Poor Miss Finch

by Wilkie Collins

  CHAPTER THE THIRD

  Poor Miss Finch

  THE rectory resembled, in one respect, this narrative that I am nowwriting. It was in Two Parts. Part the First, in front, composed of theeverlasting flint and mortar of the neighborhood, failed to interest me.Part the Second, running back at a right angle, asserted itself asancient. It had been, in its time, as I afterwards heard, a convent ofnuns. Here were snug little Gothic windows, and dark ivy-covered walls ofvenerable stone: repaired in places, at some past period, with quaint redbricks. I had hoped that I should enter the house by this side of it. Butno. The boy--after appearing to be at a loss what to do with me--led theway to a door on the modern side of the building, and rang the bell.

  A slovenly young maid-servant admitted me to the house.

  Possibly, this person was new to the duty of receiving visitors.Possibly, she was bewildered by a sudden invasion of children in dirtyfrocks, darting out on us in the hall, and then darting away again intoinvisible back regions, screeching at the sight of a stranger. At anyrate, she too appeared to be at a loss what to do with me. After staringhard at my foreign face, she suddenly opened a door in the wall of thepassage, and admitted me into a small room. Two more children in dirtyfrocks darted, screaming, out of the asylum thus offered to me. Imentioned my name, as soon as I could make myself heard. The maidappeared to be terrified at the length of it. I gave her my card. Themaid took it between a dirty finger and thumb--looked at it as if it wassome extraordinary natural curiosity--turned it round, exhibiting correctblack impressions in various parts of it of her finger and thumb--gave upunderstanding it in despair, and left the room. She was stopped outside(as I gathered from the sounds) by a returning invasion of children inthe hall. There was whispering; there was giggling; there was, every nowand then, a loud thump on the door. Prompted by the children, as Isuppose--pushed in by them, certainly--the maid suddenly reappeared witha jerk, "Oh, if you please, come this way," she said. The invasion ofchildren retreated again up the stairs--one of them in possession of mycard, and waving it in triumph on the first landing. We penetrated to theother end of the passage. Again, a door was opened. Unannounced, Ientered another, and a larger room. What did I see?

  Fortune had favored me at last. My lucky star had led me to the mistressof the house.

  I made my best curtsey, and found myself confronting a large,light-haired, languid, lymphatic lady--who had evidently been amusingherself by walking up and down the room, at the moment when I appeared.If there can be such a thing as a _damp woman_--this was one. There was ahumid shine on her colorless white face, and an overflow of water in herpale blue eyes. Her hair was not dressed; and her lace cap was all on oneside. The upper part of her was clothed in a loose jacket of blue merino;the lower part was robed in a dimity dressing gown of doubtful white. Inone hand, she held a dirty dogs'-eared book, which I at once detected tobe a Circulating Library novel. Her other hand supported a baby envelopedin flannel, sucking at her breast. Such was my first experience ofReverend Finch's Wife--destined to be also the experience of allaftertime. Never completely dressed; never completely dry; always with ababy in one hand and a novel in the other--such was Finch's wife.

  "Oh! Madame Pratolungo? Yes. I hope somebody has told Miss Finch you arehere. She has her own establishment, and manages everything herself. Haveyou had a pleasant journey?" (These words were spoken vacantly, as if hermind was occupied with something else. My first impression of hersuggested that she was a weak, good-natured woman, and that she must haveoriginally occupied a station in the humbler ranks of life.)

  "Thank you, Mrs. Finch," I said. "I have enjoyed most heartily my journeyamong your beautiful hills."

  "Oh! you like the hills? Excuse my dress. I was half an hour late thismorning. When you lose half an hour in this house, you never can pick itup again, try how you may." (I soon discovered that Mrs. Finch was alwayslosing half an hour out of her day, and that she never, by any chance,succeeded in ending it again, as she had just told me.)

  "I understand, madam. The cares of a numerous family--"

  "Ah! that's just where it is." (This was a favorite phrase with Mrs.Finch). "There's Finch, he gets up in the morning and goes and works inthe garden. Then there's the washing of the children; and the dreadfulwaste that goes on in the kitchen. And Finch, he comes in without anynotice, and wants his breakfast. And of course I can't leave the baby.And half an hour does slip away so easily, that how to overtake it again,I do assure you I really don't know." Here the baby began to exhibitsymptoms of having taken more maternal nourishment than his infantstomach could comfortably contain. I held the novel, while Mrs. Finchsearched for her handkerchief--first in her bedgown pocket; secondly,here, there, and everywhere in the room.

  At this interesting moment there was a knock at the door. An elderlywoman appeared--who offered a most refreshing contrast to the members ofthe household with whom I had made acquaintance thus far. She was neatlydressed, and she saluted me with the polite composure of a civilizedbeing.

  "I beg your pardon, ma'am. My young lady has only this moment heard ofyour arrival. Will you be so kind as to follow me?"

  I turned to Mrs. Finch. She had found her handkerchief, and had put heroverflowing baby to rights again. I respectfully handed back the novel."Thank you," said Mrs. Finch. "I find novels compose my mind. Do you readnovels too? Remind me--and I'll lend you this one to-morrow." I expressedmy acknowledgments, and withdrew. At the door, I look round, saluting thelady of the house. Mrs. Finch was promenading the room, with the baby inone hand and the novel in the other, and the dimity bedgown trailingbehind her.

  We ascended the stairs, and entered a bare white-washed passage, withdrab-colored doors in it, leading, as I presumed, into the sleepingchambers of the house.

  Every door opened as we passed; children peeped out at me, screamed atme, and banged the door to again. "What family has the present Mrs.Finch?" I asked. The decent elderly woman was obliged to stop, andconsider. "Including the baby, ma'am, and two sets of twins, and oneseven months' child of deficient intellect--fourteen in all." Hearingthis, I began--though I consider priests, kings, and capitalists to bethe enemies of the human race--to feel a certain exceptional interest inReverend Finch. Did he never wish that he had been a priest of the RomanCatholic Church, mercifully forbidden to marry at all? While the questionpassed through my mind, my guide took out a key, and opened a heavy oakendoor at the further end of the passage.

  "We are obliged to keep the door locked, ma'am," she explained, "or thechildren would be in and out of our part of the house all day long."

  After my experience of the children, I own I looked at the oaken doorwith mingled sentiments of gratitude and respect.

  We turned a corner, and found ourselves in the vaulted corridor of theancient portion of the house.

  The casement windows, on one side--sunk deep in recesses--looked into thegarden. Each recess was filled with groups of flowers in pots. On theother side, the old wall was gaily decorated with hangings of brightchintz. The doors were colored of a creamy white, with gilt moldings. Thebrightly ornamented matting under our feet I at once recognized as ofSouth American origin. The ceiling above was decorated in delicate paleblue, with borderings of flowers. Nowhere down the whole extent of theplace was so much as a single morsel of dark color to be seen anywhere.

  At the lower end of the corridor, a solitary figure in a pure white robewas bending over the flowers in the window. This was the blind girl whosedark hours I had come to cheer. In the scattered villages of the SouthDowns, the simple people added their word of pity to her name, and calledher compassionately--"Poor Miss Finch." As for me, I can only think ofher by her pretty Christian name. She is "Lucilla" when my memory dwellson her. Let me call her "Lucilla" here.

  When my eyes first rested on her, she was picking off the dead leavesfrom her flowers. Her delicate ear detected the sound of my strangefootstep, long before I reached the place at which she was standing. Shelifted her head--and advanced quickly to meet
me with a faint flush onher face, which came and died away again in a moment. I happen to havevisited the picture gallery at Dresden in former years. As she approachedme, nearer and nearer, I was irresistibly reminded of the gem of thatsuperb collection--the matchless Virgin of Raphael, called "The Madonnadi San Sisto." The fair broad forehead; the peculiar fullness of theflesh between the eyebrow and the eyelid; the delicate outline of thelower face; the tender, sensitive lips; the color of the complexion andthe hair--all reflected, with a startling fidelity, the lovely creatureof the Dresden picture. The one fatal point at which the resemblanceceased, was in the eyes. The divinely-beautiful eyes of Raphael's Virginwere lost in the living likeness of her that confronted me now. There wasno deformity; there was nothing to recoil from, in my blind Lucilla. Thepoor, dim, sightless eyes had a faded, changeless, inexpressive look--andthat was all. Above them, below them, round them, to the very edges ofher eyelids, there was beauty, movement, life. _In_ them--death! A morecharming creature--with that one sad drawback--I never saw. There was noother personal defect in her. She had the fine height, the well-balancedfigure, and the length of the lower limbs, which make all a woman'smovements graceful of themselves. Her voice was delicious--clear,cheerful, sympathetic. This, and her smile--which added a charm of itsown to the beauty of her mouth--won my heart, before she had got closeenough to me to put her hand in mine. "Ah, my dear!" I said, in myheadlong way, "I am so glad to see you!" The instant the words passed mylips, I could have cut my tongue out for reminding her in that brutalmanner that she was blind.

  To my relief, she showed no sign of feeling it as I did. "May I see you,in _my_ way?" she asked gently--and held up her pretty white hand. "May Itouch your face?"

  I sat down at once on the window-seat. The soft rosy tips of her fingersseemed to cover my whole face in an instant. Three separate times shepassed her hand rapidly over me; her own face absorbed all the while inbreathless attention to what she was about. "Speak again!" she saidsuddenly, holding her hand over me in suspense. I said a few words. Shestopped me by a kiss. "No more!" she exclaimed joyously. "Your voice saysto my ears, what your face says to my fingers. I know I shall like you.Come in, and see the rooms we are going to live in together."

  As I rose, she put her arm round my waist--then instantly drew it awayagain, and shook her fingers impatiently, as if something had hurt them.

  "A pin?" I asked.

  "No! no! What colored dress have you got on?"

  "Purple."

  "Ah! I knew it! Pray don't wear dark colors. I have my own blind horrorof anything that is dark. Dear Madame Pratolungo, wear pretty brightcolors, to please _me!_" She put her arm caressingly round meagain--round my neck, however, this time, where her hand could rest on mylinen collar. "You will change your dress before dinner--won't you?" shewhispered. "Let me unpack for you, and choose which dress I like."

  The brilliant decorations of the corridor were explained to me now!

  We entered the rooms; her bed-room, my bed-room, and our sitting-roombetween the two. I was prepared to find them, what they proved to be--asbright as looking-glasses, and gilding, and gaily-colored ornaments, andcheerful knick-knacks of all sorts could make them. They were more likerooms in my lively native country than rooms in sober colorless England.The one thing which I own did still astonish me, was that all thissparkling beauty of adornment in Lucilla's habitation should have beenprovided for the express gratification of a young lady who could not see.Experience was yet to show me that the blind can live in theirimaginations, and have their favorite fancies and illusions like the restof us.

  To satisfy Lucilla by changing my dark purple dress, it was necessarythat I should first have my boxes. So far as I knew, Finch's boy hadtaken my luggage, along with the pony, to the stables. Before Lucillacould ring the bell to make inquiries, my elderly guide (who had silentlyleft us while we were talking together in the corridor) re-appeared,followed by the boy and a groom, carrying my things. These servants alsobrought with them certain parcels for their young mistress, purchased inthe town, together with a bottle, wrapped in fair white paper, whichlooked like a bottle of medicine--and which had a part of its own to playin our proceedings, later in the day.

  "This is my old nurse," said Lucilla, presenting her attendant to me."Zillah can do a little of everything--cooking included. She has hadlessons at a London Club. You must like Zillah, Madame Pratolungo, for mysake. Are your boxes open?"

  She went down on her knees before the boxes, as she asked the question.No girl with the full use of her eyes could have enjoyed more thoroughlythan she did the trivial amusement of unpacking my clothes. This time,however, her wonderful delicacy of touch proved to be at fault. Of twodresses of mine which happened to be exactly the same in texture, thoughwidely different in color, she picked out the dark dress as being thelight one. I saw that I disappointed her sadly when I told her of hermistake. The next guess she made, however, restored the tips of herfingers to their place in her estimation: she discovered the stripes in asmart pair of stockings of mine, and brightened up directly. "Don't belong dressing," she said, on leaving me. "We shall have dinner in half anhour. French dishes, in honor of your arrival. I like a nice dinner--I amwhat you call in your country, _gourmande._ See the sad consequence!" Sheput one finger to her pretty chin. "I am getting fat! I am threatenedwith a double chin--at two and twenty. Shocking! shocking!"

  So she left me. And such was the first impression produced on my mind by"Poor Miss Finch."