Her arm lay across the window-sill; her head drooped and fell on it now, with a heavy sigh. She was unspeakably miserable, and lonely, and desolate; she was going to seal her misery for life by a loveless marriage, which her soul abhorred, and she had no power to draw back. She was like a rudderless ship, drifting without helm or compass among shoals and quicksands—drifting helplessly to ruin.
"If I dared only ask Father Francis, he would tell me what to do," she thought, despondingly; "he is so wise and good, and knows what is best for every one. He would tell me how to do what is right, and I want to do what is right if I can. But I have neglected, and avoided, and prevaricated with him so long that I have no right to trouble him now. And I know he would tell me I am doing wrong; I have read it in his face; and how can I do right?"
She sat thinking drearily, her face lying on her arm. It was the afternoon of the 14th—ten days more, and it would indeed, be too late. The nearer the marriage approached, the more abhorrent it grew. The waving trees of Glen-Keith cast inviting shadows no longer. It was all darkness and desolation. Sir Ronald's moody, angry face frightened and distressed her—it was natural, she supposed. She did not behave well, but he knew she did not care for him; she had told him so, honestly and plainly; and if he looked like that before marriage, how would he look after? She was unutterably wretched, poor child; and a remorseful conscience that would give her no rest did not add to her comfort.
She sat there for a long time, her face hidden on her arm, quite still. The short, wintry afternoon was wearing away; the cold, yellow sun hung low in the pale western sky, and the evening wind was sighing mournfully amid the trees when she rose up. She looked pale, but resolved; and she dressed herself for a walk, with a veil over her face, and slowly descended the stairs.
As she opened the house door, Sir Ronald came out of the drawing-room, not looking too well pleased at having been deserted all the afternoon.
"Are you going out?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Up the village."
"Always up the village!" he exclaimed, impatiently, "and always alone. May I not go with you? It is growing, late."