Читать книгу Enchanted Ground - Temple Bailey - Страница 5

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Dawn came, with Peter sitting beside his patient. A handsome man, pale and dark, his hair worn long in a somewhat affected fashion. He was, Peter judged, in his late forties—his face had few lines except those harassed ones of a man at odds with the world.

Peter knew his type—anti-social, sensitive, demanding everything, giving nothing. Yet undoubtedly lovable, drawing on the sympathies of those stronger than himself. And the girl was stronger. Peter had seen that in a moment. He had, indeed, as they had worked over the invalid, been impressed by her poise, her competency. She had helped him with the bandages, had watched him probe the wound.

Through it all she had seemed unconscious of Peter’s presence. Peter liked that. Women were so often aware of him in the sick-room—playing up their charms—and he hated it. He was a doctor before everything else. As yet no woman had ever made him forget what he owed a patient. Not even Lou. It was a thing she had complained about. “You care more for a baby with colic than you do for me.”

Well, perhaps he had—and anyhow, that was as it should be. As for Mary Hamilton, she had had no tricks or artifices. She had been glad to have him stay all night, and had said so. In spite of her protests, he had made her go to her room to rest. He had sent the colored maid, Julia, to bed, “You will both be needed tomorrow.”

Denis, too, was staying in the house, and was now asleep upstairs. He had called Jinks on the telephone and would go for her in the morning.

Peter, accustomed to loss of sleep, settled back in his chair and surveyed the room. It was evidently the library. There were rows of empty bookshelves, and one great over-hanging bookcase. The couch on which Hamilton lay had been made comfortable with clean sheets when Peter had decided that his patient must not be moved. The faded cushions, piled up on the window seat, matched the faded crimson draperies at the window. A dull and musty room which must have acted on the shrinking nerves of Hamilton like the teeth of a saw.

“He’s neurotic to the last degree,” Peter decided. He looked at his watch. Almost time to call Julia. He would ask her to make him a cup of coffee and he would drink it here. He must not leave his patient for a moment until Jinks came. He stretched and yawned, then sat up quickly as a cry echoed through the room—

“Mary ... !”

Hamilton’s eyes were shut, but his head moved restlessly on the pillow. Again he cried out, “Mary ... !”

Then followed, in ceaseless iteration, his daughter’s name—“Mary, Mary, Mary, Mary....”

And presently, answering that call, Mary came.

She was wrapped in a robe of soft red silk, its sash tied about her. Her feet were stuck into red silk slippers without heels. There was something gorgeous in all that surge of red as she sank down beside the couch, the rays of the rising sun washing over her.

On entering, her eyes had questioned Peter. He had put his finger on his lip, and now neither of them spoke as she sat on the floor beside her father.

Presently his eyes opened.

He saw her in a pool of red, and screamed, “You’re all—bloody ... !”

“Father, darling, I’ve worn it—often ...”

He seemed to come to his senses, “Of course. I remember.” His eyes turned to Peter, “What do you think of me?”

“That you’re going to get better.” Peter was smiling down at him.

“I don’t mean that. What do you think of a man who shirks—living ... ?”

“I think—he’s come to the right place.”

Hamilton drew his brows together in a puzzled frown, “Why right?”

“Because here we are all in the same boat. It’s a rough voyage, but we sail—together....”

A moment’s silence. Then: “You mean you’re all dead broke?”

“More or less. And it’s rather sporting—‘all for one and one for all’—that sort of thing.”

No one could resist Peter in his lighter moods. The invalid smiled reluctantly, and Mary, still kneeling, looked up at Peter. It was as if, for the first time, she really saw him. As if, hitherto, he had been for her merely an instrument for her father’s rescue; but now he had become flesh and blood. And suddenly a great load which she had carried on her young shoulders seemed to drop from her. Here was someone to whom she could speak of the thing which she had held so secretly, so shiveringly in her heart. She could talk to this Peter about her father. She had heard Denis call him “Peter.” She had never liked the name, but now she liked it. She knew what it meant—“Peter—a rock....” There was strength in that, and she was so tired of weakness.

Denis, coming down a little later, found the patient talking rationally, and Mary, with her satin robe bright in the morning sun, drinking coffee with Peter.

Denis, from the threshold, said, “May I come in?”

He was looking at Mary, but it was Peter who answered, “Of course. Miss Hamilton, this is Denis Colt. Denis is the town parson, Mr. Hamilton. He must tell you about his church—four walls and no roof to it.”

“You don’t look like a parson,” Hamilton said.

“Nobody does in these days.”

“And we’re not religious, Mary and I. I’ve brought her up that way—and I’ve made a rather good job of it.”

Denis smiled, “If she’s as nice as she looks....”

Hamilton’s eyes rested on him for a moment, then looked away. “She’s twenty-one, and no man has ever kissed her ...”

There was a moment’s stunned silence, out of which Mary said, “Oh, father ...”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Father... !”

“Why should you speak in that way, Mary? As if I had said something I shouldn’t? You’re not in the matrimonial market, and these young men might as well know it. Now—before they fall in love with you. Then they can’t say I haven’t warned them.”

He dropped back on his pillows, a dark flush on his face, “Get out—all of you.”

Peter signed to the others to leave. Then he mixed something in a glass. In a few moments his patient would be asleep. The thing now was to keep his mind free from agitation.

When he went finally into the living-room, Peter found Mary alone. She had seated herself in a massive chair, with a window at her back making a frame for her and showing a shadowed grove. Against the green darkness, the rich color of her robe, the pale gold of her hair, the dead whiteness of her skin gave the effect of a painted masterpiece. She was, too, like a painted figure in her complete repose.

Yet the repose was, Peter discovered presently, only an outward manifestation. Her voice, when she spoke, was sharp with distress. “It was a dreadful thing for father to say.”

“You take him too seriously.”

“Seriously!”

“Yes. You’ve let him have his way in everything.”

“Mother always let him have it. And it’s easier not to argue. He can’t face realities, poor darling.”

“You’ll be a poor darling,” Peter told her, “if you keep on like this.”

“I’ll have to keep on—. It isn’t real things I have to fight against. It’s shadows ... !”

So that was it! Lack of mental balance. Peter had judged it when he first saw Hamilton. And this slender girl had had to deal with it.

“Look here,” he said, “tell me about yourself. And how long you have been fighting shadows.”

Leaning back in her chair, she told him her story. Her early girlhood had been spent on a plantation in Virginia. Her father had practiced law in a somewhat desultory way, and with the yield of his tobacco fields had achieved a small but steady income. Mary was eight years old when her mother died. The maid, Julia, had been her nurse, and there had been other maids and men servants. During the Great War, the value of Hamilton’s property had increased enormously. He had sold the old place, and had invested the money in stocks which soared presently to unheard-of heights. There had been a period of affluence, during which he and Mary had travelled extensively and spent lavishly, until the market broke and their fortune had been swept away.

“It was just before mother died that I began to notice father. He was always dreaming about what he was going to do, and never doing it. Mother talked with me a lot about it. He’s always been afraid of life, and he’s made me afraid.”

“You’re not to be afraid any longer,” Peter told her. “I’m going to help.”

“Is there any help?” she asked, despairingly.

“Of course. We know how to deal with these cases better now than we did in the old days. You let me have a try at him. I’m getting a marvellous nurse for you, Janet Bowie. She’s a little thing, but she has never failed to handle my most difficult cases.”

Again there came to Mary a sense of freedom from an intolerable burden. “I can’t tell you,” she said, huskily, “how grateful I am for—everything.”

He let his hand rest for a moment on her shoulder. “Don’t try. And you’re not to be afraid. Any more. Ever.”

Jinks, arriving at last with Denis, was presented to Mary as “the best nurse south of the Mason and Dixon line.”

“And her age is twenty-three,” Peter stated, “although she feels much older and looks much younger.”

“Anybody would feel old who had you and Denis to deal with,” Jinks informed him.

Peter laughed, “What about it, Denis?”

“Oh, Jinks ... ! She couldn’t do without us!”

Listening to the light exchange, Mary was aware of a quality of vividness in the three of them which was stimulating and exciting. Jinks was alive to her finger tips, as Peter was alive, and Denis. Held so long in the cold grip of tragedy, she found her soul warmed by this good company.

Jinks, explaining things, said, “I try to be dignified when I’m on duty. And I’ve asked them not to call me ‘Jinks.’ ” She turned to Peter. “Darling,” she said, “remember I am ‘Miss Bowie’ in the sick-room.”

“Right,” said Peter. “And you might remember not to call me ‘darling.’ You mustn’t be so free with your terms of endearment, Jinks.”

“It’s nice to be free with something,” Jinks told him. “Perhaps that’s why I do it. I can’t be free with my money, for I haven’t any. Or with my affections, because free love is out of date. It’s marriage now or nothing.”

They laughed, light-heartedly, all but Mary. She felt as if her heart would burst—not with grief, but with thankfulness that she should be so surrounded; shielded from the loneliness of the dreadful days just past.

Peter, with a subtle understanding of her mood, spoke to Jinks, “I wish you’d take Miss Hamilton upstairs and put her to bed.”

Mary protested, “Oh, no ... !”

“Oh, yes. You must relax and rest until noon. Then I’ll rush back and eat lunch with you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Get her into a hot bath, Jinks, and then come down here and I’ll talk things over with you.”

Jinks, at the door, cast a fleeting glance backward, “I’ll see you later, Denis,” she said, with an effect of casualness. Denis took a step towards her and stopped. “I’ll wait,” he said. “You can find me in the garden.”

He watched her go up the stairs, her arm in Mary’s. Then he said: “We were married this morning, Peter.”

Peter stared at him, “Married?”

“Yes. I got Rowland to do it. We’re not going to announce it until I come back from Washington. I’ve had a telegram calling me there. An old uncle of mine is dead, and I must look after things. I’m his heir, if that means anything. I fancy there isn’t much left of his little fortune. It delays our honeymoon, of course. But Jinks and I—what’s a little delay when we have a whole life of happiness before us?”

Jinks, upstairs, was telling Mary, “I was married this morning.”

“My dear child ... !”

“I’m not a child. I’m a thousand years old....”

“But who is the fortunate man?”

“Oh—Denis—I thought everybody knew.”

She left Mary for a moment to draw the water for the hot bath. When she came back, she said, “Of course you couldn’t know.”

She opened a dresser drawer, “Are your things in here? I’ll lay them out for you—”

Mary, returning in a few minutes, wrapped in a bath-robe, found the bed turned down, and Jinks holding up a nightgown—of pink as pale as the petals of a rose, with lace like a cobweb. “It’s fit for a bride,” she said.

“I got it in Paris—and when I think of the money I spent ...”

“Don’t think,” Jinks said. “None of us dares do it. We just live for the moment ...”

“But you—” Mary said, “aren’t you living for Denis?”

“That’s what I don’t dare think about. You see, we shouldn’t have married. We’re both dreadfully hard up—but Denis is sure the ravens will feed us. Perhaps they will. Perhaps the good Lord will find a way out for us. Denis says that He will. But then Denis lives in the stars ... !”

Mary, comfortable now on her pillows, said, “May I wish you happiness?”

“Yes. But we’re not having even a honeymoon. Denis’ uncle died suddenly last night, and Denis leaves at noon for Washington. I don’t believe in signs and omens—but a funeral isn’t so deadly cheerful—”

She pulled down the shades and came back to the bedside. “But we love each other a lot—and Denis—oh, the Lord made him out of light, and it shines through ...”

Her voice was shaking, “I’m such a little fool! Ever been in love?”

“No. Not really ...”

“What do you mean ‘not really’?”

“Well—at times I’ve thought ...”

“No woman ever thinks when she cares. What you mean is that men have been in love with you, and that you wanted to love them ...”

“Perhaps—”

“That isn’t loving,” said Jinks. “But we haven’t time to talk about it.” She smiled, “I’ll call you at one.”

For a moment she hesitated, then suddenly bent down and kissed Mary on the cheek. “Nurses shouldn’t,” she said, “but you’re so—lovely ...”

“Am I—really ... ?”

“Oh, my dear, don’t you know it?” And Jinks was off with a wave of her hand from the doorway.

She went at once to the sick-room, where Peter introduced her to Hamilton. “Miss Bowie will take care of you.”

Hamilton’s eyes were unfriendly. “I’m sorry. I don’t want her.”

“You’ll need good nursing,” Peter said.

“Mary can do it.”

“No,” said Peter, “she can’t. She isn’t expert enough in a case like this. You might bleed to death in the night. Miss Bowie would know at once what to do. But not your daughter.”

Hamilton’s lips were white, “You mean it is as bad as that?”

“It is,” said Peter. “I shouldn’t have told you if you hadn’t protested against having a nurse. But there’s an artery involved. And it isn’t a thing to tamper with.”

Hamilton said, sullenly. “It’s a pity I didn’t make a better job of it.”

No one answered him. Peter was giving directions to Jinks. “We can’t move him upstairs,” he was saying. “We must have a bed brought down.”

The bed was brought, and Hamilton found himself, shortly, most miraculously in it, very comfortably propped up on pillows, with Jinks bringing in his breakfast on a tray.

“I don’t want any,” he told her irritably.

She looked down at him, “I made the omelette myself, while Doctor Ferry and Reuben were getting you settled.”

“I have eaten omelettes in France,” said Hamilton. “Why should I eat them in America where they don’t know how to make them?”

“I, too,” said Jinks, “have eaten them in France. And I have not only eaten them, but I have learned to make them.”

“Where ... ?”

“At L’Etoile Rouge—”

“The Red Star? Madame Roustain?”

“Mais oui, Monsieur. Why not? On the terrace. With brook trout before, and asparagus after—”

“How did you get there?”

“I went over just before the boom broke, with a rich patient. We came back on our uppers.”

While she talked, she had set the tray before him. He ate everything. How could he help it, with the toast hot as hot, the coffee piping, and his small nurse swapping reminiscences—?

For Hamilton was an epicure. Thin as a rail, romantic in his looks, he was nevertheless keen for the fleshpots. It was not that he ate so much, as that what he ate was of such importance. More important, indeed, than he was willing to admit. For he still preserved the illusion that life was for him an aesthetic rather than a physical adventure.

He referred now to the flowers which Jinks had put on his tray. “The roses are the best of it.”

But Jinks was aware that without the roses the omelette would still have won him. Without the omelette—!

She refused to follow the thought further!

Julia came in presently for the tray, and Jinks pulled down the window shades so that the room swam in the soft green of the morning light.

For the first time since his misfortunes had come upon him, Hamilton felt that life was good. The black shadows which had encompassed him fled before the cool competency of the little creature in the starched white uniform. He shut his eyes. “If I could sleep ...”

When he opened his eyes again, an hour later, his small nurse sat by the window, her head bent above a book. At the slight movement he made, she rose and came to him. “Do you want anything?” she asked.

“No. Go back to your book.”

She obeyed, and he lay with his eyes half-closed, looking at her.

At last he could stand it no longer. “What are you reading?” he demanded.

“About David—”

“Do you believe all that stuff?”

“I believe this.”

She brought the book over, and sat down by the bed. “Would you like to hear it?”

He said, with some hesitation, “Yes ...”

She began to read, and Hamilton lay there, listening: “ ‘And it came to pass when the evil spirit was upon Saul that David took an harp and played with his hand; so Saul was refreshed and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him.’ ”