Christmas came. The Army of the Potomac had stacked its muskets and gone
into winter-quarters. Miss Crowe received an invitation to pass the
second fortnight in February at the great manufacturing town of
Leatherborough. Leatherborough is on the railroad, two hours south of
Glenham, at the mouth of the great river Tan, where this noble stream
expands into its broadest smile, or gapes in too huge a fashion to be
disguised by a bridge.
"Mrs. Littlefield kindly invites you for the last of the month," said
Mrs. Ford, reading a letter behind the tea-urn.
It suited Mrs. Ford's purpose--a purpose which I have not space to
elaborate--that her young charge should now go forth into society and
pick up acquaintances.
Two sparks of pleasure gleamed in Elizabeth's eyes. But, as she had
taught herself to do of late with her protectress, she mused before
answering.
"It is my desire that you should go," said Mrs. Ford, taking silence for
dissent.
The sparks went out.
"I intend to go," said Lizzie, rather grimly. "I am much obliged to Mrs.
Littlefield."
Her companion looked up.
"I intend you shall. You will please to write this morning."
For the rest of the week the two stitched together over muslins and
silks, and were very good friends. Lizzie could scarcely help wondering
at Mrs. Ford's zeal on her behalf. Might she not have referred it to her
guardian's principles? Her wardrobe, hitherto fashioned on the Glenham
notion of elegance, was gradually raised to the Leatherborough standard
of fitness. As she took up her bedroom candle the night before she left
home, she said,--
"I thank you very much, Mrs. Ford, for having worked so hard for
me,--for having taken so much interest in my outfit. If they ask me at
Leatherborough who made my things, I shall certainly say it was you."
Mrs. Littlefield treated her young friend with great kindness. She was a
good-natured, childless matron. She found Lizzie very ignorant and very
pretty. She was glad to have so great a beauty and so many lions to
show.
One evening Lizzie went to her room with one of the maids, carrying half
a dozen candles between them. Heaven forbid that I should cross that
virgin threshold--for the present! But we will wait. We will allow them
two hours. At the end of that time, having gently knocked, we will enter
the sanctuary. Glory of glories! The faithful attendant has done her
work. Our lady is robed, crowned, ready for worshippers.
I trust I shall not be held to a minute description of our dear Lizzie's
person and costume. Who is so great a recluse as never to have beheld
young ladyhood in full dress? Many of us have sisters and daughters. Not
a few of us, I hope, have female connections of another degree, yet no
less dear. Others have looking-glasses. I give you my word for it that
Elizabeth made as pretty a show as it is possible to see. She was of
course well-dressed. Her skirt was of voluminous white, puffed and
trimmed in wondrous sort. Her hair was profusely ornamented with curls
and braids of its own rich substance. From her waist depended a ribbon,
broad and blue. White with coral ornaments, as she wrote to Jack in the
course of the week. Coral ornaments, forsooth! And pray, Miss, what of
the other jewels with which your person was decorated,--the rubies,
pearls, and sapphires? One by one Lizzie assumes her modest gimcracks:
her bracelet, her gloves, her handkerchief, her fan, and then--her
smile. Ah, that strange crowning smile!
An hour later, in Mrs. Littlefield's pretty drawing-room, amid music,
lights, and talk, Miss Crowe was sweeping a grand curtsy before a tall,
sallow man, whose name she caught from her hostess's redundant murmur as
Bruce. Five minutes later, when the honest matron gave a glance at her
newly started enterprise from the other side of the room, she said to
herself that really, for a plain country-girl, Miss Crowe did this kind
of thing very well. Her next glimpse of the couple showed them whirling
round the room to the crashing thrum of the piano. At eleven o'clock she
beheld them linked by their finger-tips in the dazzling mazes of the
reel. At half-past eleven she discerned them charging shoulder to
shoulder in the serried columns of the Lancers. At midnight she tapped
her young friend gently with her fan.
"Your sash is unpinned, my dear.--I think you have danced often enough
with Mr. Bruce. If he asks you again, you had better refuse. It's not
quite the thing.--Yes, my dear, I know.--Mr. Simpson, will you be so
good as to take Miss Crowe down to supper?"
I'm afraid young Simpson had rather a snappish partner.
After the proper interval, Mr. Bruce called to pay his respects to Mrs.
Littlefield. He found Miss Crowe also in the drawing-room. Lizzie and he
met like old friends. Mrs. Littlefield was a willing listener; but it
seemed to her that she had come in at the second act of the play. Bruce
went off with Miss Crowe's promise to drive with him in the afternoon.
In the afternoon he swept up to the door in a prancing, tinkling sleigh.
After some minutes of hoarse jesting and silvery laughter in the keen
wintry air, he swept away again with Lizzie curled up in the
buffalo-robe beside him, like a kitten in a rug. It was dark when they
returned. When Lizzie came in to the sitting-room fire, she was
congratulated by her hostess upon having made a "conquest."
"I think he's a most gentlemanly man," says Lizzie.
"So he is, my dear," said Mrs. Littlefield; "Mr. Bruce is a perfect
gentleman. He's one of the finest young men I know. He's not so young
either. He's a little too yellow for my taste; but he's beautifully
educated. I wish you could hear his French accent. He has been abroad I
don't know how many years. The firm of Bruce and Robertson does an
immense business."
"And I'm so glad," cries Lizzie, "he's coming to Glenham in March! He's
going to take his sister to the water-cure."
"Really?--poor thing! She has very good manners."
"What do you think of his looks?" asked Lizzie, smoothing her feather.
"I was speaking of Jane Bruce. I think Mr. Bruce has fine eyes."
"I must say I like tall men," says Miss Crowe.
"Then Robert Bruce is your man," laughs Mr. Littlefield. "He's as tall
as a bell-tower. And he's got a bell-clapper in his head, too."
"I believe I will go and take off my things," remarks Miss Crowe,
flinging up her curls.
Of course it behooved Mr. Bruce to call the next day and see how Miss
Crowe had stood her drive. He set a veto upon her intended departure,
and presented an invitation from his sister for the following week. At
Mrs. Littlefield's instance, Lizzie accepted the invitation, despatched
a laconic note to Mrs. Ford, and stayed over for Miss Bruce's party. It
was a grand affair. Miss Bruce was a very great lady: she treated Miss
Crowe with every attention. Lizzie was thought by some persons to look
prettier than ever. The vaporous gauze, the sunny hair, the coral, the
sapphires, the smile, were displayed with renewed success. The master of
the house was unable to dance; he was summoned to sterner duties. Nor
could Miss Crowe be induced to perform, having hurt her foot on the ice.
This was of course a disappointment; let us hope that her entertainers
made it up to her.
On the second day after the party, Lizzie returned to Glenham. Good Mr.
Littlefield took her to the station, stealing a moment from his precious
business-hours.
"There are your checks," said he; "be sure you don't lose them. Put them
in your glove."
Lizzie gave a little scream of merriment.
"Mr. Littlefield, how can you? I've a reticule, Sir. But I really don't
want you to stay."
"Well, I confess," said her companion.--"Hullo! there's your Scottish
chief! I'll get him to stay with you till the train leaves. He may be
going. Bruce!"
"Oh, Mr. Littlefield, don't!" cries Lizzie. "Perhaps Mr. Bruce is
engaged."
Bruce's tall figure came striding towards them. He was astounded to find
that Miss Crowe was going by this train. Delightful! He had come to meet
a friend who had not arrived.
"Littlefield," said he, "you can't be spared from your business. I will
see Miss Crowe off."
When the elder gentleman had departed, Mr. Bruce conducted his companion
into the car, and found her a comfortable seat, equidistant from the
torrid stove and the frigid door. Then he stowed away her shawls,
umbrella, and reticule. She would keep her muff? She did well. What a
pretty fur!
"It's just like your collar," said Lizzie. "I wish I had a muff for my
feet," she pursued, tapping on the floor.
"Why not use some of those shawls?" said Bruce; "let's see what we can
make of them."
And he stooped down and arranged them as a rug, very neatly and kindly.
And then he called himself a fool for not having used the next seat,
which was empty; and the wrapping was done over again.
"I'm so afraid you'll be carried off!" said Lizzie. "What would you do?"
"I think I should make the best of it. And you?"
"I would tell you to sit down _there_"; and she indicated the seat
facing her. He took it. "Now you'll be sure to," said Elizabeth.
"I'm afraid I shall, unless I put the newspaper between us." And he took
it out of his pocket. "Have you seen the news?"
"No," says Lizzie, elongating her bonnet-ribbons. "What is it? Just look
at that party."
"There's not much news. There's been a scrimmage on the Rappahannock.
Two of our regiments engaged,--the Fifteenth and the Twenty-Eighth.
Didn't you tell me you had a cousin or something in the Fifteenth?"
"Not a cousin, no relation, but an intimate friend,--my guardian's son.
What does the paper say, please?" inquires Lizzie, very pale.
Bruce cast his eye over the report. "It doesn't seem to have amounted to
much; we drove back the enemy, and recrossed the river at our ease. Our
loss only fifty. There are no names," he added, catching a glimpse of
Lizzie's pallor,--"none in this paper at least."
In a few moments appeared a newsboy crying the New York journals.
"Do you think the New York papers would have any names?" asked Lizzie.
"We can try," said Bruce. And he bought a "Herald," and unfolded it.
"Yes, there _is_ a list," he continued, some time after he had opened
out the sheet. "What's your friend's name?" he asked, from behind the
paper.
"Ford,--John Ford, second lieutenant," said Lizzie.
There was a long pause.
At last Bruce lowered the sheet, and showed a face in which Lizzie's
pallor seemed faintly reflected.
"There _is_ such a name among the wounded," he said; and, folding the
paper down, he held it out, and gently crossed to the seat beside her.
Lizzie took the paper, and held it close to her eyes. But Bruce could
not help seeing that her temples had turned from white to crimson.
"Do you see it?" he asked; "I sincerely hope it's nothing very bad."
"_Severely_," whispered Lizzie.
"Yes, but that proves nothing. Those things are most unreliable. _Do_
hope for the best."
Lizzie made no answer. Meanwhile passengers had been brushing in, and
the car was full. The engine began to puff, and the conductor to shout.
The train gave a jog.
"You'd better go, Sir, or you'll be carried off," said Lizzie, holding
out her hand, with her face still hidden.
"May I go on to the next station with you?" said Bruce.
Lizzie gave him a rapid look, with a deepened flush. He had fancied that
she was shedding tears. But those eyes were dry; they held fire rather
than water.
"No, no, Sir; you must not. I insist. Good bye."
Bruce's offer had cost him a blush, too. He had been prepared to back it
with the assurance that he had business ahead, and, indeed, to make a
little business in order to satisfy his conscience. But Lizzie's answer
was final.
"Very well," said he, "_good_ bye. You have my real sympathy, Miss
Crowe. Don't despair. We shall meet again."
The train rattled away. Lizzie caught a glimpse of a tall figure with
lifted hat on the platform. But she sat motionless, with her head
against the window-frame, her veil down, and her hands idle.
She had enough to do to think, or rather to feel. It is fortunate that
the utmost shock of evil tidings often comes first. After that
everything is for the better. Jack's name stood printed in that fatal
column like a stern signal for despair. Lizzie felt conscious of a
crisis which almost arrested her breath. Night had fallen at midday:
what was the hour? A tragedy had stepped into her life: was she
spectator or actor? She found herself face to face with death: was it
not her own soul masquerading in a shroud? She sat in a half-stupor. She
had been aroused from a dream into a waking nightmare. It was like
hearing a murder-shriek while you turn the page of your novel. But I
cannot describe these things. In time the crushing sense of calamity
loosened its grasp. Feeling lashed her pinions. Thought struggled to
rise. Passion was still, stunned, floored. She had recoiled like a
receding wave for a stronger onset. A hundred ghastly fears and fancies
strutted a moment, pecking at the young girl's naked heart, like
sandpipers on the weltering beach. Then, as with a great murmurous rush,
came the meaning of her grief. The flood-gates of emotion were opened.
At last passion exhausted itself, and Lizzie thought. Bruce's parting
words rang in her ears. She did her best to hope. She reflected that
wounds, even severe wounds, did not necessarily mean death. Death might
easily be warded off. She would go to Jack; she would nurse him; she
would watch by him; she would cure him. Even if Death had already
beckoned, she would strike down his hand: if Life had already obeyed,
she would issue the stronger mandate of Love. She would stanch his
wounds; she would unseal his eyes with her kisses; she would call till
he answered her.
Lizzie reached home and walked up the garden path. Mrs. Ford stood in
the parlor as she entered, upright, pale, and rigid. Each read the
other's countenance. Lizzie went towards her slowly and giddily. She
must of course kiss her patroness. She took her listless hand and bent
towards her stern lips. Habitually Mrs. Ford was the most
undemonstrative of women. But as Lizzie looked closer into her face, she
read the signs of a grief infinitely more potent than her own. The
formal kiss gave way: the young girl leaned her head on the old woman's
shoulder and burst into sobs. Mrs. Ford acknowledged those tears with a
slow inclination of the head, full of a certain grim pathos: she put out
her arms and pressed them closer to her heart.
At last Lizzie disengaged herself and sat down.
"I am going to him," said Mrs. Ford.
Lizzie's dizziness returned. Mrs. Ford was going,--and she, she?
"I am going to nurse him, and with God's help to save him."
"How did you hear?"
"I have a telegram from the surgeon of the regiment"; and Mrs. Ford held
out a paper.
Lizzie took it and read: "Lieutenant Ford dangerously wounded in the
action of yesterday. You had better come on."
"I should like to go myself," said Lizzie: "I think Jack would like to
have me."
"Nonsense! A pretty place for a young girl! I am not going for
sentiment; I am going for use."
Lizzie leaned her head back in her chair, and closed her eyes. From the
moment they had fallen upon Mrs. Ford, she had felt a certain
quiescence. And now it was a relief to have responsibility denied her.
Like most weak persons, she was glad to step out of the current of life,
now that it had begun to quicken into action. In emergencies, such
persons are tacitly counted out; and they as tacitly consent to the
arrangement. Even to the sensitive spirit there is a certain meditative
rapture in standing on the quiet shore, (beside the ruminating cattle,)
and watching the hurrying, eddying flood, which makes up for the loss of
dignity. Lizzie's heart resumed its peaceful throbs. She sat, almost
dreamily, with her eyes shut.
"I leave in an hour," said Mrs. Ford. "I am going to get ready.--Do you
hear?"
The young girl's silence was a deeper consent than her companion
supposed.