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."
And every Saturday night she would groan:
"Another miserable week, and no tidings of my husband."