Life was to the last degree dreary for Lucy Andinnian. But for the excitement imparted to her mind from that mysterious building, the Maze, and the trouble connected with it, she could scarcely have continued to go on, and bear. It was not a healthy excitement: no emotion can be that, which has either jealousy or anger for its origin. Let us take one day of her existence, and see what it was: the day following the one last told of.

A mellow, bright morning. The pleasant sun, so prolific of his bounties that year, was making the earth glad with his renewed light, and many a heart with it. Not so Lucy\'s: it seemed to her that never a gleam of gladness could illumine hers again. She sat in her room, partly dressed, after a night of much sleeplessness. What sleep she had was disturbed, as usual, by dreams tinged with the unpleasantness of her waking thoughts. A white wrapper enfolded her, and Aglaé was doing her hair. The woman saw how weary and spiritless her mistress was becoming; but not a suspicion of the true cause suggested itself, for Lucy and her husband took care to keep up appearances, and guarded their secret well. Aglaé attempted to say a word now and again, but received no encouragement: Lucy was buried in a reverie.

"We are growing more estranged day by day," ran her thoughts. "He went to London yesterday, and never said why; never gave me the least explanation. After he came home at night, and had taken something to eat, he went out again. To the Maze, of course."

"Will my lady please to have her hair in rolls or in plats this morning?"

"As you please, Aglaé." And, the weary answer given, her thoughts ran on again.

"I fancy Theresa had seen him go there. I can\'t help fancying it. She had all her severe manner on when she came in last night, but was so pityingly kind to me. And I could bear all so much better if she would not be pitiful. It was past ten. That poor Mrs. Bell is likely to die, and Theresa had been to read to her. I kept hoping she would go to bed, and she did not. Is it wrong of me to sit up, I wonder, to see what time he comes in--would Margaret say it was? She got her silks and her work about, and I had mine. He has hardly ever been so late as last night. It was half-past eleven. What right has she to keep him, or he to stay? He said, in a light, indifferent kind of tone, by way of excuse, that he had been talking with Smith, and the time slipped by unheeded. Theresa drew in her lips till she seemed to have none at all, and gave him just one scornful glance. Yes: she had certainly seen him go in elsewhere, and she knew that the excuse was not true. I took my candle, and came up here--and have had one of my most wretched nights again--and neither I nor Aglaé could find that book that comforts me. It was very cruel of Karl to marry me: and yet--and yet--would I be unmarried if I could? Would I break even from this distressing life, if it involved a separation for ever? I fear not. The not seeing him day by day would be a worse fate even than this is."

"Did my lady think to ask Sir Karl whether he had put away that book that is missing?" interposed Aglaé, quite unconscious that her lady had not seen Sir Karl since the book was missed, any more than she herself had: and moreover that he was not likely to see it.

"I have not asked him yet. Perhaps I took it downstairs yesterday."

"Which robe, my lady?"

"The Swiss muslin."

Aglaé left her when she was ready, and Lucy took her Bible for a few minutes, and said her prayers. Never did prayers ascend from a more wrung or troubled heart. The book she had mislaid was one of those little gems of consolation that can only be estimated in need. It had been given to Lucy by Miss Sumnor.

She stood a few minutes at the open window, gazing at the sunny morning. The variegated leaves of the changing trees--getting, alas! bare as Lucy\'s heart felt--the smooth lawn, which Maclean was rolling, the still bright flowers, the sunlight glittering on the lodge. All these fair things were hers; and yet, she could enjoy them not.

She went down: putting away all the sadness from her face that she could put, and looking in her pretty dress as fair as the sunshine. Hewitt came in with the coffee, and Lucy took her place at table. They never waited for Miss Blake. St. Jerome\'s was exacting, and Mr. Cattacomb somewhat uncertain as to the precise time at which he let out his flock. Hewitt went across the lawn to tell his master, who was talking to Maclean, that the breakfast was ready.

Karl came in through the open doors of the window. She glanced up and hid her eyes again: the more attractive he looked--and he always did look attractive--the greater her sense of pain. The fresh air was sweet and pleasant, and a good fire burnt in the grate.

"Good morning, Lucy."

She put down the sugar-tongs to give him her hand, and wished him good morning in a tone that no eavesdropper could have found fault with. They were quite civil to each other; nay, courteous; their intercourse much like that of true friends, or a brother and sister. After playing so long at this for the sake of keeping up appearances to their household and the world, it had become quite easy--a thing of habit.

"What shall I give you?" he asked.

"An egg, please."

"Maclean thinks that fir-tree is dying."

"Which fir-tree?"

"The large one by the ferns. He wants to root it up and make a bed there. What do you think?"

"I don\'t mind how it it. Is your coffee sweet enough?"

"Yes."

Hewitt appeared with the letters. Two for Miss Blake, one for Lady Andinnian, none for Sir Karl. Lucy read hers; glad of the help it afforded to occupation: for she did but toy with her breakfast, having little appetite now.

"It is from mamma," said Lucy. "She is going to stay with my aunt in London. I suppose you did not call on Lady Southal yesterday?"

"I? No."

"You have promised to do so for some time past."

"But I have not been able. When the mind is harassed with worry and business, social calls get put aside. Is Mrs. Cleeve well?"

"Yes, and papa better. He is going to stay at home himself. They desire to be remembered to you."

Karl bent his head in acknowledgment. And thus, talking indifferently of this and that, the meal came to an end. Karl asked his wife if she would go out to look at the fir-tree, and hear what Maclean said--he was always scrupulous in consulting her wishes as the Court\'s mistress. She brought her parasol at once.

Karl held out his arm, and she took it. As they went down the steps, Miss Blake appeared. They waited to greet her, and to shake hands.

"You must want your breakfast, Theresa. There are two letters for you on the table. Oh, and I have heard from mamma. She is going to stay with Aunt Southal in London."

Lucy took Karl\'s arm again, and they went off with the gardener. Miss Blake probably did want her breakfast; but she spared a minute or two to look after them.

"I wonder if anyone was ever so great a hypocrite?" ran her comment. "And to think that I once believed him to be the most noble and best of men. He dared to speak disparagingly of that pure saint, Mr. Cattacomb, the other day. Good patience! what contrasts there are in the world! And the same Heaven made them both, and permits both! One cannot understand it here. As to Lucy--but I wash my hands of her."

Lucy was soon back again. Miss Blake had but read her letters, and begun her breakfast. Karl had passed into his own room.

The morning wore on. Theresa went out again; Karl was shut up and then he went out; Lucy was left in the house alone. It was usually so. She had given her orders, and no earthly thing else remained to do--save let her heart prey upon itself. When she had gone pretty nearly out of her mind, she put her bonnet on, and betook herself to Mrs. Whittle, the widow of the man who had died suddenly at the station in the summer. Passing out at the extreme gate of the Court, Lucy had but to skirt the wood, and in three minutes was at the cottage: one of a row.

She had taken to come here when she was very particularly miserable--as she felt this day. For the lesson it read to her was most salutary, acting as a kind of tonic. That this poor woman was slowly dying, there could not be much doubt of. She had been in ill health before her husband\'s death, and the blow struck too severely on the weakened frame. But for Karl and his wife the family must have taken refuge in the workhouse. Lucy went in and sat down on a low wooden stool. Mrs. Whittle, about to-day, was in the easy-chair, sent to her from the Court, her three little girls around her, the eldest eight years of age. Two younger children, boys, played on the floor.

"I am teaching them to sew, ma\'am," she said to Lucy. "Bessy has got her hand pretty well into it; but the other two haven\'t. When I lie awake at nights, my lady, and think how little it is they know of any sort of labour yet, and how soon I may be taken from them, and be able to teach no more, my heart fails me. I can only set on to cry, and to pray God to forgive me all my short-comings."

The tears had come into her eyes, and were falling down her hectic cheeks. She had been very pretty once, but the face was wasted now. Lucy\'s eyelashes were wet.

"But I think you look better, Mrs. Whittle. And as to short-comings--we all might own to those."

"It seems to me that I could have brought them on better if I\'d known what was coming, ma\'am. Until that night when my husband was carried home on a shutter, I had not had a thought of death, as being likely to concern any of us at home here. And now the time seems to be coming to an end, and I\'m leaving them, and they know nothing."

"I hope you will get better yet," said Lucy.

"I don\'t think so, ma\'am. I should like to if I could. The very distress that is upon me about my children ............