|
|
And yet they remained shut for
almost five solid days, and in the time that passed between the wedding
and his awakening it became clear that
he would pull through. By administering a series of medications and
precautions, Helena was able to ascertain the fact that he would indeed
awaken,
but as the hours passed, she became less and less certain that it would
be Henry Jekyll that claimed this fallen body and not the monster he had
released.
Emma--although for the most part
entirely inconsolable--composed herself a great deal, and took to sitting
at his bedside, relieving Helena of
her constant vigil from time to time. By employing ever grain of his
skill and expertise, John Utterson miraculously managed to clear Henry's
name in
the matter of Simon's Stride's death, through a process of witness
accounts, Helena's written testimony and Jekyll's lab journal. He was in
fact, on
this fifth day, taking tea in the downstairs study when Emma rose from
her seat next to the bed quietly, kissing Henry tenderly on the cheek.
"I'll return, my love." She whispered,
close to his unhearing ear. She paused a moment to observe his state, so
weak and frail. The draining
tube had since been removed from his bruised chest, yet the bandage
remained . . . a morbid souvenir from his brush with death. The circles
around
his eyes were so much more discoloured then they had been earlier,
and his unkempt hair still spayed across the stark white pillow.
Emma walked quietly to the dresser,
where she retrieved a cool, damp cloth Helena had been using to alleviate
his burning sweats, and gently
stroked his face with it, smoothing his relaxed brow and moistening
his dry lips. She replaced the cloth in its bowl upon the bureau, and exited
the
room, and the deafening silence that surrounded Henry's shallow breath.
Shutting the door quietly behind her, she strode down the hall to where
Helena lay asleep upon a sofa in one of the many guest sitting rooms.
She lay prone on her side, still wearing the bloodied remains of her dress
from
the wedding. For the first two days she had refused to sleep, even
to leave his side, until she was certain he was out of harm's way. Once
his breathing
took on a regular pattern and his fever was somewhat reduced, Emma
convinced her to rest, while she stood watch. Emma had done her best to
grant
her friend a few hours peace, but could not refrain from waking her
when Henry began to mumble incoherently in his delirious slumber . . .
speaking
randomly and hushed, Emma had been certain he was blaming her for his
injuries. She had shaken Helena awake nearly hysterical, and it had taken
every ounce of Helena's patience to explain his remarks were merely
those of a fevered brain and a weak body. Helena did not sleep again,
however,
until the fever had retreated once again, and it had--for almost a
day--but this morning it seemed as though it had returned.
Emma was hesitant to wake her,
but Helena had specifically instructed her to wake her before five o' clock.
Wearily she approached the sofa to
relieve her shift. Gently placing a hand on Helena's shoulder,
Emma shook the exhausted doctor timidly, and she awoke in a flash, sitting
up.
"Emma, what's wrong?" She gasped, leaping from the couch and practically starting for the bedroom.
"Nothing, he's still asleep. You
told me to wake you at five, it's nearly that hour." She said, gently easing
her friend back onto the sofa.
Helena let out a sigh of relief, and remained seated a moment longer.
"Dr. Jekyll, will you never wake
up?" She mumbled as she stood again, swiping at her wild curls. At this
frustrated remark she caught a
glimpse of Emma eyes, troubled and full of tear. "Come now Emma, you've
wasted so many tears on foolish worry! Henry will awaken, very soon no
doubt, and in a few weeks time he'll be back to his old self again."
Emma nodded, but then added, looking away: "But which one?"
Helena went to her then, embracing
her with a comforting love only a best friend could provide. She had tried
to explain the situation to
Henry's fianc*e, but Emma would see nothing but her own fault in his
peril, and her inability to see what danger he had gotten himself into.
Helena
was more concerned with the latter; knowing this indiscretion was not
Emma's fault, but her own. Shutting such thought out of her mind for the
time
being she withdrew herself from Emma's desperate embrace and the two
started for Henry's room, feet treading so gently on the polished wooden
floors. "Emma, I'll have to examine the wound closely for any signs
of infection, you'd best remain outside the room." She said when they reached
the
doorway, remembering Emma's earlier reaction to her husband's scarring
wound. She had been present when Helena first removed the draining tube
and the bandage covering its entryway. The sight of the blood against
the paleness of her love's skin had been too much; she had fainted dead
away!
"I think I will, thank you. Perhaps
I'll check in on Mr. Utterson . . ." She said, hastily heading for the
stairway, anxious to avoid any view of
her darling's torment. Helena watched her descend the flight, her thin
and fragile figure seemingly so much more so in this past week. She refused
to
eat, as though punishing herself with starvation was her penance for
raising a weapon to her husband's chest. Helena had tried to insist she
eat-as her
doctor--but Emma had only cried harder, sobbing into her wedding gown,
saying that she had most likely killed her doctor . . .
Helena entered the dimly lit room
and sighed heavily, shutting the door behind her. For a moment she stood
motionless, her eye adjusting to
the dimness. As they did, the sickening vision of Henry Jekyll's motionless
body developed before her.
"Good afternoon, Henry." She said,
in as cheerful a tone as she could muster, crossing the rich carpet with
silent steps. Never for an instant
when she was in this room did she let go of the hope that he was able
to hear her, just as he had insisted his father could hear him. She stood
over him,
still pale, but in possession of a new shade, a slightly more animated
pink hue. She had caught a glimpse of it yesterday, attributing it to the
fever, yet
when the fever had retreated the color remained in his cheeks, and
so she treated herself to a rare bout of optimism. She pulled black the
blankets
covering his chest, revealing his unclothed body to his waist. The
hopeful color that had returned to his face had not yet spread throughout
his ashen
body, and whenever she removed the covers to examine him, she found
she had to look away for a moment, shielding her eyes from the horrible
weakness of his once strong form. "I'm going to inspect the wound,
it shouldn't take but a few moments." She told him softly as she gently
loosened
the bandage and freed it from the sticky ointments that covered the
right side of his upper body. The feeling of progress she had experienced
when she
saw the blush of his cheeks diminished rapidly when she saw the state
of his injuries. Indeed he had gained a new shade, but this time one of
black and
blue, the painful discolourations of the bruises caused by the many
procedures used to keep him alive. Still she gasped, never having seen
such a deep
shade of purple, and said: "You must be in so much pain, Henry . .
. I'm so very sorry."
Quickly she investigated the lacerations,
with as little poking and prodding as necessary, quietly speaking in a
hushed, soothing tone like a
mother would to her child. "The stab wound looks so much better, Henry,
the intubation site, too. I'll have you out of this bed and onto the tennis
courts before you know it." She hurriedly covered the wound again,
after wiping away the old ointment and applying a new coat of salve. Her
whispery voice hiding the pain she felt at the sight of her darling
Dr. Jekyll, so helpless. He had always been her strength, even in the worst
of times,
but never had he-
His eyes were open.
Helena's breath caught in her throat
when she raised her head to see him looking wildly around the room, his
head motionless but his eyes
searching, trying to make sense of his strange situation. "Dr. Jekyll?
Henry, can you hear me?" His eyes showed no signs of his awareness of her
presence, still darting left and right, confused and cloudy. "Henry,
please, answer me!" She said softly, but with such urgency. As she watched
him
scan his surroundings, fear welled up in her stomach . . . what if
it wasn't him she had saved, but that monster? What if she had shed so
many futile
tears nursing Edward Hyde back to health? Suddenly his eyes me hers,
hovering over him, and they grew frighteningly wide. With a strength that
surprised her he reached up and grabbed her wrist, staring her down
with a look that was too terrified, too confused to give her any sign of
who lay
before her.
Then he spoke, in a voice that was barely audible:
"Why didn't you let me die?"