Читать книгу Magnificent Obsession - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 15

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For hours, Bobby Merrick lay with his eyes closed, motionless, but not asleep. At first, he was hotly indignant. What right had these saps from Ioway, or wherever, to pass judgment on what kind of people had a right to live? How could anybody be so small-minded as to hold it against him that his life had been saved, even if it could be shown that Doctor Hudson might have been rescued if the oxygen machine had been available? It wasn't his fault. He hadn't borrowed the damned thing! He hadn't asked to have his life saved at that price, or at all!

And then his resentment over this monstrous injustice gave way to steady thinking. Perhaps, after all, he was under a certain obligation to this dead man. Very good; he would show his appreciation of what it had cost to save his life. He fell to wondering whether Doctor Hudson had left his young wife and Joyce properly provided for. Joyce was extravagant. He knew what it must require to keep her going. He had had her in tow, occasionally, himself.

"See if Mrs. Ashford is free to come here for a moment," commanded Bobby. The nurse nodded stiffly, left the room, and, in a few minutes, Mrs. Ashford stood by the bedside.

Assuming what he believed to be a mature, conventional, business tone—the tone of large capital about to indulge itself in a brief seizure of magnanimity—he inquired, without preamble, "What sort of an estate did Doctor Hudson leave?"

"I do not know," she replied; and after a pause added crisply, "Why?"

The dry crackle of that "why?" irritated him. She had given him reason to believe that she was sympathetic. Surely she might know he was not asking this question out of sheer curiosity.

"You seem to infer that it is none of my business," he retorted.

Nancy Ashford coloured slightly.

"Well," she snapped, "is it?"

Bobby's face felt hot. He was at a serious disadvantage, and she was not helping him; not making the slightest attempt to understand him.

"You might at least credit me with an honest wish to do something about all this, if I can," he expostulated angrily.

"I am sorry if I offended you,"—with forced composure—"You were thinking of giving some money to the family?"

"If they need it—yes."

"Whose money?"

Bobby raised up on one elbow and scowled.

"Whose money? Why, my own, of course!"

"Some you earned, maybe?"

For a moment, he was speechless with exasperation over the studied insolence of her query. Sinking back upon the pillow, he motioned to her to leave him. Instead, she took her stand at the foot of his bed, and, hands on hips, militantly began an address distinguished for its lack of polite ambiguity.

"You invited this," she said thickly. "You called me in here to get some information about the Hudsons, and I'm going to tell you! And then you can pay them off...with your grandfather's money! Do you know what killed Doctor Hudson?...Worry! They said it was overwork that weakened his heart. I know better! The only thing that counted in his life, besides his profession, was Joyce. He saw her going to the dogs. Part of that was your fault! You've had a reputation for ruining all your friends!"

Bobby Merrick lay stunned under the attack, his eyes wide with amazement at the woman's audacity.

"The poor chap tried to pull himself together." Her voice wavered a little, but she went on with resolution. "Built that little house at the lake, went swimming when he wasn't able; knew he wasn't able; had provided a lung-motor for emergencies; and then, at the moment when he has to have it—you're using it! You—of all people! And now you casually suggest settling the bill with money!"

Something in his look—it was the look of a hurt animal—checked Nancy's passionate diatribe.

"Please forgive me," she muttered agitatedly. "But, as I say, you invited it. You wanted to know, I have told you."

Bobby swallowed awkwardly, and rubbed his brow with the rough sleeve of his cotton smock.

"Well," he muttered hoarsely, "you've told me. If you've said everything you have to say, I won't keep you."

She started toward the door, paused, turned about, walked slowly to the window and stood looking out, her left elbow cupped in her right hand, the slim fingers of the other tapping her shoulder, agitatedly, at first; then meditatively. Bobby watched the slowing tempo of her fingers, cleared his throat nervously, and decided to meet her half way.

"That was really all I had to offer; wasn't it?...just money?"

She returned slowly to the bedside, drew up a chair, sat down, and rested her plump arms upon the white counterpane close to his pillow.

"You have something very valuable besides money; but you'll never use it." Her tone was judicial, prophetic. "It's in you, all right, but it will never come out. Nobody will ever know that you had it. The money will always be blocking the way...You were much disturbed to-day, because you overheard an impolite insinuation that your life wasn't worth saving at the price of Doctor Hudson's. Naturally, you resented that. Your indignation does you credit...However—crude as that man was, what he said was true, wasn't it?...You admitted it was true when you decided to put up a cash difference. But you can't justify yourself that way. It might make things more comfortable for the Hudson family; but it wouldn't help you to live with yourself again."

She had taken his hand in hers, maternally. Disengaging his eyes, she stared upward absorbedly, and murmured, as if quite alone, "He'd never do it, of course...Couldn't!...Wouldn't!...Too much money...It would be too hard...take too long...but God!...What a chance!"

Bobby stirred uneasily.

"I'm afraid I don't get you...if—if you're talking about me."

"Oh, yes, you do!" She nodded her head, slowly, emphatically. "You know what I mean...and you wish you were up to it...but—" pulling herself together resolutely, "you're not; so we won't talk about it any more...Is there something I can get for you before I go?"

Bobby raised a detaining hand, and their fingers interlaced.

"I think I know now what you're hinting. But it's quite impossible, as you say. It's worse than impossible. It's ridiculous! Doctor Hudson was famous! Nobody can ever replace him!...Oh, I say, Mrs. Ashford; that's quite too bad! I didn't mean to say the wrong thing, you know!"

For Nancy's eyes had suddenly tightened as if wincing under sharp pain, and her white head bent lower and lower in a dejection strangely out of keeping with her aggressive personality. He ventured to touch her hair in a clumsy, boyish caress, murmuring again that he was sorry.

"That's all right, boy," she said thickly, regarding him with weary eyes, suddenly grown old. "You needn't worry about me!...I'll carry on!...My little problem is quite simple compared to yours."

She straightened up, patted his hand, and smiled.

Bobby raised on one elbow.

"You're a good sport, Mrs. Ashford!"

"Thanks!...You like people to be good sports; don't you?...So do I. I'd rather be a good sport than worth millions!...I expect you're a pretty good sport too; aren't you, Bobby?"

He relaxed on his pillow and studied the ceiling.

"Your—what you were talking about—would be a sort of sporting proposition; wouldn't it?"

"Quite!"

"Years and years!"

"For life!...There would be no discharge in that war!" She extended her hand, as one man to another.

"I'm going now...Sure you're not angry with me any more?"

He shook his head, with tightly closed eyes, and gripped her hand. The emotional tension of the past half hour was taking advantage of his physical weakness. Hot tears seeped through his lashes, and trickled down his temples.

Nancy withdrew her hand, stood for a moment silently regarding him, her knuckles pressed hard against her lips; then turned away and quietly closed the door behind her.