Cord and Creese Part 27

said the woman, "are twelve graves. These were made last night. These are those twelve which you saw."

"And where--where, O G.o.d, is SHE!"

"There," replied the woman, pointing to one which was the third from the end.

"Do not deceive me!" I cried, imploringly. "Are you sure? For I will tear up all these till I find her."

"I am sure, for I was the one who buried her. I and a man--"

I seized the spade and turned up the soil. I labored incessantly for what seemed an endless period. I had thrown out much earth but had not yet reached her. I felt my fitful strength failing me. My mind, too, seemed entering into a state of delirium. At last my knees gave way, and I sank down just as my spade touched something which gave back a hollow sound.

My knees gave way, and I sank down. But I would not give up. I tore up handfuls of earth and threw them into the air.

"Oh, Edith!" I cried, "I am here! I am coming! I am coming!"

"Come, Sir," said the woman, suddenly, in her strong voice, yet pityingly. "You can do nothing. I will dig her out in a minute."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I TOOK HER IN MY ARMS AND BROUGHT HER FORTH FROM THE GRAVE," ETC.]

"G.o.d forever bless you!" I cried, leaping out and giving place to her. I watched her as she threw out the earth. Hungrily I gazed, devouring that dark aperture with my eyes till at last the rough boards appeared.

Then I leaped down. I put my fingers at the edge and tore at it till it gave way. The lid was only fastened with a few nails. My bleeding fingers clutched it. It yielded to my frantic exertions.

O my G.o.d! was there ever a sight on earth like that which now met my eyes as I raised the lid and looked below? The moon, which was high in the sky, streamed down directly into the narrow cell. It showed me the one whom I sought. Its bright beams threw a l.u.s.tre round that face which was upturned toward me. Ah me! how white was that face; like the face of some sleeping maiden carved in alabaster. Bathed in the moonbeams it lay before me, all softened and refined and made pure; a face of unearthly beauty. The dark hair caught the moon's rays, and encircled the head like a crown of immortality. Still the eyes were closed as though in slumber; still the lips were fixed into a smile. She lay as one who had fallen into a deep, sweet sleep--as one who in that sleep has dreams, in which are visions of more than earthly beauty, and scenes of more than mortal happiness.

Now it was with me as though at that unequaled vision I had drawn into my inmost being some sudden stimulus--a certain rapture of newborn strength; strength no longer fitful and spasmodic, but firm, well fortified and well sustained.

I took her in my arms and brought her forth from the grave into the life of earth.

Ah me! how light a thing was that frail and slender figure which had been worn down by the unparalleled suffering through which she had pa.s.sed. This thought transfixed me with a pang of anguish--even awed the rapture that I felt at clasping her in my arms.

But now that I had her, where was I to seek for a place of shelter? I turned to the woman and asked: "Is there any secluded place where she may sleep undisturbed till she wakes--"

"No, there is none but what is crowded with the sick and dying in all this island."

"I must have some place."

"There is only one spot that is quiet."

"What one?"

"The dead-house."

I shuddered. "No, not there. See," said I, and I handed her a piece of gold. "Find me some place and you shall have still more."

"Well," she said, hesitatingly, "I have the room where me and my man live. I suppose we could give up that."

"Take me there, then."

"Shall I help you carry her?"

"No," I answered, drawing back my pure Edith from her outstretched hands. "No, I will carry her."

The woman went on without a word. She led the way back to the low and dismal sheds which lay there like a vast charnel-house, and thence to a low hut some distance away from all, where she opened a door. She spoke a few words to a man, who finally withdrew. A light was burning. A rude cot was there. Here I laid the one whom I carried.

"Come here," said I, "three times a day. I will pay you well for this."

The woman left. All night long I watched. She lay unmoved and unchanged.

Where was her spirit wandering? Soared it among the splendors of some far-off world? Lingered it amidst the suns.h.i.+ne of heavenly glory? Did her seraphic soul move amidst her peers in the a.s.semblage of the holy?

Was she straying amidst the trackless paths of ether with those whom she had loved in life, and who had gone before?

All night long I watched her as she lay with her marble face and her changeless smile. There seemed to be communicated to me an influence from her which opened the eyes of my spiritual sense; and my spirit sought to force itself upon her far-off perceptions, that so it might catch her notice and bring her back to earth.

The morning dawned. There was no change. Mid-day came, and still there was no change. I know not how it was, but the superintendent had heard about the grave being opened, and found me in the hut. He tried to induce me to give back to the grave the one whom I had rescued.

The horror of that request was so tremendous that it force me into pa.s.sionless calm. When I refused he threatened. At his menace I rejoined in such language that he turned pale.

"Murderer!" said I, sternly, "is it not enough that you have sent to the grave many wretches who were not dead? Do you seek to send back to death this single one whom I have rescued? Do you want all Canada and all the world to ring with the account of the horrors done here, where people are buried alive? See, she is not dead. She is only sleeping. And yet you put her in the grave."

"She is dead!" he cried, in mingled fear and anger--"and she must be buried."

"She is not dead," said I, sternly, as I glared on him out of my intensity of anguish--"she is not dead: and if you try to send her to death again you must first send me. She shall not pa.s.s to the grave except over my corpse, and over the corpse of the first murderer that dares to lay hands on her."

He started back--he and those who were with him. "The man is mad," they said.

They left me in peace. I grow excited as I write. My hand trembles. Let me be calm.

She awoke that night. It was midnight, and all was still. She opened her eyes suddenly, and looked full at me with an earnest and steadfast stare. At last a long, deep-drawn sigh broke the stillness of that lone chamber.

"Back again"--she murmured, in a scarce audible voice--"among men, and to earth. O friends of the Realm of Light, must I be severed from your lofty communion!"

As she spoke thus the anguish which I had felt at the grave was renewed.

"You have brought me back," said she, mournfully.

"No," I returned, sadly--"not I. It was not G.o.d's will that you should leave this life. He did not send death to you. You were sleeping, and I brought you to this place."

"I know all," she murmured, closing her eyes. "I heard all while my spirit was away. I know where you found me."

"I am weary," she said, after a silence. Her eyes closed again. But this time the trance was broken. She slept with long, deep breathing, interrupted by frequent sighs. I watched her through the long night.

At first fever came. Then it pa.s.sed. Her sleep became calm, and she slumbered like a weary child.

Early in the morning the superintendent came, followed by a dozen armed men. He entered with a frown. I met him with my hand upraised to hush him, and led him gently to the bedside.

"See," I whispered--"but for me she would have been BURIED ALIVE!"

The man seemed frozen into dumbness. He stood ghastly white with horror, thick drops started from his forehead, his teeth chattered, he staggered away. He looked at me with a haunted face, such as belongs to one who thinks he has seen a spirit.

"Spare me," he faltered; "do not ruin me. G.o.d knows I have tried to do my best!"

I waved him off. "Leave me. You have nothing to fear." He turned away with his white face, and departed in silence with his men.