I MADE no movement to leave the room; I let no sign of sorrowescape me. At last, my heart was hardened against the woman whohad so obstinately rejected me. I stood looking down at her witha merciless anger, the bare remembrance of which fills me at thisday with a horror of myself. There is but one excuse for me. Theshock of that last overthrow of the one hope that held me to lifewas more than my reason could endure. On that dreadful night(whatever I may have been at other times), I myself believe it, Iwas a maddened man.

I was the first to break the silence.

"Get up," I said coldly.

She lifted her face from the floor, and looked at me as if shedoubted whether she had heard aright.

"Put on your hat and cloak," I resumed. "I must ask you to goback with me as far as the boat."

She rose slowly. Her eyes rested on my face with a dull,bewildered look.

"Why am I to go with you to the boat?" she asked.

The child heard her. The child ran up to us with her little hatin one hand, and the key of the cabin in the other.

"I'm ready," she said. "I will open the cabin door."

Her mother signed to her to go back to the bed-chamber. She wentback as far as the door which led into the courtyard, and waitedthere, listening. I turned to Mrs. Van Brandt with immovablecomposure, and answered the question which she had addressed tome.

"You are left," I said, "without the means of getting away fromthis place. In two hours more the tide will be in my favor, and Ishall sail at once on the return voyage. We part, this time,never to meet again. Before I go I am resolved to leave youproperly provided for. My money is in my traveling-bag in thecabin. For that reason, I am obliged to ask you to go with me asfar as the boat."

"I thank you gratefully for your kindness," she said. "I don'tstand in such serious need of help as you suppose."

"It is useless to attempt to deceive me," I proceeded. "I havespoken with the head partner of the house of Van Brandt atAmsterdam, and I know exactly what your position is. Your pridemust bend low enough to take from my hands the means ofsubsistence for yourself and your child. If I had died inEngland--"

I stopped. The unexpressed idea in my mind was to tell her thatshe would inherit a legacy under my will, and that she mightquite as becomingly take money from me in my life-time as take itfrom my executors after my death. In forming this thought intowords, the associations which it called naturally into beingrevived in me the memory of my contemplated suicide in theGreenwater lake. Mingling with the remembrance thus aroused,there rose in me unbidden, a temptation so overpoweringly vile,and yet so irresistible in the state of my mind at the moment,that it shook me to the soul. "You have nothing to live for, nowthat she has refused to be yours," the fiend in me whispered."Take your leap into the next world, and make the woman whom youlove take it with you!" While I was still looking at her, whilemy last words to her faltered on my lips, the horrible facilitiesfor the perpetration of the double crime revealed themselvesenticingly to my view. My boat was moored in the one part of thedecaying harbor in which deep water still lay at the foot of thequay. I had only to induce her to follow me when I stepped on thedeck, to seize her in my arms, and to jump overboard with herbefore she could utter a cry for help. My drowsy sailors, as Iknew by experience, were hard to wake, and slow to move even whenthey were roused at last. We should both be drowned before theyoungest and the quickest of them could get up from his bed andmake his way to the deck. Yes! We should both be struck togetherout of the ranks of the living at one and the same moment. Andwhy not? She who had again and again refused to be my wife--didshe deserve that I should leave her free to go back, perhaps, forthe second time to Van Brandt? On the evening when I had savedher from the waters of the Scotch river, I had made myself masterof her fate. She had tried to destroy herself by drowning; sheshould drown now, in the arms of the man who had once thrownhimself between her and death!

Self-abandoned to such atrocious reasoning as this, I stood faceto face with her, and returned deliberately to my unfinishedsentence.

"If I had died in England, you would have been provided for by mywill. What you would have taken from me then, you may take fromme now. Come to the boat."

A change passed over her face as I spoke; a vague doubt of mebegan to show itself in her eyes. She drew back a little, withoutmaking any reply.

"Come to the boat," I reiterated.

"It is too late." With that answer, she looked across the room atthe child, still waiting by the door. "Come, Elfie," she said,calling the little creature by one of her favorite nicknames."Come to bed."

I too looked at Elfie. Might she not, I asked myself, be made theinnoce nt means of forcing her mother to leave the house?Trusting to the child's fearless character, and her eagerness tosee the boat, I suddenly opened the door. As I had anticipated,she instantly ran out. The second door, leading into the square,I had not closed when I entered the courtyard. In another momentElfie was out in the square, triumphing in her freedom. Theshrill little voice broke the death-like stillness of the placeand hour, calling to me again and again to take her to the boat.

I turned to Mrs. Van Brandt. The stratagem had succeeded. Elfie'smother could hardly refuse to follow when Elfie led the way.

"Will you go with us?" I asked. "Or must I send the money back bythe child?"

Her eyes rested on me for a moment with a deepening expression ofdistrust, then looked away again. She began to turn pale. "Youare not like yourself to-night," she said. Without a word more,she took her hat and cloak and went out before me into thesquare. I followed her, closing the doors behind me. She made anattempt to induce the child to approach her. "Come, darling," shesaid, enticingly--"come and take my hand."

But Elfie was not to be caught: she took to her heels, andanswered from a safe distance. "No," said the child; "you willtake me back and put me to bed." She retreated a little further,and held up the key: "I shall go first," she cried, "and open thedoor."

She trotted off a few steps in the direction of the harbor, andwaited for what was to happen next. Her mother suddenly turned,and looked close at me under the light of the stars.

''Are the sailors on board the boat?" she asked.

The question startled me. Had she any suspicion of my purpose?Had my face warned her of lurking danger if she went to the boat?It was impossible. The more likely motive for her inquiry was tofind a new excuse for not accompanying me to the harbor. If Itold her that the men were on board, she might answer, "Why notemploy one of your sailors to bring the money to me at thehouse?" I took care to anticipate the suggestion in making myreply.

"They may be honest men," I said, watching her carefully; "but Idon't know them well enough to trust them with money."

To my surprise, she watched me just as carefully on her side, anddeliberately repeated her question:

"Are the sailors on board the boat?"

I informed her that the captain and crew slept in the boat, andpaused to see what would follow. My reply seemed to rouse herresolution. After a moment's consideration, she turned toward theplace at which the child was waiting for us. "Let us go, as youinsist on it," she said, quietly. I made no further remark. Sideby side, in silence we followed Elfie on our way to the boat.

Not a human creature passed us in the streets; not a lightglimmered on us from the grim black houses. Twice the childstopped, and (still keeping slyly out of her mother's reach) ranback to me, wondering at my silence. "Why don't you speak?" sheasked. "Have you and mamma quarreled?"

I was incapable of answering her--I could think of nothing but mycontemplated crime. Neither fear nor remorse troubled me. Everybetter instinct, every nobler feeling that I had once possessed,seemed to be dead and gone. Not even a thought of the child'sfuture troubled my mind. I had no power of looking on furtherthan the fatal leap from the boat: beyond that there was an utterblank. For the time being--I can only repeat it, my moral sensewas obscured, my mental faculties were thrown completely offtheir balance. The animal part of me lived and moved as usual;the viler animal instincts in me plotted and planned, and thatwas all. Nobody, looking at me, would have seen anything but adull quietude in my face, an immovable composure in my manner.And yet no madman was fitter for restraint, or less responsiblemorally for his own actions, than I was at that moment.

The night air blew more freshly on our faces. Still led by thechild, we had passed through the last street--we were out on theempty open space which was the landward boundary of the harbor.In a minute more we stood on the quay, within a step of thegunwale of the boat. I noticed a change in the appearance of theharbor since I had seen it last. Some fishing-boats had come induring my absence. They moored, some immediately astern and someimmediately ahead of my own vessel. I looked anxiously to see ifany of the fishermen were on board and stirring. Not a livingbeing appeared anywhere. The men were on shore with their wivesand their families.

Elfie held out her arms to be lifted on board my boat. Mrs. VanBrandt stepped between us as I stooped to take her up.

"We will wait here," she said, "while you go into the cabin andget the money."

Those words placed it beyond all doubt that she had hersuspicions of me--suspicions, probably, which led her to fear notfor her life, but for her freedom. She might dread being kept aprisoner in the boat, and being carried away by me against herwill. More than this she could not thus far possibly apprehend.The child saved me the trouble of making any remonstrance. Shewas determined to go with me. "I must see the cabin," she cried,holding up the key. "I must open the door myself."

She twisted herself out of her mother's hands, and ran round tothe other side of me. I lifted her over the gunwale of the boatin an instant. Before I could turn round, her mother had followedher, and was standing on the deck.

The cabin door, in the position which she now occupied, was onher left hand. The child was close behind her. I was on herright. Before us was the open deck, and the low gunwale of theboat overlooking the deep water. In a moment we might stepacross; in a moment we might take the fatal plunge. The barethought of it brought the mad wickedness in me to its climax. Ibecame suddenly incapable of restraining myself. I threw my armround her waist with a loud laugh. "Come," I said, trying to dragher across the deck--"come and look at the water."

She released herself by a sudden effort of strength thatastonished me. With a faint cry of horror, she turned to take thechild by the hand and get back to the quay. I placed myselfbetween her and the sides of the boat, and cut off her retreat inthat way. Still laughing, I asked her what she was frightenedabout. She drew back, and snatched the key of the cabin door outof the child's hand. The cabin was the one place of refuge nowleft, to which she could escape from the deck of the boat. In theterror of the moment, she never hesitated. She unlocked the door,and hurried down the two or three steps which led into the cabin,taking the child with her. I followed them, conscious that I hadbetrayed myself, yet still obstinately, stupidly, madly bent oncarrying out my purpose. "I have only to behave quietly," Ithought to myself, "and I shall persuade her to go on deckagain."

My lamp was burning as I had left it; my traveling-bag was on thetable. Still holding the child, she stood, pale as death, waitingfor me. Elfie's wondering eyes rested inquiringly on my face as Iapproached them. She looked half inclined to cry; the suddennessof the mother's action had frightened the child. I did my best tocompose Elfie before I spoke to her mother. I pointed out thedifferent objects which were likely to interest her in the cabin."Go and look at them," I said, "go and amuse yourself."

The child still hesitated. "Are you angry with me?" she asked.

"No, no!"

"Are you angry with mamma?"

"Certainly not." I turned to Mrs. Van Brandt. "Tell Elfie if I amangry with you," I said.

She was perfectly aware, in her critical position, of thenecessity of humoring me. Between us, we succeeded in composingthe child. She turned away to examine, in high delight, the newand strange objects which surrounded her. Meanwhile her motherand I stood together, looking at each other by the light of thelamp, with an assumed composure which hid our true faces like amask. In that horrible situation, the grotesque and the terrible,always together in this strange life of ours, came together now.On either side of us, the one sound that broke the si nister andthreatening silence was the lumpish snoring of the sleepingcaptain and crew.

She was the first to speak.

"If you wish to give me the money," she said, trying topropitiate me in that way, "I am ready to take it now."

I unlocked my traveling-bag. As I looked into it for the leathercase which held my money, my overpowering desire to get her ondeck again, my mad impatience to commit the fatal act, became toostrong to be controlled.

"We shall be cooler on deck," I said. "Let us take the bag upthere."

She showed wonderful courage. I could almost see the cry for helprising to her lips. She repressed it; she had still presence ofmind enough to foresee what might happen before she could rousethe sleeping men.

"We have a light here to count the money by," she answered. "Idon't feel at all too warm in the cabin. Let us stay here alittle longer. See how Elfie is amusing herself!"

Her eyes rested on me as she spoke. Something in the expressionof them quieted me for the time. I was able to pause and think. Imight take her on deck by force before the men could interfere.But her cries would rouse them; they would hear the splash in thewater, and they might be quick enough to rescue us. It would bewiser, perhaps, to wait a little and trust to my cunning todelude her into leaving the cabin of her own accord. I put thebag back on the table, and began to search for the leathermoney-case. My hands were strangely clumsy and helpless. I couldonly find the case after scattering half the contents of the bagon the table. The child was near me at the time, and noticed whatI was doing.

"Oh, how awkward you are!" she burst out, in her frankly fearlessway. "Let me put your bag tidy. Do, please!"

I granted the request impatiently. Elfie's restless desire to bealways doing something, instead of amusing me, as usual,irritated me now. The interest that I had once felt in thecharming little creature was all gone. An innocent love was afeeling that was stifled in the poisoned atmosphere of my mindthat night.

The money I had with me was mostly composed of notes of the Bankof England. Carefully keeping up appearances, I set aside the sumthat would probably be required to take a traveler back toLondon; and I put all that remained into the hands of Mrs. VanBrandt. Could she suspect me of a design on her life now?

"That will do for the present," I said. "I can communicate withyou in the future through Messrs. Van Brandt, of Amsterdam."

She took the money mechanically. Her hand trembled; her eyes metmine with a look of piteous entreaty. She tried to revive my oldtenderness for her; she made a last appeal to my forbearance andconsideration.

"We may part friends," she said, in low, trembling tones. "And asfriends we may meet again, when time has taught you to thinkforgivingly of what has passed between us, to-night."

She offered me her hand. I looked at her without taking it. Ipenetrated her motive in appealing to my old regard for her.Still suspecting me, she had tried her last chance of gettingsafely on shore.

"The less we say of the past, the better," I answered, withironical politeness. "It is getting late. And you will agree withme that Elfie ought to be in her bed." I looked round at thechild. "Be quick, Elfie," I said; "your mamma is going away." Iopened the cabin door, and offered my arm to Mrs. Van Brandt."This boat is my house for the time being," I resumed. "Whenladies take leave of me after a visit, I escort them to the deck.Pray take my arm.

She started back. For the second time she was on the point ofcrying for help, and for the second time she kept that lastdesperate alternative in reserve.

"I haven't seen your cabin yet," she said, her eyes wild withfear, a forced smile on her lips, as she spoke. "There areseveral little things here that interest me. Give me anotherminute or two to look at them."

She turned away to get nearer to the child, under pretense oflooking round the cabin. I stood on guard before the open door,watching her. She made a second pretense: she noisily overthrew achair as if by accident, and then waited to discover whether hertrick had succeeded in waking the men.

The heavy snoring went on; not a sound of a person moving wasaudible on either side of us.

"My men are heavy sleepers," I said, smiling significantly."Don't be alarmed; you have not disturbed them. Nothing wakesthese Dutch sailors when they are once safe in port."

She made no reply. My patience was exhausted. I left the door andadvanced toward her. She retreated in speechless terror, passingbehind the table to the other end of the cabin. I followed heruntil she had reached the extremity of the room and could get nofurther. She met the look I fixed on her; she shrunk into acorner, and called for help. In the deadly terror that possessedher, she lost the use of her voice. A low moaning, hardly louderthan a whisper, was all that passed her lips. Already, inimagination, I stood with her on the gunwale, already I felt thecold contact of the water--when I was startled by a cry behindme. I turned round. The cry had come from Elfie. She hadapparently just discovered some new object in the bag, and shewas holding it up in admiration, high above her head. "Mamma!mamma!" the child cried, excitedly, "look at this pretty thing!Oh, do, do ask him if I may have it!"

Her mother ran to her, eager to seize the poorest excuse forgetting away from me. I followed; I stretched out my hands toseize her. She suddenly turned round on me, a woman transformed.A bright flush was on her face, an eager wonder sparkled in hereyes. Snatching Elfie's coveted object out of the child's hand,she held it up before me. I saw it under the lamp-light. It wasmy little forgotten keepsake--the Green Flag!

"How came you by this?" she asked, in breathless anticipation ofmy reply. Not the slightest trace was left in her face of theterror that had convulsed it barely a minute since! "How came youby this?" she repeated, seizing me by the arm and shaking me, inthe ungovernable impatience that possessed her.

My head turned giddy, my heart beat furiously under the conflictof emotions that she had roused in me. My eyes were riveted onthe green flag. The words that I wanted to speak were words thatrefused to come to me. I answered, mechanically: "I have had itsince I was a boy."

She dropped her hold on me, and lifted her hands with a gestureof ecstatic gratitude. A lovely, angelic brightness flowed likelight from heaven over her face. For one moment she stoodenraptured. The next she clasped me passionately to her bosom,and whispered in my ear: "I am Mary Dermody! I made it for You!"

The shock of discovery, following so closely on all that I hadsuffered before it, was too much for me. I sank, fainting, in herarms.

When I came to myself I was lying on my bed in the cabin. Elfiewas playing with the green flag, and Mary was sitting by me withmy hand in hers. One long look of love passed silently from hereyes to mine--from mine to hers. In that look the kindred spiritswere united; The Two Destinies were fulfilled.

THE END OF THE STORY.

The Finale.

THE WIFE WRITES, AND CLOSES THE STORY.

THERE was a little introductory narrative prefixed to "The TwoDestinies," which you may possibly have forgotten by this time.

The narrative was written by myself--a citizen of the UnitedStates, visiting England with his wife. It described adinner-party at which we were present, given by Mr. and Mrs.Germaine, in celebration of their marriage; and it mentioned thecircumstances under which we were intrusted with the story whichhas just come to an end in these pages. Having read themanuscript, Mr. and Mrs. Germaine left it to us to decide whetherwe should continue our friendly intercourse with them or not.

At 3 o'clock P.M. we closed the last leaf of the story. Fiveminutes later I sealed it up in its cover; my wife put her bonneton, and there we were, bound straight for Mr. Germaine's house,when the servant brought a letter into the room, addressed to mywife.

She opened it, looked at the signature, and discoveredthat it was "Mary Germaine." Seeing this, we sat down side byside to read the letter before we did anything else.

On reflection, it strikes me that you may do well to read it,too. Mrs. Germaine is surely by this time a person in whom youfeel some interest. And she is on that account, as I think, thefittest person to close the story. Here is her letter:

"DEAR MADAM (or may I say- 'dear friend'?)--Be prepared, if youplease, for a little surprise. When you read these lines we shallhave left London for the Continent.

"After you went away last night, my husband decided on takingthis journey. Seeing how keenly he felt the insult offered to meby the ladies whom we had asked to our table, I willinglyprepared for our sudden departure. When Mr. Germaine is far awayfrom his false friends, my experience of him tells me that hewill recover his tranquillity. That is enough for me.

"My little daughter goes with us, of course. Early this morning Idrove to the school in the suburbs at which she is beingeducated, and took her away with me. It is needless to say thatshe was delighted at the prospect of traveling. She shocked theschoolmistress by waving her hat over her head and crying'Hooray,' like a boy. The good lady was very careful to inform methat my daughter could not possibly have learned to cry 'Hooray'in _her_ house.

"You have probably by this time read the narrative which I havecommitted to your care. I hardly dare ask how I stand in yourestimation now. Is it possible that I might have seen you andyour good husband if we had not left London so suddenly? Asthings are, I must now tell you in writing what I shouldinfinitely have preferred saying to you with your friendly handin mine.

"Your knowledge of the world has no doubt already attributed theabsence of the ladies at our dinner-table to some reportaffecting my character. You are quite right. While I was takingElfie away from her school, my husband called on one of hisfriends who dined with us (Mr. Waring), and insisted on anexplanation. Mr. Waring referred him to the woman who is known toyou by this time as Mr. Van Brandt's lawful wife. In herintervals of sobriety she possesses some musical talent; Mrs.Waring had met with her at a concert for a charity, and had beeninterested in the story of her wrongs, as she called them. Myname was, of course, mentioned. I was described as a 'cast-offmistress' of Van Brandt, who had persuaded Mr. Germaine intodisgracing himself by marrying her, and becoming the step-fatherof her child. Mrs. Waring thereupon communicated what she hadheard to other ladies who were her friends. The result you sawfor yourselves when you dined at our house.

"I inform you of what has happened without making any comment.Mr. Germaine's narrative has already told you that I foresaw thedeplorable consequences which might follow our marriage, and thatI over and over again (God knows at what cost of misery tomyself) refused to be his wife. It was only when my poor littlegreen flag had revealed us to each other that I lost all controlover myself. The old time on the banks of the lake came back tome; my heart hungered for its darling of happier days; and I saidYes, when (as you may think) I ought to have still said No. Willyou take poor old Dame Dermody's view of it, and believe that thekindred spirits, once reunited, could be parted no more? Or willyou take my view, which is simpler still? I do love him sodearly, and he is so fond of me!

"In the meantime, our departure from England seems to be thewisest course that we can adopt. As long as this woman lives shewill say again of me what she has said already, whenever she canfind the opportunity. My child might hear the reports about hermother, and might be injured by them when she gets older. Wepropose to take up our abode, for a time at least, in theneighborhood of Naples. Here, or further away yet, we may hope tolive without annoyance among a people whose social law is the lawof mercy. Whatever may happen, we have always one lastconsolation to sustain us--we have love.

"You talked of traveling on the Continent when you dined with us.If you should wander our way, the English consul at Naples is afriend of my husband's, and he will have our address. I wonderwhether we shall ever meet again? It does seem hard to charge themisfortunes of my life on me, as if they were my faults.

"Speaking of my misfortunes, I may say, before I close thisletter, that the man to whom I owe them is never likely to crossmy path again. The Van Brandts of Amsterdam have received certaininformation that he is now on his way to New Zealand. They aredetermined to prosecute him if he returns. He is little likely togive them the opportunity.

"The traveling-carriage is at the door: I must say good-by. Myhusband sends to you both his kindest regards and best wishes.His manuscript will be quite safe (when you leave London) if yousend it to his bankers, at the address inclosed. Think of mesometimes--and think of me kindly. I appeal confidently to _your_kindness, for I don't forget that you kissed me at parting. Yourgrateful friend (if you will let her be your friend),

"MARY GERMAINE."

We are rather impulsive people in the United States, and wedecide on long journeys by sea or land without making theslightest fuss about it. My wife and I looked at each other whenwe had read Mrs. Germaine's letter.

"London is dull," I remarked, and waited to see what came of it.

My wife read my remark the right way directly.

"Suppose we try Naples?" she said.

That is all. Permit us to wish you good-by. We are off to Naples.

End of Project Gutenberg Etext of The Two Destinies, by Wilkie Collins