Our Mutual Friend

by Charles Dickens

  Chapter 6

  A CRY FOR HELP

  The Paper Mill had stopped work for the night, and the paths and roadsin its neighbourhood were sprinkled with clusters of people going homefrom their day's labour in it. There were men, women, and children inthe groups, and there was no want of lively colour to flutter in thegentle evening wind. The mingling of various voices and the sound oflaughter made a cheerful impression upon the ear, analogous to that ofthe fluttering colours upon the eye. Into the sheet of water reflectingthe flushed sky in the foreground of the living picture, a knot ofurchins were casting stones, and watching the expansion of the ripplingcircles. So, in the rosy evening, one might watch the ever-wideningbeauty of the landscape--beyond the newly-released workers wendinghome--beyond the silver river--beyond the deep green fields of corn, soprospering, that the loiterers in their narrow threads of pathway seemedto float immersed breast-high--beyond the hedgerows and the clumps oftrees--beyond the windmills on the ridge--away to where the sky appearedto meet the earth, as if there were no immensity of space betweenmankind and Heaven.

  It was a Saturday evening, and at such a time the village dogs, alwaysmuch more interested in the doings of humanity than in the affairs oftheir own species, were particularly active. At the general shop, atthe butcher's and at the public-house, they evinced an inquiring spiritnever to be satiated. Their especial interest in the public-house wouldseem to imply some latent rakishness in the canine character; for littlewas eaten there, and they, having no taste for beer or tobacco (MrsHubbard's dog is said to have smoked, but proof is wanting), could onlyhave been attracted by sympathy with loose convivial habits. Moreover,a most wretched fiddle played within; a fiddle so unutterably vile, thatone lean long-bodied cur, with a better ear than the rest, found himselfunder compulsion at intervals to go round the corner and howl. Yet, evenhe returned to the public-house on each occasion with the tenacity of aconfirmed drunkard.

  Fearful to relate, there was even a sort of little Fair in the village.Some despairing gingerbread that had been vainly trying to dispose ofitself all over the country, and had cast a quantity of dust upon itshead in its mortification, again appealed to the public from an infirmbooth. So did a heap of nuts, long, long exiled from Barcelona, and yetspeaking English so indifferently as to call fourteen of themselvesa pint. A Peep-show which had originally started with the Battle ofWaterloo, and had since made it every other battle of later dateby altering the Duke of Wellington's nose, tempted the student ofillustrated history. A Fat Lady, perhaps in part sustained uponpostponed pork, her professional associate being a Learned Pig,displayed her life-size picture in a low dress as she appeared whenpresented at Court, several yards round. All this was a viciousspectacle as any poor idea of amusement on the part of the rougherhewers of wood and drawers of water in this land of England ever is andshall be. They MUST NOT vary the rheumatism with amusement. They mayvary it with fever and ague, or with as many rheumatic variations asthey have joints; but positively not with entertainment after their ownmanner.

  The various sounds arising from this scene of depravity, and floatingaway into the still evening air, made the evening, at any point whichthey just reached fitfully, mellowed by the distance, more still bycontrast. Such was the stillness of the evening to Eugene Wrayburn, ashe walked by the river with his hands behind him.

  He walked slowly, and with the measured step and preoccupied air of onewho was waiting. He walked between the two points, an osier-bed at thisend and some floating lilies at that, and at each point stopped andlooked expectantly in one direction.

  'It is very quiet,' said he.

  It was very quiet. Some sheep were grazing on the grass by theriver-side, and it seemed to him that he had never before heard thecrisp tearing sound with which they cropped it. He stopped idly, andlooked at them.

  'You are stupid enough, I suppose. But if you are clever enough to getthrough life tolerably to your satisfaction, you have got the better ofme, Man as I am, and Mutton as you are!'

  A rustle in a field beyond the hedge attracted his attention. 'What'shere to do?' he asked himself leisurely going towards the gate andlooking over. 'No jealous paper-miller? No pleasures of the chase inthis part of the country? Mostly fishing hereabouts!'

  The field had been newly mown, and there were yet the marks of thescythe on the yellow-green ground, and the track of wheels where the hayhad been carried. Following the tracks with his eyes, the view closedwith the new hayrick in a corner.

  Now, if he had gone on to the hayrick, and gone round it? But, saythat the event was to be, as the event fell out, and how idle are suchsuppositions! Besides, if he had gone; what is there of warning in aBargeman lying on his face?

  'A bird flying to the hedge,' was all he thought about it; and cameback, and resumed his walk.

  'If I had not a reliance on her being truthful,' said Eugene, aftertaking some half-dozen turns, 'I should begin to think she had given methe slip for the second time. But she promised, and she is a girl of herword.'

  Turning again at the water-lilies, he saw her coming, and advanced tomeet her.

  'I was saying to myself, Lizzie, that you were sure to come, though youwere late.'

  'I had to linger through the village as if I had no object before me,and I had to speak to several people in passing along, Mr Wrayburn.'

  'Are the lads of the village--and the ladies--such scandal-mongers?' heasked, as he took her hand and drew it through his arm.

  She submitted to walk slowly on, with downcast eyes. He put her hand tohis lips, and she quietly drew it away.

  'Will you walk beside me, Mr Wrayburn, and not touch me?' For, his armwas already stealing round her waist.

  She stopped again, and gave him an earnest supplicating look. 'Well,Lizzie, well!' said he, in an easy way though ill at ease with himself'don't be unhappy, don't be reproachful.'

  'I cannot help being unhappy, but I do not mean to be reproachful. MrWrayburn, I implore you to go away from this neighbourhood, to-morrowmorning.'

  'Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie!' he remonstrated. 'As well be reproachful aswholly unreasonable. I can't go away.'

  'Why not?'

  'Faith!' said Eugene in his airily candid manner. 'Because you won't letme. Mind! I don't mean to be reproachful either. I don't complain thatyou design to keep me here. But you do it, you do it.'

  'Will you walk beside me, and not touch me;' for, his arm was comingabout her again; 'while I speak to you very seriously, Mr Wrayburn?'

  'I will do anything within the limits of possibility, for you, Lizzie,'he answered with pleasant gaiety as he folded his arms. 'See here!Napoleon Buonaparte at St Helena.'

  'When you spoke to me as I came from the Mill the night before last,'said Lizzie, fixing her eyes upon him with the look of supplicationwhich troubled his better nature, 'you told me that you were muchsurprised to see me, and that you were on a solitary fishing excursion.Was it true?'

  'It was not,' replied Eugene composedly, 'in the least true. I camehere, because I had information that I should find you here.'

  'Can you imagine why I left London, Mr Wrayburn?'

  'I am afraid, Lizzie,' he openly answered, 'that you left London to getrid of me. It is not flattering to my self-love, but I am afraid youdid.'

  'I did.'

  'How could you be so cruel?'

  'O Mr Wrayburn,' she answered, suddenly breaking into tears, 'is thecruelty on my side! O Mr Wrayburn, Mr Wrayburn, is there no cruelty inyour being here to-night!'

  'In the name of all that's good--and that is not conjuring you in myown name, for Heaven knows I am not good'--said Eugene, 'don't bedistressed!'

  'What else can I be, when I know the distance and the difference betweenus? What else can I be, when to tell me why you came here, is to put meto shame!' said Lizzie, covering her face.

  He looked at her with a real sentiment of remorseful tenderness andpity. It was not strong enough to impell him to sacrifice himself andspare her, but it was a strong emotion.

&
nbsp; 'Lizzie! I never thought before, that there was a woman in the world whocould affect me so much by saying so little. But don't be hard in yourconstruction of me. You don't know what my state of mind towards you is.You don't know how you haunt me and bewilder me. You don't know how thecursed carelessness that is over-officious in helping me at every otherturning of my life, WON'T help me here. You have struck it dead, Ithink, and I sometimes almost wish you had struck me dead along withit.'

  She had not been prepared for such passionate expressions, and theyawakened some natural sparks of feminine pride and joy in her breast. Toconsider, wrong as he was, that he could care so much for her, and thatshe had the power to move him so!

  'It grieves you to see me distressed, Mr Wrayburn; it grieves me to seeyou distressed. I don't reproach you. Indeed I don't reproach you.You have not felt this as I feel it, being so different from me, andbeginning from another point of view. You have not thought. But Ientreat you to think now, think now!'

  'What am I to think of?' asked Eugene, bitterly.

  'Think of me.'

  'Tell me how NOT to think of you, Lizzie, and you'll change mealtogether.'

  'I don't mean in that way. Think of me, as belonging to another station,and quite cut off from you in honour. Remember that I have no protectornear me, unless I have one in your noble heart. Respect my good name.If you feel towards me, in one particular, as you might if I was a lady,give me the full claims of a lady upon your generous behaviour. I amremoved from you and your family by being a working girl. How true agentleman to be as considerate of me as if I was removed by being aQueen!'

  He would have been base indeed to have stood untouched by her appeal.His face expressed contrition and indecision as he asked:

  'Have I injured you so much, Lizzie?'

  'No, no. You may set me quite right. I don't speak of the past, MrWrayburn, but of the present and the future. Are we not here now,because through two days you have followed me so closely where thereare so many eyes to see you, that I consented to this appointment as anescape?'

  'Again, not very flattering to my self-love,' said Eugene, moodily; 'butyes. Yes. Yes.'

  'Then I beseech you, Mr Wrayburn, I beg and pray you, leave thisneighbourhood. If you do not, consider to what you will drive me.'

  He did consider within himself for a moment or two, and then retorted,'Drive you? To what shall I drive you, Lizzie?'

  'You will drive me away. I live here peacefully and respected, and I amwell employed here. You will force me to quit this place as I quittedLondon, and--by following me again--will force me to quit the next placein which I may find refuge, as I quitted this.'

  'Are you so determined, Lizzie--forgive the word I am going to use, forits literal truth--to fly from a lover?'

  'I am so determined,' she answered resolutely, though trembling, 'to flyfrom such a lover. There was a poor woman died here but a little whileago, scores of years older than I am, whom I found by chance, lying onthe wet earth. You may have heard some account of her?'

  'I think I have,' he answered, 'if her name was Higden.'

  'Her name was Higden. Though she was so weak and old, she kept true toone purpose to the very last. Even at the very last, she made me promisethat her purpose should be kept to, after she was dead, so settledwas her determination. What she did, I can do. Mr Wrayburn, if Ibelieved--but I do not believe--that you could be so cruel to me asto drive me from place to place to wear me out, you should drive me todeath and not do it.'

  He looked full at her handsome face, and in his own handsome face therewas a light of blended admiration, anger, and reproach, which she--wholoved him so in secret whose heart had long been so full, and he thecause of its overflowing--drooped before. She tried hard to retain herfirmness, but he saw it melting away under his eyes. In the moment ofits dissolution, and of his first full knowledge of his influence uponher, she dropped, and he caught her on his arm.

  'Lizzie! Rest so a moment. Answer what I ask you. If I had not been whatyou call removed from you and cut off from you, would you have made thisappeal to me to leave you?'

  'I don't know, I don't know. Don't ask me, Mr Wrayburn. Let me go back.'

  'I swear to you, Lizzie, you shall go directly. I swear to you, youshall go alone. I'll not accompany you, I'll not follow you, if you willreply.'

  'How can I, Mr Wrayburn? How can I tell you what I should have done, ifyou had not been what you are?'

  'If I had not been what you make me out to be,' he struck in, skilfullychanging the form of words, 'would you still have hated me?'

  'O Mr Wrayburn,' she replied appealingly, and weeping, 'you know mebetter than to think I do!'

  'If I had not been what you make me out to be, Lizzie, would you stillhave been indifferent to me?'

  'O Mr Wrayburn,' she answered as before, 'you know me better than thattoo!'

  There was something in the attitude of her whole figure as he supportedit, and she hung her head, which besought him to be merciful and notforce her to disclose her heart. He was not merciful with her, and hemade her do it.

  'If I know you better than quite to believe (unfortunate dog though Iam!) that you hate me, or even that you are wholly indifferent to me,Lizzie, let me know so much more from yourself before we separate. Letme know how you would have dealt with me if you had regarded me as beingwhat you would have considered on equal terms with you.'

  'It is impossible, Mr Wrayburn. How can I think of you as being on equalterms with me? If my mind could put you on equal terms with me, youcould not be yourself. How could I remember, then, the night when Ifirst saw you, and when I went out of the room because you looked atme so attentively? Or, the night that passed into the morning when youbroke to me that my father was dead? Or, the nights when you used tocome to see me at my next home? Or, your having known how uninstructedI was, and having caused me to be taught better? Or, my having so lookedup to you and wondered at you, and at first thought you so good to be atall mindful of me?'

  'Only "at first" thought me so good, Lizzie? What did you think me after"at first"? So bad?'

  'I don't say that. I don't mean that. But after the first wonder andpleasure of being noticed by one so different from any one who had everspoken to me, I began to feel that it might have been better if I hadnever seen you.'

  'Why?'

  'Because you WERE so different,' she answered in a lower voice. 'Becauseit was so endless, so hopeless. Spare me!'

  'Did you think for me at all, Lizzie?' he asked, as if he were a littlestung.

  'Not much, Mr Wrayburn. Not much until to-night.'

  'Will you tell me why?'

  'I never supposed until to-night that you needed to be thought for. Butif you do need to be; if you do truly feel at heart that you have indeedbeen towards me what you have called yourself to-night, and that thereis nothing for us in this life but separation; then Heaven help you, andHeaven bless you!'

  The purity with which in these words she expressed something of herown love and her own suffering, made a deep impression on him for thepassing time. He held her, almost as if she were sanctified to him bydeath, and kissed her, once, almost as he might have kissed the dead.

  'I promised that I would not accompany you, nor follow you. Shall I keepyou in view? You have been agitated, and it's growing dark.'

  'I am used to be out alone at this hour, and I entreat you not to doso.'

  'I promise. I can bring myself to promise nothing more tonight, Lizzie,except that I will try what I can do.'

  'There is but one means, Mr Wrayburn, of sparing yourself and of sparingme, every way. Leave this neighbourhood to-morrow morning.'

  'I will try.'

  As he spoke the words in a grave voice, she put her hand in his, removedit, and went away by the river-side.

  'Now, could Mortimer believe this?' murmured Eugene, still remaining,after a while, where she had left him. 'Can I even believe it myself?'

  He referred to the circumstance that there were tears upon his hand,as he sto
od covering his eyes. 'A most ridiculous position this, to befound out in!' was his next thought. And his next struck its root in alittle rising resentment against the cause of the tears.

  'Yet I have gained a wonderful power over her, too, let her be as muchin earnest as she will!'

  The reflection brought back the yielding of her face and form as shehad drooped under his gaze. Contemplating the reproduction, he seemedto see, for the second time, in the appeal and in the confession ofweakness, a little fear.

  'And she loves me. And so earnest a character must be very earnest inthat passion. She cannot choose for herself to be strong in this fancy,wavering in that, and weak in the other. She must go through with hernature, as I must go through with mine. If mine exacts its pains andpenalties all round, so must hers, I suppose.'

  Pursuing the inquiry into his own nature, he thought, 'Now, if I marriedher. If, outfacing the absurdity of the situation in correspondence withM. R. F., I astonished M. R. F. to the utmost extent of his respectedpowers, by informing him that I had married her, how would M. R. F.reason with the legal mind? "You wouldn't marry for some money and somestation, because you were frightfully likely to become bored. Are youless frightfully likely to become bored, marrying for no money and nostation? Are you sure of yourself?" Legal mind, in spite of forensicprotestations, must secretly admit, "Good reasoning on the part of M. R.F. NOT sure of myself."'

  In the very act of calling this tone of levity to his aid, he felt it tobe profligate and worthless, and asserted her against it.

  'And yet,' said Eugene, 'I should like to see the fellow (Mortimerexcepted) who would undertake to tell me that this was not a realsentiment on my part, won out of me by her beauty and her worth,in spite of myself, and that I would not be true to her. I shouldparticularly like to see the fellow to-night who would tell me so, orwho would tell me anything that could be construed to her disadvantage;for I am wearily out of sorts with one Wrayburn who cuts a sorry figure,and I would far rather be out of sorts with somebody else. "Eugene,Eugene, Eugene, this is a bad business." Ah! So go the MortimerLightwood bells, and they sound melancholy to-night.'

  Strolling on, he thought of something else to take himself to task for.'Where is the analogy, Brute Beast,' he said impatiently, 'between awoman whom your father coolly finds out for you and a woman whom youhave found out for yourself, and have ever drifted after with more andmore of constancy since you first set eyes upon her? Ass! Can you reasonno better than that?'

  But, again he subsided into a reminiscence of his first full knowledgeof his power just now, and of her disclosure of her heart. To try nomore to go away, and to try her again, was the reckless conclusion itturned uppermost. And yet again, 'Eugene, Eugene, Eugene, this is a badbusiness!' And, 'I wish I could stop the Lightwood peal, for it soundslike a knell.'

  Looking above, he found that the young moon was up, and that the starswere beginning to shine in the sky from which the tones of red andyellow were flickering out, in favour of the calm blue of a summernight. He was still by the river-side. Turning suddenly, he met a man,so close upon him that Eugene, surprised, stepped back, to avoid acollision. The man carried something over his shoulder which mighthave been a broken oar, or spar, or bar, and took no notice of him, butpassed 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 hispurpose in his thoughts. He passed the sheep, and passed the gate, andcame within hearing of the village sounds, and came to the bridge. Theinn where he stayed, like the village and the mill, was not acrossthe 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 aretired place, and feeling out of humour for noise or company, hecrossed the bridge, and sauntered on: looking up at the stars as theyseemed one by one to be kindled in the sky, and looking down at theriver as the same stars seemed to be kindled deep in the water. Alanding-place overshadowed by a willow, and a pleasure-boat lying mooredthere among some stakes, caught his eye as he passed along. The spot wasin such dark shadow, that he paused to make out what was there, and thenpassed on again.

  The rippling of the river seemed to cause a correspondent stir in hisuneasy reflections. He would have laid them asleep if he could, but theywere in movement, like the stream, and all tending one way with a strongcurrent. 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 ofhis thoughts started, unbidden, from the rest, and revealed theirwickedness. 'Out of the question to marry her,' said Eugene, 'and out ofthe question to leave her. The crisis!'

  He had sauntered far enough. Before turning to retrace his steps, hestopped upon the margin, to look down at the reflected night. In aninstant, with a dreadful crash, the reflected night turned crooked,flames shot jaggedly across the air, and the moon and stars camebursting from the sky.

  Was he struck by lightning? With some incoherent half-formed thoughtto that effect, he turned under the blows that were blinding him andmashing his life, and closed with a murderer, whom he caught by a redneckerchief--unless the raining down of his own blood gave it that hue.

  Eugene was light, active, and expert; but his arms were broken, or hewas paralysed, and could do no more than hang on to the man, with hishead swung back, so that he could see nothing but the heaving sky. Afterdragging at the assailant, he fell on the bank with him, and then therewas another great crash, and then a splash, and all was done.

  Lizzie Hexam, too, had avoided the noise, and the Saturday movement ofpeople in the straggling street, and chose to walk alone by the wateruntil her tears should be dry, and she could so compose herself asto escape remark upon her looking ill or unhappy on going home. Thepeaceful serenity of the hour and place, having no reproaches or evilintentions within her breast to contend against, sank healingly intoits depths. She had meditated and taken comfort. She, too, was turninghomeward, when she heard a strange sound.

  It startled her, for it was like a sound of blows. She stood still, andlistened. It sickened her, for blows fell heavily and cruelly on thequiet of the night. As she listened, undecided, all was silent. As sheyet listened, she heard a faint groan, and a fall into the river.

  Her old bold life and habit instantly inspired her. Without vain wasteof breath in crying for help where there were none to hear, she rantowards the spot from which the sounds had come. It lay between her andthe bridge, but it was more removed from her than she had thought; thenight being so very quiet, and sound travelling far with the help ofwater.

  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 tornfragments of clothes. Stooping, she saw that the grass was bloody.Following the drops and smears, she saw that the watery margin of thebank was bloody. Following the current with her eyes, she saw a bloodyface turned up towards the moon, and drifting away.

  Now, merciful Heaven be thanked for that old time, and grant, O BlessedLord, 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, helpmy humble hands, Lord God, to raise it from death and restore it to someone to whom it must be dear!

  It was thought, fervently thought, but not for a moment did the prayercheck her. She was away before it welled up in her mind, away, swiftand true, yet steady above all--for without steadiness it could neverbe done--to the landing-place under the willow-tree, where she also hadseen the boat lying moored among the stakes.

  A sure touch of her old practised hand, a sure step of her old practisedfoot, a sure light balance of her body, and she was in the boat. Aquick glance of her practised eye showed her, even through the deep darkshadow, the sculls in a rack against the red-brick garden-wall. Anothermoment, and she had cast off (taking the line with her), and the boathad shot out into the moonlight, and she was rowing down the stream asnever other
woman rowed on English water.

  Intently over her shoulder, without slackening speed, she looked aheadfor the driving face. She passed the scene of the struggle--yonder itwas, 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 intothe river; its sounds were growing faint again, and she slackened;looking as the boat drove, everywhere, everywhere, for the floatingface.

  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 bythe moonlight what she saw at the length of a few strokes astern. Shesaw the drowning figure rise to the surface, slightly struggle, and asif by instinct turn over on its back to float. Just so had she firstdimly 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, andcrept aft in the boat, between kneeling and crouching. Once, she let thebody evade her, not being sure of her grasp. Twice, and she had seizedit by its bloody hair.

  It was insensible, if not virtually dead; it was mutilated, and streakedthe water all about it with dark red streaks. As it could not helpitself, it was impossible for her to get it on board. She bent over thestern to secure it with the line, and then the river and its shores rangto the terrible cry she uttered.

  But, as if possessed by supernatural spirit and strength, she lashedit safe, resumed her seat, and rowed in, desperately, for the nearestshallow water where she might run the boat aground. Desperately, but notwildly, for she knew that if she lost distinctness of intention, all waslost and gone.

  She ran the boat ashore, went into the water, released him from theline, and by main strength lifted him in her arms and laid him in thebottom of the boat. He had fearful wounds upon him, and she bound themup with her dress torn into strips. Else, supposing him to be stillalive, she foresaw that he must bleed to death before he could be landedat his inn, which was the nearest place for succour.

  This done very rapidly, she kissed his disfigured forehead, looked upin anguish to the stars, and blessed him and forgave him, 'if she hadanything to forgive.' It was only in that instant that she thought ofherself, and then she thought of herself only for him.

  Now, merciful Heaven be thanked for that old time, enabling me, withouta wasted moment, to have got the boat afloat again, and to row backagainst the stream! And grant, O Blessed Lord God, that through poor mehe may be raised from death, and preserved to some one else to whom hemay be dear one day, though never dearer than to me!

  She rowed hard--rowed desperately, but never wildly--and seldom removedher 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 disfiguredthat his mother might have covered it, but it was above and beyonddisfigurement in her eyes.

  The boat touched the edge of the patch of inn lawn, sloping gently tothe water. There were lights in the windows, but there chanced to beno one out of doors. She made the boat fast, and again by main strengthtook him up, and never laid him down until she laid him down in thehouse.

  Surgeons were sent for, and she sat supporting his head. She hadoftentimes heard in days that were gone, how doctors would lift the handof an insensible wounded person, and would drop it if the person weredead. She waited for the awful moment when the doctors might lift thishand, all broken and bruised, and let it fall.

  The first of the surgeons came, and asked, before proceeding to hisexamination, '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 somecompassion. 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 atthe pupils of the eyes. That done, he replaced the candle and took thehand 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, butkept it for a while and laid it gently down.

  'Attend to the poor girl,' said the first surgeon then. 'She is quiteunconscious. She sees nothing and hears nothing. All the better forher! Don't rouse her, if you can help it; only move her. Poor girl, poorgirl! She must be amazingly strong of heart, but it is much to be fearedthat she has set her heart upon the dead. Be gentle with her.'