The Turmoil by Booth Tarkington (read aloud books .txt) 📕

“Yes,” Bibbs agreed, not moving. “It will be dark before we get there.”

She gave him a quick little glance. “I think you must be very tired, Mr. Sheridan; and I know you have reason to be,” she said, gently. “If you’ll let me, I’ll⁠—” And without explaining her purpose she opened the door on her side of the coupé and leaned out.

Bibbs started in blank perplexity, not knowing what she meant to do.

“Driver!” she called, in her clear voice, loudly. “Driver! We’d like to start, please! Driver! Stop at the house just north of Mr. Sheridan’s, please.” The wheels began to move, and she leaned back beside Bibbs once more. “I noticed that he was asleep when we got in,” she said. “I suppose they have a great deal of night work.”

Bibbs drew a long breath and waited till he could command his voice. “I’ve never been able to apologize quickly,” he said, with his accustomed slowness, “because if I try to I stammer. My brother Roscoe whipped me once, when we were boys, for stepping on his slate-pencil. It took me so long to tell him it was an accident, he finished before I did.”

Mary Vertrees had never heard anything quite like the drawling, gentle voice or the odd implication that his not noticing the motionless state of their vehicle was an “accident.” She had formed a casual impression of him, not without sympathy, but at once she discovered that he was unlike any of her cursory and vague imaginings of him. And suddenly she saw a picture he had not intended to paint for sympathy: a sturdy boy hammering a smaller, sickly boy, and the sickly boy unresentful. Not that picture alone; others flashed before her. Instantaneously she had a glimpse of Bibbs’s life and into his life. She had a queer feeling, new to her experience, of knowing him instantly. It startled her a little; and then, with some surprise, she realized that she was glad he had sat so long, after getting into the coupé, before he noticed that it had not started. What she did not realize, however, was that she had made no response to his apology, and they passed out of the cemetery gates, neither having spoken again.

Bibbs was so content with the silence he did not know that it was silence. The dusk, gathering in their small inclosure, was filled with a rich presence for him; and presently it was so dark that neither of the two could see the other, nor did even their garments touch. But neither had any sense of being alone. The wheels creaked steadily, rumbling presently on paved streets; there were the sounds, as from a distance, of the plod-plod of the horses; and sometimes the driver became audible, coughing asthmatically, or saying, “You, Joe!” with a spiritless flap of the whip upon an unresponsive back. Oblongs of light from the lamps at street-corners came swimming into the interior of the coupé and, thinning rapidly to lances, passed utterly, leaving greater darkness. And yet neither of these two last attendants at Jim Sheridan’s funeral broke the silence.

It was Mary who preceived the strangeness of it⁠—too late. Abruptly she realized that for an indefinite interval she had been thinking of her companion and not talking to him. “Mr. Sheridan,” she began, not knowing what she was going to say, but impelled to say anything, as she realized the queerness of this drive⁠—“Mr. Sheridan, I⁠—”

The coupé stopped. “You, Joe!” said the driver, reproachfully, and climbed down and opened the door.

“What’s the trouble?” Bibbs inquired.

“Lady said stop at the first house north of Mr. Sheridan’s, sir.”

Mary was incredulous; she felt that it couldn’t be true and that it mustn’t be true that they had driven all the way without speaking.

“What?” Bibbs demanded.

“We’re there, sir,” said the driver, sympathetically. “Next house north of Mr. Sheridan’s.”

Bibbs descended to the curb. “Why, yes,” he said. “Yes, you seem to be right.” And while he stood staring at the dimly illuminated front windows of Mr. Vertrees’s house Mary got out, unassisted.

“Let me help you,” said Bibbs, stepping toward her mechanically; and she was several feet from the coupé when he spoke.

“Oh no,” she murmured. “I think I can⁠—” She meant that she could get out of the coupé without help, but, perceiving that she had already accomplished this feat, she decided not to complete the sentence.

“You, Joe!” cried the driver, angrily, climbing to his box. And he rumbled away at his team’s best pace⁠—a snail’s.

“Thank you for bringing me home, Mr. Sheridan,” said Mary, stiffly. She did not offer her hand. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Bibbs said in response, and, turning with her, walked beside her to the door. Mary made that a short walk; she almost ran. Realization of the queerness of their drive was growing upon her, beginning to shock her; she stepped aside from the light that fell through the glass panels of the door and withheld her hand as it touched the old-fashioned bell-handle.

“I’m quite safe, thank you,” she said, with a little emphasis. “Good night.”

“Good night,” said Bibbs, and went obediently. When he reached the street he looked back, but she had vanished within the house.

Moving slowly away, he caromed against two people who were turning out from the pavement to cross the street. They were Roscoe and his wife.

“Where are your eyes, Bibbs?” demanded Roscoe. “Sleepwalking, as usual?”

But Sibyl took the wanderer by the arm. “Come over to our house for a little while, Bibbs,” she urged. “I want to⁠—”

“No, I’d better⁠—”

“Yes. I want you to. Your father’s gone to bed, and they’re all quiet over there⁠—all worn out. Just come for a minute.”

He yielded, and when they were in the house she repeated herself with real feeling: “ ‘All worn out!’ Well, if anybody is, you are, Bibbs! And I don’t wonder; you’ve done every bit of the work of it. You mustn’t get down sick again. I’m going to make you take a little brandy.”

He let her have