I went to the kitchen. Zillah was not there. I knocked at the door of her
bed-room. There was no answer: the bed-room was empty when I looked in.
Awkward as it would be, I found myself obliged, either to give my note to
Lucilla with my own hand, or to decide on speaking to her, after all.
I could not prevail on myself to speak to her. So I went to her room with
my note, and knocked at the door.
Here again there was no reply. I knocked once more--with the same result.
I looked in. There was no one in the room. On the little table at the
foot of the bed, there lay a letter addressed to me. The writing was in
Zillah's hand. But Lucilla had written her name in the corner in the
usual way, to show that she had dictated the letter to her nurse. A load
was lifted off my heart as I took it up. The same idea (I concluded) had
occurred to her which had occurred to me. She too had shrunk from the
embarrassment of a personal explanation. She too had written--and was
keeping out of the way until her letter had spoken for her, and had
united us again as friends before I left the house.
With these pleasant anticipations, I opened the letter. Judge what I felt
when I found what it really contained.
"DEAR MADAME PRATOLUNGO,--You will agree with me, that it is very
important, after what Herr Grosse has said about the recovery of my
sight, that my visit to Ramsgate should not be delayed. As you are
unable, through circumstances which I sincerely regret, to accompany me
to the sea-side, I have determined to go to London to my aunt, Miss
Batchford, and to ask her to be my companion instead of you. I have had
experience enough of her sincere affection for me to be quite sure that
she will gladly take the charge of me off your hands. As no time is to be
lost, I start for London without waiting for your return from your walk
to wish you good-bye. You so thoroughly understand the necessity of
dispensing with formal farewells, in cases of emergency, that I am sure
you will not feel offended at my taking leave of you in this way. With
best wishes for your father's recovery, believe me,
"Yours very truly,
"LUCILLA.
"P. S.--You need be under no apprehension about me. Zillah goes with me
as far as London; and I shall communicate with Herr Grosse when I arrive
at my aunt's house."
But for one sentence in it, I should most assuredly have answered this
cruel letter by instantly resigning my situation as Lucilla's companion.
The sentence to which I refer, contained the words which cast in my teeth
the excuses that I had made for Oscar's absence. The sarcastic reference
to my recent connection with a case of emergency, and to my experience of
the necessity of dispensing with formal farewells, removed my last
lingering doubts of Nugent's treachery. I now felt, not suspicion only,
but positive conviction that he had communicated with her in his
brother's name, and that he had contrived (by some means at which it was
impossible for me to guess) so to work on Lucilla's mind--so to excite
that indwelling distrust which her blindness had rooted in her
character--as to destroy her confidence in me for the time being.
Arriving at this conclusion, I could still feel compassionately and
generously towards Lucilla. Far from blaming my poor deluded
sister-friend for her cruel departure and her yet crueler letter, I laid
the whole fault on the shoulders of Nugent. Full as my mind was of my own
troubles, I could still think of the danger that threatened Lucilla, and
of the wrong that Oscar had suffered. I could still feel the old glow of
my resolution to bring them together again, and still remember (and
determine to pay) the debt I owed to Nugent Dubourg.
In the turn things had taken, and with the short time still at my
disposal, what was I to do next? Assuming that Miss Batchford would
accompany her niece to Ramsgate, how could I put the necessary obstacle
in Nugent's way, if he attempted to communicate with Lucilla at the
sea-side, in my absence?
It was impossible for me to decide this, unless I first knew whether Miss
Batchford, as a member of the family, was to be confidentially informed
of the sad position in which Oscar and Lucilla now stood towards each
other.
The person to consult in this difficulty was the rector. As head of the
household, and in my absence, the responsibility evidently rested with
Reverend Finch.
I went round at once to the other side of the house. If Mr. Finch had
returned to the rectory, after the catechizing was over, well and good.
If not, I should be obliged to inquire in the village and seek him at the
cottages of his parishioners. His magnificent voice relieved me from all
anxiety on this head. The _boom-boom_ which I had last heard in the
church, I now heard again in the study.
When I entered the room, Mr. Finch was on his legs, highly excited;
haranguing Mrs. Finch and the baby, ensconced as usual in a corner. My
appearance on the scene diverted his flow of language, for the moment, so
that it all poured itself out on my unlucky self. (If you recollect that
the rector and Lucilla's aunt had been, from time immemorial, on the
worst of terms--you will be prepared for what is coming. If you have
forgotten this, look back at my sixth chapter and refresh your memory.)
"The very person I was going to send for!" said the Pope of Dimchurch.
"Don't excite Mrs. Finch! Don't speak to Mrs. Finch! You shall hear why
directly. Address yourself exclusively to Me. Be calm, Madame Pratolungo!
you don't know what has happened. I am here to tell you."
I ventured to stop him: mentioning that Lucilla's letter had informed me
of his daughter's sudden departure for her aunt's house. Mr. Finch waved
away my answer with his hand, as something too infinitely unimportant to
be worthy of a moment's notice.
"Yes! yes! yes!" he said. "You have a superficial acquaintance with the
facts. But you are far from being aware of what my daughter's sudden
removal of herself from my roof really means. Now don't be frightened,
Madame Pratolungo! and don't excite Mrs. Finch! (How are you, my dear?
how is the child? Both well? Thanks to an overruling Providence, both
well.) Now, Madame Pratolungo, attend to this. My daughter's flight--I
say flight advisedly: it is nothing less--my daughter's flight from my
house means (I entreat you to be calm!)--means ANOTHER BLOW dealt at me
by the family of my first wife. Dealt at me," repeated Mr. Finch; heating
himself with the recollection of his old feud with the Batchfords--"Dealt
at me by Miss Batchford (by Lucilla's aunt, Madame Pratolungo) through my
unoffending second wife, and my innocent child.--Are you sure you are
well, my dear? are you sure the infant is well? Thank
Providence!--Concentrate your attention, Madame Pratolungo! Your
attention is wandering. Prompted by Miss Batchford, my daughter has left
my roof. Ramsgate is a mere excuse. And how has she left it? Not only
without first seeing Me--I am Nobody! but without showing the slightest
sympathy for Mrs. Finch's maternal situation. Attired in her traveling
costume, my daughter precipitately entered (or to use my wife's graphic
expression 'bounced into') the nursery, while Mrs. Finch was
administering maternal sustenance to the infant. Under circumstances
which might have touched the heart of a bandit or a savage, my unnatural
daughter (remind me, Mrs. Finch; we will have a little Shakespeare
to-night; I will read _King Lear_), my unnatural daughter announced
without one word of preparation that a domestic affliction would prevent
you from accompanying her to Ramsgate.--Grieved, dear Madame Pratolungo,
to hear of it. Cast your burden on Providence. Bear up, Mrs. Finch; bear
up--Having startled my wife with this harrowing news, my daughter next
shocked her by declaring that she was going to leave her father's roof,
without waiting to bid her father good-bye. The catching of a train, you
will observe, was (no doubt at Miss Batchford's instigation) of more
importance than the parental embrace or the pastoral blessing. Leaving a
message of apology for Me, my heartless child (I use Mrs. Finch's graphic
language again--you have fair, very fair powers of expression, Mrs.
Finch)--my heartless child 'bounced out' of the nursery to catch her
train; having, for all she knew, or cared, administered a shock to my
wife which might have soured the fountain of maternal sustenance at its
source. There is where the Blow falls, Madame Pratolungo! How do I know
that acid disturbance is not being communicated at this moment, instead
of wholesome nourishment, between mother and child? I shall prepare you
an alkaline draught, Mrs. Finch, to be taken after meals. Don't speak;
don't move! Give me your pulse. I hold Miss Batchford accountable, Madame
Pratolungo, for whatever happens--my daughter is a mere instrument in the
hands of my first wife's family. Give me your pulse, Mrs. Finch. I don't
like your pulse. Come up-stairs directly. A recumbent position, and
another warm bath--under Providence, Madame Pratolungo!--may parry the
Blow. Would you kindly open the door, and pick up Mrs. Finch's
handkerchief? Never mind the novel--the handkerchief."
I seized my first opportunity of speaking again, while Mr. Finch was
conducting his wife (with his arm round her waist) to the door--putting
the question which I had been waiting to ask, in this cautious form:
"Do you propose to communicate, sir, either with your daughter or with
Miss Batchford, while Lucilla is away from the rectory? My object in
venturing to ask----"
Before I could state my object, Mr. Finch turned round (turning Mrs.
Finch with him) and surveyed me from head to foot with a look of
indignant astonishment.
"Is it possible you can see this double Wreck," said Mr. Finch,
indicating his wife and child, "and suppose that I would communicate or
sanction communication of any sort, with the persons who are responsible
for it?--My dear! Can you account for Madame Pratolungo's extraordinary
question? Am I to understand (do _you_ understand) that Madame Pratolungo
is insulting me?"
It was useless to try to explain myself. It was useless for Mrs. Finch
(who had made several abortive efforts to put in a word or two, on her
own part) to attempt to pacify her husband. All the poor damp lady could
do was to beg me to write to her from foreign parts. "I'm sorry you're in
trouble; and I should really be glad to hear from you." Mrs. Finch had
barely time to say those kind words--before the rector, in a voice of
thunder, desired me to look at "that double Wreck, and respect it if I
did not respect _him_"--and with that walked himself, his wife, and his
baby out of the room.
Having gained the object which had brought me into the study, I made no
attempt to detain him. The little sense the man possessed at the best of
times, was completely upset by the shock which Lucilla's abrupt departure
had inflicted on his high opinion of his own importance. That he would
end in being reconciled to his daughter--before her next subscription to
the household expenses fell due--was a matter of downright certainty.
But, until that time came, I felt equally sure that he would vindicate
his outraged dignity by declining to hold any communication, in person or
in writing, with Ramsgate. During the short term of my absence from
England, Miss Batchford would be left as ignorant of her niece's perilous
position between the twin-brothers, as Lucilla herself. To know this was
to have gained the information that I wanted. Nothing was left but to set
my brains to work at once, and act on it.
How was I to act on it?
On the spur of the moment, I could see but one way. If Grosse pronounced
Lucilla's recovery to be complete, before I returned from abroad, the
best thing I could do would be to put Miss Batchford in a position to
reveal the truth in my place--without running any risk of a premature
discovery. In other words, without letting the old lady into the secret,
before the time arrived at which it could be safely divulged.
This apparently intricate difficulty was easily overcome, by writing two
letters (before I went away) instead of one.
The first letter I addressed to Lucilla. Without any reference to her
behavior to me, I stated, in the fullest detail and with all needful
delicacy, her position between Oscar and Nugent: and referred her for
proof of the truth of my assertions to her relatives at the rectory. "I
leave it entirely to your discretion" (I added) "to write me an answer or
not. Put the warning which I now give you to the proof; and if you wonder
why it has been so long delayed, apply to Herr Grosse on whom the whole
responsibility rests." There I ended; being resolved, after the wrong
that Lucilla had inflicted on me, to leave my justification to facts. I
confess I was too deeply wounded by her conduct--though I _did_ lay all
the blame of it on Nugent--to care to say a word in my own defence.
This letter sealed, I wrote next to Lucilla's aunt.
It was not an easy matter to address Miss Batchford. The contempt with
which she regarded Mr. Finch's opinions in politics and religion, was
more than matched by the strong aversion which she felt for my republican
opinions. I have already mentioned, far back in these pages, that a
dispute on politics between the Tory old lady and myself ended in a
quarrel between us, which closed the doors of her house on me from that
time forth. Knowing this, I ventured on writing to her nevertheless,
because I also knew Miss Batchford to be (apart from her furious
prejudices) a gentlewoman in the best sense of the word; devotedly
attached to her niece, and quite as capable, when that devotion was
appealed to, of doing justice to me (apart from _my_ furious prejudices)
as I was of doing justice to her. Writing in a tone of unaffected
respect, and appealing to her forbearance to encourage mine, I requested
her to hand my letter to Lucilla on the day when the surgeon reported
that all further necessity for his attendance had ceased. In the interval
before this happened, I entreated Miss Batchford, in her niece's
interests, to consider my letter as a strictly private communication;
adding, that my sufficient reason for venturing to make this condition
would be found in my letter to Lucilla--which I authorized her aunt to
read as soon as the time had arrived for opening it.
By this means I had, as I firmly believed, taken the only possible way of
preventing Nugent Dubourg from doing any serious mischief in my absence.
Whatever his uncontrolled infatuation for Lucilla might lead him to do
next, he could proceed to no serious extremities until Grosse pronounced
her recovery to be complete. On the day when Grosse did that, she would
receive my letter, and would discover for herself the abominable
deception which had been practiced on her. As to attempting to find
Nugent, no idea of doing this entered my mind. Wherever he might be, at
home or abroad, it would be equally useless to appeal to his honor again.
It would be degrading myself to speak to him or to trust him. To expose
him to Lucilla the moment it became possible was the one thing to be
done. I was ready with my letters, one enclosed in the other, when good
Mr. Gootheridge (with whom I had arranged previously) called to drive me
to Brighton in his light cart. The chaise which he had for hire had been
already used to make the same journey by Lucilla and the nurse, and had
not yet been returned to the inn. I reached my train before the hour of
starting, and arrived in London with a sufficient margin of time to
spare.
Resolved to make sure that no possible mischance could occur, I drove to
Miss Batchford's house, and saw the cabman give my letter into the
servant's hands.
It was a bitter moment when I found myself pulling down my veil, in the
fear that Lucilla might be at the window and see me! Nobody was visible
but the man who answered the door. If pen, ink, and paper had been within
my reach at the moment, I think I should have written to her on my own
account, after all! As it was, I could only forgive her the injury she
had done me. From the bottom of my heart, I forgave her, and longed for
the blessed time which should unite us again. In the meanwhile, having
done everything that I could to guard and help her, I was now free to
give to Oscar all the thoughts that I could spare from my poor misguided
father.
Being bound for the Continent, I determined (though the chances were a
hundred to one against me) to do all that I could, in my painful
position, to discover the place of Oscar's retreat. The weary hours of
suspense at my father's bedside would be lightened to me, if I could feel
that the search for the lost man was being carried on at my instigation,
and that from day to day there was a bare possibility of my hearing of
him, if there was no more.
The office of the lawyer whom I had consulted during my previous visit to
London, lay in my way to the terminus. I drove there next, and was
fortunate enough to find him still at business.
No tidings had yet been heard of Oscar. The lawyer, however, proved to be
useful by giving me a letter of introduction to a person at Marseilles,
accustomed to conduct difficult confidential inquiries, and having agents
whom he could employ in all the great cities of Europe. A man of Oscar's
startling personal appearance would be surely more or less easy to trace,
if the right machinery to do it could only be set at work. My savings
would suffice for this purpose to a certain extent--and to that extent I
resolved that they should be used when I reached my journey's end.
It was a troubled sea on the channel passage that night. I remained on
deck; accepting any inconvenience rather than descend into the atmosphere
of the cabin. As I looked out to sea on one side and on the other, the
dark waste of tossing waters seemed to be the fit and dreary type of the
dark prospect that was before me. On the trackless path that we were
ploughing, a faint misty moonlight shed its doubtful ray. Like the
doubtful light of hope, faintly flickering on my mind when I thought of
the coming time!