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CHAPTER II.
SOME years ago there lived in the suburbs of a large seaport town
on the west coast of England a man in humble circumstances, by
name Isaac Scatchard. His means of subsistence were derived from
any employment that he could get as an hostler, and occasionally,
when times went well with him, from temporary engagements in
service as stable-helper in private houses. Though a faithful,
steady, and honest man, he got on badly in his calling. His ill
luck was proverbial among his neighbors. He was always missing
good opportunities by no fault of his own, and always living
longest in service with amiable people who were not punctual
payers of wages. "Unlucky Isaac" was his nickname in his own
neighborhood, and no one could say that he did not richly deserve
it.
With far more than one man's fair share of adversity to endure,
Isaac had but one consolation to support him, and that was of the
dreariest and most negative kind. He had no wife and children to
increase his anxieties and add to the bitterness of his various
failures in life. It might have been from mere insensibility, or
it might have been from generous unwillingness to involve another
in his own unlucky destiny, but the fact undoubtedly was, that he
had arrived at the middle term of life without marrying, and,
what is much more remarkable, without once exposing himself, from
eighteen to eight-and-thirty, to the genial imputation of ever
having had a sweetheart.
When he was out of service he lived alone with his widowed
mother. Mrs. Scatchard was a woman above the average in her lowly
station as to capacity and manners. She had seen better days, as
the phrase is, but she never referred to them in the presence of
curious visitors; and, though perfectly polite to every one who
approached her, never cultivated any intimacies among her
neighbors. She contrived to provide, hardly enough, for her
simple wants by doing rough work for the tailors, and always
managed to keep a decent home for her son to return to whenever
his ill luck drove him out helpless into the world.
One bleak autumn when Isaac was getting on fast toward forty and
when he was as usual out of place through no fault of his own, he
set forth, from his mother's cottage on a long walk inland to a
gentleman's seat where he had heard that a stable-helper was
required.
It wanted then but two days of his birthday; and Mrs. Scatchard,
with her usual fondness, made him promise, before he started,
that he would be back in time to keep that anniversary with her,
in as festive a way as their poor means would allow. It was easy
for him to comply with this request, even supposing he slept a
night each way on the road.
He was to start from home on Monday morning, and, whether he got
the new place or not, he was to be back for his birthday dinner
on Wednesday at two o'clock.
Arriving at his destination too late on the Monday night to make
application for the stablehelper's place, he slept at the village
inn, and in good time on the Tuesday morning presented himself at
the gentleman's house to fill the vacant situation. Here again
his ill luck pursued him as inexorably as ever. The excellent
written testimonials to his character which he was able to
produce availed him nothing; his long walk had been taken in
vain: only the day before the stable-helper's place had been
given to another man.
Isaac accepted this new disappointment resignedly and as a matter
of course. Naturally slow in capacity, he had the bluntness of
sensibility and phlegmatic patience of disposition which
frequently distinguish men with sluggishly-working mental powers.
He thanked the gentleman's steward with his usual quiet civility
for granting him an interview, and took his departure with no
appearance of unusual depression in his face or manner.
Before starting on his homeward walk he made some inquiries at
the inn, and ascertained that he might save a few miles on his
return by following the new road. Furnished with full
instructions, several times repeated, as to the various turnings
he was to take, he set forth on his homeward journey and walked
on all day with only one stoppage for bread and cheese. Just as
it was getting toward dark, the rain came on and the wind began
to rise, and he found himself, to make matters worse, in a part
of the country with which he was entirely unacquainted, though he
knew himself to be some fifteen miles from home. The first house
he found to inquire at was a lonely roadside inn, standing on the
outskirts of a thick wood. Solitary as the place looked, it was
welcome to a lost man who was also hungry, thirsty, footsore and
wet. The landlord was civil and respectable-looking, and the
price he asked for a bed was reasonable enough. Isaac therefore
decided on stopping comfortably at the inn for that night.
He was constitutionally a temperate man.
His supper consisted of two rashers of bacon, a slice of
home-made bread and a pint of ale. He did not go to bed
immediately after this moderate meal, but sat up with the
landlord, talking about his bad prospects and his long run of
ill-luck, and diverging from these topics to the subjects of
horse-flesh and racing. Nothing was said either by himself, his
host, or the few laborers who strayed into the tap-room, which
could, in the slightest degree, excite the very small and very
dull imaginative faculty which Isaac Scatchard possessed.
At a little after eleven the house was closed. Isaac went round
with the landlord and held the candle while the doors and lower
windows were being secured. He noticed with surprise the strength
of the bolts and bars, and iron-sheathed shutters.
"You see, we are rather lonely here," said the landlord. "We
never have had any attempts made to break in yet, but it's always
as well to be on the safe side. When nobody is sleeping here, I
am the only man in the house. My wife and daughter are timid, and
the servant-girl takes after her missuses. Another glass of ale
before you turn in? No! Well, how such a sober man as you comes
to be out of place is more than I can make out, for one. Here's
where you're to sleep. You're our only lodger to-night, and I
think you'll say my missus has done her best to make you
comfortable. You're quite sure you won't have another glass of
ale? Very well. Good-night."
It was half-past eleven by the clock in the passage as they went
upstairs to the bedroom, the window of which looked on to the
wood at the back of the house.
Isaac locked the door, set his candle on the chest of drawers,
and wearily got ready for bed.
The bleak autumn wind was still blowing, and the solemn,
monotonous, surging moan of it in the wood was dreary and awful
to hear through the night-silence. Isaac felt strangely wakeful.
He resolved, as he lay down in bed, to keep the candle alight
until he began to grow sleepy, for there was something
unendurably depressing in the bare idea of lying awake in the
darkness, listening to the dismal, ceaseless moaning of the wind
in the wood.
Sleep stole on him before he was aware of it. His eyes closed,
and he fell off insensibly to rest without having so much as
thought of extinguishing the candle.
The first sensation of which he was conscious after sinking into
slumber was a strange shivering that ran through him suddenly
from head to foot, and a dreadful sinking pain at the heart, such
as he had never felt before. The shivering only disturbed his
slumbers; the pain woke him instantly. In one moment he passed
from a state of sleep to a state of wakefulness--his eyes wide
open--his mental perceptions cleared on a sudden, as if by a
miracle.
The candle had burned down nearly to the last morsel of tallow,
but the top of the unsnuffed wick had just fallen off, and the
light in the little room was, for the moment, fair and full.
Between the foot of his bed and the closed door there stood a
woman with a knife in her hand, looking at him.
He was stricken speechless with terror, but he did not lose the
preternatural clearness of his faculties, and he never took his
eyes off the woman. She said not a word as they stared each other
in the face, but she began to move slowly toward the left-hand
side of the bed.
His eyes followed her. She was a fair, fine woman, with yellowish
flaxen hair and light gray eyes, with a droop in the left eyelid.
He noticed those things and fixed them on his mind before she was
round at the side of the bed. Speechless, with no expression in
her face, with no noise following her footfall, she came closer
and closer--stopped--and slowly raised the knife. He laid his
right arm over his throat to save it; but, as he saw the knife
coming down, threw his hand across the bed to the right side, and
jerked his body over that way just as the knife descended on the
mattress within an inch of his shoulder.
His eyes fixed on her arm and hand as she slowly drew her knife
out of the bed: a white, well-shaped arm, with a pretty down
lying lightly over the fair skin--a delicate lady's hand, with
the crowning beauty of a pink flush under and round the
finger-nails.
She drew the knife out, and passed back again slowly to the foot
of the bed; stopped there for a moment looking at him; then came
on--still speechless, still with no expression on the blank,
beautiful face, still with no sound following the stealthy
footfalls--came on to the right side of the bed, where he now
lay.
As she approached, she raised the knife again, and he drew
himself away to the left side. She struck, as before, right into
the mattress, with a deliberate, perpendicularly downward action
of the arm. This time his eyes wandered from her to the knife. It
was like the large cla sp-knives which he had often seen laboring
men use to cut their bread and bacon with. Her delicate little
fingers did not conceal more than two-thirds of the handle: he
noticed that it was made of buck-horn, clean and shining as the
blade was, and looking like new.
For the second time she drew the knife out, concealed it in the
wide sleeve of her gown, then stopped by the bedside, watching
him. For an instant he saw her standing in that position, then
the wick of the spent candle fell over into the socket; the flame
diminished to a little blue point, and the room grew dark.
A moment, or less, if possible, passed so, and then the wick
flamed up, smokingly, for the last time. His eyes were still
looking eagerly over the right-hand side of the bed when the
final flash of light came, but they discovered nothing. The fair
woman with the knife was gone.
The conviction that he was alone again weakened the hold of the
terror that had struck him dumb up to this time. The
preternatural sharpness which the very intensity of his panic had
mysteriously imparted to his faculties left them suddenly. His
brain grew confused--his heart beat wildly--his ears opened for
the first time since the appearance of the woman to a sense of
the woeful ceaseless moaning of the wind among the trees. With
the dreadful conviction of the reality of what he had seen still
strong within him, he leaped out of bed, and screaming "Murder!
Wake up, there! wake up!" dashed headlong through the darkness to
the door.
It was fast locked, exactly as he had left it on going to bed.
His cries on starting up had alarmed the house. He heard the
terrified, confused exclamations of women; he saw the master of
the house approaching along the passage with his burning
rush-candle in one hand and his gun in the other.
"What is it?" asked the landlord, breathlessly. Isaac could only
answer in a whisper. "A woman, with a knife in her hand," he
gasped out. "In my room--a fair, yellow-haired woman; she jobbed
at me with the knife twice over."
The landlord's pale cheeks grew paler. He looked at Isaac eagerly
by the flickering light of his candle, and his face began to get
red again; his voice altered, too, as well as his complexion.
"She seems to have missed you twice," he said.
"I dodged the knife as it came down," Isaac went on, in the same
scared whisper. "It struck the bed each time."
The landlord took his candle into the bedroom immediately. In
less than a minute he came out again into the passage in a
violent passion.
"The devil fly away with you and your woman with the knife! There
isn't a mark in the bedclothes anywhere. What do you mean by
coming into a man's place and frightening his family out of their
wits about a dream?"
"I'll leave your house," said Isaac, faintly. "Better out on the
road, in rain and dark, on my road home, than back again in that
room, after what I've seen in it. Lend me a light to get my
clothes by, and tell me what I'm to pay."
"Pay!" cried the landlord, leading the way with his light sulkily
into the bedroom. "You'll find your score on the slate when you
go downstairs. I wouldn't have taken you in for all the money
you've got about you if I'd known your dreaming, screeching ways
beforehand. Look at the bed. Where's the cut of a knife in it?
Look at the window--is the lock bursted? Look at the door (which
I heard you fasten yourself)--is it broke in? A murdering woman
with a knife in my house! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!"
Isaac answered not a word. He huddled on his clothes, and then
they went downstairs together.
"Nigh on twenty minutes past two!" said the landlord, as they
passed the clock. "A nice time in the morning to frighten honest
people out of their wits!"
Isaac paid his bill, and the landlord let him out at the front
door, asking, with a grin of contempt, as he undid the strong
fastenings, whether "the murdering woman got in that way."
They parted without a word on either side. The rain had ceased,
but the night was dark, and the wind bleaker than ever. Little
did the darkness, or the cold, or the uncertainty about the way
home matter to Isaac. If he had been turned out into a wilderness
in a thunder-storm it would have been a relief after what he had
suffered in the bedroom of the inn.
What was the fair woman with the knife? The creature of a dream,
or that other creature from the unknown world called among men by
the name of ghost? He could make nothing of the mystery--had made
nothing of it, even when it was midday on Wednesday, and when he
stood, at last, after many times missing his road, once more on
the doorstep of home.
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