Miss Beardsley was about to attack Mr. Wilkins, himself, when the distant white gate opened, and John appeared, walking slowly and abstractedly as always.
CHAPTER 29
John Turnbull was barely thirty-four now, but thin white streaks were already making their appearance in his thick black curls. Under their angry turbulence his dark face was chronically haggard and ravaged, with a feverish look, turned upon a speaker, was apt to be suspicious and had lost much of his youthful weight during the past ten years, and though not thin as yet, there was a gaunt look about his big body which was enhanced by his unremitting restlessness. His active black eyes were contemptuously unquiet now, rather than bold as once they had been, and his look, turned upon a speaker, was apt to be suspicious and heavily belligerent.
Mr. Wilkins, upon every encounter with his protégé, was struck anew by the thought that here was a man corroded and corrupted by hatred, a hatred thrust upon him rather than embraced with desire. Now, Mr. Wilkins had respect for a man who hated his fellows because of knowledge of them. It took intelligence, reflected Mr. Wilkins, to understand other men, and with understanding invariably came detestation. But he had no respect for a man who hated and destroyed himself in the hating, because hatred was intrinsically alien to his temperament. John had no comprehension of his fellow creatures. He struck blindly in the dark out of his own pain and weariness, his blows were the blows of self-defense, fierce and ruthless though they were.
John was still only half aware of the group under the green light of the willows. He walked slowly, his head bent, his face partially hidden under the brim of his tall hat. But he had a more imposing presence than ever, and his long buff coat and pale pantaloons were all elegance. Too, he had acquired an indifferent grace. He struck absentmindedly at the flowers with his cane, and even at that distance Mr. Wilkins could discern the brooding duskiness of his expression. Here was a man who had acquired much, and would acquire more. He had everything that one could desire, even the woman he loved. Yet, in his every motion, in his every glance, the misery of hatred was implicit and overwhelming.
Upon seeing her husband, Lilybelle’s plump and pretty face was illumined by a sudden radiant light, shy, fearful yet full of joy. She jumped to her feet, her sprigged muslin hoops swirling. But she said nothing. She did not advance to meet John. She clasped her hands tightly together, with humility and tremulousness, and her whole body was vibrant so that she seemed to shed a luminousness about her in the green translucence of the shadows. Miss Beardsley, seeing this, said: “Humph!” in a very uncompromising and disdainful voice, and settled her lean shoulders stiffly under her black lace shawl. But Lavinia and Louisa, with light screams of delight, sprang up from the grass and fled across it to their father, their hair flying in the sunlight, their pretty feet hardly seeming to touch the ground. They flung themselves upon him, and he opened his arms and received them, hugging them to him. Now the sombreness of his expression lifted, and he smiled and laughed a little with deep fondness, tumbling Lavinia’s black curls and the masses of Louisa’s golden hair. They wound their arms about him, each chattering vivaciously, Lavinia’s somewhat loud and domineering voice rising above her sister’s. Then, with a girl on each side of him, clinging to his arm, John came towards the others under the willows. The girls’ faces were eager and mirthful and confident, their dainty little hoops swaying at every dancing step. Lavinia pranced rather than walked, impatiently, while Louisa moved with the utmost decorum and grace.
Adelaide, on Mr. Wilkins’ knee, had grown very still. Her little brown hands lay quietly in her blue lap. She hardly seemed to breathe. She made no motion to go to her father. But her small pale face, turned towards him, was fixed, and there was no sign of emotion upon it except for a strange quivering at the corners of her lips. Yet Mr. Wilkins, that astute and penetrating gentleman, felt a little stricken and sick, for he had seen the look in Adelaide’s great brown eyes, a starved and passionate look full of grief and love.
If only the little lass could speak her thoughts and say what’s in her heart, thought the pink and affable Lucifer, with mysterious compassion. But he knew that profound emotions are silent, and the soul that is deeply stirred remains transfixed from the very profundity of its thoughts. And he also knew that of John’s three daughters, Adelaide alone loved him, that the pretty pouting affection of the others was a mixture of vanity, cajolement, rapacity and self-indulgence.
Mr. Wilkins was not a scholarly man, but something stirred vaguely in his memory. Blast it, he had read somewhere of a situation like this, but for the life of him he could not recall it. Something poetical, or something. The thought nagged him, and his sandy tufts of eyebrows drew together. He was certain that if he could recall the thing, it would have some bearing on John and his daughters. But that came of practically having no learning: a man could derive no satisfaction from comparisons, or from recognizing some ancient truth. It had something to do with the theatre, Mr. Wilkins remembered, something about a man and his daughters, and a great terror and agony.
He tightened his arm about “the little lass,” but she did not feel that comforting pressure. Her whole soul was turned like the light of a struggling candle upon her father. Mr. Wilkins could not endure seeing what there was to be seen on the face of this child. It wasn’t right, he reflected, that a child should experience the emotions of a mature woman.
It was a good sight to see the handsome young father and his blooming young daughters coming with accelerated step across the grass. Some of the sombreness and abstraction had gone from John’s eyes. He bent his head first to his right and then to his left as each girl demanded his attention. It was not possible to say which girl was his favourite, for he looked at each with similar affection.
Lilybelle spoke in her warm and husky voice, ingratiating and eager: “We are just ’avin’ tea! You’ll ’ave some with us?” In moments of stress, she lost the careful enunciations taught her by Miss Beardsley.
John glanced at her indifferently. His smile disappeared. Then, without answering, he bowed slightly to Miss Beardsley, and inclined his head in Mr. Wilkins’ direction. “Well, Bob,” he said. Lilybelle awkwardly pushed her own comfortable wicker chair in her husband’s direction, and he sat down in it without another look at her. The two older girls collapsed prettily on each side of him, and Lilybelle busied herself with the tea and cakes, her big hands shaking a little.
“A fine day, a fine day!” boomed Mr. Wilkins, pressing Adelaide’s hand with dumb reassurance.
John looked about the garden listlessly. “It is,” he admitted. Then his eyes returned to Mr. Wilkins. “I’ve wanted to talk to you, Bob. Can you come in to see me tomorrow? Old Livingston came in today, and he’s in a bad state.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Wilkins, soothingly. ‘‘I’ll drop in tomorrow.”
“I thought Mr. Livingston had practically retired these last years?” said Miss Beardsley, in the prim aloof tone she always used to John, whom she really detested. “After all, he is quite an old gentleman now.”
John did not answer her, but Mr. Wilkins turned to her affably. “Old gentlemen sometimes go daft,” he said. “They get queer notions. Mr. Livingston still ’as the idea he manages things.”
John did not speak, but he shot Mr. Wilkins a dour and unfathomable glance from under his angry black brows. He accepted the cup of tea which Lilybelle timidly proffered him, but still he did not look at her. Even while he helped himself from the silver plate of cakes he appeared unaware of her existence.
A surly brute! thought Miss Beardsley, tossing her head slightly and pressing her lips together. Not worthy of poor Lilybelle, even if she is ill-bred and illiterate. And he spoils those girls abominably.
Lilybelle, nervous as always in the presence of her husband, turned vivaciously towards Adelaide, with the simple and loving desire to call the father’s attention to the child he had ignored.
“Addy, love, go at once and get your Papa a footstool,” she urged.
/> Adelaide slipped down from Mr. Wilkins’ knee, and now John looked at her for the first time. He scowled somewhat. “Why is that girl always so untidy?” he asked, with a sharp upward glance at his wife. “Her hair is always unbrushed and flying, and her frock is soiled and crushed.”
Adelaide, standing near Mr. Wilkins, did not move. Her small thin body became rigid, drawn too tightly, like a string on a violin. Mr. Wilkins turned his eye upon John, and that sharp and ominous point of light began to glitter deep within its glassy depths. But his smile was immovably fixed.
Lilybelle, distressed and flustered, smoothed Adelaide’s long brown hair with a tender hand. “It won’t curl,” she faltered humbly, as if this was some fault of her own. “It can’t be helped. But Addy’s a good little lass, ain’t you, pet?” She bent and kissed the child’s cheek. Adelaide bent her head towards her mother, then moved away towards the house. There was an odd and lonely desolation about her slight figure. John watched her go, uneasily scowling. (Ah, thought Mr. Wilkins, with satisfied viciousness, she reminds you of some one, don’t she? and you hates her for remindin’ you. Aye, there’s some’ut about her that’s like that fine lady of yours, but there’s a spirit in the little lass that’s worth two of her.)
Lavinia began to giggle loudly. “Every one says it’s so strange that Addy could be our sister! She’s so ugly. You must have had an ugly female ancestor, Papa,” she added, with an audacious upward glance at her father, her bright black eyes dancing.
“Adelaide isn’t ugly,” Louisa reproved her, placidly. “She is very uncommon looking. She will never have style, of course, and will never be distinguished. She is a real little old maid. But there’s something about Adelaide, in spite of everything.”
“Breeding,” said Mr. Wilkins, very gently. John glanced at him with sudden savagery, but Mr. Wilkins returned that look most amiably. “It’s breeding,” repeated Mr. Wilkins. “It’s not every one as ’as it. It’s born in the bone. It’s better than handsomeness, for them that’s got the taste for it.”
Lavinia laughed boisterously, but Louisa gave Mr. Wilkins a secret and amused smile, not at all pleasant for all her natural loveliness. As for Miss Beardsley, she snorted in a ladylike manner and tossed her grim head. “Indeed, Mr. Wilkins! I always thought you a gentleman of discernment. Surely you can see that there is no comparison between Adelaide and her sisters!”
“I can see that, ma’am,” agreed Mr. Wilkins, mildly. But Miss Beardsley had the disagreeable sensation that Mr. Wilkins was being ambiguous, and she tossed her head again.
Lilybelle was pathetically grateful. She shone upon Mr. Wilkins, and her smile was bright.
Lavinia became gaily flirtatious with her father, knowing how it pleased and amused him. She patted his hand lightly. “You are so handsome, Papa. Quite the handsomest man I’ve ever seen. And Mama is pretty. You didn’t find Addy on the doorstep, did you?”
“How can you be so vulgar?” asked Louisa, sweetly.
Lavinia, with one of her tempestuous and ugly changes of mood, turned furiously upon her sister. Her face became quite dark and vicious, her under lip thrust out coarsely, her eyes snapping.
“I’m honest, miss, and you’re not!” she cried, looking as if she would spring to her feet and assault Louisa at once. “You are a little grinning sneak, and you hate Addy like poison! I know. I like her a little, and sometimes I’m fond of her, but you’d kill her if you could! You’re cruel as a snake, for all your fine smiles and your innocent looks!”
“Lavinia!” exclaimed Miss Beardsley, shocked. “What language! My dear child, this is unpardonable.”
But Louisa was not disconcerted. Her smile was angelic, and she gazed at her sister gently. “Oh, that’s just Linny’s way, Aunt Amanda. She doesn’t mean anything by it. I’m not in the least offended.”
“Oh!” cried Lavinia, with impotent rage, clenching her fists and beating them upon her knees.
John laughed spontaneously, and ruffled Lavinia’s curls so vigorously that they fell all over her enflamed face. She struggled with him, trying to beat off his hands, and he bent over the arm of his chair and easily tussled with her. Finally he pushed her backwards upon the grass where she lay a moment glaring at the sky through her tangle of curls. Then she burst out in her sudden loud laugh and sat up again, only the flush on her pretty cheek testifying to her late fury. But Mr. Wilkins alone saw the long red scratch on John’s hand.
Adelaide now appeared, carrying a footstool. She placed it silently before her father, and without a glance at her, he lifted his feet and settled them on the support. He was much easier now, and his smile was without strain. When Lilybelle refilled his cup, he looked at her quite amiably, as if seeing her for the first time.
“Well, my love,” he said, pleasantly indifferent, “did you find the day very hot?”
Overcome as always with joy, whenever John deigned to recognize her existence, Lilybelle stammered: “O no, Mr. T.! It’s such a nice day.” She thrust the plate of cakes at him again, and he took one, smiling a little.
He turned to Mr. Wilkins. “I’ve a pretty wife, haven’t I, Bob?” he asked. “Don’t you envy me, you old codger?”
“That I do!” agreed Mr. Wilkins, heartily. Adelaide was still standing near her father, gazing at him with that sad and hungry light in her eyes.
Lilybelle bridled and flushed. She was close to tears of delight. She sat down, overwhelmed, on the edge of a chair. She stared at John with adoration. He saw all this, and was not displeased. Now a younger look, a relaxed look, appeared on his face. He was no longer taut, no longer tense. He let his eye wander contentedly about the gardens.
Why! thought Mr. Wilkins, with great surprise. It’s a fool, that’s what it is! He don’t realize, yet, but someday, when it’s too late, probably, he will!
He and Miss Beardsley soon took their departure. Miss Beardsley kissed Lilybelle with that reproving air she always affected towards the young woman, and then kissed Lavinia with true fondness. She also bestowed a caress upon Louisa, who appeared sweetly grateful for it. She did not even see Adelaide, or ignored her deliberately. She shook hands in a stately manner with John, then preceded Mr. Wilkins down the garden path to the gate.
CHAPTER 30
The hot July silence shone about the house and the blazing gardens. There was no sound at all, except the sonorous and majestic sounds that rippled and swelled from the music room. They did not disturb the silence; rather, they enhanced it, giving it a profound meaning. The simple Lilybelle, resting from the heat of the day in her bedroom, was mysteriously stirred. Slowly, tears ran over her placid pink cheeks and stained her pillow. Her heart throbbed. She stared sightlessly at the ceiling, humbly reverent. The servants in the great tiled kitchen listened, speechlessly. The gardeners lifted their heads from the beds of flowers, and stood immobile in the cataracts of sunlight. Only the two girls, Lavinia and Louisa, were deaf to that stately thunder downstairs. They were quarrelling about their wardrobes in the large bedroom they shared together.
Miss Hamlin came briskly through the blue dusk of the hallway, her heels clicking under her gray bombazine hoops. She had a thin gray face, and a quantity of iron ringlets falling from her prim head. Her expression was tight and resolute, acquired from a long guardianship over young girls, whom she detested. She entered the music room.
There, in the dim barred light that streamed through the Venetian blinds at the immense windows, sat Adelaide at the piano. Miss Hamlin disliked Adelaide. She considered the child “quite gnomelike, furtive and incomprehensible.” The piano was vast, polished and motionless on the glimmering floor, and there was something eerie and unearthly in the spectacle of the little brown girl perched on the stool and evoking from the instrument that divine and terrifying thunder of music. In spite of her dislike, Miss Hamlin listened with reluctant approval. The girl really had talent, though she was bearing down outrageously on the loud pedal. Adelaide did not see Miss Hamlin. Her head was thrown back, and from it
flowed the pale brown lengths of her straight hair, touching the bench itself. In that shining dimness her pallid little face was rapt, the eyes half closed, the mouth stern and strong. For some reason that irritated Miss Hamlin intensely. She coughed raucously, and approached the piano.
“Really, Adelaide, you are making a furious noise,” she said.
The girl started so violently at the sound of the governess’ voice that she almost fell off the stool. Then she swung about and fastened upon Miss Hamlin so wild and fierce a look that the woman fell back a step, appalled. She could not believe, for a moment, that such a brown and silent child, so reticent and reserved, could be capable of such ferocity, and with only the slight provocation of being disturbed at her music. Even while Miss Hamlin was confusedly thinking this, the wild fire in those nut-brown eyes flashed away, and was replaced once more by the silent and waiting patience with which the woman was more familiar.
“Yes, Miss Hamlin?” murmured Adelaide. Her tanned thin hands lay quietly on the white keys. The diffused sunlight made a narrow and coppery halo about her small head.
“Really, Adelaide,” said Miss Hamlin, catching her breath, “that was a very nasty look indeed which you gave me.” She put her hand to her flat bosom and breathed loudly. “I didn’t think you capable of it.”
Adelaide said nothing. Because the sun was behind her, Miss Hamlin could not see her face. But what she had seen for just a single moment still dumfounded her. It was an evil little tigress, then, thought Miss Hamlin, viciously. Her first instinct upon seeing the child some months ago was justified. No wonder her sisters despised her, and her Papa actually disliked her. There was a meaning to everything, thought Miss Hamlin, with grim sententiousness. And you could always rely on these meek quiet people to hide terrible fires and violences; one could not trust them.