'I'll have to find a place to live,' she said evasively. He divined that there was no such friend. The difficult old man no doubt had driven all well-meaning people away. 'The landlord wants me to be gone by the first of March,' Rosemary said. 'He wants to redecorate. It certainly needs it.' She made a nervous grimace.
Mr. Gibson cursed the landlord silently. 'You're' in a predicament, aren't you?' he remarked cheerfully. 'Let me snoop around and see what kinds of jobs there are. May I?'
Her eyes widened again. The flesh lifted. The look was wonder. She said, 'I don't want to be any trouble . . .'
'That wouldn't be any trouble,' he said gently. 'T can send out feelers, you know. Perhaps easier than you could. 'Wanted: well-paying job for person with no business experience whatsoever.' Look here, my dear, it's not impossible! After all, babies are bom and they've had no business experience and yet they eventually do get jobs.' He'd coaxed a smile out of her. 'Now, we may find something here, but I had better say this. Miss James. It is neither easy nor is it a quick thing to find a publisher. It's very slow, I'm afraid. Nor is there very much money for academic kinds of writing.'
'Thank you so much for being so kind, Mr. Gibson. But you don't have to be.'
She wasn't rejecting him. In the droop of her body was all her weakness and fatigue. But she was, nevertheless, sitting as straight as she could, and looking as competent as was possible. She was trying to free him.
But what she had just said was not true, alas. He did have to be kind. He did have to try to help her . . . and keep her going with tidbits of hope. He couldn't imagine how to do otherwise.
He said easily, 'I'll tell you what. Suppose I come again . . . let's see . . . on Friday afternoon? We'll attack the typewritten stuff. Now don't you disturb it. Meantime, I'll snoop. And I did enjoy the tea,' he told her.
She did not thank him all over again, for which he was grateful as he got out into the living air.
Mr. Gibson was troubled all during Thursday because he knew he was being weak and wouldn't let himself think about it.
When he went again on Friday (He had to! He'd promised) the typewritten pages in the professor's lower desk drawers turned out to be, for the most part, correspondence which on the professor's side became progressively more angry and less coherent as the nerve paths in his brain had begun to tangle and cross one another. Mr. Gibson pretended it was very interesting. It was. But as tragedy. Not treasure.
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
