Alice Adams by Booth Tarkington (ebook reader macos TXT) 📕

But she cut him off sharply: “Please don’t say ‘Not at all’ again!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You do seem sorry about something,” she said. “What is it? Isn’t it time you were telling me what’s the matter?”

“Nothing. Indeed nothing’s the matter. Of course one is rather affected by such weather as this. It may make one a little quieter than usual, of course.”

She sighed, and let the tired muscles of her face rest. Under the hard lights, indoors, they had served her until they ached, and it was a luxury to feel that in the darkness no grimacings need call upon them.

“Of course, if you won’t tell me⁠—” she said.

“I can only assure you there’s nothing to tell.”

“I know what an ugly little house it is,” she said. “Maybe it was the furniture⁠—or mama’s vases that upset you. Or was it mama herself⁠—or papa?”

“Nothing ‘upset’ me.”

At that she uttered a monosyllable of doubting laughter. “I wonder why you say that.”

“Because it’s so.”

“No. It’s because you’re too kind, or too conscientious, or too embarrassed⁠—anyhow too something⁠—to tell me.” She leaned forward, elbows on knees and chin in hands, in the reflective attitude she knew how to make graceful. “I have a feeling that you’re not going to tell me,” she said, slowly. “Yes⁠—even that you’re never going to tell me. I wonder⁠—I wonder⁠—”

“Yes? What do you wonder?”

“I was just thinking⁠—I wonder if they haven’t done it, after all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I wonder,” she went on, still slowly, and in a voice of reflection, “I wonder who has been talking about me to you, after all? Isn’t that it?”

“Not at⁠—” he began, but checked himself and substituted another form of denial. “Nothing is ‘it.’ ”

“Are you sure?”

“Why, yes.”

“How curious!” she said.

“Why?”

“Because all evening you’ve been so utterly different.”

“But in this weather⁠—”

“No. That wouldn’t make you afraid to look at me all evening!”

“But I did look at you. Often.”

“No. Not really a look.”

“But I’m looking at you now.”

“Yes⁠—in the dark!” she said. “No⁠—the weather might make you even quieter than usual, but it wouldn’t strike you so nearly dumb. No⁠—and it wouldn’t make you seem to be under such a strain⁠—as if you thought only of escape!”

“But I haven’t⁠—”

“You shouldn’t,” she interrupted, gently. “There’s nothing you have to escape from, you know. You aren’t committed to⁠—to this friendship.”

“I’m sorry you think⁠—” he began, but did not complete the fragment.

She took it up. “You’re sorry I think you’re so different, you mean to say, don’t you? Never mind: that’s what you did mean to say, but you couldn’t finish it because you’re not good at deceiving.”

“Oh, no,” he protested, feebly. “I’m not deceiving. I’m⁠—”

“Never mind,” she said again. “You’re sorry I think you’re so different⁠—and all in one day⁠—since last night. Yes, your voice sounds sorry, too. It sounds sorrier than it would just because of my thinking something you could change my mind about in a minute so it means you’re sorry you are different.”

“No⁠—I⁠—”

But disregarding the faint denial, “Never mind,” she said. “Do you remember one night when you told me that nothing anybody else could do would ever keep you from coming here? That if you⁠—if you left me it would be because I drove you away myself?”

“Yes,” he said, huskily. “It was true.”

“Are you sure?”

“Indeed I am,” he answered in a low voice, but with conviction.

“Then⁠—” She paused. “Well⁠—but I haven’t driven you away.”

“No.”

“And yet you’ve gone,” she said, quietly.

“Do I seem so stupid as all that?”

“You know what I mean.” She leaned back in her chair again, and her hands, inactive for once, lay motionless in her lap. When she spoke it was in a rueful whisper:

“I wonder if I have driven you away?”

“You’ve done nothing⁠—nothing at all,” he said.

“I wonder⁠—” she said once more, but she stopped. In her mind she was going back over their time together since the first meeting⁠—fragments of talk, moments of silence, little things of no importance, little things that might be important; moonshine, sunshine, starlight; and her thoughts zigzagged among the jumbling memories; but, as if she made for herself a picture of all these fragments, throwing them upon the canvas haphazard, she saw them all just touched with the one tainting quality that gave them coherence, the faint, false haze she had put over this friendship by her own pretendings. And, if this terrible dinner, or anything, or everything, had shown that saffron tint in its true colour to the man at her side, last night almost a lover, then she had indeed of herself driven him away, and might well feel that she was lost.

“Do you know?” she said, suddenly, in a clear, loud voice. “I have the strangest feeling. I feel as if I were going to be with you only about five minutes more in all the rest of my life!”

“Why, no,” he said. “Of course I’m coming to see you⁠—often. I⁠—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I’ve never had a feeling like this before. It’s⁠—it’s just so; that’s all! You’re going⁠—why, you’re never coming here again!” She stood up, abruptly, beginning to tremble all over. “Why, it’s finished, isn’t it?” she said, and her trembling was manifest now in her voice. “Why, it’s all over, isn’t it? Why, yes!”

He had risen as she did. “I’m afraid you’re awfully tired and nervous,” he said. “I really ought to be going.”

“Yes, of course you ought,” she cried, despairingly. “There’s nothing else for you to do. When anything’s spoiled, people can’t do anything but run away from it. So goodbye!”

“At least,” he returned, huskily, “we’ll only⁠—only say good night.”

Then, as moving to go, he stumbled upon the veranda steps, “Your hat!” she cried. “I’d like to keep it for a souvenir, but I’m afraid you need it!”

She ran into the hall and brought his straw hat from the chair where he had left it. “You poor thing!” she said, with quavering laughter. “Don’t you know you can’t go without your hat?”

Then, as they faced each other for the short moment which both of them knew would be the