Magnificent Obsession

It had lately become common chatter at Brightwood Hospital⁠—better known for three hundred miles around Detroit as Hudson’s Clinic⁠—that the chief was all but dead on his feet. The whole place buzzed with it.

All the way from the inquisitive solarium on the top floor to the garrulous kitchen in the basement, little groups⁠—convalescents in wheeled chairs, nurses with tardy trays, lean interns on rubber soles, grizzled orderlies trailing damp mops⁠—met to whisper and separated to disseminate the bad news. Doctor Hudson was on the verge of a collapse.

On the verge?⁠ ⁠… Indeed! One lengthening story had it that on Tuesday he had fainted during an operation⁠—mighty ticklish piece of business, too⁠—which young Watson, assisting him, was obliged to complete alone. And the worst of it was that he was back at it again, next morning, carrying on as usual.

An idle tale like that, no matter with what solicitude of loyalty it might be discussed at Brightwood, would deal the institution a staggering wallop once it seeped through the big wrought-iron gates. And the rumour was peculiarly difficult to throttle because, unfortunately, it was true.

Obviously the hour had arrived for desperate measures.

Slowly and carefully⁠—for he was still limp from his battle with pneumonia, resultant from the prolonged use of a lung-motor in the inexperienced hands of excited people⁠—two nurses had trundled young Merrick up to the well-appointed solarium.

“It won’t hurt him a bit,” Doctor Watson had said, “and there is at least the suspicion of a breeze upstairs.”

Parking his chair in an alcove somewhat sequestered from the general assembly of convalescents, most of them white-turbaned like himself, his uncommunicative attendants had pattered quickly away as if relieved to be off to more pleasant undertakings.

Their scamper added to his perplexity. Yesterday he had tried to explain the prevailing taciturnity of the people who waited on him: it was the weather. The muggy, mid-August humidity accounted for it. If doctors were brief and brusque, nurses crisp and remote, it was because the patients were fretful⁠ ⁠… everybody out of sorts⁠ ⁠… naturally.

But, even so, something more serious than a low barometer ailed this hospital. Its moodiness was too thick to be interpreted by a murky yellow sky, the abominable rasp of cicadas in the dusty maples, or the enervating heat. Brightwood was in trouble; nor could Bobby shake off the feeling that he, himself, was somehow at the bottom of it; else why this conspiracy of mute glumness in their attitude toward him? My God!⁠ ⁠… He might as well have been some penniless bum, fished out of the gutter, and patched up for sheer humanity’s sake⁠ ⁠… Didn’t they know who he was?⁠ ⁠… Why, his grandfather could buy up the whole works and never miss it!

For a moment, he was speechless with exasperation over the studied insolence of her query. Sinking back upon the pillow, he motioned to her to leave him. Instead, she took her stand at the foot of his bed, and, hands on hips, militantly began an address distinguished for its lack of polite ambiguity.

“You invited this,” she said thickly. “You called me in here to get some information about the Hudsons, and I’m going to tell you! And then you can pay them off⁠ ⁠… with your grandfather’s money! Do you know what killed Doctor Hudson?⁠ ⁠… Worry! They said it was overwork that weakened his heart. I know better! The only thing that counted in his life, besides his profession, was Joyce. He saw her going to the dogs. Part of that was your fault! You’ve had a reputation for ruining all your friends!”

Bobby Merrick lay stunned under the attack, his eyes wide with amazement at the woman’s audacity.

“The poor chap tried to pull himself together.” Her voice wavered a little, but she went on with resolution. “Built that little house at the lake, went swimming when he wasn’t able; knew he wasn’t able; had provided a lung-motor for emergencies; and then, at the moment when he has to have it⁠—you’re using it! You⁠—of all people! And now you casually suggest settling the bill with money!”

Something in his look⁠—it was the look of a hurt animal⁠—checked Nancy’s passionate diatribe.

Evidently the driver had sighted him, and, unsure of his intentions, was making a final effort at extrication before he reached the car; for, as he came within a few feet of it, the engine fairly bellowed with exasperation and the big coupé shuddered. There was a young woman at the wheel.

“My God, sister,” shouted Bobby, when the racket had subsided, “don’t do that any more!”

Sister accepted the admonition with wide eyes into which Bobby now gazed interestedly at close range. She smiled, and he reconsidered his earlier opinion of her. She was probably unaccustomed to driving in soft gravel; unacquainted with its treacheries; might be a most excellent driver almost anywhere else.

“Is it really down very deep?” she inquired, with anxiety.

There was a curious huskiness in her voice that gave it an intimate, just-between-us, confidential timbre.

Bobby walked to the rear and looked.

“Very!” he declared. “To the hub. Your differential is flat on the ground.”

Her face was perplexed. “I don’t know what that is,” she admitted, “but I’m sure it shouldn’t be.”

“No,” said Bobby paternally, “they do better when they’re up off the road.”

She sighed, and dabbed at a warm neck with a trifle of lace.

“It’s my fault, I suppose,” ruefully, “I was driving rather fast; and at that sharp turn a car came whopping toward me with the sort of lights they use on aviation fields. I turned out, slipped off⁠ ⁠…”

Bobby could not remember later how he arrived at the stage. There was some ruthless elbowing through the crowd, chairs upset, tables pushed aside, as he made his way. He ran up the steps and confronting the dancer with an outstretched arm commanded him to stop. His face was grim and pale. With an ironical smile, Aleppo eluded the intruder, and Bobby rushed. Pandemonium broke loose among the tables, and the diners jostled about the foot of the stage.

Tom Masterson forced his way through the crowd, climbed the steps, and clutched at Bobby’s sleeve.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he screamed. “If Joyce wants to have a bit of fun with this fellow, what business is it of yours?”

The orchestra had stopped now. Aleppo put Joyce down, and she crumpled on the floor. Several girls from the chorus bent over her, and one ran for water.

With a pugilistic swagger, Aleppo strode forward. His beady little eyes flashed dangerously. His pugnacious jaw seemed coming along somewhat in advance of him. His big fists were clenched. Baring his teeth in a crooked grin, he snarled: “Now!⁠—You’re so damned anxious to get into trouble⁠—”

“Look out!” shouted Masterson, “Don’t do that!”

“Sock him!” yelled some youngster from the crowd.

Aleppo advanced belligerently until he was within reach of a surprise.