The Turmoil, Booth Tarkington [best english novels for beginners .txt] 📗

She was silent a moment, and then, “You’re happy, Bibbs?” she asked.

“Ah, don’t you see?” he cried. “I want it to last for a thousand, thousand years, just as it is! You’ve made me so rich, I’m a miser. I wouldn’t have one thing different⁠—nothing, nothing!”

“Dear Bibbs!” she said, and laughed happily.

Bibbs continued to live in the shelter of his dream. He had told Edith, after his ineffective effort to be useful in her affairs, that he had decided that he was “a member of the family”; but he appeared to have relapsed to the retired list after that one attempt at participancy⁠—he was far enough detached from membership now. These were turbulent days in the New House, but Bibbs had no part whatever in the turbulence⁠—he seemed an absentminded stranger, present by accident and not wholly aware that he was present. He would sit, faintly smiling over pleasant imaginings and dear reminiscences of his own, while battle raged between Edith and her father, or while Sheridan unloosed jeremiads upon the sullen Roscoe, who drank heavily to endure them. The happy dreamer wandered into storm-areas like a somnambulist, and wandered out again unawakened. He was sorry for his father and for Roscoe, and for Edith and for Sibyl, but their sufferings and outcries seemed far away.

Sibyl was under Gurney’s care. Roscoe had sent for him on Sunday night, not long after Bibbs returned the abandoned wraps; and during the first days of Sibyl’s illness the doctor found it necessary to be with her frequently, and to install a muscular nurse. And whether he would or no, Gurney received from his hysterical patient a variety of pungent information which would have staggered anybody but a family physician. Among other things he was given to comprehend the change in Bibbs, and why the zinc-eater was not putting a lump in the operator’s gizzard as of yore.

Sibyl was not delirious⁠—she was a thin little ego writhing and shrieking in pain. Life had hurt her, and had driven her into hurting herself; her condition was only the adult’s terrible exaggeration of that of a child after a bad bruise⁠—there must be screaming and telling mother all about the hurt and how it happened. Sibyl babbled herself hoarse when Gurney withheld morphine. She went from the beginning to the end in a breath. No protest stopped her; nothing stopped her.

“You ought to let me die!” she wailed. “It’s cruel not to let me die! What harm have I ever done to anybody that you want to keep me alive? Just look at my life! I only married Roscoe to get away from home, and look what that got me into!⁠—look where I am now! He brought me to this town, and what did I have in my life but his family? And they didn’t even know the right crowd! If they had, it might have been something! I had nothing⁠—nothing⁠—nothing in the world! I wanted to have a good time⁠—and how could I? Where’s any good time among these Sheridans? They never even had wine on the table! I thought I was marrying into a rich family where I’d meet attractive people I’d read about, and travel, and go to dances⁠—and, oh, my Lord! all I got was these Sheridans! I did the best I could; I did, indeed! Oh, I did! I just tried to live. Every woman’s got a right to live, some time in her life, I guess! Things were just beginning to look brighter⁠—we’d moved up here, and that frozen crowd across the street were after Jim for their daughter, and they’d have started us with the right people⁠—and then I saw how Edith was getting him away from me. She did it, too! She got him! A girl with money can do that to a married woman⁠—yes, she can, every time! And what could I do? What can any woman do in my fix? I couldn’t do anything but try to stand it⁠—and I couldn’t stand it! I went to that icicle⁠—that Vertrees girl⁠—and she could have helped me a little, and it wouldn’t have hurt her. It wouldn’t have done her any harm to help me that little! She treated me as if I’d been dirt that she wouldn’t even take the trouble to sweep out of her house! Let her wait!”

Sibyl’s voice, hoarse from babbling, became no more than a husky whisper, though she strove to make it louder. She struggled half upright, and the nurse restrained her. “I’d get up out of this bed to show her she can’t do such things to me! I was absolutely ladylike, and she walked out and left me there alone! She’ll see! She started after Bibbs before Jim’s casket was fairly underground, and she thinks she’s landed that poor loon⁠—but she’ll see! She’ll see! If I’m ever able to walk across the street again I’ll show her how to treat a woman in trouble that comes to her for help! It wouldn’t have hurt her any⁠—it wouldn’t⁠—it wouldn’t. And Edith needn’t have told what she told Roscoe⁠—it wouldn’t have hurt her to let me alone. And he told her I bored him⁠—telephoning him I wanted to see him. He needn’t have done it! He needn’t⁠—needn’t⁠—” Her voice grew fainter, for that while, with exhaustion, though she would go over it all again as soon as her strength returned. She lay panting. Then, seeing her husband standing disheveled in the doorway, “Don’t come in, Roscoe,” she murmured. “I don’t want to see you.” And as he turned away she added, “I’m kind of sorry for you, Roscoe.”

Her antagonist, Edith, was not more coherent in her own wailings, and she had the advantage of a mother for listener. She had also the disadvantage of a mother for duenna, and Mrs. Sheridan, under her husband’s sharp tutelage, proved an effective one. Edith was reduced to telephoning Lamhorn from shops whenever she could juggle her