The Turmoil Booth Tarkington (best reads .txt) đ
- Author: Booth Tarkington
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She glanced hurriedly over her shoulder and spoke sharply, but in a low voice: âI donât think itâs very nice of you to bring it up at all, Bibbs. Iâd like a chance to forget the whole silly business. I didnât want them to frame it, and I wish to goodness papaâd quit talking about it; but here, that night, after the dinner, didnât he go and read it aloud to the whole crowd of âem! And then they all wanted to know what other poems Iâd written and why I didnât keep it up and write some more, and if I didnât, why didnât I, and why this and why that, till I thought Iâd die of shame!â
âYou could tell âem you had writerâs cramp,â Bibbs suggested.
âI couldnât tell âem anything! I just choke with mortification every time anybody speaks of the thing.â
Bibbs looked grieved. âThe poem isnât that bad, Edith. You see, you were only seventeen when you wrote it.â
âOh, hush up!â she snapped. âI wish it had burnt my fingers the first time I touched it. Then I might have had sense enough to leave it where it was. I had no business to take it, and Iâve been ashamedâ ââ
âNo, no,â he said, comfortingly. âIt was the very most flattering thing ever happen to me. It was almost my last flight before I went to the machine-shop, and itâs pleasant to think somebody liked it enough toâ ââ
âBut I donât like it!â she exclaimed. âI donât even understand itâ âand papa made so much fuss over its getting the prize, I just hate it! The truth is I never dreamed itâd get the prize.â
âMaybe they expected father to endow the school,â Bibbs murmured.
âWell, I had to have something to turn in, and I couldnât write a line! I hate poetry, anyhow; and Bobby Lamhornâs always teasing me about how I âkeep my heart among the stars.â He makes it seem such a mushy kind of thing, the way he says it. I hate it!â
âYouâll have to live it down, Edith. Perhaps abroad and under another name you might findâ ââ
âOh, hush up! Iâll hire someone to steal it and burn it the first chance I get.â She turned away petulantly, moving to the door. âIâd like to think I could hope to hear the last of it before I die!â
âEdith!â he called, as she went into the hall.
âWhatâs the matter?â
âI want to ask you: Do I really look better, or have you just got used to me?â
âWhat on earth do you mean?â she said, coming back as far as the threshold.
âWhen I first came you couldnât look at me,â Bibbs explained, in his impersonal way. âBut Iâve noticed you look at me lately. I wondered if Iâdâ ââ
âItâs because you look so much better,â she told him, cheerfully. âThis month youâve been hereâs done you no end of good. Itâs the change.â
âYes, thatâs what they said at the sanitariumâ âthe change.â
âYou look worse than âmost anybody I ever saw,â said Edith, with supreme candor. âBut I donât know much about it. Iâve never seen a corpse in my life, and Iâve never even seen anybody that was terribly sick, so you mustnât judge by me. I only know you do look better, Iâm glad to say. But youâre right about my not being able to look at you at first. You had a kind of whiteness thatâ âWell, youâre almost as thin, I suppose, but youâve got more just ordinarily pale; not that ghastly look. Anybody could look at you now, Bibbs, and noâ ânot getâ ââ
âSick?â
âWellâ âalmost that!â she laughed. âAnd youâre getting a better color every day, Bibbs; you really are. Youâre getting along splendidly.â
âIâ âIâm afraid so,â he said, ruefully.
âââAfraid soâ! Well, if you arenât the queerest! I suppose you mean father might send you back to the machine-shop if you get well enough. I heard him say something about it the night of theâ ââ The jingle of a distant bell interrupted her, and she glanced at her watch. âBobby Lamhorn! Iâm going to motor him out to look at a place in the country. Afternoon, Bibbs!â
When she had gone, Bibbs mooned pessimistically from shelf to shelf, his eye wandering among the titles of the books. The library consisted almost entirely of handsome âuniform editionsâ: Irving, Poe, Cooper, Goldsmith, Scott, Byron, Burns, Longfellow, Tennyson, Hume, Gibbon, Prescott, Thackeray, Dickens, De Musset, Balzac, Gautier, Flaubert, Goethe, Schiller, Dante, and Tasso. There were shelves and shelves of encyclopedias, of anthologies, of âfamous classics,â of âOriental masterpieces,â of âmasterpieces of oratory,â and more shelves of âselected librariesâ of âliterature,â of âthe drama,â and of âmodern science.â They made an effective decoration for the room, all these big, expensive books, with a glossy binding here and there twinkling a reflection of the flames that crackled in the splendid Gothic fireplace; but Bibbs had an impression that the bookseller who selected them considered them a relief, and that white-jacket considered them a burden of dust, and that nobody else considered them at all. Himself, he disturbed not one.
There came a chime of bells from a clock in another part of the house, and white-jacket appeared beamingly in the doorway, bearing furs. âAwready, Mistâ Bibbs,â he announced. âYouâ ma say wrap up wawm fâ youâ ride, anâ she cainâ go with you today, anâ not fâgit go see youâ pa at foâ âclock. Aw ready, suh.â
He equipped Bibbs for the daily drive Dr. Gurney had commanded; and in the manner of a master of ceremonies unctuously led the way. In the hall they passed the Moor, and Bibbs paused before it while white-jacket opened the door with a flourish and waved condescendingly to the chauffeur in the car which stood waiting in the driveway.
âIt seems to me I asked you what you thought about this âstatueâ when I first came home, George,â said Bibbs, thoughtfully. âWhat did you
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