O, how blest are ye whose toils are ended!Who through death have to God ascended!Ye have risenFrom the cares which keep us still in prison.—LONGFELLOW.
"I am at your service for a few minutes," he said stiffly; "but our interview must be short, for I have much to do."
"And I have much to speak to you about," I said, still confused as to the issues of our interview, but dimly feeling that he was in some way responsible for Ruth's death.
"I am ignorant as to what it can be," he said, looking at me curiously, "for certainly I do not remember ever seeing you before."
"You do not remember," I said, "but you have nevertheless seen me."
"Yes?" he said, still questioningly.
"Yes!" I replied. "I am at present travelling like that ancient god of night whom men call Nemesis. I was for years lost to the earth, now I am come back, if not to restore the righteous to their true position, at any rate to punish betrayers and oppressors, and you are both a betrayer and an oppressor."
"Do you know to whom you are speaking?"
"Yes."
"Then I will call a servant and see that you are shown off the premises."
"No, you will not."
He looked at me strangely. "A friend of the Trewinions," he murmured, "surely he must be mad."
"Yes, I am nearly mad," I replied, "but I am sane enough to know that Ruth Morton was not fairly treated, and although there is nothing but darkness for me in the world, and although every deed I do leads me further into the thick darkness, it shall be my work to unmask villainy."
"Unmask villainy?" he said, as if in surprise, and then made a movement towards the door.
"No," I said. "Think one minute before you call a servant. Let your mind go back a few years. Remember a dark, wild night many years ago, when you and your mistress were shipwrecked upon a rock on the northern coast. Think of who saved you."
"It cannot be!" he said, staring amazedly at me.
"You did not like him, did you?" I said. "You cared more for the younger brother, and played on the elder's trusting nature and helped to get him away. You swore that a body which was washed on the shore was his, although in your heart you knew it was not. You persecuted your mistress by constantly trying to make her marry the man she did not love, and on the tenth anniversary of his departure you appeared armed with her father's will and drove her to the promise which killed her."
He grew as pale as a sheet.
"You are Roger!" he gasped.
"I am Roger," I said.
"But what will you do?" he said, his face ashy pale.
"Do?" I cried. "I will destroy Ruth's destroyers, and then destroy myself. I will sift your dealings to the bottom and then——"
"Stop, Roger," he cried; "stop! I have sinned, but I have also been sinned against. I loved Ruth, ay, loved her like my own child; but Wilfred got me into his power, and then, like the devil he was, he made me do his will. Oh, I have suffered as well as you, more than you! He found out the one weak place in my life, as he found out everything else, and then he held me fast. Oh, I have waded through the blackest slime for him. But for his power over me I should have scorned to do what I did; I would have died before I would have taken advantage of her loyalty to her father's slightest wish; and now——"
"Now, because you had no mercy on her or on me, I shall have no mercy on you," I said. "Everything shall be made known, all your deeds shall be dragged into the light of day."
"No, no, Roger; she would not have done that. She forgave me everything, for at the last I confessed to her all that had been done. She suffered terribly at your departure, and more, I believe at the thought of wedding Wilfred, and yet she forgave me. Oh, I wish you had seen her at the last, so calm, so patient, and so beautiful. She loved you to the last, Roger, and one thought that cheered her in the hour of death was that she would soon see you again."
"Did she think I was dead?"
"She believed you died soon after you left home," he replied. But I did not believe him.
"And she loved me; did she confess it?"
"Not to me, but to the maid who was with her; her whole life and being seemed to be gone over to you; and thus it was that the thought of obeying her father's will killed her."
And I had been away from her all these years; I had been robbed of what was most dear. I was glad I had been revenged on Wilfred now, and the gladness was fiendish. This man, too, should reap as he had sown; as he had helped to make me suffer I would make him suffer. I knew that sooner or later my struggle with Wilfred would be made known, and that I should be suspected of his death; but I did not care, madness was in my heart again.
I burst forth with expressions of hatred and determinations of revenge, the old man still cowering meanwhile before me. Then he spoke.
"Roger, who are you that you should seek revenge? Is your life wholly pure and free from stain? Think, you, if you ruin my life by bringing me to disgrace, or if you destroy your brother Wilfred, that Ruth could welcome you to Heaven, if God should even allow you to go there? She died with the look of a glorified angel on her face; I wish you had seen her, you would not talk of revenge."
All the time I had been living as in a dream. A vague feeling of darkness and revenge possessed me. I felt drawn on by unknown influences—whither, I could not say.
These words of the old steward and friend to the Morton family aroused me. Who was I, indeed, that I should seek revenge? I was the murderer of my brother, I had yielded to as low impulses as they, and yet I talked of myself as Nemesis. How, indeed, should I dare to meet Ruth again with such a sin on my soul?
Without a word I left the house, Mr. Inch staring amazedly after me. I strode down the drive towards the park gates, and had gone, perhaps, half the distance, when I was chained to the earth by the memory of the old man's words:—"She died with the look of a glorified angel on her face; I wish you had seen her."
No sooner had these sounded in my memory than another voice seemed to speak.
"Go and see her," it said. "Visit her tomb."
At first I was almost stunned by the thought. To see my Ruth again would indeed be ecstasy, but even as I so thought I heard another voice speaking in cruel mockery. That which I should see would not be Ruth, she would be far away, where I might never go. Yet the idea still haunted me. I would go. It might ease the terrible madness of my soul if I could see even in death the lips that had confessed their love for me.
How should I accomplish my object? I remembered Bill Tregargus's words, "She was buried in the vault under the Communion." To the church then I would go, and I would see her face again, although it was the face of the dead.
My first work was to go to the village sexton and get the church keys, so when I arrived at the village I enquired for his house. I discovered that he was a bachelor, and lived alone on the outskirts of the village. I quickly made my way thither, and, on arriving, found the door locked. Evidently he was out. On making further enquiries, I found that he had that day gone to the nearest market town, and probably would not be home until dark. It was now about noon, and, faint and hungry, I found my way to the village alehouse, where, after having had something to eat, I tried to think.
Since yesterday, I had lived a lifetime. Yesterday at that time I had not arrived home, I had not seen Bill Tregargus, I knew nothing of what had occurred. Now I was branded with the brand of a murderer. The wild deeds I had done when I sailed the seas as a pirate scarcely weighed on my conscience at all; but this deed, though I did not repent, and though my hatred remained unabated, made life unendurable.
Hour after hour I sat in the parlour of the village inn, thinking, wondering and fearing. Would the landlord be so obliging, I wondered, if he knew what I had done; would he not loathe my presence, and deliver me to the justice of man?
Yet who are the murderers of the world? Are they to be found among those only who do actual murder, or are murderers a class of people who are capable of murder? Is not every man who is not filled with Divine love capable of murder, and are not many free from the stain of murderous deeds merely because they have never been provoked, tempted? Who shall judge as to who are real murderers? None but God alone!
Night drew on at length, and full of the thought which became dearer each hour, I found again my way to the sexton's house. This time he was at home. He stared at me in astonishment when I told him what I wanted.
"Want to go in th' oul church after dark!" he said. "You must be mazed."
"Why?"
"Why! You cudden git more'n two people in the parish to do it. Me and the passen be the only two that be'ant afraid."
"But I don't want you to go with me," I said. "I simply want you to lend me the keys, and I'll bring them back to you again."
"And you we'ant want me to go in the churchyard nuther?"
"No."
"I must'n do it," he said. "The passen 'ud give me the sack straight off ef 'ee was to knaw it."
"No one need know," I said.
For a long time he held out. I could see that he would willingly have let me enter the church at daylight, and would himself have gone with me; but at night he was afraid to do so, and was also afraid to let me have the keys.
"I ca'ant 'ford to lose my place," he said; "not that the burryin' es wuth much. I ain't a berried a livin' soul for a long time, so times es bad in that way; but I git a goodish bit for clainin' the church."
"How much do you get a year?"
"I make so much as ten shillen a week oal the year round," he said. "I do'ant knaw how much that es a year."
I took fifteen guineas from my pocket, and put them before him.
"There is more money than you would get in a whole year," I said. "If I don't bring back the keys in safety, you'll have that money to take you where you like to go, and if I bring back the keys you shall have five of them for your trouble in lending them to me."
"You'm sure you won't do no harm."
"Perfectly."
"Then take 'em," and going to a little recess in the room he took the keys from a nail and gave them to me.
"I expect you to be waiting for me here when I come back," I said.
"Oa, never fear, I sha'ant steer out of the 'ouse," was his reply.
I took a lantern, in which the old man had placed a candle, and prepared to start.
"You'm sure you beant goin' to do nothin' wrong," he said.
"Perfectly," I replied. "You will not regret it for an instant."
He looked at me again, then, as if they were an enormous fortune, at the guineas that lay on the table, and seemed reconciled.
"Tha's the kay of the church," he said, pointing to the biggest in the bunch, "the churchyard gates is allays left unlocked. And I'll be waitin for 'ee when you come back. How long shall 'ee be?"
"I don't know; perhaps an hour," and with a beating heart I went away towards the church. It was a great, grey, gloomy pile, the four steeples on the square tower at the western end reminding me of the prongs of the "Devil's Tooth."
I entered the churchyard gates. All was silent as death. I had expected it to be so; no one ever dared to enter there after dark, unless it was a cluster of worshippers gathered together in church time. Even this did not happen often, for rarely was an evening service held there. Like many other country churches in Cornwall, the time of worship was morning and afternoon. Had I got into the church in the afternoon I should not have been free from observation, for the country folk are courageous in the daytime, and often prowl around the churchyard; but at night I knew if I entered I should be left unmolested.
Slowly I wended my way down the churchyard path. I began to realise now what I was going to do, and for the first time the thought struck terror. Yet did I not hesitate in my purpose. I remembered every superstitious association of my early childhood. Stories of the troubled dead roaming around their graves came back to my mind. I saw the grey tombstones grim and lonely, as if inviting those in whose memory they were erected to bear them company through the silent night.
A lonely churchyard is an awful place, and this one seemed more awful than others to me, who was about to visit the dead!
How plainly my footsteps sounded as I went down the gravelled footpath. I felt as though I were disturbing the dead in their graves.
What was that dark grey form moving among the tombstones? Was it the village witch gathering the nettles that grew on the suicide's grave, in order to work her mystic spells and secret charms? Was that sound I heard her dark laughter, as she plucked the mugwort of evil repute?
No; it was only my excited imagination conjuring up dread objects and noises.
I stood at the door of the belfry tower. It was grey, and iron studded. Should I enter this way? No; my passage among the bell-ropes might set the bells jangling in ghastly discord, and quickly I hurried to the church porch.
I stood and listened; but could hear no sound. The stone seats around the porch looked very cold, and the parish notices that were pasted around its walls looked to me like the letters of departed spirits.
I lit the candle in my lantern, and fumbled among the keys, my hands trembling as I did so. I found the right key at length, and placed it in the door. I tried to turn it, but it would not move. I pushed it a little farther and tried again. The lock was very stiff, it was but seldom moved—once or twice a week at most, and even more seldom oiled. In spite of the rust, it at length yielded to the strength of my hand, the bolt shot back with a rough grating sound, the great door swung back on its rusty hinges, and I entered the silent church.
I withdrew the keys and shut the door. It closed with a bang that sounded terrible in the great building, but I did not heed. I went eastward towards the Communion, under which was the tomb of the Mortons.
There are certain themes of which the interest is all-absorbing, but which are too entirely horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction. These the mere romancist must eschew, if he do not wish to offend or disgust. They are with propriety handled only when the severity and majesty of truth sanctify and maintain them. We thrill, for example, with the most intense of "pleasurable pain" over the accounts of the Passage of the Beresina, of the Earthquake at Lisbon, of the Plague of London, of the Massacre of St. Bartholomew, or of the 123 prisoners in the Black Hole at Calcutta. But in these accounts it is the fact—it is the reality—it is the history which excites. As inventions we should regard them with simple abhorrence.—EDGAR A. POE'STales of Mystery and Imagination.
I stood alone in the old church. How silent everything was! The great grey granite pillars, surmounted by circling arches, appeared in ghostly array before me; the high-backed pews seemed to be peopled by dim, shadowy figures, who had come back to watch me as I looked on the face of my loved. Everyone of the tablets on the wall was to me a face of warning. My footfall echoed and re-echoed, until I fancied the silent church peopled by innumerable visitants from the spirit land.
A dim light which caused weird shadows to fall across the old building, came in through the small windows, while the light of my lantern made other shadows more dark, more forbidding.
I wended my way towards the Communion, for even there Bill Tregargus's words came back to me. "She was buried in the vault under the Communion," and there I should see all that remained of the only woman I had ever loved. I passed by the reading desk, then came to the pulpit, but I did not pause either to examine the curious carvings on its front or the ancient worm-eaten wood of which it was made.
At length I stood by the Communion, and a great fear laid hold of me. Tremblingly I looked around the church. All was silent save the night winds as they moaned in the tower at the western end. Then an owl hooted dismally, and soon after I heard three distinct raps at a window, as though a large bird had tried to break the glass and thus enter the church.
What did it mean? Deborah Teague had spoken of three raps as a sign of death. To whom could it apply? To me? I was not anxious to live, and yet I shuddered.
"Perhaps I shall die," I thought, "and see my darling again; but how can I meet her? Have I not a murderer's hand and a murderer's heart?"
I turned the light of my lantern upon the altar table. and on it I saw a cloth, on which was embroidered a cross, the symbol of the Saviour's death, and this made me remember how He had spoken to a dying thief. For a moment the thought gave me comfort, but in the next I recollected that the thief was penitent, and that I had no proof he was, as I was, a murderer. And I was not penitent; I still hated Wilfred. He had robbed me of earthly happiness here and Heaven hereafter. I hated him; and I was a murderer. After that the cross brought me no comfort.
Before going to the sexton's I had provided myself with a short pointed piece of iron. It was the only instrument I could procure with which to open the vault without attracting suspicion.
I quickly found the burial place of the Mortons. A tablet was on the wall, on which were written these words:—
Then followed a eulogy of his life and works, his gifts to the church, his kindness to the poor, together with many other things.
I looked beneath the tablet on the floor of the Communion, and saw that a large slab had been lately moved. No doubt, then, that Ruth had been buried in the family vault.
With trembling hands I placed my piece of iron beneath the joints of the floor, and with but little difficulty lifted it up; then I slipped my hands beneath the stone and lifted it still higher.
Air, stifling, unwholesome, came from underneath, and again I felt like leaving my purpose unfulfilled; but a stronger impulse urged me to proceed, and I moved the stone still farther. A minute later I had turned it back, and Ruth's grave was opened.
For a minute my heart ceased to beat; then it seemed as though my bosom were not large enough to contain it. Not that I feared the dead, at any rate not Ruth. Had I not been guilty of that awful deed the night before I do not think I should have been so moved; but with murder on my heart, to look on the face of my beloved was terrible. And yet I felt I could never rest until I had seen her.
I stared into the vault.
At one end were steps by which I could descend. At the other was a dark object.
My blood seemed to freeze in my veins, yet I went down the steps, slowly and steadily, until I stood in the abode of the dead.
Never shall I forget how I felt. Never while consciousness remains will the awful sensations that possessed me be altogether taken away.
Around me was the dust of departed generations of the Morton family, while close to me was the face of one whom ten years before I had seen a bright and beautiful maiden. Ruth, whom I had ever loved, and who had died of love for me, was there!
Vague thoughts of how she would look floated in my brain, and in my delirium I fancied that her spirit had come back to watch me as I took one last look at her dead face.
The coffin was placed in a recess in the tomb. I knew it was hers, for it was new, and had been only lately placed there.
I thought I had heard a sound above. I listened for a second, but could hear nothing save the wild beatings of my almost breaking heart. Then I placed my hand on the coffin.
It was fastened with what looked like golden clasps, large and strong, which pressed closely on the grey oak of which the coffin was made. Mechanically I moved the clasps, and then lifted my lantern nearer.
Again I listened, but all was silent. If the spirits of the dead were there they made no sound.
I lifted the coffin lid.
For a second I held it in my hand, then I turned it back.
Even then I could not bear to look in and see my darling's dead face, and stood trying to gather together sufficient courage.
I let the light fall upon the head of the coffin and looked.
Yes, it was Ruth, little altered from when I had seen her last, except that she looked thin and pale, oh! so pale.
She was not like anyone dead; in spite of her stony stillness, there was the shadow of colour upon her thin cheeks.
I looked at her like one entranced, then glanced fearfully around the vault, which was only faintly lit by the flickering candle burning in my lantern.
A longing came over me to get away, but I felt I dare not, I must remain longer with Ruth. I felt that she was glad I was there, and would not have me leave her so soon.
Yet she lay like a beautiful piece of marble. Her hands were folded on her breast, and she looked peaceful, so peaceful.
How I loved her, and how I longed for one word, one movement whereby I could know she loved me!
I do not know how long I stayed there. I lost all thought of time as I stood gazing at the face of my darling. Everything like fear passed, for in spirit I was with her.
I kissed her cold lips, as if to bid her good-bye, then seeing the candle in my lantern had burnt low, I began to think in a dazed kind of way that I must go. But it was so hard, so terrible! If I could only have some memento to take, something I might aways keep until I, too, should be laid under the cold sod!
What was that?
Flashing from her finger that lay on her heart I saw a ring. Dare I take it?
At first I shuddered at the thought. Robbing the dead seemed sacrilege, yet it did not seem like robbery. And was I not sure that she would wish me to take it? It might comfort me during the little time I had to live, for I could carry it everywhere with me.
I took her hand in mine.
Slowly I began to remove the ornament. It was a thick gold circle, and three large diamonds had been inlaid and flashed brightly.
It was rather hard to pass over the joint, but I was determined to possess it. Then I stopped as if stunned, and trembled like an aspen leaf.
I felt the hand move!
Yet I did not drop it. I could not, it seemed welded to mine.
Was it the judgment of God for seeking to rob the dead? I looked at her face, as if expecting a curse, and my heart seemed to come into my mouth.
Her eyelids began to quiver, her mouth to twitch,[*] and her whole body to give signs of life.
To say that I was awed would be but to hint at my feelings. At first I thought it was her ghost rising to denounce me, but soon I saw it was physical life, and then I thought God was working a miracle.
Almost unconsciously I went on rubbing her hands, while evidence of returning life became plainer and plainer.
Then I trembled lest the shock of seeing me there in that silent vault should kill her, or do her serious injury, and yet I longed to hear her speak, I longed for expressions of her love.
Still more plainly did life appear, until I saw her open her eyes. They were dull and had a blank expression, but by and by they became brighter. She looked around the vault as if in wonder, then her eyes rested on the lantern, and again she turned them towards me. For a minute she gazed, then with a cry she sat upright.
* Although the reader may regard the foregoing as wild and impossible, I can vouch for the truth of a story identical in many points with that told by Roger Trewinion. The wife of a nobleman of the West of England, whose name is well-known in Cornwall, was supposed to be dead, and was buried in the family vault situated in the old parish church. A valuable ring which was on her finger when she died was allowed to remain, and it was known by the servants and villagers that this ornament was in the tomb with her. The sexton determined to get it, and accordingly at midnight made his way to the church. In seeking to remove the ring he caused the latent life to assert itself, and seeing the lady move he ran out of the church, leaving the lantern behind him. She became conscious, took the sexton's lantern, and found her way back to the hall. She lived long enough to become the mother of a son, who afterwards became the heir of his father's estates.—Note by theEDITOR.
Oh, one more kiss from your lily-white lips,One kiss is all I crave;Oh, one more kiss from your lily-white lipsAnd return back to your grave.—Old Cornish Song.
Long years have passed since the events I am now narrating, yet my flesh creeps as I write. Imagine, if you can, the circumstances that surrounded me; think of the position in which I was placed. I had learnt amidst anguish and despair that the woman I loved, and who I thought had called me home, was dead, and I had determined to visit her grave and to see her dead face. Then when I had found my way to her tomb, and uncovered her resting-place, I had seen the one whom I had thought dead move, and give other signs of life. When she sat up in her coffin my blood froze in my veins.
Was it my Ruth who lived? Was her death only fancied after all? Now I saw a purpose in all my blind wanderings! Now I understood the cry which I had heard sweeping across the weary waste of waters, "Come home and save me, Roger!" Now I saw meaning in my mad impulse to come to Morton Hall, even when the fires of hell burnt in my soul! Now I knew why I had heard the strange words, "Visit her tomb!"
Merciful Heaven, from what had I saved her? Suppose she had regained consciousness while within the narrow confines of that narrow coffin! No air, no room, no light! The horror of the thought is enough to drive one mad; what then must the reality be?
This flashed through my mind in a moment, but I did not stay to think of it. How could I? The dread "might be" had not become a reality, and my Ruth—the Ruth that I had been mourning as dead, Ruth for whom my heart had been weeping tears of blood—was alive; she was sitting up in her coffin, she uttered a cry. Ruth was not lost for ever.
And still I did not know what to do; still I could not act or speak! My mind was confused, my head was dizzy; the very vault in which I stood seemed to whirl around.
For a second we gazed into each other eyes; she with a fearful, yet curious, wondering look, I with a look of madness, at once of joy, of fear, of dread!
Then she spoke, slowly, tremblingly, but still clearly, and I remembered the voice.
"What is this? Where am I? Is this Heaven?"
"All is well!" I whispered.
"It must be," she said, in a dazed kind of way. "I am so rested, so free from pain, and then your voice is so familiar. Where am I, and who are you?"
"Think," I said; "but do not be afraid; remember where you were last, and then know that all is well."
"All is well," she repeated slowly, as if trying to impress the thought on her half-awakened mind, "I am so glad."
"You are safe here," I went on, "no one shall harm you in any way. Do not be afraid whatever you may see."
She looked around the vault, then a look of horror came into her eyes as she saw where she sat.
"I am in a coffin!" she gasped. "Am I dead?"
"No," I said, "it is all a mistake; but all is well. Think, try and remember the past."
I saw that she made a mental effort, and then slowly light came into her eyes.
"I was very ill," she said, "and so weak and weary. I wanted to die because—because—what was it? Oh, I remember now—because I was to wed—Wilfred, and I did not love him, and my wedding robe was made, and the wedding day was fixed, and I gave up hope that he was ever coming home."
My heart began to beat with joy. Life and light came back to my heart. That "he" meant me—Roger.
"And then?" I said, almost unconsciously.
"And then I thought I was going to die, and I was glad, for I felt I could not endure being wedded to another."
She spoke as if dreaming, or as if she unknowingly expressed the thoughts that dimly passed through her mind.
"Well," I said, "you wanted to die; you grew weaker and weaker, until your friends thought you were dead, and you were brought here."
"Here! Here!" and she looked eagerly around. "Where am I? The light is so dim that I cannot see."
The candle was now very low in the socket of the lantern, and I scarcely knew what to do, but I tried to assure her that all was well.
"You need not be afraid," I said, "It was all a mistake. You were thought to be dead, and you were brought to the grave of your family."
"The grave, the family vault," she said, "in the church, under the Communion! But how came you here, and who are you?"
The time had come for me to tell her, and I trembled lest I should say a mistaken word, or arouse a harmful feeling. I felt that the slightest thing might unhinge her delicately-balanced mind, and I scarcely knew what to say.
"Can't you think who I am?" I said at length. "You called me home when I was away on the distant seas. I heard you say 'Roger, come home,' and I came, for I knew that you needed me."
"Roger! Roger!" she said; "what! my Roger?"
The words came out apparently unthinkingly. She did not know what she was saying.
"Yes, Roger," I said, "your Roger. I came back to find you, I heard you were dead, and it drove me nearly mad. I felt I must come and see your dead face, so I came here and found you, not dead, but only asleep, and I—I awoke you."
I watched her face as I spoke, still holding her hand in mine. Slowly she realised things as they were; slowly one fact after another passed through her mind, until she saw clearly.
At first there was an expression of horror on her face, then she looked eagerly at me and I saw tenderness—love in her eyes.
I dropped her hand and opened my arms. She did not hesitate a moment, but struggled to come to me, so I took her in my arms and pressed her to my heart!
Oh, how she clung to me, while I held her fast, my heart trembling for joy as I heard her whisper, "My Roger come home to me!" Then I realised how cold she was, and saw too, that she was wrapped only in a shroud.
"You are cold, Ruth," I said.
"So cold, Roger; but I do not mind now!"
The light in the lantern became dimmer, and I had no more candle. I thought of the candles in the church, and wondered how I could get at them.
"Ruth," I said, "could you bear to stay here while I go into the church for another light? Our candle is nearly out."
"No, Roger," she said, clinging to me, "I could not bear for you to leave me," and she clung to me more closely.
I lifted her out of her narrow bed and prepared to carry her. I had not much difficulty in this. She was very light, very thin.
Taking the lantern in my hand I bore her away from her dread resting-place. With what a sense of relief I lifted my darling through the narrow entrance! With what gladness I realised that she was not dead! When I went down my heart was cold and heavy as lead; now it was warm; it beat with new life. I went down in what seemed to be the darkness of death; I came out into the light of Heaven!
I seized a candle which stood on the Communion table and lit it from the one in my lantern which had almost gone out.
Then I tried to take off my coat to wrap her in, but this she would not allow me to do. She was still unselfish Ruth, suffering herself rather than let another suffer. So I took the cloth that lay on the table, the doth which was marked with a cross. I wrapped her in that, and surely I committed no sacrilege in doing so. It was large and warm, and entirely covered her, all but her white feet that peeped out from under her shroud.
I took another look at her, a longing, loving look. Her old beauty was coming back; she was losing all fear as she realised my presence.
"Ruth," I said, "it is your Roger who asks you, may I kiss you?"
A faint smile came into her face, something like the smile I had seen in the olden days.
"Dare you kiss me in my shroud, Roger?" she said.
Even then she could not repress the quaint, quiet humour I had loved years before.
Dare I! I covered her face with kisses, and as I did so I forgot everything, forgot all I had done, forgot where I was. I only knew that I held Ruth in my arms, and that her lips met mine!
Then, in spite of her protests, I took off my coat and wrapped it around her little feet.
"What are you going to do with me, Roger?" she said.
"I am going to carry you home," I said.
"Home! Home where?"
"Home to Morton Hall."
"Can you?" she said. "It is a long way.
"Can I?" I said with a laugh.
She looked at me as though she gloried in my strength, and was glad she could trust herself to me.
I carried her down the silent church; but no longer did my lantern throw weird shadows on the floor; no longer were the pews filled with forbidding spectres. For now the church was full of bright rejoicing angels.
When I came to the church door, and saw the heavy clanging keys, I wondered what I was to do with them.
The old sexton would lose his senses if he were to see the precious burden I bore. I locked the great door and took her out into the silent night.
I no longer needed the lantern; the light of the moon was clear and bright. It was indeed a relief. To me, after being immured in the church, the clear, pure air was welcome beyond expression. And if it was welcome to me, it was a thousand times more so to Ruth. I do not think she fully realised from what she had escaped until now. She gave a cry of gladness, such as a bird gives when freed from a cage. Behind her were suspense, cruelty, doubt, despair, death and the grave; before her—ah, what?
I bore her on, feeling no weariness, no pain, no sorrow. The gravestones told me no sad stories, the shadows of the trees were only beautiful pictures painted on the green grass.
When I came to the churchyard gate I saw the old sexton.
"What have 'ee got there?" he gasped.
"'What have 'ee got there?' he gasped.""'What have 'ee got there?' he gasped."
"'What have 'ee got there?' he gasped.""'What have 'ee got there?' he gasped."
"Take your keys and lantern," I said.
He took them both mechanically, and then looked at Ruth awestruck.
"Where did 'ee take et from?" he said, in a hoarse whisper.
"Her grave," I said.
He took a look at Ruth's face, which was clearly to be seen in the moonlight, and immediately recognised it.
"Great Loard!" he cried, "'tes our dead lady's face, 'tes our dead lady, and the devil have got her."
With a cry which showed how real were both his fear and belief, he rushed away from us.
I did not stop him: I did not think it necessary; soon the truth must come out, and then all his fears would be allayed.
Never shall I forget the journey from the village church to the home of the Mortons. My joy was so great that I did not feel Ruth's weight at all, and when she asked me anxiously, yet lovingly, if she wearied me, I only pressed her more closely to my heart, while she only nestled more contentedly. And small wonder? Had I not brought her back from the dead, and had she not found herself free from the terrible chain that bound her, free to speak to the man she loved?
Nearer and nearer we came to her home, the home which all thought she had left for ever. We came within a few yards of the front entrance, when a great dog came bounding up with a furious growl. I wondered how I should get rid of him; but Ruth spoke only one word, and he did not know how to express his joy; he walked by our side and licked the shroud she wore.
I seized the great bell, the bell I had rung that morning. Soon its clanging voice echoed through the hall, and soon after we heard the sound of voices, and footsteps echoed along the corridors.
A minute later we heard the bolts shoot back from the door at which we stood.
Avenge not yourselves; but rather give place unto wrath, for it is written, Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord.…
Be not overcome of evil; but overcome evil with good.—The Epistle to the Romans.
When the door opened, I saw two men-servants, each bearing a candle, each looking as frightened as men could well look. One I recognised as the man to whom I had spoken in the morning, the other was evidently an under-servant.
Each stared at me and at the burden I bore in amazement. The one recognised me, the other evidently wondered who I was.
"May I ask what you want," said the old servant, "and why you arouse the house at this time of the night?"
"Show me a room where your mistress can rest," I said.
"My mistress?" said the man. "Great God, who are you?"
As he said this he took a look at Ruth's face, and then with a shriek of fear he rushed away from us.
"Come back," I said, "there is nothing of which you need be afraid."
"Afraid!" he gasped, "that is the dead body of my mistress."
"Your mistress is not dead," I said; "she is alive; show me a room where I may rest her, and she will speak to you."
Tremblingly he led the way to a room, where I laid her down, and then, at my command, he went away to get food and drink for her.
Soon after the other servants appeared. The shriek of horror given by the man when he caught sight of Ruth's face had aroused the household. Never shall I forget the expression on their faces as they looked at me as I sat by the side of the precious burden I had borne. Evidently the younger of the two servants had told them what I had said, for they were afraid to speak, and kept gazing at us fearfully, yet wonderingly.
Ruth was now becoming exhausted. After the scene in the church the journey home had been too much for her. Perhaps, also, the awfulness of her position together with dread memories, were too great for her to bear, so I bade the servants hurry in getting refreshments for her.
After taking some food she was, however, strong enough to sit up and to talk.
I will not describe what followed, nor how the servants crowded around her, weeping and trembling. Some I found were on the point of leaving, having received their discharge, while others wondered what their future would be. There had been every probability that the household would be broken up, and those who had grown grey-headed in the service of the family grieved much at the thought of leaving. And now, when all hope was gone, their mistress had come back, and their joy and their astonishment knew no bounds.
Presently we heard a tottering step outside the door, and in another second Mr. Inch appeared on the scene. For a minute I thought he would have fainted; but by a great effort he mastered himself, and came slowly to the place where Ruth sat, looking at her steadily in the face for, I should think, a minute. Then he heaved a great sigh, and said; "Great God, Thy ways are wonderful!"
I had been holding Ruth's hand all the while, and I felt her shudder as Mr. Inch approached. I was sure that she felt that he had not acted as her friend, and now, in spite of herself, she feared him, and unconsciously she came nearer to me.
I think the old man saw this, for a strange look passed over his face, and he did not take her hand, as I was sure he had intended to do. He turned towards me, however, and said:
"Tell me, Roger Trewinion—tell us all, how this great miracle has been accomplished."
A look of intelligence passed over the servants' faces as my name was mentioned. Apparently, it was well known to them, and all listened eagerly for my answer.
Then I told how, in leaving the house that morning, I had heard the voice telling me to visit her tomb, and had determined to do so. I will not describe the excitement and wonder of those who heard my experiences. It would take a pen far more able than mine to convey to the minds of my readers the terrible interest that was taken.
Perhaps I ought not to have told the story before the servants; but we were too excited to know what was right and seemly. Indeed, so overwrought were we that Ruth had not been divested of her strange garments, and soon after I had finished my narrative I felt how thoughtless I had been, and how neglectful of her comforts.
When Ruth was taken to her room, however, with two of the maids to attend her, the excitement began to pass away, and the servants, with the exception of the old man whom I had seen at my first visit, returned to their rooms.
For a few minutes Mr. Inch and I were left alone; he still trembled with fear and wonder, perhaps also because of a troubled conscience, I with a strange joy surging in my heart, thinking only of the blissful present.
"This will cause much talk, and necessitate much investigation," said the old steward.
"I suppose so," said I, absently.
"A great lawsuit would have come on," he said. "Two parties were claiming the property. Lawyers are preparing the case on either side, and the matter has already become public."
"That will all come to an end now," I said.
"I suppose so; but it will be the wonder of the countryside. I wonder what Wilfred will say?"
I had forgotten Wilfred. The feelings aroused by seeing Ruth alive had for the time quieted all my bitter memories of my struggle with Wilfred, together with its awful ending.
"I wonder what Wilfred will say!"
The words struck terror into my soul. Wilfred, unless now discovered, was lying bruised, battered, dead, on the great rocks beneath the cliffs. Perhaps the fishes might know of his presence, and the great sad sea would sweep remorselessly over his lifeless body; but Wilfred would never know of what had been done.
My heaven of joyful thoughts was gone now. The hell of bitter memories, the hell of a murderer possessed me.
The old man's remark was left unanswered. It had dashed me down into a great gulf; it had led me to make what was to me a terrible resolve.
A little while later Ruth came back to the room again. The servants had tried to persuade her to retire; but she declared that she could not sleep and she wished to come to me.
She was Ruth again now, Ruth as I had seen her last. She had got rid of her terrible garments, and except that she looked very pale, and was a little older, I saw no difference in her. But there was a difference. Love was shining out of her eyes, and she did not hide from me the fact that I was the king of her heart.
But this gave me no joy now, no heaven. The ghastly form of my brother Wilfred stood between us. I took her hand as she came in, and tried to soothe her, for I felt that she was still trembling, that she felt safe with no one but me. Then the old steward rose up and left us, and the servants likewise retired from the room. They saw our relations to each other, and although it was night we were left in the room together.
Again for a time I banished my dark thoughts, for a time I allowed love, rather than duty, to fill my world, and I yielded to the gentle witchery of her presence. I had made up my mind to tell her all; but I postponed it for a while. "Time enough yet," I said; "let me have some happiness before eternal night sets in."
How gentle, how kind, how loving she was! Her every word told of the love she bore me, and had borne me for long years, every word told me how she believed in my goodness and purity.
What we talked of, I may not recount. I only know that for a few short minutes we lived in the blissful present. The thought of her great love was more powerful than the dread remorse which had possessed me a little while before.
And was it any wonder? Think, if you can, how I must have felt! Ten long years before I had left her, thinking she loved another, and all those years I had roamed the world in misery and hopeless despair. I had come back at the summons of a voice which I had heard, or thought I had heard, sweeping across the wide seas, and when I had arrived at the place where I had hoped to see her I had heard she was dead. Then, after grief that amounted to madness, I had discovered her alive, and had found that she loved me. More than that, she was with me, we were alone, and I felt her hands in mine. Was it to be wondered at then, that darkness should, for the time, be driven away?
Swiftly the time passed, sweetly her gentle voice sounded as she told me how happy, how safe, how contented she was, and, in spite of her terrible experience, how little weakness she felt; and then she asked me to relate to her my adventure since the night on which I left the Trewinion Manor.
Again I remembered what I had done, again the agonies of remorse, which had been awakened by memory, began to eat into my soul. But I would tell her all. I would faithfully relate the tale of the years that had passed, I would faithfully tell her what I had done.
And so I cast my mind back and told her what I have written in these pages. How I had gone away to sea, and how, for years, I had sailed in every clime, and with men of different nationalities. I recounted how I had been taken by the pirates, and how for two years I had been with them. I kept back nothing from her. I told her of many wild deeds that I had done, and of the wild life I had led. By and by I came to the night on which I had such a strange dream, or else had seen such a strange vision, and here I hesitated. It seemed so wonderful, and withal so unreal. I told it her, however, while she listened with wonder-lit eyes.
"Yes, Roger," she said, "it all happened just as you saw it."
"And did you cry out, Ruth. Did you say, 'Roger is here?'"
"I did. I felt you were there, although I could not see you."
"And then, Ruth; what did you do?"
"I went out into the night. I knew your habit of going out on to the headland when you desired to be alone, and I felt I must go somewhere where you had been."
"Yes, Ruth, and afterwards?"
"I went out and wandered for a long time, until I felt my heart was breaking. I seemed all alone in the world, with no one to help me, and I cried out in anguish, 'Roger, come home.'"
"And I heard you, Ruth. After I had seen you in my dream, or whatever it was, I went on deck, and while there I heard your cry, and I answered back. Did you not hear me?"
"No, Roger, I heard nothing in answer to my cry, save a kind of wail, which, as it mingled with the splash of the waves seemed to be only a mocking echo of my words."
"And yet your words called me home."
"Thank God—and then?"
I told her how I had come home, and had met with the fisherman who had informed me of her death, and how she had died because of Wilfred and Mr. Inch, who had goaded her to do what was death to her.
"And what followed, Roger?" she said, anxiously, as I hesitated a minute.
"I hated Wilfred as I never hated man before. I felt that he was deserving of the worst that could befall any man, and I determined to be revenged."
Again I hesitated, and again she told me to go on.
Should I tell her? Should I with a few words blacken her life, should I destroy her every hope? Yet the truth must out. It always does, and I should but put off the evil day by refraining from telling her. Yet it was terribly hard, the man must have a steady hand who writes his own death-warrant without shaking.
She saw, I think, how terrible was the ordeal, for she nestled closer to me and spoke gently.
"Dear Roger," she said, "it must have nearly driven you mad to meet him."
I think this gave me strength, for I clenched my hands nervously, and began to tell her of our meeting and of the darkest deed that ever blighted my life, wondering in my heart what she would say and do when she knew what I had done.