“Martin,” answered Johanna, determinedly, “if you do not tell Julia I must tell her myself.  You say you love this other girl with all your heart and soul.”

“Yes, and that is true,” I said.

“Then Julia must know before she marries you.”

Nothing could move Johanna from that position, and in my heart I recognized its righteousness.  She argued with me that it was Julia’s due to hear it from myself.  I knew afterward that she believed the sight of her distress and firm love for myself would dissipate the infatuation of my love for Olivia.  But she did not read Julia’s character as well as my mother did.

Before she let me leave her I had promised to have my confession and subsequent explanation with Julia all over the following day; and to make this the more inevitable, she told me she should drive into St. Peter-Port the next afternoon about five o’clock, when she should expect to find this troublesome matter settled, either by a renewal of my affection for my betrothed, or the suspension of the betrothal.  In the latter case she promised to carry Julia home with her until the first bitterness was over.

CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH.

A MIDNIGHT RIDE.

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?”