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 fixed1 it unassailably in his heart.
After that first interview in the cottage parlor2 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 degradation3 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 estrangement4 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 affected5 Mrs. Scatchard’s mind. He even allowed his wife to upbraid6 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 delusion7 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 sullen8 and contemptuous; she formed acquaintances of the most dangerous kind in defiance9 of his objections, his entreaties10, 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 miserable11 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 calamities12. 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 upbraided13 himself in secret as the cause of the bodily and mental suffering she endured. When to his remorse14 on his mother’s account was added the shame and misery15 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 alteration16 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 confession17, 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 reclaim18 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 meeting between her and Mrs. Scatchard passed off better than he had ventured to anticipate, though he observed with secret apprehension19 that his mother, resolutely20 as she controlled herself in other respects, could not look his wife in the face when she spoke22 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 awfully23 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 pointed24 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 shudderingly25 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, tangible26 reality of the knife struck him with a panic, and utterly27 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!” implored28 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 elicited29 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 determined30 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 sullenly31 enraged32 with him, she would not give up the knife; and still that fear of sleeping in the same room with her possessed33 him. He walked about at night, or dozed34 in the parlor, or sat watching by his mother’s bedside. Before the expiration35 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. Exasperated36 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 pertinacity37 to her word, and on the day appointed for the burial forced herself — inflamed38 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 outrage39, 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 repented40 it. She crouched41 down, silent, in a corner of the room, and eyed him steadily42; 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 repose43 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 forth44 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 fatigue45, he lay down in bed in his clothes, with the door locked, the key on the table, and the candle burning. His slumber46 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 pinioned48 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 fixedly49 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 bleak50 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 peril51 which his dream foretold52? or had he only received a second warning?
As that ominous53 doubt forced itself on his mind, he stopped, reflected, and turned back again toward the city. He was still resolute21 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 before him; but a new distrust of her — a vague, unspeakable, superstitious54 dread47 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 inquiries55 led to nothing. The picklock on the bedroom floor remained the one last useless trace of the Dream–Woman.
At this point of the narrative56 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 remains57 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, withered58 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 ransom59. 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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1
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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upbraid
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| v.斥责，责骂，责备 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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13
upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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16
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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18
reclaim
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| v.要求归还，收回；开垦 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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23
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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24
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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shudderingly
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26
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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elicited
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| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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32
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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34
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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pertinacity
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| n.执拗，顽固 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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40
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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43
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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44
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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45
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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46
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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47
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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48
pinioned
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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50
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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51
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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52
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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54
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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55
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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56
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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57
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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58
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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59
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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