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—
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.
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 toDeath with Inventor. Seven Escape When Crash Comes. Death Claims—
Fatally Faulty. New Process Roof Collapses Hurling Capitalist toDeath 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?”
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.