t care enough for him to do what
he asked, I must look to myself for my future. And I was penniless,
dependent upon him for every farthing. I had no means of earning a
living. It is true I had taken a degree at Oxford, but I had no
knowledge of any trade, no early prospect of earning money in a
profession. What could I do? Besides, I was a coward. No one can
scorn that cowardice more than I, but there it was. He appealed to my
pity, too. He told me that if I did not go with him abroad he would
have to go alone, a sick man among strangers. I soon found out, too,
that even my belief in my own property was largely a figment of my own
imagination. It is true some little money had been left to me, and had
been lost in the way I have indicated, but without him I could never
have gone to Oxford, without him I should have been practically a waif.
Besides, he was a man of strong personality, and, as I said, of iron
will."

The judge made a movement as if of impatience. "What is the use of
enlarging upon all this?" he went on presently. "I promised to do what
he asked, promised to change my name. That was not much. I knew
little and cared less about my father, but my mother was a Bolitho, and
I almost adored her memory. I was willing to be called Bolitho instead
of Graham. That cost me very little. As to the other, the thought of
travelling for two years appealed to me. It is true I was fond of my
studies, but I reflected that I could take my books with me, and
although it might delay my being called to the Bar by some year or
two--I was young, and it did not matter; and so, God forgive me, I
forgot the vows I made, forgot my honour. I was a coward! Added to
all this, the marriage on the moors became less and less reality.
Indeed, after I had been in Cornwall two or three days, it seemed
little more than a joke, an episode in a boy's life. I was forgetful
of what the consequences of such a deed might be, and I began to look
forward to coming days. Presently I wrote that letter. No wonder you
could not forgive me. No wonder Paul hated me for it. But there, I
wrote it! One thing, and one thing only may be urged in my favour.
Although I seemingly consented to the marriage with Mary Tregony, I
hoped that something would happen to make it impossible. It all lay in
the distance, and that made everything easy to an optimistic youth. I
never breathed a word concerning my marriage with Jean. Indeed, I came
to