Short stories; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
But withal he was a conscientious, kind-hearted young fellow enough,
and had suffered occasional qualms of conscience when little words or
incidents had impressed him with the knowledge that Annie's love for him
was a more serious matter than his for her. He felt that by insisting on
exchanging the pure gold of her earnest affection for the pinchbeck of
his passing fancy, she was making a rogue of him. He should be in no
position to marry for years, nor did he want to; and if he had wanted
to, though he felt terribly hard-hearted when he owned it to himself,
his feeling toward Annie was not quite so deep as to be a real wish
to marry her. As his last year in college approached its end, he had
thought more and more of these things, and had returned from his last
vacation determined to begin to draw gradually away from her, and
without any shock to bring their relations back to the footing of
friendship. The idea seemed a very plausible one, but it is scarcely
necessary to state that, living in the same house, and frequently alone
with her, it took about a week and a few dozen reproachful glances from
grieving eyes to melt this artificial ice with a freshet of affection,
and when, a couple of months later, he calmly reviewed the situation, he
found himself involved perceptibly deeper than ever, on account of the
attempt at extrication.
Only two or three weeks of the term remained, and it was too late to
repeat the unsuccessful experiment. He had tried his best and failed,
and nothing remained but to be as happy as possible with her in the
short time left. Then she must get over her disappointment as other
girls did in like cases. No doubt some woman would hurt his feelings
some day, and so make it square. He took much satisfaction in this
reflection. But such cynical philosophy did not lull his conscience,
which alternately inspired his manner with an unwonted demonstrativeness
and tenderness, and again made him so uncomfortable in her presence
that he was fain to tear himself away and escape from her sight on any
pretext. Her tender glances and confiding manner made him feel like a
brute, and when he kissed her he felt that it was the kiss of a Judas.
Such had been his feelings this evening, and such were the reflections
tersely summed up in that ejaculation,--“George Hunt, you 're an
infernal scamp!” On arriving at Sturgis's room, he found it full of
tobacco smoke, and the usual crowd there, who hailed him vociferously.
For he was one of the most popular men in college, although for a year
or so he had been living outside the buildings. Several bottles stood on
the tables, but the fellows had as yet arrived only at the argumentative
stage of exhilaration, and it so happened that the subject under
discussion at once took Hunt's close attention. Mathewson had been
reading the first volume of Goethe's autobiography, and was indulging in
some strictures on his course in jilting Frederica and leaving the poor
girl heartbroken.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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