III
“You say he’s different,” pursued Joyce interestedly. “How do you mean—different? Sober, perhaps?”
Masterson chuckled.
“Don’t be a fool!” she growled. “You know very well what I meant.”
He returned his empty glass to the silver tray on the table, settled himself comfortably into the cushions of the garden swing, and so frankly considered the slender shapeliness of the girl in the wicker chair that she shifted her position uneasily.
“Yes,” he replied, reverting tardily to her question, “he’s all of sober, and then some. He’s owlish … morose … prowls the night like Hamlet … has an idea that people resent his having been saved from drowning.”
“How absurd! Did he tell you that?”
“As much as.”
She thumbed the pages of the novel that lay in her lap and frowned.
“Well—and what is he proposing to do about it? … Sulk?”
Young Masterson indicated by a slow shake of the head, eyes half closed, that the problem was too vast for him, and meditatively tapped the end of a fresh cigarette on the arm of the swing.
“You’ll discover for yourself that Bobby is greatly altered since his accident. I can’t quite make him out. Yesterday, when I saw him at Windymere, I expected to find him in better spirits. He is almost well now; has been walking about on the grounds for days. But he seems thoroughly preoccupied. I suggested it might improve his disposition if we threw together a little cocktail, and he said, ‘You know where the makings are: help yourself.’ I shook up enough for both of us, but he wouldn’t join me; and when I ragged him about it, he replied, from about ten miles off, that he’d ‘another plan in mind.’
“ ‘Something that doesn’t include gin, evidently,’ I suggested; and he nodded cryptically.
“ ‘Something like that,’ he replied. You know about how little he discloses through that poker face of his, when he decides to be incomunicado.”
“So—you dared him to tell you, I suppose.”
“No; I just kidded him a little, but he didn’t take it very nicely. Just sat—and posed for ‘The Thinker.’ ‘What’s the big idea?’ I said. ‘Gone over to Andy Volstead?’ ”
“What did he say?” demanded Joyce, as the pause lengthened.
“He said, ‘Hell, no!’ and then mumbled, down in his throat, that he’d gone over to Nancy Ashford.”
“And who’s Nancy Ashford?” she inquired, sharply, flushing with annoyance over her disclosure.
“You ought to know,” smugly enjoying her vexation. “She is the superintendent of Brightwood Hospital.”
“Oh—you mean Mrs. Ashford. I hadn’t thought of her as Nancy. They must have become quite well acquainted. Why, she’s an old lady.”
“Well—so much the better; wouldn’t you say?”
She met his banter with a grimace.
“You spend too much of your time thinking up story plots, Tommy. It’s affecting your mind.”
“Maybe so,” agreed Masterson dryly. He stretched his long arms over the back of the swing and regarded her with an inquisitive smile. “Your own story grows more exciting every minute. What else do you want to know about Bobby?”
Joyce offered him the concession of a crooked smile.
“Did he say whether he was coming in soon?”
“Nary a word on that. However, he may not feel himself quite up to it yet … Rather awkward situation, you’ll admit.”
She nodded, and there was a moment’s silence.
“You have Bobby and me all wrong, Tom. We were together pretty steadily … in December … before Helen came …”
Masterson broke in with an unpleasant chuckle.
“I’m surprised that you remember anything about December,” he teased. “My own recollection of it is very pale.”
“Yes; I’ll admit it was rather dreadful. Especially the evening we celebrated your birthday. That must have been a mighty rough night on the sea. Incidentally, I have not seen Bobby since. When he finished at the university in February, he sailed for France to visit his mother, without a line to me that he was going. I had two short letters from him later. Then he turns up at home; next day this dreadful thing happens to us.”
She hesitated before going on.
“So—now you know exactly how thick we are. Does it sound—romantic like?”
“Of course, you’re bound to keep it in mind,” observed Masterson soberly, “that Bobby feels quite terribly about the—the thing that occurred out there at the lake. Never having met Helen, he is a bit shy about meeting her now. He may fear she would be slightly prejudiced against him, under the circumstances.”
“I’m afraid she is,” agreed Joyce reluctantly. “Entirely natural that she would be.”
“How is Helen, by the way?”
“Oh, she’s steady—the darling! Want to see her? I’ll tell her you’re here.”
She rose, handing Masterson her book.
“Helen has been entertaining a queer little lady for the past hour or more, but I think she is free now. The caller was one of father’s patients, I presume. So many people have been here lately … all sorts … people we had never heard of who come with tearful gratitude to tell us what father had been to them. Really, it has kept us quite stirred up. I wish they wouldn’t … And letters? … Today there was a long one from a man in Maine hinting that father had saved his life, somehow, years ago. He didn’t state the particulars … Seemed rather secretive, as if there were some big mystery behind it; as if there were something he wanted to tell, but couldn’t. Very queer … I’ll go and call Helen.”
She turned toward the big white house with the green shutters, and Masterson’s eyes appraisingly followed her graceful movements as she crossed the lawn … Some girl! … He set the swing gently in motion and inhaled deeply from his cigarette … A thoroughbred! So, she was Bobby’s, then? What the devil did Bobby mean—trying to keep this a secret from him? Well, if she considered herself Bobby’s property—and obviously she did—Bobby’s pal must be loyal. However, a man could look at her, couldn’t he? … And wish she belonged to him? … A compliment, in a way … perhaps … debatable question, probably … But seriously, why shouldn’t an artist in creative writing have as much licence to admire beauty for its own lovely sake as a painter—no matter whose girl she thought she was? What a type! Not many blondes like that left in this dyed and painted world … Original colours, these … Pale gold and milk white; with the slinky-footed gait of some wild woods thing … Some girl! But what made her think Bobby was interested in her? Or—was he? If so, he had kept his sentiments carefully concealed …
Joyce’s reappearance through the shrubbery, accompanied by her stepmother, interrupted Masterson’s daydreaming. The two offered a striking contrast. Mrs. Hudson was Latin in every feature and curve, in the glossy blackness of her shingled hair, the arch of her brows, the utter lack of self-consciousness in her posture and carriage. Joyce was perfect Saxon; slightly the taller. Leading the way, she seemed the older.
He strolled to meet them. Helen waved her hand, upon sight of him. She had adopted the role of being years his senior, much to his amusement. They had often made a little game of it—he, cast for the part of a spoiled nine-year-old, which he carried off with amazing skill; she, the exasperated but polite mother, endeavouring to keep her whelp in hand without making too much of a scene. They had done it, quite spontaneously, at the Byrnes, one evening. Laura Byrne, upon her own testimony, “had about passed out,” Senator Byrne had said the skit was worth a fortune in vaudeville “big time.” They had thought it not half bad, themselves.
The conventional uniform of the bereft had only accentuated her youth. It called attention to her girlish vitality, deepened her dimples, whitened her throat; as a severe frame on a bright etching will heighten its colours; emphasize its values.
She extended a small hand and smiled. Her recent experience had left traces. She was pale and a bit remote, her appearance suggesting convalescence from a serious illness.
The smile fluttered momentarily and was gone; but it was essentially the same smile that one waited for, plotted for, tried to recapture in memory, analyzed without success. Once Masterson had attempted to persuade one of his women in a story to smile like that; but she couldn’t learn it. He had written, of “Gloria”—
“It was more than a smile. It was a little sonata, in three movements. It arrived first in her eyes, which gradually grew wider and bluer. Almost imperceptibly, but very disturbingly, the patrician brows lifted, ever so little, as if they asked permission. That was the adagio movement.
“Then, suddenly, the sonata played upon her lips, as when an organist seeks with one hand a lower bank of keys for the melody. They parted to disclose the smallest, straightest, whitest of teeth. That was the scherzo movement.
“Instantly, however, as if the lips had become alarmed at their own audacity, they closed, demurely. But the smile lingered in her eyes—in the outer corners of her eyes—long after her pretty mouth had done with it; and that was the largo movement. Largo dolcemente.
“And the beholder? What of him? Ah—but his pulse ran on into throbbing, pounding strotto!”
Masterson knew the description was silly. He had added, rather helplessly:
“—a vastly disquieting smile; a smile to be smiled with discretion, preferably among strong-minded, elderly men—relatives, if at all convenient to have relatives at hand.”
Helen Hudson smiled. Today it was a sonatina. The movements were adagio, andante, lento; but it was no less stirring for its chastened mood.
“It seems a long time since we saw you, Tom,” she said, in her husky contralto, motioning him to a place beside her in the swing.
Joyce had remained standing.
“Tommy,” said she, “I had promised Ned Brownlow I would go for a ride with him. He’s out front now, waiting for me … Mind if I go?”
“Depart in Peace!” Masterson held up two fingers, pontifically. “I am in excellent hands.”
Joyce’s slim fingers trailed caressingly across her stepmother’s shoulders as she moved away. “I’ll not be long, dear,” she said.
“Have you been getting out, at all?” inquired Masterson, with comradely solicitude.
Helen shook her head.
“Too busy! Callers come here at all hours; people one can’t very well refuse to see; patients of Doctor Hudson’s and others he appears to have befriended in one way or another. I presume you recall the quite unusual number of floral remembrances …”
“I never saw so many!”
“Well, Tom, those flowers came at the direction of people from many places; from persons whose relation to us was very difficult to establish. Fully a score were unidentifiable by anyone at Brightwood. And these callers I am receiving daily are mostly unknown to us. They come to inquire if there is anything they can do for Joyce and me. Yesterday a queer old Italian turned up and tried to present me with a thousand dollars. That’s just a sample. Their stories are quite different, what there is of them—for they are strangely reticent—but one fact is common to all … sometime, somewhere, Doctor Hudson had helped them meet a crisis—usually involving money loaned; though not always money; sometimes just advice, and the aid of his influence.”
“He surely had a big heart!” said Masterson.
“Yes, certainly; but there’s more to it than that. Lots of men have big hearts, and are generous with their money. This is a different matter. His dealings with these people were something other. They all act as if they belonged with him to some eccentric secret society. They come here eager to do something, anything, for me, because they want to express their gratitude; but when you pin them down and invite them to tell you by what process they got into our family’s debt, they stammer and dodge. It’s very strange.
“Since two o’clock, I’ve been listening to a story that perplexes me more than any of the others; probably because I prodded a little deeper into the mystery. An old lady I didn’t know existed came to tell me what a wonderful man Doctor Hudson was, and could she be of any aid to me? … I’d like to talk it over with someone. Would it bore you?”
“Tell me—please!”
“Well—it all began, said Mrs. Wickes, with an operation on her husband. Doctor Hudson had warned them it was hopeless. The family was left destitute. She says there was no bill sent from the hospital; that Doctor Hudson found a good position for the older boy and sent the girl, who had some talent for drawing, to an art school … She pointed to that lovely marine over the mantel in our living-room, and said, ‘That’s hers. She gave it to him. It was exhibited by the Architectural League in New York.’ … Doctor Hudson had stood between them and disaster, she said, until they were able to look out for themselves; and when, a couple years later, she went to his office with a small payment on the debt they owed him, he refused to accept it; said, at first, that he had had enough joy out of it, and didn’t want to be repaid any farther. She quite insisted; and he said, ‘Did you ever tell anybody about our little transaction?’ ‘No,’ she replied. ‘You told me not to—and I didn’t.’ ‘Then,’ he declared stoutly, ‘I can’t take it back!’
“Of course, she was dissatisfied to leave it that way—she has all the instincts of a lady—but when she pressed him to take the money he explained, ‘Had I considered this a loan, I could accept its repayment. I did not so regard it, when I invested it in your family. You have all been much more successful and prosperous than I thought you were going to be. So—since I believed I was giving it to you outright, I can’t take it back now because, in the meantime, I have used it all up, myself!’ ”
“Pardon me,” said Masterson, “I don’t believe I quite understand. What was that last thing he said to her?”
Helen nodded, mysteriously, and repeated the inexplicable phrase.
“You may well inquire,” she went on. “I asked Mrs. Wickes what that meant, and she grew restless. ‘I can’t say that I rightly know,’ she stammered.
“ ‘But you have a suspicion!’ I said.
“At that she hurriedly changed the subject by taking a bulky purse from her handbag. She pressed me to take the money. It had been invested, she said, and now she wished to restore it to us.
“I said to her, ‘If Doctor Hudson refused to accept it, so shall I. You had best reinvest it. Put it back where it was, if it yielded a good rate.’
“ ‘Oh, I can’t do that,’ she replied. ‘They’re quite done with it, you know.’
“Well, after that, I gave it up! She was over my head!”
“Perhaps she’s a bit cracked,” hazarded Masterson.
Helen was thoughtful.
“Yes; she would be cracked, and we could let it go at that, and smile over it, if she was the only one of her species.”
“You mean that you’ve entertained some more like her?”
She nodded.
“Yesterday, a quite well-known merchant called on me. You would recognize his name. His affair with Doctor Hudson dated ten years back. He wanted to pay me a pretty large sum of money which he said was interest on a loan. I thought it odd that he was coming forward with it after so long a time, and he confessed that Doctor Hudson had refused it. So did I, of course.
“My curiosity had the better of me, and I pressed him to tell me about it. He said that about ten years ago he was on the rim of failure. He had started in business for himself; had overreached; and, as if he was not having enough anxiety, his wife passed through a lengthy and expensive illness. He had built a beautiful home. It was more than half paid for. He decided to let it go at a cruel sacrifice to get cash to put into his tottering business. He listed the house with a real estate concern. It was worth thirty-five thousand dollars. He was offering it for twenty thousand. There was a temporary depression of real estate values. Well—next day, he said, Doctor Hudson came to see him.
“ ‘I understand you’re selling your home for twenty thousand dollars. Why are you doing that? It’s worth twice that much.’
“The young merchant explained that he must have money immediately, or his business would fail.
“ ‘I’ll lend you twenty thousand,’ said Doctor Hudson. ‘I haven’t it, but I can get it. Pay me the principal of this loan when you are prospering again. I shall not expect any interest, because I have use for it, myself; and you are not to tell anyone, while I live, that we have transacted this business.’ ”
“What an odd deal,” commented Masterson.
“Wait until you hear the rest of it,” said Helen quietly. “Within three years, my caller said, he had returned the money, and was insistent upon paying interest on the loan. Doctor Hudson refused to take it. And what do you think he said when he declined to accept the money?”
“Give up!”
“He said, ‘I can’t take it, you see; for I’ve used it all up myself!’ Now—that’s five distinct times I’ve heard that phrase, in the past week! What do you make of it?”
“Queer!” said Masterson. “Couldn’t have had something to do with his income tax, could it? You know … so much allowed for gifts, charity, and the like.”
“Tommy, don’t be foolish!”
“Well—have you a theory?”
“Not the faintest glimmer of one.” Then, animatedly, “Did you ever hear the story of Doctor Hudson’s early life?”
“No; does it offer a clue to these queer performances of his?”
“Not at all … at least, it offers no clue to me. Perhaps … to a psychologist, which I am not … But, I think I’d like to tell you … It’s no secret.
“You see, Wayne’s parents were very poor. They lived on a farm upstate somewhere. He had to look out for himself, early. As a boy he had wanted to be a surgeon. He came to Detroit, at fifteen, to enter high school, and worked in the home of a Doctor Cummings …”
“And married his daughter! I knew that much.”
“You’re going too fast … In the Cummings home, Wayne Hudson was errand boy, hostler, accountant, and, on occasion, nurse, cook, private secretary, and rescue squad.”
“Rescue? How’s that?”
Helen hesitated.
“This Doctor Cummings was a very capable man, with a large practice; but unfortunately he drank too much … periodically. At intervals of anywhere from three weeks to two months, he would disappear for days. It was Wayne’s duty to track him down, clean him up, bring him home, and meantime invent excuses for his absence and serve as a shock-absorber between the doctor and all his interests—the hospitals, the patients, the family.”
“Not a very pleasant occupation for a high school boy.”
“No,” agreed Helen, “but calculated to mature him early. And it was not by any means a thankless task. Doctor Cummings was of course deeply appreciative and in his repentant moments assured him of his lasting gratitude. He sent Wayne to college later, and guaranteed his medical training with a life insurance policy, which, strangely enough, became accessible exactly when he had most need of it, for Doctor Cummings died when Wayne was a senior in college.”
“Perhaps that helps to explain Doctor Hudson’s marriage while he was still a medic,” commented Masterson. “Doubtless the girl was fond of him. He felt under heavy obligations to the family. That … and the propinquity … so he married her.”
“Not quite that,” corrected Helen. “He was very fond of her; had given up everything to be in Arizona with her until she died. For more than four years, she was his chief concern. Naturally, he couldn’t give proper attention to his work. He told me he had days of depression, while in the medical school, fearing he had mistaken his vocation, after all. His studies were hard, and he had much difficulty keeping up with them.”
“One would hardly think that Doctor Hudson had ever found his studies difficult.”
“He continued to find them so, for fully a year after his wife’s death. Then, something happened! No; I do not know what it was. He did not tell me, and I did not insist; but something happened! One day he became conscious of a new attitude towards his books, his profession. He worked whole nights in the hospital laboratory, without fatigue. Then, soon after, through an odd circumstance, he was obliged to do a difficult operation at three o’clock one morning on an emergency case—a head injury. It attracted much attention. From then on he specialized in brain surgery. You know how well he succeeded.”
Masterson closed one eye, and considered her thoughtfully.
“I can see,” he said, measuring his words, “that it’s somehow in the back of your head that this rather remarkable change in him … this quite sudden step-up from depression … sense of failure … halfway notion to quit medicine and sell bonds or something … into prompt recognition and success … I think you suspect that it’s all tied around this—this funny business of his charities? Am I right?”
She nodded.
“Mostly however because here are two mysteries about him. I suppose I have tried to relate them … unconsciously, perhaps. They may have no association, at all … Maybe he would have told me all about it, had he lived … But—we’ve talked enough about mysteries, Tommy. Let’s go and look at the asters.”
Masterson followed her through the garden, admiring her childish enthusiasm over the autumn flowers. It was as if she caressed them. He knew she expected him to go now, and toyed with his keys.
“Don’t stay in too closely,” he admonished. “These people will wear you out.”
“I’m taking a few days off … going up into the country tomorrow, to see Martha, our caretaker’s sister. She’s not very well … dreadfully broken up, you know; and I haven’t seen her since it all happened.”
“Might I drive you up? I should like to!”
“Thanks; but I shall want my car while I am there.”
“We might tow it!”
“Oh—do you really want to go up there so badly as that? I’ll tell you what you may do; drive Joyce up to Flintridge, Sunday afternoon. Probably I’ll be lonesome by that time.”
They strolled together to the gate.
“How fine it is that you and Joyce still have each other!”
“Yes; isn’t it?”
He stepped into his car, waved a hand, and disappeared around the corner. Slowly Helen retraced her steps to the garden, sauntered along the narrow path, stooped to cup her pink palms around a garish dahlia. How fine it was that she and Joyce still had each other … Or had they?