On mornings like this, leisurely and slow and pleasant, he would not only read his newspaper without hurry but would have Ellen read the more important news as well, and would encourage her to express opinions, which often surprised him with their clarity and common sense and even subtlety. So now he said, “Ellen, read this about our bouncing President.”
He looked at his young wife and because of the radiance of her smile he did not at first see how increasingly white she had become, nor the lines of suffering about her beautiful lips. As always, her beaming adoration for him startled him as if he had been struck with light in the midst of darkness, and he thought, as he often thought: No one should love another human being as Ellen loves me. It is dangerous, deadly. Yet with this thought came a passionate tenderness as well as fear for her.
She took the newspaper from him, but first poured him a second cup of coffee, and he saw how delicate her once scored hands had become, and, in a touching way, how newly fragile. She read the President’s words, and a faint frown puckered her forehead. She put down the paper and looked at Jeremy with a long thoughtfulness. “Well?” he said.
“He’s not a very intelligent man, is he?”
“No one ever accused him of that, Ellen.”
“He seems to forget that this country is not entirely Anglo-Saxon,” said Ellen, “but is composed of many other races which have made America strong and increasingly powerful. I wonder, for instance, what the Poles, the Jews, the Hungarians, the French, and all the rest of the non-Anglo-Saxons think of such silliness?”
“I don’t think they are laughing,” said Jeremy. “If the Democrats had nominated someone of character and strength instead of that poor fish Parker, I think they could have beaten Teddy Bear. Maybe they didn’t want to.”
Ellen’s face became anxious, even brooding. “I just thought of that myself,” she said. “I often think of what you’ve told me about the Scardo Society and the Committee for Foreign Studies. It’s very hard to believe in such villainy.”
“You may believe in it,” said Jeremy.
“What is it that they want? Yes, you’ve told me. Power. But it must also be something else—”
“It is. Hatred of the human race.” When he saw that her face had saddened and that she had looked away from him, he lightly touched her hand.
“There is nothing a girl like you can do about it,” he said, to comfort her. Then she raised her eyes and he saw that their large blueness had become almost piercing.
“But you are trying to do something about it, aren’t you, Jeremy?”
He had never told her about his election to the Scardo Society. He said, “Now, what can I possibly do? Nothing.”
“I don’t believe that, darling.”
He became serious. “I hope you haven’t talked to Kitty or her friends of what you do believe, Ellen, about me?” His concern almost reached alarm.
She smiled at him slightly. “Jeremy, our talks together are just that—our talks together. Besides, I am afraid that most of the ladies I know are under the impression that I am very stupid.” Her smile widened. “Possibly they are right.”
“I’ve discovered that an appearance of stupidity can be a very fine safeguard,” he said. “Against this damnable world. Some of the cleverest and wisest men I know often pretend to be stupid. It’s surprising what they learn and hear by simply grunting and keeping their mouths shut.”
Ellen laughed a little. “I don’t hear much, except gossip, and discussions of styles and domestics and dinners, and something called the ‘new woman,’ and the suffragettes. I sometimes think this bores Kitty, too, and she usually changes the subject. She is a great reader of Everybody’s magazine, and just a short time ago she quoted an article in it. ‘We’ll find ourselves cheering on the working woman who chooses to be a supporting rather than a supported wife. Why shouldn’t a married woman work if she chooses and can?’”
“And what did the ladies say to that?”
Ellen laughed again. “They were horrified.”
“I bet,” said Jeremy. “Such a lot of coddled and useless females. Do you offer them any opinion of your own?”
“Occasionally. Not that they listen to me.”
Cuthbert came in to take the breakfast tray, followed by a disgruntled and surly housemaid who resented working today. She desultorily drew Ellen’s bath, then returned to the rooms to make the bed and dust with small jerks of her cloth. Cuthbert began to leave the bedroom, then glanced at Ellen. “Is there something wrong, Mrs. Porter?” he asked.
Jeremy acutely looked at his wife and saw that her pallor had increased and that her face gleamed with sweat and that her lips were white. He started to his feet with fresh alarm.
“Ellen! What is wrong?”
But suddenly Ellen could not speak for the intense agony she was suffering. Cuthbert gave the tray to the maid and motioned for her to leave. He came to Ellen’s side and studied her intently.
“I believe the time has come, Mr. Porter,” he said.
Jeremy bent over his wife and he saw that her eyes were filmed over and dilated. The hot air of the bedroom now resounded with the strident and triumphant clamor of the marching bands on Fifth Avenue, and footsteps raced down the street and voices rose in louder laughter and excited exclamations. Ellen’s lips moved, but the noise shut off her voice. She could only look at Jeremy in mute appeal.
“Help me, Cuthbert,” he said, and together the two men lifted Ellen and carried her to her bed. “Damn, damn,” said Jeremy. “And Lampert’s out of town and so are the nurses, and we’re alone except for you, Cuthbert, and one maid.” He was very frightened.
“I believe Dr. Lampert has an assistant,” said Cuthbert. “Shall I ring him, sir?”
“At once. Please.” Jeremy bent over the stricken girl, who now held his hand in her wet and slipping fingers. She began to writhe feebly and draw up her legs in a spasmodic reaction to her anguish of body. It was unusual for Jeremy to feel helpless, but now he was overcome with a sense of impotence and weakness. He drew a chair to the bedside. “Ellen, Ellen,” he said, knowing the most intense fear of his life. “Are you in much pain, my love?”
She tried to halt her agonized movements and tried to smile. “Just a little,” she said. “Please don’t worry, Jeremy.”
Cuthbert returned, in a state of anxiety. “The assistant himself is in the hospital, with that new disease, appendicitis. Is there anyone else you know, in the medical profession, Mr. Porter?”
“There’s old Dr. Parsons, but he’s full of arthritis and is practically crippled. There’s Dr.—No, he told me he was sailing on the Long Island Sound for this week. I don’t seem to have many physician friends, damn it. And we’re all alone here.”
“There’s Mrs. Watson’s nurse, Miss Ember,” said Cuthbert, frowning. He did not like Miss Ember, who was both tall and stout with a very small head and cruel little eyes; she had a thin knot of black hair on her skull, and a twisting sly smile as if, as she often said herself, “I could tell a tale or two, if it wasn’t unprofessional. Medical Ethics, you know.”
At the mention of Miss Ember’s name, Ellen became momentarily still. Her glazed eyes opened wide. “No, no,” she muttered. “Not Miss Ember, not ever.”
“Why not? She’s better than nothing, Ellen.”
But out of the deep pit of her pain Ellen felt an irrational terror, and did not know why she felt it. She was only invaded by a nameless dread and shrinking. “No, no, not Miss Ember,” she pleaded in a dim voice. “I don’t know—I just don’t want her near me, or even in this room.”
“That’s foolish,” said Jeremy, trying to sound stern. “She’s a nurse. She’s competent. She must have attended dozens of births.” But Ellen was shaking her head feebly on the pillow and her grasp on Jeremy’s hand tightened. “Please,” she whispered, and her terror quickened, for some primal instinct was clamoring in her.
Then Jeremy had another distracted thought. “Your friend Kitty, Ellen. She must know s
ome doctor we don’t know.” He told Cuthbert to call Kitty’s home, and the elderly man literally ran from the room and down the long hall to the upper telephone.
In the meantime, Ellen gave herself up to her suffering though she did not release Jeremy’s hand. Her fingernails cut into his flesh. She was struggling against the pain, and was gasping and moaning deep in her throat. Jeremy released his hand and went into the bathroom to wet a cool cloth for that hot and contorted young face, and he tenderly wiped it while murmuring distraught words of comfort and reassurance. The bands had swung into one of Sousa’s most thunderous marches and it seemed to Jeremy that the very walls of the large bedroom were vibrating with the shouts of trumpets and the turbulence of drums. There were also explosions, and the smell of gunpowder invaded the room on gusts of hot air. The light had become dazzling.
Cuthbert returned. “The lady is much concerned, Mr. Porter. She will call one or two doctors she knows. Then she will come here herself, as soon as possible.” He hesitated. “Would you consider a hospital, sir, in this emergency?”
“Good God,” said Jeremy. “Not one of those pesthouses for the poor!”
“Some are excellent, sir, and more and more people are going to them.”
“Not for my wife,” said Jeremy. “She doesn’t need an operation, nor has she some disease. I won’t permit her to go to one of those dens of infection.”
Out of his fear he felt a wild impatience for Ellen, who would not have Miss Ember with her. He did not like the woman himself, but at least she was a nurse. In this extremity she was far better than nothing.
Then Ellen had a sudden cessation of her anguish, and she subsided on her pillows with a deep quivering sigh. She closed her eyes and fell into a sodden doze. But the sweat was heavier on her face. Jeremy watched her, while Cuthbert stood near the door almost as frightened as the husband himself. He did not like the “look” of Mrs. Porter. Her silence, her immobility, disturbed him. Her swollen body raised the sheets over her. Her face had dwindled, become sunken.
Jeremy was thankful that Ellen slept, if only for a little while. This might pass. Dr. Lampert had told him that very often, especially in the case of a first child, there might be occasions of “false labor,” and this was not to be alarming and would fade away.
Long moments moved into half an hour and Ellen still slept, though occasionally her head moved restlessly. There was a bead of blood at the corner of her mouth. Jeremy did not wipe it away, for it might awaken the girl. He sat by the bed and heard nothing of the noise outside, for all his attention was fixed on Ellen. He did not even hear the doorbell ring, but Cuthbert went from the room with agility. He returned with Kitty, who was all soberness, though very smart in her mauve silk suit and straw hat filled with mauve and pink flowers. Her big teeth glistened ferally, through her silvery veil, though she was not smiling now. She tiptoed to the bed, laid her hand on Jeremy’s shoulder, and stared down at Ellen. What a blowsy, overblown creature! she thought. She looks more like a peasant than she did before. Kitty bent and whispered to Jeremy, “Is the poor child in much pain?”
“Not just now,” he whispered in return. “Could you get a doctor, Kitty?”
Her hushed voice was mournful. “I’ve sent my servants scurrying all over town. I called a few doctors myself, especially my own, but they’re either out of town or incompetent to help Ellen. Many of them don’t even have medical degrees—they are old and are the products of ‘diploma mills.’ I wouldn’t have them for one of my cats!”
She had, in fact, called but one physician, and to the end of her life even her lucid mind could not explain to her why this had been so, though she asked herself the question frequently, not out of shame or regret, but out of curiosity. She did not like ambiguities, especially concerning her own motives. She only knew that on this morning she had experienced a leap of hope and exultation, to which she would not give a definite name.
She only remembered that as she looked down at the dozing girl she was seized by a passionate hatred, and despised her, and so fierce was the emotion that she herself had been momentarily startled. She also remembered that she had become conscious of some intensity in the air of the bedroom and she had glanced over her shoulder and had encountered the steady stare of Cuthbert, where he stood at his post near the door. There was something in that stare that intimidated her, she who was never intimidated by anything or anyone.
“What the hell shall we do if this is real labor?” Jeremy asked her, and she started and pressed her hand more firmly on his shoulder, then patted it.
“Well, I’m no authority on childbirth, Jerry. But there’s that nurse of Ellen’s aunt.”
“Ellen won’t permit her even in this room, Kitty. She begged me not to allow her to come in. I don’t know why.”
A sharp gleam touched Kitty’s agate crinkled eyes. “How silly,” she murmured. “Ellen often speaks of the woman’s competence in caring for her aunt. One mustn’t listen to whims of women in her condition.” She thought of Miss Ember, who had shown her the obsequiousness due to her station, but who had manifestly detested Ellen. Kitty’s hand patted Jeremy’s shoulder rhythmically but with a quickening tempo. Darling Jerry, she thought, to be caught in this abominable situation by this gross dull creature! How ugly Ellen looked, sweating on her pillows, her disordered hair streaming about her and darkening with sweat. How graceless, how vulgar. A cow, she thought, a young cow. How could Jerry have stooped to this? If anything—happened—he would be well rid of her.
Jeremy continued to sit by his wife’s bed, leaning close to her as if all his world lay there and there was nothing else. Kitty saw his expression, and her own features shriveled and she was furiously jealous, enraged and disgusted, and then sick with her own deep pain. She removed her white silk gloves, and then her hat, and laid them on the table. She did not know why she was trembling. She smoothed the great shining black pompadour which loomed over her small parched face and which heightened the scarlet thread of her lips. What if the child died, too?
Then Ellen suddenly shivered and uttered a loud gasping cry and opened her eyes, which were misted with the water of renewed and more savage agony.
“Oh, Jeremy!” she cried. “Jeremy, Jeremy, help me!” He took her in his arms but she struggled. Kitty looked at Cuthbert and said, “Call Miss Ember down here, at once.”
The stench of hot stone filled the bedroom, and the odor of animal urine, and the blinding blaze of sunlight. A fine yellow dust compounded of street sweepings and dried horse manure blew through the windows, coating everything on which it settled, and drifting in the air, chokingly. Jeremy held Ellen to him and sweated. Someone leaned over the girl and wiped her face with a cool wet cloth, and Jeremy glanced up to see the grave and kindly face of Cuthbert. The houseman then stepped back a pace and stood there, as if on guard. Miss Ember came into the room, stiff with white starch. She and Kitty looked sharply and meaningly at each other and understood each other at once. There was a sudden emanation of pure evil now in the room and Ellen, even in her agony, felt it, as did Cuthbert.
“Well, well,” said Miss Ember, as if amused. She looked down at Ellen, and she wet her lips and her eyes gleamed and her small topknot of black hair caught a shaft of light. Her apron rustled. “Seems like the time has come. Mr. Cuthbert told me there is no doctor. Never mind, Mr. Porter. I think I can take care of things. Now, if you gentlemen will just leave the room—” She picked up Ellen’s writhing hand and felt her pulse, and nodded with satisfaction. The pulse was erratic and pounding.
Ellen’s eyes flew open and fixed themselves wildly on the face of Miss Ember, and she shrank. “No, no!” she cried. “Go away! Please go away!” She clutched Jeremy’s arm with desperate fingers. “Send her away, Jeremy, send her away.” Her mind filled up with dread and fear and she forgot her pain for a moment or two. She felt as if death itself had touched her hand. Cuthbert moved nearer the bed, his own instincts aroused and alert.
“I think,” he said, looking
at Miss Ember with a quietly terrible expression, “that Mr. Porter and I will remain, if you please, Nurse.”
“Really,” said Kitty, “I think it most improper, Jeremy, for you to remain. And very embarrassing.” She clucked with loving sympathy and advanced to the bed. “Ellen, dearest, I know you are suffering, but it will soon be over. Tell Jeremy to leave, do. There are things to do which gentlemen should not see.” Shaking her head with affectionate rebuke, she covered Ellen’s sprawled and trembling legs with the sheet, and lowered her glittering eyes as if shocked, and she made a moue.
“Don’t leave me, Jeremy,” said Ellen, through her gasps of torment. “Something will happen—don’t leave me.” She caught his hand in a revival of terror.
“I won’t, love,” he said.
A glance like the edge of a naked knife flashed between Kitty and Miss Ember. Neither had any thought they dared put into words in their own minds, but the urgency was there and the primeval malice and desire. Neither asked herself, “Why do I hate this girl, and why-do I wish her to die?” For there was no answer; even their wicked souls recognized that amorphously, but their self-esteem and self-love would not permit them to face it honestly, and know themselves for what they were.
Cuthbert said in a loud clear voice, “I have seen children born before. I know what should be done, though I cannot do it myself.”