away, and left my whole
future a blank. If Julia wished for revenge--and when is not revenge
sweet to a jilted woman?--she had it now. I was as crestfallen, as
amazed, almost as miserable, as she had been. Yet I had no one to blame,
as she had. How could I blame her for preferring Captain Carey's love to
my _rechauffe_ affections?

"Julia," I said, after a long silence, and speaking as calmly as I
could, "do you love Captain Carey?"

"That is not a fair question to ask," answered Johanna. "We have not
been treacherous to you. I scarcely know how it has all come about. But
my brother has never asked Julia if she loves him; for we wished to see
you first, and hear how you felt about Olivia. You say you shall never
love again as you love her. Set Julia free then, quite free, to accept
my brother or reject him. Be generous, be yourself, Martin."

"I will," I said.--"My dear Julia, you are as free as air from all
obligation to me. You have been very good and very true to me. If
Captain Carey is as good and true to you, as I believe he will be, you
will be a very happy woman--happier than you would ever be with me."

"And you will not make yourself unhappy about it?" asked Julia, looking
up.

"No," I answered, cheerfully, "I shall be a merry old bachelor, and
visit you and Captain Carey, when we are all old folks. Never mind me,
Julia; I never was good enough for you. I shall be very glad to know
that you are happy."

Yet when I found myself in the street--for I made my escape as soon as I
could get away from them--I felt as if every thing worth living for were
slipping away from me. My mother and Olivia were gone, and here was
Julia forsaking me. I did not grudge her her new happiness. There was
neither jealousy nor envy in my feelings toward my supplanter. But in
some way I felt that I had lost a great deal since I entered their
drawing-room two hours ago.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.

OLIVIA'S HUSBAND.

I did not go straight home to our dull, gloomy, bachelor dwelling-place;
for I was not in the mood for an hour's soliloquy. Jack and I had
undertaken between us the charge of the patients belonging to a friend
of ours, who had been called out of town for a few days. I was passing
by the house, chewing the bitter cud of my reflections, and, recalling
this, I turned in to see if any messages were waiting there for us.
Lowry's footman told me a person had been with an urgent request that he
would go as soon