CHAPTER 61
Anthony was part way to the home of Mr. Wilkins, when he had a thought which caused him to hesitate, and frown to himself. His thought appeared weak to him, and then he smiled. He remembered that it is the weak man who fears a demonstration of weakness; the courageous are cautious about nothing.
Therefore, he turned abruptly, and hurried through the streaming mid-day streets to the Turnbull mansion. Arriving there, he was halted at the grill-work by a servant who protested that Mr. and Mrs. Turnbull were ill, and resting, and that the Madams Hastings and Brogan could see no one.
Impatiently, Anthony cried: “Nonsense. Tell Mr. Turnbull immediately that I have news of Miss Adelaide. I am Mr. Bollister.”
At once, the grill sprang open, and Anthony entered the house. The servant rushed off with an eager look. Anthony stood alone in the massive hall, then sat down on one of the tall oaken chairs. He heard a quick soft footstep, and saw a lady approaching him from the rear hall. She was an old woman, sedate yet dignified, small and neat, with brown eyes and gray hair under a white cap. She wore a black apron over her brown cloth dress, and a large bunch of keys jingled at her belt. Anthony rose. Was this royal old lady Adelaide’s mother? It was very evident that she was a lady, so calm was her manner, so composed her withered features in spite of the agitation so evident in the eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles.
She came up to him with remarkable swiftness, and said in a low voice: “Did I hear: Mr. Bollister?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. She studied him with acute gravity and intentness, sorrowful yet keen. Then she said: “I am Mrs. Bowden, the housekeeper.”
He could not resist extending his hand to her, and she took it with dignity. Now her lip trembled, and her eyes filled with tears.
“I have heard that you are Miss Adelaide’s husband. I am correct?”
“Yes. We were married yesterday,” he answered, simply.
She clasped her hands tightly together, and wrung them. Her scrutinizing eyes did not leave his face. Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, for eventually she smiled faintly, and with sadness.
“I am very happy,” she said, softly. This hard-faced young man with the gray eyes, the harsh and bony line of chin, the inflexible yet not obstinate mouth, was exactly the sort of husband she, Mrs. Bowden, would have chosen for Adelaide. No one would hurt her now, except, perhaps, himself, and it would not be a hurt given in cruelty. To Mrs. Bowden the supreme and deadly sin, the unpardonable crime, was cruelty. From its noxious root all other crimes and vices rose, like twisted and blasted trees. She might have liked more gentleness about the lips and eyes, more tolerance in the glance, more softness in the smile. But one could not have everything. It was enough for her that this man. was not cruel by nature, even if he was not kind. He would be good to Adelaide. He would protect and guard and cherish her.
Tears moistened her eyelids, as she smiled at him.
“Miss Adelaide is very dear to me,” she said. “We are very fond of each other. And now, I also hear that you have news of her.” She paused, then said with quick and pleading urgency: “Tell me: is she well? You have found her?”
“Yes, I have found her, Mrs. Bowden. She is not exactly well. Exposure to last night’s weather increased a fever she must have had for a day or two before. However, her doctor believes that the crisis will come within a short time, and that we must hope.”
Mrs. Bowden turned very white. “Lung fever? She—isn’t dying, Mr. Bollister?”
He tapped her shoulder reassuringly, grateful to her for her look of anguish and grief. “No, not at all. But these things need careful nursing. There is no reason to doubt that she will recover.”
“Such a tragedy,” said Mrs. Bowden, in a whisper and through shaking lips. “One cannot tell—Be good to her, my dear Mr. Bollister. Love her. The poor child—”
She stopped abruptly. Footsteps, slow, halting, were coming down the stairway. She turned swiftly and went to the rear of the hall where she opened a door and disappeared.
Anthony watched the bottom of the curving stairway. He felt some awkwardness, and some discomfort, and was, in consequence, inclined to be angry and annoyed. Now two figures appeared around the sweeping bend of the stairway. They were John Turnbull, and a massive great woman, clinging to the balustrade as the man supported her on the other side. She moved on shaking limbs, staring blindly and wildly ahead, seeking with her round shallow blue eyes, which darted on every side. Anthony knew that this was Adelaide’s mother, this tall and immense woman with her untidy masses of auburn hair, her bulging white face, her open panting lips, her mountainous figure which once must have been luscious. Her clothing had been donned hastily; her black gown was fastened awry at the great swelling breasts, the collar pinned in a crooked fashion, the edge of a white lace petticoat peeping down over the insteps of her boots.
Her husband helped her down each step, for she was tottering. “Now, Lily dear, be careful. Be slow. Here is another step. You must not tremble so. All is well. Another step, my darling.”
Nothing could have exceeded the infinite tenderness and comfort of his voice. Anthony listened in amazement. This was not the voice of cruel hatred he had expected. He saw John’s haggard face, so seamed and sunken, and it was filled with love and yearning and absorption in this large tragic woman, moving with such blind and desperate eyes. Anthony involuntarily moved forward to the base of the stairway, to assist John with his wife, for it was evident that it was taking all his exhausted strength to hold her, so passionately was she surging forward.
She saw him now, a step or two below her, with lifted arms to help her. She halted abruptly, swayed perilously, then caught at the balustrade. Tears rushed to her swollen eyes; they spilled over her cheeks. She smiled at him with such a face. Then she extended her hands to him, and came down the last two steps with a rush. He caught her hands. She was almost as tall as he. He was embarrassed before the passion of her look, her strange gleaming smile, her imploring eyes and quivering lips.
“Addy? My little lass?” she asked, brokenly, now clutching his arms.
Her voice was hoarse and common. But Anthony did not hear its intonations. He saw only the tragic mother, driven by terror, given a promise of relief and comfort. He could not endure the searching eagerness of her eyes.
Now Anthony had only intended to inform the parents of Adelaide that he “believed” she had been found, that he would bring them any later news, that they were not to be overly anxious. He owed Adelaide’s parents that, he had thought. She would wish it, herself. Later on, he would consult with Mr. Wilkins and decide at a time when they were to be given the entire story. Perhaps not for days. Mr. Wilkins had spoken with virulence of them, and had been very eloquent upon the subject of Adelaide’s sufferings, the stupidity of her mother who had not protected her or given her much comfort. It had been decency which had brought Anthony here, not compassion.
But now, as he looked at Lilybelle, with such unendurable joy and anguish and hope on her ruined face, and at John, who was looking at him with indescribably imploring and humble eyes, all his stern resolution was destroyed.
“Adelaide has been found,” he said, with unusual gentleness. “She—she is a little ill. She must be quiet.”
John said quickly, putting his arm about his wife: “We will go to her at once. Lilybelle,” he said, urgently, trying to attract her attention for she was gazing as if fascinated at Anthony, “if you will get your bonnet and your shawl, Mr. Bollister will take us to Adelaide.” He turned to Anthony again. “She—she is with you, at your home?” His mouth contracted painfully.
“No, with Mr. Wilkins. She went there last night.” Anthony’s voice hardened in spite of himself. “He came and told me.”
A wave of dark colour ran over John’s face. His eyes gleamed with sudden savagery. His arm dropped from his wife’s shoulders. “Wilkins! And the scoundrel, the swine, never came to me and told me!”
“You forget,” said
Anthony, looking at him coldly and fixedly, “or do not know.” Lilybelle was clinging to him; the pressure of her hands, feverish and drowning, hurt his arms, but he did not remove them. “Adelaide was ill. She went to Wilkins to—to get help for you.” He smiled contemptuously, and with a meaning glance at John, who stood in sudden and rigid silence. “Her own needs were more immediate than yours, Mr. Wiklins and I decided. Whatever those needs were. She was desperately ill. She is still very ill. We have only hope to sustain us now.”
He flung these words brutally into John’s congested face, like stones, for he knew that Lilybelle was too dazed to understand much of them. She was still gazing at him like a devoted dog, who hears and sees nothing but its master. Her hands were pressing his arms convulsively, opening and shutting. Her eyes were filled with adoring light.
“He—he told me. My little lass’s husband! She didn’t tell me. No matter,” she whispered. “No matter. You love my lass, Mr. Bollister? You will take care of my lass? Such a pretty little thing, such a little creature! So gentle and good! You’ve no idea, Mr. Bollister.”
He turned his attention to her. After a moment, he bent his head and kissed her streaming cheek. She flung her arms about his neck and clung to him, sobbing, her hands moving over his neck, his shoulders, his back, in passionate motherhood and love and joy. He held her to him, a mysterious sorrow in his heart, and his arms were gentle.
“God bless you, my dear, my dear!” she sobbed, pressing her lips against his cheek, his chin. Then she drew away a little, took one of his hands and kissed it, and wet it with her tears. Her humility, her ecstasy, her simplicity, were so touching and so pathetic, that John looked away, and Anthony could feel nothing but pain and tenderness.
Then John said at last, putting his hand on her shoulder: “Compose yourself, my darling. Go to your room and bathe your eyes. Then dress for the street, and I will have the carriage brought. We’ll go at once to Adelaide.”
“Yes, yes!” she cried, transported, looking at them with her wet and radiant face. “At once!”
She sprang away from them, and like a girl she ran up the stairs and disappeared.
Anthony and John were alone in an embarrassed and speechless silence. They could not look at each other. John bit his lips and clenched and unclenched his hands. He had aged years in one night. The marks of violence were imprinted betrayingly on his forehead, about his mouth, so heavy and sullen, in the flaring of his nostrils and the modelling of his chin. But Anthony saw how vulnerable was that face, how stricken, and how, now that immediate anxiety was relieved, how ashamed and confused.
Then John cleared his throat, and asked hoarsely: “You say Adelaide is very ill? She has a good physician? I prefer to bring our family physician. I shall send for him at once.”
“She is in good hands,” answered Anthony, more and more embarrassed. “I sent for our own physician, before I returned home early this morning. There is also a doctor called by Wilkins.”
At the sound of that name, John turned abruptly to Anthony and the violence came out again on his features, and his mouth was brutal.
“I’ll never forgive him for this,” he muttered, almost inaudibly.
“You owe Adelaide’s life to him,” Anthony reminded John, with a satirical contempt. “He is very fond of her. She had no other friend.”
“Friend!” cried John, with sudden savagery. “He was no one’s friend! He was my worst enemy. I’ll twist the rascal’s neck!”
“What damned nonsense,” said Anthony, with disgust, and a shrug. “I’m not concerned with your feelings for the estimable Mr. Wilkins. But I do know that Adelaide is not to be disturbed. If any shouting it going to go on, or any nasty remarks at that house, I shall refuse to allow you to see my wife.”
John halted abruptly. He stared at Anthony incredulously, and with fury. His clenched fist lifted. Anthony did not move. He looked into John’s eyes with disdain and indifference. The dangerous moment passed impotently.
Then John’s livid mouth slowly smiled. He stared searchingly at the young man, but not intimidatingly. A slow quiet sparkle appeared in his exhausted eyes. He studied Anthony intently.
“A jackanapes,” he said, and his voice was amused and affectionate. “By God, it’s a whippersnapper!” Some thought made him colour with renewed embarrassment, and he raised the hand that had been a fist and rubbed his chin. “You are impudent, young man,” he added, but it was in an absent tone.
He averted his eyes and fixed them on a point behind Anthony. “I suppose you know that we are relatives? We are second cousins?”
I should feel renewed hatred, and disgust and rage, thought Anthony, with surprise that he felt none of these. He was conscious of a faint liking and understanding for this broken and weary man who had so ruined his own life and the lives of others, not with vicious intent, but because he was like an impersonal storm twisting in his own agony.
He said, calmly: “Yes, I know.” Then with wryness he added: “Shall I call you father, or Cousin John?”
John, still not looking at him, smiled sheepishly. Now he scratched his cheek. Then he stared at the young man.
“You know, I ought to horsewhip you for running off with my daughter, without my permission. I could have the law on you. I could make it very unpleasant. I could bring my daughter home, and lock her up away from you.”
“But you won’t,” said Anthony. He smiled broadly.
John thrust out his hand. “Call me whatever you damned please, you young bounder!” he said, and he suddenly laughed, loudly and redklessly. “But mind your tongue, and use the names to yourself!”
Anthony laughed also. He took John’s hand. He felt a sudden pang of pity for this man. He was childish, he was violent, he was unpredictable and savage. But he was no scoundrel, even if he was a fool.
They shook hands warmly, with no embarrassment now. Is it possible he remembers nothing of my mother? thought Anthony. There was no sign of memory on John’s grinning face, in which the lines of wildness and suffering and tempest were so deeply graven.
Then John, with one of the sudden and stormy changes of mood characteristic of him, said in a hard and sombre voice:
“Look here, you’ll be good to Adelaide? You’ll make—things—up to her?”
“Certainly. Why do you suppose I married her?” asked Anthony, bluntly. “Do you think I’ve been blind? Well, no matter. I suppose you wonder how this all came about? I’ve seen Adelaide not more than half a dozen times in my life. But I’ve always wanted her. I assure you, she’ll not want for anything.”
“She might have told her mother, at least,” said John, after a moment, with childish resentment and relendessness. “It was a cruel thing to do to Mrs. Turnbull.”
“We were married only yesterday,” replied Anthony, impatiently. “Last Sunday I saw her again, after perhaps a year or two of complete silence from her. I practically forced her to marry me. She wanted it kept secret for a few days—while she did something or other to prevent ruin from coming down on you. Then, she was to tell her mother, and you.”
John’s eyes narrowed to glittering pinpoints. “Ruin? What do you mean?”
Then he visibly started. He stared at Anthony, but did not see him.
“It was the girl’s imagination,” he said at last, in a difficult voice.
“You are wrong,” said Anthony, with blunt decision. “She suspected the truth. Now Wilkins informs me that she was quite right. Your precious sons-in-law—”
He stopped, abruptly. Lilybelle had reappeared, dressed for the street, her eyes pools of round blue radiance. Her hands were ungloved; her shawl was bunched on her shoulders.
But John did not look at her. He was staring at Anthony, and his features were pinched and wizened, and a great revelation was darkening on his face. It was aghast, full of complete knowledge.
CHAPTER 62
The windows of Adelaide’s room faced the street. The two physicians were in consultation over the girl, testing her,
listening to her breathing, counting her pulse. Miss Beardsley had returned to her home for a rest; she would come back in the evening. In the meanwhile the old housekeeper, assisted by a strong middle-aged woman, was in attendance over the sick girl. The room smelled of cool fresh air and chemicals.
Mr. Wilkins was at the window, watching for young Anthony, who would be here shortly. A carriage drove up to the house, and at the sight of it, recognizing it, Mr. Wilkins started. His suspicions were justified when Anthony opened the carriage door and stepped out into the April sunshine, followed by John, and then by Lilybelle. Both men assisted her to alight, handling her gently and firmly. The sunlight struck the auburn masses of her hair, untidily piled under the tipsy bonnet. Mr. Wilkins saw her shapeless white face, huge and shining.
“Why,” he said aloud, slowly and heavily, “the bloody young beggar. The blasted young bastard.”
So, Anthony Bollister had told them, had brought them here. It had been Mr. Wilkins’ intention to keep Adelaide’s whereabouts a secret for several days, until the Turnbulls had turned New York upside down looking for her. One could trust no one, it seemed. That young Bollister chap had seemed a hard ’un; yet, he had gone soft. Why? He surely had no love for John Turnbull. Was it possible he didn’t know about his mother? But there had been a sudden harsh flushing of his cheek when John’s name had been mentioned, which had shrewdly led Mr. Wilkins to believe that he knew. Was it possible that they had sought him out, had threatened him, had followed him? Mr. Wilkins shook his head and scowled. He knew men. No one could threaten Anthony into compliance. He had done this all by himself.
Well, he, Mr. Wilkins, had no desire to see Johnnie Turnbull just at this time, though certainly Johnnie ought to be grateful. But there was omniscience in Mr. Wilkins; he had had it at birth; he had cultivated it, thereafter. There was a look on the devil’s dark face as he glanced at the house before starting up the flagged walk. A very nasty look indeed. Mr. Wilkins suddenly suspected that this look had more to do than just with little Addy.
The Turnbulls Page 66