Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Poor Miss Finch by Wilkie Collins (heaven official's blessing novel english txt) 📖
- Author: Wilkie Collins
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Book online «Poor Miss Finch by Wilkie Collins (heaven official's blessing novel english txt) 📖». Author Wilkie Collins
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.
You will perhaps expect me to give some account of how Oscar bore the discovery of his brother’s conduct.
I find it by no means easy to do this. Oscar baffled me.
The first words of any importance which he addressed to me were spoken on our way to the station. Rousing himself from his own thoughts, he said very earnestly–-
“I want to know what conclusion you have drawn from Mrs. Finch’s letter.”
Naturally enough, under the circumstances, I tried to avoid answering him. He was not to be put off in that way.
“You will do me a favor,” he went on, “if you will reply to my question. The letter has bred in me such a vile suspicion of my dear good brother, who never deceived me in his life, that I would rather believe I am out of my mind than believe in my own interpretation of it. Do you infer from what Mrs. Finch writes, that Nugent has presented himself to Lucilla under my name? Do you believe that he has persuaded her to leave her friends, under the impression that she has yielded to My entreaties, and trusted herself to My care?”
I answered in the fewest and plainest words, “That is what your brother has done.”
A sudden change passed over him. My reply seemed to have set his last doubts at rest in an instant.
“That is what my brother has done,” he repeated. “After all that I sacrificed to him—after all that I trusted to his honor—when I left England.” He paused, and considered a little. “What does such a man deserve?” he went on; speaking to himself, in a low threatening tone that startled me.
“He deserves,” I said, “what he will get when we reach England. You have only to show yourself to make him repent his wickedness to the last day of his life. Are exposure and defeat not punishment enough for such a man as Nugent?” I stopped, and waited for his answer.
He turned his face away from me, and said no more until we arrived at the station. There, he drew me aside for a moment out of hearing of the strangers about us.
“Why should I take you away from your father?” he asked abruptly. “I am behaving very selfishly—and I only see it now.”
“Make your mind easy,” I said. “If I had not met you to-day, I should have gone to England tomorrow for Lucilla’s sake.”
“But now you have met me,” he persisted, “why shouldn’t I spare you the journey? I could write and tell you every thing—without putting you to this fatigue and expense.”
“If you say a word more,” I answered, “I shall think you have some reason of your own for wishing to go to England by yourself.”
He cast one quick suspicious look at me—and led the way back to the booking-office without uttering another word. I was not at all satisfied with him. I thought his conduct very strange.
In silence we took our tickets; in silence, we got into the railway-carriage. I attempted to say something encouraging, when we started. “Don’t notice me,” was all he replied. “You will be doing me a kindness, if you will let me bear it by myself.” In my former experience of him, he had talked his way out of all his other troubles—he had clamorously demanded the expression of my sympathy with him. In this greatest trouble, he was like another being; I hardly knew him again! Were the hidden reserves in his nature (stirred up by another serious call on them) showing themselves once more on the surface as they had shown themselves already, on the fatal first day when Lucilla tried her sight? In that way I accounted for the mere superficial change in him, at the time. What was actually going on below the surface it defied my ingenuity even to guess. Perhaps I shall best describe the sort of vague apprehension which he aroused in me—after what had passed between us at the station—by saying that I would not for worlds have allowed him to go to England by himself.
Left as I now was to my own resources, I occupied the first hours of the journey, in considering what course it would be safest and best for us to take, on reaching England.
I decided, in the first place, that we ought to go straight to Dimchurch. If any tidings had been obtained of Lucilla, they would be sure to have received them at the rectory. Our route, after reaching Paris, must be therefore by way of Dieppe; thence across the Channel to Newhaven, near Brighton—and so to Dimchurch.
In the second place—assuming it to be always possible that we might see Lucilla at the rectory—the risk of abruptly presenting Oscar to her in his own proper person might, for all I knew to the contrary, be a very serious one. It would relieve us, as I thought, of a grave responsibility, if we warned Grosse of our arrival, and so enabled him to be present, if he thought it necessary, in the interests of Lucilla’s health. I put this view (as also my plan for returning by way of Dieppe) to Oscar. He briefly consented to everything—he ungraciously left it all to me.
Accordingly, on our arrival at Lyons, having some time for refreshment at our disposal before we went on, I telegraphed to Mr. Finch at the rectory, and to Grosse in London; informing them (as well as I could calculate it) that, if we were lucky in catching trains and steamboats, Oscar and I might be in Dimchurch in good time, on the next night—that is to say, on the night of the eighteenth. In any case, they were to expect us at the earliest possible moment.
These difficulties disposed of, and a little store of refreshment for the night packed in my basket, we re-entered the train, for our long journey to Paris.
Among the new passengers who joined us at Lyons was a gentleman whose face was English, and whose dress was the dress of a clergyman. For the first time in my life, I hailed the appearance of a priest with a feeling of relief. The reason was this. From the moment when I had read Mrs. Finch’s letter until now, a horrid doubt, which a priest was just the man to solve, had laid its leaden weight on my mind—and, I firmly believe, on Oscar’s mind as well. Had time enough passed, since Lucilla had left Ramsgate, to allow of Nugent’s marrying her, under his brother’s name?
As the train rolled out of the station, I, the enemy of priests, began to make myself agreeable to this priest. He was young and shy—but I conquered him. Just as
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