Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (842 page)

“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 feeblest 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 to-morrow; 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 to-night!”

“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 favor 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 elabourately 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.