The Two Destinies

by Wilkie Collins

theruined chapel, and down the slope of the hill.

  "This lonely place is frightening you," I said. "Let us walk a little,and you will soon be yourself again."

  She smiled through her tears like a child.

  "Yes," she said, eagerly. "But not that way." I had accidentally takenthe direction which led away from the city; she begged me to turn towardthe houses and the streets. We walked back toward Edinburgh. She eyedme, as we went on in the moonlight, with innocent, wondering looks."What an unaccountable influence you have over me!" she exclaimed.

  "Did you ever see me, did you ever hear my name, before we met thatevening at the river?"

  "Never."

  "And I never heard _your_ name, and never saw _you_ before. Strange!very strange! Ah! I remember somebody--only an old woman, sir--who mightonce have explained it. Where shall I find the like of her now?"

  She sighed bitterly. The lost friend or relative had evidently been dearto her. "A relation of yours?" I inquired--more to keep her talking thanbecause I felt any interest in any member of her family but herself.

  We were again on the brink of discovery. And again it was decreed thatwe were to advance no further.

  "Don't ask me about my relations!" she broke out. "I daren't think ofthe dead and gone, in the trouble that is trying me now. If I speak ofthe old times at home, I shall only burst out crying again, and distressyou. Talk of something else, sir--talk of something else."

  The mystery of the apparition in the summer-house was not cleared upyet. I took my opportunity of approaching the subject.

  "You spoke a little while since of dreaming of me," I began. "Tell meyour dream."

  "I hardly know whether it was a dream or whether it was something else,"she answered. "I call it a dream for want of a better word."

  "Did it happen at night?"

  "No. In the daytime--in the afternoon."

  "Late in the afternoon?"

  "Yes--close on the evening."

  My memory reverted to the doctor's story of the shipwrecked passenger,whose ghostly "double" had appeared in the vessel that was to rescuehim, and who had himself seen that vessel in a dream.

  "Do you remember the day of the month and the hour?" I asked.

  She mentioned the day, and she mentioned the hour. It was the day whenmy mother and I had visited the waterfall. It was the hour when I hadseen the apparition in the summer-house writing in my book!

  I stopped in irrepressible astonishment. We had walked by this timenearly as far on the way back to the city as the old Palace of Holyrood.My companion, after a glance at me, turned and looked at the rugged oldbuilding, mellowed into quiet beauty by the lovely moonlight.

  "This is my favorite walk," she said, simply, "since I have been inEdinburgh. I don't mind the loneliness. I like the perfect tranquillityhere at night." She glanced at me again. "What is the matter?" sheasked. "You say nothing; you only look at me."

  "I want to hear more of your dream," I said. "How did you come to besleeping in the daytime?"

  "It is not easy to say what I was doing," she replied, as we walked onagain. "I was miserably anxious and ill. I felt my helpless conditionkeenly on that day. It was dinner-time, I remember, and I had noappetite. I went upstairs (at the inn where I am staying), and lay down,quite worn out, on my bed. I don't know whether I fainted or whether Islept; I lost all consciousness of what was going on about me, and I gotsome other consciousness in its place. If this was dreaming, I can onlysay it was the most vivid dream I ever had in my life."

  "Did it begin by your seeing me?" I inquired.

  "It began by my seeing your drawing-book--lying open on a table in asummer-house."

  "Can you describe the summer-house as you saw it?"

  She described not only the summer-house, but the view of the waterfallfrom the door. She knew the size, she knew the binding, of mysketch-book--locked up in my desk, at that moment, at home inPerthshire!

  "And you wrote in the book," I went on. "Do you remember what youwrote?"

  She looked away from me confusedly, as if she were ashamed to recallthis part of her dream.

  "You have mentioned it already," she said. "There is no need for me togo over the words again. Tell me one thing--when _you_ were at thesummer-house, did you wait a little on the path to the door before youwent in?"

  I _had_ waited, surprised by my first view of the woman writing in mybook. Having answered her to this effect, I asked what she had done ordreamed of doing at the later moment when I entered the summer-house.

  "I did the strangest things," she said, in low, wondering tones. "If youhad been my brother, I could hardly have treated you more familiarly.I beckoned to you to come to me. I even laid my hand on your bosom. Ispoke to you as I might have spoken to my oldest and dearest friend. Isaid, 'Remember me. Come to me.' Oh, I was so ashamed of myself whenI came to my senses again, and recollected it. Was there ever suchfamiliarity--even in a dream--between a woman and a man whom she hadonly once seen, and then as a perfect stranger?"

  "Did you notice how long it was," I asked, "from the time when you laydown on the bed to the time when you found yourself awake again?"

  "I think I can tell you," she replied. "It was the dinner-time of thehouse (as I said just now) when I went upstairs. Not long after I hadcome to myself I heard a church clock strike the hour. Reckoning fromone time to the other, it must have been quite three hours from the timewhen I first lay down to the time when I got up again."

  Was the clew to the mysterious disappearance of the writing to be foundhere?

  Looking back by the light of later discoveries, I am inclined to thinkthat it was. In three hours the lines traced by the apparition of herhad vanished. In three hours she had come to herself, and had feltashamed of the familiar manner in which she had communicated with me inher sleeping state. While she had trusted me in the trance--trusted mebecause her spirit was then free to recognize my spirit--the writing hadremained on the page. When her waking will counteracted the influence ofher sleeping will, the writing disappeared. Is this the explanation? Ifit is not, where is the explanation to be found?

  We walked on until we reached that part of the Canongate street in whichshe lodged. We stopped at the door.

  CHAPTER XI. THE LETTER OF INTRODUCTION.

  I LOOKED at the house. It was an inn, of no great size, but ofrespectable appearance. If I was to be of any use to her that night, thetime had come to speak of other subjects than the subject of dreams.

  "After all that you have told me," I said, "I will not ask you to admitme any further into your confidence until we meet again. Only let mehear how I can relieve your most pressing anxieties. What are yourplans? Can I do anything to help them before you go to rest to-night?"

  She thanked me warmly, and hesitated, looking up the street and down thestreet in evident embarrassment what to say next.

  "Do you propose staying in Edinburgh?" I asked.

  "Oh no! I don't wish to remain in Scotland. I want to go much furtheraway. I think I should do better in London; at some respectablemilliner's, if I could be properly recommended. I am quick at my needle,and I understand cutting out. Or I could keep accounts, if--if anybodywould trust me."

  She stopped, and looked at me doubtingly, as if she felt far from sure,poor soul, of winning my confidence to begin with. I acted on that hint,with the headlong impetuosity of a man who was in love.

  "I can give you exactly the recommendation you want," I said, "wheneveryou like. Now, if you would prefer it."

  Her charming features brightened with pleasure. "Oh, you are indeed afriend to me!" she said, impulsively. Her face clouded again--she sawmy proposal in a new light. "Have I any right," she asked, sadly, "toaccept what you offer me?"

  "Let me give you the letter," I answered, "and you can decide foryourself whether you will use it or not."

  I put her arm again in mine, and entered the inn.

  She shrunk back in alarm. What would the landlady think if she saw herlodger enter the house at night in compan
y with a stranger, and thatstranger a gentleman? The landlady appeared as she made the objection.Reckless what I said or what I did, I introduced myself as her relative,and asked to be shown into a quiet room in which I could write a letter.After one sharp glance at me, the landlady appeared to be satisfied thatshe was dealing with a gentleman. She led the way into a sort of parlorbehind the "bar," placed writing materials on the table, looked atmy companion as only one woman can look at another under certaincircumstances, and left us by ourselves.

  It was the first time I had ever been in a room with her alone.The embarrassing sense of her position had heightened her color andbrightened