The Turnbulls

by Taylor Caldwell

  “How can you say my father hates your mother?” cried Adelaide, with anger. “She’s his cousin, but he never sees her at all!”

  “You must take my word for it,” he insisted, inflexibly. “I know. Well, are you going to cater to his insanity, or are you going to live for yourself?”

  She stared at him with cold and fulminating fury, and he was delighted at the blaze of her eye, the stiff whiteness of her face, the arch of her pale lips. Then, even as she gathered words to devastate him, a dark shadow ran over her features, and they became pinched and wizened. She looked away.

  “‘Live for myself!”’ she repeated, with intense bitterness and scorn. “Such nice easy words. How can I? Don’t you know that I’ve thought about it, until my head spun around, and I was sick to death? I have no money; I never had any. Who would give me money to go away? You say my father wants me out of his sight. I was to much of a coward to admit it before—I couldn’t bear to admit it though it was there to see—but now I know it. I think I always knew it. Go away? Where? With what? If I asked my father to give me money so I could remove myself, he would know I couldn’t bear things any longer. I—I think that would please him,” and now her voice faltered, broke, and when she resumed, it was quite hoarse: “He would watch to see that I couldn’t get away. Besides,” she added, with such fierceness and hatred that Anthony frowned, “my dear sisters need me. I am their servant. They’d see to it that I’d never get away.”

  He took her hand quickly. It was ice cold and rigid as steel. He felt the clenched curve of her fingers. He pressed firmly upon her hand until it relaxed out of sheer pain. He looked into her eyes penetratingly, and said with slow cold intensity:

  “Stop that, Adelaide. You’ve had reason for hatred, I admit. But, for your sake, in the name of God, don’t hate. Or, don’t acquire the kind of hatred which will destroy you. There’s a healthy hatred that sets about reasonably to right things, a righteous hatred. But, that isn’t the kind that’s in you. You just hate, wildly and murderously. I suppose, perhaps, it is because you feel trapped. Adelaide, do you know what that kind of hatred will do to you? Look at your father.”

  She stared at him, her face tragic and convulsed, and overcome with horror. He took her other hand, held them both as if he were trying to prevent her from doing some mad and terrible thing.

  He made his voice very quiet and steadfast: “I hate many things, too, Adelaide. I’ve seen so much. I’ve studied the men all about me. Robbers, thieves, murderers and exploiters. America is rotten with them. I know what they are doing, and I know what will happen to my country if they are not stopped. I know that the very principles upon which this nation was founded are endangered, that liberty and freedom and the dignity of man are being menaced. It is an international plotting, and American malefactors are beginning to lead all the world, to enmesh it in such a web of plotting, lies, crimes and intrigue that it will take a hundred generations before men can extricate themselves from their slavery. I’ve talked to politicians, to Senators and Governors, in my father’s house, and they all have one thing in common: a hatred for all other men. America, based on freedom and the principle that man is a creature of dignity and soul, is being destroyed by rapacity.”

  He paused. His hold on her hands tightened. He looked away from her at the sea, and his face was black with violence and anger.

  “Yes, I hated them. I still hate them. But I didn’t stay locked in my room chewing my nails and concentrating on my hatred. As you do. I didn’t let the poison destroy me, and fill me with eroded cavities brimming with vitriol. I looked about me to see what I could do.

  “My beginning will be small. There’s Richard Gorth & Company. I’m in it now, with my uncle. He likes me. He’s intimated he’ll leave the business to me. My father is against it. We scarcely speak now. He had other plans. But his plans are not my plans.”

  He was silent a moment. Then he continued: “My uncle’s company is not so bad as others. Not as bad as it might have been. And now I’ve planned to make it a fair and decent company, in competition with the thieves and the exploiters in other businesses. I’ll make Richard Gorth & Company a sample of what American business might and can be. Honest, fair and honourable. Perhaps I won’t make much money. It is hard, competing with robber barons, as they call themselves grandiloquently. But I have faith in the American people. It will take time, but eventually they will come to have faith in us. That is a good beginning.”

  He turned to the girl and smiled at her. “You see, Adelaide? There is destructive hatred, which solves nothing but only murders the harbourer, and there is the kind of pure and constructive hatred which sets out to right wrongs, to undo justices, to liberate and to cleanse. I think the good men of all the ages had that hatred, from Jesus to Lincoln, from Luther to Washington.”

  She had listened, hardly breathing, absorbing his words like messages of peace and cleanness and sanity. Her fierce young face softened; her eyes were dim. Her throat worked, and finally she dropped her chin on her breast.

  But her voice was low and despairing when she spoke: “You’re a man, Tony. You can do so many things. But, I’m a female. What can I do?”

  He drew nearer to her. He put his arm about her. “You can marry me, you little idiot,” he said.

  Her shoulders became rigid with shock against his arm. She flung up her head and stared at him incredulously. But a great light broke out in her eyes.

  “Marry you!” she cried.

  He nodded, pressing her shoulders with his arm to calm the hysteria he felt mounting in her.

  “Why not? You know I’ve always loved you, my little love.”

  She looked at him in a tremendous shining silence, disbelieving, searching his face for mockery, for lightness. But he looked back at her with passion and tenderness, and touched her cheek gently with his finger.

  Then, without warning, she burst into tears. She turned and pushed her face against the broadcloth of his chest. She clutched him with shaking hands.

  “O, take me away, Tony,” she cried. “Take me away.”

  CHAPTER 43

  For a long time they were conscious of nothing but themselves. They leaned back in the shadow cast by the hood of the buggy, and held each other in strong and passionate silence. Adelaide had laid her head on Anthony’s shoulder. Her eyes were closed. She felt his gentle hand on her cheek and throat and hair, and a smile, rare in its sweetness, curved her lips.

  What an innocent little darling it is, thought the young man. And how peaceful she is now, and free from her misery and hatred. Please God, I’ll protect her from them from now on. Nothing will touch her again.

  The evening was falling swiftly. The crowds were thinning. Now, few remained on the piers. The evening sky was paling, and the gulls fluttered lower to the water. The sea turned gray and shadowy. Carriage wheels rolled away with a hollow sound on the wooden pavement. The wind had the chill of coming winter in it, rank and salt and bitter.

  In their absorption in each other, and what they had said in this last hour, they had not been aware that one man, at least, had been greatly interested in them, had drawn close enough to them, from the rear, to hear much of what had passed between them. And this man was Mr. Wilkins.

  He had seen them almost from the moment when they had rolled up near the water, and then, circling with apparent aimlessness, had approached the rear of the buggy, then, reaching the back wheels, had stood there, listening with profound interest and intensity.

  He had recognized young Bollister, and had been surprised at the sight of Adelaide. No mere curious desire to eavesdrop had brought him to this carriage. But he was very fond of Adelaide, and indeed his fondness had increased to a real love. He had spent many hours plotting how to extricate her from her misery, and visit vengeance on her oppressors. When he discovered her in the company of young Bollister he was apprehensive. It was a real desire to protect her that had brought him to this vantage point.

  Mr. Wilkins was very gay and gallan
t today in his handsome brown wardrobe. He never aged. He was more rotund and rubicund than ever. Now, as he listened, the most cherubic and peaceful smile came over his rosy round face. He nodded, pursed his lips, lifted his eyebrows, as if he was carrying on with himself a most delightful and satisfactory conversation. There was a gloating gleam in his glassy hazel eyes. When Adelaide had collapsed in Anthony’s arms, Mr. Wilkins had discreetly lifted apart a flap of the leather hood, and had feasted on the sight. He winked once or twice, quite violently, and had an inordinate desire to clear his throat.

  He heard Adelaide speak in a faint shaken voice: “But, Tony. I do love my father, you know. What shall I do? He’ll never consent.”

  “What do we care for that?” asked Anthony lightly. “Look here, you aren’t a coward, are you? We can go away quietly, tomorrow, for a few hours, and be married. What do you say?”

  The girl was silent. Mr. Wilkins could hear her quiet sobbing. Then she said: “O, Tony. I don’t know what to do. I’ve had the strangest feeling. I’ve felt that something quite terrible is threatening Papa. It is foolish, I know. But, I’ve felt it. How can I leave him?”

  Mr. Wilkins heard Anthony utter a vulgar word of disgust. He cleared his throat loudly, stamped vigorously on the wooden planks as if he was approaching the carriage, hummed a little, and circled round to the front. He glanced with the utmost casualness into the carriage, tipped his hat, murmured a word of apology. Then he allowed a pleased expression of amazement to come over his glowing countenance.

  “Well, now, if it isn’t Miss Adelaide!” he exclaimed, with a look of supreme sunniness. Then he pretended to start, to become nonplussed, upon meeting Anthony’s cold gray eyes and forbidding look of impatience. Anthony had seen the amiable Mr. Wilkins at a distance, but had never met him. His look was not amiable upon his recognition.

  Adelaide blushed deeply. She sat up, touched her disordered hair. Her eyes were both embarrassed and frightened. She drew away from Anthony.

  “Uncle Bob,” she murmured, distractedly, smoothing her rumpled clothing. The tears had left wet streaks on her face.

  Mr. Wilkins appeared ineffably unaware of the hiatus that his appearance had caused. He regarded Adelaide with affection.

  “I was ’opin’ I’d meet some one on such a fine day,” he said, with a beaming smile. “And I’m proper glad to see you out, Miss Adelaide, taking the air.” He spoke more slowly and clearly: “You were lookin’ quite pale lately, what with the work and all, and the responsibilities. ‘Not right, Bob,’ I says to myself, many’s the time. ‘Not right for the little lass to stay shut up like a blasted prisoner in a gaol. She should be out, gettin’ roses in her cheeks, she being so young.’ I’ve thought to speak to your Papa about it.”

  He turned to Anthony, whose eyes had narrowed. He spoke with great and blushing frankness: “The little lass needs a firm ’and to take her out of herself, that she does. Too much work, too conscientious like. You agree with me, sir?”

  Adelaide, more confused than ever, could still remember the amenities of society. “Oh, Uncle Bob,” she stammered, her colour mounting, “this is my cousin, Mr. Bollister. Anthony, you’ve heard me speak of Uncle Bob?”

  Mr. Wilkins pretended immense surprise and pleasure. He swept his round brown hat with a flourish to his breast, and bowed. Anthony, smiling secretly, returned the bow from his seat, with fitting ceremony.

  “Well, Mr. Bollister!” exclaimed the rosy Lucifer, with visible delight. “It’s a pleasure, I’m sure! Not that I haven’t heard about you, with many compliments.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” returned Anthony, with some irony. “I’ve heard of you, too, Mr. Wilkins.”

  His gray eyes were sharp and quizzical, glinting with a hidden smile. Mr. Wilkins lowered his own eyes modestly for a moment, then said: “Good things, I ’opes, Mr. Bollister? Not that one can expect good words from a world like this.”

  “Oh, I assure you the comments were quite strong,” said Anthony.

  Mr. Wilkins chuckled gently. “I’ll wager they were,” he responded, with humour. He eyed Anthony keenly, taking complete inventory of every feature. What he saw pleased him. A hard young devil, he thought, and one for Wilkins’ money.

  In the meantime, Adelaide had recovered her composure. She had smoothed her hair, adjusted her bonnet, straightened her skirts, put on her gloves, all with surreptitious speed.

  “Now that we’ve met, as I’ve always wished it, sir, I ’opes we improves the acquaintance?” said Mr. Wilkins, with the sweetest of looks.

  “Very agreeable of you, I’m sure,” said Anthony. He put his hat on his thick sandy-red hair, and picked up the reins. But Mr. Wilkins, suddenly earnest, laid his hand restrainingly on the buggy. Anthony looked down at him with darkening impatience. He knew all about Mr. Wilkins. He felt that there was a bad odour swirling about the carriage.

  But, as he looked down at the fat and evil cherub of a man, his attention was arrested by a strange and penetrating gleam in the glassy eyes, full of meaning and significance.

  “I want you to remember this, sir,” said Mr. Wilkins, in an odd and very slow and purposeful voice, full of import, “that if you needs Bob Wilkins, I’m at your service. There’s few as I’ve said that to, and I never says it lightly. I’m not one as talks idly, but there’s many a man I’ve made and broken.”

  “I’ve no doubt of that,” said Anthony, coldly. But he was both puzzled and interested at the contemptible rascal’s manner.

  “I don’t go abaht offerin’,” continued Mr. Wilkins, in that same peculiar tone. “But, there’s things I can do.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of them,” returned Anthony, with some grimness. But Mr. Wilkins’ hand tightened more strenuously on the buggy, which had begun to move. He walked along with it. He peered up at Anthony, and his eyes seemed phosphorescent in the gathering twilight. Because of the dimness, those eyes appeared disembodied, malevolent and full of power.

  “I just arsks you to remember, Mr. Bollister,” said Mr. Wilkins, and his voice had some fatefulness in it.

  “I won’t forget,” said Anthony, with grim contempt. He slapped the reins sharply on the horse’s back, and the animal broke into a sudden trot.

  “Good arfternoon, Miss Adelaide!” shouted Mr. Wilkins, waving his hat.

  “Good afternoon, Uncle Bob,” she called faintly, leaning out of the buggy to look back at Mr. Wilkins. The Battery was completely deserted now. Against the background of darkening sky and dark gray sea Mr. Wilkins was a rigid and lonely fat figure, his hat held high in his hand. He was, even to Adelaide’s confused senses, a strange and sinister figure, and the loneliness and desolation all about him increased that strange and sinister quality, as if he were part of them. She had the most unfathomable and nightmarish thought that he would remain there eternally, one with the eternal sea and sky, that his emergence into the world of men was only for brief intervals.

  They were clattering through the quiet evening streets before Anthony spoke again, and then with quiet determination:

  “Well, Adelaide, what have you decided? Remember, you can’t play with me. It’s yes or no, now. If it is no, I assure you we won’t meet again. I won’t see you again, ever. Well, what is it?”

  Adelaide was silent for a long moment, then in a trembling voice, she murmured: “It’s ‘yes,’ Tony. Whenever you say. Tomorrow, if you wish. But I must ask you this: let me stay in my home until I am sure that all is well, there.”

  Mr. Wilkins never wrote anything on paper. He knew the dangers too well. But he sent a discreet and anonymous messenger to Messieurs Hastings and Brogan to call upon him at his home on Monday evening, on a matter of grave importance. They would understand, said the messenger, that no one was to be taken into confidence about the matter.

  CHAPTER 44

  After the messenger had gone, Rufus Hastings and Patrick Brogan looked at each other in a long and peculiar silence. The dun and haughty Rufus’ eyes were glinting green slits, and there
were streaks of scarlet on his sharp and sallow cheek-bones. But Patrick faintly smiled, and smoked one of his strong cheroots. He knew that Rufus expected him to make a voluble comment, while he kept his own thoughts to himself.

  Rufus opened his cruel slash of a mouth, and a nerve in his cheek twitched.

  “Well?” he was goaded to say, with impatience.

  Patrick laughed gently. His little eyes, so cunning and bright vivid blue, sparkled mirthfully. “Well?” he repeated. “You, of course, expected something like this would happen, eventually?”

  But Rufus refused to answer this. He frowned, tapped his lean fingers on his desk, and pretended to give the matter great thought. “What the hell can he want?” he muttered.

  Patrick, however, was not deceived. Rufus was a fox. Indeed, there was a foxlike look about him, from his thin straight hair with the tawny streaks in it, to his long sharp nose and sinuous length of body. Patrick understood all about foxes. They doubled on their tracks. They feinted and twisted.

  Rufus sat up at length with an air of reluctant decision. “It can’t be important. I don’t think it necessary for both of us to go, do you? After all, the old codger is getting ancient. He’s probably worried about his investments, now that our dear Papa-in-law comes less and less to the offices, and looks more like complete disintegration every day. One of us is sufficient to reassure him, I think.” He picked up a sheaf of papers and frowned at it. “The Blue Crescent Line is doing very well,” he continued, with interest.

  “It ought to do,” said Patrick, with his easy Irish affability. “It’s now the sole line engaged in gun-running to Japan. One of these days all that ammunition is going to explode in the face of Europe.”