CHAPTER LXXI.

AWAY FROM HOME.

"This house is not the same now; its stillness oppresses me, its magnificence palls on my senses. Wherever I turn, some memory starts up to pain me. Why have I filled every beautiful spot with associations that sting me so?

"I think that my husband is watching me with more interest than formerly. If he sees a cloud on my face, some gentle act of attention seeks to drive it away. Sometimes he asks, in a troubled voice, what makes me so sad and thoughtful, as if he guessed at the truth, and the suspicion wounded him. Then I fly from the stillness of my sorrow, and force a wild sort of spirits, that make him still more depressed. This old man has seen a great deal of the world in his life, and perhaps reads me better than I think. Is deception ever a duty? At any rate, it is the refuge of cowards, and sometimes of kindness. Now, I should not really be afraid to lay the whole truth before this old man, so far as its effect on myself is concerned; but when I think of him and all the pain it would certainly give, my heart recoils from its expression. If he would only be a little unkind, I should not care so much. But, after all, what is there to explain? No word of _his_, or act of mine, could be censured justly. True, I met him at night, unknown to the family, in a beautiful and solitary spot, where some conversation passed which made me both sad and happy, but no wrong was done to any one, and the whole scene, if thoroughly explained, should bring no blame with it. I left the house without one thought of meeting any human being. If he saw and followed me, it was for a most honorable purpose--honorably, but, oh, most cruelly carried out.

"How miserably slow the weeks and months roll on. I can endure this irksome sameness of life no longer; the very fragrance of the air sickens me. I long for change--for excitement. Youth has no need of rest; its aspirations are always pressing onward. _He_ said that I was beautiful. My husband has told me this a hundred times, but it made little impression, for what is the worth of beauty in a great dull house like this? I long to go out into the world again, for there is a chance that I may--no, no, I will not think of that. He did not even tell me where he was going. But change I must and will have; it is the want of excitement that makes me a slave to these fits of depression. While surrounded by the homage of other men, I shall learn to forget that this one refused it to me.

"This evening I ventured upon the subject which has been haunting me for weeks. Mr. Dennison remarked that I was getting pale, and had lost all the brilliant glow of spirits which made my first coming home like an opening of paradise to him. Was I ill, or had he failed in anything that could have made me happy?

"I did not complain, but smiled upon him in a way that brought light into his eyes, and said pleasantly enough, that I was not quite myself in splendid solitude, that female friends were necessary to me, and I had parted with them perhaps a little too suddenly. Sometimes, I confessed, a feeling of discontent would creep over me, and but for him and all his generous attentions, I should grow weary of our grand lonely life.

"Mr. Dennison became anxious at once. 'Would I have guests invited? It was the easiest thing in life to have the great house filled with the most agreeable company to be found in the State.'

"'Guests? Oh, nothing of the kind! The duties of a hostess were beyond me just then,--but a little journey somewhere--how would he like that?--say to New Orleans?--the approaching autumnal weather would render a trip to the city pleasant, and we could come back any day.'

"Mr. Dennison accepted this proposal at once. He had seemed a little anxious at first when I spoke of leaving home, as if some doubt rested in his mind; but when I mentioned New Orleans, the cloud left his face, and he fell in with the suggestion.

"My suspicions were right. Mr. Dennison was not altogether at rest about Lawrence. At first he suspected that I was anxious to be thrown in his way again. I could see it in his face, and dared not speak of Saratoga, Newport, or any Northern watering-place, which it had been my first intention to suggest. So I mentioned New Orleans, and he was satisfied, while I fairly bit my lips white with the vexation of my failure. But New Orleans was better than nothing. There, at least, we should find society, amusement and distraction. Besides, our names would be announced in the public journals, and _he_ might learn of our presence there. Yes, yes, New Orleans was preferable to home, especially as the autumn was near, and the gay season northward already breaking up.

"Cora was in ecstasies when I told her that we were going away. Poor girl, she had found my domestic life very dull and depressing; I could see that by the alacrity with which she went to work. Once more she became bright and animated as a bird. My wardrobe was speedily put in order, and we left the plantation, much happier to go away than we had been to enter it."