He is the soul of honor; he is incapable of deceiving me. I remember
saying what he tells me I said, and thinking it too--for the moment
only--when I was beside myself with rage. Still--may it not be possible
that appearances have misled Oscar? Oh, Madame Pratolungo! I had such a
high opinion of you, I loved you so dearly--can you have been unworthy of
the admiration and affection that you once inspired in me?
I quite agree with Oscar that his brother is not to blame. It is sad and
shocking that Mr. Nugent Dubourg should have allowed himself to fall in
love with me. But I cannot help pitying him. Poor disfigured man, I hope
he will get a good wife! How he must have suffered!
It is impossible to endure, any longer, my present state of suspense.
Oscar must, and shall, satisfy me about Madame Pratolungo--with his own
lips. I shall write to him by this post, and insist on his coming to
Ramsgate.
_August_ 29th.--I wrote to him yesterday, to the address in Paris. My
letter will be delivered to-morrow. Where is he? when will he get it?
[Note.--That innocent letter did its fatal mischief. It ended the
struggle against himself which had kept Nugent Dubourg in Paris. On the
morning when he received it, he started for England. Here is the entry in
Lucilla's journal.--P.]
_August_ 31st.--A telegram for me at breakfast-time. I am too happy to
keep my hand steady--I am writing horribly. It doesn't matter: nothing
matters but my telegram. (Oh, what a noble creature the man was who
invented telegrams!) Oscar is on his way to Ramsgate!