_September_ 4th _(continued)._
ARRIVED in the drawing-room, Grosse placed me in a chair near the window.
He leaned forward, and looked at me close; he drew back, and looked at me
from a distance; he took out his magnifying glass, and had a long stare
through it at my eyes; he felt my pulse; dropped my wrist as if it
disgusted him; and, turning to the window, looked out in grim silence,
without taking the slightest notice of any one in the room.
My aunt was the first person who spoke, under these discouraging
circumstances.
"Mr. Grosse!" she said sharply. "Have you nothing to tell me about your
patient to-day? Do you find Lucilla----"
He turned suddenly round from the window, and interrupted Miss Batchford
without the slightest ceremony.
"I find her gone back, back, back!" he growled, getting louder and louder
at each repetition of the word. "When I sent her here, I said--'Keep her
comfortable-easy.' You have not kept her comfortable-easy. Something has
turned her poor little mind topsy-turvies. What is it? Who is it?" He
looked fiercely backwards and forwards between Oscar and my aunt--then
turned my way, and putting his heavy hands on my shoulders, looked down
at me with an odd angry kind of pity in his face. "My childs is
melancholick; my childs is ill," he went on. "Where is our goot-dear
Pratolungo? What did you tell me about her, my little-lofe, when I last
saw you? You said she had gone aways to see her Papa. Send a
telegrams--and say I want Pratolungo here."
At the repetition of Madame Pratolungo's name, Miss Batchford rose to her
feet and stood (apparently) several inches higher than usual.
"Am I to understand, sir," inquired the old lady, "that your
extraordinary language is intended to cast a reproach on my conduct
towards my niece?"
"You are to understand this, madam. In the face of the goot sea-airs,
Miss your niece is fretting herself ill. I sent her to this place, for to
get a rosy face, for to put on a firm flesh. How do I find her? She has
got nothing, she has put on nothing--she is emphatically flabby-pale. In
this fine airs, she can be flabby-pale but for one reason. She is
fretting herself about something or anodder. Is fretting herself goot for
her eyes? Ho-damn-damn! it is as bad for her eyes as bad can be. If you
can do no better than this, take her aways back again. You are wasting
your moneys in this lodgment here."
My aunt addressed herself to me in her grandest manner.
"You will understand, Lucilla, that it is impossible for me to notice
such language as this in any other way than by leaving the room. If you
can bring Mr. Grosse to his senses, inform him that I will receive his
apologies and explanations in writing." Pronouncing these lofty words
with her severest emphasis, Miss Batchford rose another inch, and sailed
majestically out of the room.
Grosse took no notice of the offended lady: he only put his hands in his
pockets, and looked out of window once more. As the door closed, Oscar
left the corner in which he had seated himself, not over-graciously, when
we entered the room.
"Am I wanted here?" he asked.
Grosse was on the point of answering the question even less amiably than
it had been put--when I stopped him by a look. "I want to speak to you,"
I whispered in his ear. He nodded, and, turning sharply to Oscar, put
this question to him:
"Are you living in the house?"
"I am staying at the hotel at the corner."
"Go to the hotel, and wait there till I come to you."
Greatly to my surprise, Oscar submitted to be treated in this peremptory
manner. He took his leave of me silently, and left the room. Grosse drew
a chair close to mine, and sat down by me in a comforting confidential
fatherly way.
"Now my goot-girls," he said. "What have you been fretting yourself about
since I was last in this house? Open it all, if you please, to Papa
Grosse. Come begin-begin!"
I suppose he had exhausted his ill-temper on my aunt and Oscar. He said
those words--more than kindly--almost tenderly. His fierce eyes seemed to
soften behind his spectacles; he took my hand and patted it to encourage
me.
There are some things written in these pages of mine which it was, of
course, impossible for me to confide to him. With those necessary
reservations--and without entering on the painful subject of my altered
relations with Madame Pratolungo--I owned quite frankly how sadly changed
I felt myself to be towards Oscar, and how much less happy I was with
him, in consequence of the change. "I am not ill as you suppose," I
explained. "I am only disappointed in myself, and a little downhearted
when I think of the future." Having opened it to him in this way, I
thought it time to put the question which I had determined to ask when I
next saw him.
"The restoration of my sight," I said, "has made a new being of me. In
gaining the sense of seeing, have I lost the sense of feeling which I had
when I was blind? I want to know if it will come back when I have got
used to the novelty of my position? I want to know if I shall ever enjoy
Oscar's society again, as I used to enjoy it in the old days before you
cured me--the happy days, Papa-Grosse, when I was an object of pity, and
when all the people spoke of me as Poor Miss Finch?"
I had more to say--but at this place, Grosse (without meaning it, I am
sure) suddenly stopped me. To my amazement, he let go of my hand, and
turned his face away sharply, as if he resented my looking at him. His
big head sank on his breast. He lifted his great hairy hands, shook them
mournfully, and let them fall on his knees. This strange behavior and the
still stranger silence which accompanied it, made me so uneasy that I
insisted on his explaining himself. "What is the matter with you?" I
said. "Why don't you answer me?"
He roused himself with a start, and put his arm round me, with a
wonderful gentleness for a man who was so rough at other times.
"It is nothing, my pretty lofe," he said. "I am out of sort, as you call
it. Your English climates sometimes gives your English blue devil to
foreign mens like me. I have got him now--an English blue devil in a
German inside. Soh! I shall go and walk him out, and come back
empty-cheerful, and see you again." He rose, after this curious
explanation, and attempted some sort of answer--a very odd one--to the
question which I had asked of him. "As to that odder thing," he went on,
"yes-indeed-yes. You have hit your nail on his head. It is, as you say,
your seeings which has got in the way of your feelings. When your
seeings-feelings has got used to one anodder, your seeings will stay
where he is, your feelings will come back to where they was; one will
balance the odder; you will feel as you did; you will see as you didn't;
all at the same times, all jolly-nice again as before. You have my
opinions. Now let me walk out my blue devil. I swear to come back again
with a new inside. By-bye-my-Feench-good-bye."
Saying all this in a violent hurry, as if he was eager to get away, he
gave me a kiss on the forehead, snatched up his shabby hat, and ran out
of the room.
What did it mean?
Does he persist in thinking me seriously ill? I am too weary to puzzle my
brains in the effort to understand my dear old surgeon. It is one o'clock
in the morning; and I have still to write the story of all that happened
later in the day. My eyes are beginning to ache; and, strange to say, I
have hardly been able to see the last two or three lines I have written.
They look as if the ink was fading from them. If Grosse knew what I am
about at this moment! His last words to me, when he went back to his
patients in London, were:--"No more readings! no more writings till I
come again!" It is all very well to talk in that way. I have got so used
to my Journal that I can't do without it. Nevertheless, I must stop
now--for the best of reasons. Though I have got three lighted candles on
my table, I really cannot see to write any more.
To bed! to bed!
[Note.--I have purposely abstained from interrupting Lucilla's Journal
until my extracts from it had reached this place. Here the writer pauses,
and gives me a chance; and here there are matters that must be mentioned,
of which she had personally no knowledge at the time.
You have seen how her faithful instinct still tries to reveal to my poor
darling the cruel deception that is being practiced on her--and still
tries in vain. In spite of herself, she shrinks from the man who is
tempting her to go away with him--though he pleads in the character of
her betrothed husband. In spite of herself, she detects the weak places
in the case which Nugent has made out against me--the absence of
sufficient motive for the conduct of which he accuses me, and the utter
improbability of my plotting and intriguing (without anything to gain by
it) to make her marry the man who was not the man of her choice. She
feels these hesitations and difficulties. But what they really signify it
is morally impossible for her to guess.
Thus far, no doubt, her strange and touching position has been plainly
revealed to you. But can I feel quite so sure that you understand how
seriously she has been affected by the anxiety, disappointment, and
suspense which have combined together to torture her at this critical
interval in her life?
I doubt it, for the sufficient reason that you have only had her Journal
to enlighten you, and that her Journal shows she does not understand it
herself. As things are, it seems to be time for me to step on the stage,
and to discover to you plainly what her surgeon really thought of her, by
telling you what passed between Grosse and Nugent, when the German
presented himself at the hotel.
I am writing now (as a matter of course) from information given to me, at
an after-period, by the persons themselves. As to particulars, the
accounts vary. As to results, they both agree.
The discovery that Nugent was at Ramsgate necessarily took Grosse by
surprise. With his previous knowledge, however, of the situation of
affairs at Dimchurch, he could be at no loss to understand in what
character Nugent had presented himself to Lucilla; and he could certainly
not fail to understand--after what he had seen and what she had herself
told him--that the deception was, under present circumstances, producing
the worst possible effect on her mind. Arriving at this conclusion, he
was not a man to hesitate about the duty that lay before him. When he
entered the room at the hotel in which Nugent was waiting, he announced
the object of his visit in these four plain words, as follows:
"Pack up, and go!"
Nugent coolly offered him a chair, and asked what he meant.
Grosse refused the chair--but consented to explain himself in terms
variously reported by the two parties. Combining the statements, and
translating Grosse (in this grave matter) into plain English, I find that
the German must have expressed himself in these, or nearly in these,
words:
"As a professional man, Mr. Nugent, I invariably refuse to enter into
domestic considerations connected with my patients with which I have
nothing to do. In the case of Miss Finch, my business is not with your
family complications. My business is to secure the recovery of the young
lady's sight. If I find her health improving, I don't inquire how or why.
No matter what private and personal frauds you may be practicing upon
her, I have nothing to say to them--more, I am ready to take advantage of
them myself--so long as their influence is directly beneficial in keeping
her morally and physically in the condition in which I wish her to be.
But, the instant I discover that this domestic conspiracy of yours--this
personation of your brother which once quieted and comforted her--is
unfavorably affecting her health of body and her peace of mind, I
interfere between you in the character of her medical attendant, and stop
it on medical grounds. You are producing in my patient a conflict of
feeling, which--in a nervous temperament like hers--cannot go on without
serious injury to her health. And serious injury to her health means
serious injury to her eyes. I won't have that--I tell you plainly to pack
up and go. I meddle with nothing else. After what you have yourself seen,
I leave you to decide whether you will restore your brother to Miss
Finch, or not. All I say is, Go. Make any excuse you like, but go before
you have done more mischief. You shake your head! Is that a sign that you
refuse? Take a day to think, before you make up your mind. I have
patients in London to whom I am obliged to go back. But the day after
to-morrow, I shall return to Ramsgate. If I find you still here, I shall
tell Miss Finch you are no more Oscar Dubourg than I am. In her present
state, I see less danger in giving her even that serious shock than in
leaving her to the slow torment of mind which you are inflicting by your
continued presence in this place. My last word is said. I go back by the
next train, in an hour's time. Good morning, Mr. Nugent. If you are a
wise man, you will meet me at the station."
After this, the accounts vary. Nugent's statement asserts that he
accompanied Grosse on his way back to Miss Batchford's lodging, arguing
the matter with him, and only leaving him at the door of the house.
Grosse's statement, on the other hand, makes no allusion to this. The
disagreement between them is, however, of no consequence here. It is
admitted, on either side, that the result of the interview was the same.
When Grosse took the train for London, Nugent Dubourg was not at the
station. The next entry in the Journal shows that he remained that day
and night, at least, at Ramsgate.
You now know, from the narrative of the surgeon's own proceedings, how
seriously he thought of his patient's case, and how firmly he did his
duty as a professional man. Having given you this necessary information,
I again retire, and leave Lucilla to take up the next link in the chain
of events.--P.]
_September_ 5th. _Six o'clock in the morning._--A few hours of restless,
broken sleep--disturbed by horrid dreams, and waking over and over again
with startings that seemed to shake me from head to foot. I can bear it
no longer. The sun is rising. I have got up--and here I am at the
writing-table, trying to finish the long story of yesterday still
uncompleted in my Journal.
I have just been looking at the view from my window--and I notice one
thing which has struck me. The mist this morning is the thickest mist I
have yet seen here.
The sea-view is almost invisible, it is so dim and dull. Even the objects
about me in my room are nothing like so plain as usual. The mist is
stealing in no doubt through my open window. It gets between me and my
paper, and obliges me to bend down close over the page to see what I am
about. When the sun is higher, things will be clear again. In the
meantime, I must do as well as I can.
Grosse came back after his walk as mysterious as ever.
He was quite peremptory in ordering me not to overtask my
eyes--forbidding reading and writing, as I have already mentioned. But,
when I asked for his reasons, he had, for the first time in my experience
of him, no reasons to give. I have the less scruple about disobeying him,
on that account. Still I am a little uneasy, I confess, when I think of
his strange behavior yesterday. He looked at me, in the oddest way--as if
he saw something in my face which he had never seen before. Twice he took
his leave; and twice he returned, doubtful whether he would not remain at
Ramsgate, and let his patients in London take care of themselves. His
extraordinary indecision was put an end to at last by the arrival of a
telegram which had followed him from London. An urgent message, I
suppose, from one of the patients. He went away in a bad temper and a
violent hurry; and told me, at the door, to expect him back on the sixth.
When Oscar came later, there was another surprise for me.
Like Grosse, he was not himself--he too behaved strangely! First, he was
so cold and so silent, that I thought he was offended. Then he went
straight to the other extreme, and became so loudly talkative, so
obstreperously cheerful, that my aunt asked me privately whether I did
not suspect (as she did) that he had been taking too much wine. It ended
in his trying to sing to my accompaniment on the piano, and in his
breaking down. He walked away to the other end of the room without
explanation or apology. When I followed him there a little while after,
he had a look that indescribably distressed me--a look as if he had been
crying. Towards the end of the evening, my aunt fell asleep over her
book, and gave us a chance of speaking to each other in a little second
room which opens out of the drawing-room in this house. It was I who took
the chance--not he. He was so incomprehensibly unwilling to go into the
room and speak to me, that I had to do a very unladylike thing. I mean
that I had to take his arm, and lead him in myself, and entreat him (in a
whisper) to tell me what was the matter with him.
"Only the old complaint," he answered.