V.

Late one afternoon, at dusk, about three weeks after Mr. Bruce's

arrival, Lizzie was sitting alone by the fire, in Miss Cooper's parlor,

musing, as became the place and hour. The Doctor and his sister came in,

dressed for a lecture.

"I'm sorry you won't go, my dear," said Miss Cooper. "It's a most

interesting subject: 'A Year of the War.' All the battles and things

described, you know."

"I'm tired of war," said Lizzie.

"Well, well, if you're tired of the war, we'll leave you in peace. Kiss

me good-bye. What's the matter? You look sick. You are homesick, a'n't

you?"

"No, no,--I'm very well."

"Would you like me to stay at home with you?"

"Oh, no! pray, don't!"

"Well, we'll tell you all about it. Will they have programmes, James?

I'll bring her a programme.--But you really feel as if you were going to

be ill. Feel of her skin, James."

"No, you needn't, Sir," said Lizzie. "How queer of you, Miss Cooper! I'm

perfectly well."

And at last her friends departed. Before long the servant came with the

lamp, ushering Mr. Mackenzie.

"Good evening, Miss," said he. "Bad news from Mrs. Ford."

"Bad news?"

"Yes, Miss. I've just got a letter stating that Mr. John is growing

worse and worse, and that they look for his death from hour to

hour.--It's very sad," he added, as Elizabeth was silent.

"Yes, it's very sad," said Lizzie.

"I thought you'd like to hear it."

"Thank you."

"He was a very noble young fellow," pursued Mr. Mackenzie.

Lizzie made no response.

"There's the letter," said Mr. Mackenzie, handing it over to her.

Lizzie opened it.

"How long she is reading it!" thought her visitor. "You can't see so far

from the light, can you, Miss?"

"Yes," said Lizzie.--"His poor mother! Poor woman!"

"Ay, indeed, Miss,--she's the one to be pitied."

"Yes, she's the one to be pitied," said Lizzie. "Well!" and she gave him

back the letter.

"I thought you'd like to see it," said Mackenzie, drawing on his gloves;

and then, after a pause,--"I'll call again, Miss, if I hear anything

more. Good night!"

Lizzie got up and lowered the light, and then went back to her sofa by

the fire.

Half an hour passed; it went slowly; but it passed. Still lying there in

the dark room on the sofa, Lizzie heard a ring at the door-bell, a man's

voice and a man's tread in the hall. She rose and went to the lamp. As

she turned it up, the parlor-door opened. Bruce came in.

"I was sitting in the dark," said Lizzie; "but when I heard you coming,

I raised the light."

"Are you afraid of me?" said Bruce.

"Oh, no! I'll put it down again. Sit down."

"I saw your friends going out," pursued Bruce; "so I knew I should find

you alone.--What are you doing here in the dark?"

"I've just received very bad news from Mrs. Ford about her son. He's

much worse, and will probably not live."

"Is it possible?"

"I was thinking about that."

"Dear me! Well that's a sad subject. I'm told he was a very fine young

man."

"He was,--very," said Lizzie.

Bruce was silent awhile. He was a stranger to the young officer, and

felt that he had nothing to offer beyond the commonplace expressions of

sympathy and surprise. Nor had he exactly the measure of his companion's

interest in him.

"If he dies," said Lizzie, "it will be under great injustice."

"Ah! what do you mean?"

"There wasn't a braver man in the army."

"I suppose not."

"And, oh, Mr. Bruce," continued Lizzie, "he was so clever and good and

generous! I wish you had known him."

"I wish I had. But what do you mean by injustice? Were these qualities

denied him?"

"No indeed! Every one that looked at him could see that he was perfect."

"Where's the injustice, then? It ought to be enough for him that you

should think so highly of him."

"Oh, he knew that," said Lizzie.

Bruce was a little puzzled by his companion's manner. He watched her, as

she sat with her cheek on her hand, looking at the fire. There was a

long pause. Either they were too friendly or too thoughtful for the

silence to be embarrassing. Bruce broke it at last.

"Miss Crowe," said he, "on a certain occasion, some time ago, when you

first heard of Mr. Ford's wounds, I offered you my company, with the

wish to console you as far as I might for what seemed a considerable

shock. It was, perhaps, a bold offer for so new a friend; but,

nevertheless, in it even then my heart spoke. You turned me off. Will

you let me repeat it? Now, with a better right, will you let me speak

out all my heart?"

Lizzie heard this speech, which was delivered in a slow and hesitating

tone, without looking up or moving her head, except, perhaps, at the

words "turned me off." After Bruce had ceased, she still kept her

position.

"You'll not turn me off now?" added her companion.

She dropped her hand, raised her head, and looked at him a moment: he

thought he saw the glow of tears in her eyes. Then she sank back upon

the sofa with her face in the shadow of the mantel-piece.

"I don't understand you, Mr. Bruce," said she.

"Ah, Elizabeth! am I such a poor speaker. How shall I make it plain?

When I saw your friends leave home half an hour ago, and reflected that

you would probably be alone, I determined to go right in and have a talk

with you that I've long been wanting to have. But first I walked half a

mile up the road, thinking hard,--thinking how I should say what I had

to say. I made up my mind to nothing, but that somehow or other I should

say it I would trust,--I _do_ trust to your frankness, kindness, and

sympathy, to a feeling corresponding to my own. Do you understand that

feeling? Do you know that I love you? I do, I do, I do! You _must_ know

it. If you don't, I solemnly swear it. I solemnly ask you, Elizabeth, to

take me for your husband."

While Bruce said these words, he rose, with their rising passion, and

came and stood before Lizzie. Again she was motionless.

"Does it take you so long to think?" said he, trying to read her

indistinct features; and he sat down on the sofa beside her and took her

hand.

At last Lizzie spoke.

"Are you sure," said she, "that you love me?"

"As sure as that I breathe. Now, Elizabeth, make me as sure that I am

loved in return."

"It seems very strange, Mr. Bruce," said Lizzie.

"What seems strange? Why should it? For a month I've been trying, in a

hundred dumb ways, to make it plain; and now, when I swear it, it only

seems strange!"

"What do you love me for?"

"For? For yourself, Elizabeth."

"Myself? I am nothing."

"I love you for what you are,--for your deep, kind heart,--for being so

perfectly a woman."

Lizzie drew away her hand, and her lover rose and stood before her

again. But now she looked up into his face, questioning when she should

have answered, drinking strength from his entreaties for her replies.

There he stood before her, in the glow of the firelight, in all his

gentlemanhood, for her to accept or reject. She slowly rose and gave him

the hand she had withdrawn.

"Mr. Bruce, I shall be very proud to love you," she said.

And then, as if this effort was beyond her strength, she half staggered

back to the sofa again. And still holding her hand, he sat down beside

her. And there they were still sitting when they heard the Doctor and

his sister come in.

For three days Elizabeth saw nothing of Mr. Mackenzie. At last, on the

fourth day, passing his office in the village, she went in and asked for

him. He came out of his little back parlor with his mouth full and a

beaming face.

"Good-day, Miss Crowe, and good news!"

"_Good_ news?" cried Lizzie.

"Capital!" said he, looking hard at her, while he put on his spectacles.

"She writes that Mr. John--won't you take a seat?--has taken a sudden

and unexpected turn for the better. Now's the moment to save him; it's

an equal risk. They were to start for the North the second day after

date. The surgeon comes with them. So they'll be home--of course they'll

travel slowly--in four or five days. Yes, Miss, it's a remarkable

Providence. And that noble young man will be spared to the country, and

to those who love him, as I do."

"I had better go back to the house and have it got ready," said Lizzie,

for an answer.

"Yes, Miss, I think you had. In fact, Mrs. Ford made that request."

The request was obeyed. That same day Lizzie went home. For two days she

found it her interest to overlook, assiduously, a general sweeping,

scrubbing, and provisioning. She allowed herself no idle moment until

bed-time. Then--But I would rather not be the chamberlain of her agony.

It was the easier to work, as Mr. Bruce had gone to Leatherborough on

business.

On the fourth evening, at twilight, John Ford was borne up to the door

on his stretcher, with his mother stalking beside him in rigid grief,

and kind, silent friends pressing about with helping hands.

"Home they brought her warrior dead,

She nor swooned nor uttered cry."

It was, indeed, almost a question, whether Jack was not dead. Death is

not thinner, paler, stiller. Lizzie moved about like one in a dream. Of

course, when there are so many sympathetic friends, a man's family has

nothing to do,--except exercise a little self-control. The women huddled

Mrs. Ford to bed; rest was imperative; she was killing herself. And it

was significant of her weakness that she did not resent this advice. In

greeting her, Lizzie felt as if she were embracing the stone image on

the top of a sepulchre. She, too, had her cares anticipated. Good Doctor

Cooper and his sister stationed themselves at the young man's couch.

The Doctor prophesied wondrous things of the change of climate; he was

certain of a recovery. Lizzie found herself very shortly dealt with as

an obstacle to this consummation. Access to John was prohibited.

"Perfect stillness, you know, my dear," whispered Miss Cooper, opening

his chamber-door on a crack, in a pair of very creaking shoes. So for

the first evening that her old friend was at home Lizzie caught but a

glimpse of his pale, senseless face, as she hovered outside the long

train of his attendants. If we may suppose any of these kind people to

have had eyes for aught but the sufferer, we may be sure that they saw

another visage equally sad and white. The sufferer? It was hardly Jack,

after all.

When Lizzie was turned from Jack's door, she took a covering from a heap

of draperies that had been hurriedly tossed down in the hall: it was an

old army-blanket. She wrapped it round her, and went out on the

verandah. It was nine o'clock; but the darkness was filled with light. A

great wanton wind--the ghost of the raw blast which travels by day--had

arisen, bearing long, soft gusts of inland spring. Scattered clouds were

hurrying across the white sky. The bright moon, careering in their

midst, seemed to have wandered forth in frantic quest of the hidden

stars.

Lizzie nestled her head in the blanket, and sat down on the steps. A

strange earthy smell lingered in that faded old rug, and with it a faint

perfume of tobacco. Instantly the young girl's senses were transported

as they had never been before to those far-off Southern battle-fields.

She saw men lying in swamps, puffing their kindly pipes, drawing their

blankets closer, canopied with the same luminous dusk that shone down

upon her comfortable weakness. Her mind wandered amid these scenes till

recalled to the present by the swinging of the garden-gate. She heard a

firm, well-known tread crunching the gravel. Mr. Bruce came up the path.

As he drew near the steps, Lizzie arose. The blanket fell back from her

head, and Bruce started at recognizing her.

"Hullo! You, Elizabeth? What's the matter?"

Lizzie made no answer.

"Are you one of Mr. Ford's watchers?" he continued, coming up the steps;

"how is he?"

Still she was silent. Bruce put out his hands to take hers, and bent

forward as if to kiss her. She half shook him off, and retreated toward

the door.

"Good heavens!" cried Bruce; "what's the matter? Are you moonstruck?

Can't you speak?"

"No,--no,--not to-night," said Lizzie, in a choking voice. "Go away,--go

away!"

She stood holding the door-handle, and motioning him off. He hesitated a

moment, and then advanced. She opened the door rapidly, and went in. He

heard her lock it. He stood looking at it stupidly for some time, and

then slowly turned round and walked down the steps.

The next morning Lizzie arose with the early dawn, and came down stairs.

She went into the room where Jack lay, and gently opened the door. Miss

Cooper was dozing in her chair. Lizzie crossed the threshold, and stole

up to the bed. Poor Ford lay peacefully sleeping. There was his old

face, after all,--his strong, honest features refined, but not weakened,

by pain. Lizzie softly drew up a low chair, and sat down beside him. She

gazed into his face,--the dear and honored face into which she had so

often gazed in health. It was strangely handsomer: body stood for less.

It seemed to Lizzie, that, as the fabric of her lover's soul was more

clearly revealed,--the veil of the temple rent wellnigh in twain,--she

could read the justification of all her old worship. One of Jack's

hands lay outside the sheets,--those strong, supple fingers, once so

cunning in workmanship, so frank in friendship, now thinner and whiter

than her own. After looking at it for some time, Lizzie gently grasped

it. Jack slowly opened his eyes. Lizzie's heart began to throb; it was

as if the stillness of the sanctuary had given a sign. At first there

was no recognition in the young man's gaze. Then the dull pupils began

visibly to brighten. There came to his lips the commencement of that

strange moribund smile which seems so ineffably satirical of the things

of this world. O imposing spectacle of death! O blessed soul, marked for

promotion! What earthly favor is like thine? Lizzie sank down on her

knees, and, still clasping John's hand, bent closer over him.

"Jack,--dear, dear Jack," she whispered, "do you know me?"

The smile grew more intense. The poor fellow drew out his other hand,

and slowly, feebly placed it on Lizzie's head, stroking down her hair

with his fingers.

"Yes, yes," she murmured; "you know me, don't you? I am Lizzie, Jack.

Don't you remember Lizzie?"

Ford moved his lips inaudibly, and went on patting her head.

"This is home, you know," said Lizzie; "this is Glenham. You haven't

forgotten Glenham? You are with your mother and me and your friends.

Dear, darling Jack!"

Still he went on, stroking her head; and his feeble lips tried to emit

some sound. Lizzie laid her head down on the pillow beside his own, and

still his hand lingered caressingly on her hair.

"Yes, you know me," she pursued; "you are with your friends now

forever,--with those who will love and take care of you, oh, forever!"

"I'm very badly wounded," murmured Jack, close to her ear.

"Yes, yes, my dear boy, but your wounds are healing. I will love you and

nurse you forever."

"Yes, Lizzie, our old promise," said Jack: and his hand fell upon her

neck, and with its feeble pressure he drew her closer, and she wet his

face with her tears.

Then Miss Cooper, awakening, rose and drew Lizzie away.

"I am sure you excite him, my dear. It is best he should have none of

his family near him,--persons with whom he has associations, you know."

Here the Doctor was heard gently tapping on the window, and Lizzie went

round to the door to admit him.

She did not see Jack again all day. Two or three times she ventured into

the room, but she was banished by a frown, or a finger raised to the

lips. She waylaid the Doctor frequently. He was blithe and cheerful,

certain of Jack's recovery. This good man used to exhibit as much moral

elation at the prospect of a cure as an orthodox believer at that of a

new convert: it was one more body gained from the Devil. He assured

Lizzie that the change of scene and climate had already begun to tell:

the fever was lessening, the worst symptoms disappearing. He answered

Lizzie's reiterated desire to do something by directions to keep the

house quiet and the sick-room empty.

Soon after breakfast, Miss Dawes, a neighbor, came in to relieve Miss

Cooper, and this indefatigable lady transferred her attention to Mrs.

Ford. Action was forbidden her. Miss Cooper was delighted for once to be

able to lay down the law to her vigorous neighbor, of whose fine

judgment she had always stood in awe. Having bullied Mrs. Ford into

taking her breakfast in the little sitting-room, she closed the doors,

and prepared for "a good long talk." Lizzie was careful not to break in

upon this interview. She had bidden her patroness good morning, asked

after her health, and received one of her temperate osculations. As she

passed the invalid's door, Doctor Cooper came out and asked her to go

and look for a certain roll of bandages, in Mr. John's trunk, which had

been carried into another room. Lizzie hastened to perform this task. In

fumbling through the contents of the trunk, she came across a packet of

letters in a well-known feminine handwriting. She pocketed it, and,

after disposing of the bandages, went to her own room, locked the door,

and sat down to examine the letters. Between reading and thinking and

sighing and (in spite of herself) smiling, this process took the whole

morning. As she came down to dinner, she encountered Mrs. Ford and Miss

Cooper, emerging from the sitting-room, the good long talk being only

just concluded.

"How do you feel, Ma'am?" she asked of the elder lady,--"rested?"

For all answer Mrs. Ford gave a look--I had almost said a scowl--so

hard, so cold, so reproachful, that Lizzie was transfixed. But suddenly

its sickening meaning was revealed to her. She turned to Miss Cooper,

who stood pale and fluttering beside the mistress, her everlasting smile

glazed over with a piteous, deprecating glance; and I fear her eyes

flashed out the same message of angry scorn they had just received.

These telegraphic operations are very rapid. The ladies hardly halted:

the next moment found them seated at the dinner-table with Miss Cooper

scrutinizing her napkin-mark and Mrs. Ford saying grace.

Dinner was eaten in silence. When it was over, Lizzie returned to her

own room. Miss Cooper went home, and Mrs. Ford went to her son. Lizzie

heard the firm low click of the lock as she closed the door. Why did she

lock it? There was something fatal in the silence that followed. The

plot of her little tragedy thickened. Be it so: she would act her part

with the rest. For the second time in her experience, her mind was

lightened by the intervention of Mrs. Ford. Before the scorn of her own

conscience, (which never came,) before Jack's deepest reproach, she was

ready to bow down,--but not before that long-faced Nemesis in black

silk. The leaven of resentment began to work. She leaned back in her

chair, and folded her arms, brave to await results. But before long she

fell asleep. She was aroused by a knock at her chamber-door. The

afternoon was far gone. Miss Dawes stood without.

"Elizabeth, Mr. John wants very much to see you, with his love. Come

down very gently: his mother is lying down. Will you sit with him while

I take my dinner?--Better? Yes, ever so much."

Lizzie betook herself with trembling haste to Jack's bedside.

He was propped up with pillows. His pale cheeks were slightly flushed.

His eyes were bright. He raised himself, and, for such feeble arms, gave

Lizzie a long, strong embrace.

"I've not seen you all day, Lizzie," said he. "Where have you been?"

"Dear Jack, they wouldn't let me come near you. I begged and prayed. And

I wanted so to go to you in the army; but I couldn't. I wish, I wish I

had!"

"You wouldn't have liked it, Lizzie. I'm glad you didn't. It's a bad,

bad place."

He lay quietly, holding her hands and gazing at her.

"Can I do anything for you, dear?" asked the young girl. "I would work

my life out. I'm so glad you're better!"