England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
"If my father could have known of my living to this! Why, they will try
me as a criminal; and you, Ellinor? Dixon, you are right. We must
conceal it, or I must cut my throat, for I never could live through it.
One minute of passion, and my life blasted!"
"Come along, sir," said Dixon; "there's no time to lose." And they went
out in search of tools; Ellinor following them, shivering all over, but
begging that she might be with them, and not have to remain in the study
with--
She would not be bidden into her own room; she dreaded inaction and
solitude. She made herself busy with carrying heavy baskets of turf, and
straining her strength to the utmost; fetching all that was wanted, with
soft swift steps.
Once, as she passed near the open study door, she thought that she heard
a rustling, and a flash of hope came across her. Could he be reviving?
She entered, but a moment was enough to undeceive her; it had only been a
night rustle among the trees. Of hope, life, there was none.
They dug the hole deep and well; working with fierce energy to quench
thought and remorse. Once or twice her father asked for brandy, which
Ellinor, reassured by the apparently good effect of the first dose,
brought to him without a word; and once at her father's suggestion she
brought food, such as she could find in the dining-room without
disturbing the household, for Dixon.
When all was ready for the reception of the body in its unblessed grave,
Mr. Wilkins bade Ellinor go up to her own room--she had done all she
could to help them; the rest must be done by them alone. She felt that
it must; and indeed both her nerves and her bodily strength were giving
way. She would have kissed her father, as he sat wearily at the head of
the grave--Dixon had gone in to make some arrangement for carrying the
corpse--but he pushed her away quietly, but resolutely--
"No, Nelly, you must never kiss me again; I am a murderer."
"But I will, my own darling papa," said she, throwing her arms
passionately round his neck, and covering his face with kisses. "I love
you, and I don't care what you are, if you were twenty times a murderer,
which you are not; I am sure it was only an accident."
"Go in, my child, go in, and try to get some rest. But go in, for we
must finish as fast as we can. The moon is down; it will soon be
daylight. What a blessing there are no rooms on one side of the house.
Go, Nelly." And she went; straining herself up to move noiselessly, with
eyes averted, through the room which she shuddered at as the place of
hasty and unhallowed death.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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