direction, did I advance no further? Not a stepfurther! Not a suspicion of the truth presented itself to my mind evenyet.
Was my own dullness of apprehension to blame for this? Would another manin my position have discovered what I had failed to see?
I look back along the chain of events which runs through my narrative,and I ask myself, Where are the possibilities to be found (in my case,or in the case of any other man) of identifying the child who was MaryDermody with the woman who was Mrs. Van Brandt? Was there anything leftin our faces, when we met again by the Scotch river, to remind us of ouryounger selves? We had developed, in the interval, from boy and girl toman and woman: no outward traces were discernible in us of the Georgeand Mary of other days. Disguised from each other by our faces, we werealso disguised by our names. Her mock-marriage had changed her surname.My step-father's will had changed mine. Her Christian name was thecommonest of all names of women; and mine was almost as far from beingremarkable among the names of men. Turning next to the various occasionson which we had met, had we seen enough of each other to drift intorecognition on either side, in the ordinary course of talk? We had metbut four times in all; once on the bridge, once again in Edinburgh,twice more in London. On each of these occasions, the absorbinganxieties and interests of the passing moment had filled her mind andmine, had inspired her words and mine. When had the events which hadbrought us together left us with leisure enough and tranquillityenough to look back idly through our lives, and calmly to compare therecollections of our youth? Never! From first to last, the course ofevents had borne us further and further away from any results that couldhave led even to a suspicion of the truth. She could only believe whenshe wrote to me on leaving England--and I could only believe when I readher letter--that we had first met at the river, and that our divergentdestinies had ended in parting us forever.
Reading her farewell letter in later days by the light of my maturedexperience, I note how remarkably Dame Dermody's faith in the purity ofthe tie that united us as kindred spirits was justified by the result.
It was only when my unknown Mary was parted from Van Brandt--inother words, it was only when she was a pure spirit--that she felt myinfluence over her as a refining influence on her life, and that theapparition of her communicated with me in the visible and perfectlikeness of herself. On my side, when was it that I dreamed of her(as in Scotland), or felt the mysterious warning of her presence in mywaking moments (as in Shetland)? Always at the time when my heart openedmost tenderly toward her and toward others--when my mind was most freefrom the bitter doubts, the self-seeking aspirations, which degrade thedivinity within us. Then, and then only, my sympathy with her was theperfect sympathy which holds its fidelity unassailable by the chancesand changes, the delusions and temptations, of mortal life.
I am writing prematurely of the time when the light came to me. Mynarrative must return to the time when I was still walking in darkness.
Absorbed in watching over the closing days of my mother's life, I foundin the performance of this sacred duty my only consolation under theoverthrow of my last hope of marriage with Mrs. Van Brandt. By slowdegrees my mother felt the reviving influences of a quiet life and asoft, pure air. The improvement in her health could, as I but too wellknew, be only an improvement for a time. Still, it was a relief to seeher free from pain, and innocently happy in the presence of her son.Excepting those hours of the day and night which were dedicated torepose, I was never away from her. To this day I remember, with atenderness which attaches to no other memories of mine, the books that Iread to her, the sunny corner on the seashore where I sat with her, thegames of cards that we played together, the little trivial gossip thatamused her when she was strong enough for nothing else. These are myimperishable relics; these are the deeds of my life that I shall lovebest to look back on, when the all-infolding shadows of death areclosing round me.
In the hours when I was alone, my thoughts--occupying themselves mostlyamong the persons and events of the past--wandered back, many and many atime, to Shetland and Miss Dunross.
My haunting doubt as to what the black veil had really hidden from mewas no longer accompanied by a feeling of horror when it now recurredto my mind. The more vividly my later remembrances of Miss Dunross wereassociated with the idea of an unutterable bodily affliction, the higherthe noble nature of the woman seemed to rise in my esteem. For thefirst time since I had left Shetland, the temptation now came to me todisregard the injunction which her father had laid on me at parting.When I thought again of the stolen kiss in the dead of night; when Irecalled the appearance of the frail white hand, waving to me throughthe dark curtains its last farewell; and when there mingled with thesememories the later remembrance of what my mother had suspected, and ofwhat Mrs. Van Brandt had seen in her dream--the longing in me to find ameans of assuring Miss Dunross that she still held her place apart in mymemory and my heart was more than mortal fortitude could resist. I waspledged in honor not to return to Shetland, and not to write. How tocommunicate with her secretly, in some other way, was the constantquestion in my mind as the days went on. A hint to enlighten me was allthat I wanted; and, as the irony of circumstances ordered it, my motherwas the person who gave me the hint.
We still spoke, at intervals, of Mrs. Van Brandt. Watching me on thoseoccasions when we were in the company of friends and acquaintances atTorquay, my mother plainly discerned that no other woman, whatever herattractions might be, could take the place in my heart of the woman whomI had lost. Seeing but one prospect of happiness for me, she steadilyrefused to abandon the idea of my marriage. When a woman has owned thatshe loves a man (so my mother used to express her opinion), it is thatman's fault, no matter what the obstacles may be, if he fails to makeher his wife. Reverting to this view in various ways, she pressed it onmy consideration one day in these words:
"There is one drawback, George, to my happiness in being here with you.I am an obstacle in the way of your communicating with Mrs. Van Brandt."
"You forget," I said, "that she has left England without telling mewhere to find her."
"If you were free from the incumbrance of your mother, my dear, youwould easily find her. Even as things are, you might surely writeto her. Don't mistake my motives, George. If I had any hope of yourforgetting her--if I saw you only moderately attracted by one or otherof the charming women whom we know here--I should say, let us neverspeak again or think again of Mrs. Van Brandt. But, my dear, your heartis closed to every woman but one. Be happy in your own way, and letme see it before I die. The wretch to whom that poor creature issacrificing her life will, sooner or later, ill-treat her or desert herand then she must turn to you. Don't let her think that you areresigned to the loss of her. The more resolutely you set her scruples atdefiance, the more she will love you and admire you in secret. Women arelike that. Send her a letter, and follow it with a little present. Youtalked of taking me to the studio of the young artist here who lefthis card the other day. I am told that he paints admirable portraits inminiatures. Why not send your portrait to Mrs. Van Brandt?"
Here was the idea of which I had been vainly in search! Quitesuperfluous as a method of pleading my cause with Mrs. Van Brandt,the portrait offered the best of all means of communicating with MissDunross, without absolutely violating the engagement to which herfather had pledged me. In this way, without writing a word, without evensending a message, I might tell her how gratefully she was remembered; Imight remind her of me tenderly in the bitterest moments of her sad andsolitary life.
The same day I went to the artist privately. The sittings were afterwardcontinued during the hours while my mother was resting in her room,until the portrait was completed. I caused it to be inclosed in a plaingold locket, with a chain attached; and I forwarded my gift, in thefirst instance, to the one person whom I could trust to assist me inarranging for the conveyance of it to its destination. This was the oldfriend (alluded to in these pages as "Sir James") who had taken me withhim to Shetland in the Government yacht.
I had no r
eason, in writing the necessary explanations, to expressmyself to Sir James with any reserve. On the voyage back we had morethan once spoken together confidentially of Miss Dunross. Sir James hadheard her sad story from the resident medical man at Lerwick, who hadbeen an old companion of his in their college days. Requesting him toconfide my gift to this gentleman, I did not hesitate to acknowledge thedoubt that oppressed me in relation to the mystery of the black veil. Itwas, of course, impossible to decide whether the doctor would be ableto relieve that doubt. I could only venture to suggest that the questionmight be guardedly put, in making the customary inquiries after thehealth of Miss Dunross.
In those days of slow communication, I had to wait, not for days, butfor weeks, before I could expect to receive Sir James's answer. Hisletter only reached me after an unusually long delay. For this, orfor some other reason that I cannot divine, I felt so strongly theforeboding of