Alice Adams Booth Tarkington (ebook reader txt) 📖

poor child might see some gleam of hope in her life. You don’t care for her, that’s the trouble; you don’t care a single thing about her.”

“I don’t?”

“No; you don’t. Why, even with your miserable little salary you could have given her more than you have. You’re the closest man I ever knew: it’s like pulling teeth to get a dollar out of you for her, now and then, and yet you hide some away, every month or so, in some wretched little investment or other. You⁠—”

“Look here, now,” he interrupted, angrily. “You look here! If I didn’t put a little by whenever I could, in a bond or something, where would you be if anything happened to me? The insurance doctors never passed me; you know that. Haven’t we got to have something to fall back on?”

“Yes, we have!” she cried. “We ought to have something to go on with right now, too, when we need it. Do you suppose these snippets would treat Alice the way they do if she could afford to entertain? They leave her out of their dinners and dances simply because they know she can’t give any dinners and dances to leave them out of! They know she can’t get even, and that’s the whole story! That’s why Henrietta Lamb’s done this thing to her now.”

Adams had gone back to his rubbing of his knees. “Oh, my, my!” he said. “What thing?”

She told him. “Your dear, grand, old Mister Lamb’s Henrietta has sent out invitations for a large party⁠—a large one. Everybody that is anybody in this town is asked, you can be sure. There’s a very fine young man, a Mr. Russell, has just come to town, and he’s interested in Alice, and he’s asked her to go to this dance with him. Well, Alice can’t accept. She can’t go with him, though she’d give anything in the world to do it. Do you understand? The reason she can’t is because Henrietta Lamb hasn’t invited her. Do you want to know why Henrietta hasn’t invited her? It’s because she knows Alice can’t get even, and because she thinks Alice ought to be snubbed like this on account of only being the daughter of one of her grandfather’s clerks. I hope you understand!”

“Oh, my, my!” he said. “Oh, my, my!”

“That’s your sweet old employer,” his wife cried, tauntingly. “That’s your dear, kind, grand old Mister Lamb! Alice has been left out of a good many smaller things, like big dinners and little dances, but this is just the same as serving her notice that she’s out of everything! And it’s all done by your dear, grand old⁠—”

“Look here!” Adams exclaimed. “I don’t want to hear any more of that! You can’t hold him responsible for everything his grandchildren do, I guess! He probably doesn’t know a thing about it. You don’t suppose he’s troubling his head over⁠—”

But she burst out at him passionately. “Suppose you trouble your head about it! You’d better, Virgil Adams! You’d better, unless you want to see your child just dry up into a miserable old maid! She’s still young and she has a chance for happiness, if she had a father that didn’t bring a millstone to hang around her neck, instead of what he ought to give her! You just wait till you die and God asks you what you had in your breast instead of a heart!”

“Oh, my, my!” he groaned. “What’s my heart got to do with it?”

“Nothing! You haven’t got one or you’d give her what she needed. Am I asking anything you can’t do? You know better; you know I’m not!”

At this he sat suddenly rigid, his troubled hands ceasing to rub his knees; and he looked at her fixedly. “Now, tell me,” he said, slowly. “Just what are you asking?”

“You know!” she sobbed.

“You mean you’ve broken your word never to speak of that to me again?”

“What do I care for my word?” she cried, and, sinking to the floor at his feet, rocked herself back and forth there. “Do you suppose I’ll let my ‘word’ keep me from struggling for a little happiness for my children? It won’t, I tell you; it won’t! I’ll struggle for that till I die! I will, till I die till I die!”

He rubbed his head now instead of his knees, and, shaking all over, he got up and began with uncertain steps to pace the floor.

“Hell, hell, hell!” he said. “I’ve got to go through that again!”

“Yes, you have!” she sobbed. “Till I die.”

“Yes; that’s what you been after all the time I was getting well.”

“Yes, I have, and I’ll keep on till I die!”

“A fine wife for a man,” he said. “Beggin’ a man to be a dirty dog!”

“No! To be a man⁠—and I’ll keep on till I die!”

Adams again fell back upon his last solace: he walked, half staggering, up and down the room, swearing in a rhythmic repetition.

His wife had repetitions of her own, and she kept at them in a voice that rose to a higher and higher pitch, like the sound of an old well-pump. “Till I die! Till I die! Till I die!”

She ended in a scream; and Alice, coming up the stairs, thanked heaven that Russell had gone. She ran to her father’s door and went in.

Adams looked at her, and gesticulated shakily at the convulsive figure on the floor. “Can you get her out of here?”

Alice helped Mrs. Adams to her feet; and the stricken woman threw her arms passionately about her daughter.

“Get her out!” Adams said, harshly; then cried, “Wait!”

Alice, moving toward the door, halted, and looked at him blankly, over her mother’s shoulder. “What is it, papa?”

He stretched out his arm and pointed at her. “She says⁠—she says you have a mean life, Alice.”

“No, papa.”

Mrs. Adams turned in her daughter’s arms. “Do you hear her lie? Couldn’t you be as brave as she is, Virgil?”

“Are you lying, Alice?” he asked. “Do you have a mean time?”

“No, papa.”

He came toward her.