"If we had only known it yesterday," she continued, "you would never
have heard what we then said. This makes so vast a difference. Julia
could not have become your wife while there was another woman living
whom you loved more. You understand her feeling?"
"Yes," I said; "Julia is right."
"My brother and I have been talking about the change this will make,"
she resumed. "He would not rob you of any consolation or of any future
happiness; not for worlds. He relinquishes all claim to or hope of
Julia's affection--"
"That would be unjust to Julia," I interrupted. "She must not be
sacrificed to me any longer. I do not suppose I shall ever marry--"
"You must marry, Martin," she interrupted in her turn, and speaking
emphatically; "you are altogether unfitted for a bachelor's life. It is
all very well for Dr. John Senior, who has never known a woman's
companionship, and who can do without it. But it is misery to you--this
cold, colorless life. No. Of all the men I ever knew, you are the least
fitted for a single life."
"Perhaps I am," I admitted, as I recalled my longing for some sign of
womanhood about our bachelor dwelling.
"I am certain of it," she said. "Now, but for our precipitation last
night, you would have gone naturally to Julia for comfort. So my brother
sends word that he is going back to Guernsey to-night, leaving us in
Hanover Street, where we are close to you. We have said nothing to Julia
yet. She is crying over this sad news--mourning for your sorrow. You
know that my brother has not spoken directly to Julia of his love; and
now all that is in the past, and is to be as if it had never been, and
we go on exactly as if we had not had that conversation yesterday."
"But that cannot be," I remonstrated. "I cannot consent to Julia wasting
her love and time upon me. I assure you most solemnly I shall never
marry my cousin now."
"You love her?" said Johanna.
"Certainly," I answered, "as my sister."
"Better than any woman now living?" she pursued.
"Yes," I replied.
"That is all Julia requires," she continued; "so let us say no more at
present, Martin. Only understand that all idea of marriage between her
and my brother is quite put away. Don't argue with me, don't contradict
me. Come to see us as you would have done but for that unfortunate
conversation last night. All will come right by-and-by."
"But Captain Carey--" I began.
"There! not a word!" she interrupted imperatively. "Tell me all about
that wretch, Richard Foster. How did you come across him? Is he likely
to die? Is he any thing like Kate Daltrey?--I will never call her Kate
Dobrée as long as the world lasts. Come, Martin, tell me every thing
about him."
She sat with me most of the morning, talking with animated perseverance,
and at last prevailed upon me to take her a walk in Hyde Park. Her
pertinacity did me good in spite of the irritation it caused me. When
her dinner-hour was at hand I felt bound to attend her to her house in
Hanover Street; and I could not get away from her without first speaking
to Julia. Her face was very sorrowful, and her manner sympathetic. We
said only a few words to one another, but I went away with the
impression that her heart was still with me.