Poor Miss Finch

by Wilkie Collins

  "MADAME PRATOLUNGO,--You have distressed and pained me more than I cansay. There are faults, and serious ones, on my side, I know. I heartilybeg your pardon for anything that I may have said or done to offend you.I cannot submit to your hard verdict on me. If you knew how I adoreLucilla, you would make allowances for me--you would understand me betterthan you do. I cannot get your last cruel words out of my ears. I cannotmeet you again without some explanation of them. You stabbed me to theheart, when you said this evening that it would be a happier prospect forLucilla if she had been going to marry my brother instead of marrying me.I hope you did not really mean that? Will you please write and tell mewhether you did or not?

  "OSCAR."

  My first proceeding, after reading those lines, was of course to put myarm again in his, and to draw him as close to me as close could be. Mysecond proceeding followed in due time. I asked, naturally, for MadamePratolungo's answer to that most affectionate and most touching letter.

  "I have no answer to show you," he said.

  "You have lost it?" I asked.

  "I never had it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Madame Pratolungo never answered my letter."

  I made him repeat that--once, twice. Was it not incredible that such anappeal could be made to any woman not utterly depraved--and be leftunnoticed? Twice he reiterated the same answer. Twice he declared on hishonor that not a line of reply had been returned to him. She was thenutterly depraved? No! there was a last excuse left that justice andfriendship might still make for her. I made it.

  "There is but one explanation of her conduct," I said. "She neverreceived the letter. Where did you send it to?"

  "To the rectory."

  "Who took it?"

  "My own servant."

  "He may have lost it on the way, and have been afraid to tell you. Or theservant at the rectory may have forgotten to deliver it."

  Oscar shook his head. "Quite impossible! I know Madame Pratolungoreceived the letter."

  "How?"

  "I found it crumpled up in a corner inside the fender, _in yoursitting-room at the rectory._"

  "Had it been opened?"

  "It had been opened. She had received it; she had read it; and she hadnot thrown quite far enough to throw it into the fire. Now, Lucilla! IsMadame Pratolungo an injured woman? and am I a man who has slanderedher?"

  There was another public seat, a few paces distant from us. I could standno longer. I went away by myself and sat down. A dull sensation possessedme. I could neither speak, nor cry. There I sat in silence; slowlywringing my hands in my lap, and feeling the last ties that still boundme to the once-loved friend of former days, falling away one after theother, and leaving us parted for life.

  He followed me, and stood over me--he summed her up in stern quiet tones,which carried conviction into my mind, and made me feel ashamed of myselffor having ever regretted her.

  "Look back for the last time, Lucilla, at what this woman has said anddone. You will find that the idea of your marrying Nugent is, under oneform or another, always present to her mind. Present alike when sheforgets herself, and speaks in a rage--or when she reflects, and speakswith a purpose. At one time, she tells you that you would have fallen inlove with Nugent, if you had seen him first. At another time, she standsby while Nugent is personating me to you, and never interferes to stopit. On a third occasion, she sees that you are offended with me; andtriumphs so cruelly in seeing it, that she tells me to my face, yourprospect would have been a much happier one, if you had been engaged tomarry my brother instead of me. She is asked in writing, civilly andkindly asked, to explain what she means by those abominable words? Shehas had time to reflect since she spoke them; and what does she do? Doesshe answer me? No! She contemptuously tosses my letter into thefire-place. Add to these plain facts what you yourself have observed.Nugent has all her admiration; Nugent is her favorite: from the first,she has always disliked and wronged _me._ Add to this, again, that Nugent(as I know for certain) privately confessed to her that he was himself inlove with you. Look at all these circumstances--and what plain conclusionfollows? I ask you once more--Is Madame Pratolungo a slandered woman? oram I right in warning you (as you once warned me) to beware of her?"

  What could I do but own that he was right? It was due to him, and due tome, to close my heart to her, from that moment. Oscar sat down by me, andtook my hand.

  "After my experience of her in the past," he went on softly, "can youwonder that I dread what she may do in the future? Has no such thing everhappened as the parting of true lovers by treachery which has secretlyundermined their confidence in each other. Is Madame Pratolungo notclever enough and unscrupulous enough to undermine _our_ confidence, andto turn against us, to the wickedest purpose, the influence which shealready possesses at the rectory? How do we know that she is not incommunication with Nugent at this moment?"

  I stopped him there--I could not endure it. "You have seen your brother,"I said. "You have told me that you and he understand each other. Whathave you to dread after that?"

  "I have to dread Madame Pratolungo's influence, and my brother'sinfatuation for you," he answered. "The promises which he has honestlymade to me, are promises which I cannot depend on when my back is turned,and when Madame Pratolungo may be with him in my absence. Something underthe surface is going on already! I don't like that mysterious letter,which is only to be shown to you on certain conditions. I don't like yourfather's silence. He has had time to answer your letter. Has he done it?He has had time to answer my postscript. Has he done it?"

  Those were awkward questions. He had certainly left both our lettersunanswered--thus far. Still, the next post might bring his reply. Ipersisted in taking this view; and I said so to Oscar. He persisted justas obstinately on his side.

  "Suppose we go on to the end of the week," he said; "and still no letterfrom your father comes, for you, or for me? Will you admit, _then,_ thathis silence is suspicious?"

  "I will admit that his silence shows a sad want of proper considerationfor _you,_" I replied.

  "And there you will stop? You won't see (what I see) the influence ofMadame Pratolungo making itself felt at the rectory, and poisoning yourfather's mind against our marriage?"

  He was pressing me rather hardly. I did my best, however, to tell himhonestly what was passing in my mind.

  "I can see," I said, "that Madame Pratolungo has behaved most cruelly toyou. And I believe, after what you have told me, that she would rejoiceif I broke my engagement, and married your brother. But I can _not_understand that she is mad enough to be actually plotting to make me doit. Nobody knows better than she does how faithfully I love you, and howhopeless it would be to attempt to make me marry another man. Would thestupidest woman living, who looked at you two brothers (knowing what sheknows), be stupid enough to do what you suspect Madame Pratolungo ofdoing?"

  I thought this unanswerable. He had his reply to it ready, for all that.

  "If you had seen more of the world, Lucilla," he said, "you would knowthat a true love like yours is a mystery to a woman like MadamePratolungo. She doesn't believe in it--she doesn't understand it. Sheknows herself to be capable of breaking any engagement, if thecircumstances encouraged her--and she estimates your fidelity by herknowledge of her own nature. There is nothing in her experience of you,or in her knowledge of my brother's disfigurement, to discourage such awoman from scheming to part us. She has seen for herself--what you havealready told me--that you have got over your first aversion to him. Sheknows that women as charming as you are, have over and over again marriedmen far more personally repulsive than my brother. Lucilla! somethingwhich is not to be out-argued, and not to be contradicted, tells me thather return to England will be fatal to my hopes, if that return finds youand me with no closer tie between us than the tie that binds us now. Arethese fanciful apprehensions, unworthy of a man? My darling! worthy ornot worthy, you ought to make allowances for them. They are apprehensionsinspired by my love for You!"

  Under
those circumstances, I could make every allowance for him--and Isaid so. He moved nearer to me; and put his arm round me.

  "Are we not engaged to each other to be man and wife?" he whispered.

  "Yes."

  "Are we not both of age, and both free to do as we like?"

  "Yes."

  "Would you relieve me from the anxieties under which I am suffering, ifyou could?"

  "You know I would!"

  "You _can_ relieve me."

  "How?"

  "By giving me a husband's claim to you, Lucilla--by consenting to marryme in London, in a fortnight's time."

  I started back, and looked at him in amazement. For the moment, I wasincapable of answering in any other way than that.

  "I ask you to do nothing unworthy of you," he said. "I have spoken to arelative of mine living near London--a married lady--whose house is opento you in the interval before our wedding day. When your visit has beenprolonged over a fortnight only, we can be married. Write home by allmeans to prevent them from feeling anxious about you. Tell them that youare safe and happy, and under responsible and respectable care--but sayno more. As long as it is possible for Madame Pratolungo to make mischiefbetween us, conceal the place in which you are living. The instant we aremarried reveal everything. Let all your friends--let all the world knowthat we are man and wife!"

  His arm trembled round me; his face flushed deep; his eyes devoured me.Some women, in my place, might have been offended; others might have beenflattered. As for me--I can trust the secret to these pages--I wasfrightened.

  "Is it an elopement that you are proposing to me?" I asked.

  "An elopement!" he repeated. "Between two engaged people who have onlythemselves to think of."

  "I have my father to think of; and my aunt to think of," I said. "You areproposing to me to run away from them, and to keep in hiding from them!"

  "I am asking you to pay a fortnight's visit at the house of a marriedlady--and to keep the knowledge of that visit from the ears of the worstenemy you have, until you have become my wife," he answered. "Is thereanything so very terrible in my request that you should turn pale at it,and look at me in that frightened way? Have I not courted you with yourfather's consent? Am I not your promised husband? Are we not free todecide for ourselves? There is literally no reason--if it could bedone--why we should not be married to-morrow. And you still hesitate?Lucilla! Lucilla! you force me to own the doubt that has made memiserable ever since I have been here. Are you indeed as changed towardsme as you seem? Do you really no longer love me as you once loved me inthe days that are gone?"

  He rose, and walked away a few paces, leaning over the parapet with hisface in his hands.

  I sat alone, not knowing what to say or do. The uneasy sense in me thathe had reason to complain of my treating him coldly, was not to bedismissed from my mind by any effort that I could make. He had no rightto expect me to take the step which he had proposed--there wereobjections to it which any woman would have felt in my place. Still,though I was satisfied of this, there was an obstinate something in mewhich would take his part. It could not have been my conscience surelywhich said to me--'There was a time when his entreaties would haveprevailed on you; there was a time when you would not have hesitated asyou are hesitating now?'

  Whatever the influence was, it moved me to rise from my seat, and to joinhim at the parapet.

  "You cannot expect me to decide on such a serious matter as this atonce," I said. "Will you give me a little time to think?"

  "You are your own mistress," he rejoined bitterly. "Why ask me to give youtime? You can take any time you please--you can do as you like."

  "Give me till the end of the week," I went on. "Let me be sure that myfather persists in not answering either your letter or mine. Though I_am_ my own mistress, nothing but his silence can justify me in goingaway secretly, and being married to you by a stranger. Don't press me,Oscar! It isn't very long to the end of the week."

  Something seemed to startle him--something in my voice perhaps which toldhim that I was really distressed. He looked round at me quickly, andcaught me with the tears in my eyes.

  "Don't cry, for God's sake!" he said. "It shall be as you wish. Take yourtime. We will say no more about it till the end of the week."

  He kissed me in a hurried startled way, and gave me his arm to walk back.

  "Grosse is coming to-day," he continued. "He mustn't see you looking asyou are looking now. You must rest and compose yourself. Come home."

  I went back with him, feeling--oh, so sad and sore at heart! My lastfaint hope of a renewal of my once-pleasant intimacy with MadamePratolungo was at an end. She stood revealed to me now as a woman whom Iought never to have known--a woman with whom I could never again exchangea friendly word. I had lost the companion with whom I had once been sohappy; and I had pained and disappointed Oscar. My life has never lookedso wretched and so worthless to me as it looked to-day on the pier atRamsgate.

  He left me at the door, with a gentle encouraging pressure of my hand.

  "I will call again later," he said; "and hear what Grosse's report of youis, before he goes back to London. Rest, Lucilla--rest and composeyourself."

  A heavy footstep sounded suddenly behind us as he spoke. We both turnedround. Time had slipped by more rapidly than we had thought. There stoodHerr Grosse, just arrived on foot from the railway station.

  His first look at me seemed to startle and disappoint him. His eyesstared into mine through his spectacles with an expression of surpriseand anxiety which I had never seen in them before. Then he turned hishead and looked at Oscar with a sudden change--a change, unpleasantlysuggestive (to my fancy) of anger or distrust. Not a word fell from hislips. Oscar was left to break the awkward silence. He spoke to Grosse.

  "I won't disturb you and your patient now," he said. "I will come back inan hour's time."

  "No! you will come in along with me, if you please. I have something, myyoung gentlemans, that I may want to say to you." He spoke with a frownon his bushy eyebrows, and pointed in a very peremptory manner to thehouse-door.

  Oscar rang the bell. At the same moment my aunt, hearing us outside,appeared on the balcony above the door.

  "Good morning, Mr. Grosse," she said. "I hope you find Lucilla lookingher best. Only yesterday, I expressed my opinion that she was quite wellagain."

  Grosse took off his hat sulkily to my aunt, and looked back again atme--looked so hard and so long, that he began to confuse me.

  "Your aunt's opinions is not my opinions," he growled, close at my ear."I don't like the looks of you, Miss. Go in!"

  The servant was waiting for us at the open door. I went an without makingany answer. Grosse waited to see Oscar enter the house before him.Oscar's face darkened as he joined me in the hall. He looked half angry,half confused. Grosse pushed himself roughly between us, and gave me hisarm. I went up-stairs with him, wondering what it all meant.