The Queen of Hearts

by Wilkie Collins

  CHAPTER II.

  SOME years ago there lived in the suburbs of a large seaport town onthe west coast of England a man in humble circumstances, by name IsaacScatchard. His means of subsistence were derived from any employmentthat he could get as an hostler, and occasionally, when times went wellwith him, from temporary engagements in service as stable-helper inprivate houses. Though a faithful, steady, and honest man, he got onbadly in his calling. His ill luck was proverbial among his neighbors.He was always missing good opportunities by no fault of his own, andalways living longest in service with amiable people who were notpunctual payers of wages. "Unlucky Isaac" was his nickname in his ownneighborhood, and no one could say that he did not richly deserve it.

  With far more than one man's fair share of adversity to endure, Isaachad but one consolation to support him, and that was of the dreariestand most negative kind. He had no wife and children to increase hisanxieties and add to the bitterness of his various failures in life.It might have been from mere insensibility, or it might have been fromgenerous unwillingness to involve another in his own unlucky destiny,but the fact undoubtedly was, that he had arrived at the middle term oflife without marrying, and, what is much more remarkable, without onceexposing himself, from eighteen to eight-and-thirty, to the genialimputation of ever having had a sweetheart.

  When he was out of service he lived alone with his widowed mother.Mrs. Scatchard was a woman above the average in her lowly station as tocapacity and manners. She had seen better days, as the phrase is, butshe never referred to them in the presence of curious visitors;and, though perfectly polite to every one who approached her, nevercultivated any intimacies among her neighbors. She contrived to provide,hardly enough, for her simple wants by doing rough work for the tailors,and always managed to keep a decent home for her son to return towhenever his ill luck drove him out helpless into the world.

  One bleak autumn when Isaac was getting on fast toward forty and whenhe was as usual out of place through no fault of his own, he set forth,from his mother's cottage on a long walk inland to a gentleman's seatwhere he had heard that a stable-helper was required.

  It wanted then but two days of his birthday; and Mrs. Scatchard, withher usual fondness, made him promise, before he started, that he wouldbe back in time to keep that anniversary with her, in as festive a wayas their poor means would allow. It was easy for him to comply with thisrequest, even supposing he slept a night each way on the road.

  He was to start from home on Monday morning, and, whether he got the newplace or not, he was to be back for his birthday dinner on Wednesday attwo o'clock.

  Arriving at his destination too late on the Monday night to makeapplication for the stablehelper's place, he slept at the villageinn, and in good time on the Tuesday morning presented himself at thegentleman's house to fill the vacant situation. Here again his ill luckpursued him as inexorably as ever. The excellent written testimonials tohis character which he was able to produce availed him nothing; his longwalk had been taken in vain: only the day before the stable-helper'splace had been given to another man.

  Isaac accepted this new disappointment resignedly and as a matter ofcourse. Naturally slow in capacity, he had the bluntness of sensibilityand phlegmatic patience of disposition which frequently distinguishmen with sluggishly-working mental powers. He thanked the gentleman'ssteward with his usual quiet civility for granting him an interview, andtook his departure with no appearance of unusual depression in his faceor manner.

  Before starting on his homeward walk he made some inquiries at theinn, and ascertained that he might save a few miles on his return byfollowing the new road. Furnished with full instructions, several timesrepeated, as to the various turnings he was to take, he set forth on hishomeward journey and walked on all day with only one stoppage for breadand cheese. Just as it was getting toward dark, the rain came on and thewind began to rise, and he found himself, to make matters worse, in apart of the country with which he was entirely unacquainted, thoughhe knew himself to be some fifteen miles from home. The first house hefound to inquire at was a lonely roadside inn, standing on the outskirtsof a thick wood. Solitary as the place looked, it was welcome to a lostman who was also hungry, thirsty, footsore and wet. The landlord wascivil and respectable-looking, and the price he asked for a bed wasreasonable enough. Isaac therefore decided on stopping comfortably atthe inn for that night.

  He was constitutionally a temperate man.

  His supper consisted of two rashers of bacon, a slice of home-made breadand a pint of ale. He did not go to bed immediately after this moderatemeal, but sat up with the landlord, talking about his bad prospectsand his long run of ill-luck, and diverging from these topics to thesubjects of horse-flesh and racing. Nothing was said either by himself,his host, or the few laborers who strayed into the tap-room, whichcould, in the slightest degree, excite the very small and very dullimaginative faculty which Isaac Scatchard possessed.

  At a little after eleven the house was closed. Isaac went round withthe landlord and held the candle while the doors and lower windows werebeing secured. He noticed with surprise the strength of the bolts andbars, and iron-sheathed shutters.

  "You see, we are rather lonely here," said the landlord. "We never havehad any attempts made to break in yet, but it's always as well to be onthe safe side. When nobody is sleeping here, I am the only man in thehouse. My wife and daughter are timid, and the servant-girl takes afterher missuses. Another glass of ale before you turn in? No! Well, howsuch a sober man as you comes to be out of place is more than I canmake out, for one. Here's where you're to sleep. You're our only lodgerto-night, and I think you'll say my missus has done her best to make youcomfortable. You're quite sure you won't have another glass of ale? Verywell. Good-night."

  It was half-past eleven by the clock in the passage as they wentupstairs to the bedroom, the window of which looked on to the wood atthe back of the house.

  Isaac locked the door, set his candle on the chest of drawers, andwearily got ready for bed.

  The bleak autumn wind was still blowing, and the solemn, monotonous,surging moan of it in the wood was dreary and awful to hear through thenight-silence. Isaac felt strangely wakeful.

  He resolved, as he lay down in bed, to keep the candle alight until hebegan to grow sleepy, for there was something unendurably depressing inthe bare idea of lying awake in the darkness, listening to the dismal,ceaseless moaning of the wind in the wood.

  Sleep stole on him before he was aware of it. His eyes closed, andhe fell off insensibly to rest without having so much as thought ofextinguishing the candle.

  The first sensation of which he was conscious after sinking into slumberwas a strange shivering that ran through him suddenly from head to foot,and a dreadful sinking pain at the heart, such as he had never feltbefore. The shivering only disturbed his slumbers; the pain woke himinstantly. In one moment he passed from a state of sleep to a state ofwakefulness--his eyes wide open--his mental perceptions cleared on asudden, as if by a miracle.

  The candle had burned down nearly to the last morsel of tallow, butthe top of the unsnuffed wick had just fallen off, and the light in thelittle room was, for the moment, fair and full.

  Between the foot of his bed and the closed door there stood a woman witha knife in her hand, looking at him.

  He was stricken speechless with terror, but he did not lose thepreternatural clearness of his faculties, and he never took his eyes offthe woman. She said not a word as they stared each other in the face,but she began to move slowly toward the left-hand side of the bed.

  His eyes followed her. She was a fair, fine woman, with yellowish flaxenhair and light gray eyes, with a droop in the left eyelid. He noticedthose things and fixed them on his mind before she was round at the sideof the bed. Speechless, with no expression in her face, with no noisefollowing her footfall, she came closer and closer--stopped--and slowlyraised the knife. He laid his right arm over his throat to save it; but,as he saw the knife coming down, threw his hand ac
ross the bed tothe right side, and jerked his body over that way just as the knifedescended on the mattress within an inch of his shoulder.

  His eyes fixed on her arm and hand as she slowly drew her knife out ofthe bed: a white, well-shaped arm, with a pretty down lying lightly overthe fair skin--a delicate lady's hand, with the crowning beauty of apink flush under and round the finger-nails.

  She drew the knife out, and passed back again slowly to the foot ofthe bed; stopped there for a moment looking at him; then came on--stillspeechless, still with no expression on the blank, beautiful face, stillwith no sound following the stealthy footfalls--came on to the rightside of the bed, where he now lay.

  As she approached, she raised the knife again, and he drew himself awayto the left side. She struck, as before, right into the mattress, witha deliberate, perpendicularly downward action of the arm. This time hiseyes wandered from her to the knife. It was like the large clasp-kniveswhich he had often seen laboring men use to cut their bread and baconwith. Her delicate little fingers did not conceal more than two-thirdsof the handle: he noticed that it was made of buck-horn, clean andshining as the blade was, and looking like new.

  For the second time she drew the knife out, concealed it in the widesleeve of her gown, then stopped by the bedside, watching him. For aninstant he saw her standing in that position, then the wick of the spentcandle fell over into the socket; the flame diminished to a little bluepoint, and the room grew dark.

  A moment, or less, if possible, passed so, and then the wick flamed up,smokingly, for the last time. His eyes were still looking eagerly overthe right-hand side of the bed when the final flash of light came, butthey discovered nothing. The fair woman with the knife was gone.

  The conviction that he was alone again weakened the hold of the terrorthat had struck him dumb up to this time. The preternatural sharpnesswhich the very intensity of his panic had mysteriously imparted to hisfaculties left them suddenly. His brain grew confused--his heart beatwildly--his ears opened for the first time since the appearance of thewoman to a sense of the woeful ceaseless moaning of the wind among thetrees. With the dreadful conviction of the reality of what he had seenstill strong within him, he leaped out of bed, and screaming "Murder!Wake up, there! wake up!" dashed headlong through the darkness to thedoor.

  It was fast locked, exactly as he had left it on going to bed.

  His cries on starting up had alarmed the house. He heard the terrified,confused exclamations of women; he saw the master of the houseapproaching along the passage with his burning rush-candle in one handand his gun in the other.

  "What is it?" asked the landlord, breathlessly. Isaac could only answerin a whisper. "A woman, with a knife in her hand," he gasped out. "In myroom--a fair, yellow-haired woman; she jobbed at me with the knife twiceover."

  The landlord's pale cheeks grew paler. He looked at Isaac eagerly by theflickering light of his candle, and his face began to get red again; hisvoice altered, too, as well as his complexion.

  "She seems to have missed you twice," he said.

  "I dodged the knife as it came down," Isaac went on, in the same scaredwhisper. "It struck the bed each time."

  The landlord took his candle into the bedroom immediately. In less thana 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'ta mark in the bedclothes anywhere. What do you mean by coming into aman's place and frightening his family out of their wits about a dream?"

  "I'll leave your house," said Isaac, faintly. "Better out on the road,in rain and dark, on my road home, than back again in that room, afterwhat I've seen in it. Lend me a light to get my clothes by, and tell mewhat I'm to pay."

  "Pay!" cried the landlord, leading the way with his light sulkilyinto the bedroom. "You'll find your score on the slate when you godownstairs. I wouldn't have taken you in for all the money you've gotabout you if I'd known your dreaming, screeching ways beforehand. Lookat the bed. Where's the cut of a knife in it? Look at the window--is thelock bursted? Look at the door (which I heard you fasten yourself)--isit broke in? A murdering woman with a knife in my house! You ought to beashamed of yourself!"

  Isaac answered not a word. He huddled on his clothes, and then they wentdownstairs together.

  "Nigh on twenty minutes past two!" said the landlord, as they passedthe clock. "A nice time in the morning to frighten honest people out oftheir wits!"

  Isaac paid his bill, and the landlord let him out at the front door,asking, with a grin of contempt, as he undid the strong fastenings,whether "the murdering woman got in that way."

  They parted without a word on either side. The rain had ceased, but thenight was dark, and the wind bleaker than ever. Little did the darkness,or the cold, or the uncertainty about the way home matter to Isaac. Ifhe had been turned out into a wilderness in a thunder-storm it wouldhave been a relief after what he had suffered in the bedroom of the inn.

  What was the fair woman with the knife? The creature of a dream, or thatother creature from the unknown world called among men by the name ofghost? He could make nothing of the mystery--had made nothing of it,even when it was midday on Wednesday, and when he stood, at last, aftermany times missing his road, once more on the doorstep of home.