Two weary hours were spent in such useless conversation; then Madame, being perfectly exhausted, was compelled to go to bed. "We can do naething till morning," she said; "and Neil will hae his plans laid by that time. They will be to bail, doubtless; and God knows where the friends and the money are to come from. But there's plenty o' time for grief to-morrow; go and sleep an hour or two now."
"And you, grandmother? What will you do?"
"He who never fails will strengthen me. When the morn comes I shall be able for all it can bring. This was such a sudden blow I lost my grip."
Alone in her room, Maria felt the full force of the sudden blow. Although Harry's note had missed her, she understood that he had been waiting for a few words with her. Twice before she had been in the garden when he passed up the river, and he had landed and spent a delicious half-hour with her. She was sure now that he had been as much disappointed as herself, and had hoped she would come and say good-bye as soon as she reached home. But who had betrayed him? And why was her grandfather and uncle included in his arrest?
For some time she could think of nothing but her lover walking so proudly in the midst of his enemies; reviled by them, struck by them, yet holding his head as authoritatively as if he was their captain, rather than their prisoner. Then she remembered Agnes, and at first it was with anger. "If she had not been so selfish, Harry would not have needed to take such a risk!" she cried. "It is dreadful! dreadful! And just as soon as it is light I must go and tell her. Her father must now know all; he ought to have been told long ago. I shall insist on her telling now, for Harry's life is first of all, and his father has power some way or other."
Thus through the long hours she wept and complained and blamed Agnes and even herself, and perhaps most of all was angry with the intrusive Macpherson, whose unwelcome presence had been the cause of the trouble. And, oh! what arid torturing vigils are those where God is not! Madame lying on her bed with her hands folded over her breast and thoughts heavenward, was at peace compared with this tumultuous little heart in the midst of doubt, darkness, and the terror of dreadful death for one dear to her. She knew not what to abandon, nor what to defend; her brain seemed stupefied by calamity so inevitable. And yet, it was not inevitable; it had depended for many minutes on herself. A word, a look, and Agnes would have understood her desire; and half a dozen times before she had made the movement which was just too late; her heart had urged her to call her friend. But she had doubted, wavered, and delayed, and so given to Destiny the very weapons that were used against her.
As soon as the morning dawned she dressed herself. Before her grandmother came down stairs it was imperative on her to see Agnes and tell her what had happened. A dismal, anxious stillness had succeeded the storm of her terror and grief; a feeling of outrage, of resentment against events, and an agony of love and pity, as she remembered Harry smitten and helpless in the power of a merciless foe. She had now one driving thought and purpose—the release of her lover. She must save the life he had risked for her sake, though she gave her own for it.
As she went through the gray dawning she was sensitive to some antagonism, even in Nature. The unseasonable warmth of the previous evening had been followed by a frost. The faded grass snapped under her fleet steps, the last foliage had withered during the night, and was black and yellow as death, and everything seemed to shiver in the pale light. And though the waning moon yet hung low in the west, and all the mystery and majesty of earth was round her, Maria was only conscious of the chill terror in her heart, and of the chill, damp mist from the river which enfolded her like a cloak, and was the very atmosphere of sorrow.
When she reached the Bradley home all was shut and still; the very house seemed to be asleep, but why did its closed door affect her so painfully? She went round to the kitchen and found the slave woman Mosella bending over a few blazing chips, making herself a cup of tea. The woman looked at her wonderingly, and when Maria said, "Mosella, I must see Miss Agnes at once," she rose without a word and opened the garden door of the house. The shutters were all closed, the stairway dim, and the creaking of the steps under her feet made her quiver. It was an hour too early for light and life, and a noiseless noise around her seemed to protest against this premature invasion of the day.
She entered the room of her friend very softly. It was breathless, shadowy, and on the white bed Agnes was lying, asleep. For a moment Maria stood looking at the orderly place and the unconscious woman. The pure pallor of her cheeks had the flush of healthy sleep; her brown hair, braided, lay loose upon her pillow, her white hands upon the white coverlet. She was the image of deep, dreamless, peaceful oblivion. It seemed a kind of wrong to awaken her; but though the eyes of Agnes were closed, Maria's gaze called to the soul on guard behind them, and without one premonitory movement she opened them wide and saw Maria at her bedside. A quick fear leaped into her heart. She was momentarily speechless. She laid her hand on Maria's arm, and looked at her with apprehending inquiry.