Arrived in my room, I still held to the resolution which I had expressed to Oscar in the street. Why should I leave my poor old father to go back to England, and mix myself up in Lucilla's affairs? After the manner in which she had taken her leave of me, had I any reasonable prospect of being civilly received? Oscar was on his way to England--let Oscar manage his own affairs; let them all three (Oscar, Nugent, Lucilla) fight it out together among themselves. What had I, Pratolungo's widow, to do with this trumpery family entanglement? Nothing! It was a warm day for the time of year--Pratolungo's widow, like a wise woman, determined to make herself comfortable. She unlocked her packed box; she removed her traveling costume, and put on her dressing-gown; she took a turn in the room--and, if you had come across her at that moment, I wouldn't have stood in your shoes for something, I can tell you!
(What do you think of my consistency by this time? How often have I changed my mind about Lucilla and Oscar? Reckon it up, from the time when I left Dimchurch. What a picture of perpetual self-contradiction I present--and how improbable it is that I should act in this illogical way! _You_ never alter your mind under the influence of your temper or your circumstances. No: you are, what they call, a consistent character.
And I? Oh, I am only a human being--and I feel painfully conscious that I have no business to be in a book.)
In about half an hour's time, the servant appeared with a little paper parcel for me. It had been left by a stranger with an English accent and a terrible face. He had announced his intention of calling a little later. The servant, a bouncing fat wench, trembled as she repeated the message, and asked if there was anything amiss between me and the man with the terrible face.
I opened the parcel. It contained my passport, and, sure enough, the letter from Mrs. Finch. Had he opened it? Yes! He had not been able to resist the temptation to read it. And more, he had written a line or two on it in pencil, thus:--"As soon as I am fit to see you, I will implore your pardon. I dare not trust myself in your presence yet. Read the letter, and you will understand why."
I opened the letter.
It was dated the fifth of September. I ran over the first few sentences carelessly enough. Thanks for my letter--congratulations on my father's prospect of recovery--information about baby's gums and the rector's last sermon--more information about somebody else, which Mrs. Finch felt quite sure would interest and delight me. What!!! "Mr. Oscar Dubourg has come back, and is now with Lucilla at Ramsgate."
I crumpled the letter up in my hand. Nugent had justified my worst anticipations of what he would do in my absence. What did the true Mr.
Oscar Dubourg, reading that sentence at Marseilles, think of his brother now? We are all mortal--we are all wicked. It is monstrous, but it is true. I had a moment's triumph.
The wicked moment gone, I was good again--that is to say, I was ashamed of myself.
I smoothed out the letter, and looked eagerly for news of Lucilla's health. If the news was favorable, my letter committed to Miss Batchford's care must have been shown to Lucilla by this time; must have exposed Nugent's abominable personation of his brother; and must have thus preserved her for Oscar. In that case, all would be well again (and my darling herself would own it)--thanks to Me!
After telling me the news from Ramsgate, Mrs. Finch began to drift into, what you call, Twaddle. She had just discovered (exactly as Oscar had supposed) that she had lost my letter. She would keep her own letter back until the next day, on the chance of finding it. If she failed she must try Poste-Restante, at the suggestion (not of Mr. Finch--there I was wrong)--at the suggestion of Zillah, who had relatives in foreign parts, and had tried Poste-Restante in her case too. So Mrs. Finch driveled mildly on, in her large loose untidy handwriting, to the bottom of the third page.
I turned over. The handwriting suddenly grew untidier than ever; two great blots defaced the paper; the style became feebly hysterical. Good Heavens! what did I read when I made it out at last! See for yourselves; here are the words: "Some hours have passed--it is just tea-time---oh, my dear friend, I can hardly hold the pen, I tremble so--would you believe it, Miss Batchford has arrived at the rectory--she brings the dreadful news that Lucilla has eloped with Oscar--we don't know why--we don't know where, except that they have gone away together privately--a letter from Oscar tells Miss Batchford as much as that, and no more--oh, pray come back as soon as you can--Mr. Finch washes his hands of it--and Miss Batchford has left the house again in a fury with him--I am in dreadful agitation, and I have given it Mr. Finch says to baby, who is screaming black in the face. Yours affectionately, "AMELIA FINCH."
All the rages I had ever been in before in my life were as nothing compared with the rage that devoured me when I had read that fourth page of Mrs. Finch's letter. Nugent had got the better of me and my precautions! Nugent had robbed his brother of Lucilla, in the vilest manner, with perfect impunity! I cast all feminine restraints to the winds. I sat down with my legs anyhow, like a man. I rammed my hands into the pockets of my dressing-gown. Did I cry? A word in your ear--and let it go no farther. I swore.
How long the fit lasted, I don't know. I only remember that I was disturbed by a knock at my door.
I flung open the door in a fury--and confronted Oscar on the threshold.
There was a look in his face that instantly quieted me. There was a tone in his voice that brought the tears suddenly into my eyes.
"I must leave for England in two hours," he said. "Will you forgive me, Madame Pratolungo, before I go?"
Only those words! And yet--if you had seen him, if you had heard him, as he spoke them--you would have been ready as I was--not only to forgive him--but to go to the ends of the earth with him; and you would have told him so, as I did.
In two hours more, we were in the train, on our way to England.
