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

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 doorbell. 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