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        (the Bavarian State Library)






COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS

TAUCHNITZ EDITION.

VOL. 1270.
WITHIN THE MAZE BY MRS. HENRY WOOD.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.






WITHIN THE MAZE.
A NOVEL.


BY
MRS. HENRY WOOD,
AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," ETC.


_COPYRIGHT EDITION_.


IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.




LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1872.

_The Right of Translation is reserved_.






CONTENTS
OF VOLUME I.

CHAPTER
            I. Mrs. Andinnian's Home.
           II. Lucy Cleeve.
          III. Done at Sunset.
           IV. The Trial.
            V. Unable to get strong.
           VI. An Atmosphere of Mystery.
          VII. At the Charing-Cross Hotel.
         VIII. In the Avenue d'Antin.
           IX. Down at Foxwood.
            X. Mrs. Andinnian's Secret.
           XI. At the Gate of the Maze.
          XII. Taking an Evening Stroll.
         XIII. Miss Blake gets in.
          XIV. Miss Blake on the Watch.
           XV. Revealed to Lady Andinnian.
          XVI. A Night at the Maze.
         XVII. Before the World.
        XVIII. A Night Alarm.
          XIX. In the same Train.
           XX. Only one Fly at the Station.
          XXI. Hard to Bear.
         XXII. With his Brother.






WITHIN THE MAZE.




CHAPTER I.
Mrs. Andinnian's Home.


The house was ugly and old-fashioned, with some added modern
improvements, and was surrounded by a really beautiful garden. Though
situated close upon a large market town of Northamptonshire, it stood
alone, excluded from the noise and bustle of the world.

The occupant of this house was a widow lady, Mrs. Andinnian. Her
husband, a post-captain in the Royal Navy, had been dead some years.
She had two sons. The elder, Adam, was of no profession, and lived
with her: the younger, Karl, was a lieutenant in one of Her Majesty's
regiments. Adam was presumptive heir to his uncle, Sir Joseph
Andinnian, a baronet of modern creation: Karl had his profession alone
to look to, and a small private income of two hundred a year.

They were not rich, these Andinnians: though the captain had deemed
himself well-off, what with his private fortune, and what with his
pay. The private fortune was just six hundred a year; the pay not
great: but Captain Andinnian's tastes were simple, his wants few. At
his death it was found that he had bequeathed his money in three equal
parts: two hundred a year to his wife, and two hundred each to his
sons. "Adam and his mother will live together," he said in the will;
"she'd not be parted from him: and four hundred pounds, with her bit
of pension, will be enough for comfort. When Adam succeeds his uncle,
they can make any fresh arrangement that pleases them. But I hope when
that time shall come they will not forget Karl."

Mrs. Andinnian resented the will, and resented these words in it. Her
elder boy, Adam, had always been first and foremost with her: never a
mother loved a son more ardently than she loved him. For Karl she
cared not. Captain Andinnian was not blind to the injustice, and
perhaps thence arose the motive that induced him not to leave his
wife's two hundred pounds of income at her own disposal: when Mrs.
Andinnian died, it would lapse to Karl. The captain had loved his sons
equally: he would willingly have left them equally provided for in
life, and divided the fortune that was to come sometime to Adam. Mrs.
Andinnian, in spite of the expected rise for Adam, would have had him
left better off from his father's means than Karl.

There had been nearly a lifelong feud between the two family
branches. Sir Joseph Andinnian and his brother the captain had not met
for years and years: and it was a positive fact that the latter's sons
had never seen their uncle. For this feud the brothers themselves were
not in the first instance to blame. It did not arise with them, but
with their wives. Both ladies were of a haughty, overbearing, and
implacable temper: they had quarrelled very soon after their first
introduction to each other; the quarrel grew, and grew, and finally
involved the husbands as well in its vortex.

Joseph Andinnian, who was the younger of the two brothers, had been a
noted and very successful civil engineer. Some great work, that he had
originated and completed, gained him his reward--a baronetcy. While he
was in the very flush of his new honours, an accident, that he met
with, laid him for many months upon a sick-bed. Not only that: it
incapacitated him for future active service. So, when he was little
more than a middle-aged man, he retired from his profession, and took
up his abode for life at a pretty estate he had bought in Kent,
called Foxwood Court, barely an hour's railway journey from London: by
express train not much more than half one. Here, he and his wife had
lived since: Sir Joseph growing more and more of an invalid as the
years went on. They had no children; consequently his brother, Captain
Andinnian, was heir to the baronetcy: and, following on Captain
Andinnian, Adam, the captain's eldest son.

Captain Andinnian did not live to succeed. In what seemed the pride of
his health and strength, just after he had landed from a three years'
voyage, and was indulging in ambitious visions of a flag, symptoms of
a mortal disease manifested themselves. He begged of his physicians to
let him know the truth; and they complied--he must expect but a very
few weeks more of life. Captain Andinnian, after taking a day or two
to look matters fully in the face, went up to London, and thence
down to Sir Joseph's house in Kent. The brothers, once face to face,
met as though no ill-blood had ever separated them: hands were
locked in hands, gaze went out to gaze. Both were simple-minded,
earnest-hearted, affectionate-natured men; and but for their wives--to
whom, if the truth must be avowed, each lay in subjection--not a
mis-word would ever have arisen between them.

"I am dying, Joseph," said the captain, when some of their mutual
emotion had worn away. "The doctors tell me so, and I feel it to be
true. Naturally, it has set me on the thought of many things--that I
am afraid I have been too carelessly putting off. What I have come
down to you chiefly for, is to ask about my son--Adam. You'll tell me
the truth, won't you, Joseph, as between brothers?"

"I'll tell you anything, Harry," was Sir Joseph's answer. "The truth
about what?"

"Whether he is to succeed you or not?"

"Why, of course he must succeed: failing yourself. What are you
thinking of, Harry, to ask it? I've no son of my own: it's not likely
I shall have one now. He will be Sir Adam after me."

"It's not the title I was thinking of, Joseph. Failing a direct heir,
I know that must come to him. But the property?--will he have that? It
is not entailed; and you could cut him out absolutely."

"D'ye think I'd be so unjust as that, Harry?" was the half indignant
reply. "A baronet's title, and nothing to keep it up upon! I have
never had an idea of leaving it away from you; or from him if you went
first. When Adam succeeds to my name and rank, he will succeed to my
property. Were my wife to survive me, she'd have this place for life,
and a good part of the income: but Adam would get it all at her
death."

"This takes a weight off my mind," avowed Captain Andinnian. "Adam was
not brought up to any profession. Beyond the two hundred a year he'll
inherit from me----"

"A bad thing that--no profession," interrupted Sir Joseph. "If I had
ten sons, and they were all heirs to ten baronetcies, each one should
be brought up to use his brains or his hands."

"It's what I have urged over and over again," avowed the captain. "But
the wife--you know what she is--set her face against it. 'He'll be Sir
Adam Andinnian of Foxwood,' she'd answer me with, 'and he shall not
soil his hands with work.' I have been nearly, always afloat, too,
Joseph: not on the spot to enforce things: something has lain in
that."

"I wonder the young man should not have put himself forward to be of
use in the world!"

"Adam is idly inclined. I am sorry for it, but it is so. One thing has
been against him, and that's his health. He's as tall and strong a
young fellow to look at as you'd meet in a summer's day, but he is, I
fear, anything but sound in constitution. A nice fellow too, Joseph."

"Of good disposition?"

"Very. We had used to be almost afraid of him as a boy; he would put
himself into such unaccountable fits of passion. Just as--as--somebody
else used to do, you know, Joseph," added the sailor with some
hesitation.

Sir Joseph nodded. The somebody else was the captain's wife, and
Adam's mother. Sir Joseph's own wife was not exempt from the same kind
of failing: but in a less wild degree than Mrs. Andinnian. With her
the defects of temper partook more of the nature of sullenness.

"But Adam seems to have outgrown all that: I've seen and heard nothing
of it since he came to manhood," resumed the captain. "I wish from my
heart he had some profession to occupy him. His mother always filled
him up with the notion that he would be your heir and not want it."

"He'll be my heir, in all senses, safe enough, Harry: though I'd
rather have heard he was given to industry than idleness. How does he
get through his time? Young men naturally seek some pursuit as an
outlet for their superfluous activity."

"Adam has a pursuit that he makes a hobby of; and that is his love of
flowers; in fact his love of gardening in any shape. He'll be out
amidst the plants and shrubs from sunrise to sunset. Trained to it,
he'd have made a second Sir Joseph Paxton. I should like you to see
him: he is very handsome."

"And the young one--what is he like? What's his name by the way?
Henry?"

"No. Karl."

"_Karl?_" repeated Sir Joseph in surprise, as if questioning whether
he heard aright.

"Ay, Karl. His mother was in Germany when he was born, it being a
cheap place to live in--I was only a poor lieutenant then, Joseph, and
just gone off to be stationed before the West Indies. A great friend
of hers, there, some German lady, had a little boy named Karl. My wife
fell in love with the name, and called her own infant after it."

"Well, it sounds an outlandish name to me," cried the baronet, who was
entirely unacquainted with every language but his own.

"So I thought, when she first wrote me word," assented Captain
Andinnian. "But after I came home and got used to call the lad by it,
you don't know how I grew to like it. The name gains upon your favour
in a wonderful manner, Joseph: and I have heard other people say the
same. It is Charles in English, you know."

"Then why not call him Charles?"

"Because the name is really Karl, and not Charles. He was baptized in
Germany, but christened in England, and in both places it was done as
'Karl.' His mother has never cared very much for him."

"For him or his name, do you mean?"

"Oh, for him."

Sir Joseph opened his eyes. "Why on earth not?"

"Because all the love her nature's capable of--and in her it's
tolerably strong--is given to Adam. She can't spare an atom from him:
her love for him is as a kind of idolatry. For one thing, she was very
ill when Karl was born, and neither nursed nor tended him: he was
given over to the care of her sister who lived with her, and who had
him wholly, so to say, for the first three years of his life."

"And what's Karl like?" repeated Sir Joseph.

"You ought to see him," burst forth the Captain with animation. "He's
everything that's good and noble arid worthy. Joseph, there are not
many young men of the present day so attractive as Karl."

"With a tendency to be passionate, like his brother?"

"Not he. A tendency to patience, rather. They have put upon him at
home--between ourselves; kept him down, you know; both mother and
brother. He is several years younger than Adam; but they are attached
to each other. A more gentle-natured, sweet-tempered lad than Karl
never lived: all his instincts are those of a gentleman. He will make
a brave soldier. He is ensign in the -- regiment."

"The -- regiment," repeated Sir Joseph. "Rather a crack corps that, is
it not?"

"Yes: Karl has been lucky. He will have to make his own way in the
world, for I can't give him much. But now that I am assured of your
intentions as to Adam, things look a trifle brighter. Joseph, I thank
you with all my heart."

Once more the brothers clasped hands. This reunion was the pleasantest
event of their later lives. The captain remained two days at Foxwood.
Lady Andinnian was civilly courteous to him, but never cordial. She
did not second her brother's pressing wish that he should prolong his
stay: neither did she once ask after any of his family.

Captain Andinnian's death took place, as anticipated. His will, when
opened, proved to be what was mentioned above. Some years had gone by
since. Mrs. Andinnian and her son Adam had continued to live together
in their quiet home in Northamptonshire; Karl, lieutenant now, and
generally with his regiment, paying them an occasional visit. No
particular change had occurred, save the death of Lady Andinnian. The
families had continued to be estranged as heretofore: for never a word
of invitation had come out of Foxwood. Report ran that Sir Joseph was
ailing much; very much indeed since the loss of his wife. And, now,
that so much of introduction is over, we can go on with the story.


A beautiful day in April. At a large window thrown open to the mid-day
sun, just then very warm and bright, sat a lady of some five and fifty
years. A tall, handsome, commanding woman, resolution written in every
line of her haughty face. She wore a black silk gown with the
slightest possible modicum of crape on it, and the guipure cap--or,
rather, the guipure lappets, for of cap there was not much to be
seen--had in it some black ribbon. Her purple-black hair was well
preserved and abundant still; her black eyes were stern, and
fearlessly honest. It was Mrs. Andinnian.

She was knitting what is called a night-sock. Some poor sick pensioner
of hers or her son's--for both had their charities--needed the
comfort. Her thoughts were busy; her eyes went fondly out to the far
end of the garden, where she could just discern her son against the
shrubs: the fairest and dearest sight to Mrs. Andinnian that earth had
ever contained for her, or ever would contain.

"It is strange Sir Joseph does not write for him," ran her
thoughts--and they very often did run in the same groove. "I cannot
imagine why he does not. Adam ought to be on the spot and get
acquainted with his inheritance: his uncle must know he ought. But
that I have never stooped to ask a favour in my life, I would write to
Sir Joseph, and proffer a visit for Adam, and--for--yes, for me.
During that woman's lifetime Adam was not likely to be welcomed there:
but the woman's gone: it is two months this very day since she died."

The woman, thus unceremoniously alluded to, was Lady Andinnian: and
the slight mourning, worn, was for her. Some intricacy in the knitting
caused Mrs. Andinnian to bend her head: when she looked up again, her
son was not to be seen. At the same moment, a faint sound of distant
conversation smote her ear. The work dropped on her lap; with a look
of annoyance she lifted her head to listen.

"He is talking to that girl again! I am sure of it."

Lift her head and her ears as she would, she could not tell positively
whose voices they were. Instinct, however, that instinct of suspicion
we all feel within us on occasion, was enough.

A very respectable manservant of middle age, thoughtful in face, fair
in complexion, with a fringe of light hair round the sides of his
otherwise bald head, entered the room and presented a note to his
mistress. "Who is it from?" she asked as she took it off the silver
waiter. An old waiter, bearing the Andinnian crest.

"Mrs. Pole's housemaid has brought it, ma'am. She is waiting for an
answer."

It was but a friendly note of invitation from a neighbour, asking Mrs.
Andinnian and her two sons to go in that evening. For Karl, the second
son, had come home for a two days' visit, and was just then writing
letters in another room.

"Yes, we will go--if Adam has no engagement," said Mrs. Andinnian to
herself, but half aloud. "Hewitt, go and tell Mr. Andinnian that I
wish to speak with him."

The man went across the garden and through the wilderness of shrubs.
There stood his master at an open gate, talking to a very pretty girl
with bright hair and rosy cheeks.

"My mistress wishes to see you, Mr. Adam."

Adam Andinnian turned round, a defiant expression on his haughty face,
as if he did not like the interruption. He was a very fine man of some
three-and-thirty years, tall and broad-shouldered, with his mother's
cast of proud, handsome features, her fresh complexion, and her black
hair. His eyes were dark grey; deeply set in the head, and rarely
beautiful. His teeth also were remarkably good; white, even, and
prominent, and he showed them very much.

"Tell my mother I'll come directly, Hewitt."

Hewitt went back with the message. The young lady who had turned to
one of her own flower-beds, for the gardens joined, was bending over
some budding tulips.

"I think they will be out next week, Mr. Andinnian," she looked round
to say.

"Never mind the tulips," he answered after a pause, during which he
had leaned on the iron railings, looking dark and haughty. "I want to
hear more about this."

"There's nothing more to hear," was the young lady's answer.

"That won't do, Rose. Come here."

And she went obediently.

The house to which this other garden belonged was a humble,
unpretending dwelling, three parts cottage, one part villa. A Mr.
Turner lived in it with his wife and niece. The former was in good
retail business in the town: a grocer: and he and his wife were as
humble and unpretending as their dwelling. The niece, Rose, was
different. Her father had been a lawyer in small local practice: and
at his death Rose--her mother also dead--was taken by her uncle and
aunt, who loved both her and her childish beauty. Since then she had
lived with them, and they educated her well. She was a good girl: and
in the essential points of mind, manner, and appearance, a lady. But
her position was of necessity a somewhat isolated one. With the
tradespeople of the town Rose Turner did not care to mix: she felt
that, however worthy, they were beneath her: quite of another order
altogether: on the other hand, superior people would not associate
with Miss Turner, or put so much as the soles of their shoes over the
doorsill of the grocer's house. At sixteen she had been sent to a
finishing school: at eighteen she came back as pretty and as nice a
girl as one of fastidious taste would wish to see.

Years before, Adam and Karl Andinnian had made friends with the little
child: they continued to be intimate with her as brothers and sister.
Latterly, it had dawned on Mrs. Andinnian's perception that Adam and
Miss Turner were a good deal together; certainly more than they need
be. Adam had even come to neglect his flowers, that he so much loved,
and to waste his time talking to Rose. It cannot be said that Mrs.
Andinnian feared any real complication--any undesirable result of any
kind; the great difference in their ages might alone have served to
dispel the notion: Adam was thirty-three; Miss Turner only just out of
her teens. But she was vexed with her son for being so frivolous and
foolish: and, although she did not acknowledge it to herself, a vague
feeling of uneasiness in regard to it lay at the bottom of her heart.
As to Adam, he kept his thoughts to himself. Whether this new
propensity to waste his hours with Miss Turner arose out of mere
pastime, or whether he entertained for her any warmer feeling, was,
his own secret.

Things--allowing for argument's sake that there was some love in the
matter--were destined not to go on with uninterrupted smoothness.
There is a proverb to the effect, you know. During the last few weeks
a young medical student, named Martin Scott, had become enamoured of
Miss Turner. At first, he had confined himself to silent admiration.
Latterly he had taken to speaking of it. Very free-mannered, after the
fashion of medical students of graceless nature, he had twice snatched
a kiss from her: and the young lady, smarting under the infliction,
indignant, angry, had this day whispered the tale to Adam Andinnian.
And no sooner was it done, than she repented: for the hot fury that
shone out of Mr. Andinnian's face, startled her greatly.

They were standing together again at the small iron gate, ere the
sound of Hewitt's footsteps had well died away. Rose Turner had the
true golden hair that ladies have taken to covet and spend no end of
money on pernicious dyes to try and obtain. Her garden hat was untied,
and she was playing with its strings.

"Rose, I must know all; and I insist upon your telling me. Go on."

"But indeed I have told you all, Mr. Andinnian."

Mr. Andinnian gazed steadfastly into Miss Rose's eyes, as if he would
get the truth out of their very depths. It was evident that she now
spoke unwillingly, and only in obedience to his strong will.

"It was last night, was it, that he came up, this brute of a Scott?"

"Last night, about six," she answered. "We were at tea, and my aunt
asked him to take some--"

"Which he did of course?" savagely interrupted Mr. Andinnian.

"Yes; and eat two muffins all to himself," laughed Miss Turner, trying
to turn the anger off. Mr. Andinnian did not like the merriment.

"Be serious if you please, child; this is a serious matter. Was it
after tea that he--that he dared to insult you?" and the speaker shut
his right hand with a meaning gesture as he said it.

"Yes. Aunt went to the kitchen to see about something that was to be
prepared for my uncle's supper--for she is fidgety over the cooking,
and never will trust it to the servant. Martin Scott then began to
tease as usual; saying how much he cared for me, and asking me to wait
for him until he could get into practice."

"Well?" questioned Adam impatiently as she stopped.

"I told him that he had already had his answer from me and that he had
no right to bring the matter up again; it was foolish besides, as it
only set me more against him. Then I sat down to the piano and played
the Chatelaine--he only likes rattling music--and sang a song,
thinking it would pass the time in peace until aunt returned.
By-and-by I heard my uncle's latch-key in the front door, and I was
crossing the room to go out and meet him, when Martin Scott laid hold
of my arm, and--and kissed me."

Mr. Andinnian bit his lips almost to bleeding. His face was frightful
in its anger. Rose shivered a little.

"I am sorry I told you, Mr. Andinnian."

"Now listen, Rose. If ever this Martin Scott does the like again, I'll
shoot him."

"Oh, Mr. Andinnian!"

"I shall warn him. In the most unmistakable words; words that he
cannot misconstrue; I will warn him of what I mean to do. Let him
disregard it at his peril; if he does, I'll shoot him as I would shoot
a dog."

The very ferocity of the threat, its extreme nature, disarmed Miss
Turner's belief in it. She smiled up in the speaker's face and shook
her head, but was content to let the subject pass away in silence.
Adam Andinnian, totally forgetting his mother's message, began talking
of pleasanter things.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Andinnian's patience was growing exhausted: she hated
to keep other people's servants waiting her pleasure. Her fingers were
on the bell to ring for Hewitt, when Karl entered the room, some
sealed letters in his hand. A slender man of seven-and-twenty,
slightly above the middle height, with pale, clearly-cut features and
a remarkably nice expression of countenance. He had the deeply-set,
beautiful grey eyes of his brother; but his hair, instead of being
black and straight, was brown and wavy. An attractive looking man,
this Karl Andinnian.

"I am going out to post these letters," said Karl. "Can I do anything
for you in the town, mother?"

The voice was attractive too. Low-toned, clear, melodious, full of
truth: a voice to be trusted all over the world. Adam's voice was
inclined to be harsh, and he had rather a loud way of speaking.

"Nothing in the town," replied Mrs. Andinnian: and, now that you
notice it, _her_ voice was harsh too. "But you can go and ask your
brother why he keeps me waiting. He is behind the shrubbery."

Karl left his letters on the table, traversed the garden, and found
Adam with Miss Turner. They turned to wait his approach. A half doubt,
he knew not wherefore, dawned for the first time on his mind.

"How are you this morning, Rose?" he asked, raising his hat with the
ceremony one observes to an acquaintance, rather than to an intimate
friend. "Adam, the mother seems vexed: you are keeping her waiting,
she says, and she wishes to know the reason of it."

"I forgot all about it," cried Adam. "Deuce take the thorn!"

For just at that moment he had run a thorn into his finger. Karl began
talking with Miss Turner: there was no obligation on _him_ to return
forthwith to the house.

"Go back, will you, Karl, and tell the mother I am sorry I forgot it.
I shall be there as soon as you are."

"A genteel way of getting rid of me," thought Karl with a laugh, as he
at once turned to plunge into the wide shrubbery. "Good day to you,
Rose."

But when he was fairly beyond their sight Karl's face became grave as
a judge's. "Surely Adam is not drifting into anything serious in that
quarter!" ran his thoughts. "It would never do."

"Well--have you seen Adam!" began Mrs. Andinnian, when he entered.

"Yes. He is coming immediately."

"_Coming!_"--and she curled her vexed lips. "He ought to _come_. Who
is he with, Karl?"

"With Miss Turner."

"What nonsense! Idling about with a senseless child!"

"I suppose it _is_ nothing but nonsense?" spoke Karl, incautiously.
"She--Miss Turner--would scarcely be the right woman in the right
place."

His mother glanced at him sharply. "In _what_ place?--what woman?"

"As Lady Andinnian."

Karl had angered his mother before in his lifetime, but scarcely ever
as now. She turned livid as death, and took up the first thing that
came to her hand--a silver inkstand, kept for show, not use--and held
it as if she would hurl it at his head.

"How _dare_ you, sir, even in supposition, so traduce your brother?"

"I beg your pardon, mother. I spoke without thought."

As she was putting down the inkstand, Adam came in. He saw that
something was amiss. Mrs. Andinnian spoke abruptly about the
invitation for the evening, and asked if he would go. Adam said he
could go, and she left the room to give, herself, a verbal answer to
the waiting servant.

"What was the matter, Karl?"

"The mother was vexed at your staying with Rose Turner, instead of
coming in. It was nonsense, she said, to be idling about with a
senseless child. I--unfortunately, but quite unintentionally--added to
her anger by remarking that I supposed it _was_ nonsense, for she,
Miss Turner, would scarcely be suitable for a Lady Andinnian."

"Just attend to your own affairs," growled Adam. "Keep yourself in
your place."

Karl looked up with his sweet smile; answering with his frank and
gentle voice. The smile and the voice acted like oil on the troubled
waters.

"You know, Adam, that I should never think of interfering with you, or
of opposing your inclinations. In the wide world, there's no one, I
think, so anxious as I am for your happiness and welfare."

Adam did know it, and their hands met in true affection. Few brothers
loved each other as did Adam and Karl Andinnian. Seeing them together
thus, they were undoubtedly two fine young men--as their sailor father
had once observed to his brother. But Karl, with his nameless air of
innate goodness and refinement, looked the greater gentleman.




CHAPTER II.
Lucy Cleeve.


Lingering under the light of the sweet May moon, arm within arm, their
voices hushed, their tread slow, went two individuals, whom few,
looking upon them, could have failed to mistake for anything but
lovers. Lovers they were, in heart, in mind, in thought: with as pure
and passionate and ardent a love as ever was felt on this earth. And
yet, no word, to tell of it, had ever been spoken between them.

It was one of those cases where love, all unpremeditated, had grown
up, swiftly, surely, silently. Had either of them known that they were
drifting into it, they might have had sufficient prudence to separate
forthwith, before the danger grew into certainty. For he, the obscure
and nearly portionless young soldier, had the sense to see that he
would be regarded as no fit match for the daughter of Colonel and the
Honourable Mrs. Cleeve; both of high lineage and inordinately proud of
it into the bargain; and she, Lucy Cleeve, knew that, for all her good
descent, she was nearly portionless too, and that her future husband,
whomsoever he might turn out to be, must possess a vast deal more of
this world's goods than did Lieutenant Andinnian. Ay, and of family
also. But, there it was: they had drifted into this mutual love
unconsciously: each knew that it was for all time: and that, in
comparison, "family" and "goods" were to them as nothing.

"And so Miss Blake is back, Lucy?"

The words, spoken by Mr. Andinnian, broke one of those long pauses of
delicious silence, that in themselves seem like tastes of paradise.
Lucy Cleeve's tones in answer were low and soft as his.

"She came to-day. I hardly knew her. Her hair is all put on the top of
her