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

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.

XXX

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 mailbox 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,