CHAPTER IV.
THREE weeks after that day Isaac and Rebecca were man and wife. All thatwas hopelessly dogged and stubborn in the man's moral nature seemed tohave closed round his fatal passion, and to have fixed it unassailablyin his heart.
After that first interview in the cottage parlor no consideration wouldinduce Mrs. Scatchard to see her son's wife again or even to talk of herwhen Isaac tried hard to plead her cause after their marriage.
This course of conduct was not in any degree occasioned by a discoveryof the degradation in which Rebecca had lived. There was no question ofthat between mother and son. There was no question of anything but thefearfully-exact resemblance between the living, breathing woman and thespecter-woman of Isaac's dream.
Rebecca on her side neither felt nor expressed the slightest sorrow atthe estrangement between herself and her mother-in-law. Isaac, for thesake of peace, had never contradicted her first idea that age and longillness had affected Mrs. Scatchard's mind. He even allowed his wife toupbraid him for not having confessed this to her at the time of theirmarriage engagement, rather than risk anything by hinting at the truth.The sacrifice of his integrity before his one all-mastering delusionseemed but a small thing, and cost his conscience but little after thesacrifices he had already made.
The time of waking from this delusion--the cruel and the ruefultime--was not far off. After some quiet months of married life, as thesummer was ending, and the year was getting on toward the month of hisbirthday, Isaac found his wife altering toward him. She grew sullen andcontemptuous; she formed acquaintances of the most dangerous kind indefiance of his objections, his entreaties, and his commands; and, worstof all, she learned, ere long, after every fresh difference with herhusband, to seek the deadly self-oblivion of drink. Little by little,after the first miserable discovery that his wife was keeping companywith drunkards, the shocking certainty forced itself on Isaac that shehad grown to be a drunkard herself.
He had been in a sadly desponding state for some time before theoccurrence of these domestic calamities. His mother's health, as hecould but too plainly discern every time he went to see her at thecottage, was failing fast, and he upbraided himself in secret as thecause of the bodily and mental suffering she endured. When to hisremorse on his mother's account was added the shame and miseryoccasioned by the discovery of his wife's degradation, he sank under thedouble trial--his face began to alter fast, and he looked what he was, aspirit-broken man.
His mother, still struggling bravely against the illness that washurrying her to the grave, was the first to notice the sad alteration inhim, 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 humiliatingconfession, but on the next occasion when he went to see her she hadtaken a resolution in reference to his domestic afflictions whichastonished and even alarmed him. He found her dressed to go out, and onasking the reason received this answer:
"I am not long for this world, Isaac," she said, "and I shall not feeleasy on my death-bed unless I have done my best to the last to make myson happy. I mean to put my own fears and my own feelings out of thequestion, and to go with you to your wife, and try what I can do toreclaim her. Give me your arm, Isaac, and let me do the last thing I canin this world to help my son before it is too late."
He could not disobey her, and they walked together slowly toward hismiserable home.
It was only one o'clock in the afternoon when they reached the cottagewhere he lived. It was their dinner-hour, and Rebecca was in thekitchen. He was thus able to take his mother quietly into the parlor,and then prepare his wife for the interview. She had fortunately drunkbut little at that early hour, and she was less sullen and capriciousthan usual.
He returned to his mother with his mind tolerably at ease. His wifesoon followed him into the parlor, and the meeting between her and Mrs.Scatchard passed off better than he had ventured to anticipate, thoughhe observed with secret apprehension that his mother, resolutely as shecontrolled herself in other respects, could not look his wife in theface when she spoke to her. It was a relief to him, therefore, whenRebecca began to lay the cloth.
She laid the cloth, brought in the bread-tray, and cut a slice fromthe loaf for her husband, then returned to the kitchen. At that moment,Isaac, still anxiously watching his mother, was startled by seeing thesame ghastly change pass over her face which had altered it so awfullyon the morning when Rebecca and she first met. Before he could say aword, she whispered, with a look of horror:
"Take me back--home, home again, Isaac. Come with me, and never go backagain."
He was afraid to ask for an explanation; he could only sign to her to besilent, and help her quickly to the door. As they passed the breadtrayon the table she stopped and pointed to it.
"Did you see what your wife cut your bread with?" she asked, in a lowwhisper.
"No, mother--I was not noticing--what was it?"
"Look!"
He did look. A new clasp-knife with a buckhorn handle lay with the loafin the bread-tray. He stretched out his hand shudderingly to possesshimself 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 beforeshe comes back."
He was hardly able to support her. The visible, tangible reality of theknife struck him with a panic, and utterly destroyed any faint doubtsthat he might have entertained up to this time in relation to themysterious dream-warning of nearly eight years before. By a lastdesperate effort, he summoned self-possession enough to help his motherout of the house--so quietly that the "Dream-woman" (he thought of herby that name now) did not hear them departing from the kitchen.
"Don't go back, Isaac--don't go back!" implored Mrs. Scatchard, as heturned 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 triedto stop him again, but he hurried out without another word.
On his return he found that his wife had discovered their secretdeparture from the house. She had been drinking, and was in a fury ofpassion. The dinner in the kitchen was flung under the grate; the clothwas off the parlor table. Where was the knife?
Unwisely, he asked for it. She was only too glad of the opportunity ofirritating him which the request afforded her. "He wanted the knife, didhe? Could he give her a reason why? No! Then he should not have it--notif he went down on his knees to ask for it." Further recriminationselicited the fact that she had bought it a bargain, and that sheconsidered it her own especial property. Isaac saw the uselessness ofattempting to get the knife by fair means, and determined to search forit, later in the day, in secret. The search was unsuccessful. Night cameon, and he left the house to walk about the streets. He was afraid nowto sleep in the same room with her.
Three weeks passed. Still sullenly enraged with him, she would not giveup the knife; and still that fear of sleeping in the same room with herpossessed him. He walked about at night, or dozed in the parlor, or satwatching by his mother's bedside. Before the expiration of the firstweek in the new month his mother died. It wanted then but ten days ofher son's birthday. She had longed to live till that anniversary.Isaac was present at her death, and her last words in this world wereaddressed to him:
"Don't go back, my son, don't go back!" He was obliged to go back, ifit were only to watch his wife. Exasperated to the last degree by hisdistrust of her, she had revengefully sought to add a sting to hisgrief, during the last days of his mother's illness, by declaring thatshe would assert her right to attend the funeral. In spite of any thinghe could do or say, she held with wicked pertinacity to her word, and onthe day appointed for the burial forced herself--inflamed and shamelesswith drink--into her husband's presence, and declared that she wouldwalk in the funeral procession to his mother's grave.
This last worst outrage, accompanied by all that was most insulting inword and look, maddened him for the moment. He struck her.
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sp; 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 lookthat cooled his hot blood and made him tremble. But there was no timenow to think of a means of making atonement. Nothing remained but torisk the worst till the funeral was over. There was but one way ofmaking sure of her. He locked her into her bedroom.
When he came back some hours after, he found her sitting, very muchaltered in look and bearing, by the bedside, with a bundle on her lap.She rose, and faced him quietly, and spoke with a strange stillnessin her voice, a strange repose in her eyes, a strange composure in hermanner.
"No man has ever struck me twice," she said, "and my husband shall haveno second opportunity. Set the door open and let me go. From this dayforth we see each other no more."
Before he could answer she passed him and left the room. He saw her walkaway up the street.
Would she return?
All that night he watched and waited, but no footstep came near thehouse. The next night, overpowered by fatigue, he lay down in bed inhis clothes, with the door locked, the key on the table, and the candleburning. His slumber was not disturbed. The third night, the fourth, thefifth, the sixth passed, and nothing happened.
He lay down on the seventh, still in his clothes, still with the doorlocked, the key on the table, and the candle burning, but easier in hismind.
Easier in his mind, and in perfect health of body when he fell off tosleep. But his rest was disturbed. He woke twice without any sensationof uneasiness. But the third time it was that never-to-be-forgottenshivering of the night at the lonely inn, that dreadful sinking pain atthe heart, which once more aroused him in an instant.
His eyes opened toward the left-hand side of the bed, and therestood--The Dream-Woman again? No! His wife; the living reality, with thedream-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 notquickly enough to prevent her from hiding the knife. Without a word fromhim--without a cry from her--he pinioned her in a chair. With one handhe felt up her sleeve, and there, where the Dream-Woman had hidden theknife, his wife had hidden it--the knife with the buckhorn handle, thatlooked like new.
In the despair of that fearful moment his brain was steady, his heartwas calm. He looked at her fixedly with the knife in his hand, and saidthese 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 eachother no more, and my word shall not be broken."
He left her, and set forth into the night. There was a bleak windabroad, and the smell of recent rain was in the air. The distantchurch-clocks chimed the quarter as he walked rapidly beyond the lasthouses in the suburb. He asked the first policeman he met what hour thatwas of which the quarter past had just struck.
The man referred sleepily to his watch, and answered, "Two o'clock." Twoin 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 fatalparallel was complete: it was his birthday!
Had he escaped the mortal peril which his dream foretold? or had he onlyreceived 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 tohis word, and never to let her see him more; but there was a thoughtnow in his mind of having her watched and followed. The knife was inhis possession; the world was before him; but a new distrust of her--avague, unspeakable, superstitious dread had overcome him.
"I must know where she goes, now she thinks I have left her," he said tohimself, as he stole back wearily to the precincts of his house.
It was still dark. He had left the candle burning in the bedchamber; butwhen he looked up to the window of the room now there was no light init. He crept cautiously to the house door. On going away, he rememberedto have closed it; on trying it now, he found it open.
He waited outside, never losing sight of the house, till daylight. Thenhe ventured indoors--listened, and heard nothing--looked into kitchen,scullery, parlor and found nothing; went up at last into the bedroom--itwas empty. A picklock lay on the floor betraying how she had gainedentrance in the night, and that was the only trace of her.
Whither had she gone? That no mortal tongue could tell him. The darknesshad covered her flight; and when the day broke, no man could say wherethe light found her.
Before leaving the house and the town forever, he gave instructions toa friend and neighbor to sell his furniture for anything that it wouldfetch, and apply the proceeds to employing the police to trace her. Thedirections were honestly followed, and the money was all spent, but theinquiries led to nothing. The picklock on the bedroom floor remained theone last useless trace of the Dream-Woman.
At this point of the narrative the landlord paused, and, turning towardthe window of the room in which we were sitting, looked in the directionof the stable-yard.
"So far," he said, "I tell you what was told to me. The little thatremains to be added lies within my own experience. Between two and threemonths after the events I have just been relating, Isaac Scatchard cameto me, withered and old-looking before his time, just as you saw himto-day. He had his testimonials to character with him, and he asked foremployment here. Knowing that my wife and he were distantly related, Igave him a trial in consideration of that relationship, and liked him inspite of his queer habits. He is as sober, honest, and willing a man asthere is in England. As for his restlessness at night, and his sleepingaway his leisure time in the day, who can wonder at it after hearing hisstory? Besides, he never objects to being roused up when he's wanted, sothere's not much inconvenience to complain of, after all."
"I suppose he is afraid of a return of that dreadful dream, and ofwaking out of it in the dark?" said I.
"No," returned the landlord. "The dream comes back to him so often thathe has got to bear with it by this time resignedly enough. It's his wifekeeps 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 sheis alive and looking for him. I believe he wouldn't let himself dropoff to sleep toward two in the morning for a king's ransom. Two in themorning, he says, is the time she will find him, one of these days. Twoin the morning is the time all the year round when he likes to be mostcertain that he has got that clasp-knife safe about him. He does notmind being alone as long as he is awake, except on the night before hisbirthday, 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 thenhe sat up along with the night-porter. 'She's looking for me,' is allhe 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. Whocan tell?"
"Who can tell?" said I.
THE FOURTH DAY.
THE sky once more cloudy and threatening. No news of George. I correctedMorgan's second story to-day; numbered it Seven, and added it to ourstock.
Undeterred by the weather, Miss Jessie set off this morning on thelongest ride she had yet undertaken. She had heard--through one ofmy brother's laborers, I believe--of the actual existence, in thisnineteenth century, of no less a personage than a Welsh Bard, who wasto be found at a distant farmhouse far beyond the limits of Owen'sproperty. The prospect of discovering this remarkable relic of pasttimes hurried her off, under the guidance of her ragged groom, in a highstate of excitement, to see and hear the venerable man. She was away thewhole day, and for the first time since her visit she kept us waitingmore than half an hour for dinner. The moment we all sat down to table,she informed us, to Morgan's great delight, that the bard was a rankimpostor.
"Why, what did you expect to see?" I asked.
"A Welsh patriarch, to be sure, with a long white beard, flowing robes,and a harp to match," answered M
iss Jessie.
"And what did you find?"
"A highly-respectable middle-aged rustic; a smiling, smoothly-shaven,obliging man, dressed in a blue swallow-tailed coat, with brass buttons,and exhibiting his bardic legs in a pair of extremely stout andcomfortable corduroy trousers."
"But he sang old Welsh songs, surely?"
"Sang! I'll tell you what he did. He sat down on a Windsor chair,without a harp; he put his hands in his pockets, cleared his throat,looked up at the ceiling, and suddenly burst into a series of theshrillest falsetto screeches I ever heard in my life. My own privateopinion is that he was suffering from hydrophobia. I have lost allbelief, henceforth and forever, in bards--all belief in everything,in short, except your very delightful stories and this remarkably gooddinner."
Ending with that smart double fire of compliments to her hosts, theQueen of Hearts honored us all three with a smile of approval, andtransferred her attention to her knife and fork.
The number drawn to-night was One. On examination of the Purple Volume,it proved to be my turn to read again.
"Our story to-night," I said, "contains the narrative of a veryremarkable adventure which really befell me when I was a young man.At the time of my life when these events happened I was dabbling inliterature when I ought to have been studying law, and traveling on theContinent when I ought to have been keeping my terms at Lincoln's Inn.At the outset of the story, you will find that I refer to the countyin which I lived in my youth, and to a neighboring family possessinga large estate in it. That county is situated in a part of Englandfar away from The Glen Tower, and that family is therefore not to beassociated with any present or former neighbors of ours in this part ofthe world."
After saying these necessary words of explanation, I opened the firstpage, and began the story of my Own Adventure. I observed that myaudience started a little as I read the title, which I must add, inmy own defense, had been almost forced on my choice by the peculiarcharacter of the narrative. It was "MAD MONKTON."
BROTHER GRIFFITH'S STORY of MAD MONKTON