by Anthology
Favouring me with this peculiar view of the scheme of creation, Herr Grosse shook his shock head, and waddled away to the garden.
I softly opened the bed-room door, and looked in—disappearing just in time to escape the rector and Mrs. Finch returning to their own side of the house.
Lucilla was lying on the sofa. She asked who it was in a drowsy voice—she was happily just sinking into slumber. Zillah occupied a chair near her. I was not wanted for the moment—and I was glad, for the first time in my experience at Dimchurch, to get out of the room again. By some contradiction in my character which I am not able to explain, there was a certain hostile influence in the sympathy that I felt for Oscar, which estranged me, for the moment, from Lucilla. It was not her fault—and yet (I am ashamed to own it) I almost felt angry with her for reposing so comfortably, when I thought of the poor fellow, without a creature to say a kind word to him, alone at Browndown.
Out again in the corridor, the question faced me:—What was I to do next?
The loneliness of the house was insupportable; my anxiety about Oscar grew more than I could endure. I put on my hat, and went out.
Having no desire to interfere with Herr Grosse’s enjoyment of his pipe, I made my way through the garden as quickly as possible, and found myself in the village again. My uneasiness on the subject of Oscar, was matched by my angry desire to know what Nugent would do. Now that he had worked the very mischief which his brother had foreseen to be possible—the very mischief which it had been Oscar’s one object to prevent in asking him to leave Dimchurch—would he take his departure? would he rid us, at once and for ever, of the sight of him? The bare idea of the other alternative—I mean, of his remaining in the place—shook me with such an unutterable dread of what might happen next, that my feet refused to support me. I was obliged, just beyond the village, to sit down by the road-side, and wait till my giddy head steadied itself before I attempted to move again.
After a minute or two, I heard footsteps coming along the road. My heart gave one great leap in me. I thought it was Nugent.
A moment more brought the person in view. It was only Mr. Gootheridge of the village inn, on his way home. He stopped, and took off his hat.
“Tired, ma’am?” he said.
The uppermost idea in my mind found its way somehow, ill as I was, to expression on my lips—in the form of a question addressed to the landlord.
“Do you happen to have seen anything of Mr. Nugent Dubourg?” I asked.
“I saw him not five minutes since, ma’am.”
“Where?”
“Going into Browndown.”
I started up, as if I had been struck or shot. Worthy Mr. Gootheridge stared. I wished him good-day, and went on as fast as my feet would take me, straight to Browndown. Had the brothers met in the house? I turned cold at the bare thought of it—but I still kept on. There was an obstinate resolution in me to part them, which served me in place of courage. Account for it as you may, I was bold and frightened both at the same time. At one moment, I was fool enough to say to myself, “They will kill me.” At another, just as foolishly, I found comfort in the opposite view. “Bah! They are gentlemen; they can’t hurt a woman!”
The servant was standing idling at the front door, when I arrived in sight of the house. This, in itself, was unusual. He was a hard-working well-trained man. On other occasions, nobody had ever seen him out of his proper place. He advanced a few steps to meet me. I looked at him carefully. Not the slightest appearance of disturbance was visible in his face.
“Is Mr. Oscar at home?” I asked.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am. Mr. Oscar is at home—but you can’t see him. He and Mr. Nugent are together.”
I rested my hand on the low wall in front of the house, and made a desperate effort to put a calm face on it.
“Surely Mr. Oscar will see me?” I said.
“I have Mr. Oscar’s orders, ma’am, to wait at the door, and tell everybody who comes to the house (without exception) that he is engaged.”
The house-door was half open. I listened intently while the man was speaking. If they had been at high words together, I must have heard them in the silence of the lonely hills all round us. I heard nothing.
It was strange, it was inconceivable. At the same time it relieved me. There they were together, and no harm had come of it, so far.
I left my card—and walked on a little, past the corner of the house wall. As soon as I was out of the servant’s sight, I turned back to the side of the building, and ventured as near as I durst to the window of the sitting-room. Their voices reached me, but not their words. On both sides, the tones were low and confidential. Not a note of anger in either voice—listen for it as I might! I left the house again, breathless with amazement, and (so rapidly does a woman shift from one emotion to another) burning with curiosity.
After half an hour of aimless wandering in the valley, I returned to the rectory.
Lucilla was still sleeping. I took Zillah’s place, and sent her into the kitchen. The landlady of the inn was there to help us with the dinner. But she was hardly equal, single-handed, to the superintendence of such dishes as we had to set before Herr Grosse. It was high time I relieved Zillah if we were to pass successfully through the ordeal of the great surgeon’s criticism, as reviewer of all the sauces.
An hour more passed before Lucilla woke. I sent a messenger to Grosse, who appeared enveloped in a halo of tobacco, examined the patient’s eyes, felt her pulse, ordered her wine and jelly, filled his monstrous pipe, and gruffly returned to his promenade in the garden.
The day wore on. Mr. Finch came to make inquiries, and then went back to his wife—whom he described as “hysterically irresponsible,” and in imminent need of another warm bath. He declined, in his most pathetic manner, to meet the German at dinner. “After what I have suffered, after what I have seen, these banquetings—I would say, these ticklings of the palate—are not to my taste. You mean well, Madame Pratolungo. (Good creature!) But I am not in heart for feasting. Simple fare, by my wife’s couch; a few consoling words, in the character of pastor and husband, when the infant is quiet. So my day is laid out. I wish you well. I don’t object to your little dinner. Good day! good day!”
A second examination of Lucilla’s eyes brought us to the dinner-hour.
At the sight of the table-cloth, Herr Grosse’s good humour returned. We two dined together alone—the German sending in selections of his own making from the dishes to Lucilla’s room. So far, he said, she had escaped any serious injury. But he still insisted on keeping his patient perfectly quiet, and he refused to answer for anything until the night had passed. As for me, Oscar’s continued silence weighed more and more heavily on my spirits. My past suspense in the darkened room with Lucilla seemed to be a mere trifle by comparison with the keener anxieties which I suffered now. I saw Grosse’s eyes glaring discontentedly at me through his spectacles. He had good reason to look at me as he did—I had never before been so stupid and so disagreeable in all my life.
Towards the end of the dinner, there came news from Browndown at last. The servant sent in a message by Zillah, begging me to see him for a moment outside the sitting-room door.
I made my excuses to my guest, and hurried out.
The instant I saw the servant’s face, my heart sank. Oscar’s kindness had attached the man devotedly to his master. I saw his lips tremble, and his color come and go, when I looked at him.
“I have brought you a letter, ma’am.”
He handed me a letter addressed to me in Oscar’s handwriting.
“How is your master?” I asked.
“Not very well, when I saw him last.”
“When you saw him last?”
“I bring sad news, ma’am. There’s a break-up at Browndown.”
“What do you mean? Where is Mr. Oscar?”
“Mr. Oscar has left Dimchurch.”
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH
The Brothers change Places
&n
bsp; I VAINLY believed I had prepared myself for any misfortune that could fall on us. The man’s last words dispelled my delusion. My gloomiest forebodings had never contemplated such a disaster as had now happened. I stood petrified, thinking of Lucilla, and looking helplessly at the servant. Try as I might, I was perfectly incapable of speaking to him.
He felt no such difficulty on his side. One of the strangest peculiarities in the humbler ranks of the English people, is the sort of solemn relish which they have for talking of their own misfortunes. To be the objects of a calamity of any kind, seems to raise them in their own estimations. With a dreary enjoyment of his miserable theme, the servant expatiated on his position as a man deprived of the best of masters; turned adrift again in the world to seek another service; hopeless of ever again finding himself in such a situation as he had lost. He roused me at last into speaking to him, by sheer dint of irritating my nerves until I could endure him no longer.
“Has Mr. Oscar gone away alone?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am, quite alone.”
(What had become of Nugent? I was too much interested in Oscar to be able to put the question, at that moment.)
“When did your master go?” I went on.
“Better than two hours since.”
“Why didn’t I hear of it before?”
“I had Mr. Oscar’s orders not to tell you, ma’am, till this time in the evening.”
Wretched as I was already, my spirits sank lower still when I heard that. The order given to the servant looked like a premeditated design, not only to leave Dimchurch, but also to keep us in ignorance of his whereabouts afterwards.
“Has Mr. Oscar gone to London?” I inquired.
“He hired Gootheridge’s chaise, ma’am, to take him to Brighton. And he told me with his own lips that he had left Browndown never to come back. I know no more of it than that.”
He had left Browndown, never to come back! For Lucilla’s sake, I declined to believe that. The servant was exaggerating, or the servant had misunderstood what had been said to him. The letter in my hand reminded me that I had perhaps needlessly questioned him on matters which his master had confided to my own knowledge only. Before I dismissed him for the night, I made my deferred inquiry on the hateful subject of the other brother.
“Where is Mr. Nugent?”
“At Browndown.”
“Do you mean to say that he is going to stay at Browndown?”
“I don’t know, ma’am, for certain. I see no signs of his meaning to leave; and he has said nothing to that effect.”
I had the greatest difficulty to keep myself from breaking out before the servant. My indignation almost choked me. The best way was to wish him good night. I took the best way—only calling him back (as a measure of caution) to say one last word.
“Have you told anybody at the rectory of Mr. Oscar’s departure?” I asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“Say nothing, about it then, as you go out. Thank you for bringing me the letter. Good night.”
Having thus provided against any whisper of what had happened reaching Lucilla’s ears that evening, I returned to Herr Grosse to make my excuses, and to tell him (as I honestly could) that I was in sore need of being permitted to retire privately to my own room. I found my illustrious guest putting a plate over the final dish of the dinner, full of the tenderest anxiety to keep it warm on my account.
“Here is a lofely cheese-omelettes,” said Grosse. “Two-thirds of him I have eaten my own self. The odder third I sweat with anxiety to keep warm for you. Sit down! sit down! Every moment he is getting cold.”
“I am much obliged to you, Herr Grosse. I have just heard some miserable news——”
“Ach, Gott! don’t tell it to me!” the wretch burst out with a look of consternation. “No miserable news, I pray you, after such a dinner as I have eaten. Let me do my digestions! My goot-dear-creature, if you lofe me let me do my digestions!”
“Will you excuse me, if I leave you to your digestion, and retire to my own room?”
He rose in a violent hurry, and opened the door for me.
“Yes! yes! From the deep bottoms of my heart I excuse you. Goot Madame Pratolungo, retire! retire!”
I had barely passed the threshold, before the door was closed behind me. I heard the selfish old brute rub his hands, and chuckle over his success in shutting me and my sorrow both out of the room together.
Just as my hand was on my own door, it occurred to me that I should do well to make sure of not being surprised by Lucilla over the reading of Oscar’s letter. The truth is that I shrank from reading it. In spite of my resolution to disbelieve the servant, the dread was now growing on me that the letter would confirm his statement, and would force it on me as the truth that Oscar had left us never to return. I retraced my steps, and entered Lucilla’s room.
I could just see her, by the dim night-light burning in a cornet to enable the surgeon or the nurse to find their way to her. She was alone in her favourite little wicker-work chair, with the doleful white bandage over her eyes—to all appearance quite content, busily knitting!
“Don’t you feel lonely, Lucilla?”
She turned her head towards me, and answered in her gayest tones.
“Not in the least. I am quite happy as I am.
“Why is Zillah not with you?”
“I sent her away.”
“You sent her away?”
“Yes! I couldn’t enjoy myself thoroughly tonight, unless I felt that I was quite alone. I have seen him, my dear—I have seen him! How could you possibly think I felt lonely? I am so inordinately happy that I am obliged to knit to keep myself quiet. If you say much more, I shall get up and dance—I know I shall! Where is Oscar? That odious Grosse—no! it is too bad to talk of the dear old man in that way, after he has given me back my sight. Still it is cruel of him to say that I am overexcited, and to forbid Oscar to come and see me tonight. Is Oscar with you, in the next room? Is he very much disappointed at being parted from me in this way? Say I am thinking of him—since I have seen him—with such new thoughts!”
“Oscar is not here tonight, my dear.”
“No? then he is at Browndown of course with that poor wretched disfigured brother of his. I have got over my terror of Nugent’s hideous face. I am even beginning (though I never liked him, as you know) to pity him, with such a dreadful complexion as that. Don’t let us talk about it! Don’t let us talk at all! I want to go on thinking of Oscar.”
She resumed her knitting, and shut herself up luxuriously in her own happy thoughts. Knowing what I knew, it was nothing less than heart-breaking to see her and hear her. Afraid to trust myself to say another word, I softly closed the door, and charged Zillah (when her mistress rang her bell) to say for me that I was weary after the events of the day, and had gone to rest in my bed-room.
At last, I was alone. At last I was at the end of my manoeuvres to spare myself the miserable necessity of opening Oscar’s letter. After first locking my door, I broke the seal, and read the lines which follow.
“KIND AND DEAR FRIEND,—Forgive me: I am going to surprise and distress you. My letter thanks you gratefully; and bids you a last farewell.
“Summon all your indulgence for me. Read these lines to the end: they will tell you what happened after I left the rectory.
“Nothing had been seen of Nugent, when I reached this house. It was not till a quarter of an hour later that I heard his voice at the door, calling to me, and asking if I had come back. I answered, and he joined me in the sitting-room. Nugent’s first words to me were these:— “‘Oscar, I have come to ask your pardon, and to bid you good-bye.’
“I can give you no idea of the tone in which he spoke to me: it would have gone straight to your heart, as it went straight to mine. For the moment, I was not able to answer him. I could only offer him my hand. He sighed bitterly, and refused to take it.
“‘I have something still to tell you,’ he said. ‘Wait till you have heard it; and giv
e me your hand afterwards—if you can.’
“He even refused to take the chair to which I pointed. He distressed me by standing in my presence as if he was my inferior. The next words that he said to me—
“No! I have need of all my calmness and all my courage. It shakes both to recall what he said to me. I sat down to write this, intending to repeat to you everything that passed between us. Another of my weaknesses! another of my failures! The tears come into my eyes again, when my mind attempts to dwell on the details. I can only tell you the result. My brother’s confession may be summed up in three words. Prepare yourself to be startled; prepare yourself to be grieved.
“Nugent loves her.
“Think of this discovery falling on me, after I had seen my innocent Lucilla’s arms round his neck—after my own eyes had shown me how she rejoiced over her first sight of him; how she shuddered at her first sight of me! Need I tell you what I suffered? No.
“Nugent held out his hand, when he had done—as I had held out mine before he began.
“‘The one atonement I can make to you and to her,’ he said, ‘is never to let either of you set eyes on me again. Shake hands, Oscar; and let me go.’
“If I had willed it so—so it might have ended. I willed it differently. It has ended differently. Can you guess how?”
I laid down the letter for a moment. It cut me with such keen regret; it fired me with such hot rage—that I was within a hairsbreadth of tearing the rest of it up unread, and trampling it under my feet. I took a turn in the room. I dipped my handkerchief in water, and bound it round my head. In a minute or two I was myself again—I could force my mind away from my poor Lucilla, and return to the letter. It proceeded thus:
“I can write calmly of what I have next to tell you. You shall hear what I have decided, and what I have done.
