Book: THE TWO DESTINIES

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The instincts of the profession to which I had been trained,
rather than any active sense of the horror of the situation in
which I was placed, roused me at last. She was starving! I saw it
in the deadly color of her skin; I felt it in the faint, quick
flutter of her pulse. I called the boy to me, and sent him to the
nearest public-house for wine and biscuits. "Be quick about it,"
I said; "and you shall have more money for yourself than ever you
had in your life!" The boy looked at me, spit on the coins in his
hand, said, "That's for luck!" and ran out of the room as never
boy ran yet.

I turned to speak my first words of comfort to the mother. The
cry of the child stopped me.

"I'm so hungry! I'm so hungry!"

I set more food before the famished child and kissed her. She
looked up at me with wondering eyes.

"Are you a new papa?" the little creature asked. "My other papa
never kisses me."

I looked at the mother. Her eyes were closed; the tears flowed
slowly over her worn, white cheeks. I took her frail hand in
mine. "Happier days are coming," I said; "you are _my_ care now."
There was no answer. She still trembled silently, and that was
all.

In less than five minutes the boy returned, and earned his
promised reward. He sat on the floor by the fire counting his
treasure, the one happy creature in the room. I soaked some
crumbled morsels of biscuit in the wine, and, little by little, I
revived her failing strength by nourishment administered at
intervals in that cautious form. After a while she raised her
head, and looked at me with wondering eyes that were pitiably
like the eyes of her child. A faint, delicate flush began to show
itself in her face. She spoke to me, for the first time, in
whispering tones that I could just hear as I sat close at her
side.

"How did you find me? Who showed you the way to this place?"

She paused; painfully recalling the memory of something that was
slow to come back. Her color deepened; she found the lost
remembrance, and looked at me with a timid curiosity. "What
brought you here?" she asked. "Was it my dream?"

"Wait, dearest, till you are stronger, and I will tell you all."

I lifted her gently, and laid her on the wretched bed. The child
followed us, and climbing to the bedstead with my help, nestled
at her mother's side. I sent the boy away to tell the mistress of
the house that I should remain with my patient, watching her
progress toward recovery, through the night. He went out,
jingling his money joyfully in his pocket. We three were left
together.

As the long hours followed each other, she fell at intervals into
a broken sleep; waking with a start, and looking at me wildly as
if I had been a stranger at her bedside. Toward morning the
nourishment which I still carefully administered wrought its
healthful change in her pulse, and composed her to quieter
slumbers. When the sun rose she was sleeping as peacefully as the
child at her side. I was able to leave her, until my return later
in the day, under the care of the woman of the house. The magic
of money transformed this termagant and terrible person into a
docile and attentive nurse--so eager to follow my instructions
exactly that she begged me to commit them to writing before I
went away. For a moment I still lingered alone at the bedside of
the sleeping woman, and satisfied myself for the hundredth time
that her life was safe, before I left her. It was the sweetest of
all rewards to feel sure of this--to touch her cool forehead
lightly with my lips--to look, and look again, at the poor worn
face, always dear, always beautiful, to _my_ eyes. change as it
might. I closed the door softly and went out in the bright
morning, a happy man again. So close together rise the springs of
joy and sorrow in human life! So near in our heart, as in our
heaven, is the brightest sunshine to the blackest cloud!

CHAPTER XXVI.

CONVERSATION WITH MY MOTHER.

I REACHED my own house in time to snatch two or three hours of
repose, before I paid my customary morning visit to my mother in
her own room. I observed, in her reception of me on this
occasion, certain peculiarities of look and manner which were far
from being familiar in my experience of her.

When our eyes first met, she regarded me with a wistful,
questioning look, as if she were troubled by some doubt which she
shrunk from expressing in words. And when I inquired after her
health, as usual, she surprised me by answering as impatiently as
if she resented my having mentioned the subject. For a moment, I
was inclined to think these changes signified that she had
discovered my absence from home during the night, and that she
had some suspicion of the true cause of it. But she never
alluded, even in the most distant manner, to Mrs. Van Brandt; and
not a word dropped from her lips which implied, directly or
indirectly, that I had pained or disappointed her. I could only
conclude that she had something important to say in relation to
herself or to me--and that for reasons of her own she unwillingly
abstained from giving expression to it at that time.

Reverting to our ordinary topics of conversation, we touched on
the subject (always interesting to my mother) of my visit to
Shetland. Speaking of this, we naturally spoke also of Miss
Dunross. Here, again, when I least expected it, there was another
surprise in store for me.

"You were talking the other day," said my mother, "of the green
flag which poor Dermody's daughter worked for you, when you were
both children. Have you really kept it all this time?"

"Yes."

"Where have you left it? In Scotland?"

"I have brought it with me to London."

"Why?"

"I promised Miss Dunross to take the green flag with me, wherever
I might go."

My mother smiled.

"Is it possible, George, that you think about this as the young
lady in Shetland thinks? After all the years that have passed,
you believe in the green flag being the means of bringing Mary
Dermody and yourself together again?"

"Certainly not! I am only humoring one of the fancies of poor
Miss Dunross. Could I refuse to grant her trifling request, after
all I owed to her kindness?"

The smile left my mother's face. She looked at me attentively.

"Miss Dunross seems to have produced a very favorable impression
on you," she said.

"I own it. I feel deeply interested in her."

"If she had not been an incurable invalid, George, I too might
have become interested in Miss Dunross--perhaps in the character
of my daughter-in-law?"

"It is useless, mother, to speculate on what _might_ have
happened. The sad reality is enough."

My mother paused a little before she put her next question to me.

"Did Miss Dunross always keep her veil drawn in your
presence, when there happened to be light in the room?"

"Always."

"She never even let you catch a momentary glance at her face?"

"Never."

"And the only reason she gave you was that the light caused her a
painful sensation if it fell on her uncovered skin?"

"You say that, mother, as if you doubt whether Miss Dunross told
me the truth."

"No, George. I only doubt whether she told you _all_ the truth."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't be offended, my dear. I believe Miss Dunross has some more
serious reason for keeping her face hidden than the reason that
she gave _you_."

I was silent. The suspicion which those words implied had never
occurred to my mind. I had read in medical books of cases of
morbid nervous sensitiveness exactly similar to the case of Miss
Dunross, as described by herself--and that had been enough for
me. Now that my mother's idea had found its way from her mind to
mine, the impression produced on me was painful in the last
degree. Horrible imaginings of deformity possessed my brain, and
profaned all that was purest and dearest in my recollections of
Miss Dunross. It was useless to change the subject--the evil
influence that was on me was too potent to be charmed away by
talk. Making the best excuse that I could think of for leaving my
mother's room, I hurried away to seek a refuge from myself, where
alone I could hope to find it, in the presence of Mrs. Van
Brandt.

CHAPTER XXVII.

CONVERSATION WITH MRS. VAN BRANDT.

THE landlady was taking the air at her own door when I reached
the house. Her reply to my inquiries justified my most hopeful
anticipations. The poor lodger looked already "like another
woman"; and the child was at that moment posted on the stairs,
watching for the return of her "new papa."

"There's one thing I should wish to say to you, sir, before you
go upstairs," the woman went on. "Don't trust the lady with more
money at a time than the money that is wanted for the day's
housekeeping. If she has any to spare, it's as likely as not to
be wasted on her good-for-nothing husband."

Absorbed in the higher and dearer interests that filled my mind,
I had thus far forgotten the very existence of Mr. Van Brandt.

"Where is he?" I asked.

"Where he ought to be," was the answer. "In prison for debt."

In those days a man imprisoned for debt was not infrequently a
man imprisoned for life. There was little fear of my visit being
shortened by the appearance on the scene of Mr. Van Brandt.

Ascending the stairs, I found the child waiting for me on the
upper landing, with a ragged doll in her arms. I had bought a
cake for her on my way to the house. She forthwith turned over
the doll to my care, and, trotting before me into the room with
her cake in her arms, announced my arrival in these words:

"Mamma, I like this papa better than the other. You like him
better, too."

The mother's wasted face reddened for a moment, then turned pale
again, as she held out her hand to me. I looked at her anxiously,
and discerned the welcome signs of recovery, clearly revealed.
Her grand gray eyes rested on me again with a glimmer of their
old light. The hand that had lain so cold in mine on the past
night had life and warmth in it now.

"Should I have died before the morning if you had not come here?"
she asked, softly. "Have you saved my life for the second time? I
can well believe it."

Before I was aware of her, she bent her head over my hand, and
touched it tenderly with her lips. "I am not an ungrateful
woman," she murmured--"and yet I don't know how to thank you."

The child looked up quickly from her cake. "Why don't you kiss
him?" the quaint little creature asked, with a broad stare of
astonishment.

Her head sunk on her breast. She sighed bitterly.

"No more of Me!" she said, suddenly recovering her composure, and
suddenly forcing herself to look at me again. "Tell me what happy
chance brought you here last night?"

"The same chance," I answered, "which took me to Saint Anthony's
Well."

She raised herself eagerly in the chair.

"You have seen me again--as you saw me in the summer-house by the
waterfall!" she exclaimed. "Was it in Scotland once more?"

"No. Further away than Scotland--as far away as Shetland."

"Tell me about it! Pray, pray tell me about it!"

I related what had happened as exactly as I could, consistently
with maintaining the strictest reserve on one point. Concealing
from her the very existence of Miss Dunross, I left her to
suppose that the master of the house was the one person whom I
had found to receive me during my sojourn under Mr. Dunross's
roof.

"That is strange!" she exclaimed, after she had heard me
attentively to the end.

"What is strange?" I asked.

She hesitated, searching my face earnestly with her large grave
eyes.

"I hardly like speaking of it," she said. "And yet I ought to
have no concealments in such a matter from you. I understand
everything that you have told me--with one exception. It seems
strange to me that you should only have had one old man for your
companion while you were at the house in Shetland."

"What other companion did you expect to hear of?" I inquired.

"I expected," she answered, "to hear of a lady in the house."

I cannot positively say that the reply took me by surprise: it
forced me to reflect before I spoke again. I knew, by my past
experience, that she must have seen me, in my absence from her,
while I was spiritually present to her mind in a trance or dream.
Had she also seen the daily companion of my life in
Shetland--Miss Dunross?

I put the question in a form which left me free to decide whether
I should take her unreservedly into my confidence or not.

"Am I right," I began, "in supposing that you dreamed of me in
Shetland, as you once before dreamed of me while I was at my
house in Perthshire?"

"Yes," she answered. "It was at the close of evening, this time.
I fell asleep, or became insensible--I cannot say which. And I
saw you again, in a vision or a dream."

"Where did you see me?"

"I first saw you on the bridge over the Scotch river--just as I
met you on the evening when you saved my life. After a while the
stream and the landscape about it faded, and you faded with them,
into darkness. I waited a little, and the darkness melted away
slowly. I stood, as it seemed to me, in a circle of starry
lights; fronting a window, with a lake behind me, and before me a
darkened room. And I looked into the room, and the starry light
showed you to me again."

"When did this happen? Do you remember the date?"

"I remember that it was at the beginning of the month. The
misfortunes which have since brought me so low had not then
fallen on me; and yet, as I stood looking at you, I had the
strangest prevision of calamity that was to come. I felt the same
absolute reliance on your power to help me that I felt when I
first dreamed of you in Scotland. And I did the same familiar
things. I laid my hand on your bosom. I said to you: 'Remember
me. Come to me.' I even wrote--"

She stopped, shuddering as if a sudden fear had laid its hold on
her. Seeing this, and dreading the effect of any violent
agitation, I hastened to suggest that we should say no more, for
that day, on the subject of her dream.

"No," she answered, firmly. "There is nothing to be gained by
giving me time. My dream has left one horrible remembrance on my
mind. As long as I live, I believe I shall tremble when I think
of what I saw near you in that darkened room."

She stopped again. Was she approaching the subject of the
shrouded figure, with the black veil over its head? Was she about
to describe her first discovery, in the dream, of Miss Dunross?

"Tell me one thing first," she resumed. "Have I been right in
what I have said to you, so far? Is it true that you were in a
darkened room when you saw me?"

"Quite true."

"Was the date the beginning of the month? and was the hour the
close of evening?"

"Yes."

"Were you alone in the room? Answer me truly!"

"I was not alone."

"Was the master of the house with you? or had you some other
companion?"

It would have been worse than useless (after what I had now
heard) to attempt to deceive her.

"I had another companion," I answered. "The person in the room
with me was a woman."

Her face showed, as I spoke, that she was again shaken by the
terrifying recollection to which she had just alluded. I had, by
this time, some difficulty myself in preserving my composure.
Still, I was determined not to let a word escape me which could
operate as a suggestion on the mind of my companion.

"Have you any other question to ask me?" was all I said.

"One more," she answered. "Was there anything unusual in the
dress of your companion?"

"Yes. She wore a long black veil, which hung over her head and
face, and dropped to below her waist."

Mrs. Van Brandt leaned back in her chair, and covered her eyes
with her hands.

"I understand your motive for concealing from me the presence of
that miserable woman in the house," she said. "It is good and
kind, like all your motives; but it is useless. While I lay in
the trance I saw everything exactly as it was in the reality; and
I, too, saw that frightful face!"

Those words literally electrified me.

My conversation of that morning with my mother instantly recurred
to my memory. I started to my feet.

"Good God!" I exclaimed, "what do you mean?"

"Don't you understand yet?" she asked in amazement on her side.
"Must I speak more plainly still? When you saw the apparition of
me, did you see me write?"

"Yes. On a letter that the lady was writing for me. I saw the
words afterward; the words that brought me to you last night: 'At
the month's end, In the shadow of Saint Paul's.' "

"How did I appear to write on the unfinished letter?"

"You lifted the writing-case, on which the letter and the pen
lay, off the lady's lap; and, while you wrote, you rested the
case on her shoulder."

"Did you notice if the lifting of the case produced any effect on
her?"

"I saw no effect produced," I answered. "She remained immovable
in her chair."

"I saw it differently in my dream. She raised her hand--not the
hand that was nearest to you, but nearest to me. As _I_ lifted
the writing-case, _she_ lifted her hand, and parted the folds of
the veil from off her face--I suppose to see more clearly. It was
only for a moment; and in that moment I saw what the veil hid.
Don't let us speak of it! You must have shuddered at that
frightful sight in the reality, as I shuddered at it in the
dream. You must have asked yourself, as I did: 'Is there nobody
to poison the terrible creature, and hide her mercifully in the
grave?' "

At those words, she abruptly checked herself. I could say
nothing--my face spoke for me. She saw it, and guessed the truth.

"Good heavens!" she cried, "you have not seen her! She must have
kept her face hidden from you behind the veil! Oh, why, why did
you cheat me into talking of it! I will never speak of it again.
See, we are frightening the child! Come here, darling; there is
nothing to be afraid of. Come, and bring your cake with you. You
shall be a great lady, giving a grand dinner; and we will be two
friends whom you have invited to dine with you; and the doll
shall be the little girl who comes in after dinner, and has fruit
at dessert!" So she ran on, trying vainly to forget the shock
that she had inflicted on me in talking nursery nonsense to the
child.

Recovering my composure in some degree, I did my best to second
the effort that she had made. My quieter thoughts suggested that
she might well be self-deceived in believing the horrible
spectacle presented to her in the vision to be an actual
reflection of the truth. In common justice toward Miss Dunross I
ought surely not to accept the conviction of her deformity on no
better evidence than the evidence of a dream? Reasonable as it
undoubtedly was, this view left certain doubts still lingering in
my mind. The child's instinct soon discovered that her mother and
I were playfellows who felt no genuine enjoyment of the game. She
dismissed her make-believe guests without ceremony, and went back
with her doll to the favorite play-ground on which I had met
her--the landing outside the door. No persuasion on her mother's
part or on mine succeeded in luring her back to us. We were left
together, to face each other as best we might--with the forbidden
subject of Miss Dunross between us.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

LOVE AND MONEY.

FEELING the embarrassment of the moment most painfully on her
side, Mrs. Van Brandt spoke first.

"You have said nothing to me about yourself," she began. "Is your
life a happier one than it was when we last met?"

"I cannot honestly say that it is," I answered.

"Is there any prospect of your being married?"

"My prospect of being married still rests with you."

"Don't say that!" she exclaimed, with an entreating look at me.
"Don't spoil my pleasure in seeing you again by speaking of what
can never be! Have you still to be told how it is that you find
me here alone with my child?"

I forced myself to mention Van Brandt's name, rather than hear it
pass _her_ lips.

"I have been told that Mr. Van Brandt is in prison for debt," I
said. "And I saw for myself last night that he had left you
helpless."

"He left me the little money he had with him when he was
arrested," she rejoined, sadly. "His cruel creditors are more to
blame than he is for the poverty that has fallen on us."

Even this negative defense of Van Brandt stung me to the quick.

"I ought to have spoken more guardedly of him," I said, bitterly.
"I ought to have remembered that a woman can forgive almost any
wrong that a man can inflict on her--when he is the man whom she
loves."

She put her hand on my mouth, and stopped me before I could say
any more.

"How can you speak so cruelly to me?" she asked. "You know--to my
shame I confessed it to you the last time we met--you know that
my heart, in secret, is all yours. What 'wrong' are you talking
of? Is it the wrong I suffered when Van Brandt married me, with a
wife living at the time (and living still)? Do you think I can
ever forget the great misfortune of my life--the misfortune that
has made me unworthy of you? It is no fault of mine, God knows;
but it is not the less true that I am not married, and that the
little darling who is playing out there with her doll is my
child. And you talk of my being your wife--knowing that!"

"The child accepts me as her second father," I said. "It would be
better and happier for us both if you had as little pride as the
child."

"Pride?" she repeated. "In such a position as mine? A helpless
woman, with a mock-husband in prison for debt! Say that I have
not fallen quite so low yet as to forget what is due to you, and
you will pay me a compliment that will be nearer to the truth. Am
I to marry you for my food and shelter? Am I to marry you,
because there is no lawful tie that binds me to the father of my
child? Cruelly as he has behaved, he has still _that_ claim upon
me. Bad as he is, he has not forsaken me; he has been forced
away. My only friend, is it possible that you think me ungrateful
enough to consent to be your wife? The woman (in my situation)
must be heartless indeed who could destroy your place in the
estimation of the world and the regard of your friends! The
wretchedest creature that walks the streets would shrink from
treating you in that way. Oh, what are men made of? How _can_
you--how _can_ you speak of it!"

I yielded---and spoke of it no more. Every word she uttered only
increased my admiration of the noble creature whom I had loved,
and lost. What refuge was now left to me? But one refuge; I could
still offer to her the sacrifice of myself. Bitterly as I hated
the man who had parted us, I loved her dearly enough to be even
capable of helping him for her sake. Hopeless infatuation! I
don't deny it; I don't excuse it--hopeless infatuation!

"You have forgiven me," I said. "Let me deserve to be forgiven.
It is something to be your only friend. You must have plans for
the future; tell me unreservedly how I can help you."

"Complete the good work that you have begun," she answered,
gratefully. "Help me back to health. Make me strong enough to
submit to a doctor's estimate of my chances of living for some
years yet."

"A doctor's estimate of your chances of living?" I repeated.
"What do you mean?"

"I hardly know how to tell you," she said, "without
speaking again of Mr. Van Brandt."

"Does speaking of him again mean speaking of his debts?" I asked.
"Why need you hesitate? You know that there is nothing I will not
do to relieve _your_ anxieties."

She looked at me for a moment, in silent distress.

"Oh! do you think I would let you give your money to Van Brandt?"
she asked, as soon as she could speak. "I, who owe everything to
your devotion to me? Never! Let me tell you the plain truth.
There is a serious necessity for his getting out of prison. He
must pay his creditors; and he has found out a way of doing
it--with my help."

"Your help?" I exclaimed.

"Yes. This is his position, in two words: A little while since,
he obtained an excellent offer of employment abroad, from a rich
relative of his, and he had made all his arrangements to accept
it. Unhappily, he returned to tell me of his good fortune, and
the same day he was arrested for debt. His relative has offered
to keep the situation open for a certain time, and the time has
not yet expired. If he can pay a dividend to his creditors, they
will give him his freedom; and he believes he can raise the money
if I consent to insure my life."

To insure her life! The snare that had been set for her was
plainly revealed in those four words.

In the eye of the law she was, of course, a single woman: she was
of age; she was, to all intents and purposes, her own mistress.
What was there to prevent her from insuring her life, if she
pleased, and from so disposing of the insurance as to give Van
Brandt a direct interest in her death? Knowing what I knew of
him--believing him, as I did, to be capable of any atrocity--I
trembled at the bare idea of what might have happened if I had
failed to find my way back to her until a later date. Thanks to
the happy accident of my position, the one certain way of
protecting her lay easily within my reach. I could offer to lend
the scoundrel the money that he wanted at an hour's notice, and
he was the man to accept my proposal quite as easily as I could
make it.

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