“Yes?” Mrs. Palmer said, good-naturedly, to prompt her. “Your father and I did something embarrassing?”
“Mama, it was because of those things that came out about Alice Adams.”
“How could that bother Arthur? Does he know her?”
“Don’t you remember?” the daughter asked. “The day after my dance I mentioned how odd I thought it was in him—I was a little disappointed in him. I’d been seeing that he met everybody, of course, but she was the only girl HE asked to meet; and he did it as soon as he noticed her. I hadn’t meant to have him meet her—in fact, I was rather sorry I’d felt I had to ask her, because she oh, well, she’s the sort that ‘tries for the new man,’ if she has half a chance; and sometimes they seem quite fascinated —for a time, that is. I thought Arthur was above all that; or at the very least I gave him credit for being too sophisticated.”
“I see,” Mrs. Palmer said, thoughtfully. “I remember now that you spoke of it. You said it seemed a little peculiar, but of course it really wasn’t: a ‘new man’ has nothing to go by, except his own first impressions. You can’t blame poor Arthur—she’s quite a piquant looking little person. You think he’s seen something of her since then?”
Mildred nodded slowly. “I never dreamed such a thing till yesterday, and even then I rather doubted it—till he got so red, just now! I was surprised when he asked to meet her, but he just danced with her once and didn’t mention her afterward; I forgot all about it—in fact, I virtually forgot all about HER. I’d seen quite a little of her–-“
“Yes,” said Mrs. Palmer. “She did keep coming here!”
“But I’d just about decided that it really wouldn’t do,” Mildred went on. “She isn’t—well, I didn’t admire her.”
“No,” her mother assented, and evidently followed a direct connection of thought in a speech apparently irrelevant. “I understand the young Malone wants to marry Henrietta. I hope she won’t; he seems rather a gross type of person.”
“Oh, he’s just one,” Mildred said. “I don’t know that he and Alice Adams were ever engaged—she never told me so. She may not have been engaged to any of them; she was just enough among the other girls to get talked about—and one of the reasons I felt a little inclined to be nice to her was that they seemed to be rather edging her out of the circle. It wasn’t long before I saw they were right, though. I happened to mention I was going to give a dance and she pretended to take it as a matter of course that I meant to invite her brother—at least, I thought she pretended; she may have really believed it. At any rate, I had to send him a card; but I didn’t intend to be let in for that sort of thing again, of course. She’s what you said, ‘pushing’; though I’m awfully sorry you said it.”
“Why shouldn’t I have said it, my dear?”
“Of course I didn’t say ‘shouldn’t.’ ” Mildred explained, gravely. “I meant only that I’m sorry it happened.”
“Yes; but why?”
“Mama”—Mildred turned to her, leaning forward and speaking in a lowered voice—”Mama, at first the change was so little it seemed as if Arthur hardly knew it himself. He’d been lovely to me always, and he was still lovely to me but—oh, well, you’ve understood—after my dance it was more as if it was just his nature and his training to be lovely to me, as he would be to everyone a kind of politeness. He’d never said he CARED for me, but after that I could see he didn’t. It was clear—after that. I didn’t know what had happened; I couldn’t think of anything I’d done. Mama—it was Alice Adams.”
Mrs. Palmer set her little coffee-cup upon the table beside her, calmly following her own motion with her eyes, and not seeming to realize with what serious entreaty her daughter’s gaze was fixed upon her. Mildred repeated the last sentence of her revelation, and introduced a stress of insistence.
“Mama, it WAS Alice Adams!”
But Mrs. Palmer declined to be greatly impressed, so far as her appearance went, at least; and to emphasize her refusal, she smiled indulgently. “What makes you think so?”
“Henrietta told me yesterday.”
At this Mrs. Palmer permitted herself to laugh softly aloud. “Good heavens! Is Henrietta a soothsayer? Or is she Arthur’s particular confidante?”
“No. Ella Dowling told her.”
Mrs. Palmer’s laughter continued. “Now we have it!” she exclaimed. “It’s a game of gossip: Arthur tells Ella, Ella tells Henrietta, and Henrietta tells–-“
“Don’t laugh, please, mama,” Mildred begged. “Of course Arthur didn’t tell anybody. It’s roundabout enough, but it’s true. I know it! I hadn’t quite believed it, but I knew it was true when he got so red. He looked—oh, for a second or so he looked —stricken! He thought I didn’t notice it. Mama, he’s been to see her almost every evening lately. They take long walks together. That’s why he hasn’t been here.”
Of Mrs. Palmer’s laughter there was left only her indulgent smile, which she had not allowed to vanish. “Well, what of it?” she said.
“Mama!”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Palmer. “What of it?”
“But don’t you see?” Mildred’s well-tutored voice, though modulated and repressed even in her present emotion, nevertheless had a tendency to quaver. “It’s true. Frank Dowling was going to see her one evening and he saw Arthur sitting on the stoop with her, and didn’t go in. And Ella used to go to school with a girl who lives across the street from here. She told Ella–-“
“Oh, I understand,” Mrs. Palmer interrupted. “Suppose he does go there. My dear, I said, ‘What of it?’”
“I don’t see what you mean, mama. I’m so afraid he might think we knew about it, and that you and papa said those things about her and her father on that account—as if we abused them because he goes there instead of coming here.”
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Palmer rose, went to a window, and, turning there, stood with her back to it, facing her daughter and looking at her cheerfully. “Nonsense, my dear! It was perfectly clear that she was mentioned by accident, and so was her father. What an extraordinary man! If Arthur makes friends with people like that, he certainly knows better than to expect to hear favourable opinions of them. Besides, it’s only a little passing thing with him.”
“Mama! When he goes there almost every–-“
“Yes,” Mrs. Palmer said, dryly. “It seems to me I’ve heard somewhere that other young men have gone there ‘almost every!’ She doesn’t last, apparently. Arthur’s gallant, and he’s impressionable— but he’s fastidious, and fastidiousness is always the check on impressionableness. A girl belongs to her family, too—and this one does especially, it strikes me! Arthur’s very sensible; he sees more than you’d think.”
Mildred looked at her hopefully. “Then you don’t believe he’s likely to imagine we said those things of her in any meaning way?”
At this, Mrs. Palmer laughed again. “There’s one thing you seem not to have noticed, Mildred.”
“What’s that?”
“It seems to have escaped your attention that he never said a word.”
“Mightn’t that mean–-?” Mildred began, but she stopped.
“No, it mightn’t,” her mother replied, comprehending easily. “On the contrary, it might mean that instead of his feeling it too deeply to speak, he was getting a little illumination.”
Mildred rose and came to her. “WHY do you suppose he never told us he went there? Do you think he’s—do you think he’s pleased with her, and yet ashamed of it? WHY do you suppose he’s never spoken of it?”
“Ah, that,” Mrs. Palmer said,—”that might possibly be her own doing. If it is, she’s well paid by what your father and I said, because we wouldn’t have said it if we’d known that Arthur–-” She checked herself quickly. Looking over her daughter’s shoulder, she saw the two gentlemen coming from the corridor toward the wide doorway of the room; and she greeted them cheerfully. “If you’ve finished with each other for a while,” she added, “Arthur may find it a relief to put his thoug
hts on something prettier than a trust company—and more fragrant.”
Arthur came to Mildred.
“Your mother said at lunch that perhaps you’d–-“
“I didn’t say ‘perhaps,’ Arthur,” Mrs. Palmer interrupted, to correct him. “I said she would. If you care to see and smell those lovely things out yonder, she’ll show them to you. Run along, children!”
Half an hour later, glancing from a window, she saw them come from the hothouses and slowly cross the lawn. Arthur had a fine rose in his buttonhole and looked profoundly thoughtful.
CHAPTER XXI
That morning and noon had been warm, though the stirrings of a feeble breeze made weather not flagrantly intemperate; but at about three o’clock in the afternoon there came out of the southwest a heat like an affliction sent upon an accursed people, and the air was soon dead of it. Dripping negro ditch-diggers whooped with satires praising hell and hot weather, as the tossing shovels flickered up to the street level, where sluggish male pedestrians carried coats upon hot arms, and fanned themselves with straw hats, or, remaining covered, wore soaked handkerchiefs between scalp and straw. Clerks drooped in silent, big department stores, stenographers in offices kept as close to electric fans as the intervening bulk of their employers would let them; guests in hotels left the lobbies and went to lie unclad upon their beds; while in hospitals the patients murmured querulously against the heat, and perhaps against some noisy motorist who strove to feel the air by splitting it, not troubled by any fore- boding that he, too, that hour next week, might need quiet near a hospital. The “hot spell” was a true spell, one upon men’s spirits; for it was so hot that, in suburban outskirts, golfers crept slowly back over the low undulations of their club lands, abandoning their matches and returning to shelter.
Even on such a day, sizzling work had to be done, as in winter. There were glowing furnaces to be stoked, liquid metals to be poured; but such tasks found seasoned men standing to them; and in all the city probably no brave soul challenged the heat more gamely than Mrs. Adams did, when, in a corner of her small and fiery kitchen, where all day long her hired African immune cooked fiercely, she pressed her husband’s evening clothes with a hot iron. No doubt she risked her life, but she risked it cheerfully in so good and necessary a service for him. She would have given her life for him at any time, and both his and her own for her children.
Unconscious of her own heroism, she was surprised to find herself rather faint when she finished her ironing. However, she took heart to believe that the clothes looked better, in spite of one or two scorched places; and she carried them upstairs to her husband’s room before increasing blindness forced her to grope for the nearest chair. Then, trying to rise and walk, without having sufficiently recovered, she had to sit down again; but after a little while she was able to get upon her feet; and, keeping her hand against the wall, moved successfully to the door of her own room. Here she wavered; might have gone down, had she not been stimulated by the thought of how much depended upon her;—she made a final great effort, and floundered across the room to her bureau, where she kept some simple restoratives. They served her need, or her faith in them did; and she returned to her work.
She went down the stairs, keeping a still tremulous hand upon the rail; but she smiled brightly when Alice looked up from below, where the woodwork was again being tormented with superfluous attentions.
“Alice, DON’T!” her mother said, commiseratingly. “You did all that this morning and it looks lovely. What’s the use of wearing yourself out on it? You ought to be lying down, so’s to look fresh for to-night.”
“Hadn’t you better lie down yourself?” the daughter returned. “Are you ill, mama?”
“Certainly not. What in the world makes you think so?”
“You look pretty pale,” Alice said, and sighed heavily. “It makes me ashamed, having you work so hard—for me.”
“How foolish! I think it’s fun, getting ready to entertain a little again, like this. I only wish it hadn’t turned so hot: I’m afraid your poor father’ll suffer—his things are pretty heavy, I noticed. Well, it’ll do him good to bear something for style’s sake this once, anyhow!” She laughed, and coming to Alice, bent down and kissed her. “Dearie,” she said, tenderly, “wouldn’t you please slip upstairs now and take just a little teeny nap to please your mother?”
But Alice responded only by moving her head slowly, in token of refusal.
“Do!” Mrs. Adams urged. “You don’t want to look worn out, do you?”
“I’ll LOOK all right,” Alice said, huskily. “Do you like the way I’ve arranged the furniture now? I’ve tried all the different ways it’ll go.”
“It’s lovely,” her mother said, admiringly. “I thought the last way you had it was pretty, too. But you know best; I never knew anybody with so much taste. If you’d only just quit now, and take a little rest–-“
“There’d hardly be time, even if I wanted to; it’s after five but I couldn’t; really, I couldn’t. How do you think we can manage about Walter—to see that he wears his evening things, I mean?”
Mrs. Adams pondered. “I’m afraid he’ll make a lot of objections, on account of the weather and everything. I wish we’d had a chance to tell him last night or this morning. I’d have telephoned to him this afternoon except—well, I scarcely like to call him up at that place, since your father–-“
“No, of course not, mama.”
“If Walter gets home late,” Mrs. Adams went on, “I’ll just slip out and speak to him, in case Mr. Russell’s here before he comes. I’ll just tell him he’s got to hurry and get his things on.”
“Maybe he won’t come home to dinner,” Alice suggested, rather hopefully. “Sometimes he doesn’t.”
“No; I think he’ll be here. When he doesn’t come he usually telephones by this time to say not to wait for him; he’s very thoughtful about that. Well, it really is getting late: I must go and tell her she ought to be preparing her fillet. Dearie, DO rest a little.”
“You’d much better do that yourself,” Alice called after her, but Mrs. Adams shook her head cheerily, not pausing on her way to the fiery kitchen.
Alice continued her useless labours for a time; then carried her bucket to the head of the cellar stairway, where she left it upon the top step; and, closing the door, returned to the “living-room;” Again she changed the positions of the old plush rocking-chairs, moving them into the corners where she thought they might be least noticeable; and while thus engaged she was startled by a loud ringing of the door-bell. For a moment her face was panic-stricken, and she stood staring, then she realized that Russell would not arrive for another hour, at the earliest, and recovering her equipoise, went to the door.
Waiting there, in a languid attitude, was a young coloured woman, with a small bundle under her arm and something malleable in her mouth. “Listen,” she said. “You folks expectin’ a coloured lady?”
“No,” said Alice. “Especially not at the front door.”
“Listen,” the coloured woman said again. “Listen. Say, listen. Ain’t they another coloured lady awready here by the day? Listen. Ain’t Miz Malena Burns here by the day this evenin’? Say, listen. This the number house she give ME.”
“Are you the waitress?” Alice asked, dismally.
“Yes’m, if Malena here.”
“Malena is here,” Alice said, and hesitated; but she decided not to send the waitress to the back door; it might be a risk. She let her in. “What’s your name?”
“Me? I’m name’ Gertrude. Miss Gertrude Collamus.”
“Did you bring a cap and apron?”
Gertrude took the little bundle from under her arm. “Yes’m. I’m all fix’.”
“I’ve already set the table,” Alice said. “I’ll show you what we want done.”
She led the way to the dining-room, and, after offering some instruction there, received by Gertrude with languor and a slowly moving jaw, she took her into the kitchen, where the ca
p and apron were put on. The effect was not fortunate; Gertrude’s eyes were noticeably bloodshot, an affliction made more apparent by the white cap; and Alice drew her mother apart, whispering anxiously,
“Do you suppose it’s too late to get someone else?”
“I’m afraid it is,” Mrs. Adams said. “Malena says it was hard enough to get HER! You have to pay them so much that they only work when they feel like it.”
“Mama, could you ask her to wear her cap straighter? Every time she moves her head she gets it on one side, and her skirt’s too long behind and too short in front—and oh, I’ve NEVER seen such FEET!” Alice laughed desolately. “And she MUST quit that terrible chewing!”
“Never mind; I’ll get to work with her. I’ll straighten her out all I can, dearie; don’t worry.” Mrs. Adams patted her daughter’s shoulder encouragingly. “Now YOU can’t do another thing, and if you don’t run and begin dressing you won’t be ready. It’ll only take me a minute to dress, myself, and I’ll be down long before you will. Run, darling! I’ll look after everything.”
Alice nodded vaguely, went up to her room, and, after only a moment with her mirror, brought from her closet the dress of white organdie she had worn the night when she met Russell for the first time. She laid it carefully upon her bed, and began to make ready to put it on. Her mother came in, half an hour later, to “fasten” her.
“I’M all dressed,” Mrs. Adams said, briskly. “Of course it doesn’t matter. He won’t know what the rest of us even look like: How could he? I know I’m an old SIGHT, but all I want is to look respectable. Do I?”
“You look like the best woman in the world; that’s all!” Alice said, with a little gulp.
Her mother laughed and gave her a final scrutiny. “You might use just a tiny bit more colour, dearie— I’m afraid the excitement’s made you a little pale. And you MUST brighten up! There’s sort of a look in your eyes as if you’d got in a trance and couldn’t get out. You’ve had it all day. I must run: your father wants me to help him with his studs. Walter hasn’t come yet, but I’ll look after him; don’t worry, And you better HURRY, dearie, if you’re going to take any time fixing the flowers on the table.”
Alice Adams Page 22
