WHAT I have now to tell you of Mary is derived from information obtained
at a date in my life later by many years than any date of which I have
written yet. Be pleased to remember this.
Dermody, the bailiff, possessed relatives in London, of whom he
occasionally spoke, and relatives in Scotland, whom he never mentioned.
My father had a strong prejudice against the Scotch nation. Dermody knew
his master well enough to be aware that the prejudice might extend to
_him_, if he spoke of his Scotch kindred. He was a discreet man, and he
never mentioned them.
On leaving my father's service, he had made his way, partly by land and
partly by sea, to Glasgow--in which city his friends resided. With his
character and his experience, Dermody was a man in a thousand to any
master who was lucky enough to discover him. His friends bestirred
themselves. In six weeks' time he was placed in charge of a gentleman's
estate on the eastern coast of Scotland, and was comfortably established
with his mother and his daughter in a new home.
The insulting language which my father had addressed to him had sunk
deep in Dermody's mind. He wrote privately to his relatives in London,
telling them that he had found a new situation which suited him, and
that he had his reasons for not at present mentioning his address. In
this way he baffled the inquiries which my mother's lawyers (failing
to discover a trace of him in other directions) addressed to his
London friends. Stung by his old master's reproaches, he sacrificed his
daughter and he sacrificed me--partly to his own sense of self-respect,
partly to his conviction that the difference between us in rank made it
his duty to check all further intercourse before it was too late.
Buried in their retirement in a remote part of Scotland, the little
household lived, lost to me, and lost to the world.
In dreams, I had seen and heard Mary. In dreams, Mary saw and heard me.
The innocent longings and wishes which filled my heart while I was still
a boy were revealed to her in the mystery of sleep. Her grandmother,
holding firmly to her faith in the predestined union between us,
sustained the girl's courage and cheered her heart. She could hear her
father say (as my father had said) that we were parted to meet no more,
and could privately think of her happy dreams as the sufficient promise
of another future than the future which Dermody contemplated. So she
still lived with me in the spirit--and lived in hope.
The first affliction that befell the little household was the death
of the grandmother, by the exhaustion of extreme old age. In her last
conscious moments, she said to Mary, "Never forget that you and George
are spirits consecrated to each other. Wait--in the certain knowledge
that no human power can hinder your union in the time to come."
While those words were still vividly present to Mary's mind, our
visionary union by dreams was abruptly broken on her side, as it had
been abruptly broken on mine. In the first days of my self-degradation,
I had ceased to see Mary. Exactly at the same period Mary ceased to see
me.
The girl's sensitive nature sunk under the shock. She had now no elder
woman to comfort and advise her; she lived alone with her father, who
invariably changed the subject whenever she spoke of the old times. The
secret sorrow that preys on body and mind alike preyed on _her_. A cold,
caught at the inclement season, turned to fever. For weeks she was in
danger of death. When she recovered, her head had been stripped of its
beautiful hair by the doctor's order. The sacrifice had been
necessary to save her life. It proved to be, in one respect, a cruel
sacrifice--her hair never grew plentifully again. When it did reappear,
it had completely lost its charming mingled hues of deep red and brown;
it was now of one monotonous light-brown color throughout. At first
sight, Mary's Scotch friends hardly knew her again.
But Nature made amends for what the head had lost by what the face and
the figure gained.
In a year from the date of her illness, the frail little child of the
old days at Greenwater Broad had ripened, in the bracing Scotch air and
the healthy mode of life, into a comely young woman. Her features were
still, as in her early years, not regularly beautiful; but the change
in her was not the less marked on that account. The wan face had filled
out, and the pale complexion had found its color. As to her figure, its
remarkable development was perceived even by the rough people about her.
Promising nothing when she was a child, it had now sprung into womanly
fullness, symmetry, and grace. It was a strikingly beautiful figure, in
the strictest sense of the word.
Morally as well as physically, there were moments, at this period of
their lives, when even her own father hardly recognized his daughter of
former days. She had lost her childish vivacity--her sweet, equable
flow of good humor. Silent and self-absorbed, she went through the daily
routine of her duties enduringly. The hope of 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 in these later days had its sympathetic
influence in steadying her mind. When her father once or twice ventured
to ask if she was still thinking of me, she answered quietly that she
had brought herself to share his opinions. She could not doubt that I
had long since ceased to think of her. Even if I had remained faithful
to her, she was old enough now to know that the difference between us in
rank made our union by marriage an impossibility. It would be best (she
thought) not to refer any more to the past, best to forget me, as I had
forgotten her. So she spoke now. So, tried by the test of appearances,
Dame Dermody's confident forecast of our destinies had failed to justify
itself, and had taken its place among the predictions that are never
fulfilled.
The next notable event in the family annals which followed Mary's
illness happened when she had attained the age of nineteen years. Even
at this distance of time my heart sinks, my courage fails me, at the
critical stage in my narrative which I have now reached.
A storm of unusual severity burst over the eastern coast of Scotland.
Among the ships that were lost in the tempest was a vessel bound from
Holland, which was wrecked on the rocky shore near Dermody's place of
abode. Leading the way in all good actions, the bailiff led the way in
rescuing the passengers and crew of the lost ship. He had brought one
man alive to land, and was on his way back to the vessel, when two heavy
seas, following in close succession, dashed him against the rocks.
He was rescued, at the risk of their own lives, by his neighbors. The
medical examination disclosed a broken bone and severe bruises and
lacerations. So far, Dermody's sufferings were easy of relief. But,
after a lapse of time, symptoms appeared in the patient which revealed
to his medical attendant the presence of serious internal injury. In the
doctor's opinion, he could never hope to resume the active habits of
his life. He would be an invalid and a crippled man for the rest of his
days.
Under these melancholy circumstances, the bailiff's employer did
all that could be strictly expected of him, He hired an assistant to
undertake the supervision of the farm work, and he permitted Dermody to
occupy his cottage for the next three months. This concession gave the
poor man time to recover such relics of strength as were still left to
him, and to consult his friends in Glasgow on the doubtful question of
his life to come.
The prospect was a serious one. Dermody was quite unfit for any
sedentary employment; and the little money that he had saved was not
enough to support his daughter and himself. The Scotch friends were
willing and kind; but they had domestic claims on them, and they had no
money to spare.
In this emergency, the passenger in the wrecked vessel (whose life
Dermody had saved) came forward with a proposal which took father and
daughter alike by surprise. He made Mary an offer of marriage; on the
express understanding (if she accepted him) that her 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 the time
of their trouble was a Dutch gentleman, named Ernest Van Brandt. He
possessed a share in a fishing establishment on the shores of the
Zuyder Zee; and he was on his way to establish a correspondence with the
fisheries in the North of Scotland when the vessel was wrecked. Mary had
produced a strong impression on him when they first met. He had lingered
in the neighborhood, in the hope of gaining her favorable regard, with
time to help him. Personally he was a handsome man, in the prime of
life; and he was possessed of a sufficient income to marry on. In making
his proposal, he produced references to persons of high social position
in Holland, who could answer for him, so far as the questions of
character and position were concerned.
Mary was long in considering which course it would be best for her
helpless father, and best for herself, to adopt.
The hope of a marriage with me had been a hope abandoned by her years
since. No woman looks forward willingly to a life of cheerless celibacy.
In thinking of her future, Mary naturally thought of herself in the
character of a wife. Could she fairly expect in the time to come to
receive any more attractive proposal than the proposal now addressed
to her? Mr. Van Brandt had every personal advantage that a woman could
desire; he was devotedly in love with her; and he felt a grateful
affection for her father as the man to whom he owed his life. With no
other hope in her heart--with no other prospect in view--what could she
do better than marry Mr. Van Brandt?
Influenced by these considerations, she decided on speaking the fatal
word. She said, "Yes."
At the same time, she spoke plainly to Mr. Van Brandt, unreservedly
acknowledging that she had contemplated another future than the future
now set before her. She did not conceal that there had once been an old
love in her heart, and that a new love was more than she could command.
Esteem, gratitude, and regard she could honestly offer; and, with time,
love might come. For the rest, she had long since disassociated herself
from the past, and had definitely given up all the hopes and wishes once
connected with it. Repose for her father, and tranquil happiness for
herself, were the only favors that she asked of fortune now. These she
might find under the roof of an honorable man who loved and respected
her. She could promise, on her side, to make him a good and faithful
wife, if she could promise no more. It rested with Mr. Van Brandt to say
whether he really believed that he would be consulting his own happiness
in marrying her on these terms.
Mr. Van Brandt accepted the terms without a moment's hesitation.
They would have been married immediately but for an alarming change
for the worse in the condition of Dermody's health. Symptoms showed
themselves, which the doctor confessed that he had not anticipated when
he had given his opinion on the case. He warned Mary that the end might
be near. A physician was summoned from Edinburgh, at Mr. Van Brandt's
expense. He confirmed the opinion entertained by the country doctor. For
some days longer the good bailiff lingered. On the last morning, he
put his daughter's hand in Van Brandt's hand. "Make her happy, sir," he
said, in his simple way, "and you will be even with me for saving your
life." The same day he died quietly in his daughter's arms.
Mary's future was now entirely in her lover's hands. The relatives in
Glasgow had daughters of their own to provide for. The relatives in
London resented Dermody's neglect of them. Van Brandt waited, delicately
and considerately, until the first violence of the girl's grief had worn
itself out, and then he pleaded irresistibly for a husband's claim to
console her.
The time at which they were married in Scotland was also the time at
which I was on my way home from India. Mary had then reached the age of
twenty years.
The story of our ten years' separation is now told; the narrative leaves
us at the outset of our new lives.
I am with my mother, beginning my career as a country gentleman on 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 in Scotland--living, by a strange
fatality, not very far distant from my country-house. I have no
suspicion that she is so near to me: the name of Mrs. Van Brandt (even
if I had heard it) appeals to no familiar association in my mind. Still
the kindred spirits are parted. Still there is no idea on her side, and
no idea on mine, that we shall ever meet again.