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Updated: June 10, 2025
By and by, of course, Ezekiel Grosse's friends began to leave him. They declined his invitations, and omitted to include him in theirs, so that in a comparatively short time he had not a single friend remaining of all those he had spent so much upon. Disappointed and miserable, he soon became the wreck of his old self.
Thanks to Grosse's resolution to act on the hint that I had given to him, I had now made it impossible even if the bandage was removed on that day for Nugent to catch Lucilla's first look when she opened her eyes. Her betrothed husband might certainly, on such a special occasion as this, be admitted into her bed-chamber, in company with her father or with me.
Grosse's voice unmistakably angry and excited became audible at the same time. "No! Come back! come back!" The rustling sound of the dress came nearer. Nugent and Mr. Finch moved together closer to the door. Oscar caught me by the arm. He and I were on the left-hand side of the door: Nugent and the rector were on the right-hand side. It all happened with the suddenness of a flash of lightning.
The door the friendly, admirable, judicious door stopped the coming sermon, in the nick of time, by opening again. Herr Grosse's squat figure and owlish spectacles appeared on the threshold. Lucilla turned deadly pale: she had heard the door open, she knew by instinct that the surgeon had come. Oscar got up, stole behind my chair, and whispered to me, "For God's sake, get Nugent out of the room!"
The child's object was plain enough. Nobody who knew her could doubt that she had stolen into Lucilla's bed-chamber, under cover of Herr Grosse's ample coat-tails. We had just accounted in this way for the mysterious absence of Jicks, when we heard the bed-chamber door opened, and the surgeon's voice calling for Zillah.
My life has never looked so wretched and so worthless to me as it looked to-day on the pier at Ramsgate. He left me at the door, with a gentle encouraging pressure of my hand. "I will call again later," he said; "and hear what Grosse's report of you is, before he goes back to London. Rest, Lucilla rest and compose yourself." A heavy footstep sounded suddenly behind us as he spoke.
Was it in the least likely that a man of Edmund Grosse's kind would act romantically or hastily? Of course not. She had been as foolish as Mrs. Browning's little Effie in dreaming that a lover might come riding over the Malcot hills on a July evening.
His estimate of the strength of the position on his side, had been necessarily based on one conviction the conviction that Grosse's professional authority would tie my tongue. I had scattered his calculations to the winds. He turned so deadly pale that, dim as the light was, I could see the change in his face. "I don't believe you!" he said.
The occurrence of Grosse's name in Mrs. Finch's rambling narrative, recalled to my memory what the rector had told me at the garden gate. I had not yet received the letter which the German had sent to wait my arrival at Dimchurch. After a short search, we found it where it had been contemptuously thrown by Mr. Finch on the parlor table. A few lines comprised the whole letter.
Mr. Murray had had no belief in Sir Edmund Grosse's doings, and he indulged in the provoking air of "I told you so," when the latter, who had not been in London for several months, appeared at the office, and owned to the futility of his visit to Florence. Meanwhile, Mr. Murray had also carried on a fruitless enquiry in a different direction.
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