Alice Adams

rs. Adams had remained in Alice's room, but her mood seemed to have
changed, during her daughter's little more than momentary absence.

“What did he SAY?” she asked, quickly, and her tone was hopeful.

“'Say?'” Alice repeated, impatiently. “Why, nothing. I didn't let him.
Really, mama, I think the best thing for you to do would be to just keep
out of his room, because I don't believe you can go in there and not
talk to him about it, and if you do talk we'll never get him to do the
right thing. Never!”

The mother's response was a grieving silence; she turned from her
daughter and walked to the door.

“Now, for goodness' sake!” Alice cried. “Don't go making tragedy out of
my offering you a little practical advice!”

“I'm not,” Mrs. Adams gulped, halting. “I'm just--just going to dust the
downstairs, Alice.” And with her face still averted, she went out into
the little hallway, closing the door behind her. A moment later she
could be heard descending the stairs, the sound of her footsteps
carrying somehow an effect of resignation.

Alice listened, sighed, and, breathing the words, “Oh, murder!” turned
to cheerier matters. She put on a little apple-green turban with a dim
gold band round it, and then, having shrouded the turban in a white
veil, which she kept pushed up above her forehead, she got herself into
a tan coat of soft cloth fashioned with rakish severity. After that,
having studied herself gravely in a long glass, she took from one of
the drawers of her dressing-table a black leather card-case cornered in
silver filigree, but found it empty.

She opened another drawer wherein were two white pasteboard boxes of
cards, the one set showing simply “Miss Adams,” the other engraved in
Gothic characters, “Miss Alys Tuttle Adams.” The latter belonged to
Alice's “Alys” period--most girls go through it; and Alice must have
felt that she had graduated, for, after frowning thoughtfully at the
exhibit this morning, she took the box with its contents, and let the
white shower fall from her fingers into the waste-basket beside her
small desk. She replenished the card-case from the “Miss Adams”
box; then, having found a pair of fresh white gloves, she tucked an
ivory-topped Malacca walking-stick under her arm and set forth.

She went down the stairs, buttoning her gloves and still wearing
the frown with which she had put “Alys” finally out of her life. She
descended slowly, and paused on the lowest step, looking about her with
an expression that needed but a slight deepening to betoken bitterness.
Its connection with her dropping “Alys” forever was slight, however.

The small frame house, about fifteen years old, was already inclining
to become a new Colonial relic. The Adamses had built it, moving into it
from the “Queen Anne” house they had rented until they took this step in
fashion. But fifteen years is a long time to stand still in the midland
country, even for a house, and this one was lightly made, though the
Adamses had not realized how flimsily until they had lived in it for
some time. “Solid, compact, and convenient” were the instructions to the
architect, and he had made it compact successfully. Alice, pausing
at the foot of the stairway, was at the same time fairly in the
“living-room,” for the only separation between the “living room” and the
hall was a demarcation suggested to willing imaginations by a pair of
wooden columns painted white. These columns, pine under the paint,
were bruised and chipped at the base; one of them showed a crack that
threatened to become a split; the “hard-wood” floor had become uneven;
and in a corner the walls apparently failed of solidity, where the
wall-paper had declined to accompany some staggerings of the plaster
beneath it.

The furniture was in great part an accumulation begun with the wedding
gifts; though some of it was older, two large patent rocking-chairs and
a footstool having belonged to Mrs. Adams's mother in the days of hard
brown plush and veneer. For decoration there were pictures and vases.
Mrs. Adams had always been fond of vases, she said, and every year
her husband's Christmas present to her was a vase of one sort or
another--whatever the clerk showed him, marked at about twelve or
fourteen dollars. The pictures were some of them etchings framed in
gilt: Rheims, Canterbury, schooners grouped against a wharf; and Alice
could remember how, in her childhood, her father sometimes pointed out
the watery reflections in this last as very fine. But it was a long time
since he had shown interest in such things--“or in anything much,” as
she thought.

Other pictures were two water-colours in baroque frames; one being the
Amalfi monk on a pergola wall, while the second was a yard-wide display
of iris blossoms, painted by Alice herself at fourteen, as a birthday
gift to her mother. Alice's glance paused upon it now with no great
pride, but showed more approval of an enormous photograph of the
Colosseum. This she thought of as “the only good thing in the room”;
it possessed and bestowed distinction, she felt; and she did not regret
having won her struggle to get it hung in its conspicuous place of
honour over the mantelpiece. Formerly that place had been held for
years by a steel-engraving, an accurate representation of the Suspension
Bridge at Niagara Falls. It was almost as large as its successor, the
“Colosseum,” and it had been presented to Mr. Adams by colleagues in
his department at Lamb and Company's. Adams had shown some feeling when
Alice began to urge its removal to obscurity in the “upstairs hall”; he
even resisted for several days after she had the “Colosseum” charged
to him, framed in oak, and sent to the house. She cheered him up, of
course, when he gave way; and her heart never misgave her that there
might be a doubt which of the two pictures was the more dismaying.

Over the pictures, the vases, the old brown plush rocking-chairs and
the stool, over the three gilt chairs, over the new chintz-covered easy
chair and the gray velure sofa--over everything everywhere, was the
familiar coating of smoke grime. It had worked into every fibre of
the lace curtains, dingying them to an unpleasant gray; it lay on
the window-sills and it dimmed the glass panes; it covered the walls,
covered the ceiling, and was smeared darker and thicker in all corners.
Yet here was no fault of housewifery; the curse could not be lifted, as
the ingrained smudges permanent on the once white woodwork proved. The
grime was perpetually renewed; scrubbing only ground it in.

This particular ugliness was small part of Alice's discontent, for
though the coating grew a little deeper each year she was used to it.
Moreover, she knew that she was not likely to find anything better in
a thousand miles, so long as she kept to cities, and that none of
her friends, however opulent, had any advantage of her here. Indeed,
throughout all the great soft-coal country, people who consider
themselves comparatively poor may find this consolation: cleanliness has
been added to the virtues and beatitudes that money can not buy.

Alice brightened a little as she went forward to the front door, and
she brightened more when the spring breeze met her there. Then all
depression left her as she walked down the short brick path to the
sidewalk, looked up and down the street, and saw how bravely the maple
shade-trees, in spite of the black powder they breathed, were flinging
out their thousands of young green particles overhead.

She turned north, treading the new little shadows on the pavement
briskly, and, having finished buttoning her gloves, swung down her
Malacca stick from under her arm to let it tap a more leisurely
accompaniment to her quick, short step. She had to step quickly if she
was to get anywhere; for the closeness of her skirt, in spite of its
little length, permitted no natural stride; but she was pleased to be
impeded, these brevities forming part of her show of fashion.

Other pedestrians found them not without charm, though approval may have
been lacking here and there, and at the first crossing Alice suffered
what she might have accounted an actual injury, had she allowed herself
to be so sensitive. An elderly woman in fussy black silk stood there,
waiting for a streetcar; she was all of a globular modelling, with
a face patterned like a frost-bitten peach; and that the approaching
gracefulness was uncongenial she naively made too evident. Her round,
wan eyes seemed roused to bitter life as they rose from the curved high
heels of the buckled slippers to the tight little skirt, and thence with
startled ferocity to the Malacca cane, which plainly appeared to her as
a decoration not more astounding than it was insulting.

Perceiving that the girl was bowing to her, the globular lady hurriedly
made shift to alter her injurious expression. “Good morning, Mrs.
Dowling,” Alice said, gravely. Mrs. Dowling returned the salutation with
a smile as convincingly benevolent as the ghastly smile upon a Santa
Claus face; and then, while Alice passed on, exploded toward her a
single compacted breath through tightened lips.

The sound was eloquently audible, though Mrs. Dowling remained unaware
that in this or any manner whatever she had shed a light upon her
thoughts; for it was her lifelong innocent conviction that other people
saw her only as she wished to be seen, and heard from her only what she
intended to be heard. At home it was always her husband who pulled down
the shades of their bedroom window.

Alice looked serious for a few moments after the little encounter, then
found some consolation in the behaviour of a gentleman of forty or
so who was coming toward her. Like Mrs. Dowling, he had begun to show
consciousness of Alice's approach while she was yet afar off; but his
tokens were of a kind pleasanter to her. He was like Mrs. Dowling again,
however, in his conception that Alice would not realize the significance
of what he did. He passed his hand over his neck-scarf to see that it
lay neatly to his collar, smoothed a lapel of his coat, and adjusted
his hat, seeming to be preoccupied the while with problems that kept
his eyes to the pavement; then, as he came within a few feet of her,
he looked up, as in a surprised recognition almost dramatic, smiled
winningly, lifted his hat decisively, and carried it to the full arm's
length.

Alice's response was all he could have asked. The cane in her right
hand stopped short in its swing, while her left hand moved in a pretty
gesture as if an impulse carried it toward the heart; and she smiled,
with her under lip caught suddenly between her teeth. Months ago she had
seen an actress use this smile in a play, and it came perfectly to Alice
now, without conscious direction, it had been so well acquired; but the
pretty hand's little impulse toward the heart was an original bit all
her own, on the spur of the moment.

The gentleman went on, passing from her forward vision as he replaced
his hat. Of himself he was nothing to Alice, except for the gracious
circumstance that he had shown strong consciousness of a pretty girl. He
was middle-aged, substantial, a family man, securely married; and
Alice had with him one of those long acquaintances that never become
emphasized by so much as five minutes of talk; yet for this inconsequent
meeting she had enacted a little part like a fragment in a pantomime of
Spanish wooing.

It was not for him--not even to impress him, except as a messenger.
Alice was herself almost unaware of her thought, which was one of the
running thousands of her thoughts that took no deliberate form in words.
Nevertheless, she had it, and it was the impulse of all her pretty
bits of pantomime when she met other acquaintances who made their
appreciation visible, as this substantial gentleman did. In Alice's
unworded thought, he was to be thus encouraged as in some measure a
champion to speak well of her to the world; but more than this: he was
to tell some magnificent unknown bachelor how wonderful, how mysterious,
she was.

She hastened on gravely, a little stirred reciprocally with the
supposed stirrings in the breast of that shadowy ducal mate, who must be
somewhere “waiting,” or perhaps already seeking her; for she more often
thought of herself as “waiting” while he sought her; and sometimes this
view of things became so definite that it shaped into a murmur on her
lips. “Waiting. Just waiting.” And she might add, “For him!” Then, being
twenty-two, she was apt to conclude the mystic interview by laughing at
herself, though not without a continued wistfulness.

She came to a group of small coloured children playing waywardly in a
puddle at the mouth of a muddy alley; and at sight of her they gave over
their pastime in order to stare. She smiled brilliantly upon them, but
they were too struck with wonder to comprehend that the manifestation
was friendly; and as Alice picked her way in a little detour to keep
from the mud, she heard one of them say, “Lady got cane! Jeez'!”

She knew that many coloured children use impieties familiarly, and she
was not startled. She was disturbed, however, by an unfavourable hint in
the speaker's tone. He was six, probably, but the sting of a criticism
is not necessarily allayed by knowledge of its ignoble source, and
Alice had already begun to feel a slight uneasiness about her cane. Mrs.
Dowling's stare had been strikingly projected at it; other women more
than merely glanced, their brows and lips contracting impulsively; and
Alice was aware that one or two of them frankly halted as soon as she
had passed.

She had seen in several magazines pictures of ladies with canes, and on
that account she had bought this one, never questioning that fashion is
recognized, even in the provinces, as soon as beheld. On the contrary,
these staring women obviously failed to realize that what they were
being shown was not an eccentric outburst, but the bright harbinger of
an illustrious mode. Alice had applied a bit of artificial pigment to
her lips and cheeks before she set forth this morning; she did not
need it, having a ready colour of her own, which now mounted high with
annoyance.

Then a splendidly shining closed black automobile, with windows of
polished glass, came silently down the street toward her. Within it, as
in a luxurious little apartment, three comely ladies in mourning sat
and gossiped; but when they saw Alice they clutched one another. They
instantly recovered, bowing to her solemnly as they were borne by, yet
were not gone from her sight so swiftly but the edge of her side glance
caught a flash of teeth in mouths suddenly opened, and the dark glisten
of black gloves again clutching to share mirth.

The colour that outdid the rouge on Alice's cheek extended its area and
grew warmer as she realized how all too cordial had been her nod and
smile to these humorous ladies. But in their identity lay a significance
causing her a sharper smart, for they were of the family of that Lamb,
chief of Lamb and Company, who had employed her father since before she
was born.

“And know his salary! They'd be SURE to find out about that!” was her
thought, coupled with another bitter one to the effect that they had
probably made instantaneous financial estimates of what she wore though
certainly her walking-stick had most fed their hilarity.

She tucked it under her arm, not swinging it again; and her breath
became quick and irregular as emotion beset her. She had been enjoying
her walk, but within the space of the few blocks she had gone since she
met the substantial gentleman, she found that more than the walk was
spoiled: suddenly her life seemed to be spoiled, too; though she did not
view the ruin with complaisance. These Lamb women thought her and her
cane ridiculous, did they? she said to herself. That was their parvenu
blood: to think because a girl's father worked for their grandfather
she had no right to be rather striking in style, especially when the
striking WAS her style. Probably all the other girls and women would
agree with them and would laugh at her when they got together, and,
what might be fatal, would try to make all the men think her a silly
pretender. Men were just like sheep, and nothing was easier than for
women to set up as shepherds and pen them in a fold. “To keep out
outsiders,” Alice thought. “And make 'em believe I AM an outsider.
What's the use of living?”

All seemed lost when a trim young man appeared, striding out of a
cross-street not far before her, and, turning at the corner, came
toward her. Visibly, he slackened his gait to lengthen the time of his
approach, and, as he was a stranger to her, no motive could be ascribed
to him other than a wish to have a longer time to look at her.

She lifted a pretty hand to a pin at her throat, bit her lip--not with
the smile, but mysteriously--and at the last instant before her shadow
touched the stranger, let her eyes gravely meet his. A moment later,
having arrived before the house which was her destination, she halted
at the entrance to a driveway leading through fine lawns to the
intentionally important mansion. It was a pleasant and impressive
place to be seen entering, but Alice did not enter at once. She paused,
examining a tiny bit of mortar which the masons had forgotten to scrape
from a brick in one of the massive gate-posts. She frowned at this tiny
defacement, and with an air of annoyance scraped it away, using the
ferrule of her cane an act of fastidious proprietorship. If any one had
looked back over his shoulder he would not have doubted that she lived
there.

Alice did not turn to see whether anything of the sort happened or not,
but she may have surmised that it did. At all events, it was with
an invigorated step that she left the gateway behind her and went
cheerfully up the drive to the house of her friend Mildred.