The Wife of Sir Isaac HarmanWells, H. G. (Herbert George)
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The Wife of Sir Isaac Harman
Wells, H. G. (Herbert George)
England -- Fiction; Upper class -- Fiction; Women's rights -- Fiction
Life was over. She felt she had never before realized the meaning of
death. That beautiful night outside, and all the beautiful nights and
days that were still to come and all the sweet and wonderful things of
God’s world could be nothing to him now for ever. There was no dream in
him that could ever live again, there was no desire, no hope in him.
And had he ever had his desire or his hope, or felt the intensities of
life?
There was this beauty she had been discovering in the last few years,
this mystery of love,—all that had been hidden from him.
She began to realize something sorrowful and pitiful in his quality, in
his hardness, his narrowness, his bickering suspicions, his malignant
refusals of all things generous and beautiful. He made her feel, as
sometimes the children made her feel, the infinite pity of perversity
and resistance to the bounties and kindliness of life.
The shadow of sorrow for him came to her at last.
Yet how obstinate he looked, the little frozen white thing that had
been Sir Isaac Harman! And satisfied, wilfully satisfied; his lips were
compressed and his mouth a little drawn in at the corners as if he
would not betray any other feeling than content with the bargain he had
made with life. She did not touch him; not for the world would she ever
touch that cold waxen thing that had so lately clasped her life, but
she stood for a long time by the side of his quiet, immersed in the
wonder of death....
He had been such a hard little man, such a pursuing little man, so
unreasonable and difficult a master, and now—he was such a poor
shrunken little man for all his obstinacy! She had never realized
before that he was pitiful.... Had she perhaps feared him too much,
disliked him too much to deal fairly with him? Could she have helped
him? Was there anything she could have done that she had not done?
Might she not at least have saved him his suspicion? Behind his rages,
perhaps he had been wretched.
Could anyone else have helped him? If perhaps someone had loved him
more than she had ever pretended to do——
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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