“That is very clear,” I said, sullenly.

“Your mother would not survive it!” he continued, with a solemn accent.

“Oh!  I have been threatened with that already,” I exclaimed, very bitterly.  “Pray does my mother know of this disgraceful business?”

“Heaven forbid!” he cried.  “Your mother is a good woman, Martin; as simple as a dove.  You ought to think of her before you consign us all to shame.  I can quit Guernsey.  I am an old man, and it signifies very little where I lie down to die.  I have not been as good a husband as I might have been; but I could not face her after she knows this.  Poor Mary!  My poor, poor love!  I believe she cares enough for me still to break her heart over it.”

“Then I am to be your scape-goat,” I said.

“You are my son,” he answered; “and religion itself teaches us that the sins of the fathers are visited on the children.  I leave the matter in your hands.  But only answer one question:  Could you show your face among your own friends if this were known?”

I knew very well I could not.  My father a fraudulent steward of Julia’s property!  Then farewell forever to all that had made my life happy!  We were a proud family—­proud of our rank, and of our pure blood; above all, of our honor, which had never been tarnished by a breath.  I could not yet bear to believe that my father was a rogue.  He himself was not so lost to shame that he could meet my eye.  I saw there was no escape from it—­I must marry Julia.

“Well,” I said, at last, “as you say, the matter is in my hands now; and I must make the best of it.  Good-night, sir.”

Without a light I went up to my own room, where the moon that had shone upon me in my last night’s ride, was gleaming brightly through the window.  I intended to reflect and deliberate, but I was worn out.  I flung myself down on the bed, but could not have remained awake for a single moment.  I fell into a deep sleep which lasted till morning.

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH.

TWO LETTERS.

When I awoke, my poor mother was sitting beside me, looking very ill and sorrowful.  She had slipped a pillow under my head, and thrown a shawl across me.  I got up with a bewildered brain, and a general sense of calamity, which I could not clearly define.

“Martin,” she said, “your father has gone by this morning’s boat to Jersey.  He says you know why; but he has left this note for you.  Why have you not been in bed last night?”

“Never mind, mother,” I answered, as I tore open the note, which was carefully sealed with my father’s private seal.  He had written it immediately after I left him.

     “11.30 P.M.