“Any news of Herman yet, mamma, dear?”

“No, love, not yet.  You’ve had a pleasant drive, Berenice?”

“Very pleasant.”

“I thought so; you have more color than when you went.  You should go out every morning, my dear.”

“Yes, mamma,” said the young lady, hurrying away.

Mrs. Brudenell recalled her.

“Come in here, if you please, my love; I want to have a little conversation with you.”

Berenice threw her bonnet, cloak, and muff upon the hall table and entered the drawing room.

Mrs. Brudenell was alone; her daughters had not yet come down; she beckoned her son’s wife to take the seat on the sofa by her side.

And when Berenice had complied she said: 

“It is of yourself and Herman that I wish to speak to you, my dear.”

“Yes, mamma.”

The lady hesitated, and then suddenly said: 

“It is now nearly a week since my son disappeared; he left his home abruptly, without explanation, in the dead of night, at the very hour of your arrival!  That was very strange.”

“Very strange,” echoed the unloved wife.

“What was the meaning of it, Berenice?”

“Indeed, mamma, I do not know.”

“What, then, is the cause of his absence?”

“Indeed, indeed, I do not know.”

“Berenice! he fled from your presence.  There is evidently some misunderstanding or estrangement between yourself and your husband.  I cannot ask him for an explanation.  Hitherto I have forborne to ask you.  But now that a week has passed without any tidings of my son, I have a right to demand the explanation.  Give it to me.”

“Mamma, I cannot; for I know no more than yourself,” answered Berenice, in a tone of distress.

“You do not know; but you must suspect.  Now what do you suspect to be the cause of his going?”

“I do not even suspect, mamma.”

“What do you conjecture, then?” persisted the lady.

“I cannot conjecture; I am all lost in amazement, mamma; but I feel—­I feel—­that it must be some fault in myself,” faltered Berenice.

“What fault?”

“Ah, there again I am lost in perplexity; faults I have enough, Heaven knows; but what particular one is strong enough to estrange my husband I do not know, I cannot guess.”

“Has he never accused you?”

“Never, mamma.”

“Nor quarreled with you?”

“Never!”

“Nor complained of you at all?”

“No, mamma!  The first intimation that I had of his displeasure was given me the night of my arrival, when he betrayed some annoyance at my coming upon him suddenly without having previously written.  I gave him what I supposed to be sufficient reasons for my act—­the same reasons that I afterwards gave you.”

“They were perfectly satisfactory.  And even if they had not been so, it was no just cause for his behavior.  Did he find fault with any part of your conduct previous to your arrival?”