Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  “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 cap 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.”

  She departed, while Alice sat at the mirror again, to follow her advice concerning a “tiny bit more colour.” Before she had finished, her father knocked at the door, and, when she responded, came in. He was dressed in the clothes his wife had pressed; but he had lost substantially in weight since they were made for him; no one would have thought that they had been pressed. They hung from him voluminously, seeming to be the clothes of a larger man.

  “Your mother’s gone downstairs,” he said, in a voice of distress. “One of the buttonholes in my shirt is too large and I can’t keep the dang thing fastened. I don’t know what to do about it! I only got one other white shirt, and it’s kind of ruined: I tried it before I did this one. Do you s’pose you could do anything?”

  “I’ll see,” she said.

  “My collar’s got a frayed edge,” he complained, as she examined his troublesome shirt. “It’s a good deal like wearing a saw; but I expect it’ll wilt down flat pretty soon, and not bother me long. I’m liable to wilt down flat, myself, I expect; I don’t know as I remember any such hot night in the last ten or twelve years.” He lifted his head and sniffed the flaccid air, which was laden with a heavy odour. “My, but that smell is pretty strong!” he said.

  “Stand still, please, papa,” Alice begged him. “I can’t see what’s
the matter if you move around. How absurd you are about your old glue smell, papa! There isn’t a vestige of it, of course.”

  “I didn’t mean glue,” he informed her. “I mean cabbage. Is that fashionable now, to have cabbage when there’s company for dinner?”

  “That isn’t cabbage, papa. It’s Brussels sprouts.”

  “Oh, is it? I don’t mind it much, because it keeps that glue smell off me, but it’s fairly strong. I expect you don’t notice it so much because you been in the house with it all along, and got used to it while it was growing.”

  “It is pretty dreadful,” Alice said. “Are all the windows open downstairs?”

  “I’ll go down and see, if you’ll just fix that hole up for me.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” she said. “Not unless you take your shirt off and bring it to me. I’ll have to sew the hole smaller.”

  “Oh, well, I’ll go ask your mother to——”

  “No,” said Alice. “She’s got everything on her hands. Run and take it off. Hurry, papa; I’ve got to arrange the flowers on the table before he comes.”

  He went away, and came back presently, half undressed, bringing the shirt. “There’s one comfort,” he remarked, pensively, as she worked. “I’ve got that collar off—for a while, anyway. I wish I could go to table like this; I could stand it a good deal better. Do you seem to be making any headway with the dang thing?”

  “I think probably I can——”

  Downstairs the door-bell rang, and Alice’s arms jerked with the shock.

  “Golly!” her father said. “Did you stick your finger with that fool needle?”

  She gave him a blank stare. “He’s come!”

  She was not mistaken, for, upon the little veranda, Russell stood facing the closed door at last. However, it remained closed for a considerable time after he rang. Inside the house the warning summons of the bell was immediately followed by another sound, audible to Alice and her father as a crash preceding a series of muffled falls. Then came a distant voice, bitter in complaint.

  “Oh, Lord!” said Adams. “What’s that?”

  Alice went to the top of the front stairs, and her mother appeared in the hall below.

  “Mama!”

  Mrs. Adams looked up. “It’s all right,” she said, in a loud whisper. “Gertrude fell down the cellar stairs. Somebody left a bucket there, and——” She was interrupted by a gasp from Alice, and hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry, dearie. She may limp a little, but——”

  Adams leaned over the banisters. “Did she break anything?” he asked.

  “Hush!” his wife whispered. “No. She seems upset and angry about it, more than anything else; but she’s rubbing herself, and she’ll be all right in time to bring in the little sandwiches. Alice! Those flowers!”

  “I know, mama. But——”

  “Hurry!” Mrs. Adams warned her. “Both of you hurry! I must let him in!”

  She turned to the door, smiling cordially, even before she opened it. “Do come right in, Mr. Russell,” she said, loudly, lifting her voice for additional warning to those above. “I’m so glad to receive you informally, this way, in our own little home. There’s a hat-rack here under the stairway,” she continued, as Russell, murmuring some response, came into the hall. “I’m afraid you’ll think it’s almost too informal, my coming to the door, but unfortunately our housemaid’s just had a little accident—oh, nothing to mention! I just thought we better not keep you waiting any longer. Will you step into our living-room, please?”

  She led the way between the two small columns, and seated herself in one of the plush rocking-chairs, selecting it because Alice had once pointed out that the chairs, themselves, were less noticeable when they had people sitting in them. “Do sit down, Mr. Russell; it’s so very warm it’s really quite a trial just to stand up!”

  “Thank you,” he said, as he took a seat. “Yes. It is quite warm.” And this seemed to be the extent of his responsiveness for the moment. He was grave, rather pale; and Mrs. Adams’s impression of him, as she formed it then, was of “a distinguished-looking young man, really elegant in the best sense of the word, but timid and formal when he first meets you.” She beamed upon him, and used with everything she said a continuous accompaniment of laughter, meaningless except that it was meant to convey cordiality. “Of course we do have a great deal of warm weather,” she informed him. “I’m glad it’s so much cooler in the house than it is outdoors.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It is pleasanter indoors.” And, stopping with this single untruth, he permitted himself the briefest glance about the room; then his eyes returned to his smiling hostess.

  “Most people make a great fuss about hot weather,” she said. “The only person I know who doesn’t mind the heat the way other people do is Alice. She always seems as cool as if we had a breeze blowing, no matter how hot it is. But then she’s so amiable she never minds anything. It’s just her character. She’s always been that way since she was a little child; always the same to everybody, high and low. I think character’s the most important thing in the world, after all, don’t you, Mr. Russell?”

  “Yes,” he said, solemnly; and touched his bedewed white forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Indeed it is,” she agreed with herself, never failing to continue her murmur of laughter. “That’s what I’ve always told Alice; but she never sees anything good in herself, and she just laughs at me when I praise her. She sees good in everybody else in the world, no matter how unworthy they are, or how they behave toward her; but she always underestimates herself. From the time she was a little child she was always that way. When some other little girl would behave selfishly or meanly toward her, do you think she’d come and tell me? Never a word to anybody! The little thing was too proud! She was the same way about school. The teachers had to tell me when she took a prize; she’d bring it home and keep it in her room without a word about it to her father and mother. Now, Walter was just the other way. Walter would——” But here Mrs. Adams checked herself, though she increased the volume of her laughter. “How silly of me!” she exclaimed. “I expect you know how mothers are, though, Mr. Russell. Give us a chance and we’ll talk about our children forever! Alice would feel terribly if she knew how I’ve been going on about her to you.”

  In this Mrs. Adams was right, though she did not herself suspect it, and upon an almost inaudible word or two from him she went on with her topic. “Of course my excuse is that few mothers have a daughter like Alice. I suppose we all think the same way about our children, but some of us must be right when we feel we’ve got the best. Don’t you think so?”

  “Yes. Yes, indeed.”

  “I’m sure I am!” she laughed. “I’ll let the others speak for themselves.” She paused reflectively. “No; I think a mother knows when she’s got a treasure in her family. If she hasn’t got one, she’ll pretend she has, maybe; but if she has, she knows it. I certainly know I have. She’s always been what people call ‘the joy of the household’—always cheerful, no matter what went wrong, and always ready to smooth things over with some bright, witty saying. You must be sure not to tell we’ve had this little chat about her—she’d just be furious with me—but she is such a dear child! You won’t tell her, will you?”

  “No,” he said, and again applied the handkerchief to his forehead for an instant. “No, I’ll——” He paused, and finished lamely: “I’ll—not tell her.”

  Thus reassured, Mrs. Adams set before him some details of her daughter’s popularity at sixteen, dwelling upon Alice’s impartiality among her young suitors: “She never could bear to hurt their feelings, and always treated all of them just alike. About half a dozen of them were just bound to marry her! Naturally, her father and I considered any such idea ridiculous; she was too young, of course.”

  Thus the mother went on with her biographical sketches, while the pale young man sat fa
cing her under the hard overhead light of a white globe, set to the ceiling; and listened without interrupting. She was glad to have the chance to tell him a few things about Alice he might not have guessed for himself, and, indeed, she had planned to find such an opportunity, if she could; but this was getting to be altogether too much of one, she felt. As time passed, she was like an actor who must improvise to keep the audience from perceiving that his fellow-players have missed their cues; but her anxiety was not betrayed to the still listener; she had a valiant soul.

  Alice, meanwhile, had arranged her little roses on the table in as many ways, probably, as there were blossoms; and she was still at it when her father arrived in the dining-room by way of the back stairs and the kitchen.

  “It’s pulled out again,” he said. “But I guess there’s no help for it now; it’s too late, and anyway it lets some air into me when it bulges. I can sit so’s it won’t be noticed much, I expect. Isn’t it time you quit bothering about the looks of the table? Your mother’s been talking to him about half an hour now, and I had the idea he came on your account, not hers. Hadn’t you better go and——”

  “Just a minute,” Alice said, piteously. “Do you think it looks all right?”

  “The flowers? Fine! Hadn’t you better leave ’em the way they are, though?”

  “Just a minute,” she begged again. “Just one minute, papa!” And she exchanged a rose in front of Russell’s plate for one that seemed to her a little larger.

  “You better come on,” Adams said, moving to the door.

  “Just one more second, papa.” She shook her head, lamenting. “Oh, I wish we’d rented some silver!”

  “Why?”

  “Because so much of the plating has rubbed off a lot of it. Just a second, papa.” And as she spoke she hastily went round the table, gathering the knives and forks and spoons that she thought had their plating best preserved, and exchanging them for more damaged pieces at Russell’s place. “There!” she sighed, finally. “Now I’ll come.” But at the door she paused to look back dubiously, over her shoulder.