"Oh, I don't think so," she said seriously. And then she looked startled. Then she giggled.
It was as if a phoenix had risen from some ashes. Her giggle was rather low-pitched and melodious. The tiny folds at the upper-outer comers of her eyes were built for laughter. It was their function. They were droll. The eyes themselves lost their dusty look and became a little shiny. Even her skin seemed to gain a tinge of color.
"I'll betcha we could make it read anything we like," said Mr. Gibson enthusiastically. "Do you know anything about the Bacon-Shakespeare ciphers?" She didn't. She listened while he told her some of the wild aspects of that affair.
After that, while she was still relaxed and amused, he said gently, "You know, I think we had best look at the bottom of the pile."
"Earlier, you mean?" She was intelligent. "I think so, my dear."
"He . . . tried so hard." Her handkerchief came up. "It was brave to keep trying," he said. "It really was. And we'll keep trying, too."
"There are mounds—" she said bravely, "of papers in the drawers. Some typewritten . . ." "Hurray."
"But Mr. Gibson, it wall take so much time . . ." "Of course," he said gently. "I never expected to go through it all in an hour. Did you?" "You mustn't get tired." "Are you tired?" He thought she was. "I wondered . . . Do you drink tea?" "When I am offered any," he said.
She rose awkwardly and went to fetch the tea which had been her own bold idea. Mr. Gibson waited by himself staring soberly at the desk and all this waste of paper. He didn't think they were going to find any treasure. Also, he knew that he had, once again, been foolish and rash. He'd let an impulse lead him. When would he learn not to do these things? He had given hope where there was not much real chance. He had best softly kill the hope he'd raised. But he feared very much that it was too important to her.
While they drank tea and ate some thin store cookies ... a tiny feast she'd made as dainty as she could . . . Mr. Gibson fejt that he must pry.
' ' Do you own this house?" he asked her.
"Oh, no. We only rented this half."
"Will you stay on here?"
"I can't.. It's too big. Too much for me."
He feared she meant too expensive. "Forgive me for asking, but is there money? Funds of any kind?"
"I can sell the furniture. And the car."
"Ah, a car?"
"It's ten years old." He saw that she swallowed. "But it must be worth something."
"Your father's income was . . . for his lifetime?"
"Yes."
"There is nothing?" he guessed sharply.
"Well . . . the furniture . . ." She stopped pretending that the furniture was of any value and met his eyes. "I will just have to get a job. I don't know just what . . ." She twisted the beads. "I hoped . . ." Her eyes went to the papers.
"Can you type?" he asked quickly. She shook her head. "Have you ever held a job. Miss James?"
"No, I . . . Dad needed me. When Mama died I was the only one left, you see."
It was easy for Mr. Gibson to understand perfectly what had happened to her. "Have you anyone who can advise you?" he asked. "Relatives?"
"Nobody."
"How old are you?" he asked her gently. "Since I am old enough to be your father, you mustn't mind if I ask these things."
"I am thirty-two. And it's late, isn't it? But I'll find something to do."
He thought she needed somewhere to rest, above everything. "Have you a friend? Is there some place you could go?"
"I'll have to find a place to live," she said evasively. He divined that there was no such friend. The difficult old man no doubt had driven all well-meaning people away. "The landlord wants me to be gone by the first of March," Rosemary said. "He wants to redecorate. It certainly needs it." She made a nervous grimace.
Mr. Gibson cursed the landlord silently. "You're' in a predicament, aren't you?" he remarked cheerfully. "Let me snoop around and see what kinds of jobs there are. May I?"
Her eyes widened again. The flesh lifted. The look was wonder. She said, "I don't want to be any trouble . . ."
"That wouldn't be any trouble," he said gently. 'T can send out feelers, you know. Perhaps easier than you could. 'Wanted: well-paying job for person with no business experience whatsoever.' Look here, my dear, it's not impossible! After all, babies are bom and they've had no business experience and yet they eventually do get jobs." He'd coaxed a smile out of her. "Now, we may find something here, but I had better say this. Miss James. It is neither easy nor is it a quick thing to find a publisher. It's very slow, I'm afraid. Nor is there very much money for academic kinds of writing."
"Thank you so much for being so kind, Mr. Gibson. But you don't have to be."
She wasn't rejecting him. In the droop of her body was all her weakness and fatigue. But she was, nevertheless, sitting as straight as she could, and looking as competent as was possible. She was trying to free him.
But what she had just said was not true, alas. He did have to be kind. He did have to try to help her . . . and keep her going with tidbits of hope. He couldn't imagine how to do otherwise.
He said easily, "I'll tell you what. Suppose I come again . . . let's see . . . on Friday afternoon? We'll attack the typewritten stuff. Now don't you disturb it. Meantime, I'll snoop. And I did enjoy the tea," he told her.
She did not thank him all over again, for which he was grateful as he got out into the living air.
Mr. Gibson was troubled all during Thursday because he knew he was being weak and wouldn't let himself think about it.
When he went again on Friday (He had to! He'd promised) the typewritten pages in the professor's lower desk drawers turned out to be, for the most part, correspondence which on the professor's side became progressively more angry and less coherent as the nerve paths in his brain had begun to tangle and cross one another. Mr. Gibson pretended it was very interesting. It was. But as tragedy. Not treasure.
Nevertheless, Mr. Gibson strung out the task and kept calling. Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing. When he thought about it he did not approve at all. It was weak. He had entangled himself, and every visit wove another
Strand into the web. And he knew better. Nobody knew better than he that he ought to withdraw gracefully. She was no burden of his.
He could withdraw. In modem days, in the United States of America, no corpse lies on the street slain by destitution. There were charities and public institutions. There was social succor. Nor would Rosemary blame him if he slipped out of her affairs. She would only continue to be grateful for all he had done or tried to do so far.
But he was incapable of this kind of common sense. By now, he knew exactly how to make her smile. No organized charity could know this. It was a little ridiculous how much this weighed with him. As he knew. But he'd just gotten into the whole business too far. He had seen himself do it, but he had looked away. So had Rosemary seen it. She had even warned him. But now it was too late. He had constituted himself as the holder of the carrot of hope before this donkey's nose . . . without which she might stop, cease, or even die. . . .
Meantime, dealers came to look at the furniture and offer contemptuous minimums. The books were worth pitifully little in cash. One day a man said he'd give fifty dollars for the ancient car. By the time Rosemary conferred with Mr. Gibson and decided to accept it, he had withdrawn even this offer. Her possessions were without value.
Meantime, also, Mr. Gibson snooped for jobs in Rosemary's behalf. He discovered that there were indeed some which did not demand experience. They definitely required good health and some strength, instead. Rosemary did not have these qualifications, either. On the contrary, it was evident to Mr. Gibson that she was heading for a serious breakdown. He was able to see her rooms become even more neglected because she could do nothing about it. He guessed that she was able to keep her person neat only by a terrible effort, by a stubborn flickering of innate pride. Otherwise, she was limp with the inertia of physical and emotional exhaustion. And to call,
to talk, to coax a little ease into her face, three times a week, this—although vital—was not really enough.
What was she to do? This began to obsess him. She had no funds, no strength. She seemed to eat . . . he wasn't sure how well. She'd have no place to eat, or sleep, soon, for the 1st of March loomed closer.
On the 25th of February he marched in and announced peremptorily that he had just paid the rent here for April. "You need the time. You must have it. All right. You owe me the money. That's nothing. I have owed money . . ."
She broke and cried until he was alarmed.
"Now, mouse," he said. "Please . . ." His throat ached with hers.
So she told him she was afraid her mind was going, as her father's had gone, because she was so weighted by a numbness and a languor. He, appalled, insisted upon bringing his own doctor to take a look at her.
The doctor scoffed. Old Professor James' trouble was not inheritable. This woman was frighteningly run-down. Underweight. Malnourished. Anemic. Nervously exhausted. He knew what she needed. Medicine, diet, and a long rest. He seemed to think he had solved everything.
Mr. Gibson chewed • his lips.
"Say, where do you come in, Gibson?" the doctor asked amiably. "In loco parentis?"
Mr. Gibson said he guessed so. He bought the med-cines. He gave her orders. He knew that this was not enough.
The same evening, one of his colleagues, casually encountered, nudged his ribs and said, "You're a sly one, Gibson. I hear you're shining up to old James' daughter these days. When's the wedding, hm?"
Chapter III
ON THE IDES of April, in the afternoon (for he always came after classes, by daylight), Rosemary was sitting in a mud-colored old armchair in her living room, Mr. Gibson could remark the fluff of dust accumulating along its seams. He thought to himself. It is impossible for anyone to be healthy in this dreadful place. I have got to get her out of here.
She had her hair pulled back today and tied in a hank at the back of her neck with a faded red ribbon. This did not make her look girlish. She looked haggard.
She said, as piimly as if she'd memorized it, "I feel so much better. The medicine is doing me good, I'm sure. And to know what the trouble is, that's been comforting." She dragged her eyelids up. "Mr. Gibson, I want you to go away . . . not come any more."
"Why?" he said wih a pang.
"Because I am nobody of yours. You shouldn't worry about me. You weren't even a friend of ours."
Mr. Gibson did not misunderstand. "Surely, I am a friend now," he chided gently.
"You are," she admitted with a dry gasp, "and the only one. . . . But you have helped me. It is enough. Congratulate yourself. Please."
He got up and walked about. He admired her spunk. He approved of it. But he felt upset. "What will you do on the first of May?"
"If nothing else . . . I'll go to the country," she said.
"I see. You feel distressed about me? You don't want me to try to help you any more?"
She shook her head dumbly. She looked as if she had spent her very last ounce of energy.
"They tell me," mused Mr. Gibson aloud, looking at the horrible wallpaper, "that it is more blessed to give than to receive. But it does seem to me, in that case, somebody has to be willing to receive. And do it graciously," he added rather sternly. She winced as if he had slapped her. "Oh, I know it isn't easy," he assured her quickly.
Then he hesitated. But not for long.
The trouble was, his imagination had been working. He ought to have known that if a thing can be vividly imagined, it can be done. It probably will be done. He sat down and leaned forward earnestly.
"Rosemary, suppose there was something you could do for me?"
"Anything I could ever do for you," she choked, "I'd be bound to do."
"Good. Now let's take it for granted, shall we, that you are grateful and stop repeating that? It's a terrible bore for both of us. And I do not enjoy seeing you cry, you know. I don't enjoy it at all."
She squeezed her lids together.
"I am fifty-five years old," he said. Her damp lids opened in surprise. "I don't look it?" He smiled. "Well,
as I always say, I've been pickled in poetry. I earn seven thousand a year. I wanted you to know these . . . er . . . statistics before I asked you to marry me."
She clapped both hands over her face and eyes.
"Listen a minute," he went on gently. "I've never married. I've never had a home made for me by a woman. Perhaps I have been missing something ... in that alone. Now there's a skill you have, Rosemary. You know how to keep a house. You've done it for years. You can do it, and very nicely, I'm sure, once you feel strong again. So I was thinking . . ."
She did not move nor even look between her fingers.
"It might be a good bargain between us," he went on. "We are friends, whatever you say. I think we are not incompatible. We've had some pleasant hours, even in all this difficulty. We might make good companions. Can you look at it as if it were to be an experiment? A venture? Let us not say its forever. Suppose we found we didn't enjoy being together? Why, in these days, you know, divorce is quite acceptable. Especially ... Rosemary, are you a religious woman?"
"I don't know," she said pitifully behind her hands.
"Well, I thought," he continued, "if instead of a holy pledge ... we made a bargain . . ." He began to speak louder. "My dear, I am not in love with you," he stated bluntly. "I don't speak of love or romance. At my age, it would be a little silly. I neither expect romantic love nor intend to give it. I am thinking of an arrangement. I am trying to be frank. Will you let me know if you understand me?"
"I do," she said brokenly. "I understand what you mean. But it's no real bargain at all, Mr. Gibson. I am no use to anybody . . ."
"No, you are not, not at the moment," he agreed cheerfully. "I wouldn't expect you to do the wash next Monday, you know. But I am thinking, and please think seriously too. . . . Although there is one point I'd like to make quickly. I don't want to cheat you."
"Cheat me?" she said hoarsely.
"You are only thirty-two. Be frank with me."
She took her hands down. "How can I say I'd rather go on the county?" she said with sudden, asperity.
"You could say it if it is •so," he told her grinning. The
air in the room lightened. Everything seemed gayer. "Did you ever have a hobby, Rosemary?" he asked her.
"A hobby? Yes, I . . . once or twice. I had a garden. For a while I . . . liked to try to paint." She looked dazed.
"Let me confess, then. I am presently enchanted by the idea of making you well again. Of getting you up, Rosemary, and yourself, again. As a matter of fact, it is exactly as if to do so was a hobby of mine. Now then. Now, thafs honest." He settled back. "How I'd like to!" he said wistfully. "I really would. I'd like to put you in a bright pleasant place and feed you up and see you get fat and sassy. I can't think," he sighed, "of anything that would be more fun."
She put her hands over her face and rocked her body.
"No?" he said quietly. "If the idea repels you, why of course it's not feasible. But what will you do, Rosemary? What will become of you? Don't you see that I can't stop worrying? How can you stop me if I can't stop myself? I wish you would let me lend you money, at least." He fidgeted.
"I can cook, Mr. Gibson," she said in a low voice.
He said in a moment, "Then, I'm afraid you will have to begin to call me Kenneth."
She said, "Yes, Kenneth, I will."
They were married on the 20th of April by a justice of the peace.
One of the witnesses was Paul Townsend. This came about because, in the five-day flurry and excitement, when Mr. Gibson was house-hunting as hard as he could, he bumped into Paul Townsend, confided his problem, and Paul solved it.
"Say!" His handsome genial face lit up. "I've got just the place for you! It'd be perfect! My tenant left a week ago. The painters will be gone tomorrow What a coincidence! Gibson, you're in!''
"Where a
m I in?"
"In my cottage on the lot adjoining my own place. A regular honeymoon cottage."
"Furnished?"
"Of course, furnished. It's a little far out."
"How far?"
"Thirty minutes on the bus. You don't drive a car?"
"Rosemary has a car of sorts. An old monster. Not evep worth selling."
"Well, then! There's a garage for it. How does this sound? Living room, bedroom, bath, big den—lots of bookshelves in there—dinette, kitchen. There's a fireplace . . ."
"Bookshelves?" said Mr. Gibson. "Fireplace?"
"And a garden."
"Garden?" said Mr. Gibson in a trance.
"I'm a nut on gardening myself. You come and see."
Mr. Gibson went and saw, and succumbed.
The wedding took place at three in the afternoon in a drab office with no fanfare and not much odor of sanctity. The justice was a matter-of-fact type who mumbled drearily. No one was present except the necessary witnesses. Mr. Gibson had thought it best to ask none of his colleagues to watch him being married, in this manner, to this white-faced woman in her old blue suit who could scarcely stand up, whose gaunt finger shook so that he could scarcely force the ring over the knucklebone.
Then of course Rosemary had no people. And Mr. Gibson's only sister Ethel, although asked, for auld lang syne, could not come. She wrote that she supposed he would know what he was doing at his age, and she was happy for him if he was happy—that she would try to come to visit one day, perhaps during the summer, and then meet the bride. To whom she sent love.
It was an ugly dreary wedding. It made Mr. Gibson wince in his soul, but it was quick, soon over. He was able to take it as just necessary, like a disagreeable pill.
Chapter IV
PUL TowNSEND lived, together with his teenage daughter and his elderly mother-in-law, in a low stucco house of some size on a fair piece of land. Beside his driveway lay the driveway pertaining to the cottage. The cottage was built of brick and redwood and upon it vines really did grow. Mr. Gibson's books and papers (although
A dram of poison Page 2
