HOW ADA SOLVED HER PROBLEM
It was a week after the marriage, and during that week much business
had been accomplished, and many plans laid. Ever since that day, a
change had been perceptible in Ada—a change which, by contrast with
her late gloom, might almost have been called brightness. She
noticed persons and things, and once or twice voluntarily addressed
herself to others.
Gilbert had been in communication with Eleanor, on business affairs,
and it was decided that Thorsgarth need not be sold, if Eleanor
chose to make an allowance to her brother and to Ada, which she was
very willing to do, so long as Otho agreed to absent himself from
her neighbourhood and that of Ada, wherever they might be. He was
ready enough to promise this. His fear and dread seemed to have
turned into an indifference in which considerable irritability
displayed itself. But for the strong head and hand of Gilbert
keeping him in check, it seemed as if Otho, once secure of a
subsistence, would have taken his departure from the scene, and left
those behind him to settle his affairs as they could, or would.
This, however, he was not permitted to do, but was kept on the spot
until everything was arranged, the agreements drawn up and signed,—a
ceremony which took place at the Dower House, in the presence of
Otho, Eleanor, Gilbert, Mr. Coningsby of Bradstane, Mr. Palfreyman
of London, and the requisite witnesses.
By the new arrangement Eleanor would be practically left with only
two or three hundred a year at her disposal, instead of the ample
income of twelve or thirteen hundred a year which she had hitherto
enjoyed. In another state of things this might have troubled her,
but now it failed to do so in the least. Discussing the
circumstance one day with Michael, she smilingly said something
about his being tied to a pauper, to which Michael replied in a
very matter-of-course tone, that as soon as everything was
settled, and Otho gone away, and Ada retired to her father’s
house, he intended Eleanor and himself to be married.
‘The sooner you enter upon your life of pauperism, the better,’ he
remarked.
Eleanor made no opposition; her feeling was one of thankfulness that
instead of coming in the style of the orthodox lover, and asking her
what she would like to do, he simply told her what was going to be
done. Her trust in him was entire and without flaw or reservation,
and from this course on his part she perceived that his trust in her
was of the same nature as hers in him. She might have echoed the
words of the heroine in Wuthering Heights,’ who cried, ‘Do I love
Heathcliff? Why, I _am_ Heathcliff!’ So Eleanor felt with regard to
Michael. That which they had passed through together, the fate which
after so short an acquaintance, had thrown them, across every
obstacle, into the closest intimacy, had developed perfection of
sympathy, and a oneness of heart and mind, which sometimes only
comes with years of married life, sometimes never comes at all.
On the evening of that day when the final settlements had taken
place, Gilbert came to the Dower House, and related how all was
decided, and how, the day after to-morrow, they were returning to
town, Otho having consented to remain a day longer, as Gilbert had
business to settle at the mills. These arrangements, and Ada’s
prospective departure, were discussed openly and purposely in Ada’s
presence on this particular evening, and though she did not speak,
she seemed to listen attentively to what was said. By and by Gilbert
went away, saying that he would see Eleanor once again before he
left Bradstane altogether, as he had something that he particularly
wished to say to her.
During the forenoon of the following day Michael called at the Dower
House. Ada presently left him and Eleanor alone, but in a few
minutes returned, dressed, to the surprise of both, in bonnet and
shawl, as if she intended going out. Both looked up in astonishment.
Ada’s face wore an expression of something like hopefulness. It was
still so different from her former face, that scarcely any one would
have recognised it who had been unacquainted with the history of
what had happened during the last year. That is to say, it was now
no longer the face of a girl, but the set, formed countenance of a
woman who has suffered, and whose sufferings have hardened, not
softened her. But to-day it wore a look of expectancy, almost of
animation.
‘Dr. Langstroth,’ said she, ‘I’m going to ask a great favour of
you.’
‘Are you, Ada? I am glad to hear it.’
‘It is, that if you’ve a little time to spare, you’d walk with me
through the town. You see, you have that character that whatever you
choose to do, you may do; you won’t lose any reputation by being
seen with me. I—I’ve been thinking that when you and Miss Askam are
married, and I go back to father and mother, I cannot bear the long
days in the house there, as I have done here. It would drive me mad.
But if I’m left to myself, I shall never have the courage to walk
out alone. I thought, if you’d go out with me this once, just down
the town, then perhaps I might not be afraid to find my way back
alone, over the old bridge and up here again, if you do not mind.’
This was by far the longest speech Ada had made since she had been
under Eleanor’s roof, and Michael watched her attentively as she
spoke, and noticed that she did not meet his eye.
‘Mind!’ he echoed, rising; ‘no, I do not mind, Ada. I am very glad
to find you disposed to make this beginning. Let us go. Miss Askam
will spare me.’
‘Surely, Michael!’ said Eleanor; but she looked at him anxiously,
for her keen sympathy told her that he was not altogether easy about
this decision of Ada’s. She looked at him earnestly, and her fears
were not lulled when she found that he avoided looking at her,
though he waved his hand a little, and smiled, saying they should
not be long.
‘Oh, Michael, take care of _yourself_,’ she whispered in his ear; to
which he nodded, and followed Ada out of the room. Eleanor watched
them from the window, and saw that they walked slowly.
Two minutes after they had gone, Gilbert came in.
‘You are alone,’ he said; ‘I am not sorry, Eleanor, for I want to
say something to you.’
‘Yes, Gilbert,’ said she, and he was surprised when she took the
hand he extended into both her own, and pressing it almost
convulsively, said, rapidly, and with a kind of passion in her
tones—‘Another time I will see you alone—whenever you like; and if
you have any favour to ask of me, I swear I will grant it; but oh,
Gilbert, listen to me, now. Ada has asked Michael to take her for a
walk through the town, because she dare not go alone. I know he
thinks she is going to try to do something dreadful, because she is
not sane, though she seems so; he told me so. Perhaps to kill
herself, or him. Who can answer for the fancies of a madwoman? I
hate her sometimes.’
‘Well?’ he echoed, looking down into her upturned face, which seemed
to blaze with emotion, and feeling a spasm contract his own heart.
‘Will you not follow them, Gilbert, dear Gilbert? For my sake, if it
is not too selfish of me to ask it. If you will not go, I must. I
cannot tell why I feel this agony of fear, but I do, and it masters
me. To please me, Gilbert; and I will do what I can to please you,
afterwards.’
She had pressed more closely to him, her eyes strainingly fixed upon
his face, her whole frame trembling. Her agitation communicated
itself to Gilbert, like some subtle electric thrill. Over his
blue-gray eyes there was a kind of film, and a tremor in his voice,
as he said—
‘For your sake, my sister ... but ... if anything hinders me from
seeing you again to-day, Eleanor, good-bye.’
He stooped his head, and his lips rested for a second, no more, upon
her brow. And then she was alone again.
* * * * *
Michael and Ada walked slowly down the sloping square, where they
saw scarcely any one. Then, turning a corner, they emerged in the
main street of the old town, which also sloped steeply downhill. The
sunlight was streaming gaily upon this street; the shops were open,
and many people were moving to and fro. In it were situated the
house of Ada’s father, her former home; the schoolroom in which the
concert had taken place, and several other public buildings—all
clustering together, in homely vicinity, as they do in towns of this
size. As they proceeded down this street they, of course, attracted
notice. It was not a usual thing to see Michael walking in a
leisurely manner down the town at that hour of the day. And it was
more than a year since his companion had been seen in the places
where her figure had once been familiar. People looked at them—came
to their doors in curiosity, and gazed at and after them, and
Michael knew that his companion was trembling from head to foot. Her
face was deadly pale; her eyes were fixed upon the ground. But she
neither hurried, nor faltered in her step, walking straight onwards,
down the hill, and towards the mills. When they were nearly there,
and the number of people who were about had sensibly diminished, he
spoke to her, for the first time, quietly and tranquilly—
‘Now, Ada, shall we return? I think you have walked far enough.’
‘Not that way,’ she replied, in a fluttering voice. ‘I can’t face it
again. We’ll cross the footbridge, and go round the other side,
where it’s quieter.’
He humoured her, and they went through the dark passage, and emerged
on the bridge.
‘Now,’ said she, ‘won’t you turn back, sir? I don’t want to keep
you, and I can go well enough by myself this way. It is very quiet.’
‘Yes, very quiet,’ replied he composedly. ‘I will walk round with
you. My time is quite at your disposal.’
She hesitated for a moment, and he saw that she looked at him in a
stealthy, side-long manner, of which he took no notice, openly.
Happening to turn his head, he saw Gilbert just behind them. He
wondered how he had got there, but felt a sense of relief in knowing
that he was present, and obeying a sign of his brother’s hand, took
no notice of him.
Midway over the bridge, Ada walked more slowly, raised her head, and
began to look about her.
‘Why,’ she observed, ‘the river is in spate; that’s the rains up by
Cauldron, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ said Michael; and, indeed, there was a wild, if a joyous
prospect around them. April green on the woods and grass, and April
sunshine in the sky, and the river, which was, as she said, in
spate, tearing along, many feet higher than usual, with brown,
turbid waters, looking resistless in their swiftness and their
strength.
‘Well,’ she next observed, in a muffled voice, ‘it’s far worse than
I thought, and not better, as Miss Askam said it would be. It makes
me sure that I’m right.’
‘Right in what, Ada?’
‘In what I thought about facing the people again.’
‘It is the first step that costs. In time you will mind it less. It
is well that you tried it.’
‘Perhaps it is. It is well to make sure of things,’ said Ada, in a
stronger voice. ‘But I’ll never do it again. I’ll never be stared at
and whispered about in that way, any more. They would like to throw
stones at me, if they dared. If I’d been alone, I daresay they would
have done.’
‘You wrong them——’
‘What does it matter?’ she said, coldly, as she stooped to pick a
tuft of small flowers from the grassy bank of the river. Then she
paused a moment, picking them to pieces, and seemed absorbed in
reflection upon what she had felt in passing through the town.
Suddenly she looked up at Michael, and said—
‘There’s one thing I should like to say, Dr. Langstroth. _You_ are a
man, whatever the rest may be; and I always knew you were; and it
was because I always felt you were so high above me that I used to
say such ill-natured things of you to Roger. I knew that you saw
through me, if he didn’t; but you never betrayed me. However, it
will be all the same to you. I can’t hurt you or help you, one way
or another—so good-bye.’
With that she slipped past him, with a darting movement which eluded
his grasp, ran down the bank of the river, stood for one moment
poised for the spring she took, and the next instant he saw her
swept like a reed, many yards away, down the giant current of the
stream.
‘Fool that I was!’ he muttered, turning instinctively to rush down
the stream, and if possible, go beyond her, before he plunged in, so
that he could meet and intercept her. But Gilbert met him at the
corner of the bridge. There was a curious look in his eyes, and his
hand held back Michael by the arm, with a grip in which the latter
felt powerless.
‘Your way is over the bridge,’ he said. ‘Go and meet us. Eleanor
sent _me_.’
It had scarce taken two seconds to say and do; and Gilbert had
plunged into the stream also. The current instantly washed both
figures across to the other bank. Michael rushed across the bridge,
and down the other side, pale; a surging in his ears; his heart
thumping, so that his laboured breath could scarce come. Dimly he
saw that other forms met him at the bridge end, and followed him;
vaguely he heard a hum of voices behind him. He pursued his way,
panting, blind with fear. Ever and anon the noise of the river
seemed to swell into a roar like thunder, which quenched all other
sounds. Here and there a growth of bushes and willows hid the waters
from him; but at last, as he stumbled onwards, and rounded one of
the curves in that much curved stream, his straining eyes caught
sight of something—human forms, surely—arrested by a rock which
projected midway into the current.
‘He has got to shore, and brought her with him,’ a thought seemed to
say. ‘He is too exhausted to drag himself out. I shall soon be with
him now.’
But, without knowing it, he began to sob and sob and sob as he
approached; and when he drew near, instead of going swiftly to the
place, he strayed around and about it, and could not, dared not go
close.
It seemed long, very long before he could understand. Other persons,
who had seen what had happened, or part of it, and who had seen
Michael rush after the other two, had come up, and they told him
again and again. A score of times he heard the words repeated:
‘Dead; both dead. No one could swim in such a flood!’ And yet he did
not grasp it. But at last, after what seemed a long time, it did
come home to him, and he understood that Ada had avenged herself.