"He was going without one word of farewell. The thought made me wild. I flung up the window with a violence that tore the valenciennes from the sleeve of my night-dress, and called out,—
"'Not yet, not yet!'
"He did not hear me, or perhaps would not. That instant he sprang into the buggy, snatched the reins from Tom, and drove off. As he passed a curve in the road, he drew up and looked back at the house, as if unable to leave it without a farewell-glance. I was still at the window, half shrouded by the curtains, but leaning out, with wild unconsciousness of my position. He waved one hand, drew his horse up with the other so sharply that the buggy was half wheeled across the road; the next instant the horse made a plunge forward, seemingly unmanageable, and in an instant bore him out of sight.
"I knelt by the window a long time, looking upon the spot where he had disappeared in blank despair. In one minute my life seemed to have become a barren waste. Points in the landscape that had been so beautiful over-night, struck me with a dreary appearance of change. My eyes grew hot and ached with the pain of my sudden desolation. I could neither weep nor cry out, but knelt there with a dull sense of sorrow and utter loneliness creeping over me. Burdened with these wretched feelings, I crept back to my couch, and burying my face in the pillows, suffered silently."
CHAPTER LXXI.
AWAY FROM HOME.
"This house is not the same now; its stillness oppresses me, its magnificence palls on my senses. Wherever I turn, some memory starts up to pain me. Why have I filled every beautiful spot with associations that sting me so?
"I think that my husband is watching me with more interest than formerly. If he sees a cloud on my face, some gentle act of attention seeks to drive it away. Sometimes he asks, in a troubled voice, what makes me so sad and thoughtful, as if he guessed at the truth, and the suspicion wounded him. Then I fly from the stillness of my sorrow, and force a wild sort of spirits, that make him still more depressed. This old man has seen a great deal of the world in his life, and perhaps reads me better than I think. Is deception ever a duty? At any rate, it is the refuge of cowards, and sometimes of kindness. Now, I should not really be afraid to lay the whole truth before this old man, so far as its effect on myself is concerned; but when I think of him and all the pain it would certainly give, my heart recoils from its expression. If he would only be a little unkind, I should not care so much. But, after all, what is there to explain? No word of his, or act of mine, could be censured justly. True, I met him at night, unknown to the family, in a beautiful and solitary spot, where some conversation passed which made me both sad and happy, but no wrong was done to any one, and the whole scene, if thoroughly explained, should bring no blame with it. I left the house without one thought of meeting any human being. If he saw and followed me, it was for a most honorable purpose—honorably, but, oh, most cruelly carried out.
"How miserably slow the weeks and months roll on. I can endure this irksome sameness of life no longer; the very fragrance of the air sickens me. I long for change—for excitement. Youth has no need of rest; its aspirations are always pressing onward. He said that I was beautiful. My husband has told me this a hundred times, but it made little impression, for what is the worth of beauty in a great dull house like this? I long to go out into the world again, for there is a chance that I may—no, no, I will not think of that. He did not even tell me where he was going. But change I must and will have; it is the want of excitement that makes me a slave to these fits of depression. While surrounded by the homage of other men, I shall learn to forget that this one refused it to me.