view by moonlight; and they tell me it's no longer beset at night by bad characters, as it used to be in the old time.'
My mother, in graver and graver displeasure, rose to retire to the drawing-room.
'I confess you have disappointed me,' she said to Mr. MacGlue. 'I should have thought you would have been the last man to encourage my son in an act of imprudence.'
'Craving your pardon, madam, your son requires no encouragement. I can see for myself that his mind is made up. Where is the use of a person like me trying to stop him? Dear madam, if he won't profit by your advice, what hope can I have that he will take mine?'
Mr. MacGlue pointed this artful compliment by a bow of the deepest respect, and threw open the door for my mother to pass out.
When we were left together over our wine, I asked the doctor how soon I might safely start on my journey to Edinburgh.
'Take two days to do the journey, and you may start, if you're bent on it, at the beginning of the week. But mind this,' added the prudent doctor, 'though I own I'm anxious to hear what comes of your expedition—understand at the same time, so far as the lady is concerned, that I wash my hands of the consequences.'—
* The doctor's narrative is not imaginary. It will be found
related in full detail, and authenticated by names and
dates, in Robert Dale Owen's very interesting work called
'Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World.' The author
gladly takes this opportunity of acknowledging his
obligations to Mr. Owen's remarkable book.
CHAPTER X. SAINT ANTHONY'S WELL.
I STOOD on the rocky eminence in front of the ruins of Saint Anthony's Chapel, and looked on the magnificent view of Edinburgh and of the old Palace of Holyrood, bathed in the light of the full moon.
The Well, as the doctor's instructions had informed me, was behind the chapel. I waited for some minutes in front of the ruin, partly to recover my breath after ascending the hill; partly, I own, to master the nervous agitation which the sense of my position at that moment had aroused in me. The woman, or the apparition of the woman—it might be either—was perhaps within a few yards of the place that I occupied. Not a living creature appeared in front of the chapel. Not a sound caught my ear from any part of the solitary hill. I tried to fix my whole attention on the beauties of the moonlit view. It was not to be done. My mind was far away from the objects on which my eyes rested. My mind was with the woman whom I had seen in the summer-house writing in my book.
I turned to skirt the side of the chapel. A few steps more over the broken ground brought me within view of the Well, and of the high boulder or rock from the foot of which the waters gushed brightly in the light of the moon.
She was there.
I recognized her figure as she stood leaning against the rock, with her hands crossed in front of her, lost in thought. I recognized her face as she looked up quickly, startled by the sound of my footsteps in the deep stillness of the night.
Was it the woman, or the apparition of the woman? I waited, looking at her in silence.
She spoke. The sound of her voice was not the mysterious sound that I had heard in the summer-house. It was the sound I had heard on the bridge when we first met in the dim evening light.
'Who are you? What do you want?'
As those words passed her lips, she recognized me. '
'I am here,' I answered, 'to meet you, by your own appointment.'
She stepped back again, leaning against the rock. The moonlight shone full upon her face. There was terror as well as astonishment in her eyes while they now looked at me.
'I don't understand you,' she said. 'I have not seen you since you spoke to me on the bridge.'
'Pardon me,' I replied. 'I have seen you—or the appearance of you—since that time. I heard you speak. I saw you write.'
She looked at me with the strangest expression of mingled resentment and curiosity. 'What did I say?' she asked. 'What did I write?'
'You said, 'Remember me. Come to me.' You wrote, 'When the full moon shines on Saint Anthony's Well.''
'Where?' she cried. 'Where did I do that?'
'In a summer-house which stands by a waterfall,' I answered. 'Do you know the place?'
Her head sunk back against the rock. A low cry of terror burst from her. Her arm, resting on the rock, dropped at her side. I hurriedly approached her, in the fear that she might fall on the stony ground.
She rallied her failing strength. 'Don't touch me!' she exclaimed. 'Stand back, sir. You frighten me.'
I tried to soothe her. 'Why do I frighten you? You know who I am. Can you doubt my interest in you, after I have been the means of saving your life?'
Her reserve vanished in an instant. She advanced without hesitation, and took me by the hand.
'I ought to thank you,' she said. 'And I do. I am not so ungrateful as I seem. I am not a wicked woman, sir—I was mad with misery when I tried to drown myself. Don't distrust me! Don't despise me!' She stopped; I saw the
