CHAPTER III.
His mother came out eagerly to receive him.
His face told her in a moment that something was wrong.
"I've lost the place; but that's my luck. I dreamed an ill dream lastnight, mother--or maybe I saw a ghost. Take it either way, it scared meout of my senses, and I'm not my own man again yet."
"Isaac, your face frightens me. Come in to the fire--come in, and tellmother all about it."
He was as anxious to tell as she was to hear; for it had been hishope, all the way home, that his mother, with her quicker capacity andsuperior knowledge, might be able to throw some light on the mysterywhich he could not clear up for himself. His memory of the dream wasstill mechanically vivid, though his thoughts were entirely confused byit.
His mother's face grew paler and paler as he went on. She neverinterrupted him by so much as a single word; but when he had done, shemoved her chair close to his, put her arm round his neck, and said tohim:
"Isaac, you dreamed your ill dream on this Wednesday morning. What timewas it when you saw the fair woman with the knife in her hand?" Isaacreflected on what the landlord had said when they had passed by theclock on his leaving the inn; allowed as nearly as he could for the timethat must have elapsed between the unlocking of his bedroom door and thepaying of his bill just before going away, and answered:
"Somewhere about two o'clock in the morning."
His mother suddenly quitted her hold of his neck, and struck her handstogether with a gesture of despair.
"This Wednesday is your birthday, Isaac, and two o'clock in the morningwas the time when you were born."
Isaac's capacities were not quick enough to catch the infection of hismother's superstitious dread. He was amazed, and a little startled,also, when she suddenly rose from her chair, opened her oldwriting-desk, took pen, ink and paper, and then said to him:
"Your memory is but a poor one, Isaac, and, now I'm an old woman, mine'snot much better. I want all about this dream of yours to be as wellknown to both of us, years hence, as it is now. Tell me over again allyou told me a minute ago, when you spoke of what the woman with theknife looked like."
Isaac obeyed, and marveled much as he saw his mother carefully set downon paper the very words that he was saying.
"Light gray eyes," she wrote, as they came to the descriptive part,"with a droop in the left eyelid; flaxen hair, with a gold-yellow streakin it; white arms, with a down upon them; little lady's hand, witha reddish look about the finger nails; clasp-knife with a buck-hornhandle, that seemed as good as new." To these particulars Mrs. Scatchardadded the year, month, day of the week, and time in the morning whenthe woman of the dream appeared to her son. She then locked up the papercarefully in her writing-desk.
Neither on that day nor on any day after could her son induce her toreturn to the matter of the dream. She obstinately kept her thoughtsabout it to herself, and even refused to refer again to the paper in herwriting-desk. Ere long Isaac grew weary of attempting to make her breakher resolute silence; and time, which sooner or later wears out allthings, gradually wore out the impression produced on him by the dream.He began by thinking of it carelessly, and he ended by not thinking ofit at all.
The result was the more easily brought about by the advent of someimportant changes for the better in his prospects which commenced notlong after his terrible night's experience at the inn. He reaped at lastthe reward of his long and patient suffering under adversity by gettingan excellent place, keeping it for seven years, and leaving it, on thedeath of his master, not only with an excellent character, but alsowith a comfortable annuity bequeathed to him as a reward for savinghis mistress's life in a carriage accident. Thus it happened that IsaacScatchard returned to his old mother, seven years after the time of thedream at the inn, with an annual sum of money at his disposal sufficientto keep them both in ease and independence for the rest of their lives.
The mother, whose health had been bad of late years, profited so much bythe care bestowed on her and by freedom from money anxieties, that whenIsaac's birthday came round she was able to sit up comfortably at tableand dine with him.
On that day, as the evening drew on, Mrs. Scatchard discovered that abottle of tonic medicine which she was accustomed to take, and in whichshe had fancied that a dose or more was still left, happened to beempty. Isaac immediately volunteered to go to the chemist's and getit filled again. It was as rainy and bleak an autumn night as on thememorable past occasion when he lost his way and slept at the road-sideinn.
On going into the chemist's shop he was passed hurriedly by apoorly-dressed woman coming out of it. The glimpse he had of herface struck him, and he looked back after her as she descended thedoor-steps.
"You're noticing that woman?" said the chemist's apprentice behind thecounter. "It's my opinion there's something wrong with her. She's beenasking for laudanum to put to a bad tooth. Master's out for half anhour, and I told her I wasn't allowed to sell poison to strangers inhis absence. She laughed in a queer way, and said she would come backin half an hour. If she expects master to serve her, I think she'll bedisappointed. It's a case of suicide, sir, if ever there was one yet."
These words added immeasurably to the sudden interest in the woman whichIsaac had felt at the first sight of her face. After he had got themedicine-bottle filled, he looked about anxiously for her as soon ashe was out in the street. She was walking slowly up and down onthe opposite side of the road. With his heart, very much to his ownsurprise, beating fast, Isaac crossed over and spoke to her.
He asked if she was in any distress. She pointed to her torn shawl, herscanty dress, her crushed, dirty bonnet; then moved under a lamp so asto let the light fall on her stern, pale, but still most beautiful face.
"I look like a comfortable, happy woman, don't I?" she said, with abitter laugh.
She spoke with a purity of intonation which Isaac had never heard beforefrom other than ladies' lips. Her slightest actions seemed to have theeasy, negligent grace of a thoroughbred woman. Her skin, for all itspoverty-stricken paleness, was as delicate as if her life had beenpassed in the enjoyment of every social comfort that wealth canpurchase. Even her small, finely-shaped hands, gloveless as they were,had not lost their whiteness.
Little by little, in answer to his questions, the sad story of the womancame out. There is no need to relate it here; it is told over and overagain in police reports and paragraphs about attempted suicides.
"My name is Rebecca Murdoch," said the woman, as she ended. "I havenine-pence left, and I thought of spending it at the chemist's over theway in securing a passage to the other world. Whatever it is, it can'tbe worse to me than this, so why should I stop here?"
Besides the natural compassion and sadness moved in his heart by what heheard, Isaac felt within him some mysterious influence at work all thetime the woman was speaking which utterly confused his ideas and almostdeprived him of his powers of speech. All that he could say in answerto her last reckless words was that he would prevent her from attemptingher own life, if he followed her about all night to do it. His rough,trembling earnestness seemed to impress her.
"I won't occasion you that trouble," she answered, when he repeated histhreat. "You have given me a fancy for living by speaking kindly to me.No need for the mockery of protestations and promises. You may believeme without them. Come to Fuller's Meadow to-morrow at twelve, and youwill find me alive, to answer for myself--No!--no money. My ninepencewill do to get me as good a night's lodging as I want."
She nodded and left him. He made no attempt to follow--he felt nosuspicion that she was deceiving him.
"It's strange, but I can't help believing her," he said to himself, andwalked away, bewildered, toward home.
On entering the house, his mind was still so completely absorbed by itsnew subject of interest that he took no notice of what his mother wasdoing when he came in with the bottle of medicine. She had opened herold writing-desk in his absence, and was now reading a paper attentivelythat lay inside it.
On every birthday of Isaac's since she had writtendown the particulars of his dream from his own lips, she had beenaccustomed to read that same paper, and ponder over it in private.
The next day he went to Fuller's Meadow.
He had done only right in believing her so implicitly. She was there,punctual to a minute, to answer for herself. The last-left faintdefenses in Isaac's heart against the fascination which a word or lookfrom her began inscrutably to exercise over him sank down and vanishedbefore her forever on that memorable morning.
When a man, previously insensible to the influence of women, formsan attachment in middle life, the instances are rare indeed, let thewarning circumstances be what they may, in which he is found capable offreeing himself from the tyranny of the new ruling passion. The charmof being spoken to familiarly, fondly, and gratefully by a woman whoselanguage and manners still retained enough of their early refinementto hint at the high social station that she had lost, would have been adangerous luxury to a man of Isaac's rank at the age of twenty. But itwas far more than that--it was certain ruin to him--now that his heartwas opening unworthily to a new influence at that middle time of lifewhen strong feelings of all kinds, once implanted, strike root moststubbornly in a man's moral nature. A few more stolen interviews afterthat first morning in Fuller's Meadow completed his infatuation. In lessthan a month from the time when he first met her, Isaac Scatchard hadconsented to give Rebecca Murdoch a new interest in existence, and achance of recovering the character she had lost by promising to make herhis wife.
She had taken possession, not of his passions only, but of his facultiesas well. All the mind he had he put into her keeping. She directedhim on every point--even instructing him how to break the news of hisapproaching marriage in the safest manner to his mother.
"If you tell her how you met me and who I am at first," said the cunningwoman, "she will move heaven and earth to prevent our marriage. Say I amthe sister of one of your fellow-servants--ask her to see me before yougo into any more particulars--and leave it to me to do the rest. I meanto make her love me next best to you, Isaac, before she knows anythingof who I really am." The motive of the deceit was sufficient to sanctifyit to Isaac. The stratagem proposed relieved him of his one greatanxiety, and quieted his uneasy conscience on the subject of his mother.Still, there was something wanting to perfect his happiness, somethingthat he could not realize, something mysteriously untraceable, and yetsomething that perpetually made itself felt; not when he was absentfrom Rebecca Murdoch, but, strange to say, when he was actually in herpresence! She was kindness itself with him. She never made him feelhis inferior capacities and inferior manners. She showed the sweetestanxiety to please him in the smallest trifles; but, in spite of allthese attractions, he never could feel quite at his ease with her. Attheir first meeting, there had mingled with his admiration, when helooked in her face, a faint, involuntary feeling of doubt whether thatface was entirely strange to him. No after familiarity had the slightesteffect on this inexplicable, wearisome uncertainty.
Concealing the truth as he had been directed, he announced his marriageengagement precipitately and confusedly to his mother on the day when hecontracted it. Poor Mrs. Scatchard showed her perfect confidence in herson by flinging her arms round his neck, and giving him joy of havingfound at last, in the sister of one of his fellow-servants, a womanto comfort and care for him after his mother was gone. She was alleagerness to see the woman of her son's choice, and the next day wasfixed for the introduction.
It was a bright sunny morning, and the little cottage parlor was full oflight as Mrs. Scatchard, happy and expectant, dressed for theoccasion in her Sunday gown, sat waiting for her son and her futuredaughter-in-law.
Punctual to the appointed time, Isaac hurriedly and nervously led hispromised wife into the room. His mother rose to receive her--advanceda few steps, smiling--looked Rebecca full in the eyes, and suddenlystopped. Her face, which had been flushed the moment before, turnedwhite in an instant; her eyes lost their expression of softness andkindness, and assumed a blank look of terror; her outstretched handsfell to her sides, and she staggered back a few steps with a low cry toher son.
"Isaac," she whispered, clutching him fast by the arm when he askedalarmedly if she was taken ill, "Isaac, does that woman's face remindyou of nothing?"
Before he could answer--before he could look round to where Rebeccastood, astonished and angered by her reception, at the lower end of theroom, his mother pointed impatiently to her writing-desk, and gave himthe key.
"Open it," she said, in a quick breathless whisper.
"What does this mean? Why am I treated as if I had no business here?Does your mother want to insult me?" asked Rebecca, angrily.
"Open it, and give me the paper in the left-hand drawer. Quick! quick,for Heaven's sake!" said Mrs. Scatchard, shrinking further back interror.
Isaac gave her the paper. She looked it over eagerly for a moment, thenfollowed Rebecca, who was now turning away haughtily to leave the room,and caught her by the shoulder--abruptly raised the long, loose sleeveof her gown, and glanced at her hand and arm. Something like fearbegan to steal over the angry expression of Rebecca's face as she shookherself free from the old woman's grasp. "Mad!" she said to herself;"and Isaac never told me." With these few words she left the room.
Isaac was hastening after her when his mother turned and stopped hisfurther progress. It wrung his heart to see the misery and terror in herface as she looked at him.
"Light gray eyes," she said, in low, mournful, awe-struck tones,pointing toward the open door; "a droop in the left eyelid; flaxen hair,with a gold-yellow streak in it; white arms, with a down upon them;little lady's hand, with a reddish look under the finger nails--TheDream-Woman, Isaac, the Dream-Woman!"
That faint cleaving doubt which he had never been able to shake off inRebecca Murdoch's presence was fatally set at rest forever. He had seenher face, then, before--seven years before, on his birthday, in thebedroom of the lonely inn.
"Be warned! oh, my son, be warned! Isaac, Isaac, let her go, and do youstop with me!"
Something darkened the parlor window as those words were said. A suddenchill ran through him, and he glanced sidelong at the shadow. RebeccaMurdoch had come back. She was peering in curiously at them over the lowwindow-blind.
"I have promised to marry, mother," he said, "and marry I must."
The tears came into his eyes as he spoke and dimmed his sight, but hecould just discern the fatal face outside moving away again from thewindow.
His mother's head sank lower.
"Are you faint?" he whispered.
"Broken-hearted, Isaac."
He stooped down and kissed her. The shadow, as he did so, returned tothe window, and the fatal face peered in curiously once more.