“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.”

And thus the weeks slowly crept into months.

Mrs. Brudenell wrote occasionally to say that Herman was not in Washington, and to ask if he was at Brudenell.  That was all.  The answer was always, “Not yet.”

Berenice could not go out among the poor, as she had designed; for in that wilderness of hill and valley, wood and water, the roads even in the best weather were bad enough—­but in mid-winter they were nearly impassable except by the hardiest pedestrians, the roughest horses, and the strongest wagons.  Very early in January there came a deep snow, followed by a sharp frost, and then by a warm rain and thaw, that converted the hills into seamed and guttered precipices; the valleys into pools and quagmires; and the roads into ravines and rivers—­quite impracticable for ordinary passengers.

Berenice could not get out to do her deeds of charity among the suffering poor; nor could the landed gentry of the neighborhood make calls upon the young stranger.  And thus the unloved wife had nothing to divert her thoughts from the one all-absorbing subject of her husband’s unexplained abandonment.  The fire, that was consuming her life—­the fire of “restless, unsatisfied longing”—­burned fiercely in her cavernous dark eyes and the hollow crimson cheeks, lending wildness to the beauty of that face which it was slowly burning away.

As spring advanced the ground improved.  The hills dried first.  And every day the poor young stranger would wander up the narrow footpath that led over the summit of the hill at the back of the house and down to a stile at a point on the turnpike that commanded a wide sweep of the road.  And there, leaning on the rotary cross, she would watch morbidly for the form of him who never came back.

Gossip was busy with her name, asking, Who this strange wife of Mr. Brudenell really was?  Why he had abandoned her?  And why Mrs. Brudenell had left the house for good, taking her daughters with her?  There were some uneducated women among the wives and daughters of the wealthy planters, and these wished to know, if the strange young woman was really the wife of Herman Brudenell, why she was called Lady Hurstmonceux? and they thought that looked very black indeed; until they were laughed at and enlightened by their better informed friends, who instructed them that a woman once a peeress is always by courtesy a peeress, and retains her own title even though married to a commoner.