Chapter XLII.
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--"
"Have you been ill?" he said with a sudden change of tone, the light in his eye and smile giving place to a very marked gravity.
Fleda would have answered with a half smile, but such a sickness of heart came over her that speech failed and she was very near bursting into tears. Mr. Carleton looked at her earnestly a moment, and then put the hand which Fleda had forgotten he still held, upon his arm and began to walk forward gently with her. Something in the grave tenderness with which this was done reminded Fleda irresistibly of the times when she had been a child under his care; and somehow her thoughts went off on a tangent back to the further days of her mother and father and grandfather, the other friends from whom she had had the same gentle protection, which now there was no one in the world to give her. And their images did never seem more winning fair than just then,--when their place was left most especially empty. Her uncle she had never looked up to in the same way, and whatever stay he had been was cut down. Her aunt leaned upon her; and Hugh had always been more of a younger than an elder brother. The quick contrast of those old happy childish days was too strong; the glance back at what she had had, made her feel the want. Fleda blamed herself, reasoned and fought with herself;--but she was weak in mind and body, her nerves were unsteady yet, her spirits unprepared for any encounter or reminder of pleasure; and though vexed and ashamed she could not hold her head up, and she could not prevent tear after tear from falling as they went along; she could only hope that nobody saw them.
Nobody spoke of them. But then nobody said anything; and the silence at last frightened her into rousing herself She checked her tears and raised her head; she ventured no more; she dared not turn her face towards her companion. He looked at her once or twice, as if in doubt whether to speak or not.