"I feel deeply grateful for your kindness, mamma; but you know I could
not enter society, except under the auspices of my husband," replied
Berenice.
"You can enter society under the auspices of your husband's mother, the
very best chaperone you could possibly have," said the lady coldly.
"I know that, mamma."
"Then you will come with us?"
"Excuse me, madam; indeed I am not thankless of your thought of me. But
I cannot go; for even if I had the spirits to sustain the role of a
woman of fashion in the gay capital this winter, I feel that in doing so
I should still further displease and alienate my husband. No, I must
remain here in retirement, doing what good I can, and hoping and praying
for his return," sighed Berenice.
Mrs. Brudenell hastily rose from her seat. She was not accustomed to
opposition; she was too proud to plead further; and she was very much
displeased with Berenice for disappointing her cherished plan of
introducing her daughter, the Countess of Hurstmonceux, to the circles
of Washington.
"The first dinner bell has rung some time ago, my dear. I will not
detain you longer. Myself and daughters leave for town on Saturday."
Berenice bowed gently, and went upstairs to change her dress for dinner.
On Saturday, according to programme, Mrs. Brudenell and her daughters
went to town, traveling in their capacious family carriage, and Berenice
was left alone. Yes, she was left alone to a solitude of heart and home
difficult to be understood by beloved and happy wives and mothers. The
strange, wild country, the large, empty house, the grotesque black
servants, were enough in themselves to depress the spirits and sadden
the heart of the young English lady. Added to these were the deep wounds
her affections had received by the contemptuous desertion of her
husband; there was uncertainty of his fate, and keen anxiety for his
safety; and the slow, wasting soul-sickness of that fruitless hope which
is worse than despair.
Every morning, on rising from her restless bed, she would say to
herself: "Herman will return or I shall get a letter from him to-day."
Every night, on sinking upon her sleepless pillow, she would sigh: "Another dreary day has gone and no news of Herman!"
Thus in feverish expectation the days crept into weeks. And with the
extension of time hope grew more strained, tense, and painful.
On Monday morning she would murmur: "This week I shall surely hear from Herman, if I do not see him."