by Anthology
“Yes,” she said, “I ask that.”
“I am silent,” he answered, “because I am waiting.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“To hear you make your apologies to Madame Pratolungo.”
She started back a step. Submissive Oscar was taking a peremptory tone with her for the first time in his life. Submissive Oscar, instead of giving her time to speak, sternly went on.
“Madame Pratolungo has made her excuses to you. You ought to receive them; you ought to reciprocate them. It is distressing to see you and hear you. You are behaving ungratefully to your best friend.”
She raised her face, she raised her hands, in blank amazement: she looked as if she distrusted her own ears.
“Oscar!” she exclaimed.
“Here I am,” said Oscar, opening the door at the same moment.
She turned like lightning towards the place from which he had spoken. She detected the deception which Nugent had practiced on her, with a cry of indignation that rang through the room.
Oscar ran to her in alarm. She thrust him back violently.
“A trick!” she cried. “A mean, vile, cowardly trick played upon my blindness! Oscar! your brother has been imitating you; your brother has been speaking to me in your voice. And that woman who calls herself my friend—that woman stood by and heard him, and never told me. She encouraged it: she enjoyed it. The wretches! take me away from them. They are capable of any deceit. She always hated you, dear, from the first—she took up with your brother the moment he came here. When you marry me, it mustn’t be at Dimchurch; it must be in some place they don’t know of. There is a conspiracy between them against you and against me. Beware of them! beware of them! She said I should have fallen in love with your brother, if I had met him first. There is a deeper meaning in that, my love, than you can see. It means that they will part us if they can. Ha! I hear somebody moving! Has he changed places with you? Is it you whom I am speaking to now? Oh, my blindness! my blindness! Oh, God, of all your creatures, the most helpless, the most miserable, is the creature who can’t see!”
I never heard anything in all my life so pitiable and so dreadful as the frantic suspicion and misery which tore their way out from her, in those words. She cut me to the heart. I had spoken rashly—I had behaved badly—but had I deserved this? No! no! no! I had not deserved it. I threw myself into a chair, and burst out crying. My tears scalded me; my sobs choked me. If I had had poison in my hand, I would have drunk it—I was so furious and so wretched: so hurt in my honour, so wounded at my heart.
The only voice that answered her was Nugent’s. Reckless what the consequences might be—speaking, in his own proper person, from the opposite end of the room—he asked the all-important question which no human being had ever put to her yet.
“Are you sure, Lucilla, that you are blind for life?”
A dead silence followed the utterance of those words.
I brushed away the tears from my eyes, and looked up.
Oscar had been—as I supposed—holding her in his arms, silently soothing her, when his brother spoke. At the moment when I saw her, she had just detached herself from him. She advanced a step, towards the part of the room in which Nugent stood—and stopped, with her face turned towards him. Every faculty in her seemed to be suspended by the silent passage into her mind of the new idea that he had called up. Through childhood, girlhood, womanhood—never once, waking or dreaming, had the prospect of restoration to sight presented itself within her range of contemplation, until now. Not a trace was left in her countenance of the indignation which Nugent had roused in her, hardly more than a moment since. Not a sign appeared indicating a return of the nervous suffering which the sense of his presence had inflicted on her, earlier in the day. The one emotion in possession of her was astonishment—astonishment that had struck her dumb; astonishment that waited, helplessly and mechanically, to hear more.
I observed Oscar, next. His eyes were fixed on Lucilla—absorbed in watching her. He spoke to Nugent, without looking at him; animated, as it seemed, by a vague fear for Lucilla, which was slowly developing into a vague fear for himself
“Mind what you are doing!” he said. “Look at her, Nugent—look at her.”
Nugent approached his brother, circuitously, so as to place Oscar between Lucilla and himself.
“Have I offended you?” he asked.
Oscar looked at him in surprise. “Offended with you,” he answered, “after what you have forgiven, and what you have suffered, for my sake?”
“Still,” persisted the other, “there is something wrong.”
“I am startled, Nugent.”
“Startled—by what?”
“By the question you have just put to Lucilla.”
“You will understand me, and she will understand me, directly.”
While those words were passing between the brothers, my attention remained fixed on Lucilla. Her head had turned slowly towards the new position which Nugent occupied when he spoke to Oscar. With this exception, no other movement had escaped her. No sense of what the two men were saying to each other seemed to have entered her mind. To all appearance she had heard nothing, since Nugent had started the first doubt in her whether she was blind for life.
“Speak to her,” I said. “For God’s sake, don’t keep her in suspense, now!”
Nugent spoke.
“You have had reason to be offended with me, Lucilla. Let me, if I can, give you reason to be grateful to me, before I have done. When I was in New York, I became acquainted with a German surgeon, who had made a reputation and a fortune in America by his skill in treating diseases of the eye. He had been especially successful in curing cases of blindness given up as hopeless by other surgeons. I mentioned your case to him. He could say nothing positively (as a matter of course) without examining you. All he could do was to place his services at my disposal, when he came to England. I for one, Lucilla, decline to consider you blind for life, until this skilful man sees no more hope for you than the English surgeons have seen. If there is the faintest chance still left of restoring your sight, his is, I firmly believe, the one hand that can do it. He is now in England. Say the word—and I will bring him to Dimchurch.”
She slowly lifted her hands to her head, and held it as if she was holding her reason in its place. Her color changed from pale to red—from red to pale once more. She drew a long, deep, heavy breath—and dropped her hands again, recovering from the shock. The change that followed, held us all three breathless. It was beautiful to see her. It was awful to see her. A mute ecstasy of hope transfigured her face; a heavenly smile played serenely on her lips. She was among us, and yet apart from us. In the still light of evening, shining in on her from the window, she stood absorbed in her own rapture—the silent creature of another sphere! There was a moment when she overcame me with admiration, and another moment when she overcame me with fear. Both the men felt it. Both signed to me to speak to her first.
I advanced a few steps. I tried to consider with myself what I should say. It was useless. I could neither think nor speak. I could only look at her. I could only say, nervously—
“Lucilla!”
She came back to the world—she came back to us—with a little start, and a faint flush of color in her cheeks. She turned herself towards the place from which I had spoken, and whispered——
“Come!”
In a moment, my arms were round her. Her head sank on my bosom. We were reconciled without a word. We were friends again, sisters again, in an instant.
“Have I been fainting? have I been sleeping?” she said to me in low, bewildered tones. “Am I just awake? Is this Browndown?” She suddenly lifted her head. “Nugent! are you there?”
“Yes.”
She gently withdrew herself from me, and approached Nugent.
“Did you speak to me just now? Was it you who put the doubt into my mind, whether I am really doomed to be blind for life? Surely, I have not fancied it? Surely, you
said the man was coming, and the time coming?” Her voice suddenly rose. “The man who may cure me! the time when I may see!”
“I said it, Lucilla. I meant it, Lucilla.”
“Oscar! Oscar!! Oscar!!!”
I stepped forward to lead her to him. Nugent touched me, and pointed to Oscar, as I took her hand. He was standing before the glass—with an expression of despair which I see again while I write these lines—he was standing close to the glass; looking in silence at the hideous reflection of his face. In sheer pity, I hesitated to take her to him. She stepped forward, and, stretching out her hand, touched his shoulder. The reflection of her charming face appeared behind his face in the glass. She raised herself on tiptoe, with both hands on him, and said, “The time is coming, my darling, when I may see You!”
With a cry of joy, she drew his face to her, and kissed him on the forehead. His head fell on his breast when she released it: he covered his face with his hands, and stifled, for the moment, all outward expression of the pang that wrung him. I drew her rapidly away, before her quick sensibilities had time to warn her that something was wrong. Even as it was, she resisted me. Even as it was, she asked suspiciously, “Why do you take me away from him?”
What excuse could I make? I was at my wits’ end.
She repeated the question. For once Fortune favoured us. A timely knock at the door stopped her just as she was trying to release herself from me. “Somebody coming in,” I said. The servant entered, as I spoke, with a letter from the rectory.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH
Parliamentary Summary
OH, the welcome interruption! After the agitation that we had suffered, we all stood equally in need of some such relief as this. It was absolutely a luxury to fall back again into the common-place daily routine of life. I asked to whom the letter was addressed? Nugent answered, “The letter is addressed to me; and the writer is Mr. Finch.”
Having read the letter, he turned to Lucilla.
“I sent a message to your father, asking him to join us here,” he said. “Mr. Finch writes back to say that his duties keep him at home, and to suggest that the rectory is the fitter place for the discussion of family matters. Have you any objection to return to the house? And do you mind going on first with Madame Pratolungo?”
Lucilla’s quick suspicion was instantly aroused.
“Why not with Oscar?” she asked.
“Your father’s note suggests to me,” replied Nugent, “that he is a little hurt at the short notice I gave him of our discussion here. I thought—if you and Madame Pratolungo went on first—that you might make our peace with the rector, and assure him that we meant no disrespect, before Oscar and I appeared. Don’t you think yourself you would make it easier for us, if you did that?”
Having contrived in this dexterous way to separate Oscar and Lucilla, and to gain time for composing and fortifying his brother before they met again, Nugent opened the door for us to go out. Lucilla and I left the twins together, in the modest little room which had witnessed a scene alike memorable to all of us for its interest at the time, and for the results which were to come of it in the future.
Half an hour later, we were all assembled at the rectory.
Our adjourned debate—excepting one small suggestion emanating from myself—was a debate which led to nothing. It may be truly described as resolving itself into the delivery of an Oration by Mr. Finch. Subject, the assertion of Mr. Finch’s dignity.
On this occasion (having matters of more importance on hand) I take the liberty of cutting the reverend gentleman’s speech by the pattern of the reverend gentleman’s stature. Short in figure, the rector shall be here, for the first time in his life, short in language too.
Reverend Finch rose, and said—he objected to everything. To receiving a message on a card instead of a proper note. To being expected to present himself at Browndown at a moment’s notice. To being the last person informed (instead of the first) of Mr. Nugent Dubourg’s exaggerated and absurd view of the case of his afflicted child. To the German surgeon, as being certainly a foreigner and a stranger, and possibly a quack. To the slur implied on British Surgery by bringing the foreigner to Dimchurch. To the expense involved in the same proceeding. Finally to the whole scope and object of Mr. Nugent Dubourg’s proposal, which had for its origin rebellion against the decrees of an all-wise Providence, and for its result the disturbance of his daughter’s mind—“under My influence, sir, a mind in a state of Christian resignation: under Your influence, a mind in a state of infidel revolt.” With those concluding remarks, the reverend gentleman sat down—and paused for a reply.
A remarkable result followed, which might be profitably permitted to take place in some other Parliaments. Nobody replied.
Mr. Nugent Dubourg rose—no! sat—and said, he declined to take any part in the proceedings. He was quite ready to wait, until the end justified the means which he proposed to employ. For the rest, his conscience was at ease; and he was entirely at Miss Finch’s service.
Mr. Oscar Dubourg, sitting hidden from notice behind his brother, followed his brother’s example. The decision in the matter under discussion rested with Miss Finch alone. He had no opinion of his own to offer on it.
Miss Finch herself, appealed to next:—Had but one reply to give. With all possible respect for her father, she ventured to think that neither he nor any one, possessing the sense of vision, could quite enter into her feelings as the circumstances then were. If there really was any chance of her recovering her sight, the least she could do would be to give that chance a fair trial. She entreated Mr. Nugent Dubourg not to lose one unnecessary moment in bringing the German surgeon to Dimchurch.
Mrs. Finch, called upon next. Spoke after some little delay, caused by the loss of her pocket-handkerchief. Would not presume to differ in opinion with her husband, whom she had never yet known to be otherwise than perfectly right about everything. But, if the German surgeon did come, and if Mr. Finch saw no objection to it, she would much like to consult him (gratis, if possible) on the subject of “baby’s eyes.” Mrs. Finch was proceeding to explain that there was happily nothing the matter, that she could see, with the infant’s eyes at that particular moment, and that she merely wished to take a skilled medical opinion, in the event of something happening on some future occasion—when she was called to order by Mr. Finch. The reverend gentleman, at the same time, appealed to Madame Pratolungo to close the debate by giving frank expression to her own opinion.
Madame Pratolungo, speaking in conclusion, remarked:—
That the question of consulting the German surgeon appeared (after what had fallen from Miss Finch) to be a question which had passed beyond the range of any expression of feeling on the part of other persons. That she proposed, accordingly, to look, beyond the consultation, at the results which might follow it. That, contemplating these possible results, she held very strong views of her own, and would proceed to give frank expression to them as follows. That in her opinion, the proposed investigation of the chances which might exist of restoring Miss Finch’s sight, involved consequences far too serious to be trusted to the decision of any one man, no matter how skilful or how famous he might be. That, in pursuance of this view, she begged to suggest (1) the association of an eminent English oculist with the eminent German oculist; (2) an examination of Miss Finch’s case by both the professional gentlemen, consulting on it together; and (3) a full statement of the opinions at which they might respectively arrive, to be laid before the meeting now assembled, and to become the subject of a renewed discussion before any decisive measures were taken.
Lastly, that this proposal be now submitted, in the form of a resolution, and forthwith (if necessary) put to the vote.
Resolution, as above, put to the vote.
Majority—Ayes.
Miss Finch. Mr. Nugent Dubourg. Mr. Oscar Dubourg. Madame Pratolungo.
Minority—Noes.
No (on the score of expense), Mr. Finch. No (because Mr. F. says N
o), Mrs. Finch.
Resolution carried by a majority of two. Debate adjourned to a day to be hereafter decided on.
By the first train the next morning, Nugent Dubourg started for London.
At luncheon, the same day, a telegram arrived, reporting his proceedings in the following terms:—
“I have seen my friend. He is at our service. He is also quite willing to consult with any English oculist whom we may choose. I am just off to find the man. Expect a second telegram later in the day.”
The second telegram reached us in the evening, and ran thus:—
“Everything is settled. The German oculist and the English oculist leave London with me, by the twelve-forty train tomorrow afternoon.”
After reading this telegram to Lucilla, I sent it to Oscar at Browndown. Judge for yourself how he slept, and how we slept, that night!
CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH
Herr Grosse
SEVERAL circumstances deserving to be mentioned here, took place in the early part of the day on which we expected the visit of the two oculists. I have all the will to relate them—but the capacity to do it completely fails me.
When I look back at that eventful morning, I recall a scene of confusion and suspense, the bare recollection of which seems to upset my mind again, even at this distance of time. Things and persons all blend distractedly one with another. I see the charming figure of my blind Lucilla, robed in rose-color and white, flitting hither and thither, in the house and out of the house—at one time mad with impatience for the arrival of the surgeons; at another, shuddering with apprehension of the coming ordeal, and the coming disappointment which might follow. A moment more—and, just as my mind has seized it, the fair figure melts and merges into the miserable apparition of Oscar; hovering and hesitating between Browndown and the rectory; painfully conscious of the new complications introduced into his position towards Lucilla by the new state of things; and yet not man enough, even yet, to seize the opportunity, and set himself right. Another moment passes, and a new figure—a little strutting consequential figure forces its way into the foreground, before I am ready for it. I hear a big voice booming in my ear, with big language to correspond. “No, Madame Pratolungo, nothing will induce me to sanction by my presence this insane medical consultation, this extravagant and profane attempt to reverse the decrees of an all-wise Providence by purely human means. My foot is down—I use the language of the people, observe, to impress it the more strongly on your mind—My FOOT is down!” Another moment yet, and Finch and Finch’s Foot disappear over my mental horizon just as my eye has caught them. Damp Mrs. Finch, and the baby whose everlasting programme is suction and sleep, take the vacant place. Mrs. Finch pledges me with watery earnestness to secrecy; and then confides her intention of escaping her husband’s supervision if she can, and bringing British surgery and German surgery to bear both together (gratis) on baby’s eyes. Conceive these persons all twisting and turning in the convolutions of my brains, as if those brains were a labyrinth; with the sayings and doings of one, confusing themselves with the sayings and doings of the other—with a thin stream of my own private anxieties (comprehending luncheon on a side-table for the doctors) trickling at intervals through it all—and you will not wonder if I take a jump, like a sheep, over some six hours of precious time, and present my solitary self to your eye, posted alone in the sitting-room to receive the council of surgeons on its arrival at the house. I had but two consolations to sustain me.
