‘Let me alone now. I’ve done what you wanted. I am satisfied. Next time, I will do what I want.’
CHAPTER XLII
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.