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 Gibson and decided to accept it, he had withdrawn even this offer.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?"