"Have I treated you so?"
"Yes, Harry; you, you. How did you treat me when you took me in your arms and kissed me,—knowing, knowing that I was not to be your wife? O God, I have sinned. I have sinned, and I am punished."
"No, no," said he, rising from his knees, "it was not as you say."
"Then how was it, sir? Is it thus that you treat other women;—your friends, those to whom you declare friendship? What did you mean me to think?"
"That I loved you."
"Yes; with a love that should complete my disgrace,—that should finish my degradation. But I had not heard of this Florence Burton; and, Harry, that night I was so happy in my bed. And in that next week when you were down there for that sad ceremony, I was happy here, happy and proud. Yes, Harry, I was so proud when I thought that you still loved me,—loved me in spite of my past sin, that I almost forgot that I was polluted. You have made me remember it, and I shall not forget it again."
It would have been better for him had he gone away at once. Now he was sitting in a chair, sobbing violently, and pressing away the tears from his cheeks with his hands. How could he make her understand that he had intended no insult when he embraced her? Was it not incumbent on him to tell her that the wrong he then did was done to Florence Burton, and not to her? But his agony was too much for him at present, and he could find no words in which to speak to her.
"I said to myself that you would come when the funeral was over, and I wept for poor Hermy as I thought that my lot was so much happier than hers. But people have what they deserve, and Hermy, who has done no such wrong as I have done, is not crushed as I am crushed. It was just, Harry, that the punishment should come from you, but it has come very heavily."
"Julia, it was not meant to be so."
"Well; we will let that pass. I cannot unsay, Harry, all that I have said;—all that I did not say, but which you must have thought and known when you were here last. I cannot bid you believe that I do not—love you."