Life and Death of Harriett Frean by May Sinclair (reading women TXT) đź“•
She saw her all the time while Connie was telling her the secret. Shewanted to get up and go to her. Connie knew what it meant when youstiffened suddenly and made yourself tall and cold and silent. The coldsilence 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 inthe cool, green-lighted drawing-room reading Evangeline aloud toher mother. When they came to the beautiful places they looked at eachother and smiled.
She passed through her fourteenth year sedately,
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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 mustache.
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
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