The Turmoil by Booth Tarkington

Author:Booth Tarkington [Tarkington, Booth]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781442914179
Amazon: 1442914173
Publisher: ReadHowYouWant
Published: 2008-11-07T00:00:00+00:00

“The—the youngest Mr. Sheridan. Yes. He’s very musical, isn’t he?”

“I never heard of it. But I shouldn’t think it would matter much whether he was or not, if he could get Miss Vertrees to play to him. Does your daughter expect the piano back soon?”

“I—I believe not immediately. Mr. Sheridan came last evening to hear her play because she had arranged with the—that is, it was to be removed this afternoon. He seems almost well again.”

“Yes.” Sibyl nodded. “His father’s going to try to start him to work.”

“He seems very delicate,” said Mrs. Vertrees. “I shouldn’t think he would be able to stand a great deal, either physically or—” She paused and then added, glowing with the sense of her own adroitness —“or mentally.”

“Oh, mentally Bibbs is all right,” said Sibyl, in an odd voice.

“Entirely?” Mrs. Vertrees asked, breathlessly.

“Yes, entirely.”

“But has he ALWAYS been?” This question came with the same anxious eagerness.

“Certainly. He had a long siege of nervous dyspepsia, but he’s over it.”

“And you think—”

“Bibbs is all right. You needn’t wor—” Sibyl choked, and pressed her handkerchief to her mouth. “Good night, Mrs. Vertrees,” she said, hurriedly, as the head-lights of an automobile swung round the corner above, sending a brightening glare toward the edge of the pavement where the two ladies were standing.

“Won’t you come in?” urged Mrs. Vertrees, cordially, hearing the sound of a cheerful voice out of the darkness beyond the approaching glare. “Do! There’s Mary now, and she—”

But Sibyl was halfway across the street. “No, thanks,” she called. “I hope she won’t miss her piano!” And she ran into her own house and plunged headlong upon a leather divan in the hall, holding her handkerchief over her mouth.

The noise of her tumultuous entrance was evidently startling in the quiet house, for upon the bang of the door there followed the crash of a decanter, dropped upon the floor of the dining-room at the end of the hall; and, after a rumble of indistinct profanity, Roscoe came forth, holding a dripping napkin in his hand.

“What’s your excitement?” he demanded. “What do you find to go into hysterics over? Another death in the family?”

“Oh, it’s funny! she gasped. “Those old frost-bitten people! I guess THEY’RE getting their come-uppance!” Lying prone, she elevated her feet in the air, clapped her heels together repeatedly, in an ecstasy.

“Come through, come through!” said her husband, crossly. “What you been up to?”

“Me?” she cried, dropping her feet and swinging around to face him. “Nothing. It’s them! Those Vertreeses!” She wiped her eyes. “They’ve had to sell their piano!”

“Well, what of it?”

“That Mrs. Kittersby told me all about ‘em a week ago,” said Sibyl. “They’ve been hard up for a long time, and she says as long ago as last winter she knew that girl got a pair of walking-shoes resoled and patched, because she got it done the same place Mrs. Kittersby’s cook had HERS! And the night of the house-warming I kind of got suspicious, myself. She didn’t have one single piece of any kind of real jewelry, and you could see her dress was an old one done over.

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