Poor Miss Finch

by Wilkie Collins

  CHAPTER THE FORTY-THIRD

  Lucilla's Journal, continued

  _September_ 1st.

  I AM composed enough to return to my Journal, and to let my mind dwell alittle on all that I have thought and felt since Oscar has been here.

  Now that I have lost Madame Pratolungo, I have no friend with whom I cantalk over my little secrets. My aunt is all that is kind and good to me;but with a person so much older than I am--who has lived in such adifferent world from my world, and whose ideas seem to be so far awayfrom mine--how can I talk about my follies and extravagances, and expectsympathy in return! My one confidential friend is my Journal--I can onlytalk about myself to myself, in these pages. My position feels sometimeslike a very lonely one. I saw two girls telling all their secrets to eachother on the sands to-day--and I am afraid I envied them.

  Well, my dear Journal, how did I feel--after longing for Oscar--whenOscar came to me? It is dreadful to own it; but my book locks up, and mybook can be trusted with the truth. I felt ready to cry--I was sounexpectedly, so horribly, disappointed.

  No. "Disappointed" is not the word. I can't find the word. There was amoment--I hardly dare write it: it seems so atrociously wicked--there wasa moment when I actually wished myself blind again.

  He took me in his arms; he held my hand in his. In the time when I wasblind, how I should have felt it! how the delicious _tingle_ would haverun through me when he touched me! Nothing of the kind happened now. Hemight have been Oscar's brother for all the effect he produced on me. Ihave myself taken his hand since, and shut my eyes to try and renew myblindness, and put myself back completely as I was in the old time. Thesame result still. Nothing, nothing, nothing!

  Is it that he is a little restrained with me on his side? He certainlyis! I felt it the moment he came into the room--I have felt it eversince.

  No: it is not that. In the old time, when we were only beginning to loveeach other, he was restrained with me. But it made no difference then. Iwas not the insensible creature in those days that I have become since.

  I can only account for it in one way. The restoration of my sight hasmade a new creature of me. I have gained a sense--I am no longer the samewoman. This great change must have had some influence over me that Inever suspected until Oscar came here. Can the loss of my sense offeeling be the price that I have paid for the recovery of my sense ofsight?

  When Grosse comes next, I shall put that question to him.

  In the meanwhile, I have had a second disappointment. He is not nearly sobeautiful as I thought he was when I was blind.

  On the day when my bandage was taken off for the first time, I could onlysee indistinctly. When I ran into the room at the rectory, I guessed itwas Oscar rather than knew it was Oscar. My father's grey head, and Mrs.Finch's woman's dress, would no doubt have helped anybody in my place tofix as I did on the right man. But this is all different now. I can seehis features in detail--and the result is (though I won't own it to anyof them) that I find my idea of him in the days of my blindness--oh, sounlike the reality! The one thing that is not a disappointment to me, ishis voice. When he cannot see me, I close my eyes, and let my ears feelthe old charm again--so far.

  And this is what I have gained, by submitting to the operation, andenduring my imprisonment in the darkened room!

  What am I writing? I ought to be ashamed of myself! Is it nothing to havehad all the beauty of land and sea, all the glory of cloud and sunshine,revealed to me? Is it nothing to be able to look at myfellow-creatures--to see the bright faces of children smile at me when Ispeak to them? Enough of myself! I am unhappy and ungrateful when I thinkof myself.

  Let me write about Oscar.

  My aunt approves of him. She thinks him handsome, and says he has themanners of a gentleman. This last is high praise from Miss Batchford. Shedespises the present generation of young men. "In my time," she said theother day, "I used to see young gentlemen. I only see young animals now;well-fed, well-washed, well-dressed; riding animals, rowing animals,betting animals--nothing more."

  Oscar, on his side, seems to like Miss Batchford on better acquaintance.When I first presented him to her, he rather surprised me by changingcolor and looking very uneasy. He is almost distressingly nervous, oncertain occasions. I suppose my aunt's grand manner daunted him.

  [Note.--I really must break in here. Her aunt's "grand manner" makes mesick. It is nothing (between ourselves) but a hook-nose and a stiff pairof stays. What daunted Nugent Dubourg, when he first found himself in theold lady's presence, was the fear of discovery. He would no doubt havelearnt from his brother that Oscar and Miss Batchford had never met. Youwill see, if you look back, that it was, in the nature of things,impossible they should have met. But is it equally clear that Nugentcould find out beforehand that Miss Batchford had been left in ignoranceof what had happened at Dimchurch? He could do nothing of the sort--hecould feel no assurance of his security from exposure, until he had triedthe ground in his own proper person first. The risk here was certainlyserious enough to make even Nugent Dubourg feel uneasy. And Lucilla talksof her aunt's "grand manner!" Poor innocent! I leave her to go on.--P.]

  As soon as my aunt left us together, the first words I said to Oscar,referred (of course) to his letter about Madame Pratolungo.

  He made a little sign of entreaty, and looked distressed.

  "Why should we spoil the pleasure of our first meeting by talking ofher?" he said. "It is so inexpressibly painful to you and to me. Let usreturn to it in a day or two. Not now, Lucilla--not now!"

  His brother was the next subject in my mind. I was not at all sure how hewould take my speaking about it. I risked a question however, for allthat. He made another sign of entreaty, and looked distressed again.

  "My brother and I understand each other, Lucilla. He will remain abroadfor the present. Shall we drop that subject, too? Let me hear your ownnews--I want to know what is going on at the rectory. I have heardnothing since you wrote me word that you were here with your aunt, andthat Madame Pratolungo had gone abroad to her father. Is Mr. Finch well?Is he coming to Ramsgate to see you?"

  I was unwilling to tell him of the misunderstanding at home. "I have notheard from my father since I have been here," I said. "Now you have comeback, I can write and announce your return, and get all the news from therectory."

  He looked at me rather strangely--in a way which led me to fear that hesaw some objection to my writing to my father.

  "I suppose you would like Mr. Finch to come here?" he said--and thenstopped suddenly, and looked at me again.

  "There is very little chance of his coming here," I answered.

  Oscar seemed to be wonderfully interested about my father. "Very littlechance!" he repeated. "Why?"

  I was obliged to refer to the family quarrel--still, however, sayingnothing of the unjust manner in which my father had spoken of my aunt.

  "As long as I am with Miss Batchford," I said, "it is useless to hopethat my father will come here. They are on bad terms; and I am afraidthere is no prospect, at present, of their being friends again. Do youobject to my writing home to say you have come to Ramsgate?" I asked.

  "I?" he exclaimed, looking the picture of astonishment. "What couldpossibly make you think that? Write by all means--and leave a littlespace for me. I will add a few lines to your letter."

  It is impossible to say how his answer relieved me. It was quite plainthat I had stupidly misinterpreted him. Oh, my new eyes! my new eyes!shall I ever be able to depend on you as I could once depend on my touch?

  [Note.--I must intrude myself again. I shall burst with indignation whileI am copying the journal, if I don't relieve my mind at certain places init. Remark, before you go any farther, how skillfully Nugent contrives toascertain his exact position at Ramsgate--and see with what a fatalunanimity all the chances of his personating Oscar, without discovery,declare themselves in his favor! Miss Batchford, as you have seen, isentirely at his mercy. She not only knows nothing herself, but sheoperates as a check on Mr. Finch--w
ho would otherwise have joined hisdaughter at Ramsgate, and have instantly exposed the conspiracy. On everyside of him, Nugent is, to all appearance, safe. I am away in onedirection. Oscar is away in another. Mrs. Finch is anchored immovably inher nursery. Zillah has been sent back from London to the rectory. TheDimchurch doctor (who attended Oscar, and who might have proved anawkward witness) is settled in India--as you will see, if you refer tothe twenty-second chapter. The London doctor with whom he consulted haslong since ceased to have any relations with his former patient. As forHerr Grosse, if he appears on the scene, he can be trusted to shut hiseyes professionally to all that is going on, and to let matters taketheir course in the only interest he recognizes--the interest ofLucilla's health. There is literally no obstacle in Nugent's way--and nosort of protection for Lucilla, except in the faithful instinct whichpersists in warning her that this is the wrong man--though it speaks inan unknown tongue. Will she end in understanding the warning before it istoo late? My friend, this note is intended to relieve my mind--not yours.All you have to do is to read on. Here is the journal. I won't standanother moment in your way.--P.]

  _September_ 2nd.--A rainy day. Very little said that is worth recordingbetween Oscar and me.

  My aunt, whose spirits are always affected by bad weather, kept me a longtime in her sitting-room, amusing herself by making me exercise my sight.Oscar was present by special invitation, and assisted the old lady insetting this new seeing-sense of mine all sorts of tasks. He tried hardto prevail on me to let him see my writing. I refused. It is improving asfast as it can; but it is not good enough yet.

  I notice here what a dreadfully difficult thing it is to get back--insuch a case as mine--to the exercise of one's sight.

  We have a cat and a dog in the house. Would it be credited, if I wastelling it to the world instead of telling it to my Journal, that Iactually mistook one for the other to-day?--after seeing so well, too, asI do now, and being able to write with so few false strokes in making myletters! It is nevertheless true that I did mistake the two animals;having trusted to nothing but my memory to inform my eyes which waswhich, instead of helping my memory by my touch. I have now set thisright. I caught up puss, and shut my eyes (oh, that habit! when shall Iget over it?) and felt her soft fur (so different from a dog's hair!) andopened my eyes again, and associated the feel of the fur for everafterwards with the sight of a cat.

  To-day's experience has also informed me that I make slow progress inteaching myself to judge correctly of distances.

  In spite of this drawback, however, there is nothing I enjoy so much inusing my sight as looking at a great wide prospect of any kind--providedI am not asked to judge how far or how near objects may be. It seems likeescaping out of prison, to look (after having been shut up in myblindness) at the view over the town, and the bold promontory of thepier, and the grand sweep of the sea beyond--all visible from ourwindows.

  The moment my aunt begins to question me about distances, she makes atoil of my pleasure. It is worse still when I am asked about the relativesizes of ships and boats. When I see nothing but a boat, I fancy itlarger than it is. When I see the boat in comparison with a ship, andthen look back at the boat, I instantly go to the other extreme, andfancy it smaller than it is. The setting this right still vexes me almostas keenly as my stupidity vexed me some time since, when I saw my firsthorse and cart from an upper window, and took it for a dog drawing awheelbarrow! Let me add in my own defence that both horse and cart werefigured at least five times their proper size in my blind fancy, whichmakes my mistake, I think, not so very stupid after all.

  Well, I amused my aunt. And what effect did I produce on Oscar?

  If I could trust my eyes, I should say I produced exactly the contraryeffect on _him_--I made him melancholy. But I don't trust my eyes. Theymust be deceiving me when they tell me that he looked, in my company, amoping, anxious, miserable man.

  Or is it, that he sees and feels something changed in Me? I could screamwith vexation and rage against myself. Here is my Oscar--and yet he isnot the Oscar I knew when I was blind. Contradictory as it seems, I usedto understand how he looked at me, when I was unable to see it. Now thatI can see it, I ask myself, Is this really love that is looking at me inhis eyes? or is it something else? How should I know? I knew when I hadonly my own fancy to tell me. But now, try as I may, I cannot make theold fancy and the new sight serve me in harmony both together. I amafraid he sees that I don't understand him. Oh, dear! dear! why did I notmeet my good old Grosse, and become the new creature that he has made me,before I met Oscar? I should have had no blind memories andprepossessions to get over then. I shall become used to my new self, Ihope and believe, with time--and that will accustom me to my newimpressions of Oscar--and so it may all come right in the end. It is allwrong enough now. He put his arm round me, and gave me a little tendersqueeze, while we were following Miss Batchford down to the dining-roomthis afternoon. Nothing in me answered to it. I should have felt it allover me a few months since.

  Here is a tear on the paper. What a fool I am! Why can't I write aboutsomething else?

  I sent my second letter to my father to-day; telling him of Oscar'sreturn from abroad, and taking no notice of his not having replied to myfirst letter. The only way to manage my father is not to take notice, andto let him come right by himself. I showed Oscar my letter--with a spaceleft at the end for his postscript. While he was writing it, he asked meto get something which happened to be up-stairs in my room. When I cameback, he had sealed the envelope--forgetting to show me his postscript.It was not worth while to open the letter again; he told me what he hadwritten, and that did just as well.

  [Note.--I must trouble you with a copy of what Nugent really did write.It shows why he sent her out of the room, and closed the envelope beforeshe could come back. The postscript is also worthy of notice, in thisrespect--that it plays a part in a page of my narrative which is still tocome.

  Thus Nugent writes, in Oscar's name and character, to the rector ofDimchurch. (I have already mentioned, as you will see in thetwenty-second chapter, that a close similarity of handwriting was oneamong the other striking points of resemblance between the twins.)

  "DEAR MR. FINCH,

  "Lucilla's letter will have told you that I have come to my senses, andthat I am again paying my addresses to her as her affianced husband. Myprincipal object in adding these lines is to propose that we shouldforget the past, and go on again as if nothing had happened.

  "Nugent has behaved nobly. He absolves me from the engagements towardshim into which I so rashly entered, at our last interview before I leftBrowndown. Most generously and amply he has redeemed his pledge to MadamePratolungo to discover the place of my retreat and to restore me toLucilla. For the present he remains abroad.

  "If you favor me with a reply to this, I must warn you to be careful howyou write; for Lucilla is sure to ask to see your letter. Remember thatshe only supposes me to have returned to her after a brief absence fromEngland, caused by a necessity for joining my brother on the Continent.It will be also desirable to say nothing on the subject of my unfortunatepeculiarity of complexion. I have made it all right with Lucilla, and sheis getting accustomed to me. Still, the subject is a sore one; and theless it is referred to the better.

  Truly yours,

  "OSCAR."

  Unless I add a word of explanation here, you will hardly appreciate theextraordinary skillfulness with which the deception is continued by meansof this postscript.

  Written in Oscar's character (and representing Nugent as having done allthat he had promised me to do) it designedly omits the customary courtesyof Oscar's style. The object of this is to offend Mr. Finch--with whatend in view you will presently see. The rector was the last man inexistence to dispense with the necessary apologies and expressions ofregret from a man engaged to his daughter, who had left her as Oscar hadleft her--no matter how the circumstances might appear to excuse him. Thecurt, off-hand postscript signed "Oscar" was the very thing to exasperatethe wound al
ready inflicted on Mr. Finch's self-esteem, and to render itat least probable that he would reconsider his intention of himselfperforming the marriage ceremony. In the event of his refusal, what wouldhappen? A stranger, entirely ignorant of which was Nugent and which wasOscar, would officiate in his place. Do you see it now?

  But even the cleverest people are not always capable of providing forevery emergency. The completest plot generally has its weak place.

  The postscript, as you have seen, was a little masterpiece. But itnevertheless exposed the writer to a danger which (as the Journal willtell you) he only appreciated at its true value when it was too late toalter his mind. Finding himself forced, for the sake of appearances, topermit Lucilla to inform her father of his arrival at Ramsgate, he wasnow obliged to run the risk of having that important piece of domesticnews communicated--either by Mr. Finch or by his wife--to no less aperson than myself. You will remember that worthy Mrs. Finch, when weparted at the rectory, had asked me to write to her while I wasabroad--and you will see, after the hint I have given you, that cleverMr. Nugent is beginning already to walk upon delicate ground. I say nomore: Lucilla's turn now.--P.]

  _September_ 3rd.--Oscar has (I suppose) forgotten something which heought to have included in his postscript to my letter.

  More than two hours after I had sent it to the post, he asked if theletter had gone. For the moment, he looked annoyed when I said, Yes. Buthe soon recovered himself. It mattered nothing (he said); he could easilywrite again. "Talking of letters," he added, "do you expect MadamePratolungo to write to you?" (This time it was he who referred to her!) Itold him that there was not much chance, after what had passed on herside and on mine, of her writing to me--and then tried to put some ofthose questions about her which he had once already requested me not topress yet. For the second time, he entreated me to defer the discussionof that unpleasant subject for the present--and yet, with a curiousinconsistency, he made another inquiry relating to the subject in thesame breath.

  "Do you think she is likely to be in correspondence with your father, oryour stepmother, while she is out of England?" he asked.

  "I should doubt her writing to my father," I said. "But she mightcorrespond with Mrs. Finch."

  He considered a little--and then turned the talk to the topic of ourresidence at Ramsgate next.

  "How long do you stay here?" he inquired.

  "It depends on Herr Grosse," I answered. "I will ask him when he comesnext."

  He turned away to the window--suddenly, as if he was a little put out.

  "Are you tired of Ramsgate already?" I asked.

  He came back to me, and took my hand--my cold insensible hand that won'tfeel his touch as it ought!

  "Let me be your husband, Lucilla," he whispered; "and I will live atRamsgate if you like--for your sake."

  Although there was everything to please me in those words, there wassomething that startled me--I cannot describe it--in his look and mannerwhen he said them. I made no answer at the moment. He went on.

  "Why should we not be married at once?" he asked. "We are both of age. Wehave only ourselves to think of."

  [Note.--Alter his words as follows: "Why should we not be married beforeMadame Pratolungo can hear of my arrival at Ramsgate?"--and you willrightly interpret his motives. The situation is now fast reaching itsclimax of peril. Nugent's one chance is to persuade Lucilla to marry himbefore any discoveries can reach my ears, and before Grosse considers hersufficiently recovered to leave Ramsgate.--P.]

  "You forget," I answered, more surprised than ever; "we have my father tothink of. It was always arranged that he was to marry us at Dimchurch."

  Oscar smiled--not at all the charming smile I used to imagine, when I wasblind!

  "We shall wait a long time, I am afraid," he said, "if we wait until yourfather marries us."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "When we enter on the painful subject of Madame Pratolungo," he replied,"I will tell you. In the meantime, do you think Mr. Finch will answeryour letter?"

  "I hope so."

  "Do you think he will answer my postscript?"

  "I am sure he will!"

  The same unpleasant smile showed itself again in his face. He abruptlydropped the conversation, and went to play _piquet_ with my aunt.

  All this happened yesterday evening. I went to bed, sadly dissatisfiedwith somebody. Was it with Oscar? or with myself? or with both? I fancywith both.

  To-day, we went out together for a walk on the cliffs. What a delight itwas to move through the fresh briny air, and see the lovely sights onevery side of me! Oscar enjoyed it too. All through the first part of ourwalk, he was charming, and I was more in love with him than ever. On ourreturn, a little incident occurred which altered him for the worse, andwhich made my spirits sink again.

  It happened in this manner.

  I proposed returning by the sands. Ramsgate is still crowded withvisitors; and the animated scene on the beach in the later part of theday has attractions for me, after my blind life, which it does not (Idare say) possess for people who have always enjoyed the use of theireyes. Oscar, who has a nervous horror of crowds, and who shrinks fromcontact with people not so refined as himself, was surprised at mywishing to mix with what he called "the mob on the sands." However, hesaid he would go, if I particularly wished it. I did particularly wishit. So we went.

  There were chairs on the beach. We hired two, and sat down to look aboutus.

  All sorts of diversions were going on. Monkeys, organs, girls on stilts,a conjurer, and a troop of negro minstrels, were all at work to amuse thevisitors. I thought the varied color and bustling enjoyment of the crowd,with the bright blue sea beyond, and the glorious sunshine overhead,quite delightful--I declare I felt as if two eyes were not half enough tosee with! A nice old lady, sitting near, entered into conversation withme; hospitably offering me biscuits and sherry out of her own bag. Oscar,to my disappointment, looked quite disgusted with all of us. He thoughtmy nice old lady vulgar; and he called the company on the beach "a herdof snobs." While he was still muttering under his breath about the"mixture of low people," he suddenly cast a side-look at some person orthing--I could not at the moment tell which--and, rising, placed himselfso as to intercept my view of the promenade on the sands immediatelybefore me. I happened to have noticed, at the same moment, a ladyapproaching us in a dress of a peculiar color; and I pulled Oscar on oneside, to look at her as she passed in front of me. "Why do you get in myway?" I asked. Before he could answer the question the lady passed, withtwo lovely children, and with a tall man at her side. My eyes, lookingfirst at the lady and the children, found their way next to thegentleman--and saw repeated in his face, the same black-blue complexionwhich had startled me in the face of Oscar's brother, when I first openedmy eyes at the rectory! For the moment I felt startled again--more, as Ibelieve, by the unexpected repetition of the blue face in the face of astranger, than by the ugliness of the complexion itself. At any rate, Iwas composed enough to admire the lady's dress, and the beauty of thechildren, before they had passed beyond my range of view. Oscar spoke tome, while I was looking at them, in a tone of reproach for which, as Ithought, there was no occasion and no excuse.

  "I tried to spare you," he said. "You have yourself to thank, if that manhas frightened you."

  "He has _not_ frightened me," I answered--sharply enough.

  Oscar looked at me very attentively; and sat down again, without saying aword more.

  The good-humoured old woman, on my other side, who had seen and heard allthat had passed, began to talk of the gentleman with the discolored face,and of the lady and the children who accompanied him. He was a retiredIndian officer, she said. The lady was his wife, and the two beautifulchildren were his own children. "It seems a pity that such a handsome manshould be disfigured in that way," my new acquaintance remarked. "Butstill, it don't matter much, after all. There he is, as you see, with afine woman for a wife, and with two lovely children. I know the landladyof the house where the
y lodge--and a happier family you couldn't lay yourhand on in all England. That is my friend's account of them. Even a blueface don't seem such a dreadful misfortune, when you look at it in thatlight--does it, Miss?"

  I entirely agreed with the old lady. Our talk seemed, for someincomprehensible reason, to irritate Oscar. He got up again impatiently,and looked at his watch.

  "Your aunt will be wondering what has become of us," he said. "Surely youhave had enough of the mob on the sands, by this time?"

  I had not had enough of it, and I should have been quite content to havemade one of the mob for some time longer. But I saw that Oscar would beseriously vexed if I persisted in keeping my place. So I took leave of mynice old lady, and left the pleasant sands--not very willingly.

  He said nothing more, until we had threaded our way out of the crowd.Then he returned, without any reason for it that I could discover, to thesubject of the Indian officer, and to the remembrance which thestranger's complexion must have awakened in me of his brother's face.

  "I don't understand your telling me you were not frightened when you sawthat man," he said. "You were terribly frightened by my brother, when yousaw him."

  "I was terribly frightened by my own imagination, _before_ I saw him," Ianswered. "_After_ I saw him, I soon got over it."

  "So you say!" he rejoined.

  There is something excessively provoking--at least to me--in being toldto my face that I have said something which is not worthy of belief. Itwas not a very becoming act on my part (after what he had told me in hisletter about his brother's infatuation) to mention his brother. I oughtnot to have done it. I did it, for all that.

  "I say what I mean," I replied. "Before I knew what you told me aboutyour brother, I was going to propose to you, for your sake and for his,that he should live with us after we were married."

  Oscar suddenly stopped. He had given me his arm to lead me through thecrowd--he dropped it now.

  "You say that, because you are angry with me!" he said.

  I denied being angry with him; I declared, once more, that I was onlyspeaking the truth.

  "You really mean," he went on, "that you could have lived comfortablywith my brother's blue face before you every hour of the day?"

  "Quite comfortably--if he would have been my brother too." Oscar pointedto the house in which my aunt and I are living--within a few yards of theplace on which we stood.

  "You are close at home," he said, speaking in an odd muffled voice, withhis eyes on the ground. "I want a longer walk. We shall meet atdinner-time."

  He left me--without looking up, and without saying a word more.

  Jealous of his brother! There is something unnatural, something degradingin such jealousy as that. I am ashamed of myself for thinking it of him.And yet what else could his conduct mean?

  [Note.--It is for me to answer that question. Give the miserable wretchhis due. His conduct meant, in one plain word--remorse. The only excuseleft that he could make to his own conscience for the infamous part whichhe was playing, was this--that his brother's personal disfigurementpresented a fatal obstacle in the way of his brother's marriage. And nowLucilla's own words, Lucilla's own actions, had told him that Oscar'sface was no obstacle to her seeing Oscar perpetually in the familiarintercourse of domestic life. The torture of self-reproach which thisdiscovery inflicted on him, drove him out of her presence. His own lipswould have betrayed him, if he had spoken a word more to her at thatmoment. This is no speculation of mine. I know what I am now writing tobe the truth.--P.]

  It is night again. I am in my bed-room--too nervous and too anxious to goto rest yet. Let me employ myself in finishing this private record of theevents of the day.

  Oscar came a little before dinner-time; haggard and pale, and so absentin mind that he hardly seemed to know what he was talking about. Noexplanations passed between us. He asked my pardon for the hard things hehad said, and the ill-temper he had shown, earlier in the day. I readilyaccepted his excuses--and did my best to conceal the uneasiness which hisvacant, pre-occupied manner caused me. All the time he was speaking tome, he was plainly thinking of something else--he was more unlike theOscar of my blind remembrances than ever. It was the old voice talking ina new way: I can only describe it to myself in those terms.

  As for his manner, I know it used to be always more or less quiet andretiring in the old days: but was it ever so hopelessly subdued anddepressed, as I have seen it to-day? Useless to ask! In the by-gone time,I was not able to see it. My past judgment of him and my present judgmentof him have been arrived at by such totally different means, that itseems useless to compare them. Oh, how I miss Madame Pratolungo! What arelief, what a consolation it would have been, to have said all this toher, and to have heard what she thought of it in return!

  There is, however, a chance of my finding my way out of some of myperplexities, at any rate--if I can only wait till tomorrow.

  Oscar seems to have made up his mind at last to enter into theexplanations which he has hitherto withheld from me. He has asked me togive him a private interview in the morning. The circumstances which ledto his making this request have highly excited my curiosity. Something isevidently going on under the surface, in which my interests areconcerned--and, possibly, Oscar's interests too.

  It all came about in this way.

  On returning to the house, after Oscar had left me, I found that a letterfrom Grosse had arrived by the afternoon post. My dear old surgeon wroteto say that he was coming to see me--and added in a postscript that hewould arrive the next day at luncheon-time. Past experience told me thatthis meant a demand on my aunt's housekeeping for all the good thingsthat it could produce. (Ah, dear! I thought of Madame Pratolungo and theMayonnaise. Will those times never come again?) Well--at dinner, Iannounced Grosse's visit; adding significantly, "at luncheon-time."

  My aunt looked up from her plate with a little start--not interested, asI was prepared to hear, in the serious question of luncheon, but in theopinion which my medical adviser was likely to give of the state of myhealth.

  "I am anxious to hear what Mr. Grosse says about you to-morrow," the oldlady began. "I shall insist on his giving me a far more complete reportof you than he gave last time. The recovery of your sight appears to me,my dear, to be quite complete."

  "Do you want me to be cured, aunt, because you want to get away?" Iasked. "Are you weary of Ramsgate?"

  Miss Batchford's quick temper flashed at me out of Miss Batchford'sbright old eyes.

  "I am weary of keeping a letter of yours," she answered, with a look ofdisgust.

  "A letter of mine!" I exclaimed.

  "Yes. A letter which is only to be given to you, when Mr. Grossepronounces that you are quite yourself again."

  Oscar--who had not taken the slightest interest in the conversation thusfar--suddenly stopped, with his fork half way to his mouth; changedcolor; and looked eagerly at my aunt.

  "What letter?" I asked. "Who gave it to you? Why am I not to see it untilI am quite myself again?"

  Miss Batchford obstinately shook her head three times, in answer to thosethree questions.

  "I hate secrets and mysteries," she said impatiently. "This is a secretand a mystery--and I long to have done with it. That is all. I have saidtoo much already. I shall say no more."

  All my entreaties were of no avail. My aunt's quick temper had evidentlyled her into committing an imprudence of some sort. Having done that, shewas now provokingly determined not to make bad worse. Nothing that Icould say would induce her to open her lips on the subject of themysterious letter. "Wait till Mr. Grosse comes to-morrow." That was theonly reply I could get.

  As for Oscar, this little incident appeared to have an effect on himwhich added immensely to the curiosity that my aunt had roused in me.

  He listened with breathless attention while I was trying to induce MissBatchford to answer my questions. When I gave it up, he pushed away hisplate, and ate no more. On the other hand (though generally the mosttemperate of men) he drank a great deal
of wine, both at dinner andafter. In the evening, he made so many mistakes in playing cards with myaunt, that she dismissed him from the game in disgrace. He sat in acorner for the rest of the time, pretending to listen while I was playingthe piano--really lost to me and my music; buried, fathoms deep, in someuneasy thoughts of his own.

  When he took his leave, he whispered these words in my ear; anxiouslypressing my hand while he spoke:

  "I must see you alone to-morrow, before Grosse comes. Can you manage it?"

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "At the stairs on the cliff, at eleven o'clock."

  On that, he left me. But one question has pursued me ever since. DoesOscar know the writer of the mysterious letter? I firmly believe he does.To-morrow will prove whether I am right or wrong. How I long forto-morrow to come!