Alice Adams, Booth Tarkington [thriller novels to read .txt] 📗

“ ‘Always is’ what?” he asked.

“Spoiled,” she said.

He laughed at that; but without looking at him she suddenly offered him her hand, and, as he took it, he felt a hurried, violent pressure upon his fingers, as if she meant to thank him almost passionately for being kind. She was gone before he could speak to her again.

In her room, with the door locked, she did not go to her mirror, but to her bed, flinging herself face down, not caring how far the pillows put her hat awry. Sheer grief had followed her anger; grief for the calamitous end of her bright afternoon, grief for the “end of everything,” as she thought then. Nevertheless, she gradually grew more composed, and, when her mother tapped on the door presently, let her in. Mrs. Adams looked at her with quick apprehension.

“Oh, poor child! Wasn’t he⁠—”

Alice told her. “You see how it⁠—how it made me look, mama,” she quavered, having concluded her narrative. “I’d tried to cover up Walter’s awfulness at the dance with that story about his being ‘literary,’ but no story was big enough to cover this up⁠—and oh! it must make him think I tell stories about other things!”

“No, no, no!” Mrs. Adams protested. “Don’t you see? At the worst, all he could think is that Walter told stories to you about why he likes to be with such dreadful people, and you believed them. That’s all he’d think; don’t you see?”

Alice’s wet eyes began to show a little hopefulness. “You honestly think it might be that way, mama?”

“Why, from what you’ve told me he said, I know it’s that way. Didn’t he say he wanted to come again?”

“N-no,” Alice said, uncertainly. “But I think he will. At least I begin to think so now. He⁠—” She stopped.

“From all you tell me, he seems to be a very desirable young man,” Mrs. Adams said, primly.

Her daughter was silent for several moments; then new tears gathered upon her downcast lashes. “He’s just⁠—dear!” she faltered.

Mrs. Adams nodded. “He’s told you he isn’t engaged, hasn’t he?”

“No. But I know he isn’t. Maybe when he first came here he was near it, but I know he’s not.”

“I guess Mildred Palmer would like him to be, all right!” Mrs. Adams was frank enough to say, rather triumphantly; and Alice, with a lowered head, murmured:

“Anybody⁠—would.”

The words were all but inaudible.

“Don’t you worry,” her mother said, and patted her on the shoulder. “Everything will come out all right; don’t you fear, Alice. Can’t you see that beside any other girl in town you’re just a perfect queen? Do you think any young man that wasn’t prejudiced, or something, would need more than just one look to⁠—”

But Alice moved away from the caressing hand. “Never mind, mama. I wonder he looks at me at all. And if he does again, after seeing my brother with those horrible people⁠—”

“Now, now!” Mrs. Adams interrupted, expostulating mournfully. “I’m sure Walter’s a good boy⁠—”

“You are?” Alice cried, with a sudden vigour. “You are?”

“I’m sure he’s good, yes⁠—and if he isn’t, it’s not his fault. It’s mine.”

“What nonsense!”

“No, it’s true,” Mrs. Adams lamented. “I tried to bring him up to be good, God knows; and when he was little he was the best boy I ever saw. When he came from Sunday-school he’d always run to me and we’d go over the lesson together; and he let me come in his room at night to hear his prayers almost until he was sixteen. Most boys won’t do that with their mothers⁠—not nearly that long. I tried so hard to bring him up right⁠—but if anything’s gone wrong it’s my fault.”

“How could it be? You’ve just said⁠—”

“It’s because I didn’t make your father this⁠—this new step earlier. Then Walter might have had all the advantages that other⁠—”

“Oh, mama, please!” Alice begged her. “Let’s don’t go over all that again. Isn’t it more important to think what’s to be done about him? Is he going to be allowed to go on disgracing us as he does?”

Mrs. Adams sighed profoundly. “I don’t know what to do,” she confessed, unhappily. “Your father’s so upset about⁠—about this new step he’s taking⁠—I don’t feel as if we ought to⁠—”

“No, no!” Alice cried. “Papa mustn’t be distressed with this, on top of everything else. But something’s got to be done about Walter.”

“What can be?” her mother asked, helplessly. “What can be?”

Alice admitted that she didn’t know.

At dinner, an hour later, Walter’s habitually veiled glance lifted, now and then, to touch her furtively;⁠—he was waiting, as he would have said, for her to “spring it”; and he had prepared a brief and sincere defense to the effect that he made his own living, and would like to inquire whose business it was to offer intrusive comment upon his private conduct. But she said nothing, while his father and mother were as silent as she. Walter concluded that there was to be no attack, but changed his mind when his father, who ate only a little, and broodingly at that, rose to leave the table and spoke to him.

“Walter,” he said, “when you’ve finished I wish you’d come up to my room. I got something I want to say to you.”

Walter shot a hard look at his apathetic sister, then turned to his father. “Make it tomorrow,” he said. “This is Satad’y night and I got a date.”

“No,” Adams said, frowning. “You come up before you go out. It’s important.”

“All right; I’ve had all I want to eat,” Walter returned. “I got a few minutes. Make it quick.”

He followed his father upstairs, and when they were in the room together Adams shut the door, sat down, and began to rub his knees.

“Rheumatism?” the boy inquired, slyly. “That what you want to talk to me about?”

“No.” But Adams did not go on; he seemed to be in difficulties for words, and Walter decided to help him.

“Hop ahead and spring it,” he said. “Get it off your mind: I’ll tell the world I should worry! You aren’t goin’ to bother me