A Dark Night's Work (25 page)

The waiter returned with the answer while she yet was pacing up and down
the room restlessly, nerving herself for the interview.

"The messenger has been to Hyde Park Gardens, ma'am. The Judge and Lady
Corbet are gone out to dinner."

Lady Corbet! Of course Ellinor knew that he was married. Had she not
been present at the wedding in East Chester Cathedral? But, somehow,
these recent events had so carried her back to old times, that the
intimate association of the names, "the Judge and Lady Corbet," seemed to
awaken her out of some dream.

"Oh, very well," she said, just as if these thoughts were not passing
rapidly through her mind. "Let me be called at seven to-morrow morning,
and let me have a cab at the door to Hyde Park Gardens at eight."

And so she went to bed; but scarcely to sleep. All night long she had
the scenes of those old times, the happy, happy days of her youth, the
one terrible night that cut all happiness short, present before her. She
could almost have fancied that she heard the long-silent sounds of her
father's step, her father's way of breathing, the rustle of his newspaper
as he hastily turned it over, coming through the lapse of years; the
silence of the night. She knew that she had the little writing-case of
her girlhood with her, in her box. The treasures of the dead that it
contained, the morsel of dainty sewing, the little sister's golden curl,
the half-finished letter to Mr. Corbet, were all there. She took them
out, and looked at each separately; looked at them long—long and
wistfully. "Will it be of any use to me?" she questioned of herself, as
she was about to put her father's letter back into its receptacle. She
read the last words over again, once more:

"From my death-bed I adjure you to stand her friend; I will beg pardon on
my knees for anything."

"I will take it," thought she. "I need not bring it out; most likely
there will be no need for it, after what I shall have to say. All is so
altered, so changed between us, as utterly as if it never had been, that
I think I shall have no shame in showing it him, for my own part of it.
While, if he sees poor papa's, dear, dear papa's suffering humility, it
may make him think more gently of one who loved him once though they
parted in wrath with each other, I'm afraid."

So she took the letter with her when she drove to Hyde Park Gardens.

Every nerve in her body was in such a high state of tension that she
could have screamed out at the cabman's boisterous knock at the door. She
got out hastily, before any one was ready or willing to answer such an
untimely summons; paid the man double what he ought to have had; and
stood there, sick, trembling, and humble.

"Is Judge Corbet at home? Can I see him?" she asked of the footman, who
at length answered the door.

He looked at her curiously, and a little familiarly, before he replied,

"Why, yes! He's pretty sure to be at home at this time of day; but
whether he'll see you is quite another thing."

"Would you be so good as to ask him? It is on very particular business."

"Can you give me a card? your name, perhaps, will do, if you have not a
card. I say, Simmons" (to a lady's-maid crossing the hall), "is the
judge up yet?"

"Oh, yes! he's in his dressing-room this half-hour. My lady is coming
down directly. It is just breakfast-time."

"Can't you put it off and come again, a little later?" said he, turning
once more to Ellinor—white Ellinor! trembling Ellinor!

"No! please let me come in. I will wait. I am sure Judge Corbet will
see me, if you will tell him I am here. Miss Wilkins. He will know the
name."

"Well, then; will you wait here till I have got breakfast in?" said the
man, letting her into the hall, and pointing to the bench there, he took
her, from her dress, to be a lady's-maid or governess, or at most a
tradesman's daughter; and, besides, he was behindhand with all his
preparations. She came in and sat down.

"You will tell him I am here," she said faintly.

"Oh, yes, never fear: I'll send up word, though I don't believe he'll
come to you before breakfast."

He told a page, who ran upstairs, and, knocking at the judge's door, said
that a Miss Jenkins wanted to speak to him.

"Who?" asked the judge from the inside.

"Miss Jenkins. She said you would know the name, sir."

"Not I. Tell her to wait."

So Ellinor waited. Presently down the stairs, with slow deliberate
dignity, came the handsome Lady Corbet, in her rustling silks and ample
petticoats, carrying her fine boy, and followed by her majestic nurse.
She was ill-pleased that any one should come and take up her husband's
time when he was at home, and supposed to be enjoying domestic leisure;
and her imperious, inconsiderate nature did not prompt her to any
civility towards the gentle creature sitting down, weary and heart-sick,
in her house. On the contrary, she looked her over as she slowly
descended, till Ellinor shrank abashed from the steady gaze of the large
black eyes. Then she, her baby and nurse, disappeared into the large
dining-room, into which all the preparations for breakfast had been
carried.

The next person to come down would be the judge. Ellinor instinctively
put down her veil. She heard his quick decided step; she had known it
well of old.

He gave one of his sharp, shrewd glances at the person sitting in the
hall and waiting to speak to him, and his practised eye recognised the
lady at once, in spite of her travel-worn dress.

"Will you just come into this room?" said he, opening the door of his
study, to the front of the house: the dining-room was to the back; they
communicated by folding-doors.

The astute lawyer placed himself with his back to the window; it was the
natural position of the master of the apartment; but it also gave him the
advantage of seeing his companion's face in full light. Ellinor lifted
her veil; it had only been a dislike to a recognition in the hall which
had made her put it down.

Judge Corbet's countenance changed more than hers; she had been prepared
for the interview; he was not. But he usually had the full command of
the expression on his face.

"Ellinor! Miss Wilkins! is it you?" And he went forwards, holding out
his hand with cordial greeting, under which the embarrassment, if he felt
any, was carefully concealed. She could not speak all at once in the way
she wished.

"That stupid Henry told me 'Jenkins!' I beg your pardon. How could they
put you down to sit in the hall? You must come in and have some
breakfast with us; Lady Corbet will be delighted, I'm sure." His sense
of the awkwardness of the meeting with the woman who was once to have
been his wife, and of the probable introduction which was to follow to
the woman who was his actual wife grew upon him, and made him speak a
little hurriedly. Ellinor's next words were a wonderful relief; and her
soft gentle way of speaking was like the touch of a cooling balsam.

"Thank you, you must excuse me. I am come strictly on business,
otherwise I should never have thought of calling on you at such an hour.
It is about poor Dixon."

"Ah! I thought as much!" said the judge, handing her a chair, and
sitting down himself. He tried to compose his mind to business, but in
spite of his strength of character, and his present efforts, the
remembrance of old times would come back at the sound of her voice. He
wondered if he was as much changed in appearance as she struck him as
being in that first look of recognition; after that first glance he
rather avoided meeting her eyes.

"I knew how much you would feel it. Some one at Hellingford told me you
were abroad, in Rome, I think. But you must not distress yourself
unnecessarily; the sentence is sure to be commuted to transportation, or
something equivalent. I was talking to the Home Secretary about it only
last night. Lapse of time and subsequent good character quite preclude
any idea of capital punishment." All the time that he said this he had
other thoughts at the back of his mind—some curiosity, a little regret,
a touch of remorse, a wonder how the meeting (which, of course, would
have to be some time) between Lady Corbet and Ellinor would go off; but
he spoke clearly enough on the subject in hand, and no outward mark of
distraction from it appeared.

Elmer answered:

"I came to tell you, what I suppose may be told to any judge, in
confidence and full reliance on his secrecy, that Abraham Dixon was not
the murderer." She stopped short, and choked a little.

The judge looked sharply at her.

"Then you know who was?" said he.

"Yes," she replied, with a low, steady voice, looking him full in the
face, with sad, solemn eyes.

The truth flashed into his mind. He shaded his face, and did not speak
for a minute or two. Then he said, not looking up, a little hoarsely,
"This, then, was the shame you told me of long ago?"

"Yes," said she.

Both sat quite still; quite silent for some time. Through the silence a
sharp, clear voice was heard speaking through the folding-doors.

"Take the kedgeree down, and tell the cook to keep it hot for the judge.
It is so tiresome people coming on business here, as if the judge had not
his proper hours for being at chambers."

He got up hastily, and went into the dining-room; but he had audibly some
difficulty in curbing his wife's irritation.

When he came back, Ellinor said:

"I am afraid I ought not to have come here now."

"Oh! it's all nonsense!" said he, in a tone of annoyance. "You've done
quite right." He seated himself where he had been before; and again half
covered his face with his hand.

"And Dixon knew of this. I believe I must put the fact plainly—to
you—your father was the guilty person? he murdered Dunster?"

"Yes. If you call it murder. It was done by a blow, in the heat of
passion. No one can ever tell how Dunster always irritated papa," said
Ellinor, in a stupid, heavy way; and then she sighed.

"How do you know this?" There was a kind of tender reluctance in the
judge's voice, as he put all these questions. Ellinor had made up her
mind beforehand that something like them must be asked, and must also be
answered; but she spoke like a sleep-walker.

"I came into papa's room just after he had struck Mr. Dunster the blow.
He was lying insensible, as we thought—dead, as he really was."

"What was Dixon's part in it? He must have known a good deal about it.
And the horse-lancet that was found with his name upon it?"

"Papa went to wake Dixon, and he brought his fleam—I suppose to try and
bleed him. I have said enough, have I not? I seem so confused. But I
will answer any question to make it appear that Dixon is innocent."

The judge had been noting all down. He sat still now without replying to
her. Then he wrote rapidly, referring to his previous paper, from time
to time. In five minutes or so he read the facts which Ellinor had
stated, as he now arranged them, in a legal and connected form. He just
asked her one or two trivial questions as he did so. Then he read it
over to her, and asked her to sign it. She took up the pen, and held it,
hesitating.

"This will never be made public?" said she.

"No; I shall take care that no one but the Home Secretary sees it."

"Thank you. I could not help it, now it has come to this."

"There are not many men like Dixon," said the judge, almost to himself,
as he sealed the paper in an envelope.

"No," said Ellinor; "I never knew any one so faithful."

And just at the same moment the reflection on a less faithful person that
these words might seem to imply struck both of them, and each
instinctively glanced at the other.

"Ellinor!" said the judge, after a moment's pause, "we are friends, I
hope?"

"Yes; friends," said she, quietly and sadly.

He felt a little chagrined at her answer. Why, he could hardly tell. To
cover any sign of his feeling he went on talking.

"Where are you living now?"

"At East Chester."

"But you come sometimes to town, don't you? Let us know always—whenever
you come; and Lady Corbet shall call on you. Indeed, I wish you'd let me
bring her to see you to-day."

"Thank you. I am going straight back to Hellingford; at least, as soon
as you can get me the pardon for Dixon."

He half smiled at her ignorance.

"The pardon must be sent to the sheriff, who holds the warrant for his
execution. But, of course, you may have every assurance that it shall be
sent as soon as possible. It is just the same as if he had it now."

"Thank you very much," said Ellinor rising.

"Pray don't go without breakfast. If you would rather not see Lady
Corbet just now, it shall be sent in to you in this room, unless you have
already breakfasted."

"No, thank you; I would rather not. You are very kind, and I am very
glad to have seen you once again. There is just one thing more," said
she, colouring a little and hesitating. "This note to you was found
under papa's pillow after his death; some of it refers to past things;
but I should be glad if you could think as kindly as you can of poor
papa—and so—if you will read it—"

He took it and read it, not without emotion. Then he laid it down on his
table, and said—

"Poor man! he must have suffered a great deal for that night's work. And
you, Ellinor, you have suffered, too."

Yes, she had suffered; and he who spoke had been one of the instruments
of her suffering, although he seemed forgetful of it. She shook her head
a little for reply. Then she looked up at him—they were both standing
at the time—and said:

"I think I shall be happier now. I always knew it must be found out.
Once more, good-by, and thank you. I may take this letter, I suppose?"
said she, casting envious loving eyes at her father's note, lying
unregarded on the table.