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Turmoil, The (Volume 1 of the Growth Trilogy)

<h2> CHAPTER XVII </h2> That "mystery about pianos" which troubled Bibbs had been a mystery to Mr. Vertrees, and it was being explained to him at about the time Bibbs scribbled the reference to it in his notes. Mary had gone up-stairs upon Bibbs's departure at ten o'clock, and Mr. and Mrs. Vertrees sat until after midnight in the library, talking. And in all that time they found not one cheerful topic, but became more depressed with everything and with every phase of everything that they discussed—no extraordinary state of affairs in a family which has always "held up its head," only to arrive in the end at a point where all it can do is to look on helplessly at the processes of its own financial dissolution. For that was the point which this despairing couple had reached—they could do nothing except look on and talk about it. They were only vaporing, and they knew it. "She needn't to have done that about her piano," vapored Mr. Vertrees. "We could have managed somehow without it. At least she ought to have consulted me, and if she insisted I could have arranged the details with the—the dealer." "She thought that it might be—annoying for you," Mrs. Vertrees explained. "Really, she planned for you not to know about it until they had removed—until after to-morrow, that is, but I decided to—to mention it. You see, she didn't even tell me about it until this morning. She has another idea, too, I'm afraid. It's—it's—" "Well?" he urged, as she found it difficult to go on. "Her other idea is—that is, it was—I think it can be avoided, of course—it was about her furs." "No!" he exclaimed, quickly. "I won't have it! You must see to that. I'd rather not talk to her about it, but you mustn't let her." "I'll try not," his wife promised. "Of course, they're very handsome." "All the more reason for her to keep them!" he returned, irritably. "We're not THAT far gone, I think!" "Perhaps not yet," Mrs. Vertrees said. "She seems to be troubled about the—the coal matter and—about Tilly. Of course the piano will take care of some things like those for a while and—" "I don't like it. I gave her the piano to play on, not to—" "You mustn't be distressed about it in ONE way," she said, comfortingly. "She arranged with the—with the purchaser that the men will come for it about half after five in the afternoon. The days are so short now it's really quite winter." "Oh, yes," he agreed, moodily. "So far as that goes people have a right to move a piece of furniture without stirring up the neighbors, I suppose, even by daylight. I don't suppose OUR neighbors are paying much attention just now, though I hear Sheridan was back in his office early the morning after the funeral." Mrs. Vertrees made a little sound of commiseration. "I don't believe that was because he wasn't suffering, though. I'm sure it was only because he felt his business was so important. Mary told me he seemed wrapped up in his son's succeeding; and that was what he bragged about most. He isn't vulgar in his boasting, I understand; he doesn't talk a great deal about his—his actual money—though there was something about blades of grass that I didn't comprehend. I think he meant something about his energy—but perhaps not. No, his bragging usually seemed to be not so much a personal vainglory as about his family and the greatness of this city." "'Greatness of this city'!" Mr. Vertrees echoed, with dull bitterness. "It's nothing but a coal-hole! I suppose it looks 'great' to the man who has the luck to make it work for him. I suppose it looks 'great' to any YOUNG man, too, starting out to make his fortune out of it. The fellows that get what they want out of it say it's 'great,' and everybody else gets the habit. But you have a different point of view if it's the city that got what it wanted out of you! Of course Sheridan says it's 'great'." Mrs. Vertrees seemed unaware of this unusual outburst. "I believe," she began, timidly, "he doesn't boast of—that is, I understand he has never seemed so interested in the—the other one." Her husband's face was dark, but at that a heavier shadow fell upon it; he looked more haggard than before. "'The other one'," he repeated, averting his eyes. "You mean—you mean the third son—the one that was here this evening?" "Yes, the—the youngest," she returned, her voice so feeble it was almost a whisper. And then neither of them spoke for several long minutes. Nor did either look at the other during that silence. At last Mr. Vertrees contrived to cough, but not convincingly. "What—ah—what was it Mary said about him out in the hall, when she came in this afternoon? I heard you asking her something about him, but she answered in such a low voice I didn't—ah—happen to catch it." "She—she didn't say much. All she said was this: I asked her if she had enjoyed her walk with him, and she said, 'He's the most wistful creature I've ever known.'" "Well?" "That was all. He IS wistful-looking; and so fragile—though he doesn't seem quite so much so lately. I was watching Mary from the window when she went out to-day, and he joined her, and if I hadn't known about him I'd have thought he had quite an interesting face." "If you 'hadn't known about him'? Known what?" "Oh, nothing, of course," she said, hurriedly. "Nothing definite, that is. Mary said decidely, long ago, that he's not at all insane, as we thought at first. It's only—well, of course it IS odd, their attitude about him. I suppose it's some nervous trouble that makes him—perhaps a little queer at times, so that he can't apply himself to anything—or perhaps does odd things. But, after all, of course, we only have an impression about it. We don't know—that is, positively. I—" She paused, then went on: "I didn't know just how to ask—that is—I didn't mention it to Mary. I didn't—I—" The poor lady floundered pitifully, concluding with a mumble. "So soon after—after the—the shock." "I don't think I've caught more than a glimpse of him," said Mr. Vertrees. "I wouldn't know him if I saw him, but your impression of him is—" He broke off suddenly, springing to his feet in agitation. "I can't imagine her—oh, NO!" he gasped. And he began to pace the floor. "A half-witted epileptic!" "No, no!" she cried. "He may be all right. We—" "Oh, it's horrible! I can't—" He threw himself back into his chair again, sweeping his hands across his face, then letting them fall limply at his sides. Mrs. Vertrees was tremulous. "You mustn't give way so," she said, inspired for once almost to direct discourse. "Whatever Mary might think of doing, it wouldn't be on her own account; it would be on ours. But if WE should—should consider it, that wouldn't be on OUR own account. It isn't because we think of ourselves." "Oh God, no!" he groaned. "Not for us! We can go to the poorhouse, but Mary can't be a stenographer!" Sighing, Mrs. Vertrees resumed her obliqueness. "Of course," she murmured, "it all seems very premature, speculating about such things, but I had a queer sort of feeling that she seemed quite interested in this—" She had almost said "in this one," but checked herself. "In this young man. It's natural, of course; she is always so strong and well, and he is—he seems to be, that is—rather appealing to the—the sympathies." "Yes!" he agreed, bitterly. "Precisely. The sympathies!" "Perhaps," she faltered, "perhaps you might feel easier if I could have a little talk with some one?" "With whom?" "I had thought of—not going about it too brusquely, of course, but perhaps just waiting for his name to be mentioned, if I happened to be talking with somebody that knew the family—and then I might find a chance to say that I was sorry to hear he'd been ill so much, and—Something of that kind perhaps?" "You don't know anybody that knows the family." "Yes. That is—well, in a way, of course, one OF the family. That Mrs. Roscoe Sheridan is not a—that is, she's rather a pleasant-faced little woman, I think, and of course rather ordinary. I think she is interested about—that is, of course, she'd be anxious to be more intimate with Mary, naturally. She's always looking over here from her house; she was looking out the window this afternoon when Mary went out, I noticed—though I don't think Mary saw her. I'm sure she wouldn't think it out of place to—to be frank about matters. She called the other day, and Mary must rather like her—she said that evening that the call had done her good. Don't you think it might be wise?" "Wise? I don't know. I feel the whole matter is impossible." "Yes, so do I," she returned, promptly. "It isn't really a thing we should be considering seriously, of course. Still—" "I should say not! But possibly—" Thus they skirmished up and down the field, but before they turned the lights out and went up-stairs it was thoroughly understood between them that Mrs. Vertrees should seek the earliest opportunity to obtain definite information from Sibyl Sheridan concerning the mental and physical status of Bibbs. And if he were subject to attacks of lunacy, the unhappy pair decided to prevent the sacrifice they supposed their daughter intended to make of herself. Altogether, if there were spiteful ghosts in the old house that night, eavesdropping upon the woeful comedy, they must have died anew of laughter! Mrs. Vertrees's opportunity occurred the very next afternoon. Darkness had fallen, and the piano-movers had come. They were carrying the piano down the front steps, and Mrs. Vertrees was standing in the open doorway behind them, preparing to withdraw, when she heard a sharp exclamation; and Mrs. Roscoe Sheridan, bareheaded, emerged from the shadow into the light of the doorway. "Good gracious!" she cried. "It did give me a fright!" "It's Mrs. Sheridan, isn't it?" Mrs. Vertrees was perplexed by this informal appearance, but she reflected that it might be providential. "Won't you come in?" "No. Oh no, thank you!" Sibyl panted, pressing her hand to her side. "You don't know what a fright you've given me! And it was nothing but your piano!" She laughed shrilly. "You know, since our tragedy coming so suddenly the other day, you have no idea how upset I've been—almost hysterical! And I just glanced out of the window, a minute or so ago, and saw your door wide open and black figures of men against the light, carrying something heavy, and I almost fainted. You see, it was just the way it looked when I saw them bringing my poor brother-in-law in, next door, only such a few short days ago. And I thought I'd seen your daughter start for a drive with Bibbs Sheridan in a car about three o'clock—and— They aren't back yet, are they?" "No. Good heavens!" "And the only thing I could think of was that something must have happened to them, and I just dashed over—and it was only your PIANO!" She broke into laughter again. "I suppose you're just sending it somewhere to be repaired, aren't you?" "It's—it's being taken down-town," said Mrs. Vertrees. "Won't you come in and make me a little visit. I was SO sorry, the other day, that I was—ah—" She stopped inconsequently, then repeated her invitation. "Won't you come in? I'd really—" "Thank you, but I must be running back. My husband usually gets home about this time, and I make a little point of it always to be there." "That's very sweet." Mrs. Vertrees descended the steps and walked toward the street with Sibyl. "It's quite balmy for so late in November, isn't it? Almost like a May evening." "I'm afraid Miss Vertrees will miss her piano," said Sibyl, watching the instrument disappear into the big van at the curb. "She plays wonderfully, Mrs. Kittersby tells me." "Yes, she plays very well. One of your relatives came to hear her yesterday, after dinner, and I think she played all evening for him." "You mean Bibbs?" asked Sibyl. "The—the youngest Mr. Sheridan. Yes. He's very musical, isn't he?" "I never heard of it. But I shouldn't think it would matter much whether he was or not, if he could get Miss Vertrees to play to him. Does your daughter expect the piano back soon?" "I—I believe not immediately. Mr. Sheridan came last evening to hear her play because she had arranged with the—that is, it was to be removed this afternoon. He seems almost well again." "Yes." Sibyl nodded. "His father's going to try to start him to work." "He seems very delicate," said Mrs. Vertrees. "I shouldn't think he would be able to stand a great deal, either physically or—" She paused and then added, glowing with the sense of her own adroitness—"or mentally." "Oh, mentally Bibbs is all right," said Sibyl, in an odd voice. "Entirely?" Mrs. Vertrees asked, breathlessly. "Yes, entirely." "But has he ALWAYS been?" This question came with the same anxious eagerness. "Certainly. He had a long siege of nervous dyspepsia, but he's over it." "And you think—" "Bibbs is all right. You needn't wor—" Sibyl choked, and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. "Good night, Mrs. Vertrees," she said, hurriedly, as the head-lights of an automobile swung round the corner above, sending a brightening glare toward the edge of the pavement where the two ladies were standing. "Won't you come in?" urged Mrs. Vertrees, cordially, hearing the sound of a cheerful voice out of the darkness beyond the approaching glare. "Do! There's Mary now, and she—" But Sibyl was half-way across the street. "No, thanks," she called. "I hope she won't miss her piano!" And she ran into her own house and plunged headlong upon a leather divan in the hall, holding her handkerchief over her mouth. The noise of her tumultuous entrance was evidently startling in the quiet house, for upon the bang of the door there followed the crash of a decanter, dropped upon the floor of the dining-room at the end of the hall; and, after a rumble of indistinct profanity, Roscoe came forth, holding a dripping napkin in his hand. "What's your excitement?" he demanded. "What do you find to go into hysterics over? Another death in the family?" "Oh, it's funny!" she gasped. "Those old frost-bitten people! I guess THEY'RE getting their come-uppance!" Lying prone, she elevated her feet in the air, clapped her heels together repeatedly, in an ecstasy. "Come through, come through!" said her husband, crossly. "What you been up to?" "Me?" she cried, dropping her feet and swinging around to face him. "Nothing. It's them! Those Vertreeses!" She wiped her eyes. "They've had to sell their piano!" "Well, what of it?" "That Mrs. Kittersby told me all about 'em a week ago," said Sibyl. "They've been hard up for a long time, and she says as long ago as last winter she knew that girl got a pair of walking-shoes re-soled and patched, because she got it done the same place Mrs. Kittersby's cook had HERS! And the night of the house-warming I kind of got suspicious, myself. She didn't have one single piece of any kind of real jewelry, and you could see her dress was an old one done over. Men can't tell those things, and you all made a big fuss over her, but I thought she looked a sight, myself! Of course, EDITH was crazy to have her, and—" "Well, well?" he urged, impatiently. "Well, I'm TELLING you! Mrs. Kittersby says they haven't got a THING! Just absolutely NOTHING—and they don't know anywhere to turn! The family's all died out but them, and all the relatives they got are very distant, and live East and scarcely know 'em. She says the whole town's been wondering what WOULD become of 'em. The girl had plenty chances to marry up to a year or so ago, but she was so indifferent she scared the men off, and the ones that had wanted to went and married other girls. Gracious! they were lucky! Marry HER? The man that found himself tied up to THAT girl—" "Terrible funny, terrible funny!" said Roscoe, with sarcasm. "It's so funny I broke a cut-glass decanter and spilled a quart of—" "Wait!" she begged. "You'll see. I was sitting by the window a little while ago, and I saw a big wagon drive up across the street and some men go into the house. It was too dark to make out much, and for a minute I got the idea they were moving out—the house has been foreclosed on, Mrs. Kittersby says. It seemed funny, too, because I knew that girl was out riding with Bibbs. Well, I thought I'd see, so I slipped over—and it was their PIANO! They'd sold it and were trying to sneak it out after dark, so nobody'd catch on!" Again she gave way to her enjoyment, but resumed, as her husband seemed about to interrupt the narrative. "Wait a minute, can't you? The old lady was superintending, and she gave it all away. I sized her up for one of those old churchy people that tell all kinds of lies except when it comes to so many words, and then they can't. She might just as well told me outright! Yes, they'd sold it; and I hope they'll pay some of their debts. They owe everybody, and last week a coal-dealer made an awful fuss at the door with Mr. Vertrees. Their cook told our upstairs girl, and she said she didn't know WHEN she'd seen any money, herself! Did you ever hear of such a case as that girl in your LIFE?" "What girl? Their cook?" "That Vertrees girl! Don't you see they looked on our coming up into this neighborhood as their last chance? They were just going down and out, and here bobs up the green, rich Sheridan family! So they doll the girl up in her old things, made over, and send her out to get a Sheridan—she's GOT to get one! And she just goes in blind; and she tries it on first with YOU. You remember, she just plain TOLD you she was going to mash you, and then she found out you were the married one, and turned right square around to Jim and carried him off his feet. Oh, Jim was landed—there's no doubt about THAT! But Jim was lucky; he didn't live to STAY landed, and it's a good thing for him!" Sibyl's mirth had vanished, and she spoke with virulent rapidity. "Well, she couldn't get you, because you were married, and she couldn't get Jim, because Jim died. And there they were, dead broke! Do you know what she did? Do you know what she's DOING?" "No, I don't," said Roscoe, gruffly. Sibyl's voice rose and culminated in a scream of renewed hilarity. "BIBBS! She waited in the grave-yard, and drove home with him from JIM'S FUNERAL! Never spoke to him before! Jim wasn't COLD!" She rocked herself back and forth upon the divan. "Bibbs!" she shrieked. "Bibbs! Roscoe, THINK of it! BIBBS!" He stared unsympathetically, but her mirth was unabated for all that. "And yesterday," she continued, between paroxysms—"yesterday she came out of the house—just as he was passing. She must have been looking out—waiting for the chance; I saw the old lady watching at the window! And she got him there last night—to 'PLAY' to him; the old lady gave that away! And to-day she made him take her out in a machine! And the cream of it is that they didn't even know whether he was INSANE or not—they thought maybe he was, but she went after him just the same! The old lady set herself to pump me about it to-day. BIBBS! Oh, my Lord! BIBBS!" But Roscoe looked grim. "So it's funny to you, is it? It sounds kind of pitiful to me. I should think it would to a woman, too." "Oh, it might," she returned, sobering. "It might, if those people weren't such frozen-faced smart Alecks. If they'd had the decency to come down off the perch a little I probably wouldn't think it was funny, but to see 'em sit up on their pedestal all the time they're eating dirt—well, I think it's funny! That girl sits up as if she was Queen Elizabeth, and expects people to wallow on the ground before her until they get near enough for her to give 'em a good kick with her old patched shoes—oh, she'd do THAT, all right!—and then she powders up and goes out to mash—BIBBS SHERIDAN!" "Look here," said Roscoe, heavily; "I don't care about that one way or another. If you're through, I got something I want to talk to you about. I was going to, that day just before we heard about Jim." At this Sibyl stiffened quickly; her eyes became intensely bright. "What is it?" "Well," he began, frowning, "what I was going to say then—" He broke off, and, becoming conscious that he was still holding the wet napkin in his hand, threw it pettishly into a corner. "I never expected I'd have to say anything like this to anybody I MARRIED; but I was going to ask you what was the matter between you and Lamhorn." Sibyl uttered a sharp monosyllable. "Well?" "I felt the time had come for me to know about it," he went on. "You never told me anything—" "You never asked," she interposed, curtly. "Well, we'd got in a way of not talking much," said Roscoe. "It looks to me now as if we'd pretty much lost the run of each other the way a good many people do. I don't say it wasn't my fault. I was up early and down to work all day, and I'd come home tired at night, and want to go to bed soon as I'd got the paper read—unless there was some good musical show in town. Well, you seemed all right until here lately, the last month or so, I began to see something was wrong. I couldn't help seeing it." "Wrong?" she said. "What like?" "You changed; you didn't look the same. You were all strung up and excited and fidgety; you got to looking peakid and run down. Now then, Lamhorn had been going with us a good while, but I noticed that not long ago you got to picking on him about every little thing he did; you got to quarreling with him when I was there and when I wasn't. I could see you'd been quarreling whenever I came in and he was here." "Do you object to that?" asked Sibyl, breathing quickly. "Yes—when it injures my wife's health!" he returned, with a quick lift of his eyes to hers. "You began to run down just about the time you began falling out with him." He stepped close to her. "See here, Sibyl, I'm going to know what it means." "Oh, you ARE?" she snapped. "You're trembling," he said, gravely. "Yes. I'm angry enough to do more than tremble, you'll find. Go on!" "That was all I was going to say the other day," he said. "I was going to ask you—" "Yes, that was all you were going to say THE OTHER DAY. Yes. What else have you to say to-night?" "To-night," he replied, with grim swiftness, "I want to know why you keep telephoning him you want to see him since he stopped coming here." She made a long, low sound of comprehension before she said, "And what else did Edith want you to ask me?" "I want to know what you say over the telephone to Lamhorn," he said, fiercely. "Is that all Edith told you to ask me? You saw her when you stopped in there on your way home this evening, didn't you? Didn't she tell you then what I said over the telephone to Mr. Lamhorn?" "No, she didn't!" he vociferated, his voice growing louder. "She said, 'You tell your wife to stop telephoning Robert Lamhorn to come and see her, because he isn't going to do it!' That's what she said! And I want to know what it means. I intend—" A maid appeared at the lower end of the hall. "Dinner is ready," she said, and, giving the troubled pair one glance, went demurely into the dining-room. Roscoe disregarded the interruption. "I intend to know exactly what has been going on," he declared. "I mean to know just what—" Sibyl jumped up, almost touching him, standing face to face with him. "Oh, you DO!" she cried, shrilly. "You mean to know just what's what, do you? You listen to your sister insinuating ugly things about your wife, and then you come home making a scene before the servants and humiliating me in their presence! Do you suppose that Irish girl didn't hear every word you said? You go in there and eat your dinner alone! Go on! Go and eat your dinner alone—because I won't eat with you!" And she broke away from the detaining grasp he sought to fasten upon her, and dashed up the stairway, panting. He heard the door of her room slam overhead, and the sharp click of the key in the lock. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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