by Anthology
“I have lately discovered a peculiarity in Lucilla which is new to me, and which has produced a very unpleasant impression on my mind. My proposed avowal to her of the change in my personal appearance, has now become a matter of far more serious difficulty than I had anticipated when the question was discussed between you and me at Browndown.
“Have you ever found out that the strongest antipathy she has, is her purely imaginary antipathy to dark people and to dark shades of color of all kinds? This strange prejudice is the result, as I suppose, of some morbid growth of her blindness, quite as inexplicable to herself as to other people. Explicable, or not, there it is in her. Read the extract that follows from one of her letters to her father, which her father showed to me—and you will not be surprised to hear that I tremble for myself when the time comes for telling her what I have done.
“Thus she writes to Mr. Finch:—
“‘I am sorry to say, I have had a little quarrel with my aunt. It is all made up now, but it has hardly left us such good friends as we were before. Last week, there was a dinner-party here; and, among the guests, was a Hindoo gentleman (converted to Christianity) to whom my aunt has taken a great fancy. While the maid was dressing me, I unluckily inquired if she had seen the Hindoo—and, hearing that she had, I still more unfortunately asked her to tell me what he was like. She described him as being very tall and lean, with a dark brown complexion and glittering black eyes. My mischievous fancy instantly set to work on this horrid combination of darknesses. Try as I might to resist it, my mind drew a dreadful picture of the Hindoo, as a kind of monster in human form. I would have given worlds to have been excused from going down into the drawing-room. At the last moment I was sent for, and the Hindoo was introduced to me. The instant I felt him approaching, my darkness was peopled with brown demons. He took my hand. I tried hard to control myself—but I really could not help shuddering and starting back when he touched me. To make matters worse, he sat next to me at dinner. In five minutes I had long, lean, black-eyed beings all round me; perpetually growing in numbers, and pressing closer and closer on me as they grew. It ended in my being obliged to leave the table. When the guests were all gone, my aunt was furious. I admitted my conduct was unreasonable in the last degree. At the same time, I begged her to make allowances for me. I reminded her that I was blind at a year old, and that I had really no idea of what any person was like, except by drawing pictures of them in my imagination, from description, and from my own knowledge obtained by touch. I appealed to her to remember that, situated as I am, my fancy is peculiarly liable to play me tricks, and that I have no sight to see with, and to show me—as other people’s eyes show them—when they have taken a false view of persons and things. It was all in vain. My aunt would admit of no excuse for me. I was so irritated by her injustice, that I reminded her of an antipathy of her own, quite as ridiculous as mine—an antipathy to cats. She, who can see that cats are harmless, shudders and turns pale, for all that, if a cat is in the same room with her. Set my senseless horror of dark people against her senseless horror of cats—and say which of us has the right to be angry with the other?’ “
Such was the quotation from Lucilla’s letter to her father. At the end of it, Oscar resumed, as follows:—
“I wonder whether you will now understand me, if I own to you that I have made the worst of my case in writing to Lucilla? It is the only excuse I can produce for not joining her in London. Weary as I am of our long separation, I cannot prevail on myself to run the risk of meeting her in the presence of strangers, who would instantly notice my frightful color, and betray it to her. Think of her shuddering and starting back from my hand when it took hers! No! no! I must choose my own opportunity, in this quiet place, of telling her what (I suppose) must be told—with time before me to prepare her mind for the disclosure (if it must come), and with nobody but you near to see the first mortifying effect of the shock which I shall inflict on her.
“I have only to add, before I release you, that I write these lines in the strictest confidence. You have promised not to mention my disfigurement to Lucilla, unless I first give you leave. I now, more than ever, hold you to that promise. The few people about me here, are all pledged to secrecy as you are. If it is really inevitable that she should know the truth—I alone must tell it; in my own way, and at my own time.”
“If it must come,” “if it is really inevitable”—these phrases in Oscar’s letter satisfied me that he was already beginning to comfort himself with an insanely delusive idea—the idea that it might be possible permanently to conceal the ugly personal change in him from Lucilla’s knowledge.
If I had been at Dimchurch, I have no doubt I should have begun to feel seriously uneasy at the turn which things appeared to be taking now.
But distance has a very strange effect in altering one’s customary way of thinking of affairs at home. Being in Italy instead of in England, I dismissed Lucilla’s antipathies and Oscar’s scruples, as both alike unworthy of serious consideration. Sooner or later, time (I considered) would bring these two troublesome young people to their senses. Their marriage would follow, and there would be an end of it! In the meanwhile, I continued to feast good Papa on Holy Families and churches. Ah, poor dear, how he yawned over Caraccis and cupolas! and how fervently he promised never to fall in love again, if I would only take him back to Paris!
We set our faces homeward a day or two after the receipt of Oscar’s letter. I left my reformed father, resting his aching old bones in his own easy-chair; capable perhaps, even yet, of contracting a Platonic attachment to a lady of his own time of life—but capable (as I firmly believed) of nothing more. “Oh, my child, let me rest!” he said, when I wished him good-bye. “And never show me a church or a picture again as long as I live!”
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST
Madame Pratolungo Returns to Dimchurch
I REACHED London in the last week of Lucilla’s residence under her aunt’s roof, and waited in town until it was time to take her back to Dimchurch.
As soon as it had become obviously too late for Oscar to risk the dreaded meeting with Lucilla before strangers, his correspondence had, as a matter of course, assumed a brighter tone. She was in high spirits once more, poor thing, when we met—and full of delight at having me near her again. We thoroughly enjoyed our few days in London—and took our fill of music at operas and concerts. I got on excellently well with the aunt until the last day, when something happened which betrayed me into an avowal of my political convictions.
The old lady’s consternation, when she discovered that I looked hopefully forward to a coming extermination of kings and priests, and a general re-distribution of property all over the civilized globe, is unutterable in words. On that occasion, I made one more aristocrat tremble. I also closed Miss Batchford’s door on me for the rest of my life. No matter! The day is coming when the Batchford branch of humanity will not possess a door to close. All Europe is drifting nearer and nearer to the Pratolungo programme. Cheer up, my brothers without land, and my sisters without money in the Funds! We will have it out with the infamous rich yet. Long live the Republic!
Early in the month of April, Lucilla and I took leave of the Metropolis, and went back to Dimchurch.
As we drew nearer and nearer to the rectory, as Lucilla began to flush and fidget in eager anticipation of her re-union with Oscar, that uneasiness of mind which I had so readily dismissed while I was in Italy, began to find its way back to me again. My imagination now set to work at drawing pictures—startling pictures of Oscar as a changed being, as a Medusa’s head too terrible to be contemplated by mortal eyes. Where would he meet us? At the entrance to the village? No. At the rectory gate? No. In the quieter part of the garden which was at the back of the house? Yes! There he stood waiting for us—alone!
Lucilla flew into his arms with a cry of delight. I stood behind and looked at them.
Ah, how vividly I remember—at the moment when she embraced him—the first shock of seeing
the two faces together! The drug had done its work. I saw her fair cheek laid innocently against the livid blackish blue of his discolored skin. Heavens, how cruelly that first embrace marked the contrast between what he had been when I left him, and what he had changed to when I saw him now! His eyes turned from her face to mine, in silent appeal to me while he held her in his arms. Their look told me the thought in him, as eloquently as if he had put it into words. “You, who love her, say—can we ever be cruel enough to tell her of this?”
I approached to take his hand. At the same moment, Lucilla suddenly drew back from him, laid her left hand on his shoulder, and passed her right hand rapidly over his face.
For an instant I felt my heart stand still. Her miraculous sensitiveness of touch had detected the dark color of my dress, on the day when we first met. Would it serve her, this time, as truly as it had served her then?
She paused, after the first passage of her fingers over his face, with the breathless attention to what she was about, which, in my own case, I remembered so well. A second time, she passed her hand over him—considered again—and turned my way next.
“What does his face tell you?” she asked. “It tells me that he has something on his mind. What is it?”
We were safe—so far! The hateful medicine, in altering the color, had not affected the texture, of his skin. As her touch had left it on her departure, so her touch found it again, on her return.
Before I could reply to Lucilla, Oscar answered for himself.
“Nothing is wrong, my darling,” he said. “My nerves are a little out of order to-day; and the joy of seeing you again has overcome me for the moment—that is all.”
She shook her head impatiently.
“No,” she said, “it’s not all.” She touched his heart. “Why is it beating so fast?” She took his hand in hers. “Why has it turned so cold? I must know. I will know! Come indoors.”
At that awkward moment, the most wearisome of living men suddenly proved himself to be the most welcome of living men. The rector appeared in the garden, to receive his daughter on her return. Enfolded in Reverend Finch’s paternal embraces; harangued by Reverend Finch’s prodigious voice, Lucilla was effectually silenced—the subject was inevitably changed. Oscar drew me aside out of hearing, while her attention was diverted from him.
“I saw you,” he said. “You were horrified at the first sight of me. You were relieved when you found that her touch told her nothing. Help me to keep her from suspecting it, for two months more—and you will be the best friend that ever man had.”
“Two months?” I repeated.
“Yes. If there is no return of the fits in two months, the doctor will consider my recovery complete. Lucilla and I may be married at the end of the time.”
“My friend Oscar, are you contemplating a fraud on Lucilla?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come! come! you know what I mean! Is it honourable first to entrap her into marrying you—and then to confess to her the color of your face?”
He sighed bitterly.
“I shall fill her with horror of me, if I confess it. Look at me! look at me!” he said, lifting his ghastly hands in despair to his blue face.
I was determined not to give way—even to that.
“Be a man!” I said. “Own it boldly. What is she going to marry you for? For your face that she can never see? No! For your heart that is one with her own. Trust to her natural good sense—and, better than that, to the devoted love that you have inspired in her. She will see her stupid prejudice in its true light, when she feels it trying to part her from you.”
“No! no! no! Remember her letter to her father. I shall lose her for ever, if I tell her now!”
I took his arm, and endeavoured to lead him to Lucilla. She as already trying to escape from her father; she was already longing to hear the sound of Oscar’s voice again.
He obstinately shrank back. I began to feel angry with him. In another moment, I should have said or done something that I might have repented of afterwards—if a new interruption had not happened before I could open my lips.
Another person appeared in the garden—the man-servant from Browndown; with a letter for his master in his hand.
“This has just come, sir,” said the man, “by the afternoon post. It is marked ‘Immediate.’ I thought I had better bring it to you here.”
Oscar took the letter, and looked at the address. “My brother’s writing!” he exclaimed. “A letter from Nugent!”
He opened the letter—and burst out with a cry of joy which brought Lucilla instantly to his side.
“What is it?” she asked eagerly.
“Nugent is coming back! Nugent will be here in a week! Oh, Lucilla! my brother is coming to stay with me at Browndown!”
He caught her in his arms, and kissed her, in the first rapture of receiving that welcome news. She forced herself away from him without answering a word. She turned her poor blind face round and round, in the search for me.
“Here I am!” I said.
She roughly and angrily put her arm in mine. I saw the jealous misery in her face as she dragged me away with here to the house. Never yet had Oscar’s voice, in her experience of him, sounded the note of happiness that she heard in it now! Never yet had she felt Oscar’s heart on Oscar’s lips, as she felt it when he kissed her in the first joy of anticipating Nugent’s return!
“Can he hear me?” she whispered, when we had left the lawn, and she felt the gravel under her feet.
“No. What is it?”
“I hate his brother!”
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND
The Twin-Brother’s Letter
LITTLE thinking what a storm he had raised, poor innocent Oscar—paternally escorted by the rector—followed us into the house, with his open letter in his hand.
Judging by certain signs visible in my reverend friend, I concluded that the announcement of Nugent Dubourg’s coming visit to Dimchurch—regarded by the rest of us as heralding the appearance of a twin-brother—was regarded by Mr. Finch as promising the arrival of a twin-fortune. Oscar and Nugent shared the comfortable paternal inheritance. Finch smelt money.
“Compose yourself,” I whispered to Lucilla as the two gentlemen followed us into the sitting-room. “Your jealousy of his brother is a childish jealousy. There is room enough in his heart for his brother as well as for you.”
She only repeated obstinately, with a vicious pinch on my arm, “I hate his brother!”
“Come and sit down by me,” said Oscar, approaching her on the other side. “I want to run over Nugent’s letter. It’s so interesting! There is a message in it to you.” Too deeply absorbed in his subject to notice the sullen submission with which she listened to him, he placed her on a chair, and began reading. “The first lines,” he explained, “relate to Nugent’s return to England, and to his delightful idea of coming to stay with me at Browndown. Then he goes on: ‘I found all your letters waiting for me on my return to New York. Need I tell you, my dearest brother——’ “
Lucilla stopped him at those words by rising abruptly from her seat.
“What is the matter?” he asked.
“I don’t like this chair!”
Oscar got her another—an easy-chair this time—and returned to the letter.
“‘Need I tell you, my dearest brother, how deeply you have interested me by the announcement of your contemplated marriage? Your happiness is my happiness. I feel with you; I congratulate you; I long to see my future sister-in-law——’ “
Lucilla got up again. Oscar, in astonishment, asked what was wrong now?
“I am not comfortable at this end of the room.”
She walked to the other end of the room. Patient Oscar walked after her, with his precious letter in his hand. He offered her a third chair. She petulantly declined to take it, and selected another chair for herself. Oscar returned to the letter:—
“‘How melancholy, and yet how interesting it is, to hear that
she is blind! My sketches of American scenery happened to be lying about in the room when I read your letter. The first thought that came to me, on hearing of Miss Finch’s affliction, was suggested by my sketches. I said to myself, “Sad! sad! my sister-in-law will never see my Works.” The true artist, Oscar, is always thinking of his Works. I shall bring back, let me tell you, some very remarkable studies for future pictures. They will not be so numerous, perhaps, as you may expect. I prefer to trust to my intellectual perception of beauty, rather than to mere laborious transcripts from Nature. In certain moods of mine (speaking as an artist) Nature puts me out.’ “There Oscar paused, and appealed to me. “What writing!—eh? I always told you, Madame Pratolungo, that Nugent was a genius. You see it now. Don’t get up, Lucilla. I am going on. There is a message to you in this part of the letter. So neatly expressed!”
Lucilla persisted in getting up; the announcement of the neatly-expressed message to be read next, produced no effect on her. She walked to the window, and trifled impatiently with the flowers placed in it. Oscar looked in mild astonishment, first at me—then at the rector. Reverend Finch—listening thus far with the complimentary attention due to the correspondence of one young man of fortune with another young man of fortune—interfered in Oscar’s interests, to secure him a patient hearing.
“My dear Lucilla, endeavour to control your restlessness. You interfere with our enjoyment of this interesting letter. I could wish to see fewer changes of place, my child, and a more undivided attention to what Oscar is reading to you.”
“I am not interested in what he is reading to me.” In the nervous irritation which produced this ungracious answer, she overthrew one of the flower-pots. Oscar set it up again for her with undiminished good-temper.
“Not interested!” he exclaimed. “Wait a little. You haven’t heard Nugent’s message yet. Listen to this! ‘Present my best and kindest regards to the future Mrs. Oscar’ (dear fellow!); ‘and say that she has given me a new interest in hastening my return to England.’ There! Isn’t that prettily put? Come Lucilla! own that Nugent is worth listening to when he writes about you!”
