Poor Miss Finch

by Wilkie Collins

  CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH

  He finds a Way out of it

  WE sat down at the piano, as Lucilla had proposed. She wished me to playfirst, and to play alone. I was teaching her, at the time, one of the_Sonatas_ of Mozart; and I now tried to go on with the lesson. Neverbefore, or since, have I played so badly, as on that day! The divineserenity and completeness by which Mozart's music is, to my mind, raisedabove all other music that ever was written, can only be worthilyinterpreted by a player whose whole mind is given undividedly to thework. Devoured as I then was by my own anxieties, I might profane thoseheavenly melodies--I could not play them. Lucilla accepted my excuses,and took my place.

  Half an hour passed, without news from Browndown.

  Calculated by reference to itself, half an hour is no doubt a short spaceof time. Calculated by reference to your own suspense, while your owninterests are at stake, half an hour is an eternity. Every minute thatpassed, leaving Lucilla still undisturbed in her delusion, was a minutethat pricked me in the conscience. The longer we left her in ignorance,the more painful to all of us the hard duty of enlightening her wouldbecome. I began to get restless. Lucilla, on her side, began to complainof fatigue. After the agitation that she had gone through, the inevitablereaction had come. I recommended her to go to her room and rest. She tookmy advice. In the state of my mind at that time, it was an inexpressiblerelief to me to be left by myself.

  After pacing backwards and forwards for some little time in thesitting-room, and trying vainly to see my way through the difficultiesthat now beset us, I made up my mind to wait no longer for the news thatnever came. The brothers were still at Browndown. To Browndown Idetermined to return.

  I peeped quietly into Lucilla's room. She was asleep. After a word toZillah, recommending her young mistress to her care, I slipped out. As Icrossed the lawn, I heard the garden-gate opened. In a minute more, theman of all others whom I most wanted to see, presented himself before me,in the person of Nugent Dubourg. He had borrowed Oscar's key, and had setoff alone for the rectory to tell me what had passed between his brotherand himself.

  "This is the first stroke of luck that has fallen to me to-day," he said."I was wondering how I should contrive to speak to you privately. Andhere you are--accessible and alone. Where is Lucilla? Can we depend onhaving the garden to ourselves?"

  I satisfied him on both those points. He looked sadly pale and worn.Before he opened his lips, I saw that he too had had his mind disturbed,and his patience tried, since I had left him. There was a summer-house atthe end of the garden with a view over the breezy solitude of the Downs.Here we established ourselves; and here, in my headlong way, I opened theinterview with the one formidable question:--"Who is to tell her of themistake she has made?"

  "Nobody is to tell her."

  That answer staggered me at the outset. I looked at Nugent in silentastonishment.

  "There is nothing to be surprised at," he said. "Let me put my point ofview before you in two words. I have had a serious talk with Oscar--"

  Women are proverbially bad listeners--and I am no better than the rest ofthem. I interrupted him, before he could get any farther.

  "I suppose Oscar has told you how the mistake happened?" I said.

  "He has no idea how it happened. He owns--when he found himself face toface with her--that his presence of mind completely failed him: he didn'thimself know what he was saying at the time. _He_ lost his head; and_she_ lost her patience. Think of his nervous confusion in collision withher nervous irritability--and the result explains itself: nothing _could_come of it but misapprehension and mistake. I turned the thing over in mymind, after you had left us; and the one course to take that _I_ couldsee was to accept the position patiently, and to make the best instead ofthe worst of it. Having reached this conclusion, I settled the matter (asI settle most other difficulties)--by cutting the Gordian knot. I said toOscar, 'Would it be a relief to your mind to leave her present impressionundisturbed until you are married?' You know him--I needn't tell you whathis answer was. 'Very well,' I said. 'Dry your eyes and compose yourself.I have begun as Blue Face. As Blue Face I will go on till furthernotice.' I spare you the description of Oscar's gratitude. I proposed;and he accepted. There is the way out of the difficulty as I see it."

  "Your way out of the difficulty is an unworthy way, and a false way," Ianswered. "I protest against taking that cruel advantage of Lucilla'sblindness. I refuse to have anything to do with it."

  He opened his case, and took out a cigar.

  "Do as you please," he said. "You saw the pitiable state she was in, whenshe forced herself to speak to me. You saw how her disgust and horroroverpowered her at the end. Transfer that disgust and horror to Oscar(with indignation and contempt added in _his_ case); expose him to theresult of rousing those feelings in her, before he is fortified by ahusband's influence over her mind, and a husband's place in heraffections--if you dare. I love the poor fellow; and _I_ daren't. May Ismoke?"

  I gave him his permission to smoke by a gesture. Before I said anythingmore to this inscrutable gentleman, I felt the necessity of understandinghim--if I could.

  There was no difficulty in accounting for his readiness to sacrificehimself in the interests of Oscar's tranquillity. He never did things byhalves--he liked dashing at difficulties which would have made other menpause. The same zeal in his brother's service which had saved Oscar'slife at the Trial, might well be the zeal that animated him now. Theperplexity that I felt was not roused in me by the course that he hadtaken--but by the language in which he justified himself, and, morestill, by his behavior to me while he was speaking. The well-bredbrilliant young fellow of my previous experience, had now turned asdogged and as ungracious as a man could be. He waited to hear what I hadto say to him next, with a hard defiance and desperation of mannerentirely uncalled for by the circumstances, and entirely out of harmonywith his character, so far as I had observed it. That there was somethinglurking under the surface, some inner motive at work in him which he wasconcealing from his brother and concealing from me, was as plainlyvisible as the sunshine and shade on the view that I was looking at fromthe summer-house. But what that something was, or what that inner motivemight be, it baffled my utmost sagacity to guess. Not the faintest ideaof the terrible secret that he was hiding from me, crossed my mind.Innocent of all suspicion of the truth, there I sat opposite to him, theunconscious witness of that unhappy man's final struggle to be true tothe brother whom he loved, and to master the devouring passion thatconsumed him. So long as Lucilla falsely believed him to be disfigured bythe drug, so long the commonest consideration for her tranquillity would,in the estimation of others, excuse and explain his keeping out of herpresence. In that separation, lay his last chance of raising aninsurmountable barrier between Lucilla and himself. He had already trieduselessly to place another obstacle in the way--he had vainly attemptedto hasten the marriage which would have made Lucilla sacred to him as hisbrother's wife. That effort having failed, there was but one honorablealternative left to him--to keep out of her society, until she wasmarried to Oscar. He had accepted the position in which Oscar had placedhim, as the one means of reaching the end in view without excitingsuspicion of the truth--and he had encountered, as his reward for thesacrifice, my ignorant protest, my stupid opposition, set as obstacles inhis way! There were the motives--the pure, the noble motives--whichanimated him, as I know them now. There is the right reading of thedogged language that mystified me, of the defiant manner that offendedme; interpreted by the one light that I have to guide my pen--the lightof later events!

  "Well?" he said. "Are we allies, or not? Are you with me or against me?"

  I gave up attempting to understand him; and answered that plain question,plainly.

  "I don't deny that the consequences of undeceiving her may be serious," Isaid. "But, for all that, I will have no share in the cruelty of keepingher deceived."

  Nugent held up his forefinger, warningly.

  "Pause, and reflect, Madame Pratolungo
! The mischief that you may do, asmatters stand now, may be mischief that you can never repair. It'suseless to ask you to alter your mind. I only ask you to wait a little.There is plenty of time before the wedding-day. Something may happenwhich will spare you the necessity of enlightening Lucilla with your ownlips."

  "What can happen?" I asked.

  "Lucilla may yet see him, as we see him," Nugent answered. "Lucilla's owneyes may discover the truth."

  "What! have you not abandoned the mad notion of curing her blindness,yet?"

  "I will abandon my notion when the German surgeon tells me it is mad. Notbefore."

  "Have you said anything about it to Oscar?"

  "Not a word. I shall say nothing about it to anybody but you, until theGerman is safe on the shores of England."

  "Do you expect him to arrive before the marriage?"

  "Certainly! He would have left New York with me, but for one patient whostill required his care. No new patients will tempt him to stay inAmerica. His extraordinary success has made his fortune. The ambition ofhis life is to see England: and he can afford to gratify it. He may behere by the next steamer that reaches Liverpool."

  "And when he does come, you mean to bring him to Dimchurch?"

  "Yes--unless Lucilla objects to it."

  "Suppose Oscar objects? She is resigned to be blind for life. If youdisturb that resignation with no useful result, you may make an unhappywoman of her for the rest of her days. In your brother's place, I shouldobject to running that risk."

  "My brother is doubly interested in running the risk. I repeat what Ihave already told you. The physical result will not be the only result,if her sight can be restored. There will be a new mind put into her aswell as a new sense. Oscar has everything to dread from this morbid fancyof hers as long as she is blind. Only let her eyes correct herfancy--only let her see him as we see him, and get used to him, as wehave got used to him; and Oscar's future with her is safe. Will you leavethings as they are for the present, on the chance that the German surgeonmay get here before the wedding-day?"

  I consented to that; being influenced, in spite of myself, by theremarkable coincidence between what Nugent had just said of Lucilla, andwhat Lucilla had said to me of herself earlier in the day. It wasimpossible to deny that Nugent's theory, wild as it sounded, found itsconfirmation, so far, in Lucilla's view of her own case. Having settledthe difference between us in this way, for the time being, I shifted ourtalk next to the difficult question of Nugent's relations towardsLucilla. "How are you to meet her again," I said, "after the effect youproduced on her at the meeting to-day?"

  He spoke far more pleasantly in discussing this side of the subject. Hislanguage and his manner both improved together.

  "If I could have had my own way," he said, "Lucilla would have beenrelieved, by this time, of all fear of meeting with me again. She wouldhave heard from you, or from Oscar, that business had obliged me to leaveDimchurch."

  "Does Oscar object to let you go?"

  "He won't hear of my going. I did my best to persuade him--I promised toreturn for the marriage. Quite useless! 'If you leave me here by myself,'he said, 'to think over the mischief I have done, and the sacrifices Ihave forced on you--you will break my heart. You don't know what anencouragement your presence is to me; you don't know what a blank youwill leave in my life if you go!' I am as weak as Oscar is, when Oscarspeaks to me in that way. Against my own convictions, against my ownwishes, I yielded. I should have been better away--far, far better away!"

  He said those closing words in a tone that startled me. It was nothingless than a tone of despair. How little I understood him then! how well Iunderstand him now! In those melancholy accents, spoke the last of hishonor, the last of his truth. Miserable, innocent Lucia! Miserable,guilty Nugent!

  "And now you remain at Dimchurch," I resumed, "what are you to do?"

  "I must do my best to spare her the nervous suffering which I unwillinglyinflicted on her to-day. The morbid repulsion that she feels in mypresence is not to be controlled--I can see that plainly. I shall keepout of her way; gradually withdrawing myself, so as not to force myabsence on her attention. I shall pay fewer and fewer visits at therectory, and remain longer and longer at Browndown every day. After theyare married----" He suddenly stopped; the words seemed to stick in histhroat. He busied himself in relighting his cigar, and took a long timeto do it.

  "After they are married," I repeated. "What then?"

  "When Oscar is married, Oscar will not find my presence indispensable tohis happiness. I shall leave Dimchurch."

  "You will have to give a reason."

  "I shall give the true reason. I can find no studio here big enough forme--as I have told you. And, even if I could find a studio, I should bedoing no good, if I remained at Dimchurch. My intellect would contract,my brains would rust, in this remote place. Let Oscar live his quietmarried life here. And let me go to the atmosphere that is fitter forme--the atmosphere of London or Paris."

  He sighed, and fixed his eyes absently on the open hilly view from thesummer-house door.

  "It's strange to see _you_ depressed," I said. "Your spirits seemed to bequite inexhaustible on that first evening when you interrupted Mr. Finchover _Hamlet._"

  He threw away the end of his cigar, and laughed bitterly.

  "We artists are always in extremes," he said. "What do you think I waswishing just before you spoke to me?"

  "I can't guess."

  "I was wishing I had never come to Dimchurch!"

  Before I could return a word, on my side, Lucilla's voice reached ourears, calling to me from the garden. Nugent instantly sprang to his feet.

  "Have we said all we need say?" he asked.

  "Yes--for to-day, at any rate."

  "For to-day, then--good-bye."

  He leapt up; caught the cross-bar of wood over the entrance to thesummer-house; and, swinging himself on to the low garden-wall beyond,disappeared in the field on the other side. I answered Lucilla's call,and hastened away to find her. We met on the lawn. She looked wild andpale, as if something had frightened her.

  "Anything wrong at the rectory?" I asked.

  "Nothing wrong," she answered--"except with Me. The next time I complainof fatigue, don't advise me to go and lie down on my bed."

  "Why not? I looked in at you, before I came out here. You were fastasleep--the picture of repose."

  "Repose? You never were more mistaken in your life. I was in the agony ofa horrid dream."

  "You were perfectly quiet when I saw you."

  "It must have been after you saw me, then. Let me come and sleep with youto-night. I daren't be by myself, if I dream of it again."

  "What did you dream of?"

  "I dreamt that I was standing, in my wedding dress, before the altar of astrange church; and that a clergyman whose voice I had never heardbefore, was marrying me----" She stopped, impatiently waving her handbefore her in the air. "Blind as I am," she said, "I see him again now!"

  "The bridegroom?"

  "Yes."

  "Oscar?"

  "No."

  "Who then?"

  "Oscar's brother. Nugent Dubourg."

  (Have I mentioned before, that I am sometimes a great fool? If I havenot, I beg to mention it now. I burst out laughing.)

  "What is there to laugh at?" she asked angrily. "I saw his hideous,discolored face--I am never blind in my dreams! I felt his blue hand putthe ring on my finger. Wait! The worst part of it is to come. I marriedNugent Dubourg willingly--married him without a thought of my engagementto Oscar. Yes! yes! I know it's only a dream. I can't bear to think ofit, for all that. I don't like to be false to Oscar even in a dream. Letus go to him. I want to hear him tell me that he loves me. Come toBrowndown. I'm so nervous, I don't like going by myself. Come toBrowndown!"

  I have another humiliating confession to make--I tried to get off goingto Browndown. (So like those unfeeling French people, isn't it?)

  But I had my reason too. If I disapproved of the resolution at wh
ichNugent had arrived, I viewed far more unfavorably the selfish weakness onOscar's part, which had allowed his brother to sacrifice himself.Lucilla's lover had sunk to something very like a despicable character inmy estimation. I felt that I might let him see what I thought of him, ifI found myself in his company at that moment.

  "Considering the object that you have in view, my dear," I said toLucilla, "do you think you want _me_ at Browndown?"

  "Haven't I already told you?" she asked impatiently. "I am so nervous--socompletely upset--that I don't feel equal to going out by myself. Haveyou no sympathy for me? Suppose _you_ had dreamed that you were marryingNugent instead of Oscar?"

  "Ah, bah! what of that? I should only have dreamed that I was marryingthe most agreeable man of the two."

  "The most agreeable man of the two! There you are again--always unjust toOscar."

  "My love! if you could see for yourself, you would learn to appreciateNugent's good qualities, as I do."

  "I prefer appreciating Oscar's good qualities."

  "You are prejudiced, Lucilla."

  "So are you!"

  "You happen to have met Oscar first."

  "That has nothing to do with it."

  "Yes! yes! If Nugent had followed us, instead of Oscar; if, of those twocharming voices which are both the same, one had spoken instead of theother--"

  "I won't hear a word more!"

  "Tra-la-la-la! It happens to have been Oscar. Turn it the other way--andNugent might have been the man.

  "Madame Pratolungo, I am not accustomed to be insulted! I have no more tosay to you."

  With that dignified reply, and with the loveliest color in her face thatyou ever saw in your life, my darling Lucilla turned her pretty back onme, and set off for Browndown by herself.

  Ah, my rash tongue! Ah, my nasty foreign temper! Why did I let herirritate me? I, the elder of the two--why did I not set her an example ofself-control? Who can tell? When does a woman know why she does anything?Did Eve know--when Mr. Serpent offered her the apple--why she ate it? notshe!

  What was to be done now? Two things were to be done. First thing:--Tocool myself down. Second thing:--To follow Lucilla, and kiss and make itup.

  Either I took some time to cool--or, in the irritation of the moment,Lucilla walked faster than usual. She had got to Browndown before I couldovertake her. On opening the house-door, I heard them talking. It wouldhardly do to disturb them--especially now I was in disgrace. While I washesitating, and wondering what my next proceeding had better be, my eyewas attracted by a letter lying on the hall-table. I looked (one isalways inquisitive in those idle moments when one doesn't know what todo)--I looked at the address. The letter was directed to Nugent; and thepost-mark was Liverpool.

  I drew the inevitable conclusion. The German oculist was in England!