"I never had it."

"What do you mean?"

"Madame Pratolungo never answered my letter."

I made him repeat that--once, twice. Was it not incredible that such an
appeal could be made to any woman not utterly depraved--and be left
unnoticed? Twice he reiterated the same answer. Twice he declared on his
honor that not a line of reply had been returned to him. She was then
utterly depraved? No! there was a last excuse left that justice and
friendship might still make for her. I made it.

"There is but one explanation of her conduct," I said. "She never
received the letter. Where did you send it to?"

"To the rectory."

"Who took it?"

"My own servant."

"He may have lost it on the way, and have been afraid to tell you. Or the
servant at the rectory may have forgotten to deliver it."

Oscar shook his head. "Quite impossible! I know Madame Pratolungo
received the letter."

"How?"

"I found it crumpled up in a corner inside the fender, _in your
sitting-room at the rectory._"

"Had it been opened?"

"It had been opened. She had received it; she had read it; and she had
not thrown quite far enough to throw it into the fire. Now, Lucilla! Is
Madame Pratolungo an injured woman? and am I a man who has slandered
her?"

There was another public seat, a few paces distant from us. I could stand
no longer. I went away by myself and sat down. A dull sensation possessed
me. I could neither speak, nor cry. There I sat in silence; slowly
wringing my hands in my lap, and feeling the last ties that still bound
me to the once-loved friend of former days, falling away one after the
other, and leaving us parted for life.

He followed me, and stood over me--he summed her up in stern quiet tones,
which carried conviction into my mind, and made me feel ashamed of myself
for having ever regretted her.

"Look back for the last time, Lucilla, at what this woman has said and
done. You will find that the idea of your marrying Nugent is, under one
form or another, always present to her mind. Present alike when she
forgets herself, and speaks in a rage--or when she reflects, and speaks
with a purpose. At one time, she tells you that you would have fallen in
love with Nugent, if you had seen him first. At another time, she stands
by while Nugent is personating me to you, and never interferes to stop
it. On a third occasion, she sees that you are offended with me; and
triumphs so cruelly in seeing it, that she tells me to my face, your