The Turnbulls

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  John began to laugh, loudly, raucously. He flung himself back into his chair. Rufus politely filled his glass again. John drank. Patrick stood in the middle of the floor, cleverly shut out from everything, fuming, scowling, biting his lip. But slowly, a look of relief, of indifferent resignation, came over his face, and he smiled darkly. Yes, indeed, a weakling, a wastrel, a fool.

  It was more than two hours later that John, staggering quite heavily, was escorted by two affectionate young gentlemen to the door of his apartments. They wished to go in with him, and assist him into bed. But he shook his head, grinning at them. They went away, but as they retreated down the corridor, they turned and saw him still watching them, and his grin was like a flash of light on his dark face.

  He opened the door and stumbled into the warm, lamp-lighted dusk of his sitting-room. At first his confused and reeling senses did not warn him that he had a visitor. He felt his way to the bed, and sat down upon it, and rubbed his damp hands over his forehead, blinking, trying to catch his thoughts in the whirling confusion of his drunken mind.

  He heard a little sound, a little movement. He lifted his head and could hardly believe what he saw. Lilybelle was standing in the center of the room, a wet shawl about her shoulders, her bonnet awry on her head, her tumbled hair streaming about her ghastly face. Drunk though he was, he had an instant of terror, of fear, for never had Lilybelle looked like this, so distraught, so unafraid, and with such an affrighting expression.

  She stood before him, mountainous, looming, and silent. Again, he could hardly believe it. She had never dared enter here before, and now here she was, and she looked at him as if he was a hated stranger. There was stark denunciation in her face and eyes, tragedy, and awfulness.

  Now he heard her voice. “John,” she said, and she spoke very quietly, but with an echoing immensity of tone, “where is my lassie? You have driven away my lass. My little one. I’ve searched through the streets for her. You’ve driven away my child, your child, John Turnbull. What have you done with her?”

  It was a dream, thought John, confusedly. He had never seen Lilybelle like this before. She advanced a step towards him, and there was distracted grief and agony in her voice as she repeated:

  “Where is my lass?”

  She clasped her big hands convulsively before her, and wrung them. He heard her breath, anguished, torn. Her eyes glowed upon him. She regarded him with awful hatred.

  She loomed over him, gigantic, crushing, expanding until all the room seemed filled with her presence. There was turbulence about her, and menace, and huge passion.

  John shook his head to clear away the fumes that darkened his vision. Then, suddenly, he was quite sober. He saw everything with clarity, sharp and outlined with light.

  “What are you talking about, Lily?” he asked, dully. “You mean Adelaide has gone? Where? That’s impossible.”

  He heard the rushing of her breath. “She’s gone. She said she was to go for help, for you. Only for you. Into the wind and the rain she went. I saw it in her face. Her sickness. I tried to hold her back. But she would go. There was no holding her. It was for you.”

  Suddenly she cried out in a loud broken voice, and wrung her hands again: “My God! God! Where is my lass? What has become of her?”

  Her face was flooded with tears, contorted. She shook violently.

  “My baby, my poor little one. It was for you, John Turnbull. You who drove her away. As you allus drove her away. Year after year, since she was born, you drove her away! Do you remember how you did it? You bad, you wicked bad man!”

  She was only a step from him now. He saw that she was near collapse, near insanity from grief and fear. And now he saw as she looked at him that she hated him, loathed him.

  He gaped at her incredulously. He forced himself to his feet and grasped a post of the bed to hold himself up. So many things there were to see now in this poor enormous creature, this terrified and agonized mother, this repudiating woman who hated him at last and saw him clearly.

  “Lily,” he said. His throat was dry and thick as he swallowed. “She can’t have gone far, the little fool. Where could she go? To whom? To help me? Who does she know?” He paused, swallowed again. His heart was beating with a fateful foreboding, close to terror. “Have you—have you seen the police?”

  But she was staring at him as if she had never seen him before. Words poured like a solemn and deathly cataract from her lips.

  “All her life, you drove her away. As you drove me away. You never wanted us. That was because we loved you. You never wanted a body to love you, did you, John Turnbull? You searched out those that hated you, because you hated, too. You had your fancy woman, as was a poison in your heart, and she a wife and mother. You had your Mr. Wilkins, as is a wicked man. Allus, you surrounded yourself with bad men and women, because there was badness in you, and hate, and all sorts of hellish things.”

  She paused. A wave of purple rolled over her features. She as never cared for you, a bad woman in her heart. I’ve known gasped and pressed her hand to her enormous breast. All the careful enunciation, all the proper false grammar which Miss Beardsley had taught her, was washed away in the flood of her passion and anguish, and it was the Lilybelle Botts of over a quarter of a century ago that stood before John now.

  Her voice, raucous, tearing, crude, assaulted him like fists.

  “Why’d’ye hate us, John? Only because we loved you? You couldn’t abide that, could you? You was afraid we’d heal you. You didn’t want to be healed. You was allus a coward. Only cowards hate. Wot did they take from you? A woman it all for over ten years.

  “You’ve ’ad your Mr. Wilkins, as killed your spirit. Because you wanted it to be killed. You wanted to hug your hate, like a serpint. Not to hate would have been too much for you. Every man must’ve a reason to live. You thought your reason to live was to hate. And for such a little thing! For such a silly bloody thing! Somethin’ you never even wanted!”

  She seemed inspired with the wildest passion, hatred and loathing. She was so close to him now that he could smell the wet woolen scent of her drenched shawl, her sweat, the damp silk of her gown, her very flesh.

  “Wot’ve you done to yourself, John? And to me, whose only fault was lovin’ you? And to my little lass, as loved you, too? You’ve killed us, John Turnbull, and you’ll answer to God for it!”

  The carpeted floor seemed to move under John’s feet. He clutched the post with a slipping hand. He heard the ominous rolling of his heart, and there was a fierce sickness somewhere in the center of it. He stretched out his free hand to his wife.

  “Lily. Don’t talk like that. I—I haven’t hated you, my dear.” A strange and startled look flashed into his eyes, and he stared at her, moistening his lips. “Why, damn you, I’ve loved you! I love you! I never knew it before.”

  She looked at his hand, at his face, and shuddered. She retreated from him. But he stared at her in amazed wonder, as at a revelation. Something like a fiery wound opened in his chest, and he felt its heat run all along his nerves.

  Her voice bore in upon his disordered senses like a crash of thunder:

  “D’ye think the others—the other lassies—ever loved you, John? They hated you! Wot do you think of that? They hated you. They and their men. They plotted against you. That’s wot they’ve done to you, tonight, and me and my little lass tried to save you! We couldn’t. Because there’s a judgment on you, for your badness. God wouldn’t let us help you. There’s a hard and terrible way for you to walk, my man! A hard and terrible way. And you’ll go it alone. Me and my little lass won’t walk it with you.”

  Again, grief and agony overwhelmed her, and she gasped for breath. “Where is my little lass? Give me back my little lass!”

  Everything darkened, wavered, expanded, blazed with light before John. He pressed his hands to his throat.

  He tried to speak calmly:

  “Lily, my dear, my love, try to control yourself. The child can’t have gone far in two or three
hours. Lily, try to listen to me. We’ll call the police. We’ll find her. We’ll bring her home.”

  He paused. He saw Adelaide before him, as she had faced him that night. And again the wound opened in his heart, like a flame. Terror seized on him. He could not bear the immensity of his new revelations.

  He caught up one of Lilybelle’s hands. She did not struggle with him. She was spent, broken. Her hand was very cold and leaden, and full of tremor. He looked at it, then carried it to his lips. But it did not warm, nor move.

  “My lass,” she repeated, looking at him. “My little lass.”

  “I’ll bring her home, my love,” he said, rubbing her hand in his palms. “Sit down, Lily. Let me call some one. Rest. I’ll go for her, myself. We’ll find her.”

  She was silent. She did not stir. She was a great figure of stone.

  CHAPTER 52

  Once out in the dark windy street, Adelaide was again impressed with the sense of desperate hurry which had assaulted her a few moments ago. The cold damp gale struck at her hot and feverish body, and she shivered automatically. She hardly felt the discomfort, however, and her thoughts were so urgent that the pounding pain in her head, and the knife in her breast were only vaguely apparent to her.

  There were few about, and she raced swiftly down the street in the direction of Anthony Bollister’s home. The wind caught at her shawl, almost tore it from her shoulders. Her bonnet wrenched at her head, loosened her hair. Mud and water splashed over her boots and skirt, and once she tripped, falling on her knees in an icy puddle. She sprang to her feet again, the dirty water saturating her skirt. Faster, faster, until it seemed to her that she was soaring, and her urgency was a hot blaze in her mind.

  Within the hour, Mr. Blakely would be at her father’s house, and the damage and ruin would be hopelessly accomplished. It was a race between her and the lawyer. How Anthony was to work a miracle she did not yet know, but the thought of his face, keen, sharp, coldly watchful and hard, filled her with hope and resolution. Someway, when she appealed to him, he would know. He would not fail. Of this she was certain.

  She gave no thought to the vision of herself bursting in upon Anthony and his astounded family, crying out to him for help, seizing his hand, and racing back with him to her father’s house. She only knew that he would come, must come.

  She reached the broad white steps of the Gorth home. The flickering light of the street-lamp shone on their dripping wetness. Gaunt bare trees, only just beyond the bud, cast heaving and dancing spectral shapes on the pavement. She flew up the stairs and pulled the bell with almost delirious vigour, and then grasped the iron grilling in avid hands, and shook it. Beyond the glass she could see the long white hall, the lamps, the curving staircase.

  A shadow intervened between her and the light. The door opened. Adelaide sprang at the door, pushed it open, and catapulted herself into the hall.

  She was a strange and astonishing and alarming sight to the old butler. He saw before him a panting young woman dressed in quiet sober garments of an upper servant, or, at the best, a governess. Her wet shawl slipped off one shoulder; her bonnet was askew on her falling roll of light brown hair; her skirt was drenched with mud and water to the knees. She was gloveless, disheveled, wild. It was her face, however, which alarmed the old man the most, so blazing white was it, the eyes distended and glittering, her whole aspect febrile and urgent and disordered.

  She was hurling incoherent words at him: “Mr. Anthony! I must see Mr. Anthony at once! Tell him to come to me directly!”

  The old man stepped back a pace or two. The young female’s garments were dripping, saturated. She had left dreadful footsteps of mud and water on the pale carpet. She was quite insane, he thought, this young person in her plain garments, and with her stormy gestures and fierce agitation, and terrible leaping eyes.

  He stammered, trying to recover his composure: “That is impossible, ma’am. Mr. Anthony is not at home. He has gone with Mr. and Mrs. Bollister and Mr. and Mrs. Gorth to the Academy of Music. From there, I understand, they are to visit some friends—”

  She was still now, and speechless. But she vibrated with her hurry and passion. He took this opportunity to approach her again and seize her arm. He must eject this impossible young female immediately. What could such as she have to do with Mr. Anthony? A most odious young creature, and obviously drunk. Young men would insist upon associating with dreadful female persons, and then wondered afterwards why they were embarrassed and discommoded.

  She wrung her gloveless hands.

  “You’ve got to find him! Immediately!” she cried, trying to wrench her arm free. She felt herself being remorselessly backed towards the door, and cast about her a glance of the most tragic frenzy. “You must find him, tell him that Adelaide needs him—!”

  “Yes, yes,” said the butler, soothingly, deftly opening the door behind her. “I’ll tell him, ma’am, as soon as he comes home. No doubt he’ll go to Miss—Adelaide—”

  She struggled with him, tearing at his firm hand on her arm with frantic fingers. Her knees shook under her.

  “I must stay! I’ll wait, while you send for him.” She cried this wailingly into his face, and her look frightened him.

  “No, no, ma’am,” he replied. They were on the threshold now, and Adelaide stumbled. He tried to release her, but it was she now who gripped his arm with drowning hands, to regain her step, to keep herself inside the house. “You go home, there’s a good girl, and when Mr. Anthony returns, I’ll tell him all about it.”

  Fearing, for a moment, that he was being injudicious, he glanced down behind her at the street to see if it was possible that she had come in a private carriage. But the street was empty except for the wind and the rain and the twisting shadows of the trees. Now his efforts to free himself were more brutal, and he shouted: “There now, be off with you, or I’ll call the police, that I will. No nonsense, now. Let go of my arm, or I warn you it will be the worse for you, my fine girl.”

  He twisted his arm, wrenching it from her grasp. She tottered on the step, fell backward, flailing the air outside with her arms. He shut the door in her face. She lost her balance, fell on her knees and hands, her head striking the grill-work. She was stunned. The sharp edge had cut her forehead, and while she knelt there, shaking her head from side to side to recover herself, a thin trickle of blood spurted through the skin and flesh and began to drip down her cheek. She gasped aloud. The light rain had increased in fury, and fell over her in an icy stream.

  But the water revived her. She caught hold of the grill and pulled herself to her feet, one heel tearing a long slit in her skirt. Then she screamed. She shook the grill madly. She tore at the bell, and heard its long pealing inside the house. She saw the empty white hall. It remained empty. She screamed over and over, until her throat closed, and her breath stopped.

  Somewhere near by a window opened and she heard a shout of “Police!” She put her hand to her mouth. She was trembling so strongly that she staggered. Then she turned and rushed down the steps, and raced down the street again, her shawl and bonnet strings streaming behind her. She thought she heard pursuing footfalls, and fled like the very wind itself.

  She could go no further. Shafts of light and darkness stabbed her eyes. She leaned against the wet trunk of a tree and tried to fumble with her shawl. Rain and tears ran down her cheeks. She looked about her with distended eyes, sobbing aloud in hoarse gasps. A lonely carriage came on echoing wheels down the street, and she shrank back into the shadows.

  She heard a hollow groaning near her. “O Papa. O Tony. O God.” She did not know it was herself.

  Now the urgency was closer upon her, like a visible and awful presence. She began to run again, weaving from side to side on the running pavement. Then she stopped so suddenly she almost fell.

  Uncle Bob Wilkins! Why had she not thought of him before, her father’s friend, her own dear friend? She cried aloud, with joy, sobbing with relief and new hope.

  It hardly seemed po
ssible that one in her condition of mind and body could find her way safely through the streets. She never remembered that journey; she only remembered the darkness, floating mists of white clouds colliding with what must have been lamp-posts and trees and iron fences. It was a journey through an eternity of agony and haste, led by instinct and the singleness of her desperate purpose. As she hurried, her eyes staring blindly ahead, her cold wet hand impatiently wiping away the blood that ran down her cheek, her breath a wrenched hoarse clamour in her throat, she thought of nothing, saw nothing, but what she must do.

  Then she saw bright lights, the bulk of Mr. Wilkins’ pleasant small house. The curtains had not been drawn. She hurried up the flagged walk, and was faintly aware of mingled firelight and lamplight on the glistening windows. She did not wait to ring the bell or lift the knocker. She turned the handle of the door and it opened, and she burst into the small warm parlour and the cold wet wind in with her.

  Mr. Wilkins, who liked happy quiet evenings alone occasionally, was sitting nodding and yawning over his newspapers before the fire. He heard the door open, felt the draft, and, startled, rose to his feet, the papers spilling, crackling, upon the hearth. There were several dogs dozing on the hearthrug, and they leapt up, snarling, and rushed towards the girl.

  It was a moment or two before Mr. Wilkins could believe that this disordered and streaming young woman with the bloody cheek and brow, the fallen hair, the torn skirt and muddy boots, was his pet, his little lass, his Adelaide. When he did so, he cried out, incredulously, and with horror, and ran towards her with his little fat hands outstretched.