But that which keepeth us apart is not

Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,

But the distractions of a various lot,

As various as the climates of our birth.

My blood is all meridian--were it not

I had not left my clime, nor should I be,

In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot,

A slave again of love, at least of thee!

--Byron.

The life of Berenice was lonely enough. She had perseveringly rejected

the visits of her neighbors, until at length they had taken her at her

word and kept away from her house.

She had persistently declined the invitations of Mrs. Brudenell to join

the family circle at Washington every winter, until at last that lady

had ceased to repeat them and had also discontinued her visits to

Brudenell Hall.

Berenice passed her time in hoping and praying for her husband's return,

and in preparing and adorning her home for his reception; in training

and improving the negroes; in visiting and relieving the poor; and in

walking to the turnstile and watching the high-road.

Surely a more harmless and beneficent life could not be led by woman;

yet the poisonous alchemy of detraction turned all her good deeds into

evil ones.

Poor Berenice--poor in love, was rich in gold, and she lavished it with

an unsparing hand on the improvement of Brudenell. She did not feel at

liberty to pull down and build up, else had the time-worn old mansion

house disappeared from sight and a new and elegant villa had reared its

walls upon Brudenell Heights. But she did everything else she could to

enhance the beauty and value of the estate.

The house was thoroughly repaired, refurnished, and decorated with great

luxury, richness, and splendor. The grounds were laid out, planted, and

adorned with all the beauty that taste, wealth, and skill could produce.

Orchards and vineyards were set out. Conservatories and pineries were

erected. The negroes' squalid log-huts were replaced with neat stone

cottages, and the shabby wooden fences by substantial stone walls.

And all this was done, not for herself, but for her husband, and her

constant mental inquiry was: "After all, will Herman be pleased?"

Yet when the neighbors saw this general renovation, of the estate, which

could not have been accomplished without considerable expenditure of

time, money, and labor, they shook their heads in strong disapprobation,

and predicted that that woman's extravagance would bring Herman

Brudenell to beggary yet.

She sought to raise the condition of the negroes, not only by giving

them neat cottages, but by comfortably furnishing their rooms, and

encouraging them to keep their little houses and gardens in order,

rewarding them for neatness and industry, and established a school for

their children to learn to read and write. But the negroes--hereditary

servants of the Brudenells--looked upon this stranger with jealous

distrust, as an interloping foreigner who had, by some means or other,

managed to dispossess and drive away the rightful family from the old

place. And so they regarded all her favors as a species of bribery, and

thanked her for none of them. And this was really not ingratitude, but

fidelity. The neighbors denounced these well-meant efforts of the

mistress as dangerous innovations, incendiarisms, and so forth, and

thanked Heaven that the Brudenell negroes were too faithful to be led

away by her!




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