The same night I wrote to inform Mrs. Van Brandt of the sad event which was the cause of my sudden departure, and to warn her that there no longer existed the slightest necessity for insuring her life.
"My lawyers" (I wrote) "have undertaken to arrange Mr. Van Brandt's affairs immediately.
In a few hours he will be at liberty to accept the situation that has been offered to him."
The last lines of the letter assured her of my unalterable love, and entreated her to write to me before she left England.
This done, all was done.
I was conscious, strange to say, of no acutely painful suffering at this saddest time of my life.
There is a limit, morally as well as physically, to our capacity for endurance.
I can only describe my sensations under the calamities that had now fallen on me in one way: I felt like a man whose mind had been stunned.
The next day my mother and I set forth on the first stage of our journey to the south coast of Devonshire.
CHAPTER XXX. THE PROSPECT DARKENS.
THREE days after my mother and I had established ourselves at Torquay, I received Mrs. Van Brandt's answer to my letter.
After the opening sentences (informing me that Van Brandt had been set at liberty, under circumstances painfully suggestive to the writer of some unacknowledged sacrifice on my part), the letter proceeded in these terms:
"The new employment which Mr. Van Brandt is to undertake secures to us the comforts, if not the luxuries, of life.
For the first time since my troubles began, I have the prospect before me of a peaceful existence, among a foreign people from whom all that is false in my position may be concealed—not for my sake, but for the sake of my child.
To more than this, to the happiness which some women enjoy, I must not, I dare not, aspire.
"We leave England for the Continent early tomorrow morning.
Shall I 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 one poor return I can make to the good angel of my life is to help him to forget me.
What right have I to cling to my usurped place in your regard?
The time will come when you will give your heart to a woman who is worthier of it than I am.
Let me drop out of your life—except as an occasional remembrance, when you sometimes think of the days that have gone forever.
"I shall not be without some consolation on my side, when I too look back at the past.
I have been a better woman since I met with you.
Live as long as I may, I shall always remember that.
"Yes!
The influence that you have had over me has been from first to last an influence for good.
Allowing that I have done wrong (in my position) to love you, and, worse even than that, to own it, still the love has been innocent, and the effort to control it has been an honest effort at least.
But, apart from this, my heart tells me that I am the better for the sympathy which has united us.
I may confess to you what I have never yet acknowledged—now that we are so widely parted, and so little likely to meet again—whenever I have given myself up unrestrainedly to my own better impulses, they have always seemed to 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, I have felt as if there was some unseen tie that was drawing us nearer and nearer together.
And, strange to say, this has always happened (just as my dreams of you have always come to me) when I have been separated from Van Brandt.
At such times, thinking or dreaming, it has always appeared to me that I knew you far more familiarly than I know you when we meet face to face.
Is there really 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 be enough for me to remember that I have been the better for knowing you—without inquiring how or why.
"Farewell, my beloved benefactor, my only friend!
The child sends you a kiss; and the mother signs herself your grateful and affectionate
"M. VAN BRANDT."
When I first read those lines, they once more recalled to my memory—very strangely, as I then thought—the predictions of Dame Dermody in the days of my boyhood.
Here were the foretold sympathies which were spiritually to unite me to Mary, realized by a stranger whom I had met by chance in the later years of my life!
Thinking in this direction, did I advance no further?
Not a step further!
Not a suspicion of the truth presented itself to my mind even yet.
Was my own dullness of apprehension to blame for this?
Would another man in my position have discovered what I had failed to see?
I look back along the chain of events which runs through my narrative, and I ask myself, Where are the possibilities to be found (in my case, or in the case of any other man) of identifying the child who was Mary Dermody with the woman who was Mrs. Van Brandt?
Was there anything left in our faces, when we met again by the Scotch river, to remind us of our younger selves?
We had developed, in the interval, from boy and girl to man and woman: no outward traces were discernible in us of the George and Mary of other days.