"Not of his own making!" ran her thoughts. "Of his own planning, at any rate." But she would not say a word to mar the semi-peace which pervaded, or ought to pervade, their hearts that day.
"That was a nice sermon this morning," he resumed, sitting down by her on the bench.
"Very. I almost forgot that we were not close to Heaven: I forgot that we had, speaking according to earth's probabilities, years and years and years to live out here first."
"We shall have to live them out, Lucy, I suppose--by Heaven's will. The prospect of it looks anything but consolatory."
"I thought you seemed very sad," she remarked in a low tone. "I had no idea you were going to stay."
"Sad!" He laid his hand upon her knee, not in any particular affection, but to give emphasis to his word. "Sad is not the term for it, Lucy. Misery, rather; dread; despair--the worst word you will. I wished, with a yearning wish, that I was in Mr. Sumnor's heaven--the heavens he described--if only some others could go before me, so that I did not leave them here."
Lucy wondered of whom he spoke. She thought it must lie between herself and Mrs. Grey. Karl had been thinking of his poor proscribed brother, for whom the glad earth could never open her arms freely again.
"I think what Mr. Sumnor said must be true," resumed Lucy. "That the more sorrow we have to endure in this world, the brighter will be our entrance to the next. I am sure he has a great deal of sorrow himself: whenever he preaches of it he seems to feel it so deeply."
Karl appeared not to hear. He was gazing upwards, a look of patient pain on his pale face. There were moments--and this was one--when Lucy's arms and heart alike yearned to encircle him, and ask for his love to be hers again. She cared for him still--oh, how much!--and wished she could awake to find the Maze, and all the trouble connected with it, a hideous dream.
They sat on, saying nothing. The birds sang as in spring, the trees waved gently beneath the blue sky, and the green grass was grateful for the eye to rest upon. On the handsome house lay the glad sun: not a sound of every-day labour, indoors or out, broke the stillness. All was essentially peace. Except--except within their own wearied breasts.