“Margaret,” he said, “I have something to tell you.” He stopped and began to play with his pen. He had seldom felt so embarrassed as now in the presence of this shy sister of his of whom he knew so little. He could not look at her.
“Margaret, you know, you—you are under age. The King’s Grace has ordered that all under twenty years of age are to leave their convents.”
There was a dead silence.
Ralph was enraged with his own weakness. He had begun the morning’s work with such determination; but the strange sweet atmosphere of the house, the file of women coming in one by one with their air of innocence and defencelessness had affected him. In spite of himself his religious side had asserted itself, and he found himself almost tremulous now.
He made a great effort at self-repression, and looked up with hard bright eyes at his sister.
“There must be no crying or rebellion,” he said. “You must come with me to-morrow. I shall send you to Overfield.”
Still Margaret said nothing. She was staring at him now, white-faced with parted lips.
“You are the last?” he said with a touch of harshness, standing up with his hands on the table. “Tell the Reverend Mother I have done.”
Then she rose too.
“Ralph,” she cried, “my brother! For Jesu’s sake—”