No More Learning

Several times I could not avoid meeting her alone; and on each
occasion her words were identically the same. Still the unreasoning wail
that it was all a "mistake"; and still the hope of eventually "making
friends. " I might have seen had I cared to look, that that hope only was
keeping her alive. She grew more wan and thin month by month. You will
agree with me, at least, that such conduct would have driven any one to
despair. It was uncalled for; childish; unwomanly. I maintain that she
was much to blame. And again, sometimes, in the black, fever-stricken
night-watches, I have begun to think that I might have been a little
kinder to her. But that really is a "delusion. " I could not have
continued pretending to love her when I didn't; could I? It would have
been unfair to us both.

Last year we met again--on the same terms as before. The same weary
appeal, and the same curt answers from my lips. At least I would make
her see how wholly wrong and hopeless were her attempts at resuming the
old relationship. As the season wore on, we fell apart--that is to say,
she found it difficult to meet me, for I had other and more absorbing
interests to attend to.
When I think it over quietly in my sick-room,
the season of 1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and shade
were fantastically intermingled--my courtship of little Kitty Mannering;
my hopes, doubts, and fears; our long rides together; my trembling
avowal of attachment; her reply; and now and again a vision of a white
face flitting by in the 'rickshaw with the black and white liveries
I once watched for so earnestly; the wave of Mrs. Wessington's gloved
hand; and, when she met me alone, which was but seldom, the irksome
monotony of her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering; honestly, heartily
loved her, and with my love for her grew my hatred for Agnes. In August
Kitty and I were engaged. The next day I met those accursed "magpie"
jhampanies at the back of Jakko, and, moved by some passing sentiment of
pity, stopped to tell Mrs. Wessington everything. She knew it already.

"So I hear you're engaged, Jack dear. " Then, without a moment's
pause--"I'm sure it's all a mistake--a hideous mistake. We shall be as
good friends some day, Jack, as we ever were. "

My answer might have made even a man wince. It cut the dying woman
before me like the blow of a whip. "Please forgive me, Jack; I didn't
mean to make you angry; but it's true, it's true! "

And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I turned away and left her to
finish her journey in peace, feeling, but only for a moment or two, that
I had been an unutterably mean hound.