A Country Sweetheart. Dora Russell
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.
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