SHE had need of me again. She had claimed me again. I felt allthe old love, all the old devotion owning her power once more.Whatever had mortified or angered me at our last interview wasforgiven and forgotten now. My whole being still thrilled withthe mingled awe and rapture of beholding the Vision of her thathad come to me for the second time. The minutes passed--and Istood by the fire like a man entranced; thinking only of herspoken words, "Remember me. Come to me;" looking only at hermystic writing, "At the month's end, In the shadow of SaintPaul's."

The month's end was still far off; the apparition of her hadshown itself to me, under some subtle prevision of trouble thatwas still in the future. Ample time was before me for thepilgrimage to which I was self-dedicated already--my pilgrimageto the shadow of Saint Paul's. Other men, in my position, mighthave hesitated as to the right understanding of the place towhich they were bidden. Other men might have wearied theirmemories by recalling the churches, the institutions, thestreets, the towns in foreign countries, all consecrated toChristian reverence by the great apostle's name, and might havefruitlessly asked themselves in which direction they were firstto turn their steps. No such difficulty troubled me. My firstconclusion was the one conclusion that was acceptable to my mind."Saint Paul's" meant the famous Cathedral of London. Where theshadow of the great church fell, there, at the month's end, Ishould find her, or the trace of her. In London once more, andnowhere else, I was destined to see the woman I loved, in theliving body, as certainly as I had just seen her in the ghostlypresence.

Who could interpret the mysterious sympathies that still unitedus, in defiance of distance, in defiance of time? Who couldpredict to what end our lives were tending in the years that wereto come?

Those questions were still present to my thoughts; my eyes werestill fixed on the mysterious writing--when I becameinstinctively aware of the strange silence in the room. Instantlythe lost remembrance of Miss Dunross came back to me. Stung by myown sense of self-reproach, I turned with a start, and lookedtoward her chair by the window.

The chair was empty. I was alone in the room.

Why had she left me secretly, without a word of farewell? Becauseshe was suffering, in mind or body? Or because she resented,naturally resented, my neglect of her?

The bare suspicion that I had given her pain was intolerable tome. I rang my bell, to make inquiries.

The bell was answered, not, as usua l, by the silent servantPeter, but by a woman of middle age, very quietly and neatlydressed, whom I had once or twice met on the way to and from myroom, and of whose exact position in the house I was stillignorant.

"Do you wish to see Peter?" she asked.

"No. I wish to know where Miss Dunross is."

"Miss Dunross is in her room. She has sent me with this letter."

I took the letter, feeling some surprise and uneasiness. It wasthe first time Miss Dunross had communicated with me in thatformal way. I tried to gain further information by questioningher messenger.

"Are you Miss Dunross's maid?" I asked.

"I have served Miss Dunross for many years," was the answer,spoken very ungraciously.

"Do you think she would receive me if I sent you with a messageto her?"

"I can't say, sir. The letter may tell you. You will do well toread the letter."

We looked at each other. The woman's preconceived impression ofme was evidently an unfavorable one. Had I indeed pained oroffended Miss Dunross? And had the servant--perhaps the faithfulservant who loved her--discovered and resented it? The womanfrowned as she looked at me. It would be a mere waste of words topersist in questioning her. I let her go.

Left by myself again, I read the letter. It began, without anyform of address, in these lines:

"I write, instead of speaking to you, because my self-control hasalready been severely tried, and I am not strong enough to bearmore. For my father's sake--not for my own--I must take all thecare I can of the little health that I have left.

"Putting together what you have told me of the visionary creaturewhom you saw in the summer-house in Scotland, and what you saidwhen you questioned me in your room a little while since, Icannot fail to infer that the same vision has shown itself toyou, for the second time. The fear that I felt, the strangethings that I saw (or thought I saw), may have been imperfectreflections in my mind of what was passing in yours. I do notstop to inquire whether we are both the victims of a delusion, orwhether we are the chosen recipients of a supernaturalcommunication. The result, in either case, is enough for me. Youare once more under the influence of Mrs. Van Brandt. I will nottrust myself to tell you of the anxieties and forebodings bywhich I am oppressed: I will only acknowledge that my one hopefor you is in your speedy reunion with the worthier object ofyour constancy and devotion. I still believe, and I am consoledin believing, that you and your first love will meet again.

"Having written so far, I leave the subject--not to return to it,except in my own thoughts.

"The necessary preparations for your departure to-morrow are allmade. Nothing remains but to wish you a safe and pleasant journeyhome. Do not, I entreat you, think me insensible of what I owe toyou, if I say my farewell words here.

"The little services which you have allowed me to render you havebrightened the closing days of my life. You have left me atreasury of happy memories which I shall hoard, when you aregone, with miserly care. Are you willing to add new claims to mygrateful remembrance? I ask it of you, as a last favor--do notattempt to see me again! Do not expect me to take a personalleave of you! The saddest of all words is 'Good-by': I havefortitude enough to write it, and no more. God preserve andprosper you--farewell!

"One more request. I beg that you will not forget what youpromised me, when I told you my foolish fancy about the greenflag. Wherever you go, let Mary's keepsake go with you. Nowritten answer is necessary--I would rather not receive it. Lookup, when you leave the house to-morrow, at the center window overthe doorway--that will be answer enough."

To say that these melancholy lines brought the tears into my eyesis only to acknowledge that I had sympathies which could betouched. When I had in some degree recovered my composure, theimpulse which urged me to write to Miss Dunross was too strong tobe resisted. I did not trouble her with a long letter; I onlyentreated her to reconsider her decision with all the art ofpersuasion which I could summon to help me. The answer wasbrought back by the servant who waited on Miss Dunross, in fourresolute words: "It can not be." This time the woman spoke outbefore she left me. "If you have any regard for my mistress," shesaid sternly, "don't make her write to you again." She looked atme with a last lowering frown, and left the room.

It is needless to say that the faithful servant's words onlyincreased my anxiety to see Miss Dunross once more before weparted--perhaps forever. My one last hope of success in attainingthis object lay in approaching her indirectly through theintercession of her father.

I sent Peter to inquire if I might be permitted to pay myrespects to his master that evening. My messenger returned withan answer that was a new disappointment to me. Mr. Dunross beggedthat I would excuse him, if he deferred the proposed interviewuntil the next morning. The next morning was the morning of mydeparture. Did the message mean that he had no wish to see meagain until the time had come to take leave of him? I inquired ofPeter whether his master was particularly occupied that evening.He was unable to tell me. "The Master of Books" was not in hisstudy, as usual. When he sent his message to me, he was sittingby the sofa in his daughter's room.

Having answered in those terms, the man left me by myself untilthe next morning. I do not wish my bitterest enemy a sadder timein his life than the time I passed during the last night of myresidence under Mr. Dunross's roof.

After walking to and fro in the room until I was weary, I thoughtof trying to divert my mind from the sad thoughts that oppressedit by reading. The one candle which I had lighted failed tosufficiently illuminate the room. Advancing to the mantel-pieceto light the second candle which stood there, I noticed theunfinished letter to my mother lying where I had placed it, whenMiss Dunross's servant first presented herself before me. Havinglighted the second candle, I took up the letter to put it awayamong my other papers. Doing this (while my thoughts were stilldwelling on Miss Dunross), I mechanically looked at the letteragain--and instantly discovered a change in it.

The written characters traced by the hand of the apparition hadvanished! Below the last lines written by Miss Dunross nothingmet my eyes now but the blank white paper!

My first impulse was to look at my watch.

When the ghostly presence had written in my sketch-book, thecharacters had disappeared after an interval of three hours. Onthis occasion, as nearly as I could calculate, the writing hadvanished in one hour only.

Reverting to the conversation which I had held with Mrs. VanBrandt when we met at Saint Anthony's Well, and to thediscoveries which followed at a later period of my life, I canonly repeat that she had again been the subject of a trance ordream, when the apparition of her showed itself to me for thesecond time. As before, she had freely trusted me and freelyappealed to me to help her, in the dreaming state, when herspirit was free to recognize my spirit. When she had come toherself, after an interval of an hour, she had again felt ashamedof the familiar manner in which she had communicated with me inthe trance--had again unconsciously counteracted by herwaking-will the influence of her sleeping-will; and had thuscaused the writing once more to disappear, in an hour from themoment when the pen had traced (or seemed to trace) it.

This is still the one explanation that I can offer. At the timewhen the incident happened, I was far from being fully admittedto the confidence of Mrs. Van Brandt; and I was necessarilyincapable of arriving at any solution of the mystery, right orwrong. I could only put away the letter, doubting vaguely whethermy own senses had not deceived me. After the distressing thoughtswhich Miss Dunross's letter had roused in my mind, I was in nohumor to employ my ingenuity in finding a clew to the mystery ofthe vanished writing. My ner ves were irritated; I felt a senseof angry discontent with myself and with others. "Go where I may"(I thought impatiently), "the disturbing influence of women seemsto be the only influence that I am fated to feel." As I stillpaced backward and forward in my room--it was useless to thinknow of fixing my attention on a book--I fancied I understood themotives which made men as young as I was retire to end theirlives in a monastery. I drew aside the window curtains, andlooked out. The only prospect that met my view was the black gulfof darkness in which the lake lay hidden. I could see nothing; Icould do nothing; I could think of nothing. The one alternativebefore me was that of trying to sleep. My medical knowledge toldme plainly that natural sleep was, in my nervous condition, oneof the unattainable luxuries of life for that night. Themedicine-chest which Mr. Dunross had placed at my disposalremained in the room. I mixed for myself a strong sleepingdraught, and sullenly took refuge from my troubles in bed.

It is a peculiarity of most of the soporific drugs that they notonly act in a totally different manner on differentconstitutions, but that they are not even to be depended on toact always in the same manner on the same person. I had takencare to extinguish the candles before I got into my bed. Underordinary circumstances, after I had lain quietly in the darknessfor half an hour, the draught that I had taken would have sent meto sleep. In the present state of my nerves the draught stupefiedme, and did no more.

Hour after hour I lay perfectly still, with my eyes closed, inthe semi-sleeping, semi-wakeful state which is so curiouslycharacteristic of the ordinary repose of a dog. As the night woreon, such a sense of heaviness oppressed my eyelids that it wasliterally impossible for me to open them--such a masterfullanguor possessed all my muscles that I could no more move on mypillow than if I had been a corpse. And yet, in this somnolentcondition, my mind was able to pursue lazy trains of pleasantthought. My sense of hearing was so acute that it caught thefaintest sounds made by the passage of the night-breeze throughthe rushes of the lake. Inside my bed-chamber, I was even morekeenly sensible of those weird night-noises in the heavyfurniture of a room, of those sudden settlements of extinct coalsin the grate, so familiar to bad sleepers, so startling tooverwrought nerves! It is not a scientifically correct statement,but it exactly describes my condition, that night, to say thatone half of me was asleep and the other half awake.

How many hours of the night had passed, when my irritable senseof hearing became aware of a new sound in the room, I cannottell. I can only relate that I found myself on a sudden listeningintently, with fast-closed eyes. The sound that disturbed me wasthe faintest sound imaginable, as of something soft and lighttraveling slowly over the surface of the carpet, and brushing itjust loud enough to be heard.

Little by little, the sound came nearer and nearer to my bed--andthen suddenly stopped just as I fancied it was close by me.

I still lay immovable, with closed eyes; drowsily waiting for thenext sound that might reach my ears; drowsily content with thesilence, if the silence continued. My thoughts (if thoughts theycould be called) were drifting back again into their formercourse, when I became suddenly conscious of soft breathing justabove me. The next moment I felt a touch on my forehead--light,soft, tremulous, like the touch of lips that had kissed me. Therewas a momentary pause. Then a low sigh trembled through thesilence. Then I heard again the still, small sound of somethingbrushing its way over the carpet; traveling this time _from_ mybed, and moving so rapidly that in a moment more it was lost inthe silence of the night.

Still stupefied by the drug that I had taken, I could lazilywonder what had happened, and I could do no more. Had living lipsreally touched me? Was the sound that I had heard really thesound of a sigh? Or was it all delusion, beginning and ending ina dream? The time passed without my deciding, or caring todecide, those questions. Minute by minute, the composinginfluence of the draught began at last to strengthen its hold onmy brain. A cloud seemed to pass softly over my last wakingimpressions. One after another, the ties broke gently that heldme to conscious life. I drifted peacefully into perfect sleep.

Shortly after sunrise, I awoke. When I regained the use of mymemory, my first clear recollection was the recollection of thesoft breathing which I had felt above me--then of the touch on myforehead, and of the sigh which I had heard after it. Was itpossible that some one had entered my room in the night? It wasquite possible. I had not locked the door--I had never been inthe habit of locking the door during my residence under Mr.Dunross's roof.

After thinking it over a little, I rose to examine my room.

Nothing in the shape of a discovery rewarded me, until I reachedthe door. Though I had not locked it overnight, I had certainlysatisfied myself that it was closed before I went to bed. It wasnow ajar. Had it opened again, through being imperfectly shut? orhad a person, after entering and leaving my room, forgotten toclose it?

Accidentally looking downward while I was weighing theseprobabilities, I noticed a small black object on the carpet,lying just under the key, on the inner side of the door. I pickedthe thing up, and found that it was a torn morsel of black lace.

The instant I saw the fragment, I was reminded of the long blackveil, hanging below her waist, which it was the habit of MissDunross to wear. Was it _her_ dress, then, that I had heardsoftly traveling over the carpet; _her_ kiss that had touched myforehead; _her_ sigh that had trembled through the silence? Hadthe ill-fated and noble creature taken her last leave of me inthe dead of night, trusting the preservation of her secret to thedeceitful appearances which persuaded her that I was asleep? Ilooked again at the fragment of black lace. Her long veil mighteasily have been caught, and torn, by the projecting key, as shepassed rapidly through the door on her way out of my room. Sadlyand reverently I laid the morsel of lace among the treasuredmemorials which I had brought with me from home. To the end ofher life, I vowed it, she should be left undisturbed in thebelief that her secret was safe in her own breast! Ardently as Istill longed to take her hand at parting, I now resolved to makeno further effort to see her. I might not be master of my ownemotions; something in my face or in my manner might betray me toher quick and delicate perception. Knowing what I now knew, thelast sacrifice I could make to her would be to obey her wishes. Imade the sacrifice.

In an hour more Peter informed me that the ponies were at thedoor, and that the Master was waiting for me in the outer hall.

I noticed that Mr. Dunross gave me his hand, without looking atme. His faded blue eyes, during the few minutes while we weretogether, were not once raised from the ground.

"God speed you on your journey, sir, and guide you safely home,"he said. "I beg you to forgive me if I fail to accompany you onthe first few miles of your journey. There are reasons whichoblige me to remain with my daughter in the house."

He was scrupulously, almost painfully, courteous; but there wassomething in his manner which, for the first time in myexperience, seemed designedly to keep me at a distance from him.Knowing the intimate sympathy, the perfect confidence, whichexisted between the father and daughter, a doubt crossed my mindwhether the secret of the past night was entirely a secret to Mr.Dunross. His next words set that doubt at rest, and showed me thetruth.

In thanking him for his good wishes, I attempted also to expressto him (and through him to Miss Dunross) my sincere sense ofgratitude for the kindness which I had received under his roof.He stopped me, politely and resolutely, speaking with thatquaintly precise choice of language which I h ad remarked ascharacteristic of him at our first interview.

"It is in your power, sir," he said, "to return any obligationwhich you may think you have incurred on leaving my house. If youwill be pleased to consider your residence here as an unimportantepisode in your life, which ends--_absolutely_ ends--with yourdeparture, you will more than repay any kindness that you mayhave received as my guest. In saying this, I speak under a senseof duty which does entire justice to you as a gentleman and a manof honor. In return, I can only trust to you not to misjudge mymotives, if I abstain from explaining myself any further."

A faint color flushed his pale cheeks. He waited, with a certainproud resignation, for my reply. I respected her secret,respected it more resolutely than ever, before her father.

"After all that I owe to you, sir," I answered, "your wishes aremy commands." Saying that, and saying no more, I bowed to himwith marked respect, and left the house.

Mounting my pony at the door, I looked up at the center window,as she had bidden me. It was open; but dark curtains, jealouslyclosed, kept out the light from the room within. At the sound ofthe pony's hoofs on the rough island road, as the animal moved,the curtains were parted for a few inches only. Through the gapin the dark draperies a wan white hand appeared; wavedtremulously a last farewell; and vanished from my view. Thecurtains closed again on her dark and solitary life. The drearywind sounded its long, low dirge over the rippling waters of thelake. The ponies took their places in the ferryboat which waskept for the passage of animals to and from the island. Withslow, regular strokes the men rowed us to the mainland and tooktheir leave. I looked back at the distant house. I thought of herin the dark room, waiting patiently for death. Burning tearsblinded me. The guide took my bridle in his hand: "You're notwell, sir," he said; "I will lead the pony."

When I looked again at the landscape round me, we had descendedin the interval from the higher ground to the lower. The houseand the lake had disappeared, to be seen no more.