The dull autumn days ended, and the long nights of winter began.
No change for the better appeared in our prospects. The doctors did theirbest for Oscar--without avail. The horrible fits came back, again andagain. Day after day, our dull lives went monotonously on. I almost begannow to believe, with Lucilla, that a crisis of some sort must be at hand."This cannot last," I used to say to myself--generally when I was veryhungry. "Something will happen before the year comes to an end."
The month of December began; and something happened at last. The familytroubles at the rectory were matched by family troubles of my own. Aletter arrived for me from one of my younger sisters at Paris. Itcontained alarming news of a person very dear to me--already mentioned inthe first of these pages as my good Papa.
Was the venerable author of my being dangerously ill of a mortal disease?Alas! he was not exactly that--but the next worst thing to it. He wasdangerously in love with a disreputable young woman. At what age? At theage of seventy-five! What can we say of my surviving parent? We can onlysay, This is a vigorous nature; Papa has an evergreen heart.
I am grieved to trouble you with my family concerns. But they mixthemselves up intimately, as you will see in due time, with the concernsof Oscar and Lucilla. It is my unhappy destiny that I cannot possiblytake you through the present narrative, without sooner or laterdisclosing the one weakness (amiable weakness) of the gayest andbrightest and best-preserved man of his time.
Ah, I am now treading on egg-shells, I know! The English specter calledPropriety springs up rampant on my writing-table, and whispers furiouslyin my ear, "Madame Pratolungo, raise a blush on the cheek of Innocence,and it is all over from that moment with you and your story." Oh,inflammable Cheek of Innocence, be good-natured for once, and I will rackmy brains to try if I can put it to you without offense! May I picturegood Papa as an elder in the Temple of Venus, burning incenseinexhaustibly on the altar of love? No: Temple of Venus is Pagan; altarof love is not proper--take them out. Let me only say of my evergreenparent that his life from youth to age had been one unintermittingrecognition of the charms of the sex, and that my sisters and I (being ofthe sex) could not find it in our hearts to abandon him on that account.So handsome, so affectionate, so sweet-tempered; with only one fault--andthat a compliment to the women, who naturally adored him in return! Weaccepted our destiny. For years past (since the death of Mamma), weaccustomed ourselves to live in perpetual dread of his marrying some oneof the hundreds of unscrupulous hussies who took possession of him: and,worse if possible than that, of his fighting duels about them with menyoung enough to be his grandsons. Papa was so susceptible! Papa was sobrave! Over and over again, I had been summoned to interfere, as thedaughter who had the strongest influence over him. I had succeeded ineffecting his rescue, now by one means, and now by another; endingalways, however, in the same sad way, by the sacrifice of money fordamages--on which damages, when the woman is shameless enough to claimthem, my verdict is, "Serve her right!"
On the present occasion, it was the old story over again. My sisters haddone their best to stop it, and had failed. I had no choice but to appearon the scene--to begin, perhaps, by boxing her ears: to end, certainly,by filling her pockets.
My absence at this time was something more than an annoyance--it was adownright grief to my blind Lucilla. On the morning of my departure, sheclung to me as if she was determined not to let me go.
"What shall I do without you?" she said. "It is hard, in these drearydays, to lose the comfort of hearing your voice. I shall feel all mysecurity gone, when I feel you no longer near me. How many days shall yoube away?"
"A day to get to Paris," I answered; "and a day to get back--two. Fivedays (if I can do it in the time) to thunder-strike the hussy, and torescue Papa--seven. Let us say, if possible, a week."
"You must be back, no matter what happen, before the new year."
"Why?"
"I have my yearly visit to pay to my aunt. It has been twice put off. Imust absolutely go to London on the last day of the old year, and staythere my allotted three months in Miss Batchford's house. I had hoped tobe Oscar's wife before the time came round again----" she waited a momentto steady her voice. "That is all over now. We must be parted. If I can'tleave you here to console him and to take care of him, come what may ofit--I shall stay at Dimchurch."
Her staying at Dimchurch, while she was still unmarried, meant (under theterms of her uncle's will) sacrificing her fortune. If Reverend Finch hadheard her, he would not even have been able to say "InscrutableProvidence"--he would have lost his senses on the spot.
"Don't be afraid," I said; "I shall be back, Lucilla, before you go.Besides, Oscar may get better. He may be able to follow you to London,and visit you at your aunt's."
She shook her head, with such a sad, sad doubt of it, that the tears cameinto my eyes. I gave her a last kiss--and hurried away.
My route was to Newhaven, and then across the Channel to Dieppe. I don'tthink I really knew how fond I had grown of Lucilla, until I lost sightof the rectory at the turn in the road to Brighton. My natural firmnessdeserted me; I felt torturing presentiments that some great misfortunewould happen in my absence; I astonished myself--I, the widow of theSpartan Pratolungo!--by having a good cry, like any other woman.
Sooner or later, we susceptible people pay with the heartache for theprivilege of loving. No matter: heartache or not, one must have somethingto love in this world as long as one lives in it. I have lived init--never mind how many years--and I have got Lucilla. Before Lucilla Ihad the Doctor. Before the Doctor--ah, my friends, we won't look backbeyond the Doctor!
Poor Miss Finch Page 22