A CRY of terror from the room told me that I had been heard. Fora moment more nothing happened. Then the child's voice reachedme, wild and shrill: "Open the shutters, mamma! I said he wascoming--I want to see him!"

There was still an interval of hesitation before the motheropened the shutters. She did it at last. I saw her darkly at thewindow, with the light behind her, and the child's head justvisible above the lower part of the window-frame. The quaintlittle face moved rapidly up and down, as if my self-appointeddaughter were dancing for joy!

"Can I trust my own senses?" said Mrs. Van Brandt. "Is it reallyMr. Germaine?"

"How do you do, new papa?" cried the child. "Push open the bigdoor and come in. I want to kiss you."

There was a world of difference between the coldly doubtful toneof the mother and the joyous greeting of the child. Had I forcedmyself too suddenly on Mrs. Van Brandt? Like all sensitivelyorganized persons, she possessed that inbred sense ofself-respect which is pride under another name. Was her pridewounded at the bare idea of my seeing her, deserted as well asdeceived--abandoned contemptuously, a helpless burden onstrangers--by the man for whom she had sacrificed and suffered somuch? And that man a thief, flying from the employers whom he hadcheated! I pushed open the heavy oaken street-door, fearing thatthis might be the true explanation of the change which I hadalready remarked in her. My apprehensions were confirmed when sheunlocked the inner door, leading from the courtyard to thesitting-room, and let me in.

As I took her by both hands and kissed her, she turned her head,so that my lips touched her cheek only. She flushed deeply; hereyes looked away from me as she spoke her few formal words ofwelcome. When the child flew into my arms, she cried out,irritably, "Don't trouble Mr. Germaine!" I took a chair, with thelittle one on my knee. Mrs. Van Brandt seated herself at adistance from me. "It is needless, I suppose, to ask you if youknow what has happened," she said, turning pale again as suddenlyas she had turned red, and keeping her eyes fixed obstinately onthe floor.

Before I could answer, the child burst out with the news of herfather's disappearance in these words:

"My other papa has run away! My other papa has stolen money! It'stime I had a new one, isn't it?" She put her arms round my neck."And now I've got him!" she cried, at the shrillest pitch of hervoice.

The mother looked at us. For a while, the proud, sensitive womanstruggled successfully with herself; but the pang that wrung herwas not to be endured in silence. With a low cry of pain, she hidher face in her hands. Overwhelmed by the sense of her owndegradation, she was even ashamed to let the man who loved hersee that she was in tears.

I took the child off my knee. There was a second door in thesitting-room, which happened to be left open. It showed me abed-chamber within, and a candle burning on the toilet-table.

"Go in there and play," I said. "I want to talk to your mamma."

The child pouted: my proposal did not appear to tempt her. "Giveme something to play with," she said. "I'm tired of my toys. Letme see what you have got in your pockets."

Her busy little hands began to search in my coat-pockets. I lether take what she pleased, and so bribed her to run away into theinner room. As soon as she was out of sight, I approached thepoor mother and seated myself by her side.

"Think of it as I do," I said. "Now that he has forsaken you, hehas left you free to be mine."

She lifted her head instantly; her eyes flashed through hertears.

"Now that he has forsaken me," she answered, "I am more unworthyof you than ever!"

"Why?" I asked.

"Why!" she repeated, passionately. "Has a woman not reached thelowest depths of degradation when she has lived to be deserted bya thief?"

It was hopeless to attempt to reason with her in her presentframe of mind. I tried to attract her attention to a less painfulsubject by referring to the strange succession of events whichhad brought me to her for the third time. She stopped meimpatiently at the outset.

"It seems useless to say once more what we have said on otheroccasions," she answered. "I understand what has brought youhere. Ihave appeared to you again in a vision, just as I appeared toyou twice before."

"No," I said. "Not as you appeared to me twice before. This timeI saw you with the child by your side."

That reply roused her. She started, and looked nervously towardthe bed-chamber door.

"Don't speak loud!" she said. "Don't let the child hear us! Mydream of you this time has left a painful impression on my mind.The child is mixed up in it--and I don't like that. Then theplace in which I saw you is associated--" She paused, leaving thesentence unfinished. "I am nervous and wretched to-night," sheresumed; "and I don't want to speak of it. And yet, I should liketo know whether my dream has misled me, or whether you reallywere in that cottage, of all places in the world?"

I was at a loss to understand the embarrassment which sheappeared to feel in putting her question. There was nothing verywonderful, to my mind, in the discovery that she had been inSuffolk, and that she was acquainted with Greenwater Broad. Thelake was known all over the county as a favorite resort of picnicparties; and Dermody's pretty cottage used to be one of thepopular attractions of the scene. What really surprised me was tosee, as I now plainly saw, that she had some painful associationwith my old home. I decided on answering her question in suchterms as might encourage her to take me into her confidence. In amoment more I should have told her that my boyhood had beenpassed at Greenwater Broad--in a moment more, we should haverecognized each other--when a trivial interruption suspended thewords on my lips. The child ran out of the bed-chamber, with aquaintly shaped key in her hand. It was one of the things she hadtaken out of my pockets. and it belonged to the cabin door onboard the boat. A sudden fit of curiosity (the insatiablecuriosity of a child) had seized her on the subject of this key.She insisted on knowing what door it locked; and, when I hadsatisfied her on that point, she implored me to take herimmediately to see the boat. This entreaty led naturally to arenewal of the disputed question of going, or not going, to bed.By the time the little creature had left us again, withpermission to play for a few minutes longer, the conversationbetween Mrs. Van Brandt and myself had taken a new direction.Speaking now of the child's health, we were led naturally to thekindred subject of the child's connection with her mother'sdream.

"She had been ill with fever," Mrs. Van Brandt began; "and shewas just getting better again on the day when I was left desertedin this miserable place. Toward evening, she had another attackthat frightened me dreadfully. She became perfectlyinsensible--her little limbs were stiff and cold. There is onedoctor here who has not yet abandoned the town. Of course I sentfor him. He thought her insensibility was caused by a sort ofcataleptic seizure. At the same time, he comforted me by sayingthat she was in no immediate danger of death; and he left mecertain remedies to be given, if certain symptoms appeared. Itook her to bed, and held her to me, with the idea of keeping herwarm. Without believing in mesmerism, it has since struck me thatwe might unconsciously have had some influence over each other,which may explain what followed. Do you think it likely?"

"Quite likely. At the same time, the mesmeric theory (if youcould believe in it) would carry the explanation further still.Mesmerism would assert, not only that you and the childinfluenced each other, but that--in spite of the distance--youboth influenced _me_. And in that way, mesmerism would accountfor my vision as the necessary result of a highly developedsympathy between us. Tell me, did you fall asleep with the childin your arms?"

"Yes. I was completely worn out; and I fell asleep, in spite ofmy resolution to watch through the night. In my forlornsituation, forsaken in a strange place, I dreamed of you again,and I appealed to you again as my one protector and friend. Theonly new thing in the dream was, that I thought I had the childwith me when I approached you, and that the child put the wordsinto my mind when I wrote in your book. You saw the words, Isuppose? and they vanished, as before, no doubt, when I awoke? Ifound the child still lying, like a dead creature, in my arms.All through the night there was no change in her. She onlyrecovered her senses at noon the next day. Why do you start? Whathave I said that surprises you?"

There was good reason for my feeling startled, and showing it. Onthe day and at the hour when the child had come to herself, I hadstood on the deck of the vessel, and had seen the apparition ofher disappear from my view.

"Did she say anything," I asked, "when she recovered her senses?"

"Yes. She too had been dreaming--dreaming that she was in companywith you. She said: 'He is coming to see us, mamma; and I havebeen showing him the way.' I asked her where she had seen you.She spoke confusedly of more places than one. She talked oftrees, and a cottage, and a lake; then of fields and hedges, andlonely lanes; then of a carriage and horses, and a long whiteroad; then of crowded streets and houses, and a river and a ship.As to these last objects, there is nothing very wonderful in whatshe said. The houses, the river, and the ship which she saw inher dream, she saw in the reality when we took her from London toRotterdam, on our way here. But as to the other places,especially the cottage and the lake (as she described them) I canonly suppose that her dream was the reflection of mine. _I_ hadbeen dreaming of the cottage and the lake, as I once knew them inyears long gone by; and--Heaven only knows why--I had associatedyou with the scene. Never mind going into that now! I don't knowwhat infatuation it is that makes me trifle in this way with oldrecollections, which affect me painfully in my present position.We were talking of the child's health; let us go back to that."

It was not easy to return to the topic of her child's health. Shehad revived my curiosity on the subject of her association withGreenwater Broad. The child was still quietly at play in thebedchamber. My second opportunity was before me. I took it.

"I won't distress you," I began. "I will only ask leave, beforewe change the subject, to put one question to you about thecottage and the lake."

As the fatality that pursued us willed it, it was _her_ turn nowto be innocently an obstacle in the way of our discovering eachother.

"I can tell you nothing more to-night," she interposed, risingimpatiently. "It is time I put the child to bed--and, besides, Ican't talk of things that distress me. You must wait for thetime--if it ever comes!--when I am calmer and happier than I amnow."

She turned to enter the bed-chamber. Acting headlong on theimpulse of the moment, I took her by the hand and stopped her.

"You have only to choose," I said, "and the calmer and happiertime is yours from this moment."

"Mine?" she repeated. "What do you mean?"

"Say the word," I replied, "and you and your child have a homeand a future before you."

She looked at me half bewildered, half angry.

"Do you offer me your protection?" she asked.

"I offer you a husband's protection," I answered. "I ask you tobe my wife."

She advanced a step nearer to me, with her eyes riveted on myface.

"You are evidently ignorant of what has really happened," shesaid. "And yet, God knows, the child spoke plainly enough!"

"The child only told me," I rejoined, "what I had heard already,on my way here."

"All of it?"

"All of it."

"And you still ask me to be your wife?"

"I can imagine no greater happiness than to make you my wife."

"Knowing what you know now?"

"Knowing what I know now, I ask you confidently to give me yourhand. Whatever claim that man may once have had, as the father ofyour child, he has now forfeited it by his infamous desertion ofyou. In every sense of the word, my darling, you are a freewoman. We have had sorrow enough in our lives. Happiness is atlast within our reach. Come to me, and say Yes."

I tried to take her in my arms. She drewback as if I had frightened her.

"Never!" she said, firmly.

I whispered my next words, so that the child in the inner roommight not hear us.

"You once said you loved me!"

"I do love you!"

"As dearly as ever?"

"_More_ dearly than ever!"

"Kiss me!"

She yielded mechanically; she kissed me--with cold lips, with bigtears in her eyes.

"You don't love me!" I burst out, angrily. "You kiss me as if itwere a duty. Your lips are cold--your heart is cold. You don'tlove me!"

She looked at me sadly, with a patient smile.

"One of us must remember the difference between your position andmine," she said. "You are a man of stainless honor, who holds anundisputed rank in the world. And what am I? I am the desertedmistress of a thief. One of us must remember that. You havegenerously forgotten it. I must bear it in mind. I dare say I amcold. Suffering has that effect on me; and, I own it, I amsuffering now."

I was too passionately in love with her to feel the sympathy onwhich she evidently counted in saying those words. A man canrespect a woman's scruples when they appeal to him mutely in herlooks or in her tears; but the formal expression of them in wordsonly irritates or annoys him.

"Whose fault is it that you suffer?" I retorted, coldly. "I askyou to make my life a happy one, and your life a happy one. Youare a cruelly wronged woman, but you are not a degraded woman.You are worthy to be my wife, and I am ready to declare itpublicly. Come back with me to England. My boat is waiting foryou; we can set sail in two hours."

She dropped into a chair; her hands fell helplessly into her lap.

"How cruel!" she murmured, "how cruel to tempt me!" She waited alittle, and recovered her fatal firmness. "No!" she said. "If Idie in doing it, I can still refuse to disgrace you. Leave me,Mr. Germaine. You can show me that one kindness more. For God'ssake, leave me!"

I made a last appeal to her tenderness.

"Do you know what my life is if I live without you?" I asked. "Mymother is dead. There is not a living creature left in the worldwhom I love but you. And you ask me to leave you! Where am I togo to? what am I to do? You talk of cruelty! Is there no crueltyin sacrificing the happiness of my life to a miserable scruple ofdelicacy, to an unreasoning fear of the opinion of the world? Ilove you and you love me. There is no other consideration worth astraw. Come back with me to England! come back and be my wife!"

She dropped on her knees, and taking my hand put it silently toher lips. I tried to raise her. It was useless: she steadilyresisted me.

"Does this mean No?" I asked.

"It means," she said in faint, broken tones, "that I prize yourhonor beyond my happiness. If I marry you, your career isdestroyed by your wife; and the day will come when you will tellme so. I can suffer--I can die; but I can _not_ face such aprospect as that. Forgive me and forget me. I can say no more!"

She let go of my hand, and sank on the floor. The utter despairof that action told me, far more eloquently than the words whichshe had just spoken, that her resolution was immovable. She haddeliberately separated herself from me; her own act had parted usforever.