A light was dimly shining in Blanche's bedroom, and she was seated by the window looking out into the night, awaiting the return of him who was to return no more. Her child was sleeping calmly; no hint of the anguish which ploughed the hearts of its parents troubled its quiet breathing.
The clock struck twelve.
A heavy sigh issued from the watcher as the strokes fell upon her ear, and she rose to snuff the enormous wick of the neglected candle. She then resumed her seat at the window.
"When will he come?" she asked herself, sadly.
She feared to meet him—feared to look upon his face, after what had passed; feared lest he, upon whose brow she had been wont to see the imperial stamp of genius—in whose eye the lustre of a glorious mind, on whose lips the smile of unutterable tenderness,—there should now be legible the stamp of infamy, the dull look of shame, the cynical sneer of recklessness.
She feared to meet him, yet she could not repress her impatience to see him: a vague dread that he might not return, shifted to and fro before her mind, and kept her anxiously watching.
The clock struck one.
Her candle was guttering in the socket, and she lighted another. She bent over the cradle of her sleeping infant with a searching look of love; and seeing that it slept peacefully, she again resumed her seat at the window.
The snow had ceased to fall. The bright stars were lustrous in the deep, dark, moonless heavens, in which they seemed suspended. The ground was white with the untrodden snow, as also were the tops of the houses, and the branches of the trees. Not a breath of wind stirred. All was silent without, hushed in the repose of night. Not a footstep was heard; not even the distant barking of some watchful dog.
Cold, cheerless, desolate as a leafless tree, was the night out into which the watcher looked, awaiting her husband's return; but he came not, would not come!