by Max Brand
"Give up?" breathed the girl. "Give up this? Give up you? He never could do it! But..."
A memory stopped her.
"But...you'd forgotten what he said or did on a certain day. And when you remember that, you're not so sure about his blind devotion. Is that correct? Lamont—tell me in a word! Could he do it?"
She did not answer, for the memory of how Kildare had groaned under the rub of privation in the hospital began to grow larger and larger in her mind's eye. She had the look of one who sees calamity approaching on wings and about to strike.
"He could," said the old man softly. "He could sell his soul for the damned, damned mess of pottage. That's what you haven't the heart to tell me."
There was enough grief in her to have brought tears to another woman, but she kept looking, dry-eyed, at her new conception of the man she loved. Gillespie, putting an arm around her, drew her close to his wheel-chair. He was about to say something that might act as a small comfort to her, but the words stuck suddenly in his throat so that for a moment the two of them were silent, looking into emptiness and seeing the same image.
Kildare, back in his room, packed the necessary clothes in one suitcase and, when he finished, there was very little left in his closet. If he put together in a heap all his possessions in the world, a single trunk, and a small one at that, would hold them all. A few years from now, if he followed the way that was opening before him, this would not be true. He would have his automobile, his country club for golf and tennis, his fishing tackle and guns, his clothes for all occasions. Instead of a drunken ambulance driver, a bartender, Mary Lamont and the great Gillespie, he would have a thousand acquaintances; he would have a ready smile, a warm handshake, and a fat-faced emptiness of mind.
In a crisis most men soften, but a few turn grim. Kildare was as hard as a rock when he stared out of the hospital, yet an uncontrollable force diverted him to the Gillespie offices before he left. When he found that the internist was in another part of the hospital, he went straight to the inner office which was being used as their laboratory. Mary Lamont was there, tidying up with busy hands. She looked at him with a sudden flash of expectancy.
"Doctor Gillespie is gone, but only for a moment. He'll be right back," she said.
"I don't need to see him," said Kildare. "And perhaps you can find something to do in the front office?"
"Yes, doctor," she said. The bright hope had gone from her. Leaving the room, her head was bent to that angle which we hope will hide the tears in our eyes. Kildare was left alone looking out the window at the blue dusk with the rain streaking down through it and rattling softly on the glass like the noise of far-off drums. The metaphor grew in his mind. All the honest men of the world were continually marching to battle, but he was giving up the fight.
He realised that he had come to the laboratory with no definite purpose, but found himself a moment later with a cage of the white mice in his hands. Their bright little eyes twinkled up at him through the shadow. They were most obscure moments of existence, these tiny creatures, but considering the purpose they were serving here, they were to Kildare as important as the stars in the sky. The pain became so great in him that his head pulled back and his eyes closed. All hope of the shining glory was shut away from him for ever.
* * *
CHAPTER TEN
CHARLES HERRON had simple beliefs, and not many of them. He was moved by a deep loyalty to his family, his friends, his college, his country. People who have faith in a cause can give themselves to it with a calm deliberation, and Herron, because he did not examine comparative values, fought as hard for his football team as he would have fought for his country. As a lawyer he was worthless unless he trusted in the innocence of his client, but when he had faith in the justice of his cause, his solemn conviction warped judges to his side and was irresistible before a jury. He maintained about his life a wall which excluded the outer world, but those who managed to pass the gate were lords of all they surveyed. A nation composed of men like Herron would be given utterly to the pursuits of peace, but would be an overwhelming force in time of war. His faults were all of the mind and none of the heart. His interests were not many because he took nothing lightly. His touch was somewhat heavy because at times he lacked the ultimate and qualifying grace, a sense of humour. He insisted on putting all of his cards face up on the table, and he could not realise that most men and all women have only a vague interest in the truth. In Athens he would have been considered a blockhead; in Rome he would have been one of the first men of the state.
When he found Nancy Messenger stretched on a couch in her father's library, it did not occur to Herron to look at her twice before he opened his mind; in fact he considered it treason to withhold his innermost thoughts from the people concerned. By way of preamble he merely said:
"It's a surprise to find you here. I didn't know that you liked this room."
"I don't," said Nancy, "but I like the sun that's shining into it just now."
He observed, in fact, that the autumn sun was pouring upon her so that her white wrap dazzled his eyes. It was a very soft wool, a fluff of light weaving that shone like a cloud in the sky. Herron came around beside her. His huge shadow at once shut away two-thirds of the sunlight that had been streaming over her.
"That's one of the things I wanted to ask you about," he said. "I mean, there's this queer passion you have for the sun lately."
"Don't ask me about it, Charles," she said, her weary eyes closing. "Everything that lives wants the sun."
"Perhaps you were made for it," answered Herron. "There's something about you that shines, Nancy, and yet a shadow can come over it. That's what I worry about a little. Just now I wish I had you in a gay place like Paris."
"Paris isn't gay," said Nancy.
"Really?"
"No. On the boulevards think of those horrible kiosks covered with advertisements."
"So Paris isn't gay? Let's think about that for a moment."
"Oh, but I wish I were there, though. Every English-speaking city is so horribly dull."
"Why so dull, my dear?"
"Because they speak so much English in them," said Nancy, with classical logic. "And then in Paris the day never ends. Life goes on there like a river to the sea. But over here everything is artificial. We have electric clocks to keep our consciences on edge. They tell us when to go to bed. Alarm clocks get us up in the morning. Everything is broken and chopped up. There's no continuity. It's like rehearsing life and death every day. The whole world wakes up and buzzes and pretends to be alive; and then the whole world lies down and closes its eyes and is really dead!"
She gripped her hands together hard.
"You know, Nancy, you're a little nervous," said Herron. "I think that a trip would be good for you."
"Away from home? No, no!" She shuddered at the thought of leaving.
"That's queer," said Herron. "I thought you'd like to get away."
"Please don't!" broke in Nancy. "Please don't talk, darling."
He was, accordingly, perfectly silent, telling himself that women are not as men. Torn between the strength of logic and the strength of faith, there was something rather naïve and childish about the lawyer. Perhaps a chief reason for the girl's love of him was her understanding of his need of her. In the middle of this thoughtful silence she startled him by saying: "Charles!"
"Yes, dear?"
"Don't leave me."
"Of course I won't—until I have to go back to the office."
"Don't go to the office. Don't ever go back to it."
The absurdity of life without an office pleased a rare funny bone in Herron, and he laughed a little.
As he laughed, he was loving Nancy more than ever.
"Tell me something," said Nancy.
"Certainly," said Herron. "What is it?"
"Oh, do I have to put the words in your mouth every time?"
"But, Nancy, of course I love you."
"For ever?"
"For ev
er."
"No, only until it comes time for you to go to sleep again, and then you forget as thoroughly as though you were dead."
"You're a bit nervous," said Herron, suddenly at sea and afraid of this trend of talk. "Just now you'revery nervous, Nancy. And that leads me back to the idea of home."
"I hate ideas," said Nancy.
"You don't mean that," said Herron softly. "But the fact is that you've been spending so little time at home that I wonder if you care much about it."
"Don't, Charles."
"I've hurt you and I'm sorry. But isn't it obvious that you're needing a change? That's why I'm suggesting that we take a trip together."
"We?" echoed Nancy. "Together?"
"Why not?"
"Ah, that would be heavenly," said Nancy.
"Would it? Then we can be married right away."
"No, no!" cried Nancy.
"Do you say 'no'? Let me try to see what's in your mind when you say that."
"Thank God you can't see what's in my ugly, ugly mind."
"Ugly? It's the only perfect thing I know! Nancy, what's the matter? Two weeks ago you liked talking about our marriage. It was to be as soon as I could arrange for a little time off. Well, I've arranged it now. We could get married tomorrow if you..."
"No—please!—Charles, I love you!"
This perfect non sequitur struck Herron dumb. It appeared that Nancy loved him, and therefore she would not talk of marrying him! He had a sudden desire to be alone in his office among his books; but then he realised with a sudden shock that though he might search through all the books of wisdom in the law or outside of it, he never could find in print an explanation of Nancy Messenger. He was almost glad of an interruption, for here the door of the room opened and Paul Messenger came in with that new guest of the house, John Stevens, that rather pale and withdrawing young man who nevertheless, it appeared, had been tireless in his all-night excursion with Nancy. As the two men entered the room, John Stevens was speaking to Messenger, and at the sound of his voice Nancy opened her eyes and cried out happily. She was on her feet at once and hurrying across the room with both hands held out. She cried: "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, I thought you'd left us for ever!"
Herron never had seen her pour herself out on a man as she did on this comparative stranger. Stevens accepted the warmth of that greeting as though it were the most casual thing in the world. The embarrassed eye of Herron turned to Paul Messenger, but found him looking upon the pair and their greeting with an eye of unfathomable approval.
A moment before there had seemed in Nancy hardly strength enough to hold open her eyes; now she was happy, as busy, as gay as a singing bird. Presently she had her John Stevens in a chair by the window and was sitting opposite him with an air of delighted possession and triumph.
It was easy, shielded by the happy chatter of Nancy, for Herron to find sufficient privacy to say to Messenger: "Long-lost cousin—or something like that, isn't he? Who is this Stevens fellow?"
"One of the best chaps in the world," said Messenger reassuringly.
"Nancy seems to have no doubt about it," answered Herron, frowning.
"Don't take the wrong tack," cautioned Messenger. "Absolutely the most trustworthy lad in the world."
"It's pretty clear that Nancy would agree to that," commented Herron. "Well, I'll have to get back to the office. I want to talk with you, though."
"Of course. Any time," said Messenger. "Nancy, Charles has to go along."
"Does he?" she asked indifferently, but then as though realisation came to her at second hand, she rose from her chair and went across the room to her fiancé. "I'll go down to the door with you, Charles," she said. And at the door she turned to call over her shoulder, "But I'm coming straight back, John!"
* * *
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"SHE likes you—an amazing lot, considering she's known you such a short time. One would have thought when she went out with Herron just now, that she was leaving the best part of her thoughts behind her, with you," commented Messenger. "You know, you haven't told me how you managed to grow so close to Nancy."
"I let her think that I have her own trouble—the same insomnia and the fear of the night. So now she wants to help me."
"Ah, you have the devising mind that breaks down barriers and seems to make the whole world kin," commented Messenger, "but I suppose that you know women. All the young fellows today do."
Kildare looked steadily at him.
"You're a little troubled," he said at last, with his own peculiar species of frankness, "because I'm to spend a good deal of time with Nancy."
"Not at all," said Messenger, making a gesture that dismissed the suggestion.
Kildare shook his head. He insisted: "You feel that manners come out of breeding, and breeding must be old and good. You're an old family. I suppose that there was a Messenger with the Conqueror. Herron is an old family too, so he's all right with Nancy, but you'd like to know more about me, wouldn't you?"
"There's a hint of truth in what you say," answered Messenger, "but not enough to make me say it. All of us are filled with prejudices, you'll admit, but as long as we know they're prejudices, they don't poison us. As for you, Kildare, I've heard enough from the Chanlers..."
"I'm the son of a poor country doctor," said Kildare. "Somewhere our name goes back to a village in Limerick County in Ireland. We're not predominantly Irish, though. If we were, I'd be enough proud of it, but we're a hodge-podge of Irish and English and German and Scotch; there was an Italian great-grandmother somewhere; a French strain is in the blood too; and I think there was a dash of Russian not so far back. So you see, I'm nothing in particular. My father is a very simple fellow; my mother is just the same sort. We're lower middle class. We don't know any fine people. Most of our friends don't keep a servant. None of us has travelled a step. People with big names embarrass us a little. They make us feel all thumbs and stupid, as though they were laughing at us. I'm so far from the things you put a lot of value on that I don't even feel the worth of them. I wouldn't ask for a famous old name because I wouldn't know how to wear one."
He finished this long, quiet speech with a smile, but Messenger was very solemn in his answer. He said: "Most of us have scrambled blood lines. Once that would have been considered a pity perhaps. But today we say people have cold blood or are thoroughbred, according to their performance. Shall we let it go at that?"
There was nothing to do but let it go at that, yet Kildare was left with a strange sense of having stepped out and found no floor beneath his feet. He had extemporised a diagnosis of Paul Messenger's state of mind and found with something of a shock that he actually had struck the bedrock of truth. So far as the rich man was concerned, Kildare was a sort of scientific servant of the house, an annoying necessity, and to be trusted perforce because there was no other way to use him. He could understand now the magnificent insouciance of Messenger and the calmness of his trust that, granted good blood to begin with, money would solve all the problems of life. It was simply that he considered the rest of the world an infinite step beneath him and his peers. To Kildare a man was what he seemed to be, and a good fellow until he was proved otherwise by the course of events; to Messenger, the study of several vanished generations was necessary first, and without that information about a man's background he never would be able to know him with satisfactory surety. It sickened Kildare a little and gave him a preoccupation that remained in his mind until that night. Then he rang the hospital. He tried the nurses' home for Mary Lamont and her pleasant voice came back to him over the wire.
"I feel as though I'd been a long time away," said Kildare. "Will you tell me what's going on?"
"Doctor Gillespie is gone!" she said. "He's gone away. He's left us."
"Wait a minute," said Kildare. "Gone? Gone where?"
"Somewhere in Staten Island to be alone—and forget the hospital."
"And given up the experiment?"
"He couldn't carry it on alone,"
she said.
He felt a melancholy sense of triumph in that; for if he had sacrificed himself and thrown away the thing that was nearest his heart, at least he had accomplished his purpose. Gillespie would rest and come back refreshed.
"And you?" asked Kildare.
"I'm back on general duty," she answered.
"I'm sorry about that."
"Oh, don't think of me. It's Doctor Gillespie..."
"He was furious with me, wasn't he—a shouting fury, I suppose?"
"He was as still as a stone."
"That's not possible," said Kildare.
"I think his heart is broken," she said, her voice trembling. "And good-bye, Doctor Kildare."
She rang off on him suddenly and left him in a continuing daze. If Mary Lamont treated him in this manner, he could guess the general state of mind in the hospital. In their eyes, no doubt, he had sold his soul for a mess of pottage. As he thought of that, he wished that he never had laid eyes on Nancy Messenger or heard a syllable of her problem, but the malice went out of him when they were face to face again, for she looked to him with a confident, disarming eagerness.
"Let's not go near the sort of people we were with last night," she said. "They kill time, but they leave it dead. Let's go out and just ramble until we find a place to eat—and then follow our noses."
She seemed to take it for granted that every night would be theirs together.
So they went out, not with a chauffeur, but in Nancy's two-seater convertible coupé. She preferred to drive it herself, and tooled it swiftly and smoothly through the traffic.
"I like to drive in a crowd like this," said Nancy, "because you can take a few corners and twist through the traffic so that unhappiness gets in a tangle and loses sight of you and then never catches up for hours and hours. Isn't that true?"
"Of course it's true," said Kildare. "We may leave it behind so far that it'll never catch up at all."
