The Two Destinies

She sat down again, and turned her face away from me.

'Do you know how he came to write to you?' she asked. 'Do you know what made him invite you to this house?'

I thought of the suspicion that had crossed my mind when I read Van Brandt's letter. I made no reply.

'You force me to tell you the truth,' she went on. 'He asked me who you were, last night on our way home. I knew that you were rich, and that he wanted money. I told him I knew nothing of your position in the world. He was too cunning to believe me; he went out to the public-house and looked at a directory. He came back and said, 'Mr. Germaine has a house in Berkeley Square and a country-seat in the Highlands. He is not a man for a poor devil like me to offend; I mean to make a friend of him, and I expect you to make a friend of him too.' He sat down and wrote to you. I am living under that man's protection, Mr. Germaine. His wife is not dead, as you may suppose; she is living, and I know her to be living. I wrote to you that I was beneath your notice, and you have obliged me to tell you why. Am I sufficiently degraded to bring you to your senses?'

I drew closer to her. She tried to get up and leave me. I knew my power over her, and used it (as any man in my place would have used it) without scruple. I took her hand.

'I don't believe you have voluntarily degraded yourself,' I said. 'You have been forced into your present position: there are circumstances which excuse you, and which you are purposely keeping back from me. Nothing will convince me that you are a base woman. Should I love you as I love you, if you were really unworthy of me?'

She struggled to free her hand; I still held it. She tried to change the subject. 'There is one thing you haven't told me yet,' she said, with a faint, forced smile. 'Have you seen the apparition of me again since I left you?'

'No. Have you ever seen me again, as you saw me in your dream at the inn in Edinburgh?'

'Never. Our visions of each other have left us. Can you tell why?'

If we had continued to speak on this subject, we must surely have recognized each other. But the subject dropped. Instead of answering her question, I drew her nearer to me—I returned to the forbidden subject of my love.

'Look at me,' I pleaded, 'and tell me the truth. Can you see me, can you hear me, and do you feel no answering sympathy in your own heart? Do you really care nothing for me? Have you never once thought of me in all the time that has passed since we last met?'

I spoke as I felt—fervently, passionately. She made a last effort to repel me, and yielded even as she made it. Her hand closed on mine, a low sigh fluttered on her lips. She answered with a sudden self-abandonment; she recklessly cast herself loose from the restraints which had held her up to this time.

'I think of you perpetually,' she said. 'I was thinking of you at the opera last night. My heart leaped in me when I heard your voice in the street.'

'You love me!' I whispered.

'Love you!' she repeated. 'My whole heart goes out to you in spite of myself. Degraded as I am, unworthy as I am—knowing as I do that nothing can ever come of it—I love you! I love you!'

She threw her arms round my neck, and held me to her with all her strength. The moment after, she dropped on her knees. 'Oh, don't tempt me!' she murmured. 'Be merciful—and leave me.'

I was beside myself. I spoke as recklessly to her as she had spoken to me.

'Prove that you love me,' I said. 'Let me rescue you from the degradation of living with that man. Leave him at once and forever. Leave him, and come with me to a future that is worthy of you—your future as my wife.'

'Never!' she answered, crouching low at my feet.

'Why not? What obstacle is there?'

'I can't tell you—I daren't tell you.'

'Will you write it?'

'No, I can't even write it—to you. Go, I implore you, before Van Brandt comes back. Go, if you love me and pity me.'

She had roused my jealousy. I positively refused to leave her.

'I insist on knowing what binds you to that man,' I said. 'Let him come back! If you won't answer my question, I will put it to him.'

She looked at me wildly, with a cry of terror. She saw my resolution in my face.

'Don't frighten me,' she said. 'Let me think.'

She reflected for a moment. Her eyes brightened, as if some new way out of the difficulty had occurred to her.

'Have you a mother living?' she asked.

'Yes.'

'Do you think she would come and see me?'

'I am sure she would if I asked her.'

She considered with herself once more. 'I will tell your mother what the obstacle is,' she said, thoughtfully.

'When?'

'To-morrow, at this time.'

She raised herself on her knees; the tears suddenly filled her eyes. She drew me to her gently. 'Kiss me,' she