But Leonore? Well, of course she had no alternative but to tread the path prescribed for her; and the bright spring days were followed by the longer ones of summer, and again by the crisp, dewy mornings and melting twilights of early autumn, without any incident or event taking place to mark one week from another.
Such a life was foreign to all the instincts of our little girl's nature. She was quick, alert, impetuous. She was keenly alive in every fibre of her being. She effervesced with vitality. Added to which there was a strange sense of growth pulsing through every vein.
And of this all outward token had to be repressed beneath the iron hand of convention. To the outward eye there was only a forlorn little black figure stealing meekly out of view, to seek, it might be supposed, the shades of solitude for pensive, retrospective meditation, or discharging with docility such offices of charity as were presumed to be proper and becoming to her widowhood,—but for the rest, no one really knew or cared what Leo did with herself.
She was much alone—they supposed she liked to be alone. On that one day to which she grew to look back upon as the day—the day on which Sue's heart stood revealed—it had indeed for a moment appeared as if the bonds which held her in their grip must break, and give birth to a new era—but the episode ended disappointingly. It was not an upheaval, it was a mere crack on the surface—and the crack gradually closed again.
"I told you that father would not always be so amenable," said Sybil one day, not perhaps altogether ill-pleased to see her sister's face fall, and her cheek flush beneath a chilling response. "It is no use taking it to heart, child. You do better with him than any of the rest of us do, and that ought to content you."
And again it was: "Sue? What should I know about Sue? She goes her own way, and we go ours,"—the tone conveying, "and you must go yours," as plainly as though the words had been spoken.
But Leo had no "way" to go. She had no object on which to bend her eyes. She had no end in view when she rose in the morning, no food for reflection at night. She drifted. Her poor little face took a wan, comfortless look,—and to herself she would wonder how, when she first returned to the home of her childhood, she could have felt so different, so foolishly hopeful and cheerful? All sorts of possibilities had seemed to lie before her then, how could they? She often sat for hours in the woods staring vacantly around, and thinking, thinking.
Had there been any human being in the big, dreary house to whom she could have poured out all the workings of a young, imprisoned soul beating against its bars, any one at this crisis to feel for and sympathise with the hapless child, any kind arm thrown around her, or hand in hers, things might have been different,—but as it was, alone she had to battle with all the subtle imaginings, the dim, confused perceptions, the fancies, the visions which haunted her.
Incredible as it may appear, she looked back upon her married life much as an emancipated schoolgirl regards the busy, merry past, all-sufficing at the time, but outgrown and left behind.
Leo never doubted that she had been happy,—but the thought that were it possible for her one day to wake up and find that all she had gone through of late was but a bad dream, brought no sense of longing, no passionate thrill of desire. Instead, she shrank—yes, she shrank and hung her head, wondering if any one else so placed ever felt the same? How was it?—why was it?