid iv things what didn’t alarrm the young wans at all. Divil resave me! but the sole thing they seemed to dhread was the min — dead or alive it was all wan to thim — an’ ‘twas ghosts an’ corpses an’ mayhap divils that the rest was afeard iv.
Well, whin the Manchesther man seen thim all come tumblin’ into the room he began to git his wits about him; for the dhrink was wearin’ aff, an’ he was thryin’ to remimber where he was. So whin he seen the widdy he put his hand up to his face where the red welt was, an’ at wance seemed to undhershtand, for he got mad agin an’ roared out: ‘What does this mane? Why this invasion iv me chamber? Clear out the whole kit, or I’ll let yez know!’
Wid that he was goin’ to jump out of bed, but the moment they seen his toes the ould weemin let a screech out iv thim, an’ clung to the mm an’ implored thim to save thim from murdher — an’ worse. An’ there was the Widdy Byrne laughin’ like mad; an’ Misther Hogan shtepped out, an’ sez he: ‘Do jump out, Misther Shorrox! The boys has their switches, an’ it’s a mighty handy costume ye’re in for a leatherin’!’
So wid that he jumped back into bed an’ covered the clothes over him.
‘In the name of God,’ sez he, ‘what does it all mane?’
‘It manes this,’ sez Hogan, goin’ round the bed an’ draggin’ up the corp an’ layin’ it on the bed beside him. ‘Begorra! but it’s cantankerous kind iv a scut y’are. First nothin’ will do ye but sharin’ a room wid a corp; an’ thin ye want the whole place to yerself.’
‘Take it away! Take it away,’ he yells out.
‘Begorra,’ sez Mister Hogan, ‘I’ll do no such thing. The gintleman ordhered the room first, an’ it’s he has the right to ordher you to be brung out!’
‘Did he shnore much, sur?’ says the widdy; an’ wid that she burst out laughin’ an’ cryin’ all at wanst. ‘That’ll tache ye to shpake ill iv the dead agin!’ An’ she flung her petticoat over her head an’ run out iv the room.
Well, we turned the min all back to their own rooms; for the most part iv thim had plenty iv dhrink on board, an’
we feared for a row. Now that the fun was over, we didn’t want any unplisintness to follow. So two iv the graziers wint into wan bed, an’ we put the man from Manchesther in th’ other room, an’ gev him a screechin’ tumbler iv punch to put the hearrt in him agin.
I thought the widdy had gone to her bed; but whin I wint to put out the lights I seen one in the little room behind the bar, an’ I shtepped quite, not to dishturb her, and peeped in. There she was on a low shtool rockin’ herself to an’ fro, an’ goin’ on wid her laughin’ an’ cryin’ both together, while she tapped wid her fut on the flume. She was talkin’ to herselfin a kind iv a whisper, an’ I heerd her say: ‘Oh, but it’s the crool woman I am to have such a thing done in me house — an’ that poor sowl, wid none to weep for him, knocked about that a way for shport iv dhrunken min while me poor dear darlin’ himself is in the cowid clay! — But oh! Mick, Mick, if ye were only here! Wouldn’t it be you — you wid the fun iv ye an’ yer merry hearrt — that’d be plazed wid the doin’s iv this night!’
OUR NEW HOUSE
We spoke of it as our New House simply because we thought of it as such and not from any claim to the title, for it was just about as old and as ricketty as a house supposed to be habitable could well be. It was only new to us. Indeed with the exception of the house there was nothing new about us. Neither my wife nor myself was, in any sense of the word, old, and we were still, comparatively speaking, new to each other.
It had been my habit, for the few years I had been in Somerset House, to take my holidays at Littlehampton, partly because I liked the place, and partly - and chiefly, because it was cheap. I used to have lodgings in the house of a widow, Mrs. Compton, in a quiet street off the sea frontage. I had this year, on my summer holiday, met there my fate in the person of Mrs. Compton’s daughter Mary, just home from school. I returned to London engaged. There was no reason why we should wait, for I had few friends and no near relatives living, and Mary had the consent of her mother. I was told that her father, who was a merchant captain, had gone to sea shortly after her birth, but had never been heard of since, and had consequently been long ago reckoned as “with the majority.” I never met any of my new relatives; indeed, there was not the family opportunity afforded by marriage under conventional social conditions. We were married in the early morning at the church at Littlehampton, and, without any formal wedding breakfast, came straight away in the train. As I had to attend to my duties at Somerset House, the preliminaries were all arranged by Mrs. Compton at Littlehampton, and Mary gave the required notice of residency. We were all in a hurry to be off, as we feared missing the train; indeed, whilst Mary was signing the registry I was settling the fees and tipping the verger.
When we began to look about for a house, we settled on one which was vacant in a small street near Sloane Square. There was absolutely nothing to recommend the place except the smallness of the rent - but this was everything to us. The landlord, Mr. Gradder, was the very hardest man I ever came across. He did not even go through the form of civility in his dealing.
“There is the house,” he said, “and you can either take it or leave it. I have painted the outside, and you must paint the inside. Or, if you like it as it is, you can have it so; only you must paint and paper it before you give it up to me again - be it in one year or more.”
I was pretty much of a handy man, and felt equal to doing the work myself; so, having looked over the place carefully, we determined to take it. It was, however, in such a terribly neglected condition that I could not help asking my ironclad lessor as to who had been the former tenant, and what kind of person he had been to have been content with such a dwelling.
His answer was vague. “Who he was I don’t know. I never knew more than his name. He was a regular oddity. Had this house and another of mine near here, and used to live in them both, and all by himself. Think he was afraid of being murdered or robbed. Never knew which he was in. Dead lately. Had to bury him - worse luck. Expenses swallowed up value of all he’d got.”
We signed an agreement to take out a lease, and when, in a few days, I had put in order two rooms and a kitchen, my wife and I moved in. I worked hard every morning before I went to my office, and every evening after I got home, so I got the place in a couple of weeks in a state of comparative order. We had, in fact, arrived so far on our way to perfection that we had seriously begun to consider dispensing with the services of our charwoman and getting a regular servant.
One evening my landlord called on me. It was about nine o’clock, and, as our temporary servant had gone home, I opened the door myself. I was somewhat astonished at recognising my visitor, and not a little alarmed, for he was so brutally simple in dealing with me that I rather dreaded any kind of interview. To my astonishment he began to speak in what he evidently meant for a hearty manner.
“Well, how are you getting on with your touching up?”
“Pretty well,” I answered, “but ‘touching up’ is rather a queer name for it. Why, the place was like an old ash heap. The very walls seemed pulled about.”
“Indeed !” he said quickly.
I went on, “It is getting into something like order, however. There is only one more room to do, and then we shall be all right.”
“Do you know,” he said, “that I have been thinking it is hardly fair that you should have to do all this yourself.”
I must say that I was astonished as well as pleased, and found myself forming a resolution not to condemn ever again anyone for hardness until I had come to know something about his real nature. I felt somewhat guilty as I answered, “You are very kind, Mr. Gradder. I shall let you know what it all costs me, and then you can repay me a part as you think fair.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that at all.” This was said very quickly.
“Then what do you mean,” I asked.
“That I should do some of it in my own way, at my own cost.”
I did not feel at all inclined to have either Mr. Gradder or strange workmen in the house. Moreover, my pride rebelled at the thought that I should be seen by real workmen doing labourers’ work - I suppose there is something of the spirit of snobbery in all of us. So I told him I could not think of such a thing; that all was going on very well; and more to the same effect. He seemed more irritated than the occasion warranted. Indeed, it struck me as odd that a man should be annoyed at his generous impulse being thwarted. He tried, with a struggle for calmness, to persuade me, but I did not like the controversy, and stood to my refusal of assistance. He went away in a positive fury of suppressed rage.
The next evening he called in to see me. Mary had, after he had gone, asked me not to allow him to assist, as she did not like him; so when he came in I refused again with what urbanity I could. Mary kept nudging me to be firm, and he could not help noticing it. He said: “Of course, if your wife objects” - and stopped. He spoke the words very rudely, and Mary spoke out:
“She does object, Mr. Gradder. We are all right, thank you, and do not want help from any one.”
For reply Mr. Gradder put on his hat, knocked it down on his head firmly and viciously, and walked out, banging the door behind him.
“There is a nice specimen of a philanthropist,” said Mary, and we both laughed.
The next day, while I was in my office, Mr. Gradder called to see me. He was in a very amiable mood, and commenced by apologising for what he called “his unruly exit.” “I am afraid you must have thought me rude,” he said.
As the nearest approach to mendacity I could allow myself, was the suppressio veri, I was silent.
“You see,” he went on, “your wife dislikes me, and that annoys me; so I just called to see you alone, and try if we could arrange this matter - we men alone.”
“What matter?” I asked.
“You know - about the doing up those rooms.”
I began to get annoyed myself, for there was evidently some underlying motive of advantage to himself in his persistence. Any shadowy belief I had ever entertained as to a benev
olent idea had long ago vanished and left not a wrack behind. I told him promptly and briefly that I would not do as he desired, and that I did not care to enter any further upon the matter. He again made an “unruly exit.” This time he nearly swept away in his violence a young man who was entering through the swing door, to get some papers stamped. The youth remonstrated with that satirical force which is characteristic of the lawyer’s clerk. Mr. Gradder was too enraged to stop to listen, and the young man entered the room grumbling and looking back at him.
“Old brute!” he said. “I know him. Next time I see him I’ll advise him to buy some manners with his new fortune.”
“His new fortune?” I asked, naturally interested about him. “Howdo you mean, Wigley?”
“Lucky old brute! I wish I had a share of it. I heard all about it at Doctors Commons yesterday.”
“Why, is it anything strange?”
“Strange! Why, it’s no name for it. What do you think of an old flint like that having a miser for a tenant who goes and dies and leaves him all he’s got - £40,000 or £50,000 - in a will, providing a child of his own doesn’t turn up to claim it.
“He died recently, then?”
“About three or four weeks ago. Old Gradder only found the will a few days since. He had been finding pots of gold and bundles of notes all over the house, and it was like drawing a tooth from him to make an inventory, as he had to do under a clause of the will. The old thief would have pocketed all the coin without a word, only for the will, and he was afraid he’d risk everything if he did not do it legally.
“You know all about it,” I remarked, wishing to hear more.
“I should think I did. I asked Cripps, of Bogg and Snagleys, about it this morning. They’re working for him, and Cripps says that if they had not threatened him with the Public Prosecutor, he would not have given even a list of the money he found.”
I began now to understand the motive of Mr. Gradder’s anxiety to aid in working at my house. I said to Wigley: