newdirection. Speaking now of the child's health, we were led naturally tothe kindred subject of the child's connection with her mother's dream.
"She had been ill with fever," Mrs. Van Brandt began; "and she wasjust getting better again on the day when I was left deserted in thismiserable place. Toward evening, she had another attack that frightenedme dreadfully. She became perfectly insensible--her little limbs werestiff and cold. There is one doctor here who has not yet abandoned thetown. Of course I sent for him. He thought her insensibility was causedby a sort of cataleptic seizure. At the same time, he comforted me bysaying that she was in no immediate danger of death; and he left mecertain remedies to be given, if certain symptoms appeared. I took herto bed, and held her to me, with the idea of keeping her warm.Without believing in mesmerism, it has since struck me that we mightunconsciously have had some influence over each other, which may explainwhat followed. Do you think it likely?"
"Quite likely. At the same time, the mesmeric theory (if you couldbelieve in it) would carry the explanation further still. Mesmerismwould assert, not only that you and the child influenced each other, butthat--in spite of the distance--you both influenced _me_. And in thatway, mesmerism would account for my vision as the necessary result of ahighly developed sympathy between us. Tell me, did you fall asleep withthe child in your arms?"
"Yes. I was completely worn out; and I fell asleep, in spite of myresolution to watch through the night. In my forlorn situation, forsakenin a strange place, I dreamed of you again, and I appealed to you againas my one protector and friend. The only new thing in the dream was,that I thought I had the child with me when I approached you, and thatthe child put the words into my mind when I wrote in your book. You sawthe words, I suppose? and they vanished, as before, no doubt, when Iawoke? I found the child still lying, like a dead creature, in my arms.All through the night there was no change in her. She only recoveredher senses at noon the next day. Why do you start? What have I said thatsurprises you?"
There was good reason for my feeling startled, and showing it. On theday and at the hour when the child had come to herself, I had stood onthe deck of the vessel, and had seen the apparition of her disappearfrom my view.
"Did she say anything," I asked, "when she recovered her senses?"
"Yes. She too had been dreaming--dreaming that she was in company withyou. She said: 'He is coming to see us, mamma; and I have been showinghim the way.' I asked her where she had seen you. She spoke confusedlyof more places than one. She talked of trees, and a cottage, and a lake;then of fields and hedges, and lonely lanes; then of a carriage andhorses, and a long white road; then of crowded streets and houses, anda river and a ship. As to these last objects, there is nothing verywonderful in what she said. The houses, the river, and the ship whichshe saw in her dream, she saw in the reality when we took her fromLondon to Rotterdam, on our way here. But as to the other places,especially the cottage and the lake (as she described them) I can onlysuppose that her dream was the reflection of mine. _I_ had been dreamingof the cottage and the lake, as I once knew them in years long gone by;and--Heaven only knows why--I had associated you with the scene. Nevermind going into that now! I don't know what infatuation it is that makesme trifle in this way with old recollections, which affect me painfullyin my present position. We were talking of the child's health; let us goback to that."
It was not easy to return to the topic of her child's health. She hadrevived my curiosity on the subject of her association with GreenwaterBroad. The child was still quietly at play in the bedchamber. My secondopportunity was before me. I took it.
"I won't distress you," I began. "I will only ask leave, before wechange the subject, to put one question to you about the cottage and thelake."
As the fatality that pursued us willed it, it was _her_ turn now to beinnocently an obstacle in the way of our discovering each other.
"I can tell you nothing more to-night," she interposed, risingimpatiently. "It is time I put the child to bed--and, besides, I can'ttalk of things that distress me. You must wait for the time--if it evercomes!--when I am calmer and happier than I am now."
She turned to enter the bed-chamber. Acting headlong on the impulse ofthe moment, I took her by the hand and stopped her.
"You have only to choose," I said, "and the calmer and happier time isyours from this moment."
"Mine?" she repeated. "What do you mean?"
"Say the word," I replied, "and you and your child have a home and afuture before you."
She looked at me half bewildered, half angry.
"Do you offer me your protection?" she asked.
"I offer you a husband's protection," I answered. "I ask you to be mywife."
She advanced a step nearer to me, with her eyes riveted on my face.
"You are evidently ignorant of what has really happened," she said. "Andyet, God knows, the child spoke plainly enough!"
"The child only told me," I rejoined, "what I had heard already, on myway here."
"All of it?"
"All of it."
"And you still ask me to be your wife?"
"I can imagine no greater happiness than to make you my wife."
"Knowing what you know now?"
"Knowing what I know now, I ask you confidently to give me your hand.Whatever claim that man may once have had, as the father of your child,he has now forfeited it by his infamous desertion of you. In every senseof the word, my darling, you are a free woman. We have had sorrow enoughin our lives. Happiness is at last within our reach. Come to me, and sayYes."
I tried to take her in my arms. She drew back as if I had frightenedher.
"Never!" she said, firmly.
I whispered my next words, so that the child in the inner room might nothear us.
"You once said you loved me!"
"I do love you!"
"As dearly as ever?"
"_More_ dearly than ever!"
"Kiss me!"
She yielded mechanically; she kissed me--with cold lips, with big tearsin her eyes.
"You don't love me!" I burst out, angrily. "You kiss me as if it were aduty. Your lips are cold--your heart is cold. You don't love me!"
She looked at me sadly, with a patient smile.
"One of us must remember the difference between your position and mine,"she said. "You are a man of stainless honor, who holds an undisputedrank in the world. And what am I? I am the deserted mistress of a thief.One of us must remember that. You have generously forgotten it. I mustbear it in mind. I dare say I am cold. Suffering has that effect on me;and, I own it, I am suffering now."
I was too passionately in love with her to feel the sympathy on whichshe evidently counted in saying those words. A man can respect a woman'sscruples when they appeal to him mutely in her looks or in her tears;but the formal expression of them in words only irritates or annoys him.
"Whose fault is it that you suffer?" I retorted, coldly. "I ask you tomake my life a happy one, and your life a happy one. You are a cruellywronged woman, but you are not a degraded woman. You are worthy to bemy wife, and I am ready to declare it publicly. Come back with me toEngland. My boat is waiting for you; we can set sail in two hours."
She dropped into a chair; her hands fell helplessly into her lap.
"How cruel!" she murmured, "how cruel to tempt me!" She waited a little,and recovered her fatal firmness. "No!" she said. "If I die in doing it,I can still refuse to disgrace you. Leave me, Mr. Germaine. You can showme that one kindness more. For God's sake, leave me!"
I made a last appeal to her tenderness.
"Do you know what my life is if I live without you?" I asked. "My motheris dead. There is not a living creature left in the world whom I lovebut you. And you ask me to leave you! Where am I to go to? what am Ito do? You talk of cruelty! Is there no cruelty in sacrificingthe happiness of my life to a miserable scruple of delicacy, to anunreasoning fear of the opinion of the world? I love you and you loveme. There is no other consideration worth a straw. Come back with me toEn
gland! come back and be my wife!"
She dropped on her knees, and taking my hand put it silently to herlips. I tried to raise her. It was useless: she steadily resisted me.
"Does this mean No?" I asked.
"It means," she said in faint, broken tones, "that I prize your honorbeyond my happiness. If I marry you, your career is destroyed by yourwife; and the day will come when you will tell me so. I can suffer--Ican die; but I can _not_ face such a prospect as that. Forgive me andforget me. I can say no more!"
She let go of my hand, and sank on the floor. The utter despair of thataction told me, far more eloquently than the
The Two Destinies Page 49
