As that ominous doubt forced itself on his mind, he stopped, reflected, and turned back again toward the city.He was still resolute to hold 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 b efore him; but a new distrust of her--a vague, unspeakable, superstitious dread 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 inquiries led to nothing.
The picklock on the bedroom floor remained the one last useless trace of the Dream-Woman.
At this point of the narrative 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 remains 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, withered 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?"
