The Turmoil Booth Tarkington (best reads .txt) 📖

unity with him that she had long ago become unconscious of her existence as a thing separate from his. She invariably perceived his moods, and nursed him through them when she did not share them; and she gave him a profound sympathy with the inmost spirit and purpose of his being, even though she did not comprehend it and partook of it only as a spectator. They had known but one actual altercation in their lives, and that was thirty years past, in the early days of Sheridan’s struggle, when, in order to enhance the favorable impression he believed himself to be making upon some capitalists, he had thought it necessary to accompany them to a performance of The Black Crook. But she had not once referred to this during the last ten years.

Mrs. Sheridan’s manner was hurried and inconsequent; her clothes rustled more than other women’s clothes; she seemed to wear too many at a time and to be vaguely troubled by them, and she was patting a skirt down over some unruly internal dissension at the moment she opened Bibbs’s door.

At sight of the recumbent figure she began to close the door softly, withdrawing, but the young man had heard the turning of the knob and the rustling of skirts, and he opened his eyes.

“Don’t go, mother,” he said. “I’m not asleep.” He swung his long legs over the side of the bed to rise, but she set a hand on his shoulder, restraining him; and he lay flat again.

“No,” she said, bending over to kiss his cheek, “I just come for a minute, but I want to see how you seem. Edith said⁠—”

“Poor Edith!” he murmured. “She couldn’t look at me. She⁠—”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Sheridan, having let in the light at a window, came back to the bedside. “You look a great deal better than what you did before you went to the sanitarium, anyway. It’s done you good; a body can see that right away. You need fatting up, of course, and you haven’t got much color⁠—”

“No,” he said, “I haven’t much color.”

“But you will have when you get your strength back.”

“Oh yes!” he responded, cheerfully. “Then I will.”

“You look a great deal better than what I expected.”

“Edith must have a great vocabulary!” he chuckled.

“She’s too sensitive,” said Mrs. Sheridan, “and it makes her exaggerate a little. What about your diet?”

“That’s all right. They told me to eat anything.”

“Anything at all?”

“Well⁠—anything I could.”

“That’s good,” she said, nodding. “They mean for you just to build up your strength. That’s what they told me the last time I went to see you at the sanitarium. You look better than what you did then, and that’s only a little time ago. How long was it?”

“Eight months, I think.”

“No, it couldn’t be. I know it ain’t that long, but maybe it was longer’n I thought. And this last month or so I haven’t had scarcely even time to write more than just a line to ask how you were gettin’ along, but I told Edith to write, the weeks I couldn’t, and I asked Jim to, too, and they both said they would, so I suppose you’ve kept up pretty well on the home news.”

“Oh yes.”

“What I think you need,” said the mother, gravely, “is to liven up a little and take an interest in things. That’s what papa was sayin’ this morning, after we got your telegram; and that’s what’ll stimilate your appetite, too. He was talkin’ over his plans for you⁠—”

“Plans?” Bibbs, turning on his side, shielded his eyes from the light with his hand, so that he might see her better. “What⁠—” He paused. “What plans is he making for me, mother?”

She turned away, going back to the window to draw down the shade. “Well, you better talk it over with him,” she said, with perceptible nervousness. “He better tell you himself. I don’t feel as if I had any call, exactly, to go into it; and you better get to sleep now, anyway.” She came and stood by the bedside once more. “But you must remember, Bibbs, whatever papa does is for the best. He loves his chuldern and wants to do what’s right by all of ’em⁠—and you’ll always find he’s right in the end.”

He made a little gesture of assent, which seemed to content her; and she rustled to the door, turning to speak again after she had opened it. “You get a good nap, now, so as to be all rested up for tonight.”

“You⁠—you mean⁠—he⁠—” Bibbs stammered, having begun to speak too quickly. Checking himself, he drew a long breath, then asked, quietly, “Does father expect me to come downstairs this evening?”

“Well, I think he does,” she answered. “You see, it’s the ‘housewarming,’ as he calls it, and he said he thinks all our chuldern ought to be around us, as well as the old friends and other folks. It’s just what he thinks you need⁠—to take an interest and liven up. You don’t feel too bad to come down, do you?”

“Mother?”

“Well?”

“Take a good look at me,” he said.

“Oh, see here!” she cried, with brusque cheerfulness. “You’re not so bad off as you think you are, Bibbs. You’re on the mend; and it won’t do you any harm to please your⁠—”

“It isn’t that,” he interrupted. “Honestly, I’m only afraid it might spoil somebody’s appetite. Edith⁠—”

“I told you the child was too sensitive,” she interrupted, in turn. “You’re a plenty good-lookin’ enough young man for anybody! You look like you been through a long spell and begun to get well, and that’s all there is to it.”

“All right. I’ll come to the party. If the rest of you can stand it, I can!”

“It’ll do you good,” she returned, rustling into the hall. “Now take a nap, and I’ll send one o’ the help to wake you in time for you to get dressed up before dinner. You go to sleep right away, now, Bibbs!”

Bibbs was unable to obey, though he kept his eyes closed. Something she had