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

Chapter XIII Awaking From the Trance

The first unexpected words may always startle a hearer; but when the

shock is over, the listener’s reason has asserted itself, and he can

judge of the manner, as well as of the matter, of speech. Thus it was

on this occasion. With intelligence now alert, I could not doubt of the

simple sincerity of Margaret’s next question.

 

“What have you two men been talking about all this time, Mr. Ross? I

suppose, Mr. Corbeck has been telling you all his adventures in finding

the lamps. I hope you will tell me too, some day, Mr. Corbeck; but that

must not be till my poor Father is better. He would like, I am sure, to

tell me all about these things himself; or to be present when I heard

them.” She glanced sharply from one to the other. “Oh, that was what

you were saying as I came in? All right! I shall wait; but I hope it

won’t be long. The continuance of Father’s condition is, I feel,

breaking me down. A little while ago I felt that my nerves were giving

out; so I determined to go out for a walk in the Park. I am sure it

will do me good. I want you, if you will, Mr. Ross, to be with Father

whilst I am away. I shall feel secure then.”

 

I rose with alacrity, rejoicing that the poor girl was going out, even

for half an hour. She was looking terribly wearied and haggard; and the

sight of her pale cheeks made my heart ache. I went to the sick-room;

and sat down in my usual place. Mrs. Grant was then on duty; we had not

found it necessary to have more than one person in the room during the

day. When I came in, she took occasion to go about some household duty.

The blinds were up, but the north aspect of the room softened the hot

glare of the sunlight without.

 

I sat for a long time thinking over all that Mr. Corbeck had told me;

and weaving its wonders into the tissue of strange things which had come

to pass since I had entered the house. At times I was inclined to

doubt; to doubt everything and every one; to doubt even the evidences of

my own five senses. The warnings of the skilled detective kept coming

back to my mind. He had put down Mr. Corbeck as a clever liar, and a

confederate of Miss Trelawny. Of Margaret! That settled it! Face to

face with such a proposition as that, doubt vanished. Each time when

her image, her name, the merest thought of her, came before my mind,

each event stood out stark as a living fact. My life upon her faith!

 

I was recalled from my reverie, which was fast becoming a dream of love,

in a startling manner. A voice came from the bed; a deep, strong,

masterful voice. The first note of it called up like a clarion my eyes

and my ears. The sick man was awake and speaking!

 

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

 

Whatever ideas any of us had ever formed of his waking, I am quite sure

that none of us expected to see him start up all awake and full master

of himself. I was so surprised that I answered almost mechanically:

 

“Ross is my name. I have been watching by you!” He looked surprised

for an instant, and then I could see that his habit of judging for

himself came into play.

 

“Watching by me! How do you mean? Why watching by me?” His eye had

now lit on his heavily bandaged wrist. He went on in a different tone;

less aggressive, more genial, as of one accepting facts:

 

“Are you a doctor?” I felt myself almost smiling as I answered; the

relief from the long pressure of anxiety regarding his life was

beginning to tell:

 

“No, sir!”

 

“Then why are you here? If you are not a doctor, what are you?” His

tone was again more dictatorial. Thought is quick; the whole train of

reasoning on which my answer must be based flooded through my brain

before the words could leave my lips. Margaret! I must think of

Margaret! This was her father, who as yet knew nothing of me; even of

my very existence. He would be naturally curious, if not anxious, to

know why I amongst men had been chosen as his daughter’s friend on the

occasion of his illness. Fathers are naturally a little jealous in such

matters as a daughter’s choice, and in the undeclared state of my love

for Margaret I must do nothing which could ultimately embarrass her.

 

“I am a Barrister. It is not, however, in that capacity I am here; but

simply as a friend of your daughter. It was probably her knowledge of

my being a lawyer which first determined her to ask me to come when she

thought you had been murdered. Afterwards she was good enough to

consider me to be a friend, and to allow me to remain in accordance with

your expressed wish that someone should remain to watch.”

 

Mr. Trelawny was manifestly a man of quick thought, and of few words.

He gazed at me keenly as I spoke, and his piercing eyes seemed to read

my thought. To my relief he said no more on the subject just then,

seeming to accept my words in simple faith. There was evidently in his

own mind some cause for the acceptance deeper than my own knowledge.

His eyes flashed, and there was an unconscious movement of the mouth—it

could hardly be called a twitch—which betokened satisfaction. He was

following out some train of reasoning in his own mind. Suddenly he

said:

 

“She thought I had been murdered! Was that last night?”

 

“No! four days ago.” He seemed surprised. Whilst he had been speaking

the first time he had sat up in bed; now he made a movement as though he

would jump out. With an effort, however, he restrained himself; leaning

back on his pillows he said quietly:

 

“Tell me all about it! All you know! Every detail! Omit nothing! But

stay; first lock the door! I want to know, before I see anyone, exactly

how things stand.”

 

Somehow his last words made my heart leap. “Anyone!” He evidently

accepted me, then, as an exception. In my present state of feeling for

his daughter, this was a comforting thought. I felt exultant as I went

over to the door and softly turned the key. When I came back I found

him sitting up again. He said:

 

“Go on!”

 

Accordingly, I told him every detail, even of the slightest which I

could remember, of what had happened from the moment of my arrival at

the house. Of course I said nothing of my feeling towards Margaret, and

spoke only concerning those things already within his own knowledge.

With regard to Corbeck, I simply said that he had brought back some

lamps of which he had been in quest. Then I proceeded to tell him fully

of their loss, and of their re-discovery in the house.

 

He listened with a self-control which, under the circumstances, was to

me little less than marvellous. It was impassiveness, for at times his

eyes would flash or blaze, and the strong fingers of his uninjured hand

would grip the sheet, pulling it into far-extending wrinkles. This was

most noticeable when I told him of the return of Corbeck, and the

finding of the lamps in the boudoir. At times he spoke, but only a few

words, and as if unconsciously in emotional comment. The mysterious

parts, those which had most puzzled us, seemed to have no special

interest for him; he seemed to know them already. The utmost concern he

showed was when I told him of Daw’s shooting. His muttered comment:

‘stupid ass!” together with a quick glance across the room at the

injured cabinet, marked the measure of his disgust. As I told