In her pocket as she spoke her hand rested upon the little sack of tobacco, which responded accusingly to the touch of her restless fingers; and she found time to wonder why she was building up this fiction for Mr. Arthur Russell. His discovery of Walter's device for whiling away the dull evening had shamed and distressed her; but she would have suffered no less if almost any other had been the discoverer. In this gentleman, after hearing that he was Mildred's Mr. Arthur Russell, Alice felt not the slightest “personal interest”; and there was yet to develop in her life such a thing as an interest not personal. At twenty-two this state of affairs is not unique.
So far as Alice was concerned Russell might have worn a placard, “Engaged.” She looked upon him as diners entering a restaurant look upon tables marked “Reserved”: the glance, slightly discontented, passes on at once. Or so the eye of a prospector wanders querulously over staked and established claims on the mountainside, and seeks the virgin land beyond; unless, indeed, the prospector be dishonest. But Alice was no claim-jumper—so long as the notice of ownership was plainly posted.
Though she was indifferent now, habit ruled her: and, at the very time she wondered why she created fictitious cigars for her father, she was also regretting that she had not boldly carried her Malacca stick down-town with her. Her vivacity increased automatically.
“Perhaps the clerk thought you wanted the cigars for yourself,” Russell suggested. “He may have taken you for a Spanish countess.”
“I'm sure he did!” Alice agreed, gaily; and she hummed a bar or two of “LaPaloma,” snapping her fingers as castanets, and swaying her body a little, to suggest the accepted stencil of a “Spanish Dancer.” “Would you have taken me for one, Mr. Russell?” she asked, as she concluded the impersonation.
“I? Why, yes,” he said. “I'D take you for anything you wanted me to.”
“Why, what a speech!” she cried, and, laughing, gave him a quick glance in which there glimmered some real surprise. He was looking at her quizzically, but with the liveliest appreciation. Her surprise increased; and she was glad that he had joined her.
To be seen walking with such a companion added to her pleasure. She would have described him as “altogether quite stunning-looking”; and she liked his tall, dark thinness, his gray clothes, his soft hat, and his clean brown shoes; she liked his easy swing of the stick he carried.
“Shouldn't I have said it?” he asked. “Would you rather not be taken for a Spanish countess?”
“That isn't it,” she explained. “You said——”
“I said I'd take you for whatever you wanted me to. Isn't that all right?”
“It would all depend, wouldn't it?”
“Of course it would depend on what you wanted.”
“Oh, no!” she laughed. “It might depend on a lot of things.”
“Such as?”
“Well——” She hesitated, having the mischievous impulse to say, “Such as Mildred!” But she decided to omit this reference, and became serious, remembering Russell's service to her at Mildred's house. “Speaking of what I want to be taken for,” she said;—“I've been wondering ever since the other night what you did take me for! You must have taken me for the sister of a professional gambler, I'm afraid!”
Russell's look of kindness was the truth about him, she was to discover; and he reassured her now by the promptness of his friendly chuckle. “Then your young brother told you where I found him, did he? I kept my face straight at the time, but I laughed afterward—to myself. It struck me as original, to say the least: his amusing himself with those darkies.”
“Walter IS original,” Alice said; and, having adopted this new view of her brother's eccentricities, she impulsively went on to make it more plausible. “He's a very odd boy, and I was afraid you'd misunderstand. He tells wonderful 'darky stories,' and he'll do anything to draw coloured people out and make them talk; and that's what he was doing at Mildred's when you found him for me—he says he wins their confidence by playing dice with them. In the family we think he'll probably write about them some day. He's rather literary.”
“Are you?” Russell asked, smiling.
“I? Oh——” She paused, lifting both hands in a charming gesture of helplessness. “Oh, I'm just—me!”
His glance followed the lightly waved hands with keen approval, then rose to the lively and colourful face, with its hazel eyes, its small and pretty nose, and the lip-caught smile which seemed the climax of her decorative transition. Never had he seen a creature so plastic or so wistful.
Here was a contrast to his cousin Mildred, who was not wistful, and controlled any impulses toward plasticity, if she had them. “By George!” he said. “But you ARE different!”
With that, there leaped in her such an impulse of roguish gallantry as she could never resist. She turned her head, and, laughing and bright-eyed, looked him full in the face.
“From whom?” she cried.
“From—everybody!” he said. “Are you a mind-reader?”
“Why?”
“How did you know I was thinking you were different from my cousin, Mildred Palmer?”
“What makes you think I DID know it?”
“Nonsense!” he said. “You knew what I was thinking and I knew you knew.”
“Yes,” she said with cool humour. “How intimate that seems to make us all at once!”
Russell left no doubt that he was delighted with these gaieties of hers. “By George!” he exclaimed again. “I thought you were this sort of girl the first moment I saw you!”
“What sort of girl? Didn't Mildred tell you what sort of girl I am when she asked you to dance with me?”
“She didn't ask me to dance with you—I'd been looking at you. You were talking to some old ladies, and I asked Mildred who you were.”
“Oh, so Mildred DIDN'T——” Alice checked herself. “Who did she tell you I was?”
“She just said you were a Miss Adams, so I——”
“'A' Miss Adams?” Alice interrupted.
“Yes. Then I said I'd like to meet you.”
“I see. You thought you'd save me from the old ladies.”
“No. I thought I'd save myself from some of the girls Mildred was getting me to dance with. There was a Miss Dowling——”
“Poor man!” Alice said, gently, and her impulsive thought was that Mildred had taken few chances, and that as a matter of self-defense her carefulness might have been well founded. This Mr. Arthur Russell was a much more responsive person than one had supposed.
“So, Mr. Russell, you don't know anything about me except what you thought when you first saw me?”
“Yes, I know I was right when I thought it.”
“You haven't told me what you thought.”
“I thought you were like what you ARE like.”
“Not very definite, is it? I'm afraid you shed more light a minute or so ago, when you said how different from Mildred you thought I was. That WAS definite, unfortunately!”
“I didn't say it,” Russell explained. “I thought it, and you read my mind. That's the sort of girl I thought you were—one that could read a man's mind. Why do you say 'unfortunately' you're not like Mildred?”
Alice's smooth gesture seemed to sketch Mildred. “Because she's perfect—why, she's PERFECTLY perfect! She never makes a mistake, and everybody looks up to her—oh, yes, we all fairly adore her! She's like some big, noble, cold statue—'way above the rest of us—and she hardly ever does anything mean or treacherous. Of all the girls I know I believe she's played the fewest really petty tricks. She's——”
Russell interrupted; he looked perplexed. “You say she's perfectly perfect, but that she does play SOME——”
Alice laughed, as if at his sweet innocence. “Men are so funny!” she informed him. “Of course girls ALL do mean things sometimes. My own career's just one long brazen smirch of 'em! What I mean is, Mildred's perfectly perfect compared to the rest of us.”
“I see,” he said, and seemed to need a moment or two of thoughtfulness. Then he inquired, “What sort of treacherous things do YOU do?”
“I? Oh, the very worst kind! Most people bore me particularly the men in this town—and I show it.”
“But I shouldn't call that treacherous, exactly.”
“Well, THEY do,” Alice laughed. “It's made me a terribly unpopular character! I do a lot of things they hate. For instance, at a dance I'd a lot rather find some clever old woman and talk to her than dance with nine-tenths of these nonentities. I usually do it, too.”
“But you danced as if you liked it. You danced better than any other girl I——”
“This flattery of yours doesn't quite turn my head, Mr. Russell,” Alice interrupted. “Particularly since Mildred only gave you Ella Dowling to compare with me!”
“Oh, no,” he insisted. “There were others—and of course Mildred, herself.”
“Oh, of course, yes. I forgot that. Well——” She paused, then added, “I certainly OUGHT to dance well.”
“Why is it so much a duty?”
“When I think of the dancing-teachers and the expense to papa! All sorts of fancy instructors—I suppose that's what daughters have fathers for, though, isn't it? To throw money away on them?”
“You don't——” Russell began, and his look was one of alarm. “You haven't taken up——”
She understood his apprehension and responded merrily, “Oh, murder, no! You mean you're afraid I break out sometimes in a piece of cheesecloth and run around a fountain thirty times, and then, for an encore, show how much like snakes I can make my arms look.”
“I SAID you were a mind-reader!” he exclaimed. “That's exactly what I was pretending to be afraid you might do.”
“'Pretending?' That's nicer of you. No; it's not my mania.”
“What is?”
“Oh, nothing in particular that I know of just now. Of course I've had the usual one: the one that every girl goes through.”
“What's that?”
“Good heavens, Mr. Russell, you can't expect me to believe you're really a man of the world if you don't know that every girl has a time in her life when she's positive she's divinely talented for the stage! It's the only universal rule about women that hasn't got an exception. I don't mean we all want to go on the stage, but we all think we'd be wonderful if we did. Even Mildred. Oh, she wouldn't confess it to you: you'd have to know her a great deal better than any man can ever know her to find out.”
“I see,” he said. “Girls are always telling us we can't know them. I wonder if you——”
She took up his thought before he expressed it, and again he was fascinated by her quickness, which indeed seemed to him almost telepathic. “Oh, but DON'T we know one another, though!” she cried.
“Such things we have to keep secret—things that go on right before YOUR eyes!”
“Why don't some of you tell us?” he asked.
“We can't tell you.”
“Too much honour?”
“No. Not even too much honour among thieves, Mr. Russell. We don't tell you about our tricks against one another because we know it wouldn't make any impression on you. The tricks aren't played against you, and you have a soft side for cats with lovely manners!”
“What about your tricks against us?”
“Oh, those!” Alice laughed. “We think they're rather cute!”
“Bravo!” he cried, and hammered the ferrule of his stick upon the pavement.
“What's the applause for?”
“For you. What you said was like running up the black flag to the masthead.”
“Oh, no. It was just a modest little sign in a pretty flower-bed: 'Gentlemen, beware!'”
“I see I must,” he said, gallantly.
“Thanks! But I mean, beware of the whole bloomin' garden!” Then, picking up a thread that had almost disappeared: “You needn't think you'll ever find out whether I'm right about Mildred's not being an exception by asking her,” she said. “She won't tell you: she's not the sort that ever makes a confession.”
But Russell had not followed her shift to the former topic. “'Mildred's not being an exception?'” he said, vaguely. “I don't——”
“An exception about thinking she could be a wonderful thing on the stage if she only cared to. If you asked her I'm pretty sure she'd say, 'What nonsense!' Mildred's the dearest, finest thing anywhere, but you won't find out many things about her by asking her.”
Russell's expression became more serious, as it did whenever his cousin was made their topic. “You think not?” he said. “You think she's——”
“No. But it's not because she isn't sincere exactly. It's only because she has such a lot to live up to. She has to live up to being a girl on the grand style to herself, I mean, of course.” And without pausing Alice rippled on, “You ought to have seen ME when I had the stage-fever! I used to play 'Juliet' all alone in my room.' She lifted her arms in graceful entreaty, pleading musically,
“O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,That monthly changes in her circled orb,Lest thy love prove——”
She broke off abruptly with a little flourish, snapping thumb and finger of each outstretched hand, then laughed and said, “Papa used to make such fun of me! Thank heaven, I was only fifteen; I was all over it by the next year.”
“No wonder you had the fever,” Russell observed. “You do it beautifully. Why didn't you finish the line?”
“Which one? 'Lest thy love prove likewise variable'? Juliet was saying it to a MAN, you know. She seems to have been ready to worry about his constancy pretty early in their affair!”
Her companion was again thoughtful. “Yes,” he said, seeming to be rather irksomely impressed with Alice's suggestion. “Yes; it does appear so.”
Alice glanced at his serious face, and yielded to an audacious temptation. “You mustn't take it so hard,” she said, flippantly.
“It isn't about you: it's only about Romeo and Juliet.”
“See here!” he exclaimed. “You aren't at your mind-reading again, are you? There are times when it won't do, you know!”
She leaned toward him a little, as if companionably: they were walking slowly, and this geniality of hers brought her shoulder in light contact with his for a moment. “Do you dislike my mind-reading?” she asked, and, across their two just touching shoulders, gave him her sudden look of smiling wistfulness. “Do you hate it?”
He shook his head. “No, I don't,” he said, gravely. “It's quite pleasant. But I think it says, 'Gentlemen, beware!'”
She instantly moved away from him, with the lawless and frank laugh of one who is delighted to be caught in a piece of hypocrisy. “How lovely!” she cried. Then she pointed ahead. “Our walk is nearly over. We're coming to the foolish little house where I live. It's a queer little place, but my father's so attached to it the family have about given up hope of getting him to build a real house farther out. He doesn't mind our being extravagant about anything else, but he won't let us alter one single thing about his precious little old house. Well!” She halted, and gave him her hand. “Adieu!”
“I couldn't,” he began; hesitated, then asked: “I couldn't come in with you for a little while?”
“Not now,” she said, quickly. “You can come——” She paused.
“When?”
“Almost any time.” She turned and walked slowly up the path, but he waited. “You can come in the evening if you like,” she called back to him over her shoulder.
“Soon?”
“As soon as you like!” She waved her hand; then ran indoors and watched him from a window as he went up the street. He walked rapidly, a fine, easy figure, swinging his stick in a way that suggested exhilaration. Alice, staring after him through the irregular apertures of a lace curtain, showed no similar buoyancy. Upon the instant she closed the door all sparkle left her: she had become at once the simple and sometimes troubled girl her family knew.
“What is going on out there?” her mother asked, approaching from the dining-room.
“Oh, nothing,” Alice said, indifferently, as she turned away. “That Mr. Russell met me downtown and walked up with me.”
“Mr. Russell? Oh, the one that's engaged to Mildred?”
“Well—I don't know for certain. He didn't seem so much like an engaged man to me.” And she added, in the tone of thoughtful preoccupation: “Anyhow—not so terribly!”
Then she ran upstairs, gave her father his tobacco, filled his pipe for him, and petted him as he lighted it.
After that, she went to her room and sat down before her three-leaved mirror. There was where she nearly always sat when she came into her room, if she had nothing in mind to do. She went to that chair as naturally as a dog goes to his corner.
She leaned forward, observing her profile; gravity seemed to be her mood. But after a long, almost motionless scrutiny, she began to produce dramatic sketches upon that ever-ready stage, her countenance: she showed gaiety, satire, doubt, gentleness, appreciation of a companion and love-in-hiding—all studied in profile first, then repeated for a “three-quarter view.” Subsequently she ran through them, facing herself in full.
In this manner she outlined a playful scenario for her next interview with Arthur Russell; but grew solemn again, thinking of the impression she had already sought to give him. She had no twinges for any underminings of her “most intimate friend”—in fact, she felt that her work on a new portrait of Mildred for Mr.
Russell had been honest and accurate. But why had it been her instinct to show him an Alice Adams who didn't exist?
Almost everything she had said to him was upon spontaneous impulse, springing to her lips on the instant; yet it all seemed to have been founded upon a careful design, as if some hidden self kept such designs in stock and handed them up to her, ready-made, to be used for its own purpose. What appeared to be the desired result was a false-coloured image in Russell's mind; but if he liked that image he wouldn't be liking Alice Adams; nor would anything he thought about the image be a thought about her.
Nevertheless, she knew she would go on with her false, fancy colourings of this nothing as soon as she saw him again; she had just been practicing them. “What's the idea?” she wondered. “What makes me tell such lies? Why shouldn't I be just myself?” And then she thought, “But which one is myself?”
Her eyes dwelt on the solemn eyes in the mirror; and her lips, disquieted by a deepening wonder, parted to whisper:
“Who in the world are you?”
The apparition before her had obeyed her like an alert slave, but now, as she subsided to a complete stillness, that aspect changed to the old mockery with which mirrors avenge their wrongs. The nucleus of some queer thing seemed to gather and shape itself behind the nothingness of the reflected eyes until it became almost an actual strange presence. If it could be identified, perhaps the presence was that of the hidden designer who handed up the false, ready-made pictures, and, for unknown purposes, made Alice exhibit them; but whatever it was, she suddenly found it monkey-like and terrifying. In a flutter she jumped up and went to another part of the room.
A moment or two later she was whistling softly as she hung her light coat over a wooden triangle in her closet, and her musing now was quainter than the experience that led to it; for what she thought was this, “I certainly am a queer girl!” She took a little pride in so much originality, believing herself probably the only person in the world to have such thoughts as had been hers since she entered the room, and the first to be disturbed by a strange presence in the mirror. In fact, the effect of the tiny episode became apparent in that look of preoccupied complacency to be seen for a time upon any girl who has found reason to suspect that she is a being without counterpart.
This slight glow, still faintly radiant, was observed across the dinner-table by Walter, but he misinterpreted it. “What YOU lookin' so self-satisfied about?” he inquired, and added in his knowing way, “I saw you, all right, cutie!”
“Where'd you see me?”
“Down-town.”
“This afternoon, you mean, Walter?”
“Yes, 'this afternoon, I mean, Walter,'” he returned, burlesquing her voice at least happily enough to please himself; for he laughed applausively. “Oh, you never saw me! I passed you close enough to pull a tooth, but you were awful busy. I never did see anybody as busy as you get, Alice, when you're towin' a barge. My, but you keep your hands goin'! Looked like the air was full of 'em! That's why I'm onto why you look so tickled this evening; I saw you with that big fish.”
Mrs. Adams laughed benevolently; she was not displeased with this rallying. “Well, what of it, Walter?” she asked. “If you happen to see your sister on the street when some nice young man is being attentive to her——”
Walter barked and then cackled. “Whoa, Sal!” he said. “You got the parts mixed. It's little Alice that was 'being attentive.' I know the big fish she was attentive to, all right, too.”
“Yes,” his sister retorted, quietly. “I should think you might have recognized him, Walter.”
Walter looked annoyed. “Still harpin' on THAT!” he complained. “The kind of women I like, if they get sore they just hit you somewhere on the face and then they're through. By the way, I heard this Russell was supposed to be your dear, old, sweet friend Mildred's steady. What you doin' walkin' as close to him as all that?”
Mrs. Adams addressed her son in gentle reproof, “Why Walter!”
“Oh, never mind, mama,” Alice said. “To the horrid all things are horrid.”
“Get out!” Walter protested, carelessly. “I heard all about this Russell down at the shop. Young Joe Lamb's such a talker I wonder he don't ruin his grandfather's business; he keeps all us cheap help standin' round listening to him nine-tenths of our time. Well, Joe told me this Russell's some kin or other to the Palmer family, and he's got some little money of his own, and he's puttin' it into ole Palmer's trust company and Palmer's goin' to make him a vice-president of the company. Sort of a keep-the-money-in-the-family arrangement, Joe Lamb says.”
Mrs. Adams looked thoughtful. “I don't see——” she began.
“Why, this Russell's supposed to be tied up to Mildred,” her son explained. “When ole Palmer dies this Russell will be his son-in-law, and all he'll haf' to do'll be to barely lift his feet and step into the ole man's shoes. It's certainly a mighty fat hand-me-out for this Russell! You better lay off o' there, Alice. Pick somebody that's got less to lose and you'll make better showing.”
Mrs. Adams's air of thoughtfulness had not departed. “But you say this Mr. Russell is well off on his own account, Walter.”
“Oh, Joe Lamb says he's got some little of his own. Didn't know how much.”
“Well, then——”
Walter laughed his laugh. “Cut it out,” he bade her. “Alice wouldn't run in fourth place.”
Alice had been looking at him in a detached way, as though estimating the value of a specimen in a collection not her own. “Yes,” she said, indifferently. “You REALLY are vulgar, Walter.”
He had finished his meal; and, rising, he came round the table to her and patted her good-naturedly on the shoulder. “Good ole Allie!” he said. “HONEST, you wouldn't run in fourth place. If I was you I'd never even start in the class. That frozen-face gang will rule you off the track soon as they see your colours.”
“Walter!” his mother said again.
“Well, ain't I her brother?” he returned, seeming to be entirely serious and direct, for the moment, at least. “Ilike the ole girl all right. Fact is, sometimes I'm kind of sorry for her.”
“But what's it all ABOUT?” Alice cried. “Simply because you met me down-town with a man I never saw but once before and just barely know! Why all this palaver?”
“'Why?'” he repeated, grinning. “Well, I've seen you start before, you know!” He went to the door, and paused. “I got no date to-night. Take you to the movies, you care to go.”
She declined crisply. “No, thanks!”
“Come on,” he said, as pleasantly as he knew how.
“Give me a chance to show you a better time than we had up at that frozen-face joint. I'll get you some chop suey afterward.”
“No, thanks!”
“All right,” he responded and waved a flippant adieu. “As the barber says, 'The better the advice, the worse it's wasted!' Good-night!”
Alice shrugged her shoulders; but a moment or two later, as the jar of the carelessly slammed front door went through the house, she shook her head, reconsidering. “Perhaps I ought to have gone with him. It might have kept him away from whatever dreadful people are his friends—at least for one night.”
“Oh, I'm sure Walter's a GOOD boy,” Mrs. Adams said, soothingly; and this was what she almost always said when either her husband or Alice expressed such misgivings. “He's odd, and he's picked up right queer manners; but that's only because we haven't given him advantages like the other young men. But I'm sure he's a GOOD boy.”
She reverted to the subject a little later, while she washed the dishes and Alice wiped them. “Of course Walter could take his place with the other nice boys of the town even yet,” she said. “I mean, if we could afford to help him financially. They all belong to the country clubs and have cars and——”
“Let's don't go into that any more, mama,” the daughter begged her. “What's the use?”
“It COULD be of use,” Mrs. Adams insisted. “It could if your father——”
“But papa CAN'T.”
“Yes, he can.”
“But how can he? He told me a man of his age CAN'T give up a business he's been in practically all his life, and just go groping about for something that might never turn up at all. I think he's right about it, too, of course!”
Mrs. Adams splashed among the plates with a new vigour heightened by an old bitterness. “Oh, yes,” she said. “He talks that way; but he knows better.”
“How could he 'know better,' mama?”
“HE knows how!”
“But what does he know?”
Mrs. Adams tossed her head. “You don't suppose I'm such a fool I'd be urging him to give up something for nothing, do you, Alice? Do you suppose I'd want him to just go 'groping around' like he was telling you? That would be crazy, of course. Little as his work at Lamb's brings in, I wouldn't be so silly as to ask him to give it up just on a CHANCE he could find something else. Good gracious, Alice, you must give me credit for a little intelligence once in a while!”
Alice was puzzled. “But what else could there be except a chance? I don't see——”
“Well, I do,” her mother interrupted, decisively. “That man could make us all well off right now if he wanted to. We could have been rich long ago if he'd ever really felt as he ought to about his family.”
“What! Why, how could——”
“You know how as well as I do,” Mrs. Adams said, crossly. “I guess you haven't forgotten how he treated me about it the Sunday before he got sick.”
She went on with her work, putting into it a sudden violence inspired by the recollection; but Alice, enlightened, gave utterance to a laugh of lugubrious derision. “Oh, the GLUE factory again!” she cried. “How silly!” And she renewed her laughter.
So often do the great projects of parents appear ignominious to their children. Mrs. Adams's conception of a glue factory as a fairy godmother of this family was an absurd old story which Alice had never taken seriously. She remembered that when she was about fifteen her mother began now and then to say something to Adams about a “glue factory,” rather timidly, and as a vague suggestion, but never without irritating him. Then, for years, the preposterous subject had not been mentioned; possibly because of some explosion on the part of Adams, when his daughter had not been present. But during the last year Mrs. Adams had quietly gone back to these old hints, reviving them at intervals and also reviving her husband's irritation. Alice's bored impression was that her mother wanted him to found, or buy, or do something, or other, about a glue factory; and that he considered the proposal so impracticable as to be insulting. The parental conversations took place when neither Alice nor Walter was at hand, but sometimes Alice had come in upon the conclusion of one, to find her father in a shouting mood, and shocking the air behind him with profane monosyllables as he departed. Mrs. Adams would be left quiet and troubled; and when Alice, sympathizing with the goaded man, inquired of her mother why these tiresome bickerings had been renewed, she always got the brooding and cryptic answer, “He COULD do it—if he wanted to.” Alice failed to comprehend the desirability of a glue factory—to her mind a father engaged in a glue factory lacked impressiveness; had no advantage over a father employed by Lamb and Company; and she supposed that Adams knew better than her mother whether such an enterprise would be profitable or not. Emphatically, he thought it would not, for she had heard him shouting at the end of one of these painful interviews, “You can keep up your dang talk till YOU die andIdie, but I'll never make one God's cent that way!”
There had been a culmination. Returning from church on the Sunday preceding the collapse with which Adams's illness had begun, Alice found her mother downstairs, weeping and intimidated, while her father's stamping footsteps were loudly audible as he strode up and down his room overhead. So were his endless repetitions of invective loudly audible: “That woman! Oh, that woman; Oh, that danged woman!”
Mrs. Adams admitted to her daughter that it was “the old glue factory” and that her husband's wildness had frightened her into a “solemn promise” never to mention the subject again so long as she had breath. Alice laughed. The “glue factory" idea was not only a bore, but ridiculous, and her mother's evident seriousness about it one of those inexplicable vagaries we sometimes discover in the people we know best. But this Sunday rampage appeared to be the end of it, and when Adams came down to dinner, an hour later, he was unusually cheerful. Alice was glad he had gone wild enough to settle the glue factory once and for all; and she had ceased to think of the episode long before Friday of that week, when Adams was brought home in the middle of the afternoon by his old employer, the “great J. A. Lamb,” in the latter's car.
During the long illness the “glue factory” was completely forgotten, by Alice at least; and her laugh was rueful as well as derisive now, in the kitchen, when she realized that her mother's mind again dwelt upon this abandoned nuisance. “I thought you'd got over all that nonsense, mama,” she said.
Mrs. Adams smiled, pathetically. “Of course you think it's nonsense, dearie. Young people think everything's nonsense that they don't know anything about.”
“Good gracious!” Alice cried. “I should think I used to hear enough about that horrible old glue factory to know something about it!”
“No,” her mother returned patiently. “You've never heard anything about it at all.”
“I haven't?”
“No. Your father and I didn't discuss it before you children. All you ever heard was when he'd get in such a rage, after we'd been speaking of it, that he couldn't control himself when you came in. Wasn'tIalways quiet? DidIever go on talking about it?”
“No; perhaps not. But you're talking about it now, mama, after you promised never to mention it again.”
“I promised not to mention it to your father,” said Mrs. Adams, gently. “I haven't mentioned it to him, have I?”
“Ah, but if you mention it to me I'm afraid you WILL mention it to him. You always do speak of things that you have on your mind, and you might get papa all stirred up again about—” Alice paused, a light of divination flickering in her eyes. “Oh!” she cried. “I SEE!”
“What do you see?”
“You HAVE been at him about it!”
“Not one single word!”
“No!” Alice cried. “Not a WORD, but that's what you've meant all along! You haven't spoken the words to him, but all this urging him to change, to 'find something better to go into'—it's all been about nothing on earth but your foolish old glue factory that you know upsets him, and you gave your solemn word never to speak to him about again! You didn't say it, but you meant it—and he KNOWS that's what you meant! Oh, mama!”
Mrs. Adams, with her hands still automatically at work in the flooded dishpan, turned to face her daughter. “Alice,” she said, tremulously, “what do I ask for myself?”
“What?”
“I say, What do I ask for myself? Do you supposeIwant anything? Don't you know I'd be perfectly content on your father's present income if I were the only person to be considered? What do I care about any pleasure for myself? I'd be willing never to have a maid again;Idon't mind doing the work. If we didn't have any children I'd be glad to do your father's cooking and the housework and the washing and ironing, too, for the rest of my life. I wouldn't care. I'm a poor cook and a poor housekeeper; I don't do anything well; but it would be good enough for just him and me. I wouldn't ever utter one word of com——”
“Oh, goodness!” Alice lamented. “What IS it all about?”
“It's about this,” said Mrs. Adams, swallowing. “You and Walter are a new generation and you ought to have the same as the rest of the new generation get. Poor Walter—asking you to go to the movies and a Chinese restaurant: the best he had to offer! Don't you supposeIsee how the poor boy is deteriorating? Don't you suppose I know what YOU have to go through, Alice? And when I think of that man upstairs——” The agitated voice grew louder. “When I think of him and know that nothing in the world but his STUBBORNNESS keeps my children from having all they want and what they OUGHT to have, do you suppose I'm going to hold myself bound to keep to the absolute letter of a silly promise he got from me by behaving like a crazy man? I can't! I can't do it! No mother could sit by and see him lock up a horn of plenty like that in his closet when the children were starving!”
“Oh, goodness, goodness me!” Alice protested. “We aren't precisely 'starving,' are we?”
Mrs. Adams began to weep. “It's just the same. Didn't I see how flushed and pretty you looked, this afternoon, after you'd been walking with this young man that's come here? Do you suppose he'd LOOK at a girl like Mildred Palmer if you had what you ought to have? Do you suppose he'd be going into business with her father if YOUR father——”
“Good heavens, mama; you're worse than Walter: I just barely know the man! DON'T be so absurd!”
“Yes, I'm always 'absurd,'” Mrs. Adams moaned. “All I can do is cry, while your father sits upstairs, and his horn of plenty——”
But Alice interrupted with a peal of desperate laughter. “Oh, that 'horn of plenty!' Do come down to earth, mama. How can you call a GLUE factory, that doesn't exist except in your mind, a 'horn of plenty'? Do let's be a little rational!”
“It COULD be a horn of plenty,” the tearful Mrs. Adams insisted. “It could! You don't understand a thing about it.”
“Well, I'm willing,” Alice said, with tired skepticism. “Make me understand, then. Where'd you ever get the idea?”
Mrs. Adams withdrew her hands from the water, dried them on a towel, and then wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. “Your father could make a fortune if he wanted to,” she said, quietly. “At least, I don't say a fortune, but anyhow a great deal more than he does make.”
“Yes, I've heard that before, mama, and you think he could make it out of a glue factory. What I'm asking is: How?”
“How? Why, by making glue and selling it. Don't you know how bad most glue is when you try to mend anything? A good glue is one of the rarest things there is; and it would just sell itself, once it got started. Well, your father knows how to make as good a glue as there is in the world.”
Alice was not interested. “What of it? I suppose probably anybody could make it if they wanted to.”
“I SAID you didn't know anything about it. Nobody else could make it. Your father knows a formula for making it.”
“What of that?”
“It's a secret formula. It isn't even down on paper. It's worth any amount of money.”
“'Any amount?'” Alice said, remaining incredulous. “Why hasn't papa sold it then?”
“Just because he's too stubborn to do anything with it at all!”
“How did papa get it?”
“He got it before you were born, just after we were married. I didn't think much about it then: it wasn't till you were growing up and I saw how much we needed money that I——”
“Yes, but how did papa get it?” Alice began to feel a little more curious about this possible buried treasure. “Did he invent it?”
“Partly,” Mrs. Adams said, looking somewhat preoccupied. “He and another man invented it.”
“Then maybe the other man——”
“He's dead.”
“Then his family——”
“I don't think he left any family,” Mrs. Adams said. “Anyhow, it belongs to your father. At least it belongs to him as much as it does to any one else. He's got an absolutely perfect right to do anything he wants to with it, and it would make us all comfortable if he'd do what I want him to—and he KNOWS it would, too!”
Alice shook her head pityingly. “Poor mama!” she said. “Of course he knows it wouldn't do anything of the kind, or else he'd have done it long ago.”
“He would, you say?” her mother cried. “That only shows how little you know him!”
“Poor mama!” Alice said again, soothingly. “If papa were like what you say he is, he'd be—why, he'd be crazy!”
Mrs. Adams agreed with a vehemence near passion. “You're right about him for once: that's just what he is! He sits up there in his stubbornness and lets us slave here in the kitchen when if he wanted to—if he'd so much as lift his little finger——”
“Oh, come, now!” Alice laughed. “You can't build even a glue factory with just one little finger.”
Mrs. Adams seemed about to reply that finding fault with a figure of speech was beside the point; but a ringing of the front door bell forestalled the retort. “Now, who do you suppose that is?” she wondered aloud, then her face brightened. “Ah—did Mr. Russell ask if he could——”
“No, he wouldn't be coming this evening,” Alice said. “Probably it's the great J. A. Lamb: he usually stops for a minute on Thursdays to ask how papa's getting along. I'll go.”
She tossed her apron off, and as she went through the house her expression was thoughtful. She was thinking vaguely about the glue factory and wondering if there might be “something in it” after all. If her mother was right about the rich possibilities of Adams's secret—but that was as far as Alice's speculations upon the matter went at this time: they were checked, partly by the thought that her father probably hadn't enough money for such an enterprise, and partly by the fact that she had arrived at the front door.