VOICES FROM THE DEAD.
The lamp was thrown from the table and extinguished by Annele's fall,
leaving the four in total darkness. Lenz rubbed her with the brandy,
which happily was just under his hand, until she presently drew a
shuddering breath and placed her hand on his face. He laid her on the
bed in the next chamber, and hastened to strike a fresh light.
The raven, in his flight about the kitchen, had upset and broken a
great jug of oil of turpentine, which Lenz kept on hand for use in his
night work, and an intolerable smell of resin filled the room the
moment the door was opened. He poured brandy into the lamp. A pale blue
light spread a ghastly hue over the faces of the buried party.
Petrovitsch laid the child on the bed, and finding its little feet were
stone cold, called Bubby to lie upon them. Then he took Lenz by the arm
and led him back into the sitting-room, leaving the chamber-door open.
The cat and the raven were fighting together in the kitchen, but were
left to settle the quarrel between themselves.
"Have you nothing to eat?" asked Petrovitsch; "it is five o'clock and I
am half famished."
There was plenty to eat; a ham which had been thrown down from its
place in the chimney, bread, and a bag of dried fruit.
Petrovitsch ate with a good appetite, and pressed Lenz to do the same;
he was too intent upon what went on in the adjoining room, however, to
swallow a morsel. The child talked in its sleep, an unintelligible
murmur, that seemed their one connecting link with the world of nature.
It chilled their hearts to hear the unconscious little thing laugh in
its dreams. Annele breathed quietly. Lenz went in to take the child,
but started back with a cry of horror, for he had seized Bubby instead,
and the dog snapped at him. His cry awoke Annele, who, sitting up in
bed, called him and Petrovitsch to her. "Thank God, I am still alive,
if it be but for one hour! I pray forgiveness of all; chiefly of you,
Lenz."
"Don't try to talk now," he interposed. "Will you not swallow
something? I have found the coffee, but not the mill; if the child is
awake I will pound it up. There is nice ham here too."
"I want nothing; let me speak. What happened? What made you scream,
Lenz?"
"Nothing; I only took hold of the dog instead of the child, and he
snapped at me; in my excitement he seemed a monster seeking to devour
me."
"Yes, yes; this distraction," said Annele; "this distraction that I
have made! O Lenz, my dream has come to pass as you described. Last
night I stood before an open grave and looked down into its dark
depths. Little clods of earth kept rolling into it, and I tried to hold
myself back, but could not; I began falling, falling; some power drew
me down. Hold me! There, there, now it is over; it is passed now. Lay
your hand upon my face; so. O gracious God! that you all should have to
die with me! that all this should have come upon you for my sins! I
have deserved it! but you and my child! and oh, my William; my poor
William! You looked at me so pitifully when you went away, and said, 'I
will bring you something good when I come back, mother.' You must bring
me something good in heaven. Be true and good and--"
Tears choked her voice; she grasped Lenz's hand and held it to her
face. "An hour ago I had gladly died; now I long to live, to have one
more chance of showing in this world that I can be true and loving. I
see now what a woman I have been. Henceforth I will pray for a kind
look and word. O God, save us, but for one hour, for one day! I will
send for Franzl, Lenz; that was the beginning of my evil-doing."
"I really believe now that the devil is driven out," said Petrovitsch;
"your thinking of Franzl, and wanting to show kindness to one whose
life you have imbittered, is a sure sign. There is my hand; now all is
well."
Lenz could speak no word. He hurried to the sitting-room, and bringing
what was left of the brandy his uncle had mixed, put it to Annele's
lips, saying: "Drink, and for every drop you swallow I would gladly
give you a thousand blissful words! Drink more, drink it all!" he
continued, as Annele set down the glass. "And then lie still and don't
speak another word."
"I cannot drink any more; believe me, I cannot," said Annele. She
lamented piteously that they all must die. When Lenz tried to soothe
her by telling her that they had provisions for many days yet, and that
before those were exhausted help would surely come, she broke out into
fresh lamentations over her wicked life, her ingratitude and hardness
of heart in turning her back upon the abundance of good things that
were given her, and persisting in demanding those she could not have.
"My head seems covered with snakes. Put your hand on it; is not every
hair a serpent? O Heavens! only this very day, or was it yesterday, I
put on my crown of braids. Go away! I must take down my hair!"
With trembling and feverish hands she took down her hair, and as it
hung about her shoulders she looked like one crazed with grief.
Lenz and Petrovitsch had great difficulty in quieting her. The old man
finally persuaded his nephew to go with him into the sitting-room and
leave her to herself. "Keep calm," he said, when they were alone
together, "else your wife will die before help comes. I never saw such
a change in any human being, and never would have believed it possible.
It is more than human constitution can bear. Tell me now what sort of a
letter this is which I found in your little girl's dress when I laid
Bubby on her feet."
Lenz told the horrible resolution he had formed, and begged his uncle
to give back the letter which contained his farewell to life. The old
man, however, held it fast and read it half aloud.
Lenz's heart trembled at hearing the words which were not to have been
read till he was out of the world. He tried to make out his uncle's
thoughts, as far as the pale blue light would let him study the
expression of his features. The old man read steadily to the end
without once looking up, and then, with a short, quick glance at his
nephew put the letter in his pocket.
"Give me the letter; we will burn it," said Lenz, scarcely above a
whisper.
In the same low tone Petrovitsch answered: "No; I will keep it; I never
half knew you till now."
Whether the words were meant favorably or otherwise it was hard to
tell.
The old man rose, took his brother's file from the wall, held it
firmly, and pressed his thumb into the groove worn by the dead man's
steady toil of years. Perhaps he was registering there a vow to fill a
father's place to Lenz, if they should be saved. He only said: "Come
here; I have something to whisper in your ear. The meanest act a man
can commit is to take his own life. I once knew a man whose father had
killed himself. 'My father took the easiest way for himself and the
hardest for us,' he said, and the son"--here Petrovitsch drew Lenz
close to him, and shouted in his ear--"cursed his father's memory."
Lenz staggered backward and almost fell to the ground at the words.
"Lenz, for Heaven's sake, Lenz, stand up!" cried Annele from the
chamber. "Dear Lenz," she continued, as the two men hastened to her,
"you had meant to take your own life. I know not whether you could
really have done it; but that you thought of it, and meant to do it,
was my fault. Oh, how your heart must have suffered! I cannot tell what
sin of mine most needs your forgiveness."
"It is over now," said Petrovitsch, soothingly. It was strange that
Annele's mind should be working on the same subject they had been
discussing in the next room. Their tone was so low that she could not
possibly have heard them. Both men did their best to soothe her.
"Is that noon or night?" asked Annele, as several clocks struck three.
"It must be night."
They rehearsed together all that had happened since the avalanche, and
concluded it must be past midnight.
"O Day! if I could once, but once again, behold the sun! rise and help
me, Sun!" was Annele's constant cry. "I will live, I must live for long
years yet. If a single day could but undo such great misery! but it
will need years. I will persevere faithfully and patiently." There was
no quieting her till presently she dropped asleep.
Petrovitsch too slept, leaving to Lenz his solitary watch. He dared not
sleep; he must face this threatening death, and avert it if he could.
He extinguished the light to save their precious store of brandy, for
they could not tell how long it might be needed. As he sat gazing into
the darkness, one moment he thought it was day, the next that it must
be night; now one was a comfort to him, now the other. If it was day,
help was nearer; if night, the work of forcing a passage through the
snow and gravel and fallen trees had been going on the longer.
At times he seemed to hear a sound without; it was only seeming. There
was no sound save the raven croaking in his sleep.