Our Mutual Friend

  Chapter 2

  STILL EDUCATIONAL

  The person of the house, doll's dressmaker and manufacturer ofornamental pincushions and pen-wipers, sat in her quaint little lowarm-chair, singing in the dark, until Lizzie came back. The personof the house had attained that dignity while yet of very tender yearsindeed, through being the only trustworthy person IN the house.

  'Well Lizzie-Mizzie-Wizzie,' said she, breaking off in her song, 'what'sthe news out of doors?'

  'What's the news in doors?' returned Lizzie, playfully smoothing thebright long fair hair which grew very luxuriant and beautiful on thehead of the doll's dressmaker.

  'Let me see, said the blind man. Why the last news is, that I don't meanto marry your brother.'

  'No?'

  'No-o,' shaking her head and her chin. 'Don't like the boy.'

  'What do you say to his master?'

  'I say that I think he's bespoke.'

  Lizzie finished putting the hair carefully back over the misshapenshoulders, and then lighted a candle. It showed the little parlour tobe dingy, but orderly and clean. She stood it on the mantelshelf, remotefrom the dressmaker's eyes, and then put the room door open, and thehouse door open, and turned the little low chair and its occupanttowards the outer air. It was a sultry night, and this was afine-weather arrangement when the day's work was done. To completeit, she seated herself in a chair by the side of the little chair, andprotectingly drew under her arm the spare hand that crept up to her.

  'This is what your loving Jenny Wren calls the best time in the day andnight,' said the person of the house. Her real name was Fanny Cleaver;but she had long ago chosen to bestow upon herself the appellation ofMiss Jenny Wren.

  'I have been thinking,' Jenny went on, 'as I sat at work to-day, whata thing it would be, if I should be able to have your company till I ammarried, or at least courted. Because when I am courted, I shall makeHim do some of the things that you do for me. He couldn't brush my hairlike you do, or help me up and down stairs like you do, and he couldn'tdo anything like you do; but he could take my work home, and he couldcall for orders in his clumsy way. And he shall too. I'LL trot himabout, I can tell him!'

  Jenny Wren had her personal vanities--happily for her--and no intentionswere stronger in her breast than the various trials and torments thatwere, in the fulness of time, to be inflicted upon 'him.'

  'Wherever he may happen to be just at present, or whoever he may happento be,' said Miss Wren, 'I know his tricks and his manners, and I givehim warning to look out.'

  'Don't you think you are rather hard upon him?' asked her friend,smiling, and smoothing her hair.

  'Not a bit,' replied the sage Miss Wren, with an air of vast experience.'My dear, they don't care for you, those fellows, if you're NOT hardupon 'em. But I was saying If I should be able to have your company. Ah!What a large If! Ain't it?'

  'I have no intention of parting company, Jenny.'

  'Don't say that, or you'll go directly.'

  'Am I so little to be relied upon?'

  'You're more to be relied upon than silver and gold.' As she said it,Miss Wren suddenly broke off, screwed up her eyes and her chin, andlooked prodigiously knowing. 'Aha!

  Who comes here? A Grenadier. What does he want? A pot of beer.

  And nothing else in the world, my dear!'

  A man's figure paused on the pavement at the outer door. 'Mr EugeneWrayburn, ain't it?' said Miss Wren.

  'So I am told,' was the answer.

  'You may come in, if you're good.'

  'I am not good,' said Eugene, 'but I'll come in.'

  He gave his hand to Jenny Wren, and he gave his hand to Lizzie, and hestood leaning by the door at Lizzie's side. He had been strolling withhis cigar, he said, (it was smoked out and gone by this time,) and hehad strolled round to return in that direction that he might look in ashe passed. Had she not seen her brother to-night?

  'Yes,' said Lizzie, whose manner was a little troubled.

  Gracious condescension on our brother's part! Mr Eugene Wrayburn thoughthe had passed my young gentleman on the bridge yonder. Who was hisfriend with him?

  'The schoolmaster.'

  'To be sure. Looked like it.'

  Lizzie sat so still, that one could not have said wherein the fact ofher manner being troubled was expressed; and yet one could not havedoubted it. Eugene was as easy as ever; but perhaps, as she sat withher eyes cast down, it might have been rather more perceptible thathis attention was concentrated upon her for certain moments, than itsconcentration upon any subject for any short time ever was, elsewhere.

  'I have nothing to report, Lizzie,' said Eugene. 'But, having promisedyou that an eye should be always kept on Mr Riderhood through my friendLightwood, I like occasionally to renew my assurance that I keep mypromise, and keep my friend up to the mark.'

  'I should not have doubted it, sir.'

  'Generally, I confess myself a man to be doubted,' returned Eugene,coolly, 'for all that.'

  'Why are you?' asked the sharp Miss Wren.

  'Because, my dear,' said the airy Eugene, 'I am a bad idle dog.'

  'Then why don't you reform and be a good dog?' inquired Miss Wren.

  'Because, my dear,' returned Eugene, 'there's nobody who makes it worthmy while. Have you considered my suggestion, Lizzie?' This in a lowervoice, but only as if it were a graver matter; not at all to theexclusion of the person of the house.

  'I have thought of it, Mr Wrayburn, but I have not been able to make upmy mind to accept it.'

  'False pride!' said Eugene.

  'I think not, Mr Wrayburn. I hope not.'

  'False pride!' repeated Eugene. 'Why, what else is it? The thing isworth nothing in itself. The thing is worth nothing to me. What can itbe worth to me? You know the most I make of it. I propose to be of someuse to somebody--which I never was in this world, and never shall be onany other occasion--by paying some qualified person of your own sex andage, so many (or rather so few) contemptible shillings, to come here,certain nights in the week, and give you certain instruction which youwouldn't want if you hadn't been a self-denying daughter and sister.You know that it's good to have it, or you would never have so devotedyourself to your brother's having it. Then why not have it: especiallywhen our friend Miss Jenny here would profit by it too? If I proposed tobe the teacher, or to attend the lessons--obviously incongruous!--butas to that, I might as well be on the other side of the globe, or noton the globe at all. False pride, Lizzie. Because true pride wouldn'tshame, or be shamed by, your thankless brother. True pride wouldn't haveschoolmasters brought here, like doctors, to look at a bad case. Truepride would go to work and do it. You know that, well enough, for youknow that your own true pride would do it to-morrow, if you had the waysand means which false pride won't let me supply. Very well. I add nomore than this. Your false pride does wrong to yourself and does wrongto your dead father.'

  'How to my father, Mr Wrayburn?' she asked, with an anxious face.

  'How to your father? Can you ask! By perpetuating the consequences ofhis ignorant and blind obstinacy. By resolving not to set right thewrong he did you. By determining that the deprivation to which hecondemned you, and which he forced upon you, shall always rest upon hishead.'

  It chanced to be a subtle string to sound, in her who had so spoken toher brother within the hour. It sounded far more forcibly, because ofthe change in the speaker for the moment; the passing appearance ofearnestness, complete conviction, injured resentment of suspicion,generous and unselfish interest. All these qualities, in him usually solight and careless, she felt to be inseparable from some touch of theiropposites in her own breast. She thought, had she, so far below himand so different, rejected this disinterestedness, because of some vainmisgiving that he sought her out, or heeded any personal attractionsthat he might descry in her? The poor girl, pure of heart and purpose,could not bear to think it. Sinking before her own eyes, as shesuspected herself of it, she drooped her head as though she had done himsome wicked and grievo
us injury, and broke into silent tears.

  'Don't be distressed,' said Eugene, very, very kindly. 'I hope it is notI who have distressed you. I meant no more than to put the matter in itstrue light before you; though I acknowledge I did it selfishly enough,for I am disappointed.'

  Disappointed of doing her a service. How else COULD he be disappointed?

  'It won't break my heart,' laughed Eugene; 'it won't stay by meeight-and-forty hours; but I am genuinely disappointed. I had set myfancy on doing this little thing for you and for our friend Miss Jenny.The novelty of my doing anything in the least useful, had its charms. Isee, now, that I might have managed it better. I might have affected todo it wholly for our friend Miss J. I might have got myself up, morally,as Sir Eugene Bountiful. But upon my soul I can't make flourishes, and Iwould rather be disappointed than try.'

  If he meant to follow home what was in Lizzie's thoughts, it wasskilfully done. If he followed it by mere fortuitous coincidence, it wasdone by an evil chance.

  'It opened out so naturally before me,' said Eugene. 'The ball seemed sothrown into my hands by accident! I happen to be originally brought intocontact with you, Lizzie, on those two occasions that you know of. Ihappen to be able to promise you that a watch shall be kept upon thatfalse accuser, Riderhood. I happen to be able to give you some littleconsolation in the darkest hour of your distress, by assuring you that Idon't believe him. On the same occasion I tell you that I am the idlestand least of lawyers, but that I am better than none, in a case I havenoted down with my own hand, and that you may be always sure of my besthelp, and incidentally of Lightwood's too, in your efforts to clearyour father. So, it gradually takes my fancy that I may help you--soeasily!--to clear your father of that other blame which I mentioneda few minutes ago, and which is a just and real one. I hope I haveexplained myself; for I am heartily sorry to have distressed you. I hateto claim to mean well, but I really did mean honestly and simply well,and I want you to know it.'

  'I have never doubted that, Mr Wrayburn,' said Lizzie; the morerepentant, the less he claimed.

  'I am very glad to hear it. Though if you had quite understood my wholemeaning at first, I think you would not have refused. Do you think youwould?'

  'I--don't know that I should, Mr Wrayburn.'

  'Well! Then why refuse now you do understand it?'

  'It's not easy for me to talk to you,' returned Lizzie, in someconfusion, 'for you see all the consequences of what I say, as soon as Isay it.'

  'Take all the consequences,' laughed Eugene, 'and take away mydisappointment. Lizzie Hexam, as I truly respect you, and as I am yourfriend and a poor devil of a gentleman, I protest I don't even nowunderstand why you hesitate.'

  There was an appearance of openness, trustfulness, unsuspectinggenerosity, in his words and manner, that won the poor girl over; andnot only won her over, but again caused her to feel as though she hadbeen influenced by the opposite qualities, with vanity at their head.

  'I will not hesitate any longer, Mr Wrayburn. I hope you will notthink the worse of me for having hesitated at all. For myself and forJenny--you let me answer for you, Jenny dear?'

  The little creature had been leaning back, attentive, with her elbowsresting on the elbows of her chair, and her chin upon her hands. Withoutchanging her attitude, she answered, 'Yes!' so suddenly that it ratherseemed as if she had chopped the monosyllable than spoken it.

  'For myself and for Jenny, I thankfully accept your kind offer.'

  'Agreed! Dismissed!' said Eugene, giving Lizzie his hand before lightlywaving it, as if he waved the whole subject away. 'I hope it may not beoften that so much is made of so little!'

  Then he fell to talking playfully with Jenny Wren. 'I think of settingup a doll, Miss Jenny,' he said.

  'You had better not,' replied the dressmaker.

  'Why not?'

  'You are sure to break it. All you children do.'

  'But that makes good for trade, you know, Miss Wren,' returned Eugene.'Much as people's breaking promises and contracts and bargains of allsorts, makes good for MY trade.'

  'I don't know about that,' Miss Wren retorted; 'but you had better byhalf set up a pen-wiper, and turn industrious, and use it.'

  'Why, if we were all as industrious as you, little Busy-Body, we shouldbegin to work as soon as we could crawl, and there would be a badthing!'

  'Do you mean,' returned the little creature, with a flush suffusing herface, 'bad for your backs and your legs?'

  'No, no, no,' said Eugene; shocked--to do him justice--at the thought oftrifling with her infirmity. 'Bad for business, bad for business. If weall set to work as soon as we could use our hands, it would be all overwith the dolls' dressmakers.'

  'There's something in that,' replied Miss Wren; 'you have a sort of anidea in your noddle sometimes.' Then, in a changed tone; 'Talking ofideas, my Lizzie,' they were sitting side by side as they had sat atfirst, 'I wonder how it happens that when I am work, work, working here,all alone in the summer-time, I smell flowers.'

  'As a commonplace individual, I should say,' Eugene suggestedlanguidly--for he was growing weary of the person of the house--'thatyou smell flowers because you DO smell flowers.'

  'No I don't,' said the little creature, resting one arm upon the elbowof her chair, resting her chin upon that hand, and looking vacantlybefore her; 'this is not a flowery neighbourhood. It's anything butthat. And yet as I sit at work, I smell miles of flowers. I smell roses,till I think I see the rose-leaves lying in heaps, bushels, on thefloor. I smell fallen leaves, till I put down my hand--so--and expect tomake them rustle. I smell the white and the pink May in the hedges, andall sorts of flowers that I never was among. For I have seen very fewflowers indeed, in my life.'

  'Pleasant fancies to have, Jenny dear!' said her friend: with a glancetowards Eugene as if she would have asked him whether they were giventhe child in compensation for her losses.

  'So I think, Lizzie, when they come to me. And the birds I hear! Oh!'cried the little creature, holding out her hand and looking upward, 'howthey sing!'

  There was something in the face and action for the moment, quiteinspired and beautiful. Then the chin dropped musingly upon the handagain.

  'I dare say my birds sing better than other birds, and my flowers smellbetter than other flowers. For when I was a little child,' in a tone asthough it were ages ago, 'the children that I used to see early in themorning were very different from any others that I ever saw. They werenot like me; they were not chilled, anxious, ragged, or beaten; theywere never in pain. They were not like the children of the neighbours;they never made me tremble all over, by setting up shrill noises, andthey never mocked me. Such numbers of them too! All in white dresses,and with something shining on the borders, and on their heads, that Ihave never been able to imitate with my work, though I know it sowell. They used to come down in long bright slanting rows, and say alltogether, "Who is this in pain! Who is this in pain!" When I told themwho it was, they answered, "Come and play with us!" When I said "I neverplay! I can't play!" they swept about me and took me up, and made melight. Then it was all delicious ease and rest till they laid medown, and said, all together, "Have patience, and we will come again."Whenever they came back, I used to know they were coming before I sawthe long bright rows, by hearing them ask, all together a long way off,"Who is this in pain! Who is this in pain!" And I used to cry out, "O myblessed children, it's poor me. Have pity on me. Take me up and make melight!"'

  By degrees, as she progressed in this remembrance, the hand was raised,the late ecstatic look returned, and she became quite beautiful. Havingso paused for a moment, silent, with a listening smile upon her face,she looked round and recalled herself.

  'What poor fun you think me; don't you, Mr Wrayburn? You may well looktired of me. But it's Saturday night, and I won't detain you.'

  'That is to say, Miss Wren,' observed Eugene, quite ready to profit bythe hint, 'you wish me to go?'

  'Well, it's Saturday night,' she returned, 'and my child's cominghom
e. And my child is a troublesome bad child, and costs me a world ofscolding. I would rather you didn't see my child.'

  'A doll?' said Eugene, not understanding, and looking for anexplanation.

  But Lizzie, with her lips only, shaping the two words, 'Her father,' hedelayed no longer. He took his leave immediately. At the corner of thestreet he stopped to light another cigar, and possibly to ask himselfwhat he was doing otherwise. If so, the answer was indefinite and vague.Who knows what he is doing, who is careless what he does!

  A man stumbled against him as he turned away, who mumbled some maudlinapology. Looking after this man, Eugene saw him go in at the door bywhich he himself had just come out.

  On the man's stumbling into the room, Lizzie rose to leave it.

  'Don't go away, Miss Hexam,' he said in a submissive manner, speakingthickly and with difficulty. 'Don't fly from unfortunate man inshattered state of health. Give poor invalid honour of your company. Itain't--ain't catching.'

  Lizzie murmured that she had something to do in her own room, and wentaway upstairs.

  'How's my Jenny?' said the man, timidly. 'How's my Jenny Wren, best ofchildren, object dearest affections broken-hearted invalid?'

  To which the person of the house, stretching out her arm in an attitudeof command, replied with irresponsive asperity: 'Go along with you! Goalong into your corner! Get into your corner directly!'

  The wretched spectacle made as if he would have offered someremonstrance; but not venturing to resist the person of the house,thought better of it, and went and sat down on a particular chair ofdisgrace.

  'Oh-h-h!' cried the person of the house, pointing her little finger,'You bad old boy! Oh-h-h you naughty, wicked creature! WHAT do you meanby it?'

  The shaking figure, unnerved and disjointed from head to foot, putout its two hands a little way, as making overtures of peace andreconciliation. Abject tears stood in its eyes, and stained the blotchedred of its cheeks. The swollen lead-coloured under lip trembled with ashameful whine. The whole indecorous threadbare ruin, from the brokenshoes to the prematurely-grey scanty hair, grovelled. Not with any senseworthy to be called a sense, of this dire reversal of the places ofparent and child, but in a pitiful expostulation to be let off from ascolding.

  'I know your tricks and your manners,' cried Miss Wren. 'I know whereyou've been to!' (which indeed it did not require discernment todiscover). 'Oh, you disgraceful old chap!'

  The very breathing of the figure was contemptible, as it laboured andrattled in that operation, like a blundering clock.

  'Slave, slave, slave, from morning to night,' pursued the person of thehouse, 'and all for this! WHAT do you mean by it?'

  There was something in that emphasized 'What,' which absurdly frightenedthe figure. As often as the person of the house worked her way round toit--even as soon as he saw that it was coming--he collapsed in an extradegree.

  'I wish you had been taken up, and locked up,' said the person of thehouse. 'I wish you had been poked into cells and black holes, and runover by rats and spiders and beetles. I know their tricks and theirmanners, and they'd have tickled you nicely. Ain't you ashamed ofyourself?'

  'Yes, my dear,' stammered the father.

  'Then,' said the person of the house, terrifying him by a grand musterof her spirits and forces before recurring to the emphatic word, 'WHATdo you mean by it?'

  'Circumstances over which had no control,' was the miserable creature'splea in extenuation.

  'I'LL circumstance you and control you too,' retorted the person of thehouse, speaking with vehement sharpness, 'if you talk in that way. I'llgive you in charge to the police, and have you fined five shillings whenyou can't pay, and then I won't pay the money for you, and you'll betransported for life. How should you like to be transported for life?'

  'Shouldn't like it. Poor shattered invalid. Trouble nobody long,' criedthe wretched figure.

  'Come, come!' said the person of the house, tapping the table near herin a business-like manner, and shaking her head and her chin; 'you knowwhat you've got to do. Put down your money this instant.'

  The obedient figure began to rummage in its pockets.

  'Spent a fortune out of your wages, I'll be bound!' said the person ofthe house. 'Put it here! All you've got left! Every farthing!'

  Such a business as he made of collecting it from his dogs'-earedpockets; of expecting it in this pocket, and not finding it; of notexpecting it in that pocket, and passing it over; of finding no pocketwhere that other pocket ought to be!

  'Is this all?' demanded the person of the house, when a confused heap ofpence and shillings lay on the table.

  'Got no more,' was the rueful answer, with an accordant shake of thehead.

  'Let me make sure. You know what you've got to do. Turn all your pocketsinside out, and leave 'em so!' cried the person of the house.

  He obeyed. And if anything could have made him look more abject or moredismally ridiculous than before, it would have been his so displayinghimself.

  'Here's but seven and eightpence halfpenny!' exclaimed Miss Wren, afterreducing the heap to order. 'Oh, you prodigal old son! Now you shall bestarved.'

  'No, don't starve me,' he urged, whimpering.

  'If you were treated as you ought to be,' said Miss Wren, 'you'd be fedupon the skewers of cats' meat;--only the skewers, after the cats hadhad the meat. As it is, go to bed.'

  When he stumbled out of the corner to comply, he again put out both hishands, and pleaded: 'Circumstances over which no control--'

  'Get along with you to bed!' cried Miss Wren, snapping him up. 'Don'tspeak to me. I'm not going to forgive you. Go to bed this moment!'

  Seeing another emphatic 'What' upon its way, he evaded it by complyingand was heard to shuffle heavily up stairs, and shut his door, and throwhimself on his bed. Within a little while afterwards, Lizzie came down.

  'Shall we have our supper, Jenny dear?'

  'Ah! bless us and save us, we need have something to keep us going,'returned Miss Jenny, shrugging her shoulders.

  Lizzie laid a cloth upon the little bench (more handy for the person ofthe house than an ordinary table), and put upon it such plain fare asthey were accustomed to have, and drew up a stool for herself.

  'Now for supper! What are you thinking of, Jenny darling?'

  'I was thinking,' she returned, coming out of a deep study, 'what Iwould do to Him, if he should turn out a drunkard.'

  'Oh, but he won't,' said Lizzie. 'You'll take care of that, beforehand.'

  'I shall try to take care of it beforehand, but he might deceive me.Oh, my dear, all those fellows with their tricks and their manners dodeceive!' With the little fist in full action. 'And if so, I tell youwhat I think I'd do. When he was asleep, I'd make a spoon red hot, andI'd have some boiling liquor bubbling in a saucepan, and I'd take itout hissing, and I'd open his mouth with the other hand--or perhaps he'dsleep with his mouth ready open--and I'd pour it down his throat, andblister it and choke him.'

  'I am sure you would do no such horrible thing,' said Lizzie.

  'Shouldn't I? Well; perhaps I shouldn't. But I should like to!'

  'I am equally sure you would not.'

  'Not even like to? Well, you generally know best. Only you haven'talways lived among it as I have lived--and your back isn't bad and yourlegs are not queer.'

  As they went on with their supper, Lizzie tried to bring her round tothat prettier and better state. But, the charm was broken. The personof the house was the person of a house full of sordid shames and cares,with an upper room in which that abased figure was infecting eveninnocent sleep with sensual brutality and degradation. The doll'sdressmaker had become a little quaint shrew; of the world, worldly; ofthe earth, earthy.

  Poor doll's dressmaker! How often so dragged down by hands that shouldhave raised her up; how often so misdirected when losing her way on theeternal road, and asking guidance! Poor, poor little doll's dressmaker!