And break it to the hope.—Shakspeare.
Alexander had come and gone like a dream. And, in truth, his flying visit had given his young wife little comfort. He had spent more than half the few hours he had passed at home in grumbling.
As usual, she could not find it in her heart to blame him. To keep up her spirits, she set about putting in order her little house that had been somewhat disarranged by his sudden arrival and departure. In the words of another wronged woman, she was “resigned, but not happy.”
Her days passed quietly, if not cheerfully. She occupied herself with her small household affairs; with making up the pretty liliputian wardrobe upon which she was engaged; with taking care of her birds; and with gardening, walking and riding during the day.
She spent her evenings in reading and writing, or singing and playing.
She was comforted with three sweet hopes: the first was for his letters, the second his return, and the third the arrival of the little stranger.
She arose with the earliest dawn of day, and she retired early in the evening, and so her health continued to improve.
But day succeeded day, until a week had passed away, and still she received no letter from her absent husband. Then she grew weary and sad.
The truth is that Alexander, with a false mercy in keeping with his false course at this time, was putting into practice his sapient plan of “breaking with her gradually,” which was just distilling to her, drop by drop, the bitterness of “despised love;” inflicting on her the intolerable torture of a slow heart-breaking.
After ten days had gone by she received a note from him; it was short, cool and dry. He said that he had reached Richmond in safety, but had been too busy to write before; that he was well and hoped she was; and that he remained her affectionate—“A.” There were not half a dozen lines in the whole letter, and Drusilla thought the writing did not look like Alexander’s hand. But she read it over and over again, and her tears dropped slowly down upon it as she murmured: