Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (820 page)

“You beg to remind me that it is the advice of a bachelor? Oh, come! that really won’t do at this time of day. Doctor Johnson settled that argument at once and for ever, a century since. ‘Sir!’ (he said to somebody of your way of thinking) ‘you may scold your carpenter, when he has made a bad table, though you can’t make a table yourself.’ I say to you — ’Mr. Finch, you may point out a defect in a baby’s petticoats, though you haven’t got a baby yourself!’ Doesn’t that satisfy you? All right! Take another illustration. Look at your room here. I can see in the twinkling of an eye, that it’s badly lit. You have only got one window — you ought to have two. Is it necessary to be a practical builder to discover that? Absurd! Are you satisfied now? No! Take another illustration. What’s this printed paper, here, on the chimney-piece? Assessed Taxes. Ha! Assessed Taxes will do. You’re not in the House of Commons; you’re not Chancellor of the Exchequer — but haven’t you an opinion of your own about taxation, in spite of that? Must you and I be in Parliament before we can presume to see that the feeble old British Constitution is at its last gasp —
 
— ?”

“And the vigorous young Republic drawing its first breath of life!” I burst in; introducing the Pratolungo programme (as my way is) at every available opportunity.

Nugent Dubourg instantly wheeled round in my direction; and set me right on my subject, just as he had set the rector right on reading
Hamlet,
and Mrs. Finch right on clothing babies.

“Not a bit of it!” he pronounced positively. “The ‘young Republic’ is the ricketty child of the political family. Give him up, ma’am. You will never make a man of him.”

I tried to assert myself as the rector had tried before me — with precisely the same result. I appealed indignantly to the authority of my illustrious husband.

“Doctor Pratolungo — ” I began.

“Was an honest man,” interposed Nugent Dubourg. “I am an advanced Liberal myself — I respect him. But he was quite wrong. All sincere republicans make the same mistake. They believe in the existence of public spirit in Europe. Amiable delusion! Public spirit is dead in Europe. Public spirit is the generous emotion of young nations, of new peoples. In selfish old Europe, private interest has taken its place. When your husband preached the republic, on what ground did he put it? On the ground that the republic was going to elevate the nation. Pooh! Ask me to accept the republic, on the ground that I elevate Myself — and, supposing you can prove it, I will listen to you. If you are ever to set republican institutions going, in the Old World —
there
is the only motive power that will do it!”

I was indignant at such sentiments. “My glorious husband — ” I began again.

“Would have died rather than appeal to the meanest instincts of his fellow-creatures. Just so! There was his mistake. That’s why he never could make anything of the republic. That’s why the republic is the ricketty child of the political family.
Quod erat demonstrandum,
” said Nugent Dubourg, finishing me off with a pleasant smile, and an easy indicative gesture of the hand which said, “Now I have settled these three people in succession, I am equally well satisfied with myself and with them!”

His smile was irresistible. Bent as I was on disputing the degrading conclusions at which he had arrived, I really had not fire enough in me, at the moment, to feed my own indignation. As to Reverend Finch, he sat silently swelling in a corner; digesting, as he best might, the discovery that there was another man in the world, besides the Rector of Dimchurch, with an excellent opinion of himself, and with perfectly unassailable confidence and fluency in expressing it. In the momentary silence that now followed, Oscar got his first opportunity of speaking. He had, thus far, been quite content to admire his clever brother. He now advanced to me, and asked what had become of Lucilla.

“The servant told me she was here,” he said. “I am so anxious to introduce her to Nugent.”

Nugent put his arm affectionately round his brother’s neck, and gave him a hug. “Dear old boy! I am just as anxious as you are.”

“Lucilla went out a little while since,” I said, “to take a turn in the garden.”

“I’ll go and find her,” said Oscar. “Wait here, Nugent. I’ll bring her in.”

He left the room. Before he could close the door one of the servants appeared, to claim Mrs. Finch’s private ear, on some mysterious domestic emergency. Nugent facetiously entreated her, as she passed him, to clear her mind of prejudice, and consider the question of infant petticoats on its own merits. Mr. Finch took offense at this second reference to the subject. He rose to follow his wife.

“When you are a married man, Mr. Dubourg,” said the rector severely, “you will learn to leave the management of an infant in its mother’s hands.”

“There’s another mistake!” remarked Nugent, following him with unabated good humour, to the door. “A married man’s idea of another man as a husband, always begins and ends with his idea of himself.” He turned to me, as the door closed on Mr. Finch. “Now we are alone, Madame Pratolungo,” he said, “I want to speak to you about Miss Finch. There is an opportunity, before she comes in. Oscar’s letter only told me that she was blind. I am naturally interested in everything that relates to my brother’s future wife. I am particularly interested about this affliction of hers. May I ask how long she has been blind?”

“Since she was a year old,” I replied.

“Through an accident?”

“No.”

“After a fever? or a disease of any other sort?”

I began to feel a little surprised at his entering into these medical details.

“I never heard that it was through a fever, or other illness,” I said. “So far as I know, the blindness came on unexpectedly, from some cause that did not express itself to the people about her, at the time.”

He drew his chair confidentially nearer to mine. “How old is she?” he asked.

I began to feel more than a little surprised; and I showed it, I suppose, on telling him Lucilla’s age.

“As things are now,” he explained, “there are reasons which make me hesitate to enter on the question of Miss Finch’s blindness either with my brother, or with any members of the family. I must wait to speak about it to
them,
until I can speak to good practical purpose. There is no harm in my starting the subject with
you.
When she first lost her sight, no means of restoring it were left untried, of course?”

“I should suppose not,” I replied. “It’s so long since, I have never asked.”

“So long since,” he repeated — and then considered for a moment.

His reflections ended in a last question.

“She is resigned, I suppose — and everybody about her is resigned — to the idea of her being hopelessly blind for life.”

Instead of answering him, I put a question on my side. My heart was beginning to beat rapidly — without my knowing why.

“Mr. Nugent Dubourg,” I said, “what have you got in your mind about Lucilla?”

“Madame Pratolungo,” he replied, “I have got something in my mind which was put into it by a friend of mine whom I met in America.”

“The friend you mentioned in your letter to your brother?”

“The same.”

“The German gentleman whom you propose to introduce to Oscar and Lucilla?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask who he is?”

Nugent Dubourg looked at me attentively; considered with himself for the second time; and answered in these words:

“He is the greatest living authority, and the greatest living operator, in diseases of the eye.”

The idea in his mind burst its way into my mind in a moment.

“Gracious God!” I exclaimed, “are you mad enough to suppose that Lucilla’s sight can be restored, after a blindness of one-and-twenty years?”

He suddenly held up his hand, in sign to me to be silent.

At the same moment the door opened; and Lucilla (followed by Oscar) entered the room.

CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH

He sees Lucilla

THE first impression which poor Miss Finch produced on Nugent Dubourg, was precisely the same as the first impression which she had produced on me.

“Good Heavens!” he cried. “The Dresden Madonna! The Virgin of San Sisto!”

Lucilla had already heard from me of her extraordinary resemblance to the chief figure in Raphael’s renowned picture. Nugent’s blunt outburst of recognition passed unnoticed by her. She stopped short, in the middle of the room — startled, the instant he spoke, by the extraordinary similarity of his tone and accent to the tone and accent of his brother’s voice.

“Oscar,” she asked nervously, “are you behind me? or in front of me?” Oscar laughed, and answered “Here!” — speaking behind her. She turned her head towards the place in front of her, from which Nugent had spoken. “Your voice is wonderfully like Oscar’s,” she said, addressing him timidly. “Is your face exactly like his face, too? May I judge for myself of the likeness between you? I can only do it in one way — by my touch.”

Oscar advanced, and placed a chair for his brother by Lucilla’s side.

“She has eyes in the tips of her fingers,” he said. “Sit down, Nugent, and let her pass her hand over your face.”

Nugent obeyed him in silence. Now that the first impression of surprise had passed away, I observed that a marked change was beginning to assert itself in his manner.

Little by little, an unnatural constraint got possession of him. His fluent tongue found nothing to talk about. His easy movements altered in the strangest way, until they almost became the movements of a slow awkward man. He was more like his brother than ever, as he sat down in the chair to submit himself to Lucilla’s investigation. She had produced, at first sight — as well as I could judge — some impression on him for which he had not been prepared; causing some mental disturbance in him which he was for the moment quite unable to control. His eyes looked up at her, spell-bound; his colour came and went; his breath quickened audibly when her fingers touched his face.

“What’s the matter?” said Oscar, looking at him in surprise.

“Nothing is the matter,” he answered, in the low absent tone of a man whose mind was secretly pursuing its own train of thought.

Oscar said no more. Once, twice, three times, Lucilla’s hand passed slowly over Nugent’s face. He submitted to it, silently, gravely, immovably — a perfect contrast to the talkative, lively young man of half an hour since. Lucilla employed a much longer time in examining him than she had occupied in examining me.

While the investigation was proceeding, I had leisure to think again over what had passed between Nugent and me on the subject of Lucilla’s blindness, before she entered the room. My mind had by this time recovered its balance. I was able to ask myself what this young fellow’s daring idea was really worth. Was it within the range of possibility that a sense so delicate as the sense of sight, lost for one-and-twenty years, could be restored by any means short of a miracle? It was monstrous to suppose it: the thing could not be. If there had been the faintest chance of giving my poor dear back the blessing of sight, that chance would have been tried by competent persons years and years since. I was ashamed of myself for having been violently excited at the moment by the new thought which Nugent had started in my mind; I was honestly indignant at his uselessly disturbing me with the vainest of all vain hopes. The one wise thing to do in the future, was to caution this flighty and inconsequent young man to keep his mad notion about Lucilla to himself — and to dismiss it from my own thoughts, at once and for ever.

Just as I arrived at that sensible resolution, I was recalled to what was going on in the room, by Lucilla’s voice, addressing me by my name.

“The likeness is wonderful,” she said. “Still, I think I can find a difference between them.”

(The only difference between them was in the contrast of complexion and in the contrast of manner — both these being dissimilarities which appealed more or less directly to the eye.)