Chapter XXII: The Voice of the Dead

Oh, one more kiss from your lily-white lips,
One kiss is all I crave;
Oh, one more kiss from your lily-white lips
And 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.

"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.