Suddenly Luella heard his voice.
III
Charles Hemple had had a nervous collapse. There were twenty years of almost uninterrupted toil upon his shoulders, and the recent pressure at home had been too much for him to bear. His attitude toward his wife was the weak point in what had otherwise been a strong-minded and well-organized career—he was aware of her intense selfishness, but it is one of the many flaws in the scheme of human relationships that selfishness in women has an irresistible appeal to many men. Luella’s selfishness existed side by side with a childish beauty, and, in consequence, Charles Hemple had begun to take the blame upon himself for situations which she had obviously brought about. It was an unhealthy attitude, and his mind had sickened, at length, with his attempts to put himself in the wrong.
After the first shock and the momentary flush of pity that followed it, Luella looked at the situation with impatience. She was “a good sport”—she couldn’t take advantage of Charles when he was sick. The question of her liberties had to be postponed until he was on his feet. Just when she had determined to be a wife no longer, Luella was compelled to be a nurse as well. She sat beside his bed while he talked about her in his delirium—about the days of their engagement, and how some friend had told him then that he was making a mistake, and about his happiness in the early months of their marriage, and his growing disquiet as the gap appeared. Evidently he had been more aware of it than she had thought—more than he ever said.
“Luella!” He would lurch up in bed. “Luella! Where are you?”
“I’m right here, Charles, beside you.” She tried to make her voice cheerful and warm.
“If you want to go, Luella, you’d better go. I don’t seem to be enough for you any more.”
She denied this soothingly.
“I’ve thought it over, Luella, and I can’t ruin my health on account of you—” Then quickly, and passionately: “Don’t go, Luella, for God’s sake, don’t go away and leave me! Promise me you won’t! I’ll do anything you say if you won’t go.”
His humility annoyed her most; he was a reserved man, and she had never guessed at the extent of his devotion before.
“I’m only going for a minute. It’s Doctor Moon, your friend, Charles. He came today to see how you were, don’t you remember? And he wants to talk to me before he goes.”
“You’ll come back?” he persisted.
“In just a little while. There—lie quiet.”
She raised his head and plumped his pillow into freshness. A new trained nurse would arrive tomorrow.
In the living-room Doctor Moon was waiting—his suit more worn and shabby in the afternoon light. She disliked him inordinately, with an illogical conviction that he was in some way to blame for her misfortune, but he was so deeply interested that she couldn’t refuse to see him. She hadn’t asked him to consult with the specialists, though—a doctor who was so down at the heel. …
“Mrs. Hemple.” He came forward, holding out his hand, and Luella touched it, lightly and uneasily.
“You seem well,” he said.
“I am well, thank you.”
“I congratulate you on the way you’ve taken hold of things.”
“But I haven’t taken hold of things at all,” she said coldly. “I do what I have to—”
“That’s just it.”
Her impatience mounted rapidly.
“I do what I have to, and nothing more,” she continued; “and with no particular goodwill.”
Suddenly she opened up to him again, as she had the night of the catastrophe—realizing that she was putting herself on a footing of intimacy with him, yet unable to restrain her words.
“The house isn’t going,” she broke out bitterly. “I had to discharge the servants, and now I’ve got a woman in by the day. And the baby has a cold, and I’ve found out that his nurse doesn’t know her business, and everything’s just as messy and terrible as it can be!”
“Would you mind telling me how you found out the nurse didn’t know her business?”
“You find out various unpleasant things when you’re forced to stay around the house.”
He nodded, his weary face turning here and there about the room.
“I feel somewhat encouraged,” he said slowly. “As I told you, I promise nothing; I only do the best I can.”
Luella looked up at him, startled.
“What do you mean?” she protested. “You’ve done nothing for me—nothing at all!”
“Nothing much—yet,” he said heavily. “It takes time, Mrs. Hemple.”
The words were said in a dry monotone that was somehow without offense, but Luella felt that he had gone too far. She got to her feet.
“I’ve met your type before,” she said coldly. “For some reason you seem to think that you have a standing here as ‘the old friend of the family.’ But I don’t make friends quickly, and I haven’t given you the privilege of being so”—she wanted to say “insolent,” but the word eluded her—“so personal with me.”
When the front door had closed behind him, Luella went into the kitchen to see if the woman understood about the three different dinners—one for Charles, one for the baby, and one for herself. It was hard to do with only a single servant when things were so complicated. She must try another employment agency—this one had begun to sound bored.
To her surprise, she found the cook with hat and coat on, reading a newspaper at the kitchen table. “Why”—Luella tried to think of the name—“why, what’s the matter, Mrs.—”
“Mrs. Danski is my name.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to accommodate you,” said Mrs. Danski. “You see, I’m only a plain cook, and I’m not used to preparing invalid’s food.”
“But I’ve counted on you.”
“I’m very sorry.” She shook her head stubbornly. “I’ve got my own health to think of. I’m
