embrace supplied the place of language in bidding each other adieu; and,
as they entered the hall, unable to leave the house without some mention
of one whose name had not yet been spoken by either, she paused a
moment, and with quivering lips just made it intelligible that she left
"her kind remembrance for her absent friend." But with this approach to
his name ended all possibility of restraining her feelings; and, hiding
her face as well as she could with her handkerchief, she darted across
the hall, jumped into the chaise, and in a moment was driven from the
door.

CHAPTER 29

Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no
terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or
feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in
a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls
of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of ground
within the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable
of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now
travelled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed
along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every
bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on
which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile,
as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when
within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and
thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation
were excessive.

The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest
of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had made
use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so
spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his
actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he
elated her by his pointed regard--had he even confused her by his too
significant reference! And now--what had she done, or what had she
omitted to do, to merit such a change?

The only offence against him of which she could accuse herself had been
such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own
heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly
entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each.
Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed he