The Two Destinies

by Wilkie Collins

companion. To the lake shores I looked, with anatural superstition, as to my way back to the one life that had itspromise of happiness for _me_--my life with Mary.

  On our arrival in London, I started for Suffolk alone--at my mother'srequest. At her age she naturally shrank from revisiting the home scenesnow occupied by the strangers to whom our house had been let.

  Ah, how my heart ached (young as I was) when I saw the familiar greenwaters of the lake once more! It was evening. The first object thatcaught my eye was the gayly painted boat, once mine, in which Mary and Ihad so often sailed together. The people in possession of our house weresailing now. The sound of their laughter floated toward me merrily overthe still water. _Their_ flag flew at the little mast-head, from whichMary's flag had never fluttered in the pleasant breeze. I turned my eyesfrom the boat; it hurt me to look at it. A few steps onward brought meto a promontory on the shore, and revealed the brown archways of thedecoy on the opposite bank. There was the paling behind which we hadknelt to watch the snaring of the ducks; there was the hole throughwhich "Trim," the terrier, had shown himself to rouse the stupidcuriosity of the water-fowl; there, seen at intervals through the trees,was the winding woodland path along which Mary and I had traced our wayto Dermody's cottage on the day when my father's cruel hand had torn usfrom each other. How wisely my good mother had shrunk from looking againat the dear old scenes! I turned my back on the lake, to think withcalmer thoughts in the shadowy solitude of the woods.

  An hour's walk along the winding banks brought me round to the cottagewhich had once been Mary's home.

  The door was opened by a woman who was a stranger to me. She civillyasked me to enter the parlor. I had suffered enough already; I made myinquiries, standing on the doorstep. They were soon at an end. The womanwas a stranger in our part of Suffolk; neither she nor her husband hadever heard of Dermody's name.

  I pursued my investigations among the peasantry, passing from cottageto cottage. The twilight came; the moon rose; the lights began to vanishfrom the lattice-windows; and still I continued my weary pilgrimage; andstill, go where I might, the answer to my questions was the same. Nobodyknew anything of Dermody. Everybody asked if I had not brought news ofhim myself. It pains me even now to recall the cruelly complete defeatof every effort which I made on that disastrous evening. I passed thenight in one of the cottages; and I returned to London the next day,broken by disappointment, careless what I did, or where I went next.

  Still, we were not wholly parted. I saw Mary--as Dame Dermody said Ishould see her--in dreams.

  Sometimes she came to me with the green flag in her hand, and repeatedher farewell words--"Don't forget Mary!" Sometimes she led me to ourwell-remembered corner in the cottage parlor, and opened the paper onwhich her grandmother had written our prayers for us. We prayed togetheragain, and sung hymns together again, as if the old times had come back.Once she appeared to me, with tears in her eyes, and said, "We mustwait, dear: our time has not come yet." Twice I saw her looking at me,like one disturbed by anxious thoughts; and twice I heard her say, "Livepatiently, live innocently, George, for my sake."

  We settled in London, where my education was undertaken by a privatetutor. Before we had been long in our new abode, an unexpected changein our prospects took place. To my mother's astonishment she received anoffer of marriage (addressed to her in a letter) from Mr. Germaine.

  "I entreat you not to be startled by my proposal!" (the old gentlemanwrote). "You can hardly have forgotten that I was once fond of you,in the days when we were both young and both poor. No return to thefeelings associated with that time is possible now. At my age, all I askof you is to be the companion of the closing years of my life, and togive me something of a father's interest in promoting the future welfareof your son. Consider this, my dear, and tell me whether you will takethe empty chair at an old man's lonely fireside."

  My mother (looking almost as confused, poor soul! as if she had becomea young girl again) left the whole responsibility of decision on theshoulders of her son! I was not long in making up my mind. If she saidYes, she would accept the hand of a man of worth and honor, who hadbeen throughout his whole life devoted to her; and she would recoverthe comfort, the luxury, the social prosperity and position of which myfather's reckless course of life had deprived her. Add to this, thatI liked Mr. Germaine, and that Mr. Germaine liked me. Under thesecircumstances, why should my mother say No? She could produce nosatisfactory answer to that question when I put it. As the necessaryconsequence, she became, in due course of time, Mrs. Germaine.

  I have only to add that, to the end of her life, my good mothercongratulated herself (in this case at least) on having taken her son'sadvice.

  The years went on, and still Mary and I were parted, except in mydreams. The years went on, until the perilous time which comes in everyman's life came in mine. I reached the age when the strongest of allthe passions seizes on the senses, and asserts its mastery over mind andbody alike.

  I had hitherto passively endured the wreck of my earliest and dearesthopes: I had lived patiently, and lived innocently, for Mary's sake. Nowmy patience left me; my innocence was numbered among the lost things ofthe past. My days, it is true, were still devoted to the tasks set me bymy tutor; but my nights were given, in secret, to a reckless profligacy,which (in my present frame of mind) I look back on with disgust anddismay. I profaned my remembrances of Mary in the company of womenwho had reached the lowest depths of degradation. I impiously said tomyself: "I have hoped for her long enough; I have waited for her longenough. The one thing now to do is to enjoy my youth and to forget her."

  From the moment when I dropped into this degradation, I might sometimesthink regretfully of Mary--at the morning time, when penitent thoughtsmostly come to us; but I ceased absolutely to see her in my dreams.We were now, in the completest sense of the word, parted. Mary's purespirit could hold no communion with mine; Mary's pure spirit had leftme.

  It is needless to say that I failed to keep the secret of my depravityfrom the knowledge of my mother. The sight of her grief was the firstinfluence that sobered me. In some degree at least I restrained myself:I made the effort to return to purer ways of life. Mr. Germaine, thoughI had disappointed him, was too just a man to give me up as lost.He advised me, as a means of self-reform, to make my choice of aprofession, and to absorb myself in closer studies than any that I hadyet pursued.

  I made my peace with this good friend and second father, not only byfollowing his advice, but by adopting the profession to which he hadbeen himself attached before he inherited his fortune--the profession ofmedicine. Mr. Germaine had been a surgeon: I resolved on being a surgeontoo.

  Having entered, at rather an earlier age than usual, on my new way oflife, I may at least say for myself that I worked hard. I won, and kept,the interest of the professors under whom I studied. On the other hand,it cannot be denied that my reformation was, morally speaking, far frombeing complete. I worked; but what I did was done selfishly, bitterly,with a hard heart. In religion and morals I adopted the views of amaterialist companion of my studies--a worn-out man of more than doublemy age. I believed in nothing but what I could see, or taste, or feel.I lost all faith in humanity. With the one exception of my mother, I hadno respect for women. My remembrances of Mary deteriorated until theybecame little more than a lost link of association with the past. Istill preserved the green flag as a matter of habit; but it wasno longer kept about me; it was left undisturbed in a drawer of mywriting-desk. Now and then a wholesome doubt, whether my life was notutterly unworthy of me, would rise in my mind. But it held no longpossession of my thoughts. Despising others, it was in the logical orderof things that I should follow my conclusions to their bitter end, andconsistently despise myself.

  The term of my majority arrived. I was twenty-one years old; and of theillusions of my youth not a vestige remained.

  Neither my mother nor Mr. Germaine could make any positive complaint ofmy conduct. But they were both thoroughly uneasy about me. After anxiousconsiderat
ion, my step-father arrived at a conclusion. He decided thatthe one chance of restoring me to my better and brighter self was to trythe stimulant of a life among new people and new scenes.

  At the period of which I am now writing, the home government had decidedon sending a special diplomatic mission to one of the native princesruling over a remote province of our Indian empire. In the disturbedstate of the province at that time, the mission, on its arrival inIndia, was to be accompanied to the prince's court by an escort,including the military as well as the civil servants of the crown. Thesurgeon appointed to sail with the expedition from England was an oldfriend of Mr. Germaine's, and was in want of an assistant on whosecapacity he could rely. Through my stepfather's interest, the post wasoffered to me. I accepted it without hesitation. My only pride left wasthe miserable pride of indifference. So long as I pursued