FACE TO FACE.
For several seconds the husband and wife remained looking at each other
in utter silence; the moaning of the cypress boughs sounded louder and
more weird; through the whirl of her senses Elizabeth heard it still.
"Come forward," she heard her husband's voice say at length, in the
hard, icy tones of concentrated passion. "Come forward, woman, that I
may see your face."
The words seemed to come from a great distance; looking over at him, it
seemed as if that shallow trench between them was a bottomless abyss
which no power could bridge over,--the gulf between them for ever and
ever.
"Come forward, I say."
She staggered slowly into the moonlight; the warning was fulfilled;
ruin, disgrace had come; yet there she stood speechless, motionless,
unable even to give utterance to a moan.
The man who had been digging, flung down his spade with a smothered
oath.
For a little time Mellen stood almost as still and helpless as herself.
Suddenly, in a voice that sounded scarcely human, he turned upon this
man.
"Take up the spade, and finish your work!"
With something between a laugh and an oath, North snatched the spade,
plunged it into the grave, and pressed all his force upon it. Slowly the
edge of a box appeared. That evil man seemed to triumph in his gloomy
work: placed one foot on the handle of the spade to hold it firmly, bent
down and dragged the box into the moonlight.
Pulling the spade up from the crumbling earth, he raised it on high, and
was about to dash the box open. Elizabeth lifted her hands in mute
appeal.
She hoped nothing from her husband's forbearance. The action was only an
instinct of her whirling senses, such as makes a drowning man clutch at
straws; but with it her limbs gave way, and she fell upon her knees by
the box, still lifting her white face to that stem, determined
countenance.
"Do you think to oppose me even now?" he exclaimed. "I wonder I do not
kill you. Ask this man, this double dyed villain to dig deeper his pit,
which has concealed your infamy, and bury you there alive,--that would
be a mercy to us both."
"If you would only kill me," she moaned, "only kill me."
"Stand up," he cried again; "stand up, I say."
But she stretched out her hands over the box; some insane idea of still
preserving it from his touch, rushed across her mind.
"Open it," he said, turning fiercely on North; "I will look on this
dishonor with my own eyes."
"Don't open it; don't open it! Let us pass away from your sight for
ever."
Mellen caught her arm and pulled her roughly away.
"You shall not touch the dead," she cried; "kill me but do not commit
sacrilege."
Elizabeth struggled on to her knees, and wound her arms about him in a
convulsive grasp: he shook her off with loathing, as if a poisonous
reptile had brushed his garments.
North stood with an evil light in his eyes, looking on Mellen, snatched
the spade from his grasp, and while a despairing cry died on Elizabeth's
lips, dashed it upon the cover; again and again, till the frail board
split, revealing a gleam of white underneath.
Elizabeth was lying on the ground--not insensible; no such blessed
relief came to her--but incapable of a movement; watching her husband
always with those insane eyes.
His passion had exhausted itself in this sacrilegious violence, and he
stood over the shattered box, struck with remorseful awe. But the wind
swept over it, lifting some folds of transparent muslin from a little
face that Elizabeth had seen night and day in her thoughts and her
dreams, since the dreadful night when that grave was dug under the
cypress tree.
She saw the face; saw her husband looking down upon it; saw all the
shuddering horror in his eyes. Still she could not move.
"This has been a murder!" he hissed through his clenched teeth. "I swear
that the guilty ones, even if my own name is dragged down to infamy with
them, shall be brought to judgment."
"No, no," she moaned; "not murder; not that."
He caught her arm again and lifted her up.
"Tell the truth," he cried; "I will hear it!"
She could only stare at him with an affrighted gaze.
"I will bring the whole neighborhood to look," he went on; "I will drag
this secret guilt out in the face of day if you do not speak! I will
give you no time; no chance of escape; speak, or I will rouse the whole
house, and let them see you here with this vile man, at your guilty
work."
"Wait," she shivered; "wait!"
"Do you know what this is?" he cried. "The murder of a child! Do you
know that to-morrow may find you a criminal in the hands of
justice--you, my wife! You, in whose care I entrusted not only my honor
but the most innocent soul that ever lived. Speak then! Expect no mercy
from me; not to save my own honor; not to keep my own soul would I lift
one finger to help you! Think of it! Picture it to yourself!--The eager
crowd gathering about this spot; the hootings and execrations that will
follow you forth to prison! Think of the days and nights in your lonely
cell; remember the trial! the sentence! the horrible death! you shall
not escape! you shall not escape one of these things."
"Grantley! Grantley!"
"Not content with one crime, you have added murder; striving to hide
your guilt with a deeper sin!"
"This child died," she moaned; "it was God's own mercy, not my crime!"
"Speak then, and tell the whole truth. Do it. But have no thought that
even confession can save you; never hope for mercy from my weakness! You
can have no enemy who will prove so relentless as I will; if there was a
hope of your escape I would hunt you both down to utter disgrace--nay,
to death itself!"
"It is only to die," she muttered; "only to die."
"Will you speak; will you confess? Tell me how you murdered it?"
"There was no murder."
"But you buried it; you and this fiend who shared your guilt? Speak that
man's name; I will have it, and from your lips. But, oh, if you have
degraded my sister with this secret; if you have blighted her innocence
with a knowledge of your guilt----"
"Stop," she broke in; "stop! do not speak of her."
Even in that moment some recollections came upon her, and her face fell
forward, bowed down to her marble bosom.
"Elsie knows nothing," she said; "for her sake spare me."
"If you wish to escape having your shame dragged before the whole world,
tell me the truth."
"For her sake, for Elsie's, have mercy! I don't expect it--but,
remember, disgrace to me reflects not only on you but her! Think of
that--don't blight her whole future in crushing me!"
"I left her in your hands--she has been living in daily intercourse with
you--you have stained her lips with your kisses--degraded her by your
affection."
"I have not hurt her," she cried; "I tell you she never received harm
from me."
There was only one thought in her mind, to preserve Elsie from his
anger--the worst had come to her now. Her present agony was too great
for dread--the shame of the world--the most loathsome prison--nothing
could bring such pangs as this wrenching away of hope and happiness.
She sat upright on the ground, folding her hands in her lap. Weaker
women would have fainted, perhaps gone mad, but when the first dizzy
whirl had left her senses, she could see and think clearly.
"With this man you alone buried the child. Will you own it, or shall I
charge the servants as your accomplices--will you carry out your guilt
to the last, and let others suffer that you may escape?"
"No, no! I do not struggle. See, I do not defend myself. Let it fall on
me! But no murder, do not charge me with murder. Oh, I am not so bad as
that--I could not harm one of God's creatures."
"Is not your sin worse than murder? Why, the blackest criminal has white
hands compared to yours! You whom I loved and trusted--you have dragged
a man's soul through the depths of your sin."
"I have not, I have not!" she broke forth.
He pointed to the box--he turned his finger to the man who stood in the
shadows, shrouded with blackness, like the fiend he was. What could she
say--how could she deny with that evidence at her feet.
"Oh, my God, have mercy!" she groaned.
"Don't take his name on your lips--don't curse yourself more deeply by a
prayer!"
She crouched lower on the ground, her wild eyes were raised to heaven,
but there was no help--no aid.
"All the facts--I will hear them from your own lips--speak."
She was silent.
"I know--I have been on your track for days. It was not enough that you
destroyed my life, trampled on my honor, but you must choose for the
partner of your guilt the man who had most cruelly wronged me--the one
foe I had on earth."
"No, no! I never saw that man--never!"
"Peace, woman! I tell you that man standing yonder with a grin of Satan
on his lips, is William Ford."
She did cry out then--this was a horror of which she had not dreamed.
"I never knew it; I never knew it."
"And you love this wretch? Through him you shall suffer!"
"I hate him, loathe him!" she cried. "Oh, in this one thing believe
me--I never knew it was Ford. The name was changed to deceive me."
"I would not believe a word from your lips though you brought an angel
to witness it."
Then he looked down at the little coffin, and a fierce gust of insanity
swept over him.
"I will send for some officer of justice."
She caught his arm and held him firmly.
"For Elsie's sake--don't overshadow her life with the shame you hurl on
me. Let me go away--you shall never hear of me again--I will never cross
your path! I do not ask for mercy, but for your sister's sake, for your
own honored name, let me go away and die."