WHEN YOU last saw me, I was a boy of thirteen. You now see me aman of twenty-three.

The story of my life, in the interval between these two ages, isa story that can be soon told.

Speaking of my father first, I have to record that the end of hiscareer did indeed come as Dame Dermody had foretold it. Before wehad been a year in America, the total collapse of his landspeculation was followed by his death. The catastrophe wascomplete. But for my mother's little income (settled on her ather marriage) we should both have been left helpless at the mercyof the world.

We made some kind friends among the hearty and hospitable peopleof the United States, whom we were unaffectedly sorry to leave.But there were reasons which inclined us to return to our owncountry after my father's death; and we did return accordingly.

Besides her brother-in-law (already mentioned in the earlierpages of my narrative), my mother had another relative--a cousinnamed Germaine--on whose assistance she mainly relied forstarting me, when the time came, in a professional career. Iremember it as a family rumor, that Mr. Germaine had been anunsuccessful suitor for my mother's hand in the days when theywere young people together. He was still a bachelor at the laterperiod when his eldest brother's death without issue placed himin possession of a handsome fortune. The accession of wealth madeno difference in his habits of life: he was a lonely old man,estranged from his other relatives, when my mother and I returnedto England. If I could only succeed in pleasing Mr. Germaine, Imight consider my prospects (in some degree, at least) as beingprospects assured.

This was one consideration that influenced us in leaving America.There was another--in which I was especially interested--thatdrew me back to the lonely shores of Greenwater Broad.

My only hope of recovering a trace of Mary was to make inquiriesamong the cottagers in the neighborhood of my old home. The goodbailiff had been heartily liked and respected in his littlesphere. It seemed at least possible that some among his manyfriends in Suffolk might have discovered traces of him, in theyear that had passed since I had left England. In my dreams ofMary--and I dreamed of her constantly--the lake and its woodybanks formed a frequent background in the visionary picture of mylost companion. To the lake shores I looked, with a naturalsuperstition, as to my way back to the one life that had itspromise of happiness for _me_--my life with Mary.

On our arrival in London, I started for Suffolk alone--at mymother's request. At her age she naturally shrank from revisitingthe home scenes now occupied by the strangers to whom our househad been let.

Ah, how my heart ached (young as I was) when I saw the familiargreen waters of the lake once more! It was evening. The firstobject that caught my eye was the gayly painted boat, once mine,in which Mary and I had so often sailed together. The people inpossession of our house were sailing now. The sound of theirlaughter floated toward me merrily over the still water. _Their_flag flew at the little mast-head, from which Mary's flag hadnever fluttered in the pleasant breeze. I turned my eyes from theboat; it hurt me to look at it. A few steps onward brought me toa promontory on the shore, and revealed the brown archways of thedecoy on the opposite bank. There was the paling behind which wehad knelt to watch the snaring of the ducks; there was the holethrough which "Trim," the terrier, had shown himself to rouse thestupid curiosity of the water-fowl; there, seen at intervalsthrough the trees, was the winding woodland path along which Maryand I had traced our way to Dermody's cottage on the day when myfather's cruel hand had torn us from each other. How wisely mygood mother had shrunk from looking again at the dear old scenes!I turned my back on the lake, to think with calmer thoughts inthe shadowy solitude of the woods.

An hour's walk along the winding banks brought me round to thecottage which had once been Mary's home.

The door was opened by a woman who was a stranger to me. Shecivilly asked me to enter the parlor. I had suffered enoughalready; I made my inquiries, standing on the doorstep. They weresoon at an end. The woman was a stranger in our part of Suffolk;neither she nor her husband had ever heard of Dermody's name.

I pursued my investigations among the peasantry, passing fromcottage to cottage. The twilight came; the moon rose; the lightsbegan to vanish from the lattice-windows; and still I continuedmy weary pilgrimage; and still, go where I might, the answer tomy questions was the same. Nobody knew anything of Dermody.Everybody asked if I had not brought news of him myself. It painsme even now to recall the cruelly complete defeat of every effortwhich I made on that disastrous evening. I passed the night inone of the cottages; and I returned to London the next day,broken by disappointment, careless what I did, or where I wentnext.

Still, we were not wholly parted. I saw Mary--as Dame Dermodysaid I should see her--in dreams.

Sometimes she came to me with the green flag in her hand, andrepeated her farewell words--"Don't forget Mary!" Sometimes sheled me to our well-remembered corner in the cottage parlor, andopened the paper on which her grandmother had written our prayersfor us. We prayed together again, and sung hymns together again,as if the old times had come back. Once she appeared to me, withtears in her eyes, and said, "We must wait, dear: our time hasnot come yet." Twice I saw her looking at me, like one disturbedby anxious thoughts; and twice I heard her say, "Live patiently,live innocently, George, for my sake."

We settled in London, where my education was undertaken by aprivate tutor. Before we had been long in our new abode, anunexpected change in our prospects took place. To my mother'sastonishment she received an offer of marriage (addressed to herin a letter) from Mr. Germaine.

"I entreat you not to be startled by my proposal!" (the oldgentleman wrote). "You can hardly have forgotten that I was oncefond of you, in the days when we were both young and both poor.No return to the feelings associated with that time is possiblenow. At my age, all I ask of you is to be the companion of theclosing years of my life, and to give me something of a father'sinterest in promoting the future welfare of your son. Considerthis, my dear, and tell me whether you will take the empty chairat an old man's lonely fireside."

My mother (looking almost as confused, poor soul! as if she hadbecome a young girl again) left the whole responsibility ofdecision on the shoulders of her son! I was not long in making upmy mind. If she said Yes, she would accept the hand of a man ofworth and honor, who had been throughout his whole life devotedto her; and she would recover the comfort, the luxury, the socialprosperity and position of which my father's reckless course oflife had deprived her. Add to this, that I liked Mr. Germaine,and that Mr. Germaine liked me. Under these circumstances, whyshould my mother say No? She could produce no satisfactory answerto that question when I put it. As the necessary consequence, shebecame, in due course of time, Mrs. Germaine.

I have only to add that, to the end of her life, my good mothercongratulated he rself (in this case at least) on having takenher son's advice.

The years went on, and still Mary and I were parted, except in mydreams. The years went on, until the perilous time which comes inevery man's life came in mine. I reached the age when thestrongest of all the passions seizes on the senses, and assertsits mastery over mind and body alike.

I had hitherto passively endured the wreck of my earliest anddearest hopes: I had lived patiently, and lived innocently, forMary's sake. Now my patience left me; my innocence was numberedamong the lost things of the past. My days, it is true, werestill devoted to the tasks set me by my tutor; but my nights weregiven, in secret, to a reckless profligacy, which (in my presentframe of mind) I look back on with disgust and dismay. I profanedmy remembrances of Mary in the company of women who had reachedthe lowest depths of degradation. I impiously said to myself: "Ihave hoped for her long enough; I have waited for her longenough. The one thing now to do is to enjoy my youth and toforget her."

From the moment when I dropped into this degradation, I mightsometimes think regretfully of Mary--at the morning time, whenpenitent thoughts mostly come to us; but I ceased absolutely tosee her in my dreams. We were now, in the completest sense of theword, parted. Mary's pure spirit could hold no communion withmine; Mary's pure spirit had left me.

It is needless to say that I failed to keep the secret of mydepravity from the knowledge of my mother. The sight of her griefwas the first influence that sobered me. In some degree at leastI restrained myself: I made the effort to return to purer ways oflife. Mr. Germaine, though I had disappointed him, was too just aman to give me up as lost. He advised me, as a means ofself-reform, to make my choice of a profession, and to absorbmyself in closer studies than any that I had yet pursued.

I made my peace with this good friend and second father, not onlyby following his advice, but by adopting the profession to whichhe had been himself attached before he inherited his fortune--theprofession of medicine. Mr. Germaine had been a surgeon: Iresolved on being a surgeon too.

Having entered, at rather an earlier age than usual, on my newway of life, I may at least say for myself that I worked hard. Iwon, and kept, the interest of the professors under whom Istudied. On the other hand, it cannot be denied that myreformation was, morally speaking, far from being complete. Iworked; but what I did was done selfishly, bitterly, with a hardheart. In religion and morals I adopted the views of amaterialist companion of my studies--a worn-out man of more thandouble my age. I believed in nothing but what I could see, ortaste, or feel. I lost all faith in humanity. With the oneexception of my mother, I had no respect for women. Myremembrances of Mary deteriorated until they became little morethan a lost link of association with the past. I still preservedthe green flag as a matter of habit; but it was no longer keptabout me; it was left undisturbed in a drawer of my writing-desk.Now and then a wholesome doubt, whether my life was not utterlyunworthy of me, would rise in my mind. But it held no longpossession of my thoughts. Despising others, it was in thelogical order of things that I should follow my conclusions totheir bitter end, and consistently despise myself.

The term of my majority arrived. I was twenty-one years old; andof the illusions of my youth not a vestige remained.

Neither my mother nor Mr. Germaine could make any positivecomplaint of my conduct. But they were both thoroughly uneasyabout me. After anxious consideration, my step-father arrived ata conclusion. He decided that the one chance of restoring me tomy better and brighter self was to try the stimulant of a lifeamong new people and new scenes.

At the period of which I am now writing, the home government haddecided on sending a special diplomatic mission to one of thenative princes ruling over a remote province of our Indianempire. In the disturbed state of the province at that time, themission, on its arrival in India, was to be accompanied to theprince's court by an escort, including the military as well asthe civil servants of the crown. The surgeon appointed to sailwith the expedition from England was an old friend of Mr.Germaine's, and was in want of an assistant on whose capacity hecould rely. Through my stepfather's interest, the post wasoffered to me. I accepted it without hesitation. My only prideleft was the miserable pride of indifference. So long as Ipursued my profession, the place in which I pursued it was amatter of no importance to my mind.

It was long before we could persuade my mother even tocontemplate the new prospect now set before me. When she did atlength give way, she yielded most unwillingly. I confess I lefther with the tears in my eyes--the first I had shed for many along year past.

The history of our expedition is part of the history of BritishIndia. It has no place in this narrative.

Speaking personally, I have to record that I was renderedincapable of performing my professional duties in less than aweek from the time when the mission reached its destination. Wewere encamped outside the city; and an attack was made on us,under cover of darkness, by the fanatical natives. The attemptwas defeated with little difficulty, and with only a triflingloss on our side. I was among the wounded, having been struck bya javelin, or spear, while I was passing from one tent toanother.

Inflicted by a European weapon, my injury would have been of noserious consequence. But the tip of the Indian spear had beenpoisoned. I escaped the mortal danger of lockjaw; but, throughsome peculiarity in the action of the poison on my constitution(which I am quite unable to explain), the wound obstinatelyrefused to heal.

I was invalided and sent to Calcutta, where the best surgicalhelp was at my disposal. To all appearance, the wound healedthere--then broke out again. Twice this happened; and the medicalmen agreed that the best course to take would be to send me home.They calculated on the invigorating effect of the sea voyage,and, failing this, on the salutary influence of my native air. Inthe Indian climate I was pronounced incurable.

Two days before the ship sailed a letter from my mother broughtme startling news. My life to come--if I _had_ a life tocome--had been turned into a new channel. Mr. Germaine had diedsuddenly, of heart-disease. His will, bearing date at the timewhen I left England, bequeathed an income for life to my mother,and left the bulk of his property to me, on the one conditionthat I adopted his name. I accepted the condition, of course, andbecame George Germaine.

Three months later, my mother and I were restored to each other.

Except that I still had some trouble with my wound, behold me nowto all appearance one of the most enviable of existing mortals;promoted to the position of a wealthy gentleman; possessor of ahouse in London and of a country-seat in Perthshire; and,nevertheless, at twenty-three years of age, one of the mostmiserable men living!

And Mary?

In the ten years that had now passed over, what had become ofMary?

You have heard my story. Read the few pages that follow, and youwill hear hers.