A Country Sweetheart. Dora Russell
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