"Going out, my child?" said the Rector. "Where is your aunt?"
"Gone to lie down," said Ada; "she feels this excitement."
"No wonder--no wonder," said the old gentleman. "Pray Heaven that it
may turn out happily!"
The Rector's prayer was echoed by Ada Lee, as she passed out into the
garden and stood thinking for a few minutes upon the lawn. Where should
she go? she asked herself, for her mind was strangely agitated, and it
seemed to her that to be at rest she must go right away from human
habitation, and seek for calm in solitude. The events of the past
four-and-twenty hours had been too much for her, she said, and a long
quiet walk would restore her.
But, even to herself, Ada Lee could not confess all. She knew that her
heart seemed at times to beat wildly, and that though she crushed down
such thoughts with all her might, a strange feeling of elation would
strive to assert itself; and even while upbraiding herself for her
cruelty, she felt that she did not grieve as she should for the
sufferings of her friends. She could stay no longer in the house,
though she felt that her place should have been at her aunt's side; and
now, hastily crossing the garden, her heart again commenced its
tumultuous beating, as she passed over the very spot where she had seen
the dark figure the night before--a figure which, she now felt
convinced, must have been that of Philip Norton, who had come over from
the town too late to see any of the family, while on his arrival at the
Rectory that morning he had learned the news which had sent him,
reeling, to the church.
If Ada Lee's intention had been to escape her thoughts by rapid walking,
she soon found that her efforts were useless. She sought the wild open
moorland where she had walked the previous day with her cousin; but
every step seemed to recall some portion of their conversation. Philip
Norton's name was constantly repeating itself in her ears, even out
there in the free open waste where she had told herself that she could
find peace. She hurried into the pine grove, walking amidst the tall,
sombre pillars of the great natural temple, whose darkly interlacing
roof was far above, and where her footsteps were silent amidst the pine
needles. There was the tree upon which they had rested when they had
talked of the past; and had she not there avowed her own love?
It was cruel--most cruel, she told herself, to feel as she did when two
hearts were breaking; growing every moment more agitated in her vain
efforts to flee, as it were, from self. She had wished for solitude,
but the silence of the wood, only broken now and again by the faint
whispering roar amidst the pine tops, frightened her. There was a dread
solemnity in the place that she could not bear, and hurrying once more
to the edge of the marsh, she stopped, gazing across it for a few
minutes, with the soft summer wind playing pleasantly upon her heated
cheeks, toying with her hair, and fluttering the light dress which
draped her form. For the wedding-garments had been hurriedly put aside,
and at times it almost seemed that the sorrows of the morning, her
troubled night, and gloomy forebodings were things of months ago, while
this hurried beating, this anxiety of mind, were things only of the
present.
She turned to hurry in another direction, hoping that by thoroughly
tiring herself sleep would come to her early, bringing with it calm,
when her eyes fell to the ground, but only to fill with tears, as once
more the morning scene rushed through her mind; for, with her feet each
crushing some of the simple blue flowers, she was standing in the midst
of the forget-me-nots, and, recalling Philip Norton's words, in spite of
herself, she knelt down to gather a bunch.
True blue! the flowers that had seemed to give him life in those sore
perils; the little bunch that he had so treasured--and for what? To
come back to find her wedded to another. But then, had not she herself
counselled that Norton should be forgotten, since they believed him
dead?
Ada Lee bent over the flowers she had gathered, weeping bitterly--
foolish, vain tears, she said; and then, hastily rising, she walked
towards the Rectory.
On reaching the village it seemed as if deserted, for, in spite of the
damp thrown upon the morning's proceedings, there was high revelling at
the Castle. People could not see why the sorrows of one man should
interfere with their pleasure: the Squire was married, the feast had
been prepared; and, under the management of a relative of Sir Murray,
the happy pair were toasted, and the morning's scene was about
forgotten.
Ada reached the churchyard, where the flowers scattered by the children
lay withering in the hot sun. The blood rushed to her cheeks as she
recalled the scene in its every detail; and then, as if anxious to avoid
the place which brought back so much, she turned off to reach the
Rectory gate, when, right in her path, rising from amidst the graves,
she saw Philip Norton.
More than once the question had arisen, where had he gone? A question
that she had tried to avoid, merely hoping that there might be no
further encounter between him and Sir Murray Gernon. But now, so
unexpected was the vision before her, that she stopped short, trembling
violently, and she would have turned and fled, she knew not why, had not
her limbs refused their office.
But it soon became evident that he saw her not, for groping along from
amidst the graves, he reached the path, and making his way out into the
road, turned in the direction from which she had so lately come.
Ada stood for a few minutes, too agitated to form a coherent plan; but
soon her thoughts began to shape themselves, and it seemed to her that
it was not right for Philip Norton to be left at such a time. Judging
from his acts, he did not seem to be master of himself; and a shudder
passed through her frame, galvanising her, as it were, into action, as
she thought of what men had done when under the pressure of some great
trouble. Sorrowful and despairing, of what rashness might not Philip
Norton be guilty? She shuddered as she evaded the question, and
hurrying into the Rectory, she sought, with a sensation as of a hand
grasping her heart, for her uncle.
He had gone up to the Castle half an hour ago, when a message had come
for him, she was told by one of the servants, while Mrs Elstree was
still in her bedroom.
Ada hurried out into the village, seeking for help there, but not a soul
was visible; the public-house even was closed; and of the only person
she could find, a bedridden old crone, she learned that no one was left.
"Only me, miss--only me. They wanted to carry me up too, but I wouldn't
let 'em."
Ada was in despair. Judging from his state of mind, Philip Norton could
have taken the direction of the marsh for no good purpose; he was not
likely to have gone there at such a time merely for the sake of the
walk, and the road soon became lost in dangerous, impassable quagmires,
pits, and treacherous morasses, thoroughly known only to the seekers for
pine roots and the diggers of peat. In the wild, half-mad condition in
which he then was, it would be suicidal to take such a course; and
feeling this, Ada's heart sank as she thought of the dangers that would
beset a man, reeling blindly about amidst tuft and moss, rush-bed, and
black peaty hole full of amber water, whose depths were unknown, save as
being the home of huge, slimy, serpent-like eels.
What should she do?--run up to the Castle for aid? It would take her a
quarter of an hour to get there, as long to return with help, even if
she found it directly; and in half an hour what might not have happened?
"Heaven grant me strength!" exclaimed the agitated girl; and fear
lending her wings, she darted along in the direction taken by Norton but
a few minutes before, her heart beating wildly, and an undefined dread
of something about to happen increasing in strength each moment.
The road wound about past the outlying cottages, so that it was some
time before she caught sight of Norton. Once she fancied that he must
have struck off to the right or left, or else she must before this have
overtaken him; but at the end of another hundred yards she could plainly
see him, a good half mile in advance, not reeling and staggering along
now, but walking swiftly, straight forward towards the marsh, when,
trembling with dread, Ada hurried on, following rapidly upon his track,
pausing not to think of imprudence, but led ever by the feeling that she
might be able to avert some terrible impending danger.
Where could he be going? What was his aim? Ada paused and shuddered as
she saw him suddenly stop by one of the black water-pits, the spots
favoured by the shooting fraternity in winter, as the resort of wild
goose, poachard, and divers of rapid flight. Her breath came more
easily, though, as she saw that her horrible dread was without
foundation, for Norton struck off to the left at a headlong rate, over
heath and rush tuft, apparently making for the wildest part of the
marsh, so that Ada's powers of endurance were hardly tried as she
struggled on, her spirit rising with the difficulties she had to
encounter.
But now, as if moved by a fresh impulse, Norton changed his course in a
way that enabled Ada to gain ground, for he paid not the slightest heed
to his pursuer, making now for the great pine grove, starting off into a
run as if to reach the goal he had in view, but falling heavily, twice
over, upon the soft, trembling soil, which yielded more or less to every
step.
Panting and almost exhausted, Ada pressed on till she saw Norton reach
the edge of the pine wood, when, as he dashed in, be coming in an
instant lost to sight amidst the tall, bare trunks, her heart for a few
moments failed her, and sinking upon her knees, with a faint wail of
misery, the hot tears coursed one another down her cheeks. But the next
minute she was up again, and hurrying to the edge of the wood, whose
gloom cast a chill upon her as she entered its precincts.
Peering anxiously in every direction, her breath drawn in hysterical,
laboured sobs, Ada pressed on farther and farther into the great dim,
shadowy solitude, trembling horribly the while, and with her imagination
picturing some dreadful tragedy taking place. In the vast wood she knew
that it was by the merest chance that she could find him, for he had
become lost to sight when he entered; while, even if she could discover
him alone, mad almost, and with no help at hand, how dared she go near?
Her heart whispered, though, that she must proceed, and she still panted
along, her eyes ever wandering amidst the dim aisles spread out on every
side, but in vain--she could not see him; and again the weak, despairing
tears forced themselves from her eyes.
It was, then, useless: she had done everything possible to a human
being, and all that was now left was for her to pray; and sinking, with
clasped hands, to her knees, she again gave way to the despair of her
heart, when a short, sharp snap on her right made her leap to her feet
and run hurriedly over the slippery pine needles in the direction from
which it had come. For from that sound she felt that her worst fears
were realised, and that he had indeed sought this solitude for the
horrible purpose she dreaded. But the pistol had missed fire, and she
might yet be in time, though so dreadful was the feeling upon her that
her energies felt frozen, and to her it seemed that she was barely
crawling over the ground. There he stood, not fifty yards from her,
fitting a cap upon the pistol he held, and then, every stroke jarring
upon her heart, so distinctly in the strained state of her faculties was
it heard, she could make out that he was tapping the pistol that the
powder might ascend the nipple. But it was all like some horrible
nightmare: she could see every act with almost a clairvoyant power--she
could hear with a fearful distinctness; but she could not shriek--she
could not call to him to desist. It was as though certain of her
faculties were chained, while others were goaded into unnatural
activity.
A few seconds longer, and she felt that she would be too late--that the
dread deed would be accomplished, and she alone with a still, dreadful
corpse--when, panting, half-mad with fear and the horror which gave her
strength, she ran to Norton's side, grasped at his arm, and then her
powers of utterance returned. As she seized his arm he turned upon her
fiercely, dashed her to the ground, and raised his pistol; but in an
instant Ada was again upon her feet, and grasped the fatal weapon, when
there was a bright, blinding flash, a loud report, and then, for Ada
Lee, the present became a blank.
Book 1, Chapter VII.