TWELVE years have passed since the events occurred which it has been the
business of these pages to relate. I am at my desk; looking idly at all
the leaves of writing which my pen has filled, and asking myself if there
is more yet to add, before I have done.
There is more--not much.
Oscar and Lucilla claim me first. Two days after they were restored to
each other at Sydenham, they were married at the church in that place. It
was a dull wedding. Nobody was in spirits but Mr. Finch. We parted in
London. The bride and bridegroom returned to Browndown. The rector
remained in town for a day or two visiting some friends. I went back to
my father, to accompany him, as I had promised, on his journey from
Marseilles to Paris.
As well as I remember, I remained a fortnight abroad. In the course of
that time, I received kind letters from Browndown. One of them announced
that Oscar had heard from his brother.
Nugent's letter was not a long one. It was dated at Liverpool, and it
announced his embarkation for America in two hours' time. He had heard of
a new expedition to the Arctic regions--then fitting out in the United
States--with the object of discovering the open Polar sea, supposed to be
situated between Spitzbergen and Nova Zembla. It had instantly struck him
that this expedition offered an entirely new field of study to a
landscape painter in search of the sublimest aspects of Nature. He had
decided on volunteering to join the Arctic explorers--and he had already
raised the necessary money for his outfit by the sale of the only
valuables he possessed--his jewelry and his books. If he wanted more, he
engaged to apply to Oscar. In any case, he promised to write again,
before the expedition sailed. And so, for the present only, he would bid
his brother and sister affectionately farewell.--When I afterwards looked
at the letter myself, I found nothing in it which referred in the
slightest degree to the past, or which hinted at the state of the
writer's own health and spirits.
I returned to our remote Southdown village; and occupied the room which
Lucilla had herself prepared for me at Browndown.
I found the married pair as tranquil and as happy in their union as a man
and woman could be. The absent Nugent dwelt a little sadly in their minds
at times, I suspect, as well as in mine. It was perhaps on this account,
that Lucilla appeared to me to be quieter than she used to be in her
maiden days. However, my presence did something towards restoring her to
her old spirits--and Grosse's speedy arrival exerted its enlivening
influence in support of mine.
As soon as the gout would let him get on his feet, he presented himself
with his instruments, at Browndown, eager for another experiment on
Lucilla's eyes.
"If my operations had failed," he said, "I should not have plagued you no
more. But my operations has not failed: it is you who have failed to take
care of your nice new eyes when I gave them to you."
In those terms he endeavored to persuade her to let him attempt another
operation. She steadily refused to submit to it--and the discussion that
followed roused her famously.
More than once afterwards Grosse tried to make her change her mind. He
tried in vain. The disputes between the two made the house ring again.
Lucilla found all her old gaiety, in refuting the grotesque arguments and
persuasions of our worthy German. To me--when I once or twice attempted
to shake her resolution--she replied in another way, merely repeating the
words she had said to me at Sydenham: "My life lives in my love. And my
love lives in my blindness." It is only right to add that Mr. Sebright,
and another competent authority consulted with him, declared
unhesitatingly that she was right. Under the circumstances, Mr. Sebright
was of opinion that the success of Grosse's operation could never have
been more than temporary. His colleague, after examining Lucilla's eyes,
at a later period, entirely agreed with him. Which was in the
right--these two or Grosse--who can say? As blind Lucilla, you first knew
her. As blind Lucilla, you see the last of her now. If you feel inclined
to regret this, remember that the one thing essential was the thing she
possessed. Her life was a happy one. Bear this in mind--and don't forget
that your conditions of happiness need not necessarily be her conditions
also.
In the time I am now writing of, the second letter from Nugent arrived.
It was written the evening before he sailed for the Polar seas. One line
in it touched us deeply. "Who knows whether I shall ever see England
again! If a boy is born to you, Oscar, call him by my name--for my sake."
Enclosed in this letter was a private communication from Nugent,
addressed to me. It was the confession to which I have alluded in my
notes attached to Lucilla's Journal. These words only were added at the
end: "You now know everything. Forgive me--if you can. I have not escaped
without suffering; remember that." After making use of the narrative, as
you already know, I have burnt it all, except those last lines.
At distant intervals, we heard twice of the exploring ship, from whaling
vessels. Then, there was a long dreary interval, without news of any
sort. Then, a dreadful report that the expedition was lost. Then, the
confirmation of the report--a lapse of a whole year, and no tidings of
the missing men.
They were well provided with supplies of all kinds; and there was a
general hope that they might be holding out. A new expedition was
sent--and sent vainly--in search of them overland. Rewards were offered
to whaling vessels to find them, and were never earned. We wore mourning
for Nugent; we were a melancholy household. Two more years passed--before
the fate of the expedition was discovered. A ship in the whale trade,
driven out of her course, fell in with a wrecked and dismantled vessel,
lost in the ice. Let the last sentences of the captain's report tell the
story.
"The wreck was drifting along a channel of open water, when we first
saw it. Before long, it was brought up by an iceberg. I got into my boat
with some of my sailors, and we rowed to the vessel.
"Not a man was to be seen on the deck, which was covered with snow. We
hailed, and got no reply. I looked in through one of the circular glazed
port-holes astern, and saw dimly the figure of a man seated at a table. I
knocked on the thick glass, but he never moved. We got on deck, and
opened the cabin hatchway, and went below. The man I had seen was before
us, at the end of the cabin. I led the way, and spoke to him. He made no
answer. I looked closer, and touched one of his hands which lay on the
table. To my horror and astonishment, he was a frozen corpse.
"On the table before him was the last entry in the ship's log!
"'Seventeen days since we have been shut up in the ice: Our fire went
out yesterday. The captain tried to light it again, and has failed. The
surgeon and two seamen died of cold this morning. The rest of us must
soon follow. If we are ever discovered, I beg the person who finds me to
send this----'
"There the hand that held the pen had dropped into the writer's lap. The
left hand still lay on the table. Between the frozen fingers, we found a
long lock of a woman's hair, tied at each end with a blue ribbon. The
open eyes of the corpse were still fixed on the lock of hair.
"The name of this man was found in his pocket-book. It was Nugent
Dubourg. I publish the name in my report, in case it may meet the eyes of
his friends.
"Examination of the rest of the vessel, and comparison of dates with the
date of the log-book, showed that the officers and crew had been dead for
more than two years. The positions in which we found the frozen men, and
the names, where it was possible to discover them, are here set forth as
follows."...
That "lock of a woman's hair" is now in Lucilla's possession. It will be
buried with her, at her own request, when she dies. Ah, poor Nugent! Are
we not all sinners? Remember the best of him, and forget the worst, as I
do.
I still linger over my writing--reluctant to leave it, if the truth must
be told. But what more is there to say? I hear Oscar hammering away at
his chasing, and whistling blithely over his work. In another room,
Lucilla is teaching the piano to her little girl. On my table is a letter
from Mrs. Finch, dated from one of our distant colonies--over which Mr.
Finch (who has risen gloriously in the world) presides pastorally as
bishop. He harangues the "natives" to his heart's content: and the
wonderful natives like it. "Jicks" is in her element among the aboriginal
members of her father's congregation: there are fears that the wandering
Arab of the Finch family will end in marrying "a chief." Mrs. Finch--I
don't expect you to believe this--is anticipating another confinement.
Lucilla's eldest boy--called Nugent--has just come in, and stands by my
desk. He lifts his bright blue eyes up to mine; his round rosy face
expresses strong disapproval of what I am doing. "Aunty," he says, "you
have written enough. Come and play."
The boy is right. I must put away my manuscript and leave you. My
excellent spirits are a little dashed at parting. I wonder whether you
are sorry too? I shall never know! Well, I have many blessings to comfort
me, on closing my relations with you. I have kind souls who love me;
and--observe this!--I stand on my political principles as firmly as ever.
The world is getting converted to my way of thinking: the Pratolungo
programme, my friends, is coming to the front with giant steps. Long live
the Republic! Farewell.