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

there: yes, sir, quite a regular little plant!”

He chuckled, and at this cheerful sound, of a kind his wife had almost forgotten he was capable of producing, she ventured to put her hand upon his arm. They had gone outdoors, after dinner, taking two chairs with them, and were sitting through the late twilight together, keeping well away from the front porch, which was not yet occupied, however. Alice was in her room changing her dress.

“Well, honey,” Mrs. Adams said, taking confidence not only to put her hand upon his arm, but to revive this disused endearment;⁠—“it’s grand to have you so optimistic. Maybe some time you’ll admit I was right, after all. Everything’s going so well, it seems a pity you didn’t take this⁠—this step⁠—long ago. Don’t you think maybe so, Virgil?”

“Well⁠—if I was ever going to, I don’t know but I might as well of. I got to admit the proposition begins to look pretty good: I know the stuff’ll sell, and I can’t see a thing in the world to stop it. It does look good, and if⁠—if⁠—” He paused.

“If what?” she said, suddenly anxious.

He laughed plaintively, as if confessing a superstition. “It’s funny⁠—well, it’s mighty funny about that smell. I’ve got so used to it at the plant I never seem to notice it at all over there. It’s only when I get away. Honestly, can’t you notice⁠—?”

“Virgil!” She lifted her hand to strike his arm chidingly. “Do quit harping on that nonsense!”

“Oh, of course it don’t amount to anything,” he said. “A person can stand a good deal of just smell. It don’t worry me any.”

“I should think not especially as there isn’t any.”

“Well,” he said, “I feel pretty fair over the whole thing⁠—a lot better’n I ever expected to, anyhow. I don’t know as there’s any reason I shouldn’t tell you so.”

She was deeply pleased with this acknowledgment, and her voice had tenderness in it as she responded: “There, honey! Didn’t I always say you’d be glad if you did it?”

Embarrassed, he coughed loudly, then filled his pipe and lit it. “Well,” he said, slowly, “it’s a puzzle. Yes, sir, it’s a puzzle.”

“What is?”

“Pretty much everything, I guess.”

As he spoke, a song came to them from a lighted window over their heads. Then the window darkened abruptly, but the song continued as Alice went down through the house to wait on the little veranda. “Mi chiamo Mimi,” she sang, and in her voice throbbed something almost startling in its sweetness. Her father and mother listened, not speaking until the song stopped with the click of the wire screen at the front door as Alice came out.

“My!” said her father. “How sweet she does sing! I don’t know as I ever heard her voice sound nicer than it did just then.”

“There’s something that makes it sound that way,” his wife told him.

“I suppose so,” he said, sighing. “I suppose so. You think⁠—”

“She’s just terribly in love with him!”

“I expect that’s the way it ought to be,” he said, then drew upon his pipe for reflection, and became murmurous with the symptoms of melancholy laughter. “It don’t make things less of a puzzle, though, does it?”

“In what way, Virgil?”

“Why, here,” he said⁠—“here we go through all this muck and moil to help fix things nicer for her at home, and what’s it all amount to? Seems like she’s just gone ahead the way she’d ’a’ gone anyhow; and now, I suppose, getting ready to up and leave us! Ain’t that a puzzle to you? It is to me.”

“Oh, but things haven’t gone that far yet.”

“Why, you just said⁠—”

She gave a little cry of protest. “Oh, they aren’t engaged yet. Of course they will be; he’s just as much interested in her as she is in him, but⁠—”

“Well, what’s the trouble then?”

“You are a simple old fellow!” his wife exclaimed, and then rose from her chair. “That reminds me,” she said.

“What of?” he asked. “What’s my being simple remind you of?”

“Nothing!” she laughed. “It wasn’t you that reminded me. It was just something that’s been on my mind. I don’t believe he’s actually ever been inside our house!”

“Hasn’t he?”

“I actually don’t believe he ever has,” she said. “Of course we must⁠—” She paused, debating.

“We must what?”

“I guess I better talk to Alice about it right now,” she said. “He don’t usually come for about half an hour yet; I guess I’ve got time.” And with that she walked away, leaving him to his puzzles.

XIX

Alice was softly crooning to herself as her mother turned the corner of the house and approached through the dusk.

“Isn’t it the most beautiful evening!” the daughter said. “Why can’t summer last all year? Did you ever know a lovelier twilight than this, mama?”

Mrs. Adams laughed, and answered, “Not since I was your age, I expect.”

Alice was wistful at once. “Don’t they stay beautiful after my age?”

“Well, it’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it? Not ever?”

“You may have a different kind from mine,” the mother said, a little sadly. “I think you will, Alice. You deserve⁠—”

“No, I don’t. I don’t deserve anything, and I know it. But I’m getting a great deal these days⁠—more than I ever dreamed could come to me. I’m⁠—I’m pretty happy, mama!”

“Dearie!” Her mother would have kissed her, but Alice drew away.

“Oh, I don’t mean⁠—” She laughed nervously. “I wasn’t meaning to tell you I’m engaged, mama. We’re not. I mean⁠—oh! things seem pretty beautiful in spite of all I’ve done to spoil ’em.”

“You?” Mrs. Adams cried, incredulously. “What have you done to spoil anything?”

“Little things,” Alice said. “A thousand little silly⁠—oh, what’s the use? He’s so honestly what he is⁠—just simple and good and intelligent⁠—I feel a tricky mess beside him! I don’t see why he likes me; and sometimes I’m afraid he wouldn’t if he knew me.”

“He’d just worship you,” said the fond mother. “And the more he knew you, the more he’d worship you.”

Alice shook her head. “He’s not the worshiping kind. Not