As I lifted my hand to ring the house bell, the door was openedfrom within, and no less a person than Mr. Van Brandt himselfstood before me. He had his hat on. We had evidently met just ashe was going out.

"My dear sir, how good this is of you! You present the best ofall replies to my letter in presenting yourself. Mrs. Van Brandtis at home. Mrs. Van Brandt will be delighted. Pray walk in."

He threw open the door of a room on the ground-floor. Hispoliteness was (if possible) even more offensive than hisinsolence. "Be seated, Mr. Germaine, I beg of you." He turned tothe open door, and called up the stairs, in a loud and confidentvoice:

"Mary! come down directly."

"Mary"! I knew her Christian name at last, and knew it throughVan Brandt. No words can tell how the name jarred on me, spokenby his lips. For the first time for years past my mind went backto Mary Dermody and Greenwater Broad. The next moment I heard therustling of Mrs. Van Brandt's dress on the stairs. As the soundcaught my ear, the old times and the old faces vanished againfrom my thoughts as completely as if they had never existed. Whathad _she_ in common with the frail, shy little child, hernamesake, of other days? What similarity was perceivable in thesooty London lodging-house to remind me of the bailiff'sflower-scented cottage by the shores of the lake?

Van Brandt took off his hat, and bowed to me with sickeningservility.

"I have a business appointment," he said, "which it is impossibleto put off. Pray excuse me. Mrs. Van Brandt will do the honors.Good morning."

The house door opened and closed again. The rustling of the dresscame slowly nearer and nearer. She stood before me.

"Mr. Germaine!" she exclaimed, starting back, as if the baresight of me repelled her. "Is this honorable? Is this worthy ofyou? You allow me to be entrapped into receiving you, and youaccept as your accomplice Mr. Van Brandt! Oh, sir, I haveaccustomed myself to look up to you as a high-minded man. Howbitterly you have disappointed me!"

Her reproaches passed by me unheeded. They only heightened hercolor; they only added a new rapture to the luxury of looking ather.

"If you loved me as faithfully as I love you," I said, "you wouldunderstand why I am here. No sacrifice is too great if it bringsme into your presence again after two years of absence."

She suddenly approached me, and fixed her eyes in eager scrutinyon my face.

"There must be some mistake," she said. "You cannot possibly havereceived my letter, or you have not read it?"

"I have received it, and I have read it."

"And Van Brandt's letter--you have read that too?"

"Yes."

She sat down by the table, and, leaning her arms on it, coveredher face with her hands. My answers seemed not only to havedistressed, but to have perplexed her. "Are men all alike?" Iheard her say. "I thought I might trust in _his_ sense of whatwas due to himself and of what was compassionate toward me."

I closed the door and seated myself by her side. She removed herhands from her face when she felt me near her. She looked at mewith a cold and steady surprise.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I am going to try if I can recover my place in your estimation,"I said. "I am going to ask your pity for a man whose whole heartis yours, whose whole life is bound up in you."

She started to her feet, and looked round her incredulously, asif doubting whether she had rightly heard and rightly interpretedmy last words. Before I could speak again, she suddenly faced me,and struck her open hand on the table with a passionateresolution which I now saw in her for the first time.

"Stop!" she cried. "There must be an end to this. And an endthere shall be. Do you know who that man is who has just left thehouse? Answer me, Mr. Germaine! I am speaking in earnest."

There was no choice but to answer her. She was indeed inearnest--vehemently in earnest.

"His letter tells me," I said, "that he is Mr. Van Brandt."

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

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

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

"You force me to tell you the truth," she went on. "He asked mewho you were, last night on our way home. I knew that you wererich, and that _he_ wanted money. I told him I knew nothing ofyour position in the world. He was too cunning to believe me; hewent out to the public-house and looked at a directory. He cameback and said, 'Mr. Germaine has a house in Berkeley Square and acountry-seat in the Highlands. He is not a man for a poor devillike me to offend; I mean to make a friend of him, and I expectyou to make a friend of him too.' He sat down and wrote to you. Iam living under that man's protection, Mr. Germaine. His wife isnot dead, as you may suppose; she is living, and I know her to beliving. I wrote to you that I was beneath your notice, and youhave obliged me to tell you why. Am I sufficiently degraded tobring you to your senses?"

I drew closer to her. She tried to get up and leave me. I knew mypower over her, and used it (as any man in my place would haveused 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 arecircumstances which excuse you, and which you are purposelykeeping back from me. Nothing will convince me that you are abase woman. Should I love you as I love you, if you were reallyunworthy of me?"

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

"No. Have _you_ ever seen _me_ again, as you saw me in your dreamat the inn in Edinburgh?"

"Never. Our visions of each other have left us. Can you tellwhy?"

If we had continued to speak on this subject, we must surely haverecognized each other. But the subject dropped. Instead ofanswering her question, I drew her nearer to me--I returned tothe 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 yourown heart? Do you really care nothing for me? Have you never oncethought of me in all the time that has passed since we last met?"

I spoke as I felt--fervently, passionately. She made a lasteffort to repel me, and yielded even as she made it. Her handclosed on mine, a low sigh fluttered on her lips. She answeredwith a sudden self-abandonment; she recklessly cast herself loosefrom the restraints which had held her up to this time.

"I think of you perpetually," she said. "I was thinking of you atthe opera last night . My heart leaped in me when I heard yourvoice in the street."

"You love me!" I whispered.

"Love you!" she repeated. "My whole heart goes out to you inspite of myself. Degraded as I am, unworthy as I am--knowing as Ido 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 herstrength. The moment after, she dropped on her knees. "Oh, don'ttempt me!" she murmured. "Be merciful--and leave me."

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

"Prove that you love me," I said. "Let me rescue you from thedegradation of living with that man. Leave him at once andforever. Leave him, and come with me to a future that is worthyof 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, beforeVan 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. "Lethim come back! If _you_ won't answer my question, I will put itto _him_."

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

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

She reflected for a moment. Her eyes brightened, as if some newway 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 motherwhat the obstacle is," she said, thoughtfully.

"When?"

"To-morrow, at this time."

She raised herself on her knees; the tears suddenly filled hereyes. She drew me to her gently. "Kiss me," she whispered. "Youwill never come here again. Kiss me for the last time."

My lips had barely touched hers, when she started to her feet andsnatched up my hat from the chair on which I had placed it.

"Take your hat," she said. "He has come back."

My duller sense of hearing had discovered nothing. I rose andtook my hat to quiet her. At the same moment the door of the roomopened suddenly and softly. Mr. Van Brandt came in. I saw in hisface that he had some vile motive of his own for trying to takeus by surprise, and that the result of the experiment haddisappointed him.

"You are not going yet?" he said, speaking to me with his eye onMrs. Van Brandt. "I have hurried over my business in the hope ofprevailing on you to stay and take lunch with us. Put down yourhat, Mr. Germaine. No ceremony!"

"You are very good," I answered. "My time is limited to-day. Imust beg you and Mrs. Van Brandt to excuse me."

I took leave of her as I spoke. She turned deadly pale when sheshook hands with me at parting. Had she any open brutality todread from Van Brandt as soon as my back was turned? The baresuspicion of it made my blood boil. But I thought of _her_. Inher interests, the wise thing and the merciful thing to do was toconciliate the fellow before I left the house.

"I am sorry not to be able to accept your invitation," I said, aswe walked together to the door. "Perhaps you will give me anotherchance?"

His eyes twinkled cunningly. "What do you say to a quiet littledinner here?" he asked. "A slice of mutton, you know, and abottle of good wine. Only our three selves, and one old friend ofmine to make up four. We will have a rubber of whist in theevening. Mary and you partners--eh? When shall it be? Shall wesay the day after to-morrow?"

She had followed us to the door, keeping behind Van Brandt whilehe was speaking to me. When he mentioned the "old friend" and the"rubber of whist," her face expressed the strongest emotions ofshame and disgust. The next moment (when she had heard him fixthe date of the dinner for "the day after to-morrow") herfeatures became composed again, as if a sudden sense of reliefhad come to her. What did the change mean? "To-morrow" was theday she had appointed for seeing my mother. Did she reallybelieve, when I had heard what passed at the interview, that Ishould never enter the house again, and never attempt to see hermore? And was this the secret of her composure when she heard thedate of the dinner appointed for "the day after to-morrow"?

Asking myself these questions, I accepted my invitation, and leftthe house with a heavy heart. That farewell kiss, that suddencomposure when the day of the dinner was fixed, weighed on myspirits. I would have given twelve years of my life to haveannihilated the next twelve hours.

In this frame of mind I reached home, and presented myself in mymother's sitting-room.

"You have gone out earlier than usual to-day," she said. "Did thefine weather tempt you, my dear?" She paused, and looked at memore closely. "George!" she exclaimed, "what has happened to you?Where have you been?"

I told her the truth as honestly as I have told it here.

The color deepened in my mother's face. She looked at me, andspoke to me with a severity which was rare indeed in myexperience of her.

"Must I remind you, for the first time in your life, of what isdue to your mother?" she asked. "Is it possible that you expectme to visit a woman, who, by her own confession--"

"I expect you to visit a woman who has only to say the word andto be your daughter-in-law," I interposed. "Surely I am notasking what is unworthy of you, if I ask that?"

My mother looked at me in blank dismay.

"Do you mean, George, that you have offered her marriage?"

"Yes."

"And she has said No?"

"She has said No, because there is some obstacle in her way. Ihave tried vainly to make her explain herself. She has promisedto confide everything to _you_."

The serious nature of the emergency had its effect. My motheryielded. She handed me the little ivory tablets on which she wasaccustomed to record her engagements. "Write down the name andaddress," she said resignedly.

"I will go with you," I answered, "and wait in the carriage atthe door. I want to hear what has passed between you and Mrs. VanBrandt the instant you have left her."

"Is it as serious as that, George?"

"Yes, mother, it is as serious as that."