The Turmoil (31 page)

“I’ve had nothing but dreams,” Bibbs said, desolately, “but they weren’t like that. Sibyl said no girl could care about me.” He smiled faintly, though still he did not look at Mary. “And when I first came home Edith told me Sibyl was so anxious to marry that she’d have married ME. She meant it to express Sibyl’s extremity, you see. But I hardly needed either of them to tell me. I hadn’t thought of myself as—well, not as particularly captivating!”

Oddly enough, Mary’s pallor changed to an angry flush. “Those two!” she exclaimed, sharply; and then, with thoroughgoing contempt: “Lamhorn! That’s like them!” She turned away, went to the bare little black mantel, and stood leaning upon it. Presently she asked: “WHEN did Mrs. Roscoe Sheridan say that ‘no girl’ could care about you?”

“To-day.”

Mary drew a deep breath. “I think I’m beginning to understand—a little.” She bit her lip; there was anger in good truth in her eyes and in her voice. “Answer me once more,” she said. “Bibbs, do you know now why I stopped wearing my furs?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so! Your sister-in-law told you, didn’t she?”

“I—I heard her say—”

“I think I know what happened, now.” Mary’s breath came fast and her voice shook, but she spoke rapidly. “You ‘heard her say’ more than that. You ‘heard her say’ that we were bitterly poor, and on that account I tried first to marry your brother—and then—” But now she faltered, and it was only after a convulsive effort that she was able to go on. “And then—that I tried to marry—you! You ‘heard her say’ that—and you believe that I don’t care for you and that ‘no girl’ could care for you—but you think I am in such an ‘extremity,’ as Sibyl was—that you— And so, not wanting me, and believing that I could not want you—except for my ‘extremity’ —you took your father’s offer and then came to ask me—to marry you! What had I shown you of myself that could make you—”

Suddenly she sank down, kneeling, with her face buried in her arms upon the lap of a chair, tears overwhelming her.

“Mary, Mary!” he cried, helplessly. “Oh NO—you—you don’t understand.”

“I do, though!” she sobbed. “I do!”

He came and stood beside her. “You kill me!” he said. “I can’t make it plain. From the first of your loveliness to me, I was all self. It was always you that gave and I that took. I was the dependent—I did nothing but lean on you. We always talked of me, not of you. It was all about my idiotic distresses and troubles. I thought of you as a kind of wonderful being that had no mortal or human suffering except by sympathy. You seemed to lean down —out of a rosy cloud—to be kind to me. I never dreamed I could do anything for YOU! I never dreamed you could need anything to be done for you by anybody. And to-day I heard that—that you—”

“You heard that I needed to marry—some one—anybody—with money,” she sobbed. “And you thought we were so—so desperate—you believed that I had—”

“No!” he said, quickly. “I didn’t believe you’d done one kind thing for me—for that. No, no, no! I knew you’d NEVER thought of me except generously—to give. I said I couldn’t make it plain!” he cried, despairingly.

“Wait!” She lifted her head and extended her hands to him unconsciously, like a child. “Help me up, Bibbs.” Then, when she was once more upon her feet, she wiped her eyes and smiled upon him ruefully and faintly, but reassuringly, as if to tell him, in that way, that she knew he had not meant to hurt her. And that smile of hers, so lamentable, but so faithfully friendly, misted his own eyes, for his shamefacedness lowered them no more.

“Let me tell you what you want to tell me,” she said. “You can’t, because you can’t put it into words—they are too humiliating for me and you’re too gentle to say them. Tell me, though, isn’t it true? You didn’t believe that I’d tried to make you fall in love with me—”

“Never! Never for an instant!”

“You didn’t believe I’d tried to make you want to marry me—”

“No, no, no!”

“I believe it, Bibbs. You thought that I was fond of you; you knew I cared for you—but you didn’t think I might be—in love with you. But you thought that I might marry you without being in love with you because you did believe I had tried to marry your brother, and—”

“Mary, I only knew—for the first time—that you—that you were—”

“Were desperately poor,” she said. “You can’t even say that! Bibbs, it was true: I did try to make Jim want to marry me. I did!” And she sank down into the chair, weeping bitterly again. Bibbs was agonized.

“Mary,” he groaned, “I didn’t know you COULD cry!”

“Listen,” she said. “Listen till I get through—I want you to understand. We were poor, and we weren’t fitted to be. We never had been, and we didn’t know what to do. We’d been almost rich; there was plenty, but my father wanted to take advantage of the growth of the town; he wanted to be richer, but instead—well, just about the time your father finished building next door we found we hadn’t anything. People say that, sometimes, meaning that they haven’t anything in comparison with other people of their own kind, but we really hadn’t anything—we hadn’t anything at all, Bibbs! And we couldn’t DO anything. You might wonder why I didn’t ‘try to be a stenographer’—and I wonder myself why, when a family loses its money, people always say the daughters ‘ought to go and be stenographers.’ It’s curious!—as if a wave of the hand made you into a stenographer. No, I’d been raised to be either married comfortably or a well-to-do old maid, if I chose not to marry. The poverty came on slowly, Bibbs, but at last it was all there— and I didn’t know how to be a stenographer. I didn’t know how to be anything except a well-to-do old maid or somebody’s wife—and I couldn’t be a well-to-do old maid. Then, Bibbs, I did what I’d been raised to know how to do. I went out to be fascinating and be married. I did it openly, at least, and with a kind of decent honesty. I told your brother I had meant to fascinate him and that I was not in love with him, but I let him think that perhaps I meant to marry him. I think I did mean to marry him. I had never cared for anybody, and I thought it might be there really WASN’T anything more than a kind of excited fondness. I can’t be sure, but I think that though I did mean to marry him I never should have done it, because that sort of a marriage is—it’s sacrilege—something would have stopped me. Something did stop me; it was your sister-in-law, Sibyl. She meant no harm—but she was horrible, and she put what I was doing into such horrible words—and they were the truth—oh! I SAW myself! She was proposing a miserable compact with me—and I couldn’t breathe the air of the same room with her, though I’d so cheapened myself she had a right to assume that I WOULD. But I couldn’t! I left her, and I wrote to your brother—just a quick scrawl. I told him just what I’d done; I asked his pardon, and I said I would not marry him. I posted the letter, but he never got it. That was the afternoon he was killed. That’s all, Bibbs. Now you know what I did—and you know—ME!” She pressed her clenched hands tightly against her eyes, leaning far forward, her head bowed before him.

Bibbs had forgotten himself long ago; his heart broke for her. “Couldn’t you—Isn’t there—Won’t you—” he stammered. “Mary, I’m going with father. Isn’t there some way you could use the money without—without—”

She gave a choked little laugh.

“You gave me something to live for,” he said. “You kept me alive, I think—and I’ve hurt you like this!”

“Not you—oh no!”

“You could forgive me, Mary?”

“Oh, a thousand times!” Her right hand went out in a faltering gesture, and just touched his own for an instant. “But there’s nothing to forgive.”

“And you can’t—you can’t—”

“Can’t what, Bibbs?”

“You couldn’t—”

“Marry you?” she said for him.

“Yes.”

“No, no, no!” She sprang up, facing him, and, without knowing what she did, she set her hands upon his breast, pushing him back from her a little. “I can’t, I can’t! Don’t you SEE?”

“Mary—”

“No, no! And you must go now, Bibbs; I can’t bear any more— please—”

“MARY—”

“Never, never, never!” she cried, in a passion of tears. “You mustn’t come any more. I can’t see you, dear! Never, never, never!”

Somehow, in helpless, stumbling obedience to her beseeching gesture, he got himself to the door and out of the house.

Sibyl and Roscoe were upon the point of leaving when Bibbs returned to the New House. He went straight to Sibyl and spoke to her quietly, but so that the others might hear.

“When you said that if I’d stop to think, I’d realize that no one would be apt to care enough about me to marry me, you were right,” he said. “I thought perhaps you weren’t, and so I asked Miss Vertrees to marry me. It proved what you said of me, and disproved what you said of her. She refused.”

And, having thus spoken, he quitted the room as straightforwardly as he had entered it.

“He’s SO queer!” Mrs. Sheridan gasped. “Who on earth would thought of his doin’ THAT?”

“I told you,” said her husband, grimly.

“You didn’t tell us he’d go over there and—”

“I told you she wouldn’t have him. I told you she wouldn’t have JIM, didn’t I?”

Sibyl was altogether taken aback. “Do you supose it’s true? Do you suppose she WOULDN’T?”

“He didn’t look exactly like a young man that had just got things fixed up fine with his girl,” said Sheridan. “Not to me, he didn’t!”

“But why would—”

“I told you,” he interrupted, angrily, “she ain’t that kind of a girl! If you got to have proof, well, I’ll tell you and get it over with, though I’d pretty near just as soon not have to talk a whole lot about my dead boy’s private affairs. She wrote to Jim she couldn’t take him, and it was a good, straight letter, too. It came to Jim’s office; he never saw it. She wrote it the afternoon he was hurt.”

“I remember I saw her put a letter in the mail-box that afternoon,” said Roscoe. “Don’t you remember, Sibyl? I told you about it—I was waiting for you while you were in there so long talking to her mother. It was just before we saw that something was wrong over here, and Edith came and called me.”

Sibyl shook her head, but she remembered. And she was not cast down, for, although some remnants of perplexity were left in her eyes, they were dimmed by an increasing glow of triumph; and she departed—after some further fragmentary discourse—visibly elated. After all, the guilty had not been exalted; and she perceived vaguely, but none the less surely, that her injury had been copiously avenged. She bestowed a contented glance upon the old house with the cupola, as she and Roscoe crossed the street.

When they had gone, Mrs. Sheridan indulged in reverie, but after a while she said, uneasily, “Papa, you think it would be any use to tell Bibbs about that letter?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, walking moodily to the window. “I been thinkin’ about it.” He came to a decision. “I reckon I will.” And he went up to Bibbs’s room.

“Well, you goin’ back on what you said?” he inquired, brusquely, as he opened the door. “You goin’ to take it back and lay down on me again?”

“No,” said Bibbs.

“Well, perhaps I didn’t have any call to accuse you of that. I don’t know as you ever did go back on anything you said, exactly, though the Lord knows you’ve laid down on me enough. You certainly have!” Sheridan was baffled. This was not what he wished to say, but his words were unmanageable; he found himself unable to control them, and his querulous abuse went on in spite of him. “I can’t say I expect much of you—not from the way you always been, up to now —unless you turn over a new leaf, and I don’t see any encouragement to think you’re goin’ to do THAT! If you go down there and show a spark o’ real GIT-up, I reckon the whole office’ll fall in a faint. But if you’re ever goin’ to show any, you better begin right at the beginning and begin to show it to-morrow.”

“Yes—I’ll try.”

“You better, if it’s in you!” Sheridan was sheerly nonplussed. He had always been able to say whatever he wished to say, but his tongue seemed bewitched. He had come to tell Bibbs about Mary’s letter, and to his own angry astonishment he found it impossible to do anything except to scold like a drudge-driver. “You better come down there with your mind made up to hustle harder than the hardest workin’-man that’s under you, or you’ll not get on very good with me, I tell you! The way to get ahead—and you better set it down in your books—the way to get ahead is to do ten times the work of the hardest worker that works FOR you. But you don’t know what work is, yet. All you’ve ever done was just stand around and feed a machine a child could handle, and then come home and take a bath and go callin’. I tell you you’re up against a mighty different proposition now, and if you’re worth your salt—and you never showed any signs of it yet—not any signs that stuck out enough to bang somebody on the head and make ‘em sit up and take notice—well, I want to say, right here and now—and you better listen, because I want to say just what I DO say. I say—”

He meandered to a full stop. His mouth hung open, and his mind was a hopeless blank.

Bibbs looked up patiently—an old, old look. “Yes, father; I’m listening.”

“That’s all,” said Sheridan, frowning heavily. “That’s all I came to say, and you better see’t you remember it!”

He shook his head warningly, and went out, closing the door behind him with a crash. However, no sound of footsteps indicated his departure. He stopped just outside the door, and stood there a minute or more. Then abruptly he turned the knob and exhibited to his son a forehead liberally covered with perspiration.

“Look here,” he said, crossly. “That girl over yonder wrote Jim a letter—”

“I know,” said Bibbs. “She told me.”

“Well, I thought you needn’t feel so much upset about it—” The door closed on his voice as he withdrew, but the conclusion of the sentence was nevertheless audible—“if you knew she wouldn’t have Jim, either.”

And he stamped his way down-stairs to tell his wife to quit her frettin’ and not bother him with any more fool’s errands. She was about to inquire what Bibbs “said,” but after a second thought she decided not to speak at all. She merely murmured a wordless assent, and verbal communication was given over between them for the rest of that afternoon.