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_ She was indeed "looking forward" to that evening, but in a cloud
of apprehension; and, although she could never have guessed it,
this was the simultaneous condition of another person--none other
than the guest for whose pleasure so much cooking and scrubbing
seemed to be necessary. Moreover, Mr. Arthur Russell's
premonitions were no product of mere coincidence; neither had any
magical sympathy produced them. His state of mind was rather the
result of rougher undercurrents which had all the time been
running beneath the surface of a romantic friendship.
Never shrewder than when she analyzed the gentlemen, Alice did
not libel him when she said he was one of those quiet men who are
a bit flirtatious, by which she meant that he was a bit
"susceptible," the same thing--and he had proved himself
susceptible to Alice upon his first sight of her. "There!" he
said to himself. "Who's that?" And in the crowd of girls at his
cousin's dance, all strangers to him, she was the one he wanted
to know.
Since then, his summer evenings with her had been as secluded as
if, for three hours after the falling of dusk, they two had drawn
apart from the world to some dear bower of their own. The little
veranda was that glamorous nook, with a faint golden light
falling through the glass of the closed door upon Alice, and
darkness elsewhere, except for the one round globe of the street
lamp at the corner. The people who passed along the sidewalk,
now and then, were only shadows with voices, moving vaguely under
the maple trees that loomed in obscure contours against the
stars. So, as the two sat together, the back of the world was
the wall and closed door behind them; and Russell, when he was
away from Alice, always thought of her as sitting there before
the closed door. A glamour was about her thus, and a spell upon
him; but he had a formless anxiety never put into words: all the
pictures of her in his mind stopped at the closed door.
He had another anxiety; and, for the greater part, this was of
her own creating. She had too often asked him (no matter how
gaily) what he heard about her, too often begged him not to hear
anything. Then, hoping to forestall whatever he might hear, she
had been at too great pains to account for it, to discredit and
mock it; and, though he laughed at her for this, telling her
truthfully he did not even hear her mentioned, the everlasting
irony that deals with all such human forefendings prevailed.
Lately, he had half confessed to her what a nervousness she had
produced. "You make me dread the day when I'll hear somebody
speaking of you. You're getting me so upset about it that if I
ever hear anybody so much as say the name 'Alice Adams,' I'll
run!" The confession was but half of one because he laughed; and
she took it for an assurance of loyalty in the form of burlesque.
She misunderstood: he laughed, but his nervousness was genuine.
After any stroke of events, whether a happy one or a catastrophe,
we see that the materials for it were a long time gathering, and
the only marvel is that the stroke was not prophesied. What bore
the air of fatal coincidence may remain fatal indeed, to this
later view; but, with the haphazard aspect dispelled, there is
left for scrutiny the same ancient hint from the Infinite to the
effect that since events have never yet failed to be law-abiding,
perhaps it were well for us to deduce that they will continue to
be so until further notice.
. . . On the day that was to open the closed door in the
background of his pictures of Alice, Russell lunched with his
relatives. There were but the four people, Russell and Mildred
and her mother and father, in the great, cool dining-room.
Arched French windows, shaded by awnings, admitted a mellow light
and looked out upon a green lawn ending in a long conservatory,
which revealed through its glass panes a carnival of plants in
luxuriant blossom. From his seat at the table, Russell glanced
out at this pretty display, and informed his cousins that he was
surprised. "You have such a glorious spread of flowers all over
the house," he said, "I didn't suppose you'd have any left out
yonder. In fact, I didn't know there were so many splendid
flowers in the world."
Mrs. Palmer, large, calm, fair, like her daughter, responded
with a mild reproach: "That's because you haven't been cousinly
enough to get used to them, Arthur. You've almost taught us to
forget what you look like."
In defense Russell waved a hand toward her husband. "You see,
he's begun to keep me so hard at work----"
But Mr. Palmer declined the responsibility. "Up to four or five
in the afternoon, perhaps," he said. "After that, the young
gentleman is as much a stranger to me as he is to my family.
I've been wondering who she could be."
"When a man's preoccupied there must be a lady then?" Russell
inquired.
"That seems to be the view of your sex," Mrs; Palmer suggested.
"It was my husband who said it, not Mildred or I."
Mildred smiled faintly. "Papa may be singular in his ideas; they
may come entirely from his own experience, and have nothing to do
with Arthur."
"Thank you, Mildred," her cousin said, bowing to her gratefully.
"You seem to understand my character--and your father's quite as
well!"
However, Mildred remained grave in the face of this customary
pleasantry, not because the old jest, worn round, like what
preceded it, rolled in an old groove, but because of some
preoccupation of her own. Her faint smile had disappeared, and,
as her cousin's glance met hers, she looked down; yet not before
he had seen in her eyes the flicker of something like a
question--a question both poignant and dismayed. He may have
understood it; for his own smile vanished at once in favour of a
reciprocal solemnity.
"You see, Arthur," Mrs. Palmer said, "Mildred is always a good
cousin. She and I stand by you, even if you do stay away from us
for weeks and weeks." Then, observing that he appeared to be so
occupied with a bunch of iced grapes upon his plate that he had
not heard her, she began to talk to her husband, asking him what
was "going on down-town."
Arthur continued to eat his grapes, but he ventured to look again
at Mildred after a few moments. She, also, appeared to be
occupied with a bunch of grapes though she ate none, and only
pulled them from their stems. She sat straight, her features as
composed and pure as those of a new marble saint in a cathedral
niche; yet her downcast eyes seemed to conceal many thoughts; and
her cousin, against his will, was more aware of what these
thoughts might be than of the leisurely conversation between her
father and mother. All at once, however, he heard something that
startled him, and he listened--and here was the effect of all
Alice's forefendings; he listened from the first with a sinking
heart.
Mr. Palmer, mildly amused by what he was telling his wife, had
just spoken the words, "this Virgil Adams." What he had said
was, "this Virgil Adams --that's the man's name. Queer case."
"Who told you?" Mrs. Palmer inquired, not much interested.
"Alfred Lamb," her husband answered. "He was laughing about his
father, at the club. You see the old gentleman takes a great
pride in his judgment of men, and always boasted to his sons that
he'd never in his life made a mistake in trusting the wrong man.
Now Alfred and James Albert, Junior, think they have a great joke
on him; and they've twitted him so much about it he'll scarcely
speak to them. From the first, Alfred says, the old chap's only
repartee was, 'You wait and you'll see!' And they've asked him so
often to show them what they're going to see that he won't say
anything at all!"
"He's a funny old fellow," Mrs. Palmer observed. "But he's so
shrewd I can't imagine his being deceived for such a long time.
Twenty years, you said?"
"Yes, longer than that, I understand. It appears when this
man--this Adams--was a young clerk, the old gentleman trusted him
with one of his business secrets, a glue process that Mr. Lamb
had spent some money to get hold of. The old chap thought this
Adams was going to have quite a future with the Lamb concern, and
of course never dreamed he was dishonest. Alfred says this Adams
hasn't been of any real use for years, and they should have let
him go as dead wood, but the old gentleman wouldn't hear of it,
and insisted on his being kept on the payroll; so they just
decided to look on it as a sort of pension. Well, one morning
last March the man had an attack of some sort down there, and Mr.
Lamb got his own car out and went home with him, himself, and
worried about him and went to see him no end, all the time he was
ill."
"He would," Mrs. Palmer said, approvingly. "He's a kind-hearted
creature, that old man."
Her husband laughed. "Alfred says he thinks his kind-heartedness
is about cured! It seems that as soon as the man got well again
he deliberately walked off with the old gentleman's glue secret.
Just calmly stole it! Alfred says he believes that if he had a
stroke in the office now, himself, his father wouldn't lift a
finger to help him!"
Mrs. Palmer repeated the name to herself thoughtfully.
"'Adams'--'Virgil Adams.' You said his name was Virgil Adams?"
"Yes."
She looked at her daughter. "Why, you know who that is,
Mildred," she said, casually. "It's that Alice Adams's father,
isn't it? Wasn't his name Virgil Adams?"
"I think it is," Mildred said.
Mrs. Palmer turned toward her husband. "You've seen this Alice
Adams here. Mr. Lamb's pet swindler must be her father."
Mr. Palmer passed a smooth hand over his neat gray hair, which
was not disturbed by this effort to stimulate recollection. "Oh,
yes," he said. "Of course--certainly. Quite a good-looking
girl--one of Mildred's friends. How queer!"
Mildred looked up, as if in a little alarm, but did not speak.
Her mother set matters straight. "Fathers ARE amusing," she said
smilingly to Russell, who was looking at her, though how fixedly
she did not notice; for she turned from him at once to enlighten
her husband. "Every girl who meets Mildred, and tries to push
the acquaintance by coming here until the poor child has to hide,
isn't a FRIEND of hers, my dear!"
Mildred's eyes were downcast again, and a faint colour rose in
her cheeks. "Oh, I shouldn't put it quite that way about Alice
Adams," she said, in a low voice. "I saw something of her for a
time. She's not unattractive in a way."
Mrs. Palmer settled the whole case of Alice carelessly. "A
pushing sort of girl," she said. "A very pushing little person."
"I----" Mildred began; and, after hesitating, concluded, "I
rather dropped her."
"Fortunate you've done so," her father remarked, cheerfully.
"Especially since various members of the Lamb connection are here
frequently. They mightn't think you'd show great tact in having
her about the place." He laughed, and turned to his cousin.
"All this isn't very interesting to poor Arthur. How terrible
people are with a newcomer in a town; they talk as if he knew all
about everybody!"
"But we don't know anything about these queer people, ourselves,"
said Mrs. Palmer. "We know something about the girl, of
course--she used to be a bit too conspicuous, in fact! However,
as you say, we might find a subject more interesting for Arthur."
She smiled whimsically upon the young man. "Tell the truth," she
said. "Don't you fairly detest going into business with that
tyrant yonder?"
"What? Yes--I beg your pardon!" he stammered.
"You were right," Mrs. Palmer said to her husband. "You've
bored him so, talking about thievish clerks, he can't even answer
an honest question."
But Russell was beginning to recover his outward composure. "Try
me again," he said. "I'm afraid I was thinking of something
else."
This was the best he found to say. There was a part of him that
wanted to protest and deny, but he had not heat enough, in the
chill that had come upon him. Here was the first "mention" of
Alice, and with it the reason why it was the first: Mr. Palmer
had difficulty in recalling her, and she happened to be spoken
of, only because her father's betrayal of a benefactor's trust
had been so peculiarly atrocious that, in the view of the
benefactor's family, it contained enough of the element of humour
to warrant a mild laugh at a club. There was the deadliness of
the story: its lack of malice, even of resentment. Deadlier
still were Mrs. Palmer's phrases: "a pushing sort of girl," "a
very pushing little person," and "used to be a bit TOO
conspicuous, in fact." But she spoke placidly and by chance;
being as obviously without unkindly motive as Mr. Palmer was
when he related the cause of Alfred Lamb's amusement. Her
opinion of the obscure young lady momentarily her topic had been
expressed, moreover, to her husband, and at her own table. She
sat there, large, kind, serene--a protest might astonish but
could not change her; and Russell, crumpling in his strained
fingers the lace-edged little web of a napkin on his knee, found
heart enough to grow red, but not enough to challenge her.
She noticed his colour, and attributed it to the embarrassment of
a scrupulously gallant gentleman caught in a lapse of attention
to a lady. "Don't be disturbed," she said, benevolently.
"People aren't expected to listen all the time to their
relatives. A high colour's very becoming to you, Arthur; but it
really isn't necessary between cousins. You can always be
informal enough with us to listen only when you care to."
His complexion continued to be ruddier than usual, however,
throughout the meal, and was still somewhat tinted when Mrs.
Palmer rose. "The man's bringing you cigarettes here," she said,
nodding to the two gentlemen. "We'll give you a chance to do the
sordid kind of talking we know you really like. Afterwhile,
Mildred will show you what's in bloom in the hothouse, if you
wish, Arthur."
Mildred followed her, and, when they were alone in another of the
spacious rooms, went to a window and looked out, while her mother
seated herself near the center of the room in a gilt armchair,
mellowed with old Aubusson tapestry. Mrs. Palmer looked
thoughtfully at her daughter's back, but did not speak to her
until coffee had been brought for them.
"Thanks," Mildred said, not turning, "I don't care for any
coffee, I believe."
"No?" Mrs. Palmer said, gently. "I'm afraid our good-looking
cousin won't think you're very talkative, Mildred. You spoke
only about twice at lunch. I shouldn't care for him to get the
idea you're piqued because he's come here so little lately,
should you?"
"No, I shouldn't," Mildred answered in a low voice, and with that
she turned quickly, and came to sit near her mother. "But it's
what I am afraid of! Mama, did you notice how red he got?"
"You mean when he was caught not listening to a question of mine?
Yes; it's very becoming to him."
"Mama, I don't think that was the reason. I don't think it was
because he wasn't listening, I mean."
"No?"
"I think his colour and his not listening came from the same
reason," Mildred said, and although she had come to sit near her
mother, she did not look at her. "I think it happened because
you and papa----" She stopped.
"Yes?" Mrs. Palmer said, good-naturedly, to prompt her. "Your
father and I did something embarrassing?"
"Mama, it was because of those things that came out about Alice
Adams."
"How could that bother Arthur? Does he know her?"
"Don't you remember?" the daughter asked. "The day after my
dance I mentioned how odd I thought it was in him--I was a little
disappointed in him. I'd been seeing that he met everybody, of
course, but she was the only girl HE asked to meet; and he did it
as soon as he noticed her. I hadn't meant to have him meet
her--in fact, I was rather sorry I'd felt I had to ask her,
because she oh, well, she's the sort that 'tries for the new
man,' if she has half a chance; and sometimes they seem quite
fascinated --for a time, that is. I thought Arthur was above all
that; or at the very least I gave him credit for being too
sophisticated."
"I see," Mrs. Palmer said, thoughtfully. "I remember now that
you spoke of it. You said it seemed a little peculiar, but of
course it really wasn't: a 'new man' has nothing to go by, except
his own first impressions. You can't blame poor Arthur--she's
quite a piquant looking little person. You think he's seen
something of her since then?"
Mildred nodded slowly. "I never dreamed such a thing till
yesterday, and even then I rather doubted it--till he got so red,
just now! I was surprised when he asked to meet her, but he just
danced with her once and didn't mention her afterward; I forgot
all about it--in fact, I virtually forgot all about HER. I'd
seen quite a little of her----"
"Yes," said Mrs. Palmer. "She did keep coming here!"
"But I'd just about decided that it really wouldn't do," Mildred
went on. "She isn't--well, I didn't admire her."
"No," her mother assented, and evidently followed a direct
connection of thought in a speech apparently irrelevant. "I
understand the young Malone wants to marry Henrietta. I hope she
won't; he seems rather a gross type of person."
"Oh, he's just one," Mildred said. "I don't know that he and
Alice Adams were ever engaged--she never told me so. She may not
have been engaged to any of them; she was just enough among the
other girls to get talked about--and one of the reasons I felt a
little inclined to be nice to her was that they seemed to be
rather edging her out of the circle. It wasn't long before I saw
they were right, though. I happened to mention I was going to
give a dance and she pretended to take it as a matter of course
that I meant to invite her brother--at least, I thought she
pretended; she may have really believed it. At any rate, I had
to send him a card; but I didn't intend to be let in for that
sort of thing again, of course. She's what you said, 'pushing';
though I'm awfully sorry you said it."
"Why shouldn't I have said it, my dear?"
"Of course I didn't say 'shouldn't.' " Mildred explained,
gravely. "I meant only that I'm sorry it happened."
"Yes; but why?"
"Mama"--Mildred turned to her, leaning forward and speaking in a
lowered voice--"Mama, at first the change was so little it seemed
as if Arthur hardly knew it himself. He'd been lovely to me
always, and he was still lovely to me but--oh, well, you've
understood--after my dance it was more as if it was just his
nature and his training to be lovely to me, as he would be to
everyone a kind of politeness. He'd never said he CARED for me,
but after that I could see he didn't. It was clear--after that.
I didn't know what had happened; I couldn't think of anything I'd
done. Mama--it was Alice Adams."
Mrs. Palmer set her little coffee-cup upon the table beside her,
calmly following her own motion with her eyes, and not seeming to
realize with what serious entreaty her daughter's gaze was fixed
upon her. Mildred repeated the last sentence of her revelation,
and introduced a stress of insistence.
"Mama, it WAS Alice Adams!"
But Mrs. Palmer declined to be greatly impressed, so far as her
appearance went, at least; and to emphasize her refusal, she
smiled indulgently. "What makes you think so?"
"Henrietta told me yesterday."
At this Mrs. Palmer permitted herself to laugh softly aloud.
"Good heavens! Is Henrietta a soothsayer? Or is she Arthur's
particular confidante?"
"No. Ella Dowling told her."
Mrs. Palmer's laughter continued. "Now we have it!" she
exclaimed. "It's a game of gossip: Arthur tells Ella, Ella tells
Henrietta, and Henrietta tells----"
"Don't laugh, please, mama," Mildred begged. "Of course Arthur
didn't tell anybody. It's roundabout enough, but it's true. I
know it! I hadn't quite believed it, but I knew it was true when
he got so red. He looked--oh, for a second or so he looked
--stricken! He thought I didn't notice it. Mama, he's been to
see her almost every evening lately. They take long walks
together. That's why he hasn't been here."
Of Mrs. Palmer's laughter there was left only her indulgent
smile, which she had not allowed to vanish. "Well, what of it?"
she said.
"Mama!"
"Yes," said Mrs. Palmer. "What of it?"
"But don't you see?" Mildred's well-tutored voice, though
modulated and repressed even in her present emotion, nevertheless
had a tendency to quaver. "It's true. Frank Dowling was going
to see her one evening and he saw Arthur sitting on the stoop
with her, and didn't go in. And Ella used to go to school with a
girl who lives across the street from here. She told Ella----"
"Oh, I understand," Mrs. Palmer interrupted. "Suppose he does
go there. My dear, I said, 'What of it?'"
"I don't see what you mean, mama. I'm so afraid he might think
we knew about it, and that you and papa said those things about
her and her father on that account--as if we abused them because
he goes there instead of coming here."
"Nonsense!" Mrs. Palmer rose, went to a window, and, turning
there, stood with her back to it, facing her daughter and looking
at her cheerfully. "Nonsense, my dear! It was perfectly clear
that she was mentioned by accident, and so was her father. What
an extraordinary man! If Arthur makes friends with people like
that, he certainly knows better than to expect to hear favourable
opinions of them. Besides, it's only a little passing thing with
him."
"Mama! When he goes there almost every----"
"Yes," Mrs. Palmer said, dryly. "It seems to me I've heard
somewhere that other young men have gone there 'almost every!'
She doesn't last, apparently. Arthur's gallant, and he's
impressionable-- but he's fastidious, and fastidiousness is
always the check on impressionableness. A girl belongs to her
family, too--and this one does especially, it strikes me!
Arthur's very sensible; he sees more than you'd think."
Mildred looked at her hopefully. "Then you don't believe he's
likely to imagine we said those things of her in any meaning
way?"
At this, Mrs. Palmer laughed again. "There's one thing you seem
not to have noticed, Mildred."
"What's that?"
"It seems to have escaped your attention that he never said a
word."
"Mightn't that mean----?" Mildred began, but she stopped.
"No, it mightn't," her mother replied, comprehending easily. "On
the contrary, it might mean that instead of his feeling it too
deeply to speak, he was getting a little illumination."
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. _
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