I took care not to reach home before the hour when Julia usually went to
bed. She had been out in the country all day, visiting the south cliffs
of our island, with some acquaintances from England who were staying for
a few days in St. Peter-Port. In all probability she would be too tired
to sit up till my return if I were late.
I had calculated aright. It was after eleven o'clock when I entered, and
my mother only was waiting for me. I wished to avoid any confidential
chat that evening, and, after answering briefly her fond inquiries as to
what could have kept me out so late, I took myself off to my own room.
But it was quite vain to think of sleep that night. I had soon worked
myself up into that state of nervous, restless agitation; when one
cannot remain quietly in one; room. I attempted to conquer it, but I
could not.
The moon, which was at the full, was shining out of a cloudless field of
sky upon my window. I longed for fresh air, and freedom, and motion; for
a distance between myself and my dear old home--that home which I was
about to plunge into troubled waters. The peacefulness oppressed me.
About one o'clock I opened my door as softly as possible, and stole
silently downstairs--but not so silently that my mother's quick ear did
not catch the slight jarring of my door.
The night-bell hung in my room, and occasionally I was summoned away at
hours like this to visit a patient. She called to me as I crept down the
stairs.
"Martin, what is the matter?" she whispered, over the banisters.
"Nothing, mother; nothing much," I answered. "I shall be home again in
an hour or two. Go to bed, and go to sleep. Whatever makes you so
thin-eared?"
"Are you going to take Madam?" she asked, seeing my whip in my hand.
"Shall I ring up Pellet?"
"No, no!" I said; "I can manage well enough. Good-night again, my
darling old mother."
Her pale, worn face smiled down upon me very tenderly as she kissed her
hand to me. I stood, as if spellbound, watching her, and she watching
me, until we both laughed, though somewhat falteringly.
"How romantic you are, my boy!" she said, in a tremulous voice.
"I shall not stir till you go back to bed," I answered, peremptorily;
and as just then we heard my father calling out fretfully to ask why the
door was open, and what was going on in the house, she disappeared, and
I went on my way to the stables.
Madam was my favorite mare, first-rate at a gallop when she was in good
temper, but apt to turn vicious now and then. She was in good temper
to-night, and pricked up her ears and whinnied when I unlocked the
stable-door. In a few minutes we were going up the Grange Road at a
moderate pace till we reached the open country, and the long, white,
dusty roads stretched before us, glimmering in the moonlight. I turned
for St. Martin's, and Madam, at the first touch of my whip on her
flanks, started off at a long and steady gallop.
It was a cool, quiet night in May. A few of the larger fixed stars
twinkled palely in the sky, but the smaller ones were drowned in the
full moonlight. The largest of them shone solemnly and brightly in
afield of golden green just above the spot where the sun had set hours
before. The trees, standing out with a blackness and distinctness never
seen by day, appeared to watch for me and look after me as I rode along,
forming an avenue of silent but very stately spectators; and to my
fancy, for my fancy was highly excited that night, the rustling of the
young leaves upon them whispered the name of Olivia. The hoof-beats of
my mare's feet upon the hard roads echoed the name Olivia, Olivia!
By-and-by I turned off the road to got nearer the sea, and rode along
sandy lanes with banks of turf instead of hedge-rows, which were covered
thickly with pale primroses, shining with the same hue as the moon above
them. As I passed the scattered cottages, here and there a dog yapped a
shrill, snarling hark, and woke the birds, till they gave a sleepy
twitter in their new nests.
Now and then I came in full sight of the sea, glittering in the silvery
light. I crossed the head of a gorge, and stopped for a while to gaze
down it, till my flesh crept. It was not more than a few yards in
breadth, but it was of unknown depth, and the rocks stood above it with
a thick, heavy blackness. The tide was rushing into its narrow channel
with a thunder which throbbed like a pulse; yet in the intervals of its
pulsation I could catch the thin, prattling tinkle of a brook running
merrily down the gorge to plunge headlong into the sea. Round every spar
of the crags, and over every islet of rock, the foam played ceaselessly,
breaking over them like drifts of snow, forever melting, and forever
forming again.
I kept on my way, as near the sea as I I could, past the sleeping
cottages and hamlets, round through St. Pierre du Bois and Torteval,
with the gleaming light-houses out on the Hanways, and by Rocquaine Bay,
and Vazon Bay, and through the vale to Captain Carey's peaceful house,
where, perhaps, to-morrow night--nay, this day's night--Julia might be
weeping and wailing broken-hearted.
I had made the circuit of our island--a place so dear to me that it
seemed scarcely possible to live elsewhere; yet I should be forced to
live elsewhere. I knew that with a clear distinctness. There could be no
home for me in Guernsey when my conduct toward Julia should become
known.
But now Sark, which had been behind me all my ride, lay full in sight,
and the eastern sky behind it began to quicken with new light. The gulls
were rousing themselves, and flying out to sea, with their plaintive
cries; and the larks were singing their first sleepy notes to the coming
day.
As the sun rose, Sark looked very near, and the sea, a plain of silvery
blue, seemed solid and firm enough to afford me a road across to it. A
white mist lay like a huge snow-drift in hazy, broad curves over the
Havre Gosselin, with sharp peaks of cliffs piercing through.
Olivia was sleeping yonder behind that veil of shining mist; and, dear
as Guernsey was to me, she was a hundredfold dearer.
But my night's ride bad not made my day's task any easier for me. No new
light had dawned upon my difficulty. There was no loop-hole for me to
escape from the most painful and perplexing strait I had ever been in.
How was I to break it to Julia? and when? It was quite plain to me that
the sooner it was over the better it would be for myself, and perhaps
the better for her. How was I to go through my morning's calls, in the
state of nervous anxiety I found myself in?
I resolved to have it over as soon as breakfast was finished, and my
father had gone to make his professional toilet, a lengthy and important
duty with him. Yet when breakfast came I was listening intently for some
summons, which would give me an hour's grace from fulfilling my own
determination. I prolonged my meal, keeping my mother in her place at
the table; for she had never given up her office of pouring out my tea
and coffee.
I finished at List, and still no urgent message had come for me. My
mother left us together alone, as her custom was, for what time I had to
spare--a variable quantity always with me.
Now was the dreaded moment. But how was I to begin? Julia was so calm
and unsuspecting. In what words could I convey my fatal meaning most
gently to her? My head throbbed, and I could not raise my eyes to her
face. Yet it must be done.
"Dear Julia," I said, in as firm a voice as I could command.
"Yes, Martin."
But just then Grace, the housemaid, knocked emphatically at the door,
and after a due pause entered with a smiling, significant face, yet with
an apologetic courtesy.
"If you please, Dr. Martin," she said, "I'm very sorry, but Mrs. Lihou's
baby is taken with convulsion-fits; and they want you to go as fast as
ever you can, please, sir."
"Was I sorry or glad? I could not tell. It was a reprieve; but then I
knew positively it was nothing more than a reprieve. The sentence must
be executed. Julia came to me, bent her cheek toward me, and I kissed
it. That was our usual salutation when our morning's interview was
ended.
"I am going down to the new house," she said. "I lost a good deal of
time yesterday, and I must make up for it to-day. Shall you be passing
by at any time, Martin?"
"Yes--no--I cannot tell exactly," I stammered.
"If you are passing, come in for a few minutes," she answered; "I have a
thousand things to speak to you about."
"Shall you come in to lunch?" I asked.
"No, I shall take something with me," she replied; "it hinders so;
coming back here."
I was not overworked that morning. The convulsions of Mrs. Lihou's baby
were not at all serious; and, as I have before stated, the practice
which my father and I shared between us was a very limited one. My part
of it naturally fell among our poorer patients, who did not expect me to
waste their time and my own, by making numerous or prolonged visits. So
I had plenty of time to call upon Julia at the new house; but I could
not summon sufficient courage. The morning slipped away while I was
loitering about Fort George, and chatting carelessly with the officers
quartered there.
I went to lunch, pretty sure of finding no one but my mother at home.
There was no fear of losing her love, if every other friend turned me
the cold shoulder, as I was morally certain they would, with no blame to
themselves. But the very depth and constancy of her affection made it
the more difficult and the more terrible for me to wound her. She had
endured so much, poor mother! and was looking so wan and pale. If it had
not been for Johanna's threat, I should have resolved to say nothing
about Olivia, and to run my chance of matrimonial happiness.
What a cruel turn Fate had done me when it sent me across the sea to
Sark ten weeks ago!
My mother was full of melancholy merriment that morning, making pathetic
little jokes about Julia and me, and laughing at them heartily
herself--short bursts of laughter which left her paler than she had been
before.
I tried to laugh myself, in order to encourage her brief playfulness,
though the effort almost choked me. Before I went out again, I sat
beside her for a few minutes, with my head, which ached awfully by this
time, resting on her dear shoulder.
"Mother," I said, "you are very fond of Julia?"
"I love her just the same as if she were my daughter, Martin--as she
will be soon," she answered.
"Do you love her as much as me?" I asked.
"Jealous boy!" she said, laying her hand on my hot forehead, "no, not
half as much; not a quarter, not a tenth part as much! Does that content
you?"
"Suppose something should prevent our marriage?" I suggested.
"But nothing can," she interrupted; "and, O Martin! I am sure you will
be very happy with Julia."
I said no more, for I did not dare to tell her yet; but I wished I had
spoken to her about Olivia, instead of hiding her name, and all
belonging to her, in my inmost heart. My mother would know all quite
soon enough, unless Julia and I agreed to keep it secret, and let things
go on as they were.
If Julia said she would marry me, knowing that I was heart and soul in
love with another woman, why, then I would go through with it, and my
mother need never hear a word about my dilemma.
Julia must decide my lot. My honor was pledged to her; and if she
insisted upon the fulfilment of my engagement to her, well, of course, I
would fulfil it.
I went down reluctantly at length to the new house; but it was at almost
the last hour. The church-clocks had already struck four; and I knew
Johanna would be true to her time, and drive up the Grange at five. I
left a message with my mother for her, telling her where she would find
Julia and me. Then doggedly, but sick at heart with myself and all the
world, I went down to meet my doom.
It was getting into nice order, this new house of ours. We had had six
months to prepare it in, and to fit it up exactly to our minds; and it
was as near my ideal of a pleasant home as our conflicting tastes
permitted. Perhaps this was the last time I should cross its threshold.
There was a pang in the thought.
This was my position. If Julia listened to my avowal angrily, and
renounced me indignantly, passionately, I lost fortune, position,
profession; my home and friends, with the sole exception of my mother. I
should be regarded alternately as a dupe and a scoundrel. Guernsey would
become too hot to hold me, and I should be forced to follow my luck in
some foreign land. If, on the other hand, Julia clung to me, and would
not give me up, trusting to time to change my feelings, then I lost
Olivia; and to lose her seemed the worse fate of the two.
Julia was sitting alone in the drawing-room, which overlooked the harbor
and the group of islands across the channel. There was no fear of
interruption; no callers to ring the bell and break in upon our
_tête-à-tête_. It was an understood thing that at present only Julia's
most intimate friends had been admitted into our new house, and then by
special invitation alone.
There was a very happy, very placid expression on her face. Every harsh
line seemed softened, and a pleased smile played about her lips. Her
dress was one of those simple, fresh, clean muslin gowns, with knots of
ribbon about it, which make a plain woman almost pretty, and a pretty
woman bewitching. Her dark hair looked less prim and neat than usual.
She pretended not to hear me open the door; but as I stood still at the
threshold gazing at her, she lifted up her head, with a very pleasant
smile.
"I am very glad you are come, my dear Martin," she said, softly.