The Two Destinies

by Wilkie Collins

spectaclepresented by the stage. She looked at the dancing (so far as I couldsee) in an absent, weary manner. When the applause broke out in aperfect frenzy of cries and clapping of hands, she sat perfectlyunmoved by the enthusiasm which pervaded the theater. The man behind her(annoyed, as I supposed, by the marked indifference which she showedto the performance) tapped her impatiently on the shoulder, as if hethought that she was quite capable of falling asleep in her stall. Thefamiliarity of the action--confirming the suspicion in my mind which hadalready identified him with Van Brandt--so enraged me that I said or didsomething which obliged one of the gentlemen in the box to interfere."If you can't control yourself," he whispered, "you had better leaveus." He spoke with the authority of an old friend. I had sense enoughleft to take his advice, and return to my post at the gallery door.

  A little before midnight the performance ended. The audience began topour out of the theater.

  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, sheand her companion appeared, slowly descending the stairs. She wore along dark cloak; her head was protected by a quaintly shaped hood, whichlooked (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 sulkyannoyance.

  "It's wasting money," he said, "to go to the expense of taking _you_ tothe opera."

  "I am not well," she answered with her head down and her eyes on theground. "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 untilthe crowd about them had dispersed. In a few minutes they turned into aquiet by-street. I quickened my pace until I was close at her side, andthen I took off my hat and spoke to her.

  She recognized me with a cry of astonishment. For an instant her facebrightened radiantly with the loveliest expression of delight that Iever saw on any human countenance. The moment after, all was changed.The charming features saddened and hardened. She stood before me like awoman overwhelmed by shame--without uttering a word, without taking myoffered hand.

  Her companion broke the silence.

  "Who is this gentleman?" he asked, speaking in a foreign accent, with anunder-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 inScotland." She raised her eyes for a moment to mine, and took refuge,poor soul, in a conventionally polite inquiry after my health. "I hopeyou are quite well, Mr. Germaine," said the soft, sweet voice, tremblingpiteously.

  I made the customary reply, and explained that I had seen her at theopera. "Are you staying in London?" I asked. "May I have the honor ofcalling on you?"

  Her companion answered for her before she could speak.

  "My wife thanks you, sir, for the compliment you pay her. She doesn'treceive visitors. We both wish you good-night."

  Saying those words, he took off his hat with a sardonic assumption ofrespect; and, holding her arm in his, forced her to walk on abruptlywith him. Feeling certainly assured by this time that the man was noother than Van Brandt, I was on the point of answering him sharply, whenMrs. Van Brandt checked the rash words as they rose to my lips.

  "For my sake!" she whispered, over her shoulder, with an imploring lookthat instantly silenced me. After all, she was free (if she liked) to goback to the man who had so vilely deceived and deserted her. I bowed andleft them, feeling with no common bitterness the humiliation of enteringinto rivalry with Mr. Van Brandt.

  I crossed to the other side of the street. Before I had taken threesteps away from her, the old infatuation fastened its hold on me again.I submitted, without a struggle against myself, to the degradationof turning spy and following them home. Keeping well behind, on theopposite side of the way, I tracked them to their own door, and enteredin my pocket-book the name of the street and the number of the house.

  The hardest critic who reads these lines cannot feel more contemptuouslytoward me than I felt toward myself. Could I still love a woman aftershe had deliberately preferred to me a scoundrel who had married herwhile 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, itwas shocking; but it was true. For the first time in my life, I tried totake refuge from my sense of my own degradation in drink. I went to myclub, and joined a convivial party at a supper table, and poured glassafter glass of champagne down my throat, without feeling the slightestsense of exhilaration, without losing for an instant the consciousnessof my own contemptible conduct. I went to my bed in despair; and throughthe wakeful night I weakly cursed the fatal evening at the river-sidewhen 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 whichmust find their place in this narrative.

  The first letter was in a handwriting which I had seen once before, atthe hotel in Edinburgh. The writer was Mrs. Van Brandt.

  "For your own sake" (the letter ran) "make no attempt to see me, andtake no notice of an invitation which I fear you will receive with thisnote. I am living a degraded life. I have sunk beneath your notice. Youowe it to yourself, sir, to forget the miserable woman who now writes toyou for the last time, and bids you gratefully a last farewell."

  Those sad lines were signed in initials only. It is needless to saythat they merely strengthened my resolution to see her at all hazards. Ikissed the paper on which her hand had rested, and then I turned to thesecond letter. It contained the "invitation" to which my correspondenthad alluded, and it was expressed in these terms:

  "Mr. Van Brandt presents his compliments to Mr. Germaine, and begsto apologize for the somewhat abrupt manner in which he received Mr.Germaine's polite advances. Mr. Van Brandt suffers habitually fromnervous irritability, and he felt particularly ill last night. He trustsMr. Germaine will receive this candid explanation in the spirit in whichit is offered; and he begs to add that Mrs. Van Brandt will be delightedto receive Mr. Germaine whenever he may find it convenient to favor herwith a visit."

  That Mr. Van Brandt had some sordid interest of his own to serve inwriting this grotesquely impudent composition, and that the unhappywoman who bore his name was heartily ashamed of the proceeding on whichhe had ventured, were conclusions easily drawn after reading the twoletters. The suspicion of the man and of his motives which I naturallyfelt produced no hesitation in my mind as to the course which I haddetermined to pursue. On the contrary, I rejoiced that my way toan interview with Mrs. Van Brandt was smoothed, no matter with whatmotives, by Mr. Van Brandt himself.

  I waited at home until noon, and then I could wait no longer. Leaving amessage of excuse for my mother (I had just sense of shame enough leftto shrink from facing her), I hastened away to profit by my invitationon the very day when I received it.

  CHAPTER XIV. MRS. VAN BRANDT AT HOME.

  As I lifted my hand to ring the house bell, the door was opened fromwithin, and no less a person than Mr. Van Brandt himself stood beforeme. He had his hat on. We had evidently met just as he was going out.

  "My dear sir, how good this is of you! You present the best of allreplies to my letter in presenting yourself. Mrs. Van Brandt is at home.Mrs. 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 insolence. "Be seated, Mr.Germaine, I beg of you." He turned to the open door, and called up thestairs, in a loud and confident voice:

  "Mary! come down directly."

  "Mary"! I knew her Christian name at last, and knew it through VanBrandt. No words can tell how the name jarred on me, spoken by his lips.For the first time for years past my mind went back to Mary Dermodyand Greenwater Broad. The next moment I heard the rustling of Mrs. VanBrandt's dress on the stairs. As
the sound caught my ear, the old timesand the old faces vanished again from my thoughts as completely as ifthey had never existed. What had _she_ in common with the frail,shy little child, her namesake, of other days? What similarity wasperceivable in the sooty London lodging-house to remind me of thebailiff's flower-scented cottage by the shores of the lake?

  Van Brandt took off his hat, and bowed to me with sickening servility.

  "I have a business appointment," he said, "which it is impossible to putoff. Pray excuse me. Mrs. Van Brandt will do the honors. Good morning."

  The house door opened and closed again. The rustling of the dress cameslowly nearer and nearer. She stood before me.

  "Mr. Germaine!" she exclaimed, starting back, as if the bare sight of merepelled her. "Is this honorable? Is this worthy of you? You