“Isn't it the most BEAUTIFUL evening!” the daughter said. “WHY can't summer last all year? Did you ever know a lovelier twilight1 than this, mama?”
Mrs. Adams laughed, and answered, “Not since I was your age, I expect.”
Alice was wistful at once. “Don't they stay beautiful after my age?”
“Well, it's not the same thing.”
“Isn't it? Not ever?”
“You may have a different kind from mine,” the mother said, a little sadly. “I think you will, Alice. You deserve——”
“No, I don't. I don't deserve anything, and I know it. But I'm getting a great deal these days—more than I ever dreamed COULD come to me. I'm—I'm pretty happy, mama!”
“Dearie!” Her mother would have kissed her, but Alice drew away.
“Oh, I don't mean——” She laughed nervously2. “I wasn't meaning to tell you I'm ENGAGED, mama. We're not. I mean—oh! things seem pretty beautiful in spite of all I've done to spoil 'em.”
“You?” Mrs. Adams cried, incredulously. “What have you done to spoil anything?”
“Little things,” Alice said. “A thousand little silly—oh, what's the use? He's so honestly what he is—just simple and good and intelligent—I feel a tricky3 mess beside him! I don't see why he likes me; and sometimes I'm afraid he wouldn't if he knew me.”
“He'd just worship you,” said the fond mother. “And the more he knew you, the more he'd worship you.”
Alice shook her head. “He's not the worshiping kind. Not like that at all. He's more——”
But Mrs. Adams was not interested in this analysis, and she interrupted briskly, “Of course it's time your father and I showed some interest in him. I was just saying I actually don't believe he's ever been inside the house.”
“No,” Alice said, musingly4; “that's true: I don't believe he has. Except when we've walked in the evening we've always sat out here, even those two times when it was drizzly5. It's so much nicer.”
“We'll have to do SOMETHING or other, of course,” her mother said.
“What like?”
“I was thinking——” Mrs. Adams paused. “Well, of course we could hardly put off asking him to dinner, or something, much longer.”
Alice was not enthusiastic; so far from it, indeed, that there was a melancholy6 alarm in her voice. “Oh, mama, must we? Do you think so?”
“Yes, I do. I really do.”
“Couldn't we—well, couldn't we wait?”
“It looks queer,” Mrs. Adams said. “It isn't the thing at all for a young man to come as much as he does, and never more than just barely meet your father and mother. No. We ought to do something.”
“But a dinner!” Alice objected. “In the first place, there isn't anybody I want to ask. There isn't anybody I WOULD ask.”
“I didn't mean trying to give a big dinner,” her mother explained. “I just mean having him to dinner. That mulatto woman, Malena Burns, goes out by the day, and she could bring a waitress. We can get some flowers for the table and some to put in the living-room. We might just as well go ahead and do it to-morrow as any other time; because your father's in a fine mood, and I saw Malena this afternoon and told her I might want her soon. She said she didn't have any engagements this week, and I can let her know to-night. Suppose when he comes you ask him for to-morrow, Alice. Everything'll be very nice, I'm sure. Don't worry about it.”
“Well—but——” Alice was uncertain.
“But don't you see, it looks so queer, not to do SOMETHING?” her mother urged. “It looks so kind of poverty-stricken. We really oughtn't to wait any longer.”
Alice assented7, though not with a good heart. “Very well, I'll ask him, if you think we've got to.”
“That matter's settled then,” Mrs. Adams said. “I'll go telephone Malena, and then I'll tell your father about it.”
But when she went back to her husband, she found him in an excited state of mind, and Walter standing8 before him in the darkness. Adams was almost shouting, so great was his vehemence9.
“Hush10, hush!” his wife implored11, as she came near them. “They'll hear you out on the front porch!”
“I don't care who hears me,” Adams said, harshly, though he tempered his loudness. “Do you want to know what this boy's asking me for? I thought he'd maybe come to tell me he'd got a little sense in his head at last, and a little decency12 about what's due his family! I thought he was going to ask me to take him into my plant. No, ma'am; THAT'S not what he wants!”
“No, it isn't,” Walter said. In the darkness his face could not be seen; he stood motionless, in what seemed an apathetic13 attitude; and he spoke14 quietly, “No,” he repeated. “That isn't what I want.”
“You stay down at that place,” Adams went on, hotly, “instead of trying to be a little use to your family; and the only reason you're ALLOWED to stay there is because Mr. Lamb's never happened to notice you ARE still there! You just wait——”
“You're off,” Walter said, in the same quiet way. “He knows I'm there. He spoke to me yesterday: he asked me how I was getting along with my work.”
“He did?” Adams said, seeming not to believe him.
“Yes. He did.”
“What else did he say, Walter?” Mrs. Adams asked quickly.
“Nothin'. Just walked on.”
“I don't believe he knew who you were,” Adams declared.
“Think not? He called me 'Walter Adams.'”
At this Adams was silent; and Walter, after waiting a moment, said:
“Well, are you going to do anything about me? About what I told you I got to have?”
“What is it, Walter?” his mother asked, since Adams did not speak.
Walter cleared his throat, and replied in a tone as quiet as that he had used before, though with a slight huskiness, “I got to have three hundred and fifty dollars. You better get him to give it to me if you can.”
Adams found his voice. “Yes,” he said, bitterly. “That's all he asks! He won't do anything I ask HIM to, and in return he asks me for three hundred and fifty dollars! That's all!”
“What in the world!” Mrs. Adams exclaimed. “What FOR, Walter?”
“I got to have it,” Walter said.
“But what FOR?”
His quiet huskiness did not alter. “I got to have it.”
“But can't you tell us——”
“I got to have it.”
“That's all you can get out of him,” Adams said. “He seems to think it'll bring him in three hundred and fifty dollars!”
A faint tremulousness became evident in the husky voice. “Haven't you got it?”
“NO, I haven't got it!” his father answered. “And I've got to go to a bank for more than my pay-roll next week. Do you think I'm a mint?”
“I don't understand what you mean, Walter,” Mrs. Adams interposed, perplexed15 and distressed16. “If your father had the money, of course he'd need every cent of it, especially just now, and, anyhow, you could scarcely expect him to give it to you, unless you told us what you want with it. But he hasn't got it.”
“All right,” Walter said; and after standing a moment more, in silence, he added, impersonally17, “I don't see as you ever did anything much for me, anyhow either of you.”
Then, as if this were his valedictory18, he turned his back upon them, walked away quickly, and was at once lost to their sight in the darkness.
“There's a fine boy to've had the trouble of raising!” Adams grumbled19. “Just crazy, that's all.”
“What in the world do you suppose he wants all that money for?” his wife said, wonderingly. “I can't imagine what he could DO with it. I wonder——” She paused. “I wonder if he——”
“If he what?” Adams prompted her irritably20.
“If he COULD have bad—associates.”
“God knows!” said Adams. “I don't! It just looks to me like he had something in him I don't understand. You can't keep your eye on a boy all the time in a city this size, not a boy Walter's age. You got a girl pretty much in the house, but a boy'll follow his nature. I don't know what to do with him!”
Mrs. Adams brightened a little. “He'll come out all right,” she said. “I'm sure he will. I'm sure he'd never be anything really bad: and he'll come around all right about the glue-works, too; you'll see. Of course every young man wants money—it doesn't prove he's doing anything wrong just because he asks you for it.”
“No. All it proves to me is that he hasn't got good sense asking me for three hundred and fifty dollars, when he knows as well as you do the position I'm in! If I wanted to, I couldn't hardly let him have three hundred and fifty cents, let alone dollars!”
“I'm afraid you'll have to let ME have that much—and maybe a little more,” she ventured, timidly; and she told him of her plans for the morrow. He objected vehemently21.
“Oh, but Alice has probably asked him by this time,” Mrs. Adams said. “It really must be done, Virgil: you don't want him to think she's ashamed of us, do you?”
“Well, go ahead, but just let me stay away,” he begged. “Of course I expect to undergo a kind of talk with him, when he gets ready to say something to us about Alice, but I do hate to have to sit through a fashionable dinner.”
“Why, it isn't going to bother you,” she said; “just one young man as a guest.”
“Yes, I know; but you want to have all this fancy cookin'; and I see well enough you're going to get that old dress suit out of the cedar22 chest in the attic
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading
