A DARK NIGHT'S WORK.
BY THE AUTHORESS OF "MARY BARTON".
CHAPTER XIII.

ELLINOR, having read the report of Dixon's
examination in the newspaper, bathed her
eyes and forehead in cold water, and tried
to still her poor heart's beating, that she might
be clear and collected enough to weigh the
evidence.

Every line of it was condemnatory. One or
two witnesses spoke of Dixon's unconcealed
dislike of Dunster, a dislike which Ellinor knew
had been entertained by the old servant out of
a species of loyalty to his master, as well as
from personal distaste. The fleam was proved
beyond all doubt to be Dixon's; and a man,
who had been stable-boy in Mr. Wilkins's
service, swore that on the day when Mr. Dunster
was missed, and when the whole town was
wondering what had become of him, a certain colt
of Mr. Wilkins's had needed bleeding, and that
he had been sent by Dixon to the farrier's for a
horse-lancet—an errand which he had remarked
upon at the time, as he knew that Dixon had a
fleam of his own.

Mr. Osbaldistone was examined. He kept
interrupting himself perpetually to express his
surprise at the fact of so steady and well-
conducted a man as Dixon being guilty of so
heinous a crime, and was willing enough to
testify to the excellent character Dixon had
borne during all the many years he had been in
his (Mr. Osbaldistone's) service; but he
appeared to be quite convinced by the evidence
previously given of the prisoner's guilt in the
matter and strengthened the case against him
materially by stating the circumstance of the
old man's dogged unwillingness to have the
slightest interference by cultivation with that
particular piece of ground.

Here Ellinor shuddered. Before her, in that
Roman bed-chamber, rose the fatal oblong she
knew by heart—a little green moss or lichen,
and thinly-growing blades of grass scarcely
covering the caked and undisturbed soil under
the old tree. Oh, that she had been in England
when the surveyors of the railway between
Ashcombe and Hamley had altered their line;
she would have entreated, implored, compelled
her trustees not to have sold that piece of
ground for any sum of money whatsoever. She
would have bribed the surveyors, done she
knew not what—but now it was too late; she
would not let her mind wander off to what
might have been; she would force herself again
to attend to the newspaper columns. There
was little more: the prisoner had been asked if
he could say anything to clear himself, and
properly cautioned not to say anything to incriminate
himself. The poor old man's person was described,
and his evident emotion. "The prisoner
was observed to clutch at the rail before him to
steady himself, and his colour changed so much at
this part of the evidence that one of the turnkeys
offered him a glass of water, which he
declined. He is a man of a strongly-built frame,
and with rather a morose and sullen cast of
countenance."

"My poor, poor Dixon!" said Ellinor, laying
down the paper for an instant, and she was near
crying, only she had resolved to shed no tears
till she had finished all, and could judge of the
chances. There were but a few lines more: "At
one time the prisoner seemed to be desirous of
alleging something in his defence, but he changed
his mind, if such had been the case, and in reply
to Mr. Gordon (the magistrate) he only said,
'You've made a pretty strong case out again me,
gentlemen, and it seems for to satisfy you. So I
think I'll not disturb your minds by saying
anything more.' Accordingly Dixon now stands
committed for trial for murder at the next Hellingford
Assizes, which commence on March the
sixth, before Baron Rushton and Mr. Justice
Corbet."

"Mr. Justice Corbet!" The words ran
through Ellinor as though she had been stabbed
with a knife, and by an irrepressible movement,
she stood up rigid. The young man, her lover
in her youth, the old servant who in those days
was perpetually about her—the two who had so
often met in familiar if not friendly relations,
now to face each other as judge and accused!
She could not tell how much Mr. Corbet had
conjectured from the partial revelation she had
made to him of the impending shame that hung
over her and hers. A day or two ago, she could
have remembered the exact words she had used
in that memorable interview; but now, strive
as she would, she could only recal facts not
words. After all, the Mr. Justice Corbet might
not be Ralph. There was one chance in a
hundred against the identity of the two.