"Why do you treat me thus, Edward? Why do you neglect me as you
do--as if I were a stranger, or, at least, not a friend? What have
I done to merit this usage from one who---"
She did not finish the sentence, but her reproachful eyes, full
of a dewy suffusion that seemed very much like tears, appeared to
conclude it thus-"One who--used to love me!"
So different was this speech from any that I looked for--so different
from what the usage of our conventional world would have seemed
to justify--so strange for one so timid, so silent usually on the
subject of her own griefs, as Julia Clifford--that I was absolutely
confounded. Where had she got this courage? By what strong feeling
had it been stimulated? Had I been at that time as well acquainted
with the sex as I have grown since, I must have seen that nothing
but a deep interest in my conduct and regard, could possibly have
prompted the spirit of one so gentle and shrinking, to the utterance
of so searching an appeal. And in what way could I answer it?
How could I excuse myself? What say, to justify that cold, rude
indifference to a relative, and one who had ever been gentle and
kind and true to me. I had really nothing to complain of. The vexing
jealousies of my own suspicious heart had alone informed it to its
perversion; and there I stood--dumb, confused, stupid-speaking,
when I did speak, some incoherent, meaningless sentences, which
could no more have been understood by her than they can now be
remembered by me. I recovered myself, however, sufficiently soon
to say, before we were separated by the movements of the crowd:"I will come to you to-morrow, Julia. Will you suffer me to see
you in the morning, say at twelve?"
"Yes, come!" was all her answer; and the next moment the harsh
accents of her ever-watchful mother warned us to risk no more.