The Two Destinies

by Wilkie Collins

Shall we say the day after to-morrow?"

  She had followed us to the door, keeping behind Van Brandt while he wasspeaking to me. When he mentioned the "old friend" and the "rubber ofwhist," 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 again, as ifa sudden sense of relief had come to her. What did the change mean?"To-morrow" was the day she had appointed for seeing my mother. Did shereally believe, when I had heard what passed at the interview, that Ishould 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 thedinner appointed for "the day after to-morrow"?

  Asking myself these questions, I accepted my invitation, and left thehouse with a heavy heart. That farewell kiss, that sudden composure whenthe day of the dinner was fixed, weighed on my spirits. I would havegiven twelve years of my life to have annihilated the next twelve hours.

  In this frame of mind I reached home, and presented myself in mymother's sitting-room.

  "You have gone out earlier than usual to-day," she said. "Did the fineweather tempt you, my dear?" She paused, and looked at me more closely."George!" she exclaimed, "what has happened to you? Where have youbeen?"

  I told her the truth as honestly as I have told it here.

  The color deepened in my mother's face. She looked at me, and spoke tome with a severity which was rare indeed in my experience of her.

  "Must I remind you, for the first time in your life, of what is due toyour mother?" she asked. "Is it possible that you expect me to visit awoman, who, by her own confession--"

  "I expect you to visit a woman who has only to say the word and to beyour daughter-in-law," I interposed. "Surely I am not asking what isunworthy of you, if I ask that?"

  My mother looked at me in blank dismay.

  "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 havetried vainly to make her explain herself. She has promised to confideeverything 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 accustomed torecord her engagements. "Write down the name and address," she saidresignedly.

  "I will go with you," I answered, "and wait in the carriage at thedoor. I want to hear what has passed between you and Mrs. Van Brandt theinstant you have left her."

  "Is it as serious as that, George?"

  "Yes, mother, it is as serious as that."

  CHAPTER XV. THE OBSTACLE BEATS ME.

  HOW long was I left alone in the carriage at the door of Mrs. VanBrandt's lodgings? Judging by my sensations, I waited half a life-time.Judging by my watch, I waited half an hour.

  When my mother returned to me, the hope which I had entertained ofa happy result from her interview with Mrs. Van Brandt was a hopeabandoned before she had opened her lips. I saw, in her face, that anobstacle which was beyond my power of removal did indeed stand betweenme and the dearest wish of my life.

  "Tell me the worst," I said, as we drove away from the house, "and tellit at once."

  "I must tell it to you, George," my mother answered, sadly, "as she toldit to me. She begged me herself to do that. 'We must disappoint him,'she said, 'but pray let it be done as gently as possible.' Beginningin those words, she confided to me the painful story which you knowalready--the story of her marriage. From that she passed to her meetingwith you at Edinburgh, and to the circumstances which have led herto live as she is living now. This latter part of her narrative sheespecially requested me to repeat to you. Do you feel composed enough tohear it now? Or would you rather wait?"

  "Let me hear it now, mother; and tell it, as nearly as you can, in herown words."

  "I will repeat what she said to me, my dear, as faithfully as I can.After speaking of her father's death, she told me that she had only tworelatives living. 'I have a married aunt in Glasgow, and a marriedaunt in London,' she said. 'When I left Edinburgh, I went to my auntin London. She and my father had not been on good terms together; sheconsidered that my father had neglected her. But his death had softenedher toward him and toward me. She received me kindly, and she got me asituation in a shop. I kept my situation for three months, and then Iwas obliged to leave it.'"

  My mother paused. I thought directly of the strange postscript whichMrs. Van Brandt had made me add to the letter that I wrote for her atthe Edinburgh inn. In that case also she had only contemplated remainingin her employment for three months' time.

  "Why was she obliged to leave her situation?" I asked.

  "I put that question to her myself," replied my mother. "She made nodirect reply--she changed color, and looked confused. 'I will tell youafterward, madam,' she said. 'Please let me go on now. My aunt was angrywith me for leaving my employment--and she was more angry still, whenI told her the reason. She said I had failed in duty toward her in notspeaking frankly at first. We parted coolly. I had saved a little moneyfrom my wages; and I did well enough while my savings lasted. When theycame to an end, I tried to get employment again, and I failed. My auntsaid, and said truly, that her husband's income was barely enough tosupport his family: she could do nothing for me, and I could do nothingfor myself. I wrote to my aunt at Glasgow, and received no answer.Starvation stared me in the face, when I saw in a newspaper anadvertisement addressed to me by Mr. Van Brandt. He implored me to writeto him; he declared that his life without me was too desolate to beendured; he solemnly promised that there should be no interruption to mytranquillity if I would return to him. If I had only had myself to thinkof, I would have begged my bread in the streets rather than return tohim--'"

  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 rejoined, "that you have nosuspicion of what she was alluding to when she said those words?"

  The question passed by me unheeded: my thoughts were dwelling bitterlyon Van Brandt and his advertisement. "She answered the advertisement, ofcourse?" I said.

  "And she saw Mr. Van Brandt," my mother went on. "She gave me nodetailed account of the interview between them. 'He reminded me,' shesaid, 'of what I knew to be true--that the woman who had entrapped himinto marrying her was an incurable drunkard, and that his ever livingwith her again was out of the question. Still she was alive, and she hada right to the name at least of his wife. I won't attempt to excuse myreturning to him, knowing the circumstances as I did. I will only saythat I could see no other choice before me, in my position at the time.It is needless to trouble you with what I have suffered since, or tospeak 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 lifethat he once offered me the honor and the happiness of becoming hiswife; but I know what is due to him and to you. I have seen him for thelast time. The one thing that remains to be done is to satisfy him thatour marriage is impossible. You are a mother; you will understand whyI 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 fromthe parlor into a back room. After an absence of a few moments only, shereturned."

  At that crowning point in the narrative, my mother stopped. Was sheafraid 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 itended, even yet?"

  There were two difficulties in the way of my understanding her. I hada man's bluntness of perception, and I was half maddened by suspense.Incredible as it may appear, I was too dull to guess the truth even now.

  "When she returned to me," my mother resumed, "she was not alone. Shehad with her a lovely little girl, just old enough to walk with the helpof her mother's hand. She tenderly kissed the child
, and then she put iton my lap. 'There is my only comfort,' she said, simply; 'and there isthe 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; theincomprehensible withdrawal from the employment in which she wasprospering; the disheartening difficulties which had brought her to thebrink of starvation; the degrading return to the man who had cruellydeceived her--all was explained, all was excused now! With an infant atthe breast, how could she obtain a new employment? With famine staringher in the face, what else