defer for a few days making known his engagement to his mother. The next day but one was Sunday, the last in August. The heat for a week had been oppressive, and the air was now sullen and brooding, as if with an approaching stonn. As she left the breakfast-table, Margaret felt her arm touched by Father Herbert.
"Don't go to church," he said, in a low voice. "Make a pretext, and stay at home."
"A pretext?—"
"Say you've letters to write."
"Letters?" and Margaret smiled half bitterly. "To whom should I write letters?"
"Dear me, then say you're ill. I give you absolution. When they're gone, come to me."
At church-time, accordingly, Margaret feigned a slight indisposition; and Mrs. De Grey, taking her son's arm, mounted into her ancient deep-seated coach, and rolled away from the door. Margaret immediately betook herself to Father Herbert's apartment. She saw in the old man's face the portent of some dreadful avowal. His whole figure betrayed the weight of an inexorable necessity.
"My daughter," said the priest, "you are a brave, pious girl—"
"Ah!" cried Margaret, "it's something horrible, or you wouldn't say that. Tell me at once!"
"You need all your courage."
"Doesn't he love me?—Ah, in Heaven's name, speak!"
"If he didn't love you with a damning passion, I should have nothing to say."
"Oh, then, say what you please!" said Margaret.
"Well then,—you must leave this house."
"Why?—when?—where must I go?"
"This moment, if possible. You must go anywhere,—the further the better,—the further from him. Listen, my child' said the old man, his bosom wrung by the stunned, bewildered look of Margaret's face; "it's useless to protest, to weep, to resist. It's the voice of fate!"
