The Two Destinies

by Wilkie Collins

bad news that I abstained from breaking the seal in mymother's presence. I waited until I could retire to my own room, andthen I opened the letter. My presentiment had not deceived me.

  Sir James's reply contained these words only: "The letter inclosed tellsits own sad story, without help from me. I cannot grieve for her; but Ican feel sorry for you."

  The letter thus described was addressed to Sir James by the doctor atLerwick. I copy it (without comment) in these words:

  "The late stormy weather has delayed the vessel by means of which wecommunicate with the mainland. I have only received your letter to-day.With it, there has arrived a little box, containing a gold locket andchain; being the present which you ask me to convey privately to MissDunross, from a friend of yours whose name you are not at liberty tomention.

  "In transmitting these instructions, you have innocently placed me in aposition of extreme difficulty.

  "The poor lady for whom the gift is intended is near the end of herlife--a life of such complicated and terrible suffering that deathcomes, in her case, literally as a mercy and a deliverance. Under thesemelancholy circumstances, I am, I think, not to blame if I hesitate togive her the locket in secret; not knowing with what associations thiskeepsake may be connected, or of what serious agitation it may notpossibly be the cause.

  "In this state of doubt I have ventured on opening the locket, andmy hesitation is naturally increased. I am quite ignorant of theremembrances which my unhappy patient may connect with the portrait. Idon't know whether it will give her pleasure or pain to receive it, inher last moments on earth. I can only decide to take it with me, whenI see her to-morrow, and to let circumstances determine whether I shallrisk letting her see it or not. Our post to the South only leaves thisplace in three days' time. I can keep my letter open, and let you knowthe result.

  "I have seen her; and I have just returned to my own house. My distressof mind is great. But I will do my best to write intelligibly and fullyof what has happened.

  "Her sinking energies, when I first saw her this morning, had ralliedfor the moment. The nurse informed me that she had slept during theearly hours of the new day. Previously to this, there were symptoms offever, accompanied by some slight delirium. The words that escaped herin this condition appear to have related mainly to an absent person whomshe spoke of by the name of 'George.' Her one anxiety, I am told, was tosee 'George' again before she died.

  "Hearing this, it struck me as barely possible that the portrait in thelocket might be the portrait of the absent person. I sent her nurseout of the room, and took her hand in mine. Trusting partly to her ownadmirable courage and strength of mind, and partly to the confidencewhich I knew she placed in me as an old friend and adviser, I advertedto the words which had fallen from her in the feverish state. And then Isaid, 'You know that any secret of yours is safe in my keeping. Tell me,do you expect to receive any little keepsake or memorial from 'George'?

  "It was a risk to run. The black veil which she always wears was overher face. I had nothing to tell me of the effect which I was producingon her, except the changing temperature, or the partial movement, of herhand, as it lay in mine, just under the silk coverlet of the bed.

  "She said nothing at first. Her hand turned suddenly from cold tohot, and closed with a quick pressure on mine. Her breathing becameoppressed. When she spoke, it was with difficulty. She told me nothing;she only put a question:

  "'Is he here?' she asked.

  "I said, 'Nobody is here but myself.'

  "'Is there a letter?'

  "I said 'No.'

  "She was silent for a while. Her hand turned cold; the grasp of herfingers loosened. She spoke again: 'Be quick, doctor! Whatever it is,give it to me, before I die.'

  "I risked the experiment; I opened the locket, and put it into her hand.

  "So far as I could discover, she refrained from looking at it at first.She said, 'Turn me in the bed, with my face to the wall.' I obeyedher. With her back turned toward me she lifted her veil; and then (as Isuppose) she looked at the portrait. A long, low cry--not of sorrow orpain: a cry of rapture and delight--burst from her. I heard her kissthe portrait. Accustomed as I am in my profession to piteous sights andsounds, I never remember so completely losing my self-control as I lostit at that moment. I was obliged to turn away to the window.

  "Hardly a minute can have passed before I was back again at the bedside.In that brief interval she had changed. Her voice had sunk again; itwas so weak that I could only hear what she said by leaning over her andplacing my ear close to her lips.

  "'Put it round my neck,' she whispered.

  "I clasped the chain of the locket round her neck. She tried to lift herhand to it, but her strength failed her.

  "'Help me to hide it,' she said.

  "I guided her hand. She hid the locket in her bosom, under the whitedressing-gown which she wore that day. The oppression in her breathingincreased. I raised her on the pillow. The pillow was not high enough.I rested her head on my shoulder, and partially opened her veil. She wasable to speak once more, feeling a momentary relief.

  "'Promise,' she said, 'that no stranger's hand shall touch me. Promiseto bury me as I am now.'

  "I gave her my promise.

  "Her failing breath quickened. She was just able to articulate the nextwords:

  "'Cover my face again.'

  "I drew the veil over her face. She rested a while in silence. Suddenlythe sound of her laboring respiration ceased. She started, and raisedher head from my shoulder.

  "'Are you in pain?' I asked.

  "'I am in heaven!' she answered.

  "Her head dropped back on my breast as she spoke. In that last outburstof joy her last breath had passed. The moment of her supreme happinessand the moment of her death were one. The mercy of God had found her atlast.

  "I return to my letter before the post goes out.

  "I have taken the necessary measures for the performance of my promise.She will be buried with the portrait hidden in her bosom, and with theblack veil over her face. No nobler creature ever breathed the breath oflife. Tell the stranger who sent her his portrait that her last momentswere joyful moments, through his remembrance of her as expressed by hisgift.

  "I observe a passage in your letter to which I have not yet replied. Youask me if there was any more serious reason for the persistent hiding ofher face under the veil than the reason which she was accustomed to giveto the persons about her. It is true that she suffered under a morbidsensitiveness to the action of light. It is also true that this was notthe only result, or the worst result, of the malady that afflicted her.She had another reason for keeping her face hidden--a reason knownto two persons only: to the doctor who lives in the village near herfather's house, and to myself. We are both pledged never to divulgeto any living creature what our eyes alone have seen. We have kept ourterrible secret even from her father; and we shall carry it with usto our graves. I have no more to say on this melancholy subject to theperson in whose interest you write. When he thinks of her now, let himthink of the beauty which no bodily affliction can profane--the beautyof the freed spirit, eternally happy in its union with the angels ofGod.

  "I may add, before I close my letter, that the poor old father willnot be left in cheerless solitude at the lake house. He will pass theremainder of his days under my roof, with my good wife to take care ofhim, and my children to remind him of the brighter side of life."

  So the letter ended. I put it away, and went out. The solitude of myroom forewarned me unendurably of the coming solitude in my own life.My interests in this busy world were now narrowed to one object--to thecare of my mother's failing health. Of the two women whose hearts hadonce beaten in loving sympathy with mine, one lay in her grave and theother was lost to me in a foreign land. On the drive by the sea I met mymother, in her little pony-chaise, moving slowly under the mild wintrysunshine. I dismissed the man who was in attendance on her, and walkedby the side of the chaise, with the reins in my hand. We chatted quietlyon trivial subjects.
I closed my eyes to the dreary future that wasbefore me, and tried, in the intervals of the heart-ache, to liveresignedly in the passing hour.

  CHAPTER XXXI. THE PHYSICIAN'S OPINION.

  SIX months have elapsed. Summer-time has come again.

  The last parting is over. Prolonged by my care, the days of my mother'slife have come to their end. She has died in my arms: her last wordshave been spoken to me, her last look on earth has been mine. I am now,in the saddest and plainest meaning of the words, alone in the world.

  The affliction which has befallen me has left certain duties to beperformed that require my presence in London. My house is let; I amstaying at a hotel. My friend, Sir James (also in London on business),has rooms near mine. We breakfast and dine together in