Bibbs's room, that neat apartment for transients to which the “lamidal”
George had shown him upon his return, still bore the appearance of
temporary quarters, possibly because Bibbs had no clear conception
of himself as a permanent incumbent. However, he had set upon the
mantelpiece the two photographs that he owned: one, a “group” twenty
years old--his father and mother, with Jim and Roscoe as boys--and the
other a “cabinet” of Edith at sixteen. And upon a table were the books
he had taken from his trunk: Sartor Resartus, Virginibus Puerisque,
Huckleberry Finn, and Afterwhiles. There were some other books in the
trunk--a large one, which remained unremoved at the foot of the bed,
adding to the general impression of transiency. It contained nearly all
the possessions as well as the secret life of Bibbs Sheridan, and Bibbs
sat beside it, the day after his interview with his father, raking over
a small collection of manuscripts in the top tray. Some of these he
glanced through dubiously, finding little comfort in them; but one made
him smile. Then he shook his head ruefully indeed, and ruefully began to
read it. It was written on paper stamped “Hood Sanitarium,” and bore the
title, “Leisure.”
A man may keep a quiet heart at seventy miles an hour, but not if
he is running the train. Nor is the habit of contemplation a useful
quality in the stoker of a foundry furnace; it will not be found to
recommend him to the approbation of his superiors. For a profession
adapted solely to the pursuit of happiness in thinking, I would
choose that of an invalid: his money is time and he may spend it on
Olympus. It will not suffice to be an amateur invalid. To my way
of thinking, the perfect practitioner must be to all outward
purposes already dead if he is to begin the perfect enjoyment of
life. His serenity must not be disturbed by rumors of recovery; he
must lie serene in his long chair in the sunshine. The world must
be on the other side of the wall, and the wall must be so thick and
so high that he cannot hear the roaring of the furnace fires and the
screaming of the whistles. Peace--
Having read so far as the word “peace,” Bibbs suffered an interruption
interesting as a coincidence of contrast. High voices sounded in the
hall just outside his door; and it became evident that a woman's quarrel
was in progress, the parties to it having begun it in Edith's room, and
continuing it vehemently as they came out into the hall.
“Yes, you BETTER go home!” Bibbs heard his sister vociferating, shrilly.
“You better go home and keep your mind a little more on your HUSBAND!”
“Edie, Edie!” he heard his mother remonstrating, as peacemaker.
“You see here!” This was Sibyl, and her voice was both acrid and
tremulous. “Don't you talk to me that way! I came here to tell Mother
Sheridan what I'd heard, and to let her tell Father Sheridan if she
thought she ought to, and I did it for your own good.”
“Yes, you did!” And Edith's gibing laughter tooted loudly. “Yes, you
did! YOU didn't have any other reason! OH no! YOU don't want to break it
up between Bobby Lamhorn and me because--”
“Edie, Edie! Now, now!”
“Oh, hush up, mamma! I'd like to know, then, if she says her new friends
tell her he's got such a reputation that he oughtn't to come here, what
about his not going to HER house. How--”
“I've explained that to Mother Sheridan.” Sibyl's voice indicated that
she was descending the stairs. “Married people are not the same. Some
things that should be shielded from a young girl--”
This seemed to have no very soothing effect upon Edith. “'Shielded from
a young girl'!” she shrilled. “You seem pretty willing to be the shield!
You look out Roscoe doesn't notice what kind of a shield you are!”
Sibyl's answer was inaudible, but Mrs. Sheridan's flurried attempts at
pacification were renewed. “Now, Edie, Edie, she means it for your good,
and you'd oughtn't to--”
“Oh, hush up, mamma, and let me alone! If you dare tell papa--”
“Now, now! I'm not going to tell him to-day, and maybe--”
“You've got to promise NEVER to tell him!” the girl cried, passionately.
“Well, we'll see. You just come back in your own room, and we'll--”
“No! I WON'T 'talk it over'! Stop pulling me! Let me ALONE!” And Edith,
flinging herself violently upon Bibbs's door, jerked it open, swung
round it into the room, slammed the door behind her, and threw herself,
face down, upon the bed in such a riot of emotion that she had no
perception of Bibbs's presence in the room. Gasping and sobbing in a
passion of tears, she beat the coverlet and pillows with her clenched
fists. “Sneak!” she babbled aloud. “Sneak! Snake-in-the-grass! Cat!”
Bibbs saw that she did not know he was there, and he went softly toward
the door, hoping to get away before she became aware of him; but some
sound of his movement reached her, and she sat up, startled, facing him.
“Bibbs! I thought I saw you go out awhile ago.”
“Yes. I came back, though. I'm sorry--”
“Did you hear me quarreling with Sibyl?”
“Only what you said in the hall. You lie down again, Edith. I'm going
out.”
“No; don't go.” She applied a handkerchief to her eyes, emitted a sob,
and repeated her request. “Don't go. I don't mind you; you're quiet,
anyhow. Mamma's so fussy, and never gets anywhere. I don't mind you at
all, but I wish you'd sit down.”
“All right.” And he returned to his chair beside the trunk. “Go ahead
and cry all you want, Edith,” he said. “No harm in that!”
“Sibyl told mamma--OH!” she began, choking. “Mary Vertrees had mamma and
Sibyl and I to tea, one afternoon two weeks or so ago, and she had some
women there that Sibyl's been crazy to get in with, and she just laid
herself out to make a hit with 'em, and she's been running after 'em
ever since, and now she comes over here and says THEY say Bobby Lamhorn
is so bad that, even though they like his family, none of the nice
people in town would let him in their houses. In the first place, it's
a falsehood, and I don't believe a word of it; and in the second place
I know the reason she did it, and, what's more, she KNOWS I know it! I
won't SAY what it is--not yet--because papa and all of you would think
I'm as crazy as she is snaky; and Roscoe's such a fool he'd probably
quit speaking to me. But it's true! Just you watch her; that's all I
ask. Just you watch that woman. You'll see!”
As it happened, Bibbs was literally watching “that woman.” Glancing from
the window, he saw Sibyl pause upon the pavement in front of the old
house next door. She stood a moment, in deep thought, then walked
quickly up the path to the door, undoubtedly with the intention
of calling. But he did not mention this to his sister, who, after
delivering herself of a rather vague jeremiad upon the subject of her
sister-in-law's treacheries, departed to her own chamber, leaving him to
his speculations. The chief of these concerned the social elasticities
of women. Sibyl had just been a participant in a violent scene; she had
suffered hot insult of a kind that could not fail to set her quivering
with resentment; and yet she elected to betake herself to the presence
of people whom she knew no more than “formally.” Bibbs marveled. Surely,
he reflected, some traces of emotion must linger upon Sibyl's face or in
her manner; she could not have ironed it all quite out in the three or
four minutes it took her to reach the Vertreeses' door.
And in this he was not mistaken, for Mary Vertrees was at that moment
wondering what internal excitement Mrs. Roscoe Sheridan was striving to
master. But Sibyl had no idea that she was allowing herself to exhibit
anything except the gaiety which she conceived proper to the manner of a
casual caller. She was wholly intent upon fulfilling the sudden purpose
that brought her, and she was no more self-conscious than she was finely
intelligent. For Sibyl Sheridan belonged to a type Scriptural in its
antiquity. She was merely the idle and half-educated intriguer who may
and does delude men, of course, and the best and dullest of her own sex
as well, finding invariably strong supporters among these latter. It is
a type that has wrought some damage in the world and would have wrought
greater, save for the check put upon its power by intelligent women
and by its own “lack of perspective,” for it is a type that never sees
itself. Sibyl followed her impulses with no reflection or question--it
was like a hound on the gallop after a master on horseback. She had not
even the instinct to stop and consider her effect. If she wished to make
a certain impression she believed that she made it. She believed that
she was believed.
“My mother asked me to say that she was sorry she couldn't come down,”
Mary said, when they were seated.
Sibyl ran the scale of a cooing simulance of laughter, which she had
been brought up to consider the polite thing to do after a remark
addressed to her by any person with whom she was not on familiar terms.
It was intended partly as a courtesy and partly as the foundation for an
impression of sweetness.
“Just thought I'd fly in a minute,” she said, continuing the cooing to
relieve the last doubt of her gentiality. “I thought I'd just behave
like REAL country neighbors. We are almost out in the country, so far
from down-town, aren't we? And it seemed such a LOVELY day! I wanted
to tell you how much I enjoyed meeting those nice people at tea that
afternoon. You see, coming here a bride and never having lived here
before, I've had to depend on my husband's friends almost entirely, and
I really've known scarcely anybody. Mr. Sheridan has been so engrossed
in business ever since he was a mere boy, why, of course--”
She paused, with the air of having completed an explanation.
“Of course,” said Mary, sympathetically accepting it.
“Yes. I've been seeing quite a lot of the Kittersbys since that
afternoon,” Sibyl went on. “They're really delightful people. Indeed
they are! Yes--”
She stopped with unconscious abruptness, her mind plainly wandering to
another matter; and Mary perceived that she had come upon a definite
errand. Moreover, a tensing of Sibyl's eyelids, in that moment of
abstraction as she looked aside from her hostess, indicated that the
errand was a serious one for the caller and easily to be connected
with the slight but perceptible agitation underlying her assumption of
cheerful ease. There was a restlessness of breathing, a restlessness of
hands.
“Mrs. Kittersby and her daughter were chatting about some of the people
here in town the other day,” said Sibyl, repeating the cooing and
protracting it. “They said something that took ME by surprise! We were
talking about our mutual friend, Mr. Robert Lamhorn--”
Mary interrupted her promptly. “Do you mean 'mutual' to include my
mother and me?” she asked.
“Why, yes; the Kittersbys and you and all of us Sheridans, I mean.”
“No,” said Mary. “We shouldn't consider Mr. Robert Lamhorn a friend of
ours.”
To her surprise, Sibyl nodded eagerly, as if greatly pleased. “That's
just the way Mrs. Kittersby talked!” she cried, with a vehemence that
made Mary stare. “Yes, and I hear that's the way ALL you old families
here speak of him!”
Mary looked aside, but otherwise she was able to maintain her composure.
“I had the impression he was a friend of yours,” she said; adding,
hastily, “and your husband's.”
“Oh yes,” said the caller, absently. “He is, certainly. A man's
reputation for a little gaiety oughtn't to make a great difference to
married people, of course. It's where young girls are in question. THEN
it may be very, very dangerous. There are a great many things safe and
proper for married people that might be awf'ly imprudent for a young
girl. Don't you agree, Miss Vertrees?”
“I don't know,” returned the frank Mary. “Do you mean that you intend
to remain a friend of Mr. Lamhorn's, but disapprove of Miss Sheridan's
doing so?”
“That's it exactly!” was the naive and ardent response of Sibyl. “What
I feel about it is that a man with his reputation isn't at all suitable
for Edith, and the family ought to be made to understand it. I tell
you,” she cried, with a sudden access of vehemence, “her father ought to
put his foot down!”
Her eyes flashed with a green spark; something seemed to leap out and
then retreat, but not before Mary had caught a glimpse of it, as one
might catch a glimpse of a thing darting forth and then scuttling back
into hiding under a bush.
“Of course,” said Sibyl, much more composedly, “I hardly need say that
it's entirely on Edith's account that I'm worried about this. I'm as
fond of Edith as if she was really my sister, and I can't help fretting
about it. It would break my heart to have Edith's life spoiled.”
This tune was off the key, to Mary's ear. Sibyl tried to sing with
pathos, but she flatted.
And when a lady receives a call from another who suffers under the
stress of some feeling which she wishes to conceal, there is not
uncommonly developed a phenomenon of duality comparable to the effect
obtained by placing two mirrors opposite each other, one clear and
the other flawed. In this case, particularly, Sibyl had an imperfect
consciousness of Mary. The Mary Vertrees that she saw was merely
something to be cozened to her own frantic purpose--a Mary Vertrees who
was incapable of penetrating that purpose. Sibyl sat there believing
that she was projecting the image of herself that she desired to
project, never dreaming that with every word, every look, and every
gesture she was more and more fully disclosing the pitiable truth to
the clear eyes of Mary. And the Sibyl that Mary saw was an overdressed
woman, in manner half rustic, and in mind as shallow as a pan, but
possessed by emotions that appeared to be strong--perhaps even violent.
What those emotions were Mary had not guessed, but she began to suspect.
“And Edith's life WOULD be spoiled,” Sibyl continued. “It would be a
dreadful thing for the whole family. She's the very apple of Father
Sheridan's eye, and he's as proud of her as he is of Jim and Roscoe. It
would be a horrible thing for him to have her marry a man like Robert
Lamhorn; but he doesn't KNOW anything about him, and if somebody doesn't
tell him, what I'm most afraid of is that Edith might get his consent
and hurry on the wedding before he finds out, and then it would be too
late. You see, Miss Vertrees, it's very difficult for me to decide just
what it's my duty to do.”
“I see,” said Mary, looking at her thoughtfully, “Does Miss Sheridan
seem to--to care very much about him?”
“He's deliberately fascinated her,” returned the visitor, beginning to
breathe quickly and heavily. “Oh, she wasn't difficult! She knew she
wasn't in right in this town, and she was crazy to meet the people that
were, and she thought he was one of 'em. But that was only the start
that made it easy for him--and he didn't need it. He could have done
it, anyway!” Sibyl was launched now; her eyes were furious and her voice
shook. “He went after her deliberately, the way he does everything; he's
as cold-blooded as a fish. All he cares about is his own pleasure, and
lately he's decided it would be pleasant to get hold of a piece of real
money--and there was Edith! And he'll marry her! Nothing on earth can
stop him unless he finds out she won't HAVE any money if she marries
him, and the only person that could make him understand that is Father
Sheridan. Somehow, that's got to be managed, because Lamhorn is going to
hurry it on as fast as he can. He told me so last night. He said he was
going to marry her the first minute he could persuade her to it--and
little Edith's all ready to be persuaded!” Sibyl's eyes flashed green
again. “And he swore he'd do it,” she panted. “He swore he'd marry Edith
Sheridan, and nothing on earth could stop him!”
And then Mary understood. Her lips parted and she stared at the babbling
creature incredulously, a sudden vivid picture in her mind, a canvas of
unconscious Sibyl's painting. Mary beheld it with pity and horror: she
saw Sibyl clinging to Robert Lamhorn, raging, in a whisper, perhaps--for
Roscoe might have been in the house, or servants might have heard.
She saw Sibyl entreating, beseeching, threatening despairingly, and
Lamhorn--tired of her--first evasive, then brutally letting her have the
truth; and at last, infuriated, “swearing” to marry her rival. If Sibyl
had not babbled out the word “swore” it might have been less plain.
The poor woman blundered on, wholly unaware of what she had confessed.
“You see,” she said, more quietly, “whatever's going to be done ought to
be done right away. I went over and told Mother Sheridan what I'd heard
about Lamhorn--oh, I was open and aboveboard! I told her right before
Edith. I think it ought all to be done with perfect frankness, because
nobody can say it isn't for the girl's own good and what her best friend
would do. But Mother Sheridan's under Edith's thumb, and she's afraid
to ever come right out with anything. Father Sheridan's different. Edith
can get anything she wants out of him in the way of money or ordinary
indulgence, but when it comes to a matter like this he'd be a steel
rock. If it's a question of his will against anybody else's he'd make
his will rule if it killed 'em both! Now, he'd never in the world let
Lamhorn come near the house again if he knew his reputation. So, you
see, somebody's got to tell him. It isn't a very easy position for me,
is it, Miss Vertrees?”
“No,” said Mary, gravely.
“Well, to be frank,” said Sibyl, smiling, “that's why I've come to you.”
“To ME!” Mary frowned.
Sibyl rippled and cooed again. “There isn't ANYBODY ever made such a hit
with Father Sheridan in his life as you have. And of course we ALL
hope you're not going to be exactly an outsider in the affairs of the
family!” (This sally with another and louder effect of laughter). “And
if it's MY duty, why, in a way, I think it might be thought yours, too.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Mary, sharply.
“Listen,” said Sibyl. “Now suppose I go to Father Sheridan with this
story, and Edith says it's not true; suppose she says Lamhorn has a
good reputation and that I'm repeating irresponsible gossip, or suppose
(what's most likely) she loses her temper and says I invented it, then
what am I going to do? Father Sheridan doesn't know Mrs. Kittersby and
her daughter, and they're out of the question, anyway. But suppose I
could say: 'All right, if you want proof, ask Miss Vertrees. She came
with me, and she's waiting in the next room right now, to--”
“No, no,” said Mary, quickly. “You mustn't--”
“Listen just a minute more,” Sibyl urged, confidingly. She was on easy
ground now, to her own mind, and had no doubt of her success. “You
naturally don't want to begin by taking part in a family quarrel, but
if YOU take part in it, it won't be one. You don't know yourself what
weight you carry over there, and no one would have the right to say you
did it except out of the purest kindness. Don't you see that Jim and
his father would admire you all the more for it? Miss Vertrees, listen!
Don't you see we OUGHT to do it, you and I? Do you suppose Robert
Lamhorn cares a snap of his finger for her? Do you suppose a man like
him would LOOK at Edith Sheridan if it wasn't for the money?” And again
Sibyl's emotion rose to the surface. “I tell you he's after nothing on
earth but to get his finger in that old man's money-pile, over there,
next door! He'd marry ANYBODY to do it. Marry Edith?” she cried. “I tell
you he'd marry their nigger cook for THAT!”
She stopped, afraid--at the wrong time--that she had been too vehement,
but a glance at Mary reassured her, and Sibyl decided that she had
produced the effect she wished. Mary was not looking at her; she was
staring straight before her at the wall, her eyes wide and shining. She
became visibly a little paler as Sibyl looked at her.
“After nothing on earth but to get his finger in that old man's
money-pile, over there, next door!” The voice was vulgar, the words were
vulgar--and the plain truth was vulgar! How it rang in Mary Vertrees's
ears! The clear mirror had caught its own image clearly in the flawed
one at last.
Sibyl put forth her best bid to clench the matter. She offered her
bargain. “Now don't you worry,” she said, sunnily, “about this setting
Edith against you. She'll get over it after a while, anyway, but if she
tried to be spiteful and make it uncomfortable for you when you drop in
over there, or managed so as to sort of leave you out, why, I've got a
house, and Jim likes to come there. I don't THINK Edith WOULD be that
way; she's too crazy to have you take her around with the smart crowd,
but if she DID, you needn't worry. And another thing--I guess you won't
mind Jim's own sister-in-law speaking of it. Of course, I don't know
just how matters stand between you and Jim, but Jim and Roscoe are about
as much alike as two brothers can be, and Roscoe was very slow making up
his mind; sometimes I used to think he actually never WOULD. Now, what
I mean is, sisters-in-law can do lots of things to help matters on like
that. There's lots of little things can be said, and lots--”
She stopped, puzzled. Mary Vertrees had gone from pale to scarlet, and
now, still scarlet indeed, she rose, without a word of explanation, or
any other kind of word, and walked slowly to the open door and out of
the room.
Sibyl was a little taken aback. She supposed Mary had remembered
something neglected and necessary for the instruction of a servant, and
that she would return in a moment; but it was rather a rude excess of
absent-mindedness not to have excused herself, especially as her guest
was talking. And, Mary's return being delayed, Sibyl found time to think
this unprefaced exit odder and ruder than she had first considered it.
There might have been more excuse for it, she thought, had she been
speaking of matters less important--offering to do the girl all the
kindness in her power, too!
Sibyl yawned and swung her muff impatiently; she examined the sole of
her shoe; she decided on a new shape of heel; she made an inventory
of the furniture of the room, of the rugs, of the wall-paper and
engravings. Then she looked at her watch and frowned; went to a window
and stood looking out upon the brown lawn, then came back to the chair
she had abandoned, and sat again. There was no sound in the house.
A strange expression began imperceptibly to alter the planes of her
face, and slowly she grew as scarlet as Mary--scarlet to the ears. She
looked at her watch again--and twenty-five minutes had elapsed since she
had looked at it before.
She went into the hall, glanced over her shoulder oddly; then she let
herself softly out of the front door, and went across the street to her
own house.
Roscoe met her upon the threshold, gloomily. “Saw you from the window,”
he explained. “You must find a lot to say to that old lady.”
“What old lady?”
“Mrs. Vertrees. I been waiting for you a long time, and I saw the
daughter come out, fifteen minutes ago, and post a letter, and then walk
on up the street. Don't stand out on the porch,” he said, crossly.
“Come in here. There's something it's come time I'll have to talk to you
about. Come in!”
But as she was moving to obey he glanced across at his father's house
and started. He lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun,
staring fixedly. “Something's the matter over there,” he muttered, and
then, more loudly, as alarm came into his voice, he said, “What's the
matter over there?”
Bibbs dashed out of the gate in an automobile set at its highest speed,
and as he saw Roscoe he made a gesture singularly eloquent of calamity,
and was lost at once in a cloud of dust down the street. Edith had
followed part of the way down the drive, and it could be seen that she
was crying bitterly. She lifted both arms to Roscoe, summoning him.
“By George!” gasped Roscoe. “I believe somebody's dead!”
And he started for the New House at a run.