WHAT I have now to tell you of Mary is derived from informationobtained at a date in my life later by many years than any dateof which I have written yet. Be pleased to remember this.

Dermody, the bailiff, possessed relatives in London, of whom heoccasionally spoke, and relatives in Scotland, whom he nevermentioned. My father had a strong prejudice against the Scotchnation. Dermody knew his master well enough to be aware that theprejudice might extend to _him_, if he spoke of his Scotchkindred. He was a discreet man, and he never mentioned them.

On leaving my father's service, he had made his way, partly byland and partly by sea, to Glasgow--in which city his friendsresided. With his character and his experience, Dermody was a manin athousand to any master who was lucky enough to discover him. Hisfriends bestirred themselves. In six weeks' time he was placed incharge of a gentleman's estate on the eastern coast of Scotland,and was comfortably established with his mother and his daughterin a new home.

The insulting language which my father had addressed to him hadsunk deep in Dermody's mind. He wrote privately to his relativesin London, telling them that he had found a new situation whichsuited him, and that he had his reasons for not at presentmentioning his address. In this way he baffled the inquirieswhich my mother's lawyers (failing to discover a trace of him inother directions) addressed to his London friends. Stung by hisold master's reproaches, he sacrificed his daughter and hesacrificed me--partly to his own sense of self-respect, partly tohis conviction that the difference between us in rank made it hisduty to check all further intercourse before it was too late.

Buried in their retirement in a remote part of Scotland, thelittle household lived, lost to me, and lost to the world.

In dreams, I had seen and heard Mary. In dreams, Mary saw andheard me. The innocent longings and wishes which filled my heartwhile I was still a boy were revealed to her in the mystery ofsleep. Her grandmother, holding firmly to her faith in thepredestined union between us, sustained the girl's courage andcheered her heart. She could hear her father say (as my fatherhad said) that we were parted to meet no more, and couldprivately think of her happy dreams as the sufficient promise ofanother future than the future which Dermody contemplated. So shestill lived with me in the spirit--and lived in hope.

The first affliction that befell the little household was thedeath of the grandmother, by the exhaustion of extreme old age.In her last conscious moments, she said to Mary, "Never forgetthat you and George are spirits consecrated to each other.Wait--in the certain knowledge that no human power can hinderyour union in the time to come."

While those words were still vividly present to Mary's mind, ourvisionary union by dreams was abruptly broken on her side, as ithad been abruptly broken on mine. In the first days of myself-degradation, I had ceased to see Mary. Exactly at the sameperiod Mary ceased to see me.

The girl's sensitive nature sunk under the shock. She had now noelder woman to comfort and advise her; she lived alone with herfather, who invariably changed the subject whenever she spoke ofthe old times. The secret sorrow that preys on body and mindalike preyed on _her_. A cold, caught at the inclement season,turned to fever. For weeks she was in danger of death. When sherecovered, her head had been stripped of its beautiful hair bythe doctor's order. The sacrifice had been necessary to save herlife. It proved to be, in one respect, a cruel sacrifice--herhair never grew plentifully again. When it did reappear, it hadcompletely lost its charming mingled hues of deep red and brown;it was now of one monotonous light-brown color throughout. Atfirst sight, Mary's Scotch friends hardly knew her again.

But Nature made amends for what the head had lost by what theface and the figure gained.

In a year from the date of her illness, the frail little child ofthe old days at Greenwater Broad had ripened, in the bracingScotch air and the healthy mode of life, into a comely youngwoman. Her features were still, as in her early years, notregularly beautiful; but the change in her was not the lessmarked on that account. The wan face had filled out, and the palecomplexion had found its color. As to her figure, its remarkabledevelopment was perceived even by the rough people about her.Promising nothing when she was a child, it had now sprung intowomanly fullness, symmetry, and grace. It was a strikinglybeautiful figure, in the strictest sense of the word.

Morally as well as physically, there were moments, at this periodof their lives, when even her own father hardly recognized hisdaughter of former days. She had lost her childish vivacity--hersweet, equable flow of good humor. Silent and self-absorbed, shewent through the daily routine of her duties enduringly. The hopeof meeting me again had sunk to a dead hope in her by this time.She made no complaint. The bodily strength that she had gained inthese later days had its sympathetic influence in steadying hermind. When her father once or twice ventured to ask if she wasstill thinking of me, she answered quietly that she had broughtherself to share his opinions. She could not doubt that I hadlong since ceased to think of her. Even if I had remainedfaithful to her, she was old enough now to know that thedifference between us in rank made our union by marriage animpossibility. It would be best (she thought) not to refer anymore to the past, best to forget me, as I had forgotten her. Soshe spoke now. So, tried by the test of appearances, DameDermody's confident forecast of our destinies had failed tojustify itself, and had taken its place among the predictionsthat are never fulfilled.

The next notable event in the family annals which followed Mary'sillness happened when she had attained the age of nineteen years.Even at this distance of time my heart sinks, my courage failsme, at the critical stage in my narrative which I have nowreached.

A storm of unusual severity burst over the eastern coast ofScotland. Among the ships that were lost in the tempest was avessel bound from Holland, which was wrecked on the rocky shorenear Dermody's place of abode. Leading the way in all goodactions, the bailiff led the way in rescuing the passengers andcrew of the lost ship. He had brought one man alive to land, andwas on his way back to the vessel, when two heavy seas, followingin close succession, dashed him against the rocks. He wasrescued, at the risk of their own lives, by his neighbors. Themedical examination disclosed a broken bone and severe bruisesand lacerations. So far, Dermody's sufferings were easy ofrelief. But, after a lapse of time, symptoms appeared in thepatient which revealed to his medical attendant the presence ofserious internal injury. In the doctor's opinion, he could neverhope to resume the active habits of his life. He would be aninvalid and a crippled man for the rest of his days.

Under these melancholy circumstances, the bailiff's employer didall that could be strictly expected of him, He hired an assistantto undertake the supervision of the farm work, and he permittedDermody to occupy his cottage for the next three months. Thisconcession gave the poor man time to recover such relics ofstrength as were still left to him, and to consult his friends inGlasgow on the doubtful question of his life to come.

The prospect was a serious one. Dermody was quite unfit for anysedentary employment; and the little money that he had saved wasnot enough to support his daughter and himself. The Scotchfriends were willing and kind; but they had domestic claims onthem, and they had no money to spare.

In this emergency, the passenger in the wrecked vessel (whoselife Dermody had saved) came forward with a proposal which tookfather and daughter alike by surprise. He made Mary an offer ofmarriage; on the express understanding (if she accepted him) thather home was to be her father's home also to the end of his life.

The person who thus associated himself with the Dermodys in thetime of their trouble was a Dutch gentleman, named Ernest VanBrandt. He possessed a share in a fishing establishment on theshores of the Zuyder Zee; and he was on his way to establish acorrespondence with the fisheries in the North of Scotland whenthe vessel was wrecked. Mary had produced a strong impression onhim when they first met. He had lingered in the neighborhood, inthe hope of gaining her favorable regard, with time to help him.Personally he was a handsome man, in the prime of life; and hewas possessed of a sufficient income to marry on. In making hisproposal, he produced references to persons of high socialposition in Holland, who could answer for hi m, so far as thequestions of character and position were concerned.

Mary was long in considering which course it would be best forher helpless father, and best for herself, to adopt.

The hope of a marriage with me had been a hope abandoned by heryears since. No woman looks forward willingly to a life ofcheerless celibacy. In thinking of her future, Mary naturallythought of herself in the character of a wife. Could she fairlyexpect in the time to come to receive any more attractiveproposal than the proposal now addressed to her? Mr. Van Brandthad every personal advantage that a woman could desire; he wasdevotedly in love with her; and he felt a grateful affection forher father as the man to whom he owed his life. With no otherhope in her heart--with no other prospect in view--what could shedo better than marry Mr. Van Brandt?

Influenced by these considerations, she decided on speaking thefatal word. She said, "Yes."

At the same time, she spoke plainly to Mr. Van Brandt,unreservedly acknowledging that she had contemplated anotherfuture than the future now set before her. She did not concealthat there had once been an old love in her heart, and that a newlove was more than she could command. Esteem, gratitude, andregard she could honestly offer; and, with time, love might come.For the rest, she had long since disassociated herself from thepast, and had definitely given up all the hopes and wishes onceconnected with it. Repose for her father, and tranquil happinessfor herself, were the only favors that she asked of fortune now.These she might find under the roof of an honorable man who lovedand respected her. She could promise, on her side, to make him agood and faithful wife, if she could promise no more. It restedwith Mr. Van Brandt to say whether he really believed that hewould be consulting his own happiness in marrying her on theseterms.

Mr. Van Brandt accepted the terms without a moment's hesitation.

They would have been married immediately but for an alarmingchange for the worse in the condition of Dermody's health.Symptoms showed themselves, which the doctor confessed that hehad not anticipated when he had given his opinion on the case. Hewarned Mary that the end might be near. A physician was summonedfrom Edinburgh, at Mr. Van Brandt's expense. He confirmed theopinion entertained by the country doctor. For some days longerthe good bailiff lingered. On the last morning, he put hisdaughter's hand in Van Brandt's hand. "Make her happy, sir," hesaid, in his simple way, "and you will be even with me for savingyour life." The same day he died quietly in his daughter's arms.

Mary's future was now entirely in her lover's hands. Therelatives in Glasgow had daughters of their own to provide for.The relatives in London resented Dermody's neglect of them. VanBrandt waited, delicately and considerately, until the firstviolence of the girl's grief had worn itself out, and then hepleaded irresistibly for a husband's claim to console her.

The time at which they were married in Scotland was also the timeat which I was on my way home from India. Mary had then reachedthe age of twenty years.

The story of our ten years' separation is now told; the narrativeleaves us at the outset of our new lives.

I am with my mother, beginning my career as a country gentlemanon the estate in Perthshire which I have inherited from Mr.Germaine. Mary is with her husband, enjoying her new privileges,learning her new duties, as a wife. She, too, is living inScotland--living, by a strange fatality, not very far distantfrom my country-house. I have no suspicion that she is so near tome: the name of Mrs. Van Brandt (even if I had heard it) appealsto no familiar association in my mind. Still the kindred spiritsare parted. Still there is no idea on her side, and no idea onmine, that we shall ever meet again.