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

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 thoughts 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.

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 foreboding 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 tonight.”

“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