They
had been married twelve years, and in itself, everything considered,
that was remarkable and held a great deal in her favor. She had been
faithful. It was only lately, in Nantbrook, that her dissatisfaction
had materialized in vague restless hints.
"Frazee says Flavilla is sick," he told her. "He thinks we ought to get
Markley."
She made a gesture of skepticism. "All those doctors send you to each
other," she proclaimed. "Like as not he'll get half for doing it."
"She don't look right."
Bella's voice and attitude grew exasperated. "Of course you know all
about children; you've been where you could study on them. And of
course I have no sense; a woman's not the person to say when her child
is sick or well. Have a doctor if you can pay one, and buy a lot of
medicine too. There's some calomel upstairs, but that's no good. I'd
like to know where you have all the money! God knows I need a little,
to put inside me and out."
"It's right scarce," he admitted, resolutely ignoring her tone.
"Perhaps Flavilla will be better later in the day; I'll wait."
He spoke without conviction, denying the impulse to have her cared for
at once, in an effort to content and still Bella. However, he failed in
both of these aims. Her voice swept into a shrill complaint and abuse
of Nantbrook--a place, she asserted, of one dead street, without even a
passing trolley car to watch. She had no intention of being buried here
for the rest of her life.
Pages:
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61