________________________________________________
_ She stopped with unconscious abruptness, her mind plainly wandering to
another matter; and Mary perceived that she had come upon a definite
errand. Moreover, a tensing of Sibyl's eyelids, in that moment of
abstraction as she looked aside from her hostess, indicated that the
errand was a serious one for the caller and easily to be connected
with the slight but perceptible agitation underlying her assumption of
cheerful ease. There was a restlessnes of breathing, a restlessness
of hands.
"Mrs. Kittersby and her daughter were chatting about some to the
people here in town the other day," said Sibyl, repeating the cooing
and protracting it. "They said something that took ME by surprise!
We were talking about our mutual friend, Mr. Robert Lamhorn--"
Mary interrupted her promptly. "Do you mean 'mutual' to include my
mother and me?" she asked.
"Why, yes; the Kittersbys and you and all of us Sheridans, I mean."
"No," said Mary. "We shouldn't consider Mr. Robert Lamhorn a friend
of ours."
To her surprise, Sibyl nodded eagerly, as if greatly pleased. "That's
just the way Mrs. Kittersby talked!" she cried, with a vehemence that
made Mary stare. "Yes, and I hear that's the way ALL you old families
here speak of him!"
Mary looked aside, but otherwise she was able to maintain her
composure. "I had the impression he was a friend of yours," she
said; adding, hastily, "and your husband's."
"Oh yes," said the caller, absently. "He is, certainly. A man's
reputation for a little gaiety oughtn't to make a great difference to
married people, of course. It's where young girls are in question.
THEN it may be very, very dangerous. There are a great many things
safe and proper for married people that might be awf'ly imprudent
for a young girl. Don't you agree, Miss Vertrees?"
"I don't know," returned the frank Mary. "Do you mean that you intend
to remain a friend of Mr. Lamhorn's, but disapprove of Miss Sheridan's
doing so?"
"That's it exactly!" was the naive and ardent response of Sibyl.
"What I feel about it is that a man with his reputation isn't at all
suitable for Edith, and the family ought to be made to understand it.
I tell you," she cried, with a sudden access of vehemence, "her father
ought to put his foot down!"
Her eyes flashed with a green spark; something seemed to leap out and
then retreat, but not before Mary had caught a glimpse of it, as one
might catch a glimpse of a thing darting forth and then scuttling back
into hiding under a bush.
"Of course," said Sibyl, much more composedly, "I hardly need say
that it's entirely on Edith's account that I'm worried about this.
I'm as fond of Edith as if she was really my sister, and I can't help
fretting about it. It would break my heart to have Edith's life
spoiled."
This tune was off the key, to Mary's ear. Sibyl tried to sing with
pathos, but she flatted.
And when a lady receives a call from another who suffers under the
stress of some feeling which she wishes to conceal, there is not
uncommonly developed a phenomenon of duality comparable to the effect
obtained by placing two mirrors opposite each other, one clear and the
other flawed. In this case, particularly, Sibyl had an imperfect
consciousness of Mary. The Mary Vertrees that she saw was merely
something to be cozened to her own frantic purpose--a Mary Vertrees
who was incapable of penetrating that purpose. Sibyl sat there
believing that she was projecting the image of herself that she
desired to project, never dreaming that with every word, every look,
and every gesture she was more and more fully disclosing the pitiable
truth to the clear eyes of Mary. And the Sibyl that Mary saw was an
overdressed woman, in manner half rustic, and in mind as shallow as
a pan, but possessed by emotions that appeared to be strong--perhaps
even violent. What those emotions were Mary had not guessed, but she
began to suspect.
"And Edith's life WOULD be spoiled," Sibyl continued. "It would be a
dreadful thing for the whole family. She's the very apple of Father
Sheridan's eye, and he's as proud of her as he is of Jim and Roscoe.
It would be a horrible thing for him to have her marry a man like
Robert Lamhorn; but he doesn't KNOW anything about him, and if
somebody doesn't tell him, what I'm most afraid of is that Edith might
get his consent and hurry on the wedding before he finds out, and then
it would be too late. You see, Miss Vertrees, it's very difficult for
me to decide just what it's my duty to do."
"I see," said Mary, looking at her thoughtfully, "Does Miss Sheridan
seem to--to care very much about him?"
"He's deliberately fascinated her," returned the visitor, beginning
to breathe quickly and heavily. "Oh, she wasn't difficult! She knew
she wasn't in right in this town, and she was crazy to meet the people
that were, and she thought he was one of 'em. But that was only the
start that made it easy for him--and he didn't need it. He could have
done it, anyway!" Sibyl was launched now; her eyes were furious and
her voice shook. "He went after her deliberately, the way he does
everything; he's as cold-blooded as a fish. All he cares about is his
own pleasure, and lately he's decided it would be pleasant to get hold
of a piece of real money--and there was Edith! And he'll marry her!
Nothing on earth can stop him unless he finds out she won't HAVE any
money if she marries him, and the only person that could make him
understand that is Father Sheridan. Somehow, that's got to be
managed, because Lamhorn is going to hurry it on as fast as he can.
He told me so last night. He said he was going to marry her the first
minute he could persuade her to it--and little Edith's all ready to be
persuaded!" Sibyl's eyes flashed green again. "And he swore he'd do
it," she panted. "He swore he'd marry Edith Sheridan, and nothing on
earth could stop him!"
And then Mary understood. Her lips parted and she stared at the
babbling creature incredulously, a sudden vivid picture in her mind,
a canvas of unconscious Sibyl's painting. Mary beheld it with pity
and horror: she saw Sibyl clinging to Robert Lamhorn, raging, in a
whisper, perhaps--for Roscoe might have been in the house, or servants
might have heard. She saw Sibyl entreating, beseeching, threatening
despairingly, and Lamhorn--tired of her--first evasive, then brutally
letting her have the truth; and at last, infuriated, "swearing" to
marry her rival. If Sibyl had not babbled out the word "swore" it
might have been less plain.
The poor woman blundered on, wholly unaware of what he had confessed.
"You see," she said, more quietly, "whatever's going to be done ought
to be done right away. I went over and told Mother Sheridan what I'd
heard about Lamhorn--oh, I was open and aboveboard! I told her right
before Edith. I think it ought all to be done with perfect frankness,
because nobody can say it isn't for the girl's own good and what her
best friend would do. But Mother Sheridan's under Edith's thumb, and
she's afraid to ever come right out with anything. Father Sheridan's
different. Edith can get anything she wants out of him in the way of
money or ordinary indulgence, but when it comes to a matter like this
he'd be a steel rock. If it's a question of his will against anybody
else's he'd make his will rule if it killed 'em both! Now, he'd never
in the world let Lamhorn come near the house again if he knew his
reputation. So, you see, somebody's got to tell him. It isn't a very
easy position for me, is it, Miss Vertrees?"
"No," said Mary, gravely.
"Well, to be frank," said Sibyl, smiling, "that's why I've come
to you."
"To ME!" Mary frowned.
Sibyl rippled and cooed again. "There isn't ANYBODY ever made such
a hit with Father Sheridan in his life as you have. And of course
we ALL hope you're not going to be exactly an outsider in the affairs
of the family!" (This sally with another and louder effect of
laughter). "And if it's MY duty, why, in a way, I think it might be
thought yours, too."
"No, no!" exclaimed Mary, sharply.
"Listen," said Sibyl. "Now suppose I go to Father Sheridan with
this story, and Edith says it's not true; suppose she says Lamhorn
has a good reputation and that I'm repeating irresponsible gossip,
or suppose (what's most likely) she loses her temper and says I
invented it, then what am I going to do? Father Sheridan doesn't
know Mrs. Kittersby and her daughter, and they're out of the question,
anyway. But suppose I could say: 'All right, if you want proof,
ask Miss Vertrees. She came with me, and she's waiting in the next
room right now, to--"
"No, no," said Mary, quickly. "You mustn't--"
"Listen just a minute more," Sibyl urged, confidingly. She was on
easy ground now, to her own mind, and had no doubt of her success.
"You naturally don't want to begin by taking part in a family quarrel,
but if YOU take part in it, it won't be one. You don't know yourself
what weight you carry over there, and no one would have the right
to say you did it except out of the purest kindness. Don't you see
that Jim and his father would admire you all the more for it? Miss
Vertrees, listen! Don't you see we OUGHT to do it, you and I? Do you
suppose Robert Lamhorn cares a snap of his finger for her? Do you
suppose a man like him would LOOK at Edith Sheridan if it wasn't for
the money?" And again Sibyl's emotion rose to the surface. "I tell
you he's after nothing on earth but to get his finger in that old
man's money-pile, over there, next door! He'd marry ANYBODY to do it.
Marry Edith?" she cried. "I tell you he'd marry their nigger cook for
THAT!"
She stopped, afraid--at the wrong time--that she had been too
vehement, but a glance at Mary reassured her, and Sibyl decided that
she had produced the effect she wished. Mary was not looking at her;
she was staring straight before her at the wall, her eyes wide and
shining. She became visibly a little paler as Sibyl looked at her.
"After nothing on earth but to get his finger in that old man's
money-pile, over there, next door!" The voice was vulgar, the words
were vulgar--and the plain truth was vulgar! How it rang in Mary
Vertrees's ears! The clear mirror had caught its own image clearly
in the flawed one at last.
Sibyl put forth her best bid to clench the matter. She offered her
bargain. "Now don't you worry," she said, sunnily, "about this
setting Edith against you. She'll get over it after a while, anyway,
but if she tried to be spiteful and make it uncomfortable for you
when you drop in over there, or managed so as to sort of leave you
out, why, I've got a house, and Jim likes to come there. I don't
THINK Edith WOULD be that way; she's too crazy to have you take her
around with the smart crowd, but if she DID, you needn't worry.
And another thing--I guess you won't mind Jim's own sister-in-law
speaking of it. Of course, I don't know just how matters stand
between you and Jim, but Jim and Roscoe are about as much alike as
two brothers can be, and Roscoe was very slow making up his mind;
sometimes I used to think he actually never WOULD. Now, what I mean
is, sisters-in-law can do lots of things to help matters on like
that. There's lots of little things can be said, and lots--"
She stopped, puzzled. Mary Vertrees had gone from pale to scarlet,
and now, still scarlet indeed, she rose, without a word of
explanation, or any other kind of word, and walked slowly to the
open door and out of the room.
Sibyl was a little taken aback. She supposed Mary had remembered
something neglected and necessary for the instruction of a servant,
and that she would return in a moment; but it was rather a rude excess
of absent-mindedness not to have excused herself, especially as her
guest was talking. And, Mary's return being delayed, Sibyl found
time to think this unprefaced exit odder and ruder than she had first
considered it. There might have been more excuse for it, she thought,
had she been speaking of matters less important--offering to do the
girl all the kindness in her power, too!
Sibyl yawned and swung her muff impatiently; she examined the sole of
her shoe; she decided on a new shape of heel; she made an inventory
of the furniture of the room, of the rugs, of the wall-paper and
engravings. Then she looked at her watch and frowned; went to a
window and stood looking out upon the brown lawn, then came back to
the chair she had abandoned, and sat again. There was no sound in
the house. _
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