"He was here," she said wearily; "he is going South at once; he must, he must have this letter first. Neil, good, kind Uncle Neil, try and find him!"
"Be reasonable, Maria. If he is paying farewell calls—which is likely—how can I tell at whose house he may be; at any rate it is too late now for him to be out, the city is practically closed; any one wandering about it after midnight is liable to arrest, and if Ernest is not visiting, he is in his rooms, and likely to be there till near noon to-morrow. I will carry this letter before breakfast, if you say so, but——"
"I tell you he is going to General Clinton at once. He told me so."
"He cannot go until the Arethusa sails. She leaves to-morrow, but the tide will not serve before two o'clock. Give me the letter; I will see he gets it very early in the morning."
With a sigh she assented to this promise, and then slipped back into the sorrowful solitude of her room. But the talk with Neil had slightly steadied her. Nothing more was possible; she had done all she could to atone for her unkindness, and after a little remorseful wandering outside the Eden she had herself closed, she fell asleep and forgot all her anxiety.
And it is this breaking up of our troubles by bars of sleep that enables us to bear them and even grow strong in conquering them. When the day broke Maria was more alert, more full of purpose, and ready for what the morning would bring her. Neil was missing at breakfast and she found out that he had left the house soon after seven o'clock. So she dressed herself carefully and took her sewing to the front window. When she saw her lover at the gate, she intended to go and meet him, and her heart was warm and eager with the kind words that she would at last comfort him with.
It was half-past eight; by nine o'clock—at the very latest by half-past nine—he would surely answer that loving letter. Nine o'clock struck, and the hands on the dial moved forward inexorably to ten o'clock—to eleven—to noon. But long before that hour Maria had ceased to sew, ceased to watch, ceased to hope. Soon after twelve she saw Neil coming and her heart turned sick within her. She could hardly walk into the hall to meet him. She found it difficult to articulate the questioning word "Well?"
He gave her the letter back. "Ernest sailed this morning at two o'clock," he said.
She looked at him with angry despair. "You might have taken that letter last night. You have ruined my life. I will never forgive you."
"Maria, listen to me. Ernest went on board an hour before you asked me. The ship dropped down the river to catch the early tide; he was on her at half-past ten. I could not have given him the letter, even if I had tried to."