The Turmoil Part 15

"Why--why--yes," Bibbs stammered. "I'll--I'll be de--Won't you get in?"

In that manner and in that place they exchanged their first words. Then Mary without more ado got into the coupe, and Bibbs followed, closing the door.

"You're very kind," she said, somewhat breathlessly. "I should have had to walk, and it's beginning to get dark. It's three miles, I think."

"Yes," said Bibbs. "It--it is beginning to get dark. I--I noticed that."

"I ought to tell you--I--" Mary began, confusedly. She bit her lip, sat silent a moment, then spoke with composure. "It must seem odd, my--"

"No, no!" Bibbs protested, earnestly. "Not in the--in the least."

"It does, though," said Mary. "I had not intended to come to the cemetery, Mr. Sheridan, but one of the men in charge at the house came and whispered to me that 'the family wished me to'--I think your sister sent him. So I came. But when we reached here I--oh, I felt that perhaps I--"

Bibbs nodded gravely. "Yes, yes," he murmured.

"I got out on the opposite side of the carriage," she continued. "I mean opposite from--from where all of you were. And I wandered off over in the other direction; and I didn't realize how little time it takes.

From where I was I couldn't see the carriages leaving--at least I didn't notice them. So when I got back, just now, you were the only one here.

I didn't know the other people in the carriage I came in, and of course they didn't think to wait for me. That's why--"

"Yes," said Bibbs, "I--" And that seemed all he had to say just then.

Mary looked out through the dusty window. "I think we'd better be going home, if you please," she said.

"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 coupe 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 st.u.r.dy 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 coupe, 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 pa.s.sed 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 coupe and, thinning rapidly to lances, pa.s.sed 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 coupe 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, una.s.sisted.

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

"Oh no," she murmured. "I think I can--" She meant that she could get out of the coupe 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 gla.s.s panels of the door and withheld her hand as it touched the old-fas.h.i.+oned 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. "Sleep-walking, 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 her own way, following her into the dining-room, and was grateful when she brought him a tiny gla.s.s filled from one of the decanters on the sideboard. Roscoe gloomily poured for himself a much heavier libation in a larger gla.s.s; and the two men sat, while Sibyl leaned against the sideboard, reviewing the episodes of the day and recalling the names of the donors of flowers and wreaths. She pressed Bibbs to remain longer when he rose to go, and then, as he persisted, she went with him to the front door. He opened it, and she said:

"Bibbs, you were coming out of the Vertreeses' house when we met you.

How did you happen to be there?"

"I had only been to the door," he said. "Good night, Sibyl."

"Wait," she insisted. "We saw you coming out."

"I wasn't," he explained, moving to depart. "I'd just brought Miss Vertrees home."

"What?" she cried.

"Yes," he said, and stepped out upon the porch, "that was it. Good night, Sibyl."