Once I heard my aunt say in a tone of deep regret, "Ah, nephew, if only you had not been so hasty."
And my uncle muttered, "Mea culpa, mea culpa," and hid his face in his hands.
It was about two weeks after the affair of the flowers that I was coming in from the garden, when I saw some one that I knew to be a priest by his dress, passing into mine uncle's private room. I was not greatly surprised, for we had many clerical visitors, but they were usually secular priests, while this man was a regular.
I went up to my room—we had been promoted to the tapestry room since Madge went away, and felt quite grown up in consequence—washed my hands, and put on a clean kerchief and pinafore, those I wore being the worse for my labors in the garden. As I was finishing my dressing operations, my aunt entered the room, and I saw in a moment that she had been weeping. All of a sudden—I don't know how—a cold weight seemed to fall on my heart. I have had many such premonitions of evil in my day, and they have never come without cause.
"My dear child," said she, and then she fell a-weeping as if her heart would break, for a minute or two, I standing by, wondering what could have happened, and feeling sure that whatever it was, it concerned myself. All of a sudden, a notion came across me, and I cried out in anguish:
"Oh, aunt, have they come to take me away to the convent?"
"It is even so, my child," said my aunt, commanding herself with a great effort. "The prioress of the convent at Dartford hath sent for you, and my nephew hath no choice but to let you go."
If a tree that is torn up by the roots can feel, it must feel very much as I did that morning. I had taken very deep root in my new home, and, except during the sad time when I was in trouble about the flowers, I had been very happy. I had come to love my aunt and uncle dearly, and the twins had become, as it were, a part of my very heart. I loved the pleasant, easy ways of my uncle's household, where each was made comfortable according to his degree; where abundance and cheerful hospitality sat at the board, and peace and love were our chamber-mates, and watched over our pillows. My uncle was hasty-tempered, it was true, but even a child as I was could see what a watch he kept over himself in this respect.
But alas, and woe is me. Such a temper is like a package of gunpowder. The fire thereof is out in an instant, but in that instant it hath done damage that can never be repaired.
I was absolutely stricken dumb by the greatness of the calamity which had overtaken me, and could not speak a word. I think my aunt was frightened at my silence; for she kissed and tried to rouse me. At last I faltered—