The Two Destinies

by Wilkie Collins

landlady with a new tale to tell 'Gone!' says she.'Who's gone?' says I. 'The lady,' says she, 'by the first coach thismorning!'"

  "You don't mean to tell me that she has left the house?" I exclaimed.

  "Oh, but I do!" said the doctor, as positively as ever. "Ask madam yourmother here, and she'll certify it to your heart's content. I've gotother sick ones to visit, and I'm away on my rounds. You'll see no moreof the lady; and so much the better, I'm thinking. In two hours' timeI'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 thesnug bed that knows you at home. Don't let him talk, ma'am, don't lethim 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, withoutwaiting to see me?"

  "Nobody could stop her, George," my mother answered. "The lady left theinn this morning by the coach for Edinburgh."

  I was bitterly disappointed. Yes: "bitterly" is the word--though she_was_ 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. Germainethat my situation is dreadful; no human creature can help me. I mustgo away. My old life is as much at an end as if your son had left me todrown 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. Idaren't wait! I may be followed and found out. There is a person whom Iam determined never to see again--never! never! never! Good-by; and tryto forgive me!' She hid her face in her hands, and said no more. I triedto win her confidence; it was not to be done; I was compelled to leaveher. There is some dreadful calamity, George, in that wretched woman'slife. And such an interesting creature, too! It was impossible not topity her, whether she deserved it or not. Everything about her is amystery, my dear. She speaks English without the slightest foreignaccent, and yet she has a foreign name."

  "Did she give you her name?"

  "No, and I was afraid to ask her to give it. But the landlady hereis not a very scrupulous person. She told me she looked at the poorcreature's linen while it was drying by the fire. The name marked on itwas, 'Van Brandt.'"

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

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

  The idea of her being a married woman had something in it repellentto me. I wished my mother had not thought of that last suggestion. Irefused to receive it. I persisted in my own belief that the strangerwas a single woman. In that character, I could indulge myself in theluxury of thinking of her; I could consider the chances of my being ableto trace this charming fugitive, who had taken so strong a hold on myinterest--whose desperate attempt at suicide had so nearly cost me myown life.

  If she had gone as far as Edinburgh (which she would surely do, beingbent on avoiding discovery), the prospect of finding her again--in thatgreat city, and in my present weak state of health--looked doubtfulindeed. Still, there was an underlying hopefulness in me which keptmy spirits from being seriously depressed. I felt a purely imaginary(perhaps I ought to say, a purely superstitious) conviction that we whohad nearly died together, we who had been brought to life together, weresurely destined to be involved in some future joys or sorrows common tous both. "I fancy I shall see her again," was my last thought before myweakness overpowered me, and I sunk into a peaceful sleep.

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

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

  I knew her, most assuredly; and yet it was with an incomprehensibleafter-feeling of doubt. Recognizing her in my dream as the strangerwho had so warmly interested me, I was, nevertheless, dissatisfied withmyself, as if it had not been the right recognition. I awoke with thisidea; and I slept no more that night.

  In three days' time I was strong enough to go out driving with mymother, in the comfortable, old-fashioned, open carriage which had oncebelonged to Mr. Germaine.

  On the fourth day we arranged to make an excursion to a little waterfallin our neighborhood. My mother had a great admiration of the place, andhad often expressed a wish to possess some memorial of it. I resolvedto take my sketch-book: with me, on the chance that I might be able toplease her by making a drawing of her favorite scene.

  Searching for the sketch-book (which I had not used for years), I foundit in an old desk of mine that had remained unopened since my departurefor India. In the course of my investigation, I opened a drawer in thedesk, and discovered a relic of the old times--my poor little Mary'sfirst work in embroidery, the green flag!

  The sight of the forgotten keepsake took my mind back to the bailiff'scottage, and reminded me of Dame Dermody, and her confident predictionabout Mary and me.

  I smiled as I recalled the old woman's assertion that no human powercould "hinder the union of the kindred spirits of the children in thetime to come." What had become of the prophesied dreams in which we wereto communicate with each other through the term of our separation? Yearshad passed; and, sleeping or waking, I had seen nothing of Mary. Yearshad passed; and the first vision of a woman that had come to me hadbeen my dream a few nights since of the stranger whom I had saved fromdrowning. I thought of these chances and changes in my life, but notcontemptuously or bitterly. The new love that was now stealing its wayinto my heart had softened and humanized me. I said to myself, "Ah, poorlittle Mary!" and I kissed the green flag, in grateful memory of thedays that were gone forever.

  We drove to the waterfall.

  It was a beautiful day; the lonely sylvan scene was at its brightestand best. A wooden summer-house, commanding a prospect of the fallingstream, had been built for the accommodation of pleasure parties by theproprietor of the place. My mother suggested that I should try to makea sketch of the view from this point. I did my best to please her, but Iwas not satisfied with the result; and I abandoned my drawing before itwas half finished. Leaving my sketch-book and pencil on the table of thesummer-house, I proposed to my mother to cross a little wooden bridgewhich spanned the stream, below the fall, and to see how the landscapelooked from a new point of view.

  The prospect of the waterfall, as seen from the opposite bank, presentedeven greater difficulties, to an amateur artist like me, than theprospect which he had just left. We returned to the summer-house.

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

  After waiting a moment, I advanced a few steps nearer to the door, andstopped again in breathless amazement. The stranger in the summer-housewas now plainly revealed to me as the woman who had attempted to destroyherself from the bridge!

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

  My mother was close behind me. She noticed my agitation. "George!" sheexclaimed, "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?"

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p; "Don't you see somebody sitting at the table and writing in mysketch-book?"

  My mother eyed me quickly. "Is he going to be ill again?" I heard hersay to herself.

  At the same moment the woman laid down the pencil and rose slowly to herfeet.

  She looked at me with sorrowful and pleading eyes: she lifted her handand beckoned me to approach her. I obeyed. Moving without conscious willof my own, drawn nearer and nearer to her by an irresistible power, Iascended the short flight of stairs which led into the summer-house.Within a few paces of her I stopped. She advanced a step toward me, andlaid her hand gently on my bosom. Her touch filled me with strangelyunited sensations of rapture and awe. After a