The Turnbulls

  “Don’t blame me, Mr. Wilkins. I thought a walk would do us good, but Mr. T. had some work from the office to do. Very important work,” she added hastily, cringing a little from John’s expected displeasure.

  John reseated himself slowly, and indicated a chair for Mr. Wilkins with an inclination of his head. Mr. Wilkins sat down, placed his palms on his fat spreading thighs, and beamed heartily at his young friend. He raised his sandy tufts of eyebrows archly.

  “Diligent, I see, Mr. Turnbull, diligent! Ah, that’s the ticket! I’ve good reports of you from Mr. Gorth. Make yourself indispensable, I says; then they can’t do without you. First step to success; indispensability. That’s in the copybooks, eh?”

  John shrugged. He closed the ledger and placed it on a table.

  “Ah,” murmured Mr. Wilkins, to cover the awkward silence. He looked at Lilybelle. The girl had seated herself, after a fearful glance at John, on the sofa, where it was evident that she had been reclining before the interruption. She tucked her feet under the hem of her mauve gown. All at once, she appeared smaller, and shrunken, and very cold.

  “I’ve been off on a bit of business of me own,” said Mr. Wilkins, his voice hearty and rich in the chill silence. “That’s why I ’aven’t looked in on you, sir. But, now I’m back, and we can go into certain matters, eh?”

  At the sound of his reassuring voice, Lilybelle sprang up again, eagerly. Her blue disks of eyes were suffused with the ready tears always so near the surface. “Tea!” she cried. “I’ll go down to the kitchen and bring up a pot!”

  John glanced at her with cold contempt and reproof. “You know very well, Lily, that Miss Beardsley doesn’t approve of your dirtying her kitchen. I thought she had made that plain to you before, when you’ve sneaked down there and attempted to brew yourself some of your precious tea.”

  “Don’t think of it!” cried Mr. Wilkins, vigorously. “I’ve ’ad me tea, only an hour ago! We’re not tea-drinkers in this country ma’am.”

  He paused. Lilybelle had subsided again, in a huddled heap on the sofa. Mr. Wilkins murmured softly to himself, and chuckled, as if he had rich and fruity thoughts. John bit his lip impatiently, and scowled. As if he had spoken, the girl trembled, gazed at him with sudden alertness. Her lips quivered; her eyes filled with tears. Her expression was terrified, but worshipful.

  Then John, unable to contain himself, burst out savagely: “I’ve wanted to talk to you, Mr. Wilkins! I’ve done what you told me, but there seems no rhyme nor reason to all this. Especially under the circumstances. It is only a matter of time until Mr. Gorth learns, from his nephew, of our last meeting. It will be all up then, Mr. Wilkins. He won’t continue to retain in his employ a man who smashed up his precious Andy as a farewell token. It is only a matter of time—”

  Mr. Wilkins continued to chuckle, to nod his bald and rosy head, to arch his brows, as if he had not heard. Then, after John had uttered a helpless and disgusted exclamation, Mr. Wilkins spoke, very softly and affectionately:

  “Don’t upset yourself, Mr. Turnbull. In fact, I’ve dropped in to have a little chat with you on the subjec’. It will be a surprise to you, sir—But, before goin’ any further, I beg your leave, sir, to permit me to remember your lady’s birthday.”

  “Birthday!” ejaculated John, with another scowl. He looked at Lilybelle. Electrified, and as naively joyful and expectant as a child, Lilybelle bounced off the sofa. “Birthday!” she cried, clasping her hands to her breast.

  Mr. Wilkins nodded with great pleasure. “I remembered, ma’am, that you mentioned your birthday, when I saw you last, and though it’s a great impertinence of me, I remembered it. I said to myself: ‘Bob Wilkins, Mrs. Turnbull is a daughter to you, like, and in a strange country, away from kinsfolk and ’ome, and it’s only right, considerin’ her husband is a friend, and son, like, to remember her birthday. If it’s not impudence,” he added, with a humble inclination of his head towards John, who had begun to smile disagreeably.

  John waved his hand with some mockery. “It is very kind of you, Mr. Wilkins, I’m sure.” He turned to his wife, whose full young face was flushed with joy and anticipation. “It is kind of Mr. Wilkins, isn’t it, Lily? By the way, how old are you now, my dear?”

  “Fifteen,” she quavered, mechanically, not removing her dilated and shining gaze from Mr. Wilkins.

  “Quite ancient,” muttered John. Nevertheless, his sombre look changed to one of uneasy compassion and reluctant softness. He rubbed his mouth with a finger, and sighed to himself.

  Mr. Wilkins, quite crimson with his pleasure in Lilybelle’s childish anticipation, and quite grinning from ear to ear. fished in the tails of his coat and produced a flat white box. Lilybelle involuntarily uttered a shrill cry, and reached out to snatch the box, as a child would snatch. “Lilybelle!” said John, with stern disgust, and his voice was like a whip. And, as if a whip had lashed her, she cowered, drawing back her hand, biting her lip, blinking away her fresh tears.

  But Mr. Wilkins pushed the box towards her as if he was entirely unaware of everything. Lilybelle, recovering herself with easy delight, took the box and opened it with shaking fingers. Then she uttered a cry of extreme joy. She lifted out a heavy bracelet of carved and pierced silver, crusted with turquoises, a Chinese bracelet all twisted dragons and curved tails. She held it in her hand, stupefied, entranced, her cheeks flushing deeply, her mouth opened on a soundless cry of amazement and ecstasy.

  “Only a little thing,” murmured Mr. Wilkins, deprecatingly. “From China. Only a little token, Mr. Turnbull.”

  “Oh,” sobbed Lilybelle, fumbling with the clasp, and frankly weeping with her rapture. She opened the trinket, and put it over her wrist. But her wrist was big, and try as she would, she could not make the clasp meet. She struggled furiously, while Mr. Wilkins watched in helpless dismay. She pressed so hard that edge of the silver cut her flesh. Some of her auburn curls came loose, and fell over her brow, in her desperate concentration on making the ends join. She caught her lip between her pretty little white teeth; sweat sprang out on her forehead, and about her mouth. John leaned forward the better to watch, and not to miss anything.

  But, in spite of her struggles, in spite of the wounding of her flesh, Lilybelle could not bring the clasp into position. It remained a full three quarters of an inch agape. The girl sobbed heavily, pushing and pulling at the bracelet in her frantic efforts. Evidently John found something ludicrous in the frenzied struggle, obdurate and blind, of his wife, for he suddenly burst out into a harsh and uncontrollable laugh.

  As if that laugh had turned her to stone, Lilybelle paused in the very act of her distracted struggle, her right hand clutching the bracelet, her head bent. She stood motionless, becoming very pale and still. She no longer sobbed, but tears coursed down her cheeks, paused at the corners of her lips, rolled down her chin. Mr. Wilkins, with a faint and smothered sound, stood up, stretched out his hand to the girl.

  But John, scarlet with his mirth, said: “Lilybelle, can’t you see that bracelet was made for a LADY with a fine and slender wrist, and not for you? I should think even a fool would have discovered that immediately?”

  Some evil and desperate bitterness seemed to break in him, then, sweeping away his last precarious restraint, and in a hurried and muffled voice he continued: “They don’t make jewelry and trinkets for barmaids, Lily! They don’t anticipate that barmaids and country wenches will be so fortunate as to step out of their stations and be able to afford bracelets, or possess friends who will present them with such bauhles. Give it back to Mr. Wilkins, Lily, at once.”

  Mr. Wilkins, with the strangest and mutest of expressions, gently lifted the bracelet from Lilybelle’s bruised wrist. He weighed it in his hand, but looked only at the girl. She dropped her head on her breast. Her soundless and motionless anguish was most moving to see, at least to Mr. Wilkins.

  “It was made for a little maid’s wrist,” said Mr. Wilkins, in a soothing and regretful tone. “I should have seen it. It’s
me that’s stupid, ma’am. It’s for a child, Mrs. T. And if you’ll permit me, beggin’ your pardon, I’ll take it to a proper chap who’ll do it up right for you, in no time. A trifle more silver at the end, and it’ll be capital.”

  Lilybelle lifted her head slowly, and turned on Mr. Wilkins such a white and stricken face, such pale lips twisted in such agony, that he felt a stronger lurching in the region of his chest. She tried to speak, to smile, then, with an abrupt and mournful sound as if her young heart was breaking, she turned in a wild tilting of hoops and ran from the parlour into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She did not bang the door, but closed it with painful care and softness, and this seemed most terrible and revealing to Mr. Wilkins.

  Very thoughtfully, he replaced the bracelet in its box, and gazed at it with hatred. He put it back in the tail of his coat, with quiet motions. John was smiling disagreeably, but with some shamed discomfort.

  “I ought not to have said that, I presume,” he remarked, angrily. “But, she ought to realize some things.”

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Wilkins, abstractedly. “It is a child’s trinket. I’m very sorry, that I am, sir.”

  John said nothing. He merely stared at Mr. Wilkins, gloomily. And Mr. Wilkins returned that stare with a curious point of light deep within the glaucous depths of his protruding hazel eyes.

  Then, after a long moment, Mr. Wilkins’ expression changed again, became as affable and bland as ever. He said, briskly: “Well, now, we’ll get down to our little talk, Mr. Turnbull, sir. May I ask how matters are proceedin’ for you?”

  John moved restlessly. “Mr. Gorth—seems pleased, I must say. He has a nasty temper, but he’s been generous and patient, to a certain extent. I have nothing to complain of, I admit. I’m learning the business rapidly, as you suggested.”

  Mr. Wilkins nodded. “Excellent, sir, excellent.”

  John gave an impatient and irritable gesture. “But where is all this leading to? Not that I’m ungrateful; I’d be a puppy if I were. Mr. Gorth has been more than generous with regard to salary. I am receiving seventy-five dollars a month, fifteen pounds,” and his lip curled with acrid contempt as he remembered that fifteen pounds had been a mere item to him before his marriage, “and after I pay Miss Beardsley forty-five dollars for our lodgings and our meals, I have a considerable sum left. I repeat, I have nothing to complain of. As you know, I am Mr. Gorth’s confidential secretary—”

  “Excellent,” repeated Mr. Wilkins, with a twinkle of delight, and moving his round fat mouth in an expression which John found somewhat obscene.

  “But, where is all this leading to?” said John, with increasing impatience and annoyance.

  Mr. Wilkins put a plump finger archly against his nose. “When I undertook to make your fortun, Mr. Turnbull, it was with the agreement that no questions be asked. You’ve got to trust Bob Wilkins, as is one who knows wot he’s doin’.”

  John’s right fingers began to beat a hurried tattoo on the arm of his chair. He studied Mr. Wilkins darkly.

  “It’s fantastic, Mr. Wilkins.”

  “Patience, Mr. Turnbull,” purred Mr. Wilkins. “It’s comin’ abaht the way I intended. I had a very edifyin’ conversation with Mr. Gorth yesterday. Pleased with you, he was.”

  “Wait until he hears from his nephew. He won’t be so pleased,” said John, with an unpleasant smile. “What then, Mr. Wilkins? I’ll be given the sack.”

  Mr. Wilkins commenced his rich chuckling, turning quite purple with his inner mirth. He regarded John merrily. “It may surprise you, sir, to know that he’s ’eard. I told him wot you’d told me, on the ship.”

  “What!” exclaimed John, sitting up.

  Mr. Wilkins nodded, chuckled again. “Surprised isn’t the word, Mr. Turnbull. And flabbergasted, he was. And then, he laughed. Laughed, sir, like he’d never stop.”

  John slowly sat back, stupefied, his black brows wrinkling.

  “Mr. Gorth likes a man,” continued Mr. Wilkins, with pleasure. “I’ve got to give the devil his due. You went up in his estimation like nothin’, sir.”

  John was without speech. He stared at Mr. Wilkins, unblinkingly, and with suspicion. He never forgot, and crudely never allowed Mr. Wilkins to forget, the difference in their stations. And now, as he stared at the strange Lucifer who had taken over his fortunes for some mysterious dark reason of his own, his big handsome features tightened.

  “What is all this to you, Mr. Wilkins?” he asked bluntly, as he had asked a hundred times before.

  Mr. Wilkins shook his head fondly. “No questions asked, Mr. Turnbull,” he said, lifting an arch and admonishing finger. “That was agreed. I make your fortun—you make mine. Fair enough, isn’t it?”

  “You are a philanthropist, Mr. Wilkins,” John remarked, scornfully. “I can’t make your fortune. And I can’t see how you can make mine.”

  “But you want your fortun made, eh?” said Mr. Wilkins, cunningly. “Anythin’ short of murder to make it?”

  John compressed his lips. But there was a sudden swift violence in his eyes, as though he looked at a vision Mr. Wilkins could not see.

  “Ah,” murmured Mr. Wilkins, with ineffable satisfaction.

  He coughed. “And now for a bit of news, Mr. Turnbull. Mr. Bollister’s comin’ to Ameriky. He’s expected in less than a week.”

  John sprang to his feet. He glared down at Mr. Wilkins. He turned quite livid. But his voice was very quiet and dull.

  “Well, Mr. Wilkins, that’s the end. He’ll have me put out.”

  He sat down again, quickly, as if he had become ill.

  “It’s the end, Mr. Wilkins. Well, that appears to sever our connection, doesn’t it?”

  But Mr. Wilkins laughed gently, twinkling more than ever. “Not at all, Mr. Turnbull. I’ve ’ad quite a talk with Mr. Gorth. In fact, he’s to invite you to a little dinner he’s to give for his nevvy. Command performance, like. All this told me in confidence.”

  John’s face turned black and vicious, and aghast with outrage.

  “That is intolerable!” he ejaculated violently, striking the arm of his chair with his fist. “So, I’m to be made game of, am I, for the pleasure of that reptile? Intolerable! You’ll reckon without me in this, Mr. Wilkins. Whether you want to end it or not, I’m ending it now!”

  Unable to contain himself, he rose, began to pace up and down the room, all the old wounds open again, burning with pain.

  “You don’t understand, Mr. Wilkins. There is more here than what appears on the surface. I have no words for it, but you must take my word.”

  “I can see you’re makin’ much ado about nothin’,” said Mr. Wilkins, soothingly. “Mr. Groth’s got a ’igh opinion of you, Mr. Turnbull.”

  John wheeled on him savagely. “Why is Bollister coming here?”

  Mr. Wilkins hesitated, and then began to bite his finger thoughtfully.

  “It seems he’s to be Mr. Gorth’s heir, like,” he said, with caution.

  John burst into furious laughter, bitter and hopeless.

  “So, that’s it. Well, Mr. Wilkins, you are a fool if you can’t see the way the wind’s blowing.”

  But Mr. Wilkins was not disturbed. He looked at John with great candour. “I can assure you, Mr. Turnbull, that nothin’ of the kind’s to ’appen. You’ve got to trust me, sir. Besides, it won’t be long. I’ve told you that, ’aven’t I? A few weeks more, and we’re done. Not that Mr. Gorth’s to know, as we said.”

  John fumed. His pain was much greater than even Mr. Wilkins shrewdly suspected. He said, flatly: “I don’t know where all this is leading. But you’ve got to understand, Mr. Wilkins, that I’m to be faced with a mortifying experience, if I do as you wish me to do.”

  Mr. Wilkins spread out his hands. “Mortifyin’ experience or no, sir, we’ve got work to do, you and me. It’s only a fool as throws up the sponge when things is comin’ his way.”

  John was baffled. “You’re beyond me, Mr. Wilkins.”

  Mr. Wilkins studied
this statement for a moment or two, and seemed innocently gratified. “I am that, sir, and beyond other chaps, too. Ive ’eard that before. Allus be beyond other chaps, Mr. Turnbull, and you’ve got the world by its tail.”

  John compressed his lips irritably. But his thoughts were elsewhere, depressed and turbulent. He sank into depths of dejection and misery, his hands thrust in his pantaloon pockets, his head bent forward a little, his eyes fixed starkly off into space.

  Mr. Wilkins studied him fixedly, forgotten by the other. Quite apart from everything, he liked to look at John, for he admired handsome men, and especially tall and well-formed men. He admired them as a stable-owner admires race-horses, for the potentialities such creatures contain for their master.

  “I can’t do it,” muttered John.

  But Mr. Wilkins ignored this. He went on, with careful delicacy:

  “It seems as Mr. Bollister’s bringin’ his bride with him.”

  John’s head jerked around, swiftly. “He’s married, then? To whom, Mr. Wilkins? Oh, that’s impossible that you should know,” he added, with a gesture of impatience at himself. He continued: “I can’t seem to make you understand, Mr. Wilkins. My position was much different in England. My father is a wealthy man. Bollister and I attended the same Academy. We were of equal station, for all his father has some mouldy title.” He hesitated, looking at Mr. Wilkins sharply. But Mr. Wilkins apparently found no slight falsehood in this, but gazed at John with sympathetic attention. John resumed: “And now, he’ll come here and discover me to be little better than an office clerk to his uncle! Are you too obtuse to see all this, Mr. Wilkins?”

  “Mortifyin’ in a way, I admit, sir,” said Mr. Wilkins, gently. ‘But things is different ’ere, in Ameriky. You’re the better man, Mr. Turnbull. That’s evident, ain’t it? Besides, I’ve told you it won’t last much longer. I’ve got plans for you.”