The Turnbulls

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  The more she contemplated John, the more impatient and contemptuous and incredulous did she become. Finally her incredulity overcame everything else, and she was affronted that he dared so underestimate her intelligence as to pretend that nothing was of value to him, that he cared for nothing. He was an actor, and a very poor one at that, striking postures to engage her sympathy, weakly uttering heroics in order to melt her with pity for him. What weakness! What absurdity! How singularly unmanly! She glanced at his profile, dark and sombre, rigidly violent in the light of the fire, and was both embarrassed and irritated. But then, he had never been English. He had never realized the impropriety of dramatic pretense and cheap heroics.

  Then she thought: Is it possible that in a smaller fashion he is telling the truth? She felt a moment’s surge of gratified but appalled vanity. Her love for power made her feel quite heady for a few moments. And then, with a return of her affrontedness, she told herself that he had intended her to feel so, and was perhaps at times secretly amused that she so deceived herself. Her conceit was outraged.

  She said sharply: “John, you aren’t very sensible, you know.”

  He turned slowly and looked at her, and she knew he did not see her at all. His eyes were but empty if smoldering sockets. With a sudden chilling about her heart, she thought: I mean no more to him than anything else he has gained! But why did he wish to gain anything, if he felt this way, and is not only pretending?

  She could not understand such madness. There was a disease in this man, a sick poison which had eroded him, leaving gaping holes behind. She was suddenly frightened, and now was not entirely sure that he was acting. Such a tormented expression could not possibly be assumed.

  He stood up. He was more than a little drunk, and he swayed. Then he moved towards the door. She rose slowly, rustling in her violet silk. He went out into the hall. He was puttting on his coat.

  She could not believe it. He was leaving her! Why? Her face flushed scarlet.

  “John,” she said, in a peremptory voice.

  But apparently he did not hear her. He picked up his hat and gloves, opened the door, stepped out, and closed the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 35

  Lilybelle was very unhappy in the grand new mansion on Fifth Avenue, only half a mile from the home of Richard Gorth. Though she had lived here now for over six months, the great rooms and wide corridors were still strange and inimical to her. She hardly knew the army of servants. There was no more going down to the kitchen for an early and amiable conversation with the cook, sitting in the warmth of great iron ranges, gazing contentedly at redtiled floors and walls. No more the delight of seeing bright reflections in the polished copper utensils hung all about; no more a last and lazy sipping of coffee in the morning sunshine while the cook grumbled, or joked or laughed or suggested new dishes. These new servants were cold and efficient automatons, and she feared and disliked them. She was afraid to speak to them, to give orders. She clung to Mrs. Bowden, who was not in the least intimidated by the servants. Miss Hamlin had gone. The two older girls had had their tutor, and Adelaide, Lilybelle’s darling, had been sent away to school by her father’s orders. That had broken Lilybelle’s loving heart, but she had not presumed to interfere. The sadness had remained, however.

  She had been so happy, despite John’s indifference and contempt for her. She treasured the memories of the few occasions when he had called to her from the depths of his obscure but murderous despair. What did it matter if, remembering later, he was the more cruel, the more contemptuous, the more slighting? But, since that occasion, three years ago, when he had run to her in his mysterious and nameless agony, he had not approached her at all, had never even entered her rooms. Days passed without him speaking to her, or seeing her. Sometimes he entertained on so vast and lavish a scale that she was completely overcome, wandering among the grand guests as mute as a rosy and buxom ghost, her blue eyes shining with fear. Though the guests fawned upon John, even the best of them, they knew her for what she was, she would say humbly to herself. It was only right, then, that they should ignore her, or stare at her arrogantly.

  She had no friends at all, except Mrs. Bowden and the aging Miss Beardsley. The latter came at least once a week, and then was full of cold and reproving remarks to Lilybelle. She was getting too fat. She must really control her appetite. The purple velvet made her look like a charwoman in borrowed finery. She did not insist upon proper respect from her children. She indulged Adelaide too much. She did not watch her speech constantly. All in all, Miss Beardsley forcibly impressed upon Lilybelle that her mentor was disappointed in her, that she was a poor stupid thing of low birth who had not profited by her magnificent opportunities. But she assured herself, when most depressed, that Miss Beardsley said all these things because of her fondness for her pupil, and that the fault lay entirely with herself.

  When Mrs. Bowden came to her, however, Lilybelle had the most inexplicable urge to tears. Often, she indulged in them, with a tempestuous wildness which was quite hysterical. She often wept, these days, and would cling to Mrs. Bowden with aching arms. She was barely thirty-three now, but with her plumpness, now almost obesity, and her flamboyant garments, she appeared much older, even older than John. The brightness of her hair was fading, and she was becoming careless with its heavy masses.

  In her fear of the servants, in her horror of the great and majestic mansion, she would retire immediately after dinner to her own rooms, lock the door against intrusion, and go to bed. There, upon her pillows, she would painfully pore over the newspapers, and try to read yellow-backed French novels of love and passion. Sometimes, she would surreptitiously bring to her rooms a box of bonbons or a rich cake or two, and in her fear and unhappiness and loneliness she would devour them avariciously. Tears would mingle with them, as her mouth opened and closed in its chewing. Crumbs would fill the bed, soil the satin pillows, much to the disgust of the immaculate chambermaid the next day.

  Lilybelle had no control over the servants. They despised her.

  The mansion was very quiet this pure spring night, blessedly so to Lilybelle. There was to be a huge dinner tomorrow, and she had gone to bed “so I’ll have the strength for it.” Lavinia and Louisa had departed for a party at the home of one of their legion of friends. Adelaide would not return from her school until June. Mrs. Bowden was not at home, having gone to visit some old friend of her own.

  Lilybelle, on her pillows, began to cry. She had brought her hairbrush to bed with her, and was brushing her hair as she wept. Sometimes, with frank childishness she wiped her nose and wet cheeks and eyes on the backs of her large fat hands. She sniffled, looking about the large and handsome room as if it were a prison.

  Though John had never entered here, he had furnished it, not even hearing Lilybelle’s timid suggestions. There was a great white marble fireplace, over which hung an excellent landscape. The rug was of a thick yellow velvet, the walls ivory, the furniture of the heaviest mahogany, and draperies of a rich and lustrous green. Everything had been elegant and orderly, in the beginning. But Lilybelle, intimidated by the grandeur, had finally imposed her own personality upon it. The mantelpiece was cluttered with homely ornaments: a pottery cow all glazed brown and yellow, an excuse for a bed of earth in its back from which grew long streamers of ivy; several gay little figures of impudent gnomes, twinkling shepherdesses and dancing witches and little boys with striped trousers with cats in their arms. The dresser was strewn with the bright bottles which Lilybelle loved, dance programs which she had filched from the girls’ rooms, little miniatures of her daughters, and brushes with mats of auburn hair clinging to them. She was not too orderly by nature, and the chairs, in spite of the chambermaid’s strenuous efforts were always littered with undergarments, stays and stockings, and empty boxes of bonbons and fashion magazines. In a mood of exceptional daring, Lilybelle had smuggled a violent red hearthrug into the room, and this lay before the fire, fighting viciously with the yellow carpet. Because she was always s
o cold lately, a fire burned on the hearth almost into summer. It made the room very hot and stifling, especially as Lilybelle, in her nameless fear, kept the draperies drawn thickly across the windows. Now she feared dimness, and every candle-sconce burned brilliantly in the room, and her bedside lamp was lit.

  But it was her own. No one came here, except Mrs. Bowden, when invited. When Adelaide was home, of course, she spent most of her time in her mother’s room, and Lilybelle, in her loneliness, consoled herself with visions of that slight straight figure and gentle if stern pale face and light hanging hair. Sometimes she slept with Adelaide’s miniature under her pillow.

  Now, as she brushed her hair and sniffled, she felt despondent enough to die, she assured herself, with her old humble patience. She felt her friendlessness. Since that day, so long ago, when she had instinctively protected John from Mr. Wilkins, she had fled wildly from the latter whenever he came to this fine new mansion. For two months after that day, John had refused to see his old friend, and Lilybelle had rejoiced, without analysing her reasons for rejoicing. She had felt something sinister and ominous lifted from her heart, from John, from all she loved. Then, he had returned, and the old relationship had been resumed between the two men. But Lilybelle had never forgotten, had never been able to look upon Mr. Wilkins again with the old and childish affection. She had shrunk from him, growing pale and silent in his presence, however he tried too woo her. John had angrily reproved her for it, and she had looked at him mutely, despairingly, knowing herself for a stupid fool who had nothing but emotion to offer in place of a reasonable explanation. She only knew that when she saw Mr. Wilkins she experienced a sickening plunge of terror, and a kind of horror of him.

  Lilybelle felt rather than thought. She began to sob, and her tears came faster.

  Then, to her dismay, she heard a quick and urgent tapping at her door. Without thinking, she quavered: “Come in.” The door opened, and John stood on the threshold, swaying, holding to the sides of the doorway with gripping hands. He was drunk, Lilybelle saw. But she did not care. Joy lifted her heart wildly. She smiled, and her big fat face was radiant, and she held out her arms instinctively.

  He was looking at her emptily, his mouth sagging. She saw his torture. Slowly, half-stumbling, he came across the room to her. He sat heavily on the side of the bed. He looked at her. Then, very slowly, he looked about the room he had not entered for three years. His expression became wondering; he blinked a few times. He returned his eyes to Lilybelle, who was watching him in trembling and loving silence, hardly able to believe he had come to her.

  Then he took her hand. He held it in both of his. Lilybelle caught her breath, and in her earthy wisdom, said nothing. He turned her hand about, examining it minutely, pressing its warmth and firmness, rubbing the skin between his thumbs. Then he smiled.

  “It’s real, isn’t it?” he said, in a low voice.

  Lilybelle did not speak, but she put her arms about him, and held him to her.

  CHAPTER 36

  “What I can’t understand,” said Richard Gorth, pacing gloomily up and down the drawing-room of his home, and glancing savagely at his nephew, “is how he happened to let us exist. He could have destroyed us easily enough, if he had wanted to. We were tottering, three years ago. Why didn’t he go on?”

  Andrew answered indolently: “Auld Lang Syne, perhaps. Cousinly remembrance. Happy thoughts of his early association with you.”

  Richard Gorth uttered a foul word, then inclined his head apologetically at Eugenia, who sat serenely before the fire with her needlework. She acknowledged his apology with a faint amused jerking of her lips. Mrs. Gorth, however, tightened her yellowed face and jerked her dyed head.

  “It puzzles me, curse it!” resumed Mr. Gorth, scowling. “During the war, he could have done us in. We had no cotton. He had. He’s just the type of violent and turbulent devil that appealed to the Southerners. There’s no doubt that he was smuggling the cotton in. But how? You reported your suspicions, Andy, but nothing was ever found out.”

  He paused to contemplate, with renewed savagery, the phenomenal progress of John Turnbull.

  “Look what he’s done in seventeen years! Built up Everett Livingston & Company to the largest cotton manufacturers in America. Cornered most of the trade. Look at his mills in New England. Almost impossible. But he wasn’t satisfied with cotton and printing. He gets himself into the export and import trade. The China Coast. Japan, and building mills there for printing silk. The next thing will be cotton. We’ve begun to be flooded with cheap Japanese merchandise of all kinds. What’s that going to do to our own economy? I hear he controls the Blue Crescent fleet of ships to the Orient. What’s the devil after? Money? His father left him enough. He’s got the Livingston mills, and their subsidiaries. Now, from what I hear, he’s dealing in opium. He’s using his ships for gun-running to Japan, too. A nefarious business, bound to do us enormous harm someday. How the hell does he keep his finger on so many enterprises? It’s the devil’s own work.”

  “Mr. Wilkins,” suggested Andrew, languidly.

  Mr. Gorth stared at him thoughtfully, and rubbed his chin.

  “I’ve never known Wilkins to stick so long to any one man. Must have found him damned lucrative. And that’s strange, too. I never thought him a particularly bright fellow; too emotional and unstable. Not the genius sort. Yet, I must have been mistaken. He must have had gifts I knew nothing about, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Mr. Wilkins,” repeated Andrew, with an elegant yawn.

  “Curse you and your Mr. Wilkins!” shouted Mr. Gorth. “Wilkins found something in him that was more valuable than he ever found in any one else! Surely you, you fine yawning gentleman, can see that for all your stupidity? What was it Wilkins found? That’s what I’d like to know, I tell you.”

  “It wasn’t wit. It wasn’t an overpowering intellect. It wasn’t inventiveness, nor great ambition, nor lust for power,” said Andrew, smiling and unperturbed. “Yes, I agree with you. It was something else. He was not a chap that wanted money very much. He’d always had more than enough, thanks to his father. You intrigue me, Uncle Richard,” and he sat up in his chair, and delicately dusted off his hands. “I’ve wondered, myself. I knew Johnnie very well in England. He wanted nothing but to be friendly with every one, and have a gay drinking companion. He liked people; he was a lonely devil. But he had no social graces, and most of us laughed at him. He was like a mongrel dog sniffing hopefully about. Once I asked him what he intended to do with his life, and the imbecile only blinked and gaped. The idea had never occurred to him. He was a hulking and handsome piece of flesh, wanting to be patted, and that was all.” He turned to his wife gracefully. “I don’t offend you by speaking so of your cousin, my dear?” His pale bright eyes were amused and affectionate.

  Eugenia did not lift her head from her needlework. Her manner was very serene and gracious. She smiled. “Do go on, Andrew, you are always so clever in analysing others,” she said, with gentle irony. But her heart was beating fast. Somewhere, in this conversation, lay the clue to the dark fastnesses of John Turnbull.

  “It couldn’t be only his unconscious marriage to that wench,” said Richard Gorth, biting his lip. “Men aren’t so damned wound up with women. There are always so many more of them, skitting about. It wasn’t money; it wasn’t power. Perhaps it was some instinct that Wilkins unearthed. Or he wouldn’t have stuck. I hear Wilkins has made millions out of his association with Turnbull.”

  “Nothing to what Turnbull has made, then,” commented Andrew nonchalantly.

  Scowling, Richard Gorth resumed his pacing. “I still don’t understand. Turnbull could have done us in many times, pulled the ground from under us. Why didn’t he? Don’t give me any more of your rot, Andy, about old remembrance. He hated me. Though, curse you, it was all your fault, and that wretch’s, Wilkins. Nothing I could do or say could convince him that I knew nothing about it. Never will forget the look in the devil’s eye. Murder. Yes, he hated me, hated a
ll of us. And yet, he stepped aside each time he could have done us in. That isn’t the way a man who hates normally acts. Why did he do if?”

  “I’ve an idea,” said Andrew, Suddenly he laughed, his low and toneless laugh that had something evil in it. “He thought, perhaps, that if you toppled I would go back to England. Then, I wouldn’t be on hand to see his triumphs. I was convenient for him to flaunt everything he’s done in my face. That’s it! I knew I’d hit on it sooner or later.”

  Richard Gorth stared at him, his cold and colourless eyes narrowing.

  “Perhaps you’ve hit it. And yet, he could have done better if he’d ruined us. That would be a greater satisfaction. Then you would have retreated back to England in complete confusion. That’s the way a man’s mind operates.”

  Andrew was silent. But his close and glittering smile grew even more amused. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his wife’s profile, composed and aloof as always. Was it his imagination that she was slightly paler than usual? That the needle did not pursue its intricate work so quickly and deftly? He covered his smiling mouth with his hand. The little pet, the darling traitorous little creature and love!