The Turmoil Booth Tarkington (best reads .txt) đ
- Author: Booth Tarkington
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Mrs. Sheridan shook her head. âI donât see any help that way. You know yourself she wouldnât have Jim.â
âWhoâs talkinâ about her havinâ anybody? But, my Lord! she might let him look at her! She neednât âaâ got so mad, just because he asked her, that she wonât let him come in the house any more. Heâs a mighty funny boy, and some ways I reckon heâs pretty near as hard to understand as the Bible, but Gurney kind oâ got me in the way oâ thinkinâ that if sheâd let him come back and set around with her an evening or two sometimesâ ânot regâlar, I donât meanâ âwhyâ âWell, I just thought Iâd see what youâd think of it. There ainât any way to talk about it to Bibbs himselfâ âI donât suppose heâd let you, anyhowâ âbut I thought maybe you could kind oâ slip over there some day, and sort oâ fix up to have a little talk with her, and kind oâ hint around till you see how the land lays, and ask herâ ââ
âMe!â Mrs. Sheridan looked both helpless and frightened. âNo.â She shook her head decidedly. âIt wouldnât do any good.â
âYou wonât try it?â
âI wonât risk her turninâ me out oâ the house. Some way, thatâs what I believe she did to Sibyl, from what Roscoe said once. No, I canâtâ âand, whatâs more, itâd only make things worse. If people find out youâre runninâ after âem they think youâre cheap, and then they wonât do as much for you as if you let âem alone. I donât believe itâs any use, and I couldnât do it if it was.â
He sighed with resignation. âAll right, mamma. Thatâs all.â Then, in a livelier tone, he said: âOle Gurney took the bandages off my hand this morning. All healed up. Says I donât need âem any more.â
âWhy, thatâs splendid, papa!â she cried, beaming. âI was afraidâ âLetâs see.â
She came toward him, but he rose, still keeping his hand in his pocket. âWait a minute,â he said, smiling. âNow it may give you just a teeny bit of a shock, but the fact isâ âwell, you remember that Sunday when Sibyl came over here and made all that fuss about nothinââ âit was the day after I got tired oâ that statue when Edithâs telegram cameâ ââ
âLet me see your hand!â she cried.
âNow wait!â he said, laughing and pushing her away with his left hand. âThe truth is, mamma, that I kind oâ slipped out on you that morning, when you wasnât lookinâ, and went down to ole Gurneyâs officeâ âheâd told me to, you seeâ âand, well, it doesnât amount to anything.â And he held out, for her inspection, the mutilated hand. âYou see, these days when itâs all dictatinâ, anyhow, nobodyâd mind just a couple oââ ââ
He had to jump for herâ âshe went over backward. For the second time in her life Mrs. Sheridan fainted.
XXXIIIt was a full hour later when he left her lying upon a couch in her own room, still lamenting intermittently, though he assured her with heat that the fuss she was making irked him far more than his physical loss. He permitted her to think that he meant to return directly to his office, but when he came out to the open air he told the chauffeur in attendance to await him in front of Mr. Vertreesâs house, whither he himself proceeded on foot.
Mr. Vertrees had taken the sale of half of his worthless stock as manna in the wilderness; it came from heavenâ âby what agency he did not particularly question. The broker informed him that âparties were interested in getting hold of the stock,â and that later there might be a possible increase in the value of the large amount retained by his client. It might go âquite a ways upâ within a year or so, he said, and he advised âsitting tightâ with it. Mr. Vertrees went home and prayed.
He rose from his knees feeling that he was surely coming into his own again. It was more than a mere gasp of temporary relief with him, and his wife shared his optimism; but Mary would not let him buy back her piano, and as for fursâ âspring was on the way, she said. But they paid the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick-maker, and hired a cook once more. It was this servitress who opened the door for Sheridan and presently assured him that Miss Vertrees would âbe down.â
He was not the man to conceal admiration when he felt it, and he flushed and beamed as Mary made her appearance, almost upon the heels of the cook. She had a look of apprehension for the first fraction of a second, but it vanished at the sight of him, and its place was taken in her eyes by a soft brilliance, while color rushed in her cheeks.
âDonât be surprised,â he said. âTruth is, in a way itâs sort of on business I looked in here. Itâll only take a minute, I expect.â
âIâm sorry,â said Mary. âI hoped youâd come because weâre neighbors.â
He chuckled. âNeighbors! Sometimes people donât see so much oâ their neighbors as they used to. That is, I hear soâ âlately.â
âYouâll stay long enough to sit down, wonât you?â
âI guess I could manage that much.â And they sat down, facing each other and not far apart.
âOf course, it couldnât be called business, exactly,â he said, more gravely. âNot at all, I expect. But thereâs something oâ yours it seemed to me I ought to give you, and I just thought it was better to bring it myself and explain how I happened to have it. Itâs thisâ âthis letter you wrote my boy.â He extended the letter to her
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