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 am 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
Still in boxes), and his neat day-bed, were already there in the large square shelf-lined room off the living room, and the lumbering old car that Professor James had bought years ago was already standing in the neat little garage when Mr. Gibson brought his bride home in a taxi. He opened the front door and led her in, making no attempt at the threshold gesture. He sat her down in a bright blue easy chair. She looked as if she were going to die.
But Mr. Gibson had his own ideas of healing and he plunged in, heart and soul. He had wangled a week away from his classes. He proposed to use it to settle. But the cottage had aroused in his own breast some instincts he'd never known about. He also proposed to make a home.
So, during that first hour, he bustled. He poured out his enthusiasms, all going forward. He made her look at color. Did she like the primrose yellow in the drapries? (He thought privately that the clean, fresh colors in this charming sun-drenched room would be health-giving in themselves.) Where would he put his record player? he wondered aloud, forcing her to consider the promise of music. Then he officiated in the kitchen. He was not a bad cook, himself, but he begged her advice. He did all he could to interest and tempt her.
Rosemary could not eat any supper. She was not ready for a future. She was collapsing after an escape from the past. There would be a hiatus. He feared she'd die of it.
So he insisted that she go at once to bed, in the soft-hued bedroom that would be hers alone. When he judged she was settled,, he brought her the medicine. He touched the dry straw of her sad hair. He said, 'Rest now.' Her head turned weakly.
He spent the evening unpacking books and listening . . . sometimes toptoeing to her door to listen.
The next day she lay abed, unable to move, as good as dead. Only her eyes asked for mercy and patience.
Mr. Gibson had lots of patience. He was undaunted and took pains to make some very silly puns each time he
