THREE days after my mother and I had established ourselves atTorquay, I received Mrs. Van Brandt's answer to my letter. Afterthe opening sentences (informing me that Van Brandt had been setat liberty, under circumstances painfully suggestive to thewriter of some unacknowledged sacrifice on my part), the letterproceeded in these terms:

"The new employment which Mr. Van Brandt is to undertake securesto us the comforts, if not the luxuries, of life. For the firsttime since my troubles began, I have the prospect before me of apeaceful existence, among a foreign people from whom all that isfalse in my position may be concealed--not for my sake, but forthe sake of my child. To more than this, to the happiness whichsome women enjoy, I must not, I dare not, aspire.

"We leave England for the Continent early tomorrow morning. ShallI tell you in what part of Europe my new residence is to be?

"No! You might write to me again; and I might write back. The onepoor return I can make to the good angel of my life is to helphim to forget me. What right have I to cling to my usurped placein your regard? The time will come when you will give your heartto a woman who is worthier of it than I am. Let me drop out ofyour life--except as an occasional remembrance, when yousometimes think of the days that have gone forever.

"I shall not be without some consolation on my side, when I toolook back at the past. I have been a better woman since I metwith you. Live as long as I may, I shall always remember that.

"Yes! The influence that you have had over me has been from firstto last an influence for good. Allowing that I have done wrong(in my position) to love you, and, worse even than that, to ownit, still the love has been innocent, and the effort to controlit has been an honest effort at least. But, apart from this, myheart tells me that I am the better for the sympathy which hasunited us. I may confess to you what I have never yetacknowledged--now that we are so widely parted, and so littlelikely to meet again--whenever I have given myself upunrestrainedly to my own better impulses, they have always seemedto lead me to you. Whenever my mind has been most truly at peace,and I have been able to pray with a pure and a penitent heart, Ihave felt as if there was some unseen tie that was drawing usnearer and nearer together. And, strange to say, this has alwayshappened (just as my dreams of you have always come to me) when Ihave been separated from Van Brandt. At such times, thinking ordreaming, it has always appeared to me that I knew you far morefamiliarly than I know you when we meet face to face. Is therereally such a thing, I wonder, as a former state of existence?And were we once constant companions in some other sphere,thousands of years since? These are idle guesses. Let it beenough for me to remember that I have been the better for knowingyou--without inquiring how or why.

"Farewell, my beloved benefactor, my only friend! The child sendsyou a kiss; and the mother signs herself your grateful andaffectionate

M. VAN BRANDT."

When I first read those lines, they once more recalled to mymemory--very strangely, as I then thought--the predictions ofDame Dermody in the days of my boyhood. Here were the foretoldsympathies which were spiritually to unite me to Mary, realizedby a stranger whom I had met by chance in the later years of mylife!

Thinking in this direction, did I advance no further? Not a stepfurther! Not a suspicion of the truth presented itself to my mindeven yet.

Was my own dullness of apprehension to blame for this? Wouldanother man in my position have discovered what I had failed tosee?

I look back along the chain of events which runs through mynarrative, and I ask myself, Where are the possibilities to befound (in my case, or in the case of any other man) ofidentifying the child who was Mary Dermody with the woman who wasMrs. Van Brandt? Was there anything left in our faces, when wemet again by the Scotch river, to remind us of our youngerselves? We had developed, in the interval, from boy and girl toman and woman: no outward traces were discernible in us of theGeorge and Mary of other days. Disguised from each other by ourfaces, we were also disguised by our names. Her mock-marriage hadchanged her surname. My step-father's will had changed mine. HerChristian name was the commonest of all names of women; and minewas almost as far from being remarkable among the names of men.Turning next to the various occasionson which we had met, had we seen enough of each other to driftinto recognition on either side, in the ordinary course of talk?We had met but four times in all; once on the bridge, once againin Edinburgh, twice more in London. On each of these occasions,the absorbing anxieties and interests of the passing moment hadfilled her mind and mine, had inspired her words and mine. Whenhad the events which had brought us together left us with leisureenough and tranquillity enough to look back idly through ourlives, and calmly to compare the recollections of our youth?Never! From first to last, the course of events had borne usfurther and further away from any results that could have ledeven to a suspicion of the truth. She could only believe when shewrote to me on leaving England--and I could only believe when Iread her letter--that we had first met at the river, and that ourdivergent destinies had ended in parting us forever.

Reading her farewell letter in later days by the light of mymatured experience, I note how remarkably Dame Dermody's faith inthe purity of the tie that united us as kindred spirits wasjustified 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 shefelt my influence over her as a refining influence on her life,and that the apparition of her communicated with me in thevisible and perfect likeness of herself. On my side, when was itthat I dreamed of her (as in Scotland), or felt the mysteriouswarning of her presence in my waking moments (as in Shetland)?Always at the time when my heart opened most tenderly toward herand toward others--when my mind was most free from the bitterdoubts, the self-seeking aspirations, which degrade the divinitywithin us. Then, and then only, my sympathy with her was theperfect sympathy which holds its fidelity unassailable by thechances and changes, the delusions and temptations, of mortallife.

I am writing prematurely of the time when the light came to me.My narrative must return to the time when I was still walking indarkness.

Absorbed in watching over the closing days of my mother's life, Ifound in the performance of this sacred duty my only consolationunder the overthrow of my last hope of marriage with Mrs. VanBrandt. By slow degrees my mother felt the reviving influences ofa quiet life and a soft, pure air. The improvement in her healthcould, as I but too well knew, be only an improvement for a time.Still, it was a relief to see her free from pain, and innocentlyhappy in the presence of her son. Excepting those hours of theday and night which were dedicated to repose, I was never awayfrom her. To this day I remember, with a tenderness whichattaches to no other memories of mine, the books that I read toher, the sunny corner on the seashore where I sat with her, thegames of cards that we played together, the little trivial gossipthat amused her when she was strong enough for nothing else.These are my imperishable relics; these are the deeds of my lifethat I shall love best to look back on, when the all-infoldingshadows of death are closing round me.

In the hours when I was alone, my thoughts--occupying themselvesmostly among the persons and events of the past--wandered back,many and many a time, to Shetland and Miss Dunross.

My haunting doubt as to what the black veil had really hiddenfrom me was no longer accompanied by a feeling of horror when itnow recurred to my mind. The more vividly my later remembrancesof Miss Dunross were associated with the idea of an unutterablebodily affliction, the higher the noble nature of the womanseemed to rise in my esteem. For the first time since I had leftShetland, the temptation now came to me to disregard theinjunction which her father had laid on me at parting. When Ithought again of the stolen kiss in the dead of night; when Irecalled the appearance of the frail white hand, waving to methrough the dark curtains its last farewell; and when theremingled with these memories the later remembrance of what mymother had suspected, and of what Mrs. Van Brandt had seen in herdream--the longing in me to find a means of assuring Miss Dunrossthat she still held her place apart in my memory and my heart wasmore than mortal fortitude could resist. I was pledged in honornot to return to Shetland, and not to write. How to communicatewith her secretly, in some other way, was the constant questionin my mind as the days went on. A hint to enlighten me was allthat I wanted; and, as the irony of circumstances ordered it, mymother was the person who gave me the hint.

We still spoke, at intervals, of Mrs. Van Brandt. Watching me onthose occasions when we were in the company of friends andacquaintances at Torquay, my mother plainly discerned that noother woman, whatever her attractions might be, could take theplace in my heart of the woman whom I had lost. Seeing but oneprospect of happiness for me, she steadily refused to abandon theidea of my marriage. When a woman has owned that she loves a man(so my mother used to express her opinion), it is that man'sfault, no matter what the obstacles may be, if he fails to makeher his wife. Reverting to this view in various ways, she pressedit on my consideration one day in these words:

"There is one drawback, George, to my happiness in being herewith you. I am an obstacle in the way of your communicating withMrs. Van Brandt."

"You forget," I said, "that she has left England without tellingme where to find her."

"If you were free from the incumbrance of your mother, my dear,you would easily find her. Even as things are, you might surelywrite to her. Don't mistake my motives, George. If I had any hopeof your forgetting her--if I saw you only moderately attracted byone or other of the charming women whom we know here--I shouldsay, let us never speak again or think again of Mrs. Van Brandt.But, my dear, your heart is closed to every woman but one. Behappy in your own way, and let me see it before I die. The wretchto whom that poor creature is sacrificing her life will, sooneror later, ill-treat her or desert her and then she must turn toyou. Don't let her think that you are resigned to the loss ofher. The more resolutely you set her scruples at defiance, themore she will love you and admire you in secret. Women are likethat. Send her a letter, and follow it with a little present. Youtalked of taking me to the studio of the young artist here wholeft his card the other day. I am told that he paints admirableportraits in miniatures. Why not send your portrait to Mrs. VanBrandt?"

Here was the idea of which I had been vainly in search! Quitesuperfluous as a method of pleading my cause with Mrs. VanBrandt, the portrait offered the best of all means ofcommunicating with Miss Dunross, without absolutely violating theengagement to which her father had pledged me. In this way,without writing a word, without even sending a message, I mighttell her how gratefully she was remembered; I might remind her ofme tenderly in the bitterest moments of her sad and solitarylife.

The same day I went to the artist privately. The sittings wereafterward continued during the hours while my mother was restingin her room, until the portrait was completed. I caused it to beinclosed in a plain gold locket, with a chain attached; and Iforwarded my gift, in the first instance, to the one person whomI could trust to assist me in arranging for the conveyance of itto its destination. This was the old friend (alluded to in thesepages as "Sir James") who had taken me with him to Shetland inthe Government yacht.

I had no reason, in writing the necessary explanations, toexpress myself to Sir James with any reserve. On the voyage backwe had more than once spoken together confidentially of MissDunross. Sir James had heard her sad story from the residentmedical man at Lerwick, who had been an old companion of his intheir college days. Requesting him to confide my gift to thisgentleman, I did not hesitate to acknowledge the doubt thatoppressed me in relation to the mystery of the black veil. Itwas, of course, impossible to decide whether the doctor would beable to relieve that doubt. I could only venture to suggest thatthe question might be guardedly put, in making the customaryinquiries after the health of Miss Dunross.

In those days of slow communication, I had to wait, not for days,but for weeks, before I could expect to receive Sir James'sanswer. His letter only reached me after an unusually long delay.For this, or for some other reason that I cannot divine, I feltso strongly the foreboding of bad news that I abstained frombreaking the seal in my mother's presence. I waited until I couldretire to my own room, and then I opened the letter. Mypresentiment had not deceived me.

Sir James's reply contained these words only: "The letterinclosed tells its own sad story, without help from me. I cannotgrieve for her; but I can feel sorry for you."

The letter thus described was addressed to Sir James by thedoctor at Lerwick. I copy it (without comment) in these words:

"The late stormy weather has delayed the vessel by means of whichwe communicate with the mainland. I have only received yourletter to-day. With it, there has arrived a little box,containing a gold locket and chain; being the present which youask me to convey privately to Miss Dunross, from a friend ofyours whose name you are not at liberty to mention.

"In transmitting these instructions, you have innocently placedme in a position of extreme difficulty.

"The poor lady for whom the gift is intended is near the end ofher life--a life of such complicated and terrible suffering thatdeath comes, in her case, literally as a mercy and a deliverance.Under these melancholy circumstances, I am, I think, not to blameif I hesitate to give her the locket in secret; not knowing withwhat associations this keepsake may be connected, or of whatserious agitation it may not possibly be the cause.

"In this state of doubt I have ventured on opening the locket,and my hesitation is naturally increased. I am quite ignorant ofthe remembrances which my unhappy patient may connect with theportrait. I don't know whether it will give her pleasure or painto receive it, in her last moments on earth. I can only decide totake it with me, when I see her to-morrow, and to letcircumstances determine whether I shall risk letting her see itor not. Our post to the South only leaves this place in threedays' time. I can keep my letter open, and let you know theresult.

"I have seen her; and I have just returned to my own house. Mydistress of mind is great. But I will do my best to writeintelligibly and fully of what has happened.

"Her sinking energies, when I first saw her this morning, hadrallied for the moment. The nurse informed me that she had sleptduring the early hours of the new day. Previously to this, therewere symptoms of fever, accompanied by some slight delirium. Thewords that escaped her in this condition appear to have relatedmainly to an absent person whom she spoke of by the name of'George.' Her one anxiety, I am told, was to see 'George' againbefore she died.

"Hearing this, it struck me as barely possible that the portraitin the locket might be the portrait of the absent person. I senther nurse out of the room, and took her hand in mine. Trustingpartly to her own admirable courage and strength of mind, andpartly to the confidence which I knew she placed in me as an oldfriend and adviser, I adverted to the words which had fallen fromher in the feverish state. And then I said, 'You know that anysecret of yours is safe in my keeping. Tell me, do you expect toreceive any little keepsake or memorial from 'George'?

"It was a risk to run. The black veil which she always wears wasover her face. I had nothing to tell me of the effect which I wasproducing on her, except the changing temperature, or the partialmovement, of her hand, as it lay in mine, just under the silkcoverlet of the bed.

"She said nothing at first. Her hand turned suddenly from cold tohot, and closed with a quick pressure on mine. Her breathingbecame oppressed. When she spoke, it was with difficulty. Shetold me nothing; she only put a question:

" 'Is he here?' she asked.

"I said, 'Nobody is here but myself.'

" 'Is there a letter?'

"I said 'No.'

"She was silent for a while. Her hand turned cold; the grasp ofher fingers loosened. She spoke again: 'Be quick, doctor!Whatever it is, give it to me, before I die.'

"I risked the experiment; I opened the locket, and put it intoher hand.

"So far as I could discover, she refrained from looking at it atfirst. She said, 'Turn me in the bed, with my face to the wall.'I obeyed her. With her back turned toward me she lifted her veil;and then (as I suppose) she looked at the portrait. A long, lowcry--not of sorrow or pain: a cry of rapture and delight--burstfrom her. I heard her kiss the portrait. Accustomed as I am in myprofession to piteous sights and sounds, I never remember socompletely losing my self-control as I lost it at that moment. Iwas obliged to turn away to the window.

"Hardly a minute can have passed before I was back again at thebedside. In that brief interval she had changed. Her voice hadsunk again; it was so weak that I could only hear what she saidby leaning over her and placing my ear close to her lips.

" 'Put it round my neck,' she whispered.

"I clasped the chain of the locket round her neck. She tried tolift her hand to it, but her strength failed her.

" 'Help me to hide it,' she said.

"I guided her hand. She hid the locket in her bosom, under thewhite dressing-gown which she wore that day. The oppression inher breathing increased. I raised her on the pillow. The pillowwas not high enough. I rested her head on my shoulder, andpartially opened her veil. She was able to speak once more,feeling a momentary relief.

" 'Promise,' she said, 'that no stranger's hand shall touch me.Promise to bury me as I am now.'

"I gave her my promise.

"Her failing breath quickened. She was just able to articulatethe next words:

" 'Cover my face again.'

"I drew the veil over her face. She rested a while in silence.Suddenly the sound of her laboring respiration ceased. Shestarted, and raised her head from my shoulder.

" 'Are you in pain?' I asked.

" 'I am in heaven!' she answered.

" Her head dropped back on my breast as she spoke. In that lastoutburst of joy her last breath had passed. The moment of hersupreme happiness and the moment of her death were one. The mercyof God had found her at last.

"I return to my letter before the post goes out.

"I have taken the necessary measures for the performance of mypromise. She will be buried with the portrait hidden in herbosom, and with the black veil over her face. No nobler creatureever breathed the breath of life. Tell the stranger who sent herhis portrait that her last moments were joyful moments, throughhis remembrance of her as expressed by his gift.

"I observe a passage in your letter to which I have not yetreplied. You ask me if there was any more serious reason for thepersistent hiding of her face under the veil than the reasonwhich she was accustomed to give to the persons about her. It istrue that she suffered under a morbid sensitiveness to the actionof light. It is also true that this was not the only result, orthe worst result, of the malady that afflicted her. She hadanother reason for keeping her face hidden--a reason known to twopersons only: to the doctor who lives in the village near herfather's house, and to myself. We are both pledged never todivulge to any living creature what our eyes alone have seen. Wehave kept our terrible secret even from her father; and we shallcarry it with us to our graves. I have no more to say on thismelancholy subject to the person in whose interest you write.When he thinks of her now, let him think of the beauty which nobodily affliction can profane--the beauty of the freed spirit,eternally happy in its union with the angels of God.

"I may add, before I close my letter, that the poor old fatherwill not be left in cheerless solitude at the lak e house. Hewill pass the remainder of his days under my roof, with my goodwife to take care of him, and my children to remind him of thebrighter side of life."

So the letter ended. I put it away, and went out. The solitude ofmy room forewarned me unendurably of the coming solitude in myown life. My interests in this busy world were now narrowed toone object--to the care of my mother's failing health. Of the twowomen whose hearts had once beaten in loving sympathy with mine,one lay in her grave and the other was lost to me in a foreignland. On the drive by the sea I met my mother, in her littlepony-chaise, moving slowly under the mild wintry sunshine. Idismissed the man who was in attendance on her, and walked by theside of the chaise, with the reins in my hand. We chatted quietlyon trivial subjects. I closed my eyes to the dreary future thatwas before me, and tried, in the intervals of the heart-ache, tolive resignedly in the passing hour.