Alice Adams--Booth Tarkington [104]
"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 good-bye!"
"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 last of all their veranda moments, Alice's broken laughter grew louder. "What a thing to say!" she cried. "What a romantic parting--talking about HATS!"
Her laughter continued as he turned away, but other sounds came from within the house, clearly audible with the opening of a door upstairs--a long and wailing cry of lamentation in the voice of Mrs. Adams. Russell paused at the steps, uncertain, but Alice waved to him to go on.
"Oh, don't bother," she said. "We have lots of that in this funny little old house! Good-bye!"
And as he went down the steps, she ran back into the house and closed the door heavily behind her.
CHAPTER XXIII
Her mother's wailing could still be heard from overhead, though more faintly; and old Charley Lohr was coming down the stairs alone.
He looked at Alice compassionately. "I was just comin' to suggest maybe you'd excuse yourself from your company," he said. "Your mother was bound not to disturb you, and tried her best to keep you from hearin' how she's takin' on, but I thought probably you better see to her."
"Yes, I'll come. What's the matter?"
"Well," he said, "I only stepped over to offer