Our Mutual Friend · Book the Second · Chapter 2 15 (2/3)

Her look dropped for an instant to his bleeding hand. He lifted it to his mouth, wiped it on his sleeve, and again folded it over the other. “Mr. Eugene Wrayburn,” he repeated.

“Why do you mention that name again and again, Mr. Headstone?”

“Because it is the text of the little I have left to say. Observe! There are no threats in it. If I utter a threat, stop me, and fasten it upon me. Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.”

A worse threat than was conveyed in his manner of uttering the name, could hardly have escaped him.

“He haunts you. You accept favours from him. You are willing enough to listen to him. I know it, as well as he does.”

“Mr. Wrayburn has been considerate and good to me, sir,” said Lizzie, proudly, “in connection with the death and with the memory of my poor father.”

“No doubt. He is of course a very considerate and a very good man, Mr. Eugene Wrayburn.”

“He is nothing to you, I think,” said Lizzie, with an indignation she could not repress.

“Oh yes, he is. There you mistake. He is much to me.”

“What can he be to you?”

“He can be a rival to me among other things,” said Bradley.

“Mr. Headstone,” returned Lizzie, with a burning face, “it is cowardly in you to speak to me in this way. But it makes me able to tell you that I do not like you, and that I never have liked you from the first, and that no other living creature has anything to do with the effect you have produced upon me for yourself.”

His head bent for a moment, as if under a weight, and he then looked up again, moistening his lips. “I was going on with the little I had left to say. I knew all this about Mr. Eugene Wrayburn, all the while you were drawing me to you. I strove against the knowledge, but quite in vain. It made no difference in me. With Mr. Eugene Wrayburn in my mind, I went on. With Mr. Eugene Wrayburn in my mind, I spoke to you just now. With Mr. Eugene Wrayburn in my mind, I have been set aside and I have been cast out.”

“If you give those names to my thanking you for your proposal and declining it, is it my fault, Mr. Headstone?” said Lizzie, compassionating the bitter struggle he could not conceal, almost as much as she was repelled and alarmed by it.

“I am not complaining,” he returned, “I am only stating the case. I had to wrestle with my self-respect when I submitted to be drawn to you in spite of Mr. Wrayburn. You may imagine how low my self-respect lies now.”

She was hurt and angry; but repressed herself in consideration of his suffering, and of his being her brother’s friend.

“And it lies under his feet,” said Bradley, unfolding his hands in spite of himself, and fiercely motioning with them both towards the stones of the pavement. “Remember that! It lies under that fellow’s feet, and he treads upon it and exults above it.”

“He does not!” said Lizzie.

“He does!” said Bradley. “I have stood before him face to face, and he crushed me down in the dirt of his contempt, and walked over me. Why? Because he knew with triumph what was in store for me tonight.”

“O, Mr. Headstone, you talk quite wildly.”

“Quite collectedly. I know what I say too well. Now I have said all. I have used no threat, remember; I have done no more than show you how the case stands;⁠—how the case stands, so far.”

At this moment her brother sauntered into view close by. She darted to him, and caught him by the hand. Bradley followed, and laid his heavy hand on the boy’s opposite shoulder.

“Charley Hexam, I am going home. I must walk home by myself tonight, and get shut up in my room without being spoken to. Give me half an hour’s start, and let me be, till you find me at my work in the morning. I shall be at my work in the morning just as usual.”

Clasping his hands, he uttered a short unearthly broken cry, and went his way. The brother and sister were left looking at one another near a lamp in the solitary churchyard, and the boy’s face clouded and darkened, as he said in a rough tone: “What is the meaning of this? What have you done to my best friend? Out with the truth!”

“Charley!” said his sister. “Speak a little more considerately!”

“I am not in the humour for consideration, or for nonsense of any sort,” replied the boy. “What have you been doing? Why has Mr. Headstone gone from us in that way?”

“He asked me⁠—you know he asked me⁠—to be his wife, Charley.”

“Well?” said the boy, impatiently.

“And I was obliged to tell him that I could not be his wife.”

“You were obliged to tell him,” repeated the boy angrily, between his teeth, and rudely pushing her away. “You were obliged to tell him! Do you know that he is worth fifty of you?”

“It may easily be so, Charley, but I cannot marry him.”

“You mean that you are conscious that you can’t appreciate him, and don’t deserve him, I suppose?”

“I mean that I do not like him, Charley, and that I will never marry him.”

“Upon my soul,” exclaimed the boy, “you are a nice picture of a sister! Upon my soul, you are a pretty piece of disinterestedness! And so all my endeavours to cancel the past and to raise myself in the world, and to raise you with me, are to be beaten down by your low whims; are they?”

“I will not reproach you, Charley.”

“Hear her!” exclaimed the boy, looking round at the darkness. “She won’t reproach me! She does her best to destroy my fortunes and her own, and she won’t reproach me! Why, you’ll tell me, next, that you won’t reproach Mr. Headstone for coming out of the sphere to which he is an ornament, and putting himself at your feet, to be rejected by you!”

“No, Charley; I will only tell you, as I told himself, that I thank him for doing so, that I am sorry he did so, and that I hope he will do much better, and be happy.”

Some touch of compunction smote the boy’s hardening heart as he looked upon her, his patient little nurse in infancy, his patient friend, adviser, and reclaimer in boyhood, the self-forgetting sister who had done everything for him. His tone relented, and he drew her arm through his.

“Now, come, Liz; don’t let us quarrel: let us be reasonable and talk this over like brother and sister. Will you listen to me?”

“Oh, Charley!” she replied through her starting tears; “do I not listen to you, and hear many hard things!”

“Then I am sorry. There, Liz! I am unfeignedly sorry. Only you do put me out so. Now see. Mr. Headstone is perfectly devoted to you. He has told me in the strongest manner that he has never been his old self for one single minute since I first brought him to see you. Miss Peecher, our schoolmistress⁠—pretty and young, and all that⁠—is known to be very much attached to him, and he won’t so much as look at her or hear of her. Now, his devotion to you must be a disinterested one; mustn’t it? If he married Miss Peecher, he would be a great deal better off in all worldly respects, than in marrying you. Well then; he has nothing to get by it, has he?”

“Nothing, Heaven knows!”

“Very well then,” said the boy; “that’s something in his favour, and a great thing. Then I come in. Mr. Headstone has always got me on, and he has a good deal in his power, and of course if he was my brother-in-law he wouldn’t get me on less, but would get me on more. Mr. Headstone comes and confides in me, in a very delicate way, and says, ‘I hope my marrying your sister would be agreeable to you, Hexam, and useful to you?’ I say, ‘There’s nothing in the world, Mr. Headstone, that I could be better pleased with.’ Mr. Headstone says, ‘Then I may rely upon your intimate knowledge of me for your good word with your sister, Hexam?’ And I say, ‘Certainly, Mr. Headstone, and naturally I have a good deal of influence with her.’ So I have; haven’t I, Liz?”

“Yes, Charley.”

“Well said! Now, you see, we begin to get on, the moment we begin to be really talking it over, like brother and sister. Very well. Then you come in. As Mr. Headstone’s wife you would be occupying a most respectable station, and you would be holding a far better place in society than you hold now, and you would at length get quit of the riverside and the old disagreeables belonging to it, and you would be rid for good of dolls’ dressmakers and their drunken fathers, and the like of that. Not that I want to disparage Miss Jenny Wren: I dare say she is all very well in her way; but her way is not your way as Mr. Headstone’s wife. Now, you see, Liz, on all three accounts⁠—on Mr. Headstone’s, on mine, on yours⁠—nothing could be better or more desirable.”

They were walking slowly as the boy spoke, and here he stood still, to see what effect he had made. His sister’s eyes were fixed upon him; but as they showed no yielding, and as she remained silent, he walked her on again. There was some discomfiture in his tone as he resumed, though he tried to conceal it.

“Having so much influence with you, Liz, as I have, perhaps I should have done better to have had a little chat with you in the first instance, before Mr. Headstone spoke for himself. But really all this in his favour seemed so plain and undeniable, and I knew you to have always been so reasonable and sensible, that I didn’t consider it worth while. Very likely that was a mistake of mine. However, it’s soon set right. All that need be done to set it right, is for you to tell me at once that I may go home and tell Mr. Headstone that what has taken place is not final, and that it will all come round by-and-by.”

He stopped again. The pale face looked anxiously and lovingly at him, but she shook her head.

“Can’t you speak?” said the boy sharply.

“I am very unwilling to speak, Charley. If I must, I must. I cannot authorize you to say any such thing to Mr. Headstone: I cannot allow you to say any such thing to Mr. Headstone. Nothing remains to be said to him from me, after what I have said for good and all, tonight.”

“And this girl,” cried the boy, contemptuously throwing her off again, “calls herself a sister!”

“Charley, dear, that is the second time that you have almost struck me. Don’t be hurt by my words. I don’t mean⁠—Heaven forbid!⁠—that you intended it; but you hardly know with what a sudden swing you removed yourself from me.”

“However!” said the boy, taking no heed of the remonstrance, and pursuing his own mortified disappointment, “I know what this means, and you shall not disgrace me.”

“It means what I have told you, Charley, and nothing more.”

“That’s not true,” said the boy in a violent tone, “and you know it’s not. It means your precious Mr. Wrayburn; that’s what it means.”

“Charley! If you remember any old days of ours together, forbear!”

“But you shall not disgrace me,” doggedly pursued the boy. “I am determined that after I have climbed up out of the mire, you shall not pull me down. You can’t disgrace me if I have nothing to do with you, and I will have nothing to do with you for the future.”

“Charley! On many a night like this, and many a worse night, I have sat on the stones of the street, hushing you in my arms. Unsay those words without even saying you are sorry for them, and my arms are open to you still, and so is my heart.”

“I’ll not unsay them. I’ll say them again. You are an inveterately bad girl, and a false sister, and I have done with you. Forever, I have done with you!”

He threw up his ungrateful and ungracious hand as if it set up a barrier between them, and flung himself upon his heel and left her. She remained impassive on the same spot, silent and motionless, until the striking of the church clock roused her, and she turned away. But then, with the breaking up of her immobility came the breaking up of the waters that the cold heart of the selfish boy had frozen. And “O that I were lying here with the dead!” and “O Charley, Charley, that this should be the end of our pictures in the fire!” were all the words she said, as she laid her face in her hands on the stone coping.

A figure passed by, and passed on, but stopped and looked round at her. It was the figure of an old man with a bowed head, wearing a large brimmed low-crowned hat, and a long-skirted coat. After hesitating a little, the figure turned back, and, advancing with an air of gentleness and compassion, said:

“Pardon me, young woman, for speaking to you, but you are under some distress of mind. I cannot pass upon my way and leave you weeping here alone, as if there was nothing in the place. Can I help you? Can I do anything to give you comfort?”

She raised her head at the sound of these kind words, and answered gladly, “O, Mr. Riah, is it you?”

“My daughter,” said the old man, “I stand amazed! I spoke as to a stranger. Take my arm, take my arm. What grieves you? Who has done this? Poor girl, poor girl!”

“My brother has quarrelled with me,” sobbed Lizzie, “and renounced me.”

“He is a thankless dog,” said the Jew, angrily. “Let him go. Shake the dust from thy feet and let him go. Come, daughter! Come home with me⁠—it is but across the road⁠—and take a little time to recover your peace and to make your eyes seemly, and then I will bear you company through the streets. For it is past your usual time, and will soon be late, and the way is long, and there is much company out of doors tonight.”

She accepted the support he offered her, and they slowly passed out of the churchyard. They were in the act of emerging into the main thoroughfare, when another figure loitering discontentedly by, and looking up the street and down it, and all about, started and exclaimed, “Lizzie! why, where have you been? Why, what’s the matter?”

As Eugene Wrayburn thus addressed her, she drew closer to the Jew, and bent her head. The Jew having taken in the whole of Eugene at one sharp glance, cast his eyes upon the ground, and stood mute.

“Lizzie, what is the matter?”

“Mr. Wrayburn, I cannot tell you now. I cannot tell you tonight, if I ever can tell you. Pray leave me.”

“But, Lizzie, I came expressly to join you. I came to walk home with you, having dined at a coffeehouse in this neighbourhood and knowing your hour. And I have been lingering about,” added Eugene, “like a bailiff; or,” with a look at Riah, “an old clothesman.”

The Jew lifted up his eyes, and took in Eugene once more, at another glance.

“Mr. Wrayburn, pray, pray, leave me with this protector. And one thing more. Pray, pray be careful of yourself.”

“Mysteries of Udolpho!” said Eugene, with a look of wonder. “May I be excused for asking, in the elderly gentleman’s presence, who is this kind protector?”

“A trustworthy friend,” said Lizzie.

“I will relieve him of his trust,” returned Eugene. “But you must tell me, Lizzie, what is the matter?”

“Her brother is the matter,” said the old man, lifting up his eyes again.

“Our brother the matter?” returned Eugene, with airy contempt. “Our brother is not worth a thought, far less a tear. What has our brother done?”

The old man lifted up his eyes again, with one grave look at Wrayburn, and one grave glance at Lizzie, as she stood looking down. Both were so full of meaning that even Eugene was checked in his light career, and subsided into a thoughtful “Humph!”

With an air of perfect patience the old man, remaining mute and keeping his eyes cast down, stood, retaining Lizzie’s arm, as though in his habit of passive endurance, it would be all one to him if he had stood there motionless all night.

“If Mr. Aaron,” said Eugene, who soon found this fatiguing, “will be good enough to relinquish his charge to me, he will be quite free for any engagement he may have at the synagogue. Mr. Aaron, will you have the kindness?”

But the old man stood stock still.

“Good evening, Mr. Aaron,” said Eugene, politely; “we need not detain you.” Then turning to Lizzie, “Is our friend Mr. Aaron a little deaf?”

“My hearing is very good, Christian gentleman,” replied the old man, calmly; “but I will hear only one voice tonight, desiring me to leave this damsel before I have conveyed her to her home. If she requests it, I will do it. I will do it for no one else.”

“May I ask why so, Mr. Aaron?” said Eugene, quite undisturbed in his ease.