Уилки Коллинз - The Two Destinies

“Is that the surprise?” I whispered.

Mary whispered back: “Guess what it is?”

“Something for me?”

“Yes. Go on guessing. What is it?”

I guessed three times, and each guess was wrong. Mary decided on helping me by a hint.

“Say your letters,” she suggested; “and go on till I stop you.”

I began: “A, B, C, D, E, F—” There she stopped me.

“It’s the name of a Thing,” she said; “and it begins with F.”

I guessed, “Fern,” “Feather,” “Fife.” And here my resources failed me.

Mary sighed, and shook her head. “You don’t take pains,” she said. “You are three whole years older than I am. After all the trouble I have taken to please you, you may be too big to care for my present when you see it. Guess again.”

“I can’t guess.”

“You must!”

“I give it up.”

Mary refused to let me give it up. She helped me by another hint.

“What did you once say you wished you had in your boat?” she asked.

“Was it long ago?” I inquired, at a loss for an answer.

“Long, long ago! Before the winter. When the autumn leaves were falling, and you took me out one evening for a sail. Ah, George, you have forgotten!”

Too true, of me and of my brethren, old and young alike! It is always his love that forgets, and her love that remembers. We were only two children, and we were types of the man and the woman already.

Mary lost patience with me. Forgetting the terrible presence of her grandmother, she jumped up, and snatched the concealed object out of her handkerchief.

“There!” she cried, briskly, “ now do you know what it is?”

I remembered at last. The thing I had wished for in my boat, all those months ago, was a new flag. And here was the flag, made for me in secret by Mary’s own hand! The ground was green silk, with a dove embroidered on it in white, carrying in its beak the typical olive-branch, wrought in gold thread. The work was the tremulous, uncertain work of a child’s fingers. But how faithfully my little darling had remembered my wish! how patiently she had plied the needle over the traced lines of the pattern! how industriously she had labored through the dreary winter days! and all for my sake! What words could tell my pride, my gratitude, my happiness?

I too forgot the presence of the Sibyl bending over her book. I took the little workwoman in my arms, and kissed her till I was fairly out of breath and could kiss no longer.

“Mary!” I burst out, in the first heat of my enthusiasm, “my father is coming home to-day. I will speak to him to-night. And I will marry you to-morrow!”

“Boy!” said the awful voice at the other end of the room. “Come here.”

Dame Dermody’s mystic book was closed; Dame Dermody’s weird black eyes were watching us in our corner. I approached her; and Mary followed me timidly, by a footstep at a time.

The Sibyl took me by the hand, with a caressing gentleness which was new in my experience of her.

“Do you prize that toy?” she inquired, looking at the flag. “Hide it!” she cried, before I could answer. “Hide it—or it may be taken from you!”

“Why should I hide it?” I asked. “I want to fly it at the mast of my boat.”

“You will never fly it at the mast of your boat!” With that answer she took the flag from me and thrust it impatiently into the breast-pocket of my jacket.

“Don’t crumple it, grandmother!” said Mary, piteously.

I repeated my question:

“Why shall I never fly it at the mast of my boat?”

Dame Dermody laid her hand on the closed volume of Swedenborg lying in her lap.

“Three times I have opened this book since the morning,” she said. “Three times the words of the prophet warn me that there is trouble coming. Children, it is trouble that is coming to You. I look there,” she went on, pointing to the place where a ray of sunlight poured slanting into the room, “and I see my husband in the heavenly light. He bows his head in grief, and he points his unerring hand at You. George and Mary, you are consecrated to each other! Be always worthy of your consecration; be always worthy of yourselves.” She paused. Her voice faltered. She looked at us with softening eyes, as those look who know sadly that there is a parting at hand. “Kneel!” she said, in low tones of awe and grief. “It may be the last time I bless you—it may be the last time I pray over you, in this house. Kneel!”

We knelt close together at her feet. I could feel Mary’s heart throbbing, as she pressed nearer and nearer to my side. I could feel my own heart quickening its beat, with a fear that was a mystery to me.

“God bless and keep George and Mary, here and hereafter! God prosper, in future days, the union which God’s wisdom has willed! Amen. So be it. Amen.”

As the last words fell from her lips the cottage door was thrust open. My father—followed by the bailiff—entered the room.

Dame Dermody got slowly on her feet, and looked at him with a stern scrutiny.

“It has come,” she said to herself. “It looks with the eyes—it will speak with the voice—of that man.”

My father broke the silence that followed, addressing himself to the bailiff.

“You see, Dermody,” he said, “here is my son in your cottage—when he ought to be in my house.” He turned, and looked at me as I stood with my arm round little Mary, patiently waiting for my opportunity to speak. “George,” he said, with the hard smile which was peculiar to him, when he was angry and was trying to hide it, “you are making a fool of yourself there. Leave that child, and come to me.”

Now, or never, was my time to declare myself. Judging by appearances, I was still a boy. Judging by my own sensations, I had developed into a man at a moment’s notice.

“Papa,” I said, “I am glad to see you home again. This is Mary Dermody. I am in love with her, and she is in love with me. I wish to marry her as soon as it is convenient to my mother and you.”

My father burst out laughing. Before I could speak again, his humor changed. He had observed that Dermody, too, presumed to be amused. He seemed to become mad with anger, all in a moment.

“I have been told of this infernal tomfoolery,” he said, “but I didn’t believe it till now. Who has turned the boy’s weak head? Who has encouraged him to stand there hugging that girl? If it’s you, Dermody, it shall be the worst day’s work you ever did in your life.” He turned to me again, before the bailiff could defend himself. “Do you hear what I say? I tell you to leave Dermody’s girl, and come home with me.”

“Yes, papa,” I answered. “But I must go back to Mary, if you please, after I have been with you.”

Angry as he was, my father was positively staggered by my audacity.

“You young idiot, your insolence exceeds belief!” he burst out. “I tell you this: you will never darken these doors again! You have been taught to disobey me here. You have had things put into your head, here, which no boy of your age ought to know—I’ll say more, which no decent people would have let you know.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Dermody interposed, very respectfully and very firmly at the same time. “There are many things which a master in a hot temper is privileged to say to the man who serves him. But you have gone beyond your privilege. You have shamed me, sir, in the presence of my mother, in the hearing of my child—”

My father checked him there.

“You may spare the rest of it,” he said. “We are master and servant no longer. When my son came hanging about your cottage, and playing at sweethearts with your girl there, your duty was to close the door on him. You have failed in your duty. I trust you no longer. Take a month’s notice, Dermody. You leave my service.”