Please
forgive me, Jack, dear."
I was the offender, and I knew it. That knowledge transformed my pity into
passive endurance, and, eventually, into blind hate--the same instinct, I
suppose, which prompts a man to savagely stamp on the spider he has but half
killed. And with this hate in my bosom the season of 1882 came to an end.
Next year we met again at Simla--she with her monotonous face and timid
attempts at reconciliation, and I with loathing of her in every fibre of my
frame. 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.
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