The Greater Inclination | Page 9

her or
cared about her; there was no one to wonder at the good match she had
made, or to envy her the new dresses and the visiting-cards which were
still a surprise to her. And he kept growing worse. She felt herself beset
with difficulties too evasive to be fought by so direct a temperament.
She still loved him, of course; but he was gradually, undefinably
ceasing to be himself. The man she had married had been strong, active,
gently masterful: the male whose pleasure it is to clear a way through
the material obstructions of life; but now it was she who was the
protector, he who must be shielded from importunities and given his
drops or his beef-juice though the skies were falling. The routine of the
sick-room bewildered her; this punctual administering of medicine
seemed as idle as some uncomprehended religious mummery.
There were moments, indeed, when warm gushes of pity swept away

her instinctive resentment of his condition, when she still found his old
self in his eyes as they groped for each other through the dense medium
of his weakness. But these moments had grown rare. Sometimes he
frightened her: his sunken expressionless face seemed that of a stranger;
his voice was weak and hoarse; his thin-lipped smile a mere muscular
contraction. Her hand avoided his damp soft skin, which had lost the
familiar roughness of health: she caught herself furtively watching him
as she might have watched a strange animal. It frightened her to feel
that this was the man she loved; there were hours when to tell him what
she suffered seemed the one escape from her fears. But in general she
judged herself more leniently, reflecting that she had perhaps been too
long alone with him, and that she would feel differently when they
were at home again, surrounded by her robust and buoyant family. How
she had rejoiced when the doctors at last gave their consent to his going
home! She knew, of course, what the decision meant; they both knew.
It meant that he was to die; but they dressed the truth in hopeful
euphuisms, and at times, in the joy of preparation, she really forgot the
purpose of their journey, and slipped into an eager allusion to next
year's plans.
At last the day of leaving came. She had a dreadful fear that they would
never get away; that somehow at the last moment he would fail her;
that the doctors held one of their accustomed treacheries in reserve; but
nothing happened. They drove to the station, he was installed in a seat
with a rug over his knees and a cushion at his back, and she hung out of
the window waving unregretful farewells to the acquaintances she had
really never liked till then.
The first twenty-four hours had passed off well. He revived a little and
it amused him to look out of the window and to observe the humours of
the car. The second day he began to grow weary and to chafe under the
dispassionate stare of the freckled child with the lump of chewing-gum.
She had to explain to the child's mother that her husband was too ill to
be disturbed: a statement received by that lady with a resentment
visibly supported by the maternal sentiment of the whole car....
That night he slept badly and the next morning his temperature

frightened her: she was sure he was growing worse. The day passed
slowly, punctuated by the small irritations of travel. Watching his tired
face, she traced in its contractions every rattle and jolt of the tram, till
her own body vibrated with sympathetic fatigue. She felt the others
observing him too, and hovered restlessly between him and the line of
interrogative eyes. The freckled child hung about him like a fly; offers
of candy and picture- books failed to dislodge her: she twisted one leg
around the other and watched him imperturbably. The porter, as he
passed, lingered with vague proffers of help, probably inspired by
philanthropic passengers swelling with the sense that "something ought
to be done;" and one nervous man in a skull-cap was audibly concerned
as to the possible effect on his wife's health.
The hours dragged on in a dreary inoccupation. Towards dusk she sat
down beside him and he laid his hand on hers. The touch startled her.
He seemed to be calling her from far off. She looked at him helplessly
and his smile went through her like a physical pang.
"Are you very tired?" she asked.
"No, not very."
"We'll be there soon now."
"Yes, very soon."
"This time to-morrow--"
He nodded and they sat silent. When she had put him to bed and
crawled into her own berth she tried to cheer herself with the thought