My object in speaking as I had just spoken, was to tempt him into a reply which might confirm me in this opinion. He evaded the reply. Was that confirmation in itself? Yes--as I think!
"Will you tell me what there is in the letter?" he asked--passing, as you see, entirely over what I had just said to him.
"Yes--if you wish it," I answered: not over well pleased with his want of confidence in me.
"No matter what the letter contains?" he went on, evidently doubting me.
I said Yes, again--that one word, and no more.
"I suppose it would be asking too much," he persisted, "to ask you to let me read the letter myself?"
My temper, as you are well aware by this time, is not the temper of a saint. I drew my arm smartly out of his arm; and I surveyed him with, what poor Pratolungo used to call, "my Roman look."
"Mr. Oscar Dubourg! say, in plain words, that you distrust me."
He protested of course that he did nothing of the kind--without producing the slightest effect on me. Just run over in your mind the insults, worries, and anxieties which had assailed me, as the reward for my friendly interest in this man's welfare. Or, if that is too great an effort, be so good as to remember that Lucilla's farewell letter to me at Dimchurch, was now followed by the equally ungracious expression of Oscar's distrust--and this at a time when I had had serious trials of my own to sustain at my father's bedside. I think you will admit that a sweeter temper than mine might have not unnaturally turned a little sour under present circumstances.
I answered not a word to Oscar's protestations--I only searched vehemently in the pocket of my dress.
"Here," I said, opening my card-case, "is my address in this place; and here," I went on, producing the document, "is my passport, if they want it."
I forced the card and the passport into his hands. He took them in helpless astonishment.
"What am I to do with these?" he asked.
"Take them to the Poste-Restante. If there is a letter for me with the Dimchurch post-mark, I authorize you to open it. Read it before it comes into my hands--and then perhaps you will be satisfied?"
He declared that he would do nothing of the sort--and tried to force my documents back into my own possession.
"Please yourself," I said. "I have done with you and your affairs. Mrs. Finch's letter is of no earthly consequence to me. If it is at the Poste-Restante, I shall not trouble myself to ask for it. What concern have I with news about Lucilla? What does it matter to me whether she is married or not? I am going back to my father and my sisters. Decide for yourself whether you want Mrs. Finch's letter or not."
That settled it. He went his way with my documents to the post-office; and I went mine back to the lodging.
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.