A dram of poison (2 page)

"Oh," she said, "I suppose there might. I wouldn't know." She seemed timid, poor thing.

"I'd be very glad to help if I can," he said gently.

"Thank you, Mr.—Gibson?"

"Then may I come over . . . perhaps tomorrow?"

"Please do," she said tremulously. "It's very good of you. Won't it be a trouble?"

"It will be a pleasure," he said. The word was deliberate. To speak of pleasure at the graveside was rough, was shocking. But she needed to have inserted into her imagination such a word.

She thanked him once more, stumblingly. A shy young woman, too upset, too bewildered, to have any poise. Not a child, of course. In her late twenties probably. Slim ... in fact a pitifully thin body, trembling now with strain and fatigue but standing up to it somehow. A white face. Frightened blue eyes, with little folds of skin at the upper outer edges that came down sadly. A lined white brow. Limp, lifeless brown hair. An unpainted mouth, pathetically trying to smile and yet not smile. Well, she could Jook forward now, if ever so little, to tomorrow.

"We'll see," said Mr. Gibson, and he smiled in full. "Who can tell?" he added cheerfully. "We might find some treasure."

Her eyes changed shape and he saw the flicker of wonder, of hope, and he was quite pleased with himself.

On his way home, he fumed. Poor thing! Looked as if a vampire bat had been drinking her blood. And perhaps he had. The arrogant angry old man whose" brain had betrayed him and who lived out his final decade flubbing about helplessly hunting his own thoughts, which kept eluding him. Mr. Gibson was so very sorry for the girl. Poor, unattractive, tired, beaten creature—terrible ordeal shouldn't have been there all alone!

The Jameses lived on the first floor of an old house near the campus. The moment Mr. Gibson entered the hall, he received the news of poverty and deeay and a sense of darkness. If this place had ever had any colors, they had now all faded down into a uniform muddiness that defeated light. Everything, although quite clean, was

somehow stained. Everything was old. And there was a clutter that comes of never having guests and therefore never seeing one's home with a fresh eye.

Nevertheless, he perceived that Rosemary had smoothed her dull hair carefully, that her dress was fresh from the ironing board, and that she had a string of blue beads oil. It was typical of Mr. Gibson that these observations did not make him want to smile. They made him want to weep.

She greeted him timidly and seriously. She took him with nervous dispatch directly to the old man's lair.

"Well," he said in fiat astonishment.

The old flat-topped desk was heaped with pieces of paper, lying at mad angles to one another.

"It looks like a haystack," said Rosemary with a spirited aptness that surprised him.

"Sure does." He appreciated her phrase. Smiled over it. "And it's our job to find the needle. Now come, you sit here. We'll start in the middle of the top and dig our way straight down to the bare wood. O.K. with you?"

They sat down. Mr. Gibson began to spin out of his own substance an atmosphere of cheerful, purposeful, organized endeavor. Soon she was breathing less shallowly and her lips were parted. She was intelligent.

But after a while absolutely nothing could save the situation from tragedy but a sense of humor. The old professor had scratched on paper during many hours. But his handwriting was atrocious, and worse, what he had written, where it was decipherable, seemed to have no reasonable meaning.

Mr. Gibson, in automatic defense, began to force himself to see the funny side. "If that is a capital T, as it may be for all I know," said he in semicomical despair, "then the word can be 'Therefore.' What do you think? Of course, it might just as well be 'Somewhere.' "

"Or 'However'?" said Rosemary earnestly.

" 'However' is a distinct runner-up," he drawled. "Or even 'Whomever.' "

"'Whatever'?"

"I have a psychic feeling there's an T in it. How about 'Wherefore'? 'Wherefore art thou Romeo?' D'you know, Miss James, the word might even be 'Romeo'." It was heavy work to be light about this.

"Oh, I don't think so," she said seriously. And then she looked startled. Then she giggled.

It was as if a phoenix had risen from some ashes. Her giggle was rather low-pitched and melodious. The tiny folds at the upper-outer comers of her eyes were built for laughter. It was their function. They were droll. The eyes themselves lost their dusty look and became a little shiny. Even her skin seemed to gain a tinge of color.

"I'll betcha we could make it read anything we like," said Mr. Gibson enthusiastically. "Do you know anything about the Bacon-Shakespeare ciphers?" She didn't. She listened while he told her some of the wild aspects of that affair.

After that, while she was still relaxed and amused, he said gently, "You know, I think we had best look at the bottom of the pile."

"Earlier, you mean?" She was intelligent. "I think so, my dear."

"He . . . tried so hard." Her handkerchief came up. "It was brave to keep trying," he said. "It really was. And we'll keep trying, too."

"There are mounds—" she said bravely, "of papers in the drawers. Some typewritten . . ." "Hurray."

"But Mr. Gibson, it wall take so much time . . ." "Of course," he said gently. "I never expected to go through it all in an hour. Did you?" "You mustn't get tired." "Are you tired?" He thought she was. "I wondered . . . Do you drink tea?" "When I am offered any," he said.

She rose awkwardly and went to fetch the tea which had been her own bold idea. Mr. Gibson waited by himself staring soberly at the desk and all this waste of paper. He didn't think they were going to find any treasure. Also, he knew that he had, once again, been foolish and rash. He'd let an impulse lead him. When would he learn not to do these things? He had given hope where there was not much real chance. He had best softly kill the hope he'd raised. But he feared very much that it was too important to her.

While they drank tea and ate some thin store cookies ... a tiny feast she'd made as dainty as she could . . . Mr. Gibson fejt that he must pry.

' ' Do you own this house?" he asked her.

"Oh, no. We only rented this half."

"Will you stay on here?"

"I can't.. It's too big. Too much for me."

He feared she meant too expensive. "Forgive me for asking, but is there money? Funds of any kind?"

"I can sell the furniture. And the car."

"Ah, a car?"

"It's ten years old." He saw that she swallowed. "But it must be worth something."

"Your father's income was . . . for his lifetime?"

"Yes."

"There is nothing?" he guessed sharply.

"Well . . . the furniture . . ." She stopped pretending that the furniture was of any value and met his eyes. "I will just have to get a job. I don't know just what . . ." She twisted the beads. "I hoped . . ." Her eyes went to the papers.

"Can you type?" he asked quickly. She shook her head. "Have you ever held a job. Miss James?"

"No, I . . . Dad needed me. When Mama died I was the only one left, you see."

It was easy for Mr. Gibson to understand perfectly what had happened to her. "Have you anyone who can advise you?" he asked. "Relatives?"

"Nobody."

"How old are you?" he asked her gently. "Since I am old enough to be your father, you mustn't mind if I ask these things."

"I am thirty-two. And it's late, isn't it? But I'll find something to do."

He thought she needed somewhere to rest, above everything. "Have you a friend? Is there some place you could go?"

"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

ON THE IDES of April, in the afternoon (for he always came after classes, by daylight), Rosemary was sitting in a mud-colored old armchair in her living room, Mr. Gibson could remark the fluff of dust accumulating along its seams. He thought to himself. It is impossible for anyone to be healthy in this dreadful place. I have got to get her out of here.