The Turnbulls

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Adelaide saw all these changes with a gray numbness of despair in her heart. She was hardly aware of her new quarters, which were drafty, inconvenient and dark. With acute prescience, she saw her new role in the life of this house. She would soon become a sort of upper servant, housekeeper and manager for her sisters. She had no court of appeal. Lilybelle would not have understood. John would not have listened.

  Therefore, in her wretchedness, she appealed to her parents to send her away to school again. But poor Lilybelle was too engrossed in her delight at having her family with her again. And John, appealed to by his favourite daughters, refused to give his consent. Her sisters need her, he said, though heaven alone knew why they wanted such a silent and sullen young creature about them. Lavinia was pregnant, and she would need her sister’s help in the months and years to come. It never occurred to John that Adelaide, herself, might marry. It was foreordained, he believed, that she would be the old maid of the family, and must make herself useful. She must pay for her ugliness and lack of personal attractions by services to her superior sisters. (John, himself, influenced by his daughters, was quite convinced that Adelaide was physically repellent. He never looked at her with awareness.)

  Nor, said John, considering the future of service and selfless dedication in store for his youngest daughter, was it necessary to waste any further time on her education. She was nearly sixteen now, a great girl, and was none too good in her studies anyway. Miss Beardsley must be thanked, given a handsome gift, and alowed to return to her own home, (which she had advantageously rented out to a substantial family).

  Miss Beardsley was aghast. She saw that she had “cut her own throat.” She had constantly complained of Adelaide’s stupidity to her parents, with the single desire of increasing John’s displeasure with the girl. Adelaide might turn in a most excellent and complete paper, but Miss Beardsley would scrawl and slash at it viciously with a red pencil, and then take it grimly to John, watching, then, his scowl of disgust and irritation, with inner satisfaction. Now, he had taken Miss Beardsley seriously; had agreed with her that the girl was incapable of absorbing learning. So Miss Beardsley, then, was to be ousted from her excellent and comfortable quarters and the ministrations of fine servants, and deprived of a very substantial income. Her hatred for Adelaide increased. When she returned to her gaunt house with her baggage, she forgot the amazing cheque in her reticule, and concentrated all her malefic thoughts on Adelaide, who was responsible for her deprivations.

  Adelaide was too engrossed in her despair to be happy over the dismissal of her old enemy. She went through the onerous days like one moving in a nightmare. At night, after the constant demands of her petulant sisters, she was too exhausted to sleep.

  She could rarely escape. But one Sunday, on a clear sweet autumn day, she was able to elude her persecutors, and slip from the house. She moved swiftly down Fifth Avenue to Eighth Street, turned and approached Broadway. The little closed shops glittered in the sun. Clouds of sunlit chaff eddied about her feet, swirled in the bright air. Carriages rolled rapidly by, the ladies peering out haughtily from under their gay parasols. Gentlemen strolled, stood in knots on the wooden pavements to converse and smoke and exchange greetings. Adelaide, only, was alone. She quickened her pace steadily during the next hour, walking with her free and graceful step.

  CHAPTER 42

  During the months of emancipation from her sisters, Adelaide had indulged her true inclinations toward colour and fashion. She had dressed prettily and charmingly, had brushed her light brown hair into glimmers of chestnut light. Though no one had remarked on these changes, she had not been discouraged. She had a vague and diffused dream, shy and radiant, though apparently still without real hope.

  Now, however, that her sisters had returned, they had taken on once more their old arrogance and dictatorial mannerisms towards Adelaide. Because she was so “colourless” and without “style,” they said, she must dress in accordance with her natural characteristics. Too, they had in mind her new position as upper servant to them. In consequence, they selected dull grays, browns and blacks for her. They preferred black, for black added harmony to the shining black satins or bombazines of their French maids.

  Louisa, who had a discerning eye, was not too satisfied about black. She saw that that sombre hue made Adelaide’s complexion take on a luminous clarity, intensified the liquid brownness of her eyes, contrasted charmingly with her hair, which apepared to take on a shining vitality. Though the girl’s lips had always appeared pale, black intensified their tint to a bright soft rose. One day, in fact, Louisa was annoyed to discover that Adelaide had a strange and vagrant beauty, as delicate as dawn, and completely rare and distinguished. But Louisa had always known that Adelaide was not ugly. She had insisted that Adelaide had no attractions because of her dislike for the girl. Lavinia, too emotional, always saw only what others desired her to see, especially if she had a desire to see in that fashion also. When Louisa suggested that black was “not the thing” for Adelaide, Lavinia disagreed vigorously. She was honestly convinced by Louisa that Adelaide was ugly, and black, in her estimation, was the fitting garb for ugliness.

  Adelaide, therefore, this bright autumn day, was clad in black and severe silk, the bustle small, the skirt narrow and scarcely draped, the bodice tight over her breasts and fastened by a row of jet buttons. There was a frill of white about her throat. Her bonnet, too, was black, tied with violet ribbons. Her appearance, unknown to herself, was distinguished and elegant, for her slight figure was very fine and graceful, her walk dignified and slow, her manner composed and distant. Her hair took on a brightness in the pale autumn sun; her face looked transparently pearl-like under the black bonnet, and her mouth was warmly pink. The sun brought out amber flecks in her brown eyes which were so thoughtful and so sad and yet, so unresigned.

  Her thoughts were not submissive. They were full of cold anger and hatred and despair. The lonely light under the trees that lined the pavement enhanced her sense of desolation and imprisonment. She had escaped for an hour, but she must return to that great mansion which had become a gaol to her. Strange ideas flashed into her mind. Thoughts of escape. But where? She received no allowance from her father; she had no money. She was less than a valued servant. Nor had she any jewels she might sell. Her trinkets were all composed of silver and semi-precious, stones.

  I am a servant, she thought, bitterly. Why, then, could she not sell her services? Surely there were many ladies in New York who would be only too willing to engage her. She had no references, it is true. But I am competent, God knows, she thought, wryly. Her family was reference enough. But who would engage the daughter of John Turnbull for menial tasks? And what a scandal there would be! Adelaide dismissed the real thought, on contemplating that scandal which would quite overwhelm her father. Daughters of rich and powerful men did not leave home to sell themselves as servants. At the last, prospective employers would be convinced that here was a wild and wayward girl, seeking to escape from parental discipline. A bad piece, they would call her.

  She walked unseeingly, jostled by throngs that eyed her with speculative curiosity. Young ladies did not promenade unaccompanied through the streets of New York. Some young bucks thought, at first, that here was a female of the demimonde, but a glance at her quiet and abstracted face, so young and yet so embittered, dissuaded them from accosting her. Elderly ladies eyed her disapprovingly from their carriages, and then turned to discuss her with their daughters or sisters, remarking that they hardly knew what to think of young females these days, so bold and without modesty, and so entirely brazen.

  “Is that not the Turnbulls’ youngest daughter, Annie or something?” asked one old lady of her gay daughters, as they rolled by in their victoria. “The one who is so graceless and stupid and dull that they are not to bring her out? The one who attends her sisters, those charming young matrons?”

  But she did not believe this, herself. This lone and wandering young female could scarcely be the daughter o
f John Turnbull. He would not have allowed this shameless promenading.

  Subconsciously aware, at last, of the stares and curiosity she excited, Adelaide drew her black veil over her face. Now the transparency of her face, and her delicate beauty, were greatly enhanced. She was not aware of this.

  The fresh strong wind from the sea suddenly blew with accelerated boisterousness in her face. It carved her skirts about her, molded them to her thighs, to the great admiration of passing young gentlemen. Colour was stung into her cheeks. She held her bonnet with her hand, gloved in black kid. She moved steadily into the wind, with grace and sureness. Her heart began to beat with more calmness, and her depression lightened.

  It was some moments before she became aware of an urgent voice calling her name. She turned about, confused. A young gentleman was leaning out towards her from the seat of his buggy, which was very bright and very new and stylish. His horse was black and shining also, and very spirited.

  Adelaide started. Her face quickened into scarlet. She hesitated, then continued to walk, her heart beating furiously. The young gentleman followed, skillfully guiding his horse through the press of other carriages. He continued to call her. At last, he impatiently tossed aside his reins, leapt from the carirage, and raced after her, much to the amusement of other walkers.

  He caught her arm. “Adelaide, you minx! Why are you running away?”

  She tried to release her arm, then was suddenly quiet, and very pale. She looked up into the clean hard face of her cousin, Anthony Bollister. She tried to speak, and then fell into silence.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. He began to smile, but it was a shrewd and not too pleasant smile. “I haven’t seen you for ages. Why didn’t you meet me, as I suggested? All these months. Why, it’s over a year!”

  “I couldn’t,” she said, hoarsely. Her throat felt sick. Her pulses were beating with such rapidity that she was dazed. She felt the muddy pavement sway under her feet. There was a vivid dazzle before her eyes, and all at once they filled with tears.

  “O, let me alone!” she cried, and to her horror, she sobbed drily. She tried to move on. She hurried, as if pursued. At last, panting, she was forced to pause. When she saw that Anthony had followed her, her heart rose in her breast and she heard its pounding in her ears.

  She turned on him. “Please go away, Tony. This is impossible. I—I thought I’d forgotten you. It’s no use, Tony. Look; you are making a spectacle on the street.”

  He looked down at her white face, her quivering lips, her brown eyes swimming with tears. He saw that she had unconsciously lifted her hands towards him. He took them and pressed them firmly.

  “Dear little Adelaide,” he said, with great gentleness. His hard mouth softened. His slate-gray eyes were strong and inflexible. “See here, let’s get in my buggy. We’ll go for a ride, and talk. You know, I just can’t forget you, you little fool.”

  He took her arm in a resistless grip, and guided her back to his buggy. She found herself mounting the step, assisted by his hand. She sat down. There were tears on her cheeks, which she furtively wiped away with her handkerchief. He sprang up beside her, caught up the reins, and drove on towards the Battery. He did not speak. When she glanced furtively at his profile, she saw that it was stern and harder than ever, with deep lines about the mouth. He seemed much older that she remembered, surer and stronger, and she was frightened. This was not a kind face, or a tolerant one, nor even one with candour or honesty.

  She looked away from him, and tried to fasten her attention on the streets and crowds they were passing. But all at once, she saw there was a glow and a vividness over the faces of the crowded buildings, a blinding glitter on their empty windows, a noise of confusion and joyousness all about her. She began to tremble, and clenched her hands together on her knees. She tried to control herself, but in spite of her efforts she was pervaded by an intoxicating ecstasy and fear. She shivered violently.

  “Are you cold?” asked Anthony, in a curt but polite tone. He pulled a robe over her knees. She felt the touch of his hands, and a long and burning thrill ran over her body. She looked at him timidly, but still could not utter a word. He caught her look, tried to remain stern, and then could not help his smile.

  “You little fool,” he repeated, with more softness. He said nothing more for a long time, as they drove briskly through the streets for what seemed hours.

  They reached the crowded Battery, surrounded by its ancient buildings and warehouses, its mud and piers. Beyond, the sea glittered and shimmered in its far immensity. The black outlines of Governors Island broke the line of the horizon. Gulls caught light on their white wings, circled and dived against the pale and brilliant sky. The wind was stronger here, and fresher, filled with salt and harshness. Far away were the sails of a great ship, then the low gray smoke of a liner moving out to sea. People stood on the piers, and shading their eyes, stared at the pale thread of the horizon and laughed to see the gulls dive for small fish in the turgid water. Vessels on the quays droned and whistled, while men hurried to fill them with cargo. The whole scene was filled with light, vivacity and vitality.

  Anthony drew in his horse. There were many carriages about, guarded by grooms and coachmen, while their occupants strolled on the docks and held their bowlers and their bonnets. Only Adelaide and Anthony were silent. They gazed into the distance, avoiding looking at each other.

  Then Anthony spoke in a neutral voice: “You know, Adelaide, you are medieval. You’ve avoided meeting me because of ‘duty’ to your worthy Papa, who, I’ve detected, seems totally unaware of your existence, or worse. You see, I’ve made some very pertinent inquiries about you. You are a young lady out of Jane Austen. A silly, foolish little baggage. I suppose it means nothing to you that I—like—you, and wanted to see you, and that you’ve liked me?”

  Adelaide was at first angered and indignant at his words, and then she halted in the very midst of her emotions and stared at him incredulously. A soft rose flooded her face.

  “You said, Tony, that you like me?” she whispered.

  He tried to remain disgusted with her, but he could not. He reached for her hand under the rohe and squeezed it warmly. He smiled. He loosened his grip, but she seized his hand and held it almost with despair, and pleaded with him with her eyes to repeat what he had said.

  “My dear,” he said, in a changed tone, “I more than like you. Don’t you know that?”

  “But, why?” she murmured, still disbelieving, still grasping his hand with feverish strength.

  He shrugged. He moved closer to her, and their thighs touched. He felt her faint recoil.

  “How should I know?” he asked, lightly, his eye travelling over her face and throat and breast. “I only know I do. From the first moment I saw you. What a mouse you were. I’ve only seen you three or four times in all my life, but it’s been enough for me to know—” He paused.

  “What?” she asked, with a curious thin intensity in her voice.

  He was silent. What a strange innocent little creature this was, and how infinitely pathetic. He leaned towards her, and then drew back.

  “It’s enough for me to know that I want to see you, very often,” he replied at last.

  She averted her face very slowly, and looked out at the sea, without truly seeing it. He saw her profile, delicate, clear and sad, and more than a trifle dark and embittered. And now he was filled with anger and violence against those who had so distorted her life and her youth. His expression darkened, became cruel and vindictive and full of relentlessness.

  He felt her looking at him again, felt her start of apprehension at what she must have seen. He tried to smile reassuringly, but the congested look of violence about his eyes and mouth did not subside.

  “I think it’s about time that you and I had a little frank conversation, my pet,” he said quietly, but with a note of implacability in his voice. “A very frank conversation indeed. Or, Adelaide, are you a coward and a liar?”

  He was
pleased at the indignant flash in her eyes. Then, the girl had spirit. She was not a feckless weakling as he had begun to suspect. In anger, truth will out, he remembered.

  He held her eyes with his own strong and unrelenting eyes, and continued:

  “You’ve avoided me, even though you wanted to see me. Out of duty to your father, or some other such foolishness. Not that your father would care, over much. I think he’d be glad if you got out of his house and out of his sight. Why? Because you resemble my mother, whom he once wanted to marry. Men like John Turnbull don’t forget, you know. He hates my father. But he hates my mother worse.”

  He paused. He knew that he could not say what he wished to say, that he dared not say it. Not to this idiotic innocent little fool. He dared not say to her: “My mother is your accursed father’s mistress. I’ve known that for two years. How, I shall not tell you. He keeps her as his mistress because he hates her. But he doesn’t know it. There are many things about your blessed father which I know, and he doesn’t. He couldn’t stand up to life. Now, he keeps my mother because she represents to him a wicked black triumph. He doesn’t love her, and neither does she love him. Those two fools live in some fine and imbecile delusion of their own. And to this man, who persecutes and hates you because you remind him of someone whom he knows deep in his twisted soul that he hates, you give your loyalty and your idiot’s devotion. This man who has ruined and destroyed many men far better than he, who has spread misery to the ends of the world, and who has started a train of events that future generations will have to bear in increased enormity. This man who destroys and creates havoc because he hates.”