The Turmoil Part 21

"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 gra.s.s 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 att.i.tude 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 G.o.d, 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."