Afternoon Tea Mysteries Vol Three

by Anthology

  “Surely,” I said, “all the old feelings will come back to her when she sees Oscar?”

  “They will never come back to her—no, not if she sees fifty Oscars!”

  He was beginning to frighten me, or to irritate me—I can hardly say which. I only know that I persisted in disputing with him. “When she sees the true man,” I went on, “do you mean to say she will feel the same disappointment——?”

  I could get no farther than that. He cut me short there, without ceremony.

  “You foolish womans!” he interposed, “she will feel more than the same. I have told you already it was one enormous disappointments to her when she saw the handsome brodder with the fair complexions. Ask your own self what it will be when she sees the ugly brodder with the blue face. I tell you this!—she will think your true man the worst impostor of the two.”

  There I indignantly contradicted him.

  “His face may be a disappointment to her,” I said—“I own that. But there it will end. Her hand will tell her, when he takes it, that there is no impostor deceiving her this time.”

  “Her hand will tell her nothing—no more than yours. I had not so much hard hearts in me as to say that to her, when she asked me. I say it to you. Hold your tongue and listen. All those thrill-tingles that she once had when he touched her, belong to anodder time—the time gone-by when her sight was in her fingers and not in her eyes. With those fine-superfine-feelings of the days when she was blind, she pays now for her grand new privilege of opening her eyes on the world. (And worth the price too!) Do you understand yet? It is a sort of swop-bargain between Nature and this poor girls of ours. I take away your eyes—I give you your fine touch. I give you your eyes—I take away your fine touch. Soh! that is plain. You see now.”

  I was too mortified and too miserable to answer him. Through all our later troubles, I had looked forward so confidently to Oscar’s re-appearance as the one sufficient condition on which Lucilla’s happiness would be certainly restored! What had become of my anticipations now? I sat silent; staring in stupid depression at the pattern of the carpet. Grosse took out his watch.

  “Your ten-minutes-time has counted himself out,” he said.

  I neither moved nor heeded him. His ferocious eyes began to flame again behind his monstrous spectacles.

  “Go-be-off-with-you!” he shouted at me as if I was deaf. “Her eyes! her eyes! While you stop chatterboxing here, her eyes are in danger. What with her frettings and her cryings and her damn-nonsense-lofe-business, I swear you my solemn oath her sight was in danger when I saw her a whole fortnight gone-by. Do you want my big pillow to fly bang at your head? You don’t want him? Be-off-away with you then, or you will have him in one-two-three time! Be-off-away—and bring her back to me before night!”

  I returned to the railway. Of all the women whom I passed in the crowded streets, I doubt if one had a heavier heart in her bosom that morning than mine.

  To make matters worse still, my travelling companions (one in the refreshment-room, and one pacing the platform) received my account of my interview with Grosse in a manner which seriously disappointed and discouraged me. Mr. Finch’s inhuman conceit treated my melancholy news of his daughter as a species of complimentary tribute to his own foresight.

  “You remember, Madame Pratolungo, I took high ground in this matter from the first. I protested against the proceedings of the man Grosse, as involving a purely worldly interference with the ways of an inscrutable Providence. With what effect? My paternal influence was repudiated; my Moral Weight was, so to speak, set aside. And now you see the result. Take it to heart, dear friend. May it be a warning to you!” He sighed with ponderous complacency, and turned from me to the girl behind the counter. “I will take another cup of tea.”

  Oscar’s reception of me, when I found him on the platform, and told him next of Lucilla’s critical state, was more than discouraging. It is no exaggeration to say that he alarmed me. “Another item in the debt I owe to Nugent!” he said. Not a word of sympathy, not a word of sorrow. That vindictive answer, and nothing more.

  We started for Sydenham.

  From time to time, I looked at Oscar sitting opposite to me, to see if any change appeared in him as we drew nearer and nearer to the place in which Lucilla was now living. No! Still the same ominous silence, the same unnatural self-repression possessed him.

  Except the momentary outbreak, when Mr. Finch had placed Nugent’s letter in his hand on the previous evening, not the faintest token of what was really going on in his mind had escaped him since we had left Marseilles. He, who could weep over all his other griefs as easily and as spontaneously as a woman, had not shed a tear since the fatal day when he had discovered that his brother had played him false—that brother who had been the god of his idolatry, the sacred object of his gratitude and his love! When a man of Oscar’s temperament becomes frozen up for days together in his own thoughts—when he keeps his own counsel; when he asks for no sympathy, and utters no complaint—the sign is a serious one. There are hidden forces gathering in him which will burst their way to the surface—for good or for evil—with an irresistible result. Watching Oscar attentively behind my veil, I felt the certain assurance that the part he would take in the terrible conflict of interests now awaiting us, would be a part which I should remember to the latest day of my life.

  We reached Sydenham, and went to the nearest hotel.

  On the railway—with other travellers in the carriage-it had been impossible to consult on the safest method of approaching Lucilla, in the first instance. That serious question now pressed for instant decision. We sat down to discuss it, in the room which we had hired at the hotel.

  CHAPTER THE FORTY-NINTH

  On the Way to the End. Third Stage

  ON former occasions of doubt or difficulty, it had always been Oscar’s habit to follow the opinions of others. On this occasion he was the first to speak, and to assert an opinion of his own.

  “It seems needless to waste time in discussing our different views,” he said. “There is only one thing to be done. I am the person principally concerned in this matter. Wait here, while I go to the house.”

  He spoke without any of his usual hesitation; he took up his hat without looking either at Mr. Finch or at me. I felt more and more convinced that the influence which Nugent’s vile breach of confidence had exerted over Oscar’s mind, was an influence which had made a dangerous man of him. Resolved to prevent him from leaving us, I insisted on his returning to his chair, and hearing what I had to say. At the same moment, Mr. Finch rose, and placed himself between Oscar and the door. Seeing this, I thought it might be wise if I kept my interference in reserve, and allowed the rector to speak first.

  “Wait a moment, Oscar,” said Mr. Finch, gravely. “You are forgetting Me.”

  Oscar waited doggedly, hat in hand.

  Mr. Finch paused, evidently considering what words he should use before he spoke again. His respect for Oscar’s pecuniary position was great; but his respect for himself—especially at the present crisis—was, if possible, greater still. In deference to the first sentiment he was as polite, and in deference to the second he was as positive, in phrasing his remonstrance, as a man could be. “Permit me to remind you, dear Oscar, that my claim to interfere, as Lucilla’s father, is at least equal to yours,” proceeded the rector. “In the hour of my daughter’s need, it is my parental duty to be present. If you go to your cousin’s house, my position imperatively requires that I should go too.” Oscar’s reception of this proposal confirmed the grave apprehensions with which he had inspired me. He flatly refused to have Mr. Finch for a companion.

  “Excuse me,” he answered shortly. “I wish to go to the house alone.”

  “Permit me to ask your reason,” said the rector, still preserving his conciliatory manner.

  “I wish to see my brother in private,” Oscar replied, with his eyes on the ground.

  Mr. Finch, still restraining himself, but still not moving from the
door, looked at me. I hastened to interfere before there was any serious disagreement between them.

  “I venture to think,” I said, “that you are both wrong. Whether one of you goes, or both of you go, the result will be the same. The chances are a hundred to one, against your being admitted into the house.”

  They both turned on me together, and asked what I meant.

  “You can’t force your way in,” I said. “You must do one of two things. You must either give your names to the servant at the door, or you must withhold your names. If you give them, you warn Nugent of what is coming—and he is not the man to let you into the house under those circumstances. If you take the other way, and keep your names concealed, you present yourselves as strangers. Is Nugent likely to be accessible to strangers? Would Lucilla, in her present position, consent to receive two men who are unknown to her? Take my word for it—you will not only gain nothing if you go to the house you will actually make it more difficult to communicate with Lucilla than it is already.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Both the men felt that my objections were not easy to answer. Once more, Oscar took the lead.

  “Do you propose to go?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered. “I propose to send a letter to Lucilla. A letter will find its way to her.”

  This again was unanswerable. Oscar inquired next what the purport of the letter was to be. I replied that I proposed to ask her to grant me a private interview—nothing more.

  “Suppose Lucilla refuses?” said Mr. Finch.

  “She will not refuse,” I rejoined. “There was a little misunderstanding between us—I admit—at the time when I went abroad. I mean to refer frankly to that misunderstanding as my reason for writing. I shall put your daughter on her honour to give me an opportunity of setting things right between us. If I summon Lucilla to do an act of justice, I believe she will not refuse me.”

  (This, let me add in parenthesis, was the plan of action which I had formed on the way to Sydenham. I had only waited to mention it, until I heard what the two men proposed to do first.)

  Oscar, standing hat in hand, glanced at Mr. Finch (also hat in hand) keeping obstinately near the door. If he persisted in carrying out his purpose of going alone to his cousin’s house, the rector’s face and manner expressed, with the politest plainness, the intention of following him. Oscar was placed between a clergyman and a woman, both equally determined to have their own way. Under those circumstances, there was no alternative—unless he wished to produce a public scandal—but to yield, or appear to yield, to one or the other of us. He selected me.

  “If you succeed in seeing her,” he asked, “what do you mean to do?”

  “I mean either to bring her back with me here to her father and to you, or to make an appointment with her to see you both where she is now living,” I replied.

  Oscar—after another look at the immovable rector—rang the bell, and ordered writing materials.

  “One more question,” he said. “Assuming that Lucilla receives you at the house, do you intend to see——?” He stopped; his eyes shrank from meeting mine. “Do you intend to see anybody else?” he resumed: still evading the plain utterance of his brother’s name.

  “I intend to see nobody but Lucilla,” I answered. “It is no business of mine to interfere between you and your brother.” (Heaven forgive me for speaking in that way to him, while I had the firm resolution to interfere between them in my mind all the time!)

  “Write your letter,” he said, “on condition that I see the reply.”

  “It is needless, I presume, for me to make the same stipulation?” added the rector. “In my parental capacity

  I recognized his parental capacity, before he could say any more. “You shall both see the reply,” I said—and sat down to my letter; writing merely what I had told them I should write: “Dear Lucilla, I have just returned from the Continent. For the sake of justice, and for the sake of old times, let me see you immediately—without mentioning our appointment to anybody. I pledge myself to satisfy you, in five minutes, that I have never been unworthy of your affection and your confidence. The bearer waits for your reply.”

  I handed those lines to the two gentlemen to read. Mr. Finch made no remark—he was palpably dissatisfied at the secondary position which he occupied. Oscar said, “I see no objection to the letter. I will do nothing until I have read the answer.” With those words, he dictated to me his cousin’s address. I gave the letter myself to one of the servants at the hotel.

  “Is it far from here?” I asked.

  “Barely ten minutes’ walk, ma’am.”

  “You understand that you are to wait for an answer?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He went out. As well as I can remember, an interval of at least half an hour passed before his return. You will form some idea of the terrible oppression of suspense that now laid its slowly-torturing weight on all three of us, when I tell you that not one word was spoken in the room from the time when the servant went out, to the time when the servant came in again.

  When the man returned he had a letter in his hand!

  My fingers shook so that I could hardly open it. Before I had read a word, the sight of the writing struck a sudden chill through me. The body of the note was written by the hand of a stranger! And the signature at the end was traced in the large straggling childish characters which I remembered so well, when Lucilla had written her first letter to Oscar in the days when she was blind!

  The note was expressed in these strange words:—“I cannot receive you here; but I can, and will, come to you at your hotel if you will wait for me. I am not able to appoint a time. I can only promise to watch for my first opportunity, and to take advantage of it instantly—for your sake and for mine.”

  But one interpretation could be placed on such language as this. Lucilla was not a free agent. Both Oscar and the rector were now obliged to acknowledge that my view of the case had been the correct one. If it was impossible for me to be received into the house, how doubly impossible would it be for the men to gain admission! Oscar, after reading the note, withdrew to the further end of the room; keeping his thoughts to himself. Mr. Finch decided on stepping out of his secondary position by forthwith taking a course of his own.

  “Am I to infer,” he began, “that it is really useless for me to attempt to see my own child?”

  “Her letter speaks for itself,” I replied. “If you attempt to see her, you will probably be the means of preventing your daughter from coming here.”

  “In my parental capacity,” continued Mr. Finch, “it is impossible for me to remain passive. As a brother-clergyman, I have, I conceive, a claim on the rector of the parish. It is quite likely that notice may have been already given of this fraudulent marriage. In that case, it is not only my duty to myself and my child—it is my duty to the Church, to confer with my reverend colleague. I go to confer with him.” He strutted to the door, and added, “If Lucilla arrives in my absence, I invest you with my authority, Madame Pratolungo, to detain her until my return.” With that parting charge to me, he walked out.

  I looked at Oscar. He came slowly towards me from the other end of the room.

  “You will wait here, of course?” he said.

  “Of course. And you?”

  “I shall go out for a little while.”

  “For any particular purpose?”

  “No. To get through the time. I am weary of waiting.”

  I felt positively assured, from the manner in which he answered me, that he was going—now he had got rid of Mr. Finch—straight to his cousin’s house.

  “You forget,” I said, “that Lucilla may come here while you are out. Your presence in the room, or in the room next to this, may be of the greatest importance, when I tell her what your brother has done. Suppose she refuses to believe me? What am I to do if I have not got you to appeal to? In your own interests, as well as in Lucilla’s, I request you to remain here with me till she comes.”


  Putting it on that ground only, I waited to see what he would do. After a certain hesitation, he answered with a sullen assumption of indifference, “Just as you please!”—and walked away again towards the other end of the room. As he turned his back on me, I heard him say to himself, “It’s only waiting a little longer!”

  “Waiting for what?” I asked.

  He looked round at me over his shoulder.

  “Patience for the present!” he answered. “You will hear soon enough.” For the moment, I said no more to him. The tone in which he had replied warned me that it would be useless.

  After an interval—how long an interval I cannot well say—I heard the sound of women’s dresses in the passage outside.

  The instant after, there was a knock at the door.

  I signed to Oscar to open a second door, close by him at the lower end of the room, and (for the moment at least) to keep out of sight. Then I answered the knock, and said as steadily as I could, “Come in.”

  A woman unknown to me entered, dressed like a respectable servant. She came in leading Lucilla by the hand. My first look at my darling told me the horrible truth. As I had seen her in the corridor at the rectory on the first day we met, so I now saw her once more. Again, the sightless eyes turned on me, insensibly reflecting the light that fell on them. Blind! Oh, God, after a few brief weeks of sight, blind again!

  In that miserable discovery, I forgot everything else. I flew to her, and caught her in my arms. I cast one look at her pale, wasted face—and burst out crying on her bosom.

  She held my head gently with one hand, and waited with the patience of an angel until that first outbreak of my grief had exhausted itself. “Don’t cry about my blindness,” said the soft, sweet voice that I knew so well. “The days when I had my sight have been the unhappiest days of my life. If I look as if I had been fretting, don’t think it is about my eyes.” She paused, and sighed bitterly. “I may tell you,” she went on in a whisper. “It’s a relief, it’s a consolation, to tell you. I am fretting about my marriage.”