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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/9298-0.txt b/9298-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e122737 --- /dev/null +++ b/9298-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3324 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Life and Death of Harriett Frean, by May Sinclair + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Life and Death of Harriett Frean + +Author: May Sinclair + +Release Date: September 18, 2003 [eBook #9298] +[Most recently updated: January 19, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Suzanne Shell, Richard Prairie, David Widger and PG Distributed Proofreaders + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND DEATH OF HARRIETT FREAN *** + + + + +LIFE AND DEATH OF HARRIETT FREAN + +1922 + +By May Sinclair + + + + +I + + + “Pussycat, Pussycat, where have you been?” + “I’ve been to London, to see the Queen.” + “Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there?” + “I caught a little mouse under the chair,” + +Her mother said it three times. And each time the Baby Harriett laughed. +The sound of her laugh was so funny that she laughed again at that; she +kept on laughing, with shriller and shriller squeals. + +“I wonder why she thinks it’s funny,” her mother said. + +Her father considered it. “I don’t know. The cat perhaps. The cat and +the Queen. But no; that isn’t funny.” + +“She sees something in it we don’t see, bless her,” said her mother. + +Each kissed her in turn, and the Baby Harriett stopped laughing +suddenly. + +“Mamma, _did_ Pussycat see the Queen?” + +“No,” said Mamma. “Just when the Queen was passing the little mouse came +out of its hole and ran under the chair. That’s what Pussycat saw.” + +Every evening before bedtime she said the same rhyme, and Harriett asked +the same question. + +When Nurse had gone she would lie still in her cot, waiting. The door +would open, the big pointed shadow would move over the ceiling, the +lattice shadow of the fireguard would fade and go away, and Mamma would +come in carrying the lighted candle. Her face shone white between her +long, hanging curls. She would stoop over the cot and lift Harriett up, +and her face would be hidden in curls. That was the kiss-me-to-sleep +kiss. And when she had gone Harriett lay still again, waiting. Presently +Papa would come in, large and dark in the firelight. He stooped and she +leapt up into his arms. That was the kiss-me-awake kiss; it was their +secret. + +Then they played. Papa was the Pussycat and she was the little mouse in +her hole under the bed-clothes. They played till Papa said, “_No_ more!” + and tucked the blankets tight in. + +“Now you’re kissing like Mamma----” + +Hours afterwards they would come again together and stoop over the cot +and she wouldn’t see them; they would kiss her with soft, light kisses, +and she wouldn’t know. + +She thought: To-night I’ll stay awake and see them. But she never did. +Only once she dreamed that she heard footsteps and saw the lighted +candle, going out of the room; going, going away. + +The blue egg stood on the marble top of the cabinet where you could see +it from everywhere; it was supported by a gold waistband, by gold hoops +and gold legs, and it wore a gold ball with a frill round it like a +crown. You would never have guessed what was inside it. You touched a +spring in its waistband and it flew open, and then it was a workbox. +Gold scissors and thimble and stiletto sitting up in holes cut in white +velvet. + +The blue egg was the first thing she thought of when she came into the +room. There was nothing like that in Connie Hancock’s Papa’s house. It +belonged to Mamma. + +Harriett thought: If only she could have a birthday and wake up and find +that the blue egg belonged to _her_---- + +Ida, the wax doll, sat on the drawing-room sofa, dressed ready for the +birthday. The darling had real person’s eyes made of glass, and real +eyelashes and hair. Little finger and toenails were marked in the wax, +and she smelt of the lavender her clothes were laid in. + +But Emily, the new birthday doll, smelt of composition and of gum and +hay; she had flat, painted hair and eyes, and a foolish look on her +face, like Nurse’s aunt, Mrs. Spinker, when she said “Lawk-a-daisy!” + Although Papa had given her Emily, she could never feel for her the +real, loving love she felt for Ida. + +And her mother had told her that she must lend Ida to Connie Hancock if +Connie wanted her. + +Mamma couldn’t see that such a thing was not possible. + +“My darling, you mustn’t be selfish. You must do what your little guest +wants.” + +“I can’t.” + +But she had to; and she was sent out of the room because she cried. It +was much nicer upstairs in the nursery with Mimi, the Angora cat. Mimi +knew that something sorrowful had happened. He sat still, just lifting +the root of his tail as you stroked him. If only she could have stayed +there with Mimi; but in the end she had to go back to the drawing-room. + +If only she could have told Mamma what it felt like to see Connie with +Ida in her arms, squeezing her tight to her chest and patting her as +if Ida had been _her_ child. She kept on saying to herself that Mamma +didn’t know; she didn’t know what she had done. And when it was all over +she took the wax doll and put her in the long narrow box she had come +in, and buried her in the bottom drawer in the spare-room wardrobe. She +thought: If I can’t have her to myself I won’t have her at all. I’ve got +Emily. I shall just have to pretend she’s not an idiot. + +She pretended Ida was dead; lying in her pasteboard coffin and buried in +the wardrobe cemetery. + +It was hard work pretending that Emily didn’t look like Mrs. Spinker. + + + + +II + + +She had a belief that her father’s house was nicer than other people’s +houses. It stood off from the high road, in Black’s Lane, at the head +of the town. You came to it by a row of tall elms standing up along Mr. +Hancock’s wall. Behind the last tree its slender white end went straight +up from the pavement, hanging out a green balcony like a bird cage above +the green door. + +The lane turned sharp there and went on, and the long brown garden wall +went with it. Behind the wall the lawn flowed down from the white house +and the green veranda to the cedar tree at the bottom. Beyond the lawn +was the kitchen garden, and beyond the kitchen garden the orchard; +little crippled apple trees bending down in the long grass. + +She was glad to come back to the house after the walk with Eliza, the +nurse, or Annie, the housemaid; to go through all the rooms looking for +Mimi; looking for Mamma, telling her what had happened. + +“Mamma, the red-haired woman in the sweetie shop has got a little baby, +and its hair’s red, too.... Some day I shall have a little baby. I shall +dress him in a long gown-----” + +“Robe.” + +“Robe, with bands of lace all down it, as long as _that_; and a white +christening cloak sewn with white roses. Won’t he look sweet?” + +“Very sweet.” + +“He shall have lots of hair. I shan’t love him if he hasn’t.” + +“Oh, yes, you will.” + +“No. He must have thick, flossy hair like Mimi, so that I can stroke +him. Which would you rather have, a little girl or a little boy?” + +“Well--what do you think----?” + +“I think--perhaps I’d rather have a little girl.” + +She would be like Mamma, and her little girl would be like herself. She +couldn’t think of it any other way. + + +The school-treat was held in Mr. Hancock’s field. All afternoon she had +been with the children, playing Oranges and lemons, A ring, a ring of +roses, and Here we come gathering nuts in May, _nuts_ in May, _nuts_ in +May: over and over again. And she had helped her mother to hand cake and +buns at the infants’ table. + +The guest-children’s tea was served last of all, up on the lawn under +the immense, brown brick, many windowed house. There wasn’t room for +everybody at the table, so the girls sat down first and the boys waited +for their turn. Some of them were pushing and snatching. + +She knew what she would have. She would begin with a bun, and go on +through two sorts of jam to Madeira cake, and end with raspberries and +cream. Or perhaps it would be safer to begin with raspberries and cream. +She kept her face very still, so as not to look greedy, and tried not to +stare at the Madeira cake lest people should see she was thinking of it. +Mrs. Hancock had given her somebody else’s crumby plate. She thought: +I’m not greedy. I’m really and truly hungry. She could draw herself +in at the waist with a flat, exhausted feeling, like the two ends of a +concertina coming together. + +She was doing this when she saw her mother standing on the other side of +the table, looking at her and making signs. + +“If you’ve finished, Hatty, you’d better get up and let that little boy +have something.” + +They were all turning round and looking at her. And there was the crumby +plate before her. They were thinking: “That greedy little girl has +gone on and on eating.” She got up suddenly, not speaking, and left the +table, the Madeira cake and the raspberries and cream. She could feel +her skin all hot and wet with shame. + +And now she was sitting up in the drawing-room at home. Her mother had +brought her a piece of seed-cake and a cup of milk with the cream on it. +Mamma’s soft eyes kissed her as they watched her eating her cake with +short crumbly bites, like a little cat. Mamma’s eyes made her feel so +good, so good. + +“Why didn’t you tell me you hadn’t finished?” + +“Finished? I hadn’t even begun.” + +“Oh-h, darling, why didn’t you _tell_ me?” + +“Because I--I don’t know.” + +“Well, I’m glad my little girl didn’t snatch and push. It’s better to go +without than to take from other people. That’s ugly.” + +Ugly. Being naughty was just that. Doing ugly things. Being good was +being beautiful like Mamma. She wanted to be like her mother. Sitting up +there and being good felt delicious. And the smooth cream with the milk +running under it, thin and cold, was delicious too. + +Suddenly a thought came rushing at her. There was God and there was +Jesus. But even God and Jesus were not more beautiful than Mamma. They +couldn’t be. + +“You mustn’t say things like that, Hatty; you mustn’t, really. It might +make something happen.” + +“Oh, no, it won’t. You don’t suppose they’re listening all the time.” + +Saying things like that made you feel good and at the same time naughty, +which was more exciting than only being one or the other. But Mamma’s +frightened face spoiled it. What did she think--what did she think God +would do? + +Red campion---- + +At the bottom of the orchard a door in the wall opened into Black’s +Lane, below the three tall elms. + +She couldn’t believe she was really walking there by herself. It had +come all of a sudden, the thought that she _must_ do it, that she _must_ +go out into the lane; and when she found the door unlatched, something +seemed to take hold of her and push her out. She was forbidden to go +into Black’s Lane; she was not even allowed to walk there with Annie. + +She kept on saying to herself: “I’m in the lane. I’m in the lane. I’m +disobeying Mamma.” + +Nothing could undo that. She had disobeyed by just standing outside the +orchard door. Disobedience was such a big and awful thing that it was +waste not to do something big and awful with it. So she went on, up and +up, past the three tall elms. She was a big girl, wearing black silk +aprons and learning French. Walking by herself. When she arched her back +and stuck her stomach out she felt like a tall lady in a crinoline and +shawl. She swung her hips and made her skirts fly out. That was her +grown-up crinoline, swing-swinging as she went. + +At the turn the cow’s parsley and rose campion began; on each side a +long trail of white froth with the red tops of the campion pricking +through. She made herself a nosegay. + +Past the second turn you came to the waste ground covered with old boots +and rusted, crumpled tins. The little dirty brown house stood there +behind the rickety blue palings; narrow, like the piece of a house that +has been cut in two. It hid, stooping under the ivy bush on its roof. It +was not like the houses people live in; there was something queer, some +secret, frightening thing about it. + +The man came out and went to the gate and stood there. _He_ was the +frightening thing. When he saw her he stepped back and crouched behind +the palings, ready to jump out. + +She turned slowly, as if she had thought of something. She mustn’t run. +She must _not_ run. If she ran he would come after her. + +Her mother was coming down the garden walk, tall and beautiful in her +silver-gray gown with the bands of black velvet on the flounces and the +sleeves; her wide, hooped skirts swung, brushing the flower borders. + +She ran up to her, crying, “Mamma, I went up the lane where you told me +not to.” + +“No, Hatty, no; you didn’t.” + +You could see she wasn’t angry. She was frightened. + +“I did. I did.” + +Her mother took the bunch of flowers out of her hand and looked at it. +“Yes,” she said, “that’s where the dark-red campion grows.” + +She was holding the flowers up to her face. It was awful, for you could +see her mouth thicken and redden over its edges and shake. She hid it +behind the flowers. And somehow you knew it wasn’t your naughtiness that +made her cry. There was something more. + +She was saying in a thick, soft voice, “It was wrong of you, my +darling.” + +Suddenly she bent her tall straightness. “Rose campion,” she said, +parting the stems with her long, thin fingers. “Look, Hatty, how +_beautiful_ they are. Run away and put the poor things in water.” + +She was so quiet, so quiet, and her quietness hurt far more than if she +had been angry. + +She must have gone straight back into the house to Papa. Harriett knew, +because he sent for her. He was quiet, too.... That was the little, +hiding voice he told you secrets in.... She stood close up to him, +between his knees, and his arm went loosely round her to keep her there +while he looked into her eyes. You could smell tobacco, and the queer, +clean man’s smell that came up out of him from his collar. He wasn’t +smiling; but somehow his eyes looked kinder than if they had smiled. + +“Why did you do it, Hatty?” + +“Because--I wanted to see what it would feel like.” + +“You mustn’t do it again. Do you hear?--you mustn’t do it.” + +“Why?” + +“Why? Because it makes your mother unhappy. That’s enough why.” + +But there was something more. Mamma had been frightened. Something to do +with the frightening man in the lane. + +“Why does it make her?” + +She knew; she knew; but she wanted to see what he would say. + +“I said that was enough.... Do you know what you’ve been guilty of?” + +“Disobedience.” + +“More than that. Breaking trust. Meanness. It was mean and dishonorable +of you when you knew you wouldn’t be punished.” + +“Isn’t there to be a punishment?” + +“No. People are punished to make them remember. We want you to forget.” + His arm tightened, drawing her closer. And the kind, secret voice went +on. “Forget ugly things. Understand, Hatty, nothing is forbidden. +We don’t forbid, because we trust you to do what we wish. To behave +beautifully.... There, there.” + +She hid her face on his breast against his tickly coat, and cried. + +She would always have to do what they wanted; the unhappiness of not +doing it was more than she could bear. All very well to say there would +be no punishment; _their_ unhappiness was the punishment. + +It hurt more than anything. It kept on hurting when she thought about +it. + +The first minute of to-morrow she would begin behaving beautifully; as +beautifully as she could. They wanted you to; they wanted it more than +anything because they were so beautiful. So good. So wise. + +But three years went before Harriett understood how wise they had been, +and why her mother took her again and again into Black’s Lane to pick +red campion, so that it was always the red campion she remembered. They +must have known all the time about Black’s Lane; Annie, the housemaid, +used to say it was a bad place; something had happened to a little girl +there. Annie hushed and reddened and wouldn’t tell you what it was. +Then one day, when she was thirteen, standing by the apple tree, Connie +Hancock told her. A secret... Behind the dirty blue palings... She shut +her eyes, squeezing the lids down, frightened. But when she thought of +the lane she could see nothing but the green banks, the three tall +elms, and the red campion pricking through the white froth of the cow’s +parsley; her mother stood on the garden walk in her wide, swinging gown; +she was holding the red and white flowers up to her face and saying, +“Look, how _beautiful_ they are.” + +She saw her all the time while Connie was telling her the secret. She +wanted to get up and go to her. Connie knew what it meant when you +stiffened suddenly and made yourself tall and cold and silent. The +cold silence would frighten her and she would go away. Then, Harriett +thought, she could get back to her mother and Longfellow. + +Every afternoon, through the hours before her father came home, she sat +in the cool, green-lighted drawing-room reading _Evangeline_ aloud to +her mother. When they came to the beautiful places they looked at each +other and smiled. + +She passed through her fourteenth year sedately, to the sound of +_Evangeline_. Her upright body, her lifted, delicately obstinate, rather +wistful face expressed her small, conscious determination to be good. +She was silent with emotion when Mrs. Hancock told her she was growing +like her mother. + + + + +III + + +Connie Hancock was her friend. + +She had once been a slender, wide-mouthed child, top-heavy with her damp +clumps of hair. Now she was squaring and thickening and looking horrid, +like Mr. Hancock. Beside her Harriett felt tall and elegant and slender. + +Mamma didn’t know what Connie was really like; it was one of those +things you couldn’t tell her. She said Connie would grow out of it. +Meanwhile you could see _he_ wouldn’t. Mr. Hancock had red whiskers, and +his face squatted down in his collar, instead of rising nobly up out +of it like Papa’s. It looked as if it was thinking things that made its +eyes bulge and its mouth curl over and slide like a drawn loop. When you +talked about Mr. Hancock, Papa gave a funny laugh as if he was something +improper. He said Connie ought to have red whiskers. + +Mrs. Hancock, Connie’s mother, was Mamma’s dearest friend. That was +why there had always been Connie. She could remember her, squirming and +spluttering in her high nursery chair. And there had always been Mrs. +Hancock, refined and mournful, looking at you with gentle, disappointed +eyes. + +She was glad that Connie hadn’t been sent to her boarding-school, so +that nothing could come between her and Priscilla Heaven. + + +Priscilla was her real friend. + +It had begun in her third term, when Priscilla first came to the school, +unhappy and shy, afraid of the new faces. Harriett took her to her room. + +She was thin, thin, in her shabby black velvet jacket. She stood looking +at herself in the greenish glass over the yellow-painted chest of +drawers. Her heavy black hair had dragged the net and broken it. She put +up her thin arms, helpless. + +“They’ll never keep me,” she said. “I’m so untidy.” + +“It wants more pins,” said Harriett. “Ever so many more pins. If you put +them in head downwards they’ll fall out. I’ll show you.” + +Priscilla trembled with joy when Harriett asked her to walk with her; +she had been afraid of her at first because she behaved so beautifully. + +Soon they were always together. They sat side by side at the dinner +table and in school, black head and golden brown leaning to each other +over the same book; they walked side by side in the packed procession, +going two by two. They slept in the same room, the two white beds drawn +close together; a white dimity curtain hung between; they drew it back +so that they could see each other lying there in the summer dusk and in +the clear mornings when they waked. + +Harriett loved Priscilla’s odd, dusk-white face; her long hound’s nose, +seeking; her wide mouth, restless between her shallow, fragile jaws; her +eyes, black, cleared with spots of jade gray, prominent, showing white +rims when she was startled. She started at sudden noises; she quivered +and stared when you caught her dreaming; she cried when the organ burst +out triumphantly in church. You had to take care every minute that you +didn’t hurt her. + +She cried when term ended and she had to go home. Priscilla’s home was +horrible. Her father drank, her mother fretted; they were poor; a rich +aunt paid for her schooling. + +When the last midsummer holidays came she spent them with Harriett. + +“Oh-h-h!” Prissie drew in her breath when she heard they were to sleep +together in the big bed in the spare room. She went about looking at +things, curious, touching them softly as if they were sacred. She loved +the two rough-coated china lambs on the chimney-piece, and “Oh--the dear +little china boxes with the flowers sitting up on them.” + +But when the bell rang she stood quivering in the doorway. + +“I’m afraid of your father and mother, Hatty. They won’t like me. I +_know_ they won’t like me.” + +“They will. They’ll love you,” Hatty said. + +And they did. They were sorry for the little white-faced, palpitating +thing. + + +It was their last night. Priscilla wasn’t going back to school again. +Her aunt, she said, was only paying for a year. They lay together in the +big bed, dim, face to face, talking. + +“Hatty--if you wanted to do something most awfully, more than anything +else in the world, and it was wrong, would you be able not to do it?” + +“I hope so. I _think_ I would, because I’d know if I did it would make +Papa and Mamma unhappy.” + +“Yes, but suppose it was giving up something you wanted, something you +loved more than them--could you?” + +“Yes. If it was wrong for me to have it. And I couldn’t love anything +more than them.” + +“But if you did, you’d give it up.” + +“I’d have to.” + +“Hatty--I couldn’t.” + +“Oh, yes, _you_ could if _I_ could.” + +“No. No....” + +“How do you know you couldn’t?” + +“Because I haven’t. I--I oughtn’t to have gone on staying here. My +father’s ill. They wanted me to go to them and I wouldn’t go.” + +“Oh, Prissie----” + +“There, you see. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I was so happy here with +you. I couldn’t give it up.” + +“If your father had been like Papa you would have.” + +“Yes. I’d do anything for _him_, because he’s your father. It’s you I +couldn’t give up.” + +“You’ll have to some day.” + +“When--when?” + +“When somebody else comes. When you’re married.” + +“I shall never marry. Never. I shall never want anybody but you. If we +could always be together.... I can’t think _why_ people marry, Hatty.” + +“Still,” Hatty said, “they do.” + +“It’s because they haven’t ever cared as you and me care.... Hatty, if I +don’t marry anybody, _you_ won’t, will you?” + +“I’m not thinking of marrying anybody.” + +“No. But promise, promise on your honor you won’t ever.” + +“I’d rather not _promise_. You see, I might. I shall love you all the +same, Priscilla, all my life.” + +“No, you won’t. It’ll all be different. I love you more than you love +me. But I shall love you all my life and it won’t be different. I shall +never marry.” + +“Perhaps I shan’t, either,” Harriett said. + +They exchanged gifts. Harriett gave Priscilla a rosewood writing +desk inlaid with mother-o’-pearl, and Priscilla gave Harriett a +pocket-handkerchief case she had made herself of fine gray canvas +embroidered with blue flowers like a sampler and lined with blue and +white plaid silk. On the top part you read “Pocket handkerchiefs” in +blue lettering, and on the bottom “Harriett Frean,” and, tucked away in +one corner, “Priscilla Heaven: September, 1861.” + + + + +IV + + +She remembered the conversation. Her father sitting, straight and +slender, in his chair, talking in that quiet voice of his that never +went sharp or deep or quavering, that paused now and then on an amused +inflection, his long lips straightening between the perpendicular +grooves of his smile. She loved his straight, slender face, +clean-shaven, the straight, slightly jutting jaw, the dark-blue flattish +eyes under the black eyebrows, the silver-grizzled hair that fitted +close like a cap, curling in a silver brim above his ears. + +He was talking about his business as if more than anything it amused +him. + +“There’s nothing gross and material about stock-broking. It’s like pure +mathematics. You’re dealing in abstractions, ideal values, all the time. +You calculate--in curves.” His hand, holding the unlit cigar, drew a +curve, a long graceful one, in mid-air. “You know what’s going to happen +all the time. + +“... The excitement begins when you don’t quite know and you risk it; +when it’s getting dangerous. + +“... The higher mathematics of the game. If you can afford them; if you +haven’t a wife and family--I can see the fascination....” + +He sat holding his cigar in one hand, looking at it without seeing it, +seeing the fascination and smiling at it, amused and secure. + +And her mother, bending over her bead-work, smiled too, out of their +happiness, their security. + +He would lean back, smoking his cigar and looking at them out of +contented, half-shut eyes, as they stitched, one at each end of the long +canvas fender stool. He was waiting, he said, for the moment when their +heads would come bumping together in the middle. + +Sometimes they would sit like that, not exchanging ideas, exchanging +only the sense of each other’s presence, a secure, profound satisfaction +that belonged as much to their bodies as their minds; it rippled on +their faces with their quiet smiling, it breathed with their breath. +Sometimes she or her mother read aloud, Mrs. Browning or Charles +Dickens; or the biography of some Great Man, sitting there in the +velvet-curtained room or out on the lawn under the cedar tree. A +motionless communion broken by walks in the sweet-smelling fields and +deep, elm-screened lanes. And there were short journeys into London to +a lecture or a concert, and now and then the surprise and excitement of +the play. + +One day her mother smoothed out her long, hanging curls and tucked them +away under a net. Harriett had a little shock of dismay and resentment, +hating change. + +And the long, long Sundays spaced the weeks and the months, hushed and +sweet and rather enervating, yet with a sort of thrill in them as if +somewhere the music of the church organ went on vibrating. Her mother +had some secret: some happy sense of God that she gave to you and you +took from her as you took food and clothing, but not quite knowing +what it was, feeling that there was something more in it, some hidden +gladness, some perfection that you missed. + +Her father had his secret too. She felt that it was harder, somehow, +darker and dangerous. He read dangerous books: Darwin and Huxley and +Herbert Spencer. Sometimes he talked about them. + +“There’s a sort of fascination in seeing how far you can go.... The +fascination of truth might be just that--the risk that, after all, it +mayn’t be true, that you may have to go farther and farther, perhaps +never come back.” + +Her mother looked up with her bright, still eyes. + +“I trust the truth. I know that, however far you go, you’ll come back +some day.” + +“I believe you see all of them--Darwin and Huxley and Herbert +Spencer--coming back,” he said. + +“Yes, I do.” + +His eyes smiled, loving her. But you could see it amused him, too, to +think of them, all those reckless, courageous thinkers, coming back, to +share her secret. His thinking was just a dangerous game he played. + +She looked at her father with a kind of awe as he sat there, reading his +book, in danger and yet safe. + +She wanted to know what that fascination was. She took down Herbert +Spencer and tried to read him. She made a point of finishing every book +she had begun, for her pride couldn’t bear being beaten. Her head grew +hot and heavy: she read the same sentences over and over again; they had +no meaning; she couldn’t understand a single word of Herbert Spencer. +He had beaten her. As she put the book back in its place she said to +herself: “I mustn’t. If I go on, if I get to the interesting part I may +lose my faith.” And soon she made herself believe that this was really +the reason why she had given it up. + + +Besides Connie Hancock there were Lizzie Pierce and Sarah Barmby. + +Exquisite pleasure to walk with Lizzie Pierce. Lizzie’s walk was a +sliding, swooping dance of little pointed feet, always as if she were +going out to meet somebody, her sharp, black-eyed face darting and +turning. + +“My _dear_, he kept on doing _this_” (Lizzie did it) “as if he was +trying to sit on himself to keep him from flying off into space like a +cork. Fancy proposing on three tumblers of soda water! I might have been +Mrs. Pennefather but for that.” + +Lizzie went about laughing, laughing at everybody, looking for something +to laugh at everywhere. Now and then she would stop suddenly to +contemplate the vision she had created. + +“If Connie didn’t wear a bustle--or, oh my dear, if Mr. Hancock did----” + +“Mr. _Hancock!_” Clear, firm laughter, chiming and tinkling. + +“Goodness! To think how many ridiculous people there are in the world!” + +“I believe you see something ridiculous in me.” + +“Only when--only when----” + +She swung her parasol in time to her sing-song. She wouldn’t say when. + +“Lizzie--not--_not_ when I’m in my black lace fichu and the little round +hat?” + +“Oh, dear me--no. Not _then_.” + +The little round hat, Lizzie wore one like it herself, tilted forward, +perched on her chignon. + +“Well, then----” she pleaded. + +Lizzie’s face darted its teasing, mysterious smile. + +She loved Lizzie best of her friends after Priscilla. She loved her +mockery and her teasing wit. + +And there was Lizzie’s friend, Sarah Barmby, who lived in one of those +little shabby villas on the London road and looked after her father. +She moved about the villa in an unseeing, shambling way, hitting herself +against the furniture. Her face was heavy with a gentle, brooding +goodness, and she had little eyes that blinked and twinkled in the +heaviness, as if something amused her. At first you kept on wondering +what the joke was, till you saw it was only a habit Sarah had. She came +when she could spare time from her father. + +Next to Lizzie, Harriett loved Sarah. She loved her goodness. + +And Connie Hancock, bouncing about hospitably in the large, rich house. +Tea-parties and dances at the Hancocks’. + +She wasn’t sure that she liked dancing. There was something obscurely +dangerous about it. She was afraid of being lifted off her feet and +swung on and on, away from her safe, happy life. She was stiff and +abrupt with her partners, convinced that none of those men who liked +Connie Hancock could like her, and anxious to show them that she didn’t +expect them to. She was afraid of what they were thinking. And she would +slip away early, running down the garden to the gate at the bottom of +the lane where her father waited for her. She loved the still coldness +of the night under the elms, and the strong, tight feel of her father’s +arm when she hung on it leaning towards him, and his “There we are” + as he drew her closer. Her mother would look up from the sofa and ask +always the same question, “Well, did anything nice happen?” + +Till at last she answered, “No. Did you think it would, Mamma?” + +“You never know,” said her mother. + +“_I_ know everything.” + +“_Every_thing?” + +“Everything that could happen at the Hancocks’ dances.” + +Her mother shook her head at her. She knew that in secret Mamma was +glad; but she answered the reproof. + +“It’s mean of me to say that when I’ve eaten four of their ices. They +were strawberry, and chocolate and vanilla, all in one.” + +“Well, they won’t last much longer.” + +“Not at that rate,” her father said. + +“I meant the dances,” said her mother. + +And sure enough, soon after Connie’s engagement to young Mr. +Pennefather, they ceased. + +And the three friends, Connie and Sarah and Lizzie, came and went. She +loved them; and yet when they were there they broke something, something +secret and precious between her and her father and mother, and when +they were gone she felt the stir, the happy movement of coming together +again, drawing in close, close, after the break. + +“We only want each other.” Nobody else really mattered, not even +Priscilla Heaven. + +Year after year the same. Her mother parted her hair into two sleek +wings; she wore a rosette and lappets of black velvet and lace on a +glistening beetle-backed chignon. And Harriett felt again her shock of +resentment. She hated to think of her mother subject to change and time. + +And Priscilla came year after year, still loving, still protesting that +she would never marry. Yet they were glad when even Priscilla had gone +and left them to each other. Only each other, year after year the same. + + + + +V + + +Priscilla’s last visit was followed by another passionate vow that she +would never marry. Then within three weeks she wrote again, telling of +her engagement to Robin Lethbridge. + +“... I haven’t known him very long, and Mamma says it’s too soon; but +he makes me feel as if I had known him all my life. I know I said I +wouldn’t, but I couldn’t tell; I didn’t know it would be so different. +I couldn’t have believed that anybody could be so happy. You won’t mind, +Hatty. We can love each other just the same....” + +Incredible that Priscilla, who could be so beaten down and crushed +by suffering, should have risen to such an ecstasy. Her letters had a +swinging lilt, a hurried beat, like a song bursting, a heart beating for +joy too fast. + +It would have to be a long engagement. Robin was in a provincial bank, +he had his way to make. Then, a year later, Prissy wrote and told them +that Robin had got a post in Parson’s Bank in the City. He didn’t know +a soul in London. Would they be kind to him and let him come to them +sometimes, on Saturdays and Sundays? + +He came one Sunday. Harriett had wondered what he would be like, and he +was tall, slender-waisted, wide-shouldered; he had a square, very white +forehead; his brown hair was parted on one side, half curling at the +tips above his ears. His eyes--thin, black crystal, shining, turning, +showing speckles of brown and gray; perfectly set under straight +eyebrows laid very black on the white skin. His round, pouting chin +had a dent in it. The face in between was thin and irregular; the nose +straight and serious and rather long in profile, with a dip and a rise +at three-quarters; in full face straight again but shortened. His eyes +had another meaning, deeper and steadier than his fine slender mouth; +but it was the mouth that made you look at him. One arch of the bow +was higher than the other; now and then it quivered with an uneven, +sensitive movement of its own. + +She noticed his mouth’s little dragging droop at the corners and +thought: “Oh, you’re cross. If you’re cross with Prissie--if you make +her unhappy”--but when he caught her looking at him the cross lips +drew back in a sudden, white, confiding smile. And when he spoke she +understood why he had been irresistible to Priscilla. + +He had come three Sundays now, four perhaps; she had lost count. They +were all sitting out on the lawn under the cedar. Suddenly, as if he had +only just thought of it, he said: + +“It’s extraordinarily good of you to have me.” + +“Oh, well,” her mother said, “Prissie is Hatty’s greatest friend.” + +“I supposed that was why you do it.” + +He didn’t want it to be that. He wanted it to be himself. Himself. He +was proud. He didn’t like to owe anything to other people, not even to +Prissie. + +Her father smiled at him. “You must give us time.” + +He would never give it or take it. You could see him tearing at things +in his impatience, to know them, to make them give themselves up to him +at once. He came rushing to give himself up, all in a minute, to make +himself known. + +“It isn’t fair,” he said. “I know you so much better than you know me. +Priscilla’s always talking about you. But you don’t know anything about +_me_.” + +“No. We’ve got all the excitement.” + +“And the risk, sir.” + +“And, of course, the risk.” He liked him. + +She could talk to Robin Lethbridge as she couldn’t talk to Connie +Hancock’s young men. She wasn’t afraid of what he was thinking. She was +safe with him, he belonged to Priscilla Heaven. He liked her because +he loved Priscilla; but he wanted her to like him, not because of +Priscilla, but for himself. + +She talked about Priscilla: “I never saw anybody so loving. It used to +frighten me; because you can hurt her so easily.” + +“Yes. Poor little Prissie, she’s very vulnerable,” he said. + +When Priscilla came to stay it was almost painful. Her eyes clung to +him, and wouldn’t let him go. If he left the room she was restless, +unhappy till he came back. She went out for long walks with him and +returned silent, with a tired, beaten look. She would lie on the sofa, +and he would hang over her, gazing at her with strained, unhappy eyes. + +After she had gone he kept on coming more than ever, and he stayed +overnight. Harriett had to walk with him now. He wanted to talk, to talk +about himself, endlessly. + +When she looked in the glass she saw a face she didn’t know: +bright-eyed, flushed, pretty. The little arrogant lift had gone. As if +it had been somebody else’s face she asked herself, in wonder, without +rancour, why nobody had ever cared for it. Why? Why? She could see her +father looking at her, intent, as if he wondered. And one day her mother +said, “Do you think you ought to see so much of Robin? Do you think it’s +quite fair to Prissie?” + +“Oh--_Mamma!_ ... I wouldn’t. I haven’t----” + +“I know. You couldn’t if you would, Hatty. You would always behave +beautifully. But are you so sure about Robin?” + +“Oh, he _couldn’t_ care for _anybody_ but Prissie. It’s only because +he’s so safe with me, because he knows I don’t and he doesn’t----.” + +The wedding day was fixed for July. After all, they were going to risk +it. By the middle of June the wedding presents began to come in. + +Harriett and Robin Lethbridge were walking up Black’s Lane. The hedges +were a white bridal froth of cow’s parsley. Every now and then she +swerved aside to pick the red campion. + +He spoke suddenly. “Do you know what a dear little face you have, Hatty? +It’s so clear and still and it behaves so beautifully.” + +“Does it?” + +She thought of Prissie’s face, dark and restless, never clear, never +still. + +“You’re not a bit like what I expected. Prissie doesn’t know what you +are. You don’t know yourself.” + +“I know what _she_ is.” + +His mouth’s uneven quiver beat in and out like a pulse. + +“Don’t talk to me about Prissie!” + +Then he got it out. He tore it out of himself. He loved her. + +“Oh, Robin----” Her fingers loosened in her dismay; she went dropping +red campion. + +It was no use, he said, to think about Prissie. He couldn’t marry her. +He couldn’t marry anybody but Hatty; Hatty must marry him. + +“You can’t say you don’t love me, Hatty.” + +No. She couldn’t say it; for it wouldn’t be true. + +“Well, then----” + +“I can’t. I’d be doing wrong, Robin. I feel all the time as if she +belonged to you; as if she were married to you.” + +“But she isn’t. It isn’t the same thing.” + +“To me it is. You can’t undo it. It would be too dishonorable.” + +“Not half so dishonorable as marrying her when I don’t love her.” + +“Yes. As long as she loves you. She hasn’t anybody but you. She was so +happy. So happy. Think of the cruelty of it. Think what we should send +her back to.” + +“You think of Prissie. You don’t think of me.” + +“Because it would _kill_ her.” + +“How about you?” + +“It can’t kill us, because we know we love each other. Nothing can take +that from us.” + +“But I couldn’t be happy with her, Hatty. She wears me out. She’s so +restless.” + +“_We_ couldn’t be happy, Robin. We should always be thinking of what we +did to her. How could we be happy?” + +“You know how.” + +“Well, even if we were, we’ve no right to get our happiness out of her +suffering.” + +“Oh, Hatty, why are you so good, so good?” + +“I’m not good. It’s only--there are some things you can’t do. We +couldn’t. We couldn’t.” + +“No,” he said at last. “I don’t suppose we could. Whatever it’s like +I’ve got to go through with it.” + +He didn’t stay that night. + + +She was crouching on the floor beside her father, her arm thrown across +his knees. Her mother had left them there. + +“Papa--do you know?” + +“Your mother told me.... You’ve done the right thing.” + +“You don’t think I’ve been cruel? He said I didn’t think of him.” + +“Oh, no, you couldn’t do anything else.” + +She couldn’t. She couldn’t. It was no use thinking about him. Yet night +after night, for weeks and months, she thought, and cried herself to +sleep. + +By day she suffered from Lizzie’s sharp eyes and Sarah’s brooding pity +and Connie Pennefather’s callous, married stare. Only with her father +and mother she had peace. + + + + +VI + + +Towards spring Harriett showed signs of depression, and they took her to +the south of France and to Bordighera and Rome. In Rome she recovered. +Rome was one of those places you ought to see; she had always been +anxious to do the right thing. In the little Pension in the Via Babuino +she had a sense of her own importance and the importance of her father +and mother. They were Mr. and Mrs. Hilton Frean, and Miss Harriett +Frean, seeing Rome. + +After their return in the summer he began to write his book, _The Social +Order_. There were things that had to be said; it did not much matter +who said them provided they were said plainly. He dreamed of a new +Social State, society governing itself without representatives. For a +long time they lived on the interest and excitement of the book, and +when it came out Harriett pasted all his reviews very neatly into +an album. He had the air of not taking them quite seriously; but he +subscribed to _The Spectator_, and sometimes an article appeared there +understood to have been written by Hilton Frean. + +And they went abroad again every year. They went to Florence and came +home and read _Romola_ and Mrs. Browning and Dante and _The Spectator_; +they went to Assisi and read the _Little Flowers of Saint Francis;_ they +went to Venice and read Ruskin and _The Spectator;_ they went to Rome +again and read Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_. Harriett +said, “We should have enjoyed Rome more if we had read Gibbon,” and her +mother replied that they would not have enjoyed Gibbon so much if they +had not seen Rome. Harriett did not really enjoy him; but she enjoyed +the sound of her own voice reading out the great sentences and the +rolling Latin names. + +She had brought back photographs of the Colosseum and the Forum and of +Botticelli’s _Spring_, and a della Robbia Madonna in a shrine of fruit +and flowers, and hung them in the drawing-room. And when she saw the +blue egg in its gilt frame standing on the marble-topped table, she +wondered how she had ever loved it, and wished it were not there. It had +been one of Mamma’s wedding presents. Mrs. Hancock had given it her; but +Mr. Hancock must have bought it. + +Harriett’s face had taken on again its arrogant lift. She esteemed +herself justly. She knew she was superior to the Hancocks and the +Pennefathers and to Lizzie Pierce and Sarah Barmby; even to Priscilla. +When she thought of Robin and how she had given him up she felt a +thrill of pleasure in her beautiful behavior, and a thrill of pride in +remembering that he had loved her more than Priscilla. Her mind refused +to think of Robin married. + +Two, three, five years passed, with a perceptible acceleration, and +Harriett was now thirty. + + +She had not seen them since the wedding day. Robin had gone back to his +own town; he was cashier in a big bank there. For four years Prissie’s +letters came regularly every month or so, then ceased abruptly. + +Then Robin wrote and told her of Prissie’s illness. A mysterious +paralysis. It had begun with fits of giddiness in the street; Prissie +would turn round and round on the pavement; then falling fits; and now +both legs were paralyzed, but Robin thought she was gradually recovering +the use of her hands. + +Harriett did not cry. The shock of it stopped her tears. She tried to +see it and couldn’t. Poor little Prissie. How terrible. She kept on +saying to herself she couldn’t bear to think of Prissie paralyzed. Poor +little Prissie. + +And poor Robin---- + +Paralysis. She saw the paralysis coming between them, separating them, +and inside her the secret pain was soothed. She need not think of Robin +married any more. + +She was going to stay with them. Robin had written the letter. He said +Prissie wanted her. When she met him on the platform she had a little +shock at seeing him changed. Changed. His face was fuller, and a dark +moustache hid the sensitive, uneven, pulsing lip. His mouth was dragged +down further at the corners. But he was the same Robin. In the cab, +going to the house, he sat silent, breathing hard; she felt the tremor +of his consciousness and knew that he still loved her; more than he +loved Priscilla. Poor little Prissie. How terrible! + +Priscilla sat by the fireplace in a wheel chair. She became agitated +when she saw Harriett; her arms shook as she lifted them for the +embrace. + +“Hatty--you’ve hardly changed a bit.” Her voice shook. + +Poor little Prissie. She was thin, thinner than ever, and stiff as if +she had withered. Her face was sallow and dry, and the luster had gone +from her black hair. Her wide mouth twitched and wavered, wavered and +twitched. Though it was warm summer she sat by a blazing fire with the +windows behind her shut. + +Through dinner Harriett and Robin were silent and constrained. She tried +not to see Prissie shaking and jerking and spilling soup down the front +of her gown. Robin’s face was smooth and blank; he pretended to be +absorbed in his food, so as not to look at Prissie. It was as if +Prissie’s old restlessness had grown into that ceaseless jerking +and twitching. And her eyes fastened on Robin; they clung to him and +wouldn’t let him go. She kept on asking him to do things for her. +“Robin, you might get me my shawl;” and Robin would go and get the shawl +and put it round her. Whenever he did anything for her Prissie’s face +would settle down into a quivering, deep content. + +At nine o’clock he lifted her out of her wheel chair. Harriett saw his +stoop, and the taut, braced power of his back as he lifted. Prissie lay +in his arms with rigid limbs hanging from loose attachments, inert, like +a doll. As he carried her upstairs to bed her face had a queer, exalted +look of pleasure and of triumph. + +Harriett and Robin sat alone together in his study. + +“How long is it since we’ve seen each other?” + +“Five years, Robin.” + +“It isn’t. It can’t be.” + +“It is.” + +“I suppose it is. But I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m married. +I can’t believe Prissie’s ill. It doesn’t seem real with you sitting +there.” + +“Nothing’s changed, Robin, except that you’re more serious.” + +“Nothing’s changed, except that I’m more serious than ever.... Do you +still do the same things? Do you still sit in the curly chair, holding +your work up to your chin with your little pointed hands like a +squirrel? Do you still see the same people?” + +“I don’t make new friends, Robin.” + +He seemed to settle down after that, smiling at his own thoughts, +appeased.... + +Lying in her bed in the spare room, Harriett heard the opening and +shutting of Robin’s door. She still thought of Prissie’s paralysis +as separating them, still felt inside her a secret, unacknowledged +satisfaction. Poor little Prissie. How terrible. Her pity for Priscilla +went through and through her in wave after wave. Her pity was sad and +beautiful and at the same time it appeased her pain. + + +In the morning Priscilla told her about her illness. The doctors didn’t +understand it. She ought to have had a stroke and she hadn’t had one. +There was no reason why she shouldn’t walk except that she couldn’t. It +seemed to give her pleasure to go over it, from her first turning +round and round in the street (with helpless, shaking laughter at +the queerness of it), to the moment when Robin bought her the wheel +chair.... Robin ... Robin ... + +“I minded most because of Robin. It’s such an _awful_ illness, Hatty. +I can’t move when I’m in bed. Robin has to get up and turn me a dozen +times in one night.... Robin’s a perfect saint. He does everything for +me.” Prissie’s voice and her face softened and thickened with voluptuous +content. + +“... Do you know, Hatty, I had a little baby. It died the day it was +born.... Perhaps some day I shall have another.” + +Harriett was aware of a sudden tightening of her heart, of a creeping +depression that weighed on her brain and worried it. She thought this +was her pity for Priscilla. + + +Her third night. All evening Robin had been moody and morose. He would +hardly speak to either Harriett or Priscilla. When Priscilla asked him +to do anything for her he got up heavily, pulling himself together with +a sigh, with a look of weary, irritated patience. + +Prissie wheeled herself out of the study into the drawing-room, +beckoning Harriett to follow. She had the air of saving Robin from +Harriett, of intimating that his grumpiness was Harriett’s fault. “He +doesn’t want to be bothered,” she said. + +She sat up till eleven, so that Robin shouldn’t be thrown with Harriett +in the last hours. + +Half the night Harriett’s thoughts ran on, now in a darkness, now +in thin flashes of light. “Supposing, after all, Robin wasn’t happy? +Supposing he can’t stand it? Supposing.... But why is he angry with +_me?_” Then a clear thought: “He’s angry with me because he can’t be +angry with Priscilla.” And clearer. “He’s angry with me because I made +him marry her.” + +She stopped the running and meditated with a steady, hard deliberation. +She thought of her deep, spiritual love for Robin; of Robin’s deep +spiritual love for her; of his strength in shouldering his burden. It +was through her renunciation that he had grown so strong, so pure, so +good. + + +Something had gone wrong with Prissie. Robin, coming home early on +Saturday afternoon, had taken Harriett for a walk. All evening and all +through Sunday it was Priscilla who sulked and snapped when Harriett +spoke to her. + +On Monday morning she was ill, and Robin ordered her to stay in bed. +Monday was Harriett’s last night. Priscilla stayed in bed till six +o’clock, when she heard Robin come in; then she insisted on being +dressed and carried downstairs. Harriett heard her calling to Robin, and +Robin saying, “I _told_ you you weren’t to get up till to-morrow,” and a +sound like Prissie crying. + +At dinner she shook and jerked and spilt things worse than ever. Robin +gloomed at her. “You know you ought to be in bed. You’ll go at nine.” + +“If I go, you’ll go. You’ve got a headache.” + +“I should think I had, sitting in this furnace.” + +The heat of the dining room oppressed him, but they sat on there after +dinner because Prissie loved the heat. Robin’s pale, blank face had a +sick look, a deadly smoothness. He had to lie down on the sofa in the +window. + +When the clock struck nine he sighed and got up, dragging himself as +if the weight of his body was more than he could bear. He stooped over +Prissie, and lifted her. + +“Robin--you can’t. You’re dropping to pieces.” + +“I’m all right.” He heaved her up with one tremendous, irritated effort, +and carried her upstairs, fast, as if he wanted to be done with it. +Through the open doors Harriett could hear Prissie’s pleading whine, and +Robin’s voice, hard and controlled. Presently he came back to her and +they went into his study. They could breathe there, he said. + +They sat without speaking for a little time. The silence of Prissie’s +room overhead came between them. + +Robin spoke first. “I’m afraid it hasn’t been very gay for you with poor +Prissie in this state.” + +“Poor Prissie? She’s very happy, Robin.” + +He stared at her. His eyes, round and full and steady, taxed her with +falsehood, with hypocrisy. + +“You don’t suppose _I’m_ not, do you?” + +“No.” There was a movement in her throat as though she swallowed +something hard. “No. I want you to be happy.” + +“You don’t. You want me to be rather miserable.” + +“_Robin!_” She contrived a sound like laughter. But Robin didn’t laugh; +his eyes, morose and cynical, held her there. + +“That’s what you want.... At least I hope you do. If you didn’t----” + +She fenced off the danger. “Do _you_ want _me_ to be miserable, then?” + +At that he laughed out. “No. I don’t. I don’t care how happy you are.” + +She took the pain of it: the pain he meant to give her. + +That evening he hung over Priscilla with a deliberate, exaggerated +tenderness. + +“Dear.... Dearest....” He spoke the words to Priscilla, but he sent +out his voice to Harriett. She could feel its false precision, its +intention, its repulse of her. + +She was glad to be gone. + + + + +VII + + +Eighteen seventy-nine: it was the year her father lost his money. +Harriett was nearly thirty-five. + +She remembered the day, late in November, when they heard him coming +home from the office early. Her mother raised her head and said, +“That’s your father, Harriett. He must be ill.” She always thought of +seventy-nine as one continuous November. + +Her father and mother were alone in the study for a long time; she +remembered Annie going in with the lamp and coming out and whispering +that they wanted her. She found them sitting in the lamplight alone, +close together, holding each other’s hands; their faces had a strange, +exalted look. + +“Harriett, my dear, I’ve lost every shilling I possessed, and here’s +your mother saying she doesn’t mind.” + +He began to explain in his quiet voice. “When all the creditors are paid +in full there’ll be nothing but your mother’s two hundred a year. And +the insurance money when I’m gone.” + +“Oh, Papa, how terrible----” + +“Yes, Hatty.” + +“I mean the insurance. It’s gambling with your life.” + +“My dear, if that was all I’d gambled with----” + +It seemed that half his capital had gone in what he called “the higher +mathematics of the game.” The creditors would get the rest. + +“We shall be no worse off,” her mother said, “than we were when we +began. We were very happy then.” + +“We. How about Harriett?” + +“Harriett isn’t going to mind.” + +“You’re not--going--to mind.... We shall have to sell this house and +live in a smaller one. And I can’t take my business up again.” + +“My dear, I’m glad and thankful you’ve done with that dreadful, +dangerous game.” + +“I’d no business to play it.... But, after holding myself in all those +years, there was a sort of fascination.” + +One of the creditors, Mr. Hichens, gave him work in his office. He was +now Mr. Hichens’s clerk. He went to Mr. Hichens as he had gone to +his own great business, upright and alert, handsome in his dark-gray +overcoat with the black velvet collar, faintly amused at himself. You +would never have known that anything had happened. + + +Strange that at the same time Mr. Hancock should have lost money, a +great deal of money, more money than Papa. He seemed determined that +everybody should know it; you couldn’t pass him in the road without +knowing. He met you with his swollen, red face hanging; ashamed and +miserable, and angry as if it had been your fault. + +One day Harriett came in to her father and mother with the news. “Did +you know that Mr. Hancock’s sold his horses? And he’s going to give up +the house.” + +Her mother signed to her to be silent, frowning and shaking her head and +glancing at her father. He got up suddenly and left the room. + +“He’s worrying himself to death about Mr. Hancock,” she said. + +“I didn’t know he cared for him like that, Mamma.” + +“Oh, well, he’s known him thirty years, and it’s a very dreadful thing +he should have to give up his house.” + +“It’s not worse for him than it is for Papa.” + +“It’s ever so much worse. He isn’t like your father. He can’t be happy +without his big house and his carriages and horses. He’ll feel so small +and unimportant.” + +“Well, then, it serves him right.” + +“Don’t say that. It _is_ what he cares for and he’s lost it.” + +“He’s no business to behave as if it was Papa’s fault,” said Harriett. +She had no patience with the odious little man. She thought of her +father’s face, her father’s body, straight and calm, and his soul so far +above that mean trouble of Mr. Hancock’s, that vulgar shame. + +Yet inside him he fretted. And, suddenly, he began to sink. He turned +faint after the least exertion and had to leave off going to Mr. +Hichens. And by the spring of eighteen eighty he was upstairs in his +room, too ill to be moved. That was just after Mr. Hichens had bought +the house and wanted to come into it. He lay, patient, in the big white +bed, smiling his faint, amused smile when he thought of Mr. Hichens. + +It was awful to Harriett that her father should be ill, lying there +at their mercy. She couldn’t get over her sense of his parenthood, his +authority. When he was obstinate, and insisted on exerting himself, she +gave in. She was a bad nurse, because she couldn’t set herself against +his will. And when she had him under her hands to strip and wash him, +she felt that she was doing something outrageous and impious; she set +about it with a flaming face and fumbling hands. “Your mother does it +better,” he said gently. But she could not get her mother’s feeling of +him as a helpless, dependent thing. + +Mr. Hichens called every week to inquire. “Poor man, he wants to know +when he can have his house. Why _will_ he always come on my good days? +He isn’t giving himself a chance.” + +He still had good days, days when he could be helped out of bed to sit +in his chair. “This sort of game may go on for ever,” he said. He began +to worry seriously about keeping Mr. Hichens out of his house. “It isn’t +decent of me. It isn’t decent.” + +Harriett was ill with the strain of it. She had to go away for a +fortnight with Lizzie Pierce, and Sarah Barmby stayed with her mother. +Mrs. Barmby had died the year before. When Harriett got back her father +was making plans for his removal. + +“Why have you all made up your minds that it’ll kill me to remove me? It +won’t. The men can take everything out but me and my bed and that chair. +And when they’ve got all the things into the other house they can come +back for the chair and me. And I can sit in the chair while they’re +bringing the bed. It’s quite simple. It only wants a little system.” + +Then, while they wondered whether they might risk it, he got worse. He +lay propped up, rigid, his arms stretched out by his side, afraid to +lift a hand because of the violent movements of his heart. His face had +a patient, expectant look, as if he waited for them to do something. + +They couldn’t do anything. There would be no more rallies. He might die +any day now, the doctor said. + + +“He may die any minute. I certainly don’t expect him to live through the +night.” + +Harriett followed her mother back into the room. He was sitting up in +his attitude of rigid expectancy; no movement but the quivering of his +night-shirt above his heart. + +“The doctor’s been gone a long time, hasn’t he?” he said. + +Harriett was silent. She didn’t understand. Her mother was looking at +her with a serene comprehension and compassion. + +“Poor Hatty,” he said, “she can’t tell a lie to save my life.” + +“Oh--Papa----” + +He smiled as if he was thinking of something that amused him. + +“You should consider other people, my dear. Not just your own selfish +feelings.... You ought to write and tell Mr. Hichens.” + +Her mother gave a short sobbing laugh. “Oh, you darling,” she said. + +He lay still. Then suddenly he began pressing hard on the mattress with +both hands, bracing himself up in the bed. Her mother leaned closer +towards him. He threw himself over slantways, and with his head bent as +if it was broken, dropped into her arms. + +Harriett wondered why he was making that queer grating and coughing +noise. Three times. + +Her mother called softly to her--“Harriett.” + +She began to tremble. + + + + +VIII + + +Her mother had some secret that she couldn’t share. She was wonderful +in her pure, high serenity. Surely she had some secret. She said he was +closer to her now than he had ever been. And in her correct, precise +answers to the letters of condolence Harriett wrote: “I feel that he is +closer to us now than he ever was.” But she didn’t really feel it. She +only felt that to feel it was the beautiful and proper thing. She looked +for her mother’s secret and couldn’t find it. + +Meanwhile Mr. Hichens had given them six weeks. They had to decide where +they would go: into Devonshire or into a cottage at Hampstead where +Sarah Barmby lived now. + +Her mother said, “Do you think you’d like to live in Sidmouth, near Aunt +Harriett?” + +They had stayed one summer at Sidmouth with Aunt Harriett. She +remembered the red cliffs, the sea, and Aunt Harriett’s garden stuffed +with flowers. They had been happy there. She thought she would love +that: the sea and the red cliffs and a garden like Aunt Harriett’s. + +But she was not sure whether it was what her mother really wanted. Mamma +would never say. She would have to find out somehow. + +“Well--what do you think?” + +“It would be leaving all your friends, Hatty.” + +“My friends--yes. But----” + +Lizzie and Sarah and Connie Pennefather. She could live without them. +“Oh, there’s Mrs. Hancock.” + +“Well----” Her mother’s voice suggested that if she were put to it she +could live without Mrs. Hancock. + +And Harriett thought: She does want to go to Sidmouth then. + +“It would be very nice to be near Aunt Harriett.” + +She was afraid to say more than that lest she should show her own wish +before she knew her mother’s. + +“Aunt Harriett. Yes.... But it’s very far away, Hatty. We should be cut +off from everything. Lectures and concerts. We couldn’t afford to come +up and down.” + +“No. We couldn’t.” + +She could see that Mamma did not really want to live in Sidmouth; +she didn’t want to be near Aunt Harriett; she wanted the cottage at +Hampstead and all the things of their familiar, intellectual life going +on and on. After all, that was the way to keep near to Papa, to go on +doing the things they had done together. + +Her mother agreed that it was the way. + +“I can’t help feeling,” Harriett said, “it’s what he would have wished.” + +Her mother’s face was quiet and content. She hadn’t guessed. + + +They left the white house with the green balcony hung out like a +birdcage at the side, and turned into the cottage at Hampstead. The +rooms were small and rather dark, and the furniture they had brought had +a squeezed-up, unhappy look. The blue egg on the marble-topped table +was conspicuous and hateful as it had never been in the Black’s Lane +drawing-room. Harriett and her mother looked at it. + +“Must it stay there?” + +“I think so. Fanny Hancock gave it me.” + +“Mamma--you know you don’t like it.” + +“No. But after all these years I couldn’t turn the poor thing away.” + +Her mother was an old woman, clinging with an old, stubborn fidelity to +the little things of her past. But Harriett denied it. “She’s not old,” + she said to herself. “Not really old.” + +“Harriett,” her mother said one day. “I think you ought to do the +housekeeping.” + +“Oh, Mamma, why?” She hated the idea of this change. + +“Because you’ll have to do it some day.” + +She obeyed. But as she went her rounds and gave her orders she felt that +she was doing something not quite real, playing at being her mother +as she had played when she was a child. Then her mother had another +thought. + +“Harriett, I think you ought to see more of your friends, dear.” + +“Why?” + +“Because you’ll want them after I’m gone.” + +“I shall never _want_ anybody but you.” + +And their time went as it had gone before: in sewing together, reading +together, listening to lectures and concerts together. They had told +Sarah that they didn’t want anybody to call. They were Hilton Frean’s +wife and daughter. “After our wonderful life with him,” they said, +“you’ll understand, Sarah, that we don’t want people.” And if Harriett +was introduced to any stranger she accounted for herself arrogantly: “My +father was Hilton Frean.” + +They were collecting his _Remains_ for publication. + +Months passed, years passed, going each one a little quicker than the +last. And Harriett was thirty-nine. + + +One evening, coming out of church, her mother fainted. That was the +beginning of her illness, February, eighteen eighty-three. First came +the long months of weakness; then the months and months of sickness; +then the pain; the pain she had been hiding, that she couldn’t hide any +more. + +They knew what it was now: that horrible thing that even the doctors +were afraid to name. They called it “something malignant.” When the +friends--Mrs. Hancock, Connie Pennefather, Lizzie, and Sarah--called to +inquire, Harriett wouldn’t tell them what it was; she pretended that she +didn’t know, that the doctors weren’t sure; she covered it up from them +as if it had been a secret shame. And they pretended that they didn’t +know. But they knew. + +They were talking now about an operation. There was one chance for her +in a hundred if they had Sir James Pargeter: one chance. She might die +of it; she might die under the anæsthetic; she might die of shock; she +was so old and weak. Still, there was that one chance, if only she would +take it. + +But her mother wouldn’t listen. “My dear, it would cost a hundred +pounds.” + +“How do you know what it would cost?” + +“Oh,” she said, “I know.” She was smiling above the sheet that was +tucked close up, tight under her chin, shutting it all down. + +Sir James Pargeter would cost a hundred pounds. Harriett couldn’t lay +her hands on the money or on half of it or a quarter. “That doesn’t +matter if they think it’ll save you.” + +“They _think;_ they think. But I _know._ I know better than all the +doctors.” + +“But Mamma, darling----” + +She urged the operation. Just because it would be so difficult to raise +the hundred pounds she urged it. She wanted to feel that she had done +everything that could be done, that she had let nothing stand in the +way, that she had shrunk from no sacrifice. One chance in a hundred. +What was a hundred pounds weighed against that one chance? If it had +been one in a thousand she would have said the same. + +“It would be no good, Hatty. I know it wouldn’t. They just love to try +experiments, those doctors. They’re dying to get their knives into me. +Don’t _let_ them.” + +Gradually, day by day, Harriett weakened. Her mother’s frightened +voice tore at her, broke her down. Supposing she really died under the +operation? Supposing---- It was cruel to excite and upset her just for +that; it made the pain worse. + +Either the operation or the pain, going on and on, stabbing with sharper +and sharper knives; cutting in deeper; all their care, the antiseptics, +the restoratives, dragging it out, giving it more time to torture her. + +When the three friends came, Harriett said, “I shall be glad and +thankful when it’s all over. I couldn’t want to keep her with me, just +for this.” + +Yet she did want it. She was thankful every morning that she came to her +mother’s bed and found her alive, lying there, looking at her with her +wonderful smile. She was glad because she still had her. + +And now they were giving her morphia. Under the torpor of the drug +her face changed; the muscles loosened, the flesh sagged, the widened, +swollen mouth hung open; only the broad beautiful forehead, the +beautiful calm eyebrows were the same; the face, sallow white, half +imbecile, was a mask flung aside. She couldn’t bear to look at it; it +wasn’t her mother’s face; her mother had died already under the morphia. +She had a shock every time she came in and found it still there. + +On the day her mother died she told herself she was glad and thankful. +She met her friends with a little quiet, composed face, saying, “I’m +glad and thankful she’s at peace.” But she wasn’t thankful; she wasn’t +glad. She wanted her back again. And she reproached herself, one minute +for having been glad, and the next for wanting her. + +She consoled herself by thinking of the sacrifices she had made, how she +had given up Sidmouth, and how willingly she would have paid the hundred +pounds. + + +“I sometimes think, Hatty,” said Mrs. Hancock, melancholy and condoling, +“that it would have been very different if your poor mother could have +had her wish.” + +“What--what wish?” + +“Her wish to live in Sidmouth, near your Aunt Harriett.” + +And Sarah Barmby, sympathizing heavily, stopping short and brooding, +trying to think of something to say: “If the operation had only been +done three years ago when they _knew_ it would save her----” + +“Three years ago? But we didn’t know anything about it then.” + +“_She_ did.... Don’t you remember? It was when I stayed with her.... Oh, +Hatty, didn’t she tell you?” + +“She never said a word.” + +“Oh, well, she wouldn’t hear of it, even then when they didn’t give her +two years to live.” + +Three years? She had had it three years ago. She had known about it all +that time. Three years ago the operation would have saved her; she would +have been here now. Why had she refused it when she knew it would save +her? + +She had been thinking of the hundred pounds. + +To have known about it three years and said nothing--to have gone +believing she hadn’t two years to live---- + +_That_ was her secret. That was why she had been so calm when Papa died. +She had known she would have him again so soon. Not two years---- + +“If I’d been them,” Lizzie was saying, “I’d have bitten my tongue out +before I told you. It’s no use worrying, Hatty. You did everything that +could be done.” + +“I know. I know.” + +She held up her face against them; but to herself she said that +everything had not been done. Her mother had never had her wish. And she +had died in agony, so that she, Harriett, might keep her hundred pounds. + + + + +IX + + +In all her previsions of the event she had seen herself surviving as the +same Harriett Frean with the addition of an overwhelming grief. She was +horrified at this image of herself persisting beside her mother’s place +empty in space and time. + +But she was not there. Through her absorption in her mother, some large, +essential part of herself had gone. It had not been so when her father +died; what he had absorbed was given back to her, transferred to her +mother. All her memories of her mother were joined to the memory of this +now irrecoverable self. + +She tried to reinstate herself through grief; she sheltered behind her +bereavement, affecting a more profound seclusion, abhorring strangers; +she was more than ever the reserved, fastidious daughter of Hilton +Frean. She had always thought of herself as different from Connie and +Sarah, living with a superior, intellectual life. She turned to the +books she had read with her mother, Dante, Browning, Carlyle, and +Ruskin, the biographies of Great Men, trying to retrace the footsteps +of her lost self, to revive the forgotten thrill. But it was no use. One +day she found herself reading the Dedication of _The Ring and the +Book_ over and over again, without taking in its meaning, without +any remembrance of its poignant secret. “‘And all a wonder and a wild +desire’--Mamma loved that.” She thought she loved it too; but what she +loved was the dark-green book she had seen in her mother’s long, white +hands, and the sound of her mother’s voice reading. She had followed +her mother’s mind with strained attention and anxiety, smiling when she +smiled, but with no delight and no admiration of her own. + +If only she could have remembered. It was only through memory that she +could reinstate herself. + +She had a horror of the empty house. Her friends advised her to leave +it, but she had a horror of removal, of change. She loved the rooms that +had held her mother, the chair she had sat on, the white, fluted cup she +had drunk from in her illness. She clung to the image of her mother; and +always beside it, shadowy and pathetic, she discerned the image of her +lost self. + +When the horror of emptiness came over her, she dressed herself in her +black, with delicate care and precision, and visited her friends. Even +in moments of no intention she would find herself knocking at Lizzie’s +door or Sarah’s or Connie Pennefather’s. If they were not in she would +call again and again, till she found them. She would sit for hours, +talking, spinning out the time. + +She began to look forward to these visits. + +Wonderful. The sweet peas she had planted had come up. + +Hitherto Harriett had looked on the house and garden as parts of the +space that contained her without belonging to her. She had had no sense +of possession. This morning she was arrested by the thought that the +plot she had planted was hers. The house and garden were hers. She began +to take an interest in them. She found that by a system of punctual +movements she could give to her existence the reasonable appearance of +an aim. + +Next spring, a year after her mother’s death, she felt the vague +stirring of her individual soul. She was free to choose her own vicar; +she left her mother’s Dr. Braithwaite, who was broad and twice married, +and went to Canon Wrench, who was unmarried and high. There was +something stimulating in the short, happy service, the rich music, the +incense, and the processions. She made new covers for the drawing-room, +in cretonne, a gay pattern of pomegranate and blue-green leaves. And as +she had always had the cutlets broiled plain because her mother liked +them that way, now she had them breaded. + +And Mrs. Hancock wanted to know _why_ Harriett had forsaken her dear +mother’s church; and when Connie Pennefather saw the covers she told +Harriett she was lucky to be able to afford new cretonne. It was more +than _she_ could; she seemed to think Harriett had no business to afford +it. As for the breaded cutlets, Hannah opened her eyes and said, “That +was how the mistress always had them, ma’am, when you was away.” + +One day she took the blue egg out of the drawing-room and stuck it on +the chimney-piece in the spare room. When she remembered how she used to +love it she felt that she had done something cruel and iniquitous, but +necessary to the soul. + + +She was taking out novels from the circulating library now. Not, she +explained, for her serious reading. Her serious reading, her Dante, +her Browning, her Great Man, lay always on the table ready to her hand +(beside a copy of _The Social Order_ and the _Remains_ of Hilton Frean) +while secretly and half-ashamed she played with some frivolous tale. +She was satisfied with anything that ended happily and had nothing in +it that was unpleasant, or difficult, demanding thought. She exalted +her preferences into high canons. A novel _ought_ to conform to her +requirements. A novelist (she thought of him with some asperity) had no +right to be obscure, or depressing, or to add needless unpleasantness to +the unpleasantness that had to be. The Great Men didn’t _do_ it. + +She spoke of George Eliot and Dickens and Mr. Thackeray. + +Lizzie Pierce had a provoking way of smiling at Harriett, as if she +found her ridiculous. And Harriett had no patience with Lizzie’s +affectation in wanting to be modern, her vanity in trying to be young, +her middle-aged raptures over the work--often unpleasant--of writers +too young to be worth serious consideration. They had long arguments +in which Harriett, beaten, retired behind _The Social Order_ and the +_Remains_. + +“It’s silly,” Lizzie said, “not to be able to look at a new thing +because it’s new. That’s the way you grow old.” + +“It’s sillier,” Harriett said, “to be always running after new things +because you think that’s the way to look young. I’ve no wish to appear +younger than I am.” + +“I’ve no wish to appear suffering from senile decay.” + +“There _is_ a standard.” Harriett lifted her obstinate and arrogant +chin. “You forget that I’m Hilton Frean’s daughter.” + +“I’m William Pierce’s, but that hasn’t prevented my being myself.” + +Lizzie’s mind had grown keener in her sharp middle age. As it played +about her, Harriett cowered; it was like being exposed, naked, to a +cutting wind. Her mind ran back to her father and mother, longing, like +a child, for their shelter and support, for the blessed assurance of +herself. + +At her worst she could still think with pleasure of the beauty of the +act which had given Robin to Priscilla. + + + + +X + + +“My dear Harriett: Thank you for your kind letter of sympathy. Although +we had expected the end for many weeks poor Prissie’s death came to us +as a great shock. But for her it was a blessed release, and we can only +be thankful. You who knew her will realize the depth and extent of +my bereavement. I have lost the dearest and most loving wife man ever +had....” + + +Poor little Prissie. She couldn’t bear to think she would never see her +again. + + +Six months later Robin wrote again, from Sidmouth. + + +“Dear Harriett: Priscilla left you this locket in her will as a +remembrance. I would have sent it before but that I couldn’t bear to +part with her things all at once. + +“I take this opportunity of telling you that I am going to be married +again----” + +Her heart heaved and closed. She could never have believed she could +have felt such a pang. + +“The lady is Miss Beatrice Walker, the devoted nurse who was with my +dear wife all through her last illness. This step may seem strange and +precipitate, coming so soon after her death; but I am urged to do it by +the precarious state of my own health and by the knowledge that we are +fulfilling poor Prissie’s dying wish....” + +Poor Prissie’s dying wish. After what she had done for Prissie, if she +_had_ a dying wish--But neither of them had thought of her. Robin had +forgotten her.... Forgotten.... Forgotten. + +But no. Priscilla had remembered. She had left her the locket with his +hair in it. She had remembered and she had been afraid; jealous of her. +She couldn’t bear to think that Robin might marry her, even after +she was dead. She had made him marry this Walker woman so that he +shouldn’t---- + +Oh, but he wouldn’t. Not after twenty years. + +“I didn’t really think he would.” + +She was forty-five, her face was lined and pitted and her hair was dust +color, streaked with gray: and she could only think of Robin as she had +last seen him, young: a young face; a young body; young, shining eyes. +He would want to marry a young woman. He had been in love with this +Walker woman, and Prissie had known it. She could see Prissie lying in +her bed, helpless, looking at them over the edge of the white sheet. She +had known that as soon as she was dead, before the sods closed over her +grave, they would marry. Nothing could stop them. And she had tried to +make herself believe it was her wish, her doing, not theirs. Poor little +Prissie. + +She understood that Robin had been staying in Sidmouth for his health. + +A year later, Harriett, run down, was ordered to the seaside. She went +to Sidmouth. She told herself that she wanted to see the place where she +had been so happy with her mother, where poor Aunt Harriett had died. + +Looking through the local paper she found in the list of residents: +Sidcote--Mr. and Mrs. Robert Lethbridge and Miss Walker. She wrote to +Robin and asked if she might call on his wife. + +A mile of hot road through the town and inland brought her to a door +in a lane and a thatched cottage with a little lawn behind it. From the +doorstep she could see two figures, a man and a woman, lying back in +garden chairs. Inside the house she heard the persistent, energetic +sound of hammering. The woman got up and came to her. She was young, +pink-faced and golden-haired, and she said she was Miss Walker, Mrs. +Lethbridge’s sister. + +A tall, lean, gray man rose from the garden chair, slowly, dragging +himself with an invalid air. His eyes stared, groping, blurred films +that trembled between the pouch and droop of the lids; long cheeks, +deep grooved, dropped to the infirm mouth that sagged under the limp +moustache. That was Robin. + +He became agitated when he saw her. “Poor Robin,” she thought. “All +these years, and it’s too much for him, seeing me.” Presently he dragged +himself from the lawn to the house and disappeared through the French +window where the hammering came from. + +“Have I frightened him away?” she said. + +“Oh, no, he’s always like that when he sees strange faces.” + +“My face isn’t exactly strange.” + +“Well, he must have thought it was.” + +A sudden chill crept through her. + +“He’ll be all right when he gets used to you,” Miss Walker said. + +The strange face of Miss Walker chilled her. A strange young woman, +living close to Robin, protecting him, explaining Robin’s ways. + +The sound of hammering ceased. Through the long, open window she saw a +woman rise up from the floor and shed a white apron. She came down the +lawn to them, with raised arms, patting disordered hair; large, a full, +firm figure clipped in blue linen. A full-blown face, bluish pink; thick +gray eyes slightly protruding; a thick mouth, solid and firm and kind. +That was Robin’s wife. Her sister was slighter, fresher, a good ten +years younger, Harriett thought. + +“Excuse me, we’re only just settling in. I was nailing down the carpet +in Robin’s study.” + +Her lips were so thick that they moved stiffly when she spoke or smiled. +She panted a little as if from extreme exertion. + +When they were all seated Mrs. Lethbridge addressed her sister. “Robin +was quite right. It looks _much_ better turned the other way.” + +“Do you mean to say he made you take it all up and put it down again? +Well----” + +“What’s the use?... Miss Frean, you don’t know what it is to have a +husband who _will_ have things just so.” + +“She had to mow the lawn this morning because Robin can’t bear to see +one blade of grass higher than another.” + +“Is he as particular as all that?” + +“I assure you, Miss Frean, he is,” Miss Walker informed her. + +“He wasn’t when I knew him,” Harriett said. + +“Ah--my sister spoils him.” + +Mrs. Lethbridge wondered why he hadn’t come out again. + +“I think,” Harriett said, “perhaps he’ll come if I go.” + +“Oh, you mustn’t go. It’s good for him to see people. Takes him out of +himself.” + +“He’ll turn up all right,” Miss Walker said, “when he hears the +teacups.” + +And at four o’clock when the teacups came, Robin turned up, dragging +himself slowly from the house to the lawn. He blinked and quivered with +agitation; Harriett saw he was annoyed, not with her, and not with Miss +Walker, but with his wife. + +“Beatrice, what have you done with my new bottle of medicine?” + +“Nothing, dear.” + +“You’ve done nothing, when you know you poured out my last dose at +twelve?” + +“Why, hasn’t it come?” + +“No. It hasn’t.” + +“But Cissy ordered it this morning.” + +“I didn’t,” Cissy said. “I forgot.” + +“Oh, Cissy----” + +“You needn’t blame Cissy. You ought to have seen to it yourself.... She +was a good nurse, Harriett, before she was my wife.” + +“My dear, your nurse had nothing else to do. Your wife has to clean and +mend for you, and cook your dinner and mow the lawn and nail the carpets +down.” While she said it she looked at Robin as if she adored him. + +All through tea time he talked about his health and about the sanitary +dustbin they hadn’t got. Something had happened to him. It wasn’t like +him to be wrapped up in himself and to talk about dustbins. He spoke +to his wife as if she had been his valet. He didn’t see that she was +perspiring, worn out by her struggle with the carpet. + +“Just go and fetch me another cushion, Beatrice.” + +She rose with tired patience. + +“You might let her have her tea in peace,” Miss Walker said, but she was +gone before they could stop her. + +When Harriett left she went with her to the garden gate, panting as she +walked. Harriett noticed pale, blurred lines on the edges of her lips. +She thought: She isn’t a bit strong. She praised the garden. + +Mrs. Lethbridge smiled. “Robin loves it.... But you should have seen it +at five o’clock this morning.” + +“Five o’clock?” + +“Yes. I always get up at five to make Robin a cup of tea.” + + +Harriett’s last evening. She was dining at Sidcote. On her way there she +had overtaken Robin’s wife wheeling Robin in a bath chair. Beatrice had +panted and perspired and had made mute signs to Harriett not to take any +notice. She had had to go and lie down till Robin sent for her to find +his cigarette case. Now she was in the kitchen cooking Robin’s part +of the dinner while he lay down in his study. Harriett talked to Miss +Walker in the garden. + +“It’s been very kind of you to have us so much.” + +“Oh, but we’ve loved having you. It’s so good for Beatie. Gives her a +rest from Robin.... I don’t mean that she wants a rest. But, you see, +she’s not well. She looks a big, strong, bouncing thing, but she isn’t. +Her heart’s weak. She oughtn’t to be doing what she does.” + +“Doesn’t Robin see it?” + +“He doesn’t see anything. He never knows when she’s tired or got a +headache. She’ll drop dead before he’ll see it. He’s utterly selfish, +Miss Frean. Wrapt up in himself and his horrid little ailments. Whatever +happens to Beatie he must have his sweetbread, and his soup at eleven +and his tea at five in the morning.. + +“... I suppose you think I might help more?” + +“Well----” Harriett did think it. + +“Well, I just won’t. I won’t encourage Robin. He ought to get her a +proper servant and a man for the garden and the bath chair. I wish you’d +give him a hint. Tell him she isn’t strong. I can’t. She’d snap my head +off. Would you mind?” + +Harriett didn’t mind. She didn’t mind what she said. She wouldn’t be +saying it to Robin, but to the contemptible thing that had taken Robin’s +place. She still saw Robin as a young man, with young, shining eyes, who +came rushing to give himself up at once, to make himself known. She had +no affection for this selfish invalid, this weak, peevish bully. + +Poor Beatrice. She was sorry for Beatrice. She resented his behavior +to Beatrice. She told herself she wouldn’t be Beatrice, she wouldn’t +be Robin’s wife for the world. Her pity for Beatrice gave her a secret +pleasure and satisfaction. + +After dinner she sat out in the garden talking to Robin’s wife, while +Cissy Walker played draughts with Robin in his study, giving Beatrice a +rest from him. They talked about Robin. + +“You knew him when he was young, didn’t you? What was he like?” + +She didn’t want to tell her. She wanted to keep the young, shining Robin +to herself. She also wanted to show that she had known him, that she had +known a Robin that Beatrice would never know. Therefore she told her. + +“My poor Robin.” Beatrice gazed wistfully, trying to see this Robin that +Priscilla had taken from her, that Harriett had known. Then she turned +her back. + +“It doesn’t matter. I’ve married the man I wanted.” She let herself go. +“Cissy says I’ve spoiled him. That isn’t true. It was his first wife who +spoiled him. She made a nervous wreck of him.” + +“He was devoted to her.” + +“Yes. And he’s paying for his devotion now. She wore him out.... +Cissy says he’s selfish. If he is, it’s because he’s used up all his +unselfishness. He was living on his moral capital.... I feel as if I +couldn’t do too much for him after what he did. Cissy doesn’t know how +awful his life was with Priscilla. She was the most exacting----” + +“She was my friend.” + +“Wasn’t Robin your friend, too?” + +“Yes. But poor Prissie, she was paralyzed.” + +“It wasn’t paralysis.” + +“What was it then?” + +“Pure hysteria. Robin wasn’t in love with her, and she knew it. She +developed that illness so that she might have a hold on him, get his +attention fastened on her somehow. I don’t say she could help it. She +couldn’t. But that’s what it was.” + +“Well, she died of it.” + +“No. She died of pneumonia after influenza. I’m not blaming Prissie. She +was pitiable. But he ought never to have married her.” + +“I don’t think you ought to say that.” + +“You know what he was,” said Robin’s wife. “And look at him now.” + +But Harriett’s mind refused, obstinately, to connect the two Robins and +Priscilla. + +She remembered that she had to speak to Robin. They went together into +his study. Cissy sent her a look, a signal, and rose; she stood by the +doorway. + +“Beatie, you might come here a minute.” + +Harriett was alone with Robin. + +“Well, Harriett, we haven’t been able to do much for you. In my beastly +state----” + +“You’ll get better.” + +“Never. I’m done for, Harriett. I don’t complain.” + +“You’ve got a devoted wife, Robin.” + +“Yes. Poor girl, she does what she can.” + +“She does too much.” + +“My dear woman, she wouldn’t be happy if she didn’t.” + +“It isn’t good for her. Does it never strike you that she’s not strong?” + +“Not strong? She’s--she’s almost indecently robust. What wouldn’t I give +to have her strength!” + +She looked at him, at the lean figure sunk in the armchair, at the +dragged, infirm face, the blurred, owlish eyes, the expression of abject +self-pity, of self-absorption. That was Robin. + +The awful thing was that she couldn’t love him, couldn’t go on being +faithful. This injured her self-esteem. + + + + +XI + + +Her old servant, Hannah, had gone, and her new servant, Maggie, had had +a baby. + +After the first shock and three months’ loss of Maggie, it occurred to +Harriett that the beautiful thing would be to take Maggie back and let +her have the baby with her, since she couldn’t leave it. + +The baby lay in his cradle in the kitchen, black-eyed and rosy, doubling +up his fat, naked knees, smiling his crooked smile, and saying things to +himself. Harriett had to see him every time she came into the kitchen. +Sometimes she heard him cry, an intolerable cry, tearing the nerves and +heart. And sometimes she saw Maggie unbutton her black gown in a hurry +and put out her white, rose-pointed breast to still his cry. + +Harriett couldn’t bear it. She could not bear it. + +She decided that Maggie must go. Maggie was not doing her work properly. +Harriett found flue under the bed. + +“I’m sure,” Maggie said, “I’m doing no worse than I did, ma’am, and you +usedn’t to complain.” + +“No worse isn’t good enough, Maggie. I think you might have tried +to please me. It isn’t every one who would have taken you in the +circumstances.” + +“If you think that, ma’am, it’s very cruel and unkind of you to send me +away.” + +“You’ve only yourself to thank. There’s no more to be said.” + +“No, ma’am. I understand why I’m leaving. It’s because of Baby. You +don’t want to ‘ave ‘im, and I think you might have said so before.” + +That day month Maggie packed her brown-painted wooden box and the cradle +and the perambulator. The greengrocer took them away on a handcart. +Through the drawing-room window Harriett saw Maggie going away, carrying +the baby, pink and round in his white-knitted cap, his fat hips bulging +over her arm under his white shawl. The gate fell to behind them. The +click struck at Harriett’s heart. + +Three months later Maggie turned up again in a black hat and gown for +best, red-eyed and humble. + +“I came to see, ma’am, whether you’d take me back, as I ‘aven’t got Baby +now.” + +“You haven’t got him?” + +“‘E died, ma’am, last month. I’d put him with a woman in the country. +She was highly recommended to me. Very highly recommended she was, and I +paid her six shillings a week. But I think she must ‘ave done something +she shouldn’t.” + +“Oh, Maggie, you don’t mean she was cruel to him?” + +“No, ma’am. She was very fond of him. Everybody was fond of Baby. But +whether it was the food she gave him or what, ‘e was that wasted you +wouldn’t have known him. You remember what he was like when he was +here.” + +“I remember.” + +She remembered. She remembered. Fat and round in his white shawl and +knitted cap when Maggie carried him down the garden path. + +“I should think she’d a done something, shouldn’t you, ma’am?” + +She thought: No. No. It was I who did it when I sent him away. + +“I don’t know, Maggie. I’m afraid it’s been very terrible for you.” + +“Yes, ma’am.... I wondered whether you’d give me another trial, ma’am.” + +“Are you quite sure you want to come to me, Maggie?” + +“Yes’m.... I’m sure you’d a kept him if you could have borne to see him +about.” + +“You know, Maggie, that was _not_ the reason why you left. If I take you +back you must try not to be careless and forgetful.” + +“I shan’t ‘ave nothing to make me. Before, it was first Baby’s father +and then ‘im.” + +She could see that Maggie didn’t hold her responsible. After all, why +should she? If Maggie had made bad arrangements for her baby, Maggie was +responsible. + +She went round to Lizzie and Sarah to see what they thought. Sarah +thought: Well--it was rather a difficult question, and Harriett resented +her hesitation. + +“Not at all. It rested with Maggie to go or stay. If she was incompetent +I wasn’t bound to keep her just because she’d had a baby. At that rate I +should have been completely in her power.” + +Lizzie said she thought Maggie’s baby would have died in any case, and +they both hoped that Harriett wasn’t going to be morbid about it. + +Harriett felt sustained. She wasn’t going to be morbid. All the same, +the episode left her with a feeling of insecurity. + + + + +XII + + +The young girl, Robin’s niece, had come again, bright-eyed, eager, and +hungry, grateful for Sunday supper. + +Harriett was getting used to these appearances, spread over three years, +since Robin’s wife had asked her to be kind to Mona Floyd. Mona had come +this time to tell her of her engagement to Geoffrey Carter. The news +shocked Harriett intensely. + +“But, my dear, you told me he was going to marry your little friend, +Amy--Amy Lambert. What does Amy say to it?” + +“What _can_ she say? I know it’s a bit rough on her----” + +“You know, and yet you’ll take your happiness at the poor child’s +expense.” + +“We’ve got to. We can’t do anything else.” + +“Oh, my dear----” If she could stop it.... An inspiration came. “I knew +a girl once who might have done what you’re doing, only she wouldn’t. +She gave the man up rather than hurt her friend. She _couldn’t do +anything else_.” + +“How much was he in love with her?” + +“I don’t know _how much_. He was never in love with any other woman.” + +“Then she was a fool. A silly fool. Didn’t she think of _him?_” + +“Didn’t she think!” + +“No. She didn’t. She thought of herself. Of her own moral beauty. She +was a selfish fool.” + +“She asked the best and wisest man she knew, and he told her she +couldn’t do anything else.” + +“The best and wisest man--oh, Lord!” + +“That was my own father, Mona, Hilton Frean.” + +“Then it was you. You and Uncle Robin and Aunt Prissie.” + +Harriett’s face smiled its straight, thin-lipped smile, the worn, +grooved chin arrogantly lifted. + +“How could you?” + +“I could because I was brought up not to think of myself before other +people.” + +“Then it wasn’t even your own idea. You sacrificed him to somebody +else’s. You made three people miserable just for that. Four, if you +count Aunt Beatie.” + +“There was Prissie. I did it for her.” + +“What did you do for her? You insulted Aunt Prissie.” + +“Insulted her? My dear Mona!” + +“It was an insult, handing her over to a man who couldn’t love her +even with his body. Aunt Prissie was the miserablest of the lot. Do you +suppose he didn’t take it out of her?” + +“He never let her know.” + +“Oh, didn’t he! She knew all right. That’s how she got her illness. And +it’s how he got his. And he’ll kill Aunt Beatie. He’s taking it out +of _her_ now. Look at the awful suffering. And you can go on +sentimentalizing about it.” + +The young girl rose, flinging her scarf over her shoulders with a +violent gesture. + +“There’s no common sense in it.” + +“No _common_ sense, perhaps.” + +“It’s a jolly sight better than sentiment when it comes to marrying.” + +They kissed. Mona turned at the doorway. + +“I say--did he go on caring for you?” + +“Sometimes I think he did. Sometimes I think he hated me.” + +“Of course he hated you, after what you’d let him in for.” She paused. +“You don’t _mind_ my telling you the truth, do you?” + +... Harriett sat a long time, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes +staring into the room, trying to see the truth. She saw the girl, +Robin’s niece, in her young indignation, her tender brilliance suddenly +hard, suddenly cruel, flashing out the truth. Was it true that she had +sacrificed Robin and Priscilla and Beatrice to her parents’ idea of +moral beauty? Was it true that this idea had been all wrong? That she +might have married Robin and been happy and been right? + +“I don’t care. If it was to be done again to-morrow I’d do it.” + +But the beauty of that unique act no longer appeared to her as it once +was, uplifting, consoling, incorruptible. + + +The years passed. They went with an incredible rapidity, and Harriett +was now fifty. + +The feeling of insecurity had grown on her. It had something to do with +Mona, with Maggie and Maggie’s baby. She had no clear illumination, only +a mournful acquiescence in her own futility, an almost physical sense +of shrinkage, the crumbling away, bit by bit, of her beautiful and +honorable self, dying with the objects of its three profound affections: +her father, her mother, Robin. Gradually the image of the middle-aged +Robin had effaced his youth. + +She read more and more novels from the circulating libraries, of a kind +demanding less and less effort of attention. And always her inability to +concentrate appeared to her as a just demand for clarity: “The man has +no _business_ to write so that I can’t understand him.” + +She laid in a weekly stock of opinions from _The Spectator_, and by this +means contrived a semblance of intellectual life. + +She was appeased more and more by the rhythm of the seasons, of +the weeks, of day and night, by the first coming up of the pink and +wine-brown velvet primulas, by the pungent, burnt smell of her morning +coffee, the smell of a midday stew, of hot cakes baking for tea time; by +the lighting of the lamp, the lighting of autumn fires, the round of her +visits. She waited with a strained, expectant desire for the moment when +it would be time to see Lizzie or Sarah or Connie Pennefather again. + +Seeing them was a habit she couldn’t get over. But it no longer gave +her keen pleasure. She told herself that her three friends were +deteriorating in their middle age. Lizzie’s sharp face darted malice; +her tongue was whipcord; she knew where to flick; the small gleam of +her eyes, the snap of her nutcracker jaws irritated Harriett. Sarah was +slow; slow. She took no care of her face and figure. As Lizzie put it, +Sarah’s appearance was an outrage on her contemporaries. “She makes us +feel so old.” + +And Connie--the very rucking of Connie’s coat about her broad hips +irritated Harriett. She had a way of staring over her fat cheeks at +Harriett’s old suits, mistaking them for new ones, and saying the same +exasperating thing. “You’re lucky to be able to afford it. _I_ can’t.” + +Harriett’s irritation mounted up and up. + +And one day she quarreled with Connie. + +Connie had been telling one of her stories; leaning a little sideways, +her skirt stretched tight between her fat, parted knees, the broad roll +of her smile sliding greasily. She had “grown out of it” in her young +womanhood, and now in her middle age she had come back to it again. She +was just like her father. + +“Connie, how can you be so coarse?” + +“I beg pardon. I forgot you were always better than everybody else.” + +“I’m not better than everybody else. I’ve only been brought up better +than some people. My father would have died rather than have told a +story like that.” + +“I suppose that’s a dig at my parents.” + +“I never said anything about your parents.” + +“I know the things you think about my father.” + +“Well--I daresay he thinks things about me.” + +“He thinks you were always an incurable old maid, my dear.” + +“Did he think my father was an old maid?” + +“I never heard him say one unkind word about your father.” + +“I should hope not, indeed.” + +“Unkind things were said. Not by him. Though he might have been +forgiven----” + +“I don’t know what you mean. But all my father’s creditors were paid in +full. You know that.” + +“I didn’t know it.” + +“You know it now. Was your father one of them?” + +“No. It was as bad for him as if he had been, though.” + +“How do you make that out?” + +“Well, my dear, if he hadn’t taken your father’s advice he might have +been a rich man now instead of a poor one.... He invested all his money +as he told him.” + +“In my father’s things?” + +“In things he was interested in. And he lost it.” + +“It shows how he must have trusted him.” + +“He wasn’t the only one who was ruined by his trust.” + +Harriett blinked. Her mind swerved from the blow. “I think you must be +mistaken,” she said. + +“I’m less likely to be mistaken than you, my dear, though he _was_ your +father.” + +Harriett sat up, straight and stiff. “Well, _your_ father’s alive, and +_he’s_ dead.” + +“I don’t see what that has to do with it.” + +“Don’t you? If it had happened the other way about, your father wouldn’t +have died.” + +Connie stared stupidly at Harriett, not taking it in. Presently she got +up and left her. She moved clumsily, her broad hips shaking. + +Harriett put on her hat and went round to Lizzie and Sarah in turn. +They would know whether it were true or not. They would know whether Mr. +Hancock had been ruined by his own fault or Papa’s. + +Sarah was sorry. She picked up a fold of her skirt and crumpled it in +her fingers, and said over and over again, “She oughtn’t to have told +you.” But she didn’t say it wasn’t true. Neither did Lizzie, though her +tongue was a whip for Connie. + +“Because you can’t stand her dirty stories she goes and tells you this. +It shows what Connie is.” + +It showed her father as he was, too. Not wise. Not wise all the time. +Courageous, always, loving danger, intolerant of security, wild under +all his quietness and gentleness, taking madder and madder risks, +playing his game with an awful, cool recklessness. Then letting other +people in; ruining Mr. Hancock, the little man he used to laugh at. And +it had killed him. He hadn’t been sorry for Mamma, because he knew she +was glad the mad game was over; but he had thought and thought about +him, the little dirty man, until he had died of thinking. + + + + +XIII + + +New people had come to the house next door. Harriett saw a pretty girl +going in and out. She had not called; she was not going to call. Their +cat came over the garden wall and bit off the blades of the irises. +When he sat down on the mignonette Harriett sent a note round by Maggie: +“Miss Frean presents her compliments to the lady next door and would be +glad if she would restrain her cat.” + +Five minutes later the pretty girl appeared with the cat in her arms. + +“I’ve brought Mimi,” she said. “I want you to see what a darling he is.” + +Mimi, a Persian, all orange on the top and snow white underneath, +climbed her breast to hang flattened out against her shoulder, long, +the great plume of his tail fanning her. She swung round to show the +innocence of his amber eyes and the pink arch of his mouth supporting +his pink nose. + +“I want you to see my mignonette,” said Harriett. They stood together by +the crushed ring where Mimi had made his bed. + +The pretty girl said she was sorry. “But, you see, we _can’t_ restrain +him. I don’t know what’s to be done.... Unless you kept a cat yourself; +then you won’t mind.” + +“But,” Harriett said, “I don’t like cats.” + +“Oh, why not?” + +Harriett knew why. A cat was a compromise, a substitute, a subterfuge. +Her pride couldn’t stoop. She was afraid of Mimi, of his enchanting +play, and the soft white fur of his stomach. Maggie’s baby. So she said, +“Because they destroy the beds. And they kill birds.” + +The pretty girl’s chin burrowed in Mimi’s neck. “You _won’t_ throw +stones at him?” she said. + +“No, I wouldn’t _hurt_ him.... What did you say his name was?” + +“Mimi.” + +Harriett softened. She remembered. “When I was a little girl I had a cat +called Mimi. White Angora. Very handsome. And your name is----” + +“Brailsford. I’m Dorothy.” + +Next time, when Mimi jumped on the lupins and broke them down, Dorothy +came again and said she was sorry. And she stayed to tea. Harriett +revealed herself. + +“My father was Hilton Frean.” She had noticed for the last fifteen years +that people showed no interest when she told them that. They even stared +as though she had said something that had no sense in it. Dorothy said, +“How nice.” + +_“Nice?”_ + +“I mean it must have been nice to have him for your father.... You don’t +mind my coming into your garden last thing to catch Mimi?” + +Harriett felt a sudden yearning for Dorothy. She saw a pleasure, a +happiness, in her coming. She wasn’t going to call, but she sent little +notes in to Dorothy asking her to come to tea. + +Dorothy declined. + +But every evening, towards bedtime, she came into the garden to catch +Mimi. Through the window Harriett could hear her calling: “Mimi! Mimi!” + She could see her in her white frock, moving about, hovering, ready to +pounce as Mimi dashed from the bushes. She thought: “She walks into my +garden as if it was her own. But she won’t make a friend of me. She’s +young, and I’m old.” + +She had a piece of wire netting put up along the wall to keep Mimi out. + +“That’s the end of it,” she said. She could never think of the young +girl without a pang of sadness and resentment. + + +Fifty-five. Sixty. + +In her sixty-second year Harriett had her first bad illness. + +It was so like Sarah Barmby. Sarah got influenza and regarded it as a +common cold and gave it to Harriett who regarded it as a common cold and +got pleurisy. + +When the pain was over she enjoyed her illness, the peace and rest +of lying there, supported by the bed, holding out her lean arms to be +washed by Maggie; closing her eyes in bliss while Maggie combed and +brushed and plaited her fine gray hair. She liked having the same food +at the same hours. She would look up, smiling weakly, when Maggie +came at bedtime with the little tray. “What have you brought me _now_, +Maggie?” + +“Benger’s Food, ma’am.” + +She wanted it to be always Benger’s Food at bedtime. She lived by habit, +by the punctual fulfillment of her expectation. She loved the doctor’s +visits at twelve o’clock, his air of brooding absorption in her case, +his consultations with Maggie, the seriousness and sanctity he attached +to the humblest details of her existence. + +Above all she loved the comfort and protection of Maggie, the sight of +Maggie’s broad, tender face as it bent over her, the feeling of Maggie’s +strong arms as they supported her, the hovering pressure of the firm, +broad body in the clean white apron and the cap. Her eyes rested on it +with affection; she found shelter in Maggie as she had found it in her +mother. + +One day she said, “Why did you come to me, Maggie? Couldn’t you have +found a better place?” + +“There was many wanted me. But I came to you, ma’am, because you seemed +to sort of need me most. I dearly love looking after people. Old ladies +and children. And gentlemen, if they’re ill enough,” Maggie said. + +“You’re a good girl, Maggie.” + +She had forgotten. The image of Maggie’s baby was dead, hidden, buried +deep down in her mind. She closed her eyes. Her head was thrown back, +motionless, ecstatic under Maggie’s flickering fingers as they plaited +her thin wisps of hair. + +Out of the peace of illness she entered on the misery and long labor of +convalescence. The first time Maggie left her to dress herself she wept. +She didn’t want to get well. She could see nothing in recovery but the +end of privilege and prestige, the obligation to return to a task she +was tired of, a difficult and terrifying task. + +By summer she was up and (tremulously) about again. + + + + +XIV + + +She was aware of her drowsy, supine dependence on Maggie. At first her +perishing self asserted itself in an increased reserve and arrogance. +Thus she protected herself from her own censure. She had still a feeling +of satisfaction in her exclusiveness, her power not to call on new +people. + +“I think,” Lizzie Pierce said, “you might have called on the +Brailsfords.” + +“Why should I? I should have nothing in common with such people.” + +“Well, considering that Mr. Brailsford writes in _The Spectator_----” + +Harriett called. She put on her gray silk and her soft white mohair +shawl, and her wide black hat tied under her chin, and called. It was on +a Saturday. The Brailsfords’ room was full of visitors, men and women, +talking excitedly. Dorothy was not there--Dorothy was married. Mimi was +not there--Mimi was dead. + +Harriett made her way between the chairs, dim-eyed, upright, and stiff +in her white shawl. She apologized for having waited seven years before +calling.... “Never go anywhere.... Quite a recluse since my father’s +death. He was Hilton Frean.” + +“Yes?” Mrs. Brailsford’s eyes were sweetly interrogative. + +“But as we are such near neighbors I felt that I must break my rule.” + +Mrs. Brailsford smiled in vague benevolence; yet as if she thought that +Miss Frean’s feeling and her action were unnecessary. After seven years. +And presently Harriett found herself alone in her corner. + +She tried to talk to Mr. Brailsford when he handed her the tea and bread +and butter. “My father,” she said, “was connected with _The Spectator_ +for many years. He was Hilton Frean.” + +“Indeed? I’m afraid I--don’t remember.” + +She could get nothing out of him, out of his lean, ironical face, his +eyes screwed up behind his glasses, benevolent, amused at her. She was +nobody in that roomful of keen, intellectual people; nobody; nothing but +an unnecessary little old lady who had come there uninvited. + +Her second call was not returned. She heard that the Brailsfords were +exclusive; they wouldn’t know anybody out of their own set. Harriett +explained her position thus: “No. I didn’t keep it up. We have nothing +in common.” + +She was old--old. She had nothing in common with youth, nothing in +common with middle age, with intellectual, exclusive people connected +with _The Spectator_. She said, “_The Spectator_ is not what it used to +be in my father’s time.” + + +Harriett Frean was not what she used to be. She was aware of the +creeping fret, the poisons and obstructions of decay. It was as if she +had parted with her own light, elastic body, and succeeded to somebody +else’s that was all bone, heavy, stiff, irresponsive to her will. Her +brain felt swollen and brittle, she had a feeling of tiredness in her +face, of infirmity about her mouth. Her looking-glass showed her the +fallen yellow skin, the furrowed lines of age. + +Her head dropped, drowsy, giddy over the week’s accounts. She gave up +even the semblance of her housekeeping, and became permanently dependent +on Maggie. She was happy in the surrender of her responsibility, of +the grown-up self she had maintained with so much effort, clinging to +Maggie, submitting to Maggie, as she had clung and submitted to her +mother. + +Her affection concentrated on two objects, the house and Maggie, Maggie +and the house. The house had become a part of herself, an extension +of her body, a protective shell. She was uneasy when away from it. +The thought of it drew her with passion: the low brown wall with the +railing, the flagged path from the little green gate to the front +door. The square brown front; the two oblong, white-framed windows, +the dark-green trellis porch between; the three windows above. And the +clipped privet bush by the trellis and the may tree by the gate. + +She no longer enjoyed visiting her friends. She set out in peevish +resignation, leaving her house, and when she had sat half an hour with +Lizzie or Sarah or Connie she would begin to fidget, miserable till she +got back to it again; to the house and Maggie. + +She was glad enough when Lizzie came to her; she still liked Lizzie +best. They would sit together, one on each side of the fireplace, +talking. Harriett’s voice came thinly through her thin lips, precise yet +plaintive, Lizzie’s finished with a snap of the bent-in jaws. + +“Do you remember those little round hats we used to wear? You had one +exactly like mine. Connie couldn’t wear them.” + +“We were wild young things,” said Lizzie. “I was wilder than you.... A +little audacious thing.” + +“And look at us now--we couldn’t say ‘Bo’ to a goose.... Well, we may be +thankful we haven’t gone stout like Connie Pennefather.” + +“Or poor Sarah. That stoop.” + +They drew themselves up. Their straight, slender shoulders rebuked +Connie’s obesity, and Sarah’s bent back, her bodice stretched hump-wise +from the stuck-out ridges of her stays. + +Harriett was glad when Lizzie went and left her to Maggie and the house. +She always hoped she wouldn’t stay for tea, so that Maggie might not +have an extra cup and plate to wash. + +The years passed: the sixty-third, sixty-fourth, sixty-fifth; their +monotony mitigated by long spells of torpor and the sheer rapidity of +time. Her mind was carried on, empty, in empty, flying time. She had +a feeling of dryness and distension in all her being, and a sort of +crepitation in her brain, irritating her to yawning fits. After meals, +sitting in her armchair, her book would drop from her hands and her mind +would slip from drowsiness into stupor. There was something voluptuous +about the beginning of this state; she would give herself up to it with +an animal pleasure and content. + +Sometimes, for long periods, her mind would go backwards, returning, +always returning, to the house in Black’s Lane. She would see the row of +elms and the white wall at the end with the green balcony hung out like +a birdcage above the green door. She would see herself, a girl wearing +a big chignon and a little round hat; or sitting in the curly chair with +her feet on the white rug; and her father, slender and straight, smiling +half-amused, while her mother read aloud to them. Or she was a child in +a black silk apron going up Black’s Lane. Little audacious thing. She +had a fondness and admiration for this child and her audacity. And +always she saw her mother, with her sweet face between the long, hanging +curls, coming down the garden path, in a wide silver-gray gown trimmed +with narrow bands of black velvet. And she would wake up, surprised to +find herself sitting in a strange room, dressed in a gown with strange +sleeves that ended in old wrinkled hands; for the book that lay in her +lap was Longfellow, open at _Evangeline_. + +One day she made Maggie pull off the old, washed-out cretonne covers, +exposing the faded blue rep. She was back in the drawing-room of her +youth. Only one thing was missing. She went upstairs and took the blue +egg out of the spare room and set it in its place on the marble-topped +table. She sat gazing at it a long time in happy, child-like +satisfaction. The blue egg gave reality to her return. + +When she saw Maggie coming in with the tea and buttered scones she +thought of her mother. + + +Three more years. Harriett was sixty-eight. She had a faint recollection +of having given Maggie notice, long ago, there, in the dining room. +Maggie had stood on the hearthrug, in her large white apron, crying. She +was crying now. + +She said she must leave and go and take care of her mother. “Mother’s +getting very feeble now.” + +“I’m getting very feeble, too, Maggie. It’s cruel and unkind of you to +leave me.” + +“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t help it.” + +She moved about the room, sniffing and sobbing as she dusted. Harriett +couldn’t bear it any more. “If you can’t control yourself,” she said, +“go into the kitchen.” Maggie went. + +Harriett sat before the fire in her chair, straight and stiff, making no +sound. Now and then her eyelids shook, fluttered red rims; slow, scanty +tears oozed and fell, their trail glistening in the long furrows of her +cheeks. + + + + +XV + + +The door of the specialist’s house had shut behind them with a soft, +respectful click. + +Lizzie Pierce and Harriett sat in the taxicab, holding each other’s +hands. Harriett spoke. + +“He says I’ve got what Mamma had.” + +Lizzie blinked away her tears; her hand loosened and tightened on +Harriett’s with a nervous clutch. + +Harriett felt nothing but a strange, solemn excitement and exaltation. +She was raised to her mother’s eminence in pain. With every stab she +would live again in her mother. She had what her mother had. + +Only she would have an operation. This different thing was what she +dreaded, the thing her mother hadn’t had, and the going away into the +hospital, to live exposed in the free ward among other people. That was +what she minded most. That and leaving her house, and Maggie’s leaving. + +She cried when she saw Maggie standing at the gate in her white apron +as the taxicab took her away. She thought, “When I come back again she +won’t be there.” Yet somehow she felt that it wouldn’t happen; it was +impossible that she should come back and not find Maggie there. + + +She lay in her white bed in the white-curtained cubicle. Lizzie was +paying for the cubicle. Kind Lizzie. Kind. Kind. + +She wasn’t afraid of the operation. It would happen in the morning. +Only one thing worried her. Something Connie had told her. Under the +anæsthetic you said things. Shocking, indecent things. But there wasn’t +anything she could say. She didn’t know anything.... Yes. She did. There +were Connie’s stories. And Black’s Lane. Behind the dirty blue palings +in Black’s Lane. + +The nurses comforted her. They said if you kept your mouth tight shut, +up to the last minute before the operation, if you didn’t say one word +you were all right. + +She thought about it after she woke in the morning. For a whole hour +before the operation she refused to speak, nodding and shaking her head, +communicating by gestures. She walked down the wide corridor of the ward +on her way to the theatre, very upright in her white flannel dressing +gown, with her chin held high and a look of exaltation on her face. +There were convalescents in the corridor. They saw her. The curtains +before some of the cubicles were parted; the patients saw her; they knew +what she was going to. Her exaltation mounted. + +She came into the theatre. It was all white. White. White tiles. Rows +of little slender knives on a glass shelf, under glass, shining. A white +sink in the corner. A mixed smell of iodine and ether. The surgeon wore +a white coat. Harriett made her tight lips tighter. + +She climbed on to the white enamel table, and lay down, drawing her +dressing gown straight about her knees. She had not said one word. + + * * * * * + +She had behaved beautifully. + + +The pain in her body came up, wave after wave, burning. It swelled, +tightening, stretching out her wounded flesh. + +She knew that the little man they called the doctor was really Mr. +Hancock. They oughtn’t to have let him in. She cried out. “Take him +away. Don’t let him touch me;” but nobody took any notice. + +“It isn’t right,” she said. “He oughtn’t to do it. Not to _any_ woman. +If it was known he would be punished.” + +And there was Maggie by the curtain, crying. + +“That’s Maggie. She’s crying because she thinks I killed her baby.” + +The ice bag laid across her body stirred like a live thing as the ice +melted, then it settled and was still. She put her hand down and felt +the smooth, cold oilskin distended with water. + +“There’s a dead baby in the bed. Red hair. They ought to have taken it +away,” she said. “Maggie had a baby once. She took it up the lane to the +place where the man is; and they put it behind the palings. Dirty blue +palings. + +“...Pussycat. Pussycat, what did you there? Pussy. Prissie. Prissiecat. +Poor Prissie. She never goes to bed. She can’t get up out of the chair.” + +A figure in white, with a stiff white cap, stood by the bed. She named +it, fixed it in her mind. Nurse. Nurse--that was what it was. She spoke +to it. “It’s sad--sad to go through so much pain and then to have a dead +baby.” + + +The white curtain walls of the cubicle contracted, closed in on her. +She was lying at the bottom of her white-curtained nursery cot. She felt +weak and diminished, small, like a very little child. + +The front curtains parted, showing the blond light of the corridor +beyond. She saw the nursery door open and the light from the candle +moved across the ceiling. The gap was filled by the heavy form, the +obscene yet sorrowful face of Connie Pennefather. + +Harriett looked at it. She smiled with a sudden ecstatic wonder and +recognition. + +“Mamma----” + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND DEATH OF HARRIETT FREAN *** + +***** This file should be named 9298-0.txt or 9298-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/9/2/9/9298/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Life and Death of Harriett Frean</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: May Sinclair</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 18, 2003 [eBook #9298]<br /> +[Most recently updated: January 19, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Suzanne Shell, Richard Prairie, David Widger and PG Distributed Proofreaders</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND DEATH OF HARRIETT FREAN ***</div> + + <h1> + Life and Death of Harriett Frean + </h1> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + + <h2 class="no-break"> + By May Sinclair + </h2> + + <hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XV </a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a> + I + </h2> + +<p class="poem"> + +“Pussycat, Pussycat, where have you been?”<br /> +“I’ve been to London, to see the Queen.”<br /> +“Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there?”<br /> +“I caught a little mouse under the chair,” + +</p> + <p> + Her mother said it three times. And each time the Baby Harriett laughed. + The sound of her laugh was so funny that she laughed again at that; she + kept on laughing, with shriller and shriller squeals. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder why she thinks it’s funny,” her mother said. + </p> + <p> + Her father considered it. “I don’t know. The cat perhaps. The cat and the + Queen. But no; that isn’t funny.” + </p> + <p> + “She sees something in it we don’t see, bless her,” said her mother. + </p> + <p> + Each kissed her in turn, and the Baby Harriett stopped laughing suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma, <i>did</i> Pussycat see the Queen?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Mamma. “Just when the Queen was passing the little mouse came + out of its hole and ran under the chair. That’s what Pussycat saw.” + </p> + <p> + Every evening before bedtime she said the same rhyme, and Harriett asked + the same question. + </p> + <p> + When Nurse had gone she would lie still in her cot, waiting. The door + would open, the big pointed shadow would move over the ceiling, the + lattice shadow of the fireguard would fade and go away, and Mamma would + come in carrying the lighted candle. Her face shone white between her + long, hanging curls. She would stoop over the cot and lift Harriett up, + and her face would be hidden in curls. That was the kiss-me-to-sleep kiss. + And when she had gone Harriett lay still again, waiting. Presently Papa + would come in, large and dark in the firelight. He stooped and she leapt + up into his arms. That was the kiss-me-awake kiss; it was their secret. + </p> + <p> + Then they played. Papa was the Pussycat and she was the little mouse in + her hole under the bed-clothes. They played till Papa said, “<i>No</i> + more!” and tucked the blankets tight in. + </p> + <p> + “Now you’re kissing like Mamma——” + </p> + <p> + Hours afterwards they would come again together and stoop over the cot and + she wouldn’t see them; they would kiss her with soft, light kisses, and + she wouldn’t know. + </p> + <p> + She thought: To-night I’ll stay awake and see them. But she never did. + Only once she dreamed that she heard footsteps and saw the lighted candle, + going out of the room; going, going away. + </p> + <p> + The blue egg stood on the marble top of the cabinet where you could see it + from everywhere; it was supported by a gold waistband, by gold hoops and + gold legs, and it wore a gold ball with a frill round it like a crown. You + would never have guessed what was inside it. You touched a spring in its + waistband and it flew open, and then it was a workbox. Gold scissors and + thimble and stiletto sitting up in holes cut in white velvet. + </p> + <p> + The blue egg was the first thing she thought of when she came into the + room. There was nothing like that in Connie Hancock’s Papa’s house. It + belonged to Mamma. + </p> + <p> + Harriett thought: If only she could have a birthday and wake up and find + that the blue egg belonged to <i>her</i>—— + </p> + <p> + Ida, the wax doll, sat on the drawing-room sofa, dressed ready for the + birthday. The darling had real person’s eyes made of glass, and real + eyelashes and hair. Little finger and toenails were marked in the wax, and + she smelt of the lavender her clothes were laid in. + </p> + <p> + But Emily, the new birthday doll, smelt of composition and of gum and hay; + she had flat, painted hair and eyes, and a foolish look on her face, like + Nurse’s aunt, Mrs. Spinker, when she said “Lawk-a-daisy!” Although Papa + had given her Emily, she could never feel for her the real, loving love + she felt for Ida. + </p> + <p> + And her mother had told her that she must lend Ida to Connie Hancock if + Connie wanted her. + </p> + <p> + Mamma couldn’t see that such a thing was not possible. + </p> + <p> + “My darling, you mustn’t be selfish. You must do what your little guest + wants.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t.” + </p> + <p> + But she had to; and she was sent out of the room because she cried. It was + much nicer upstairs in the nursery with Mimi, the Angora cat. Mimi knew + that something sorrowful had happened. He sat still, just lifting the root + of his tail as you stroked him. If only she could have stayed there with + Mimi; but in the end she had to go back to the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + If only she could have told Mamma what it felt like to see Connie with Ida + in her arms, squeezing her tight to her chest and patting her as if Ida + had been <i>her</i> child. She kept on saying to herself that Mamma didn’t + know; she didn’t know what she had done. And when it was all over she took + the wax doll and put her in the long narrow box she had come in, and + buried her in the bottom drawer in the spare-room wardrobe. She thought: + If I can’t have her to myself I won’t have her at all. I’ve got Emily. I + shall just have to pretend she’s not an idiot. + </p> + <p> + She pretended Ida was dead; lying in her pasteboard coffin and buried in + the wardrobe cemetery. + </p> + <p> + It was hard work pretending that Emily didn’t look like Mrs. Spinker. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a> + II + </h2> + <p> + She had a belief that her father’s house was nicer than other people’s + houses. It stood off from the high road, in Black’s Lane, at the head of + the town. You came to it by a row of tall elms standing up along Mr. + Hancock’s wall. Behind the last tree its slender white end went straight + up from the pavement, hanging out a green balcony like a bird cage above + the green door. + </p> + <p> + The lane turned sharp there and went on, and the long brown garden wall + went with it. Behind the wall the lawn flowed down from the white house + and the green veranda to the cedar tree at the bottom. Beyond the lawn was + the kitchen garden, and beyond the kitchen garden the orchard; little + crippled apple trees bending down in the long grass. + </p> + <p> + She was glad to come back to the house after the walk with Eliza, the + nurse, or Annie, the housemaid; to go through all the rooms looking for + Mimi; looking for Mamma, telling her what had happened. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma, the red-haired woman in the sweetie shop has got a little baby, + and its hair’s red, too.... Some day I shall have a little baby. I shall + dress him in a long gown——-” + </p> + <p> + “Robe.” + </p> + <p> + “Robe, with bands of lace all down it, as long as <i>that</i>; and a white + christening cloak sewn with white roses. Won’t he look sweet?” + </p> + <p> + “Very sweet.” + </p> + <p> + “He shall have lots of hair. I shan’t love him if he hasn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you will.” + </p> + <p> + “No. He must have thick, flossy hair like Mimi, so that I can stroke him. + Which would you rather have, a little girl or a little boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—what do you think——?” + </p> + <p> + “I think—perhaps I’d rather have a little girl.” + </p> + <p> + She would be like Mamma, and her little girl would be like herself. She + couldn’t think of it any other way. + </p> + <p> + The school-treat was held in Mr. Hancock’s field. All afternoon she had + been with the children, playing Oranges and lemons, A ring, a ring of + roses, and Here we come gathering nuts in May, <i>nuts</i> in May, <i>nuts</i> + in May: over and over again. And she had helped her mother to hand cake + and buns at the infants’ table. + </p> + <p> + The guest-children’s tea was served last of all, up on the lawn under the + immense, brown brick, many windowed house. There wasn’t room for everybody + at the table, so the girls sat down first and the boys waited for their + turn. Some of them were pushing and snatching. + </p> + <p> + She knew what she would have. She would begin with a bun, and go on + through two sorts of jam to Madeira cake, and end with raspberries and + cream. Or perhaps it would be safer to begin with raspberries and cream. + She kept her face very still, so as not to look greedy, and tried not to + stare at the Madeira cake lest people should see she was thinking of it. + Mrs. Hancock had given her somebody else’s crumby plate. She thought: I’m + not greedy. I’m really and truly hungry. She could draw herself in at the + waist with a flat, exhausted feeling, like the two ends of a concertina + coming together. + </p> + <p> + She was doing this when she saw her mother standing on the other side of + the table, looking at her and making signs. + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve finished, Hatty, you’d better get up and let that little boy + have something.” + </p> + <p> + They were all turning round and looking at her. And there was the crumby + plate before her. They were thinking: “That greedy little girl has gone on + and on eating.” She got up suddenly, not speaking, and left the table, the + Madeira cake and the raspberries and cream. She could feel her skin all + hot and wet with shame. + </p> + <p> + And now she was sitting up in the drawing-room at home. Her mother had + brought her a piece of seed-cake and a cup of milk with the cream on it. + Mamma’s soft eyes kissed her as they watched her eating her cake with + short crumbly bites, like a little cat. Mamma’s eyes made her feel so + good, so good. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you tell me you hadn’t finished?” + </p> + <p> + “Finished? I hadn’t even begun.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h, darling, why didn’t you <i>tell</i> me?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I—I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m glad my little girl didn’t snatch and push. It’s better to go + without than to take from other people. That’s ugly.” + </p> + <p> + Ugly. Being naughty was just that. Doing ugly things. Being good was being + beautiful like Mamma. She wanted to be like her mother. Sitting up there + and being good felt delicious. And the smooth cream with the milk running + under it, thin and cold, was delicious too. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a thought came rushing at her. There was God and there was Jesus. + But even God and Jesus were not more beautiful than Mamma. They couldn’t + be. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t say things like that, Hatty; you mustn’t, really. It might + make something happen.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, it won’t. You don’t suppose they’re listening all the time.” + </p> + <p> + Saying things like that made you feel good and at the same time naughty, + which was more exciting than only being one or the other. But Mamma’s + frightened face spoiled it. What did she think—what did she think + God would do? + </p> + <p> + Red campion—— + </p> + <p> + At the bottom of the orchard a door in the wall opened into Black’s Lane, + below the three tall elms. + </p> + <p> + She couldn’t believe she was really walking there by herself. It had come + all of a sudden, the thought that she <i>must</i> do it, that she <i>must</i> + go out into the lane; and when she found the door unlatched, something + seemed to take hold of her and push her out. She was forbidden to go into + Black’s Lane; she was not even allowed to walk there with Annie. + </p> + <p> + She kept on saying to herself: “I’m in the lane. I’m in the lane. I’m + disobeying Mamma.” + </p> + <p> + Nothing could undo that. She had disobeyed by just standing outside the + orchard door. Disobedience was such a big and awful thing that it was + waste not to do something big and awful with it. So she went on, up and + up, past the three tall elms. She was a big girl, wearing black silk + aprons and learning French. Walking by herself. When she arched her back + and stuck her stomach out she felt like a tall lady in a crinoline and + shawl. She swung her hips and made her skirts fly out. That was her + grown-up crinoline, swing-swinging as she went. + </p> + <p> + At the turn the cow’s parsley and rose campion began; on each side a long + trail of white froth with the red tops of the campion pricking through. + She made herself a nosegay. + </p> + <p> + Past the second turn you came to the waste ground covered with old boots + and rusted, crumpled tins. The little dirty brown house stood there behind + the rickety blue palings; narrow, like the piece of a house that has been + cut in two. It hid, stooping under the ivy bush on its roof. It was not + like the houses people live in; there was something queer, some secret, + frightening thing about it. + </p> + <p> + The man came out and went to the gate and stood there. <i>He</i> was the + frightening thing. When he saw her he stepped back and crouched behind the + palings, ready to jump out. + </p> + <p> + She turned slowly, as if she had thought of something. She mustn’t run. + She must <i>not</i> run. If she ran he would come after her. + </p> + <p> + Her mother was coming down the garden walk, tall and beautiful in her + silver-gray gown with the bands of black velvet on the flounces and the + sleeves; her wide, hooped skirts swung, brushing the flower borders. + </p> + <p> + She ran up to her, crying, “Mamma, I went up the lane where you told me + not to.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Hatty, no; you didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + You could see she wasn’t angry. She was frightened. + </p> + <p> + “I did. I did.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother took the bunch of flowers out of her hand and looked at it. + “Yes,” she said, “that’s where the dark-red campion grows.” + </p> + <p> + She was holding the flowers up to her face. It was awful, for you could + see her mouth thicken and redden over its edges and shake. She hid it + behind the flowers. And somehow you knew it wasn’t your naughtiness that + made her cry. There was something more. + </p> + <p> + She was saying in a thick, soft voice, “It was wrong of you, my darling.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she bent her tall straightness. “Rose campion,” she said, parting + the stems with her long, thin fingers. “Look, Hatty, how <i>beautiful</i> + they are. Run away and put the poor things in water.” + </p> + <p> + She was so quiet, so quiet, and her quietness hurt far more than if she + had been angry. + </p> + <p> + She must have gone straight back into the house to Papa. Harriett knew, + because he sent for her. He was quiet, too.... That was the little, hiding + voice he told you secrets in.... She stood close up to him, between his + knees, and his arm went loosely round her to keep her there while he + looked into her eyes. You could smell tobacco, and the queer, clean man’s + smell that came up out of him from his collar. He wasn’t smiling; but + somehow his eyes looked kinder than if they had smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you do it, Hatty?” + </p> + <p> + “Because—I wanted to see what it would feel like.” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t do it again. Do you hear?—you mustn’t do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Because it makes your mother unhappy. That’s enough why.” + </p> + <p> + But there was something more. Mamma had been frightened. Something to do + with the frightening man in the lane. + </p> + <p> + “Why does it make her?” + </p> + <p> + She knew; she knew; but she wanted to see what he would say. + </p> + <p> + “I said that was enough.... Do you know what you’ve been guilty of?” + </p> + <p> + “Disobedience.” + </p> + <p> + “More than that. Breaking trust. Meanness. It was mean and dishonorable of + you when you knew you wouldn’t be punished.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t there to be a punishment?” + </p> + <p> + “No. People are punished to make them remember. We want you to forget.” + His arm tightened, drawing her closer. And the kind, secret voice went on. + “Forget ugly things. Understand, Hatty, nothing is forbidden. We don’t + forbid, because we trust you to do what we wish. To behave beautifully.... + There, there.” + </p> + <p> + She hid her face on his breast against his tickly coat, and cried. + </p> + <p> + She would always have to do what they wanted; the unhappiness of not doing + it was more than she could bear. All very well to say there would be no + punishment; <i>their</i> unhappiness was the punishment. + </p> + <p> + It hurt more than anything. It kept on hurting when she thought about it. + </p> + <p> + The first minute of to-morrow she would begin behaving beautifully; as + beautifully as she could. They wanted you to; they wanted it more than + anything because they were so beautiful. So good. So wise. + </p> + <p> + But three years went before Harriett understood how wise they had been, + and why her mother took her again and again into Black’s Lane to pick red + campion, so that it was always the red campion she remembered. They must + have known all the time about Black’s Lane; Annie, the housemaid, used to + say it was a bad place; something had happened to a little girl there. + Annie hushed and reddened and wouldn’t tell you what it was. Then one day, + when she was thirteen, standing by the apple tree, Connie Hancock told + her. A secret... Behind the dirty blue palings... She shut her eyes, + squeezing the lids down, frightened. But when she thought of the lane she + could see nothing but the green banks, the three tall elms, and the red + campion pricking through the white froth of the cow’s parsley; her mother + stood on the garden walk in her wide, swinging gown; she was holding the + red and white flowers up to her face and saying, “Look, how <i>beautiful</i> + they are.” + </p> + <p> + She saw her all the time while Connie was telling her the secret. She + wanted to get up and go to her. Connie knew what it meant when you + stiffened suddenly and made yourself tall and cold and silent. The cold + silence would frighten her and she would go away. Then, Harriett thought, + she could get back to her mother and Longfellow. + </p> + <p> + Every afternoon, through the hours before her father came home, she sat in + the cool, green-lighted drawing-room reading <i>Evangeline</i> aloud to + her mother. When they came to the beautiful places they looked at each + other and smiled. + </p> + <p> + She passed through her fourteenth year sedately, to the sound of <i>Evangeline</i>. + Her upright body, her lifted, delicately obstinate, rather wistful face + expressed her small, conscious determination to be good. She was silent + with emotion when Mrs. Hancock told her she was growing like her mother. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a> + III + </h2> + <p> + Connie Hancock was her friend. + </p> + <p> + She had once been a slender, wide-mouthed child, top-heavy with her damp + clumps of hair. Now she was squaring and thickening and looking horrid, + like Mr. Hancock. Beside her Harriett felt tall and elegant and slender. + </p> + <p> + Mamma didn’t know what Connie was really like; it was one of those things + you couldn’t tell her. She said Connie would grow out of it. Meanwhile you + could see <i>he</i> wouldn’t. Mr. Hancock had red whiskers, and his face + squatted down in his collar, instead of rising nobly up out of it like + Papa’s. It looked as if it was thinking things that made its eyes bulge + and its mouth curl over and slide like a drawn loop. When you talked about + Mr. Hancock, Papa gave a funny laugh as if he was something improper. He + said Connie ought to have red whiskers. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hancock, Connie’s mother, was Mamma’s dearest friend. That was why + there had always been Connie. She could remember her, squirming and + spluttering in her high nursery chair. And there had always been Mrs. + Hancock, refined and mournful, looking at you with gentle, disappointed + eyes. + </p> + <p> + She was glad that Connie hadn’t been sent to her boarding-school, so that + nothing could come between her and Priscilla Heaven. + </p> + <p> + Priscilla was her real friend. + </p> + <p> + It had begun in her third term, when Priscilla first came to the school, + unhappy and shy, afraid of the new faces. Harriett took her to her room. + </p> + <p> + She was thin, thin, in her shabby black velvet jacket. She stood looking + at herself in the greenish glass over the yellow-painted chest of drawers. + Her heavy black hair had dragged the net and broken it. She put up her + thin arms, helpless. + </p> + <p> + “They’ll never keep me,” she said. “I’m so untidy.” + </p> + <p> + “It wants more pins,” said Harriett. “Ever so many more pins. If you put + them in head downwards they’ll fall out. I’ll show you.” + </p> + <p> + Priscilla trembled with joy when Harriett asked her to walk with her; she + had been afraid of her at first because she behaved so beautifully. + </p> + <p> + Soon they were always together. They sat side by side at the dinner table + and in school, black head and golden brown leaning to each other over the + same book; they walked side by side in the packed procession, going two by + two. They slept in the same room, the two white beds drawn close together; + a white dimity curtain hung between; they drew it back so that they could + see each other lying there in the summer dusk and in the clear mornings + when they waked. + </p> + <p> + Harriett loved Priscilla’s odd, dusk-white face; her long hound’s nose, + seeking; her wide mouth, restless between her shallow, fragile jaws; her + eyes, black, cleared with spots of jade gray, prominent, showing white + rims when she was startled. She started at sudden noises; she quivered and + stared when you caught her dreaming; she cried when the organ burst out + triumphantly in church. You had to take care every minute that you didn’t + hurt her. + </p> + <p> + She cried when term ended and she had to go home. Priscilla’s home was + horrible. Her father drank, her mother fretted; they were poor; a rich + aunt paid for her schooling. + </p> + <p> + When the last midsummer holidays came she spent them with Harriett. + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h-h!” Prissie drew in her breath when she heard they were to sleep + together in the big bed in the spare room. She went about looking at + things, curious, touching them softly as if they were sacred. She loved + the two rough-coated china lambs on the chimney-piece, and “Oh—the + dear little china boxes with the flowers sitting up on them.” + </p> + <p> + But when the bell rang she stood quivering in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid of your father and mother, Hatty. They won’t like me. I <i>know</i> + they won’t like me.” + </p> + <p> + “They will. They’ll love you,” Hatty said. + </p> + <p> + And they did. They were sorry for the little white-faced, palpitating + thing. + </p> + <p> + It was their last night. Priscilla wasn’t going back to school again. Her + aunt, she said, was only paying for a year. They lay together in the big + bed, dim, face to face, talking. + </p> + <p> + “Hatty—if you wanted to do something most awfully, more than + anything else in the world, and it was wrong, would you be able not to do + it?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so. I <i>think</i> I would, because I’d know if I did it would + make Papa and Mamma unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but suppose it was giving up something you wanted, something you + loved more than them—could you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. If it was wrong for me to have it. And I couldn’t love anything more + than them.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you did, you’d give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d have to.” + </p> + <p> + “Hatty—I couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, <i>you</i> could if <i>I</i> could.” + </p> + <p> + “No. No....” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know you couldn’t?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I haven’t. I—I oughtn’t to have gone on staying here. My + father’s ill. They wanted me to go to them and I wouldn’t go.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Prissie——” + </p> + <p> + “There, you see. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I was so happy here with you. + I couldn’t give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “If your father had been like Papa you would have.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’d do anything for <i>him</i>, because he’s your father. It’s you I + couldn’t give up.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll have to some day.” + </p> + <p> + “When—when?” + </p> + <p> + “When somebody else comes. When you’re married.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never marry. Never. I shall never want anybody but you. If we + could always be together.... I can’t think <i>why</i> people marry, + Hatty.” + </p> + <p> + “Still,” Hatty said, “they do.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s because they haven’t ever cared as you and me care.... Hatty, if I + don’t marry anybody, <i>you</i> won’t, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not thinking of marrying anybody.” + </p> + <p> + “No. But promise, promise on your honor you won’t ever.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather not <i>promise</i>. You see, I might. I shall love you all the + same, Priscilla, all my life.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you won’t. It’ll all be different. I love you more than you love me. + But I shall love you all my life and it won’t be different. I shall never + marry.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I shan’t, either,” Harriett said. + </p> + <p> + They exchanged gifts. Harriett gave Priscilla a rosewood writing desk + inlaid with mother-o’-pearl, and Priscilla gave Harriett a + pocket-handkerchief case she had made herself of fine gray canvas + embroidered with blue flowers like a sampler and lined with blue and white + plaid silk. On the top part you read “Pocket handkerchiefs” in blue + lettering, and on the bottom “Harriett Frean,” and, tucked away in one + corner, “Priscilla Heaven: September, 1861.” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a> + IV + </h2> + <p> + She remembered the conversation. Her father sitting, straight and slender, + in his chair, talking in that quiet voice of his that never went sharp or + deep or quavering, that paused now and then on an amused inflection, his + long lips straightening between the perpendicular grooves of his smile. + She loved his straight, slender face, clean-shaven, the straight, slightly + jutting jaw, the dark-blue flattish eyes under the black eyebrows, the + silver-grizzled hair that fitted close like a cap, curling in a silver + brim above his ears. + </p> + <p> + He was talking about his business as if more than anything it amused him. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing gross and material about stock-broking. It’s like pure + mathematics. You’re dealing in abstractions, ideal values, all the time. + You calculate—in curves.” His hand, holding the unlit cigar, drew a + curve, a long graceful one, in mid-air. “You know what’s going to happen + all the time. + </p> + <p> + “... The excitement begins when you don’t quite know and you risk it; when + it’s getting dangerous. + </p> + <p> + “... The higher mathematics of the game. If you can afford them; if you + haven’t a wife and family—I can see the fascination....” + </p> + <p> + He sat holding his cigar in one hand, looking at it without seeing it, + seeing the fascination and smiling at it, amused and secure. + </p> + <p> + And her mother, bending over her bead-work, smiled too, out of their + happiness, their security. + </p> + <p> + He would lean back, smoking his cigar and looking at them out of + contented, half-shut eyes, as they stitched, one at each end of the long + canvas fender stool. He was waiting, he said, for the moment when their + heads would come bumping together in the middle. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes they would sit like that, not exchanging ideas, exchanging only + the sense of each other’s presence, a secure, profound satisfaction that + belonged as much to their bodies as their minds; it rippled on their faces + with their quiet smiling, it breathed with their breath. Sometimes she or + her mother read aloud, Mrs. Browning or Charles Dickens; or the biography + of some Great Man, sitting there in the velvet-curtained room or out on + the lawn under the cedar tree. A motionless communion broken by walks in + the sweet-smelling fields and deep, elm-screened lanes. And there were + short journeys into London to a lecture or a concert, and now and then the + surprise and excitement of the play. + </p> + <p> + One day her mother smoothed out her long, hanging curls and tucked them + away under a net. Harriett had a little shock of dismay and resentment, + hating change. + </p> + <p> + And the long, long Sundays spaced the weeks and the months, hushed and + sweet and rather enervating, yet with a sort of thrill in them as if + somewhere the music of the church organ went on vibrating. Her mother had + some secret: some happy sense of God that she gave to you and you took + from her as you took food and clothing, but not quite knowing what it was, + feeling that there was something more in it, some hidden gladness, some + perfection that you missed. + </p> + <p> + Her father had his secret too. She felt that it was harder, somehow, + darker and dangerous. He read dangerous books: Darwin and Huxley and + Herbert Spencer. Sometimes he talked about them. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a sort of fascination in seeing how far you can go.... The + fascination of truth might be just that—the risk that, after all, it + mayn’t be true, that you may have to go farther and farther, perhaps never + come back.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother looked up with her bright, still eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I trust the truth. I know that, however far you go, you’ll come back some + day.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you see all of them—Darwin and Huxley and Herbert Spencer—coming + back,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes smiled, loving her. But you could see it amused him, too, to + think of them, all those reckless, courageous thinkers, coming back, to + share her secret. His thinking was just a dangerous game he played. + </p> + <p> + She looked at her father with a kind of awe as he sat there, reading his + book, in danger and yet safe. + </p> + <p> + She wanted to know what that fascination was. She took down Herbert + Spencer and tried to read him. She made a point of finishing every book + she had begun, for her pride couldn’t bear being beaten. Her head grew hot + and heavy: she read the same sentences over and over again; they had no + meaning; she couldn’t understand a single word of Herbert Spencer. He had + beaten her. As she put the book back in its place she said to herself: “I + mustn’t. If I go on, if I get to the interesting part I may lose my + faith.” And soon she made herself believe that this was really the reason + why she had given it up. + </p> + <p> + Besides Connie Hancock there were Lizzie Pierce and Sarah Barmby. + </p> + <p> + Exquisite pleasure to walk with Lizzie Pierce. Lizzie’s walk was a + sliding, swooping dance of little pointed feet, always as if she were + going out to meet somebody, her sharp, black-eyed face darting and + turning. + </p> + <p> + “My <i>dear</i>, he kept on doing <i>this</i>” (Lizzie did it) “as if he + was trying to sit on himself to keep him from flying off into space like a + cork. Fancy proposing on three tumblers of soda water! I might have been + Mrs. Pennefather but for that.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie went about laughing, laughing at everybody, looking for something + to laugh at everywhere. Now and then she would stop suddenly to + contemplate the vision she had created. + </p> + <p> + “If Connie didn’t wear a bustle—or, oh my dear, if Mr. Hancock did——” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. <i>Hancock!</i>” Clear, firm laughter, chiming and tinkling. + </p> + <p> + “Goodness! To think how many ridiculous people there are in the world!” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you see something ridiculous in me.” + </p> + <p> + “Only when—only when——” + </p> + <p> + She swung her parasol in time to her sing-song. She wouldn’t say when. + </p> + <p> + “Lizzie—not—<i>not</i> when I’m in my black lace fichu and the + little round hat?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear me—no. Not <i>then</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The little round hat, Lizzie wore one like it herself, tilted forward, + perched on her chignon. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then——” she pleaded. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie’s face darted its teasing, mysterious smile. + </p> + <p> + She loved Lizzie best of her friends after Priscilla. She loved her + mockery and her teasing wit. + </p> + <p> + And there was Lizzie’s friend, Sarah Barmby, who lived in one of those + little shabby villas on the London road and looked after her father. She + moved about the villa in an unseeing, shambling way, hitting herself + against the furniture. Her face was heavy with a gentle, brooding + goodness, and she had little eyes that blinked and twinkled in the + heaviness, as if something amused her. At first you kept on wondering what + the joke was, till you saw it was only a habit Sarah had. She came when + she could spare time from her father. + </p> + <p> + Next to Lizzie, Harriett loved Sarah. She loved her goodness. + </p> + <p> + And Connie Hancock, bouncing about hospitably in the large, rich house. + Tea-parties and dances at the Hancocks’. + </p> + <p> + She wasn’t sure that she liked dancing. There was something obscurely + dangerous about it. She was afraid of being lifted off her feet and swung + on and on, away from her safe, happy life. She was stiff and abrupt with + her partners, convinced that none of those men who liked Connie Hancock + could like her, and anxious to show them that she didn’t expect them to. + She was afraid of what they were thinking. And she would slip away early, + running down the garden to the gate at the bottom of the lane where her + father waited for her. She loved the still coldness of the night under the + elms, and the strong, tight feel of her father’s arm when she hung on it + leaning towards him, and his “There we are” as he drew her closer. Her + mother would look up from the sofa and ask always the same question, + “Well, did anything nice happen?” + </p> + <p> + Till at last she answered, “No. Did you think it would, Mamma?” + </p> + <p> + “You never know,” said her mother. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> know everything.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Every</i>thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Everything that could happen at the Hancocks’ dances.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother shook her head at her. She knew that in secret Mamma was glad; + but she answered the reproof. + </p> + <p> + “It’s mean of me to say that when I’ve eaten four of their ices. They were + strawberry, and chocolate and vanilla, all in one.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, they won’t last much longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at that rate,” her father said. + </p> + <p> + “I meant the dances,” said her mother. + </p> + <p> + And sure enough, soon after Connie’s engagement to young Mr. Pennefather, + they ceased. + </p> + <p> + And the three friends, Connie and Sarah and Lizzie, came and went. She + loved them; and yet when they were there they broke something, something + secret and precious between her and her father and mother, and when they + were gone she felt the stir, the happy movement of coming together again, + drawing in close, close, after the break. + </p> + <p> + “We only want each other.” Nobody else really mattered, not even Priscilla + Heaven. + </p> + <p> + Year after year the same. Her mother parted her hair into two sleek wings; + she wore a rosette and lappets of black velvet and lace on a glistening + beetle-backed chignon. And Harriett felt again her shock of resentment. + She hated to think of her mother subject to change and time. + </p> + <p> + And Priscilla came year after year, still loving, still protesting that + she would never marry. Yet they were glad when even Priscilla had gone and + left them to each other. Only each other, year after year the same. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a> + V + </h2> + <p> + Priscilla’s last visit was followed by another passionate vow that she + would never marry. Then within three weeks she wrote again, telling of her + engagement to Robin Lethbridge. + </p> + <p> + “... I haven’t known him very long, and Mamma says it’s too soon; but he + makes me feel as if I had known him all my life. I know I said I wouldn’t, + but I couldn’t tell; I didn’t know it would be so different. I couldn’t + have believed that anybody could be so happy. You won’t mind, Hatty. We + can love each other just the same....” + </p> + <p> + Incredible that Priscilla, who could be so beaten down and crushed by + suffering, should have risen to such an ecstasy. Her letters had a + swinging lilt, a hurried beat, like a song bursting, a heart beating for + joy too fast. + </p> + <p> + It would have to be a long engagement. Robin was in a provincial bank, he + had his way to make. Then, a year later, Prissy wrote and told them that + Robin had got a post in Parson’s Bank in the City. He didn’t know a soul + in London. Would they be kind to him and let him come to them sometimes, + on Saturdays and Sundays? + </p> + <p> + He came one Sunday. Harriett had wondered what he would be like, and he + was tall, slender-waisted, wide-shouldered; he had a square, very white + forehead; his brown hair was parted on one side, half curling at the tips + above his ears. His eyes—thin, black crystal, shining, turning, + showing speckles of brown and gray; perfectly set under straight eyebrows + laid very black on the white skin. His round, pouting chin had a dent in + it. The face in between was thin and irregular; the nose straight and + serious and rather long in profile, with a dip and a rise at + three-quarters; in full face straight again but shortened. His eyes had + another meaning, deeper and steadier than his fine slender mouth; but it + was the mouth that made you look at him. One arch of the bow was higher + than the other; now and then it quivered with an uneven, sensitive + movement of its own. + </p> + <p> + She noticed his mouth’s little dragging droop at the corners and thought: + “Oh, you’re cross. If you’re cross with Prissie—if you make her + unhappy”—but when he caught her looking at him the cross lips drew + back in a sudden, white, confiding smile. And when he spoke she understood + why he had been irresistible to Priscilla. + </p> + <p> + He had come three Sundays now, four perhaps; she had lost count. They were + all sitting out on the lawn under the cedar. Suddenly, as if he had only + just thought of it, he said: + </p> + <p> + “It’s extraordinarily good of you to have me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” her mother said, “Prissie is Hatty’s greatest friend.” + </p> + <p> + “I supposed that was why you do it.” + </p> + <p> + He didn’t want it to be that. He wanted it to be himself. Himself. He was + proud. He didn’t like to owe anything to other people, not even to + Prissie. + </p> + <p> + Her father smiled at him. “You must give us time.” + </p> + <p> + He would never give it or take it. You could see him tearing at things in + his impatience, to know them, to make them give themselves up to him at + once. He came rushing to give himself up, all in a minute, to make himself + known. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t fair,” he said. “I know you so much better than you know me. + Priscilla’s always talking about you. But you don’t know anything about <i>me</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “No. We’ve got all the excitement.” + </p> + <p> + “And the risk, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And, of course, the risk.” He liked him. + </p> + <p> + She could talk to Robin Lethbridge as she couldn’t talk to Connie + Hancock’s young men. She wasn’t afraid of what he was thinking. She was + safe with him, he belonged to Priscilla Heaven. He liked her because he + loved Priscilla; but he wanted her to like him, not because of Priscilla, + but for himself. + </p> + <p> + She talked about Priscilla: “I never saw anybody so loving. It used to + frighten me; because you can hurt her so easily.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Poor little Prissie, she’s very vulnerable,” he said. + </p> + <p> + When Priscilla came to stay it was almost painful. Her eyes clung to him, + and wouldn’t let him go. If he left the room she was restless, unhappy + till he came back. She went out for long walks with him and returned + silent, with a tired, beaten look. She would lie on the sofa, and he would + hang over her, gazing at her with strained, unhappy eyes. + </p> + <p> + After she had gone he kept on coming more than ever, and he stayed + overnight. Harriett had to walk with him now. He wanted to talk, to talk + about himself, endlessly. + </p> + <p> + When she looked in the glass she saw a face she didn’t know: bright-eyed, + flushed, pretty. The little arrogant lift had gone. As if it had been + somebody else’s face she asked herself, in wonder, without rancour, why + nobody had ever cared for it. Why? Why? She could see her father looking + at her, intent, as if he wondered. And one day her mother said, “Do you + think you ought to see so much of Robin? Do you think it’s quite fair to + Prissie?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—<i>Mamma!</i> ... I wouldn’t. I haven’t——” + </p> + <p> + “I know. You couldn’t if you would, Hatty. You would always behave + beautifully. But are you so sure about Robin?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he <i>couldn’t</i> care for <i>anybody</i> but Prissie. It’s only + because he’s so safe with me, because he knows I don’t and he doesn’t——.” + </p> + <p> + The wedding day was fixed for July. After all, they were going to risk it. + By the middle of June the wedding presents began to come in. + </p> + <p> + Harriett and Robin Lethbridge were walking up Black’s Lane. The hedges + were a white bridal froth of cow’s parsley. Every now and then she swerved + aside to pick the red campion. + </p> + <p> + He spoke suddenly. “Do you know what a dear little face you have, Hatty? + It’s so clear and still and it behaves so beautifully.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it?” + </p> + <p> + She thought of Prissie’s face, dark and restless, never clear, never + still. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not a bit like what I expected. Prissie doesn’t know what you are. + You don’t know yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I know what <i>she</i> is.” + </p> + <p> + His mouth’s uneven quiver beat in and out like a pulse. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk to me about Prissie!” + </p> + <p> + Then he got it out. He tore it out of himself. He loved her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Robin——” Her fingers loosened in her dismay; she went + dropping red campion. + </p> + <p> + It was no use, he said, to think about Prissie. He couldn’t marry her. He + couldn’t marry anybody but Hatty; Hatty must marry him. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t say you don’t love me, Hatty.” + </p> + <p> + No. She couldn’t say it; for it wouldn’t be true. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then——” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t. I’d be doing wrong, Robin. I feel all the time as if she + belonged to you; as if she were married to you.” + </p> + <p> + “But she isn’t. It isn’t the same thing.” + </p> + <p> + “To me it is. You can’t undo it. It would be too dishonorable.” + </p> + <p> + “Not half so dishonorable as marrying her when I don’t love her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. As long as she loves you. She hasn’t anybody but you. She was so + happy. So happy. Think of the cruelty of it. Think what we should send her + back to.” + </p> + <p> + “You think of Prissie. You don’t think of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Because it would <i>kill</i> her.” + </p> + <p> + “How about you?” + </p> + <p> + “It can’t kill us, because we know we love each other. Nothing can take + that from us.” + </p> + <p> + “But I couldn’t be happy with her, Hatty. She wears me out. She’s so + restless.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>We</i> couldn’t be happy, Robin. We should always be thinking of what + we did to her. How could we be happy?” + </p> + <p> + “You know how.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, even if we were, we’ve no right to get our happiness out of her + suffering.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Hatty, why are you so good, so good?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not good. It’s only—there are some things you can’t do. We + couldn’t. We couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said at last. “I don’t suppose we could. Whatever it’s like I’ve + got to go through with it.” + </p> + <p> + He didn’t stay that night. + </p> + <p> + She was crouching on the floor beside her father, her arm thrown across + his knees. Her mother had left them there. + </p> + <p> + “Papa—do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Your mother told me.... You’ve done the right thing.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t think I’ve been cruel? He said I didn’t think of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, you couldn’t do anything else.” + </p> + <p> + She couldn’t. She couldn’t. It was no use thinking about him. Yet night + after night, for weeks and months, she thought, and cried herself to + sleep. + </p> + <p> + By day she suffered from Lizzie’s sharp eyes and Sarah’s brooding pity and + Connie Pennefather’s callous, married stare. Only with her father and + mother she had peace. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></a> + VI + </h2> + <p> + Towards spring Harriett showed signs of depression, and they took her to + the south of France and to Bordighera and Rome. In Rome she recovered. + Rome was one of those places you ought to see; she had always been anxious + to do the right thing. In the little Pension in the Via Babuino she had a + sense of her own importance and the importance of her father and mother. + They were Mr. and Mrs. Hilton Frean, and Miss Harriett Frean, seeing Rome. + </p> + <p> + After their return in the summer he began to write his book, <i>The Social + Order</i>. There were things that had to be said; it did not much matter + who said them provided they were said plainly. He dreamed of a new Social + State, society governing itself without representatives. For a long time + they lived on the interest and excitement of the book, and when it came + out Harriett pasted all his reviews very neatly into an album. He had the + air of not taking them quite seriously; but he subscribed to <i>The + Spectator</i>, and sometimes an article appeared there understood to have + been written by Hilton Frean. + </p> + <p> + And they went abroad again every year. They went to Florence and came home + and read <i>Romola</i> and Mrs. Browning and Dante and <i>The Spectator</i>; + they went to Assisi and read the <i>Little Flowers of Saint Francis;</i> + they went to Venice and read Ruskin and <i>The Spectator;</i> they went to + Rome again and read Gibbon’s <i>Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire</i>. + Harriett said, “We should have enjoyed Rome more if we had read Gibbon,” + and her mother replied that they would not have enjoyed Gibbon so much if + they had not seen Rome. Harriett did not really enjoy him; but she enjoyed + the sound of her own voice reading out the great sentences and the rolling + Latin names. + </p> + <p> + She had brought back photographs of the Colosseum and the Forum and of + Botticelli’s <i>Spring</i>, and a della Robbia Madonna in a shrine of + fruit and flowers, and hung them in the drawing-room. And when she saw the + blue egg in its gilt frame standing on the marble-topped table, she + wondered how she had ever loved it, and wished it were not there. It had + been one of Mamma’s wedding presents. Mrs. Hancock had given it her; but + Mr. Hancock must have bought it. + </p> + <p> + Harriett’s face had taken on again its arrogant lift. She esteemed herself + justly. She knew she was superior to the Hancocks and the Pennefathers + and to Lizzie Pierce and Sarah Barmby; even to Priscilla. When she thought + of Robin and how she had given him up she felt a thrill of pleasure in her + beautiful behavior, and a thrill of pride in remembering that he had loved + her more than Priscilla. Her mind refused to think of Robin married. + </p> + <p> + Two, three, five years passed, with a perceptible acceleration, and + Harriett was now thirty. + </p> + <p> + She had not seen them since the wedding day. Robin had gone back to his + own town; he was cashier in a big bank there. For four years Prissie’s + letters came regularly every month or so, then ceased abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Then Robin wrote and told her of Prissie’s illness. A mysterious + paralysis. It had begun with fits of giddiness in the street; Prissie + would turn round and round on the pavement; then falling fits; and now + both legs were paralyzed, but Robin thought she was gradually recovering + the use of her hands. + </p> + <p> + Harriett did not cry. The shock of it stopped her tears. She tried to see + it and couldn’t. Poor little Prissie. How terrible. She kept on saying to + herself she couldn’t bear to think of Prissie paralyzed. Poor little + Prissie. + </p> + <p> + And poor Robin—— + </p> + <p> + Paralysis. She saw the paralysis coming between them, separating them, and + inside her the secret pain was soothed. She need not think of Robin + married any more. + </p> + <p> + She was going to stay with them. Robin had written the letter. He said + Prissie wanted her. When she met him on the platform she had a little + shock at seeing him changed. Changed. His face was fuller, and a dark + moustache hid the sensitive, uneven, pulsing lip. His mouth was dragged + down further at the corners. But he was the same Robin. In the cab, going + to the house, he sat silent, breathing hard; she felt the tremor of his + consciousness and knew that he still loved her; more than he loved + Priscilla. Poor little Prissie. How terrible! + </p> + <p> + Priscilla sat by the fireplace in a wheel chair. She became agitated when + she saw Harriett; her arms shook as she lifted them for the embrace. + </p> + <p> + “Hatty—you’ve hardly changed a bit.” Her voice shook. + </p> + <p> + Poor little Prissie. She was thin, thinner than ever, and stiff as if she + had withered. Her face was sallow and dry, and the luster had gone from + her black hair. Her wide mouth twitched and wavered, wavered and twitched. + Though it was warm summer she sat by a blazing fire with the windows + behind her shut. + </p> + <p> + Through dinner Harriett and Robin were silent and constrained. She tried + not to see Prissie shaking and jerking and spilling soup down the front of + her gown. Robin’s face was smooth and blank; he pretended to be absorbed + in his food, so as not to look at Prissie. It was as if Prissie’s old + restlessness had grown into that ceaseless jerking and twitching. And her + eyes fastened on Robin; they clung to him and wouldn’t let him go. She + kept on asking him to do things for her. “Robin, you might get me my + shawl;” and Robin would go and get the shawl and put it round her. + Whenever he did anything for her Prissie’s face would settle down into a + quivering, deep content. + </p> + <p> + At nine o’clock he lifted her out of her wheel chair. Harriett saw his + stoop, and the taut, braced power of his back as he lifted. Prissie lay in + his arms with rigid limbs hanging from loose attachments, inert, like a + doll. As he carried her upstairs to bed her face had a queer, exalted look + of pleasure and of triumph. + </p> + <p> + Harriett and Robin sat alone together in his study. + </p> + <p> + “How long is it since we’ve seen each other?” + </p> + <p> + “Five years, Robin.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t. It can’t be.” + </p> + <p> + “It is.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is. But I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m married. I + can’t believe Prissie’s ill. It doesn’t seem real with you sitting there.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing’s changed, Robin, except that you’re more serious.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing’s changed, except that I’m more serious than ever.... Do you + still do the same things? Do you still sit in the curly chair, holding + your work up to your chin with your little pointed hands like a squirrel? + Do you still see the same people?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t make new friends, Robin.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to settle down after that, smiling at his own thoughts, + appeased.... + </p> + <p> + Lying in her bed in the spare room, Harriett heard the opening and + shutting of Robin’s door. She still thought of Prissie’s paralysis as + separating them, still felt inside her a secret, unacknowledged + satisfaction. Poor little Prissie. How terrible. Her pity for Priscilla + went through and through her in wave after wave. Her pity was sad and + beautiful and at the same time it appeased her pain. + </p> + <p> + In the morning Priscilla told her about her illness. The doctors didn’t + understand it. She ought to have had a stroke and she hadn’t had one. + There was no reason why she shouldn’t walk except that she couldn’t. It + seemed to give her pleasure to go over it, from her first turning round + and round in the street (with helpless, shaking laughter at the queerness + of it), to the moment when Robin bought her the wheel chair.... Robin ... + Robin ... + </p> + <p> + “I minded most because of Robin. It’s such an <i>awful</i> illness, Hatty. + I can’t move when I’m in bed. Robin has to get up and turn me a dozen + times in one night.... Robin’s a perfect saint. He does everything for + me.” Prissie’s voice and her face softened and thickened with voluptuous + content. + </p> + <p> + “... Do you know, Hatty, I had a little baby. It died the day it was + born.... Perhaps some day I shall have another.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett was aware of a sudden tightening of her heart, of a creeping + depression that weighed on her brain and worried it. She thought this was + her pity for Priscilla. + </p> + <p> + Her third night. All evening Robin had been moody and morose. He would + hardly speak to either Harriett or Priscilla. When Priscilla asked him to + do anything for her he got up heavily, pulling himself together with a + sigh, with a look of weary, irritated patience. + </p> + <p> + Prissie wheeled herself out of the study into the drawing-room, beckoning + Harriett to follow. She had the air of saving Robin from Harriett, of + intimating that his grumpiness was Harriett’s fault. “He doesn’t want to + be bothered,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She sat up till eleven, so that Robin shouldn’t be thrown with Harriett in + the last hours. + </p> + <p> + Half the night Harriett’s thoughts ran on, now in a darkness, now in thin + flashes of light. “Supposing, after all, Robin wasn’t happy? Supposing he + can’t stand it? Supposing.... But why is he angry with <i>me?</i>” Then a + clear thought: “He’s angry with me because he can’t be angry with + Priscilla.” And clearer. “He’s angry with me because I made him marry + her.” + </p> + <p> + She stopped the running and meditated with a steady, hard deliberation. + She thought of her deep, spiritual love for Robin; of Robin’s deep + spiritual love for her; of his strength in shouldering his burden. It was + through her renunciation that he had grown so strong, so pure, so good. + </p> + <p> + Something had gone wrong with Prissie. Robin, coming home early on + Saturday afternoon, had taken Harriett for a walk. All evening and all + through Sunday it was Priscilla who sulked and snapped when Harriett spoke + to her. + </p> + <p> + On Monday morning she was ill, and Robin ordered her to stay in bed. + Monday was Harriett’s last night. Priscilla stayed in bed till six + o’clock, when she heard Robin come in; then she insisted on being dressed + and carried downstairs. Harriett heard her calling to Robin, and Robin + saying, “I <i>told</i> you you weren’t to get up till to-morrow,” and a + sound like Prissie crying. + </p> + <p> + At dinner she shook and jerked and spilt things worse than ever. Robin + gloomed at her. “You know you ought to be in bed. You’ll go at nine.” + </p> + <p> + “If I go, you’ll go. You’ve got a headache.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think I had, sitting in this furnace.” + </p> + <p> + The heat of the dining room oppressed him, but they sat on there after + dinner because Prissie loved the heat. Robin’s pale, blank face had a sick + look, a deadly smoothness. He had to lie down on the sofa in the window. + </p> + <p> + When the clock struck nine he sighed and got up, dragging himself as if + the weight of his body was more than he could bear. He stooped over + Prissie, and lifted her. + </p> + <p> + “Robin—you can’t. You’re dropping to pieces.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m all right.” He heaved her up with one tremendous, irritated effort, + and carried her upstairs, fast, as if he wanted to be done with it. + Through the open doors Harriett could hear Prissie’s pleading whine, and + Robin’s voice, hard and controlled. Presently he came back to her and they + went into his study. They could breathe there, he said. + </p> + <p> + They sat without speaking for a little time. The silence of Prissie’s room + overhead came between them. + </p> + <p> + Robin spoke first. “I’m afraid it hasn’t been very gay for you with poor + Prissie in this state.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Prissie? She’s very happy, Robin.” + </p> + <p> + He stared at her. His eyes, round and full and steady, taxed her with + falsehood, with hypocrisy. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t suppose <i>I’m</i> not, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” There was a movement in her throat as though she swallowed something + hard. “No. I want you to be happy.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t. You want me to be rather miserable.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Robin!</i>” She contrived a sound like laughter. But Robin didn’t + laugh; his eyes, morose and cynical, held her there. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what you want.... At least I hope you do. If you didn’t——” + </p> + <p> + She fenced off the danger. “Do <i>you</i> want <i>me</i> to be miserable, + then?” + </p> + <p> + At that he laughed out. “No. I don’t. I don’t care how happy you are.” + </p> + <p> + She took the pain of it: the pain he meant to give her. + </p> + <p> + That evening he hung over Priscilla with a deliberate, exaggerated + tenderness. + </p> + <p> + “Dear.... Dearest....” He spoke the words to Priscilla, but he sent out + his voice to Harriett. She could feel its false precision, its intention, + its repulse of her. + </p> + <p> + She was glad to be gone. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"></a> + VII + </h2> + <p> + Eighteen seventy-nine: it was the year her father lost his money. Harriett + was nearly thirty-five. + </p> + <p> + She remembered the day, late in November, when they heard him coming home + from the office early. Her mother raised her head and said, “That’s your + father, Harriett. He must be ill.” She always thought of seventy-nine as + one continuous November. + </p> + <p> + Her father and mother were alone in the study for a long time; she + remembered Annie going in with the lamp and coming out and whispering that + they wanted her. She found them sitting in the lamplight alone, close + together, holding each other’s hands; their faces had a strange, exalted + look. + </p> + <p> + “Harriett, my dear, I’ve lost every shilling I possessed, and here’s your + mother saying she doesn’t mind.” + </p> + <p> + He began to explain in his quiet voice. “When all the creditors are paid + in full there’ll be nothing but your mother’s two hundred a year. And the + insurance money when I’m gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Papa, how terrible——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Hatty.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean the insurance. It’s gambling with your life.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, if that was all I’d gambled with——” + </p> + <p> + It seemed that half his capital had gone in what he called “the higher + mathematics of the game.” The creditors would get the rest. + </p> + <p> + “We shall be no worse off,” her mother said, “than we were when we began. + We were very happy then.” + </p> + <p> + “We. How about Harriett?” + </p> + <p> + “Harriett isn’t going to mind.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not—going—to mind.... We shall have to sell this house + and live in a smaller one. And I can’t take my business up again.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, I’m glad and thankful you’ve done with that dreadful, dangerous + game.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d no business to play it.... But, after holding myself in all those + years, there was a sort of fascination.” + </p> + <p> + One of the creditors, Mr. Hichens, gave him work in his office. He was now + Mr. Hichens’s clerk. He went to Mr. Hichens as he had gone to his own + great business, upright and alert, handsome in his dark-gray overcoat with + the black velvet collar, faintly amused at himself. You would never have + known that anything had happened. + </p> + <p> + Strange that at the same time Mr. Hancock should have lost money, a great + deal of money, more money than Papa. He seemed determined that everybody + should know it; you couldn’t pass him in the road without knowing. He met + you with his swollen, red face hanging; ashamed and miserable, and angry + as if it had been your fault. + </p> + <p> + One day Harriett came in to her father and mother with the news. “Did you + know that Mr. Hancock’s sold his horses? And he’s going to give up the + house.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother signed to her to be silent, frowning and shaking her head and + glancing at her father. He got up suddenly and left the room. + </p> + <p> + “He’s worrying himself to death about Mr. Hancock,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know he cared for him like that, Mamma.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, he’s known him thirty years, and it’s a very dreadful thing he + should have to give up his house.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not worse for him than it is for Papa.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s ever so much worse. He isn’t like your father. He can’t be happy + without his big house and his carriages and horses. He’ll feel so small + and unimportant.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, it serves him right.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say that. It <i>is</i> what he cares for and he’s lost it.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s no business to behave as if it was Papa’s fault,” said Harriett. She + had no patience with the odious little man. She thought of her father’s + face, her father’s body, straight and calm, and his soul so far above that + mean trouble of Mr. Hancock’s, that vulgar shame. + </p> + <p> + Yet inside him he fretted. And, suddenly, he began to sink. He turned + faint after the least exertion and had to leave off going to Mr. Hichens. + And by the spring of eighteen eighty he was upstairs in his room, too ill + to be moved. That was just after Mr. Hichens had bought the house and + wanted to come into it. He lay, patient, in the big white bed, smiling his + faint, amused smile when he thought of Mr. Hichens. + </p> + <p> + It was awful to Harriett that her father should be ill, lying there at + their mercy. She couldn’t get over her sense of his parenthood, his + authority. When he was obstinate, and insisted on exerting himself, she + gave in. She was a bad nurse, because she couldn’t set herself against his + will. And when she had him under her hands to strip and wash him, she felt + that she was doing something outrageous and impious; she set about it with + a flaming face and fumbling hands. “Your mother does it better,” he said + gently. But she could not get her mother’s feeling of him as a helpless, + dependent thing. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hichens called every week to inquire. “Poor man, he wants to know when + he can have his house. Why <i>will</i> he always come on my good days? He + isn’t giving himself a chance.” + </p> + <p> + He still had good days, days when he could be helped out of bed to sit in + his chair. “This sort of game may go on for ever,” he said. He began to + worry seriously about keeping Mr. Hichens out of his house. “It isn’t + decent of me. It isn’t decent.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett was ill with the strain of it. She had to go away for a fortnight + with Lizzie Pierce, and Sarah Barmby stayed with her mother. Mrs. Barmby + had died the year before. When Harriett got back her father was making + plans for his removal. + </p> + <p> + “Why have you all made up your minds that it’ll kill me to remove me? It + won’t. The men can take everything out but me and my bed and that chair. + And when they’ve got all the things into the other house they can come + back for the chair and me. And I can sit in the chair while they’re + bringing the bed. It’s quite simple. It only wants a little system.” + </p> + <p> + Then, while they wondered whether they might risk it, he got worse. He lay + propped up, rigid, his arms stretched out by his side, afraid to lift a + hand because of the violent movements of his heart. His face had a + patient, expectant look, as if he waited for them to do something. + </p> + <p> + They couldn’t do anything. There would be no more rallies. He might die + any day now, the doctor said. + </p> + <p> + “He may die any minute. I certainly don’t expect him to live through the + night.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett followed her mother back into the room. He was sitting up in his + attitude of rigid expectancy; no movement but the quivering of his + night-shirt above his heart. + </p> + <p> + “The doctor’s been gone a long time, hasn’t he?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Harriett was silent. She didn’t understand. Her mother was looking at her + with a serene comprehension and compassion. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Hatty,” he said, “she can’t tell a lie to save my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—Papa——” + </p> + <p> + He smiled as if he was thinking of something that amused him. + </p> + <p> + “You should consider other people, my dear. Not just your own selfish + feelings.... You ought to write and tell Mr. Hichens.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother gave a short sobbing laugh. “Oh, you darling,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He lay still. Then suddenly he began pressing hard on the mattress with + both hands, bracing himself up in the bed. Her mother leaned closer + towards him. He threw himself over slantways, and with his head bent as if + it was broken, dropped into her arms. + </p> + <p> + Harriett wondered why he was making that queer grating and coughing noise. + Three times. + </p> + <p> + Her mother called softly to her—“Harriett.” + </p> + <p> + She began to tremble. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></a> + VIII + </h2> + <p> + Her mother had some secret that she couldn’t share. She was wonderful in + her pure, high serenity. Surely she had some secret. She said he was + closer to her now than he had ever been. And in her correct, precise + answers to the letters of condolence Harriett wrote: “I feel that he is + closer to us now than he ever was.” But she didn’t really feel it. She + only felt that to feel it was the beautiful and proper thing. She looked + for her mother’s secret and couldn’t find it. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Mr. Hichens had given them six weeks. They had to decide where + they would go: into Devonshire or into a cottage at Hampstead where Sarah + Barmby lived now. + </p> + <p> + Her mother said, “Do you think you’d like to live in Sidmouth, near Aunt + Harriett?” + </p> + <p> + They had stayed one summer at Sidmouth with Aunt Harriett. She remembered + the red cliffs, the sea, and Aunt Harriett’s garden stuffed with flowers. + They had been happy there. She thought she would love that: the sea and + the red cliffs and a garden like Aunt Harriett’s. + </p> + <p> + But she was not sure whether it was what her mother really wanted. Mamma + would never say. She would have to find out somehow. + </p> + <p> + “Well—what do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “It would be leaving all your friends, Hatty.” + </p> + <p> + “My friends—yes. But——” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie and Sarah and Connie Pennefather. She could live without them. “Oh, + there’s Mrs. Hancock.” + </p> + <p> + “Well——” Her mother’s voice suggested that if she were put to + it she could live without Mrs. Hancock. + </p> + <p> + And Harriett thought: She does want to go to Sidmouth then. + </p> + <p> + “It would be very nice to be near Aunt Harriett.” + </p> + <p> + She was afraid to say more than that lest she should show her own wish + before she knew her mother’s. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Harriett. Yes.... But it’s very far away, Hatty. We should be cut + off from everything. Lectures and concerts. We couldn’t afford to come up + and down.” + </p> + <p> + “No. We couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + She could see that Mamma did not really want to live in Sidmouth; she + didn’t want to be near Aunt Harriett; she wanted the cottage at Hampstead + and all the things of their familiar, intellectual life going on and on. + After all, that was the way to keep near to Papa, to go on doing the + things they had done together. + </p> + <p> + Her mother agreed that it was the way. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help feeling,” Harriett said, “it’s what he would have wished.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother’s face was quiet and content. She hadn’t guessed. + </p> + <p> + They left the white house with the green balcony hung out like a birdcage + at the side, and turned into the cottage at Hampstead. The rooms were + small and rather dark, and the furniture they had brought had a + squeezed-up, unhappy look. The blue egg on the marble-topped table was + conspicuous and hateful as it had never been in the Black’s Lane + drawing-room. Harriett and her mother looked at it. + </p> + <p> + “Must it stay there?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so. Fanny Hancock gave it me.” + </p> + <p> + “Mamma—you know you don’t like it.” + </p> + <p> + “No. But after all these years I couldn’t turn the poor thing away.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother was an old woman, clinging with an old, stubborn fidelity to + the little things of her past. But Harriett denied it. “She’s not old,” + she said to herself. “Not really old.” + </p> + <p> + “Harriett,” her mother said one day. “I think you ought to do the + housekeeping.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mamma, why?” She hated the idea of this change. + </p> + <p> + “Because you’ll have to do it some day.” + </p> + <p> + She obeyed. But as she went her rounds and gave her orders she felt that + she was doing something not quite real, playing at being her mother as she + had played when she was a child. Then her mother had another thought. + </p> + <p> + “Harriett, I think you ought to see more of your friends, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you’ll want them after I’m gone.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never <i>want</i> anybody but you.” + </p> + <p> + And their time went as it had gone before: in sewing together, reading + together, listening to lectures and concerts together. They had told Sarah + that they didn’t want anybody to call. They were Hilton Frean’s wife and + daughter. “After our wonderful life with him,” they said, “you’ll + understand, Sarah, that we don’t want people.” And if Harriett was + introduced to any stranger she accounted for herself arrogantly: “My + father was Hilton Frean.” + </p> + <p> + They were collecting his <i>Remains</i> for publication. + </p> + <p> + Months passed, years passed, going each one a little quicker than the + last. And Harriett was thirty-nine. + </p> + <p> + One evening, coming out of church, her mother fainted. That was the + beginning of her illness, February, eighteen eighty-three. First came the + long months of weakness; then the months and months of sickness; then the + pain; the pain she had been hiding, that she couldn’t hide any more. + </p> + <p> + They knew what it was now: that horrible thing that even the doctors were + afraid to name. They called it “something malignant.” When the friends—Mrs. + Hancock, Connie Pennefather, Lizzie, and Sarah—called to inquire, + Harriett wouldn’t tell them what it was; she pretended that she didn’t + know, that the doctors weren’t sure; she covered it up from them as if it + had been a secret shame. And they pretended that they didn’t know. But + they knew. + </p> + <p> + They were talking now about an operation. There was one chance for her in + a hundred if they had Sir James Pargeter: one chance. She might die of it; + she might die under the anæsthetic; she might die of shock; she was so old + and weak. Still, there was that one chance, if only she would take it. + </p> + <p> + But her mother wouldn’t listen. “My dear, it would cost a hundred pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know what it would cost?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she said, “I know.” She was smiling above the sheet that was tucked + close up, tight under her chin, shutting it all down. + </p> + <p> + Sir James Pargeter would cost a hundred pounds. Harriett couldn’t lay her + hands on the money or on half of it or a quarter. “That doesn’t matter if + they think it’ll save you.” + </p> + <p> + “They <i>think;</i> they think. But I <i>know.</i> I know better than all + the doctors.” + </p> + <p> + “But Mamma, darling——” + </p> + <p> + She urged the operation. Just because it would be so difficult to raise + the hundred pounds she urged it. She wanted to feel that she had done + everything that could be done, that she had let nothing stand in the way, + that she had shrunk from no sacrifice. One chance in a hundred. What was a + hundred pounds weighed against that one chance? If it had been one in a + thousand she would have said the same. + </p> + <p> + “It would be no good, Hatty. I know it wouldn’t. They just love to try + experiments, those doctors. They’re dying to get their knives into me. + Don’t <i>let</i> them.” + </p> + <p> + Gradually, day by day, Harriett weakened. Her mother’s frightened voice + tore at her, broke her down. Supposing she really died under the + operation? Supposing—— It was cruel to excite and upset her + just for that; it made the pain worse. + </p> + <p> + Either the operation or the pain, going on and on, stabbing with sharper + and sharper knives; cutting in deeper; all their care, the antiseptics, + the restoratives, dragging it out, giving it more time to torture her. + </p> + <p> + When the three friends came, Harriett said, “I shall be glad and thankful + when it’s all over. I couldn’t want to keep her with me, just for this.” + </p> + <p> + Yet she did want it. She was thankful every morning that she came to her + mother’s bed and found her alive, lying there, looking at her with her + wonderful smile. She was glad because she still had her. + </p> + <p> + And now they were giving her morphia. Under the torpor of the drug her + face changed; the muscles loosened, the flesh sagged, the widened, swollen + mouth hung open; only the broad beautiful forehead, the beautiful calm + eyebrows were the same; the face, sallow white, half imbecile, was a mask + flung aside. She couldn’t bear to look at it; it wasn’t her mother’s face; + her mother had died already under the morphia. She had a shock every time + she came in and found it still there. + </p> + <p> + On the day her mother died she told herself she was glad and thankful. She + met her friends with a little quiet, composed face, saying, “I’m glad and + thankful she’s at peace.” But she wasn’t thankful; she wasn’t glad. She + wanted her back again. And she reproached herself, one minute for having + been glad, and the next for wanting her. + </p> + <p> + She consoled herself by thinking of the sacrifices she had made, how she + had given up Sidmouth, and how willingly she would have paid the hundred + pounds. + </p> + <p> + “I sometimes think, Hatty,” said Mrs. Hancock, melancholy and condoling, + “that it would have been very different if your poor mother could have had + her wish.” + </p> + <p> + “What—what wish?” + </p> + <p> + “Her wish to live in Sidmouth, near your Aunt Harriett.” + </p> + <p> + And Sarah Barmby, sympathizing heavily, stopping short and brooding, + trying to think of something to say: “If the operation had only been done + three years ago when they <i>knew</i> it would save her——” + </p> + <p> + “Three years ago? But we didn’t know anything about it then.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>She</i> did.... Don’t you remember? It was when I stayed with her.... + Oh, Hatty, didn’t she tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “She never said a word.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, she wouldn’t hear of it, even then when they didn’t give her + two years to live.” + </p> + <p> + Three years? She had had it three years ago. She had known about it all + that time. Three years ago the operation would have saved her; she would + have been here now. Why had she refused it when she knew it would save + her? + </p> + <p> + She had been thinking of the hundred pounds. + </p> + <p> + To have known about it three years and said nothing—to have gone + believing she hadn’t two years to live—— + </p> + <p> + <i>That</i> was her secret. That was why she had been so calm when Papa + died. She had known she would have him again so soon. Not two years—— + </p> + <p> + “If I’d been them,” Lizzie was saying, “I’d have bitten my tongue out + before I told you. It’s no use worrying, Hatty. You did everything that + could be done.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. I know.” + </p> + <p> + She held up her face against them; but to herself she said that everything + had not been done. Her mother had never had her wish. And she had died in + agony, so that she, Harriett, might keep her hundred pounds. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a> + IX + </h2> + <p> + In all her previsions of the event she had seen herself surviving as the + same Harriett Frean with the addition of an overwhelming grief. She was + horrified at this image of herself persisting beside her mother’s place + empty in space and time. + </p> + <p> + But she was not there. Through her absorption in her mother, some large, + essential part of herself had gone. It had not been so when her father + died; what he had absorbed was given back to her, transferred to her + mother. All her memories of her mother were joined to the memory of this + now irrecoverable self. + </p> + <p> + She tried to reinstate herself through grief; she sheltered behind her + bereavement, affecting a more profound seclusion, abhorring strangers; she + was more than ever the reserved, fastidious daughter of Hilton Frean. She + had always thought of herself as different from Connie and Sarah, living + with a superior, intellectual life. She turned to the books she had read + with her mother, Dante, Browning, Carlyle, and Ruskin, the biographies of + Great Men, trying to retrace the footsteps of her lost self, to revive the + forgotten thrill. But it was no use. One day she found herself reading the + Dedication of <i>The Ring and the Book</i> over and over again, without + taking in its meaning, without any remembrance of its poignant secret. + “‘And all a wonder and a wild desire’—Mamma loved that.” She thought + she loved it too; but what she loved was the dark-green book she had seen + in her mother’s long, white hands, and the sound of her mother’s voice + reading. She had followed her mother’s mind with strained attention and + anxiety, smiling when she smiled, but with no delight and no admiration of + her own. + </p> + <p> + If only she could have remembered. It was only through memory that she + could reinstate herself. + </p> + <p> + She had a horror of the empty house. Her friends advised her to leave it, + but she had a horror of removal, of change. She loved the rooms that had + held her mother, the chair she had sat on, the white, fluted cup she had + drunk from in her illness. She clung to the image of her mother; and + always beside it, shadowy and pathetic, she discerned the image of her + lost self. + </p> + <p> + When the horror of emptiness came over her, she dressed herself in her + black, with delicate care and precision, and visited her friends. Even in + moments of no intention she would find herself knocking at Lizzie’s door + or Sarah’s or Connie Pennefather’s. If they were not in she would call + again and again, till she found them. She would sit for hours, talking, + spinning out the time. + </p> + <p> + She began to look forward to these visits. + </p> + <p> + Wonderful. The sweet peas she had planted had come up. + </p> + <p> + Hitherto Harriett had looked on the house and garden as parts of the space + that contained her without belonging to her. She had had no sense of + possession. This morning she was arrested by the thought that the plot she + had planted was hers. The house and garden were hers. She began to take an + interest in them. She found that by a system of punctual movements she + could give to her existence the reasonable appearance of an aim. + </p> + <p> + Next spring, a year after her mother’s death, she felt the vague stirring + of her individual soul. She was free to choose her own vicar; she left her + mother’s Dr. Braithwaite, who was broad and twice married, and went to + Canon Wrench, who was unmarried and high. There was something stimulating + in the short, happy service, the rich music, the incense, and the + processions. She made new covers for the drawing-room, in cretonne, a gay + pattern of pomegranate and blue-green leaves. And as she had always had + the cutlets broiled plain because her mother liked them that way, now she + had them breaded. + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Hancock wanted to know <i>why</i> Harriett had forsaken her dear + mother’s church; and when Connie Pennefather saw the covers she told + Harriett she was lucky to be able to afford new cretonne. It was more than + <i>she</i> could; she seemed to think Harriett had no business to afford + it. As for the breaded cutlets, Hannah opened her eyes and said, “That was + how the mistress always had them, ma’am, when you was away.” + </p> + <p> + One day she took the blue egg out of the drawing-room and stuck it on the + chimney-piece in the spare room. When she remembered how she used to love + it she felt that she had done something cruel and iniquitous, but + necessary to the soul. + </p> + <p> + She was taking out novels from the circulating library now. Not, she + explained, for her serious reading. Her serious reading, her Dante, her + Browning, her Great Man, lay always on the table ready to her hand (beside + a copy of <i>The Social Order</i> and the <i>Remains</i> of Hilton Frean) + while secretly and half-ashamed she played with some frivolous tale. She + was satisfied with anything that ended happily and had nothing in it that + was unpleasant, or difficult, demanding thought. She exalted her + preferences into high canons. A novel <i>ought</i> to conform to her + requirements. A novelist (she thought of him with some asperity) had no + right to be obscure, or depressing, or to add needless unpleasantness to + the unpleasantness that had to be. The Great Men didn’t <i>do</i> it. + </p> + <p> + She spoke of George Eliot and Dickens and Mr. Thackeray. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie Pierce had a provoking way of smiling at Harriett, as if she found + her ridiculous. And Harriett had no patience with Lizzie’s affectation in + wanting to be modern, her vanity in trying to be young, her middle-aged + raptures over the work—often unpleasant—of writers too young + to be worth serious consideration. They had long arguments in which + Harriett, beaten, retired behind <i>The Social Order</i> and the <i>Remains</i>. + </p> + <p> + “It’s silly,” Lizzie said, “not to be able to look at a new thing because + it’s new. That’s the way you grow old.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s sillier,” Harriett said, “to be always running after new things + because you think that’s the way to look young. I’ve no wish to appear + younger than I am.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no wish to appear suffering from senile decay.” + </p> + <p> + “There <i>is</i> a standard.” Harriett lifted her obstinate and arrogant + chin. “You forget that I’m Hilton Frean’s daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m William Pierce’s, but that hasn’t prevented my being myself.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie’s mind had grown keener in her sharp middle age. As it played about + her, Harriett cowered; it was like being exposed, naked, to a cutting + wind. Her mind ran back to her father and mother, longing, like a child, + for their shelter and support, for the blessed assurance of herself. + </p> + <p> + At her worst she could still think with pleasure of the beauty of the act + which had given Robin to Priscilla. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"></a> + X + </h2> + <p> + “My dear Harriett: Thank you for your kind letter of sympathy. Although we + had expected the end for many weeks poor Prissie’s death came to us as a + great shock. But for her it was a blessed release, and we can only be + thankful. You who knew her will realize the depth and extent of my + bereavement. I have lost the dearest and most loving wife man ever + had....” + </p> + <p> + Poor little Prissie. She couldn’t bear to think she would never see her + again. + </p> + <p> + Six months later Robin wrote again, from Sidmouth. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Harriett: Priscilla left you this locket in her will as a + remembrance. I would have sent it before but that I couldn’t bear to part + with her things all at once. + </p> + <p> + “I take this opportunity of telling you that I am going to be married + again——” + </p> + <p> + Her heart heaved and closed. She could never have believed she could have + felt such a pang. + </p> + <p> + “The lady is Miss Beatrice Walker, the devoted nurse who was with my dear + wife all through her last illness. This step may seem strange and + precipitate, coming so soon after her death; but I am urged to do it by + the precarious state of my own health and by the knowledge that we are + fulfilling poor Prissie’s dying wish....” + </p> + <p> + Poor Prissie’s dying wish. After what she had done for Prissie, if she <i>had</i> + a dying wish—But neither of them had thought of her. Robin had + forgotten her.... Forgotten.... Forgotten. + </p> + <p> + But no. Priscilla had remembered. She had left her the locket with his + hair in it. She had remembered and she had been afraid; jealous of her. + She couldn’t bear to think that Robin might marry her, even after she was + dead. She had made him marry this Walker woman so that he shouldn’t—— + </p> + <p> + Oh, but he wouldn’t. Not after twenty years. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t really think he would.” + </p> + <p> + She was forty-five, her face was lined and pitted and her hair was dust + color, streaked with gray: and she could only think of Robin as she had + last seen him, young: a young face; a young body; young, shining eyes. He + would want to marry a young woman. He had been in love with this Walker + woman, and Prissie had known it. She could see Prissie lying in her bed, + helpless, looking at them over the edge of the white sheet. She had known + that as soon as she was dead, before the sods closed over her grave, they + would marry. Nothing could stop them. And she had tried to make herself + believe it was her wish, her doing, not theirs. Poor little Prissie. + </p> + <p> + She understood that Robin had been staying in Sidmouth for his health. + </p> + <p> + A year later, Harriett, run down, was ordered to the seaside. She went to + Sidmouth. She told herself that she wanted to see the place where she had + been so happy with her mother, where poor Aunt Harriett had died. + </p> + <p> + Looking through the local paper she found in the list of residents: + Sidcote—Mr. and Mrs. Robert Lethbridge and Miss Walker. She wrote to + Robin and asked if she might call on his wife. + </p> + <p> + A mile of hot road through the town and inland brought her to a door in a + lane and a thatched cottage with a little lawn behind it. From the + doorstep she could see two figures, a man and a woman, lying back in + garden chairs. Inside the house she heard the persistent, energetic sound + of hammering. The woman got up and came to her. She was young, pink-faced + and golden-haired, and she said she was Miss Walker, Mrs. Lethbridge’s + sister. + </p> + <p> + A tall, lean, gray man rose from the garden chair, slowly, dragging + himself with an invalid air. His eyes stared, groping, blurred films that + trembled between the pouch and droop of the lids; long cheeks, deep + grooved, dropped to the infirm mouth that sagged under the limp moustache. + That was Robin. + </p> + <p> + He became agitated when he saw her. “Poor Robin,” she thought. “All these + years, and it’s too much for him, seeing me.” Presently he dragged himself + from the lawn to the house and disappeared through the French window where + the hammering came from. + </p> + <p> + “Have I frightened him away?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, he’s always like that when he sees strange faces.” + </p> + <p> + “My face isn’t exactly strange.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he must have thought it was.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden chill crept through her. + </p> + <p> + “He’ll be all right when he gets used to you,” Miss Walker said. + </p> + <p> + The strange face of Miss Walker chilled her. A strange young woman, living + close to Robin, protecting him, explaining Robin’s ways. + </p> + <p> + The sound of hammering ceased. Through the long, open window she saw a + woman rise up from the floor and shed a white apron. She came down the + lawn to them, with raised arms, patting disordered hair; large, a full, + firm figure clipped in blue linen. A full-blown face, bluish pink; thick + gray eyes slightly protruding; a thick mouth, solid and firm and kind. + That was Robin’s wife. Her sister was slighter, fresher, a good ten years + younger, Harriett thought. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, we’re only just settling in. I was nailing down the carpet in + Robin’s study.” + </p> + <p> + Her lips were so thick that they moved stiffly when she spoke or smiled. + She panted a little as if from extreme exertion. + </p> + <p> + When they were all seated Mrs. Lethbridge addressed her sister. “Robin was + quite right. It looks <i>much</i> better turned the other way.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say he made you take it all up and put it down again? Well——” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use?... Miss Frean, you don’t know what it is to have a + husband who <i>will</i> have things just so.” + </p> + <p> + “She had to mow the lawn this morning because Robin can’t bear to see one + blade of grass higher than another.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he as particular as all that?” + </p> + <p> + “I assure you, Miss Frean, he is,” Miss Walker informed her. + </p> + <p> + “He wasn’t when I knew him,” Harriett said. + </p> + <p> + “Ah—my sister spoils him.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lethbridge wondered why he hadn’t come out again. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” Harriett said, “perhaps he’ll come if I go.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you mustn’t go. It’s good for him to see people. Takes him out of + himself.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll turn up all right,” Miss Walker said, “when he hears the teacups.” + </p> + <p> + And at four o’clock when the teacups came, Robin turned up, dragging + himself slowly from the house to the lawn. He blinked and quivered with + agitation; Harriett saw he was annoyed, not with her, and not with Miss + Walker, but with his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice, what have you done with my new bottle of medicine?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve done nothing, when you know you poured out my last dose at + twelve?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, hasn’t it come?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It hasn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “But Cissy ordered it this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t,” Cissy said. “I forgot.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Cissy——” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t blame Cissy. You ought to have seen to it yourself.... She + was a good nurse, Harriett, before she was my wife.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, your nurse had nothing else to do. Your wife has to clean and + mend for you, and cook your dinner and mow the lawn and nail the carpets + down.” While she said it she looked at Robin as if she adored him. + </p> + <p> + All through tea time he talked about his health and about the sanitary + dustbin they hadn’t got. Something had happened to him. It wasn’t like him + to be wrapped up in himself and to talk about dustbins. He spoke to his + wife as if she had been his valet. He didn’t see that she was perspiring, + worn out by her struggle with the carpet. + </p> + <p> + “Just go and fetch me another cushion, Beatrice.” + </p> + <p> + She rose with tired patience. + </p> + <p> + “You might let her have her tea in peace,” Miss Walker said, but she was + gone before they could stop her. + </p> + <p> + When Harriett left she went with her to the garden gate, panting as she + walked. Harriett noticed pale, blurred lines on the edges of her lips. She + thought: She isn’t a bit strong. She praised the garden. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lethbridge smiled. “Robin loves it.... But you should have seen it at + five o’clock this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Five o’clock?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I always get up at five to make Robin a cup of tea.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett’s last evening. She was dining at Sidcote. On her way there she + had overtaken Robin’s wife wheeling Robin in a bath chair. Beatrice had + panted and perspired and had made mute signs to Harriett not to take any + notice. She had had to go and lie down till Robin sent for her to find his + cigarette case. Now she was in the kitchen cooking Robin’s part of the + dinner while he lay down in his study. Harriett talked to Miss Walker in + the garden. + </p> + <p> + “It’s been very kind of you to have us so much.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but we’ve loved having you. It’s so good for Beatie. Gives her a rest + from Robin.... I don’t mean that she wants a rest. But, you see, she’s not + well. She looks a big, strong, bouncing thing, but she isn’t. Her heart’s + weak. She oughtn’t to be doing what she does.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t Robin see it?” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t see anything. He never knows when she’s tired or got a + headache. She’ll drop dead before he’ll see it. He’s utterly selfish, Miss + Frean. Wrapt up in himself and his horrid little ailments. Whatever + happens to Beatie he must have his sweetbread, and his soup at eleven and + his tea at five in the morning.. + </p> + <p> + “... I suppose you think I might help more?” + </p> + <p> + “Well——” Harriett did think it. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I just won’t. I won’t encourage Robin. He ought to get her a proper + servant and a man for the garden and the bath chair. I wish you’d give him + a hint. Tell him she isn’t strong. I can’t. She’d snap my head off. Would + you mind?” + </p> + <p> + Harriett didn’t mind. She didn’t mind what she said. She wouldn’t be + saying it to Robin, but to the contemptible thing that had taken Robin’s + place. She still saw Robin as a young man, with young, shining eyes, who + came rushing to give himself up at once, to make himself known. She had no + affection for this selfish invalid, this weak, peevish bully. + </p> + <p> + Poor Beatrice. She was sorry for Beatrice. She resented his behavior to + Beatrice. She told herself she wouldn’t be Beatrice, she wouldn’t be + Robin’s wife for the world. Her pity for Beatrice gave her a secret + pleasure and satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + After dinner she sat out in the garden talking to Robin’s wife, while + Cissy Walker played draughts with Robin in his study, giving Beatrice a + rest from him. They talked about Robin. + </p> + <p> + “You knew him when he was young, didn’t you? What was he like?” + </p> + <p> + She didn’t want to tell her. She wanted to keep the young, shining Robin + to herself. She also wanted to show that she had known him, that she had + known a Robin that Beatrice would never know. Therefore she told her. + </p> + <p> + “My poor Robin.” Beatrice gazed wistfully, trying to see this Robin that + Priscilla had taken from her, that Harriett had known. Then she turned her + back. + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t matter. I’ve married the man I wanted.” She let herself go. + “Cissy says I’ve spoiled him. That isn’t true. It was his first wife who + spoiled him. She made a nervous wreck of him.” + </p> + <p> + “He was devoted to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And he’s paying for his devotion now. She wore him out.... Cissy + says he’s selfish. If he is, it’s because he’s used up all his + unselfishness. He was living on his moral capital.... I feel as if I + couldn’t do too much for him after what he did. Cissy doesn’t know how + awful his life was with Priscilla. She was the most exacting——” + </p> + <p> + “She was my friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t Robin your friend, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But poor Prissie, she was paralyzed.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t paralysis.” + </p> + <p> + “What was it then?” + </p> + <p> + “Pure hysteria. Robin wasn’t in love with her, and she knew it. She + developed that illness so that she might have a hold on him, get his + attention fastened on her somehow. I don’t say she could help it. She + couldn’t. But that’s what it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she died of it.” + </p> + <p> + “No. She died of pneumonia after influenza. I’m not blaming Prissie. She + was pitiable. But he ought never to have married her.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you ought to say that.” + </p> + <p> + “You know what he was,” said Robin’s wife. “And look at him now.” + </p> + <p> + But Harriett’s mind refused, obstinately, to connect the two Robins and + Priscilla. + </p> + <p> + She remembered that she had to speak to Robin. They went together into his + study. Cissy sent her a look, a signal, and rose; she stood by the + doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Beatie, you might come here a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett was alone with Robin. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Harriett, we haven’t been able to do much for you. In my beastly + state——” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll get better.” + </p> + <p> + “Never. I’m done for, Harriett. I don’t complain.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got a devoted wife, Robin.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Poor girl, she does what she can.” + </p> + <p> + “She does too much.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear woman, she wouldn’t be happy if she didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t good for her. Does it never strike you that she’s not strong?” + </p> + <p> + “Not strong? She’s—she’s almost indecently robust. What wouldn’t I + give to have her strength!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, at the lean figure sunk in the armchair, at the + dragged, infirm face, the blurred, owlish eyes, the expression of abject + self-pity, of self-absorption. That was Robin. + </p> + <p> + The awful thing was that she couldn’t love him, couldn’t go on being + faithful. This injured her self-esteem. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></a> + XI + </h2> + <p> + Her old servant, Hannah, had gone, and her new servant, Maggie, had had a + baby. + </p> + <p> + After the first shock and three months’ loss of Maggie, it occurred to + Harriett that the beautiful thing would be to take Maggie back and let her + have the baby with her, since she couldn’t leave it. + </p> + <p> + The baby lay in his cradle in the kitchen, black-eyed and rosy, doubling + up his fat, naked knees, smiling his crooked smile, and saying things to + himself. Harriett had to see him every time she came into the kitchen. + Sometimes she heard him cry, an intolerable cry, tearing the nerves and + heart. And sometimes she saw Maggie unbutton her black gown in a hurry and + put out her white, rose-pointed breast to still his cry. + </p> + <p> + Harriett couldn’t bear it. She could not bear it. + </p> + <p> + She decided that Maggie must go. Maggie was not doing her work properly. + Harriett found flue under the bed. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure,” Maggie said, “I’m doing no worse than I did, ma’am, and you + usedn’t to complain.” + </p> + <p> + “No worse isn’t good enough, Maggie. I think you might have tried to + please me. It isn’t every one who would have taken you in the + circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + “If you think that, ma’am, it’s very cruel and unkind of you to send me + away.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve only yourself to thank. There’s no more to be said.” + </p> + <p> + “No, ma’am. I understand why I’m leaving. It’s because of Baby. You don’t + want to ‘ave ‘im, and I think you might have said so before.” + </p> + <p> + That day month Maggie packed her brown-painted wooden box and the cradle + and the perambulator. The greengrocer took them away on a handcart. + Through the drawing-room window Harriett saw Maggie going away, carrying + the baby, pink and round in his white-knitted cap, his fat hips bulging + over her arm under his white shawl. The gate fell to behind them. The + click struck at Harriett’s heart. + </p> + <p> + Three months later Maggie turned up again in a black hat and gown for + best, red-eyed and humble. + </p> + <p> + “I came to see, ma’am, whether you’d take me back, as I ‘aven’t got Baby + now.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t got him?” + </p> + <p> + “‘E died, ma’am, last month. I’d put him with a woman in the country. She + was highly recommended to me. Very highly recommended she was, and I paid + her six shillings a week. But I think she must ‘ave done something she + shouldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Maggie, you don’t mean she was cruel to him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, ma’am. She was very fond of him. Everybody was fond of Baby. But + whether it was the food she gave him or what, ‘e was that wasted you + wouldn’t have known him. You remember what he was like when he was here.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember.” + </p> + <p> + She remembered. She remembered. Fat and round in his white shawl and + knitted cap when Maggie carried him down the garden path. + </p> + <p> + “I should think she’d a done something, shouldn’t you, ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + She thought: No. No. It was I who did it when I sent him away. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, Maggie. I’m afraid it’s been very terrible for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma’am.... I wondered whether you’d give me another trial, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you quite sure you want to come to me, Maggie?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes’m.... I’m sure you’d a kept him if you could have borne to see him + about.” + </p> + <p> + “You know, Maggie, that was <i>not</i> the reason why you left. If I take + you back you must try not to be careless and forgetful.” + </p> + <p> + “I shan’t ‘ave nothing to make me. Before, it was first Baby’s father and + then ‘im.” + </p> + <p> + She could see that Maggie didn’t hold her responsible. After all, why + should she? If Maggie had made bad arrangements for her baby, Maggie was + responsible. + </p> + <p> + She went round to Lizzie and Sarah to see what they thought. Sarah + thought: Well—it was rather a difficult question, and Harriett + resented her hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. It rested with Maggie to go or stay. If she was incompetent I + wasn’t bound to keep her just because she’d had a baby. At that rate I + should have been completely in her power.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie said she thought Maggie’s baby would have died in any case, and + they both hoped that Harriett wasn’t going to be morbid about it. + </p> + <p> + Harriett felt sustained. She wasn’t going to be morbid. All the same, the + episode left her with a feeling of insecurity. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"></a> + XII + </h2> + <p> + The young girl, Robin’s niece, had come again, bright-eyed, eager, and + hungry, grateful for Sunday supper. + </p> + <p> + Harriett was getting used to these appearances, spread over three years, + since Robin’s wife had asked her to be kind to Mona Floyd. Mona had come + this time to tell her of her engagement to Geoffrey Carter. The news + shocked Harriett intensely. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, you told me he was going to marry your little friend, Amy—Amy + Lambert. What does Amy say to it?” + </p> + <p> + “What <i>can</i> she say? I know it’s a bit rough on her——” + </p> + <p> + “You know, and yet you’ll take your happiness at the poor child’s + expense.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ve got to. We can’t do anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear——” If she could stop it.... An inspiration came. + “I knew a girl once who might have done what you’re doing, only she + wouldn’t. She gave the man up rather than hurt her friend. She <i>couldn’t + do anything else</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “How much was he in love with her?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know <i>how much</i>. He was never in love with any other woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she was a fool. A silly fool. Didn’t she think of <i>him?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t she think!” + </p> + <p> + “No. She didn’t. She thought of herself. Of her own moral beauty. She was + a selfish fool.” + </p> + <p> + “She asked the best and wisest man she knew, and he told her she couldn’t + do anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “The best and wisest man—oh, Lord!” + </p> + <p> + “That was my own father, Mona, Hilton Frean.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it was you. You and Uncle Robin and Aunt Prissie.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett’s face smiled its straight, thin-lipped smile, the worn, grooved + chin arrogantly lifted. + </p> + <p> + “How could you?” + </p> + <p> + “I could because I was brought up not to think of myself before other + people.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it wasn’t even your own idea. You sacrificed him to somebody else’s. + You made three people miserable just for that. Four, if you count Aunt + Beatie.” + </p> + <p> + “There was Prissie. I did it for her.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you do for her? You insulted Aunt Prissie.” + </p> + <p> + “Insulted her? My dear Mona!” + </p> + <p> + “It was an insult, handing her over to a man who couldn’t love her even + with his body. Aunt Prissie was the miserablest of the lot. Do you suppose + he didn’t take it out of her?” + </p> + <p> + “He never let her know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, didn’t he! She knew all right. That’s how she got her illness. And + it’s how he got his. And he’ll kill Aunt Beatie. He’s taking it out of <i>her</i> + now. Look at the awful suffering. And you can go on sentimentalizing about + it.” + </p> + <p> + The young girl rose, flinging her scarf over her shoulders with a violent + gesture. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no common sense in it.” + </p> + <p> + “No <i>common</i> sense, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a jolly sight better than sentiment when it comes to marrying.” + </p> + <p> + They kissed. Mona turned at the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “I say—did he go on caring for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I think he did. Sometimes I think he hated me.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he hated you, after what you’d let him in for.” She paused. + “You don’t <i>mind</i> my telling you the truth, do you?” + </p> + <p> + ... Harriett sat a long time, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes + staring into the room, trying to see the truth. She saw the girl, Robin’s + niece, in her young indignation, her tender brilliance suddenly hard, + suddenly cruel, flashing out the truth. Was it true that she had + sacrificed Robin and Priscilla and Beatrice to her parents’ idea of moral + beauty? Was it true that this idea had been all wrong? That she might have + married Robin and been happy and been right? + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care. If it was to be done again to-morrow I’d do it.” + </p> + <p> + But the beauty of that unique act no longer appeared to her as it once + was, uplifting, consoling, incorruptible. + </p> + <p> + The years passed. They went with an incredible rapidity, and Harriett was + now fifty. + </p> + <p> + The feeling of insecurity had grown on her. It had something to do with + Mona, with Maggie and Maggie’s baby. She had no clear illumination, only a + mournful acquiescence in her own futility, an almost physical sense of + shrinkage, the crumbling away, bit by bit, of her beautiful and honorable + self, dying with the objects of its three profound affections: her father, + her mother, Robin. Gradually the image of the middle-aged Robin had + effaced his youth. + </p> + <p> + She read more and more novels from the circulating libraries, of a kind + demanding less and less effort of attention. And always her inability to + concentrate appeared to her as a just demand for clarity: “The man has no + <i>business</i> to write so that I can’t understand him.” + </p> + <p> + She laid in a weekly stock of opinions from <i>The Spectator</i>, and by + this means contrived a semblance of intellectual life. + </p> + <p> + She was appeased more and more by the rhythm of the seasons, of the weeks, + of day and night, by the first coming up of the pink and wine-brown velvet + primulas, by the pungent, burnt smell of her morning coffee, the smell of + a midday stew, of hot cakes baking for tea time; by the lighting of the + lamp, the lighting of autumn fires, the round of her visits. She waited + with a strained, expectant desire for the moment when it would be time to + see Lizzie or Sarah or Connie Pennefather again. + </p> + <p> + Seeing them was a habit she couldn’t get over. But it no longer gave her + keen pleasure. She told herself that her three friends were deteriorating + in their middle age. Lizzie’s sharp face darted malice; her tongue was + whipcord; she knew where to flick; the small gleam of her eyes, the snap + of her nutcracker jaws irritated Harriett. Sarah was slow; slow. She took + no care of her face and figure. As Lizzie put it, Sarah’s appearance was + an outrage on her contemporaries. “She makes us feel so old.” + </p> + <p> + And Connie—the very rucking of Connie’s coat about her broad hips + irritated Harriett. She had a way of staring over her fat cheeks at + Harriett’s old suits, mistaking them for new ones, and saying the same + exasperating thing. “You’re lucky to be able to afford it. <i>I</i> + can’t.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett’s irritation mounted up and up. + </p> + <p> + And one day she quarreled with Connie. + </p> + <p> + Connie had been telling one of her stories; leaning a little sideways, her + skirt stretched tight between her fat, parted knees, the broad roll of her + smile sliding greasily. She had “grown out of it” in her young womanhood, + and now in her middle age she had come back to it again. She was just like + her father. + </p> + <p> + “Connie, how can you be so coarse?” + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon. I forgot you were always better than everybody else.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not better than everybody else. I’ve only been brought up better than + some people. My father would have died rather than have told a story like + that.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose that’s a dig at my parents.” + </p> + <p> + “I never said anything about your parents.” + </p> + <p> + “I know the things you think about my father.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—I daresay he thinks things about me.” + </p> + <p> + “He thinks you were always an incurable old maid, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he think my father was an old maid?” + </p> + <p> + “I never heard him say one unkind word about your father.” + </p> + <p> + “I should hope not, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Unkind things were said. Not by him. Though he might have been forgiven——” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean. But all my father’s creditors were paid in + full. You know that.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know it.” + </p> + <p> + “You know it now. Was your father one of them?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It was as bad for him as if he had been, though.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you make that out?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, if he hadn’t taken your father’s advice he might have been + a rich man now instead of a poor one.... He invested all his money as he + told him.” + </p> + <p> + “In my father’s things?” + </p> + <p> + “In things he was interested in. And he lost it.” + </p> + <p> + “It shows how he must have trusted him.” + </p> + <p> + “He wasn’t the only one who was ruined by his trust.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett blinked. Her mind swerved from the blow. “I think you must be + mistaken,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I’m less likely to be mistaken than you, my dear, though he <i>was</i> + your father.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett sat up, straight and stiff. “Well, <i>your</i> father’s alive, + and <i>he’s</i> dead.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see what that has to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you? If it had happened the other way about, your father wouldn’t + have died.” + </p> + <p> + Connie stared stupidly at Harriett, not taking it in. Presently she got up + and left her. She moved clumsily, her broad hips shaking. + </p> + <p> + Harriett put on her hat and went round to Lizzie and Sarah in turn. They + would know whether it were true or not. They would know whether Mr. + Hancock had been ruined by his own fault or Papa’s. + </p> + <p> + Sarah was sorry. She picked up a fold of her skirt and crumpled it in her + fingers, and said over and over again, “She oughtn’t to have told you.” + But she didn’t say it wasn’t true. Neither did Lizzie, though her tongue + was a whip for Connie. + </p> + <p> + “Because you can’t stand her dirty stories she goes and tells you this. It + shows what Connie is.” + </p> + <p> + It showed her father as he was, too. Not wise. Not wise all the time. + Courageous, always, loving danger, intolerant of security, wild under all + his quietness and gentleness, taking madder and madder risks, playing his + game with an awful, cool recklessness. Then letting other people in; + ruining Mr. Hancock, the little man he used to laugh at. And it had killed + him. He hadn’t been sorry for Mamma, because he knew she was glad the mad + game was over; but he had thought and thought about him, the little dirty + man, until he had died of thinking. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"></a> + XIII + </h2> + <p> + New people had come to the house next door. Harriett saw a pretty girl + going in and out. She had not called; she was not going to call. Their cat + came over the garden wall and bit off the blades of the irises. When he + sat down on the mignonette Harriett sent a note round by Maggie: “Miss + Frean presents her compliments to the lady next door and would be glad if + she would restrain her cat.” + </p> + <p> + Five minutes later the pretty girl appeared with the cat in her arms. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve brought Mimi,” she said. “I want you to see what a darling he is.” + </p> + <p> + Mimi, a Persian, all orange on the top and snow white underneath, climbed + her breast to hang flattened out against her shoulder, long, the great + plume of his tail fanning her. She swung round to show the innocence of + his amber eyes and the pink arch of his mouth supporting his pink nose. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to see my mignonette,” said Harriett. They stood together by + the crushed ring where Mimi had made his bed. + </p> + <p> + The pretty girl said she was sorry. “But, you see, we <i>can’t</i> + restrain him. I don’t know what’s to be done.... Unless you kept a cat + yourself; then you won’t mind.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” Harriett said, “I don’t like cats.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, why not?” + </p> + <p> + Harriett knew why. A cat was a compromise, a substitute, a subterfuge. Her + pride couldn’t stoop. She was afraid of Mimi, of his enchanting play, and + the soft white fur of his stomach. Maggie’s baby. So she said, “Because + they destroy the beds. And they kill birds.” + </p> + <p> + The pretty girl’s chin burrowed in Mimi’s neck. “You <i>won’t</i> throw + stones at him?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “No, I wouldn’t <i>hurt</i> him.... What did you say his name was?” + </p> + <p> + “Mimi.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett softened. She remembered. “When I was a little girl I had a cat + called Mimi. White Angora. Very handsome. And your name is——” + </p> + <p> + “Brailsford. I’m Dorothy.” + </p> + <p> + Next time, when Mimi jumped on the lupins and broke them down, Dorothy + came again and said she was sorry. And she stayed to tea. Harriett + revealed herself. + </p> + <p> + “My father was Hilton Frean.” She had noticed for the last fifteen years + that people showed no interest when she told them that. They even stared + as though she had said something that had no sense in it. Dorothy said, + “How nice.” + </p> + <p> + <i>“Nice?”</i> + </p> + <p> + “I mean it must have been nice to have him for your father.... You don’t + mind my coming into your garden last thing to catch Mimi?” + </p> + <p> + Harriett felt a sudden yearning for Dorothy. She saw a pleasure, a + happiness, in her coming. She wasn’t going to call, but she sent little + notes in to Dorothy asking her to come to tea. + </p> + <p> + Dorothy declined. + </p> + <p> + But every evening, towards bedtime, she came into the garden to catch + Mimi. Through the window Harriett could hear her calling: “Mimi! Mimi!” + She could see her in her white frock, moving about, hovering, ready to + pounce as Mimi dashed from the bushes. She thought: “She walks into my + garden as if it was her own. But she won’t make a friend of me. She’s + young, and I’m old.” + </p> + <p> + She had a piece of wire netting put up along the wall to keep Mimi out. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the end of it,” she said. She could never think of the young girl + without a pang of sadness and resentment. + </p> + <p> + Fifty-five. Sixty. + </p> + <p> + In her sixty-second year Harriett had her first bad illness. + </p> + <p> + It was so like Sarah Barmby. Sarah got influenza and regarded it as a + common cold and gave it to Harriett who regarded it as a common cold and + got pleurisy. + </p> + <p> + When the pain was over she enjoyed her illness, the peace and rest of + lying there, supported by the bed, holding out her lean arms to be washed + by Maggie; closing her eyes in bliss while Maggie combed and brushed and + plaited her fine gray hair. She liked having the same food at the same + hours. She would look up, smiling weakly, when Maggie came at bedtime with + the little tray. “What have you brought me <i>now</i>, Maggie?” + </p> + <p> + “Benger’s Food, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + She wanted it to be always Benger’s Food at bedtime. She lived by habit, + by the punctual fulfillment of her expectation. She loved the doctor’s + visits at twelve o’clock, his air of brooding absorption in her case, his + consultations with Maggie, the seriousness and sanctity he attached to the + humblest details of her existence. + </p> + <p> + Above all she loved the comfort and protection of Maggie, the sight of + Maggie’s broad, tender face as it bent over her, the feeling of Maggie’s + strong arms as they supported her, the hovering pressure of the firm, + broad body in the clean white apron and the cap. Her eyes rested on it + with affection; she found shelter in Maggie as she had found it in her + mother. + </p> + <p> + One day she said, “Why did you come to me, Maggie? Couldn’t you have found + a better place?” + </p> + <p> + “There was many wanted me. But I came to you, ma’am, because you seemed to + sort of need me most. I dearly love looking after people. Old ladies and + children. And gentlemen, if they’re ill enough,” Maggie said. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a good girl, Maggie.” + </p> + <p> + She had forgotten. The image of Maggie’s baby was dead, hidden, buried + deep down in her mind. She closed her eyes. Her head was thrown back, + motionless, ecstatic under Maggie’s flickering fingers as they plaited her + thin wisps of hair. + </p> + <p> + Out of the peace of illness she entered on the misery and long labor of + convalescence. The first time Maggie left her to dress herself she wept. + She didn’t want to get well. She could see nothing in recovery but the end + of privilege and prestige, the obligation to return to a task she was + tired of, a difficult and terrifying task. + </p> + <p> + By summer she was up and (tremulously) about again. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"></a> + XIV + </h2> + <p> + She was aware of her drowsy, supine dependence on Maggie. At first her + perishing self asserted itself in an increased reserve and arrogance. Thus + she protected herself from her own censure. She had still a feeling of + satisfaction in her exclusiveness, her power not to call on new people. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” Lizzie Pierce said, “you might have called on the Brailsfords.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I? I should have nothing in common with such people.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, considering that Mr. Brailsford writes in <i>The Spectator</i>——” + </p> + <p> + Harriett called. She put on her gray silk and her soft white mohair shawl, + and her wide black hat tied under her chin, and called. It was on a + Saturday. The Brailsfords’ room was full of visitors, men and women, + talking excitedly. Dorothy was not there—Dorothy was married. Mimi + was not there—Mimi was dead. + </p> + <p> + Harriett made her way between the chairs, dim-eyed, upright, and stiff in + her white shawl. She apologized for having waited seven years before + calling.... “Never go anywhere.... Quite a recluse since my father’s + death. He was Hilton Frean.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” Mrs. Brailsford’s eyes were sweetly interrogative. + </p> + <p> + “But as we are such near neighbors I felt that I must break my rule.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Brailsford smiled in vague benevolence; yet as if she thought that + Miss Frean’s feeling and her action were unnecessary. After seven years. + And presently Harriett found herself alone in her corner. + </p> + <p> + She tried to talk to Mr. Brailsford when he handed her the tea and bread + and butter. “My father,” she said, “was connected with <i>The Spectator</i> + for many years. He was Hilton Frean.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? I’m afraid I—don’t remember.” + </p> + <p> + She could get nothing out of him, out of his lean, ironical face, his eyes + screwed up behind his glasses, benevolent, amused at her. She was nobody + in that roomful of keen, intellectual people; nobody; nothing but an + unnecessary little old lady who had come there uninvited. + </p> + <p> + Her second call was not returned. She heard that the Brailsfords were + exclusive; they wouldn’t know anybody out of their own set. Harriett + explained her position thus: “No. I didn’t keep it up. We have nothing in + common.” + </p> + <p> + She was old—old. She had nothing in common with youth, nothing in + common with middle age, with intellectual, exclusive people connected with + <i>The Spectator</i>. She said, “<i>The Spectator</i> is not what it used + to be in my father’s time.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett Frean was not what she used to be. She was aware of the creeping + fret, the poisons and obstructions of decay. It was as if she had parted + with her own light, elastic body, and succeeded to somebody else’s that + was all bone, heavy, stiff, irresponsive to her will. Her brain felt + swollen and brittle, she had a feeling of tiredness in her face, of + infirmity about her mouth. Her looking-glass showed her the fallen yellow + skin, the furrowed lines of age. + </p> + <p> + Her head dropped, drowsy, giddy over the week’s accounts. She gave up even + the semblance of her housekeeping, and became permanently dependent on + Maggie. She was happy in the surrender of her responsibility, of the + grown-up self she had maintained with so much effort, clinging to Maggie, + submitting to Maggie, as she had clung and submitted to her mother. + </p> + <p> + Her affection concentrated on two objects, the house and Maggie, Maggie + and the house. The house had become a part of herself, an extension of her + body, a protective shell. She was uneasy when away from it. The thought of + it drew her with passion: the low brown wall with the railing, the flagged + path from the little green gate to the front door. The square brown front; + the two oblong, white-framed windows, the dark-green trellis porch + between; the three windows above. And the clipped privet bush by the + trellis and the may tree by the gate. + </p> + <p> + She no longer enjoyed visiting her friends. She set out in peevish + resignation, leaving her house, and when she had sat half an hour with + Lizzie or Sarah or Connie she would begin to fidget, miserable till she + got back to it again; to the house and Maggie. + </p> + <p> + She was glad enough when Lizzie came to her; she still liked Lizzie best. + They would sit together, one on each side of the fireplace, talking. + Harriett’s voice came thinly through her thin lips, precise yet plaintive, + Lizzie’s finished with a snap of the bent-in jaws. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember those little round hats we used to wear? You had one + exactly like mine. Connie couldn’t wear them.” + </p> + <p> + “We were wild young things,” said Lizzie. “I was wilder than you.... A + little audacious thing.” + </p> + <p> + “And look at us now—we couldn’t say ‘Bo’ to a goose.... Well, we may + be thankful we haven’t gone stout like Connie Pennefather.” + </p> + <p> + “Or poor Sarah. That stoop.” + </p> + <p> + They drew themselves up. Their straight, slender shoulders rebuked + Connie’s obesity, and Sarah’s bent back, her bodice stretched hump-wise + from the stuck-out ridges of her stays. + </p> + <p> + Harriett was glad when Lizzie went and left her to Maggie and the house. + She always hoped she wouldn’t stay for tea, so that Maggie might not have + an extra cup and plate to wash. + </p> + <p> + The years passed: the sixty-third, sixty-fourth, sixty-fifth; their + monotony mitigated by long spells of torpor and the sheer rapidity of + time. Her mind was carried on, empty, in empty, flying time. She had a + feeling of dryness and distension in all her being, and a sort of + crepitation in her brain, irritating her to yawning fits. After meals, + sitting in her armchair, her book would drop from her hands and her mind + would slip from drowsiness into stupor. There was something voluptuous + about the beginning of this state; she would give herself up to it with an + animal pleasure and content. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes, for long periods, her mind would go backwards, returning, + always returning, to the house in Black’s Lane. She would see the row of + elms and the white wall at the end with the green balcony hung out like a + birdcage above the green door. She would see herself, a girl wearing a big + chignon and a little round hat; or sitting in the curly chair with her + feet on the white rug; and her father, slender and straight, smiling + half-amused, while her mother read aloud to them. Or she was a child in a + black silk apron going up Black’s Lane. Little audacious thing. She had a + fondness and admiration for this child and her audacity. And always she + saw her mother, with her sweet face between the long, hanging curls, + coming down the garden path, in a wide silver-gray gown trimmed with + narrow bands of black velvet. And she would wake up, surprised to find + herself sitting in a strange room, dressed in a gown with strange sleeves + that ended in old wrinkled hands; for the book that lay in her lap was + Longfellow, open at <i>Evangeline</i>. + </p> + <p> + One day she made Maggie pull off the old, washed-out cretonne covers, + exposing the faded blue rep. She was back in the drawing-room of her + youth. Only one thing was missing. She went upstairs and took the blue egg + out of the spare room and set it in its place on the marble-topped table. + She sat gazing at it a long time in happy, child-like satisfaction. The + blue egg gave reality to her return. + </p> + <p> + When she saw Maggie coming in with the tea and buttered scones she thought + of her mother. + </p> + <p> + Three more years. Harriett was sixty-eight. She had a faint recollection + of having given Maggie notice, long ago, there, in the dining room. Maggie + had stood on the hearthrug, in her large white apron, crying. She was + crying now. + </p> + <p> + She said she must leave and go and take care of her mother. “Mother’s + getting very feeble now.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m getting very feeble, too, Maggie. It’s cruel and unkind of you to + leave me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t help it.” + </p> + <p> + She moved about the room, sniffing and sobbing as she dusted. Harriett + couldn’t bear it any more. “If you can’t control yourself,” she said, “go + into the kitchen.” Maggie went. + </p> + <p> + Harriett sat before the fire in her chair, straight and stiff, making no + sound. Now and then her eyelids shook, fluttered red rims; slow, scanty + tears oozed and fell, their trail glistening in the long furrows of her + cheeks. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"></a> + XV + </h2> + <p> + The door of the specialist’s house had shut behind them with a soft, + respectful click. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie Pierce and Harriett sat in the taxicab, holding each other’s hands. + Harriett spoke. + </p> + <p> + “He says I’ve got what Mamma had.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie blinked away her tears; her hand loosened and tightened on + Harriett’s with a nervous clutch. + </p> + <p> + Harriett felt nothing but a strange, solemn excitement and exaltation. She + was raised to her mother’s eminence in pain. With every stab she would + live again in her mother. She had what her mother had. + </p> + <p> + Only she would have an operation. This different thing was what she + dreaded, the thing her mother hadn’t had, and the going away into the + hospital, to live exposed in the free ward among other people. That was + what she minded most. That and leaving her house, and Maggie’s leaving. + </p> + <p> + She cried when she saw Maggie standing at the gate in her white apron as + the taxicab took her away. She thought, “When I come back again she won’t + be there.” Yet somehow she felt that it wouldn’t happen; it was impossible + that she should come back and not find Maggie there. + </p> + <p> + She lay in her white bed in the white-curtained cubicle. Lizzie was paying + for the cubicle. Kind Lizzie. Kind. Kind. + </p> + <p> + She wasn’t afraid of the operation. It would happen in the morning. Only + one thing worried her. Something Connie had told her. Under the anæsthetic + you said things. Shocking, indecent things. But there wasn’t anything she + could say. She didn’t know anything.... Yes. She did. There were Connie’s + stories. And Black’s Lane. Behind the dirty blue palings in Black’s Lane. + </p> + <p> + The nurses comforted her. They said if you kept your mouth tight shut, up + to the last minute before the operation, if you didn’t say one word you + were all right. + </p> + <p> + She thought about it after she woke in the morning. For a whole hour + before the operation she refused to speak, nodding and shaking her head, + communicating by gestures. She walked down the wide corridor of the ward + on her way to the theatre, very upright in her white flannel dressing + gown, with her chin held high and a look of exaltation on her face. There + were convalescents in the corridor. They saw her. The curtains before some + of the cubicles were parted; the patients saw her; they knew what she was + going to. Her exaltation mounted. + </p> + <p> + She came into the theatre. It was all white. White. White tiles. Rows of + little slender knives on a glass shelf, under glass, shining. A white sink + in the corner. A mixed smell of iodine and ether. The surgeon wore a white + coat. Harriett made her tight lips tighter. + </p> + <p> + She climbed on to the white enamel table, and lay down, drawing her + dressing gown straight about her knees. She had not said one word. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + She had behaved beautifully. + </p> + <p> + The pain in her body came up, wave after wave, burning. It swelled, + tightening, stretching out her wounded flesh. + </p> + <p> + She knew that the little man they called the doctor was really Mr. + Hancock. They oughtn’t to have let him in. She cried out. “Take him away. + Don’t let him touch me;” but nobody took any notice. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t right,” she said. “He oughtn’t to do it. Not to <i>any</i> + woman. If it was known he would be punished.” + </p> + <p> + And there was Maggie by the curtain, crying. + </p> + <p> + “That’s Maggie. She’s crying because she thinks I killed her baby.” + </p> + <p> + The ice bag laid across her body stirred like a live thing as the ice + melted, then it settled and was still. She put her hand down and felt the + smooth, cold oilskin distended with water. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a dead baby in the bed. Red hair. They ought to have taken it + away,” she said. “Maggie had a baby once. She took it up the lane to the + place where the man is; and they put it behind the palings. Dirty blue + palings. + </p> + <p> + “...Pussycat. Pussycat, what did you there? Pussy. Prissie. Prissiecat. + Poor Prissie. She never goes to bed. She can’t get up out of the chair.” + </p> + <p> + A figure in white, with a stiff white cap, stood by the bed. She named it, + fixed it in her mind. Nurse. Nurse—that was what it was. She spoke + to it. “It’s sad—sad to go through so much pain and then to have a + dead baby.” + </p> + <p> + The white curtain walls of the cubicle contracted, closed in on her. She + was lying at the bottom of her white-curtained nursery cot. She felt weak + and diminished, small, like a very little child. + </p> + <p> + The front curtains parted, showing the blond light of the corridor beyond. + She saw the nursery door open and the light from the candle moved across + the ceiling. The gap was filled by the heavy form, the obscene yet + sorrowful face of Connie Pennefather. + </p> + <p> + Harriett looked at it. She smiled with a sudden ecstatic wonder and + recognition. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma——” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND DEATH OF HARRIETT FREAN ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 9298-h.htm or 9298-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/9/2/9/9298/</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Life and Death of Harriett Frean</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: May Sinclair</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September 18, 2003 [eBook #9298]<br /> +[Most recently updated: January 19, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Suzanne Shell, Richard Prairie, David Widger and PG Distributed Proofreaders</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND DEATH OF HARRIETT FREAN ***</div> + + <h1> + Life and Death of Harriett Frean + </h1> + <h3> + 1922 + </h3> + + <h2 class="no-break"> + By May Sinclair + </h2> + + <hr /> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV </a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> XV </a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a> + I + </h2> + +<p class="poem"> + +“Pussycat, Pussycat, where have you been?”<br /> +“I’ve been to London, to see the Queen.”<br /> +“Pussycat, Pussycat, what did you there?”<br /> +“I caught a little mouse under the chair,” + +</p> + <p> + Her mother said it three times. And each time the Baby Harriett laughed. + The sound of her laugh was so funny that she laughed again at that; she + kept on laughing, with shriller and shriller squeals. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder why she thinks it’s funny,” her mother said. + </p> + <p> + Her father considered it. “I don’t know. The cat perhaps. The cat and the + Queen. But no; that isn’t funny.” + </p> + <p> + “She sees something in it we don’t see, bless her,” said her mother. + </p> + <p> + Each kissed her in turn, and the Baby Harriett stopped laughing suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma, <i>did</i> Pussycat see the Queen?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Mamma. “Just when the Queen was passing the little mouse came + out of its hole and ran under the chair. That’s what Pussycat saw.” + </p> + <p> + Every evening before bedtime she said the same rhyme, and Harriett asked + the same question. + </p> + <p> + When Nurse had gone she would lie still in her cot, waiting. The door + would open, the big pointed shadow would move over the ceiling, the + lattice shadow of the fireguard would fade and go away, and Mamma would + come in carrying the lighted candle. Her face shone white between her + long, hanging curls. She would stoop over the cot and lift Harriett up, + and her face would be hidden in curls. That was the kiss-me-to-sleep kiss. + And when she had gone Harriett lay still again, waiting. Presently Papa + would come in, large and dark in the firelight. He stooped and she leapt + up into his arms. That was the kiss-me-awake kiss; it was their secret. + </p> + <p> + Then they played. Papa was the Pussycat and she was the little mouse in + her hole under the bed-clothes. They played till Papa said, “<i>No</i> + more!” and tucked the blankets tight in. + </p> + <p> + “Now you’re kissing like Mamma——” + </p> + <p> + Hours afterwards they would come again together and stoop over the cot and + she wouldn’t see them; they would kiss her with soft, light kisses, and + she wouldn’t know. + </p> + <p> + She thought: To-night I’ll stay awake and see them. But she never did. + Only once she dreamed that she heard footsteps and saw the lighted candle, + going out of the room; going, going away. + </p> + <p> + The blue egg stood on the marble top of the cabinet where you could see it + from everywhere; it was supported by a gold waistband, by gold hoops and + gold legs, and it wore a gold ball with a frill round it like a crown. You + would never have guessed what was inside it. You touched a spring in its + waistband and it flew open, and then it was a workbox. Gold scissors and + thimble and stiletto sitting up in holes cut in white velvet. + </p> + <p> + The blue egg was the first thing she thought of when she came into the + room. There was nothing like that in Connie Hancock’s Papa’s house. It + belonged to Mamma. + </p> + <p> + Harriett thought: If only she could have a birthday and wake up and find + that the blue egg belonged to <i>her</i>—— + </p> + <p> + Ida, the wax doll, sat on the drawing-room sofa, dressed ready for the + birthday. The darling had real person’s eyes made of glass, and real + eyelashes and hair. Little finger and toenails were marked in the wax, and + she smelt of the lavender her clothes were laid in. + </p> + <p> + But Emily, the new birthday doll, smelt of composition and of gum and hay; + she had flat, painted hair and eyes, and a foolish look on her face, like + Nurse’s aunt, Mrs. Spinker, when she said “Lawk-a-daisy!” Although Papa + had given her Emily, she could never feel for her the real, loving love + she felt for Ida. + </p> + <p> + And her mother had told her that she must lend Ida to Connie Hancock if + Connie wanted her. + </p> + <p> + Mamma couldn’t see that such a thing was not possible. + </p> + <p> + “My darling, you mustn’t be selfish. You must do what your little guest + wants.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t.” + </p> + <p> + But she had to; and she was sent out of the room because she cried. It was + much nicer upstairs in the nursery with Mimi, the Angora cat. Mimi knew + that something sorrowful had happened. He sat still, just lifting the root + of his tail as you stroked him. If only she could have stayed there with + Mimi; but in the end she had to go back to the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + If only she could have told Mamma what it felt like to see Connie with Ida + in her arms, squeezing her tight to her chest and patting her as if Ida + had been <i>her</i> child. She kept on saying to herself that Mamma didn’t + know; she didn’t know what she had done. And when it was all over she took + the wax doll and put her in the long narrow box she had come in, and + buried her in the bottom drawer in the spare-room wardrobe. She thought: + If I can’t have her to myself I won’t have her at all. I’ve got Emily. I + shall just have to pretend she’s not an idiot. + </p> + <p> + She pretended Ida was dead; lying in her pasteboard coffin and buried in + the wardrobe cemetery. + </p> + <p> + It was hard work pretending that Emily didn’t look like Mrs. Spinker. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a> + II + </h2> + <p> + She had a belief that her father’s house was nicer than other people’s + houses. It stood off from the high road, in Black’s Lane, at the head of + the town. You came to it by a row of tall elms standing up along Mr. + Hancock’s wall. Behind the last tree its slender white end went straight + up from the pavement, hanging out a green balcony like a bird cage above + the green door. + </p> + <p> + The lane turned sharp there and went on, and the long brown garden wall + went with it. Behind the wall the lawn flowed down from the white house + and the green veranda to the cedar tree at the bottom. Beyond the lawn was + the kitchen garden, and beyond the kitchen garden the orchard; little + crippled apple trees bending down in the long grass. + </p> + <p> + She was glad to come back to the house after the walk with Eliza, the + nurse, or Annie, the housemaid; to go through all the rooms looking for + Mimi; looking for Mamma, telling her what had happened. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma, the red-haired woman in the sweetie shop has got a little baby, + and its hair’s red, too.... Some day I shall have a little baby. I shall + dress him in a long gown——-” + </p> + <p> + “Robe.” + </p> + <p> + “Robe, with bands of lace all down it, as long as <i>that</i>; and a white + christening cloak sewn with white roses. Won’t he look sweet?” + </p> + <p> + “Very sweet.” + </p> + <p> + “He shall have lots of hair. I shan’t love him if he hasn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, you will.” + </p> + <p> + “No. He must have thick, flossy hair like Mimi, so that I can stroke him. + Which would you rather have, a little girl or a little boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—what do you think——?” + </p> + <p> + “I think—perhaps I’d rather have a little girl.” + </p> + <p> + She would be like Mamma, and her little girl would be like herself. She + couldn’t think of it any other way. + </p> + <p> + The school-treat was held in Mr. Hancock’s field. All afternoon she had + been with the children, playing Oranges and lemons, A ring, a ring of + roses, and Here we come gathering nuts in May, <i>nuts</i> in May, <i>nuts</i> + in May: over and over again. And she had helped her mother to hand cake + and buns at the infants’ table. + </p> + <p> + The guest-children’s tea was served last of all, up on the lawn under the + immense, brown brick, many windowed house. There wasn’t room for everybody + at the table, so the girls sat down first and the boys waited for their + turn. Some of them were pushing and snatching. + </p> + <p> + She knew what she would have. She would begin with a bun, and go on + through two sorts of jam to Madeira cake, and end with raspberries and + cream. Or perhaps it would be safer to begin with raspberries and cream. + She kept her face very still, so as not to look greedy, and tried not to + stare at the Madeira cake lest people should see she was thinking of it. + Mrs. Hancock had given her somebody else’s crumby plate. She thought: I’m + not greedy. I’m really and truly hungry. She could draw herself in at the + waist with a flat, exhausted feeling, like the two ends of a concertina + coming together. + </p> + <p> + She was doing this when she saw her mother standing on the other side of + the table, looking at her and making signs. + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve finished, Hatty, you’d better get up and let that little boy + have something.” + </p> + <p> + They were all turning round and looking at her. And there was the crumby + plate before her. They were thinking: “That greedy little girl has gone on + and on eating.” She got up suddenly, not speaking, and left the table, the + Madeira cake and the raspberries and cream. She could feel her skin all + hot and wet with shame. + </p> + <p> + And now she was sitting up in the drawing-room at home. Her mother had + brought her a piece of seed-cake and a cup of milk with the cream on it. + Mamma’s soft eyes kissed her as they watched her eating her cake with + short crumbly bites, like a little cat. Mamma’s eyes made her feel so + good, so good. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you tell me you hadn’t finished?” + </p> + <p> + “Finished? I hadn’t even begun.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h, darling, why didn’t you <i>tell</i> me?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I—I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m glad my little girl didn’t snatch and push. It’s better to go + without than to take from other people. That’s ugly.” + </p> + <p> + Ugly. Being naughty was just that. Doing ugly things. Being good was being + beautiful like Mamma. She wanted to be like her mother. Sitting up there + and being good felt delicious. And the smooth cream with the milk running + under it, thin and cold, was delicious too. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a thought came rushing at her. There was God and there was Jesus. + But even God and Jesus were not more beautiful than Mamma. They couldn’t + be. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t say things like that, Hatty; you mustn’t, really. It might + make something happen.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, it won’t. You don’t suppose they’re listening all the time.” + </p> + <p> + Saying things like that made you feel good and at the same time naughty, + which was more exciting than only being one or the other. But Mamma’s + frightened face spoiled it. What did she think—what did she think + God would do? + </p> + <p> + Red campion—— + </p> + <p> + At the bottom of the orchard a door in the wall opened into Black’s Lane, + below the three tall elms. + </p> + <p> + She couldn’t believe she was really walking there by herself. It had come + all of a sudden, the thought that she <i>must</i> do it, that she <i>must</i> + go out into the lane; and when she found the door unlatched, something + seemed to take hold of her and push her out. She was forbidden to go into + Black’s Lane; she was not even allowed to walk there with Annie. + </p> + <p> + She kept on saying to herself: “I’m in the lane. I’m in the lane. I’m + disobeying Mamma.” + </p> + <p> + Nothing could undo that. She had disobeyed by just standing outside the + orchard door. Disobedience was such a big and awful thing that it was + waste not to do something big and awful with it. So she went on, up and + up, past the three tall elms. She was a big girl, wearing black silk + aprons and learning French. Walking by herself. When she arched her back + and stuck her stomach out she felt like a tall lady in a crinoline and + shawl. She swung her hips and made her skirts fly out. That was her + grown-up crinoline, swing-swinging as she went. + </p> + <p> + At the turn the cow’s parsley and rose campion began; on each side a long + trail of white froth with the red tops of the campion pricking through. + She made herself a nosegay. + </p> + <p> + Past the second turn you came to the waste ground covered with old boots + and rusted, crumpled tins. The little dirty brown house stood there behind + the rickety blue palings; narrow, like the piece of a house that has been + cut in two. It hid, stooping under the ivy bush on its roof. It was not + like the houses people live in; there was something queer, some secret, + frightening thing about it. + </p> + <p> + The man came out and went to the gate and stood there. <i>He</i> was the + frightening thing. When he saw her he stepped back and crouched behind the + palings, ready to jump out. + </p> + <p> + She turned slowly, as if she had thought of something. She mustn’t run. + She must <i>not</i> run. If she ran he would come after her. + </p> + <p> + Her mother was coming down the garden walk, tall and beautiful in her + silver-gray gown with the bands of black velvet on the flounces and the + sleeves; her wide, hooped skirts swung, brushing the flower borders. + </p> + <p> + She ran up to her, crying, “Mamma, I went up the lane where you told me + not to.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Hatty, no; you didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + You could see she wasn’t angry. She was frightened. + </p> + <p> + “I did. I did.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother took the bunch of flowers out of her hand and looked at it. + “Yes,” she said, “that’s where the dark-red campion grows.” + </p> + <p> + She was holding the flowers up to her face. It was awful, for you could + see her mouth thicken and redden over its edges and shake. She hid it + behind the flowers. And somehow you knew it wasn’t your naughtiness that + made her cry. There was something more. + </p> + <p> + She was saying in a thick, soft voice, “It was wrong of you, my darling.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she bent her tall straightness. “Rose campion,” she said, parting + the stems with her long, thin fingers. “Look, Hatty, how <i>beautiful</i> + they are. Run away and put the poor things in water.” + </p> + <p> + She was so quiet, so quiet, and her quietness hurt far more than if she + had been angry. + </p> + <p> + She must have gone straight back into the house to Papa. Harriett knew, + because he sent for her. He was quiet, too.... That was the little, hiding + voice he told you secrets in.... She stood close up to him, between his + knees, and his arm went loosely round her to keep her there while he + looked into her eyes. You could smell tobacco, and the queer, clean man’s + smell that came up out of him from his collar. He wasn’t smiling; but + somehow his eyes looked kinder than if they had smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you do it, Hatty?” + </p> + <p> + “Because—I wanted to see what it would feel like.” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t do it again. Do you hear?—you mustn’t do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Because it makes your mother unhappy. That’s enough why.” + </p> + <p> + But there was something more. Mamma had been frightened. Something to do + with the frightening man in the lane. + </p> + <p> + “Why does it make her?” + </p> + <p> + She knew; she knew; but she wanted to see what he would say. + </p> + <p> + “I said that was enough.... Do you know what you’ve been guilty of?” + </p> + <p> + “Disobedience.” + </p> + <p> + “More than that. Breaking trust. Meanness. It was mean and dishonorable of + you when you knew you wouldn’t be punished.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t there to be a punishment?” + </p> + <p> + “No. People are punished to make them remember. We want you to forget.” + His arm tightened, drawing her closer. And the kind, secret voice went on. + “Forget ugly things. Understand, Hatty, nothing is forbidden. We don’t + forbid, because we trust you to do what we wish. To behave beautifully.... + There, there.” + </p> + <p> + She hid her face on his breast against his tickly coat, and cried. + </p> + <p> + She would always have to do what they wanted; the unhappiness of not doing + it was more than she could bear. All very well to say there would be no + punishment; <i>their</i> unhappiness was the punishment. + </p> + <p> + It hurt more than anything. It kept on hurting when she thought about it. + </p> + <p> + The first minute of to-morrow she would begin behaving beautifully; as + beautifully as she could. They wanted you to; they wanted it more than + anything because they were so beautiful. So good. So wise. + </p> + <p> + But three years went before Harriett understood how wise they had been, + and why her mother took her again and again into Black’s Lane to pick red + campion, so that it was always the red campion she remembered. They must + have known all the time about Black’s Lane; Annie, the housemaid, used to + say it was a bad place; something had happened to a little girl there. + Annie hushed and reddened and wouldn’t tell you what it was. Then one day, + when she was thirteen, standing by the apple tree, Connie Hancock told + her. A secret... Behind the dirty blue palings... She shut her eyes, + squeezing the lids down, frightened. But when she thought of the lane she + could see nothing but the green banks, the three tall elms, and the red + campion pricking through the white froth of the cow’s parsley; her mother + stood on the garden walk in her wide, swinging gown; she was holding the + red and white flowers up to her face and saying, “Look, how <i>beautiful</i> + they are.” + </p> + <p> + She saw her all the time while Connie was telling her the secret. She + wanted to get up and go to her. Connie knew what it meant when you + stiffened suddenly and made yourself tall and cold and silent. The cold + silence would frighten her and she would go away. Then, Harriett thought, + she could get back to her mother and Longfellow. + </p> + <p> + Every afternoon, through the hours before her father came home, she sat in + the cool, green-lighted drawing-room reading <i>Evangeline</i> aloud to + her mother. When they came to the beautiful places they looked at each + other and smiled. + </p> + <p> + She passed through her fourteenth year sedately, to the sound of <i>Evangeline</i>. + Her upright body, her lifted, delicately obstinate, rather wistful face + expressed her small, conscious determination to be good. She was silent + with emotion when Mrs. Hancock told her she was growing like her mother. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a> + III + </h2> + <p> + Connie Hancock was her friend. + </p> + <p> + She had once been a slender, wide-mouthed child, top-heavy with her damp + clumps of hair. Now she was squaring and thickening and looking horrid, + like Mr. Hancock. Beside her Harriett felt tall and elegant and slender. + </p> + <p> + Mamma didn’t know what Connie was really like; it was one of those things + you couldn’t tell her. She said Connie would grow out of it. Meanwhile you + could see <i>he</i> wouldn’t. Mr. Hancock had red whiskers, and his face + squatted down in his collar, instead of rising nobly up out of it like + Papa’s. It looked as if it was thinking things that made its eyes bulge + and its mouth curl over and slide like a drawn loop. When you talked about + Mr. Hancock, Papa gave a funny laugh as if he was something improper. He + said Connie ought to have red whiskers. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Hancock, Connie’s mother, was Mamma’s dearest friend. That was why + there had always been Connie. She could remember her, squirming and + spluttering in her high nursery chair. And there had always been Mrs. + Hancock, refined and mournful, looking at you with gentle, disappointed + eyes. + </p> + <p> + She was glad that Connie hadn’t been sent to her boarding-school, so that + nothing could come between her and Priscilla Heaven. + </p> + <p> + Priscilla was her real friend. + </p> + <p> + It had begun in her third term, when Priscilla first came to the school, + unhappy and shy, afraid of the new faces. Harriett took her to her room. + </p> + <p> + She was thin, thin, in her shabby black velvet jacket. She stood looking + at herself in the greenish glass over the yellow-painted chest of drawers. + Her heavy black hair had dragged the net and broken it. She put up her + thin arms, helpless. + </p> + <p> + “They’ll never keep me,” she said. “I’m so untidy.” + </p> + <p> + “It wants more pins,” said Harriett. “Ever so many more pins. If you put + them in head downwards they’ll fall out. I’ll show you.” + </p> + <p> + Priscilla trembled with joy when Harriett asked her to walk with her; she + had been afraid of her at first because she behaved so beautifully. + </p> + <p> + Soon they were always together. They sat side by side at the dinner table + and in school, black head and golden brown leaning to each other over the + same book; they walked side by side in the packed procession, going two by + two. They slept in the same room, the two white beds drawn close together; + a white dimity curtain hung between; they drew it back so that they could + see each other lying there in the summer dusk and in the clear mornings + when they waked. + </p> + <p> + Harriett loved Priscilla’s odd, dusk-white face; her long hound’s nose, + seeking; her wide mouth, restless between her shallow, fragile jaws; her + eyes, black, cleared with spots of jade gray, prominent, showing white + rims when she was startled. She started at sudden noises; she quivered and + stared when you caught her dreaming; she cried when the organ burst out + triumphantly in church. You had to take care every minute that you didn’t + hurt her. + </p> + <p> + She cried when term ended and she had to go home. Priscilla’s home was + horrible. Her father drank, her mother fretted; they were poor; a rich + aunt paid for her schooling. + </p> + <p> + When the last midsummer holidays came she spent them with Harriett. + </p> + <p> + “Oh-h-h!” Prissie drew in her breath when she heard they were to sleep + together in the big bed in the spare room. She went about looking at + things, curious, touching them softly as if they were sacred. She loved + the two rough-coated china lambs on the chimney-piece, and “Oh—the + dear little china boxes with the flowers sitting up on them.” + </p> + <p> + But when the bell rang she stood quivering in the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid of your father and mother, Hatty. They won’t like me. I <i>know</i> + they won’t like me.” + </p> + <p> + “They will. They’ll love you,” Hatty said. + </p> + <p> + And they did. They were sorry for the little white-faced, palpitating + thing. + </p> + <p> + It was their last night. Priscilla wasn’t going back to school again. Her + aunt, she said, was only paying for a year. They lay together in the big + bed, dim, face to face, talking. + </p> + <p> + “Hatty—if you wanted to do something most awfully, more than + anything else in the world, and it was wrong, would you be able not to do + it?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so. I <i>think</i> I would, because I’d know if I did it would + make Papa and Mamma unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but suppose it was giving up something you wanted, something you + loved more than them—could you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. If it was wrong for me to have it. And I couldn’t love anything more + than them.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you did, you’d give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d have to.” + </p> + <p> + “Hatty—I couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, <i>you</i> could if <i>I</i> could.” + </p> + <p> + “No. No....” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know you couldn’t?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I haven’t. I—I oughtn’t to have gone on staying here. My + father’s ill. They wanted me to go to them and I wouldn’t go.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Prissie——” + </p> + <p> + “There, you see. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I was so happy here with you. + I couldn’t give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “If your father had been like Papa you would have.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’d do anything for <i>him</i>, because he’s your father. It’s you I + couldn’t give up.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll have to some day.” + </p> + <p> + “When—when?” + </p> + <p> + “When somebody else comes. When you’re married.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never marry. Never. I shall never want anybody but you. If we + could always be together.... I can’t think <i>why</i> people marry, + Hatty.” + </p> + <p> + “Still,” Hatty said, “they do.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s because they haven’t ever cared as you and me care.... Hatty, if I + don’t marry anybody, <i>you</i> won’t, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not thinking of marrying anybody.” + </p> + <p> + “No. But promise, promise on your honor you won’t ever.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather not <i>promise</i>. You see, I might. I shall love you all the + same, Priscilla, all my life.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you won’t. It’ll all be different. I love you more than you love me. + But I shall love you all my life and it won’t be different. I shall never + marry.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I shan’t, either,” Harriett said. + </p> + <p> + They exchanged gifts. Harriett gave Priscilla a rosewood writing desk + inlaid with mother-o’-pearl, and Priscilla gave Harriett a + pocket-handkerchief case she had made herself of fine gray canvas + embroidered with blue flowers like a sampler and lined with blue and white + plaid silk. On the top part you read “Pocket handkerchiefs” in blue + lettering, and on the bottom “Harriett Frean,” and, tucked away in one + corner, “Priscilla Heaven: September, 1861.” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a> + IV + </h2> + <p> + She remembered the conversation. Her father sitting, straight and slender, + in his chair, talking in that quiet voice of his that never went sharp or + deep or quavering, that paused now and then on an amused inflection, his + long lips straightening between the perpendicular grooves of his smile. + She loved his straight, slender face, clean-shaven, the straight, slightly + jutting jaw, the dark-blue flattish eyes under the black eyebrows, the + silver-grizzled hair that fitted close like a cap, curling in a silver + brim above his ears. + </p> + <p> + He was talking about his business as if more than anything it amused him. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing gross and material about stock-broking. It’s like pure + mathematics. You’re dealing in abstractions, ideal values, all the time. + You calculate—in curves.” His hand, holding the unlit cigar, drew a + curve, a long graceful one, in mid-air. “You know what’s going to happen + all the time. + </p> + <p> + “... The excitement begins when you don’t quite know and you risk it; when + it’s getting dangerous. + </p> + <p> + “... The higher mathematics of the game. If you can afford them; if you + haven’t a wife and family—I can see the fascination....” + </p> + <p> + He sat holding his cigar in one hand, looking at it without seeing it, + seeing the fascination and smiling at it, amused and secure. + </p> + <p> + And her mother, bending over her bead-work, smiled too, out of their + happiness, their security. + </p> + <p> + He would lean back, smoking his cigar and looking at them out of + contented, half-shut eyes, as they stitched, one at each end of the long + canvas fender stool. He was waiting, he said, for the moment when their + heads would come bumping together in the middle. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes they would sit like that, not exchanging ideas, exchanging only + the sense of each other’s presence, a secure, profound satisfaction that + belonged as much to their bodies as their minds; it rippled on their faces + with their quiet smiling, it breathed with their breath. Sometimes she or + her mother read aloud, Mrs. Browning or Charles Dickens; or the biography + of some Great Man, sitting there in the velvet-curtained room or out on + the lawn under the cedar tree. A motionless communion broken by walks in + the sweet-smelling fields and deep, elm-screened lanes. And there were + short journeys into London to a lecture or a concert, and now and then the + surprise and excitement of the play. + </p> + <p> + One day her mother smoothed out her long, hanging curls and tucked them + away under a net. Harriett had a little shock of dismay and resentment, + hating change. + </p> + <p> + And the long, long Sundays spaced the weeks and the months, hushed and + sweet and rather enervating, yet with a sort of thrill in them as if + somewhere the music of the church organ went on vibrating. Her mother had + some secret: some happy sense of God that she gave to you and you took + from her as you took food and clothing, but not quite knowing what it was, + feeling that there was something more in it, some hidden gladness, some + perfection that you missed. + </p> + <p> + Her father had his secret too. She felt that it was harder, somehow, + darker and dangerous. He read dangerous books: Darwin and Huxley and + Herbert Spencer. Sometimes he talked about them. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a sort of fascination in seeing how far you can go.... The + fascination of truth might be just that—the risk that, after all, it + mayn’t be true, that you may have to go farther and farther, perhaps never + come back.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother looked up with her bright, still eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I trust the truth. I know that, however far you go, you’ll come back some + day.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you see all of them—Darwin and Huxley and Herbert Spencer—coming + back,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes smiled, loving her. But you could see it amused him, too, to + think of them, all those reckless, courageous thinkers, coming back, to + share her secret. His thinking was just a dangerous game he played. + </p> + <p> + She looked at her father with a kind of awe as he sat there, reading his + book, in danger and yet safe. + </p> + <p> + She wanted to know what that fascination was. She took down Herbert + Spencer and tried to read him. She made a point of finishing every book + she had begun, for her pride couldn’t bear being beaten. Her head grew hot + and heavy: she read the same sentences over and over again; they had no + meaning; she couldn’t understand a single word of Herbert Spencer. He had + beaten her. As she put the book back in its place she said to herself: “I + mustn’t. If I go on, if I get to the interesting part I may lose my + faith.” And soon she made herself believe that this was really the reason + why she had given it up. + </p> + <p> + Besides Connie Hancock there were Lizzie Pierce and Sarah Barmby. + </p> + <p> + Exquisite pleasure to walk with Lizzie Pierce. Lizzie’s walk was a + sliding, swooping dance of little pointed feet, always as if she were + going out to meet somebody, her sharp, black-eyed face darting and + turning. + </p> + <p> + “My <i>dear</i>, he kept on doing <i>this</i>” (Lizzie did it) “as if he + was trying to sit on himself to keep him from flying off into space like a + cork. Fancy proposing on three tumblers of soda water! I might have been + Mrs. Pennefather but for that.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie went about laughing, laughing at everybody, looking for something + to laugh at everywhere. Now and then she would stop suddenly to + contemplate the vision she had created. + </p> + <p> + “If Connie didn’t wear a bustle—or, oh my dear, if Mr. Hancock did——” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. <i>Hancock!</i>” Clear, firm laughter, chiming and tinkling. + </p> + <p> + “Goodness! To think how many ridiculous people there are in the world!” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you see something ridiculous in me.” + </p> + <p> + “Only when—only when——” + </p> + <p> + She swung her parasol in time to her sing-song. She wouldn’t say when. + </p> + <p> + “Lizzie—not—<i>not</i> when I’m in my black lace fichu and the + little round hat?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear me—no. Not <i>then</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The little round hat, Lizzie wore one like it herself, tilted forward, + perched on her chignon. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then——” she pleaded. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie’s face darted its teasing, mysterious smile. + </p> + <p> + She loved Lizzie best of her friends after Priscilla. She loved her + mockery and her teasing wit. + </p> + <p> + And there was Lizzie’s friend, Sarah Barmby, who lived in one of those + little shabby villas on the London road and looked after her father. She + moved about the villa in an unseeing, shambling way, hitting herself + against the furniture. Her face was heavy with a gentle, brooding + goodness, and she had little eyes that blinked and twinkled in the + heaviness, as if something amused her. At first you kept on wondering what + the joke was, till you saw it was only a habit Sarah had. She came when + she could spare time from her father. + </p> + <p> + Next to Lizzie, Harriett loved Sarah. She loved her goodness. + </p> + <p> + And Connie Hancock, bouncing about hospitably in the large, rich house. + Tea-parties and dances at the Hancocks’. + </p> + <p> + She wasn’t sure that she liked dancing. There was something obscurely + dangerous about it. She was afraid of being lifted off her feet and swung + on and on, away from her safe, happy life. She was stiff and abrupt with + her partners, convinced that none of those men who liked Connie Hancock + could like her, and anxious to show them that she didn’t expect them to. + She was afraid of what they were thinking. And she would slip away early, + running down the garden to the gate at the bottom of the lane where her + father waited for her. She loved the still coldness of the night under the + elms, and the strong, tight feel of her father’s arm when she hung on it + leaning towards him, and his “There we are” as he drew her closer. Her + mother would look up from the sofa and ask always the same question, + “Well, did anything nice happen?” + </p> + <p> + Till at last she answered, “No. Did you think it would, Mamma?” + </p> + <p> + “You never know,” said her mother. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> know everything.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Every</i>thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Everything that could happen at the Hancocks’ dances.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother shook her head at her. She knew that in secret Mamma was glad; + but she answered the reproof. + </p> + <p> + “It’s mean of me to say that when I’ve eaten four of their ices. They were + strawberry, and chocolate and vanilla, all in one.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, they won’t last much longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at that rate,” her father said. + </p> + <p> + “I meant the dances,” said her mother. + </p> + <p> + And sure enough, soon after Connie’s engagement to young Mr. Pennefather, + they ceased. + </p> + <p> + And the three friends, Connie and Sarah and Lizzie, came and went. She + loved them; and yet when they were there they broke something, something + secret and precious between her and her father and mother, and when they + were gone she felt the stir, the happy movement of coming together again, + drawing in close, close, after the break. + </p> + <p> + “We only want each other.” Nobody else really mattered, not even Priscilla + Heaven. + </p> + <p> + Year after year the same. Her mother parted her hair into two sleek wings; + she wore a rosette and lappets of black velvet and lace on a glistening + beetle-backed chignon. And Harriett felt again her shock of resentment. + She hated to think of her mother subject to change and time. + </p> + <p> + And Priscilla came year after year, still loving, still protesting that + she would never marry. Yet they were glad when even Priscilla had gone and + left them to each other. Only each other, year after year the same. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a> + V + </h2> + <p> + Priscilla’s last visit was followed by another passionate vow that she + would never marry. Then within three weeks she wrote again, telling of her + engagement to Robin Lethbridge. + </p> + <p> + “... I haven’t known him very long, and Mamma says it’s too soon; but he + makes me feel as if I had known him all my life. I know I said I wouldn’t, + but I couldn’t tell; I didn’t know it would be so different. I couldn’t + have believed that anybody could be so happy. You won’t mind, Hatty. We + can love each other just the same....” + </p> + <p> + Incredible that Priscilla, who could be so beaten down and crushed by + suffering, should have risen to such an ecstasy. Her letters had a + swinging lilt, a hurried beat, like a song bursting, a heart beating for + joy too fast. + </p> + <p> + It would have to be a long engagement. Robin was in a provincial bank, he + had his way to make. Then, a year later, Prissy wrote and told them that + Robin had got a post in Parson’s Bank in the City. He didn’t know a soul + in London. Would they be kind to him and let him come to them sometimes, + on Saturdays and Sundays? + </p> + <p> + He came one Sunday. Harriett had wondered what he would be like, and he + was tall, slender-waisted, wide-shouldered; he had a square, very white + forehead; his brown hair was parted on one side, half curling at the tips + above his ears. His eyes—thin, black crystal, shining, turning, + showing speckles of brown and gray; perfectly set under straight eyebrows + laid very black on the white skin. His round, pouting chin had a dent in + it. The face in between was thin and irregular; the nose straight and + serious and rather long in profile, with a dip and a rise at + three-quarters; in full face straight again but shortened. His eyes had + another meaning, deeper and steadier than his fine slender mouth; but it + was the mouth that made you look at him. One arch of the bow was higher + than the other; now and then it quivered with an uneven, sensitive + movement of its own. + </p> + <p> + She noticed his mouth’s little dragging droop at the corners and thought: + “Oh, you’re cross. If you’re cross with Prissie—if you make her + unhappy”—but when he caught her looking at him the cross lips drew + back in a sudden, white, confiding smile. And when he spoke she understood + why he had been irresistible to Priscilla. + </p> + <p> + He had come three Sundays now, four perhaps; she had lost count. They were + all sitting out on the lawn under the cedar. Suddenly, as if he had only + just thought of it, he said: + </p> + <p> + “It’s extraordinarily good of you to have me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well,” her mother said, “Prissie is Hatty’s greatest friend.” + </p> + <p> + “I supposed that was why you do it.” + </p> + <p> + He didn’t want it to be that. He wanted it to be himself. Himself. He was + proud. He didn’t like to owe anything to other people, not even to + Prissie. + </p> + <p> + Her father smiled at him. “You must give us time.” + </p> + <p> + He would never give it or take it. You could see him tearing at things in + his impatience, to know them, to make them give themselves up to him at + once. He came rushing to give himself up, all in a minute, to make himself + known. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t fair,” he said. “I know you so much better than you know me. + Priscilla’s always talking about you. But you don’t know anything about <i>me</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “No. We’ve got all the excitement.” + </p> + <p> + “And the risk, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And, of course, the risk.” He liked him. + </p> + <p> + She could talk to Robin Lethbridge as she couldn’t talk to Connie + Hancock’s young men. She wasn’t afraid of what he was thinking. She was + safe with him, he belonged to Priscilla Heaven. He liked her because he + loved Priscilla; but he wanted her to like him, not because of Priscilla, + but for himself. + </p> + <p> + She talked about Priscilla: “I never saw anybody so loving. It used to + frighten me; because you can hurt her so easily.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Poor little Prissie, she’s very vulnerable,” he said. + </p> + <p> + When Priscilla came to stay it was almost painful. Her eyes clung to him, + and wouldn’t let him go. If he left the room she was restless, unhappy + till he came back. She went out for long walks with him and returned + silent, with a tired, beaten look. She would lie on the sofa, and he would + hang over her, gazing at her with strained, unhappy eyes. + </p> + <p> + After she had gone he kept on coming more than ever, and he stayed + overnight. Harriett had to walk with him now. He wanted to talk, to talk + about himself, endlessly. + </p> + <p> + When she looked in the glass she saw a face she didn’t know: bright-eyed, + flushed, pretty. The little arrogant lift had gone. As if it had been + somebody else’s face she asked herself, in wonder, without rancour, why + nobody had ever cared for it. Why? Why? She could see her father looking + at her, intent, as if he wondered. And one day her mother said, “Do you + think you ought to see so much of Robin? Do you think it’s quite fair to + Prissie?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—<i>Mamma!</i> ... I wouldn’t. I haven’t——” + </p> + <p> + “I know. You couldn’t if you would, Hatty. You would always behave + beautifully. But are you so sure about Robin?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he <i>couldn’t</i> care for <i>anybody</i> but Prissie. It’s only + because he’s so safe with me, because he knows I don’t and he doesn’t——.” + </p> + <p> + The wedding day was fixed for July. After all, they were going to risk it. + By the middle of June the wedding presents began to come in. + </p> + <p> + Harriett and Robin Lethbridge were walking up Black’s Lane. The hedges + were a white bridal froth of cow’s parsley. Every now and then she swerved + aside to pick the red campion. + </p> + <p> + He spoke suddenly. “Do you know what a dear little face you have, Hatty? + It’s so clear and still and it behaves so beautifully.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it?” + </p> + <p> + She thought of Prissie’s face, dark and restless, never clear, never + still. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not a bit like what I expected. Prissie doesn’t know what you are. + You don’t know yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I know what <i>she</i> is.” + </p> + <p> + His mouth’s uneven quiver beat in and out like a pulse. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk to me about Prissie!” + </p> + <p> + Then he got it out. He tore it out of himself. He loved her. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Robin——” Her fingers loosened in her dismay; she went + dropping red campion. + </p> + <p> + It was no use, he said, to think about Prissie. He couldn’t marry her. He + couldn’t marry anybody but Hatty; Hatty must marry him. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t say you don’t love me, Hatty.” + </p> + <p> + No. She couldn’t say it; for it wouldn’t be true. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then——” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t. I’d be doing wrong, Robin. I feel all the time as if she + belonged to you; as if she were married to you.” + </p> + <p> + “But she isn’t. It isn’t the same thing.” + </p> + <p> + “To me it is. You can’t undo it. It would be too dishonorable.” + </p> + <p> + “Not half so dishonorable as marrying her when I don’t love her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. As long as she loves you. She hasn’t anybody but you. She was so + happy. So happy. Think of the cruelty of it. Think what we should send her + back to.” + </p> + <p> + “You think of Prissie. You don’t think of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Because it would <i>kill</i> her.” + </p> + <p> + “How about you?” + </p> + <p> + “It can’t kill us, because we know we love each other. Nothing can take + that from us.” + </p> + <p> + “But I couldn’t be happy with her, Hatty. She wears me out. She’s so + restless.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>We</i> couldn’t be happy, Robin. We should always be thinking of what + we did to her. How could we be happy?” + </p> + <p> + “You know how.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, even if we were, we’ve no right to get our happiness out of her + suffering.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Hatty, why are you so good, so good?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not good. It’s only—there are some things you can’t do. We + couldn’t. We couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said at last. “I don’t suppose we could. Whatever it’s like I’ve + got to go through with it.” + </p> + <p> + He didn’t stay that night. + </p> + <p> + She was crouching on the floor beside her father, her arm thrown across + his knees. Her mother had left them there. + </p> + <p> + “Papa—do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Your mother told me.... You’ve done the right thing.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t think I’ve been cruel? He said I didn’t think of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, you couldn’t do anything else.” + </p> + <p> + She couldn’t. She couldn’t. It was no use thinking about him. Yet night + after night, for weeks and months, she thought, and cried herself to + sleep. + </p> + <p> + By day she suffered from Lizzie’s sharp eyes and Sarah’s brooding pity and + Connie Pennefather’s callous, married stare. Only with her father and + mother she had peace. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></a> + VI + </h2> + <p> + Towards spring Harriett showed signs of depression, and they took her to + the south of France and to Bordighera and Rome. In Rome she recovered. + Rome was one of those places you ought to see; she had always been anxious + to do the right thing. In the little Pension in the Via Babuino she had a + sense of her own importance and the importance of her father and mother. + They were Mr. and Mrs. Hilton Frean, and Miss Harriett Frean, seeing Rome. + </p> + <p> + After their return in the summer he began to write his book, <i>The Social + Order</i>. There were things that had to be said; it did not much matter + who said them provided they were said plainly. He dreamed of a new Social + State, society governing itself without representatives. For a long time + they lived on the interest and excitement of the book, and when it came + out Harriett pasted all his reviews very neatly into an album. He had the + air of not taking them quite seriously; but he subscribed to <i>The + Spectator</i>, and sometimes an article appeared there understood to have + been written by Hilton Frean. + </p> + <p> + And they went abroad again every year. They went to Florence and came home + and read <i>Romola</i> and Mrs. Browning and Dante and <i>The Spectator</i>; + they went to Assisi and read the <i>Little Flowers of Saint Francis;</i> + they went to Venice and read Ruskin and <i>The Spectator;</i> they went to + Rome again and read Gibbon’s <i>Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire</i>. + Harriett said, “We should have enjoyed Rome more if we had read Gibbon,” + and her mother replied that they would not have enjoyed Gibbon so much if + they had not seen Rome. Harriett did not really enjoy him; but she enjoyed + the sound of her own voice reading out the great sentences and the rolling + Latin names. + </p> + <p> + She had brought back photographs of the Colosseum and the Forum and of + Botticelli’s <i>Spring</i>, and a della Robbia Madonna in a shrine of + fruit and flowers, and hung them in the drawing-room. And when she saw the + blue egg in its gilt frame standing on the marble-topped table, she + wondered how she had ever loved it, and wished it were not there. It had + been one of Mamma’s wedding presents. Mrs. Hancock had given it her; but + Mr. Hancock must have bought it. + </p> + <p> + Harriett’s face had taken on again its arrogant lift. She esteemed herself + justly. She knew she was superior to the Hancocks and the Pennefathers + and to Lizzie Pierce and Sarah Barmby; even to Priscilla. When she thought + of Robin and how she had given him up she felt a thrill of pleasure in her + beautiful behavior, and a thrill of pride in remembering that he had loved + her more than Priscilla. Her mind refused to think of Robin married. + </p> + <p> + Two, three, five years passed, with a perceptible acceleration, and + Harriett was now thirty. + </p> + <p> + She had not seen them since the wedding day. Robin had gone back to his + own town; he was cashier in a big bank there. For four years Prissie’s + letters came regularly every month or so, then ceased abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Then Robin wrote and told her of Prissie’s illness. A mysterious + paralysis. It had begun with fits of giddiness in the street; Prissie + would turn round and round on the pavement; then falling fits; and now + both legs were paralyzed, but Robin thought she was gradually recovering + the use of her hands. + </p> + <p> + Harriett did not cry. The shock of it stopped her tears. She tried to see + it and couldn’t. Poor little Prissie. How terrible. She kept on saying to + herself she couldn’t bear to think of Prissie paralyzed. Poor little + Prissie. + </p> + <p> + And poor Robin—— + </p> + <p> + Paralysis. She saw the paralysis coming between them, separating them, and + inside her the secret pain was soothed. She need not think of Robin + married any more. + </p> + <p> + She was going to stay with them. Robin had written the letter. He said + Prissie wanted her. When she met him on the platform she had a little + shock at seeing him changed. Changed. His face was fuller, and a dark + moustache hid the sensitive, uneven, pulsing lip. His mouth was dragged + down further at the corners. But he was the same Robin. In the cab, going + to the house, he sat silent, breathing hard; she felt the tremor of his + consciousness and knew that he still loved her; more than he loved + Priscilla. Poor little Prissie. How terrible! + </p> + <p> + Priscilla sat by the fireplace in a wheel chair. She became agitated when + she saw Harriett; her arms shook as she lifted them for the embrace. + </p> + <p> + “Hatty—you’ve hardly changed a bit.” Her voice shook. + </p> + <p> + Poor little Prissie. She was thin, thinner than ever, and stiff as if she + had withered. Her face was sallow and dry, and the luster had gone from + her black hair. Her wide mouth twitched and wavered, wavered and twitched. + Though it was warm summer she sat by a blazing fire with the windows + behind her shut. + </p> + <p> + Through dinner Harriett and Robin were silent and constrained. She tried + not to see Prissie shaking and jerking and spilling soup down the front of + her gown. Robin’s face was smooth and blank; he pretended to be absorbed + in his food, so as not to look at Prissie. It was as if Prissie’s old + restlessness had grown into that ceaseless jerking and twitching. And her + eyes fastened on Robin; they clung to him and wouldn’t let him go. She + kept on asking him to do things for her. “Robin, you might get me my + shawl;” and Robin would go and get the shawl and put it round her. + Whenever he did anything for her Prissie’s face would settle down into a + quivering, deep content. + </p> + <p> + At nine o’clock he lifted her out of her wheel chair. Harriett saw his + stoop, and the taut, braced power of his back as he lifted. Prissie lay in + his arms with rigid limbs hanging from loose attachments, inert, like a + doll. As he carried her upstairs to bed her face had a queer, exalted look + of pleasure and of triumph. + </p> + <p> + Harriett and Robin sat alone together in his study. + </p> + <p> + “How long is it since we’ve seen each other?” + </p> + <p> + “Five years, Robin.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t. It can’t be.” + </p> + <p> + “It is.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is. But I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m married. I + can’t believe Prissie’s ill. It doesn’t seem real with you sitting there.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing’s changed, Robin, except that you’re more serious.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing’s changed, except that I’m more serious than ever.... Do you + still do the same things? Do you still sit in the curly chair, holding + your work up to your chin with your little pointed hands like a squirrel? + Do you still see the same people?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t make new friends, Robin.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to settle down after that, smiling at his own thoughts, + appeased.... + </p> + <p> + Lying in her bed in the spare room, Harriett heard the opening and + shutting of Robin’s door. She still thought of Prissie’s paralysis as + separating them, still felt inside her a secret, unacknowledged + satisfaction. Poor little Prissie. How terrible. Her pity for Priscilla + went through and through her in wave after wave. Her pity was sad and + beautiful and at the same time it appeased her pain. + </p> + <p> + In the morning Priscilla told her about her illness. The doctors didn’t + understand it. She ought to have had a stroke and she hadn’t had one. + There was no reason why she shouldn’t walk except that she couldn’t. It + seemed to give her pleasure to go over it, from her first turning round + and round in the street (with helpless, shaking laughter at the queerness + of it), to the moment when Robin bought her the wheel chair.... Robin ... + Robin ... + </p> + <p> + “I minded most because of Robin. It’s such an <i>awful</i> illness, Hatty. + I can’t move when I’m in bed. Robin has to get up and turn me a dozen + times in one night.... Robin’s a perfect saint. He does everything for + me.” Prissie’s voice and her face softened and thickened with voluptuous + content. + </p> + <p> + “... Do you know, Hatty, I had a little baby. It died the day it was + born.... Perhaps some day I shall have another.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett was aware of a sudden tightening of her heart, of a creeping + depression that weighed on her brain and worried it. She thought this was + her pity for Priscilla. + </p> + <p> + Her third night. All evening Robin had been moody and morose. He would + hardly speak to either Harriett or Priscilla. When Priscilla asked him to + do anything for her he got up heavily, pulling himself together with a + sigh, with a look of weary, irritated patience. + </p> + <p> + Prissie wheeled herself out of the study into the drawing-room, beckoning + Harriett to follow. She had the air of saving Robin from Harriett, of + intimating that his grumpiness was Harriett’s fault. “He doesn’t want to + be bothered,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She sat up till eleven, so that Robin shouldn’t be thrown with Harriett in + the last hours. + </p> + <p> + Half the night Harriett’s thoughts ran on, now in a darkness, now in thin + flashes of light. “Supposing, after all, Robin wasn’t happy? Supposing he + can’t stand it? Supposing.... But why is he angry with <i>me?</i>” Then a + clear thought: “He’s angry with me because he can’t be angry with + Priscilla.” And clearer. “He’s angry with me because I made him marry + her.” + </p> + <p> + She stopped the running and meditated with a steady, hard deliberation. + She thought of her deep, spiritual love for Robin; of Robin’s deep + spiritual love for her; of his strength in shouldering his burden. It was + through her renunciation that he had grown so strong, so pure, so good. + </p> + <p> + Something had gone wrong with Prissie. Robin, coming home early on + Saturday afternoon, had taken Harriett for a walk. All evening and all + through Sunday it was Priscilla who sulked and snapped when Harriett spoke + to her. + </p> + <p> + On Monday morning she was ill, and Robin ordered her to stay in bed. + Monday was Harriett’s last night. Priscilla stayed in bed till six + o’clock, when she heard Robin come in; then she insisted on being dressed + and carried downstairs. Harriett heard her calling to Robin, and Robin + saying, “I <i>told</i> you you weren’t to get up till to-morrow,” and a + sound like Prissie crying. + </p> + <p> + At dinner she shook and jerked and spilt things worse than ever. Robin + gloomed at her. “You know you ought to be in bed. You’ll go at nine.” + </p> + <p> + “If I go, you’ll go. You’ve got a headache.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think I had, sitting in this furnace.” + </p> + <p> + The heat of the dining room oppressed him, but they sat on there after + dinner because Prissie loved the heat. Robin’s pale, blank face had a sick + look, a deadly smoothness. He had to lie down on the sofa in the window. + </p> + <p> + When the clock struck nine he sighed and got up, dragging himself as if + the weight of his body was more than he could bear. He stooped over + Prissie, and lifted her. + </p> + <p> + “Robin—you can’t. You’re dropping to pieces.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m all right.” He heaved her up with one tremendous, irritated effort, + and carried her upstairs, fast, as if he wanted to be done with it. + Through the open doors Harriett could hear Prissie’s pleading whine, and + Robin’s voice, hard and controlled. Presently he came back to her and they + went into his study. They could breathe there, he said. + </p> + <p> + They sat without speaking for a little time. The silence of Prissie’s room + overhead came between them. + </p> + <p> + Robin spoke first. “I’m afraid it hasn’t been very gay for you with poor + Prissie in this state.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Prissie? She’s very happy, Robin.” + </p> + <p> + He stared at her. His eyes, round and full and steady, taxed her with + falsehood, with hypocrisy. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t suppose <i>I’m</i> not, do you?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” There was a movement in her throat as though she swallowed something + hard. “No. I want you to be happy.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t. You want me to be rather miserable.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Robin!</i>” She contrived a sound like laughter. But Robin didn’t + laugh; his eyes, morose and cynical, held her there. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what you want.... At least I hope you do. If you didn’t——” + </p> + <p> + She fenced off the danger. “Do <i>you</i> want <i>me</i> to be miserable, + then?” + </p> + <p> + At that he laughed out. “No. I don’t. I don’t care how happy you are.” + </p> + <p> + She took the pain of it: the pain he meant to give her. + </p> + <p> + That evening he hung over Priscilla with a deliberate, exaggerated + tenderness. + </p> + <p> + “Dear.... Dearest....” He spoke the words to Priscilla, but he sent out + his voice to Harriett. She could feel its false precision, its intention, + its repulse of her. + </p> + <p> + She was glad to be gone. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"></a> + VII + </h2> + <p> + Eighteen seventy-nine: it was the year her father lost his money. Harriett + was nearly thirty-five. + </p> + <p> + She remembered the day, late in November, when they heard him coming home + from the office early. Her mother raised her head and said, “That’s your + father, Harriett. He must be ill.” She always thought of seventy-nine as + one continuous November. + </p> + <p> + Her father and mother were alone in the study for a long time; she + remembered Annie going in with the lamp and coming out and whispering that + they wanted her. She found them sitting in the lamplight alone, close + together, holding each other’s hands; their faces had a strange, exalted + look. + </p> + <p> + “Harriett, my dear, I’ve lost every shilling I possessed, and here’s your + mother saying she doesn’t mind.” + </p> + <p> + He began to explain in his quiet voice. “When all the creditors are paid + in full there’ll be nothing but your mother’s two hundred a year. And the + insurance money when I’m gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Papa, how terrible——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Hatty.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean the insurance. It’s gambling with your life.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, if that was all I’d gambled with——” + </p> + <p> + It seemed that half his capital had gone in what he called “the higher + mathematics of the game.” The creditors would get the rest. + </p> + <p> + “We shall be no worse off,” her mother said, “than we were when we began. + We were very happy then.” + </p> + <p> + “We. How about Harriett?” + </p> + <p> + “Harriett isn’t going to mind.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not—going—to mind.... We shall have to sell this house + and live in a smaller one. And I can’t take my business up again.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, I’m glad and thankful you’ve done with that dreadful, dangerous + game.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d no business to play it.... But, after holding myself in all those + years, there was a sort of fascination.” + </p> + <p> + One of the creditors, Mr. Hichens, gave him work in his office. He was now + Mr. Hichens’s clerk. He went to Mr. Hichens as he had gone to his own + great business, upright and alert, handsome in his dark-gray overcoat with + the black velvet collar, faintly amused at himself. You would never have + known that anything had happened. + </p> + <p> + Strange that at the same time Mr. Hancock should have lost money, a great + deal of money, more money than Papa. He seemed determined that everybody + should know it; you couldn’t pass him in the road without knowing. He met + you with his swollen, red face hanging; ashamed and miserable, and angry + as if it had been your fault. + </p> + <p> + One day Harriett came in to her father and mother with the news. “Did you + know that Mr. Hancock’s sold his horses? And he’s going to give up the + house.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother signed to her to be silent, frowning and shaking her head and + glancing at her father. He got up suddenly and left the room. + </p> + <p> + “He’s worrying himself to death about Mr. Hancock,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know he cared for him like that, Mamma.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, he’s known him thirty years, and it’s a very dreadful thing he + should have to give up his house.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not worse for him than it is for Papa.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s ever so much worse. He isn’t like your father. He can’t be happy + without his big house and his carriages and horses. He’ll feel so small + and unimportant.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, it serves him right.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say that. It <i>is</i> what he cares for and he’s lost it.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s no business to behave as if it was Papa’s fault,” said Harriett. She + had no patience with the odious little man. She thought of her father’s + face, her father’s body, straight and calm, and his soul so far above that + mean trouble of Mr. Hancock’s, that vulgar shame. + </p> + <p> + Yet inside him he fretted. And, suddenly, he began to sink. He turned + faint after the least exertion and had to leave off going to Mr. Hichens. + And by the spring of eighteen eighty he was upstairs in his room, too ill + to be moved. That was just after Mr. Hichens had bought the house and + wanted to come into it. He lay, patient, in the big white bed, smiling his + faint, amused smile when he thought of Mr. Hichens. + </p> + <p> + It was awful to Harriett that her father should be ill, lying there at + their mercy. She couldn’t get over her sense of his parenthood, his + authority. When he was obstinate, and insisted on exerting himself, she + gave in. She was a bad nurse, because she couldn’t set herself against his + will. And when she had him under her hands to strip and wash him, she felt + that she was doing something outrageous and impious; she set about it with + a flaming face and fumbling hands. “Your mother does it better,” he said + gently. But she could not get her mother’s feeling of him as a helpless, + dependent thing. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hichens called every week to inquire. “Poor man, he wants to know when + he can have his house. Why <i>will</i> he always come on my good days? He + isn’t giving himself a chance.” + </p> + <p> + He still had good days, days when he could be helped out of bed to sit in + his chair. “This sort of game may go on for ever,” he said. He began to + worry seriously about keeping Mr. Hichens out of his house. “It isn’t + decent of me. It isn’t decent.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett was ill with the strain of it. She had to go away for a fortnight + with Lizzie Pierce, and Sarah Barmby stayed with her mother. Mrs. Barmby + had died the year before. When Harriett got back her father was making + plans for his removal. + </p> + <p> + “Why have you all made up your minds that it’ll kill me to remove me? It + won’t. The men can take everything out but me and my bed and that chair. + And when they’ve got all the things into the other house they can come + back for the chair and me. And I can sit in the chair while they’re + bringing the bed. It’s quite simple. It only wants a little system.” + </p> + <p> + Then, while they wondered whether they might risk it, he got worse. He lay + propped up, rigid, his arms stretched out by his side, afraid to lift a + hand because of the violent movements of his heart. His face had a + patient, expectant look, as if he waited for them to do something. + </p> + <p> + They couldn’t do anything. There would be no more rallies. He might die + any day now, the doctor said. + </p> + <p> + “He may die any minute. I certainly don’t expect him to live through the + night.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett followed her mother back into the room. He was sitting up in his + attitude of rigid expectancy; no movement but the quivering of his + night-shirt above his heart. + </p> + <p> + “The doctor’s been gone a long time, hasn’t he?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Harriett was silent. She didn’t understand. Her mother was looking at her + with a serene comprehension and compassion. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Hatty,” he said, “she can’t tell a lie to save my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—Papa——” + </p> + <p> + He smiled as if he was thinking of something that amused him. + </p> + <p> + “You should consider other people, my dear. Not just your own selfish + feelings.... You ought to write and tell Mr. Hichens.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother gave a short sobbing laugh. “Oh, you darling,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He lay still. Then suddenly he began pressing hard on the mattress with + both hands, bracing himself up in the bed. Her mother leaned closer + towards him. He threw himself over slantways, and with his head bent as if + it was broken, dropped into her arms. + </p> + <p> + Harriett wondered why he was making that queer grating and coughing noise. + Three times. + </p> + <p> + Her mother called softly to her—“Harriett.” + </p> + <p> + She began to tremble. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></a> + VIII + </h2> + <p> + Her mother had some secret that she couldn’t share. She was wonderful in + her pure, high serenity. Surely she had some secret. She said he was + closer to her now than he had ever been. And in her correct, precise + answers to the letters of condolence Harriett wrote: “I feel that he is + closer to us now than he ever was.” But she didn’t really feel it. She + only felt that to feel it was the beautiful and proper thing. She looked + for her mother’s secret and couldn’t find it. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Mr. Hichens had given them six weeks. They had to decide where + they would go: into Devonshire or into a cottage at Hampstead where Sarah + Barmby lived now. + </p> + <p> + Her mother said, “Do you think you’d like to live in Sidmouth, near Aunt + Harriett?” + </p> + <p> + They had stayed one summer at Sidmouth with Aunt Harriett. She remembered + the red cliffs, the sea, and Aunt Harriett’s garden stuffed with flowers. + They had been happy there. She thought she would love that: the sea and + the red cliffs and a garden like Aunt Harriett’s. + </p> + <p> + But she was not sure whether it was what her mother really wanted. Mamma + would never say. She would have to find out somehow. + </p> + <p> + “Well—what do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “It would be leaving all your friends, Hatty.” + </p> + <p> + “My friends—yes. But——” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie and Sarah and Connie Pennefather. She could live without them. “Oh, + there’s Mrs. Hancock.” + </p> + <p> + “Well——” Her mother’s voice suggested that if she were put to + it she could live without Mrs. Hancock. + </p> + <p> + And Harriett thought: She does want to go to Sidmouth then. + </p> + <p> + “It would be very nice to be near Aunt Harriett.” + </p> + <p> + She was afraid to say more than that lest she should show her own wish + before she knew her mother’s. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Harriett. Yes.... But it’s very far away, Hatty. We should be cut + off from everything. Lectures and concerts. We couldn’t afford to come up + and down.” + </p> + <p> + “No. We couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + She could see that Mamma did not really want to live in Sidmouth; she + didn’t want to be near Aunt Harriett; she wanted the cottage at Hampstead + and all the things of their familiar, intellectual life going on and on. + After all, that was the way to keep near to Papa, to go on doing the + things they had done together. + </p> + <p> + Her mother agreed that it was the way. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help feeling,” Harriett said, “it’s what he would have wished.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother’s face was quiet and content. She hadn’t guessed. + </p> + <p> + They left the white house with the green balcony hung out like a birdcage + at the side, and turned into the cottage at Hampstead. The rooms were + small and rather dark, and the furniture they had brought had a + squeezed-up, unhappy look. The blue egg on the marble-topped table was + conspicuous and hateful as it had never been in the Black’s Lane + drawing-room. Harriett and her mother looked at it. + </p> + <p> + “Must it stay there?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so. Fanny Hancock gave it me.” + </p> + <p> + “Mamma—you know you don’t like it.” + </p> + <p> + “No. But after all these years I couldn’t turn the poor thing away.” + </p> + <p> + Her mother was an old woman, clinging with an old, stubborn fidelity to + the little things of her past. But Harriett denied it. “She’s not old,” + she said to herself. “Not really old.” + </p> + <p> + “Harriett,” her mother said one day. “I think you ought to do the + housekeeping.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mamma, why?” She hated the idea of this change. + </p> + <p> + “Because you’ll have to do it some day.” + </p> + <p> + She obeyed. But as she went her rounds and gave her orders she felt that + she was doing something not quite real, playing at being her mother as she + had played when she was a child. Then her mother had another thought. + </p> + <p> + “Harriett, I think you ought to see more of your friends, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because you’ll want them after I’m gone.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never <i>want</i> anybody but you.” + </p> + <p> + And their time went as it had gone before: in sewing together, reading + together, listening to lectures and concerts together. They had told Sarah + that they didn’t want anybody to call. They were Hilton Frean’s wife and + daughter. “After our wonderful life with him,” they said, “you’ll + understand, Sarah, that we don’t want people.” And if Harriett was + introduced to any stranger she accounted for herself arrogantly: “My + father was Hilton Frean.” + </p> + <p> + They were collecting his <i>Remains</i> for publication. + </p> + <p> + Months passed, years passed, going each one a little quicker than the + last. And Harriett was thirty-nine. + </p> + <p> + One evening, coming out of church, her mother fainted. That was the + beginning of her illness, February, eighteen eighty-three. First came the + long months of weakness; then the months and months of sickness; then the + pain; the pain she had been hiding, that she couldn’t hide any more. + </p> + <p> + They knew what it was now: that horrible thing that even the doctors were + afraid to name. They called it “something malignant.” When the friends—Mrs. + Hancock, Connie Pennefather, Lizzie, and Sarah—called to inquire, + Harriett wouldn’t tell them what it was; she pretended that she didn’t + know, that the doctors weren’t sure; she covered it up from them as if it + had been a secret shame. And they pretended that they didn’t know. But + they knew. + </p> + <p> + They were talking now about an operation. There was one chance for her in + a hundred if they had Sir James Pargeter: one chance. She might die of it; + she might die under the anæsthetic; she might die of shock; she was so old + and weak. Still, there was that one chance, if only she would take it. + </p> + <p> + But her mother wouldn’t listen. “My dear, it would cost a hundred pounds.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know what it would cost?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she said, “I know.” She was smiling above the sheet that was tucked + close up, tight under her chin, shutting it all down. + </p> + <p> + Sir James Pargeter would cost a hundred pounds. Harriett couldn’t lay her + hands on the money or on half of it or a quarter. “That doesn’t matter if + they think it’ll save you.” + </p> + <p> + “They <i>think;</i> they think. But I <i>know.</i> I know better than all + the doctors.” + </p> + <p> + “But Mamma, darling——” + </p> + <p> + She urged the operation. Just because it would be so difficult to raise + the hundred pounds she urged it. She wanted to feel that she had done + everything that could be done, that she had let nothing stand in the way, + that she had shrunk from no sacrifice. One chance in a hundred. What was a + hundred pounds weighed against that one chance? If it had been one in a + thousand she would have said the same. + </p> + <p> + “It would be no good, Hatty. I know it wouldn’t. They just love to try + experiments, those doctors. They’re dying to get their knives into me. + Don’t <i>let</i> them.” + </p> + <p> + Gradually, day by day, Harriett weakened. Her mother’s frightened voice + tore at her, broke her down. Supposing she really died under the + operation? Supposing—— It was cruel to excite and upset her + just for that; it made the pain worse. + </p> + <p> + Either the operation or the pain, going on and on, stabbing with sharper + and sharper knives; cutting in deeper; all their care, the antiseptics, + the restoratives, dragging it out, giving it more time to torture her. + </p> + <p> + When the three friends came, Harriett said, “I shall be glad and thankful + when it’s all over. I couldn’t want to keep her with me, just for this.” + </p> + <p> + Yet she did want it. She was thankful every morning that she came to her + mother’s bed and found her alive, lying there, looking at her with her + wonderful smile. She was glad because she still had her. + </p> + <p> + And now they were giving her morphia. Under the torpor of the drug her + face changed; the muscles loosened, the flesh sagged, the widened, swollen + mouth hung open; only the broad beautiful forehead, the beautiful calm + eyebrows were the same; the face, sallow white, half imbecile, was a mask + flung aside. She couldn’t bear to look at it; it wasn’t her mother’s face; + her mother had died already under the morphia. She had a shock every time + she came in and found it still there. + </p> + <p> + On the day her mother died she told herself she was glad and thankful. She + met her friends with a little quiet, composed face, saying, “I’m glad and + thankful she’s at peace.” But she wasn’t thankful; she wasn’t glad. She + wanted her back again. And she reproached herself, one minute for having + been glad, and the next for wanting her. + </p> + <p> + She consoled herself by thinking of the sacrifices she had made, how she + had given up Sidmouth, and how willingly she would have paid the hundred + pounds. + </p> + <p> + “I sometimes think, Hatty,” said Mrs. Hancock, melancholy and condoling, + “that it would have been very different if your poor mother could have had + her wish.” + </p> + <p> + “What—what wish?” + </p> + <p> + “Her wish to live in Sidmouth, near your Aunt Harriett.” + </p> + <p> + And Sarah Barmby, sympathizing heavily, stopping short and brooding, + trying to think of something to say: “If the operation had only been done + three years ago when they <i>knew</i> it would save her——” + </p> + <p> + “Three years ago? But we didn’t know anything about it then.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>She</i> did.... Don’t you remember? It was when I stayed with her.... + Oh, Hatty, didn’t she tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “She never said a word.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well, she wouldn’t hear of it, even then when they didn’t give her + two years to live.” + </p> + <p> + Three years? She had had it three years ago. She had known about it all + that time. Three years ago the operation would have saved her; she would + have been here now. Why had she refused it when she knew it would save + her? + </p> + <p> + She had been thinking of the hundred pounds. + </p> + <p> + To have known about it three years and said nothing—to have gone + believing she hadn’t two years to live—— + </p> + <p> + <i>That</i> was her secret. That was why she had been so calm when Papa + died. She had known she would have him again so soon. Not two years—— + </p> + <p> + “If I’d been them,” Lizzie was saying, “I’d have bitten my tongue out + before I told you. It’s no use worrying, Hatty. You did everything that + could be done.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. I know.” + </p> + <p> + She held up her face against them; but to herself she said that everything + had not been done. Her mother had never had her wish. And she had died in + agony, so that she, Harriett, might keep her hundred pounds. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a> + IX + </h2> + <p> + In all her previsions of the event she had seen herself surviving as the + same Harriett Frean with the addition of an overwhelming grief. She was + horrified at this image of herself persisting beside her mother’s place + empty in space and time. + </p> + <p> + But she was not there. Through her absorption in her mother, some large, + essential part of herself had gone. It had not been so when her father + died; what he had absorbed was given back to her, transferred to her + mother. All her memories of her mother were joined to the memory of this + now irrecoverable self. + </p> + <p> + She tried to reinstate herself through grief; she sheltered behind her + bereavement, affecting a more profound seclusion, abhorring strangers; she + was more than ever the reserved, fastidious daughter of Hilton Frean. She + had always thought of herself as different from Connie and Sarah, living + with a superior, intellectual life. She turned to the books she had read + with her mother, Dante, Browning, Carlyle, and Ruskin, the biographies of + Great Men, trying to retrace the footsteps of her lost self, to revive the + forgotten thrill. But it was no use. One day she found herself reading the + Dedication of <i>The Ring and the Book</i> over and over again, without + taking in its meaning, without any remembrance of its poignant secret. + “‘And all a wonder and a wild desire’—Mamma loved that.” She thought + she loved it too; but what she loved was the dark-green book she had seen + in her mother’s long, white hands, and the sound of her mother’s voice + reading. She had followed her mother’s mind with strained attention and + anxiety, smiling when she smiled, but with no delight and no admiration of + her own. + </p> + <p> + If only she could have remembered. It was only through memory that she + could reinstate herself. + </p> + <p> + She had a horror of the empty house. Her friends advised her to leave it, + but she had a horror of removal, of change. She loved the rooms that had + held her mother, the chair she had sat on, the white, fluted cup she had + drunk from in her illness. She clung to the image of her mother; and + always beside it, shadowy and pathetic, she discerned the image of her + lost self. + </p> + <p> + When the horror of emptiness came over her, she dressed herself in her + black, with delicate care and precision, and visited her friends. Even in + moments of no intention she would find herself knocking at Lizzie’s door + or Sarah’s or Connie Pennefather’s. If they were not in she would call + again and again, till she found them. She would sit for hours, talking, + spinning out the time. + </p> + <p> + She began to look forward to these visits. + </p> + <p> + Wonderful. The sweet peas she had planted had come up. + </p> + <p> + Hitherto Harriett had looked on the house and garden as parts of the space + that contained her without belonging to her. She had had no sense of + possession. This morning she was arrested by the thought that the plot she + had planted was hers. The house and garden were hers. She began to take an + interest in them. She found that by a system of punctual movements she + could give to her existence the reasonable appearance of an aim. + </p> + <p> + Next spring, a year after her mother’s death, she felt the vague stirring + of her individual soul. She was free to choose her own vicar; she left her + mother’s Dr. Braithwaite, who was broad and twice married, and went to + Canon Wrench, who was unmarried and high. There was something stimulating + in the short, happy service, the rich music, the incense, and the + processions. She made new covers for the drawing-room, in cretonne, a gay + pattern of pomegranate and blue-green leaves. And as she had always had + the cutlets broiled plain because her mother liked them that way, now she + had them breaded. + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Hancock wanted to know <i>why</i> Harriett had forsaken her dear + mother’s church; and when Connie Pennefather saw the covers she told + Harriett she was lucky to be able to afford new cretonne. It was more than + <i>she</i> could; she seemed to think Harriett had no business to afford + it. As for the breaded cutlets, Hannah opened her eyes and said, “That was + how the mistress always had them, ma’am, when you was away.” + </p> + <p> + One day she took the blue egg out of the drawing-room and stuck it on the + chimney-piece in the spare room. When she remembered how she used to love + it she felt that she had done something cruel and iniquitous, but + necessary to the soul. + </p> + <p> + She was taking out novels from the circulating library now. Not, she + explained, for her serious reading. Her serious reading, her Dante, her + Browning, her Great Man, lay always on the table ready to her hand (beside + a copy of <i>The Social Order</i> and the <i>Remains</i> of Hilton Frean) + while secretly and half-ashamed she played with some frivolous tale. She + was satisfied with anything that ended happily and had nothing in it that + was unpleasant, or difficult, demanding thought. She exalted her + preferences into high canons. A novel <i>ought</i> to conform to her + requirements. A novelist (she thought of him with some asperity) had no + right to be obscure, or depressing, or to add needless unpleasantness to + the unpleasantness that had to be. The Great Men didn’t <i>do</i> it. + </p> + <p> + She spoke of George Eliot and Dickens and Mr. Thackeray. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie Pierce had a provoking way of smiling at Harriett, as if she found + her ridiculous. And Harriett had no patience with Lizzie’s affectation in + wanting to be modern, her vanity in trying to be young, her middle-aged + raptures over the work—often unpleasant—of writers too young + to be worth serious consideration. They had long arguments in which + Harriett, beaten, retired behind <i>The Social Order</i> and the <i>Remains</i>. + </p> + <p> + “It’s silly,” Lizzie said, “not to be able to look at a new thing because + it’s new. That’s the way you grow old.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s sillier,” Harriett said, “to be always running after new things + because you think that’s the way to look young. I’ve no wish to appear + younger than I am.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no wish to appear suffering from senile decay.” + </p> + <p> + “There <i>is</i> a standard.” Harriett lifted her obstinate and arrogant + chin. “You forget that I’m Hilton Frean’s daughter.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m William Pierce’s, but that hasn’t prevented my being myself.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie’s mind had grown keener in her sharp middle age. As it played about + her, Harriett cowered; it was like being exposed, naked, to a cutting + wind. Her mind ran back to her father and mother, longing, like a child, + for their shelter and support, for the blessed assurance of herself. + </p> + <p> + At her worst she could still think with pleasure of the beauty of the act + which had given Robin to Priscilla. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"></a> + X + </h2> + <p> + “My dear Harriett: Thank you for your kind letter of sympathy. Although we + had expected the end for many weeks poor Prissie’s death came to us as a + great shock. But for her it was a blessed release, and we can only be + thankful. You who knew her will realize the depth and extent of my + bereavement. I have lost the dearest and most loving wife man ever + had....” + </p> + <p> + Poor little Prissie. She couldn’t bear to think she would never see her + again. + </p> + <p> + Six months later Robin wrote again, from Sidmouth. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Harriett: Priscilla left you this locket in her will as a + remembrance. I would have sent it before but that I couldn’t bear to part + with her things all at once. + </p> + <p> + “I take this opportunity of telling you that I am going to be married + again——” + </p> + <p> + Her heart heaved and closed. She could never have believed she could have + felt such a pang. + </p> + <p> + “The lady is Miss Beatrice Walker, the devoted nurse who was with my dear + wife all through her last illness. This step may seem strange and + precipitate, coming so soon after her death; but I am urged to do it by + the precarious state of my own health and by the knowledge that we are + fulfilling poor Prissie’s dying wish....” + </p> + <p> + Poor Prissie’s dying wish. After what she had done for Prissie, if she <i>had</i> + a dying wish—But neither of them had thought of her. Robin had + forgotten her.... Forgotten.... Forgotten. + </p> + <p> + But no. Priscilla had remembered. She had left her the locket with his + hair in it. She had remembered and she had been afraid; jealous of her. + She couldn’t bear to think that Robin might marry her, even after she was + dead. She had made him marry this Walker woman so that he shouldn’t—— + </p> + <p> + Oh, but he wouldn’t. Not after twenty years. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t really think he would.” + </p> + <p> + She was forty-five, her face was lined and pitted and her hair was dust + color, streaked with gray: and she could only think of Robin as she had + last seen him, young: a young face; a young body; young, shining eyes. He + would want to marry a young woman. He had been in love with this Walker + woman, and Prissie had known it. She could see Prissie lying in her bed, + helpless, looking at them over the edge of the white sheet. She had known + that as soon as she was dead, before the sods closed over her grave, they + would marry. Nothing could stop them. And she had tried to make herself + believe it was her wish, her doing, not theirs. Poor little Prissie. + </p> + <p> + She understood that Robin had been staying in Sidmouth for his health. + </p> + <p> + A year later, Harriett, run down, was ordered to the seaside. She went to + Sidmouth. She told herself that she wanted to see the place where she had + been so happy with her mother, where poor Aunt Harriett had died. + </p> + <p> + Looking through the local paper she found in the list of residents: + Sidcote—Mr. and Mrs. Robert Lethbridge and Miss Walker. She wrote to + Robin and asked if she might call on his wife. + </p> + <p> + A mile of hot road through the town and inland brought her to a door in a + lane and a thatched cottage with a little lawn behind it. From the + doorstep she could see two figures, a man and a woman, lying back in + garden chairs. Inside the house she heard the persistent, energetic sound + of hammering. The woman got up and came to her. She was young, pink-faced + and golden-haired, and she said she was Miss Walker, Mrs. Lethbridge’s + sister. + </p> + <p> + A tall, lean, gray man rose from the garden chair, slowly, dragging + himself with an invalid air. His eyes stared, groping, blurred films that + trembled between the pouch and droop of the lids; long cheeks, deep + grooved, dropped to the infirm mouth that sagged under the limp moustache. + That was Robin. + </p> + <p> + He became agitated when he saw her. “Poor Robin,” she thought. “All these + years, and it’s too much for him, seeing me.” Presently he dragged himself + from the lawn to the house and disappeared through the French window where + the hammering came from. + </p> + <p> + “Have I frightened him away?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no, he’s always like that when he sees strange faces.” + </p> + <p> + “My face isn’t exactly strange.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he must have thought it was.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden chill crept through her. + </p> + <p> + “He’ll be all right when he gets used to you,” Miss Walker said. + </p> + <p> + The strange face of Miss Walker chilled her. A strange young woman, living + close to Robin, protecting him, explaining Robin’s ways. + </p> + <p> + The sound of hammering ceased. Through the long, open window she saw a + woman rise up from the floor and shed a white apron. She came down the + lawn to them, with raised arms, patting disordered hair; large, a full, + firm figure clipped in blue linen. A full-blown face, bluish pink; thick + gray eyes slightly protruding; a thick mouth, solid and firm and kind. + That was Robin’s wife. Her sister was slighter, fresher, a good ten years + younger, Harriett thought. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, we’re only just settling in. I was nailing down the carpet in + Robin’s study.” + </p> + <p> + Her lips were so thick that they moved stiffly when she spoke or smiled. + She panted a little as if from extreme exertion. + </p> + <p> + When they were all seated Mrs. Lethbridge addressed her sister. “Robin was + quite right. It looks <i>much</i> better turned the other way.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say he made you take it all up and put it down again? Well——” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use?... Miss Frean, you don’t know what it is to have a + husband who <i>will</i> have things just so.” + </p> + <p> + “She had to mow the lawn this morning because Robin can’t bear to see one + blade of grass higher than another.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he as particular as all that?” + </p> + <p> + “I assure you, Miss Frean, he is,” Miss Walker informed her. + </p> + <p> + “He wasn’t when I knew him,” Harriett said. + </p> + <p> + “Ah—my sister spoils him.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lethbridge wondered why he hadn’t come out again. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” Harriett said, “perhaps he’ll come if I go.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you mustn’t go. It’s good for him to see people. Takes him out of + himself.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll turn up all right,” Miss Walker said, “when he hears the teacups.” + </p> + <p> + And at four o’clock when the teacups came, Robin turned up, dragging + himself slowly from the house to the lawn. He blinked and quivered with + agitation; Harriett saw he was annoyed, not with her, and not with Miss + Walker, but with his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice, what have you done with my new bottle of medicine?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve done nothing, when you know you poured out my last dose at + twelve?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, hasn’t it come?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It hasn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “But Cissy ordered it this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t,” Cissy said. “I forgot.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Cissy——” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t blame Cissy. You ought to have seen to it yourself.... She + was a good nurse, Harriett, before she was my wife.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, your nurse had nothing else to do. Your wife has to clean and + mend for you, and cook your dinner and mow the lawn and nail the carpets + down.” While she said it she looked at Robin as if she adored him. + </p> + <p> + All through tea time he talked about his health and about the sanitary + dustbin they hadn’t got. Something had happened to him. It wasn’t like him + to be wrapped up in himself and to talk about dustbins. He spoke to his + wife as if she had been his valet. He didn’t see that she was perspiring, + worn out by her struggle with the carpet. + </p> + <p> + “Just go and fetch me another cushion, Beatrice.” + </p> + <p> + She rose with tired patience. + </p> + <p> + “You might let her have her tea in peace,” Miss Walker said, but she was + gone before they could stop her. + </p> + <p> + When Harriett left she went with her to the garden gate, panting as she + walked. Harriett noticed pale, blurred lines on the edges of her lips. She + thought: She isn’t a bit strong. She praised the garden. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Lethbridge smiled. “Robin loves it.... But you should have seen it at + five o’clock this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Five o’clock?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I always get up at five to make Robin a cup of tea.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett’s last evening. She was dining at Sidcote. On her way there she + had overtaken Robin’s wife wheeling Robin in a bath chair. Beatrice had + panted and perspired and had made mute signs to Harriett not to take any + notice. She had had to go and lie down till Robin sent for her to find his + cigarette case. Now she was in the kitchen cooking Robin’s part of the + dinner while he lay down in his study. Harriett talked to Miss Walker in + the garden. + </p> + <p> + “It’s been very kind of you to have us so much.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but we’ve loved having you. It’s so good for Beatie. Gives her a rest + from Robin.... I don’t mean that she wants a rest. But, you see, she’s not + well. She looks a big, strong, bouncing thing, but she isn’t. Her heart’s + weak. She oughtn’t to be doing what she does.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t Robin see it?” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t see anything. He never knows when she’s tired or got a + headache. She’ll drop dead before he’ll see it. He’s utterly selfish, Miss + Frean. Wrapt up in himself and his horrid little ailments. Whatever + happens to Beatie he must have his sweetbread, and his soup at eleven and + his tea at five in the morning.. + </p> + <p> + “... I suppose you think I might help more?” + </p> + <p> + “Well——” Harriett did think it. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I just won’t. I won’t encourage Robin. He ought to get her a proper + servant and a man for the garden and the bath chair. I wish you’d give him + a hint. Tell him she isn’t strong. I can’t. She’d snap my head off. Would + you mind?” + </p> + <p> + Harriett didn’t mind. She didn’t mind what she said. She wouldn’t be + saying it to Robin, but to the contemptible thing that had taken Robin’s + place. She still saw Robin as a young man, with young, shining eyes, who + came rushing to give himself up at once, to make himself known. She had no + affection for this selfish invalid, this weak, peevish bully. + </p> + <p> + Poor Beatrice. She was sorry for Beatrice. She resented his behavior to + Beatrice. She told herself she wouldn’t be Beatrice, she wouldn’t be + Robin’s wife for the world. Her pity for Beatrice gave her a secret + pleasure and satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + After dinner she sat out in the garden talking to Robin’s wife, while + Cissy Walker played draughts with Robin in his study, giving Beatrice a + rest from him. They talked about Robin. + </p> + <p> + “You knew him when he was young, didn’t you? What was he like?” + </p> + <p> + She didn’t want to tell her. She wanted to keep the young, shining Robin + to herself. She also wanted to show that she had known him, that she had + known a Robin that Beatrice would never know. Therefore she told her. + </p> + <p> + “My poor Robin.” Beatrice gazed wistfully, trying to see this Robin that + Priscilla had taken from her, that Harriett had known. Then she turned her + back. + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t matter. I’ve married the man I wanted.” She let herself go. + “Cissy says I’ve spoiled him. That isn’t true. It was his first wife who + spoiled him. She made a nervous wreck of him.” + </p> + <p> + “He was devoted to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And he’s paying for his devotion now. She wore him out.... Cissy + says he’s selfish. If he is, it’s because he’s used up all his + unselfishness. He was living on his moral capital.... I feel as if I + couldn’t do too much for him after what he did. Cissy doesn’t know how + awful his life was with Priscilla. She was the most exacting——” + </p> + <p> + “She was my friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t Robin your friend, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But poor Prissie, she was paralyzed.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t paralysis.” + </p> + <p> + “What was it then?” + </p> + <p> + “Pure hysteria. Robin wasn’t in love with her, and she knew it. She + developed that illness so that she might have a hold on him, get his + attention fastened on her somehow. I don’t say she could help it. She + couldn’t. But that’s what it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she died of it.” + </p> + <p> + “No. She died of pneumonia after influenza. I’m not blaming Prissie. She + was pitiable. But he ought never to have married her.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you ought to say that.” + </p> + <p> + “You know what he was,” said Robin’s wife. “And look at him now.” + </p> + <p> + But Harriett’s mind refused, obstinately, to connect the two Robins and + Priscilla. + </p> + <p> + She remembered that she had to speak to Robin. They went together into his + study. Cissy sent her a look, a signal, and rose; she stood by the + doorway. + </p> + <p> + “Beatie, you might come here a minute.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett was alone with Robin. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Harriett, we haven’t been able to do much for you. In my beastly + state——” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll get better.” + </p> + <p> + “Never. I’m done for, Harriett. I don’t complain.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got a devoted wife, Robin.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Poor girl, she does what she can.” + </p> + <p> + “She does too much.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear woman, she wouldn’t be happy if she didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t good for her. Does it never strike you that she’s not strong?” + </p> + <p> + “Not strong? She’s—she’s almost indecently robust. What wouldn’t I + give to have her strength!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, at the lean figure sunk in the armchair, at the + dragged, infirm face, the blurred, owlish eyes, the expression of abject + self-pity, of self-absorption. That was Robin. + </p> + <p> + The awful thing was that she couldn’t love him, couldn’t go on being + faithful. This injured her self-esteem. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></a> + XI + </h2> + <p> + Her old servant, Hannah, had gone, and her new servant, Maggie, had had a + baby. + </p> + <p> + After the first shock and three months’ loss of Maggie, it occurred to + Harriett that the beautiful thing would be to take Maggie back and let her + have the baby with her, since she couldn’t leave it. + </p> + <p> + The baby lay in his cradle in the kitchen, black-eyed and rosy, doubling + up his fat, naked knees, smiling his crooked smile, and saying things to + himself. Harriett had to see him every time she came into the kitchen. + Sometimes she heard him cry, an intolerable cry, tearing the nerves and + heart. And sometimes she saw Maggie unbutton her black gown in a hurry and + put out her white, rose-pointed breast to still his cry. + </p> + <p> + Harriett couldn’t bear it. She could not bear it. + </p> + <p> + She decided that Maggie must go. Maggie was not doing her work properly. + Harriett found flue under the bed. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure,” Maggie said, “I’m doing no worse than I did, ma’am, and you + usedn’t to complain.” + </p> + <p> + “No worse isn’t good enough, Maggie. I think you might have tried to + please me. It isn’t every one who would have taken you in the + circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + “If you think that, ma’am, it’s very cruel and unkind of you to send me + away.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve only yourself to thank. There’s no more to be said.” + </p> + <p> + “No, ma’am. I understand why I’m leaving. It’s because of Baby. You don’t + want to ‘ave ‘im, and I think you might have said so before.” + </p> + <p> + That day month Maggie packed her brown-painted wooden box and the cradle + and the perambulator. The greengrocer took them away on a handcart. + Through the drawing-room window Harriett saw Maggie going away, carrying + the baby, pink and round in his white-knitted cap, his fat hips bulging + over her arm under his white shawl. The gate fell to behind them. The + click struck at Harriett’s heart. + </p> + <p> + Three months later Maggie turned up again in a black hat and gown for + best, red-eyed and humble. + </p> + <p> + “I came to see, ma’am, whether you’d take me back, as I ‘aven’t got Baby + now.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t got him?” + </p> + <p> + “‘E died, ma’am, last month. I’d put him with a woman in the country. She + was highly recommended to me. Very highly recommended she was, and I paid + her six shillings a week. But I think she must ‘ave done something she + shouldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Maggie, you don’t mean she was cruel to him?” + </p> + <p> + “No, ma’am. She was very fond of him. Everybody was fond of Baby. But + whether it was the food she gave him or what, ‘e was that wasted you + wouldn’t have known him. You remember what he was like when he was here.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember.” + </p> + <p> + She remembered. She remembered. Fat and round in his white shawl and + knitted cap when Maggie carried him down the garden path. + </p> + <p> + “I should think she’d a done something, shouldn’t you, ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + She thought: No. No. It was I who did it when I sent him away. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, Maggie. I’m afraid it’s been very terrible for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma’am.... I wondered whether you’d give me another trial, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you quite sure you want to come to me, Maggie?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes’m.... I’m sure you’d a kept him if you could have borne to see him + about.” + </p> + <p> + “You know, Maggie, that was <i>not</i> the reason why you left. If I take + you back you must try not to be careless and forgetful.” + </p> + <p> + “I shan’t ‘ave nothing to make me. Before, it was first Baby’s father and + then ‘im.” + </p> + <p> + She could see that Maggie didn’t hold her responsible. After all, why + should she? If Maggie had made bad arrangements for her baby, Maggie was + responsible. + </p> + <p> + She went round to Lizzie and Sarah to see what they thought. Sarah + thought: Well—it was rather a difficult question, and Harriett + resented her hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. It rested with Maggie to go or stay. If she was incompetent I + wasn’t bound to keep her just because she’d had a baby. At that rate I + should have been completely in her power.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie said she thought Maggie’s baby would have died in any case, and + they both hoped that Harriett wasn’t going to be morbid about it. + </p> + <p> + Harriett felt sustained. She wasn’t going to be morbid. All the same, the + episode left her with a feeling of insecurity. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"></a> + XII + </h2> + <p> + The young girl, Robin’s niece, had come again, bright-eyed, eager, and + hungry, grateful for Sunday supper. + </p> + <p> + Harriett was getting used to these appearances, spread over three years, + since Robin’s wife had asked her to be kind to Mona Floyd. Mona had come + this time to tell her of her engagement to Geoffrey Carter. The news + shocked Harriett intensely. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, you told me he was going to marry your little friend, Amy—Amy + Lambert. What does Amy say to it?” + </p> + <p> + “What <i>can</i> she say? I know it’s a bit rough on her——” + </p> + <p> + “You know, and yet you’ll take your happiness at the poor child’s + expense.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ve got to. We can’t do anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear——” If she could stop it.... An inspiration came. + “I knew a girl once who might have done what you’re doing, only she + wouldn’t. She gave the man up rather than hurt her friend. She <i>couldn’t + do anything else</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “How much was he in love with her?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know <i>how much</i>. He was never in love with any other woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she was a fool. A silly fool. Didn’t she think of <i>him?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t she think!” + </p> + <p> + “No. She didn’t. She thought of herself. Of her own moral beauty. She was + a selfish fool.” + </p> + <p> + “She asked the best and wisest man she knew, and he told her she couldn’t + do anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “The best and wisest man—oh, Lord!” + </p> + <p> + “That was my own father, Mona, Hilton Frean.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it was you. You and Uncle Robin and Aunt Prissie.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett’s face smiled its straight, thin-lipped smile, the worn, grooved + chin arrogantly lifted. + </p> + <p> + “How could you?” + </p> + <p> + “I could because I was brought up not to think of myself before other + people.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it wasn’t even your own idea. You sacrificed him to somebody else’s. + You made three people miserable just for that. Four, if you count Aunt + Beatie.” + </p> + <p> + “There was Prissie. I did it for her.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you do for her? You insulted Aunt Prissie.” + </p> + <p> + “Insulted her? My dear Mona!” + </p> + <p> + “It was an insult, handing her over to a man who couldn’t love her even + with his body. Aunt Prissie was the miserablest of the lot. Do you suppose + he didn’t take it out of her?” + </p> + <p> + “He never let her know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, didn’t he! She knew all right. That’s how she got her illness. And + it’s how he got his. And he’ll kill Aunt Beatie. He’s taking it out of <i>her</i> + now. Look at the awful suffering. And you can go on sentimentalizing about + it.” + </p> + <p> + The young girl rose, flinging her scarf over her shoulders with a violent + gesture. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no common sense in it.” + </p> + <p> + “No <i>common</i> sense, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a jolly sight better than sentiment when it comes to marrying.” + </p> + <p> + They kissed. Mona turned at the doorway. + </p> + <p> + “I say—did he go on caring for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I think he did. Sometimes I think he hated me.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he hated you, after what you’d let him in for.” She paused. + “You don’t <i>mind</i> my telling you the truth, do you?” + </p> + <p> + ... Harriett sat a long time, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes + staring into the room, trying to see the truth. She saw the girl, Robin’s + niece, in her young indignation, her tender brilliance suddenly hard, + suddenly cruel, flashing out the truth. Was it true that she had + sacrificed Robin and Priscilla and Beatrice to her parents’ idea of moral + beauty? Was it true that this idea had been all wrong? That she might have + married Robin and been happy and been right? + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care. If it was to be done again to-morrow I’d do it.” + </p> + <p> + But the beauty of that unique act no longer appeared to her as it once + was, uplifting, consoling, incorruptible. + </p> + <p> + The years passed. They went with an incredible rapidity, and Harriett was + now fifty. + </p> + <p> + The feeling of insecurity had grown on her. It had something to do with + Mona, with Maggie and Maggie’s baby. She had no clear illumination, only a + mournful acquiescence in her own futility, an almost physical sense of + shrinkage, the crumbling away, bit by bit, of her beautiful and honorable + self, dying with the objects of its three profound affections: her father, + her mother, Robin. Gradually the image of the middle-aged Robin had + effaced his youth. + </p> + <p> + She read more and more novels from the circulating libraries, of a kind + demanding less and less effort of attention. And always her inability to + concentrate appeared to her as a just demand for clarity: “The man has no + <i>business</i> to write so that I can’t understand him.” + </p> + <p> + She laid in a weekly stock of opinions from <i>The Spectator</i>, and by + this means contrived a semblance of intellectual life. + </p> + <p> + She was appeased more and more by the rhythm of the seasons, of the weeks, + of day and night, by the first coming up of the pink and wine-brown velvet + primulas, by the pungent, burnt smell of her morning coffee, the smell of + a midday stew, of hot cakes baking for tea time; by the lighting of the + lamp, the lighting of autumn fires, the round of her visits. She waited + with a strained, expectant desire for the moment when it would be time to + see Lizzie or Sarah or Connie Pennefather again. + </p> + <p> + Seeing them was a habit she couldn’t get over. But it no longer gave her + keen pleasure. She told herself that her three friends were deteriorating + in their middle age. Lizzie’s sharp face darted malice; her tongue was + whipcord; she knew where to flick; the small gleam of her eyes, the snap + of her nutcracker jaws irritated Harriett. Sarah was slow; slow. She took + no care of her face and figure. As Lizzie put it, Sarah’s appearance was + an outrage on her contemporaries. “She makes us feel so old.” + </p> + <p> + And Connie—the very rucking of Connie’s coat about her broad hips + irritated Harriett. She had a way of staring over her fat cheeks at + Harriett’s old suits, mistaking them for new ones, and saying the same + exasperating thing. “You’re lucky to be able to afford it. <i>I</i> + can’t.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett’s irritation mounted up and up. + </p> + <p> + And one day she quarreled with Connie. + </p> + <p> + Connie had been telling one of her stories; leaning a little sideways, her + skirt stretched tight between her fat, parted knees, the broad roll of her + smile sliding greasily. She had “grown out of it” in her young womanhood, + and now in her middle age she had come back to it again. She was just like + her father. + </p> + <p> + “Connie, how can you be so coarse?” + </p> + <p> + “I beg pardon. I forgot you were always better than everybody else.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not better than everybody else. I’ve only been brought up better than + some people. My father would have died rather than have told a story like + that.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose that’s a dig at my parents.” + </p> + <p> + “I never said anything about your parents.” + </p> + <p> + “I know the things you think about my father.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—I daresay he thinks things about me.” + </p> + <p> + “He thinks you were always an incurable old maid, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he think my father was an old maid?” + </p> + <p> + “I never heard him say one unkind word about your father.” + </p> + <p> + “I should hope not, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Unkind things were said. Not by him. Though he might have been forgiven——” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what you mean. But all my father’s creditors were paid in + full. You know that.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know it.” + </p> + <p> + “You know it now. Was your father one of them?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It was as bad for him as if he had been, though.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you make that out?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, if he hadn’t taken your father’s advice he might have been + a rich man now instead of a poor one.... He invested all his money as he + told him.” + </p> + <p> + “In my father’s things?” + </p> + <p> + “In things he was interested in. And he lost it.” + </p> + <p> + “It shows how he must have trusted him.” + </p> + <p> + “He wasn’t the only one who was ruined by his trust.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett blinked. Her mind swerved from the blow. “I think you must be + mistaken,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I’m less likely to be mistaken than you, my dear, though he <i>was</i> + your father.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett sat up, straight and stiff. “Well, <i>your</i> father’s alive, + and <i>he’s</i> dead.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see what that has to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you? If it had happened the other way about, your father wouldn’t + have died.” + </p> + <p> + Connie stared stupidly at Harriett, not taking it in. Presently she got up + and left her. She moved clumsily, her broad hips shaking. + </p> + <p> + Harriett put on her hat and went round to Lizzie and Sarah in turn. They + would know whether it were true or not. They would know whether Mr. + Hancock had been ruined by his own fault or Papa’s. + </p> + <p> + Sarah was sorry. She picked up a fold of her skirt and crumpled it in her + fingers, and said over and over again, “She oughtn’t to have told you.” + But she didn’t say it wasn’t true. Neither did Lizzie, though her tongue + was a whip for Connie. + </p> + <p> + “Because you can’t stand her dirty stories she goes and tells you this. It + shows what Connie is.” + </p> + <p> + It showed her father as he was, too. Not wise. Not wise all the time. + Courageous, always, loving danger, intolerant of security, wild under all + his quietness and gentleness, taking madder and madder risks, playing his + game with an awful, cool recklessness. Then letting other people in; + ruining Mr. Hancock, the little man he used to laugh at. And it had killed + him. He hadn’t been sorry for Mamma, because he knew she was glad the mad + game was over; but he had thought and thought about him, the little dirty + man, until he had died of thinking. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"></a> + XIII + </h2> + <p> + New people had come to the house next door. Harriett saw a pretty girl + going in and out. She had not called; she was not going to call. Their cat + came over the garden wall and bit off the blades of the irises. When he + sat down on the mignonette Harriett sent a note round by Maggie: “Miss + Frean presents her compliments to the lady next door and would be glad if + she would restrain her cat.” + </p> + <p> + Five minutes later the pretty girl appeared with the cat in her arms. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve brought Mimi,” she said. “I want you to see what a darling he is.” + </p> + <p> + Mimi, a Persian, all orange on the top and snow white underneath, climbed + her breast to hang flattened out against her shoulder, long, the great + plume of his tail fanning her. She swung round to show the innocence of + his amber eyes and the pink arch of his mouth supporting his pink nose. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to see my mignonette,” said Harriett. They stood together by + the crushed ring where Mimi had made his bed. + </p> + <p> + The pretty girl said she was sorry. “But, you see, we <i>can’t</i> + restrain him. I don’t know what’s to be done.... Unless you kept a cat + yourself; then you won’t mind.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” Harriett said, “I don’t like cats.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, why not?” + </p> + <p> + Harriett knew why. A cat was a compromise, a substitute, a subterfuge. Her + pride couldn’t stoop. She was afraid of Mimi, of his enchanting play, and + the soft white fur of his stomach. Maggie’s baby. So she said, “Because + they destroy the beds. And they kill birds.” + </p> + <p> + The pretty girl’s chin burrowed in Mimi’s neck. “You <i>won’t</i> throw + stones at him?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “No, I wouldn’t <i>hurt</i> him.... What did you say his name was?” + </p> + <p> + “Mimi.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett softened. She remembered. “When I was a little girl I had a cat + called Mimi. White Angora. Very handsome. And your name is——” + </p> + <p> + “Brailsford. I’m Dorothy.” + </p> + <p> + Next time, when Mimi jumped on the lupins and broke them down, Dorothy + came again and said she was sorry. And she stayed to tea. Harriett + revealed herself. + </p> + <p> + “My father was Hilton Frean.” She had noticed for the last fifteen years + that people showed no interest when she told them that. They even stared + as though she had said something that had no sense in it. Dorothy said, + “How nice.” + </p> + <p> + <i>“Nice?”</i> + </p> + <p> + “I mean it must have been nice to have him for your father.... You don’t + mind my coming into your garden last thing to catch Mimi?” + </p> + <p> + Harriett felt a sudden yearning for Dorothy. She saw a pleasure, a + happiness, in her coming. She wasn’t going to call, but she sent little + notes in to Dorothy asking her to come to tea. + </p> + <p> + Dorothy declined. + </p> + <p> + But every evening, towards bedtime, she came into the garden to catch + Mimi. Through the window Harriett could hear her calling: “Mimi! Mimi!” + She could see her in her white frock, moving about, hovering, ready to + pounce as Mimi dashed from the bushes. She thought: “She walks into my + garden as if it was her own. But she won’t make a friend of me. She’s + young, and I’m old.” + </p> + <p> + She had a piece of wire netting put up along the wall to keep Mimi out. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the end of it,” she said. She could never think of the young girl + without a pang of sadness and resentment. + </p> + <p> + Fifty-five. Sixty. + </p> + <p> + In her sixty-second year Harriett had her first bad illness. + </p> + <p> + It was so like Sarah Barmby. Sarah got influenza and regarded it as a + common cold and gave it to Harriett who regarded it as a common cold and + got pleurisy. + </p> + <p> + When the pain was over she enjoyed her illness, the peace and rest of + lying there, supported by the bed, holding out her lean arms to be washed + by Maggie; closing her eyes in bliss while Maggie combed and brushed and + plaited her fine gray hair. She liked having the same food at the same + hours. She would look up, smiling weakly, when Maggie came at bedtime with + the little tray. “What have you brought me <i>now</i>, Maggie?” + </p> + <p> + “Benger’s Food, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + She wanted it to be always Benger’s Food at bedtime. She lived by habit, + by the punctual fulfillment of her expectation. She loved the doctor’s + visits at twelve o’clock, his air of brooding absorption in her case, his + consultations with Maggie, the seriousness and sanctity he attached to the + humblest details of her existence. + </p> + <p> + Above all she loved the comfort and protection of Maggie, the sight of + Maggie’s broad, tender face as it bent over her, the feeling of Maggie’s + strong arms as they supported her, the hovering pressure of the firm, + broad body in the clean white apron and the cap. Her eyes rested on it + with affection; she found shelter in Maggie as she had found it in her + mother. + </p> + <p> + One day she said, “Why did you come to me, Maggie? Couldn’t you have found + a better place?” + </p> + <p> + “There was many wanted me. But I came to you, ma’am, because you seemed to + sort of need me most. I dearly love looking after people. Old ladies and + children. And gentlemen, if they’re ill enough,” Maggie said. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a good girl, Maggie.” + </p> + <p> + She had forgotten. The image of Maggie’s baby was dead, hidden, buried + deep down in her mind. She closed her eyes. Her head was thrown back, + motionless, ecstatic under Maggie’s flickering fingers as they plaited her + thin wisps of hair. + </p> + <p> + Out of the peace of illness she entered on the misery and long labor of + convalescence. The first time Maggie left her to dress herself she wept. + She didn’t want to get well. She could see nothing in recovery but the end + of privilege and prestige, the obligation to return to a task she was + tired of, a difficult and terrifying task. + </p> + <p> + By summer she was up and (tremulously) about again. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"></a> + XIV + </h2> + <p> + She was aware of her drowsy, supine dependence on Maggie. At first her + perishing self asserted itself in an increased reserve and arrogance. Thus + she protected herself from her own censure. She had still a feeling of + satisfaction in her exclusiveness, her power not to call on new people. + </p> + <p> + “I think,” Lizzie Pierce said, “you might have called on the Brailsfords.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I? I should have nothing in common with such people.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, considering that Mr. Brailsford writes in <i>The Spectator</i>——” + </p> + <p> + Harriett called. She put on her gray silk and her soft white mohair shawl, + and her wide black hat tied under her chin, and called. It was on a + Saturday. The Brailsfords’ room was full of visitors, men and women, + talking excitedly. Dorothy was not there—Dorothy was married. Mimi + was not there—Mimi was dead. + </p> + <p> + Harriett made her way between the chairs, dim-eyed, upright, and stiff in + her white shawl. She apologized for having waited seven years before + calling.... “Never go anywhere.... Quite a recluse since my father’s + death. He was Hilton Frean.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” Mrs. Brailsford’s eyes were sweetly interrogative. + </p> + <p> + “But as we are such near neighbors I felt that I must break my rule.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Brailsford smiled in vague benevolence; yet as if she thought that + Miss Frean’s feeling and her action were unnecessary. After seven years. + And presently Harriett found herself alone in her corner. + </p> + <p> + She tried to talk to Mr. Brailsford when he handed her the tea and bread + and butter. “My father,” she said, “was connected with <i>The Spectator</i> + for many years. He was Hilton Frean.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? I’m afraid I—don’t remember.” + </p> + <p> + She could get nothing out of him, out of his lean, ironical face, his eyes + screwed up behind his glasses, benevolent, amused at her. She was nobody + in that roomful of keen, intellectual people; nobody; nothing but an + unnecessary little old lady who had come there uninvited. + </p> + <p> + Her second call was not returned. She heard that the Brailsfords were + exclusive; they wouldn’t know anybody out of their own set. Harriett + explained her position thus: “No. I didn’t keep it up. We have nothing in + common.” + </p> + <p> + She was old—old. She had nothing in common with youth, nothing in + common with middle age, with intellectual, exclusive people connected with + <i>The Spectator</i>. She said, “<i>The Spectator</i> is not what it used + to be in my father’s time.” + </p> + <p> + Harriett Frean was not what she used to be. She was aware of the creeping + fret, the poisons and obstructions of decay. It was as if she had parted + with her own light, elastic body, and succeeded to somebody else’s that + was all bone, heavy, stiff, irresponsive to her will. Her brain felt + swollen and brittle, she had a feeling of tiredness in her face, of + infirmity about her mouth. Her looking-glass showed her the fallen yellow + skin, the furrowed lines of age. + </p> + <p> + Her head dropped, drowsy, giddy over the week’s accounts. She gave up even + the semblance of her housekeeping, and became permanently dependent on + Maggie. She was happy in the surrender of her responsibility, of the + grown-up self she had maintained with so much effort, clinging to Maggie, + submitting to Maggie, as she had clung and submitted to her mother. + </p> + <p> + Her affection concentrated on two objects, the house and Maggie, Maggie + and the house. The house had become a part of herself, an extension of her + body, a protective shell. She was uneasy when away from it. The thought of + it drew her with passion: the low brown wall with the railing, the flagged + path from the little green gate to the front door. The square brown front; + the two oblong, white-framed windows, the dark-green trellis porch + between; the three windows above. And the clipped privet bush by the + trellis and the may tree by the gate. + </p> + <p> + She no longer enjoyed visiting her friends. She set out in peevish + resignation, leaving her house, and when she had sat half an hour with + Lizzie or Sarah or Connie she would begin to fidget, miserable till she + got back to it again; to the house and Maggie. + </p> + <p> + She was glad enough when Lizzie came to her; she still liked Lizzie best. + They would sit together, one on each side of the fireplace, talking. + Harriett’s voice came thinly through her thin lips, precise yet plaintive, + Lizzie’s finished with a snap of the bent-in jaws. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember those little round hats we used to wear? You had one + exactly like mine. Connie couldn’t wear them.” + </p> + <p> + “We were wild young things,” said Lizzie. “I was wilder than you.... A + little audacious thing.” + </p> + <p> + “And look at us now—we couldn’t say ‘Bo’ to a goose.... Well, we may + be thankful we haven’t gone stout like Connie Pennefather.” + </p> + <p> + “Or poor Sarah. That stoop.” + </p> + <p> + They drew themselves up. Their straight, slender shoulders rebuked + Connie’s obesity, and Sarah’s bent back, her bodice stretched hump-wise + from the stuck-out ridges of her stays. + </p> + <p> + Harriett was glad when Lizzie went and left her to Maggie and the house. + She always hoped she wouldn’t stay for tea, so that Maggie might not have + an extra cup and plate to wash. + </p> + <p> + The years passed: the sixty-third, sixty-fourth, sixty-fifth; their + monotony mitigated by long spells of torpor and the sheer rapidity of + time. Her mind was carried on, empty, in empty, flying time. She had a + feeling of dryness and distension in all her being, and a sort of + crepitation in her brain, irritating her to yawning fits. After meals, + sitting in her armchair, her book would drop from her hands and her mind + would slip from drowsiness into stupor. There was something voluptuous + about the beginning of this state; she would give herself up to it with an + animal pleasure and content. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes, for long periods, her mind would go backwards, returning, + always returning, to the house in Black’s Lane. She would see the row of + elms and the white wall at the end with the green balcony hung out like a + birdcage above the green door. She would see herself, a girl wearing a big + chignon and a little round hat; or sitting in the curly chair with her + feet on the white rug; and her father, slender and straight, smiling + half-amused, while her mother read aloud to them. Or she was a child in a + black silk apron going up Black’s Lane. Little audacious thing. She had a + fondness and admiration for this child and her audacity. And always she + saw her mother, with her sweet face between the long, hanging curls, + coming down the garden path, in a wide silver-gray gown trimmed with + narrow bands of black velvet. And she would wake up, surprised to find + herself sitting in a strange room, dressed in a gown with strange sleeves + that ended in old wrinkled hands; for the book that lay in her lap was + Longfellow, open at <i>Evangeline</i>. + </p> + <p> + One day she made Maggie pull off the old, washed-out cretonne covers, + exposing the faded blue rep. She was back in the drawing-room of her + youth. Only one thing was missing. She went upstairs and took the blue egg + out of the spare room and set it in its place on the marble-topped table. + She sat gazing at it a long time in happy, child-like satisfaction. The + blue egg gave reality to her return. + </p> + <p> + When she saw Maggie coming in with the tea and buttered scones she thought + of her mother. + </p> + <p> + Three more years. Harriett was sixty-eight. She had a faint recollection + of having given Maggie notice, long ago, there, in the dining room. Maggie + had stood on the hearthrug, in her large white apron, crying. She was + crying now. + </p> + <p> + She said she must leave and go and take care of her mother. “Mother’s + getting very feeble now.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m getting very feeble, too, Maggie. It’s cruel and unkind of you to + leave me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t help it.” + </p> + <p> + She moved about the room, sniffing and sobbing as she dusted. Harriett + couldn’t bear it any more. “If you can’t control yourself,” she said, “go + into the kitchen.” Maggie went. + </p> + <p> + Harriett sat before the fire in her chair, straight and stiff, making no + sound. Now and then her eyelids shook, fluttered red rims; slow, scanty + tears oozed and fell, their trail glistening in the long furrows of her + cheeks. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"></a> + XV + </h2> + <p> + The door of the specialist’s house had shut behind them with a soft, + respectful click. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie Pierce and Harriett sat in the taxicab, holding each other’s hands. + Harriett spoke. + </p> + <p> + “He says I’ve got what Mamma had.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie blinked away her tears; her hand loosened and tightened on + Harriett’s with a nervous clutch. + </p> + <p> + Harriett felt nothing but a strange, solemn excitement and exaltation. She + was raised to her mother’s eminence in pain. With every stab she would + live again in her mother. She had what her mother had. + </p> + <p> + Only she would have an operation. This different thing was what she + dreaded, the thing her mother hadn’t had, and the going away into the + hospital, to live exposed in the free ward among other people. That was + what she minded most. That and leaving her house, and Maggie’s leaving. + </p> + <p> + She cried when she saw Maggie standing at the gate in her white apron as + the taxicab took her away. She thought, “When I come back again she won’t + be there.” Yet somehow she felt that it wouldn’t happen; it was impossible + that she should come back and not find Maggie there. + </p> + <p> + She lay in her white bed in the white-curtained cubicle. Lizzie was paying + for the cubicle. Kind Lizzie. Kind. Kind. + </p> + <p> + She wasn’t afraid of the operation. It would happen in the morning. Only + one thing worried her. Something Connie had told her. Under the anæsthetic + you said things. Shocking, indecent things. But there wasn’t anything she + could say. She didn’t know anything.... Yes. She did. There were Connie’s + stories. And Black’s Lane. Behind the dirty blue palings in Black’s Lane. + </p> + <p> + The nurses comforted her. They said if you kept your mouth tight shut, up + to the last minute before the operation, if you didn’t say one word you + were all right. + </p> + <p> + She thought about it after she woke in the morning. For a whole hour + before the operation she refused to speak, nodding and shaking her head, + communicating by gestures. She walked down the wide corridor of the ward + on her way to the theatre, very upright in her white flannel dressing + gown, with her chin held high and a look of exaltation on her face. There + were convalescents in the corridor. They saw her. The curtains before some + of the cubicles were parted; the patients saw her; they knew what she was + going to. Her exaltation mounted. + </p> + <p> + She came into the theatre. It was all white. White. White tiles. Rows of + little slender knives on a glass shelf, under glass, shining. A white sink + in the corner. A mixed smell of iodine and ether. The surgeon wore a white + coat. Harriett made her tight lips tighter. + </p> + <p> + She climbed on to the white enamel table, and lay down, drawing her + dressing gown straight about her knees. She had not said one word. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + She had behaved beautifully. + </p> + <p> + The pain in her body came up, wave after wave, burning. It swelled, + tightening, stretching out her wounded flesh. + </p> + <p> + She knew that the little man they called the doctor was really Mr. + Hancock. They oughtn’t to have let him in. She cried out. “Take him away. + Don’t let him touch me;” but nobody took any notice. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t right,” she said. “He oughtn’t to do it. Not to <i>any</i> + woman. If it was known he would be punished.” + </p> + <p> + And there was Maggie by the curtain, crying. + </p> + <p> + “That’s Maggie. She’s crying because she thinks I killed her baby.” + </p> + <p> + The ice bag laid across her body stirred like a live thing as the ice + melted, then it settled and was still. She put her hand down and felt the + smooth, cold oilskin distended with water. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a dead baby in the bed. Red hair. They ought to have taken it + away,” she said. “Maggie had a baby once. She took it up the lane to the + place where the man is; and they put it behind the palings. Dirty blue + palings. + </p> + <p> + “...Pussycat. Pussycat, what did you there? Pussy. Prissie. Prissiecat. + Poor Prissie. She never goes to bed. She can’t get up out of the chair.” + </p> + <p> + A figure in white, with a stiff white cap, stood by the bed. She named it, + fixed it in her mind. Nurse. Nurse—that was what it was. She spoke + to it. “It’s sad—sad to go through so much pain and then to have a + dead baby.” + </p> + <p> + The white curtain walls of the cubicle contracted, closed in on her. She + was lying at the bottom of her white-curtained nursery cot. She felt weak + and diminished, small, like a very little child. + </p> + <p> + The front curtains parted, showing the blond light of the corridor beyond. + She saw the nursery door open and the light from the candle moved across + the ceiling. The gap was filled by the heavy form, the obscene yet + sorrowful face of Connie Pennefather. + </p> + <p> + Harriett looked at it. She smiled with a sudden ecstatic wonder and + recognition. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma——” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND DEATH OF HARRIETT FREAN ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 9298-h.htm or 9298-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/9/2/9/9298/</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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