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 'iU 

 
 L I B R_AR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 C69t
 
 THE 
 
 TAVO DESTINIES 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 NEW NOVELS AT ALL THE LIBRARIES. 
 
 One vol. crown 8vo. 
 THE ADVENTUEES OF TOM SAWYER. By Mark 
 
 By E. 
 
 Twain. 
 
 Three vols, crown 8vo. 
 THE ATONEMENT OF LEAM DUNDAS. 
 Lynn Linton. 
 
 Three vols. cro\STi 8vo. 
 MINSTERBOROUGH : a Tale of English Life. By 
 Humphry Sandwith, C.B., D.C.L. 
 
 Three vols, crown Svo. 
 THE DEMOCRACY. By Whyte Thorne. 
 
 Three vols, crown Svo. 
 MR. DORILLION. By Jean Midblemass, Author of 
 ' Wild Georgie,' ' Lil,' &c. 
 
 Two vols, crown Svo. 
 FIRESIDE STUDIES : Essays. By Henry Kingsley. 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY, W.
 
 THE 
 
 TWO DESTINIES 
 
 A ROMANCE 
 
 BY 
 
 WILKIE COLLINS 
 
 m TWO VOLUMES —VOL. L 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 1876 
 
 All rights reservet
 
 LONDON : PIUNTKD BY 
 
 <POTTISWOODIC AND CO., NKW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 ANU PARLIAMENT STREET
 
 «^3 
 ^ ^. ( 
 
 
 TO 
 
 CHARLES READE. 
 
 You read this story while it was in course of 
 
 periodical publication, and you found in it a certain 
 
 novelty of design and treatment which pleased and 
 
 interested you. Now that my work is completed, let 
 
 /' me ask you to accept the dedication of ' The Two 
 
 V. Destinies.^ I can acknowledge in no fitter way the 
 
 ^ pleasure that I feel in having satisfied my old friend 
 
 4. and brother in the Art. 
 
 V w. c. 
 
 London: Au-just lilQ. 
 
 ^
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE FIEST VOLUME. 
 
 THE PRELUDE: 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. The Guest Writes the Histoey of the 
 
 DlITN^EE-PAETr 1 
 
 II. GeOPvGE GERilAINE AVrITES THE HiSIORY OF 
 
 HIS First Love 18 
 
 THE STORY. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. Ten Years oe Mt Life 
 
 H. Ten Years of Her Life 
 
 IH. The Woman- ox the Bridge 
 
 IV. The Kindred Spirits 
 
 V. Natural and Supernatural 
 
 VI. Saint Anthony's Well . 
 
 73 
 91 
 107 
 124 
 149 
 172
 
 COyTE^'TS OF THE FIBST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGK 
 
 VII. The Leiter of Iiv^trodtjction . . . 190 
 
 VIII. The Disasters of Mrs. Van Brandt . 202 
 
 IX. Not Cured Yet 221 
 
 X. Mrs. Van Brandt at Home . . . 239 
 
 XI. The Obstacle Beats Me . . . . 257 
 
 XII. Mt Mother's Diary 269 
 
 XIII. Shetland Hospitality 277 
 
 XIV. The Darkened Boom . . . .295
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 THE PEELUDE: 
 
 [IN TWO KABBATIVES.] 
 
 (1) THE GUEST WKITES THE HISTORY OF THE 
 DIXXER-PARTr. 
 
 Many years have passed since my wife and 
 I left the United States to pay our first visit 
 to England. 
 
 We were provided with letters of intro- 
 duction, 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 gentleman who held a high rank 
 on the list of his friends. 
 
 ' You will become acquainted with Mr. 
 George Germaine,' my brother-in-law said 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 wlien we took leave of him, ' at a very in- 
 teresting 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 wliich my friend first met with her. 
 Eut of this I am certain : married or single, 
 Oeorge Germaine will give you and your 
 wife a hearty welcome to England, for my 
 sake.' 
 
 The day after our arrival 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 of the United States 
 find this relic oF the good old times of great 
 use in raising their national estimate of the 
 value of Eepublican Institutions. On getting 
 back to the hotel, the cards of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Germaine told us that they had already
 
 THE FRELUDE. 3 
 
 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, warn- 
 ing us that we were not to expect to meet 
 a large party. 'It is the iirot dinner we 
 give, on our return from om' wedding-tour ' 
 (the lady wrote) ; ' and you will only be 
 introduced to a few of my husband's old 
 friends.' 
 
 In America, and (as I hear) on the con- 
 tinent 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 incomprehen- 
 sible and discourteous custom prevails of 
 keeping the host and the dinner waiting for 
 half an hour or more — without any assign- 
 able reason, and without any better excuse 
 than the purely formal apology that is im- 
 plied in the words, ' Sorry to be late.' 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 Arriving at the appointed time at the 
 house of Mr. and Mrs. Germaine, we had 
 every reason to congratulate ourselves on 
 tlie ignorant punctuality which had brought, 
 us into the drawing-room half an hour in 
 advance of tlie other guests. 
 
 In the first place, there was so much 
 heartiness, and so little ceremony, in the 
 welcome accorded to us that we almost 
 fancied ourselves back in our own country. 
 In the second place, both husband and wife 
 interested us, the moment we set eyes on 
 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 
 <zrace in all her movements, a low delicious 
 melody in her voice, which we Americans 
 felt to be simply irresistible. And then, it 
 was so plain (and so pleasant) to see that 
 here at least was a happy marriage ! Here
 
 THE FEELUDE. 5 
 
 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-horn- had 
 expired, we were talking together as fami- 
 liarly and as confidentially as if we had 
 been, all four of us, old friends. 
 
 Eight o'clock struck ; and the first of the 
 Enghsh guests appeared. 
 
 Having forgotten this gentleman's name, 
 I must beg leave to distinguish him by a 
 letter of the alphabet. Let me call him 
 Mr. A. When he entered the room alone, 
 our host and hostess both started, and both 
 looked surprised. Apparently, they expected 
 him to be accompanied by some other 
 person. Mr. Germaine put a curious ques- 
 tion to his friend. 
 
 ' Where is yom^ wife ? ' he asked. 
 
 Mr. A. answered for the absent lady by
 
 6 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 a neat little apology, expressed in tliese 
 words : 
 
 ' She lias got a bad cold. She is very 
 sorry. She begs me to make her excuses.' 
 
 He had just time to deliver his message 
 before another unaccompanied gentleman 
 appeared. Eeverting 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 ? ' 
 
 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 be^s me to make her excuses.' 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Germaine glanced at one.
 
 THE FEELUDE. 7 
 
 another. The husband's face plamly ex~ 
 pressed the suspicion which this second 
 apology had roused in his mind. The wife 
 was steady and cahn. An interval passed — 
 a silent interval. ]\Ir. A. and LIi\ B. retired 
 together guiltily -into a corner. My wife and 
 I looked at the pictures. 
 
 Mrs. Germaine w^as the first to reheve us 
 from our own intolerable silence. Two more 
 guests, it appeared, were still wanting to 
 complete the party. 
 
 ' Shall we have dinner at once, George ? ' 
 she said to her husband. ' Or shall we wait 
 for Mr. and ]\irs. C. ? ' 
 
 ' We will Avait five minutes,' he auswered 
 shortly — with his eye on Mr. A. and ^Ir. B., 
 guiltily secluded in their corner. 
 
 The drawing-room door opened. We all 
 knew that a third married lady w^as expected ; 
 we all looked towards the door in unutter- 
 able anticipation. Our unexpressed hopes
 
 8 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 rested silently on the possible appearance of 
 Mrs. C. Would that admirable, but unknown, 
 woman at once charm and relieve us by her 
 presence ? I shudder as I write it. Mr. C. 
 walked into the room — and walked in, 
 alone. 
 
 Mr. Germaine suddenly varied his formal 
 enquuy, in receiving the new guest. 
 
 ' Is your v/ife ill ? ' he asked. 
 
 Mr. C. was an elderly man ; Mi\ C. had 
 lived (judging by appearances) in the days 
 when the old-fashioned laws of pohteness 
 were still in force. He discovered his two 
 married brethren in their corner, unaccom- 
 panied by their wives ; and he delivered his 
 apology for his 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
 
 THE PRELUDE. 9 
 
 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 im- 
 phed insult offered to her by the wives of 
 her husband's friends only showed itself in 
 a trembling, a very slight trembhng, 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, 
 €ould have endured the moral martyrdom 
 inflicted on her as this woman endured it, 
 from the beginning of the evening to the 
 €nd.
 
 10 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 Am I using the language of exaggeration,, 
 "vvhen I write of my hostess in these terms ? 
 Look at the circumstances, as they struck two- 
 strangers like my wife and myself. 
 
 HerB w^as the first dinner-party which 
 Mr. and Mrs. Germaine had given since 
 their marriao^e. Three of Mr. Germaine's 
 friends, all married men, had been invited 
 with their wives, to meet Mr. Germaine's 
 wife, and had (evidently) accepted the invita- 
 tion without reserve. What discoveries had 
 taken place, between the giving of the invi- 
 tation 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 insultingljr
 
 THE FEELUDE. IL 
 
 trivial excuses 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 treat- 
 ment as this ? Well, I think not. 
 
 We took our places at the dinner-table. 
 Don't ask me to describe that most miser- 
 able 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 the
 
 12 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 three empty places of the three absent 
 ivomen, speaking in 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 her 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 possible opportunity, and mercifully 
 leave the married pair to themselves. 
 
 Let it at least be recorded to the credit 
 of the three gentlemen designated in these
 
 THE PB ELUDE. 13. 
 
 pages as A., B., and C, that tliey were suffi- 
 ciently 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. 
 Germaine earnestly requested that we would 
 delay our departure. 
 
 'Wait a few minutes,' she whispered^ 
 vdth. a glance at her husband. ' I have 
 something to say to you before you go.' 
 
 She left us ; and, taking ]\Ir. 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 consultation by lifting the wife's hand to 
 his lips. 
 
 ' Do as you please, my love,' he said to- 
 iler. ' I leave it entirely to you.' 
 
 He sat down sorrowfully, lost in his 
 thoughts. i\Irs. Germaine unlocked a cabinet 
 at the farther end of the room, and retiurned
 
 14 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 to US alone, carrying a small portfolio in 
 her hand. 
 
 ' No words of mine can tell how gratefully 
 I feel your kindness,' she said, with perfect 
 simphcity 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 return 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.' 
 
 Her 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 persisted. Like most sensitively-organised 
 persons, she could be resolute when she be- 
 lieved that the occasion called for it. 
 
 ' I have a few words more to say,' she
 
 THE PRELUDE. 15 
 
 Tesumed, addressing my wife. ' You are tlie 
 only married woman who has come to our 
 httle dinner-party. Tlie 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- 
 iDand — who knows my whole life as well as I 
 know it myself — expressed the wish that we 
 should invite these ladies. He wrongly sup- 
 posed that Ms estimate of me would be the 
 -estimate accepted by his friends ; and neither 
 he nor I anticipated that the misfortunes of 
 my past life would be revealed by some per- 
 ;son acquainted with them, whose treachery 
 we have yet to discover. The least I can do, 
 by way of acknowledgmg your kindness, is 
 to place you in the same position towards me 
 which the other ladies now occupy. The 
 ^circumstances under which I have become the 
 wife of Mr. Germaine are, in some respects, 
 very remarkable. They are related, without
 
 16 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 suppression or reserve, in a little narrative 
 whicli my husband wrote, at the time of 
 our marriage, for the satisfaction of one of 
 his old friends whose good opinion he was- 
 unwilling to forfeit. The manuscript is in 
 this portfolio. After what has happened, I 
 ask you to read it as a personal favour to me. 
 It is for you to decide, when you know all, 
 whetlier I am a fit person for an honest 
 woman to associate with, or not.' 
 
 She held out her hand with a sweet sad 
 smile, and bade us good-night. My wife, in 
 her impulsive way, forgot the formalities 
 proper to the occasion, and kissed her at 
 parting. At that one little act of sisterly 
 sympathy, the fortitude which the poor crea- 
 ture 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
 
 THE TBELUBE. 17 
 
 not take my wife's privilege of kissing lier. 
 On our way down stairs, I found the oppor- 
 tunity of saying a clieering word to lier hus- 
 band as he accompanied us to the door. 
 
 ' Before I open this,' I remarked, point- 
 ing to the portfoho under my arm, ' my -mind 
 is made up, sir, about one thing. If I wasn't 
 married akeady, I tell you this — I should 
 envy you your wife.' 
 
 He pointed to the portfoho, in his turn. 
 
 'Eead what I have written there,' he 
 said ; ' and you will understand w^hat those 
 false friends of mine have made me suffer 
 to-night.' 
 
 The next morning my wife and I opened 
 the portfoho. It contained tw^o manuscripts, 
 wdiich we here present in their order as we 
 read them. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 THE TWO DESTINIES: 
 
 (2) GEORGE GERMAINE WRITES THE HISTORY 
 OF HIS FIRST LOVE. 
 
 T. 
 
 Look back, my memory, tliroiigli tlie dim 
 labyrinth of the past, through the minghng 
 joys and sorrows of tAventy years. Eise again, 
 my boyhood's days by the winding green 
 shores of the httle lake. Come to me once 
 more, my chikl-love, in the innocent beauty 
 •of your first ten years of hfe. Let us hve 
 again, my angel, as we lived in our first 
 Paradise, before sin and sorrow lifted tlieir 
 -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.
 
 THE PRELUDE. 19' 
 
 Wind wliere it might, the grassy banks 
 ^ncl the overhanging trees tinged the lake 
 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 saihng- 
 boat having a tiny natm-al harbour 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. 
 
 My little Mary and I went out together, 
 hand in hand, to see the last birds 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 fins neiv/ork making the roof. Little 
 by little diminishing in size, the arches and 
 their network followed the secret windings of 
 c 2
 
 20 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 tlie creek inland to its end. Built back round 
 the arches, on their landward side, ran a 
 wooden paling, high enough to hide a man 
 kneelins^ 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 decoy- 
 ing ducks. The dog who helped him (we 
 used no tame ducks as decoys in Suffolk) was 
 a little black terrier : a skilled master also, 
 in his way ; a creature -who possessed, in 
 equal proportions, the enviable advantages of
 
 THE PB ELUDE. 21 
 
 perfect good-liumour and perfect common- 
 -sense. 
 
 The dog followed the bailiff, and we fol- 
 lowed the dog. 
 
 Arrived at the paling wliich 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 doghole, which com- 
 manded a full view of the lake. It vras a day 
 without wind ; not a ripple stirred the surface 
 of the water; the soft grey clouds filled all 
 the sky, and hid the sun from view. 
 
 We peeped through the hole in the paling. 
 There were the wild ducks — collected vvuthin 
 easy reach of the Decoy — placidly dressing 
 their feathers on the placid surface of the 
 lake. 
 
 The baihff looked at the dog, and made 
 a sign. The dog looked at the bailiff, and, 
 stepping forward quietly, passed through the
 
 22 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 liole, SO as to show himself on the narrow 
 strip of gTound shelving down from the 
 outer side of the paling to the lake. 
 
 First one duck, then another, then half a 
 dozen too^ether, discovered the do^. 
 
 A new object showing itself on the solitary 
 scene, instantly became an object of all-de- 
 vouring curiosity to the ducks. The outer- 
 most of them began to swim slowly towards 
 the strange four-footed creature, planted mo- 
 tionless on the bank. By twos and threes 
 the main body of the waterfowl 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 phe^ 
 nomenon on the land. 
 
 The bailiff, kneeling behind the paling, 
 wdiispered, ' Trim ! ' 
 
 Hearing his name, the terrier turned 
 about, and retirinc^ throusrh the hole, became
 
 THE PB ELUDE. 23 
 
 lost to the view of the ducks. Motionless on 
 the water, the wild-fowl wondered and waited. 
 In a minute more, the dog had trotted round, 
 and had shown himself through the next 
 hole in the paling ; pierced farther iuAvard, 
 w^here the lake ran up into the outermost of 
 the windings of the creek. 
 
 The second appearance of the terrier 
 instantly produced a second fit of curiosity 
 among the ducks. With one accord, they 
 SAvam forward ag;ain, to o-et another and a 
 nearer view of the dog ; then, judging their 
 safe distance once more, they stopped for the 
 second time, under the outermost arch of the 
 Decoy. Again, the dog vanished, and the 
 puzzled ducks waited. An interval passed — 
 and the third appearance of Trim took place, 
 through a third hole in the pahng, pierced 
 farther inland, up the creek. For the third 
 time, irresistible curiosity urged the ducks 
 to advance, farther and farther inward under
 
 21 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 the fatal arches of the Decoy. A fourth and 
 a fifth time the game went on, mitil the dog 
 had hired the waterfowl, 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 w^eighted 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 httle do£^ for a bait ! In a few hours 
 afterwards, 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 tliat is better 
 worth seeing than the ducks.'
 
 THE FBELUDE. 25 
 
 'What is it?' 
 
 ' It's a surprise. I won't tell you.' 
 
 ' Will you give me a kiss ? ' 
 
 The charming little creature put her shm 
 sunburnt arms round my neck, and an- 
 swered : 
 
 ' 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 courtship in each other's arms. 
 He shook his big forefinger at us, with some- 
 thing 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 bailiff's daughter ?' 
 
 ' When my father comes home,' I an- 
 swered with great dignity, ' I shall tell him
 
 26 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 the trutli. I shall say I am going to marry 
 your daughter.' 
 
 The bailiff burst out laughing, and looked 
 back ag;am at his ducks. 
 
 ' Well ! well ! ' we heard him say to him- 
 self. ' 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. Properly understood, one 
 of us was a lady aged ten, and the other was 
 a gentleman aged thirteen. We left the good 
 bailiff indignantly, and went away together, 
 hand in hand, to the cottage. 
 
 II. 
 
 ' He is growing too fast,' said the doctor to- 
 my mother ; ' and he is getting a great deal 
 too clever for a boy at his age. Eemove him 
 from school, ma'am, for six months ; let him
 
 THE FRELUBE. Tf 
 
 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 pre- 
 scription ! ' 
 
 Those words decided my fate in life. 
 
 In obedience to the doctor's advice, I was 
 left, an idle boy — without 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 
 pla3rfellows. We met in our wanderings on 
 the solitary shores of the lake. Beginning 
 by being inseparable companions, we ripened 
 and developed into true lovers. Our pre- 
 liminary courtship [concluded, we next pro- 
 posed (before I returned to school) to burst 
 into complete maturity by becoming man 
 and wife. 
 
 I am not writing in jest. Absurd as it 
 may appear to 'sensible people,' we two
 
 .28 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 children were lovers — if ever tliere were 
 lovers yet. 
 
 We had no pleasures apart from the one 
 all-sufficient pleasure v/hich 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 on- 
 ward, 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
 
 THE PBELUBE. 29 
 
 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 souoiit to know. 
 We obeyed the impulse to love one another 
 as a bird obeys the impulse to fly. 
 
 Let it not be supposed that we possessed 
 any natural gifts or advantages which singled 
 us out as differing in a marked way from 
 other children at our time of life. We pos- 
 sessed nothing of the sort. I had been called 
 a clever boy at school ; but there were thou- 
 sands of other boys at ^thousands of other 
 schools, who headed their classes and won 
 their prizes like me. Personally speaking, 
 I vras in no way remarkable — except for 
 beiu'i', in the ordinary phrase, ' tall for my 
 age.' On her side, Mary displayed no strik-
 
 :dQ THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 ing attractions. She was a fragile cliild, with 
 mild grey eyes and a pale complexion ; 
 singularly undemonstrative, singularly shy 
 and silent, except when she was 'alone with 
 me. Such beauty as she had, in those early 
 days, lay in a certain artless purity and 
 tenderness of expression, and in the charm- 
 ing reddish-brown colour of her hair, varying 
 quaintly and prettily in different lights. To 
 all outward appearance two perfectly com- 
 monplace 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 young selves, 
 but which lay too deep for investigation by 
 for older and far wiser heads than ours. 
 
 You will naturally wonder whether any- 
 thing was done by our elders to check our 
 precocious attachment, while it was still an 
 innocent love-union between a boy and a 
 mrl. 
 
 ■O
 
 THE PRELUDE. 31 
 
 Nothing was done by my father — for the 
 simple reason that he was away from home. 
 
 He was a man of a restless and specu- 
 lative turn of mind. Inheriting his estate 
 burdened mth debt, his grand ambition was 
 to increase liis small available income by his 
 own exertions; to set up an establishment 
 in London ; and to chmb to political distinc- 
 tion 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 then' fortunes. My father's ec- 
 centric 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 poor mother — the sweetest
 
 32 THE TWO DESTimES 
 
 and softest-hearted of women — to see me 
 liappy was all that she desired. 
 
 The quaint little love -romance of the two 
 children amused 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 awhile ! ' 
 
 There was one memiber 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 — discovered what was going on 
 between Mary and me — and was at first,
 
 THE rUELUDE. 33 
 
 naturally enough, inclined to laugh at us. 
 Closer investigation altered his way of think- 
 ing. He became convinced that my mother 
 was acting like a fool ; that the bailiff (a 
 faithful servant, if ever there was one yet) 
 was cunnin^lv advancin^j his OAvn interests by 
 means of his daughter ; and that I was a 
 young idiot, who had developed his native 
 reserves of imbecility 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 me there until I had been 
 brought to my senses by association with his 
 own children, and by careful superintendence 
 imder 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 ^vas 
 still impatiently w^aiting for her decision, I 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 settled the question for my elders by running 
 away. 
 
 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, without 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 bailiff's know- 
 ledge) in the bedroom of the bailiff's mother. 
 And did the bailiff's mother know it? you 
 will ask. To which I answer : the baihff's 
 mother did it. And what is more, gloried
 
 THE PRELUDE. 35 
 
 in doing it — not, observe, as an act of 
 liostility to my relatives, but simply as a 
 duty that lay on lier conscience. 
 
 What sort of old woman, in the name of 
 all that is wonderful, was this ? Let her 
 appear and speak for herself — the wild and 
 weird grandmother of gentle little Mary ; the 
 Sibyl of modern 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 Dermod}' — 
 with fierce black eyes, surmounted by bushy 
 white eyebrows, by a high ^vrinkled forehead 
 and by thick white hair gathered neatly 
 under her old-fashioned ' mob-cap.' Eeport 
 whispered (and whispered truly) that she had 
 been a lady by birth and breeding, and that 
 she had deliberately closed her prospects in 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE TWO DESTIMES. 
 
 life l)y marrying a man greatly her inferior 
 in social rank. Whatever her family might 
 think of the 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 sleeping, morning or night. 
 
 Holding this faith, she was in no respect 
 influenced by those grossly material ideas 
 of modern growth, which associate the pre- 
 sence of spiritual beings with clumsy con- 
 juring tricks and monkey-antics performed 
 on tables and chairs. Dame Dermody's 
 nobler superstition formed an integral part 
 of her reli^^ious convictions — convictions 
 which had lonsf since found tJieir chosen 
 resting-place in the mystic doctrines of 
 Emanuel Swedenboro^. The onlv books 
 which she read were the works of the Swe- 
 dish Seer. She mixed up Swedenborg's 
 teachings on angels and departed spirits, on
 
 the: prelude. 37 
 
 love to one's neighbour and purity of life, 
 with wild fancies and kindred behefs of her 
 own, and preaclied the visionary rehgious 
 doctrines thus derived — not only in the 
 baihfF's household, but also on proselytising 
 expeditions to the households of her humble 
 neighbours, far and near. 
 
 Under her son's roof — after tlie death of 
 his wife — she reigned a supreme power ; 
 pridmg herself alike on her close attention to 
 her domestic duties, and on her privileged 
 commiuiications with angels and spirits. She 
 would hold her 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-union 
 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
 
 38 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 prayer and praise, wliicli we were to use 
 when we met and when Ave parted, day by 
 day. She solemnly warned her son to look 
 upon us as two young consecrated creatures, 
 walking unconsciously on a Jieavenly path of 
 their own. whose beg;innino^ was on earth, 
 but whose brio-ht end was amoni:^ the anc^els 
 in a better state of being. Imagine my 
 appearing before such a woman as this, and 
 telhng 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 my leaving 
 my hiding-place, I committed a serious mis- 
 take. In thanking the old A^'oman at parting 
 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 bed- 
 room.'
 
 THE PBELUDE. 39 
 
 The Sibyl laid her dry fieshless hand on 
 my shonlder, 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 anything 
 that I was ashamed of? Do you think I am 
 ashamed of what I have done now ? Wait 
 there. Your mother may mistake me too. 
 I shall write to your mother.' 
 
 She put on her great round spectacles 
 with tortoiseshell rims, and sat down to lier 
 letter. Whenever her thoug;lits flao^fred, 
 whenever she was at a loss for an expression, 
 she looked over her shoulder, as if some 
 visible creature was stationed beliind her, 
 watching what she wrote — consulted the 
 spirit of her husband, exactly as she might 
 have consulted a living man — smiled softly 
 to herself — and went on with her writing. 
 
 ' There ! ' she said, handing me the com-
 
 40 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 pletecl letter with an imperial gesture of in- 
 dulgence. ' His 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 for- 
 mal 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 settiog 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.
 
 THE PRELUDE. 41 
 
 ' I hold the behef that all love that is 
 true, is fore-ordained and consecrated in 
 Heaven. Spirits destined to be united in the 
 better world, are divinely commissioned to 
 discover each other, and to begin their union 
 in this world. The only happy marriages 
 are those in which the two destined spirits 
 have succeeded in meetinc^ 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 ; 
 worldly wisdom may delude them, or may 
 make tliem delude themselves, into contract- 
 ing an earthly and a fallible union. It matters 
 nothing. The time will certainly come, when 
 that union will manifest itself as earthly and 
 follible ; and the two disunited spirits, find-
 
 42 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 ins each other a2:ain, will become united 
 here, for the world beyond this — united, I 
 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. Maid, 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 kindred spirit met my spirit while 
 I was still young. I knew true love and true 
 union before I Avas twenty years of age. I 
 married, 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,
 
 THE TR ELUDE. 43 
 
 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 brisfht outset of their 
 lives. 
 
 ' Believe me, the thing which your hus- 
 band'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 to- 
 wards 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 in Heaven, that your son is the 
 Squire's heir, and that my grandchild is only 
 the bailiff's daughter. Dismiss from your 
 mind, I implore you, the unworthy and un- 
 christian j)rejudices of rank. Are we not 
 all equal before God ? Are we not all equal 
 (even in this world) before disease and death ? 
 Not your son's happiness only, but your own
 
 44 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 peace of mind is concerned, in taking lieed 
 to my words. I warn you, madam, you can- 
 not 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. Xow, 
 I have said all. 
 
 ' If I have spoken too freely, or have in 
 any other w^ay unwittingly offended, I ask 
 your pardon, and remain, madam, your faith- 
 ful servant and well-wisher, 
 
 'Heleis^ Deemody.' 
 
 So the letter ended. 
 
 To me, it is something more than a mere 
 curiosity of epistolary composition. I see in 
 it the prophecy — strangely fulfilled in later
 
 THE PBELVDE. Ao 
 
 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 discussions which turned on 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 re- 
 turned, without hindrance 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 obhged to sail 
 for England at a moment's notice ; that he 
 had arrived in London, and that he was de- 
 tained there by business wliich would admit 
 of no delay. We were to wait for him at
 
 46 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 home, in daily expectation of seeing liiin — 
 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 mysterious delay in London, were omi- 
 nous of misfortune to come. I am now writ- 
 ing of those dark days in the past, when the 
 railway and the electric telegraph were still 
 visions in the minds of inventors. Eapid 
 communication witli my father (even if he 
 would have consented to take us into his con- 
 fidence) 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 de- 
 tained by his business. The morning came, 
 when Mary and I went out with Dermody 
 the bailiff, to see the last wild-fowl of the
 
 THE PBELUDE. 
 
 season lured into the Decoy — and still the 
 welcome home waited for the master, and 
 waited in vain. 
 
 III. 
 
 The narrative may now follow my little 
 sweetheart and myself, on our way to Der- 
 mody's cottage. 
 
 As we approached the garden gate, I 
 saw a servant from the house waiting^ there. 
 He carried a message from my mother — a 
 message for me. 
 
 'My mistress wishes you to go home, 
 Master George, as 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.
 
 48 THE TWO BESTLSTES. 
 
 ' Must you really go away, George,' she 
 whispered, ' before you see what I have got 
 waiting for you at home ? ' 
 
 I remembered Mary's promised ' surprise,' 
 the secret of which was only to be revealed 
 to me when we got to the cottage. 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 sort. My love to my 
 mother— and I would be back at the house 
 in half an hour. 
 
 We entered the cottage. 
 
 Dame Dermody was sitting in the light 
 of the window as usual, with one of the 
 mystic books of Emanuel Swedenborg open 
 on her lap. She solemnly lifted her hand on 
 our appearance ; signing to us to occupy our 
 customary corner, without speaking to her. 
 It was an act of domestic \\vj\i treason to
 
 THE PRELUDE. 49 
 
 iDteiTupt the Sibyl at lier books. We crept 
 quietly into our places. Mary waited until 
 she saw her grandmother's grey head bend 
 down, and her grandmother's bushy eye- 
 brows contract attentively, over her reading. 
 Then, and then only, the discreet child rose 
 on tiptoe ; disappeared noiselessly in the di- 
 rection of her bedchamber ; and came back 
 to me, carrying something carefully ^^Tapped 
 up in her best cambric handkerchief. 
 
 ' Is that the surprise ? ' I whispered. 
 
 Mary whispered back, ' Guess what it is ! ' 
 
 ' Something^ for me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. Go on guessing. Wliat 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. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THF. TV/0 DESTIXIES. 
 
 ' It's tlie name of a Thing,' she said. 
 ' And it begins with F.' 
 
 I guessed ' Fern,' ' Feather,' ' Fife — ' and 
 there my resources failed me. 
 
 Mary sighed and shook her head. ' You 
 don't take pains,' 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. She 
 helped me by another hint. 
 
 What did you once say you wished you 
 had in your boat ? ' she asked. . 
 
 ' Was it long ago ? ' I enquired, at a loss 
 for an answer. 
 
 ' Loner, lone^ ao^o ! Before the winter. 
 When the autumn leaves were falling — and
 
 THE PFELUBE. , 51 
 
 you took me out one evenins^ for a sail. Ah, 
 George, you have forgotten ! ' 
 
 Too true, of me and of my brethren, old 
 and young alike ! It is always his love that 
 forgets, and he?' love that remembers. We 
 were only two children — and we were types 
 of the man and the wonian already ! 
 
 Mary lost patience with me. Forgetting 
 the terrible presence of her grandmother, she 
 jumped up, and snatched the concealed object 
 out of the handkerchief. 
 
 ' There ! ' she cried briskly, ' noio do you 
 know what it is ? ' 
 
 I rem^embered at last. The thing 1 had 
 wished for in my boat, all those months ago, 
 Vv'as 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 embroi- 
 dered on it in white, carrying in its beak the 
 typical olive-branch, wrought in gold tliread. 
 The work was the tremulous uncertain work 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 of a child's fingers. But liow faithfully my 
 little darling had remembered my wish — how 
 patiently she had plied the needle over the 
 traced lines of the pattern — how industriously 
 she had laboured through the dreary winter 
 days ; and all for my sake ! What words 
 could tell my pride, my gratitude, my happi- 
 ness P I too forgot the presence of the Sibyl 
 bending over her book — I took the little 
 workwoman in my arms, and kissed her till 
 I was fairl}^ out of breath and could 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 approached
 
 THE FRELUDE. 53 
 
 her, and Mary followed me timidly, by a 
 footstep at a time. 
 
 The Sibyl took me by the hand, y/ith a 
 caressing gentleness which was new in my 
 experience of her. 
 
 'Do you prize that toy?' she enquired, 
 looking at the flag. ' Hide it,' she cried be- 
 fore I coukl answer. ' Hide it, or it may be 
 taken from you.' 
 
 'Why should I hide it?' 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 tln^ust it impatiently into the 
 breast-pocket of my jacket. 
 
 ' Don't crumple it, grandmother I ' said 
 Mary piteously. 
 
 I put another question. 
 
 ' Why shall I never fly it at the mast of 
 my boat?' 
 
 Dame Dermody laid her hand on the
 
 54 THE TJVO DESTINIES. 
 
 closed volume of Swedeiiborg lying in lier 
 lap. 
 
 ' Three times I liave opened this book 
 since the morning,' she said. ' Three times 
 the words of the prophet warn me that there 
 is trouble comino-. Children ! it is trouble 
 that is coming to You. I look there,' she 
 went on, pointing to the place where a ray 
 of sunlight poured slanting into the room ; 
 ' and I see my husband in the heavenly hght. 
 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 vrorthy of 3^our consecration ; be 
 always w^orthy of yourselves.' She paused. 
 Her voice faltered. She looked at us with 
 softening eyes, as those look who know sadly 
 that there is a parting at hand. ' Kneel ! ' 
 she said, in low tones of avv^e and grief. ' It 
 may be the last time I bless you ; it may be 
 the last time I pray over you in this house. 
 Kneel ! '
 
 THE PRELUDE. 5-3 
 
 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 vfas 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 has come,' she said to herself 'It 
 looks with the eyes — it will speak with the 
 voice — of that man.' 
 
 My father broke the silence tliat followed, 
 addressing himself to the bailiff. 
 
 ' You see, Dermody,' he said, ' here is my 
 son in your cottao-e, when he ou,qht to be in
 
 56 THE TWO DESTJXIES. 
 
 my house.' He turned, and looked at me as 
 I stood with my arm roimd httle Mary, 
 patiently 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 Avas my time to declare 
 myself. Judging by appearances, I was still 
 a boy. Judging by my own sensations, 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 liumour clianged. He 
 had observed tJmt Dermody too presumed to
 
 THE PBELrUE. .07 
 
 be amused. He seemed to become mad with 
 anger all in a moment. 
 
 ' I have been told of this infernal tom- 
 foolery,' he said ; ' but I didn't believe it till 
 now. AYlio 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 day's work you ever did in 
 your life.' He turned to me again, before 
 the bailiff could defend himself. 'Do you 
 hear what I say? I tell you to leave Der- 
 mody's girl, and come home with me.' 
 
 'Yes, papa,' I answered. 'But I must 
 go back to Mary, if you please, after I have 
 been vntli you.' 
 
 Angry as he was, my father was positively 
 staggered by my audacity. 
 
 ' You vouni^ idiot, vour 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
 
 38 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 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 inter- 
 posed, very respectfully 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 your privilege. You 
 have shamed me, sir, 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, Der- 
 mody. You leave my service.'
 
 THE PRELUDE. 59 
 
 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 answered. ' You shall have 
 no opportunity of repeating w^hat you have 
 just said to me. I will send in my accounts 
 to-night ; and I Avill leave your service to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 ' 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 himself. ' 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,
 
 60 . THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 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 ' 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 some- 
 times. I can't hve 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. ' Eid your mind of that notion, master, 
 before it is too late.' 
 
 My father looked round quickly, and 
 discovered Dame Dermody fiicing him in the
 
 THE PRELUDE. 61 
 
 full light of the window. She had stepped 
 back at the outset of the dispute, into the 
 corner behind the fireplace. There she had 
 remained, biding her time to speak, until my 
 father's last threat broui:rht her out of her 
 place of retirement. 
 
 They looked at each other for a moment. 
 My father seemed to thhik it beneath his 
 dignity to answer her. He went on with 
 what he had to say to me. 
 
 ' I 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 to 
 the disgrace of being taken away by force.' 
 
 ' Take liim where you may,' said Dame 
 Dermody, ' he w^ill still be on his way to his 
 marriage with my grandchild.' 
 
 ' And w^here shall I be, if you please ? ' 
 asked my father, stung into speaking to her 
 this time. 
 
 The answer followed instantly, in these 
 startUnji words : —
 
 62 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 ' You will be on your way to your ruin 
 and your death.' 
 
 My father turned his back on the pro- 
 phetess, with a smile of contempt. 
 
 ' One ! ' he said, beginning to count. 
 
 I set my teeth, and clasped both arms 
 round Mary, as he spoke. I had inherited 
 some of his temper, and he was now to 
 know it. 
 
 ' Two ! ' proceeded my father, after wait- 
 ing a little. 
 
 Mary put her trembling lips to my ear, 
 and whispered, ' Let me go, George ! I 
 can't bear to see it. Oh, look how he 
 frowns ! I knoAv he'll hurt you ! ' 
 
 My father lifted his forefmger, as a pre- 
 liminary warning before he counted Three. 
 
 ' Stop I ' cried Dame Dermody. 
 
 My father looked round at her again, 
 with sardonic astonishment. 
 
 'I beg your pardon, ma'am—have you
 
 THE PBELUDE. 63 
 
 anything particular to say to me ? ' he 
 asked. 
 
 ' Man ! ' returned the Sibyl, ' you speak 
 lightly. Have I spoken lightly to you ? I 
 warn you to bow your wicked will before a 
 Will that is mightier than yours. The spirits 
 of these children are kindred spirits. For 
 time and for eternity they are united one to 
 the other. Put land and sea between them — 
 they will still be together ; they will commu- 
 nicate in visions, they will be revealed to 
 each other in dreams. Bind them by 
 worldly ties; wed your son, in the time to 
 come, to another woman, and my grand- 
 daughter to another man. In vain ! I tell 
 you, in vain ! You may doom them to 
 misery, you may drive them to sin — the day 
 of their union on earth is still a day predes- 
 tined in Heaven. It \d\\ come ! It will 
 come ! Submit, while the time for submis- 
 sion is yours. You are a doomed man. I see
 
 64 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 the shadow of disaster, I see the seal of death, 
 on your face. Go ; and leave these conse- 
 crated ones to walk the dark ways of the 
 world together, in the strength of their inno- 
 cence, in the light of their love. Go — and 
 God forgive you.' 
 
 In spite of himself, my father was struck 
 by the irresistible strength of conviction 
 which inspired those words. The baihff's 
 mother had impressed him as a tragic actress 
 might have impressed liim on the stage. 
 She had checked the mocking answer on his 
 lips ; but she had not shaken his iron will. 
 His face was as hard as ever, when he turned 
 my way once more. 
 
 ' The last chance, George,' he said — and 
 counted the last number : ' Three ! ' 
 
 I neither moved nor answered him. 
 
 ' You loill have it ? ' he said, as he 
 fastened his hold on my arm. 
 
 I fastened viy hold on Mary ; I wliispered
 
 THE PRELUDE. 65 
 
 to her, ' I won't leave you ! ' Slie seemed 
 not to liear me. Slie trembled from head 
 to foot, in my arms. A faint cry of terror 
 fluttered from her lips. Dermody instantly 
 stepped forward. Before my father could 
 wrench me away from her, he had said in 
 my ear, ' You can give her to me^ Master 
 George,' and had released his child from my 
 embrace. She stretched her httle frail hands 
 out yearningly to me, as she lay in Dermody 's 
 arms. ' Goodbye, dear,' she said faintly. I 
 saw her head sink on her father's bosom, as 
 I was dragged to the door. In my helpless 
 rage and misery, I struggled against the cruel 
 hands that had got me, with all the strength 
 I had left. I cried out to her, ' I love you, 
 Mary ! I will come back to you, Mary ! I 
 will never marry anyone but you!' Step 
 by step, I was forced farther and fartlier 
 away. The last I saw of her, my darling's 
 head was still resting on Dermody's breast. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 Her graudmotlier stood near — and sliook her 
 withered hands at my father — and shrieked 
 her terrible prophecy, in the hysteric frenzy 
 that possessed her when she saw the separa- 
 tion accomphshed. ' Go ! — you go to your 
 ruin ! you go to your death ! ' While her 
 voice still rang in my ears, the cottage door 
 was opened and closed again. It was all 
 over. The modest world of my boyish love 
 and my boyish joy, disappeared like the 
 vision of a dream. The empty outer wilder- 
 ness which was my father's world, opened 
 before me void of love and void of joy. God 
 forgive me — how I hated him at that mo- 
 ment ! 
 
 TV. 
 
 For the rest of the day, and throughout the 
 night, I was kept a close prisoner in my 
 room — watched by a man, on whose fidelity 
 my father could depend.
 
 THE PRELUDE. 67 
 
 The next morniDg, I made an effort to 
 escape, and was discovered before I had got 
 free of the house. Confined again to my 
 room, I contrived to \vrite to Mary, and to 
 sHp my note into the wiUiDg hand of the 
 housemaid who attended on me. Useless ! 
 The vigilance of my guardian was not to be 
 evaded. The w^oman was suspected and 
 followed, and the letter was taken from her. 
 My father tore it up with his own hands. 
 
 Later in the day, my mother was per- 
 mitted to see me. 
 
 She was quite unfit, poor soul, to inter- 
 cede for me, or to serve my interests in any 
 way. My father had completely over- 
 whelmed her by announcing that his wife 
 and his son were to accompany him when 
 he returned to America. 
 
 . * Every farthing he has in the world,' said 
 my mother, ' is to be thrown away in that 
 hateful speculation. He has raised money in
 
 68 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 London ; lie has found some ricli tradesman 
 to take the house on a long lease ; he has 
 sold the plate, and the jewels that came to 
 me from his mother. The land in America 
 ■swallows it all up. We have no home, 
 Oeorge, and no choice but to go with him.' 
 
 An hour afterwards, the post-chaise was 
 rat the door. 
 
 My father himself took me to the carriage. 
 I broke away from him with a desperation 
 ^hich not even his resolution could resist. 
 I ran, I flew, along the path that led to 
 Dermody's cottage. The door stood open ; 
 the parlour was empty. I went into the 
 kitchen ; I went into the upper rooms. Soli- 
 tude everywhere. The bailiff had left his 
 place ; and his mother and his daughter had 
 gone with him. No friend or neighbour 
 lingered near with a message ; no letter lay 
 waiting for me ; no hint was left to tell me 
 in what direction they had taken their depar-
 
 THE PB ELUDE. 69. 
 
 ture. After tlie insulting words wliicli his 
 master had spoken to him, Dermody's pride 
 was concerned in leaving no trace of his 
 whereabouts ; my father might consider it as 
 a trace purposely left, with the object of re- 
 uniting Mary and me. I had no keepsake 
 to speak to me of my lost darling, but the 
 flag which she had embroidered with her 
 own hand. The furniture still remained in 
 the cottage. I sat down in our customary 
 corner, by Mary's empty chair, and looked 
 again at the pretty green flag, and burst out 
 cryiug. 
 
 A light touch roused me. My father had 
 so far yielded, as to leave to my mother 
 the responsibility of bringing me back to the 
 travelling carriage. 
 
 ' We shall not find Mary here, George,* 
 she said, gently. ' And we may hear of her 
 in London. Come with me.' 
 
 I rose, and silently gave her my hand.
 
 70 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 Sometliing low down on the clean wliite door- 
 post caught my eye as we passed it. I stopped, 
 and discovered some writing in pencil. I 
 looked closer, it was writing in Mary's hand. 
 The imformed childish characters traced 
 these last words of farewell : 
 
 ' Goodbye, dear. Don't forget Mary.' 
 
 I knelt down and kissed the writing. It 
 comforted me — it was hke a farewell touch 
 from Mary's hand. I followed my mother 
 quietly to the carriage. 
 
 Late that night we were in London. 
 
 My good mother did all that the most 
 compassionate kindness could do (in her 
 position) to comfort me. She privately wrote 
 to the solicitors employed by her family, in- 
 closing a description of Dermody and his 
 mother and daughter, and directing enquiries 
 to be made at the various coach offices in 
 London. She also referred the lawyers to 
 Dermody's relatives, who lived in the city.
 
 THE FRELUDE. 71 
 
 .-and who miglit know something of his 
 movements after he left my father's service. 
 Wlien she had done this, she had done all 
 that lay in her power. We neither of us 
 possessed money enough to advertise in the 
 newspapers. 
 
 A week afterwards we sailed for the 
 United States. Twice in that interval I 
 •communicated with the lawyers ; and twice 
 I was informed that the enquiries had led 
 to nothing. 
 
 With this, the love-story of my boyhood 
 comes to an end. I still kept tlie green flag, 
 with the dove worked on it. For the rest, 
 the waters of oblivion had closed over the 
 old golden days at Greenw^ater Broad. 
 
 THE EXD OF THE PRELUDE.
 
 THE STOEY. 
 
 [FROM THE MASrSCEIFT OF GEOEGE GEBMAIXE.J 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 TEX YEAES OF :MY LIFE. 
 
 Whex you last saw me, I was a boy of thir- 
 teen. You now see me a man of twenty- 
 three. 
 
 The story of my life, in the interval be- 
 tween these two ages, is a story that can be 
 soon told. 
 
 Speaking of my father first, I have ta 
 record that the end of his career did indeed 
 come as Dame Dermody had foretold it. 
 Before we had been a year in America, the 
 total collapse of his land speculation was fol-
 
 74 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 lowed by his death. The catastrophe was 
 ■complete. But for my mother's little income 
 {settled on her at her marriage) we should 
 both have been left helpless at the m.ercy of 
 the world. 
 
 We made some kind friends among the 
 hearty and hospitable people of the United 
 States, whom we were unaffectedly sorry to 
 leave. But there were reasons which inclined 
 us to return to our country, after my father's 
 •death — and we did return accordingly. 
 
 Besides her brother-in-law (already men- 
 tioned in the earlier pages of my narrative) 
 my mother had another relative — a cousin, 
 named Germaine — on whose assistance she 
 mainly relied for starting me, when the time 
 •came, in a professional career. I remember 
 it, as a family rumour, that Mr. Germaine had 
 been an unsuccessful suitor for my mother s 
 hand, in the days wlien they were young 
 people together. He was still a bachelor, at
 
 TEN YEARS OF MY LIFE. 75 
 
 the later period when his eldest brother's 
 ■death without issue placed him in possession of 
 a handsome fortune. The accession of wealth 
 made no difference in his habits of life ; he 
 w^as a lonely old man, estranged from his 
 •other relatives, when my mother and I 
 returned to England. If I could only suc- 
 ceed in pleasing Mr. Germaine, I might con- 
 sider my prospects (in some degree at least) 
 as being prospects assured. 
 
 This was one consideration that influenced 
 us in leaving America. There was another — 
 in which I was especially interested — that 
 •drew me back to the lonely shores of Green- 
 ivater Broad. 
 
 My only hope of recovering a trace of 
 Mary was to make enquiries among the cot- 
 tagers in the neighbourhood of my old home. 
 'The good bailiff had been heartily liked and 
 respected in his little sphere. It seemed at 
 least possible that some among his many
 
 76 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 friends in Suffolk might have discovered 
 traces of him, in the year that had passed 
 since I had left England. In my dreams of 
 Mary — and I dreamed of her constantly — the 
 lake and its woody banks formed a frequent 
 background in the visionary picture of my 
 lost companion. To the lake-shores I looked, 
 with a natural superstition, as to my w^ay 
 back to the one life that had its promise of 
 happiness for me — my life with Mary. 
 
 On our arrival in London, I started alone 
 for Suffolk, at my mother's request. At her 
 age she naturally shrank from revisiting the 
 home-scenes now occupied by the strangers 
 to whom oiu: 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 tliat caught my eye was the gaily- 
 painted boat, once mine, in which Mary and 
 I had so often sailed together. The people-
 
 TEN YEABS OF MY LIFE. 77 
 
 in possession of our liouse were sailing now. 
 The sound of tlieir laughter floated towards 
 me merrily over the still water. Their 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 pahng 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 throuQ-h 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
 
 78 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 dear old scenes ! I turned my back on the 
 lake, to think with calmer thoughts in the 
 shadowy sohtude of the woods. 
 
 Half 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 enquiries standing on the 
 doorstep. They were soon at an end. The 
 woman was a stranger in our part of Suffolk ; 
 neither she nor her husband had ever heard 
 of Dermody's name. 
 
 I pursued my investigations among the 
 peasantry, passing from cottage to cottage. 
 The twihght came ; the moon rose ; the 
 lights began to vanish from the lattice win- 
 dows — and still I continued my weary pil- 
 grimage ; and still, go where I might, the 
 answer to my questions was the same. I^o-
 
 TEN YEARS OF MY LIFE. TO" 
 
 body knew anything of Dermody : everybody^ 
 asked if I had not brought news of him 
 myself. It pains me even now to recall the 
 cruelly-complete 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 parted. 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 toge- 
 ther again, and sang hymns togetlier again, 
 as if the old times had come back. Once
 
 •80 THE TWO DESTIXIES. 
 
 she appeared to me with tears in her eyes, 
 and said, 'We must wait, dear ; our time has 
 not come yet.' Twice I saw her looking at 
 me, hke one disturbed by anxious thoughts ; 
 and twice I heard her say, ' Live patiently, 
 live innocently, George, for my sake. 
 
 We settled in London, where my educa- 
 tion was undertaken by a private tutor. 
 Before we had been long in our new abode, 
 •an unexpected change in our prospects took 
 place. To my mother's astonishment, she 
 received an offer of marriage (addressed to 
 her in a letter) from Mr. Germaine. 
 
 ' I entreat you not to be startled 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 that time is possible 
 now. At my age, all I ask of you is to be 
 the companion of the closing years of my life.
 
 TEN YEABS OF MY LIFE. 81 
 
 and to srive me something^ of a father's interest 
 in promoting the fnture 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 had been through- 
 out his whole hfe devoted to her ; and she 
 would recover the comfort, 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 ? She could produce no satisfactory 
 answer to that question, when I put it. As 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 tlie necessary consequence, slie became in 
 •due course of time, Mrs. Germaine. I have 
 only to add tliat, 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, except in my dreams. The 
 years went on, until the perilous time which 
 •comes in every man's life, came in mine. I 
 reached the age when the strongest of all the 
 passions seizes on the senses, and asserts its 
 mastery over mind and body alike. 
 
 I had hitherto passively endured the 
 wreck of my earliest and dearest hopes ; I 
 had lived patiently, I had 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. 
 ^ut my nights were given, in secret, to a
 
 TEN YEARS OF MY LIFE. 83 
 
 reckless profligacy, wliich (in my present 
 frame of mind) I look back on with disgust 
 and dismay. T 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 tliink 
 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 know- 
 ledge of my mother. The sight of her grief
 
 81 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 was the first influence that sobered me. In 
 some degree at least, I restrained myself — ^I 
 made the effort to return to purer ways of 
 life. Mr. Germaine, though I had disap- 
 pointed him, was too just a man to give me 
 up as lost. He advised me, as a means of 
 self-reform, to make m}^ choice of a profession, 
 and to absorb myself in closer studies than 
 any that I had yet pursued. 
 
 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 himself been attached, before 
 he had inherited his fortune — the profession 
 of medicine. Mr. Germaine had been a sur- 
 geon : 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.
 
 TEX YEARS OF MY LIFE. 85 
 
 it is not to be denied tHat my reformation 
 was, morally speaking, far from being com- 
 plete. I worked — but what I did was done 
 selfishly, bitterly, with a hard heart. In 
 rehgion and morals I adopted the views of a 
 materialist companion of my studies — a worn- 
 out man of more than double my age. I 
 beheved in nothing but what I could see, or 
 taste, or feel. I lost all faith in humanity. 
 With the one exception of my mother, I had 
 no respect for women. My remembrances of 
 Mary deteriorated until tliey became httle 
 more than a lost link of association with the 
 past. I still preserved the green flag, as a 
 matter of habit — ^but it was no longer kept 
 about me ; it was left imdisturbed in a 
 drawer of my writing-desk. Now and then 
 a 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
 
 86 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 logical order of things that I should follow 
 my conclusions to their bitter end, and con- 
 sistently 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 ! 
 
 Neitlier my mother nor Mr. Germaine 
 could make any positive complaint of my 
 conduct. But they were both thoroughly 
 uneasy about me. After anxious considera- 
 tion, my step-father arrived at a conclusion. 
 He decided that the one chance of restoring 
 me to my better and brighter self, was to try 
 the stimulant of a life among new people and 
 new scenes. 
 
 At the period of which I am now writing,, 
 the home government had decided on send- 
 ing a special diplomatic mission to one of the- 
 native princes ruhng over a remote province 
 of our Indian empire. In the disturbed state- 
 of the province at that time, the mission, oa
 
 TEN YEAES OF MY LIFE. 87 
 
 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 mise- 
 rable pride of indifference. So loDg 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 contemplate the new pros- 
 pect now set before me. When she did at 
 length give way, she yielded most unwill- 
 ingly. I confess I left her with the tears in 
 my eyes — the first I had shed for many a 
 long year past.
 
 88 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 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 incapable 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 attempt was defeated with little difficulty, 
 and with only a trifling loss on our side. I 
 was among the wounded — having been struck 
 by a javelin, or spear, while I was passing 
 from one tent to another. 
 
 Inflicted by an European weapon, my 
 injury would have been of no serious conse- 
 quence. But the tip of the Indian spear had 
 been poisoned. I escaped the mortal danger 
 of ' lock-jaw ; ' but, through some peculiarity 
 in the action of the poison on my constitution
 
 TEN YEAES OF MY LIFE. 89 
 
 {whicli I am quite unable to explain), my 
 wound obstinately refused to heal. 
 
 I was invalided, and sent to Calcutta, 
 where the best surgical help was at my dis- 
 posal. To all appearance, the w^ound healed 
 iiere — 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 had a life to come — 
 had been tm^ned into a new channel. Mr. 
 <jermaine 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 liis
 
 90 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 property to me ; on the one condition that I. 
 adopted his name. 1 accepted the condition,. 
 of course — and became George Germaine. 
 
 Four months later, my mother and I 
 were restored to each other. 
 
 Except that I still had some trouble witli 
 my wound, behold me now to all appearance- 
 one of the most enviable of existing mortals :. 
 promoted to the position of a wealthy gentle- 
 man ; possessor of a house in London, and of 
 a country seat in Perthshire — and neverthe- 
 less, 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 Mary ? 
 
 You have heard my story. Eead the few 
 pages that follow, and you will hear hers.
 
 91 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 TEX TEARS OF HER LIFE. 
 
 What I have now to teU you of Mary, is de- 
 rived from information obtained at a date in 
 my life later by many years than any date of 
 which I have written yet. Be pleased ta 
 remember this. 
 
 Dermody the bailiff possessed relatives in 
 London of whom he occasionally spoke ; and 
 relatives in Scotland whom he never men- 
 tioned. My father had a strong prejudice 
 against the Scotch nation. Dermody knew 
 his 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> 
 and he never mentioned them.
 
 •92 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 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 expe- 
 rience, Dermody was a man in a thousand, 
 to any master who was lucky enough to dis- 
 cover him. His friends 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 estab- 
 lished with his mother and his daughter in a 
 new home. 
 
 The insulting language which my father 
 had addressed to him had sunk deep in Der- 
 mody 's mind. He wrote privately to his 
 Telatives in London, telhng them that he had 
 found a new situation which suited him, and 
 that he had his reasons for not at present 
 mentioning his address. In this way, he 
 baffled the enquiries which my mother's law- 
 yers (failing to discover a trace of him in
 
 TEN YEABS OF HEB LIFE. 93. 
 
 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. Xhe 
 innocent longings and wishes that filled my 
 heart while I was still a boy, were revealed 
 to her in the myster}" of sleep. Her grand- 
 mother, holding firmly to her faith in tlie 
 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
 
 ^4 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 dreams as the sufficient promise of another 
 future than the future which Dermody con- 
 templated. So she still lived with me in the 
 spirit — and lived in hope. 
 
 The first afHiction that befell the little 
 household was the death of the grandmother, 
 by the exhaustion of extreme old age. In 
 her last conscious moments, 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 
 hinder your union in the time to come.' 
 
 Wliile those words were still vividly pre- 
 sent to Mary's mind, our visionary union by 
 dreams was abruptly broken on her 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 had ceased to see me. 
 
 The girl's sensitive nature sank under 
 the shock. She had now no elder woman
 
 TEN YEABS OF HER LIFE. 95 
 
 to comfort and advise her ; slie lived alone 
 witli her father, who invariably changed the 
 subject whenever she spoke of the old times. 
 The secret sorrow that preys on body and 
 mind alike, preyed on her, A cold, canght 
 at the inclement season, turned to fever. 
 Por wrecks she was in danger 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 hfe. It proved to be, in one respect, 
 a cruel sacrifice — her hair never grew plenti- 
 fully 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. 
 
 But Nature made amends for what the 
 head had lost, by what the face and figure 
 gained.
 
 96 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 In a year from the date of lier illness, the 
 frail little child of the old days at Green water 
 Broad, had ripened, in the bracing Scotch air 
 and the healthy mode of life, into a comely 
 young woman. Her featm'es were still, as 
 in her early years, not regularly beautiful ; 
 but the change in her was not the less 
 marked on that account. The wan face had 
 filled out, and the pale complexion had found 
 its colour. As to her figure, its remarkable 
 development was perceived even by the rough 
 people about her. Promising nothing when 
 she was a child, it had now sprung into 
 \vomanly fulness, symmetry, and grace — it 
 was a strikingly beautiful figure, in the 
 strictest sense of the word. 
 
 Morally as w^ell as physically, there were 
 moments, at this period of their lives, when 
 even her own father hardly recognised his 
 daughter of former days. She had lost her 
 childish vivacity — her sweet equable flow of
 
 TEX YEARS OF HER LIFE. 97 
 
 gooclhumour. Silent and self-absorbed, she 
 went through the daily routine of her duties 
 enduringly. The hope of meeting rcte 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 sympathetic influence in steadying her 
 mind. When her father once or twice ven- 
 tured 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 loner 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 imion 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 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 "98 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 had failed to justify itself, and had taken its 
 place among the predictions that are never 
 MfiUed. 
 
 The next notable event in the family an- 
 nals which followed Mary's illness happened 
 ivhen she had attained the age of nineteen 
 years. Even at this distance of time, my 
 heart sinks, my courage fails me, at the 
 €ritical 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 bailiff led the way in res- 
 cuing the passengers 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 in quick
 
 TEy TEARS OF HER LIFE. 99 
 
 succession, dashed him against the rocks. 
 He was rescued at the risk of tlieir ovrn hves, 
 by his neighboiurs. The medical examina- 
 tion 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 pa- 
 tient 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 invahded and a crippled man 
 for the rest of his days. 
 
 Under these melancholy circiuustances 
 the bailiff's employer did all that could be 
 strictly expected of him. He hired an assis- 
 tant to undertake the supervision of the farm- 
 work ; 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 strengtli as were left to him, 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 and to consult his friends in Glasgow on the 
 doubtful question of his life to come. 
 
 The prospect was a serious one. Dermody 
 was quite unfit for any sedentary employ- 
 ment ; and the little money that he had 
 saved was not enough to support his daugh- 
 ter and himself. The Scotch friends were 
 willing and kind; but they had domestic 
 claims on them, and they had no money to 
 spare. 
 
 In this emergency, one of the passengers 
 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 imderstanding 
 (if 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 Dermodvs in the time of their
 
 TEN YEARS OF HER LIFE. 101 
 
 trouble was a Dutch gentleman, named Ernest 
 Van Brandt. He possessed a share in a 
 fishing establishment on the shores of the 
 ^uyder Zee ; and he was on his way to es- 
 tablish a correspondence with the fisheries in 
 the North of Scotland, when the vessel was 
 wrecked. Mary had produced a strong im- 
 pression 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 hfe ; and he 
 was possessed of a sufficient income to marry 
 on. In making his proposal he produced 
 Teferences to persons of high social position 
 in Holland, who could answer for him, so far 
 as the questions of character 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.
 
 102 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 The hope of a marriage with me had been 
 a hope abandoned by her years since. Ko' 
 woman looks forward wilhugly to a life of 
 cheerless celibacy. In thinking of her future^ 
 Mary naturally thought of herself in the 
 character of a wife. Could she fairly expect, 
 in the time to come, to receive any more 
 attractive 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 grateful 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 ? 
 
 Influenced by these considerations, she 
 decided on speaking the fatal word. She 
 said. Yes. 
 
 At the same time, slie spoke plainly to> 
 Mr. Van Brandt ; unreservedly acknowledge
 
 TEN YEARS OF HER LIFE. 103. 
 
 ing that slie 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 from 
 the past, and had definitely given up all the 
 hopes and wishes once connected with it. 
 Eepose for her father, and tranquil happiness 
 for herself, were the only favours that she 
 asked of fortune now. These she mig^ht 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 he Avould be consulting his 
 own happiness in marrying her on these 
 terms.
 
 101 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 Mr. Van Brandt accepted the terms with- 
 out a moment's hesitation. 
 
 They would have been married imme- 
 diately, but for an alarming change for the 
 worse in the condition of Dermody's health. 
 Symptoms showed themselves which the 
 doctor confessed 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 baihff 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 simple way ; 
 ' and you will be even with me for saving 
 your life.' The same day, he died quietly in 
 his daughter's arms. 
 
 Mary's future was now entirely in her 
 lover's hands. The relatives in Glasgow had
 
 TEN YEARS OF HER LIFE. 105 
 
 daughters of their own to provide for. The 
 relatives in London resented Dermody's 
 neglect of them. Van Brandt waited deli- 
 cately and considerately, until the first violence 
 of the girl's grief had worn itself out — and 
 then he pleaded uTesistibly for a husband's 
 claim to console her. 
 
 The time at which they were married in 
 Scotland was also the time at which I was on 
 my way home from India. Mary had then 
 reached the age of twenty years. 
 
 The story of our ten years' separation is 
 now told : the narrative leaves us at the 
 outset of our new lives. 
 
 I am with my mother, beginning my 
 career as a country gentleman on the estate 
 in Perthshire which 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 Scot-
 
 106 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 land — living, by a strange fataKty, not veiy 
 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.
 
 107 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 THE WOMAX ON THE BRIDGE. 
 
 My mother looked in at the hbraiy door, 
 and disturbed 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 ? ' 
 she asked half sadly, half playfully. ' George ! 
 do you really not recognise yourself at thir- 
 teen years old ? ' 
 
 How should I recognise myself? Worn 
 by sickness and sorrow ; browned by the sun,
 
 108 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 on my long homeward voyage ; my hair 
 already growing thin over my forehead, my 
 eyes ah^eady 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 ? The 
 mere sight of tlie portrait produced the most 
 extraordinary effect on my mind. It struck 
 me with an overwhelming melancholy ; it 
 filled me with a despair of myself too dread- 
 ful to be endured. Making the best excuse 
 I could to my mother, I left the room. In 
 another minute, I was out of the house. 
 
 I crossed the park, and left my own 
 possessions behind me. Following a bye- 
 road I came to our well-known river — so 
 beautiful in itself, so famous among trout- 
 fishers throughout Scotland. It was 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
 
 THE WOMAN OX THE BRIDGE. 109 
 
 was within a himdred yards of me ; the 
 setting sun still ting:ed the swift-flowincr- 
 water nnder the arches with its red and 
 dying light. 
 
 Still the boy's face in the miniature pur- 
 sued me. Still the portrait seemed to re- 
 proach me, in a merciless language of its 
 own : ' Look at what you were once — 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 my 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
 
 110 THE TJVO DESTINIES. 
 
 a wife ; but would my money make lier dear 
 to me ? — dear as Mary had once been, in the 
 golden time when my portrait was first 
 painted ? 
 
 Mary I Was she still living ? Was she 
 married ? Should I know her again, if I saw 
 her? Absurd! I had not seen her since 
 she was ten years old : she was now a 
 woman, as I was a man. Would she know 
 772^, if we met ? The portrait, still pursuing 
 me, answered the question : ' Look at what 
 you were once — think of what you are now.' 
 
 I rose, and walked backwards and for- 
 wards, and tried to turn the current of my 
 thoughts in some new direction. 
 
 It was not to be done. After a banish- 
 ment 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 hovered under the arches of the old 
 stone bridc^c. The red li<::^ht had faded from
 
 THE WOMAN ON THE BEIDGE. Ill 
 
 the SAvift-flowing Avater, and had left it over- 
 spread with one monotonous hue of steely 
 grey. The first stars looked down peace- 
 fully 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 portrait led me back to the past — the 
 more vividly the long-lost image of the 
 child Mary showed itself to me in my 
 thoug-hts. 
 
 Was this the prelude to her coming back 
 to me in dreams — in her perfect 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, which had been steadily proceeding
 
 112 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 since the time when my wound had laid me 
 helpless among strangers in a strange land. 
 Sickness, which has made itself teacher and 
 friend to many a man, had made itself 
 teacher and friend to 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? Wlio 
 could tell ? 
 
 I rose once more. It could serve no 
 good purpose to linger until night by the 
 banks of the river. I had left the house, 
 feeling the impulse which drives us, in cer- 
 tain excited conditions of the mind, to take 
 refuc^e in movement and chanofe. The 
 remedy had failed : ray mind was as strangely 
 disturbed as ever. My wisest course would
 
 THB WOMAN ON THE BBIDGE. 113 
 
 1)6 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, shining 
 behind the black hue formed by the parapet 
 of the bridge. 
 
 In the grand gathering of the night 
 shadows, in the deep stillness of the dpng 
 day, I stood alone, and watched the sinking 
 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 hne 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. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 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 tlie 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, looking 
 down at the darkenins^ river. 
 
 Why was she waiting there, at the close 
 of evening, alone ? 
 
 As the question occurred to me, T 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? Or was she sus- 
 picious of observation, and anxious to make 
 sure that she was alone? 
 
 A sudden doubt of her purpose in seek- 
 ing that solitary place — a sudden distrust of 
 the lonely bridge and the swift-flowing river 
 — set my heart beating quickly, and roused
 
 THE WOMAN ON THE BPdDGE. 115 
 
 me to instant action. I humecl up the 
 rising ground which led 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 irre- 
 pressible feeling of agitation ; not knowifig 
 how she might receive me when I spoke to 
 her. The moment she turned and faced me, 
 my composure came back. It was as if, ex- 
 pecting to see a stranger, I had unexpectedly 
 encountered 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 Avas not perhaps a strictly 
 beautiful woman. There were defects in her 
 which were sufficiently marked to show them- 
 selves in the fadinQ- licrht. Her hair, for 
 example, seen under the large garden hat
 
 116 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 that she wore, looked ahiiost as short as the 
 hair of a man ; and the colour of it was of 
 that dull lustreless brown hue which is so 
 commonly seen in Englishwomen of the 
 ordinary type. Still, in spite of these draw- 
 backs, there was a latent charm in her ex- 
 pression, there was an inbred fascination in 
 her manner, which instantly found its way to 
 my sympathies, and its hold on my admira- 
 tion. She won me, in the moment when I 
 iirst looked at her. 
 
 ' May I enquire if you have lost your 
 way ? ' I asked. 
 
 Her eyes rested on my face with a strange 
 look of enquiry in them. She did not appear 
 to be surprised or confused at my venturing 
 to address 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 en- 
 quiring eyes. For a moment, stranger as I
 
 THE WOMAN OX THE BEIDGE. 117 
 
 was, my face seemed to trouble lier as if it 
 had been a face that she had seen and for- 
 gotten 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 dehcious ; 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 underlying the charming expres- 
 sion, and the fascinating manner, which my 
 instinct felt to be something wrong. As I 
 walked away towards the opposite end of
 
 118 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 the bridge, the doubt began to grow on me 
 ■\vhetlier slie had spoken the truth. In leav- 
 ing 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 plan- 
 tation on the bank of the river. Here, con- 
 cealed behind the first tree which was large 
 enough to hide me, I could command a view 
 of the bridge, and I could fairly count on 
 detecting her, if she returned to the river, 
 while there was a ray of light to see her by. 
 It was not easy walking in the obscurity of 
 the plantation ; I had almost to grope my 
 way to the nearest tree that suited my 
 jDurpose. 
 
 I had just steadied my foothold on the 
 imeven ground behind the tree, when the 
 stillness of the twilight hour was suddenly 
 broken by the distant sound of a voice.
 
 THE WOMAN ON THE BEIDGE. 119 
 
 The voice was a woman's. It was not 
 raised to any high pitch ; its accent was the 
 xiccent of prayer — and the words it uttered 
 were these : — 
 
 ' Christ have 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 T could cry out, before 
 I could even breathe again freely, she leapt 
 into the river. 
 
 The current ran my way. I could see 
 Iter, as she rose to the surface, floating by in 
 the hght on the mid-stream. I ran headlong 
 down the bank. She sank again in the mo- 
 ment when I stopped to throw aside my hat 
 ^nd coat, and to kick off my shoes. I was a 
 practised swimmer. The instant I was in 
 the water my composure came back to me 
 — I felt like myself again.
 
 120 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 The current swept me out into the mid- 
 stream, and greatly increased the speed at 
 which I swam. I was close behind her when 
 she rose for the second time — a shadowy thing- 
 just visible a few inches below the surface of 
 the river. One more stroke — and my left 
 arm was round 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 
 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 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 promontory of land, on which stood
 
 THE WOMAN ON THE BBIBGE. 121 
 
 a little inn, miicli 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, 
 as we drifted 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-girl were 
 equally wilhng to be of service, and equally 
 ignorant of what they were to do. Fortu- 
 nately, my medical education made me com- 
 petent 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 perfect beauty of form, without a sign of
 
 122 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 life perceptible — there slie lay, to all out- 
 ward appearance, dead by drowning. 
 
 A last hope was left — tlie hope of restor- 
 ing her (if I could construct the apparatus in 
 time), by the process called ' artificial respir- 
 ation.' I was just endeavouring to tell the 
 landlady what I wanted, and was just con- 
 scious of a strange difficulty in expressing my- 
 self — when the good woman started back and 
 looked at me with a scream of terror. 
 
 ' Good God, sir, you're bleechng !' she cried. 
 * What's the matter ? where are you hurt ? ' 
 
 In the moment when she spoke to me, I 
 knew what had happened. The old Indian 
 wound (irritated, doubtless, by the violent 
 exertion that I had imposed upon myself) 
 had opened 'again. I struggled against the 
 sudden sense 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
 
 THE WOMAN ON THE BRIDGE. 123 
 
 stretched senseless upon the low couch be- 
 neath me. The death-in-hfe that had got 
 her had got me. Lost to the world about us, 
 we lay, with my blood flowing on her, united 
 in om^ deathly trance ! 
 
 Where were our spirits, at that moment ? 
 Were they together, and conscious of each 
 other ? United by a spiritual bond, undis- 
 covered 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 
 trance? 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 
 your questions, too ?
 
 124 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 CHAPTEE lY. 
 
 THE KI]ST)RED SPIRITS. 
 
 The morning sunlight, shining in at a badly- 
 curtained window ; a clumsy wooden bed, 
 with big twisted posts that reached to the 
 ceiling ; on one 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 pre- 
 sented themselves to my view, when I first 
 consciously returned to the world that we 
 hve in. 
 
 ' Look, doctor, look ! he has come to his 
 senses at last.' 
 
 ' Open your mouth, sir, and take a sup 
 of this.'
 
 THE KINBBED SPIRITS. 125 
 
 My mother was rejoicing over me on one 
 side of the bed ; and the unknown gentleman, 
 addressed as ' doctor,' was offering me a 
 spoonful of whisky and water, on the other. 
 He called it the ' elixir of life ; ' and he bade 
 me remark (speaking in a strong Scotch 
 accent) that he tasted it himself to show he 
 was in earnest. 
 
 The stimulant 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 Yivm^ 
 image in my memory. I tried to raise my- 
 self in the bed ; I asked impatiently, ' Where 
 is she?' 
 
 The doctor produced another spoonful of 
 tlie elixir of life, and gravely repeated his 
 first address to me :
 
 126 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 ' Open your mouth, sir, and take a sup 
 of this.' 
 
 I persisted in repeating my question : 
 
 ' Where is she ? ' 
 
 The doctor persisted in repeating his 
 formula : 
 
 ' Take a sup of this.' 
 
 I was too weak to contest the matter — 
 I obeyed. My medical attendant nodded 
 across the bed to my mother, and said, ' Now 
 he'll do.' My mother had some compassion 
 on me : she relieved my anxiety in these 
 plain words : 
 
 ' The lady has quite recovered, George ; 
 thanks to the doctor 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 he revive her? ' I asked. ' Where 
 is she now ? '
 
 THE KIXDEED SPIPJTS. 127 
 
 The doctor held up liis hand ; warning- 
 me to stop. 
 
 ' We shall do well, su', if we proceed 
 systematically,' he began, 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 vn\[ tell you, all that you have any 
 need 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 tilings that I 
 should speak first. You will just permit me 
 to mix a little more of the elixir of hfe — and 
 then, as the poet says, my plain unvarnished 
 tale I shall dehver.' 
 
 So he spoke, pronouncing, in a strong 
 Scotch accent, the most carefully selected 
 Enghsh I had ever heard. A hard-headed, 
 square-shouldered, pertinaciously-self-willed 
 man — it was plainly useless to contend with
 
 128 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 liim. 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 condition of your 
 mind ; consequent, you will understand (as a 
 professional 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 ! ' 
 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 liad forced me to submit to the 
 penalty. ' Everything in its place, Mr. Ger-
 
 THE KIXDBED SPIRITS. 129 
 
 maine ; everjrtliing in its place. I was speak- 
 ing of your bodily condition. V/ell, sir, and 
 how did I discover your bodily condition ? 
 Providentially for yoic, 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 screeching 
 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 some need of improvement on 
 the score of propriety. Tut ! tut ! I speak 
 jocosely — you Avere both in a dead swoon. 
 Having heard what the landlady had to tell 
 me, and having to the best of my abihty 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 separated history from hysterics, in tlie 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 services — 
 wiiile the law of humanity (seeing that you 
 were still bleeding) pointed no less impera- 
 tively 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 3^ou 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 ? Are you opening your mouth again ? 
 Do you want another sup already ? ' 
 
 ' He wants to hear more about the lady,' 
 said my mother, interpreting my wishes for 
 me.
 
 THE KIXDBED SFiniTS. 131 
 
 'Oh, the lady,' resumed ^Ir. MacGhie, 
 with the air of a man who found no .<^reat 
 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 off her bones, you 
 w^ould find a splendid skeleton underneath. 
 For, mind this ! there's no such thincr as a 
 finely-made woman, without a good bony 
 scaffolding 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 presence, ma'am, there's a 
 man in the background of that dramatic 
 scene of hers on the bridge. Howeyer — not 
 being the man myself — I haye nothing to do 
 with that. My business with the lady was 
 just to set her vital machinery going again. 
 And, heaven knows, she proved a heavy 
 handful ! It was even a more obstinate case 
 to deal with, sir, than yours. I never, in all 
 
 X 2
 
 132 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 my experience, met with two people more 
 imwilling 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. 
 McGlue. ' The first words she addressed, sir, 
 to the man who had dragged lier out of the 
 very jaws of death were these : " How dare 
 you meddle with me ? Why didn't you 
 leave me to die ? " Her exact language — 
 I'll take my Bible oath of it. I was so pro- 
 voked that I gave her the change back (as 
 the saying is) m her own coin. " There's the
 
 THE KIXDBED SPIBITS. 133 
 
 river handy, ma'am," I said. "Do it again. 
 I, for 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 the doctor who was fool enough 
 to meddle with you afterwards." She turned 
 to the landlady. " Who took me out of the 
 river ? " she asked. The landlady told her, 
 and mentioned your name. " Germaine ? " 
 she says to herself ; " I know nobody named 
 Germaine ; I wonder whether it was the man 
 who spoke to me on the bridge? " " Yes/' 
 says the landlady ; " Mr. Germaine said he 
 met you on the bridge." Hearing that, she 
 took a little time to think ; and then she asked 
 if she could see Mr. Germaine. " 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
 
 134 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 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 hfe ; I must leave this neighbourhood ; I 
 must 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 upstairs 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 in the regular way. When I 
 came back this morning, there was the foolish 
 landlady Avith a new tale to tell. " Gone ! " 
 says she. " Who's gone ? " says I. " The 
 •lady," says she, " by the first coach this 
 morning ! " '
 
 THE KIXBBED SPIBITS. 135 
 
 ' You don't mean to tell me that she has 
 left the house ? ' I exclaimed. 
 
 ' Oh, but I do ! ' said the doctor as posi- 
 tively as ever. 'Ask madam your mother 
 here, and she'll certify it to your heart's con- 
 tent. I've got other sick ones to visit — and 
 I'm away on my rounds. You'll see no 
 more of the lady; and so much the better 
 I'm thinking ! 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 strange place to 
 the snug bed that knows you at home. 
 Don't let him talk, ma'am — don't let him 
 talk.' 
 
 With those parting words, Mr. MacGlue 
 left us to ourselves. 
 
 ' Is it really true ? ' I said to my mother. 
 ' Has she left the inn without waiting to see 
 me?' 
 
 'Xobody could stop her, George,' my
 
 ]3S THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 mother answered. 'The lady left the mn 
 this morning by the coach to Edinburgh.' 
 
 I was bitterly disappointed. Yes ! 
 ' bitterly' is the word — though she loas a 
 stranger to me. 
 
 ' Did you see her yourself? ' 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 droAvn in the river. I must find a new 
 life for myself, in a new place. Ask Mr. 
 Germaine to forgive me for going away 
 without thanking him. I daren't wait! I 
 may be followed and found out. There is a 
 person whom I am determined never to see- 
 again — never ! never ! never ! Good-bye ;
 
 TEE KINBBED SFIEITS. IZT 
 
 and try to forgive me." She hid her face in 
 her hands, and said no more. I tried to ^vin 
 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; crea- 
 ture, too I It was impossible not to pity 
 her, whether she deserves it or not. Every- 
 thing about her is a mystery, my dear. She 
 speaks English, without the shghtest foreign 
 accent — and yet she has a foreign name.' 
 ' Did she give you her name ? ' 
 ' ^o — and I was afraid to ask her to 
 give it. But the landlady 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: "Yan Brandt."' 
 
 ' Van Brandt ? ' I repeated. ' That sounds 
 like a Dutch name. And yet you say she
 
 138 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 spoke like an Englishwoman. Perhaps she 
 ivas born in England.' 
 
 'Or perhaps she may be married,' sug- 
 gested my mother; 'and Van Brandt may 
 be the name of her husband.' 
 
 The idea of her being a married woman 
 had something in it repellant to me. I 
 wished my mother had not thought 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 think- 
 ing of her ; I could consider the chances of my 
 being able to trace this 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
 
 THE KIMjEED spirits. 139 
 
 present weak state of health — looked doubt- 
 ful indeed. Still, there was an underlying 
 hopefulness in me wliich 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 together, 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 weak- 
 ness overpowered me, and I sank into a 
 peaceful sleep. 
 
 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
 
 140 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 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 at me 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 ? ' 
 
 I knew her most assuredly — and yet it 
 was with an incomprehensible after-feeling 
 of doubt. Eecognising her in my dream as 
 the stranger who had so warmly interested 
 me, I was nevertheless dissatisfied with my- 
 self as if it had not been the right recogni- 
 tion. 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 carriage 
 which had once belonged to Mr. Germaine, 
 
 On the fourth day we arranged to make
 
 THE KISDEED SPIRITS. 141 
 
 an excursion to a little waterfall in our 
 neiglibourhood. My mother had a great 
 admiration of the place, and had often ex- 
 pressed 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. 
 
 Searcliing for the sketch-book (wliich I 
 had not used for years), I found it in an old 
 desk of mine that had remained unopened 
 since my departm^e for India. In the course 
 of my investigation, I opened a drawer in the 
 desk, and discovered a rehc of the old times 
 — my poor little Mary's first work in em- 
 broidery, the green flag ! 
 
 The sight of the forgotten keepsake took 
 my mind back to the bailiffs cottage, and 
 reminded me of Dame Dermody, and her 
 confident prediction about Mary and me. 
 
 I smiled as I recalled the old woman's
 
 142 THE TWO DESTiyiES. 
 
 assertion that no human power could hinder 
 the union of the kindred spirits of the 
 children in time to come. What had become 
 of the prophesied 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 whom 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 w^ay 
 into m.y heart had softened and humanised 
 me. I said to myself, ' Ah, poor httle 
 Mary ! ' — and I kissed the green flag, in 
 grateful memory of the days that were gone 
 for ever. 
 
 We drove to the waterfall. 
 
 It was a beautiful day : the lonely sylvan
 
 THE KIXDBED SPIRITS. U$ 
 
 scene was at its brightest and best. A wooden 
 summer-house, commanding a prospect of 
 the faUing stream, had been built for the 
 accommodation of pleasure-parties by the 
 proprietor of the place. My mother sug- 
 gested 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 satisfied ^Yith. the 
 result ; and I abandoned my drawing before 
 it was half finished. Leaving my sketch- 
 book and pencil on the table of tlie summer- 
 liouse, I proposed to my mother to cross 
 the little wooden bridge which spanned 
 the stream below the fall, and to see how 
 the landscape looked from a new point of 
 view. 
 
 The prospect of the waterfall, as seen 
 from the opposite bank, presented even 
 greater difficulties, to an amateur artist like 
 me, than the prospect which we had just left. 
 We returned to the summer-house.
 
 Mi THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 I was the first to approach the open door. 
 I stopped, checked in my advance by an un- 
 •expected discovery. The summer-house was 
 no longer empty, as we had left it. A lady 
 was seated at the table, with my pencil in 
 lier hand, writing in my sketch-book ! 
 
 After waiting a moment I advanced a few 
 steps nearer to the door, and stopped again, 
 in breathless amazement. The stranger in 
 the summer-house was now plainly revealed 
 to me as the woman who had attempted to 
 destroy herself from the bridge ! 
 
 There was no doubt about it. There 
 was the dress ; there was the memorable 
 face which I had seen in the evening hght, 
 which I had dreamed of only a few nights 
 since ! The woman herself — I saw her as 
 plainly as I saw the sun shining on the 
 waterfall — the woman herself; with my 
 pencil in her liand ; writing in my book ! 
 
 My mother was close behind me : she
 
 THE KIXDFED SPIBITS. 145 
 
 noticed my agitation. ' George ! ' she ex- 
 claimed, ' what is the matter with you ? ' 
 
 I pointed through the open door of the 
 summer-house. 
 
 ' Well ? ' said my mother. ' What am I 
 to look at ? ' 
 
 ' Don't you see somebody, sitting at the 
 table and writing in my sketch-book ? ' 
 
 My mother eyed me quickly. ' Is he 
 going to be ill again ? ' I heard her say to 
 herself. 
 
 At the same moment, the woman laid 
 down the pencil, and rose slowly to her 
 feet. 
 
 She looked at me with sorrowful and 
 pleading eyes : she lifted her hand, and 
 beckoned me to approach her. I obeyed. 
 Moving without conscious will of my own, 
 drawn nearer and nearer to her by an irre- 
 sistible power, I ascended the short flight of 
 VOL. I. L
 
 145 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 stairs which led into the summer-liouse. 
 Within a few paces of her I stopped. She 
 advanced a step towards me, and hiid her 
 hand gently on my bosom. Her tonch filled 
 me with strangely united sensations of rap- 
 ture and awe. After a while she spoke, in 
 low melodious tones, which mingled in my 
 •ear with the distant murmur of the falhng 
 water, until the two sounds became one. I 
 heard in the murmur, I heard in the voice, 
 these words : ' Eemember me. Come to me.' 
 Her hand dropped from my bosom ; a mo- 
 mentary obscurity passed like a flying shadow 
 over the bright daylight in the room. I 
 looked for her when the hght came back. 
 She was gone. 
 
 My consciousness of passing events re- 
 turned. 
 
 I saw the lengthening shadows outside, 
 which told me that the evening was at hand.
 
 THE KIXDEED SPIBITS. U7 
 
 I saw the carriage approaching tlie summer- 
 house to take us away. I felt my mother's 
 hand on my arm, and heard her voice speak- 
 ing to me anxiously. I was able to reply by 
 a sign, entreating her not to be uneasy about 
 me — but I could do no more. I was ab- 
 sorbed, body and soul, in the one desire to 
 look at the sketch-book. As certainly as I 
 had seen the woman — so certainly I had seen 
 her with my pencil in her hand, writing in 
 my book. 
 
 I advanced to the table on which the 
 book was lying open. I looked at the blank 
 space on the lower part of the page, under 
 the foreground lines of my unfinished draw- 
 ing. 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 
 L 2
 
 148 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 as ^vell as to me : readable by my mother's 
 eyes as well as by mine ! 
 
 These were the words we saw ; arrans^ed 
 in tAvo lines, as I copy them here : 
 
 When The Full Moox Shines 
 On Saint Anthony's Well.
 
 149 
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 NATURAL AND SUPERNATURAL. 
 
 I POINTED to tlie writing in the sketcli-book, 
 and looked at my mother. I was not mis- 
 taken. She had seen it, as I had seen it. 
 But she refused to acknowledge that any- 
 thing 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 evidently 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.
 
 153 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 The sketcli-book lay open on my knee.. 
 My eyes were fastened 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 conclusion w^as too 
 plain to be mistaken. The woman whom I 
 had saved from drow^ning had need of me 
 again. 
 
 And this was the same woman who, in 
 her own proper person, had not hesitated to 
 seize the first opportunity of leaving the 
 house in which w^e had been sheltered to- 
 gether — ^without stopping to say one grate- 
 ful word to the man who had preserved her 
 from death ! Four days only had elapsed, 
 since she had left me, never (to all appear- 
 ance) 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
 
 KATUBAL Ayj) SUPEBNATUBAL. 151 
 
 provided against all possibility of my 
 memory playing me false, by writing the 
 words whicli invited me to meet her ' when 
 the full moon shone on St. Anthony's Well/ 
 
 What had happened in the interval? 
 What did the supernatural manner of her 
 communication with me mean ? What 
 ought my next course of action to be ? 
 
 My mother roused me from my reflec- 
 tions. She stretched out her hand and sud- 
 denly closed the open book on my knee, as 
 if the sio-ht of the writinc^ in it was unendur- 
 able 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 su^f^^est nothinc^ and ex- 
 
 CD O 
 
 plain nothing. My thoughts are all bent on 
 the one question of what I am to do next. 
 On that point I believe I may say that my
 
 152 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 mind is made up.' I touched the sketch- 
 book as I spoke. ' Come what may of it,' I 
 said, ' 1 mean to keep the appointment.' 
 
 My mother looked at me as if she 
 doubted the evidence of her own senses. 
 
 ' He talks as if it was a real thing ! ' she 
 exclaimed. ' George ! you don't really be- 
 lieve that you saw somebody in the summer- 
 house ? The place was empty. I tell you po- 
 sitively, 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.' 
 
 I opened the sketch-book again. 'I 
 thought I saw her writing on this page,' I 
 answered. ' Look at it — and tell me if I 
 was wrong.' 
 
 My • mother refused to look at it. 
 Steadily as she persisted in taking the
 
 NATUBAL AND SUPERNATUEAL. 153 
 
 rational view, nevertlieless tlie writing 
 frigtitened 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- 
 tion, which appears and disappears, and 
 leaves substantial writing behind it! It's 
 ridiculous, George ; I wonder you can help 
 laughing at yourself.' 
 
 She tried to set the example 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. 'Perhaps I may not be 
 able to find the place. I never heard of St. 
 Anthony's Well ; I have not the least idea
 
 154 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 where it is. Suppose I make the discovery 
 — and suppose the journey turns out to be 
 an easy one — would you hke to go with 
 me?' 
 
 ' 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 slightest 
 noises on the road startled me. The opinion, 
 of a man, like Mr. MacGlue, who looked at 
 all mortal matters from the same immovably 
 practical point of view, might really have its
 
 NATUEAL AND SUPERXATUEAL. 155- 
 
 use, in my case, as a species of moral 
 remedy. 
 
 We waited until the dessert was on the 
 table, and the servants had left the dining- 
 room. Then, I told my story to the Scotch 
 doctor as I have told it here ; and, that 
 done, I opened the sketch-book to let him 
 see the writinc^ 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. I^o : I had found the 
 right page. There was my half-finished 
 drawing of the waterfall — but where were 
 the two lines of writinc^ 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.
 
 Q56 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 ' You saw it, as plainly as I did,' I said. 
 ' Are my own eyes deceiving me ? Look at 
 tlie bottom of the page.' 
 
 My mother sank back in her chair with 
 a cry of terror. 
 
 ' Gone ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Gone ! ' 
 
 I turned to the doctor. He took me 
 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 I saw the 
 apparition writing with my pencil at the 
 bottom of that page. I declare that I took 
 the book in my hand, 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 —
 
 NATURAL AND SUPEBXATUBAL. 157 
 
 and, see for yourself, not a vestige of the- 
 writing remains.' 
 
 ' Not a vestiore of the writini^ remains,'" 
 Mr. MacGlue repeated quietly. 
 
 ' If you feel the slightest doubt of what I 
 have told you,' I went on, ' ask my mother 
 — she \vill bear witness that she saw the- 
 writing too.' 
 
 'I don't doubt that you both saw the 
 writing,' answered Mr. MacGlue with a com- 
 posure that astonished me. 
 
 ' Can you account for it .^ ' I asked. 
 
 ' Well,' said the impenetrable doctor, ' if 
 I set my wits at work, I beheve 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 simply
 
 .158 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 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 offence, Mr. Germaine^ — ' 
 
 ' I take no offence, doctor. But excuse 
 me for speaking plainly — the rational ex- 
 planation 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 enquired. 
 
 Mr. MacGlue declined to let me hurry 
 him. 
 
 'Wait a little,' he said. 'There's the 
 2>-rational explanation to try next. Maybe 
 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 person. Very
 
 NATUBAL AND SUPERXATUBAL. 159 
 
 good. If you can suppose a diseinbodied 
 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 supernaturally ap- 
 propriate that the writing should follow the 
 example and vanish too. And the reason of 
 the vanishment may be (if you want a 
 reason), either that the ghost does not hke 
 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's not wonderful), and doesn't 
 care to see you " when the full moon shines 
 on Anthony's* Well." There's the irrational 
 explanation for you. And, speaking for my-
 
 160 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 self, I'm bound to add that I don't set a pin's 
 value on that explanation either.' 
 
 Mr. MacGlue's sublime indifference to 
 botli sides of the question began to irritate 
 me. 
 
 ' In plain words, doctor,' I said, ' you 
 don't think the circumstances that I have 
 mentioned to you worthy of serious investi- 
 gation ? ' 
 
 ' I don't think serious investigation 
 capable of dealing with the circumstances,' 
 answered the doctor. ' Put it in that way, 
 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 dead in another moment, I, doctor 
 as I am, could no more explain what first 
 principle of hfe and movement had been 
 suddenly extinguished in you than the dog 
 there sleeping on the hearth-rug. If I am
 
 NATUBAL AND SUPERXATURAL. 161 
 
 content to sit down ignorant, in the face of 
 sucli an impenetrable mystery as this — pre- 
 sented 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 altogether 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 onl^ 
 persuade my son to take your sensible view, 
 how happy I should be ! Would you be- 
 lieve it — he positively means, (if he can 
 find the place) to go to St. Anthony's 
 Well!' 
 
 Even this revelation entirely failed to 
 surprise Mr. MacGlue. 
 
 'Aye? aye? He means to keep his 
 appointment with the ghost — docs he ? 
 Well ! I can be of some service to him, if 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 Tie sticks to his resolution. I can tell him of 
 another man who kept a written appoint- 
 ment with a ghost, and what came of it.' 
 
 This was a startling announcement. Did 
 lie really mean what he said ? 
 
 ' 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 discovered in high spirits (in medical 
 hours) by his nearest and dearest friend. 
 You may have wondered, I dare say, at 
 seeing me take your strange narrative as 
 ■coolly as I do. It comes naturally, sir. 
 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 another man who has seen 
 what I have seen ? ' 
 
 * That's just what I mean to tell you,'
 
 NATURAL AND SUPERNATURAL. 163 
 
 rejoined the doctor. ' The man was a far- 
 away Scots' cousin of my late wife, who bore 
 the honom^able name of Bruce, and followed 
 a seafaring life. I'll 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 speaking of; and 
 he was on a voyage from Liverpool to Xew 
 Brunswick. 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 
 
 7 7 O 
 
 the open door of the captain's cabin oppo- 
 site. " What do you make it, sir ? " says 
 Bruce. The man in the captain's cabin 
 looked up. And what did Bruce see ? The 
 face of the captain ? Devil a bit of it — the 
 face of a total stranger ! Up jumps Bruce, 
 with his heart going full gallop all in a
 
 164 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 moment ; and searches for the captain on 
 deck ; and finds him much as usual, with 
 his 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 ? " 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 obhged to acknowledge that the 
 place is certainly empty. " If I didn't know 
 you were a sober man," says the captain, " I 
 should charge you with drinking. 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
 
 XATUBAL AXD SUPERNATURAL. 165 
 
 captain's slate. The captain takes up the 
 slate, and Jooks at it. " Lord save us and 
 bless us," says he, " here the writing is, sure 
 enough ! " Bruce looks at it too, and sees the 
 writing as plain as can be, in these w^ords : 
 " Steer to the Xor' West." That, and no 
 more. Ah, goodness me, narrating is dry- 
 work, Mr. Germain e ! AVith your leave, I'll 
 take another drop of the sherry- wine." 
 
 ' Well ! (It's fine old wine that ; look at 
 the oily drops running down the glass). 
 Well, steering to the north-west, you will 
 understand, w^as out of the captain's course. 
 Nevertheless, finding no solution of the 
 mystery on board the shij^, and the weather 
 ^t the time being fine, the captain deter- 
 mined, 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 wrecked ship stove in, 
 .and frozen fast to the ice ; and the passen-
 
 166 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 gers and crew nigii to death with cold and 
 exhaustion. Wonderful enough, you will 
 say, but more remains behind. As the mate 
 was helping one of the rescued passengers 
 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 capa- 
 city 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," 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
 
 NATURAL AND SUPERNATURAL. 167 
 
 kept an appointment with a gliost, and what 
 came of it.' ^ 
 
 Concluding his story in these words, the 
 doctor helped himself to another glass of 
 ' the sherry-wine.' I was not satisfied yet — 
 I wanted to know more. 
 
 ' The writing on the slate,' I said. ' Did 
 it remain there ? or did it vanish, like the 
 writing in my book ? ' 
 
 Mr. MacGlue's answer disappointed me. 
 He had never asked, and had never heard, 
 whether the writing had 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 
 
 ' The doctor's narrative is not imaginary. It will 
 be found related in full detail, and authenticated by 
 names and dates, in Robert Dale Owen's very interest- 
 ing work, called ' Footfalls on the Boundary of Another 
 World.* The author gladly takes this opportunity of 
 acknowledging his obligations to Mr. Owen's remark- 
 able book.
 
 168 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 attaclied to it. ' Tliere's a marvellous re- 
 semblance, Mr. Germaine, between your 
 story and Bruce's story. The main differ- 
 ence, as I see it, is this. The passenger's 
 appointment proved to be the salvation of 
 a whole ship's company. I very much 
 doubt whether the lady's appointment will 
 prove to be the salvation of You.' 
 
 I silently re-considered the strange nar- 
 rative which had just been related to me. 
 Another man had seen what I had seen — 
 liad done what I proposed to do ! My 
 mother noticed with grave displeasure the 
 ■strong impression which Mr. MacGlue had 
 produced on my mind. 
 
 ' I wish you liad kept your story to 
 yourself, doctor,' she said sharply. 
 
 ' May I ask why, madam ? ' 
 
 ' You have confirmed my son, sir, in his 
 rcsolutioji to go to St. Anthony's Well.'
 
 NATUBAL AND SUPERNATUBAL. 169 
 
 Mr. MacGlue quietly consulted his pocket 
 almanac before he rephed. 
 
 ' 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 com- 
 fortable carriage — whatever I may think, 
 morally-speaking, of his enterprise — I can't 
 say, medically-speaking, that I believe it 
 will do him much harm.' 
 
 'You know where St. Anthony's Well 
 is ? ' I interposed. 
 
 ' I must be mighty ignorant of Edin- 
 burgh not to know that,' replied the doctor. 
 
 ' Is the Well in Edinburgh, then ? ' 
 
 ' It's just outside Edinburgh — looks 
 down on it, as you may say. You follow 
 the old street called the Canongate, to the 
 €nd. You turn to your right, past the 
 famous Palaxie of Holyrood ; you cross the 
 Park and the Drive ; and take your way
 
 170 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 upwards to the ruins of Anthony's Chapel, on 
 the shoulder of the hill — and there you are I 
 There's a high rock behind the Chapel ; 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 cha- 
 racters, as it used to be in the old time.' 
 
 My mother, in graver and graver dis- 
 pleasure, rose to retire to the drawing-room. 
 ' I confess you have disappointed me,' 
 she said to Mr. MacGlue. ' 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 encouragement. I can see for 
 myself that his mind is made up. Where is 
 the use of a person like me trying to stop 
 him ? Dear madam, if he won't profit by 
 your advice, what hope can I have that he 
 will take mine ? '
 
 NATUBAL AND SUPEBNATURAL. 171 
 
 Mr. MacGlue pointed this artfiil com- 
 pliment by a bow of tlie deepest respect, 
 and threw open the door for my mother to 
 pass ont. 
 
 When we were left together over our 
 Avine, I asked the doctor how soon I might 
 safely start on my journey to Edinburgh. 
 
 ' Take three 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 anxious 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.'
 
 172 TIIE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 CHAPTEE YI. 
 
 SAINT Anthony's well. 
 
 I STOOD on the rocky eminence, m front of 
 the ruins of St. Anthony's Chapel, end 
 looked on the magnificent view of Edin- 
 burgh and of the old Palace of Hol}Tood, 
 bathed in the light of the full moon. 
 
 The Well, as the doctor's instructions 
 had informed me, was behind the Chapel. 
 I waited for some minutes in front of the 
 ruin, partly to recover my breath, after as- 
 cending 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
 
 SAINT ANTHOXrS WELL. 175 
 
 within a few yards of the place that I oc- 
 cupied. Xot a living creature appeared in 
 front of the Chapel. Kot a sound caught 
 my ear, from any part of the solitary hill. 
 I tried to fix my whole attention on the 
 beauties of the moonht view. It was not 
 to be done. My mind was far away from 
 the objects on which my eyes rested. My 
 mind was with the woman whom I had seen 
 in the summer-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 \iew of the Well, and of 
 the high boulder, or rock, from the foot of 
 Avhich the waters gushed bright in the light 
 of the moon. 
 
 She was there. 
 
 I recognised her figure as slie stood lean- 
 ing against the rock, with her hands crossed 
 in front of her, lost in thoui^ht. I recoj^nised 
 her face, as she looked up quickly, startled
 
 174 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 by the sound of my footsteps in the deep 
 stilhiess of the night. 
 
 Was it the woman, or the apparition of 
 the woman? 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 bridge, when we first met 
 in the dim evening light. 
 
 ' Who are you ? What do you want ? ' 
 
 As those words passed her lips, she recog- 
 nised me. ' You here ! ' she went on, advanc- 
 ing a step in uncontrollable surprise. ' What 
 -does this mean ? ' 
 
 ' I am here,' I answered, ' to meet you by 
 your own appointment.' 
 
 She stepped back again, leaning against 
 the rock. The moonhght shone full upon 
 lier face. There was terror as well as
 
 SAIXT AXTHOXTS WELL. 175 
 
 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 rephed. ' I have seen 
 you — or the appearance 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 curio- 
 sity. ' What did I say ? ' she asked. ' What 
 did I write ? ' 
 
 ' You said, " Eemember me. Come to 
 me." You Avrote, " Wlien the full moon 
 shines on St. Anthony's Well." ' 
 
 'Where?' she cried. 'Where did I do 
 that?' 
 
 ' In a summer-house which stands by a 
 waterfall,' I answered. ' Do you know the 
 place ? ' 
 
 Her head sank back against the rock. A
 
 176 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 low cry 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? strens^th. ' 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. I 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 me ! ' She 
 stopped — I saw the tears on her cheeks. 
 With a sudden contempt for herself, she
 
 SAIST AXTHOXY'S WELL. 177 
 
 ilaslied 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 w^hen you thought you 
 saw me writing ! You didn't see me ; you 
 never heard me speak. How could I say 
 those famihar words to a stranger like you ? 
 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 
 sad and tender look which made them so 
 irresistibly beautiful. She drew her cloak 
 round her with a shudder as if she felt the 
 chill of the nioht air. 'What is the matter 
 with me ? ' 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 strange outburst encouraged me. 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 178 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 I risked letting her know that I had over- 
 heard her last words. 
 
 ' If you trust me in your dreams, you 
 only do me 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 waiting 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 think 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 ? ' 
 
 I thought it wise to be satisfied — in ap- 
 pearance at least — with this concession. 
 Taking out my card, I wrote on it in pencil 
 ^,he address of the hotel at which I was 
 staying. She read the card by the moon- 
 light, when I put it into her hand.
 
 SAINT ANTHOyrS WELL. 17» 
 
 ' " George ! " ' she repeated to herself ; 
 
 steahng 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 remembrance 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 not so much 
 
 afraid of you, now I know that you are 
 
 called " George." ' 
 
 So she unconsciously led me to the 
 
 brink of discovery ! 
 
 If I had only asked her what associations. 
 
 she connected with my Christian name — if 
 
 I had only persuaded her to speak in the 
 
 briefest and most guarded terms of her past 
 
 N 2
 
 180 THE TWO DESTINIES 
 
 life — the barrier between us, which the 
 -change in oar names and the lapse of ten 
 years had raised, must have been broken 
 -down ; the recognition must have followed. 
 13ut 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 advan- 
 tage of the new interest that I 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 ha])py, 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 
 yield at my touch. Her hand lay unresist-
 
 SAINT ANTHONY'S WELL. 181 
 
 ingly in mine ; her cliarming figure came by 
 soft gradations 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, wonld have respected her at that 
 moment. I put her hand on my arm, and 
 led her away gently past the ruined chapel^ 
 and down the slope of the hill. 
 
 ' This 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 accidentally taken the direction
 
 182 THE TWO DESTIXIES. 
 
 ^vhicli led away from the city : she begged 
 me to turn towards the houses and 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 your name, and 
 never saw you 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 evidently been dear to her. ' A 
 relation of yours ? ' I enquired — more to keep 
 her talking than because I felt any interest 
 in any member of her family but herself.
 
 SAIST ANTHONY'S WELL. 183 
 
 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 trying me now. 
 If I speak of the old times at home, I shall 
 only burst 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 cleared up yet. I 
 took my opportunity of approaching the 
 subject. 
 
 ' You spoke a little while since of dream- 
 ing of me,' I began. ' Tell me your dream.' 
 
 ' I hardly know whether it was a dream 
 or whether it was something else,' she an- 
 swered. ' I call it a dream for want of a 
 better word.' 
 
 ' Did it happen at night ? '
 
 184 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 ' Xo. In the daytime — in tlie afternoon/ 
 
 ' Late in the afternoon ? ' 
 
 ' Yes — close 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 liimself 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 men- 
 tioned 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 summer-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
 
 SAn^T ANTHONY'S WELL. 18» 
 
 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 
 tranquillity here at night.' She glanced at 
 me again. ' What is the matter? ' she asked. 
 ' You 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 was 
 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
 
 186 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 other consciousness in its place. If this was 
 dreaming, I can only say it was the most 
 vivid dream I ever had in my hfe.' 
 
 ' Did it begin by your seeing me ? ' I 
 enquired. 
 
 ' It began by my seeing your drawing- 
 book — lying open on a table in a summer- 
 house.' 
 
 ' Can you describe the summer-house, as 
 you saw it ? ' 
 
 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 remember 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
 
 >S'^7.Vr ANTHOXY'S WELL. 187 
 
 said, ' There is no need for me to go over 
 the words again. Tell me one thing — when 
 yoii were at the summer-house, did you wait 
 a little on the path to the door, before you 
 went in ? ' 
 
 I had waited — surprised by my first view 
 of the woman writing in my book ! Having 
 answered her to this effect, I asked 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 famiharly ! 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, " Ee- 
 member 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 famiharity — even in a dream — between
 
 188 THE TWO DESTIXIES. 
 
 a woman and a man whom slie had only 
 once seen, and then as a perfect stranger ! ' 
 
 ' Did you notice 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 heard a church 
 clock strike the hour. Beckoning 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 disap- 
 pearance of the writing to be found here ? 
 
 Looking back by the light of later dis~ 
 coveries, I am inclined to think that it was. 
 In three hours, the lines traced by the 
 apparition of her had vanished. In three 
 hours, she had come to herself, and had felt
 
 SAI^^T Ay'iHOXY'S WELL. 189 
 
 :asliamed of the familiar manner in which she 
 had communicated with me in her sleeping 
 state. While she had trusted me, in the 
 trance — trusted me, because her spirit was 
 then free to recognise my sphit — the writing 
 had remained on the page. When her wak- 
 ing will counteracted the influence of her 
 sleeping will, the writing disappeared. Is 
 this the explanation ? If it is not, wdiere is 
 the explanation to be found ? 
 
 We walked on until we reached that part 
 of the Canongate street in which she lodged. 
 We stopped at the door.
 
 190 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 CHAPTEE YII. 
 
 THE LETTER OF I^^TRODUCTIOIS'. 
 
 I 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 confidence, until we meet again. 
 Only let me hear how I can relieve 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 ;
 
 THE LETTER OF IXTROBUCTION. 191 
 
 looking up the street and down the street, irt 
 evident embarrassment what to say next. 
 
 * Do you propose staying in Edinburgh ? * 
 I asked. 
 
 'Oh, no ! I don't wish to remain in Scot- 
 land. 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 
 recommended. I am quick at my needle, and 
 I understand cutting out. Or I could keep 
 accounts, if — if anybody woukl trust me.' 
 
 She stopped, and looked at me doubtingly 
 — as if she felt far from sure, poor soul, of 
 winning my confidence to begin with ! I 
 acted on that hint, with the lieadlon^- im- 
 petuosity of a man who was in love. 
 
 ' I can give you exactly the recommenda- 
 tion you want,' I said. ' Wlienever you hke. 
 Now, if you would prefer it.' 
 
 Her charming features brightened with 
 pleasure. ' Oh, you are indeed a friend ta
 
 192 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 me ! ' she said impulsively. Her face clouded 
 again — she saw my proposal in a new hght. 
 ^ Have I any right,' she said sadly, ' to accept 
 what you offer me ? ' 
 
 ' 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, and that stranger a gentleman? 
 The landlady appeared, as she made the 
 objection. Eeckless wliat I said 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 witli a gen- 
 tleman. Slie led the way into a sort of parlour
 
 THE LETTER OF IXTBODUCTIOX. 103 
 
 l)ehind the 'bar;' placed writing materials 
 on tlie table ; looked at my companion as 
 only one woman can look at another, under 
 certain circumstances ; and left us by our- 
 selves. 
 
 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 c^race whicli it 
 was hterally a luxmy to look at. I said 
 nothing ; my eyes confessed 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 posi- 
 tion. She turned to me, with an effort ; she 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 said uneasily, ' I don't think you ouglit to^ 
 write your letter to-night, sir,' 
 
 'Why not?' 
 
 ' You know nothing of me. Surely you 
 ought not to recommend 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 deli- 
 cate 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. 
 
 Eeminding lier that she had herself pro-
 
 THE LETTEB OF IXTBODUCTIOX. 195 
 
 posed writing to me when we met that even- 
 ino-, I suirsrestecl that she should wait to tell 
 the sad story of her troubles, until it was 
 convenient to her to send me the narrative in 
 the form of a letter. ' In the meantime,' 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 confess frankly the lengths 
 to which my infatuation led me. The dress- 
 maker to whom I had alluded, had been my 
 mother's maid, in former years, and had 
 been estabhshed in business with money lent 
 by my late stepfather, Mr. Germaine. I 
 used both their names, without scruple ; and 
 I wrote my recommendation in terms which 
 the best of living women and the ablest of 
 2
 
 196 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 existing dressmakers could never have hoped 
 to merit. Will anybody find excuses for 
 me ? Those rare persons who have been in 
 love, and who have not completely forgotten 
 it yet, may perhaps find excuses for me. It 
 matters little ; I don't deserve them. 
 
 I handed her the open letter to read. 
 
 She blushed delightfully — she cast one 
 tenderly-grateful look at me, which I re- 
 membered but too well for many and many 
 an after day. The next moment, to my 
 astonishment, this changeable creature 
 changed again. Some forgotten considera- 
 tion seemed to have occurred to her. She 
 turned pale ; the soft lines of pleasure in her 
 face hardened little by little ; she regarded 
 me with the saddest look of confusion and 
 distress. Putting the letter down before me 
 on the table, she said timidl}^ 
 
 'Would you mind adding a postscript, 
 sir?'
 
 THE LETTER OF IXTBOBTJCTIOX. 107 
 
 I suppressed all appearance of surprise as 
 well as I could, and took up the pen again. 
 
 'Would you please say,' slie went on, 
 ' that I am only to be taken on trial, at first. 
 
 I am not to be engaged for more ' 
 
 Her voice sank lower and lower, so that I 
 could barely hear the next words — ' for 
 more than three months, certain.' 
 
 It was not in human nature — perhaps I 
 ought to say, it was not in the nature of a 
 man who was in my situation — to refrain 
 from showing some curiosity, on being asked 
 to supplement a letter of recommendation by 
 such a postscript as this ! 
 
 'Have you some other employment in 
 prospect ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' None,' she answered, with her head 
 down, and her eyes avoiding mine. 
 
 An unworthy doubt of her — the mean 
 offspring of jealousy — found its way into my 
 mind.
 
 198 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 ' Have you some absent friend,' I went 
 on, ' who is likely to prove a better friend 
 than I am, if you only give him time ? ' 
 
 She lifted her noble head. Her grand 
 guileless grey eyes rested on me with a look 
 of patient reproach. 
 
 ' I have not got a friend in the world,* 
 she said. ' For God's sake, ask me no more 
 questions to-night.' 
 
 I rose, and gave her the letter once more 
 — with the postscript 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 me ! ' 
 Her eyes moistened ; her variable colour 
 came and went ; her dress heaved softly over 
 tlie lovely outhne of her bosom. I don't
 
 THE LETTER OF ISTBOBUCTIOX. 199 
 
 believe the man lives who could have 
 resisted her at that moment. I 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 Hps softly returned the 
 kiss. In an instant more it was over. 
 She tore herself away, with a shudder that 
 shook her from head to foot — and threw the 
 letter that I had given her indignantly at 
 my feet. 
 
 ' How dare you take advantage of me 
 How dare you touch me ! ' she said. ' Take 
 your letter back, sir — I refuse to receive it ; 
 I will never speak to you again. You don't 
 know what you have done. You don't 
 know how deeply you have wounded me. 
 Oh ! ' she cried, throwing herself in despair 
 on a sofa that stood near her — ' shall I ever
 
 200 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 recover my self-respect ? shall I ever forgive 
 myself for what I have done to-night ? ' 
 
 I implored her pardon ; I assured her of 
 my repentance and regret 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 confi- 
 dence 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 ? 
 
 ' To-morrow.' 
 
 €J '
 
 THE LETTER OF INTBOBUCTIOX. 201 
 
 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/ 
 
 ' I will take your letter,' she answered 
 quietly. ' Thank you for writing it. Leave 
 me now, please. Good night.' 
 
 I left her, pale and sad, with my letter 
 in her hand. I left her, with my mind in 
 a tumult of contending emotions, which 
 gradually resolved themselves into two 
 master feelings as I walked on : — Love that 
 adored her more fervently than ever ; and 
 Hope that set the prospect before me of 
 seeing her again on the next day.
 
 •2-02 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE DISASTERS OF MRS. VAN BRANDT. 
 
 A MAN wlio passes liis evening as I had 
 passed mine, may go to bed afterwards if he 
 has nothing better to do. But he must not 
 rank among the number of his reasonable 
 anticipations the expectation of getting a 
 night's rest. The morning was well ad- 
 vanced, and the hotel was astir, before I at 
 last closed my eyes in slumber. When I 
 awoke, my watch informed me that it was 
 close on noon. 
 
 I rang the bell. My servant appeared 
 with a letter in his hand. It had been left 
 for me, three hours since, by a lady who had 
 driven to the hotel door in a carriage, and
 
 THE BISASTEBS OF MRS. VAN BRAXLT. 203 
 
 had then driven away again. The man had 
 found me sleeping, when he entered my bed- 
 chamber ; and, having received no orders to 
 wake me over-night, had left the letter on 
 the sitting-room table, until he heard my 
 bell. 
 
 Easily guessing who my correspondent 
 was, I opened the letter. An inclosure fell 
 out of it — to which, for the moment, I paid 
 no attention. The letter was the one object 
 of interest to me. I turned eagerly to the 
 first lines. They announced that the writer 
 had escaped me for the second time : early 
 that morning, she had left Edinburgh ! The 
 paper enclosed proved to be my letter of 
 introduction to the dressmaker, returned to 
 me. 
 
 I w^as more than angry with her — I felt 
 her second flight from me as a downright 
 outrage. In five minutes I had luuTied on 
 my clothes, and was on my way to the inn in
 
 204 THE TWO DESTiyiES. 
 
 the Canongate as fast as a horse could draw 
 me. 
 
 The servants coiild give me no informa- 
 tion. Her escape had been effected without 
 their knowledge. 
 
 The landlady, to whom I next addressed 
 myself, deliberately declined to assist me in 
 any way whatever. ' I have given the lady 
 my promise,' said this obstinate person, ' to 
 answer not one word to any question that 
 you may ask me about her. In my belief, 
 she is acting as becomes an honest woman in 
 removing herself from any further communi- 
 cation with you. I saw you through the 
 key-hole last night, sir. I wish you good 
 morning.' 
 
 Ee turning to my hotel, I left no attempt 
 to discover her untried. I traced the coach- 
 man who had driven her. He had set her 
 down at a shop, and had then been dismissed. 
 I questioned the shopkeeper. He remem-
 
 THE DISASTERS OF MRS. VAX BRAXJDT. 205 
 
 bered that lie had sold some articles of linen 
 to a lady with her veil down and a travelling 
 "bag in her hand, and he remembered no 
 more. I circulated a description of her in 
 the different coach-ofSces. Three ' elegant 
 young ladies, with their veils down, and with 
 travelling bags in their hands ' answered to 
 the description ; and which of the three was 
 the fugitive of whom I was in search, it was 
 impossible to discover. In the days of rail- 
 ways and electric telegraphs, I might have 
 succeeded in tracing her. In the days of 
 which I am now writing, she set investigation 
 at defiance. 
 
 I read and re-read her letter ; on the 
 chance that some slip of the pen might 
 furnish the clue which I had failed to find in 
 any other way. Here is the narrative that 
 she addressed to me ; copied from the 
 original, word for word : — 
 
 ' Dear Sir, — Forgive me for leaving you
 
 206 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 again, as I left you in Perthshire. After 
 what took place last night, I have no other 
 choice (knowing my own weakness, and the 
 influence that you seem to have over me) 
 than to thank you gratefully for your kind- 
 ness, and to bid you farewell. My sad 
 position must be my excuse for separating 
 myself from you in this rude manner, and 
 for venturing to send you back your letter 
 of introduction. If I use the letter, I only 
 offer you a means of communicating with 
 me. For your sake, as well as for mine, this 
 must not be. I must never give you a 
 second opportunity of saying that you love 
 me ; I must go away, leaving no trace 
 behind by which you can possibly discover 
 me. 
 
 ' But I cannot forget that I owe my poor 
 life to your compassion and your courage. 
 You, who saved me, have a right to know 
 what the provocation was that drove me to
 
 THE DISASTERS OF MRS. VAN BRANDT. 20T 
 
 drowning myself, and what my situation is^ 
 now that I am (thanks to you) still a living 
 woman. You shall hear my sad story, sir ;. 
 and I will try to tell it as briefly as possible. 
 
 ' I was married, not very long since, to a 
 Dutch gentleman whose name is Van Brandt. 
 Please excuse my entering into family par- 
 ticulars. I have endeavoured to write and 
 tell you about my dear lost father and my 
 old home. But the tears come into my eyes 
 when I think of my happy past life ; I really 
 cannot see the lines as I try to write them. 
 
 'Let me then only say that Mr. Van 
 Brandt was well recommended to my good 
 father, before I married. I have only now 
 discovered that he obtained these recom- 
 mendations from his friends, under a false 
 pretence which it is needless to trouble you 
 by mentioning in detail. Ignorant of what 
 he had done, I lived with him happily. I 
 cannot truly declare that he was the object of
 
 •208 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 my first love ; but he was the one person in 
 the world whom I had to look up to after my 
 father's death. I esteemed hhii and admired 
 him — and, if I may say so without vanity, 
 I did indeed make him a good wife. 
 
 ' So the time went on, sir, prosperously 
 enough, until the evening came when you 
 and I met on the bridge. 
 
 ' I was out alone in our garden, trimming 
 the shrubs, when the maid-servant came and 
 told me there was a foreign lady, in a carriage 
 at the door,' who desired to say a word to 
 Mrs. Van Brandt. I sent the maid on before, 
 to show her into the sitting-room ; and I 
 followed to receive my visitor as soon as I 
 had made myself tidy. She was a dreadful 
 woman, with a flushed fiery face and impu- 
 dent bright eyes. " Are you Mrs. Van 
 Brandt?" she said. I answered, "Yes." 
 '' Are you really married to him ? " she asked 
 me. That question (naturally enough, I
 
 THE DISASTERS OF MRS. VAX BRAXBT. 209 
 
 think) upset my temper. I said, " How dare 
 you doubt it ? " She laughed in my face. 
 " Send for Van Brandt ; " she said. I went 
 out into the passage, and called him down 
 from the room upstairs in which he was 
 writing. " Ernest ! " I said, " here is a per- 
 son who has insulted me ; come down 
 directly !'" He left his room the moment 
 he heard me. The woman followed me out 
 into the passage to meet him. She made him 
 a low curtsey. He turned deadly pale, the 
 moment he set eyes on her. That frightened 
 me. I said to him, " For God's sake, what 
 does this mean ? " He took me by the arm, 
 and he answered, " You shall know soon. 
 Go back to your gardening, and don't return 
 to the house till I send for you." His 
 looks were so shocking, he was so unhke 
 himself, that I declare he daunted me. I let 
 him take me as far as the c^arden door. He 
 squeezed my hand. " For my sake, darling," 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 he whispered, " do what I ask of you." I 
 went into the garden and sat me down on 
 the nearest bench, and waited miserably for 
 what was to come. 
 
 ' How long a time passed, I don't know. 
 My anxiety got to such a pitch at last that I 
 could bear it no longer. I ventured back to 
 the house. 
 
 ' I listened in the passage, and heard 
 nothing. I went close to the parlour door, 
 and still there was silence. I took courage, 
 and opened the door. 
 
 ' The room was empty. There was a 
 letter on the table. It was in my husband's 
 handwriting ; and it was addressed to me. 
 I opened it and read it. The letter told me 
 that I Avas deserted, disgraced, ruined. The 
 woman with the fiery face and the impudent 
 eyes was Van Brandt's lawful wife. She 
 had given him his choice of going away 
 with her at once, or of being prosecuted for
 
 THE DISASTERS OF MRS. VAN BRANDT. 211 
 
 bigamy. He had gone away with her — 
 gone, and left me. 
 
 'Eemember, sir, that I had lost both 
 father and mother. I had no friends. I 
 was alone in the Avorld without a creature 
 near to comfort or advise me. And please 
 to bear in mind that I have a temper which 
 feels even the smallest shghts and injuries 
 very keenly. Do you wonder at what I had 
 it in my thoughts to do, that evening, on 
 the bridge ? 
 
 'Mind this! I beheve I should never 
 have attempted to destroy myself, if I could 
 only have burst out crying. Xo tears came 
 to me. A dull stunned feeling took a hold, 
 like a vice, on my head and on my heart. 
 I walked straight to the river. I said to 
 myself quite calmly, as I went along : " There 
 is the end of it, and the sooner the better." 
 
 ' What happened after that, you know 
 as well as I do. I may get on to the 
 
 p 2
 
 212 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 next morning — the morning when I so un- 
 gratefully left you at the inn by the river 
 side. 
 
 ' I had but one reason, sir, for going 
 away by the first conveyance that I could 
 find to take me — and this was the fear that 
 Van Brandt might discover me if I remained 
 in Perthshire. The letter that he had left 
 on the table was full of expressions of love 
 and remorse — to say nothing of excuses for 
 his infamous behaviour to me. He declared 
 that he had been entrapped into a private 
 marriage with a profligate woman, when he 
 was little more than a lad. They had long 
 since separated by common consent. When 
 he first courted me, he had every reason to 
 believe that she was dead. How he had 
 been deceived in this particular, and how 
 she had discovered that he had married me, 
 he had yet to find out. Knowing her 
 furious temper, he had gone away with her,
 
 THE DISASTERS OF 3IES. FAX BRAXBT. 213 
 
 as the one means of preventing an applica- 
 tion to the justices and a scandal in the 
 neighbourhood. In a day or two, he would 
 purchase his release from her by an addition 
 to the allowance which she had already re- 
 ceived from him ; he would return to me, and 
 take me abroad, out of the way of further 
 annoyance. I was his wife in the sight of 
 Heaven; I was the only woman he had ever 
 loved ; and so on, and so on. 
 
 ' Do you now see, sir, the risk that I ran 
 of his discovering me if I remained in your 
 neighbourhood? The bare thought of it 
 made my flesh creep. I was determined 
 never again to see the man who had so cruelly 
 deceived me. I am in the same mind still — 
 with this difference, that I might consent to 
 see him, if I could be positively assured 
 first of the death of his wife. This is not 
 likely to happen. Let me go on with my
 
 214 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 letter, and tell yon what I did on my arrival 
 in Edinburgh. 
 
 ' The coachman recommended me to the 
 house in the Canongate where you found me- 
 lodging. I wrote the same day to relatives 
 of my father living in Glasgow, to tell them 
 where I was, and in what a forlorn position; 
 I found myself. 
 
 ' I was answered by return of post. The 
 head of the family and his wife requested me 
 to refrain from visiting them in Glasgow. 
 They had business then in hand which would 
 take them to Edinburgh ; and I might ex- 
 pect to see them both with the least possible 
 delay. 
 
 ' They arrived as they promised ; and 
 they expressed themselves civilly enough. 
 Moreover, they did certainly lend me a small 
 sum of money, when they found how poorly 
 my purse Avas furnished. But I don't think 
 either husband or wife felt much for me.
 
 THE DISASTERS OF MRS. VAX BRANDT 215 
 
 They recommended me, at parting, to apply 
 to my father's other relatives living in Eng- 
 land. I may be doing them an injustice ; but 
 I fancy they were eager to get me (as the 
 common phrase is) off their hands. 
 
 ' The day when the departure of my 
 relatives left me friendless, was also the day, 
 sir, when I had that dream or vision of you 
 which I had already related. I lingered on 
 at the house in the Canongate ; partly be- 
 cause the landlady was kind to me, partly 
 because I was so depressed by my position 
 that I really did not know what to do next. 
 
 'In this wretched condition you dis- 
 covered me on that favourite walk of mine 
 from Holyrood to St. Anthony's Well. Be- 
 lieve me, your kind interest in my fortunes 
 has not been thrown away on an ungrateful 
 woman. I could ask Providence for no 
 greater blessing than to find a brother and a 
 friend in you. You have youi'self destroyed
 
 216 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 that hope by what you said and did, when 
 we were together in the parlour. I don't 
 blame you ; I am afraid my manner (without 
 my knowing it) might have seemed to give 
 you some encouragement. I am only sorry 
 — very, very sorry, to have no honourable 
 choice left but never to see you again. 
 
 ' After much thinking, I have made up 
 my mind to speak to those other relatives of 
 my father to whom I have not yet applied. 
 The chance that they may help me to earn 
 an honest living, is the one chance that I 
 have left. God bless you, Mr. Germaine ! I 
 wish you prosperity and happiness from the 
 bottom of my heart, and remain, your grate- 
 ful servant, ' M. Van Brandt. 
 
 ' P.S. — I sign my own name (or the name 
 wliich I once thought was mine) as a proof 
 that I have honestly written the truth about 
 myself from first to last. For the future I
 
 THE DISASTEBS OF MRS. VAX BEAXDT. 217 
 
 must for safety's sake live under some other 
 name. I should hke to go back to my name 
 when I was a happy girl at home. But Van 
 Brandt knows it; and besides, I have (no 
 matter how innocently) disgraced it. Good- 
 bye again, sir ; and thank you again.' 
 
 So the letter concluded. 
 
 I read it in the temper of a thoroughly 
 disappointed and thoroughly unreasonable 
 man. Whatever poor Mrs. Van Brandt had 
 done, she had done wrong. It was wrong of 
 her, in the first place, to have married at' all. 
 It was wrong of her to contemplate receiving 
 Mr. Van Brandt again, even if his lawful wife 
 had died in the interval. It was wrong of 
 her to return my letter of introduction, after 
 I had given myself the trouble of altering it 
 to suit her capricious fancy. It was wrong 
 of her to take an absurdly prudish view of a 
 stolen kiss and a tender declaration, and to
 
 218 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 fly from me as if I was as great a scoundrel 
 as Mr. Van Brandt himself. And last, and 
 more than all, it was wrong of her to sign 
 her Christian name in initial only. Here I 
 was, passionately in love with a woman, and 
 not knowing by what fond, name to identify 
 her in my thoughts ! ' M. Van Brandt ! * 
 I might call her, Maria, Margaret, Martha, 
 
 Mabel, Magdalen, Mary no! not Mary. 
 
 The old boyish love was dead and gone ; but 
 I owed some respect to the memory of it. If 
 the ' Mary ' of my early days was still living, 
 and if I had met her, would she have treated 
 me as this woman had treated me ? Never ! 
 It was an injury to ' Mary,' to think even of 
 that heartless creature by her name. Why 
 think of her at all? Why degrade myself by 
 trying to puzzle out a means of tracing her in 
 her letter ? It was sheer folly to attempt to 
 trace a woman who had gone I knew not 
 whither, and who herself informed me that
 
 THE BISASTEES OF MBS. VAN BRANDT. 219. 
 
 slie meant to pass under an assumed name. 
 Had I lost all pride, all self-respect ? In the; 
 flower of my age ; with a handsome fortune ;. 
 with the world before me, full of interesting 
 female faces, and charming female figures — 
 what course did it become me to take ? To 
 go back to my country house, and mope over 
 the loss of a woman who had dehberately de- 
 serted me ? or to send for a courier and a 
 travelling-carriage, and forget her gaily, 
 among foreign people and foreign scenes? 
 In the state of my temper at that moment, 
 the idea of a pleasure-tour in Europe fired 
 my imagination. I first astonished the people 
 at the hotel by ordering all further enquiries 
 after the missing Mrs. Van Brandt to be 
 stopped — and then I opened my writing-desk 
 and wrote to tell my mother frankly and 
 fully of my new plans. 
 
 The answer arrived by return of post. 
 
 To my siurprise and delight, my good
 
 220 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 mother was not satisfied with only formally 
 iipproving of my new resolution. With an 
 energy which I had not ventured to expect 
 from her, she had made all her arrangements 
 for leaving home, and had started for Edin- 
 burgh to join me as my travelling companion. 
 ' You shall not go away alone, George' (she 
 wrote), 'while I have strength and spirits 
 to keep you company.' 
 
 In three days from the time when I read 
 those words, our preparations were coni- 
 j)leted, and we were on our way to the 
 Continent.
 
 221 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 NOT CURED YET. 
 
 We visited France, Germany, and Italy ; and 
 we were absent from England about two 
 years. 
 
 Had time and change justified my confi- 
 dence in them ? Was the image of Mrs. Van 
 Brandt an image long since dismissed from my 
 mind? 
 
 No ! Do what I might, I was still (in 
 the prophetic language of Dame Dermody) 
 taking the way to reunion with my kindred 
 spirit, in the time to come. For the first two 
 or three months of our travels, I was haunted 
 by dreams of the woman who had so re- 
 solutely left me. Seeing her in my sleep,
 
 ^222 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 always graceful, always charming, always 
 modestly tender towards me, I waited in the 
 ardent hope of again beholding the appari- 
 tion of her in my waking hours — of again 
 being summoned to meet her at a given 
 place and time. My anticipations were not 
 fulfilled; no apparition showed itself. The 
 dreams themselves grew less frequent and 
 less vivid, and then ceased altogether. Was 
 this a sign that the days of her adversity were 
 at an end ? Having no further need of help, 
 had she no further remembrance of the man 
 who had tried to help her ? Were we never 
 to meet again ? 
 
 I said to myself, ' I am unworthy of the 
 name of a man, if I don't forget her now ! ' 
 She still kept her place in my memory, say 
 what I might. 
 
 I saw all the wonders of Nature and Art 
 which foreign countries could show me. I 
 lived in the dazzling light of the best society
 
 iV'Or CUBED YET. 223 
 
 that Paris, Eome, Vienna could assemble. I 
 passed hours on hours in the company of the 
 most accomplished and most beautiful women 
 whom Europe could produce — and still that 
 solitary figure at St. Anthony's Well, those 
 grand grey eyes which had rested on me so 
 sadly at parting, held their place in my 
 memory, stamped their image on my heart. 
 
 Whether I resisted my infatuation, or 
 whether I submitted to it, I still longed for 
 her. I did all I could to conceal the state of 
 my mind from my mother. But her loving 
 eyes discovered the secret : she saw that I 
 suffered, and suffered with me. More than 
 once she said, ' George, the good end is not 
 to be gained by travelling ; let us go home.' 
 More than once I answered with the bitter 
 and obstinate resolution of despair, ' Ko ! let 
 us try more new people, and more new 
 scenes.' It was only when I found her 
 health and strength beginning to fail under
 
 224 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 the stress of continual travelling, tliat I con- 
 sented to abandon the hopeless search after 
 oblivion, and to turn homeward at last. 
 
 I prevailed on my mother to wait and 
 rest at my house in London, before she re- 
 turned to her favourite abode at the country 
 seat in Perthshire. It is needless to say that 
 I remained in town with her. My mother 
 now represented the one interest that held 
 me nobly and endearingly to hfe. Politics, 
 literature, agriculture — the customary pur- 
 suits of a man in my position had none of 
 them the slightest attraction for me. 
 
 We had arrived in London, at what is 
 called ' the height of the season.' Among 
 the operatic attractions of that year — I am 
 writing of the days when the ballet was still 
 a popular form of public entertainment — 
 there was a certain dancer whose grace and 
 beauty were the objects of universal admira- 
 tion. I was asked if I had seen her wher-
 
 yOT CURED YET. 225 
 
 ever I went, until my social position as the 
 one man who was indifTerent to the reiLrnincr 
 goddess of the stage, became quite unen- 
 durable. On the next occasion when I was 
 invited to take a seat in a friend's box, I 
 accepted the proposal ; and (far from 
 willingly) I went the way of the world — in 
 other w^ords, I went to the opera. 
 
 The first part of the performance had 
 concluded when we got to the theatre, and 
 the ballet had not yet begun. My friends 
 amused themselves with lookino; for familiar 
 faces in the boxes and stalls. I took a chair 
 in a corner and waited, with my mind far 
 away from the theatre, for the dancing that 
 was to come. The lady who sat nearest to 
 me (like ladies in general) disliked tlie 
 neighbourhood of a silent man. She de- 
 termined to make me talk to her. 
 
 ' Do tell me, Mr. Germaine,' she said. 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 ' Did you ever see a theatre anywhere so full 
 as this theatre is to-night ? ' 
 
 She haiicled me her opera-glass as she 
 spoke. I moved to the front of the box to 
 look at the audience. 
 
 It was certainly a wonderful sight. 
 Every available atom of space (as I 
 gradually raised the glass fjom the floor 
 to the ceihng of the building) appeared to 
 be occupied. Looking upward and upward, 
 my range of view gradually reached the 
 gallery. Even at that distance, the excellent 
 glass which had been put into my hands 
 brought the faces of the audience close to 
 me. I looked first at the persons who occu- 
 pied the front row of seats in the gallery 
 stalls. 
 
 Moving the opera-glass slowly along the 
 semicircle formed by the seats, I suddenly 
 stopped when I reached the middle. 
 
 My heart gave a great leap as if it would
 
 Is'OT CURED YET. 227 
 
 bound out of my body. There was no mis- 
 taking that face among the commonplace 
 faces near it. I had discovered Mrs. Van 
 Brandt ! 
 
 She sat in front — but not alone. There 
 was a man in the stall immediately behind 
 her, who bent over her and spoke to her 
 from time to time. She listened to him, so 
 far as I could see, with somethinc: of a sad 
 and weary look. Who was the man? I 
 might, or might not, find that out. Under 
 any circumstances, I determined to speak to 
 Mrs. Van Brandt. 
 
 The curtain rose for the ballet. I made 
 the best excuse I could to my friends, 
 and instantly left the box. 
 
 It was useless to attempt to purchase my 
 admission to the gallery. ]My money was 
 refused. There was not even standing-room 
 left in that part of the theatre. 
 
 But one alternative remained. I re- 
 Q -2
 
 228 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 turned to the street, to wait for Mrs. Yan 
 Brandt at tlie gallery door until the perform- 
 ance was over. 
 
 Who was the man in attendance on her 
 — the man whom I had seen sitting behind 
 her and talking familiarly over her shoulder ? 
 While I paced backwards and forwards be- 
 fore the door, that one question held posses- 
 sion of my mind, until the oppression of it 
 grew beyond endurance. I Avent back to 
 my friends in the box, simply and solely to 
 look at the man again. 
 
 What excuses I made to account for my 
 strange conduct I cannot now remember. 
 Armed once more with the lady's opera-glass 
 (I borrowed it, and kept it, without scruple), 
 I alone, of all that vast audience, turned my 
 back on the stage, and riveted my attention 
 on the gallery stalls. 
 
 There he sat, in his place behind her, to 
 all appearance spell-bound by the fascina-
 
 yOT CTEED YET. 229 
 
 tions of the beautiful dancer. Mrs. Van 
 Brandt, on the contrary, seemed to find but 
 little attraction in the spectacle presented by 
 the staize. She looked at the dancing? (so far 
 as I could see) in an absent, Aveary manner. 
 When the applause broke out in a perfect 
 frenzy of cries and clapping of hands, she sat 
 perfectly unmoved by the enthusiasm which 
 pervaded the theatre. The man behind her 
 (annoyed, as I supposed, by the marked indif- 
 ference which she showed to the perform- 
 ance) tapped her impatiently on the shoulder, 
 as if he thought that she was quite capable 
 of falhng asleep in her stall ! The familiarity 
 of the action — confirming the suspicion in 
 my mind which had already identified him 
 with Van Brandt — so enraged me that I said 
 or did somethini]^ which obliized one of the 
 gentlemen in the box to interfere. ' If you 
 can't control yourself,' lie whispered, 'you 
 had better leave us.' He spoke with the
 
 230 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 authority of an old friend. I had sense 
 enough left to take his advice, and return to 
 my post at the gallery door. 
 
 A little before midnight the performance 
 ended. The audience began to pour out of 
 the theatre. 
 
 I drew back into a corner behind the 
 door, facing the gallery stairs, and watched 
 for her. After an interval which seemed to 
 be endless, she and her companion appeared, 
 slowly descending the stairs. She wore a 
 long dark cloak : her head was protected by a 
 quaintly-shaped hood, which looked (on her) 
 the most becoming head-dress that a woman 
 could wear. As the two passed me I heard 
 the man speak to her in a tone of sulky 
 annoyance. 
 
 ' It's wasting money,' he said, ' to go to 
 the expense of taking you to the opera.' 
 
 ' I am not well,' she answered, with her
 
 2*'0T CURED YET. 231 
 
 head down and her eyes on the ground. ' I 
 am out of spirits to-night.' 
 
 ' Will you ride home, or walk ? ' 
 
 ' I will walk, if you please.' 
 
 I followed them, unperceived ; waiting 
 to present myself to her until the crowd 
 about them had dispersed. In a few minutes 
 they turned into a quiet by-street. I 
 quickened my pace until I was close at lier 
 side — and then I took off my hat and spoke 
 to her. 
 
 She recognised me with a cry of astonish- 
 ment. For an instant her flice brightened 
 radiantly with the loveliest expression of de- 
 light that I ever saw in any human counte- 
 nance. The moment after, all was chanored ! 
 The charming features saddened and 
 hardened : she stood before me like a woman 
 overwhelmed by shame — without uttering a 
 word, without taking my oJered hand
 
 232 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 Iler companion broke the silence. 
 
 ' Who is this gentleman ? ' he asked, 
 speaking in a foreign accent, with an under- 
 bred insolence of tone and manner. 
 
 She controlled herself the moment he 
 addressed her. ' This is Mr. Germaine,' she 
 answered ; ' a gentleman who was very kind 
 to me in Scotland.' She raised her eyes for 
 a moment to mine, and took refuge, poor 
 soul, in a conventionally polite enquiry after 
 my health. ' I hope you are quite well, Mr. 
 Germaine,' said the soft sweet voice, trem- 
 bling piteously. 
 
 I made the customary reply, and ex- 
 plained that I had seen her at the opera. 
 ' Are vou staving in London ? ' I asked. 
 ' May I have the honour of calling on 
 you ? ' 
 
 Her companion answered for her before 
 she could speak. 
 
 ' My w^ife thanks you, sir, for the com-
 
 yOT CURED YET. 233 
 
 pliment you pay lier. Slie doesn't receive 
 visitors. We botli wisli you goocl-iiight.' 
 
 Saying these words lie took off liis liat, 
 witli a sardonic assumption of respect, and, 
 holdinf? her arm in his, forced her to walk on 
 abruptly with him. Feeling certauily as- 
 sured, by this time, that the man was no 
 other than Van Brandt, I was on the point 
 of answering him sharply, when ]\Irs. Van 
 Brandt checked the rash words as they rose 
 to my lips. 
 
 ' For my sake ! ' she whispered over lier 
 shoulder, vrith an imploring look that in- 
 stantly silenced me. After all, she was free 
 (if she liked) to go back to the man who 
 had so vilely deceived and deserted her. I 
 bowed and left them, feeling with no com- 
 mon bitterness the liumiliation of entering? 
 into rivalry with Mr. Van Brandt. 
 
 I crossed to the other side of the street. 
 Before I had taken three steps away from
 
 234 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 her, the old infatuation fastened its hold on 
 me again. I submitted, without a struggle 
 against myself, to the degradation of turning 
 spy, and followed them home. Keeping well 
 behind, on the opposite side of the way, I 
 tracked them to their own door, and entered 
 in my pocket-book the name of the street 
 and the number of the house. 
 
 The hardest critic who reads these Hues 
 cannot feel more contemptuously towards 
 me than I felt towards myself. Could I still 
 love a w^oman, after she had deliberately pre- 
 ferred to me a scoundrel who had married her 
 while he was the husband of another wife ? 
 Yes ! knowing what I now knew, I felt that 
 I loved her just as dearly as ever. It was 
 incredible ; it was shocking — but it was true. 
 For the first time in my life I tried to take 
 refuge from my sense of my own degradation 
 in drink. I went to my club, and joined a 
 convivial party at a supper-table, and poured
 
 NOT CURED YET. 235 
 
 glass after glass of champagne down my 
 throat — without feelino; the slisrhtest sense of 
 exhilaration, without losing for an instant the 
 consciousness of my own contemptible con- 
 duct. I went to my bed in despair ; and, 
 through the wakeful night, I weakly cursed 
 the fatal evening at the riverside when I had 
 met her for the first time. But revile her as 
 I might, despise myself as I might, I loved 
 her — I loved her still ! 
 
 Among the letters laid on my table the 
 next morning, there were two which must 
 find their place in this narrative. 
 
 The first letter was in a handwriting 
 which I had seen once before, at the hotel 
 in Edinburgh. The writer was Mrs. Van. 
 Brandt. 
 
 • For your own sake ' (the letter ran), 
 ' make no attempt to see me, and take no 
 notice of an invitation which I fear you will 
 receive with this note. I am living a de-
 
 230 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 graded life — I have sunk beneath your 
 notice. You owe it to yourself, sir, to for- 
 get the miserable woman who now writes to 
 you for the last time, and bids you gratefully 
 a last farewell.' 
 
 Those sad lines were signed in initials 
 only. It is needless to say that they merely 
 strengthened my resolution to see her at all 
 hazards. I kissed the paper on which her 
 hand had rested — and then I turned to the 
 second letter. It contained the ' invitation ' 
 to which my correspondent had alluded, and 
 it w^as expressed in these terms: — 
 
 ' Mr. Van Brandt presents his compli- 
 ments to Mr. Germaine, and begs to apologise 
 for the somewhat abrupt manner in which 
 he received Mr. Germaine's polite advances. 
 Mr. Van Brandt suffers habitually from 
 nervous irritability, and he felt particularly 
 ill last night. .. He trusts Mr. Germaine will 
 receive this candid explanation in the spirit
 
 Is^OT CURED YET. 237 
 
 ill wliicli it is offered ; and he begs to add 
 that Mrs. Van Brandt will be delighted to 
 receive Mr. Germaine, whenever he may find 
 it convenient to favour her with a visit.' 
 
 That Mr. Yan Brandt had some sordid 
 interest of his own to serve in writing this 
 grotesquely-impudent composition, and that 
 the unhappy woman who bore his name 
 was lieartily ashamed of the proceeding on 
 wdiich he had ventured, were conclusions 
 easily drawn after reading the two letters. 
 The suspicion of the man and of his motives 
 which I naturally felt, produced no hesitation 
 in my mind as to the course which I had 
 determined to pursue. On the contrary, I 
 rejoiced that my way to an interview with 
 Mrs. Yan Brandt was smoothed, no matter 
 with what motives, by Mr. Yan Brandt 
 himself 
 
 I waited at home until noon — and then I 
 could wait no longer. Leavin^^ a messai?e of
 
 238 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 excuse for my mother (I had just seuse of 
 shame enough left to shrink from facing her), 
 I hastened away to profit by my invitation, 
 on the very day when I had received it !
 
 239 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 MRS. VAN BRAIS^DT AT HOME. 
 
 As I lifted my hand to ring the housebell, 
 the door was opened from within — and no 
 less a person than Mr. Van Brandt himself 
 stood before me ! He had his hat on ; we 
 had evidently met just as he was gomg out. 
 
 ' My dear sir, how good this is of you ! 
 You present the best of all replies to my 
 letter, in presenting yourself. Mrs. Yan 
 Brandt is at home — ]\fa. Van Brandt will be 
 delighted. Pray walk in.' 
 
 He threw open the door of a room on 
 the ground floor. His politeness was (if 
 possible) even more offensive than his inso- 
 lence. ' Be seated, Mr. Germaine, I beg of
 
 240 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 f 
 
 you ! ' He turned to the open door and 
 called up the stairs, in a loud and confident 
 voice : 
 
 ' Mary ! Come down directly ! ' 
 ' Mary ! ' I knew her Christian name at 
 last — and knew it through Van Brandt. No 
 words can tell how the name jarred on me, 
 spoken by his lips ! For the hrst time for 
 years past, my mind went back to Mary 
 Dermody and Greenwater Broad. The next 
 moment, I heard the rustling of Mrs. Van 
 Brandt's dress on the stairs. As the sound 
 caught my ear, the old times and the old 
 faces vanished again from my thoughts as 
 completely as if they had never existed. 
 What had she in common with the frail 
 shy little child, her namesake of other days ? 
 What similarity was perceivable in the sooty 
 London lodging-house, to remind me of the 
 baihfl's flower-scented cottage by the shores 
 of the lake ?
 
 MES. Vyiy BBAyDT AT HOME. 241 
 
 Van Brandt took off liis liat, and bowed 
 to me with sickening servility. 
 
 ' I have a bushiess appointment,' he said, 
 ' which it is impossible to put off. Pray ex- 
 cuse me. Mrs. Yan Brandt will do the 
 honours. Good morning^.' 
 
 The house door opened and closed again. 
 The rustling of the dress came slowly nearer 
 and nearer. She stood before me. 
 
 ' Mr. Germaine ! ' she exclaimed, starting 
 back as if the bare sight of me repelled her. 
 'Is this honourable? Is this worthy of 
 you? You allow me to be entrapped into 
 receiving you — and you accept as your ac- 
 complice Mr. Yan Brandt! Oh, sir, I have 
 accustomed myself to look up to you as a 
 high-minded man ! How bitterly you have 
 disappointed me ! ' 
 
 Her reproaches passed by me unheeded. 
 They only heightened her colour ; they only 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 added a new rapture to the luxury of look- 
 ing at lier. 
 
 ' If you loved me as faithfully as I love 
 you/ I said, ' you would understand why I 
 am here. No sacrifice is too great if it 
 brings me into your presence again, after 
 two years of absence.' 
 
 She suddenly approached me, and fixed 
 her eyes in eager scrutiny on my face. 
 
 ' There must be some mistake,' she said. 
 ' You cannot possibly have received my 
 letter ? or you have not read it ? ' 
 
 ' I have received it ; and I have read it.' 
 
 ' And Van Brandt's letter ? You have 
 read that, too ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 She sat down by the table, and leaning 
 her arms on it, covered her face wdth her 
 hands. My answers seemed not only to 
 have distressed her, but to have perplexed 
 her. ' Are men all alike ? ' I heard her say.
 
 MRS. VAN BE AND T AT HOME. 243 
 
 ' I thoucfht I micrht trust in his sense of what 
 was due to himself, and of wdiat was com- 
 passionate towards me.' 
 
 I closed the door, and seated myself by 
 her side. She removed her hands from lier 
 face w^hen she felt me near her. She looked 
 at me with a cold and steady surprise. 
 
 ' What .are you going to do P ' she 
 asked. 
 
 ' I am going to try if I can recover my 
 place in your estimation,' I said. ' I am 
 going to ask your pity for a man whose 
 whole heart is yours, whose wdiole life is 
 bound up in you.' 
 
 She started to her feet, and looked round 
 lier incredulously, as if doubting whether she 
 liad rightly heard and rightly interpreted my 
 last words. Eefore I could speak again, she 
 suddenly faced me, and struck her open 
 hand on the table with a passionate resolu- 
 
 R 2
 
 2U THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 tion which I now saw in her for the first 
 time. 
 
 ' Stop ! ' she cried. ' There must be an 
 end to this. And an end there shall be. 
 Do you know who that man is wlio has just 
 left the house? Answer me, Mr. Germaine ! 
 I am speaking in earnest.' 
 
 There was no choice but to answer her. 
 She was indeed in earnest — vehemently in 
 earnest. 
 
 ' His letter tells me,' I said, ' that he is 
 Mr. Van Brandt.' 
 
 She sat down again, and turned her face 
 away from me. 
 
 ' Do you know how lie came to write to 
 you P ' she asked. ' Do you know what 
 made him invite you to this house ? ' 
 
 I thought of the suspicion that had 
 crossed my mind when I read Van Brandt's 
 letter — I made no reply. 
 
 '* You force me to tell you the truth,' she
 
 3IBS. VAS BHAXDT AT HOME. 245 
 
 went on. ' He asked me who you were, last 
 night, on our way home. I knew that you 
 were rich, and that he wanted money — I 
 tokl him I knew notlnng of your position in 
 the workk He was too cunning to beheve 
 me ; he went out to the pubHc-house, and 
 looked at a Directory. He came back, and 
 said, ' Mr. Germaine has a house in Berkeley 
 Square, and a country seat in the Highlands ; 
 he is not a man for a poor devil like me to 
 offend : I mean to make a friend of him, and 
 I expect you to make a friend of him too.' 
 He sat down, and wrote to you. I am liv- 
 ing under that man's protection, Mr. Ger- 
 maine ! His wife is not dead, as you may 
 suppose — she is living, and I know her to be 
 living. I wrote to you that I was beneath 
 your notice ; and you have obliged me to 
 tell you why. Am I sufficiently degraded 
 to bring you to your senses? ' 
 
 I drew closer to her. ^'lie tried to iiet
 
 2-16 THE TWO BESTIXIES. 
 
 up, and leave me. I knew my power over 
 her, and used it (as any man in my place 
 would have used it) without scruple. I took 
 her hand. 
 
 ' I don't believe you have voluntarily de- 
 graded yourself,' I said. ' You have been 
 forced into your present position — there are 
 circumstances which excuse you, and which 
 you are purposely keeping back from me. 
 Nothing will convince me that you are a 
 base woman ! Should I love you as I love 
 you, if you were really unworthy of me ? ' 
 
 She struggled to free her hand — I still 
 held it. She tried to change the subject. 
 
 ' There is one thing you havn't told me 
 yet,' she said with a faint, forced smile. 
 ' Have you seen the apparition of me again 
 since I left you ? ' 
 
 'No. Have yoit ever seen me again, as 
 you saw me in your dream at the inn in 
 Edinburgh ? '
 
 MES. VAX BRAND T AT HOME. 247 
 
 ' Xever ! Our visions of each other have 
 left us ? Can you tell wliy ? ' 
 
 If we had continued to speak on this 
 subject, we must surely have recognised 
 each other ? But the subject dropped. In- 
 stead of answering her question, I drew her 
 nearer to me — I returned to the forbidden 
 subject of my love. 
 
 ' Look at me,' I pleaded — ' and tell me 
 the truth. Can you see me, can you hear 
 me ; and do you feel no answering sympathy 
 in your own heart ? Do you really care no- 
 thing for me? Have you never once- 
 thought of me, in all the time that has 
 passed since we last met ? ' 
 
 I spoke as I felt — fervently, passionately. 
 She made a last effort to repel me ; and 
 yielded even as she made it. Her hand 
 closed on mine ; a low sigh fluttered on her 
 lips. She answered with a sudden self- 
 abandonment ; she recklessly cast herself
 
 248 THE TWO LESTIMES. 
 
 loose from the restraints Avliicli had held her 
 lip to this time. 
 
 ' I tliink of you perpetually,' she said. 
 ' I was thinking of you at the opera, last 
 night. My heart leapt: in me when I heard 
 your voice in the street.' 
 
 ' You love me ! ' I whispered. 
 
 ' Love you ? ' she repeated. ' My whole 
 heart goes out to you, in spite of myself! 
 Degraded as I am, unworthy as I am — 
 knowing^ as I do that nothing can ever come 
 of it — I love you ! I love you! ' 
 
 See threw her arms round my neck, and 
 held me to lier with all her strength. The 
 moment after, she dropped on her knees. 
 
 ' Oh, don't tempt me ! ' she said. ' Be 
 merciful, and leave me ! ' 
 
 I was beside myself; I spoke as reck- 
 lessly to her as she had spoken to me. 
 
 ' Prove that you love me,' I said. ' Let 
 me rescue you from the degradation of liv-
 
 MRS. VAN BBAXDT AT HOME. 249 
 
 ing with that man. Leave him at once, and 
 for ever. Leave him, and come with me to 
 a future that is worthy of you — your future 
 as my wife ! ' 
 
 ' Xever ! ' she answered, crouching low at 
 my feet. 
 
 ' Why not ? What obstacle is there ? ' 
 
 ' I can't tell you! I daren't tell you.' 
 
 ' Will you write it P ' 
 
 ' No ! I can't even write it — to you. 
 Go, I implore you, before Van Brandt comes 
 back. Go, if you love and pity me.' 
 
 She had roused my jealousy ; I positively 
 refused to leave her. 
 
 ' I insist on knowino; wliat binds you to 
 that man,' I said. ' Let him come back ! 
 If you won't answer my question, I will put 
 it to him.' 
 
 She looked at me wildly, with a cry of 
 terror — she saw my resolution in my face. 
 
 ' Don't frighten me,' she said. ' Let me 
 think.'
 
 250 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 She reflected for a moment. Her eyes 
 brightened, as if some new way out of the 
 difEculty had occurred to her. 
 
 ' Have you a mother Hving ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Do you think she would come and see 
 me?' 
 
 ' I am sure she would, if I asked her.' 
 
 She considered with herself once more. 
 ' I will tell your mother what the obstacle is,' 
 she said thoughtfully. 
 
 'When?' 
 
 ' To-morrow — at this time.' 
 
 She raised herself on her knees; the 
 tears suddenly filled her eyes. She drew me 
 to her gently. ' Kiss me,' she whispered. 
 ' You will never come here again. Kiss me 
 for the last time.' 
 
 My lips had barely touched hers when 
 she started to her feet, and snatched up my 
 hat from the chair on which I had placed it.
 
 MRS. VAN BRANDT AT HOME. 251 
 
 'Take your hat,' she said. 'He has 
 come back.' 
 
 My duller sense of hearing had dis- 
 covered nothing. I rose, and took my hat 
 to quiet her. At the same moment, the door 
 of the room opened suddenly and softly. 
 Mr. Van Brandt came in. I saw in his face 
 that he had some vile motive of his own for 
 trying to take us by surprise, and that the 
 result of the experiment had disappointed 
 him. 
 
 ' You are not going yet? ' he said, speak- 
 ing to me, with his eye on ]\fc. Van Brandt. 
 ' I have hurried over my business, in the 
 hope of prevailing on you to stay and take 
 lunch with us. Put down your hat, Mr. 
 Germaine. J^o ceremony ! ' 
 
 ' You are very good,' I answered. ' My 
 time is limited to-day. I must beg you and 
 Mrs. Van Brandt to excuse me.' 
 
 I took leave of her as I spoke. She
 
 252 THE J WO DESTIMES. 
 
 turned deadly pale when she shook hands 
 with me at parting. Had she any open 
 brutahty to dread from Van Brandt as soon 
 as my back was turned? The bare suspi- 
 cion of it made my blood boil. But I 
 thought of her. In her interests, the wise 
 thing and the merciful thing to do, was to 
 conciliate the fellow before I left the house. 
 
 ' I am sorry not to be able to accept 
 your invitation,' I said, as we walked to- 
 gether to the door. ' Perhaps, you will give 
 me another chance ? ' 
 
 His eyes twinkled cunningly. ' What do 
 you say to a quiet little dinner here ? ' he 
 asked. ' A slice of mutton, you know, and 
 a bottle of good wine. Only our three 
 selves, and one old friend of mine, to make 
 up four. We will have a rubber of whist in 
 the evening. Mary and you partners — eh ? 
 When shall it be ? Shall we say the day 
 after to-morrow^ ? '
 
 MBS. FAX BRAXDT AT HOME. 253 
 
 She had followed us to the door, keeping 
 b eh hid Van Brandt while he was speaking to 
 me. When he mentioned the ' old friend ' 
 and the ' rubber of whist,' her face expressed 
 the strongest emotions of shame and disgust. 
 The next moment (when she had heard him 
 fix the date of the dinner for ' the day after 
 to-morrow ') her features became composed 
 aixain as if a sudden sense of relief had come 
 to her. What did the chano-e mean ? ' To- 
 morrow ' was the day she had appointed for 
 seeing my mother. Did she really believe, 
 Avhen I had heard what passed at the inter- 
 view, that I should never enter the house 
 again, and never attempt to see her more? 
 And was this the secret of her composure 
 when she heard the date of the dinner ap- 
 pointed for ' the day after to-morrow ? ' 
 
 Asking myself these questions I accepted 
 my invitation, and left the house with a 
 heavy heart. That flirewell kiss, that sudden
 
 254 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 composure when the day of the dinner was 
 fixed, weighed on my spirits. I would have 
 given twelve years of my life to have annihi- 
 lated the next twelve hours. 
 
 In this frame of mind I reached home, 
 and presented myself in my mother's sitting- 
 room. 
 
 ' You have gone out earlier than usual to- 
 day,' she said. ' Did the fine weather tempt 
 you, my dear?' She paused and looked at 
 me more closely. ' George ! ' she exclaimed, 
 ' what has happened to you ? where have 
 you been ? ' 
 
 I told her the truth as honestly as I have 
 told|it here. 
 
 The colour deepened in my mother's 
 face. She looked at me, and spoke to me, 
 with a severity w^hich was rare indeed in my 
 experience of her. 
 
 ' Must I remind you, for the first time in 
 your hfc, of what is due to your mother ? *
 
 MRS. FAN BRANDT AT HOME. 255 
 
 she asked. ' Is it possible that you expect 
 me to visit a woman who, by her own con- 
 fession ' 
 
 ' I expect you to visit a woman who has 
 only to say the word, and to be your daugh- 
 ter-in-law,' I interposed. ' Surely I am not 
 asking what is unworthy of you, if I ask 
 that?' 
 
 My mother looked at me in blank dis- 
 may. 
 
 ' Do you mean, George, that you have 
 offered her marriage ? ' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' And she has said, No ? ' 
 
 ' She has said, No — because there is some 
 obstacle in her way. I have tried vainly to 
 make her explain herself She has promised 
 to confide everything to you' 
 
 The serious nature of the emergency had 
 its effect. My mother yielded. She handed 
 me the little ivory tablets on which she was
 
 256 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 accustomed to record her eno^ao^ements. 
 
 * Write down the name and address,' she said 
 
 resignedly. 
 
 ' I will go with yon,' I answered, ' and 
 
 wait in the carriage at the door. I want to 
 
 hear what has passed between you and Mrs. 
 
 Van Brandt the instant you have left her.' 
 ' Is it as serious as tliat, George ? ' 
 ' Yes, mother, it is as serious as that.'
 
 2.37 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 THE OBSTACLE BEATS ME. 
 
 How long was I left alone in the carriage, at 
 the door of Mrs. Van Brandt's lodgrinn^s ? 
 Judging by my sensations, I waited half a 
 lifetime. Judging by my watch, I waited 
 half an hour. 
 
 When my mother returned to me, the 
 hope which I had entertained of a happy 
 result from her interview with Mrs. Van 
 Brandt was a hope abandoned before slie had 
 opened her lips. I saw, in her face, that an 
 obstacle which was beyond my power of re- 
 moval did indeed stand between me and the 
 dearest wish of my life. 
 
 ' Tell me the worst,' I said, as we drove 
 
 YOL. I. s
 
 258 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 away from the house; 'and tell it at 
 once.' 
 
 ' I must tell it to you, George,' my mother 
 answered sadly, ' as she told it to me. She 
 made no attempt to interest me in her early 
 life as a girl. " I have innocently disgraced 
 my father's good name," she said ; " and I 
 must beg you to excuse my saying nothing 
 about my relatives." Beginning in those 
 words, she passed at once to her meeting 
 with you at Edinburgh, and to the cir- 
 cumstances wdiich have led her to live as 
 she is Hving now. This latter part of her 
 narrative she especially requested me to 
 repeat to you. Do you feel composed enough 
 to hear it now ? or would you rather wait ? ' 
 
 ' Let me hear it now, mother — and tell it, 
 as nearly as you can, in her own words.' 
 
 'I will repeat what she said tome, my 
 dear, as faithfully as I can. After referring 
 to her father's death, she told me that she
 
 THE OBSTACLE BEATS ME. 259 
 
 had only two relatives living. " I have a 
 married aunt in Glasgow, and a married aunt 
 in London," she said. " When I left Edin- 
 burgh, I went to my aunt in London. She 
 and my father had not been on good terms 
 together ; she considered that my father had 
 neglected her. But his death had softened 
 her towards him and towards me. She 
 received me kindly, and she got me a situa- 
 tion in a shop. I kept my situation for 
 three months ; and then I was obliged to 
 leave it." ' 
 
 My mother paused. I thought directly 
 of the strange postscript wliich Mrs. Yan 
 Brandt had made me add to the letter tliat I 
 wrote for her at the Edinburgh inn. In that 
 case also she had only contemplated remaining 
 in her employment for three months' time. 
 
 ' Wliy was she obhged to leave her situa- 
 tion ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' I put that question to her myself,' re-
 
 260 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 plied my mother. ' She made no direct 
 reply — she changed colour and looked con- 
 fused. " I will tell you afterwards, madam," 
 she said. " Please let me go on now. My 
 aunt was angry with me for leaving my 
 employment — and she was more angry still 
 when I told her the reason. She said I had 
 failed in my duty towards her in not speak- 
 ing frankly at first. We parted coolly. I 
 had saved a little money from my wages ; 
 and I did well enough while my savings 
 lasted. When they came to an end I tried 
 to get employment again, and I failed. My 
 aunt said, and said truly, that her husbands 
 income was barely enough to support his 
 family : she could do nothing for me, and I 
 could do nothing for myself I wrote to my 
 aunt at Glasgow, and received no answer. 
 Starvation stared me in the face, when I saw 
 in a newspaper an advertisement addressed 
 to me by Mr. Van Brandt. He implored me
 
 THE OBSTACLE BEATS ME. 261 
 
 to write to liim ; he declared that his hfe 
 without me was too desolate to be endured ; 
 he solemnly promised that there should be 
 no interruption to my tranquillity if I would 
 return to him. If I had only had myself to 
 think of, I would have begged my bread in 
 the streets rather than return to him 
 
 I interrupted the narrative at that point. 
 
 ' What other person could she have had 
 to think of ?' I said. 
 
 ' Is it possible, George,' my mother re- 
 joined, ' that you have no suspicion of what 
 she was alhidiog to when she said those 
 words ? ' 
 
 The question passed by me unheeded : 
 my thoughts were dwelling bitterly on Van 
 Brandt and his advertisement. ' She an- 
 swered the advertisement, of course ? ' I 
 said. 
 
 ' And she saw Mr. Van Brandt,' my 
 mother went on. ' She crave me no detailed
 
 262 THE TWO IfESTIXIES. 
 
 account of the interview between them. 
 " He reminded me," she said, " of "what I 
 knew to be true — that the woman who had 
 entrapped him into marrying her w^as an in- 
 curable drunkard, and that his ever hving 
 with her again w^as out of the question. 
 Still, she was alive, and she had a right to 
 the name at least of his wife. I won't at- 
 tempt to excuse my returning to him, know- 
 ing the circumstances as I chd. I will only 
 say that I could see no other choice before 
 me, in my position at the time. It is need- 
 less to trouble you with wdiat I have suiTered 
 since, or to speak of what I may suffer still. 
 I am a lost woman. Be under no alarm, 
 madam, about your son. I shall remember 
 proudly to the end of my life that he once 
 offered me the honour and the happiness of 
 becoming his wife — but I know what is due 
 to him and to you. I have seen him for the 
 last time. The one tiling^ that remains to be
 
 THE OBSTACLE BEATS ME. 263 
 
 done is to satisfy him that our marriage is 
 impossible. You are a mother; you will 
 understand why I reveal the obstacle which 
 stands between us — not to him, but to you." 
 She rose saying those words, and opened the 
 folding doors which led froni the parlour 
 into a back room. After an absence of a 
 few minutes she returned.' 
 
 , At that crowning point in the narrative 
 my mother stopped. Was she afraid to go 
 on ? or did she think it needless to say 
 more? 
 
 'Well?' I said. 
 
 'Must I really tell it to you in words, 
 George? Can't you guess how it ended, 
 even yet ? ' 
 
 There were two difficulties in the way of 
 my understanding her. I had a man's blunt- 
 ness of perception, and I was half maddened 
 by suspense. Incredible as it may appear, I 
 was too dull to guess the truth, even now. 
 r
 
 264 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 ' Wlien she returned to me/ my mother 
 resumed, ' she was not alone. She had with 
 her a lovely little girl, just old enough to 
 walk with the help of her mother's hand. 
 She tenderly kissed the child ; and then she 
 put it on my lap. " There is my only com- 
 fort," she said simply ; " and there is the 
 obstacle to my ever becoming Mr. Germaine's 
 wife." ' 
 
 Van Brandt's child ! Van Brandt's child ! 
 
 The postscript which she had made me 
 add to my letter, the incomprehensible with- 
 drawal from the employment in which she 
 was prospering, the disheartening difficulties 
 wdiich had brought her to the brink of star- 
 vation, the degrading return to the man who 
 had cruelly deceived her — all was explained, 
 all was excused now ! With an infant at the 
 breast, how could she obtain a new employ- 
 ment ? With famine staring her in the face, 
 what else could the friendless woman do but
 
 THE OBSTACLE BEATS ME. 265 
 
 return to the father of her child ? What 
 claim had I on her by comparison with him ? 
 What did it matter noAv that the poor 
 creature secretly returned the love that I felt 
 for her ? There was the child, an obstacle 
 between us — there was his hold on her, now 
 that he had got her back ! What was my hold 
 w^orth ? All social proprieties and all social 
 law^s answered the question : — Xothing ! 
 
 My head sank on my breast — I received 
 the blow in silence. 
 
 My good mother took my hand. ' You 
 understand it now, George ? ' she said, 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 ' Yes, mother, I understand it.' 
 
 ' There was one thing she wished me to 
 say to you, my dear, which I have not men- 
 tioned yet. She entreats you not to suppose 
 that she had the faintest idea of her situation 
 when she attempted to destroy herself. Her 
 first suspicion that it was possible she might
 
 266 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 become a mother was conveyed 'to her at 
 Edinburgh, in a conversation with her aunt. 
 It is impossible, George, not to feel compas- 
 sionately towards this poor woman. Eegret- 
 able as her position is, I cannot see that she 
 is to blame for it. She was the innocent 
 victim of a vile fraud wdien that man married 
 her ; she has suffered undeservedly since ; 
 and she has behaved nobly to you and to 
 me. I only do her justice in saying that she 
 is a woman in a thousand — a woman worthy, 
 under happier circumstances, to be my 
 daughter and your wife. I ieelfor you, and 
 feel with you, my dear — I do, with all my 
 heart.' 
 
 So this scene in my life was, to all ap- 
 pearance, a scene closed for ever. As it had 
 been with my love, in the days of my boy-" 
 hood, so it was again now with the love of 
 my riper age !
 
 THE OBSTACLE BEATS ME. 267 
 
 Later in the day, when I had in some 
 degree recovered my self-possession, I wrote 
 to Mr. Van Brandt — as she had foreseen I 
 should write ! — to apologise for breaking my 
 engagement to dine with him. 
 
 Could I trust to a letter also, to say the 
 farewell words for me to the woman whom I 
 had loved and lost ? No ! It was better for 
 her, and better for me, that I should not 
 write. And yet, the idea of leaving her in 
 silence was more than my fortitude could 
 endure. Her last words at parting (as they 
 were repeated to me by my mother) had 
 expressed the hope that I should not think 
 hardly of her, in the future. How could I 
 assure her that I should think of her ten- 
 derly to the end of my life ? My mother's 
 delicate tact and true sympathy showed me 
 the way. 'Send a little present, George,' 
 she said, ' to the child. You bear no malice 
 to the poor little child ? * God knows I was
 
 268 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 not hard on the child ! I went out myself, 
 and bought her a toy. I brought it home, 
 and before I sent it away, I pinned a slip of 
 paper to it, bearing this inscription : — ' To 
 your little daughter, from George Germaine.' 
 There is nothing very pathetic, I suppose, in 
 those words. And yet, I burst out crying 
 when I had written them. 
 
 The next morning, my mother and I set 
 forth for my country-house in Perthshire. 
 London was now unendurable to me. Travel- 
 hng abroad, I had tried already. Nothing 
 was left but to go back to the Highlands, 
 and to try what I could make of my life, 
 with my mother still left to live for.
 
 269 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 MY mother's diary 
 
 There is something repellent to me, even at 
 this distance of time, in looking back at the 
 dreary days of seclusion which followed each 
 other monotonously in my Highland home. 
 The actions of my life, however trifling they 
 mav have been, I can find some interest in 
 recalhng : they associate n:e with my fellow- 
 creatures ; they connect me, in some degree, 
 with the vij^orous movement of the world. 
 But I have no sympathy with tJie purely self- 
 ish pleasure which some men appear to 
 derive from dwelling on the minute anatomy 
 of their own feelings, under the pressure of 
 adverse fortune. Let the domestic record of
 
 270 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 our stagnant life in Perthshire (so far as I am 
 concerned in it) be presented in my mother's 
 words, not in mine. A few hnes of extract 
 from the daily journal which it was her 
 habit to keep will tell all that need be 
 told, before this narrative advances to later 
 dates and to newer scenes. 
 
 ' 20th August. — We have been two 
 months at om^ home in Scotland, and I see 
 no change in George for the better. He is 
 as far as ever, I fear, from being reconciled 
 to his separation from that unhappy woman. 
 Nothing will induce him to confess it him- 
 self He declares that his quiet life here with 
 me is all that he desires. But I know better ! 
 I have been into his bedroom late at night. 
 I have heard him talking of her in his sleep, 
 and I have seen the tears on his eyelids. 
 My poor boy ! What thousands of charm- 
 ing women there are who would ask nothing
 
 MY 3f OTHERS BIABY, 271 
 
 better than to be his wife. And the one 
 woman whom he can never marry, is the 
 only woman whom he loves ! 
 
 ' 2hth, — A long conversation about 
 George with Mr. MacGlue. I have never 
 liked this Scotch doctor since he encouraged 
 my son to keep the fatal appointment at 
 Saint Anthony's Well. But he seems to be 
 a clever man in his profession — and I think, 
 in his way, he means kindly towards George. 
 His advice was given as coarsely as usual, 
 and very positively at the same time. " No- 
 thing will cure your son, madam, of his 
 amatory passion for that half-drowned lady 
 of his, but change — and another lady. Send 
 him away by himself this time : and let him 
 feel the want of some kind creature to look 
 after him. And when he meets with that 
 kind creature (they are as plenty as fish in 
 the sea) never trouble your head about it if 
 there's a flaw in her character. I have got a
 
 272 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 cracked tea-cup wliicli has served me for 
 twenty years. Marry him, ma'am, to the 
 new one with the utmost speed and impe- 
 tuosity which the law will permit." I hate 
 Mr. MacGlue's opinions — so coarse and so 
 hard-hearted ! — but I sadly fear that I must 
 part with my son for a little while, for his 
 own sake. 
 
 '2Qth. — Where is George to go? I 
 have been thinking of it all through the 
 night, and I cannot arrive at a conclusion. 
 It is so difficult to reconcile myself to letting 
 him go away alone. 
 
 ' 29 th. — I have always believed in special 
 Providences ; and I am now confirmed in my 
 belief This morning has brought with it a 
 note from our good friend and neighbour at 
 Belhelvie. Sir James is one of the Com- 
 missioners for the Northern Lights. He is 
 going in a government vessel to inspect the 
 lighthouses on the north of Scotland, and on
 
 MY MOTHERS DIARY. 273 
 
 the Orkney and Shetland Islands — and, hav- 
 ing noticed how worn and ill my 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 (as Sir James reminds me) did wonders 
 for Georc^e's health when he returned from 
 India. I could wish for no better oppor- 
 tunity tlian 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 the invitation. 
 
 ' 30/A. — 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. 
 
 * ^ist. — Another wakeful night. George 
 must positively send his answer to Sir James 
 to-day. I am determined to do my dut} 
 towards my son — he looks so dreadfully pale 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 and ill this mornincj ! Besides, if somethino" 
 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 ! En- 
 tirely to please me — entirely against his own 
 wishes. Oh, how is it that such a good son 
 cannot get a good wife ! He would make 
 any woman happy. 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
 
 MY MOTHER'S DIARY. 275 
 
 almost regret having insisted so stron<^lv — 
 how foolish I am ! ^ye are all in the hands 
 of God. May God bless and prosper my 
 erood son ! 
 
 ' \Oth. — Very uneasy. jSTo letter from 
 George. Ah, how full of trouble this life is ! 
 and how strange that we should cling to it 
 as we do ! 
 
 ' \hth. — A letter from George ! They 
 have done with the north coast ; and they 
 have crossed the wild sea to the Orkneys. 
 Wonderful w^eather has favoured them so 
 far ; and George is in better health and 
 spirits. Ah ! how much happiness there is 
 in life if wx will only have the patience to 
 wait for it. 
 
 ' 2ncl October. — Another letter. They 
 are safe in the harbour 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. 
 
 T 2
 
 276 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 He writes most gratefully of Sir James's un- 
 remitting kindness to liim. I am so liappy, 
 I declare I could kiss Sir James — tliougli he 
 is a great man, and a Commissioner for 
 Nortliern Lis^hts ! In tliree 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? I have heard of 
 Shetland shawls and Shetland ponies. 
 Are there any Shetland ladies, I wonder?*
 
 277 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 SHETLAXB HOSPITALITY. 
 
 * Guide ! Where are we ? ' 
 
 * 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 travelhng companion, myself, and the 
 guide. We are seated on three Shetland 
 ponies — so small in statiu:e, that we two 
 strangers were at first literally ashamed to 
 get on their backs. We are surrounded by 
 dripping white mist, so dense that we become 
 invisible to one another at a distance of half
 
 278 THE TWO DESTimES. 
 
 a dozen yards. We know that we are some- 
 where on tlie Mainland of the Shetland Isles. 
 We see under the feet of our ponies a mix- 
 ture of moorland and bog — here, the strip 
 of firm ground that we are standing 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 travel- 
 ling companion looks at me resignedly, with 
 an expression of mild reproach. I deserve it. 
 My rashness is 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
 
 KEETLAlsB HOSTITALITY. 279 
 
 the one hope and renounced the one love 
 which made hfe 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 
 tiioughts. Inaction is unendurable ; solitude 
 has become liorrible to me. While the other 
 members of the party which has accom- 
 panied Sir James on his voyage of inspection 
 among the light-houses, are content to wait 
 in the harbour of Lerwick for a favourable 
 change in the weather, I am obstinately bent 
 on leaving the comfortable shelter of tlie 
 vessel to explore some inland ruin of pre- 
 historic times, of which I never heard, and 
 for which I care nothing. The 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
 
 280 THE TWO BESTjyiES. 
 
 member of our party catclies the infection of 
 my recklessness (in virtue of his youth), and 
 goes with me. And what has come of it ? 
 We are bhnded by mist ; we are lost on a 
 moor ; and the treacherous poat-bogs are 
 round us in every direction I 
 
 What is to be done ? 
 
 ' Just leave it to the pownies,' the guide 
 says. 
 
 ' Do you mean leave the ponies to find 
 the way ? ' 
 
 ' That's it,' says the guide. ' Drop the 
 bridle and leave it to the pownies. See for 
 yourselves. I'm away on mij powny.' 
 
 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 com- 
 posedly as if he was sitting by his own fire- 
 side at home. 
 
 We have no choice but to follow his ex-
 
 SHETLAyn HOSPITALITY. 281 
 
 ample, or to be left alone on the moor. The 
 intelligent httle animals, relieved from our 
 stupid . supervision, trot off with their noses 
 to the ground, like hounds on the scent. 
 Where the intersecting tract of bog is wide 
 they skirt round it ; where it is narrow 
 enough to be leaped over they cross it by a 
 jump. Trot! trot! — away the hardy httle 
 creatures go, never stopping, never hesitat- 
 ing. Our ' superior intelligence,' perfectly 
 useless In the emergency, wonders how it 
 will end. Our guide, in front of us, answers 
 that it will end in the ponies finding their 
 w^ay certainly to the nearest village or tlie 
 nearest house. ' Let the bridles be,' is his 
 one warning to us. ' Come what may of it, 
 let the bridles be.' 
 
 It is easy for the guide to let his bridle 
 be — he is accustomed to place himself in 
 that helpless position under stress of circum-
 
 282 JHE TWO LESTIMES. 
 
 stances, and he knows exactly what his pony 
 can do. 
 
 To us, however, the situation is a new one, 
 and it looks dangerous in the extreme. More 
 than once I check myself, not without an 
 effort, in the act of resuming the command 
 of my pony on passing the more dangerous 
 points in the journey. The time goes on, 
 and no sign of an inhabited dwelling looms 
 through the mist. I begin to get fidgety and 
 irritable ; I find myself secretly doubting the 
 trustworthiness of the guide. While I am in 
 this unsettled frame of mind, my pony ap- 
 proaches a dim black winding line, where 
 the bog must be crossed for the hundredth 
 time at least. The breadth of it (deceptively 
 enlarged in appearance by the mist) looks to 
 my eyes beyond the reach of a leap by any 
 pony that ever was foaled. I lose my pre- 
 sence of mind. At the critical moment 
 before the jump is taken, I am foolish enough
 
 SHETLAM) HOSPIIALTTY. 283 
 
 to seize the bridle and suddenly check the 
 pony. He starts, throws up his head, and 
 falls instantly as if he had been shot. My 
 right hand, as we drop on the ground 
 together, gets twisted under me, and I feel 
 that I have sprained my wnst. 
 
 If I escape with no worse injury than 
 this I may consider myself well off. But no 
 such good fortune is reserved for me. In 
 his struggles to rise, before I have completely 
 extricated myself from him, the pony kicks 
 me, and, as my ill-luck will have it, his 
 hoof strikes just where the poisoned spear 
 struck me in t]ie past days of my service in 
 India. The old wound opens again, and 
 there I lie bleeding on the barren Shetland 
 moor ! 
 
 This time my strength has not been ex- 
 hausted in attempting to breast the current 
 of a swift-flowing river with a drowning 
 woman to support. I preserve my senses,
 
 284 7H?: TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 and I am able to give the necessary direc- 
 tions for bandaging the wound with the best 
 materials which we have at our disposal. 
 To mount my pony again is simply out of 
 the question. I must remain where I am, 
 with my travelling companion to look after 
 me, and the guide must trust his pony to 
 discover the nearest place of shelter to which 
 I can be removed. 
 
 Before he abandons us on the moor, the 
 man (at my suggestion) takes our ' bearings ' 
 as correctly as he can by the help of my 
 pocket-compass. This done, he disappears 
 in the mist, witli the bridle hanging loose 
 and the pony's nose to the ground, as before. 
 I am left, under my yoimg friend's care, with 
 a cloak to lie on and a saddle for a pillow. 
 Our ponies composedly help themselves to 
 such grass as they can find on the moor ; 
 keeping always near us as companionably as 
 if they were a couple of dogs. In this posi-
 
 SHETLAyn HOSPITALITY. 285 
 
 tion we wait events, while the dripping mist 
 hano-s tliicker tlian ever all round us. 
 
 The slow minutes follow each other 
 wearily in the majestic silence of the moor. 
 We neither of us acknowledge it in words, 
 but we both feel that hours may pass before 
 the guide discovers us again. The penetrat- 
 ing damp slowly strengthens its clammy hold 
 on me. My companion's pocket-flask of 
 sherry has about a teaspoonful of wine left in 
 the bottom of it. We look at one another, 
 having notliing else to look at in the present 
 state of the weather, and we try to make the 
 best of it. So the slow minutes follow each 
 other, until our watches tell us that forty 
 minutes have elapsed since the guide and his 
 pony vanished from our view. 
 
 My friend suggests that we may as well 
 try what our voices can do towards pro- 
 claiming our situation to any living creature 
 who may, by the barest possibihty, be within
 
 286 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 hearing of us. I leave him to try the experi- 
 ment, having no strength to spare for vocal 
 eiTorts of any sort. My companion shouts at 
 the highest pitch of his voice. Silence fol- 
 lows his first attempt. He tries again, and 
 this time an answering hail reaches us faintly 
 through the white fog. A fellow-creature of 
 some sort, guide or stranger, is near us — help 
 is coming at last ! 
 
 An interval passes ; and voices reach our 
 ears — the voices of two men. Then, the 
 shadowy appearance of the two becomes 
 visible in the mist. Then, the guide ad- 
 vances near enough to be identified. He is 
 followed by a sturdy fellow, in a composite 
 dress, which presents him under the double 
 aspect of a groom and a gardener. The 
 guide speaks a few words of rough sympathy. 
 The composite man stands by impenetrably 
 silent : the sight of a disabled stranger fails
 
 SHETLAND HOSPITALITY. 287 
 
 entirely either to surprise or to interest the 
 gardener-groom . 
 
 After a httle private consultation, the 
 two men decide to cross their hands, and 
 thus make a seat for me between them. My 
 arms rest on their shoulders ; and so they 
 carry me off. My friend trudges behind 
 them, with the saddle and the cloak. The 
 ponies caper and kick, in unrestrained enjoy- 
 ment of their freedom ; and sometimes follow, 
 sometimes precede us, as the humour of the 
 moment inclines them. I am, fortunately for 
 my bearers, a light weight. After twice rest- 
 ing, they stop altogether, and set me down on 
 the driest place they can find. I look eagerly 
 through the mist, for some signs of a dwelling- 
 house — and I see nothing but a little shelv- 
 ing beach, and a sheet of dark water beyond. 
 Where are we ? 
 
 The gardener-groom vanishes, and ap- 
 pears again on the water, looming large in a
 
 288 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 boat. I am laid down in tlie bottom of the 
 boat, with my saddle-pillow ; and we shove 
 off, leaving the ponies to the desolate freedom 
 of the moor. They will pick up plenty to 
 eat (the guide says) ; and when night comes 
 on they will hnd their own way to shelter in 
 a village hard by. The last I see of the 
 hardy little creatures they are taking a drink 
 of water, side by side, and biting each other 
 sportively in higher spirits than ever ! 
 
 Slowly w^e float over the dark water — not 
 a river, as I had at first supposed, but a lake 
 — until we reach the shores of a little island ; 
 a flat lonely barren patch of ground. I am 
 carried along a rough pathway made of 
 great flat stones, until we reach the firmer 
 earth, and discover a human dwelling-place 
 at last. It is a long low house of one storey 
 high ; forming (as well as I can see) three 
 sides of a square. The door stands hospita- 
 bly open. The hall witliin is bare and cold
 
 SHETLASD HOSPITALITY. 289 
 
 and dreary. The men open an inner 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 meet my eye. Advancing to the end 
 of the first 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 cheer- 
 ful place of shelter from the chilly and misty 
 solitude of the moor is so luxuriously delight- 
 ful that I am quite content, for the first few 
 minutes, to stretch myself on a bed, in lazy 
 enjoyment of my new position ; without 
 caring to enquire into whose house we have 
 intruded ; without even wondering at the 
 strange absence of master, mistress, or 
 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 member of the family to welcome our arrival 
 under their roof. 
 
 After awhile, the first sense of relief 
 passes away. My dormant curiosity revives. 
 I begin to look about me. 
 
 The gardener-groom has disappeared. I 
 discover my travelling companion at the 
 farther end of the room, evidently occupied 
 in questioning the guide. A word from me 
 brings him to my bedside. What discoveries 
 has he made ? w^hose is the house in which 
 we are sheltered? and how is it that no 
 member of the family appears to welcome 
 us? 
 
 My friend relates his discoveries. The 
 guide listens as attentively to the second- 
 hand narrative, as if it was quite new to him. 
 
 The house that shelters us belongs to a 
 gentleman of ancient northern lineage, whose 
 name is Dunross. He has lived in unbroken 
 retirement on the barren island for twenty
 
 SHETLAND HOSPITALITY. 291 
 
 years past, with no other companion than a 
 daughter, who is his only child. He is 
 generally beheved to be one of the most 
 learned men living. The inhabitants of 
 Shetland know him far and wide, under a 
 quaintly-sounding name 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 
 disease broke out among the villages in the 
 neighbourhood. Father and daughter la- 
 bouired 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 had never 
 completely recovered her health. She is now
 
 292 THE TWO DESTINIES 
 
 an incurable sufferer from some mysterious 
 nervous disorder which nobody understands, 
 and which has kept her a prisoner on the 
 island, self- with drawn from all human obser- 
 vation for years past. Among the poor 
 inhabitants of the district, the father and 
 daughter are worshipped as semi-diviue 
 beings. Their names come 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 narrative has 
 a certain interest of its own, no doubt, but 
 it has one defect — it fails entirely to explain 
 the continued absence of Mr. Dunross. Is it 
 possible that he is not aware of our presence 
 in the house ? We apply to the guide, and 
 make a few further enquiries of him. 
 
 ' Are we here,' I ask, ' by permission 
 of Mr. Dunross ? '
 
 SHETLAND HOSPITALITY. 293 
 
 The guide stares. If I liad spoken to 
 him in Greek or Hebrew, I could hardly 
 have puzzled him more effectually. My 
 friend tries him with a simpler form of 
 words. 
 
 ' Did you ask leave to bring us here when 
 you found your way to the house ? ' 
 
 The guide stares harder than ever, w^ith 
 every appearance of feeling perfectly scan- 
 dalised 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 ? ' 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.
 
 294 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 The door opens before we have recovered 
 the shock inflicted on us by this extraor- 
 dinary discovery. A little lean old gentle- 
 man, 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 
 Mr. Dunross !
 
 295 
 
 CHAPTEE XIV. 
 
 THE DARKEXED EOOM. 
 
 The little gentleman advances to my bedside. 
 His silky white hair flows over his shoul- 
 ders ; he looks at us with faded blue eyes ; 
 he bows with a sad and subdued courtesy, 
 and says in the simplest manner, ' I bid you 
 welcome, gentlemen, to my house.' 
 
 We are not content Avith merely thanking 
 him ; we naturally attempt to apologise 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 servant a 
 minute since,' he proceeds, and I only then
 
 296 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 heard that you were here. It is the custom of 
 the house that nobody interrupts me over 
 my books. Be pleased, sir, to accept m}^ 
 excuses,' he adds, addressing himself to me, 
 'for not having sooner placed myself and 
 my household at your disposal. You have 
 met, as I am sorry to hear, with an accident. 
 Will you permit me to send for medical 
 help ? I ask the question a little abruptly, 
 fearing that time may be of importance, 
 and knowing that our nearest doctor lives 
 at some distance from this house.' 
 
 He speaks with a certain quaintly-pre- 
 cise choice of words — more like a man dic- 
 tating a letter than holding a conversation. 
 The subdued sadness of his manner is re- 
 flected 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 impene-
 
 THE DARKENED EOOM. 297 
 
 trably over the whole man ; I see it in his 
 faded bhie eyes, on his broad forehead, on 
 his dehcate lips, on his pale shrivelled cheeks. 
 My uneasy sense of committing an intrusion 
 on him steadily increases, in spite of his 
 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 last few moments that my travelling com- 
 panion and I have become aware of the 
 liberty which our guide has taken in intro- 
 ducing us, on his own sole responsibility, to 
 the house. Mr. Dunross looks at me, as if 
 he, like the guide, failed entirely to under- 
 stand 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.
 
 298 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 'We are so used here to our Shetland 
 hospitality/ he says, ' that we are slow to 
 understand the hesitation which a stranger 
 feels in taking advantage of it. Your guide 
 is in no respect to blame, gentlemen. Every 
 house in these islands which is large enough 
 to contains a spare room, has its Guest Cham- 
 ber, 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 accompany- 
 ing you on the first stage of your journey to 
 bid you God-speed. The customs of cen- 
 turies past elsewhere, are modern customs 
 here. I beg of you to give 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 ring a handbell on 
 the table as he speaks ; and notices in the 
 guide's face plain signs that the man has
 
 THE LABKENEB ROOM. 299 
 
 taken offence at my disparaging allusion to 
 him. 
 
 ' Strangers cannot be expected to under- 
 stand our ways, Andrew,' says the Master of 
 Books. 'But you and I understand one 
 another — and that is enough.' 
 
 The guide's rou^jh 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 Master's 
 hand, and kiss it. Mr. Dunross gently re- 
 pels 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 hiijhest distinction that an earthly beinc^ 
 can receive. The Master's hand had touched 
 him kindly ! 
 
 In a moment more, the gardener-^rroom 
 appears at the door to answer the bell.
 
 300 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 ' You will move the medicine-chest into 
 his room, Peter,' says Mr. Dunross. ' And 
 you will wait on this gentleman, who is con- 
 fined to his bed by an accident, exactly as 
 you would wait on me if I was ill. If w^e 
 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 w^ill spread the 
 table, for to-day at least, in this room. These 
 two gentlemen will be best pleased to dine 
 together. Eeturn here in five minutes' time, 
 in case you are wanted ; and show my guest, 
 Peter, that I am right in believing you to be 
 a good nurse as well as a good servant.' 
 
 The silent and surly Peter brightens 
 under the expression of the Master's confi- 
 dence in him, as the guide brightened under
 
 THE BARKENED BOOM. 301 
 
 the influence of the Master's caressing touch. 
 The two men leave the room together. 
 
 We take advantage 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 sub- 
 dued courteous way ; but he makes no en- 
 quiries 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 occupa- 
 tions 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.
 
 302 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 ' 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 com- 
 panion, 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 offer 
 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.' 
 
 My friend happens to be fond of fishing, 
 and gladly accepts the invitation. The 
 Master says his parting words to me, before 
 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.
 
 THE BARKENED BOOM. 303 
 
 At the same time he is careful and con- 
 siderate, in his own reserved way. As to 
 what I may term, the hghter duties at your 
 bedside — such as reading to you, writing 
 your letters for you while your right hand is 
 still disabled, regulating the temperature in 
 the room, and so on — though I cannot speak 
 positively, I think it likely that these little 
 services may be rendered to 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 gi'atefully 
 on Shetland hospitality. We both wonder 
 what those last mysterious words of our host 
 mean ; and we exchange more or less inge- 
 nious guesses on the subject of that nameless 
 ' other person ' who may possibly attend on
 
 304 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 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 
 line old Madeira revives me. We arrange 
 our future plans while we are engaged over 
 tlie meal. Our return to the yacht in Ler- 
 wick 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 re- 
 lieve the minds of our friends of any needless 
 alarm about me. On the day after, I engage 
 to send 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 dress-
 
 THE DARKENED BOOM. 305 
 
 ings 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 restorative virtues 
 of sleep. 
 
 Before he leaves the room, silent Peter 
 goes to the window, and asks in fewest pos- 
 sible 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 cheeriniT hizht of dav. To mv 
 morbid fancy, at that moment, it looks like 
 resigning myself deliberately to the hoiTors 
 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 contem- 
 plation of the companionable lire. Mean- 
 while, the dressings on my wound and the 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 embrocation on my sprained wrist steadily 
 subdue the pains wliich I have felt so far. 
 Little by little, the bright fire seems to be 
 fading. Little by little, sleep steals on me, 
 and my troubles are forgotten. 
 
 I wake, after what seems to have been a 
 long repose — I wake, feeling the bewilder- 
 ment which we all experience on opening 
 our eyes for the first time in a bed and a 
 room that are new to us. Gradually collect- 
 ing my thoughts, I find my perplexity con- 
 siderably increased by a trifling but curious 
 circumstance. 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 folding sides stands before the 
 fire, and confines the lis[ht which it mig;ht 
 otherwise give, exclusively to the ceihng. I 
 am literally enveloped in shadows. Has 
 night come ?
 
 THE DARKENED EOOM. 307 
 
 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 outhne of the dress tells me that it 
 is the figure of a woman. Straining my 
 eyes, I fancy I can discern a wavy black 
 object covering 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 sub- 
 stance 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. 
 
 X 2
 
 308 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 ' I liope you feel better, sir, after your 
 rest ? ' 
 
 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 tJie 
 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 Dunross among 
 her poor and afflicted neighbours ; and I do 
 not forget the melancholy result of her devo- 
 tion to others which has left her an incurable 
 invalid. My anxiety to see this lady more 
 plainly increases a hundredfold. I beg her
 
 THE BARKEXED ROOM. 309 
 
 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 all 
 
 ready ? ' 
 
 ' You have not been asleep,' she answers, 
 
 'for more than two hours. The mist has 
 
 disappeared, and the sun is shining.' 
 
 I take up the bell, standing on the table 
 
 at my side. 
 
 ' May I ring for Peter, Miss Dunross ? ' 
 ' To open the curtains, Mr. Germaine ? ' 
 ' Yes — with your permission. I own I 
 
 should hke to see the sunhght.' 
 
 ' I will send Peter to you immediately.' 
 The shadowy figure of my new nurse 
 
 ghdes away. In another 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 troubhng you to take a tritiiug message for
 
 310 THE TWO DESTINIES. 
 
 me. The servant will come in, if I only ring 
 the bell.' 
 
 She pauses — more shadowy than ever — 
 halfway 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 ? 
 If her eyes w^ere weak, they would be pro- 
 tected by a shade. Dark as it is, her veil 
 would surely show it, if she wore a shade ? 
 Perhaps, after all, the curtains have been 
 drawn with a view of prolonging my 
 slumbers ? I cannot venture on asking the 
 question — I can only make my excuses in due 
 form. 
 
 ' Invahds only think of themselves,' I say.
 
 THE BARKENED BOOM. 311 
 
 ' I supposed that you had kindly darkened 
 the room on my account.' 
 
 She ghdes back to my bedside, before 
 she speaks again. When she does answer, it 
 is in these starthng words : 
 
 ' You were mistaken, Mr. Germaine. 
 Your room has been darkened — not on your 
 account, but on mine.'' 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 I.OXriON- : rniNTKD BV 
 
 SPOTTISWOODK AXD CO., XEW-STRKET SQCAHE 
 
 A>'D FAKLIAMKXT STREET
 
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