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

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 downtown,” 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 headlights 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 halfway 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 frostbitten people! I guess they’re getting their comeuppance!” 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 resoled and patched, because she got it done the same place Mrs. Kittersby’s cook had hers! And the night of the housewarming 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