But it was, as she knew, absolutely necessary that her uncle should
be informed of her purpose. When he had come to her after the walk,
and demanded of her whether she still intended to marry Adrian
Urmand, she had answered him falsely. 'I suppose so,' she had said.
The question--such a question as it was--had been put to her too
abruptly to admit of a true answer on the spur of the moment. But
the falsehood almost stuck in her throat and was a misery to her
till she could set it right by a clear declaration of the truth.
She had yet to determine what she would do;--how she would tell this
truth; in what way she would insure to herself the power of carrying
out her purpose. Her mind, the reader must remember, was somewhat
dark in the matter. She was betrothed to the man, and she had
always heard that a betrothal was half a marriage. And yet she knew
of instances in which marriages had been broken off after betrothal
quite as ceremonious as her own--had been broken off without scandal
or special censure from the Church. Her aunt, indeed, and M. le
Cure had, ever since the plighting of her troth to M. Urmand, spoken
of the matter in her presence, as though the wedding were a thing
already nearly done;--not suggesting by the tenor of their speech
that any one could wish in any case to make a change, but pointing
out incidentally that any change was now out of the question. But
Marie had been sharp enough to understand perfectly the gist of her
aunt's manoeuvres and of the priest's incidental information. The
thing could be done, she know; and she feared no one in the doing of
it,--except her uncle. But she did fear that if she simply told him
that it must be done, he would have such a power over her that she
would not succeed. In what way could she do it first, and then tell
him afterwards?