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Updated: June 21, 2025
"Did you ever see the apparition of your little Mary?" "Never!" "But you used once to see her as Dame Dermody predicted in dreams?" "Yes when I was a lad." "And, in the after-time, it was not Mary, but Mrs. Van Brandt who came to you in dreams who appeared to you in the spirit, when she was far away from you in the body? Poor old Dame Dermody.
I see in it the prophecy strangely fulfilled in later years of events in Mary's life, and in mine, which future pages are now to tell. My mother decided on leaving the letter unanswered. Like many of her poorer neighbors, she was a little afraid of Dame Dermody; and she was, besides, habitually averse to all discussions which turned on the mysteries of spiritual life.
Her perfectly baseless conviction that time would yet bring about my meeting with Mary, partly irritated, partly amused me. "You seem to agree with Dame Dermody," I said. "You believe that our two destinies are one. No matter what time may elapse, or what may happen in the time, you believe my marriage with Mary is still a marriage delayed, and nothing more?" "I firmly believe it."
The twilight came; the moon rose; the lights began to vanish from the lattice-windows; and still I continued my weary pilgrimage; and still, go where I might, the answer to my questions was the same. Nobody knew anything of Dermody. Everybody asked if I had not brought news of him myself.
A little, lean, wiry old woman was Dame Dermody with fierce black eyes, surmounted by bushy white eyebrows, by a high wrinkled forehead, and by thick white hair gathered neatly under her old-fashioned "mob-cap." Whatever her family might think of her marriage, she herself never regretted it.
The love-story of my boyhood, in all its particulars, down even to the gift of the green flag; the mystic predictions of Dame Dermody; the loss of every trace of my little Mary of former days; the rescue of Mrs.
Mary put her trembling lips to my ear, and whispered: "Let me go, George! I can't bear to see it. Oh, look how he frowns! I know he'll hurt you." My father lifted his forefinger as a preliminary warning before he counted Three. "Stop!" cried Dame Dermody. My father looked round at her again with sardonic astonishment. "I beg your pardon, ma'am have you anything particular to say to me?" he asked.
He felt himself seized by a nameless panic, such as had not come over him since he was a small child a dozen years ago. "What's the matter at all?" he said futilely to Ned Dermody, knowing well enough. "Gone he is," said Ned, "the life was vexed out of him among us all. He's gone. And it's follyin' him I'd liefer be, on'y for them crathurs at home."
"He might ha' done worse agin you than that," said Christie Dermody, "be the powers he might." He had retreated as far as the door, but now he faced round, and stood on the edge of the thin snow, leaning his right shoulder against the post, and looking in at the other old man by the fire.
We had no choice but to wait and hope. The weary days passed; and still my father's brief letters described him as detained by his business. The morning came when Mary and I went out with Dermody, the bailiff, to see the last wild fowl of the season lured into the decoy; and still the welcome home waited for the master, and waited in vain.
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