"Was it wise to bring her in?" "Well, but my dear, she
was rather a common type of the New Woman in the early nineteen
hundreds." "Yes--but--"
Of course the latent anxiety was that she might end up respectably.
And so she did. In 1906, the first Mrs. Storrington died at Ware
(Ware was where the architect husband had his legitimate home). She
had long been ill, increasingly ill of some terrible form of anaemia
which had followed the birth of her fourth child. She slowly faded
away, poor thing; and about the time David was returning from a
triumphant Christmas and New Year at Pontystrad--the Curate and his
young wife had made a most delightful partie carree and David had
kissed the very slightly protesting Bridget under the native
mistletoe--Mrs. Storrington breathed her last, while her faithless
yet long forgiven Francis knelt by her bedside in agonies of
unavailing grief.
Well: she died and was buried, and her four children, ranging from
nine to sixteen, sobbed very much and mourned for darling Mummie
without the slightest suspicion ("'twas better so," she had always
thought) that Dad had poisoned her wells of happiness ever since he
took up with that minx at Cambridge in the very year in which
long-legged Claribel was born. A few months after the poor lady was
consigned (under a really lovely cenotaph designed by her husband)
to Ware Churchyard--no, it was to Ware cemetery; Dad introduced them
all to a very sprightly and good-looking widow, Mrs.
Pages:
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182