 Section 16 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Marianne. Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2 by Julian Hawthorne Editor, Section 16. The Pavilion on the Links by Robert Louis Stevenson. Part 3 7. The recollection of that afternoon will always be graven on my mind. Northmore and I were persuaded that an attack was imminent, and if it had been in our power to alter in any way the order of events, that power would have been used to precipitate rather than delay the critical moment. The worst was to be anticipated, yet we could conceive no extremity so miserable as the suspense we were now suffering. I have never been an eager, though always a great, reader, but I never knew books so insipid as those which I took up and cast aside that afternoon in the Pavilion. Even talk became impossible as the hours went on. One or other was always listening for some sound, or peering from an upstairs window over the links, and yet not a sign indicated the presence of our foes. We debated over and over again my proposal with regard to the money, and had we been in complete possession of our faculties, I am sure we should have condemned it as unwise. But we were flustered with alarm, grasped at a straw, and determined, although it was as much as advertising Mr. Huddleston's presence in the Pavilion, to carry my proposal into effect. The sum was part in specie, part in bank paper, and part in circular notes payable to the name of James Gregory. We took it out, counted it, enclosed it once more in a dispatch box belonging to Northmore, and prepared a letter in Italian which he tied to the handle. It was signed by both of us under oath, and declared that this was all the money which had escaped the failure of the House of Huddleston. This was, perhaps, the maddest action ever perpetrated by two persons professing to be sane. Had the dispatch box fallen into other hands than those for which it was intended, we stood criminally convicted on our own written testimony. But, as I have said, we were neither of us in a condition to judge soberly, and had a thirst for action that drove us to do something, right or wrong, rather than endure the agony of waiting. Moreover, as we were both convinced that the hollows of the links were alive with hidden spies upon our movements, we hoped that our appearance with the box might lead to a parlay, and, perhaps, a compromise. It was nearly three when we issued from the pavilion. The rain had taken off, the sun shone quite cheerfully. I had never seen the gulls fly so close about the house, or approach so fearlessly to human beings. On the very doorstep one flapped heavily past our heads, and uttered its wild cry in my very ear. There is an omen for you, said Northmore, who, like all free thinkers, was much under the influence of superstition. They think we are already dead. I made some light rejoinder, but it was with half my heart, for the circumstance had impressed me. A yard or two before the gate, on a patch of smooth turf, we set down the dispatch box, and Northmore waved a white handkerchief over his head. Nothing replied. We raised our voices and cried aloud in Italian that we were there as ambassadors to arrange the quarrel, but the stillness remained unbroken, saved by the seagulls and the surf. I had a weight at my heart when we desisted, and I saw that even Northmore was unusually pale. He looked over his shoulder nervously, as though he feared that someone had crept between him and the pavilion door. By God, he said in a whisper, this is too much for me. I replied in the same key. Suppose there should be none after all. Look there, he returned, nodding with his head, as though he had been afraid to point. I glanced in the direction indicated, and there, from the northern quarter of the sea-wood, beheld a thin column of smoke rising steadily against the now cloudless sky. Northmore, I said. We still continued to talk in whispers. It is not possible to endure this suspense. I prefer death fifty times over. Stay you here to watch the pavilion. I will go forward and make sure, if I have to walk right into their camp. He looked once again all around him with puckered eyes, and then nodded assentingly to my proposal. My heart beat like a sledgehammer as I set out walking rapidly in the direction of the smoke, and, though up to that moment I had felt chill and shivering, I was suddenly conscious of a glow of heat all over my body. The ground in this direction was very uneven. A hundred men might have lain hidden in as many square yards about my path. But I, who had not practiced the business in vain, chose such routes as cut at the very root of concealment and, by keeping along the most convenient ridges, commanded several hollows at a time. It was not long before I was rewarded for my caution. Coming suddenly on to a mound somewhat more elevated than the surrounding hummocks, I saw, not thirty yards away, a man bent almost double, and running as fast as his attitude permitted along the bottom of a gully. I had dislodged one of the spies from his ambush. As soon as I sighted him, I called loudly both in English and Italian, and he, seeing concealment was no longer possible, straightened himself out, leaped from the gully, and made off as straight as an arrow for the borders of the wood. It was none of my business to pursue. I had learned what I wanted, that we were beleaguered and watched in the pavilion. And I returned at once, and walked as nearly as possible in my old footsteps, to where Northmore awaited me beside the dispatch box. He was even paler than when I had left him, and his voice shook a little. Could you see what he was like? he asked. He kept his back turned, I replied. Let us get into the house, Frank. I don't think I'm a coward, but I can stand no more of this, he whispered. All was still and sunshiny about the pavilion, as we turned to re-enter it. Even the gulls had flown in a wider circuit, and were seen flickering along the beach and sandhills, and this loneliness terrified me more than a regiment under arms. It was not until the door was barricaded that I could draw a full inspiration, and relieve the weight that lay upon my bosom. Northmore and I exchanged a steady glance, and I suppose each made his own reflections on the white and startled aspect of the other. You were right, I said. All is over. Shake hands, old man, for the last time. Yes, replied he, I will shake hands, for as sure as I am here I bear no malice. But remember, if by some impossible accident we should give the slip to those black guards, I'll take the upper hand of you by fair or foul. Oh, said I, you weary me. He seemed hurt and walked away in silence to the foot of the stairs where he paused. You do not understand, said he. I am not a swindler, and I guard myself, that is all. I may weary you, or not, Mr. Casalus. I do not care a rush. I speak for my own satisfaction and not for your amusement. You have better go upstairs and court the girl. For my part, I stay here. And I stay with you, I returned. Do you think I would steal a march, even with your permission? Frank, he said smiling, it's a pity you are an ass, for you have the makings of a man. I think I must be fay today. You cannot irritate me, even when you try. Do you know, he continued softly, I think we are the two most miserable men in England, you and I. We have got on to thirty without wife or child, or so much as a shop to look after. Poor, pitiful, lost devils, both. And now we clash about a girl, as if there were not several millions in the United Kingdom. Ah, Frank, Frank, the one who loses his throw, be it you or me, he has my pity. It were better for him, how does the Bible say, that a millstone were hanged about his neck and he were cast into the depth of the sea. Let us take a drink, he concluded suddenly, but without any levity of tone. I was touched by his words and consented. He sat down on the table in the dining room and held up the glass of sherry to his eye. If you beat me, Frank, he said, I shall take to drink. What will you do if it goes the other way? God knows, I returned. Well, said he, well, he said, here's a toast in the meantime. ATALIA IRREDENTA The remainder of the day was passed in the same dreadful tedium and suspense. I laid the table for dinner, while Northmore and Clara prepared the meal together in the kitchen. I could hear their talk as I went to and fro, and was surprised to find it ran all the time upon myself. Northmore again bracketed us together and rallied Clara on a choice of husbands, but he continued to speak of me with some feeling and uttered nothing to my prejudice unless he included himself in the condemnation. This awakened a sense of gratitude in my heart which combined with the immediateness of our peril to fill my eyes with tears. After all, I thought, and perhaps the thought was laughably vain, we were here three very noble human beings to perish in defence of a thieving banker. Before we sat down to table, I looked forth from an upstairs window. The day was beginning to decline, the links were utterly deserted, the dispatch box still lay untouched where we had left it hours before. Mr. Huddlestone, in a long yellow dressing-gown, took one end of the table, Clara the other, while Northmore and I faced each other from the sides. The lamp was brightly trimmed, the wine was good, the viennes, although mostly cold, excellent of their sort. We seemed to have agreed tacitly, all reference to the impending catastrophe was carefully avoided, and considering our tragic circumstances we made a merrier party than could have been expected. From time to time it is true Northmore or I would rise from table and make a round of the defences, and on each of these occasions Mr. Huddlestone was recalled to a sense of his tragic predicament, glanced up with ghastly eyes, and bore for an instant on his countenance the stamp of terror. But he hastened to empty his glass, wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and joined again in the conversation. I was astonished at the wit and information he displayed. Mr. Huddlestone's was certainly no ordinary character. I had read and observed for himself, his gifts were sound, and though I could never have learned to love the man, I began to understand his success in business, and the great respect in which he had been held before his failure. He had, above all, the talent of society, and though I never heard him speak but on this one and most unfavorable occasion, I set him down among the most brilliant conversationalists I ever met. He was relating with great gusto, and seemingly no feeling of shame, the maneuvers of a scoundrel-y commission merchant, whom he had known and studied in his youth, and we were all listening with an odd mixture of mirth and embarrassment, when our little party was brought abruptly to an end in the most startling manner. A noise like that of a wet finger on a window-pane interrupted Mr. Huddlestone's tale, and in an instant we were all four as white as paper and sat tongue-tied and motionless round the table. A snail, I said at last, for I had heard that these animals made a noise somewhat similar in character. Snail be damned, said Northmore, hush. The same sound was repeated twice at regular intervals, and then a formidable voice shouted through the shutters the Italian word, traditore. Mr. Huddlestone threw his head in the air, his eyelids quivered. Next moment he fell insensible below the table. Northmore and I had each run to the armory and seized a gun. Claire was on her feet with her hand at her throat. We stood waiting, for we thought the hour of attack was certainly come, but second passed after second, and all but the surf remained silent in the neighborhood of the pavilion. Quick, said Northmore, upstairs with him before they come. Eight. Somehow or other by hook and crook and between the three of us we got Bernard Huddlestone bundled upstairs and laid on the bed in my uncle's room. During the whole process, which was rough enough, he gave no sign of consciousness and he remained, as we had thrown him, without changing the position of a finger. His daughter opened his shirt and began to wet his head and bosom, while Northmore and I ran to the window. The weather continued to clear. The moon, which was now about full, had risen and shed a very clear light upon the links. Yet, strain our eyes as we might, we could distinguish nothing moving. A few dark spots, more or less, on the uneven expanse were not to be identified. They might be crouching men, they might be shadows, it was impossible to be sure. Thank God, said Northmore, Aggie is not coming tonight. Aggie was the name of the old nurse. He had not thought of her until now, but that he should think of her, at all, was a trait that surprised me in the man. We were again reduced to waiting. Northmore bent to the fireplace and spread his hands before the red embers, as if he were cold. I followed him mechanically with my eyes, and in so doing turned my back upon the window. At that moment a very faint report was audible from without, and a ball shivered a pane of glass and buried itself in the shutter two inches from my head. I heard Clara scream, and though I whipped instantly out of range and into a corner, she was there, so to speak, before me, beseeching to know if I were hurt. I felt that I could stand to be shot at every day and all day long with such remarks of solicitude for a reward, and I continued to reassure her with the tenderest caresses and incomplete forgetfulness of our situation till the voice of Northmore recalled me to myself. An air-gun, he said, they wished to make no noise. I put Clara aside and looked at him. He was standing with his back to the fire and his hands clasped behind him, and I knew by the black look on his face that passion was boiling within. I had seen just a look before he attacked me that March night in the adjoining chamber, and though I could make every allowance for his anger, I confess I trembled for the consequences. He gazed straight before him, but he could see us with the tail of his eye, and his temper kept rising like a gale of wind. With regular battle awaiting us outside, this prospect of an internecine strife within the walls began to daunt me. Suddenly, as I was thus closely watching his expression and prepared against the worst, I saw a change, a flash, a look of relief upon his face. He took up the lamp which stood beside him on the table and turned to us with an air of some excitement. There is one point we must know, said he. Are they going to butcher the lot of us or only huddle stone? Did they take you for him or fire at you for your own boye? They took me for him for certain, I replied. I am near as tall and my head is fair. I am going to make sure return to Northmore, and he stepped up to the window holding the lamp above his head and stood there, quietly affronting death for half a minute. Clara sought to rush forward and pull him from the place of danger, but I had the pardonable selfishness to hold her back by force. Yes, said Northmore, turning coolly from the window, it is only huddle stone they want. Oh, Mr. Northmore, cried Clara, but found no more to add, the temerity she had just witnessed seeming beyond the reach of words. He, on his part, looked at me, cocking his head with a fire of triumph in his eyes, and I understood at once that he had thus hazarded his life merely to attract Clara's notice and depose me from my position as the hero of the hour. He snapped his fingers. The fire is only beginning, he said. When they warm up to their work they won't be so particular. A voice was now heard hailing us from the entrance. From the window we could see the figure of a man in the moonlight. His face uplifted to hours and a rag of something white on his extended arm, and as we looked right down upon him, though he was a good many yards distant on the links, we could see the moonlight glitter on his eyes. He opened his lips again and spoke for some minutes on end, in a key so loud that he might have been heard in every corner of the pavilion, and as far away as the borders of the wood. It was the same voice that had already shouted, trà di torre, through the shutters of the dining-room. This time it made a complete and clear statement. If the traitor oeddle stone were given up all others should be spared. If not, no one should escape to tell the tale. Well, huddle stone, what do you say to that? asked Northmore, turning to the bed. Up to that moment the banker had given no sign of life, and I, at least, had supposed him to be still lying in a faint. But he replied at once, and in such tones as I have never heard elsewhere, say from a delirious patient, a jurid and basatas not to desert him. It was the most hideous and abject performance that my imagination can conceive. Enough, cried Northmore, and then he threw open the window, leaned out into the night in a tone of exaltation, and with a total forgetfulness of what was due to the presence of a lady, poured out upon the ambassador a string of the most abominable railery, both in English and Italian, and bade him be gone where he had come from. I believe that nothing so delighted Northmore at that moment as the thought that we must all infallibly perish before the night was out. Meantime the Italian put his flag of truce into his pocket and disappeared at a leisurely pace among the sandhills. They make honorable war, said Northmore. They are all gentlemen and soldiers. For the credit of the thing, I wish we could change sides, you and I, Frank, and you too, Missy, my darling, and leave that being on the bed to someone else. Tut, don't look shocked. We are all going post to what they call eternity, and may as well be above board while there's time. As far as I am concerned, if I could first strangle Huddlestone and then get Clara in my arms, I could die with some pride and satisfaction. And as it is, by God, I'll have a kiss. Before I could do anything to interfere he had rudely embraced and repeatedly kissed the resisting girl. Next moment I had pulled him away with fury and flung him heavily against the wall. He laughed loud and long, and I feared his wits had given way under the strain, for even in the best of days he had been a sparing and quiet laugher. Now, Frank, said he when his mirth was somewhat appeased, it's your turn, here's my hand, good-bye, farewell. Then seeing me stand rigid and addicted and holding Clara to my side. Man, he broke out, are you angry? Did you think we were going to die with all the heirs and graces of society? I took a kiss, I'm glad I did it, and now you can take another, if you like, and square accounts. I turned from him with a feeling of contempt which I did not seek to disemble. As you please, said he, you've been a prig in life, a prig you'll die. And with that he sat down on a chair, a rifle over his knee, and amused himself with snapping the lock. But I could see that his evolution of light spirits, the only one I ever knew him to display, had already come to an end, and was succeeded by a sullen, scowling humor. All this time our assailants might have been entering the house, and we've been none the wiser. We had in truth almost forgotten the danger that so imminently overhung our days. But just then Mr. Huddlestone uttered a cry and leaped from the bed. I asked him what was wrong. Fire, he cried, they have set the house on fire. Northmore was on his feet in an instant, and he and I ran through the door of communication with the study. The room was illuminated by a red and angry light. Almost at the moment of our entrance a tower of flame arose in front of the window, and with a tingling report a pain fell inward on the carpet. They had set fire to the lean-to-outhouse where Northmore used to nurse his negatives. Hot work, said Northmore. Let us try in your old room. We ran thither in a breath, threw up the casement and looked forth. Along the whole back wall of the pavilion piles of fuel had been arranged and kindled, and it is probable they had been drenched with mineral oil, for in spite of the morning's rain they all burned bravely. The fire had taken a firm hold already on the out-house, which blazed higher and higher every moment. The back door was in the center of a red-hot bonfire. The eaves we could see as we looked upward were already smoldering for the roof overhung and was supported by considerable beams of wood. At the same time hot, pungent and choking volumes of smoke began to fill the house. There was not a human being to be seen to right or left. Ah, well, said Northmore, here's the end, thank God. And we returned to my uncle's room. Mr. Huddlestome was putting on his boots, still violently trembling, but with an air of determination such as I had not hitherto observed. Clara stood close by him, with her cloak in both hands, ready to throw about her shoulder and a strange look in her eyes, as if she were half-hopeful, half-doubtful of her father. Well, boys and girls, said Northmore, how about a sally? The oven is heating, it is not good to stay here and be baked, and, for my part, I want to come to my hands with them and be done. There's nothing else left, I replied. And both Clara and Mr. Huddlestome, though with a very indifferent intonation, added, nothing. As we went downstairs the heat was excessive and the roaring of the fire filled our ears, and we had scarce reached the passage before the stairs window fell in, a branch of flame shot brandishing through the aperture, and the interior of the pavilion became lighted up with that dreadful and fluctuating glare. At the same moment we heard the fall of something heavy and inelastic in the upper story. The whole pavilion, it was plain, had gone a light like a box of matches, and now not only flamed sky high to land and sea, but threatened with every moment to crumble and fall about our ears. Northmore and I cocked our revolvers. Mr. Huddlestome, who had already refused a firearm, put us behind him with a manner of command. Let Clara open the door, said he, so if they fire a volley she will be protected. And in the meantime stand behind me, I am the scapegoat, my sins have found me out. I heard him as I stood breathless by his shoulder with my pistol ready, pattering off prayers in a tremulous, rapid whisper. And, I confess, Horde as the thought may seem, I despised him for thinking of supplications in a moment so critical and thrilling. In the meantime Clara, who was dead white but still possessed her faculties, had displaced the barricade from the front door. Another moment and she had pulled it open. Firelight and moonlight illuminated the links with confused and changeful luster. And far away, against the sky, we could see a long trail of glowing smoke. Mr. Huddlestome, filled for the moment with a strength greater than his own, struck Northmore and myself a black-hander in the chest. And while we were thus for the moment incapacitated from action, lifting his arms above his head like one about to dive, he ran straight forward out of the pavilion. Here am I, he cried, Huddlestome, kill me and spare the others. His sudden appearance daunted, I suppose, our hidden enemies, for Northmore and I had time to recover, to seize Clara between us, one by each arm, and rush forth to his assistants ere anything further had taken place. But scarce had we passed the threshold when there came near a dozen reports and flashes from every direction among the hollows of the links. Mr. Huddlestome staggered, uttered a weird and freezing cry, threw up his arms over his head and fell backward on the turf. Tradetore, Tradetore, cried the invisible Avengers, and just then a part of the roof of the pavilion fell in, so rapid was the progress of the fire. A loud, vague and horrible noise accompanied the collapse and the vast volume of flame went soaring up to heaven. It must have been visible at that moment from twenty miles out at sea, from the shore at Great and Wester, and far inland from the peak of Greysteel, the most eastern summit of the Clotter Hills. Bernard Huddlestome, although God knows what were his obsequies, had a fine pyre at the moment of his death. Nine. I should have the greatest difficulty to tell you what followed next after this tragic circumstance. It is all to me, as I look back upon it, mixed, strenuous and ineffectual, like the struggles of a sleeper in a nightmare. Clara, I remember, uttered a broken sigh and would have fallen forward to the earth, had not Northmore and I supported her insensible body. I do not think we were attacked. I do not remember even to have seen an assailant, and I believe we deserted Mr. Huddlestome without a glance. I only remember running like a man in a panic, now carrying Clara all together in my own arms, now sharing her weight with Northmore, now scuffling confusedly for the possession of that dear burden. Why we should have made for my camp in the Hemlock Den, or how we reached it, our points lost forever to my recollection. The first moment at which I became definitely sure Clara had been suffered to fall against the outside of my little tent. Northmore and I were tumbling together on the ground, and he, with contained ferocity, was striking from my head with the butt of his revolver. He had already twice wounded me on the scalp, and it is to the consequent loss of blood that I am tempted to attribute the sudden clearness of my mind. I caught him by the wrist. Northmore, I remember saying, you can kill me afterwards. Let us first attend to Clara. He was at that moment uppermost. Scarcely had the words pass my lips when he had leaped to his feet and ran toward the tent. The next moment he was straining Clara to his heart and covering her unconscious hands and face with caresses. Shame, I cried. Shame to you, Northmore. And, giddy though I still was, I struck him repeatedly on the head and shoulders. He relinquished his grasp and faced me in the broken moonlight. I had you under, and I let you go, said he, and now you strike me, coward. You are the coward, I retorted. Did she wish your kisses while she was still sensible of what you wanted? Not she, and now she may be dying and you waste this precious time and abuse her helplessness. Stand aside and let me help her. He confronted me for a moment, white and menacing, then suddenly he stepped aside. Help her then, said he. I threw myself on my knees beside her and loosened as well as I was able, her dress and corset. But while I was less engaged, a grasp descended on my shoulder. Keep your hands off her, said Northmore fiercely. Do you think I have no blood in my veins? Northmore, I cried. If you will neither help her yourself nor let me do so, do you know that I shall have to kill you? That is better, he cried. Let her die also. Where's the harm? Step aside from that girl and stand up to fight. You will observe, I said, heiferizing, that I have not kissed her yet. I dare you to, he cried. I do not know what possessed me. It was one of the things I am most ashamed of in my life, though as my wife used to say, I knew that my kisses would always be welcome where she dead or living. Down I fell upon my knees, parted the hair from her forehead and, with the dearest respect, laid my lips for a moment on that cold brow. It was such a caress as a father might have given. It was such a one as was not unbecoming from a man soon to die to a woman already dead. And now, said I, I am at your service, Mr. Northmore. But I saw to my surprise that he had turned his back upon me. Do you hear, I asked. Yes, said he, I do. If you wish to fight, I am ready. If not, go on and save Clara. All is one to me. I did not wait to be twice bitten, but stooping again over Clara continued my efforts to revive her. She still lay white and lifeless. I began to fear that her sweet spirit had indeed fled beyond recall and horror and a sense of utter desolation seized upon my heart. I called her by name with the most endearing inflections. I chafed and beat her hands. Now I laid her head low, now supported it against my knee, but all seemed to be in vain and the lids still lay heavy on her eyes. Northmore, I said, there is my hat, for God's sake bring some water from the spring. Almost in a moment he was by my side with the water. I have brought it him my own, for God's sake charge me the privilege. Northmore, I was beginning to say as I laughed her head and breast, but he interrupted me savagely. Oh, you hush up, he said, the best thing you can do is to say nothing. I had certainly no desire to talk, my mind being swallowed up in concern for my dear love and her condition, so I continued in silence to do my best toward her recovery and when the hat was empty returned it to him with one word, he had perhaps gone several times upon his errand when Clara reopened her eyes. Now, said he, since she is better you can spare me, can you not? I wish you good night, Mr. Casalus, and with that he was gone among the thicket. I made a fire for I now had no fear of Italians who had even spared all the little possessions left in my encampment, and broken as she was by the excitement and the hideous catastrophe of the evening I managed, in one way or another, by persuasion, encouragement, warmth, and such simple remedies as I could lay my hand on to bring her back to some composure of mind and strength of body. Day had already come when a sharp psss sounded from the thicket. I started from the ground but the voice of Northmore was heard, adding, in the most tranquil tones, come here, Casalus, and alone I want to show you something. I consulted Clara with my eyes and, receiving her tacit permission, left her alone and clamored out of the den. At some distance off I saw Northmore leaning against an elder, and as soon as he perceived me he began walking seaward. I had almost overtaken him as he reached the outskirts of the wood. Look, he said, pausing. A couple of steps more brought me out of the foliage, the light of the morning lay cold and clear over that well-known scene. The pavilion was but a blackened wreck. The roof had fallen in, one of the gables had fallen out, and, far and near, the face of the links was cicatrised with little patches of burnt furs. Thick smoke still went straight upward in the windowless air of the morning, and a great pile of ardent cinders filled the bare walls of the house like coals in an open grate. Close by the islet a schooner yacht lay too and a well-manned boat was pulling vigorously for the shore. The red earl, I cried, the red earl twelve hours too late. Feeling your pocket frank, are you armed? asked Northmore. I obeyed him, and I think I must have become deadly pale. My revolver had been taken from me. You see, I have you in my power, he continued. I disarmed you last night while you were nursing Clara, but this morning, here, take your pistol. No thanks, he cried holding up his hand. I do not like them. That is the only way you can annoy me now. He began to walk forward across the links to meet the boat, and I followed a step or two behind. In front of the pavilion I paused to see where Mr. Huddlestone had fallen, but there was no sign of him, nor so much as a trace of blood. Great in flow, said Northmore. He continued to advance till we had come to the head of the beach. No farther, please, said he. Would you like to take her to Great in House? Thank you, replied I. I shall try to get her to the minister at Great in Wester. The prow of the boat here grated on the beach, and a sailor jumped ashore with a line in his hand. Wait a minute, lads, cried Northmore, and then lower and to my private ear. You have better say nothing of all this to her, he added. On the contrary, I broke out, she shall know everything that I can tell. You do not understand, he returned with an air of great dignity. It will be nothing to her, she expects it of me. Goodbye, he added with a nod. I offered him my hand. Excuse me, said he. It's small, I know, but I can't push things quite so far as that. I don't wish any sentimental business to sit by your hearth with a white-haired wanderer and all that. Quite the contrary, I hope to God I shall never again clap eyes on either of you. Well, God bless you, Northmore, I said heartily. Oh, yes, he returned. He walked down the beach and the man who was ashore gave him an arm on board and then shoved off and leaped into the boughs himself. Northmore took the tiller and the boat rose to the waves and the oars between the theopins sounded crisp and measured in the morning air. They were not yet half way to the Red Earl and I was still watching their progress when the sun rose out of the sea. One more word and my story is done. Years after, Northmore was killed fighting under the colors of the Garibaldi for the liberation of the Tyrol. End of Part 3 and end of The Pavilion on the Links by Robert Lewis Stevenson. Section 17 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories. Volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Rashada Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories. Volume 2 by Julianne Hawthorne Editor. Section 17. The Dream Woman. Wilkie Collins Hello there, hustler! Hello! My dear, why don't you look for the bell? I have looked. I have looked for the bell. And nobody in the yard. How very extraordinary! Call again, dear! Hustler! Hello there! Hustler! My second call echoes through empty space and rouses nobody, produces, in short, no visible result. I am at the end of my resources. I don't know what to say or what to do next. Here I stand in the solitary in-yard of a strange town with two horses to hold care of. By way of adding to my responsibilities, it so happens that one of the horses is dead lame, and that lady is my wife. Who am I, you will ask? There is plenty of time to answer the question. Nothing happens and nobody appears to receive us. Let me introduce myself and my wife. I am Percy Fairbank, English gentleman, age, let us say 40. No profession, moderate politics, little height, fair complexion, easy character, plenty of money. My wife is a French lady. She was mademoiselle clotilde de l'orges, when I was first presented to her at her father's house in France. I fell in love with her. I really don't know why. It might have been because I was perfectly idle and had nothing else to do at the time. Or it might have been because all my friends said that she was the very last woman whom I ought to think of marrying. On the surface I must own. There is nothing in common between Mrs. Fairbank and me. She is tall. She is dark. She is nervous, excitable, romantic. In all her opinions she proceeds to extremes. What could such a woman see in me? What could I see in her? I know no more than you do. In some mysterious manner we exactly suit each other. We have been man and wife for ten years and our only regret is that we have no children. I don't know what you may think. I call that, upon the whole, a happy marriage. So much for ourselves. The next question is, what has brought us into the in-yard, and why am I obliged to turn groom and hold the horses? We live for the most part in France, at the country house in which my wife and I first met. Occasionally by way of variety we pay visits to my friends in England. We are paying one of those visits now. Our host is an old college friend of mine possessed of a fine estate in Somersetshire, and we have arrived at his house, called Farley Hall, toward the close of the hunting season. On the day of which I am now writing destined to be a memorable day in our calendar the hounds meet at Farley Hall. Mrs. Fairbank and I are mounted on two of the best horses in my friend's stables. We are quite unworthy of that distinction for we know nothing and care nothing on the other hand we delight in writing and we enjoy the breezy spring morning and the fair and fertile English landscape surrounding us on every side. While the hunt prospers we follow the hunt, but when a check occurs when time passes and patience is sorely tried when the bewildered dogs run hither and thither and strong language falls from the lips of the exasperated sportsman we fail to take any further interest in the proceedings. We turn our horses' heads in the direction of a grassy lane delightfully shaded by trees. We trot merrily along the lane and find ourselves on an open common. We gallop across the common and follow the windings of a second lane. We cross a brook, we pass through a village, we emerge into pastoral solitude among the hills. The horses toss their heads and neigh to each other and enjoy it as much as we do. The hunt is forgotten. We are as happy as a couple of children. We are actually singing a French song when in one moment our merriment comes to an end. My wife's horse sets one of his forefeet on a loose stone and stumbles. His rider's ready hand saves him from falling. But at the first attempt he makes to go on the sad truth shows itself. A tendon is strained, the horse is lame. What is to be done? We are strangers in a lonely part of the country. Look where we may, we see no signs of a human habitation. There is nothing for it but to take the bridal road up the hill and try what we can discover on the other side. I transfer the saddles and mount my wife on my own horse. He is not used to carry a lady. He misses the familiar pressure of a man's legs on either side of him. He fidgets and starts and kicks up the dust. I follow on foot, at a respectful distance from his heels, leading the lame horse. Is there a more miserable object on the face of creation than a lame horse? I have seen lame men and lame dogs who were cheerful creatures, and I never yet saw a lame horse who didn't look heartbroken over his own misfortune. For half an hour my wife capers and corvettes sideways along the bridal road. I trudge on behind her, and the heartbroken horse halts behind me. Hard by the top of the hill our melancholy procession passes a summer-set-shire peasant at work in a field. I summon the man to approach us, and the man looks at me stolidly from the middle of the field without stirring a step. I ask, at the top of my voice, how far it is to Farley Hall. The summer-set-shire peasant answers at the top of his voice, 14 mile! Gah, drop a cider? I translate from my wife's benefit from the summer-set-shire language into the English language. We are 14 miles from Farley Hall, and our friend in the field desires to be rewarded for giving us that information with a drop of cider. There is a peasant painted by himself, quite a bit of character, my dear, quite a bit of character. Mrs. Fairbank doesn't view the study of agricultural human nature with my relish. Her fidgety horse will not allow her a moment's repose. She is beginning to lose her temper. We can't go 14 miles in this way, she says. Where is the nearest inn? Ask that brute in the field. I take a shilling from my pocket and hold it up to the sun. The shilling exercises magnetic virtues. The shilling draws the peasant slowly toward me from the middle of the field. I inform him that we want to put up the horses and to hire a carriage to take us back to Farley Hall. Where can we do that? The peasant answers with his eye on the shilling. At Underbridge to be sure. At Underbridge to be sure. Is it far to Underbridge? The peasant repeats far to Underbridge and laughs at the question. Ho, ho, ho! The carriage is evidently close by if we could only find it. Will you show us the way, my man? Will you jeer drop a zyder? I courteously bend my head and point to the shilling. The agricultural intelligence exerts itself. The peasant joins our melancholy procession. My wife is a fine woman but he never once looks at my wife and more extraordinary still he never even looks at the horses. His eyes are with his mind and his mind is on the shilling. We reach the top of the hill and behold on the other side nestling in a valley, the shrine of our pilgrimage, the town of Underbridge. Here our guide claims his shilling and leaves us to find our inn for ourselves. I am constitutionally a polite man. I say good morning at parting. The guide looks at me with a shilling between his teeth to make sure that it is a good one. Mornin', he says savagely and turns his back on us as if we had offended him. A curious product this of the growth of civilization. If I didn't see a church spire at Underbridge, I might suppose that we had lost ourselves on a savage island. Two. Arriving at the town we had no difficulty in finding the inn. The town is composed of one desolate street and midway in that street stands the inn. An ancient stone building sadly out of repair. It is obliterated. The shutters over the long range of front windows are all closed. A cock and his hens are the only living creatures at the door. Plainly, this is one of the old inns of the stagecoach period, ruined by the railway. We pass through the open arched doorway and find no one to welcome us. We advance into the stable yard behind. I assist my wife to dismount and there we are in the position already disclosed to the view at the opening of this narrative. No bell to ring. No human creature to answer when I call. I stand helpless with the bridles of the horses in my hand. Mrs. Fairbank saunters gracefully down the length of the yard and does what all women do when they find themselves in a strange place. She opens every door as she passes it and peeps in. On my side I have just recovered my breath. I am on the point of shouting for the hostler for the third and last time when I hear Mrs. Fairbank suddenly call to me. Percy, come here! Her voice is eager and agitated. She has opened a last door at the end of the yard and has started back from some sight which has suddenly met her view. I hitch the horses bridles on a rusty nail in the wall near me and join my wife. She has turned pale and catches me nervously by the arm. Good heavens! she cries. Look at that! I look and what do I see? A dingy little stable containing two stalls. In one stall a horse is munching his corn. In the other a man is lying asleep on the litter. A worn, withered, woe-begone man in a hostler's dress. His hollow wrinkled cheeks, his scanty grizzled hair, his dry yellow skin tell their own tale of past sorrow or suffering. There is an ominous frown on his eyebrows. There is a painful, nervous contraction in his mouth. I hear him breathing convulsively when I first look in. He shudders in sighs and his sleep. It is not a pleasant sight to see and I turn round instinctively to the bright sunlight in the yard. My wife turns me back again in the direction of the stable door. Wait! she says. Wait! he may do it again. Do what again? He was talking in his sleep-percy when I first looked in. I look and listen. The man stirs on his miserable bed. The man speaks in a quick, fierce whisper through his clenched teeth. Wake up! Wake up there! Murder! There is an interval of silence. He moves one lean arm slowly until it rests over his throat. He shudders and turns on his straw. He raises his arm from his throat and feebly stretches it out. His hand clutches at the straw which he has turned. He seems to fancy that he is grasping at the edge of something. I see his lips begin to move again. I step softly unto the stable. My wife follows me with her hand fast clasped in mine. We both bend over him. He is talking once more in his sleep-strange talk-mad talk this time. Light grey eyes we hear him say and a droop in the left eyelid flaxen hair with a gold-yellow streak in it. All right, mother, fair white arms with a down on them, little lady's hand with a reddish look round the fingernails, the knife, the cursed knife, first on one side then on the other. Aha! You she-devil! Where is the knife? He stops and grows restless on a sudden. We see him writhing on the straw. He throws up both his hands and gasps hysterically for breath. His eyes open suddenly. For a moment they look at nothing with a vacant glitter in them. Then they close again in deeper sleep. Is he dreaming still? Yes, but the dream seems to have taken a new course. When he speaks next the tone is altered. The words are few. Sadly and imploringly repeated over and over again. Say you love me. I am so fond of you. Say you love me. Say you love me. He sinks into deeper and deeper sleep, faintly repeating those words. They die away on his lips. He speaks no more. By this time Mrs. Farabank has got over her terror. She is devoured by curiosity now. The miserable creature on the straw has appealed to the imaginative side of her character. Her illimitable appetite for romance hungers and thirst for more. She shakes me impatiently by the arm. Did you hear? There is a woman at the bottom of it, Percy. There is love and murder in it, Percy. Where are the people in the inn? Go into the yard and call to them again. My wife belongs on her mother's side to the south of France. The south of France breeds fine women with hot tempers. I say no more. Married men will understand my position. Single men may need to be told that there are occasions when we must not only love and honour, we must also obey our wives. I turn to the door to obey my wife and find myself confronted by a stranger who has stolen on us unawares. The stranger is a tiny, sleepy, rosy old man with a vacant pudding face and a shining bald head. He wears drab breeches and gaiters and a respectable square-tailed ancient black coat. I feel instinctively that here is the landlord of the inn. Good morning, sir, says the rosy old man. I'm a little hard of hearing. Was it you that was a calling just now in the yard? Before I can answer, my wife interposes. She insists in a shrill voice adapted to our host's hardness of hearing on knowing who that unfortunate person is sleeping on the straw. Where does he come from? Why does he say such dreadful things in his sleep? Is he married or single? Did he ever fall in love with a murderous? What sort of looking woman was she? Did she really stab him or not? In short, dear Mr. Landlord, tell us the whole story. Dear Mr. Landlord waits drowsily until Mrs. Fairbanks has quite done, then delivers himself on his reply as follows. His name is Francis Raven. He's an independent Methodist. He was 45 year old last birthday. And he's my hostler. That's a story. My wife's hot southern temper finds its way to her foot and expresses itself by a stamp on the stable yard. The landlord turns himself sleepily round and looks at the horses. Find pair of horses, them two in the yard. Do you want to put them in my stables? I reply in the affirmative by a nod. The landlord, bent on making himself agreeable to my wife, addresses her once more. I'm going to wake Francis Raven. He's an independent Methodist. He was 45 year old last birthday. And he's my hostler. That's his story. Having issued this second edition of his interesting narrative, the landlord enters the stable. We follow him to see how he will wake Francis Raven and what will happen upon that. The stable broom stands in a corner. The landlord takes it, advances toward the sleeping hostler, and coolly stirs the man up with a broom as if he was a wild beast in a cage. Francis Raven starts to his feet with a cry of terror, looks at us wildly with a horrid glare of suspicion in his eyes, recovers himself the next moment, and suddenly changes into a decent, quiet, respectful serving man. I beg your pardon, ma'am. I beg your pardon, sir. The tone and manner in which he makes his apologies are both above his apparent station in life. I begin to catch the infection of Mrs. Fairbank's interest in this man. We both follow him out into the yard to see what he will do with the horses. The manner in which he lifts the injured leg of the lame horse tells me at once that he understands his business. Quickly and quietly he leads the animal into an empty stable. Quickly and quietly he gets a bucket of hot water and puts the lame horse's leg into it. The warm water will reduce the swelling, sir. I will bandage the leg afterwards. All that he does is done intelligently. All that he says, he says to the purpose. Nothing wild, nothing strange about him now. Is this the same man who we heard talking in his sleep? The same man who woke with that cry of terror and that horrid suspicion in his eyes? I determine to try him with one or two questions. Three. Not much to do here, I say to the hustler. Very little to do, sir, the hustler replies. Anybody staying in the house? The house is quite empty, sir. I thought you were all dead. I could make nobody hear me. The landlord is very deaf, sir, and the waiter is out on an errand. Yes, and you were fast asleep in the stable. Do you often take a nap in the daytime? The worn face of the hustler faintly flushes. His eyes look away from my eyes for the first time. Mrs. Fairbank furtively pinches my arm. Are we on the eve of the discovery ? I repeat my question. The man has no civil alternative but to give me an answer. The answer is given in these words. I was tired out, sir. You wouldn't have found me asleep in the daytime, but for that. Tired out, eh? You had been hard at work, I suppose. No, sir. What was then? He hesitates again and answers unwillingly. I was up all night. Up all night? Anything going on in the town? Nothing going on, sir. Anybody ill? Nobody ill, sir. That reply is the last. Try as I may. I can extract nothing more from him. He turns away and busies himself in attending to the horse's leg. I leave the stable to speak to the landlord about the carriage, which is to take us back to Farley Hall. Mrs. Fairbank remains with the hustler and favors me with a look at parting. The look says plainly, I mean to find out why he was up all night. Leave me alone. The ordering of the carriage is easily accomplished. The inn possesses one horse and one sheath. The landlord has a story to tell about the horse and a story to tell about the sheath. They resemble the story of Francis Raven, with this exception, that the horse and sheaths belong to no religious persuasion. The horse will be nine-year-old next birthday. I've had the sheath for four and twenty year. Mr. Max of Underbridge, he bred the horse, and Mr. Pooley brought the sheath. It's my horse and my sheath, and that's their story. Having relieved his mind of these details, the landlord proceeds to put the harness on the horse. By way of assisting him, I drag the sheaths into the yard. Just as our preparations are completed, Mrs. Fairbank appears. A moment or two later, the hustler follows her out. He has bandaged the horse's leg and is now ready to drive us to Farley Hall. I observe signs of agitation in his face and manner, which suggests that his life has found her way into his confidence. I put the question to her privately in a corner of the yard. Well, have you found out why Francis Raven was up all night? Mrs. Fairbank has an eye to dramatic effect. Instead of answering plainly yes or no, she suspends the interest and excites the audience by putting a question on her side. What is the day of the month, dear? The day of the month is the first of March. The first of March, Percy, is Francis Raven's birthday. I try to look as if I was interested and don't succeed. Francis was born. Mrs. Fairbank proceeds gravely at two o'clock in the morning. I begin to wonder whether my wife's intellect is going the way of the landlord's intellect. Is that all? I ask. It is not all, Mrs. Fairbank answers. Francis Raven sits up on the morning of his birthday because he is afraid of going to bed. And why is he afraid of going to bed? Because he is in peril of his life on his birthday. On his birthday. At two o'clock in the morning. As regularly as the birthday comes round. There she stops. Has she discovered no more than that? No more thus far? I begin to feel really interested by this time. I ask eagerly what it means. Mrs. Fairbank points mysteriously to the Shades. With Francis Raven, hitherto for our hustler, now our coachman waiting for us to get in. The Shades has a seat for two in front and a seat for one behind. My wife casts a warning look at me and places herself on the seat in front. The necessary consequence of this arrangement is that Mrs. Fairbank sits by the side of the driver during a journey for two hours and more. Need I state the result? It would be an insult to your intelligence to state the result. Let me offer you my place in the Shades and let Francis Raven tell his terrible story in his own words. End of section 17. Section 18 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Leonard Wilson. Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 2. Julian Hawthorne Editor. Section 18, Part 2 of The Dream Woman by Wilkie Collins. The second narrative, The Hustler Story, told by himself. It is now 10 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 sitting tea along with us in our little cottage in Cambridge here, 10 years since. The time was the close of day, and there were three of us at the table, namely my mother, myself, and my mother's sister, Mrs. Chance. These two were Scotch women 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 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 neighbouring county two hours. The place was reported as likely to fall vacant at 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 father on as you will soon find out. My poor mother was dead against my leaving home on the morrow. You can never walk all the way there and all the way back again by tomorrow night she says. And 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 her 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 to find a place. Consider how long I've 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 tomorrow night if I have to pay my last six pence 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. You pay a thorough refer it to me poor enchantment 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 the 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 why aren't Chance believed in providence working by way of the cards? Whether you are right Francie or your mother whether you will do wheel or edel the morrow or go or stay the cards will tell it. We are all in the hands of providence the cards will tell it. Hearing this my mother turned to head aside with something of a sour look in her face. The sisters 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 30 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 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 kinds. 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. With your left hand Francine mind that trust in providence but do not forget that your looks in your left hand a long and roundabout shifting of the cards followed reducing them in number until there were just 15 of them left laid out neatly before my aunt in a half circle. The card which happened to lie outermost that 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 diamonds. I take up the king of diamonds says my aunt I count seven cards for a rechte 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 call 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 of spades means a dark woman you'd be thinking in secret Francine of a dark 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 hurt chute there's the card in your hand if you're not thinking of her the day you'll be thinking of her the morrow where's the harm of thinking of a dark woman I was answered dark woman myself before my hair was gray haud your peace Francine and watch the cards 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 by 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 tomorrow thirdly and lastly a sum of money probably the groom's waiters 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 tempt and a providence to ask marry the cards than the cards have called us new gayer a ways tomorrow to the great house a dark lady will meet you at the gate and she'll have a hand in getting you the groom's place we are the gratifications and perquisites appertaining to the same and maybe when your pockets full of money you'll know before getting your aunt chance maintaining her in unblemished widowhood with providence assisting on 30 pounds 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 dealt for and see a poor mother has but a heathen notion of the virtue of the cards 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 anchorchief to her eyes at the other stood my aunt chance holding up the queen of spades by wave 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 is to tell 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 large date 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 vow to the steward and told him what business had brought me to the house his answer completed the discomppture of Aunt Chance's fortune telling the ill luck still pursued me that very morning the man had applied for the groom's place and had got it I swaddled by 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 finished 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 the part of the country with which I was entirely unacquainted though I guessed myself to be some 15 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 foot sore and wet the landward was civil and respectable looking and the price he asked for a bed was reasonable enough I was grieved to his it disappoint my mother but there was no conveyance to be had and I could go no farther afoot that night my weirdness 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 homemade 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 pop 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 sheaths, shutters you see we are rather lonely here said the landlord we never 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 businesses another glass of oil before it's 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 is where you to sleep you are the only lodger tonight and I think you'll sigh my missus has done her best to make you comfortable you're quite sure you won't have another glass of oil very well, good night it was half past eleven by the clock and 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 doors and wearily got be 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 being 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 never felt before the shivering only disturbed my slumpers 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 look at it got 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 started 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 flux and hair and light grey eyes with a droop in the left high lid I noticed these things and fixed them in my mind before she was quite browned at the side of the bed without saying a word without any change in the stony stillness of her face with 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 on her hand she gave me time to look at them she 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 around the fingernails 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 used to cut the bread in bacon with her delicate little fingers did not hide more than two-thirds of the handle I noticed that it was made of buck horn clean and shining as the blade was and looking like new for the second time she drew the knife out of the bed and suddenly hit 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 gave the alarm before she escaped from the house mother wake up there mother nobody answered to the alarm I rose and groped my way through the darkness to the door of the room by the way she must have gone in by that way she must have gone out the door of the room was fast locked exactly as I had left it ongoing 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 this 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 a knife twice over he lifted his candle and looked at me steadily from head to foot so he 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 with a message and a violent passion the devil fly away with you and your woman with a knife there isn't a mark in the bed close anywhere what do you mean by coming into a man's plight 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 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 at 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 slip into the bedroom price as he you'll find your score on the slide 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 wise beforehand look at the bed where's the cut of a knife in it the window is the lock bursted look at the door which I heard you fasten yourself is it broken a murdering woman with a knife in my house you ought to be a shind of yourself my eyes followed his hand as it pointed first to the bed then to the window then to the door there was no gain saying 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 hurled 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 any 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 of it by mid-day 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 too 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 at 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 and 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 birth 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 side 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 grey 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 ladies hands with a rosy red look about the fingernails did you notice how she was dressed Francis no mother did you notice the knife yes a large clasp knife with a buck horn 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 end 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 summertime 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 it 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's 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 of putting your blinded interpretation on the cards you're already I throw to murmur under a dispensation of providence that she cannot fathom like the Israelites of old I'll say them air to you maybe when the money's powering into your pockets you'll no forget your aunt's chance left like a sparrow on the house top with a small annuity of three pounds 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 grant to me and 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 detain 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 up 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 slid it up almost as bright as day in a minute or two the doctor left 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 and he filled 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 B 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 2 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 Lordnam the doctor recovered himself he was on his own ground you know when it came to a matter of Lordnam and he spoke to her smartly enough this time oh you have got the toothache of you let me look at the tooth she shook her head and laid the tooth showing piece on the counter I won't trouble you to look at the tooth she said there is the money let me have the Lordnam if you please the doctor put the two showing piece back again in her hand I don't sell Lordnam to strangers he answered if you are in any distress 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 beast 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 of what might happen I found the use of my tongue stop like right out wait for me I want to speak to you before you go away she lifted her eyes with the 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 oh why not she said I have got nothing to do and nowhere to go she turned back a step and nodded to me you are 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 of 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 lordom 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 all graceful solitary figure in the bright moon beams they shed over her fair complexion her bright golden hair her large grey 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 be I said 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 it she laughed you saw yourself that he wouldn't sell me the lordom 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 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 end she laughed her bitter laugh and pointed to the stone quarry there is my inn for tonight 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 friends door was closed in my face some hours since my friends servants threatened me with the police I had nowhere else to go after trying my luck in your neighbourhood and nothing left but my two shelling 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 any 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 Lord in them directly what were you doing there who is the medicine for your wife I am not married she left 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 goodbye 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 I am not our kitchen was built out of the back of the cottage she might remain there unseen and unheard until the household was sister in the morning I let 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 end of section 18 part 2 of The Dream Woman reading by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio