"He is here!" cried the man. "Look!"
He pointed to the passengers still crowding into the room. I looked; and,
instantly losing my head, started up with a cry that turned everybody's
eyes on me. Yes! there was the poor dear discolored face--there was Oscar
himself, thunderstruck on his side at the sight of Me!
I snatched the key of his portmanteau out of his hand, and gave it to our
man--who undertook to submit it to the customhouse examination, and to
bring it to my lodging afterwards. Holding Oscar fast by the arm, I
pushed my way through the crowd in the room, got outside, and hailed a
cab at the dock gates. The people about, noticing my agitation, said to
each other compassionately, "It's the blue man's mother!" Idiots! They
might have seen, I think, that I was only old enough to be his elder
sister.
Once sheltered in the vehicle, I could draw my breath again, and reward
him for all the anxiety he had caused me by giving him a kiss. I might
have given him a thousand kisses. Amazement made him a perfectly passive
creature in my hands. He only repeated faintly, over and over again,
"What does it mean? what does it mean?"
"It means that you have friends, you wretch, who are fools enough to be
too fond of you to give you up!" I said. "I am one of the fools. You will
come to England with me to-morrow--and see for yourself if Lucilla is not
another."
That reference to Lucilla restored him to the possession of his senses.
He began to ask the questions that naturally occurred to him under the
circumstances. Having plenty of questions in reserve, on my side, I told
him briefly enough what had brought me to Marseilles, and what I had
done, during my residence in that city, towards discovering the place of
his retreat.
When he asked me next--after a momentary struggle with himself--what I
could tell him of Nugent and Lucilla, it is not to be denied that I
hesitated before I answered him. A moment's consideration, however, was
enough to decide me on speaking out--for this plain reason, that a
moment's consideration reminded me of the troubles and annoyances which
had already befallen us as the result of concealing the truth. I told
Oscar honestly all that I have related here--starting from my night
interview with Nugent at Browndown, and ending with my precautionary
measures for the protection of Lucilla while she was living under the
care of her aunt.
I was greatly interested in watching the effect which these disclosures
produced on Oscar.
My observation led me to form two conclusions. First conclusion, that
time and absence had not produced the slightest change in the love which
the poor fellow bore to Lucilla. Second conclusion, that nothing but
absolute proof would induce him to agree in my unfavorable opinion of his
brother's character. It was in vain I declared that Nugent had quitted
England pledged to find him, and had left it to me (as the event now
proved) to make the discovery. He owned readily that he had seen nothing,
and heard nothing, of Nugent. Nevertheless his confidence in his brother
remained unshaken. "Nugent is the soul of honor," he repeated again and
again--with a side-look at me which suggested that my frankly-avowed
opinion of his brother had hurt and offended him.
I had barely time to notice this, before we reached my lodgings. He
appeared to be unwilling to follow me into the house.
"I suppose you have some proof to support what you have said of Nugent,"
he resumed, stopping in the courtyard. "Have you written to England since
you have been here? and have you had a reply?"
"I have written to Mrs. Finch," I answered; "and I have not had a word in
reply."
"Have you written to no one else?"
I explained to him the position in which I stood towards Miss Batchford,
and the hesitation which I had felt about writing to Grosse. The
smoldering resentment against me that had been in him ever since I had
spoken of his brother and of Lucilla, flamed up at last.
"I entirely disagree with you," he broke out angrily. "You are wronging
Lucilla and wronging Nugent. Lucilla is incapable of saying anything
against you to Grosse; and Nugent is equally incapable of misleading her
as you suppose. What horrible ingratitude you attribute to one of
them--and what horrible baseness to the other! I have listened to you as
patiently as I can; and I feel sincerely obliged by the interest which
you have shown in me--but I cannot remain in your company any longer.
Madame Pratolungo, your suspicions are inhuman! You have not brought
forward a shadow of proof in support of them. I will send here for my
luggage, if you will allow me--and I will start for England by the next
train. After what you have said, I can't rest till I have found out the
truth for myself."
This was my reward for all the trouble that I had taken to discover Oscar
Dubourg! Never mind the money I had spent--I am not rich enough to care
about money--only consider the trouble. If I had been a man, I do really
think I should have knocked him down. Being only a woman, I dropped him a
low curtsey, and stung him with my tongue.
"As you please, sir," I said. "I have done my best to serve you--and you
quarrel with me and leave me, in return. Go! You are not the first fool
who has quarreled with his best friend."
Either the words or the curtsey--or both together--brought him to his
senses. He made me an apology--which I received. And he looked
excessively foolish--which put me in an excellent humour again. "You
stupid boy," I said, taking his arm, and leading him to the stairs. "When
we first met at Dimchurch did you find me a suspicious woman or an
inhuman woman? Answer me that!"
He answered frankly enough.
"I found you all that was kind and good. Still, it is surely only natural
to want _some_ confirmation----" He checked himself there, and reverted
abruptly to my letter to Mrs. Finch. The silence of the rector's wife
evidently alarmed him. "How long is it since you wrote?" he inquired.
"As long ago as the first of this month," I replied.
He fell into thought. We ascended the next flight of stairs in silence.
At the landing, he stopped me, and spoke again. My unanswered letter was
still uppermost in his mind.
"Mrs. Finch loses everything that _can_ be lost," he said. "Is it not
likely--with her habits--that when she had written her answer, and wanted
your letter to look at to put the address on it, your letter was like her
handkerchief or her novel, or anything else--not to be found?"
So far, no doubt, this was quite in Mrs. Finch's character. I could see
that--but my mind was too much pre-occupied to draw the inference that
followed. Oscar's next words enlightened me.
"Have you tried the Poste-Restante?" he asked.
What could I possibly have been thinking of! Of course, she had lost my
letter. Of course, the whole house would be upset in looking for it, and
the rector would silence the uproar by ordering his wife to try the
Poste-Restante. How strangely we had changed places! Instead of my clear
head thinking for Oscar, here was Oscar's clear head thinking for Me. Is
my stupidity quite incredible? Remember, if you please, what a weight of
trouble and anxiety had lain on my mind while I was at Marseilles. Can
one think of everything while one is afflicted, as I was? Not even such a
clever person as You can do that. If, as the saying is, "Homer sometimes
nods"--why not Madame Pratolungo?
"I never thought of the Poste-Restante," I said to Oscar. "If you don't
mind going back a little way, shall we inquire at once?"
He was perfectly willing. We went downstairs again, and out into the
street. On our way to the post-office, I seized my first opportunity of
making Oscar give me some account of himself.
"I have satisfied your curiosity, to the best of my ability," I said, as
we walked arm-in-arm through the streets. "Now suppose you satisfy mine.
A report of your having been seen in a military hospital in Italy, is the
only report of you which has reached me here. Of course, it is not true?"
"It is perfectly true."
"You, in a hospital, nursing wounded soldiers?"
"That is exactly what I have been doing."
No words could express my astonishment. I could only stop, and look at
him.
"Was that the occupation which you had in view when you left England?" I
asked.
"I had no object in leaving England," he answered, "but the object which
I avowed to you. After what had happened, I owed it to Lucilla and I owed
it to Nugent to go. I left England without caring where I went. The train
to Lyons happened to be the first train that started on my arrival at
Paris. I took the first train. At Lyons, I saw by chance an account in a
French newspaper of the sufferings of some of the badly-wounded men, left
still uncured after the battle of Solferino. I felt an impulse, in my own
wretchedness, to help these other sufferers in _their_ misery. On every
other side of it, my life was wasted. The one worthy use to which I could
put it was to employ myself in doing good; and here was good to be done,
I managed to get the necessary letters of introduction at Turin. With the
help of these, I made myself of some use (under the regular surgeons and
dressers) in nursing the poor mutilated, crippled men; and I have helped
a little afterwards, from my own resources, in starting them comfortably
in new ways of life."
In those manly and simple words, he told me his story.
Once more I felt, what I had felt already, that there were hidden
reserves of strength in the character of this innocent young fellow,
which had utterly escaped my superficial observation of him. In choosing
his vocation, he was, no doubt, only following the conventional modern
course in such cases. Despair has its fashions, as well as dress. Ancient
despair (especially of Oscar's sort) used to turn soldier, or go into a
monastery. Modern despair turns nurse; binds up wounds, gives physic, and
gets cured or not in that useful but nasty way. Oscar had certainly
struck out nothing new for himself: he had only followed the fashion.
Still, it implied, as I thought, both courage and resolution to have
conquered the obstacles which he must have overcome, and to have held
steadily on his course after he had once entered it. Having begun by
quarreling with him, I was in a fair way to end by respecting him. Surely
this man was worth preserving for Lucilla, after all!
"May I ask where you were going, when we met at the port?" I continued.
"Have you left Italy because there were no more wounded soldiers to be
cured?"
"There was no more work for me at the hospital to which I was attached,"
he said. "And there were certain obstacles in my way, as a stranger and a
Protestant, among the poor and afflicted population outside the hospital.
I might have overcome those obstacles, with little trouble, among a
people so essentially good-tempered and courteous as the Italians, if I
had tried. But it occurred to me that my first duty was to my own
countrymen. The misery crying for relief in London, is misery not
paralleled in any city of Italy. When you met me, I was on my way to
London, to place my services at the disposal of any clergyman, in a poor
neighborhood, who would accept such help as I can offer him." He paused a
little--hesitated--and added in lower tones:--"That was one of my objects
in returning to England. It is only honest to own to you that I had
another motive besides."
"A motive connected with your brother and with Lucilla?" I suggested.
"Yes. Don't misinterpret me! I am not returning to England to retract
what I said to Nugent. I still leave him free to plead his own cause with
Lucilla in his own person. I am still resolved not to distress myself and
distress them, by returning to Dimchurch. But I have a longing that
nothing can subdue, to know how it has ended between them. Don't ask me
to say more than that! In spite of the time that has passed, it breaks my
heart to talk of Lucilla. I had looked forward to a meeting with you in
London, and to hearing what I longed to hear, from your lips. Judge for
yourself what my hopes were when I first saw your face; and forgive me if
I felt my disappointment bitterly, when I found that you had really no
news to tell, and when you spoke of Nugent as you did." He stopped, and
pressed my arm earnestly. "Suppose I am right about Mrs. Finch's letter?"
he added. "Suppose it should really be waiting for you at the post?"
"Well?"
"The letter may contain the news which I most want to hear."
I checked him there. "I am not sure of that," I answered. "I don't know
what it is that you most want to hear."
I said those words with a purpose. What was the news he was longing for?
In spite of all that he had told me, my instincts answered: News that
Lucilla is still a single woman. My object in speaking as I had just
spoken, was to tempt him into a reply which might confirm me in this
opinion. He evaded the reply. Was that confirmation in itself? Yes--as
_I_ think!
"Will you tell me what there is in the letter?" he asked--passing, as you
see, entirely over what I had just said to him.
"Yes--if you wish it," I answered: not over well pleased with his want of
confidence in me.
"No matter what the letter contains?" he went on, evidently doubting me.