The Two Destinies

part of the room. The tender moonlight streamed slantinginto the corner in which Mary and I used to nestle together while DameDermody was at the window reading her mystic books. Overshadowed by theobscurity in the opposite corner, I discovered the high-backed arm-chairof carved wood in which the Sibyl of the cottage sat on the memorableday when she warned us of our coming separation, and gave us herblessing for the last time. Looking next round the walls of the room,I recognized old friends wherever my eyes happened to rest--the gaudilycolored prints; the framed pictures in fine needle-work, which wethought wonderful efforts of art; the old circular mirror to whichI used to lift Mary when she wanted "to see her face in the glass."Whenever the moonlight penetrated there, it showed me some familiarobject that recalled my happiest days. Again the by-gone time lookedback in mockery. Again the voices of the past came to me with theirburden of reproach: See what your life was once! Is your life worthliving now?

  I sat down at the window, where I could just discover, here and therebetween the trees, the glimmer of the waters of the lake. I thoughtto myself: "Thus far my mortal journey has brought me. Why not end ithere?"

  Who would grieve for me if my death were reported to-morrow? Of allliving men, I had perhaps the smallest number of friends, the fewestduties to perform toward others, the least reason to hesitate at leavinga world which had no place in it for my ambition, no creature in it formy love.

  Besides, what necessity was there for letting it be known that my deathwas a death of my own seeking? It could easily be left to representitself as a death by accident.

  On that fine summer night, and after a long day of traveling, might Inot naturally take a bath in the cool water before I went to bed?And, practiced as I was in the exercise of swimming, might it notnevertheless be my misfortune to be attacked by cramp? On the lonelyshores of Greenwater Broad the cry of a drowning man would bring no helpat night. The fatal accident would explain itself. There was literallybut one difficulty in the way--the difficulty which had alreadyoccurred to my mind. Could I sufficiently master the animal instinct ofself-preservation to deliberately let myself sink at the first plunge?

  The atmosphere in the room felt close and heavy. I went out, and walkedto and fro--now in the shadow, and now in the moonlight--under the treesbefore the cottage door.

  Of the moral objections to suicide, not one had any influence over menow. I, who had once found it impossible to excuse, impossible evento understand, the despair which had driven Mrs. Van Brandt to attemptself-destruction--I now contemplated with composure the very act whichhad horrified me when I saw it committed by another person. Well may wehesitate to condemn the frailties of our fellow-creatures, for theone unanswerable reason that we can never feel sure how soon similartemptations may not lead us to be guilty of the same frailtiesourselves. Looking back at the events of the night, I can recall but oneconsideration that stayed my feet on the fatal path which led backto the lake. I still doubted whether it would be possible for such aswimmer as I was to drown himself. This was all that troubled my mind.For the rest, my will was made, and I had few other affairs whichremained unsettled. No lingering hope was left in me of a reunion in thefuture with Mrs. Van Brandt. She had never written to me again; I had(forgiven) her for having forgotten me. My thoughts of her and of otherswere the forbearing thoughts of a man whose mind was withdrawn alreadyfrom the world, whose views were narrowing fast to the one idea of hisown death.

  I grew weary of walking up and down. The loneliness of the place beganto oppress me. The sense of my own indecision irritated my nerves.After a long look at the lake through the trees, I came to a positiveconclusion at last. I determined to try if a good swimmer could drownhimself.

  CHAPTER XXXIII. A VISION OF THE NIGHT.

  RETURNING to the cottage parlor, I took a chair by the window and openedmy pocket-book at a blank page. I had certain directions to give to myrepresentatives, which might spare them some trouble and uncertaintyin the event of my death. Disguising my last instructions under thecommonplace heading of "Memoranda on my return to London," I began towrite.

  I had filled one page of the pocket-book, and had just turned to thenext, when I became conscious of a difficulty in fixing my attention onthe subject that was before it. I was at once reminded of the similardifficulty which I felt in Shetland, when I had tried vainly to arrangethe composition of the letter to my mother which Miss Dunross was towrite. By way of completing the parallel, my thoughts wandered now, asthey had wandered then, to my latest remembrance of Mrs. Van Brandt.In a minute or two I began to feel once more the strange physicalsensations which I had first experienced in the garden at Mr. Dunross'shouse. The same mysterious trembling shuddered through me from head tofoot. I looked about me again, with no distinct consciousness of whatthe objects were on which my eyes rested. My nerves trembled, on thatlovely summer night, as if there had been an electric disturbance in theatmosphere and a storm coming. I laid my pocket-book and pencil onthe table, and rose to go out again under the trees. Even the triflingeffort to cross the room was an effort made in vain. I stood rooted tothe spot, with my face turned toward the moonlight streaming in at theopen door.

  An interval passed, and as I still looked out through the door, I becameaware of something moving far down among the trees that fringed theshore of the lake. The first impression produced on me was of two grayshadows winding their way slowly toward me between the trunks of thetrees. By fine degrees the shadows assumed a more and more markedoutline, until they presented themselves in the likeness of two robedfigures, one taller than the other. While they glided nearer and nearer,their gray obscurity of hue melted away. They brightened softly with aninner light of their own as they slowly approached the open space beforethe door. For the third time I stood in the ghostly presence of Mrs.Van Brandt; and with her, holding her hand, I beheld a second apparitionnever before revealed to me, the apparition of her child.

  Hand-in-hand, shining in their unearthly brightness through the brightmoonlight itself, the two stood before me. The mother's face looked atme once more with the sorrowful and pleading eyes which I remembered sowell. But the face of the child was innocently radiant with an angelicsmile. I waited in unutterable expectation for the word that was to bespoken, for the movement that was to come. The movement came first.The child released its hold on the mother's hand, and floating slowlyupward, remained poised in midair--a softly glowing presence shining outof the dark background of the trees. The mother glided into the room,and stopped at the table on which I had laid my pocket-book and pencilwhen I could no longer write. As before, she took the pencil and wroteon the blank page. As before, she beckoned to me to step nearer to her.I approached her outstretched hand, and felt once more the mysteriousrapture of her touch on my bosom, and heard once more her low, melodioustones repeating the words: "Remember me. Come to me." Her hand droppedfrom my bosom. The pale light which revealed her to me quivered, sunk,vanished. She had spoken. She had gone.

  I drew to me the open pocket-book. And this time I saw, in the writingof the ghostly hand, these words only:

  _"Follow the Child."_

  I looked out again at the lonely night landscape.

  There, in mid-air, shining softly out of the dark background of thetrees, still hovered the starry apparition of the child.

  Advancing without conscious will of my own, I crossed the threshold ofthe door. The softly glowing vision of the child moved away before meamong the trees. I followed, like a man spellbound. The apparition,floating slowly onward, led me out of the wood, and past my old home,back to the lonely by-road along which I had walked from the market-townto the house. From time to time, as we two went on our way, the brightfigure of the child paused, hovering low in the cloudless sky. Itsradiant face looked down smiling on me; it beckoned with its littlehand, and floated on again, leading me as the Star led the Eastern sagesin the olden time.

  I reached the town. The airy figure of the child paused, hovering overthe house at which I had left my traveling-carriage in t
he evening.I ordered the horses to be harnessed again for another journey. Thepostilion waited for his further directions. I looked up. The child'shand was pointing southward, along the road that led to London. I gavethe man his instructions to return to the place at which I had hiredthe carriage. At intervals, as we proceeded, I looked out throughthe window. The bright figure of the child still floated on before megliding low in the cloudless sky. Changing the horses stage by stage, Iwent on till the night ended--went on till the sun rose in the easternheaven. And still, whether it was dark or whether it was light, thefigure of the child floated on before me in its changeless and mysticlight. Mile after mile, it still led the way southward, till we left thecountry behind us, and passing through the din and turmoil of the greatcity, stopped under the shadow of the ancient Tower, within view of theriver that runs by it.

  The postilion came to the carriage door to ask if I had further need ofhis services. I had