Neither did any of them speak, but all sat down at the foot of the bed, silently waiting. And now, in this night-watch, mingling with the flow of the river and with the rush of the train, came the questions into Bella's mind again: What could be in the depths of that mystery of John's? Why was it that he had never been seen by Mr Lightwood, whom he still avoided? When would that trial come, through which her faith in, and her duty to, her dear husband, was to carry her, rendering him triumphant? For, that had been his term. Her passing through the trial was to make the man she loved with all her heart, triumphant. Term not to sink out of sight in Bella's breast.
Far on in the night, Eugene opened his eyes. He was sensible, and said at once: 'How does the time go? Has our Mortimer come back?'
Lightwood was there immediately, to answer for himself. 'Yes, Eugene, and all is ready.'
'Dear boy!' returned Eugene with a smile, 'we both thank you heartily. Lizzie, tell them how welcome they are, and that I would be eloquent if I could.'
'There is no need,' said Mr Milvey. 'We know it. Are you better, Mr Wrayburn?'
'I am much happier,' said Eugene.
'Much better too, I hope?'
Eugene turned his eyes towards Lizzie, as if to spare her, and answered nothing Then, they all stood around the bed, and Mr Milvey, opening his book, began the service; so rarely associated with the shadow of death; so inseparable in the mind from a flush of life and gaiety and hope and health and joy. Bella thought how different from her own sunny little wedding, and wept. Mrs Milvey overflowed with pity, and wept too. The dolls' dressmaker, with her hands before her face, wept in her golden bower. Reading in a low clear voice, and bending over Eugene, who kept his eyes upon him, Mr Milvey did his office with suitable simplicity. As the bridegroom could not move his hand, they touched his fingers with the ring, and so put it on the bride. When the two plighted their troth, she laid her hand on his and kept it there. When the ceremony was done, and all the rest departed from the room, she drew her arm under his head, and laid her own head down upon the pillow by his side.
'Undraw the curtains, my dear girl,' said Eugene, after a while, 'and let us see our wedding-day.'
The sun was rising, and his first rays struck into the room, as she came back, and put her lips to his. 'I bless the day!' said Eugene.
'I bless the day!' said Lizzie.
'You have made a poor marriage of it, my sweet wife,' said Eugene. 'A shattered graceless fellow, stretched at his length here, and next to nothing for you when you are a young widow.'
'I have made the marriage that I would have given all the world to dare to hope for,' she replied.
'You have thrown yourself away,' said Eugene, shaking his head.
'But you have followed the treasure of your heart. My justification is, that you had thrown that away first, dear girl!'
'No. I had given it to you.'
'The same thing, my poor Lizzie!'
'Hush! hush! A very different thing.'
There were tears in his eyes, and she besought him to close them.
'No,' said Eugene, again shaking his head; 'let me look at you, Lizzie, while I can. You brave devoted girl! You heroine!'
Her own eyes filled under his praises. And when he mustered strength to move his wounded head a very little way, and lay it on her bosom, the tears of both fell.
'Lizzie,' said Eugene, after a silence: 'when you see me wandering away from this refuge that I have so ill deserved, speak to me by my name, and I think I shall come back.'
'Yes, dear Eugene.'
'There!' he exclaimed, smiling. 'I should have gone then, but for that!'
A little while afterwards, when he appeared to be sinking into insensibility, she said, in a calm loving voice: 'Eugene, my dear husband!' He immediately answered: 'There again! You see how you can recall me!' And afterwards, when he could not speak, he still answered by a slight movement of his head upon her bosom.
The sun was high in the sky, when she gently disengaged herself to give him the stimulants and nourishment he required. The utter helplessness of the wreck of him that lay cast ashore there, now alarmed her, but he himself appeared a little more hopeful.
'Ah, my beloved Lizzie!' he said, faintly. 'How shall I ever pay all I owe you, if I recover!'
'Don't be ashamed of me,' she replied, 'and you will have more than paid all.'
'It would require a life, Lizzie, to pay all; more than a life.'
'Live for that, then; live for me, Eugene; live to see how hard I will try to improve myself, and never to discredit you.'
'My darling girl,' he replied, rallying more of his old manner than he had ever yet got together. 'On the contrary, I have been thinking whether it is not the best thing I can do, to die.'
'The best thing you can do, to leave me with a broken heart?'
'I don't mean that, my dear girl. I was not thinking of that. What Iwas thinking of was this. Out of your compassion for me, in this maimed and broken state, you make so much of me--you think so well of me--you love me so dearly.'
'Heaven knows I love you dearly!'
'And Heaven knows I prize it! Well. If I live, you'll find me out.'
'I shall find out that my husband has a mine of purpose and energy, and will turn it to the best account?'
'I hope so, dearest Lizzie,' said Eugene, wistfully, and yet somewhat whimsically. 'I hope so. But I can't summon the vanity to think so. How can I think so, looking back on such a trifiling wasted youth as mine! I humbly hope it; but I daren't believe it.
There is a sharp misgiving in my conscience that if I were to live, Ishould disappoint your good opinion and my own--and that I ought to die, my dear!'
