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.
