d
that a lengthy sea voyage was first of all absolutely necessary, and
that then a residence for a considerable time in a suitable climate
must be a condition of his life. If he did not do this he would die.

"You can see what this meant," continued the judge, for the first time
looking at Mary and Paul, "and his words almost staggered me. But this
was not all. He had promised to care for a widowed sister's child, a
girl who was at that time about eighteen years of age; promised her,
too, the protection which she had never known from her father. She was
called Mary Tregony, and, like the Bolithos, the Tregonys are among the
oldest families in England. Of course, I had known her all her life,
and in a way looked upon her as a sister."

"'You like Mary?' said my uncle to me.

"And I had to confess that I did, although I only thought of her as a
kind of sister.

"'Douglas, my boy,' he said, 'I want you to marry Mary; not yet, for
she has not yet left school, but in, say, two years' time, when I am
well enough to return to England; then I want you to make her your
wife.'"

"It was here," said the judge, "that my cowardice first appeared. I
ought to have told Mr. Bolitho that I was already married, and that I
had only left my wife early that morning, but I did not. There was no
excuse for me, I know; all the same, although I still loved you, Jean,
or thought I did, our marriage seemed shadowy, unreal. I forgot what I
owed you, forgot my duty to you.

"Mr. Bolitho, although he loved me dearly, was a man who was stern and
unbending, a man of iron will, a man always accustomed to have his way.
For years I had looked on him with a kind of awe, and had never once
dared to disobey him. His word had always been law to me, and even
although practically I had reached man's estate, the influence of the
past was strong upon me. I dared not tell him the truth, dared not say
that I could not do what he asked. I know I was a coward, worse than a
coward, but I was silent.

"Presently, however, I made a feeble sort of opposition. I demurred
against changing my name, for one thing, and I remember saying that I
had no reason to believe that Mary cared for me. But, in his strong,
imperious way, he swept down all my opposition. The influence of the
past was strong upon me, and I forgot my present duty. Besides, as I
said, he was adamant. He grew angry even at the little opposition I
offered, and told me that if I did no