The Two Destinies

by Wilkie Collins

of my own will, to mylast interview with her. I saw her again; I heard her again. I tastedonce more the momentary rapture of our last kiss; I felt once more thepang of sorrow that wrung me when I had parted with her and found myselfalone in the street. Tears--of which I was ashamed, though nobody wasnear to see them--filled my eyes when I thought of the months that hadpassed since we had last looked on one another, and of all that shemight have suffered, must have suffered, in that time. Hundreds onhundreds of miles were between us--and yet she was now as near me as ifshe were walking in the garden by my side!

  This strange condition of my mind was matched by an equally strangecondition of my body. A mysterious trembling shuddered over me faintlyfrom head to foot. I walked without feeling the ground as I trod on it;I looked about me with no distinct consciousness of what the objectswere on which my eyes rested. My hands were cold--and yet I hardly feltit. My head throbbed hotly--and yet I was not sensible of any pain. Itseemed as if I were surrounded and enwrapped in some electric atmospherewhich altered all the ordinary conditions of sensation. I looked upat the clear, calm sky, and wondered if a thunderstorm was coming. Istopped, and buttoned my coat round me, and questioned myself if I hadcaught a cold, or if I was going to have a fever. The sun sank below themoorland horizon; the gray twilight trembled over the dark waters of thelake. I went back to the house; and the vivid memory of Mrs. Van Brandt,still in close companionship, went back with me.

  The fire in my room had burned low in my absence. One of the closedcurtains had been drawn back a few inches, so as to admit through thewindow a ray of the dying light. On the boundary limit where the lightwas crossed by the obscurity which filled the rest of the room, I sawMiss Dunross seated, with her veil drawn and her writing-case on herknee, waiting my return.

  I hastened to make my excuses. I assured her that I had been careful totell the servant where to find me. She gently checked me before I couldsay more.

  "It's not Peter's fault," she said. "I told him not to hurry your returnto the house. Have you enjoyed your walk?"

  She spoke very quietly. The faint, sad voice was fainter and sadder thanever. She kept her head bent over her writing-case, instead of turningit toward me as usual while we were talking. I still felt the mysterioustrembling which had oppressed me in the garden. Drawing a chair nearthe fire, I stirred the embers together, and tried to warm myself. Ourpositions in the room left some little distance between us. I could onlysee her sidewise, as she sat by the window in the sheltering darkness ofthe curtain which still remained drawn.

  "I think I have been too long in the garden," I said. "I feel chilled bythe cold evening air."

  "Will you have some more wood put on the fire?" she asked. "Can I getyou anything?"

  "No, thank you. I shall do very well here. I see you are kindly ready towrite for me."

  "Yes," she said, "at your own convenience. When you are ready, my pen isready."

  The unacknowledged reserve that had come between us since we had lastspoken together, was, I believe, as painfully felt by her as by me. Wewere no doubt longing to break through it on either side--if we had onlyknown how. The writing of the letter would occupy us, at any rate. Imade another effort to give my mind to the subject--and once more it wasan effort made in vain. Knowing what I wanted to say to my mother, myfaculties seemed to be paralyzed when I tried to say it. I sat coweringby the fire--and she sat waiting, with her writing-case on her lap.

  CHAPTER XXII. SHE CLAIMS ME AGAIN.

  THE moments passed; the silence between us continued. Miss Dunross madean attempt to rouse me.

  "Have you decided to go back to Scotland with your friends at Lerwick?"she asked.

  "It is no easy matter," I replied, "to decide on leaving my friends inthis house."

  Her head drooped lower on her bosom; her voice sunk as she answered me.

  "Think of your mother," she said. "The first duty you owe is yourduty to her. Your long absence is a heavy trial to her--your mother issuffering."

  "Suffering?" I repeated. "Her letters say nothing--"

  "You forget that you have allowed me to read her letters," Miss Dunrossinterposed. "I see the unwritten and unconscious confession of anxietyin every line that she writes to you. You know, as well as I do, thatthere is cause for her anxiety. Make her happy by telling her that yousail for home with your friends. Make her happier still by telling herthat you grieve no more over the loss of Mrs. Van Brandt. May I writeit, in your name and in those words?"

  I felt the strangest reluctance to permit her to write in those terms,or in any terms, of Mrs. Van Brandt. The unhappy love-story of mymanhood had never been a forbidden subject between us on formeroccasions. Why did I feel as if it had become a forbidden subject now?Why did I evade giving her a direct reply?

  "We have plenty of time before us," I said. "I want to speak to youabout yourself."

  She lifted her hand in the obscurity that surrounded her, as ifto protest against the topic to which I had returned. I persisted,nevertheless, in returning to it.

  "If I must go back," I went on, "I may venture to say to you at partingwhat I have not said yet. I cannot, and will not, believe that you arean incurable invalid. My education, as I have told you, has been theeducation of a medical man. I am well acquainted with some of thegreatest living physicians, in Edinburgh as well as in London. Will youallow me to describe your malady (as I understand it) to men who areaccustomed to treat cases of intricate nervous disorder? And will youlet me write and tell you the result?"

  I waited for her reply. Neither by word nor sign did she encourage theidea of any future communication with her. I ventured to suggest anothermotive which might induce her to receive a letter from me.

  "In any case, I may find it necessary to write to you," I went on. "Youfirmly believe that I and my little Mary are destined to meet again. Ifyour anticipations are realized, you will expect me to tell you of it,surely?"

  Once more I waited. She spoke--but it was not to reply: it was only tochange the subject.

  "The time is passing," was all she said. "We have not begun your letterto your mother yet."

  It would have been cruel to contend with her any longer. Her voicewarned me that she was suffering. The faint gleam of light throughthe parted curtains was fading fast. It was time, indeed, to write theletter. I could find other opportunities of speaking to her before Ileft the house.

  "I am ready," I answered. "Let us begin."

  The first sentence was easily dictated to my patient secretary. Iinformed my mother that my sprained wrist was nearly restored to use,and that nothing prevented my leaving Shetland when the lighthousecommissioner was ready to return. This was all that it was necessaryto say on the subject of my health; the disaster of my re-opened woundhaving been, for obvious reasons, concealed from my mother's knowledge.Miss Dunross silently wrote the opening lines of the letter, and waitedfor the words that were to follow.

  In my next sentence, I announced the date at which the vessel was tosail on the return voyage; and I mentioned the period at which my mothermight expect to see me, weather permitting. Those words, also, MissDunross wrote--and waited again. I set myself to consider what I shouldsay next. To my surprise and alarm, I found it impossible to fix my mindon the subject. My thoughts wandered away, in the strangest manner, frommy letter to Mrs. Van Brandt. I was ashamed of myself; I was angrywith myself--I resolved, no matter what I said, that I would positivelyfinish the letter. No! try as I might, the utmost effort of my willavailed me nothing. Mrs. Van Brandt's words at our last interview weremurmuring in my ears--not a word of my own would come to me!

  Miss Dunross laid down her pen, and slowly turned her head to look atme.

  "Surely you have something more to add to your letter?" she said.

  "Certainly," I answered. "I don't know what is the matter with me. Theeffort of dictating seems to be beyond my power this evening."

  "Can I help you?" she asked.

  I gladly accepted the suggestion. "There are many things," I said,"which m
y mother would be glad to hear, if I were not too stupid tothink of them. I am sure I may trust your sympathy to think of them forme."

  That rash answer offered Miss Dunross the opportunity of returningto the subject of Mrs. Van Brandt. She seized the opportunity witha woman's persistent resolution when she has her end in view, and isdetermined to reach it at all hazards.

  "You have not told your mother yet," she said, "that your infatuationfor Mrs. Van Brandt is at an end. Will you put it in your own words? Orshall I write it for you, imitating your language as well as I can?"

  In the state of my mind at that moment, her perseverance conquered me. Ithought to myself indolently, "If I say No, she will only return to thesubject again, and she will end (after all I owe