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."