The Turmoil Booth Tarkington (best reads .txt) 📖

and haggard eyes looked slowly from one to the other until at last his gaze rested upon his father. Then he came and stood before him.

“I’m sorry you’ve had so much trouble with me,” he said, gently. “You won’t, any more. I’ll take the job you offered me.”

Sheridan did not speak⁠—he stared, astounded and incredulous; and Bibbs had left the room before any of its occupants uttered a sound, though he went as slowly as he came. Mrs. Sheridan was the first to move. She went nervously back to the doorway, and then out into the hall. Bibbs had gone from the house.

Bibbs’s mother had a feeling about him then that she had never known before; it was indefinite and vague, but very poignant⁠—something in her mourned for him uncomprehendingly. She felt that an awful thing had been done to him, though she did not know what it was. She went up to his room.

The fire George had built for him was almost smothered under thick, charred ashes of paper. The lid of his trunk stood open, and the large upper tray, which she remembered to have seen full of papers and notebooks, was empty. And somehow she understood that Bibbs had given up the mysterious vocation he had hoped to follow⁠—and that he had given it up forever. She thought it was the wisest thing he could have done⁠—and yet, for an unknown reason, she sat upon the bed and wept a little before she went downstairs.

So Sheridan had his way with Bibbs, all through.

XXIX

As Bibbs came out of the New House, a Sunday trio was in course of passage upon the sidewalk: an ample young woman, placid of face; a black-clad, thin young man, whose expression was one of habitual anxiety, habitual wariness and habitual eagerness. He propelled a perambulator containing the third⁠—and all three were newly cleaned, Sundayfied, and made fit to dine with the wife’s relatives.

“How’d you like for me to be that young fella, mamma?” the husband whispered. “He’s one of the sons, and there ain’t but two left now.”

The wife stared curiously at Bibbs. “Well, I don’t know,” she returned. “He looks to me like he had his own troubles.”

“I expect he has, like anybody else,” said the young husband, “but I guess we could stand a good deal if we had his money.”

“Well, maybe, if you keep on the way you been, baby’ll be as well fixed as the Sheridans. You can’t tell.” She glanced back at Bibbs, who had turned north. “He walks kind of slow and stooped over, like.”

“So much money in his pockets it makes him sag, I guess,” said the young husband, with bitter admiration.

Mary, happening to glance from a window, saw Bibbs coming, and she started, clasping her hands together in a sudden alarm. She met him at the door.

“Bibbs!” she cried. “What is the matter? I saw something was terribly wrong when I⁠—You look⁠—” She paused, and he came in, not lifting his eyes to hers. Always when he crossed that threshold he had come with his head up and his wistful gaze seeking hers. “Ah, poor boy!” she said, with a gesture of understanding and pity. “I know what it is!”

He followed her into the room where they always sat, and sank into a chair.

“You needn’t tell me,” she said. “They’ve made you give up. Your father’s won⁠—you’re going to do what he wants. You’ve given up.”

Still without looking at her, he inclined his head in affirmation.

She gave a little cry of compassion, and came and sat near him. “Bibbs,” she said. “I can be glad of one thing, though it’s selfish. I can be glad you came straight to me. It’s more to me than even if you’d come because you were happy.” She did not speak again for a little while; then she said: “Bibbs⁠—dear⁠—could you tell me about it? Do you want to?”

Still he did not look up, but in a voice, shaken and husky he asked her a question so grotesque that at first she thought she had misunderstood his words.

“Mary,” he said, “could you marry me?”

“What did you say, Bibbs?” she asked, quietly.

His tone and attitude did not change. “Will you marry me?”

Both of her hands leaped to her cheeks⁠—she grew red and then white. She rose slowly and moved backward from him, staring at him, at first incredulously, then with an intense perplexity more and more luminous in her wide eyes; it was like a spoken question. The room filled with strangeness in the long silence⁠—the two were so strange to each other. At last she said:

“What made you say that?”

He did not answer.

“Bibbs, look at me!” Her voice was loud and clear. “What made you say that? Look at me!”

He could not look at her, and he could not speak.

“What was it that made you?” she said. “I want you to tell me.”

She went closer to him, her eyes ever brighter and wider with that intensity of wonder. “You’ve given up⁠—to your father,” she said, slowly, “and then you came to ask me⁠—” She broke off. “Bibbs, do you want me to marry you?”

“Yes,” he said, just audibly.

“No!” she cried. “You do not. Then what made you ask me? What is it that’s happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Wait,” she said. “Let me think. It’s something that happened since our walk this morning⁠—yes, since you left me at noon. Something happened that⁠—” She stopped abruptly, with a tremulous murmur of amazement and dawning comprehension. She remembered that Sibyl had gone to the New House.

Bibbs swallowed painfully and contrived to say, “I do⁠—I do want you to⁠—marry me, if⁠—if⁠—you could.”

She looked at him, and slowly shook her head. “Bibbs, do you⁠—” Her voice was as unsteady as his⁠—little more than a whisper. “Do you think I’m⁠—in love with you?”

“No,” he said.

Somewhere in the still air of the room there was a whispered word; it did not seem to come from Mary’s parted lips, but he was aware of it. “Why?”

“I’ve