My wife had, of course, discovered our secret departure from the house.
She had been drinking. She 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?
I was foolish enough to ask for it. She refused to give it to me. In the
course of the dispute between us which followed, I discovered that there
was a horrible story attached to the knife. It had been used in a
murder--years since--and had been so skillfully hidden that the
authorities had been unable to produce it at the trial. By help of some of
her disreputable friends, my wife had been able to purchase this relic of
a bygone crime. Her perverted nature set some horrid unacknowledged value
on the knife. Seeing there was no hope of getting it by fair means, I
determined to search for it, later in the day, in secret. The search was
unsuccessful. Night came on, and I left the house to walk about the
streets. You will understand what a broken man I was by this time, when I
tell you I was afraid to sleep in the same room with her!
Three weeks passed. Still she refused to give up the knife; and still that
fear of sleeping in the same room with her possessed me. I walked about at
night, or dozed in the parlor, or sat watching by my mother's bedside.
Before the end of the first week in the new month, the worst misfortune of
all befell me--my mother died. It wanted then but a short time to my
birthday. She had longed to live till that day. I was present at her
death. Her last words in this world were addressed to me. "Don't go back,
my son--don't go back!"
I was obliged to go back, if it was only to watch my wife. In the last
days of my mother's illness she had spitefully added a sting to my grief
by declaring she would assert her right to attend the funeral. In spite of
all that I could do or say, she held to her word. On the day appointed for
the burial she forced herself, inflamed and shameless with drink, into my
presence, and swore she would walk in the funeral procession to my
mother's grave.
This last insult--after all I had gone through already--was more than I
could endure. It maddened me. Try to make allowances for a man beside
himself. I struck her.
The instant the blow was dealt, I repented it. She crouched down, silent,
in a corner of the room, and eyed me steadily. It was a look that cooled
my hot blood in an instant. There was no time now to think of making
atonement. I could only risk the worst, and make sure of her till the
funeral was over. I locked her into her bedroom.
When I came back, after laying my mother in the grave, I found her sitting
by the bedside, very much altered in look and bearing, with a bundle on
her lap. She faced me quietly; she spoke with a curious stillness in her
voice--strangely and unnaturally composed in look and manner.
"No man has ever struck me yet," she said. "My husband shall have no
second opportunity. Set the door open, and let me go."
She passed me, and left the room. I saw her walk away up the street. Was
she gone for good?
All that night I watched and waited. No footstep came near the house. The
next night, overcome with fatigue, I lay down on the bed in my clothes,
with the door locked, the key on the table, and the candle burning. My
slumber was not disturbed. The third night, the fourth, the fifth, the
sixth, passed, and nothing happened. I lay down on the seventh night,
still suspicious of something happening; still in my clothes; still with
the door locked, the key on the table, and the candle burning.
My rest was disturbed. I awoke twice, without any sensation of uneasiness.
The third time, that horrid shivering of the night at the lonely inn, that
awful sinking pain at the heart, came back again, and roused me in an
instant. My eyes turned to the left-hand side of the bed. And there stood,
looking at me--
The Dream Woman again? No! My wife. The living woman, with the face of the
Dream--in the attitude of the Dream--the fair arm up; the knife clasped in
the delicate white hand.
I sprang upon her on the instant; but not quickly enough to stop her from
hiding the knife. Without a word from me, without a cry from her, I
pinioned her in a chair. With one hand I felt up her sleeve; and there,
where the Dream Woman had hidden the knife, my wife had hidden it--the
knife with the buckhorn handle, that looked like new.
What I felt when I made that discovery I could not realize at the time,
and I can't describe now. I took one steady look at her with the knife in
my hand. "You meant to kill me?" I said.
"Yes," she answered; "I meant to kill you." She crossed her arms over her
bosom, and stared me coolly in the face. "I shall do it yet," she said.
"With that knife."
I don't know what possessed me--I swear to you I am no coward; and yet I
acted like a coward. The horrors got hold of me. I couldn't look at her--I
couldn't speak to her. I left her (with the knife in my hand), and went
out into the night.
There was a bleak wind abroad, and the smell of rain was in the air. The
church clocks chimed the quarter as I walked beyond the last house in the
town. I asked the first policeman I met what hour that was, of which the
quarter past had just struck.
The man looked at his watch, and answered, "Two o'clock." Two in the
morning. What day of the month was this day that had just begun? I
reckoned it up from the date of my mother's funeral. The horrid parallel
between the dream and the reality was complete--it was my birthday!
Had I escaped, the mortal peril which the dream foretold? or had I only
received a second warning? As that doubt crossed my mind I stopped on my
way out of the town. The air had revived me--I felt in some degree like my
own self again. After a little thinking, I began to see plainly the
mistake I had made in leaving my wife free to go where she liked and to do
as she pleased.
I turned instantly, and made my way back to the house. It was still dark.
I had left the candle burning in the bedchamber. When I looked up to the
window of the room now, there was no light in it. I advanced to the house
door. On going away, I remembered to have closed it; on trying it now, I
found it open.
I waited outside, never losing sight of the house till daylight. Then I
ventured indoors--listened, and heard nothing--looked into the kitchen,
scullery, parlor, and found nothing--went up at last into the bedroom. It
was empty.
A picklock lay on the floor, which told me how she had gained entrance in
the night. And that was the one trace I could find of the Dream Woman.