How alone! — In the parlour after midnight, with the lamps burning as if the room were gay with company; herself, in her morning dress, on the sofa for a night's rest, and there on her blanket on the carpet, Clam already taking it. How it told the story, of illness and watching and desertion and danger; how it put life and death in near and strong contrast; and the summer wind blew in through the blinds and pushed the blinds themselves gently out into the room, just as Elizabeth had seen and felt in many a bright and happy hour not so long past. The same summer breath, and the summer so different! Elizabeth could hardly bear it. She longed to rush up stairs where there was somebody; but then she must not; and then the remembrance that somebody was there quieted her again. That thought stirred another train, the old contrast between him and herself, the contrast between his condition and hers, now brought more painfully than ever home. "He is ready to meet anything," she thought, — "nothing can come amiss to him; — he is as ready for that world as for this — and more!" —
The impression of the words he had read that evening came back to her afresh, and the recollection of the face with which he had read them, — calm, happy, and at rest; — and Elizabeth threw herself off the sofa and kneeled down to lay her head and arms upon it, in mere agony of wish to change something, or rather of the felt want that something should be changed. O that she were at peace like him! O that she had like him a sure home and possession beyond the reach of sickness and death! O that she were that rectified, self-contained, pure, strong spirit, that he was! — The utmost of passionate wish was in the tears that wept out these yearnings of heart — petitions they half were, — for her mind in giving them form, had a half look to the only possible power that could give them fruition. But it was with only the refreshment of tears and exhaustion that she laid herself on her couch and went to sleep.
Clam had carried away her blanket bed and put out the lamps, before Elizabeth awoke the next morning. It was a question whether the room looked drearier by night or by day. She got up and went to the window. Clam had pulled up the blinds. The light of the summer morning was rising again, but it shone only without; all was darkness inside. Except that light- surrounded watcher up stairs. How Elizabeth's heart blessed him.
The next thing was, to get ready to receive his report. That morning's toilet was soon made, and Elizabeth sat waiting. He might come soon, or he might not; for it was early, and he might not know whether she was awake and risen yet. She was unaccustomed, poor child, to a waiting of pain; and her heart felt tired and sore already from the last forty-eight hours of fears and hopes. Fears and hopes were in strong life now, but a life that had become very tender to every touch. Clam was setting the breakfast-table — Could breakfast be eaten or not? The very cups and saucers made Elizabeth's heart ache. She was glad when Clam had done her work and was gone and she sat waiting alone. But the breaths came painfully now, and her heart was weary with its own aching.
The little knock at the door came at last. Elizabeth ran to open it, and exchanged a silent grasp of the hand with the newsbearer; her eyes looked her question. He came in just as he came last night; calm and grave.
"I can tell you nothing new, Miss Elizabeth," he said. "I cannot see that Mr. Haye is any better — I do not know that he is any worse."
But Elizabeth was weak to bear longer suspense; she burst into tears and sat down hiding her face. Her companion stood near, but said nothing further.
"May I call Clam?" he asked after a few minutes.
Elizabeth gave eager assent; and the act of last night was repeated, to her unspeakable gratification. She drank in every word, and not only because she drank in the voice with them.
"Breakfast's just ready, Mr. Winthrop," said Clam when she was leaving the room; — "so you needn't go up stairs."