In the Small Hours
In the small hours, the dolls' dressmaker was roused from slumber by a faint sound. She sat up in her chair, listening intently; then she took her stick and made her way noiselessly to the bed.
Eugene lay awake, breathing hard, great drops of sweat on his forehead. He was biting his lips, but another moan escaped him.
"Jenny," he gasped, seeing her. "I'm sorry—"
"Hush, now," Miss Wren ordered in low but peremptory tones, as she poured his medicine. Skillfully she helped him to drink, then laid him down and bathed his forehead until the contorted face relaxed.
Quietly putting the bedside table to rights, Jenny glanced across at Lizzie, asleep in her chair.
"Don't wake her," Eugene whispered. "I'm—better now."
Jenny nodded, and sat down by him. A shadow crossed her own face as she attempted to settle herself comfortably.
"You should—go and lie down," Eugene said softly. Ill as he was, he had developed a wonderful quickness of perception where Jenny was concerned. There was a new sympathy between them, born of suffering, that neither Lizzie nor Mortimer, for all their affection and devotion, could share.
But Jenny would not let him indulge in dark thoughts or worries. "Nonsense, young man," she retorted, with a toss of her head. "I'm perfectly well. Go to sleep."
Eugene smiled a little, wearily. "Thank you, Jenny," he murmured, as his eyes closed.
The dolls' dressmaker watched until he breathed peacefully, before letting sleep steal over her again.