“You? Oh, Guy!” After she had accepted the care of him, and that so pleasantly, he wasn't satisfied! “Is there anything you lack here?” She was hurt.
It was replaying the old parts reversed. Once he had grieved that he could not give her enough to content her.
“A—h—” He turned his head away and flung an arm up over his eyes.
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. She couldn't fancy his doing enough to amount to anything. He oughtn't to! But if it would make him any happier he should have his make-believe—yes, and without knowing it was make-believe. Doing things that were of no value to any one was so disheartening. She knew. Like perfunctory exercise for your health.
Her own business in Cincinnati proved so brief as to take her breath. His was more difficult. The plough was still mightier than either sword or pen. Few markets were open to an inactive man whose hours must be short and irregular, and whose chief qualifications seemed to be a valiant spirit and a store of reminiscences, in a time when reminiscences were as easy to get as advice.