"I suppose it would be asking too much," he persisted, "to ask you to let
me read the letter myself?"
My temper, as you are well aware by this time, is not the temper of a
saint. I drew my arm smartly out of his arm; and I surveyed him with,
what poor Pratolungo used to call, "my Roman look."
"Mr. Oscar Dubourg! say, in plain words, that you distrust me."
He protested of course that he did nothing of the kind--without producing
the slightest effect on me. Just run over in your mind the insults,
worries, and anxieties which had assailed me, as the reward for my
friendly interest in this man's welfare. Or, if that is too great an
effort, be so good as to remember that Lucilla's farewell letter to me at
Dimchurch, was now followed by the equally ungracious expression of
Oscar's distrust--and this at a time when I had had serious trials of my
own to sustain at my father's bedside. I think you will admit that a
sweeter temper than mine might have not unnaturally turned a little sour
under present circumstances.
I answered not a word to Oscar's protestations--I only searched
vehemently in the pocket of my dress.
"Here," I said, opening my card-case, "is my address in this place; and
here," I went on, producing the document, "is my passport, if they want
it."
I forced the card and the passport into his hands. He took them in
helpless astonishment.
"What am I to do with these?" he asked.
"Take them to the Poste-Restante. If there is a letter for me with the
Dimchurch post-mark, I authorize you to open it. Read it before it comes
into my hands--and then perhaps you will be satisfied?"
He declared that he would do nothing of the sort--and tried to force my
documents back into my own possession.
"Please yourself," I said. "I have done with you and your affairs. Mrs.
Finch's letter is of no earthly consequence to me. If it _is_ at the
Poste-Restante, I shall not trouble myself to ask for it. What concern
have I with news about Lucilla? What does it matter to _me_ whether she
is married or not? I am going back to my father and my sisters. Decide
for yourself whether you want Mrs. Finch's letter or not."
That settled it. He went his way with my documents to the post-office;
and I went mine back to the lodging.
Arrived in my room, I still held to the resolution which I had expressed
to Oscar in the street. Why should I leave my poor old father to go back
to England, and mix myself up in Lucilla's affairs? After the manner in
which she had taken her leave of me, had I any reasonable prospect of
being civilly received? Oscar was on his way to England--let Oscar manage
his own affairs; let them all three (Oscar, Nugent, Lucilla) fight it out
together among themselves. What had I, Pratolungo's widow, to do with
this trumpery family entanglement? Nothing! It was a warm day for the
time of year--Pratolungo's widow, like a wise woman, determined to make
herself comfortable. She unlocked her packed box; she removed her
traveling costume, and put on her dressing-gown; she took a turn in the
room--and, if you had come across her at that moment, I wouldn't have
stood in your shoes for something, I can tell you!
(What do you think of my consistency by this time? How often have I
changed my mind about Lucilla and Oscar? Reckon it up, from the time when
I left Dimchurch. What a picture of perpetual self-contradiction I
present--and how improbable it is that I should act in this illogical
way! _You_ never alter your mind under the influence of your temper or
your circumstances. No: you are, what they call, a consistent character.
And I? Oh, I am only a human being--and I feel painfully conscious that I
have no business to be in a book.)
In about half an hour's time, the servant appeared with a little paper
parcel for me. It had been left by a stranger with an English accent and
a terrible face. He had announced his intention of calling a little
later. The servant, a bouncing fat wench, trembled as she repeated the
message, and asked if there was anything amiss between me and the man
with the terrible face.
I opened the parcel. It contained my passport, and, sure enough, the
letter from Mrs. Finch. Had he opened it? Yes! He had not been able to
resist the temptation to read it. And more, he had written a line or two
on it in pencil, thus:--"As soon as I am fit to see you, I will implore
your pardon. I dare not trust myself in your presence yet. Read the
letter, and you will understand why."