From the first day of our ill-omened attachment, I was
conscious that Agnes's passion was a stronger, a more dominant, and--if I may
use the expression--a purer sentiment than mine. Whether she recognized the
fact then, I do not know. Afterward it was bitterly plain to both of us.
Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we went our respective ways, to
meet no more for the next three or four months, when my leave and her love
took us both to Simla. There we spent the season together; and there my fire
of straw burned itself out to a pitiful end with the closing year. I attempt
no excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. Wessington had given up much for my sake,
and was prepared to give up all. From my own lips, in August, 1882, she
learned that I was sick of her presence, tired of her company, and weary of
the sound of her voice. Ninety-nine women out of a hundred would have wearied
of me as I wearied of them; seventy-five of that number would have promptly
avenged themselves by active and obtrusive flirtation with other men. Mrs.
Wessington was the hundredth. On her neither my openly expressed aversion nor
the cutting brutalities with which I garnished our interviews had the least
effect. "Jack, darling!" was her one eternal cuckoo cry: "I'm sure it's all a
mistake--a hideous mistake; and we'll be good friends again some day.
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