DOI article:
Crackanthorpe, Hubert: A study in sentimentality
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.27812#0199
By Hubert Crackanthorpe 195
no good. There was the doctor, and that old woman who nursed
him—they would see to everything . . . Poor, poor Alec—alone in
that grey-walled cottage, pitched at the far end of this long, bleak
valley—the halPdarkened room—his wasted, feverish face—and his
that he could not live—it all came back to her vividly, and
she shivered as if with cold. Death seemed hideous, awful, almost
wicked in the cruelty of its ruthlessness. And the homeward
drive loomed ahead, interminably—for two hours she would have
to wait with the dreadful, flaring remembrance of it all—two
hours—for the horse was tired, and it was thirteen miles, a man by
the roadside had told her. . . .
He was noble-hearted, saint-like . . . Her pity for him welled up
once more, and she convinced herself that she could have loved
him, worshipped him, been worthy of him as a husband—and now
he lay dying. He had revealed his whole nature to her, it seemed.
No one had ever understood, as she did now, what a fine character
he was in reality. Her cheeks grew hot with indignation and
shame, as. she remembered how she had heard people laugh at him
behind his back, refer to him mockingly as the Hove-sick curate.'
And all this while—for five whole years—he had gone on caring
for her—thinking of her each day, reading her letters, recalling
the things she used to say—yes, those were his very words.
Before, she had never suspected that it was in his nature to
take it so horribly tragically; yet, somehow, directly he had
fixed his eyes on her in that excited way, she had half-guessed
it. . . .
The horse's trot slackened to a walk, and the wheels crunched
over a bed of newly-strewn stones . . . She was considering how
much of what had happened she could relate to Jim. Oh ! the
awfulness of his like that! She had kissed
him: she had told him that she cared for him : she hadn't
been
no good. There was the doctor, and that old woman who nursed
him—they would see to everything . . . Poor, poor Alec—alone in
that grey-walled cottage, pitched at the far end of this long, bleak
valley—the halPdarkened room—his wasted, feverish face—and his
that he could not live—it all came back to her vividly, and
she shivered as if with cold. Death seemed hideous, awful, almost
wicked in the cruelty of its ruthlessness. And the homeward
drive loomed ahead, interminably—for two hours she would have
to wait with the dreadful, flaring remembrance of it all—two
hours—for the horse was tired, and it was thirteen miles, a man by
the roadside had told her. . . .
He was noble-hearted, saint-like . . . Her pity for him welled up
once more, and she convinced herself that she could have loved
him, worshipped him, been worthy of him as a husband—and now
he lay dying. He had revealed his whole nature to her, it seemed.
No one had ever understood, as she did now, what a fine character
he was in reality. Her cheeks grew hot with indignation and
shame, as. she remembered how she had heard people laugh at him
behind his back, refer to him mockingly as the Hove-sick curate.'
And all this while—for five whole years—he had gone on caring
for her—thinking of her each day, reading her letters, recalling
the things she used to say—yes, those were his very words.
Before, she had never suspected that it was in his nature to
take it so horribly tragically; yet, somehow, directly he had
fixed his eyes on her in that excited way, she had half-guessed
it. . . .
The horse's trot slackened to a walk, and the wheels crunched
over a bed of newly-strewn stones . . . She was considering how
much of what had happened she could relate to Jim. Oh ! the
awfulness of his like that! She had kissed
him: she had told him that she cared for him : she hadn't
been