The Turnbulls

by Taylor Caldwell

  But Mr. Gorth gazed at him with opaque thoughtfulness.

  “Mark my words,” said Mr. Wilkins, “there’s many a spot on this old earth that could do with a bit of civilization, and a job in the factory or the mill. Wot did the old chaps fight for? Land, sir, land. Wot’ll they fight for in the future? Cheap labour, sir, cheap labour! Mind you, I understand these things. I’ve got a nose. Cheap labour, and markets. That’s the ticket, Mr. Gorth. I’ve got a nose!”

  Mr. Gorth mechanically stared at the organ under discussion, but said nothing. But the malefic glitter in his eyes increased.

  “Who pays bloody labour the most, sir?” continued Mr. Wilkins. “We does. ’Ow long can we compete with a world of cheap labour, I ask you? Not long! So, it’s us for unChristian countries lyin’ abhat just abeggin’ for us to move in and civilize ’em.”

  Mr. Gorth remained sunk in thought.

  “Our own mills and factories in heathen lands, Mr. Gorth,” said Mr. Wilkins. “We’ll be doin’ ’em a favour. Give ’em an interest in life, besides dancin’ around in their heathen temples and sleepin’ under the bloody palm trees. Make ’em share the white man’s burden, like,” and he laughed richly.

  Mr. Gorth’s inner eye saw vast and overwhelming visions. He sucked in his breath.

  “And wot with steam,” said Mr. Wilkins, “the stinkin’ world’s ’arf the size it used to be.”

  He added: “But we’ve got to move quick, like, or England’ll be there before us, with parsons and prayer books and beads and factory plans.” He chuckled: “Bringin’ in Jesus along with the looms and the machines. That’s the ticket! Nothin’ like Christianity to ’elp an honest man get cheap labour.”

  Mr. Gorth’s thoughtful eyes pointed themselves directly at Mr. Wilkins. He smiled malevolently.

  “There are times when I think you are a cynic, Mr. Wilkins.”

  “Not I!” exclaimed Mr. Wilkins. “I’m all for bringin’ in religion with the jobs! Two best blessin’s of civilization, sir. Keep ’em quiet with religion, and you’ll have no trouble. Keep ’em lookin’ at the starry heavens, and they won’t think whether you fill their bellies or not.”

  “I still think you are a cynic,” said Mr. Gorth.

  Mr. Wilkins said nothing. Mr. Gorth was not a very imaginative man, or he would have detected something sinister and virulent in Mr. Wilkins’ smile. However, he felt something like a dark shadow steal through the warmth of the room, as if an evil emanation had diffused itself there. He turned in his chair and poked vigorously at the fire.

  Then he directed his attention to Mr. Wilkins.

  “You saw my nephew in England, while you were there, as I requested you to?”

  “That I did!” Mr. Wilkins spoke ardently. “A fine young chap, that he is. Just the ticket for you, Mr. Gorth. I approached the subject delicate, like. The lad’s been waiting around, ’oping that his two older brothers’l die off and leave him a clear path to the title. But he’s lost ’ope, in a way. Brothers remain ’ealthy. When I hinted to him wot was in your mind, he seemed uncertain. Seems there’s a lass he’s after just at present.”

  Mr. Gorth frowned. “Who’s the girl?”

  “Good family, sir, and you can set your mind at rest abhat that. Daughter of a widow with ten thousand pounds a year. Niece of Mr. James Turnbull, the importer. You’ve heard of him, sir?”

  Mr. Gorth’s frown disappeared. “So the girl’s acceptable, eh? Turnbull? No children there?”

  Mr. Wilkins hesitated a moment. Then he said evasively: “There’s a son. So, the lass won’t inherit there. But there’s enough money without that. Your nevvy won’t stir until the lass gives her word, yes or no. I think it will be yes.” Mr. Wilkins pursued up his round fat mouth inscrutably.

  “Ten thousand pounds, and Andy’s own five, is quite respectable,” mused Mr. Gorth. “But you think he will come? I’ve always fancied Andy. A hard young scoundrel. Gad, it’s hard luck I have no children of my own.” And he thought of his barren wife with gloomy hatred.

  Mr. Wilkins clucked sympathetically. Then he uttered a slight exclamation. “Ah, I’d almost forgot. In comin’ over, I met a young chap on the ship. The son of that very Mr. Turnbull, uncle of the lass your nevvy’s after. Turned out with a shillin’, for marryin’ beneath his station. He told me this one night, after some drink. Hard to get anythin’ out of him at first, but trust Bob Wilkins. Told me the whole bloody story, and it’s a rum one, too. He’d be valuable to you, Mr. Gorth. Well eddicated and such; public schools. Good strong mind. I as much as told ’im I’d speak up for him to you.”

  “Why, damn you, Mr. Wilkins,” said Mr. Gorth slowly. “Am I to find employment for every worthless young rascal in England? You’ve taken a lot upon yourself, I must say.”

  Mr. Wilkins winked. “I think not, Mr. Gorth, I think not. The lad’s got intelligence, and he’s ready for anythin’. Remember, in a way, like, he’ll be a connection of your nevvy’s, if the lass says yes. Nothin’ like keepin’ things in the family.”

  Mr. Gorth stared fixedly at his agent. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, Mr. Wilkins.”

  “Nothin’ but Christian charity,” protested Mr. Wilkins, virtuously. “Can’t I do a chap a good turn without gettin’ the wink?” He laid his finger along the side of his nose. “I tell you again, Mr. Gorth, I can smell some one as will be of value. I smelled out this young chap afore I even saw him.”

  Mr. Gorth smiled unpleasantly. “Well, then, send him in. Mind you, I’m promising nothing, Mr. Wilkins. What can he do, if anything?”

  “He can keep your books, and learn the business, like. Trustworthy. When I saw him, I said to myself: ‘Bob Wilkins, there’s a young chap as one can trust.’ You haven’t a bloody man around here you can trust, Mr. Gorth.”

  “That I haven’t,” replied Mr. Gorth.

  Mr. Wilkins rose, picked up his hat and gloves and cane.

  “Then, if it’s convenient, sir, I’ll bring him in tomorrow.”

  Mr. Gorth, with unusual urbanity, shook hands with his agent. “There’ll be other bits of business for you soon, Mr. Wilkins. I can rely upon you?”

  Mr. Wilkins, out in the dark little corridor outside the office, hesitated. He glanced at the door leading to the bookkeepers’ room. Then he shook his head. He let himself out at another entrance.

  CHAPTER 14

  Mrs. MacNeill was extremely ill. Whatever of pretense she had used in the past, her present illness was not assumed, though self-induced by spite, rage, hatred, obstinacy and brutal determination to have her way.

  So far, this determination had been ably and coolly frustrated by her daughter, Eugenia.

  The girl would sit almost all night beside her mother’s fretful and feverish bed, unspeaking, as calm and dignified and contained as always, would leave, at dawn, for physical refreshment and a change of garments, for a light breakfast and a cup of hot tea, then would return to her mother’s side to perform the arduous work of bathing her and combing her heavy plaits, of making her bed and bringing her the morning tray. There were those who asked why a nurse was not engaged for these onerous and burdensome tasks, too heavy for the slight strength of the girl. But Eugenia did not complain. She knew that her mother was punishing her most cruelly, and that if she died she would occasion Martha no grief but a vicious satisfaction, an intense relief. It was a battle to the death between these two women now, open and savage, and one would eventually expire of exhaustion or the other of pure spite. Up to this early evening, it appeared that Eugenia would be the final victor, for, despite sunken eyes surrounded by purple patches, an emaciation so marked that the delicate bones of her face and neck and hands were sharply outlined under pallid and transparent skin, an exhaustion so acute and enervating that she floated like a ghost and hardly appeared to have a physical being, there was about her that accustomed strength of hers, prideful, haughty, reserved and full of authority. These were more evident than ever. As her flesh wasted, her mental and spiritual attributes se
emed to gain in stature, so that one felt the steely quality, the inflexible coldness, the rigid implacability, with uncomfortable awareness.

  “It is a thing which never would have been dreamt of with regard to myself!” Mrs. MacNeill would cry in a voice of wailing vitriol from her heaped pillows. “Mamma and Papa would have died of shame, and as for myself, I should have sunken ten feet deep in the earth for very mortification! Oh, it is intolerable, it is unendurable, that Martha Turnbull should have come to this, that she be afflicted with a daughter that not only is jilted in the very face of London, but refuses to accept a far better offer, an offer which will enable her to hold up her head again and sweep off in a grander carriage than the one offered her before!”

  More and more beside herself, Mrs. MacNeill must be lifted high upon her pillows, gasping. Eugenia watched this with the face and stillness of a statue. No one could guess that her throat was as dry as dust, that salt filled her mouth, that her heart rolled on sick waves of blackness.

  “If this had happened to a thousand other girls, it would have spelled a melancholy end for them,” sobbed Mrs. MacNeill, wringing her hands. “They would have been the laughter of London. A young female who is jilted has no refuge but the chimney corner, and her needlework. What gentleman is attracted to a young lady who has been scorned by another gentleman?”

  How could she know of the bottomless sadness and disgust which pervaded her daughter, the bitter unreconciled grief, the harsh resolution? How could she know of the shame which choked and sickened her, the same of a proud and coldly passionate spirit pilloried in the stocks of vulgarity and outrage? But Martha MacNeill, petty, shallow and stupid though she was, understood quite a little of this. She found the false consolations soothing, though quite disingenuous about their sincerity. But she found the contempt heaped upon Eugenia some recompense for her daughter’s flouting of her, and some revenge for herself. Ah, she would soon see that proud and haughty neck bent in snivellings and weakness!

  But though none guessed it, Eugenia had reached the end of her endurance. On this dark and somber February afternoon, as she sat near her mother’s bed and was forced to suffer the agonized humiliation that was a daily occurrence, she resolved, in her stony and embittered young heart, that she would endure no more. She reflected on the letter she had sent that morning to Andrew Bollister, and the grimmest of smiles touched her cold pale lips.

  “I have never seen so unfeeling a child!” her mother sobbed. “Have I desired anything for myself? Have I not gladly borne every sacrifice for you? Have I lived for any one but my child? What have I asked of you? Only that you make an incredibly brilliant marriage, suitable to your station, one which will redeem you in the eyes of all of London! A girl of sensibility and intelligence would rejoice at being delivered from an unsuitable marriage, and would thank heaven on her knees that such as Mr. Bollister had deigned to look at her! But my sufferings, and your advantages mean nothing to you, you wretched little creature!”

  Eugenia did not speak. It was as if she were deaf, or entirely alone. She moved deftly about the chamber, drawing the curtains, urging the fire to renewed activity, gathering up shawls neatly, arranging the tea-table for her mother. All this finally done, to the tune of Mrs. MacNeill’s lamentations, the girl then glided from the rom and went to her own chamber.

  She lit a lamp near her commode, then gazed steadfastly at her reflection in the glimmering mirror. Behind her, the austere room was dim, floating in shadows. The lamp carved her young face starkly out of the shifting gloom, so that it was molded of sharp black and white lines, the expression of bitter pride and unbending authority and endurance heightened to a great intensity. Her head was lifted stiffly and tilted. The lamplight made her large gray eyes more brilliant, more brightly hard and fixed. Her character, rather than any softness of beauty had made her face arresting and strange in its outlines, and these outlines were now intensified so that the angles of her cheek-bones, the sweep of her white forehead, and the sharpness of her firm chin gave an aspect of indomitable and icy emaciation to her countenance. It was a terrible thing that so young a face had this aspect, and a very sad one, also. Its rigidity, its inflexibility and inexorable self-control were pathetic in their implications. The nostrils of her fine clear nose were dilated, white and carved as marble, and her pale mouth was compressed in a harsh line.

  She held her unyielding pose for several mintes gazing at her reflection. But she hardly saw it. She stared indifferently at the purple shadows about her eyes, and her ghastly pallor which spoke of exhaustion of body as well as of spirit.

  Then, most moving, a tear started to her eye, dropping sluggishly as though half frozen, and fell over her haggard cheek. She watched it abstractedly, then calmly wiped it away with her handkerchief. She turned resolutely from the mirror and went to her wardrobe, withdrawing a gown of black silk with a round lace collar. She moved more quickly now, divesting herself of her plain brown garments, standing for a moment or two in the lamplight in her billowing cambric petticoats, her young arms, so thin and so white that they were almost transparent, shining like stone in the dusk, her childish shoulders so slender that the bones were visible in their swift movements. The black gown rounded itself over enormous hoops, swayed and tilted about her, revealing the ruffled drawers at every swift step. She fastened a huge gold brooch at her throat, eyeing it gravely in the mirror. It was inlaid with black enamel and small pale pearls. Then she brushed the sleek parting of her shining brown hair, tucked in a stray wisp that threatened to curl against her ear. Her severe aspect satisfied her at last. She touched her wrists with eau de cologne, and swept from the room, descending the staircase like a rapid ghost in swirling and rustling hoops.

  The drawing-room fire was burning sulkily. One lamp had been lit on a distant table. All was heavy silence there, dank and chill. Eugenia seated herself before the fire, and stared somberly at the restless, coals. There was no change in her expression, but at intervals her throat moved and trembled, and she swallowed convulsively. There was something terrible in her control.

  At last she heard the faint and melodious tinkling of a bell in the thick silence, and the footstep of the butler. For one instant her rounded young breast rose on a quick breath, and then was still and calm again. She rose, rested one hand on the mantelpiece, and turned her face, so like a white mask, towards the doorway.

  Andrew Bollister, austere and elegant in black broadcloth, entered the drawing-room, moving with his accustomed grace and stillness. His pale hair, shining as though painted on his narrow skull with a brush dipped in silver gilt, caught rays from the lamp. His eyes gleamed and flickered in his long keen face with its ridged and slender nose. His subtle mouth, so cruel, so delicate, curved slightly in its ghost of a smile.

  The eyes of the girl and the eyes of the young man met for a long and inexorable moment. Then she extended her hand to him. He took it into his own, which was no less chill and impassive. Gallantly, he raised it to his lips, then held it firmly. His smile brightened, yet did not warm. However, those malignant eyes of his, the colour of winter ice, glowed strangely.

  With a firm movement, she withdrew her hand and seated herself. But she did not remove her unconquerable gaze from his face.

  “Please, sit down,” she murmured. “I must have a talk with you, Mr. Bollister. That is why I asked you to come.”

  He sat down near her, carefully lifting his coat-tails, and then stiffly leaning towards her with an attentive look. For a few instants, she could not turn away from him. Then she stared at the fire. Her lips hardly moved as she spoke:

  “Mr. Bollister, I must ask you to cease your persecutions of me. I must ask you not to write me or attempt to see me again.”

  She waited. He did not answer. Impatiently, then, she turned her face to him. His smile was broader now. Something strange and violent stirred in her heart, and she cried out in a shaking voice:

  “I must appeal to whatever honour you possess, Mr. Bollister! I am a young and d
efenseless female, and have a right to demand some consideration, some mercy, from you! Your ceaseless persecutions of me, your appeals to my mother, have made my position unendurable in this house, have caused me shame and great wretchedness. There is nothing left for me, therefore, but to appeal to your honour—”

  She paused. There was a hard choking in her throat. She put her handkerchief to her lips.

  He looked at her for a long time before he answered, and an expression of serious meditation replaced his malicious smile. Then he said: “Miss Eugenia, I have only asked you to marry me. It is extraordinary that you should find this offensive. An honourable offer is not usually regarded with such aversion, even if it must be refused.”

  She started to her feet, overcome with the strangest emotions. Her heart beat wildly. She had to repress sobs which rose from some agitation which she could not explain. He rose more slowly, and stood looking down at her with the utmost gravity.

  “I have refused you, Mr. Bollister, many times!” she exclaimed, hoarsely. “An honourable gentleman would have found the first time sufficient. But, apparently you have no honour, Mr. Bollister, no self-respect, You have written to my mother, and have appealed to her in my absence, so that you have inflicted suffering upon a girl who has done you no harm. I must ask you, then, for the last time, to remove yourself from this house, and accept your dismissal.”

  Her control was unbearably shaken. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The hammering of her heart increased so that she had a momentary terror that she would suffocate. He regarded her in silence. But his face changed, became harder, yet oddly moved, and he half lifted his hands as if to take her, and then let them drop to his sides. He spoke quietly:

  “Miss Eugenia, I will ask you only once more to listen to me, and not with repugnance, but with serious consideration. Then, if you ask me to go and never annoy you again, I will accept my dismissal, and our paths will not cross unless by accident.”