But he took hold of himself and called up patience. He would heal, painfully, in time. The pain was nothing. It
could be endured. He was not reconciled to the time it would take, but he would endeavor to be.
If only Rosemary had not been set back too much! If only Ethel—good reliable sister Ethel—if she could come and keep . . . keep his house! He felt sure she would respond as he himself would have responded, of course, to such a telegram. Ethel might even fly. His sister, Ethel, was not as far away from him in time as was Rosemary, upstairs. Ethel would come and take care and, in time, all would be well again.
Meanwhile, Mr. Gibson saw that the man on his right lay stupidly inert with a tube running in a disgusting way through one nostril. The man on his right had his ear upon the pillow, under which was a magic disk that poured out a soap opera. The ward was full of men all waiting as best they could . . . and most in pain. Some of them might be in love, for all he knew.
Mr. Gibson lay remembering words, for words were good to help keep off the pain—that brute and wordless thing —and to pass the time.
... an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark
Whose worth's
Unknown . . .
Unknown . . .
Unknown . . .
He seemed to sleep.
Later in that shapeless day they brought him a wire:
FLYING SOONEST. ETHEL.
Mr. Gibson sighed so deeply that it made his chest ache.
"And I almost forgot. Your wife sends love," the nurse said brightly.
"Does she?"
"She was pretty anxious to know how you were. Let me squinch this pillow over. Is that more comfortable?"
"I am comforted," he said quaintly. "Can you send her my love?"
"We sure can," the nurse said merrily. "I'll put it on the grapevine, right away."
People are good, fought Mr. Gibson, weak with satisfaction. People are really awfully good. Good nurse. Good sister Ethel. This misery would pass.
Chapter VII
"GOOD TO come!" he said to her, the next morning. "So very good to come. So glad to see you."
"Think nothing of it, old dear," said Ethel, standing in her old familiar way, with the effect of being on both feet instead of settling her weight on one and using the other for balance, as most do. Ethel was a woman of some bulk. Although she wasn't fat, her waist was solid, her legs sturdy, her shoulders wide. She was wearing a tweedy suit of severe cut and a tailored blouse, but her short gray-threaded hair was uncovered and her square ringless hands were ungloved.
"Pretty state of affairs this is," she said in her hearty voice. She had bright brown eyes in a face that would launch no ships. (Ethel looked a good deal like their father had, he realized suddenly. Now that she was forty-seven.) "How do you feel?" she inquired.
"Don't ask me. You wouldn't want to hear about it. I want you to go to Rosemary ..."
"I've been to Rosemary."
"You have?" He felt stunned.
"It's ten A.M. my lad," said Ethel. "And I got off that plane in the middle of the night and the milk-train or whatever I took landed me here at five a.m. I've met your landlord. I've seen your house. I've had a bath in it. And I got in to see Rosemary because she is in a semiprivate room, whereas all kinds of indecent things were going on in this ward, or so they implied." Ethel glanced at the man with the tube in his nostril and did not flinch.
Mr. Gibson gave out a weak "Oh," feeling somewhat flattened by her energy.
"Woke up your Mr. Townsend, I guess. Must say he was very amiable about it. When I identified myself, he let me in. Nothing to it."
"Paul's a good fellow . . ."
"Very charming," said Ethel dryly, "one of those dream-boats, eh? And a rich widower, too? My! Quite a little house you live in, Ken."
"Isn't it?"
"I put my things in what I judged to be Rosemary's room." Her wise glance understood everything.
"Yes," he said feebly. All at once, he could not imagine brisk, sensible, energetic Ethel in the little house, at all. He said impatiently—because she gave the effect of a gale blowing a sudden gust that disrupted a certain neatness and order of his thoughts— "Tell me, Ethel. How is Rosemary?"
"Not a scratch on her," said Ethel promptly. "She's a little unhappy. So sorry it happened. Worried about you. And so forth. I understand she was doing the driving."
"Yes, it's her car . . ." he began.
"Which car is pretty much of a mess, so Mr. Town-send tells me. I can't quite visualize . . ." Ethel frowned. "Usually it is the driver who gets the worst of it. Seems the other car hit yours right smack on the side where you were sitting."
"Other car . . ." Mr. Gibson winced.
"Two men in it. Neither one hurt, except superficially. You seem to have got the worst of it. Only a few bones broken, Ken? Sounds to me you are lucky to be alive to tell the tale."
"I can't tell the tale," he said testily. "I can't remember a thing about it."
"Just as well," said Ethel. "Spares you some interviews. It's going to be a kind of impasse, I'm afraid. Nobody will dare sue anybody."
"Sue?" He felt bewildered.
"You see, they were on the left in the fog, where they shouldn't have been. But Rosemary turned left, which was wrong of her. And the police smelled alcohol on both your breaths."
"A drop of brandy . . ." murmured Mr. Gibson sadly.
"The cops have literal minds."
"Rosemary." Mr. Gibson did not go on, discovering that all he wanted was to be saying her name.
"She's a nice girl, Ken," said his sister.
"Yes," he said relaxing.
Ethel grinned at him. Her eyes had such a wise look.
kind and indulgent. "I gather that you have been up to some good deeds."
"Well . . ."
"She couldn't say enough, Rosemary couldn't. According to her she was broke and ill and down and out. I suppose this appealed to you."
Ethel was teasing but Mr. Gibson felt dead .serious. "She was badly run-down. That's exactly why I wanted you . . ."
"Drastic, wasn't it?" Ethel cocked one brow.
"What was?"
"To marry her."
"It may seem so . . ." he said stiffly, on the defensive.
"She's on the young side, isn't she?" his sister said. "Let's see. You are fifty-five. Well, she thinks you are a saint on earth—and perhaps you are." She grinned affectionately.
"I haven't," said Mr. Gibson indignantly, "the slightest intention of being a saint on earth or anywhere else—"
Ethel laughed at him. "Soft-hearted old Ken. I needn't have worried. You'd never take up with a blonde, now, would you? It would be a poor thing, a waif or a stray . . ."
"I'd hardly say . . ." he began.
"She's obsessed with gratitude," said Ethel, wearing now a faint frown. "Devoted to you. Of course . . ." she resettled her weight, "as I gather, she took care of her father for some years?"
"Yes, some years. She certainly did."
"Deeply attached, then," said Ethel. "And you come along. I suppose she's transferred . . ."
Mr. Gibson moved his head inquiringly.
"Father-image," said Ethel.
He lowered his eyelids.
"She claims you saved her life and reason," Ethel went on. "I wouldn't be surprised, either. It would be just like you."
"In loco parentis?" said Mr. Gibson lightly.
"That's obvious enough," said Ethel carelessly, "to anyone who knows even the rudiments of psychology. Well, good luck to you both."
"She is a dear girl," said Mr. Gibson quietly.
"I'm sure she is," said Ethel in her indulgent way. "And you are rather a dear, yourself. Well, here I am.
Got a month's leave of absence and all set to take over."
"So good," he murmured, feeling very tired.
"Your house is cute as a button, Ken, but it sure is a long haul on that bus. Give me three thousand miles on a nice safe airplane. Bus drivers are such a ruthless breed. The insensitive way they slam two tons of juggernaut through the innocent streets. Terrifies me."