It was quite dark when she returned, wet with the night-dew, and shivering with cold; but she declined all refreshment, knelt down by her bed-side, and prayed fervently, and laid her down, not to her sleep, but to think, to hope, to despair.
The fifth day came, and again she went not forth until evening; again took her sad, fruitless walk; again returned, colder and sadder and more silent than before, again dismissed her woman, and prayed, and laid her down in mute and tearless agony.
The next day came—the last; and she must either accept Acton’s hand this night, or on the morrow quit her native land forever.
Meanwhile anxiety had grown into fear, concerning the absence of the old forester, who had not been seen for a week; and the country was searched far and near, but no tidings were had of him, and it was whispered that the old man had been murdered. But the secret had leaked out among the household of the terrible decision which was that day to be made by their young mistress; and the fate of the forester was forgotten in the horrid anticipation of something more awful yet.
At noon, Sir Andrew Acton returned to the Hall, for the first time that week, and was closeted with Sir Hugh in his own study. But Margaret knew not, heeded not—she was immersed in the deepest and most awful meditation.
Just before sunset, she braided her hair firmly, trained her beautiful ringlets to fall down over her fair shoulders, arrayed herself from head to foot in spotless white, as a virgin bride, and then wrapping a heavily-furred mantle round her, and covering her head with its capuchin, or hood, stole forth softly, and sped with a quick, silent step up the dank, gloomy wood-path.
“I will fly with him—I will fly with him, if he be here,” she muttered. “This absolves me from all duty; and if not—Jesu, Jesu have mercy, and forgive!”
She reached the tank, and gazed about her earnestly. All was lonely and dark and silent as the grave.
“Lionel!” she shrieked aloud. “Lionel!—Lionel Thornhill!” and her wild, thrilling tones were re-echoed many times from wood and hill, but no answer came—and again all was silent.
The sun had already set—the distant clock from the stable turret struck seven.