HOW long was I left alone in the carriage at the door of Mrs. VanBrandt's lodgings? Judging by my sensations, I waited half alife-time. Judging by my watch, I waited half an hour.

When my mother returned to me, the hope which I had entertainedof a happy result from her interview with Mrs. Van Brandt was ahope abandoned before she had opened her lips. I saw, in herface, that an obstacle which was beyond my power of removal didindeed stand between me and the dearest wish of my life.

"Tell me the worst," I said, as we drove away from the house,"and tell it at once."

"I must tell it to you, George," my mother answered, sadly, "asshe told it to me. She begged me herself to do that. 'We mustdisappoint him,' she said, 'but pray let it be done as gently aspossible.' Beginning in those words, she confided to me thepainful story which you know already--the story of her marriage.From that she passed to her meeting with you at Edinburgh, and tothe circumstances which have led her to live as she is livingnow. This latter part of her narrative she especially requestedme to repeat to you. Do you feel composed enough to hear it now?Or would you rather wait?"

"Let me hear it now, mother; and tell it, as nearly as you can,in her own words."

"I will repeat what she said to me, my dear, as faithfully as Ican. After speaking of her father's death, she told me that shehad only two relatives living. 'I have a married aunt in Glasgow,and a married aunt in London,' she said. 'When I left Edinburgh,I went to my aunt in London. She and my father had not been ongood terms together; she considered that my father had neglectedher. But his death had softened her toward him and toward me. Shereceived me kindly, and she got me a situation in a shop. I keptmy situation for three months, and then I was obliged to leaveit.'"

My mother paused. I thought directly of the strange postscriptwhich Mrs. Van Brandt had made me add to the letter that I wrotefor her at the Edinburgh inn. In that case also she had onlycontemplated remaining in her employment for three months' time.

"Why was she obliged to leave her situation?" I asked.

"I put that question to her myself," replied my mother. "She madeno direct reply--she changed color, and looked confused. 'I willtell you afterward, madam,' she said. 'Please let me go on now.My aunt was angry with me for leaving my employment--and she wasmore angry still, when I told her the reason. She said I hadfailed in duty toward her in not speaking frankly at first. Weparted coolly. I had saved a little money from my wages; and Idid well enough while my savings lasted. When they came to anend, I tried to get employment again, and I failed. My aunt said,and said truly, that her husband's income was barely enough tosupport his family: she could do nothing for me, and I could donothing for myself. I wrote to my aunt at Glasgow, and receivedno answer. Starvation stared me in the face, when I saw in anewspaper an advertisement addressed to me by Mr. Van Brandt. Heimplored me to write to him; he declared that his life without mewas too desolate to be endured; he solemnly promised that thereshould be no interruption to my tranquillity if I would return tohim. If I had only had myself to think of, I would have begged mybread in the streets rather than return to him--' "

I interrupted the narrative at that point.

"What other person could she have had to think of?" I said.

"Is it possible, George," my mother rejoined, "that you have nosuspicion of what she was alluding to when she said those words?"

The question passed by me unheeded: my thoughts were dwellingbitterly on Van Brandt and his advertisement. "She answered theadvertisement, of course?" I said.

"And she saw Mr. Van Brandt," my mother went on. "She gave me nodetailed account of the interview between them. 'He reminded me,'she said, 'of what I knew to be true--that the woman who hadentrapped him into marrying her was an incurable drunkard, andthat his ever living with her again was out of the question.Still she was alive, and she had a right to the name at least ofhis wife. I won't attempt to excuse my returning to him, knowingthe circumstances as I did. I will only say that I could see noother choice before me, in my position at the time. It isneedless to trouble you with what I have suffered since, or tospeak of what I may suffer still. I am a lost woman. Be under noalarm, madam, about your son. I shall remember proudly to the endof my life that he once offered me the honor and the happiness ofbecoming his wife; but I know what is due to him and to you. Ihave seen him for the last time. The one thing that remains to bedone is to satisfy him that our marriage is impossible. You are amother; you will understand why I reveal the obstacle whichstands between us--not to him, but to you.' She rose saying thosewords, and opened the folding-doors which led from the parlorinto a back room. After an absence of a few moments only, shereturned."

At that crowning point in the narrative, my mother stopped. Wasshe afraid to go on? or did she think it needless to say more?

"Well?" I said.

"Must I really tell it to you in words, George? Can't you guesshow it ended, even yet?"

There were two difficulties in the way of my understanding her. Ihad a man's bluntness of perception, and I was half maddened bysuspense. Incredible as it may appear, I was too dull to guessthe truth even now.

"When she returned to me," my mother resumed, "she was not alone.She had with her a lovely little girl, just old enough to walkwith the help of her mother's hand. She tenderly kissed thechild, and then she put it on my lap. 'There is my only comfort,'she said, simply; 'and there is the obstacle to my ever becomingMr. Germaine's wife.' "

Van Brandt's child! Van Brandt's child!

The postscript which she had made me add to my letter; theincomprehensible withdrawal from the employment in which she wasprospering; the disheartening difficulties which had brought herto the brink of starvation; the degrading return to the man whohad cruelly deceived her--all was explained, all was excused now!With an infant at the breast, how could she obtain a newemployment? With famine staring her in the face, what else couldthe friendless woman do but return to the father of her child?What claim had I on her, by comparison with _him_? What did itmatter, now that the poor creature secretly returned the lovethat I felt for her? There was the child, an obstacle betweenus--there was _his_ hold on her, now that he had got her back!What was _my_ hold worth? All social proprieties and all sociallaws answered the question: Nothing!

My head sunk on my breast; I received the blow in silence.

My good mother took my hand. "You understand it now, George?" shesaid, sorrowfully.

"Yes, mother; I understand it."

"There was one thing she wished me to say to you, my dear, whichI have not mentioned yet. She entreats you not to suppose thatshe had the faintest idea of her situation when she attempted todestroy herself. Her first suspicion that it was possible shemight become a mother was conveyed to her at Edinburgh, in aconversation with her aunt. It is impossible, George, not to feelcompassionately toward this poor woman. Regrettable as herposition is, I cannot see that she is to blame for it. She wasthe innocent victim of a vile fraud when that man married her;she has suffered undeservedly since; and she has behaved nobly toyou and to me. I only do her justice in saying that she is awoman in a thousand--a woman worthy, under happier circumstances,to be my daughter and your wife. I feel _for_ you, and feel_with_ you, my dear--I do, with my whole heart."

So this scene in my life was, to all appearance, a scene closedforever. As it had been with my love, in the days of my boyhood,so it was again now with the love of my riper age!

Later in the day, when I had in some degree recovered myself-possession, I wrote to Mr. Van Brandt--as _she_ had foreseenI should write!--to apologize for breaking my engagement to dinewith him.

Could I trust to a letter also, to say the farewell words for meto the woman whom I had loved and lost? No! It was better forher, and better for me, that I should not write. And yet the ideaof leaving her in silence was more than my fortitude couldendure. Her last words at parting (as they were repeated to me bymy mother) had expressed the hope that I should not think hardlyof her in the future. How could I assure her that I should thinkof her tenderly to the end of my life? My mother's delicate tactand true sympathy showed me the way. "Send a little present,George," she said, "to the child. You bear no malice to the poorlittle child?" God knows I was not hard on the child! I went outmyself and bought her a toy. I brought it home, and before I sentit away, I pinned a slip of paper to it, bearing thisinscription: "To your little daughter, from George Germaine."There is nothing very pathetic, I suppose, in those words. Andyet I burst out crying when I had written them.

The next morning my mother and I set forth for my country-housein Perthshire. London was now unendurable to me. Traveling abroadI had tried already. Nothing was left but to go back to theHighlands, and to try what I could make of my life, with mymother still left to live for.