Cobra

by Martin Brown; Russell Holman

"Oh, it's bound to," Rodrigo cut in cheerfully. "New faces, new scenes. You'll come back a new man, ready to pitch in like a whirlwind."

But John had hardly listened to him. Alice had left the room, as the patient discovered when he looked cautiously around. At once he caught Rodrigo's sleeve with his thin fingers and looked at him so pathetically that the latter wanted to turn his head away. John asked, "Have you learned anything at all about Elise, Rodrigo?" And when Rodrigo shook his head slowly, John's hand and head fell and he whispered, "Nothing—in all these months? It's unbelievable—it's maddening."

Rodrigo hastened to soothe him, to change the subject. A few moments later Alice returned with the nurse, and Rodrigo deduced that it was time that he left. The two men shook hands and, with an encouraging caution to come back strong and healthy, Rodrigo was out of the room.

During the remainder of the winter, the word from California was of John's constant improvement. He was living almost in the open air and doing little besides eat and sleep. In February he started writing short notes to Rodrigo in his own hand. By the first of March, the notes had grown longer and had lost both their unsteadiness of chirography and the perfunctory air of being written by a man too tired mentally to use his imagination.

John was taking an interest in life again. He took to commenting upon the beauty of the natural scenery about him and upon the desecration being wrought upon Nature by some of the architectural monstrosities of the region. He told in subsequent letters of having lunch with mutual business friends of theirs, of a trip to Catalina Island. He even made some inquiries about certain projects he had left unfinished upon the occasion of his abrupt leave-taking from Dorning and Son and urged Rodrigo to tell him in detail of his business problems of the hour. This last, to Rodrigo, was the most encouraging sign of all.

Early in April, John Dorning returned to Greenwich. Rodrigo spent the week-end there and rejoiced to see his friend looking so changed for the better. Though he was still thin and fragile-looking, there was color in his cheeks and life in his eyes. And whatever his mood might be when alone, in the presence of his family and of Rodrigo, John was now nearly his old self. He had, right at the start of Rodrigo's visit, made an effort to prove this by meeting his friend at the station in the Dorning sedan and driving him to the house. In answer to Rodrigo's joyous greeting and eager questioning, he replied, "Yes, I'm in quite good shape now. In fact, Dr. Hotchkiss is so pleased with me that he says I may come in a couple of days next week for an hour or so each day and kind of get in touch with things at the shop. And I'll be glad to do it, I can tell you."

Though Rodrigo sensed somehow that the thought of the missing Elise still occupied the back of John Dorning's mind, to the exclusion of everything else, her name was not mentioned at all throughout the week-end.

Sunday morning, Rodrigo rode horseback with John, a pastime which Dr. Hotchkiss had recommended and which had led to the purchase of two excellent saddle-horses and their installation in the long empty Dorning barn. The bridle-path led them quite close to the Millbank development, where stood the vacant home of John and Elise. Rodrigo did not, of course, allude to this and even glanced anxiously at John as they passed the place.

"I am going over to my old house next week sometime and take out the stuff I left there," John said calmly, though Rodrigo wondered if there was not suppressed emotion behind those quiet words. "I have put the place on the market and intend to dispose of it." John was frowning and his lips were clenched tightly.

Rodrigo did not answer him, but soon afterward prodded his horse into a gallop. John followed him, and they finished their journey at a very rapid pace. Rodrigo left for New York that evening, very much pleased with his friend's condition. Some of the heavy load was lifted off the young Italian's mind at last. Though he had not permitted himself to think about it during all the long months of that sad winter and early spring, he was utterly worn out in body and mind. On the rare occasions when he relaxed the grim guard upon his mind and was weak enough to pity himself, it seemed to him that soon he must, must get away.