THE TWO DESTINIES

by Wilkie Collins




The Prelude.

THE GUEST WRITES AND TELLS THE STORY OF THE DINNER PARTY.

MANY years have passed since my wife and I left the United States
to pay our first visit to England.

We were provided with letters of introduction, as a matter of
course. Among them there was a letter which had been written for
us by my wife's brother. It presented us to an English gentleman
who held a high rank on the list of his old and valued friends.

"You will become acquainted with Mr. George Germaine," my
brother-in-law said, when we took leave of him, "at a very
interesting period of his life. My last news of him tells me that
he is just married. I know nothing of the lady, or of the
circumstances under which my friend first met with her. But of
this I am certain: married or single, George Germaine will give
you and your wife a hearty welcome to England, for my sake."

The day after our arrival in London, we left our letter of
introduction at the house of Mr. Germaine.

The next morning we went to see a favorite object of American
interest, in the metropolis of England--the Tower of London. The
citizens of the United States find this relic of the good old
times of great use in raising their national estimate of the
value of republican institutions. On getting back to the hotel,
the cards of Mr. and Mrs. Germaine told us that they had already
returned our visit. The same evening we received an invitation to
dine with the newly married couple. It was inclosed in a little
note from Mrs. Germaine to my wife, warning us that we were not
to expect to meet a large party. "It is the first dinner we give,
on our return from our wedding tour" (the lady wrote); "and you
will only be introduced to a few of my husband's old friends."

In America, and (as I hear) on the continent of Europe also, when
your host invites you to dine at a given hour, you pay him the
compliment of arriving punctually at his house. In England alone,
the incomprehensible and discourteous custom prevails of keeping
the host and the dinner waiting for half an hour or more--without
any assignable reason and without any better excuse than the
purely formal apology that is implied in the words, "Sorry to be
late."

Arriving at the appointed time at the house of Mr. and Mrs.
Germaine, we had every reason to congratulate ourselves on the
ignorant punctuality which had brought us into the drawing-room
half an hour in advance of the other guests.

In the first place, there was so much heartiness, and so little
ceremony, in the welcome accorded to us, that we almost fancied
ourselves back in our own country. In the second place, both
husband and wife interested us the moment we set eyes on them.
The lady, especially, although she was not, strictly speaking, a
beautiful woman, quite fascinated us. There was an artless charm
in her face and manner, a simple grace in all her movements, a
low, delicious melody in her voice, which we Americans felt to be
simply irresistible. And then, it was so plain (and so pleasant)
to see that here at least was a happy marriage! Here were two
people who had all their dearest hopes, wishes, and sympathies in
common--who looked, if I may risk the expression, born to be man
and wife. By the time when the fashionable delay of the half hour
had expired, we were talking together as familiarly and as
confidentially as if we had been all four of us old friends.

Eight o'clock struck, and the first of the English guests
appeared.

Having forgotten this gentleman's name, I must beg leave to
distinguish him by means of a letter of the alphabet. Let me call
him Mr. A. When he entered the room alone, our host and hostess
both started, and both looked surprised. Apparently they expected
him to be accompanied by some other person. Mr. Germaine put a
curious question to his friend.

"Where is your wife?" he asked.

Mr. A answered for the absent lady by a neat little apology,
expressed in these words:

"She has got a bad cold. She is very sorry. She begs me to make
her excuses."

He had just time to deliver his message, before another
unaccompanied gentleman appeared. Reverting to the letters of the
alphabet, let me call him Mr. B. Once more, I noticed that our
host and hostess started when they saw him enter the room alone.
And, rather to my surprise, I heard Mr. Germaine put his curious
question again to the new guest:

"Where is your wife?"



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