"_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.
The bell of Trinity church rang out for service, arousing Lucy from her reverie. She said she should like to attend it.
"What! this afternoon?" exclaimed Karl. "You are not accustomed to go in the afternoon."
That was true. The heat of the summer weather had been almost unbearable, and Lucy had not ventured to church in it more than once a day.
"It is cooler now," she answered. "And I always like to go if I can when I have stayed for the communion."
But Karl held back from it: rather, Lucy thought, in an unaccountable manner, for he was ever ready to second any wish of hers. He did not seem inclined to go forth again, and said, as a plea of excuse, that he preferred to retain the impression of the morning's sermon on his mind, rather than let it give place to an inferior one. His head was aching badly.