The Turnbulls

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Adelaide slipped down from the stool obediently, anticipating her governess’ next command. “You wanted me?” she asked, in her light low voice.

  “Yes. But of course you knew that, Adelaide! You knew very well that you ought to be preparing for Mrs. Brotherton’s little girl’s birthday party instead of idling away your time at the piano. Not that I’m not pleased at your diligence,” she added, remembering that part of her duty was to see that the girls practiced regularly, “but there is a time and place for everything. It is very late. The carriage will be here in fifteen minutes, and you haven’t even bathed yet, nor decided what frock to wear.”

  Adelaide did not speak, but glided like a thin little gnome past the woman and went upstairs. Miss Hamlin followed, still very shaken.

  Mrs. Bowden was in the two older girls’ large sunny bedroom trying to quell the bitter argument which was taking place between Lavinia and Louisa. The great white bed with its canopy was heaped with colourful frocks, over which the heated debate was taking place. Lavinia’s red firm cheeks were fiercely scarlet, and her brow was wet with sweat. She was gesticulating passionately, and her big black eyes were flashing flames. Louisa stood by, dainty and sweet as always, with not a golden lock out of place, and a provokingly angelic smile upon her face. Both girls stood in their ruffled pantalettes and voluminous ruffled and laced petticoats, their young arms bare, their smooth skin shining in the brightness that flooded the room.

  Adelaide halted on the threshold. She must always wait like this, while her sisters made their decisions as to their frocks, so that later she might not overwhelm their effect by an indiscreet choice of her own. Miss Hamlin brushed briskly by her, and took charge, for Mrs. Bowden was fast losing her temper. “What is this, girls?” she asked. “Come, come! Haven’t you yet decided what to wear?”

  Lavinia turned upon her with vehemence. “Look here, Miss Hamlin, you’ve got to settle this! I want to wear my green tussah, and Louisa insists upon wearing her blue foulard. And you know very well what that will do to my green! She plots these things deliberately.”

  Miss Hamlin, trying to frown, turned to her favourite, Louisa, and attempted to speak sternly. “Louisa, you know Lavinia is the elder, and has the right of choice. Why can’t you be amiable and civil? You could wear your white, and be very charming in it.”

  Louisa sighed, and let her golden lashes touch her cheek for a moment.

  “Dear Miss Hamlin,” she said, in her sweet and beguiling voice, “my white is badly soiled. My own green is apple, and will look quite washed-out beside Lavinia’s brighter colour. It is too warm for my red, and brown makes me look so dull, and the sprigged muslins are not the proper thing for a party. My light rose is crushed, and there is no time now for a pressing. I cannot wear yellow, for we’ve decided that Adelaide is to wear her own yellow. What, then, am I to do?”

  Presented with this momentous impasse, Miss Hamlin frowningly examined the frocks in question, while Lavinia breathed furiously at her shoulder, meanwhile flashing the calm Louisa very murderous looks indeed. Mrs. Bowden, exasperated, shrugged and removed herself to a position near Adelaide, who was observing all this confusion with remote detachment and indifference. She was accustomed to it.

  “My pet,” said Mrs. Bowden, “why don’t you go and bathe, and then we’ll tell you what to wear?” She touched Adelaide’s head with a gentle hand, and Adelaide gave her one of her rare quiet smiles. And when she smiled like this, her pale still face took on such a strange beauty that Mrs. Bowden felt her heart tremble. The girl turned away then, and disappeared into her own bedroom.

  “Don’t breathe so hotly on my neck, dear Lavinia,” said Miss Hamlin, lifting one frock after another and studying it minutely. She dropped the last, and sighed, annoyed. But her frowning glance was for Lavinia. “Lavinia, Louisa is quite right. She cannot wear anything but her blue. You will have to decide upon something else. You could wear your pink, or your white, and there would be no clashing of colours at all.”

  “I shall wear my green!” shouted Lavinia, beating her clenched fists on the bed, and tossing her mass of black curls in a spasm of rage. “She’s not to get her way all the time, Miss Hamlin! I’ve got the first choice. She’ll have to wear something else.”

  Louisa, with a look of celestial patience, lifted her blue foulard and slipped it over her head. “There is nothing more to say, Lavinia,” she said, softly. “You are being stubborn. You need not stand near me at the party. We can avoid each other, and so there will be no odlous comparison.”

  Outraged, Lavinia stared at her, her mouth open, her eyes dancing with black fire. “What do you mean by ‘comparison,’ miss?” she screamed. “Are you insinuating that your miserable washed-out colouring can compare with mine?”

  Smiling sweetly, Louisa did not reply. She turned her back to Mrs. Bowden to be buttoned. She smoothed the shimmering blue foulard with her pretty white hands, so plump and dimpled. Lavinia advanced on her, her fingers curling. “Answer me!” she bellowed.

  “Girls, girls!” pleaded Miss Hamlin, angrily. “Let there be no more of this. Your Mama is suffering a bad headache today, and is trying to rest. Be more considerate. Really, girls, you are behaving yourselves in a very unladylike way, and I’ve never encountered girls with less sensibility.” She took Lavinia by the arm. The girl struggled to free herself, her blazing eyes fixed on her sister.

  “She’s not to wear her blue!” she insisted, through clenched teeth.

  Louisa gave her a look of weary sweetness. “Linny, let’s be sensible. It’s getting late. I can’t wear anything but the blue. I’m very sorry. If I could wear anything else I’d do so, but it is impossible. You must forgive me. After this, you may have your choice and I’ll abide by it.”

  “There!” exclaimed Miss Hamlin, with an affectionate look at Louisa.

  “Oh, you infernal hypocrite!” shouted Lavinia, with ferocious scorn. “You and your meek tongue and smiles! The last time you insisted on wearing your green when I wore my red, and I looked like a barn on fire! You do these things on purpose.”

  “Have you no consideration for your mother, young ladies?” asked Mrs. Bowden, sternly. “She is ill today.”

  Lavinia turned upon her savagely. “Hell!” she cried. “Mama’s always puling about, and there’s no sense in encouraging her vapours. Go along with you, Bowden, and don’t interfere.”

  “Lavinia!” said Miss Hamlin, clapping her hands to her ears. “Never have I heard such language, and such disrespect for parents. This is terrible!”

  Lavinia, with one of her lightning changes of mood, laughed loudly and contemptuously. “Don’t be an ass, Miss Hamlin. You know Mama’s a fool. Every one knows it. So don’t let us be so nice, and pretend. Mama can sleep when we’ve gone.”

  “Linny’s quite right,” said Louisa, looking in the mirror and carefully arranging a golden curl on her forehead. “We can’t go about tiptoeing all the time, and holding our breath. Mama has all afternoon to sleep.”

  Adelaide appeared during the sudden hiatus that followed Louisa’s words, carrying her soft yellow silk on her arm. She had brushed the straight streaming lengths of her hair so that they gleamed, and had tied a yellow ribbon about her head.

  Lavinia, finding a fresh victim for her wrath, swung upon the little girl, and screamed with shrill disgust. “Oh, how bilious that odious little wretch will look, with all that yellow! Yellow dress, yellow ribbon, yellow eyes, yellow skin! How does she get all that brownness, and why doesn’t she stay out of the sun! I can’t bear it. I simply shall not go in her company. This is the final insult.”

  Louisa turned from the mirror and examined her small sister with a critical blue eye. She smiled amusedly. “As usual, Adelaide, you try to embarrass us. Poor child. It is not your fault, of course, that you are so plain.”

  Lavinia, scowling, stared at Adelaide. She thrust out her full red under lip. She rubbed her round dimpled chin with her hand, uneasily. Then she glowered at Louisa.


  “Hold your tongue,” she said, rudely. “Yellow is Addy’s colour, and she isn’t plain. Anyway, it’s not her fault.” She smiled now, at Adelaide, with a return to her volatile good humour. “You’ll do very nicely, Addy. The yellow will be becoming, after all.”

  “Thank you, Linny,” replied Adelaide quietly, allowing Mrs. Bowden to slip the yellow silk over her thin little shoulders. She looked at her sister with her inscrutable eyes, which were full of that liquid light peculiar to them. Lavinia smiled in return, but she was still uneasy. She and Louisa, in spite of their constant squabbles and recriminations, understood each other perfectly, and were very close. Nevertheless, Lavinia was fond of Adelaide, in a cavalier fashion, and knew that Louisa, in spite of her sweetness, hated the little girl. There was in Lavinia a faint detestation of those who hated without cause, for she was not virulent in spite of her natural brutality. Moreover, she had an uneasy compassion for the weak, even while she despised them.

  Touched by the little girl’s composure and defenselessness, Lavinia put on her bright green tussah, scowling meanwhile. She tied a wide green Leghorn hat over her black curls, while Louisa donned a similar hat of blue. With tender hands, Mrs. Bowden tied the yellow ribbons of a brown Leghorn over Adelaide’s shining hair. How sweet the child looked! thought the woman. How noble and composed. The little pale face had an expression of tragic grandeur under the shadow of the hat.

  Lavinia thrust a quantity of silver bangles over her wrists, stared at herself discontentedly in the mirror. But it was a handsome and vivid face that gazed back at her, and her eyes lightened. Louisa turned carefully before a pier mirror with sweet satisfaction.

  “Rufe Hastings is home,” she fluted. “I hear he is to be at Alice’s party.”

  “Oh, you and your beau!” scoffed Lavinia. “I hope there’ll be some interesting boys there. I heard, too, that that awful Irish person, Pat Brogan, is invited. Just because his Papa made such money in the paving business is no reason to invite Irish creatures. Papa says things like that are unthinkable in England. Pat’s a Catholic, too,” and she shrugged elaborately. “A Catholic! Imagine that.”

  “Patrick is very amiable, and lively,” remarked Louisa. “And quite handsome.”

  “Lavinia is right,” said Miss Hamlin, severely. “The most impossible people are thrusting their way into exclusive society. There is no excuse for the Irish. Coarse, ill-bred people. One does not know what the world is coming to.”

  Lavinia giggled. “Some one told me that a whole shipload of them waited for days outside of New York before they were allowed to enter, with all their verminous baggage and their hundreds of brats. I wonder who finally let them in?”

  “Some one without a regard for America, you may be sure of that,” said Miss Hamlin, portentously. “Such impudent and pushing people, too. And so very ignorant and presumptuous. I confess that it quite depresses me. No Irishman can ever be a gentleman. Rogues and rapscallions, and so naturally dishonest.”

  “I still think Patrick very amusing,” said Louisa, gently. “And he has nice manners. And his Papa is very rich.”

  “No excuse for them,” repeated Miss Hamlin, inflexibly. She turned to Adelaide, and thrust her sharply towards the door. “The carriage is here, young ladies. It is not necessary to see your Mama. She begs to be quiet.”

  “As if we’d bother,” muttered Lavinia.

  But Adelaide, escaping for a few moments, slipped into her mother’s room to give her a soft kiss and a smile.

  CHAPTER 31

  Dr. Alexander Brotherton was the Chief of Staff of the Medical College of the New York University, and a rich man in his own right. His home on Fifth Avenue, of brown stone, was imposing and pretentious. His wife, the fluttering former Miss Cousins, was considered one of the leaders of New York society, and only those whom she considered rich enough, or impeccable enough, were invited to her mansion. The Brothertons had one child, a sickly little creature, upon whom they doted, and whom they considered the most beautiful little girl in New York. But, in truth, Alice was under-sized, scrawny, peevish and spoiled, with an overweening idea of her own importance. This was her birthday, and a most elaborate party had been prepared for her by her parents. Arrayed in white silk, sprinkled with satin rosebuds, her light yellow hair tied by a white ribbon, her pale and petulant little face composed in an expression of the utmost hauteur and refinement, Alice waited with her Mama to receive her guests.

  The spacious rooms were filled with flowers in honour of the child, and in the great dining-room was spread a miraculous repast for the delectation of the young people. When the Turnbull girls arrived in their spanking brougham, they found the house already genteelly noisy with guests. Lavinia and Louisa were very popular, but the silent and shrinking Adelaide was ignored when she was not openly despised. There was a firm belief extant among her contemporaries that she was excessively ugly and unattractive, an opinion fostered originally, and with vigour, by her amiable sisters. Not one careless young eye took the trouble to question this dictum, and so Adelaide usually retired to a shadowy corner to hide her “ugliness” as best she could. She did not care whether she was ugly or not; it was a matter of indifference to her. But her sensitiveness could not endure the scorn of others. Not yet, at least.

  She found a place in a bow-window, half hidden by heavy blue velvet curtains. From that vantage point she could observe the guests, without herself being observed. Her expression was remote and aloof. She was not unhappy. It would have surprised the others had they known that they existed only as noisy mannequins to this quiet little Turnbull miss in the shadows. In truth, she was glad that she was left alone. Lavinia and Louisa, as usual, had been absorbed among their many admirers, and were having an excellent time for themselves.

  Adelaide amused herself by gazing out over long green lawns, brilliant in the July sunlight. Scattered oak and elm trees stood in pools of violet shadow. She could hear the whirring of lawn-cutters, and the distant barking of two gay collies, who romped occasionally into her view.

  She did not hear any one approach her, and so started when a boy’s voice said: “Hello, there. What is your name? And why are you hiding here?”

  Annoyed, and flushing, she turned back to the room. A young fellow had moved aside the blue draperies which had partially hidden her, and he was smiling down at her. She gazed at him with cold resentment, which appeared to amuse him. He sat down on the window seat and regarded her with reserved sparkling eyes the colour of dark slate.

  “What is your name, mouse?” he asked.

  Affronted, Adelaide was silent a moment. Then she said haughtily: “Adelaide Turnbull.” She did not ask him his own name. She only wished urgently that he would go away and leave her in peace. In a moment he would discover that she was very dull and plain, and would depart for the brighter companionship of prettier girls. She hoped he would soon discover all this, and retreat.

  She did not feel any regret, though he appeared to be a very nice boy of some thirteen years, and a stranger. She did not recall having seen him before. He was very tall, and thin, with quite an elegant grace, and with a narrow fair face and sharply cut features, very firm and intelligent. His hair was a sandy-red, thick and straight, and his fine ears hugged his head in a very satisfactory fashion.

  When she spoke her name, his face brightened with pleasant surprise. “Is that so?” he exclaimed. “Well, now. We are cousins, it seems.”

  “Cousins?” she repeated, incredulously. “I have no cousins.”

  He laughed a little. He had an air of ease and assurance, and his slate-gray eyes were kind and full of laughter. “Oh yes, you have! My Mama’s told me about you, though we’ve never met. Your Papa and my Mama are cousins. So that makes me your second-cousin.” He paused, and twinkled upon her. “Hello, cousin Adelaide.”

  “Hello,” she murmured, still doubtful and confused.

  “You’ve never heard of me? Anthony Bollister?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, firmly. “
If you were my cousin, I’d have been told.”

  He laughed again, lightly. “Well, now, it seems our Papas don’t like each other very much. Mama told me. But I know all about you. You have two sisters, Lavinia and Louisa. You see?”

  Adelaide did not reply. But she was certain that if her Papa did not like Anthony’s Papa, there must be a good and sufficient reason which she, as her Papa’s daughter, must respect. No doubt Anthony’s Papa was a disagreeable person. So her face became colder and more remote than ever.

  But Anthony was not in the least disconcerted by her attitude. He gazed at her with considerable fond amusement. “I like you, mouse,” he said. “You look something like my Mama, except that your eyes are brown and hers are gray, a little lighter than mine. Yes,” he added, studying her critically, “my Mama must have looked just like you when she was your age. I think a lot of my Mama, and so I suppose that is why I like you.”

  “Thank you,” said Adelaide, ironically, rising as if to leave him.

  But he caught her hand and pushed her gently back upon the seat. Then the import of his words entered her full consciousness, and she blushed. No stranger had ever said he liked her before, and this was a handsome boy. Handsome boys always avoided her. She could not believe it!

  “My friends call me Tony,” he offered, in a confidential and affectionate tone. She liked his voice. It was firm and strong, and kind. She could not help smiling a little.

  “Tony,” she said, shyly, and blushed again.

  “That’s better!” he exclaimed, heartily, settling himself more comfortably on the blue cushions. Then remembering his manners, he said: “But you’ve no ice-cream or cake. I’ll get you some at once.”

  Adelaide watched him go without his having paid the slightest attention to her anxious demurring. He walked easily among the other boys crowded about the tables, and she saw that they parted eagerly to make way for him, and tried to engage him in flattering conversation. But though friendly, he did not allow them to delay him. He filled a plate with ice-cream and cake, and secured a silver spoon. One boy must have asked him who was the favoured young lady, for he glanced merrily over his shoulder at the shrinking Adelaide. Other boys, following his glance, stared incredulously. Adelaide distinctly heard one say: “That kid? Why, she’s only a baby, about eight years old! And ugly as sin.”