The Turmoil · Chapter 10 (2/2)

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 absentmindedness 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 wallpaper 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.