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CHAPTER IV.
THREE weeks after that day Isaac and Rebecca were man and wife.
All that was hopelessly dogged and stubborn in the man's moral
nature seemed to have closed round his fatal passion, and to have
fixed it unassailably in his heart.
After that first interview in the cottage parlor no consideration
would induce Mrs. Scatchard to see her son's wife again or even
to talk of her when Isaac tried hard to plead her cause after
their marriage.
This course of conduct was not in any degree occasioned by a
discovery of the degradation in which Rebecca had lived. There
was no question of that between mother and son. There was no
question of anything but the fearfully-exact resemblance between
the living, breathing woman and the specter-woman of Isaac's
dream.
Rebecca on her side neither felt nor expressed the slightest
sorrow at the estrangement between herself and her mother-in-law.
Isaac, for the sake of peace, had never contradicted her first
idea that age and long illness had affected Mrs. Scatchard's
mind. He even allowed his wife to upbraid him for not having
confessed this to her at the time of their marriage engagement,
rather than risk anything by hinting at the truth. The sacrifice
of his integrity before his one all-mastering delusion seemed but
a small thing, and cost his conscience but little after the
sacrifices he had already made.
The time of waking from this delusion--the cruel and the rueful
time--was not far off. After some quiet months of married life,
as the summer was ending, and the year was getting on toward the
month of his birthday, Isaac found his wife altering toward him.
She grew sullen and contemptuous; she formed acquaintances of the
most dangerous kind in defiance of his objections, his
entreaties, and his commands; and, worst of all, she learned, ere
long, after every fresh difference with her husband, to seek the
deadly self-oblivion of drink. Little by little, after the first
miserable discovery that his wife was keeping company with
drunkards, the shocking certainty forced itself on Isaac that she
had grown to be a drunkard herself.
He had been in a sadly desponding state for some time before the
occurrence of these domestic calamities. His mother's health, as
he could but too plainly discern every time he went to see her at
the cottage, was failing fast, and he upbraided himself in secret
as the cause of the bodily and mental suffering she endured. When
to his remorse on his mother's account was added the shame and
misery occasioned by the discovery of his wife's degradation, he
sank under the double trial--his face began to alter fast, and he
looked what he was, a spirit-broken man.
His mother, still struggling bravely against the illness that was
hurrying her to the grave, was the first to notice the sad
alteration in him, and the first to hear of his last worst
trouble with his wife. She could only weep bitterly on the day
when he made his humiliating confession, but on the next occasion
when he went to see her she had taken a resolution in reference
to his domestic afflictions which astonished and even alarmed
him. He found her dressed to go out, and on asking the reason
received this answer:
"I am not long for this world, Isaac," she said, "and I shall not
feel easy on my death-bed unless I have done my best to the last
to make my son happy. I mean to put my own fears and my own
feelings out of the question, and to go with you to your wife,
and try what I can do to reclaim her. Give me your arm, Isaac,
and let me do the last thing I can in this world to help my son
before it is too late."
He could not disobey her, and they walked together slowly toward
his miserable home.
It was only one o'clock in the afternoon when they reached the
cottage where he lived. It was their dinner-hour, and Rebecca was
in the kitchen. He was thus able to take his mother quietly into
the parlor, and then prepare his wife for the interview. She had
fortunately drunk but little at that early hour, and she was less
sullen and capricious than usual.
He returned to his mother with his mind tolerably at ease. His
wife soon followed him into the parlor, and the m eeting between
her and Mrs. Scatchard passed off better than he had ventured to
anticipate, though he observed with secret apprehension that his
mother, resolutely as she controlled herself in other respects,
could not look his wife in the face when she spoke to her. It was
a relief to him, therefore, when Rebecca began to lay the cloth.
She laid the cloth, brought in the bread-tray, and cut a slice
from the loaf for her husband, then returned to the kitchen. At
that moment, Isaac, still anxiously watching his mother, was
startled by seeing the same ghastly change pass over her face
which had altered it so awfully on the morning when Rebecca and
she first met. Before he could say a word, she whispered, with a
look of horror:
"Take me back--home, home again, Isaac. Come with me, and never
go back again."
He was afraid to ask for an explanation; he could only sign to
her to be silent, and help her quickly to the door. As they
passed the breadtray on the table she stopped and pointed to it.
"Did you see what your wife cut your bread with?" she asked, in a
low whisper.
"No, mother--I was not noticing--what was it?"
"Look!"
He did look. A new clasp-knife with a buckhorn handle lay with
the loaf in the bread-tray. He stretched out his hand
shudderingly to possess himself of it; but, at the same time,
there was a noise in the kitchen, and his mother caught at his
arm.
"The knife of the dream! Isaac, I'm faint with fear. Take me away
before she comes back."
He was hardly able to support her. The visible, tangible reality
of the knife struck him with a panic, and utterly destroyed any
faint doubts that he might have entertained up to this time in
relation to the mysterious dream-warning of nearly eight years
before. By a last desperate effort, he summoned self-possession
enough to help his mother out of the house--so quietly that the
"Dream-woman" (he thought of her by that name now) did not hear
them departing from the kitchen.
"Don't go back, Isaac--don't go back!" implored Mrs. Scatchard,
as he turned to go away, after seeing her safely seated again in
her own room.
"I must get the knife," he answered, under his breath. His mother
tried to stop him again, but he hurried out without another word.
On his return he found that his wife had discovered their secret
departure from the house. She had been drinking, and was in a
fury of passion. The dinner in the kitchen was flung under the
grate; the cloth was off the parlor table. Where was the knife?
Unwisely, he asked for it. She was only too glad of the
opportunity of irritating him which the request afforded her. "He
wanted the knife, did he? Could he give her a reason why? No!
Then he should not have it--not if he went down on his knees to
ask for it." Further recriminations elicited the fact that she
had bought it a bargain, and that she considered it her own
especial property. Isaac saw the uselessness of attempting to get
the knife by fair means, and determined to search for it, later
in the day, in secret. The search was unsuccessful. Night came
on, and he left the house to walk about the streets. He was
afraid now to sleep in the same room with her.
Three weeks passed. Still sullenly enraged with him, she would
not give up the knife; and still that fear of sleeping in the
same room with her possessed him. He walked about at night, or
dozed in the parlor, or sat watching by his mother's bedside.
Before the expiration of the first week in the new month his
mother died. It wanted then but ten days of her son's birthday.
She had longed to live till that anniversary. Isaac was present
at her death, and her last words in this world were addressed to
him:
"Don't go back, my son, don't go back!" He was obliged to go
back, if it were only to watch his wife. Exasperated to the last
degree by his distrust of her, she had revengefully sought to add
a sting to his grief, during the last days of his mother's
illness, by declaring that she would assert her right to attend
the funeral. In spite of any thing he could do or say, she held
with wicked pertinacity to her word, and on the day appointed for
the burial forced herself--inflamed and shameless with
drink--into her husband's presence, and declared that she would
walk in the funeral procession to his mother's grave.
This last worst outrage, accompanied by all that was most
insulting in word and look, maddened him for the moment. He
struck her.
The instant the blow was dealt he repented it. She crouched down,
silent, in a corner of the room, and eyed him steadily; it was a
look that cooled his hot blood and made him tremble. But there
was no time now to think of a means of making atonement. Nothing
remained but to risk the worst till the funeral was over. There
was but one way of making sure of her. He locked her into her
bedroom.
When he came back some hours after, he found her sitting, very
much altered in look and bearing, by the bedside, with a bundle
on her lap. She rose, and faced him quietly, and spoke with a
strange stillness in her voice, a strange repose in her eyes, a
strange composure in her manner.
"No man has ever struck me twice," she said, "and my husband
shall have no second opportunity. Set the door open and let me
go. From this day forth we see each other no more."
Before he could answer she passed him and left the room. He saw
her walk away up the street.
Would she return?
All that night he watched and waited, but no footstep came near
the house. The next night, overpowered by fatigue, he lay down in
bed in his clothes, with the door locked, the key on the table,
and the candle burning. His slumber was not disturbed. The third
night, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth passed, and nothing
happened.
He lay down on the seventh, still in his clothes, still with the
door locked, the key on the table, and the candle burning, but
easier in his mind.
Easier in his mind, and in perfect health of body when he fell
off to sleep. But his rest was disturbed. He woke twice without
any sensation of uneasiness. But the third time it was that
never-to-be-forgotten shivering of the night at the lonely inn,
that dreadful sinking pain at the heart, which once more aroused
him in an instant.
His eyes opened toward the left-hand side of the bed, and there
stood--The Dream-Woman again? No! His wife; the living reality,
with the dream-specter's face, in the dream-specter's attitude;
the fair arm up, the knife clasped in the delicate white hand.
He sprang upon her almost at the instant of seeing her, and yet
not quickly enough to prevent her from hiding the knife. Without
a word from him--without a cry from her--he pinioned her in a
chair. With one hand he felt up her sleeve, and there, where the
Dream-Woman had hidden the knife, his wife had hidden it--the
knife with the buckhorn handle, that looked like new.
In the despair of that fearful moment his brain was steady, his
heart was calm. He looked at her fixedly with the knife in his
hand, and said these last words:
"You told me we should see each other no more, and you have come
back. It is my turn now to go, and to go forever. I say that we
shall see each other no more, and my word shall not be broken."
He left her, and set forth into the night. There was a bleak wind
abroad, and the smell of recent rain was in the air. The distant
church-clocks chimed the quarter as he walked rapidly beyond the
last houses in the suburb. He asked the first policeman he met
what hour that was of which the quarter past had just struck.
The man referred sleepily to his watch, and answered, "Two
o'clock." Two in the morning. What day of the month was this day
that had just begun? He reckoned it up from the date of his
mother's funeral. The fatal parallel was complete: it was his
birthday!
Had he escaped the mortal peril which his dream foretold? or had
he only received a second warning?
As that ominous doubt forced itself on his mind, he stopped,
reflected, and turned back again toward the city. He was still
resolute to hold to his word, and never to let her see him more;
but there was a thought now in his mind of having her watched and
followed. The knife was in his possession; the world was b efore
him; but a new distrust of her--a vague, unspeakable,
superstitious dread had overcome him.
"I must know where she goes, now she thinks I have left her," he
said to himself, as he stole back wearily to the precincts of his
house.
It was still dark. He had left the candle burning in the
bedchamber; but when he looked up to the window of the room now
there was no light in it. He crept cautiously to the house door.
On going away, he remembered to have closed it; on trying it now,
he found it open.
He waited outside, never losing sight of the house, till
daylight. Then he ventured indoors--listened, and heard
nothing--looked into kitchen, scullery, parlor and found nothing;
went up at last into the bedroom--it was empty. A picklock lay on
the floor betraying how she had gained entrance in the night, and
that was the only trace of her.
Whither had she gone? That no mortal tongue could tell him. The
darkness had covered her flight; and when the day broke, no man
could say where the light found her.
Before leaving the house and the town forever, he gave
instructions to a friend and neighbor to sell his furniture for
anything that it would fetch, and apply the proceeds to employing
the police to trace her. The directions were honestly followed,
and the money was all spent, but the inquiries led to nothing.
The picklock on the bedroom floor remained the one last useless
trace of the Dream-Woman.
At this point of the narrative the landlord paused, and,
turning toward the window of the room in which we were sitting,
looked in the direction of the stable-yard.
"So far," he said, "I tell you what was told to me. The little
that remains to be added lies within my own experience. Between
two and three months after the events I have just been relating,
Isaac Scatchard came to me, withered and old-looking before his
time, just as you saw him to-day. He had his testimonials to
character with him, and he asked for employment here. Knowing
that my wife and he were distantly related, I gave him a trial in
consideration of that relationship, and liked him in spite of his
queer habits. He is as sober, honest, and willing a man as there
is in England. As for his restlessness at night, and his sleeping
away his leisure time in the day, who can wonder at it after
hearing his story? Besides, he never objects to being roused up
when he's wanted, so there's not much inconvenience to complain
of, after all."
"I suppose he is afraid of a return of that dreadful dream, and
of waking out of it in the dark?" said I.
"No," returned the landlord. "The dream comes back to him so
often that he has got to bear with it by this time resignedly
enough. It's his wife keeps him waking at night as he has often
told me."
"What! Has she never been heard of yet?"
"Never. Isaac himself has the one perpetual thought about her,
that she is alive and looking for him. I believe he wouldn't let
himself drop off to sleep toward two in the morning for a king's
ransom. Two in the morning, he says, is the time she will find
him, one of these days. Two in the morning is the time all the
year round when he likes to be most certain that he has got that
clasp-knife safe about him. He does not mind being alone as long
as he is awake, except on the night before his birthday, when he
firmly believes himself to be in peril of his life. The birthday
has only come round once since he has been here, and then he sat
up along with the night-porter. 'She's looking for me,' is all he
says when anybody speaks to him about the one anxiety of his
life; 'she's looking for me.' He may be right. She may be looking
for him. Who can tell?"
"Who can tell?" said I.
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