THE DOLLS’ DRESSMAKER DISCOVERS A WORD
A darkened and hushed room; the river outside the
windows flowing on to 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
its sides. Only two days of usage so familiarized
the little dressmaker with this scene, that it held
the place occupied two days ago by the recollections
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 their unwinking
stare at one spot straight before them, unless for
a moment the brow knitted into a faint expression
of anger, or surprise. Then, Mortimer Lightwood
would speak to him, and on occasions he would be so
far roused as to make an attempt to pronounce his friend’s
name. But, in an instant consciousness was gone
again, and no spirit of Eugene was in Eugene’s
crushed outer form.
They provided Jenny with materials for plying her
work, and she had a little table placed at the foot
of his bed. Sitting there, with her rich shower
of hair falling over the chair-back, they hoped she
might attract his 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 faint
expression, so evanescent that it was like a shape
made in water. But as yet he had not heeded.
The ‘they’ here mentioned were the medical
attendant; Lizzie, who was there in all her intervals
of rest; and Lightwood, 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 still speaking 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 bending over 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, until he added:
‘Ask her if she has smelt the flowers.’
‘Oh! I know!’ cried Jenny. ‘I
understand him now!’ Then, Lightwood yielded
his place to her quick approach, and she said, bending
over the bed, with that better look: ’You
mean my long bright slanting rows of children, who
used to bring me ease and rest? You mean the children
who used to take me up, and make me light?’
Eugene smiled, ‘Yes.’
