A Dark Night's Work (26 page)

"Oh! certainly, certainly," said he; and then he took her hand; he held
it, while he looked into her face. He had thought it changed when he had
first seen her, but it was now almost the same to him as of yore. The
sweet shy eyes, the indicated dimple in the cheek, and something of fever
had brought a faint pink flush into her usually colourless cheeks.
Married judge though he was, he was not sure if she had not more charms
for him still in her sorrow and her shabbiness than the handsome stately
wife in the next room, whose looks had not been of the pleasantest when
he left her a few minutes before. He sighed a little regretfully as
Ellinor went away. He had obtained the position he had struggled for,
and sacrificed for; but now he could not help wishing that the
slaughtered creature laid on the shrine of his ambition were alive again.

The kedgeree was brought up again, smoking hot, but it remained untasted
by him; and though he appeared to be reading the
Times
, he did not see
a word of the distinct type. His wife, meanwhile, continued her
complaints of the untimely visitor, whose name he did not give to her in
its corrected form, as he was not anxious that she should have it in her
power to identify the call of this morning with a possible future
acquaintance.

When Ellinor reached Mr. Johnson's house in Hellingford that afternoon,
she found Miss Monro was there, and that she had been with much
difficulty restrained by Mr. Johnson from following her to London.

Miss Monro fondled and purred inarticulately through her tears over her
recovered darling, before she could speak intelligibly enough to tell her
that Canon Livingstone had come straight to see her immediately on his
return to East Chester, and had suggested her journey to Hellingford, in
order that she might be of all the comfort she could to Ellinor. She did
not at first let out that he had accompanied her to Hellingford; she was
a little afraid of Ellinor's displeasure at his being there; Ellinor had
always objected so much to any advance towards intimacy with him that
Miss Monro had wished to make. But Ellinor was different now.

"How white you are, Nelly!" said Miss Monro. "You have been travelling
too much and too fast, my child."

"My head aches!" said Ellinor, wearily. "But I must go to the castle,
and tell my poor Dixon that he is reprieved—I am so tired! Will you ask
Mr. Johnson to get me leave to see him? He will know all about it."

She threw herself down on the bed in the spare room; the bed with the
heavy blue curtains. After an unheeded remonstrance, Miss Monro went to
do her bidding. But it was now late afternoon, and Mr. Johnson said that
it would be impossible for him to get permission from the sheriff that
night.

"Besides," said he, courteously, "one scarcely knows whether Miss Wilkins
may not give the old man false hopes—whether she has not been excited to
have false hopes herself; it might be a cruel kindness to let her see
him, without more legal certainty as to what his sentence, or reprieve,
is to be. By to-morrow morning, if I have properly understood her story,
which was a little confused—"

"She is so dreadfully tired, poor creature," put in Miss Monro, who never
could bear the shadow of a suspicion that Ellinor was not wisest, best,
in all relations and situations of life.

Mr. Johnson went on, with a deprecatory bow: "Well, then—it really is
the only course open to her besides—persuade her to rest for this
evening. By to-morrow morning I will have obtained the sheriff's leave,
and he will most likely have heard from London."

"Thank you! I believe that will be best."

"It is the only course," said he.

When Miss Monro returned to the bedroom, Ellinor was in a heavy feverish
slumber; so feverish and so uneasy did she appear, that, after the
hesitation of a moment or two, Miss Monro had no scruple in wakening her.

But she did not appear to understand the answer to her request; she did
not seem even to remember that she had made any request.

The journey to England, the misery, the surprises, had been too much for
her. The morrow morning came, bringing the formal free pardon for
Abraham Dixon. The sheriff's order for her admission to see the old man
lay awaiting her wish to use it; but she knew nothing of all this.

For days, nay weeks, she hovered between life and death, tended, as of
old, by Miss Monro, while good Mrs. Johnson was ever willing to assist.

One summer evening in early June she wakened into memory, Miss Monro
heard the faint piping voice, as she kept her watch by the bedside.

"Where is Dixon?" asked she.

"At the canon's house at Bromham." This was the name of Dr.
Livingstone's county parish.

"Why?"

"We thought it better to get him into country air and fresh scenes at
once."

"How is he?"

"Much better. Get strong, and he shall come to see you."

"You are sure all is right?" said Ellinor.

"Sure, my dear. All is quite right."

Then Ellinor went to sleep again out of very weakness and weariness.

From that time she recovered pretty steadily. Her great desire was to
return to East Chester as soon as possible. The associations of grief,
anxiety, and coming illness, connected with Hellingford, made her wish to
be once again in the solemn, quiet, sunny close of East Chester.

Canon Livingstone came over to assist Miss Monro in managing the journey
with her invalid. But he did not intrude himself upon Ellinor, any more
than he had done in coming from home.

The morning after her return, Miss Monro said:

"Do you feel strong enough to see Dixon?"

"Is he here?"

"He is at the canon's house. He sent for him from Bromham, in order that
he might be ready for you to see him when you wished."

"Please let him come directly," said Ellinor, flushing and trembling.

She went to the door to meet the tottering old man; she led him to the
easy-chair that had been placed and arranged for herself; she knelt down
before him, and put his hands on her head, he trembling and shaking all
the while.

"Forgive me all the shame and misery, Dixon. Say you forgive me; and
give me your blessing. And then let never a word of the terrible past be
spoken between us."

"It's not for me to forgive you, as never did harm to no one—"

"But say you do—it will ease my heart."

"I forgive thee!" said he. And then he raised himself to his feet with
effort, and, standing up above her, he blessed her solemnly.

After that he sat down, she by him, gazing at him.

"Yon's a good man, missy," he said, at length, lifting his slow eyes and
looking at her. "Better nor t'other ever was."

"He is a good man," said Ellinor.

But no more was spoken on the subject. The next day, Canon Livingstone
made his formal call. Ellinor would fain have kept Miss Monro in the
room, but that worthy lady knew better than to stop.

They went on, forcing talk on indifferent subjects. At last he could
speak no longer on everything but that which he had most at heart. "Miss
Wilkins!" (he had got up, and was standing by the mantelpiece, apparently
examining the ornaments upon it)—"Miss Wilkins! is there any chance of
your giving me a favourable answer now—you know what I mean—what we
spoke about at the Great Western Hotel, that day?"

Ellinor hung her head.

"You know that I was once engaged before?"

"Yes! I know; to Mr. Corbet—he that is now the judge; you cannot
suppose that would make any difference, if that is all. I have loved
you, and you only, ever since we met, eighteen years ago. Miss
Wilkins—Ellinor—put me out of suspense."

"I will!" said she, putting out her thin white hand for him to take and
kiss, almost with tears of gratitude, but she seemed frightened at his
impetuosity, and tried to check him. "Wait—you have not heard all—my
poor, poor father, in a fit of anger, irritated beyond his bearing,
struck the blow that killed Mr. Dunster—Dixon and I knew of it, just
after the blow was struck—we helped to hide it—we kept the secret—my
poor father died of sorrow and remorse—you now know all—can you still
love me? It seems to me as if I had been an accomplice in such a
terrible thing!"

"Poor, poor Ellinor!" said he, now taking her in his arms as a shelter.
"How I wish I had known of all this years and years ago: I could have
stood between you and so much!"

Those who pass through the village of Bromham, and pause to look over the
laurel-hedge that separates the rectory garden from the road, may often
see, on summer days, an old, old man, sitting in a wicker-chair, out upon
the lawn. He leans upon his stick, and seldom raises his bent head; but
for all that his eyes are on a level with the two little fairy children
who come to him in all their small joys and sorrows, and who learnt to
lisp his name almost as soon as they did that of their father and mother.

Nor is Miss Monro often absent; and although she prefers to retain the
old house in the Close for winter quarters, she generally makes her way
across to Canon Livingstone's residence every evening.