“Take care of mam’zelle,” I said, when we had reached the top of the ladder, and the little boat from the yacht was dancing at the foot of it.  “There is some danger ahead, and you can protect her better than I.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied; “you may trust her with me.  But God knows I should have been glad if it had gone well with you.”

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST.

A STORY IN DETAIL.

“Well?” said Captain Carey, as I set my foot on the deck.  His face was all excitement; and he put his arm affectionately through mine.

“It is all wrong,” I answered, gloomily.

“You don’t mean that she will not have you?” he exclaimed.

I nodded, for I had no spirit to explain the matter just then.

“By George!” he cried; “and you’ve thrown over Julia, and offended all our Guernsey folks, and half broken your poor mother’s heart, all for nothing!”

The last consideration was the one that stung me to the quick.  It had half broken my mother’s heart.  No one knew better than I that it had without doubt tended to shorten her fleeting term of life.  At this moment she was waiting for me to bring her good news—­perhaps the promise that Olivia had consented to become my wife before her own last hour arrived; for my mother and I had even talked of that.  I had thought it a romantic scheme when my mother spoke of it, but my passion had fastened eagerly upon it, in spite of my better judgment.  These were the tidings she was waiting to hear from my lips.

When I reached home I found her full of dangerous excitement.  It was impossible to allay it without telling her either an untruth or the whole story.  I could not deceive her, and with a desperate calmness I related the history of the day.  I tried to make light of my disappointment, but she broke down into tears and wailings.

“Oh, my boy!” she lamented; “and I did so want to see you happy before I died:  I wanted to leave some one who could comfort you; and Olivia would have comforted you and loved you when I am gone!  You had set your heart upon her.  Are you sure it is true?  My poor, poor Martin, you must forget her now.  It becomes a sin for you to love her.”

“I cannot forget her,” I said; “I cannot cease to love her.  There can be no sin in it as long as I think of her as I do now.”

“And there is poor Julia!” moaned my mother.

Yes, there was Julia; and she would have to be told all, though she would rejoice over it.  Of course, she would rejoice; it was not in human nature, at least in Julia’s human nature, to do otherwise.  She had warned me against Olivia; had only set me free reluctantly.  But how was I to tell her?  I must not leave to my mother the agitation of imparting such tidings.  I couldn’t think of deputing the task to my father.  There was no one to do it but myself.