The Turmoil - Booth Tarkington (good books to read for 12 year olds .txt) 📗

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 today, 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 someone?”

“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 upstairs 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