Our Mutual Friend
more of constancy since you first set eyes upon her? Ass! Can you reason
no better than that?’
But, again he subsided into a reminiscence of his first full knowledge
of his power just now, and of her disclosure of her heart. To try no
more to go away, and to try her again, was the reckless conclusion it
turned uppermost. And yet again, ‘Eugene, Eugene, Eugene, this is a bad
business!’ And, ‘I wish I could stop the Lightwood peal, for it sounds
like a knell.’
Looking above, he found that the young moon was up, and that the stars
were beginning to shine in the sky from which the tones of red and
yellow were flickering out, in favour of the calm blue of a summer
night. He was still by the river-side. Turning suddenly, he met a man,
so close upon him that Eugene, surprised, stepped back, to avoid a
collision. The man carried something over his shoulder which might
have been a broken oar, or spar, or bar, and took no notice of him, but
passed on.
‘Halloa, friend!’ said Eugene, calling after him, ‘are you blind?’
The man made no reply, but went his way.
Eugene Wrayburn went the opposite way, with his hands behind him and his
purpose in his thoughts. He passed the sheep, and passed the gate, and
came within hearing of the village sounds, and came to the bridge. The
inn where he stayed, like the village and the mill, was not across
the river, but on that side of the stream on which he walked. However,
knowing the rushy bank and the backwater on the other side to be a
retired place, and feeling out of humour for noise or company, he
crossed the bridge, and sauntered on: looking up at the stars as they
seemed one by one to be kindled in the sky, and looking down at the
river as the same stars seemed to be kindled deep in the water. A
landing-place overshadowed by a willow, and a pleasure-boat lying moored
there among some stakes, caught his eye as he passed along. The spot was
in such dark shadow, that he paused to make out what was there, and then
passed on again.
The rippling of the river seemed to cause a correspondent stir in his
uneasy reflections. He would have laid them asleep if he could, but they
were in movement, like the stream, and all tending one way with a strong
current. As the ripple under the moon broke unexpectedly now and then,
and palely flashed in a new shape and with a new sound, so parts of
his thoughts started, unbidden, from the rest, and revealed their
wickedness. ‘Out of the question to marry her,’ said Eugene, ‘and out of
the question to leave her. The crisis!’
He had sauntered far enough. Before turning to retrace his steps, he
stopped upon the margin, to look down at the reflected night. In an
instant, with a dreadful crash, the reflected night turned crooked,
flames shot jaggedly across the air, and the moon and stars came
bursting from the sky.
Was he struck by lightning? With some incoherent half-formed thought
to that effect, he turned under the blows that were blinding him and
mashing his life, and closed with a murderer, whom he caught by a red
neckerchief—unless the raining down of his own blood gave it that hue.
Eugene was light, active, and expert; but his arms were broken, or he
was paralysed, and could do no more than hang on to the man, with his
head swung back, so that he could see nothing but the heaving sky. After
dragging at the assailant, he fell on the bank with him, and then there
was another great crash, and then a splash, and all was done.
Lizzie Hexam, too, had avoided the noise, and the Saturday movement of
people in the straggling street, and chose to walk alone by the water
until her tears should be dry, and she could so compose herself as
to escape remark upon her looking ill or unhappy on going home. The
peaceful serenity of the hour and place, having no reproaches or evil
intentions within her breast to contend against, sank healingly into
its depths. She had meditated and taken comfort. She, too, was turning
homeward, when she heard a strange sound.
It startled her, for it was like a sound of blows. She stood still, and
listened. It sickened her, for blows fell heavily and cruelly on the
quiet of the night. As she listened, undecided, all was silent. As she
yet listened, she heard a faint groan, and a fall into the river.
Her old bold life and habit instantly inspired her. Without vain waste
of breath in crying for help where there were none to hear, she ran
towards the spot from which the sounds had come. It lay between her and
the bridge, but it was more removed from her than she had thought; the
night being so very quiet, and sound travelling far with the help of
water.
At length, she reached a part of the green bank, much and newly trodden,
where there lay some broken splintered pieces of wood and some torn
fragments of clothes. Stooping, she saw that the grass was bloody.
Following the drops and smears, she saw that the watery margin of the
bank was bloody. Following the current with her eyes, she saw a bloody
face turned up towards the moon, and drifting away.
Now, merciful Heaven be thanked for that old time, and grant, O Blessed
Lord, that through thy wonderful workings it may turn to good at last!
To whomsoever the drifting face belongs, be it man’s or woman’s, help
my humble hands, Lord God, to raise it from death and restore it to some
one to whom it must be dear!
It was thought, fervently thought, but not for a moment did the prayer
check her. She was away before it welled up in her mind, away, swift
and true, yet steady above all—for without steadiness it could never
be done—to the landing-place under the willow-tree, where she also had
seen the boat lying moored among the stakes.
A sure touch of her old practised hand, a sure step of her old practised
foot, a sure light balance of her body, and she was in the boat. A
quick glance of her practised eye showed her, even through the deep dark
shadow, the sculls in a rack against the red-brick garden-wall. Another
moment, and she had cast off (taking the line with her), and the boat
had shot out into the moonlight, and she was rowing down the stream as
never other woman rowed on English water.
Intently over her shoulder, without slackening speed, she looked ahead
for the driving face. She passed the scene of the struggle—yonder it
was, on her left, well over the boat’s stern—she passed on her right,
the end of the village street, a hilly street that almost dipped into
the river; its sounds were growing faint again, and she slackened;
looking as the boat drove, everywhere, everywhere, for the floating
face.
She merely kept the boat before the stream now, and rested on her oars,
knowing well that if the face were not soon visible, it had gone down,
and she would overshoot it. An untrained sight would never have seen by
the moonlight what she saw at the length of a few strokes astern. She
saw the drowning figure rise to the surface, slightly struggle, and as
if by instinct turn over on its back to float. Just so had she first
dimly seen the face which she now dimly saw again.
Firm of look and firm of purpose, she intently watched its coming on,
until it was very near; then, with a touch unshipped her sculls, and
crept aft in the boat, between kneeling and crouching. Once, she let the
body evade her, not being sure of her grasp. Twice, and she had seized
it by its bloody hair.
It was insensible, if not virtually dead; it was mutilated, and streaked
the water all about it with dark red streaks. As it could not help
itself, it was impossible for her to get it on board. She bent over the
stern to secure it with the line, and then the river and its shores rang
to the terrible cry she uttered.
But, as if possessed by supernatural spirit and strength, she lashed
it safe, resumed her seat, and rowed in, desperately, for the nearest
shallow water where she might run the boat aground. Desperately, but not
wildly, for she knew that if she lost distinctness of intention, all was
lost and gone.
She ran the boat ashore, went into the water, released him from the
line, and by main strength lifted him in her arms and laid him in the
bottom of the boat. He had fearful wounds upon him, and she bound them
up with her dress torn into strips. Else, supposing him to be still
alive, she foresaw that he must bleed to death before he could be landed
at his inn, which was the nearest place for succour.
This done very rapidly, she kissed his disfigured forehead, looked up
in anguish to the stars, and blessed him and forgave him, ‘if she had
anything to forgive.’ It was only in that instant that she thought of
herself, and then she thought of herself only for him.
Now, merciful Heaven be thanked for that old time, enabling me, without
a wasted moment, to have got the boat afloat again, and to row back
against the stream! And grant, O Blessed Lord God, that through poor me
he may be raised from death, and preserved to some one else to whom he
may be dear one day, though never dearer than to me!
She rowed hard—rowed desperately, but never wildly—and seldom removed
her eyes from him in the bottom of the boat. She had so laid him there,
as that she might see his disfigured face; it was so much disfigured
that his mother might have covered it, but it was above and beyond
disfigurement in her eyes.
The boat touched the edge of the patch of inn lawn, sloping gently to
the water. There were lights in the windows, but there chanced to be
no one out of doors. She made the boat fast, and again by main strength
took him up, and never laid him down until she laid him down in the
house.
Surgeons were sent for, and she sat supporting his head. She had
oftentimes heard in days that were gone, how doctors would lift the hand
of an insensible wounded person, and would drop it if the person were
dead. She waited for the awful moment when the doctors might lift this
hand, all broken and bruised, and let it fall.
The first of the surgeons came, and asked, before proceeding to his
examination, ‘Who brought him in?’
‘I brought him in, sir,’ answered Lizzie, at whom all present looked.
‘You, my dear? You could not lift, far less carry, this weight.’
‘I think I could not, at another time, sir; but I am sure I did.’
The surgeon looked at her with great attention, and with some
compassion. Having with a grave face touched the wounds upon the head,
and the broken arms, he took the hand.
O! would he let it drop?
He appeared irresolute. He did not retain it, but laid it gently down,
took a candle, looked more closely at the injuries on the head, and at
the pupils of the eyes. That done, he replaced the candle and took the
hand again. Another surgeon then coming in, the two exchanged a whisper,
and the second took the hand. Neither did he let it fall at once, but
kept it for a while and laid it gently down.
‘Attend to the poor girl,’ said the first surgeon then. ‘She is quite
unconscious. She sees nothing and hears nothing. All the better for
her! Don’t rouse her, if you can help it; only move her. Poor girl, poor
girl! She must be amazingly strong of heart, but it is much to be feared
that she has set her heart upon the dead. Be gentle with her.’
Chapter 7
BETTER TO BE ABEL THAN CAIN
Day was breaking at Plashwater Weir Mill Lock. Stars were yet visible,
but there was dull light in the east that was not the light of night.
The moon had gone down, and a mist crept along the banks of the river,
seen through which the trees were the ghosts of trees, and the water
was the ghost of water. This earth looked spectral, and so did the
pale stars: while the cold eastern glare, expressionless as to heat or
colour, with the eye of the firmament quenched, might have been likened
to the stare of the dead.