Manox. I have heard what you have said of me.”
He stammered, and I saw the look of hatred which he gave to Mary, and I knew then without a doubt that she had told the truth. My heart sank, and I felt wretched. The love I had imagined was a fantasy. It was not real love. What a fool I had been to indulge in childish dreams. I might have known that, if he had loved me, he would have had more care for me. He would never have spoken of me as he had to Mary Lassells. I was overcome by many emotions, but the greatest of these was a bitter humiliation.
I repeated to him what Mary had said, and I cried: “Will you tell me that you did not say those words?”
He wanted to deny them, but Mary burst in: “I have told you what he said, because I think you should know how he thinks of you.”
“It was a mistake,” was all Manox could say.
“I have only repeated what you said to me,” persisted Mary. “I warned you that you could be in trouble, and that was your reply.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” said Manox.
“You have said enough,” retorted Mary.
I added: “Yes, such words need no explanation. They are enough.”
And I turned and left him.
I had fallen out of love at that moment while he stood stammering there. I saw him for what he was—low-born and cunning, eager to rise in society through his musical talent. He was handsome in a way, with his dark curling hair and rather soulful eyes which could hide the calculation of his scheming mind. I had been so innocent, wanting to be liked, wanting to be as one of the others in the Long Room at night. I knew that now, for I had grown up a little in the last hours. What I wanted was to be loved. It was not love I was witnessing and sharing in the Long Room. It was a lustful playing at it.
I sent a note to Manox telling him not to come to the Long Room at nightfall.
A few days passed, then I received a note from him. He must see me. There was so much to explain. It had been a terrible misunderstanding.
I hesitated for a while and then I agreed to meet him at the spot where the Duchess’s garden adjoined that of Lord Beaumont.
He was there, looking unlike the man I had known; he was sad and solemn.
“Katherine, Katherine,” he cried, “my heart is broken.”
Oh yes. I had grown up. Previously I would have relented immediately, I should have wept with him and we would have resumed our old relationship. But, as I said, I was not so easily deceived now.
“I love you, Katherine,” he said. “With all my heart, I love you.”
“I believe that those who love do not speak of their loved one as you did of me.”
“I did not …” he began, but I cut him short.
“You could not deny it before Mary Lassells. You may do so now, but I do not believe you.”
“My passion for you transports all reason. I knew not what I said.”
“But, Henry Manox, I no longer believe you.”
“It is that sly creature,” he said angrily.
“She may be sly, and doubtless is, but she has revealed much to me which before I could not see. You cannot deny you said those words. I doubt not you could have done so if you had not been taken by surprise and confronted with her. I saw at once that she spoke the truth. It is over, Henry Manox.”
“Oh come, sweet Katherine. You have taken her words to heart. I tell you, I did not mean them. They were said in a moment when I knew she was trying to take you from me. Remember how you enjoyed our love play?”
“Love play!” I retorted. “It was a pretense of love. That is not for me, Henry Manox. I want no pretense.”
“If you but knew how restrained I have been. How careful of you. You are so young … so innocent.”
“And you feared my family’s wrath if they discovered.”
There was just a brief hesitation, and I knew I was right in that; and I knew without a doubt that I had fallen out of love with him forever. In fact, when I looked at him now, I wondered how I could ever have thought I had been in love at all.
I
He stammered, and I saw the look of hatred which he gave to Mary, and I knew then without a doubt that she had told the truth. My heart sank, and I felt wretched. The love I had imagined was a fantasy. It was not real love. What a fool I had been to indulge in childish dreams. I might have known that, if he had loved me, he would have had more care for me. He would never have spoken of me as he had to Mary Lassells. I was overcome by many emotions, but the greatest of these was a bitter humiliation.
I repeated to him what Mary had said, and I cried: “Will you tell me that you did not say those words?”
He wanted to deny them, but Mary burst in: “I have told you what he said, because I think you should know how he thinks of you.”
“It was a mistake,” was all Manox could say.
“I have only repeated what you said to me,” persisted Mary. “I warned you that you could be in trouble, and that was your reply.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” said Manox.
“You have said enough,” retorted Mary.
I added: “Yes, such words need no explanation. They are enough.”
And I turned and left him.
I had fallen out of love at that moment while he stood stammering there. I saw him for what he was—low-born and cunning, eager to rise in society through his musical talent. He was handsome in a way, with his dark curling hair and rather soulful eyes which could hide the calculation of his scheming mind. I had been so innocent, wanting to be liked, wanting to be as one of the others in the Long Room at night. I knew that now, for I had grown up a little in the last hours. What I wanted was to be loved. It was not love I was witnessing and sharing in the Long Room. It was a lustful playing at it.
I sent a note to Manox telling him not to come to the Long Room at nightfall.
A few days passed, then I received a note from him. He must see me. There was so much to explain. It had been a terrible misunderstanding.
I hesitated for a while and then I agreed to meet him at the spot where the Duchess’s garden adjoined that of Lord Beaumont.
He was there, looking unlike the man I had known; he was sad and solemn.
“Katherine, Katherine,” he cried, “my heart is broken.”
Oh yes. I had grown up. Previously I would have relented immediately, I should have wept with him and we would have resumed our old relationship. But, as I said, I was not so easily deceived now.
“I love you, Katherine,” he said. “With all my heart, I love you.”
“I believe that those who love do not speak of their loved one as you did of me.”
“I did not …” he began, but I cut him short.
“You could not deny it before Mary Lassells. You may do so now, but I do not believe you.”
“My passion for you transports all reason. I knew not what I said.”
“But, Henry Manox, I no longer believe you.”
“It is that sly creature,” he said angrily.
“She may be sly, and doubtless is, but she has revealed much to me which before I could not see. You cannot deny you said those words. I doubt not you could have done so if you had not been taken by surprise and confronted with her. I saw at once that she spoke the truth. It is over, Henry Manox.”
“Oh come, sweet Katherine. You have taken her words to heart. I tell you, I did not mean them. They were said in a moment when I knew she was trying to take you from me. Remember how you enjoyed our love play?”
“Love play!” I retorted. “It was a pretense of love. That is not for me, Henry Manox. I want no pretense.”
“If you but knew how restrained I have been. How careful of you. You are so young … so innocent.”
“And you feared my family’s wrath if they discovered.”
There was just a brief hesitation, and I knew I was right in that; and I knew without a doubt that I had fallen out of love with him forever. In fact, when I looked at him now, I wondered how I could ever have thought I had been in love at all.
I
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