The Two Destinies

by Wilkie Collins

moonlight; and they tellme it's no longer beset at night by bad characters, as it used to be inthe old time."

  My mother, in graver and graver displeasure, rose to retire to thedrawing-room.

  "I confess you have disappointed me," she said to Mr. MacGlue. "I shouldhave thought you would have been the last man to encourage my son in anact of imprudence."

  "Craving your pardon, madam, your son requires no encouragement. I cansee for myself that his mind is made up. Where is the use of a personlike me trying to stop him? Dear madam, if he won't profit by youradvice, what hope can I have that he will take mine?"

  Mr. MacGlue pointed this artful compliment by a bow of the deepestrespect, and threw open the door for my mother to pass out.

  When we were left together over our wine, I asked the doctor how soon Imight safely start on my journey to Edinburgh.

  "Take two days to do the journey, and you may start, if you're benton it, at the beginning of the week. But mind this," added theprudent doctor, "though I own I'm anxious to hear what comes ofyour expedition--understand at the same time, so far as the lady isconcerned, that I wash my hands of the consequences."--

  * The doctor's narrative is not imaginary. It will be found related in full detail, and authenticated by names and dates, in Robert Dale Owen's very interesting work called "Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World." The author gladly takes this opportunity of acknowledging his obligations to Mr. Owen's remarkable book.

  CHAPTER X. SAINT ANTHONY'S WELL.

  I STOOD on the rocky eminence in front of the ruins of Saint Anthony'sChapel, and looked on the magnificent view of Edinburgh and of the oldPalace of Holyrood, bathed in the light of the full moon.

  The Well, as the doctor's instructions had informed me, was behindthe chapel. I waited for some minutes in front of the ruin, partly torecover my breath after ascending the hill; partly, I own, to masterthe nervous agitation which the sense of my position at that moment hadaroused in me. The woman, or the apparition of the woman--it might beeither--was perhaps within a few yards of the place that I occupied. Nota living creature appeared in front of the chapel. Not a sound caughtmy ear from any part of the solitary hill. I tried to fix my wholeattention on the beauties of the moonlit view. It was not to be done. Mymind was far away from the objects on which my eyes rested. My mind waswith the woman whom I had seen in the summer-house writing in my book.

  I turned to skirt the side of the chapel. A few steps more over thebroken ground brought me within view of the Well, and of the highboulder or rock from the foot of which the waters gushed brightly in thelight of the moon.

  She was there.

  I recognized her figure as she stood leaning against the rock, with herhands crossed in front of her, lost in thought. I recognized her face asshe looked up quickly, startled by the sound of my footsteps in the deepstillness of the night.

  Was it the woman, or the apparition of the woman? I waited, looking ather in silence.

  She spoke. The sound of her voice was not the mysterious sound thatI had heard in the summer-house. It was the sound I had heard on thebridge when we first met in the dim evening light.

  "Who are you? What do you want?"

  As those words passed her lips, she recognized me. "_You_ here!" shewent on, advancing a step, in uncontrollable surprise. "What does thismean?"

  "I am here," I answered, "to meet you, by your own appointment."

  She stepped back again, leaning against the rock. The moonlight shonefull upon her face. There was terror as well as astonishment in her eyeswhile they now looked at me.

  "I don't understand you," she said. "I have not seen you since you spoketo me on the bridge."

  "Pardon me," I replied. "I have seen you--or the appearance ofyou--since that time. I heard you speak. I saw you write."

  She looked at me with the strangest expression of mingled resentment andcuriosity. "What did I say?" she asked. "What did I write?"

  "You said, 'Remember me. Come to me.' You wrote, 'When the full moonshines on Saint Anthony's Well.'"

  "Where?" she cried. "Where did I do that?"

  "In a summer-house which stands by a waterfall," I answered. "Do youknow the place?"

  Her head sunk back against the rock. A low cry of terror burst fromher. Her arm, resting on the rock, dropped at her side. I hurriedlyapproached her, in the fear that she might fall on the stony ground.

  She rallied her failing strength. "Don't touch me!" she exclaimed."Stand back, sir. You frighten me."

  I tried to soothe her. "Why do I frighten you? You know who I am. Canyou doubt my interest in you, after I have been the means of saving yourlife?"

  Her reserve vanished in an instant. She advanced without hesitation, andtook me by the hand.

  "I ought to thank you," she said. "And I do. I am not so ungrateful asI seem. I am not a wicked woman, sir--I was mad with misery when I triedto drown myself. Don't distrust me! Don't despise me!" She stopped; Isaw the tears on her cheeks. With a sudden contempt for herself, shedashed them away. Her whole tone and manner altered once more. Herreserve returned; she looked at me with a strange flash of suspicion anddefiance in her eyes. "Mind this!" she said, loudly and abruptly, "youwere dreaming when you thought you saw me writing. You didn't see me;you never heard me speak. How could I say those familiar words to astranger like you? It's all your fancy--and you try to frighten me bytalking of it as if it was a real thing!" She changed again; her eyessoftened to the sad and tender look which made them so irresistiblybeautiful. She drew her cloak round her with a shudder, as if she feltthe chill of the night air. "What is the matter with me?" I heard hersay to herself. "Why do I trust this man in my dreams? And why am Iashamed of it when I wake?"

  That strange outburst encouraged me. I risked letting her know that Ihad overheard her last words.

  "If you trust me in your dreams, you only do me justice," I said. "Dome justice now; give me your confidence. You are alone--you are introuble--you want a friend's help. I am waiting to help you."

  She hesitated. I tried to take her hand. The strange creature drew itaway with a cry of alarm: her one great fear seemed to be the fear ofletting me touch her.

  "Give me time to think of it," she said. "You don't know what I have gotto think of. Give me till to-morrow; and let me write. Are you stayingin Edinburgh?"

  I thought it wise to be satisfied--in appearance at least--with thisconcession. Taking out my card, I wrote on it in pencil the address ofthe hotel at which I was staying. She read the card by the moonlightwhen I put it into her hand.

  "George!" she repeated to herself, stealing another look at me as thename passed her lips. "'George Germaine.' I never heard of 'Germaine.'But 'George' reminds me of old times." She smiled sadly at some passingfancy or remembrance in which I was not permitted to share. "There isnothing very wonderful in your being called 'George,'" she went on,after a while. "The name is common enough: one meets with it everywhereas a man's name And yet--" Her eyes finished the sentence; her eyes saidto me, "I am not so much afraid of you, now I know that you are called'George.'"

  So she unconsciously led me to the brink of discovery!

  If I had only asked her what associations she connected with myChristian name--if I had only persuaded her to speak in the briefest andmost guarded terms of her past life--the barrier between us, which thechange in our names and the lapse of ten years had raised, must havebeen broken down; the recognition must have followed. But I never eventhought of it; and for this simple reason--I was in love with her. Thepurely selfish idea of winning my way to her favorable regard by takinginstant advantage of the new interest that I had awakened in her was theone idea which occurred to my mind.

  "Don't wait to write to me," I said. "Don't put it off till to-morrow.Who knows what may happen before to-morrow? Surely I deserve some littlereturn for the sympathy that I feel with you? I don't ask for much. Makeme happy by making me of some service to you before we part to-night."

  I took her hand, this time,
before she was aware of me. The whole womanseemed to yield at my touch. Her hand lay unresistingly in mine; hercharming figure came by soft gradations nearer and nearer to me; herhead almost touched my shoulder. She murmured in faint accents, brokenby sighs, "Don't take advantage of me. I am so friendless; I am socompletely in your power." Before I could answer, before I could move,her hand closed on mine; her head sunk on my shoulder: she burst intotears.

  Any man, not an inbred and inborn villain, would have respected her atthat moment. I put her hand on my arm and led her away gently past