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_ Mrs. Vertrees made a little sound of commiseration. "I don't believe
that was because he wasn't suffering, though. I'm sure it was only
because he felt his business was so important. Mary told me he seemed
wrapped up in his son's succeeding; and that was what he bragged about
most. He isn't vulgar in his boasting, I understand; he doesn't talk
a great deal about his--his actual money--though there was something
about blades of grass that I didn't comprehend. I think he meant
something about his energy--but perhaps not. No, his bragging usually
seemed to be not so much a personal vainglory as about his family and
the greatness of this city."
"'Greatness of this city'!" Mr. Vertrees echoed, with dull bitterness.
"It's nothing but a coal-hole! I suppose it looks 'great' to the man
who has the luck to make it work for him. I suppose it looks 'great'
to any YOUNG man, too, starting out to make his fortune out of it.
The fellows that get what they want out of it say it's 'great,' and
everybody else gets the habit. But you have a different point of
view if it's the city that got what it wanted out of you! Of course
Sheridan says it's 'great'."
Mrs. Vertrees seemed unaware of this unusual outburst. "I believe,"
she began, timidly, "he doesn't boast of--that is, I understand he
has never seemed so interested in the--the other one."
Her husband's face was dark, but at that a heavier shadow fell upon
it; he looked more haggard than before. "'The other one'," he
repeated, averting his eyes. "You mean--you mean the third son--the
one that was here this evening?"
"Yes, the--the youngest," she returned, her voice so feeble it was
almost a whisper.
And then neither of them spoke for several long minutes. Nor did
either look at the other during that silence.
At last Mr. Vertrees contrived to cough, but not convincingly.
"What--ah--what was it Mary said about him out in the hall, when she
came in this afternoon? I heard you asking her something about him,
but she answered in such a low voice I didn't--ah--happen to catch
it."
"She--she didn't say much. All she said was this: I asked her if she
had enjoyed her walk with him, and she said, 'He's the most wistful
creature I've ever known.'"
"Well?"
"That was all. He IS wistful-looking; and so fragile--though he
doesn't seem quite so much so lately. I was watching Mary from the
window when she went out to-day, and he joined her, and if I hadn't
known about him I'd have thought he had quite an interesting face."
"If you 'hadn't known about him'? Known what?"
"Oh, nothing, of course," she said, hurriedly. "Nothing definite,
that is. Mary said decidely, long ago, that he's not at all insane,
as we thought at first. It's only--well, of course it IS odd, their
attitude about him. I suppose it's some nervous trouble that makes
him--perhaps a little queer at times, so that he can't apply himself
to anything--or perhaps does odd things. But, after all, of course,
we only have an impression about it. We don't know--that is,
positively. I--" She paused, then went on: "I didn't know just
how to ask--that is--I didn't mention it to Mary. I didn't--I--"
The poor lady floundered pitifully, concluding with a mumble. "So
soon after--after the--the shock."
"I don't think I've caught more than a glimpse of him," said Mr.
Vertrees. "I wouldn't know him if I saw him, but your impression of
him is--" He broke off suddenly, springing to his feet in agitation.
"I can't image her--oh, NO!" he gasped. And he began to pace the
floor. "A half-witted epileptic!"
"No, no!" she cried. "He may be all right. We--"
"Oh, it's horrible! I can't--" He threw himself back into his chair
again, sweeping his hands across his face, then letting them fall
limply at his sides.
Mrs. Vertrees was tremulous. "You mustn't give way so," she said,
inspired for once almost to direct discourse. "Whatever Mary might
think of doing, it wouldn't be on her own account; it would be on
ours. But if WE should--should consider it, that wouldn't be on OUR
own account. It isn't because we think of ourselves."
"Oh God, no!" he groaned. "Not for us! We can go to the poorhouse,
but Mary can't be a stenographer!"
Sighing, Mrs. Vertrees resumed her obliqueness. "Of course," she
murmured, "it all seems very premature, speculating about such things,
but I had a queer sort of feeling that she seemed quite interested in
this--" She had almost said "in this one," but checked herself. "In
this young man. It's natural, of course; she is always so strong and
well, and he is--he seems to be, that is--rather appealing to the--the
sympathies."
"Yes!" he agreed, bitterly. "Precisely. The sympathies!"
"Perhaps," she faltered, "perhaps you might feel easier if I could
have a little talk with some one?"
"With whom?"
"I had thought of--not going about it too brusquely, of course, but
perhaps just waiting for his name to be mentioned, if I happened to
be talking with somebody that knew the family--and then I might find
a chance to say that I was sorry to hear he'd been ill so much, and
--Something of that kind perhaps?"
"You don't know anybody that knows the family."
"Yes. That is--well, in a way, of course, one OF the family. That
Mrs. Roscoe Sheridan is not a--that is, she's rather a pleasant-faced
little woman, I think, and of course rather ordinary. I think she
is interested about--that is, of course, she'd be anxious to be more
intimate with Mary, naturally. She's always looking over here from
her house; she was looking out the window this afternoon when Mary
went out, I noticed--though I don't think Mary saw her. I'm sure she
wouldn't think it out of place to--to be frank about matters. She
called the other day, and Mary must rather like her--she said that
evening that the call had done her good. Don't you think it might
be wise?"
"Wise? I don't know. I feel the whole matter is impossible."
"Yes, so do I," she returned, promptly. "It isn't really a thing
we should be considering seriously, of course. Still--"
"I should say not! But possibly--"
Thus they skirmished up and down the field, but before they turned
the lights out and went up-stairs it was thoroughly understood between
them that Mrs. Vertrees should seek the earliest opportunity to obtain
definite information from Sibyl Sheridan concerning the mental and
physical status of Bibbs. And if he were subject to attacks of
lunacy, the unhappy pair decided to prevent the sacrifice they
supposed their daughter intended to make of herself. Altogether, if
there were spiteful ghosts in the old house that night, eavesdropping
upon the woeful comedy, they must have died anew of laughter!
Mrs. Vertrees's opportunity occurred the very next afternoon.
Darkness had fallen, and the piano-movers had come. They were
carrying the piano down the front steps, and Mrs. Vertrees was
standing in the open doorway behind them, preparing to withdraw,
when she heard a sharp exclamation; and Mrs. Roscoe Sheridan,
bareheaded, emerged from the shadow into the light of the doorway.
"Good gracious!" she cried. "It did give me a fright!"
"It's Mrs. Sheridan, isn't it?" Mrs. Vertrees was perplexed by this
informal appearance, but she reflected that it might be providential.
"Won't you come in?"
"No. Oh no, thank you!" Sibyl panted, pressing her hand to her side.
"You don't know what a fright you've given me! And it was nothing
but your piano!" She laughed shrilly. "You know, since our tragedy
coming so suddenly the other day, you have no idea how upset I've been
--almost hysterical! And I just glanced out of the window, a minute
or so ago, and saw your door wide open and black figures of men
against the light, carrying something heavy, and I almost fainted.
You see, it was just the way it looked when I saw them bringing my
poor brother-in-law in, next door, only such a few short days ago.
And I thought I'd seen your daughter start for a drive with Bibbs
Sheridan in a car about three o'clock--and--They aren't back yet,
are they?"
"No. Good heavens!"
"And the only thing I could think of was that something must have
happened to them, and I just dashed over--and it was only your PIANO!"
She broke into laughter again. "I suppose you're just sending it
somewhere to be repaired, aren't you?"
"It's--it's being taken down-town," said Mrs. Vertrees. "Won't you
come in and make me a little visit. I was SO sorry, the other day,
that I was--ah--" She stopped inconsequently, then repeated her
invitation. "Won't you come in? I'd really--"
"Thank you, but I must be running back. My husband usually gets home
about this time, and I make a little point of it always to be there."
"That's very sweet." Mrs. Vertrees descended the steps and walked
toward the street with Sibyl. "It's quite balmy for so late in
November, isn't it? Almost like a May evening."
"I'm afraid Miss Vertrees will miss her piano," said Sibyl, watching
the instrument disappear into the big van at the curb. "She plays
wonderfully, Mrs. Kittersby tells me."
"Yes, she plays very well. One of your relatives came to hear her
yesterday, after dinner, and I think she played all evening for him."
"You mean Bibbs?" asked Sibyl.
"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 half-way 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. _
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