by Anthology
“I told Nugent to wait in the room, while I went away, and thought over what he had said to me, by myself. He attempted to resist this. I insisted on his yielding. For the first time in our lives, we changed places. It was I who took the lead, and he who followed. I left him and went out into the valley alone.
“The heavenly tranquillity, the comforting solitude helped me. I saw my position and his, in their true light. Before I got back, I had decided (cost me what it might) on myself making the sacrifice to which my brother had offered to submit. For Lucilla’s sake, and for Nugent’s sake, I felt the certain assurance in my own mind that it was my duty, and not his, to go.
“Don’t blame me; don’t grieve for me. Read the rest. I want you to think of this with my thoughts—to feel about it as I feel at this moment.
“Bearing in mind what Nugent has confessed, and what I have myself seen, have I any right to hold Lucilla to her engagement? I am firmly persuaded that I have no right. After inspiring her with terror and disgust at the moment when her eyes first looked at me; after seeing her innocently happy in Nugent’s arms—how, in God’s name, can I claim her as mine? Our marriage has become an impossibility. For her own sake, I cannot, I dare not, appeal to our engagement. The wreck of my happiness is nothing. The wreck of her happiness would be a crime. I absolve her from her engagement. She is free.
“There is my duty towards Lucilla—as I see it.
“As to Nugent next. I owe it entirely to my brother (at the time of the Trial) that the honour of our family has been saved, and that I have escaped a shameful death on the scaffold. Is there any limit to the obligation that he has laid on me, after doing me such a service as this? There is no limit. The man who loves Lucilla and the brother who has saved my life are one. I am bound to leave him free—I do leave him free—to win Lucilla by open and loyal means, if he can. As soon as Herr Grosse considers that she is fit to bear the disclosure, let her be told of the error into which she has fallen (through my fault)—let her read these lines, purposely written to meet her eye as well as yours—and let my brother tell her afterwards what has passed tonight in this house between himself and me. She loves him now, believing him to be Oscar. Will she love him still, after she has learnt to know him under his own name? The answer to that question rests with Time. If it is an answer in Nugent’s favour, I have already arranged to set aside from my income a sufficient yearly sum to place my brother in a position to begin his married life. I wish to leave his genius free to assert itself, untrammelled by pecuniary cares. Possessing, as I do, far more than enough for my own simple wants, I can dedicate my spare money to no better and nobler use than this.
“There is my duty towards Nugent—as I see it.
“What I have decided on you now know. What I have done can be told in two words. I have left Browndown for ever. I have gone, to live or die (as God pleases) under the blow that has fallen on me, far away from you all.
“Perhaps, when years have passed, and when their children are growing up round them, I may see Lucilla again, and may take as the hand of my sister, the hand of the beloved woman who might once have been my wife. This may happen, if I live. If I die, you will none of you know it. My death shall not cast its shadow of sadness on their lives. Forgive me and forget me; and keep, as I keep, that first and noblest of all mortal hopes—the hope of the life to come.
“I enclose, when there is need for you to write to me, the address of my bankers in London. They will have their instructions. If you love me, if you pity me, abstain from attempting to shake my resolution. You may distress me—but you will never change me. Wait to write, until Nugent has had the opportunity of pleading his own cause, and Lucilla has decided on her future life.
“Once more, I thank you for the kindness which has borne with my weaknesses and my follies. God bless you—and goodbye.
“OSCAR.
Of the effect which the first reading of this letter produced on me, I shall say nothing. Even at this distance of time, I shrink from reviving the memory of what I suffered, alone in my room on that miserable night. Let it be enough if I tell you briefly at what decision I arrived.
I determined on doing two things. First, on going to London by the earliest train the next morning, and finding my way to Oscar by means of his bankers. Secondly, on preventing the villain who had accepted the sacrifice of his brother’s happiness from entering the rectory in my absence.
The one comfort I had, that night, was in feeling that, on these two points, my mind was made up. There was a stimulant in my sense of my own resolution which strengthened me to make my excuses to Lucilla, without betraying the grief that tortured me when I found myself in her presence again. Before I went to my bed, I had left her quiet and happy; I had arranged with Herr Grosse that he was still to keep his excitable patient secluded from visitors all through the next day; and I had secured as an ally to help me in preventing Nugent from entering the house, no less a person than Reverend Finch himself. I saw him in his study overnight, and told him all that had happened; keeping one circumstance only concealed—namely, Oscar’s insane determination to share his fortune with his infamous brother. I purposely led the rector to suppose that Oscar had left Lucilla free to receive the addresses of a man who had dissipated his fortune to the last farthing. Mr. Finch’s harangue when this prospect was brought within his range of contemplation, was something to be remembered, but not (on this occasion) to be reported—in mercy to the Church.
By the train of the next morning, I left for London.
By the train of the same evening, I returned alone to Dimchurch; having completely failed to achieve the purpose which taken me to the metropolis.
Oscar had appeared at the bank as soon as the doors were opened in the morning; had drawn out some hundreds of pounds in circular notes; had told the bankers that they should be furnished with an address at which they could write to him, in due course of time; and had departed for the Continent, without leaving a trace behind him.
I spent the day in making what arrangements I could for discovering him by the usual methods of inquiry pursued in such cases; and took the return train to the country, with my mind alternating between despair when I thought of Lucilla, and anger when I thought of the twin-brothers. In the first bitterness of my disappointment, I was quite as indignant with Oscar as with Nugent. With all my heart I cursed the day which had brought the one and the other to Dimchurch.
As we lengthened our distance from London, flying smoothly the tranquil woods and fields, my mind, with time to help it, began to recover its balance. Little by little, the unexpected revelation of firmness and decision in Oscar’s conduct—heartily as I still deplored and blamed that conduct—began to have a new effect on my mind. I now looked back in amazement and self-reproach, at my own superficial estimate of the characters of the twin-brothers.
Thinking it over uninterruptedly, with no one in the carriage but myself, I arrived at a conclusion which strongly influenced my conduct in guiding Lucilla through the troubles and perils that were still to come.
Our physical constitutions have, as I take it, more to do with the actions which determine other people’s opinions of us (as well as with the course of our own lives) than we generally suppose. A man with delicately-strung nerves says and does things which often lead us to think more meanly of him than he deserves. It is his great misfortune constantly to present himself at his worst. On the other hand, a man provided with nerves vigorously constituted, is provided also with a constitutional health and hardihood which express themselves brightly in his manners, and which lead to a mistaken impression that his nature is what it appears to be on the surface. Having good health, he has good spirits. Having good spirits, he wins as an agreeable companion on the persons with whom he comes in contact—although he may be hiding all the while, under an outer covering which is physically wholesome, an inner nature which is morally diseased. In the last of these typical men, I saw reflected—Nugent. In the first—Oscar. All that was feebl
est and poorest in Oscar’s nature had shown itself on the surface in past times, to the concealment of its stronger and its nobler side. There had been something hidden in this supersensitive man, who had shrunk under all the small trials of his life in our village, which had proved firm enough, when the greatness of the need called on it, to sustain the terrible disaster that had fallen on him. The nearer I got to the end of my journey, the more certain I felt that I was only now learning (bitterly as he had disappointed me) to estimate Oscar’s character at its true value. Inspired by this conviction, I began already to face our hopeless prospects boldly. As long as I had life and strength to help her, I determined that Lucilla should not lose the man, whose best qualities I had failed to discover until he had made up his mind to turn his back on her for ever.
When I reached the rectory, I was informed that Mr. Finch wished to speak to me. My anxiety about Lucilla made me unwilling to submit to any delay in seeing her. I sent a message, informing the rector that I would be with him in a few minutes—and ran up-stairs into Lucilla’s room.
“Has it been a very long day, my dear?” I asked, when our first greetings were over.
“It has been a delightful day,” she answered joyously. “Grosse took me out for a walk, before he went back to London. Can you guess where our walk led us?”
A chilly sense of misgiving seized me. I drew back from her. I looked at her lovely face without the slightest admiration of it—worse still, with downright distrust of it.
“Where did you go?” I asked.
“To Browndown, of course!”
An exclamation escaped me—(“Infamous Grosse!” spit out between my teeth in my own language). I could not help it. I should have died if I had repressed it—I was in such a rage.
Lucilla laughed. “There! there! It was my fault; I insisted on speaking to Oscar. As soon as I had my own way, I behaved perfectly. I never asked to have the bandage taken off; I was satisfied with only speaking to him. Dear old Grosse—he isn’t half as hard on me as you and my father—was with us, all the time. It has done me so much good. Don’t be sulky about it, you darling Pratolungo! My ‘surgeon optic’ sanctions my imprudence. I won’t ask you to go with me to Browndown tomorrow; Oscar is coming to return my visit.”
Those last words decided me. I had had a weary time of it since the morning; but (for me) the day was not at an end yet. I said to myself, “I will have it out with Mr. Nugent Dubourg, before I go to my bed tonight!”
“Can you spare me for a little while?” I asked. “I must go to the other side of the house. Your father wishes to speak to me.
Lucilla started. “About what?” she inquired eagerly.
“About business in London,” I answered—and left her, before her curiosity could madden me (in the state I was in at that moment) with more questions.
I found the rector prepared to favour me with his usual flow of language. Fifty Mr. Finches could not have possessed themselves of my attention in the humour I was in at that moment. To the reverend gentleman’s amazement, it was I who began—and not he.
“I have just left Lucilla, Mr. Finch. I know what has happened.”
“Wait a minute, Madame Pratolungo! One thing is of the utmost importance to begin with. Do you thoroughly understand that I am, in no sense of the word, to blame—?”
“Thoroughly,” I interposed. “Of course, they would not have gone to Browndown, if you had consented to let Nugent Dubourg into the house.”
“Stop!” said Mr. Finch, elevating his right hand. “My good creature, you are in a state of hysterical precipitation. I will be heard! I did more than refuse my consent. When the man Grosse—I insist on your composing yourself—when the man Grosse came and spoke to me about it, I did more, I say, infinitely more, than refuse my consent. You know my force of language—don’t be alarmed! I said, ‘Sir! As pastor and parent, My Foot is down’——”
“I understand, Mr. Finch. Whatever you said to Herr Grosse was quite useless; he entirely ignored your personal point of view.”
“Madame Pratolungo——!”
“He found Lucilla dangerously agitated by her separation from Oscar: he asserted, what he calls, his professional freedom of action.”
“Madame Pratolungo——!”
“You persisted in closing your doors to Nugent Dubourg. He persisted, on his side—and took Lucilla to Browndown.”
Mr. Finch got on his feet, and asserted himself at the full pitch of his tremendous voice.
“Silence!” he shouted, with a smack of his open hand on the table at his side.
I didn’t care. I shouted. I came down, with a smack of my hand, on the opposite side of the table.
“One question, sir, before I leave you,” I said. “Since your daughter went to Browndown, you have had many hours at your disposal. Have you seen Mr. Nugent Dubourg?”
The Pope of Dimchurch suddenly collapsed, in full fulmination of his domestic Bulls.
“Pardon me,” he replied, adopting his most elaborately polite manner. “This requires considerable explanation.”
I declined to wait for considerable explanation. “You have not seen him?” I said.
“I have not seen him,” echoed Mr. Finch. “My position towards Nugent Dubourg is very remarkable, Madame Pratolungo. In my parental character, I should like to wring his neck. In my clerical character, I feel it incumbent on me to pause—and write to him. You feel the responsibility? You understand the distinction?”
I understood that he was afraid. Answering him by an inclination of the head (I hate a coward!) I walked silently to the door.
Mr. Finch returned my bow with a look of helpless perplexity. “Are you going to leave me?” he inquired blandly.
“I am going to Browndown.”
If I had said that I was going to a place which the rector had frequent occasion to mention in the stronger passages of his sermons, Mr. Finch’s face could hardly have shown more astonishment and alarm than it exhibited when I replied to him in those terms. He lifted his persuasive right hand; he opened his eloquent lips. Before the coming overflow of language could reach me, I was out of the room, on my way to Browndown.
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH
Is there no Excuse for Him?
OSCAR’S dismissed servant (left, during the usual month of warning, to take care of the house) opened the door to me when I knocked. Although the hour was already a late one in primitive Dimchurch, the man showed no signs of surprise at seeing me.
“Is Mr. Nugent Dubourg at home?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He lowered his voice, and added, “I think Mr. Nugent expected to see you tonight.”
Whether he intended it, or not, the servant had done me a good turn—he had put me on my guard. Nugent Dubourg understood my character better than I had understood his. He had foreseen what would happen, when I heard of Lucilla’s visit on my return to the rectory—and he had, no doubt, prepared himself accordingly. I was conscious of a certain nervous trembling (I own) as I followed the servant to the sitting-room. At the moment, however, when he opened the door, this ignoble sensation left me as suddenly as it had come. I felt myself Pratolungo’s widow again, when I entered the room.
A reading-lamp, with its shade down, was the only light on the table. Nugent Dubourg, comfortably reposing in an easy-chair, sat by the lamp, with a cigar in his mouth, and a book in his hand. He put down the book on the table as he rose to receive me. Knowing, by this time, what sort of man I had to deal with, I was determined not to let even the merest trifles escape me. It might have its use in helping me to understand him, if I knew how he had been occupying his mind while he was expecting me to arrive. I looked at the book. It was Rousseau’s Confessions.
He advanced with his pleasant smile, and offered his hand as if nothing had happened to disturb our ordinary relations towards each other. I drew back a step, and looked at him.
“Won’t you shake hands with me?” he asked.
“I will answer that directly,” I said. “Wh
ere is your brother?”
“I don’t know.”
“When you do know, Mr. Nugent Dubourg, and when you have brought your brother back to this house, I will take your hand—not before.”
He bowed resignedly, with a little satirical shrug of the shoulders, and asked if he might offer me a chair.
I took a chair for myself, and placed it so that I might be opposite to him when he resumed his seat. He checked himself in the act of sitting down, and looked towards the open window.
“Shall I throw away my cigar?” he said.
“Not on my account. I have no objection to smoking.”
“Thank you.” He took his chair—keeping his face in the partial obscurity cast by the shade of the lamp. After smoking for a moment, he spoke again, without turning to look at me. “May I ask what your object is in honouring me with this visit?”
“I have two objects. The first is to see that you leave Dimchurch tomorrow morning. The second is to make you restore your brother to his promised wife.”
He looked round at me quickly. His experience of my irritable temper had not prepared him for the perfect composure of voice and manner with which I answered his question. He looked back again from me to his cigar, and knocked off the ash at the tip of it (considering with himself) before he addressed his next words to me.
“We will come to the question of my leaving Dimchurch presently,” he said. “Have you received a letter from Oscar?”
“Yes.”
“Have you read it?”
“I have read it.”
“Then you know that we understand each other?”
“I know that your brother has sacrificed himself—and that you have taken a base advantage of the sacrifice.”
He started, and looked round at me once more. I saw that something in my language, or in my tone of speaking, had stung him.
“You have your privilege as a lady,” he said. “Don’t push it too far. What Oscar has done, he has done of his own free will.”
“What Oscar has done,” I rejoined, “is lamentably foolish, cruelly wrong. Still, perverted as it is, there is something generous, something noble, in the motive which has led him. As for your conduct in this matter, I see nothing but what is mean, nothing but what is cowardly, in the motive which has led you.”
