It was late in the afternoon that I was aroused from a sound sleep by the intelligence that Miriam was dead. She died while asleep, without a struggle, or a groan. I called in Mrs. Grove, the housekeeper, who had been devotedly attached to Miriam, and we dressed her in a white robe, and scattered fragrant flowers around her, to take away, if possible, the horror and ghastliness of death. She did not look at all like the Miriam I had known and loved. Her features were sharp and pinched, and her face looked careworn, and anxious—if anything so lifeless can be said to have expression.
No one came into the room that evening but the family, and they retired early, and left me alone with the dead. Mrs. Grove sat up all night in the dining room, which was separated from Miriam's room by a narrow entry. She would have remained with me, but I saw that she was very nervous and timid, and insisted that she should leave me. I could not understand her feeling. I felt not the slightest fear of the inanimate body before me, or of the disembodied spirit. She had been my friend during her whole life—why should she harm me now?
I put out the light, and seated myself by the open window at the foot of the bed. The round, full moon, in a cloudless sky, made every object in the room and out of it as distinct as in the day. I looked at the fountain, which spun its threads of light under the window; and at the little flowers just peeping above the ground; and at the foliage, with its many-shaded green; and occasionally I looked at the body stretched upon the bed. And each time that I looked it seemed to me that it gently stirred. This did not startle me at all, for I was accustomed to the appearance of death. Who that has lost a friend does not find it impossible to realize that the form is utterly without life? And who has ever gazed long at a corpse without fancying that it moved? So again and again I looked at Miriam, and again and again I fancied there was a slight motion, scarcely perceptible. At last the constant repetition of this feeling made me uneasy, and to quiet my mind, and satisfy myself that it was only seeming, I went to the bed and bent over Miriam.
My blood ran cold in my veins, as I encountered the eyes of Miriam, open, dilated, and black, fixed upon mine! There was a strange light in them. It scarcely looked like life, and yet it surely could not be death. It seemed more like a light shining far down some black and deep sepulchre. Half frenzied with terror, and scarcely knowing what I did, I forced down the eyelids and shut out that hateful light; but the instant I removed my fingers the eyes opened upon me again. This time it seemed the expression was more life-like—there was eagerness in it. Again I pressed down the eyelids, but now there was resistance to my touch. I could feel it. The hands, which had lain quiet on her breast, were convulsively raised. I stepped back from the bed, and Miriam sat upright! Incredible as it may appear, the frenzy of my terror was gone. Miriam looked like herself. The ghastly pallor of death, the sunken cheek, the pinched features were all there; but there was something in the face which made me think of the Miriam of olden days—the Miriam I had known before this last terrible sickness came upon her. I was not entirely free from fear, but it was a charmed fear. I never thought of calling any one. I could do nothing but watch Miriam.
After a few convulsive efforts she got off the bed, and stood erect for a moment. I remember thinking that all this was very strange, and wondering what she would do next. She moved slowly to the door. I followed her with my eyes. At the door she turned, and looked at me. And then there rushed upon my mind the whole weight and responsibility of the promise I had made her, that I would never leave her body until it was consigned to the tomb! I comprehended that I must follow her, and mechanically I obeyed the impulse. She took her way through the dining room. Mrs. Grove was sitting in an easy-chair, fast asleep. I wondered how she could sleep with this awful presence in the room. Miriam did not glance at her, but passed out of the front door, into the street. My mind was in a constant state of activity. My will was under the guidance of Miriam. I had no control over it. My thoughts were my own, and wandered from object to object. As we were passing down the steps I thought how beautifully the river would look in the moonlight; but Miriam turned in an opposite direction from the river, and I was disappointed. How fearfully quiet was everything! I would have given worlds, had I possessed them, if I could have seen a familiar face. I even had a half-formed thought to scream loudly for help, but I could not do it. My will was utterly powerless. We approached the house where Ackermann resided, and I was seized with horror, thinking it possible that she might murder him while I witnessed the bloody deed, powerless to prevent it. But she never once looked at the house while passing it. This phantom—whatever it might be—seemed to be entirely free from human feelings. I do not think this idea tended to reassure me, and when we left the closely built street, and merged into the open country, where the fields stretched away on every side of us, with no life in them, and where loneliness and desolation reigned supreme, I felt a new terror, and longed to turn, and flee back to human life. But no! I must follow my conductress wherever she chose to lead me!
Miriam walked slowly at first, but had increased her speed as she proceeded, and now she was walking so swiftly that I could scarcely keep pace with her. I saw white marbles gleaming among the trees at the top of a hill, and knew that we were approaching the graveyard. It was a dreary-looking place—a disgrace to the village. The stone wall was in a dilapidated condition, and in some places there were gaps in it. The graves were overgrown with rank weeds, and many old gray tombstones lay on the ground. The gate was swinging loosely on its hinges, and we passed swiftly through it. And now, thought I, the mystery is solved. Miriam is going to bury herself, and has brought me to fill the grave, so that no one may see her body but me, I can never, never do it, if she fixes those terrible eyes upon me! An open grave lay in our pathway. The red clay soil, which was heaped around it, was moist. I felt my feet sink in it as we passed over it—for around the grave we went on our swift, unerring course—although I knew the grave had been that day dug for Miriam! Did she know this? If so, she gave no sign of that knowledge, and I breathed more freely when we were fairly out of the graveyard. On the other side of it was a thick wood, into which I had never penetrated. Indeed the thorny thickets, and low, poisonous bushes made it impenetrable to any one, and yet it was into this wood that Miriam led the way. How we pushed through it I do not know. My clothes were nearly torn into rags, and so were Miriam's. My flesh was torn also in several places. I had no means of knowing whether hers was torn also.
At last she stopped before a mass of—but my heart grows sick and my brain dizzy when I think of that—I cannot describe it, but I knew by unmistakable evidences that the lost Annie was found!
I looked at Miriam, but she did not return my glance. I could not see her face. She stopped only a moment, and continued her walk. And now I followed fearlessly. As soon as I discovered that the phantom had a human purpose, my terror abated. I was now in a state of feverish excitement, wondering what other discoveries would be made. Our way lay along the bank of a little brook. The space was more open. The weeds and bushes had evidently been trampled down, and broken away. Miriam walked more slowly, and looked upon the ground. At last she again paused, and pointed with a rigid, bony finger to a little alder twig, which was trembling in the breeze. I could see nothing there but a dewdrop sparkling in the moonlight; but, obeying the impulse of my will, which was in obedience to Miriam, I stooped to touch the dewdrop, and instead, I took off the twig—a ring! It was the diamond ring, which Miriam had given to Ackermann. I clutched it in my hand, and turned to Miriam, but she was retracing her steps.
I remember nothing of the return home. I saw nothing, felt nothing. I seemed to be sailing through the air, so exhilarated was I. I can compare my state to nothing but that of a person who has been taking ether. I took but little notice of Miriam, until we entered the village, when I observed that she walked more slowly. After a time it seemed to be an effort to her to walk at all, until finally she tottered, and fell close by her own door. I stood an instant, and looked at her. She lay on the step, a stiff and rigid corpse. Her eyes were open, but they were fixed in the glassy stare of death! I ran into the house. Mrs. Grove was in the dining room, sleeping heavily. I was about to awaken her, when I remembered that I would have to account for the strange fact of the body lying at the front door. How could I tell Mrs. Grove, who had showed herself to be a weak and nervous woman, the wonderful story of our night walk? Would she be able to help me if she knew it? I thought of calling upon Miriam's father, but that seemed horrible. These thoughts rushed through my mind with the rapidity of lightning, and I ran out of the door again, not knowing what to do. A man was standing on the step: I suppose he happened to be passing, and stopped in amazement at the sight; but I did not pause to look at him, or ask him any questions. I had no time to give him explanations, for I saw the gray dawn was breaking in the eastern sky, and feared that soon other persons might come along the street. I gave him a confused and hurried account of how we had thought Miriam dead, and how she had walked that far, and fallen; and I begged him to help me carry her in the house. He consented, and then I remembered that there was a side door, which was near Miriam's room, and if we carried the body through that we should avoid waking Mrs. Grove. I passed silently through the dining room, and, having unbolted the door, I returned, and lifted the body of my poor friend in my arms, while the stranger raised her head. And thus we carried her in the house, and laid her on the bed. I smoothed her dishevelled hair, and arranged her torn dress, forgetting that any one else was in the room, until I was startled by a groan. And then for the first time I looked at the stranger. It was Ackermann!
My fingers involuntarily closed tighter around the ring, which, all this time, I had kept shut up in my hand. Not for the world would I have had him to see it then. I was more afraid of him than I had been of Miriam during all our journey. She might be called an Avenging Angel. He was a destroying Fiend.