DOI article:
Crackanthorpe, Hubert: The Haseltons
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.21806#0154
150 The Haseltons
have to go on living with him, trusting him, confiding in him?
loving him. . . .
And for relief he returned wearily to his indignation.
How was it possible for any man—married to her—to be so
vile, so false ? . . . The consummate hypocrisy of it all. . . .
Swann remembered moments when Hillier’s manner towards
her had appeared redolent of deference, of suppressed affection.
And he—a man of refinement—not a mere coarse-fibred, sensual
brüte—he who wrote poetrv—Swann recalled a Couplet full of fine
aspiration—that he should have done this loathsome thing—done
it callously, openly—any one might have seen it—deceived her
for some common vulgär, public creature. . . .
Suddenly the cab halted abruptly.
“ They’re pulled up, across the Street there,” the driver
whispered hoarsely, confidentially ; and for his tone Swann could
have struck him.
It was an ill-lit Street, silent and empty. The houses were low,
semi-detached, and separated from the pavement by railings and
small gardens.
The woman had got out of the cab and was pushing open the
swing-gate. Hillier stood on the foot-board, paying the cab-
man. Swann, on the opposite side of the Street, hesitated.
Hillier stepped on to the pavement, and ran lightly up the door-
step after the woman. She unlocked the door : it closed behind
them. And the hansom which had brought them turned, and
trotted away down the Street.
Swann stood a moment before the house, irresolute. Then re-
crossed the Street slowly. And a hansom, bearing a second
couple, drew up at the house next door.
“ You
have to go on living with him, trusting him, confiding in him?
loving him. . . .
And for relief he returned wearily to his indignation.
How was it possible for any man—married to her—to be so
vile, so false ? . . . The consummate hypocrisy of it all. . . .
Swann remembered moments when Hillier’s manner towards
her had appeared redolent of deference, of suppressed affection.
And he—a man of refinement—not a mere coarse-fibred, sensual
brüte—he who wrote poetrv—Swann recalled a Couplet full of fine
aspiration—that he should have done this loathsome thing—done
it callously, openly—any one might have seen it—deceived her
for some common vulgär, public creature. . . .
Suddenly the cab halted abruptly.
“ They’re pulled up, across the Street there,” the driver
whispered hoarsely, confidentially ; and for his tone Swann could
have struck him.
It was an ill-lit Street, silent and empty. The houses were low,
semi-detached, and separated from the pavement by railings and
small gardens.
The woman had got out of the cab and was pushing open the
swing-gate. Hillier stood on the foot-board, paying the cab-
man. Swann, on the opposite side of the Street, hesitated.
Hillier stepped on to the pavement, and ran lightly up the door-
step after the woman. She unlocked the door : it closed behind
them. And the hansom which had brought them turned, and
trotted away down the Street.
Swann stood a moment before the house, irresolute. Then re-
crossed the Street slowly. And a hansom, bearing a second
couple, drew up at the house next door.
“ You