"MY SON: To-morrow morning, I shall run over to Jersey for a few days until this sad business of yours is settled. I cannot bear to meet your changed face. You make no allowances for your father. Half my expenses have been incurred in educating you; you ought to consider this, and that you owe more to me, as your father, than to any one else. But in these days parents receive little honor from their children. When all is settled, write to me at Prince's Hotel. It rests upon you whether I ever see Guernsey again. Your wretched father,
"RICHARD DOBRÉE."
"Can I see it?" asked my mother, holding out her hand.
"No, never mind seeing it," I answered, "it is about Julia, you know. It would only trouble you."
"Captain Carey's man brought a letter from Julia just now," she said, taking it from her pocket; "he said there was no answer."
Her eyelids were still red from weeping, and her voice faltered as if she might break out into sobs any moment. I took the letter from her, but I did not open it.
"You want to be alone to read it?" she said. "O Martin! if you can change your mind, and save us all from this trouble, do it, for my sake?"
"If I can I will," I answered; "but every thing is very hard upon me, mother."
She could not guess how hard, and, if I could help it, she should never know. Now I was fully awake, the enormity of my father's dishonesty and his extreme egotism weighed heavily upon me. I could not view his conduct in a fairer light than I had done in my amazement the night before. It grew blacker as I dwelt upon it. And now he was off to Jersey, shirking the disagreeable consequences of his own delinquency. I knew how he would spend his time there. Jersey is no retreat for the penitent.
As soon as my mother was gone I opened Julia's letter. It began: