That “mystery about pianos” which troubled Bibbs had been a mystery to
Mr. Vertrees, and it was being explained to him at about the time Bibbs
scribbled the reference to it in his notes. Mary had gone up-stairs upon
Bibbs's departure at ten o'clock, and Mr. and Mrs. Vertrees sat until
after midnight in the library, talking. And in all that time they found
not one cheerful topic, but became more depressed with everything and
with every phase of everything that they discussed--no extraordinary
state of affairs in a family which has always “held up its head,”
only to arrive in the end at a point where all it can do is to look on
helplessly at the processes of its own financial dissolution. For that
was the point which this despairing couple had reached--they could do
nothing except look on and talk about it. They were only vaporing, and
they knew it.
“She needn't to have done that about her piano,” vapored Mr. Vertrees.
“We could have managed somehow without it. At least she ought to have
consulted me, and if she insisted I could have arranged the details with
the--the dealer.”
“She thought that it might be--annoying for you,” Mrs. Vertrees
explained. “Really, she planned for you not to know about it until
they had removed--until after to-morrow, that is, but I decided to--to
mention it. You see, she didn't even tell me about it until this
morning. She has another idea, too, I'm afraid. It's--it's--”
“Well?” he urged, as she found it difficult to go on.
“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 grass 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 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 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.”
“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 head-lights 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 half-way 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 frost-bitten people! I guess
THEY'RE getting their come-uppance!” 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 re-soled and
patched, because she got it done the same place Mrs. Kittersby's cook
had HERS! And the night of the house-warming 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 drive up across the street and some men
go into the house. It was too dark to make out much, and for a minute
I got the idea they were moving out--the house has been foreclosed on,
Mrs. Kittersby says. It seemed funny, too, because I knew that girl was
out riding with Bibbs. Well, I thought I'd see, so I slipped over--and
it was their PIANO! They'd sold it and were trying to sneak it out after
dark, so nobody'd catch on!” Again she gave way to her enjoyment, but
resumed, as her husband seemed about to interrupt the narrative. “Wait a
minute, can't you? The old lady was superintending, and she gave it all
away. I sized her up for one of those old churchy people that tell
all kinds of lies except when it comes to so many words, and then they
can't. She might just as well told me outright! Yes, they'd sold it;
and I hope they'll pay some of their debts. They owe everybody, and last
week a coal-dealer made an awful fuss at the door with Mr. Vertrees.
Their cook told our upstairs girl, and she said she didn't know WHEN
she'd seen any money, herself! Did you ever hear of such a case as that
girl in your LIFE?”
“What girl? Their cook?”
“That Vertrees girl! Don't you see they looked on our coming up into
this neighborhood as their last chance? They were just going down and
out, and here bobs up the green, rich Sheridan family! So they doll
the girl up in her old things, made over, and send her out to get a
Sheridan--she's GOT to get one! And she just goes in blind; and she
tries it on first with YOU. You remember, she just plain TOLD you she
was going to mash you, and then she found out you were the married one,
and turned right square around to Jim and carried him off his feet.
Oh, Jim was landed--there's no doubt about THAT! But Jim was lucky;
he didn't live to STAY landed, and it's a good thing for him!” Sibyl's
mirth had vanished, and she spoke with virulent rapidity. “Well, she
couldn't get you, because you were married, and she couldn't get Jim,
because Jim died. And there they were, dead broke! Do you know what she
did? Do you know what she's DOING?”
“No, I don't,” said Roscoe, gruffly.
Sibyl's voice rose and culminated in a scream of renewed hilarity.
“BIBBS! She waited in the grave-yard, and drove home with him from JIM'S
FUNERAL! Never spoke to him before! Jim wasn't COLD!”
She rocked herself back and forth upon the divan. “Bibbs!” she shrieked.
“Bibbs! Roscoe, THINK of it! BIBBS!”
He stared unsympathetically, but her mirth was unabated for all that.
“And yesterday,” she continued, between paroxysms--“yesterday she came
out of the house--just as he was passing. She must have been looking
out--waiting for the chance; I saw the old lady watching at the window!
And she got him there last night--to 'PLAY' to him; the old lady gave
that away! And to-day she made him take her out in a machine! And the
cream of it is that they didn't even know whether he was INSANE or
not--they thought maybe he was, but she went after him just the same!
The old lady set herself to pump me about it to-day. BIBBS! Oh, my Lord!
BIBBS!”
But Roscoe looked grim. “So it's funny to you, is it? It sounds kind of
pitiful to me. I should think it would to a woman, too.”
“Oh, it might,” she returned, sobering. “It might, if those people
weren't such frozen-faced smart Alecks. If they'd had the decency to
come down off the perch a little I probably wouldn't think it was funny,
but to see 'em sit up on their pedestal all the time they're eating
dirt--well, I think it's funny! That girl sits up as if she was Queen
Elizabeth, and expects people to wallow on the ground before her until
they get near enough for her to give 'em a good kick with her old
patched shoes--oh, she'd do THAT, all right!--and then she powders up
and goes out to mash--BIBBS SHERIDAN!”
“Look here,” said Roscoe, heavily; “I don't care about that one way or
another. If you're through, I got something I want to talk to you about.
I was going to, that day just before we heard about Jim.”
At this Sibyl stiffened quickly; her eyes became intensely bright. “What
is it?”
“Well,” he began, frowning, “what I was going to say then--” He broke
off, and, becoming conscious that he was still holding the wet napkin in
his hand, threw it pettishly into a corner. “I never expected I'd have
to say anything like this to anybody I MARRIED; but I was going to ask
you what was the matter between you and Lamhorn.”
Sibyl uttered a sharp monosyllable. “Well?”
“I felt the time had come for me to know about it,” he went on. “You
never told me anything--”
“You never asked,” she interposed, curtly.
“Well, we'd got in a way of not talking much,” said Roscoe. “It looks to
me now as if we'd pretty much lost the run of each other the way a good
many people do. I don't say it wasn't my fault. I was up early and down
to work all day, and I'd come home tired at night, and want to go to bed
soon as I'd got the paper read--unless there was some good musical show
in town. Well, you seemed all right until here lately, the last month or
so, I began to see something was wrong. I couldn't help seeing it.”
“Wrong?” she said. “What like?”
“You changed; you didn't look the same. You were all strung up and
excited and fidgety; you got to looking peakid and run down. Now then,
Lamhorn had been going with us a good while, but I noticed that not long
ago you got to picking on him about every little thing he did; you got
to quarreling with him when I was there and when I wasn't. I could see
you'd been quarreling whenever I came in and he was here.”
“Do you object to that?” asked Sibyl, breathing quickly.
“Yes--when it injures my wife's health!” he returned, with a quick lift
of his eyes to hers. “You began to run down just about the time you
began falling out with him.” He stepped close to her. “See here, Sibyl,
I'm going to know what it means.”
“Oh, you ARE?” she snapped.
“You're trembling,” he said, gravely.
“Yes. I'm angry enough to do more than tremble, you'll find. Go on!”
“That was all I was going to say the other day,” he said. “I was going
to ask you--”
“Yes, that was all you were going to say THE OTHER DAY. Yes. What else
have you to say to-night?”
“To-night,” he replied, with grim swiftness, “I want to know why you
keep telephoning him you want to see him since he stopped coming here.”
She made a long, low sound of comprehension before she said, “And what
else did Edith want you to ask me?”
“I want to know what you say over the telephone to Lamhorn,” he said,
fiercely.
“Is that all Edith told you to ask me? You saw her when you stopped in
there on your way home this evening, didn't you? Didn't she tell you
then what I said over the telephone to Mr. Lamhorn?”
“No, she didn't!” he vociferated, his voice growing louder. “She said,
'You tell your wife to stop telephoning Robert Lamhorn to come and see
her, because he isn't going to do it!' That's what she said! And I want
to know what it means. I intend--”
A maid appeared at the lower end of the hall. “Dinner is ready,” she
said, and, giving the troubled pair one glance, went demurely into the
dining-room. Roscoe disregarded the interruption.
“I intend to know exactly what has been going on,” he declared. “I mean
to know just what--”
Sibyl jumped up, almost touching him, standing face to face with him.
“Oh, you DO!” she cried, shrilly. “You mean to know just what's what, do
you? You listen to your sister insinuating ugly things about your
wife, and then you come home making a scene before the servants and
humiliating me in their presence! Do you suppose that Irish girl didn't
hear every word you said? You go in there and eat your dinner alone! Go
on! Go and eat your dinner alone--because I won't eat with you!”
And she broke away from the detaining grasp he sought to fasten upon
her, and dashed up the stairway, panting. He heard the door of her room
slam overhead, and the sharp click of the key in the lock.