CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIFTH
Lucilla's Journal, concluded
_September_ 4th _(continued)._
ARRIVED in the drawing-room, Grosse placed me in a chair near the window.He leaned forward, and looked at me close; he drew back, and looked at mefrom a distance; he took out his magnifying glass, and had a long starethrough it at my eyes; he felt my pulse; dropped my wrist as if itdisgusted him; and, turning to the window, looked out in grim silence,without taking the slightest notice of any one in the room.
My aunt was the first person who spoke, under these discouragingcircumstances.
"Mr. Grosse!" she said sharply. "Have you nothing to tell me about yourpatient to-day? Do you find Lucilla----"
He turned suddenly round from the window, and interrupted Miss Batchfordwithout the slightest ceremony.
"I find her gone back, back, back!" he growled, getting louder and louderat each repetition of the word. "When I sent her here, I said--'Keep hercomfortable-easy.' You have not kept her comfortable-easy. Something hasturned her poor little mind topsy-turvies. What is it? Who is it?" Helooked fiercely backwards and forwards between Oscar and my aunt--thenturned my way, and putting his heavy hands on my shoulders, looked downat me with an odd angry kind of pity in his face. "My childs ismelancholick; my childs is ill," he went on. "Where is our goot-dearPratolungo? What did you tell me about her, my little-lofe, when I lastsaw you? You said she had gone aways to see her Papa. Send atelegrams--and say I want Pratolungo here."
At the repetition of Madame Pratolungo's name, Miss Batchford rose to herfeet and stood (apparently) several inches higher than usual.
"Am I to understand, sir," inquired the old lady, "that yourextraordinary language is intended to cast a reproach on my conducttowards my niece?"
"You are to understand this, madam. In the face of the goot sea-airs,Miss your niece is fretting herself ill. I sent her to this place, for toget a rosy face, for to put on a firm flesh. How do I find her? She hasgot nothing, she has put on nothing--she is emphatically flabby-pale. Inthis fine airs, she can be flabby-pale but for one reason. She isfretting herself about something or anodder. Is fretting herself goot forher eyes? Ho-damn-damn! it is as bad for her eyes as bad can be. If youcan do no better than this, take her aways back again. You are wastingyour moneys in this lodgment here."
My aunt addressed herself to me in her grandest manner.
"You will understand, Lucilla, that it is impossible for me to noticesuch language as this in any other way than by leaving the room. If youcan bring Mr. Grosse to his senses, inform him that I will receive hisapologies and explanations in writing." Pronouncing these lofty wordswith her severest emphasis, Miss Batchford rose another inch, and sailedmajestically out of the room.
Grosse took no notice of the offended lady: he only put his hands in hispockets, and looked out of window once more. As the door closed, Oscarleft the corner in which he had seated himself, not over-graciously, whenwe entered the room.
"Am I wanted here?" he asked.
Grosse was on the point of answering the question even less amiably thanit had been put--when I stopped him by a look. "I want to speak to you,"I whispered in his ear. He nodded, and, turning sharply to Oscar, putthis question to him:
"Are you living in the house?"
"I am staying at the hotel at the corner."
"Go to the hotel, and wait there till I come to you."
Greatly to my surprise, Oscar submitted to be treated in this peremptorymanner. He took his leave of me silently, and left the room. Grosse drewa chair close to mine, and sat down by me in a comforting confidentialfatherly way.
"Now my goot-girls," he said. "What have you been fretting yourself aboutsince I was last in this house? Open it all, if you please, to PapaGrosse. Come begin-begin!"
I suppose he had exhausted his ill-temper on my aunt and Oscar. He saidthose words--more than kindly--almost tenderly. His fierce eyes seemed tosoften behind his spectacles; he took my hand and patted it to encourageme.
There are some things written in these pages of mine which it was, ofcourse, impossible for me to confide to him. With those necessaryreservations--and without entering on the painful subject of my alteredrelations with Madame Pratolungo--I owned quite frankly how sadly changedI felt myself to be towards Oscar, and how much less happy I was withhim, in consequence of the change. "I am not ill as you suppose," Iexplained. "I am only disappointed in myself, and a little downheartedwhen I think of the future." Having opened it to him in this way, Ithought it time to put the question which I had determined to ask when Inext saw him.
"The restoration of my sight," I said, "has made a new being of me. Ingaining the sense of seeing, have I lost the sense of feeling which I hadwhen I was blind? I want to know if it will come back when I have gotused to the novelty of my position? I want to know if I shall ever enjoyOscar's society again, as I used to enjoy it in the old days before youcured me--the happy days, Papa-Grosse, when I was an object of pity, andwhen all the people spoke of me as Poor Miss Finch?"
I had more to say--but at this place, Grosse (without meaning it, I amsure) suddenly stopped me. To my amazement, he let go of my hand, andturned his face away sharply, as if he resented my looking at him. Hisbig head sank on his breast. He lifted his great hairy hands, shook themmournfully, and let them fall on his knees. This strange behavior and thestill stranger silence which accompanied it, made me so uneasy that Iinsisted on his explaining himself. "What is the matter with you?" Isaid. "Why don't you answer me?"
He roused himself with a start, and put his arm round me, with awonderful gentleness for a man who was so rough at other times.
"It is nothing, my pretty lofe," he said. "I am out of sort, as you callit. Your English climates sometimes gives your English blue devil toforeign mens like me. I have got him now--an English blue devil in aGerman inside. Soh! I shall go and walk him out, and come backempty-cheerful, and see you again." He rose, after this curiousexplanation, and attempted some sort of answer--a very odd one--to thequestion which I had asked of him. "As to that odder thing," he went on,"yes-indeed-yes. You have hit your nail on his head. It is, as you say,your seeings which has got in the way of your feelings. When yourseeings-feelings has got used to one anodder, your seeings will staywhere he is, your feelings will come back to where they was; one willbalance the odder; you will feel as you did; you will see as you didn't;all at the same times, all jolly-nice again as before. You have myopinions. Now let me walk out my blue devil. I swear to come back againwith a new inside. By-bye-my-Feench-good-bye."
Saying all this in a violent hurry, as if he was eager to get away, hegave me a kiss on the forehead, snatched up his shabby hat, and ran outof the room.
What did it mean?
Does he persist in thinking me seriously ill? I am too weary to puzzle mybrains in the effort to understand my dear old surgeon. It is one o'clockin the morning; and I have still to write the story of all that happenedlater in the day. My eyes are beginning to ache; and, strange to say, Ihave hardly been able to see the last two or three lines I have written.They look as if the ink was fading from them. If Grosse knew what I amabout at this moment! His last words to me, when he went back to hispatients in London, were:--"No more readings! no more writings till Icome again!" It is all very well to talk in that way. I have got so usedto my Journal that I can't do without it. Nevertheless, I must stopnow--for the best of reasons. Though I have got three lighted candles onmy table, I really cannot see to write any more.
To bed! to bed!
[Note.--I have purposely abstained from interrupting Lucilla's Journaluntil my extracts from it had reached this place. Here the writer pauses,and gives me a chance; and here there are matters that must be mentioned,of which she had personally no knowledge at the time.
You have seen how her faithful instinct still tries to reveal to my poordarling the cruel deception that is being practiced on her--and stilltries in vain. In spite of herself, she shrinks from the man who istempting her to go
away with him--though he pleads in the character ofher betrothed husband. In spite of herself, she detects the weak placesin the case which Nugent has made out against me--the absence ofsufficient motive for the conduct of which he accuses me, and the utterimprobability of my plotting and intriguing (without anything to gain byit) to make her marry the man who was not the man of her choice. Shefeels these hesitations and difficulties. But what they really signify itis morally impossible for her to guess.
Thus far, no doubt, her strange and touching position has been plainlyrevealed to you. But can I feel quite so sure that you understand howseriously she has been affected by the anxiety, disappointment, andsuspense which have combined together to torture her at this criticalinterval in her life?
I doubt it, for the sufficient reason that you have only had her Journalto enlighten you, and that her Journal shows she does not understand itherself. As things are, it seems to be time for me to step on the stage,and to discover to you plainly what her surgeon really thought of her, bytelling you what passed between Grosse and Nugent, when the Germanpresented himself at the hotel.
I am writing now (as a matter of course) from information given to me, atan after-period, by the persons themselves. As to particulars, theaccounts vary. As to results, they both agree.
The discovery that Nugent was at Ramsgate necessarily took Grosse bysurprise. With his previous knowledge, however, of the situation ofaffairs at Dimchurch, he could be at no loss to understand in whatcharacter Nugent had presented himself to Lucilla; and he could certainlynot fail to understand--after what he had seen and what she had herselftold him--that the deception was, under present circumstances, producingthe worst possible effect on her mind. Arriving at this conclusion, hewas not a man to hesitate about the duty that lay before him. When heentered the room at the hotel in which Nugent was waiting, he announcedthe object of his visit in these four plain words, as follows:
"Pack up, and go!"
Nugent coolly offered him a chair, and asked what he meant.
Grosse refused the chair--but consented to explain himself in termsvariously reported by the two parties. Combining the statements, andtranslating Grosse (in this grave matter) into plain English, I find thatthe German must have expressed himself in these, or nearly in these,words:
"As a professional man, Mr. Nugent, I invariably refuse to enter intodomestic considerations connected with my patients with which I havenothing to do. In the case of Miss Finch, my business is not with yourfamily complications. My business is to secure the recovery of the younglady's sight. If I find her health improving, I don't inquire how or why.No matter what private and personal frauds you may be practicing uponher, I have nothing to say to them--more, I am ready to take advantage ofthem myself--so long as their influence is directly beneficial in keepingher morally and physically in the condition in which I wish her to be.But, the instant I discover that this domestic conspiracy of yours--thispersonation of your brother which once quieted and comforted her--isunfavorably affecting her health of body and her peace of mind, Iinterfere between you in the character of her medical attendant, and stopit on medical grounds. You are producing in my patient a conflict offeeling, which--in a nervous temperament like hers--cannot go on withoutserious injury to her health. And serious injury to her health meansserious injury to her eyes. I won't have that--I tell you plainly to packup and go. I meddle with nothing else. After what you have yourself seen,I leave you to decide whether you will restore your brother to MissFinch, or not. All I say is, Go. Make any excuse you like, but go beforeyou have done more mischief. You shake your head! Is that a sign that yourefuse? Take a day to think, before you make up your mind. I havepatients in London to whom I am obliged to go back. But the day afterto-morrow, I shall return to Ramsgate. If I find you still here, I shalltell Miss Finch you are no more Oscar Dubourg than I am. In her presentstate, I see less danger in giving her even that serious shock than inleaving her to the slow torment of mind which you are inflicting by yourcontinued presence in this place. My last word is said. I go back by thenext train, in an hour's time. Good morning, Mr. Nugent. If you are awise man, you will meet me at the station."
After this, the accounts vary. Nugent's statement asserts that heaccompanied Grosse on his way back to Miss Batchford's lodging, arguingthe matter with him, and only leaving him at the door of the house.Grosse's statement, on the other hand, makes no allusion to this. Thedisagreement between them is, however, of no consequence here. It isadmitted, on either side, that the result of the interview was the same.When Grosse took the train for London, Nugent Dubourg was not at thestation. The next entry in the Journal shows that he remained that dayand night, at least, at Ramsgate.
You now know, from the narrative of the surgeon's own proceedings, howseriously he thought of his patient's case, and how firmly he did hisduty as a professional man. Having given you this necessary information,I again retire, and leave Lucilla to take up the next link in the chainof events.--P.]
_September_ 5th. _Six o'clock in the morning._--A few hours of restless,broken sleep--disturbed by horrid dreams, and waking over and over againwith startings that seemed to shake me from head to foot. I can bear itno longer. The sun is rising. I have got up--and here I am at thewriting-table, trying to finish the long story of yesterday stilluncompleted in my Journal.
I have just been looking at the view from my window--and I notice onething which has struck me. The mist this morning is the thickest mist Ihave yet seen here.
The sea-view is almost invisible, it is so dim and dull. Even the objectsabout me in my room are nothing like so plain as usual. The mist isstealing in no doubt through my open window. It gets between me and mypaper, and obliges me to bend down close over the page to see what I amabout. When the sun is higher, things will be clear again. In themeantime, I must do as well as I can.
Grosse came back after his walk as mysterious as ever.
He was quite peremptory in ordering me not to overtask myeyes--forbidding reading and writing, as I have already mentioned. But,when I asked for his reasons, he had, for the first time in my experienceof him, no reasons to give. I have the less scruple about disobeying him,on that account. Still I am a little uneasy, I confess, when I think ofhis strange behavior yesterday. He looked at me, in the oddest way--as ifhe saw something in my face which he had never seen before. Twice he tookhis leave; and twice he returned, doubtful whether he would not remain atRamsgate, and let his patients in London take care of themselves. Hisextraordinary indecision was put an end to at last by the arrival of atelegram which had followed him from London. An urgent message, Isuppose, from one of the patients. He went away in a bad temper and aviolent hurry; and told me, at the door, to expect him back on the sixth.
When Oscar came later, there was another surprise for me.
Like Grosse, he was not himself--he too behaved strangely! First, he wasso cold and so silent, that I thought he was offended. Then he wentstraight to the other extreme, and became so loudly talkative, soobstreperously cheerful, that my aunt asked me privately whether I didnot suspect (as she did) that he had been taking too much wine. It endedin his trying to sing to my accompaniment on the piano, and in hisbreaking down. He walked away to the other end of the room withoutexplanation or apology. When I followed him there a little while after,he had a look that indescribably distressed me--a look as if he had beencrying. Towards the end of the evening, my aunt fell asleep over herbook, and gave us a chance of speaking to each other in a little secondroom which opens out of the drawing-room in this house. It was I who tookthe chance--not he. He was so incomprehensibly unwilling to go into theroom and speak to me, that I had to do a very unladylike thing. I meanthat I had to take his arm, and lead him in myself, and entreat him (in awhisper) to tell me what was the matter with him.
"Only the old complaint," he answered.
I made him sit down by me on a little couch that just held two.
"What do you mean by the old complaint?" I asked.
"Oh! you kno
w!"
"I _don't_ know."
"You would know if you really loved me."
"Oscar! it is a shame to say that. It is a shame to doubt that I loveyou!"
"Is it? Ever since I have been here, I have doubted that you love me. Itis getting to be an old complaint of mine now. I still suffer a littlesometimes. Don't notice it!"
He was so cruel and so unjust, that I got up to leave him, without sayinga word more. But, oh! he looked so forlorn and so submissive--sittingwith his head down, and his hands crossed listlessly over his knees--thatI could not find it in my heart to treat him harshly. Was I wrong? Idon't know! I have no idea how to manage men--and no Madame Pratolungonow to teach me. Right or wrong, it ended in my sitting down by him againin the place which I had just left.
"You ought to beg my pardon," I said, "for thinking of me as you think,and talking to me as you talk."
"I do beg your pardon," he answered humbly. "I am sorry if I haveoffended you."
How could I resist that? I put my hand on his shoulder, and tried to makehim lift up his head and look at me.
"You will always believe in me in the future?" I went on. "Promise methat."
"I can promise to try, Lucilla. As things are now I can promise no more."
"As things are now? You are speaking in riddles to-night. Explainyourself."
"I explained myself this morning on the pier."
Surely, this was hard on me--after he had promised to give me till theend of the week to consider his proposal? I took my hand off hisshoulder. He--who never used to displease or disappoint me when I wasblind--had displeased and disappointed me for the second time in a fewminutes!
"Do you wish to force me?" I asked, "after telling me this morning thatyou would give me time to reflect?"
He rose, on his side--languidly and mechanically, like a man who neitherknew nor cared what he was doing.
"Force you?" he repeated. "Did I say that? I don't know what I am talkingabout; I don't know what I am doing. You are right and I am wrong. I am amiserable wretch, Lucilla--I am utterly unworthy of you. It would bebetter for you if you never saw me again!" He paused; and taking me byboth hands, looked earnestly and sadly into my face. "Good night, mydear!" he said--and suddenly dropped my hands, and turned away to go out.
I stopped him. "Going already?" I said. "It is not late yet.
"It is best for me to go."
"Why?"
"I am in wretched spirits. It is better for me to be by myself."
"Don't say that! It sounds like a reproach to me."
"On the contrary, it is all my fault. Good night!"
I refused to say good night--I refused to let him go. His wanting to gowas in itself a reproach to me. He had never done it before. I asked himto sit down again.
He shook his head.
"For ten minutes!"
He shook his head again.
"For five minutes!"
Instead of answering, he gently lifted a long lock of my hair, which hungat the side of my neck. (My head, I should add, had been dressed thatevening on the old-fashioned plan, by my aunt's maid--to please my aunt.)
"If I stay for five minutes longer," he said, "I shall ask forsomething."
"For what?"
"You have beautiful hair, Lucilla."
"You can't want a lock of my hair, surely?"
"Why not?"
"I gave you a keepsake of that sort--ages ago. Have you forgotten it?"
[Note.--The keepsake had of course been given to the true Oscar, and wasthen, as it is now, still in his possession. Notice, when he recovershimself, how quickly the false Oscar infers this, and how cleverly hefounds his excuse upon it.--P.]
His face flushed deep; his eyes dropped before mine. I could see that hewas ashamed of himself--I could only conclude that he _had_ forgotten it!A morsel of _his_ hair was, at that moment, in a locket which I woreround my neck. I had more I think, to doubt him than he had to doubt me.I was so mortified that I stepped aside, and made way for him to go out.
"You wish to go away," I said; "I won't keep you any longer."
It was his turn now to plead with _me._
"Suppose I have been deprived of your keepsake?" he said. "Supposesomebody whom I would rather not mention, has taken it away from me?"
I instantly understood him. His miserable brother had taken it. Mywork-basket was close by. I cut off a lock of my hair, and tied it ateach end with a morsel of my favorite light-blue ribbon.
"Are we friends again, Oscar?" was all I said as I put it into his hand.
He caught me in his arms in a kind of frenzy--holding me to him soviolently that he hurt me; kissing me so fiercely that he frightened me.Before I had recovered breath enough to speak to him, he had released me,and had gone out in such headlong haste that he knocked down a littleround table with books on it, and woke my aunt.
The old lady called for me in her most formidable voice, and showed methe family temper in its sourest aspect. Grosse had gone back to Londonwithout making any apology to her; and Oscar had knocked down her books.The indignation aroused by these two outrages called loudly for avictim--and (no one else being near at the moment) selected Me. MissBatchford discovered for the first time that she had undertaken too muchin assuming the sole charge of her niece at Ramsgate.
"I decline to accept the entire responsibility," said my aunt. "At myage, the entire responsibility is too much for me. I shall write to yourfather, Lucilla. I always did, and always shall, detest him, as you know.His views on politics and religion are (in a clergyman) simplydetestable. Still he is your father; and it is a duty on my part, afterwhat that rude foreigner has said about your health, to offer to restoreyou to your father's roof--or, at least, to obtain your father's sanctionto your continuing to remain under my care. This course, in either caseyou will observe, relieves me from the entire responsibility. I am doingnothing to compromise my position. My position is quite plain to me. Ishould have formally accepted your father's hospitality on the occasionof your wedding--if I had been well enough and if the wedding had takenplace. It follows as a matter of course that I may formally report toyour father what the medical opinion is of your health. However brutallyit may have been given, it is a medical opinion--and as such I am boundto communicate it."
Knowing but too well how bitterly my aunt's aversion to him isreciprocated by my father, I did my best to combat Miss Batchford'sresolution--without making matters worse by telling her what my motivesreally were. With some difficulty I prevailed on her to defer theproposed report of me for a day or two--and we parted for the night (theold lady's fits of temper are soon over) as good friends as usual.
This little episode in my narrative of events diverted my mind for thetime from Oscar's strange conduct yesterday evening. But once up here bymyself in my own room, I have been thinking of it, or dreaming of it(such horrid dreams--I cannot write them down!) almost incessantly fromthat time to this. When we meet again to-day--how will he look? what willhe say?
He was right yesterday. I _am_ cold to him; there is some change in metowards him, which I don't understand myself. My conscience accuses me,now I am alone--and yet, God knows, it is not my fault. Poor Oscar! Poorme! I have never longed to see him--since we met at this place--as I longnow. He sometimes comes to breakfast. Will he come to breakfast to-day?Oh, how my eyes ache! and how obstinately the mist stops in the room!Suppose I close the window, and go back to bed again for a little while?
_Nine o'clock._--The maid came in half an hour since, and woke me. Shewent to open the window as usual. I stopped her.
"Is the mist gone?" I asked.
The girl stared, "What mist, Miss?"
"Haven't you seen it?"
"No, Miss."
"What time did you get up?"
"At seven, Miss."
At seven I was still writing in my Journal, and the mist was still overeverything in the room. Persons in the lower ranks of life are curiouslyunobservant of the aspects of Nature. I never (in the days of myblindne
ss) got any information from servants or laborers about the viewsround Dimchurch. They seemed to have no eyes for anything beyond therange of the kitchen, or the ploughed field. I got out of bed, and tookthe maid myself to the window, and opened it.
"There!" I said. "It is not quite so thick as it was some hours since.But there is the mist as plain as can be!"
The girl looked backwards and forwards in a state of bewilderment betweenme and the view.
"Mist?" she repeated. "Begging your pardon, Miss, it's a beautiful clearmorning--as I see it."
"Clear?" I repeated on my side.
"Yes, Miss!"
"Do you mean to tell me it's clear over the sea?"
"The sea is a beautiful blue, Miss. Far and near, you can see the ships."
"Where are the ships?"
She pointed, out of the window, to a certain spot.
"There are two of them, Miss. A big ship, with three masts. And a littleship just behind, with one."
I looked along her finger, and strained my eyes to see. All I could makeout was a dim greyish mist, with something like a little spot or blur onit, at the place which the maid's finger indicated as the positionoccupied by the two ships.
The idea struck me for the first time that the dimness which I hadattributed to the mist, was, in plain truth, the dimness in my own eyes.For the moment I was a little startled. I left the window, and made thebest excuse that I could to the girl. As soon as it was possible todismiss her, I sent her away, and bathed my eyes with one of Grosse'slotions, and then tried them again in writing this entry. To my relief, Ican see to write better than I did earlier in the morning. Still, I havehad a warning to pay a little more attention to Grosse's directions thanI have hitherto done. Is it possible that he saw something in the stateof my eyes which he was afraid to tell me of? Nonsense! Grosse is not thesort of man who shrinks from speaking out. I have fatigued my eyes--thatis all. Let me shut up my book, and go down-stairs to breakfast.
_Ten o'clock._--For a moment, I open my Journal again.
Something has happened which I must positively set down in the history ofmy life. I am so vexed and so angry! The maid, (wretched chatteringfool!) has told my aunt what passed between us this morning at my window.Miss Batchford has taken the alarm, and has insisted on writing, not onlyto Grosse, but to my father. In the present embittered state of myfather's feelings against my aunt, he will either leave her letterunanswered, or he will offend her by an angry reply. In either case, Ishall be the sufferer: my aunt's sense of injury--which cannot addressitself to my father--will find a convenient object to assail in me. Ishall never hear the last of it. Being already nervous and dispirited,the prospect of finding myself involved in a new family quarrel quitedaunts me. I feel ungratefully inclined to run away from Miss Batchford,when I think of it!
No signs of Oscar; and no news of Oscar--yet.
_Twelve o'clock._--But one trial more was wanted to make my life herequite unendurable. The trial has come.
A letter from Oscar (sent by a messenger from his hotel) has just beenplaced in my hands. It informs me that he has decided on leaving Ramsgateby the next train. The next train starts in forty minutes. Good God! whatam I to do?
My eyes are burning. I know it does them harm to cry. How can I helpcrying? It is all over between us, if I let Oscar go away alone--hisletter as good as tells me so. Oh, why have I behaved so coldly to him? Iought to make any sacrifice of my own feelings to atone for it. And yet,there is an obstinate something in me that shrinks--What am I to do? whatam I to do?
I must drop the pen, and try if I can think. My eyes completely fail me.I can write no more.
[Note.--I copy the letter to which Lucilla refers.
Nugent's own assertion is, that he wrote it in a moment of remorse, togive her an opportunity of breaking the engagement by which sheinnocently supposed herself to be held to him. He declares that hehonestly believed the letter would offend her, when he wrote it. Theother interpretation of the document is, that finding himself obliged toleave Ramsgate--under penalty (if he remained) of being exposed by Grosseas an impostor, when the surgeon visited his patient on the nextday--Nugent seized the opportunity of making his absence the means ofworking on Lucilla's feelings, so as to persuade her to accompany him toLondon. Don't ask me which of these two conclusions I favor. For reasonswhich you will understand when you have come to the end of my narrative,I would rather not express my opinion, either one way or the other.
Read the letter--and determine for yourselves:
"MY DARLING,--After a sleepless night, I have decided on leavingRamsgate, by the next train that starts after you receive these lines.Last night's experience has satisfied me that my presence here (afterwhat I said to you on the pier) only distresses you. Some influence thatis too strong for you to resist has changed your heart towards me. Whenthe time comes for you to determine whether you will be my wife on theconditions that I have proposed, I see but too plainly that you will sayNo. Let me make it less hard for you, my love, to do that, by leaving youto write the word--instead of saying it to me. If you wish for yourfreedom, cost me what it may, I will absolve you from your engagement. Ilove you too dearly to blame you. My address in London is on the otherleaf. Farewell!
"OSCAR."
The address given on the blank leaf is at an hotel.
A few lines more in the Journal follow the lines last quoted in thisplace. Except a word or two, here and there, it is impossible any longerto decipher the writing. The mischief done to her eyes by her recklessuse of them, by her fits of crying, by her disturbed nights, by thelong-continued strain on her of agitation and suspense, has evidentlyjustified the worst of those unacknowledged forebodings which Grosse feltwhen he saw her. The last lines of the Journal are, as writing, actuallyinferior to her worst penmanship when she was blind.
However, the course which she ended in taking on receipt of the letterwhich you have just read, is sufficiently indicated by a note of Nugent'swriting, left at Miss Batchford's residence at Ramsgate by a porter fromthe railway. After-events make it necessary to preserve this note also.It runs thus:--
"MADAM,--I write, by Lucilla's wish, to beg that you will not be anxiouson discovering that your niece has left Ramsgate. She accompanies me, atmy express request, to the house of a married lady who is a relative ofmine, and under whose care she will remain, until the time arrives forour marriage. The reasons which have led to her taking this step, andwhich oblige her to keep her new place of residence concealed for thepresent, will be frankly stated to you and to her father on the day whenwe are man and wife. In the meantime, Lucilla begs that you will excuseher abrupt departure, and that you will be so good as to send this letteron to her father. Both you and he will, I hope, remember that she is ofan age to act for herself, and that she is only hastening her marriagewith a man to whom she has been long engaged, with the sanction andapproval of her family--Believe me, Madam, your faithful Servant,
"OSCAR DUBOURG."
This letter was delivered at luncheon-time--almost at the moment when theservant had announced to her mistress that Miss Finch was nowhere to befound, and that her traveling-bag had disappeared from her room. TheLondon train had then started. Miss Batchford, having no right tointerfere, decided--after consultation with a friend--on at oncetraveling to Dimchurch, and placing the matter in Mr. Finch's hands.--P.]
Poor Miss Finch Page 65