Mrs. Brudenell and her daughters received and paid visits; gave and

attended parties, and made the house and the neighborhood very gay in

the pleasant summer time.

Berenice did not enter into any of these amusements. She never accepted

an invitation to go out. And even when company was entertained at the

house she kept her own suite of rooms and had her meals brought to her

there. Mrs. Brudenell was excessively displeased at a course of conduct

in her daughter-in-law that would naturally give rise to a great deal of

conjecture. She expostulated with Lady Hurstmonceux; but to no good

purpose: for Berenice shrunk from company, replying to all arguments

that could be urged upon her: "I cannot--I cannot see visitors, mamma! It is quite--quite impossible."

And then Mrs. Brudenell made a resolution, which she also kept--never to

come to Brudenell Hall for another summer until Herman should return to

his home and Berenice to her senses. And having so decided, she abridged

her stay and went away with her daughters to spend the remainder of the

summer at some pleasant watering-place in the North.

And Berenice was once more left to solitude.

Now, Lady Hurstmonceux was not naturally cold, or proud, or unsocial;

but as surely as brains can turn, and hearts break, and women die of

grief, she was crazy, heart-broken, and dying.

She turned sick at the sight of every human face, because the one dear

face she loved and longed for was not near. The pastor of the parish,

with the benevolent perseverence of a true Christian, continued to call

at the Hall long after every other human creature had ceased to visit

the place. But Lady Hurstmonceux steadily refused to receive him.

She never went to church. Her cherished sorrow grew morbid; her hopeless

hope became a monomania; her life narrowed down to one mournful

routine. She went nowhere but to the turnstile on the turnpike, where

she leaned upon the rotary cross, and watched the road.

Even to this day the pale, despairing, but most beautiful face of that

young watcher is remembered in that neighborhood.

Only very recently a lady who had lived in that vicinity said to me, in

speaking of this young forsaken wife--this stranger in our land: "Yes, every day she walked slowly up that narrow path to the turnstile,

and stood leaning on the cross and gazing up the road, to watch for

him--every day, rain or shine; in all weathers and seasons; for months

and years."




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