“Mind you,” he continued, with a sour smile, “I don’t agree with this young buck. But he believes what he says. What does it matter if what he believes is foolish, and ridiculous? What does it matter if he calls me a rascal to my face? He’s got courage. And I, for one, as an Englishman, like courage.”
He turned to Anthony, who had been listening in grim silence, his eyes sparkling. “Young man,” he said, “don’t let your Papa’s threats disturb you. If you want to stay here, stay. There’s always room in my house for a chap with guts. There’s always room at Richard Gorth for one who can look another man in the face and tell him he is a scamp or a liar. I’ve thought of shutting up shop and going back to England. But Richard Gorth is yours, if you want it. You can go into the firm tomorrow, if you wish. I’m with you.”
Anthony looked down at the casklike short man standing before him on the hearth, at his pale and murderous eyes, at his square lined face and rough gray hair. Then he said: “Thank you, Uncle Richard.”
‘‘Oh!” cried Eugenia, “this is frightful!” She stared at her husband’s uncle with cold but furious eyes. “Is this all the gratitude you have for Andrew, that you can encourage his son to rebellion and disobedience?”
“Gratitude, ma’am?” asked Gorth, pondering and knitting his shaggy brows at her. “You use the word foolishly, my dear. Don’t flash those eyes at me; you don’t frighten me in the least. If your husband had had any common sense, he would have beaten your folly out of you long ago. You start, ma’am. You wonder what I mean. Let your own conscience advise you. You’ve done with your petty tyranny in this house, ma’am. Hold your tongue in the future when men speak together.”
Eugenia could not believe her ears. Then she burst into her rare and reluctant tears and turned to her husband. “Andrew,” she faltered, reaching for him blindly. Andrew rose. He took her hand and drew her to him. He looked at his uncle over her head. His face was stern and hard, but his irrepressible mirth danced in his narrow slits of eyes.
“You know, of course, that we can’t stay here any longer after this,” he said.
Richard Gorth shrugged. “Please yourself, Andy. But don’t be a damned fool. You’ve got money, but not enough for a blackguard like you. You’ve got control of your fine lady’s fortune. But still that isn’t enough for you. You’ve languished about here, and struck elegant attitudes, and professed to be amused at Turnbull’s murdering successes. But, you haven’t been amused. You’ve been damned mad. You’ve wanted to knife him. For a number of reasons. Leave this house, sever your connection with me, run back to England. But all the way you’ll hear his loud and bellowing laughter at you. You know this.
“You’ve got a son who is a man. Thank whatever God you believe in for that. He’ll help us. Help you. Someday,” and he said this slowly, holding Andrew with his eyes and speaking with immense significance, “he’ll help you do in Turnbull, for what he’s done to you. I think you understand,” he added.
Andrew’s face turned livid. He drew in his mouth until it was a malignant slit. His eyes did not leave his uncle’s.
Then Mr. Gorth turned heavily to Anthony, who had been listening with a dark and bewildered expression.
“Look here, you contentious brat. I’ve said Gorth is yours, in the future. I mean it. We’ve done rotten things in our day, I admit. I’ve made a fortune at it. I don’t pretend I have any regrets. I haven’t. But there are things we haven’t done. You know that Turnbull is not only our competitor, but our enemy. He’s built up Everett Livingston Company, so that it has outstripped us. But there are things about him you don’t know. He’s done things, for money, that sicken even me. Opium. Gun-running. And other things I won’t mention for the sake of your gentle mother’s sensibilities. He’s the kind of man you spoke of: the kind that is ruining America. If you were sincere in what you said, you’ll set out, when you are older, to expose such scoundrels.
“Well,” he added, in the face of Anthony’s fixed and steadfast silence, “what are you going to do now? Come in with us?”
Anthony drew a deep breath. “Yes,” he said, very quietly. “After I have gone to Harvard. I’ll come in with you, uncle.”
Richard Gorth bowed gravely and profoundly to him, as if he had been an equal in age and experience and power. Then he looked at his nephew, and smiled grimly.
“Well, Andy?” he said, with a note of derision in his voice.
Andrew was holding Eugenia’s hand. He looked down at her tear-stained and averted face. Then he said, still looking at her: “Yes, uncle. I’ll stay. You know I couldn’t go, under these circumstances.”
CHAPTER 37
There was great excitement in the Turnbull household. On August 18th, Lavinia Amanda Turnbull was to marry Rufus Hastings, son of Robert Hastings, close associate of the Vanderbilts.
Rufus’ parents had at first pretended horror and affront that their son had chosen this florid, red-cheeked, black-eyed daughter of John Turnbull as his future wife. They professed that John’s repute was a stench in the nostrils of the more fastidious. Moreover, he was a sullen, surly devil with no social graces, no amiable presence, a man who stood aloof and made no attempt to ingratiate himself with any one. Though there was hypocrisy in their first pretenses, there was some sincerity too. John had ignored, openly flouted and treated with contempt those of New York society who had considered themselves the mighty. When he had bought and opened his great and impressive mansion on Fifth Avenue, they had waited eagerly and maliciously for invitations to dine there, intending to receive these invitations in insulting silence. But John had not given them this opportunity. He had continued to conduct himself as though unaware of their existence. They had called this “vulgar ignorance.” John had failed to be impressed. Later, very much later, when he had finally condescended to issue a few indifferent invitations, all invited came in an angry rush. They had come to ridicule. But the magnificent and faultless grandeur of the mansion had silenced them. They sent the family invitations in return, but only the two older daughters accepted except for one or two scattered visits a year, when John and his wife arrived in dark silence, remained a little while, and then departed.
Finally, hostesses gloated when John could be induced to dine at their homes. It became quite a competition among the ladies to see who could secure this gloomy and irascible man and his wife as their guests. It also became an unwritten law that he was not to be invited when Andrew Bollister and his wife were given invitations. As a strange and ironical result, the Bollisters and Gorths discovered that their invitations decreased in quantity, and that they could not summon up sufficient distinguished personages at their own table when the Turnbulls entertained.
Lilybelle was no longer ridiculed in New York society. The ladies declared that she was a dear and unaffected “darling,” so gracious and kind and attentive. Her simplicity, her eagerness to please and placate these formidable ladies, endeared her to them. It would have astonished her had she learned that a mysterious and distinguished ancestry had been invented for her by her new champions, that there was much significant nodding of heads and oblique hints that John had come to America because his wife, a lady of great consequence and ancient family, had been ostracized by her parents for marriage to a man much lower in station than herself.
So the parents of Rufus Hastings were only pretending that they objected to the marriage of their son to Lavinia Turnbull. In truth, they were delighted, and their demurrings were only uttered as a kind of boasting. When they so demurred, they listened with furtive pride to the protests of their friends. “Why, I have it on unimpeachable authority that Mrs. Turnbull is really the Honourable Lilybelle Brewster,” they would say, firmly. “Of course, it is regrettable that Mr. Turnbull is of less distinguished ancestry, but one must remember that he is quite a power in America.”
All in all, Lavinia’s wedding promised to be the most brilliant event of the “season.” Also, the most elaborate. In May, the bride and her sister, Louisa, went to Paris
to purchase the nuptial wardrobe, accompanied by Miss Beardsley as duenna, at John’s lavish expense. They returned with trunks and boxes filled to overflowing with gorgeous apparel, with hats, boots, gloves, furs and undergarments and perfumes beyond imagining. John’s own gift to his favourite daughter (purchased at Cartiers in Paris by Lavinia, and chosen by herself) was a string of lustrous rosy pearls. Also, chosen by herself, was her mother’s gift, a bracelet of glittering blue and white brilliants. The girls and their chaperone visited England briefly, there to pay their respects at the grave of their paternal grandfather and to visit Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London. They returned, chattering French volubly, and displaying elegant mannerisms acquired in London and Paris.
During the feverish tumult preceding the nuptials, (which were to be celebrated in the Turnbull mansion) Adelaide’s pale and silent presence passed unnoticed by all save her mother. The only occasions when her sisters noticed her existence was when they commandeered her services, which was quite frequent. Adelaide must sew this, adjust this, carry this, bring that, go upon this errand, arrange matters and bear the brunt of tempers rapidly becoming more peremptory and hysterical. It was no wonder, therefore, that a new servant or two justifiably thought her a young lady’s maid until they were belatedly and timidly disillusioned by Lilybelle. As for Adelaide, she would not have enlightened them, so detached and indifferent was her attitude to all that swirled, roared, screamed and shrieked about her. She was scarcely fourteen, but her composure and poise set her out in that household now rapidly becoming more chaotic as the days passed. She went about the house, slender, straight and silent, her light brown hair, (still straight and more shining than ever) streaming down her young back, her brown eyes liquid and still, her manners quiet and unhurried. There was a certain point beyond which even her distracted sisters dared not press her, and they had learned this point.
Had it not been for Adelaide’s calmness and ability to keep order, Lilybelle would have gone quite mad.
John found it all amusing. He smiled more than usual. He would loiter in Lavinia’s rooms, admiring her new wardrobe, looking upon his daughter with furtive affection and pride. Lavinia was very handsome, at eighteen, tall, with a splendid full figure, her black curling hair piled in masses on her head, her cheeks crimson, her manner spirited and impudent and excited, her eyes dancing with irascibility or anger or laughter, her pouting mouth very red and blooming. She would turn slowly before her father for his admiration, displaying one after another of her new gowns or frocks, demanding his opinion of the latest draped effect, the new bustle, the bodice, the lace or the glittering buttons. He must express his opinion about the plumed bonnets, the cloaks, the furs, gloves and boots. He must sniff every crystal bottle of sceht. Once or twice, to Lilybelle’s or Mrs. Bowden’s horror, and to John’s amusement, he was shown the heaps of lingerie, and even the lace-covered stays. Lavinia’s loud delight in her purchases touched John’s surly and restless heart. He looked at his vivid daughter, who was all life and vitality and exuberance, and he would feel a strong stirring of paternal pride and tender love. Who was there, among the dun daughters of his acquaintances, who could compare with this colourful girl, this handsome young creature who was his own? As a consequence, Lavinia’s purse was always overflowing with gold and banknotes, and she constantly greeted her father with embraces and noisy emphatic kisses, and expressions of boisterous affection.
“Dearest Papa!” she would cry, “I cannot understand why you are so deliciously good to me! I’m the naughtiest girl, really, and don’t deserve you!”
For the first time, then, in many many years, John was reasonably happy in the happiness and excitement of his daughter. He took a deep interest in all her plans, gravely Adelaide.
As Louisa was to be her maid-of-honour, and Adelaide to be one of the six bridesmaids, Lavinia was very meticulous about their costumes. Louisa was to wear pale green silk, Adelaide, golden silk and lace. There were many violent studied the guest-list, inspected minutely all the elaborate and expensive gifts that poured in every hour. Sometimes he would seize her and press his dark cheek against her own glowing cheek, in a kind of hunger which only young Adelaide found pathetic. He would say to her: “Are you happy, my darling?”, and in return she would kiss him vigorously, quarrels between Lavinia and Louisa, for, with her yellow exclaiming: “O dear Papa, so very happy!” As Lavinia was naturally of an ardent and lavish disposition, she did not find her father’s affection tedious, and she was now in such high spirits as to be excessively amiable to every one, even to curls and large blue eyes, Louisa threatened to outshine even the flamboyant bride.
“Dearest, you are so unreasonable,” Louisa would say gently, with her sweet smile and patient air. “You chose the green for me, yourself. However, if you don’t like it, I could wear the blue again, though I’m really quite tired of it. Then Adelaide’s yellow would be impossible.”
Though Lavinia was his favourite daughter, John loved Louisa with a special tenderness. Lavinia’s greatest fascination was her vitality; Louisa’s, her femaleness. The soft blue light in her eyes, her daintiness and sweetness, her expression of patience, of sympathy, of deep interest in every one, of tolerance and gentleness, endeared her to her father. Her voice was always low and musical and beguiling, her touch tender and soothing. Whereas Lavinia was inclined to a certain robust untidiness on occasion, few ever saw Louisa ruffled or flustered; her clothing was always fresh and in order, her hair meticulously combed and brushed, her flesh delicately scented. “She never sweats!” Lavinia would exclaim contemptuously, but with envy. All who knew Louisa loved her, except poor Lilybelle whose instincts, simple and unpolluted, recognized pure viciousness, cruelty and rapacity. Lilybelle fought against these instincts in horror. Surely none was so sweet, so good so reasonable and kind as Louisa, whose eye never flashed irately, whose voice never rose above a mellifluous murmur, whose touch was light and placating, whose smile was loving, gently amused or patient, and never malicious.
John considered his second daughter a superior angel, and could not understand the frequent savage attacks on her by Lavinia, who possessed considerable of her mother’s instincts. When Lavinia cried, “hypocrite!” he was angered. Later, he would surreptitiously give Louisa a cheque or a sheaf of banknotes in order to soothe her female sensibilities. She would reward him for this with expressions of moved gratitude, or with scented embraces and the sweetest of kisses. He would hold her in his arms, and ask her the question he asked so often of Lavinia: “Do you love your old Papa, darling?”
But never did he ask this question of Adelaide, and never did he give her money or even a smile. That pale cold girl with the quiet and silent mouth, with the proud straight carriage and unobtrusive manners aroused only his obscure irritation and repulsion. He knew nothing about her, saw her only as a plain background for her beautiful sisters, and if he ever spoke to her it was with indifference, reproof or annoyance. Sometimes he would watch her furtively, feeling a hotness and rage in his heart for her resemblance to another and older woman. This resemblance appeared to him to be an outrage, an insult. He was convinced that Adelaide was all her sisters declared she was, a “sneak,” a sly plotter, an ugly creature, a schemer and a fool.
And Lilybelle, always lurking in the shadow of his displeasure herself, had no words to tell him of Adelaide’s honour and valour, of her courage and steadfastness, of her truth and pride and intelligence. He only knew, to his anger, that this miserable female creature was Lilybelle’s love and joy.
“Haw you can endure the little wretch is beyond me!” he said once to his wife. “She goes sneaking and sliding about the house; her eyes are everywhere. It is evident that she envies and hates her sisters for their superior gifts. I tell you, she is poisonous! We ought to have sent her away long ago; it was foolish to keep her about the house until she was ten years old. She needs discipline and hard knocks to whip the insolence out of her. It is useless to hope she will ever get a decent husband. I
suppose we’ll be saddled with her for life, an ugly old maid slipping about and sneering at everything. A fine prospect!”
And once he quoted Lavinia: “There’s no doubt the girl is a plotter and schemer, a sly piece. She has only to appear in her sisters’ apartments to create discord between them.”
He would grow nervous and almost hysterical in his denunciations of his younger daughter. As he operated only in his emotions, and rarely with his reason, he did not pause to analyse his reactions to Adelaide, to question whether his accusations were just or unjust. He only knew that when he discovered her brown eyes fixed unfathomably upon him there was a strange shaking in his nerves and about his heart, a depressing of his thoughts, a mysterious stirring in his instincts, at once savage and embarrassed. As she affected him so, he avoided her, refused to look at her. As he hated her so, he was convinced she hated him, and he felt the old uneasiness and tiredness in her presence which he felt among those by whom he was hated, and whom he hated in return.
“A stupid baggage,” he would say, either to himself or his daughters, when Adelaide left the room when he entered it. “And hard-hearted, too, and too old for her years.”
As he was convinced that the inferior are the natural servants of the superior, he approved when he discovered that Lavinia and Louisa regarded their sister as little better than one born to serve them. Even when the girl’s young face was gray with weariness, he ordered her to accede to her sisters’ constant demands for her services. “It is little enough for you to do,” he would say to her brutally, when she hesitated. “You don’t deserve such sweet sisters. I don’t know how they can endure you.”
In his will, he had left her only a small trust fund. It was quite enough for a drab and colourless little wretch who would never attract a husband.
The Turnbulls Page 45
