“Pray, may I be informed as to what is the matter now?” broke in a satirical, cutting voice—­the voice of my father.  It roused us both—­my mother to her usual mood of gentle submission, and me to the chronic state of irritation which his presence always provoked in me.

“Not much, sir,” I answered, coldly; “only my marriage with my cousin Julia is broken off.”

“Broken off!” he ejaculated—­“broken off!”

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH.

THE DOBREES’ GOOD NAME.

My father’s florid face looked almost as rigid and white as my mother’s had done.  He stood in the doorway, with a lamp in his hand (for it had grown quite dark while my mother and I were talking), and the light shone full upon his changed face.  His hand shook violently, so I took the lamp from him and set it down on the table.

“Go down to Mrs. Murray,” he said, turning savagely upon my mother.  “How could you be so rude as to leave her?  She talks of going away.  Let her go as soon as she likes.  I shall stay here with Martin.”

“I did not know I had been away so long,” she answered, meekly, and looking deprecatingly from the one to the other of us.—­“You will not quarrel with your father, Martin, if I leave you, will you?” This she whispered in my ear, in a beseeching tone.

“Not if I can help it, mother,” I replied, also in a whisper.

“Now, confound it!” cried Dr. Dobree, after she had gone, slowly and reluctantly, and looking back at the door to me—­“now just tell me shortly all about this nonsense of yours.  I thought some quarrel was up, when Julia did not come home to dinner.  Out with it, Martin.”

“As I said before, there is not much to tell,” I answered.  “I was compelled in honor to tell Julia I loved another woman more than herself; and I presume, though I am not sure, she will decline to become my wife.”

“In love with another woman!” repeated my father, with a long whistle, partly of sympathy, and partly of perplexity.  “Who is it, my son?”

“That is of little moment,” I said, having no desire whatever to confide the story to him.  “The main point is that it’s true, and I told Julia so, this afternoon.”

“Good gracious, Martin!” he cried, “what accursed folly!  What need was there to tell her of any little peccadillo, if you could conceal it?  Why did you not come to me for advice?  Julia is a prude, like your mother.  It will not be easy for her to overlook this.”

“There is nothing to overlook,” I said.  “As soon as I knew my own mind, I told her honestly about it.”

At that moment it did not occur to me that my honesty was due to Johanna’s insistent advice.  I believed just then that I had acted from the impulse of my own sense of honor, and the belief gave my words and tone more spirit than they would have had otherwise.  My father’s face grew paler and graver as he listened; he looked older, by ten years, than he had done an hour ago in the dining-room.