She understood only that he was suffering. "But, Guy, there's nothing you
could do, possibly. It's not to be expected. Have I complained?" She fell
back on the kindly imbecility of the nurse. "Now you're not to worry about
that, at least until you're better--"
"Better?" He forgot the lines in which he had schooled himself. The man
overrode the amateur actor. "That's not the thing to hope for. Why couldn't
it have killed me--that first fall?" ("My dear, my dear!" she stammered.)
"There would have been some satisfaction in getting out of the way, and
that in decent fashion; like a charge of powder, not like a rubbish-heap. I
can't accept it of you, Bibi. I'm enraged for you. I can't be grateful. I'm
ashamed."
She understood now.
What could she say? A dozen things, and she did; things about as satisfying
as theology at the grave. He did not answer nor respond. When he relaxed at
last it was simply to her arms around him, his head on her bosom, her
wordless notes of tenderness and consolation.
He was suffering, and chiefly for her, and what a fighter he was! Who but
he would ever have thought of _his_ doing anything?
So there might be cases in which it was really more helpful and generous
not to do things for people, but to let them do for themselves.
Pages:
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59