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diff --git a/1098-0.txt b/1098-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b74afe2 --- /dev/null +++ b/1098-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10145 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1098 *** + +THE TURMOIL + +A NOVEL + +By Booth Tarkington + +1915. + + +To Laurel. + + + +CHAPTER I + +There is a midland city in the heart of fair, open country, a dirty and +wonderful city nesting dingily in the fog of its own smoke. The stranger +must feel the dirt before he feels the wonder, for the dirt will be upon +him instantly. It will be upon him and within him, since he must breathe +it, and he may care for no further proof that wealth is here better +loved than cleanliness; but whether he cares or not, the negligently +tended streets incessantly press home the point, and so do the flecked +and grimy citizens. At a breeze he must smother in the whirlpools of +dust, and if he should decline at any time to inhale the smoke he has +the meager alternative of suicide. + +The smoke is like the bad breath of a giant panting for more and more +riches. He gets them and pants the fiercer, smelling and swelling +prodigiously. He has a voice, a hoarse voice, hot and rapacious trained +to one tune: “Wealth! I will get Wealth! I will make Wealth! I will sell +Wealth for more Wealth! My house shall be dirty, my garment shall be +dirty, and I will foul my neighbor so that he cannot be clean--but I +will get Wealth! There shall be no clean thing about me: my wife shall +be dirty and my child shall be dirty, but I will get Wealth!” And yet it +is not wealth that he is so greedy for: what the giant really wants is +hasty riches. To get these he squanders wealth upon the four winds, for +wealth is in the smoke. + +Not so long ago as a generation, there was no panting giant here, no +heaving, grimy city; there was but a pleasant big town of neighborly +people who had understanding of one another, being, on the whole, much +of the same type. It was a leisurely and kindly place--“homelike,” it +was called--and when the visitor had been taken through the State Asylum +for the Insane and made to appreciate the view of the cemetery from a +little hill, his host's duty as Baedeker was done. The good burghers +were given to jogging comfortably about in phaetons or in surreys for +a family drive on Sunday. No one was very rich; few were very poor; the +air was clean, and there was time to live. + +But there was a spirit abroad in the land, and it was strong here as +elsewhere--a spirit that had moved in the depths of the American soil +and labored there, sweating, till it stirred the surface, rove the +mountains, and emerged, tangible and monstrous, the god of all good +American hearts--Bigness. And that god wrought the panting giant. + +In the souls of the burghers there had always been the profound +longing for size. Year by year the longing increased until it became +an accumulated force: We must Grow! We must be Big! We must be Bigger! +Bigness means Money! And the thing began to happen; their longing became +a mighty Will. We must be Bigger! Bigger! Bigger! Get people here! Coax +them here! Bribe them! Swindle them into coming, if you must, but get +them! Shout them into coming! Deafen them into coming! Any kind of +people; all kinds of people! We must be Bigger! Blow! Boost! Brag! +Kill the fault-finder! Scream and bellow to the Most High: Bigness is +patriotism and honor! Bigness is love and life and happiness! Bigness is +Money! We want Bigness! + +They got it. From all the states the people came; thinly at first, and +slowly, but faster and faster in thicker and thicker swarms as the quick +years went by. White people came, and black people and brown people +and yellow people; the negroes came from the South by the thousands and +thousands, multiplying by other thousands and thousands faster than +they could die. From the four quarters of the earth the people came, +the broken and the unbroken, the tame and the wild--Germans, Irish, +Italians, Hungarians, Scotch, Welsh, English, French, Swiss, Swedes, +Norwegians, Greeks, Poles, Russian Jews, Dalmatians, Armenians, +Rumanians, Servians, Persians, Syrians, Japanese, Chinese, Turks, and +every hybrid that these could propagate. And if there were no Eskimos +nor Patagonians, what other human strain that earth might furnish failed +to swim and bubble in this crucible? + +With Bigness came the new machinery and the rush; the streets began to +roar and rattle, the houses to tremble; the pavements were worn under +the tread of hurrying multitudes. The old, leisurely, quizzical look of +the faces was lost in something harder and warier; and a cockney +type began to emerge discernibly--a cynical young mongrel barbaric +of feature, muscular and cunning; dressed in good fabrics fashioned +apparently in imitation of the sketches drawn by newspaper comedians. +The female of his kind came with him--a pale girl, shoddy and a little +rouged; and they communicated in a nasal argot, mainly insolences and +elisions. Nay, the common speech of the people showed change: in +place of the old midland vernacular, irregular but clean, and not +unwholesomely drawling, a jerky dialect of coined metaphors began to +be heard, held together by GUNNAS and GOTTAS and much fostered by the +public journals. + +The city piled itself high in the center, tower on tower for a nucleus, +and spread itself out over the plain, mile after mile; and in its +vitals, like benevolent bacilli contending with malevolent in the body +of a man, missions and refuges offered what resistance they might to the +saloons and all the hells that cities house and shelter. Temptation +and ruin were ready commodities on the market for purchase by the +venturesome; highwaymen walked the streets at night and sometimes +killed; snatching thieves were busy everywhere in the dusk; while +house-breakers were a common apprehension and frequent reality. Life +itself was somewhat safer from intentional destruction than it was in +medieval Rome during a faction war--though the Roman murderer was more +like to pay for his deed--but death or mutilation beneath the wheels lay +in ambush at every crossing. + +The politicians let the people make all the laws they liked; it did +not matter much, and the taxes went up, which is good for politicians. +Law-making was a pastime of the people; nothing pleased them more. +Singular fermentation of their humor, they even had laws forbidding +dangerous speed. More marvelous still, they had a law forbidding smoke! +They forbade chimneys to smoke and they forbade cigarettes to smoke. +They made laws for all things and forgot them immediately; though +sometimes they would remember after a while, and hurry to make new laws +that the old laws should be enforced--and then forget both new and old. +Wherever enforcement threatened Money or Votes--or wherever it was too +much to bother--it became a joke. Influence was the law. + +So the place grew. And it grew strong. + +Straightway when he came, each man fell to the same worship: + + Give me of thyself, O Bigness: + Power to get more power! + Riches to get more riches! + Give me of thy sweat that I may sweat more! + Give me Bigness to get more Bigness to myself, + O Bigness, for Thine is the Power and the Glory! And + there is no end but Bigness, ever and for ever! + + + +CHAPTER II + +The Sheridan Building was the biggest skyscraper; the Sheridan Trust +Company was the biggest of its kind, and Sheridan himself had been the +biggest builder and breaker and truster and buster under the smoke. He +had come from a country cross-roads, at the beginning of the growth, and +he had gone up and down in the booms and relapses of that period; but +each time he went down he rebounded a little higher, until finally, +after a year of overwork and anxiety--the latter not decreased by a +chance, remote but possible, of recuperation from the former in the +penitentiary--he found himself on top, with solid substance under +his feet; and thereafter “played it safe.” But his hunger to get was +unabated, for it was in the very bones of him and grew fiercer. + +He was the city incarnate. He loved it, calling it God's country, as he +called the smoke Prosperity, breathing the dingy cloud with relish. And +when soot fell upon his cuff he chuckled; he could have kissed it. “It's +good! It's good!” he said, and smacked his lips in gusto. “Good, clean +soot; it's our life-blood, God bless it!” The smoke was one of his +great enthusiasms; he laughed at a committee of plaintive housewives who +called to beg his aid against it. “Smoke's what brings your husbands' +money home on Saturday night,” he told them, jovially. “Smoke may hurt +your little shrubberies in the front yard some, but it's the catarrhal +climate and the adenoids that starts your chuldern coughing. Smoke makes +the climate better. Smoke means good health: it makes the people wash +more. They have to wash so much they wash off the microbes. You go +home and ask your husbands what smoke puts in their pockets out o' the +pay-roll--and you'll come around next time to get me to turn out more +smoke instead o' chokin' it off!” + +It was Narcissism in him to love the city so well; he saw his reflection +in it; and, like it, he was grimy, big, careless, rich, strong, and +unquenchably optimistic. From the deepest of his inside all the way out +he believed it was the finest city in the world. “Finest” was his word. +He thought of it as his city as he thought of his family as his family; +and just as profoundly believed his city to be the finest city in +the world, so did he believe his family to be--in spite of his son +Bibbs--the finest family in the world. As a matter of fact, he knew +nothing worth knowing about either. + +Bibbs Sheridan was a musing sort of boy, poor in health, and considered +the failure--the “odd one”--of the family. Born during that most +dangerous and anxious of the early years, when the mother fretted and +the father took his chance, he was an ill-nourished baby, and +grew meagerly, only lengthwise, through a feeble childhood. At his +christening he was committed for life to “Bibbs” mainly through lack of +imagination on his mother's part, for though it was her maiden name, she +had no strong affection for it; but it was “her turn” to name the baby, +and, as she explained later, she “couldn't think of anything else she +liked AT ALL!” She offered this explanation one day when the sickly boy +was nine and after a long fit of brooding had demanded some reason for +his name's being Bibbs. He requested then with unwonted vehemence to +be allowed to exchange names with his older brother, Roscoe Conkling +Sheridan, or with the oldest, James Sheridan, Junior, and upon being +refused went down into the cellar and remained there the rest of +that day. And the cook, descending toward dusk, reported that he had +vanished; but a search revealed that he was in the coal-pile, completely +covered and still burrowing. Removed by force and carried upstairs, +he maintained a cryptic demeanor, refusing to utter a syllable of +explanation, even under the lash. This obvious thing was wholly a +mystery to both parents; the mother was nonplussed, failed to trace and +connect; and the father regarded his son as a stubborn and mysterious +fool, an impression not effaced as the years went by. + +At twenty-two, Bibbs was physically no more than the outer scaffolding +of a man, waiting for the building to begin inside--a long-shanked, +long-faced, rickety youth, sallow and hollow and haggard, dark-haired +and dark-eyed, with a peculiar expression of countenance; indeed, at +first sight of Bibbs Sheridan a stranger might well be solicitous, for +he seemed upon the point of tears. But to a slightly longer gaze, not +grief, but mirth, was revealed as his emotion; while a more searching +scrutiny was proportionately more puzzling--he seemed about to burst out +crying or to burst out laughing, one or the other, inevitably, but it +was impossible to decide which. And Bibbs never, on any occasion of his +life, either laughed aloud or wept. + +He was a “disappointment” to his father. At least that was the parent's +word--a confirmed and established word after his first attempt to make +a “business man” of the boy. He sent Bibbs to “begin at the bottom and +learn from the ground up” in the machine-shop of the Sheridan Automatic +Pump Works, and at the end of six months the family physician sent Bibbs +to begin at the bottom and learn from the ground up in a sanitarium. + +“You needn't worry, mamma,” Sheridan told his wife. “There's nothin' the +matter with Bibbs except he hates work so much it makes him sick. I put +him in the machine-shop, and I guess I know what I'm doin' about as well +as the next man. Ole Doc Gurney always was one o' them nutty alarmists. +Does he think I'd do anything 'd be bad for my own flesh and blood? He +makes me tired!” + +Anything except perfectly definite health or perfectly definite disease +was incomprehensible to Sheridan. He had a genuine conviction that lack +of physical persistence in any task involving money must be due to some +subtle weakness of character itself, to some profound shiftlessness or +slyness. He understood typhoid fever, pneumonia, and appendicitis--one +had them, and either died or got over them and went back to work--but +when the word “nervous” appeared in a diagnosis he became honestly +suspicious: he had the feeling that there was something contemptible +about it, that there was a nigger in the wood-pile somewhere. + +“Look at me,” he said. “Look at what I did at his age! Why, when I was +twenty years old, wasn't I up every morning at four o'clock choppin' +wood--yes! and out in the dark and the snow--to build a fire in a +country grocery store? And here Bibbs has to go and have a DOCTOR +because he can't--Pho! it makes me tired! If he'd gone at it like a man +he wouldn't be sick.” + +He paced the bedroom--the usual setting for such parental +discussions--in his nightgown, shaking his big, grizzled head and +gesticulating to his bedded spouse. “My Lord!” he said. “If a little, +teeny bit o' work like this is too much for him, why, he ain't fit for +anything! It's nine-tenths imagination, and the rest of it--well, I +won't say it's deliberate, but I WOULD like to know just how much of +it's put on!” + +“Bibbs didn't want the doctor,” said Mrs. Sheridan. “It was when he was +here to dinner that night, and noticed how he couldn't eat anything. +Honey, you better come to bed.” + +“Eat!” he snorted. “Eat! It's work that makes men eat! And it's +imagination that keeps people from eatin'. Busy men don't get time for +that kind of imagination; and there's another thing you'll notice +about good health, if you'll take the trouble to look around you Mrs. +Sheridan: busy men haven't got time to be sick and they don't GET sick. +You just think it over and you'll find that ninety-nine per cent. of the +sick people you know are either women or loafers. Yes, ma'am!” + +“Honey,” she said again, drowsily, “you better come to bed.” + +“Look at the other boys,” her husband bade her. “Look at Jim and Roscoe. +Look at how THEY work! There isn't a shiftless bone in their bodies. +Work never made Jim or Roscoe sick. Jim takes half the load off my +shoulders already. Right now there isn't a harder-workin', brighter +business man in this city than Jim. I've pushed him, but he give me +something to push AGAINST. You can't push 'nervous dyspepsia'! And look +at Roscoe; just LOOK at what that boy's done for himself, and barely +twenty-seven years old--married, got a fine wife, and ready to build +for himself with his own money, when I put up the New House for you and +Edie.” + +“Papa, you'll catch cold in your bare feet,” she murmured. “You better +come to bed.” + +“And I'm just as proud of Edie, for a girl,” he continued, emphatically, +“as I am of Jim and Roscoe for boys. She'll make some man a mighty good +wife when the time comes. She's the prettiest and talentedest girl in +the United States! Look at that poem she wrote when she was in school +and took the prize with; it's the best poem I ever read in my life, and +she'd never even tried to write one before. It's the finest thing I +ever read, and R. T. Bloss said so, too; and I guess he's a good enough +literary judge for me--turns out more advertisin' liter'cher than any +man in the city. I tell you she's smart! Look at the way she worked me +to get me to promise the New House--and I guess you had your finger +in that, too, mamma! This old shack's good enough for me, but you and +little Edie 'll have to have your way. I'll get behind her and push her +the same as I will Jim and Roscoe. I tell you I'm mighty proud o' them +three chuldern! But Bibbs--” He paused, shaking his head. “Honest, +mamma, when I talk to men that got ALL their boys doin' well and worth +their salt, why, I have to keep my mind on Jim and Roscoe and forget +about Bibbs.” + +Mrs. Sheridan tossed her head fretfully upon the pillow. “You did the +best you could, papa,” she said, impatiently, “so come to bed and quit +reproachin' yourself for it.” + +He glared at her indignantly. “Reproachin' myself!” he snorted. “I ain't +doin' anything of the kind! What in the name o' goodness would I want +to reproach myself for? And it wasn't the 'best I could,' either. It was +the best ANYBODY could! I was givin' him a chance to show what was +in him and make a man of himself--and here he goes and gets 'nervous +dyspepsia' on me!” + +He went to the old-fashioned gas-fixture, turned out the light, and +muttered his way morosely into bed. + +“What?” said his wife, crossly, bothered by a subsequent mumbling. + +“More like hook-worm, I said,” he explained, speaking louder. “I don't +know what to do with him!” + + + +CHAPTER III + +Beginning at the beginning and learning from the ground up was a long +course for Bibbs at the sanitarium, with milk and “zwieback” as the +basis of instruction; and the months were many and tiresome before he +was considered near enough graduation to go for a walk leaning on a +nurse and a cane. These and subsequent months saw the planning, the +building, and the completion of the New House; and it was to that abode +of Bigness that Bibbs was brought when the cane, without the nurse, was +found sufficient to his support. + +Edith met him at the station. “Well, well, Bibbs!” she said, as he came +slowly through the gates, the last of all the travelers from that train. +She gave his hand a brisk little shake, averting her eyes after a quick +glance at him, and turning at once toward the passage to the street. “Do +you think they ought to've let you come? You certainly don't look well!” + +“But I certainly do look better,” he returned, in a voice as slow as +his gait; a drawl that was a necessity, for when Bibbs tried to speak +quickly he stammered. “Up to about a month ago it took two people to see +me. They had to get me in a line between 'em!” + +Edith did not turn her eyes directly toward him again, after her first +quick glance; and her expression, in spite of her, showed a faint, +troubled distaste, the look of a healthy person pressed by some +obligation of business to visit a “bad” ward in a hospital. She was +nineteen, fair and slim, with small, unequal features, but a prettiness +of color and a brilliancy of eyes that created a total impression close +upon beauty. Her movements were eager and restless: there was something +about her, as kind old ladies say, that was very sweet; and there was +something that was hurried and breathless. This was new to Bibbs; it was +a perceptible change since he had last seen her, and he bent upon her +a steady, whimsical scrutiny as they stood at the curb, waiting for an +automobile across the street to disengage itself from the traffic. + +“That's the new car,” she said. “Everything's new. We've got four now, +besides Jim's. Roscoe's got two.” + +“Edith, you look--” he began, and paused. + +“Oh, WE're all well,” she said, briskly; and then, as if something in +his tone had caught her as significant, “Well, HOW do I look, Bibbs?” + +“You look--” He paused again, taking in the full length of her--her trim +brown shoes, her scant, tapering, rough skirt, and her coat of brown +and green, her long green tippet and her mad little rough hat in the mad +mode--all suited to the October day. + +“How do I look?” she insisted. + +“You look,” he answered, as his examination ended upon an incrusted +watch of platinum and enamel at her wrist, “you look--expensive!” That +was a substitute for what he intended to say, for her constraint and +preoccupation, manifested particularly in her keeping her direct +glance away from him, did not seem to grant the privilege of impulsive +intimacies. + +“I expect I am!” she laughed, and sidelong caught the direction of his +glance. “Of course I oughtn't to wear it in the daytime--it's an evening +thing, for the theater--but my day wrist-watch is out of gear. Bobby +Lamhorn broke it yesterday; he's a regular rowdy sometimes. Do you want +Claus to help you in?” + +“Oh no,” said Bibbs. “I'm alive.” And after a fit of panting subsequent +to his climbing into the car unaided, he added, “Of course, I have to +TELL people!” + +“We only got your telegram this morning,” she said, as they began to +move rapidly through the “wholesale district” neighboring the station. +“Mother said she'd hardly expected you this month.” + +“They seemed to be through with me up there in the country,” he +explained, gently. “At least they said they were, and they wouldn't keep +me any longer, because so many really sick people wanted to get in. They +told me to go home--and I didn't have any place else to go. It'll be all +right, Edith; I'll sit in the woodshed until after dark every day.” + +“Pshaw!” She laughed nervously. “Of course we're all of us glad to have +you back.” + +“Yes?” he said. “Father?” + +“Of course! Didn't he write and tell you to come home?” She did not turn +to him with the question. All the while she rode with her face directly +forward. + +“No,” he said; “father hasn't written.” + +She flushed a little. “I expect I ought to've written sometime, or one +of the boys--” + +“Oh no; that was all right.” + +“You can't think how busy we've all been this year, Bibbs. I often +planned to write--and then, just as I was going to, something would turn +up. And I'm sure it's been just the same way with Jim and Roscoe. Of +course we knew mamma was writing often and--” + +“Of course!” he said, readily. “There's a chunk of coal fallen on your +glove, Edith. Better flick it off before it smears. My word! I'd almost +forgotten how sooty it is here.” + +“We've been having very bright weather this month--for us.” She blew the +flake of soot into the air, seeming relieved. + +He looked up at the dingy sky, wherein hung the disconsolate sun like +a cold tin pan nailed up in a smoke-house by some lunatic, for a +decoration. “Yes,” said Bibbs. “It's very gay.” A few moments later, as +they passed a corner, “Aren't we going home?” he asked. + +“Why, yes! Did you want to go somewhere else first?” + +“No. Your new driver's taking us out of the way, isn't he?” + +“No. This is right. We're going straight home.” + +“But we've passed the corner. We always turned--” + +“Good gracious!” she cried. “Didn't you know we'd moved? Didn't you know +we were in the New House?” + +“Why, no!” said Bibbs. “Are you?” + +“We've been there a month! Good gracious! Didn't you know--” She broke +off, flushing again, and then went on hastily: “Of course, mamma's never +been so busy in her life; we ALL haven't had time to do anything but +keep on the hop. Mamma couldn't even come to the station to-day. Papa's +got some of his business friends and people from around the +OLD-house neighborhood coming to-night for a big dinner and +'house-warming'--dreadful kind of people--but mamma's got it all on her +hands. She's never sat down a MINUTE; and if she did, papa would have +her up again before--” + +“Of course,” said Bibbs. “Do you like the new place, Edith?” + +“I don't like some of the things father WOULD have in it, but it's the +finest house in town, and that ought to be good enough for me! Papa +bought one thing I like--a view of the Bay of Naples in oil that's +perfectly beautiful; it's the first thing you see as you come in the +front hall, and it's eleven feet long. But he would have that old +fruit picture we had in the Murphy Street house hung up in the new +dining-room. You remember it--a table and a watermelon sliced open, +and a lot of rouged-looking apples and some shiny lemons, with two dead +prairie-chickens on a chair? He bought it at a furniture-store years and +years ago, and he claims it's a finer picture than any they saw in the +museums, that time he took mamma to Europe. But it's horribly out of +date to have those things in dining-rooms, and I caught Bobby Lamhorn +giggling at it; and Sibyl made fun of it, too, with Bobby, and then told +papa she agreed with him about its being such a fine thing, and said he +did just right to insist on having it where he wanted it. She makes me +tired! Sibyl!” + +Edith's first constraint with her brother, amounting almost to +awkwardness, vanished with this theme, though she still kept her full +gaze always to the front, even in the extreme ardor of her denunciation +of her sister-in-law. + +“SIBYL!” she repeated, with such heat and vigor that the name seemed +to strike fire on her lips. “I'd like to know why Roscoe couldn't have +married somebody from HERE that would have done us some good! He could +have got in with Bobby Lamhorn years ago just as well as now, and +Bobby'd have introduced him to the nicest girls in town, but instead of +that he had to go and pick up this Sibyl Rink! I met some awfully +nice people from her town when mamma and I were at Atlantic City, last +spring, and not one had ever heard of the Rinks! Not even HEARD of 'em!” + +“I thought you were great friends with Sibyl,” Bibbs said. + +“Up to the time I found her out!” the sister returned, with continuing +vehemence. “I've found out some things about Mrs. Roscoe Sheridan +lately--” + +“It's only lately?” + +“Well--” Edith hesitated, her lips setting primly. “Of course, I +always did see that she never cared the snap of her little finger about +ROSCOE!” + +“It seems,” said Bibbs, in laconic protest, “that she married him.” + +The sister emitted a shrill cry, to be interpreted as contemptuous +laughter, and, in her emotion, spoke too impulsively: “Why, she'd have +married YOU!” + +“No, no,” he said; “she couldn't be that bad!” + +“I didn't mean--” she began, distressed. “I only meant--I didn't mean--” + +“Never mind, Edith,” he consoled her. “You see, she couldn't have +married me, because I didn't know her; and besides, if she's as +mercenary as all that she'd have been too clever. The head doctor even +had to lend me the money for my ticket home.” + +“I didn't mean anything unpleasant about YOU,” Edith babbled. “I only +meant I thought she was the kind of girl who was so simply crazy to +marry somebody she'd have married anybody that asked her.” + +“Yes, yes,” said Bibbs, “it's all straight.” And, perceiving that +his sister's expression was that of a person whose adroitness has set +matters perfectly to rights, he chuckled silently. + +“Roscoe's perfectly lovely to her,” she continued, a moment later. “Too +lovely! If he'd wake up a little and lay down the law, some day, like a +MAN, I guess she'd respect him more and learn to behave herself!” + +“'Behave'?” + +“Oh, well, I mean she's so insincere,” said Edith, characteristically +evasive when it came to stating the very point to which she had led, and +in this not unique of her sex. + +Bibbs contented himself with a non-committal gesture. “Business +is crawling up the old streets,” he said, his long, tremulous hand +indicating a vasty structure in course of erection. “The boarding-houses +come first and then the--” + +“That isn't for shops,” she informed him. “That's a new investment of +papa's--the 'Sheridan Apartments.'” + +“Well, well,” he murmured. “I supposed 'Sheridan' was almost well enough +known here already.” + +“Oh, we're well enough known ABOUT!” she said, impatiently. “I guess +there isn't a man, woman, child, or nigger baby in town that doesn't +know who we are. But we aren't in with the right people.” + +“No!” he exclaimed. “Who's all that?” + +“Who's all what?” + +“The 'right people.'” + +“You know what I mean: the best people, the old families--the people +that have the real social position in this town and that know they've +got it.” + +Bibbs indulged in his silent chuckle again; he seemed greatly amused. “I +thought that the people who actually had the real what-you-may-call-it +didn't know it,” he said. “I've always understood that it was very +unsatisfactory, because if you thought about it you didn't have it, and +if you had it you didn't know it.” + +“That's just bosh,” she retorted. “They know it in this town, all right! +I found out a lot of things, long before we began to think of building +out in this direction. The right people in this town aren't always the +society-column ones, and they mix around with outsiders, and they don't +all belong to any one club--they're taken in all sorts into all their +clubs--but they're a clan, just the same; and they have the clan feeling +and they're just as much We, Us and Company as any crowd you read about +anywhere in the world. Most of 'em were here long before papa came, and +the grandfathers of the girls of my age knew each other, and--” + +“I see,” Bibbs interrupted, gravely. “Their ancestors fled together +from many a stricken field, and Crusaders' blood flows in their veins. I +always understood the first house was built by an old party of the name +of Vertrees who couldn't get along with Dan'l Boone, and hurried away to +these parts because Dan'l wanted him to give back a gun he'd lent him.” + +Edith gave a little ejaculation of alarm. “You mustn't repeat that +story, Bibbs, even if it's true. The Vertreeses are THE best family, and +of course the very oldest here; they were an old family even before +Mary Vertrees's great-great-grandfather came west and founded this +settlement. He came from Lynn, Massachusetts, and they have relatives +there YET--some of the best people in Lynn!” + +“No!” exclaimed Bibbs, incredulously. + +“And there are other old families like the Vertreeses,” she went on, +not heeding him; “the Lamhorns and the Kittersbys and the J. Palmerston +Smiths--” + +“Strange names to me,” he interrupted. “Poor things! None of them have +my acquaintance.” + +“No, that's just it!” she cried. “And papa had never even heard the name +of Vertrees! Mrs. Vertrees went with some anti-smoke committee to see +him, and he told her that smoke was what made her husband bring home his +wages from the pay-roll on Saturday night! HE told us about it, and I +thought I just couldn't live through the night, I was so ashamed! Mr. +Vertrees has always lived on his income, and papa didn't know him, of +course. They're the stiffist, most elegant people in the whole town. And +to crown it all, papa went and bought the next lot to the old Vertrees +country mansion--it's in the very heart of the best new residence +district now, and that's where the New House is, right next door to +them--and I must say it makes their place look rather shabby! I met Mary +Vertrees when I joined the Mission Service Helpers, but she never did +any more than just barely bow to me, and since papa's break I doubt if +she'll do that! They haven't called.” + +“And you think if I spread this gossip about Vertrees the First stealing +Dan'l Boone's gun, the chances that they WILL call--” + +“Papa knows what a break he made with Mrs. Vertrees. I made him +understand that,” said Edith, demurely, “and he's promised to try and +meet Mr. Vertrees and be nice to him. It's just this way: if we don't +know THEM, it's practically no use in our having built the New House; +and if we DO know them and they're decent to us, we're right with the +right people. They can do the whole thing for us. Bobby Lamhorn told +Sibyl he was going to bring his mother to call on her and on mamma, but +it was weeks ago, and I notice he hasn't done it; and if Mrs. Vertrees +decides not to know us, I'm darn sure Mrs Lamhorn'll never come. That's +ONE thing Sibyl didn't manage! She SAID Bobby offered to bring his +mother--” + +“You say he is a friend of Roscoe's?” Bibbs asked. + +“Oh, he's a friend of the whole family,” she returned, with a petulance +which she made an effort to disguise. “Roscoe and he got acquainted +somewhere, and they take him to the theater about every other night. +Sibyl has him to lunch, too, and keeps--” She broke off with an angry +little jerk of the head. “We can see the New House from the second +corner ahead. Roscoe has built straight across the street from us, you +know. Honestly, Sibyl makes me think of a snake, sometimes--the way +she pulls the wool over people's eyes! She honeys up to papa and gets +anything in the world she wants out of him, and then makes fun of him +behind his back--yes, and to his face, but HE can't see it! She got +him to give her a twelve-thousand-dollar porch for their house after it +was--” + +“Good heavens!” said Bibbs, staring ahead as they reached the corner and +the car swung to the right, following a bend in the street. “Is that the +New House?” + +“Yes. What do you think of it?” + +“Well,” he drawled, “I'm pretty sure the sanitarium's about half a size +bigger; I can't be certain till I measure.” + +And a moment later, as they entered the driveway, he added, seriously: +“But it's beautiful!” + + + +CHAPTER IV + +It was gray stone, with long roofs of thick green slate. An architect +who loved the milder “Gothic motives” had built what he liked: it was to +be seen at once that he had been left unhampered, and he had wrought a +picture out of his head into a noble and exultant reality. At the same +time a landscape-designer had played so good a second, with ready-made +accessories of screen, approach and vista, that already whatever look +of newness remained upon the place was to its advantage, as showing at +least one thing yet clean under the grimy sky. For, though the smoke was +thinner in this direction, and at this long distance from the heart +of the town, it was not absent, and under tutelage of wind and weather +could be malignant even here, where cows had wandered in the meadows and +corn had been growing not ten years gone. + +Altogether, the New House was a success. It was one of those architects' +successes which leave the owners veiled in privacy; it revealed nothing +of the people who lived in it save that they were rich. There are houses +that cannot be detached from their own people without protesting: every +inch of mortar seems to mourn the separation, and such a house--no +matter what be done to it--is ever murmurous with regret, whispering the +old name sadly to itself unceasingly. But the New House was of a kind +to change hands without emotion. In our swelling cities, great places +of its type are useful as financial gauges of the business tides; +rich families, one after another, take title and occupy such houses as +fortunes rise and fall--they mark the high tide. It was impossible to +imagine a child's toy wagon left upon a walk or driveway of the New +House, and yet it was--as Bibbs rightly called it--“beautiful.” + +What the architect thought of the “Golfo di Napoli,” which hung in its +vast gold revel of rococo frame against the gray wood of the hall, is to +be conjectured--perhaps he had not seen it. + +“Edith, did you say only eleven feet?” Bibbs panted, staring at it, as +the white-jacketed twin of a Pullman porter helped him to get out of his +overcoat. + +“Eleven without the frame,” she explained. “It's splendid, don't you +think? It lightens things up so. The hall was kind of gloomy before.” + +“No gloom now!” said Bibbs. + +“This statue in the corner is pretty, too,” she remarked. “Mamma and I +bought that.” And Bibbs turned at her direction to behold, amid a +grove of tubbed palms, a “life-size,” black-bearded Moor, of a plastic +composition painted with unappeasable gloss and brilliancy. Upon his +chocolate head he wore a gold turban; in his hand he held a gold-tipped +spear; and for the rest, he was red and yellow and black and silver. + +“Hallelujah!” was the sole comment of the returned wanderer, and Edith, +saying she would “find mamma,” left him blinking at the Moor. Presently, +after she had disappeared, he turned to the colored man who stood +waiting, Bibbs's traveling-bag in his hand. “What do YOU think of it?” + Bibbs asked, solemnly. + +“Gran'!” replied the servitor. “She mighty hard to dus'. Dus' git in all +'em wrinkles. Yessuh, she mighty hard to dus'.” + +“I expect she must be,” said Bibbs, his glance returning reflectively +to the black bull beard for a moment. “Is there a place anywhere I could +lie down?” + +“Yessuh. We got one nem spare rooms all fix up fo' you, suh. Right up +staihs, suh. Nice room.” + +He led the way, and Bibbs followed slowly, stopping at intervals to +rest, and noting a heavy increase in the staff of service since the +exodus from the “old” house. Maids and scrubwomen were at work under the +patently nominal direction of another Pullman porter, who was profoundly +enjoying his own affectation of being harassed with care. + +“Ev'ything got look spick an' span fo' the big doin's to-night,” Bibbs's +guide explained, chuckling. “Yessuh, we got big doin's to-night! Big +doin's!” + +The room to which he conducted his lagging charge was furnished in +every particular like a room in a new hotel; and Bibbs found it +pleasant--though, indeed, any room with a good bed would have +seemed pleasant to him after his journey. He stretched himself flat +immediately, and having replied “Not now” to the attendant's offer to +unpack the bag, closed his eyes wearily. + +White-jacket, racially sympathetic, lowered the window-shades and made +an exit on tiptoe, encountering the other white-jacket--the harassed +overseer--in the hall without. Said the emerging one: “He mighty shaky, +Mist' Jackson. Drop right down an' shet his eyes. Eyelids all black. +Rich folks gotta go same as anybody else. Anybody ast me if I change +'ith 'at ole boy--No, suh! Le'm keep 'is money; I keep my black skin an' +keep out the ground!” + +Mr. Jackson expressed the same preference. “Yessuh, he look tuh me like +somebody awready laid out,” he concluded. And upon the stairway landing, +near by, two old women, on all-fours at their work, were likewise +pessimistic. + +“Hech!” said one, lamenting in a whisper. “It give me a turn to see him +go by--white as wax an' bony as a dead fish! Mrs. Cronin, tell me: d'it +make ye kind o' sick to look at um?” + +“Sick? No more than the face of a blessed angel already in heaven!” + +“Well,” said the other, “I'd a b'y o' me own come home t' die once--” + She fell silent at a rustling of skirts in the corridor above them. + +It was Mrs. Sheridan hurrying to greet her son. + +She was one of those fat, pink people who fade and contract with age +like drying fruit; and her outside was a true portrait of her. Her +husband and her daughter had long ago absorbed her. What intelligence +she had was given almost wholly to comprehending and serving those +two, and except in the presence of one of them she was nearly always +absent-minded. Edith lived all day with her mother, as daughters do; and +Sheridan so held his wife to her unity with him that she had long ago +become unconscious of her existence as a thing separate from his. She +invariably perceived his moods, and nursed him through them when she +did not share them; and she gave him a profound sympathy with the inmost +spirit and purpose of his being, even though she did not comprehend it +and partook of it only as a spectator. They had known but one actual +altercation in their lives, and that was thirty years past, in the early +days of Sheridan's struggle, when, in order to enhance the favorable +impression he believed himself to be making upon some capitalists, he +had thought it necessary to accompany them to a performance of “The +Black Crook.” But she had not once referred to this during the last ten +years. + +Mrs. Sheridan's manner was hurried and inconsequent; her clothes rustled +more than other women's clothes; she seemed to wear too many at a time +and to be vaguely troubled by them, and she was patting a skirt down +over some unruly internal dissension at the moment she opened Bibbs's +door. + +At sight of the recumbent figure she began to close the door softly, +withdrawing, but the young man had heard the turning of the knob and the +rustling of skirts, and he opened his eyes. + +“Don't go, mother,” he said. “I'm not asleep.” He swung his long legs +over the side of the bed to rise, but she set a hand on his shoulder, +restraining him; and he lay flat again. + +“No,” she said, bending over to kiss his cheek, “I just come for a +minute, but I want to see how you seem. Edith said--” + +“Poor Edith!” he murmured. “She couldn't look at me. She--” + +“Nonsense!” Mrs. Sheridan, having let in the light at a window, came +back to the bedside. “You look a great deal better than what you did +before you went to the sanitarium, anyway. It's done you good; a body +can see that right away. You need fatting up, of course, and you haven't +got much color--” + +“No,” he said, “I haven't much color.” + +“But you will have when you get your strength back.” + +“Oh yes!” he responded, cheerfully. “THEN I will.” + +“You look a great deal better than what I expected.” + +“Edith must have a great vocabulary!” he chuckled. + +“She's too sensitive,” said Mrs. Sheridan, “and it makes her exaggerate +a little. What about your diet?” + +“That's all right. They told me to eat anything.” + +“Anything at all?” + +“Well--anything I could.” + +“That's good,” she said, nodding. “They mean for you just to build up +your strength. That's what they told me the last time I went to see you +at the sanitarium. You look better than what you did then, and that's +only a little time ago. How long was it?” + +“Eight months, I think.” + +“No, it couldn't be. I know it ain't THAT long, but maybe it was +longer'n I thought. And this last month or so I haven't had scarcely +even time to write more than just a line to ask how you were gettin' +along, but I told Edith to write, the weeks I couldn't, and I asked +Jim to, too, and they both said they would, so I suppose you've kept up +pretty well on the home news.” + +“Oh yes.” + +“What I think you need,” said the mother, gravely, “is to liven up a +little and take an interest in things. That's what papa was sayin' this +morning, after we got your telegram; and that's what'll stimilate your +appetite, too. He was talkin' over his plans for you--” + +“Plans?” Bibbs, turning on his side, shielded his eyes from the light +with his hand, so that he might see her better. “What--” He paused. +“What plans is he making for me, mother?” + +She turned away, going back to the window to draw down the shade. +“Well, you better talk it over with HIM,” she said, with perceptible +nervousness. “He better tell you himself. I don't feel as if I had any +call, exactly, to go into it; and you better get to sleep now, anyway.” + She came and stood by the bedside once more. “But you must remember, +Bibbs, whatever papa does is for the best. He loves his chuldern and +wants to do what's right by ALL of 'em--and you'll always find he's +right in the end.” + +He made a little gesture of assent, which seemed to content her; and +she rustled to the door, turning to speak again after she had opened it. +“You get a good nap, now, so as to be all rested up for to-night.” + +“You--you mean--he--” Bibbs stammered, having begun to speak too +quickly. Checking himself, he drew a long breath, then asked, quietly, +“Does father expect me to come down-stairs this evening?” + +“Well, I think he does,” she answered. “You see, it's the +'house-warming,' as he calls it, and he said he thinks all our chuldern +ought to be around us, as well as the old friends and other folks. It's +just what he thinks you need--to take an interest and liven up. You +don't feel too bad to come down, do you?” + +“Mother?” + +“Well?” + +“Take a good look at me,” he said. + +“Oh, see here!” she cried, with brusque cheerfulness. “You're not so bad +off as you think you are, Bibbs. You're on the mend; and it won't do you +any harm to please your--” + +“It isn't that,” he interrupted. “Honestly, I'm only afraid it might +spoil somebody's appetite. Edith--” + +“I told you the child was too sensitive,” she interrupted, in turn. +“You're a plenty good-lookin' enough young man for anybody! You look +like you been through a long spell and begun to get well, and that's all +there is to it.” + +“All right. I'll come to the party. If the rest of you can stand it, I +can!” + +“It 'll do you good,” she returned, rustling into the hall. “Now take +a nap, and I'll send one o' the help to wake you in time for you to get +dressed up before dinner. You go to sleep right away, now, Bibbs!” + +Bibbs was unable to obey, though he kept his eyes closed. Something +she had said kept running in his mind, repeating itself over and over +interminably. “His plans for you--his plans for you--his plans for +you--his plans for you--” And then, taking the place of “his plans for +you,” after what seemed a long, long while, her flurried voice came +back to him insistently, seeming to whisper in his ear: “He loves his +chuldern--he loves his chuldern--he loves his chuldern”--“you'll find +he's always right--you'll find he's always right--” Until at last, as he +drifted into the state of half-dreams and distorted realities, the voice +seemed to murmur from beyond a great black wing that came out of the +wall and stretched over his bed--it was a black wing within the room, +and at the same time it was a black cloud crossing the sky, bridging the +whole earth from pole to pole. It was a cloud of black smoke, and out +of the heart of it came a flurried voice whispering over and over, “His +plans for you--his plans for you--his plans for you--” And then there +was nothing. + +He woke refreshed, stretched himself gingerly--as one might have a care +against too quick or too long a pull upon a frayed elastic--and, getting +to his feet, went blinking to the window and touched the shade so that +it flew up, letting in a pale sunset. + +He looked out into the lemon-colored light and smiled wanly at the +next house, as Edith's grandiose phrase came to mind, “the old Vertrees +country mansion.” It stood in a broad lawn which was separated from the +Sheridans' by a young hedge; and it was a big, square, plain old box +of a house with a giant salt-cellar atop for a cupola. Paint had been +spared for a long time, and no one could have put a name to the color of +it, but in spite of that the place had no look of being out at heel, and +the sward was as neatly trimmed as the Sheridans' own. + +The separating hedge ran almost beneath Bibbs's window--for this wing of +the New House extended here almost to the edge of the lot--and, directly +opposite the window, the Vertreeses' lawn had been graded so as to make +a little knoll upon which stood a small rustic “summer-house.” It was +almost on a level with Bibbs's window and not thirty feet away; and +it was easy for him to imagine the present dynasty of Vertreeses +in grievous outcry when they had found this retreat ruined by the +juxtaposition of the parvenu intruder. Probably the “summer-house” was +pleasant and pretty in summer. It had the look of a place wherein little +girls had played for a generation or so with dolls and “housekeeping,” + or where a lovely old lady might come to read something dull on warm +afternoons; but now in the thin light it was desolate, the color of +dust, and hung with haggard vines which had lost their leaves. + +Bibbs looked at it with grave sympathy, probably feeling some kinship +with anything so dismantled; then he turned to a cheval-glass beside the +window and paid himself the dubious tribute of a thorough inspection. He +looked the mirror up and down, slowly, repeatedly, but came in the end +to a long and earnest scrutiny of the face. Throughout this cryptic +seance his manner was profoundly impersonal; he had the air of an +entomologist intent upon classifying a specimen, but finally he appeared +to become pessimistic. He shook his head solemnly; then gazed again +and shook his head again, and continued to shake it slowly, in complete +disapproval. + +“You certainly are one horrible sight!” he said, aloud. + +And at that he was instantly aware of an observer. Turning quickly, +he was vouchsafed the picture of a charming lady, framed in a +rustic aperture of the “summer-house” and staring full into his +window--straight into his eyes, too, for the infinitesimal fraction of +a second before the flashingly censorious withdrawal of her own. +Composedly, she pulled several dead twigs from a vine, the manner of her +action conveying a message or proclamation to the effect that she was in +the summer-house for the sole purpose of such-like pruning and tending, +and that no gentleman could suppose her presence there to be due to any +other purpose whatsoever, or that, being there on that account, she +had allowed her attention to wander for one instant in the direction of +things of which she was in reality unconscious. + +Having pulled enough twigs to emphasize her unconsciousness--and at the +same time her disapproval--of everything in the nature of a Sheridan +or belonging to a Sheridan, she descended the knoll with maintained +composure, and sauntered toward a side-door of the country mansion of +the Vertreeses. An elderly lady, bonneted and cloaked, opened the door +and came to meet her. + +“Are you ready, Mary? I've been looking for you. What were you doing?” + +“Nothing. Just looking into one of Sheridans' windows,” said Mary +Vertrees. “I got caught at it.” + +“Mary!” cried her mother. “Just as we were going to call! Good heavens!” + +“We'll go, just the same,” the daughter returned. “I suppose those women +would be glad to have us if we'd burned their house to the ground.” + +“But WHO saw you?” insisted Mrs. Vertrees. + +“One of the sons, I suppose he was. I believe he's insane, or something. +At least I hear they keep him in a sanitarium somewhere, and never talk +about him. He was staring at himself in a mirror and talking to himself. +Then he looked out and caught me.” + +“What did he--” + +“Nothing, of course.” + +“How did he look?” + +“Like a ghost in a blue suit,” said Miss Vertrees, moving toward the +street and waving a white-gloved hand in farewell to her father, who +was observing them from the window of his library. “Rather tragic and +altogether impossible. Do come on, mother, and let's get it over!” + +And Mrs. Vertrees, with many misgivings, set forth with her daughter for +their gracious assault upon the New House next door. + + + +CHAPTER V + +Mr. Vertrees, having watched their departure with the air of a man who +had something at hazard upon the expedition, turned from the window and +began to pace the library thoughtfully, pending their return. He was +about sixty; a small man, withered and dry and fine, a trim little +sketch of an elderly dandy. His lambrequin mustache--relic of a +forgotten Anglomania--had been profoundly black, but now, like his +smooth hair, it was approaching an equally sheer whiteness; and though +his clothes were old, they had shapeliness and a flavor of mode. And for +greater spruceness there were some jaunty touches; gray spats, a narrow +black ribbon across the gray waistcoat to the eye-glasses in a pocket, +a fleck of color from a button in the lapel of the black coat, labeling +him the descendant of patriot warriors. + +The room was not like him, being cheerful and hideous, whereas Mr. +Vertrees was anxious and decorative. Under a mantel of imitation black +marble a merry little coal-fire beamed forth upon high and narrow +“Eastlake” bookcases with long glass doors, and upon comfortable, +incongruous furniture, and upon meaningless “woodwork” everywhere, +and upon half a dozen Landseer engravings which Mr. and Mrs. Vertrees +sometimes mentioned to each other, after thirty years of possession, as +“very fine things.” They had been the first people in town to possess +Landseer engravings, and there, in art, they had rested, but they still +had a feeling that in all such matters they were in the van; and when +Mr. Vertrees discovered Landseers upon the walls of other people's +houses he thawed, as a chieftain to a trusted follower; and if he +found an edition of Bulwer Lytton accompanying the Landseers as a final +corroboration of culture, he would say, inevitably, “Those people know +good pictures and they know good books.” + +The growth of the city, which might easily have made him a millionaire, +had ruined him because he had failed to understand it. When towns begin +to grow they have whims, and the whims of a town always ruin somebody. +Mr. Vertrees had been most strikingly the somebody in this case. At +about the time he bought the Landseers, he owned, through inheritance, +an office-building and a large house not far from it, where he spent the +winter; and he had a country place--a farm of four hundred acres--where +he went for the summers to the comfortable, ugly old house that was his +home now, perforce, all the year round. If he had known how to sit +still and let things happen he would have prospered miraculously; but, +strangely enough, the dainty little man was one of the first to fall +down and worship Bigness, the which proceeded straightway to enact the +role of Juggernaut for his better education. He was a true prophet of +the prodigious growth, but he had a fatal gift for selling good and +buying bad. He should have stayed at home and looked at his Landseers +and read his Bulwer, but he took his cow to market, and the trained +milkers milked her dry and then ate her. He sold the office-building and +the house in town to buy a great tract of lots in a new suburb; then +he sold the farm, except the house and the ground about it, to pay the +taxes on the suburban lots and to “keep them up.” The lots refused to +stay up; but he had to do something to keep himself and his family up, +so in despair he sold the lots (which went up beautifully the next year) +for “traction stock” that was paying dividends; and thereafter he ceased +to buy and sell. Thus he disappeared altogether from the commercial +surface at about the time James Sheridan came out securely on top; and +Sheridan, until Mrs. Vertrees called upon him with her “anti-smoke” + committee, had never heard the name. + +Mr. Vertrees, pinched, retired to his Landseers, and Mrs. Vertrees +“managed somehow” on the dividends, though “managing” became more and +more difficult as the years went by and money bought less and less. But +there came a day when three servitors of Bigness in Philadelphia took +greedy counsel with four fellow-worshipers from New York, and not long +after that there were no more dividends for Mr. Vertrees. In fact, there +was nothing for Mr. Vertrees, because the “traction stock” henceforth +was no stock at all, and he had mortgaged his house long ago to help +“manage somehow” according to his conception of his “position in +life”--one of his own old-fashioned phrases. Six months before the +completion of the New House next door, Mr. Vertrees had sold his horses +and the worn Victoria and “station-wagon,” to pay the arrears of his two +servants and re-establish credit at the grocer's and butcher's--and a +pair of elderly carriage-horses with such accoutrements are not very +ample barter, in these days, for six months' food and fuel and service. +Mr. Vertrees had discovered, too, that there was no salary for him in +all the buzzing city--he could do nothing. + +It may be said that he was at the end of his string. Such times do come +in all their bitterness, finally, to the man with no trade or craft, if +his feeble clutch on that slippery ghost, Property, shall fail. + +The windows grew black while he paced the room, and smoky twilight +closed round about the house, yet not more darkly than what closed round +about the heart of the anxious little man patrolling the fan-shaped zone +of firelight. But as the mantel clock struck wheezily six there was the +rattle of an outer door, and a rich and beautiful peal of laughter went +ringing through the house. Thus cheerfully did Mary Vertrees herald her +return with her mother from their expedition among the barbarians. + +She came rushing into the library and threw herself into a deep chair by +the hearth, laughing so uncontrollably that tears were in her eyes. Mrs. +Vertrees followed decorously, no mirth about her; on the contrary, +she looked vaguely disturbed, as if she had eaten something not quite +certain to agree with her, and regretted it. + +“Papa! Oh, oh!” And Miss Vertrees was fain to apply a handkerchief upon +her eyes. “I'm SO glad you made us go! I wouldn't have missed it--” + +Mrs. Vertrees shook her head. “I suppose I'm very dull,” she said, +gently. “I didn't see anything amusing. They're most ordinary, and the +house is altogether in bad taste, but we anticipated that, and--” + +“Papa!” Mary cried, breaking in. “They asked us to DINNER!” + +“What!” + +“And I'm GOING!” she shouted, and was seized with fresh paroxysms. +“Think of it! Never in their house before; never met any of them but the +daughter--and just BARELY met her--” + +“What about you?” interrupted Mr. Vertrees, turning sharply upon his +wife. + +She made a little face as if positive now that what she had eaten would +not agree with her. “I couldn't!” she said. “I--” + +“Yes, that's just--just the way she--she looked when they asked her!” + cried Mary, choking. “And then she--she realized it, and tried to turn +it into a cough, and she didn't know how, and it sounded like--like a +squeal!” + +“I suppose,” said Mrs. Vertrees, much injured, “that Mary will have an +uproarious time at my funeral. She makes fun of--” + +Mary jumped up instantly and kissed her; then she went to the mantel +and, leaning an elbow upon it, gazed thoughtfully at the buckle of her +shoe, twinkling in the firelight. + +“THEY didn't notice anything,” she said. “So far as they were concerned, +mamma, it was one of the finest coughs you ever coughed.” + +“Who were 'they'?” asked her father. “Whom did you see?” + +“Only the mother and daughter,” Mary answered. “Mrs. Sheridan is dumpy +and rustly; and Miss Sheridan is pretty and pushing--dresses by the +fashion magazines and talks about New York people that have +their pictures in 'em. She tutors the mother, but not very +successfully--partly because her own foundation is too flimsy and partly +because she began too late. They've got an enormous Moor of painted +plaster or something in the hall, and the girl evidently thought it was +to her credit that she selected it!” + +“They have oil-paintings, too,” added Mrs. Vertrees, with a glance of +gentle pride at the Landseers. “I've always thought oil-paintings in a +private house the worst of taste.” + +“Oh, if one owned a Raphael or a Titian!” said Mr. Vertrees, finishing +the implication, not in words, but with a wave of his hand. “Go on, +Mary. None of the rest of them came in? You didn't meet Mr. Sheridan +or--” He paused and adjusted a lump of coal in the fire delicately with +the poker. “Or one of the sons?” + +Mary's glance crossed his, at that, with a flash of utter comprehension. +He turned instantly away, but she had begun to laugh again. + +“No,” she said, “no one except the women, but mamma inquired about the +sons thoroughly!” + +“Mary!” Mrs. Vertrees protested. + +“Oh, most adroitly, too!” laughed the girl. “Only she couldn't help +unconsciously turning to look at me--when she did it!” + +“Mary Vertrees!” + +“Never mind, mamma! Mrs. Sheridan and Miss Sheridan neither of THEM +could help unconsciously turning to look at me--speculatively--at the +same time! They all three kept looking at me and talking about the +oldest son, Mr. James Sheridan, Junior. Mrs. Sheridan said his father is +very anxious 'to get Jim to marry and settle down,' and she assured me +that 'Jim is right cultivated.' Another of the sons, the youngest one, +caught me looking in the window this afternoon; but they didn't seem +to consider him quite one of themselves, somehow, though Mrs. Sheridan +mentioned that a couple of years or so ago he had been 'right sick,' +and had been to some cure or other. They seemed relieved to bring the +subject back to 'Jim' and his virtues--and to look at me! The other +brother is the middle one, Roscoe; he's the one that owns the new house +across the street, where that young black-sheep of the Lamhorns, Robert, +goes so often. I saw a short, dark young man standing on the porch with +Robert Lamhorn there the other day, so I suppose that was Roscoe. 'Jim' +still lurks in the mists, but I shall meet him to-night. Papa--” She +stepped nearer to him so that he had to face her, and his eyes were +troubled as he did. There may have been a trouble deep within her own, +but she kept their surface merry with laughter. “Papa, Bibbs is the +youngest one's name, and Bibbs--to the best of our information--is a +lunatic. Roscoe is married. Papa, does it have to be Jim?” + +“Mary!” Mrs. Vertrees cried, sharply. “You're outrageous! That's a +perfectly horrible way of talking!” + +“Well, I'm close to twenty-four,” said Mary, turning to her. “I haven't +been able to like anybody yet that's asked me to marry him, and maybe I +never shall. Until a year or so ago I've had everything I ever wanted in +my life--you and papa gave it all to me--and it's about time I began +to pay back. Unfortunately, I don't know how to do anything--but +something's got to be done.” + +“But you needn't talk of it like THAT!” insisted the mother, +plaintively. “It's not--it's not--” + +“No, it's not,” said Mary. “I know that!” + +“How did they happen to ask you to dinner?” Mr. Vertrees inquired, +uneasily. “'Stextrawdn'ry thing!” + +“Climbers' hospitality,” Mary defined it. “We were so very cordial and +easy! I think Mrs. Sheridan herself might have done it just as any kind +old woman on a farm might ask a neighbor, but it was Miss Sheridan who +did it. She played around it awhile; you could see she wanted to--she's +in a dreadful hurry to get into things--and I fancied she had an idea it +might impress that Lamhorn boy to find us there to-night. It's a sort of +house-warming dinner, and they talked about it and talked about it--and +then the girl got her courage up and blurted out the invitation. And +mamma--” Here Mary was once more a victim to incorrigible merriment. +“Mamma tried to say yes, and COULDN'T! She swallowed and squealed--I +mean you coughed, dear! And then, papa, she said that you and she had +promised to go to a lecture at the Emerson Club to-night, but that her +daughter would be delighted to come to the Big Show! So there I am, +and there's Mr. Jim Sheridan--and there's the clock. Dinner's at +seven-thirty!” + +And she ran out of the room, scooping up her fallen furs with a gesture +of flying grace as she sped. + +When she came down, at twenty minutes after seven, her father stood in +the hall, at the foot of the stairs, waiting to be her escort through +the dark. He looked up and watched her as she descended, and his gaze +was fond and proud--and profoundly disturbed. But she smiled and nodded +gaily, and, when she reached the floor, put a hand on his shoulder. + +“At least no one could suspect me to-night,” she said. “I LOOK rich, +don't I, papa?” + +She did. She had a look that worshipful girl friends bravely called +“regal.” A head taller than her father, she was as straight and jauntily +poised as a boy athlete; and her brown hair and her brown eyes were +like her mother's, but for the rest she went back to some stronger and +livelier ancestor than either of her parents. + +“Don't I look too rich to be suspected?” she insisted. + +“You look everything beautiful, Mary,” he said, huskily. + +“And my dress?” She threw open her dark velvet cloak, showing a splendor +of white and silver. “Anything better at Nice next winter, do you +think?” She laughed, shrouding her glittering figure in the cloak again. +“Two years old, and no one would dream it! I did it over.” + +“You can do anything, Mary.” + +There was a curious humility in his tone, and something more--a +significance not veiled and yet abysmally apologetic. It was as if +he suggested something to her and begged her forgiveness in the same +breath. + +And upon that, for the moment, she became as serious as he. She lifted +her hand from his shoulder and then set it back more firmly, so that he +should feel the reassurance of its pressure. + +“Don't worry,” she said, in a low voice and gravely. “I know exactly +what you want me to do.” + + + +CHAPTER VI + +It was a brave and lustrous banquet; and a noisy one, too, because there +was an orchestra among some plants at one end of the long dining-room, +and after a preliminary stiffness the guests were impelled to +converse--necessarily at the tops of their voices. The whole company +of fifty sat at a great oblong table, improvised for the occasion by +carpenters; but, not betraying itself as an improvisation, it seemed +a permanent continent of damask and lace, with shores of crystal and +silver running up to spreading groves of orchids and lilies and +white roses--an inhabited continent, evidently, for there were three +marvelous, gleaming buildings: one in the center and one at each end, +white miracles wrought by some inspired craftsman in sculptural icing. +They were models in miniature, and they represented the Sheridan +Building, the Sheridan Apartments, and the Pump Works. Nearly all the +guests recognized them without having to be told what they were, and +pronounced the likenesses superb. + +The arrangement of the table was visibly baronial. At the head sat the +great Thane, with the flower of his family and of the guests about him; +then on each side came the neighbors of the “old” house, grading down to +vassals and retainers--superintendents, cashiers, heads of departments, +and the like--at the foot, where the Thane's lady took her place as a +consolation for the less important. Here, too, among the thralls and +bondmen, sat Bibbs Sheridan, a meek Banquo, wondering how anybody could +look at him and eat. + +Nevertheless, there was a vast, continuous eating, for these were +wholesome folk who understood that dinner meant something intended +for introduction into the system by means of an aperture in the face, +devised by nature for that express purpose. And besides, nobody looked +at Bibbs. + +He was better content to be left to himself; his voice was not strong +enough to make itself heard over the hubbub without an exhausting +effort, and the talk that went on about him was too fast and too +fragmentary for his drawl to keep pace with it. So he felt relieved when +each of his neighbors in turn, after a polite inquiry about his health, +turned to seek livelier responses in other directions. For the talk +went on with the eating, incessantly. It rose over the throbbing of the +orchestra and the clatter and clinking of silver and china and glass, +and there was a mighty babble. + +“Yes, sir! Started without a dollar.”... “Yellow flounces on the +overskirt--“... “I says, 'Wilkie, your department's got to go bigger +this year,' I says.”... “Fifteen per cent. turnover in thirty-one +weeks.”... “One of the biggest men in the biggest--“... “The wife says +she'll have to let out my pants if my appetite--“... “Say, did you see +that statue of a Turk in the hall? One of the finest things I ever--“... +“Not a dollar, not a nickel, not one red cent do you get out o' me,' I +says, and so he ups and--“... “Yes, the baby makes four, they've lost +now.”... “Well, they got their raise, and they went in big.”... “Yes, +sir! Not a dollar to his name, and look at what--“... “You wait! The +population of this town's goin' to hit the million mark before she +stops.”... “Well, if you can show me a bigger deal than--” + +And through the interstices of this clamoring Bibbs could hear the +continual booming of his father's heavy voice, and once he caught the +sentence, “Yes, young lady, that's just what did it for me, and that's +just what'll do it for my boys--they got to make two blades o' grass +grow where one grew before!” It was his familiar flourish, an old +story to Bibbs, and now jovially declaimed for the edification of Mary +Vertrees. + +It was a great night for Sheridan--the very crest of his wave. He sat +there knowing himself Thane and master by his own endeavor; and his big, +smooth, red face grew more and more radiant with good will and with the +simplest, happiest, most boy-like vanity. He was the picture of health, +of good cheer, and of power on a holiday. He had thirty teeth, none +bought, and showed most of them when he laughed; his grizzled hair was +thick, and as unruly as a farm laborer's; his chest was deep and big +beneath its vast facade of starched white linen, where little diamonds +twinkled, circling three large pearls; his hands were stubby and strong, +and he used them freely in gestures of marked picturesqueness; and, +though he had grown fat at chin and waist and wrist, he had not lost the +look of readiness and activity. + +He dominated the table, shouting jocular questions and railleries at +every one. His idea was that when people were having a good time they +were noisy; and his own additions to the hubbub increased his pleasure, +and, of course, met the warmest encouragement from his guests. Edith had +discovered that he had very foggy notions of the difference between a +band and an orchestra, and when it was made clear to him he had held out +for a band until Edith threatened tears; but the size of the orchestra +they hired consoled him, and he had now no regrets in the matter. + +He kept time to the music continually--with his feet, or pounding on the +table with his fist, and sometimes with spoon or knife upon his plate +or a glass, without permitting these side-products to interfere with the +real business of eating and shouting. + +“Tell 'em to play 'Nancy Lee'!” he would bellow down the length of +the table to his wife, while the musicians were in the midst of the +“Toreador” song, perhaps. “Ask that fellow if they don't know 'Nancy +Lee'!” And when the leader would shake his head apologetically in answer +to an obedient shriek from Mrs. Sheridan, the “Toreador” continuing +vehemently, Sheridan would roar half-remembered fragments of “Nancy +Lee,” naturally mingling some Bizet with the air of that uxorious +tribute. + +“Oh, there she stands and waves her hands while I'm away! A sail-er's +wife a sail-er's star should be! Yo ho, oh, oh! Oh, Nancy, Nancy, Nancy +Lee! Oh, Na-hancy Lee!” + +“HAY, there, old lady!” he would bellow. “Tell 'em to play 'In the +Gloaming.' In the gloaming, oh, my darling, la-la-lum-tee--Well, if they +don't know that, what's the matter with 'Larboard Watch, Ahoy'? THAT'S +good music! That's the kind o' music I like! Come on, now! Mrs. Callin, +get 'em singin' down in your part o' the table. What's the matter you +folks down there, anyway? Larboard watch, ahoy!” + +“What joy he feels, as--ta-tum-dum-tee-dee-dum steals. La-a-r-board +watch, ahoy!” + +No external bubbling contributed to this effervescence; the Sheridans' +table had never borne wine, and, more because of timidity about it than +conviction, it bore none now; though “mineral waters” were copiously +poured from bottles wrapped, for some reason, in napkins, and proved +wholly satisfactory to almost all of the guests. And certainly no wine +could have inspired more turbulent good spirits in the host. Not even +Bibbs was an alloy in this night's happiness, for, as Mrs. Sheridan had +said, he had “plans for Bibbs”--plans which were going to straighten out +some things that had gone wrong. + +So he pounded the table and boomed his echoes of old songs, and then, +forgetting these, would renew his friendly railleries, or perhaps, +turning to Mary Vertrees, who sat near him, round the corner of the +table at his right, he would become autobiographical. Gentlemen less +naive than he had paid her that tribute, for she was a girl who inspired +the autobiographical impulse in every man who met her--it needed but the +sight of her. + +The dinner seemed, somehow, to center about Mary Vertrees and the +jocund host as a play centers about its hero and heroine; they were the +rubicund king and the starry princess of this spectacle--they paid court +to each other, and everybody paid court to them. Down near the +sugar Pump Works, where Bibbs sat, there was audible speculation and +admiration. “Wonder who that lady is--makin' such a hit with the old +man.” “Must be some heiress.” “Heiress? Golly, I guess I could stand it +to marry rich, then!” + +Edith and Sibyl were radiant: at first they had watched Miss Vertrees +with an almost haggard anxiety, wondering what disasterous effect +Sheridan's pastoral gaieties--and other things--would have upon her, +but she seemed delighted with everything, and with him most of all. +She treated him as if he were some delicious, foolish old joke that +she understood perfectly, laughing at him almost violently when he +bragged--probably his first experience of that kind in his life. It +enchanted him. + +As he proclaimed to the table, she had “a way with her.” She had, +indeed, as Roscoe Sheridan, upon her right, discovered just after the +feast began. Since his marriage three years before, no lady had bestowed +upon him so protracted a full view of brilliant eyes; and, with the +look, his lovely neighbor said--and it was her first speech to him-- + +“I hope you're very susceptible, Mr. Sheridan!” + +Honest Roscoe was taken aback, and “Why?” was all he managed to say. + +She repeated the look deliberately, which was noted, with a +mystification equal to his own, by his sister across the table. No one, +reflected Edith, could image Mary Vertrees the sort of girl who would +“really flirt” with married men--she was obviously the “opposite of all +that.” Edith defined her as a “thoroughbred,” a “nice girl”; and the +look given to Roscoe was astounding. Roscoe's wife saw it, too, and +she was another whom it puzzled--though not because its recipient was +married. + +“Because!” said Mary Vertrees, replying to Roscoe's monosyllable. “And +also because we're next-door neighbors at table, and it's dull times +ahead for both of us if we don't get along.” + +Roscoe was a literal young man, all stocks and bonds, and he had been +brought up to believe that when a man married he “married and settled +down.” It was “all right,” he felt, for a man as old as his father to +pay florid compliments to as pretty a girl as this Miss Vertrees, but +for himself--“a young married man”--it wouldn't do; and it wouldn't +even be quite moral. He knew that young married people might have +friendships, like his wife's for Lamhorn; but Sibyl and Lamhorn never +“flirted”--they were always very matter-of-fact with each other. Roscoe +would have been troubled if Sibyl had ever told Lamhorn she hoped he was +susceptible. + +“Yes--we're neighbors,” he said, awkwardly. + +“Next-door neighbors in houses, too,” she added. + +“No, not exactly. I live across the street.” + +“Why, no!” she exclaimed, and seemed startled. “Your mother told me this +afternoon that you lived at home.” + +“Yes, of course I live at home. I built that new house across the +street.” + +“But you--” she paused, confused, and then slowly a deep color came into +her cheek. “But I understood--” + +“No,” he said; “my wife and I lived with the old folks the first year, +but that's all. Edith and Jim live with them, of course.” + +“I--I see,” she said, the deep color still deepening as she turned from +him and saw, written upon a card before the gentleman at her left the +name, “Mr. James Sheridan, Jr.” And from that moment Roscoe had little +enough cause for wondering what he ought to reply to her disturbing +coquetries. + +Mr. James Sheridan had been anxiously waiting for the dazzling visitor +to “get through with old Roscoe,” as he thought of it, and give a +bachelor a chance. “Old Roscoe” was the younger, but he had always been +the steady wheel-horse of the family. Jim was “steady” enough, but was +considered livelier than Roscoe, which in truth is not saying much for +Jim's liveliness. As their father habitually boasted, both brothers were +“capable, hard-working young business men,” and the principal difference +between them was merely that which resulted from Jim's being still a +bachelor. Physically they were of the same type: dark of eyes and of +hair, fresh-colored and thick-set, and though Roscoe was several inches +taller than Jim, neither was of the height, breadth, or depth of the +father. Both wore young business men's mustaches, and either could have +sat for the tailor-shop lithographs of young business men wearing “rich +suitings in dark mixtures.” + +Jim, approving warmly of his neighbor's profile, perceived her access of +color, which increased his approbation. “What's that old Roscoe saying +to you, Miss Vertrees?” he asked. “These young married men are mighty +forward nowadays, but you mustn't let 'em make you blush.” + +“Am I blushing?” she said. “Are you sure?” And with that she gave him +ample opportunity to make sure, repeating with interest the look wasted +upon Roscoe. “I think you must be mistaken,” she continued. “I think +it's your brother who is blushing. I've thrown him into confusion.” + +“How?” + +She laughed, and then, leaning to him a little, said in a tone as +confidential as she could make it, under cover of the uproar. “By trying +to begin with him a courtship I meant for YOU!” + +This might well be a style new to Jim; and it was. He supposed it a +nonsensical form of badinage, and yet it took his breath. He realized +that he wished what she said to be the literal truth, and he was +instantly snared by that realization. + +“By George!” he said. “I guess you're the kind of girl that can say +anything--yes, and get away with it, too!” + +She laughed again--in her way, so that he could not tell whether she was +laughing at him or at herself or at the nonsense she was talking; and +she said: “But you see I don't care whether I get away with it or not. +I wish you'd tell me frankly if you think I've got a chance to get away +with YOU?” + +“More like if you've got a chance to get away FROM me!” Jim was inspired +to reply. “Not one in the world, especially after beginning by making +fun of me like that.” + +“I mightn't be so much in fun as you think,” she said, regarding him +with sudden gravity. + +“Well,” said Jim, in simple honesty, “you're a funny girl!” + +Her gravity continued an instant longer. “I may not turn out to be funny +for YOU.” + +“So long as you turn out to be anything at all for me, I expect I can +manage to be satisfied.” And with that, to his own surprise, it was his +turn to blush, whereupon she laughed again. + +“Yes,” he said, plaintively, not wholly lacking intuition, “I can see +you're the sort of girl that would laugh the minute you see a man really +means anything!” + +“'Laugh'!” she cried, gaily. “Why, it might be a matter of life and +death! But if you want tragedy, I'd better put the question at once, +considering the mistake I made with your brother.” + +Jim was dazed. She seemed to be playing a little game of mockery and +nonsense with him, but he had glimpses of a flashing danger in it; +he was but too sensible of being outclassed, and had somewhere a +consciousness that he could never quite know this giddy and alluring +lady, no matter how long it pleased her to play with him. But he +mightily wanted her to keep on playing with him. + +“Put what question?” he said, breathlessly. + +“As you are a new neighbor of mine and of my family,” she returned, +speaking slowly and with a cross-examiner's severity, “I think it would +be well for me to know at once whether you are already walking out with +any young lady or not. Mr. Sheridan, think well! Are you spoken for?” + +“Not yet,” he gasped. “Are you?” + +“NO!” she cried, and with that they both laughed again; and the pastime +proceeded, increasing both in its gaiety and in its gravity. + +Observing its continuance, Mr. Robert Lamhorn, opposite, turned from a +lively conversation with Edith and remarked covertly to Sibyl that Miss +Vertrees was “starting rather picturesquely with Jim.” And he added, +languidly, “Do you suppose she WOULD?” + +For the moment Sibyl gave no sign of having heard him, but seemed +interested in the clasp of a long “rope” of pearls, a loop of which she +was allowing to swing from her fingers, resting her elbow upon the table +and following with her eyes the twinkle of diamonds and platinum in the +clasp at the end of the loop. She wore many jewels. She was pretty, +but hers was not the kind of prettiness to be loaded with too sumptuous +accessories, and jeweled head-dresses are dangerous--they may emphasize +the wrongness of the wearer. + +“I said Miss Vertrees seems to be starting pretty strong with Jim,” + repeated Mr. Lamhorn. + +“I heard you.” There was a latent discontent always somewhere in her +eyes, no matter what she threw upon the surface of cover it, and just +now she did not care to cover it; she looked sullen. “Starting any +stronger than you did with Edith?” she inquired. + +“Oh, keep the peace!” he said, crossly. “That's off, of course.” + +“You haven't been making her see it this evening--precisely,” said +Sibyl, looking at him steadily. “You've talked to her for--” + +“For Heaven's sake,” he begged, “keep the peace!” + +“Well, what have you just been doing?” + +“SH!” he said. “Listen to your father-in-law.” + +Sheridan was booming and braying louder than ever, the orchestra having +begun to play “The Rosary,” to his vast content. + +“I COUNT THEM OVER, LA-LA-TUM-TEE-DUM,” he roared, beating the measures +with his fork. “EACH HOUR A PEARL, EACH PEARL TEE-DUM-TUM-DUM--What's +the matter with all you folks? Why'n't you SING? Miss Vertrees, I bet a +thousand dollars YOU sing! Why'n't--” + +“Mr. Sheridan,” she said, turning cheerfully from the ardent Jim, “you +don't know what you interrupted! Your son isn't used to my rough ways, +and my soldier's wooing frightens him, but I think he was about to say +something important.” + +“I'll say something important to him if he doesn't!” the father +threatened, more delighted with her than ever. “By gosh! if I was his +age--or a widower right NOW--” + +“Oh, wait!” cried Mary. “If they'd only make less noise! I want Mrs. +Sheridan to hear.” + +“She'd say the same,” he shouted. “She'd tell me I was mighty slow if I +couldn't get ahead o' Jim. Why, when I was his age--” + +“You must listen to your father,” Mary interrupted, turning to Jim, who +had grown red again. “He's going to tell us how, when he was your age, +he made those two blades of grass grow out of a teacup--and you could +see for yourself he didn't get them out of his sleeve!” + +At that Sheridan pounded the table till it jumped. “Look here, young +lady!” he roared. “Some o' these days I'm either goin' to slap you--or +I'm goin' to kiss you!” + +Edith looked aghast; she was afraid this was indeed “too awful,” but +Mary Vertrees burst into ringing laughter. + +“Both!” she cried. “Both! The one to make me forget the other!” + +“But which--” he began, and then suddenly gave forth such stentorian +trumpetings of mirth that for once the whole table stopped to listen. +“Jim,” he roared, “if you don't propose to that girl to-night I'll send +you back to the machine-shop with Bibbs!” + +And Bibbs--down among the retainers by the sugar Pump Works, and +watching Mary Vertrees as a ragged boy in the street might watch a rich +little girl in a garden--Bibbs heard. He heard--and he knew what his +father's plans were now. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +Mrs. Vertrees “sat up” for her daughter, Mr. Vertrees having retired +after a restless evening, not much soothed by the society of his +Landseers. Mary had taken a key, insisting that he should not come for +her and seeming confident that she would not lack for escort; nor did +the sequel prove her confidence unwarranted. But Mrs. Vertrees had a +long vigil of it. + +She was not the woman to make herself easy--no servant had ever seen her +in a wrapper--and with her hair and dress and her shoes just what they +had been when she returned from the afternoon's call, she sat through +the slow night hours in a stiff little chair under the gaslight in her +own room, which was directly over the “front hall.” There, book in hand, +she employed the time in her own reminiscences, though it was her belief +that she was reading Madame de Remusat's. + +Her thoughts went backward into her life and into her husband's; and the +deeper into the past they went, the brighter the pictures they brought +her--and there is tragedy. Like her husband, she thought backward +because she did not dare think forward definitely. What thinking forward +this troubled couple ventured took the form of a slender hope which +neither of them could have borne to hear put in words, and yet they +had talked it over, day after day, from the very hour when they heard +Sheridan was to build his New House next door. For--so quickly does +any ideal of human behavior become an antique--their youth was of the +innocent old days, so dead! of “breeding” and “gentility,” and no craft +had been more straitly trained upon them than that of talking about +things without mentioning them. Herein was marked the most vital +difference between Mr. and Mrs. Vertrees and their big new neighbor. +Sheridan, though his youth was of the same epoch, knew nothing of such +matters. He had been chopping wood for the morning fire in the country +grocery while they were still dancing. + +It was after one o'clock when Mrs. Vertrees heard steps and the delicate +clinking of the key in the lock, and then, with the opening of the door, +Mary's laugh, and “Yes--if you aren't afraid--to-morrow!” + +The door closed, and she rushed up-stairs, bringing with her a breath +of cold and bracing air into her mother's room. “Yes,” she said, before +Mrs. Vertrees could speak, “he brought me home!” + +She let her cloak fall upon the bed, and, drawing an old red-velvet +rocking-chair forward, sat beside her mother after giving her a light +pat upon the shoulder and a hearty kiss upon the cheek. + +“Mamma!” Mary exclaimed, when Mrs. Vertrees had expressed a hope that +she had enjoyed the evening and had not caught cold. “Why don't you ask +me?” + +This inquiry obviously made her mother uncomfortable. “I don't--” she +faltered. “Ask you what, Mary?” + +“How I got along and what he's like.” + +“Mary!” + +“Oh, it isn't distressing!” said Mary. “And I got along so fast--” She +broke off to laugh; continuing then, “But that's the way I went at it, +of course. We ARE in a hurry, aren't we?” + +“I don't know what you mean,” Mrs. Vertrees insisted, shaking her head +plaintively. + +“Yes,” said Mary, “I'm going out in his car with him to-morrow +afternoon, and to the theater the next night--but I stopped it there. +You see, after you give the first push, you must leave it to them while +YOU pretend to run away!” + +“My dear, I don't know what to--” + +“What to make of anything!” Mary finished for her. “So that's all +right! Now I'll tell you all about it. It was gorgeous and deafening and +tee-total. We could have lived a year on it. I'm not good at figures, +but I calculated that if we lived six months on poor old Charlie and Ned +and the station-wagon and the Victoria, we could manage at least twice +as long on the cost of the 'house-warming.' I think the orchids alone +would have lasted us a couple of months. There they were, before me, but +I couldn't steal 'em and sell 'em, and so--well, so I did what I could!” + +She leaned back and laughed reassuringly to her troubled mother. “It +seemed to be a success--what I could,” she said, clasping her hands +behind her neck and stirring the rocker to motion as a rhythmic +accompaniment to her narrative. “The girl Edith and her sister-in-law, +Mrs. Roscoe Sheridan, were too anxious about the effect of things on me. +The father's worth a bushel of both of them, if they knew it. He's +what he is. I like him.” She paused reflectively, continuing, “Edith's +'interested' in that Lamhorn boy; he's good-looking and not stupid, but +I think he's--” She interrupted herself with a cheery outcry: “Oh! I +mustn't be calling him names! If he's trying to make Edith like him, I +ought to respect him as a colleague.” + +“I don't understand a thing you're talking about,” Mrs. Vertrees +complained. + +“All the better! Well, he's a bad lot, that Lamhorn boy; everybody's +always known that, but the Sheridans don't know the everybodies that +know. He sat between Edith and Mrs. Roscoe Sheridan. SHE'S like those +people you wondered about at the theater, the last time we went--dressed +in ball-gowns; bound to show their clothes and jewels SOMEwhere! She +flatters the father, and so did I, for that matter--but not that way. I +treated him outrageously!” + +“Mary!” + +“That's what flattered him. After dinner he made the whole regiment of +us follow him all over the house, while he lectured like a guide on the +Palatine. He gave dimensions and costs, and the whole b'ilin' of 'em +listened as if they thought he intended to make them a present of the +house. What he was proudest of was the plumbing and that Bay of Naples +panorama in the hall. He made us look at all the plumbing--bath-rooms +and everywhere else--and then he made us look at the Bay of Naples. He +said it was a hundred and eleven feet long, but I think it's more. And +he led us all into the ready-made library to see a poem Edith had taken +a prize with at school. They'd had it printed in gold letters and framed +in mother-of-pearl. But the poem itself was rather simple and wistful +and nice--he read it to us, though Edith tried to stop him. She was +modest about it, and said she'd never written anything else. And then, +after a while, Mrs. Roscoe Sheridan asked me to come across the street +to her house with them--her husband and Edith and Mr. Lamhorn and Jim +Sheridan--” + +Mrs. Vertrees was shocked. “'Jim'!” she exclaimed. “Mary, PLEASE--” + +“Of course,” said Mary. “I'll make it as easy for you as I can, +mamma. Mr. James Sheridan, Junior. We went over there, and Mrs. Roscoe +explained that 'the men were all dying for a drink,' though I noticed +that Mr. Lamhorn was the only one near death's door on that account. +Edith and Mrs. Roscoe said they knew I'd been bored at the dinner. They +were objectionably apologetic about it, and they seemed to think NOW we +were going to have a 'good time' to make up for it. But I hadn't been +bored at the dinner, I'd been amused; and the 'good time' at Mrs. +Roscoe's was horribly, horribly stupid.” + +“But, Mary,” her mother began, “is--is--” And she seemed unable to +complete the question. + +“Never mind, mamma. I'll say it. Is Mr. James Sheridan, Junior, stupid? +I'm sure he's not at all stupid about business. Otherwise--Oh, what +right have I to be calling people 'stupid' because they're not exactly +my kind? On the big dinner-table they had enormous icing models of the +Sheridan Building--” + +“Oh, no!” Mrs. Vertrees cried. “Surely not!” + +“Yes, and two other things of that kind--I don't know what. But, after +all, I wondered if they were so bad. If I'd been at a dinner at a palace +in Italy, and a relief or inscription on one of the old silver pieces +had referred to some great deed or achievement of the family, I +shouldn't have felt superior; I'd have thought it picturesque and +stately--I'd have been impressed. And what's the real difference? The +icing is temporary, and that's much more modest, isn't it? And why is +it vulgar to feel important more on account of something you've done +yourself than because of something one of your ancestors did? Besides, +if we go back a few generations, we've all got such hundreds of +ancestors it seems idiotic to go picking out one or two to be proud of +ourselves about. Well, then, mamma, I managed not to feel superior to +Mr. James Sheridan, Junior, because he didn't see anything out of place +in the Sheridan Building in sugar.” + +Mrs. Vertrees's expression had lost none of its anxiety pending the +conclusion of this lively bit of analysis, and she shook her head +gravely. “My dear, dear child,” she said, “it seems to me--It looks--I'm +afraid--” + +“Say as much of it as you can, mamma,” said Mary, encouragingly. “I can +get it, if you'll just give me one key-word.” + +“Everything you say,” Mrs. Vertrees began, timidly, “seems to have the +air of--it is as if you were seeking to--to make yourself--” + +“Oh, I see! You mean I sound as if I were trying to force myself to like +him.” + +“Not exactly, Mary. That wasn't quite what I meant,” said Mrs. Vertrees, +speaking direct untruth with perfect unconsciousness. “But you said +that--that you found the latter part of the evening at young Mrs. +Sheridan's unentertaining--” + +“And as Mr. James Sheridan was there, and I saw more of him than at +dinner, and had a horribly stupid time in spite of that, you think I--” + And then it was Mary who left the deduction unfinished. + +Mrs. Vertrees nodded; and though both the mother and the daughter +understood, Mary felt it better to make the understanding definite. + +“Well,” she asked, gravely, “is there anything else I can do? You and +papa don't want me to do anything that distresses me, and so, as this is +the only thing to be done, it seems it's up to me not to let it distress +me. That's all there is about it, isn't it?” + +“But nothing MUST distress you!” the mother cried. + +“That's what I say!” said Mary, cheerfully. “And so it doesn't. It's all +right.” She rose and took her cloak over her arm, as if to go to her own +room. But on the way to the door she stopped, and stood leaning against +the foot of the bed, contemplating a threadbare rug at her feet. +“Mother, you've told me a thousand times that it doesn't really matter +whom a girl marries.” + +“No, no!” Mrs. Vertrees protested. “I never said such a--” + +“No, not in words; I mean what you MEANT. It's true, isn't it, that +marriage really is 'not a bed of roses, but a field of battle'? To get +right down to it, a girl could fight it out with anybody, couldn't she? +One man as well as another?” + +“Oh, my dear! I'm sure your father and I--” + +“Yes, yes,” said Mary, indulgently. “I don't mean you and papa. But +isn't it propinquity that makes marriages? So many people say so, there +must be something in it.” + +“Mary, I can't bear for you to talk like that.” And Mrs. Vertrees +lifted pleading eyes to her daughter--eyes that begged to be spared. “It +sounds--almost reckless!” + +Mary caught the appeal, came to her, and kissed her gaily. “Never fret, +dear! I'm not likely to do anything I don't want to do--I've always been +too thorough-going a little pig! And if it IS propinquity that does our +choosing for us, well, at least no girl in the world could ask for more +than THAT! How could there be any more propinquity than the very house +next door?” + +She gave her mother a final kiss and went gaily all the way to the door +this time, pausing for her postscript with her hand on the knob. “Oh, +the one that caught me looking in the window, mamma, the youngest one--” + +“Did he speak of it?” Mrs. Vertrees asked, apprehensively. + +“No. He didn't speak at all, that I saw, to any one. I didn't meet him. +But he isn't insane, I'm sure; or if he is, he has long intervals when +he's not. Mr. James Sheridan mentioned that he lived at home when he was +'well enough'; and it may be he's only an invalid. He looks dreadfully +ill, but he has pleasant eyes, and it struck me that if--if one were +in the Sheridan family”--she laughed a little ruefully--“he might be +interesting to talk to sometimes, when there was too much stocks and +bonds. I didn't see him after dinner.” + +“There must be something wrong with him,” said Mrs. Vertrees. “They'd +have introduced him if there wasn't.” + +“I don't know. He's been ill so much and away so much--sometimes people +like that just don't seem to 'count' in a family. His father spoke of +sending him back to a machine-shop of some sort; I suppose he meant +when the poor thing gets better. I glanced at him just then, when Mr. +Sheridan mentioned him, and he happened to be looking straight at me; +and he was pathetic-looking enough before that, but the most tragic +change came over him. He seemed just to die, right there at the table!” + +“You mean when his father spoke of sending him to the shop place?” + +“Yes.” + +“Mr. Sheridan must be very unfeeling.” + +“No,” said Mary, thoughtfully, “I don't think he is; but he might be +uncomprehending, and certainly he's the kind of man to do anything he +once sets out to do. But I wish I hadn't been looking at that poor boy +just then! I'm afraid I'll keep remembering--” + +“I wouldn't.” Mrs. Vertrees smiled faintly, and in her smile there +was the remotest ghost of a genteel roguishness. “I'd keep my mind on +pleasanter things, Mary.” + +Mary laughed and nodded. “Yes, indeed! Plenty pleasant enough, and +probably, if all were known, too good--even for me!” + +And when she had gone Mrs. Vertrees drew a long breath, as if a burden +were off her mind, and, smiling, began to undress in a gentle reverie. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +Edith, glancing casually into the “ready-made” library, stopped +abruptly, seeing Bibbs there alone. He was standing before the +pearl-framed and golden-lettered poem, musingly inspecting it. He read +it: + + FUGITIVE + + I will forget the things that sting: + The lashing look, the barbed word. + I know the very hands that fling + The stones at me had never stirred + To anger but for their own scars. + They've suffered so, that's why they strike. + I'll keep my heart among the stars + Where none shall hunt it out. Oh, like + These wounded ones I must not be, + For, wounded, I might strike in turn! + So, none shall hurt me. Far and free + Where my heart flies no one shall learn. + +“Bibbs!” Edith's voice was angry, and her color deepened suddenly as she +came into the room, preceded by a scent of violets much more powerful +than that warranted by the actual bunch of them upon the lapel of her +coat. + +Bibbs did not turn his head, but wagged it solemnly, seeming depressed +by the poem. “Pretty young, isn't it?” he said. “There must have been +something about your looks that got the prize, Edith; I can't believe +the poem did it.” + +She glanced hurriedly over her shoulder and spoke sharply, but in a +low voice: “I don't think it's very nice of you to bring it up at all, +Bibbs. I'd like a chance to forget the whole silly business. I didn't +want them to frame it, and I wish to goodness papa'd quit talking about +it; but here, that night, after the dinner, didn't he go and read it +aloud to the whole crowd of 'em! And then they all wanted to know what +other poems I'd written and why I didn't keep it up and write some more, +and if I didn't, why didn't I, and why this and why that, till I thought +I'd die of shame!” + +“You could tell 'em you had writer's cramp,” Bibbs suggested. + +“I couldn't tell 'em anything! I just choke with mortification every +time anybody speaks of the thing.” + +Bibbs looked grieved. “The poem isn't THAT bad, Edith. You see, you were +only seventeen when you wrote it.” + +“Oh, hush up!” she snapped. “I wish it had burnt my fingers the first +time I touched it. Then I might have had sense enough to leave it where +it was. I had no business to take it, and I've been ashamed--” + +“No, no,” he said, comfortingly. “It was the very most flattering thing +ever happened to me. It was almost my last flight before I went to the +machine-shop, and it's pleasant to think somebody liked it enough to--” + +“But I DON'T like it!” she exclaimed. “I don't even understand it--and +papa made so much fuss over its getting the prize, I just hate it! The +truth is I never dreamed it'd get the prize.” + +“Maybe they expected father to endow the school,” Bibbs murmured. + +“Well, I had to have something to turn in, and I couldn't write a LINE! +I hate poetry, anyhow; and Bobby Lamhorn's always teasing me about how +I 'keep my heart among the stars.' He makes it seem such a mushy kind of +thing, the way he says it. I hate it!” + +“You'll have to live it down, Edith. Perhaps abroad and under another +name you might find--” + +“Oh, hush up! I'll hire some one to steal it and burn it the first +chance I get.” She turned away petulantly, moving to the door. “I'd like +to think I could hope to hear the last of it before I die!” + +“Edith!” he called, as she went into the hall. + +“What's the matter?” + +“I want to ask you: Do I really look better, or have you just got used +to me?” + +“What on earth do you mean?” she said, coming back as far as the +threshold. + +“When I first came you couldn't look at me,” Bibbs explained, in his +impersonal way. “But I've noticed you look at me lately. I wondered if +I'd--” + +“It's because you look so much better,” she told him, cheerfully. “This +month you've been here's done you no end of good. It's the change.” + +“Yes, that's what they said at the sanitarium--the change.” + +“You look worse than 'most anybody I ever saw,” said Edith, with supreme +candor. “But I don't know much about it. I've never seen a corpse in my +life, and I've never even seen anybody that was terribly sick, so you +mustn't judge by me. I only know you do look better, I'm glad to say. +But you're right about my not being able to look at you at first. You +had a kind of whiteness that--Well, you're almost as thin, I suppose, +but you've got more just ordinarily pale; not that ghastly look. Anybody +could look at you now, Bibbs, and no--not get--” + +“Sick?” + +“Well--almost that!” she laughed. “And you're getting a better color +every day, Bibbs; you really are. You're getting along splendidly.” + +“I--I'm afraid so,” he said, ruefully. + +“'Afraid so'! Well, if you aren't the queerest! I suppose you mean +father might send you back to the machine-shop if you get well enough. +I heard him say something about it the night of the--” The jingle of +a distant bell interrupted her, and she glanced at her watch. “Bobby +Lamhorn! I'm going to motor him out to look at a place in the country. +Afternoon, Bibbs!” + +When she had gone, Bibbs mooned pessimistically from shelf to shelf, +his eye wandering among the titles of the books. The library consisted +almost entirely of handsome “uniform editions”: Irving, Poe, Cooper, +Goldsmith, Scott, Byron, Burns, Longfellow, Tennyson, Hume, Gibbon, +Prescott, Thackeray, Dickens, De Musset, Balzac, Gautier, Flaubert, +Goethe, Schiller, Dante, and Tasso. There were shelves and shelves +of encyclopedias, of anthologies, of “famous classics,” of “Oriental +masterpieces,” of “masterpieces of oratory,” and more shelves of +“selected libraries” of “literature,” of “the drama,” and of “modern +science.” They made an effective decoration for the room, all these +big, expensive books, with a glossy binding here and there twinkling a +reflection of the flames that crackled in the splendid Gothic fireplace; +but Bibbs had an impression that the bookseller who selected them +considered them a relief, and that white-jacket considered them a +burden of dust, and that nobody else considered them at all. Himself, he +disturbed not one. + +There came a chime of bells from a clock in another part of the house, +and white-jacket appeared beamingly in the doorway, bearing furs. +“Awready, Mist' Bibbs,” he announced. “You' ma say wrap up wawm f' you' +ride, an' she cain' go with you to-day, an' not f'git go see you' pa at +fo' 'clock. Aw ready, suh.” + +He equipped Bibbs for the daily drive Dr. Gurney had commanded; and in +the manner of a master of ceremonies unctuously led the way. In the +hall they passed the Moor, and Bibbs paused before it while white-jacket +opened the door with a flourish and waved condescendingly to the +chauffeur in the car which stood waiting in the driveway. + +“It seems to me I asked you what you thought about this 'statue' when I +first came home, George,” said Bibbs, thoughtfully. “What did you tell +me?” + +“Yessuh!” George chuckled, perfectly understanding that for some unknown +reason Bibbs enjoyed hearing him repeat his opinion of the Moor. “You +ast me when you firs' come home, an' you ast me nex' day, an' mighty +near ev'y day all time you been here; an' las' Sunday you ast me +twicet.” He shook his head solemnly. “Look to me mus' be somep'm might +lamiDAL 'bout 'at statue!” + +“Mighty what?” + +“Mighty lamiDAL!” George, burst out laughing. “What DO 'at word mean, +Mist' Bibbs?” + +“It's new to me, George. Where did you hear it?” + +“I nev' DID hear it!” said George. “I uz dess sittin' thinkum to myse'f +an' she pop in my head--'lamiDAL,' dess like 'at! An' she soun' so good, +seem like she GOTTA mean somep'm!” + +“Come to think of it, I believe she does mean something. Why, yes--” + +“Do she?” cried George. “WHAT she mean?” + +“It's exactly the word for the statue,” said Bibbs, with conviction, as +he climbed into the car. “It's a lamiDAL statue.” + +“Hiyi!” George exulted. “Man! Man! Listen! Well, suh, she mighty lamiDAL +statue, but lamiDAL statue heap o' trouble to dus'!” + +“I expect she is!” said Bibbs, as the engine began to churn; and a moment later he was swept from sight. + +George turned to Mist' Jackson, who had been listening benevolently in +the hallway. “Same he aw-ways say, Mist' Jackson--'I expec' she is!' +Ev'y day he try t' git me talk 'bout 'at lamiDAL statue, an' aw-ways, +las' thing HE say, 'I expec' she is!' You know, Mist' Jackson, if he git +well, 'at young man go' be pride o' the family, Mist' Jackson. Yes-suh, +right now I pick 'im fo' firs' money!” + +“Look out with all 'at money, George!” Jackson warned the enthusiast. +“White folks 'n 'is house know 'im heap longer'n you. You the on'y man +bettin' on 'im!” + +“I risk it!” cried George, merrily. “I put her all on now--ev'y cent! +'At boy's go' be flower o' the flock!” + +This singular prophecy, founded somewhat recklessly upon gratitude for +the meaning of “lamiDAL,” differed radically from another prediction +concerning Bibbs, set forth for the benefit of a fair auditor some +twenty minutes later. + +Jim Sheridan, skirting the edges of the town with Mary Vertrees +beside him, in his own swift machine, encountered the invalid upon +the highroad. The two cars were going in opposite directions, and the +occupants of Jim's had only a swaying glimpse of Bibbs sitting alone on +the back seat--his white face startlingly white against cap and collar +of black fur--but he flashed into recognition as Mary bowed to him. + +Jim waved his left hand carelessly. “It's Bibbs, taking his +constitutional,” he explained. + +“Yes, I know,” said Mary. “I bowed to him, too, though I've never met +him. In fact, I've only seen him once--no, twice. I hope he won't think +I'm very bold, bowing to him.” + +“I doubt if he noticed it,” said honest Jim. + +“Oh, no!” she cried. + +“What's the trouble?” + +“I'm almost sure people notice it when I bow to them.” + +“Oh, I see!” said Jim. “Of course they would ordinarily, but Bibbs is +funny.” + +“Is he? How?” she asked. “He strikes me as anything but funny.” + +“Well, I'm his brother,” Jim said, deprecatingly, “but I don't know what +he's like, and, to tell the truth, I've never felt exactly like I WAS +his brother, the way I do Roscoe. Bibbs never did seem more than half +alive to me. Of course Roscoe and I are older, and when we were boys we +were too big to play with him, but he never played anyway, with boys his +own age. He'd rather just sit in the house and mope around by himself. +Nobody could ever get him to DO anything; you can't get him to do +anything now. He never had any LIFE in him; and honestly, if he is my +brother, I must say I believe Bibbs Sheridan is the laziest man God ever +made! Father put him in the machine-shop over at the Pump Works--best +thing in the world for him--and he was just plain no account. It made +him sick! If he'd had the right kind of energy--the kind father's got, +for instance, or Roscoe, either--why, it wouldn't have made him sick. +And suppose it was either of them--yes, or me, either--do you think any +of us would have stopped if we WERE sick? Not much! I hate to say it, +but Bibbs Sheridan'll never amount to anything as long as he lives.” + +Mary looked thoughtful. “Is there any particular reason why he should?” + she asked. + +“Good gracious!” he exclaimed. “You don't mean that, do you? Don't you +believe in a man's knowing how to earn his salt, no matter how much +money his father's got? Hasn't the business of this world got to be +carried on by everybody in it? Are we going to lay back on what we've +got and see other fellows get ahead of us? If we've got big things +already, isn't it every man's business to go ahead and make 'em bigger? +Isn't it his duty? Don't we always want to get bigger and bigger?” + +“Ye-es--I don't know. But I feel rather sorry for your brother. He +looked so lonely--and sick.” + +“He's gettin' better every day,” Jim said. “Dr. Gurney says so. There's +nothing much the matter with him, really--it's nine-tenths imaginary. +'Nerves'! People that are willing to be busy don't have nervous +diseases, because they don't have time to imagine 'em.” + +“You mean his trouble is really mental?” + +“Oh, he's not a lunatic,” said Jim. “He's just queer. Sometimes he'll +say something right bright, but half the time what he says is 'way off +the subject, or else there isn't any sense to it at all. For instance, +the other day I heard him talkin' to one of the darkies in the hall. The +darky asked him what time he wanted the car for his drive, and anybody +else in the world would have just said what time they DID want it, and +that would have been all there was to it; but here's what Bibbs says, +and I heard him with my own ears. 'What time do I want the car?' he +says. 'Well, now, that depends--that depends,' he says. He talks slow +like that, you know. 'I'll tell you what time I want the car, George,' +he says, 'if you'll tell ME what you think of this statue!' That's +exactly his words! Asked the darky what he thought of that Arab Edith +and mother bought for the hall!” + +Mary pondered upon this. “He might have been in fun, perhaps,” she +suggested. + +“Askin' a darky what he thought of a piece of statuary--of a work +of art! Where on earth would be the fun of that? No, you're just +kind-hearted--and that's the way you OUGHT to be, of course--” + +“Thank you, Mr. Sheridan!” she laughed. + +“See here!” he cried. “Isn't there any way for us to get over this +Mister and Miss thing? A month's got thirty-one days in it; I've managed +to be with you a part of pretty near all the thirty-one, and I think you +know how I feel by this time--” + +She looked panic-stricken immediately. “Oh, no,” she protested, quickly. +“No, I don't, and--” + +“Yes, you do,” he said, and his voice shook a little. “You couldn't help +knowing.” + +“But I do!” she denied, hurriedly. “I do help knowing. I mean--Oh, +wait!” + +“What for? You do know how I feel, and you--well, you've certainly +WANTED me to feel that way--or else pretended--” + +“Now, now!” she lamented. “You're spoiling such a cheerful afternoon!” + +“'Spoilin' it!'” He slowed down the car and turned his face to her +squarely. “See here, Miss Vertrees, haven't you--” + +“Stop! Stop the car a minute.” And when he had complied she faced him as +squarely as he evidently desired her to face him. “Listen. I don't want +you to go on, to-day.” + +“Why not?” he asked, sharply. + +“I don't know.” + +“You mean it's just a whim?” + +“I don't know,” she repeated. Her voice was low and troubled and honest, +and she kept her clear eyes upon his. + +“Will you tell me something?” + +“Almost anything.” + +“Have you ever told any man you loved him?” + +And at that, though she laughed, she looked a little contemptuous. “No,” + she said. “And I don't think I ever shall tell any man that--or ever +know what it means. I'm in earnest, Mr. Sheridan.” + +“Then you--you've just been flirting with me!” Poor Jim looked both +furious and crestfallen. + +“Not one bit!” she cried. “Not one word! Not one syllable! I've meant +every single thing!” + +“I don't--” + +“Of course you don't!” she said. “Now, Mr. Sheridan, I want you to start +the car. Now! Thank you. Slowly, till I finish what I have to say. I +have not flirted with you. I have deliberately courted you. One thing +more, and then I want you to take me straight home, talking about the +weather all the way. I said that I do not believe I shall ever 'care' +for any man, and that is true. I doubt the existence of the kind of +'caring' we hear about in poems and plays and novels. I think it must be +just a kind of emotional TALK--most of it. At all events, I don't feel +it. Now, we can go faster, please.” + +“Just where does that let me out?” he demanded. “How does that excuse +you for--” + +“It isn't an excuse,” she said, gently, and gave him one final look, +wholly desolate. “I haven't said I should never marry.” + +“What?” Jim gasped. + +She inclined her head in a broken sort of acquiescence, very humble, +unfathomably sorrowful. + +“I promise nothing,” she said, faintly. + +“You needn't!” shouted Jim, radiant and exultant. “You needn't! By +George! I know you're square; that's enough for me! You wait and promise +whenever you're ready!” + +“Don't forget what I asked,” she begged him. + +“Talk about the weather? I will! God bless the old weather!” cried the +happy Jim. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +Through the open country Bibbs was borne flying between brown fields +and sun-flecked groves of gray trees, to breathe the rushing, clean +air beneath a glorious sky--that sky so despised in the city, and so +maltreated there, that from early October to mid-May it was impossible +for men to remember that blue is the rightful color overhead. + +Upon each of Bibbs's cheeks there was a hint of something almost +resembling a pinkishness; not actual color, but undeniably its phantom. +How largely this apparition may have been the work of the wind upon his +face it is difficult to calculate, for beyond a doubt it was partly the +result of a lady's bowing to him upon no more formal introduction than +the circumstance of his having caught her looking into his window a +month before. She had bowed definitely; she had bowed charmingly. And it +seemed to Bibbs that she must have meant to convey her forgiveness. + +There had been something in her recognition of him unfamiliar to +his experience, and he rode the warmer for it. Nor did he lack the +impression that he would long remember her as he had just seen her: her +veil tumultuously blowing back, her face glowing in the wind--and that +look of gay friendliness tossed to him like a fresh rose in carnival. + +By and by, upon a rising ground, the driver halted the car, then backed +and tacked, and sent it forward again with its nose to the south and the +smoke. Far before him Bibbs saw the great smudge upon the horizon, +that nest of cloud in which the city strove and panted like an engine +shrouded in its own steam. But to Bibbs, who had now to go to the very +heart of it, for a commanded interview with his father, the distant +cloud was like an implacable genius issuing thunderously in smoke from +his enchanted bottle, and irresistibly drawing Bibbs nearer and nearer. + +They passed from the farm lands, and came, in the amber light of +November late afternoon, to the farthermost outskirts of the city; and +here the sky shimmered upon the verge of change from blue to gray; +the smoke did not visibly permeate the air, but it was there, +nevertheless--impalpable, thin, no more than the dust of smoke. And +then, as the car drove on, the chimneys and stacks of factories came +swimming up into view like miles of steamers advancing abreast, every +funnel with its vast plume, savage and black, sweeping to the horizon, +dripping wealth and dirt and suffocation over league on league already +rich and vile with grime. + +The sky had become only a dingy thickening of the soiled air; and a roar +and clangor of metals beat deafeningly on Bibbs's ears. And now the car +passed two great blocks of long brick buildings, hideous in all ways +possible to make them hideous; doorways showing dark one moment and +lurid the next with the leap of some virulent interior flame, revealing +blackened giants, half naked, in passionate action, struggling with +formless things in the hot illumination. And big as these shops were, +they were growing bigger, spreading over a third block, where two new +structures were mushrooming to completion in some hasty cement process +of a stability not over-reassuring. Bibbs pulled the rug closer about +him, and not even the phantom of color was left upon his cheeks as he +passed this place, for he knew it too well. Across the face of one of +the buildings there was an enormous sign: “Sheridan Automatic Pump Co., +Inc.” + +Thence they went through streets of wooden houses, all grimed, and +adding their own grime from many a sooty chimney; flimsey wooden houses +of a thousand flimsy whimsies in the fashioning, built on narrow lots +and nudging one another crossly, shutting out the stingy sunlight from +one another; bad neighbors who would destroy one another root and branch +some night when the right wind blew. They were only waiting for that +wind and a cigarette, and then they would all be gone together--a pinch +of incense burned upon the tripod of the god. + +Along these streets there were skinny shade-trees, and here and there +a forest elm or walnut had been left; but these were dying. Some people +said it was the scale; some said it was the smoke; and some were sure +that asphalt and “improving” the streets did it; but Bigness was in +too Big a hurry to bother much about trees. He had telegraph-poles +and telephone-poles and electric-light-poles and trolley-poles by the +thousand to take their places. So he let the trees die and put up his +poles. They were hideous, but nobody minded that; and sometimes the +wires fell and killed people--but not often enough to matter at all. + +Thence onward the car bore Bibbs through the older parts of the +town where the few solid old houses not already demolished were in +transition: some, with their fronts torn away, were being made into +segments of apartment-buildings; others had gone uproariously into +trade, brazenly putting forth “show-windows” on their first floors, +seeming to mean it for a joke; one or two with unaltered facades peeped +humorously over the tops of temporary office buildings of one story +erected in the old front yards. Altogether, the town here was like a +boarding-house hash the Sunday after Thanksgiving; the old ingredients +were discernible. + +This was the fringe of Bigness's own sanctuary, and now Bibbs reached +the roaring holy of holies itself. The car must stop at every crossing +while the dark-garbed crowds, enveloped in maelstroms of dust, hurried +before it. Magnificent new buildings, already dingy, loomed hundreds of +feet above him; newer ones, more magnificent, were rising beside them, +rising higher; old buildings were coming down; middle-aged buildings +were coming down; the streets were laid open to their entrails and men +worked underground between palisades, and overhead in metal cobwebs +like spiders in the sky. Trolley-cars and long interurban cars, built to +split the wind like torpedo-boats, clanged and shrieked their way +round swarming corners; motor-cars of every kind and shape known to +man babbled frightful warnings and frantic demands; hospital ambulances +clamored wildly for passage; steam-whistles signaled the swinging of +titanic tentacle and claw; riveters rattled like machine-guns; the +ground shook to the thunder of gigantic trucks; and the conglomerate +sound of it all was the sound of earthquake playing accompaniments for +battle and sudden death. On one of the new steel buildings no work +was being done that afternoon. The building had killed a man in the +morning--and the steel-workers always stop for the day when that +“happens.” + +And in the hurrying crowds, swirling and sifting through the +brobdingnagian camp of iron and steel, one saw the camp-followers and +the pagan women--there would be work to-day and dancing to-night. For +the Puritan's dry voice is but the crackling of a leaf underfoot in the +rush and roar of the coming of the new Egypt. + +Bibbs was on time. He knew it must be “to the minute” or his father +would consider it an outrage; and the big chronometer in Sheridan's +office marked four precisely when Bibbs walked in. Coincidentally with +his entrance five people who had been at work in the office, under +Sheridan's direction, walked out. They departed upon no visible or +audible suggestion, and with a promptness that seemed ominous to +the new-comer. As the massive door clicked softly behind the elderly +stenographer, the last of the procession, Bibbs had a feeling that +they all understood that he was a failure as a great man's son, a +disappointment, the “queer one” of the family, and that he had been +summoned to judgment--a well-founded impression, for that was exactly +what they understood. + +“Sit down,” said Sheridan. + +It is frequently an advantage for deans, school-masters, and worried +fathers to place delinquents in the sitting-posture. Bibbs sat. + +Sheridan, standing, gazed enigmatically upon his son for a period of +silence, then walked slowly to a window and stood looking out of it, his +big hands, loosely hooked together by the thumbs, behind his back. They +were soiled, as were all other hands down-town, except such as might be +still damp from a basin. + +“Well, Bibbs,” he said at last, not altering his attitude, “do you know +what I'm goin' to do with you?” + +Bibbs, leaning back in his chair, fixed his eyes contemplatively upon +the ceiling. “I heard you tell Jim,” he began, in his slow way. “You +said you'd send him to the machine-shop with me if he didn't propose to +Miss Vertrees. So I suppose that must be your plan for me. But--” + +“But what?” said Sheridan, irritably, as the son paused. + +“Isn't there somebody you'd let ME propose to?” + +That brought his father sharply round to face him. “You beat the devil! +Bibbs, what IS the matter with you? Why can't you be like anybody else?” + +“Liver, maybe,” said Bibbs, gently. + +“Boh! Even ole Doc Gurney says there's nothin' wrong with you +organically. No. You're a dreamer, Bibbs; that's what's the matter, +and that's ALL the matter. Oh, not one o' these BIG dreamers that put +through the big deals! No, sir! You're the kind o' dreamer that just +sets out on the back fence and thinks about how much trouble there must +be in the world! That ain't the kind that builds the bridges, Bibbs; +it's the kind that borrows fifteen cents from his wife's uncle's +brother-in-law to get ten cent's worth o' plug tobacco and a nickel's +worth o' quinine!” + +He put the finishing touch on this etching with a snort, and turned +again to the window. + +“Look out there!” he bade his son. “Look out o' that window! Look at the +life and energy down there! I should think ANY young man's blood would +tingle to get into it and be part of it. Look at the big things young +men are doin' in this town!” He swung about, coming to the mahogany desk +in the middle of the room. “Look at what I was doin' at your age! Look +at what your own brothers are doin'! Look at Roscoe! Yes, and look +at Jim! I made Jim president o' the Sheridan Realty Company last +New-Year's, with charge of every inch o' ground and every brick and +every shingle and stick o' wood we own; and it's an example to any young +man--or ole man, either--the way he took ahold of it. Last July we found +out we wanted two more big warehouses at the Pump Works--wanted 'em +quick. Contractors said it couldn't be done; said nine or ten months +at the soonest; couldn't see it any other way. What'd Jim do? Took the +contract himself; found a fellow with a new cement and concrete process; +kept men on the job night and day, and stayed on it night and day +himself--and, by George! we begin to USE them warehouses next week! Four +months and a half, and every inch fireproof! I tell you Jim's one o' +these fellers that make miracles happen! Now, I don't say every young +man can be like Jim, because there's mighty few got his ability, but +every young man can go in and do his share. This town is God's own +country, and there's opportunity for anybody with a pound of energy and +an ounce o' gumption. I tell you these young business men I watch just +do my heart good! THEY don't set around on the back fence--no, sir! They +take enough exercise to keep their health; and they go to a baseball +game once or twice a week in summer, maybe, and they're raisin' nice +families, with sons to take their places sometime and carry on the +work--because the work's got to go ON! They're puttin' their life-blood +into it, I tell you, and that's why we're gettin' bigger every minute, +and why THEY'RE gettin' bigger, and why it's all goin' to keep ON +gettin' bigger!” + +He slapped the desk resoundingly with his open palm, and then, observing +that Bibbs remained in the same impassive attitude, with his eyes still +fixed upon the ceiling in a contemplation somewhat plaintive, Sheridan +was impelled to groan. “Oh, Lord!” he said. “This is the way you always +were. I don't believe you understood a darn word I been sayin'! You +don't LOOK as if you did. By George! it's discouraging!” + +“I don't understand about getting--about getting bigger,” said Bibbs, +bringing his gaze down to look at his father placatively. “I don't see +just why--” + +“WHAT?” Sheridan leaned forward, resting his hands upon the desk and +staring across it incredulously at his son. + +“I don't understand--exactly--what you want it all bigger for?” + +“Great God!” shouted Sheridan, and struck the desk a blow with his +clenched fist. “A son of mine asks me that! You go out and ask the +poorest day-laborer you can find! Ask him that question--” + +“I did once,” Bibbs interrupted; “when I was in the machine-shop. I--” + +“Wha'd he say?” + +“He said, 'Oh, hell!'” answered Bibbs, mildly. + +“Yes, I reckon he would!” Sheridan swung away from the desk. “I reckon +he certainly would! And I got plenty sympathy with him right now, +myself!” + +“It's the same answer, then?” Bibbs's voice was serious, almost +tremulous. + +“Damnation!” Sheridan roared. “Did you ever hear the word Prosperity, +you ninny? Did you ever hear the word Ambition? Did you ever hear the +word PROGRESS?” + +He flung himself into a chair after the outburst, his big chest surging, +his throat tumultuous with gutteral incoherences. “Now then,” he said, +huskily, when the anguish had somewhat abated, “what do you want to do?” + +“Sir?” + +“What do you WANT to do, I said.” + +Taken by surprise, Bibbs stammered. “What--what do--I--what--” + +“If I'd let you do exactly what you had the whim for, what would you +do?” + +Bibbs looked startled; then timidity overwhelmed him--a profound +shyness. He bent his head and fixed his lowered eyes upon the toe of his +shoe, which he moved to and fro upon the rug, like a culprit called to +the desk in school. + +“What would you do? Loaf?” + +“No, sir.” Bibbs's voice was almost inaudible, and what little sound it +made was unquestionably a guilty sound. “I suppose I'd--I'd--” + +“Well?” + +“I suppose I'd try to--to write.” + +“Write what?” + +“Nothing important--just poems and essays, perhaps.” + +“That all?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“I see,” said his father, breathing quickly with the restraint he was +putting upon himself. “That is, you want to write, but you don't want to +write anything of any account.” + +“You think--” + +Sheridan got up again. “I take my hat off to the man that can write +a good ad,” he said, emphatically. “The best writin' talent in this +country is right spang in the ad business to-day. You buy a magazine for +good writin'--look on the back of it! Let me tell you I pay money for +that kind o' writin'. Maybe you think it's easy. Just try it! I've tried +it, and I can't do it. I tell you an ad's got to be written so it makes +people do the hardest thing in this world to GET 'em to do: it's got to +make 'em give up their MONEY! You talk about 'poems and essays.' I tell +you when it comes to the actual skill o' puttin' words together so as to +make things HAPPEN, R. T. Bloss, right here in this city, knows more in +a minute than George Waldo Emerson ever knew in his whole life!” + +“You--you may be--” Bibbs said, indistinctly, the last word smothered in +a cough. + +“Of COURSE I'm right! And if it ain't just like you to want to take up +with the most out-o'-date kind o' writin' there is! 'Poems and essays'! +My Lord, Bibbs, that's WOMEN'S work! You can't pick up a newspaper +without havin' to see where Mrs. Rumskididle read a paper on 'Jane +Eyre,' or 'East Lynne,' at the God-Knows-What Club. And 'poetry'! Why, +look at Edith! I expect that poem o' hers would set a pretty high-water +mark for you, young man, and it's the only one she's ever managed to +write in her whole LIFE! When I wanted her to go on and write some more +she said it took too much time. Said it took months and months. And +Edith's a smart girl; she's got more energy in her little finger than +you ever give me a chance to see in your whole body, Bibbs. Now look +at the facts: say she could turn out four or five poems a year and you +could turn out maybe two. That medal she got was worth about fifteen +dollars, so there's your income--thirty dollars a year! That's a fine +success to make of your life! I'm not sayin' a word against poetry. I +wouldn't take ten thousand dollars right now for that poem of Edith's; +and poetry's all right enough in its place--but you leave it to the +girls. A man's got to do a man's work in this world!” + +He seated himself in a chair at his son's side and, leaning over, tapped +Bibbs confidentially on the knee. “This city's got the greatest future +in America, and if my sons behave right by me and by themselves they're +goin' to have a mighty fair share of it--a mighty fair share. I love +this town. It's God's own footstool, and it's made money for me every +day right along, I don't know how many years. I love it like I do my own +business, and I'd fight for it as quick as I'd fight for my own family. +It's a beautiful town. Look at our wholesale district; look at any +district you want to; look at the park system we're puttin' through, +and the boulevards and the public statuary. And she grows. God! how she +grows!” He had become intensely grave; he spoke with solemnity. “Now, +Bibbs, I can't take any of it--nor any gold or silver nor buildings nor +bonds--away with me in my shroud when I have to go. But I want to leave +my share in it to my boys. I've worked for it; I've been a builder and +a maker; and two blades of grass have grown where one grew before, +whenever I laid my hand on the ground and willed 'em to grow. I've built +big, and I want the buildin' to go on. And when my last hour comes I +want to know that my boys are ready to take charge; that they're fit +to take charge and go ON with it. Bibbs, when that hour comes I want +to know that my boys are big men, ready and fit to take hold of big things. +Bibbs, when I'm up above I want to know that the big share I've made +mine, here below, is growin' bigger and bigger in the charge of my +boys.” + +He leaned back, deeply moved. “There!” he said, huskily. “I've never +spoken more what was in my heart in my life. I do it because I want you +to understand--and not think me a mean father. I never had to talk that +way to Jim and Roscoe. They understood without any talk, Bibbs.” + +“I see,” said Bibbs. “At least I think I do. But--” + +“Wait a minute!” Sheridan raised his hand. “If you see the least bit +in the world, then you understand how it feels to me to have my son set +here and talk about 'poems and essays' and such-like fooleries. And you +must understand, too, what it meant to start one o' my boys and have +him come back on me the way you did, and have to be sent to a sanitarium +because he couldn't stand work. Now, let's get right down to it, Bibbs. +I've had a whole lot o' talk with ole Doc Gurney about you, one time +another, and I reckon I understand your case just about as well as he +does, anyway! Now here, I'll be frank with you. I started you in harder +than what I did the other boys, and that was for your own good, because +I saw you needed to be shook up more'n they did. You were always kind of +moody and mopish--and you needed work that'd keep you on the jump. Now, +why did it make you sick instead of brace you up and make a man of you +the way it ought of done? I pinned ole Gurney down to it. I says, 'Look +here, ain't it really because he just plain hated it?' 'Yes,' he says, +'that's it. If he'd enjoyed it, it wouldn't 'a' hurt him. He loathes it, +and that affects his nervous system. The more he tries it, the more he +hates it; and the more he hates it, the more injury it does him.' That +ain't quite his words, but it's what he meant. And that's about the way +it is.” + +“Yes,” said Bibbs, “that's about the way it is.” + +“Well, then, I reckon it's up to me not only to make you do it, but to +make you like it!” + +Bibbs shivered. And he turned upon his father a look that was almost +ghostly. “I can't,” he said, in a low voice. “I can't.” + +“Can't go back to the shop?” + +“No. Can't like it. I can't.” + +Sheridan jumped up, his patience gone. To his own view, he had reasoned +exhaustively, had explained fully and had pleaded more than a father +should, only to be met in the end with the unreasoning and mysterious +stubbornness which had been Bibbs's baffling characteristic from +childhood. “By George, you will!” he cried. “You'll go back there and +you'll like it! Gurney says it won't hurt you if you like it, and he +says it'll kill you if you go back and hate it; so it looks as if it +was about up to you not to hate it. Well, Gurney's a fool! Hatin' work +doesn't kill anybody; and this isn't goin' to kill you, whether you hate +it or not. I've never made a mistake in a serious matter in my life, +and it wasn't a mistake my sendin' you there in the first place. And +I'm goin' to prove it--I'm goin' to send you back there and vindicate my +judgment. Gurney says it's all 'mental attitude.' Well, you're goin' +to learn the right one! He says in a couple more months this fool thing +that's been the matter with you'll be disappeared completely and you'll +be back in as good or better condition than you were before you ever +went into the shop. And right then is when you begin over--right in that +same shop! Nobody can call me a hard man or a mean father. I do the best +I can for my chuldern, and I take full responsibility for bringin' my +sons up to be men. Now, so far, I've failed with you. But I'm not goin' +to keep ON failin'. I never tackled a job YET I didn't put through, and +I'm not goin' to begin with my own son. I'm goin' to make a MAN of you. +By God! I am!” + +Bibbs rose and went slowly to the door, where he turned. “You say you +give me a couple of months?” he said. + +Sheridan pushed a bell-button on his desk. “Gurney said two months more +would put you back where you were. You go home and begin to get yourself +in the right 'mental attitude' before those two months are up! Good-by!” + +“Good-by, sir,” said Bibbs, meekly. + + + +CHAPTER X + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +Sheridan had decided to conclude his day's work early that afternoon, +and at about two o'clock he left his office with a man of affairs from +foreign parts, who had traveled far for a business conference with +Sheridan and his colleagues. Herr Favre, in spite of his French name, +was a gentleman of Bavaria. It was his first visit to our country, and +Sheridan took pleasure in showing him the sights of the country's finest +city. They got into an open car at the main entrance of the Sheridan +Building, and were driven first, slowly and momentously, through the +wholesale district and the retail district; then more rapidly they +inspected the packing-houses and the stock-yards; then skirmished over +the “park system” and “boulevards”; and after that whizzed through the +“residence section” on their way to the factories and foundries. + +“All cray,” observed Herr Favre, smilingly. + +“'Cray'?” echoed Sheridan. “I don't know what you mean. 'Cray'?” + +“No white,” said Herr Favre, with a wave of his hand toward the +long rows of houses on both sides of the street. “No white lace +window-curtains; all cray lace window-curtains.” + +“Oh. I see!” Sheridan laughed indulgently. “You mean 'GRAY.' No, they +ain't, they're white. I never saw any gray ones.” + +Herr Favre shook his head, much amused. “There are NO white ones,” + he said. “There is no white ANYTHING in your city; no white +window-curtains, no white house, no white peeble!” He pointed upward. +“Smoke!” Then he sniffed the air and clasped his nose between forefinger +and thumb. “Smoke! Smoke ef'rywhere. Smoke in your insites.” He tapped +his chest. “Smoke in your lunks!” + +“Oh! SMOKE!” Sheridan cried with gusto, drawing in a deep breath and +patently finding it delicious. “You BET we got smoke!” + +“Exbensif!” said Herr Favre. “Ruins foliage; ruins fabrics. Maybe in +summer it iss not so bad, but I wonder your wifes will bear it.” + +Sheridan laughed uproariously. “They know it means new spring hats for +'em!” + +“They must need many, too!” said the visitor. “New hats, new all things, +but nothing white. In Munchen we could not do it; we are a safing +peeble.” + +“Where's that?” + +“In Munchen. You say 'Munich.'” + +“Well, I never been to Munich, but I took in the Mediterranean trip, +and I tell you, outside o' some right good scenery, all I saw was mighty +dirty and mighty shiftless and mighty run-down at the heel. Now comin' +right down TO it, Mr. Farver, wouldn't you rather live here in this town +than in Munich? I know you got more enterprise up there than the part of +the old country I saw, and I know YOU'RE a live business man and you're +associated with others like you, but when it comes to LIVIN' in a place, +wouldn't you heap rather be here than over there?” + +“For me,” said Herr Favre, “no. Here I should not think I was living. It +would be like the miner who goes into the mine to work; nothing else.” + +“We got a good many good citizens here from your part o' the world. THEY +like it.” + +“Oh yes.” And Herr Favre laughed deprecatingly. “The first generation, +they bring their Germany with them; then, after that, they are +Americans, like you.” He tapped his host's big knee genially. “You are +patriot; so are they.” + +“Well, I reckon you must be a pretty hot little patriot yourself, Mr. +Farver!” Sheridan exclaimed, gaily. “You certainly stand up for your +own town, if you stick to sayin' you'd rather live there than you would +here. Yes, SIR! You sure are some patriot to say THAT--after you've seen +our city! It ain't reasonable in you, but I must say I kind of admire +you for it; every man ought to stick up for his own, even when he sees +the other fellow's got the goods on him. Yet I expect way down deep in +your heart, Mr. Farver, you'd rather live right here than any place else +in the world, if you had your choice. Man alive! this is God's country, +Mr. Farver, and a blind man couldn't help seein' it! You couldn't stand +where you do in a business way and NOT see it. Soho, boy! Here we are. +This is the big works, and I'll show you something now that'll make your +eyes stick out!” + +They had arrived at the Pump Works; and for an hour Mr. Favre was +personally conducted and personally instructed by the founder and +president, the buzzing queen bee of those buzzing hives. + +“Now I'll take you for a spin in the country,” said Sheridan, when at +last they came out to the car again. “We'll take a breezer.” But, with +his foot on the step, he paused to hail a neat young man who came out +of the office smiling a greeting. “Hello, young fellow!” Sheridan said, +heartily. “On the job, are you, Jimmie? Ha! They don't catch you OFF of +it very often, I guess, though I do hear you go automobile-ridin' in +the country sometimes with a mighty fine-lookin' girl settin' up beside +you!” He roared with laughter, clapping his son upon the shoulder. +“That's all right with me--if it is with HER! So, Jimmie? Well, when we +goin' to move into your new warehouses? Monday?” + +“Sunday, if you want to,” said Jim. + +“No!” cried his father, delighted. “Don't tell me you're goin' to keep +your word about dates! That's no way to do contractin'! Never heard of a +contractor yet didn't want more time.” + +“They'll be all ready for you on the minute,” said Jim. “I'm going over +both of 'em now, with Links and Sherman, from foundation to roof. I +guess they'll pass inspection, too!” + +“Well, then, when you get through with that,” said his father, “you go +and take your girl out ridin'. By George! you've earned it! You tell +her you stand high with ME!” He stepped into the car, waving a waggish +farewell, and when the wheels were in motion again, he turned upon his +companion a broad face literally shining with pride. “That's my boy +Jimmie!” he said. + +“Fine young man, yes,” said Herr Favre. + +“I got two o' the finest boys,” said Sheridan, “I got two o' the finest +boys God ever made, and that's a fact, Mr. Farver! Jim's the oldest, and +I tell you they got to get up the day before if they expect to catch HIM +in bed! My other boy, Roscoe, he's always to the good, too, but Jim's +a wizard. You saw them two new-process warehouses, just about finished? +Well, JIM built 'em. I'll tell you about that, Mr. Farver.” And he +recited this history, describing the new process at length; in fact, he +had such pride in Jim's achievement that he told Herr Favre all about it +more than once. + +“Fine young man, yes,” repeated the good Munchner, three-quarters of an +hour later. They were many miles out in the open country by this time. + +“He is that!” said Sheridan, adding, as if confidentially: “I got a fine +family, Mr. Farver--fine chuldern. I got a daughter now; you take her +and put her anywhere you please, and she'll shine up with ANY of 'em. +There's culture and refinement and society in this town by the car-load, +and here lately she's been gettin' right in the thick of it--her and my +daughter-in-law, both. I got a mighty fine daughter-in-law, Mr. Farver. +I'm goin' to get you up for a meal with us before you leave town, and +you'll see--and, well, sir, from all I hear the two of 'em been holdin' +their own with the best. Myself, I and the wife never had time for much +o' that kind o' doin's, but it's all right and good for the chuldern; +and my daughter she's always kind of taken to it. I'll read you a poem +she wrote when I get you up at the house. She wrote it in school and +took the first prize for poetry with it. I tell you they don't make 'em +any smarter'n that girl, Mr. Farver. Yes, sir; take us all round, we're +a pretty happy family; yes, sir. Roscoe hasn't got any chuldern yet, +and I haven't ever spoke to him and his wife about it--it's kind of +a delicate matter--but it's about time the wife and I saw some +gran'-chuldern growin' up around us. I certainly do hanker for about +four or five little curly-headed rascals to take on my knee. Boys, I +hope, o' course; that's only natural. Jim's got his eye on a mighty +splendid-lookin' girl; lives right next door to us. I expect you heard +me joshin' him about it back yonder. She's one of the ole blue-bloods +here, and I guess it was a mighty good stock--to raise HER! She's one +these girls that stand right up and look at you! And pretty? She's +the prettiest thing you ever saw! Good size, too; good health and good +sense. Jim'll be just right if he gets her. I must say it tickles ME +to think o' the way that boy took ahold o' that job back yonder. Four +months and a half! Yes, sir--” + +He expanded this theme once more; and thus he continued to entertain +the stranger throughout the long drive. Darkness had fallen before they +reached the city on their return, and it was after five when Sheridan +allowed Herr Favre to descend at the door of his hotel, where boys were +shrieking extra editions of the evening paper. + +“Now, good night, Mr. Farver,” said Sheridan, leaning from the car to +shake hands with his guest. “Don't forget I'm goin' to come around and +take you up to--Go on away, boy!” + +A newsboy had thrust himself almost between them, yelling, “Extry! +Secon' Extry. Extry, all about the horrable acciDENT. Extry!” + +“Get out!” laughed Sheridan. “Who wants to read about accidents? Get +out!” + +The boy moved away philosophically. “Extry! Extry!” he shrilled. “Three +men killed! Extry! Millionaire killed! Two other men killed! Extry! +Extry!” + +“Don't forget, Mr. Farver,” Sheridan completed his interrupted +farewells. “I'll come by to take you up to our house for dinner. I'll be +here for you about half-past five to-morrow afternoon. Hope you 'njoyed +the drive much as I have. Good night--good night!” He leaned back, +speaking to the chauffer. “Now you can take me around to the Central +City barber-shop, boy. I want to get a shave 'fore I go up home.” + +“Extry! Extry!” screamed the newsboys, zig-zagging among the crowds like +bats in the dusk. “Extry! All about the horrable acciDENT! Extry!” It +struck Sheridan that the papers sent out too many “Extras”; they printed +“Extras” for all sorts of petty crimes and casualties. It was a mistake, +he decided, critically. Crying “Wolf!” too often wouldn't sell the +goods; it was bad business. The papers would “make more in the long +run,” he was sure, if they published an “Extra” only when something of +real importance happened. + +“Extry! All about the hor'ble AX'nt! Extry!” a boy squawked under his +nose, as he descended from the car. + +“Go on away!” said Sheridan, gruffly, though he smiled. He liked to see +the youngsters working so noisily to get on in the world. + +But as he crossed the pavement to the brilliant glass doors of the +barber-shop, a second newsboy grasped the arm of the one who had thus +cried his wares. + +“Say, Yallern,” said this second, hoarse with awe, “'n't chew know who +that IS?” + +“Who?” + +“It's SHERIDAN!” + +“Jeest!” cried the first, staring insanely. + +At about the same hour, four times a week--Monday, Wednesday, Friday, +and Saturday--Sheridan stopped at this shop to be shaved by the head +barber. The barbers were negroes, he was their great man, and it was +their habit to give him a “reception,” his entrance being always the +signal for a flurry of jocular hospitality, followed by general excesses +of briskness and gaiety. But it was not so this evening. + +The shop was crowded. Copies of the “Extra” were being read by men +waiting, and by men in the latter stages of treatment. “Extras” lay upon +vacant seats and showed from the pockets of hanging coats. + +There was a loud chatter between the practitioners and their recumbent +patients, a vocal charivari which stopped abruptly as Sheridan opened +the door. His name seemed to fizz in the air like the last sputtering +of a firework; the barbers stopped shaving and clipping; lathered men +turned their prostrate heads to stare, and there was a moment of amazing +silence in the shop. + +The head barber, nearest the door, stood like a barber in a tableau. His +left hand held stretched between thumb and forefinger an elastic section +of his helpless customer's cheek, while his right hand hung poised above +it, the razor motionless. And then, roused from trance by the door's +closing, he accepted the fact of Sheridan's presence. The barber +remembered that there are no circumstances in life--or just after +it--under which a man does not need to be shaved. + +He stepped forward, profoundly grave. “I be through with this man in the +chair one minute, Mist' Sheridan,” he said, in a hushed tone. “Yessuh.” + And of a solemn negro youth who stood by, gazing stupidly, “You goin' +RESIGN?” he demanded in a fierce undertone. “You goin' take Mist' +Sheridan's coat?” He sent an angry look round the shop, and the barbers, +taking his meaning, averted their eyes and fell to work, the murmur of +subdued conversation buzzing from chair to chair. + +“You sit down ONE minute, Mist' Sheridan,” said the head barber, gently. +“I fix nice chair fo' you to wait in.” + +“Never mind,” said Sheridan. “Go on get through with your man.” + +“Yessuh.” And he went quickly back to his chair on tiptoe, followed by +Sheridan's puzzled gaze. + +Something had gone wrong in the shop, evidently. Sheridan did not know +what to make of it. Ordinarily he would have shouted a hilarious demand +for the meaning of the mystery, but an inexplicable silence had been +imposed upon him by the hush that fell upon his entrance and by the odd +look every man in the shop had bent upon him. + +Vaguely disquieted, he walked to one of the seats in the rear of the +shop, and looked up and down the two lines of barbers, catching quickly +shifted, furtive glances here and there. He made this brief survey after +wondering if one of the barbers had died suddenly, that day, or the +night before; but there was no vacancy in either line. + +The seat next to his was unoccupied, but some one had left a copy of +the “Extra” there, and, frowning, he picked it up and glanced at it. The +first of the swollen display lines had little meaning to him: + + Fatally Faulty. New Process Roof Collapses Hurling Capitalist to + Death with Inventor. Seven Escape When Crash Comes. Death Claims-- + +Thus far had he read when a thin hand fell upon the paper, covering the +print from his eyes; and, looking up, he saw Bibbs standing before him, +pale and gentle, immeasurably compassionate. + +“I've come for you, father,” said Bibbs. “Here's the boy with your coat +and hat. Put them on and come home.” + +And even then Sheridan did not understand. So secure was he in the +strength and bigness of everything that was his, he did not know what +calamity had befallen him. But he was frightened. + +Without a word, he followed Bibbs heavily out throught the still shop, +but as they reached the pavement he stopped short and, grasping his +son's sleeve with shaking fingers, swung him round so that they stood +face to face. + +“What--what--” His mouth could not do him the service he asked of it, he +was so frightened. + +“Extry!” screamed a newsboy straight in his face. “Young North Side +millionaire insuntly killed! Extry!” + +“Not--JIM!” said Sheridan. + +Bibbs caught his father's hand in his own. + +“And YOU come to tell me that?” + +Sheridan did not know what he said. But in those first words and in the +first anguish of the big, stricken face Bibbs understood the unuttered +cry of accusation: + +“Why wasn't it you?” + + + +CHAPTER XII + +Standing in the black group under gaunt trees at the cemetery, three +days later, Bibbs unwillingly let an old, old thought become definite +in his mind: the sickly brother had buried the strong brother, and Bibbs +wondered how many million times that had happened since men first made a +word to name the sons of one mother. Almost literally he had buried his +strong brother, for Sheridan had gone to pieces when he saw his dead +son. He had nothing to help him meet the shock, neither definite +religion nor “philosophy” definite or indefinite. He could only beat his +forehead and beg, over and over, to be killed with an ax, while his wife +was helpless except to entreat him not to “take on,” herself adding a +continuous lamentation. Edith, weeping, made truce with Sibyl and saw to +it that the mourning garments were beyond criticism. Roscoe was dazed, +and he shirked, justifying himself curiously by saying he “never had +any experience in such matters.” So it was Bibbs, the shy outsider, who +became, during this dreadful little time, the master of the house; for +as strange a thing as that, sometimes, may be the result of a death. He +met the relatives from out of town at the station; he set the time +for the funeral and the time for meals; he selected the flowers and +he selected Jim's coffin; he did all the grim things and all the other +things. Jim had belonged to an order of Knights, who lengthened the +rites with a picturesque ceremony of their own, and at first Bibbs +wished to avoid this, but upon reflection he offered no objection--he +divined that the Knights and their service would be not precisely a +consolation, but a satisfaction to his father. So the Knights led the +procession, with their band playing a dirge part of the long way to the +cemetery; and then turned back, after forming in two lines, plumed +hats sympathetically in hand, to let the hearse and the carriages pass +between. + +“Mighty fine-lookin' men,” said Sheridan, brokenly. “They all--all liked +him. He was--” His breath caught in a sob and choked him. “He was--a +Grand Supreme Herald.” + +Bibbs had divined aright. + +“Dust to dust,” said the minister, under the gaunt trees; and at that +Sheridan shook convulsively from head to foot. All of the black group +shivered, except Bibbs, when it came to “Dust to dust.” Bibbs stood +passive, for he was the only one of them who had known that thought as a +familiar neighbor; he had been close upon dust himself for a long, long +time, and even now he could prophesy no protracted separation between +himself and dust. The machine-shop had brought him very close, and if +he had to go back it would probably bring him closer still; so close--as +Dr. Gurney predicted--that no one would be able to tell the difference +between dust and himself. And Sheridan, if Bibbs read him truly, would +be all the more determined to “make a man” of him, now that there was +a man less in the family. To Bibbs's knowledge, no one and nothing had +ever prevented his father from carrying through his plans, once he had +determined upon them; and Sheridan was incapable of believing that any +plan of his would not work out according to his calculations. His nature +unfitted him to accept failure. He had the gift of terrible persistence, +and with unflecked confidence that his way was the only way he would +hold to that way of “making a man” of Bibbs, who understood very well, +in his passive and impersonal fashion, that it was a way which might +make, not a man, but dust of him. But he had no shudder for the thought. + +He had no shudder for that thought or for any other thought. The +truth about Bibbs was in the poem which Edith had adopted: he had so +thoroughly formed the over-sensitive habit of hiding his feelings that +no doubt he had forgotten--by this time--where he had put some of them, +especially those which concerned himself. But he had not hidden his +feelings about his father where they could not be found. He was strange +to his father, but his father was not strange to him. He knew that +Sheridan's plans were conceived in the stubborn belief that they would +bring about a good thing for Bibbs himself; and whatever the result was +to be, the son had no bitterness. Far otherwise, for as he looked at the +big, woeful figure, shaking and tortured, an almost unbearable pity laid +hands upon Bibbs's throat. Roscoe stood blinking, his lip quivering; +Edith wept audibly; Mrs. Sheridan leaned in half collapse against her +husband; but Bibbs knew that his father was the one who cared. + +It was over. Men in overalls stepped forward with their shovels, and +Bibbs nodded quickly to Roscoe, making a slight gesture toward the line +of waiting carriages. Roscoe understood--Bibbs would stay and see the +grave filled; the rest were to go. The groups began to move away over +the turf; wheels creaked on the graveled drive; and one by one the +carriages filled and departed, the horses setting off at a walk. Bibbs +gazed steadfastly at the workmen; he knew that his father kept looking +back as he went toward the carriage, and that was a thing he did not +want to see. But after a little while there were no sounds of wheels +or hoofs on the gravel, and Bibbs, glancing up, saw that every one had +gone. A coupe had been left for him, the driver dozing patiently. + +The workmen placed the flowers and wreaths upon the mound and about +it, and Bibbs altered the position of one or two of these, then stood +looking thoughtfully at the grotesque brilliancy of that festal-seeming +hillock beneath the darkening November sky. “It's too bad!” he half +whispered, his lips forming the words--and his meaning was that it was +too bad that the strong brother had been the one to go. For this was +his last thought before he walked to the coupe and saw Mary Vertrees +standing, all alone, on the other side of the drive. + +She had just emerged from a grove of leafless trees that grew on a +slope where the tombs were many; and behind her rose a multitude of the +barbaric and classic shapes we so strangely strew about our graveyards: +urn-crowned columns and stone-draped obelisks, shop-carved angels and +shop-carved children poising on pillars and shafts, all lifting--in +unthought pathos--their blind stoniness toward the sky. Against such +a background, Bibbs was not incongruous, with his figure, in black, so +long and slender, and his face so long and thin and white; nor was the +undertaker's coupe out of keeping, with the shabby driver dozing on the +box and the shaggy horses standing patiently in attitudes without +hope and without regret. But for Mary Vertrees, here was a grotesque +setting--she was a vivid, living creature of a beautiful world. And a +graveyard is not the place for people to look charming. + +She also looked startled and confused, but not more startled and +confused than Bibbs. In “Edith's” poem he had declared his intention of +hiding his heart “among the stars”; and in his boyhood one day he had +successfully hidden his body in the coal-pile. He had been no comrade +of other boys or of girls, and his acquaintances of a recent period were +only a few fellow-invalids and the nurses at the Hood Sanitarium. All +his life Bibbs had kept himself to himself--he was but a shy onlooker in +the world. Nevertheless, the startled gaze he bent upon the +unexpected lady before him had causes other than his shyness and her +unexpectedness. For Mary Vertrees had been a shining figure in the +little world of late given to the view of this humble and elusive +outsider, and spectators sometimes find their hearts beating faster than +those of the actors in the spectacle. Thus with Bibbs now. He started +and stared; he lifted his hat with incredible awkwardness, his fingers +fumbling at his forehead before they found the brim. + +“Mr. Sheridan,” said Mary, “I'm afraid you'll have to take me home with +you. I--” She stopped, not lacking a momentary awkwardness of her own. + +“Why--why--yes,” Bibbs stammered. “I'll--I'll be de--Won't you get in?” + +In that manner and in that place they exchanged their first words. Then +Mary without more ado got into the coupe, and Bibbs followed, closing +the door. + +“You're very kind,” she said, somewhat breathlessly. “I should have had +to walk, and it's beginning to get dark. It's three miles, I think.” + +“Yes,” said Bibbs. “It--it is beginning to get dark. I--I noticed that.” + +“I ought to tell you--I--” Mary began, confusedly. She bit her lip, sat +silent a moment, then spoke with composure. “It must seem odd, my--” + +“No, no!” Bibbs protested, earnestly. “Not in the--in the least.” + +“It does, though,” said Mary. “I had not intended to come to the +cemetery, Mr. Sheridan, but one of the men in charge at the house came +and whispered to me that 'the family wished me to'--I think your sister +sent him. So I came. But when we reached here I--oh, I felt that perhaps +I--” + +Bibbs nodded gravely. “Yes, yes,” he murmured. + +“I got out on the opposite side of the carriage,” she continued. “I mean +opposite from--from where all of you were. And I wandered off over in +the other direction; and I didn't realize how little time it takes. +From where I was I couldn't see the carriages leaving--at least I didn't +notice them. So when I got back, just now, you were the only one here. +I didn't know the other people in the carriage I came in, and of course +they didn't think to wait for me. That's why--” + +“Yes,” said Bibbs, “I--” And that seemed all he had to say just then. + +Mary looked out through the dusty window. “I think we'd better be going +home, if you please,” she said. + +“Yes,” Bibbs agreed, not moving. “It will be dark before we get there.” + +She gave him a quick little glance. “I think you must be very tired, +Mr. Sheridan; and I know you have reason to be,” she said, gently. “If +you'll let me, I'll--” And without explaining her purpose she opened the +door on her side of the coupe and leaned out. + +Bibbs started in blank perplexity, not knowing what she meant to do. + +“Driver!” she called, in her clear voice, loudly. “Driver! We'd like to +start, please! Driver! Stop at the house just north of Mr. Sheridan's, +please.” The wheels began to move, and she leaned back beside Bibbs +once more. “I noticed that he was asleep when we got in,” she said. “I +suppose they have a great deal of night work.” + +Bibbs drew a long breath and waited till he could command his voice. +“I've never been able to apologize quickly,” he said, with his +accustomed slowness, “because if I try to I stammer. My brother Roscoe +whipped me once, when we were boys, for stepping on his slate-pencil. +It took me so long to tell him it was an accident, he finished before I +did.” + +Mary Vertrees had never heard anything quite like the drawling, gentle +voice or the odd implication that his not noticing the motionless state +of their vehicle was an “accident.” She had formed a casual impression +of him, not without sympathy, but at once she discovered that he was +unlike any of her cursory and vague imaginings of him. And suddenly she +saw a picture he had not intended to paint for sympathy: a sturdy boy +hammering a smaller, sickly boy, and the sickly boy unresentful. Not +that picture alone; others flashed before her. Instantaneously she had a +glimpse of Bibbs's life and into his life. She had a queer feeling, new +to her experience, of knowing him instantly. It startled her a little; +and then, with some surprise, she realized that she was glad he had sat +so long, after getting into the coupe, before he noticed that it had +not started. What she did not realize, however, was that she had made +no response to his apology, and they passed out of the cemetery gates, +neither having spoken again. + +Bibbs was so content with the silence he did not know that it was +silence. The dusk, gathering in their small inclosure, was filled with a +rich presence for him; and presently it was so dark that neither of the +two could see the other, nor did even their garments touch. But neither +had any sense of being alone. The wheels creaked steadily, rumbling +presently on paved streets; there were the sounds, as from a distance, +of the plod-plod of the horses; and sometimes the driver became audible, +coughing asthmatically, or saying, “You, JOE!” with a spiritless flap of +the whip upon an unresponsive back. Oblongs of light from the lamps +at street-corners came swimming into the interior of the coupe and, +thinning rapidly to lances, passed utterly, leaving greater darkness. +And yet neither of these two last attendants at Jim Sheridan's funeral +broke the silence. + +It was Mary who preceived the strangeness of it--too late. Abruptly she +realized that for an indefinite interval she had been thinking of her +companion and not talking to him. “Mr. Sheridan,” she began, not knowing +what she was going to say, but impelled to say anything, as she realized +the queerness of this drive--“Mr. Sheridan, I--” + +The coupe stopped. “You, JOE!” said the driver, reproachfully, and +climbed down and opened the door. + +“What's the trouble?” Bibbs inquired. + +“Lady said stop at the first house north of Mr. Sheridan's, sir.” + +Mary was incredulous; she felt that it couldn't be true and that it +mustn't be true that they had driven all the way without speaking. + +“What?” Bibbs demanded. + +“We're there, sir,” said the driver, sympathetically. “Next house north +of Mr. Sheridan's.” + +Bibbs descended to the curb. “Why, yes,” he said. “Yes, you seem to +be right.” And while he stood staring at the dimly illuminated front +windows of Mr. Vertrees's house Mary got out, unassisted. + +“Let me help you,” said Bibbs, stepping toward her mechanically; and she +was several feet from the coupe when he spoke. + +“Oh no,” she murmured. “I think I can--” She meant that she could get +out of the coupe without help, but, perceiving that she had already +accomplished this feat, she decided not to complete the sentence. + +“You, JOE!” cried the driver, angrily, climbing to his box. And he +rumbled away at his team's best pace--a snail's. + +“Thank you for bringing me home, Mr. Sheridan,” said Mary, stiffly. She +did not offer her hand. “Good night.” + +“Good night,” Bibbs said in response, and, turning with her, walked +beside her to the door. Mary made that a short walk; she almost ran. +Realization of the queerness of their drive was growing upon her, +beginning to shock her; she stepped aside from the light that fell +through the glass panels of the door and withheld her hand as it touched +the old-fashioned bell-handle. + +“I'm quite safe, thank you,” she said, with a little emphasis. “Good +night.” + +“Good night,” said Bibbs, and went obediently. When he reached the +street he looked back, but she had vanished within the house. + +Moving slowly away, he caromed against two people who were turning out +from the pavement to cross the street. They were Roscoe and his wife. + +“Where are your eyes, Bibbs?” demanded Roscoe. “Sleep-walking, as +usual?” + +But Sibyl took the wanderer by the arm. “Come over to our house for a +little while, Bibbs,” she urged. “I want to--” + +“No, I'd better--” + +“Yes. I want you to. Your father's gone to bed, and they're all quiet +over there--all worn out. Just come for a minute.” + +He yielded, and when they were in the house she repeated herself with +real feeling: “'All worn out!' Well, if anybody is, YOU are, Bibbs! And +I don't wonder; you've done every bit of the work of it. You mustn't get +down sick again. I'm going to make you take a little brandy.” + +He let her have her own way, following her into the dining-room, and +was grateful when she brought him a tiny glass filled from one of the +decanters on the sideboard. Roscoe gloomily poured for himself a much +heavier libation in a larger glass; and the two men sat, while Sibyl +leaned against the sideboard, reviewing the episodes of the day and +recalling the names of the donors of flowers and wreaths. She pressed +Bibbs to remain longer when he rose to go, and then, as he persisted, +she went with him to the front door. He opened it, and she said: + +“Bibbs, you were coming out of the Vertreeses' house when we met you. +How did you happen to be there?” + +“I had only been to the door,” he said. “Good night, Sibyl.” + +“Wait,” she insisted. “We saw you coming out.” + +“I wasn't,” he explained, moving to depart. “I'd just brought Miss +Vertrees home.” + +“What?” she cried. + +“Yes,” he said, and stepped out upon the porch, “that was it. Good +night, Sibyl.” + +“Wait!” she said, following him across the threshold. “How did that +happen? I thought you were going to wait while those men filled +the--the--” She paused, but moved nearer him insistently. + +“I did wait. Miss Vertrees was there,” he said, reluctantly. “She +had walked away for a while and didn't notice that the carriages were +leaving. When she came back the coupe waiting for me was the only one +left.” + +Sibyl regarded him with dilating eyes. She spoke with a slow +breathlessness. “And she drove home from Jim's funeral--with you!” + +Without warning she burst into laughter, clapped her hand ineffectually +over her mouth, and ran back uproariously into the house, hurling the +door shut behind her. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Bibbs went home pondering. He did not understand why Sibyl had laughed. +The laughter itself had been spontaneous and beyond suspicion, but it +seemed to him that she had only affected the effort to suppress it and +that she wished it to be significant. Significant of what? And why had +she wished to impress upon him the fact of her overwhelming amusement? +He found no answer, but she had succeeded in disturbing him, and he +wished that he had not encountered her. + +At home, uncles, aunts, and cousins from out of town were wandering +about the house, several mournfully admiring the “Bay of Naples,” and +others occupied with the Moor and the plumbing, while they waited for +trains. Edith and her mother had retired to some upper fastness, but +Bibbs interviewed Jackson and had the various groups of relatives +summoned to the dining-room for food. One great-uncle, old Gideon +Sheridan from Boonville, could not be found, and Bibbs went in search of +him. He ransacked the house, discovering the missing antique at last +by accident. Passing his father's closed door on tiptoe, Bibbs heard +a murmurous sound, and paused to listen. The sound proved to be a +quavering and rickety voice, monotonously bleating: + +“The Lo-ord givuth and the Lo-ord takuth away! We got to remember that; +we got to remember that! I'm a-gittin' along, James; I'm a-gittin' +along, and I've seen a-many of 'em go--two daughters and a son the Lord +give me, and He has taken all away. For the Lo-ord givuth and the Lo-ord +takuth away! Remember the words of Bildad the Shuhite, James. Bildad the +Shuhite says, 'He shall have neither son nor nephew among his people, +nor any remaining in his dwellings.' Bildad the Shuhite--” + +Bibbs opened the door softly. His father was lying upon the bed, in +his underclothes, face downward, and Uncle Gideon sat near by, swinging +backward and forward in a rocking-chair, stroking his long white beard +and gazing at the ceiling as he talked. Bibbs beckoned him urgently, but +Uncle Gideon paid no attention. + +“Bildad the Shuhite spake and he says, 'If thy children have sinned +against Him and He have cast them away--'” + +There was a muffled explosion beneath the floor, and the windows +rattled. The figure lying face downward on the bed did not move, but +Uncle Gideon leaped from his chair. “My God!” he cried. “What's that?” + +There came a second explosion, and Uncle Gideon ran out into the hall. +Bibbs went to the head of the great staircase, and, looking down, +discovered the source of the disturbance. Gideon's grandson, a boy +of fourteen, had brought his camera to the funeral and was taking +“flash-lights” of the Moor. Uncle Gideon, reassured by Bibbs's +explanation, would have returned to finish his quotation from Bildad the +Shuhite, but Bibbs detained him, and after a little argument persuaded +him to descend to the dining-room whither Bibbs followed, after closing +the door of his father's room. + +He kept his eye on Gideon after dinner, diplomatically preventing +several attempts on the part of that comforter to reascend the stairs; +and it was a relief to Bibbs when George announced that an automobile +was waiting to convey the ancient man and his grandson to their train. +They were the last to leave, and when they had gone Bibbs went sighing +to his own room. + +He stretched himself wearily upon the bed, but presently rose, went to +the window, and looked for a long time at the darkened house where +Mary Vertrees lived. Then he opened his trunk, took therefrom a small +note-book half filled with fragmentary scribblings, and began to write: + + Laughter after a funeral. In this reaction people will laugh at + anything and at nothing. The band plays a dirge on the way to the + cemetery, but when it turns back, and the mourning carriages are + out of hearing, it strikes up, “Darktown is Out To-night.” That + is natural--but there are women whose laughter is like the whirring + of whips. Why is it that certain kinds of laughter seem to spoil + something hidden away from the laughers? If they do not know of + it, and have never seen it, how can their laughter hurt it? Yet it + does. Beauty is not out of place among grave-stones. It is not + out of place anywhere. But a woman who has been betrothed to a + man would not look beautiful at his funeral. A woman might look + beautiful, though, at the funeral of a man whom she had known and + liked. And in that case, too, she would probably not want to talk + if she drove home from the cemetery with his brother: nor would + she want the brother to talk. Silence is usually either stupid or + timid. But for a man who stammers if he tries to talk fast, and + drawls so slowly, when he doesn't stammer, that nobody has time to + listen to him, silence is advisable. Nevertheless, too much silence + is open to suspicion. It may be reticence, or it may be a vacuum. + It may be dignity, or it may be false teeth. + + Sometimes an imperceptible odor will become perceptible in a small + inclosure, such as a closed carriage. The ghost of gasoline rising + from a lady's glove might be sweeter to the man riding beside her + than all the scents of Arcady in spring. It depends on the lady-- + but there ARE! Three miles may be three hundred miles, or it may + be three feet. When it is three feet you have not time to say a + great deal before you reach the end of it. Still, it may be that + one should begin to speak. + + No one could help wishing to stay in a world that holds some of + the people that are in this world. There are some so wonderful + you do not understand how the dead COULD die. How could they let + themselves? A falling building does not care who falls with it. + It does not choose who shall be upon its roof and who shall not. + Silence CAN be golden? Yes. But perhaps if a woman of the world + should find herself by accident sitting beside a man for the length + of time it must necessarily take two slow old horses to jog three + miles, she might expect that man to say something of some sort! + Even if she thought him a feeble hypochondriac, even if she had + heard from others that he was a disappointment to his own people, + even if she had seen for herself that he was a useless and + irritating encumbrance everywhere, she might expect him at least + to speak--she might expect him to open his mouth and try to make + sounds, if he only barked. If he did not even try, but sat every + step of the way as dumb as a frozen fish, she might THINK him a + frozen fish. And she might be right. She might be right if she + thought him about as pleasant a companion as--as Bildad the Shuhite! + +Bibbs closed his note-book, replacing it in his trunk. Then, after a +period of melancholy contemplation, he undressed, put on a dressing-gown +and slippers, and went softly out into the hall--to his father's door. +Upon the floor was a tray which Bibbs had sent George, earlier in the +evening, to place upon a table in Sheridan's room--but the food was +untouched. Bibbs stood listening outside the door for several minutes. +There came no sound from within, and he went back to his own room and to +bed. + +In the morning he woke to a state of being hitherto unknown in his +experience. Sometimes in the process of waking there is a little +pause--sleep has gone, but coherent thought has not begun. It is +a curious half-void, a glimpse of aphasia; and although the person +experiencing it may not know for that instant his own name or age or +sex, he may be acutely conscious of depression or elation. It is the +moment, as we say, before we “remember”; and for the first time in +Bibbs's life it came to him bringing a vague happiness. He woke to a +sense of new riches; he had the feeling of a boy waking to a birthday. +But when the next moment brought him his memory, he found nothing that +could explain his exhilaration. On the contrary, under the circumstances +it seemed grotesquely unwarranted. However, it was a brief visitation +and was gone before he had finished dressing. It left a little trail, +the pleased recollection of it and the puzzle of it, which remained +unsolved. And, in fact, waking happily in the morning is not usually +the result of a drive home from a funeral. No wonder the sequence evaded +Bibbs Sheridan! + +His father had gone when he came down-stairs. “Went on down to 's +office, jes' same,” Jackson informed him. “Came sat breakfas'-table, all +by 'mself; eat nothin'. George bring nice breakfas', but he di'n' eat +a thing. Yessuh, went on down-town, jes' same he yoosta do. Yessuh, I +reckon putty much ev'y-thing goin' go on same as it yoosta do.” + +It struck Bibbs that Jackson was right. The day passed as other days had +passed. Mrs. Sheridan and Edith were in black, and Mrs. Sheridan cried +a little, now and then, but no other external difference was to be +seen. Edith was quiet, but not noticeably depressed, and at lunch proved +herself able to argue with her mother upon the propriety of receiving +calls in the earliest stages of “mourning.” Lunch was as usual--for Jim +and his father had always lunched down-town--and the afternoon was as +usual. Bibbs went for his drive, and his mother went with him, as she +sometimes did when the weather was pleasant. Altogether, the usualness +of things was rather startling to Bibbs. + +During the drive Mrs. Sheridan talked fragmentarily of Jim's childhood. +“But you wouldn't remember about that,” she said, after narrating an +episode. “You were too little. He was always a good boy, just like that. +And he'd save whatever papa gave him, and put it in the bank. I reckon +it'll just about kill your father to put somebody in his place as +president of the Realty Company, Bibbs. I know he can't move Roscoe +over; he told me last week he'd already put as much on Roscoe as any +one man could handle and not go crazy. Oh, it's a pity--” She stopped +to wipe her eyes. “It's a pity you didn't run more with Jim, Bibbs, and +kind o' pick up his ways. Think what it'd meant to papa now! You never +did run with either Roscoe or Jim any, even before you got sick. Of +course, you were younger; but it always DID seem queer--and you three +bein' brothers like that. I don't believe I ever saw you and Jim sit +down together for a good talk in my life.” + +“Mother, I've been away so long,” Bibbs returned, gently. “And since I +came home I--” + +“Oh, I ain't reproachin' you, Bibbs,” she said. “Jim ain't been home +much of an evening since you got back--what with his work and callin' +and goin' to the theater and places, and often not even at the house for +dinner. Right the evening before he got hurt he had his dinner at some +miser'ble rest'rant down by the Pump Works, he was so set on overseein' +the night work and gettin' everything finished up right to the minute he +told papa he would. I reckon you might 'a' put in more time with Jim if +there'd been more opportunity, Bibbs. I expect you feel almost as if you +scarcely really knew him right well.” + +“I suppose I really didn't, mother. He was busy, you see, and I hadn't +much to say about the things that interested him, because I don't know +much about them.” + +“It's a pity! Oh, it's a pity!” she moaned. “And you'll have to learn to +know about 'em NOW, Bibbs! I haven't said much to you, because I felt it +was all between your father and you, but I honestly do believe it will +just kill him if he has to have any more trouble on top of all this! +You mustn't LET him, Bibbs--you mustn't! You don't know how he's grieved +over you, and now he can't stand any more--he just can't! Whatever he +says for you to do, you DO it, Bibbs, you DO it! I want you to promise +me you will.” + +“I would if I could,” he said, sorrowfully. + +“No, no! Why can't you?” she cried, clutching his arm. “He wants you to +go back to the machine-shop and--” + +“And--'like it'!” said Bibbs. + +“Yes, that's it--to go in a cheerful spirit. Dr. Gurney said it wouldn't +hurt you if you went in a cheerful spirit--the doctor said that himself, +Bibbs. So why can't you do it? Can't you do that much for your father? +You ought to think what he's done for YOU. You got a beautiful house +to live in; you got automobiles to ride in; you got fur coats and warm +clothes; you been taken care of all your life. And you don't KNOW how +he worked for the money to give all these things to you! You don't DREAM +what he had to go through and what he risked when we were startin' out +in life; and you never WILL know! And now this blow has fallen on him +out of a clear sky, and you make it out to be a hardship to do like he +wants you to! And all on earth he asks is for you to go back to the work +in a cheerful spirit, so it won't hurt you! That's all he asks. Look, +Bibbs, we're gettin' back near home, but before we get there I want you +to promise me that you'll do what he asks you to. Promise me!” + +In her earnestness she cleared away her black veil that she might see +him better, and it blew out on the smoky wind. He readjusted it for her +before he spoke. + +“I'll go back in as cheerful a spirit as I can, mother,” he said. + +“There!” she exclaimed, satisfied. “That's a good boy! That's all I +wanted you to say.” + +“Don't give me any credit,” he said, ruefully. “There isn't anything +else for me to do.” + +“Now, don't begin talkin' THAT way!” + +“No, no,” he soothed her. “We'll have to begin to make the spirit a +cheerful one. We may--” They were turning into their own driveway as +he spoke, and he glanced at the old house next door. Mary Vertrees was +visible in the twilight, standing upon the front steps, bareheaded, the +door open behind her. She bowed gravely. + +“'We may'--what?” asked Mrs. Sheridan, with a slight impatience. + +“What is it, mother?” + +“You said, 'We may,' and didn't finish what you were sayin'.” + +“Did I?” said Bibbs, blankly. “Well, what WERE we saying?” + +“Of all the queer boys!” she cried. “You always were. Always! You +haven't forgot what you just promised me, have you?” + +“No,” he answered, as the car stopped. “No, the spirit will be as +cheerful as the flesh will let it, mother. It won't do to behave like--” + +His voice was low, and in her movement to descend from the car she +failed to hear his final words. + +“Behave like who, Bibbs?” + +“Nothing.” + +But she was fretful in her grief. “You said it wouldn't do to behave +like SOMEBODY. Behave like WHO?” + +“It was just nonsense,” he explained, turning to go in. “An obscure +person I don't think much of lately.” + +“Behave like WHO?” she repeated, and upon his yielding to her petulant +insistence, she made up her mind that the only thing to do was to tell +Dr. Gurney about it. + +“Like Bildad the Shuhite!” was what Bibbs said. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +The outward usualness of things continued after dinner. It was +Sheridan's custom to read the evening paper beside the fire in the +library, while his wife, sitting near by, either sewed (from old habit) +or allowed herself to be repeatedly baffled by one of the simpler forms +of solitaire. To-night she did neither, but sat in her customary chair, +gazing at the fire, while Sheridan let the unfolded paper rest upon his +lap, though now and then he lifted it, as if to read, and let it fall +back upon his knees again. Bibbs came in noiselessly and sat in a +corner, doing nothing; and from a “reception-room” across the hall an +indistinct vocal murmur became just audible at intervals. Once, when +this murmur grew louder, under stress of some irrepressible merriment, +Edith's voice could be heard--“Bobby, aren't you awful!” and Sheridan +glanced across at his wife appealingly. + +She rose at once and went into the “reception-room”; there was a flurry +of whispering, and the sound of tiptoeing in the hall--Edith and her +suitor changing quarters to a more distant room. Mrs. Sheridan returned +to her chair in the library. + +“They won't bother you any more, papa,” she said, in a comforting voice. +“She told me at lunch he'd 'phoned he wanted to come up this evening, +and I said I thought he'd better wait a few days, but she said she'd +already told him he could.” She paused, then added, rather guiltily: “I +got kind of a notion maybe Roscoe don't like him as much as he used +to. Maybe--maybe you better ask Roscoe, papa.” And as Sheridan nodded +solemnly, she concluded, in haste: “Don't say I said to. I might be +wrong about it, anyway.” + +He nodded again, and they sat for some time in a silence which Mrs. +Sheridan broke with a little sniff, having fallen into a reverie that +brought tears. “That Miss Vertrees was a good girl,” she said. “SHE was +all right.” + +Her husband evidently had no difficulty in following her train of +thought, for he nodded once more, affirmatively. + +“Did you--How did you fix it about the--the Realty Company?” she +faltered. “Did you--” + +He rose heavily, helping himself to his feet by the arms of his chair. +“I fixed it,” he said, in a husky voice. “I moved Cantwell up, and put +Johnston in Cantwell's place, and split up Johnston's work among the +four men with salaries high enough to take it.” He went to her, put +his hand upon her shoulder, and drew a long, audible, tremulous breath. +“It's my bedtime, mamma; I'm goin' up.” He dropped the hand from her +shoulder and moved slowly away, but when he reached the door he stopped +and spoke again, without turning to look at her. “The Realty Company'll +go right on just the same,” he said. “It's like--it's like sand, mamma. +It puts me in mind of chuldern playin' in a sand-pile. One of 'em sticks +his finger in the sand and makes a hole, and another of 'em'll pat the +place with his hand, and all the little grains of sand run in and fill +it up and settle against one another; and then, right away it's flat on +top again, and you can't tell there ever was a hole there. The Realty +Company'll go on all right, mamma. There ain't anything anywhere, I +reckon, that wouldn't go right on--just the same.” + +And he passed out slowly into the hall; then they heard his heavy tread +upon the stairs. + +Mrs. Sheridan, rising to follow him, turned a piteous face to her son. +“It's so forlone,” she said, chokingly. “That's the first time he spoke +since he came in the house this evening. I know it must 'a' hurt him to +hear Edith laughin' with that Lamhorn. She'd oughtn't to let him come, +right the very first evening this way; she'd oughtn't to done it! She +just seems to lose her head over him, and it scares me. You heard what +Sibyl said the other day, and--and you heard what--what--” + +“What Edith said to Sibyl?” Bibbs finished the sentence for her. + +“We CAN'T have any trouble o' THAT kind!” she wailed. “Oh, it looks as +if movin' up to this New House had brought us awful bad luck! It scares +me!” She put both her hands over her face. “Oh, Bibbs, Bibbs! if you +only wasn't so QUEER! If you could only been a kind of dependable son! +I don't know what we're all comin' to!” And, weeping, she followed her +husband. + +Bibbs gazed for a while at the fire; then he rose abruptly, like a man +who has come to a decision, and briskly sought the room--it was called +“the smoking-room”--where Edith sat with Mr. Lamhorn. They looked up in +no welcoming manner, at Bibbs's entrance, and moved their chairs to a +less conspicuous adjacency. + +“Good evening,” said Bibbs, pleasantly; and he seated himself in a +leather easy-chair near them. + +“What is it?” asked Edith, plainly astonished. + +“Nothing,” he returned, smiling. + +She frowned. “Did you want something?” she asked. + +“Nothing in the world. Father and mother have gone up-stairs; I sha'n't +be going up for several hours, and there didn't seem to be anybody left +for me to chat with except you and Mr. Lamhorn.” + +“'CHAT with'!” she echoed, incredulously. + +“I can talk about almost anything,” said Bibbs with an air of +genial politeness. “It doesn't matter to ME. I don't know much about +business--if that's what you happened to be talking about. But you +aren't in business, are you, Mr. Lamhorn?” + +“Not now,” returned Lamhorn, shortly. + +“I'm not, either,” said Bibbs. “It was getting cloudier than usual, I +noticed, just before dark, and there was wind from the southwest. Rain +to-morrow, I shouldn't be surprised.” + +He seemed to feel that he had begun a conversation the support of +which had now become the pleasurable duty of other parties; and he +sat expectantly, looking first at his sister, then at Lamhorn, as if +implying that it was their turn to speak. Edith returned his gaze with +a mixture of astonishment and increasing anger, while Mr. Lamhorn was +obviously disturbed, though Bibbs had been as considerate as possible in +presenting the weather as a topic. Bibbs had perceived that Lamhorn had +nothing in his mind at any time except “personalities”--he could talk +about people and he could make love. Bibbs, wishing to be courteous, +offered the weather. + +Lamhorn refused it, and concluded from Bibbs's luxurious attitude in the +leather chair that this half-crazy brother was a permanent fixture for +the rest of the evening. There was not reason to hope that he would +move, and Lamhorn found himself in danger of looking silly. + +“I was just going,” he said, rising. + +“Oh NO!” Edith cried, sharply. + +“Yes. Good night! I think I--” + +“Too bad,” said Bibbs, genially, walking to the door with the visitor, +while Edith stood staring as the two disappeared in the hall. She heard +Bibbs offering to “help” Lamhorn with his overcoat and the latter rather +curtly declining assistance, these episodes of departure being followed +by the closing of the outer door. She ran into the hall. + +“What's the matter with you?” she cried, furiously. “What do you MEAN? +How did you dare come in there when you knew--” + +Her voice broke; she made a gesture of rage and despair, and ran up the +stairs, sobbing. She fled to her mother's room, and when Bibbs came up, +a few minutes later, Mrs. Sheridan met him at his door. + +“Oh, Bibbs,” she said, shaking her head woefully, “you'd oughtn't to +distress your sister! She says you drove that young man right out of the +house. You'd ought to been more considerate.” + +Bibbs smiled faintly, noting that Edith's door was open, with Edith's +naive shadow motionless across its threshold. “Yes,” he said. “He +doesn't appear to be much of a 'man's man.' He ran at just a glimpse of +one.” + +Edith's shadow moved; her voice came quavering: “You call yourself one?” + +“No, no,” he answered. “I said, 'just a glimpse of one.' I didn't +claim--” But her door slammed angrily; and he turned to his mother. + +“There,” he said, sighing. “That's almost the first time in my life I +ever tried to be a man of action, mother, and I succeeded perfectly in +what I tried to do. As a consequence I feel like a horse-thief!” + +“You hurt her feelin's,” she groaned. “You must 'a' gone at it too +rough, Bibbs.” + +He looked upon her wanly. “That's my trouble, mother,” he murmured. “I'm +a plain, blunt fellow. I have rough ways, and I'm a rough man.” + +For once she perceived some meaning in his queerness. “Hush your +nonsense!” she said, good-naturedly, the astral of a troubled smile +appearing. “You go to bed.” + +He kissed her and obeyed. + + +Edith gave him a cold greeting the next morning at the breakfast-table. + +“You mustn't do that under a misapprehension,” he warned her, when they +were alone in the dining-room. + +“Do what under a what?” she asked. + +“Speak to me. I came into the smoking-room last night 'on purpose,'” he +told her, gravely. “I have a prejudice against that young man.” + +She laughed. “I guess you think it means a great deal who you have +prejudices against!” In mockery she adopted the manner of one who +implores. “Bibbs, for pity's sake PROMISE me, DON'T use YOUR influence +with papa against him!” And she laughed louder. + +“Listen,” he said, with peculiar earnestness. “I'll tell you now, +because--because I've decided I'm one of the family.” And then, as +if the earnestness were too heavy for him to carry it further, he +continued, in his usual tone, “I'm drunk with power, Edith.” + +“What do you want to tell me?” she demanded, brusquely. + +“Lamhorn made love to Sibyl,” he said. + +Edith hooted. “SHE did to HIM! And because you overheard that spat +between us the other day when I the same as accused her of it, and said +something like that to you afterward--” + +“No,” he said, gravely. “I KNOW.” + +“How?” + +“I was there, one day a week ago, with Roscoe, and I heard Sibyl and +Lamhorn--” + +Edith screamed with laughter. “You were with ROSCOE--and you heard +Lamhorn making love to Sibyl!” + +“No. I heard them quarreling.” + +“You're funnier than ever, Bibbs!” she cried. “You say he made love to +her because you heard them quarreling!” + +“That's it. If you want to know what's 'between' people, you can--by the +way they quarrel.” + +“You'll kill me, Bibbs! What were they quarreling about?” + +“Nothing. That's how I knew. People who quarrel over nothing!--it's +always certain--” + +Edith stopped laughing abruptly, but continued her mockery. “You ought +to know. You've had so much experience, yourself!” + +“I haven't any, Edith,” he said. “My life has been about as exciting as +an incubator chicken's. But I look out through the glass at things.” + +“Well, then,” she said, “if you look out through the glass you must know +what effect such stuff would have upon ME!” She rose, visibly agitated. +“What if it WAS true?” she demanded, bitterly. “What if it was true a +hundred times over? You sit there with your silly face half ready to +giggle and half ready to sniffle, and tell me stories like that, about +Sibyl picking on Bobby Lamhorn and worrying him to death, and you think +it matters to ME? What if I already KNEW all about their 'quarreling'? +What if I understood WHY she--” She broke off with a violent gesture, a +sweep of her arm extended at full length, as if she hurled something to +the ground. “Do you think a girl that really cared for a man would pay +any attention to THAT? Or to YOU, Bibbs Sheridan!” + +He looked at her steadily, and his gaze was as keen as it was steady. +She met it with unwavering pride. Finally he nodded slowly, as if she +had spoken and he meant to agree with what she said. + +“Ah, yes,” he said. “I won't come into the smoking-room again. I'm +sorry, Edith. Nobody can make you see anything now. You'll never see +until you see for yourself. The rest of us will do better to keep out of +it--especially me!” + +“That's sensible,” she responded, curtly. “You're most surprising of all +when you're sensible, Bibbs.” + +“Yes,” he sighed. “I'm a dull dog. Shake hands and forgive me, Edith.” + +Thawing so far as to smile, she underwent this brief ceremony, and +George appeared, summoning Bibbs to the library; Dr. Gurney was waiting +there, he announced. And Bibbs gave his sister a shy but friendly touch +upon the shoulder as a complement to the handshaking, and left her. + +Dr. Gurney was sitting by the log fire, alone in the room, and he merely +glanced over his shoulder when his patient came in. He was not over +fifty, in spite of Sheridan's habitual “ole Doc Gurney.” He was gray, +however, almost as thin as Bibbs, and nearly always he looked drowsy. + +“Your father telephoned me yesterday afternoon, Bibbs,” he said, not +rising. “Wants me to 'look you over' again. Come around here in front of +me--between me and the fire. I want to see if I can see through you.” + +“You mean you're too sleepy to move,” returned Bibbs, complying. “I +think you'll notice that I'm getting worse.” + +“Taken on about twelve pounds,” said Gurney. “Thirteen, maybe.” + +“Twelve.” + +“Well, it won't do.” The doctor rubbed his eyelids. “You're so much +better I'll have to use some machinery on you before we can know just +where you are. You come down to my place this afternoon. Walk down--all +the way. I suppose you know why your father wants to know.” + +Bibbs nodded. “Machine-shop.” + +“Still hate it?” + +Bibbs nodded again. + +“Don't blame you!” the doctor grunted. “Yes, I expect it'll make a lump +in your gizzard again. Well, what do you say? Shall I tell him you've +got the old lump there yet? You still want to write, do you?” + +“What's the use?” Bibbs said, smiling ruefully. “My kind of writing!” + +“Yes,” the doctor agreed. “I suppose if you broke away and lived on +roots and berries until you began to 'attract the favorable attention of +editors' you might be able to hope for an income of four or five hundred +dollars a year by the time you're fifty.” + +“That's about it,” Bibbs murmured. + +“Of course I know what you want to do,” said Gurney, drowsily. “You +don't hate the machine-shop only; you hate the whole show--the noise and +jar and dirt, the scramble--the whole bloomin' craze to 'get on.' You'd +like to go somewhere in Algiers, or to Taormina, perhaps, and bask on a +balcony, smelling flowers and writing sonnets. You'd grow fat on it and +have a delicate little life all to yourself. Well, what do you say? I +can lie like sixty, Bibbs! Shall I tell your father he'll lose another +of his boys if you don't go to Sicily?” + +“I don't want to go to Sicily,” said Bibbs. “I want to stay right here.” + +The doctor's drowsiness disappeared for a moment, and he gave his +patient a sharp glance. “It's a risk,” he said. “I think we'll find +you're so much better he'll send you back to the shop pretty quick. +Something's got hold of you lately; you're not quite so lackadaisical as +you used to be. But I warn you: I think the shop will knock you just as +it did before, and perhaps even harder, Bibbs.” + +He rose, shook himself, and rubbed his eyelids. “Well, when we go over +you this afternoon what are we going to say about it?” + +“Tell him I'm ready,” said Bibbs, looking at the floor. + +“Oh no,” Gurney laughed. “Not quite yet; but you may be almost. We'll +see. Don't forget I said to walk down.” + +And when the examination was concluded, that afternoon, the doctor +informed Bibbs that the result was much too satisfactory to be pleasing. +“Here's a new 'situation' for a one-act farce,” he said, gloomily, to +his next patient when Bibbs had gone. “Doctor tells a man he's well, and +that's his death sentence, likely. Dam' funny world!” + +Bibbs decided to walk home, though Gurney had not instructed him upon +this point. In fact, Gurney seemed to have no more instructions on any +point, so discouraging was the young man's improvement. It was a dingy +afternoon, and the smoke was evident not only to Bibbs's sight, but to +his nostrils, though most of the pedestrians were so saturated with +the smell they could no longer detect it. Nearly all of them walked +hurriedly, too intent upon their destinations to be more than half aware +of the wayside; they wore the expressions of people under a vague yet +constant strain. They were all lightly powdered, inside and out, with +fine dust and grit from the hard-paved streets, and they were unaware of +that also. They did not even notice that they saw the smoke, though the +thickened air was like a shrouding mist. And when Bibbs passed the new +“Sheridan Apartments,” now almost completed, he observed that the marble +of the vestibule was already streaky with soot, like his gloves, which +were new. + +That recalled to him the faint odor of gasolene in the coupe on the way +from his brother's funeral, and this incited a train of thought which +continued till he reached the vicinity of his home. His route was by +a street parallel to that on which the New House fronted, and in his +preoccupation he walked a block farther than he intended, so that, +having crossed to his own street, he approached the New House from the +north, and as he came to the corner of Mr. Vertrees's lot Mr. Vertrees's +daughter emerged from the front door and walked thoughtfully down the +path to the old picket gate. She was unconscious of the approach of the +pedestrian from the north, and did not see him until she had opened the +gate and he was almost beside her. Then she looked up, and as she +saw him she started visibly. And if this thing had happened to +Robert Lamhorn, he would have had a thought far beyond the horizon of +faint-hearted Bibbs's thoughts. Lamhorn, indeed, would have spoken his +thought. He would have said: “You jumped because you were thinking of +me!” + + + +CHAPTER XV + +Mary was the picture of a lady flustered. She stood with one hand +closing the gate behind her, and she had turned to go in the direction +Bibbs was walking. There appeared to be nothing for it but that they +should walk together, at least as far as the New House. But Bibbs had +paused in his slow stride, and there elapsed an instant before either +spoke or moved--it was no longer than that, and yet it sufficed for each +to seem to say, by look and attitude, “Why, it's YOU!” + +Then they both spoke at once, each hurriedly pronouncing the other's +name as if about to deliver a message of importance. Then both came to +a stop simultaneously, but Bibbs made a heroic effort, and as they began +to walk on together he contrived to find his voice. + +“I--I--hate a frozen fish myself,” he said. “I think three miles was too +long for you to put up with one.” + +“Good gracious!” she cried, turning to him a glowing face from which +restraint and embarrassment had suddenly fled. “Mr. Sheridan, you're +lovely to put it that way. But it's always the girl's place to say it's +turning cooler! I ought to have been the one to show that we didn't know +each other well enough not to say SOMETHING! It was an imposition for +me to have made you bring me home, and after I went into the house I +decided I should have walked. Besides, it wasn't three miles to the +car-line. I never thought of it!” + +“No,” said Bibbs, earnestly. “I didn't, either. I might have said +something if I'd thought of anything. I'm talking now, though; I must +remember that, and not worry about it later. I think I'm talking, though +it doesn't sound intelligent even to me. I made up my mind that if I +ever met you again I'd turn on my voice and keep it going, no mater what +it said. I--” + +She interrupted him with laughter, and Mary Vertrees's laugh was one +which Bibbs's father had declared, after the house-warming, “a cripple +would crawl five miles to hear.” And at the merry lilting of it Bibbs's +father's son took heart to forget some of his trepidation. “I'll be any +kind of idiot,” he said, “if you'll laugh at me some more. It won't be +difficult for me.” + +She did; and Bibbs's cheeks showed a little actual color, which Mary +perceived. It recalled to her, by contrast, her careless and irritated +description of him to her mother just after she had seen him for the +first time. “Rather tragic and altogether impossible.” It seemed to her +now that she must have been blind. + +They had passed the New House without either of them showing--or +possessing--any consciousness that it had been the destination of one of +them. + +“I'll keep on talking,” Bibbs continued, cheerfully, “and you keep on +laughing. I'm amounting to something in the world this afternoon. I'm +making a noise, and that makes you make music. Don't be bothered by my +bleating out such things as that. I'm really frightened, and that makes +me bleat anything. I'm frightened about two things: I'm afraid of what +I'll think of myself later if I don't keep talking--talking now, I +mean--and I'm afraid of what I'll think of myself if I do. And besides +these two things, I'm frightened, anyhow. I don't remember talking as +much as this more than once or twice in my life. I suppose it was always +in me to do it, though, the first time I met any one who didn't know me +well enough not to listen.” + +“But you're not really talking to me,” said Mary. “You're just thinking +aloud.” + +“No,” he returned, gravely. “I'm not thinking at all; I'm only making +vocal sounds because I believe it's more mannerly. I seem to be the +subject of what little meaning they possess, and I'd like to change it, +but I don't know how. I haven't any experience in talking, and I don't +know how to manage it.” + +“You needn't change the subject on my account, Mr. Sheridan,” she said. +“Not even if you really talked about yourself.” She turned her +face toward him as she spoke, and Bibbs caught his breath; he was +pathetically amazed by the look she gave him. It was a glowing look, +warmly friendly and understanding, and, what almost shocked him, it was +an eagerly interested look. Bibbs was not accustomed to anything like +that. + +“I--you--I--I'm--” he stammered, and the faint color in his cheeks grew +almost vivid. + +She was still looking at him, and she saw the strange radiance that came +into his face. There was something about him, too, that explained how +“queer” many people might think him; but he did not seem “queer” to Mary +Vertrees; he seemed the most quaintly natural person she had ever met. + +He waited, and became coherent. “YOU say something now,” he said. “I +don't even belong in the chorus, and here I am, trying to sing the funny +man's solo! You--” + +“No,” she interrupted. “I'd rather play your accompaniment.” + +“I'll stop and listen to it, then.” + +“Perhaps--” she began, but after pausing thoughtfully she made a +gesture with her muff, indicating a large brick church which they were +approaching. “Do you see that church, Mr. Sheridan?” + +“I suppose I could,” he answered in simple truthfulness, looking at her. +“But I don't want to. Once, when I was ill, the nurse told me I'd better +say anything that was on my mind, and I got the habit. The other reason +I don't want to see the church is that I have a feeling it's where +you're going, and where I'll be sent back.” + +She shook her head in cheery negation. “Not unless you want to be. Would +you like to come with me?” + +“Why--why--yes,” he said. “Anywhere!” And again it was apparent that he +spoke in simple truthfulness. + +“Then come--if you care for organ music. The organist is an old friend +of mine, and sometimes he plays for me. He's a dear old man. He had +a degree from Bonn, and was a professor afterward, but he gave up +everything for music. That's he, waiting in the doorway. He looks like +Beethoven, doesn't he? I think he knows that, perhaps and enjoys it a +little. I hope so.” + +“Yes,” said Bibbs, as they reached the church steps. “I think Beethoven +would like it, too. It must be pleasant to look like other people.” + +“I haven't kept you?” Mary said to the organist. + +“No, no,” he answered, heartily. “I would not mind so only you should +shooer come!” + +“This is Mr. Sheridan, Dr. Kraft. He has come to listen with me.” + +The organist looked bluntly surprised. “Iss that SO?” he exclaimed. +“Well, I am glad if you wish him, and if he can stant my liddle playink. +He iss musician himself, then, of course.” + +“No,” said Bibbs, as the three entered the church together. “I--I played +the--I tried to play--” Fortunately he checked himself; he had been +about to offer the information that he had failed to master the +jews'-harp in his boyhood. “No, I'm not a musician,” he contented +himself with saying. + +“What?” Dr. Kraft's surprise increased. “Young man, you are fortunate! +I play for Miss Vertrees; she comes always alone. You are the first. You +are the first one EVER!” + +They had reached the head of the central aisle, and as the organist +finished speaking Bibbs stopped short, turning to look at Mary Vertrees +in a dazed way that was not of her perceiving; for, though she stopped +as he did, her gaze followed the organist, who was walking away from +them toward the front of the church, shaking his white Beethovian mane +roguishly. + +“It's false pretenses on my part,” Bibbs said. “You mean to be kind to +the sick, but I'm not an invalid any more. I'm so well I'm going back +to work in a few days. I'd better leave before he begins to play, hadn't +I?” + +“No,” said Mary, beginning to walk forward. “Not unless you don't like +great music.” + +He followed her to a seat about half-way up the aisle while Dr. Kraft +ascended to the organ. It was an enormous one, the procession of pipes +ranging from long, starveling whistles to thundering fat guns; they +covered all the rear wall of the church, and the organist's figure, +reaching its high perch, looked like that of some Lilliputian magician +ludicrously daring the attempt to control a monster certain to overwhelm +him. + +“This afternoon some Handel!” he turned to shout. + +Mary nodded. “Will you like that?” she asked Bibbs. + +“I don't know. I never heard any except 'Largo.' I don't know anything +about music. I don't even know how to pretend I do. If I knew enough to +pretend, I would.” + +“No,” said Mary, looking at him and smiling faintly, “you wouldn't.” + +She turned away as a great sound began to swim and tremble in the air; +the huge empty space of the church filled with it, and the two people +listening filled with it; the universe seemed to fill and thrill with +it. The two sat intensely still, the great sound all round about them, +while the church grew dusky, and only the organist's lamp made a +tiny star of light. His white head moved from side to side beneath it +rhythmically, or lunged and recovered with the fierceness of a duelist +thrusting, but he was magnificently the master of his giant, and it sang +to his magic as he bade it. + +Bibbs was swept away upon that mighty singing. Such a thing was wholly +unknown to him; there had been no music in his meager life. Unlike +the tale, it was the Princess Bedrulbudour who had brought him to the +enchanted cave, and that--for Bibbs--was what made its magic dazing. It +seemed to him a long, long time since he had been walking home drearily +from Dr. Gurney's office; it seemed to him that he had set out upon a +happy journey since then, and that he had reached another planet, where +Mary Vertrees and he sat alone together listening to a vast choiring of +invisible soldiers and holy angels. There were armies of voices about +them singing praise and thanksgiving; and yet they were alone. It was +incredible that the walls of the church were not the boundaries of +the universe, to remain so for ever; incredible that there was a smoky +street just yonder, where housemaids were bringing in evening papers +from front steps and where children were taking their last spins on +roller-skates before being haled indoors for dinner. + +He had a curious sense of communication with his new friend. He knew +it could not be so, and yet he felt as if all the time he spoke to her, +saying: “You hear this strain? You hear that strain? You know the dream +that these sounds bring to me?” And it seemed to him as though she +answered continually: “I hear! I hear that strain, and I hear the new +one that you are hearing now. I know the dream that these sounds bring +to you. Yes, yes, I hear it all! We hear--together!” + +And though the church grew so dim that all was mysterious shadow except +the vague planes of the windows and the organist's light, with the white +head moving beneath it, Bibbs had no consciousness that the girl sitting +beside him had grown shadowy; he seemed to see her as plainly as ever in +the darkness, though he did not look at her. And all the mighty chanting +of the organ's multitudinous voices that afternoon seemed to Bibbs to be +chorusing of her and interpreting her, singing her thoughts and singing +for him the world of humble gratitude that was in his heart because she +was so kind to him. It all meant Mary. + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +But when she asked him what it meant, on their homeward way, he was +silent. They had come a few paces from the church without speaking, +walking slowly. + +“I'll tell you what it meant to me,” she said, as he did not immediately +reply. “Almost any music of Handel's always means one thing above all +others to me: courage! That's it. It makes cowardice of whining seem so +infinitesimal--it makes MOST things in our hustling little lives seem +infinitesimal.” + +“Yes,” he said. “It seems odd, doesn't it, that people down-town are +hurrying to trains and hanging to straps in trolley-cars, weltering +every way to get home and feed and sleep so they can get down-town +to-morrow. And yet there isn't anything down there worth getting to. +They're like servants drudging to keep the house going, and believing +the drudgery itself is the great thing. They make so much noise and fuss +and dirt they forget that the house was meant to live in. The housework +has to be done, but the people who do it have been so overpaid that +they're confused and worship the housework. They're overpaid, and yet, +poor things! they haven't anything that a chicken can't have. Of +course, when the world gets to paying its wages sensibly that will be +different.” + +“Do you mean 'communism'?” she asked, and she made their slow pace a +little slower--they had only three blocks to go. + +“Whatever the word is, I only mean that things don't look very sensible +now--especially to a man that wants to keep out of 'em and can't! +'Communism'? Well, at least any 'decent sport' would say it's fair for +all the strong runners to start from the same mark and give the weak +ones a fair distance ahead, so that all can run something like even +on the stretch. And wouldn't it be pleasant, really, if they could all +cross the winning-line together? Who really enjoys beating anybody--if +he sees the beaten man's face? The only way we can enjoy getting ahead +of other people nowadays is by forgetting what the other people feel. +And that,” he added, “is nothing of what the music meant to me. You see, +if I keep talking about what it didn't mean I can keep from telling you +what it did mean.” + +“Didn't it mean courage to you, too--a little?” she asked. “Triumph and +praise were in it, and somehow those things mean courage to me.” + +“Yes, they were all there,” Bibbs said. “I don't know the name of what +he played, but I shouldn't think it would matter much. The man that +makes the music must leave it to you what it can mean to you, and the +name he puts to it can't make much difference--except to himself and +people very much like him, I suppose.” + +“I suppose that's true, though I'd never thought of it like that.” + +“I imagine music must make feelings and paint pictures in the minds of +the people who hear it,” Bibbs went on, musingly, “according to their +own natures as much as according to the music itself. The musician might +compose something and play it, wanting you to think of the Holy Grail, +and some people who heard it would think of a prayer-meeting, and some +would think of how good they were themselves, and a boy might think of +himself at the head of a solemn procession, carrying a banner and riding +a white horse. And then, if there were some jubilant passages in the +music, he'd think of a circus.” + +They had reached her gate, and she set her hand upon it, but did +not open it. Bibbs felt that this was almost the kindest of her +kindnesses--not to be prompt in leaving him. + +“After all,” she said, “you didn't tell me whether you liked it.” + +“No. I didn't need to.” + +“No, that's true, and I didn't need to ask. I knew. But you said you +were trying to keep from telling me what it did mean.” + +“I can't keep from telling it any longer,” he said. “The music meant to +me--it meant the kindness of--of you.” + +“Kindness? How?” + +“You thought I was a sort of lonely tramp--and sick--” + +“No,” she said, decidedly. “I thought perhaps you'd like to hear Dr. +Kraft play. And you did.” + +“It's curious; sometimes it seemed to me that it was you who were +playing.” + +Mary laughed. “I? I strum! Piano. A little Chopin--Grieg--Chaminade. You +wouldn't listen!” + +Bibbs drew a deep breath. “I'm frightened again,” he said, in an +unsteady voice. “I'm afraid you'll think I'm pushing, but--” He paused, +and the words sank to a murmur. + +“Oh, if you want ME to play for you!” she said. “Yes, gladly. It will be +merely absurd after what you heard this afternoon. I play like a hundred +thousand other girls, and I like it. I'm glad when any one's willing to +listen, and if you--” She stopped, checked by a sudden recollection, +and laughed ruefully. “But my piano won't be here after to-night. I--I'm +sending it away to-morrow. I'm afraid that if you'd like me to play to +you you'd have to come this evening.” + +“You'll let me?” he cried. + +“Certainly, if you care to.” + +“If I could play--” he said, wistfully, “if I could play like that old +man in the church I could thank you.” + +“Ah, but you haven't heard me play. I KNOW you liked this afternoon, +but--” + +“Yes,” said Bibbs. “It was the greatest happiness I've ever known.” + +It was too dark to see his face, but his voice held such plain honesty, +and he spoke with such complete unconsciousness of saying anything +especially significant, that she knew it was the truth. For a moment she +was nonplussed, then she opened the gate and went in. “You'll come after +dinner, then?” + +“Yes,” he said, not moving. “Would you mind if I stood here until time +to come in?” + +She had reached the steps, and at that she turned, offering him the +response of laughter and a gay gesture of her muff toward the lighted +windows of the New House, as though bidding him to run home to his +dinner. + +That night, Bibbs sat writing in his note-book. + + Music can come into a blank life, and fill it. Everything that + is beautiful is music, if you can listen. + + There is no gracefulness like that of a graceful woman at a grand + piano. There is a swimming loveliness of line that seems to merge + with the running of the sound, and you seem, as you watch her, to + see what you are hearing and to hear what you are seeing. + + There are women who make you think of pine woods coming down to + a sparkling sea. The air about such a woman is bracing, and when + she is near you, you feel strong and ambitious; you forget that + the world doesn't like you. You think that perhaps you are a great + fellow, after all. Then you come away and feel like a boy who has + fallen in love with his Sunday-school teacher. You'll be whipped + for it--and ought to be. + + There are women who make you think of Diana, crowned with the moon. + But they do not have the “Greek profile.” I do not believe Helen + of Troy had a “Greek profile”; they would not have fought about her + if her nose had been quite that long. The Greek nose is not the + adorable nose. The adorable nose is about an eighth of an inch + shorter. + + Much of the music of Wagner, it appears, is not suitable to the + piano. Wagner was a composer who could interpret into music such + things as the primitive impulses of humanity--he could have made a + machine-shop into music. But not if he had to work in it. Wagner + was always dealing in immensities--a machine-shop would have put a + majestic lump in so grand a gizzard as that. + + There is a mystery about pianos, it seems. Sometimes they have to + be “sent away.” That is how some people speak of the penitentiary. + “Sent away” is a euphuism for “sent to prison.” But pianos are not + sent to prison, and they are not sent to the tuner--the tuner is + sent to them. Why are pianos “sent away”--and where? + + Sometimes a glorious day shines into the most ordinary and useless + life. Happiness and beauty come caroling out of the air into the + gloomy house of that life as if some stray angel just happened to + perch on the roof-tree, resting and singing. And the night after + such a day is lustrous and splendid with the memory of it. Music + and beauty and kindness--those are the three greatest things God + can give us. To bring them all in one day to one who expected + nothing--ah! the heart that received them should be as humble as + it is thankful. But it is hard to be humble when one is so rich + with new memories. It is impossible to be humble after a day of + glory. + + Yes--the adorable nose is more than an eighth of an inch shorter + than the Greek nose. It is a full quarter of an inch shorter. + + There are women who will be kinder to a sick tramp than to a + conquering hero. But the sick tramp had better remember that's + what he is. Take care, take care! Humble's the word! + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +At seven o'clock on the last morning of that month, Sheridan, passing +through the upper hall on his way to descend the stairs for breakfast, +found a couple of scribbled sheets of note-paper lying on the floor. A +window had been open in Bibbs's room the evening before; he had left his +note-book on the sill--and the sheets were loose. The door was open, and +when Bibbs came in and closed it, he did not notice that the two sheets +had blown out into the hall. Sheridan recognized the handwriting and +put the sheets in his coat pocket, intending to give them to George +or Jackson for return to the owner, but he forgot and carried them +down-town with him. At noon he found himself alone in his office, and, +having a little leisure, remembered the bits of manuscript, took them +out, and glanced at them. A glance was enough to reveal that they were +not epistolary. Sheridan would not have read a “private letter” that +came into his possession in that way, though in a “matter of business” + he might have felt it his duty to take advantage of an opportunity +afforded in any manner whatsoever. Having satisfied himself that Bibbs's +scribblings were only a sample of the kind of writing his son preferred +to the machine-shop, he decided, innocently enough, that he would be +justified in reading them. + + It appears that a lady will nod pleasantly upon some windy + generalization of a companion, and will wear the most agreeable + expression of accepting it as the law, and then--days afterward, + when the thing is a mummy to its promulgator--she will inquire out + of a clear sky: “WHY did you say that the people down-town have + nothing in life that a chicken hasn't? What did you mean?” And she + may say it in a manner that makes a sensible reply very difficult + --you will be so full of wonder that she remembered so seriously. + + Yet, what does the rooster lack? He has food and shelter; he is + warm in winter; his wives raise not one fine family for him, but + dozens. He has a clear sky over him; he breathes sweet air; he + walks in his April orchard under a roof of flowers. He must die, + violently perhaps, but quickly. Is Midas's cancer a better way? + The rooster's wives and children must die. Are those of Midas + immortal? His life is shorter than the life of Midas, but Midas's + life is only a sixth as long as that of the Galapagos tortoise. + + The worthy money-worker takes his vacation so that he may refresh + himself anew for the hard work of getting nothing that the rooster + doesn't get. The office-building has an elevator, the rooster + flies up to the bough. Midas has a machine to take him to his work; + the rooster finds his worm underfoot. The “business man” feels + a pressure sometimes, without knowing why, and sits late at wine + after the day's labor; next morning he curses his head because it + interferes with the work--he swears never to relieve that pressure + again. The rooster has no pressure and no wine; this difference is + in his favor. + + The rooster is a dependent; he depends upon the farmer and the + weather. Midas is a dependent; he depends upon the farmer and the + weather. The rooster thinks only of the moment; Midas provides for + to-morrow. What does he provide for to-morrow? Nothing that the + rooster will not have without providing. + + The rooster and the prosperous worker: they are born, they grub, + they love; they grub and love grubbing; they grub and they die. + Neither knows beauty; neither knows knowledge. And after all, when + Midas dies and the rooster dies, there is one thing Midas has had + and rooster has not. Midas has had the excitement of accumulating + what he has grubbed, and that has been his life and his love and + his god. He cannot take that god with him when he dies. I wonder + if the worthy gods are those we can take with us. + + Midas must teach all to be as Midas; the young must be raised in + his religion-- + +The manuscript ended there, and Sheridan was not anxious for more. +He crumpled the sheets into a ball, depositing it (with vigor) in a +waste-basket beside him; then, rising, he consulted a Cyclopedia of +Names, which a book-agent had somehow sold to him years before; a +volume now first put to use for the location of “Midas.” Having read the +legend, Sheridan walked up and down the spacious office, exhaling +the breath of contempt. “Dam' fool!” he mumbled. But this was no new +thought, nor was the contrariness of Bibbs's notes a surpise to him; and +presently he dismissed the matter from his mind. + +He felt very lonely, and this was, daily, his hardest hour. For a long +time he and Jim had lunched together habitually. Roscoe preferred a +club luncheon, but Jim and his father almost always went to a small +restaurant near the Sheridan Building, where they spent twenty minutes +in the consumption of food, and twenty in talk, with cigars. Jim came +for his father every day, at five minutes after twelve, and Sheridan +was again in his office at five minutes before one. But now that Jim no +longer came, Sheridan remained alone in his office; he had not gone out +to lunch since Jim's death, nor did he have anything sent to him--he +fasted until evening. + +It was the time he missed Jim personally the most--the voice and eyes +and handshake, all brisk and alert, all business-like. But these things +were not the keenest in Sheridan's grief; his sense of loss went far +deeper. Roscoe was dependable, a steady old wheel-horse, and that was +a great comfort; but it was in Jim that Sheridan had most happily +perceived his own likeness. Jim was the one who would have been surest +to keep the great property growing greater, year by year. Sheridan had +fallen asleep, night after night, picturing what the growth would be +under Jim. He had believed that Jim was absolutely certain to be one of +the biggest men in the country. Well, it was all up to Roscoe now! + +That reminded him of a question he had in mind to ask Roscoe. It was a +question Sheridan considered of no present importance, but his wife had +suggested it--though vaguely--and he had meant to speak to Roscoe about +it. However, Roscoe had not come into his father's office for several +days, and when Sheridan had seen his son at home there had been no +opportunity. + +He waited until the greater part of his day's work was over, toward four +o'clock, and then went down to Roscoe's office, which was on a lower +floor. He found several men waiting for business interviews in an outer +room of the series Roscoe occupied; and he supposed that he would +find his son busy with others, and that his question would have to +be postponed, but when he entered the door marked “R. C. Sheridan. +Private,” Roscoe was there alone. + +He was sitting with his back to the door, his feet on a window-sill, and +he did not turn as his father opened the door. + +“Some pretty good men out there waitin' to see you, my boy,” said +Sheridan. “What's the matter?” + +“Nothing,” Roscoe answered indistinctly, not moving. + +“Well, I guess that's all right, too. I let 'em wait sometimes myself! +I just wanted to ask you a question, but I expect it'll keep, if you're +workin' something out in your mind!” + +Roscoe made no reply; and his father, who had turned to the door, paused +with his hand on the knob, staring curiously at the motionless figure in +the chair. Usually the son seemed pleased and eager when he came to the +office. “You're all right, ain't you?” said Sheridan. “Not sick, are +you?” + +“No.” + +Sheridan was puzzled; then, abruptly, he decided to ask his question. “I +wanted to talk to you about that young Lamhorn,” he said. “I guess your +mother thinks he's comin' to see Edith pretty often, and you known him +longer'n any of us, so--” + +“I won't,” said Roscoe, thickly--“I won't say a dam' thing about him!” + +Sheridan uttered an exclamation and walked quickly to a position +near the window where he could see his son's face. Roscoe's eyes were +bloodshot and vacuous; his hair was disordered, his mouth was distorted, +and he was deathly pale. The father stood aghast. + +“By George!” he muttered. “ROSCOE!” + +“My name,” said Roscoe. “Can' help that.” + +“ROSCOE!” Blank astonishment was Sheridan's first sensation. Probably +nothing in the world could have more amazed his than to find Roscoe--the +steady old wheel-horse--in this condition. “How'd you GET this way?” he +demanded. “You caught cold and took too much for it?” + +For reply Roscoe laughed hoarsely. “Yeuh! Cold! I been drinkun all time, +lately. Firs' you notice it?” + +“By George!” cried Sheridan. “I THOUGHT I'd smelt it on you a good deal +lately, but I wouldn't 'a' believed you'd take more'n was good for you. +Boh! To see you like a common hog!” + +Roscoe chuckled and threw out his right arm in a meaningless gesture. +“Hog!” he repeated, chuckling. + +“Yes, a hog!” said Sheridan, angrily. “In business hours! I don't object +to anybody's takin' a drink if you wants to, out o' business hours; nor, +if a man keeps his work right up to the scratch, I wouldn't be the one +to baste him if he got good an' drunk once in two, three years, maybe. +It ain't MY way. I let it alone, but I never believed in forcin' my way +on a grown-up son in moral matters. I guess I was wrong! You think them +men out there are waitin' to talk business with a drunkard? You think +you can come to your office and do business drunk? By George! I wonder +how often this has been happening and me not on to it! I'll have a look +over your books to-morrow, and I'll--” + +Roscoe stumbled to his feet, laughing wildly, and stood swaying, +contriving to hold himself in position by clutching the back of the +heavy chair in which he had been sitting. + +“Hoo--hoorah!” he cried. “'S my principles, too. Be drunkard all you +want to--outside business hours. Don' for Gossake le'n'thing innerfere +business hours! Business! Thassit! You're right, father. Drink! Die! +L'everything go to hell, but DON' let innerfere business!” + +Sheridan had seized the telephone upon Roscoe's desk, and was calling +his own office, overhead. “Abercrombie? Come down to my son Roscoe's +suite and get rid of some gentlemen that are waitin' there to see him in +room two-fourteen. There's Maples and Schirmer and a couple o' fellows +on the Kinsey business. Tell 'em something's come up I have to go over +with Roscoe, and tell 'em to come back day after to-morrow at two. +You needn't come in to let me know they're gone; we don't want to be +disturbed. Tell Pauly to call my house and send Claus down here with a +closed car. We may have to go out. Tell him to hustle, and call me at +Roscoe's room as soon as the car gets here. 'T's all!” + +Roscoe had laughed bitterly throughout this monologue. “Drunk in +business hours! Thass awf'l! Mus'n' do such thing! Mus'n' get drunk, +mus'n' gamble, mus'n' kill 'nybody--not in business hours! All right any +other time. Kill 'nybody you want to--'s long 'tain't in business +hours! Fine! Mus'n' have any trouble 't'll innerfere business. Keep your +trouble 't home. Don' bring it to th' office. Might innerfere business! +Have funerals on Sunday--might innerfere business! Don' let your wife +innerfere business! Keep all, all, ALL your trouble an' your meanness, +an' your trad--your tradegy--keep 'em ALL for home use! If you got die, +go on die 't home--don' die round th' office! Might innerfere business!” + +Sheridan picked up a newspaper from Roscoe's desk, and sat down with his +back to his son, affecting to read. Roscoe seemed to be unaware of his +father's significant posture. + +“You know wh' I think?” he went on. “I think Bibbs only one the fam'ly +any 'telligence at all. Won' work, an' di'n' get married. Jim worked, +an' he got killed. I worked, an' I got married. Look at me! Jus' look at +me, I ask you. Fine 'dustriss young business man. Look whass happen' to +me! Fine!” He lifted his hand from the sustaining chair in a deplorable +gesture, and, immediately losing his balance, fell across the chair +and caromed to the floor with a crash, remaining prostrate for several +minutes, during which Sheridan did not relax his apparent attention to +the newspaper. He did not even look round at the sound of Roscoe's fall. + +Roscoe slowly climbed to an upright position, pulling himself up +by holding to the chair. He was slightly sobered outwardly, having +progressed in the prostrate interval to a state of befuddlement less +volatile. He rubbed his dazed eyes with the back of his left hand. + +“What--what you ask me while ago?” he said. + +“Nothin'.” + +“Yes, you did. What--what was it?” + +“Nothin'. You better sit down.” + +“You ask' me what I thought about Lamhorn. You did ask me that. Well, I +won't tell you. I won't say dam' word 'bout him!” + +The telephone-bell tinkled. Sheridan placed the receiver to his ear and +said, “Right down.” Then he got Roscoe's coat and hat from a closet and +brought them to his son. “Get into this coat,” he said. “You're goin' +home.” + +“All ri',” Roscoe murmured, obediently. + +They went out into the main hall by a side door, not passing through the +outer office; and Sheridan waited for an empty elevator, stopped it, and +told the operator to take on no more passengers until they reached +the ground floor. Roscoe walked out of the building and got into the +automobile without lurching, and twenty minutes later walked into his +own house in the same manner, neither he nor his father having spoken a +word in the interval. + +Sheridan did not go in with him; he went home, and to his own room +without meeting any of his family. But as he passed Bibbs's door he +heard from within the sound of a cheerful young voice humming jubilant +fragments of song: + + WHO looks a mustang in the eye?... + With a leap from the ground + To the saddle in a bound. + And away--and away! + Hi-yay! + +It was the first time in Sheridan's life that he had ever detected +any musical symptom whatever in Bibbs--he had never even heard him +whistle--and it seemed the last touch of irony that the useless fool +should be merry to-day. + +To Sheridan it was Tom o' Bedlam singing while the house burned; and he +did not tarry to enjoy the melody, but went into his own room and locked +the door. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +He emerged only upon a second summons to dinner, two hours later, and +came to the table so white and silent that his wife made her anxiety +manifest and was but partially reassured by his explanation that his +lunch had “disagreed” with him a little. + +Presently, however, he spoke effectively. Bibbs, whose appetite had +become hearty, was helping himself to a second breast of capon from +white-jacket's salver. “Here's another difference between Midas and +chicken,” Sheridan remarked, grimly. “Midas can eat rooster, but rooster +can't eat Midas. I reckon you overlooked that. Midas looks to me like he +had the advantage there.” + +Bibbs retained enough presence of mind to transfer the capon breast to +his plate without dropping it and to respond, “Yes--he crows over it.” + +Having returned his antagonists's fire in this fashion, he blushed--for +he could blush distinctly now--and his mother looked upon him with +pleasure, though the reference to Midas and roosters was of course +jargon to her. “Did you ever see anybody improve the way that child +has!” she exclaimed. “I declare, Bibbs, sometimes lately you look right +handsome!” + +“He's got to be such a gadabout,” Edith giggled. + +“I found something of his on the floor up-stairs this morning, before +anybody was up,” said Sheridan. “I reckon if people lose things in this +house and expect to get 'em back, they better get up as soon as I do.” + +“What was it he lost?” asked Edith. + +“He knows!” her father returned. “Seems to me like I forgot to bring it +home with me. I looked it over--thought probably it was something pretty +important, belongin' to a busy man like him.” He affected to search +his pockets. “What DID I do with it, now? Oh yes! Seems to me like I +remember leavin' it down at the office--in the waste-basket.” + +“Good place for it,” Bibbs murmured, still red. + +Sheridan gave him a grin. “Perhaps pretty soon you'll be gettin' up +early enough to find things before I do!” + +It was a threat, and Bibbs repeated the substance of it, later in the +evening, to Mary Vertrees--they had come to know each other that well. + +“My time's here at last,” he said, as they sat together in the +melancholy gas-light of the room which had been denuded of its piano. +That removal had left an emptiness so distressing to Mr. and Mrs. +Vertrees that neither of them had crossed the threshold since the dark +day; but the gas-light, though from a single jet, shed no melancholy +upon Bibbs, nor could any room seem bare that knew the glowing presence +of Mary. He spoke lightly, not sadly. + +“Yes, it's come. I've shirked and put off, but I can't shirk and put off +any longer. It's really my part to go to him--at least it would save my +face. He means what he says, and the time's come to serve my sentence. +Hard labor for life, I think.” + +Mary shook her head. “I don't think so. He's too kind.” + +“You think my father's KIND?” And Bibbs stared at her. + +“Yes. I'm sure of it. I've felt that he has a great, brave heart. It's +only that he has to be kind in his own way--because he can't understand +any other way.” + +“Ah yes,” said Bibbs. “If that's what you mean by 'kind'!” + +She looked at him gravely, earnest concern in her friendly eyes. “It's +going to be pretty hard for you, isn't it?” + +“Oh--self-pity!” he returned, smiling. “This has been just the last +flicker of revolt. Nobody minds work if he likes the kind of work. +There'd be no loafers in the world if each man found the thing that he +could do best; but the only work I happen to want to do is useless--so I +have to give it up. To-morrow I'll be a day-laborer.” + +“What is it like--exactly?” + +“I get up at six,” he said. “I have a lunch-basket to carry with me, +which is aristocratic and no advantage. The other workmen have tin +buckets, and tin buckets are better. I leave the house at six-thirty, +and I'm at work in my overalls at seven. I have an hour off at noon, and +work again from one till five.” + +“But the work itself?” + +“It wasn't muscularly exhausting--not at all. They couldn't give me a +heavier job because I wasn't good enough.” + +“But what will you do? I want to know.” + +“When I left,” said Bibbs, “I was 'on' what they call over there a +'clipping-machine,' in one of the 'by-products' departments, and that's +what I'll be sent back to.” + +“But what is it?” she insisted. + +Bibbs explained. “It's very simple and very easy. I feed long strips of +zinc into a pair of steel jaws, and the jaws bite the zinc into little +circles. All I have to do is to see that the strip goes into the jaws at +a certain angle--and yet I was a very bad hand at it.” + +He had kept his voice cheerful as he spoke, but he had grown a shade +paler, and there was a latent anguish deep in his eyes. He may have +known it and wished her not to see it, for he turned away. + +“You do that all day long?” she asked, and as he nodded, “It seems +incredible!” she exclaimed. “YOU feeding a strip of zinc into a machine +nine hours a day! No wonder--” She broke off, and then, after a keen +glance at his face, she said: “I should think you WOULD have been a 'bad +hand at it'!” + +He laughed ruefully. “I think it's the noise, though I'm ashamed to +say it. You see, it's a very powerful machine, and there's a sort of +rhythmical crashing--a crash every time the jaws bite off a circle.” + +“How often is that?” + +“The thing should make about sixty-eight disks a minute--a little more +than one a second.” + +“And you're close to it?” + +“Oh, the workman has to sit in its lap,” he said, turning to her more +gaily. “The others don't mind. You see, it's something wrong with me. I +have an idiotic way of flinching from the confounded thing--I flinch and +duck a little every time the crash comes, and I couldn't get over it. I +was a treat to the other workmen in that room; they'll be glad to see me +back. They used to laugh at me all day long.” + +Mary's gaze was averted from Bibbs now; she sat with her elbow resting +on the arm of the chair, her lifted hand pressed against her cheek. She +was staring at the wall, and her eyes had a burning brightness in them. + +“It doesn't seem possible any one could do that to you,” she said, in a +low voice. “No. He's not kind. He ought to be proud to help you to the +leisure to write books; it should be his greatest privilege to have them +published for you--” + +“Can't you SEE him?” Bibbs interrupted, a faint ripple of hilarity in +his voice. “If he could understand what you're saying--and if you can +imagine his taking such a notion, he'd have had R. T. Bloss put up +posters all over the country: 'Read B. Sheridan. Read the Poet with a +Punch!' No. It's just as well he never got the--But what's the use? I've +never written anything worth printing, and I never shall.” + +“You could!” she said. + +“That's because you've never seen the poor little things I've tried to +do.” + +“You wouldn't let me, but I KNOW you could! Ah, it's a pity!” + +“It isn't,” said BIBBS, honestly. “I never could--but you're the kindest +lady in this world, Miss Vertrees.” + +She gave him a flashing glance, and it was as kind as he said she was. +“That sounds wrong,” she said, impulsively. “I mean 'Miss Vertrees.' +I've thought of you by your first name ever since I met you. Wouldn't +you rather call me 'Mary'?” + +Bibbs was dazzled; he drew a long, deep breath and did not speak. + +“Wouldn't you?” she asked, without a trace of coquetry. + +“If I CAN!” he said, in a low voice. + +“Ah, that's very pretty!” she laughed. “You're such an honest person, +it's pleasant to have you gallant sometimes, by way of variety.” She +became grave again immediately. “I hear myself laughing as if it were +some one else. It sounds like laughter on the eve of a great calamity.” + She got up restlessly, crossed the room and leaned against the wall, +facing him. “You've GOT to go back to that place?” + +He nodded. + +“And the other time you did it--” + +“Just over it,” said Bibbs. “Two years. But I don't mind the prospect of +a repetition so much as--” + +“So much as what?” she prompted, as he stopped. + +Bibbs looked up at her shyly. “I want to say it, but--but I come to a +dead balk when I try. I--” + +“Go on. Say it, whatever it is,” she bade him. “You wouldn't know how to +say anything I shouldn't like.” + +“I doubt if you'd either like or dislike what I want to say,” he +returned, moving uncomfortably in his chair and looking at his feet--he +seemed to feel awkward, thoroughly. “You see, all my life--until I met +you--if I ever felt like saying anything, I wrote it instead. Saying +things is a new trick for me, and this--well, it's just this: I used to +feel as if I hadn't ever had any sort of a life at all. I'd never been +of use to anything or anybody, and I'd never had anything, myself, +except a kind of haphazard thinking. But now it's different--I'm still +of no use to anybody, and I don't see any prospect of being useful, +but I have had something for myself. I've had a beautiful and happy +experience, and it makes my life seem to be--I mean I'm glad I've lived +it! That's all; it's your letting me be near you sometimes, as you have, +this strange, beautiful, happy little while!” + +He did not once look up, and reached silence, at the end of what he had +to say, with his eyes still awkwardly regarding his feet. She did not +speak, but a soft rustling of her garments let him know that she had +gone back to her chair again. The house was still; the shabby old room +was so quiet that the sound of a creaking in the wall seemed sharp and +loud. + +And yet, when Mary spoke at last, her voice was barely audible. “If you +think it has been--happy--to be friends with me--you'd want to--to make +it last.” + +“Yes,” said Bibbs, as faintly. + +“You'd want to go on being my friend as long as we live, wouldn't you?” + +“Yes,” he gulped. + +“But you make that kind of speech to me because you think it's over.” + +He tried to evade her. “Oh, a day-laborer can't come in his overalls--” + +“No,” she interrupted, with a sudden sharpness. “You said what you did +because you think the shop's going to kill you.” + +“No, no!” + +“Yes, you do think that!” She rose to her feet again and came and stood +before him. “Or you think it's going to send you back to the sanitarium. +Don't deny it, Bibbs. There! See how easily I call you that! You see I'm +a friend, or I couldn't do it. Well, if you meant what you said--and you +did mean it, I know it!--you're not going to go back to the sanitarium. +The shop sha'n't hurt you. It sha'n't!” + +And now Bibbs looked up. She stood before him, straight and tall, +splendid in generous strength, her eyes shining and wet. + +“If I mean THAT much to you,” she cried, “they can't harm you! Go +back to the shop--but come to me when your day's work is done. Let the +machines crash their sixty-eight times a minute, but remember each crash +that deafens you is that much nearer the evening and me!” + +He stumbled to his feet. “You say--” he gasped. + +“Every evening, dear Bibbs!” + +He could only stare, bewildered. + +“EVERY evening. I want you. They sha'n't hurt you again!” And she held +out her hand to him; it was strong and warm in his tremulous clasp. “If +I could, I'd go and feed the strips of zinc to the machine with you,” + she said. “But all day long I'll send my thoughts to you. You must keep +remembering that your friend stands beside you. And when the work is +done--won't the night make up for the day?” + +Light seemed to glow from her; he was blinded by that radiance +of kindness. But all he could say was, huskily, “To think you're +there--with me--standing beside the old zinc-eater--” + +And they laughed and looked at each other, and at last Bibbs found what +it meant not to be alone in the world. He had a friend. + + + +CHAPTER XX + +When he came into the New House, a few minutes later, he found his +father sitting alone by the library fire. Bibbs went in and stood before +him. “I'm cured, father,” he said. “When do I go back to the shop? I'm +ready.” + +The desolate and grim old man did not relax. “I was sittin' up to give +you a last chance to say something like that. I reckon it's about time! +I just wanted to see if you'd have manhood enough not to make me take +you over there by the collar. Last night I made up my mind I'd give you +just one more day. Well, you got to it before I did--pretty close to +the eleventh hour! All right. Start in to-morrow. It's the first o' the +month. Think you can get up in time?” + +“Six o'clock,” Bibbs responded, briskly. “And I want to tell you--I'm +going in a 'cheerful spirit.' As you said, I'll go and I'll 'like it'!” + +“That's YOUR lookout!” his father grunted. “They'll put you back on the +clippin'-machine. You get nine dollars a week.” + +“More than I'm worth, too,” said Bibbs, cheerily. “That reminds me, I +didn't mean YOU by 'Midas' in that nonsense I'd been writing. I meant--” + +“Makes a hell of a lot o' difference what you meant!” + +“I just wanted you to know. Good night, father.” + +“G'night!” + +The sound of the young man's footsteps ascending the stairs became +inaudible, and the house was quiet. But presently, as Sheridan sat +staring angrily at the fire, the shuffling of a pair of slippers could +be heard descending, and Mrs. Sheridan made her appearance, her oblique +expression and the state of her toilette being those of a person who, +after trying unsuccessfully to sleep on one side, has got up to look for +burglars. + +“Papa!” she exclaimed, drowsily. “Why'n't you go to bed? It must be +goin' on 'leven o'clock!” + +She yawned, and seated herself near him, stretching out her hands to +the fire. “What's the matter?” she asked, sleep and anxiety striving +sluggishly with each other in her voice. “I knew you were worried all +dinner-time. You got something new on your mind besides Jim's bein' +taken away like he was. What's worryin' you now, papa?” + +“Nothin'.” + +She jeered feebly. “N' tell ME that! You sat up to see Bibbs, didn't +you?” + +“He starts in at the shop again to-morrow morning,” said Sheridan. + +“Just the same as he did before?” + +“Just pre-CISELY!” + +“How--how long you goin' to keep him at it, papa?” she asked, timidly. + +“Until he KNOWS something!” The unhappy man struck his palms together, +then got to his feet and began to pace the room, as was his wont when he +talked. “He'll go back to the machine he couldn't learn to tend properly +in the six months he was there, and he'll stick to it till he DOES learn +it! Do you suppose that lummix ever asked himself WHY I want him to +learn it? No! And I ain't a-goin' to tell him, either! When he went +there I had 'em set him on the simplest machine we got--and he stuck +there! How much prospect would there be of his learnin' to run the whole +business if he can't run the easiest machine in it? I sent him there +to make him THOROUGH. And what happened? He didn't LIKE it! That boy's +whole life, there's been a settin' up o' something mulish that's against +everything I want him to do. I don't know what it is, but it's got to be +worked out of him. Now, labor ain't any more a simple question than what +it was when we were young. My idea is that, outside o' union troubles, +the man that can manage workin'-men is the man that's been one himself. +Well, I set Bibbs to learn the men and to learn the business, and HE +set himself to balk on the first job! That's what he did, and the balk's +lasted close on to three years. If he balks again I'm just done with +him! Sometimes I feel like I was pretty near done with everything, +anyhow!” + +“I knew there was something else,” said Mrs. Sheridan, blinking over +a yawn. “You better let it go till to-morrow and get to bed now--'less +you'll tell me?” + +“Suppose something happened to Roscoe,” he said. “THEN what'd I have to +look forward to? THEN what could I depend on to hold things together? A +lummix! A lummix that hasn't learned how to push a strip o' zinc along a +groove!” + +“Roscoe?” she yawned. “You needn't worry about Roscoe, papa. He's the +strongest child we had. I never did know anybody keep better health than +he does. I don't believe he's even had a cold in five years. You better +go up to bed, papa.” + +“Suppose something DID happen to him, though. You don't know what it +means, keepin' property together these days--just keepin' it ALIVE, let +alone makin' it grow the way I do. I've seen too many estates hacked +away in chunks, big and little. I tell you when a man dies the wolves +come out o' the woods, pack after pack, to see what they can tear off +for themselves; and if that dead man's chuldern ain't on the job, night +and day, everything he built'll get carried off. Carried off? I've seen +a big fortune behave like an ash-barrel in a cyclone--there wasn't even +a dust-heap left to tell where it stood! I've seen it, time and again. +My Lord! when I think o' such things comin' to ME! It don't seem like +I deserved it--no man ever tried harder to raise his boys right than I +have. I planned and planned and planned how to bring 'em up to be guards +to drive the wolves off, and how to be builders to build, and build +bigger. I tell you this business life is no fool's job nowadays--a man's +got to have eyes in the back of his head. You hear talk, sometimes, 'd +make you think the millennium had come--but right the next breath you'll +hear somebody hollerin' about 'the great unrest.' You BET there's a +'great unrest'! There ain't any man alive smart enough to see what it's +goin' to do to us in the end, nor what day it's got set to bust loose, +but it's frothin' and bubblin' in the boiler. This country's been +fillin' up with it from all over the world for a good many years, and +the old camp-meetin' days are dead and done with. Church ain't what it +used to be. Nothin's what it used to be--everything's turned up from the +bottom, and the growth is so big the roots stick out in the air. There's +an awful ruction goin' on, and you got to keep hoppin' if you're goin' +to keep your balance on the top of it. And the schemers! They run like +bugs on the bottom of a board--after any piece o' money they hear is +loose. Fool schemes and crooked schemes; the fool ones are the most and +the worst! You got to FIGHT to keep your money after you've made it. And +the woods are full o' mighty industrious men that's got only one motto: +'Get the other fellow's money before he gets yours!' And when a man's +built as I have, when he's built good and strong, and made good things +grow and prosper--THOSE are the fellows that lay for the chance to slide +in and sneak the benefit of it and put their names to it! And what's +the use of my havin' ever been born, if such a thing as that is goin' +to happen? What's the use of my havin' worked my life and soul into my +business, if it's all goin' to be dispersed and scattered soon as I'm in +the ground?” + +He strode up and down the long room, gesticulating--little regarding +the troubled and drowsy figure by the fireside. His throat rumbled +thunderously; the words came with stormy bitterness. “You think this is +a time for young men to be lyin' on beds of ease? I tell you there never +was such a time before; there never was such opportunity. The sluggard +is despoiled while he sleeps--yes, by George! if a man lays down they'll +eat him before he wakes!--but the live man can build straight up till +he touches the sky! This is the business man's day; it used to be the +soldier's day and the statesman's day, but this is OURS! And it ain't a +Sunday to go fishin'--it's turmoil! turmoil!--and you got to go out and +live it and breathe it and MAKE it yourself, or you'll only be a dead +man walkin' around dreamin' you're alive. And that's what my son Bibbs +has been doin' all his life, and what he'd rather do now than go out and +do his part by me. And if anything happens to Roscoe--” + +“Oh, do stop worryin' over such nonsense,” Mrs. Sheridan interrupted, +irritated into sharp wakefulness for the moment. “There isn't anything +goin' to happen to Roscoe, and you're just tormentin' yourself about +nothin'. Aren't you EVER goin' to bed?” + +Sheridan halted. “All right, mamma,” he said, with a vast sigh. “Let's +go up.” And he snapped off the electric light, leaving only the rosy +glow of the fire. + +“Did you speak to Roscoe?” she yawned, rising lopsidedly in her +drowsiness. “Did you mention about what I told you the other evening?” + +“No. I will to-morrow.” + + +But Roscoe did not come down-town the next day, nor the next; nor did +Sheridan see fit to enter his son's house. He waited. Then, on the +fourth day of the month, Roscoe walked into his father's office at nine +in the morning, when Sheridan happened to be alone. + +“They told me down-stairs you'd left word you wanted to see me.” + +“Sit down,” said Sheridan, rising. + +Roscoe sat. His father walked close to him, sniffed suspiciously, and +then walked away, smiling bitterly. “Boh!” he exclaimed. “Still at it!” + +“Yes,” said Roscoe. “I've had a couple of drinks this morning. What +about it?” + +“I reckon I better adopt some decent young man,” his father returned. +“I'd bring Bibbs up here and put him in your place if he was fit. I +would!” + +“Better do it,” Roscoe assented, sullenly. + +“When'd you begin this thing?” + +“I always did drink a little. Ever since I grew up, that is.” + +“Leave that talk out! You know what I mean.” + +“Well, I don't know as I ever had too much in office hours--until the +other day.” + +Sheridan began cutting. “It's a lie. I've had Ray Wills up from your +office. He didn't want to give you away, but I put the hooks into him, +and he came through. You were drunk twice before and couldn't work. You +been leavin' your office for drinks every few hours for the last three +weeks. I been over your books. Your office is way behind. You haven't +done any work, to count, in a month.” + +“All right,” said Roscoe, drooping under the torture. “It's all true.” + +“What you goin' to do about it?” + +Roscoe's head was sunk between his shoulders. “I can't stand very much +talk about it, father,” he said, pleadingly. + +“No!” Sheridan cried. “Neither can I! What do you think it means to ME?” + He dropped into the chair at his big desk, groaning. “I can't stand to +talk about it any more'n you can to listen, but I'm goin' to find out +what's the matter with you, and I'm goin' to straighten you out!” + +Roscoe shook his head helplessly. + +“You can't straighten me out.” + +“See here!” said Sheridan. “Can you go back to your office and stay +sober to-day, while I get my work done, or will I have to hire a couple +o' huskies to follow you around and knock the whiskey out o' your hand +if they see you tryin' to take it?” + +“You needn't worry about that,” said Roscoe, looking up with a faint +resentment. “I'm not drinking because I've got a thirst.” + +“Well, what have you got?” + +“Nothing. Nothing you can do anything about. Nothing, I tell you.” + +“We'll see about that!” said Sheridan, harshly. “Now I can't fool with +you to-day, and you get up out o' that chair and get out o' my +office. You bring your wife to dinner to-morrow. You didn't come last +Sunday--but you come to-morrow. I'll talk this out with you when the +women-folks are workin' the phonograph, after dinner. Can you keep sober +till then? You better be sure, because I'm going to send Abercrombie +down to your office every little while, and he'll let me know.” + +Roscoe paused at the door. “You told Abercrombie about it?” he asked. + +“TOLD him!” And Sheridan laughed hideously. “Do you suppose there's an +elevator-boy in the whole dam' building that ain't on to you?” + +Roscoe settled his hat down over his eyes and went out. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + “WHO looks a mustang in the eye? + Changety, chang, chang! Bash! Crash! BANG!” + +So sang Bibbs, his musical gaieties inaudible to his fellow-workmen +because of the noise of the machinery. He had discovered long ago that +the uproar was rhythmical, and it had been intolerable; but now, on the +afternoon of the fourth day of his return, he was accompanying the +swing and clash of the metals with jubilant vaquero fragments, mingling +improvisations of his own among them, and mocking the zinc-eater's crash +with vocal imitations: + + Fearless and bold, + Chang! Bash! Behold! + With a leap from the ground + To the saddle in a bound, + And away--and away! + Hi-YAY! + WHO looks a chang, chang, bash, crash, bang! + WHO cares a dash how you bash and you crash? + NIGHT'S on the way + EACH time I say, + Hi-YAY! + Crash, chang! Bash, chang! Chang, bang, BANG! + +The long room was ceaselessly thundering with metallic sound; the +air was thick with the smell of oil; the floor trembled perpetually; +everything was implacably in motion--nowhere was there a rest for the +dizzied eye. The first time he had entered the place Bibbs had become +dizzy instantly, and six months of it had only added increasing nausea +to faintness. But he felt neither now. “ALL DAY LONG I'LL SEND MY +THOUGHTS TO YOU. YOU MUST KEEP REMEMBERING THAT YOUR FRIEND STANDS +BESIDE YOU.” He saw her there beside him, and the greasy, roaring place +became suffused with radiance. The poet was happy in his machine-shop; +he was still a poet there. And he fed his old zinc-eater, and sang: + + Away--and away! + Hi-YAY! + Crash, bash, crash, bash, CHANG! + Wild are his eyes, + Fiercely he dies! + Hi-YAH! + Crash, bash, bang! Bash, CHANG! + Ready to fling + Our gloves in the ring-- + +He was unaware of a sensation that passed along the lines of workmen. +Their great master had come among them, and they grinned to see him +standing with Dr. Gurney behind the unconscious Bibbs. Sheridan nodded +to those nearest him--he had personal acquaintance with nearly all of +them--but he kept his attention upon his son. Bibbs worked steadily, +never turning from his machine. Now and then he varied his musical +programme with remarks addressed to the zinc-eater. + +“Go on, you old crash-basher! Chew it up! It's good for you, if +you don't try to bolt your vittles. Fletcherize, you pig! That's +right--YOU'LL never get a lump in your gizzard. Want some more? Here's a +nice, shiny one.” + +The words were indistinguishable, but Sheridan inclined his head to +Gurney's ear and shouted fiercely: “Talkin' to himself! By George!” + +Gurney laughed reassuringly, and shook his head. + +Bibbs returned to song: + + Chang! Chang, bash, chang! It's I! + WHO looks a mustang in the eye? + Fearless and bo-- + +His father grasped him by the arm. “Here!” he shouted. “Let ME show you +how to run a strip through there. The foreman says you're some better'n +you used to be, but that's no way to handle--Get out the way and let me +show you once.” + +“Better be careful,” Bibbs warned him, stepping to one side. + +“Careful? Boh!” Sheridan seized a strip of zinc from the box. “What +you talkin' to yourself about? Tryin' to make yourself think you're so +abused you're goin' wrong in the head?” + +“'Abused'? No!” shouted Bibbs. “I was SINGING--because I 'like it'! I +told you I'd come back and 'like it.'” + +Sheridan may not have understood. At all events, he made no reply, +but began to run the strip of zinc through the machine. He did it +awkwardly--and with bad results. + +“Here!” he shouted. “This is the way. Watch how I do it. There's nothin' +to it, if you put your mind on it.” By his own showing then his mind was +not upon it. He continued to talk. “All you got to look out for is to +keep it pressed over to--” + +“Don't run your hand up with it,” Bibbs vociferated, leaning toward him. + +“Run nothin'! You GOT to--” + +“Look out!” shouted Bibbs and Gurney together, and they both sprang +forward. But Sheridan's right hand had followed the strip too far, and +the zinc-eater had bitten off the tips of the first and second fingers. +He swore vehemently, and wrung his hand, sending a shower of red drops +over himself and Bibbs, but Gurney grasped his wrist, and said, sharply: + +“Come out of here. Come over to the lavatory in the office. Bibbs, fetch +my bag. It's in my machine, outside.” + +And when Bibbs brought the bag to the washroom he found the doctor +still grasping Sheridan's wrist, holding the injured hand over a basin. +Sheridan had lost color, and temper, too. He glared over his shoulder at +his son as the latter handed the bag to Gurney. + +“You go on back to your work,” he said. “I've had worse snips than that +from a pencil-sharpener.” + +“Oh no, you haven't!” said Gurney. + +“I have, too!” Sheridan retorted, angrily. “Bibbs, you go on back to +your work. There's no reason to stand around here watchin' ole Doc +Gurney tryin' to keep himself awake workin' on a scratch that only needs +a little court-plaster. I slipped, or it wouldn't happened. You get back +on your job.” + +“All right,” said Bibbs. + +“HERE!” Sheridan bellowed, as his son was passing out of the door. +“You watch out when you're runnin' that machine! You hear what I say? I +slipped, or I wouldn't got scratched, but you--YOU'RE liable to get your +whole hand cut off! You keep your eyes open!” + +“Yes, sir.” And Bibbs returned to the zinc-eater thoughtfully. + +Half an hour later, Gurney touched him on the shoulder and beckoned him +outside, where conversation was possible. “I sent him home, Bibbs. He'll +have to be careful of that hand. Go get your overalls off. I'll take you +for a drive and leave you at home.” + +“Can't,” said Bibbs. “Got to stick to my job till the whistle blows.” + +“No, you don't,” the doctor returned, smothering a yawn. “He wants me to +take you down to my office and give you an overhauling to see how much +harm these four days on the machine have done you. I guess you folks +have got that old man pretty thoroughly upset, between you, up at your +house! But I don't need to go over you. I can see with my eyes half +shut--” + +“Yes,” Bibbs interrupted, “that's what they are.” + +“I say I can see you're starting out, at least, in good shape. What's +made the difference?” + +“I like the machine,” said Bibbs. “I've made a friend of it. I serenade +it and talk to it, and then it talks back to me.” + +“Indeed, indeed? What does it say?” + +“What I want to hear.” + +“Well, well!” The doctor stretched himself and stamped his foot +repeatedly. “Better come along and take a drive with me. You can take +the time off that he allowed for the examination, and--” + +“Not at all,” said Bibbs. “I'm going to stand by my old zinc-eater till +five o'clock. I tell you I LIKE it!” + +“Then I suppose that's the end of your wanting to write.” + +“I don't know about that,” Bibbs said, thoughtfully; “but the zinc-eater +doesn't interfere with my thinking, at least. It's better than being +in business; I'm sure of that. I don't want anything to change. I'd be +content to lead just the life I'm leading now to the end of my days.” + +“You do beat the devil!” exclaimed Gurney. “Your father's right when he +tells me you're a mystery. Perhaps the Almighty knew what He was doing +when He made you, but it takes a lot of faith to believe it! Well, I'm +off. Go on back to your murdering old machine.” He climbed into his car, +which he operated himself, but he refrained from setting it immediately +in motion. “Well, I rubbed it in on the old man that you had warned him +not to slide his hand along too far, and that he got hurt because he +didn't pay attention to your warning, and because he was trying to show +you how to do something you were already doing a great deal better +than he could. You tell him I'll be around to look at it and change the +dressing to-morrow morning. Good-by.” + +But when he paid the promised visit, the next morning, he did more than +change the dressing upon the damaged hand. The injury was severe of +its kind, and Gurney spent a long time over it, though Sheridan was +rebellious and scornful, being brought to a degree of tractability +only by means of horrible threats and talk of amputation. However, he +appeared at the dinner-table with his hand supported in a sling, which +he seemed to regard as an indignity, while the natural inquiries upon +the subject evidently struck him as deliberate insults. Mrs. Sheridan, +having been unable to contain her solicitude several times during the +day, and having been checked each time in a manner that blanched her +cheek, hastened to warn Roscoe and Sibyl, upon their arrival at five, to +omit any reference to the injury and to avoid even looking at the sling +if they possibly could. + +The Sheridans dined on Sundays at five. Sibyl had taken pains not to +arrive either before or after the hand was precisely on the hour; +and the members of the family were all seated at the table within two +minutes after she and Roscoe had entered the house. + +It was a glum gathering, overhung with portents. The air seemed charged, +awaiting any tiny ignition to explode; and Mrs. Sheridan's expression, +as she sat with her eyes fixed almost continually upon her husband, was +that of a person engaged in prayer. Edith was pale and intent. +Roscoe looked ill; Sibyl looked ill; and Sheridan looked both ill and +explosive. Bibbs had more color than any of these, and there was a +strange brightness, like a light, upon his face. It was curious to see +anything so happy in the tense gloom of that household. + +Edith ate little, but gazed nearly all the time at her plate. She never +once looked at Sibyl, though Sibyl now and then gave her a quick glance, +heavily charged, and then looked away. Roscoe ate nothing, and, like +Edith, kept his eyes upon his plate and made believe to occupy himself +with the viands thereon, loading his fork frequently, but not lifting +it to his mouth. He did not once look at his father, though his father +gazed heavily at him most of the time. And between Edith and Sibyl, and +between Roscoe and his father, some bitter wireless communication seemed +continually to be taking place throughout the long silences prevailing +during this enlivening ceremony of Sabbath refection. + +“Didn't you go to church this morning, Bibbs?” his mother asked, in the +effort to break up one of those ghastly intervals. + +“What did you say, mother?” + +“Didn't you go to church this morning?” + +“I think so,” he answered, as from a roseate trance. + +“You THINK so! Don't you know?” + +“Oh yes. Yes, I went to church!” + +“Which one?” + +“Just down the street. It's brick.” + +“What was the sermon about?” + +“What, mother?” + +“Can't you hear me?” she cried. “I asked you what the sermon was about?” + +He roused himself. “I think it was about--” He frowned, seeming to +concentrate his will to recollect. “I think it was about something in +the Bible.” + +White-jacket George was glad of an opportunity to leave the room and +lean upon Mist' Jackson's shoulder in the pantry. “He don't know they +WAS any suhmon!” he concluded, having narrated the dining-room dialogue. +“All he know is he was with 'at lady lives nex' do'!” George was right. + +“Did you go to church all by yourself, Bibbs?” Sibyl asked. + +“No,” he answered. “No, I didn't go alone.” + +“Oh?” Sibyl gave the ejaculation an upward twist, as of mocking inquiry, +and followed it by another, expressive of hilarious comprehension. “OH!” + +Bibbs looked at her studiously, but she spoke no further. And that +completed the conversation at the lugubrious feast. + +Coffee came finally, was disposed of quickly, and the party dispersed to +other parts of the house. Bibbs followed his father and Roscoe into the +library, but was not well received. + +“YOU go and listen to the phonograph with the women-folks,” Sheridan +commanded. + +Bibbs retreated. “Sometimes you do seem to be a hard sort of man!” he +said. + +However, he went obediently to the gilt-and-brocade room in which his +mother and his sister and his sister-in-law had helplessly withdrawn, +according to their Sabbatical custom. Edith sat in a corner, tapping her +feet together and looking at them; Sibyl sat in the center of the room, +examining a brooch which she had detached from her throat; and Mrs. +Sheridan was looking over a collection of records consisting exclusively +of Caruso and rag-time. She selected one of the latter, remarking that +she thought it “right pretty,” and followed it with one of the former +and the same remark. + +As the second reached its conclusion, George appeared in the broad +doorway, seeming to have an errand there, but he did not speak. Instead, +he favored Edith with a benevolent smile, and she immediately left +the room, George stepping aside for her to precede him, and then +disappearing after her in the hall with an air of successful diplomacy. +He made it perfectly clear that Edith had given him secret instructions +and that it had been his pride and pleasure to fulfil them to the +letter. + +Sibyl stiffened in her chair; her lips parted, and she watched with +curious eyes the vanishing back of the white jacket. + +“What's that?” she asked, in a low voice, but sharply. + +“Here's another right pretty record,” said Mrs. Sheridan, +affecting--with patent nervousness--not to hear. And she unloosed the +music. + +Sibyl bit her lip and began to tap her chin with the brooch. After a +little while she turned to Bibbs, who reposed at half-length in a gold +chair, with his eyes closed. + +“Where did Edith go?” she asked, curiously. + +“Edith?” he repeated, opening his eyes blankly. “Is she gone?” + +Sibyl got up and stood in the doorway. She leaned against the casing, +still tapping her chin with the brooch. Her eyes were dilating; she was +suddenly at high tension, and her expression had become one of sharp +excitement. She listened intently. + +When the record was spun out she could hear Sheridan rumbling in the +library, during the ensuing silence, and Roscoe's voice, querulous and +husky: “I won't say anything at all. I tell you, you might just as well +let me alone!” + +But there were other sounds: a rustling and murmur, whispering, low +protesting cadences in a male voice. And as Mrs. Sheridan started +another record, a sudden, vital resolve leaped like fire in the eyes of +Sibyl. She walked down the hall and straight into the smoking-room. + +Lamhorn and Edith both sprang to their feet, separating. Edith became +instantly deathly white with a rage that set her shaking from head to +foot, and Lamhorn stuttered as he tried to speak. + +But Edith's shaking was not so violent as Sibyl's, nor was her face so +white. At sight of them and of their embrace, all possible consequences +became nothing to Sibyl. She courtesied, holding up her skirts and +contorting her lips to the semblance of a smile. + +“Sit just as you were--both of you!” she said. And then to Edith: “Did +you tell my husband I had been telephoning to Lamhorn?” + +“You march out of here!” said Edith, fiercely. “March straight out of +here!” + +Sibyl leveled a forefinger at Lamhorn. + +“Did you tell her I'd been telephoning you I wanted you to come?” + +“Oh, good God!” Lamhorn said. “Hush!” + +“You knew she'd tell my husband, DIDN'T you?” she cried. “You knew +that!” + +“HUSH!” he begged, panic-stricken. + +“That was a MANLY thing to do! Oh, it was like a gentleman! You wouldn't +come--you wouldn't even come for five minutes to hear what I had to say! +You were TIRED of what I had to say! You'd heard it all a thousand times +before, and you wouldn't come! No! No! NO!” she stormed. “You wouldn't +even come for five minutes, but you could tell that little cat! And SHE +told my husband! You're a MAN!” + +Edith saw in a flash that the consequences of battle would be ruinous to +Sibyl, and the furious girl needed no further temptation to give way +to her feelings. “Get out of this house!” she shrieked. “This is my +father's house. Don't you dare speak to Robert like that!” + +“No! No! I mustn't SPEAK--” + +“Don't you DARE!” + +Edith and Sibyl began to scream insults at each other simultaneously, +fronting each other, their furious faces close. Their voices shrilled +and rose and cracked--they screeched. They could be heard over the noise +of the phonograph, which was playing a brass-band selection. They could +be heard all over the house. They were heard in the kitchen; they could +have been heard in the cellar. Neither of them cared for that. + +“You told my husband!” screamed Sibyl, bringing her face still closer to +Edith's. “You told my husband! This man put THAT in your hands to strike +me with! HE did!” + +“I'll tell your husband again! I'll tell him everything I know! It's +TIME your husband--” + +They were swept asunder by a bandaged hand. “Do you want the neighbors +in?” Sheridan thundered. + +There fell a shocking silence. Frenzied Sibyl saw her husband and his +mother in the doorway, and she understood what she had done. She moved +slowly toward the door; then suddenly she began to run. She ran into the +hall, and through it, and out of the house. Roscoe followed her heavily, +his eyes on the ground. + +“NOW THEN!” said Sheridan to Lamhorn. + +The words were indefinite, but the voice was not. Neither was the +vicious gesture of the bandaged hand, which concluded its orbit in the +direction of the door in a manner sufficient for the swift dispersal of +George and Jackson and several female servants who hovered behind Mrs. +Sheridan. They fled lightly. + +“Papa, papa!” wailed Mrs. Sheridan. “Look at your hand! You'd oughtn't +to been so rough with Edie; you hurt your hand on her shoulder. Look!” + +There was, in fact, a spreading red stain upon the bandages at the tips +of the fingers, and Sheridan put his hand back in the sling. “Now then!” + he repeated. “You goin' to leave my house?” + +“He will NOT!” sobbed Edith. “Don't you DARE order him out!” + +“Don't you bother, dear,” said Lamhorn, quietly. “He doesn't understand. +YOU mustn't be troubled.” Pallor was becoming to him; he looked very +handsome, and as he left the room he seemed in the girl's distraught +eyes a persecuted noble, indifferent to the rabble yawping insult at his +heels--the rabble being enacted by her father. + +“Don't come back, either!” said, Sheridan, realistic in this +impersonation. “Keep off the premises!” he called savagely into the +hall. “This family's through with you!” + +“It is NOT!” Edith cried, breaking from her mother. “You'll SEE about +that! You'll find out! You'll find out what'll happen! What's HE done? +I guess if I can stand it, it's none of YOUR business, is it? What's +HE done, I'd like to know? You don't know anything about it. Don't you +s'pose he told ME? She was crazy about him soon as he began going there, +and he flirted with her a little. That's everything he did, and it +was before he met ME! After that he wouldn't, and it wasn't anything, +anyway--he never was serious a minute about it. SHE wanted it to be +serious, and she was bound she wouldn't give him up. He told her long +ago he cared about me, but she kept persecuting him and--” + +“Yes,” said Sheridan, sternly; “that's HIS side of it! That'll do! He +doesn't come in this house again!” + +“You look out!” Edith cried. + +“Yes, I'll look out! I'd 'a' told you to-day he wasn't to be allowed on +the premises, but I had other things on my mind. I had Abercrombie +look up this young man privately, and he's no 'count. He's no 'count +on earth! He's no good! He's NOTHIN'! But it wouldn't matter if he was +George Washington, after what's happened and what I've heard to-night!” + +“But, papa,” Mrs. Sheridan began, “if Edie says it was all Sibyl's +fault, makin' up to him, and he never encouraged her much, nor--” + +“'S enough!” he roared. “He keeps off these premises! And if any of you +so much as ever speak his name to me again--” + +But Edith screamed, clapping her hands over her ears to shut out the +sound of his voice, and ran up-stairs, sobbing loudly, followed by her +mother. However, Mrs. Sheridan descended a few minutes later and joined +her husband in the library. Bibbs, still sitting in his gold chair, saw +her pass, roused himself from reverie, and strolled in after her. + +“She locked her door,” said Mrs. Sheridan, shaking her head woefully. +“She wouldn't even answer me. They wasn't a sound from her room.” + +“Well,” said her husband, “she can settle her mind to it. She +never speaks to that fellow again, and if he tries to telephone her +to-morrow--Here! You tell the help if he calls up to ring off and say +it's my orders. No, you needn't. I'll tell 'em myself.” + +“Better not,” said Bibbs, gently. + +His father glared at him. + +“It's no good,” said Bibbs. “Mother, when you were in love with +father--” + +“My goodness!” she cried. “You ain't a-goin' to compare your father to +that--” + +“Edith feels about him just what you did about father,” said Bibbs. “And +if YOUR father had told you--” + +“I won't LISTEN to such silly talk!” she declared, angrily. + +“So you're handin' out your advice, are you, Bibbs?” said Sheridan. +“What is it?” + +“Let her see him all she wants.” + +“You're a--” Sheridan gave it up. “I don't know what to call you!” + +“Let her see him all she wants,” Bibbs repeated, thoughtfully. “You're +up against something too strong for you. If Edith were a weakling +you'd have a chance this way, but she isn't. She's got a lot of your +determination, father, and with what's going on inside of her she'll +beat you. You can't keep her from seeing him, as long as she feels about +him the way she does now. You can't make her think less of him, either. +Nobody can. Your only chance is that she'll do it for herself, and if +you give her time and go easy she probably will. Marriage would do it +for her quickest, but that's just what you don't want, and as you DON'T +want it, you'd better--” + +“I can't stand any more!” Sheridan burst out. “If it's come to BIBBS +advisin' me how to run this house I better resign. Mamma, where's that +nigger George? Maybe HE'S got some plan how I better manage my family. +Bibbs, for God's sake go and lay down! 'Let her see him all she wants'! +Oh, Lord! here's wisdom; here's--” + +“Bibbs,” said Mrs. Sheridan, “if you haven't got anything to do, you +might step over and take Sibyl's wraps home--she left 'em in the hall. I +don't think you seem to quiet your poor father very much just now.” + +“All right.” And Bibbs bore Sibyl's wraps across the street and +delivered them to Roscoe, who met him at the door. Bibbs said only, +“Forgot these,” and, “Good night, Roscoe,” cordially and cheerfully, and +returned to the New House. His mother and father were still talking in +the library, but with discretion he passed rapidly on and upward to his +own room, and there he proceeded to write in his note-book. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + There seems to be another curious thing about Love [Bibbs wrote]. + Love is blind while it lives and only opens its eyes and becomes + very wide awake when it dies. Let it alone until then. + + You cannot reason with love or with any other passion. The wise + will not wish for love--nor for ambition. These are passions + and bring others in their train--hatreds and jealousies--all + blind. Friendship and a quiet heart for the wise. + + What a turbulence is love! It is dangerous for a blind thing to + be turbulent; there are precipices in life. One would not cross + a mountain-pass with a thick cloth over his eyes. Lovers do. + Friendship walks gently and with open eyes. + + To walk to church with a friend! To sit beside her there! To rise + when she rises, and to touch with one's thumb and fingers the other + half of the hymn-book that she holds! What lover, with his fierce + ways, could know this transcendent happiness? + + Friendship brings everything that heaven could bring. There is no + labor that cannot become a living rapture if you know that a friend + is thinking of you as you labor. So you sing at your work. For + the work is part of the thoughts of your friend; so you love it! + + Love is demanding and claiming and insistent. Friendship is all + kindness--it makes the world glorious with kindness. What color + you see when you walk with a friend! You see that the gray sky + is brilliant and shimmering; you see that the smoke has warm + browns and is marvelously sculptured--the air becomes iridescent. + You see the gold in brown hair. Light floods everything. + + When you walk to church with a friend you know that life can give + you nothing richer. You pray that there will be no change in + anything for ever. + + What an adorable thing it is to discover a little foible in your + friend, a bit of vanity that gives you one thing more about her to + adore! On a cold morning she will perhaps walk to church with you + without her furs, and she will blush and return an evasive answer + when you ask her why she does not wear them. You will say no + more, because you understand. She looks beautiful in her furs; + you love their darkness against her cheek; but you comprehend that + they conceal the loveliness of her throat and the fine line of her + chin, and that she also has comprehended this, and, wishing to + look still more bewitching, discards her furs at the risk of + taking cold. So you hold your peace, and try to look as if you + had not thought it out. + + This theory is satisfactory except that it does not account for + the absence of the muff. Ah, well, there must always be a mystery + somewhere! Mystery is a part of enchantment. + + Manual labor is best. Your heart can sing and your mind can dream + while your hands are working. You could not have a singing heart + and a dreaming mind all day if you had to scheme out dollars, + or if you had to add columns of figures. Those things take your + attention. You cannot be thinking of your friend while you write + letters beginning “Yours of the 17th inst. rec'd and contents + duly noted.” But to work with your hands all day, thinking and + singing, and then, after nightfall, to hear the ineffable kindness + of your friend's greeting--always there--for you! Who would wake + from such a dream as this? + + Dawn and the sea--music in moonlit gardens--nightingales + serenading through almond-groves in bloom--what could bring such + things into the city's turmoil? Yet they are here, and roses + blossom in the soot. That is what it means not to be alone! + That is what a friend gives you! + +Having thus demonstrated that he was about twenty-five and had formed a +somewhat indefinite definition of friendship, but one entirely his own +(and perhaps Mary's) Bibbs went to bed, and was the only Sheridan to +sleep soundly through the night and to wake at dawn with a light heart. + +His cheerfulness was vaguely diminished by the troublous state of +affairs of his family. He had recognized his condition when he wrote, +“Who would wake from such a dream as this?” Bibbs was a sympathetic +person, easily touched, but he was indeed living in a dream, and all +things outside of it were veiled and remote--for that is the way of +youth in a dream. And Bibbs, who had never before been of any age, +either old or young, had come to his youth at last. + +He went whistling from the house before even his father had come +down-stairs. There was a fog outdoors, saturated with a fine powder of +soot, and though Bibbs noticed absently the dim shape of an automobile +at the curb before Roscoe's house, he did not recognize it as Dr. +Gurney's, but went cheerily on his way through the dingy mist. And when +he was once more installed beside his faithful zinc-eater he whistled +and sang to it, as other workmen did to their own machines sometimes, +when things went well. His comrades in the shop glanced at him amusedly +now and then. They liked him, and he ate his lunch at noon with a group +of Socialists who approved of his ideas and talked of electing him to +their association. + +The short days of the year had come, and it was dark before the whistles +blew. When the signal came, Bibbs went to the office, where he divested +himself of his overalls--his single divergence from the routine of his +fellow-workmen--and after that he used soap and water copiously. This +was his transformation scene: he passed into the office a rather frail +young working-man noticeably begrimed, and passed out of it to the +pavement a cheerfully pre-occupied sample of gentry, fastidious to the +point of elegance. + +The sidewalk was crowded with the bearers of dinner-pails, men and +boys and women and girls from the work-rooms that closed at five. Many +hurried and some loitered; they went both east and west, jostling one +another, and Bibbs, turning his face homeward, was forced to go slowly. + +Coming toward him, as slowly, through the crowd, a tall girl caught +sight of his long, thin figure and stood still until he had almost +passed her, for in the thick crowd and the thicker gloom he did not +recognize her, though his shoulder actually touched hers. He would have +gone by, but she laughed delightedly; and he stopped short, startled. +Two boys, one chasing the other, swept between them, and Bibbs stood +still, peering about him in deep perplexity. She leaned toward him. + +“I knew YOU!” she said. + +“Good heavens!” cried Bibbs. “I thought it was your voice coming out of +a star!” + +“There's only smoke overhead,” said Mary, and laughed again. “There +aren't any stars.” + +“Oh yes, there were--when you laughed!” + +She took his arm, and they went on. “I've come to walk home with you, +Bibbs. I wanted to.” + +“But were you here in the--” + +“In the dark? Yes! Waiting? Yes!” + +Bibbs was radiant; he felt suffocated with happiness. He began to scold +her. + +“But it's not safe, and I'm not worth it. You shouldn't have--you ought +to know better. What did--” + +“I only waited about twelve seconds,” she laughed. “I'd just got here.” + +“But to come all this way and to this part of town in the dark, you--” + +“I was in this part of town already,” she said. “At least, I was only +seven or eight blocks away, and it was dark when I came out, and I'd +have had to go home alone--and I preferred going home with you.” + +“It's pretty beautiful for me,” said Bibbs, with a deep breath. “You'll +never know what it was to hear your laugh in the darkness--and then +to--to see you standing there! Oh, it was like--it was like--how can I +TELL you what it was like?” They had passed beyond the crowd now, and +a crossing-lamp shone upon them, which revealed the fact that again she +was without her furs. Here was a puzzle. Why did that adorable little +vanity of hers bring her out without them in the DARK? But of course she +had gone out long before dark. For undefinable reasons this explanation +was not quite satisfactory; however, allowing it to stand, his +solicitude for her took another turn. “I think you ought to have a car,” + he said, “especially when you want to be out after dark. You need one in +winter, anyhow. Have you ever asked your father for one?” + +“No,” said Mary. “I don't think I'd care for one particularly.” + +“I wish you would.” Bibbs's tone was earnest and troubled. “I think in +winter you--” + +“No, no,” she interrupted, lightly. “I don't need--” + +“But my mother tried to insist on sending one over here every afternoon +for me. I wouldn't let her, because I like the walk, but a girl--” + +“A girl likes to walk, too,” said Mary. “Let me tell you where I've been +this afternoon and how I happened to be near enough to make you take me +home. I've been to see a little old man who makes pictures of the smoke. +He has a sort of warehouse for a studio, and he lives there with his +mother and his wife and their seven children, and he's gloriously happy. +I'd seen one of his pictures at an exhibition, and I wanted to see +more of them, so he showed them to me. He has almost everthing he ever +painted; I don't suppose he's sold more than four or five pictures in +his life. He gives drawing-lessons to keep alive.” + +“How do you mean he paints the smoke?” Bibbs asked. + +“Literally. He paints from his studio window and from the +street--anywhere. He just paints what's around him--and it's beautiful.” + +“The smoke?” + +“Wonderful! He sees the sky through it, somehow. He does the ugly roofs +of cheap houses through a haze of smoke, and he does smoky sunsets and +smoky sunrises, and he has other things with the heavy, solid, slow +columns of smoke going far out and growing more ethereal and mixing +with the hazy light in the distance; and he has others with the broken +sky-line of down-town, all misted with the smoke and puffs and jets of +vapor that have colors like an orchard in mid-April. I'm going to take +you there some Sunday afternoon, Bibbs.” + +“You're showing me the town,” he said. “I didn't know what was in it at +all.” + +“There are workers in beauty here,” she told him, gently. “There are +other painters more prosperous than my friend. There are all sorts of +things.” + +“I didn't know.” + +“No. Since the town began growing so great that it called itself +'greater,' one could live here all one's life and know only the side of +it that shows.” + +“The beauty-workers seem buried very deep,” said Bibbs. “And I imagine +that your friend who makes the smoke beautiful must be buried deepest +of all. My father loves the smoke, but I can't imagine his buying one +of your friend's pictures. He'd buy the 'Bay of Naples,' but he wouldn't +get one of those. He'd think smoke in a picture was horrible--unless he +could use it for an advertisement.” + +“Yes,” she said, thoughtfully. “And really he's the town. They ARE +buried pretty deep, it seems, sometimes, Bibbs.” + +“And yet it's all wonderful,” he said. “It's wonderful to me.” + +“You mean the town is wonderful to you?” + +“Yes, because everything is, since you called me your friend. The city +is only a rumble on the horizon for me. It can't come any closer than +the horizon so long as you let me see you standing by my old zinc-eater +all day long, helping me. Mary--” He stopped with a gasp. “That's the +first time I've called you 'Mary'!” + +“Yes.” She laughed, a little tremuously. “Though I wanted you to!” + +“I said it without thinking. It must be because you came there to walk +home with me. That must be it.” + +“Women like to have things said,” Mary informed him, her tremulous +laughter continuing. “Were you glad I came for you?” + +“No--not 'glad.' I felt as if I were being carried straight up and up +and up--over the clouds. I feel like that still. I think I'm that way +most of the time. I wonder what I was like before I knew you. The person +I was then seems to have been somebody else, not Bibbs Sheridan at +all. It seems long, long ago. I was gloomy and sickly--somebody +else--somebody I don't understand now, a coward afraid of +shadows--afraid of things that didn't exist--afraid of my old +zinc-eater! And now I'm only afraid of what might change anything.” + +She was silent a moment, and then, “You're happy, Bibbs?” she asked. + +“Ah, don't you see?” he cried. “I want it to last for a thousand, +thousand years, just as it is! You've made me so rich, I'm a miser. I +wouldn't have one thing different--nothing, nothing!” + +“Dear Bibbs!” she said, and laughed happily. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +Bibbs continued to live in the shelter of his dream. He had told Edith, +after his ineffective effort to be useful in her affairs, that he had +decided that he was “a member of the family”; but he appeared to have +relapsed to the retired list after that one attempt at participancy--he +was far enough detached from membership now. These were turbulent days +in the New House, but Bibbs had no part whatever in the turbulence--he +seemed an absent-minded stranger, present by accident and not wholly +aware that he was present. He would sit, faintly smiling over pleasant +imaginings and dear reminiscences of his own, while battle raged between +Edith and her father, or while Sheridan unloosed jeremiads upon the +sullen Roscoe, who drank heavily to endure them. The happy dreamer +wandered into storm-areas like a somnambulist, and wandered out again +unawakened. He was sorry for his father and for Roscoe, and for Edith +and for Sibyl, but their sufferings and outcries seemed far away. + +Sibyl was under Gurney's care. Roscoe had sent for him on Sunday night, +not long after Bibbs returned the abandoned wraps; and during the first +days of Sibyl's illness the doctor found it necessary to be with her +frequently, and to install a muscular nurse. And whether he would or +no, Gurney received from his hysterical patient a variety of pungent +information which would have staggered anybody but a family physician. +Among other things he was given to comprehend the change in Bibbs, and +why the zinc-eater was not putting a lump in the operator's gizzard as +of yore. + +Sibyl was not delirious--she was a thin little ego writhing and +shrieking in pain. Life had hurt her, and had driven her into hurting +herself; her condition was only the adult's terrible exaggeration of +that of a child after a bad bruise--there must be screaming and telling +mother all about the hurt and how it happened. Sibyl babbled herself +hoarse when Gurney withheld morphine. She went from the beginning to the +end in a breath. No protest stopped her; nothing stopped her. + +“You ought to let me die!” she wailed. “It's cruel not to let me die! +What harm have I ever done to anybody that you want to keep me alive? +Just look at my life! I only married Roscoe to get away from home, and +look what that got me into!--look where I am now! He brought me to this +town, and what did I have in my life but his FAMILY? And they didn't +even know the right crowd! If they had, it might have been SOMETHING! +I had nothing--nothing--nothing in the world! I wanted to have a good +time--and how could I? Where's any good time among these Sheridans? They +never even had wine on the table! I thought I was marrying into a rich +family where I'd meet attractive people I'd read about, and travel, and +go to dances--and, oh, my Lord! all I got was these Sheridans! I did +the best I could; I did, indeed! Oh, I DID! I just tried to live. Every +woman's got a right to live, some time in her life, I guess! Things were +just beginning to look brighter--we'd moved up here, and that frozen +crowd across the street were after Jim for their daughter, and they'd +have started us with the right people--and then I saw how Edith was +getting him away from me. She did it, too! She got him! A girl with +money can do that to a married woman--yes, she can, every time! And what +could I do? What can any woman do in my fix? I couldn't do ANYTHING but +try to stand it--and I couldn't stand it! I went to that icicle--that +Vertrees girl--and she could have helped me a little, and it wouldn't +have hurt her. It wouldn't have done her any harm to help me THAT +little! She treated me as if I'd been dirt that she wouldn't even take +the trouble to sweep out of her house! Let her WAIT!” + +Sibyl's voice, hoarse from babbling, became no more than a husky +whisper, though she strove to make it louder. She struggled half +upright, and the nurse restrained her. “I'd get up out of this bed to +show her she can't do such things to me! I was absolutely ladylike, and +she walked out and left me there alone! She'll SEE! She started after +Bibbs before Jim's casket was fairly underground, and she thinks she's +landed that poor loon--but she'll see! She'll see! If I'm ever able +to walk across the street again I'll show her how to treat a woman in +trouble that comes to her for help! It wouldn't have hurt her any--it +wouldn't--it wouldn't. And Edith needn't have told what she told +Roscoe--it wouldn't have hurt her to let me alone. And HE told her I +bored him--telephoning him I wanted to see him. He needn't have done +it! He needn't--needn't--” Her voice grew fainter, for that while, +with exhaustion, though she would go over it all again as soon as her +strength returned. She lay panting. Then, seeing her husband standing +disheveled in the doorway, “Don't come in, Roscoe,” she murmured. “I +don't want to see you.” And as he turned away she added, “I'm kind of +sorry for you, Roscoe.” + +Her antagonist, Edith, was not more coherent in her own wailings, +and she had the advantage of a mother for listener. She had also the +disadvantage of a mother for duenna, and Mrs. Sheridan, under her +husband's sharp tutelage, proved an effective one. Edith was reduced to +telephoning Lamhorn from shops whenever she could juggle her mother into +a momentary distraction over a counter. + +Edith was incomparably more in love than before Lamhorn's expulsion. Her +whole being was nothing but the determination to hurdle everything that +separated her from him. She was in a state that could be altered by only +the lightest and most delicate diplomacy of suggestion, but Sheridan, +like legions of other parents, intensified her passion and fed it hourly +fuel by opposing to it an intolerable force. He swore she should cool, +and thus set her on fire. + +Edith planned neatly. She fought hard, every other evening, with her +father, and kept her bed betweentimes to let him see what his violence +had done to her. Then, when the mere sight of her set him to breathing +fast, she said pitiably that she might bear her trouble better if she +went away; it was impossible to be in the same town with Lamhorn and not +think always of him. Perhaps in New York she might forget a little. +She had written to a school friend, established quietly with an aunt in +apartments--and a month or so of theaters and restaurants might bring +peace. Sheridan shouted with relief; he gave her a copious cheque, and +she left upon a Monday morning wearing violets with her mourning and +having kissed everybody good-by except Sibyl and Bibbs. She might have +kissed Bibbs, but he failed to realize that the day of her departure +had arrived, and was surprised, on returning from his zinc-eater, that +evening, to find her gone. “I suppose they'll be maried there,” he said, +casually. + +Sheridan, seated, warming his stockinged feet at the fire, jumped up, +fuming. “Either you go out o' here, or I will, Bibbs!” he snorted. “I +don't want to be in the same room with the particular kind of idiot you +are! She's through with that riff-raff; all she needed was to be kept +away from him a few weeks, and I KEPT her away, and it did the business. +For Heaven's sake, go on out o' here!” + +Bibbs obeyed the gesture of a hand still bandaged. And the black silk +sling was still round Sheridan's neck, but no word of Gurney's and no +excruciating twinge of pain could keep Sheridan's hand in the sling. The +wounds, slight enough originally, had become infected the first time he +had dislodged the bandages, and healing was long delayed. Sheridan had +the habit of gesture; he could not “take time to remember,” he said, +that he must be careful, and he had also a curious indignation with his +hurt; he refused to pay it the compliment of admitting its existence. + +The Saturday following Edith's departure Gurney came to the Sheridan +Building to dress the wounds and to have a talk with Sheridan which +the doctor felt had become necessary. But he was a little before +the appointed time and was obliged to wait a few minutes in an +anteroom--there was a directors' meeting of some sort in Sheridan's +office. The door was slightly ajar, leaking cigar-smoke and oratory, the +latter all Sheridan's, and Gurney listened. + +“No, sir; no, sir; no, sir!” he heard the big voice rumbling, and then, +breaking into thunder, “I tell you NO! Some o' you men make me sick! +You'd lose your confidence in Almighty God if a doodle-bug flipped his +hind leg at you! You say money's tight all over the country. Well, what +if it is? There's no reason for it to be tight, and it's not goin' to +keep OUR money tight! You're always runnin' to the woodshed to hide +your nickels in a crack because some fool newspaper says the market's a +little skeery! You listen to every street-corner croaker and then +come and set here and try to scare ME out of a big thing! We're IN on +this--understand? I tell you there never WAS better times. These are +good times and big times, and I won't stand for any other kind o' talk. +This country's on its feet as it never was before, and this city's on +its feet and goin' to stay there!” And Gurney heard a series of whacks +and thumps upon the desk. “'Bad times'!” Sheridan vociferated, with +accompanying thumps. “Rabbit talk! These times are glorious, I tell you! +We're in the promised land, and we're goin' to STAY there! That's all, +gentlemen. The loan goes!” + +The directors came forth, flushed and murmurous, and Gurney hastened +in. His guess was correct: Sheridan had been thumping the desk with his +right hand. The physician scolded wearily, making good the fresh damage +as best he might; and then he said what he had to say on the subject of +Roscoe and Sibyl, his opinion meeting, as he expected, a warmly hostile +reception. But the result of this conversation was that by telephonic +command Roscoe awaited his father, an hour later, in the library at the +New House. + +“Gurney says your wife's able to travel,” Sheridan said brusquely, as he +came in. + +“Yes.” Roscoe occupied a deep chair and sat in the dejected attitude +which had become his habit. “Yes, she is.” + +“Edith had to leave town, and so Sibyl thinks she'll have to, too!” + +“Oh, I wouldn't put it that way,” Roscoe protested, drearily. + +“No, I hear YOU wouldn't!” There was a bitter gibe in the father's +voice, and he added: “It's a good thing she's goin' abroad--if she'll +stay there. I shouldn't think any of us want her here any more--you +least of all!” + +“It's no use your talking that way,” said Roscoe. “You won't do any +good.” + +“Well, when are you comin' back to your office?” Sheridan used a +brisker, kinder tone. “Three weeks since you showed up there at all. +When you goin' to be ready to cut out whiskey and all the rest o' the +foolishness and start in again? You ought to be able to make up for a +lot o' lost time and a lot o' spilt milk when that woman takes herself +out o' the way and lets you and all the rest of us alone.” + +“It's no use, father, I tell you. I know what Gurney was going to say to +you. I'm not going back to the office. I'm DONE!” + +“Wait a minute before you talk that way!” Sheridan began his sentry-go +up and down the room. “I suppose you know it's taken two pretty good +men about sixteen hours a day to set things straight and get 'em runnin' +right again, down in your office?” + +“They must be good men.” Roscoe nodded indifferently. “I thought I was +doing about eight men's work. I'm glad you found two that could handle +it.” + +“Look here! If I worked you it was for your own good. There are plenty +men drive harder'n I do, and--” + +“Yes. There are some that break down all the other men that work with +'em. They either die, or go crazy, or have to quit, and are no use +the rest of their lives. The last's my case, I guess--'complicated by +domestic difficulties'!” + +“You set there and tell me you give up?” Sheridan's voice shook, and +so did the gesticulating hand which he extended appealingly toward the +despondent figure. “Don't do it, Roscoe! Don't say it! Say you'll come +down there again and be a man! This woman ain't goin' to trouble you any +more. The work ain't goin' to hurt you if you haven't got her to worry +you, and you can get shut o' this nasty whiskey-guzzlin'; it ain't +fastened on you yet. Don't say--” + +“It's no use on earth,” Roscoe mumbled. “No use on earth.” + +“Look here! If you want another month's vacation--” + +“I know Gurney told you, so what's the use talking about 'vacations'?” + +“Gurney!” Sheridan vociferated the name savagely. “It's Gurney, Gurney, +Gurney! Always Gurney! I don't know what the world's comin' to with +everybody runnin' around squealin', 'The doctor says this,' and, 'The +doctor says that'! It makes me sick! How's this country expect to get +its Work done if Gurney and all the other old nanny-goats keep up this +blattin'--'Oh, oh! Don't lift that stick o' wood; you'll ruin your +NERVES!' So he says you got 'nervous exhaustion induced by overwork and +emotional strain.' They always got to stick the Work in if they see a +chance! I reckon you did have the 'emotional strain,' and that's all's +the matter with you. You'll be over it soon's this woman's gone, and +Work's the very thing to make you quit frettin' about her.” + +“Did Gurney tell you I was fit to work?” + +“Shut up!” Sheridan bellowed. “I'm so sick o' that man's name I feel +like shootin' anybody that says it to me!” He fumed and chafed, swearing +indistinctly, then came and stood before his son. “Look here; do you +think you're doin' the square thing by me? Do you? How much you worth?” + +“I've got between seven and eight thousand a year clear, of my own, +outside the salary. That much is mine whether I work or not.” + +“It is? You could'a pulled it out without me, I suppose you think, at +your age?” + +“No. But it's mine, and it's enough.” + +“My Lord! It's about what a Congressman gets, and you want to quit +there! I suppose you think you'll get the rest when I kick the bucket, +and all you have to do is lay back and wait! You let me tell you right +here, you'll never see one cent of it. You go out o' business now, and +what would you know about handlin' it five or ten or twenty years from +now? Because I intend to STAY here a little while yet, my boy! They'd +either get it away from you or you'd sell for a nickel and let it be +split up and--” He whirled about, marched to the other end of the room, +and stood silent a moment. Then he said, solemnly: “Listen. If you go +out now, you leave me in the lurch, with nothin' on God's green earth +to depend on but your brother--and you know what he is. I've depended on +you for it ALL since Jim died. Now you've listened to that dam' doctor, +and he says maybe you won't ever be as good a man as you were, and that +certainly you won't be for a year or so--probably more. Now, that's all +a lie. Men don't break down that way at your age. Look at ME! And I tell +you, you can shake this thing off. All you need is a little GET-up and +a little gumption. Men don't go away for YEARS and then come back into +MOVING businesses like ours--they lose the strings. And if you could, I +won't let you--if you lay down on me now, I won't--and that's because if +you lay down you prove you ain't the man I thought you were.” He cleared +his throat and finished quietly: “Roscoe, will you take a month's +vacation and come back and go to it?” + +“No,” said Roscoe, listlessly. “I'm through.” + +“All right,” said Sheridan. He picked up the evening paper from a +table, went to a chair by the fire and sat down, his back to his son. +“Good-by.” + +Roscoe rose, his head hanging, but there was a dull relief in his eyes. +“Best I can do,” he muttered, seeming about to depart, yet lingering. “I +figure it out a good deal like this,” he said. “I didn't KNOW my job +was any strain, and I managed all right, but from what Gur--from what +I hear, I was just up to the limit of my nerves from overwork, and +the--the trouble at home was the extra strain that's fixed me the way I +am. I tried to brace, so I could stand the work and the trouble too, on +whiskey--and that put the finish to me! I--I'm not hitting it as hard as +I was for a while, and I reckon pretty soon, if I can get to feeling a +little more energy, I better try to quit entirely--I don't know. I'm all +in--and the doctor says so. I thought I was running along fine up to a +few months ago, but all the time I was ready to bust, and didn't know +it. Now, then, I don't want you to blame Sibyl, and if I were you +I wouldn't speak of her as 'that woman,' because she's your +daughter-in-law and going to stay that way. She didn't do anything +wicked. It was a shock to me, and I don't deny it, to find what she had +done--encouraging that fellow to hang around her after he began trying +to flirt with her, and losing her head over him the way she did. I don't +deny it was a shock and that it'll always be a hurt inside of me I'll +never get over. But it was my fault; I didn't understand a woman's +nature.” Poor Roscoe spoke in the most profound and desolate earnest. +“A woman craves society, and gaiety, and meeting attractive people, and +traveling. Well, I can't give her the other things, but I can give her +the traveling--real traveling, not just going to Atlantic City or +New Orleans, the way she has, two, three times. A woman has to have +something in her life besides a business man. And that's ALL I was. I +never understood till I heard her talking when she was so sick, and I +believe if you'd heard her then you wouldn't speak so hard-heartedly +about her; I believe you might have forgiven her like I have. That's +all. I never cared anything for any girl but her in my life, but I was +so busy with business I put it ahead of her. I never THOUGHT about her, +I was so busy thinking business. Well, this is where it's brought us +to--and now when you talk about 'business' to me I feel the way you do +when anybody talks about Gurney to you. The word 'business' makes me +dizzy--it makes me honestly sick at the stomach. I believe if I had +to go down-town and step inside that office door I'd fall down on the +floor, deathly sick. You talk about a 'month's vacation'--and I get just +as sick. I'm rattled--I can't plan--I haven't got any plans--can't make +any, except to take my girl and get just as far away from that office as +I can--and stay. We're going to Japan first, and if we--” + +His father rustled the paper. “I said good-by, Roscoe.” + +“Good-by,” said Roscoe, listlessly. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +Sheridan waited until he heard the sound of the outer door closing; then +he rose and pushed a tiny disk set in the wall. Jackson appeared. + +“Has Bibbs got home from work?” + +“Mist' Bibbs? No, suh.” + +“Tell him I want to see him, soon as he comes.” + +“Yessuh.” + +Sheridan returned to his chair and fixed his attention fiercely upon +the newspaper. He found it difficult to pursue the items beyond +their explanatory rubrics--there was nothing unusual or startling to +concentrate his attention: + + “Motorman Puts Blame on Brakes. Three Killed when Car Slides.” + “Burglars Make Big Haul.” + “Board Works Approve Big Car-line Extension.” + “Hold-up Men Injure Two. Man Found in Alley, Skull Fractured.” + “Sickening Story Told in Divorce Court.” + “Plan New Eighteen-story Structure.” + “School-girl Meets Death under Automobile.” + “Negro Cuts Three. One Dead.” + “Life Crushed Out. Third Elevator Accident in Same Building Causes + Action by Coroner.” + “Declare Militia will be Menace. Polish Societies Protest to + Governor in Church Rioting Case.” + “Short $3,500 in Accounts, Trusted Man Kills Self with Drug.” + “Found Frozen. Family Without Food or Fuel. Baby Dead when + Parents Return Home from Seeking Work.” + “Minister Returned from Trip Abroad Lectures on Big Future of Our + City. Sees Big Improvement during Short Absence. Says No + European City Holds Candle.” (Sheridan nodded approvingly here.) + +Bibbs came through the hall whistling, and entered the room briskly. +“Well, father, did you want me?” + +“Yes. Sit down.” Sheridan got up, and Bibbs took a seat by the fire, +holding out his hands to the crackling blaze, for it was cold outdoors. + +“I came within seven of the shop record to-day,” he said. “I handled +more strips than any other workman has any day this month. The nearest +to me is sixteen behind.” + +“There!” exclaimed his father, greatly pleased. “What'd I tell you? +I'd like to hear Gurney hint again that I wasn't right in sending you +there--I would just like to hear him! And you--ain't you ashamed of +makin' such a fuss about it? Ain't you?” + +“I didn't go at it in the right spirit the other time,” Bibbs said, +smiling brightly, his face ruddy in the cheerful firelight. “I didn't +know the difference it meant to like a thing.” + +“Well, I guess I've pretty thoroughly vindicated my judgement. I guess I +HAVE! I said the shop'd be good for you, and it was. I said it wouldn't +hurt you, and it hasn't. It's been just exactly what I said it would be. +Ain't that so?” + +“Looks like it!” Bibbs agreed, gaily. + +“Well, I'd like to know any place I been wrong, first and last! Instead +o' hurting you, it's been the makin' of you--physically. You're a good +inch taller'n what I am, and you'd be a bigger man than what I am +if you'd get some flesh on your bones; and you ARE gettin' a little. +Physically, it's started you out to be the huskiest one o' the whole +family. Now, then, mentally--that's different. I don't say it unkindly, +Bibbs, but you got to do something for yourself mentally, just like +what's begun physically. And I'm goin' to help you.” + +Sheridan decided to sit down again. He brought his chair close to his +son's, and, leaning over, tapped Bibbs's knee confidentially. “I got +plans for you, Bibbs,” he said. + +Bibbs instantly looked thoroughly alarmed. He drew back. “I--I'm all +right now, father.” + +“Listen.” Sheridan settled himself in his chair, and spoke in the tone +of a reasonable man reasoning. “Listen here, Bibbs. I had another blow +to-day, and it was a hard one and right in the face, though I HAVE been +expectin' it some little time back. Well, it's got to be met. Now I'll +be frank with you. As I said a minute ago, mentally I couldn't ever +called you exactly strong. You been a little weak both ways, most of +your life. Not but what I think you GOT a mentality, if you'd learn to +use it. You got will-power, I'll say that for you. I never knew boy or +man that could be stubborner--never one in my life! Now, then, you've +showed you could learn to run that machine best of any man in the shop, +in no time at all. That looks to me like you could learn to do other +things. I don't deny but what it's an encouragin' sign. I don't deny +that, at all. Well, that helps me to think the case ain't so hopeless as +it looks. You're all I got to meet this blow with, but maybe you ain't +as poor material as I thought. Your tellin' me about comin' within +seven strips of the shop's record to-day looks to me like encouragin' +information brought in at just about the right time. Now, then, I'm +goin' to give you a raise. I wanted to send you straight on up through +the shops--a year or two, maybe--but I can't do it. I lost Jim, and now +I've lost Roscoe. He's quit. He's laid down on me. If he ever comes back +at all, he'll be a long time pickin' up the strings, and, anyway, he +ain't the man I thought he was. I can't count on him. I got to have +SOMEBODY I KNOW I can count on. And I'm down to this: you're my last +chance. Bibbs, I got to learn you to use what brains you got and see if +we can't develop 'em a little. Who knows? And I'm goin' to put my time +in on it. I'm goin' to take you right down-town with ME, and I won't be +hard on you if you're a little slow at first. And I'm goin' to do the +big thing for you. I'm goin' to make you feel you got to do the big +thing for me, in return. I've vindicated my policy with you about the +shop, and now I'm goin' to turn right around and swing you 'way over +ahead of where the other boys started, and I'm goin' to make an appeal +to your ambition that'll make you dizzy!” He tapped his son on the knee +again. “Bibbs, I'm goin' to start you off this way: I'm goin' to +make you a director in the Pump Works Company; I'm goin' to make you +vice-president of the Realty Company and a vice-president of the Trust +Company!” + +Bibbs jumped to his feet, blanched. “Oh no!” he cried. + +Sheridan took his dismay to be the excitement of sudden joy. “Yes, +sir! And there's some pretty fat little salaries goes with those +vice-presidencies, and a pinch o' stock in the Pump Company with the +directorship. You thought I was pretty mean about the shop--oh, I know +you did!--but you see the old man can play it both ways. And so right +now, the minute you've begun to make good the way I wanted you to, +I deal from the new deck. And I'll keep on handin' it out bigger and +bigger every time you show me you're big enough to play the hand I deal +you. I'm startin' you with a pretty big one, my boy!” + +“But I don't--I don't--I don't want it!” Bibbs stammered. + +“What'd you say?” Sheridan thought he had not heard aright. + +“I don't want it, father. I thank you--I do thank you--” + +Sheridan looked perplexed. “What's the matter with you? Didn't you +understand what I was tellin' you?” + +“Yes.” + +“You sure? I reckon you didn't. I offered--” + +“I know, I know! But I can't take it.” + +“What's the matter with you?” Sheridan was half amazed, half suspicious. +“Your head feel funny?” + +“I've never been quite so sane in my life,” said Bibbs, “as I have +lately. And I've got just what I want. I'm living exactly the right +life. I'm earning my daily bread, and I'm happy in doing it. My wages +are enough. I don't want any more money, and I don't deserve any--” + +“Damnation!” Sheridan sprang up. “You've turned Socialist! You been +listening to those fellows down there, and you--” + +“No, sir. I think there's a great deal in what they say, but that isn't +it.” + +Sheridan tried to restrain his growing fury, and succeeded partially. +“Then what is it? What's the matter?” + +“Nothing,” his son returned, nervously. “Nothing--except that I'm +content. I don't want to change anything.” + +“Why not?” + +Bibbs had the incredible folly to try to explain. “I'll tell you, +father, if I can. I know it may be hard to understand--” + +“Yes, I think it may be,” said Sheridan, grimly. “What you say usually +is a LITTLE that way. Go on!” + +Perturbed and distressed, Bibbs rose instinctively; he felt himself at +every possible disadvantage. He was a sleeper clinging to a dream--a +rough hand stretched to shake him and waken him. He went to a table and +made vague drawings upon it with a finger, and as he spoke he kept his +eyes lowered. “You weren't altogether right about the shop--that is, +in one way you weren't, father.” He glanced up apprehensively. Sheridan +stood facing him, expressionless, and made no attempt to interrupt. +“That's difficult to explain,” Bibbs continued, lowering his eyes again, +to follow the tracings of his finger. “I--I believe the shop might have +done for me this time if I hadn't--if something hadn't helped me to--oh, +not only to bear it, but to be happy in it. Well, I AM happy in it. +I want to go on just as I am. And of all things on earth that I don't +want, I don't want to live a business life--I don't want to be drawn +into it. I don't think it IS living--and now I AM living. I have the +healthful toil--and I can think. In business as important as yours I +couldn't think anything but business. I don't--I don't think making +money is worth while.” + +“Go on,” said Sheridan, curtly, as Bibbs paused timidly. + +“It hasn't seemed to get anywhere, that I can see,” said Bibbs. “You +think this city is rich and powerful--but what's the use of its being +rich and powerful? They don't teach the children any more in the schools +because the city is rich and powerful. They teach them more than they +used to because some people--not rich and powerful people--have thought +the thoughts to teach the children. And yet when you've been reading +the paper I've heard you objecting to the children being taught anything +except what would help them to make money. You said it was wasting the +taxes. You want them taught to make a living, but not to live. When I +was a little boy this wasn't an ugly town; now it's hideous. What's the +use of being big just to be hideous? I mean I don't think all this has +meant really going ahead--it's just been getting bigger and dirtier and +noisier. Wasn't the whole country happier and in many ways wiser when it +was smaller and cleaner and quieter and kinder? I know you think I'm an +utter fool, father, but, after all, though, aren't business and politics +just the housekeeping part of life? And wouldn't you despise a woman +that not only made her housekeeping her ambition, but did it so noisily +and dirtily that the whole neighborhood was in a continual turmoil over +it? And suppose she talked and thought about her housekeeping all +the time, and was always having additions built to her house when she +couldn't keep clean what she already had; and suppose, with it all, she +made the house altogether unpeaceful and unlivable--” + +“Just one minute!” Sheridan interrupted, adding, with terrible courtesy, +“If you will permit me? Have you ever been right about anything?” + +“I don't quite--” + +“I ask the simple question: Have you ever been right about anything +whatever in the course of your life? Have you ever been right upon +any subject or question you've thought about and talked about? Can you +mention one single time when you were proved to be right?” + +He was flourishing the bandaged hand as he spoke, but Bibbs said only, +“If I've always been wrong before, surely there's more chance that I'm +right about this. It seems reasonable to suppose something would be due +to bring up my average.” + +“Yes, I thought you wouldn't see the point. And there's another you +probably couldn't see, but I'll take the liberty to mention it. You been +balkin' all your life. Pretty much everything I ever wanted you to do, +you'd let out SOME kind of a holler, like you are now--and yet I can't +seem to remember once when you didn't have to lay down and do what I +said. But go on with your remarks about our city and the business of +this country. Go on!” + +“I don't want to be a part of it,” said Bibbs, with unwonted decision. +“I want to keep to myself, and I'm doing it now. I couldn't, if I went +down there with you. I'd be swallowed into it. I don't care for money +enough to--” + +“No,” his father interrupted, still dangerously quiet. “You've never had +to earn a living. Anybody could tell that by what you say. Now, let me +remind you: you're sleepin' in a pretty good bed; you're eatin' pretty +fair food; you're wearin' pretty fine clothes. Just suppose one o' these +noisy housekeepers--me, for instance--decided to let you do your own +housekeepin'. May I ask what your proposition would be?” + +“I'm earning nine dollars a week,” said Bibbs, sturdily. “It's enough. I +shouldn't mind at all.” + +“Who's payin' you that nine dollars a week?” + +“My work!” Bibbs answered. “And I've done so well on that +clipping-machine I believe I could work up to fifteen or even twenty +a week at another job. I could be a fair plumber in a few months, +I'm sure. I'd rather have a trade than be in business--I should, +infinitely!” + +“You better set about learnin' one pretty dam' quick!” But Sheridan +struggled with his temper and again was partially successful in +controlling it. “You better learn a trade over Sunday, because you're +either goin' down with me to my office Monday morning--or--you can go to +plumbing!” + +“All right,” said Bibbs, gently. “I can get along.” + +Sheridan raised his hands sardonically, as in prayer. “O God,” he said, +“this boy was crazy enough before he began to earn his nine dollars a +week, and now his money's gone to his head! Can't You do nothin' for +him?” Then he flung his hands apart, palms outward, in a furious gesture +of dismissal. “Get out o' this room! You got a skull that's thicker'n a +whale's thigh-bone, but it's cracked spang all the way across! You hated +the machine-shop so bad when I sent you there, you went and stayed sick +for over two years--and now, when I offer to take you out of it and give +you the mint, you holler for the shop like a calf for its mammy! You're +cracked! Oh, but I got a fine layout here! One son died, one quit, and +one's a loon! The loon's all I got left! H. P. Ellersly's wife had +a crazy brother, and they undertook to keep him at the house. First +morning he was there he walked straight though a ten-dollar plate-glass +window out into the yard. He says, 'Oh, look at the pretty dandelion!' +That's what you're doin'! You want to spend your life sayin', 'Oh, look +at the pretty dandelion!' and you don't care a tinker's dam' what you +bust! Well, mister, loon or no loon, cracked and crazy or whatever you +are, I'll take you with me Monday morning, and I'll work you and learn +you--yes, and I'll lam you, if I got to--until I've made something out +of you that's fit to be called a business man! I'll keep at you while +I'm able to stand, and if I have to lay down to die I'll be whisperin' +at you till they get the embalmin'-fluid into me! Now go on, and don't +let me hear from you again till you can come and tell me you've waked +up, you poor, pitiful, dandelion-pickin' SLEEP-WALKER!” + +Bibbs gave him a queer look. There was something like reproach in it, +for once; but there was more than that--he seemed to be startled by his +father's last word. + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +There was sleet that evening, with a whopping wind, but neither this +storm nor that other which so imminently threatened him held place +in the consciousness of Bibbs Sheridan when he came once more to the +presence of Mary. All was right in his world as he sat with her, reading +Maurice Maeterlinck's Alladine and Palomides. The sorrowful light of +the gas-jet might have been May morning sunshine flashing amber and rose +through the glowing windows of the Sainte-Chapelle, it was so bright for +Bibbs. And while the zinc-eater held out to bring him such golden nights +as these, all the king's horses and all the king's men might not serve +to break the spell. + +Bibbs read slowly, but in a reasonable manner, as if he were talking; +and Mary, looking at him steadily from beneath her curved fingers, +appeared to discover no fault. It had grown to be her habit to look at +him whenever there was an opportunity. It may be said, in truth, that +while they were together, and it was light, she looked at him all the +time. + +When he came to the end of Alladine and Palomides they were silent a +little while, considering together; then he turned back the pages and +said: “There's something I want to read over. This:” + + You would think I threw a window open on the dawn.... She has a + soul that can be seen around her--that takes you in its arms like + an ailing child and without saying anything to you consoles you + for everything.... I shall never understand it all. I do not know + how it can all be, but my knees bend in spite of me when I speak + of it.... + +He stopped and looked at her. + +“You boy!” said Mary, not very clearly. + +“Oh yes,” he returned. “But it's true--especially my knees!” + +“You boy!” she murmured again, blushing charmingly. “You might read +another line over. The first time I ever saw you, Bibbs, you were +looking into a mirror. Do it again. But you needn't read it--I can give +it to you: 'A little Greek slave that came from the heart of Arcady!'” + +“I! I'm one of the hands at the Pump Works--and going to stay one, +unless I have to decide to study plumbing.” + +“No.” She shook her head. “You love and want what's beautiful and +delicate and serene; it's really art that you want in your life, and +have always wanted. You seemed to me, from the first, the most wistful +person I had ever known, and that's what you were wistful for.” + +Bibbs looked doubtful and more wistful than ever; but after a moment or +two the matter seemed to clarify itself to him. “Why, no,” he said; “I +wanted something else more than that. I wanted you.” + +“And here I am!” she laughed, completely understanding. “I think we're +like those two in The Cloister and the Hearth. I'm just the rough +Burgundian cross-bow man, Denys, who followed that gentle Gerard and +told everybody that the devil was dead.” + +“He isn't, though,” said Bibbs, as a hoarse little bell in the next room +began a series of snappings which proved to be ten, upon count. “He gets +into the clock whenever I'm with you.” And, sighing deeply he rose to +go. + +“You're always very prompt about leaving me.” + +“I--I try to be,” he said. “It isn't easy to be careful not to risk +everything by giving myself a little more at a time. If I ever saw you +look tired--” + +“Have you ever?” + +“Not yet. You always look--you always look--” + +“How?” + +“Care-free. That's it. Except when you feel sorry for me about +something, you always have that splendid look. It puts courage into +people to see it. If I had a struggle to face I'd keep remembering that +look--and I'd never give up! It's a brave look, too, as though gaiety +might be a kind of gallantry on your part, and yet I don't quite +understand why it should be, either.” He smiled quizzically, looking +down upon her. “Mary, you haven't a 'secret sorrow,' have you?” + +For answer she only laughed. + +“No,” he said; “I can't imagine you with a care in the world. I think +that's why you were so kind to me--you have nothing but happiness in +your own life, and so you could spare time to make my troubles turn to +happiness, too. But there's one little time in the twenty-four hours +when I'm not happy. It's now, when I have to say good night. I feel +dismal every time it comes--and then, when I've left the house, there's +a bad little blankness, a black void, as though I were temporarily +dead; and it lasts until I get it established in my mind that I'm really +beginning another day that's to end with YOU again. Then I cheer up. But +now's the bad time--and I must go through it, and so--good night.” And +he added with a pungent vehemence of which he was little aware, “I hate +it!” + +“Do you?” she said, rising to go to the door with him. But he stood +motionless, gazing at her wonderingly. + +“Mary! Your eyes are so--” He stopped. + +“Yes?” But she looked quickly away. + +“I don't know,” he said. “I thought just then--” + +“What did you think?” + +“I don't know--it seemed to me that there was something I ought to +understand--and didn't.” + +She laughed and met his wondering gaze again frankly. “My eyes are +pleased,” she said. “I'm glad that you miss me a little after you go.” + +“But to-morrow's coming faster than other days if you'll let it,” he +said. + +She inclined her head. “Yes. I'll--'let it'!” + +“Going to church,” said Bibbs. “It IS going to church when I go with +you!” + +She went to the front door with him; she always went that far. They had +formed a little code of leave-taking, by habit, neither of them ever +speaking of it; but it was always the same. She always stood in the +doorway until he reached the sidewalk, and there he always turned and +looked back, and she waved her hand to him. Then he went on, halfway to +the New House, and looked back again, and Mary was not in the doorway, +but the door was open and the light shone. It was as if she meant to +tell him that she would never shut him out; he could always see that +friendly light of the open doorway--as if it were open for him to come +back, if he would. He could see it until a wing of the New House came +between, when he went up the path. The open doorway seemed to him the +beautiful symbol of her friendship--of her thought of him; a symbol of +herself and of her ineffable kindness. + +And she kept the door open--even to-night, though the sleet and fine +snow swept in upon her bare throat and arms, and her brown hair was +strewn with tiny white stars. His heart leaped as he turned and saw that +she was there, waving her hand to him, as if she did not know that the +storm touched her. When he had gone on, Mary did as she always did--she +went into an unlit room across the hall from that in which they had +spent the evening, and, looking from the window, watched him until he +was out of sight. The storm made that difficult to-night, but she +caught a glimpse of him under the street-lamp that stood between the two +houses, and saw that he turned to look back again. Then, and not before, +she looked at the upper windows of Roscoe's house across the street. +They were dark. Mary waited, but after a little while she closed the +front door and returned to her window. A moment later two of the upper +windows of Roscoe's house flashed into light and a hand lowered the +shade of one of them. Mary felt the cold then--it was the third night +she had seen those windows lighted and the shade lowered, just after +Bibbs had gone. + +But Bibbs had no glance to spare for Roscoe's windows. He stopped for +his last look back at the open door, and, with a thin mantle of white +already upon his shoulders, made his way, gasping in the wind, to the +lee of the sheltering wing of the New House. + +A stricken George, muttering hoarsely, admitted him, and Bibbs became +aware of a paroxysm within the house. Terrible sounds came from the +library: Sheridan cursing as never before; his wife sobbing, her voice +rising to an agonized squeal of protest upon each of a series of muffled +detonations--the outrageous thumping of a bandaged hand upon wood; then +Gurney, sharply imperious, “Keep your hand in that sling! Keep your hand +in that sling, I say!” + +“LOOK!” George gasped, delighted to play herald for so important a +tragedy; and he renewed upon his face the ghastly expression with which +he had first beheld the ruins his calamitous gesture laid before the +eyes of Bibbs. “Look at 'at lamidal statue!” + +Gazing down the hall, Bibbs saw heroic wreckage, seemingly +Byzantine--painted colossal fragments of the shattered torso, +appallingly human; and gilded and silvered heaps of magnificence strewn +among ruinous palms like the spoil of a barbarians' battle. There had +been a massacre in the oasis--the Moor had been hurled headlong from his +pedestal. + +“He hit 'at ole lamidal statue,” said George. “POW!” + +“My father?” + +“YESsuh! POW! he hit 'er! An' you' ma run tell me git doctuh quick 's +I kin telefoam--she sho' you' pa goin' bus' a blood-vessel. He ain't +takin' on 'tall NOW. He ain't nothin' 'tall to what he was 'while ago. +You done miss' it, Mist' Bibbs. Doctuh got him all quiet' down, to what +he was. POW! he hit'er! Yessuh!” He took Bibbs's coat and proffered a +crumpled telegraph form. “Here what come,” he said. “I pick 'er up when +he done stompin' on 'er. You read 'er, Mist' Bibbs--you' ma tell me tuhn +'er ovuh to you soon's you come in.” + +Bibbs read the telegram quickly. It was from New York and addressed to +Mrs. Sheridan. + + Sure you will all approve step have taken as was so wretched my + health would probably suffered severely Robert and I were married + this afternoon thought best have quiet wedding absolutely sure + you will understand wisdom of step when you know Robert better am + happiest woman in world are leaving for Florida will wire address + when settled will remain till spring love to all father will like + him too when knows him like I do he is just ideal. + Edith Lamhorn. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +George departed, and Bibbs was left gazing upon chaos and listening to +thunder. He could not reach the stairway without passing the open doors +of the library, and he was convinced that the mere glimpse of him, just +then, would prove nothing less than insufferable for his father. For +that reason he was about to make his escape into the gold-and-brocade +room, intending to keep out of sight, when he heard Sheridan +vociferously demanding his presence. + +“Tell him to come in here! He's out there. I heard George just let him +in. Now you'll SEE!” And tear-stained Mrs. Sheridan, looking out into +the hall, beckoned to her son. + +Bibbs went as far as the doorway. Gurney sat winding a strip of white +cotton, his black bag open upon a chair near by; and Sheridan was +striding up and down, his hand so heavily wrapped in fresh bandages that +he seemed to be wearing a small boxing-glove. His eyes were bloodshot; +his forehead was heavily bedewed; one side of his collar had broken +loose, and there were blood-stains upon his right cuff. + +“THERE'S our little sunshine!” he cried, as Bibbs appeared. “THERE'S the +hope o' the family--my lifelong pride and joy! I want--” + +“Keep you hand in that sling,” said Gurney, sharply. + +Sheridan turned upon him, uttering a sound like a howl. “For God's sake, +sing another tune!” he cried. “You said you 'came as a doctor but stay +as a friend,' and in that capacity you undertake to sit up and criticize +ME--” + +“Oh, talk sense,” said the doctor, and yawned intentionally. “What do +you want Bibbs to say?” + +“You were sittin' up there tellin' me I got 'hysterical'--'hysterical,' +oh Lord! You sat up there and told me I got 'hysterical' over nothin'! +You sat up there tellin' me I didn't have as heavy burdens as many +another man you knew. I just want you to hear THIS. Now listen!” He +swung toward the quiet figure waiting in the doorway. “Bibbs, will you +come down-town with me Monday morning and let me start you with two +vice-presidencies, a directorship, stock, and salaries? I ask you.” + +“No, father,” said Bibbs, gently. + +Sheridan looked at Gurney and then faced his son once more. + +“Bibbs, you want to stay in the shop, do you, at nine dollars a week, +instead of takin' up my offer?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“And I'd like the doctor to hear: What'll you do if I decide you're +too high-priced a workin'-man either to live in my house or work in my +shop?” + +“Find other work,” said Bibbs. + +“There! You hear him for yourself!” Sheridan cried. “You hear what--” + +“Keep you hand in that sling! Yes, I hear him.” + +Sheridan leaned over Gurney and shouted, in a voice that cracked and +broke, piping into falsetto: “He thinks of bein' a PLUMBER! He wants to +be a PLUMBER! He told me he couldn't THINK if he went into business--he +wants to be a plumber so he can THINK!” + +He fell back a step, wiping his forhead with the back of his left hand. +“There! That's my son! That's the only son I got now! That's my chance +to live,” he cried, with a bitterness that seemed to leave ashes in his +throat. “That's my one chance to live--that thing you see in the doorway +yonder!” + +Dr. Gurney thoughtfully regarded the bandage strip he had been winding, +and tossed it into the open bag. “What's the matter with giving Bibbs a +chance to live?” he said, coolly. “I would if I were you. You've had TWO +that went into business.” + +Sheridan's mouth moved grotesquely before he could speak. “Joe Gurney,” + he said, when he could command himself so far, “are you accusin' me of +the responsibility for the death of my son James?” + +“I accuse you of nothing,” said the doctor. “But just once I'd like +to have it out with you on the question of Bibbs--and while he's here, +too.” He got up, walked to the fire, and stood warming his hands behind +his back and smiling. “Look here, old fellow, let's be reasonable,” he +said. “You were bound Bibbs should go to the shop again, and I gave you +and him, both, to understand pretty plainly that if he went it was at +the risk of his life. Well, what did he do? He said he wanted to go. And +he did go, and he's made good there. Now, see: Isn't that enough? Can't +you let him off now? He wants to write, and how do you know that he +couldn't do it if you gave him a chance? How do you know he hasn't some +message--something to say that might make the world just a little +bit happier or wiser? He MIGHT--in time--it's a possibility not to be +denied. Now he can't deliver any message if he goes down there with you, +and he won't HAVE any to deliver. I don't say going down with you is +likely to injure his health, as I thought the shop would, and as the +shop did, the first time. I'm not speaking as doctor now, anyhow. But +I tell you one thing I know: if you take him down there you'll kill +something that I feel is in him, and it's finer, I think, than his +physical body, and you'll kill it deader than a door-nail! And so +why not let it live? You've about come to the end of your string, old +fellow. Why not stop this perpetual devilish fighting and give Bibbs his +chance?” + +Sheridan stood looking at him fixedly. “What 'fighting?'” + +“Yours--with nature.” Gurney sustained the daunting gaze of his fierce +antagonist equably. “You don't seem to understand that you've been +struggling against actual law.” + +“What law?” + +“Natural law,” said Gurney. “What do you think beat you with Edith? Did +Edith, herself, beat you? Didn't she obey without question something +powerful that was against you? EDITH wasn't against you, and you weren't +against HER, but you set yourself against the power that had her in its +grip, and it shot out a spurt of flame--and won in a walk! What's taken +Roscoe from you? Timbers bear just so much strain, old man; but YOU +wanted to send the load across the broken bridge, and you thought you +could bully or coax the cracked thing into standing. Well, you couldn't! +Now here's Bibbs. There are thousands of men fit for the life you want +him to lead--and so is he. It wouldn't take half of Bibbs's brains to be +twice as good a business man as Jim and Roscoe put together.” + +“WHAT!” Sheridan goggled at him like a zany. + +“Your son Bibbs,” said the doctor, composedly, “Bibbs Sheridan has +the kind and quantity of 'gray matter' that will make him a success in +anything--if he ever wakes up! Personally I should prefer him to remain +asleep. I like him that way. But the thousands of men fit for the life +you want him to lead aren't fit to do much with the life he OUGHT +to lead. Blindly, he's been fighting for the chance to lead it--he's +obeying something that begs to stay alive within him; and, blindly, he +knows you'll crush it out. You've set your will to do it. Let me tell +you something more. You don't know what you've become since Jim's going +thwarted you--and that's what was uppermost, a bafflement stronger than +your normal grief. You're half mad with a consuming fury against the +very self of the law--for it was the very self of the law that took Jim +from you. That was a law concerning the cohesion of molecules. The very +self of the law took Roscoe from you and gave Edith the certainty of +beating you; and the very self of the law makes Bibbs deny you to-night. +The LAW beats you. Haven't you been whipped enough? But you want to whip +the law--you've set yourself against it, to bend it to your own ends, to +wield it and twist it--” + +The voice broke from Sheridan's heaving chest in a shout. “Yes! And by +God, I will!” + +“So Ajax defied the lightning,” said Gurney. + +“I've heard that dam'-fool story, too,” Sheridan retorted, fiercely. +“That's for chuldern and niggers. It ain't twentieth century, let me +tell you! 'Defied the lightning,' did he, the jackass! If he'd been half +a man he'd 'a' got away with it. WE don't go showin' off defyin' the +lightning--we hitch it up and make it work for us like a black-steer! A +man nowadays would just as soon think o' defyin' a wood-shed!” + +“Well, what about Bibbs?” said Gurney. “Will you be a really big man now +and--” + +“Gurney, you know a lot about bigness!” Sheridan began to walk to and +fro again, and the doctor returned gloomily to his chair. He had shot +his bolt the moment he judged its chance to strike center was best, but +the target seemed unaware of the marksman. + +“I'm tryin' to make a big man out o' that poor truck yonder,” Sheridan +went on, “and you step in, beggin' me to let him be Lord knows what--I +don't! I suppose you figure it out that now I got a SON-IN-LAW, I +mightn't need a son! Yes, I got a son-in-law now--a spender!” + +“Oh, put your hand back!” said Gurney, wearily. + +There was a bronze inkstand upon the table. Sheridan put his right hand +in the sling, but with his left he swept the inkstand from the table +and half-way across the room--a comet with a destroying black tail. Mrs. +Sheridan shrieked and sprang toward it. + +“Let it lay!” he shouted, fiercely. “Let it lay!” And, weeping, she +obeyed. “Yes, sir,” he went on, in a voice the more ominous for the +sudden hush he put upon it. “I got a spender for a son-in-law! It's +wonderful where property goes, sometimes. There was ole man Tracy--you +remember him, Doc--J. R. Tracy, solid banker. He went into the bank as +messenger, seventeen years old; he was president at forty-three, and he +built that bank with his life for forty years more. He was down there +from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon the day before he +died--over eighty! Gilt edge, that bank? It was diamond edge! He used +to eat a bag o' peanuts and an apple for lunch; but he wasn't +stingy--he was just livin' in his business. He didn't care for pie or +automobiles--he had his bank. It was an institution, and it come pretty +near bein' the beatin' heart o' this town in its time. Well, that ole +man used to pass one o' these here turned-up-nose and turned-up-pants +cigarette boys on the streets. Never spoke to him, Tracy didn't. Speak +to him? God! he wouldn't 'a' coughed on him! He wouldn't 'a' let him +clean the cuspidors at the bank! Why, if he'd 'a' just seen him standin' +in FRONT the bank he'd 'a' had him run off the street. And yet all Tracy +was doin' every day of his life was workin' for that cigarette boy! +Tracy thought it was for the bank; he thought he was givin' his life and +his life-blood and the blood of his brain for the bank, but he wasn't. +It was every bit--from the time he went in at seventeen till he died in +harness at eighty-three--it was every last lick of it just slavin' for +that turned-up-nose, turned-up-pants cigarette boy. AND TRACY DIDN'T +EVEN KNOW HIS NAME! He died, not ever havin' heard it, though he chased +him off the front steps of his house once. The day after Tracy died his +old-maid daughter married the cigarette--and there AIN'T any Tracy bank +any more! And now”--his voice rose again--“and now I got a cigarette +son-in-law!” + +Gurney pointed to the flourishing right hand without speaking, and +Sheridan once more returned it to the sling. + +“My son-in-law likes Florida this winter,” Sheridan went on. “That's +good, and my son-in-law better enjoy it, because I don't think he'll be +there next winter. They got twelve-thousand dollars to spend, and I hear +it can be done in Florida by rich sons-in-law. When Roscoe's woman got +me to spend that much on a porch for their new house, Edith wouldn't +give me a minute's rest till I turned over the same to her. And she's +got it, besides what I gave her to go East on. It'll be gone long before +this time next year, and when she comes home and leaves the cigarette +behind--for good--she'll get some more. MY name ain't Tracy, and there +ain't goin' to be any Tracy business in the Sheridan family. And there +ain't goin' to be any college foundin' and endowin' and trusteein', +nor God-knows-what to keep my property alive when I'm gone! Edith'll +be back, and she'll get a girl's share when she's through with that +cigarette, but--” + +“By the way,” interposed Gurney, “didn't Mrs. Sheridan tell me that +Bibbs warned you Edith would marry Lamhorn in New York?” + +Sheridan went completely to pieces: he swore, while his wife screamed +and stopped her ears. And as he swore he pounded the table with his +wounded hand, and when the doctor, after storming at him ineffectively, +sprang to catch and protect that hand, Sheridan wrenched it away, +tearing the bandage. He hammered the table till it leaped. + +“Fool!” he panted, choking. “If he's shown gumption enough to guess +right the first time in his life, it's enough for me to begin learnin' +him on!” And, struggling with the doctor, he leaned toward Bibbs, +thrusting forward his convulsed face, which was deathly pale. “My name +ain't Tracy, I tell you!” he screamed, hoarsely. “You give in, you +stubborn fool! I've had my way with you before, and I'll have my way +with you now!” + +Bibbs's face was as white as his father's, but he kept remembering that +“splendid look” of Mary's which he had told her would give him courage +in a struggle, so that he would “never give up.” + +“No. You can't have your way,” he said. And then, obeying a significant +motion of Gurney's head, he went out quickly, leaving them struggling. + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +Mrs. Sheridan, in a wrapper, noiselessly opened the door of her +husband's room at daybreak the next morning, and peered within the +darkened chamber. At the “old” house they had shared a room, but the +architect had chosen to separate them at the New, and they had not known +how to formulate an objection, although to both of them something seemed +vaguely reprehensible in the new arrangement. + +Sheridan did not stir, and she was withdrawing her head from the +aperture when he spoke. + +“Oh, I'm AWAKE! Come in, if you want to, and shut the door.” + +She came and sat by the bed. “I woke up thinkin' about it,” she +explained. “And the more I thought about it the surer I got I must +be right, and I knew you'd be tormentin' yourself if you was awake, +so--well, you got plenty other troubles, but I'm just sure you ain't +goin' to have the worry with Bibbs it looks like.” + +“You BET I ain't!” he grunted. + +“Look how biddable he was about goin' back to the Works,” she continued. +“He's a right good-hearted boy, really, and sometimes I honestly have to +say he seems right smart, too. Now and then he'll say something sounds +right bright. 'Course, most always it doesn't, and a good deal of the +time, when he says things, why, I have to feel glad we haven't got +company, because they'd think he didn't have any gumption at all. Yet, +look at the way he did when Jim--when Jim got hurt. He took right hold +o' things. 'Course he'd been sick himself so much and all--and the rest +of us never had, much, and we were kind o' green about what to do in +that kind o' trouble--still, he did take hold, and everything went off +all right; you'll have to say that much, papa. And Dr. Gurney says he's +got brains, and you can't deny but what the doctor's right considerable +of a man. He acts sleepy, but that's only because he's got such a large +practice--he's a pretty wide-awake kind of a man some ways. Well, what +he says last night about Bibbs himself bein' asleep, and how much he'd +amount to if he ever woke up--that's what I got to thinkin' about. You +heard him, papa; he says, 'Bibbs'll be a bigger business man than what +Jim and Roscoe was put together--if he ever wakes up,' he says. Wasn't +that exactly what he says?” + +“I suppose so,” said Sheridan, without exhibiting any interest. +“Gurney's crazier'n Bibbs, but if he wasn't--if what he says was +true--what of it?” + +“Listen, papa. Just suppose Bibbs took it into his mind to get married. +You know where he goes all the time--” + +“Oh, Lord, yes!” Sheridan turned over in the bed, his face to the wall, +leaving visible of himself only the thick grizzle of his hair. “You +better go back to sleep. He runs over there--every minute she'll let +him, I suppose. Go back to bed. There's nothin' in it.” + +“WHY ain't there?” she urged. “I know better--there is, too! You wait +and see. There's just one thing in the world that'll wake the sleepiest +young man alive up--yes, and make him JUMP up--and I don't care who he +is or how sound asleep it looks like he is. That's when he takes it +into his head to pick out some girl and settle down and have a home and +chuldern of his own. THEN, I guess, he'll go out after the money! You'll +see. I've known dozens o' cases, and so've you--moony, no-'count young +men, all notions and talk, goin' to be ministers, maybe or something; +and there's just this one thing takes it out of 'em and brings 'em right +down to business. Well, I never could make out just what it is +Bibbs wants to be, really; doesn't seem he wants to be a minister +exactly--he's so far-away you can't tell, and he never SAYS--but I know +this is goin' to get him right down to common sense. Now, I don't say +that Bibbs has got the idea in his head yet--'r else he wouldn't be +talkin' that fool-talk about nine dollars a week bein' good enough for +him to live on. But it's COMIN', papa, and he'll JUMP for whatever you +want to hand him out. He will! And I can tell you this much, too: he'll +want all the salary and stock he can get hold of, and he'll hustle to +keep gettin' more. That girl's the kind that a young husband just goes +crazy to give things to! She's pretty and fine-lookin', and things look +nice on her, and I guess she'd like to have 'em about as well as the +next. And I guess she isn't gettin' many these days, either, and she'll +be pretty ready for the change. I saw her with her sleeves rolled up at +the kitchen window the other day, and Jackson told me yesterday their +cook left two weeks ago, and they haven't tried to hire another one. He +says her and her mother been doin' the housework a good while, and now +they're doin' the cookin,' too. 'Course Bibbs wouldn't know that +unless she's told him, and I reckon she wouldn't; she's kind o' +stiffish-lookin', and Bibbs is too up in the clouds to notice anything +like that for himself. They've never asked him to a meal in the house, +but he wouldn't notice that, either--he's kind of innocent. Now I was +thinkin'--you know, I don't suppose we've hardly mentioned the girl's +name at table since Jim went, but it seems to me maybe if--” + +Sheridan flung out his arms, uttering a sound half-groan, half-yawn. +“You're barkin' up the wrong tree! Go on back to bed, mamma!” + +“Why am I?” she demanded, crossly. “Why am I barkin' up the wrong tree?” + +“Because you are. There's nothin' in it.” + +“I'll bet you,” she said, rising--“I'll bet you he goes to church with +her this morning. What you want to bet?” + +“Go back to bed,” he commanded. “I KNOW what I'm talkin' about; there's +nothin' in it, I tell you.” + +She shook her head perplexedly. “You think because--because Jim was +runnin' so much with her it wouldn't look right?” + +“No. Nothin' to do with it.” + +“Then--do you know something about it that you ain't told me?” + +“Yes, I do,” he grunted. “Now go on. Maybe I can get a little sleep. I +ain't had any yet!” + +“Well--” She went to the door, her expression downcast. “I thought +maybe--but--” She coughed prefatorily. “Oh, papa, something else I +wanted to tell you. I was talkin' to Roscoe over the 'phone last night +when the telegram came, so I forgot to tell you, but--well, Sibyl wants +to come over this afternoon. Roscoe says she has something she wants to +say to us. It'll be the first time she's been out since she was able to +sit up--and I reckon she wants to tell us she's sorry for what happened. +They expect to get off by the end o' the week, and I reckon she wants to +feel she's done what she could to kind o' make up. Anyway, that's +what he said. I 'phoned him again about Edith, and he said it wouldn't +disturb Sibyl, because she'd been expectin' it; she was sure all +along it was goin' to happen; and, besides, I guess she's got all that +foolishness pretty much out of her, bein' so sick. But what I thought +was, no use bein' rough with her, papa--I expect she's suffered a +good deal--and I don't think we'd ought to be, on Roscoe's account. +You'll--you'll be kind o' polite to her, won't you, papa?” + +He mumbled something which was smothered under the coverlet he had +pulled over his head. + +“What?” she said, timidly. “I was just sayin' I hoped you'd treat Sibyl +all right when she comes, this afternoon. You will, won't you, papa?” + +He threw the coverlet off furiously. “I presume so!” he roared. + +She departed guiltily. + +But if he had accepted her proffered wager that Bibbs would go to +church with Mary Vertrees that morning, Mrs. Sheridan would have lost. +Nevertheless, Bibbs and Mary did certainly set out from Mr. Vertrees's +house with the purpose of going to church. That was their intention, and +they had no other. They meant to go to church. + +But it happened that they were attentively preoccupied in a conversation +as they came to the church; and though Mary was looking to the right and +Bibbs was looking to the left, Bibbs's leftward glance converged with +Mary's rightward glance, and neither was looking far beyond the other +at this time. It also happened that, though they were a little jostled +among groups of people in the vicinity of the church, they passed this +somewhat prominent edifice without being aware of their proximity to it, +and they had gone an incredible number of blocks beyond it before +they discovered their error. However, feeling that they might be +embarrassingly late if they returned, they decided that a walk would +make them as good. It was a windless winter morning, with an inch of +crisp snow over the ground. So they walked, and for the most part they +were silent, but on their way home, after they had turned back at noon, +they began to be talkative again. + +“Mary,” said Bibbs, after a time, “am I a sleep-walker?” + +She laughed a little, then looked grave. “Does your father say you are?” + +“Yes--when he's in a mood to flatter me. Other times, other names. He +has quite a list.” + +“You mustn't mind,” she said, gently. “He's been getting some pretty +severe shocks. What you've told me makes me pretty sorry for him, Bibbs. +I've always been sure he's very big.” + +“Yes. Big and--blind. He's like a Hercules without eyes and without any +consciousness except that of his strength and of his purpose to grow +stronger. Stronger for what? For nothing.” + +“Are you sure, Bibbs? It CAN'T be for nothing; it must be stronger for +something, even though he doesn't know what it is. Perhaps what he and +his kind are struggling for is something so great they COULDN'T see +it--so great none of us could see it.” + +“No, he's just like some blind, unconscious thing heaving underground--” + +“Till he breaks through and leaps out into the daylight,” she finished +for him, cheerily. + +“Into the smoke,” said Bibbs. “Look at the powder of coal-dust already +dirtying the decent snow, even though it's Sunday. That's from the +little pigs; the big ones aren't so bad, on Sunday! There's a fleck of +soot on your cheek. Some pig sent it out into the air; he might as well +have thrown it on you. It would have been braver, for then he'd have +taken his chance of my whipping him for it if I could.” + +“IS there soot on my cheek, Bibbs, or were you only saying so +rhetorically? IS there?” + +“Is there? There ARE soot on your cheeks, Mary--a fleck on each. One +landed since I mentioned the first.” + +She halted immediately, giving him her handkerchief, and he succeeded in +transferring most of the black from her face to the cambric. They were +entirely matter-of-course about it. + +An elderly couple, it chanced, had been walking behind Bibbs and Mary +for the last block or so, and passed ahead during the removal of the +soot. “There!” said the elderly wife. “You're always wrong when +you begin guessing about strangers. Those two young people aren't +honeymooners at all--they've been married for years. A blind man could +see that.” + + +“I wish I did know who threw that soot on you,” said Bibbs, looking up +at the neighboring chimneys, as they went on. “They arrest children for +throwing snowballs at the street-cars, but--” + +“But they don't arrest the street-cars for shaking all the pictures in +the houses crooked every time they go by. Nor for the uproar they make. +I wonder what's the cost in nerves for the noise of the city each year. +Yes, we pay the price for living in a 'growing town,' whether we have +money to pay or none.” + +“Who is it gets the pay?” said Bibbs. + +“Not I!” she laughed. + +“Nobody gets it. There isn't any pay; there's only money. And only some +of the men down-town get much of that. That's what my father wants me to +get.” + +“Yes,” she said, smiling to him, and nodding. “And you don't want it, +and you don't need it.” + +“But you don't think I'm a sleep-walker, Mary?” He had told her of his +father's new plans for him, though he had not described the vigor and +picturesqueness of their setting forth. “You think I'm right?” + +“A thousand times!” she cried. “There aren't so many happy people in +this world, I think--and you say you've found what makes you happy. If +it's a dream--keep it!” + +“The thought of going down there--into the money shuffle--I hate it as +I never hated the shop!” he said. “I hate it! And the city itself, the +city that the money shuffle has made--just look at it! Look at it in +winter. The snow's tried hard to make the ugliness bearable, but the +ugliness is winning; it's making the snow hideous; the snow's getting +dirty on top, and it's foul underneath with the dirt and disease of the +unclean street. And the dirt and the ugliness and the rush and the noise +aren't the worst of it; it's what the dirt and ugliness and rush and +noise MEAN--that's the worst! The outward things are insufferable, but +they're only the expression of a spirit--a blind embryo of a spirit, not +yet a soul--oh, just greed! And this 'go ahead' nonsense! Oughtn't it +all to be a fellowship? I shouldn't want to get ahead if I could--I'd +want to help the other fellow to keep up with me.” + +“I read something the other day and remembered it for you,” said Mary. +“It was something Burne-Jones said of a picture he was going to paint: +'In the first picture I shall make a man walking in the street of +a great city, full of all kinds of happy life: children, and lovers +walking, and ladies leaning from the windows all down great lengths of +a street leading to the city walls; and there the gates are wide open, +letting in a space of green field and cornfield in harvest; and all +round his head a great rain of swirling autumn leaves blowing from a +little walled graveyard.” + +“And if I painted,” Bibbs returned, “I'd paint a lady walking in the +street of a great city, full of all kinds of uproarious and futile +life--children being taught only how to make money, and lovers hurrying +to get richer, and ladies who'd given up trying to wash their windows +clean, and the gates of the city wide open, letting in slums and +slaughter-houses and freight-yards, and all round this lady's head a +great rain of swirling soot--” He paused, adding, thoughtfully: “And yet +I believe I'm glad that soot got on your cheek. It was just as if I were +your brother--the way you gave me your handkerchief to rub it off for +you. Still, Edith never--” + +“Didn't she?” said Mary, as he paused again. + +“No. And I--” He contented himself with shaking his head instead of +offering more definite information. Then he realized that they were +passing the New House, and he sighed profoundly. “Mary, our walk's +almost over.” + +She looked as blank. “So it is, Bibbs.” + +They said no more until they came to her gate. As they drifted slowly +to a stop, the door of Roscoe's house opened, and Roscoe came out with +Sibyl, who was startlingly pale. She seemed little enfeebled by her +illness, however, walking rather quickly at her husband's side and not +taking his arm. The two crossed the street without appearing to see Mary +and her companion, and entering the New House, were lost to sight. Mary +gazed after them gravely, but Bibbs, looking at Mary, did not see them. + +“Mary,” he said, “you seem very serious. Is anything bothering you?” + +“No, Bibbs.” And she gave him a bright, quick look that made him +instantly unreasonably happy. + +“I know you want to go in--” he began. + +“No. I don't want to.” + +“I mustn't keep you standing here, and I mustn't go in with you--but--I +just wanted to say--I've seemed very stupid to myself this morning, +grumbling about soot and all that--while all the time I--Mary, I think +it's been the very happiest of all the hours you've given me. I do. +And--I don't know just why--but it's seemed to me that it was one I'd +always remember. And you,” he added, falteringly, “you look so--so +beautiful to-day!” + +“It must have been the soot on my cheek, Bibbs.” + +“Mary, will you tell me something?” he asked. + +“I think I will.” + +“It's something I've had a lot of theories about, but none of them +ever just fits. You used to wear furs in the fall, but now it's so much +colder, you don't--you never wear them at all any more. Why don't you?” + +Her eyes fell for a moment, and she grew red. Then she looked up gaily. +“Bibbs, if I tell you the answer will you promise not to ask any more +questions?” + +“Yes. Why did you stop wearing them?” + +“Because I found I'd be warmer without them!” She caught his hand +quickly in her own for an instant, laughed into his eyes, and ran into +the house. + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +It is the consoling attribute of unused books that their decorative +warmth will so often make even a ready-made library the actual +“living-room” of a family to whom the shelved volumes are indeed sealed. +Thus it was with Sheridan, who read nothing except newspapers, +business letters, and figures; who looked upon books as he looked upon +bric-a-brac or crocheting--when he was at home, and not abed or eating, +he was in the library. + +He stood in the many-colored light of the stained-glass window at the +far end of the long room, when Roscoe and his wife came in, and he +exhaled a solemnity. His deference to the Sabbath was manifest, +as always, in the length of his coat and the closeness of his +Saturday-night shave; and his expression, to match this religious pomp, +was more than Sabbatical, but the most dismaying of his demonstrations +was his keeping his hand in his sling. + +Sibyl advanced to the middle of the room and halted there, not looking +at him, but down at her muff, in which, it could be seen, her hands were +nervously moving. Roscoe went to a chair in another part of the room. +There was a deadly silence. + +But Sibyl found a shaky voice, after an interval of gulping, though she +was unable to lift her eyes, and the darkling lids continued to veil +them. She spoke hurriedly, like an ungifted child reciting something +committed to memory, but her sincerity was none the less evident for +that. + +“Father Sheridan, you and mother Sheridan have always been so kind to +me, and I would hate to have you think I don't appreciate it, from the +way I acted. I've come to tell you I am sorry for the way I did that +night, and to say I know as well as anybody the way I behaved, and it +will never happen again, because it's been a pretty hard lesson; +and when we come back, some day, I hope you'll see that you've got a +daughter-in-law you never need to be ashamed of again. I want to ask +you to excuse me for the way I did, and I can say I haven't any feelings +toward Edith now, but only wish her happiness and good in her new life. +I thank you for all your kindness to me, and I know I made a poor return +for it, but if you can overlook the way I behaved I know I would feel a +good deal happier--and I know Roscoe would, too. I wish to promise not +to be as foolish in the future, and the same error would never occur +again to make us all so unhappy, if you can be charitable enough to +excuse it this time.” + +He looked steadily at her without replying, and she stood before him, +never lifting her eyes; motionless, save where the moving fur proved the +agitation of her hands within the muff. + +“All right,” he said at last. + +She looked up then with vast relief, though there was a revelation of +heavy tears when the eyelids lifted. + +“Thank you,” she said. “There's something else--about something +different--I want to say to you, but I want mother Sheridan to hear it, +too.” + +“She's up-stairs in her room,” said Sheridan. “Roscoe--” + +Sibyl interrupted. She had just seen Bibbs pass through the hall and +begin to ascend the stairs; and in a flash she instinctively perceived +the chance for precisely the effect she wanted. + +“No, let me go,” she said. “I want to speak to her a minute first, +anyway.” + +And she went away quickly, gaining the top of the stairs in time to see +Bibbs enter his room and close the door. Sibyl knew that Bibbs, in his +room, had overheard her quarrel with Edith in the hall outside; for +bitter Edith, thinking the more to shame her, had subsequently informed +her of the circumstance. Sibyl had just remembered this, and with +the recollection there had flashed the thought--out of her own +experience--that people are often much more deeply impressed by words +they overhear than by words directly addressed to them. Sibyl +intended to make it impossible for Bibbs not to overhear. She did not +hesitate--her heart was hot with the old sore, and she believed wholly +in the justice of her cause and in the truth of what she was going to +say. Fate was virtuous at times; it had delivered into her hands the +girl who had affronted her. + +Mrs. Sheridan was in her own room. The approach of Sibyl and Roscoe had +driven her from the library, for she had miscalculated her husband's +mood, and she felt that if he used his injured hand as a mark of +emphasis again, in her presence, she would (as she thought of it) “have +a fit right there.” She heard Sibyl's step, and pretended to be putting +a touch to her hair before a mirror. + +“I was just coming down,” she said, as the door opened. + +“Yes, he wants you to,” said Sibyl. “It's all right, mother Sheridan. +He's forgiven me.” + +Mrs. Sheridan sniffed instantly; tears appeared. She kissed her +daughter-in-law's cheek; then, in silence, regarded the mirror afresh, +wiped her eyes, and applied powder. + +“And I hope Edith will be happy,” Sibyl added, inciting more +applications of Mrs. Sheridan's handkerchief and powder. + +“Yes, yes,” murmured the good woman. “We mustn't make the worst of +things.” + +“Well, there was something else I had to say, and he wants you to hear +it, too,” said Sibyl. “We better go down, mother Sheridan.” + +She led the way, Mrs. Sheridan following obediently, but when they came +to a spot close by Bibbs's door, Sibyl stopped. “I want to tell you +about it first,” she said, abruptly. “It isn't a secret, of course, in +any way; it's something the whole family has to know, and the sooner the +whole family knows it the better. It's something it wouldn't be RIGHT +for us ALL not to understand, and of course father Sheridan most of all. +But I want to just kind of go over it first with you; it'll kind of help +me to see I got it all straight. I haven't got any reason for saying it +except the good of the family, and it's nothing to me, one way or the +other, of course, except for that. I oughtn't to've behaved the way I +did that night, and it seems to me if there's anything I can do to help +the family, I ought to, because it would help show I felt the right way. +Well, what I want to do is to tell this so's to keep the family from +being made a fool of. I don't want to see the family just made use of +and twisted around her finger by somebody that's got no more heart than +so much ice, and just as sure to bring troubles in the long run as--as +Edith's mistake is. Well, then, this is the way it is. I'll just tell +you how it looks to me and see if it don't strike you the same way.” + +Within the room, Bibbs, much annoyed, tapped his ear with his pencil. He +wished they wouldn't stand talking near his door when he was trying to +write. He had just taken from his trunk the manuscript of a poem begun +the preceding Sunday afternoon, and he had some ideas he wanted to +fix upon paper before they maliciously seized the first opportunity +to vanish, for they were but gossamer. Bibbs was pleased with the +beginnings of his poem, and if he could carry it through he meant to +dare greatly with it--he would venture it upon an editor. For he had +his plan of life now: his day would be of manual labor and thinking--he +could think of his friend and he could think in cadences for poems, to +the crashing of the strong machine--and if his father turned him out of +home and out of the Works, he would work elsewhere and live elsewhere. +His father had the right, and it mattered very little to Bibbs--he faced +the prospect of a working-man's lodging-house without trepidation. He +could find a washstand to write upon, he thought; and every evening when +he left Mary he would write a little; and he would write on holidays and +on Sundays--on Sundays in the afternoon. In a lodging-house, at least +he wouldn't be interrupted by his sister-in-law's choosing the immediate +vicinity of his door for conversations evidently important to herself, +but merely disturbing to him. He frowned plaintively, wishing he could +think of some polite way of asking her to go away. But, as she went on, +he started violently, dropping manuscript and pencil upon the floor. + +“I don't know whether you heard it, mother Sheridan,” she said, “but +this old Vertrees house, next door, had been sold on foreclosure, and +all THEY got out of it was an agreement that let's 'em live there a +little longer. Roscoe told me, and he says he heard Mr. Vertrees has +been up and down the streets more'n two years, tryin' to get a job he +could call a 'position,' and couldn't land it. You heard anything about +it, mother Sheridan?” + +“Well, I DID know they been doin' their own house-work a good while +back,” said Mrs. Sheridan. “And now they're doin' the cookin', too.” + +Sibyl sent forth a little titter with a sharp edge. “I hope they find +something to cook! She sold her piano mighty quick after Jim died!” + +Bibbs jumped up. He was trembling from head to foot and he was dizzy--of +all the real things he could never have dreamed in his dream the last +would have been what he heard now. He felt that something incredible was +happening, and that he was powerless to stop it. It seemed to him that +heavy blows were falling on his head and upon Mary's; it seemed to +him that he and Mary were being struck and beaten physically--and that +something hideous impended. He wanted to shout to Sibyl to be silent, +but he could not; he could only stand, swallowing and trembling. + +“What I think the whole family ought to understand is just this,” said +Sibyl, sharply. “Those people were so hard up that this Miss Vertrees +started after Bibbs before they knew whether he was INSANE or not! +They'd got a notion he might be, from his being in a sanitarium, and +Mrs. Vertrees ASKED me if he was insane, the very first day Bibbs took +the daughter out auto-riding!” She paused a moment, looking at Mrs. +Sheridan, but listening intently. There was no sound from within the +room. + +“No!” exclaimed Mrs. Sheridan. + +“It's the truth,” Sibyl declared, loudly. “Oh, of course we were all +crazy about that girl at first. We were pretty green when we moved up +here, and we thought she'd get us IN--but it didn't take ME long to read +her! Her family were down and out when it came to money--and they had to +go after it, one way or another, SOMEHOW! So she started for Roscoe; but +she found out pretty quick he was married, and she turned right around +to Jim--and she landed him! There's no doubt about it, she had Jim, and +if he'd lived you'd had another daughter-in-law before this, as sure as +I stand here telling you the God's truth about it! Well--when Jim was +left in the cemetery she was waiting out there to drive home with Bibbs! +Jim wasn't COLD--and she didn't know whether Bibbs was insane or not, +but he was the only one of the rich Sheridan boys left. She had to get +him.” + +The texture of what was the truth made an even fabric with what was not, +in Sibyl's mind; she believed every word that she uttered, and she spoke +with the rapidity and vehemence of fierce conviction. + +“What I feel about it is,” she said, “it oughtn't to be allowed to go +on. It's too mean! I like poor Bibbs, and I don't want to see him made +such a fool of, and I don't want to see the family made such a fool of! +I like poor Bibbs, but if he'd only stop to think a minute himself he'd +have to realize he isn't the kind of man ANY girl would be apt to fall +in love with. He's better-looking lately, maybe, but you know how he +WAS--just kind of a long white rag in good clothes. And girls like +men with some GO to 'em--SOME sort of dashingness, anyhow! Nobody ever +looked at poor Bibbs before, and neither'd she--no, SIR! not till she'd +tried both Roscoe and Jim first! It was only when her and her family got +desperate that she--” + +Bibbs--whiter than when he came from the sanitarium--opened the door. +He stepped across its threshold and stook looking at her. Both women +screamed. + +“Oh, good heavens!” cried Sibyl. “Were you in THERE? Oh, I wouldn't--” + She seized Mrs. Sheridan's arm, pulling her toward the stairway. “Come +on, mother Sheridan!” she urged, and as the befuddled and confused lady +obeyed, Sibyl left a trail of noisy exclamations: “Good gracious! Oh, +I wouldn't--too bad! I didn't DREAM he was there! I wouldn't hurt his +feelings! Not for the world! Of course he had to know SOME time! But, +good heavens--” + +She heard his door close as she and Mrs. Sheridan reached the top of +the stairs, and she glanced over her shoulder quickly, but Bibbs was not +following; he had gone back into his room. + +“He--he looked--oh, terrible bad!” stammered Mrs. Sheridan. “I--I +wish--” + +“Still, it's a good deal better he knows about it,” said Sibyl. “I +shouldn't wonder it might turn out the very best thing could happened. +Come on!” + +And completing their descent to the library, the two made their +appearance to Roscoe and his father. Sibyl at once gave a full and +truthful account of what had taken place, repeating her own remarks, +and omitting only the fact that it was through her design that Bibbs had +overheard them. + +“But as I told mother Sheridan,” she said, in conclusion, “it might turn +out for the very best that he did hear--just that way. Don't you think +so, father Sheridan?” + +He merely grunted in reply, and sat rubbing the thick hair on the top +of his head with his left hand and looking at the fire. He had given no +sign of being impressed in any manner by her exposure of Mary Vertrees's +character; but his impassivity did not dismay Sibyl--it was Bibbs whom +she desired to impress, and she was content in that matter. + +“I'm sure it was all for the best,” she said. “It's over now, and +he knows what she is. In one way I think it was lucky, because, just +hearing a thing that way, a person can tell it's SO--and he knows I +haven't got any ax to grind except his own good and the good of the +family.” + +Mrs. Sheridan went nervously to the door and stood there, looking toward +the stairway. “I wish--I wish I knew what he was doin',” she said. “He +did look terrible bad. It was like something had been done to him +that was--I don't know what. I never saw anybody look like he did. +He looked--so queer. It was like you'd--” She called down the hall, +“George!” + +“Yes'm?” + +“Were you up in Mr. Bibbs's room just now?” + +“Yes'm. He ring bell; tole me make him fiah in his grate. I done buil' +him nice fiah. I reckon he ain' feelin' so well. Yes'm.” He departed. + +“What do you expect he wants a fire for?” she asked, turning toward her +husband. “The house is warm as can be, I do wish I--” + +“Oh, quit frettin'!” said Sheridan. + +“Well, I--I kind o' wish you hadn't said anything, Sibyl. I know you +meant it for the best and all, but I don't believe it would been so much +harm if--” + +“Mother Sheridan, you don't mean you WANT that kind of a girl in the +family? Why, she--” + +“I don't know, I don't know,” the troubled woman quavered. “If he liked +her it seems kind of a pity to spoil it. He's so queer, and he hasn't +ever taken much enjoyment. And besides, I believe the way it was, there +was more chance of him bein' willin' to do what papa wants him to. If +she wants to marry him--” + +Sheridan interrupted her with a hooting laugh. “She don't!” he said. +“You're barkin' up the wrong tree, Sibyl. She ain't that kind of a +girl.” + +“But, father Sheridan, didn't she--” + +He cut her short. “That's enough. You may mean all right, but you guess +wrong. So do you, mamma.” + +Sibyl cried out, “Oh! But just LOOK how she ran after Jim--” + +“She did not,” he said, curtly. “She wouldn't take Jim. She turned him +down cold.” + +“But that's impossi--” + +“It's not. I KNOW she did.” + +Sibyl looked flatly incredulous. + +“And YOU needn't worry,” he said, turning to his wife. “This won't have +any effect on your idea, because there wasn't any sense to it, anyhow. +D'you think she'd be very likely to take Bibbs--after she wouldn't take +JIM? She's a good-hearted girl, and she lets Bibbs come to see her, +but if she'd ever given him one sign of encouragement the way you women +think, he wouldn't of acted the stubborn fool he has--he'd 'a' been at +me long ago, beggin' me for some kind of a job he could support a wife +on. There's nothin' in it--and I've got the same old fight with him on +my hands I've had all his life--and the Lord knows what he won't do +to balk me! What's happened now'll probably only make him twice as +stubborn, but--” + +“SH!” Mrs. Sheridan, still in the doorway, lifted her hand. “That's his +step--he's comin' down-stairs.” She shrank away from the door as if +she feared to have Bibbs see her. “I--I wonder--” she said, almost in a +whisper--“I wonder what he's goin'--to do.” + +Her timorousness had its effect upon the others. Sheridan rose, +frowning, but remained standing beside his chair; and Roscoe moved +toward Sibyl, who stared uneasily at the open doorway. They listened as +the slow steps descended the stairs and came toward the library. + +Bibbs stopped upon the threshold, and with sick and haggard eyes looked +slowly from one to the other until at last his gaze rested upon his +father. Then he came and stood before him. + +“I'm sorry you've had so much trouble with me,” he said, gently. “You +won't, any more. I'll take the job you offered me.” + +Sheridan did not speak--he stared, astounded and incredulous; and Bibbs +had left the room before any of its occupants uttered a sound, though he +went as slowly as he came. Mrs. Sheridan was the first to move. She went +nervously back to the doorway, and then out into the hall. Bibbs had +gone from the house. + +Bibbs's mother had a feeling about him then that she had never known +before; it was indefinite and vague, but very poignant--something in her +mourned for him uncomprehendingly. She felt that an awful thing had been +done to him, though she did not know what it was. She went up to his +room. + +The fire George had built for him was almost smothered under thick, +charred ashes of paper. The lid of his trunk stood open, and the +large upper tray, which she remembered to have seen full of papers and +note-books, was empty. And somehow she understood that Bibbs had given +up the mysterious vocation he had hoped to follow--and that he had +given it up for ever. She thought it was the wisest thing he could have +done--and yet, for an unknown reason, she sat upon the bed and wept a +little before she went down-stairs. + +So Sheridan had his way with Bibbs, all through. + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +As Bibbs came out of the New House, a Sunday trio was in course of +passage upon the sidewalk: an ample young woman, placid of face; +a black-clad, thin young man, whose expression was one of habitual +anxiety, habitual wariness and habitual eagerness. He propelled a +perambulator containing the third--and all three were newly cleaned, +Sundayfied, and made fit to dine with the wife's relatives. + +“How'd you like for me to be THAT young fella, mamma?” the husband +whispered. “He's one of the sons, and there ain't but two left now.” + +The wife stared curiously at Bibbs. “Well, I don't know,” she returned. +“He looks to me like he had his own troubles.” + +“I expect he has, like anybody else,” said the young husband, “but I +guess we could stand a good deal if we had his money.” + +“Well, maybe, if you keep on the way you been, baby'll be as well fixed +as the Sheridans. You can't tell.” She glanced back at Bibbs, who had +turned north. “He walks kind of slow and stooped over, like.” + +“So much money in his pockets it makes him sag, I guess,” said the young +husband, with bitter admiration. + +Mary, happening to glance from a window, saw Bibbs coming, and she +started, clasping her hands together in a sudden alarm. She met him at +the door. + +“Bibbs!” she cried. “What is the matter? I saw something was terribly +wrong when I--You look--” She paused, and he came in, not lifting his +eyes to hers. Always when he crossed that threshold he had come with +his head up and his wistful gaze seeking hers. “Ah, poor boy!” she said, +with a gesture of understanding and pity. “I know what it is!” + +He followed her into the room where they always sat, and sank into a +chair. + +“You needn't tell me,” she said. “They've made you give up. Your +father's won--you're going to do what he wants. You've given up.” + +Still without looking at her, he inclined his head in affirmation. + +She gave a little cry of compassion, and came and sat near him. “Bibbs,” + she said. “I can be glad of one thing, though it's selfish. I can be +glad you came straight to me. It's more to me than even if you'd come +because you were happy.” She did not speak again for a little while; +then she said: “Bibbs--dear--could you tell me about it? Do you want +to?” + +Still he did not look up, but in a voice, shaken and husky he asked her +a question so grotesque that at first she thought she had misunderstood +his words. + +“Mary,” he said, “could you marry me?” + +“What did you say, Bibbs?” she asked, quietly. + +His tone and attitude did not change. “Will you marry me?” + +Both of her hands leaped to her cheeks--she grew red and then white. +She rose slowly and moved backward from him, staring at him, at first +incredulously, then with an intense perplexity more and more luminous +in her wide eyes; it was like a spoken question. The room filled with +strangeness in the long silence--the two were so strange to each other. +At last she said: + +“What made you say that?” + +He did not answer. + +“Bibbs, look at me!” Her voice was loud and clear. “What made you say +that? Look at me!” + +He could not look at her, and he could not speak. + +“What was it that made you?” she said. “I want you to tell me.” + +She went closer to him, her eyes ever brighter and wider with that +intensity of wonder. “You've given up--to your father,” she said, +slowly, “and then you came to ask me--” She broke off. “Bibbs, do you +want me to marry you?” + +“Yes,” he said, just audibly. + +“No!” she cried. “You do not. Then what made you ask me? What is it +that's happened?” + +“Nothing.” + +“Wait,” she said. “Let me think. It's something that happened since our +walk this morning--yes, since you left me at noon. Something happened +that--” She stopped abruptly, with a tremulous murmur of amazement and +dawning comprehension. She remembered that Sibyl had gone to the New +House. + +Bibbs swallowed painfully and contrived to say, “I do--I do want you +to--marry me, if--if--you could.” + +She looked at him, and slowly shook her head. “Bibbs, do you--” Her +voice was as unsteady as his--little more than a whisper. “Do you think +I'm--in love with you?” + +“No,” he said. + +Somewhere in the still air of the room there was a whispered word; it +did not seem to come from Mary's parted lips, but he was aware of it. +“Why?” + +“I've had nothing but dreams,” Bibbs said, desolately, “but they weren't +like that. Sibyl said no girl could care about me.” He smiled faintly, +though still he did not look at Mary. “And when I first came home Edith +told me Sibyl was so anxious to marry that she'd have married ME. She +meant it to express Sibyl's extremity, you see. But I hardly needed +either of them to tell me. I hadn't thought of myself as--well, not as +particularly captivating!” + +Oddly enough, Mary's pallor changed to an angry flush. “Those two!” she +exclaimed, sharply; and then, with thoroughgoing contempt: “Lamhorn! +That's like them!” She turned away, went to the bare little black +mantel, and stood leaning upon it. Presently she asked: “WHEN did Mrs. +Roscoe Sheridan say that 'no girl' could care about you?” + +“To-day.” + +Mary drew a deep breath. “I think I'm beginning to understand--a +little.” She bit her lip; there was anger in good truth in her eyes and +in her voice. “Answer me once more,” she said. “Bibbs, do you know now +why I stopped wearing my furs?” + +“Yes.” + +“I thought so! Your sister-in-law told you, didn't she?” + +“I--I heard her say--” + +“I think I know what happened, now.” Mary's breath came fast and her +voice shook, but she spoke rapidly. “You 'heard her say' more than that. +You 'heard her say' that we were bitterly poor, and on that account I +tried first to marry your brother--and then--” But now she faltered, and +it was only after a convulsive effort that she was able to go on. “And +then--that I tried to marry--you! You 'heard her say' that--and you +believe that I don't care for you and that 'no girl' could care for +you--but you think I am in such an 'extremity,' as Sibyl was--that you-- +And so, not wanting me, and believing that I could not want you--except +for my 'extremity'--you took your father's offer and then came to ask +me--to marry you! What had I shown you of myself that could make you--” + +Suddenly she sank down, kneeling, with her face buried in her arms upon +the lap of a chair, tears overwhelming her. + +“Mary, Mary!” he cried, helplessly. “Oh NO--you--you don't understand.” + +“I do, though!” she sobbed. “I do!” + +He came and stood beside her. “You kill me!” he said. “I can't make it +plain. From the first of your loveliness to me, I was all self. It was +always you that gave and I that took. I was the dependent--I did nothing +but lean on you. We always talked of me, not of you. It was all about my +idiotic distresses and troubles. I thought of you as a kind of wonderful +being that had no mortal or human suffering except by sympathy. You +seemed to lean down--out of a rosy cloud--to be kind to me. I never +dreamed I could do anything for YOU! I never dreamed you could need +anything to be done for you by anybody. And to-day I heard that--that +you--” + +“You heard that I needed to marry--some one--anybody--with money,” she +sobbed. “And you thought we were so--so desperate--you believed that I +had--” + +“No!” he said, quickly. “I didn't believe you'd done one kind thing +for me--for that. No, no, no! I knew you'd NEVER thought of me except +generously--to give. I said I couldn't make it plain!” he cried, +despairingly. + +“Wait!” She lifted her head and extended her hands to him unconsciously, +like a child. “Help me up, Bibbs.” Then, when she was once more upon her +feet, she wiped her eyes and smiled upon him ruefully and faintly, but +reassuringly, as if to tell him, in that way, that she knew he had +not meant to hurt her. And that smile of hers, so lamentable, but so +faithfully friendly, misted his own eyes, for his shamefacedness lowered +them no more. + +“Let me tell you what you want to tell me,” she said. “You can't, +because you can't put it into words--they are too humiliating for me +and you're too gentle to say them. Tell me, though, isn't it true? You +didn't believe that I'd tried to make you fall in love with me--” + +“Never! Never for an instant!” + +“You didn't believe I'd tried to make you want to marry me--” + +“No, no, no!” + +“I believe it, Bibbs. You thought that I was fond of you; you knew I +cared for you--but you didn't think I might be--in love with you. +But you thought that I might marry you without being in love with you +because you did believe I had tried to marry your brother, and--” + +“Mary, I only knew--for the first time--that you--that you were--” + +“Were desperately poor,” she said. “You can't even say that! Bibbs, it +was true: I did try to make Jim want to marry me. I did!” And she sank +down into the chair, weeping bitterly again. Bibbs was agonized. + +“Mary,” he groaned, “I didn't know you COULD cry!” + +“Listen,” she said. “Listen till I get through--I want you to +understand. We were poor, and we weren't fitted to be. We never had +been, and we didn't know what to do. We'd been almost rich; there was +plenty, but my father wanted to take advantage of the growth of the +town; he wanted to be richer, but instead--well, just about the time +your father finished building next door we found we hadn't anything. +People say that, sometimes, meaning that they haven't anything in +comparison with other people of their own kind, but we really hadn't +anything--we hadn't anything at all, Bibbs! And we couldn't DO anything. +You might wonder why I didn't 'try to be a stenographer'--and I wonder +myself why, when a family loses its money, people always say the +daughters 'ought to go and be stenographers.' It's curious!--as if a +wave of the hand made you into a stenographer. No, I'd been raised to be +either married comfortably or a well-to-do old maid, if I chose not +to marry. The poverty came on slowly, Bibbs, but at last it was all +there--and I didn't know how to be a stenographer. I didn't know how +to 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. + + + +CHAPTER 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 mail-box 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, exactly, though the +Lord knows you've laid down on me enough. You certainly have!” Sheridan +was baffled. This was not what he wished to say, but his words were +unmanageable; he found himself unable to control them, and his querulous +abuse went on in spite of him. “I can't say I expect much of you--not +from the way you always been, up to now--unless you turn over a new +leaf, and I don't see any encouragement to think you're goin' to do +THAT! If you go down there and show a spark o' real GIT-up, I reckon the +whole office'll fall in a faint. But if you're ever goin' to show any, +you better begin right at the beginning and begin to show it to-morrow.” + +“Yes--I'll try.” + +“You better, if it's in you!” Sheridan was sheerly nonplussed. He had +always been able to say whatever he wished to say, but his tongue seemed +bewitched. He had come to tell Bibbs about Mary's letter, and to his own +angry astonishment he found it impossible to do anything except to scold +like a drudge-driver. “You better come down there with your mind made +up to hustle harder than the hardest workin'-man that's under you, +or you'll not get on very good with me, I tell you! The way to get +ahead--and you better set it down in your books--the way to get ahead is +to do ten times the work of the hardest worker that works FOR you. But +you don't know what work is, yet. All you've ever done was just stand +around and feed a machine a child could handle, and then come home +and take a bath and go callin'. I tell you you're up against a mighty +different proposition now, and if you're worth your salt--and you never +showed any signs of it yet--not any signs that stuck out enough to bang +somebody on the head and make 'em sit up and take notice--well, I want +to say, right here and now--and you better listen, because I want to say +just what I DO say. I say--” + +He meandered to a full stop. His mouth hung open, and his mind was a +hopeless blank. + +Bibbs looked up patiently--an old, old look. “Yes, father; I'm +listening.” + +“That's all,” said Sheridan, frowning heavily. “That's all I came to +say, and you better see't you remember it!” + +He shook his head warningly, and went out, closing the door behind him +with a crash. However, no sound of footsteps indicated his departure. +He stopped just outside the door, and stood there a minute or more. +Then abruptly he turned the knob and exhibited to his son a forehead +liberally covered with perspiration. + +“Look here,” he said, crossly. “That girl over yonder wrote Jim a +letter--” + +“I know,” said Bibbs. “She told me.” + +“Well, I thought you needn't feel so much upset about it--” The door +closed on his voice as he withdrew, but the conclusion of the sentence +was nevertheless audible--“if you knew she wouldn't have Jim, either.” + +And he stamped his way down-stairs to tell his wife to quit her frettin' +and not bother him with any more fool's errands. She was about to +inquire what Bibbs “said,” but after a second thought she decided not +to speak at all. She merely murmured a wordless assent, and verbal +communication was given over between them for the rest of that +afternoon. + +Bibbs and his father were gone when Mrs. Sheridan woke, the next +morning, and she had a dreary day. She missed Edith woefully, and she +worried about what might be taking place in the Sheridan Building. She +felt that everything depended on how Bibbs “took hold,” and upon her +husband's return in the evening she seized upon the first opportunity +to ask him how things had gone. He was non-committal. What could anybody +tell by the first day? He'd seen plenty go at things well enough right +at the start and then blow up. Pretty near anybody could show up fair +the first day or so. There was a big job ahead. This material, such as +it was--Bibbs, in fact--had to be broken in to handling the work Roscoe +had done; and then, at least as an overseer, he must take Jim's position +in the Realty Company as well. He told her to ask him again in a month. + +But during the course of dinner she gathered from some disjointed +remarks of his that he and Bibbs had lunched together at the small +restaurant where it had been Sheridan's custom to lunch with Jim, and +she took this to be an encouraging sign. Bibbs went to his room as soon +as they left the table, and her husband was not communicative after +reading his paper. + +She became an anxious spectator of Bibbs's progress as a man of +business, although it was a progress she could glimpse but dimly and +only in the evening, through his remarks and his father's at dinner. +Usually Bibbs was silent, except when directly addressed, but on the +first evening of the third week of his new career he offered an opinion +which had apparently been the subject of previous argument. + +“I'd like you to understand just what I meant about those storage-rooms, +father,” he said, as Jackson placed his coffee before him. “Abercrombie +agreed with me, but you wouldn't listen to him.” + +“You can talk, if you want to, and I'll listen,” Sheridan returned, “but +you can't show me that Jim ever took up with a bad thing. The roof +fell because it hadn't had time to settle and on account of weather +conditions. I want that building put just the way Jim planned it.” + +“You can't have it,” said Bibbs. “You can't, because Jim planned for the +building to stand up, and it won't do it. The other one--the one that +didn't fall--is so shot with cracks we haven't dared use it for storage. +It won't stand weight. There's only one thing to do: get both buildings +down as quickly as we can, and build over. Brick's the best and cheapest +in the long run for that type.” + +Sheridan looked sarcastic. “Fine! What we goin' to do for storage-rooms +while we're waitin' for those few bricks to be laid?” + +“Rent,” Bibbs returned, promptly. “We'll lose money if we don't rent, +anyhow--they were waiting so long for you to give the warehouse matter +your attention after the roof fell. You don't know what an amount of +stuff they've got piled up on us over there. We'd have to rent until +we could patch up those process perils--and the Krivitch Manufacturing +Company's plant is empty, right across the street. I took an option on +it for us this morning.” + +Sheridan's expression was queer. “Look here!” he said, sharply. “Did you +go and do that without consulting me?” + +“It didn't cost anything,” said Bibbs. “It's only until to-morrow +afternoon at two o'clock. I undertook to convince you before then.” + +“Oh, you did?” Sheridan's tone was sardonic. “Well, just suppose you +couldn't convince me.” + +“I can, though--and I intend to,” said Bibbs, quietly. “I don't think +you understand the condition of those buildings you want patched up.” + +“Now, see here,” said Sheridan, with slow emphasis; “suppose I had my +mind set about this. JIM thought they'd stand, and suppose it was--well, +kind of a matter of sentiment with me to prove he was right.” + +Bibbs looked at him compassionately. “I'm sorry if you have a sentiment +about it, father,” he said. “But whether you have or not can't make a +difference. You'll get other people hurt if you trust that process, and +that won't do. And if you want a monument to Jim, at least you want +one that will stand. Besides, I don't think you can reasonably defend +sentiment in this particular kind of affair.” + +“Oh, you don't?” + +“No, but I'm sorry you didn't tell me you felt it.” + +Sheridan was puzzled by his son's tone. “Why are you 'sorry'?” he asked, +curiously. + +“Because I had the building inspector up there, this noon,” said Bibbs, +“and I had him condemn both those buildings.” + +“What?” + +“He'd been afraid to do it before, until he heard from us--afraid you'd +see he lost his job. But he can't un-condemn them--they've got to come +down now.” + +Sheridan gave him a long and piercing stare from beneath lowered brows. +Finally he said, “How long did they give you on that option to convince +me?” + +“Until two o'clock to-morrow afternoon.” + +“All right,” said Sheridan, not relaxing. “I'm convinced.” + +Bibbs jumped up. “I thought you would be. I'll telephone the Krivitch +agent. He gave me the option until to-morrow, but I told him I'd settle +it this evening.” + +Sheridan gazed after him as he left the room, and then, though his +expression did not alter in the slightest, a sound came from him that +startled his wife. It had been a long time since she had heard anything +resembling a chuckle from him, and this sound--although it was grim and +dry--bore that resemblance. + +She brightened eagerly. “Looks like he was startin' right well don't it, +papa?” + +“Startin'? Lord! He got me on the hip! Why, HE knew what I +wanted--that's why he had the inspector up there, so't he'd have me beat +before we even started to talk about it. And did you hear him? 'Can't +reasonably defend SENTIMENT!' And the way he says 'Us': 'Took an option +for Us'! 'Stuff piled up on Us'!” + +There was always an alloy for Mrs. Sheridan. “I don't just like the way +he looks, though, papa.” + +“Oh, there's got to be something! Only one chick left at home, so you +start to frettin' about IT!” + +“No. He's changed. There's kind of a settish look to his face, and--” + +“I guess that's the common sense comin' out on him, then,” said +Sheridan. “You'll see symptoms like that in a good many business men, I +expect.” + +“Well, and he don't have as good color as he was gettin' before. And +he'd begun to fill out some, but--” + +Sheridan gave forth another dry chuckle, and, going round the table to +her, patted her upon the shoulder with his left hand, his right being +still heavily bandaged, though he no longer wore a sling. “That's the +way it is with you, mamma--got to take your frettin' out one way if you +don't another!” + +“No. He don't look well. It ain't exactly the way he looked when he +begun to get sick that time, but he kind o' seems to be losin', some +way.” + +“Yes, he may 'a' lost something,” said Sheridan. “I expect he's lost a +whole lot o' foolishness besides his God-forsaken notions about writin' +poetry and--” + +“No,” his wife persisted. “I mean he looks right peakid. And yesterday, +when he was settin' with us, he kept lookin' out the window. He wasn't +readin'.” + +“Well, why shouldn't he look out the window?” + +“He was lookin' over there. He never read a word all afternoon, I don't +believe.” + +“Look, here!” said Sheridan. “Bibbs might 'a' kept goin' on over there +the rest of his life, moonin' on and on, but what he heard Sibyl say did +one big thing, anyway. It woke him up out of his trance. Well, he had +to go and bust clean out with a bang; and that stopped his goin' over +there, and it stopped his poetry, but I reckon he's begun to get pretty +fair pay for what he lost. I guess a good many young men have had to get +over worries like his; they got to lose SOMETHING if they're goin' +to keep ahead o' the procession nowadays--and it kind o' looks to me, +mamma, like Bibbs might keep quite a considerable long way ahead. Why, a +year from now I'll bet you he won't know there ever WAS such a thing as +poetry! And ain't he funny? He wanted to stick to the shop so's he could +'think'! What he meant was, think about something useless. Well, I guess +he's keepin' his mind pretty occupied the other way these days. Yes, +sir, it took a pretty fair-sized shock to get him out of his trance, but +it certainly did the business.” He patted his wife's shoulder again, and +then, without any prefatory symptoms, broke into a boisterous laugh. + +“Honest, mamma, he works like a gorilla!” + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +And so Bibbs sat in the porch of the temple with the money-changers. But +no one came to scourge him forth, for this was the temple of Bigness, +and the changing of money was holy worship and true religion. The +priests wore that “settish” look Bibbs's mother had seen beginning +to develop about his mouth and eyes--a wary look which she could not +define, but it comes with service at the temple; and it was the more +marked upon Bibbs for his sharp awakening to the necessities of that +service. + +He did as little “useless” thinking as possible, giving himself no time +for it. He worked continuously, keeping his thoughts still on his work +when he came home at night; and he talked of nothing whatever except his +work. But he did not sing at it. He was often in the streets, and people +were not allowed to sing in the streets. They might make any manner of +hideous uproar--they could shake buildings; they could out-thunder the +thunder, deafen the deaf, and kill the sick with noise; or they +could walk the streets or drive through them bawling, squawking, or +screeching, as they chose, if the noise was traceably connected with +business; though street musicians were not tolerated, being considered +a nuisance and an interference. A man or woman who went singing for +pleasure through the streets--like a crazy Neopolitan--would have been +stopped, and belike locked up; for Freedom does not mean that a citizen +is allowed to do every outrageous thing that comes into his head. The +streets were dangerous enough, in all conscience, without any singing! +and the Motor Federation issued public warnings declaring that the +pedestrian's life was in his own hands, and giving directions how to +proceed with the least peril. However, Bibbs Sheridan had no desire to +sing in the streets, or anywhere. He had gone to his work with an energy +that, for the start, at least, was bitter, and there was no song left in +him. + +He began to know his active fellow-citizens. Here and there among +them he found a leisurely, kind soul, a relic of the old period +of neighborliness, “pioneer stock,” usually; and there were +men--particularly among the merchants and manufacturers--“so honest they +leaned backward”; reputations sometimes attested by stories of heroic +sacrifices to honor; nor were there lacking some instances of generosity +even nobler. Here and there, too, were book-men, in their little +leisure; and, among the Germans, music-men. And these, with the others, +worshiped Bigness and the growth, each man serving for his own sake and +for what he could get out of it, but all united in their faith in the +beneficence and glory of their god. + +To almost all alike that service stood as the most important thing in +life, except on occasion of some such vital, brief interregnum as the +dangerous illness of a wife or child. In the way of “relaxation” some of +the servers took golf; some took fishing; some took “shows”--a mixture +of infantile and negroid humor, stockings, and tin music; some took +an occasional debauch; some took trips; some took cards; and some took +nothing. The high priests were vigilant to watch that no “relaxation” + should affect the service. When a man attended to anything outside his +business, eyes were upon him; his credit was in danger--that is, his +life was in danger. And the old priests were as ardent as the young +ones; the million was as eager to be bigger as the thousand; seventy was +as busy as seventeen. They strove mightily against one another, and +the old priests were the most wary, the most plausible, and the most +dangerous. Bibbs learned he must walk charily among these--he must wear +a thousand eyes and beware of spiders indeed! + +And outside the temple itself were the pretenders, the swarming thieves +and sharpers and fleecers, the sly rascals and the open rascals; but +these were feeble folk, not dangerous once he knew them, and he had +a good guide to point them out to him. They were useful sometimes, +he learned, and many of them served as go-betweens in matters where +business must touch politics. He learned also how breweries and +“traction” companies and banks and other institutions fought one another +for the political control of the city. The newspapers, he discovered, +had lost their ancient political influence, especially with the knowing, +who looked upon them with a skeptical humor, believing the journals +either to be retained partisans, like lawyers, or else striving to +forward the personal ambitions of their owners. The control of the city +lay not with them, but was usually obtained by giving the hordes of +negroes gin-money, and by other largesses. The revenues of the people +were then distributed as fairly as possible among a great number of men +who had assisted the winning side. Names and titles of offices went with +many of the prizes, and most of these title-holders were expected to +present a busy appearance at times; and, indeed, some among them did +work honestly and faithfully. + +Bibbs had been very ignorant. All these simple things, so well known +and customary, astonished him at first, and once--in a brief moment +of forgetting that he was done with writing--he thought that if he had +known them and written of them, how like a satire the plainest relation +of them must have seemed! Strangest of all to him was the vehement and +sincere patriotism. On every side he heard it--it was a permeation; the +newest school-child caught it, though just from Hungary and learning to +stammer a few words of the local language. Everywhere the people shouted +of the power, the size, the riches, and the growth of their city. Not +only that, they said that the people of their city were the greatest, +the “finest,” the strongest, the Biggest people on earth. They cited no +authorities, and felt the need of none, being themselves the people thus +celebrated. And if the thing was questioned, or if it was hinted that +there might be one small virtue in which they were not perfect and +supreme, they wasted no time examining themselves to see if what the +critic said was true, but fell upon him and hooted him and cursed him, +for they were sensitive. So Bibbs, learning their ways and walking with +them, harkened to the voice of the people and served Bigness with them. +For the voice of the people is the voice of their god. + + +Sheridan had made the room next to his own into an office for Bibbs, +and the door between the two rooms usually stood open--the father had +established that intimacy. One morning in February, when Bibbs was +alone, Sheridan came in, some sheets of typewritten memoranda in his +hand. + +“Bibbs,” he said, “I don't like to butt in very often this way, and when +I do I usually wish I hadn't--but for Heaven's sake what have you been +buying that ole busted inter-traction stock for?” + +Bibbs leaned back from his desk. “For eleven hundred and fifty-five +dollars. That's all it cost.” + +“Well, it ain't worth eleven hundred and fifty-five cents. You ought to +know that. I don't get your idea. That stuff's deader'n Adam's cat!” + +“It might be worth something--some day.” + +“How?” + +“It mightn't be so dead--not if we went into it,” said Bibbs, coolly. + +“Oh!” Sheridan considered this musingly; then he said, “Who'd you buy it +from?” + +“A broker--Fansmith.” + +“Well, he must 'a' got it from one o' the crowd o' poor ninnies that was +soaked with it. Don't you know who owned it?” + +“Yes, I do.” + +“Ain't sayin', though? That it? What's the matter?” + +“It belonged to Mr. Vertrees,” said Bibbs, shortly, applying himself to +his desk. + +“So!” Sheridan gazed down at his son's thin face. “Excuse me,” he said. +“Your business.” And he went back to his own room. But presently he +looked in again. + +“I reckon you won't mind lunchin' alone to-day”--he was shuffling +himself into his overcoat--“because I just thought I'd go up to the +house and get THIS over with mamma.” He glanced apologetically toward +his right hand as it emerged from the sleeve of the overcoat. The +bandages had been removed, finally, that morning, revealing but three +fingers--the forefinger and the finger next to it had been amputated. +“She's bound to make an awful fuss, and better to spoil her lunch than +her dinner. I'll be back about two.” + +But he calculated the time of his arrival at the New House so accurately +that Mrs. Sheridan's lunch was not disturbed, and she was rising from +the lonely table when he came into the dining-room. He had left his +overcoat in the hall, but he kept his hands in his trousers pockets. + +“What's the matter, papa?” she asked, quickly. “Has anything gone wrong? +You ain't sick?” + +“Me!” He laughed loudly. “Me SICK?” + +“You had lunch?” + +“Didn't want any to-day. You can give me a cup o' coffee, though.” + +She rang, and told George to have coffee made, and when he had withdrawn +she said querulously, “I just know there's something wrong.” + +“Nothin' in the world,” he responded, heartily, taking a seat at the +head of the table. “I thought I'd talk over a notion o' mine with you, +that's all. It's more women-folks' business than what it is man's, +anyhow.” + +“What about?” + +“Why, ole Doc Gurney was up at the office this morning awhile--” + +“To look at your hand? How's he say it's doin'?” + +“Fine! Well, he went in and sat around with Bibbs awhile--” + +Mrs. Sheridan nodded pessimistically. “I guess it's time you had him, +too. I KNEW Bibbs--” + +“Now, mamma, hold your horses! I wanted him to look Bibbs over BEFORE +anything's the matter. You don't suppose I'm goin' to take any chances +with BIBBS, do you? Well, afterwards, I shut the door, and I an' ole +Gurney had a talk. He's a mighty disagreeable man; he rubbed it in on +me what he said about Bibbs havin' brains if he ever woke up. Then +I thought he must want to get something out o' me, he got so +flattering--for a minute! 'Bibbs couldn't help havin' business brains,' +he says, 'bein' YOUR son. Don't be surprised,' he says--'don't be +surprised at his makin' a success,' he says. 'He couldn't get over his +heredity; he couldn't HELP bein' a business success--once you got him +into it. It's in his blood. Yes, sir' he says, 'it doesn't need MUCH +brains,' he says, 'an only third-rate brains, at that,' he says, 'but +it does need a special KIND o' brains,' he says, 'to be a millionaire. +I mean,' he says, 'when a man's given a start. If nobody gives him a +start, why, course he's got to have luck AND the right kind o' brains. +The only miracle about Bibbs,' he says, 'is where he got the OTHER kind +o' brains--the brains you made him quit usin' and throw away.'” + +“But what'd he say about his health?” Mrs. Sheridan demanded, +impatiently, as George placed a cup of coffee before her husband. +Sheridan helped himself to cream and sugar, and began to sip the coffee. + +“I'm comin' to that,” he returned, placidly. “See how easy I manage this +cup with my left hand, mamma?” + +“You been doin' that all winter. What did--” + +“It's wonderful,” he interrupted, admiringly, “what a fellow can do with +his left hand. I can sign my name with mine now, well's I ever could +with my right. It came a little hard at first, but now, honest, I +believe I RATHER sign with my left. That's all I ever have to write, +anyway--just the signature. Rest's all dictatin'.” He blew across the +top of the cup unctuously. “Good coffee, mamma! Well, about Bibbs. Ole +Gurney says he believes if Bibbs could somehow get back to the state o' +mind he was in about the machine-shop--that is, if he could some way get +to feelin' about business the way he felt about the shop--not the poetry +and writin' part, but--” He paused, supplementing his remarks with a +motion of his head toward the old house next door. “He says Bibbs +is older and harder'n what he was when he broke down that time, and +besides, he ain't the kind o' dreamy way he was then--and I should +say he AIN'T! I'd like 'em to show ME anybody his age that's any wider +awake! But he says Bibbs's health never need bother us again if--” + +Mrs. Sheridan shook her head. “I don't see any help THAT way. You know +yourself she wouldn't have Jim.” + +“Who's talkin' about her havin' anybody? But, my Lord! she might let him +LOOK at her! She needn't 'a' got so mad, just because he asked her, that +she won't let him come in the house any more. He's a mighty funny boy, +and some ways I reckon he's pretty near as hard to understand as the +Bible, but Gurney kind o' got me in the way o' thinkin' that if +she'd let him come back and set around with her an evening or two +sometimes--not reg'lar, I don't mean--why--Well, I just thought I'd see +what YOU'D think of it. There ain't any way to talk about it to Bibbs +himself--I don't suppose he'd let you, anyhow--but I thought maybe you +could kind o' slip over there some day, and sort o' fix up to have a +little talk with her, and kind o' hint around till you see how the land +lays, and ask her--” + +“ME!” Mrs. Sheridan looked both helpless and frightened. “No.” She shook +her head decidedly. “It wouldn't do any good.” + +“You won't try it?” + +“I won't risk her turnin' me out o' the house. Some way, that's what I +believe she did to Sibyl, from what Roscoe said once. No, I CAN'T--and, +what's more, it'd only make things worse. If people find out you're +runnin' after 'em they think you're cheap, and then they won't do as +much for you as if you let 'em alone. I don't believe it's any use, and +I couldn't do it if it was.” + +He sighed with resignation. “All right, mamma. That's all.” Then, in a +livelier tone, he said: “Ole Gurney took the bandages off my hand this +morning. All healed up. Says I don't need 'em any more.” + +“Why, that's splendid, papa!” she cried, beaming. “I was afraid--Let's +see.” + +She came toward him, but he rose, still keeping his hand in his pocket. +“Wait a minute,” he said, smiling. “Now it may give you just a teeny bit +of a shock, but the fact is--well, you remember that Sunday when Sibyl +came over here and made all that fuss about nothin'--it was the day +after I got tired o' that statue when Edith's telegram came--” + +“Let me see your hand!” she cried. + +“Now wait!” he said, laughing and pushing her away with his left hand. +“The truth is, mamma, that I kind o' slipped out on you that morning, +when you wasn't lookin', and went down to ole Gurney's office--he'd told +me to, you see--and, well, it doesn't AMOUNT to anything.” And he held +out, for her inspection, the mutilated hand. “You see, these days when +it's all dictatin', anyhow, nobody'd mind just a couple o'--” + +He had to jump for her--she went over backward. For the second time in +her life Mrs. Sheridan fainted. + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +It was a full hour later when he left her lying upon a couch in her own +room, still lamenting intermittently, though he assured her with heat +that the “fuss” she was making irked him far more than his physical +loss. He permitted her to think that he meant to return directly to his +office, but when he came out to the open air he told the chauffeur in +attendance to await him in front of Mr. Vertrees's house, whither he +himself proceeded on foot. + +Mr. Vertrees had taken the sale of half of his worthless stock as +manna in the wilderness; it came from heaven--by what agency he did +not particularly question. The broker informed him that “parties were +interested in getting hold of the stock,” and that later there might +be a possible increase in the value of the large amount retained by his +client. It might go “quite a ways up” within a year or so, he said, and +he advised “sitting tight” with it. Mr. Vertrees went home and prayed. + +He rose from his knees feeling that he was surely coming into his own +again. It was more than a mere gasp of temporary relief with him, and +his wife shared his optimism; but Mary would not let him buy back her +piano, and as for furs--spring was on the way, she said. But they paid +the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker, and hired a cook +once more. It was this servitress who opened the door for Sheridan and +presently assured him that Miss Vertrees would “be down.” + +He was not the man to conceal admiration when he felt it, and he flushed +and beamed as Mary made her appearance, almost upon the heels of the +cook. She had a look of apprehension for the first fraction of a second, +but it vanished at the sight of him, and its place was taken in her eyes +by a soft brilliance, while color rushed in her cheeks. + +“Don't be surprised,” he said. “Truth is, in a way it's sort of on +business I looked in here. It'll only take a minute, I expect.” + +“I'm sorry,” said Mary. “I hoped you'd come because we're neighbors.” + +He chuckled. “Neighbors! Sometimes people don't see so much o' their +neighbors as they used to. That is, I hear so--lately.” + +“You'll stay long enough to sit down, won't you?” + +“I guess I could manage that much.” And they sat down, facing each other +and not far apart. + +“Of course, it couldn't be called business, exactly,” he said, more +gravely. “Not at all, I expect. But there's something o' yours it seemed +to me I ought to give you, and I just thought it was better to bring it +myself and explain how I happened to have it. It's this--this letter you +wrote my boy.” He extended the letter to her solemnly, in his left hand, +and she took it gently from him. “It was in his mail, after he was hurt. +You knew he never got it, I expect.” + +“Yes,” she said, in a low voice. + +He sighed. “I'm glad he didn't. Not,” he added, quickly--“not but what +you did just right to send it. You did. You couldn't acted any other way +when it came right down TO it. There ain't any blame comin' to you--you +were above-board all through.” + +Mary said, “Thank you,” almost in a whisper, and with her head bowed +low. + +“You'll have to excuse me for readin' it. I had to take charge of all +his mail and everything; I didn't know the handwritin', and I read it +all--once I got started.” + +“I'm glad you did.” + +“Well”--he leaned forward as if to rise--“I guess that's about all. I +just thought you ought to have it.” + +“Thank you for bringing it.” + +He looked at her hopefully, as if he thought and wished that she might +have something more to say. But she seemed not to be aware of this +glance, and sat with her eyes fixed sorrowfully upon the floor. + +“Well, I expect I better be gettin' back to the office,” he said, rising +desperately. “I told--I told my partner I'd be back at two o'clock, +and I guess he'll think I'm a poor business man if he catches me behind +time. I got to walk the chalk a mighty straight line these days--with +THAT fellow keepin' tabs on me!” + +Mary rose with him. “I've always heard YOU were the hard driver.” + +He guffawed derisively. “Me? I'm nothin' to that partner o' mine. You +couldn't guess to save your life how he keeps after me to hold up my end +o' the job. I shouldn't be surprised he'd give me the grand bounce some +day, and run the whole circus by himself. You know how he is--once he +goes AT a thing!” + +“No,” she smiled. “I didn't know you had a partner. I'd always heard--” + +He laughed, looking away from her. “It's just my way o' speakin' o' that +boy o' mine, Bibbs.” + +He stood then, expectant, staring out into the hall with an air of +careless geniality. He felt that she certainly must at least say, “How +IS Bibbs?” but she said nothing at all, though he waited until the +silence became embarrassing. + +“Well, I guess I better be gettin' down there,” he said, at last. “He +might worry.” + +“Good-by--and thank you,” said Mary. + +“For what?” + +“For the letter.” + +“Oh,” he said, blankly. “You're welcome. Good-by.” + +Mary put out her hand. “Good-by.” + +“You'll have to excuse my left hand,” he said. “I had a little accident +to the other one.” + +She gave a pitying cry as she saw. “Oh, poor Mr. Sheridan!” + +“Nothin' at all! Dictate everything nowadays, anyhow.” He laughed +jovially. “Did anybody tell you how it happened?” + +“I heard you hurt your hand, but no--not just how.” + +“It was this way,” he began, and both, as if unconsciously, sat down +again. “You may not know it, but I used to worry a good deal about the +youngest o' my boys--the one that used to come to see you sometimes, +after Jim--that is, I mean Bibbs. He's the one I spoke of as my partner; +and the truth is that's what it's just about goin' to amount to, one o' +these days--if his health holds out. Well, you remember, I expect, I +had him on a machine over at a plant o' mine; and sometimes I'd kind o' +sneak in there and see how he was gettin' along. Take a doctor with me +sometimes, because Bibbs never WAS so robust, you might say. Ole Doc +Gurney--I guess maybe you know him? Tall, thin man; acts sleepy--” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, one day I an' ole Doc Gurney, we were in there, and I undertook +to show Bibbs how to run his machine. He told me to look out, but I +wouldn't listen, and I didn't look out--and that's how I got my hand +hurt, tryin' to show Bibbs how to do something he knew how to do and +I didn't. Made me so mad I just wouldn't even admit to myself it WAS +hurt--and so, by and by, ole Doc Gurney had to take kind o' radical +measures with me. He's a right good doctor, too. Don't you think so, +Miss Vertrees?” + +“Yes.” + +“Yes, he is so!” Sheridan now had the air of a rambling talker and +gossip with all day on his hands. “Take him on Bibbs's case. I was +talkin' about Bibbs's case with him this morning. Well, you'd laugh to +hear the way ole Gurney talks about THAT! 'Course he IS just as much a +friend as he is doctor--and he takes as much interest in Bibbs as if +he was in the family. He says Bibbs isn't anyways bad off YET; and +he thinks he could stand the pace and get fat on it if--well, this is +what'd made YOU laugh if you'd been there, Miss Vertrees--honest it +would!” He paused to chuckle, and stole a glance at her. She was gazing +straight before her at the wall; her lips were parted, and--visibly--she +was breathing heavily and quickly. He feared that she was growing +furiously angry; but he had led to what he wanted to say, and he went +on, determined now to say it all. He leaned forward and altered his +voice to one of confidential friendliness, though in it he still +maintained a tone which indicated that ole Doc Gurney's opinion was only +a joke he shared with her. “Yes, sir, you certainly would 'a' laughed! +Why, that ole man thinks YOU got something to do with it. You'll have to +blame it on him, young lady, if it makes you feel like startin' out +to whip somebody! He's actually got THIS theory: he says Bibbs got to +gettin' better while he worked over there at the shop because you kept +him cheered up and feelin' good. And he says if you could manage to +just stand him hangin' around a little--maybe not much, but just +SOMEtimes--again, he believed it'd do Bibbs a mighty lot o' good. +'Course, that's only what the doctor said. Me, I don't know anything +about that; but I can say this much--I never saw any such a MENTAL +improvement in anybody in my life as I have lately in Bibbs. I expect +you'd find him a good deal more entertaining than what he used to +be--and I know it's a kind of embarrassing thing to suggest after the +way he piled in over here that day to ask you to stand up before the +preacher with him, but accordin' to ole Doc GURNEY, he's got you on his +brain so bad--” + +Mary jumped. “Mr. Sheridan!” she exclaimed. + +He sighed profoundly. “There! I noticed you were gettin' mad. I +didn't--” + +“No, no, no!” she cried. “But I don't understand--and I think you don't. +What is it you want me to do?” + +He sighed again, but this time with relief. “Well, well!” he said. +“You're right. It'll be easier to talk plain. I ought to known I could +with you, all the time. I just hoped you'd let that boy come and see you +sometimes, once more. Could you?” + +“You don't understand.” She clasped her hands together in a sorrowful +gesture. “Yes, we must talk plain. Bibbs heard that I'd tried to make +your oldest son care for me because I was poor, and so Bibbs came and +asked me to marry him--because he was sorry for me. And I CAN'T see him +any more,” she cried in distress. “I CAN'T!” + +Sheridan cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You mean because he thought +that about you?” + +“No, no! What he thought was TRUE!” + +“Well--you mean he was so much in--you mean he thought so much of you--” + The words were inconceivably awkward upon Sheridan's tongue; he seemed +to be in doubt even about pronouncing them, but after a ghastly pause he +bravely repeated them. “You mean he thought so much of you that you just +couldn't stand him around?” + +“NO! He was sorry for me. He cared for me; he was fond of me; and he'd +respected me--too much! In the finest way he loved me, if you like, and +he'd have done anything on earth for me, as I would for him, and as he +knew I would. It was beautiful, Mr. Sheridan,” she said. “But the cheap, +bad things one has done seem always to come back--they wait, and pull +you down when you're happiest. Bibbs found me out, you see; and he +wasn't 'in love' with me at all.” + +“He wasn't? Well, it seems to me he gave up everything he wanted to +do--it was fool stuff, but he certainly wanted it mighty bad--he just +threw it away and walked right up and took the job he swore he never +would--just for you. And it looks to me as if a man that'd do that +must think quite a heap o' the girl he does it for! You say it was only +because he was sorry, but let me tell you there's only ONE girl he could +feel THAT sorry for! Yes, sir!” + +“No, no,” she said. “Bibbs isn't like other men--he would do anything +for anybody.” + +Sheridan grinned. “Perhaps not so much as you think, nowadays,” he +said. “For instance, I got kind of a suspicion he doesn't believe in +'sentiment in business.' But that's neither here nor there. What he +wanted was, just plain and simple, for you to marry him. Well, I was +afraid his thinkin' so much OF you had kind o' sickened you of him--the +way it does sometimes. But from the way you talk, I understand that +ain't the trouble.” He coughed, and his voice trembled a little. “Now +here, Miss Vertrees, I don't have to tell you--because you see things +easy--I know I got no business comin' to you like this, but I had to +make Bibbs go my way instead of his own--I had to do it for the sake o' +my business and on his own account, too--and I expect you got some idea +how it hurt him to give up. Well, he's made good. He didn't come in +half-hearted or mean; he came in--all the way! But there isn't anything +in it to him; you can see he's just shut his teeth on it and goin' ahead +with dust in his mouth. You see, one way of lookin' at it, he's +got nothin' to work FOR. And it seems to me like it cost him your +friendship, and I believe--honest--that's what hurt him the worst. Now +you said we'd talk plain. Why can't you let him come back?” + +She covered her face desperately with her hands. “I can't!” + +He rose, defeated, and looking it. + +“Well, I mustn't press you,” he said, gently. + +At that she cried out, and dropped her hands and let him see her face. +“Ah! He was only sorry for me!” + +He gazed at her intently. Mary was proud, but she had a fatal honesty, +and it confessed the truth of her now; she was helpless. It was so clear +that even Sheridan, marveling and amazed, was able to see it. Then a +change came over him; gloom fell from him, and he grew radiant. + +“Don't! Don't” she cried. “You mustn't--” + +“I won't tell him,” said Sheridan, from the doorway. “I won't tell +anybody anything!” + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +There was a heavy town-fog that afternoon, a smoke-mist, densest in the +sanctuary of the temple. The people went about in it, busy and dirty, +thickening their outside and inside linings of coal-tar, asphalt, +sulphurous acid, oil of vitriol, and the other familiar things the men +liked to breathe and to have upon their skins and garments and upon +their wives and babies and sweethearts. The growth of the city was +visible in the smoke and the noise and the rush. There was more smoke +than there had been this day of February a year earlier; there was more +noise; and the crowds were thicker--yet quicker in spite of that. The +traffic policeman had a hard time, for the people were independent--they +retained some habits of the old market-town period, and would cross +the street anywhere and anyhow, which not only got them killed more +frequently than if they clung to the legal crossings, but kept the +motormen, the chauffeurs, and the truck-drivers in a stew of profane +nervousness. So the traffic policemen led harried lives; they themselves +were killed, of course, with a certain periodicity, but their main +trouble was that they could not make the citizens realize that it was +actually and mortally perilous to go about their city. It was strange, +for there were probably no citizens of any length of residence who had +not personally known either some one who had been killed or injured in +an accident, or some one who had accidentally killed or injured others. +And yet, perhaps it was not strange, seeing the sharp preoccupation of +the faces--the people had something on their minds; they could not stop +to bother about dirt and danger. + +Mary Vertrees was not often down-town; she had never seen an accident +until this afternoon. She had come upon errands for her mother connected +with a timorous refurbishment; and as she did these, in and out of the +department stores, she had an insistent consciousness of the Sheridan +Building. From the street, anywhere, it was almost always in sight, like +some monstrous geometrical shadow, murk-colored and rising limitlessly +into the swimming heights of the smoke-mist. It was gaunt and grimy +and repellent; it had nothing but strength and size--but in that +consciousness of Mary's the great structure may have partaken of beauty. +Sheridan had made some of the things he said emphatic enough to remain +with her. She went over and over them--and they began to seem true: +“Only ONE girl he could feel THAT sorry for!” “Gurney says he's got you +on his brain so bad--” The man's clumsy talk began to sing in her heart. +The song was begun there when she saw the accident. + +She was directly opposite the Sheridan Building then, waiting for the +traffic to thin before she crossed, though other people were risking the +passage, darting and halting and dodging parlously. Two men came from +the crowd behind her, talking earnestly, and started across. Both wore +black; one was tall and broad and thick, and the other was taller, but +noticeably slender. And Mary caught her breath, for they were Bibbs and +his father. They did not see her, and she caught a phrase in Bibbs's +mellow voice, which had taken a crisper ring: “Sixty-eight thousand +dollars? Not sixty-eight thousand buttons!” It startled her queerly, +and as there was a glimpse of his profile she saw for the first time a +resemblance to his father. + +She watched them. In the middle of the street Bibbs had to step ahead +of his father, and the two were separated. But the reckless passing of +a truck, beyond the second line of rails, frightened a group of country +women who were in course of passage; they were just in front of Bibbs, +and shoved backward upon him violently. To extricate himself from them +he stepped back, directly in front of a moving trolley-car--no place for +absent-mindedness, but Bibbs was still absorbed in thoughts concerned +with what he had been saying to his father. There were shrieks and +yells; Bibbs looked the wrong way--and then Mary saw the heavy figure +of Sheridan plunge straight forward in front of the car. With +absolute disregard of his own life, he hurled himself at Bibbs like a +football-player shunting off an opponent, and to Mary it seemed +that they both went down together. But that was all she could +see--automobiles, trucks, and wagons closed in between. She made out +that the trolley-car stopped jerkily, and she saw a policeman breaking +his way through the instantly condensing crowd, while the traffic came +to a standstill, and people stood up in automobiles or climbed upon +the hubs and tires of wheels, not to miss a chance of seeing anything +horrible. + +Mary tried to get through; it was impossible. Other policemen came to +help the first, and in a minute or two the traffic was in motion again. +The crowd became pliant, dispersing--there was no figure upon the +ground, and no ambulance came. But one of the policemen was detained by +the clinging and beseeching of a gloved hand. + +“What IS the matter, lady?” + +“Where are they?” Mary cried. + +“Who? Ole man Sheridan? I reckon HE wasn't much hurt!” + +“His SON--” + +“Was that who the other one was? I seen him knock him--oh, he's not bad +off, I guess, lady. The ole man got him out of the way all right. The +fender shoved the ole man around some, but I reckon he only got shook +up. They both went on in the Sheridan Building without any help. Excuse +me, lady.” + +Sheridan and Bibbs, in fact, were at that moment in the elevator, +ascending. “Whisk-broom up in the office,” Sheridan was saying. “You got +to look out on those corners nowadays, I tell you. I don't know I got +any call to blow, though--because I tried to cross after you did. That's +how I happened to run into you. Well, you want to remember to look out +after this. We were talkin' about Murtrie's askin' sixty-eight thousand +flat for that ninety-nine-year lease. It's his lookout if he'd rather +take it that way, and I don't know but--” + +“No,” said Bibbs, emphatically, as the elevator stopped; “he won't get +it. Not from us, he won't, and I'll show you why. I can convince you +in five minutes.” He followed his father into the office anteroom--and +convinced him. Then, having been diligently brushed by a youth of color, +Bibbs went into his own room and closed the door. + +He was more shaken than he had allowed his father to perceive, and his +side was sore where Sheridan had struck him. He desired to be alone; he +wanted to rub himself and, for once, to do some useless thinking again. +He knew that his father had not “happened” to run into him; he knew that +Sheridan had instantly--and instinctively--proved that he held his own +life of no account whatever compared to that of his son and heir. Bibbs +had been unable to speak of that, or to seem to know it; for Sheridan, +just as instinctively, had swept the matter aside--as of no importance, +since all was well--reverting immediately to business. + +Bibbs began to think intently of his father. He perceived, as he +had never perceived before, the shadowing of something enormous and +indomitable--and lawless; not to be daunted by the will of nature's +very self; laughing at the lightning and at wounds and mutilation; +conquering, irresistible--and blindly noble. For the first time in his +life Bibbs began to understand the meaning of being truly this man's +son. + +He would be the more truly his son henceforth, though, as Sheridan said, +Bibbs had not come down-town with him meanly or half-heartedly. He +had given his word because he had wanted the money, simply, for Mary +Vertrees in her need. And he shivered with horror of himself, thinking +how he had gone to her to offer it, asking her to marry him--with his +head on his breast in shameful fear that she would accept him! He had +not known her; the knowing had lost her to him, and this had been his +real awakening; for he knew now how deep had been that slumber wherein +he dreamily celebrated the superiority of “friendship”! The sleep-walker +had wakened to bitter knowledge of love and life, finding himself a +failure in both. He had made a burnt offering of his dreams, and the +sacrifice had been an unforgivable hurt to Mary. All that was left for +him was the work he had not chosen, but at least he would not fail in +that, though it was indeed no more than “dust in his mouth.” If there +had been anything “to work for--” + +He went to the window, raised it, and let in the uproar of the streets +below. He looked down at the blurred, hurrying swarms and he looked +across, over the roofs with their panting jets of vapor, into the vast, +foggy heart of the smoke. Dizzy traceries of steel were rising dimly +against it, chattering with steel on steel, and screeching in steam, +while tiny figures of men walked on threads in the dull sky. Buildings +would overtop the Sheridan. Bigness was being served. + +But what for? The old question came to Bibbs with a new despair. Here, +where his eyes fell, had once been green fields and running brooks, and +how had the kind earth been despoiled and disfigured! The pioneers had +begun the work, but in their old age their orators had said for them +that they had toiled and risked and sacrificed that their posterity +might live in peace and wisdom, enjoying the fruits of the earth. Well, +their posterity was here--and there was only turmoil. Where was the +promised land? It had been promised by the soldiers of all the wars; it +had been promised to this generation by the pioneers; but here was the +very posterity to whom it had been promised, toiling and risking and +sacrificing in turn--for what? + +The harsh roar of the city came in through the open window, continuously +beating upon Bibbs's ear until he began to distinguish a pulsation in +it--a broken and irregular cadence. It seemed to him that it was like +a titanic voice, discordant, hoarse, rustily metallic--the voice of +the god, Bigness. And the voice summoned Bibbs as it summoned all its +servants. + +“Come and work!” it seemed to yell. “Come and work for Me, all men! By +your youth and your hope I summon you! By your age and your despair I +summon you to work for Me yet a little, with what strength you have. By +your love of home I summon you! By your love of woman I summon you! By +your hope of children I summon you! + +“You shall be blind slaves of Mine, blind to everything but Me, your +Master and Driver! For your reward you shall gaze only upon my ugliness. +You shall give your toil and your lives, you shall go mad for love and +worship of my ugliness! You shall perish still worshipping Me, and your +children shall perish knowing no other god!” + +And then, as Bibbs closed the window down tight, he heard his father's +voice booming in the next room; he could not distinguish the words but +the tone was exultant--and there came the THUMP! THUMP! of the maimed +hand. Bibbs guessed that Sheridan was bragging of the city and of +Bigness to some visitor from out-of-town. + +And he thought how truly Sheridan was the high priest of Bigness. But +with the old, old thought again, “What for?” Bibbs caught a glimmer of +far, faint light. He saw that Sheridan had all his life struggled +and conquered, and must all his life go on struggling and inevitably +conquering, as part of a vast impulse not his own. Sheridan served +blindly--but was the impulse blind? Bibbs asked himself if it was not +he who had been in the greater hurry, after all. The kiln must be fired +before the vase is glazed, and the Acropolis was not crowned with marble +in a day. + +Then the voice came to him again, but there was a strain in it as of +some high music struggling to be born of the turmoil. “Ugly I am,” it +seemed to say to him, “but never forget that I AM a god!” And the voice +grew in sonorousness and in dignity. “The highest should serve, but so +long as you worship me for my own sake I will not serve you. It is man +who makes me ugly, by his worship of me. If man would let me serve him, +I should be beautiful!” + +Looking once more from the window, Bibbs sculptured for himself--in +the vague contortions of the smoke and fog above the roofs--a gigantic +figure with feet pedestaled upon the great buildings and shoulders +disappearing in the clouds, a colossus of steel and wholly blackened +with soot. But Bibbs carried his fancy further--for there was still a +little poet lingering in the back of his head--and he thought that up +over the clouds, unseen from below, the giant labored with his hands +in the clean sunshine; and Bibbs had a glimpse of what he made +there--perhaps for a fellowship of the children of the children that +were children now--a noble and joyous city, unbelievably white-- + +It was the telephone that called him from his vision. It rang fiercely. + +He lifted the thing from his desk and answered--and as the small voice +inside it spoke he dropped the receiver with a crash. He trembled +violently as he picked it up, but he told himself he was wrong--he had +been mistaken--yet it was a startlingly beautiful voice; startlingly +kind, too, and ineffably like the one he hungered most to hear. + +“Who?” he said, his own voice shaking--like his hand. + +“Mary.” + +He responded with two hushed and incredulous words: “IS IT?” + +There was a little thrill of pathetic half-laughter in the instrument. +“Bibbs--I wanted to--just to see if you--” + +“Yes--Mary?” + +“I was looking when you were so nearly run over. I saw it, Bibbs. +They said you hadn't been hurt, they thought, but I wanted to know for +myself.” + +“No, no, I wasn't hurt at all--Mary. It was father who came nearer it. +He saved me.” + +“Yes, I saw; but you had fallen. I couldn't get through the crowd until +you had gone. And I wanted to KNOW.” + +“Mary--would you--have minded?” he said. + +There was a long interval before she answered. + +“Yes.” + +“Then why--” + +“Yes, Bibbs?” + +“I don't know what to say,” he cried. “It's so wonderful to hear your +voice again--I'm shaking, Mary--I--I don't know--I don't know anything +except that I AM talking to you! It IS you--Mary?” + +“Yes, Bibbs!” + +“Mary--I've seen you from my window at home--only five times since +I--since then. You looked--oh, how can I tell you? It was like a man +chained in a cave catching a glimpse of the blue sky, Mary. Mary, won't +you--let me see you again--near? I think I could make you really forgive +me--you'd have to--” + +“I DID--then.” + +“No--not really--or you wouldn't have said you couldn't see me any +more.” + +“That wasn't the reason.” The voice was very low. + +“Mary,” he said, even more tremulously than before, “I can't--you +COULDN'T mean it was because--you can't mean it was because you--care?” + +There was no answer. + +“Mary?” he called, huskily. “If you mean THAT--you'd let me see +you--wouldn't you?” + +And now the voice was so low he could not be sure it spoke at all, but +if it did, the words were, “Yes, Bibbs--dear.” + +But the voice was not in the instrument--it was so gentle and so light, +so almost nothing, it seemed to be made of air--and it came from the +air. + +Slowly and incredulously he turned--and glory fell upon his shining +eyes. The door of his father's room had opened. + +Mary stood upon the threshold. + +THE END + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Turmoil, by Booth Tarkington + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1098 *** |