The Two Destinies

by Wilkie Collins

enough.

  The lost persons are three in number. My traveling companion, myself,and the guide. We are seated on three Shetland ponies--so small instature, that we two strangers were at first literally ashamed to get ontheir backs. We are surrounded by dripping white mist so dense that webecome invisible to one another at a distance of half a dozen yards. Weknow that we are somewhere on the mainland of the Shetland Isles. We seeunder the feet of our ponies a mixture of moorland and bog--here, thestrip of firm ground that we are standing on, and there, a few feet off,the strip of watery peat-bog, which is deep enough to suffocate us ifwe step into it. Thus far, and no further, our knowledge extends. Thisquestion of the moment is, What are we to do next?

  The guide lights his pipe, and reminds me that he warned us against theweather before we started for our ride. My traveling companion looksat me resignedly, with an expression of mild reproach. I deserve it. Myrashness is to blame for the disastrous position in which we now findourselves.

  In writing to my mother, I have been careful to report favorably of myhealth and spirits. But I have not confessed that I still remember theday when I parted with the one hope and renounced the one love whichmade life precious to me. My torpid condition of mind, at home,has simply given place to a perpetual restlessness, produced by theexcitement of my new life. I must now always be doing something--nomatter what, so long as it diverts me from my own thoughts. Inaction isunendurable; solitude has become horrible to me. While the other membersof the party which has accompanied Sir James on his voyage of inspectionamong the lighthouses are content to wait in the harbor of Lerwick fora favorable change in the weather, I am obstinately bent on leavingthe comfortable shelter of the vessel to explore some inland ruin ofprehistoric times, of which I never heard, and for which I care nothing.The movement is all I want; the ride will fill the hateful void oftime. I go, in defiance of sound advice offered to me on all sides. Theyoungest member of our party catches the infection of my recklessness(in virtue of his youth) and goes with me. And what has come of it?We are blinded by mist; we are lost on a moor; and the treacherouspeat-bogs are round us in every direction!

  What is to be done?

  "Just leave it to the pownies," the guide says.

  "Do you mean leave the ponies to find the way?"

  "That's it," says the guide. "Drop the bridle, and leave it to thepownies. See for yourselves. I'm away on _my_ powny."

  He drops his bridle on the pommel of his saddle, whistles to his pony,and disappears in the mist; riding with his hands in his pockets, andhis pipe in his mouth, as composedly as if he were sitting by his ownfireside at home.

  We have no choice but to follow his example, or to be left alone onthe moor. The intelligent little animals, relieved from our stupidsupervision, trot off with their noses to the ground, like hounds on thescent. Where the intersecting tract of bog is wide, they skirt round it.Where it is narrow enough to be leaped over, they cross it by a jump.Trot! trot!--away the hardy little creatures go; never stopping, neverhesitating. Our "superior intelligence," perfectly useless in theemergency, wonders how it will end. Our guide, in front of us, answersthat it will end in the ponies finding their way certainly to thenearest village or the nearest house. "Let the bridles be," is his onewarning to us. "Come what may of it, let the bridles be!"

  It is easy for the guide to let his bridle be--he is accustomed to placehimself in that helpless position under stress of circumstances, and heknows exactly what his pony can do.

  To us, however, the situation is a new one; and it looks dangerous inthe extreme. More than once I check myself, not without an effort, inthe act of resuming the command of my pony on passing the more dangerouspoints in the journey. The time goes on; and no sign of an inhabiteddwelling looms through the mist. I begin to get fidgety and irritable; Ifind myself secretly doubting the trustworthiness of the guide. WhileI am in this unsettled frame of mind, my pony approaches a dim, black,winding line, where the bog must be crossed for the hundredth time atleast. The breadth of it (deceptively enlarged in appearance by themist) looks to my eyes beyond the reach of a leap by any pony that everwas foaled. I lose my presence of mind. At the critical moment beforethe jump is taken, I am foolish enough to seize the bridle, and suddenlycheck the pony. He starts, throws up his head, and falls instantly as ifhe had been shot. My right hand, as we drop on the ground together, getstwisted under me, and I feel that I have sprained my wrist.

  If I escape with no worse injury than this, I may consider myself welloff. But no such good fortune is reserved for me. In his struggles torise, before I have completely extricated myself from him, the ponykicks me; and, as my ill-luck will have it, his hoof strikes just wherethe poisoned spear struck me in the past days of my service in India.The old wound opens again--and there I lie bleeding on the barrenShetland moor!

  This time my strength has not been exhausted in attempting to breastthe current of a swift-flowing river with a drowning woman to support.I preserve my senses; and I am able to give the necessary directionsfor bandaging the wound with the best materials which we have at ourdisposal. To mount my pony again is simply out of the question. I mustremain where I am, with my traveling companion to look after me; and theguide must trust his pony to discover the nearest place of shelter towhich I can be removed.

  Before he abandons us on the moor, the man (at my suggestion) takes our"bearings," as correctly as he can by the help of my pocket-compass.This done, he disappears in the mist, with the bridle hanging loose,and the pony's nose to the ground, as before. I am left, under my youngfriend's care, with a cloak to lie on, and a saddle for a pillow. Ourponies composedly help themselves to such grass as they can find on themoor; keeping always near us as companionably as if they were a coupleof dogs. In this position we wait events, while the dripping mist hangsthicker than ever all round us.

  The slow minutes follow each other wearily in the majestic silence ofthe moor. We neither of us acknowledge it in words, but we both feelthat hours may pass before the guide discovers us again. The penetratingdamp slowly strengthens its clammy hold on me. My companion'spocket-flask of sherry has about a teaspoonful of wine left in thebottom of it. We look at one another--having nothing else to look at inthe present state of the weather--and we try to make the best of it. Sothe slow minutes follow each other, until our watches tell us that fortyminutes have elapsed since the guide and his pony vanished from ourview.

  My friend suggests that we may as well try what our voices can do towardproclaiming our situation to any living creature who may, by the barestpossibility, be within hearing of us. I leave him to try the experiment,having no strength to spare for vocal efforts of any sort. My companionshouts at the highest pitch of his voice. Silence follows his firstattempt. He tries again; and, this time, an answering hail reaches usfaintly through the white fog. A fellow-creature of some sort, guide orstranger, is near us--help is coming at last!

  An interval passes; and voices reach our ears--the voices of two men.Then the shadowy appearance of the two becomes visible in the mist. Thenthe guide advances near enough to be identified. He is followed by asturdy fellow in a composite dress, which presents him under the doubleaspect of a groom and a gardener. The guide speaks a few words of roughsympathy. The composite man stands by impenetrably silent; the sight ofa disabled stranger fails entirely either to surprise or to interest thegardener-groom.

  After a little private consultation, the two men decide to cross theirhands, and thus make a seat for me between them. My arms rest on theirshoulders; and so they carry me off. My friend trudges behind them, withthe saddle and the cloak. The ponies caper and kick, in unrestrainedenjoyment of their freedom; and sometimes follow, sometimes precedeus, as the humor of the moment inclines them. I am, fortunately for mybearers, a light weight. After twice resting, they stop altogether, andset me down on the driest place they can find. I look eagerly throughthe mist for some signs of a dwelling-house--and I see nothing but alittle shelving beach, and a sheet of dark water beyond. Where are we?

>   The gardener-groom vanishes, and appears again on the water, loominglarge in a boat. I am laid down in the bottom of the boat, with mysaddle-pillow; and we shove off, leaving the ponies to the desolatefreedom of the moor. They will pick up plenty to eat (the guide says);and when night comes on they will find their own way to shelter in avillage hard by. The last I see of the hardy little creatures they aretaking a drink of water, side by side, and biting each other sportivelyin higher spirits than ever!

  Slowly we float over the dark water--not a river, as I had at firstsupposed, but a lake--until we reach the shores of a little island; aflat, lonely, barren patch of ground. I am carried along a rough pathwaymade of great flat stones, until we reach the firmer earth, and discovera human dwelling-place at last. It is a long, low house of one storyhigh; forming (as well as I can see) three sides of a square. The doorstands hospitably open. The hall within is bare and cold and