Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  “Not a very near one,” he explained. “Mr. Palmer’s father was my great-uncle.”

  “Still, of course you are related.”

  “Yes; that distantly.”

  Alice said placidly, “It’s quite an advantage.”

  He agreed. “Yes. It is.”

  “No,” she said, in the same placid tone. “I mean for Mildred.”

  “I don’t see — —”

  She laughed. “No. You wouldn’t. I mean it’s an advantage over the rest of us who might like to compete for some of your time; and the worst of it is we can’t accuse her of being unfair about it. We can’t prove she showed any trickiness in having you for a cousin. Whatever else she might plan to do with you, she didn’t plan that. So the rest of us must just bear it!”

  “The ‘rest of you!’” he laughed. “It’s going to mean a great deal of suffering!”

  Alice resumed her placid tone. “You’re staying at the Palmers’, aren’t you?”

  “No, not now. I’ve taken an apartment. I’m going to live here; I’m permanent. Didn’t I tell you?”

  “I think I’d heard somewhere that you were,” she said. “Do you think you’ll like living here?”

  “How can one tell?”

  “If I were in your place I think I should be able to tell, Mr. Russell.”

  “How?”

  “Why, good gracious!” she cried. “Haven’t you got the most perfect creature in town for your — your cousin? SHE expects to make you like living here, doesn’t she? How could you keep from liking it, even if you tried not to, under the circumstances?”

  “Well, you see, there’s such a lot of circumstances,” he explained; “I’m not sure I’ll like getting back into a business again. I suppose most of the men of my age in the country have been going through the same experience: the War left us with a considerable restlessness of spirit.”

  “You were in the War?” she asked, quickly, and as quickly answered herself, “Of course you were!”

  “I was a left-over; they only let me out about four months ago,” he said. “It’s quite a shake-up trying to settle down again.”

  “You were in France, then?”

  “Oh, yes; but I didn’t get up to the front much — only two or three times, and then just for a day or so. I was in the transportation service.”

  “You were an officer, of course.”

  “Yes,” he said. “They let me play I was a major.”

  “I guessed a major,” she said. “You’d always be pretty grand, of course.”

  Russell was amused. “Well, you see,” he informed her, “as it happened, we had at least several other majors in our army. Why would I always be something ‘pretty grand?’”

  “You’re related to the Palmers. Don’t you notice they always affect the pretty grand?”

  “Then you think I’m only one of their affectations, I take it.”

  “Yes, you seem to be the most successful one they’ve got!” Alice said, lightly. “You certainly do belong to them.” And she laughed as if at something hidden from him. “Don’t you?”

  “But you’ve just excused me for that,” he protested. “You said nobody could be blamed for my being their third cousin. What a contradictory girl you are!”

  Alice shook her head. “Let’s keep away from the kind of girl I am.”

  “No,” he said. “That’s just what I came here to talk about.”

  She shook her head again. “Let’s keep first to the kind of man you are. I’m glad you were in the War.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She was quiet a moment, for she was thinking that here she spoke the truth: his service put about him a little glamour that helped to please her with him. She had been pleased with him during their walk; pleased with him on his own account; and now that pleasure was growing keener. She looked at him, and though the light in which she saw him was little more than starlight, she saw that he was looking steadily at her with a kindly and smiling seriousness. All at once it seemed to her that the night air was sweeter to breathe, as if a distant fragrance of new blossoms had been blown to her. She smiled back to him, and said, “Well, what kind of man are you?”

  “I don’t know; I’ve often wondered,” he replied. “What kind of girl are you?”

  “Don’t you remember? I told you the other day. I’m just me!”

  “But who is that?”

  “You forget everything;” said Alice. “You told me what kind of a girl I am. You seemed to think you’d taken quite a fancy to me from the very first.”

  “So I did,” he agreed, heartily.

  “But how quickly you forgot it!”

  “Oh, no. I only want YOU to say what kind of a girl you are.”

  She mocked him. “‘I don’t know; I’ve often wondered!’ What kind of a girl does Mildred tell you I am? What has she said about me since she told you I was ‘a Miss Adams?’”

  “I don’t know; I haven’t asked her.”

  “Then DON’T ask her,” Alice said, quickly.

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s such a perfect creature and I’m such an imperfect one. Perfect creatures have the most perfect way of ruining the imperfect ones.”

  “But then they wouldn’t be perfect. Not if they — —”

  “Oh, yes, they remain perfectly perfect,” she assured him. “That’s because they never go into details. They’re not so vulgar as to come right out and TELL that you’ve been in jail for stealing chickens. They just look absent-minded and say in a low voice, ‘Oh, very; but I scarcely think you’d like her particularly’; and then begin to talk of something else right away.”

  His smile had disappeared. “Yes,” he said, somewhat ruefully. “That does sound like Mildred. You certainly do seem to know her! Do you know everybody as well as that?”

  “Not myself,” Alice said. “I don’t know myself at all. I got to wondering about that — about who I was — the other day after you walked home with me.”

  He uttered an exclamation, and added, explaining it, “You do give a man a chance to be fatuous, though! As if it were walking home with me that made you wonder about yourself!”

  “It was,” Alice informed him, coolly. “I was wondering what I wanted to make you think of me, in case I should ever happen to see you again.”

  This audacity appeared to take his breath. “By George!” he cried.

  “You mustn’t be astonished,” she said. “What I decided then was that I would probably never dare to be just myself with you — not if I cared to have you want to see me again — and yet here I am, just being myself after all!”

  “You ARE the cheeriest series of shocks,” Russell exclaimed, whereupon Alice added to the series.

  “Tell me: Is it a good policy for me to follow with you?” she asked, and he found the mockery in her voice delightful. “Would you advise me to offer you shocks as a sort of vacation from suavity?”

  “Suavity” was yet another sketch of Mildred; a recognizable one, or it would not have been humorous. In Alice’s hands, so dexterous in this work, her statuesque friend was becoming as ridiculous as a fine figure of wax left to the mercies of a satirist.

  But the lively young sculptress knew better than to overdo: what she did must appear to spring all from mirth; so she laughed as if unwillingly, and said, “I MUSTN’T laugh at Mildred! In the first place, she’s your — your cousin. And in the second place, she’s not meant to be funny; it isn’t right to laugh at really splendid people who take themselves seriously. In the third place, you won’t come again if I do.”

  “Don’t be sure of that,” Russell said, “whatever you do.”

  “‘Whatever I do?’” she echoed. “That sounds as if you thought I COULD be terrific! Be careful; there’s one thing I could do that would keep you away.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I could tell you not to come,” she said. “I wonder if I ought to.”

  “Why do you wonder if you ‘ought t
o?’”

  “Don’t you guess?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s both be mysteries to each other,” she suggested. “I mystify you because I wonder, and you mystify me because you don’t guess why I wonder. We’ll let it go at that, shall we?”

  “Very well; so long as it’s certain that you DON’T tell me not to come again.”

  “I’ll not tell you that — yet,” she said. “In fact — —” She paused, reflecting, with her head to one side. “In fact, I won’t tell you not to come, probably, until I see that’s what you want me to tell you. I’ll let you out easily — and I’ll be sure to see it. Even before you do, perhaps.”

  “That arrangement suits me,” Russell returned, and his voice held no trace of jocularity: he had become serious. “It suits me better if you’re enough in earnest to mean that I can come — oh, not whenever I want to; I don’t expect so much! — but if you mean that I can see you pretty often.”

  “Of course I’m in earnest,” she said. “But before I say you can come ‘pretty often,’ I’d like to know how much of my time you’d need if you did come ‘whenever you want to’; and of course you wouldn’t dare make any answer to that question except one. Wouldn’t you let me have Thursdays out?”

  “No, no,” he protested. “I want to know. Will you let me come pretty often?”

  “Lean toward me a little,” Alice said. “I want you to understand.” And as he obediently bent his head near hers, she inclined toward him as if to whisper; then, in a half-shout, she cried,

  “YES!”

  He clapped his hands. “By George!” he said. “What a girl you are!”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for the first reason, because you have such gaieties as that one. I should think your father would actually like being ill, just to be in the house with you all the time.”

  “You mean by that,” Alice inquired, “I keep my family cheerful with my amusing little ways?”

  “Yes. Don’t you?”

  “There were only boys in your family, weren’t there, Mr. Russell?”

  “I was an only child, unfortunately.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I see you hadn’t any sisters.”

  For a moment he puzzled over her meaning, then saw it, and was more delighted with her than ever. “I can answer a question of yours, now, that I couldn’t a while ago.”

  “Yes, I know,” she returned, quietly.

  “But how could you know?”

  “It’s the question I asked you about whether you were going to like living here,” she said. “You’re about to tell me that now you know you WILL like it.”

  “More telepathy!” he exclaimed. “Yes, that was it, precisely. I suppose the same thing’s been said to you so many times that you — —”

  “No, it hasn’t,” Alice said, a little confused for the moment. “Not at all. I meant — —” She paused, then asked in a gentle voice, “Would you really like to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then, I was only afraid you didn’t mean it.”

  “See here,” he said. “I did mean it. I told you it was being pretty difficult for me to settle down to things again. Well, it’s more difficult than you know, but I think I can pull through in fair spirits if I can see a girl like you ‘pretty often.’”

  “All right,” she said, in a business-like tone. “I’ve told you that you can if you want to.”

  “I do want to,” he assured her. “I do, indeed!”

  “How often is ‘pretty often,’ Mr. Russell?”

  “Would you walk with me sometimes? To-morrow?”

  “Sometimes. Not to-morrow. The day after.”

  “That’s splendid!” he said. “You’ll walk with me day after to-morrow, and the night after that I’ll see you at Miss Lamb’s dance, won’t I?”

  But this fell rather chillingly upon Alice. “Miss Lamb’s dance? Which Miss Lamb?” she asked.

  “I don’t know — it’s the one that’s just coming out of mourning.”

  “Oh, Henrietta — yes. Is her dance so soon? I’d forgotten.”

  “You’ll be there, won’t you?” he asked. “Please say you’re going.”

  Alice did not respond at once, and he urged her again: “Please do promise you’ll be there.”

  “No, I can’t promise anything,” she said, slowly. “You see, for one thing, papa might not be well enough.”

  “But if he is?” said Russell. “If he is you’ll surely come, won’t you? Or, perhaps — —” He hesitated, then went on quickly, “I don’t know the rules in this place yet, and different places have different rules; but do you have to have a chaperone, or don’t girls just go to dances with the men sometimes? If they do, would you — would you let me take you?”

  Alice was startled. “Good gracious!”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Don’t you think your relatives —— Aren’t you expected to go with Mildred — and Mrs. Palmer?”

  “Not necessarily. It doesn’t matter what I might be expected to do,” he said. “Will you go with me?”

  “I —— No; I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t. I’m not going.”

  “But why?”

  “Papa’s not really any better,” Alice said, huskily. “I’m too worried about him to go to a dance.” Her voice sounded emotional, genuinely enough; there was something almost like a sob in it. “Let’s talk of other things, please.”

  He acquiesced gently; but Mrs. Adams, who had been listening to the conversation at the open window, just overhead, did not hear him. She had correctly interpreted the sob in Alice’s voice, and, trembling with sudden anger, she rose from her knees, and went fiercely to her husband’s room.

  CHAPTER XIII

  HE HAD NOT undressed, and he sat beside the table, smoking his pipe and reading his newspaper. Upon his forehead the lines in that old pattern, the historical map of his troubles, had grown a little vaguer lately; relaxed by the complacency of a man who not only finds his health restored, but sees the days before him promising once more a familiar routine that he has always liked to follow.

  As his wife came in, closing the door behind her, he looked up cheerfully, “Well, mother,” he said, “what’s the news downstairs?”

  “That’s what I came to tell you,” she informed him, grimly.

  Adams lowered his newspaper to his knee and peered over his spectacles at her. She had remained by the door, standing, and the great greenish shadow of the small lamp-shade upon his table revealed her but dubiously. “Isn’t everything all right?” he asked. “What’s the matter?”

  “Don’t worry: I’m going to tell you,” she said, her grimness not relaxed. “There’s matter enough, Virgil Adams. Matter enough to make me sick of being alive!”

  With that, the markings on his brows began to emerge again in all their sharpness; the old pattern reappeared. “Oh, my, my!” he lamented. “I thought maybe we were all going to settle down to a little peace for a while. What’s it about now?”

  “It’s about Alice. Did you think it was about ME or anything for MYSELF?”

  Like some ready old machine, always in order, his irritability responded immediately and automatically to her emotion. “How in thunder could I think what it’s about, or who it’s for? SAY it, and get it over!”

  “Oh, I’ll ‘say’ it,” she promised, ominously. “What I’ve come to ask you is, How much longer do you expect me to put up with that old man and his doings?”

  “Whose doings? What old man?”

  She came at him, fiercely accusing. “You know well enough what old man, Virgil Adams! That old man who was here the other night.”

  “Mr. Lamb?”

  “Yes; ‘Mister Lamb!’” She mocked his voice. “What other old man would I be likely to mean except J. A. Lamb?”

  “What’s he been doing now?” her husband inquired, satirically. “Where’d you get something new against him since the last time y
ou — —”

  “Just this!” she cried. “The other night when that man was here, if I’d known how he was going to make my child suffer, I’d never have let him set his foot in my house.”

  Adams leaned back in his chair as though her absurdity had eased his mind. “Oh, I see,” he said. “You’ve just gone plain crazy. That’s the only explanation of such talk, and it suits the case.”

  “Hasn’t that man made us all suffer every day of our lives?” she demanded. “I’d like to know why it is that my life and my children’s lives have to be sacrificed to him?”

  “How are they ‘sacrificed’ to him?”

  “Because you keep on working for him! Because you keep on letting him hand out whatever miserable little pittance he chooses to give you; that’s why! It’s as if he were some horrible old Juggernaut and I had to see my children’s own father throwing them under the wheels to keep him satisfied.”

  “I won’t hear any more such stuff!” Lifting his paper, Adams affected to read.

  “You’d better listen to me,” she admonished him. “You might be sorry you didn’t, in case he ever tried to set foot in my house again! I might tell him to his face what I think of him.”

  At this, Adams slapped the newspaper down upon his knee. “Oh, the devil! What’s it matter what you think of him?”

  “It had better matter to you!” she cried. “Do you suppose I’m going to submit forever to him and his family and what they’re doing to my child?”

  “What are he and his family doing to ‘your child?’”

  Mrs. Adams came out with it. “That snippy little Henrietta Lamb has always snubbed Alice every time she’s ever had the chance. She’s followed the lead of the other girls; they’ve always all of ’em been jealous of Alice because she dared to try and be happy, and because she’s showier and better-looking than they are, even though you do give her only about thirty-five cents a year to do it on! They’ve all done everything on earth they could to drive the young men away from her and belittle her to ’em; and this mean little Henrietta Lamb’s been the worst of the whole crowd to Alice, every time she could see a chance.”

  “What for?” Adams asked, incredulously. “Why should she or anybody else pick on Alice?”