IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TA^iGET (MT-3) m. ^/ A * -^ 1.0 1.1 Kisi IttlM 125 ■tt Uii I?? WMU U 1 1.6 6" ■VQ Sciences Carporation 23 WBT MAIN STMIT WliSTIt.N.Y. 14SM (71«)t72-4S03 .V % CIHM/ICMH Series. CIHM/ICMH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Instituta for Historical IVIicroraproductions / Institut Canadian da microraproductions historiquas Tachnleal and BibHoaraphte NotM/NoiM taehniqMM M MbHograpMqMM Th« Inttitiit* hM •ttamptMl to obtain tlio boat oriolnal copy avaUablo for fHmlng. Foaturoa of thia copy whieti may bo MMiooraphieally iinlqua, which may altar any of tha Imacaa in tha raproduetlon. or which may algnlfleantly change tha iMual mathod of filming, ara chackad balow. 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Meps, pistes, cherts, etc., mey be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely included in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hend corner, left to right end top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diegrems iliustrste the method: Leo m^n^m. planchaa. tableaux, etc.. peuvent Atre f limAs A des taux de rAduction «ffArents. Lorsque le document est trap grand pour Atre reproduit en un seul cHchA. H est fiimA t partk de Tangle supArieur gauche, de gauche A droKe. et de haut en bee. en prenant la nombra d'images nAcessaire. Lea diagrammae sulvants illustrent la mAthoda. 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 ■NMMMmMMhfM«M«HMMMN«IIMN)l|l^ TBDB TWO DESTINIES. 1 AUTH< THE Two Destinies. BY 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 f aecordlnc i Canmda.Iii to 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 B 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. 6 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- 8 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. 11 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 IS 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. IS 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 % " 14 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 t6 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. 17 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 18 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. V Two Young Hearts. 19 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 20 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. 21 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. 22 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. 9S 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 24 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. 26 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. fl 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," 2H 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" 30 The Two Destinies. i 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. 31 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." 32 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. SS "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 34 The I wo Destinies. ^K 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 : — " Yy 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- 43 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, 48 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^ 44 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, 45 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. 46 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. 47 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 48 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. 49 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, 61 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 S2 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, 58 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 64 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. 65 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 ? 56 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, 5T 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. 59 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 60 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, 61 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 ? 62 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. 63 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 64 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 I! The Woman on the Bridge. 65 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 66 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' 68 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. 69 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 70 7 hi Two Destinies. 'I ■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. 71 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 72 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. 7S 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 m 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 ? " 74 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 I 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. n 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. 77 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 lookebeyed. 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, H 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. 81 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." 82 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. 88 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 u 6" Hiotc)gFaphic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716)«7a-4S03 84 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 II " 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 V iana- Natural and Supernatural. 85 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 86 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, 87 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 88 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. 89 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. 90 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. 91 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." to 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 ? " 94 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. 95 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 96 The Two Destinies. t 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. 97 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 H 98 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. I 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 led'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 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 more 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 tgh ; 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«." I t^e )m. i * i i (om fo : le. ^hy ^en- I 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' ! 'i In I 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 I' % u n>f 172 TAe Two Destinies. i 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. !i ^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. M I 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 " # i. ' J tt! » ' U'»MH i ia i pi i wi> »i«« IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) ^>. ks :/. 4^ 4^ 4^ 1.0 I.I 11.25 ■ttlM 125 KUU Hiotographic Sdences Corporation 23 WKT MAIN STREIT WIiSTIR,N.Y. 145M (716)t71-4S03 t 178 The Two Destinies. " I never dream of her now." Do you expect to see the apparition of her again \ « t> " 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 1 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. i 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« : 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. '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 J 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. :t 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 he le. sir, ^e, we bad Ind to the seen no 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 y id by ,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. r 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. 8 / 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 ce 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. I 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