The Turmoil Booth Tarkington (best reads .txt) đ
- Author: Booth Tarkington
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âEverything you say,â Mrs. Vertrees began, timidly, âseems to have the air ofâ âit is as if you were seeking toâ âto make yourselfâ ââ
âOh, I see! You mean I sound as if I were trying to force myself to like him.â
âNot exactly, Mary. That wasnât quite what I meant,â said Mrs. Vertrees, speaking direct untruth with perfect unconsciousness. âBut you said thatâ âthat you found the latter part of the evening at young Mrs. Sheridanâs unentertainingâ ââ
âAnd as Mr. James Sheridan was there, and I saw more of him than at dinner, and had a horribly stupid time in spite of that, you think Iâ ââ And then it was Mary who left the deduction unfinished.
Mrs. Vertrees nodded; and though both the mother and the daughter understood, Mary felt it better to make the understanding definite.
âWell,â she asked, gravely, âis there anything else I can do? You and papa donât want me to do anything that distresses me, and so, as this is the only thing to be done, it seems itâs up to me not to let it distress me. Thatâs all there is about it, isnât it?â
âBut nothing must distress you!â the mother cried.
âThatâs what I say!â said Mary, cheerfully. âAnd so it doesnât. Itâs all right.â She rose and took her cloak over her arm, as if to go to her own room. But on the way to the door she stopped, and stood leaning against the foot of the bed, contemplating a threadbare rug at her feet. âMother, youâve told me a thousand times that it doesnât really matter whom a girl marries.â
âNo, no!â Mrs. Vertrees protested. âI never said such aâ ââ
âNo, not in words; I mean what you meant. Itâs true, isnât it, that marriage really is ânot a bed of roses, but a field of battleâ? To get right down to it, a girl could fight it out with anybody, couldnât she? One man as well as another?â
âOh, my dear! Iâm sure your father and Iâ ââ
âYes, yes,â said Mary, indulgently. âI donât mean you and papa. But isnât it propinquity that makes marriages? So many people say so, there must be something in it.â
âMary, I canât bear for you to talk like that.â And Mrs. Vertrees lifted pleading eyes to her daughterâ âeyes that begged to be spared. âIt soundsâ âalmost reckless!â
Mary caught the appeal, came to her, and kissed her gaily. âNever fret, dear! Iâm not likely to do anything I donât want to doâ âIâve always been too thoroughgoing a little pig! And if it is propinquity that does our choosing for us, well, at least no girl in the world could ask for more than that! How could there be any more propinquity than the very house next door?â
She gave her mother a final kiss and went gaily all the way to the door this time, pausing for her postscript with her hand on the knob. âOh, the one that caught me looking in the window, mamma, the youngest oneâ ââ
âDid he speak of it?â Mrs. Vertrees asked, apprehensively.
âNo. He didnât speak at all, that I saw, to anyone. I didnât meet him. But he isnât insane, Iâm sure; or if he is, he has long intervals when heâs not. Mr. James Sheridan mentioned that he lived at home when he was âwell enoughâ; and it may be heâs only an invalid. He looks dreadfully ill, but he has pleasant eyes, and it struck me that ifâ âif one were in the Sheridan familyââ âshe laughed a little ruefullyâ ââhe might be interesting to talk to sometimes, when there was too much stocks and bonds. I didnât see him after dinner.â
âThere must be something wrong with him,â said Mrs. Vertrees. âTheyâd have introduced him if there wasnât.â
âI donât know. Heâs been ill so much and away so muchâ âsometimes people like that just donât seem to âcountâ in a family. His father spoke of sending him back to a machine-shop or some sort; I suppose he meant when the poor thing gets better. I glanced at him just then, when Mr. Sheridan mentioned him, and he happened to be looking straight at me; and he was pathetic-looking enough before that, but the most tragic change came over him. He seemed just to die, right there at the table!â
âYou mean when his father spoke of sending him to the shop place?â
âYes.â
âMr. Sheridan must be very unfeeling.â
âNo,â said Mary, thoughtfully, âI donât think he is; but he might be uncomprehending, and certainly heâs the kind of man to do anything he once sets out to do. But I wish I hadnât been looking at that poor boy just then! Iâm afraid Iâll keep rememberingâ ââ
âI wouldnât.â Mrs. Vertrees smiled faintly, and in her smile there was the remotest ghost of a genteel roguishness. âIâd keep my mind on pleasanter things, Mary.â
Mary laughed and nodded. âYes, indeed! Plenty pleasant enough, and probably, if all were known, too goodâ âeven for me!â
And when she had gone Mrs. Vertrees drew a long breath, as if a burden were off her mind, and, smiling, began to undress in a gentle reverie.
VIIIEdith, glancing casually into the âready-madeâ library, stopped abruptly, seeing Bibbs there alone. He was standing before the pearl-framed and golden-lettered poem, musingly inspecting it. He read it:
Fugitive
I will forget the things that sting:
The lashing look, the barbed word.
I know the very hands that fling
The stones at me had never stirred
To anger but for their own scars.
Theyâve suffered so, thatâs why they strike.
Iâll keep my heart among the stars
Where none shall hunt it out. Oh, like
These wounded ones I must not be,
For, wounded, I might strike in turn!
So, none shall hurt me. Far and free
Where my heart flies no one shall learn.
âBibbs!â Edithâs voice was angry, and her color deepened suddenly as she came into the room, preceded by a scent of violets much more powerful than that warranted by the actual bunch of them upon the lapel of her coat.
Bibbs did not turn his head, but wagged it solemnly, seeming depressed by the poem. âPretty young,
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