CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIRST
A Hard Time for Madame Pratolungo
OUGHT I to have been prepared for the calamity which had now fallen on mysisters and myself? If I had looked my own experience of my poor fatherfairly in the face, would it not have been plain to me that the habits ofa life were not likely to be altered at the end of a life? Surely--if Ihad exerted my intelligence--I might have foreseen that the longer hisreformation lasted, the nearer he was to a relapse, and the moreobviously probable it became that he would fail to fulfill the hopefulexpectations which I had cherished of his conduct in the future? I grantit all. But where are the pattern people who can exert theirintelligence--when their intelligence points to one conclusion, and theirinterests to another? Ah, my dear ladies and gentlemen, there is such afine strong foundation of stupidity at the bottom of our commonhumanity--if we only knew it!
I could feel no hesitation--as soon as I had recovered myself--about whatit was my duty to do. My duty was to leave Dimchurch in time to catch thefast mail-train from London to the Continent, at eight o'clock thatnight.
And leave Lucilla?
Yes! not even Lucilla's interests--dearly as I loved her; alarmed as Ifelt about her--were as sacred as the interests which called me to myfather's bedside. I had some hours to spare before it would be necessaryfor me to leave her. All I could do was to employ those hours in takingthe strictest precautions I could think of to protect her in my absence.I could not be long parted from her. One way or the other, the miserabledoubt whether my father would live or die, would, at his age, soon beover.
I sent for her to see me in my room, and showed her my letter.
She was honestly grieved when she read it. For a moment--when she spokeher few words of sympathy--the painful constraint in her manner towardsme passed away. It returned again, when I announced my intention ofstarting for France that day, and expressed the regret I felt at beingobliged to defer our visit to Ramsgate for the present. She not onlyanswered restrainedly (forming, as I fancied, some thought at the momentin her own mind)--she left me, with a commonplace excuse. "You must havemuch to think of in this sad affliction: I won't intrude on you anylonger. If you want me, you know where to find me." With no more thanthose words, she walked out of the room.
I never remember, at any other time, such a sense of helplessness andconfusion as came over me when she had closed the door. I set to work topack up the few things I wanted for the journey; feeling instinctivelythat if I did not occupy myself in doing something, I should break downaltogether. Accustomed in all the other emergencies of my life, to deciderapidly, I was not even clear enough in my mind to see the facts as theywere. As to resolving on anything, I was about as capable of doing thatas the baby in Mrs. Finch's arms.
The effort of packing aided me to rally a little--but did no more towardsrestoring me to my customary tone of mind.
I sat down helplessly, when I had done; feeling the serious necessity ofclearing matters up between Lucilla and myself, before I went away, andstill as ignorant as ever how to do it. To my own indescribable disgust,I actually felt tears beginning to find their way into my eyes! I hadjust enough of Pratolungo's widow left in me to feel heartily ashamed ofmyself. Past vicissitudes and dangers, in the days of my republican lifewith my husband, had made me a sturdy walker--with a gypsy relish (likemy little Jicks) for the open air. I snatched up my hat, and went out, tosee what exercise would do for me.
I tried the garden. No! the garden was (for some inscrutable reason) notbig enough. I had still some hours to spare. I tried the hills next.
Turning towards the left, and passing the church, I heard through theopen windows the _boom-boom_ of Reverend Finch's voice, catechizing thevillage children. Thank Heaven, he was out of my way at any rate! Imounted the hills, hurrying on as fast as I could. The air and themovement cleared my mind. After more than an hour of hard walking, Ireturned to the rectory, feeling like my old self again.
Perhaps, there were some dregs of irresolution still left in me. Or,perhaps, there was some enervating influence in my affliction, which mademe feel more sensitively than ever the change in the relations betweenLucilla and myself. Having, by this time, resolved to come to a plainexplanation, before I left her unprotected at the rectory, I shrank, evenyet, from confronting a possible repulse, by speaking to her personally.Taking a leaf out of poor Oscar's book, I wrote what I wanted to say toher in a note.
I rang the bell--once, twice. Nobody answered it.
I went to the kitchen. Zillah was not there. I knocked at the door of herbed-room. There was no answer: the bed-room was empty when I looked in.Awkward as it would be, I found myself obliged, either to give my note toLucilla with my own hand, or to decide on speaking to her, after all.
I could not prevail on myself to speak to her. So I went to her room withmy note, and knocked at the door.
Here again there was no reply. I knocked once more--with the same result.I looked in. There was no one in the room. On the little table at thefoot of the bed, there lay a letter addressed to me. The writing was inZillah's hand. But Lucilla had written her name in the corner in theusual way, to show that she had dictated the letter to her nurse. A loadwas lifted off my heart as I took it up. The same idea (I concluded) hadoccurred to her which had occurred to me. She too had shrunk from theembarrassment of a personal explanation. She too had written--and waskeeping out of the way until her letter had spoken for her, and hadunited us again as friends before I left the house.
With these pleasant anticipations, I opened the letter. Judge what I feltwhen I found what it really contained.
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