The Turnbulls

  Mr. Wilkins, who had been smiling under his nose, now glanced at Miss Beardsley with genuine concern. “True character,’ ma’am?”

  Miss Beardsley nodded grimly. “I blush to mention this, Mr. Wilkins but one Sunday I was walking in Jeannette Park, and discovered Mr. Turnbull in the riotous company of a young person who was evidently no better than she should be.” She looked at Mr. Wilkins portentously.

  Now Mr. Wilkins was truly concerned, without dissimulation. He scowled so deeply that his jovial and rosy face was wrinkled in heavy folds. He chewed the corner of his lip. Those hazel eyes gleamed, for an instant, with the baleful look so few ever were permitted to see, and then only at the destructive end.

  He rose. He bowed to Miss Beardsley. “I can see, ma’am, that Mrs. T. will need a—a sister to console her. Out of your Christian charity, ma’am, I have observed that you are eager to offer her this consolation, in her time of wretchedness. I can rely upon you?”

  He extended his hot plump hand to the spinster, who took it with her air of grim and stately resolution. They shook hands solemnly.

  “You can trust me, Mr. Wilkins,” replied Miss Beardsley, in strong tones, dedicated and steadfast.

  She rose, her narrow hoops swaying stiffly about her.

  “You will partake of a small collation with me, Mr. Wilkins?”

  Mr. Wilkins, who was acquainted with the “small” and secret collations of Miss Beardsley, accepted with grateful alacrity. He accompanied his majestic hostess into the dining-room. She was very tall, and his head hardly rose above her shoulder. The dining-room was hardly less chill and gloomy than the parlour, and as sparsely if elegantly furnished. But the table was spread with a white lace cloth, exquisite and fragile, and the heaviest and most lustrous silver. Kitty was admonished to set another place, and Mr. Wilkins, after bowing and drawing Miss Beardsley’s chair for her, seated himself with a fat grace opposite her. There was a cold bird, some excellent hot breads, a salad, rich seed cake and lemon tarts, and a bowl of red apples and nuts upon the table. Miss Beardsley requested Kitty to bring in the blackberry cordial, “as a stomachic, of course, Mr. Wilkins. It increases the circulation on a chilly day. I find it invaluable when one is threatened with a cold.”

  Mr. Wilkins had already enjoyed the potency of the blackberry cordial on other occasions, and inclined his head with graciousness. Miss Beardsley, with many elaborately graceful gestures, and with due solemnity, filled her glass and Mr. Wilkins’ with unusual lavishness today. Her tight black sleeve revealed the hard boniness of her large wrists. Now that she had relaxed, she even indulged in a grim coquettishness, and replied to Mr. Wilkins’ toast: “To a beautiful and noble lady,” with a coy inclination of her head and a gaunt simper.

  At the end of the meal, they were in a mood to complete affinity and secret geniality. Mr. Wilkins had had four glasses of the cordial, and Miss Beardsley three. He leaned towards her, and with much winking and noddings, whispered:

  “A word to the wise, ma’am, and from one as knows the way the wind’s blowin’. Sell your Gorth shares, and buy Livingston Cotton.”

  Miss Beardsley was all attention. “But, Mr. Wilkins, Gorth pays 12% on the preferred stock. And Livingston is a very small firm, very small indeed, Mr. Wilkins! And quite struggling—’

  Mr. Wilkins was all significant solemnity. He raised his glass and eyed it with approval before looking at his hostess again, who was regarding him with avid speculation and passionate interest.

  “Miss Beardsley, ma’am, ’ave I ever advised you wrong? You’ve made some proper profits on my advice. So again I advise you: sell Gorth, buy Livingston. In six months you’ll thank me on your bended knees.”

  BOOK TWO

  CHAPTER 17

  “No, no, my dear,” said Miss Amanda Beardsley in a pained voice, lifting her hand in an attitude of august patience, “a lady never cranes her neck to study the sway of her hoops or the folds of her gowns. A lady is oblivious of her garments. She glides, floats, in a radiant dream, always assured, always gracious. It is impossible to glide, to move with discretion and modesty and grace, if one is wondering as to the effect of her toilette.”

  Lilybelle Turnbull meekly paraded the long narrow parlour, trying to restrain her free milkmaid’s stride into a gently tripping motion, small steps, toes pointing delicately. The big buxom girl literally sweated with her concentrated efforts, in order to acquire the necessary mincing walk. Her new black slippers, laced about her strong neat ankles with black satin ribbons, pinched her sturdy toes. Her full luscious figure was displayed very bewitchingly in a purple velvet gown with enormous tilting hoops. The very low neck revealed her milk-white full throat and shoulders; the latter were entrancingly dimpled. But when Lilybelle glanced down at the bodice a most becoming blush rose to her full smooth cheeks, for the division of her plump and pretty breasts was plainly visible. Her skin had a pearly translucence and glow delightful to see. Once or twice she furtively tugged at the edge in an effort to raise it to a more modest line. It was bordered in a wide band of imitation seed pearls, which glistened in the lamplight. Cascades of heliotrope lace drifted over the hoops, caught here and there with tiny cherry velvet bows. Her rich auburn curls were drawn back from her low white brow, fell in clusters down the nape of her neck almost to her shoulders.

  A pretty creature, thought Miss Beardsley without envy for she was fond of the girl, but over-coloured, over-flamboyant, and a trifle vulgar. Those cheeks were too full, too bright with colour, too lavishly decorated with dimples. Her round blue eyes could never remember to lower themselves with becoming demureness and decorousness, but must stare blankly if shiningly at any speaker. Her mouth, too, was not the fashionable dainty rosebud, sweetly pouting, but was big, generous, and very red. The nose, too, was unfortunate, with its resemblance to a pretty snout. Worst of all, the expression was forthright, childishly naive and stupid. Her large coarse hands, in the purple lace mitts, displayed awkward gestures, and she had a habit of trying to hide their imperfections in a fold of her gown.

  However, thought Miss Beardsley, it is a veritable Venus, if somewhat overblown. She was pleased at the docility of the girl, at her passionate admiration of her mentor, at her eagerness to learn, her meekness under reproof. Miss Beardsley knew that here was no mouse of a girl, vapid and weak of temperament, but a sturdy peasant girl with a hot temper, a wild generosity of temperament, and a coarseness and vitality of emotion and speech. It was something to have obtained the adoration and admiration of such a one, and Miss Beardsley’s tiny avaricious eyes softened a little. There was a fresh strong odour about the girl, an emanation of her flesh, which suggested warm sweet hay and foaming milk. Miss Beardsley had sprayed her subtly with eau de violets, and hoped that this would be discerned rather than the sweetness of her white flesh.

  “Again, my dear,” she urged. Lilybelle obediently paraded up and down. Now one saw that a backboard was strapped against her back. This was unnecessary, however, for Lilybelle had a straightness and buoyancy of carriage. The backboard was only to prevent her from turning her neck. She was very excited at the prospect of the party to which she was going within the hour, but very close to tears, also. Would she disgrace John? Would he be ashamed of her, among his fine friends? At the thought, the tears gushed over her eyelids, and splashed over her cheeks.

  “Now, that will never do,” admonished Miss Beardsley in a severe and bracing tone. “No, no, my child, how many times must I tell you not to wipe your eyes or nose on the back of your hands? Where is your handkerchief?”

  Lilybelle fumbled blindly at her sleeves and her bodice. Sighing audibly, Miss Beardsley picked the kerchief from the floor, and gave it to the girl, who sniffled in it, then blew her nose vigorously. Miss Beardsley winced at the earthy sound. “That isn’t done, Mrs. Turnbull. A lady wipes her nose invisibly, turning aside her head daintily. And she never, never, makes a noise doing it. That is very vulgar.”

  Lilybelle gulped, then suddenly giggled hoarsely.
“Lady or not, my nose runs, and it won’t stop with a bloody little wipe!” she exclaimed.

  Miss Beardsley clapped her lean hands to her ears with a pious ejaculation of horror. “My dear child!” she groaned, “how can you use such language! Have I not told you that ladies at all times must use the most decorous and restrained of language? Whatever would Mr. Turnbull say if he heard you?”

  At the mention of her husband’s name, Lilybelle’s face became sullenly distressed. She twisted her handkerchief in her hands, and her bronze eyelashes flickered. Immediately, all her vitality and buoyancy disappeared, leaving her a mere big hulk of a young woman, awkward and uneasy in her purple velvet and cherry bows.

  “I can’t help swearing!” she burst out, abruptly. “Things is sometimes too much!”

  Miss Beardsley shrewdly understood. She said mildly: “You wish your husband to be proud of you, don’t you, Lilybelle? You wish him to approve of you? How can he do these things if you swear and are obstinate? You have only yourself to blame.”

  Lilybelle drew a deep shaking breath, and her hands clenched on the handkerchief. Her blue eyes flashed, and she said impetuously: “Miss Beardsley, ma’am, there’s no pleasin’ Mr. T.! He hates me. He never wanted—” She paused, and gazed at Miss Beardsley affrightedly, covering her treacherous mouth with her fingers.

  But Miss Beardsley, understanding many things, continued in a practical voice: “Perhaps you haven’t done much to please him, Lilybelle. Tonight he is taking you to a grand house, where you will meet fine ladies and gentlemen. If you give him occasion to be proud of you—and you are really improving—I am sure he will be very pleased with you. Now then, shall we walk a little more, sliding the feet instead of lifting them, so that the hoops do not swing so violently from side to side? The essence of the secret is that the hoops may sway so gently as hardly to be noticeable. They must give the impression that they are propelled by wheels rather than by the motion of one’s feet.”

  Miss Beardsley mentioned “feet” with a pained look, as though they were members of the body whose existence must be ignored as much as possible.

  Lilybelle shook her head so that the auburn curls flew and caught sparks of reddish light from the lamp, wiped her eyes roughly, and paraded up and down while Miss Beardsley critically watched every movement with growing satisfaction. Yes, there was a large grandeur about the girl, in spite of the vulgar high colour and the superabundant curves. Her waist, however, Miss Beardsley noted with regret, was not getting smaller, but really larger, and the bosom’s swell was increasing. This could not be from overindulgence at the table, for the girl’s hearty appetite had shown symptoms of failing. A possibility occurred to the virginal mind of Miss Beardsley, and she blushed. She remembered that at times Lilybelle had precipitously left the table in the midst of a meal, and had fled from the room, not to return.

  A baby in my house would be impossible! thought Miss Beardsley, with annoyed asperity. Consider the probability of diapers floating in her fine austere garden, and the wails of an infant in the night! It was not to be thought of She must find a way to express her objections with the utmost delicacy to Mr. Wilkins. Then, as she thought of it, staring broodingly at Lilybelle, she felt a dim pang. Poor young creature, with such an unbearable husband! Too, she, Miss Beardsley, would be quite desolate in her lonely house if Lilybelle should go. The girl’s admiration and worship of her would leave a blank behind. No one had ever admired Miss Beardsley before, and she found the experience very pleasant and warming. I shall think of this later, she thought to herself, and uneasily suspected that she was losing her “character.”

  Following this train of thought, she said aloud: “Lilybelle, you must remember that a true lady is distinguished by ‘character.’ It is a very mysterious essence, and can only be acquired, when one is not born with it, by unremitting discipline and determination. It is composed of restraint, control, integrity, self-respect, honour and an acute awareness of what is proper and dutiful. It is polished, too, by graciousness, decorum and good manners. A woman who possesses it need have nothing else. A woman who does not possess it can have everything else and she will have nothing. Do you understand?”

  Lilybelle paused in her pacing and gazed at Miss Beardsley blankly. Then she said in her loud and hesitating voice: “Yes, ma’am, in a way, I think I do. I was brought up proper like, and taught not to lie or steal or gossip, or be greedy. My Ma says a lass must mind her tongue, and be kind to her neighbours, and speak well of others. That’s character, she says. Fine manners is for the gentry, she says. But poor people must have character.”

  For some reason Miss Beardsley felt a queer embarrassment. She said lightly: “I would say that fine manners are the outcome of character, Lilybelle.” She paused, and looked strangely at the girl. “What did your mother mean when she said poor people must have character?”

  Lilybelle fumbled for words, knitting her light brows as she concentrated. “Well, ma’am, I suppose it’s this way: if you’ve got money, you only need manners. You don’t need character. Everybody’ll like you just for your money, if you don’t up and offend ’em too much. But a poor man’s just got himself, and he must needs make the best of himself. He ain’t got any money to apologize for him.”

  Miss Beardsley was startled. She eyed the girl searchingly. Was the child unconsciously subtle? Was she deeper than suspected? But Lilybelle gazed back at her with simple candour.

  “Lilybelle,” said Miss Beardsley, with an unusual softness in her hard tones, “you are a very good girl. I am sure that no one could help but love you.”

  Lilybelle’s full round face changed; her mouth trembled, and tears of gratitude and pain filled her eyes. She caught Miss Beardsley’s mottled and bony hand and kissed it impulsively. “O ma’am!” she cried, “if that was only so!”

  Miss Beardsley, unbearably and mysteriously touched, sighed. She touched the bent curls with a gentle hand, then pressed strongly upon them. “Dear child,” she murmured.

  She had never been so stirred in all her barren and fruitless life. And because of this, she was acutely embarrassed. She patted Lilybelle’s head again, then rose briskly.

  “I see you have such a lovely turquoise bracelet, my dear. And I believe that somewhere I have a silver and turquoise necklace to match, which belonged to my mother. Allow me to beg you to wear it with your costume.”

  Lilybelle was so young that her moods could change quickly. She wiped her eyes vigorously, tossed back her curls, and smiled down at her bracelet. “It was Mr. Wilkins as give it to me for my birthday.” Then remembering the painful episode of the presenting, her mouth shook. Then she continued bravely: “It was too small. Mr. Wilkins took it to a proper man who made it bigger.”

  Miss Beardsley left the room to get the necklace, and Lilybell stood and stared at her reflection in the long pier mirror. After casting a furtive glance at the door through which Miss Beardsley had disappeared, she preened to her heart’s content, struck attitudes, curtsied, dimpled, and arched her neck. She took a simple delight in her handsomeness. She minced about, her arms extended, her curls swaying. Then, as she heard Miss Beardsley’s slithering step on the polished floor without, she stood rigidly like a soldier at attention.

  The necklace, all spun silver and round mottled turquoises, dangled from Miss Beardsley’s hand. She clasped it about Lilybelle’s neck. Ah, a lovely effect, if somewhat theatrical. Yes, Lilybelle looked like some young stage person, of whom Miss Beardsley did not approve. But all at once a vision of the pale and decorous and dun-coloured ladies which Lilybelle would meet in Mr. Gorth’s fine house swam before Miss Beardsley’s eyes. She smiled slightly and grimly. Among that drab assemblage Lilybelle would blaze like a bird of paradise. What a sensation she would make among the gentlemen! As if her vitality was not enough, her vigour and her flamboyancy, she would dazzle and confuse with her colour, height, figure and strong beauty. Miss Beardsley was satisfied.

  Impulsively, she laid her long lean hands on th
e girl’s shoulder and kissed her cheek. Surprised at this, but immensely delighted, the girl flung her arms about her mentor and squeezed her with such joyous strength that the breath was quite crushed from the older woman’s lungs. But under her discomfort her heart was beating with a strange warmness, and her mean little eyes were blinded in mist. The strangest thought came to her: This might be my daughter, if I had married!

  They heard the front door open, then shut with a loud bang, and then John’s hard impatient footsteps ascending the stairs. Lilybelle rushed to the door of the parlour and shouted: “Mr. T.! Do come here and look at me! I’m grand!”

  John, halfway up the stairs, paused, scowling, his hand on the banister. Reluctantly, his face dark and repressed, he descended the stairway, and came slowly into the parlour. He shot a swift glance at Miss Beardsley, and his mouth tightened. The old bitch! he thought, for the liveliest hatred existed between him and his landlady. Then, looking at Lilybelle for the first time with a seeing eye, he was taken aback. He was stunned by her beauty and her spectacular costume. He stared, his mouth dropping open.

  All day he had fiercely contemplated not going to the dinner at the Gorths’. The humiliation, the misery of old memories at the sight of the loathed Andrew Bollister, were more than he could think of without despair and hatred and fury. If he did not appear, it was probable that the offended Mr. Gorth would sack him. That would not annoy him too much. It was unendurable to continue to be employed by the uncle of Andrew Bollister. But that very afternoon Mr. Wilkins had appeared like an apparition, without warning, at his side as he laboured over his desk, and had whispered swiftly:

  “Trust me, Mr. Turnbull, sir! I’m one as knows wot ’e’s doin’. Three months, like, and it’ll be done! But go tonight. You’ll understand, soon, wot I’ve been gettin’ at.

  John, who had not had an hour of ease since his betrayal of his employer, and who had spent sleepless nights wondering what his strange rotund patron was to do with the important information which he, John, had stolen, had regarded Mr. Wilkins with unfeigned detestation. And Mr. Wilkins saw this, and knew it. If he was to have John completely, John must go to that dinner. Until he did, he would always be wavering, always unsure, always tormented by a conscience which even now could lacerate him. For Mr. Wilkins well knew who the bride of Andrew Bollister was, and he knew that she was the cousin of John Turnbull, and once his betrothed. Until John saw her as the wife of his enemy, he, Mr. Wilkins, could never be entirely sure of him.