Part 42 (2/2)

”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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.sed 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.

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