Book: THE TWO DESTINIES

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The fire in my room had burned low in my absence. One of the
closed curtains had been drawn back a few inches, so as to admit
through the window a ray of the dying light. On the boundary
limit where the light was crossed by the obscurity which filled
the rest of the room, I saw Miss Dunross seated, with her veil
drawn and her writing-case on her knee, waiting my return.

I hastened to make my excuses. I assured her that I had been
careful to tell the servant where to find me. She gently checked
me before I could say more.

"It's not Peter's fault," she said. "I told him not to hurry your
return to the house. Have you enjoyed your walk?"

She spoke very quietly. The faint, sad voice was fainter and
sadder than ever. She kept her head bent over her writing-case,
instead of turning it toward me as usual while we were talking. I
still felt the mysterious trembling which had oppressed me in the
garden. Drawing a chair near the fire, I stirred the embers
together, and tried to warm myself. Our positions in the room
left some little distance between us. I could only see her
sidewise, as she sat by the window in the sheltering darkness of
the curtain which still remained drawn.

"I think I have been too long in the garden," I said. "I feel
chilled by the cold evening air."

"Will you have some more wood put on the fire?" she asked. "Can I
get you anything?"

"No, thank you. I shall do very well here. I see you are kindly
ready to write for me."

"Yes," she said, "at your own convenience. When you are ready, my
pen is ready."

The unacknowledged reserve that had come between us since we had
last spoken together, was, I believe, as painfully felt by her as
by me. We were no doubt longing to break through it on either
side--if we had only known how. The writing of the letter would
occupy us, at any rate. I made another effort to give my mind to
the subject--and once more it was an effort made in vain. Knowing
what I wanted to say to my mother, my faculties seemed to be
paralyzed when I tried to say it. I sat cowering by the fire--and
she sat waiting, with her writing-case on her lap.

CHAPTER XXII.

SHE CLAIMS ME AGAIN.

THE moments passed; the silence between us continued. Miss
Dunross made an attempt to rouse me.

"Have you decided to go back to Scotland with your friends at
Lerwick?" she asked.

"It is no easy matter," I replied, "to decide on leaving my
friends in this house."

Her head drooped lower on her bosom; her voice sunk as she
answered me.

"Think of your mother," she said. "The first duty you owe is your
duty to her. Your long absence is a heavy trial to her--your
mother is suffering."

"Suffering?" I repeated. "Her letters say nothing--"

"You forget that you have allowed me to read her letters," Miss
Dunross interposed. "I see the unwritten and unconscious
confession of anxiety in every line that she writes to you. You
know, as well as I do, that there is cause for her anxiety. Make
her happy by telling her that you sail for home with your
friends. Make her happier still by telling her that you grieve no
more over the loss of Mrs. Van Brandt. May I write it, in your
name and in those words?"

I felt the strangest reluctance to permit her to write in those
terms, or in any terms, of Mrs. Van Brandt. The unhappy
love-story of my manhood had never been a forbidden subject
between us on former occasions. Why did I feel as if it had
become a forbidden subject now? Why did I evade giving her a
direct reply?

"We have plenty of time before us," I said. "I want to speak to
you about yourself."

She lifted her hand in the obscurity that surrounded her, as if
to protest against the topic to which I had returned. I
persisted, nevertheless, in returning to it.

"If I must go back," I went on, "I may venture to say to you at
parting what I have not said yet. I cannot, and will not, believe
that you are an incurable invalid. My education, as I have told
you, has been the education of a medical man. I am well
acquainted with some of the greatest living physicians, in
Edinburgh as well as in London. Will you allow me to describe
your malady (as I understand it) to men who are accustomed to
treat cases of intricate nervous disorder? And will you let me
write and tell you the result?"

I waited for her reply. Neither by word nor sign did she
encourage the idea of any future communication with her. I
ventured to suggest another motive which might induce her to
receive a letter from me.

"In any case, I may find it necessary to write to you," I went
on. "You firmly believe that I and my little Mary are destined to
meet again. If your anticipations are realized, you will expect
me to tell you of it, surely?"

Once more I waited. She spoke--but it was not to reply: it was
only to change the subject.

"The time is passing," was all she said. "We have not begun your
letter to your mother yet."

It would have been cruel to contend with her any longer. Her
voice warned me that she was suffering. The faint gleam of light
through the parted curtains was fading fast. It was time, indeed,
to write the letter. I could find other opportunities of speaking
to her before I left the house.

"I am ready," I answered. "Let us begin."

The first sentence was easily dictated to my patient secretary. I
informed my mother that my sprained wrist was nearly restored to
use, and that nothing prevented my leaving Shetland when the
lighthouse commissioner was ready to return. This was all that it
was necessary to say on the subject of my health; the disaster of
my re-opened wound having been, for obvious reasons, concealed
from my mother's knowledge. Miss Dunross silently wrote the
opening lines of the letter, and waited for the words that were
to follow.

In my next sentence, I announced the date at which the vessel was
to sail on the return voyage; and I mentioned the period at which
my mother might expect to see me, weather permitting. Those
words, also, Miss Dunross wrote--and waited again. I set myself
to consider what I should say next. To my surprise and alarm, I
found it impossible to fix my mind on the subject. My thoughts
wandered away, in the strangest manner, from my letter to Mrs.
Van Brandt. I was ashamed of myself; I was angry with myself--I
resolved, no matter what I said, that I would positively finish
the letter. No! try as I might, the utmost effort of my will
availed me nothing. Mrs. Van Brandt's words at our last interview
were murmuring in my ears--not a word of my own would come to me!

Miss Dunross laid down her pen, and slowly turned her head to
look at me.

"Surely you have something more to add to your letter?" she said.

"Certainly," I answered. "I don't know what is the matter with
me. The effort of dictating seems to be beyond my power this
evening."

"Can I help you?" she asked.

I gladly accepted the suggestion. "There are many things," I
said, "which my mother would be glad to hear, if I were not too
stupid to think of them. I am sure I may trust your sympathy to
think of them for me."

That rash answer offered Miss Dunross the opportunity of
returning to the subject of Mrs. Van Brandt. She seized the
opportunity with a woman's persistent resolution when she has her
end in view, and is determined to reach it at all hazards.

"You have not told your mother yet," she said, "that your
infatuation for Mrs. Van Brandt is at an end. Will you put it in
your own words? Or shall I write it for you, imitating your
language as well as I can?"

In the state of my mind at that moment, her perseverance
conquered me. I thought to myself indolently, "If I say No, she
will only return to the subject again, and she will end (after
all I owe to her kindness) in making me say Yes." Before I could
answer her she had realized my anticipations. She returned to the
subject; and she made me say Yes.

"What does your silence mean?" she said. "Do you ask me to help
you, and do you refuse to accept the first suggestion I offer?"

"Take up your pen," I rejoined. "It shall be as you wish."

"Will you dictate the words?"

"I will try."

I tried; and this time I succeeded. With the image of Mrs. Van
Brandt vividly present to my mind, I arranged the first words of
the sentence which was to tell my mother that my "infatuation"
was at an end!

"You will be glad to hear," I began, "that time and change are
doing their good work."

Miss Dunross wrote the words, and paused in anticipation of the
next sentence. The light faded and faded; the room grew darker
and darker. I went on.

"I hope I shall cause you no more anxiety, my dear mother, on the
subject of Mrs. Van Brandt."

In the deep silence I could hear the pen of my secretary
traveling steadily over the paper while it wrote those words.

"Have you written?" I asked, as the sound of the pen ceased.

"I have written," she answered, in her customary quiet tones.

I went on again with my letter.

"The days pass now, and I seldom or never think of her; I hope I
am resigned at last to the loss of Mrs. Van Brandt."

As I reached the end of the sentence, I heard a faint cry from
Miss Dunross. Looking instantly toward her, I could just see, in
the deepening darkness, t hat her head had fallen on the back of
the chair. My first impulse was, of course, to rise and go to
her. I had barely got to my feet, when some indescribable dread
paralyzed me on the instant. Supporting myself against the
chimney-piece, I stood perfectly incapable of advancing a step.
The effort to speak was the one effort that I could make.

"Are you ill?" I asked.

She was hardly able to answer me; speaking in a whisper, without
raising her head.

"I am frightened," she said.

"What has frightened you?"

I heard her shudder in the darkness. Instead of answering me, she
whispered to herself: "What am I to say to him?"

"Tell me what has frightened you?" I repeated. "You know you may
trust me with the truth."

She rallied her sinking strength. She answered in these strange
words:

"Something has come between me and the letter that I am writing
for you."

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you."

"Can you see it?"

"No."

"Can you feel it?"

"Yes!"

"What is it like?"

"Like a breath of cold air between me and the letter."

"Has the window come open?"

"The window is close shut."

"And the door?"

"The door is shut also--as well as I can see. Make sure of it for
yourself. Where are you? What are you doing?"

I was looking toward the window. As she spoke her last words, I
was conscious of a change in that part of the room.

In the gap between the parted curtains there was a new light
shining; not the dim gray twilight of Nature, but a pure and
starry radiance, a pale, unearthly light. While I watched it, the
starry radiance quivered as if some breath of air had stirred it.
When it was still again, there dawned on me through the unearthly
luster the figure of a woman. By fine and slow gradations, it
became more and more distinct. I knew the noble figure; I knew
the sad and tender smile. For the second time I stood in the
presence of the apparition of Mrs. Van Brandt.

She was robed, not as I had last seen her, but in the dress which
she had worn on the memorable evening when we met on the
bridge--in the dress in which she had first appeared to me, by
the waterfall in Scotland. The starry light shone round her like
a halo. She looked at me with sorrowful and pleading eyes, as she
had looked when I saw the apparition of her in the summer-house.
She lifted her hand--not beckoning me to approach her, as before,
but gently signing to me to remain where I stood.

I waited--feeling awe, but no fear. My heart was all hers as I
looked at her.

She moved; gliding from the window to the chair in which Miss
Dunross sat; winding her way slowly round it, until she stood at
the back. By the light of the pale halo that encircled the
ghostly Presence, and moved with it, I could see the dark figure
of the living woman seated immovable in the chair. The
writing-case was on her lap, with the letter and the pen lying on
it. Her arms hung helpless at her sides; her veiled head was now
bent forward. She looked as if she had been struck to stone in
the act of trying to rise from her seat.

A moment passed--and I saw the ghostly Presence stoop over the
living woman. It lifted the writing-case from her lap. It rested
the writing-case on her shoulder. Its white fingers took the pen
and wrote on the unfinished letter. It put the writing-case back
on the lap of the living woman. Still standing behind the chair,
it turned toward me. It looked at me once more. And now it
beckoned--beckoned to me to approach.

Moving without conscious will of my own, as I had moved when I
first saw her in the summer-house--drawn nearer and nearer by an
irresistible power--I approached and stopped within a few paces
of her. She advanced and laid her hand on my bosom. Again I felt
those strangely mingled sensations of rapture and awe, which had
once before filled me when I was conscious, spiritually, of her
touch. Again she spoke, in the low, melodious tones which I
recalled so well. Again she said the words: "Remember me. Come to
me." Her hand dropped from my bosom. The pale light in which she
stood quivered, sunk, vanished. I saw the twilight glimmering
between the curtains--and I saw no more. She had spoken. She had
gone.

I was near Miss Dunross--near enough, when I put out my hand, to
touch her.

She started and shuddered, like a woman suddenly awakened from a
dreadful dream.

"Speak to me!" she whispered. "Let me know that it is _you_ who
touched me."

I spoke a few composing words before I questioned her.

"Have you seen anything in the room?"

She answered. "I have been filled with a deadly fear. I have seen
nothing but the writing-case lifted from my lap."

"Did you see the hand that lifted it?"

"No."

"Did you see a starry light, and a figure standing in it?"

"No."

"Did you see the writing-case after it was lifted from your lap?"

"I saw it resting on my shoulder."

"Did you see writing on the letter, which was not _your_
writing?"

"I saw a darker shadow on the paper than the shadow in which I am
sitting."

"Did it move?"

"It moved across the paper."

"As a pen moves in writing?"

"Yes. As a pen moves in writing."

"May I take the letter?"

She handed it to me.

"May I light a candle?"

She drew her veil more closely over her face, and bowed in
silence.

I lighted the candle on the mantel-piece, and looked for the
writing.

There, on the blank space in the letter, as I had seen it before
on the blank space in the sketch-book--there were the written
words which the ghostly Presence had left behind it; arranged
once more in two lines, as I copy them here:

At the month's end, In the shadow of Saint Paul's.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE KISS.

SHE had need of me again. She had claimed me again. I felt all
the old love, all the old devotion owning her power once more.
Whatever had mortified or angered me at our last interview was
forgiven and forgotten now. My whole being still thrilled with
the mingled awe and rapture of beholding the Vision of her that
had come to me for the second time. The minutes passed--and I
stood by the fire like a man entranced; thinking only of her
spoken words, "Remember me. Come to me;" looking only at her
mystic writing, "At the month's end, In the shadow of Saint
Paul's."

The month's end was still far off; the apparition of her had
shown itself to me, under some subtle prevision of trouble that
was still in the future. Ample time was before me for the
pilgrimage to which I was self-dedicated already--my pilgrimage
to the shadow of Saint Paul's. Other men, in my position, might
have hesitated as to the right understanding of the place to
which they were bidden. Other men might have wearied their
memories by recalling the churches, the institutions, the
streets, the towns in foreign countries, all consecrated to
Christian reverence by the great apostle's name, and might have
fruitlessly asked themselves in which direction they were first
to turn their steps. No such difficulty troubled me. My first
conclusion was the one conclusion that was acceptable to my mind.
"Saint Paul's" meant the famous Cathedral of London. Where the
shadow of the great church fell, there, at the month's end, I
should find her, or the trace of her. In London once more, and
nowhere else, I was destined to see the woman I loved, in the
living body, as certainly as I had just seen her in the ghostly
presence.

Who could interpret the mysterious sympathies that still united
us, in defiance of distance, in defiance of time? Who could
predict to what end our lives were tending in the years that were
to come?

Those questions were still present to my thoughts; my eyes were
still fixed on the mysterious writing--when I became
instinctively aware of the strange silence in the room. Instantly
the lost remembrance of Miss Dunross came back to me. Stung by my
own sense of self-reproach, I turned with a start, and looked
toward her chair by the window.

The chair was empty. I was alone in the room.

Why had she left me secretly, without a word of farewell? Because
she was suffering, in mind or body? Or because she resented,
naturally resented, my neglect of her?

The bare suspicion that I had given her pain was intolerable to
me. I rang my bell, to make inquiries.

The bell was answered, not, as usua l, by the silent servant
Peter, but by a woman of middle age, very quietly and neatly
dressed, whom I had once or twice met on the way to and from my
room, and of whose exact position in the house I was still
ignorant.

"Do you wish to see Peter?" she asked.

"No. I wish to know where Miss Dunross is."

"Miss Dunross is in her room. She has sent me with this letter."

I took the letter, feeling some surprise and uneasiness. It was
the first time Miss Dunross had communicated with me in that
formal way. I tried to gain further information by questioning
her messenger.

"Are you Miss Dunross's maid?" I asked.

"I have served Miss Dunross for many years," was the answer,
spoken very ungraciously.

"Do you think she would receive me if I sent you with a message
to her?"

"I can't say, sir. The letter may tell you. You will do well to
read the letter."

We looked at each other. The woman's preconceived impression of
me was evidently an unfavorable one. Had I indeed pained or
offended Miss Dunross? And had the servant--perhaps the faithful
servant who loved her--discovered and resented it? The woman
frowned as she looked at me. It would be a mere waste of words to
persist in questioning her. I let her go.

Left by myself again, I read the letter. It began, without any
form of address, in these lines:


"I write, instead of speaking to you, because my self-control has
already been severely tried, and I am not strong enough to bear
more. For my father's sake--not for my own--I must take all the
care I can of the little health that I have left.

"Putting together what you have told me of the visionary creature
whom you saw in the summer-house in Scotland, and what you said
when you questioned me in your room a little while since, I
cannot fail to infer that the same vision has shown itself to
you, for the second time. The fear that I felt, the strange
things that I saw (or thought I saw), may have been imperfect
reflections in my mind of what was passing in yours. I do not
stop to inquire whether we are both the victims of a delusion, or
whether we are the chosen recipients of a supernatural
communication. The result, in either case, is enough for me. You
are once more under the influence of Mrs. Van Brandt. I will not
trust myself to tell you of the anxieties and forebodings by
which I am oppressed: I will only acknowledge that my one hope
for you is in your speedy reunion with the worthier object of
your constancy and devotion. I still believe, and I am consoled
in believing, that you and your first love will meet again.

"Having written so far, I leave the subject--not to return to it,
except in my own thoughts.

"The necessary preparations for your departure to-morrow are all
made. Nothing remains but to wish you a safe and pleasant journey
home. Do not, I entreat you, think me insensible of what I owe to
you, if I say my farewell words here.

"The little services which you have allowed me to render you have
brightened the closing days of my life. You have left me a
treasury of happy memories which I shall hoard, when you are
gone, with miserly care. Are you willing to add new claims to my
grateful remembrance? I ask it of you, as a last favor--do not
attempt to see me again! Do not expect me to take a personal
leave of you! The saddest of all words is 'Good-by': I have
fortitude enough to write it, and no more. God preserve and
prosper you--farewell!

"One more request. I beg that you will not forget what you
promised me, when I told you my foolish fancy about the green
flag. Wherever you go, let Mary's keepsake go with you. No
written answer is necessary--I would rather not receive it. Look
up, when you leave the house to-morrow, at the center window over
the doorway--that will be answer enough."


To say that these melancholy lines brought the tears into my eyes
is only to acknowledge that I had sympathies which could be
touched. When I had in some degree recovered my composure, the
impulse which urged me to write to Miss Dunross was too strong to
be resisted. I did not trouble her with a long letter; I only
entreated her to reconsider her decision with all the art of
persuasion which I could summon to help me. The answer was
brought back by the servant who waited on Miss Dunross, in four
resolute words: "It can not be." This time the woman spoke out
before she left me. "If you have any regard for my mistress," she
said sternly, "don't make her write to you again." She looked at
me with a last lowering frown, and left the room.

It is needless to say that the faithful servant's words only
increased my anxiety to see Miss Dunross once more before we
parted--perhaps forever. My one last hope of success in attaining
this object lay in approaching her indirectly through the
intercession of her father.

I sent Peter to inquire if I might be permitted to pay my
respects to his master that evening. My messenger returned with
an answer that was a new disappointment to me. Mr. Dunross begged
that I would excuse him, if he deferred the proposed interview
until the next morning. The next morning was the morning of my
departure. Did the message mean that he had no wish to see me
again until the time had come to take leave of him? I inquired of
Peter whether his master was particularly occupied that evening.
He was unable to tell me. "The Master of Books" was not in his
study, as usual. When he sent his message to me, he was sitting
by the sofa in his daughter's room.

Having answered in those terms, the man left me by myself until
the next morning. I do not wish my bitterest enemy a sadder time
in his life than the time I passed during the last night of my
residence under Mr. Dunross's roof.

After walking to and fro in the room until I was weary, I thought
of trying to divert my mind from the sad thoughts that oppressed
it by reading. The one candle which I had lighted failed to
sufficiently illuminate the room. Advancing to the mantel-piece
to light the second candle which stood there, I noticed the
unfinished letter to my mother lying where I had placed it, when
Miss Dunross's servant first presented herself before me. Having
lighted the second candle, I took up the letter to put it away
among my other papers. Doing this (while my thoughts were still
dwelling on Miss Dunross), I mechanically looked at the letter
again--and instantly discovered a change in it.

The written characters traced by the hand of the apparition had
vanished! Below the last lines written by Miss Dunross nothing
met my eyes now but the blank white paper!

My first impulse was to look at my watch.

When the ghostly presence had written in my sketch-book, the
characters had disappeared after an interval of three hours. On
this occasion, as nearly as I could calculate, the writing had
vanished in one hour only.

Reverting to the conversation which I had held with Mrs. Van
Brandt when we met at Saint Anthony's Well, and to the
discoveries which followed at a later period of my life, I can
only repeat that she had again been the subject of a trance or
dream, when the apparition of her showed itself to me for the
second time. As before, she had freely trusted me and freely
appealed to me to help her, in the dreaming state, when her
spirit was free to recognize my spirit. When she had come to
herself, after an interval of an hour, she had again felt ashamed
of the familiar manner in which she had communicated with me in
the trance--had again unconsciously counteracted by her
waking-will the influence of her sleeping-will; and had thus
caused the writing once more to disappear, in an hour from the
moment when the pen had traced (or seemed to trace) it.

This is still the one explanation that I can offer. At the time
when the incident happened, I was far from being fully admitted
to the confidence of Mrs. Van Brandt; and I was necessarily
incapable of arriving at any solution of the mystery, right or
wrong. I could only put away the letter, doubting vaguely whether
my own senses had not deceived me. After the distressing thoughts
which Miss Dunross's letter had roused in my mind, I was in no
humor to employ my ingenuity in finding a clew to the mystery of
the vanished writing. My ner ves were irritated; I felt a sense
of angry discontent with myself and with others. "Go where I may"
(I thought impatiently), "the disturbing influence of women seems
to be the only influence that I am fated to feel." As I still
paced backward and forward in my room--it was useless to think
now of fixing my attention on a book--I fancied I understood the
motives which made men as young as I was retire to end their
lives in a monastery. I drew aside the window curtains, and
looked out. The only prospect that met my view was the black gulf
of darkness in which the lake lay hidden. I could see nothing; I
could do nothing; I could think of nothing. The one alternative
before me was that of trying to sleep. My medical knowledge told
me plainly that natural sleep was, in my nervous condition, one
of the unattainable luxuries of life for that night. The
medicine-chest which Mr. Dunross had placed at my disposal
remained in the room. I mixed for myself a strong sleeping
draught, and sullenly took refuge from my troubles in bed.

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