“And how did you show it?” He did not speak these words, because he would not triumph over her, nor was he willing to express that regret on his own part which these words would have implied;—but it was impossible for him to avoid a thought of them. He remained silent, therefore, taking up some toy from the table into his hands, as though that would occupy his attention.
“But what a fool I am to talk of it;—am I not? And I am worse than a fool. I was thinking of you when I stood up in church to be married;—thinking of that offer of your little savings. I used to think of you at every harsh word that I endured;—of your modes of life when I sat through those terrible nights by that poor creature’s bed;—of you when I knew that the last day was coming. I thought of you always, Harry, when I counted up my gains. I never count them up now. Ah, how I thought of you when I came to this house in the carriage which you had provided for me, when I had left you at the station almost without speaking a word to you! I should have been more gracious had I not had you in my thoughts throughout my whole journey home from Florence. And after that I had some comfort in believing that the price of my shame might make you rich without shame. Oh, Harry, I have been disappointed! You will never understand what I felt when first that evil woman told me of Miss Burton.”
“Oh, Julia, what am I to say?”
“You can say nothing; but I wonder that you had not told me.”
“How could I tell you? Would it not have seemed that I was vain enough to have thought of putting you on your guard?”
“And why not? But never mind. Do not suppose that I am rebuking you. As I said in my letter, we are quits now, and there is no place for scolding on either side. We are quits now; but I am punished and you are rewarded.”
Of course he could not answer this. Of course he was hard pressed for words. Of course he could neither acknowledge that he had been rewarded, nor assert that a share of the punishment of which she spoke had fallen upon him also. This was the revenge with which she had intended to attack him. That she should think that he had in truth been punished and not rewarded, was very natural. Had he been less quick in forgetting her after her marriage, he would have had his reward without any punishment. If such were her thoughts, who shall quarrel with her on that account?
“I have been very frank with you,” she continued. “Indeed, why should I not be so? People talk of a lady’s secret, but my secret has been no secret from you? That I was made to tell it under—under—what I will call an error—was your fault; and it is that that has made us quits.”
“I know that I have behaved badly to you.”
“But then unfortunately you know also that I had deserved bad treatment. Well; we will say no more about it. I have been very candid with you, but then I have injured no one by my candour. You have not said a word to me in reply; but then your tongue is tied by your duty to Miss Burton—your duty and your love together, of course. It is all as it should be, and now I will have done. When are you to be married, Harry?”
“No time has been fixed. I am a very poor man, you know.”
“Alas, alas—yes. When mischief is done, how badly all the things turn out. You are poor and I am rich, and yet we cannot help each other.”
“I fear not.”
“Unless I could adopt Miss Burton, and be a sort of mother to her. You would shrink, however, from any such guardianship on my part. But you are clever, Harry, and can work when you please, and will make your way. If Miss Burton keeps you waiting now by any prudent fear on her part, I shall not think so well of her as I am inclined to do.”
“The Burtons are all prudent people.”
“Tell her, from me, with my love—not to be too prudent. I thought to be prudent, and see what has come of it.”
“I will tell her what you say.”
“Do, please; and, Harry, look here. Will she accept a little present from me? You, at any rate, for my sake, will ask her to do so. Give her this—it is only a trifle,”—and she put her hand on a small jeweller’s box, which was close to her arm upon the table, “and tell her—of course she knows all our story, Harry?”
“Yes; she knows it all.”
“Tell her that she whom you have rejected sends it with her kindest wishes to her whom you have taken.”
“No; I will not tell her that.”
“Why not? It is all true. I have not poisoned the little ring, as the ladies would have done some centuries since. They were grander then than we are now, and perhaps hardly worse, though more cruel. You will bid her take it—will you not?”
“I am sure she will take it without bidding on my part.”
“And tell her not to write me any thanks. She and I will both understand that that had better be omitted. If, when I shall see her at some future time as your wife, it shall be on her finger, I shall know that I am thanked.” Then Harry rose to go. “I did not mean by that to turn you out, but perhaps it may be as well. I have no more to say—and as for you, you cannot but wish that the penance should be over.” Then he pressed her
