“Riley—put those certificates back where you got ’em … and if anybody wants me importantly, call me at the Athletic Club. I’ve a headache.”
Not often was Helen Hudson a victim of emotional stampede. Her poise was not a pose; neither was it arrived at by effort. It was native to her.
This afternoon she simply tossed the reins of discretion upon the neck of her indignation and abandoned herself to the tempestuous rush of it. Mentally at full gallop, she hurled herself at Brightwood.
It was as if a huge, ugly cauldron of anxieties, perplexities, forebodings, misgivings and suspicions, which had been simmering and bubbling for all the dragging months, had suddenly reached that stage of the brewing when it was time to pour.
A taxi waited at the door of the bank as she emerged, half-blind with humiliation. She walked swiftly to it, gave the driver an order, and sat tense throughout the journey.
This abominable Merrick had placed her in an impossible position … No matter about the intent … He had doubtless enjoyed his Galahading … But he had made her his pensioner; treated her like an irresponsible child; helplessly loaded her with an obligation she would probably be unable to discharge … Well, she could disavow her willingness to accept anything further at his hands! She could return the capital of it, at once; and set to work toward a replacement of what she had spent.
Exactly what she was going to say to Bobby Merrick when she saw him, Helen had not yet determined clearly. Of one thing she was sure: she would denounce his officious meddling with her affairs, and let him know exactly where he stood in her regard … He should have it all back! … Oh! … She pressed her shaking fingers against her eyes and tried to cool her cheeks with the back of her gloves.
Barely conscious of the journey, the unhappy girl stepped out of the cab as it stopped in front of the hospital, ordered the driver to wait—she would not be long—and quickly pattered up the broad concrete walk between masses of formal shrubbery coated with glistening ice.
At the desk in the snug little lobby, she inquired for Mrs. Ashford, and was shown into her office, where she quite took that pretty lady’s breath away with her exotic beauty.
“Why—what a joy!” cried Nancy, putting forward both hands in greeting. “I knew you were in town, and have been so anxious to see you!”
“Yes,” said Helen breathlessly, and with an effort to steady her voice, “I do want to have a good visit with you—and I shall—soon. But not—just now … I find I have a rather sudden errand with Doctor Merrick. Could I see him? … Is he here?”
He was here, and she could see him. Nancy believed he had just now finished an operation, and would probably be at liberty. She would send him in, and they could talk in her office.
Nancy went out, her own heart beating rapidly, and closed the door behind her. For a while, Helen fidgeted on the little divan, fumbled with her pocketbook, latching and unlatching and latching, tapping her little grey-shod toes impatiently on the rug; then, unable to sit still another instant, she rose, walked to the window, and stood gazing preoccupiedly at the street, her fingers busy with her coral beads.
At length, the door was quietly opened and as quietly closed, and she was aware of his presence in the room. She knew he was standing there, just inside the door, expectant, waiting for her to turn and face him … Why in the world didn’t she? … Would he cross the little room, and approach her—speak to her? … Perhaps not … But why didn’t she turn quickly and confront him? … She had asked for this interview, hadn’t she? … She had sent for him to come to her, hadn’t she? … What ever ailed her, anyway? … The difficult thing about it was that she had delayed turning about to face him! … Every second that passed made the situation more trying …
After a young eternity, he spoke—rather unsteadily.
“You wanted to see me?”
His quiet query broke the spell for her. She turned quickly, and, leaning against the window, put her outspread hands upon the sill, in a pose that Bobby sorrowfully interpreted as a sort of back-to-the-wall defence; but not defiance. Her head was bowed; her eyes to the floor. It was so thoroughly against his wish and hope that whatever he had done for her should put her into this attitude.
Helen was dismayed at her own sensations. Ten minutes ago, she had been ready to do violence. When she had stepped to that window, she had been aflame with a passionate anxiety to call him hard names; to hurt him, somehow; to let him taste a little of the humiliation he had put upon her … What had happened to her? … She felt deserted even by her own rage … Well—she could not stand there silently any longer.
She lifted heavy eyes to meet Bobby’s.
“I must have a talk with you,” she said, in that throaty contralto he so keenly remembered; a timbre that seemed to set up all manner of curious vibrations in him.
“Won’t you shake hands?” he begged.
“No need!” she said, with a little gesture of futility.
“Then—will you sit down?”
“Thank you—no. I think I can say it—quickly!”
Bobby leaned against a corner of Nancy Ashford’s desk, folded his arms and listened.
“I have just discovered that everything I have in the world is—is yours. I have been living, for some time, as your dependent … I didn’t know. I’m sure you will believe I didn’t know …”
“Of course you didn’t know! You have nothing to blame yourself with—in this matter.”
She went on as if she had not heard.
“The very clothes I have on me …”
She lowered her head and covered her eyes with her outspread fingers.
Bobby could stand no
