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.