'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!
Chapter VllI
DAYS BEGAN to take on shape and they went by. At first Ethel and Rosemary came together to see him every afternoon. It was not long before he ceased to look forward to this visiting hour. They spoke with such common- place cheer. They stood beside his bed and, all down the ward, others stood and spoke in the same way. Mr. Gibson felt as if he were in the zoo and human beings came here to make noises at the animals that communicated good will but little else. As if men in a hospital ward had lost their reason, their ideas, their imaginations. They were bodies healing, and nothing more.
During the second and third weeks, Ethel often came alone, saying that Rosemary was resting. And Ethel gave the cheerful trivial news. Mrs. Violette was a great expense, but they would keep her if Ken insisted. The weather was charming. Rosemary? Oh, Rosemary was being sensible, eating well, getting along fine. Mr. Gibson beat down a jealous sense that the two of them got on and the house ran too well without him. He wished he could get out of here. He didn't say so. He said he was getting along fine, too.
Paul Townsend dropped in once or twice, and spoke cheerful commonplaces. Shame this had to happen. Everyone well at home. Getting along fine.
Only when one or another of his fellow teachers came and the talk went—as it had gone so many years of his life—flitting through remembered books, did Mr. Gibson receive a sense of nourishment from the visitation.
