CHAPTER THE FORTY-SECOND
The Story of Lucilla: told by Herself
IN my description of what Lucilla said and did, on the occasion when thesurgeon was teaching her to use her sight, it will be remembered that sheis represented as having been particularly anxious to be allowed to tryhow she could write.
The motive at the bottom of this was the motive which is always at thebottom of a woman's conduct when she loves. Her one ambition is topresent herself to advantage, even in the most trifling matters, beforethe man on whom her heart is fixed. Lucilla's one ambition with Oscar,was this and no more.
Conscious that her handwriting--thus far, painfully and incompletelyguided by her sense of touch--must present itself in sadly unfavorablecontrast to the handwriting of other women who could see, she persistedin petitioning Grosse to permit her to learn to "write with her eyesinstead of her finger," until she fairly wearied out the worthy German'spower of resistance. The rapid improvement in her sight, after herremoval to the sea-side, justified him (as I was afterwards informed) inletting her have her way. Little by little, using her eyes for a longerand longer time on each succeeding day, she mastered the seriousdifficulty of teaching herself to write by sight instead of by touch.Beginning with lines in copybooks, she got on to writing easy words todictation. From that again, she advanced to writing notes; and fromwriting notes to keeping a journal--this last, at the suggestion of heraunt, who had lived in the days before penny postage, when people keptjournals, and wrote long letters--in short, when people had time to thinkof themselves, and, more wonderful still, to write about it too.
Lucilla's Journal at Ramsgate lies before me as I trace these lines.
I had planned at first to make use of it, so as to continue the course ofmy narrative without a check; still writing in my own person--as I havewritten thus far; and as I propose to write again, at the time when Ireappear on the scene.
But on thinking over it once more, and after reading the Journal again,it strikes me as the wiser proceeding to let Lucilla tell the story ofher life at Ramsgate, herself: adding notes of my own occasionally, wherethey appear to be required. Variety, freshness, and reality--I believe Ishall secure them all three by following this plan. Why is History ingeneral (I know there are brilliant exceptions to the rule) such dullreading? Because it is the narrative of events, written at second hand.Now I will be anything else you please, except dull. You may say I havebeen dull already? As I am an honest woman, I don't agree with you. Thereare some people who bring dull minds to their reading--and then blame thewriter for it. I say no more.
Consider it as arranged, then. During my absence on the Continent,Lucilla shall tell the story of events at Ramsgate. (And I will sprinklea few notes over it, here and there; signed P.)
Lucilla's Journal
_East Cliff Ramsgate, August_ 28th.--A fortnight to-day since my aunt andI arrived at this place. I sent Zillah back to the rectory from London.Her rheumatic infirmities trouble her tenfold, poor old soul, in themoist air of the seaside.
How has my writing got on for the last week? I am becoming a littlebetter satisfied with it. I use my pen more easily; my hand is less likethe hand of a backward child than it was. I shall be able to write aswell as other ladies do when I am Oscar's wife.
[Note.--She is easily satisfied, poor dear. Her improved handwriting issadly crooked. Some of the letters embrace each other at close quarterslike dear friends; and some start asunder like bitter enemies. This isnot to reflect on Lucilla--but to excuse myself, if I make any mistakesin transcribing the Journal. Now let her go on.--P.]
Oscar's wife! when shall I be Oscar's wife? I have not so much as seenhim yet. Something--I am afraid a difficulty with his brother--stillkeeps him on the Continent. The tone in which he writes continues to havea certain reserve in it which disquiets and puzzles me. Am I quite ashappy as I expected to be when I recovered my sight? Not yet!
It is not Oscar's fault, if I am out of spirits every now and then. It ismy own fault. I have offended my father; and I sometimes fear I have notacted justly towards Madame Pratolungo. These things vex me.
It seems to be my fate to be always misunderstood. My sudden flight fromthe rectory meant no disrespect to my father. I left as I did, because Iwas quite incapable of facing the woman whom I had once dearlyloved--thinking of her as I think now. It is so unendurable to feel thatyour confidence is lost in a person whom you once trusted without limit,and to go on meeting that person every hour in the day with a smoothface, as if nothing had happened! The impulse to escape more meetings(when I discovered that she had left the house for a walk) wasirresistible. I should do it again, if I was in the same position again.I have hinted at this in writing to my father; telling him that somethingunpleasant had happened between Madame Pratolungo and me, and that I wentaway so suddenly, on that account alone. No use! He has not answered myletter. I have written since to my step-mother. Mrs. Finch's reply hasinformed me of the unjust manner in which he speaks of my aunt. Withoutthe slightest reason for it, he is even more deeply offended with MissBatchford than he is with me!
Sad as this estrangement is, there is one consolation--so far as I amconcerned, it will not last. My father and I are sure, sooner or later,to come to an understanding together. When I return to the rectory, Ishall make my peace with him, and we shall get on again as smoothly asever.
But how will it end between Madame Pratolungo and me?
She has not answered the letter I wrote to her. (I begin to wish I hadnever written it, or at least some of it--the latter part I mean.) I haveheard absolutely nothing of her since she has been abroad. I don't knowwhen she will return--or if she will ever return, to live at Dimchurchagain. Oh, what would I not give to have this dreadful mystery clearedup! to know whether I ought to fall down on my knees before her and begher pardon? or whether I ought to count among the saddest days of my lifethe day which brought that woman to live with me as companion and friend?
Have I acted rashly? or have I acted wisely?
There is the question which always comes to me and torments me, when Iwake in the night. Let me look again (for the fiftieth time at least) atOscar's letter.
[Note.--I copy the letter. Other eyes than hers ought to see it in thisplace. It is Nugent, of course, who here writes in Oscar's character andin Oscar's name. You will observe that his good resolutions, when he leftme, held out as far as Paris--and then gave way as follows.--P.]
"MY OWN DEAREST,--I have reached Paris, and have found my firstopportunity of writing to you since I left Browndown. Madame Pratolungohas no doubt told you that a sudden necessity has called me to mybrother. I have not yet reached the place at which I am to meet him.Before I meet him, let me tell you what the necessity which has parted usreally is. Madame Pratolungo no longer possesses my confidence. When youhave read on a little farther, she will no longer possess yours.
"Alas, my love, I must amaze you, shock you, grieve you--I who would laydown my life for your happiness! Let me write it in the fewest words. Ihave made a terrible discovery. Lucilla! you have trusted MadamePratolungo as your friend. Trust her no longer. She is your enemy, andmine.
"I suspected her some time since. My worst suspicions have beenconfirmed.
"Long ere this, I ought to have told you, what I tell you now. But Ishrink from distressing you. To see a sad look on your dear face breaksmy heart. It is only when I am away from you--when I fear theconsequences if you are not warned of your danger--that I can summon thecourage to tear off the mask from that woman's false face, and show herto you as she really is. It is impossible for me to enter into details inthe space of a letter; I reserve all particulars until we meet again, anduntil I can produce, what you have a right to ask for--proof that I amspeaking the truth.
"In the meanwhile, I beg you to look back into your own thoughts, torecall your own words, on the day when Madame Pratolungo offended you inthe rectory garden. On that occasion, the truth escaped the Frenchwoman'slips--and she knew it!
"You said these--or nearly these--words:
"'She hated you from the first, Oscar--she took up with your brotherdirectly he came here. Don't marry me at Dimchurch! Find out some placethat they don't know of! They are both in a conspiracy together againstyou and against me. Take care of them! take care of them!'
"Lucilla! I echo your own words to you. I return the warning--theprophetic warning--which you unconsciously gave me in that past time. Iam afraid my unhappy brother loves you--and I know for certain thatMadame Pratolungo feels the interest in _him_ which she has never felt in_me._ What you said, I say. They are in a conspiracy together against us.Take care of them! take care of them!
"When we meet again, I shall be prepared to defeat the conspiracy. Tillthat time comes--as you value your happiness and mine, don't let MadamePratolungo suspect that you have discovered her. It is she, I firmlybelieve, who is to blame. I am going to my brother--as you will nowunderstand--with an object far different to the object which I putforward as an excuse to your false friend. Fear no dispute between Nugentand me. I know him. I firmly believe I shall find that he has beentempted and misled. I answer--now that no evil influences are at work onhim--for his acting like an honorable man, and deserving your pardon andmine. The excuse I have made to Madame Pratolungo will prevent her frominterfering between us. That was my one object in making it.
"Keep me correctly informed of your movements and of hers. I enclose anaddress to which you can write, with the certainty that your letters willbe forwarded.
"On my side, I promise to write constantly. Once more, don't trust aliving creature about you with the secret which this letter reveals!Expect me back at the earliest possible moment, to free you--with ahusband's authority--from the woman who has so cruelly deceivedus.--Yours with the truest affection, the fondest love,
"OSCAR."
[Note.--It is quite needless for me to dwell here on the devilishcunning--I can use no other phrase--which inspired this abominableletter. Look back to the twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth chapters, andyou will see how skillfully what I said in a moment of foolishirritation, and what Lucilla said when she too had lost her temper, isturned to account to poison her mind against me. We are made innocentlyto supply our enemy with the foundation on which he builds his plot. Forthe rest, the letter explains itself. Nugent still persists inpersonating his brother. He guesses easily at the excuse I should make toLucilla for his absence; and he gets over the difficulty of appearing tohave confided his errand to a woman whom he distrusts, by declaring thathe felt it necessary to deceive me as to what the nature of that errandreally was. As the Journal proceeds, you will see how dexterously heworks the machinery which his letter has set in motion. All I need addhere, in the way of explanation, is--that the delay in his arrival atRamsgate of which Lucilla complains, was caused by nothing but his ownhesitation. His sense of honor--as I knew, from discoveries made at alater time--was not entirely lost yet. The lower he sank, the harder hisbetter nature struggled to raise him. Nothing, positively nothing, buthis own remorse need have kept him at Paris (it is needless to say thathe never stirred farther, and never discovered the place of his brother'sretreat) after Lucilla had informed him by letter, that I had goneabroad, and that she was at Ramsgate with her aunt. I have done: letLucilla go on again.--P.]
I have read Oscar's letter once more.
He is the soul of honor; he is incapable of deceiving me. I remembersaying what he tells me I said, and thinking it too--for the momentonly--when I was beside myself with rage. Still--may it not be possiblethat appearances have misled Oscar? Oh, Madame Pratolungo! I had such ahigh opinion of you, I loved you so dearly--can you have been unworthy ofthe admiration and affection that you once inspired in me?
I quite agree with Oscar that his brother is not to blame. It is sad andshocking that Mr. Nugent Dubourg should have allowed himself to fall inlove with me. But I cannot help pitying him. Poor disfigured man, I hopehe will get a good wife! How he must have suffered!
It is impossible to endure, any longer, my present state of suspense.Oscar must, and shall, satisfy me about Madame Pratolungo--with his ownlips. I shall write to him by this post, and insist on his coming toRamsgate.
_August_ 29th.--I wrote to him yesterday, to the address in Paris. Myletter will be delivered to-morrow. Where is he? when will he get it?
[Note.--That innocent letter did its fatal mischief. It ended thestruggle against himself which had kept Nugent Dubourg in Paris. On themorning when he received it, he started for England. Here is the entry inLucilla's journal.--P.]
_August_ 31st.--A telegram for me at breakfast-time. I am too happy tokeep my hand steady--I am writing horribly. It doesn't matter: nothingmatters but my telegram. (Oh, what a noble creature the man was whoinvented telegrams!) Oscar is on his way to Ramsgate!
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