"You had bitterly disappointed me," I said. "You had shown no sympathy
with my eagerness to be restored to the blessing of sight. You made
objections and started difficulties. I recollect speaking to you with
some of the bitterness that I felt--blaming you for not believing in my
future as I believed in it, and hoping as I hoped--and then leaving you,
and locking myself up in my own room."
In those terms, I satisfied him that my memory of the events of that day
was as clear as his own. He listened without making any remark, and went
on when I had done.
"Madame Pratolungo shared your hard opinion of me, on that occasion," he
proceeded; "and expressed it in infinitely stronger terms. She betrayed
herself to _you_ in the rectory garden. She betrayed herself to _me,_
after you had left us together in the sitting-room. Her hasty temper
again, beyond all doubt! I quite agree with you. What she said to me in
your absence, she would never have said if she had been mistress of
herself."
I began to feel a little startled. "How is it that you now tell me of
this for the first time?" I said. "Were you afraid of distressing me?"
"I was afraid of losing you," he answered.
Hitherto, I had kept my arm in his. I drew it out now. If his reply meant
anything, it meant that he had once thought me capable of breaking faith
with him. He saw that I was hurt.
"Remember," he said, "that I had unhappily offended you that day, and
that you have not heard yet what Madame Pratolungo had the audacity to
say to me under those circumstances."
"What did she say to you?"
"This:--'It would have been a happier prospect for Lucilla, if she had
been going to marry your brother, instead of marrying you.' I repeat
literally: those were the words."
I could no more believe it of her than I could have believed it of
myself.
"Are you really sure?" I asked him. "_Can_ she have said anything so
cruel to you as that?"
Instead of answering me, he took his pocket-book from the breast-pocket
of his coat--searched in it--and produced a morsel of folded and crumpled
paper. He opened the paper, and showed me some writing inside.
"Is that my writing?" he asked.
It was his writing. I had seen enough of his letters, since the recovery
of my sight, to feel sure of that.
"Read it!" he said; "and judge for yourself."
[Note.--You have made your acquaintance with this letter already, in my
thirty-second chapter. I had said those foolish words to Oscar (as you
will find in my record of the time), under the influence of a natural
indignation, which any other woman with a spark of spirit in her would
have felt in my place. Instead of personally remonstrating with me, Oscar
had (as usual) gone home, and written me a letter of expostulation.
Having, on my side, had time to cool--and feeling the absurdity of our
exchanging letters when we were within a few minutes' walk of each
other--I had gone straight to Browndown, on receiving the letter: first
crumpling it up, and (as I supposed) throwing it into the fire. After
personally setting myself right with Oscar, I had returned to the
rectory; and had there heard that Nugent had been to see me in my
absence, had waited a little while alone in the sitting-room, and had
gone away again. When I tell you that the letter which he was now showing
to Lucilla, was that same letter of Oscar's, which I had (as I believed)
destroyed, you will understand that I had thrown it into the fender
instead of into the fire; and that I failed to see it in the fender on my
return, simply because Nugent had seen it first, and had taken it away
with him. These particulars are described in greater detail in the
chapter to which I have referred; the letter itself being there inserted
at full length. However, I will save you the trouble of looking back--I
know how you hate trouble!--by transcribing literally what I find before
me in the Journal. The original letter is pasted on the page: I will copy
it from the page for the second time. Am I not good to you? What author
by profession would do as much for you as this? I am afraid I am praising
myself! Let Lucilla proceed.--P.]
I took the letter from him and read it. At my request, he has permitted
me to keep it. The letter is my justification for thinking of Madame
Pratolungo as I now think of her. I place it here, before I write another
line in my Journal.
"MADAME PRATOLUNGO,--You have distressed and pained me more than I can
say. There are faults, and serious ones, on my side, I know. I heartily
beg your pardon for anything that I may have said or done to offend you.
I cannot submit to your hard verdict on me. If you knew how I adore
Lucilla, you would make allowances for me--you would understand me better
than you do. I cannot get your last cruel words out of my ears. I cannot
meet you again without some explanation of them. You stabbed me to the
heart, when you said this evening that it would be a happier prospect for
Lucilla if she had been going to marry my brother instead of marrying me.
I hope you did not really mean that? Will you please write and tell me
whether you did or not?
"OSCAR."
My first proceeding, after reading those lines, was of course to put my
arm again in his, and to draw him as close to me as close could be. My
second proceeding followed in due time. I asked, naturally, for Madame
Pratolungo's answer to that most affectionate and most touching letter.
"I have no answer to show you," he said.
"You have lost it?" I asked.
"I never had it."
"What do you mean?"
"Madame Pratolungo never answered my letter."
I made him repeat that--once, twice. Was it not incredible that such an
appeal could be made to any woman not utterly depraved--and be left
unnoticed? Twice he reiterated the same answer. Twice he declared on his
honor that not a line of reply had been returned to him. She was then
utterly depraved? No! there was a last excuse left that justice and
friendship might still make for her. I made it.
"There is but one explanation of her conduct," I said. "She never
received the letter. Where did you send it to?"
"To the rectory."
"Who took it?"
"My own servant."
"He may have lost it on the way, and have been afraid to tell you. Or the
servant at the rectory may have forgotten to deliver it."
Oscar shook his head. "Quite impossible! I know Madame Pratolungo
received the letter."
"How?"
"I found it crumpled up in a corner inside the fender, _in your
sitting-room at the rectory._"
"Had it been opened?"
"It had been opened. She had received it; she had read it; and she had
not thrown quite far enough to throw it into the fire. Now, Lucilla! Is
Madame Pratolungo an injured woman? and am I a man who has slandered
her?"
There was another public seat, a few paces distant from us. I could stand
no longer. I went away by myself and sat down. A dull sensation possessed
me. I could neither speak, nor cry. There I sat in silence; slowly
wringing my hands in my lap, and feeling the last ties that still bound
me to the once-loved friend of former days, falling away one after the
other, and leaving us parted for life.
He followed me, and stood over me--he summed her up in stern quiet tones,
which carried conviction into my mind, and made me feel ashamed of myself
for having ever regretted her.
"Look back for the last time, Lucilla, at what this woman has said and
done. You will find that the idea of your marrying Nugent is, under one
form or another, always present to her mind. Present alike when she
forgets herself, and speaks in a rage--or when she reflects, and speaks
with a purpose. At one time, she tells you that you would have fallen in
love with Nugent, if you had seen him first. At another time, she stands
by while Nugent is personating me to you, and never interferes to stop
it. On a third occasion, she sees that you are offended with me; and
triumphs so cruelly in seeing it, that she tells me to my face, your
prospect would have been a much happier one, if you had been engaged to
marry my brother instead of me. She is asked in writing, civilly and
kindly asked, to explain what she means by those abominable words? She
has had time to reflect since she spoke them; and what does she do? Does
she answer me? No! She contemptuously tosses my letter into the
fire-place. Add to these plain facts what you yourself have observed.
Nugent has all her admiration; Nugent is her favorite: from the first,
she has always disliked and wronged _me._ Add to this, again, that Nugent
(as I know for certain) privately confessed to her that he was himself in
love with you. Look at all these circumstances--and what plain conclusion
follows? I ask you once more--Is Madame Pratolungo a slandered woman? or
am I right in warning you (as you once warned me) to beware of her?"
What could I do but own that he was right? It was due to him, and due to
me, to close my heart to her, from that moment. Oscar sat down by me, and
took my hand.
"After my experience of her in the past," he went on softly, "can you
wonder that I dread what she may do in the future? Has no such thing ever
happened as the parting of true lovers by treachery which has secretly
undermined their confidence in each other. Is Madame Pratolungo not
clever enough and unscrupulous enough to undermine _our_ confidence, and
to turn against us, to the wickedest purpose, the influence which she
already possesses at the rectory? How do we know that she is not in
communication with Nugent at this moment?"
I stopped him there--I could not endure it. "You have seen your brother,"
I said. "You have told me that you and he understand each other. What
have you to dread after that?"
"I have to dread Madame Pratolungo's influence, and my brother's
infatuation for you," he answered. "The promises which he has honestly
made to me, are promises which I cannot depend on when my back is turned,
and when Madame Pratolungo may be with him in my absence. Something under
the surface is going on already! I don't like that mysterious letter,
which is only to be shown to you on certain conditions. I don't like your
father's silence. He has had time to answer your letter. Has he done it?
He has had time to answer my postscript. Has he done it?"
Those were awkward questions. He had certainly left both our letters
unanswered--thus far. Still, the next post might bring his reply. I
persisted in taking this view; and I said so to Oscar. He persisted just
as obstinately on his side.
"Suppose we go on to the end of the week," he said; "and still no letter
from your father comes, for you, or for me? Will you admit, _then,_ that
his silence is suspicious?"
"I will admit that his silence shows a sad want of proper consideration
for _you,_" I replied.
"And there you will stop? You won't see (what I see) the influence of
Madame Pratolungo making itself felt at the rectory, and poisoning your
father's mind against our marriage?"
He was pressing me rather hardly. I did my best, however, to tell him
honestly what was passing in my mind.
"I can see," I said, "that Madame Pratolungo has behaved most cruelly to
you. And I believe, after what you have told me, that she would rejoice
if I broke my engagement, and married your brother. But I can _not_
understand that she is mad enough to be actually plotting to make me do
it. Nobody knows better than she does how faithfully I love you, and how
hopeless it would be to attempt to make me marry another man. Would the
stupidest woman living, who looked at you two brothers (knowing what she
knows), be stupid enough to do what you suspect Madame Pratolungo of
doing?"