stood by the fire like a man entranced; thinking only of her
spoken words, "Remember me. Come to me;" looking only at her
mystic writing, "At the month's end, In the shadow of Saint
Paul's."

The month's end was still far off; the apparition of her had
shown itself to me, under some subtle prevision of trouble that
was still in the future. Ample time was before me for the
pilgrimage to which I was self-dedicated already--my pilgrimage
to the shadow of Saint Paul's. Other men, in my position, might
have hesitated as to the right understanding of the place to
which they were bidden. Other men might have wearied their
memories by recalling the churches, the institutions, the
streets, the towns in foreign countries, all consecrated to
Christian reverence by the great apostle's name, and might have
fruitlessly asked themselves in which direction they were first
to turn their steps. No such difficulty troubled me. My first
conclusion was the one conclusion that was acceptable to my mind.
"Saint Paul's" meant the famous Cathedral of London. Where the
shadow of the great church fell, there, at the month's end, I
should find her, or the trace of her. In London once more, and
nowhere else, I was destined to see the woman I loved, in the
living body, as certainly as I had just seen her in the ghostly
presence.

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

Those questions were still present to my thoughts; my eyes were
still fixed on the mysterious writing--when I became
instinctively aware of the strange silence in the room. Instantly
the lost remembrance of Miss Dunross came back to me. Stung by my
own sense of self-reproach, I turned with a start, and looked
toward 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? Because
she 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 to
me. I rang my bell, to make inquiries.

The bell was answered, not, as usua l, by the silent servant
Peter, but by a woman of middle age, very quietly and neatly
dressed, whom I had once or twice met on the way to and from my
room, and of whose exact position in the house I was still
ignorant.

"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 was
the first time Miss Dunross had communicated with me in that
formal way. I tried to gain further information by questioning
her 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 message
to her?"

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

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

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


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

"Putting together what you have told me of the visionary creature
whom you saw in the summer-house in Scotland, and what you said
when you questioned me in your room a little while since, I
cannot fail to infer that the same vision has shown itself to
you, for the second time. The fear that I felt, the strange
things that I saw (or thought I saw), may have been imperfect
reflections in my mind of what was passing in yours. I do not
stop to inquire whether we are both the victims of a delusion, or
whether we are the chosen recipients of a supernatural
communication. The result, in either case, is enough for me. You


<< previous page | next page >>

Jump to page: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 | 68 | 69 | 70 | 71 | 72 | 73 | 74 | 75 | 76 | 77 | 78 | 79 | 80 | 81 | 82 | 83 | 84 | 85 | 86 | 87 | 88 | 89 | 90 | 91 | 92 | 93 | 94 | 95 | 96 | 97 | 98 | 99 | 100 | 101 | 102 | 103 |