The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce — Volume 2: In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and Civilians

A ROOM MAY BE TOO NARROW FOR THREE, THOUGH ONE IS OUTSIDE

In a little log house containing a single room sparely and rudely furnished, crouching on the floor against one of the walls, was a woman, clasping to her breast a child.  Outside, a dense unbroken forest extended for many miles in every direction.  This was at night and the room was black dark:  no human eye could have discerned the woman and the child.  Yet they were observed, narrowly, vigilantly, with never even a momentary slackening of attention; and that is the pivotal fact upon which this narrative turns.

Charles Marlowe was of the class, now extinct in this country, of woodmen pioneers—­men who found their most acceptable surroundings in sylvan solitudes that stretched along the eastern slope of the Mississippi Valley, from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico.  For more than a hundred years these men pushed ever westward, generation after generation, with rifle and ax, reclaiming from Nature and her savage children here and there an isolated acreage for the plow, no sooner reclaimed than surrendered to their less venturesome but more thrifty successors.  At last they burst through the edge of the forest into the open country and vanished as if they had fallen over a cliff.  The woodman pioneer is no more; the pioneer of the plains—­he whose easy task it was to subdue for occupancy two-thirds of the country in a single generation—­is another and inferior creation.  With Charles Marlowe in the wilderness, sharing the dangers, hardships and privations of that strange, unprofitable life, were his wife and child, to whom, in the manner of his class, in which the domestic virtues were a religion, he was passionately attached.  The woman was still young enough to be comely, new enough to the awful isolation of her lot to be cheerful.  By withholding the large capacity for happiness which the simple satisfactions of the forest life could not have filled, Heaven had dealt honorably with her.  In her light household tasks, her child, her husband and her few foolish books, she found abundant provision for her needs.

One morning in midsummer Marlowe took down his rifle from the wooden hooks on the wall and signified his intention of getting game.

“We’ve meat enough,” said the wife; “please don’t go out to-day.  I dreamed last night, O, such a dreadful thing!  I cannot recollect it, but I’m almost sure that it will come to pass if you go out.”

It is painful to confess that Marlowe received this solemn statement with less of gravity than was due to the mysterious nature of the calamity foreshadowed.  In truth, he laughed.

“Try to remember,” he said.  “Maybe you dreamed that Baby had lost the power of speech.”

The conjecture was obviously suggested by the fact that Baby, clinging to the fringe of his hunting-coat with all her ten pudgy thumbs was at that moment uttering her sense of the situation in a series of exultant goo-goos inspired by sight of her father’s raccoon-skin cap.

The woman yielded:  lacking the gift of humor she could not hold out against his kindly badinage.  So, with a kiss for the mother and a kiss for the child, he left the house and closed the door upon his happiness forever.

At nightfall he had not returned.  The woman prepared supper and waited.  Then she put Baby to bed and sang softly to her until she slept.  By this time the fire on the hearth, at which she had cooked supper, had burned out and the room was lighted by a single candle.  This she afterward placed in the open window as a sign and welcome to the hunter if he should approach from that side.  She had thoughtfully closed and barred the door against such wild animals as might prefer it to an open window —­of the habits of beasts of prey in entering a house uninvited she was not advised, though with true female prevision she may have considered the possibility of their entrance by way of the chimney.  As the night wore on she became not less anxious, but more drowsy, and at last rested her arms upon the bed by the child and her head upon the arms.  The candle in the window burned down to the socket, sputtered and flared a moment and went out unobserved; for the woman slept and dreamed.

In her dreams she sat beside the cradle of a second child.  The first one was dead.  The father was dead.  The home in the forest was lost and the dwelling in which she lived was unfamiliar.  There were heavy oaken doors, always closed, and outside the windows, fastened into the thick stone walls, were iron bars, obviously (so she thought) a provision against Indians.  All this she noted with an infinite self-pity, but without surprise—­an emotion unknown in dreams.  The child in the cradle was invisible under its coverlet which something impelled her to remove.  She did so, disclosing the face of a wild animal!  In the shock of this dreadful revelation the dreamer awoke, trembling in the darkness of her cabin in the wood.

As a sense of her actual surroundings came slowly back to her she felt for the child that was not a dream, and assured herself by its breathing that all was well with it; nor could she forbear to pass a hand lightly across its face.  Then, moved by some impulse for which she probably could not have accounted, she rose and took the sleeping babe in her arms, holding it close against her breast.  The head of the child’s cot was against the wall to which the woman now turned her back as she stood.  Lifting her eyes she saw two bright objects starring the darkness with a reddish-green glow.  She took them to be two coals on the hearth, but with her returning sense of direction came the disquieting consciousness that they were not in that quarter of the room, moreover were too high, being nearly at the level of the eyes—­of her own eyes.  For these were the eyes of a panther.

The beast was at the open window directly opposite and not five paces away.  Nothing but those terrible eyes was visible, but in the dreadful tumult of her feelings as the situation disclosed itself to her understanding she somehow knew that the animal was standing on its hinder feet, supporting itself with its paws on the window-ledge.  That signified a malign interest—­not the mere gratification of an indolent curiosity.  The consciousness of the attitude was an added horror, accentuating the menace of those awful eyes, in whose steadfast fire her strength and courage were alike consumed.  Under their silent questioning she shuddered and turned sick.  Her knees failed her, and by degrees, instinctively striving to avoid a sudden movement that might bring the beast upon her, she sank to the floor, crouched against the wall and tried to shield the babe with her trembling body without withdrawing her gaze from the luminous orbs that were killing her.  No thought of her husband came to her in her agony—­no hope nor suggestion of rescue or escape.  Her capacity for thought and feeling had narrowed to the dimensions of a single emotion—­fear of the animal’s spring, of the impact of its body, the buffeting of its great arms, the feel of its teeth in her throat, the mangling of her babe.  Motionless now and in absolute silence, she awaited her doom, the moments growing to hours, to years, to ages; and still those devilish eyes maintained their watch.

Returning to his cabin late at night with a deer on his shoulders Charles Marlowe tried the door.  It did not yield.  He knocked; there was no answer.  He laid down his deer and went round to the window.  As he turned the angle of the building he fancied he heard a sound as of stealthy footfalls and a rustling in the undergrowth of the forest, but they were too slight for certainty, even to his practised ear.  Approaching the window, and to his surprise finding it open, he threw his leg over the sill and entered.  All was darkness and silence.  He groped his way to the fire-place, struck a match and lit a candle.

Then he looked about.  Cowering on the floor against a wall was his wife, clasping his child.  As he sprang toward her she rose and broke into laughter, long, loud, and mechanical, devoid of gladness and devoid of sense—­the laughter that is not out of keeping with the clanking of a chain.  Hardly knowing what he did he extended his arms.  She laid the babe in them.  It was dead—­pressed to death in its mother’s embrace.