XIX

Maxine Merrick, pouring their coffee in the sunny breakfast room of her over-Louised apartment in Boulevard Haussmann near the Etoile, glanced up shyly at her distinguished guest, finding it difficult to identify him as her son.

His mouth was somehow different. Ungifted with any capacity for character analysis, she was unable to define the change, but some dormant instinct told her it was other than merely functional; it was organic, structural.

It was not an austere mouth, neither was it pessimistic; but it had put off its adolescent wistfulness. It no longer entreated or anticipated, or even inquired; it accepted. The mouth had none of the tight-buckled smugness of self-imputed infallibility; none of the haughty protrusion of authority in repose; but it looked as if it were concerned only with facts, and had learned to be very particular about them. If they had really been shown to be facts, the mouth accepted them⁠—let the facts be fair as a May morning or ugly as sin.

And his eyes were somehow different. They seemed deeper set, not as if they had winced but retreated from sights they had found disagreeable⁠—experienced eyes that were used to looking at suffering, but not without great cost to themselves. They were not sad or weary eyes, but one felt they had seen so much they would not again widen readily with surprise. They did not cynically defy you to startle them; but you knew there was nothing you would be likely ever to say or do that would make them blink with amazement.

There was a difference in his hands; same long, slender, artist fingers⁠—but they had left off groping uncertainly for things. They had achieved a sureness, a poise, a confidence not to be had at less expense than the honest, tireless, discriminating experience of dealing with facts⁠—let the facts be no end unpleasant.

In short, they were the mouth, eyes, and hands of a surgeon.

Bobby’s decision to go in for a profession had failed to impress her favourably. Beyond a feeling⁠—which she tardily and peevishly expressed⁠—that he was enslaving himself unnecessarily, she had been left unstirred by his resolution. His completion of his medical course evoked only a request that now he was finished with school she dared say he would be able to run over and spend the summer with her. Later, when he had settled to the routine of an occupation demanding a devotion all but cloistral, she confided to her intimates how unfair it was that he should give his life to strangers when his own widowed mother stood in such desperate need of him. Her infrequent notes, in purple ink and big sprawling letters, blubbered with self-pity and petulant accusations of indifference; but her mileage was about as good as ever, and she was rarely alone except when asleep.

When, however, it had been called to her attention⁠—she never read the journals or reviews herself⁠—that a young Doctor Merrick of Detroit⁠—could it possibly, her informant wondered, be her own Bobby?⁠—had been making himself famous by the invention of a remarkable surgical instrument, her pride knew no limits. Suddenly aware that she had sacrificially offered him, years ago, on the altar of humanitarian service, and had been waiting hopefully for the day when her unselfish renunciation of her maternal claims on him might be publicly recognized, Maxine hastened to collect the tribute due her valiant and uncomplaining martyrdom, inviting all and sundry to view the stake whereon she had sizzled through the long-drawn days when her faith and hope were under fire.

For the space of a week she romped about among her acquaintances, accepting with happy tears their high-keyed chirps of felicitation, and cabled a mawkishly sentimental message to her son which fervently thanked the good God for making all her wonderful dreams come true, and cost her four hundred and fifteen francs.

This morning, Maxine lacked but a decade of looking her age, and felt even closer to it than she appeared. At no little cost she had planned the brilliant luncheon she was giving today at two when Bobby was to be triumphantly exhibited to a half dozen young old ladies⁠—mostly self-exiled Americans who had either outlived, outgrown or outworn their relatives⁠—and as many modish and musty old gentlemen with grey moustaches and ginny breaths. She had been bland with her statement that they were exceptionally favoured by this invitation to meet her boy prodigy, and privately hoped he had matured sufficiently to justify the story of his wide distinction. It had not occurred to her that he would return to her with that kind of a mouth, those eyes, those hands, which accused her of being not a day under fifty-six.

Accustomed to playing roles on short notice, suggested by her own volatile caprices, she determined to meet this awkward circumstance on its own ground. She would enjoy being the mother of a lion, even if the fact that the lion was no longer a cub would make it difficult for her to be quite so kittenish as usual. She was giving herself a dress rehearsal, this morning, of the new part, and was almost matronly.

“You’ll love them, Bobby!⁠ ⁠… Such dears!⁠ ⁠… And⁠—Bobby⁠—” she held up a warning finger and twinkled it mysteriously⁠—“I’ve asked my adorable Patricia Livingstone to come with her mother. We’ve been so anxious to see you two together. You’ll be enchanted with her!”

Bobby grinned amiably and said he was going to be happy to meet them all, especially someone his mother considered adorable. It was obvious she was preparing for this event as if it were a coronation, and he was resolved to humour her. God knew it was little enough he had ever been able to do for her pleasure. He would today atone for all his failures to be what she wanted him to be by going cheerfully into an affair which, he suspected, would establish his utter asshood as a fact beyond controversy in the opinion of any sensible person present.

Considering the will⁠—in this instance⁠—equivalent to the deed, he later scored up the party to his credit; though he was unable to attend it.

Bobby Merrick’s decision to request a four months’ leave had been based ostensibly upon an extended correspondence with Dr. Emil Arnstadt of Vienna. Arnstadt had been long at work on the coagulation cautery project before the Merrick invention was announced. Immediately he had sought full information about it which was promptly and cheerfully given. Then had sprung up the warmest attachment between them, leading to Arnstadt’s ardent hope that Doctor Merrick would come to Vienna for a leisurely conference on their mutual interests.

“We have much to give each other,” wrote Arnstadt. “It is well we should meet.”

In the scales alongside Arnstadt’s intriguing invitation was an importunate letter from Jack Dawson, down on all fours in supplication.

“No small matter, I tell you, to be asked into conference with Arnstadt! You’ve got to come. It’s equivalent to a command! You’ve got to come for my sake! You must realize I’ve never felt decent about the way I came here as the winner of a prize you tossed into my lap. You shouldn’t have done it. Of course, as it has all turned out, you’ve more achievement to your credit than had you written that exam in full for old Appleton and taken the persimmons you so jolly well deserved. I never had any illusions, old chap, about my winning the first honours and this prize. You handed them over to me because you thought I needed them more than you. I never felt easy about it. But⁠—now that Arnstadt wants to do you this honour, don’t refuse. It will make me a heap more comfortable, I can tell you!”

But these pressing invitations to Vienna were not the actual driving reasons why Bobby Merrick had decided to spend the summer in Europe. The real tug, he was bound to admit, resided in the fact that Helen Hudson was conducting a small party of tourists through Italy and France. He had a hope of meeting her. She was interfering with his work, disturbing him in his sleep, making him restless, absentminded, distraught. However she might regard him, he must see her again, if to no better purpose than to change the torturing mental picture he carried of her, shamed and hurt by his unintended impudence. Some kind of reconciliation must be attempted. He had accepted his expulsion from his Fool’s Paradise, and no longer cherished the notion that he could reinstate himself with Helen; but it would be worth the trip to see her⁠—let her be indignant, indifferent, or contemptuous. He must dispose somehow of this haunting picture of her, hurt and humiliated.

He had kept track of her movements through Joyce, who had quite voluntarily confided the essential facts of Helen’s sudden departure from Detroit the next morning after the execrable theatre party. It was apparent that Joyce had not been informed⁠—and equally apparent that she very much wanted to know⁠—what business had drawn her young stepmother impulsively out to Brightwood, that winter afternoon. In Joyce’s mind there seemed an inevitable sequence relating that event to Helen’s sudden departure for New York, early next day, on some unexplained errand.

Short of actually putting a thumbscrew on him, Joyce’s inquisitiveness to learn how much Bobby knew about it was persistent, ingenious, desperate; but she received small pay for the news she offered as bait.

Exactly why Helen Hudson wanted or needed employment badly enough to become a routing agent in the office of the Beamond and Grayson Travel Bureau, Joyce couldn’t imagine. It was so unlike her. She hated routine. She wasn’t used to taking orders or keeping hours. She was about as practical as a Persian kitten on a satin pillow.

Bobby had had to listen to an inordinate amount of this, astounded at his own patience, though in his honest moments he reflected that had Joyce not prattled so volubly of her own accord he would have been obliged to prime her to it.

He was thankful enough for her gift of garrulity the day she told him Helen was about to leave the New York office for Cherbourg, as the conductor of a small party.

“Does Joyce annoy you, Bobby?” demanded Nancy Ashford one afternoon, with her disconcerting directness.

“Oh⁠—not at all!” he had replied, feeling a bit silly.

“As I thought!⁠ ⁠… She has just been offered an interesting position as a home visitor with the Juvenile Protective League. I shall press her to take it.”

Duly pressed, Joyce accepted the new job. On her last day at Brightwood, she cornered him as he was leaving the hospital at five.

“I won’t be seeing you any more, will I?” she said. “I’m leaving, you know.”

“Why⁠—that is true,” he replied, as if it had not occurred to him before. “You’ll be busy, and you know how this ties me up here. I do hope you like your new work. You must let us know how you get on with it, Joyce.”

“You couldn’t come and see me sometimes? I’m going to be horribly lonely.” It was evident that the speech cost her something. She forced it with an effort.

“Oh⁠—I don’t go anywhere⁠ ⁠… Unsocial as an oyster⁠ ⁠… This business is cruelly confining. Some day I hope to have a little more time for⁠—”

She laughed, nervously, mirthlessly.

“Don’t say any more, Bobby. It’s plain you don’t want to⁠ ⁠… Goodbye! I may not see you for a long time.”

He took her cool hand and repeated his good wishes. The episode left him uncomfortable. It had been a decidedly awkward situation. Maybe, if old Tommy could be bucked up, somehow, Joyce might be willing to give him another try. It was worth looking into.

Arriving in New York that Friday morning, the twenty-second of May⁠—he was sailing on the Majestic the next day at four⁠—Bobby had hunted his old friend down and was startled at the change in him. Tommy was seedy, shiny, spiritless, and had skipped patches under his jowls in shaving⁠ ⁠… Not much wonder Joyce wanted some other employment besides looking after Tommy.

They had lunch together and tried heroically to recover their long lost collegiate mood, but it was rough going. Too much water had gone under the bridge⁠ ⁠… Too little water had gone into Tommy.

“Sometimes⁠—” Masterson furtively pushed a soiled cuff back into his coat-sleeve, and attempted to steady his leaky spoon⁠—“sometimes, I’ve had a notion to end it. If I wasn’t such a damned coward, I’d have done it long ago.”

So⁠—there being at last a definite motion before the house, Bobby discussed it. Masterson was of the artist type that required a deal of encouragement and adulation. It couldn’t be laid on too heavily. Tommy had always possessed an almost infinite capacity for absorbing glory, laud, and praise. Unquestionably Joyce could have kept her man on the rails had she been a little less frugal with his necessary rations of ambrosia. Well, it was high time he had some. Bobby fed him on the rich confectionery of appreciation all day and left him hilariously drunk with it at midnight⁠—drunk as ever he had been on whisky. He was going to perk up and show ’em, by the Eternal, that he had the stuff! He’d been temporarily depressed, but⁠—as Bobby had said⁠—that was naturally to be expected of any man gifted with so sensitive a creative imagination! And he’d been drinking too much; but he could stop it. He would stop it! And there was his hand on it! The worm had turned!⁠ ⁠… And a good deal more like that.

Before he turned in, Bobby wired to Nancy.

Joyce urgently needed in New York stop Tommy has finished with J Barleycorn stop Is full of revived ambition stop Demands regular meals encouragement companionship stop Strongly counsel her to help him make good stop Put it up to her as important social service stop She will still be working in interest of juvenile protection stop You need not tell her that stop Affectionately Mister Fixit P S And here is hoping for better luck than usual in managing somebody elses business R M

Sunday afternoon he was roused from a nap in his steamer-chair to receipt for a radiogram. He smiled with pleasure.

Joyce left for New York at noon.

“Patricia paints beautifully!” continued Maxine, passing Bobby his cup.

“Does she, indeed?”

“Batiks.”

Bobby’s eyes wandered disinterestedly over the headlines on the front page of Le Matin at his elbow.

“Any news?”

“No⁠ ⁠… But⁠—what’s this?⁠ ⁠… Seven Americans hurt in a railroad accident near⁠ ⁠… Oh, my God!”

Maxine rushed after him as he dashed from the room and found him telephoning for a taxi. For the next five minutes, while he frantically tossed a few necessities into a bag, she hovered at his elbow, extracting broken phrases from him⁠ ⁠… “Terrible accident⁠ ⁠… my best friend⁠ ⁠… have to go⁠ ⁠… awfully sorry⁠ ⁠… No!⁠ ⁠… No!⁠ ⁠… Have to go⁠—at once!”

“But⁠—Bobby!⁠ ⁠… My party!⁠ ⁠… Surely, you wouldn’t do such a thing to me!⁠ ⁠… Be reasonable!⁠ ⁠… You can start tonight, just as well!⁠ ⁠… Oh! I think this is just too cruel⁠—too cruel!”

He wasn’t hearing her⁠ ⁠… Luncheon?⁠ ⁠… Ridiculous!⁠ ⁠… He kissed her wet face and rushed out⁠ ⁠… There was no time for the sluggish automatic lift. He ran down the stairs. Ordinarily, the deafening roar of the propellers exasperated him; gnawed the insulation off his nerves, bit by bit. Today he was barely conscious of the racket. He had seen nothing on his way to Le Bourget field, and was equally indifferent to the receding landscape as Pierre Laudée tilted up his ship’s nose and climbed a steep grade into the clouds for what he boasted, that afternoon, was the record flight from Paris to Rome.

Bobby still clutched the newspaper in his hand; unnecessarily, for he could recite every word⁠ ⁠… Late last night⁠ ⁠… Naples-Rome express⁠ ⁠… wreck near Ciampino⁠ ⁠… open switch⁠ ⁠… seven Americans among the injured⁠ ⁠… Mrs. Helen Hudson, conductor of a touring party⁠ ⁠… fatally hurt⁠ ⁠… removed to the English Hospital on Via Nomentana, in Rome.

He remembered the place⁠ ⁠… little hospital⁠ ⁠… Ardmore⁠—good man⁠—chief of staff⁠ ⁠… throat specialist. He knew of him.

The day dragged on. Sometimes he relaxed from his tension, sank back into the cushions, limp, and wondered how much of the quiver of him was due to the ship’s tremor. Then his anxiety would sweep over him, drying his throat, nauseating him.

It was an interminable grind. And it seemed almost as long again to creep in, at a thirty-mile snail-pace, from the landing-field to the hospital.

The taxi turned in at the hospital gate and slowed down as it followed a gravelled driveway hedged with masses of shrubbery. It drew up under the porte-cochère. He had not remembered it to be such a gloomy, taciturn forbidding place as it appeared today. He wondered if that was the way Brightwood looked to people who came, heartsick with anxiety, to inquire whether their beloved still breathed.