The Hostler's Story Told By Himself


It is now ten years ago since I got my first warning of the great trouble

of my life in the Vision of a Dream.

I shall be better able to tell you about it if you will please suppose

yourselves to be drinking tea along with us in our little cottage in

Cambridgeshire, ten years since.

The time was the close of day, and there were three of us at the table,

y mother, myself, and my mother's sister, Mrs. Chance. These two

were Scotchwomen by birth, and both were widows. There was no other

resemblance between them that I can call to mind. My mother had lived all

her life in England, and had no more of the Scotch brogue on her tongue

than I have. My aunt Chance had never been out of Scotland until she came

to keep house with my mother after her husband's death. And when she

opened her lips you heard broad Scotch, I can tell you, if you ever heard

it yet!

As it fell out, there was a matter of some consequence in debate among us

that evening. It was this: whether I should do well or not to take a long

journey on foot the next morning.

Now the next morning happened to be the day before my birthday; and the

purpose of the journey was to offer myself for a situation as groom at a

great house in the neighboring county to ours. The place was reported as

likely to fall vacant in about three weeks' time. I was as well fitted to

fill it as any other man. In the prosperous days of our family, my father

had been manager of a training stable, and he had kept me employed among

the horses from my boyhood upward. Please to excuse my troubling you with

these small matters. They all fit into my story farther on, as you will

soon find out. My poor mother was dead against my leaving home on the


"You can never walk all the way there and all the way back again by

to-morrow night," she says. "The end of it will be that you will sleep

away from home on your birthday. You have never done that yet, Francis,

since your father's death, I don't like your doing it now. Wait a day

longer, my son--only one day."

For my own part, I was weary of being idle, and I couldn't abide the

notion of delay. Even one day might make all the difference. Some other

man might take time by the forelock, and get the place.

"Consider how long I have been out of work," I says, "and don't ask me to

put off the journey. I won't fail you, mother. I'll get back by to-morrow

night, if I have to pay my last sixpence for a lift in a cart.

My mother shook her head. "I don't like it, Francis--I don't like it!"

There was no moving her from that view. We argued and argued, until we

were both at a deadlock. It ended in our agreeing to refer the difference

between us to my mother's sister, Mrs. Chance.

While we were trying hard to convince each other, my aunt Chance sat as

dumb as a fish, stirring her tea and thinking her own thoughts. When we

made our appeal to her, she seemed as it were to wake up. "Ye baith refer

it to my puir judgment?" she says, in her broad Scotch. We both answered

Yes. Upon that my aunt Chance first cleared the tea-table, and then pulled

out from the pocket of her gown a pack of cards.

Don't run away, if you please, with the notion that this was done lightly,

with a view to amuse my mother and me. My aunt Chance seriously believed

that she could look into the future by telling fortunes on the cards. She

did nothing herself without first consulting the cards. She could give no

more serious proof of her interest in my welfare than the proof which she

was offering now. I don't say it profanely; I only mention the fact--the

cards had, in some incomprehensible way, got themselves jumbled up

together with her religious convictions. You meet with people nowadays who

believe in spirits working by way of tables and chairs. On the same

principle (if there is any principle in it) my aunt Chance believed in

Providence working by way of the cards.

"Whether you are right, Francie, or your mither--whether ye will do weel

or ill, the morrow, to go or stay--the cairds will tell it. We are a' in

the hands of Proavidence. The cairds will tell it."

Hearing this, my mother turned her head aside, with something of a sour

look in her face. Her sister's notions about the cards were little better

than flat blasphemy to her mind. But she kept her opinion to herself. My

aunt Chance, to own the truth, had inherited, through her late husband, a

pension of thirty pounds a year. This was an important contribution to our

housekeeping, and we poor relations were bound to treat her with a certain

respect. As for myself, if my poor father never did anything else for me

before he fell into difficulties, he gave me a good education, and raised

me (thank God) above superstitions of all sorts. However, a very little

amused me in those days; and I waited to have my fortune told, as

patiently as if I believed in it too!

My aunt began her hocus pocus by throwing out all the cards in the pack

under seven. She shuffled the rest with her left hand for luck; and then

she gave them to me to cut. "Wi' yer left hand, Francie. Mind that! Pet

your trust in Proavidence--but dinna forget that your luck's in yer left

hand!" A long and roundabout shifting of the cards followed, reducing them

in number until there were just fifteen of them left, laid out neatly

before my aunt in a half circle. The card which happened to lie outermost,

at the right-hand end of the circle, was, according to rule in such cases,

the card chosen to represent Me. By way of being appropriate to my

situation as a poor groom out of employment, the card was--the King of


"I tak' up the King o' Diamants," says my aunt. "I count seven cairds fra'

richt to left; and I humbly ask a blessing on what follows." My aunt shut

her eyes as if she was saying grace before meat, and held up to me the

seventh card. I called the seventh card--the Queen of Spades. My aunt

opened her eyes again in a hurry, and cast a sly look my way. "The Queen

o' Spades means a dairk woman. Ye'll be thinking in secret, Francie, of a

dairk woman?"

When a man has been out of work for more than three months, his mind isn't

troubled much with thinking of women--light or dark. I was thinking of the

groom's place at the great house, and I tried to say so. My aunt Chance

wouldn't listen. She treated my interpretation with contempt. "Hoot-toot!

there's the caird in your hand! If ye're no thinking of her the day, ye'll

be thinking of her the morrow. Where's the harm of thinking of a dairk

woman! I was ance a dairk woman myself, before my hair was gray. Haud yer

peace, Francie, and watch the cairds."

I watched the cards as I was told. There were seven left on the table. My

aunt removed two from one end of the row and two from the other, and

desired me to call the two outermost of the three cards now left on the

table. I called the Ace of Clubs and the Ten of Diamonds. My aunt Chance

lifted her eyes to the ceiling with a look of devout gratitude which

sorely tried my mother's patience. The Ace of Clubs and the Ten of

Diamonds, taken together, signified--first, good news (evidently the news

of the groom's place); secondly, a journey that lay before me (pointing

plainly to my journey to-morrow!); thirdly and lastly, a sum of money

(probably the groom's wages!) waiting to find its way into my pockets.

Having told my fortune in these encouraging terms, my aunt declined to

carry the experiment any further. "Eh, lad! it's a clean tempting o'

Proavidence to ask mair o' the cairds than the cairds have tauld us noo.

Gae yer ways to-morrow to the great hoose. A dairk woman will meet ye at

the gate; and she'll have a hand in getting ye the groom's place, wi' a'

the gratifications and pairquisites appertaining to the same. And, mebbe,

when yer poaket's full o' money, ye'll no' be forgetting yer aunt Chance,

maintaining her ain unblemished widowhood--wi' Proavidence assisting--on

thratty punds a year!"

I promised to remember my aunt Chance (who had the defect, by the way, of

being a terribly greedy person after money) on the next happy occasion

when my poor empty pockets were to be filled at last. This done, I looked

at my mother. She had agreed to take her sister for umpire between us, and

her sister had given it in my favor. She raised no more objections.

Silently, she got on her feet, and kissed me, and sighed bitterly--and so

left the room. My aunt Chance shook her head. "I doubt, Francie, yer puir

mither has but a heathen notion of the vairtue of the cairds!"

By daylight the next morning I set forth on my journey. I looked back at

the cottage as I opened the garden gate. At one window was my mother, with

her handkerchief to her eyes. At the other stood my aunt Chance, holding

up the Queen of Spades by way of encouraging me at starting. I waved my

hands to both of them in token of farewell, and stepped out briskly into

the road. It was then the last day of February. Be pleased to remember, in

connection with this, that the first of March was the day, and two o'clock

in the morning the hour of my birth.


Now you know how I came to leave home. The next thing to tell is, what

happened on the journey.

I reached the great house in reasonably good time considering the

distance. At the very first trial of it, the prophecy of the cards turned

out to be wrong. The person who met me at the lodge gate was not a dark

woman--in fact, not a woman at all--but a boy. He directed me on the way

to the servants' offices; and there again the cards were all wrong. I

encountered, not one woman, but three--and not one of the three was dark.

I have stated that I am not superstitious, and I have told the truth. But

I must own that I did feel a certain fluttering at the heart when I made

my bow to the steward, and told him what business had brought me to the

house. His answer completed the discomfiture of aunt Chance's

fortune-telling. My ill-luck still pursued me. That very morning another

man had applied for the groom's place, and had got it.

I swallowed my disappointment as well as I could, and thanked the steward,

and went to the inn in the village to get the rest and food which I sorely

needed by this time.

Before starting on my homeward walk I made some inquiries at the inn, and

ascertained that I might save a few miles, on my return, by following a

new road. Furnished with full instructions, several times repeated, as to

the various turnings I was to take, I set forth, and walked on till the

evening 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 I

found myself, to make matters worse, in a part of the country with which I

was entirely unacquainted, though I guessed myself to be some fifteen

miles from home. The first house I 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. I was grieved to

disappoint my mother. But there was no conveyance to be had, and I could

go no farther afoot that night. My weariness fairly forced me to stop at

the inn.

I may say for myself that I am a temperate man. My supper simply consisted

of some rashers of bacon, a slice of home-made bread, and a pint of ale. I

did not go to bed immediately after this moderate meal, but sat up with

the landlord, talking about my bad prospects and my long run of ill-luck,

and diverging from these topics to the subjects of horse-flesh and racing.

Nothing was said, either by myself, my host, or the few laborers who

strayed into the tap-room, which could, in the slightest degree, excite

my mind, or set my fancy--which is only a small fancy at the best of

times--playing tricks with my common sense.

At a little after eleven the house was closed. I went round with the

landlord, and held the candle while the doors and lower windows were being

secured. I noticed with surprise the strength of the bolts, bars, and

iron-sheathed shutters.

"You see, we are rather lonely here," said the landlord. "We never have

had any attempts 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 a place is more than I can understand

for one.--Here's where you're to sleep. You're the 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 we went upstairs to

the bedroom. The window looked out on the wood at the back of the house.

I locked my door, set my candle on the chest of drawers, and wearily got

me ready for bed. The bleak wind was still blowing, and the solemn,

surging moan of it in the wood was very dreary to hear through the night

silence. Feeling strangely wakeful, I resolved to keep the candle alight

until I began to grow sleepy. The truth is, I was not quite myself. I was

depressed in mind by my disappointment of the morning; and I was worn out

in body by my long walk. Between the two, I own I couldn't face the

prospect of lying awake in the darkness, listening to the dismal moan of

the wind in the wood.

Sleep stole on me before I was aware of it; my eyes closed, and I fell off

to rest, without having so much as thought of extinguishing the candle.

The next thing that I remember was a faint shivering that ran through me

from head to foot, and a dreadful sinking pain at my heart, such as I had

never felt before. The shivering only disturbed my slumbers--the pain woke

me instantly. In one moment I passed from a state of sleep to a state of

wakefulness--my eyes wide open--my mind clear on a sudden as if by a

miracle. The candle had burned down nearly to the last morsel of tallow,

but the unsnuffed wick had just fallen off, and the light was, for the

moment, fair and full.

Between the foot of the bed and the closet door, I saw a person in my

room. The person was a woman, standing looking at me, with a knife in her

hand. It does no credit to my courage to confess it--but the truth is

the truth. I was struck speechless with terror. There I lay with my eyes

on the woman; there the woman stood (with the knife in her hand) with

her eyes on me.

She said not a word as we stared each other in the face; but she moved

after a little--moved slowly toward the left-hand side of the bed.

The light fell full on her face. A fair, fine woman, with yellowish flaxen

hair, and light gray eyes, with a droop in the left eyelid. I noticed

these things and fixed them in my mind, before she was quite round at the

side of the bed. Without saying a word; without any change in the stony

stillness of her face; without any noise following her footfall, she came

closer and closer; stopped at the bed-head; and lifted the knife to stab

me. I laid my arm over my throat to save it; but, as I saw the blow

coming, I threw my hand across the bed to the right side, and jerked my

body over that way, just as the knife came down, like lightning, within a

hair's breadth of my shoulder.

My eyes fixed on her arm and her hand--she gave me time to look at them as

she slowly drew the 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

a pink flush round the finger nails.

She drew the knife out, and passed back again slowly to the foot of the

bed; she stopped there for a moment looking at me; then she came on

without saying a word; without any change in the stony stillness of her

face; without any noise following her footfall--came on to the side of the

bed where I now lay.

Getting near me, she lifted the knife again, and I drew myself away to the

left side. She struck, as before right into the mattress, with a swift

downward action of her arm; and she missed me, as before; by a hair's

breadth. This time my eyes wandered from her to the knife. It was like

the large clasp knives which laboring men use to cut their bread and bacon

with. Her delicate little fingers did not hide more than two thirds of the

handle; I noticed that it was made of buckhorn, clean and shining as the

blade was, and looking like new.

For the second time she drew the knife out of the bed, and suddenly hid it

away in the wide sleeve of her gown. That done, she stopped by the bedside

watching me. For an instant I saw her standing in that position--then the

wick of the spent candle fell over into the socket. The flame dwindled to

a little blue point, and the room grew dark.

A moment, or less, if possible, passed so--and then the wick flared up,

smokily, for the last time. My eyes were still looking for her over the

right-hand side of the bed when the last flash of light came. Look as I

might, I could see nothing. The woman with the knife was gone.

I began to get back to myself again. I could feel my heart beating; I

could hear the woeful moaning of the wind in the wood; I could leap up in

bed, and give the alarm before she escaped from the house. "Murder! Wake

up there! Murder!"

Nobody answered to the alarm. I rose and groped my way through the

darkness to the door of the room. By that way she must have got in. By

that way she must have gone out.

The door of the room was fast locked, exactly as I had left it on going to

bed! I looked at the window. Fast locked too!

Hearing a voice outside, I opened the door. There was the landlord, coming

toward me along the passage, with his burning candle in one hand, and his

gun in the other.

"What is it?" he says, looking at me in no very friendly way.

I could only answer in a whisper, "A woman, with a knife in her hand. In

my room. A fair, yellow-haired woman. She jabbed at me with the knife,

twice over."

He lifted his candle, and looked at me steadily from head to foot. "She

seems to have missed you--twice over."

"I dodged the knife as it came down. It struck the bed each time. Go in,

and see."

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 by a dream?"

A dream? The woman who had tried to stab me, not a living human being like

myself? I began to shake and shiver. The horrors got hold of me at the

bare thought of it.

"I'll leave the house," I said. "Better be out on the road in the rain and

dark, than back in that room, after what I've seen in it. Lend me the

light to get my clothes by, and tell me what I'm to pay."

The landlord led the way back with his light into the bedroom. "Pay?" says

he. "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

had 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


My eyes followed his hand as it pointed first to the bed--then to the

window--then to the door. There was no gainsaying it. The bed sheet was as

sound as on the day it was made. The window was fast. The door hung on its

hinges as steady as ever. I huddled my clothes on without speaking. We

went downstairs together. I looked at the clock in the bar-room. The time

was twenty minutes past two in the morning. I paid my bill, and the

landlord let me out. The rain had ceased; but the night was dark, and the

wind was bleaker than ever. Little did the darkness, or the cold, or the

doubt about the way home matter to me. My mind was away from all these

things. My mind was fixed on the vision in the bedroom. What had I seen

trying to murder me? The creature of a dream? Or that other creature from

the world beyond the grave, whom men call ghost? I could make nothing of

it as I walked along in the night; I had made nothing by it by

midday--when I stood at last, after many times missing my road, on the

doorstep of home.


My mother came out alone to welcome me back. There were no secrets between

us two. I told her all that had happened, just as I have told it to you.

She kept silence till I had done. And then she put a question to me.

"What time was it, Francis, when you saw the Woman in your Dream?"

I had looked at the clock when I left the inn, and I had noticed that the

hands pointed to twenty minutes past two. Allowing for the time consumed

in speaking to the landlord, and in getting on my clothes, I answered that

I must have first seen the Woman at two o'clock in the morning. In other

words, I had not only seen her on my birthday, but at the hour of my


My mother still kept silence. Lost in her own thoughts, she took me by the

hand, and led me into the parlor. Her writing-desk was on the table by

the fireplace. She opened it, and signed to me to take a chair by her


"My son! your memory is a bad one, and mine is fast failing me. Tell me

again what the Woman looked like. I want her to be as well known to both

of us, years hence, as she is now."

I obeyed; wondering what strange fancy might be working in her mind. I

spoke; and she wrote the words as they fell from my lips:

"Light gray eyes, with a droop in the left eyelid. Flaxen hair, with a

golden-yellow streak in it. White arms, with a down upon them. Little,

lady's hands, with a rosy-red look about the finger nails."

"Did you notice how she was dressed, Francis?"

"No, mother."

"Did you notice the knife?"

"Yes. A large clasp knife, with a buckhorn handle, as good as new."

My mother added the description of the knife. Also the year, month, day of

the week, and hour of the day when the Dream-Woman appeared to me at the

inn. That done, she locked up the paper in her desk.

"Not a word, Francis, to your aunt. Not a word to any living soul. Keep

your Dream a secret between you and me."

The weeks passed, and the months passed. My mother never returned to the

subject again. As for me, time, which wears out all things, wore out my

remembrance of the Dream. Little by little, the image of the Woman grew

dimmer and dimmer. Little by little, she faded out of my mind.


The story of the warning is now told. Judge for yourself if it was a true

warning or a false, when you hear what happened to me on my next birthday.

In the Summer time of the year, the Wheel of Fortune turned the right way

for me at last. I was smoking my pipe one day, near an old stone quarry at

the entrance to our village, when a carriage accident happened, which gave

a new turn, as it were, to my lot in life. It was an accident of the

commonest kind--not worth mentioning at any length. A lady driving

herself; a runaway horse; a cowardly man-servant in attendance, frightened

out of his wits; and the stone quarry too near to be agreeable--that is

what I saw, all in a few moments, between two whiffs of my pipe. I stopped

the horse at the edge of the quarry, and got myself a little hurt by the

shaft of the chaise. But that didn't matter. The lady declared I had saved

her life; and her husband, coming with her to our cottage the next day,

took me into his service then and there. The lady happened to be of a dark

complexion; and it may amuse you to hear that my aunt Chance instantly

pitched on that circumstance as a means of saving the credit of the cards.

Here was the promise of the Queen of Spades performed to the very letter,

by means of "a dark woman," just as my aunt had told me. "In the time to

come, Francis, beware o' pettin' yer ain blinded intairpretation on the

cairds. Ye're ower ready, I trow, to murmur under dispensation of

Proavidence that ye canna fathom--like the Eesraelites of auld. I'll say

nae mair to ye. Mebbe when the mony's powering into yer poakets, ye'll no

forget yer aunt Chance, left like a sparrow on the housetop, wi' a sma'

annuitee o' thratty punds a year."

I remained in my situation (at the West-end of London) until the Spring of

the New Year. About that time, my master's health failed. The doctors

ordered him away to foreign parts, and the establishment was broken up.

But the turn in my luck still held good. When I left my place, I left

it--thanks to the generosity of my kind master--with a yearly allowance

granted to me, in remembrance of the day when I had saved my mistress's

life. For the future, I could go back to service or not, as I pleased; my

little income was enough to support my mother and myself.

My master and mistress left England toward the end of February. Certain

matters of business to do for them detained me in London until the last

day of the month. I was only able to leave for our village by the evening

train, to keep my birthday with my mother as usual. It was bedtime when I

got to the cottage; and I was sorry to find that she was far from well. To

make matters worse, she had finished her bottle of medicine on the

previous day, and had omitted to get it replenished, as the doctor had

strictly directed. He dispensed his own medicines, and I offered to go and

knock him up. She refused to let me do this; and, after giving me my

supper, sent me away to my bed.

I fell asleep for a little, and woke again. My mother's bed-chamber was

next to mine. I heard my aunt Chance's heavy footsteps going to and fro in

the room, and, suspecting something wrong, knocked at the door. My

mother's pains had returned upon her; there was a serious necessity for

relieving her sufferings as speedily as possible, I put on my clothes, and

ran off, with the medicine bottle in my hand, to the other end of the

village, where the doctor lived. The church clock chimed the quarter to

two on my birthday just as I reached his house. One ring of the night bell

brought him to his bedroom window to speak to me. He told me to wait, and

he would let me in at the surgery door. I noticed, while I was waiting,

that the night was wonderfully fair and warm for the time of year. The old

stone quarry where the carriage accident had happened was within view. The

moon in the clear heavens lit it up almost as bright as day.

In a minute or two the doctor let me into the surgery. I closed the door,

noticing that he had left his room very lightly clad. He kindly pardoned

my mother's neglect of his directions, and set to work at once at

compounding the medicine. We were both intent on the bottle; he filling

it, and I holding the light--when we heard the surgery door suddenly

opened from the street.


Who could possibly be up and about in our quiet village at the second hour

of the morning?

The person who opened the door appeared within range of the light of the

candle. To complete our amazement, the person proved to be a woman! She

walked up to the counter, and standing side by side with me, lifted her

veil. At the moment when she showed her face, I heard the church clock

strike two. She was a stranger to me, and a stranger to the doctor. She

was also, beyond all comparison, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen

in my life.

"I saw the light under the door," she said. "I want some medicine."

She spoke quite composedly, as if there was nothing at all extraordinary

in her being out in the village at two in the morning, and following me

into the surgery to ask for medicine! The doctor stared at her as if he

suspected his own eyes of deceiving him. "Who are you?" he asked. "How do

you come to be wandering about at this time in the morning?"

She paid no heed to his questions. She only told him coolly what she

wanted. "I have got a bad toothache. I want a bottle of laudanum."

The doctor recovered himself when she asked for the laudanum. He was on

his own ground, you know, when it came to a matter of laudanum; and he

spoke to her smartly enough this time.

"Oh, you have got the toothache, have you? Let me look at the tooth."

She shook her head, and laid a two-shilling piece on the counter. "I won't

trouble you to look at the tooth," she said. "There is the money. Let me

have the laudanum, if you please."

The doctor put the two-shilling piece back again in her hand. "I don't

sell laudanum to strangers," he answered. "If you are in any distress of

body or mind, that is another matter. I shall be glad to help you."

She put the money back in her pocket. "You can't help me," she said, as

quietly as ever. "Good morning."

With that, she opened the surgery door to go out again into the street. So

far, I had not spoken a word on my side. I had stood with the candle in my

hand (not knowing I was holding it)--with my eyes fixed on her, with my

mind fixed on her like a man bewitched. Her looks betrayed, even more

plainly than her words, her resolution, in one way or another, to destroy

herself. When she opened the door, in my alarm at what might happen I

found the use of my tongue.

"Stop!" I cried out. "Wait for me. I want to speak to you before you go

away." She lifted her eyes with a look of careless surprise and a mocking

smile on her lips.

"What can you have to say to me?" She stopped, and laughed to herself.

"Why not?" she said. "I have got nothing to do, and nowhere to go." She

turned back a step, and nodded to me. "You're a strange man--I think I'll

humor you--I'll wait outside." The door of the surgery closed on her. She

was gone.

I am ashamed to own what happened next. The only excuse for me is that I

was really and truly a man bewitched. I turned me round to follow her out,

without once thinking of my mother. The doctor stopped me.

"Don't forget the medicine," he said. "And if you will take my advice,

don't trouble yourself about that woman. Rouse up the constable. It's his

business to look after her--not yours."

I held out my hand for the medicine in silence: I was afraid I should fail

in respect if I trusted myself to answer him. He must have seen, as I saw,

that she wanted the laudanum to poison herself. He had, to my mind, taken

a very heartless view of the matter. I just thanked him when he gave me

the medicine--and went out.

She was waiting for me as she had promised; walking slowly to and fro--a

tall, graceful, solitary figure in the bright moonbeams. They shed over

her fair complexion, her bright golden hair, her large gray eyes, just the

light that suited them best. She looked hardly mortal when she first

turned to speak to me.

"Well?" she said. "And what do you want?"

In spite of my pride, or my shyness, or my better sense--whichever it

might me--all my heart went out to her in a moment. I caught hold of her

by the hands, and owned what was in my thoughts, as freely as if I had

known her for half a lifetime.

"You mean to destroy yourself," I said. "And I mean to prevent you from

doing it. If I follow you about all night, I'll prevent you from doing


She laughed. "You saw yourself that he wouldn't sell me the laudanum. Do

you really care whether I live or die?" She squeezed my hands gently as

she put the question: her eyes searched mine with a languid, lingering

look in them that ran through me like fire. My voice died away on my lips;

I couldn't answer her.

She understood, without my answering. "You have given me a fancy for

living, by speaking kindly to me," she said. "Kindness has a wonderful

effect on women, and dogs, and other domestic animals. It is only men who

are superior to kindness. Make your mind easy--I promise to take as much

care of myself as if I was the happiest woman living! Don't let me keep

you here, out of your bed. Which way are you going?"

Miserable wretch that I was, I had forgotten my mother--with the medicine

in my hand! "I am going home," I said. "Where are you staying? At the


She laughed her bitter laugh, and pointed to the stone quarry. "There is

my inn for to-night," she said. "When I got tired of walking about, I

rested there."

We walked on together, on my way home. I took the liberty of asking her if

she had any friends.

"I thought I had one friend left," she said, "or you would never have met

me in this place. It turns out I was wrong. My friend's door was closed in

my face some hours since; my friend's servants threatened me with the

police. I had nowhere else to go, after trying my luck in your

neighborhood; and nothing left but my two-shilling piece and these rags on

my back. What respectable innkeeper would take me into his house? I

walked about, wondering how I could find my way out of the world without

disfiguring myself, and without suffering much pain. You have no river in

these parts. I didn't see my way out of the world, till I heard you

ringing at the doctor's house. I got a glimpse at the bottles in the

surgery, when he let you in, and I thought of the laudanum directly. What

were you doing there? Who is that medicine for? Your wife?"

"I am not married!"

She laughed again. "Not married! If I was a little better dressed there

might be a chance for ME. Where do you live? Here?"

We had arrived, by this time, at my mother's door. She held out her hand

to say good-by. Houseless and homeless as she was, she never asked me to

give her a shelter for the night. It was my proposal that she should rest,

under my roof, unknown to my mother and my aunt. Our kitchen was built out

at the back of the cottage: she might remain there unseen and unheard

until the household was astir in the morning. I led her into the kitchen,

and set a chair for her by the dying embers of the fire. I dare say I was

to blame--shamefully to blame, if you like. I only wonder what you would

have done in my place. On your word of honor as a man, would you have

let that beautiful creature wander back to the shelter of the stone quarry

like a stray dog? God help the woman who is foolish enough to trust and

love you, if you would have done that!

I left her by the fire, and went to my mother's room.


If you have ever felt the heartache, you will know what I suffered in

secret when my mother took my hand, and said, "I am sorry, Francis, that

your night's rest has been disturbed through me." I gave her the

medicine; and I waited by her till the pains abated. My aunt Chance went

back to her bed; and my mother and I were left alone. I noticed that her

writing-desk, moved from its customary place, was on the bed by her side.

She saw me looking at it. "This is your birthday, Francis," she said.

"Have you anything to tell me?" I had so completely forgotten my Dream,

that I had no notion of what was passing in her mind when she said those

words. For a moment there was a guilty fear in me that she suspected

something. I turned away my face, and said, "No, mother; I have nothing to

tell." She signed to me to stoop down over the pillow and kiss her. "God

bless you, my love!" she said; "and many happy returns of the day." She

patted my hand, and closed her weary eyes, and, little by little, fell off

peaceably into sleep.

I stole downstairs again. I think the good influence of my mother must

have followed me down. At any rate, this is true: I stopped with my hand

on the closed kitchen door, and said to myself: "Suppose I leave the

house, and leave the village, without seeing her or speaking to her more?"

Should I really have fled from temptation in this way, if I had been left

to myself to decide? Who can tell? As things were, I was not left to

decide. While my doubt was in my mind, she heard me, and opened the

kitchen door. My eyes and her eyes met. That ended it.

We were together, unsuspected and undisturbed, for the next two hours.

Time enough for her to reveal the secret of her wasted life. Time enough

for her to take possession of me as her own, to do with me as she liked.

It is needless to dwell here on the misfortunes which had brought her

low; they are misfortunes too common to interest anybody.

Her name was Alicia Warlock. She had been born and bred a lady. She had

lost her station, her character, and her friends. Virtue shuddered at the

sight of her; and Vice had got her for the rest of her days. Shocking and

common, as I told you. It made no difference to me. I have said it

already--I say it again--I was a man bewitched. Is there anything so very

wonderful in that? Just remember who I was. Among the honest women in my

own station in life, where could I have found the like of her? Could

they walk as she walked? and look as she looked? When they gave me a

kiss, did their lips linger over it as hers did? Had they her skin, her

laugh, her foot, her hand, her touch? She never had a speck of dirt on

her: I tell you her flesh was a perfume. When she embraced me, her arms

folded round me like the wings of angels; and her smile covered me softly

with its light like the sun in heaven. I leave you to laugh at me, or to

cry over me, just as your temper may incline. I am not trying to excuse

myself--I am trying to explain. You are gentle-folks; what dazzled and

maddened me, is everyday experience to you. Fallen or not, angel or

devil, it came to this--she was a lady; and I was a groom.

Before the house was astir, I got her away (by the workmen's train) to a

large manufacturing town in our parts.

Here--with my savings in money to help her--she could get her outfit of

decent clothes and her lodging among strangers who asked no questions so

long as they were paid. Here--now on one pretense and now on another--I

could visit her, and we could both plan together what our future lives

were to be. I need not tell you that I stood pledged to make her my wife.

A man in my station always marries a woman of her sort.

Do you wonder if I was happy at this time? I should have been perfectly

happy but for one little drawback. It was this: I was never quite at my

ease in the presence of my promised wife.

I don't mean that I was shy with her, or suspicious of her, or ashamed of

her. The uneasiness I am speaking of was caused by a faint doubt in my

mind whether I had not seen her somewhere, before the morning when we met

at the doctor's house. Over and over again, I found myself wondering

whether her face did not remind me of some other face--what other I

never could tell. This strange feeling, this one question that could never

be answered, vexed me to a degree that you would hardly credit. It came

between us at the strangest times--oftenest, however, at night, when the

candles were lit. You have known what it is to try and remember a

forgotten name--and to fail, search as you may, to find it in your mind.

That was my case. I failed to find my lost face, just as you failed to

find your lost name.

In three weeks we had talked matters over, and had arranged how I was to

make a clean breast of it at home. By Alicia's advice, I was to describe

her as having been one of my fellow servants during the time I was

employed under my kind master and mistress in London. There was no fear

now of my mother taking any harm from the shock of a great surprise. Her

health had improved during the three weeks' interval. On the first evening

when she was able to take her old place at tea time, I summoned my

courage, and told her I was going to be married. The poor soul flung her

arms round my neck, and burst out crying for joy. "Oh, Francis!" she says,

"I am so glad you will have somebody to comfort you and care for you when

I am gone!" As for my aunt Chance, you can anticipate what she did,

without being told. Ah, me! If there had really been any prophetic virtue

in the cards, what a terrible warning they might have given us that night!

It was arranged that I was to bring my promised wife to dinner at the

cottage on the next day.


I own I was proud of Alicia when I led her into our little parlor at the

appointed time. She had never, to my mind, looked so beautiful as she

looked that day. I never noticed any other woman's dress--I noticed hers

as carefully as if I had been a woman myself! She wore a black silk gown,

with plain collar and cuffs, and a modest lavender-colored bonnet, with

one white rose in it placed at the side. My mother, dressed in her Sunday

best, rose up, all in a flutter, to welcome her daughter-in-law that was

to be. She walked forward a few steps, half smiling, half in tears--she

looked Alicia full in the face--and suddenly stood still. Her cheeks

turned white in an instant; her eyes stared in horror; her hands dropped

helplessly at her sides. She staggered back, and fell into the arms of my

aunt, standing behind her. It was no swoon--she kept her senses. Her eyes

turned slowly from Alicia to me. "Francis," she said, "does that woman's

face remind you of nothing?".

Before I could answer, she pointed to her writing-desk on the table at the

fireside. "Bring it!" she cried, "bring it!".

At the same moment I felt Alicia's hand on my shoulder, and saw Alicia's

face red with anger--and no wonder!

"What does this mean?" she asked. "Does your mother want to insult me?".

I said a few words to quiet her; what they were I don't remember--I was so

confused and astonished at the time. Before I had done, I heard my mother

behind me.

My aunt had fetched her desk. She had opened it; she had taken a paper

from it. Step by step, helping herself along by the wall, she came nearer

and nearer, with the paper in her hand. She looked at the paper--she

looked in Alicia's face--she lifted the long, loose sleeve of her gown,

and examined her hand and arm. I saw fear suddenly take the place of anger

in Alicia's eyes. She shook herself free of my mother's grasp. "Mad!" she

said to herself, "and Francis never told me!" With those words she ran out

of the room.

I was hastening out after her, when my mother signed to me to stop. She

read the words written on the paper. While they fell slowly, one by one,

from her lips, she pointed toward the open door.

"Light gray eyes, with 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 rosy-red look about the finger nails. The Dream Woman,

Francis! The Dream Woman!"

Something darkened the parlor window as those words were spoken. I looked

sidelong at the shadow. Alicia Warlock had come back! She was peering in

at us over the low window blind. There was the fatal face which had first

looked at me in the bedroom of the lonely inn. There, resting on the

window blind, was the lovely little hand which had held the murderous

knife. I had seen her before we met in the village. The Dream Woman! The

Dream Woman!


I expect nobody to approve of what I have next to tell of myself. In three

weeks from the day when my mother had identified her with the Woman of the

Dream, I took Alicia Warlock to church, and made her my wife. I was a man

bewitched. Again and again I say it--I was a man bewitched!

During the interval before my marriage, our little household at the

cottage was broken up. My mother and my aunt quarreled. My mother,

believing in the Dream, entreated me to break off my engagement. My aunt,

believing in the cards, urged me to marry.

This difference of opinion produced a dispute between them, in the course

of which my aunt Chance--quite unconscious of having any superstitious

feelings of her own--actually set out the cards which prophesied

happiness to me in my married life, and asked my mother how anybody but "a

blinded heathen could be fule enough, after seeing those cairds, to

believe in a dream!" This was, naturally, too much for my mother's

patience; hard words followed on either side; Mrs. Chance returned in

dudgeon to her friends in Scotland. She left me a written statement of my

future prospects, as revealed by the cards, and with it an address at

which a post-office order would reach her. "The day was not that far off,"

she remarked, "when Francie might remember what he owed to his aunt

Chance, maintaining her ain unbleemished widowhood on thratty punds a


Having refused to give her sanction to my marriage, my mother also refused

to be present at the wedding, or to visit Alicia afterwards. There was no

anger at the bottom of this conduct on her part. Believing as she did in

this Dream, she was simply in mortal fear of my wife. I understood this,

and I made allowances for her. Not a cross word passed between us. My one

happy remembrance now--though I did disobey her in the matter of my

marriage--is this: I loved and respected my good mother to the last.

As for my wife, she expressed no regret at the estrangement between her

mother-in-law and herself. By common consent, we never spoke on that

subject. We settled in the manufacturing town which I have already

mentioned, and we kept a lodging-house. My kind master, at my request,

granted me a lump sum in place of my annuity. This put us into a good

house, decently furnished. For a while things went well enough. I may

describe myself at this time of my life as a happy man.

My misfortunes began with a return of the complaint with which my mother

had already suffered. The doctor confessed, when I asked him the question,

that there was danger to be dreaded this time. Naturally, after hearing

this, I was a good deal away at the cottage. Naturally also, I left the

business of looking after the house, in my absence, to my wife. Little by

little, I found her beginning to alter toward me. While my back was

turned, she formed acquaintances with people of the doubtful and

dissipated sort. One day, I observed something in her manner which forced

the suspicion on me that she had been drinking. Before the week was out,

my suspicion was a certainty. From keeping company with drunkards, she had

grown to be a drunkard herself.

I did all a man could do to reclaim her. Quite useless! She had never

really returned the love I felt for her: I had no influence; I could do

nothing. My mother, hearing of this last worse trouble, resolved to try

what her influence could do. Ill as she was, I found her one day dressed

to go out.

"I am not long for this world, Francis," she said. "I shall not feel easy

on my deathbed, unless I have done my best to the last to make you happy.

I mean to put my own fears and my own feelings out of the question, and go

with you to your wife, and try what I can do to reclaim her. Take me home

with you, Francis. Let me do all I can to help my son, before it is too


How could I disobey her? We took the railway to the town: it was only half

an hour's ride. By one o'clock in the afternoon we reached my house. It

was our dinner hour, and Alicia was in the kitchen. I was able to take my

mother quietly into the parlor and then to prepare my wife for the visit.

She had drunk but little at that early hour; and, luckily, the devil in

her was tamed for the time.

She followed me into the parlor, and the meeting passed off better than I

had ventured to forecast; with this one drawback, that my mother--though

she tried hard to control herself--shrank from looking my wife in the face

when she spoke to her. It was a relief to me when Alicia began to prepare

the table for dinner.

She laid the cloth, brought in the bread tray, and cut some slices for us

from the loaf. Then she returned to the kitchen. At that moment, while I

was still anxiously watching my mother, I was startled by seeing the same

ghastly change pass over her face which had altered it in the morning

when Alicia and she first met. Before I could say a word, she started up

with a look of horror.

"Take me back!--home, home again, Francis! Come with me, and never go back


I was afraid to ask for an explanation; I could only sign her to be

silent, and help her quickly to the door. As we passed the bread tray on

the table, she stopped and pointed to it.

"Did you see what your wife cut your bread with?" she asked.

"No, mother; I was not noticing. What was it?"


I did look. A new clasp knife, with a buckhorn handle, lay with the loaf

in the bread tray. I stretched out my hand to possess myself of it. At the

same moment, there was a noise in the kitchen, and my mother caught me by

the arm.

"The knife of the Dream! Francis, I'm faint with fear--take me away before

she comes back!"

I couldn't speak to comfort or even to answer her. Superior as I was to

superstition, the discovery of the knife staggered me. In silence, I

helped my mother out of the house; and took her home.

I held out my hand to say good-by. She tried to stop me.

"Don't go back, Francis! don't go back!".

"I must get the knife, mother. I must go back by the next train." I held

to that resolution. By the next train I went back.


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.


I waited in the house till the town was astir for the day, and then I went

to consult a lawyer. In the confused state of my mind at the time, I had

one clear notion of what I meant to do: I was determined to sell my house

and leave the neighborhood. There were obstacles in the way which I had

not counted on. I was told I had creditors to satisfy before I could

leave--I, who had given my wife the money to pay my bills regularly every

week! Inquiry showed that she had embezzled every farthing of the money I

had intrusted to her. I had no choice but to pay over again.

Placed in this awkward position, my first duty was to set things right,

with the help of my lawyer. During my forced sojourn in the town I did two

foolish things. And, as a consequence that followed, I heard once more,

and heard for the last time, of my wife.

In the first place, having got possession of the knife, I was rash enough

to keep it in my pocket. In the second place, having something of

importance to say to my lawyer, at a late hour of the evening, I went to

his house after dark--alone and on foot. I got there safely enough.

Returning, I was seized on from behind by two men, dragged down a passage

and robbed--not only of the little money I had about me, but also of the

knife. It was the lawyer's opinion (as it was mine) that the thieves were

among the disreputable acquaintances formed by my wife, and that they had

attacked me at her instigation. To confirm this view I received a letter

the next day, without date or address, written in Alicia's hand. The first

line informed me that the knife was back again in her possession. The

second line reminded me of the day when I struck her. The third line

warned me that she would wash out the stain of that blow in my blood, and

repeated the words, "I shall do it with the knife!"

These things happened a year ago. The law laid hands on the men who had

robbed me; but from that time to this, the law has failed completely to

find a trace of my wife.

My story is told. When I had paid the creditors and paid the legal

expenses, I had barely five pounds left out of the sale of my house; and I

had the world to begin over again. Some months since--drifting here and

there--I found my way to Underbridge. The landlord of the inn had known

something of my father's family in times past. He gave me (all he had to

give) my food, and shelter in the yard. Except on market days, there is

nothing to do. In the coming winter the inn is to be shut up, and I shall

have to shift for myself. My old master would help me if I applied to

him--but I don't like to apply: he has done more for me already than I

deserve. Besides, in another year who knows but my troubles may all be at

an end? Next winter will bring me nigh to my next birthday, and my next

birthday may be the day of my death. Yes! it's true I sat up all last

night; and I heard two in the morning strike: and nothing happened. Still,

allowing for that, the time to come is a time I don't trust. My wife has

got the knife--my wife is looking for me. I am above superstition, mind! I

don't say I believe in dreams; I only say, Alicia Warlock is looking for

me. It is possible I may be wrong. It is possible I may be right. Who can