THE LAST TRYST.
Before Elsie Wray quitted the Wayside Inn, however, she had a word to
say to the young barmaid who had brought her the message that the groom
from Stourton Grange wished to speak to her.
She beckoned this girl to her, who was officiating at the bar, and
whispered a few words to her in the passage outside the room.
"Alice," she said, "I am going out, but don't tell father. Say, if he
asks after me, that I have gone to bed with a bad headache. Do you
understand?"
The barmaid nodded; she quite understood that her mistress was going
out to meet the young squire from Stourton Grange. This affair was
known and had been much commented on by the small circle round the
inn-keeper's family. Some had shaken their heads over it, and wished
it might end well. Others took a more charitable view. But Alice, the
barmaid, had seen the look in Elsie's face when she had given her
message to Jack Reid the groom, and her expression did not bode well.
"You won't be late, mistress?" whispered the girl.
"No," answered Elsie, in a low, slow tone, and she clutched the
revolver she held beneath her cloak yet harder as she spoke. "I will go
out by the back door," she added.
"I'll watch till you come back," said Alice, and Elsie nodded and then
glided away into the darkness, and the barmaid looked after her for a
moment, but was quickly recalled to her duties by her master's voice.
Elsie having quitted the house and closed the door softly behind her,
passed down through the kitchen garden, and speedily found herself on
the high road.
She had a long walk--at least two miles and a half--before she could
reach the high land that lies above Fern Dene. Stourton Grange stands
about a mile to the west of Fern Dene, and once or twice in the early
days of their love, Elsie had met young Henderson in the Dene. But this
was before Henderson had discovered that this shady and romantic spot
was the favorite walk and resort of pretty May Churchill. After this
there were no more meetings in the Dene with his lowly-born sweetheart.
Henderson chose another direction, and ran no risks of encountering May
Churchill while walking with Elsie Wray.
Now swiftly and silently beneath the drifting clouds the forsaken woman
went on to what Henderson meant to be her last tryst with him. She
never looked up nor around. She knew the way well, and every feeling of
her heart was concentrated on one object.
"He shall die unless he does me justice," was the thought that entirely
possessed her. She was desperate, and in her desperation she was
capable of anything.
In the meanwhile Tom Henderson was feeling anything but comfortable.
The groom, Jack Reid, had returned and had given Elsie's message to his
young master, and added what he called a hint of his own.
"She looked mortal bad," he said, significantly.
Tom Henderson whistled, but he by no means liked the prospect before
him. He drank more wine at dinner than was his wont, and his mother
again and again looked at him anxiously. She did not like his restless
movements, his somewhat disjointed words. At last he rose and said he
would go out for a smoke and a stroll.
"Don't be late, my dear," answered his mother.
"No," said Tom, and then she watched him walk down the avenue till the
red tip of his cigar disappeared in the darkness.
He went on slowly enough. He knew he was going to meet an angry,
disappointed woman, and he knew he had done Elsie the worst wrong
a man can do, yet he never swerved from his purpose. But he wished
it was over; he was essentially selfish, and he was thinking of his
own feelings of discomfort and not of the poor girl's, as he went on
through the gusty night.
Presently he came to the ridge of high land above Fern Dene. This is
rather a remarkable piece of ground; the dip of the hill from it down
to the Dene being exceedingly steep, even precipitous. This descent is
thickly studded with trees, brambles, and undergrowth. On the ridge
there is a narrow walk, with the fall of the hill on one side and
stretching fields on the other.
Along this walk Henderson went, still slowly, and as he did so the moon
suddenly broke forth from the drifting clouds, and showed him dark and
distinct the figure of a woman on the pathway before him.
It was Elsie Wray wrapped in a long cloak, and standing on the very
verge of the descent below, gazing down into its gloomy depths.
Henderson could see her face in the moonlight; could see the sharply
cut profile and the black brows, for the hood of her cloak had fallen
back, and her head was uncovered. She looked a weird and tragic figure
in this lonely spot, and for a moment Henderson hesitated to approach
her. Then he pulled himself together.
"It must be done," he told his sinking heart, and he therefore began
to walk more quickly forward, and at the sound of his footsteps Elsie
turned her face away from the ravine and looked around.
But she made no forward movement to meet him. She stood there awaiting
his approach, silent, motionless, and something in her attitude made
Henderson yet more uneasy.
At last he neared her.
"Well, Elsie," he said, holding out his hand, "I'm afraid you've had a
long walk."
She did not answer, nor did she attempt to take his proffered hand.
"I asked you to come here, Elsie," continued Henderson, somewhat
hurriedly and nervously, "because I want to have a good talk with you.
I want in fact to make some arrangements, some permanent arrangement.
You see all that talk about our marriage is nonsense. I've others to
consider, my mother to consider, and a marriage between us would never
do, that's a fact."
"When did you first learn this fact?" asked Elsie, bitterly.
"Well, you see, I was only a lad when I first knew you, Elsie, and lads
do and say a lot of foolish things. But I want to make it all square
and act handsomely, as I told you in my letter, if you will only be a
sensible girl."
"And how much do you propose to buy my silence for?" said Elsie, yet
more bitterly.
"Oh, well, it's no use speaking in that tone. I mean to do what I say,
and settle enough on you to make you comfortable for life. Why not
emigrate, and you could marry some fellow out there with the money I
give you? I thought of even as much as two thousand pounds."
"Not for ten hundred thousand pounds!" cried Elsie, raising her voice
in passionate accents. "Not for all the money that was ever coined, Tom
Henderson!" she went on. "What do you take me for? Do you think I would
sell my rights, the rights of my unborn child? Never! You must marry
me, or you will rue the day."
"I can not marry you," answered Henderson, doggedly. "Don't you see
it's impossible for a fellow in my position to do so? How can I take
a wife from a public house? You should look at things more sensibly,
Elsie!"
"You should have thought of all this before--before it was too late.
Now it is. If not for my sake, for the sake of the child--"
"Oh, bother the child!" muttered Henderson, brutally.
The face of the woman he addressed turned absolutely livid. Her eyes
dazed, her breath came short, and her hand convulsively grasped the
revolver hidden beneath her cloak.
"It shall not be the child of shame," she cried in a low fierce tone.
"If you do not promise to do me justice, Tom Henderson, as sure as
there is a God above us I will shoot you dead first, and then myself."
She lifted the revolver as she spoke, and Henderson saw the gleam of
steel in the moonlight, and his face grew pale.
"Will you promise?" repeated Elsie, sternly, and her blazing eyes
never left the changing face of the man standing before her. Henderson
faltered. He saw she was in earnest, and he changed his manner.
"Do not be foolish, Elsie," he said.
"It is not folly," she answered in a determined voice. "Long have I
borne with you; borne with your neglect, your insults; but now I have
made up my mind. Either you marry me, or we both shall die."
"Think for a moment--"
"I will think no more; I have nearly gone mad with thinking; now I
shall act. Tom Henderson, will you marry me?"
"Oh, well, if you put it in that way I suppose I must."
Elsie's raised hand, with which she had been pointing the revolver at
Henderson's throat, fell at these words, and a sigh of relief escaped
her lips.
"Let it be so then," she said, in a strange, weary tone. The strain had
been so great; the struggle was over. Her arm dropped; her head fell
on her breast. But in a moment--in this moment of weakness--the coward
before her sprang upon her, grasping her arm, and wrenched the revolver
from her grasp.
He did it so quickly that Elsie had not time to resist, nor to realize
his action. He held the revolver in the air; he gave a brutal laugh of
triumph.
"Now," he cried, "will you shoot me now? So you were going to force me
to marry you, were you, by your silly threats? But I won't, there; do
you hear, I won't!"
He almost shouted the last words, and they fell on the ears of a woman
stunned with misery.
"What!" she gasped forth. "What!"
"I'm not going to be bullied into doing anything I don't mean to do
by your tragedy airs," continued Henderson, his passions rising as he
spoke. "I've made you a fair offer; most of women would consider it a
handsome offer, but you're a fool."
She looked in his face with a stony look of despair.
"Do you mean to go back from what you promised?" she said.
"I never promised! Once for all, Elsie, make the best of the situation;
take my money, and go away."
"Coward!"
She hissed out this word with bitter emphasis. She stood there facing
him pale to the very lips. Henderson held the revolver high in his
strong hand, and she knew she could not reach it. He had robbed her of
her weapon, but he had not conquered her soul.
"You have lied then," she said, with concentrated scorn, "as you have
done a thousand times. I might have known! But for all that you shall
not marry Miss Churchill. I will go to her to-morrow, and tell her the
whole story; tell her what you are, and how you have treated me, and I
will tell my father."
"You will do this?" cried Henderson, in sudden fury. "You never shall!"
"I will do it," repeated Elsie, doggedly.
"I swear you shall not live to do it!"
"I will!" again said Elsie.
"Then I'll shoot you dead before you do it!" cried Henderson, fiercely,
pointing the revolver at Elsie as he spoke.
The woman did not flinch as the man had done. Perhaps she felt that all
her life was ended that was worth living for. At all events she did not
swerve.
"Swear that you will not go near Miss Churchill; that you will never
tell your father anything of what has been between us," continued
Henderson, still pointing the revolver at Elsie's head, "or by the
heavens above us I'll shoot you!"
"I will tell my father to-night; I will see Miss Churchill to-morrow."
These were almost the unhappy woman's last words. Henderson, maddened
by anger, by the wine he had drunk, and by her obstinacy, with a savage
oath pulled the trigger of the weapon he held, and the next moment
Elsie, with a cry, made a little spring forward, and a moment later
fell fatally wounded at his feet.
Then Henderson began to realize what he had done. He laid the revolver
on the grass; he knelt down at Elsie's side.
"Elsie, you are not any worse, are you?" he said; "I only meant to
frighten you, I only--"
As he was speaking the moon, which had hitherto been partly obscured
and hidden by the drifting clouds, suddenly shone out in its full
radiancy. It shone on the face of a woman struggling in her death
throes; on a ghastly wound which had torn open one side of her shapely
throat, and from which a stream of blood was pouring fast.
Henderson, horror-stricken, drew out his handkerchief and tried to
stanch this, but with a dying effort Elsie pushed his hand aside. She
opened her eyes; she struggled for breath.
"Tom Henderson," she gasped out, for each breath was a gasp, "God will
bring you to account for this--I curse you with my dying breath."
After this she spoke no more. Henderson, appalled by his own deed, felt
powerless. He knelt there and watched the last struggles of the woman
he had shot. He knelt there when it was all over, and when the loving,
passionate heart that he had broken had ceased to beat. Did some dim
memories rise before him as he did so? Did he think of Elsie as the
bright young girl he once had loved? If so, he uttered no word. He
waited till the last quiver was still, the last moan hushed, and then
pale, trembling in every limb, he rose.
Elsie Wray was dead, and he had killed her! The night breeze seemed
to whisper this, as they rustled in the ravine below; strange voices
muttered it in his ears. Good God! And she had cursed him as she died!
Henderson shuddered as he remembered this. Again he glanced tremblingly
at the dead woman's face. The flickering shadows of the moonlight
still played on it; the half-open eyes were full of scorn.
* * * * *
But something must be done, yes, something must be done, Henderson told
himself after a brief interval of horror. He must try to hide this deed
that he had committed, this murder that his hand had wrought. Murder!
The horrid word seemed to ring in his ears; it seemed written in flames
before his eyes. Suddenly it all grew dark; the moon had hidden her
light, and in the gloom Henderson stood alone with his dead.
Then it flashed across his brain that he had shot Elsie with the weapon
that she had brought. This seemed to offer a hope of deliverance to
his mind. She would be supposed to have shot herself. Who was there to
tell? Henderson listened a few moments with bated breath. There was not
a rustle, but the trees below stirred with the night wind; not a sound,
and it was now dark, very dark.
Summoning all his courage, he once more approached the dead woman's
body. He meant to throw it down the ravine, where chance might hide
it. With a sickening feeling of loathing he stooped and raised it in
his arms. Bah? As he did so something still warm ran over his hand. He
dropped the body with a suppressed cry; it was Elsie's blood, and when
he remembered this, it added new horror to his soul.
But it must be done. With a great effort he once more bent down. He
pulled it along this time--this lifeless thing he feared to touch.
He dragged it to the edge of the ravine; he rolled it over the sharp
descent. He heard it fall, then stop. He thought it had found a resting
place. But suddenly the crash of a branch giving way fell on his ears.
Again came a ghastly fall, then another, then a third, and then all was
still.
Henderson stood listening, spellbound with fear and horror. Great drops
of moisture fell from his forehead, his very hair seemed to bristle
with affright. Then after a time of unbroken silence, he slightly
recovered himself. He sought for, and found, the revolver he had laid
on the grass. This he flung down the ravine after the dead woman, and
having done this he turned and fled from the spot with the black curse
of murder on his soul.