Pippin's Journal by Rohan O'Grady

Author:Rohan O'Grady
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Published: 2024-04-25T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIVE

Apart from his homicidal tendencies, Forbes did appear to be a competent physician, as Beatrice said.

He made no further reference to the book, nor did I. As a scientist I was used to exercising patience, and I knew that Forbes, given time, would prove himself with the stark simplicity of an algebraic problem.

My recuperation was unusually rapid and thoroughly enjoyable, thanks to the ministrations of Beatrice. Beatrice, as lovely and care­free as a wild rose. To my great surprise we felt remark­ably at ease with each other, and I soon realized that she regarded me as Nan had Nicholas. I could do no wrong in her eyes, and she was devoted to me, as, oddly, I was to her.

As I recovered, certain things became daily clearer to me. I knew now that I had been on the verge of a complete nervous collapse before I entered Cliff House. Years of relentless overwork, plus my agonizing solitary life were certainly not conducive to a well bal­anced personality, and the fatal history of Cliff House had provided the proverbial last straw.

Forbes came daily. I could always hear his red sports car come screeching to a halt on the gravel drive. The door would slam, and there he’d be, one of those ridiculous little flat caps perched on his head.

He dressed immaculately and jauntily—short stiff collars, knitted ties and, usually, a yellow Jaeger weskit and a checkered sports jacket with leather elbows.

The procedure was for me to strip to the waist while he carefully sounded my lungs.

Soon I was strong enough to sit up for extended periods, and to take short walks about the place, although Forbes warned me not to overtax my strength.

Two weeks later I had never felt better in my life.

Forbes eyed me up and down, folded his stethoscope and said, “That congestion in the right lung has cleared up nicely. Very nicely indeed.”

He has the most irritating manner of repeating himself.

He then gave me a poke in the ribs that would have rocked a lesser man and that was intended to indicate the examination was over.

Beatrice stood by, regarding me strangely.

“Did you get the mail from the village?” She was speaking to him but gazing at me.

Was I losing my mind again? Devoted service is one thing but, had she been looking at anyone but myself, I would have inter­preted her expression as unconscious and unmistakable admiration.

“It’s in the car, I’ll get it now,” Forbes replied.

Beatrice and I were left alone.

“Beatrice, what is it?”

She mumbled something about Byron and began straightening my bed in a flustered manner.

“Byron?” I said in amazement. “What are you talking about?”

“I was . . . uh,” she pointed to Fabian’s portrait. “He . . . and you, well . . . look like Byron.”

“Well, Byron and I had one thing in common, anyway.”

I was surprised she mentioned Byron and even more surprised she had heard of him. She wasn’t the poetry-loving type, and my remark passed unnoticed.

We were interrupted by Nan. When she saw me naked to the waist, she turned suspiciously to Beatrice.

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