Secret Honeymoon Page 10

  Bill was waiting at the foot of the stairs, his hat in his hand, and when Elaine and Cathy looked at his hat, Bill said defensively, “After all, I still have a slight interest in what’s happened at the plant. I might be able to offer some help to the workers in the wreckage.”

  The two girls led the way out of the house, and Bill slipped beneath the steering wheel of the station wagon as they got into the seat beside him.

  They drove in silence into town. At the hospital, as Cathy got out of the car, Bill whispered, “Remember, Cathy, nothing is settled.”

  “I’m afraid it is, Bill.”

  “Nothing of the kind—but we’ll postpone more discussion until a better time.” He watched as Cathy went swiftly up the steps, through crowds of anxious relatives, who gave way almost humbly against the eloquent if silent authority of her crisp uniform.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The hospital was filled to more than capacity. There was no longer such a thing as a private room, for beds had been moved into each of them and now three and sometimes four patients occupied every room. The more seriously injured were in these rooms; those in less serious condition filled the wards and the corridors to overflowing, and doctors and nurses, internes and nurse’s aides worked tirelessly.

  It was not far from dawn when Cathy was able, with two other nurses from her floor, to take a few minutes to go down to the dining room for coffee. When three young internes took the table next to hers, she was vaguely conscious of their words. The two nurses with her were too weary to talk, and almost idly, with a professional interest, Cathy listened to one of the internes describing to his friends an emergency operation he had just witnessed. Cathy recognized, from his words, that the patient had been in a desperate condition and that at best could only hope for a fifty-fifty chance of recovery.

  And then she caught her breath and grew rigid as one of the internes said, “Well, Kendall’s a right guy. Let’s hope he makes it.”

  “Sure, he’s quite a fellow, Bill is,” said one of the others.

  Cathy whirled on them so swiftly that some of the coffee in her cup spattered over her uniform, not quite so immaculate and crisp as it had been hours ago when she came into the hospital.

  “Did—did you say—Bill Kendall?” she gasped.

  The internes were surprised by her obvious agitation.

  “Sure—got bashed up under some falling timbers at the plant,” answered the one who had witnessed the operation.

  It seemed to Cathy that the walls of the dining room did a crazy, impromptu dance and that the floor beneath her wobbled and vibrated like the deck of an ocean liner caught in the grip of a storm.

  “How—how serious?” She forced the words past her shaking lips.

  “Pretty bad. Concussion, four busted ribs, undoubtedly internal injuries,” said the interne with professional enthusiasm, until one of the others laid a warning hand on his arm and he grew silent.

  “Do you know Kendall, Nurse?” asked the interne who had not spoken until now.

  “I—I—yes, of course I know him. Where is he? I have to see him,” stammered Cathy, pulling herself to her feet and clinging to the back of her chair until she dared take a step.

  The three young internes looked alarmed.

  “Oh, but you can’t see him yet, Nurse. Doctor’s orders. No visitors.”

  “But I’m not a visitor,” said Cathy, and her voice was shaking, for all her efforts at control. “I’m—his wife.”

  There was a whisper across the room; all of them had heard—hospital personnel and the few townspeople who sat about in white-faced groups.

  “So,” breathed one of the internes, and gave her a room number. The next moment Cathy was gone, running blindly, forgetting one of the most binding rules of hospital life—that no doctor or nurse must ever run or behave in an agitated manner.

  She was conscious of nothing but the driving need to reach Bill, to be with him, to see for herself what had happened. She found the door with the number the interne had given her. She pushed it open, and a white-coated doctor and a nurse who stood on either side of the bed turned to her sharply.

  “Yes, Nurse, what is it?” asked the doctor, looking up from the bed above which he had been bending. His tone was curt with reproof and he looked with distaste and disapproval at Cathy’s uniform, where the spilled coffee had spattered.

  “How—how is he?” stammered Cathy faintly.

  “Not too good,” admitted the doctor with a frankness he would never have bestowed on the question of someone outside the hospital. “But we are doing everything we can. You’re not needed, Nurse, and I’m sure you are elsewhere.”

  “I’m staying here,” said Cathy, in a tone no nurse had ever used to this doctor before. But before he could put into words his disapproval of her manner, she added quietly, “I’m his wife.”

  The doctor looked from her down to the bandage-swathed man on the bed, and then gave Cathy a little smile.

  “Oh, I see. There’s been some mistake,” he explained quietly. “This is young Bill Kendall here. Your husband is probably in some other room.”

  “Bill Kendall is my husband,” Cathy said. She had not taken her eyes from the swathed head and face of the man who lay so still against the pillows.

  “Even if what you say is true, Nurse, I must remind you that I am head of the staff here and that it is for me to decide—” the irritated doctor began sternly.

  “I’m Bill’s wife, and I’m not an employee of this hospital,” Cathy pointed out quietly. “I’m a volunteer. Also, I’m an army nurse and I’ve had a great deal more experience looking after men who’ve been—broken and—blown to bits than any other nurse here. So I’m looking after him.”

  The other nurse was wide-eyed and gasping, That any nurse would so far violate discipline as to dare talk back to a doctor—and especially the head of staff—was to her an unthinkable thing. But after a moment Dr. Rodgers nodded and said quietly, “Of course, Nurse, under such circumstances—”

  He dismissed the other nurse and swiftly, concisely, he described to Cathy the injuries she was to treat, the signs she was to watch for; and after a moment he went on his way.

  Cathy bent over the still, unconscious form and her tears rained down on Bill’s white face.

  “Oh, Bill—oh, darling, darling, forgive me!” she pleaded softly, huskily. “Bill, I’ve been such fool. I had to almost lose you before I knew the truth. Bill, forgive me— Oh, darling!” She slid down on her knees beside the bed, her tear-wet face pressed hard against his immobile hand, and barely above her breath she whispered a little prayer that came straight from her heart. Dear God—oh, please, dear God—forgive me—and give me another chance!

  She rose at long last, realizing the folly, the danger of going to pieces at a moment when Bill needed her desperately. It was her skill, her faith, her devotion that would pull Bill through; it was a battle such as few women ever have to fight, and it was going to take all her courage and her self-control to hold her own.

  She did what little she could for him and then drew a chair beside the bed, folded his limp hand between both her own, and settled to wait, to watch, to pray, alert to the slightest alteration in his slow, painful breathing that sounded so terribly loud in the small room.

  It was not until the fourth morning that consciousness returned to Bill. Cathy had caught the stirring that was so slight that only she, concentrating on him as she was, could have seen. For a moment a flood of tears threatened her; but she was still a nurse, although her emotion as a woman had all but made her forget it. She grew tense, watchful, keeping an iron hand on her self-control, and when Bill’s eyelids opened, slowly, unwillingly, as though there might have been weights on them, she was bending above him, and by some miracle of courage and love and blazing hope she was able to smile at him.

  “Hi, Cathy!” Bill meant it to be a shout. It was little more than a ghost of sound.

  “Hi, Bill,” said Cathy, and if he saw the tears in he
r eyes or caught the tremor in her voice, he did not show it.

  Bill moved and winced and said, “Ouch!” in a tone of outraged astonishment. He stared up at her.

  “Hey, what happened to me?” he demanded sharply.

  Cathy made herself grin impishly at him, and if the grin wobbled a little, Bill was certainly in no position to realize that.

  “Oh, nothing much,” she assured him comfortingly. “A building fell on you, but I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. They tell me the Kendalls are very tough!”

  “Oh, sure—very tough—as you’ll find out, now that you’re one of them,” he told her, and grinned. And then his fingers tightened on hers and he said in swift alarm, his voice faint and weak but touched with the vigor of shock, “I had the darnedest dream, Cathy—it was a nightmare.”

  “Did you, darling?” soothed Cathy gently. “Well, don’t worry about it now. It was just a dream and now you’re awake.”

  “Cathy, I dreamed Aunt Edith gave us her blessing and then you climbed up on your high horse and said you didn’t want anything from me but a divorce. It was a dream, wasn’t it, Cathy?”

  Cathy bent and kissed him. “Of course it was a dream, darling—and you mustn’t talk any more. You’ve got to get a lot of sleep and rest. Drink this, sweet.”

  Bill turned his head a very little and said mutinously, “But I don’t want to sleep—I just woke up. And there’s a heck of a lot to be done.”

  “It’ll get done a lot faster if you drink this and go back to sleep for a while,” said Cathy firmly. She held the drinking tube to his lips, and obediently Bill drank.

  She reported radiantly to the doctor, who was delighted with Bill’s return to consciousness. Cathy knew, of course, that there had been great danger that when Bill recovered consciousness, his mind might prove to have been injured. He had had a terrific blow on the head and had lain for some time unconscious beneath the fallen timbers before they had found him. She had not dared face, even in her own mind, her terrible fear that he might, if he lived, have a brain injury from which he would be long in recovering, if, indeed, he recovered at all. But that terrible fear was gone now; Bill had woken as though from a long slumber, dazed and a little bewildered, but obviously quite normal in his mind. Which was something to give thanks for as long as they both lived. She looked down at him now, with the tears slipping down her cheeks, while the doctor examined Bill and then turned to her.

  “Here, here, Mrs. Kendall,” he said sternly, and as though he had flung cold water in her face, Cathy strained and the tears eased, and she stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “Mrs. Kendall!” she breathed. “Oh, but that’s a lovely name, isn’t it, Doctor?”

  Dr. Rodgers smiled and patted her shoulder.

  “You’ve been a mighty brave girl, Mrs. Kendall—you mustn’t let go now. What you need is about twenty-four hours’ sleep. We’ll put someone else on duty here and you go home and sleep.”

  “Oh, no, please don’t send me away.”

  “Now, see here, Mrs. Kendall, you pull yourself together and realize that while Bill is just lying here sleeping, he can spare you very well. But once he is beginning to come to himself, he’s going to need you badly. He’ll sleep twelve hours, and you know that as well as I do. So you go home and get some rest. We’d put you to bed here if we were not already packed to the doors.”

  There was no denying the truth of the doctor’s words, and Cathy was sane enough to know that she could be of little service to Bill if she drove herself to the point of mental as well as physical exhaustion. While he slept, there was little or nothing she could do for him. But when he woke up—

  “You’re quite right, of course, Doctor,” she apologized, and managed a small smile. “I’ll go home, of course—but if there is the slightest, tiniest change, you’ll call me?”

  “Of course. You may take my word on that,” said Dr. Rodgers, and led her outside the room, his hands gentle on her tired shoulders.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Now that the strain under which she had passed so many hours had lessened a little, Cathy was desperately numb with weariness and half blind for lack of sleep. She almost felt her way down the stairs and started across the lobby. But as she did so, a woman appeared at the door of the reception room and called to her sharply. Cathy turned and saw Edith Kendall coming toward her, her haggard face twisted.

  “Cathy—he’s—he’s not—” The words died unspoken in Mrs. Kendall’s throat.

  “Of course not—he’s better. He woke up,” said Cathy radiantly. Suddenly Mrs. Kendall was weeping stormily, and Cathy’s arms were about her, steadying her, easing her out of the lobby and into the bright late afternoon sunlight.

  The Kendall car was there, and the Kendall chauffeur was behind the wheel. When he saw Mrs. Kendall was distraught, he looked shocked; the next moment he was out of the car, helping to ease her into it.

  Mrs. Kendall kept her hand on Cathy’s arm, saying urgently, “You’re coming home with me, Cathy? You must.”

  And Cathy, for all her hunger to get back to her own room, saw that there was nothing to be gained by continuing to argue, so she got into the car. Mrs. Kendall kept Cathy’s fingers in her own, and as they picked their way through the destruction that was beginning to show some signs of order, Mrs. Kendall chattered of the news of the town. The plant had been wrecked and it would take at least six months to rebuild it and get it into operation. It was obvious that she felt the things that lay between herself and Cathy were much too private to be discussed behind the broad back of the chauffeur, and Cathy privately agreed with her, grateful for the camouflage of small talk behind which she could compose herself somewhat and prepare for whatever Edith Kendall might have in mind once they were in private.

  Mrs. Kendall bore Cathy into the house on a continuing chatter of light talk, and up the stairs to the room Cathy had had previously.

  “Elaine ran out to Mrs. Westbrook and packed a bag for you. Just a few things she thought you’d need, until there is a chance for you to go out and remove the rest of your belongings,” she said chattily, and indicated the closet. “Tessie put things away for you.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Cathy automatically.

  Mrs. Kendall hesitated and then she burst out frankly.

  “No, Cathy, I haven’t been kind at all. I’ve been a spiteful, jealous, malicious old woman. I’ve been dominating everybody and forcing my will on them, and never realized until I almost lost my boy how wicked I was! I owe you a very honest and sincere apology. Cathy—I’m sorry.”

  Cathy said swiftly, “Please don’t—”

  Mrs. Kendall smiled wryly.

  “Better let me finish now, Cathy, while I’m in the mood,” she interrupted. “I’m softened now by what has happened. I’ll probably change again some as soon as Bill is safely out of danger. I expect you’ll have a lot to put up with from me, though I’ll honestly try to—to behave myself.”

  Cathy was silent. Mrs. Kendall looked at her almost fearfully, and spoke straight from her troubled, uneasy mind.

  “Cathy, you—you’re not really going to divorce Bill now?” she pleaded.

  Cathy stared at her in shocked amazement.

  “Divorce Bill?” she repeated as though she could not believe her ears.

  “Well, you insisted you were going to, before he was hurt,” Mrs. Kendall pointed out.

  Cathy was startled to remember that. It seemed to have happened many years ago, in another existence, almost to another person. How in the world could she ever have thought she could live without Bill? Why should she have thought so, when she had loved Bill so much of her life?

  Mrs. Kendall said shakily, “I’m so glad, Cathy. Bill would have hated me the rest of his life if he’d lost you on my account.”

  Cathy said unsteadily, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kendall, but I’m terribly tired.”

  “But of course you are, you poor child,” Mrs. Kendall said eagerly. “Here, you get into bed and I’ll h
ave them bring you some food, and then I’ll tuck you in.”

  Freed at last of the older woman’s ministrations, Cathy lay awake in the dim, shadowed room, the curtains drawn, and for the first time since that terrible moment when she had heard the young internes talking about Bill’s injuries she had time for coherent thought.

  She was appalled to realize that if Bill had not been hurt, her pride might have sent her away from him forever. She might never have realized that, after all, she loved him with all her heart. Now, in the reawakening of that bewildered heart, she realized that she had merely been overtired from the strain of being Bill’s secret bride and she had let her pride blind her to the truth. She had been mentally exhausted and she had deceived herself into believing that she no longer loved him—that she had grown up; that she had changed. But she knew now, in the clarity the last few days of suspense and anxiety had brought, that she would never cease to love Bill, no matter what, no matter how long she lived. Bill was part of her, and without him she could never be more than half alive. She would have to make him understand that—but she comforted herself with the warm, lovely thought that she and Bill were now so much a part of each other that it would be easy for him to understand. And with that thought warm in her, she relaxed and let exhaustion help her into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  When she awoke, it was morning again. She felt new-born, fresh and alert and fit; she sang as she slipped into her shower, came back to select a fresh, crisp uniform from those hanging in the closet, and got into it. She went downstairs moving swiftly and lightly.

  There was the very faint tinkle of china and glass from the side terrace which the family used as an outdoor dining room throughout the warm weather. She followed the sound to find Mark, looking tired but very smart and neat in his well-tailored uniform, just beginning his second cup of coffee.

  “Hi, Lieutenant,” he greeted her, and held a chair for her, smiling warmly. “You look like the very top of the morning.”

  “I feel on top of the morning,” she told him gaily, and dug hungrily into the slice of cold melon before her. “Bill’s going to get well—isn’t it glorious?”