The reaction did not cease with that day. The next Sunday was spent on the sofa, in a state of utter prostration. With the necessity for exertion the power had died. Fleda could only lie upon the cushions and sleep helplessly, while Mrs. Pritchard sat by, anxiously watching her; curiosity really swallowed up in kind feeling. Monday was little better; but towards the after part of the day, the stimulant of anxiety began to work again, and Fleda sat up to watch for a word from her uncle. But none came, and Tuesday morning distressed Mrs. Pritchard with its want of amendment. It was not to be hoped for, Fleda knew, while this fearful watching lasted. Her uncle might not have seen the advertisement he might not have got her letter he might be even then setting sail to quit home for ever. And she could do nothing but wait. Her nerves were alive to every stir; every touch of the bell made her tremble; it was impossible to read, to lie down, to be quiet or still anywhere. She had set the glass of expectancy, for one thing, in the distance: and all things else were a blur or a blank.
They had sat down to dinner that Tuesday, when a ring at the door, which had made her heart jump, was followed yes, it was by the entrance of the maid-servant holding a folded bit of paper in her hand. Fleda did not wait to ask whose it was she seized it and saw and sprang away up stairs. It was a sealed scrap of paper, that had been the back of a letter, containing two lines without signature.
"I will meet you at Dinah's if you come there alone about sundown."
Enough! Dinah was an old black woman who once had been a very attached servant in Mr. Rossitur's family, and, having married and become a widow years ago, had set up for herself in the trade of a washerwoman, occupying an obscure little tenement out towards Chelsea. Fleda had rather a shadowy idea of the locality, though remembering very well sundry journeys of kindness she and Hugh had made to it in days gone by. But she recollected it was in Sloman Street, and she knew she could find it; and dropping upon her knees, poured out thanks too deep to be uttered, and too strong to be even thought, without a convulsion of tears. Her dinner after that was but a mental thanksgiving she was hardly conscious of anything beside and a thankful rejoicing for all her weary labours. Their weariness was sweet to her now. Let her but see him the rest was sure.
CHAPTER XV.
"How well appaid she was her bird to find!"
SIDNEY.
Fleda counted the minutes till it wanted an hour of sundown, and then, avoiding Mrs. Pritchard, made her escape out of the house. A long walk was before her, and the latter part of it through a region which she wished to pass while the light was good. And she was utterly unable to travel at any but a very gentle rate; so she gave herself plenty of time.
It was a very bright afternoon, and all the world was astir. Fleda shielded herself with a thick veil, and went up one of the narrow streets, not daring to venture into Broadway, and passing Waverly Place, which was almost as bright, turned down Eighth Street. A few blocks now, and she would be out of all danger of meeting any one that knew her. She drew her veil close, and hurried on. But the proverb saith, "A miss is as good as a mile," and with reason; for if fate wills, the chances make nothing. As Fleda set her foot down to cross Fifth Avenue, she saw Mr. Carleton on the other side coming up from Waverly Place. She went as slowly as she dared, hoping that he would pass without looking her way, or be unable to recognize her through her thick wrapper. In vain she soon saw that she was known he was waiting for her, and she must put up her veil and speak to him.
"Why, I thought you had left New York," said he "I was told so."
"I had left it I have left it, Sir," said Fleda "I have only come back for a day or two."