"Terrifies you!" He rallied to tease and praise her. "Come now, not Ethel the intrepid! How are you, my dear?"
"A little fed up," she said frankly. "A little tired of the subway. In fact, Ken, I'm thinking I rather like your climate." She lifted her strong chin.
"Gk>od," he said. "We'll make a native of you in six weeks."
"Well, we'll see. Now, what do you want? What can I bring you? What shall I do for you?"
His heart, which had shriveled a little, let go and expanded. "Be here," he begged. "Live in my house. Take care of Rosemary for me."
"Can do," said Ethel, and he relaxed against his sense of her strength. "Poor old boy," she said lovingly. "We are not—are we?—getting any younger. . . . Although you are the smart one."
"I?"
"To live as you do. Right out of the rat race. Letting the world go by. I think I'll resign from the fray myself. And acquire innocence."
"Innocence?"
"Dear old Ken," she said. "You and your poetry."
Late that very afternoon the hospital discharged Rosemary.
"After all," said Ethel cheerily, "there are so few beds and so many people so much worse off. And I am here to take care of Rosemary. If I had realized, I could have brought her clothing . . . but no matter. We'll take a taxi."
To Mr. Gibson her voice was patter . . . patter he scarcely heard. His attention was bent upon his wife Rosemary, upon the state of her body and her soul.
There she was, standing at the foot of his bed, wearing the white dress with the red flowers on it, and dirt)' and crumpled the dress was. She hugged around her the red
stole. Her face was too pale for the strong red that wrapped her.
"Are you sure . . .?" said he. He didn't think she looked well enough to go out of the hospital.
"I'm so sorry," burst Rosemary. "So sorry! Oh, Kenneth, I wish it had been me. I'd have done anything in the world rather than hurt you . . ." She was quivering with the need to say this.
"Oh, come now," said Mr. Gibson in some alarm. "We had an accident. Now, mouse . . . it's nothing to worry about." He thought. It's set her back, alas. "Here's Ethel come all this way," he soothed . . . "Your sister, Rosemary." (He had to give her something. He gave her Ethel.) "The two of you are going to have a fine time." He looked as bright and easy as he could. "I just have to lie here with my leg hung up like the Monday wash— until the bones take a notion to mend. But it will mend—"
He had coaxed no smile. Rosemary said, "I turned to the left, you see. I thought ..."
"You are not to blame," said Ethel a little loudly and very firmly. "There is no blame."
"Of course not," cried Mr. Gibson, appalled at this, "Of course you are not to blame! What an idea! Now, Rosemary, don't think about it. Please. Just wipe it out of your mind. Be like me. I don't remember a thing about it, you know. Just whammo . . . and here I am." He smiled at her.
"Don't you?" she said a little pathetically. She moistened her lips. "How do you feel?"
"I feel ridiculous," he said crisply, "and pretty undignified, believe me." But he was powerless to reach behind that white-faced stare. He feared she was still shocked, still fighting against the fact of the accident, still trying to wish it away. "Take her home, Ethel," he begged. "Now Rosemary, I want you to do as Ethel says. I want you to rest."
"Yes. I will, Kenneth. I wasn't hurt at all."
"Good night, then," he said gently. "And Ethel, you take care of her." (He thought. Oh yes, she has been hurt. She has been set back. Oh, too bad!) He said aloud, "I want you to be well, Rosemary?"
"Yes," she said. "I will be well." Just as if it was something she'd do to please him.
Then she was gone.
Ethel shepherded her charge into the taxi and then made conversation. She was sorry for this stranger, her sister-in-law. (And in-law, she presumed, was exactly all.) However had this poor thing got herself into such a false and ridiculous position? Her brother. Ken, was such a dreamer, such an unrealistic soul. The whole affair was pitiful. Ethel set out to comfort Rosemary.
"You really shouldn't entertain this feeling of guilt," said Ethel kindly. "There is no such thing as guilt, you know."
"I don't feel that exactly . . ." said the sad mouth, the low voice of Rosemary. "I feel so sorry. I hate so to to see him . . ."
"Of course you do," soothed Ethel. "He has done a great deal for you. I know. Just like him."
"Kenneth—" began his wife in a voice more resolute and shrill.
But Ethel cut in. "He's an old dear. But so vulnerable. Some people, of course, are like that. Charity does something for them. Expresses some need. Fills some deficiency."
Rosemary said, faintly breathless, "I love your brother very much. I think he's wonderful. I hate — "
Ethel looked at her and pitied her. "Naturally," she said. "We can only hate the ones we love, you know."
"But I don't hate him" said Rosemary. "I couldn't. Possibly."
"Of course not," said Ethel. "That is the trouble. Of course, you 'couldn't possibly.' But you are still a young woman, Rosemary. That is just a fact and none of your fault. You really needn't feel guilty about it."
"But . . ."
"We understand," intoned Ethel. "We understand these things. Now. My dear, just try to relax. Just don't brood about the accident. Tell me, what are those incredible masses of flowers? Geraniums! I never saw such a sight. Now, I'm here to see that you rest and recover. Frankly, I am delighted. It makes a break for me that I have wanted for a long time. You see, I'm quite selfish, Rosemary. We all are."
"I suppose so," said Rosemary dispiritedly.
"You will soon feel strong and well . . ."
"Yes."
Ethel herself felt strong and well and pleased with the feel of the helm in her hand.
Mr. Gibson lay thinking about Rosemary. It had been a flat and almost stupid exchange between them. Lugubrious. Also conventional. Nothing like what he had wanted. But what else could it have been, here in the crowded ward, with the slack eyes of the man with the tube, the curious eyes of the man on the other side, both fixed on the spectacle of Rosemary. And Ethel, also there.
Mr. Gibson braced himself. Wait then. In no such public spot as this would he declare his love. Nor would he declare at all until he felt less unsure of himself than he felt. today. What did he know about love, anyhow? He could have mistaken a fatherly joy for the other thing. Little enough he knew about that, either. Bachelor that he had been. (Innocent.) And of course another mistake was quite probable. Whatever he felt, Ethel could be right about Rosemary. Ethel was a shrewd and worldly woman, and her judgment deserved attention. He may have taken a gesture of loving gratitude in the wrong way entirely. Of course Rosemary was grateful to him. He squirmed at the thought of it. He had made her stop saying so. But that might have contributed to her—obsession, as Ethel called it. Well, he would have to be rid of that —be sure that wasn't warping and interfering. ...
His heart was beating in slow rhythm, a kind of dirge-time.
For should I but see thee a little moment, Straight is my voice hushed . . .
He felt very much aware of his broken self and the harsh truths of the hospital, the bum of the taut sheet upon his skin, the uncozy light. The scene in the restaurant was long long ago . . . the other side of the mist ... far—and receding like a dream.
Certainly, certainly, the last thing he would do was upset Rosemary any more than she was upset, right now. He didn't want to upset her ever. To have one's adopted father . . . (Mr. Gibson's mind fled from finishing this thought. It was too abhorrent!) He had better swallow down what might be only some foolishness of his ... at least for the time being. Ah, poor girl—to blame herself because she happened to be driving. But Ethel was sensible. Ethel's sound common sense would pull her out of that. He could not. He couldn't be there.
Mr. Gibson sighed and his ribs ached. Sometimes he felt pitiable, rather than ridiculous, to be so strapped and tied together as he was. So stopped . . . right in the midst of all he had been accomplishing. But he must endure. At least his sister Ethel had come. . . . God bless her!