Our Mutual Friend

  Chapter 10

  THE DOLLS' DRESSMAKER DISCOVERS A WORD

  A darkened and hushed room; the river outside the windows flowing onto the vast ocean; a figure on the bed, swathed and bandaged and bound,lying helpless on its back, with its two useless arms in splints at itssides. Only two days of usage so familiarized the little dressmakerwith this scene, that it held the place occupied two days ago by therecollections of years.

  He had scarcely moved since her arrival. Sometimes his eyes were open,sometimes closed. When they were open, there was no meaning in theirunwinking stare at one spot straight before them, unless for a momentthe brow knitted into a faint expression of anger, or surprise. Then,Mortimer Lightwood would speak to him, and on occasions he would be sofar roused as to make an attempt to pronounce his friend's name. But, inan instant consciousness was gone again, and no spirit of Eugene was inEugene's crushed outer form.

  They provided Jenny with materials for plying her work, and she had alittle table placed at the foot of his bed. Sitting there, with her richshower of hair falling over the chair-back, they hoped she might attracthis notice. With the same object, she would sing, just above her breath,when he opened his eyes, or she saw his brow knit into that faintexpression, so evanescent that it was like a shape made in water. Butas yet he had not heeded. The 'they' here mentioned were the medicalattendant; Lizzie, who was there in all her intervals of rest; andLightwood, who never left him.

  The two days became three, and the three days became four. At length,quite unexpectedly, he said something in a whisper.

  'What was it, my dear Eugene?'

  'Will you, Mortimer--'

  'Will I--?

  --'Send for her?'

  'My dear fellow, she is here.'

  Quite unconscious of the long blank, he supposed that they were stillspeaking together.

  The little dressmaker stood up at the foot of the bed, humming her song,and nodded to him brightly. 'I can't shake hands, Jenny,' said Eugene,with something of his old look; 'but I am very glad to see you.'

  Mortimer repeated this to her, for it could only be made out by bendingover him and closely watching his attempts to say it. In a little while,he added:

  'Ask her if she has seen the children.'

  Mortimer could not understand this, neither could Jenny herself, untilhe added:

  'Ask her if she has smelt the flowers.'

  'Oh! I know!' cried Jenny. 'I understand him now!' Then, Lightwoodyielded his place to her quick approach, and she said, bending over thebed, with that better look: 'You mean my long bright slanting rows ofchildren, who used to bring me ease and rest? You mean the children whoused to take me up, and make me light?'

  Eugene smiled, 'Yes.'

  'I have not seen them since I saw you. I never see them now, but I amhardly ever in pain now.'

  'It was a pretty fancy,' said Eugene.

  'But I have heard my birds sing,' cried the little creature, 'and I havesmelt my flowers. Yes, indeed I have! And both were most beautiful andmost Divine!'

  'Stay and help to nurse me,' said Eugene, quietly. 'I should like you tohave the fancy here, before I die.'

  She touched his lips with her hand, and shaded her eyes with that samehand as she went back to her work and her little low song. He heard thesong with evident pleasure, until she allowed it gradually to sink awayinto silence.

  'Mortimer.'

  'My dear Eugene.'

  'If you can give me anything to keep me here for only a few minutes--'

  'To keep you here, Eugene?'

  'To prevent my wandering away I don't know where--for I begin to besensible that I have just come back, and that I shall lose myselfagain--do so, dear boy!'

  Mortimer gave him such stimulants as could be given him with safety(they were always at hand, ready), and bending over him once more, wasabout to caution him, when he said:

  'Don't tell me not to speak, for I must speak. If you knew theharassing anxiety that gnaws and wears me when I am wandering in thoseplaces--where are those endless places, Mortimer? They must be at animmense distance!'

  He saw in his friend's face that he was losing himself; for he addedafter a moment: 'Don't be afraid--I am not gone yet. What was it?'

  'You wanted to tell me something, Eugene. My poor dear fellow, youwanted to say something to your old friend--to the friend who has alwaysloved you, admired you, imitated you, founded himself upon you, beennothing without you, and who, God knows, would be here in your place ifhe could!'

  'Tut, tut!' said Eugene with a tender glance as the other put his handbefore his face. 'I am not worth it. I acknowledge that I like it,dear boy, but I am not worth it. This attack, my dear Mortimer; thismurder--'

  His friend leaned over him with renewed attention, saying: 'You and Isuspect some one.'

  'More than suspect. But, Mortimer, while I lie here, and when I liehere no longer, I trust to you that the perpetrator is never brought tojustice.'

  'Eugene?'

  'Her innocent reputation would be ruined, my friend. She would bepunished, not he. I have wronged her enough in fact; I have wronged herstill more in intention. You recollect what pavement is said to be madeof good intentions. It is made of bad intentions too. Mortimer, I amlying on it, and I know!'

  'Be comforted, my dear Eugene.'

  'I will, when you have promised me. Dear Mortimer, the man must never bepursued. If he should be accused, you must keep him silent and savehim. Don't think of avenging me; think only of hushing the storyand protecting her. You can confuse the case, and turn aside thecircumstances. Listen to what I say to you. It was not the schoolmaster,Bradley Headstone. Do you hear me? Twice; it was not the schoolmaster,Bradley Headstone. Do you hear me? Three times; it was not theschoolmaster, Bradley Headstone.'

  He stopped, exhausted. His speech had been whispered, broken, andindistinct; but by a great effort he had made it plain enough to beunmistakeable.

  'Dear fellow, I am wandering away. Stay me for another moment, if youcan.'

  Lightwood lifted his head at the neck, and put a wine-glass to his lips.He rallied.

  'I don't know how long ago it was done, whether weeks, days, or hours.No matter. There is inquiry on foot, and pursuit. Say! Is there not?'

  'Yes.'

  'Check it; divert it! Don't let her be brought in question. Shieldher. The guilty man, brought to justice, would poison her name. Let theguilty man go unpunished. Lizzie and my reparation before all! Promiseme!'

  'Eugene, I do. I promise you!'

  In the act of turning his eyes gratefully towards his friend, hewandered away. His eyes stood still, and settled into that former intentunmeaning stare.

  Hours and hours, days and nights, he remained in this same condition.There were times when he would calmly speak to his friend after a longperiod of unconsciousness, and would say he was better, and would askfor something. Before it could be given him, he would be gone again.

  The dolls' dressmaker, all softened compassion now, watched him with anearnestness that never relaxed. She would regularly change the ice, orthe cooling spirit, on his head, and would keep her ear at the pillowbetweenwhiles, listening for any faint words that fell from him in hiswanderings. It was amazing through how many hours at a time she wouldremain beside him, in a crouching attitude, attentive to his slightestmoan. As he could not move a hand, he could make no sign of distress;but, through this close watching (if through no secret sympathy orpower) the little creature attained an understanding of him thatLightwood did not possess. Mortimer would often turn to her, as if shewere an interpreter between this sentient world and the insensible man;and she would change the dressing of a wound, or ease a ligature, orturn his face, or alter the pressure of the bedclothes on him, with anabsolute certainty of doing right. The natural lightness and delicacy oftouch which had become very refined by practice in her miniature work,no doubt was involved in this; but her perception was at least as fine.

  The one word, Lizzie, he muttered millions of times. In a certain ph
aseof his distressful state, which was the worst to those who tended him,he would roll his head upon the pillow, incessantly repeating the namein a hurried and impatient manner, with the misery of a disturbed mind,and the monotony of a machine. Equally, when he lay still and staring,he would repeat it for hours without cessation, but then, always in atone of subdued warning and horror. Her presence and her touch upon hisbreast or face would often stop this, and then they learned to expectthat he would for some time remain still, with his eyes closed, and thathe would be conscious on opening them. But, the heavy disappointment oftheir hope--revived by the welcome silence of the room--was, that hisspirit would glide away again and be lost, in the moment of their joythat it was there.

  This frequent rising of a drowning man from the deep, to sink again, wasdreadful to the beholders. But, gradually the change stole upon him thatit became dreadful to himself. His desire to impart something that wason his mind, his unspeakable yearning to have speech with his friendand make a communication to him, so troubled him when he recoveredconsciousness, that its term was thereby shortened. As the man risingfrom the deep would disappear the sooner for fighting with the water, sohe in his desperate struggle went down again.

  One afternoon when he had been lying still, and Lizzie, unrecognized,had just stolen out of the room to pursue her occupation, he utteredLightwood's name.

  'My dear Eugene, I am here.'

  'How long is this to last, Mortimer?'

  Lightwood shook his head. 'Still, Eugene, you are no worse than youwere.'

  'But I know there's no hope. Yet I pray it may last long enough for youto do me one last service, and for me to do one last action. Keep mehere a few moments, Mortimer. Try, try!'

  His friend gave him what aid he could, and encouraged him to believethat he was more composed, though even then his eyes were losing theexpression they so rarely recovered.

  'Hold me here, dear fellow, if you can. Stop my wandering away. I amgoing!'

  'Not yet, not yet. Tell me, dear Eugene, what is it I shall do?'

  'Keep me here for only a single minute. I am going away again. Don't letme go. Hear me speak first. Stop me--stop me!'

  'My poor Eugene, try to be calm.'

  'I do try. I try so hard. If you only knew how hard! Don't let me wandertill I have spoken. Give me a little more wine.'

  Lightwood complied. Eugene, with a most pathetic struggle against theunconsciousness that was coming over him, and with a look of appeal thataffected his friend profoundly, said:

  'You can leave me with Jenny, while you speak to her and tell her what Ibeseech of her. You can leave me with Jenny, while you are gone. There'snot much for you to do. You won't be long away.'

  'No, no, no. But tell me what it is that I shall do, Eugene!'

  'I am going! You can't hold me.'

  'Tell me in a word, Eugene!'

  His eyes were fixed again, and the only word that came from his lips wasthe word millions of times repeated. Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie.

  But, the watchful little dressmaker had been vigilant as ever in herwatch, and she now came up and touched Lightwood's arm as he looked downat his friend, despairingly.

  'Hush!' she said, with her finger on her lips. 'His eyes are closing.He'll be conscious when he next opens them. Shall I give you a leadingword to say to him?'

  'O Jenny, if you could only give me the right word!'

  'I can. Stoop down.'

  He stooped, and she whispered in his ear. She whispered in his ear oneshort word of a single syllable. Lightwood started, and looked at her.

  'Try it,' said the little creature, with an excited and exultant face.She then bent over the unconscious man, and, for the first time, kissedhim on the cheek, and kissed the poor maimed hand that was nearest toher. Then, she withdrew to the foot of the bed.

  Some two hours afterwards, Mortimer Lightwood saw his consciousness comeback, and instantly, but very tranquilly, bent over him.

  'Don't speak, Eugene. Do no more than look at me, and listen to me. Youfollow what I say.'

  He moved his head in assent.

  'I am going on from the point where we broke off. Is the word we shouldsoon have come to--is it--Wife?'

  'O God bless you, Mortimer!'

  'Hush! Don't be agitated. Don't speak. Hear me, dear Eugene. Your mindwill be more at peace, lying here, if you make Lizzie your wife. Youwish me to speak to her, and tell her so, and entreat her to be yourwife. You ask her to kneel at this bedside and be married to you, thatyour reparation may be complete. Is that so?'

  'Yes. God bless you! Yes.'

  'It shall be done, Eugene. Trust it to me. I shall have to go awayfor some few hours, to give effect to your wishes. You see this isunavoidable?'

  'Dear friend, I said so.'

  'True. But I had not the clue then. How do you think I got it?'

  Glancing wistfully around, Eugene saw Miss Jenny at the foot of the bed,looking at him with her elbows on the bed, and her head upon her hands.There was a trace of his whimsical air upon him, as he tried to smile ather.

  'Yes indeed,' said Lightwood, 'the discovery was hers. Observe my dearEugene; while I am away you will know that I have discharged my trustwith Lizzie, by finding her here, in my present place at your bedside,to leave you no more. A final word before I go. This is the right courseof a true man, Eugene. And I solemnly believe, with all my soul, that ifProvidence should mercifully restore you to us, you will be blessed witha noble wife in the preserver of your life, whom you will dearly love.'

  'Amen. I am sure of that. But I shall not come through it, Mortimer.'

  'You will not be the less hopeful or less strong, for this, Eugene.'

  'No. Touch my face with yours, in case I should not hold out till youcome back. I love you, Mortimer. Don't be uneasy for me while you aregone. If my dear brave girl will take me, I feel persuaded that I shalllive long enough to be married, dear fellow.'

  Miss Jenny gave up altogether on this parting taking place between thefriends, and sitting with her back towards the bed in the bower made byher bright hair, wept heartily, though noiselessly. Mortimer Lightwoodwas soon gone. As the evening light lengthened the heavy reflections ofthe trees in the river, another figure came with a soft step into thesick room.

  'Is he conscious?' asked the little dressmaker, as the figure took itsstation by the pillow. For, Jenny had given place to it immediately, andcould not see the sufferer's face, in the dark room, from her new andremoved position.

  'He is conscious, Jenny,' murmured Eugene for himself. 'He knows hiswife.'