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."