by Anthology
“If the missing man has passed through France,” he said, “with such a remarkable face as that, there is a fair chance of finding him. I will set preliminary inquiries going at the railway station, at the steam-packet office, and at the port. You shall hear the result tomorrow.”
I went back to good Papa’s bedside—satisfied, so far.
The next day, my superintendent honoured me by a visit.
“Any news, sir?” I asked.
“News already, ma’am. The clerk at the steam-packet office perfectly well remembers selling a ticket to a stranger with a terrible blue face. Unhappily, his memory is not equally good, as to other matters. He cannot accurately call to mind, either the name of the stranger, or the place for which the stranger embarked. We know that he must either have gone to some port in Italy, or to some port in the East. And, thus far, we know no more.
“What are we to do next?” I inquired.
“I propose—with your permission—sending personal descriptions of the gentleman, by telegraph, to the different ports in Italy first. If nothing is heard of him in reply, we will try the ports in the East next. That is the course which I have the honour of submitting to your consideration. Do you approve of it?”
I cordially approved of it; and waited for the results with all the patience that I could command.
The next day passed, and nothing happened. My unhappy father got on very slowly. The vile woman who had caused the disaster (and who had run off with his antagonist) was perpetually in his mind; disturbing him and keeping him back. Why is a destroying wretch of this sort, a pitiless, treacherous, devouring monster in female form, allowed to be out of prison? You shut up in a cage a poor tigress, who only eats you when she is hungry, and can’t provide for her dear little children in any other way—and you let the other and far more dangerous beast of the two range at large under protection of the law! Ah, it is easy to see that the men make the laws. Never mind. The women are coming to the front. Wait a little. The tigresses on two legs will have a bad time of it when we get into Parliament.
On the fourth of the month, the superintendent wrote to me. More news of the lost Oscar already!
The blue man had disembarked at Genoa; and had been traced to the station of the railway running to Turin. More inquiries had been, thereupon, sent by telegraph to Turin. In the meantime, and in the possible event of the missing person returning to England by way of Marseilles, experienced men, provided with a personal description of him, would be posted at various public places, to pass in review all travellers arriving either by land or sea—and to report to me if the right traveller appeared. Once more, my princely superintendent submitted this course to my consideration—and waited for my approval—and got it, with my admiration thrown in as part of the bargain.
The days passed—and good Papa still vacillated between better and worse.
My sisters broke down, poor souls, under their anxieties. It all fell as usual on my shoulders. Day by day, my prospect of returning to England seemed to grow more and more remote. Not a line of reply reached me from Mrs. Finch. This in itself fidgeted and disturbed me. Lucilla was now hardly ever out of my thoughts. Over and over again, my anxiety urged me to run the risk, and write to her. But the same obstacle always raised itself in my way. After what had happened between us, it was impossible for me to write to her directly, without first restoring myself to my former place in her estimation. And I could only do this, by entering into particulars which, for all I knew to the contrary, it might still be cruel and dangerous to reveal.
As for writing to Miss Batchford, I had already tried the old lady’s patience in that way, before leaving England. If I tried it again, with no better excuse for a second intrusion than my own anxieties might suggest, the chances were that this uncompromising royalist would throw my letter in the fire, and treat her republican correspondent with contemptuous silence. Grosse was the third, and last, person from whom I might hope to obtain information. But—shall I confess it?—I did not know what Lucilla might have told him of the estrangement between us, and my pride (remember, if you please, that I am a poverty-stricken foreigner) revolted at the idea of exposing myself to a possible repulse.
However, by the eleventh of the month, I began to feel my suspense so keenly, and to suffer under such painful doubts of what Nugent might be doing in my absence, that I resolved at all hazards on writing to Grosse. It was at least possible, as I calculated—and the Journal will show you I calculated right—that Lucilla had only told him of my melancholy errand at Marseilles, and had mentioned nothing more. I had just opened my desk—when our doctor in attendance entered the room, and announced the joyful intelligence that he could answer at last for the recovery of good Papa.
“Can I go back to England?” I asked eagerly.
“Not immediately. You are his favourite nurse—you must gradually accustom him to the idea of your going away. If you do anything sudden you may cause a relapse.”
“I will do nothing sudden. Only tell me, when it will be safe—absolutely safe—for me to go?”
“Say, in a week.”
“On the eighteenth?”
“On the eighteenth.”
I shut up my writing-desk. Within a few days, I might now hope to be in England as soon as I could receive Grosse’s answer at Marseilles. Under these circumstances, it would be better to wait until I could make my inquiries, safely and independently, in my own proper person. Comparison of dates will show that if I had written to the German oculist, it would have been too late. It was now the eleventh; and Lucilla had left Ramsgate with Nugent on the fifth.
All this time but one small morsel of news rewarded our inquiries after Oscar—and even that small morsel seemed to me to be unworthy of belief.
It was said that he had been seen at a military hospital—the hospital of Alessandria, in Piedmont, I think—acting, under the surgeons, as attendant on the badly-wounded men who had survived the famous campaign of France and Italy against Austria. (Bear in mind, if you please, that I am writing of the year eighteen hundred and fifty-nine, and that the peace of Villafranca was only signed in the July of that year.) Occupation as hospital-man-nurse was, to my mind, occupation so utterly at variance with Oscar’s temperament and character, that I persisted in considering the intelligence thus received of him to be on the face of it false.
On the seventeenth of the month, I had got my passport regulated, and had packed up the greater part of my baggage in anticipation of my journey back to England on the next day.
Carefully as I had tried to accustom his mind to the idea, my poor father remained so immovably reluctant to let me leave him, that I was obliged to consent to a sort of compromise. I promised, when the business which took me to England was settled, to return again to Marseilles, and to travel back with him to his home in Paris, as soon as he was fit to be moved. On this condition, I gained permission to go. Poor as I was, I infinitely preferred charging my slender purse with the expense of the double journey, to remaining any longer in ignorance of what was going on at Ramsgate—or at Dimchurch, as the case might be. Now that my mind was free from anxiety about my father, I don’t know which tormented me most—my eagerness to set myself right with my sister-friend, or my vague dread of the mischief which Nugent might have done while my back was turned. Over, and over again I asked myself, whether Miss Batchford had, or had not, shown my letter to Lucilla. Over and over again, I wondered whether it had been my happy privilege to reveal Nugent under his true aspect, and to preserve Lucilla for Oscar after all.
Towards the afternoon, on the seventeenth, I went out alone to get a breath of fresh air, and a look at the shop-windows. I don’t care who or what she may be—high or low; handsome or ugly; young or old—it always relieves a woman’s mind to look at the shop-windows.
I had not been five minutes out, before I met my princely superintendent.
“Any news for me to-day?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“Not yet?” I r
epeated. “You expect news then?”
“We expect an Italian steam-ship to arrive in port before the evening,” said the superintendent. “Who knows what may happen?”
He bowed and left me. I felt no great elation on contemplating the barren prospect which his last words had placed before me. So many steamers had arrived at Marseilles, without bringing any news of the missing man, that I attached very little importance to the arrival of the Italian ship. However, I had nothing to do—I wanted a walk—and I thought I might as well stroll down to the port, and see the vessel come in.
The vessel was just entering the harbour by the time I got to the landing-stage.
I found our man employed to investigate travellers arriving by sea, punctually at his post. His influence broke through the vexatious French rules and regulations which forbid all freedom of public movement within official limits, and procured me a place in the room at the custom-house through which the passengers by the steamer would be obliged to pass. I accepted his polite attention, simply because I was glad to sit down and rest in a quiet place after my walk—not even the shadow of an idea that anything would come of my visit to the harbour being in my mind at the time.
After a long interval the passengers began to stream into the room. Looking languidly enough at the first half-dozen strangers who came in, I felt myself touched on the shoulder from behind. There was our man, in a state of indescribable excitement, entreating me to compose myself!
Being perfectly composed already, I stared at him, and asked, “Why?”
“He is here!” cried the man. “Look!”
He pointed to the passengers still crowding into the room. I looked; and, instantly losing my head, started up with a cry that turned everybody’s eyes on me. Yes! there was the poor dear discolored face—there was Oscar himself, thunderstruck on his side at the sight of Me!
I snatched the key of his portmanteau out of his hand, and gave it to our man—who undertook to submit it to the customhouse examination, and to bring it to my lodging afterwards. Holding Oscar fast by the arm, I pushed my way through the crowd in the room, got outside, and hailed a cab at the dock gates. The people about, noticing my agitation, said to each other compassionately, “It’s the blue man’s mother!” Idiots! They might have seen, I think, that I was only old enough to be his elder sister.
Once sheltered in the vehicle, I could draw my breath again, and reward him for all the anxiety he had caused me by giving him a kiss. I might have given him a thousand kisses. Amazement made him a perfectly passive creature in my hands. He only repeated faintly, over and over again, “What does it mean? what does it mean?”
“It means that you have friends, you wretch, who are fools enough to be too fond of you to give you up!” I said. “I am one of the fools. You will come to England with me tomorrow—and see for yourself if Lucilla is not another.”
That reference to Lucilla restored him to the possession of his senses. He began to ask the questions that naturally occurred to him under the circumstances. Having plenty of questions in reserve, on my side, I told him briefly enough what had brought me to Marseilles, and what I had done, during my residence in that city, towards discovering the place of his retreat.
When he asked me next—after a momentary struggle with himself—what I could tell him of Nugent and Lucilla, it is not to be denied that I hesitated before I answered him. A moment’s consideration, however, was enough to decide me on speaking out—for this plain reason, that a moment’s consideration reminded me of the troubles and annoyances which had already befallen us as the result of concealing the truth. I told Oscar honestly all that I have related here—starting from my night interview with Nugent at Browndown, and ending with my precautionary measures for the protection of Lucilla while she was living under the care of her aunt.
I was greatly interested in watching the effect which these disclosures produced on Oscar.
My observation led me to form two conclusions. First conclusion, that time and absence had not produced the slightest change in the love which the poor fellow bore to Lucilla. Second conclusion, that nothing but absolute proof would induce him to agree in my unfavourable opinion of his brother’s character. It was in vain I declared that Nugent had quitted England pledged to find him, and had left it to me (as the event now proved) to make the discovery. He owned readily that he had seen nothing, and heard nothing, of Nugent. Nevertheless his confidence in his brother remained unshaken. “Nugent is the soul of honour,” he repeated again and again—with a side-look at me which suggested that my frankly-avowed opinion of his brother had hurt and offended him.
I had barely time to notice this, before we reached my lodgings. He appeared to be unwilling to follow me into the house.
“I suppose you have some proof to support what you have said of Nugent,” he resumed, stopping in the courtyard. “Have you written to England since you have been here? and have you had a reply?”
“I have written to Mrs. Finch,” I answered; “and I have not had a word in reply.”
“Have you written to no one else?”
I explained to him the position in which I stood towards Miss Batchford, and the hesitation which I had felt about writing to Grosse. The smouldering resentment against me that had been in him ever since I had spoken of his brother and of Lucilla, flamed up at last.
“I entirely disagree with you,” he broke out angrily. “You are wronging Lucilla and wronging Nugent. Lucilla is incapable of saying anything against you to Grosse; and Nugent is equally incapable of misleading her as you suppose. What horrible ingratitude you attribute to one of them—and what horrible baseness to the other! I have listened to you as patiently as I can; and I feel sincerely obliged by the interest which you have shown in me—but I cannot remain in your company any longer. Madame Pratolungo, your suspicions are inhuman! You have not brought forward a shadow of proof in support of them. I will send here for my luggage, if you will allow me—and I will start for England by the next train. After what you have said, I can’t rest till I have found out the truth for myself.”
This was my reward for all the trouble that I had taken to discover Oscar Dubourg! Never mind the money I had spent—I am not rich enough to care about money—only consider the trouble. If I had been a man, I do really think I should have knocked him down. Being only a woman, I dropped him a low curtsey, and stung him with my tongue.
“As you please, sir,” I said. “I have done my best to serve you—and you quarrel with me and leave me, in return. Go! You are not the first fool who has quarrelled with his best friend.”
Either the words or the curtsey—or both together—brought him to his senses. He made me an apology—which I received. And he looked excessively foolish—which put me in an excellent humour again. “You stupid boy,” I said, taking his arm, and leading him to the stairs. “When we first met at Dimchurch did you find me a suspicious woman or an inhuman woman? Answer me that!”
He answered frankly enough.
“I found you all that was kind and good. Still, it is surely only natural to want some confirmation——” He checked himself there, and reverted abruptly to my letter to Mrs. Finch. The silence of the rector’s wife evidently alarmed him. “How long is it since you wrote?” he inquired.
“As long ago as the first of this month,” I replied.
He fell into thought. We ascended the next flight of stairs in silence. At the landing, he stopped me, and spoke again. My unanswered letter was still uppermost in his mind.
“Mrs. Finch loses everything that can be lost,” he said. “Is it not likely—with her habits—that when she had written her answer, and wanted your letter to look at to put the address on it, your letter was like her handkerchief or her novel, or anything else—not to be found?”
So far, no doubt, this was quite in Mrs. Finch’s character. I could see that—but my mind was too much pre-occupied to draw the inference that followed. Oscar’s next words enlightened me.
“Have you tried
the Poste-Restante?” he asked.
What could I possibly have been thinking of! Of course, she had lost my letter. Of course, the whole house would be upset in looking for it, and the rector would silence the uproar by ordering his wife to try the Poste-Restante. How strangely we had changed places! Instead of my clear head thinking for Oscar, here was Oscar’s clear head thinking for Me. Is my stupidity quite incredible? Remember, if you please, what a weight of trouble and anxiety had lain on my mind while I was at Marseilles. Can one think of everything while one is afflicted, as I was? Not even such a clever person as You can do that. If, as the saying is, “Homer sometimes nods”—why not Madame Pratolungo?
“I never thought of the Poste-Restante,” I said to Oscar. “If you don’t mind going back a little way, shall we inquire at once?”
He was perfectly willing. We went downstairs again, and out into the street. On our way to the post-office, I seized my first opportunity of making Oscar give me some account of himself.
“I have satisfied your curiosity, to the best of my ability,” I said, as we walked arm-in-arm through the streets. “Now suppose you satisfy mine. A report of your having been seen in a military hospital in Italy, is the only report of you which has reached me here. Of course, it is not true?”
“It is perfectly true.”
“You, in a hospital, nursing wounded soldiers?”
“That is exactly what I have been doing.”
No words could express my astonishment. I could only stop, and look at him.
“Was that the occupation which you had in view when you left England?” I asked.
“I had no object in leaving England,” he answered, “but the object which I avowed to you. After what had happened, I owed it to Lucilla and I owed it to Nugent to go. I left England without caring where I went. The train to Lyons happened to be the first train that started on my arrival at Paris. I took the first train. At Lyons, I saw by chance an account in a French newspaper of the sufferings of some of the badly-wounded men, left still uncured after the battle of Solferino. I felt an impulse, in my own wretchedness, to help these other sufferers in their misery. On every other side of it, my life was wasted. The one worthy use to which I could put it was to employ myself in doing good; and here was good to be done, I managed to get the necessary letters of introduction at Turin. With the help of these, I made myself of some use (under the regular surgeons and dressers) in nursing the poor mutilated, crippled men; and I have helped a little afterwards, from my own resources, in starting them comfortably in new ways of life.”
