"Gone, without coming to say good-bye! Gone, without even writing to me!"
There was the first impression I produced on her, when I had done my bestto account harmlessly for Oscar's absence. I had, as I thought, taken theshortest and simplest way out of the difficulty, by merely inverting thetruth. In other words, by telling her that Nugent had got into someserious embarrassment abroad, and that Oscar had been called away at amoment's notice, to follow him and help him. It was in vain that Ireminded her of Oscar's well-known horror of leave-takings of all kinds;in vain that I represented the urgency of the matter as leaving him noalternative but to confide his excuses and his farewells to me; in vainthat I promised for him that he would write to her at the firstopportunity. She listened, without conviction. The more perseveringly Itried to account for it, the more perseveringly she dwelt on Oscar'sunaccountable disregard of her claims on his consideration for her. Asfor our journey to Ramsgate, it was impossible to interest her in thesubject. I gave it up in despair.
"Surely Oscar has left some address at which I can write to him?" shesaid.
I could only answer that he was not sure enough of his movements to beable to do that before he went away.
"It is more provoking than you think," she went on. "I believe Oscar isafraid to bring his unfortunate brother into my presence. The blue facestartled me when I saw it, I know. But I have quite got over that. I feelnone of the absurd terror of the poor man which I felt when I was blind.Now that I have seen for myself what he is really like, I can feel forhim. I wanted to tell Oscar this--I wanted to say that he might bring hisbrother to live with us if he liked--I wanted to prevent (just what hashappened,) his going away from _me_ when he wishes to see his brother.You are using me very hardly among you; and I have some reason tocomplain of it."
While she was talking in this mortifying manner, I felt some consolationnevertheless. Oscar's disfigured complexion would not be the terribleobstacle in the way of his restoration to Lucilla that I had feared. Allthe comfort which this reflection could give, I wanted badly enough.There was no open hostility towards me on Lucilla's part--but there was acoolness which I found more distressing to bear than hostility itself. Ibreakfasted in bed the next morning, and only rose towards noon--just intime to say good-bye to Grosse before he returned to London.
He was in high good spirits about his patient. Her eyes were the betterinstead of the worse for the exertion to which he had subjected them onthe previous day. The bracing air of Ramsgate was all that was wanting tocomplete the success of the operation. Mr. Finch had started objections,all turning on the question of expense. But with a daughter who was herown mistress, and who had her own fortune, his objections matterednothing. By the next day, or the day after at latest, we were to startfor Ramsgate. I promised to write to our good surgeon as soon as we wereestablished; and he engaged on his side, to visit us immediately after."Let her use her eyes for two goot hours every day," said Grosse, atparting. "She may do what she likes with them--except that she must notpeep into books, or take up pens, till I come to you at Ramsgate. It ismost wonderful-beautiful to see how those new eyes of hers do get along.When I next meet goot Mr. Sebrights--hey! how I shall cock-crow over thatspick-span respectable man!"
I felt a little nervous as to how the day would pass--when the Germanleft me alone with Lucilla.
To my amazement, she not only met me with the needful excuses for herbehavior on the previous day, but showed herself to be perfectly resignedto the temporary loss of Oscar's society. It was she (not I) who remarkedthat he could not have chosen a better time for being away from her, thanthe humiliating time when she was learning to distinguish between roundand square. It was she (not I) who welcomed the little journey toRamsgate as a pleasant change in her dull life, which would help toreconcile her to Oscar's absence. In brief, if she had actually receiveda letter from Oscar, relieving her of all anxiety about him, her wordsand looks could hardly have offered a completer contrast than they nowshowed to her words and looks of the previous day.
If I had noticed no other alteration in her than this welcome change forthe better, my record of the day would have ended here, as the record ofunmixed happiness.
But, I grieve to say, I have something unpleasant to add. While she wasmaking her excuses to me, and speaking in the sensible and satisfactoryterms which I have just repeated, I noticed a curious underlyingembarrassment in her manner, entirely unlike any previous embarrassmentwhich had ever intruded itself between us. And, stranger still, on thefirst occasion when Zillah came into the room, while I was in it, Iobserved that Lucilla's embarrassment was reflected (when the old womanspoke to me) in the face and manner of Lucilla's nurse.
But one conclusion could possibly follow from what I saw:--they were bothconcealing something from me; and they were both more or less ashamed ofwhat they were doing.
Somewhere--not very far back in these pages--I have said of myself that Iam not by nature a woman who is easily ready to suspect others. On thisvery account, when I find suspicion absolutely forced on me--as it wasnow--I am apt to fly into the opposite extreme. In the present case, Ifixed on the person to suspect--all the more readily from having beenslow to suspect him in bygone days. "In some way or other," I said tomyself, "Nugent Dubourg is at the bottom of this."
Was he communicating with her privately, in the name and in the characterof Oscar?
The bare idea of it hurried me headlong into letting her know that I hadnoticed the change in her.
"Lucilla!" I said. "Has anything happened?"
"What do you mean?" she asked coldly.
"I fancy I see some change----" I began.
"I don't understand you," she answered, walking away from me as shespoke.
I said no more. If our intimacy had been less close and lessaffectionate, I might have openly avowed to her what was passing in mymind. But how could I say to Lucilla, You are deceiving me? It would havebeen the end of our sisterhood--the end of our friendship. Whenconfidence is withdrawn between two people who love eachother--everything is withdrawn. They are on the footing of strangers fromthat moment, and must stand on ceremony. Delicate minds will understandwhy I accepted the check she had administered to me, and said no more.
I went into the village alone. Managing matters so as to excite nosurprise, I contrived to have a little gossip about Nugent withGootheridge at the inn, and with the servant at Browndown. If Nugent hadreturned secretly to Dimchurch, one of those two men, in our littlevillage, must almost certainly have seen him. Neither of them had seenhim.
I inferred from this that he had not tried to communicate with herpersonally. Had he attempted it (more cunningly and more safely) byletter?
I went back to the rectory. It was close on the hour which I hadappointed with Lucilla--now that the responsibility rested on myshoulders--for allowing her to use her eyes. On taking off the bandage, Inoticed a circumstance which confirmed the conclusion at which I hadalready arrived. Her eyes deliberately avoided looking into mine.Suppressing as well as I could the pain which this new discovery causedme, I repeated Grosse's words, prohibiting her from attempting to lookinto a book, or to use a pen, until he had seen her again.
"There is no need for him to forbid me to do that," she said.
"Have you attempted it already?" I inquired.
"I looked into a little book of engravings," she answered. "But I coulddistinguish nothing. The lines all mingled together and swam before myeyes."
"Have you tried to write?" I asked next. (I was ashamed of myself forlaying that trap for her--although the serious necessity of discoveringwhether she was privately in correspondence with Nugent, might surelyhave excused it?)
"No," she replied. "I have not tried to write."
She changed color when she made that answer. It is necessary to own that,in putting my question, I was too much excited to call to mind, what Ishould have remembered in a calmer state. There was no necessity for hertrying to use her eyes--even if she was really carrying on acorrespondence w
hich she wished to keep secret from me. Zillah had beenin the habit of reading her letters to her, before I appeared at therectory; and she could write short notes (as I have already mentioned) byfeeling her way on the paper with her finger. Besides, having learnt toread by touch (that is to say with raised characters), just as she hadlearnt to write--even if her eyes had been sufficiently recovered toenable her to distinguish small objects, nothing but practice could havetaught her to use them for purposes of correspondence.
These considerations, though they did not strike me at the time, occurredto me later in the day, and altered my opinion to a certain extent. I nowinterpreted the change of color which I had noticed in her as the outwardsign of suspicion on her side--suspicion that I had a motive of my own ininterrogating her. For the rest, my doubts of Nugent remained unmoved.Try as I might, I could not divest my mind of the idea that he wasplaying me false, and that in one way or another he had contrived, notonly to communicate with Lucilla, but to persuade her to keep me inignorance of what he had done.
I deferred to the next day any attempt at making further discoveries.
The last thing at night, I had a momentary impulse to question Zillah.Reflection soon checked it. My experience of the nurse's character toldme that she would take refuge in flat denial--and would then inform hermistress of what had happened. I knew enough of Lucilla to know (afterwhat had already passed between us) that a quarrel with me would follow.Things were bad enough already, without making them worse in that way.When the morning came, I resolved to keep a watchful eye on the villagepost-office, and on the movements of the nurse.
When the morning came, there was a letter for me from abroad.
The address was in the handwriting of one of my sisters. We usually wroteto each other at intervals of a fortnight or three weeks. This letter hadfollowed its predecessor after an interval of less than one week. Whatdid it mean? Good news or bad?
I opened the letter.
It enclosed a telegram, announcing that my poor dear father was lyingdangerously wounded at Marseilles. My sisters had already gone to him:they implored me to follow them without one moment of needless delay. Isit necessary to tell the story of this horrible calamity? Of course itbegins with a woman and an elopement. Of course it ends with a young manand a duel. Have I not told you already?--Papa was so susceptible; Papawas so brave. Oh, dear, dear! the old story over again. You have anEnglish proverb: "What is bred in the bone--" etcetera, etcetera. Let usdrop the veil. I mean, let us end the chapter.