The Two Destinies

by Wilkie Collins

strictest reserve on one point. Concealing from her thevery existence of Miss Dunross, I left her to suppose that the masterof the house was the one person whom I had found to receive me during mysojourn under Mr. Dunross's roof.

  "That is strange!" she exclaimed, after she had heard me attentively tothe end.

  "What is strange?" I asked.

  She hesitated, searching my face earnestly with her large grave eyes.

  "I hardly like speaking of it," she said. "And yet I ought to have noconcealments in such a matter from you. I understand everything that youhave told me--with one exception. It seems strange to me that you shouldonly have had one old man for your companion while you were at the housein Shetland."

  "What other companion did you expect to hear of?" I inquired.

  "I expected," she answered, "to hear of a lady in the house."

  I cannot positively say that the reply took me by surprise: it forced meto reflect before I spoke again. I knew, by my past experience, thatshe must have seen me, in my absence from her, while I was spirituallypresent to her mind in a trance or dream. Had she also seen the dailycompanion of my life in Shetland--Miss Dunross?

  I put the question in a form which left me free to decide whether Ishould take her unreservedly into my confidence or not.

  "Am I right," I began, "in supposing that you dreamed of me in Shetland,as you once before dreamed of me while I was at my house in Perthshire?"

  "Yes," she answered. "It was at the close of evening, this time. I fellasleep, or became insensible--I cannot say which. And I saw you again,in a vision or a dream."

  "Where did you see me?"

  "I first saw you on the bridge over the Scotch river--just as I met youon the evening when you saved my life. After a while the stream andthe landscape about it faded, and you faded with them, into darkness.I waited a little, and the darkness melted away slowly. I stood, as itseemed to me, in a circle of starry lights; fronting a window, with alake behind me, and before me a darkened room. And I looked into theroom, and the starry light showed you to me again."

  "When did this happen? Do you remember the date?"

  "I remember that it was at the beginning of the month. The misfortuneswhich have since brought me so low had not then fallen on me; and yet,as I stood looking at you, I had the strangest prevision of calamitythat was to come. I felt the same absolute reliance on your power tohelp me that I felt when I first dreamed of you in Scotland. And I didthe same familiar things. I laid my hand on your bosom. I said to you:'Remember me. Come to me.' I even wrote--"

  She stopped, shuddering as if a sudden fear had laid its hold onher. Seeing this, and dreading the effect of any violent agitation, Ihastened to suggest that we should say no more, for that day, on thesubject of her dream.

  "No," she answered, firmly. "There is nothing to be gained by giving metime. My dream has left one horrible remembrance on my mind. As long asI live, I believe I shall tremble when I think of what I saw near you inthat darkened room."

  She stopped again. Was she approaching the subject of the shroudedfigure, with the black veil over its head? Was she about to describe herfirst discovery, in the dream, of Miss Dunross?

  "Tell me one thing first," she resumed. "Have I been right in what Ihave said to you, so far? Is it true that you were in a darkened roomwhen you saw me?"

  "Quite true."

  "Was the date the beginning of the month? and was the hour the close ofevening?"

  "Yes."

  "Were you alone in the room? Answer me truly!"

  "I was not alone."

  "Was the master of the house with you? or had you some other companion?"

  It would have been worse than useless (after what I had now heard) toattempt to deceive her.

  "I had another companion," I answered. "The person in the room with mewas a woman."

  Her face showed, as I spoke, that she was again shaken by the terrifyingrecollection to which she had just alluded. I had, by this time, somedifficulty myself in preserving my composure. Still, I was determinednot to let a word escape me which could operate as a suggestion on themind of my companion.

  "Have you any other question to ask me?" was all I said.

  "One more," she answered. "Was there anything unusual in the dress ofyour companion?"

  "Yes. She wore a long black veil, which hung over her head and face, anddropped to below her waist."

  Mrs. Van Brandt leaned back in her chair, and covered her eyes with herhands.

  "I understand your motive for concealing from me the presence of thatmiserable woman in the house," she said. "It is good and kind, likeall your motives; but it is useless. While I lay in the trance I saweverything exactly as it was in the reality; and I, too, saw thatfrightful face!"

  Those words literally electrified me.

  My conversation of that morning with my mother instantly recurred to mymemory. I started to my feet.

  "Good God!" I exclaimed, "what do you mean?"

  "Don't you understand yet?" she asked in amazement on her side. "Must Ispeak more plainly still? When you saw the apparition of me, did you seeme write?"

  "Yes. On a letter that the lady was writing for me. I saw the wordsafterward; the words that brought me to you last night: 'At the month'send, In the shadow of Saint Paul's.'"

  "How did I appear to write on the unfinished letter?"

  "You lifted the writing-case, on which the letter and the pen lay,off the lady's lap; and, while you wrote, you rested the case on hershoulder."

  "Did you notice if the lifting of the case produced any effect on her?"

  "I saw no effect produced," I answered. "She remained immovable in herchair."

  "I saw it differently in my dream. She raised her hand--not thehand that was nearest to you, but nearest to me. As _I_ lifted thewriting-case, _she_ lifted her hand, and parted the folds of the veilfrom off her face--I suppose to see more clearly. It was only for amoment; and in that moment I saw what the veil hid. Don't let us speakof it! You must have shuddered at that frightful sight in the reality,as I shuddered at it in the dream. You must have asked yourself, asI did: 'Is there nobody to poison the terrible creature, and hide hermercifully in the grave?'"

  At those words, she abruptly checked herself. I could say nothing--myface spoke for me. She saw it, and guessed the truth.

  "Good heavens!" she cried, "you have not seen her! She must have kepther face hidden from you behind the veil! Oh, why, why did you cheatme into talking of it! I will never speak of it again. See, we arefrightening the child! Come here, darling; there is nothing to be afraidof. Come, and bring your cake with you. You shall be a great lady,giving a grand dinner; and we will be two friends whom you have invitedto dine with you; and the doll shall be the little girl who comes inafter dinner, and has fruit at dessert!" So she ran on, trying vainlyto forget the shock that she had inflicted on me in talking nurserynonsense to the child.

  Recovering my composure in some degree, I did my best to second theeffort that she had made. My quieter thoughts suggested that she mightwell be self-deceived in believing the horrible spectacle presented toher in the vision to be an actual reflection of the truth. In commonjustice toward Miss Dunross I ought surely not to accept the convictionof her deformity on no better evidence than the evidence of a dream?Reasonable as it undoubtedly was, this view left certain doubts stilllingering in my mind. The child's instinct soon discovered that hermother and I were playfellows who felt no genuine enjoyment of the game.She dismissed her make-believe guests without ceremony, and went backwith her doll to the favorite play-ground on which I had met her--thelanding outside the door. No persuasion on her mother's part or on minesucceeded in luring her back to us. We were left together, to faceeach other as best we might--with the forbidden subject of Miss Dunrossbetween us.

  CHAPTER XXVIII. LOVE AND MONEY.

  FEELING the embarrassment of the moment most painfully on her side, Mrs.Van Brandt spoke first.

  "You have said nothing to me about yourself," she began. "Is your lif
e ahappier one than it was when we last met?"

  "I cannot honestly say that it is," I answered.

  "Is there any prospect of your being married?"

  "My prospect of being married still rests with you."

  "Don't say that!" she exclaimed, with an entreating look at me. "Don'tspoil my pleasure in seeing you again by speaking of what can never be!Have you still to be told how it is that you find me here alone with mychild?"

  I forced myself to mention Van Brandt's name, rather than hear it pass_her_ lips.

  "I have been told that Mr. Van Brandt is in prison for debt," I said."And I saw for