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1.0

1.1

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IttlM 125

■tt Uii I??

WMU

U 1 1.6

■VQ

Sciences
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WliSTIt.N.Y. 14SM

(71«)t72-4S03

CIHM/ICMH

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CIHM/ICMH
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32X

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avaele
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32X

■NMMMmMMhfM«M«HMMMN«IIMN)l|l^

TBDB

TWO DESTINIES.

AUTH<

THE

Two Destinies.

WILKIE COLLINS,

AUTHOR OF *'THE WOMAN IN WHITE," "MAN AND WIFK," **NO NAME,"
"THE LAW AND THE LADV," "THE NEW MAGDALEN/' ETC.

TORONTO*.

HUNTER, ROSE AND COMPANY.

1876U

aecordlnc i
Canmda.Iii

Entered
Uament ofCanmda. In t
eifht hundred and ar.
OOLLDO. in the OfflCtt
Jtcrtcultare:

•% of the Par-
tnethoiuand

'. t' WlUUK

MSinlater of

PMHTBD AND BOmD BT
UUMTSR, ROBS AMD CO.

TOioaro.

.1-9

CONTENTS.
t>ht Sv»tit4e.

In Two Na&bauvks.
CHAPTER I.

PAGB
GRBEinieATKB Bboad 10

CHAPTER II.
Two TouKO Hearts 13

CHAPTER III.

SWBDENBORG AND THE SiBTL 26

* CHAPTER IV.
The Cuktain Falls 37

Site Mtm*

CHAPTER V.
Tbk Years op my Life 40

CHAPTER VI.
Ten Tears of her Life 60

VI CONTENTS.

CHAPTKR Vn.

PAOB

Thi WoMiir ON mm Bkidos 68

CHAPTER VIU.
Thb Kikdbsd Spirits 67

CHAPTER IX.

Natural awd Supernatural 80

CHAPTER X.
Saint Anthony's Well 92

CHAPTER XI.

The Letter op Introduction 102

CHAPTER XII. "

The Disasters^op Mrm. Van Brandt 109

CHAPTER Xm.
Not Cured Yet 119

CHAPTER XIV.
Mrs. Van Brandt at Home 128

CHAPTER XV.
The Obstacle Beats Me 138

CHAPTER XVI.
Mt Mother's Diart .'. 144

CHAPTER XVn.
Shetland Hospitalitt 148

CHAPTER XVIII.
The Darkened Room 157

CONTENTS. vii

CHAPTKR XIX

PAOB

Thi Cam 160

OHAPIER XX.
Thb G&bkn Flao 176

CHAPTER XXI.
Shs Ooios Bbtwuk Us 183

CHAPTER XXII.
Shb Claims Mb Aoaut 180

OHAFTSR XXm.
Thb Kiss 108

CHAPTER XXIV.
In tbb Shadow or Saint Paul's 211

CHAPTER XXV.
I Keep bit APFOiNTMBirr 218

CHAPrER XXVI.

COMVBBSATIOIT WITH MT MOTHEB 225

CHAPTER XXVII.
CoirvEBSATioN WITH Mb8. Van Brandt 220

CHAPTER XXVm.
LovB 4ia> MoNKT 237

CHAPTER XXIX.
Our Dbstinibs Past Us 243

CHAPTER XXX.
A Glanob Backwards 248

viii CONTENTS.

CHAPTER XXXL

PAOK

MU8 DUMKOM 2A3

CHAPTER XXXn.
Tub PuYUoxAif's Oninoir 363

CHAPTER XXXm.
A Last Look at Qrsinwatir Bbuad 272

CHAPTER XXXIV.
A ViBiov or THE Night 270

CHAPTER XXXV.
By Lakd and Sea 284

CHAPTER XXXVL *
Ukdbb the Window 289

CHAPTER XXXVII.
Lots and Piude 208

CHAPTER XXX VIII.
The Two Destinies 900

The Wife writes, and globes the Stobt 323

THE TWO DESTINIES.

(Site prelude:

IN TWO NARRATIVES.

[The Guest writes the History of the Dinner Party.]

J ANY years have passed since my wifp and I
left the United States to pay our first visit to
England.

We were provided with letters of introduc*
tion, as a matter of course. Among them,
there was a letter which had been written for
us by my wife's brother. It presented us to an English gen-
tleman who held a high rank on the list of his old and valued
friends.

" You will become acquainted with Mr. George Germaine,
my brother-in-law said when we took leave of him, " at a very
interesting period of his life. My last news of him tells me
that he is just married. I know nothing of the lady, or of the

circumstances under which my friend first met with her. Bat

i»

^?^

The Two Destinies,

of this I am certain : married or single, George Germaine will
give you pnd your wife a hearty ^ elcome to England, for my
saKe.

The day after our ?uTival in London, we left our letter of
introduction at the house of Mr. Germaine.

The next morning we went to see a favourite object of
American interest, in the metropolis of England — the Tower
of London. The citizens cf the United States find this relic
of the good old times of great use in raising their national
estimate of the value o' Republican Institutions. On getting
back to the hotel, the cards of Mr. and Mrs. Germaine told
us that they had abeady returned our visit. The same evening
we received an invitation to dine with the newly-married couple.
It was enclosed in a little note from Mrs. Germaine to my wife,
warning us that we were not to expect to meet a large party.
** It is the first dinner we give, on our return from our wed-
ding-tour " (the lady wrote) ; *' and you will only be intro-
duced to a few of my husband's old friends."

In America, and (as I hear) on the continent of Europe
also, when your host invites you to dine at a given hour, you
pay him the compliment of arriving punctually at his house.
In England alone, the incomprehensible and discourteous cus-
tom prevails of keeping the host and the dinner waiting for
half an hour or more — without any assignable reason, and
widicMit any better excuse than the purely formal apology that
is in^tl id in the words, " Sorry to be late."

Arriving at the appointed time at the house of Mr. and
Mrs. Germaine, we had every reason to congratulate ourselves
on the ignorant punctuality which had brought us into the
drawing-room half an hour in advance of the other guests.

The Prelude.

ir letter of

In the first place, there was so much heartiness, and so little
ceremony, in the welcome &;:corded to us that we almost fancied
ourselves back in our own country. In the second place, both
husband end wife interested us, the moment we set eyes upon
them. The lady, especially, although she was not strictly-
speaking a beautiful woman, quite fascinated us. There was an
artless charm in her face and manner, a simple grace in all her
movements, a low delicious melody in her voice, which we
Americans felt to be simply irresistible. Aud then it was so
plain (and so pleasant) to see that here at least was a happy
marriage ! Here were two people who had all their dearest
hopes, wishes, and sympathies in common — who looked, if I
may risk the expression, born to be man and wife. By the
time when the fashionable delay of the half hour had expired,
we were talking together as familiarly and as confidentially
as if we had been, all four of us, old friends.

Eight o'clock struck ; and the first of the English guests
appeared.

Having forgotten this gentleman's e xme, I must beg leave
to distinguish him by means of a letter of the alphabet. Let
. me call him Mr. A. When he entered the room alone, our
host and hostdss both started, and both looked surprised. Ap*
parently, they expected him to be accompanied by some o^her
person. Mr. Germaine put a curious question to his friend.

" Where is your wife ? " he asked.

Mr. A. answered for the absent lady by a neat little apology,
expressed in these words :

" She has got a bad cold. She is very sorry. She bega me
to make her excuses."

He had just time to deliver his message before another un-

The Two Destinies,

Aocompanied gentleman appeared. Reverting to the letters of
the alphabet, let me call him Mr. B. Once more I noticed
that our host and hostess started when they saw him enter the
room, alone. And, rather to my surprise, I heard Mr.
Germaine put his curious question again to the new guest

" Where is your wife 1 "

The answer — with slight variations — was Mr. A.'s neat
little apology, repeated by Mr. B.

" I am very sorry. Mrs. B. has got a bad headache. She
is subject to bad headaches. She begs me to make her ex-
cuses."

Mr. and Mrs. Germaine glanced at one another. The
husband's face plainly expressed the suspicion which this
second apology had roused in his mind. The wife was steady
and calm. An interval passed — ^a silent interval. Mr. A. and
Mr. B. retired together guiltily into a comer. My wife and I
looked at the pictures.

Mrs. Grermaine was the first to relieve us from our own in-
tolerable silence. Two more guests, it appeared, were still
wanting to complete the party.

" Shall we have dinner at once, George 1 " she said to her
husband. " Or shall we wait for Mr. and Mrs. C. ) "

" We will wait five minutes," he answered shortly — with his
eye on Mr. A. and Mr. B., guiltily secluded in their comer.

The drawing-room door opened. We all knew that a third
married lady was expected ; we all looked towards the door in
unutterable anticipation. Our unexpressed hopes rested silently
on the possible appearance of Mrs. C. Would that admirable,
but unknown, woman at once charm and relieve us by her

The Prelude.

presence 1 I shudder as I write it. Mr. C. walked into the
room — and walked in, alone.

Mr. Grermaine suddenly varied his formal inquiry, in receiv-
ing the new guest.

" Is your wife ill ? " he asked.

Mr. G. was an elderly man ; Mr. 0. had lived (judging by
appearances) in the days when the old-fashioned laws of polite-
ness were still in force. He discovered his two married
brethren in their comer, unaccompanied by their wives ; and
he delivered his apology for hit wife, with the air of a man
who felt unaffectedly ashamed of it.

" Mrs. C. is so sorry. She has got such a bad cold. She
does so regret not being able to accompany me."

At this third apology Mr. Germaine's indignation forced its
way outwards into expression in words.

"Two bad colds, and one bad headache," he said, with
ironical politeness. " I don't know how your wives agree,
gentlemen, when they are well. But, when they are ill, their
unanimity is wonderful ! "

The dinner was announced as that sharp saying passed his
lips.

I had the honour of taking Mrs. Germaine to the dining-
room. Her sense of the implied insult offered to her by the
wives of her husband's friends only showed itself in a trem-
bling, a very slight trembling, of the hand that rested on my
arm. My interest in her increased tenfold. Only a woman
who had been accustomed to suffer, who had been broken and
disciplined to self-restraint, could have endured the moral
martyrdom inflicted on her as thL^ woman endured it, from the
beginning of the evening to the end.

The Two Destinies.

Am I using the language of exaggeration, when I write of
my hostess in these terms ^ Look at the circamjstances, as
they struck two strangers like my wife and myself.

Here was the first dinner-party which Mr. and Mrs.
Germaine had given since their marriage. Three of Mr.
Grermaine's friends, all married men, had been invited with
their wives, to meet Mr. Germaine's wife, and had (evidently)
accepted the invitation without reserve. What discoveries had
taken place, between the giving of the invitation and the giving
of the dinner, it was impossible to say. The one thing plainly
discernible was that, in the interval, the three wives had agreed
in the resolution to leave their husbands to represent them at
Mrs. Germaine's table ; and, more amazing still, the husbands
had so far approved of the grossly discourteous conduct of the
wives, as to consent to make the most insultingly trivial ex-
cuses for their absence. Could any crueller slur than this have
been cast on a woman, at the outset of her married life, before
the face of her husband, and in the presence of two strangers
from another country ? Is " martyrdom " too big a word to
use in describing what a sensitive person must have suffered,
subjected to such treatment as this ) Well, I think not.

We took our places at the dinner-table. Don't ask me to
describe that most miserable of mortal meetings, that weariest
and dreariest of human festivals. It is quite bad enough to
remember that evening — it is indeed !

My wife and I did our best to keep the conversation moving
as easily and as harmlessly as might be. I may say that we
really worked hard. Nevertheless, our success was not very
encouraging. Try as we might to overlook them, there were
t^he three empty places of the three absent women, speaking in

The Prelude,

their own dismal language for themselves. Try as we might
to resist it, we all felt the one sad conclusion which those
empty places persisted in forcing on our minds. It was surely
too plain that some terrible report, affecting the character of
the unhappy woman at the head of the table, had unexpectedly
come to light, and had at one blow destroyed li^r position in
the estimation of her husband's friends. In the face of the
excuses in the drawing-room, in the face of the empty places at
the dinner-table, what could the friendliest guests do, to any
good purpose, to help the husband and wife in their sore and
sudden need ? They could say good-night at the earliest pos-
sible opportunity, and mercifully leave the married pair to
themselves.

Let it at least be recorded to the credit of the three gentle-
men designated in these pages as A., B. and C, that they were
sufficiently ashamed of themselves and their wives to be the
first members of the dinner party who left the house. In a
few minutes more, we rose to follow their example. Mrs.
Germ&ine earnestly requested that we would delay our de*
parture.

" Wait a few minutes," she whispered, with a glance at her
husband. " I have something to say to you before you go."

She left us ; and, taking Mr. Germaine by the arm, led him
away to the opposite side of the room. The two held a little
colloquy together in low voices. The husband closed the con-
sultation by lifting the wife's hand to his lips.

" Do as you please, my love," he said to her. " I leave it
entirely to you."

He sat down sorrowfully, lost in his thoughts. Mrs. Ger-

The Two Destinies.

maine unlocked a cabinet at the farther end of the room, and
returned to us alone, carrying a small portfolio in her hand.

" No words of mine can tell you how gratefully I feel your
kindness," she said, with perfect simplicity and with perfect
dignity at the same time. " Under very trying circumstances
you have treated me with the tenderness and the sympathy
which you might have shown to an old friend. The one re-
turn I can make for all that I owe to you is to admit you to
my fullest confidence, and to leave you to judge for yourselves
whether I deserve the treatment which I have received to-
night"

Uer eyes filled with tears. She paused to control herself
We both begged her to say no more. Her husband, joining us,
added his entreaties to ours. She thanked us, but she per-
sisted. Like most sensitively-organised persons, she could be
resolute when she believed that the occasion called for it.

'' I have a few words more to say," she resumed, addressing
my wife. *' You are the only married woman who has come
to our little dinner-party. The marked absence of the other
wives explains itself. It is not for me to say whether they are
right or wrong in refusing to sit at our table. My dear hus-
band — who knows my whole life as well as I know it myself
— expressed the wish that we should invite these ladies. He
wrongly supposed that Ms estimate of me would be the esti-
mate accepted by his friends ; and neither he nor I anticipated
that the misfortunes of my past life would be revealed by some
person acquainted with them, whose treachery we have yet to
discover. The least I can do, by way of acknowledging your
kindness, is to place you in the same position towards me
which the other ladies now occupy. The circumstances under

The Prelude,

which I hare become the wife of Mr. GermaiQe are, in some
respects, very remarkable. They are related, without suppres-
sion or reserve, in a little narrative which my husband wrote,
at the time of our marriage, for the satisfaction of one of his
absent relatives whose good opinion he was unwilling to for-
feit. The manuscript is in this portfolio. After what has
happened, I ask you both to read it as a personal favour to
me. It is for you to decide, when you know all, whether 1 am
a tit person for an honest woman to associate with, or not."

She held out her hand with a sweet sad smile and bade ns
good-night. My wife, in her impulsive way, forgot the formali-
ties proper to the occasion, and kissed her at parting. At that
one little act of sisterly sympathy, the fortitude which the poor
creature had preserved all through the evening gave way in an
instant. She burst into tears.

I felt as fond of her and as sorry for her as my wife. But
(unfortunately) I could not take my wife's ^irivilege of kissing
her. On our way dow ^: stairs, I found fhe opportunity of
saying a cheering word to her husband as he accompanied us
to the door.

" Before I open this," I remarked, pointing to the portfolio
under my arm, " my mind is made up, sir, about one thing.
If I wasn't married already, I tell you this — I should envy you
your wife."

He pointed to the portfolio, in his turn.

" Read what I have written ther'.," he said, " and you will
understand what those false friends of mine have made me suf-
fer to-night."

The nr xt morning my wife and I opened the portfolio. It
contained two manuscripts, which we copy here in their order
as they were written.

[George Oermaine icriies the History of his First Love.]

CHAPTER I.

OREENWATER BROAD.

OOK back, my memory, through the dim labyrinth
of the past, through the mingling joys and sor-
rows of twenty years. Rise again, my boyhood's
days by the winding green shores of the little lake.
Gome to me once more, my child-love, in the inno-
cent beauty of your first ten years of life. Let us
live again, my angel, as we lived in our first Paradise, before
sin and sorrow lifted their flaming swords and drove us out
into the world.

The month was March. The last wild-fowl of the season
were floating on the waters of the lake which, in our Suffolk
tongue, we called Greenwater Broad.

Wind where it might, the grassy banks and the overhanging
trees tinged the lak<. with the soft green reflections from which
it took its name. In a creek at the south end the boats were
kept — my own pretty sailing boat having a tiny natural har-
bour all to itself. In a creek at the north end stood the great
trap (called a " Decoy "), used for snaring the wild-fowl who
flocked every winter, by thousands and thousands, to Green-
Water Broad.

Greenwater Broad.

My little Mary and I went out together, hand in hand, to
see tiie last hirds of the season lured into the Decoy.

The outer part of the strange bird-trap rose from the waters
of the lake in a series of circular arches, formed of elastic
branches bent to the needed shape, and covered with folds of
fine network making the roof. Little by little diminishing in
size, the arches and their network followed the secret windings
of the creek inland to its end. Built back round the arches,
on their landward side, ran a wooden paling, high enough to
hide a man kneeling behind it from the view of the birds on
the lake. At certain intervals, a hole was broken in the paling,
just large enough to allow of the passage through it of a dog
of the terrier or the spaniel breed. And there began and ended
the simple yet sufficient mechanism of the Decoy.

In those days I was thirteen, and Mary was ten years old.
Walking on our way to the lake, we had Mary's father with
us for guide and companion. The good man served as bailiff
on my father's estate. He was, besides, a skilled master in
the art of decoying ducks. The dog who helped him (we used
no tame ducks as decoys in Suffolk) was a little black ter-
rier : a skilled master also, in his way ; a creature who pos-
sessed, in equal proportions, the enviable advantages of perfect
good-humour and perfect common-sense.

The dog followed the bailiff, and we followed the dog.

Arrived at the paling which surrounded the Decoy, the dog
sat down to wait until he was wanted. The bailiff and the
children crouched behind the paling, and peeped through the
outermost dog-hole, which commanded a full view of the lake.
It was a day without wind ; not a ripple stirred the surface of

The Two Destinies,

the water ; the soft grey clouds filled all the sky, and hid the
sun from view.

We peeped through the hole in the paling. ^ e were
the wild ducks — collected within easy reach of . a X>eooy —
placidly dressing their feathers on the placid surface of the
lake.

The bailiff looked at the dog, and made a sign. The dog
looked at the bailiff ; and, stepping forward quietly, prssed
through the hole, so as to show himself on the narrow strip of
ground shelving down from the outer side of the paling to the
lake.

First one duck, then another, then half a dozen together,
discovered the dog.

A new object showing itself on the solitary scene, instantly
became an object of all>devouring curiosity to the ducks. The
outermost of thom began to swim slowly towards the strange
four-footed creature planted motionless on the bank. By twos
and threes the main body of the water-fowl gradually followed
the advanced guard. Swimming nearer and nearer to the dog,
the wary ducks suddenly came to a halt, and, poised on the
water, viewed from a safe distance the phenomenon on the
land.

The bailiff, kneeling behind the paling, whispered " Trim !"

Hearing his name, "^he terrier turned about, and retiring
through the hole, became lost to the view of the ducks. Mo-
tionless on the water, the wild-fowl wondered and waited. In
a minute more, tUe dog had trotted round, and had shown
himself through the next hole in the paling ; pierced farther
inward, where the lake ran up into the outermost of the wind-
ings of the creek. .

Gr§enwater Broad.

The second ftppearanoe of the terrier inatantly produced »
second fit of carioeity among the dacka. With one -accord,
they swam forward again, to get another and a nearer view of
the dog ; then, judging their safe diitance once more, they
stopped for the second time, under the outermost arch of the
Decoy. Again, the dog vanished, and the puusled ducks wait-
ed. An interval passed— and the third appearance of Trim
took place, through a third hole in the paling, pierced farther
inland, up the creek. For the third time, irresistible curiosity
urged the ducks to advance farther and farther inward under
the fatal arches of the Decoy. A fourth and a fifth time the
game went on, until the dog had lured the water-fowl, from
point to point, into the inner recesses of the Decoy. There, a
last appearance of Trim took place. A last advance, a last
cautious pause was made by the ducks. The bailiff touched
the strings. The weighted network fell vertically into the
water, and closed the Decoy. There, by dozens on dozens,
were the ducks, caught by means of their own curiosity — with
nothing but a little dog for a bait ! In a few hours after-
wards, they were all dead ducks, on their way to the London
market.

As the last act in the curious comedy of the Decoy came to
its end, little Mary laid her hand on my shoulder, and, raising
herself on tiptoe, whispered in my ear :

" George ! come home with me. I have got something to
show you that is better worth seeing than the ducks."

"Whatisitl"

" It's a surprise. I won't tell you."

" Will you give me a kiss % "

The Two Destinies,

The charming little creature put her slim sunburnt arms
around my neck, and answered :

*^ As many kisses as you like, George."

It was innocently said on her side. It was innocently done
on mine. The good easy bailiff, looking aside at the moment
from his ducks, discovered us pursuing our boy and girl court-
ship in each other's arms. He shook his big forefinger at us,
with something of a sad and doubting smile.

" Ah, master George ! master George ! " he said, " when
your father comes home, do you think he will approve of his
son and heir kissing his bailifi's daughter 1 "

" When my father comes home," I answered with great
dignity, ** I shall tell him the truth. I shall say I am going to
marry your daughter."

The bailiff burst out laughing, and looked back again at his
ducks.

"Well! well!" we heaii him say to himself. "They're
only children. There's no call, poor things, to part them yet
awhile."

Mary and I had a great dislike to be called children. Pro-
perly understood, one of us was a lady aged ten, and the other
was a gentleman aged thirteen. We left the good bailiff in-
dignantly, and went away together, hand in hand, to the
cottage.

«^

>urnt arms

CHAPTER II.

TWO YOVNO HEARTS.

E is growing too fast," said the doctor to my mo-
ther ; " and he is getting a great deal too clever
for a boy at his age. Remove him from school,
ma'am, for six months , let him run about in the
open air at home ; and, if you find him with a
book in his hand, take it away directly. There
is my prescription I"
Those words decided my fate in life.
In obedience to the doctor's advice, I was left, an idle boy —
witnout brothers, sisters, or companions of my own age — to
roam about the grounds of our lonely country house. The
bailiff's daughter, like me, was an only child ; and, like me, she
had no playfellows. We met in our wanderings on the solitary
shores of the lake. Beginning by being inseparable com-
panions, we ripened and developed into true lovers. Our pre-
liminary courtship concluded, we next proposed (before I re-
turned t.0 school) to burst into complete maturity by becoming
man and wife.

I am not writing in jest. Absurd as it may appear to " sen-
sible people," we two children were lovers — if ever there were
lovers yet.
We had no pleasures apart from the one all-suificient pleasure

The Two Destinies.

' ..^

which we found in each other's society. We objected to the
night, because it parted us. We entreated our parents, on
either side, to let us sleep in the same room. I was angry
with my mother, and Mary was disappointed in her father,
when they laughed at us, and wondered what we should want
next. Looking onward, from those days to the days of my
manhood, I can vividly recall such hours of happiness as have
fallen to my share. But I remember no delights of that later
time comparable to the exquisite and enduring pleasure that
filled my young being when I walked with Mary in the woods ;
when I sailed with Mary in my boat on the lake ; when I met
Mary, after the cruel separation of the night, and flew into her
open arms as if we had been parted for months and months
together.

What was the attraction that drew us so closely one to the
other, at an age when the sexual sympathies lay dormant in
her and in me ?

We neither knew nor sought to know. We obeyed the im-
pulse to love one another as a bird obeyo the impulse to fly.

Let it not be supposed that we possessed any natural gifts
or advantages which singled us out as difiVsring in a marked
way from other children at our time of life. We possessed
nothing of the sort. I had been called a clever boy at school ;
but there were thousands of other boys at thousands of other
schools, who headed their classes and won their prizes like me.
Personally speaking, I was in no way remarkable — except for
being, in an ordinary phrase, " tall for my age." On her side,
Mary displayed no striking attractions. She was a fragile
child, with mild grey eyes and a pale complexion ; singularly
undemonstrative, singularly shy and silent, except when she

Two Young Hearts.

was alone with me. Such bcnuty as she had, in those early
days, lay in a certain artless purity and tenderness of expres-
sion, and in the charming reddish-brown colour of her hair,
varying quaintly and prettily in different lights. To all out-
ward appearance two perfectly commonplace children, we were
mysteriously united by some kindred association of the spirit in
her and the spirit in me, which not only defied discovery by
our own young selves, but which lay too deep for investigation
by far older and far wiser heads than ours.

You will naturally wonder whether anything was done by
our elders to check our precocious attachment^ while it was
still an innocent love-union between a boy and a girl.

Nothing was done by my father — for the simple reason chat
he was away from home.

He was a man of a restless and speculative turn of mind.
Inheriting his estate burdened with debt, his grand ambition
was to increase his small available income by his own ex-
ertions ; to set up an establishment in London \ and to climb
to political distinction by the ladder of Parliament. An old
friend who had emigrated to America had proposed to him a
speculation in agriculture in one of the Western States which
was to make both their fortunes. My father's eccentric fancy
was struck by the idea. For more than a year past he had
been away from us in the United States ; and all we knew of
him (instructed by his letters) was, that he might be shortly
expected to return to us in the enviable character of one of the
richest men in England.

As for my peer mother — the sweetest and softest-hearted of
women — to see me happy was all that she desired.

The quaint little love-romance of the two children amused

The Two Destinies,

I? 1

and interested her. She jested with Mary's father about the
coming union between the two families, without one serious
thought of the future — without even a foreboding of what
might happen when my father returned. " Sufficient for the
day is the evil (or the good) thereof," had been my mother's
motto all her life. She agreed with the easy philosophy of the
bailiff, already recorded in these pages : " They're only
children ; there's no call, poor things, to part them yet
awhUe ! "

There was one member of the family, however, who took a
sensible and serious view of the matter.

My father's brother paid us a visit in our solitude — discov-
ered what was going on between Mary and me — and was at
first, naturally enough, inclined to laugh at us. Closer inves-
tigation altered his way of t.hinking. He became convinced
that my mother was acting like a fool ; that the bailiff (a faithful
servant, if ever there was one yet) was cunningly advancing
his own interests by means of his daughter ; and that I was a
young idiot, who had developed his native reserves of imbeci-
lity at an unusually early period of life. Speaking to my
mother under the influence of these strong impressions, my
uncle offered to take me back with him to London, and keep
mo there until I had been brought to my senses by association
with his own children, and by careful superintendence under
his own roof.

My mother hesitated about accepting this proposal ; she had
the advantage over my uncle of understanding my disposition.
While she was still doubting, while my uncle was still impa-
tiently waiting for her decision, I settled the question for my
elders by running away.

Two Young Hearts.

who took a

I left a letter to represent me in my absence ; declaring that
no mortal power should part me from Mary, and promising to
return and ask my mother's pardon as soon as my uncle had
left the house. The strictest search was made for me, vrithout
discovering a trace of my place of refuge. My uncle departed
for London, predicting that I should live to be a disgrace to
the family, and announcing that he should transmit his opinion
of me to my father, in America, by the next mail.

The secret of the hiding-place in which I contrived to defy
discovery is soon told.

I was hidden (without the bailiffs knowledge), in the bed-
room of the bailiflTs mother. And did the bailiffs mother
know it ? you will ask. To which I answer : the bailiffs
mother did it. And what is more, gloried in doing it — not,
observe, as an act of hostility to my relatives, but simply as a
duty that lay on her conscience.

What sort of old woman, in the name of all that is wonder-
ful, was this % Let her appear and speak for herself — the wild
and weird grandmother of gentle little Mary ; the Sibyl of
modem times, known far and wide, in our part of Suffolk, as
Dame Dermody.

I see her again, as I write, sitting in her son's pretty cottage
parlour, hard by the window, so that the light fell over her
shoulder while she knitted or read. A little lean wiry old
woman was Dame Dermody — with fierce black eyes, surmount-
ed by bushy white eyebrows, by a high wrinkled forehead, and
by thick white hair gathered neatly under her old-fashioned
"mob-cap." Report whispered (and whispered truly), that
she had been a lady by birth and breeding, and that she had
deliberately closed her prospects in life by marrying a man

The Two Destinies.

greatly her inferior in social rank. Whatever her family might
think of her marriage, she herself never regretted it. In her
estimation, her husband's memory was a sacred memory; his
spirit was a guardian spirit watching over her, waking or keep-
ing, morning or night.

Holding this faith, she was in no respect influenced by those
grossly material ideas of modern growth, which associate the
presence of spiritual beings with clumsy conjuring tricks and
monkey-antics performed on tables and chairs. Dame Der-
mody's nobler superstition formed an integral part of her re-
ligious convections — convictions which had long since found
their chosen resting-place in the mystic doctrines of Emanuel
Swedenborg, The only books which she read were the works
of the Swedish Seer. She mixed up Swedenborg's teachings on
afigels and departed spirits, on love to one's neighbour and
purity of life, with wild fancies and kindred beliefs of her own,
and preached the visionary religious doctrines thus derived,
not only in the bailiflfs household, but also on proselytising ex-
peditions to the households of her humble neighbours, far and
near.

Under her son's roof— after the death of his wife — ^he reigned
a supreme power ; priding herself alike on her close attention
to her domestic duties, and on her privileged communications
with angels and spirits. She would hold long colloquies with
the spirit, of her dead husband, before anybody who happened
to be present — colloquies which struck the simple spectators
mute with terror. To her mystic view, the love uniou between
Mary and me was something too sacred and too beautiful to be
tried by the mean and matter-of-fact tests set up by society.
She wrote for us little formulas of prayer and praise, which we

Two Youn^ Hearts.

were to use when we met and when we parted, day by day.
She solemnly warned her son to look upon us as two young
consecrated creatures, walking unconsciously on a heavenly
path of their own, whose beginning was on earth, but whose
bright end was among the angels in a better state of being.
Imagine my appearing before such a woman as this, and telling
her with tears of despair that I was determined to die rather
than let my uncle part me from little Mary — and you will no
longer be astonished at the hospitality which threw open to
me the sanctuary of Dame Dermody's own room.

When the safe time came for leaving my hiding-place, I com-
mitted a serious mistake. In thanking the oH woman at part-
ing, I said to her (with a boy's sense of honour), " I won't tell
upon you. Dame ; my mother shan't know that you hid me in
your bedroom."

The Sibyl laid her dry ileshless hand on my shoulder, and
forced me roughly back into the chair from which I had just
risen.

" Boy ! " she said, looking through and through me with her
fierce black eyes, " do you dare suppose that I ever did any-
thing )chat I was ashamed of 1 Do you think I am ashamed of
what I have done now 1 Wait there. Your mother may mis-
take me too. I shall write to your mother."

She put on her great round spectacles with tortoiseshell rims,
and sat down to her letter. Whenever her thoughts flagged,
whenever she was at a loss for an expression, she looked over
her shoulder, as if some visible creature was stationed behind
her, watching what she wrote — consulted the spirit of her hus-
band, exactly as she might have consulted a living man — smiled
softly to herself — and went on with her writing.

The Two Destinies.

" There ! " she said, handing me the completed letter with
an imperial gesture of indulgence. " Uh mind and my mind
are written there. Go, boy. I pardon you. Give my letter
to your mother."

So she always spoke, with the same formal and measured
dignity of manner and language.

I gave the letter to my mother. We read it, and marvelled
over it, together. Thus, counselled by the ever-present spirit
of her husband, Dame Dermody wrote :

"Madam, — I have taken, what you may be inclined to think,
a great liberty. I have assisted your son George in setting his
uncle's authority at defiance. I have encouraged your son
George in his resolution to be true, in time and in eternity, to
my grandchild, Mary Dermody.

" It is due to you, and to me, that I should tell you with
what motive I have acted in doing these things.

" I hold the fTelief that all love that is true, is fore-ordained
'and consecrated in Heaven. Spirits destined to be united in
/ the better world, are divinelv commissioned to discover each
\ other, and to begin their union in this world. The only happy
I marriages are those in which the two destined spirits have suc-
] ceeded in meeting one another in this sphere of life.

*' When the kindred spirits have once met, no human power
can really part them. Sooner or later, they must, by Divine
law, find each other again, and become united spirits once
more. Worldly wisdom may force them into widely different
ways of life j worldly wisdom may delude them, or may make
them delude themselves, into contracting an earthly and a
fallible union. It matters nothing. The time will certainly
come when that union will manifest itself as earthly and fal-

Two Young Hearts.

I measured

lible , and the two disunited spirits, finding each other again,
will become united here, for the world beyond this — united, 1
tell you, in defiance of all human laws, and of all human notions
of right and wrong.

" This is my belief. I have proved it by my own life. Miud,
wife and widow, I have held to it, and I have found it good.

" I was born, madam, in the rank of society to which you
belong. I received the mean material teaching which fulfils
the worldly notion of education. Thanks be to God, my kin-
dred spirit met my spirit, while I was still young. I knew true
love and true union before I was twenty years of age. I mar-
ried, madam, in the rank from which Christ chose his apostles
— I married a labouring man. No human language can tell
my happiness while we lived united here. His death has not
parted us. He helps me to write this letter. In my last hours,
I shall see him standing among the angels, waiting for me on
the banks of the shining river.

" You will now understand the view I take of the tie which
unites the young spirits of our children, at the bright outset of
their lives.

" Believe me, the thing which your husband's brother has
proposed to you to do, is a sacrilege and a profanation. I own
to you freely that I look on what I have done towards thwarting
your relative in this matter, as an act of virtue. You cannot
expect me, to think it a serious obstacle to an union predestined
ill Heaven, that your son \.\ the Squire's heir, and that my
grandchild is only the bailiffs daughter. Dismiss from your
mind, I implore you, the unworthy and unchristian prejudices
of rank. Are we not all equal before God ? Are we not all
equal (even in this world), before disease and death 1 Not your

The Two Destinies.

son's happiness only, but your own peace of mind is concerned,
in taking heed to my words. I warn you, madam, you cannot
hinder the destined union of these two child-spirits, in after
years, as man and wife. Part them now — and you will be
responsible for the sacrifices, degradations, and distresses
through which your George and my Mary may be condemned
to pass, on their way back to each other in later life.

" Now my mind is unburdened. Now I have said all.

" If I have spoken too freely, or have in any other way un-
wittingly offended, I ask your pardon, and remain, madam,
your faithful servant and well-wisher,

** Helen Dermody."

So the letter ended.

To me, it is something more than a mere curiosity of epis-
tolary composition. I see in it the prophecy — strangely fulfilled
in later years — of events in Mary's life and in mine, which
future pages are now to tell.

My mother decided on leaving the letter unanswered. Like
many of her poorer neighbours, she was a little afraid of Dame
Dermody ; and she was, besides, habitually averse to all dis-
cussions which turned oc the mysteries of spiritual life. I was
reproved, admonished, and forgiven — and there was the end
of it.

For some happy weeks, Mary and I returned, without hin-
drance or interruption, to our old intimate companionship. The
end was coming, however, when we least expected it. My
mother was startled one morning by a letter from my father
which informed her that he had been unexpectedly obliged to
sail for England at a moment's notice ; that he had arrived in
London, and that he was detained there by business which

Two Young Hearts.

would admit of do delay. We were to wait for him at home,
in daily expectation of seeing him — the moment he was free.

This news filled my mother's mind with foreboding doubts
of the stability of her husband's grand speculation in America.
The sudden departure from the United States, and the myste-
rious delay in Loudon, were ominous to her eyes of misfortune
to come. I am now writing of those dark days in the past,
when the railway and the electric telegraph were still visions
in the minds of inventors. Kapid communication with my
father (even if he would have consented to take us into his
confidence) was impossible. We had no choice but to wait
and hope.

The weary days passed — and still my father's brief letters
described him as detained by his business. The morning
came, when Mary and I went out with Dermody the bailiff,
to see the last wild-fowl of the season lured into the Decoy —
and still the welcome home waited for the master, and waited
in vain.

CHAPTER III.

SWEDENBOKO AND THE SIBYL.

.Y narrative may move on again, from the point
at which it paused in the first chapter.

Mary and I (as you may remember) had left
the bailiff alone at tlie Decoy, and had set
forth on our way together to Dermod^'s cot-
tage.

As we approached the garden gate, I saw a servant from the
hoi'ise waiting there. He carried a message from my mother
— a message for me.

" My mistress wishes you to go home, Master George, {^
soon as you can. A letter has come by the coach. My master
means to take a post-chaise from London, and sends word
that we may expect him in the course of the day."

Mary's attentive face saddened when she heard those words.
" Must you really go away, George," she whispered, " before
you see what I have got waiting for you at home 1 "

I remembered Mary's promised " surprise," the secret of
which was only to be revealed to me when we got to the cot-
tage. How could I disappoint her ? My poor little lady-love
looked ready to cry at the bare prospect of it. ^

I dismissed the servant with a message of the temporising

SwecUnhorg and Uu Sibyl.

sort. My love to my mother — and I would be back at the
house in half an hour.

We entered the cottage.

Dame Dermody wan sitting in the light of the window as
uRiial, with one of the mystic books of Emanuel Swedenborg
open on her lap. She solemnly lifted her hand, on our ap-
pearance ; signing to us to occupy our customary comer, with-
out speaking to her. It was an act of domestic high treason
to interrupt the Sibyl at her books. We crept quietly into
our places. Mar y waited until she saw her grandmother's
grey head bend down, and her grandmother's bushy eyebrows
contract attentively, over her reading. Then, and then only,
the discreet child rose on tiptoe ; disappeared noiselesnly in
the direction of her bedchamber ; and came back to me, carry-
ing something carefully wrapped up in her best cambric hand-
kerchief

" Is that the surprise 1 " I whispered.

Mary whispered back, " Guess what it is ! "

" Something for me 1"

" Yes, Gro on guessing. What is it ? "

I guessed three times — and each guess was wrong. Mary
decided on helping me by a hint.

" Say your letters," she suggested ; " and go on till I stop
you."

I began : " A, B, C, D, E, F " There she stopped me.

" It's the name of a Thing," she said. " And it begins with
F."

I guessed " Fern," " Feather," " Fife "—and there my re-
sources failed me.
Mary sighed and shook her head. " You don't take pains,"

The Two Destinies,

she said. " You are three whole years older than I am. After
all the trouble I have taken to please you, you may be too big
to care for my present, when you see it. Guess again."

** I can't guess."

" You must ! "

" I give it up."

Mary refused to let me give it up. S)ie helped me by an-
other hint.

" What did you once say you wished you had in your boat 1 "
she asked.

" Was it long ago 1 '' I inquired, at a loss for an answer.

" Long, long ago ! Before the winter. When the autumn
leaves were falling — and you took me out one evening for a
sail. Ah, George, ym, have forgotten !"

Too true, of me and of my brethren, old and young alike !
It is always hia love that forgets, and her love that remembers.
We were only two children — and we wero types of the man and
the woman already !

Mary lost patience with me. Forgetting the terrible pre-
sence of her grandmother, she jumped up ; and snatched the
concealed object out of the handkerchief.

" There ! " she cried briskly, " wm do you know what it is % "

I remembered at last. The thing I had wished for in my
boat, all those months ago, was a new flag. And here was the
flag made for me in secret by Mary's own hand ! The ground
was green silk, with a dove embroidered on it in white, carry-
ing in its beak the typical olive branch, wrought in gold
thread. The work was the tremulous uncertain work of a
child's fingers. But how faithfully my little darling had re-
membered my wish — how patiently she had plied the needle

Swedenbofg and t/ie Sibyl.

over the traced lines of the pattern — how industriously she
had laboured through the dreary irinter days ; and all for my
sake I What words could tell my pride, my gratitude, my
happiness ? I too forgot the presence of the Sibyl bending over
her book — 1 took the little workwoman in my arms, and
kissed her till I was fairly out of bn)ath, and oould kiss no
longer.

" Mary ! " I burst out, in the first heat of my enthusiasm—
" my father is coming home to-day. I will speak to him to-
night. And I will marry you to-morrow."

" Boy ! " said the awful voice at the other end of the room.
"Come here."

Dame Dermody's mystic book was closed ; Dame Dermody's
weird black eyes were watching us in our corner. I approach-
ed her ; and Mary followed me timidly, by a footstep at a
time.

The Sibyl took me by the hand, with a caresaing gentleness
which was new in my experience of her.

*' Do you prize that toy 1 " she inquired, looking at the flag.
" Hide it ! " sho cried before I could answer. " Hide it, or it
may be taken from you."

" Why should I hide it 9" I asked. " I want to fly it at the
mast of my boat."

" You will never fly it at the mast of your boat ! " With
that answer, she took the flag from me, and thrust it im-
patiently into the breast-pocket of my jacket.

" Don't crumple it, grandmother ! " said Mury piteously.

I repeated my question.

'• Why shall I never fly it at the mast of my boat t"

The Two Destinies.

Dame Dennody laid her hand on the closed volume of
Swedenborg lying in her lap.

" Three times I have opened this Book since the morning,"
she said " Three times the words of the Prophet warn
me that there is trouble coming. Children ! it is trouble
that is coming to You. I looV there," ..he went on, point-
ing to the place where a ray of sunshine poured slanting
into the room ; " and I see my husband in the heavenly light.
He bows his head in grief; and he points his unerring hand
at You. George and Mary, you are consecrated to each other !
Be always worthy of your consecration, be always worthy of
yourselves." She paused. Her voice faltered. She looked
at us with softening eyes, as those look who know sadly there
is a parting at hand. " Kneel ! " she said, in a low tone of awe;
and grief. " It may be the las* time I bless you ; it may be
the last time I pray over you in this house. Kneel ! "

We knelt close together at her feet. I could feel Mary's
heart throbbing, as she pressed nearer and nearer to my side.
I could feel my own heart quickening its beat, with a fear that
was a mystery to me.

" God bless and keep George and Mary, here and hereafter.
God prosper, in future days, the union which God's wisdom
has willed. Amen. So be it. Amen."

As the last words fell from her lips, the cottage door was
thrust open. My father — followed by the bailiff— entered the
room.

Dame Dermody got slowly on her feet, and looked at him
with a stern scrutiny.

"It [las come," she said to herself. '' It looks with the eyes
— it will speak with the voice — of that man." *"

Swedenborg and the Sibyl.

i volume of

oked at him

My father broke the silence that followed ; addressing him-
self to the bailiff—

" You see, Dermody," he said, " here is my son in your cot-
tage — when he ought to be in my house." He turned, and
looked at me as I stood with my arm round little Mary, pa-
tiently waiting for my opportunity to speak.

" George," he said, with the hard smile which was peculiar
to him, when he was angry and was trying to hide it, " you are
making a fool of yourself there. Leave that child, and come

>»

to me.

Now or never was my time to declare myself. Judging
by appearances, I was still a boy. Judging by my own sensa-
tions, I had developed into a man at a moment's notice.

"Papa," I said, " I am glad to see you home again. This is
Mary Dermody. I am in love with her, and she is in love
with me. I wish to marry her as soon as it is convenient to
my mother and you."

My father burst out laughing. Before I could speak again,
his humour changed. He had observed that Dermody, too,
presumed to be amused. He seemed to become mad with an-
ger all in a moment.

" I have been told of this infernal tomfoolery," he said ;
" but I didn't believe it till now. Who has turned the boy's
weak head % Who has encouraged him to stand there hugging
that girl % If it's you, Dermody, it shall be the worst days'
work you ever did in your life." He turned to me again, be-
fore the bailiff could defend himself. " Do you hear what I
say 1 I tell you to leave Dermody's girl, j d come home with
me."

The Two Destinies,

" Yes, papa," I answered. " But I must go back to Mary,
if you please, after I have been with you."

Angry as he was, my father was positively staggered by my
audacity.

" You young idiot, your insolence exceeds belief," he burst
out. " I tell you this — you will never darken these doors
again ! You have been taught to disobey me here. You have
had things put into your head here which no boy of your age
ought to know — I'll say more, which no decent people would
have let you know."

" I beg your pardon, sir," Dermody interposed, very respect-
fully and very firmly at the same time. " There are many
things which a master, in a hot temper, is privileged to say to
the man who serves him. But you have gone beyond yourl
privilege. You have shamed me, si?, in the presence of my
mother — in the hearing of my child."

My father checked him there.

" You may spare the rest of it," he said. " We are master
and servant no longer. When my son came hanging about
your cottage, and playing at sweethearts with your girl there,
your duty was to close the door on him. You have failed in
your duty. I trust you no longer. Take a month's notice,
Dermody. You leave my service."

The bailiff steadily met my father on his own ground. He
was no longer the easy, sweet-tempered, modest man, who was
the man of my remembrance. '

" I beg to decline taking your month's notice, sir," he an-
swered. " You shall have no opportunity of repeating what
you have just said to me. I will send in my accounts to-uight,
and I will leave your service to-morrow."

Sivedenborg and the Sibyl.

"We agree for once," retorted my father. "The sooner
you go, the better."

He stepped across the room, and put his hand on my
shoulder.

" Listen to me," he said, making a last effort to control him-
self. " I don't want to quarrel with you before a discarded
servant. There must be an end to this nonsense. Leave these
people to pack up and go, and come back to the house with

me.

His heavy hand, pressing on my shoulder, seemed to press
the spirit of resistance out of me. I so far gave way as to try
to melt him by entreaties.

" Oh, papa ! papa ! " I cried, " don't part me from Mary !
See how pretty and good she is ! She has made me a flag for
my boat. Let me come here and see her sometimes. I can't
live without her."

I could say no more. My poor little Mary burst out crying.
Her tears and my entreaties were alike wasted on my father.

"Take your choice," he said, "between coming away of
your own accord, or obliging me to take you away by force. I
mean to part you and Dermody's girl."

" Neither you nor any man can part them," interposed a
voice, speaking behind us. " Kid your mind of that notion,
master, before it is too late."

My father looked round quickly, and discovered Dame

Dermody facing him in the full light of the window. She had

I stepped back, at the outset of the dispute, into the corner be-

i hind the fireplace. There she had remained, biding her time

to speak, until my father's last throat brought her out of her

[place of retirement.
D

The I wo Destinies.

They looked at each other for a moment. My father
seemed to think it beneath his dignity to answer her. Ke
went on with what he had to say to me.

" 1 shall count three slowly," he resumed. *' Before I get to
the last number, make up your mind to do what I tell you, or
submit t<, the disgrace of being taken away by force."

" Take him whi re you may," said Dame Dermody, " he will
still be on his way to his marriage with my gr&ndchild."

" And where shall I be, if you ^ilease V* asked my father,
stung into speaking to her this time.

The answer followed instantly, in these startling words : —

" Y<m will be on your way to your ruin and your death."

My father turned his back on the prophetess, with a smile
of contempt. 1

" One ! " he said, beginning to count.

I set my teeth, and clasped both arms round Mary, as he
spoke. I had inherited some of his temper, and he "vas now
to know it

" Two ! " proceeded my father, after waiting a little.

Mary put her trembling lips to my ear, and whispered, " Let
me go, George ! I can't bear to sec it. On, look how he
frowns ! 1 know he'll hurt you ! "

My father lifted his forefinger, as a preliminary warning
before he counted Three.

" Stop I " cried Dame Dermody.

My father looked round at her again, with sardonic astonish-
ment.

" I beg your pardon, ma'am — have you anything particular
to say to me 1 " he asked.

"Man !" returned the Sibyl, "you speak lightly. Have I

Suedenborg and the Sibyl.

inary warning

spoken lightly to you ? 1 warn you to bov/ your wicked will
before a Will that is mightier than yours. The spirits of these
children are kindred spirits. For time and for eternity, they
are united one to the other. Put land and sea between them

they will still be together ; tiiey will communicate in visions,

they will be revealed to each other in dreams. Bind them by
worldly ties ; wed your son, in the time to come, to another
woman, and my granddaughter to v^ -'other man. In vain ! I tell
you, in vain ! You may doom them to misery, you may drive
them to sin — the day of their union on earth is still a day pre-
destined in Heaven. It will come ! It will come ! Submit,
while the time of submission is yours. You are a doomed
man. I see the shadow ot disaster, I see the seal of death, on
your face. Go ; and leave these consecrated ones to walk the
dark ways of the world together, in the strength of their inno.
cence, in tlie light of their love. Go — ^and God forgive you."

In spite of himself, my father was struck by the irresistible
strength of conviction which inspired those words. The
bailiffs mother had impressed him as a tragic actress might
have impressed him on the stage. She had checked the mock-
ing answer on his lips ; but she had not shaken his iron will.
His face was as hard as ever, when he turned my way once
more.

^' The last chance, George," he said — and counted the last
number : " Three ! "

I neither moved nor answered him.

" y^v, vM have it % " he said, as he fastened his hold on my
arm.

I fastened my hold on Mary ; I whispered to her, " I won't
leave you ! " She seemed not to hear me. She trembled from

The Two Destinies,

head to foot, in my anna. A faint cry of terror fluttered from
her lips. Dermody instantly stepped forward. Before my
father could wrench me away from her, he had said in my ear,
" You can give her to im. Master George," and had released
his child from my embrace. She stretched her little frail
hands out yearningly to me^ as she lay in Dermody's arms.
" Good bye, dear," she said faintly. I saw her head sink on her
father's bosom, as I was dragged to the door. In my helpless
rage and misery, I struggled against the cruel hands that had
got me, with all the strength I had left. I cried out to her, " I
love you, Mary ! I will cojie back to you, Mary ! I will
never marry any one but you ! " Step by step, I was forced
farther and farther away. The last I saw of her, my darling's
head was still resting on Dermody's breast Her grandmother
stood near — and shook her withered hands at m/ father — and
shrieked her terrible prophecy, in the hysteric frenzy that
possessed her when she saw the separation accomplished.
" Gk) ! — ^you go to your ruin ! you go to your death I " While
her voice still mng in my ears, the cottage door was opened
and closed again. It was all over. The modest world of my
boyish love and my boyish joy disappeared like the vision of a
dream. The empty outer wilderness, which was my father's
world, opened ^ ^fore me void of love and void of joy. God
forgive me — how I hated hiL^ at that moment I

CHAPTER IV.

■ttf^

THE CURTAIN FALLS.

OR the rest of the day, and through the night, I
was kept a close prisoner in my room — watched
by a man on whose fidelity my father could depend.
The next morning I made an effort to escape,
and was discovered before I had got free of the
house. Confined again to my room, I contrived to
write to Mary, and to slip my note into the willing hand of the
housemaid who attended on me. Useless 1 The vigilance of
my guardian was not to be evaded. The woman was suspected
and followed, and the letter was taken from her. My father
tore it up with his own hands.

Later in the day, my mother was permitted to see me.
She was quite unfit, poor soul, to intercede for me, or to
serve my interests in any way. My father had completely
overwhelmed her by announcing that his wife and his son
were to accompany him when he returned to America.

" Every farthing he has in tht world," said my mother, " is
to be thrown into that hateful speculation. He has raised
money in London ; he has let the house to some rich tradesman
for seven years ; he has sold the plate, and the jewels that
came to me from his mother. The land in America swallows

The Two Destinies.

it all up. We have uo home, George, aud uo choice but to go
with him."

An hour afterwarils, the post-chaise was at the door.

My father himself took me to the carriage. I broke away
from him with a desperation which not even his resolution
could resist. I ran, I flew along the path that led to Dermody's
cottage. The door stood open ; the parlour was empty. I
went into the kitchen ; I went into the upper rooms. Solitude
everywhere. The bailiff had left his place ; and his mother and
his daughter had gone with him. No friend or neighbour
lingered near with a message ; no letter lay waiting for me ; no
hint was left to tell me in what direction they had taken their
departure. After the insulting words which his master had
spoken to him, Dermody's pride was concerned in leaving no
trace of his whereabouts ; my father might consider it a trace
purposely left, with the object of reuniting Mary and me. I
had no keepsake to speak to me of my lost darling, but the
flag which she had embroidered with her own hand. The
furniture still remained in the cottage. I sat down in our
customary comer, by Mary's empty chair, and looked again at
the pretty green flag, and burst out crying.

A light touch roused me. My father had so far yielded, as
to leave to my mother the responsibility of bringing me back
to the travelling carriage.

" We shall not find Mary here, George," she said, gently.
" And we may hear of her in London. Come with me."

I rose, and silently gave her my hand. Something low dc th
on the clean white door-post, caught my eye as we passed it.
I stooped and discovered some writing in pencil. I looked

Tk^. Curtain Falis,

closer ; it was writing in Mary's hand. The unformed childish
characters traced these last nv-^rds of farewell :

" Goodbye, dear. Don't forget Mary."

I knelt down, and kissed the writing. It comforted me — it
was like a farewell touch from Mary's hand. I followed my
mother quietly to the carriage.

Late that night we were in London.

My good mother did all that the most compassionate kind-
ness could do (in her position) to comfort me. She privately
wrote to the solicitors employed by her family, enclosing a de-
scription of Dermody and his mother and daughter, and direct-
ing inquiries to be made at the various coach offices in
London. She also referred the lawyers to tvro of Dermody's
relatives, who lived in the city, and who might know some-
thing of his »*<ovement8 after he left my father's service.
When she had done this, she had done all that lay in her
power. We neither of us possessed money enough to advertise
in the newspapers.

A week afterwards we sailed for the United States. Twice
in that interval I communicated with th^ lawyers ; and twice \
was informed that the inquiries had led to nothing.

With this, the firsi epoch in my love-story comes to an and.

For ten long years afterwards, I never again met with my
little Mary — I never even heard whether sbi? had lived to
grow to womanhood or not. I still kept the green flag, with
the dove worked on it. For the rest, the waters of oblivion
had closed over the old golden days at Greenwater Broad.

THE END OF THE PRELUDE.

[Derived from the Manuscript of George Germaine.]
CHAPTER V.

TEN YEARS OF MY LIFE.

(HEN you last saw me, I was a boy of thirteen.
You now see me a man of twenty-three.

The story of my life, in the interval between
these two ages, is a story that can be soon told.
Speaking of my father first, I have to record
that the end of his career did indeed come as
Dame Dermody had foretold it. Before we had been a year in
America, the total collapse of his land speculation was follow-
ed by his death. The catastrophe was complete. But for my
mother's little income (settled on her at her marriage) we should
both have been left helpless at the mercy of the world.

We made some kind friends among the hearty and hospitable
people of the United States, whom we were unaffectedly sorry
to leave. But there were reasons which inclined us to return
to our own country after my father's death — and we did return
accordingly.

Besides her brother (already mentioned in the earlier pages
of my narrative), my mother had another relative — a cousin,

Ten Years of my Life.

named Gennaint) — on whose assistance she mainly relied for
starting roe, when the time came, in a professional career. I
remember it, as a family rumour, that Mr. Gennaine had been
an unsuccessful suitor for my mother's hand in the days
when they were young people together. He was still a bachelor
at the later period when his eldest brother's death vrithout
issue placed him in possession of a handsome fortune. The ac-
cession of w<;alth made no difference in his habits of life ; he
was a lonely ild man, estranged from his other relatives, when
my mother and I returned to England. If I could only succeed
in plcK^ing Mr. Germaine, I might consider my prospects (in
some degree at least) as being prospects assured.

This was one consideration that influenced us in leaving
America. There was another — in which I was especially in-
terested — that drew me back to the lonely shores of Green water
Broad.

My only hope of recovering a trace of Mary was to make in-
quiries among the cottagers in the neighbourhood of my old
home. The good bailiff had been heartily liked and respected
in his little sphere. It seemed at least possible that some
among his many friends in Suffolk might have discovered traces
of him, in the year that had passed since I had left England.
In my dreams of Mary — and I dreamed of her constantly — the
lake and its woody banks formed a frequent background in the
visionary picture of my lost companion. To the lake shores I
looked, with a natural superstition, as to n>y way back to the
one life that had its promise of happiness for rm — my life with
Mary.

On our arrival in London, T started for Suffolk alone — at my
mother's request. At her age, she naturally shrank from re-

The Two Destinies.

visiting the home-scenes now occupied by the strangers to whom
our house had been let.

Ah, how my heart ached (young as I was), when I saw the
familiar green waters of the lake once more ! It was evening.
The first object that caught my eye was the gaily-painted boat,
once mine, in which Mary and I had so often sailed together'
The people in possession of our house were sailing now. The
sound of their laughter floated towards me merrily over the
still water. Thtir flag flew at the little mast-head, from which
Mary's flag had never fluttered in the pleasant breeze. I turned
my eyes from the boat — it hurt me to look at it. A few steps
onward brought me to a promontory on the shore, and revealed
the brown archways of the Decoy on the opposite bank. There
was the paling behind which we had knelt to watch the snaring
of the ducks ; there was the hole through which " Trim," the
terrier, had shown himself to rouse the stupid curiosity of the
waterfowl ; there, seen at intervals through the trees, was the
winding woodland path along which Mary and I had traced
our way to Dermody's cottage, on the day when my father's
cruel hand had torn us from each other. How wisely my good
mother had shrunk from looking again at the dear old scenes !
I turned my back on the lake, to think with calmer thoughts
in th^ shadowy solitude of the woods.

An hour's walk along the winding banks brought me round
to the cottage which had once been Mary's home.

The door was opened by a woman who was a stranger to me.
She civilly asked me to enter the parlour. I had suffered enough
already ; I made my inquiries standing on the doorstep. They
were soon at an end. The woman was a stranger in our part

Ten Years of my Life,

of Saffolk ; neither she nor her husband had ever heard of Der-
mody's name.

I pursued my investigations among the peasantry, passing
from cottage to cottage. The twilight came ; the moon rose ;
the lights began to vanish from the lattice windows — and still
I continued my weary pilgrimage ; and still, go where I mif;ht>
the answer to my questions was the same. Nobody knew any-
thing of Demiody : everybody asked if I had not brought news
of him myself. It pains me even now to recall the cruelly-com-
plete defeat of every effort which I made on that disastrous
evening. I passed the night in one of the cottages ; and I re-
turned to London the next day, broken by disappointment,
careless what I did, or where I went, next-.

Still, we were not wholly parte* I saw Mary— as Dame
Dermody said I should see her — in dreams.

Sometimes she came to me with the green flag in her hand,
and repeated her farewell words : " Don't forget Mary." Some^
times she led me to our well-remembered corner in the cottage
parlour, and opened the paper on which her grandmother had
written our prayers for us : we prayed together again, and sang
hymns together again, as if the old times had come back. Once
she appeared to me with tears in her eyes, and said, " We
must wait, dear ; our time has not come yet" TVice I saw her
looking at me, like one disturbed by anxious thoughts ; and
twice I heard her say, " Live patiently, live innocently ,(>eorge,
for my sake."

We settled in London, where my education was undertaken
by a private tutor. Before we had been long in our new abode,
an unexpected change in our prospects took place. To m^

The Two Destinies.

mother's astonishment, she received an offer of marriage (ad-
dressed to her in a letter) from Mr. Germaine.

" I entreat you not to be s^ rtled by my proposal " (the old
gentleman wrote) ; " you can hardly have forgotten that I was
once fond of you, in the days when we were both young and
both poor ? No return to the feelings associated with tkit time
is possible now. At my age, all that I ask of you is to be the
companion of the closing years of my life, and to give me some-
thing of a father's interest Ii<. promoting the future welfare of
your son. Consider this, my dear, and tell me whether you
will take the empty chair at an old man's lonely fireside."

My mother (looking almost as confused, poor soul, as if
she had become a young girl again) left the whole responsibility
of decision on the shoulders of her son ! I was not long in
making up my mind. If she said Yes, she would accept the
hand of a man of worth and honour, who bad been throughout
his whole life devoted to her ; and she would recover the com-
fort, the luxury, the social prosperity and position, of which my
father's reckless course of life had deprived her. Add to this,
that I liked Mr. Germaine, and that Mr. Germaine liked me.
Under these circumstances, why should my mother say No 1
She could produce no satisfactory answer to that question,when
I put it. As the necessary consequence, she became in due
course of time Mrs. Germaine. I have only to add that, to the
end of her life, my good mother congratulated herself (in this
case at least) on having taken her son's advice.

The years went on — and still Mary and I were parted, ex-
cept in my dreams. The years went on, until the perilous time
which comrs in every man's life, came in mine. I reached the

Ten Years of my Life,

age when the strongest of all the passions seizes on the senses,
and asserts its mastery over mind and body alike.

I had hitherto pa&tiively endured the wreck of my earliest
and dearest hopes ; I had lived patiently, and lived innocently,
for Mary's sake. Now, my patience left me ; my innocence was
numbered among the lost things of the past. My days, it is
true, were still devoted to the tasks set me by my tutor. But
my nights were given, in secret, to a reckless profligacy, which
(in my present frame of mind) I look back on with disgust and
dismay. I profaned my remembrances of Mary in the company
of women who had reached the lowest depths of degradation.
I impiously said to myself, " I have hoped for her long enough ;
I have waited for her long enough : the one thing now to do is
to enjoy my youth, and to forget her."

From the moment when I dropped into this degradation, I
might sometimes think regretfully of Mary — at the morning
time, when penitent thoughts mostly come to us — but I ceased
absolutely to see her in my dreams. We were now, in the
completest sense of the word, parted. Mary's pure spirit
could hold no communion with mine — Mary's pure spirit had
left me.

It is needless to say that I failed to keep the secret of my
depravity from the knowledge of my mother. The sight of her
grief was the first influence that sobered me. In some degree
at least, I restrained myself — I made the efibrt to return to
purer ways of life. Mr. Germaine, though I had disappointed
him, was too just a man to give me up as lost. He advised me,
as a means of self-reform, to make my choice of a profession,
and to absorb myself in closer studies than any that I had yet
pursued.

The Two Destinies.

I made my peace with this good friend and second father,
not only by following his advice, but by adopting the profession
to which he had been himself attached, before he had inherited
his fortune — the profession of medicine. Mr. Germaine had
been a surgeon : I resolved on being a surgeon too.

Having entered, at rather an earlier age than usual, on my
new way of life, I may at least say for myself that I worked
hard. I won, and kept, the interest of the professors under
whom I studied. On the other hand, it is not to be denied
that my reformation was, morally speaking, far from being
complete. I worked — but what I did was done selfishly, bit'
terly, with a hard heart. In religion and morals, I adopted
the views of a materialist companion of my studies — a worn-
out man of more than double my age. I believed in nothing
but what I could see, or taste, or feel. I lost all faith in human-
ity. With the one exception of my mother, 1 had no respect
for women. My remembrances of Mary deteriorated until they
became little more than a lost link of association with the paat.
I still preserved the green flag, as a matter of habit — but it
was no longer kept about me : it was left undisturbed in a
drawer of my writing-desk. Now and then,ja wholesome doubt
whether my life was not utterly unworthy of me, would rise in
my mind. But it held no long possession of my thoughts.
Despising others, it was in the logical order of things that I
should follow my conclusions to their bitter end, and consis-
tently despise myself.

The term of my majority arrived. I was twenty-one years
old — and of the illusions of my youth not a vestige remained !

Neither my mother nor Mr. Germaine could make any posi-
tive complaint of my conduct. But they were both thoroughly

Ten Years of my Life.

uneasy about me. After anxious consideration, my step-father
arrived at a conclusion. He decided that the one chance of re-
storing me to my better and brighter self, was to try the stimu-
lant of a life among new people and new scenes.

At the period of which I am now writing, the home govera-
ment had decided on sending a special diplomatic mission to one
of the native princes ruling over a remote province of our
Indian empire. In the disturbed state of the province at that
time, the mission, on its arrival in India, was to be accompanied
to the prince's court by an escort, including the military as well
as the civil servants of the Crown. The surgeon appointed to
sail with the expedition from England was an old friend of Mr.
Germaine's, and was in want of an assistant on whose capacity
he could rely. Through my step-father's interest, the post was
offered to me. I accepted it without hesitation. My only
pride left was the miserable pride of indifference. So long as
I pursued my profession, the place in which I pursued it was a
matter of no importance to my mind.

It was long before we could persuade my mother even to con-
template the new prospect now set before me. When she did
at length give way, she jrielded most unwillingly. I confess I
left her with the tears in my eyes — the first I had shed for many
a long year past.

The history of our expedition is part of the history of British
India : it has no place in this narrative.

Speaking personally, I have to record that I was rendered in-
capable of performing my professional duties in less than a
week from the time when the mission reached its destination.
We were encamped outside the city ; and an attack was made
on us, under cover of darkness, by the fanatical natives. The

The Two Destinies,

attempt was defeated with little difficulty, and with only a
trifliug loss on our side. I was among the wounded — ^having
been struck by a javelin, or spear, while I was passing from one
tent tc another.

Inflicted by an European weapon, my injury would have been
of no serious consequence. But the tip of the Indian spear
had been poisoned. I escaped the mortal danger of " lockjaw '*
— but, through some peculiarity in the action of the poison on
my constitution (which I am quite unable to explain), my wound
obstinately refused to heal.

I WuS invalided, and sent to Calcutta, where the best surgi-
cal Iie)p waa at uiy disposal To all appearance, the wound
healed here — then broke out again. Twice this happened ;
and the medical men agreed that the best course to take would
be to send me home. They calculated on the invigorating effect
of the sea voyage, and, failing this, on the salutary influence of
my native air. In the Indian climate, I was pronounced in-
curable.

Two days before the ship sailed, a letter from my mother
brought me startling news. My life to come — if I Aa(2 alife to
come — had becL turned into a new channel. Mr. G^rmaine
had died suddenly of heart disease. His will, bearing date at
the time when I left England, bequeathed an income for life to
my mother, and left the bulk of his property to me : on the
one condition that I adopted his name. I accepted the condi- ,
tioQ, of course — and became George Germaine.

Three months later, my mother and I were restored to each
other.

Except that I still had some trouble with my wound, behold
me now to all appearance one of the most enviable of existing

Ten Years of my Life.

mortals : promoted to the position of a wealthy gentleman ;
possessor of a hoose in London, and of a country seat in Perth-
shire — and nevertheless, at twenty-three years of age, one of
the most miserable men living !

And Mary ?

In the ten years that had now passed, what had become of
Maryl

You have heard my story. Jtlead the fe?; pages that follow,
and you will hear hers.

CHAPTER VI.

TEN TEARS OF HER UFE.

jHAT I have now to tell you of Mary, is derived
from information obtained at a date in my life
later by many years than any date of which I
have written yet Be pleased to remember this.
Dermody the bailiff possessed relatives in Lon-
don of whom he occasionally spoke ; and rela-
tives in Scotland whom he never mentioned. My father had
a strong prejudice against the Scocch nation. Dermody knew
hie master well enough to be aware that the prejudice might
extend to him, if he spoke of his Scotch kindred. He was a
discreet man ; ard he never mentioned them.

On leaving my father's service, he had made his way, partly
by land and partly by sea, to Glasgow — in which city his
friends resided. With his character and his experience, Der-
mody was a man in a thousand, to any master who was lucky
enough to discover him. His frienas bestirred themselves. In
six weeks' time he was placed in charge of a gentleman's estate
on the eastern coast of Scotland, and was comfortably establish-
ed with his mother and his daughter in a new home.

The insulting language which my father had addressed to
him had sunk deep in Dermody's mind. He wrote privately to
his relatives in London, telling them that he had found a new

Ten Years of her Life,

situation which suited him, and that he had his reasons for not
at present mentioning his address. In this way he baffled the
inquiries which my mother's lawyers (failing to discover a trace
of him in other directions) addressed to his London friends.
Stung by his old master's reproaches, he sacrificed his daughter
and he sacrificed me — partly to his own sense of self-respect ;
partly to his conviction that the difference between us in rank
made it his duty to check all further intercourse before it was
too late.

Buried in their retirement in a remote part of Scotland, the
little household lived, lost to me, and lost to the world.

In dreams, I had seen and heard Mary. In dreams, Mary
saw and heard me. The innocent longings and wishes which
filled my heart while I was stOl a boy, were revealed to her in
the mystery of sleep. Her grandmother, holding firmly to her
faith in the predestined union between us, sustained the girl's
courage and cheered her heart. She could hear her father say
(as my father had said) that we were parted to meet no more,
and could privately think of her happy dreams as the sufficient
promise of another future than the future which Dermody con-
templated. So she still lived t^ith me in the spirit — ^and Uved
in hope.

The first affliction that befel the little household was the
death of the grandmother, by the exhaustion of extreme old
age. In her last conscious moDientS; she said to Mary, " Never
forget that you and George are spirits consecrated to each other.
Wait — in the certain knowledge that no human power can hin-
der your union in the time to come."

W'iile those words were still vividly present to Mary's mind,
our visionary union by dreams was abruptly broken on her

The Two Destinies,

side, as it had been abruptly broken on mine. In the first
days of my self-degradation I had ceased to see Mary. Exactly
at the same period, Mary ceased to see me.
' The girl's sensitive nature sank under the shock. She had
now no elder woman to comfort and auvise her; she lived
alone with her father, who invariably changed the subject when-
ever she spoke of the old times. The secret sorrow that preys
DC body and mind alike, preyed on he,r. A cold, caught at the
inclement season, turned to fever. For weeks she was in dan-
ger of death. When she recovered, her head had been stripped
of its beautiful hair by the doctor's order. The sacrifice had
been necessary to save her life. It proved to be, in one respect,
a cruel sacrifice— her hair never grew plentifully again. When
it did reappear, it had completely lost its charming mingled
hues of deep red and brown ; it was now of one monotonous
light brown colour throughout. At first sight, Mary's Scotch
friends hardly knew her again.

fiut Nature made amends for what the head had lost, by
what the face and the figure gained.

In a year from the date of her illness, the frail little child of
the old days at Greenwater Broad, had ripened in the bracing
Scotch air and the healthy mode of life, into a comely young
woman. Her features were still, as in her early years, not re-
gularly beautiful ; but the change in her was not the less mark-
ed on that account. The wan face had filled out, and the pale
complexion had fuund its colour. As to her figure, its remark-
able development was perceived even by the rough people about
her. Promising nothing when she was a child, it had now
sprung into womanly fulness, synuuetry and grace — it was a
strikingly beautiful figure, in the strictest sense of the word.

Ten Years of her Life,

Morally as well as physically, there were moments, at this
periofl of their lives, when even her own father hardly recog-
nised his daughter of former days. She had lost her childish
vivacity — her sweet equable flow of good humour. Silent and
self-absorbed, she went through the daily routine of her duties,
enduringly. The hope of meeting me again had sunk to a dead
hope in her by this time. She made no complaint The bodily
strength that she had gained in these later days had its sympa-
thetic influence in steadying her mind. When her father once
or twice ventured to ask if she was still thinking of me, she
answered quietly that she had brought herself to share his
opinions. She could not doubt that I had long since ceased to
think of her. Even if I had remained faithful to her, she was
old enough now to know that the difference between us in rank
made our union by marriage an impossibility. It would be best
(she thought) not to refer any more to the past — best to forget
me, as I had forgotten her. So she spoke now. So, tried by
the test of appearances. Dame Dermody's confident forecast of
our destinies had failed to justify itself, and had taken its place
among the predictions that are never fulfilled.

The next notable event in the family annals which followed
Mary's illness happened when she had attained the age of
nineteen years. Even at this distance of time, my heart sinks,
my courage fails me, at the critical stage in my narrative which
I have now reached.

A storm of unusual severity burst over the eastern coast of
Scotland. Among the ships that were lost in the- tempest was
a^vessel bound from Holland, which was wrecked on the rocky
shore near Dermody's place of abode. Leading the way in all
good actions, the baili£f led the way in rescuing the passengers

The Two Destinies.

and crew of the lost ship. He had brought one man alive to
land, and was on his way back to the vessel, when two heavy
seas, following iu close succession, dashed him against the rocksL
He was rescued, at the risk of their own lives, by his neighbours.
The medical examination disclosed a broken bone, and severe
bruises and lacerations. So far, Dermody's sufferings were
easy of relief. But, after a lapse of time, symptoms appeared
in the patient which revealed to his medical attendant the
presence of serious internal injury. In the doctor's opinion
he could never hope to resume the active habits of his life.
He would be an invalided and a crippled man for the rest of hia
days.

Under these melancholy circumstances the bailiff's employer
did all that could be strictly expected of him. He hired an
assistant to undertake the supervision of the farmwork ; and he
permitted Dermody to occupy his cottage for the next three
months. This concession gave the poor man time to recover
such relics of strength as were still left to him, and to consult
his friends iu Qlasgow on the doubtful <][uestion of his life to
come.

The prospect was a serious one. Dermody was quite unfit
for any sedentary employment ; and the little money that he
had saved was not enough to support his daughter and himself.
The Scotch friends were willing and kind ; but they had do-
mestic claims on them, and they had no money to spare.

In this emergency, the passenger in the wrecked vessel
(whose life Dermody had saved) came forward with a proposal *
which took father and daughter alike by surprise. He made
Mary an offer of marriage, on the express underatanding (if^

Ten Years of her Life.

she accepted him) that her home was to be her father's home
also, to the end of his life.

The person who thus associated himself with the Dermodys
in the time of their trouble, was a Dutch gentleman, named
Ernest Van Brandt. He possessed a share in the fishing es-
tablishment on the shores of the Zuyder Zee ; and he was on
his way to establish a correspondence with the fisheries in the
north of Si >tland when the vessel was wrecked. Mary had
produced a strong impression on him when they first met. He
had lingered in the neighbourhood, in the hope of gaining her
favourable regard with time to help him. Personally, he was
a handsome man, in the prime of life ; and he was possessed of
a sufficient income to marry on. In making his proposal ho
produced references to persons of high social position in Hol-
land, who could answer for him, so far as the questions of char-
acter and position were concerned.

Mary was long in considering which course it would be best
for her helpless father, and best for herself, to adopt.

The hope of a marriage with me had been a hope abandoned
by hei' years since. No woman looks forward willingly to a
life of cheerless celibacy. In thinking of her future, Mary na-
turally thought of herself in the character of a wife. Could she
fairly expect, in the time to come, to receive any more attrac-
tive proposal than the proposal now addressed to her ? Mr.
Van Brandt had every personal advantage that a woman could
desire : he was devotedly in love with her ; and he felt a grate-
ful affection for her father, as the man to whom he owed his
life. With no other hope in her heart — with no other pros-
pect in view — what could she do better than marry Mr. Van
Brandt ?

The Two Destinies.

Influenced by these considerations, she decided on speaking
the fatal word. She said, Yes.

At the same time, she spoke plainly to Mr. Van Brandt ; un-
reservedly acknowledging that she had contemplated another
future than the future now set before her. She did not conceal
that there had been an old love in her heart, and that a new
love was more than she could command. Esteem, gratitude,
and regard she could honestly offer — and, with time, love might
come. For the rest, she had long since disassociated herself
fh>m the past, and had definitely given up all the hopes and
wishes once connected with it. Repose for her father, and
tranquil happiness for herself, were the only favours that she
asked of fortune now. These she might find under the roof
of an honourable man who loved and respected her. She could
promise, on her side, to make him a good and faithful wife, if
she could promise no more. It rested with Mr. Van Brandt
to say whether he really believed that he would be consulting
his own happiness in marrying her on these terms.

Mr. Van Brandt accepted the terms without a moment's
hesitation.

They would have been married immediately but for an
alarming change for the worse in the condition of Dermody's
health. Symptoms showed themselves which the doctor con-
fessed that he had not anticipated when he had given his
opinion on the case. He warned Mary that the end might be
near. A physician was summoned from Edinburgh, at Mr. Van
Brandt's expense. He confirmed the opinion entertained by
the country doctor. For some days longer the good bailiff lin-
gered. On the last morning, he put his daughter's hand in
Van Brandt's hand. " Make her happy, sir," he said, in his

Ten Years of her Life,

simple way ; " and yuu will be even with me for saving your
life." The same day, h<. died quietly in his daughter's arms.

Mary's future was now entirely in her lover's hands. The
relatives in Glasgow had daughters of their own to provide for.
The relatives in London resented Dermody's neglect of them.
Yan Brandt waited delicately and considerately, until the first
violence of the girl's grief had worn itself out — and then he
pleaded irresistibly for a husband's claim to c^)nt>ole her.

The time at which they were married in Scotland Wcis also
the time at which I was on my way home from lR<\ia. Mary
had then reached the age of twenty years.

The story of our ten years' separation is now told : the nar^
rative leaves us at the outset of our new lives.

I am with my mother, beginning my career as a country gen-
tleman on the estate in Perthshire whioh I have inherited from
Mr. Germaine. Mary is with her husband, enjoying her new
privileges, learning her new duties, as a wife. She too is living
in Scotland — living, by a strange fatality, not very far distant
from my country house. I have no suspicion that she is so
near to me : the name of Mrs. Van Brandt (even if I had heard
it) appeals to no familiar associations in my mind. Still, the
kindred spirits are parted. Still, there is no idea on her side,
and no idea on mine, that we shall ever meet again.

CHAPTER VIL

THE WOMAN ON THE BRIDGE.

jY mother looked in at the libmry door, and dis-
turbed me over my books.

"I have been hanging a little picture in
my room," she said. " Come upstairs, my dear,
and give me your opinion of it."
I rose and followed her^' She pointed to a
miniature portrait hanging above the mantelpiece.

" Do you know whose likeness that is 1 " she asked half sadly,
half playfully. " Gkorge 1 do you really not recognise your-
self at thirteen years old 1 "

How should 1 recognise myself 1 Worn by sickness and sor-
row ; browned by the sun, on my long homeward voyage ; my
hair already growing thin over my forehead, my eyes already
habituated to their one sad and weary look — what had I in
common with the fair, plump, curly-headed, bright-eyed boy
who confronted me in the miniature 1 The mere sight of the
portrait produced the most extraordinary effect on my mind.
It struck me with an overwhelming melancholy ; it filled me
¥rith a despair of myself too dreadful to be endured. Making
the best excuse I could to my mother, I left the room. Inv
another minute I was out of the house.

The Woman on the Bridge.

1 crossed the park, and left my own possessions behind me.
Following a by-road I came to our well-known river — so beau-
tiful in itself, so famous among trout-fishers throughout Scot-
land. It wab not then the fishing season. No human being
was in sight as I took my seat on the bank. The old stone
bridge which spanned the stream was within a hundred yards
of me ; the setting sun still tinged the swifb-fiowing water un-
der the arches with its red and dying light.

Still the boy's face in the miniature pursued me. Still the
portrait seemed to reproach me, in a merciless language of its
own : " Look at what you were ance — think of what you are
now!"

I hid my face in the soft fragrant grass. I thought of the
wasted years of my life between thirteen and twenty-three.

How was it to end ? * If I lived to the ordinary life of man,
what prospect had I before me %

Love ? Marriage % I burst out laughing as the idea crossed
ray mind. Since the innocently-happy days of my boyhood, I
had known no more of love than the insect that now crept over
my hand as it lay on the grass. My money, to be sure, would
buy me a wife ; but would my money make her dear to me % —
dear as Mary had once been, in the golden time when my por-
trait was first painted ?

Mary I Was she still living 1 Was she married 1 Should
I know her again if I saw her 1 Absurd 1 I had not seen her
since she was ten yearvS old : she was now a woman, as .1 was a
man. Would she know m«, if we met? The portrait, still
pursuing me, answered th(> question : '' Look at what you were
okce— -think of what you are now."

MKMMKi

,tia' ^u im timm > j i ,iw iiii i ii i iiit »«i aiMlBWiwit

TAe Two Destinies,

I rose and walked backwards and forwards, and tried to turn
the current of my thoughts in some new direction.

It was not to be done. After a banishment of years. Mary
had got back again into my mind. I sat down once more on
the river-bank. The sun was sinking fast. Black shadows
hoven 1 under the arches of the old stone bridge. The red
light had faded from the swift-flowing water, and had left it
overspread with one monotonous hue of steely grey. The first
stars looked down peacefully from the cloudless sky. The first
shiverings of the night-breeze were audible among the trees,
and visible here and there in the shallow places of the stream.
And still, the darker it grew, the more persistently my por-
trait led me hack to the past — the rnore vividly the long lost
image of the child Mary showed itself to me in my thoughts.

Was this the prelude to her coming back to me in dreams —
in her perfected womanhood, in the young prime of her life )

It might be so.

I was no longer unworthy of her, as I had once been. The
effect produced on me by the sight of my portrait was in itself
due to moral and mental changes in me for the better, wliich
had been steadily proceeding since the time when my wound
had laid me helpless amor^ strangers in a strange land. Sick-
ness, which has made itself teacher and friend to many a man,
had made itself teacher and friend tc< me. I looked back with
horror at the vices of my youth — at the fruitless after- days
when I had impiously doubted all that is most noble, all that is
most consoling in human life. Consecrated by sorrow, purified
by repentance, was it vain in me to hope that her spirit and my
spirit might yet be united again % Who could tell 1

I rose once more. It could serve no good purpose tol j[nger

The Woman on the Bridge,

until night by the banks of the river. I had left the house,
feeling the impulse which drives us, in certain excited conditions
of the mind, to take refuge in movement and change. The
remedy had failed ; my mind was as strangely disturbed as
ever. My wisest course would be to go home, and keep my
good mother company over her favourite game of piquet

I turned to take the road back — and stopped, struck by the
tranquil beauty of the last faint light in the western sky, shin-
ing behind the black line formed by the parapet of the bridge.

In the grand gathering of the night shadows, in the deep
stillness of the dying day, I stood alone, and watched the sink-
ing light.

As I looked, there came a change over the scene. Suddenly
and softly, a living figure glided into view on the bridge. It
passed behind the black line of the parapet, in the last long
rays of the western light. It crossed the bridge. It paused,
and crossed back again half way. Then it stopped. The
minutes passed — and there the figure stood, a motionless black
object, behind the black parapet of the bridge.

I advanced a little, moving near enough to obtain a closer
view of the dress in which the figure was attired. The dress
showed me that the solitary stranger was a woman.

She did not notice me, in the shadow which the trees cast on
the bank. She stood, with her arms folded in her cloak, look-
ing down at the darkening river.

Why was she waiting there, at the close of evening, alone 1

As the question occurred to me, I saw her head move. She
looked along the bridge, first on one side of her, then on the
other. Was she waiting for some person who was to meet her ?

The Two Destinits.

Or was she suspicious of observation, and anxious to make
sure that she was alone ?

A sudden doubt of her purpose in seeking that solitary place
— a sudden distrust of the lonely bridge an'^ the swift-flowing
river — set my heart beating quickly, and roused me to instant
action. I hurried up the rising ground which lad from the
river bank to the bridge ; determined on speaking to her, while
the opportunity was still mine.

She neither saw nor heard me until I was close to her. I
approached with an irrepressible feeling of agitation; not know-
ing how she might receive me when I spoke to her. The mo-
ment she turned and faced me, my composure came back. It
was as if, expecting to see a stranger, I had unexpectedly en-
countered a friend.

And yet she was a stranger. I had never before looked on
that grave and noble face, on that grand figure whose exquisite
grace and symmetry even her long cloak could not wholly hide.
She was not, perhaps, a strictly beautiful woman. There were
defects in her which were sufficiently marked to show them-
selves in the fading light. Her hair, for example, seen under
the large garden hat that she wore, looked almost as short as
the hair of a man ; and the colour of it was of that dull lustre-
^ss brown hue which is so commonly seen iu Englishwomen
of the ordinary type. Still, in spite of these drawbacks, there
was a latent charm in her expression, there was an inbred fas-
cination in her manner, which instantly found its way to my
sympathies, and its hold on my admiration. She won me, in
the moment when I first looked at her.

" May I inquire if you have lost your way ? " I asked.

Her eyes rested on my face with a strange look of inquiry in

iMiterfabiMMMUliw

The Woman on the Bridge.

Doake

place
)wing
istant
m the
while

ler. T
know-
he mo-
5k. It
dly en-

luiry in

them. She did not appear to be surprised or confused at my
venturing to a'^dress her.

" I know this part of the country well/' I went on. " Can
I be of any use to you % "

She still looked at me with steady inquiring eyes. For a
moment, stranger as I was, my face seemed to trouble her as if
it had been a face that she had seen and forgotten again. If
she really had this idea, she at once dismissed it with a little
toss of her head, and looked away at the river, as if she felt
no further interest in me.

" Thank you. I have not lost my way. I am accustomed
to walking alone. Good evening."

She spoke coldly, but courteously. Her voice was delicious ;
her bow as she left me was the perfection of unaffected grace.
She left the bridge on the side by which I had first seen her
approach it, and walked slowly away along the darkening track
of the high road.

Still I was not quite satisfied. There was something under-
lying the charming expression, and the fascinating manaer,
which my instinct felt to be something wrong. As I walked
away towards the opposite end of the bridge, the doubt began
to grow on me whether she had spoken the truth. In leaving
the neighbourhood of the river, was she simply trying to get
rid of me ?

I resolved to put this suspicion of her to the test. Leaving the
bridge I had only to cross the road beyond, and to enter a planta-
tion on the bank of the river. Here, concealed behind the first
tree which was large enough to hide me, I could command a view
of the'bridi^e, and I could fairly count on detecting her, if she
returned to the river, while there was a ray of light to see her

The Two Destinies.

by. It was not easy walking in the obscurity of the planta-
tion ; I had almost to grope my way to the nearest tree that
suited my purpose.

I had just steadied my foothold on the uneven ground
behind the tree, when the stillness of the twilight hour was
suddenly broken by the distant sound of a voice.

The voice was a woman's. It was not raised to any hi<;;h
pitch ; its accent was the accent of prayer — and the words it
uttered were these : —

" Christ hiive mercy on me ! "

There was silence again. A nameless fear crept over me as
I looked out on the bridge.

She was standing on the parapet. Before I could move,
before I could cry out, before I could even breathe again
freely, she leapt into the river.

The current ran my way. I could see her as she rose to
the surface, floating by in the light on the mid-stream. I ran
headlong down the bank. She sank again in the moment
when I stopped to throw aside my hat and coat, and to kick
o£f my shoes. I was a practised swimmer. The instant I was
in the water my composure came back to me — I felt like my-
self again.

The currenb swept me out into the mid-stream, and greatly
increased the speed at which I swam. I wag close behind
her when she rose for the second time — a shadowy thing ju«t
visible a few inches below *he surface of the river. One more
stroke, and my left arm was around her ; I had her face out
of the water. She was insensible. I could hold her in the right
way to leave me master of all my movements ; I could devote

The Woman on the Bridge.

myself, without flurry or fatigue, to the exertion of taking her
back to the shore.

My first attempt satisfied me that there was no reasonable
hope, burdened as I now was, of breasting the strong current
running towards the mid-river from either bank. I tried it
on one side, and I tried it on the other — and gave it up. The
one choice left was to let myself drift with her down the stream.
Some fifty yards lower, the river took a turn round a pro-
montory of land, on which stood a little inn, much frequented
by anglers in the season. As we approached the place, I made
another attempt (again an attempt in vain) to reach the shore.
Our last chance now was to be heard by the people of the inn.
I shouted at the full pitch of my voice ae we diifted past The
cry was answered. A man put off in a boat. In five minutes
more I had her safe on the bank again ; and the man and I
were carrying her to the inn by the river side.

The landlady and her servant-gii? were equally willing to be
of service, and equally ignorant of what they were to do. For*
tnnately, my medical education made me competent to direct
them. A good fire, warm blankets, hot-water in bottles, were
all at my disposal. I showed the women myself how to ply
the work of revival. They persevered, and I persevered ; and,
still, there she lay in her peifect beauty of form, without a
sign of life perceptible — there she lay, to all outward appear-
ance, dead by drowning.

A last hope was left — the hope of restoring her (if I could
constract the apparatus in time) by the process called " artifi-
cial respiration." I was just endeavouring to tell the landlady
what I wanted, and was just conscious of a strange difficulty

The Two Destinies,

in expretfing myself, when the good woman started back,
and looked at me, with a scream of terror.

" Good Qod, sir, you're bleeding ! " she cried. " What's
the matter 1 where are you hurt 1 "

In the moment w "^ sV .poke to me I knew what had hap-
pened. The old In u >4^~nnd (irritated doubtless by the
violent exertion that I L ' i-:^d^\ on myself) had opened again.
I struggled against the sudden tie:.se of faintness that seized
on me ; I tried to tell the people of the inn what to do. It was
useless. I dropped to my knees ; my head sank on the bosom
of the woman stretched senseless upon the low couch beneath
m& The death-in-life that had got her had got vm. Lost to
the world about us, we lay with my blood flowing on her,
united in our deathly trance !

Where were our spirits at that moment % Were they to-
gether, and conscious of each other % United by a spiritual
bond, undiscovered and unsuspected by us in the flesh, did
we two, who had met as strangers on the fatal bridge, know
each other again in the tiance % You who have loved and
lost — you whose one consolation it has been to believe in other
worlds than this — can you turn from my questions in contempt ?
can you honestly say that they have never been yowr questions,
tool

::SJtKWlft!S

rnrtf^-iftt ft ar l gyiy*'" -f ' -. n-ri'

t1 IW.a M i .^BWW ^t— f W

CHAPTER VIII.

THE KINDRED SPIRITS.

HE morning sunlight, shining in at a badl,^ "^i-
. tained window; a clumsy wooden bed, with bi^
twisted posts that reached to the geiling ; o: oc j
side of the bed my mother's welcome face ; on the
other side, an- elderly gentleman, unremembered by
me at that moment — such were the objects that
presented themselves to my view when I first conscioasly
returned to the world that we live in.

" Look, doctor, look ! he has come to his senses at last"
" Open your mouth, sir, and take a sup of this."
My mother was rejoicing over me on one side of the bed ;
and the unknown gentleman, addressed as <* doctor," waft
offering me a spoonful of whiskey and water on the other, lie
called it the *' elixir of life ; " and he bade me remark (speaking
in a strong Scotch accent) that ho tasted it himself to show he
was in earnest.

The stimulfl.nt did its good work. My head felt less giddy;
my mind became clearer. I could speak collectedly to my
mother ; I could vaguely recall the more marked events of the
previous evening. A minute or two more, and the image of
the person in whom those events had all centred became a liv

Mkmt'

The Two Destinies.

ing image in my memory. I tried to raise myself in the bed ;
I asked impatiently, " Where is she 1 "

The doctor produced another spoonful of the elixir of life,
and gravely repeated his first address to me :

" Open your mouth, sir, and take a sup of this."

I persisted in repeating my question :

" Where is she 1"

The doctor persisted in repeating his formula :

"Take a sup of this."

I was too weak to contest the matter — I obeyed. My medi-
cal attendant nodded across the bed to my mother, and said,
*' Now he'll da" My mother had some compassion on me :
she relieved my anxiety in these plain words :

" The lady has quite recovered, George ; thanks to the doc-
tor here."

I looked at my professional colleague with a new interest.
He was the legitimate fountain-head of the information that I
was dying to have poured into my mind.

" How did you revive her ? " I asked. " Where is she now 1 "

The doctor held up his hand ; warning me to stop.

" We shall do well, sir, if we proceed systematically," he be-
gan, in a very positive manner. *' You will understand that
every time you open your mouth, it will be to take a sup of this
— and not to speak. I shall tell you in due course, and the
good lady your mother will tell you, all that you have any n^ed
to know. As I happen to have been first on what you may call
the scene of action, it stands in the fit order of things that I
should speak first. You will just permit me to mix a little
more of the elixir of life — and then, as the poet says, my plain
unvarnished tale I shall deliver."

. ji.ii,.»»m»i.m— I— «— M— i—M— On

The Kindred Spirits.

So he spoke, pronouncing, in a strong Scotch accent, the most
carefully selecteil English I had ever heard. A hard-headed,
squareHBhouldered, pertinaciously-self-willed man, it was plainly
useless to contend with him. I turned to my mother's gentle
face for encouragement, and I let my doctor have his own way.

" My name,'' he proceeded, " is MacGlue. I had the honour
of presenting my respects at your house yonder, when you first
came to live in this neighbourhood. You don't remember me
at present, which is natural enough in the unbalanced condi-
tion of your mind ; consequent, you will understand (as a pro-
fessional person yourself), on copious loss of blood."

There my patience gave way.

"Never mind me," I interposed. "Tell me about the
lady."

" You have opened your mouth, sir I " cried Mr. MacGlue
severely. " You know the penalty — take a sup of this. I told
you We should proceed systematically," he went on, after he
had forced me to submit to the penalty. " Everything in its
place, Mr. Germaine ; everything in its place. I was speaking
ofyour bodily condition. Well, sir, and how did I discover
your bodily condition ? Providentially for ymi^ I was driving
home, yesterday evening, by the lower road (which is the road
by the river-bank ) ; and, drawing near to the inn here (they
call it an hotel : it's nothing but an inn), I heard the screech-
ing of the landlady half a mile off. A good woman enough,
you will understand, as times go ; but a poor creature in an
emergency. Keep still ; I'm coming to it now. Well, I went
in to see if the screeching related to anything wanted in the
medical way \ and there I found you and the stranger lady —
in a position which I may truthfully describe as standing in

7 hi Two Destinies.

■omo need of improvement on the score of propriety. Tut !
tut I I speak jocosely — you were both in a dead swoon.
Having heard what the landlady had to tell me, and having
to the best of my ability separated history from hysterics, in
the course of the woman's narrative, I found myself, as it were,
placed between two laws. The law of gallantry, you see,
pointed to the lady as the first object of my professional ser-
vices — while the law of humanity (seeing that you were still
bleeding) pointed no less imperatively to you. I am no longer
a young man — I left the lady to wait. My word ! it was no
light matter, Mr. Germaine, to deal with your case, and get
you carried up here out of the way. That old wound of yours,
sir, is not to be trifled with. I bid you beware how you open
it again. The next time you go out for an evening walk, and
you see a lady in the water, you will do well for your own
health to leave her there. What's that I see 1 Are you open-
ing your mouth again 1 Do you want another sup already 1 "

" He wants to hear more about the lady," said my mother,
interpreting my wishes for me.

" Oh, the lady," resumed Mr. MacGlue, with the air of a
man who found no great attraction in the subject proposed to
him. " There's not much that I know of to be said about the
'lady. A fine woman, no doubt. If you could strip the flesh
ofl* her bones, you would find a splendid skeleton underneath.
For, mind this I there's uo such thing as a finely-made woman,
without a good bony scaflblding to build her on at starting.
I don't think much of this lady — morally speaking, you will
understand. If I may be permitted to say so, in your pre-
sence, ma'am, there's a man in the background of that dra-
matic scene of hers on the bridge. However — not being the

1 he Kimirai Spirits.

man myself — I have nothiog to do with that My businem
with the lady was just to set har vital machinery going again.
And, Heaven knows, she proved a heavy handful I It wat
even a more obstinate case to deal vrith, sir, than yours. I
never, in all my experience, met with two people more un-
willing to come back to this world and its troubles than you
two were. And when I had done the business at last, when
I was well-nigh swooning myself with the work and the worry
of it, guess — I give you leave to speak for this once — guess
what were the first words the lady said to me, when she came
to herself again."

I was too much excited to be able to exercise my ingenuity.
*' I give it up ! " I said impatiently.

" You may well give it up," remarked'Mr. MacGlue. " The
first words she addressed, sir, to the man who had dragged her
out of the very jaws of death, were these : ' How dare you med-
dle with me 1 Why didn't you leave me to die 1 ' Her exact
language —I'll take my Bible oath of it. I was so provoked
that I gave her the change back (as the saying is) in her own
coin. ' There's the river handy, ma'am,' I said. ' Do it again.
I, lor one, won't stir a hand to save you ; I promise you that.'
She looked up sharply. ' Are you the man who took me out of
the river ? ' she said. ' God forbid ! ' says I. ' I'm only th4^
doctor who was fo* 1 enough to meddle with you afterwards.'
She turned to the landlady. ' Who took me out of the river 1 *
she asked. The landl^idy told her — and mentioned your name.
' Germaine 1 ' she says to herself ; I know nobody named Ger-
maine ; I wonder whether it was the man who spoke to me on
the bridge V * Yes,' says the landlady ; * Mr. Germaine said
he met you on the bridge.' Hearing that, she took a little

The Two Destinies.

time to think ; and then she asked if she could see Mr. Ger-
maine. ' Whoever he is,' she says, * he has risked his life to
save me : and I ought to thank him for doing that.' 'You can't
thank him to-night' I said ; * I've got him upstairs between life
and death ; and I've sent for his mother : wait till to-morrow.*
She turned on me, looking half frightened, half angry. ' I can't
wait,' she says ; ' you don't know what you have done among
you in bringing me back to life ; I must leave this neighbour-
hood ; I oust be out of Perthshire to-morrow ; when does the
first coach southward pass this way ? ' Having nothing to do
with the first coach southward, I referred her to the people of
the inn. My business (now I had done with the lady) was up-
stairs in this room, to see how you were getting on. You were
getting on as well as I could wish ; and your good mother was
at your bedside. I went home, to see what sick people might
be waiting for me iu the regular way. When I came back this
morning, there was the foolish landlady with a new tale to
tell. * Gone ! ' says she. ' Who's gone ? ' says I. * The lady,
says she ; * by the first coach this morning ! ' "

" You don't mean to tell me that she has left the house 1 " I
ex 'aimed.

" Oh, but I do ! " said the doctor as positively as ever. " Ask
madam your mother here, and she'll certify it to yoLv heart's
content. I've got other sick ones to visit — and I'm away oa
my rounds. You'll see no more of the lady j and so much the
better, I'm thinking 1 In two hours' time I'll be back again ;
and, if I don't find you the worse in the interim, I'll see about
having you transported from this stran^je place to the snug bed
that knows you at home. Don't let him talk, ma'am — don't
let him talk ! "

The Kindred Spirits.

r. Ger-
lifeto
»u can't
Ben life
orrow.'
I can't
among
rhbour-
oes the
g to do
sople of
was up-
on were
her was
e might
ack this
tale to
le lady,

ise

1" I

'•" Ask
heart's
Bvay on
uch the
again ;
e about

bed

-don't

With those parting words, Mr. MacGlue left us to ourselves.

" Is it really true 1 " I said to my mother. " Has she left
the inn without waiting to see me % "

" Nobody could stop her, George," my mother answered.
" The lady left the inn this morning by the coach to Edin-
burgh."

I was bitterly disappointed. Yes ! " bitterly " is the word
— though she was a stranger to me.

" Did you see her yourself 1 " I asked.

" I saw her for a few minutes, my dear, on my way up to
your room."

"What did she say?"

" She begged me to make her excuses to you. She said,
' Tell Mr. Germaine that my situation is dreadful : no human
creature can help me. I must go away. My old life is as much
at an end, as if your son had left me to drown in the river. I
must find a new life for myself, in a new place. Ask Mr. Ger-
maine to forgive me for going away without thanking him. I
daren't wait 1 I may be followed and found out. There is a
person whom I am determined never to see again — never !
never! never! Good-bye; and try to forgive me.' She hid
her face in her hands, and said no more. 1 tried to win her
confidence — it was not to be done ; I was obliged to leave her.
There is some dreadful calamity, George, in that wretched
woman's life. And such an interesting creature, too ! It was
impossible not to pity her, whether she deserves it or not.
Everything about her is a mystery, my dear. She speaks Eng-
lish without the slightest foreign accent — and yet she has a
foreign name."

" Did she give you her name ? "

The Two Destinies,

" No- and I was afraid to ask her to give it. But the land-
lady here is not a very scrupulous person. She told me she
looked at the poor creature's linen, while it was drying by the
fire. The name marked on it was ' Van Brandt.' "

" Van Brandt ? " I repeated. " That sounds like a Dutch
name. And yet you say she spoke like an Englishwoman.
Perhaps she was born in England."

" Or perhaps she may be married," suggested my mother ;
"and Van Brandt may be the name of her husband."

The idea of her being a married woman had something in it
repellent to me. I wished my mother had not thou^t of that
last suggestion. I refused to receive it ; I persisted in my
own belief that the stranger was a single woman. In that
character, I could indulge myself in the luxury of thinking of
her ; I could consider the chances of my being able to trace
tiiis charming fugitive who had taken so strong a hold on my
interest — whose desperate attempt at suicide had so nearly
cost me my own life.

If she had gone as far as Edinburgh (which she would
surely do, being bent on avoiding discovery), the prospect of
finding her again — in that great city, and in my present weak
state of health — looked doubtful indeed. Still, there was an
underlying hopefulness in me which kept my spirits from being
seriously depressed. I felt a purely imaginary (perhaps I
ought to say, a purely superstitious) conviction, that we who
had nearly died together, we who had been brought to life to-
gether, were surely destined to be involved in some future
joys or sorrows common to us both ; " I fancy I shall see her
again," was my last thought before my weakness overpowered
mo, and I sank into a peaceful sleep.

The Kindred Spirits.

7»

iland-
le she
k)y the

Dutch
roman.

Lother ;

ig in it
i of that
L in my
In that
aking of
to trace
(i on my
nearly

would
)8pect of
snt weak
was an
>m being
srhaps I
we who
,0 life to-
future
Hi see her

hpow

erecl

That night I was removed from the inn to my own room at
home ; and that night I saw her again in a dream.

The image of her was as vividly impressed upon me as the
far different image of the child Mary, when I used to see it in
the days of old. The dream-figure of the woman was robed as
I had seen it robed on the bridge. She wore the same broad-
brimmed garden hat of straw. She looked at me as she had
looked when I approached her in the dim evening light. After
a little her face brightened with a divinely-beautiful smile, and
she whispered in my ear : " Friend, do you know me 1 "

I knew her most assuredly — and yet it was with an incom-
prehensible after-feeling of doubt. Recognising her in my
dream as the stranger who had so warmly interested me, I was
nevertheless dissatisfied with myself as if it had not been the
right recognition. I woke with this idea ; and I slept no
more that night.

In three days' time I was strong enough to go out driving
with my mother, in the comfortable old-fashioned open car-
riage v/hich had once belonged to Mr. Germaine.

On the fourth day we arranged to make an excursion to a
little waterfall in our neighbourhood. My mother had a great
admiration of the place, and had often expressed a wish to
possess some memorial of it. I resolved to take my sketch-
book with me, on the chance that I might be able to please
her by making a drawing of her favourite scene.

Searching for the sketch-book (which I had not used for
years), I found it in an old desk of mine that had remained
unopened since my departure for India. In the course of my
investigation, I opened u drawer in the desk, and discovered i^

If*

The Two Destinies.

relic of the old times — my poor little Mary's first work in
embroidery, the green flag !

The sight of the forgotten keepsake took my mind back to
the bailiff's cottage, and reminded me of Da^oe Dermody, and
her confident prediction about Mary and me.

I smiled as I recalled the old woman's assertion that no hu
man power could hinder the union of the kindred spirits of
the children in time to come. What had become of the pro-
phesied dreams in which we were to communicate with each
other through the term of our separation % Years had passed ;
and, sleeping or waking, I had seen nothing of Mary. Years
had passed ; and the first vision of a woman that had come to
me had been my dream, a few nights since, of the stranger
Avhom I had saved from drowning ! I thought of these chances
and changes in my life — but not contemptuously or bitterly.
The new love that was now stealing its way into my heart had
softened and humanized me. I said to myself, " Ah, poor little
Mary ! " — and I kissed the green fia^, in gr/^teful memory of
the days that were gone for ever.

We drove to the waterfall.

It was a beautiful day : the lonely sylvan scene was at its
brightest and best. A wooden summer-house, commanding a
prospect of the falling stream, had been built for the accommo-
dation of pleasure-parties by the proprietor of the place. My
mother suggested that I should try to make a sketch of the
view from this point. I did my best to please her ; but I was
not f rtiisfied with the result ; and I abandoned my drawing be-
fore it v/.ir. half f rished. Leaving my sketch-book and pencil
on the table of the summer-house, I proposed to my mother to
crost tiie littiii f 'ooden bridge wnich spanned the stream balow

»HBWTJ»>rt4 B»«»' W W liiWtill I irMi

WMW * » m w DWi

jt,afr

H l< —

The Kindred Spirits.

rk in

aick to
jr, iind

no hu
irits of
tie pro-
:h each
)assed ;
Years
jome to
itranger
chancee
bitterly,
jart had
bor little
mory of

the fall, and to see how the landscape looke<l from a new point
of view. .

The prospect of the waterfall, as seen from the opposite
bank, presented even greater difficulties, to an amateur artist
like me, than the prospect which we had just left. We re-
turned to tlie f.ummer-house.

I was the first to approach the open door. I stopped, checked
in my advance by an unexpected discovery. The summer-
house was no longer empty, as we had left it. A lady was
seated at the table, with my pencil in her hand, writing in my
sketch-book !

After waiting a moment I advanced a few steps nearer to the
door, and stopped again, in breathless amazement. The stran-
ger in the summer-house was now plainly revealed to me as the
woman who had attempted to destroy herself from the bridge !

There was no doubt about it. There was the dress : there
was the memorable face which I had seen in the evening light,
which I had dreamed of only a few nights since ! The woman
herself — I saw her as plainly as I saw the sun shining on the
waterfall — the woman herself ; with my pencil in her hand ■
writing in my book !

My mother was close behind me : she noticed my agitation.
" George ! " she exclaimed, " what is the matter with you ? "

I pointed through the open door of the summer-house.

" Well % " said my mother. " What am I to look at ? '

" Don't you see somebody, sitting at the table and writing
in my sketch-book ? "

My n: other eyed me quickly. '' Is he going to bo ill again 1 "
1 heard hex* say to herself.

Jft

The Two Destinits.

At the same moment, the woman laid down the [X'ncit, and
rose slowly to her feet.

She looked at me with sorrowful and pleading eyes : she
lifted hei hand, and beckoned me to approach her. I obeyed.
Moving without conscious will of my own, drawn nearer and
nearer to her by an irresistible power, I ascended the short
flight of stairs which led into the summer house. Within a
few paces of her I stopped. She advanced a step towal^ds me,
and laid her hand gently on my bosom. Her touch filled me
with strangely-united sensations of rapture and awe. After a
while she spoke, in low melodious tones, which mingled in my
ear with the distant murmur of the falling water, until the
two sounds became one. I heard in the murmur, I heard in
the voice, these words : " Remember me. Come to me." Her
hand dropped from my bosom ; a momenta -y obscurity passed
like a flying sbadov over the bright dajdight in the room. I
looked for Ler when the light came back. She was gone.

My consciousness of passing events returned.

I saw ;ihe lengthening shadows outside, which told me that
the evening was at hanti. I saw the carriage approaching the
summer-house to take us away. I felt my mother's hand on
my arm, and heard her voice speaking to me anxiously. I was
able to reply by a sign, entreating her not to be uneasy about
me — but I could t-o no more. I v. as absorbed, body and soul, in
the one desir-s to look sj,i the sketch book. As certainly as I
had seen the woumn — o < ertainly I had seen her with my
pencil in her hand, wiitij^^ in my book.

I advanced to the lable on which the book was lying open.
I looked at, .he blau. space on the lower part of the page,

iL^aWMWMHMtn!

Tfu Kindred Spirits.

1, and

« : she
>beyed.
er and
e short
ithin a
i-ds me,
lied me
After a
d in my
mtil the
leard in
e." Her
y passed
room. I
ne.

me that
Ihing the
]hand on
I was
sy about
soul, in
inly as I
dth my

under the foreground lines of my unfinished drawing. My
mother, following me, looked at the page too.

There was the writing ! The woman had disappeared — but
there were her written words left behind her : visible to my
mother as well as to me : readable by my mother's eyes as
well as by mine !

These were the words we saw ; arranged in two lines, as I
copy them here :

WHEN THE FULL MOON SHINES
ON SAINT ANTHONY'S WELL.

ig open,
the page,

CHAPTER IX.

N/vTURAL AND SUPERNATURAL.

POINTED to the writing in the sketch-book, and
looked at my mother. I was not mistaken. She
had seen it, as I had seen it. But she refused to ac-
knowledge that anything had happened to alarm
her — plainly as I could detect it in her face.

" Somebody has been playing a trick on you,
George," she said.

I made no reply. It was needless to say anything. My poor
mother was € \idently as far from being satisfied with her own
shallow explanation as I was. The carriage waited for us at
the door. We set forth in silence on our drive home.

The sketch-book lay open on my knee. My eyes were fast-
ened on it ; my mind was absorbed in recalling the moment
when the apparition beckoned me into the summer-house, and
spoke. Putting the words and the writing together, the con-
clusion was too plain to be mistaken. The woman whom I had
saved from drowning had need of me again.

And this was the same woman who, in her own proper per-
son, had not hesitated to seize the first opportunity of leaving
the house in which we had been sheltered together — without
stopping to say one grateful word to the m^n who had pre*

Natural and Suf*crnatural.

ok, and
n. She
id to ac-
bo alann
e.
on you,

Mv pcor
her own
lor us at

lere fast-
moment

Imse, and
the con-
)in I had

fper per-

leaving

-without

Ihad pre-

served her from death ! Four days only had elapsed, since sh«
had left me, never (to all appearance) to see me again. And
now, the ghostly apparition of her had returned, as to a tried
and trusted friend ; had commanded me to remember her and
to go to her ; and had provided against all possibility of my
memory playing me false, by writing the words which invited
me to meet her " when the full moon shone on Saint Anthony's
WeU."

What had happened in the interval 1 What did the super-
natural manner of her communication with me mean 1 What
ought my next course of action to be ?

My mother rout^ed me from my reflections. She stretched
out her hand, and suddenly closed the open book on my knee,
as if the sight of the writing in it was unendurable to her.

" Why don't you speak to me, George % " she said. " Why
do you keep your thoughts to yourself?"

" My mind is lost in confusion," I answered. " I can sug-
gest nothing and explain nothing. My thoughts are all bent
on the one question of what I am to do next. On that point
I believe 1 may say that my mind is made up." I touched the
sketch-book as I spoke. " Come what may of it," I said, " I
mean to keep the appointment."

My mother looked at me as it she doubted the evidence of
her own senses.

" He talks as if it was a real thing ! " she exclaimed.
" George ! you don't really believe that you saw somebody in
the summer-house ? The place was empty. I tell you posi-
tively, when you pointed into the summer-house, the place was
empty. You have been thinking and thinking of this woman
till you persuade yourself that you have actually seen her."

The Two Destinies.

I oiM»nod the sketch-book again. " I thought I saw her writ-
ing on thJB page/' I answered. '' Look at it — and tell me if I
was wrong."

My mother refused to look at it. Steadily as she persistetl
in taking the rational view, nevertheless the writing frightened
her.

" It is not a week yet," she went on, " since I saw you lying
between life and death in your bed at the inn. How can you
talk of keeping the appointment, in your state of health ] An
appointment with a shadowy Something in your own imagina-
tiQn, which appears and disappears, and leaves substantial writ-
ing behind it ! It's ridiculous, George ; I wonder you can help
laughing at yourself."

She tried to set the ( xample of laughing at me— with the
tears in her eyes, poor soul, as she made the useless effort. I
began to regret having opened my mind so freely to her.

" Don't take the matter too seriously, mother," I said. " Per-
haps I may not be able to find the place. I never heard of
Saint Anthony's Well ; I have not the least idea where it is 1
Suppose I make the discovery — and suppose the journey turns
out to be an easy one — would you like to go with me 1 "

** God forbid ! " cried my mother fervently. " I will have
nothing to do with it, George. You are in a state of delusion
— I shall speak to the doctor."

" By all means, my dear mother! Mr. MacGlue is a sensible
person. We pass his house on our way home — and we will
ask him to dinner. In the meantime, let us say no more on
the subject till we see the doctor."

I spoke lightly, but I really meant what I said. My mind
was sadly disturbed; my nerves were so shaken, that the

Natural and Supernatural.

r writ-
leif I

rsisted
htened

u lying
an yon
hi Au
magina-
ial writ-
can help

(nth the
(ffort. I

ir.

" Per-
heard of
ire it is 1
ey turns

irill have
I delusion

, sensible
we will
more on

mind
that the

slightest noi8<>8 on th«^ road startled me. The opinii'ti of a
man like Mr. MacGlue, who looked jit all mortal matters from
the same immovably practical point of view, might really have
its use, in my case, as a species of moral remedy.

Wo waited until the dessert was on the table, and the ser-
vants had left the dining-room. Then, I told my story to the
Scotch doctor as I have told it here ; and, that done, 1 ojMjned
the sketch-book to let him see the writing for himself.

Had I turned to the wrong page ?

I started to my feet, and held the book close to the light of
the lamp that hung over the dining table. No : I had found
the right page. There was my half-finished drawing of the
waterfall — but where were the two lines of writing beneath ?

Gone ! ♦

I strained my eyes ; I looked and looked. And the blank
white paper looked back at me.

I placed the open leaf before my mother. " You saw it as
plainly as I did," I said. " Are my own eyes deceiving me 1
Look at the bottom of the page."

My mother sank back in her chair with a cry of terror.

" Gone 1 " I asked.

" Gone ! "

I turned to the doctor. He took mo completely by surprise.
No incredulous smile appeared on his face ; no jesting words
passed his lips. He was listening to us attentively. He was
waiting gravely to hear more.

*' I declare to you, on my word of honour," I said to him,
" that 1 saw the apparition writing with my pencil at the bot-
tom of that page. I declare that I took the book in my hand,

<*,

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0 ^tts 1^
«? m 12.2

E Hi "■

I.I

£ Ifi 12.0

Hiotc)gFaphic

Sciences
Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716)«7a-4S03

The Two Destinies.

and saw these words written in it : ' When the full moon shines
on Saint Anthony's Well.' Not more than three hours have
passed since that time — and, see for yourself, not a vestige of
the writing remains."

" Not a vestige of the writing remains," Mr. MacGlue re-
peated quietly.

"If you feel the "slightest doubt of what I have told you," I
went on, " ask my mother — she will bear witness that she saw
the writing too."

" I don't doubt that you both saw the writing," answered
Mr. MacGlue with a composure that astonished me.

" Can you account for it 1 " I asked.

" Well," said the impenetrable doctor, " if I set my wits at
work, I believe I might account for it, to the satisfaction of
some people. For example, I might give you what they call the
rational explanation to begin with. I might say that you are,
to my certain knowledge, in a highly-excited nervous condition ;
and that, when you saw the apparition (as you call it), you sim-
ply saw nothing but your own strong impression of an absent
woman — who (as I greatly fear) has got on the weak or amatory
side of you. I mean no oflfence, Mr. Germaine

" I take no oifence, doctor. But excuse me for speaking
plainly — the rational explanation is thrown away on me."

"I'll readily excuse you," answered Mr. MacGlue; "the
rather that I'm entirely of your opinion. I don't believe in
the rational explanation myself"

This was surprising, to say the least of it ! " What do you
believe in ) " I inquired.

Mr. MacGlue declined to let me hurry him. ^

" Wait a little," lie said. " The>'e's the ir-rational explana^

ore,

tion;

sim-

ent

tory

dng

k'the
re in

you

iana-

Natural and Supernatural.

tion to try next. Maybo it will fit itself to the present state
of your mind better than the other. We will say, this time,
that you have really seen the ghost (or double) of a living per-
son. Very good. If you can suppose a disembodied spirit to
appear in earthly clothing — of silk or merino as the case may
be — it's no great stretch to suppose next that this same spirit
is capable of holding a mortal pencil, and of writing mortal
words in a mortal sketching-book. And, if the ghost vanishes
(which your ghost did), it seems supematurally appropriate
that the writing should follow the example and vanish too.
And the reason of the vanishment may be (if you want a rear
son), either that the ghost does not like letting a stranger like
me into its secrets ; or that vanishing is a settled habit of
ghosts and of everything associated with them ; or that this
ghost has changed its mind in the course of three hours (being
the ghost of a woman, I am sure that is not wonderful), and
doesn't care to see you ' when the fall moon shines on An-
thony's Well.' There's the ir-rational explanation for you.
And, speaking for myself, I'm bound to add that I don't set a
pin's value on thai explanation either."

Mr. MacGlue's sublime indifference to both sides of the ques-
tion began to irritate me.

" In plain words, doctor," I said, " you don't think the cir-
cumstances that I have mentioned to you worthy of serious in-
vestigation 1 "

" I don't think serious investigation capable of dealing with
the circumstances," answered the doctor. " Put it in that Mray,
and you put it right. Just look round you. Here we three
persons are alive and hearty at this snug table. If (which God
forbid !) good Mistress Germaine, or yourself, were to fall down

The Two Destinies.

dead in another moment, I, doctor as I am, could no more ex-
plain what first principle of life and movement had been sud-
denly extinguished in you than the dog there sleeping on the
hearth-rug. If I am content to sit down ignorant, in the
face of such an impenetrable mystery as this — presented to me,
day after day, every time I see a living creature come into the
world or go out of it — why may I not sit down content in the
face of your lady in the summer-house, and say, she's altosrether
beyond my fathoming, and there is an end of her ? "

At those words, my mother joined in the conversation for the
first time. .

" Ah, sir," she said, " if you could only persuade my son to
take your sensible view, how happy I should be ! Would you
believe it 1 — hepcsitively means (if he can find the place) to go
to Saint Anthony's Well ! "

Even this levelation entirely failed to surprise Mr. MacGlue.

" Aye 1 aye ? He means to keep his appointment with the
ghost — does he '( Well ! I can be of some service to him, if he
sticks to his resolution. I can tell him of another man who
kept a written appointment with a ghost, and what oame of it."

This was a startling announcement. Did he really mean
what he said 1

" Are you in jest or in earnest ? " I asked.

" I never joke, sir ! " said Mr. MacGlue. " No sick person
really believes in a doctor who jokes. I defy you to show me,
a man at the head of our profession who has ever been dis-
covered in high spirits (in medical hours) by his nearest and
dearest friend. You may have wondered, I J.are say, at seeing
me take your strange narrative as coolly as I do. It comes

nmm

Natural and Supemaiurai,

naturally, a !r. Yours is not the first story of a ghost and a
pencil that I have heard."

'* Do you mean to tell me," I said, " that you know of an-
other man who has seen what I have seen 1 "

" That is just what I mean to tell you," rejoined the doetor.
" The man was a far-away Scots' cousin of my late wife, who
bore the honourable name of Bruce, and followed a seafaring
life, m take another glass of the sherry wine, just to wet my
whistle, as the vulgar saying is, before I begin. Well, you
must know Bruce was mate of a barque, at the time I'm speak-
ing of ; and he was on a voyage from Liverpool to New Bruns-
wick. At noon, one day, he and the captain having taken their
observation of the sun, were hard at it below, working out the
latitude and longitude on their slates. Bruce, in his cabin,
looked across through the open door of the captain's cabin op-
posite. *■ What do you make it, sir 1 ' says Bruce. The man in
the captain's cabin looked up. And what did Bruce see ) The
face of the captain 9 Devil a bit of it — the face of a total
stranger ! Up jumps Bruce, with his heart going full gallop
all in a moment ; and searches for the captain on dock ; and
finds him much as usual, with lus calculations done, and his
latitude and longitude off his mind for the day. 'There's
somebody at your desk, sir,' says Bruce. ' He's writing on
your slate, and he's a total stranger to me.' ' A stranger in my
cabin ? * says the captain. ' Why, Mr. Bruce, the ship has been
six weeks out of port. How did he get on board 1 ' Bruce
doesn't know how, but he sticks to his story. Away goes the
captain, and bursts like a whirlwind into his cabin, and finds
nobody there. Bruce himself is obliged to acknowledge that
the place is certainly empty. ' If I didn't know you were a

The Two Destinies.

sober man,' says the captain, ' I should charge you with drink-
ing. As it is, I'll hold you accountable for nothing worse than
dreaming. Don't do it again, Mr. Bruce.' Bruce sticks to his
story ; Bruce swears he saw the man writing on the captain's
slate. The captain takes up the slate, and looks at it * Lord
save us and bless us,' says he, 'here the writing is, sure
enough ! ' Bruce looks at it too, and sees the \imting as plain
as can be, in these words : ' Steer to the Nor' West.' That,
and no more. Ah, goodness me, narrating is dry work, Mr.
Germaine ! With your leave, I'll take another drop of the
sherry wine."

" Well ! (It's fine old wine that ; look at the oily drops run-
ning down the glaas.) Well, steering to the north west, you
will understand, was out of the captain's course. Neverthe-
less, finding no solution of the mystery on board the ship, and
the weather at the time being fine, the captain determined,
while the daylight lasted, to alter his course, and see what came
of it. Towards three o'clock in the afternoon, an iceberg came
of it ; with a vnrecked ship stove in, and frozen fast to the ice ;
and the passengers and crew nigh to death with cold and ex-
haustion. Wonderful enough, you will say, but more remains
behind. As the mate was helping one of the rescued passen-
gers up the side of the barque, who should he turn out to be
but the very man whose ghostly appearance Bruce had seen in
the captain's cabin, writing on the captain's slate ! And more
than that — if your capacity for being surprised isn't clean worn
out by this time, the passenger recognised the barque as the
very vessel which he had seen in a dream at noon that day.
He had even spoken of it to one of the officers on board the
wrecked ship when he woke. ' We shall be rescued to-day,

rtMi

Natural and Supemaiural.

he had said — and he had exactly described the rig of the barque,
hours and hours before the vessel herself hove in view. Now,
you know, Mr. Germaine, how my wife's far-away cousin kept
an appointment with a ghost, and what came of it"*

Concluding his story in these words, the doctor helped him-
self to another glass of the " sherry wine." I was not satis-
fied yet — I wanted to know more.

" The writing on the slate," I said. " Did it remain there t
or did it vanish, like the writing in my book 1 "

Mr. MacGIue's answer disappointed me. He had never
asked, and had never heard, whether the writing remained or
not. He had told me all that he knew, and he had but one
thing more to say, and that was in the nature of a remark,
with a moral attached to it. " There's a marvellous resem-
blance, Mr. Germaine, between your story and Bruce's story.
The main difference, as I see it, is this. The passenger's ap-
pointment proved to be the salvation of the whole ship's com-
pany. I very much doubt whether the lady's appointment
will prove to be the salvation of You."

I silently reconsidered the strange narrative which had just
been related to me. Another man had seen what I had seen
— had done what I proposed to do ! My mother noticed with
grave displeasure the strong impression which Mr. MacGlue
had produced on my mind.

* Th6 doctor's narrative is not - iwiafr^pa ry. It will ba foupH i^ j ft fift^ '" ^"11
detail, and authenticated by names and dates, in Robert Dale Owen'a vey v
interesting work, calle»l " Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World. **
The author gladly takes this opportunity o fackn owledging his obligationa
to Mr. Owen's remarkable book.

The Two Destinies,

" I wish you had kept your story to yourself, doctor," she
said sharply.

" May I ask why, madam ? "

" You have confirmed my son, sir, in his resolution to go to
Saint Anthony's Well."

Mr. MacGlue quietly consulted his pocket almanac before he
replied.

" It's the full moon on the ninth of the month," he said.
" That gives Mr. Germaine some days of rest, ma'am, before
he takes the journey. If he travels in his own comfortable
carriage — whatever I may think, morally speaking, of his en-
terprise — I can't say, medically speaking, that I believe it will
do him much harm."

" YovL know where Sair^ Anthony's Well is t " I interposed.

" I must be mighty ig) i of Edinburgh not to know that,"
replied the doctor.

" Is the Well in Edinburgh, then 1 "

" It's just outside Edinburgh — looks down on it, as you may
say. You follow the old street called the Ganongate, to the
end. You turn to your right, past the famous Palace of Holy-
rood ; you cross the Park and Drive ; and take your way up-
wards to the ruins of Anthony's Ghapel, on the shoulder of
the hill — and there you are ! There's a high rock behind the
Ghapel ; and at the foot of it, you will find the spring they
call Anthony's Well. It's thought a pretty view by moonlight
— and they tell me it's no longer beset at night by bad cliarac-
ters, as it used to be in the old time."

My mother, in graver and graver displeasure, rose to retire to

the drawing-room.

" I confess you have disappointed me," she said to Mr. Mac-

Natural and Supernatural.

Glue. " I should have thought you would have been the last
man to encourage my son in an act of imprudence."

"Craving your pardon, madam, your son requires no en-
couragement I can see for myself that his mind is made up.
Where is the use of a pennon like me trying to stop him 1
Dear madam, if he won't profit by your advice, what hope cau
I have that he will take mine ? "

Mr. MacGlue pointed this artful compliment by a bow of
the deepest respect, and threw open the door for my mother to
pass out.

When we were left together over our wine, I asked the
doctor how soon I might start on my journey ^o Edinburgh.

" Take two days to do the journey ; and you may start, if
you're bent on it, at the beginning of the week. But mind
this," added the prudent doctor ; " though I own I'm .o/nxious
to hear what comes of your expedition — understand at the same
time, so far as the lady is concerned, that I wash my hands of
the consequences."

Mac-

CHAPTER X.

SAINT ANTHONY'S WELL.

STOOD on the rocky eminence, in front of the ruins
of Saint Anthony's Chapel, and looked on the mag-
nificent view of Edinburgh and the old Palace of
Holyrood, bathed in the light of the full moon.

The Well, as the doctor's instructions had in-
formed me, was behind the ChapeL I waited for
some minutes in front of the ruin, partly to recover my breath,
after ascending the hill ; partly, I own, to master the nervous
agitation which the sense of my position at that moment had
aroused in me. The woman, or the apparition of the woman
— it might be either — was perhaps within a few yards of the
place that I occupied. Not a living creature appeared in front
of the ChapeL Not a sound caught my ear, from any part of
the solitary hill. I tried to fix my whole attention on the
beauties of the moonlight view. It was not to be done. My
mind was far away from the objects on which my eyes rested.
Mv mind was with the woman whom I had seen in the sum-
mer-house, writing in my book.

I turned to skirt the side of the Chapel. A few steps more
over the broken ground, brought me within view of the Well,

"^m^tt^»^,n- ^

Saint Anthonys Well.

more
Well,

and of the high boulder, or rock, from the foot of which the
waters gushed brightly in the light of the moon.

She was there.

I recognised her figure as she stood leaning against the rock,
with her hands crossed in front of her, lost in thought. I re<
cognised her face, as she looked up quickly, startled by the
sound of my footsteps in the deep stillness of the night.

Was it the woman, or the apparition of the woman 1 I
waited — looking at her in silence.

She spoke. The sound of her voice was not the mysterious
sound that I had heard in the summer-house — it was the sound
I had heard on the briHtre, when we first met in the dim even-
ing light.

" Who are you ? What do you want 1"

As those words passed her lips, she recognised me. " You
here ! '* she went on, advancing a step in uncontrollable sur-
prise. " What does this mean 1 "

" I am here," I answered, " to meet you, by your own ap-
pointment."

She stepped back again, leaning against the rock. The
moonlight shone full upon her face. There was terror as well
as astonishment in her eyes, while they now looked at me.

" I don't understand you," she said ; " I have not seen you
since you spoke to me on the bridge."

" Pardon me," I replied. " I have seen you — or the ap-
pearance of you — since that time. I heard you speak. I saw
you write."

She looked at me with the strangest expression of mingled
resentment and curiosity. '< What did I say ? " she asked.
" What did I write ? "

Tlie Two Destinies.

" You said, * Remember me. Come to me.' You wrote,
' When the full moon shines on Saint A.nthony's Well.' "

♦♦ Where 1 " she cried. " Where did 1 do that 1 "

" In a summer-house which stands by a waterfall," I an-
swered. " Do you know the place 1 "

Her head sank back against the rock. A low ciy of terror
burst from her. Her arm, resting on the rock, dropped at her
side. I hurriedly approached her, in the fear that she might
fall on the stony ground.

She rallied her failing strength. " Don't touch me ! " she
exclaimed. " Stand back, sir ! You frighten me."

I tried to soothe her. "Why do I frighten you? You
know who I am. Can you doubt my interest in you, after I
have been the means of saving your life % "

Her reserve vanished in an instant. She advanced without
hesitation, and took me by the hand.

" I ought to thank you," she said \ " and I do. 1 am not
so ungrateful as I seem. I am not a wicked woman, sir — I
was mad with misery when I tried to drown myself. Don't
distrust me ! Don't despise mo ! " She stopped — I saw the
tears on her cheeks. With a sudden contempt for herself,
she dashed them away. Her whole tone and manner altered
once more. Her reserve returned ; she looked at me with a
strange flash of suspicion and defiance in her eyes. " Mind
this ! " she said loudly and abruptly, " you were dreaming,
when you thought you saw me writing ! You didn't see me ;
you never heard me speak. How could I say those familiar
words to a stranger like you 1 It's all your fancy — and you
try to frighten me by talking of it as if it was a real thing ! "
She changed again ; her eyes softened to the s^d and tender

Saint Anthonys IVtll.

you
ing!
euder

look which made them ao irresistibly beautiful. She drew her
cloak round her with a shudder as if she iTel^ the chill of the
night air. " What is the matter with me 1 " I heard her say
to herself. " Why do I trust this man in my dreams ? And
why am I ashamed of it, when I wake ? "

That s^range outburst encouraged me. 1 risked letting her
know that I had overheard her last words.

" If you trust me in your dreams, you only do mo justice,"
I said. " Do me justice now ; give me your confidence. You
are alone — you are in trouble — you want a friend's help. I
am waitmg to help you."

She hesitated. I tried to take her hand. The strange
creature drew it away with a cry of alarm : her one great fear
seemed to be the fear of letting me touch her.

" Give me time to tliink of it," she said. '* You don't know
what I have got to think of. Give me till to-morrow ; and
let me write. Are you staying in Edinburgh 1 " ^

I thought it wise to be satisfied — in appearance at least —
with this concession. Taking out my card, I wrote on it in
pencil the address of the hotel at which I was staying. She
read the card by the moonlight, when I put it into her hand.

" George ! " she repeated to herself; stealing another look
at me as the name passed her lips. " ' George Germaine. I
never heard of * Germaine.* But * George ' reminds me of
old times." She smiled sadly at some passing fancy or re-
membrance in which I was not permitted to share. " There
is nothing very wonderful in your being called ' George,' "
she went on, after awhile. " The name is common enough —

one meets with it everywhere as a man's name. And yet "

Her eyes finished the sentence ; her eyes said to me, " I am

The Two Destinies.

not so much afraid of you, now I know that you are called
* George/ "

So she unconsciously led me to the brink of discovery 1

If I had only asked her what associations she connected with
my Christian name — if I had only persuaded her to speak in
the bridfest and most guarded terms of her past life — the
barrier between us, which the change in our names and the
lapse of ten years had raised, must have been broken down ;
the recognition must have followed. But I never even thought
of it; and for this simple reason — I was in love with her.
The purely selfish idea of winning my way to her favourable
regard, by taking instant advantage q& the new interest that !
had awakened in her, was the one idea which occurred to
my mind.

** Don't wait to write to me," I said. " Don't put it off till
to- morrow. Who knows what may happen before to-morrow %
Surely I deserve some little return for the sympathy that I feel
with you ! I don't ask for much. Make me happy, by making
me of some service to you before we part to-night."

I took her hand this time, before she was aware of me. The
whole woman seemed to peld at my touch. Her hand lay un-
resistingly in min^ ; her charming figure came by soft grada-
tions nearer and nearer to me ; her head almost touched my
shoulder. She murmured in faint accents, broken by sighs,
" Don't take advantage of me. I am so friendless : I am so
completely in your power." Before I could answer, before I
could move, her hand closed on mine ; her head sank on my
shoulder : she burst into tears.

Any man, not an inbred and inborn villain, would have re-
spected her at that moment. I put her hand on my arm, and

Saint Anthony s Well.

led her away gently past the ruined chapel, and down the slope
of th^ hill.

" Tliis lonely place is frightening you," I said. " Let us
walk a little, and you will soon be yourself again."

She smiled through her tears like a child.

" Yes," she said eagerly. " But not that way." I had ac-
cidentally taken the direction which led away from the city :
she begged me to turn towards the houses and the streets. We
walked back towards Edinburgh. She eyed me, as we went
on in the moonlight, with innocent wondering looks. " What
an unaccountable influence you have over me ! " she exclaimed.
" Did you ever see me — did you ever hear my name — before
we met that evening at the river % "

" Never ! "

" And I never heard yofu/r name, and never saw yoni before.
Strange ! very strange ! Ah, I remember somebody — only an
old woman, sir — who might once have explained it ! Where
shall I find the like of her now % "

She sighed bitterly. The lost friend or relative had evi-
dently been dear to I. er. "A relation of yours ? '* I inquired,
more to keep her talking than because I felt any interest in
any member of her family but herself.

We were again on the brink of discovery. And again it
was decreed that we were to advance no farther !

" Don't ask me about my relations ! " she broke out. ** I
daren't think of the dead and gone, in the trouble that is try-
ing me now. If I speak of the old times at home, T shall only
bursi out crying again, and distress you. Talk of something
else, sir- talk of something else."

The mystery of the apparition in the summer-house was not

The Two Destinies.

cleared up yet. I took my opportunity of approaching the
subject.

'' You spoke a little while since of dreaming of me," I be-
gan. " Tell me your dream."

" I hardly know whether it was a dream or whether it was
something else," she answered. " I call it a dream, for want
of a better word,"

" Did it happen at night ? "

" No. In the daytime — in the afternoon."

" Late in the afternoon % "

" Yes — 3lose on the evening."

My memory reverted to the doctor's story of the shipwrecked
passenger, whose ghostly " double " had appeared in the vessel
that was to rescue him, and who had himself seen that vessel
in a dream.

" Do you remember the day of the month and the hour ? "
I asked.

She mentioned the day, and she mentioned the hour. It
was the day when my mother and I had visited the waterfall !
It was the hour when I had seen the apparition in the sum-
mer-house, writing In my book !

I stopped in irrepressible astonishment. We had walked,
by this time, nearly as far on the way back to the city as the
old Palace of Holyrood. My companion, after a glance at me,
turned and looked at the rugged old building, mellowed into
quiet beauty by the lovely moonlight.

" This is my favourite walk," she said simply, " since I have
been in Edinburgh. I don't mind the loneliness — I like the
perfect tmncjuiUity here at ni^bt," She glanced at me a^ain,

Saint Anthony s Well.

»9

" What is the matter ? " she asked. " ¥'ou say nothing ; you
only look at me."

" I want to hear more of your dream," I said. " How did
you come to be sleeping in the daytime ] "

'' It is not easy to say what I was doing," she replied as we
walked on again. '' I was miserably anxious and ill — I felt my
helpless condition keenly on that day. It was dinner-time,
I remember ; and I had no appetite. I went upstairs (at the
inn where I am staying), and laid down, quite worn out, on my
bed. I don't know whether I fainted, or whether I slept — I
lost all consciousness of what was going on about me, and I
got some other consciousness in its place. If this was dream-
ing, I can only say it was the most vivid dream I ever had in
my life."

" Did it begin by your seeing me ? " I inquired.

" It began by my seeing your drawing-book — Xjaa^ open on
a table in a summer-house."

" Can you describe the summer-house, as you saw it 1 "

She described not only the summer-house, but the view of
the waterfall from the door. She knew the size, she knew the
binding, of my sketch-book — locked up in my desk, at that
moment, at home in Perthshire !

" And you wrote in the book," I went on. " Do you re-
member what you wrote % "

She looked away from me confusedly, as if she was ashamed
to recall this part of her dream.

" You have mentioned it already," she said. " There is no
need for me to go over the words again. Tell me one thing —
when y(m were at the summer-house, did you wait a little on
the path to the door, before you went in ? "

Vjnivarsitaj

BlgLM)TKECA

Pttavlenai*

100

The Two Destinies.

I had waited — surprised by my first view of the woman
writing in my book ! Having answered her to this effect, I
asked her what she had done or dreamed of doing, at the later
moment when I entered the summer-house.

" I did the strangest things," she said, in low wondering
tones. '' If you had been my brother, I could hardly have
treated you more familiarly ! I beckoned to you to come to me
— I even laid my hand on your bosom. I spoke to you — as
I might have spoken to my oldest and dearest friend. I said,
* Remember me. Come to me ! ' Oh, I was so ashamed of
myself when I came to my senses again, and recollected it !
Was there ever such familiarity — even in a dream — between a
woman, and a man whom she had only once seen, and then as
a perfect stranger % "

" Did you know how long it was," I asked, " from the time
when you laid down on the bed, to the time when you found
yourself awake again % "

" I think I can tell you," she replied. " It was the dinner-
time of the house (as I said just now), when I went upstairs.
Not long after I had come to myself, I hoard a church clock
strike the hour. Reckoning from one time to the other, it
must have been quite three hours from the time when I first
laid down, to the time when I got up again."

Was the clue to the mysterious disappearance of the writing
to be found here ?

Looking back by the light of later discoveries, I am inclined
to think that it was. In three hours, the hues traced by the
apparition of her had vanished. In three hours, she had come
to herself, and had felt ashamed of the familiar manner in
which she had communicated with me in her sleeping state.

Saint Anthonys Well.

101

While she had trusted me, in the trance — trusted me, because
her spirit was then free to recognise my spirit — the writing
had remained on the page. When her waking will counter-
acted the influence of her sleeping will, the writing disap-
peared. Is this the explanation 1 If it is not, where is the
explanation to be found 1

We walked on until we reached that part of the Canongate
street in which she lodged. We stopped at the door.

CHAPTER XI.

THE LETTER OF INTRODUCTION.

LOOKED at the house. It was an inn — of no great
size, but of respectable appearance. If I was to be
of any use to her that night, the time had come to
speak of other subjects than the subject of dreams.

" After all that you have told me," I said, " I will
not ask you to admit me any farther into your confi-
dence until we meet again. Only let me hear how I can re-
lieve your most pressing anxieties. What are your plans ?
Can I do anything to help them, before you go to rest to-
night?"

She thanked me warmly, and hesitated; looking up the
street and down the street, in evident embarrassment what to
say next.

" Do you propose staying in Edinburgh 1 " I asked.
" Oh, no ! I don't wish to remain in Scotland. I want to
go much farther away — I think I should do better in London ;
at some respectable milliner's, if I could be properly recom-
mended. I am quick at my needle and I understand cutting
out. Or I could keep accounts, if — if anybody would trust
me. ^ ^

She stopped, and looked at me doubtingly — as if she felt

The Letter of Introduction.

103

far from sure, poor soul, of winning my conlidence to begin
with ! I acted on that hint, with the headlong impetuosity of
a man who was in love.

" I can give you exactly the recommendation you want," I
said. " Whenever you like. Now, if you would prefer it."

Her charming features brightened with pleasure. " Oh, you
are indeed a friend to me ! " she said impulsively. Her
face clouded again — she saw my proposal in a new light*
" Have I any right," she asked sadly, " to accept what you
oflFer me 1 "

" Let me give you the letter," I answered ; " and you can
decide for yourself whether you will use it or not."
I put her arm again in mine, and entered the inn.
She shrank back in alarm. What would the landlady think,
if she saw her lodger enter the house at night, in company
with a stranger, ajid that stranger a gentleman 1 The land-
lady appeared as ifhe made the objection. Keckless what I
saiu or what I did, I introduced myself as her relative ; and
asked to be shown into a quiet room in which I could write a
letter. After one sharp glance at me, the landlady appeared
to be satisfied that she was dealing with a gentleman. She
led the way into a sort of parlour behind the '' bar ; " placed
writing materials on the table ; looked at my companion as
only one woman can look at another under certain circum-
stances ; aud left us by ourselves.

It was the first time I had ever been in a room with her,
alone. The embarrassing sense of her position had heightened
her colour, and brightened her eyes. She stood, leaning one
hand on the table, confused and irresolute ; her firm and supple
figure falling into an attitude of unsought grace which it was

104

The Two Destinies.

literally a luxury to look at. I said nothing ; my eyes con-
fessed my admiration ; the writing materials lay untouched
before me on the table. How long the silence might have
lasted I cannot say. She abruptly broke it. Her instinct
warned her that silence might have its dangers, in our position.
She turned to me, with an effort j she said uneasily, " I don't
think you ought to write your letter to-night, sir."

" Why not ? "

" You know nothing of me. Surely you ought not to recom-
mend a person who is a stranger to you ? And I am worse
than a stranger. I am a miserable wretch who has tried to
commit a great sin — I have tried to destroy myself. Perhaps
the misery I was in might be some excuse for me, if you knew
it. You ought to know it. But it's so late to-night ; and I
am so sadly tired — and there are some things, sir, which it is
not easy for a woman to speak of in the presence of a man."

Her head sank on her bosom ; her delicate lips trembled a
little ; she said no more. The way to reassure and console her
lay plainly enough before me, if I chose to take it. Without
stopping to think, I took it.

Reminding her that she had herself proposed writing to me
when we met that evening, I suggested that she should wait
to tell the sad story of her troubles, until it was convenient to
send me the narrative in the form of a letter. " In the mean-
time," I added, " I have the most perfect confidence in you ;
and I beg as a favour that you will let me put it to the proof.
I can introduce you to a dressmaker in London, who is at the
head of a large establishment — and I will do it before I leave
you to-night." \

I dipped my pen in the ink as I said the words. Let me

The Letter of Introduction.

105

confess frankly the lengths to which my infatuation le<l me.
The dressmaker to whom I had alluded, had been my mother's
maid, in former years, and had been established in business
with money lent by my late stepfather, Mr. Germaine. I used
both their names, without scruple ; and I wrote my recommen-
dation in terms which the besii of living women and the ablest
of existing dressmakers could never have hoped to merit. Will
anybody find excuses for me 1 Those rare persons who have
been in love, and who have not completely forgotten it yet,
may perhaps find excuses for me. It matters little ; 1 don't
deserve them.

I handed her the open letter to read.

She blushed delightfully — she cast one tenderly-grateful look
at me, which I remembered but too well for many and many
an after day. The next moment, to my astonishment, this
changeable creature changed again. Some forgotten considera-
tion seemed to have occurred to her. She turned pale ; the
soft lines of pleasure in her face hardened little by little ; she
regarded me with the saddest look of confusion and distress.
Putting the letter down before me on the table, she said
timidly,

" Would you mind adding a poatscript, sir ? "

1 suppressed all appearance of surprise as well as I could,
and took up the pen again.

" Would you please say," she went on, " that I am only to be
taken on trial, at first I am not to be engaged for more ''

Her voice sank lower and lower, so that I could barely hear
the next words — " for more than three months, certrin."

It was not in human nature — perhaps I ought to say, it was
not in the nature of a man who was in my situation — to re-

106

The Two Desiinus.

frain from showing some curiosity, on being asked to sup-
plement a letter of recommendnt oy such a postscript as
this!

" Have you some other employment in prospect ) " I
asked.

" None," she answered, with her head down, and her eyes
avoiding mine.

An unworthy doubt of her — the mean offspring of jealousy
found its way into my mind.

" Have you some absent friend," I went on, " who is likely
to prove a better friend than I am, if you only give him
time ? "

She lifted her noble head. Her grand guileless grey eyes
rested on me with a look of patient reproach.

" I have not got a friend in the world," she said. " For
Gh>d's sake, ask me no more questions to-night."

I rose, and gave her the letter once more — with the post-
script added, in her own words.

We stood together by the table ; we looked at each other, in
a momentary silence.

" How can I thank you ? " she murmured softly. " Oh, sir,
I will indeed be worthy of the confidence that you have shown
in ^e ! " Her eyes moistened ; her variable colour came and
went ; her dress heaved softly over the lovely outline of her
bosom. I don't believe the man lives who could have resisted
her at that moment. T lost all power of restraint ; I caught
her in my arms ; I whispered, " I love you ! " I kissed her
passionately. For a moment, she lay helpless and trembling
on my breast ; for a moment, her fragrant lips softly returned
the kiss. In an instant more it was over. She tore herself

The LetUr of Introduction.

107

away, with a shudder that shook her from head to foot — and
threw the letter that I had given to her indignantly at my
feet.

" How dare you take advantage of me ? How dare you
touch me 1 " she said. " Take your letter back, sir — I refuse
to receive it ; I will never speak to you agaii.. You don't
know what you have done. You don't know how deeply you
have wounded me. Oh ! " she cried, throwing herself in des-
pair on a sofa that stood near her, " shall I ever recover my
self-respect ? shall I ever forgive myself for what I have done
to-night 1"

I implored her pardon ; I assured hor of my repentance and
ragret in words which did really come from my heart. The
violence of her agitation more than distressed me — I was really
alarmed by it.

She composed herself after a while. She rose to her feet
with modest dignity, and silently held out her hand in token
that my repentance was accepted.

" You will give me time for atonement ] " I pleaded. " You
will not lose all confidence in me ? Let me see you again, if it
is only to show that I am not quite unworthy of your pardon
— at your own time ; in the presence of another person if you
like."

" I will write to you," she said.

" To-morrow 1 "

" To-morrow."

I took up the letter of recommendation from the floor.

" Make your goodness to me complete," I said. " Don't
mortify me by refusing to take my letter."

108

The Two Destinies.

" I will take your letter," she an8were<l quietly. " Thank
you for writing it. Leave me now, please. Good-night."

I left her, pale and sad, with my letter in her hand. I left
her, with my mind in a tumult of contending emotions, which
gradually resolved themselves into two master feelings as I
walked on : — Love that adored her more fervently than ever ;
and Hope that set the prospect before me of seeing her again
on the next day.

CHAPTER XII.

THE DISASTERS OF MRS. VAN BRANDT.

MAN who passes his evening as I had passed mine,
may go to bed afterwards if he has nothing better
to do ; but he must not rack among the number of
his reasonable anticipations the expectation of get-
ting a night's rest. The morning was well advanced,
and the hotel was astir, before I at last closed my
eyes in slumber. When I awoke, my watch informed me that
it was close on noon.

I rang the bell. My servant appeared with a letter in his
hand. It had been left for me, three hours since, by a lady
who had driven to the hotel door in a carriage, and had then
driven away again. The man had found me sleeping, when
he entered my bedchamber ; and, having received no orders to
wake me over-night, had left the letter on the sitting-room
table, until he heard my bell.

Easily guessing who my correspondent was, I opened the
letter. An inclosure fell out of it — to which for the moment
I paid no attention. The letter was the one object of interest
to me. I turned eagerly to the first lines. They announced
that the writer had escaped me for the second time ; early that
morning, she had left Edinburgh ! The paper inclosed proved

.«

The Two Destinies,

to be my letter of iiitroUuction to the dressmaker, returned to
me.

I was more than angry with her — I felt her second flight
from me as a downright outrage. In five minutes I had
hurried on ray clothes, and was on my way to the inn in the
Canongate as fast as a horse could draw me.

The servants could give me no information. Her escape had
been effected without their knowledge.

The landlady, to whom I next addressed myself, deliberately
declined to assist me in any way whatever. " I have given the
lady my promise," said this obstinate person, " to answer not
one word to any question that you may ask me about her. In
my belief, she is acting as becomes an honest woman in remov'
ing herself from any further communication with you. I saw
you through the key-hole last night, sir. I wish you good
morning."

Returning to my hotel, I left no attempt to discover her
untried. I traced the coachman who had driven her. He had
set her down at a shop, and had then been dismissed. I
questioned the shopkeeper. He remembered that he had sold
some articles of linen to a lady with her veil down and a
travelling bag in her hand, and he remembered no more. I
circulated a description of her in the different coach-oflSces.
Three " elegant young ladies, with their veils down, and with
travelling bags in their hands " answered to the description ;
and which of the three was the fugitive of whom I was in
search, it was impossible to discover. In the days of railways
and electric telegraphs, I might have succeeded in tracing her.
In the days of which I am now writing, she set investigation
at defiance.

The Disasters of Mrs. Van Brandt.

Ill

I read and re-read her letter ; on the chance that some slip
of the pen might furnish the clue which I had failed to find in
any other way. Here is the narrative that she addressed to
me, copied from the original, word for word : —

" Dear Sir, — Forgive me for leaving you again, as I left you
in Perthshire. After what took place last night, I have no
other choice (knowing my own weakness, and the influence
that you seem to have over me) than to thank you gratefully
for your kindness, and to bid you farewell. My sad position
must be my excuse for separating myself from you in this rude
manner, and for venturing to send you back your letter of in-
troduction. If I use the letter, I only ofler you a means of
communicating with me. For your sake, as well as for mine,
this must not be. I must never give ycu a second opportunity
of saying that you love me ; I must go away, leaving no trace
behind by which you can possibly discover me.

" But 1 cannot forget that I owe my poor life to your com-
passion and your courage. You, who saved me, have a right
to know what the provocation was that drove me to drowning
myself, and what my situation is, now that I am (thanks to
you) still a living w oinan. You shall hear my sad story, sir ;
and I will try to tell it as briefly as possible.

" I was married, not very long since, to a Dutch gentleman
whof e name is Van Brandt. Please excuse my entering into
family particulars. I have endeavoured to write and tell you
about my dear lost father and my old home. But the tears
come into my eyes when I think of my happy past life \ I
really cannot sea the lines as I try to write them.

'* Let me then only say that Mr. Van Brandt was well recom*

112

The Two Destinies.

mended to ray good father, before I married. I have only now
discovered that he obtained these recommendations from his
friends, under a false pretence which it is needless to trouble
you by mentioning in detail. Ignorant of what he had done,
I lived with him happily. I cannot truly declare that he was
the object of my first love ; but he was the one person in the
world whom I had to look up to after my father's death. I
esteemed him and admired him — and, if I may say so without
vanity, I did indeed make him a good wife.

" So the time went on, sir, prosperously enough, until the
evening came when you and I met on the bridge.

" I was out alone in our garden trimming the shrubs, when
the maid-servant came and told me there was a foreign lady, in
a carriage at the door, who desired to say a word to Mrs. Van
Brandt. I sent the maid on before, to show her into the
sitting-room ; and I followed to receive my visitor as soon as
I had made myself tidy. She was a dreadful woman, with a
flushed fiery face and impudent bright eyes. ' Are you Mrs.
Van Brandt % ' she said. I answered, * Yes.' ' Are you really
married to him?' she asked me. That question (naturally
enough, I think) upset my temper. I said, * How dare you
doubt it ? ' She laughed in my face. * Send for Van Brandt ; '
she said. I went out into the passage, and called him down
from the room upstairs in which he was writing. * Ernest ! ' I
said, * here is a person who has insulted .Tie ; come down di-
rectly ! ' He left his room the moment he heard me. The
woman followed me out into the passage to meet him. She
made him a low courtesy. He turned deadly pale the moment
he set eyes on her. That frightened me. I said to him, * For
God's sake, what does this mean 1 ' He took me by the arm,

The Disasters of Mrs. Van Brandt.

113

and he answered, * You shall know soon. Go back to your
gardening and don't return to the house till I send for you.'
His looks were so shocking, he was so unlike himself, that I
declare he daunted me. I let him take me as far as the garden
door. He squeezed my hand. * For my sake, darling,' he whis-
pered, * do what I ask of you.' I went into the garden and
sat me down on the nearest bench, and waited miserably for
what was to come.

** How long a time passed, I don't know. My anxiety got
to such a pitch at last that I could bear it no longer. I ven-
tured back to the house.

" I listened in the passage, and heard nothing. I went close
to the parlour door, and still there was silence. I took courage,
and opened the door.

" The room was empty. There was a letter on the table.
It was in my husband's handwriting ; and it was addressed to
me. I opened it and read it. The letter told me that I was
deserted, disgraced, ruined. The woman with the fiery face
and the impudent eyes was Van Brandt's lawful wife. She
had given him his choice of going away with her at once, or
of being prosecuted for bigamy. He had gone away with her
— gone, and left me.

" Remember, sir, that I had lost both father and mother. I
had no friends. I was alone in the world, without a creature
near to comfort or advise me. And please to bear in mind
that I have a temper which feels even the smallest slights and
injuries very keenly. Do you wonder at what I had it in my
thoughts to do, that evening on the bridge %

" Mind this ! I believe I should never have attempted to
destroy myself, if I could only have burst out crying. No

114

The Two Destinies.

tears came to me. A dull stunned feeling touk hold, like a vice,
on my head and on my heart. I walked straight to the river.
I said to myself quite calmly, as I went along : ' There is the
end of it, and the sooner the better.'

" What happened after that, you know as well as I do. I
may get on to the next morning— the morning when I so un-
gratefully left you at the inn by the river side.

" I had but one reason, sir, for going away by the first con-
veyance that I could find to take me — and this was the fear
that Van Brandt might discover me if I remained in Perthshire.
The letter that he had left on the table was full of expressions
of love and remorse — to say nothing of excuses for his infa-
mous behaviour to me. He declared that he had been entrapped
into a private marriage with a profligate woman when he was
little more than a lad. They had long since separated by com-
mon consent. When he first courted me, he had every reason
to believe that she was dead. How he had been deceived in
this particular, and how she had discovered that he had mar-
ried me, he had yet- to find out. Knowing her furious temper,
he had gone away with her, as tho one means of preventing an
application to the justices and a scandal in the neighl ourhood.
In a day or two, he would purchase his release from her by an
addition to the allowance which she had already received from
him : he would return to me, and take mo abroad, out of the
way of further annoyance. I was his wife in the sight of
Heaven ; I was the only woman he had ever loved, and so on,
and so on.

" Do you now see, sir, the risk that I ran of his discovering
me if I remained in your neighbourhood ? The bare thought .
of it made my flesh creep. 1 was determined never again to

T^u Disasters of Mrs. Van Brandt.

115

see the man who had so cruelly deceived me. I am in the same
mind stil! — with this difference, that I might consent to see
him, if I could be positively assured first of the death of his
wife. That is not likely to happen. Let me get on with my
letter, and tell you what I did on my arrival in Edinburgh.

'' The coachman recommended me to the house in the Can-
ongate where you found me lodging. I wrote the same day to
relatives of my father living in Glasgow, to tell them where I
was, and in what a forlorn position I found myself

" I was answered by return of post. The he:\d of the family
and his wife requested me to refrain from visiting them in Glas-
gow. They had busir ess then in hand which would take them
to Edinburgh \ and I might expect to see them both with the
least possible delay.

*' They arrived as they had promised ; and they expressed
themselves civilly enough. Moreover, they did certainly lend
rae a small sum of money, when they found how poorly my
purse was furnished. But I don't think either husband or wife
felt much for me* They recommended me, at parting, to ap-
ply to my father's other relatives living in England. I may
be doing them an injustice ; but I fancy they were eager to
get me (as the common phrase is) off their hands.

" The day when the departure of my relatives left me friend-
less, was also the day, sir, when I had that dream or vision of
you which I have already related. I lingered on at the house
in the Canongate ; partly because the landlady was kind to me,
partly because I was so depressed by my position that I really
did not know what to do next.

" In this wretched condition, you discovered me on that
favourite walk of mine from Holy rood to St. Anthony's Weil.

• .1

116

The Two Destinies.

Believe me, your kind interest in my fortunes has not been
thrown away on an ungrateful woman. I could ask Provi-
dence for no greater blessing than to find a brother and a
friend in you. You have yourself destroyed that hope by
what you said and did, when we were together in the parlour.
I don't blame you ; I am afraid my manner (without my know-
ing it) might have seemed to give you some encouragement.
I am only sorry — very, very sorry, to have no honourable
choice left but never to see you again.

" After much thinking, I have made up my mind to speak to
those other relatives of my father to whom I have not yet ap-
plied. The chance that they may help me to earn an honest
living is the one chance that I have left. God bless you, Mr.
Germaine ! I wish you prosperity and happiness from the
bottom of my heart, and remain, your grateful servant,

" M. Van Brandt.

" P.S. — I sign my own name (or the name which I once
thought was mine) as a proof that I have honestly written the
truth about myself from first to last. For the future, I must
for safety's sake live under some other name. I should like to
go back to my name when I was a happy girl at home. But
Van Brandt knows it ; and besides, I have (no matter how in-
nocently) disgraced it. Good-bye again, sir ; and thank you
again."

So the letter concluded.

I read it in the temper of a thoroughly disappointed and
thoroughly unreasonable man. Whatever poor Mrs. Van
Brandt had done, she had done wrong. It was wrong of her,

The Disasters of Mrs. Fan Brandt,

117

in the first place, to have married at all. It was wrong of her
to contemplate receiving Mr. Van Brandt again, even if his
lawful wife had died in the interval. It was wrong of her to
return my letter of introduction, after I had given myself the
trouble of altering it to suit her capricious fancy. It was
wrong of her to take an absurdly prudish view of a stolen kiss
and a tender declaration, and to fly from me as if I was as
great a scoundrel as Mr. Van Brandt himself. And last, and
more than all, it was wrong of her to sign her Christian name
in initial only. Here I was, passionately in love with a woman,
and not knowing by what fond name to identify her in my
thoughts ! " M. Van Brandt ! " I might call her, Maria, Mar-
garet, Martha, Mabel, Magdalen, Mary — no ! not Mary. The
old boyish love was dead and gone \ but 1 owed some respect
to the memory of it. If the " Mary " of my early days was
still living, and if I had met her, would she have treated me
as iliis woman had treated me ? Never ! It was an in-
jury to " Mary," to think even of that heartless creature by
her name. Why think of her at all 1 Why degrade myself
by trjring to puzzle out a means of tracing her in her letter 1
It was sheer folly to attempt to trace a woman who had gone
I knew not whither, and who had herself informed me that
she meant to pass under an assumed name. Had I lost all
pride, all self-respect % In the flower of my age ; with a hand-
some fortune ; with the world before me, full of interesting
female faces, and charming female figures — what course did it
become me to take ? To go back to my country house, and
mope over the loss of a woman who had deliberately deserted
me % or to send for a courier and a travelling carriage, and for-
get her gaily, among foreign people and foreign scenes ? In

118

The Two Destinies,

the state of my temper at that moment, the idea of a pleatture
tour in Europe fired my imagination. I first astonished the
people at the hotel by ordering all further inquiries after the
missing Mrs. Van Brandt to be stopped — and then I opened
my writing-desk and wrcjte to tell my mother frankly and fully
of my new plans.

The answer arrived by return of post.

To my surprise and delight, my good mother was not satis-
fied with only formally approving of my new resolution. With
an energy which I had not ventured to expect from her, she
had made all her arrangements for leaving home, and had
started for Edinburgh to join me as my travelling companion.
" You shall not go away alone, George " (she wrote), " while I
have strength and spirits to keep you company."

In three days from the time when I read these words, our
preparations were completed, and we were on our way to the
Continent.

CHAPTER XIII.

NOT CURED YET.

visited France, Germany, and Italy; and we
were absent from England nearly two years.

Had time and change justified my confi-
dence in them ] Was the image of Mrs. Van
Brandt an image long since dismissed from my
mind ?

No ! Do what I might, I was still (in the prophetic lan-
guage of Dame Dermody) taking the way to reunion with my
kindred spirit, in the time to come. For the first two or three
months of our travels, I was haunted by dreams of the woman
who had so resolutely left me. Seeing her in my sleep, always
graceful, always charming, always modestly tender towards
me, I waited in the ardent hope of again beholding the appari-
tion of her in my waking hours — of again being summoned to
meet her at a given place and time. My anticipations were
not fulfilled ; no apparition showed itself The dreams them-
selves grew less frequent and less vivid, and then ceased alto-
gether. Was this a sign that the days of her adversity were at
an end 1 Having no further need of help, had she no further
remembrance of the man who had tried to help her ? Were
we never to meet again 1

120

The Two Destinies.

I said to myself, " I am unworthy of the name of man, if I
don't forget her now ! " She still kept her plan; in my memory,
say what I might.

I saw all the wonders of Nature and Art which foreign coun-
tries could show me. I lived in the dazzling light of the best
society that Paris, Rome, Vienna could assemble. I passed
hours on hours in the company of the most accomplished and
most beautitul women whom Europe could produce — and still
that solitary fir;':ire at Saint Anthony's Well, those grand grey
eyes which had rested on me so sadly at parting, held their
place in my memory, stamped their image on my heart.

Whether I resisted my infatuation, or whether I submitted
to it, I still lorged for her. I did all I could to conceal the
etate of my mind from my mother. But her loving eyes dis-
covered the secret : she saw that I suffered, and suffered with
me. More than once she said, " George, the good end is not
to be gained by travelling ; let us go home." More than once
I answered with the bitter and obstinate resolution of despair,
" No ! let us try more Vi&\f people, and more new scenes." It
was only when I found her health and strength beginning to
fail under the stress of continual travelling, that I consented to
abandon the hopeless search after oblivion, and to turn home-
ward at last.

I prevailed on my mother to wait and rest at my house in
London, before she returned to her favourite abode at the coun-
try seat in Perthshire. It is needless to say that I remained in
town with her. My mother now represented the one interest
that held me nobly and endearingly to life. Politics, literature,
agriculture — the customary pursuits of a man in my position
had none of them the slightest attraction for me.

Not Cured Yet,

121

We had arrived in Lundoii at what is called " the height of
the season." Among the operatic attractions of that year — I
am writing of the days when the ballet was still a popular form
of public entertainment — there was a certain dancer whose
grace and beauty were the objects of universal admiration. I
was asked if I had seen her wherever I went, until my social
position as the one man who was indifferent to the reigning
goddess of the stage became quite unendurable. On the next
occasion when I was invited to take a seat in a friend's box, I
accepted the proposal ; and (far from willingly) I went the way
of the world — in other words, I went to the opera.

The first part of the performance had concluded when we got
to the theatre, and the ballet had not yet begun. My friends
amused themselves with looking for familiar faces in the boxes
and stalls. I took a chair in a corner and waited, with my
mind far away from the theatre, for the dancing that was to
come. The lady who sat nearest to me (like ladies in general)
disliked the neighbourhood of a silent man. She determined
to make me talk to her.

" Do tell me, Mr. Germaine," she said, " did you ever see
a theatre anywhere so full as this theatre is to-night ] "

She handed me her opera glass as she spoke. I moved to the
front of the box to look at the audience.

It was certainly a wonderful sight. Every available atom of
space (as I gradually raised the glass from the floor to the ceil-
ing of the building) appeared to be occupied. Looking upward
and upward, my range of view gradually reached the gallery.
Even at that distance, the excellent glass which had been put
into my hands brought the faces of the audience close to me.

122

The Two Destinies.

I looked first at the persons who occupied the front row of seats
in the gallery stalls.

Moving the opera-glass slowly along the semiciicle formed
by the seats, I suddenly stopped when I reached the middle.

My heart gave a great leap as if it would bound out of my
body. There was no mistaking that face among the common-
place faces near it. I had discovered Mrs. Van Brandt !

She sat in front — but not alone. There was a man in the
stall immediately behind her, who bent over her and spoke to
her from time to time. She listened to him, so far as I could
see, with something of a sad and weary look. Who was the
man ? I might, or might not, find that out. Under any cir-
cumstances, I determined to speak to Mrs. Van Brandt.

The curtain rose for the ballet. I made the best excuse I
could to my friends, and instantly left the box.

It was useless to attempt to purchase my admission to the
gallery. My money was refused. There was not even stand-
ing room left in that part of the theatre.

But one alternative remained. I returned to the street, to
wait for Mrs. Van Brandt at the gallery door until the per-
formance was over.

Who was the man in attendance on her — the man whom I
had seen sitting behind her and talking familiarly over her shoul-
der ? While I paced backwards and forwards before the door,
that one question held possession of my mind, until the op-
pression of it grew beyond endurance. I went back to my
friends in the box, simply and solely to look at the man again.

What excuses I made to account for my strange conduct, I
cannot now remember. Armed once more with the lady's
opera-glass (I borrovve<l it, and kept it, without scruple), I

Not Cured Yet.

123

alone, of all that vast audience, turned my h!u;k on the stage,
and riveted my attention on the gallery stalls.

There he sat, in his place behind her, to all appearance spell-
bound by the fascinations of the beautiful dancer. Mrs. Van
Brandt, on the contrary, seemed to find but little attraction in
the spectacle presented by the stage. She looked at the danc-
ing (so far as I could see) in an absent, weary manner When
the applause broke out in a perfect frenzy of cries and clapping
of hands, she sat perfectly unmoved by the enthusiasm which
pervaded the tiieatre. The man beliind her (annoyed, as I
supposed, by the marked indifference which she showed to the
performance) tapped her impatiently on the shoulder, as if he
thought that she was quite capable of falling asleep in her
stall ! The familiarity of the action — confirming the suspicion
in my mind which had already identified him with Van Brandt
— so enraged me that I did or said something which obliged
one of the gentlemen in the box to interfere. " If you can't
control yourself," he whispered, " you had better leave us."
He spoke with the authority of an old friend. I had sense
enough to take his advice, and return to my post at the gallery
door.

A little before midnight, the performance ended. The au-
dience began to pour out of the theatre.

I drew back into a corner behind the door, facing the gallery
stairs, and watched for her. After an interval which seemed
to be endless, she and her companion appeared, slowly descend-
ing the stairs. S!ie wore a long dark cloak : her head was pro-
tected by a quaintly-shaped hood, which looked (on hsr) the
moist becoming head-dress that a woman could wear. As the

124

7 he Two Destinies.

two passed me, I heard the man speak to her in a tone of sulky
annoyance.

" It's wasting money," he said, " to go to the expense of
taking you to the opera."

" I am not well," she .^^nswered, with her head down and
her eyes on tne ground. " 1 am out of spirits to-night."

" Will you ride home, or walk ? "

" I will walk, if you please."

I followed them, unperceived ; waiting to present myself to
her until the crowd about them had dispersed. In a few min-
utes they turned into a quiet by-street. I quickened my pace
until I was close at her side — a .d then I took off my hat and
spoke to her.

She recognised me with a cry of astonishment. For an in-
stant her face brightened radiantly with the loveliest expres-
sion of delight that I ever saw in any human countenance.
The moment after, all was changed ! The charming features
saddened and hardened : she stood before me, like a woman
overwhelmed by shame — without uttering a word, without
taking my offered hand.

Her companion broke the silence.

" Who is this gentleman 1 " he asked, speaking in a foreign
accent, with an underbred insolence of tone and manner.

She controlled herself the moment he addressed her. " This
is Mr. Germtine," she answered. " A gentleman who was
very kind to me in Scotland." She raised her eyes for a mo-
ment to mine, and took refuge, poor soul, in a conventionally
polite inquiry after my health. " I hope you are quite well,
Mr. Germaine," said the soft, sweet voice, trembling piteously.

I made the customary reply, and explained that I had seen

Not Cured Yet.

125

her at the opera. ** Are you staying iu Luudon ) " 1 u^iked.
" May I have the honour of calling on you 1 "

Her companion answered for her, before she could speak.

" My wife thanks you, sir, for the compliment you pay her.
She doesn't receive visitors. We both wish you good night."

Saying these words, he took oflf his hat, with a sardonic as-
sumption of respect, and, holding her arm in his, forced her to
walk on abruptly with him. Feeling certainly assured by this
time that the man was no other than Van Brandt, I was on
the point of answering him sharply, when Mrs. Van Brandt
checked the rash words as they rose to my lips.

'* For my sake !" she whispered over her shoulder, with an
imploring look that instantly silenced me. After all, she was
free (if she liked) to go back to the man who had so vilely de-
ceived and deserted her. I bowed, and left them, feeling with
no common bitterness the humiliation of entering into rivalry
with Mr. Van Brandt.

I crossed to the other side of the street. Before I had taken
three steps away from her, the old infatuation fastened its
hold on me again. I submitted, without a struggle against
myself, to the degradation of turning spy, and followed them
home. Keeping well behind, on the opposite side of the way,
I tracked them to their own door, and entered in my pocket-
book the name of the street and the number of the house.

The hardest critic who reads these lines cannot feel more
contemptuously towards mo than I felt towards myself. Could
I still love a woman after she had deliberately preferred to me
a scoundrel who had married her while he was the husband of
another wife % Yes ! knowing what I now know, I felt that I
loved her just as dearly as ever. It was incredible ; it wag

126

Tfie Two Destinies.

shocking — but it was true. For the first time in my life, I
tried to take refuge from my sense of my own degradation in
drink. I went to my cluh and joined a convivial party at a
supper-table, and poured glass after glass of champagne down
my throat — without feeling the slightest sense of exhilaration,
without losing for an instant the consciousness of my own con-
temptible conduct. I went to my bed in despair ; and, through
the wakeful night, I weakly cursed the fatal evening at the
riverside when I had met her for the first time. But, revile
her as I might, despise myself as I might, I loved her — I loved
her still !

Among the letters laid on my table the next morning, there
were two which must find their place in this narrative.

The first letter was in a handwriting which I had seen once
before, at the hotel in Edinburgh. The writer was Mrs. Van
Brandt.

" For your own sake " (the letter ran), " make no attempt to
see me, and take no notice of an invitation which I fear you
will receive with this note. I am living a degraded life — I
have sunk beneath your notice. You owe it to yourself, sir, to
forget the miserable woman who now writes to you for the last
time, and bids you gratefully a last farewell.''

Those sad lines were signed in initials only. It is needless
to say that they merely strengthened my resolution to see her
at all hazards. I kissed the paper on which her hand had
rested — and then I turned to the second letter. It contained
the '' invitation " to which my correspondent had alluded, and
it was expressed in these terms :

"2^. Van Brandt presents his compliments to Mr. Germaine,
and begs to apologise for the somewhat abrupt manner in which

Not Cured Yet.

127

h« received Mr. Germaine's polite advances. Mr. Van Brandt
suffers habitually from nervous irritability, and he felt particu-
larly ill last night. He trusts Mr. Germaine will receive this
candid explanation in the spirit in which it is offered ; and he
begs to add that Mrs. Van Brandt will be delighted to receive
Mr. Germaine whenever he may find it convenient to favour
her with a visit."

That Mr. Van Brandt had some sordid interest of his own
to serve in writing this grotesquely-impudent composition, and
that the unhappy woman who bore his name was heai'tily
ashamed of the proceeding on which he had ventured, were
conclusions easily drawn after reading the two letters. The
suspicion of the man and of his motives which I naturally felt
produced no hesitation in my mind as to the course which I
had determined to pursue. On the contrary, I rejoiced that
my way to an interview with Mrs. Van Brandt was smoothed,
no matter with what motives, by Mr. Van Brandt himself.

I waited at home until noon — and then I could wait no
longer. Leaving a message of excuse for my mother, (I had
just sense of shame enough left to shrink from facing her), I
hastened away to profit by my invitation, on the very day when
I had received it '

CHAPTER XIV.

MRS. VAN BRANDT AT HOME.

S I lifted my hand to ring the house-bell, the door
opened from within, and no less a person than
Mr. Van Brandt himself stood before me ! He
had his hat on ; we had evidently met just as he
was going out.
" My dear sir, how good this is of you ! You
present the best of all replies to my letter, in presenting your-
self. Mrs. Van Brandt is at home — Mrs. Van Brandt will be
delighted. Pray walk in."

He threw open the door of a room on the ground floor. His
politeness was (if possible) even more offensive than his inso-
lence. "Be seated, Mr. Germaine, I beg of you!" He turned
to the open door and called up the stairs, in a loud and confi-
dent tone —

" Mary ! Come down directly I "

" Mary ! " I knew her Christian name at last — and knew it
through Van Brandt. No words can tell how the name jarred
on me, spoken by his lips ! For the first time for years past,
my mind went back to Mary Dermody and Green water Broad.
The next moment, I heard the rustling of Mrs. Van Brandt's
dress on the stairs. As the sound caught my ear, the old times

Mrs. Van Brandt at Home,

129

and, the old faces vanished again from my thoughts as complete-
ly as if they had never existed. What had she, in common with
the frail, shy little child, her namesake of other days 1 What
similarity was perceivable in the sooty London lodging-house,
to remind me of the bailiff's flower-scented :ottageby the shores
of the lake 1

Van £ 'mdt took off his bat, and bowed to me with sicken-
ing servility.

'' I have a business appointment," lie said, " which it is im-
possible to put off. Pray excuse me. Mrs. Van Brandt will
do the honours. Good morning."

The house door opened and closed again. The rustling of
the dress came slowly nearer and nearer. She stood before me.

" Mr. Germaine I " she exclaimed, starting back as if the bare
sight of me repelled her. " la this honourable % Is this worthy
of you ? You allow me to be entrapped into receiving you —
and you accept as your accomplice Mr. Van Brandt ! Oh, sir, I
have accustomed myself to look up to you as a high-minded
man ! How bitterly you have disappointed me ! "

Her reproaches passed by me unheeded. They only height-
ened her colour ; they only added a new rapture to the luxury
of looking at her.

" If you love me as faithfully as I love you," I said, " you
would understand why I am here. No sacrifice is too great if
it brings me into your presence again, after two years of ab-
sence."

She suddenly approached me, and fixed her eyes in eager
scrutiny on my face.

" There must be some mistake," she said. " You cannot pos-
sibly have received my letter, or you have not read it 1 "

130

The Two Destinies.

" I have received it ; and I have read it."

" And Van Brr.ndt's letter ? You have read that, too 1 "

"Yes"

She s«'\t down by the table, and, leaning her arms on it,
covered her face with her hands. My answers seemed not only
to have distressed, but to have perplexed her. " Are men all
alike]" I heard her say. " I thought I might trust in Im sense
of what was due to himself, and of what was compassionate
towards me."

I closed the door, and seated myself by her side. She re-
moved her hands from her face when she felt me near her. She
looked at me with a cold and steady surprise.

" What are you going to do % " she asked.

" I am going to try if J can recover my place in your estima-
tion," I said. " I am going to ask your pity for a man whose
whole heart is yours, whose whole life is bound up in you."

She started to her feet, and looked round her incredulously,
as if doubting whether she had rightly interpreted my last
words. Before I could speak again, she suddenly faced me,
and struck her open hand on the table with a passionate re-
solution which I now saw in her for the first time.

" Stop ! " she cried. " There must be an end to this. And an
end there shall be. Do you know who that man is who has
just lef\} the house % Answer me, Mr. Germaine ! I am speaking
ill earnest."

There was no choice but to answer her. She was indeed in
earnest — vehemently in earnest.

" His letter tells me," I said, " that he is Mr. Van Brandt."
She sat down again, and turned her face away from me.

■i. ,

Mrs, Van Brandt at Home.

131

"Do you know how he came to write to youl" she asked.
" Do you know what made him invite you to this house 1 "

I thought of the suspicion that had crossed Uiy mind when
1 read Van Brandt's letter — I made no reply.

" You for* le to tell you the truth," she went on. " He
asked me who you were, last night, on our way home. I knew
that you were rich, and that /te wanted money — I told him I
knew nothing of your position in the world. He was too cunning
to believe me ; he went out to the public-house, and looked at a
Directory. He came back, and said, ' Mr. Germaine has a
house in Berkeley Square, and a country seat in the Highlands ;
he is not a man for a poor devil like me to offend : I mean to
make a friend of him, and I expect you to make a friend of
him too. He sat down, and wrote to you. I am living under
that man's protection, Mr. Germaine ! His wife is not dead, as
you may suppose — she is living, and I know her to be living.
I wrote to you that I was beneath your notice ; and you have
obliged me to tell you why. Am I sufficiently degiided to
bring you to your senses 1 "

I drew closer to her. She tried to get up, and leave me. I
knew my power over her, and used it (as any man in my place
would use it) without scruple. I took her hand.

" I don't believe you have voluntarily degraded yourself," I
said. " You have been forced into your present position — there
are circumstances which excuse you, and which you are pur-
posely keeping back from me. Nothing will conveince me that
you are a base woman ! Should I love you as I love you, if you
were really unworthy of me 1 "

She struggled to free her hand — I still held it. She tried to
change the subject.

132

The Two Destinies.

" There is one thing you hav'a't told me yet," she said, with
a faint, forced smile. " Have you seen the apparition of me
again since I left you ? "

" No. Have you ever seen mt again, as you saw me in your
dream at the inn in Edinburgh ? " «f

" Never i Our visions of each other have left us. Can
you tell why % "

If we had continued to speak on this subject, we must surely
have recognised each other. But the subject dropped. In-
stead of answering her question, I drew her nearer to me — I
returned to the forbidden subject of my love.

" Look at me," |I pleaded, " and tell me the truth. Can
you see me, can you hear me ; and do you feel no answering
sympathy in your own heart ? Do you really care nothing for
me 1 Have you never once thought of me in all the time
that has passed since we last met ? "

I spoke as I felt — fervently, passionately. She made a last
effort to repel me ; and yielded even as she made it. Her
hand closed on mine ; a low sigh fluttered on her lips. She
answered with a sudden self-abandonment ; she recklessly cast
herself loose from the restraints which had held her up to this
time.

" I think of you perpetually," she said. " I was thinking
of you at the opera last night. My heart leapt in me when I
heard your voice in the street."

" You love me ! " I whispered.

" Love you % " she repeated. " My whole heart goes out to
you, in spite o^ myself ! Degraded as I am, unworthy as I am
— knowing as I do that nothing can ever come of it — I love
you ! I love you ! " ^

Mrs, i/^an Brandt at Home.

133

She threw her arms round my neck, and hold me to her with
&11 her strength. The moment after, she dropped on her
knees.

" Oh, don't tempt me ! " she said. " Be merciful, and leave
me!"

I was beside myself ; I spoke as recklessly to her as she had
spoken to me.

" Prove that you love me," I said. " Let me rescu<* you
from the degradation of living with that man. Leaye him at
once, and for ever. Leave him, and come with me to a future
that is worthy of you — your future as my wife ! "

" Never ! " she answered, crouching low at my feet.

« Why not 1 What obstacle is there ? "

" I can't tell you ! I daren't tell you."

" Will you write it 1 "

" No ! I can't even write it — to ym. Go, i implore you,
before Van Brandt comes bac'lc. Go, if you love me and pity

She had roused my jealousy ; I positively refused to leave
her.

" I insist on knowing what binds you to that man," I said.
" Let him come back ! If ym won't answer my question, I
will put it to Aim."

She looked at me wildly, with a cry of terror — she saw my,
resolution in my face.

" Don't frighten me," she said. " Let me think."

She reflected for a moment. Her eyes brightened, rs if
some .new way out of the difficulty had occurred to her.

" Have you a mother living 1 " she asked.

" Yes."^

134

The Two Destinies.

" Dn you think slie wouhl come and see mel"

" I am sure she would, if I asked her."

She considered with herself once more. " I will tell your
mother what the obstacle is," she said thoughtfully.

" When 1 "

"Tomorrow — at this time."

She raised herself on her knees ; the tears suddenly filled
her eyes. She drew me to her gently. " Kiss me," she whis-
pered. " You will never come here again. Kiss me for the
last time."

My lips had barely touched hers when she started to her
f?et, and snatched up my hat from the chair on which I had
placed it.

*' Take your hat," she said. " He has come back."

My duller sense of hearing had discovered nothing. I rose,
and took my hat to quiet her. At the same moment, the door
of the room opened suddenly and softly. Mr. Van Brandt
came in. I saw in his face that he had some vile motive of his
own for trying to take us by surprise, and that the result of
the experiment had disappointed him.

" You are not going yet t " he said, speaking to me, with his
eye on Mrs. Van Brandt. " I have hurried over my business,
in the hope of prevailing on you to stay and take lunch with
us. Put down your hat, Mr. Germaine. No ceremony ! '*

" You are very good," I answered. " My time is limited to-
day. I must beg you and Mrs. Van Brandt to excuse me."

I took leave of her as I spoke. She turned deadly pale
when she shook hands with me at parting. Had she any open
brutality to dread from Van Brandt as soon as my back was
turned ] The bare suspicion of it made my blood boil. But I

Mrs. Van Brandt at Home.

13^

thought of }u,r. In her interests, tlie wise thing an«l the merci-
ful thing to do was to conciliate the fellow before I lei', the
house.

" I am SOFT}' not to be able to accept your invitation," I said,
as we walked together to the door. '' Perhaps you will give
me another chance 1 "

His eyes twinkled cunningly. " What do you say to a quiet
little dinner here 1 " he asked. " A slice of mutton, you know,
and a bottle of good wine. Only our three selves, and one
old friend of mine, to make up four. We will have a rubber
of whist in the evening. Mary and you partners— eh % When
shall it be 1 Shall we say the day after to-morrow 1 "

She had followed us to the door, keeping behind Van Brandt
while he was speaking to me. When he mentioned the " old
friend " and the " rubber of whist," her face expressed the
strongest emotions of shame and disgust. The next moment
(when she had heard him fix the date of the dinner for " the
day after to-morrow ") her features became composed again as
if a sudden sense of relief had come to her. What did the
change mean 1 " To-morrow " was the day she had appointed
for seeing my mother. Did she really believe, when I had
heard what passed at the interview, that I should never ent«r
the house again, and never attempt to see her more 1 And
was this the secret of her composure, when she heard the date
of the dinner appoiiited for " the day after to-morrow?"

Asking myself these questions, I accepted my invitation,
and left the house with a heavy heart. That farewell kiss,
that sudden composure when the day of the dinner was fixed,
weighed on my spirits. I would have given t r^elve years of
my life to have annihilated the next twelve hours.

136

The 1 wo Destinies.

In this frame of mind I reached home, and presented my-
self in my mother's sitting-room.

" You have gone out earlier than usual to-day," she
said. " Did the fine weather tempi you, my dear 1 " She
paused, and looked at me more closely. *' George I " she
exclaimed, "what has happened to youl Where have you
been ? "

I told her the truth as honestly as I have told it here.

The colour deepened in my mother's face. She looked at
me, and spoke to me, with a severity which was rare indeed in
my experience of her.

"Must I remind you, for the first time iu your life, of
what is duo to your mother % " she asked. "Is it possible
that you expect me to visit a woman who, by her own confes-
sion "

" 1 expect you to visit a woman who has only to say
the word, and to be your daughter-in-law," I interposed.
" Surely I am not asking what is unworthy of you, if I ask
thatl"

My mother looked at me in black dismay.

"Do you mean, George, that you have ofiPered her mar-
riage?"
. "Yes."

" And she has said, No 1"

" She has said. No — because there is some obstacle in her
way. I have tried vainly to make her explain herself. She
has promised to confide everything to yow."

The serious nature of the emergency had its effect. My
mother yielded. She handed me the little ivory tablets on

Mrs. Van Brandt at Home.

13i

which she was accustomed to record her engagements. *' Writt^
down the name and address," she said resignedly.

" I will go with you," I answered, " and wait in the carriage
at the door. I want to hear what has passed between you and
Mrs. Van Brandt the instant you have left fier."

" Is it as serious as that, George 1 "

"Yes, mother, it is as serious as that."

CHAPTER XV.

THE OBSTACLE BEATS ME.

OW long was I left alone in the carriage, at the door
of Mrs. Van Brandt's lodgings ? Judging by my
sensations, I waited half a life-time. Judging by
my watch, I waited half an hour.

When my mother retun-od to me, the hope
which I had entertained of a happy result from
her interview with Mrs. Van Brandt, was a hope abandoned
befon; slie had opened her lips. I saw, in her face, that an
obstacle which was beyond my power of removal, did indeed
stand between me and the dearest wish of my life.

" Tell me the worst," I said, as we drove away from the
house ; " and tell it at once."

" I must tell it to you, George," my mother answered sadly,
"as she told it to me. She begged me herself to do that.
' We must disappoint him,' she said, ' but pray let it be done
as gently as possible.' Beginning in those words, she confided
to me the painful story which you know already — the story of
her marriage. From that she passed to her meeting with you
at Edinburgh, and to the circumstances which have led her to
live as she is living now. This latter part of her narrative she
especially requested me to repeat to you. Do you feel composed
enough to hear it now ? or would you rather wait 1 "

The Obstacle Beats Me.

139

" Let me hear it now, mother — and tell it, as nearly as you
can, in her own words."

" I will repeat what she said to me, my dear, as faithfully
as I can. After speaking of her father's death, she told me
that she had only two relatives living. * I have a married aunt
in Glasgow, and a married aunt in London,' she said. 'When
I left Edinburgh, I went to my aunt in London. She and my
father had not been on good terms together ; she considered
that my father had neglected her. But his death had softened
her towards him and towards me. She received me kindly,
and she got me a situation in a shop. I kept my situation for
three months ; and then I was obliged to leave it.' "

My mother paused. I thought directly of the strange post-
script which Mrs. Van Brandt had made me add to the letter
that I wrote for her at the Edinburgh inn. In that case also
she had only contemplated remaining in her employment for
three months' time.

" Why was she obliged to leave her situation 1 " I asked.

" I put that question to her myself," replied my mother.
" She made no direct reply — she changed colour, and looked
confused. *I will tell you afterwards, madam,' she said.
* Please let me go on now. My aunt was angry with me for
leaving my employment — and she was more angry still, when
I told her the reason. She said I had failed in duty towards
her in not speaking frankly at first. We parted coolly. I had
saved a little money from my wages : and did well enough
while my savings lasted. When they came to an end, I tried
to get employment again — and I failed. My aunt said, and
said truly, that her husband's income was barely enough to
support his family : she could do nothing for me, and 1 conld

140

The Two Destinies,

do nothing for myself. I wrote to my aunt at Glasgow, and
received no answer. Starvation stared me in the face — when
I saw in a newspaper an advertisement addressed to me by
Mr. Van Brandt. He implored me to write to him \ he de-
clared that his life without me was too desolate to be endured ;
he solemnly promised that there should be no interruption to
ray tranquillity if I would return to him. If I had only my-
self to think of, I would have begged my bread in the streets
rather than return to him ' "

I interrupted the narrative at that point.

"What other person could she have to think of ? " I said.

" Is it possible, George," my mother rejoined, '* that you
have no suspicion of what she was alluding to, when she said
those words % "

The question passed by me unheeded : my thoughts were
dwelling bitterly on Van Brandt and his advertisement. " She
answered the advertisement, of course ? " I said.

" And she saw Mr. Van Brandt," my mother went on. " She
gave me no detailed account of the interview between them.
'He reminded me,' she said, *of what I knew to be true —
that the woman who had entrapped him into marrying her was
an incurable drunkard, and that living with her again was out
of the question. Still she was alive, and she had a right to
the name at least of his wife. I won't attempt to excuse my
returning to him, knowing the circumstances as I did. I will
only say that I could see no other choice before me in my posi-
tion at the time. It is needless to trouble you with what I
have suffered since, or to speak of what I may suffer still.
I am a lost woman. Be under no alarm, madam, about your
son. I shall remember proudly, to the end of my life, that he

The Obstacle Beats Me.

once ofiferod me the honour and happiness of becoming his wife
— but I know what is due to him and to you. I have seen
him for the last time. The one thing that remains to be done
is to satisfy him that our marriage is impossible. You are a
mother ; you will understand why I reveal the obstacle which
stands between us — not to him, but to you.' She rose saying
those words, and opened the folding doors which led from
the parlour into a back room. After an absence of a few mo-
ments only, she returned."

At that crowning point in the narrative, my mother stopped.
Was she afraid to go on 1 or did she think it needless to say
more 1

" Well 1" I said.

" Mast I really tell it to you in words, Greorge % Can't you
guess how it ended even yet % "

There were two difficulties in the way of ray understanding
her. I had a man's bluntness of perception, and I was half
maddened by suspense. Incredible as it may appear, I was' too
dull to guess the truth, even now.

" When she returned to me," my mother resumed, " she was
not alone. She had with her a lovely little girl, just old enough
to walk with the help of her mother's hand. She tenderly
kissed the child ; and then she put it on my lap. ' There is my
only comfort,' she said simply ; and there is the obstacle to my
ever becoming Mr. Germaine's wife.' "

Van Brandt's child ! Van Brandt's child !

The postscript which she had made me add to my letter
the incomprehensible withdrawal from (the r'm;oloyment in
which she was prospering ; the disheartening difficulties which
had brought her to the very brink of starvation ; the degrad-

142

Tlu Two Destinies.

ing return to the man who had cruelly deceived her — all
was explained, all was excused now ! With an infant at the
breast, how could she obtain a new employment ? With famine
staring her in the face, what else could the friendless woman
do but to return to the father of her child ? What claim had
I on her, by comparison with him ? What did it matter now,
that the poor creature secretly returned the love that I felt for
her ? There was the child, an obstacle between us — there was
his hold on her, now that he had got her back ! What was my
hold worth ? All social proprieties and all social laws answered
the question : — Nothing !

My head sank on my breast — I received the blow in silence.

My good mother took my hand. " You understand it now,
George ? " she said, sorrowfully.

" Yes mother : I understand it."

" There was one thing she wished me to say to you, my
dear, which I have not mentioned yet. She entreats you not
to suppose that she had the faintest idea of her situation when
she attempted to destroy herself. Her first suspicion that it
was possible she might become a mother was conveyed to
her at Edinburgh, in a conversation with her aunt. It is im-
possible, George, not to feel compassionately towards this poor
woman. Regretable as her position is, I cannot see that she
is to blame for it. She was the innocent victim of a vile fraud,
when that man married her ; she has suffered undeservedly
sinc«i ; and she has behaved nobly to you and to me. I
only do her justice in saying that she is a woman in a thousand
— a woman worthy, under happier circumstances, to be ray
daughter and your wife. I feel for you, and feel with you, my
dear~I do, with my whole heart."

The Obstacle Beats Me.

So this scene in my life was, to all appearance, a scene closed
for ever. As it had been with my love in the days of my
boyhood, so it was again now with the love of my riper age !

Later in the day, when I had in some degree recoveitd my
self-possession, I wrote to Mr. Van Brandt— as she. had fore-
seen I should write I — to apologise for breaking my engage-
ment to dip.^ with him.

Could 1 trust to a letter, also, to say the farewell words for me
to the woman whom I had loved and lost ] No ! It was better
for her, and better for me, that I should not write. And yet,
the idea of leaving her in silence was more than my fortitude
could endure. Her last words at parting (as they were re-
peated to me by my mother) had expressed a hope that I should
not think hardly of her in the future. How could I assure
her that I should think of her tenderly to the end of my life 1
My mother's delicate tact and true sympathy shov/ed me the
way. " Send a little present, George," she said, "to the child.
You bear no malice to the poor little child ? " God knows 1
was not hard on the child ! I went out myself and bought
her a toy. I brought it home, and before I sent it away I
pinned a slip of paper to it, bearing this inscription : — " To
your little daughter, from George Germaine." There is no-
thing very pathetic, I suppose, in those words. And yet, I
burst out cr3dng when I had written them.

The next morning my mother and I set forth for my country
house in Perthshire. London was now unendurable to me.
Travelling abroad I had tried already. Nothing was left but
to go back to the Highlands, and to try what I could make of
my life, with my mother still left to live for.

CHAPTER XVI.

MY mother's diary.

HERE is something repellant to me, even at tbis
distance of time, in looking back at the dreary
days of seclusion which followed each other mono-
tonously in my Highland home. The actions of
my life, however trifling they may have been, I
can find some interest in recalling: they associ-
ate m.e with my fellow-creatures ; they connect me in some
degree with the vigorous movement of the world. But I
have no sympathy with the purely selfish pleasure which
some men appear to derive from dwelling on the minute ana-
tomy of their own feelings, under the pressure of ailverse for-
tune. Let the domestic record of our stagnant life in Perth-
shire (so &r as I aci concerned in it) be presented in my
mother's words, not in mine. A few lines of extract from the
daily journal /hich it was her habit to keep will tell all that
need be told, before tbis narrative advances to later dates and
to newer scenes.

20th August. — We have been two months at our home in
Scotland, and I see no change in George for the better. He
is as far as ever, I fear, from being reconciled to his separation
from that unhappy woman. Nothing will induce him to con-

My Mother s Diary.

Uf)

le m
He

ition
con-

fess it himself. He declares that his quiet life here with me
is all that he desires. But I know better ! I hav been into
bis bedroom late at night. I have heard him talking of her in
his sleep, and I have seen the tears on his eyelids. My poor
boy! What thousands of charming women there are who
would, ask nothing better than to be his wife. And the one
woman whom he can never marry is the only woman whom he
loves.

*' 25th. — A long conversation about Greorge with Mr. Mac-
Glue. I have never liked this Scotch doctor since he encour-
aged my sou to keep the fatal appointment at Saint Anthony's
Well. But he seems to be a clever man in his profession, and
I think, in his way, he means kindly towards George. His
advice was given as coarsely as usual, and very positively at
the same time. ' Nothing will cure your son, madam, of his
amatory passion for that half-drowned lady of his but change
— and another lady. Send him away by himself this time,
and let him feel the want of some kind creature to look after
him. And when he meets with that kind creature (they are
as plenty as fish in the sea), never trouble your head about it
if there's a flaw in her character. I have got a cracked tea-cup
which has served me for twenty years. Marry him, ma'am, to
the new one with the utmost speed and impetuosity which the
law will permit.' I hate Mr. MacGlue's opinions — so coarse
and so hard-hearted ! — but I sadly fear that I must part with
my son for a little while, for his own sake.

" 26th. — Where is George to go 1 I have been thinking of
it all through the night, and I cannot arrive at a conclusion.
It is so difficult to reconcile myself to letting him go away
alone.

146

The Two Destinies,

"29th. — I have always believed in special Providenoes,
and I am now confirmed in my belief. This morning has
brought with it a note from our good friend and neighbour at
Belhelvie. Sir James is one of the Commissioners for the
Northern Lights. He is going in a Government vessel to in>
spect the lighthouses on the north of Scotland, and on the
Orkney and Shetland Islands— and, having noticed how worn
and ill : ay poor boy looks, he most kindly invites George to
be his guest on the voyage. They will not be absent for more
than two months ; and the sea (ae Sir James reminds me) did
wonders for George's health when he returned from India. I
could wish for no better opportunity than this of trying what
change of air and scene will do for him. However painfully I
may feel the separation myself, I shall put a cheerful face on
it, and I shall urge George to accept th: avitation.

"80th. — I have said all I could, but he still refuses to
leave me. I am a miserable, selfish creature. I felt so glad
when he said ' No.'

" 31st. — ^Another wakeful night. George must positively
send his answer to Sir James to-day. I am determined to d,.
my duty towards my son — ^he looks so dreadfully pale and ill
this morning ! Besides, if something is not done to rouse him,
how do I know that he may not end in going back to Mrs.
Van Brandt after all % From every point of view, I feel bound
to insist on his accepting Sir James's invitation. I have only
to be firm, and the thing is done. He has never yet disobeyed
me, poor fellow. He will not disobey me now.

" 2nd September. — He has gone ! Entirely to please me —

^tirely against his own wishes. Oh, how is it that such a

good son cannot get a good wife % He would make any woman

My Mothers Diary.

147

ices,

has
ir at
r ihe
o in-
d the
worn
•ge to

le) did

lia. I
r what

ifuUyl
face on

ises to
so glad

sitively
d to d,>
and ill
LBehim,
^ Mrs.
1 bound
YQ only
ibeyed

me —

such a

[ woman

hi^py. I wonder whether I have done right in sending him
away ) The wind is moaning in the fir plantation at the back
of the house. Is there a storm at sea ; I forgot to ask Sir
James how big the vessel was. The Guide to Scotland says
the coast is rugged ; and there is a wild sea between the north
shore and the Orkney Islands. I ahnost regret having insisted
so strongly — how foolish I am I We are all in the hands of
(}od. May God bless and prosper my good son !

" 10th. — Very uneasy. No letter from George. jA> how
full of trouble this life is ! and how strange that we should
cling to it as we do 1

" 15th. — ^A letter from George ! They have done with the
north coast ; and they have crossed the wild sea to the Orkneys.
Wonderful weather has favoured them so far; and George
is in better health and spirits. Aht how much happiness
there is in life if we will only have the patience to wait for it.
" 2nd October. — Another letter. They are safe in the har-
bour of Lerwick, the chief port in the Shetland Islands. The
weather has not latterly been at all favourable. But the
amendment in George's health remains. He writes most grate-
fully of Sir James's unremitting kindness to him. I am so
happy ; I declare I could kiss Sir James — ^though he ts a great
man, and a Commissioner for Northern Lights ! In three
weeks more (wind and weather permitting) they hope to get
back. Never mind my lonely life here, if I can only see George
happy and well again ! He tells me they have passed a great
deal of their time on shore ; but not a word does he say about
meeting any ladies. Perhaps they are] scarce in those wild
regions 1 I have heard of Shetland shawls and Shetland
ponies. Are there any Shetland ladies, I wonder 1 "

CHAPTER XVII.

SHETLAND HOSPITALITY.

'UIDE! Where are we 1"
" I can't say for certain."
" Have you lost your way ? "
The guide looks slowly all round him, and then
looks at me. That is his answer to my question.
And that is enough.
The lost persons are three in number — my travelling com-
panion, myself and the guide. We are seated on three Shet-
land ponies — i o small in stature that we two strangers were at
first literally ashamed to get on their backs. We are sur-
rounded by diipping white mist so dense that we become in-
visible to one another at a distance of half a dozen yards. We
know that we are somewhere on the mainland of the Shetland
Islei^. We see under the feet of our ponies a mixture of moor-
land and bog ; here, the strip of firm ground that we are stand-
ing on ; and there, a few feet off, the strip of watery peat-bog,
which is deep enough to suffocate us if we step into it. Thus
far, and no farther, our knowledge extends. The question of
the moment is — What are we to do next ?

The guide lights his pipe, and reminds me that he warned
us against the weather before we started for our ride. My

Shetland Hospitality.

149

trayelling companion looks at me resignedly, with an expres-
sion of mild reproach. I deserve it. My rashnesi e to blame
for the disastrous position in which we now find ourselves.

In writing to my mother I have been careful to report
favourably of my health and spirits. But I have not confessed
that I still remember the day when I parted with the one hopo
and renounced the one love which made life precious to me.
My torpid condition of mind, at home, has simply given place
to a perpetual restlessness, produced by the excitement of my
new life. I must now always be doing something — no matter
what, so long as it diverts me from my own thoughts. Inaction
is unendurable ; solitude has become horrible to me. While
the other members of the party which has accompanied Sir
James on his voyage of inspection among the light-housefi are
content to wait in the harbour of Lerwick for a favourable
change in the weather, I am obstinately bent on leaving the
comfortable slelter of tHe vessel to explore some inland ruin
of pre-historic *iimes, of which I never heard, and for which I
care nothing. '?lie movement is all I want ; the ride will fill
the hateful void of time. I go, in defiance of sound advice
offered to me on all sides. The youngest member of our party
catches the infection of my recklessness (in virtue of his youth),
and goes with me. And what has come of it 1 We are blinded
by mist ; we are lost on a moor ; and the treacherous peat-
bogs are round us in every direction.

What is to be done ?

" Just leave it to the pownies," the guide says.

" Do you mean leave the ponies to find the way V

" That's it," says the guide. " Drop the bridle and leave it
to the pownies. See for yourselves. I'm away on my powny."

160

The Two Destinies,

He drops his bridle on the pommel of his saddle, whistles to
his pony, and disappears in the mist; riding with his hands
in his pockets, and his pipe in his mouth, as composedly as if
he was sitting by his own fireside at home.

We have no choice but to follow his example, or t<o be left
alone on the moor. The intelligent little animals, relieved
from our stupid supervision, trot off with their noses to the
ground, like hounds on the scent Where the intersecting
tract of bog is wide, they skirt round it. Where it is narrow
enough to be leapt over, they cross it by a jump. Trot ! trot !
— away the hardy little creatures go ; never stopping, never
hesitating. Our "superior intelligence," perfectly useless in
the emergency, wonders how it will end. Our guide, in front
of us, answers that it will end in the ponies finding their way
certainly to the nearest village or the nearest house. " Let the
bridles be," is his one warning to us. " Come what may of it,
let the bridles be."

It is easy for the guide to let his bridle be — he is accustomed
to place himself in that helpless position under stress of circum-
stances, and he knows exactly what his pony can do.

To us, however, the situation is a new one ; and it looks
dangerous in the extreme. More than once I check myself, not
without an effort, in the act of resuming the command of my
pony on passing the more dangerous points in the journey.
The time goes on ; and no sign of an inhabited dwelling looms
through the mist. I begin to get fidgety and irritable ; I find
myself secretly doubting the trustworthiness of the guide.
While I am in this unsettled frame of mind, my pony approaches
a dim black winding line, where the bog must be crossed
for the hundredth time at least. The breadth of it (deceptively

Shetland Hospitality.

151

enlarged in appearance by the mist) looks to my eyes beyond
the reach of a leap by any pony that ever was foaled. I lose
my presence of mind. At the critical moment before the jump
is taken, I am foolish enough to seize the bridle, and suddenly
check the pony. He starts, throws up his head, and falls in-
stantly as if he had been shot. My right hand, as we drop on
the ground together, g;ets twisted under me, and I feel that I
have sprained my wrist.

If I escape with no worse injury than this, I may consider
myself well off. But no such good fortune is reserved for me.
In his struggles to rise befcie I had completely extricated my-
self from him, the pony kicks me ; and, as my ill-luck will
have it, his hoof strikes, just where the poisoned spear struck
me in the past years of my service :a India. The old wound
opened again — ^aad there I lay bleeding on the barren Shetland
moor I

This time, my strength has not been exhausted in attempt-
ing to breast the current of a swift-flowing river with a drown-
ing woman to support. I preserve my senses ; and 1 am able
to give the necessary directions for bandaging the wound with
the best materials which we have at our disposal. To mount
my pony again is simply out of the question. I must remain
where I am, with my travelling companion to look after me ;
and the guide must trust his pony to discover the nearest place
of shelter to which I can be removed.

Before he abandons us on the moor, the man (at my sugges-
tion) takes our " bearings," as correctly as he can by the help
of my pocket compass. This done, he disappears in the mist,
with the bridle hanging loose, and the pony's nose to the
ground, as before. I am left, under my young friend's care,

152

Trie Two Destinies.

with a cloak to lie on, and a saddle for a pillow. Our ponies
composedly help themselves to such grass as they can find on
the moor ; keeping al*"-; , aear us as companionably as if they
were a couple of dogs. In this position we wait events, while
the dripping mist hangs thicker than ever all round us.

The slow minutes follow each other wearily in the majestic
silence of the moor. We neither of us acknowledge it in
words, but we both feel that hours may pass before the guide
discovers us again. The penetrating damp slowly strengthens
its clammy hold on me. My companion's pocket-flask of sherry
has about a teaspoonful of wine left in the bottom of it. "We
look at one another — having nothing else to look at in the pre-
sent state of the weather- and we try to make the best of it.
So the slow minutes follow each other, until our watches tell us
that forty minutes have elapsed since the guide and his pony
vanished from our view.

My friend suggests that we may as well try what our voices
can do towards proclaiming our situation to any living creature
who may, by the barest possibility, be within hearing of us.
I leave him to try the experiment ; having no strength to spare
for vocal efforts of any sort. My companion shouts at the
highest pitch of his voice. Silence follows his first attempt.
He tries again — and, this time, an answering hail reaches us
faintly through the white fog. A fellow-creature of some sort,
guide or stranger, is near us — help is coming at last ! j'

An interval passes ; and voices reach our ears — the voices of
two men. Then, the shadowy appearance of the two becomes
visible in the mist. Thew, the guide advances near enough to
.be identified. He is followed by a sturdy fellov, in a com-
posite dress, which presents him -nder the double aspect of a

Shetland Hospitality.

153

groom and a gardener. The guide speaks a few words of
rough sympathy. The composite man stands by impenetrably
silent : the sight of a disabled stranger fails entirely either to
surprise or to interest the gardener-groom.

After a little private consultation, the two men decide to
cross their hands, and thus make a seat for me between them.
My arms rest on their shoulders ; and so they carry me off.
My friend trudges behind them, with the saddle and the cloak.
The ponies caper and kick, in unrestrained enjoyment of their
freedom ; and sometimes follow, sometimes precede us, as the
hutnour of the moment inclines them. I am, fortunately for
my bearers, a light weight. After twice resting, they stop
altogether, and set me down on the driest place they can find.
1 look eagerly through the mist for some signs of a dwelling-
house — and I see nothing but a little shelving beach, and a
sheet of dark water beyond. Where are we 1

The gardener-groom vanishes, and appears again on the
water, looming large in a boat. I am laid down in the bottom
of the boat, with my saddle pillow ; and we shove off, leaving
the ponies to the desolate freedom of the moor. They will
pick up plenty to eat (the guide says) ; and when night comes
on they will find their own way to shelter in a village hard by.
The last I see of the hardy little creatures they are taking a
drink of water, side by Ride, and biting each other sportively,
in higher spirits than ever !

Slowly we float over the dark water — not a river, as I had
at first supposed, but a lake— until we reach the shores of a
little island ; a flat, lonely, barren patch of ground. I am
carried along a rough pathway made of great flat stones, until
we reach the firmer earth, and discover a human <lwelling-place

X—

164

The Two Destinies.

at last. It is a long, low house of one story fc>gh ; forming (as
well as I can see) three sides of a square. The door stands
hospitably open. The liall within is bare and cold and dreary.
The men open an interior door — and we enter a long corridor,
comfortably warmed by a peat fire. On one wall, I notice the
closed oaken doors of rooms ; on the other, rows on rows of
well-filled book-shelves met my eye. Advancing to the end of
the passage, we turn at right angles into a second. Here, a
door is opened at last : I find myself in a spacious room, com-
pletely and tastefully furnished, having two beds in it, and a
large fire burning in the grate. The change to this warm and
cheerful place of shelter from the chilly and misty solitude of
the moor is so luxuriously delightful, that I am quite content,
for the lirs^t few minutes, to stretch myself on a bed, in lazy
enjoyment of ray new position, without caring to inquire into
whose house we have intruded ; without even wondering at the
strange absence of master, mistress, or member of the family to
welcome our arrival under their hospitable roof

After awhile, the first seose of relief passes away. My dor-
mant curiosity revives. I begin to look about me.

The gardener-groom has disappeared. I discover my travel-
ling companion at the farther end of the room, evidently occu-
pied in questioning the guide. A word from me brings him
to my bedside. What discoveries has he made 1 whose is the
house in which we are sheltered % and how is it that no mem-
ber of the family appears to welcome us 1

My friend relates his discoveries. The guide listens atten-
tively to the second-hand narrative, as if it was quite new to
him.

The house that shelters us belongs to a gentleman of

Shetland Hospitality.

155

bten-
to

\x of

ancient northern, lineage whose name is Dunross. He has
lived in unbroken retirement on the barren island for twenty
years past, with no other companion than a daughter, who is
his only child. He is generally believed to be one of the most
learned men living. The inhabitants of Shetland know him
far and wide, under a name in their dialect which means,
being interpreted, " The Master of Books." The one occasion
on which he and his daughter have been known to leave their
island retreat, was at a past time when a terrible epidemic dis-
ease broke out among the villages in the neighbourhood.
Father and daughter laboured day and night among their poor
and afflicted neighbours, with a courage which no danger could
shake, with a tender care which no fatigue could exhaust. The
father had escaped infection, and the violence of the epidemic
was beginning to wear itself out, when the daughter caught the
disease. Her life had been preserved, but she never completely
recovered her health. She is now an incurable sufferer from
some mysterious nervous disorder which nobody understands,
and which has kept her a prisoner on the island, self-withdrawn
from all human observation, for years past. Among the poor
inhabitants of the district, the father and daughter are wor-
shipped as semi-divine beings. Their names came after the
Sacred Name, in the prayers which the parents teach to the
children.

Such is the household (so far as the guide's story goes) on
whose privacy we have intruded ourselves ! The narratit^e has
a certain interest of its own, no doubt, but it has one defect —
it fails entirely to explain the continued absence of Mr. Dun-
ross. Is it possible that he is not aware of our presence in

166

The Two Destinies.

the

further

house ? We apply to the guide, and make a f(
inquiries of him.

" Are we here," I ask, " by permission of Mr. Dunross ? "

The guide stares. If I had spoken to him m Greek or
Hebrew, I could hardJ> have puzzled him more effectually. My
friend tries him with a simpler form of words.

" Did yo"i ask leave to bring us here when you found your
way to the house 1 "

The guide stares harder than ever, with every appearance of
feeling perfectly scandalized by the question.

" Do you think," he asks sternly, " that I am fool enough to
disturb the Master over his books, for such a little matter as
bringing you and your friend into this house ? "

" Do you mean that you have brought us here without first
asking leave 1 " I exclaim in amazement.

The guide's face brightens ; he has beaten the true state of
the case into our stupid heads at last ! " That's just what I
mean ! " he says with an air of infinite relief.

The door opens before we have recovered the shock inflicted
on us by this extraordinary discovery. A little lean old gen-
tleman, shrouded in a long black dressing-gown, quietly enters
the room. The guide steps forward, and respectfully closes
the door for him. We are evidently in the presence of The
Master of Books.

CHAPTER XVIII.

'^HE DARKENED ROOM.

HE little gentleman advances to my bedside. His
silky white hair flows over his shoulders ; he looks
at us with faded blue eyes ; he bows with a siid
and subdued courtesy, and says in the simplest
manner, " I bid you welcome, gentlemen, to my
house."

We are not content with merely thanking him ; we i^^turally
attempt to apologize for our intrusion. Our host defeats the
attempt at the~ outset, by making an apology on his own
behalf.

'' I happened to send for my scirvant a minute since," he
proceeds, '' and I only then heard that you were here. It is a
custom of th& house that nobody interrupts me over my books.
Be pleased, sir, to accept my excuses," he adds, addressing him-
self to me, '' for not having sooner placed myself and my
household at your disposal You have met, as I am sorry tu
hear, with an accident. Will you permit me to send for me-
dical help 1 I ask the question a little abruptly, fearing that
lime may be of importance, and knowing that our nearest
doctor lives at some distance from this house."
He speaks with a certain quaintly-precise choice of words—

158

1 he Two Destinies.

more like a man dictating a letter than holding a conversation.
'The subdued sadness of his manner is reflected in the subdued
sadness of his face. He and sorrow have apparently been old
acquaintances, and have become used to each other for years
past. The shadow of some past grief rests quietly and impe-
netrably over the whole man \ I see it in his faded blue eyes,
on his broad forehead, on his delicate lips, on his pale shri-
velled cheeks. My uneasy sense of committing an intrusion
on him steadily increases, in spite of hib courteous welcome.
I explain to him that I am capable of treating my own case,
having been myself in practice as a medical man ; and this
said, I revert to my interrupted excuses. I assure him that it
is only within the lest few moments that my travelling com-
panion and I have become aware of the liberty which our
guide has taken in introducing us, on his own sole responsibi-
lity, to the house. Mr. Dunross looked at me, as if he, like
the guide, failed entirely to understand what my scruples and
excuses mean. After a while the truth dawns on him. A
faint smile flickers over his face ; he lays his hand in a gentle
fatherly way on my shoulder —

" We are so used here to our Shetland hospitality," he says,
"that we are slow to understand the hesitation which a
stranger feels 'i taking advantage of it. Your guide is in no
respect to blame, gentlemen. Every house in these islands
which is large enough to contain a spare room has its Guests'
Chamber, always kept ready for occupation. When you travel
my way, you come here as a matter of course; you stay here as
long as you like ; and, when you go away, I only do my duty
as a good Shetlander in accompanying you on the first stage of
yovx journey to bid you Grod-speed. The customs of centuries

The Darkened Room.

159

a
no
ids

rel
as
ity
of
ies

past elsewhere, are modern customs here. I beg of you to
givo my servant all the directions which are necessary to your
comfort, just as freely as you could give them in your own
house."

He turns aside to rinj^ a handbell on the table as he speaks ;
and notices in the guide's face plain signs that the man has
taken offence at my disparaging allusion to him.

" Strangers cannot be expected to understand our ways,
Andrew," says the Master of Books. " But you and I under-
stand one another — and that is enough."

The guide's rough face reddens with pleasure. If a crowned
king on a throne had spoken condescendingly to him, he could
hardly have looked more proud of the honour conferred than
he looks now. He makes a clumsy attempt to take the Mas-
ter's hand and kiss it. Mr. Dunross gently repels the attempt,
and gives him a little pat on the head. The guide looks at me
and my friend, as if he had been honoured with the highest
distinction that an earthly being can receive. The Master's
hand had touched him kindly.

In a moment m.ore the gardener-groom appears at the door
to answer the bell.

" You will move the medicine-chest into this room, Peter,"
says Mr. Dunross. " And you will wait on this gentleman,
who is confined to his bed by an accident, exactly as you would
wait on me if I was ill. If we both happen to ring for you
together, you will answer his bell before you answer mine.
The usual changes of linen are of course ready in the wardrobe
there ? Very good. Go now, and tell the cook to prepare a
little dinner ; and get a bottle of the old Madeira out of the
cellar. You will spread the table, for to-day at least, in this

160

The Two Destinies.

room, These two gentlemen will be best plciibcd to iliue toge-
ther. Return here in Ave minutes' time, in case you are
wanted ; and show my guest, Peter, that I am right in believ-
ing you to be a good nurse as well as a good servant."

The silent and surly Peter brightens under the expression
/'^•he ' '..ster's confidence in him, as the guide brighjbend an-
(^ V Hfluence of the Master's caressing touch. The two

me^ '\*S'e 'i 3 room together.

We take ad. antage of the momentary silence that follows,
to introduce ourselves by name to our host, and to inform him
of the circumstances under which we happen to be visiting
Shetland. He listens in his subdued, courteous way ; but he
makes no inquiries about our relatives ; he shows no interest in
the arrival of the Government yacht and the Commissioner for
Northern lights. All sympathy with the doings of the outer
world, all curiosity about persons of social position and notoriety,
is evidently at an end in Mr. Dunross. For twenty years the
little round of his duties and his occupations has been enough
for him. Life has lost its priceless value to this man — and
when Death comes to him, he will receive the King of Terrors
as he might receive the last of his guests.

"Is there anything else I can do," he says, speaking more
to himself than to us, '' before I go back to my books ]

Something else occurs to him, even as he puts the question.
He addresses my companion, with his faint sad smile. " This
will be a dull life, I am afraid, sir, for you. If you happen to
be fond of angling, I can ofifer you some little amusement in
that way. The lake is well stocked with fish ; and I have a
boy employed in the garden, who will be glad to attend on
you in the boat."

The Darkened Room,

161

My friend happens to be fond of fishing, and gladly ace "(^ >8
the invitation. The Master says his parting words to me, ue-
fore he goes back to his books.

" You may safely trust my man Peter to wait on you, Mr.
Germaine, while you are so unfortunate as to be confined to
this room. He has the advantage (in cases of illness) of being
a very silent, undemonstrative person. At the same time he is
careful and considerate, in his own rep'^^'ved way. As to what
I may term the lighter duties at yo^ r '< Iside — such as read-
ing to you, writing your letters for ou ^Ue your right hand
is still disabled, regulating the tf /e^ .iture in the room, and
so on— though I cannot speak pobitiv Jy, I think it likely that
these little services may be rendt 1 U) you by another person
whom I have not mentioned yet We shall see what happens
in a few hours' time. In the meanwhile, sir, I ask permission
to leave you to your rest."

With those words, he walks out of the room as quietly as he
walked into it, and leaves his two guests to meditate gratefully
on Shetland hospitality. We both wonder what those last
mysterious words of our host mean ; and we exchange more or
less ingenious guesses on the subject of that nameless " other
person," who may possibly attend on me — until the arrival of
dinner turns our thoughts into a new course.

The dishes are few in number, but cooked to perfection and
admirably served. I am too weary to eat much ; a glass of the
fine old Madeira revives me. We arrange our future plans
whUe we are engaged over the meal. Our return to the yacht
in Lerwick harbour is expected on the next day at the latest.
As things are, I can only leave my companion to go back to
the vessel, and relieve the minds of our friends of any needless

162

The Two Destinies,

alarm about me. On the day after, I engage to sond on board
a written report of the state of my health, by a messenger who
can bring my portmanteau back with him.

These arrangements decided on, my friend goes away (at my
own request) to try his skill as an angler in the lake. Assisted
by the silent Peter and the well-stocked medicine chest, I apply
the necessary dressings to my wound ; wrap myself in the com-
fortable morning gown which is always kept ready in the
Guests' Chamber ; and lie down again on the bed to try the re-
storative virtues of sleep.

Before he leaves the room, silent Peter goes to the window,
and asks in fewest possible words if he shall draw the curtains.
In fewer words still — for I am feeling drowsy already — I answer
No. I dislike shutting out the cheering light of day. To my
morbid fancy, at that moment, it looks like resigning myself
deliberately to the horrors of a long illness. The handbell is
on my bedside table ; and I can always ring for Peter if the
light keeps me from sleeping. On this understanding, Peter
mutely nods his head and goes out.

For some minutes I lie in lazy contemplation of the com-
panionable fire. Meanwhile, the dressings on my wound and
embrocation on my sprained wrist steadily subdue the pains
which I have felt so far. Little by little, the bright fire seems
to be fading. Little by little, sleep steals on me, and all my
troubles are forgotten.

I wake, after what seems to have been a long repose — I wake,
feeling the bewilderment which we all experience on opening
our eyes for the first time in a bed and a room that are new to
us. Gradually collecting my thoughts, I find my perplexity
^considerably increased by a trifling but curious circumstance.

The Darkened Room,

163

The curtains which I had forbidden Peter to touch, are
drawn— closely drawn, so as to plunge the whole room in
obscurity. And more surprising still, a high screen with fold-
ing sides stands before the fire, and confines the light which it
might otherwise give, exclusively to the ceiling. I am lii'«rally
enveloped in shadows. Has night come ?

In lazy wonder, I turn my head on the pillow, and look on
the other side of my bed.

Dark as it is, I discover instantly that I am not alone.

A shadowy figure stands by my bedside. The dim outline
of the dress tells me that it is the figure of a woman. Strain-
ing my eyes, I fancy I can discern a wavy black object cover-
ing her head and shoulders which looks like a large veiL Her
face is turned towards me ; but no distinguishing feature in it
is visible. She stands like a statue, with her hands crossed in
front of her, faintly relieved against the dark substance of her
dress. This I can see — and this is all.

There is a moment of silence. The shadowy being finds its
voice, and speaks first.

" I hope you feel better, sir, after your rest 1 "

The voice is low, with a certain faint sweetness of tone which
falls soothingly on my ear. The accent is unmistakably the
accent of a refined and cultivated person. After making my
acknowledgments to the unknown and half-seen lady, I venture
to ask the inevitable question, " To whom have I the honour
of speaking ? "

The lady answers, " I am Miss Dunross ; and I hope, if you
have no objection to it, to help Peter in nursing you."

This, then, is the " other person " dimly alluded to by our
host ! I think directly of the heroic conduct of Miss Dunx jss

164

The Two Destinies,

among her poor and afflicted neighbours ; and I do not forget
the melancholy result of her devotion to others which has left
her an incurable invalid. My anxiety to see this lady more
plainly increases a hundred-fold. I beg her to add to my
grateful sense of her kindness by telling me why the room is
so dark. " Surely," I say, " it cannot be night already 1 "

" You have not been asleep," she answers, " for more than
two hours. The mist has disappeared, and the sun is shining."

I took up the bell, standing on the table at my side.

" May I ring for Peter, Miss Dunross 1 "

" To open the curtains, Mr. Germaine 1 "

" Yes — with your permission. I own I should like to see
the sun-light."

" I will send Peter to you immediately."

The shadowy figure of my new nurse glides away. In an-
other moment, unless I say something to stop her, the woman
whom I am so eager to see will have left the room.

" Pray don't go ! " I say. " I cannot think of troubling you
to take a trifling message for me. The servant will come in,
ifl only ring the bell."

She pauses — more shadowy than ever — half-way between the
bed and the door, and answers a little sadly,

" Peter will not let in the daylight while I am in the room.
He closed the curtains by my order."

The reply puzzles me. Why should Peter keep the room
dark while Miss Dunross is in it % Are her eyes weak % No :
if her eyes were weak, they would be protected by a shade.
Dark as it is, I can see that she does not wear a shade. Why
has the room been darkened, if not for me 1 I cannot ven-

The Darkened Roam,

16ft

tore on Asking the qaestion — I can only make my excuses in
due foim.

" InvMids only think of themselves," I say. " I supposed
that you h^d kindly darkened the room on my account."

She glides hack to my bedside before she speaks again.
When she does answer, it is in these startling words :

" You were mistaken, Mr. Germaine. Your room has been
darkened — not on your account, but on mtn«."

t^e

)m.

i *

i i

(om
fo :
le.

^hy

^en-

CHAPTER XIX.

THE CATS

ISS DUNROSS had so completely perplexed me,
that I was at a loss what to say next.

To ask her plainly why it was necessary to
keep the room in darkness while she remained
in it, might prove (for all I knew to the con-
trary) to be an act of downright rudeness. To
venture on any general expression of sympathy with her, know-
ing absolutely nothing of the ^circumstances, might place us
both in an embarrassing position at the outset of our acquain-
tance. The one thing I could do was to beg that the present
arrangement of the room might not be disturbed, and to leave
her to decide as to whether she would admit me to her con-
fidence or exclude me from it, at her own sole discretion.

She perfectly understood what was going on in my mind.
Taking a chair at the foot of the bed, she told me simply
and unreservedly the sad secret of the darkened room.

" If you wish to see much of me, Mr. Q^rmaine," she began,
"you must accustom yourself to the world of shadows in
which it is my lot to live. Some time since, a dreadful illness
raged among the people on our part of this island ; and I was
so unfortunate as to cat<;h the infection. When I recovered —

The Cats.

167

dnd.
iply

fegan,

rs in

Illness

|l was

red-

no ! ' Recovery ' is not the right word to use— let me say when
I escaped death, I found myself afflicted by a nervous malady
which has defied medical help from that time to this. I am
suffering (as the doctors explain it to me) from a morbidly
sensitive condition of the nerves near the surface to the action
of light. If I were to draw the curtains, and look out of that
window, I should feel the acutest pain all over my face. If I
covered my face, and drew the curtains with my bare hands, I
should feel the same pain in my hands. You can just see per-
haps that I have a very large and very thick veil on my head.
I let it fall over my face and neck and hands, when I have oc-
casion to pass along the corridors, or to enter my father's study
— and I find it protection enough. Don't be too ready to de-
plore my sad condition, sir ! I have got so used to living in
the dark that I can see quite well enough for all the purposes
of my poor existence. I can read and write in these shadows
— I can see you, and be of use to you in many little ways, if
you will let me. There is really nothing to be distressed about.
My life will not be a long one — I know and feel that. But I
hope to be spared long enough to be my father's companion
through the closing years of his life. Beyond that, I have no
prospect. In the meanwhile, I have my pleasures ; and I mean
to add to my scanty little stock the pleasure of attending on
you. You are quite an event in my life. I look forward to
reading to you and writing for you, as some girls look forward
to a new dress, or a first ball. Do you think it very strange
of me to tell you so openly just what 1 have in my mind 1 I
can't help it ! I say what I think to my father, and to our
poor neighbours hereabouts — and I can't alter my ways at a
moment's notice.. I own it when I like people ; and I own it

168

The Two Destinies,

when I don't. I have been looking at you while you were
asleep \ and I have read your face as I might read a book.
There are signs of sorrow on your forehead and your lips '
which it is strange to see in so young a face as yours. I am
afraid I shall trouble you with many questions about yourself
when we become better acquainted with each other. Let me
begin with a question, in my capacity as nurse. Are your pil-
lows comfortable ? I can see they want shaking up. Shall I
send for Peter to raise you % I am unhappily not strong enough
to be able to help you in that way. No t You are able to raise
yourself? Wait a little. There 1 Now lie back— and tell me
if I know how to establish the right sort of sympathy between
a tumbled pillow and a weary head."

She had so indescribably touched and interested me, stranger
as I was, that the sudden cessation of her faint sweet tones
affected me almost with a sense of pain. In trying (clumsily
enough) to help her with the pillows, I accidentally touched
her hand. It felt so cold and so thin, that even the momentary
contact with it startled me. I tried vainly to see her face, now
that it was more within reach of my range of ^'iew. The mer-
ciless darkness kept it as complete a mystery as ever. Had
my curiosity escaped her notice ? Nothing escaped her notice !
Her next words told me plainly that I had been discovered.

" You have been trying to see me," she said. " Has my
hand warned you not to try again 1 I felt that it startled you
when you touched it just now."

Such quickness of perception as this was not to be deceived ;
such fearless candour demanded as a right a similar frankness
on my side. I owned the truth, and left it to her indulgence
to forgive me.

The Cats.

169

She returned slowly to her chair at the foot of the bed.

" If we are to be friends," she said, " we must begin by un-
derstanding one another. Don't associate any romantic ideas
of invisible beauty with me,, Mr. Germaine. I had but one
beauty to boast of before I fell ill — my complexion — and that
has gone for ever. There is nothing to see in me now, but the
poor reflection of my former self ; the ruin of what was once
a woman. I don't say this to distress you — I say it to recon-
cile you to the darkness as a perpetual obstacle, so far as your
eyes are concerned, between you and me. Make the best in-
stead of the worst of your strange position here. It offers you
a new sensation tc amuse you while you are ill. You have a
nurse who is an impersonal creature — a shadow among sha-
dows ; a voice to speak to you, and a hand to help you, and
nothing more. Enough of myself ! " she exclaimed, rising and
changing her tone. "What can I do to amuse you?" She
considered a little. " I have some odd tastes," she resumed ;
" and I think I may entertain you if I make you acquainted
with one of them. Are you like most other men, Mr. Grermaine %
Do you hate cats 1 "

The question startled me. However, I could honestly an-
swer that, in this respect at least, I was not like other men.

" To my thinking," I added, " the cat is a cruelly misunder-
stood creature — especially in England. Women, no doubt,
generally do justice to the affectionate nature of cats. But
the men treat them as if they were the natural enemies of the
human race. The men drive a cat out of their presence if it
ventures upstairs, and set their dogs at it if it shows itself in
the street — and then they turn round and accuse the poor crea-

R' !

The Two Destinies.

ture (whose genial nature must attach iteelf to something) of
being only fond of the kitchen ! "

The expression of these unpopular sentiments appeared to
raise me greatly in the estimation of Miss Dunross.

" We have one sympathy in common, at any rate," she said.
" Now I can amuse you ! Prepare for a surprise."

She drew her veil over her face as she spoke, and, partially
opening the door, rang my handbell. Peter ;;:,ppeared, and re-
ceived his instructions.

" Move the screen," said Miss Dunross. Peter obeyed ; the
ruddy firelight streamed over the floor. Miss Dunross pro-
ceeded with her directions. " Open the dooi <>f the cats' room,
Peter ; and bring me my harp. Don't suppose tUat you are going
to listen to a great player, Mr. Germaiiie," she went on, when
Peter had departed on his singular errand, " or that you are
likely to see the sort of harp to which you are accustomed, as
a man of the modern time. I can only play some old Scotch
airs ; and my h:(.rp is aa ancient instrument (with new strings)
— an heirloom in cur iai ily, some centuries old. When you
see my harp, you will ciiink of pictures of Saint Cecilia — and
you will be treating my performance kindly if you will remem-
ber, at the same time, that I am no Saint ! "

She drew her chair into the firelight, and sounded a whistle
which she took from the pocket of her dress. In another mo-
ment, the lithe and shadowy figures of the cats appeared noise-
lessly in the red light, answering their mistress's call. I could
just count six of them, as the creatures seated themselves de-
murely in a circle round her chair. Peter followed with the
harp, and closed the door after him as he went out. The streak
of daylight being now excluded from the room, Miss Dunross

^^m^Wf-

The Cats,

in,

the

threw back her veil, and took the harp on her knee ; seatiiug
herself, I observed, with her face turned away from the fire.

" You will have light enough to see the cats by,'* she said,
" without having too much light for iw.. Firelight does not
give me the acute pain which I sufier when daylight falls on
my face — I feel a certain inconvenience from it, and nothing
more."

She touched the strings of her instrument — the ancient harp,
as she had srjd, of the pictured Sa i*t Cecilia ; or rather, as I
thought, the ancient harp of the Welsh Bards. The sound was
at first unpleasantly high in pitch, to my untutored ear. At
the opening notes of the melody — a slow wailing dirge-like air
— the cats rose, and circled round their mistress, marching to
the tune. Now they followed each other bingly ; now, at a
change in the melody, they walked two and two ; and, now
again, they separated into divisions of three each, and circled
round the chair in opposite directions. The music qu ckened,
and the cats quickened their pace with it. Faster » nd \\%tm
the notes rang out, and faster and faster in the ruddy 'co-light,
the cats like living shadows whirled round the still black dgtire
in the chair, with the ancient harp on ' a knee. Anythiisg so
weird, wild and ghostlike I never iL agined before even in a
dream ! The music changed, and the whirling cats began to
leap. One perched itself at a bound on the pedestal of the
harp. Four sprang up together, ard assumed their places, two
on each of her shoulders. The last and smallest of the cats
took the last leap, and lighted on her head ! There tLe six
creatures kept their positions, motionless as statues ! Nothmjr
moved but the wan white hands over the harpstrings ; no sound
but the sound of the music stirred ]"• the roond. Once more

:v,.>i^!

■M...

j i
"J t

n>f

172

TAe Two Destinies.

the melody changed. In an instant the six cats were on
the floor again, seated round the chair as I had seen them on
their first entrance ; the harp was laid aside ; and the faint
sweet voice said quietly, " I am soon tired — I must leave my
cats to conclude their performances to-morrow."

She rose, and approached the bedside.

" I leave you to see the s'jnset through your window," she
said. "From the coming of the darkness to the coming of
breakfast-time, you must not count on my services — I am taking
my rest. I have no choice but to remain in bed (sleeping when
I can) for twelve hours or more. The long repose seems to
keep my life in me. Have I and my cats surprised you very
much 9 Am I a witch ; and are they my familiar spirits 1
Remember how few amusements 1 have, and you will not won"
der why I devote myself to teaching these pretty creatures
their tricks, and attaching them to me like dogs ! They were
slow at first, and they taught me excellent lessons of patience.
Now they anderstand what I want of them, and they learn
V, mderfully well. How you will amuse your friend, when he
comes back from fishing, with the story of the young lady
who lives in the dark, and keeps a company of performing
cats ! I shall expect ym to amuse me, to-morrow — I want you
to tell me all about yourself, and how you came to visit these
»v'ld islands of ours. Perhaps, as the days go on, and we get
betser acquainted, you will take me a little more into your
cjoiifitience, and tell me the true meaning of that story of sor-
row which I read on your face while you were asleep ? I have
fust enough of the woman left in me to be the victim of curi-
osity^ when I meet with a person who interests me. Grood-bye
till to-morrow ! I wish you a tranquil night, and a pleasant

I..

The Cats.

173

ere on
iiem on
le faint
ave my

w," she
ning of
I taking
ig when
Bems to
ou very
spirits 1
lot won'
reatures
ey were
atience.
jy learn
rhen he
ng lady
•orming
ant you
it these
we get
to your
of sor-
Ihave
of curi-
)od-bye
leasant

waking. Come, my familiar spirits — come, my cat-children !
it's time we went back to our own side of the house."

She dropped the veil over her face — and, followed by her
train of cats, glided out of the room.

Immediately on her departure, Peter appeared, and drew
back the curtains. The light of the setting sun streamed in at
the window. At the same moment, my travelling companion
returned in high spirits, eager to tell me about his fishing in
the lake. The contrast between what I saw and heard now,
and what I had seen and heard only a few minutes since, was
so extraordinary and so startling that I almost doubted whether
the veiled figure with the harp, and the dance of cats, were
not the fantastic creations of a dream. I actually asked my
fi:3nd whether he had found me awake or asleep when he came
into the room !

Evening merged into night. The Master of Books made his
appearance, to receive the latest news of my health. He spoke
and listened absently, as if his mind was still preoccupied by
his studies — except when I referred gratefully to his daughter's
kindness to me. At her name his faded blue eyes brightened ;
his drooping head became erect ; his sad subdued voice strength-
ened in tone.

" Do not hesitate to let her attend on you," he said. " What-
ever interests or amuses her, lengthens her life. In h&r life is
the breath of mine. She is more than my daughter — she is
the guardian-angel of the house ; go where she may, she carries
the air of Heaven with her. When you say your prayers, sir,
pray God to leave my daughter here a little longer."

He sighed heavily ; his head dropped again on his breast —
he left me.

^ii

■I

174

Tfie Two Destinies,

The hour advanced ; the evening meal was set by my bed-
side. Silent Peter, taking his leave for the night, developed
into speech. " I sleep next door," he said. '* Ring when you
want me." My travelling companion, taking the second bed in
the room, reposed in the happy sleep of youth. In the house,
there was dead silence. Out uf the house, the low song of the
night-wind, rising and falling over the lake and the moor,
was the one sound to be heard. So the first day ended in the
hospitable Shetland house.

CHAPTER XX.

THE gri:en flag.

CONGRATULATE you, Mr. Germaine, on your
power of painting in words. Your description gives
me a vivid idea of Mrs. Van Brandt."

" Does the portrait please you, Miss Dunross ? "
" May I speak as plainly as usual 1 "
« Certainly !''

" Well, then, plainly, I don't like your Mrs. Van Brandt"
Ten days had passed ; and thus far Miss Dunross had made
her way into my confidence already !

By what means had she induced me u> trust her with those
secret and sacred sorrows of my life which I had hitherto
kept for my mother's ear alone ? I can easily recall the rapid
and subtle manner in which her sympathies twined themselves
round mine — but I fail entirely to trace the infinite gradations
of approach, by which she surprised and conquered my habitual
reserve. The strongest influence of all, the influence of the
eye, was not hers. When the light was admitted into the
room, she was shrouded in her veil. At all other times, the
curtains were drawn, the screen was before the fire — I could see
dimly the outline of her face, and I could see no more. The
secret of her influence was perhaps partly attributable to the sim-

176

The Two Destinies.

pie and sisterly manner in which she spoke to me, and partly to
the indescribable interest which associated itself with her mere
presence in the room. Her father had told me that she " car-
ried the air of Heaven with her." In my experience, I can
only say that she carried something with her which softly and
inscrutably possessed itself of my will, and made me as un-
consciously obedient to her wishes as if I had been her dog.
The love-story of my boyhood, in all its particulars, down even
to the gift of the green flag ; the mystic predictions of Dame
Dermody ; the loss of every trace of my little Mary of former*
days \ the rescue of Mrs. Van Brandt from the river ; the ap-
parition of her in the summer-house ; the after-meetings with
her in Edinburgh and in London ; the final parting which had left
its mark of sorrow on my face — all these events, all these suf-
ferings, I confided to her as unreservedly as I have confided
them to these pages. And the result, as she sat by me in the
darkened room, was summed up, with a woman's headlong im-
petuosity of judgment, in the words that I have just written
— " I don't like your Mrs. Van Brandt ! "

" Why not 1 " I asked.

She answered instantly, " Because you ought to love nobody
but Mary."

'' But Mary has been lost to me since I was a boy of thir-
teen."

" Be patient — and you will find her again. Mary is patient
— Mary is waiting for you. When you meet her, you will be
ashamed to remember that you ever loved Mrs. Van Brandt —
you will look on yc ^r separation from that woman as the hap-
piest event of your life. I may not live to hear of it — but ym
will live to own that I was right."

The Green Flag.

177

Hur perfectly-baaeless conviction that time would yet bring
about my meeting with Mary, partly irritated, partly amuaed
me.

'* You seem to agree with Dame Dermody," I said. " Yon
believe that our two destinies are one. No matter what time
may elapse, or what may happen in the time, you believe my
marriage with Mary is still a marriage delayed, and nothing
morel"

" I firmly believe it."

'' Without knowing why — except that you dislike the idea
of my marrying Mrs. Van Brandt 1 "

She knew that this view of her motive was not far from
being the right one — ^and, womanlike, she shifted the discussion
to new ground

" Why do you call her Mrs. Van Brandt 1 " she asked. " Mrs.
Van Brandt is the namesake of your first love. If you are so
fond of her, why don't you call her Mary 1 "

I was ashamed to give the true reason — it seemed so utterly
unworthy of a man of any sense or spirit. Noticing my hesi-
tation, she insisted on my answering her ; she forced me to
make my humiliating confession.

^' The man who has parted us," I said, " called her Mary. I
hate him with such a jealous hatred that he has even disgusted
me with the name ! It lost all its charm for me when it passed
his lips."

I had anticipated that she would laugh at me. No ! She
suddenly raised her head as if she was looking at me intently
in the dark.

" How fond you must be of that woman " she said. " Do
you dream of her now 1 "

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178

The Two Destinies.

" I never dream of her now."
Do you expect to see the apparition of her again \

" It may be so — if a time comes when she is in sore need of
help, and when she has no friend to look to but me."

'* Did you ever see the apparition of your little Mary % "

"Never!"

" But you used once to see her — as Dame Dermody predicted
— in dreams 1 "

" Yes — when I was a lad."

** And, in the after-time, it was not Mary, but Mrs. Van
Brandt who came to you in dreams — who appeared to you in
the spirit, when she was far away from you in the body ) Poor
old Dame Dermody. She little thought in her lifetime, that
her prediction would be fulfilled by the wrong woman."

To that result, her inquiries had inscrutably conducted her !
If she had only pressed them a little fi>rther — if she had not
unconsciously led me astray again by the very next question that
fell from her lips — she must have communicated to my mind the
idea obscurely germinating in hers — the idea of a possible
identity between the Mary of my first lo\o and Mrs. Van
Brandt !

" Tell me," she went on. " If you met with your little Mary
now, what would she be like ) what sort of woman would you
expect to see 1 "

I could hardly help laughing. " How can I tell," I rejoined,
" at this distance of time ) "

" Try 1" she said.

Reasoning my way from the known personality to the un-
known, I searched my memory for the image of the frail and
delicate child of my remembrance ; and I drew the picture of a

. y

The Green Flag,

179

dof

»j

licted

Van
you in
I Poor
LO, that

edher!
ladnot
Lon that
lind the

Lrs.

.Van

tie Mary
)uld you

Bjoined,

the un-
IfrMland
kure of a

frail and delicate woman — the most absolute contrast imaginable
to Mrs. Van Brandt !

The half-realixed idea of identity in the mind of Miss Danross
dropped out of it instantly, expelled by the substantial con-
clusion which the contrast implied. Alike ignorant of the
after-growth of health, strength and beauty which time and
circumstances had developed in the Mary of my youthful days,
we had alike completely and unconsciously misled one another.
Once more, I had missed the discovery of the truth, and missed
it by a hairsbreadth !

" I infinitely prefer your portrait of Mary," said Miss Dunross,
* to your portrait of Mrs. Van Brandt. Mary realizes my
idea of what a really attractive woman ought to be. How you
can have felt any sorrow for the loss of that other person (I
detest buxom women !) passes my understanding. I can't tell
you how interested I am in Mary ! I want to know more about
her. Where is that pretty present of needlework which the
poor little thing embroidered for you so industriously 1 Do let
me see the green flag ! "

She evidently supposed that I carried the green flag about
me ! I felt a little confused as I answered her.

"I am sorry to disappoint you. The green flag is some-
where in my house in Perthshire."

" You have not got it with you 1 " she exclaimed. " You
leave her keepsake lying about anywhere ? Oh, Mr. Oermaine,
you have indeed forgotten Mary ! A woman, in your place,
would have parted with her life rather than part with the one
memorial left of the time when she first loved ! "

She spoke with such extraordinary earnestness — with such
agitation, I might almost say — that she quite startled me.

180

The Two Destinies,

" Dear Miss Dunross," I remonstrated, " the flag is not lost."

" I should hope not ! " she interposed quickly. " If you lose
the green flag, you lose the last relic of Mary — and more than
that, if my belief is right."

« What do you believe 1 "

" You will laugh at me if I tell you. I am afraid my first
reading of your face was wrong — I am afraid you are a hard
man."

** Indeed you do me an injustice. I entreat you to answer
me as frankly as usual. What do I lose in losing the last
relic of Mary 1 "

"You lose the one hope I have for you," she answered
gravely — "the hope of your meeting and your marriage with
Mary in the time to come. I was sleepless last night, and I
was thinking of your pretty love story by the banks of the
bright English lake. The longer I thought, the more firmly
I felt the conviction that the poor child's green flag is destined
to have its innocent influence in forming your future life.
Your happiness is waiting for you in that artless little keep-
sake ! I can't explain or justify this belief of mine. It is one
of ray eccentricities, I suppose — like training my cats to per-
form to the music of my harp. But, if I was your old Mend,
instead of being only your friend of a few days, I would loave
you no peace — I would beg and entreat and persist, as
only a woman can persist — until I had made Mary's gift as
close a companion of yours, as your mother's portrait in the
|Ocket there at your watch chain. While the flag is with you,
Mary's influence is with you — ^Mary's love is still binding you
by the dear old tie — and Mary and you, after years of separa-
tion, will meet again ! "

The Green Flag,

181

The fancy was in itself pretty and poetical ; the earnestnen
which had given expression to it would have had its influence
over a man of a far harder nature than mine. I confess she
had made me ashamed, if she had done nothing more, of my
neglect of the green flag.

" I will look for it, the moment I am at home again," I said
'' and I will take care that it is carefully preserved for the
future."

" I want more than that," she rejoined. " If yon can't wear
the flag about you, I want it always to be wiOi you — to go
wherever you go. When they brought your luggage here from
the vessel at Lerwick, you were particularly anxious about the
safety of your travelling writing-desk — the desk there on the
table. Is there anything very valuable in it ? "

" It contains my money, and other things that I prize far
more highly — ^my mother's letters, and some family relics which
I should be very sorry to lose. Besides, the desk itself has its
own familiar interest as my constant travelling companion of
many years past."

Miss Dunross rofte, and came close to the chair in which I
was sitting.

" Let Mary's flag be your constant travelling companion,"
she said. " You have spoken far too gratefully of my services
here as your nurse. Beward me beyond my deserts. Make
allowances, Mr. Germaine, for the superstitious fancies of a
lonely dreamy woman. Promise me that the green flag shall
take its place among the other little treasures in your desk !"
It is needless to say that I made the allowances and gave the
promise— gave it, resolving seriously to abide by it. For the

182

The Two Destinies.

first time since I had known her, she put her poor wasted hand
in mine, and pressed it for a moment. Acting heedlessly
under my first grateful impulse, I lifted her hand to my lips
before I released it. She started — trembled — and suddenly
and silently passed out of the room.

CHAPTER XXI.

SHE COMES BETWEEN US.

(HAT emotion had I thoughtlessly aroused in Miss
Dunrossl Had I offended or distressed herV
Or had I, without meaning it, forced on her
inner knowledge some deeply-seated feeling
which she had thus far resolutely ignored ?
I looked back through the days of my sojourn
in the house ; I questioned my own feelings and impressions,
on the chance that they might serve me as a means of solving
the mystery of her sudden flight from the room. What effect
had she produced on me 1

In plain truth, she had simply taken her place in my mind,
to the exclusion of every other person and every other subject.
In ten days she had taken a hold of my sympathies of which
other women would have failed to possess themselves in so
many years. I remembered, to my shame, that my mother
had but seldom occupied my thoughts. Even the image of
Mrs. Van Brandt — except when the conversation had turned
on her — ^had become a faint image in my mind ! As to my
friends at Lerwick, from Sir James downwards, they had all
kindly come to see me — and I had secretly and ungratefully
rejoiced when their departure left the scene free for the return

184

The Two Destinies,

of my nurse. In two days more the Government vessel was
to sail on the return voyage. My wrist was still painful when
I tried to use it ; but the far more serious injury presented by
the re-opened wound was no longer a subject of anxiety to my-
self or to any one about me. I was suflSciently restored to be
capable of making the journey to Lerwick — if I rested for one
night at a farm half-way between the town and Mr. Dunross's
house. Knowing this, I had nevertheless left the question of
rejoining the vessel undecided to the very latest moment.
The motive which I pleaded to my friends was — uncertainty
as to the suflBcient recovery of my strength. The motive which
I now confessed to myself was reluctance to leave Miss Dunross.

What was the secret of her power '^^er me t What emotion,
what passion, had she awakened in . Was it love 1

No : not love. The place which ..xdry had once held in my
heart, the place which Mrs. Van Brandt had taken in the after-
time, was not the place occupied by Miss Dunross. How
could I (in the ordinary sense of the word) be in love with a
woman whose face I had never seen % whose beauty had faded,
never to bloom again ) whose wasted life hung by a thread
which the accident of a moment might snap % The senses have
their share in all love between the sexes which is worthy
of the name. They had no share in the feeling with which I
regarded Miss Dunross. What wa& the feeling then ? I can
only answer the question in one way. The feeling lay too deep
in me for my sounding.

What impression had I produced on her % What sensitive
chord had I ignorantly touched, when my lips touched her.
handl

I confess I recoiled from pursuing the inquiry which I had

She Comes Between Us.

186

deliberately set myself to make. I thought olT her shattered
health ; of her melancholy existence in shadow and solitude ;
of the rich treasures of such a heart «id sach a mind as hers,
wasted with her wasting life — and I said to mjrself, Let her
secret be sacred ! lei me never again, by word or deed, bring
the tronble which tells of it to the surface ! let her heart be
veiled from me in the darkness which veils her face !

In this frame of mind towards her, I waited her return.

I had no doubt of seeing her again, sooner or later, on that
day. The post to the south went out on the next day ; and the
early hour of the morning at which the messenger called for
our letters, made it a matter of ordinary convenience to write
overnight. In the disabled state of my hand. Miss Dunross
had been accustomed to write home for me, under my dictation ;
she knew that I owed a letter to my mother, and I relied as
usual on her help. Her return to me, under these cirfjuinatances,
was simply a' question of time : any duty which she had once
undertaken was an imperative duty in bi^r oatimation, no
matter how trifling it might be.

The hours wore on ; the day drew to its end — ^and still she
never appeared.

I left my room to enjoy the last sunny gleam of the day>
light in the garden attached to the house, first telling Peter
where I might be found if Miss Dunross wanted me. The
garden was a wUd place, to my southern notions ; but it ex-
tended for some distance along the shore of the island ; and
it offered some pleasant views of the lake and the moorland
country beyond. Slowly pursuing my walk, I proposed to my-
self to occupy my mindjto some useful purpose by arranging

186

The Two Destinies.

beforehand the composition of the letter which Miss DunroM
was to write.

To my great surprise, I found it simply impossible to fix my
mind on the subject Try as I might, my thoughts persisted
in wandering from the letter to my mother, and concentrated
themselves instead — on Miss Dunross t No. On the question
of my returning or not returning to Perthshire by the Govern-
ment vessel ? No. By some capricious revulsion of feeling
which it seemed impossible to account for, my whole mind was
now absorbed on the one subject which had been hitherto so
strangely absent from it— the subject of Mrs. Van Brandt !

My memory went back, in defiance of all exercise of my own
will, to my last interview with her. I saw her again ; I heard
her again. I tasted once more the momentary rapture of our
last kiss ; I felt once more the pang of sorrow that wrung me
when I had parted with her and found myself alone in the
street. Tears — of which I was ashamed, though nobody was
near to see them — filled my eyes when I thought of the months
that had passed since we had last looked on one another, and
of all that she might have suffered, must have suffered, in that
time. Hundreds on hundreds of miles were between us — and
yet she was now as near me as if she was walking in the garden
by my side !

This strange condition of my mind was matched by an equally
strange condition of my body. A mysterious trembling shud-
dered over me faintly from head to foot I walked without
feeling the ground as I trod on it ; I looked about me with no
distinct consciousness of what the objects were on which my
eyes rested. My hands were cold — and yet I hardly felt it.
My head throbbed hotly — and yet I was not sensible of any

She Comes Behveen Vs.

187

pain. It seemed as if I was surrounded and enwrap[»ed in some
electric atmosphere which altered all the ordinary conditions of
sensation. I looked up at the clear calm sky, and wondered if
a thunderstorm was coming. I stopped, and buttoned my coat
round me, and questioned myself if I had caught a cold, or if I
was going to have a fever. The sun sank below the moorland
horizon ; the grey twilight trembled over the dark waters of
the lake. I went back to the house ; and the vivid memory of
Mrs. Van Brandt, still in close companionship, went back
with me.

The fire in my room had burnt low in my absence. One of
the closed curtains had been drawn back a few inches, so as to
admit through the window a ray of the dying light. On the
boundary limit where the light was crossed by the obscurity
which filled the rest of the room, I saw Miss Dunross seated,
with her veil drawn and her writing-case on her knee, waiting
my return.

I hastened to make my excuses. I assured her that I had
been careful to tell the servant where to find me. She gently
checked me, before I could say more.

" It's not Peter's fault," she said. " I told him not to hurry
your return to the house. Have you enjoyed your walk 1 "

She spoke very quietly. The faint sad voice was fainter and
sadder than ever. She kept her head bent over her writing-
case, instead of turning it towards me as usual while we were
talking. I still felt the mysterious trembling which had op-
pressed me in the garden. Drawing a chair near the fire, I
stirred the embers together, and tried to warm myself. Our po-
sitions in the room left some little distance between us. I could

188

The Two Destinies.

only see her sideways, as she sat by the window in the shelter*
ing darkness of the curtain, which still remained drawn.

** I think I have been too long in the garden/* I said. " I
feel chilled by the cold evening air."

" Will you have some more wood put on the fire t " she asked.
" Can I get you anything 1 "

" No, thank you. I shall do very well here. I see you are
kindly ready to write for me."

" Yes," she said, *' at your own convenience. When you are
ready, my pen is ready."

The unacknowledged reserve that had come between us since
we had last spoken together was, I believe, as painfully felt by
her as by me. We were no doubt longing to break through it
on either side— if we had only known how. The writing of
the letter would occupy us at any rate. I made ano^'her efibrt
to give my mind to the subject — and once more it was an effort
made in vain. Knowing what I wanted to say to my mother,
my faculties seemed to be paralysed when I tried to say it. I
sat cowering by the fire — and she sat waiting with her writing-
case on her lap.

CHAPTER XXII.

SHE CLAIMS ME AGAIN.

U£ moments passed ; the silence between us conti-
nued. Miss Dunross made an attempt to rouse me.
" Have you decided to go back to Scotland with
your friends at Lerwick ? " she asked.

" It is no easy matter," I replied, " tx> decide on
leaving my friends in this house."
Her head drooped lower on her bosom ; her voice sank as
she answered me —

" Think of your mother," she said. " The first duty you owe
is your duty to her. Your long absence is a heavy trial to her
— ^your mother is suffering."

'< Suffering 1 " I repeated. " Her letters say nothing "

" You forget that you have allowed me to read her letters,"
Miss Dunross interposed. *' I see the unwritten and uncon-
scious confession of anxiety in every line that she writes to you.
You know, as well as I do, that there is cause for her anxiety.
Make her happy by telling her that you sail for home with your
friends. Make her happier still by telliiig her that you grieve
no more over the loss of Mrs. Van Brandt. May I write it, in
your name and in those words 1 "

I felt the strangest reluctance to permit her to write in those
terms, or in any terms, of Mrs. Van Brandt. The unhappy

190

The Two Destinies.

W"^

love-story of my manhood had never been a forbidden subject
between us on former occasions. Why did I feel as if it had
becovne a forbidden subject now 1 Why did I evade giving her
a direct reply ?

" We have plenty of time before us," I said. " I want to
speak to you about yourself."

She lifted her hand in the obscurity that surrounded her, as
if to protest against the topic to which I had returned. I per-
sisted nevertheless in returning to it.

" If I must go back," I went on, " I may venture to say to
you at parting, what I xiave not said yet. I cannot, and will
not, believe that you are an incurable invalid. My education,
as I have told you, has been the education of a medical man.
I am well acquainted with some of the greatest living physi-
cians, in Edinburgh, as well as in Loudon. Will you allow me
to describe your malady (as I understand it) to men who are
accustomed to treat cases of intricate nervous disorder % And
will you let me write and tell you the result ? "

I waited for her reply. Neither by word nor sign did she
encourage the idea of any future communication with her. I
ventured to suggest another motive which light induce her to
receive a letter from me.

" In any case, I may find it necessary to write to you," I
went on. " You firmly believe that I and my little Mary are
destined to meet again. If your anticipations are realized, you
will expect me to tell you of it, surely 1 "

Once mora I waited. She spoke — but it was not to reply :
it was only to change the subject.

" The time is passing," was all she said. " We have not be-
gun your letter to your mother yet."

She Claims Me Again.

191

It would have been cruel to eontend with her any longer.
Her voice warned me that she was suffering. The faint gleam
of light through the parted curtains was fading fast. It was
time indeed to write the letter. I could find other opportuni-
ties of speaking to her before I left the house.

** I am ready," I answered. " Let us begin."

The first sentence was easily dictated to my patient secre-
tary. I informed my mother that my sprained wrist was near-
ly restored to use, and that nothing prevented my leaving Shet-
land when the lighthouse commiBsioner was ready to return.
This was all that it was necessary to say on the subject of my
health \ the disaster of my reopened wound having been, for
obvious reasons, concealed from my mother's knowledge. Miss
Dunross silently wrote the opening lines of the letter, and wait-
ed for the words that were to follow.

In my next sentence, I announced the date at which the
vessel was to sail on the return voyage ; and I mentioned the
period at which my mother might expect to see me, weather
permitting. Those words also Miss Dunross wrote — and waited
again. To my surprise and alarm I found it impossible to
fix my mind on the subject. My thoughts wandered away,
in the strangest manner, from my letter to Mrs. Van Brandt.
I 'vas ashamed of myself ; I was angry with myself ; I resolved,
no matter what I said, that I would positively finish the letter.
No ! try as I might, the utmost effort of my will availed me
nothing. — Mrs. Van Brandt's words at our last interview were
murmuring in my ears — not a word of my own would come to
me !

Miss Dunross laid down her pen, and slowly turned her head
to look at me.

192

The Two Destinies.

i« :

Surely you have something more to add to your letter ? '*
she said.

" Certainly/' I answered. " I don't know what is the matter
with me. The effort of dictating seems to be beyond my power
this evening."

" Can I help you t " she asked.

I gladly accepted the suggestion. " There are many things,"
I said, " which my mother would be glad to hear, if I was not
too stupid to think of them. I am sure I may trust your sym-
pathy to think of them for me."

That rash answer offered Miss Dunross the opportunity of
returning to the subject of Mrs. Yan Brandt. She seized the
opportunity with a woman's persistent resolution when she has
her end in view, and is determined to reach it at all hazards.

" You have not told your mother yet," she said, " that your
infatuation for Mrs. Yan Brandt is at an end. Will you put
it in your own words % Or shall I write it for you, imitating
your language as well as I can % "

In the state of my mind at that moment, her perseverance
conquered me. I thought to myself indolently, " If I say No,
she will only return to the subject again, and she will end (after
all I owe to her kindness) in making me say Yes." Before I
could answer her she had reclized my anticipations. She re-
turned to the subject ; and she made me say Yes.

" What does your silence mean ) " she said. " Do you ask
me to help you — and you refuse to accept the first suggestion I
offer?"

" Take up your pen," I rejoined. " It shall be as you wish."

" Will you dictate the words ? " ^

J wiU try."

She Claims Me Again.

193

»»

wish."

I tried ; and this time I succeeded. With the image of
Mrs. Van Brandt vividly present to my mind, I arranged the
first words of the sentence which was to tell my mother that my
" infatuation " was at an end I

" You will be glad to hear/' I began, " that time and change
are doing their good work."

Miss Dunross wrote the words, and paused in anticipation of
the next sentence. The light faded and faded ; the room grew
darker and darker. I went on :

" I hope I shall cause you no more anxiety, my dear mother,
on, the subject of Mrs. Van Brandt."

In the deep silence, I could hear the pen of my secretary
travelling steadily over the paper while it wrote those words.
" Have you written )" I asked, as the sound of the pen ceased.
" I have written," she answered, in her customary quiet tones.
I went on again with my letter.

'<The days pass now, and I seldom or never think of her ; I
hope I am resigned at last to the loss of Mrs. Van Brandt"

As I reached the end of the sentence, I heard a faint cry
from Miss Dunross. Looking instantly towards her, I could
just see, in the deepening darkness, that her head had fallen on
the back of the chair. My first impulse was, of course, to rise
and go to her. I had barely got to my feet, when some inde-
scribable dread paralyzed me on the instant. Supporting my-
self against the chimney-piece, I stood perfectly incapable of
advancing a step. The effort to speak was the one effort that
I could make.

"Are you ill?" I asked.

She was able to answer me j speaking in a whisper, without

raising her head.

194

The Two Destinies.

■

" I am frightened," she said.

" What has frightened you 1 "

I heard her shudder in the darkness. Instead of answering
me, she whispered to herself, " What am I to say to him t"

''Tell me what has frightened you," I repeated. ''You
know you may trust me with the truth."

She rallied her sinking strength. She answered in these
strange words :

" Something has come between me and the letter I am writ-
ing for you."

"Whatisit?"

" I can't tell you." ;

" Can you see it t "

" No."

*' Can you feel it 1"

« Yes."

"What is it like?"

" Like a breath of cold air between me and the letter."

" Has the window come open 1 "

" The window is dose shut."

"And the door 1"

" The door is shut alsa -as well as I can see. Make sure of
it for yourself. Where are you 1 What are you doing 1 "

I was looking towards the window. As she spoke her last
words, I was conscious of a change in that part of the room.

In the gap between the parted curtains there was a new light
shining — not the dim grey twilight of Nature, but a pure and
starry radiance, a pale unearthly light. While I watched it,
the starry radiance quivered as if some breath of air had stirred
it. When it was still again, there dawned on me through the

! I'

She Claims Me Again,

196

snng
If

You
ihese
L writ-

sure of

1"
beilast

room.
3W light
are ftnd
«bed it,
datiirred
lUgh the

unearthly lustre the figure of a woman. By fine »nd slow
gradations, it became more and more distinct I knew the
noble figure ; I knew the sad and tender smile. For the second
time, I stood in the presence of the apparition of Mrs. Van
Brandt.

She was robed, not as I had last seen her, but in the dress
which she had worn on the memorable evening when we met
on the bridge — in the dress in which she had first appeared to
me by the waterfall in Scotland. The starry light shone round
her like a halo. She looked at me with sorrowful and pleading
eyes, as she had looked when I saw the apparition of her in the
summer-house. She lifted her hand — not bt>x,iconing me to
approach hei.^ as before, but gently signing to me to remain
where I stood.

I waited — feeling awe, but no fear. My heart Tras all hers
as I looked at her.

She moved ; gliding from the window to the chair in which
Miss Dunross sat ; winding her way slowly round it, until she
stood at the back. By the light of the pale halo that encircled
the ghostly Presence, and moved with it, I could see the dark
figure of the living woman, seated immovable in the chair.
The writing case was on her lap, with the letter and the pen
lying on it. Her arms hung helpless at her sides ; her veiled
head was now bent forward. She looked as if she had been
struck to stone in the act of trying to rise from her seat.

A moment passed — and T saw the ghostly Presence stoop
over the living woman. It lifted the writing-case from her
lap. It rested the writing-case on her shoulder. Its white
fingers took the pen and wrote on the unfinished letter. It
put the writing-case back on the lap of the living woman. Still

196

The Two Destinies,

standing behind the chair, it turned towards me. It looked at
me once more. And now it beckoned — beckoned me to
approach.

Moving without conscious will of my own, as I had moved
when I first saw her in the summer-house — drawn nearer and
nearer by an irresistible power — I approached, and stopped
within a few paces of her. She advanced, and laid her hand
on my bosom. Again I felt those strangely mingled sensa-
tions of rapture and awe, which had once before filled me when
I was conscious, spiritually, of her touch. Again she spoke, in
the low melodious tones which I recalled so welL Again she said
the words : " Remember me. Come to me." Her hand dropped
from my bosom. The pale light in which she stood quivered,
sank, vanished. I saw the twilight glimmering between the
curtains — I saw no more. She had spoken. She had gone.

I was near Miss Dunross — near enough, when I put out my
hand to touch her.

She started and shuddered, like a woman suddenly awakened
from a dreadful dream.

" Speak to me ! " she whispered. " Let me know that it is
you who touched me."
, I spoke a few composing words before I questioned her.

" Have you seen anything in the room 1 "

She answered : "I have been filled with a deadly fear. I
have seen nothing but the writing-case lifted from my lap."

" Did you see the hand that lifted it ) "

"No."

" Did you see a starry light, and a figure standing in the
light 1"

" No."

She Claims Me Again.

197

r. I

" Did you see the writing-case, after it was lifted trouu your
lapt"

" I saw it resting on my shoulder."

" Did you see the writing on the letter which was not your
writing 1 "

" I saw a darker shadow on the paper than the shadow in
which I am sitting."

"Did it move 1"

'* It moved across the paper."

" In what direction did it move 1 "
• "From right to lefL"

" As a pen moves in writing t "

" Yes. As a pen moves in writing."

" May I take the letter ) "

She handed it to me.

"May I light a candle r'

She drc ;; her veil more closely over her face, and bowed in
silence.

I lit the candle on the mantel-piece behind her, and looked
for the writing.

There, on the blank space in the letter, as I had seen it
before on the blank space in the sketch-book — there were the
written words which the ghostly Presence had left behind it;
arranged once more ia two lines, as I copy them here —

At the Month's End.

Jn the shadow of St. Paul's,

the

CHAPTER XXm.

THE KISS.

,HE had need of me again. She had claimed me
again. I felt all the old love, all the old devotion
owning her power once more. Whatever had mor-
tified or angered me at the last interview, was for-
given and forgotten now. My whole being thrilled
with the mingled awe and rapture of beholding the
Vision of her that had come to me for the second time.
The minutes passed — and I stood by the fire like a man en-
tranced ; thinking only of her spoken words, " Bemember me.
Come to me ; " looking at her mystic writing, '* At the month's
end. In the shadow of St. Paul's."

The month's end was still far off ; the apparition of her had
shown itself to me, under some subtle prevision of trouble that
was still in thf future. Ample time was before me for the
pilgrimage to which I was self-dedicated already — my pilgri-
mage to the shadow of St. Paul's.

Other men, in my position, might have hesitated as to the
right underst-anding of the place to which they were bidden.
Other men might have wearied their memories by recalling the
churches, the institutions, the streets, the towns in foreign
countries, all consecrated to Christian reverence by the great
Apostle's name, and might have fruitlessly asked themselves

The Kiss,

199

in which direction they were first to turn their etept. No loeh
difBoolty troubled me. My first conclnnon wm th« one eon.
elusion that wm acceptable to my mind. ** Saint Paul's **
meant the famous Cathedral of London. Where the shadow
of the great church fell, there, at the month's end, I should find
her, or the trace of her. In London onoe mose, and nowhek«
else, I was destined to '"^e the wonum I loved, in the living
body, as certainly as I had just seen her in the ghostly presence.

Who could interpret the mysterious sympathies thatstUl
united us, in defiance of distance, in defiance of time 1 Who
could predict to what end our lives were tending in the years
that were to come f

Those questions were still present to my thoo^ts ; my eyes
were still fixed on the mysterious writing — when I became in-
stinctively aware of the strange sUence in the room. Instantly
the lost remembrance of Miss Dunross came back to me.
Stung by my own sense of self-reproach, I turned with a start,
and looked towards her chair by the window.

The chair was empty. I was alone in the room. ^

Why had she left me secretly, without a word of farewdH
Because she was suffering, in mind or body t Or because she
resented, naturally resented, my neglect of her f

The bare suspicion that I had given her pain was intolerable
to me. I rang my bell, to make inquiries.

The bell was answered, not as usual by the silent servant
Peter, but by a woman of middle age, very quietly and neatly
dressed, whom I had once or twice met on the way to and from
my room, and of whose exact position in the house I was st'U
ignorant

" Do you wish to see Peter ? " she asked.

200

The Two Destinies.

f .

" No. I wish to know where Mim DanroM is."

" Miss Dunross is in her room. She has sc*' .v to you with
this letter."

I took the letter, feeling some sorprise uid uneasiness. It
was the first time Miss Dunross had communicated with me in
that formal way. I tried to gain furth^ir information by
questioning hor messenger.

" Are you Miss Dunross's maid Y '* I asked.

*' I have served Miss Dunross for many years," was the
answer, spoken very ungraciously.

« Do you think she would receive me, if I sent you with a
message to her)"

" I can't say, sir. The letter may tell you. You will do
well to read the letter."

We looked at each other. The woman's preconceived im-
pression of me was evidently an unfavourable one. Had I in?
deed pained or o^nded Miss Dunross ? And had the servant
:— perhaps the faithftd servan|i who loved her-^dicfcovered and
|r|Bsented it ? The woman frowned as she looked at me. li*
ivould be a mere waste of words to persist in (questioning her.
J let her go.

Left by r^vself again, I read the letter. It began, without
any form of address, io these lines :

" I write, instead qf speaking to you, because my self-control
has already been severely tried, and I am not strong enough to
bear more. For my father's sake — ^not for my own — \ must
take all the care I can of the little health that I have lefb.

** Putting together what you have told me of the visionary
creature whom you saw in the summer-house in Scotland,
and what you said when you questioned me in your room a

The Kiss,

)01

litUe while since, I oannot fiul to infer that the Mine Vision
has shown itself to you, for the second time. The few that I
felty the strange things that I saw (or thought I saw), may
have heen imperfect reflections in my mind of what was passing
in yours. I do not stop to inquire whether we are both the
victims of a delusion, or whether we are the chosen recipients
of a supernatural communication. The result, in either case, is
enough for me. You are once more under the inf ^ jnce of Mrs.
Van Brandt. I will not trust myself to tell you of the anxieties
and forebodings by which I am oppressed : I will only acknow-
ledge that my one hope for you is in your speedy re-union with
the worthier object of your constancy and devotion. I still
believe, and I am consoled in believing, that you and your first
love will meet again.

" Having written so fiiur, I leave the subjoct — not to return
to it, except in my own thcaghts.

** The necessary preparations for your departure to-morrow
are all made. Nothing remains but to wish you a safe and
pleasant journey home. Do not, I entreat you, think me in-
sensible of what I owe to you, if I say my farewell words here.

** The little services which you have allowed me to render
you have brightened the closing days of my life You have left
me a treasury of happy memories which I shall hoard, when
you ere gone, with miserly care. Are you willing to add new
claims to my grateful remembrance 1 I ask it of you as a last
favour — do not attempt to see me again ! Do not expect me
to take a personal leave of you ! The saddest of all words is
' Gh>odbye : ' I have fortitude enough to write it, and no more.
God preserve and prosper you — ^farewell !

« One more request. I beg that you will not forget wha^

202

The Two Destinies,

you promiaed me, when I told you my foolish foney about the
green flag. Wherever you go, let Mary's keepsake go with
you. No written answer is necessary — I would rather not
receive it. Look up, when you leave the house to-morrow, at
the centre window over the doorway — ^that will be answer
enough."

To say that these melancholy lines brought the tears into
my eyes, is only to acknowledge that I had sympathies which
could be touched. When I had in some degree recovered my
composure, the impulse which urged me to write to Bliss Dun-
ross was too strong to be resisted. I did not trouble her with
a long letter — I only entreated her to reconsider her decision
with all the art of persuasion which I could summon to help
me. The answer was brought back by the servant who waited
on Miss Dunross, in three resolute words : —

'^ It cannot be." This time, the woman spoke out before she
left me.

" If you have any regard for my mistress," she said sternly^
" don't make her write to you again." She looked at me
with a last lowering frown, and left the room.

It is needless to say that the faithful servant's words only
Increased my anxiety to see Miss Dunross once more before
we parted — perhaps for ever. My one last hope of success in
attaining this object lay in approaching her indirectly through
the intercession of her father.

I sent Peter to inquire if I might be permitted to pay my
respects to his master that evening. My messenger returned
with an answer which was a new disappointment to me. Mr.
Dunross begged that I would excuse him if he deferred the
proposed interview until the next morning. The neict n^orn-

The Kiss,

808

ing WM the morning of my depArtore. Did the measage
mean that he had no wish to aee me again until the time had
come to take leave of him t I inquired of Peter whether hit
matter wat particularly occupied that evening. He wat una-
ble to tell me. " The Matter of Bookt " wat not in hit ttndy
at utual. When he tent hit mettago to me, he wat fitting by
the tofa in hit daughter't room.

Having antwered in thote termt, the man left me by my-
telf until the next morning. I do not with my bitterett
enemy a sadder time in hit life than the time I patted, on
the latt night of my retidence under Mr. Dunrott't roof.

After walking to and fro in the room until I wat weary, I
thought of trjring to divert my mind from the tad thoughtt
that oppressed it, by reading. The one candle whicli I had
lit failed to sufficiently illuminate the room. Adi^ancing to
the mantel-piece to light the second candle which tvood there,
I noticed the unfinithed letter to my mother lying where I had
placed it, when Mitt Dunrott't servant first presented hertelf
before me. Having lit the tecond candle, I took up the letter
to put it away among my other papers. Doing thit (while my
thoughtt were still dwelling on Miss Dunross), I mechanically
looked at the letter again, and instantly discovered a change
in it.

The written characters traced by the hand of the apparition
had vanished f Below the last lines written by Mijs Dunross,
nothing met my eye now but the blank white paper !

My first impulse was to look at my watch.

When the ghostly Presence had written in my sketch-book,
^he characters had disappeared after an interval of three hours.

204

The Two Destinies.

On this occasion, as nearly as I could calculate, the writing
had vanished in one hour only.

Reverting to the conversation which I held with Mrs. Van
Brandt when we met at Saint Anthony's Well, and to the dis-
coveries which followed at a later period of my life, I can only
repeat that she had again been the subject of a trance or
dream, when the apparition of her showed itself to me for the
second time. As before, she had freely trusted me and freely
appealed to me to help her, in the dreaming state, when her
spirit was free to recognise my spirit When she had come
to herself, after an interval of an hour, she had again felt
ashamed of the familiar manner in which she had communi-
cated with me in the trance ; had again unconsciously counter-
acted by her waking-wiU the influence of her sleeping-will ;
and had thus caused the writing once more to disappear, in
an hour from the moment when the pen had traced (or seemed
to trace) it

This is still the one explanation that I can offer. At the
time when the incident happened, I was far from being frdly
admitted to the confidence of Mrs. Van Brandt ; and I was
necessarily incapable of arriving at any solution of the mystery,
right or wrong. I could only put away the letter, doubting
vaguely whether my own senses had not deceived me. Afber
the distressing thoughts which Miss Dunross's letter had roused
in my mind, I was in no humour to employ my ingenuity in
finding a clue to the mystery of the vanished writing. My
nerves were irritated ; I felt a sense of angry discontent with
myself and with others. " Go where I may" (I thought im-
patiently), " the disturbing influence of women seems to be
the only influence that I am fated to feel." As I still pace4

The Kiss,

205

backwards and forwards in my room — it was useless to think
now of fixing my attention on a book — I fancied I under-
stood the motives which made men, as young as I was, retire
to end their lives in a monastery. I drew aside the window
curtains, and looked out. The only prospect that met my
view was the black gulph of darkness in which the lake lay
hidden. I could see nothing ; I could do nothing ; I could
think of nothing. The one alternative before me was the al-
ternative of trying to sleep. My medical knowledge told me
plainly that natural sleep was, in my nervous condition, one of
the unattainable luxuries of life for that night The medi-
cine-chest which Mr. Dunross had placed at my disposal re-
mained in the room. I mixed for myself a strong sleeping
draught, and sullenly took refuge from my troubles in bed.

It is a peculiarity of most of the soporific drugs that they
not only act in a totally different manner on different constitu-
tions, but that they are not even to be depended on to act
always in the same manner, on the same person. I had taken
care to extinguish the candles before I got into my bed. Under
ordinary circumstances, after I had laid quietly in the darkness
for halfan-hour, the draught that I had taken would have sent
me to sleep. In the present state of my nerves the draught
stupefied me, and did no more.

Hour after hour I lay perfectly still, with my eyes closed, in
the semi-sleeping semi-wakeful state which is so curiously cha-
racteristic of the ordinary repose of a dog. As the night wore
on, such a sense of heaviness oppressed my eyelids that it was
literally impossible for me to open them — such a masterful
languor possessed all my muscles that I could no more move
on my pillow than if I had been a corpse. And yet in this

206

The Two Destinies,

somnolent condition my mind was able to pursue lazy trains
of pleasant thought My sense of hearing was so acute that
it caught the £untest sounds made by the passage of the night-
breeze through the rushes of the lake. Inside my bedchamber,
I was even more keenly sensible of those weird night-noises in
the heavy furniture of a room, of those sudden settlements of
extinct coals in the grate, so f&miliar to bad sleepers, so star-
tling to overwrought nerves ! It is not a scientifically correct
statement, but it exactly describes my condition that night, to
say that one-half of me was asleep and the other half awake.

How many hours of the night had passed when my irritable
sense of hearing became aware of a new sound in the room, I
cannot tell. I can only relate that I found myself on a sudden
listening intently, with fast-closed eyes. The sound that dis-
turbed me was the faintest sound imaginable, as of something
soft and light travelling slowly over the surface of the carpet)
and brushing it just loud enough to be heard.

Little by little, the sound came nearer and nearer to my bed
— ^and then suddenly stopped just as I fancied it was close by
me.

I still lay immovable, with closed eyes j drowsily waiting for
the next sound that might reach my ears ; drowsily content
with the silence, if the silence continued. My thoughts (if
thoughts they could be called) were drifting back again into
their former course, when I became suddenly conscious of soft
breathing just above me. The next moment, I felt a touch on
my forehead— light, soft, tremulous, like the touch of lips that
had kissed me. There was a momentary pause. Then a low
sigh trembled through the silence. Then I heard again the
still small sound of something brushing its way over the carpet ;

The Kiss,

207

trains
tethat
)night-
lamber,
oises in
lents of
80 star-
' correct
light, to
wake,
irritable
room, I
A sadden
that dis-
)mething
le carpet)

my bed
close by

aiting for
^ content
oughts (if
igain into
us of soft

touch on
\ lips that
len a low

again the
ihe carpet ;

travelling this time /rom my bed, and moving so rapidly that in
a moment more it was lost in the silence of the night

Still stupefied by the drug that I had taken, I could lazily
wonder what had happened, and I could do no more. Had
living lips really touched me % Was the sound that I had heard
really the sound of a sigh ? Or was it all delusion, beginning
and ending in a dream) The time passed without my deciding,
or caring to decide, those questions. Minute by minute, the
composing influence of the draught began at last to strengthen
its hold on my brain. A cloud seemed to pass softly over my
last waking impressions. One after another, the ties broke
gently that held me to conscious life. I drifted peacefully into
perfect sleep.

Shortly after sunrise I awoke. When I regained the use of
my memory, my first clear reeoUection was the recollection of
the soft breathing which I had felt above me — then of the touch
on my forehead, and of the sigh which I had heard after it.
Was it possible that some one had entered my room in the
night 1 It was quite possible. I had not locked the door — I
had never been in the habit of locking the door during my
residence under Mr. Dunross's roof.

After thinking it over a little, I rose to examine my room.

Nothing in the shape of a discovery rewarded me until I
reached the door. Though I had not locked it overnight, I
had certainly satisfied myself that it was closed before I went
to bed. It was now ajar. Had it opened again, through being
imperfectly shut 1 or had a person, after entering and leaving
my room, forgotten to close it %

Accidentally looking downwards while I was weighing these
probabilities, I noticed a small black object on the carpet, lying

«»— ^

308

The Two Destinies.

■ ■

just under the key, on the inner side of the door. I picked the
thing up, and found that it was a torn morsel of black lace.

The instant I saw the fragment, I was reminded of the long
black veil, hanging below her waist, which it was the habit of
Miss Dunross to wear. Was it htr dress then that I had heard
softly travelling over the carpet ; htr kiss that had touched my
forehead ; her sigh that had trembled through the silence % Had
the ill-fated and noble creature taken her last leave of me in
the dead of night ; trusting the preservation of her secret to
the deceitful appearances which persuaded her that I was
asleep % I looked again at the fragment of black lace. Her
long veil might easily have been caught, and torn, by the pro-
jecting key, as she passed rapidly through the door on her way
out of my room. Sadly and reverently I laid the morsel of
lace among the treasured memorials which I had brought
with me from home. To the end of her life, I vowed it, she
should be left undisturbed in the belief that her secret was safe
in her own breast I Ardently as I still longed to take her hand
at parting, I now resolved to make no further effort to see her.
I might not be master of my own emotions ; something in my
face or in my manner might betray me to her quick and deli-
cate perception. Knowing what I now knew, the last sacrifice
I could make to her would be tiO obey her wishes. I made the
sacrifice.

In an hour more Peter informed me that the ponies were at
the door, and that the master was waitiug for me in the outer
hall.

I noticed that Mr. Dunross gave me his hand without look-
ing at me. His faded blue eyes, during the few minutes while
we were together, were not once raised from the ground.

The Kiss,

209

((

I the

je.

long

t)itof

heard

sdmy

t Had

me in

cret to

I waB

. Her

tie pro-

ler way

LOTsel of

brought

L it, she

was safe

ler hand
see her.

ig in my

land deli-
sacrifice
Lade the

Is were at
Ithe outer

lout look-
ites while
ind.

God speed you on your journey, sir, and guide you safely
home," he said. " I beg you to forgive me if I fail to accom-
pany you on the first few miles of your journey. There are
reasons which oblige me to remain with my daughter in the
house."

He was scrupulously, almost painfully, courteous — but there
was something in his manner which, for the first time in my
experience, seemed designedly to keep me at a distance from
him. Knowing the intimate sympathy, the perfect confidence,
which existed between the father and daughter, a doubt crossed
my mind whether the secret of the past night was entirely a<
secret to Mr. Dunross. His next words set that doubt at rest,
and showed me the truth.

In thanking him for his good wishes, I attempted also to
express to him (and through him to Miss Dunross) my sincere
sense of gratitude for the kindness which I had received under
his roof. He stopped me, politely and resolutely ; speaking
with that quaintly precise choice of language which I had re-
marked as characteristic of him at our first interview.

" It is in your power, sir," he said, ** to return any obliga-
tion which you may think you have incurred on leaving my
house. If you will be pleased to consider your residence here
as an unimportant episode in your life, which ends — absolutely
ends — with your departure, you will more than repay any
kindness that you may have received as my guest In saying
this, I speak under a sense of duty which does entire justice to
ymy as a gentleman and a man of honour. In return I can
only trust to you not to misjudge my motives if I abstain from
explaining myself any farther. "

A faint colour flushed his pale cheeks. He waited with a

210

The Two Destinies,

certain pruud resignation for my reply. I respected her secret,
respected it more resolutely than ever, before her father.

" After all that I owe to you, sir," I answered, '' your wishes
are my commands." Saying that, and saying no more, I bowed
to him with marked respect, and left the house.

Mounting my pony at the door, I looked up ot the centre
window, as she had bidden me. It was open ; but dark cur-
tains, jealously closed, kept out the light from the room within.
At the sound of the pony's hoofs on the rough island road, as
the animal moved, the curtains were parted for a few inches
only. Through the gap in the dark draperies a white hand
appeared ; waved tremulously a last farewell ; and vanished
from my view. The curtains closed again on her dark and
solitary life. The dreary wind sounded its long low diige over
the rippling waters of the lake. The ponies took their places
in the fexTy-boat which was kept for the passage of animals to
and from the island. With slow, regular strokes the men
rowed us to the mainland, and took their leave. I looked back
at the distant house. I thought of her in the dark room wait-
ing patiently for death. Burning tears blinded me. The
guide took my bridle in his hand : " You're not well, sir," he
said ; " I will lead the pony."

When I looked again at the landscape round me, we had
descended in the interval from the higher ground to the
lower. The house and lake had disappeared, to be seen no
more.

jret,

isheB
owed

sent!©
kcur-

oad, as
inches

« liand
anialied
ark ftod
bfgeover
sir places
pimalsto

the T0»^
)kedback

loom wai*^
The

le.

sir,

^e, we bad
Ind to the
seen no

<ts

CHAPTER XXIV.

IN THE SHADOW OF SAINT PAUL'S.

N ten days I was at home again — and my mother's
arms were around me.

I had left her for my sea voyage very unwillingly,
seeing^that she was in delicate health; on my return,
I was grieved to observe a change for the worse,
for which her letters had noc prepared me. Con>
suiting our medical friend, Mr. MacGlue, I found that he too
had noticed my mother's failing health, but that he attributed
it to an easily removable cause — to the climate of Scotland.
My mother's childhood and early life had been passed on the
southern shores of England. The change to the raw, keen air
of the north had been a trying change to a person at her age.
In Mr. MacGlue's opinion, the wise course to take would be to
return to the south before the autumn was farther advanced,
and to make our arrangemements for passing the coming
winter at Penzance or Torquay.

Besolved as I was to keep the mysterious appointment
which summoned me to London at the month's end, Mr.
MacGlue's suggestion met with no opposition on my part. It
had, to my mind, the great merit of obviating the necessity of
a second separation from my mother — assuming that she ap-

212

The Two Destinies.

proved of the doctor's advice. I put the question to her the
same day. To my infinite relief she was not only ready, but
eager, to take the journey to the south. The season had been
unusually wet, even for Scotland ; and my mother reluctantly
confessed that she " did feel a certain longing " for the mild
air and genial sunshine of the Devonshire coast

We arranged to travel in our own comfortable carriage by
post — resting, of course, at inns on the road at night. In the
days before railways it was no e^y matter for an invalid to
travel from Perthshire to London— even with a light carriage
and four horses. Calculating our rate of progress from the date
of our departure, I found that we had just time, and no more,
to raach London on the last day of the month.

I shall say nothing of the secret anxieties which weighed on
my mind, under these circumstances. Happily for me, on
every account, my mother's strength held out. The easy, and
(as we then thought) the rapid rate of travelling, had its invi-
gorating e£fect on her nervep. She slept better when we rested
for the night than she had slept at home. After tvrice being
delayed on the road, we arrived in London at three o'clock on
the afternoon of the last day of the month. Had I reached my
destination in time 1

As I interpreted the writing of the apparition, I had still
some hours at my disposal. The phrase, " at the month's end,"
meant, as I understood it, at the last hour of the last day in the
month. If I took up my position " under the shadow of St.
Paul's" (say)) at ten that night, I should arrive at the place of
meeting with two hours to spare, before the last stroke of the
clock marked the beginning of the new month.

At half-past nine I left my mother to rest after her long

In the Shadow of SL Paufs.

213

t
a

,he
to

ftgo
Late
ore,

don
}, oa
, and
invi-
ested
being
ck on
ad my

L stUl
end,
in the

of St.
jlace of
of the

ler long

joiiniey, and privately quitted the house. Before ten I was at
my post. The night was fine and clear ^ and the huge shadow
of the cathedral marked distinctly the limits within which I had
been bidden to wait, on the watch for events.

The great clock of St. Paul's struck ten — and nothing hap-
pened.

The next hour passed very slowly. I walked up and down ; at
one time absorbed in my own thoughts; at another, engaged in
watching the gradual diminution in the number of foot passen-
gers who passed me as the night advanced. The city (as it is
called) is the most populous part of London in the daytime ;
but at night, when it ceases to be the centre of commerce, its
busy population melts away, and the empty streets assume the
appearance of a remote and deserted quarter of the metropolis.
As the half-hour after ten struck — then the quarter to eleven
— then the hour — ^the pavement steadily became more and
more desert>ed. I could count the foot passengers now by
twos and threes ; and I could see the places of public refresh-
ment within my view beginning already to close for the night

I looked at the clock : it pointed to ten minutes past eleven.
At that hour, could I hope to meet Mrs. Van Brandt alone, in
the public street 1

The more I thought of it, the less likely such an event seemed
to be. The more reasonable probability was that I might meet
her once more, accompanied by some friend — ^perhaps under
the escort of Van Brandt himself. I wondered whether I should
preserve my self-control, in the presence of that man, for the
second time.

While my thoughts were still pursuing this direction, my

214

The Two Destinies.

attention was recalled to passing events by a sad little voice,
putting a strange little question, close at my side.

" If you please, sir, do you know where I can find a chemist's
shop open at this time of night % "

T looked round, and discovered a poorly-clad little boy, with
a basket over his arm, and a morsel of paper in his hand.

*' The chemists' shops are all shut," I said. " If you want any
medicine, you must ring the night bell."

" I dursn't do it, sir," replied the small stranger. " I am such
a little boy, I'm afraid of their beating me if I ring them up
out of their beds, without somebody to speak for me."

The little creature looked at me under the street lamp with
such a forlorn experience of being beaten foi trifling offences
in his face, that it was impossible to resist the impulse to help
him.

** Is it a serious case of illness ? " I asked.

" I don't know, sir."

" Have you got a doctor's prescription ? "

He held out his morsel of paper.

** I have got this," he said.

I took the paper from him, and looked at it.

It was an ordinary prescription for a tonic mixture. I looked
first at the doctor's signature ; it was the name of a perfectly
obscure person in the profession. Below it was written the
name of the patient for whom the medicine had been pre-
scribed. I started as I read it. The name was " Mrs. Brand."

The idea instantly struck me that this (so far as sounds
went, at any rate) was the English equivalent of Van Brandt.

*' Do you know the lady who sent you for the medicine 1 " I
asked,

In the Shadow of St. Paufs.

215

*' Oh, yen, sir ! She lodges with mother — »nd she owes for
rentb I have done everything she told me, except getting the
physic I've pawned her ring, and I've honght the bread and
butter and eggs, and I've taken care of the change. Mother
looks to the change for her rent. It isn't my fault, sir, that I've
lost myself. I am but ten years old — and all the chemists' shops
are shut up ! "

Here my little friend's sense of his unmerited misfortunes
overpowered him, and he began to cry.

" Don't cry, my man ! " I said : " I'll help you. Tell me
something more about the lady first. Is she alone ? "

" She's got her little girl with her, sir."

My heart quickened iis beat. The boy's answer reminded
me of that other little girl whom my mother had once seen.

** Is the lady's husband with her 1 " I asked next.

" No, sir — not now. He was with her ; but he went away—
and he hasn't come back yet."

I put a last conclusive question.

" Is her husband an Englishmman 1" I inquired.

" Mother says he's a foreigner," the boy answered.

I turned away to hide my agitation. Even the child might
have noticed it.

Passing under the name of " Mrs. Brand " — poor, so poor
that she was obliged to pawn her ring — lefb, by a man who was
a foreigner, alone with her little girl — was I on the trace of her
at that moment ? Was this lost child destined to be the in-
nocent means of leading me back to the woman I loved, in her
direst need of s}rmpathy and help ? The more I thought of it,
the more strongly the idea of returning with the boy to the
house in which his mother's lodger lived, fastened itself on my

216

The Two Destinies,

mind. The clock atruck the quarter past eleven. If my an-
ticipations ended in misleading me, I had still three-quarters of
an hour to spare before the month reached its end.

" Where do you live 1 " I asked.

The boy mentioned a street the name of which I then heard
for the first time. All he could say, when I asked for further
particulars, was that he lived close by the river — in which
direction he was too confused and too frightened to be able to
tell me.

IVhile we were still trying to understand each other, a cab
passed slowly at some little distance. I hailed the man, and
mentioned the name of the street to him. He knew it perfectly
well. The street was rather more than a mile away from us,
in an easterly direction. He undertook to drive me there, and
to bring me back again to St. Paul's (if necessary), in less than
twenty minutes. I opened the d/oor of the cab, and told my
little friend to get in. The boy hesitated.

*' Are we going to the chemist's, if you please, sir ) " he
asked.

" No. You are going home first, with me."

The boy began to cry again.

" Mother will beat me, sir, if I go back without the medicine."

" I will take care that your mother doesn't beat you. I am a
doctor myself; and I want to see the lady before we get the
medicine for her."

The announcement of my profession appeared to inspire the
boy with a certain confidence. But he still showed no disposi-
tion to accompany me to his mother's house.

<< Do you mean to charge the lady anything 1 " he asked.

In the Shadow of St. Paul s.

217

" The money I've got on the ring itn't much. Mother won't
like having it taken out of her rent."

" I won't charge the lady a farthing/' I answerecl.

The boy instantly got into the cab. " All right/' he said,
' at long as mother gets her money."

Alas for the poor ! The child's education in the sordid
anxieties of life was completed already at ten years old !

We drove away.

the
sposi-

CHAPTER XXV.

• I KEEP MY APPOINTMENT.

HE poverty-stricken aspect of the street, when we
entered it ; the dirty and dilapidated condition of
the house, when we drew up at the door, would have
warned most men in my position to prepare them-
selves for a distressing discovery when they were
admitted to the interior of the dwelling. The first
impression which the place produced on my mind suggested, on
the contrary, that the boy's answers to my questions had led me,
astray. It was simply impossible to associate Mrs. Van Brandt
(as / remembered her) with the spectacle of such squalid
poverty as I now beheld. I rang the door-bell, feeling per-
suaded beforehand that my inquiries would lead to no useful
result.

As I lifted my hand to the bell, my little companion's dread
of a beating revived in full force. He hid himself behind me ;
and when I asked what he was about, he answered confiden-
tially, " Please stand between us, sir, when mother opens the
door ! "

A tall and truculent woman answered the bell. No intro-
duction was necessary. Holding a cane in her hand, she stood
self-proclaim 5d as my small friend's mother.

/ Keep My Appointmenl.

219

1 we
Yd of
have
them-
were
e first
d, on
id me,
Jrandt
qualid
ig per-
useful

dread
ad me;
)nfiden-
>en8 the

intro-
uie stood

" I thought it was that vagabond of a boy of mine," she ex-
plained, as an apology for the exhibition of the cane. " He
has been gone on an errand more than two horn's. What did
you please to want, sir ? "

I interceded for the unfortunate boy before I entered on my
own business.

" I must beg you to forgive your son this time," I said. " I
found him lost in the streets, and have brought him home."

The woman's astonishment when she heard what I had done,
and discovered her son behind me, literally struck her dumb.
The language of the eye, superseding on this occasion the lan-
guage of the tongue, plainly revealed the impression that I had
produced on her : — " You bring my lost brat home in a cab 1
Mr. Stranger, you are mad."

'* I hear that you have a lady named Brand lodging in the
house," I went on. " I dare say I am mistaken in supposing
her to be a lady of the same name whom I know. But I should
like to make sure whether I am right or wrong. Is it too late
to disturb your lodger to-night 1"

The woman recovered the use of her tongue.

" My lodger is up and waiting for that little fool, who doesn't
know his way about London yet ! " She emphasized those
words by shaking her brawny fist at her son, who instantly
returned to his place of refuge behind the tail of my coat.
" Have you got the money ? " inquired this terrible person,
shouting at her hidden offspring over my shoulder ; ''or have
you lost thai as well as your own stupid little self 1 "

The boy showed himself again, and put the money into his
mother's knotty hand. She counted it, with eyes which satisfied

220

The Two Destinies.

themselves fiercely that each coin was of genuine silver, and
then became partially pacified.

" Go along up-stairs," she growled, addressing her son, " and
don't keep the lady waiting any longer. They're half starved,
she and her child," the woman proceeded, turning to me. "The
food my boy has got for them in his basket will be the first
food the mother has tasted to-day. She's pawned everything
by this time ; and what she's to do unless you help her is more
than I can say. The doctor does what he can ; but he told me
to-day, if she wasn't better nourished it was no use sending for
Hm. Follow the boy, and see for yourself if it's the lady
you know."

I listened to the woman, still feeling persuaded that I had
acted under a delusion in going to her house. How was it
possible to associate the charming object of my heart's worship
with the miserable story of destitution which I had just
heard ? I stopped the boy on the first landing, and told him
to announce me simply as a doctor, who had been informed of
Mrs. Brand's illness, and who had called to see her.

We ascended a second flight of stairs, and a third. Arrived
now at the top of the house, tbe boy knocked at the door that
was nearest to us on the landing. No audible voice replied.
He opened the door without ceremony, and went in. I waited
outside to hear what was said. The door was left ajar. If the
voice of " Mrs. Brand " was (as I believed it would prove to
be) the voice of a stranger, I resolved to offer her delicately
such help as lay within my power, and return forthwith to
my post " under the shadow of St. Paul's."

The first voice that spoke to the boy was the voice of a
child.

/ Keep My Api>ointment.

221

and

and
ved,
The
first
ihing
more
Id me
igfor
lady

I had

N2A it

orship
i just
dhim
ned of

jriived
or that
eplied.
waited

If the
rove to

icately
)dth to

of a

" I'm 80 hungry, Jemmy — I'm so hungry ! "

"All right, Missy — I've got you something to eat."

" Be quick, Jemmy I Be quick ! "

There was a momentary pause, and then I heard the boy's
voice once more.

"There's a slice of bread-and-butter, Missy. You must
wait for your egg till I can boil it. t)on't you eat too fast, or
you'll choke yourself. What's the matter with your mamma ?
Are you asleep, ma'am 1 "

I could barely hear the answering voice, it was so faint ;
and it uttered but one word : " No ! "

The boy spoke again.

" Cheer up. Missus. There's a doctor outside waiting to see
you."

This time there was no audible reply. The boy showed him-
self to me at the door. " Please to come in, sir. / can't make
anything of her."

It would have been misplaced delicacy to have hesitated any
longer to enter the room. I went in.

There, at the opposite end of a miserably-furnished bed-cham-
ber, lying back feebly in a tattered old arm-chair, was one more
among the thousands of forlorn creatures starving that night
in the great city. A white handkerchief was laid over her
face as if to screen it from the flame of the fire hard by. She
lifted the handkerchief, startled by the sound of my footsteps
as I entered the room. I looked at her, and saw in the white,
wan, deathlike face — the face of the woman I loved I

For a moment, the horror of the discovery turned me faint
and giddy. In another instant, I was kneeling by her chair.
My arm was round her — her head lay on my shoulder. She

222

The Two Destinies.

was past speaking, past crying out : she trembled silently, and
that was all. I said nothing. No words passed my lips, no
tears came to my relief. I held her to me ; and she let me
hold h'T. The child devouring its bread and butter at a little
round table, stared at us. The boy, on his knees before the
grate, mending the fire, stared at us. And the slow minutes
lagged on — and the buzzing of a fly in a comer was the only
sound in the room.

The instincts of the profession to which I had been trained,
rather than any active sense of the horror of the situation in
which I was placed, roused me at last. She was starving ! I
saw it in the deadly colour of her skin \ I felt it in the faint
quick flutter of her pulse. I called the boy to me, and sent
him to the nearest public-house for wine and biscuits. '' Be
quick about it," I said ; " and you shall have more money for
yourself than ever you had in your life ! " The boy looked at
me— spat on the coins in his hand — said, " That's for luck ! " —
and ran out of the room as never boy ran yet.

I turned to speak my first words of comfort to the mother.
The cry of the child stopped me :.

" I'm so hungry ! I'm so hungry ! "

I set more food before the famished child, and kissed her.
She looked up at me with wondering eyes.

"Are you a new papa?" the little creature asked. "My
other papa never kisses me."

I looked at the mother. Her eyes were closed ; the tears
flowed slowly over her worn white cheeks. I took her firail
hand in mine. " Happier days are coming," I said \ " you are
my care now." There was no answer. She still trembled
silently — and that was all.

/ Keep My Appointment,

223

and
, no
; me
ittle
5 the
lutes
only

dned,
Lonin

) faint
d sent
"Be
ley for
ked at
k!"-

nother.

ted her.

"My

he tears
\er frail
you are
rembled

In less than five minutes the boy returned, and earned hi»
promised reward. He sat on the floor by the fire counting his
treasure, the one happy creature in the room. I soaked some
crumbled morsels of biscuit in the vrine — and, little by little,
I revived her failing strength by nourishment administered at
intervals in that cautious form. Afber awhile she raised her
head, and looked at ^ne, with wondering eyes that were pitiably
like the eyes of her child. A faint delicate flush began to
show itself in her face. She spoke to me, for the first time,
in whispering tones that I could just hear as I sat close at her
side.

" How did you find me % Who showed yoi;i the way to this
place % "

She paused 3 painfully recalling the memory of something
that was slow to come back. Her colour deepened ; she found
the lost remembrance, and looked at me with a timid curiosity.
" What brought you here ? " she asked. ** Was it my dream t "

" Wait, dearest, till you are stronger, and I will tell you
all."

I lifted her gently, and laid her on her wretched bed. The
child followed us, and, climbing to the bedstead with my
help, nestled at her mother's side. I sent the boy away to tell
the mistress of the house that I should remain with my patient,
watching her progress towards recovery, through the night.
He went out, jinglmg his money joyfully in his pocket. We
three were left together.

As the long hours followed each other, she fell at intervals
into a broken sleep ; waking with a start, and looking at me
wildly as if I had been a stranger at her bedside. Towards
morning, the nourishment which I still carefully administered

224

The Two Destinies.

wrought its healthful change in her pulse, and corapcsed her
to quieter slumbers. When the sun rose she was sleeping as
peacefully a? the child at her side. T was able to leave her,
until my return later i:: the day, under the care of the woman
of the house. The magic of money transformed this terma.
gant and terrible person into a docile and attentive nurse — so
eager to follow my instructions exactly that she begged me to
commit them to writing before I went away. For a moment,
I btill lingered alone at the bedside of the sleeping woman ;
and satisfied myself for the hundredth time that her life was
safe, before I left her. It was the sweetest of all rewards to
feel sure of this — to touch her cool forehead lightly with my
lips — to look, and look again, at the poor worn face, always
dear, always beautiful, to my eyes, chbBge as it might. I closed
the door softly, and went out in the bright morning, a happy
man again. So close together rise the springs of joy and sor-
row in human life ! So near in our heart, as in our heaven, is
the brightest sunshine to the blackest cloud !

ir\.\ i^^N

^T^

dher
ing as
e her,

fOTDAH

terma.
se — 80
[ me to
oment,
i^oman ;
Life was

irards to
inthmy
I, always
I closed
a happy
and sor-
leaven, is

<fc^

CHAPTER XXVI.

CONVERSATION WITH MY MOTHIB.

tREA.CHED my own house in time to snatch two or
three hours of repose, before I paid my customary
morning visit to my mother in her own room. I ob-
served in her reception of me on this occasion, cer-
tain peculiarities of look and manner which were far
from being familiar in my experience of her.
When our eyes first met, she regarded me with a wistful
questioning look, as if she was troubled by some doubt which
she shrank from expressing in words. And when I inquired
after her health as usual, she surprised me by answering as
impatiently as if she resented my having mentioned the sub-
ject. For a moment, I was inclined to think these changes
signified that she had discovered my absence from home dur-
ing the night, and that she had some suspicion of the true
cause of it. But she never alluded, even in the most distant
manner, to Mrs. Van Brandt ; and not a word dropped from
her lips which implied, directly or indirectly, that I had pained
or disappointed her. I could only conclude that she had some
thing important to say, in relation to herself or to me, and
that for reasons of her own she unwillingly abstained from
giving expression to it at that time.
P

226

The Two Destinies.

Rev(')rting to our ordinary topics of conversation, we touch-
ed on the subject (always interesting to my mother) of my
visit to Shetland. Speaking of this, we naturally spoke also
of Miss Dunross. Here again, when 1 least expected it, there
was another surprise in store for me.

" You were talking the other day," said my mother, '^ of
the green flag which poor Dermody's daughter worked for you,
when you were both children. Have you really kept it all
this time ? "

"Yes."

" Where have you left it ? In Scotland 1 "

" I have brought it with me to London." '.

"Whyl"

" I promised Miss Dunross to take the green flag with me,
wherever I might go. "

My mother smiled.

« Is it possible, George, that you think about this as the
young lady in Shetland thinks % After all the years that have
passed, do you believe in the green flag being the means of
bringing Mary Dermody and yourself together again % "

" Certainly not ! I am only humouring one of the fancies
of poor Miss Dunross. Could I refuse to grant her trifling re-
quest, after aii I owed to her kindiiess 1 "

The smile left my mother's face. She looked at me atten-
tively.

« Miss Dunross seems to have produced a very favourable
impression on you," she said.

<' I own it I feel deeply interested in her."

i< If she had not been an incurable invalid, (George, I too

Conversation IVitk My Mother.

227

luch-
' my
also
there

•, "of
ryou,
, itaU

nth xae,

g as the

[hat have

Leans of

loie atten-
favourable

krge, I too

might have become interested in Miss Dunross — perhaps in the
character of my daughter-in-law 1 "

" It is useless, mother, to speculate on what might have hap-
pened. The sad reality is enough."

My mother paused a little before she put her next question
to me.

"Did Miss Dunross always keep her veil drawn, in your
presence, when there happened to be light in the room 1 "
" Always."

'' She never even let yon. catch a momentary glance at her
facel"
"Never."

" And the only reason she gave you was that the light ca'ised
her a painful sensation if it fell on her uncovered skin ? "

" You say that, mother, as if you doubt whether Miss Dun-
ross told me the trutL"

" No, Greorge. I only doubt whether she told you cM the
truth."

" What do you mean ? '*

*' i.)on't be offended, my dear. 2 belir.ve Miss Dunross has
some more serious reason for keeping her face hidden than the
reason that she gave you."

I was silent. The suspicion which those words implied had
never occurred to my mind. I had read in medical books of
cases of morbid nervous sensitiveness exactly similar to the
case of Miss Dunross, as doburlbed by herself — and that had
been enough for me. Now that my mother's idea had found
its way from her mind to mine, the impression produced on
me was painful in the last degree. Horrible imaginings of de-
formity possessed my brain, and profan^^ all that was purest

228

The Two Destinies.

and dearest in my recollections of Miss Danross. It was useless
to change the subject — the evil influence that was on me was too
potent to be charmed away by talk. Making the best excuse
that I could think of for leaving my mother's room, I hurried
away to seek a refuge from myself, where alone I could hope
to find it, in the presence of Mrs. Van Brandt.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CONVERSATION WITH MRS. VAN BRANDT.

HE landlady was taking the air at her own door
when I reached the house. Her reply to my inqui-
ries justified my most hopeful anticipations. The
poor lodger looked already '' like another woman ; "
and the child was at that moment posted on the
stairs, watching for the return of her " new papa."
" There's one thing I should wish to say to you, sir, before
you go up-stairs," the woman went on. " Don't trust the lady
with more money, at any time, than the money that is wanted
for the day's housekeeping. If she has any to spare, it's as
likely as not to be wasted on her good-for-nothing husband."

Absorbed in the higher and dearer interests that filled my
mind, I had thus far forgotten the very existence of Mr. Van
Brandt.
*• Where is he 1" I asked.

" Where he ought to be," was the answer. " In prison for
debt."

In those days, a man imprisoned for debt was not infre-
quently a man imprisoned for life. There was little fear of m/
visit being shortened by the appearance on the scene of Mr.
Van Brandt.

230

The Two Destinies.

Ascending the stairs, I found the child waiting for me on the
upper landing, with a ragged doll in her arms. I had bought
a cake for her on my way to the house. She forthwith turned
over the doll to my care, and, trotting before me into the room
with her cake in her arms, announced my arrival in these
words:

" Mamma, I like this papa better than the other. You like
him better too."

The mother's wasted face reddened for a moment, then
turned pale again, as she held out her hand to me. I looked
at her anxiously, and discerned the welcome signs of recovery
clearly revealed. Her grand grey eyes rested on me again
with a glimmer of their old light. The hand that had lain so
cold in mine on the past night, had life and warmth in it now.

" Should I have died before the morning, if you had not
come here 1 '' she asked softly. *^ Have you saved my life for
the second time % I can well believe it ! "

Before I was aware of her, she bent her head over my hand,
and touched it tenderly with her lips. " I am not an ungrate-
ful woman," she murmured — " and yet, I don't know how to
thank you."

The child looked up quickly from her cake. " Why don't
you kiss him 1 " the quaint little creature asked with a broad
stare of astonishment.

Her head sank on her breast. She sighed bitterly.

" No more of Me ! " she said, suddenly recovering her com-
posure, and suddenly forcing herself to look at me again.
" Tell me what happy chance brought you here last night ? "

" The same chance," I answered, " which took me to Saint
Anthony's Well."

Conversation with Mrs, Van Brandt. 231

She raised herself eagerly in the chair.

" You have seen me again — as you saw me in t!ie summer-
house by the waterfall I " she exclaimed. " Was it in Scotland
once more 1 "

** No. Farther away than Scotland — as far away as Shet-
land."

** Tell me alH)ut it ! Pray, pray tell me about it ! "

I related what had liappened as exactly as I could, con-
sistently with maintaining the strictest reserve on one point.
Concealing from her the very existence of Miss Dunross, I left
her to suppose that the master of the house was the one person
whom I had found to receive me, during my sojourn under
Mr. Dunross's roof.

" That is strange ! " she exclaimed, after she had heard me
attentively to the end.

" What is strange 1 " I asked.

She hesitated, searching my face oamestly with her large
grave eyes.

" I hardly like speaking of it," she said. " And yet I ought
to have no concealments, in such a matter, from you. I under-
stand everjrthing that you have told me — with one exception.
It seems strange to me that you should only have had one old
man for your companion while you were at the house in Shet-
hmd."

"What other companion did you expect to hear of?" I
inquired.

" I expected," she answered, " to hear of a lady in the
house."

I cannot positively say that the reply took me by surprise :
it forced me to reflect before I spoke again. I knew, by my

232

The Two Destinies.

past experience, that she must have seen me, in my absence
from her, while 1 was spiritually present to her mind in a
trance or dream. Had she also seen the daily companion of
my life in Shetland — Miss Dunross %

I put the question in a form which left me free to decide
whether I should take her unreservedly into my confidence or
not.

" Am I right,'* I began, "in supposing that you dreamed of
me in Shetland, a» you once before dreamed of me while I was
at my house in Perthshire 1 "

" Yes," she answered. " It was at the close of evening
this time. I fell asleep, or became insensible — I Ci-nnot say
which. And I saw you again, in a vision or a dream."
" Where did you see me 1 "

" I first saw you on the bridge over the Scotch river— just

as I met you on the evening when you saved my life. After

awhile, the stream and the landscape about it faded, and you

faded with them, into darkness. I waited a little — and the

darkness melted away slowly. I stood, as it seemed to me, in

a circle of starry light ; fronting a window, with a lake behind

me, and before me a darkened room. And I looked into the

room, and the starry light showed you to me again."

" When did this happen % Do you remember the date % "

« I remember that it was at the beginning of the mbnth.

The misfortunes which have since brought me so low, had not

then fallen on me — and* yet, as I stood looking at you, I had

the strangest prevision of calamity that was to come. I felt

the same absolute reliance on your power to help me that I

felt when I first dreamed of you in Scotland. And I did the

Conversation with Mrs. Van Brandt. 233

same familiar things. I laid my hand on yonr bosom. I said
to you, * Remember me. Come to me/ I even wrote "

She stopped, shuddering as if a sadden fear had laid its hold
on her. Seeing this, and dreading the effect of any violent
agitation, I hastened to suggest that we should say no more,
for that day, on the subject of her dream.

'•'' No," she answered firmly. " There is nothing to be gained
by giving me time. My dream has been one horrible remem-
brance on my mind. As long as I live, I believe I shall tremble
when I think of what I saw near you, in that darkened room."

She stopped again. Was she approaching the subject of the
shrouded figure, with the black veil over its head ) Was she
about to describe her first discovery, in the dream, of Miss
Dunross %

" Tell me one thing first," she resumed. " Have I been right
in what T have said to you, so far 1 Is it true that you were
in a darkened room when you saw me % "

" Quite true."

'' Was the date the beginning of the month 1 and was the
hour the close of evening V

"Yes."

" Were you alone in the room 1 Answer me truly 1 "

" I was not alone."

" Was the master of the house with you 1 or had you some
other companion 1 "

It would have been worse than useless (after what i had now
heard) to attempt to deceive her.

" I had another companion," I answered. " The person in
the room with me was a woman."

Her face showed, as I spoke, that she was again shaken by

234

The Two Destinies,

the terrifying recoUection to which she had just alluded. I
had, by this time, some difficulty myself in preserving my
composure. Still, I was determined not to let a word escape
me which could operate as a suggestion on the mind of my
companion.

" Have you any other question to ask me ) " was all I said.

" One more," she answered. '' Was there anything unusual
in the dress of your companion t *'

" Fes. She wore a long black veil, which hung over her
head and face, and dropped to below her waist."

Mrs. Van Brandt leaned back in her chair, and covered her
eyes with her hands.

''I understand your motive for concealing from me the
presence of that miserable woman in the house," she said.
'' It is good and kind, like all your motives ; but it is useless.
While I lay in the trance I saw everything exactly as it was in
the reality ; and I, too, saw that frightful face ! "

Those words literally electrified me.

My conversation of that morning with my mother instantly
recurred to my memory. I started to my feet.

" GU>od God ! " I exclaimed, "what do you mean % "

" Don't you understand yet ) " she asked, in amazement on
her side. ** Must I speak more plainly still % When you saw
the apparition of me, did you see me write 1 "

" Yes. On a letter that the lady was writing for me. I saw
the words afterwards ; the words that brought me to you last
night : — ' At the month's end. In the shadow of Saint Paul's. ' "

" How did I appear to write on the unfinished letter?"

" You lifted the writing-case, on which the letter and the

Conversation with Mrs. Van Brandt* 235

I saw

ou last
.uVb; "

>nd the

pen lay, off the lady's lap ; and, while you wrote, you rested
the case on her shoulder."

"Did you notice if the lifting of the case produced any effect
on her ? "

" I saw no effect produced," I answered. " She remained
immovable in herjchair."

^* I saw it differently in my dream. She raised her hand —
not the hand that was nearest to you, but nearest to me. As
/ lifted the writing-case, she lifted her hand, and parted the
folds of the veil from off her face — I suppose to see more
clearly. It was only for a moment ; and, in that moment, I
saw what the veil hid. Don't let us speak of it ! You must
have shuddered at that frightful sight in the reality, as I
shuddered at it in the dream. You must have asked yourself, as I
did : Is there nobody to poison the terrible creature, and hide
her mercifully in the grave ) "

At these words she abruptly checked herself. I could say
nothing — ^my face spoke for me. She saw it, and guessed the
truth.

" Good Heavens ! " she cried. " You have not seen her ! She
must have kept htii face hidden from you behind the veil ! Oh,
why, why did you cheat me into talking of it ? I will never
speak of it again. See, we are frightening the child ! Come
here, darling; there is nothing to be afraid of. Come, and
bring your cake with you. You shall be a great lady, giving
a grand dinner ; and we wiU be two friends whom you have
invited to dine with you ; and the doll shall be the little girl
who comes in after dinner, and has fruit at dessert I " So sho
ran on, trying vainly to forget the shock that she had inflicted
on me, in talking nursery nonsense to the child.

236

The Two Destinies.

Recovering my composure in some degree, I did my best to
second the effort that she had made. My quieter thoughts
su^ested that she might well be self-deceived in believing the
horrible spectacle presented to her in the vision to be an actual
reflection of the truth. In common justice towards Miss Dun-
ross, I ought surely not to accept the conviction of her de-
formity on no better evidence than the evidence of a dream !
Reasonable as it undoubtedly was, this view left certain doubts
still lingering in ray mind. The child's instinct soon dis-
covered that her mother and I were playfellows who felt no
geaaine enjoyment of the game. She dismissed her make-
believe guests without ceremony, and went back with her doll
to the favourite play-ground on which I had met her — the
landing outside the door. No persuasion on her mother's part
or on mine succeeded in luring her back to us. We were left
together, to face each other as best we might, with the for-
bidden subject of Miss Dunross between us.

CEJlTTEF. XXVni.

LOVE AND MONEY.

• EELING the embarrassment of the moment most
painfully on her side, Mrs. Van foandt spoke first.
" You have said nothing to me about yourself,
she began. ** Is your life a happier one than it was
when we last met t "

" I cannot honestly say that it is/' I answered.
" Is there any prospect of your being married ) "
" My prospect of being married still rests with you."
'^ Don't say that ! " she exclaimed, with an entreating look
at me. " Don't spoil my pleasure in seeing you again by
spealdng of what can never be ! Have you still to be told
how it is that you find me here alone with my child ? "

I forced myself to mention Van Brandt's name, rather than
hear it pass her lips.

"I have been told that Mr. Van Brandt is in prison for
debt," I said. " And I saw for myself last night that he had
left 3'^ou helpless."

*' He left me the little money he had with him when he was
arrested," she rejoined sadly. " His cruel creditors are more
to blame than he is for the poverty that has fallen on us."

238

The Two Destinies.

Even this negative defence of Van Bi-andt stung me to the
quick.

" I ought to have spoken more guardedly of him," I said
bitterly. "1 ought to have remembered that a woman can
forgive almost any wrong that a man can inflict on her — when
he is the man whom she loves."

She put her hand on my mouth, and stopped me before I
could say any more.

" How can you speak so cruelly to me ? " she asked. *' You
know — to my shame I confessed it to you the last time we met
— you know that my heart, in secret, is all yours. What
* wrong ' are you talking of 1 Is it the wrong I suffered when
Van Brandt married me, with a wife living at the time (and
living still) ) Do you think I can ever forget the great mis-
fortune of my life — the misfortune that has made me unworthy
of you % It is no fault of mine — God knows — but it is not
the less true that I am not manied, and that the little darling
who is playing out there with her doll is my child. And you
talk of my being your wife, knowing that ! "

"The child accepts me as her second father," I said. "It
would be better and happier for us both, if you had as little
pride as the child."

" Pride 1 " she repeated. " In such a position as mine ? A
helpless woman, with a mock-husband in prison for debt ! Say
that I have not fallen quite so low yet as to forget what is due
to you, and you will pay me a compliment that will be nearer
to the truth. Am I to marry you for my food and shelter %
Am I to marry you because there is no lawful tie that binds
me to the father of my child ? Cruelly as he has behaved, he
has still ilmi claim upon me. Bad as he is, he has not forsaken

Love and Money.

239

the

said
a can
•wlien

>f ore 1

"You
If e met

What
iwhen \
le (and
jatmis-
iworthy
i is not

darling
dyou

"It
I as little

Inel A
>t! Say
it is due
nearer
[shelter 1
[at binds
laved, he
Iforsaken

me ; he has been forced away. My only friend ! is it possible
that you think me ungrateful enough to consent to be your
wife ? The woman (in my situation) must be heartless indeed
who could destroy your place in the estimation of the world,
and the regard of your friends! The wretchedest creature
that walks the streets would shrink from treating you in that
way. Gh ! what are men made of 1 How can you ; how can
you speak of it ? "

I yielded, and spoke of it no more. Every word she uttered
only increased my admiration of the noble creature whom I
had loved and lost What refuge was now left to me 1 But
one refuge : I could still offer to her the sacrifice of myself.
Bitterly as I hated the man who had parted us, I loved her
dearly enough to be even capable of helping him, for her sake.
Hopeless infatuation) I don't deny it; I don't excuae it —
hopeless infatuation !

^' You have forgiven me," I said. " Let me deserve to be
forgiven. It is something to be your only friend. You must
have jlans for the future; tell me unreservedly how I can
help you."

"Complete the good work that you have begun," she an-
swered gratefuUy. " Help me back to health. Make me
strong enough to submit to a doctor's estimate of m^ chances
of living for some years yet."

'' A doctor's estimate of your chances of living 1 " I repeated.
" What do you mean 1 "

" I hardly know how to tell you," she said, " without speak-
ing again of Mr. Van Brandt."

"Does speaking of 1dm again mean speaking of his debts ?"

240

The Two Destinies.

I asked " Why need you hesitate 1 You know there is no-
thing I will not do to relieve ywur anxieties."

She looked at me for a moment, in silent distress.

" Oh ! do you think I would let you give your money to
Van Brandt 1 " she asked m soon as she could speak. " I who
owe everything to your devotion to me 1 Never ! Let me tell
you the plain truth. There is a serious necessity for his getting
out of prison. He must pay his creditors ; and he»has found
out a way of doing it — with my help."

** Your help ! " I exclaimed.

"Yes ! This is his position in two words. A little while since,
he obtained an excellent offer of employment abroad, from
a rich relative of his ; and he had made all his arrangements
to accept it. Unhappily, he returned to teU me of V good
fortune ; and the same day he was arrested for debt. His rela-
tive has offered to keep the situation open for a certain time —
and the ^ime has not yet expired. If he can pay a dividend to
his creditors they will give him his freedom \ and he believes
he can raise the money if I consent to insure my life."

To insure her life ! The snare which had been set for her
was plainly revealed in those four words.

In the eye of the law, she was, of course, a single woman :
she was of age, she was to all intents and purposes her own
mistress. What was there to prevent her from insuring her
life, if she pleased, and from so disposing of the insurance as to
give Van Brandt a direct interest in her death ) Knowing
what I knew of him, believing him as I did to be capable of
any atrocity, I trembled at the bare idea of what might have
happened, if I had failed to find my way back to her until a
later date. Thanks to the happy accident of my position, the

Love and Money.

241

no-

sy to
who
letell
siting
found

3 since,
,, from
ements
good
lis rela-
|time —
dendto
)eUeve8

for her

HToman :
ler own

igher
Lce as to

Lowing
Ipable of
Iht have

until a
ion, the

one certain way of protecting her lay easily within my reach.
I could offer to lend the scoundrel the money that \vt wanted,
at an hour's notice — and he was the man to accept my proposal
quite as easily as I could make it.

" You don't seam to approve of our idea," she said, noticing
in evident perplexity the effect which she had produced on me.
" I am very unfortunate — I seem to have innocently disturbed
and annoyed you for the second time." •

" You are quite mistaken," I replied ; " I am only doubting
whether your plan for relieving Mr. Van Brandt of his embar-
rassments is quite so simple as you suppose. Are you aware of
the delays that are likely to take place before it will be possible
to borrow money on your policy of insurance % "

*' I know nothing about it," she said, sadly.

" Will you let me ask the advice of my lawyers 1 They are
trustworthy and experienced men — and I am sure they can be
of use to you."

Cautiously as I had expressed myself, her delicacy took the
alarm.

"Promise me that you won't ask me to borrow money of you
for Mr. Van Brandt," she rejoined, " and I will accept your
help gratefully."

I could honestly promise that. My one chance of saving her
lay in keeping from her knowledge the course that 1 had now
determined to pursue. I rose to ere, while my resolution still
sustained me. The sooner I made my inquiries (I reminded her),
the more speedily our present doubts and difficulties would be
resolved.

She rose, as I rose — with the tears in her eyes and the blush
on her cheeks.
Q

242

TAe Two Destinies.

" Kiss me," she whispered, " before you go ! And don't
mind my crying. I am quite happy now. It is only your
goodness that overpowers me."

I pressed her co my heart, with the unacknowledged tender-
ness of a parting embrace. It was impossible to disguise the
position in which I had now placed myself — I had, so to speak,
pronounced my own sentence of banishment. When my inter-
*ference had restored my unworthy rival to his freedom, could I
submit to the degrading necessity of seeing her in his presence,
of speaking to her under his eyes 1 That sacrifice of myself was
beyond me — and I knew it. " For the last time ! " I thought,
as I held her to me for a moment longer — " for the last time ! "

The child ran to meet me with open arms when I stepped
out on the landing. My manhood had sustained me through
the parting with the mother. It was only when the child's
round innocent little fac 3 laid it(;elf lovingly against mine that
my f<Jrtitnde gave way. I was past speaking — I put her down
gently in silence, and wf ited on the lower flight of stairs until
I was fit to face the world outside.

ion't
your

mder-
se tbe

inter-
Bouldl
wence,
«lfwa8
bought,
time!"
stepped
ihrougli
e child's
ine that
[er down
until

CHAPTER XXIX.

OUR DESTINIES PART US.

ESCENDING to the ground floor of the house, I
sent to request a moment's interview with the land-
lady. I had yet to learn in which of the London
prisons Van Brandt was confined ; and she was the
only person to whom I could venture to address the
question.

Having answered my inquiries, the woman put her own
sordid construction on my motive for visiting the priso!|ik'«

" Has the money you left up-stairs gone into his greedy
pockets already 1 " she asked. *' If I was as rich as you are, I
should let it go. In your place I wouldn't touch him with a
pair of tongs !"

The woman's coarse warning actually proved useful to me —
it started a new idea in my mind ! Before she spoke, I had
been too dull or too preoccupied to see that it was quite need-
less to degrade myself by personally communicating with Van
Brandt in his prison. It only now occurred to me that my
legal advisers were, as a matter of course, the proper persons
to represent me in the matter — with this additional advantage,
that they could keep my share in the transaction a secret even
from Van Brandt himself.

24 i

The Two Destinies,

I drove at once to the office of my lawyers. The senior part-
ner — the tried friend and adviser of our family — received me.

My instructions, naturally enough, astonished him. He wiis
immediately to satisfy the prisoner's creditors, on my behalf,
without mentioning my name to any one. And he was gravely
to accept as security for repayment — Mr. Van Brandt's note of
hand!

" I thought I was well acquainted with the various methods
by which a gentleman can throw away his money," the senior
partner remarked. " I congratulate you, Mr. G^rmaine, on hav-
ing discovered an entirely new way of effectually emptying your
purse. Founding a newspaper, taking a theatre, keeping race-
horses, gambling at Monaco — are highly efficient as modes of '
losing money. But they all yield, sir, to paying the debts of
Mr. Van Brandt I "

I left him, and went home.

Th« servant who opened the door had a message for me from
my mother. She wished to see me as soon as I was at leisure
to speak to her.

I presented myself at once in my mother's sitting-room.

" Well, George," she said, without a* word to prepare me
for what was coming, " how have you left Mrs. Van Brandt 1"

I was completely thrown off my guard.

" Who has told you that I have seen Mrs. Van Brandt 1" I
asked.

" My dear ! your face has told me. Don't I know by this
time how you look and how you speak when Mrs. Van Brandt
is in your mind ) Sit down by me. I have something to say to
you, which I wanted to say this morning— but, I hardly know
why, my heart failed me. I am bolder now ; and I can say it.

Our Destinies Part Us.

245

part-
d me.
[e was
)ehalf,
;ravely
aote of

Lethods
) senior
on hav-
ngyour
ig race-
aodes of
debts of

me from
leisure

lom.

bare me
krandtV*

Indtl" I

by this

. Brandt

Ito say to

[ly know

*n say it.

My son ! you still love Mrs. Van Brandt. You have my per-
mission to m^rry her."

Those were ^.he words ! Hardly an hour had elapsed since
Mrs. Van Brandt's own lips had told me that our union was
impossible. Not even half an hour had elapsed since I had
given directions which would rest<>re to liberty the man who
was the one obstacle to my marriage. And this was the time
that my mother had innocently chosen for cons^^nting to receive
as her daughter-in-law Mrs. Van Brandt I •

" I see that I surprise you," she resum< d. " Let me explain
my motive as plainly f^ I can. I should not be speaking the
truth, George, if I told you that I have ceased to feel the se-
rious objections that there are to your marrying this lady. The
only difference in my way of thinking is, that I am now willing
to set my objections aside, ou6 of regard for your happiness. I
am an old woman, my dear. In the course of nature I cannot
hope to be with you much longer. When I am gone, who will
be left to care for you and love you, in the place of your mo-
ther 1 No one will be left — unless you marry Mrs. Van Brandt.
Your happiness is my first consideration ; and the woman you
love (sadly as she has been led astray) is a woman worthy of a
better fate. Marry her."

I could not trust myself to speak. I could only kneel at my
mother's feet, and hide my face on her knees, as if I had been
a boy again.

" Think of it, George," she said. " And come back to me
when you are composed enough to speak as quietly of the future
as I do."

She lifted my head, and kissed me. As I rose to leave her,
I saw something in the dear old eyes that met mine so tenderly,

246

The Two Destinies,

which struck a sudden fear through me — ^keen and cutting like
a stroke from a knife.

The moment I had closed the door, I went downstairs to the
porter in the hall.

" Has my mother left the house/' I asked, " while I have
been away ? "

"No, sir."

" Have any visitors called 1 "

"One visitor has called, sir."

" Do you know who it was ? "

The porter mentioned the name of a celebrated physician —
a man at the head of his proi\sssion in those days. I instantly
took my hat, and went to his house.

He had just returned from his round of visits. My card was
taken to him, and was followed at once by my admission to his
consulting-room.

" You have seen my mother," I said. " Is she seriously ill —
and have you not concealed it from her 1 For God's sake, tell
me the truth ; I can bear it."

The great man took me kindly by the hand.

" Your mother stands in no need of any warning ; she is her-
self aware of the critical state of her health," he said. " She
sent for me to confirm her own conviction. I could not conceal
from her — I must not conceal from you — that the vital energies
are sinking. She may live for some months longer in a milder
air than the air of London. That is all I can say. At her age,
her days are numbered."

He gave me time to steady myself under the blow; and then
he placed his vast experience, his matured and consummate
knowledge, at my disposal. From his dictation, I committed to

Our Destinies Part Us.

247

iglike
to the
I have

tician —
istantly

ard was
)n to his

sly iU—
ake, tell

[e is her-
*'She

conceal
[energies
la milder

her age,

md then

kummate

litted to

writing the necessary instructions for watching over the frail
tenure of my mother's life.

"Let me give you one word of warning,' he said, as we parted.
' Your mother is especially desirous that you should know no-
thing of the precarious condition of her health. Her one anxiety
is to see you happy. If she discovers your visits to me, I will
not answer for the consequences. Makj the best exciise you
can think of for at once taking her away from London — and,
whatever you may feel in secret, keep up an apr jarance of good
spirits in her presence."

That evening I made my excuse. It was easily found. I had
only to tell my poor mother of Mrs. Van Brandt's refusal to
marry me ; and there was an intelligible motive assigned for my
proposing to leave London. The same night I wrote to inform
Mrs. Van Brandt of the sad event which was the cause of my
sudden departure, and to warn her that there no longer existed
the slightest necessity for insuring her life. '' My lawyers " (I
wrote) " have undertaken to arrange Mr. Van Brandt's affairs
immediately. In a few hours he will be at liberty to accept the
situation that has been offered to him." The last lines of the
letter assured her of my unalterable love, and entreated her to
write to me before she left England.

This done, all was done. I was conscious, strange to say, of
no acutely painful suffering at this saddest time of my life.
There is a limit, morally as well as physically, to our capacity
for endurance. I can only describe my sensations under the
calamities that had now fallen on me, in one way — I felt like a
man whose mind had been stunned.

The next day, my mother and I set forth on the first stage of
our journey to the south coast of Devonshire.

CHAPTER XXX.

A GLANCE BACKWARDS.

HREE days after my mother and I had established
ourselves at Torquay, I received Mrs. Van Brandt's
answer to my letter. After the opening sentences
(informing me that Van Brandt had been set at
liberty, under circumstances painfully suggestive to
the writer of some unacknowledged sacrifice on my
part) the letter proceeded in these terms : —

" The new employment which Mr. Van Brandt is to under-
take secures to us the comforts, if not the luxuries, of life.
For the first time since my troubles began, I have the prospect
before me of a peaceful existence, among a foreign people from
whom all that is false in my position may be concealed — noti
for my sake, huu for the sake of my child. To more than this,
to the happiness which some women enjoy, I must not, I dare
not, aspire.

" We leave England for the Continent early to-morrow
morning. Shall I tell you in what part of Europe my new re-
sidence is to be f \

" No ! You might write to me again ; and I might write
bftck. The one poor return I can make to the ^ood an^el of

A Glance Backwards.

249

krrow
|w re-

my life, is to help him to forget me. What right have I to
cling to my usurped place in your regard 1 The time will
come when you will give your heart to a woman who is worthier
of it than I am. Let me drop out of your life — except as an
occasional remembrance, when you sometimes think of the
days that have gone for ever.

'' I shall not be without some consolation, on my side, when
I too look back at the past. I have been a better woman
since I met with you. Live as long as I may, 1 shall al-
ways remember that.

*^ Yes ! the influence that you have had over me has been
from first to last an influence for good. Allowing that I have
done wrong (in my position) to love you — and worse even than
that, to own it — still the love has been innocent, and the effort
to control it has been an honest effort at least But, apart
from this, my heart tells me that I am the better for the sym-
pathy which has united us. I may confess to you what T have
never acknowledged — now that we are so widely parted, and so
little likely ever to meet again. Whenever I have given myself
up unrestrainedly to my own better impulses, they have always
seemed to lead me to You. Whenever my mind has been
most truly at peace, and I have been able to pray with a pure
and a penitent heart, I have felt as if there was some unseen
tie that was drawing us nearer and nearer together. And,
strange to say, this has always happened to me (just as my
dreams of you have always come to me) when I have been
separated from Van Brandt At such times, thinking or
dreaming, it has always appeared to me that I knew you
far more familiarly than I know you when we meet face to
face. Is there really such a thing, I wonder, as a former

250

The Two Destinies,

state of existence 9 And were we once constant companions
in some other sphere, thousands of years since 1 These are
idle guesses ! Let it be enough for me to remember that I have
been the better for knowing you — without inquiring how or
why.

" Farewell, my beloved benefactor, my only friend ! The
child sends you a kiss; .nd the mother signs herself your
grateful and affectionate,

" M. Van Brandt."

When I first read those lines, they once more recalled to my
memory — very strangely as I then thought — the predictions of
Dame Dermody in the days of my boyhood. Here were the
foretold sympathies which were spiritually to unite me to
Mary, realized by a stranger whom I had met by chance in the
later years of my life !

Thinking in this direction, did I advance no farther % Not
a step farther % Not a suspicion of the truth presented itself
to my mind, even yet.

Was my own dulness of apprehension to blame for this %
Would another man, in my position, have discovered what I
failed to see ?

I look back upon the chain of events which runs through my
narrative ; and I ask myself, Where are the possibilities to be
found — in my case, or in the case of any other man — of identify-
ing the child who was Mary Dermody with the woman who
was Mrs. Van Brandt 1 Was there anything left in our faces,
when we met again by the Scotch river, to remind us of our
younger selves ) We had developed, in the interval, from boy
and girl, to man and woman : no outward traces were dis-

A Glance Backwards.

351

^tify.

[who

ices,

our

boy

dis-

cernible in us of the George and Mary of other days. Disg-iised
from each other by our faces, we were also disguised by our
names. Her mock-marriage had changed her surname. My
stepfather's Will had changed mine. Her Christian name was
the commonest of all names of woman; and mine was almost as
far from being remarkable among the names of men. Turning
next to the various occasions on which we had met, had we
seen enough of each other to lUift into recognition on either
side, in the ordinary course of talk 1 We had met but four
times in all : once on the bridge, once again in Edinburgh,
twice more in London. On each of those occasions, the ab-
sorbing anxieties and interests of the passing moment had
filled her mind and mine, had inspired her wordc and mine.
When had the events which brought us together, left us
with leisure enough and tranquillity enough to look back idly
through our lives, and calmly to compare the recollections of
our youth 1 Never ! From first to last, the course of events
had borne us farther and farther away from any result that
could have led even to a suspicion of the truth. She could
believe when she wrote to me on leaving England, and I
could only believe when I read her letter, that we had first
met at the river, and that our divergent destinies had ended
in parting us for ever.

Reading her farewell letter in later days, by the light of
my matured experience, I note how remarkably Dame Dermody's
faith in the purity of the tie that united us, as kindred spirits,
was justified Ly the result.

It was only when my unknown Mary was parted from Van
Brandt — in other words, it was only when she was a pure
spirit — that she felt my influence over her as a refining inilu-

262

The Two Destinies.

«nce on her life, and that the apparition of her cummnnicated
with me in the visible and perfect likeness of herself. On my
side, when was it that I dreamed of her (as in Scotland), or
felt the mysterious warning of her presence in my waking
moments (as in Shetland) ? Always at the time when my
heart opened most tenderly towards her and towards others —
when my mind was most free from the bitter doubts, the self-
seeking aspirations, which degrade the divinity within us.
Then, and then only, my sympathy with her was the perfect
■ sympathy which holds its fidelity unassailable by the chances
and changes, the delusions and temptations of mortal life.

,ted
my
, or
:ing
my
rs—
self-
US.
rfect
.nces

CHAPTER XXXI.

MISS DUNROSS.

BSORBED in watching over the closing days of my
mother's life, I found in devoting myself to this
sacred duty my only consolation under the over-
throw of my last hope of marriage with Mrs. Van
Brandt.

By degrees, my mother felt the reviving influ'
ences of a quiet life and a soft air. The improvement in her
health could, as I but too well knew, be only an improvement
for a timb. Still, it was a relief to see her free from pain, and
innocently happy in the presence of her son. Excepting those
hours of the day and night which were dedicated to repose, I
was never away from her. To this day I remember, with a
tenderness which attaches to no other memories of mine, the
books th&t I read to her, the sunny corner on the seashore
where I sat with her, the games of cards that we played
together, the little trivial gossip that amused her when she
was strong enough for nothing else. These are my imperish-
able relics ; these are the deeds of my life that I shall love
best to look back on, wben the all-enfolding shadows of death
are closing round me.
In the hours when I was alone, my thoughts — occupying them-

254

The Two Destinies.

selves mostly among the persons and events of the past — wan-
dered back many and many a time to Shetland and Miss Dunross.

My haunting doubt as to what the black veil had really hid-
den from me, was no longer accompanied by a feeling of horror
when it now rt ^^re*^' . my mind. The more vividly my later
remembrances v. U.a^ "dunross were associated with the idea
of an unutterable ^iiy "Miction, the higher the noble nature
of the woman seemed to nst in my esteem.

For the first time since I had left Shetland, the temptation
now came to me to disregard the injunction which her father
had laid on me at parting. When I thought again of the stolen
kiss, in the dead of night ; when I recalled the appearance of
the frail white hand, waving to me through the dark curtains
its last farewell — and wh^n there mingled with these memories
the later remembrance ot what my mother had suspected, and
of what Mrs. Van Brandt had seen in her dream — the longing
in me to find a means of assuring Miss Dunross that she still
had her place apart in my memory and my heart, was more
than mortftl fortitude could resist. I was pledged in honour
not to return to Shetland, and not to write. How to commu-
nicate with her secretly, in some other way, was the constant
question in my mind as the days went on. A hint to enlighten
me was all that I wanted — and, as the irony of circumstances
ordered it, my mother was the person who gave me the hint.

We still spoke, at intervals, of Mrs. Van Brandt. Watching
me on those occasions when we were in the company of ac-
quaintances at Torquay, my mother plainly discerned that no
other woman, whatever her attractions might be, could take
the place in my heart of the woman whom I had lost. Seeing
but one prospect of happinese' for me, she refused to abandon

Miss Dunross.

256

jiran-
ro88.

hid-
orror
later

idea
lature

the idea of my marrying Mrs. Van Brandt. When a woman
has owned .that she loves a man (so my mother used to express
her opinion), it is that man's fault, no matter what the obstacles
may be, if he fails to make her his wife. Reverting to this
view in various ways, she pressed it on my consideration one
day in these words :

" There is one drawback, George, to my hap' xta^ in being
here with you. I am an obstacle in the way ct yc commu-
nicating with Mrs. Van Brandt."

" You forget," I said, " that she has left liai/liud, without
telling me where to find her.'*

" If you were free from the incumbrance o: , l Ui* mother, my
dear, you could easily find her. Even as things are, yon might
surely write to her ) Don't mistake my motives, George ! If
I Bad any hope of your forgetting her — if I saw you only
moderately attracted by one or other of the charming women
whom we know here — I should say let us never speak r^in,
or think again, of Mrs. Van Brandt. But, my dear, your
heart is closed to every woman but one. Be happy in your
own way, and let me see it before I die. The wretch to
whom that poor creature is sacrificing her life will, sooner or
later, ill-treat her, or desert her — and then she must turn to
you. Don't let her think that you are resigned to the loss of
her. The more resolutely you set hsr scruples at defiance, the
more she wiU love you and admire you in secret. Women are
lik 9 that Send her a letter — and follow it with a little present.
You talked of taking me to the studio of the young artist
here, who left his card the other day. I am told that he paints
admu-able portraits in miniature. Why not send your portrait
to Mrs. Van Brandt?",

266

The Two Destinies.

Here was the idea of which I had been vainly in search !
Quite superfluous as a method of pleading my cause with Mrs.
Van Brandt, the portrait offered the best of all means of com-
municating with Afiss Dunross — without absolutely violating
the engagement to which her father had pledged me. In this
way, without writing a word, without even sending a message,
I might tell her how gratefully she was remembered ; I might
remind her of me tenderly in the bitterest moments of her sad
and solitary life.

The same day, I went to the artist privately. The sittings
were afterwards continued during the hours while my mother
was resting in the other room, until the portrait was complet-
ed. I caused it to he enclosed in a plain gold locket, with a
chain attached ; and I forwarded my gift, in the first instance,
to the one person whom I could trust to assist me in arranging
for the conveyance of it to its destination. This was the
old friend (alluded to in these pages as ''Sir James")
who had taken me with him to Shetland in the Government
yacht.

I had no reason, in writing the necessary explanations, to
express myself to Sir James with any reserve. On the voyage
back, we had more than ouce spoken together confidentially of
Miss Dunross. Sir James had heard her sad story from the
resident medical man at Lerwick, who had been an old com-
panion of his in their college days. Requesting him to confide
my gift to this gentleman, I did not hesitate to acknowledge
the doubt that oppressed me, in relation to the mystery of the
black veil. It was, of course, impossible to decide whether the
doctor would be able to relieve that doubt. I could only ven-
ture to suggest that the question might be guardedly put, in

^iss Dunross,

«■»-». Hi, lette oniric m'^1'"'"'''^'' «''"'•'»*»•«

I felt so etrongly the foreboding of ^ ''""'" '*'"''«.

fn.« breaking the seal in mv mo^- *• """ ^ «'>«««ined

l""*'- ' ° "-oom-and then I opened the

My prerontiment had -net a^ ■ ^
contained the« ^.Xll ^TiZ^^ ''' ''^'^'^ "P'r
their own ^ eto^, with, J fcelp t^t ""i' ' '"""°" '«»

---. r- -til— srr:

ceived your letter to^ay w!th ^^ "^ ' '"" ""'^ ""
box containing a gold locket and oh^r ^ "^.^^^ « «"Ie
which you aak me to convey privalw,;"'^ the present
friend of yon.» „ho,e name -o" 2 ^ T "'"'"''' fr»- «
" In t«n.mitting the.ri;t™:i:r "' "T''^ '^ »»«-•
Pi-JjeinapositionofeJrSi;' '*" »"-"^

»a - ^er'^nffTf Xtf ::: ^"'™''^^' ^' - *e
that death comes, in her ca^e i^ f**^ "'" '^^'''^ ""ff-ing

»«e. o nder thlse mZchi ""'' " * """^ »''«' » "^f-er

not to bUme if I hesitat^^t ^e trTh'--. ^ -' ^ 'hink,

» ^"^^ ^""^ "'« '<x=ket in secret ; not

358

The Two DestinUs.

knowing with what associations this keepsake is connected, or
of what serious agitation it may not possibly be the cause.

" In this state of doubt, I have ventured on opening the
locket — and my hesitation is naturally increased. I am quite
ignorant of the remembrances which my unhappy patient may
connect with the portrait. I don't know whether it will give
her pleasure or pain to receive it, in hor last moments on earth.
I can only resolve to take it with me, when I see hor to-
morrow, and to let circumstances decide whether I shall risk
giving it to her or not. Our post to the south only leaves this
place in three days' time. So I can keep my letter open, and
let you know the result.

" I have seen her ; and I have just returned to my own
house. My distress of mind is great. But I will do my best
to write intelligibly and fully of what has happened.

" Her sinking energies, when I first saw her this morning,
had rallied for the moment. The nurse informed me that she
slept during the early hours of the new day. Previously to
this, there were symptoms of fever, accompanied by some slight
delirium. The words that escaped her in this condition ap-
pear to have related mainly to an absent person whom she
spoke of by the name of * George. ' Her one anxiety, I am told,
was to see '• George' again before she died.

" Hearing this, it struck me as barely possible that the por-
trait in the locket might be the portrait of the absent person.
I sent her nurse out of the room, and took her hand in mine.
Trusting partly to her own admirable courage and strength of
mind, and partly to the confidence which I knew she placed in
me ii9ftn old friend ftucl adviser, I adverted to the words which

Miss Dunross.

^ 259

" It WM a risk to run ti,« m ,
wear, w« over her f.^ fh ^ /"' "''«'' "h* ""V.

-W to hot. «d ciofed S , "It""' '""""' "'*''""y «■">».

«'>«<»'%. She told me nothing ! •' "'"''"' " ^^ '''"'
" ' I« he h»e , • ,he asked * ""'^ ""' » ''""'•"<•''•

I'lrth' ' ''"■'^' "''""•'"" -y«if.'

is there a letter?'
"I said, 'No.'

"She was silent for awhile H., k .
f«P of her finge™ loosened Sh^ . "'™'"' «"<"'• »he
doctor ! Whatever it is Zi > f ^^^ "e"" ^ ' »> quick

" I risked the exp ir 1 '"^'"'°'« ^ *«•
into her hand. '^ '"' ' ' "^"^^ 'he l„„ket, and pnt it

ii-f'^^T^iz:^:^:C'is ^7 ^ook.»,.e it

I obeyed her. With her back turnlf '"'^'^' *" """ ^'^'
ho' vea ; and then (as i suptLrsI , ^Zf" "■"' «''« "ft*-!
A >on« W o,y_not of sorT^ i'°°'^ "' «■« Port™it.
dehght-bnrst from her. I y^ZlTi ""^ °^ "P'"" «»<»
™»tomed as I am in mv\3 '"'"*"' «■« Pot-^i*. A,^

-nds, I never ^^^^^C J'^ZCj'^''' ^^ -^

ompletely losing my selfcontrol

260.

The Two Destinies.

as I lost it at that moment. I was obliged to turn away to the
window.

'< Hardly a minute could have passed before I was back
again at the bedside. The veil was drawn once more over her
face. Her voice had sunk again ; I could only hear what she
said, by leaning over her, and placing my ear close to her lips.

" * Put it round my neck,* she whispered.

*' I clasped the chain of the locket round h r neck. She
tried to lift her hand to it — but her strength failed her.

" * Help me to hide it,' she said.

" I guided her hand. She hid the locket in her bosom;,
under the white dressing-gown which she wore that day. The
oppression in her breathing increased. I raised her on the
pillow. The pillow was not high enough. I rested her head
on my shoulder, and partially opened her veil She spoke
again, feeling a momentary relief.

« < Promise,' she said, ' that no stranger's hand shall touch
me. Promistt to bury me as I am now.'

" I gave her my promise.

" Her failing breath quickened. She was just able to articu
late the next words :

" ' Cover my face again.'

" I drew the veil over her face. She rested awhile in silence.
Suddenly, the sound of her labouring respiration ceased. She
started and raised her head from my shoulder.

»< *Are you in pain ? ' I asked.

" ' I am in Heaven ! * she answered.

" Her head dropped on my breast as she spoke. In that
last outburst of joy, her last breath had passed. The moment

ray to the

was back

I over her

what she

her lips.

)ck. She

ir bosom,
ay. The
)r on the
her head
he spoke

Lall touch

to articu

in silence,
ed. She

In that
3 moment

261
of her supreme happineaa ^r^A^T^ ^ ~ ~~

-ho .eM her hi. portrait th'^t L ' '^'" *" ''""«-
momente-through his rer^,l °"""™'» were joyful

hi. gift. * """'""'"•»»<'«»'• her, as exp,,,«d by

" I observe a nnsaaf,^ :

y^'-PKed. You^^I^frer ""*''"""'"' ^ ■"--<"
for the pe^stent hiding of I/*' ""^ """* '*"""» """O"
reason which she w«, a^nlZ.'T*' ""''■'' "'o ^U- «>»» the
J--- It « true that shTluS T* *" ""' '^"»"'' »»«""
to the action of light ftt^ " """"'^ """"tiveness

on'r result, o. the Lm il ofl^* f""' *''" "" "«' '^e
She kaa another ,«asoTfor t ' "'^t^^^uiy that aiBicted her.
i^nown to two pe^oloS J't? 7 '"" ""'•'•""-» -«»"
viUagenearherfathek house ! °'" "''° "™» '■> *!>*
pledged never to diX to"t T *" "'^'^"- ^^ ""^ both
alone have seen. We W t f ^""^ ''"*'"™ ''''at our eyes
-- father. ..a .elLf^^r ^ u^^ '^'''' "^ '"-
no more to say on this ml'T, "'"' ^''''- ^have

whose interests you wlr'"'^,'"''j-' *« *e person in
"im think of the'beauT^whicnrh ;,""■"' "' "«' "-' '«'
-the beauty of the frL tt T "'' *'"'""''» «•» P-^fa-e
with the an^ls of God ' ' '"^"""^ ^appy i„ it:„„i„„

262

The Two Destinies.

" I may add, before I close my letter, that the poor old
father will not be left in cheerless solitude at the lake-house.
He will pass the remainder of his days under my roof ; with
my good wife to take care of him, and my children to remind
him of the brighter side of life."

So the letter ended. I put it away, and went out. The
solitude of my room forewarned me unendurably of the coming
solitude in my own life. My interests in this busy world were
now narrowed to one object — to the care of my mother's fail-
ing health. Of the two women whose hearts had once beaten
in loving sympathy with mine, one lay in her grave, and the
other was lost to me in a foreign land. On the drive by the
sea I met my mother, in her little pony-chaise, moving slowly
under the mild, wintry sunshine. I dismissed the man who
was in attendance on her, and walked by the side of the chaise
with the reins in m> hand. We chatted quietly on trivial sub-
jects. I closed my eyes to the dreary future that was before
me ; and tried, in the intervals of the heart-ache, to live re-
signedly in the passing hour.

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE PHYSICIAN'S opinion.

l^X -nth. We e.p.,. S„„„.,,.«„; ,„, _
«-th haa been „;„,. j ,^"0' . "'' ""'' '^' '"»'' <>"

breakfast and dine together Tn'^tlr""' ""^ """o- Wa
-nt, solitude is dreadful :' Le-a^ST "• ""' *« -»■
««ty ; I shrink from person, „L ' ' ^ "^'""" 8" '"^ »«-
S.r James's suggestion' hTw" Ir InT"? "'"""'»-■ ^'
been asked to dine with us I ""f- ""' "" ''<"«1 has
"i»ary guest. The physicl:l, f '"" "^'^"»««<"' " no or-
»■ Stat., of n,y motherSth f "'"""'' ■"" »^ '"e criti-
teli him of her last moment^ ffi, ?""*"' *° ''«»' "hat I can
-'ed in the earlier hou„ of t^^^Zt '~'"' *" "^

y ' '^"*^ '^e joins us at the

264

The Two Destinies.

dinner-table when his (patients leave him free to visit his
friends.

The dinner is nearly at an end. I have made the effort to
preserve my self-control \ and, ic few w rds, I have told the
simple story of my mother's last peaceful days on earth. The
conversation turns next on topics of little interest to me : my
mind rests after the effort that it has made ; my observation is
left free to exert itself as usual.

Little by little, as the talk goes on, 1 observe something in
the conduct of the celebrated physician which first puzzhi^ me.
and then arouses my suspicion of some motive for his preseiuce,
which has not been acknowledged, and in which I am con-
cerned.

Over and over again, I discover that his eyes are reisting on
me with a furtive interest and attention which he seems auxious
to conceal. Over and over again, I notice that he conlrivea to
divert the conversation from general topics, and to lure me in-
to talking of myself; and, stra^i^ ' still (unless I am quite
mistaken). Sir James u* derstands ais- encourages him. Under
various pretences, I am questioned about what I have suflFered
in the past, and what plans of life I have formed for the future.
Among other subjects of personal interest to me, the subject of
supernatural appearances is introduced. I am asked if I be-
lieve in occult spiritual sympathies, and in ghostly apparitions
of dead or distant persons. I am dexterously let into hinting
that my views on this difficult and debateable question are in
rjome degree influenced by experiences of my own. Hints,
however, are not enough to satisfy the doctor's innocent curi-
C'.'iv.y : he tries to induce me to relate in detail what I have
liVji iir seor, and felt. But by this tim<? I am on my guard ;

i -w

-•w^rBrw

Tfte Physician's Opinion.

265

I make excuses ; I steadily abstain from taking my friend into
my confidence. It is more and more plain to me that I am be-
ing made the subject of an experiment, in which Sir James and
the physician are equally interested. Outwardly assuming to
be guiltless of any suspicion of what is going on, I inwardly
determine to discover the true motive for the doctor's presence
that evening, and for the part that Sir James has taken in in-
viting him to be my guest.

Events favour my purpose, soon after the dessert has been
placed on the table.

The waiter enters the room, with a letter for me, and an-
nounces that the bearer waits to know if there is any answer.
I open the envelope, and find inside a few lines from my
lawyers, announcing the completion of some formal matter of
business. I at once seize the opportunity that is offered to
me. Instead of sending a verbal message downstairs, I make
my apologies, and use the letter as a pretext for leaving the
room.

Dismissing the messenger who waits below, I return to the
corridor in which my rooms are situated, and softlv open the
door of my bedchamber. A second door comm^ icates with
the sitting-room, and has a ventilator in the upper part of it.
I have only to stand under the ventilator, and every word of
conversation between Sir James and the physician reaches
my ears.

" Then you think I am right ? " are the first words I hear, in
Sir James's voice.

" Quite right," the doctor answers.

" I have done my b ?st to make him change his dull way of
life," Sir James proceeds. " I have asked him > pay a visit

n>^

266

TAe Two Destinies.

to my house in Scotland ; I have proposed travelling with him
on the Continent ; I have offered to take him with me, on my
next voyage in the yacht. He has but one answer — ^he simply
says No to everything that I can suggest. You have heard
from his own lips that he has no definite plans for the future.
What is to become of him ? What had we better do 1 "

" It is not easy to say," I hear the physician reply. " To
speak plainly, the man's nervous system is seriously deranged.
I noticed something strange in him when he first came to con-
sult me about his mother's health. The mischief has not been
caused entirely by the affliction of her death. In my belief,
his mind has been — what shall I say? — unhinged for some
time pfi3t. He is a very reserved person. I suspect he has
been oppressed by anxieties which he has kept secret from every
one. At }iis age the unacknowledged troubles of life are gene-
rally troubles caused by women. It is in his temperament to
take the romantic view of love ; and some matter-of-fact woman
of the present day may have bitterly disappointed him. What-
ever may be the cause, the effect is plain — ^his nerves have
broken down ; and hia brain is necessarily affected by whatever
affects his nerves. I have known men in his condition who
have en(L'd badly. He may drift into insane delusions, if his
preseiiL, course of life is not altered. Did you hear what he
said whir;!) NVft ^alked about ghosts ? "

" Sheer D' nseise ! " Sir James remarks.

" Sheer delai: .'on would be the more correct form of expres-
sion," the doctor rejoins. " And other delusions may flow out
of it, at anj moment."

" Wl\at is to be done 1 " persists Sir James ; " I may really
say for myself, doctor, that I feel a fatherly interest in the

,hhim
on my
simply
heard
future.

"To
ranged,
to con-
ot been
y belief,
)r some
he has
im every
)xe gene-
tment to
woman
I. What-
es have
hatever
lion who
18, if bis
what he

expres-
I flow out

iy really
It in the

TAe Physicians Opinion.

2«7

poor fellow. His mother was one of my oldest and dearest
friends — and he has inherited many of her engaging and en-
dearing qualities. I hope you don't think the case is bad
enough to be a case for restraint 1 "

" Certainly not, as yet," answers the doctor. " So far there
is no positive brain disease ; and there is accordingly no sort
of reason for placing him under restraint. It is essentially a
doubtful and a difficult case. Have him privately looked after
by a competent person, and thwart him in nothing, if you can
possibly help it. The merest trifle may excite his suspicions —
and, if that happens, we lose all control over him."

" You don't think he suspects us already — do you, doctor 1 '»

" I hope not. I saw him once or twice look at me rather
strangely — and he has certainly been a long time out of the
room."

Hearing this, 1 wait to hear no more. I return to the sit-
ting-room (by way of the corridor), and resume my place at the
table.

The indignation that I feel — naturally enough, I think, un-
der the circumstances — makes a good actor of me, for once in
my life. I invent the necessary excuse for my long absence*
and takt my part in the conversation ; keeping the strictest
guard on every word that escapes me, without betraying any
appearance of restraint in my manner. Early in the evening
the doctor leaves us, to go to a scientific meeting. For half
an hour more Sir James remains with me. By way (as T sup-
pose) of ifurther testing the state of my mind, he renews the
invitation to his house in Scotland. I pretend to feel flattered
by his anxiety to secure me as his guest. I undertake to re-
consider my first refusal, and to give him a definite answer

368

Tfu Two Destinies.

when we meet the next morning at breakfast. Sir James is
delighted ; we shake hands cordially, and wish each other good
night. At last I am left alone.

My resolution as to my next course of proceeding is formed
without a moment's hesitation. I determined to leave the
hotel privately the next morning, before Sir James is out of
his bedroom.

To wlat destination I am to betake myself is naturally the
next question that arises — and this also I easily decide. Dur-
ing the last days of my mother's life, we spoke together fre-
quently of the happy past days when we were living on the
banks of the Greenwater lake. The longing thus inspired to
look once more at the old scenes, to live for awhile again among
the old assocaitions, has grown on me since my moUier's death.
I have, happily for myself, not spoken of this feeling to Sir
James, or to any other person. When I am missed at the
hot?*], tiiere will be no suspicion of the direction in which I
have turned my steps. To the old home in Suffolk I resolve to
go the next morning. Wandering among the scenes of my
boyhood, I can consider with myself how I may best bear the
burden of the life that lies before me.

After what 1 have heard that evening, I confide in nobody.
For all I know to the contrary, my own servant may be em-
ployed to-morrow as the spy who watches my actions. When
the man makes his appearance to take his orders for the night«
I tell him to wake me at six o'clock the next morning, and re-
lease him from further attendance.

I next employ myself in writing two letters. They will be
left on the table, to speak for themselves after my departure.

In the first letter I briefly inform Sir James that I have dis-

The Physicians Opinion.

269

covered his true reason for inviting the doctor to dinner.
While I thank him for the intereiit he takes in my welfare, I
decline to be made the object of any further medical inquiries
as to the state of my mind. In due course of time, when my
plans are settled, he will hear from me again. Meanwhile, he
need feel no anxiety about my safety. It is one among my
other delusions to believe that I am still perfectly capable of
taking care of myself. My second letter is addressed to the
landlord of the hotel, and simply provides for the disposal of
my luggage and the payment of my bill

I enter my b^iroom next, and pack a travelling bag with
the few things that I can carry with me. My money is in my
dressing-case. Opening it, I discover my pretty keepsake — the
green flag. Can I return to Greenwater Broad, can I look
again at the bailifi^d cottage, without the one memorial of little
Mary that I possess ? Besides, have I not promised Miss
Dunross that Mary's gift shall always go with me wherever I
go ; and is the promise not doubly sacred, now that she is
dead 1 For awhile I sit idly looking at the device on the flag
— the white dove, embroidered on the green ground, with the
golden olive branch in its beak. The innocent love-story of
my early life returns to my memory, and shows me in horri-
ble contrast the life that I am leading now. I fold up the flag, and
place it carefully in my travelling-bag. This done, all is donft.
I may rest till the morning comes.

No ! I lie down in bed — and I discover that there is no
rest for me that night.

Now that I have no occupation to keep my clergies em-
ployed — now that my £rst sense of triumph in the discomfiture
of the friends who have plotted against me has had time to

t!l

The Two Destinies.

•nbtide — my mind reverts to the conversation that I have over-
heard, and considers it from a new point of view. For the
first time Uie terrible question confronts me : — The doctor's
opinion on my case has been given very positively : how do I
know that the doctor is not right 9

This famous physician has risen to the head of his profes-
sion entirely by his own abilities. He is not one of the medi-
cal men who succeed by means of an ingratiating manner and
the dexterous handling of good opportunities. Even his ene-
mies admit that he stands unrivalled in the art of separating
the true conditions from the false in the discovery of disease,
and in tracing effects accurately to their distant and hidden
cause. Is such a man as this likely to be mistaken about me ?
Is it not far more probable that I am mistaken in my judg-
ment of myself ?

When I look back over the past years, am I quite sure that
the strange events which I recall may not, in certain cases, be
the visionary product of my own disordered brain — realities
to me, and to no one else ) What are the dreams of Mrs. Van
Brandt — what are the ghostly apparitions of her which I be-
lieve myself to have seen % Delusions which have been the
stealthy growth of years) Delusions which are leading
me by slow degrees nearer and nearer to madness in the end ?
Is it insane suspicion which has made me' so angry with the
good friends who have been trying to save my reason 1 Is it
insane terror which sets me on escaping from the hotel like a
criminal escaping from prison 1

These are the questions that torment me, while I am alone
in the dead of ni^ht, My bed becomes a place cf unendurable

Th€ Physicians Opinion.

torture. I rise and dress myself; and wait for the daylight^
looking through my open window into the street

The summer night is short. The grey light of dawu comes
to me like a deliverance ; the glow of the glorious sunrise
cheers my soul once more. Why should I wait in the room
that is still haunted by my horrible doubts of the night 1 I
take up my travelling-bag ; I leave my letters on the sitting-
room table ; and I descend the stairs to the house-door. The
night-porter at the hotel is slumbering in his chair. He wakes
as I pass him ; and (God help me !) he too looks as if he
thought I was mad.

" €k)ing to leave us already, sir 1 " he says, looking at the bag
in my hand.

Mad or sane, I am ready with my reply. I tell him I am
going out for a day in the country — and to make it a long day
I must start early. •

The man still stares at me. He asks if he dhall find some-
body to carry my bag^ I decline to let anybody be disturbed.
He inquires if I have any message to leave for my friend. I in-
form him that I have left written messages upstairs for Sir James
and the landlord. Upon this he draws the bolts and opens
the door. To the last he looks at me as if he thought I was
mad.

Was he right or wrong ? Who can answer for himself ?
How can I tell 1

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

{./

(is

'-• *^-,^

125

1.0 ^KA —

S Hi ^^

1121 H u. 116

Photographic
.Sciences
Corpomtion

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEISTER,N.Y. UStO

(716)172-4503

^^-

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A LAST LOOK AT GREENWATER BROAD.

'1 5"*/

».

Y spirits rose as I walked through the bright
empty streets, and breathed the fresh morning
air.

Taking my way eastward through the great
city, I stopped at the first office that I passed,
and secured my place by the early coach to Ips-
wich. Thence I travelled with post horses to the market-town
which was nearest to Greenwater Broad. A walk of a few
miles in the cool evening brought me, through well-remem-
bered by-ro^ds, to our old house. By the last rays of the set-
ting sun 1 looked at the familiar row of windows in front, and
saw that the shutters were all closed. Not a living creature
was visible anywhere. Not even a dog barked, as I rang the
great bell at the door. The place was deserted ; the house
was shut up.

After a long delay, I heard heavy footsteps in the hall. An
old man opened the door.

Changed as he was, I remembered him as one of our tenants
in the bygone time. To his astonishment, I greeted him by his
name. On his side, he tried hard to recognise me, and evi-
dently tried in vain. No doubt I was the most sadly changed

A Last Look ai Greenwater Broad. 273

bright
orning

> great

tolps-
>t-town
a few
-rexnem-
the set-
»nt, and
tieature
ig the
house

I. An

tenants
by his
and evi-
changed

of the two— I was obliged to introdaoe myaell The poor f «!•
low's withered fiMe brightened slowly and timidly, as if he was
half incapable^ half afraid, of indulging in the anaccnstomed
lozuiy of a smile. In his confiudon, he bade me welcome home
again, as if the honse had been mine I

Taking me into the little back room which he inhabited, the
old man gave me all he had to offer — a snpper of bacon and
eg^, and a glass of home-brewed beer. He was evidently
pnsded tc understand me, when I informed him that the only
object of my visit was to look once more at the familiar scenes
roQUd my old home. Bat he willingly placed his services at
my disposal ; and he engaged to do his best, if I wished it» to
make me ^p a bod for the night.

The house iiad been dosed, and the establishment of servants
had been dismissed for more than a year past A passion for
horse-racing, developed late in life, bad rained the rich retired
tradesman who had become oar tenant at the time of our family
troubles. He had gone abroad with his wife, to live on the
little income that had been saved from the wreck of his fortune ;
and he had left the house and lands in such a state of neglect
that no new tenant had thus far been found to take them. My
old friend, now ** past his work," had been put in charge of the
place. As for Dermody's cottage, it was empty like the house.
I was at perfect liberty to look over it if I liked. There was
the key of the door, on the bunch with the others ; and here
was the old man, with his old hat on lus head, ready to ac-
company me wherever I pleased to go. I declined to trouble
him to accompany mcs or to make me up a bed in the lonely
house. The night was fine, the moon was rising. I had

supped ; I had rested. When I had seen what I wanted to se^
9

374

Th€ Two Destinies,

I could easily walk back to the market-town, and sleep at the
inn.

Taking the key in my hand, I set forth alone on the way
through the grounds which led to Dermody's cottage.

Again I followed the woodland paths, along which I had
once idled so happily with my little Mary. At every step I
saw something that reminded me of her. Here was the rustic
bench, on which we had sat together under the shade of the
old cedar tree, and vowed to be constant to each other to the
end of our lives. There was the bright little water-spring,
from which we drank when we were weary and thirsty in sultry
summer-dajrs, still bubbling its way downward to the lake as
cheerily as ever. As 1 listened to the companionable murmur
of the stream, I almost expected to see her agaio, in her simple
white frock, and straw hat, singing to the music of the rivulet,
and f^hening her nosegay of wild flowers by dipping it in the
cool water. A few steps farther on, and I reached a clearing
in the wood, and stood on a little promontory of rising ground,
which commanded the prottiest view of the Greenwater iske. A
platform of wood was built out from the bank, to be used for
bathing by good swimmers, who were not afraid of a plunge
into deep water. I stood on the platform, and looked round
me. The trees that fringed the shore on either side murmured
their sweet sylvan music in the night air ; the moonlight trem-
bled softly on the rippling water. Away on my right hand, I
could just see the old wooden shed that once sheltered my boat,
in the days when Mary went sailing with me, and worked the
green flag. On my left was the wooden paling that foUowed
the curves of the winding creek ; and beyond it rose the brown
arches of the Decoy for wild fowl, now falling to ruin for want

A Last Look at Groemvaier Broad,

275

the
«ray

had

«p I

ustic

f the
x>tlie
pring,
sultry
ike as
Lurmor
simple
rivulet,
in the
ilearing
ound,
ake. A
sed for
plunge
round
rmured

of 4286. Guided by the radiant moonlight, I eoold see the very
spot on which Mary and I had stood to watch the snaring of
the ducks. Through the hole in the paling, before which the
decoy-dog had shown himself at Dermody's signal, a water-rat
now passed, like a little black shadow on the bright ground,
and was lost in the waters of the lake. Look where I might,'
|the happy bygone time looked back in mockery ; and the voices
of the past came to me with their burden of reproach : See
I what your life was once I Is your life worth living now t

I picked up a stone, and threw it into the lake. I watched
the circling ripples round the place at which it had sunk. I
wondered whether a practised swinmier like myself had ever
tried to commit suicide by drowning, and had been so resolute
to die that he had resisted the temptation to let his own skill
keep him from sinking. Something in the lake itself, or some-
thing in connection with the thought that it had put into my
mind, revolted ma I turned my back suddenly on the lovely
view, and took the path through the wood which led to the
bailiff's cottage.

Opening the door with my key, I groped my way into the
well-remembered parlour ; and, unbarring the window-shutters,
I let in the light of the moon.

With a heavy heart, I looked round me. The old furniture,
renewed perhaps in one or two places, asserted its mute claim
to my recognition in every part of the room. The tender
moonlight streamed into the comer in which Mary and I used
to nestle together, while Dame Dermody wac at the window
reading her mystic books. Overshadowed by the obscurity in
the opposite comer, I discovered the high-backed ann-ohair of
carved oak in which the Sybil of the cottage sat, on the memor-

276

The Two Destinies,

able day when she warned us of our coming lepantion, and
gave us her blessing for the last time. Looking next ronnd
the walls of the room, I recognised old friends whererer my
eyes happened to rest — the gandily-oobnred prints ; the framed
pictures in fine needlework which we thought wonderful efforts
of art ; the old circular mirror to which I used talift Mary
when she wanted to '* see her fsce in the glass." Wherever
the moonlight penetrated, there it showed me some familiar
object that recalled my happiest days. Again, the bygone
time looked back in mockery. Again, the voices of the past
came to me with their burden of reproach : See what your life
was onoe ! Is your life worth living now 9

I sat down at the window, where I could just discover, here
and there between the trees, the glimmer of the waters of the
lake. I thought to myself: — *<Thus far my mortal journey
has brought me. Why not end it here^ "

Who would grieve for me, if my suicide was reported to-
morrow 1 Of all living men, I had perhaps the smallest num-
ber of friends ; the fewest duties to perform towards them ;
the least reason to hesitate at leaving a world which had no
place in it for my ambition, no creature in it for my love.

Besides, what necessity was there for letting it be known
that my death was a death of my own seeking 9 It could easily
be left to represent itself as a death by accident.

On that fine summer night, and after a long day of travel-
ling, might I not naturally take a bath in the cool water be-
fore I went to bed % And practised as I was in the exercise of
swimming, might it not nevertheless be my misfortune to be
attacked by cramp 9 On the lonely shores of Greenwater
Broad, the ay of a drowning man would bring no help at

ui
w
h<

A Last Look at Gremwattr Broad, 277

ivel-
ar be-
irciaeof

to be
iwater
lelp at

night : <* the iktal " aoddent would ezpUdn itielf. There
literally but one difficulty in my way — tlie difficulty which had
already occurred to my mind. Oould 1 sufficiently master the
animal instinct of self-preservation, to deliberately let myself
sink at the first plunge t

The atmosphere in the room felt close and heavy. I went
out, and walked to and fro— now in the shadow, and now in
the moonlight — ^under the trees before the cottage door.

Of the moral objections to suicide, not one had any influence
over me now. I, who had once found it impossible to excuse,
impossible even to understand, the despair which had drivec
Mrs. Van Brandt to attempt self-destruction — I now contem-
plated with composure the very act which had horrified me
when I saw it committed by another person ! Well may we
hesitate to cono^emn the frailties of our fellow-creatures — ^for
the one unanswerable reason that we can never feel sure how
soon similar temptatioas may not lead us to be guilty of the
same fraOties ourselves. Looking back at the events of that
night, I can recall but one consideration that stayed my feet
on the fatal path which led bade to the lake. I still doubted
whether it would be possible for such a swimmer as I was to
drown himself. This was all that troubled my mind. For the
rest, my Will was made ; and I had few other afiEiedrs which re-
mained unsettled. No lingering hope was left in me of a re-
union in the future with Mrs. Van Brandt. She had neve
written to me again ; I had never, since our last parting, seen
her again in my dreams. She was doubtless reconciled to her
life abroad. I forgave her for having forgotten me. My
thoughts of her, and of others, were the forbearing thoughts
of a man w^ose mind was withdrawn alreadv from the world.

278

The Two Dtsimm.

whose views were nanowing £Mt to the one idea of his own
death.

I grew weaiy of waDdng ap and down. The koelineaa tA
the place began to oppress me. The sense of my own indeci-
sion irritated my nerves. After a long look at the lake^ throng
the trees, I came to a positive conclusion at last I determined
to try if a good swimmer could drown himself.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

A VISION OF THB MIGHT.

ETURNING to the cottage parlour, 1 took a chair
by the window, and opened my pocket-book at a
blank page. I had certain directions to give to
my representatiyesi which might spare them some
trouble and uncertainty in the event of my dei>*^h.
Disguising my last instructions under the common-
place heading of ** Memoranda on my return to London," I
began to write.

I had filled one page of the pocket-book, and had just turned
to the next, when I became conscious of a difficulty in fixing
my attention on the subject that was before it. I was at once
reminded of the similar difficulty which I felt, in Shetland,
when I had tried vainly to arrange the composition of the let-
ter to my mother which Miss Dunross was to write. By way
of completing the parallel, my thoughts wandered now, as they
had wandered then, to my latest remembrances of Mrs. Van
Brandt In a minute or two I began to feel onc«? more the
strange physical sensations which I had first experienced in the
garden at Mr. Dunross's house. The same mysterious trem-
bling shuddered through me from head to foot. I looked
about me again, with no distinct consciousness of what, the

280

The Two DesHniis,

objects were on which my eyee rested. My nenres trembled,
on that lovely summer night, as if there had been an electric
disturbance in the atmosphere, and a storm coming. I laid my
pocket-book and pencil on the table, and rose to go out again
under the trees. Even the trifling effort to cross the room
proved to be an effort that was beyond my power. I stood
rooted to the spot, with my face turned towards the moonlight
streaming in at the open door.

An interval passed ; and, as I still looked out through the
door, I became aware of something moving, far down among
the trees that fringed the shore of the lake. The first impres-
sion produced on me was of two grey shadows winding their
way slowly towards me between the trunks of the trees. By
fine degrees, the shadows assumed a more and more marked
outline, until they presented themselves in the likeness of two
robed figures, one taller than the other. While they glided
nearer and nearer, their gray obscurity of hue melted away.
They brightened softly with an inner light of their own, as
they approached the open space before the door. For the third
time, I stood in the ghostly Presence of Mrs. Van Brandt — and
with her, holding her hand, I beheld a second apparition never
before revealed to me, the apparition of her child.

Hand in hand, shining in their unearthly brightness through
the bright moonlight itself, the two stood before me. The
mother's face looked at me once more with the sorrowfiil and
pleading eyes which I remembered so welL But the face of
the child was innocently radiant with an angelic smile. I
waited, in unutterable expectation, for the word that was to be
spoken, for the movement that was to come. The movement
came first T];ie gliild released its hold on the mother's ^hapd ;

A Vision of ike Night.

281

and, floating slowly upward, remained poiaed in mid
■ofUy-glowing Preeenoe, ihining out of the dark background
of the treea. The mother glided into the room, and stopped
at the table on which I had laid my pocket-book and pencil,
when I could no longer write. As before, she took the peur
cil, and wrote on the blank page. As before, she beckoned to
me to step nearer to her. I approached her outstretched hand ;
and felt once more the mysterious rapture of her touch on my
bosom ; and heard once more her low melodious tones, re-
peating the words : " Remember me. Gome to me." Her
hand dropped from my bosom. The pale light which revealed
her to me quivered, sank, vanished. She had spoken, she had
gone.

I drew to me the open pocket-book. And, this time, I saw
in the writing of the ghosUy hand these words only :

" Follow the Child."

I looked out again at the lonely night landscape.

There, in mid air, shining softly out of the dark background
of the ti'ees, still hovered the starry apparition of the child.

Advancing, without conscious will of my own, I crossed the
threshold of the door. The softly-glowing Vision of the child
moved away before me among the trees. I followed, like a
man spell-bound. The apparition, floating slowly onward, led
me out of the wood and past my old home, back to the lonely
by-roads along which I had walked from the marketrtown to
the house. From time to time, as we two went on our way,
the bright figure of the child paused, hovering low in the
cloudless sky. Its radiant face looked down smiling on me :
it beckoned with its little hand — ^and floated on again, leading
me as Uie Star led the Eastern Sages in the olden time.

282

Th$ Two Destinies,

I readied the town. The airy figure of the child pftUMd,
hovering over the houM at which I had left my travelling-car-
riage in the evening. I ordered the hones to be hameesed
again for another jonmey. The poetilion waited for hie ftir-
ther directiont. I looked up. The child's hand was pointing
southwards along the road that led towards London. I g^ve
the man his instructions to return to the place at which I had
hired the carriage. At intervals, as we proceeded, I looked
out through the window. The bright figure of the child still
floated on before me, gliding low in the cloudless sky.
Changing the horses stage by stage, I went on till the night
ended — went on till the sun rose in the eastern heaven. And
still, whether it was night or whether it was day, the figure
of the child floated on before me in its changeless and mys-
tic light Mike after mile, it still led the way southward till
we left the country behind us, and passing through the din and
turmoil of a great city, stopped under the shadow of the ancient
Tower, within view of the river that runs by it

The postilion came to the carriage door, to ask if I had fur-
ther need of his services. I had called him to stop, when I saw
the figure of the child pause on its airy course. I looked up-
ward again. The child's hand pointed towards the river. I
paid the postilion and left the carriage. Floating on before
me, the child led the way to a wharf, crowded with travellers
and their luggage. A vessel lay alongside Uie wharf, ready to
saiL The child led me on board the vessel, and paused again,
hovering over me in the smoky air.

I looked up. The child looked back at me with its radiant
smile ; and pointed eastward down the river towards the dis-
tant sea, While m^ eyes were stiU fixed on the softly-glowing

A Visum of ifU Ni^hi.

28S

«ar-

Med

ftir-

iting
gpkve
[had
foked
iBtiU

Bky.
night

And
figure
Imya-
fdtUl
in and
ncient

figure, I law it fade away» upward and upward into the higher
light, at the lark vtuuihei upward and upward in the morning
sky. I waa alone ag^iin with my earthly fellow-heingn — left
with no clue to guide me hut the rememhrance of the child's
hand, pointing eastward to the distant sea.

A saUor was near me, coiling a loosened mooring-rope on
the deck. I asked him to what port the vessel was hound. The
man looked at me in surly amasement, and answered :

" To Rotterdam."

»dfiir-
ilsaw
ed up-
rer. I
before
yellers
y to
again.

Lhe dis-
[lowing

*{>'
i'

CHAPTEB XXXV.

BY LAND AND SEA.

T mattered little to me to what port the vessel was
bound. Qo where I might, I knew that I was on my
way to Mrs. Van Brandt. She had need of me
again ; she had claimed me again. Where the vi-
sionary hand of the child had pointed (abroad or at
home it mattered nothing), thither I was destined to
go. When I next set my foot on the land, I should be further
directed on the journey which lay before me. I believed this
as firmly as I believed that I had been guided thus far by the
vision of the child.

J'or two nights I had not slept — ^my weariness overpowered
me. I descended to the cabin, and found an unoccupied comer
in which I could lay down to rest When I awoke, it was
night already : the vessel was at sea.

I went on deck to breathe the fresh air. Before long, the
sensation of drows^less returned ; I slept again, for hours to-
gether. My friend the physician would no doubt have attri-
buted this prolonged need of repose to the exhausted condi-
tion of my brain, excited by delusions which had lasted un-
interruptedly for many hours together. Let the cause be what
it mi^ht, during the ^eater part of the vo^a^e I was awake at

By Land and Sia,

285

Bsel was
A on my
1 of me
3 the vi-
>ad or at
fltined to
e further
eved this
ur by the

rpowered
ed comer
e, it was

long, the
hours to-
lave attri-
bed condi-
asted un-
ebe what
awake at

intervals only. The rest of the time I lay like a weaiy ftnimal,
lost in sleep.

When I stepped on shore at Rotterdam, my first proceeding
was to ask my way to the English consolata I had bat a small
sum of money left ; and, for all I knew to the contrary, it might
be well, before I did anything else, to take the necessary mear
sores for replenishing my purse.

I had my travelling-bag with me. On the journey to Green*
water Broad, I had left it at the inn in the market-town ; and
tiie waiter had placed it in the carriage, when I started on my
return to London. The bag contained my cheque-book, and
certain letters which assisted me in proving my identity to the
consul. He kindly gave me the necessary introduction to the
correspondents at Rotterdam of my bankers in London.

Having obtained my money, and having purchased certain
necessaries of which I stood in need, I walked slowly along the
street; knowing nothing of what my next proceeding was to
be, and waiting confidently for the event which was to guide me.
I had not walked a hundred yards before I noticed the name
of '' \ran Brandt,'' inscribed on the window-blinds of a house
which aiq^eared to be devoted to mercantile purposes.

The street door stood open. A second door, on one side of
the passage, led into the office. I entered the room, and in-
quired for Mi. Van Brandt. A clerk who spoke English was
sent for to communicate with me. He told me there were
three partners of that name in the business, and inquired
which of them I wished to see. I remembered Van Brandt's
christian name, and mentioned it. No such person as " Mr.
Eraest Van Brandt" was known at the office.

*< We are only the branch-house of the firm of Van Brandt

386

The Two Destinies,

here/' the clerk explained. " The head-office is at AmBterdam.
They may know where Mr. Ernest Van Brandt is to be fonnd,
if you inquire there."

It mattered nothing to me where I went, so long as I was
on my way to Mrs. Van Brandt It was too late to travel
that day \ I slept at an hotel. The night passed quietly and
uneventfully. The next morning I set forth by the public
conveyance for Amsterdamu

Repeating my inquiries at the head-office, en my arrival, I
was referred to one of the partnerc in the firm. He spoke
English perfectly ; and he received me with an appearance of
interest which I was at a loss to account for at first

" Mr. Ernest Van Brandt is well known to me," he said.
" May I ask if you are a relative or friend of the English lady
who has been introduced here as his wife 1"

I answered in the affirmative ; adding, " I am here to give
any assistance to the lady of which she may stand in need."

The merchant's next words explained the appearance of in-
terest with which he had received me.

** You are most welcome," he said. " You relieve my part-
ners and myself of a great anxiety. I can only explain what
I mean by referring for a moment to the business affairs of
my firm. We have a fishing establishment at the ancient city
of Enkhuizen, on the shores of the Zuyder-Zee. Mr. Ernest
Van Brandt had a share in it, at one time, which he afterwards
sold. Of late years our profits from this source have been
diminishing ; and we think of giving up the fishery, unless our
prosnects in that quarter improve after a further trial In the
meantime, having a vacant situation in the counting-house at
Enkhuizen, we thought of Mr. Ernest Van Brandt, and offered

irdam.
found,

I was

travel'

ly and

public

rival, 1

ance of

le said.
Lshlady

to give
eed."
le of in-

ny part-
dn what
^airs of
ient city
:. Ernest
berwards
kve been
iless our
In the
house at
d offered

By Land and Sea,

287

him the opportunity of reuewiug his connection with us in the
capacity of a clerk. He is related to one of my partners ; but
I am bound in truth to tell you that he is a very bad man.
He has rewarded us for our kindness to him by embezzling
our money ; and he has taken to flight — ^in what direction we
have not yet discovered. The English lady and her child are
left deserted at Enkhuizen — and until you came here to-day,
we were quite at a loss to know what to do with them. I
don't know whether you are already aware of it, sir — but the
lady's position is made doubly distressing by doubts which we
entertain of her being really Mr. Ernest Van Brandt's wife.
To our certain knowledge, he was privately married to another
woman, some years since — and we have no evidence whatever
that the first wife is dead. If we can help you, in any way, to
assist your unfortunate countrywoman, pray believe that our
services are at your disposal"

With what breathless interest I listened to these words, it
is needless to say. Vui Brandt had deserted her ! Surely (as
my poor mother had said) " she must turn to me now ) " The
hopes that had abandoned me filled my heart once more ; the
future which I had so long feared to contemplate, showed
itself again, bright with the promise of coming happiness, to
my view. I thanked the good merchant with a fervour that
surprised him. " Only help me to find my way to Enkhuizen,"
I said ; ** and I will answer for the rest."

" The journey will put you to some expense," the merchant
replied. " Pardon me if I ask the question bluntly. Have
you money 1 "

" Plenty of money I"

" Very good ! The rest will be easy enough. I will place

\ <

988

Th4 Two Destinies.

yoa under the care of a oountryman of yours, who hat been
employed in onr office for many yeara The eaueat way for
yoa, as a stranger, will be to go by sea ; and the EngliBhTOan
will show yon where to hire a boat."

In a few minutes more the clerk and I were on our way to
the harbour.

Difficulties which I had not anticipated occurred in finding
the boat and in engaging a crew. This idone, it was next
necessary to purchase provisions for the voyage. Thanks to
the experience of my companion, and to the hearty goodwill
with which he exerted it, my preperations were completed
before uightfalL I was able to set sail for my destination on
the next day.

The boat had the double advantage, in navigating the
Zuyder-Zee, of being large, and of drawing very little water.
The captain's cabin was at the stem ; and the two or three men
who formed his crew were berthed forward in the bows. The
whole middle of the boat, partitioned off on the one side and
on the other from the captain and the crew, vas assigned to
me for my cabin. Under these circumstancasy I had no reason
to complain of want of space ; the vessel measuring between
fifty and sixty tons. I had a comfortable bed, a table, and
chairs. The kitchen was well away from me, in the forward
part of the boat. At my own request I set forth on the voyage
without servant or interpreter. I prefeired being alone. The
Dutch captain had been employed, at3 former period of his
life, in the mercantile navy of France ; and we could communi-
cate, whenever it was necessary or desirable, in the French
language. ''-

We left the spires of Amsterdam behind us, and sailed over

By Land and Sea,

289

been
y for
hmsn

ray to

indiBg
1 next
nks to
)odwill
apleted
tion on

Lug the
a water,
men
The
»ido and
led to
reason
[between
>le, and
forward
voyage
le. The
id of his
iommuni-
French

liled over

the smooth waters of the river Y on our way to the Zayder'
Zee.

The history of this remarkable sea is a romance in itself.
In the days when Rome was mistress of the world it had no
existence. Where the waves now roll, vast tracts of forest
surrounded a great inland lake, with but one river to serve it
as an outlet to the sea. Swelled by a succession of tempests,
the lake overflowed its boundaries ; its furious waters, destroy-
ing every obstacle in their course, rested only when they reach-
ed the farthest limits of the land. The great Northern Ocean
burst its way in, through the gaps of ruin ; and, from that
time, the Zuyder-Zee existed as we know it now. The years
advanced ; the generations of man succeeded each other \ and on
the shores of the new ocean there rose great and populous cities,
rich in commerce, renowned in history. For centuries their
prosperity lasted, before the next in this mighty series of
changes ripened and revealed itself. Isolated from the rest of
the world ; vain of themselves and their good fortune ; careless
of the march of progress in the nations round them, the in-
habitants of the Zuyder-Zee cities sank into the fatal torpor of
a secluded people. The few members of the ^ jpulation who
dtill preserved the relics of their old energy emigrated ; while
the mass lefb behind witnessed resignedly the diminution of
their commerce and the decay of their institutions. As the
years advanced to the nineteenth century, the population was
reckoned by hundreds, where it had once been numbered by
thousands. Trade disappeared ; whole streets were lefb deso.
late. Harbours once filled with shipping were destroyed by
the unresisted accumulation of sand. In our own times, the
decay of these once flourishing cities is so completely beyond

290

The Two Destinies,

remedy, that the next great change in contemplation b the
draining of the now dangerous and useless tract of water, and
the profitable cultivation of the reclaimed land by generations
that are still to come. Such, briefly told, is the strange story
of the Zuyder-Zee.

As we advanced on our voyage, and left the river, I noticed
the tawny hue of the sea, caused by sandbanks which colour
the shallow water and which make the navigation dangerous
to inexperienced seamen. We found our moorings for the
night at the fishing-island of Marken — a low, lost, desolate-
looking place, as I saw it under the last gleams of the twilight.
Here and there, the gabled cottages, perched on hillocks, rose
black against the dim grey sky. Here and there, a human
figure appeared at the waterside, standing fixed in contempla-
tion of the strange boat. And that was all I saw of the island
of Marken.

Lying awake in the still night, alone on a strange sei>,, 'here
were moments when I found myself beginning to doubt the
reality of my own position.

Was it all a dream) My thoughts of suicide ; my vision of
the mother and daughter ; my journey back to the metropolis,
led by the apparition of the child j my voyage to Holland:
my night anchorage in the unknown sea — ^were these, so to
speak, all pieces of the same raorbid mental puzzle, all delusions
from which I might wake at any moment, and find myself re-
stored to my senses again in the hotel at London ) Bewildered
by doubts which led me farther and farther from any definite
conclusion, I left my bed, and went on deck to change the
scene. It was a still and cloudy night. In the black void
round me, the island was a blacker shadow yet, and nothing

By Land and Sea,

291

the

and
bioDB
itory

tticed
olour
;erou8 .
r the
iolate-
ilight.
J, rose
luman
emplftr
island

, 'here
ibt the

sion of
ropolis,
olland :
), so to
elusions
self re-
ildered
definite
ige the
(k void
jnothing

more. The one sound that reached my ears was the heavy
breathing of the captain and his crew, sleeping on either side
of me. I waited, looking round and round the circle of dark-
ness in which I stood. No new vision showed itself. When I
returned again to the cabin, and slumbered at last, no dreams
came to me. All that was mysterious, all that was marvellous,
in the later events of my life, seemed to have been left behind
me in England. Once in Holland, my course had been influenced
by circumstances which were perfectly natural, by common-
place discoveries which might have revealed themselves to any
man in my position. What did this mean ? Had my gifts as
a seer of visions departed from me in the new land and among
the strange people % Or had my Destiny led veh. to the place
at which the troubles of my mortal pilgrimage were to find
t^eir end 1 Who could say %

Early the next morning we set sail once more.

Our course was nearly northward. On one side of me was
the tawny sea, changing under certain conditions of the
weather to a dull pearl-grey. On the other side, was the flat
winding coast, composed alternately of yellow sand and bright
green meadowlands : diversified at intervals by towns and
villages, whose red-tiled roofis and quaint church steeples rose
gaily against the clear blue sky. The captain suggested to me
to visit the famous towns of Edam and Hoom, but I declined
to go on shore. My one desire was to reach the ancient city
in which Mrs. Van Brandt had been left deserted. As we
altered our course to make for the promontory on which Enk-
huLsen is situated, the wind fell — then shifted to another quar-
ter, and blew with a force which greatly increased the difiicul-
ties of inavigation. I still insisted, as long as it was possible to

292

The Two Destinies,

do 80, on holding on oar ooone. After sonaek, the strength of
the wind abated. The night came without a dond ; and the
starry firmament gave us its pale and melancholy light In an
hour more the capricious wind shifted hack in our favour.
Towards ten o'clock we sailed into the desolate harbour of
Enkhuizen.

The captain and crew, fatigued by their exertions, ate their
frugal suppers, and went to their beda In a few minutes, I
was the only person left awake in the boat

I ascended to the deck, and looked about me.

Our boat was moored to a deserted quay. Excepting a few
small vessels visible near us, the harbour of this once prospe-
rous place was a vast solitude of water, varied here and there
by dreary banks of sand. Looking inland, I saw the lonely
buildings of the Dead City — ^blaok, grim, and dreadful, under
the mysterious starlight Not a human creature, not even a
stray animal, was to be seen anywhere. The place might have
been desolated by a pestilence, so empty and so lifeless did it
now appear. Little more than a hundred years ago, the re-
cord of its population reached sixty thousand. The inhabi-
tants had dwindled to a tenth of that number when I looked
at Enkhuizen now 1

I considered with myself what my next course of proceeding
was to be.

The chances were certainly against my discovering Mrs. Van
Brandt if I ventured alone and unguided into the city at night
On the other hand, now that I had reached the place in which
she and her child were living, friendless and deserted, could I
patiently wait through the weaiy interval that must aliqpee be-
fore the morning came and the town was astir t I knew my

By Land and Sea.

898

own self-tonnanting ditpodtion too well to accept thii Utter
alternative. Whatever oame of it» I determined to walk
throng Enkhuizen^ on the bare chance of passing the office of
the fishery, and so discovering Mrs. Tan Brandt's address.

First taking the precaution of locking my cabin-door, I
stepped from the bulwark of the vessel to the lonely quay, and
set forth upon my night wanderings through the Dead City.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

/i'>.

UNDER THE WINDOW.

SET the position of the harbour by my pocket-
compass, and then followed the coarse of the first
street that lay before me.

On either side, as I advanced, the desolate old
houses frowned on me. There were no lights in the
windows, no lamps in the streets. For a quarter of
an hour at least I penetrated deeper and deeper on my way
into the city, without encountering a living creature, with only
the starlight to guide me. Turning by chance into a street
broader than the rest, I at last saw a moving figure, just visi-
ble ahead, under the shadows of the houses. I quickened my
pace, and found myself following a man in the dress of a
peasant. Hearing my footsteps behind him, he turned and
looked at me. Discovering that I was a stranger, he lifted a
thick cudgel that he carried with him, shook it threateningly,
and called to me in his own language (as I gathered by his
actions) to stand back. A stranger in Enkhuizen at that time
of night was evidently reckoned as a robber in the estimation
of this citizen I I had learnt on the voyage, from the captain
of the boat, how to ask my way in Dutch, if I happened to be
by myself in a strange town ; and I now repeated my lesson,

Under the Window.

295

asking my way to the fishing office of Messrs. Van Brandt
Either my foreign accent made me unintelligible, or the man's
suspicions disinclined him to trust me. Again he shook his
cudgel ; and again he signed to me to stand back. It was use-
less to persist I crossed to the opposite side of the way, and
soon afterwards lost sight of him under the portico of a house.

Still followir<' the windings of the deserted streets, I reached
what I at first supposed to be the end of the town.

Before me, for half a mile or more as well as I could guess,
rose a tract of meadowland, with sheep dotted over it at inter-
vals, reposing for the night. I advanced over the grass, and
observed here and there, where the ground rose a little, some
mouldering fragments of brick-work. Looking onward, as I
reached the middle of the meadow, I perceived on its farther
side, tower >g gaunt and black in the night, a lofty arch or
gateway, without walls at its sides, without a neighbouring
building of any sort visible, far or near. This (as I afterwards
learnt) was one of the ancient gates of the city. The walls,
crumbling to ruin, had been destroyed as useless obstacles that
cumbered the ground. On the waste meadowland round me,
had once stood the shops of the richest merchants, the palaces
of the proudest nobles, of North Holland. I was actually
standing on what had formally been the wealthiest quarter of
Enkhuizen. And what was left of it now % A few mounds of
broken bricks, a pasture-land of sweet-smelling grass, and a
little flock of sheep sleeping.

The mere desolation of the view (apart altogether from its
history) struck me with a feeling of horror. My mind seemed
to lose its balance, in the dreadful stillness that was round me.
I felt unutterable forebodings of calamities to come. For the

296

The Two Desiinies,

fint time, I repented hayiiig left EnglAnd. My thoughte
turned regretfully to the woody thoret of Oreenwater Broad.
If I had only held to my reeolution, I might have heen at rest
now in the deep watert of the lake. For what had I lived, and
planned, and travelled once I left Dermody'a cottage t Perhaps,
only to find that I had lost the woman whom I loved— now
that I was in tLe same town with her i

Regaining the outer rows of houses still left standing, I
looked about me, intending to return by the street along which
I had advanced. Just as I thought I had dibcovered it, 1
noticed another living creature in the solitary city. A man was
standing at the door of one of the outermost houses, on my
right hand, looking at me.

At the risk of meeting with another rough reception, I de-
termined to make a last effort to discover Mrs. Van Brandt,
before I returned (o the boat

Seeing that I was approaching him, the stranger met me
midway. His dress and manner showed plamly that I had not
encountered, this time, a person in the lower ranks of life.
He answered my question civilly in his own language. Seeing
that I was at a loss to understand what he said, he invited me
by signs to follow him.

After walking for a few minutes in a direction which was
quite new to me, we stopped in a gloomy little square, with a
plot of neglected garden ground in the middle of it Point-
ing to a lower window in one of the houses, in which a light
dimly appeared, my guide said in Dutch, " Office of Van
Brandt, sir " — bowed — and left me.

I advanced to the window. It was open ; and it was just
high enough to be above my head. The light in the room

Under ike Window,

397

found iU way oatward throagh the intenUoes of doted wooden
ihutten. Still haunted by miagivinga of trouble to oome, 1
hesitated to announce my arrival precipitately by ringing the
house-bell. Hdw did I know what new calamity might ^H
confront me when the door was opened t I waited under like
window — and listened.

Hardly a minute passed before I heard a woman's voice in
the room. There was no mistaking the charm of those tones.
It was the voice of Mrs. Van Brandt

" Gome, darling ! " she said. " It is very late — you ought
to have been in your bed two hours ago."

The child's voice answered, " I am not sleepy, Mamma."

" But, my dear, remember you have been ilL You may be
ill again, if you keep out of bed so late as this. Only lie
down, and you vdll soon fall asleep when I put the candle
out"

« You must not put the candle out," the child returned with
strong emphasis. ** My new papa is coming. How is he to
find his way to us, if you put out the light % "

The mother answered sharply, as if the child's strange words
had irritated her,

" You are talking nonsense," she said ; " and you must go
to bed. Mr. Gtorroaine knows nothing about us. Mr. Grer-
maine is in England."

I could restraLfi myself no longer. I called out, under the
window :

" Mr. C^ermaine is here I "

CHAPTER XXXVII.

LOVE AND PRIDE.

CRY of terror from the room told me that I had
been heard. For a moment more, nothing happened.
Then the child's voice reached me, wild and shrill :
" Open the shutters, Mamma ! I said he was coming ;
I want to see him I "

There was still an interval of hesitation, before
the mother opened the shutters. She did it at last. I saw
her darkly at the window, with the light behind her, and the
child's head just visible above the lower part of the window-
frame. The quaint little face moved rapidly up and down, as
if my self-appointed daughter was dancing for joy I

" Can I trust my own senses f " said Mrs. Van Brandt. " Is
it really Mr. Germaine 1"

" How do you do, new papa 1 " cried the child. " Push open
the big door — and come in. I want to' kiss you."

There was a world of difference between the coldly-doabtful
tone of the mother, and the joyous greeting of the child. Had
I forced myself too suddenly on Mrs. Van Brandt 1 Like all
sensitively-organised persons, she possessed the inbred sense of
self-respect which is pride under another name. Was her pride
wounded at the bare idea of my seeing her, deserted as well

L<yve and Prid^,

a had
tpened.
shrill:
oming;

, before
I saw
and the
nndow-
own, as

t. "Is

ish open

dodbtful
a. Had
Like all
sense of
ler pride
. as well

as deceived — abandoued contemptuoasly, a hulpless burden on
strangers, by the man for whom she had sacrificed and suffered
so much ) And that man a thief, flying from the employer!
whom he had cheated ! I pushed! open the heavy oaken door,
fearing ihat this might be the true explanation of the change
which I had already remarked in her. My apprehensions were
confirmed, when she unlocked the inner door leading from the
court-yard to the sitting-room, and let me in.

As I took her by both hands and kissed her, she quickly
turned her head, so that my lips touched her cheeks only. She
flushed deeply ; her eyes were on the ground, as she expressed
in a few formal words her surprise at seeing me. VTuen the
child flew to my arms, she cried out irritably, " Don't trouble
Mr. Grermaine ! " I took a chair with the little one on my
knee. Mrs. Van Brandt seated herself at a distance from me.
" It is needless, I suppose, to ask if you know what has hap-
pened," she said ; turning pale again as suddenly as she had
turned red, and keeping her eyes fixed obstinately on the floor.

Before I could answer, the child burst out gaily with the
news of her father's disappearance :

" My other papa has run away ! my other papa has stolen
money ! it's time I had a new one — ^isn't it 1 " She put her
arms round my neck. " And now I've got him ! " she cried,
at the shrillest pitch of her voice.

The mother looked at us. For a while the proud, sensitive
woman struggled successfully with herself. But the pang that
wrung her was not to be endured in silence. With a low cry
of pain, she hid her face in her hands. Overwhelmed by the
sense of her own degradation, she was even ashamed to let the
man who loved her see that she was in tears.

300

The Two Destinies.

I took the child oh' my kuue. There was a second door in the
sitting-room, which happened to be left open. It showed me a
bedchamber within, and a candle burning on the toilette-
table.

'* Go in there, and play/' I said. " I want to talk to your
mamma."

The child pouted : my proposal did not appear to tempt
her. ''Give me something to play with," she said. ''I'm
tired of my toys. Let me see what you have got in your
pockets."

Her busy little hands began to search in my coat-pockets.
I let her take what she pleased, and so bribed her to run away
into the inner room. As soon as she was out of sight, I ap-
proached the poor mother, and seated myself by her side.

" Think of it as I do," I said. " Now that he has forsaken
you, he has left you free to be mine."

She lifted her head instantly.

" Now that he has forsaken me/' she answered, " I am more
unworthy of you than ever! "

" Why % " I asked.

" Why ! " she repeated passionately. " Has a woman not
reached the lowest depths of degradation when she has lived to
be deserted by a thief ? "

It was hopeI(^ to attempt to reason with her, in her pre-
sent frame of mind. I tried to attract her attention to a less
painful subject, by referring to the strange succession of events
which had brought me to her for the third time. She stopped
me wearily at the outset.

" It seems useless to say once more, what we have said on
other occasions," she answered. "I understand what has

Love and Pride.

301

in the
ime a
oilette-

boyour

tempt

"I'm

in your

pockets,
in away
bt, I ap-
ide.
forsaken

]im more

nan not
lived to

her pre-
)o a less
)f events
stopped

said on
hat has

brought you here. I have appeared to you again in a dream,
just as I appeared to you twice before."

" No," I said. " Not as you appeared to me twice before.
This time I saw you with the child by your side."

That reply roused her. She started and looked nervously
towards the bedchamber door.

" Don't speak loud ! " she said. "Don't let the child hear
us ! My dream of you this time has left a painful impression
on my mind. The child is mixed up in it — and I don't like
that Then, the place in which I dreamt that I saw you, is
associated—.-" She paused, leaving the sentence unfinished.
" I am nervous and wretched to-night," she resumed; "and
I don't want to speak of it. And yet I should like to know
whether you really were in tha,t cottage, of all the places in the
world r'

I was at a loss to understand the embarrassment which
she appeared to feel in putting her question. There was no-
thing very wonderful, to my mind, in the discovery taat she
had been in Suffolk, and that she was acquainted with Gi*een-
water Broad. The lake was known all over the country as a
favourite resort of pic-nic parties \ and Dermody's pretty cot-
tage used to be one of the popular attractions of the scene.
What really surprised me was to see, as I now plainly saw,
that she had some painful associations with my old home. I
decided on answering her question in such terms as might en*
courage her to take me into her confidence. In a moment
more, I should have told her that my boyhood had been passed
»t Greenwater Broad — in a moment more we should have re-
cognised each other — ^when a trivial interruption suspended

302

The Two Destinies,

the words on my lips. The child ran out of the bedchamber
with a quaintly-shaped key in her hand.

" What is this 1 " she asked, as she approached me.

** My key," I answered — recognising one of the things which
she had taken out of my pockets.

'' What does it open I "

" The cabin door, on board my boat."

" Take me to your boat"

Her mother interposed. A new discussion followed on the
question of going or not going to bed. By the time the little
creature had left us again, with permission to play for a few
minutes longer, the conversation between Mrs. Van Brandt
and myself had taken a new direction. Speaking now of the
child's health, we were led naturally to the subject of the
child's connection with her mother's dream.

*' She had been ill with fever," Mrs. Van Brandt began \
"arid she was just getting better again on the day when 1 was
left deserted in this miserable place. Towards evening, she
had another attack that frightened me dreadfully. She became
perfectly iiusensible — her Httle limbs were stiff and cold. There
|8 one doctor here who has not yet abandoned the town. Of
course, I sent for Imn. He thought her insensibility was
caused by a sort of cataleptic seizure. At the same time, he
comforted me by saying that she was in no immediate danger
of death; and he left me certain remedies to be given, if
certain symptoms appeared. 1 took her to bed ; and held her
to me, with the idea of keeping her warm. Without believing
in mesmeiismi do you think it likely that we might have had
some influence over each other which may explain what
foUowedl"

Love and. Pride,

303

" Quite likely. At the same time, the mesmeric theory (if
you could believe in it) would carry the explanation farther stilL
Mesmerism would assert, not only that you and the child
influenced each other, but that — in spite of the distance — you
both influenced me. And, in that way, mesmerism would ac-
count for my vision as the necessary result of a highly-deve-
loped sympathy between us. Tell me, did you fall asleep with
the child in your arms 1 "

''Yes. I was completely worn out; and I fell asleep in
spite of my resolution to watch through the night In my
forlorn situation, forsaken in a strange ]?lace. with a sick child,
I dreamed of you again, and I appeal^u to you a^f^ain as my one
protector and friend. The only new thing in the dream was
that I thought I had the child with me when I approached you,
and that she put the words into my mind, when I wrote in
your book. You saw the words, I suppose \ and they vanished,
no doubt, when I awoke 1 I found my little darling still lying
like a dead creature in my arms. All through the night, there
was no change in her. She only recovered her senses at noon
the next day. Why do you start 1 What have I said that sur-
prises you 1 "

There was good reason for my feeling startled, and showing
it. On the day and at the hour when the child had come to
herself, I had stood on the deck of the vessel, and had seen the
apparition of her disappear from my view !

" Did she say anything," I asked, " when she recovered her
senses ? "

" Yes. She, too, had been dreaming — dreaming that she
was in company with You. She said, ' He is coming to see
us, Manuna; and I have been showing him the way.' I asked

304

The Two Destinies,

her where she had seen jou. She spoke confusedly of more
places than one. She talked of trees, and a cottage, and a lake.
Then of fields and h nlges and lonely lanes. Then of a carriage
and horses, and a long white road. Then of crowded streets
and houses, and a river, and a ship. As to these last objects,
there is nothing very wonderful in what she said. The houses,
the river, and the ship which she saw in her dream, she saw in
the reality when we took her from London to Rotterdam, on
our way here. But as to the other places, especially the cottage
and the lake (as she described them), I can only suppose that
her dream was the reflection of mine. I had been dreaming of
the cottage and the lake, as I once knew them in years long
gone by ; and — Heaven only knows why — ^I had associated you
with the scene. Never mlhd going into that now 1 I don't
know what infatuation it is that makes me trifle in this way
with old recollections which affect me painfully in my present
position. We were talking of the child's health — ^let us go
back to that."

It was not easy to return to the topic of her child's health.
She had revived my curiosity on the uubject of her associations
with Greenwater Broad. The little one was still quietly at
play in the bedchamber. My second opportunity was before
me. I took it.

" I won't distress you," I said. " I will only ask leave,
before we change the subject, to put one question to you about
the cottage and the lake."

As the fatality that pursued us willed it, it was h&r turn
now to be innocently an obstacle in the way of our discovering
each other.

'^I can tell you nothing more to-night^" she interposed,

Love and Pride,

305

•more
A lake,
uniage
streets
tbjects,
houses,
saw in
am, on
cottage
ose that
kming of
are long
ated you

I don't
ihis way

present
let us go

health,
^ociations
luietly at
fas before

^k leave,
^ou about

}\xir turn
3C0vering

iterposed,

rising impatiently. " It is time I put the cbild to bed — and,
besides, I can't talk of things that distress me. You must wait
for the time — if it ever comes 1 — whon I am calmer and happier
than I am now."

She turned to enter the bedchamber. Acting headlong on
the impulse of the moment, I took her by the hand, and stopped
her.

" You have only to choose," I said, " and the calmer and
happier time is yours, from this moment."

" Mine 1 " she repeated. " What do you mean 1 "

'' Say the word," I replied, " and you and your child have a
home and a future before you.''

She looked at me half bewildered, half angry.

" Do you offer me your protection ) " she asked.

" I offer you a husband's protection," I answered. " I ask
you to be my wife."

She advanced a step nearer to me, with her eyes rivetted on
my face.

" You are evidently ignorant of what has really happened,**
she said. "And yet, Gk)d knows, the child spoke plainly
enough ! "

" The child only told me," I rejoined, " what I had heard
already, on my way here."

"All of it?"

"All of it.",

" And you are still willing to marry me % "

" I can imagine no greater happiness than to make you my
wife."

" Knowing what you know now 1 " |

" Knowing what I know now, I ask you confidently to give

306

The Two Destinies,

me your hand. Whatever claim that man may onoe have had,
as the father of yoor child, he has now forfeited it by his
infamous desertion of yon. In every sense of the word, my
darling, you are a free woman. We have had sorrow enough
in our lives. Happiness is at last within oar roach. Come to
me — and say Yes."

I tried to take her in my arms. She drew back as if I had
frightened her.

" Never ! " she said firmly.

I whispered my next words, so that the child in the inner
room might not hear us.

" You once said you loved me 1 "

"I do love you!" \

" As dearly as ever 1 "

" Mare dearly than ever ! '*

"Kiss me!"

She yielded mechanically. She kissed me — ^with cold lips,
with big tears in her eyes.

" You don't love me ! " I burst out angrily. " You kiss me
as if it was a duty. Your lipu are cold. Your heart is cold.
You don't love me I "

She looked at me sadly, with a patient smile.

" One of us must remember the difference betweoi your posi-
tion and mine," she said. '* You are a man of stainless honour,
who holds an undisputed rank in the world. And what am 1 1
I am the deserted mistress of a thief. One of us must remem-
ber that. You have generously forgotten it. I must bear it
in mind. I dare say I am cold. Suffering has that effect on
me — and, I own it, I am suffering now."

I was too passionately in love with her to feel the sympathy

Li^oe and Pride,

S07

rehftd,
by bis
rd, my
enoagh
ome to

f Ihad

LO inner

oold lips,

I kiss me
t is cold.

yoorposi-
honour,
hat am If
Bt lemem'
istbearit
effect on

sympathy

on which she evidently counted, in saying those words. A
man can respect a woman's scmples when they appeal to him
mutely in her looks or in her tears. Bat the formal expression
of them in words only irritates or annoys him.

** Whose fault ii it if you suffer f " I retorted coldly. " I
ask you to make my life a happy one, and your life a happy
one. You are a cruelly-wronged woman — but you are not a
degraded woman. You are worthy to be my wife ; and I am
ready to declare it publicly. Come back with me to England.
My boat is waiting for you."

She dropped into a chair \ her hands fell helplessly into her
lap.

" How cruel ! " she murmured ; how cruel to tempt me ! "
She waited a little, and recovered her fatal firmness. " No ! "
she said, *' if I die in doing it, I can still refuse to disgrace
you. Leave me, Mr. Gtermaine. You can show me that one
kindness more. For God's sake, leave me ! "
I made a last appeal to her tenderness.
" Do you know what my life is, if I live without you ! " I
asked. " My mother is dead. There is not a living creature
left in the world whom I love, but you. And you ask me to
leave you ! Where am I to go 1 what am I to do ? You talk
of cruelty ! Is there no cruelty in sacrificing the happiness of
my life to a miserable scruple of delicacy, to an unreasoning
fear of the opinion of the world % I love you — and you love
me. There is no other consideration worth a straw. Gome
back with me to England ! come back and be my wife I "

She dropped on her knee% and taking my hand, put it
silently to her lips. I tried to raise her. It was useless : she
steadily resisted me.

808

The Two Destinies,

" Does this mew No t " I tsked.

** It means," the ^xd, in faint broken tones, " that I price
your honour beyond my happiness. If I marry you, your
career is destroyed by your wife— and the day will come when
you will tell me so. I can suffer — I can die — but I can not
face such a prospect as that. Forgive me, and forget me. I
can say no more I "

She let go of my hand, and sank on the floor. The utter
despair of that action told me, far more eloquently than the
words which she had just spoken, that her resolution was im-
movable. She had deliberately separated herself from me —
her own act had parted us for ever.

[ priie

, yottT
) when
can not
ae. I

e utter
tian the
(^aa im-
ft me —

<fc»

CHiLPTER XXXVIII.

THE TWO DESTINIES.

§MADE no movement to leave the room \ I let no
sign of sorrow escape me. My heart was hardened
against the woman who had so ohstinately rejected
me. I stood looking down at her with a merci
less anger, the hare remembrance of which fills
me at this day with a horror of myself. There is
but one excuse for me. The shock of that last overthrow of
the one hope that held me to life was more than my reason
could endure. On that dreadful night (whatever I may have
been at other times) — I myself believe it — ^I xtba a maddened
man.

I was the first to break the silence.
"Get up," I said coldly.

She lifted her face from the floor, and looked at me, doubt,
ing whether she had heard aright.

" Put on your hat and cloak," I resumed. " I must ask yon
to go back with me as far as the boat."

She rose slowly. Her eyes rested on my face with a dull,
bewildered look.

"Why am X to go back with you to the boat?"

310

The Two DesiinUs,

The child heard her. The child rmn np to ne with her
little hat in one hand, and the key of the cabin in the other.

" I am ready I " she said. *' I will open the cabin door."

Her mother signed to her to go back to the bedchamber.
She went back as far as the door which led into the courtyard,
and waited there listening. I turned coldly to Mrs. Van
Brandt, and answered the question which she had addressed to
me.

" You are left," I said, " without the means of getting away
fi*om this place. In two hours more the tide will be in my
favour, and I shall sail at once on the return voyage. We part,
this time never to meet again. Before I go, I am resolved to
leave you properly provided for. My money is in my travelling-
bag in the cabin. For that reason, I am obliged to ask you to
go with me as far as the boat."

" I thank you gratefully for your kindness," she said. " I
don't stand in such serious need of help as you suppose."

'^ It is useless to attempt to deceive me," I proceeded. '' I
have spoken with the head-partner of the house of Van Brandt,
at /Tnsterdam, and I know exactly what your position is.
Yor r pride must bend low enough to take from my hands the
means of subsistence for yourself and your child. If I had
died in England "

I stopped. The unexpressed idea in my mind was to tell
her that she would inherit a legacy under my Will, and that
she might quite as becomingly take money from me in my
lifetime as take it from my executors after my death. In form-
ing this thought into words, the associations M^hich it called
naturally into being, revived in me the memoiy of my con-
templated suicide in the lake. Mingling witl^ the remem-

Tki Two Distimes.

311

branoet thua Aronaed, there rose in me, unbidden, a Temptation
•o unutterably vile, and yet to irretiitible in the state of m;
mind at the moment, that it shook me to the soul " You
have nothing to live for, now that she haa reftised to be yours,"
the fiend in me whispered. " Take your leap into the next
world — and make the woman whom you love take it with
you 1" While I was still looking at her — while the last words
I had spoken to her faltered on my lips — the horrible facilities
for the perpetration of the double crime revealed themselves
enticingly to my view. My boat was moored in the one part
of the decaying harbour in which deep water still lay at the
foot of the quay. I had only to induce her to follow me when
I stepped on the deck, to seize her in my arms, and to jump
overboard with her before she could utter a cry for help. My
drowsy sailors, as I knew by experience, were hard to wake,
and slow to move even when th«»y were roused at last. We
ahould both be drowned before the youngest and the quickest
of them could get up from his bed and make his way to the
deck. Yes ! We should both be struck together out of the
ranks of the living, at one and the same moment ! And why
not ) She, who had again and again refused to be my wife —
did she deserve that I should leave her free to go back, per-
haps, for the second time, to Van Brandt 1 On the evening
when I had saved her from the waters of the Scotch river, I
had made myself master of her fate. She had tried to de-
stroy herself by drowning — she should drown now, in the
arms of the man who had once thrown himself between her
and death 1
Self-abandoned to such atrocious reasoning as this, I stood

312

The Two Destinies,

face to face with her, and returned deliberately to my un-
finished sentence.

" If I had died in England, you would have been provided
for by my Will What you would have taken from me then,
you may take from me now. Come to the boat"

A change passed over her face as I spoke \ a vague doubt of
me began to show itself in her eyes. She drew back a little,
without making any reply.

« Gome to the boat ! " I reiterated.

" It is too lata." With that answer she looked across the
room at the child, still waiting by the door. '' Come, Elfie ! "
she said, calling to the little creature by one of her favourite
nick-names. " Come to bed."

I too looked at Elfie. Might she not (I asked myself) be
made the innocent means of forcing her mother to leave the
house] Trusting to the child's fearless character and her
eagerness to see the boat, I suddenly opened the door. As I
had anticipated, she instantly ran out. The second door, lead-
ing into the square, I had not closed when I entered the court-
yard. In another moment, Elfie was out in the square,
triumphing in her freedom. The shrill little voice broke the
deathlike stillness of the place and hour, calling to me again
and again to take her to the boat.

I turned to Mrs. "Van Brandt The stratagem had suc-
ceeded. Elfie's mother could hardly refuse to follow when
Elfie led the way.

" Will you go with us 1 " I asked. " Or must I send the
money back by the child % **

Her eyes rested on me a moment with a deepening expres-
sion of distrust — then looked away again. She began to turn

The Two Destinies.

313

pale. " You are not like yourself to-night/' she said. Without
a word more, she took her hat and doak, and went out before
me into the square. I followed her, closing the doors behind
me. She made an attempt to induce the child to approach her.
"Gome, darling," she said enticingly, "come and take my
hand."

fiut £lfie was not to be caught : she took to her heels, and
answered from a safe distance. " No," said the child, " you
will take me back and put me to bed." She retreated a little
farther, and held up the key. " I shall go first," she cried,
" and open the door ! "

She trotted ofif in the direction of the harbour, and waited
for us at the comer of the street. Her mother suddenly
turned, and looked at me under the light of the stars.

" Are the sailors on board the boat % " she asked.

The question startled me. Had she any suspicion of my
purpose 1 Had my face warned her of lurking danger, if she
w^nt to the boat % It was impossible I The more likely mo-
tive for her inquiry was to find a new excuse for not accompa-
nying me to the harbour. If I told her that the men were on
board, she might say, " Why not employ one of your sailors to
bring the money to me at the house t '' I anticipated the sug-
gestion in making my reply.

" They may be honest men," 1 said, watching her carefully.
" But I don't know them well enough to trust them with
money."

To my surprise, she watched me just as carefully on her side,
and deliberately repeated her question.

" Are the sailors on board the boat 1 "

I thought it wise to yield. I answered, "Yes," and

The Two Destinies,

paused to see what would follow. My reply seemed to rouse
her resolution. After a moment's consideration, she turned
tow%rds the place at which the child was waiting for us. " Let
us go, as you insist on it," she said quietly. I made no farther
remark. Side by side, in silence, we followed Elfie on our way
to the boat.

Not a human creature passed us in the streets ; not a light
glimmered on us from the grim black houses. Twice, the child
stopped, and (still keeping slily out of her mother's reach) ran
back to me, wondering at my silence. " Why don't you speak ) "
she asked. '< Have you and mamma quarrelled ? "

I was incapable of answering her. I could think of nothing
but my contemplated crime. Neither fear nor remorse troubled
me. Every better instinct, every nobler feeling that I had once >
possessed, seemed to be dead and gone. Not even a thought
of the child's future troubled my mind. I had no power of
looking on farther than the fatal leap from the boat : beyond
that, there was an utter blank. For the time being — ^I can
only repeat it — ^my moral sense was obscured, my mental facul-
ties were thrown completely off their balance. The animal part
of me lived and moved as usual ; the viler animal instincts in
me plotted and planned — and that was alL Nobody, looking
at me, would have seen anything but a dull quietude in my
face, an immovable composure in my manner. And yet, no
madman was ever fitter for restraint, or less responsible morally
for his own actions, than I was at that moment.

The night air blew more freshly on our faces. Still led by
the child, we had passed through the last street — we were out
on the empty open space which was the landward boundary of

The Two Destinies,

315

the harbour. In a minute more, we stood on the quay, within
a step of the gunnel of the boat.

I noticed a change in the appearance of the harbour since I
had seen it hist. Some fishing boats had come in during my
absence. They were moored, some immediately astern and
some immediately ahead of my own vesseL I looked anxiously
to see if any of the fishermen were on board and stirring. Not
a Uving being appeared anywhere. The men were on shore
with their wives and their families.

Elfie held out her arms, to be lifted on board my boat.
Mrs. Van Brandt stepped between us as I stooped to take her
up.

** We will wait here," she said, " while you go into the cabin
and get the money."

Those words placed it beyond all doubt that she had her sus-
picions of me— suspicions, probably, which led her to fear, not
for her life, but for her freedom. She might dread being kept
a prisoner in the boat, and being carried away by me against
hei' wilL More than this, she could not thus far possibly appre-
hend. The child saved me the trouble of making any remon-
strance. She was determined to go with me. " I must see the
cabin ! " she cried, holding up the key. " I must open the
door myself 1"

She twisted herself out of her mother's hands, and ran round
to the other side of me. I lifted her over the gunnel of the
boat in an instan';<. Before I could turn round, her mother
had followed her, and was standing on the deck.

The cabin door, in the position she now occupied, was on
her left hand. The child was close behind her. I was on her
right. Before us was the open deck, and the low gunnel of

316

The Two Destinies.

the boat overlooking the deep water. In a moment we might
step across ; in a moment we might take the fatal plunge. The
bare thought of it brought the mad wickedness in me to its
climax. I became suddenly incapable of restraining myself. I
threw my arm round her waist with a loud laugh. " Gome ! "
I said, trying to drag her across the deck. " Come, and look
at the water 1 "

She released herself, by a sudden effort of strength that
astonished me. With a faint cry of horror, she turned to take
the child by the hand and geu back to the quay. I placed my-
self between her and the side of the boat, and cut off her
retreat in that way. Still laughing, I asked what she was
frightened about She drew back, and snatched the key of
the cabin-door out of the child's hand. The cabin behind her
was the one place of refuge now left to which she could escape
firom the deck of the boat. In the terror of the moment, she
never hesitated. She unlocked the door, and hurried down
the two or three steps which led into the cabin, taking the
child with her. I followed them ; conscious that I had betrayed
myself— yet still obstinately, stupidly, madly bent on carrying
out my purpose. " I have only to behave quietly," T thought
to myself, " and I shall persuade her to go on deck again."

My lamp was burning as I had left it ; my travelling bag
was on the table. Still holding the child, she stood pale as
death, waiting for me. Elfie's wondering eyes rested inquir-
ingly on my face as I approached. She looked half inclined to
cry : the suddenness of the mother's action had frightened the
child. I did my best to compose her, before I spoke to her
mother. I pointed out the di^erent objects which were likely

The Two Destinies,

817

3ly

to interest her in the cabin. " Go and look at them/' I said.
" Go and amuse yourself, Elfie."

The child still hesitated. " Are yon angry with mel" she
asked.

"No! no I"

" Are you augry with mamma % "

« Certainly not ! " I turned to Mrs. Van Brandt " Tell
E'fie if I am angry with you," I said.

She waa perfectly aware, in her critical position, of the
necessity oi humouring rae. Between us we succeeded in com-
posing the child. She turned away to examine in high delight
the new and strange objects which surrounded her. Mean-
while, her mother and I stood together, looking at each other
by the light of the lamp, with an assumed composure which
hid our true faces like a mask. In that horrible situation, the
grotesque and the terrible, always together in this strange life
of ours, came together now. On either side of us the one
sound that broke the sinister and threatening silence was the
lumpish snoring of the sleeping captain and crew.

She was the first to speak.

" If you wish to give me the money," she said, trying to
propitiate me in that way, " I am ready to take it now."

I unlocked my travelling bag. As I looked into it for the
leather case which held my money, my overpowering desire to
get her on deck again, my mad impatience to commit the fatal
act, became once more too strong to be controlled.

" Wo shall be cooler on deck," I said. ," Let us take the
bag up there."

She showed wonderful courage. I could almost see the cry
for help rismg to her lips. She repressed it ; she had still pre-

318

The Two Destinies,

senoe of mind enough to foresee what might happen before she
could rouse the sleeping men.

" We have a light here to count the money by/' she an-
swered. " I don't feel at all too warm in the cabin. Let us
stay here a little longer. See how Elfie is amusing herself ! "

Her eyes rested on me as she spoke. Something in the ex-
pression of them quieted me for the time. I was able to pause
and think. I might take her on deck by main force, before
the men could interfere. But her cries would rouse them ;
they would hear the splash in the water : and they might be
quick enough to rescue us. It would be wiser to wait a little,
and to trust to my cunning to delude her into leaving the cabin
of her own accord. I put the bag back on the table, and began
to search for the leather money-case. My hands were strangely
clumsy and helpless. 7 could only find the case, after scatter-
ing half of the contents of the bag on the table. The child
was near me at the time, and noticed what I was doing.

" Oh, how awkward you are ! " she burst out in her frankly
fearless way. " Let me put your bag tidy. Do, please ! "

I granted the request impatiently. Elfie's restless desire to
be always doing something (instead of amusing me as usual)
irritated me now. The interest that I had once felt in the
charming little creature was all gone. An innocent love was a
feeling that was stifled in the poisoned, atmosphere of my
mind, that night.

The money I had with me was mostly composed of notes of
the Bank of England. I set aside the sum that would prob-
ably be required to take a traveller back to London ; and I put
all Cook remained into the huids of Mrs. Van Brandt. Could

The Two Destinies,

319

■eshe

le an-

>tU8

elf ! "
he ex-
pause
before
them ;
ight be
a Uttle,
Le cabin
d began
irangely
' scatter-
•he child

r frankly

lel"

desire to
as usual)
Bit in the
)ve was a
•e of my

'notes of
uld prob-
and 1 pnt
It. Could

she still suspect me of concealing a design on her life, after
thatt

*' I can communicate with yon in future/' I said, '^ through
Messrs. Van Brandt, of Amsterdam."

She took the money mechanically. Her hand trembled ;
her eyes met mine with a piteous look of entreaty. She tried
to revive my old tenderness for her — she made a last appeal to
my forbearance and consideration.

" We may part friends/' she said, in low trembling tones.
" And as Mends we may meet again, when time has taught
you to think forgivingly of what has passed between us to-
night!"

She offered me her hand. I looked at her without taking
it. Her motive was plain. Still suspecting me, she had tried
her last chance of getting safely on shore !

" The less we say of the past, the better," I answered, with
ironical politeness. '^ It is getting late. And you will agree
with me that Elfie ought to be in her bed." I looked round at
the child, still busy with botu hands in my bag, trying to put
it in order. '< Be quick, Elfie ! " I said, " your mamma is going
away." I opened the cabin door, and offered my arm to Mrs.
Van Brandt. " This boat is my house, for the time being," I
resumed. '' When* ladies take leave of me after a visit, I
escort them to the deck. Pray take my arm ! "

She started back. For the second time, she was on the
point of crying for help — and for the second time she kept that
last desperate alternative in reserve.

" I haven't seen your cabin yet," she said ; her eyes wild with
fear, a forced smile on her lips, as she spoke. " There are

320

The Two DesUnUs,

several little things here that interest me. I want aaoiber
minute or two to look at them."

She turned away to get nearer to the child under pretence
of looking round the cabin. I stood on guard before the open
door, watching her. She made a second pretence-Hshe nois-
ily overthrew a chair, as if by accident, and then waited to dis-
cover whether her trick had succeeded in waking the men.
The heavy snoring went on ; not a sound of a person moving
was audible on either side of u&

"My men are heavy sleepers!" I said, smiling signifi-
cantly. << Don't be alarmed! you have not disturbed them.
Nothing wakes these Dutch sailors when they are once safe in
port."

She made no reply. My patience was exhausted. I left
the door, and advanced towards her. She retreated in speech-
less terror, passing behind the table, to the end of the cabin.
I followed her until she had reached the extremity of the room,
and could get no further. She met the look I fixed on her —
she shrank into a comer and called for help. In the deadly
terror that possessed her she lost the use of hor voice. A low
hoarse moaning, hardly louder than a whisper, was all that
passed her lips. Already, in imagination, I stood with her on
the gunnel, I felt the cold contact of the water — ^when I was
startled by a cry behind me. I turned round. The cry had
come from Elfie. She had apparently just discovered some
new object in the bag ; she was holding it up in admiration,
high above her head. " Mamma ! Mamma 1 " the child cried
excitably, " look at this pretty thing ! Oh, do, do, do ask him
if I may have it ! " y •

I !

Ttu Two Destinies.

321

Her mother ran to her, eager to Muse the poorest excuse for
getting away from me. I followed ; I stretched out my hands
to seize her. She suddenly tomad round on me, a woman
transformed ! A bright ilush was on her face ; an eager wonder
sparkled in her eyes. Snatching Elfie's coveted object out of
the child's hand, she held it up before me. I saw it under
the lamp-light. It was my little forgotten keepsake— the
Green Flag.

** How came you by this % " she asked, in breathless anticipa-
tion of my reply. Not the slightest trace waa lefb in her face
of the terror that had convulsed it barely a minute since!
** How came you by this % " she repeated, seizing me by the
arm and shaking me, in the ungovenmbie impatience that
possessed her.

. My head turned gidi'.y ; my heart beat furiously under the
conflict of emotions th;':ii she had roused in me. My eyes were
rivetted on the green llag. The words tbat I wanted to speak
were words that refused to come to me. I answered mechani-
cally, " I have had it since I was a boy."

She dropped her hold on me, and lifted her hands with a
gesture oi ecstatic gratitude. A lovely angelic brightness
flowed like light from heaven over her face. For one moment,
she stood enraptured. The next, she clasped me passionately
to her bosom, and whispered in my ear, *' I am Mary Dermody
— I made it for You."

The shock of discovery, following so closely on all that I
liad suffered before it, was too much for me. I sank, and
fainted in her arms.

When I came to myself, I was lying on my bed in the cabin.
V

322

The Two Destinies.

Elfie was playing with the green flag ; and Mary was sitting by
me with my hand in hers. One long look of love passed
silently from her eyes to mine^from mine to hers. In that
look, the kindred spirits were united again ; the Two Destinies
were fulfilled.

THE END OF THE STORY.

Sfti Jtualr.

THE WIFE WRITES, AND CLOSES THE STORY.

HE Prelude to "The Two Destinies ' began with a

little narrative which you may have forgotten by

this tim&
The narrative was written by myself — a citizen of

the TTnited States, visiting England with his wife.

It described a dinner-party, at which we were pre-
sent, given by Mr. and Mrs. Germaine in celebration of their
marriage ; and it mentioned the circumstances under which we
were entrusted with the Story which has just come to an end
in these pages. Having read the manuscript, it was left to us
(as you may now remember) to decide whether we should con-
tinue our friendly intercourse with Mr. and Mrs. Germaine,
or not.

At three o'clock p.m. we closed the last leaf of the story.
Five minutes later I sealed it up in its cover, my wife put her
bonnet on — and there we were, bound straight for Mr. Ger-
maine's house, when the servant brought a letter into the room
addressed to my wife.

She opened it — ^looked at the signature — and discovered that
it was " Mary Germaine." Seeing this, we sat down, side by
side, to read the letter before we did anything else.

324

Th4 Two Destinies,

On reflection, it ■trikes me that yon nuy do well to read it
too. Mrs. Germaine ii sorely, by this time, a person in whom
you feel some interest. And she is, on that account, as I
think, the fittest peison to close the Story. Here is her
letter:

" Dear Madam — or, may I say, dear friend 1 — be prepared,
if you please, for a little surprise. When you read these lines,
we shall have left London on our way to the Continents

" After you went away last night, my husband decided on
taking this journey. Seeing how keenly he felt the insult
offered to me by the ladies whom we had asked to our table,
I willingly agreed to our sudden departure. When Mr. Ger-
maine is far away from his false friends, my experience of him
tells me that he will recover his tranquillity. That is enough
for me.

" My little daughter goes with us, of course. Early this
morning, I drove to the school in the suburbs at which she is
being educated, and took her away with me. It is needless to
say that she was delighted at the prospect of travelling. She
shocked the schoolmistress by waving her hat over her head,
and crying < Hooray ! * like a boy. The good lady was very
careful to inform me that my daughter could not possibly have
learnt to cry < Hooray' in her house.

" You have probably by this time read the narrative which
I committed to your care. I hardly dare ask how I stand in
your estimation now. Is it possible that I might have seen
you and your good husband, if we had not left London so sud-
denly ? As things are, I must tell you in writing, what I

Tht Wife writes and closes the Story, 335

should infinitely have preferred saying to you, with your
friendly hand in mine.

" Your knor ledge of the world has, no doubt, already attri-
buted the absence of the ladies at our dinner-table to some re-
port affecting my character. You are quite right While I
was taking Elfie away from her school, my husband called on
one of his friends who dined with us (Mr. Waring), and in-
sisted on an explanation. Mr. Waring referred him to the
woman who is known to you, by this time, as Mr. Van Brandt's
lawful wife. In her intervals of sobriety she possesses some
musical talent ; Mrs. Waring had met with her at a concert for
a charity ; and had been interested in the story of her * wrongs,
as she called them. My name was of course mentioned. I
was described as ' a cast-off mistress of Van Brandt,' who had
persuaded Mr. Germaine into disgracing himself by marrying
her, and becoming the step-father of her child. Mrs. Waring
thereupon communicated what she had heard to other ladies
v-ho were her friends. The result you saw for yourselves when
you dined at our house.

" I inform you of what has happened, without making any
comment. Mr. Germaine's narrative has already told you that
I foresaw the deplorable consequences which might follow our
marriage, and that I over and over again (God knows at what
cost of misery to myself) refused to be his wife. It was only
when my poor little green flag had revealed us to each other,
that I lost ail control over myself. The old time on the banks
of the lake came back to me ; my heart hungered for its dar-
ling of happier days ; and I said Yes, when I ought, as you
may think, to have still said No. Will you take poor old
Dame Dermody's view of it— and believe that the kindred

326

The Two Destinies,

\\ I

!^l

spirits, once re-united, could be parted no more % Or will yon
take my view, which is simpler still t I do love him so dearly ;
and he is so fond of me 1

" In the meantime, our departure from England seems to be
the widest course that we can adopt As long as this woman
lives, she will say again of me, what she has said already, when-
ever she can find the opportunity. My child might hear the
reports about her mother, and might be injured by them when
she gets older. We propose to take up our abode, for a time
at least, in the neighbourhood of Naples. Here, or farther
away yet, we n>ay hope to live without annoyance, among a
people whose iocial law is the law of mercy. Whatever may
happen, we have always one last consolation to sustain us —
we have love.

*' You talked of travelling on the Continent, when you dined
with us. If you should wander our way, the English consul
at Naples is a friend of my husband's, and he will have our
address. I wonder whether we shall ever meet again 1 It
does seem hard to charge the misfortunes of my life on me, as
if they were my faults.

" Speaking of my misfortunes, I may say before I close this
letter, that the man to whom I owe them is never likely to
cross my path again. The Van Brandts of Amsterdam have
received certain information that he is now on his way to New
Zealand. They are determined to prosecute him, if he returns.
He is little likely to give them the opportunity.

" The travelling-carriage is at the door^ — I must say good-bye.
My husband sends to you both his kindest regards and best
wishes. His manuscript will be quite safe (when you leave
London) if you send it to his bankers at the address enclosed.

The Wife writes and closes the Story, 327

illyott
learly *,

Bio be
vroman
, when-
ear the
nwhen
r a Ume
farther
imong a
ver may
lia us —

ou dined
h consul
lave our
aini It
n me, as

close tbiff
likely to
iamhave
j^to New
lo returns.

Think of me sometimoi — and think of me kindly. I appeal
confidently to yoiwr kindness, for I don't forget that you kissed
me at parting. Your grateful friend (if you will let her be
your firiend),

<<Mabt Gkbmaini."

We are rather impulsive people in the United States ; and
we decide on long journeys by sea or land, without making
the slightest fuss about it. My wife and I looked at each
other, when we had read Mrs. Germaine's letter.

" London is dull," I remarked — and waited to see what came
ofit.

My wife read my remark the right way directly.

'< Suppose we try Naples 1 " she said.

That is all. Permit us to wish you good-bye. We are off
to Naples.

^1^

THE ENP.

good-bye.

and best
you leave

enclosed.

VjnivarsiteJ-*^
BlgLJCTHECA )