is to
her was so great a joy that even the sadness of her present position
could not utterly depress her. From day to day she assured herself
that she did not doubt and would not doubt,--that there was no cause
for doubt;--that she would herself be base were she to admit any
shadow of suspicion. But yet his absence,--and the shortness of those
little notes, which came perhaps once a fortnight, did tell upon
her in opposition to her own convictions. Each note as it came was
answered,--instantly; but she would not write except when the notes
came. She would not seem to reproach him by writing oftener than he
wrote. When he had given her so much, and she had nothing but her
confidence to give in return, would she stint him in that? There can
be no love, she said, without confidence, and it was the pride of her
heart to love him.

The circumstances of her present life were desperately weary to her.
She could hardly understand why it was that Lady Linlithgow should
desire her presence. She was required to do nothing. She had no
duties to perform, and, as it seemed to her, was of no use to any
one. The countess would not even allow her to be of ordinary service
in the house. Lady Linlithgow, as she had said of herself, poked her
own fires, carved her own meat, lit her own candles, opened and shut
the doors for herself, wrote her own letters,--and did not even like
to have books read to her. She simply chose to have some one sitting
with her to whom she could speak and make little cross-grained,
sarcastic, and ill-natured remarks. There was no company at the house
in Brook Street, and when the countess herself went out, she went
out alone. Even when she had a cab to go shopping, or to make calls,
she rarely asked Lucy to go with her,--and was benevolent chiefly
in this,--that if Lucy chose to walk round the square, or as far
as the park, her ladyship's maid was allowed to accompany her for
protection. Poor Lucy often told herself that such a life would be
unbearable,--were it not for the supreme satisfaction she had in
remembering her lover. And then the arrangement had been made only
for six months. She did not feel quite assured of her fate at the end
of those six months, but she believed that there would come to her a
residence in a sort of outer garden to that sweet Elysium in which
she was to pass her life. The Elysium would be Frank's house; and the
outer garden was the deanery at Bobsborough.

Twice during the three