He remembered how once, when he was quite a young fellow, he had been
somewhat smitten with a certain lady, who certainly, if he might judge
from her words and acts, reciprocated the sentiment. And he remembered
also, how when he met that lady some months afterwards she treated him
with a cold indifference, indeed almost with an insolence, that quite
bewildered him, making him wonder how the same person could show in
such different lights, till at length, mortified and ashamed by his
mistake, he had gone away in a rage and seen her face no more. Of
course he had set it down to female infidelity; he had served her turn,
she had made a fool of him, and that was all she wanted. Now he might
enjoy his humiliation. It did not occur to him that it might be simple
“cussedness,” to borrow an energetic American term, or that she had not
really changed, but was angry with him for some reason which she did
not choose to show. It is difficult to weigh the motives of women in
the scales of male experience, and many other men besides Geoffrey have
been forced to give up the attempt and to console themselves with the
reflection that the inexplicable is generally not worth understanding.
Yes, probably it would be the same case over again. And yet, and
yet—was Beatrice of that class? Had she not too much of a man’s
straightforwardness of aim to permit her to play such tricks? In the
bottom of his soul he thought that she had, but he would not admit it
to himself. The fact of the matter was that, half unknowingly, he was
trying to drug his conscience. He knew that in his longing to see her
dear face once more he had undertaken a dangerous thing. He was about
to walk with her over an abyss on a bridge which might bear them,
or—might break. So long as he walked there alone it would be well, but
would it bear them _both?_ Alas for the frailty of human nature, this
was the truth; but he would not and did not acknowledge it. He was not
going to make love to Beatrice, he was going to enjoy the pleasure of
her society. In friendship there could be no harm.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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