The Turnbulls

by Taylor Caldwell

  Now, as she thought of all these things, her agony was intense and desperate. John was threatened, this time dangerously, mortally. He would go down, unless she helped him. But who threatened him so terribly? Who wished to destroy him? His daughters? Their husbands? It was absurd, when looked at reasonably. But she had surmounted reason in this hour.

  She thought of Rufus, whom she instinctively hated, as she hated all slyness and evil and calculation. She thought of Patrick, whom she vaguely liked. Patrick had always treated her with cavalier affection and amusement. She had found no pure evil in him, even if there was malice, and expediency and plotting. Once, in her hearing, he had said: “Now, there is a clever baggage,” and he had said this without animosity, and even with an amused admiration.

  But even as she thought of him and Rufus, doubting the screaming affirmation that clamoured in her, she knew that her instinct was to be trusted. These two would destroy her father.

  Her compassion, her love, her anguish, made her burst into wild and uncontrolled weeping. Her father, in spite of what he had accomplished, in spite of his imposing presence and his strength, was vulnerable, helpless, a child in the midst of malignant adults. He could never understand them. There was no virulence in him to recognize the virulence of others. He hated. And that hatred, to Adelaide, seemed the most piteous of all. The hater was the most helpless of men, the most injured, the most tormented. Those who had made him hate were the wicked ones.

  Hatred seemed to her the most pathetic of the vices. It was a scar over wounds inflicted by the cruel and the merciless.

  She experienced no resentment, no anger, against John for all the years of indifference and dislike he had heaped upon her. If he could only know that she loved him, understood him, he must love her in return. But she had no words to tell him. She saw, clearly, that when Lavinia and Louisa had mauled him, embraced and kissed him, protesting their affection for him (and he was so hungry for reassurance of human love, and the security it gave) she had stood apart, apparently willful and scornful, and always silent. What if she had run to him then, flung her arms about him, cried out her real love, begged for his love in return? Might he not then have responded, in grateful amazement? She could not know. But she had had her awkward pride, her miserable reticence, her fear. She saw now that when he had looked at her over the warm young arms of Lavinia and Louisa, he had seen nothing but a stubborn pale little face, and an arching lip. He had believed she disliked him. He believed her to be a stranger.

  Her confusion grew. The heat and pain in her head was a swirling delirium. She threw herself across her bed, and in a moment or two she was in a stupor, ridden by meaningless nightmares. She heard fury and clamour all about her, and was conscious of some fateful sickness in herself. But all else was confusion.

  And then, in the chaos, she dreamt of Anthony, or thought of him. A sweet and powerful yearning opened in her breast. She must go to Anthony, whom she had married that morning, and whom she had forgotten she had married. Anthony would help her. He would understand the full import of only a few faltering words and aimless gestures. Now a warm sense of protection enveloped her. No one could hurt her now. She had only to dress, to go to him, and he would take her in his arms, and she would rest. Then he would listen to her, and everything would become clear again, and reasonable.

  She pressed the finger that had worn his ring against her lips. She smiled in her fever and sickness. Now she slept, though it was a hot and uneasy sleep. She was faintly conscious of fear, but the thought of Anthony exorcised it, like the touch of a father’s hand.

  When she awoke, the room was in complete twilight, and she was shivering violently. Her head felt weighted with hot lead. The soreness in her chest was so severe that every breath was painful. There was no sound of servants about her, and so she knew they had gone downstairs to prepare dinner. She rose, staggering a little, and looked at the small clock on her dresser. It was nearly six. Her father must be home. Within an hour the dinner bell would ring.

  Now faintness and weakness so appalling took hold upon her that she fell against the dresser. Swimming points of light floated before her eyes. But she controlled herself. She knew she was ill. But before succumbing, she had work to do.

  She bathed, changed her frock, combed her hair. The comb felt heavy and thick in her trembling hand. Her hair was a weight of iron. Her face, in the lighted mirror, had a sunken look, livid and wizened.

  Suddenly a spasm of coughing wracked her. She put her handkerchief to her lips, and stared affrightedly at the stain of blood upon it. Perhaps she had lung fever. A convulsion of shivering shook her from head to foot. She forced herself to drink a glass of water, and the resulting nausea was so intense that she had to lie down for a few moments.

  She heard the dinner bell, pealing softly and musically through the house. Forcing herself to rise, clenching her teeth on her lip to control the waves of weakness that flowed over her, she left the room and descended the stairway. Now all her efforts were concentrated on retaining her footing.

  The family was already at the table when she entered the room. Lavinia, in cerise velvet, Louisa in angelic blue silk, Lilybelle in a muddy brown, sat waiting. John was at the head of the table, his daughters’ husbands on each side of him. Patrick must have said one of his usual light jests, for all were laughing agreeably. Even John was smiling.

  It was at her father that Adelaide’s burning eye directed itself. Yes, he was truly ill. Haggard, livid, furrowed and sunken of look, there was no doubt that he was a sick man. His hands fumbled as they carved the roast. Candlelight flickered over the great room with its beamed ceiling, its massive oaken furniture, its heavy silver on the sideboard. The butler and the maids stood at his elbow.

  He did not glance at Adelaide when she entered. Lavinia saw her out of the corner of her eye, and averted her head with a sullen expression. Louisa smiled and dimpled like a cherub. Patrick rose gallantly and drew out the girl’s chair. Lilybelle eyed her timidly.

  Adelaide seated herself. She gripped her hands together in her lap. The smell and sight of food made her violently ill. She closed her eyes. She heard the placing of her plate before her, the apologetic and humble touch of her mother’s hand. A swimming and heady unreality assaulted her, and she felt herself being softly wafted about in space.

  Moments passed in complete unconsciousness for the girl. Darkness closed about her. She heard and felt movements, as one under drugs feels them. But they had no connection with her.

  Then, clear and sharp, she heard Rufus’ voice:

  “So, father, you really must consider it. We’ve talked it over with Lavinia and Louisa, and they agree with us. However, you must make the final decision. We’ve given you our opinion, out of our concern for you, our anxiety.”

  CHAPTER 48

  As she awakened to full consciousness, lightning seemed to break before Adelaide’s eyes. Again, everything became abnormally brilliant and clear, so that the edges of the silverware, the contours of dish and bowl, the shimmer of the white damask cloth, the light-shadows on wall and ceiling, took on a blinding luminousness and dazzling intensity. She saw every face ringed in sharp brightness, full of significant meaning not otherwise apparent. Rufus’ veined buff hand, lying elegantly by his plate, Patrick’s vivid little blue eyes and half smile, Lavinia’s sullen and averted face, Louisa’s dimpled celestial smile, Lilybelle’s puffy florid face, and John’s febrile and sultry eyes, impinged so closely upon her senses that she felt that she could not endure their closeness, that she must scream and force them to retreat.

  Then she realized what had awakened her. She heard the echo of Rufus’ words as if they had been repeated over and over in her ears. She turned her aching eyes from one face to another, and tried to speak. But Louisa was talking eagerly to her father, leaning across the table to him, her blue eyes shining with passionate affection:

  “Dear Papa, won’t you listen to me a moment, and to Lavinia? You know how we love you, and how frightened we
are about your apparent illness.”

  “I’m not ill!” shouted John, thrusting back his chair from the table. Nevertheless, when he looked at his tender and dainty daughter, his look softened in spite of himself, and he passed his worn hand over his face.

  “Papa dear, you are,” insisted Louisa, and now she allowed tears to suffuse her eyes. “You know you are. You are breaking our hearts. What should we do without you? I can’t bear it, really I can’t,” and she touched her lashes with her handkerchief, and sobbed delicately.

  And then Adelaide, to her inner rage and despair, realized that a conversation had long been in progress of which she, in her illness, had been unaware and unconscious. All her inner resources came painfully to her aid now. She concentrated on the swimming brilliance of the table and faces before her. Her head felt enormous and swollen. It was a truly physical agony to listen, to try to comprehend. And it was so horribly necessary to listen, to comprehend.

  “My love, don’t cry,” mumbled John pleadingly. Adelaide saw how his brown hands were shaking on the cloth.

  “O Papa, you are breaking our hearts,” sobbed Louisa. She turned blindly to Patrick, who took her hand and held it tightly. His face was quite red and peculiar. Rufus listened calmly, with a faint half-smile, and shrugged.

  Louisa appealed to Lavinia, whose face was sullen and obstinate. That young woman played with her silver, as if distressed and uneasy. “Linny, darling, do say something.” There was steel under the honey of Louisa’s voice.

  Lavinia looked at her father, and said surlily: “Yes, Papa. You know you are ill. We’ve consulted Dr. Burney.” She paused, then added in a rush of loud words: “It—it doesn’t matter about anything else. But you are ill. We’ve got to realize that. You ought to have a rest. We don’t know what will happen if you don’t—”

  Lilybelle spoke then, timidly and hoarsely: “Mr. T. The lasses are right. I know you won’t listen to me. But I’ve seen. We could go away to the mountains for a little, or the seashore.”

  John said nothing. He looked at his beloved daughters, and his mouth jerked. He was profoundly touched at their solicitude, and he admitted to himself that life had at least temporarily become too much for him. He had thought he was alone, that no one realized his condition, the constant malaise and sick horror that had him without surcease. And all at once the idea of a brief escape was like a sudden easing of pain. He closed his eyes as the full deliciousness of the thought came to him. But what of his business, and the fear and suspicion he had of any one else conducting it for him? He looked at Patrick and Rufus, and his heart was squeezed with foreboding. Nevertheless, the delight he experienced at his daughters’ love and solicitude was a warm fire in his spirit.

  He looked slowly about the table, met Louisa’s sweet and melting gaze, Rufus’ stern and anxious eye, Patrick’s affected concern, Lavinia’s brooding look, Lilybelle’s tears. And then he saw Adelaide’s face, blazing white and strange. He was struck by that face. He had so rarely seen his youngest daughter clearly. There was anger in her eyes, denial, challenge, and a breathless eagerness. He turned away from her, his old dislike twisting in him.

  Now he felt truly ill, truly prostrated. Darkness passed in streaks before him, a sensation of surrender, of a giving up and turning aside. Before he was aware of it, Louisa and Lavinia were beside him, embracing him, wetting his face with their tears. Louisa had seated herself on his knee, and had laid her head on his breast. His hand rose and pressed itself on her golden curls. The delight came to him again, a shaking and wondering delight, that these children of his loved him so intensely.

  “Now, now,” he said, striving for lightness. “It isn’t as bad as that, my pets. I’m tired, I admit. But I’m an old horse in harness. No one can undertake my responsibilities.”

  He paused. He thought of his decaying affairs, and was terrified. Perhaps he was, in truth, much more ill than he realized. He thought of the passed dividends, the restlessness of his stockholders, the severe alarm of Jay Regan. He had pushed these matters aside, thinking that tomorrow, or tomorrow, he would face them, take them in hand again, subdue and control them. But the tomorrows had passed, helpless and fruitless, and nothing had been accomplished. He recalled his indifference, his falling into bed into a deep stupor, in order to escape them. Now, his terror rose, and he saw the imminent ruin completely. How had he been so blind, so obtuse?

  As clearly as if they were before him, he saw the heaps of dusty papers on his desk, and recalled that for weeks now he had sat before them dully every day, without the will or the desire to touch them. He knew that he must turn his efforts to them, but his will had been flaccid. His hands had shook so violently when reaching for the papers that he had been obliged to halt them in mid passage. His legs had turned to water. He had arisen a dozen times, making for the windows as if choking, and had fallen against chairs, tables and desks on his way. How had he forgotten all these things? How had he continued to hope?

  Now, if he should leave, if only for a little while, the confusion and nightmare might be overcome. The stupefaction might be blown away.

  But even as he thought these things, a dark swirling fog entered his mind, and unconscious of those who watched, two with love, four with cunning calculation, he pressed his hands over his forehead in a gesture of distraction. Everything fell away before him. Through the fog he saw Mr. Wilkins’ moist rosy face and round grave eyes:

  “Well, now, Johnnie, things is comin’ to a pretty pass. You ’aven’t looked at Regan’s letters. You ’aven’t noticed how things is gettin’ along. And they’re bad, very bad. Not like they should be, I don’t think. You’ve got to get things in ’and, I warns you, as a friend. Rest. That’s wot you need. Rest.”

  That had been only this afternoon. Nothing was clear to him but Mr. Wilkins. He remembered how he had shouted and cursed at the fat little man with the ageless affable face. How he had struck the desk until the dusty papers flew. Mr. Wilkins had left, shaking his head dolorously.

  Rest. He had never rested in twenty-five years. He had not dared to rest. For, with rest, he would think. He was in terror of the thoughts that would assault him in idleness. So, he had driven himself. He could not remember why, or what the threatening thoughts might be. He felt the ache and burning of his body, the knifing pain in his head, his passionate eagerness for sleep, for forgetfulness.

  Now, in his panic, he was most enormously frightened. What had Regan said in his ignored letters? What of the directors’ meetings he had avoided? What had been decided there? He remembered that he had refused to attend, that all that day he had sat before his desk, numb, blind, unfeeling. He saw the procession of the sightless futile days, when nothing had been done. Was he really only tired? What had come over him, to make him a lump of flesh without sensation, decision or thought?

  It must be that he was tired. That was all—tired. He must go away.

  He dropped his hands. His face had a livid moistness over it. But he smiled. He pressed his daughters convulsively to him. “Come with me, my darlings,” he said.

  Lavinia and Louisa exchanged a swift look. Then Louisa said gently: “Yes, Papa, dear. Anywhere. We have thought only of ourselves for a long time. We’ll go away with you. We’ve been such selfish beasts, and it is time to think of you, now.” She hesitated, then continued joyously: “You needn’t worry about your affairs, dearest Papa. What does anything matter, but you?”

  But John was frightened again. It is true that Rufus and Patrick could conduct his affairs adequately enough. But he had made all the decisions so long that he feared to relegate them to young and inexperienced hands. He looked at the two young men doubtfully. And the old sensation of disintegration, impotence, despair and weariness swept over him. The old suspicion of every one, the distrust of every voice and every face, the old wary hatred. He thrust his daughters away roughly, but it was the roughness of despair.

  “How can I?” he cried. “Who will manage things for me? You talk like a fool, Louisa!�
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  Rufus leaned forward, spoke softly and soothingly: “A few weeks away won’t matter. We can manage things. Of course,” he added, with a slight cough, “we have no real authority to make decisions. We must just mark time.”

  Patrick looked at him, and his mouth tightened. His was a more forthright nature, but he saw that subtlety must be used in dealing with this frightened sick man who suspected every shadow and shied at every slight gesture.

  Rufus sighed. John was regarding him with dilated and shining eyes, full of fear and anger and indecision.

  “You know enough,” he said, brutally. “You’ve hung around enough. Why can’t you manage? Not that I’ve fully decided, but it seems to me that you’ve faddle-daddled long enough to know an invoice from an order, Rufus.”

  Rufus spread out his hands resignedly. “That’s true. But, I repeat: we have no authority. What if a matter of importance comes up, father? We’d be helpless.” He lifted his sharp fox-like chin resolutely. “And I can assure you that we won’t annoy you with the details. We’ll let it go, until you return. That is all we can do.”

  John was silent. He gnawed his lip. A lifetime of doubt and caution, of suspicion and fear, could not be overcome in a moment. In the meanwhile, his feeling of disintegration, stupor and forgetfulness increased. What the hell did it all matter, anyway? He studied the faces of the two young men with feverish concentration. They returned his look with resolute artlessness and concern.

  Then he flung out his hand. He said dully: “I can’t leave things with you, as they are. What can you do?”

  The look that passed between Rufus and Patrick was a thin rapier of darting triumph. But Rufus remained sober, and very serious.

  “What do you then suggest, sir?” asked Rufus, with grave courtesy. “We are only anxious to help you. Would it be best to curtail all activities until your recovery?”