manner.
‘I will call round in the morning and see how he goes on,’ he said, ‘and if you want anything that I have, you know it is quite at your disposal.’
‘Oh, sir, I wouldn’t for the world. I have no money, and I wouldn’t for the world have Jerry feel that I owed money for anything.’
Grinnell gave a sudden unintentional laugh. ‘Don’t yon fret about that,’ he said. ‘O’Sullivan owes me myself too much money already to let that trouble him.’
Katey put her hand on her heart at this fresh blow, but said nothing.
Grinnell went on:
‘But that doesn’t matter. Lord bless you. He’s as welcome as the flowers of May. I’m too fond of him to let a trifle of money vex him.’ Then he went out.
Katey, despite her prejudice, could not but feel better disposed towards him. The narrative of what he had done for Jerry in going to the manager, touched her deeply, and she said to herself:-
‘Well, we should never judge by appearances. It is a lesson to us.’
Had she known that in all Grinnell had said there was not one single word of truth, she might have thought differently.
CHAPTER 9
THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT
Katey watched by her husband for a long time till at last she cried herself to sleep. Her sleep was troubled by horrid dreams of care and sorrow, and nameless and formless horrors. She did not wake however. When we dream thus of awful things, and do not wake, the effect is much more wearing on the nervous system than if we did; and so in the morning when Katey woke she felt chilled and miserable. She started up, and in the half-light of the early morning found that she was alone. Jerry had waked early, and had hurriedly got up, struck with remorse when he remembered the previous evening, and not daring to meet the face of his wife. Katey was at once in deadly fear, for her woman’s weakness prompted thoughts of terrible possibilities. She got up quickly and went down into the street.
She looked right and left for any sign of him, and after wavering between them finally with an instinct, pitiful since it had such a genesis, took her way towards Grinnell’s, feeling that she would find her husband there.
Her instinct was not deceived. When she peeped in through the door of the public-house she saw Jerry standing by the bar with a glass in his hand, which Grinnell was filling. A man does not hold his glass in such a way unless it is being refilled, and this poor Katey knew by instinct. She shuddered as she looked - for she saw that Jerry was drinking to get drunk quickly.
Indeed it was a sorry and a pitiful picture - one which man or woman with a human heart in their bosom would shudder to see. In the grey light of the wintry morning the working man with clothing tossed, and hair unkempt - with feverous look and bloodshot eyes, drinking his rum at a draught, and taking it from the hand of one who, with soiled finery and unwashed face, might have stood for the picture of ‘Debauch.’
Grinnell’s sharp eyes saw Katey as she peeped, but he did not seem to notice. Presently he spoke loudly, so loudly that Katey could hear.
‘Now, O’Sullivan, that will freshen you, I hope, and make you think clearly, but I won’t give you any more, so don’t ask me.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Jerry, in amazement, for up to that moment Grinnell had been pressing him to drink.
‘Never mind what I mean; only I won’t give you any more.’
‘Are you jokin’?’
‘I am not.’
Jerry looked at him angrily a moment, and then flattening his hat down on his head, said:
‘Oh, very well - oh, very well. Then I’ll go somewhere else.’
Katey was afraid he would see her, so left the doorway and hurried down the street.
Jerry came home about breakfast-time in a frightfully bad humour. He had had just enough of liquor to make him wish for more, and having tried to get credit several places and been refused, felt a savage disappointment. The sight of Katey’s disfigured face in no wise tended to
‘I will call round in the morning and see how he goes on,’ he said, ‘and if you want anything that I have, you know it is quite at your disposal.’
‘Oh, sir, I wouldn’t for the world. I have no money, and I wouldn’t for the world have Jerry feel that I owed money for anything.’
Grinnell gave a sudden unintentional laugh. ‘Don’t yon fret about that,’ he said. ‘O’Sullivan owes me myself too much money already to let that trouble him.’
Katey put her hand on her heart at this fresh blow, but said nothing.
Grinnell went on:
‘But that doesn’t matter. Lord bless you. He’s as welcome as the flowers of May. I’m too fond of him to let a trifle of money vex him.’ Then he went out.
Katey, despite her prejudice, could not but feel better disposed towards him. The narrative of what he had done for Jerry in going to the manager, touched her deeply, and she said to herself:-
‘Well, we should never judge by appearances. It is a lesson to us.’
Had she known that in all Grinnell had said there was not one single word of truth, she might have thought differently.
CHAPTER 9
THE TRAIL OF THE SERPENT
Katey watched by her husband for a long time till at last she cried herself to sleep. Her sleep was troubled by horrid dreams of care and sorrow, and nameless and formless horrors. She did not wake however. When we dream thus of awful things, and do not wake, the effect is much more wearing on the nervous system than if we did; and so in the morning when Katey woke she felt chilled and miserable. She started up, and in the half-light of the early morning found that she was alone. Jerry had waked early, and had hurriedly got up, struck with remorse when he remembered the previous evening, and not daring to meet the face of his wife. Katey was at once in deadly fear, for her woman’s weakness prompted thoughts of terrible possibilities. She got up quickly and went down into the street.
She looked right and left for any sign of him, and after wavering between them finally with an instinct, pitiful since it had such a genesis, took her way towards Grinnell’s, feeling that she would find her husband there.
Her instinct was not deceived. When she peeped in through the door of the public-house she saw Jerry standing by the bar with a glass in his hand, which Grinnell was filling. A man does not hold his glass in such a way unless it is being refilled, and this poor Katey knew by instinct. She shuddered as she looked - for she saw that Jerry was drinking to get drunk quickly.
Indeed it was a sorry and a pitiful picture - one which man or woman with a human heart in their bosom would shudder to see. In the grey light of the wintry morning the working man with clothing tossed, and hair unkempt - with feverous look and bloodshot eyes, drinking his rum at a draught, and taking it from the hand of one who, with soiled finery and unwashed face, might have stood for the picture of ‘Debauch.’
Grinnell’s sharp eyes saw Katey as she peeped, but he did not seem to notice. Presently he spoke loudly, so loudly that Katey could hear.
‘Now, O’Sullivan, that will freshen you, I hope, and make you think clearly, but I won’t give you any more, so don’t ask me.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Jerry, in amazement, for up to that moment Grinnell had been pressing him to drink.
‘Never mind what I mean; only I won’t give you any more.’
‘Are you jokin’?’
‘I am not.’
Jerry looked at him angrily a moment, and then flattening his hat down on his head, said:
‘Oh, very well - oh, very well. Then I’ll go somewhere else.’
Katey was afraid he would see her, so left the doorway and hurried down the street.
Jerry came home about breakfast-time in a frightfully bad humour. He had had just enough of liquor to make him wish for more, and having tried to get credit several places and been refused, felt a savage disappointment. The sight of Katey’s disfigured face in no wise tended to
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