LIZZIE is coming to life, hesitatingly and as if with reluctance. I
suppose it’s natural for her to be extraordinarily weak, but I never
would have believed she could be conscious enough to talk and so
utterly indifferent to everything that should concern her. When I
told her about the money, saying it came from a friend, she murmured,
“That’s all right,” and never asked who the friend was. She seemed to
have no interest in the subject, or in any subject, for that matter.
She makes me think of a brilliant, highly colored plant that a large
stone has fallen on.
One afternoon last week, when I was sitting by the table in her room
reading, she suddenly spoke.
“Evie, how long is it that I’ve been sick here?”
“Nearly a month. You’ve been very ill, but you’re getting better now
every day.”
She said no more and I got up and began moving about the room,
arranging it for the evening. I was pulling down the blinds when I
heard her stirring, and looking back, saw that she had twisted about
in the bed and was watching me. In the dusk, her face, framed in elf
locks of black hair, looked like a white mask. I thought she was going
to ask me something--there was a question in her eyes--but she made
no sound. I lighted the lamp and shifted into place the paper rose
that hung from the shade. She continued to follow my movements with
the intent observation of an animal. I have seen dogs watch their
masters just that way. The feeling that something was on her mind grew
stronger. I went to her and sat on the side of the bed.
“Do you want to ask me anything?” I said.
She shook her head, but her eyes were unquiet. Suddenly I thought I
guessed. I put my hand on hers and spoke very low.
“Lizzie, the thing you told me that night when I came up and found you
here”--I looked into her face to see if she understood--“I’ve never
told to anybody.”
She stared at me without answering.
“Do you know what I mean?”
She gave a slight affirmative nod.
“And I never will tell it to any one unless you ask me to.”
“_I_ don’t care if you tell it,” she said with weak indifference.
It was the first gleam of her old self. Whatever she had wanted to say
to me it was not that. Other women--the women of my world--would have
been fearful of their secret lightly guarded. I don’t believe she had
given it a thought. Either her trust in me was implicit or she didn’t
care who knew it. I like to think it was the first.
She settled back against the pillow and made feeble smoothings of the
sheet. Still persuaded of her inward disquiet I sat silent waiting for
her to speak. After a moment or two she did.
“Have any letters come for me?”
I knew _this_ was the question. I got up and gave her the pile of
letters stacked on the desk. She looked over the addresses, then pushed
them back to me.
“I was afraid he might write to me,” she said. “But it’s all right, he
hasn’t.”