The Turnbulls

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  The girls sometimes distressed her, and bewildered her, for they were strange to her nature. But it would never have occurred to her to peer into their minds and their hearts. This did not spring from a delicate regard for their privacy. Privacy did not exist for Lilybelle. Her children’s natures were facts, and she never questioned facts, though sometimes, but rarely, they worried her.

  Humming as she rocked and darned, and tut-tutted under her breath at some new hole, she was entirely happy. The sun gilded the high masses of her bright hair, and lay on the warm and lustrous white flesh of her neck. Her humming rose to high singing, as artless as a child’s melody.

  She heard the grating of carriage wheels on the gravel driveway, and leaned forward to look through the window in surprise. Who could be calling at such an hour? She felt the old familiar shrinking. But, to her amazement, it was one of the carriages of the house, and John was descending near the door.

  There were few times when Lilybelle’s solid heart lunged with fear. But now it lunged. John never came home at noon, and rarely before five o’clock. She had only one thought: he was ill.

  She dropped the heaped stockings from her lap, A ball of white thread rolled from the basket and galloped across the floor. Lilybelle, despite her bulk, was still young, and she rushed to the door, flung it open and hurtled down the stairs, her big plump face quite pale, her mouth open. John had hardly let himself into the cool dusky hall when he was confronted by his wife, leaping down the stairs, her tumbled masses of auburn hair uncoiling themselves from her head.

  His first impulse upon ever seeing her was a frown, a turning away. But today, she saw in her tumult, he did not do this. He had closed the door behind him, and stood there, leaning against it, and staring blindly before him. He did not seem aware of her presence.

  Lilybelle halted as if seized by inexorable hands. She stood on the last step and gazed at him. Then, catching her breath, and saying his name for the first time in all her married life, she whispered: “John! What is it? You are ill?”

  He did not move. He continued to lean against the door and contemplate some point in space. Lilybelle crept down the stairs, approached him, then, greatly daring in her extremity of fear, she took him by the arm. That arm felt like rigid wood under her hand. She shook him, very gently.

  He looked down at her, but hardly seemed to hear her. However, he said faintly: “I am not ill. Yes, I am ill. I will go upstairs.”

  He began to move towards the stairway. Her first thought was that he was drunk, as he so often was, for he wavered and stumbled as if his legs were giving way under him. She sniffed furtively. But there was no smell of whiskey about him. Her fear rose again on a great arch. He was ill. For a moment or two a wave of dizziness ran over her.

  Without hesitating about it, she put her arm about him, and felt him give up his own strength to hers. This affrighted her. He leaned heavily against her as they slowly mounted step by step to the shining upper reaches of the hall. Lilybelle gasped a little, for all her strong young peasant strength. John appeared to grow weaker and weaker. Now he was leaning more heavily upon her. She could hardly support him. Halfway up he staggered, and she had to catch hold of the banister frantically to keep both of them from plunging downwards. When they finally reached the top, she was dripping with sweat, and tendrils of her hair clung wetly about her face.

  Step by step, they reached John’s room. Lilybelle guided him to the bed. He fell upon it as if struck weightily on the head. He lay, face down. Lilybelle raced to the window, closed the Venetian blinds. The blue gown clung stickily to her in the heat of her fear and the heat of the day. She tore it off, standing in her bodice, her white full shoulders and half her breasts revealed, her arms bare, her cambric petticoats standing out from her body, her hair tumbling about her. With swift strong hands she undressed her husband, moving and turning him as she would have done a child. He let her have her way with him, lying heavily with shut eyes, his breath loud and uneven. She brought him a fresh white nightshirt, pulled it deftly over his head and buttoned it. She tore away the lace bedspread, plumped up the pillows, half-lifted, half-dragged John under the cool white sheet. He lay there, and now his face was gray, deep clefts about his mouth, his nostrils pinched.

  “I will send for the doctor,” she said, panting from her exertions.

  He did not stir or open his eyes, but he said weakly: “No. I don’t want a doctor. I’m all right. Just leave me alone for awhile.”

  She stood and looked down upon him. She rarely had mystical intuitions, but now she thought to herself with dread: He’s had a terrible shock.

  Lilybelle was not acquainted, herself, with shocks to the spirit. But now in the presence of such a shock she felt a cold horror engulfing her, and a most dreadful impotence and desire to weep. She crept towards the door, soundlessly. Yet, he must have heard her, for he sluggishly opened his eyes and looked at her across the expanse of the dark red carpet. There was no expression on his face. But suddenly, as they regarded each other, a change came over his features. They became wild and distracted.

  “Lilybelle!” he cried. “Don’t leave me!”

  Never had she heard such words from him before. Dazed, she moved back to him. She sat on the edge of the bed, and looked down at him. She saw that he was full of agony. He clutched her forearm with both his cold hands, and the fingers pressed almost to the bone. But she did not feel the pain.

  “What is it? John, please tell me,” she whispered. She could feel nothing but her fear, her aching compassion, her great and desperate love for him.

  The wildness and anguish of his expression increased. Yet, when he spoke after a few moments’ silence, he said quietly enough: “Old Livingston. I found him in the office a little while ago.” He paused. “He was dead.”

  “Oh, what a pity!” cried Lilybelle, with new strength, her eyes filling with tears. She had only seen Mr. Livingston once, and thought him a cold and disagreeable old man. But John, apparently, had had some affection for him. She put her arms under his shoulders and raised him. His head fell slackly on her breast. She held him tightly and rocked back and forth, murmuring her pity incoherently. He felt as heavy as a dead man in her arms.

  In her stress, as always, she relapsed into the vernacular of her childhood. “The poor old gentleman. Wot a pity, that it is. There, lovey, don’t go on so. ’E was an old gentleman, that he was, and it was a shock to you. But ’e’s got no woman, or lads or lasses to grieve over ’im, and he was alone, and it was best, like.”

  John did not answer. He leaned against her. His cheek was ice-cold against her warm moist breath. She hugged him closer, and her whole plump body thrilled with its contact with him. She felt almost happy that he could endure her like this. But there was a slackness and inertness about him which terrified her. Her strong arms pressed deeply about him.

  Then he said, from her breast: “He didn’t die naturally. He killed himself.”

  She stopped her rocking, rigid with shock. But her arms did not loosen. Then she breathed: “Now, that was terrible, wasn’t it? Why? The poor old soul must’ve been ill, or barmy. No wonder it’s upset you like this, lovey. But it’s done, and there’s no use bewailin’ it.”

  He stirred in her arms, and moved away from her. He lay again on his pillows and stared at her. His mouth opened, as if he was about to speak, then closed again.

  “It’s best,” she urged. “Who loved the old gentleman?

  There wasn’t no one, pet. When one’s old, and there’s no one, it’s no use goin’ on livin’, like.”

  She went to his desk and lifted a decanter of whiskey from it. She filled a small glass half-full. Then remembering that John was, on occasion, a heavy drinker and a little swig would not do anything for him, she recklessly filled the glass to overflowing. She brought it back to him, and tenderly held it at his gray lips.

  “Drink it, lovey,” she said. “It’ll do you good.”

  He drank obediently, thirstily. Lilybelle hesitated, th
en returned to the decanter and refilled the glass. John drank again. Lilybelle seated herself on the bed once. more and earnestly and lovingly regarded her husband.

  “It was a shock,” she said, sorrowfully. “Finding him like that. It must have come all over you, like.”

  John said nothing. He just lay on his pillows and stared at her fixedly.

  “No one knows why he did it?” she suggested. “There was no note? They allus leaves notes, they say.”

  With a visible physical effort, John replied quietly: “He left nothing. I saw him for the last time yesterday evening. We had a—talk. With Wilkins.”

  “’E must’ve been barmy, poor old soul,” said Lilybelle, with simple conviction. “And ’e bein’ so old and all.”

  She was perplexed. It was terrible, of course. She could not understand John’s prostration. She leaned over him, the warm sweetness of her flesh enfolding him. “There, lovey,” she soothed him, “rest awhile. It does no good upsettin’ yourself. Wot’s done’s done. I’ll keep the ’ouse quiet for you. The lasses are away.”

  She smoothed the sheet coolly about him. She smiled down at him with deep love. He had come to her in his trouble; he had not turned away from her.

  He said, speaking as if each word came from a throat transfixed with a knife: “You don’t understand, Lily.”

  “I don’t understand wot?” she murmured, as if he had been a feverish child.

  But he was silent again. Only his burning eyes remained fixed on her face. Then he cried out as if in fresh agony: “Don’t leave me, Lily!” and he half raised himself in the bed.

  She took him in her arms again. She held him against her breast. She did not speak, only rocked him gently. Finally, when she looked down at him again after a long while, she saw that he slept. Inch by inch, she lowered him to his pillows. The grayness had begun to ebb from his face. It was relaxing. The misery remained, but a slow peace was washing over his mouth and closed eyes.

  She slipped like a shadow from the room. As she closed the door, she heard the far pealing of the door-bell. Hastily running into her own room, she pulled on a muslin dress with swift and awkward hands. Then she descended the stairs again.

  Mr. Wilkins stood in the hall, handing his cane and hat and gloves to a servant. Even in that duskiness she could see that he was perturbed and grim.

  “Ah, Mrs. Turnbull, my dear,” he said, upon seeing her.

  Now a strange thing happened to Lilybelle. Her first impulse had been to go to him quickly, to tell this old friend of her husband’s all about his trouble, to ask him his advice urgently and trustingly. But all at once, the strange thing happened, and she was on the last three steps and could not move. She stood there as if she was a fierce and relentless guardian of her husband, and could not speak.

  He advanced towards her, and tried to smile with his old geniality.

  “John, ’e’s come home, eh?” he asked, cautiously.

  Lilybelle moistened her full red lips, which were suddenly dry.

  “Yes,” she said, in a low voice. “’E’s ’ome. I’ve got him to sleep. He was upset.”

  Mr. Wilkins assumed a grave and lugubrious expression, and nodded. “It was sad. You know, ma’am?”

  Lilybelle nodded her head slowly. In the duskiness her round and shallow blue eyes were very bright and intent.

  Mr. Wilkins advanced another step. He looked up at her.

  “I’ll see ’im, ma’am, and comfort him, like.”

  But Lilybelle did not move. She did not know why she stood there, so inexorably. Here was her old friend, her old protector, almost a father to her, and such a good friend to John, who had no other real companionship. Who but Mr. Wilkins could comfort him? But still, she could not move. Her heart felt chilled and enormous in her breast, and she was faint with her own perplexity.

  “’E’s asleep,” she said, firmly. One hand rested on the banister; she put the other hand on the wall, as if to bar passage. “’E’s got to rest, Mr. Wilkins.”

  Mr. Wilkins was silent. He looked up at her. His round pink face became closed and evil. How much did the wench know? What had that fool told her? That weak and craven fool who had not the fortitude to accept life and his own acts?

  He coughed gently. “It was sad, wasn’t it, ma’am? The old gentleman—shooting himself? Johnnie told you?”

  “Aye,” she answered. “’E was proper upset. I gave him a swig or two. He fell asleep. ’E’s not to be disturbed.” She added: “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilkins.”

  He approached even closer, and spoke with cajoling firmness: “But I’ve got to talk to him, ma’am, asleep or no. There’s plenty of time for that.” He hesitated. “Johnnie didn’t have no—idea—why the old gentleman did it, eh? He didn’t tell you wot he thought, like?”

  Lilybelle answered: “’E didn’t know.” She frowned a little. “Leastways, ’e didn’t say. Just that he killed himself.” She repeated: “’E’s proper upset, sir. ’E’s got to sleep.” Then she exclaimed in bewilderment: “Was there a reason, as John didn’t tell me? Does John know?”

  Mr. Wilkins did not reply for a moment. Then he smiled with sad sweetness. “There warn’t no reason, ma’am, that we know of. But you know Johnnie. Allus full of sensibility. It was a shock to ’im. So I thought I’d drop around and soothe ’im. Just as a friend.”

  Now his foot was on the first stair. Without any reason at all, Lilybelle began to tremble. She became very white. She sucked in her under lip like a child who is about to weep. But she did not stir from her position. She knew, with a strong and nameless knowledge, that John must not see his old “friend” now, that he was not to be allowed to enter that room, that something most frightful would happen to her husband if Mr. Wilkins came in upon him.

  And then, with that knowledge, forceful and invincible, which comes only to the simple and pure of heart, she knew that Mr. Wilkins was evil. And she knew that that evil mortally threatened her husband.

  The knowledge overwhelmed her with terrible fear. Her knees bent under her. And her eyes distended so that they seemed full of a glaring light. She stared at Mr. Wilkins with open and supreme terror.

  “Go away!” she cried. “You must go away at once!”

  A whole world of repudiation, of horror, was in her face. She confronted him, however, with white resolution, the resolution of good men confronted by a boundless evil, an evil which must not pass.

  And Mr. Wilkins looked up at her, and a great silence fell between them.

  Then, after a long time, Mr. Wilkins took up the hat and cane which the servant had left on a hall table. Looking at her steadily, and smiling just a little with a peculiar fondness, he pulled on his gloves. He bowed a little. He even seemed amused, in a genial fashion. But Lilybelle did not answer his smile. The white horror was a glare upon her face.

  “You’re right, ma’am,” he said, humbly. “It’s not the thing to disturb Johnnie just now. But you’ll tell ’im I dropped in, and that he’s not to upset ’imself? That I’ll explain everything?”

  Lilybelle did not speak. But she nodded dumbly.

  Mr. Wilkins, after another bow, left the house.

  Lilybelle could not move for a long time. Then, as if the strength had gone from her, she sank upon the stairs, huddling her folded arms upon her knees. After a few stark minutes, she bent her head on her arms and began to weep.

  CHAPTER 34

  There are some countenances that immediately inspire curiosity, and scandal, though in fact the possessors are usually persons of the utmost innocence and virtue. And there are other persons, who by some mysterious magic of demeanour, face or carriage inspire the belief that no calumny could touch them, that they could never be guilty of anything that in the slightest resembled infamy or dubiousness.

  Such as the quiet slight lady, veiled and pale of manner and neutral of fashion, who came and went discreetly in the small blind white house with the green shutters on this street shadowed with trees. She was a lady of comfortable if small me
ans, apparently, for she had no carriage, always arriving on foot at her low white gate, her head always bent as if in meditation or melancholy. She wore only gray or black garments, with a large bonnet and veil, and walked with aristocratic silence, attracting no attention by the slightest lift of a gloved hand, aware of no one. Her appearance was genteel, but not so excessively as to arouse comment. Behind that veil her face was nebulous, and only a few of her neighbours had caught even the faintest glimpse of a pair of brilliant gray eyes and straight pale mouth. No one could have said whether her hair was brown or gold or black, so carefully was it concealed under the bonnet, yet not so obviously concealed as to excite remark. Her long shawls and muffs blurred her figure. She might have been any age between thirty or fifty. She fitted in perfectly with her background of “shabby genteel” neighbours.

  Her landlord knew her as a Mrs. Johnson, but whether she was wife or widow even he did not know. Nor, hypnotized by that magic of manner, voice and quiet calm face, did he even dream of inquiring. By her very bearing she repudiated curiosity; the very suggestion that she might not be all that she seemed would have seemed blasphemous to a man even so cynical as a landlord. Her dignity and cold pride told him that here was a lady, who desired nothing more than seclusion and quietness. She implied that her health was not of the best, that she was a stranger, that she had no desire to know her neighbours, and all this without uttering a single word to this effect. Continuing the subtle, and indirect, implications, the landlord gathered that she had some small private means of her own, and that she might at times not be at home for days. “There were friends,” she had murmured. Too, it might be expected that her brother would visit her occasionally, in order to cheer away the clouds of melanchonly that perpetually floated about her. For references, she gave the landlord the name of a substantial city bank, and a note on perfumed stationery, crested and thick, from Mrs. Andrew Bollister, in which that lady firmly certified that “Mrs. Johnson” was a close friend who had suffered certain griefs and wished to retire to a quiet locality. The bank and the note quite overwhelmed the landlord, who was not inclined to be suspicious, anyway. He came to the sympathetic conclusion that here was a lady in sad and reduced circumstances, who wished to hide her sorrows and fallen fortunes in proud and silent seclusion.