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Title: An American tragedy, v. 1
Author: Theodore Dreiser
Release date: January 23, 2025 [eBook #75181]
Language: English
Original publication: United States: Boni and Liverlight, 1925
Credits: Emmanuel Ackerman, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY, V. 1 ***
AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY
By THEODORE DREISER
VOLUME ONE
NEW YORK
BONI AND LIVERIGHT
MCMXXV
COPYRIGHT 1925 BY
BONI & LIVERIGHT, INC.
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
VOLUME I
BOOK I
BOOK II
VOLUME ONE
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I
Dusk--of a summer night.
And the tall walls of the commercial heart of an American city of
perhaps 400,000 inhabitants--such walls as in time may linger as a mere
fable.
And up the broad street, now comparatively hushed, a little band of
six,--a man of about fifty, short, stout, with bushy hair protruding
from under a round black felt hat, a most unimportant-looking person,
who carried a small portable organ such as is customarily used by
street preachers and singers. And with him a woman perhaps five years
his junior, taller, not so broad, but solid of frame and vigorous, very
plain in face and dress, and yet not homely, leading with one hand a
small boy of seven and in the other carrying a Bible and several hymn
books. With these three, but walking independently behind, was a girl
of fifteen, a boy of twelve and another girl of nine, all following
obediently, but not too enthusiastically, in the wake of the others.
It was hot, yet with a sweet languor about it all.
Crossing at right angles the great thoroughfare on which they walked,
was a second canyon-like way, threaded by throngs and vehicles and
various lines of cars which clanged their bells and made such progress
as they might amid swiftly moving streams of traffic. Yet the little
group seemed unconscious of anything save a set purpose to make its way
between the contending lines of traffic and pedestrians which flowed by
them.
Having reached an intersection this side of the second principal
thoroughfare--really just an alley between two tall structures--now
quite bare of life of any kind, the man put down the organ, which the
woman immediately opened, setting up a music rack upon which she placed
a wide flat hymn book. Then handing the Bible to the man, she fell
back in line with him, while the twelve-year-old boy put down a small
camp-stool in front of the organ. The man--the father, as he chanced to
be--looked about him with seeming wide-eyed assurance, and announced,
without appearing to care whether he had any auditors or not:
"We will first sing a hymn of praise, so that any who may wish to
acknowledge the Lord may join us. Will you oblige, Hester?"
At this the eldest girl, who until now had attempted to appear as
unconscious and unaffected as possible, bestowed her rather slim and as
yet undeveloped figure upon the camp chair and turned the leaves of the
hymn book, pumping the organ while her mother observed:
"I should think it might be nice to sing twenty-seven to-night--'How
Sweet the Balm of Jesus' Love.'"
By this time various homeward-bound individuals of diverse grades
and walks of life, noticing the small group disposing itself in this
fashion, hesitated for a moment to eye them askance or paused to
ascertain the character of their work. This hesitancy, construed by the
man apparently to constitute attention, however mobile, was seized upon
by him and he began addressing them as though they were specifically
here to hear him.
"Let us all sing twenty-seven, then--'How Sweet the Balm of Jesus'
Love.'"
At this the young girl began to interpret the melody upon the organ,
emitting a thin though correct strain, at the same time joining
her rather high soprano with that of her mother, together with the
rather dubious baritone of the father. The other children piped
weakly along, the boy and girl having taken hymn books from the small
pile stacked upon the organ. As they sang, this nondescript and
indifferent street audience gazed, held by the peculiarity of such
an unimportant-looking family publicly raising its collective voice
against the vast skepticism and apathy of life. Some were interested
or moved sympathetically by the rather tame and inadequate figure
of the girl at the organ, others by the impractical and materially
inefficient texture of the father, whose weak blue eyes and rather
flabby but poorly-clothed figure bespoke more of failure than anything
else. Of the group the mother alone stood out as having that force
and determination which, however blind or erroneous, makes for
self-preservation, if not success in life. She, more than any of the
others, stood up with an ignorant, yet somehow respectable air of
conviction. If you had watched her, her hymn book dropped to her side,
her glance directed straight before her into space, you would have
said: "Well, here is one who, whatever her defects, probably does what
she believes as nearly as possible." A kind of hard, fighting faith in
the wisdom and mercy of that definite overruling and watchful power
which she proclaimed, was written in her every feature and gesture.
"The love of Jesus saves me whole,
The love of God my steps control,"
she sang resonantly, if slightly nasally, between the towering walls of
the adjacent buildings.
The boy moved restlessly from one foot to the other, keeping his eyes
down, and for the most part only half singing. A tall and as yet slight
figure, surmounted by an interesting head and face--white skin, dark
hair--he seemed more keenly observant and decidedly more sensitive
than most of the others--appeared indeed to resent and even to suffer
from the position in which he found himself. Plainly pagan rather than
religious, life interested him, although as yet he was not fully aware
of this. All that could be truly said of him now was that there was no
definite appeal in all this for him. He was too young, his mind much
too responsive to phases of beauty and pleasure which had little, if
anything, to do with the remote and cloudy romance which swayed the
minds of his mother and father.
Indeed the home life of which this boy found himself a part and the
various contacts, material and psychic, which thus far had been
his, did not tend to convince him of the reality and force of all
that his mother and father seemed so certainly to believe and say.
Rather, they seemed more or less troubled in their lives, at least
materially. His father was always reading the Bible and speaking in
meeting at different places, especially in the "mission," which he and
his mother conducted not so far from this corner. At the same time,
as he understood it, they collected money from various interested or
charitably inclined business men here and there who appeared to believe
in such philanthropic work. Yet the family was always "hard up,"
never very well clothed, and deprived of many comforts and pleasures
which seemed common enough to others. And his father and mother were
constantly proclaiming the love and mercy and care of God for him and
for all. Plainly there was something wrong somewhere. He could not get
it all straight, but still he could not help respecting his mother, a
woman whose force and earnestness, as well as her sweetness, appealed
to him. Despite much mission work and family cares, she managed to
be fairly cheerful, or at least sustaining, often declaring most
emphatically "God will provide" or "God will show the way," especially
in times of too great stress about food or clothes. Yet apparently,
in spite of this, as he and all the other children could see, God did
not show any very clear way, even though there was always an extreme
necessity for His favorable intervention in their affairs.
To-night, walking up the great street with his sisters and brother, he
wished that they need not do this any more, or at least that he need
not be a part of it. Other boys did not do such things, and besides,
somehow it seemed shabby and even degrading. On more than one occasion,
before he had been taken on the street in this fashion, other boys
had called to him and made fun of his father, because he was always
publicly emphasizing his religious beliefs or convictions. Thus in one
neighborhood in which they had lived, when he was but a child of seven,
his father, having always preluded every conversation with "Praise the
Lord," he heard boys call "Here comes old Praise-the-Lord Griffiths."
Or they would call out after him "Hey, you're the fellow whose sister
plays the organ. Is there anything else she can play?"
"What does he always want to go around saying, 'Praise the Lord' for?
Other people don't do it."
It was that old mass yearning for a likeness in all things that
troubled them, and him. Neither his father nor his mother was like
other people, because they were always making so much of religion, and
now at last they were making a business of it.
On this night in this great street with its cars and crowds and tall
buildings, he felt ashamed, dragged out of normal life, to be made a
show and jest of. The handsome automobiles that sped by, the loitering
pedestrians moving off to what interests and comforts he could only
surmise; the gay pairs of young people, laughing and jesting and the
"kids" staring, all troubled him with a sense of something different,
better, more beautiful than his, or rather their life.
And now units of this vagrom and unstable street throng, which
was forever shifting and changing about them, seemed to sense the
psychologic error of all this in so far as these children were
concerned, for they would nudge one another, the more sophisticated and
indifferent lifting an eyebrow and smiling contemptuously, the more
sympathetic or experienced commenting on the useless presence of these
children.
"I see these people around here nearly every night now--two or three
times a week, anyhow," this from a young clerk who had just met his
girl and was escorting her toward a restaurant. "They're just working
some religious dodge or other, I guess."
"That oldest boy don't wanta be here. He feels outa place, I can see
that. It ain't right to make a kid like that come out unless he wants
to. He can't understand all this stuff, anyhow." This from an idler and
loafer of about forty, one of those odd hangers-on about the commercial
heart of a city, addressing a pausing and seemingly amiable stranger.
"Yeh, I guess that's so," the other assented, taking in the
peculiar cast of the boy's head and face. In view of the uneasy and
self-conscious expression upon the face whenever it was lifted, one
might have intelligently suggested that it was a little unkind as well
as idle to thus publicly force upon a temperament as yet unfitted to
absorb their import, religious and psychic services best suited to
reflective temperaments of maturer years.
Yet so it was.
As for the remainder of the family, both the youngest girl and boy
were too small to really understand much of what it was all about or
to care. The eldest girl at the organ appeared not so much to mind, as
to enjoy the attention and comment her presence and singing evoked,
for more than once, not only strangers, but her mother and father,
had assured her that she had an appealing and compelling voice,
which was only partially true. It was not a good voice. They did not
really understand music. Physically, she was of a pale, emasculate
and unimportant structure, with no real mental force or depth, and
was easily made to feel that this was an excellent field in which
to distinguish herself and attract a little attention. As for the
parents, they were determined upon spiritualizing the world as much
as possible, and, once the hymn was concluded, the father launched
into one of those hackneyed descriptions of the delights of a release,
via self-realization of the mercy of God and the love of Christ and
the will of God toward sinners, from the burdensome cares of an evil
conscience.
"All men are sinners in the light of the Lord," he declared. "Unless
they repent, unless they accept Christ, His love and forgiveness of
them, they can never know the happiness of being spiritually whole and
clean. Oh, my friends! If you could but know the peace and content
that comes with the knowledge, the inward understanding, that Christ
lived and died for you and that He walks with you every day and hour,
by light and by dark, at dawn and at dusk, to keep and strengthen
you for the tasks and cares of the world that are ever before you.
Oh, the snares and pitfalls that beset us all! And then the soothing
realization that Christ is ever with us, to counsel, to aid, to
hearten, to bind up our wounds and make us whole! Oh, the peace, the
satisfaction, the comfort, the glory of that!"
"Amen!" asseverated his wife, and the daughter, Hester, or Esta, as she
was called by the family, moved by the need of as much public support
as possible for all of them--echoed it after her.
Clyde, the eldest boy, and the two younger children merely gazed at
the ground, or occasionally at their father, with a feeling that
possibly it was all true and important, yet somehow not as significant
or inviting as some of the other things which life held. They heard
so much of this, and to their young and eager minds life was made for
something more than street and mission hall protestations of this sort.
Finally, after a second hymn and an address by Mrs. Griffiths, during
which she took occasion to refer to the mission work jointly conducted
by them in a near-by street, and their services to the cause of
Christ in general, a third hymn was indulged in, and then some tracts
describing the mission rescue work being distributed, such voluntary
gifts as were forthcoming were taken up by Asa--the father. The small
organ was closed, the camp chair folded up and given to Clyde, the
Bible and hymn books picked up by Mrs. Griffiths, and with the organ
supported by a leather strap passed over the shoulder of Griffiths,
senior, the missionward march was taken up.
During all this time Clyde was saying to himself that he did not wish
to do this any more, that he and his parents looked foolish and less
than normal--"cheap" was the word he would have used if he could have
brought himself to express his full measure of resentment at being
compelled to participate in this way--and that he would not do it any
more if he could help. What good did it do them to have him along? His
life should not be like this. Other boys did not have to do as he did.
He meditated now more determinedly than ever a rebellion by which he
would rid himself of the need of going out in this way. Let his elder
sister go if she chose; she liked it. His younger sister and brother
might be too young to care. But he----
"They seemed a little more attentive than usual to-night, I thought,"
commented Griffiths to his wife as they walked along, the seductive
quality of the summer evening air softening him into a more generous
interpretation of the customary indifferent spirit of the passer-by.
"Yes; twenty-seven took tracts to-night as against eighteen on
Thursday."
"The love of Christ must eventually prevail," comforted the father, as
much to hearten himself as his wife. "The pleasures and cares of the
world hold a very great many, but when sorrow overtakes them, then some
of these seeds will take root."
"I am sure of it. That is the thought which always keeps me up. Sorrow
and the weight of sin eventually bring some of them to see the error of
their way."
They now entered into the narrow side street from which they had
emerged, and walking as many as a dozen doors from the corner, entered
the door of a yellow single-story wooden building, the large window
and the two glass panes in the central door of which had been painted
a gray-white. Across both windows and the smaller panels in the double
door had been painted: "The Door of Hope. Bethel Independent Mission.
Meetings Every Wednesday and Saturday night, 8 to 10. Sundays at 11,
3 and 8. Everybody Welcome." Under this legend on each window were
printed the words: "God is Love," and below this again, in smaller
type: "How Long Since You Wrote to Mother?"
The small company entered the yellow unprepossessing door and
disappeared.
CHAPTER II
That such a family, thus cursorily presented, might have a different
and somewhat peculiar history could well be anticipated, and it
would be true. Indeed, this one presented one of those anomalies of
psychic and social reflex and motivation such as would tax the skill
of not only the psychologist but the chemist and physicist as well,
to unravel. To begin with, Asa Griffiths, the father, was one of
those poorly integrated and correlated organisms, the product of an
environment and a religious theory, but with no guiding or mental
insight of his own, yet sensitive and therefore highly emotional, and
without any practical sense whatsoever. Indeed it would be hard to
make clear just how life appealed to him, or what the true hue of his
emotional responses was. On the other hand, as has been indicated,
his wife was of a firmer texture but with scarcely any truer or more
practical insight into anything.
The history of this man and his wife is of no particular interest here
save as it affected their boy of twelve, Clyde Griffiths. This youth,
aside from a certain emotionalism and exotic sense of romance which
characterized him, and which he took more from his father than from his
mother, brought a more vivid and intelligent imagination to things,
and was constantly thinking of how he might better himself, if he had
a chance; places to which he might go, things he might see, and how
differently he might live, if only this, that and the other thing were
true. The principal thing that troubled Clyde up to his fifteenth year,
and for long after in retrospect, was that the calling or profession of
his parents was the shabby thing that it appeared to be in the eyes of
others. For so often throughout his youth in different cities in which
his parents had conducted a mission or spoken on the streets--Grand
Rapids, Detroit, Milwaukee, Chicago, lastly Kansas City--it had been
obvious that people, at least the boys and girls he encountered, looked
down upon him and his brothers and sisters for being the children of
such parents. On several occasions, and much against the mood of his
parents, who never countenanced such exhibitions of temper, he had
stopped to fight with one or another of these boys. But always, beaten
or victorious, he had been made conscious of the fact that the work
his parents did was not satisfactory to others,--shabby, trivial. And
always he was thinking of what he would do, once he reached the place
where he could get away.
For Clyde's parents had proved impractical in the matter of the
future of their children. They did not understand the importance or
the essential necessity for some form of practical or professional
training for each and every one of their young ones. Instead, being
wrapped up in the notion of evangelizing the world, they had neglected
to keep their children in school in any one place. They had moved
here and there, sometimes in the very midst of an advantageous school
season, because of a larger and better religious field in which to
work. And there were times when, the work proving highly unprofitable
and Asa being unable to make much money at the two things he most
understood--gardening and canvassing for one invention or another--they
were quite without sufficient food or decent clothes, and the children
could not go to school. In the face of such situations as these,
whatever the children might think, Asa and his wife remained as
optimistic as ever, or they insisted to themselves that they were, and
had unwavering faith in the Lord and His intention to provide.
The combination home and mission which this family occupied was dreary
enough in most of its phases to discourage the average youth or girl of
any spirit. It consisted in its entirety of one long store floor in an
old and decidedly colorless and inartistic wooden building which was
situated in that part of Kansas City which lies north of Independence
Boulevard and west of Troost Avenue, the exact street or place being
called Bickel, a very short thoroughfare opening off Missouri Avenue, a
somewhat more lengthy but no less nondescript highway. And the entire
neighborhood in which it stood was very faintly and yet not agreeably
redolent of a commercial life which had long since moved farther
south, if not west. It was some five blocks from the spot on which
twice a week the open air meetings of these religious enthusiasts and
proselytizers were held.
And it was the ground floor of this building, looking out into Bickel
Street at the front and some dreary back yards of equally dreary frame
houses, which was divided at the front into a hall forty by twenty-five
feet in size, in which had been placed some sixty collapsible wood
chairs, a lectern, a map of Palestine or the Holy Land, and for wall
decorations some twenty-five printed but unframed mottoes which read,
in part:
"WINE IS A MOCKER, STRONG DRINK IS RAGING AND WHOSOEVER IS DECEIVED
THEREBY IS NOT WISE."
"TAKE HOLD OF SHIELD AND BUCKLER, AND STAND UP FOR MINE HELP."
PSALMS 35:2.
"AND YE, MY FLOCK, THE FLOCK OF MY PASTURE, _are men_, AND I AM
YOUR GOD, SAITH THE LORD GOD." EZEKIEL 34:31.
"O GOD, THOU KNOWEST MY FOOLISHNESS, AND MY SINS ARE NOT HID FROM
THEE." PSALMS 69:5.
"IF YE HAVE FAITH AS A GRAIN OF MUSTARD SEED, YE SHALL SAY UNTO
THIS MOUNTAIN, REMOVE HENCE TO YONDER PLACE; AND IT SHALL MOVE; AND
NOTHING SHALL BE IMPOSSIBLE UNTO YOU." MATTHEW 17:20.
"FOR THE DAY OF THE LORD IS NEAR." OBADIAH 15.
"FOR THERE SHALL BE NO REWARD TO THE EVIL MAN." PROVERBS 24:20.
"LOOK, THEN, NOT UPON THE WINE WHEN IT IS RED: IT BITETH LIKE A
SERPENT, AND STINGETH LIKE AN ADDER." PROVERBS 23:31, 32.
These mighty adjurations were as silver and gold plates set in a wall
of dross.
The rear forty feet of this very commonplace floor was intricately
and yet neatly divided into three small bedrooms, a living room which
overlooked the backyard and wooden fences of yards no better than
those at the back; also, a combination kitchen and dining room exactly
ten feet square, and a store room for mission tracts, hymnals, boxes,
trunks and whatever else of non-immediate use, but of assumed value,
which the family owned. This particular small room lay immediately
to the rear of the mission hall itself, and into it before or after
speaking or at such times as a conference seemed important, both Mr.
and Mrs. Griffiths were wont to retire--also at times to meditate or
pray.
How often had Clyde and his sisters and younger brother seen his mother
or father, or both, in conference with some derelict or semi-repentant
soul who had come for advice or aid, most usually for aid. And here
at times, when his mother's and father's financial difficulties were
greatest, they were to be found thinking, or as Asa Griffiths was
wont helplessly to say at times, "praying their way out," a rather
ineffectual way, as Clyde began to think later.
And the whole neighborhood was so dreary and run-down that he hated the
thought of living in it, let alone being part of a work that required
constant appeals for aid, as well as constant prayer and thanksgiving
to sustain it.
Mrs. Elvira Griffiths before she had married Asa had been nothing but
an ignorant farm girl, brought up without much thought of religion of
any kind. But having fallen in love with him, she had become inoculated
with the virus of Evangelism and proselytizing which dominated him, and
had followed him gladly and enthusiastically in all of his ventures and
through all of his vagaries. Being rather flattered by the knowledge
that she could speak and sing, her ability to sway and persuade and
control people with the "word of God," as she saw it, she had become
more or less pleased with herself on this account and so persuaded to
continue.
Occasionally a small band of people followed the preachers to their
mission, or learning of its existence through their street work,
appeared there later--those odd and mentally disturbed or distrait
souls who are to be found in every place. And it had been Clyde's
compulsory duty throughout the years when he could not act for himself
to be in attendance at these various meetings. And always he had been
more irritated than favorably influenced by the types of men and women
who came here--mostly men--down-and-out laborers, loafers, drunkards,
wastrels, the botched and helpless who seemed to drift in, because
they had no other place to go. And they were always testifying as
to how God or Christ or Divine Grace had rescued them from this or
that predicament--never how they had rescued any one else. And always
his father and mother were saying "Amen" and "Glory to God," and
singing hymns and afterward taking up a collection for the legitimate
expenses of the hall--collections which, as he surmised, were little
enough--barely enough to keep the various missions they had conducted
in existence.
The one thing that really interested him in connection with his parents
was the existence somewhere in the east--in a small city called
Lycurgus, near Utica he understood--of an uncle, a brother of his
father's, who was plainly different from all this. That uncle--Samuel
Griffiths by name--was rich. In one way and another, from casual
remarks dropped by his parents, Clyde had heard references to certain
things this particular uncle might do for a person, if he but would;
references to the fact that he was a shrewd, hard business man; that he
had a great house and a large factory in Lycurgus for the manufacture
of collars and shirts, which employed not less than three hundred
people; that he had a son who must be about Clyde's age, and several
daughters, two at least, all of whom must be, as Clyde imagined, living
in luxury in Lycurgus. News of all this had apparently been brought
west in some way by people who knew Asa and his father and brother.
As Clyde pictured this uncle, he must be a kind of Crœsus, living in
ease and luxury there in the east, while here in the west--Kansas
City--he and his parents and his brother and sisters were living in
the same wretched and hum-drum, hand-to-mouth state that had always
characterized their lives.
But for this--apart from anything he might do for himself, as he early
began to see--there was no remedy. For at fifteen, and even a little
earlier, Clyde began to understand that his education, as well as
his sisters' and brother's, had been sadly neglected. And it would
be rather hard for him to overcome this handicap, seeing that other
boys and girls with more money and better homes were being trained
for special kinds of work. How was one to get a start under such
circumstances? Already when, at the age of thirteen, fourteen and
fifteen, he began looking in the papers, which, being too worldly, had
never been admitted to his home, he found that mostly skilled help
was wanted, or boys to learn trades in which at the moment he was not
very much interested. For true to the standard of the American youth,
or the general American attitude toward life, he felt himself above
the type of labor which was purely manual. What! Run a machine, lay
bricks, learn to be a carpenter, or a plasterer, or a plumber, when
boys no better than himself were clerks and druggists' assistants
and bookkeepers and assistants in banks and real estate offices and
such! Wasn't it menial, as miserable as the life he had thus far been
leading, to wear old clothes and get up so early in the morning and do
all the commonplace things such people had to do?
For Clyde was as vain and proud as he was poor. He was one of those
interesting individuals who looked upon himself as a thing apart--never
quite wholly and indissolubly merged with the family of which he was a
member, and never with any profound obligations to those who had been
responsible for his coming into the world. On the contrary, he was
inclined to study his parents, not too sharply or bitterly, but with
a very fair grasp of their qualities and capabilities. And yet, with
so much judgment in that direction, he was never quite able--at least
not until he had reached his sixteenth year--to formulate any policy
in regard to himself, and then only in a rather fumbling and tentative
way.
Incidentally by that time the sex lure or appeal had begun to manifest
itself and he was already intensely interested and troubled by the
beauty of the opposite sex, its attractions for him and his attraction
for it. And, naturally and coincidentally, the matter of his clothes
and his physical appearance had begun to trouble him not a little--how
he looked and how other boys looked. It was painful to him now to think
that his clothes were not right; that he was not as handsome as he
might be, not as interesting. What a wretched thing it was to be born
poor and not to have any one to do anything for you and not to be able
to do so very much for yourself!
Casual examination of himself in mirrors whenever he found them tended
rather to assure him that he was not so bad-looking--a straight,
well-cut nose, high white forehead, wavy, glossy, black hair, eyes
that were black and rather melancholy at times. And yet the fact that
his family was the unhappy thing that it was, that he had never had
any real friends, and could not have any, as he saw it, because of
the work and connection of his parents, was now tending more and more
to induce a kind of mental depression or melancholia which promised
not so well for his future. It served to make him rebellious and
hence lethargic at times. Because of his parents, and in spite of his
looks, which were really agreeable and more appealing than most, he
was inclined to misinterpret the interested looks which were cast at
him occasionally by young girls in very different walks of life from
him--the contemptuous and yet rather inviting way in which they looked
to see if he were interested or disinterested, brave or cowardly.
And yet, before he had ever earned any money at all, he had always
told himself that if only he had a better collar, a nicer shirt, finer
shoes, a good suit, a swell overcoat like some boys had! Oh, the fine
clothes, the handsome homes, the watches, rings, pins that some boys
sported; the dandies many youths of his years already were! Some
parents of boys of his years actually gave them cars of their own to
ride in. They were to be seen upon the principal streets of Kansas City
flitting to and fro like flies. And pretty girls with them. And he had
nothing. And he never had had.
And yet the world was so full of so many things to do--so many people
were so happy and so successful. What was he to do? Which way to
turn? What one thing to take up and master--something that would get
him somewhere. He could not say. He did not know exactly. And these
peculiar parents were in no way sufficiently equipped to advise him.
CHAPTER III
One of the things that served to darken Clyde's mood just about the
time when he was seeking some practical solution for himself, to say
nothing of its profoundly disheartening effect on the Griffiths family
as a whole, was the fact that his sister Esta, in whom he took no
little interest (although they really had very little in common), ran
away from home with an actor who happened to be playing in Kansas City
and who took a passing fancy for her.
The truth in regard to Esta was that in spite of her guarded
up-bringing, and the seeming religious and moral fervor which at
times appeared to characterize her, she was just a sensuous, weak
girl who did not by any means know yet what she thought. Despite the
atmosphere in which she moved, essentially she was not of it. Like
the large majority of those who profess and daily repeat the dogmas
and creeds of the world, she had come into her practices and imagined
attitude so insensibly from her earliest childhood on, that up to
this time, and even later, she did not know the meaning of it all.
For the necessity of thought had been obviated by advice and law, or
"revealed" truth, and so long as other theories or situations and
impulses of an external, or even internal, character did not arise to
clash with these, she was safe enough. Once they did, however, it was
a foregone conclusion that her religious notions, not being grounded
on any conviction or temperamental bias of her own, were not likely to
withstand the shock. So that all the while, and not unlike her brother
Clyde, her thoughts as well as her emotions were wandering here and
there--to love, to comfort--to things which in the main had little, if
anything, to do with any self-abnegating and self-immolating religious
theory. Within her was a chemism of dreams which somehow counteracted
all they had to say.
Yet she had neither Clyde's force, nor, on the other hand, his
resistance. She was in the main a drifter, with a vague yearning toward
pretty dresses, hats, shoes, ribbons and the like, and superimposed
above this, the religious theory or notion that she should not be.
There were the long bright streets of a morning and afternoon after
school or of an evening. The charm of certain girls swinging along
together, arms locked, secrets a-whispering, or that of boys,
clownish, yet revealing through their bounding ridiculous animality
the force and meaning of that chemistry and urge toward mating which
lies back of all youthful thought and action. And in herself, as from
time to time she observed lovers or flirtation-seekers who lingered at
street corners or about doorways, and who looked at her in a longing
and seeking way, there was a stirring, a nerve plasm palpitation that
spoke loudly for all the seemingly material things of life, not for the
thin pleasantries of heaven.
And the glances drilled her like an invisible ray, for she was pleasing
to look at and was growing more attractive hourly. And the moods in
others awakened responsive moods in her, those rearranging chemisms
upon which all the morality or immorality of the world is based.
And then one day, as she was coming home from school, a youth of that
plausible variety known as "masher" engaged her in conversation,
largely because of a look and a mood which seemed to invite it. And
there was little to stay her, for she was essentially yielding, if not
amorous. Yet so great had been her home drilling as to the need of
modesty, circumspection, purity and the like, that on this occasion at
least there was no danger of any immediate lapse. Only this attack once
made, others followed, were accepted, or not so quickly fled from, and
by degrees, these served to break down that wall of reserve which her
home training had served to erect. She became secretive and hid her
ways from her parents.
Youths occasionally walked and talked with her in spite of herself.
They demolished that excessive shyness which had been hers, and which
had served to put others aside for a time at least. She wished for
other contacts--dreamed of some bright, gay, wonderful love of some
kind, with some one.
Finally, after a slow but vigorous internal growth of mood and
desire, there came this actor, one of those vain, handsome, animal
personalities, all clothes and airs, but no morals (no taste, no
courtesy or real tenderness even), but of compelling magnetism, who
was able within the space of one brief week and a few meetings to
completely befuddle and enmesh her so that she was really his to do
with as he wished. And the truth was that he scarcely cared for her at
all. To him, dull as he was, she was just another girl--fairly pretty,
obviously sensuous and inexperienced, a silly who could be taken by
a few soft words--a show of seemingly sincere affection, talk of the
opportunity of a broader, freer life on the road, in other great
cities, as his wife.
And yet his words were those of a lover who would be true forever. All
she had to do, as he explained to her, was to come away with him and
be his bride, at once--now. Delay was so vain when two such as they
had met. There was difficulty about marriage here, which he could not
explain--it related to friends--but in St. Louis he had a preacher
friend who would wed them. She was to have new and better clothes than
she had ever known, delicious adventures, love. She would travel with
him and see the great world. She would never need to trouble more about
anything save him; and while it was truth to her--the verbal surety of
a genuine passion--to him it was the most ancient and serviceable type
of blarney, often used before and often successful.
In a single week then, at odd hours, morning, afternoon and night, this
chemic witchery was accomplished.
Coming home rather late one Saturday night in April from a walk which
he had taken about the business heart, in order to escape the regular
Saturday night mission services, Clyde found his mother and father
worried about the whereabouts of Esta. She had played and sung as
usual at this meeting. And all had seemed all right with her. After
the meeting she had gone to her room, saying that she was not feeling
very well and was going to bed early. But by eleven o'clock, when Clyde
returned, her mother had chanced to look into her room and discovered
that she was not there nor anywhere about the place. A certain bareness
in connection with the room--some trinkets and dresses removed, an old
and familiar suitcase gone--had first attracted her mother's attention.
Then the house search proving that she was not there, Asa had gone
outside to look up and down the street. She sometimes walked out alone,
or sat or stood in front of the mission during its idle or closed hours.
This search revealing nothing, Clyde and he had walked to a corner,
then along Missouri Avenue. No Esta. At twelve they returned and after
that, naturally, the curiosity in regard to her grew momentarily
sharper.
At first they assumed that she might have taken an unexplained walk
somewhere, but as twelve-thirty, and finally one, and one-thirty,
passed and no Esta, they were about to notify the police, when Clyde,
going into her room, saw a note pinned to the pillow of her small
wooden bed--a missive that had escaped the eye of his mother. At once
he went to it, curious and comprehending, for he had often wondered
in what way, assuming that he ever wished to depart surreptitiously,
he would notify his parents, for he knew they would never countenance
his departure unless they were permitted to supervise it in every
detail. And now here was Esta missing, and here was undoubtedly some
such communication as he might have left. He picked it up, eager to
read it, but at that moment his mother came into the room and, seeing
it in his hand, exclaimed: "What's that? A note? Is it from her?" He
surrendered it and she unfolded it, reading it quickly. He noted that
her strong broad face, always tanned a reddish brown, blanched as she
turned away toward the outer room. Her biggish mouth was now set in a
firm, straight line. Her large, strong hand shook the least bit as it
held the small note aloft.
"Asa!" she called, and then tramping into the next room where he was,
his frizzled grayish hair curling distractedly above his round head,
she said: "Read this."
Clyde, who had followed, saw him take it a little nervously in his
pudgy hand, his lips, always weak and beginning to crinkle at the
center with age, now working curiously. Any one who had known his
life's history would have said it was the expression, slightly
emphasized, with which he had received most of the untoward blows of
his life in the past.
"Tst! Tst! Tst!" was the only sound he made at first, a sucking sound
of the tongue and palate--most weak and inadequate, it seemed to Clyde.
Next there was another "Tst! Tst! Tst!", his head beginning to shake
from side to side. Then, "Now, what do you suppose could have caused
her to do that?" Then he turned and gazed at his wife, who gazed
blankly in return. Then, walking to and fro, his hands behind him, his
short legs taking unconscious and queerly long steps, his head moving
again, he gave vent to another ineffectual "Tst! Tst! Tst!"
Always the more impressive, Mrs. Griffiths now showed herself markedly
different and more vital in this trying situation, a kind of irritation
or dissatisfaction with life itself, along with an obvious physical
distress, seeming to pass through her like a visible shadow. Once her
husband had gotten up, she reached out and took the note, then merely
glared at it again, her face set in hard yet stricken and disturbing
lines. Her manner was that of one who is intensely disquieted and
dissatisfied, one who fingers savagely at a material knot and yet
cannot undo it, one who seeks restraint and freedom from complaint
and yet who would complain bitterly, angrily. For behind her were
all those years of religious work and faith, which somehow, in her
poorly integrated conscience, seemed dimly to indicate that she should
justly have been spared this. Where was her God, her Christ, at this
hour when this obvious evil was being done? Why had He not acted for
her? How was He to explain this? His Biblical promises! His perpetual
guidance! His declared mercies!
In the face of so great a calamity, it was very hard for her, as Clyde
could see, to get this straightened out, instantly at least. Although,
as Clyde had come to know, it could be done eventually, of course.
For in some blind, dualistic way both she and Asa insisted, as do all
religionists, in disassociating God from harm and error and misery,
while granting Him nevertheless supreme control. They would seek for
something else--some malign, treacherous, deceiving power which, in
the face of God's omniscience and omnipotence, still beguiles and
betrays--and find it eventually in the error and perverseness of the
human heart, which God has made, yet which He does not control, because
He does not want to control it.
At the moment, however, only hurt and rage were with her, and yet her
lips did not twitch as did Asa's, nor did her eyes show that profound
distress which filled his. Instead she retreated a step and reëxamined
the letter, almost angrily, then said to Asa: "She's run away with some
one and she doesn't say----" Then she stopped suddenly, remembering the
presence of the children--Clyde, Julia, and Frank, all present and all
gazing curiously, intently, unbelievingly. "Come in here," she called
to her husband, "I want to talk to you a minute. You children had
better go on to bed. We'll be out in a minute."
With Asa then she retired quite precipitately to a small room back of
the mission hall. They heard her click the electric bulb. Then their
voices were heard in low converse, while Clyde and Julia and Frank
looked at each other, although Frank, being so young--only ten--could
scarcely be said to have comprehended fully. Even Julia hardly gathered
the full import of it. But Clyde, because of his larger contact with
life and his mother's statement ("She's run away with some one"),
understood well enough. Esta had tired of all this, as had he. Perhaps
there was some one, like one of those dandies whom he saw on the
streets with the prettiest girls, with whom she had gone. But where?
And what was he like? That note told something, and yet his mother had
not let him see it. She had taken it away too quickly. If only he had
looked first, silently and to himself!
"Do you suppose she's run away for good?" he asked Julia dubiously, the
while his parents were out of the room, Julia herself looking so blank
and strange.
"How should I know?" she replied a little irritably, troubled by her
parents' distress and this secretiveness, as well as Esta's action.
"She never said anything to me. I should think she'd be ashamed of
herself if she has."
Julia, being colder emotionally than either Esta or Clyde, was more
considerate of her parents in a conventional way, and hence sorrier.
True, she did not quite gather what it meant, but she suspected
something, for she had talked occasionally with girls, but in a very
guarded and conservative way. Now, however, it was more the way in
which Esta had chosen to leave, deserting her parents and her brothers
and herself, that caused her to be angry with her, for why should she
go and do anything which would distress her parents in this dreadful
fashion. It was dreadful. The air was thick with misery.
And as his parents talked in their little room, Clyde brooded too, for
he was intensely curious about life now. What was it Esta had really
done? Was it, as he feared and thought, one of those dreadful runaway
or sexually disagreeable affairs which the boys on the streets and at
school were always slyly talking about? How shameful, if that were
true! She might never come back. She had gone with some man. There was
something wrong about that, no doubt, for a girl, anyhow, for all he
had ever heard was that all decent contacts between boys and girls, men
and women, led to but one thing--marriage. And now Esta, in addition
to their other troubles, had gone and done this. Certainly this home
life of theirs was pretty dark now, and it would be darker instead of
brighter because of this.
Presently the parents came out, and then Mrs. Griffiths' face, if
still set and constrained, was somehow a little different, less savage
perhaps, more hopelessly resigned.
"Esta's seen fit to leave us, for a little while, anyhow," was all she
said at first, seeing the children waiting curiously. "Now, you're not
to worry about her at all, or think any more about it. She'll come back
after a while, I'm sure. She has chosen to go her own way, for a time,
for some reason. The Lord's will be done." ("Blessed be the name of the
Lord!" interpolated Asa.) "I thought she was happy here with us, but
apparently she wasn't. She must see something of the world for herself,
I suppose." (Here Asa put in another Tst! Tst! Tst!) "But we mustn't
harbor hard thoughts. That won't do any good now--only thoughts of love
and kindness." Yet she said this with a kind of sternness that somehow
belied it--a click of the voice, as it were. "We can only hope that she
will soon see how foolish she has been, and unthinking, and come back.
She can't prosper on the course she's going now. It isn't the Lord's
way or will. She's too young and she's made a mistake. But we can
forgive her. We must. Our hearts must be kept open, soft and tender."
She talked as though she were addressing a meeting, but with a hard,
sad, frozen face and voice. "Now, all of you go to bed. We can only
pray now, and hope, morning, noon and night, that no evil will befall
her. I wish she hadn't done that," she added, quite out of keeping with
the rest of her statement and really not thinking of the children as
present at all--just of Esta.
But Asa!
Such a father, as Clyde often thought, afterwards.
Apart from his own misery, he seemed only to note and be impressed by
the more significant misery of his wife. During all this, he had stood
foolishly to one side--short, gray, frizzled, inadequate.
"Well, blessed be the name of the Lord," he interpolated from time to
time. "We must keep our hearts open. Yes, we mustn't judge. We must
only hope for the best. Yes, yes! Praise the Lord--we must praise the
Lord! Amen! Oh, yes! Tst! Tst! Tst!"
"If any one asks where she is," continued Mrs. Griffiths after a time,
quite ignoring her spouse and addressing the children, who had drawn
near her, "we will say that she has gone on a visit to some of my
relatives back in Tonawanda. That won't be the truth, exactly, but then
we don't know where she is or what the truth is--and she may come back.
So we must not say or do anything that will injure her until we know."
"Yes, praise the Lord!" called Asa, feebly.
"So if any one should inquire at any time, until we know, we will say
that."
"Sure," put in Clyde, helpfully, and Julia added, "All right."
Mrs. Griffiths paused and looked firmly and yet apologetically at her
children. Asa, for his part, emitted another "Tst! Tst! Tst!" and then
the children were waved to bed.
At that, Clyde, who really wanted to know what Esta's letter had said,
but was convinced from long experience that his mother would not let
him know unless she chose, returned to his room again, for he was
tired. Why didn't they search more if there was hope of finding her?
Where was she now--at this minute? On some train somewhere? Evidently
she didn't want to be found. She was probably dissatisfied, just as he
was. Here he was, thinking so recently of going away somewhere himself,
wondering how the family would take it, and now she had gone before
him. How would that affect his point of view and action in the future?
Truly, in spite of his father's and mother's misery, he could not see
that her going was such a calamity, not from the _going_ point of view,
at any rate. It was only another something which hinted that things
were not right here. Mission work was nothing. All this religious
emotion and talk was not so much either. It hadn't saved Esta.
Evidently, like himself, she didn't believe so much in it, either.
CHAPTER IV
The effect of this particular conclusion was to cause Clyde to think
harder than ever about himself. And the principal result of his
thinking was that he must do something for himself and soon. Up to this
time the best he had been able to do was to work at such odd jobs as
befall all boys between their twelfth and fifteenth years: assisting
a man who had a paper route during the summer months of one year,
working in the basement of a five-and-ten cent store all one summer
long, and on Saturdays, for a period during the winter, opening boxes
and unpacking goods, for which he received the munificent sum of five
dollars a week, a sum which at the time seemed almost a fortune. He
felt himself rich and, in the face of the opposition of his parents,
who were opposed to the theater and motion pictures also, as being not
only worldly, but sinful, he could occasionally go to one or another of
those--in the gallery--a form of diversion which he had to conceal from
his parents. Yet that did not deter him. He felt that he had a right to
go with his own money; also to take his younger brother Frank, who was
glad enough to go with him and say nothing.
Later in the same year, wishing to get out of school because he already
felt himself very much belated in the race, he secured a place as an
assistant to a soda water clerk in one of the cheaper drug stores of
the city, which adjoined a theater and enjoyed not a little patronage
of this sort. A sign--"Boy Wanted"--since it was directly on his way to
school, first interested him. Later, in conversation with the young man
whose assistant he was to be, and from whom he was to learn the trade,
assuming that he was sufficiently willing and facile, he gathered that
if he mastered this art, he might make as much as fifteen and even
eighteen dollars a week. It was rumored that Stroud's at the corner
of 14th and Baltimore Streets paid that much to two of their clerks.
The particular store to which he was applying paid only twelve, the
standard salary of most places.
But to acquire this art, as he was now informed, required time and the
friendly help of an expert. If he wished to come here and work for
five to begin with--well, six, then, since his face fell--he might
soon expect to know a great deal about the art of mixing sweet drinks
and decorating a large variety of ice-creams with liquid sweets,
thus turning them into sundaes. For the time being apprenticeship
meant washing and polishing all the machinery and implements of this
particular counter, to say nothing of opening and sweeping out the
store at so early an hour as seven-thirty, dusting, and delivering such
orders as the owner of this drug store chose to send out by him. At
such idle moments as his immediate superior--a Mr. Sieberling--twenty,
dashing, self-confident, talkative, was too busy to fill all the
orders, he might be called upon to mix such minor drinks--lemonades,
coca-colas and the like--as the trade demanded.
Yet this interesting position, after due consultation with his mother,
he decided to take. For one thing, it would provide him, as he
suspected, with all the ice-cream sodas he desired, free--an advantage
not to be disregarded. In the next place, as he saw it at the time,
it was an open door to a trade--something which he lacked. Further,
and not at all disadvantageously as he saw it, this store required his
presence at night as late as twelve o'clock, with certain hours off
during the day to compensate for this. And this took him out of his
home at night--out of the ten-o'clock-boy class at last. They could not
ask him to attend any meetings save on Sunday, and not even then, since
he was supposed to work Sunday afternoons and evenings.
Next, the clerk who manipulated this particular soda fountain, quite
regularly received passes from the manager of the theater next door,
and into the lobby of which one door to the drug-store gave--a most
fascinating connection to Clyde. It seemed so interesting to be working
for a drug store thus intimately connected with a theater.
And best of all, as Clyde now found to his pleasure, and yet despair
at times, the place was visited, just before and after the show on
matinée days, by bevies of girls, single and en suite, who sat at
the counter and giggled and chattered and gave their hair and their
complexions last perfecting touches before the mirror. And Clyde,
callow and inexperienced in the ways of the world, and those of the
opposite sex, was never weary of observing the beauty, the daring,
the self-sufficiency and the sweetness of these, as he saw them. For
the first time in his life, while he busied himself with washing
glasses, filling the ice-cream and syrup containers, arranging the
lemons and oranges in the trays, he had an almost uninterrupted
opportunity of studying these girls at close range. The wonder of them!
For the most part, they were so well-dressed and smart-looking--the
rings, pins, furs, delightful hats, pretty shoes they wore. And so
often he overheard them discussing such interesting things--parties,
dances, dinners, the shows they had seen, the places in or near
Kansas City to which they were soon going, the difference between the
styles of this year and last, the fascination of certain actors and
actresses--principally actors--who were now playing or soon coming to
the city. And to this day, in his own home he had heard nothing of all
this.
And very often one or another of these young beauties was accompanied
by some male in evening suit, dress shirt, high hat, bow tie, white kid
gloves and patent leather shoes, a costume which at that time Clyde
felt to be the last word in all true distinction, beauty, gallantry
and bliss. To be able to wear such a suit with such ease and air! To
be able to talk to a girl after the manner and with the sang-froid
of some of these gallants! What a true measure of achievement! No
good-looking girl, as it then appeared to him, would have anything to
do with him if he did not possess this standard of equipment. It was
plainly necessary--the thing. And once he did attain it--was able to
wear such clothes as these--well, then was he not well set upon the
path that leads to all the blisses? All the joys of life would then
most certainly be spread before him. The friendly smiles! The secret
handclasps, maybe--an arm about the waist of some one or another--a
kiss--a promise of marriage--and then, and then!
And all this as a revealing flash after all the years of walking
through the streets with his father and mother to public prayer
meeting, the sitting in chapel and listening to queer and nondescript
individuals--depressing and disconcerting people--telling how Christ
had saved them and what God had done for them. You bet he would get
out of that now. He would work and save his money and be somebody.
Decidedly this simple and yet idyllic compound of the commonplace had
all the luster and wonder of a spiritual transfiguration, the true
mirage of the lost and thirsting and seeking victim of the desert.
However, the trouble with this particular position, as time speedily
proved, was that much as it might teach him of mixing drinks and how to
eventually earn twelve dollars a week, it was no immediate solvent for
the yearnings and ambitions that were already gnawing at his vitals.
For Albert Sieberling, his immediate superior, was determined to keep
as much of his knowledge, as well as the most pleasant parts of the
tasks, to himself. And further he was quite at one with the druggist
for whom they worked in thinking that Clyde, in addition to assisting
him about the fountain, should run such errands as the druggist
desired, which kept Clyde industriously employed for nearly all the
hours he was on duty.
Consequently there was no immediate result to all this. Clyde could
see no way to dressing better than he did. Worse, he was haunted by
the fact that he had very little money and very few contacts and
connections--so few that, outside his own home, he was lonely and not
so very much less than lonely there. The flight of Esta had thrown a
chill over the religious work there, and because, as yet, she had not
returned--the family, as he now heard, was thinking of breaking up here
and moving, for want of a better idea, to Denver, Colorado. But Clyde,
by now, was convinced that he did not wish to accompany them. What was
the good of it, he asked himself? There would be just another mission
there, the same as this one.
He had always lived at home--in the rooms at the rear of the mission
in Bickel Street, but he hated it. And since his eleventh year, during
all of which time his family had been residing in Kansas City, he had
been ashamed to bring boy friends to or near it. For that reason he
had always avoided boy friends, and had walked and played very much
alone--or with his brothers and sisters.
But now that he was sixteen and old enough to make his own way,
he ought to be getting out of this. And yet he was earning almost
nothing--not enough to live on, if he were alone--and he had not as yet
developed sufficient skill or courage to get anything better.
Nevertheless when his parents began to talk of moving to Denver, and
suggested that he might secure work out there, never assuming for a
moment that he would not want to go, he began to throw out hints to
the effect that it might be better if he did not. He liked Kansas
City. What was the use of changing? He had a job now and he might get
something better. But his parents, bethinking themselves of Esta and
the fate that had overtaken her, were not a little dubious as to the
outcome of such early adventuring on his part alone. Once they were
away, where would he live? With whom? What sort of influence would
enter his life, who would be at hand to aid and counsel and guide him
in the straight and narrow path, as they had done? It was something to
think about.
But spurred by this imminence of Denver, which now daily seemed to be
drawing nearer, and the fact that not long after this Mr. Sieberling,
owing to his too obvious gallantries in connection with the fair sex,
lost his place in the drug store, and Clyde came by a new and bony
and chill superior who did not seem to want him as an assistant,
he decided to quit--not at once, but rather to see, on such errands
as took him out of the store, if he could not find something else.
Incidentally in so doing, looking here and there, he one day thought
he would speak to the manager of the fountain which was connected with
the leading drug store in the principal hotel of the city--the latter
a great twelve-story affair, which represented, as he saw it, the
quintessence of luxury and ease. Its windows were always so heavily
curtained; the main entrance (he had never ventured to look beyond
that) was a splendiferous combination of a glass and iron awning,
coupled with a marble corridor lined with palms. Often he had passed
here, wondering with boyish curiosity what the nature of the life of
such a place might be. Before its doors, so many taxis and automobiles
were always in waiting.
To-day, being driven by the necessity of doing something for himself,
he entered the drug store which occupied the principal corner, facing
14th street at Baltimore, and finding a girl cashier in a small
glass cage near the door, asked of her who was in charge of the soda
fountain. Interested by his tentative and uncertain manner, as well as
his deep and rather appealing eyes, and instinctively judging that he
was looking for something to do, she observed: "Why, Mr. Secor, there,
the manager of the store." She nodded in the direction of a short,
meticulously dressed man of about thirty-five, who was arranging an
especial display of toilet novelties on the top of a glass case. Clyde
approached him, and being still very dubious as to how one went about
getting anything in life, and finding him engrossed in what he was
doing, stood first on one foot and then on the other, until at last,
sensing some one was hovering about for something, the man turned:
"Well?" he queried.
"You don't happen to need a soda fountain helper, do you?" Clyde cast
at him a glance that said as plain as anything could, "If you have any
such place, I wish you would please give it to me. I need it."
"No, no, no," replied this individual, who was blond and vigorous and
by nature a little irritable and contentious. He was about to turn
away, but seeing a flicker of disappointment and depression pass over
Clyde's face, he turned and added, "Ever work in a place like this
before?"
"No place as fine as this. No, sir," replied Clyde, rather fancifully
moved by all that was about him. "I'm working now down at Mr. Klinkle's
store at 7th and Brooklyn, but it isn't anything like this one and I'd
like to get something better if I could."
"Uh," went on his interviewer, rather pleased by the innocent tribute
to the superiority of his store. "Well, that's reasonable enough. But
there isn't anything here right now that I could offer you. We don't
make many changes. But if you'd like to be a bell-boy, I can tell you
where you might get a place. They're looking for an extra boy in the
hotel inside there right now. The captain of the boys was telling me
he was in need of one. I should think that would be as good as helping
about a soda fountain, any day."
Then seeing Clyde's face suddenly brighten, he added: "But you mustn't
say that I sent you, because I don't know you. Just ask for Mr. Squires
inside there, under the stairs, and he can tell you all about it."
At the mere mention of work in connection with so imposing an
institution as the Green-Davidson, and the possibility of his getting
it, Clyde first stared, felt himself tremble the least bit with
excitement, then thanking his advisor for his kindness, went direct to
a green-marbled doorway which opened from the rear of this drug-store
into the lobby of the hotel. Once through it, he beheld a lobby,
the like of which, for all his years but because of the timorous
poverty that had restrained him from exploring such a world, was more
arresting, quite, than anything he had seen before. It was all so
lavish. Under his feet was a checkered black-and-white marble floor.
Above him a coppered and stained and gilded ceiling. And supporting
this, a veritable forest of black marble columns as highly polished as
the floor--glassy smooth. And between the columns which ranged away
toward three separate entrances, one right, one left and one directly
forward toward Dalrymple Avenue--were lamps, statuary, rugs, palms,
chairs, divans, tête-à-têtes--a prodigal display. In short it was
compact, of all that gauche luxury of appointment which, as some one
once sarcastically remarked, was intended to supply "exclusiveness to
the masses." Indeed, for an essential hotel in a great and successful
American commercial city, it was almost too luxurious. Its rooms and
hall and lobbies and restaurants were entirely too richly furnished,
without the saving grace of either simplicity or necessity.
As Clyde stood, gazing about the lobby, he saw a large company of
people--some women and children, but principally men as he could
see--either walking or standing about and talking or idling in the
chairs, side by side or alone. And in heavily draped and richly
furnished alcoves where were writing-tables, newspaper files, a
telegraph office, a haberdasher's shop, and a florist's stand, were
other groups. There was a convention of dentists in the city, not a
few of whom, with their wives and children, were gathered here; but to
Clyde, who was not aware of this nor of the methods and meanings of
conventions, this was the ordinary, everyday appearance of this hotel.
He gazed about in awe and amazement, then remembering the name of
Squires, he began to look for him in his office "under the stairs." To
his right was a grand double-winged black-and-white staircase which
swung in two separate flights and with wide, generous curves from
the main floor to the one above. And between these great flights was
evidently the office of the hotel, for there were many clerks there.
But behind the nearest flight, and close to the wall through which he
had come, was a tall desk, at which stood a young man of about his own
age in a maroon uniform bright with many brass buttons. And on his head
was a small, round, pill-box cap, which was cocked jauntily over one
ear. He was busy making entries with a lead pencil in a book which lay
open before him. Various other boys about his own age, and uniformed
as he was, were seated upon a long bench near him, or were to be seen
darting here and there, sometimes returning to this one with a slip
of paper or a key or note of some kind, and then seating themselves
upon the bench to await another call apparently, which seemed to come
swiftly enough. A telephone upon the small desk at which stood the
uniformed youth was almost constantly buzzing, and after ascertaining
what was wanted, this youth struck a small bell before him, or called
"front," to which the first boy on the bench, responded. Once called,
they went hurrying up one or the other stairs or toward one of the
several entrances or elevators, and almost invariably were to be seen
escorting individuals whose bags and suitcases and overcoats and golf
sticks they carried. There were others who disappeared and returned,
carrying drinks on trays or some package or other, which they were
taking to one of the rooms above. Plainly this was the work that he
should be called upon to do, assuming that he would be so fortunate as
to connect himself with such an institution as this.
And it was all so brisk and enlivening that he wished that he might be
so fortunate as to secure a position here. But would he be? And where
was Mr. Squires? He approached the youth at the small desk: "Do you
know where I will find Mr. Squires?" he asked.
"Here he comes now," replied the youth, looking up and examining Clyde
with keen, gray eyes.
Clyde gazed in the direction indicated, and saw approaching a brisk
and dapper and decidedly sophisticated-looking person of perhaps
twenty-nine or thirty years of age. He was so very slender, keen,
hatchet-faced and well-dressed that Clyde was not only impressed but
overawed at once--a very shrewd and cunning-looking person. His nose
was so long and thin, his eyes so sharp, his lips thin, and chin
pointed.
"Did you see that tall, gray-haired man with the Scotch plaid shawl
who went through here just now?" he paused to say to his assistant at
the desk. The assistant nodded. "Well, they tell me that's the Earl of
Landreil. He just came in this morning with fourteen trunks and four
servants. Can you beat it! He's somebody in Scotland. That isn't the
name he travels under, though, I hear. He's registered as Mr. Blunt.
Can you beat that English stuff? They can certainly lay on the class,
eh?"
"You said it!" replied his assistant deferentially.
He turned for the first time, glimpsing Clyde, but paying no attention
to him. His assistant came to Clyde's aid.
"That young fella there is waiting to see you," he explained.
"You want to see me?" queried the captain of the bell-hops, turning to
Clyde, and observing his none-too-good clothes, at the same time making
a comprehensive study of him.
"The gentleman in the drug store," began Clyde, who did not quite like
the looks of the man before him, but was determined to present himself
as agreeably as possible, "was saying--that is, he said that I might
ask you if there was any chance here for me as a bell-boy. I'm working
now at Klinkle's drug-store at 7th and Brooklyn, as a helper, but I'd
like to get out of that and he said you might--that is--he thought you
had a place open now." Clyde was so flustered and disturbed by the
cool, examining eyes of the man before him that he could scarcely get
his breath properly, and swallowed hard.
For the first time in his life, it occurred to him that if he wanted to
get on he ought to insinuate himself into the good graces of people--do
or say something that would make them like him. So now he contrived an
eager, ingratiating smile, which he bestowed on Mr. Squires, and added:
"If you'd like to give me a chance, I'd try very hard and I'd be very
willing."
The man before him merely looked at him coldly, but being the soul
of craft and self-acquisitiveness in a petty way, and rather liking
anybody who had the skill and the will to be diplomatic, he now put
aside an impulse to shake his head negatively, and observed: "But you
haven't had any training in this work."
"No, sir, but couldn't I pick it up pretty quick if I tried hard?"
"Well, let me see," observed the head of the bell-hops, scratching his
head dubiously. "I haven't any time to talk to you now. Come around
Monday afternoon. I'll see you then." He turned on his heel and walked
away.
Clyde, left alone in this fashion, and not knowing just what it meant,
stared, wondering. Was it really true that he had been invited to come
back on Monday? Could it be possible that----He turned and hurried
out, thrilling from head to toe. The idea! He had asked this man for a
place in the very finest hotel in Kansas City and he had asked him to
come back and see him on Monday. Gee! what would that mean? Could it be
possible that he would be admitted to such a grand world as this--and
that so speedily? Could it really be?
CHAPTER V
The imaginative flights of Clyde in connection with all this--his
dreams of what it might mean for him to be connected with so glorious
an institution--can only be suggested. For his ideas of luxury were
in the main so extreme and mistaken and gauche--mere wanderings of
a repressed and unsatisfied fancy, which as yet had had nothing but
imaginings to feed it.
He went back to his old duties at the drug-store--to his home after
hours in order to eat and sleep--but now for the balance of this Friday
and Saturday and Sunday and Monday until late in the day, he walked on
air, really. His mind was not on what he was doing, and several times
his superior at the drug-store had to remind him to "wake-up." And
after hours, instead of going directly home, he walked north to the
corner of 14th and Baltimore, where stood this great hotel, and looked
at it. There, at midnight even, before each of the three principal
entrances--one facing each of three streets--was a doorman in a long
maroon coat with many buttons and a high-rimmed and long-visored maroon
cap. And inside, behind looped and fluted French silk curtains, were
the still blazing lights, the à la carte dining-room and the American
grill in the basement near one corner still open. And about them were
many taxis and cars. And there was music always--from somewhere.
After surveying it all this Friday night and again on Saturday and
Sunday morning, he returned on Monday afternoon at the suggestion of
Mr. Squires and was greeted by that individual rather crustily, for by
then he had all but forgotten him. But seeing that at the moment he
was actually in need of help, and being satisfied that Clyde might be
of service, he led him into his small office under the stair, where,
with a very superior manner and much actual indifference, he proceeded
to question him as to his parentage, where he lived, at what he had
worked before and where, what his father did for a living--a poser that
for Clyde, for he was proud and so ashamed to admit that his parents
conducted a mission and preached on the streets. Instead he replied
(which was true at times) that his father canvassed for a washing
machine and wringer company--and on Sundays preached--a religious
revelation, which was not at all displeasing to this master of boys who
were inclined to be anything but home-loving and conservative. Could he
bring a reference from where he now was? He could.
Mr. Squires proceeded to explain that this hotel was very strict. Too
many boys, on account of the scenes and the show here, the contact with
undue luxury to which they were not accustomed--though these were not
the words used by Mr. Squires--were inclined to lose their heads and go
wrong. He was constantly being forced to discharge boys who, because
they made a little extra money, didn't know how to conduct themselves.
He must have boys who were willing, civil, prompt, courteous to
everybody. They must be clean and neat about their persons and clothes
and show up promptly--on the dot--and in good condition for the work
every day. And any boy who got to thinking that because he made a
little money he could flirt with anybody or talk back, or go off on
parties at night, and then not show up on time or too tired to be quick
and bright, needn't think that he would be here long. He would be
fired, and that promptly. He would not tolerate any nonsense. That must
be understood now, once and for all.
Clyde nodded assent often and interpolated a few eager "yes, sirs" and
"no, sirs," and assured him at the last that it was the furtherest
thing from his thoughts and temperament to dream of any such high
crimes and misdemeanors as he had outlined. Mr. Squires then proceeded
to explain that this hotel only paid fifteen dollars a month and
board--at the servant's table in the basement--to any bell-boy at any
time. But, and this information came as a most amazing revelation to
Clyde, every guest for whom any of these boys did anything--carried
a bag or delivered a pitcher of water or did anything--gave him a
tip, and often quite a liberal one--a dime, fifteen cents, a quarter,
sometimes more. And these tips, as Mr. Squires explained, taken all
together, averaged from four to six dollars a day--not less and
sometimes more--most amazing pay, as Clyde now realized. His heart gave
an enormous bound and was near to suffocating him at the mere mention
of so large a sum. From four to six dollars! Why, that was twenty-eight
to forty-two dollars a week! He could scarcely believe it. And that in
addition to the fifteen dollars a month and board. And there was no
charge, as Mr. Squires now explained, for the handsome uniforms the
boys wore. But it might not be worn or taken out of the place. His
hours, as Mr. Squires now proceeded to explain, would be as follows:
On Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays, he was to work from six in
the morning until noon, and then, with six hours off, from six in the
evening until midnight. On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, he need
only work from noon until six, thus giving him each alternate afternoon
or evening to himself. But all his meals were to be taken outside his
working hours and he was to report promptly in uniform for line-up and
inspection by his superior exactly ten minutes before the regular hours
of his work began at each watch.
As for some other things which were in his mind at the time, Mr.
Squires said nothing. There were others, as he knew, who would speak
for him. Instead he went on to add, and then quite climactically for
Clyde at that time, who had been sitting as one in a daze: "I suppose
you are ready to go to work now, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir, yes, sir," he replied.
"Very good!" Then he got up and opened the door which had shut them in.
"Oscar," he called to a boy seated at the head of the bell-boy bench,
to which a tallish, rather oversized youth in a tight, neat-looking
uniform responded with alacrity. "Take this young man here--Clyde
Griffiths is your name, isn't it?--up to the wardrobe on the twelfth
and see if Jacobs can find a suit to fit. But if he can't, tell him to
alter it by to-morrow. I think the one Silsbee wore ought to be about
right for him."
Then he turned to his assistant at the desk who was at the moment
looking on. "I'm giving him a trial, anyhow," he commented. "Have one
of the boys coach him a little to-night or whenever he starts in. Go
ahead, Oscar," he called to the boy in charge of Clyde. "He's green at
this stuff, but I think he'll do," he added to his assistant, as Clyde
and Oscar disappeared in the direction of one of the elevators. Then he
walked off to have Clyde's name entered upon the payroll.
In the meantime, Clyde, in tow of this new mentor, was listening to
a line of information such as never previously had come to his ears
anywhere.
"You needn't be frightened, if you ain't never worked at anything
like dis before," began this youth, whose last name was Hegglund as
Clyde later learned, and who hailed from Jersey City, New Jersey,
exotic lingo, gestures and all. He was tall, vigorous, sandy-haired,
freckled, genial and voluble. They had entered upon an elevator labeled
"employees." "It ain't so hard. I got my first job in Buffalo t'ree
years ago and I never knowed a t'ing about it up to dat time. All you
gotta do is to watch de udders an' see how dey do, see. You get dat, do
you?"
Clyde, whose education was not a little superior to that of his guide,
commented quite sharply in his own mind on the use of such words as
"knowed," and "gotta"--also upon "t'ing," "dat," "udders," and so
on, but so grateful was he for any courtesy at this time that he was
inclined to forgive his obviously kindly mentor anything for his
geniality.
"Watch whoever's doin' anyt'ing, at first, see, till you git to know,
see. Dat's de way. When de bell rings, if you're at de head of de
bench, it's your turn, see, an' you jump up and go quick. Dey like you
to be quick around here, see. An' whenever you see any one come in
de door or out of an elevator wit a bag, an' you're at de head of de
bench, you jump, wedder de captain rings de bell or calls 'front' or
not. Sometimes he's busy or ain't lookin' an' he wants you to do dat,
see. Look sharp, cause if you don't get no bags, you don't get no tips,
see. Everybody dat has a bag or anyt'ing has to have it carried for
'em, unless dey won't let you have it, see.
"But be sure and wait somewhere near de desk for whoever comes in
until dey sign up for a room," he rattled on as they ascended in the
elevator. "Most every one takes a room. Den de clerk'll give you de
key an' after dat all you gotta do is to carry up de bags to de room.
Den all you gotta do is to turn on de lights in de batroom and closet,
if dere is one, so dey'll know where dey are, see. An' den raise de
curtains in de day time or lower 'em at night, an' see if dere's
towels in de room, so you can tell de maid if dere ain't, and den if
dey don't give you no tip, you gotta go, only most times, unless you
draw a stiff, all you gotta do is hang back a little--make a stall,
see--fumble wit de door-key or try de transom, see. Den, if dey're
any good, dey'll hand you a tip. If dey don't, you're out, dat's all,
see. You can't even look as dough you was sore, dough--nottin' like
dat, see. Den you come down an' unless dey wants ice-water or somepin,
you're troo, see. It's back to de bench, quick. Dere ain't much to it.
Only you gotta be quick all de time, see, and not let any one get by
you comin' or goin'--dat's de main t'ing.
"An' after dey give you your uniform, an' you go to work, don't forgit
to give de captain a dollar after every watch before you leave,
see--two dollars on de day you has two watches, and a dollar on de day
you has one, see? Dat's de way it is here. We work togedder like dat,
here, an' you gotta do dat if you wanta hold your job. But dat's all.
After dat all de rest is yours."
Clyde saw.
A part of his twenty-four or thirty-two dollars as he figured it was
going glimmering, apparently--eleven or twelve all told--but what of
it! Would there not be twelve or fifteen or even more left? And there
were his meals and his uniform. Kind Heaven! What a realization of
paradise! What a consummation of luxury!
Mr. Hegglund of Jersey City escorted him to the twelfth floor and into
a room where they found on guard a wizened and grizzled little old
man of doubtful age and temperament, who forthwith outfitted Clyde
with a suit that was so near a fit that, without further orders, it
was not deemed necessary to alter it. And trying on various caps,
there was one that fitted him--a thing that sat most rakishly over
one ear--only, as Hegglund informed him, "You'll have to get dat hair
of yours cut. Better get it clipped behind. It's too long." And with
that Clyde himself had been in mental agreement before he spoke. His
hair certainly did not look right in the new cap. He hated it now. And
going downstairs, and reporting to Mr. Whipple, Mr. Squires' assistant,
the latter had said: "Very well. It fits all right, does it? Well,
then, you go on here at six. Report at five-thirty and be here in your
uniform at five-forty-five for inspection."
Whereupon Clyde, being advised by Hegglund to go then and there to
get his uniform and take it to the dressing-room in the basement, and
get his locker from the locker-man, he did so, and then hurried most
nervously out--first to get a hair-cut and afterwards to report to his
family on his great luck.
He was to be a bell-boy in the great Hotel Green-Davidson. He was to
wear a uniform and a handsome one. He was to make--but he did not tell
his mother at first what he was to make, truly--but more than eleven
or twelve at first, anyhow, he guessed--he could not be sure. For now,
all at once, he saw economic independence ahead for himself, if not for
his family, and he did not care to complicate it with any claims which
a confession as to his real salary would most certainly inspire. But he
did say that he was to have his meals free--because that meant eating
away from home, which was what he wished. And in addition he was to
live and move always in the glorious atmosphere of this hotel--not to
have to go home ever before twelve, if he did not wish--to have good
clothes--interesting company, maybe--a good time, gee!
And as he hurried on about his various errands now, it occurred to him
as a final and shrewd and delicious thought that he need not go home on
such nights as he wished to go to a theater or anything like that. He
could just stay down-town and say he had to work. And that with free
meals and good clothes--think of that!
The mere thought of all this was so astonishing and entrancing that he
could not bring himself to think of it too much. He must wait and see.
He must wait and see just how much he would make here in this perfectly
marvelous-marvelous realm.
CHAPTER VI
And as conditions stood, the extraordinary economic and social
inexperience of the Griffiths--Asa and Elvira--dovetailed all too
neatly with his dreams. For neither Asa nor Elvira had the least
knowledge of the actual character of the work upon which he was about
to enter, scarcely any more than he did, or what it might mean to him
morally, imaginatively, financially, or in any other way. For neither
of them had ever stopped in a hotel above the fourth class in all
their days. Neither one had ever eaten in a restaurant of a class that
catered to other than individuals of their own low financial level.
That there could be any other forms of work or contact than those
involved in carrying the bags of guests to and from the door of a
hotel to its office, and back again, for a boy of Clyde's years and
temperament, never occurred to them. And it was naïvely assumed by both
that the pay for such work must of necessity be very small anywhere,
say five or six dollars a week, and so actually below Clyde's deserts
and his years.
And in view of this, Mrs. Griffiths, who was more practical than her
husband at all times, and who was intensely interested in Clyde's
economic welfare, as well as that of her other children, was actually
wondering why Clyde should of a sudden become so enthusiastic about
changing to this new situation, which, according to his own story,
involved longer hours and not so very much more pay, if any. To be
sure, he had already suggested that it might lead to some superior
position in the hotel, some clerkship or other, but he did not know
when that would be, and the other had promised rather definite
fulfillment somewhat earlier--as to money, anyhow.
But seeing him rush in on Monday afternoon and announce that he had
secured the place and that forthwith he must change his tie and collar
and get his hair cut and go back and report, she felt better about it.
For never before had she seen him so enthusiastic about anything, and
it was something to have him more content with himself--not so moody,
as he was at times.
Yet, the hours which he began to maintain now--from six in the morning
until midnight--with only an occasional early return on such evenings
as he chose to come home when he was not working--and when he troubled
to explain that he had been let off a little early--together with a
certain eager and restless manner--a desire to be out and away from
his home at nearly all such moments as he was not in bed or dressing
or undressing, puzzled his mother and Asa, also. The hotel! The hotel!
He must always hurry off to the hotel, and all that he had to report
was that he liked it ever so much, and that he was doing all right, he
thought. It was nicer work than working around a soda fountain, and he
might be making more money pretty soon--he couldn't tell--but as for
more than that he either wouldn't or couldn't say.
And all the time the Griffiths--father and mother--were feeling that
because of the affair in connection with Esta, they should really be
moving away from Kansas City--should go to Denver. And now more than
ever, Clyde was insisting that he did not want to leave Kansas City.
They might go, but he had a pretty good job now and wanted to stick to
it. And if they left, he could get a room somewhere--and would be all
right--a thought which did not appeal to them at all.
But in the meantime what an enormous change in Clyde's life. Beginning
with that first evening, when at 5:45, he appeared before Mr. Whipple,
his immediate superior, and was approved--not only because of the fit
of his new uniform, but for his general appearance--the world for him
had changed entirely. Lined up with seven others in the servants' hall,
immediately behind the general offices in the lobby, and inspected by
Mr. Whipple, the squad of eight marched at the stroke of six through a
door that gave into the lobby on the other side of the staircase from
where stood Mr. Whipple's desk, then about and in front of the general
registration office to the long bench on the other side. A Mr. Barnes,
who alternated with Mr. Whipple, then took charge of the assistant
captain's desk, and the boys seated themselves--Clyde at the foot--only
to be called swiftly and in turn to perform this, that and the other
service--while the relieved squad of Mr. Whipple was led away into the
rear servants' hall as before, where they disbanded.
"Cling!"
The bell on the room clerk's desk had sounded and the first boy was
going.
"Cling!" It sounded again and a second boy leaped to his feet.
"Front!"--"Center door!" called Mr. Barnes, and a third boy was
skidding down the long marble floor toward that entrance to seize the
bags of an incoming guest, whose white whiskers and youthful, bright
tweed suit were visible to Clyde's uninitiated eyes a hundred feet
away. A mysterious and yet sacred vision--a tip!
"Front!" It was Mr. Barnes calling again. "See what 913
wants--ice-water, I guess." And a fourth boy was gone.
Clyde, steadily moving up along the bench and adjoining Hegglund, who
had been detailed to instruct him a little, was all eyes and ears and
nerves. He was so tense that he could hardly breathe, and fidgeted and
jerked until finally Hegglund exclaimed: "Now, don't git excited. Just
hold your horses, will yuh? You'll be all right. You're jist like I was
when I begun--all noives. But dat ain't de way. Easy's what you gotta
be aroun' here. An' you wants to look as dough you wasn't seein' nobody
nowhere--just lookin' to what ya got before ya."
"Front!" Mr. Barnes again. Clyde was scarcely able to keep his mind on
what Hegglund was saying. "115 wants some writing paper and pens." A
fifth boy had gone.
"Where do you get writing paper and pens if they want em?" He pleaded
of his instructor, as one who was about to die might plead.
"Off'n de key desk, I toldja. He's to de left over dere. He'll give 'em
to ya. An' you gits ice-water in de hall we lined up in just a minute
ago--at dat end over dere, see--you'll see a little door. You gotta
give dat guy in dere a dime oncet in a while or he'll get sore."
"Cling!" The room clerk's bell. A sixth boy had gone without a word to
supply some order in that direction.
"And now remember," continued Hegglund, seeing that he himself was
next, and cautioning him for the last time, "if dey wants drinks of any
kind, you get 'em in de grill over dere off'n de dining-room. An' be
sure and git de names of de drinks straight or dey'll git sore. An' if
it's a room you're showing, pull de shades down to-night and turn on
de lights. An' if it's anyt'ing from de dinin'-room you gotta see de
head-waiter--he gets de tip, see."
"Front!" He was up and gone.
And Clyde was number one. And number four was already seating himself
again by his side--but looking shrewdly around to see if anybody was
wanted anywhere.
"Front!" It was Mr. Barnes. Clyde was up and before him, grateful that
it was no one coming in with bags, but worried for fear it might be
something that he would not understand or could not do quickly.
"See what 882 wants." Clyde was off toward one of the two elevators
marked, "employees," the proper one to use, he thought, because he had
been taken to the twelfth floor that way, but another boy stepping
out from one of the fast passenger elevators cautioned him as to his
mistake.
"Goin' to a room?" he called. "Use the guest elevators. Them's for the
servants or anybody with bundles."
Clyde hastened to cover his mistake. "Eight," he called. There being no
one else on the elevator with them, the negro elevator boy in charge of
the car saluted him at once.
"You'se new, ain't you? I ain't seen you around here befo'."
"Yes, I just came on," replied Clyde.
"Well, you won't hate it here," commented this youth in the most
friendly way. "No one hates this house, I'll say. Eight did you say?"
He stopped the car and Clyde stepped out. He was too nervous to think
to ask the direction and now began looking at room numbers, only to
decide after a moment that he was in the wrong corridor. The soft brown
carpet under his feet; the soft, cream-tinted walls; the snow-white
bowl lights set in the ceiling--all seemed to him parts of a perfection
and a social superiority which was almost unbelievable--so remote from
all that he had ever known.
And finally, finding 882, he knocked timidly and was greeted after a
moment by a segment of a very stout and vigorous body in a blue and
white striped union suit and a related segment of a round and florid
head in which was set one eye and some wrinkles to one side of it.
"Here's a dollar bill, son," said the eye seemingly--and now a hand
appeared holding a paper dollar. It was fat and red. "You go out to a
haberdasher's and get me a pair of garters--Boston Garters--silk--and
hurry back."
"Yes, sir," replied Clyde, and took the dollar. The door closed and he
found himself hustling along the hall toward the elevator, wondering
what a haberdasher's was. As old as he was--seventeen--the name was new
to him. He had never even heard it before, or noticed it at least. If
the man had said a "gents' furnishing store," he would have understood
at once, but now here he was told to go to a haberdasher's and he did
not know what it was. A cold sweat burst out upon his forehead. His
knees trembled. The devil! What would he do now? Could he ask any one,
even Hegglund, and not seem----
He pushed the elevator button. The car began to descend. A haberdasher.
A haberdasher. Suddenly a sane thought reached him. Supposing he didn't
know what a haberdasher was? After all the man wanted a pair of silk
Boston garters. Where did one get silk Boston garters--at a store, of
course, a place where they sold things for men. Certainly. A gents'
furnishing store. He would run out to a store. And on the way down,
noting another friendly negro in charge, he asked: "Do you know if
there's a gents' furnishing store anywhere around here?"
"One in the building, captain, right outside the south lobby," replied
the negro, and Clyde hurried there, greatly relieved. Yet he felt odd
and strange in his close-fitting uniform and his peculiar hat. All the
time he was troubled by the notion that his small round, tight-fitting
hat might fall off. And he kept pressing it furtively and yet firmly
down. And bustling into the haberdasher's, which was blazing with
lights outside, he exclaimed, "I want to get a pair of Boston silk
garters."
"All right, son, here you are," replied a sleek, short man with bright,
bald head, pink face and gold-rimmed glasses. "For some one in the
hotel, I presume? Well, we'll make that seventy-five cents, and here's
a dime for you," he remarked as he wrapped up the package and dropped
the dollar in the cash register. "I always like to do the right thing
by you boys in there because I know you come to me whenever you can."
Clyde took the dime and the package, not knowing quite what to think.
The garters must be seventy-five cents--he said so. Hence only
twenty-five cents need to be returned to the man. Then the dime was
his. And now, maybe--would the man really give him another tip?
He hurried back into the hotel and up to the elevators. The strains of
a string orchestra somewhere were filling the lobby with delightful
sounds. People were moving here and there--so well-dressed, so much
at ease, so very different from most of the people in the streets or
anywhere, as he saw it.
An elevator door flew open. Various guests entered. Then Clyde and
another bell-boy who gave him an interested glance. At the sixth floor
the boy departed. At the eighth Clyde and an old lady stepped forth.
He hurried to the door of his guest and tapped. The man opened it,
somewhat more fully dressed than before. He had on a pair of trousers
and was shaving.
"Back, eh," he called.
"Yes, sir," replied Clyde, handing him the package and change. "He said
it was seventy-five cents."
"He's a damned robber, but you can keep the change, just the same,"
he replied, handing him the quarter and closing the door. Clyde stood
there, quite spellbound for the fraction of a second. "Thirty-five
cents"--he thought--"thirty-five cents." And for one little short
errand. Could that really be the way things went here? It couldn't be,
really. It wasn't possible--not always.
And then, his feet sinking in the soft nap of the carpet, his hand in
one pocket clutching the money, he felt as if he could squeal or laugh
out loud. Why, thirty-five cents--and for a little service like that.
This man had given him a quarter and the other a dime and he hadn't
done anything at all.
He hurried from the car at the bottom--the strains of the orchestra
once more fascinated him, the wonder of so well-dressed a throng
thrilling him--and made his way to the bench from which he had first
departed.
And following this he had been called to carry the three bags and two
umbrellas of an aged farmer-like couple, who had engaged a parlor,
bedroom and bath on the fifth floor. En route they kept looking at him,
as he could see, but said nothing. Yet once in their room, and after he
had promptly turned on the lights near the door, lowered the blinds and
placed the bags upon the bag racks, the middle-aged and rather awkward
husband--a decidedly solemn and bewhiskered person--studied him and
finally observed: "Young fella, you seem to be a nice, brisk sort of
boy--rather better than most we've seen so far, I must say."
"I certainly don't think that hotels are any place for boys," chirped
up the wife of his bosom--a large and rotund person, who by this time
was busily employed inspecting an adjoining room. "I certainly wouldn't
want any of my boys to work in 'em--the way people act."
"But here, young man," went on the elder, laying off his overcoat and
fishing in his trousers pocket. "You go down and get me three or four
evening papers if there are that many and a pitcher of ice-water, and
I'll give you fifteen cents when you get back."
"This hotel's better'n the one in Omaha, Pa," added the wife
sententiously. "It's got nicer carpets and curtains."
And as green as Clyde was, he could not help smiling secretly. Openly,
however, he preserved a masklike solemnity, seemingly effacing all
facial evidence of thought, and took the change and went out. And in a
few moments he was back with the ice-water and all the evening papers
and departed smilingly with his fifteen cents.
But this, in itself, was but a beginning in so far as this particular
evening was concerned, for he was scarcely seated upon the bench again,
before he was called to room 529, only to be sent to the bar for
drinks--two ginger ales and two syphons of soda--and this by a group of
smartly-dressed young men and girls who were laughing and chattering
in the room, one of whom opened the door just wide enough to instruct
him as to what was wanted. But because of a mirror over the mantel,
he could see the party and one pretty girl in a white suit and cap,
sitting on the edge of a chair in which reclined a young man who had
his arm about her.
Clyde stared, even while pretending not to. And in his state of mind,
this sight was like looking through the gates of Paradise. Here were
young fellows and girls in this room, not so much older than himself,
laughing and talking and drinking even--not ice-cream sodas and the
like, but such drinks no doubt as his mother and father were always
speaking against as leading to destruction, and apparently nothing was
thought of it.
He bustled down to the bar, and having secured the drinks and a charge
slip, returned--and was paid--a dollar and a half for the drinks and a
quarter for himself. And once more he had a glimpse of the appealing
scene. Only now one of the couples was dancing to a tune sung and
whistled by the other two.
But what interested him as much as the visits to and glimpses of
individuals in the different rooms, was the moving panorama of the
main lobby--the character of the clerks behind the main desk--room
clerk, key clerk, mail clerk, cashier and assistant cashier. And the
various stands about the place--flower stand, news stand, cigar stand,
telegraph office, taxicab office, and all manned by individuals who
seemed to him curiously filled with the atmosphere of this place. And
then around and between all these walking or sitting were such imposing
men and women, young men and girls all so fashionably dressed, all so
ruddy and contented looking. And the cars or other vehicles in which
some of them appeared about dinner time and later. It was possible
for him to see them in the flare of the lights outside. The wraps,
furs, and other belongings in which they appeared, or which were often
carried by these other boys and himself across the great lobby and into
the cars or the dining-room or the several elevators. And they were
always of such gorgeous textures, as Clyde saw them. Such grandeur.
This, then, most certainly was what it meant to be rich, to be a person
of consequence in the world--to have money. It meant that you did what
you pleased. That other people, like himself, waited upon you. That you
possessed all of these luxuries. That you went how, where and when you
pleased.
CHAPTER VII
And so, of all the influences which might have come to Clyde at this
time, either as an aid or an injury to his development, perhaps the
most dangerous for him, considering his temperament, was this same
Green-Davidson, than which no more materially affected or gaudy a
realm could have been found anywhere between the two great American
mountain ranges. Its darkened and cushioned tea-room, so somber and
yet tinted so gayly with colored lights, was an ideal rendezvous, not
only for such inexperienced and eager flappers of the period who were
to be taken by a show of luxury, but also for those more experienced
and perhaps a little faded beauties, who had a thought for their
complexions and the advantages of dim and uncertain lights. Also,
like most hotels of its kind, it was frequented by a certain type of
eager and ambitious male of no certain age or station in life, who
counted upon his appearance here at least once, if not twice a day,
at certain brisk and interesting hours, to establish for himself the
reputation of man-about-town, or rounder, or man of wealth, or taste,
or attractiveness, or all.
And it was not long after Clyde had begun to work here that he was
informed by these peculiar boys with whom he was associated, one or
more of whom was constantly seated with him upon the "hop-bench," as
they called it, as to the evidence and presence even here--it was
not long before various examples of the phenomena were pointed out
to him--of a certain type of social pervert, morally disarranged and
socially taboo, who sought to arrest and interest boys of their type,
in order to come into some form of illicit relationship with them,
which at first Clyde could not grasp. The mere thought of it made him
ill. And yet some of these boys, as he was now informed--a certain
youth in particular, who was not on the same watch with him at this
time--were supposed to be of the mind that "fell for it," as one of the
other youths phrased it.
And the talk and the palaver that went on in the lobby and the grill,
to say nothing of the restaurants and rooms, were sufficient to
convince any inexperienced and none-too-discerning mind that the chief
business of life for any one with a little money or social position
was to attend a theater, a ball-game in season, or to dance, motor,
entertain friends at dinner, or to travel to New York, Europe, Chicago,
California. And there had been in the lives of most of these boys such
a lack of anything that approached comfort or taste, let alone luxury,
that not unlike Clyde, they were inclined to not only exaggerate the
import of all that they saw, but to see in this sudden transition an
opportunity to partake of it all. Who were these people with money, and
what had they done that they should enjoy so much luxury, where others
as good seemingly as themselves had nothing? And wherein did these
latter differ so greatly from the successful? Clyde could not see. Yet
these thoughts flashed through the minds of every one of these boys.
At the same time the admiration, to say nothing of the private
overtures of a certain type of woman or girl, who inhibited perhaps by
the social milieu in which she found herself, but having means, could
invade such a region as this, and by wiles and smiles and the money
she possessed, ingratiate herself into the favor of some of the more
attractive of these young men here, was much commented upon.
Thus a youth named Ratterer--a hall-boy here--sitting beside him the
very next afternoon, seeing a trim, well-formed blonde woman of about
thirty enter with a small dog upon her arm, and much bedecked with
furs, first nudged him and, with a faint motion of the head indicating
her vicinity, whispered, "See her? There's a swift one. I'll tell you
about her sometime when I have time. Gee, the things she don't do!"
"What about her?" asked Clyde, keenly curious, for to him she seemed
exceedingly beautiful, most fascinating.
"Oh, nothing, except she's been in with about eight different men
around here since I've been here. She fell for Doyle"--another hall-boy
whom by this time Clyde had already observed as being the quintessence
of Chesterfieldian grace and airs and looks, a youth to imitate--"for a
while, but now she's got some one else."
"Really?" inquired Clyde, very much astonished and wondering if such
luck would ever come to him.
"Surest thing you know," went on Ratterer. "She's a bird that
way--never gets enough. Her husband, they tell me, has a big lumber
business somewhere over in Kansas, but they don't live together no
more. She has one of the best suites on the sixth, but she ain't in it
half the time. The maid told me."
This same Ratterer, who was short and stocky but good-looking and
smiling, was so smooth and bland and generally agreeable that Clyde was
instantly drawn to him and wished to know him better. And Ratterer
reciprocated that feeling, for he had the notion that Clyde was
innocent and inexperienced and that he would like to do some little
thing for him if he could.
The conversation was interrupted by a service call, and never resumed
about this particular woman, but the effect on Clyde was sharp. The
woman was pleasing to look upon and exceedingly well-groomed, her skin
clear, her eyes bright. Could what Ratterer had been telling him really
be true? She was so pretty. He sat and gazed, a vision of something
which he did not care to acknowledge even to himself tingling the roots
of his hair.
And then the temperaments and the philosophy of these boys--Kinsella,
short and thick and smooth-faced and a little dull, as Clyde saw it,
but good-looking and virile, and reported to be a wizard at gambling,
who, throughout the first three days at such times as other matters
were not taking his attention, had been good enough to continue
Hegglund's instructions in part. He was a more suave, better spoken
youth than Hegglund, though not so attractive as Ratterer, Clyde
thought, without the latter's sympathetic outlook, as Clyde saw it.
And again, there was Doyle--Eddie--whom Clyde found intensely
interesting from the first, and of whom he was not a little jealous,
because he was so very good-looking, so trim of figure, easy and
graceful of gesture, and with so soft and pleasing a voice. He went
about with an indescribable air which seemed to ingratiate him
instantly with all with whom he came in contact--the clerks behind the
counter no less than the strangers who entered and asked this or that
question of him. His shoes and collar were so clean and trim, and his
hair cut and brushed and oiled after a fashion which would have become
a moving-picture actor. From the first Clyde was utterly fascinated by
his taste in the matter of dress--the neatest of brown suits, caps,
with ties and socks to match. He should wear a brown-belted coat just
like that. He should have a brown cap. And a suit as well cut and
attractive.
Similarly, a not unrelated and yet different effect was produced
by that same youth who had first introduced Clyde to the work
here--Hegglund--who was one of the older and more experienced
bell-hops, and of considerable influence with the others because of
his genial and devil-may-care attitude toward everything, outside the
exact line of his hotel duties. Hegglund was neither as schooled nor
as attractive as some of the others, yet by reason of a most avid and
dynamic disposition--plus a liberality where money and pleasure were
concerned, and a courage, strength and daring which neither Doyle
nor Ratterer nor Kinsella could match--a strength and daring almost
entirely divested of reason at times--he interested and charmed Clyde
immensely. As he himself related to Clyde, after a time, he was the son
of a Swedish journeyman baker who some years before in Jersey City had
deserted his mother and left her to make her way as best she could. In
consequence neither Oscar nor his sister Martha had had any too much
education or decent social experience of any kind. On the contrary,
at the age of fourteen he had left Jersey City in a box car and had
been making his way ever since as best he could. And like Clyde, also,
he was insanely eager for all the pleasures which he had imagined he
saw swirling around him, and was for prosecuting adventures in every
direction, lacking, however, the nervous fear of consequence which
characterized Clyde. Also he had a friend, a youth by the name of
Sparser, somewhat older than himself, who was chauffeur to a wealthy
citizen of Kansas City, and who occasionally managed to purloin a car
and so accommodate Hegglund in the matter of brief outings here and
there; which courtesy, unconventional and dishonest though it might
be, still caused Hegglund to feel that he was a wonderful fellow and
of much more importance than some of these others, and to lend him in
their eyes a luster which had little of the reality which it suggested
to them.
Not being as attractive as Doyle, it was not so easy for him to win the
attention of girls, and those he did succeed in interesting were not of
the same charm or import by any means. Yet he was inordinately proud
of such contacts as he could effect and not a little given to boasting
in regard to them, a thing which Clyde took with more faith than would
most, being of less experience. For this reason Hegglund liked Clyde,
almost from the very first, sensing in him perhaps a pleased and
willing auditor.
So, finding Clyde on the bench beside him from time to time, he had
proceeded to continue his instructions. Kansas City was a fine place
to be if you knew how to live. He had worked in other cities--Buffalo,
Cleveland, Detroit, St. Louis--before he came here, but he had not
liked any of them any better, principally--which was a fact which he
did not trouble to point out at the time--because he had not done
as well in those places as he had here. He had been a dish-washer,
car-cleaner, plumber's helper and several other things before finally,
in Buffalo, he had been inducted into the hotel business. And then a
youth, working there, but who was now no longer here, had persuaded him
to come on to Kansas City. But here:
"Say--de tips in dis hotel is as big as you'll git anywhere, I know
dat. An' what's more, dey's nice people workin' here. You do your bit
by dem and dey'll do right by you. I been here now over a year an'
I ain't got no complaint. Dat guy Squires is all right if you don't
cause him no trouble. He's hard, but he's got to look out for hisself,
too--dat's natural. But he don't fire nobody unless he's got a reason.
I know dat, too. And as for de rest dere's no trouble. An' when your
work's troo, your time's your own. Dese fellows here are good sports,
all o' dem. Dey're no four-flushers an' no tightwads, eider. Whenever
dere's anyting on--a good time or sumpin' like dat, dere on--nearly
all of 'em. An' dey don't mooch or grouch in case tings don't work out
right, neider. I know dat, cause I been wit 'em now, lots o' times."
He gave Clyde the impression that these youths were all the best of
friends--close--all but Doyle, who was a little stand-offish, but
not coldly so. "He's got too many women chasin' him, dat's all."
Also that they went here and there together on occasion--to a dance
hall, a dinner, a certain gambling joint down near the river, a
certain pleasure resort--"Kate Sweeney's"--where were some peaches of
girls--and so on and so forth, a world of such information as had never
previously been poured into Clyde's ear, and that set him meditating,
dreaming, doubting, worrying and questioning as to the wisdom, charm,
delight to be found in all this--also the permissibility of it in so
far as he was concerned. For had he not been otherwise instructed in
regard to all this all his life long? There was a great thrill and
yet a great question involved in all to which he was now listening so
attentively.
Again there was Thomas Ratterer, who was of a type which at first
glance, one would have said, could scarcely prove either inimical or
dangerous to any of the others. He was not more than five feet four,
plump, with black hair and olive skin, and with an eye that was as
limpid as water and as genial as could be. He, too, as Clyde learned
after a time, was of a nondescript family, and so had profited by no
social or financial advantages of any kind. But he had a way, and was
liked by all of these youths--so much so that he was consulted about
nearly everything. A native of Wichita, recently moved to Kansas City,
he and his sister were the principal support of a widowed mother.
During their earlier and formative years, both had seen their very
good-natured and sympathetic mother, of whom they were honestly fond,
spurned and abused by a faithless husband. There had been times when
they were quite without food. On more than one occasion they had been
ejected for non-payment of rent. None too continuously Tommy and his
sister had been maintained in various public schools. Finally, at the
age of fourteen he had decamped to Kansas City, where he had secured
different odd jobs, until he succeeded in connecting himself with the
Green-Davidson, and was later joined by his mother and sister who had
removed from Wichita to Kansas City to be with him.
But even more than by the luxury of the hotel or these youths, whom
swiftly and yet surely he was beginning to decipher, Clyde was
impressed by the downpour of small change that was tumbling in upon him
and making a small lump in his right-hand pants pocket--dimes, nickels,
quarters and half-dollars even, which increased and increased even on
the first day until by nine o'clock he already had over four dollars in
his pocket, and by twelve, at which hour he went off duty, he had over
six and a half--as much as previously he had earned in a week.
And of all this, as he then knew, he need only hand Mr. Squires one--no
more, Hegglund had said--and the rest, five dollars and a half, for
one evening's interesting--yes, delightful and fascinating--work,
belonged to himself. He could scarcely believe it. It seemed fantastic,
Aladdinish, really. Nevertheless, at twelve, exactly, of that first
day a gong had sounded somewhere--a shuffle of feet had been heard and
three boys had appeared--one to take Barnes' place at the desk, the
other two to answer calls. And at the command of Barnes, the eight who
were present were ordered to rise, right dress and march away. And in
the hall outside, and just as he was leaving, Clyde approached Mr.
Squires and handed him a dollar in silver. "That's right," Mr. Squires
remarked. No more. Then, Clyde, along with the others, descended to his
locker, changed his clothes and walked out into the darkened streets,
a sense of luck and a sense of responsibility as to future luck so
thrilling him as to make him rather tremulous--giddy, even.
To think that now, at last, he actually had such a place. To think
that he could earn this much every day, maybe. He began to walk toward
his home, his first thought being that he must sleep well and so be
fit for his duties in the morning. But thinking that he would not need
to return to the hotel before 11:30 the next day, he wandered into an
all-night beanery to have a cup of coffee and some pie. And now all he
was thinking was that he would only need to work from noon until six,
when he should be free until the following morning at six. And then he
would make more money. A lot of it to spend on himself.
CHAPTER VIII
The thing that most interested Clyde at first was how, if at all, he
was to keep the major portion of all this money he was making for
himself. For ever since he had been working and earning money, it
had been assumed that he would contribute a fair portion of all that
he received--at least three-fourths of the smaller salaries he had
received up to this time--toward the upkeep of the home. But now, if he
announced that he was receiving at least twenty-five dollars a week and
more--and this entirely apart from the salary of fifteen a month and
board--his parents would assuredly expect him to pay ten or twelve.
But so long had he been haunted by the desire to make himself as
attractive looking as any other well-dressed boy that, now that he had
the opportunity, he could not resist the temptation to equip himself
first and as speedily as possible. Accordingly, he decided to say to
his mother that all of the tips he received aggregated no more than
a dollar a day. And, in order to give himself greater freedom of
action in the matter of disposing of his spare time, he announced that
frequently, in addition to the long hours demanded of him every other
day, he was expected to take the place of other boys who were sick or
set to doing other things. And also, he explained that the management
demanded of all boys that they look well outside as well as inside the
hotel. He could not long be seen coming to the hotel in the clothes
that he now wore. Mr. Squires, he said, had hinted as much. But, as
if to soften the blow, one of the boys at the hotel had told him of a
place where he could procure quite all the things that he needed on
time.
And so unsophisticated was his mother in these matters that she
believed him.
But that was not all. He was now daily in contact with a type of youth
who, because of his larger experience with the world and with the
luxuries and vices of such a life as this, had already been inducted
into certain forms of libertinism and vice even which up to this time
were entirely foreign to Clyde's knowledge and set him agape with
wonder and at first with even a timorous distaste. Thus, as Hegglund
had pointed out, a certain percentage of this group, of which Clyde was
now one, made common cause in connection with quite regular adventures
which usually followed their monthly pay night. These adventures,
according to their moods and their cash at the time, led them usually
either to one of two rather famous and not too respectable all-night
restaurants. In groups, as he gathered by degrees from hearing them
talk, they were pleased to indulge in occasional late showy suppers
with drinks, after which they were wont to go to either some flashy
dance hall of the downtown section to pick up a girl, or that failing
as a source of group interest, to visit some notorious--or as they
would have deemed it reputed--brothel, very frequently camouflaged as
a boarding house, where for much less than the amount of cash in their
possession they could, as they often boasted, "have any girl in the
house." And here, of course, because of their known youth, ignorance,
liberality, and uniform geniality and good looks, they were made much
of, as a rule, being made most welcome by the various madames and
girls of these places who sought, for commercial reasons of course, to
interest them to come again.
And so starved had been Clyde's life up to this time and so eager
was he for almost any form of pleasure, that from the first he
listened with all too eager ears to any account of anything that
spelled adventure or pleasure. Not that he approved of these types of
adventures. As a matter of fact at first it offended and depressed him,
seeing as he did that it ran counter to all he had heard and been told
to believe these many years. Nevertheless so sharp a change and relief
from the dreary and repressed work in which he had been brought up was
it, that he could not help thinking of all this with an itch for the
variety and color it seemed to suggest. He listened sympathetically
and eagerly, even while at times he was mentally disapproving of what
he heard. And seeing him so sympathetic and genial, first one and then
another of these youths made overtures to him to go here, there or
the other place--to a show, a restaurant, one of their homes, where a
card game might be indulged in by two or three of them, or even to one
of the shameless houses, contact with which Clyde at first resolutely
refused. But by degrees, becoming familiar with Hegglund and Ratterer,
both of whom he liked very much, and being invited by them to a
joy-night supper--a "blow-out" as they termed it, at Frissell's--he
decided to go.
"There's going to be another one of our monthly blow-outs to-morrow
night, Clyde, around at Frissell's," Ratterer had said to him. "Don't
you want to come along? You haven't been yet."
By this time, Clyde, having acclimated himself to this caloric
atmosphere, was by no means as dubious as he was at first. For by
now, in imitation of Doyle, whom he had studied most carefully and to
great advantage, he had outfitted himself with a new brown suit, cap,
overcoat, socks, stickpin and shoes as near like those of his mentor as
possible. And the costume became him well--excellently well--so much so
that he was far more attractive than he had ever been in his life, and
now, not only his parents, but his younger brother and sister, were not
a little astonished and even amazed by the change.
How could Clyde have come by all this grandeur so speedily? How much
could all this that he wore now have cost? Was he not hypothecating
more of his future earnings for this temporary grandeur than was really
wise? He might need it in the future. The other children needed things,
too. And was the moral and spiritual atmosphere of a place that made
him work such long hours and kept him out so late every day, and for so
little pay, just the place to work?
To all of which, he had replied, rather artfully for him, that it was
all for the best, he was not working too hard. His clothes were not too
fine, by any means--his mother should see some of the other boys. He
was not spending too much money. And, anyhow, he had a long while in
which to pay for all he had bought.
But now, as to this supper. That was a different matter, even to him.
How, he asked himself, in case the thing lasted until very late as was
expected, could he explain to his mother and father his remaining out
so very late. Ratterer had said it might last until three or four,
anyhow, although he might go, of course, any time. But how would that
look, deserting the crowd? And yet hang it all, most of them did not
live at home as he did, or if they did like Ratterer, they had parents
who didn't mind what they did. Still, a late supper like that--was
it wise? All these boys drank and thought nothing of it--Hegglund,
Ratterer, Kinsella, Shiel. It must be silly for him to think that
there was so much danger in drinking a little, as they did on these
occasions. On the other hand it was true that he need not drink unless
he wanted to. He could go, and if anything was said at home, he would
say that he had to work late. What difference did it make if he stayed
out late once in a while? Wasn't he a man now? Wasn't he making more
money than any one else in the family? And couldn't he begin to do as
he pleased?
He began to sense the delight of personal freedom--to sniff the air of
personal and delicious romance--and he was not to be held back by any
suggestion which his mother could now make.
CHAPTER IX
And so the interesting dinner, with Clyde attending, came to pass. And
it was partaken of at Frissell's, as Ratterer had said. And by now
Clyde, having come to be on genial terms with all of these youths,
was in the gayest of moods about it all. Think of his new state in
life, anyhow. Only a few weeks ago he was all alone, not a boy friend,
scarcely a boy acquaintance in the world! And here he was, so soon
after, going to this fine dinner with this interesting group.
And true to the illusions of youth, the place appeared far more
interesting than it really was. It was little more than an excellent
chop-house of the older American order. Its walls were hung thick with
signed pictures of actors and actresses, together with playbills of
various periods. And because of the general excellence of the food,
to say nothing of the geniality of its present manager, it had become
the hangout of passing actors, politicians, local business men, and
after them, the generality of followers who are always drawn by that
which presents something a little different to that with which they are
familiar.
And these boys, having heard at one time and another from cab and taxi
drivers that this was one of the best places in town, fixed upon it for
their monthly dinners. Single plates of anything cost from sixty cents
to a dollar. Coffee and tea were served in pots only. You could get
anything you wanted to drink. To the left of the main room as you went
in was a darker and low-ceilinged room, with a fireplace, to which only
men resorted and sat and smoked, and read papers after dinner, and it
was for this room that these youths reserved their greatest admiration.
Eating here, they somehow felt older, wiser, more important--real men
of the world. And both Ratterer and Hegglund, to whom by now Clyde
had become very much attached, as well as most of the others, were
satisfied that there was not another place in all Kansas City that was
really as good.
And so this day, having drawn their pay at noon, and being off at six
for the night, they gathered outside the hotel at the corner nearest
the drug store at which Clyde had originally applied for work, and were
off in a happy, noisy frame of mind--Hegglund, Ratterer, Paul Shiel,
Davis Higby, another youth, Arthur Kinsella and Clyde.
"Didja hear de trick de guy from St. Louis pulled on de main office
yesterday?" Hegglund inquired of the crowd generally, as they started
walking. "Wires last Saturday from St. Louis for a parlor, bedroom and
bat for himself and wife, an' orders flowers put in de room. Jimmy,
the key clerk, was just tellin' me. Den he comes on here and registers
himself an' his girl, see, as man and wife, an', gee, a peach of a
lookin' girl, too--I saw 'em. Listen, you fellows, cantcha? Den, on
Wednesday, after he's been here tree days and dey're beginnin' to
wonder about him a little--meals sent to de room and all dat--he comes
down and says dat his wife's gotta go back to St. Louis, and dat he
won't need no suite, just one room, and dat dey can transfer his trunk
and her bags to de new room until train time for her. But de trunk
ain't his at all, see, but hers. And she ain't goin', don't know nuttin
about it. But he is. Den he beats it, see, and leaves her and de trunk
in de room. And widout a bean, see? Now, dey're holdin' her and her
trunk, an' she's cryin' and wirin' friends, and dere's hell to pay all
around. Can ya beat dat? An' de flowers, too. Roses. An' six different
meals in de room and drinks for him, too."
"Sure, I know the one you mean," exclaimed Paul Shiel. "I took up some
drinks myself. I felt there was something phony about that guy. He was
too smooth and loud-talking. An' he only come across with a dime at
that."
"I remember him, too," exclaimed Ratterer. "He sent me down for all the
Chicago papers Monday an' only give me a dime. He looked like a bluff
to me."
"Well, dey fell for him up in front, all right." It was Hegglund
talking. "An' now dey're tryin' to gouge it outa her. Can you beat it?"
"She didn't look to me to be more than eighteen or twenty, if she's
that old," put in Arthur Kinsella, who up to now had said nothing.
"Did you see either of 'em, Clyde?" inquired Ratterer, who was inclined
to favor and foster Clyde and include him in everything.
"No," replied Clyde. "I must have missed those two. I don't remember
seeing either of 'em."
"Well, you missed seein' a bird when you missed that one. Tall, long
black cut-a-way coat, wide, black derby pulled low over his eyes,
pearl-gray spats, too. I thought he was an English duke or something at
first, the way he walked, and with a cane, too. All they gotta do is
pull that English stuff, an' talk loud an' order everybody about an'
they git by with it every time."
"That's right," commented Davis Higby. "That's good stuff, that English
line. I wouldn't mind pulling some of it myself sometime."
They had now turned two corners, crossed two different streets and,
in group formation, were making their way through the main door of
Frissell's, which gave in on the reflection of lights upon china and
silverware and faces, and the buzz and clatter of a dinner crowd. Clyde
was enormously impressed. Never before, apart from the Green-Davidson,
had he been in such a place. And with such wise, experienced youths.
They made their way to a group of tables which faced a leather
wall-seat. The head-waiter, recognizing Ratterer and Hegglund and
Kinsella as old patrons, had two tables put together and butter and
bread and glasses brought. About these they arranged themselves, Clyde
with Ratterer and Higby occupying the wall-seat; Hegglund, Kinsella and
Shiel sitting opposite.
"Now, me for a good old Manhattan, to begin wit'," exclaimed Hegglund
avidly, looking about on the crowd in the room and feeling that now
indeed he was a person. Of a reddish-tan hue, his eyes keen and blue,
his reddish-brown hair brushed straight up from his forehead, he seemed
not unlike a large and overzealous rooster.
And similarly, Arthur Kinsella, once he was in here, seemed to perk up
and take heart of his present glory. In a sort of ostentatious way, he
drew back his coat sleeves, seized a bill of fare, and scanning the
drink-list on the back, exclaimed: "Well, a dry Martini is good enough
for a start."
"Well, I'm going to begin with a Scotch and soda," observed Paul Shiel,
solemnly, examining at the same time the meat orders.
"None of your cocktails for me to-night," insisted Ratterer, genially,
but with a note of reserve in his voice. "I said I wasn't going to
drink much to-night, and I'm not. I think a glass of Rhine wine and
seltzer will be about my speed."
"For de love o' Mike, will you listen to dat, now," exclaimed Hegglund,
deprecatingly. "He's goin' to begin on Rhine wine. And him dat likes
Manhattans always. What's gettin' into you all of a sudden, Tommy? I
tought you said you wanted a good time to-night."
"So I do," replied Ratterer, "but can't I have a good time without
lappin' up everything in the place? I want to stay sober to-night. No
more call-downs for me in the morning, if I know what I'm about. I came
pretty near not showing up last time."
"That's true, too," exclaimed Arthur Kinsella. "I don't want to drink
so much I don't know where I'm at, but I'm not going to begin worrying
about it now."
"How about you, Higby?" Hegglund now called to the round-eyed youth.
"I'm having a Manhattan, too," he replied, and then, looking up at the
waiter who was beside him, added, "How's tricks, Dennis?"
"Oh, I can't complain," replied the waiter. "They're breakin' all right
for me these days. How's everything over to the hotel?"
"Fine, fine," replied Higby, cheerfully, studying the bill-of-fare.
"An' you, Griffiths? What are you goin' to have?" called Hegglund, for,
as master-of-ceremonies, delegated by the others to look after the
orders and pay the bill and tip the waiter, he was now fulfilling the
rôle.
"Who, me? Oh, me," exclaimed Clyde, not a little disturbed by this
inquiry, for up to now--this very hour, in fact--he had never touched
anything stronger than coffee or ice-cream soda. He had been not a
little taken back by the brisk and sophisticated way in which these
youths ordered cocktails and whisky. Surely he could not go so far
as that, and yet, so well had he known long before this, from the
conversation of these youths, that on such occasions as this they did
drink, that he did not see how he could very well hold back. What would
they think of him if he didn't drink something? For ever since he had
been among them, he had been trying to appear as much of a man of the
world as they were. And yet back of him, as he could plainly feel, lay
all of the years in which he had been drilled in the "horrors" of drink
and evil companionship. And even though in his heart this long while he
had secretly rebelled against nearly all the texts and maxims to which
his parents were always alluding, deeply resenting really as worthless
and pointless the ragamuffin crew of wasters and failures whom they
were always seeking to save, still, now he was inclined to think and
hesitate. Should he or should he not drink?
For the fraction of an instant only, while all these things in him now
spoke, he hesitated, then added: "Why, I, oh--I think I'll take Rhine
wine and seltzer, too." It was the easiest and safest thing to say, as
he saw it. Already the rather temperate and even innocuous character
of Rhine wine and seltzer had been emphasized by Hegglund and all the
others. And yet Ratterer was taking it--a thing which made his choice
less conspicuous and, as he felt, less ridiculous.
"Will you listen to dis now?" exclaimed Hegglund, dramatically. "He
says he'll have Rhine wine and seltzer, too. I see where dis party
breaks up at half-past eight, all right, unless some of de rest of us
do someting."
And Davis Higby, who was far more trenchant and roistering than his
pleasant exterior gave any indication of, turned to Ratterer and said:
"Whatja want to start this Rhine wine and seltzer stuff for, so soon,
Tom? Dontcha want us to have any fun at all to-night?"
"Well, I told you why," said Ratterer. "Besides, the last time I went
down to that joint I had forty bucks when I went in and not a cent when
I came out. I want to know what's goin' on this time."
"That joint," thought Clyde on hearing it. Then, after this supper,
when they had all drunk and eaten enough, they were going down to
one of those places called a "joint"--a bad-house, really. There was
no doubt of it--he knew what the word meant. There would be women
there--bad women--evil women. And he would be expected--could he--would
he?
For the first time in his life now, he found himself confronted by
a choice as to his desire for the more accurate knowledge of the
one great fascinating mystery that had for so long confronted and
fascinated and baffled and yet frightened him a little. For, despite
all his many thoughts in regard to all this and women in general,
he had never been in contact with any one of them in this way. And
now--now--
All of a sudden he felt faint thrills of hot and cold racing up and
down his back and all over him. His hands and face grew hot and
then became moist--then his cheeks and forehead flamed. He could
feel them. Strange, swift, enticing and yet disturbing thoughts
raced in and out of his consciousness. His hair tingled and he saw
pictures--bacchanalian scenes--which swiftly, and yet in vain, he
sought to put out of his mind. They would keep coming back. And he
wanted them to come back. Yet he did not. And through it all he was now
a little afraid. Pshaw! Had he no courage at all? These other fellows
were not disturbed by the prospects of what was before them. They were
very gay. They were already beginning to laugh and kid one another in
regard to certain funny things that had happened the last time they
were all out together. But what would his mother think if she knew? His
mother! He dared not think of his mother or his father either at this
time, and put them both resolutely out of his mind.
"Oh, say, Kinsella," called Higby. "Do you remember that little red
head in that Pacific Street joint that wanted you to run away to
Chicago with her?"
"Do I?" replied the amused Kinsella, taking up the Martini that was
just then served him. "She even wanted me to quit the hotel game and
let her start me in a business of some kind. 'I wouldn't need to work
at all if I stuck by her,' she told me.
"Oh, no, you wouldn't need to work at all, except one way," called
Ratterer.
The waiter put down Clyde's glass of Rhine wine and seltzer beside him
and, interested and intense and troubled and fascinated by all that
he heard, he picked it up, tasted it and, finding it mild and rather
pleasing, drank it all down at once. And yet so wrought up were his
thoughts that he scarcely realized then that he had drunk it.
"Good for you," observed Kinsella, in a most cordial tone. "You must
like that stuff."
"Oh, it's not so bad," said Clyde.
And Hegglund, seeing how swiftly it had gone, and feeling that Clyde,
new to this world and green, needed to be cheered and strengthened,
called to the waiter: "Here, Jerry! One more of these, and make it a
big one," he whispered behind his hand.
And so the dinner proceeded. And it was nearly eleven before they
had exhausted the various matters of interest to them--stories of
past affairs, past jobs, past feats of daring. And by then Clyde had
had considerable time to meditate on all of these youths--and he was
inclined to think that he was not nearly as green as they thought, or
if so, at least shrewder than most of them--of a better mentality,
really. For who were they and what were their ambitions? Hegglund, as
he could see, was vain and noisy and foolish--a person who could be
taken in and conciliated by a little flattery. And Higby and Kinsella,
interesting and attractive boys both, were still vain of things he
could not be proud of--Higby of knowing a little something about
automobiles--he had an uncle in the business--Kinsella of gambling,
rolling dice even. And as for Ratterer and Shiel, he could see and
had noticed for some time, that they were content with the bell-hop
business--just continuing in that and nothing more--a thing which he
could not believe, even now, would interest him forever.
At the same time, being confronted by this problem of how soon they
would be wanting to go to a place into which he had never ventured
before, and to be doing things which he had never let himself think
he would do in just this way, he was just a little disturbed. Had he
not better excuse himself after they got outside, or perhaps, after
starting along with them in whatsoever direction they chose to go,
quietly slip away at some corner and return to his own home? For had he
not already heard that the most dreadful of diseases were occasionally
contracted in just such places--and that men died miserable deaths
later because of low vices begun in this fashion? He could hear his
mother lecturing concerning all this--yet with scarcely any direct
knowledge of any kind. And yet, as an argument per contra, here were
all of these boys in nowise disturbed by what was in their minds or
moods to do. On the contrary, they were very gay over it all and
amused--nothing more.
In fact, Ratterer, who was really very fond of Clyde by now, more
because of the way he looked and inquired and listened than because of
anything Clyde did or said, kept nudging him with his elbow now and
then, asking laughingly, "How about it, Clyde? Going to be initiated
to-night?" and then smiling broadly. Or finding Clyde quite still and
thinking at times, "They won't do more than bite you, Clyde."
And Hegglund, taking his cue from Ratterer and occasionally desisting
from his own self-glorifying diatribes, would add: "You won't ever be
de same, Clyde. Dey never are. But we'll all be wid you in case of
trouble."
And Clyde, nervous and irritated, would retort: "Ah, cut it out, you
two. Quit kidding. What's the use of trying to make out that you know
so much more than I do?"
And Ratterer would signal Hegglund with his eyes to let up and would
occasionally whisper to Clyde: "That's all right, old man, don't get
sore. You know we were just fooling, that's all." And Clyde, very much
drawn to Ratterer, would relent and wish he were not so foolish as to
show what he actually was thinking about.
At last, however, by eleven o'clock, they had had their fill of
conversation and food and drink and were ready to depart, Hegglund
leading the way. And instead of the vulgar and secretive mission
producing a kind of solemnity and mental or moral self-examination and
self-flagellation, they laughed and talked as though there was nothing
but a delicious form of amusement before them. Indeed, much to Clyde's
disgust and amazement, they now began to reminisce concerning other
ventures into this world--of one particular one which seemed to amuse
them all greatly, and which seemed to concern some "joint," as they
called it, which they had once visited--a place called "Bettina's."
They had been led there originally by a certain wild youth by the name
of "Pinky" Jones of the staff of another local hotel. And this boy and
one other by the name of Birmingham, together with Hegglund, who had
become wildly intoxicated, had there indulged in wild pranks which
all but led to their arrest--pranks which to Clyde, as he listened to
them, seemed scarcely possible to boys of this caliber and cleanly
appearance--pranks so crude and disgusting as to sicken him a little.
"Oh, ho, and de pitcher of water de girl on de second floor doused on
me as I went out," called Hegglund, laughing heartily.
"And the big fat guy on the second floor that came to the door to see.
Remember?" laughed Kinsella. "He thought there was a fire or a riot, I
bet."
"And you and that little fat girl, Piggy. 'Member, Ratterer?" squealed
Shiel, laughing and choking as he tried to tell of it.
"And Ratterer's legs all bent under his load. Yoo-hoo!" yelled
Hegglund. "And de way de two of 'em finally slid down de steps."
"That was all your fault, Hegglund," called Higby from Kinsella's side.
"If you hadn't tried that switching stuff we never woulda got put out."
"I tell you I was drunk," protested Ratterer. "It was the red-eye they
sold in there."
"And that long, thin guy from Texas with the big mustache, will you
ever forget him, an' the way he laughed?" added Kinsella. "He wouldn't
help nobody 'gainst us. 'Member?"
"It's a wonder we weren't all thrown in the street or locked up. Oh,
gee, what a night!" reminisced Ratterer.
By now Clyde was faintly dizzy with the nature of these revelations.
"Switchin'." That could mean but one thing.
And they expected him to share in revels such as these, maybe. It could
not be. He was not that sort of person. What would his mother and
father think if they were to hear of such dreadful things? And yet----
Even as they talked, they had reached a certain house in a dark and
rather wide street, the curbs of which for a block or more on either
side were sprinkled with cabs and cars. And at the corner, only a
little distance away, were some young men standing and talking. And
over the way, more men. And not a half a block farther on, they passed
two policemen, idling and conversing. And although there was no light
visible in any window, nor over any transom, still, curiously, there
was a sense of vivid, radiant life. One could feel it in this dark
street. Taxis spun and honked and two old-time closed carriages still
in use rolled here and there, their curtains drawn. And doors slammed
or opened and closed. And now and then a segment of bright inward light
pierced the outward gloom and then disappeared again. Overhead on this
night were many stars.
Finally, without any comment from any one, Hegglund, accompanied by
Higby and Shiel, marched up the steps of this house and rang the bell.
Almost instantly the door was opened by a black girl in a red dress.
"Good evening. Walk right in, won't you?" was the affable greeting,
and the six, having pushed past her and through the curtains of heavy
velvet, which separated this small area from the main chambers, Clyde
found himself in a bright and rather gaudy general parlor or reception
room, the walls of which were ornamented with gilt-framed pictures of
nude or semi-nude girls and some very high pier mirrors. And the floor
was covered by a bright red thick carpet, over which were strewn many
gilt chairs. At the back, before some very bright red hangings, was a
gilded upright piano. But of guests or inmates there seemed to be none,
other than the black girl.
"Jest be seated, won't you? Make yourselves at home. I'll call the
madam." And, running upstairs to the left, she began calling: "Oh,
Marie! Sadie! Caroline! They is some young gentlemen in the parlor."
And at that moment, from a door in the rear, there emerged a tall, slim
and rather pale-faced woman of about thirty-eight or forty--very erect,
very executive, very intelligent and graceful-looking--diaphanously and
yet modestly garbed, who said, with a rather wan and yet encouraging
smile: "Oh, hello, Oscar, it's you, is it? And you too, Paul. Hello!
Hello, Davis! Just make yourselves at home anywhere, all of you. Fannie
will be in in a minute. She'll bring you something to drink. I've just
hired a new pianist from St. Joe--a negro. Wait'll you hear him. He's
awfully clever."
She returned to the rear and called, "Oh, Sam!"
As she did so, nine girls of varying ages and looks, but none
apparently over twenty-four or five--came trooping down the stairs at
one side in the rear, and garbed as Clyde had never seen any women
dressed anywhere. And they were all laughing and talking as they
came--evidently very well pleased with themselves and in nowise ashamed
of their appearance, which in some instances was quite extraordinary,
as Clyde saw it, their costumes ranging from the gayest and flimsiest
of boudoir negligées to the somewhat more sober, if no less revealing,
dancing and ballroom gowns. And they were of such varied types and
sizes and complexions--slim and stout and medium--tall or short--and
dark or light or betwixt. And, whatever their ages, all seemed young.
And they smiled so warmly and enthusiastically.
"Oh, hello, sweetheart! How are you? Don't you want to dance with me?"
or "Wouldn't you like something to drink?"
CHAPTER X
Prepared as Clyde was to dislike all this, so steeped had he been
in moods and maxims antipathetic to anything of its kind, still so
innately sensual and romantic was his own disposition and so starved
where sex was concerned, that instead of being sickened, he was quite
fascinated. The very fleshly sumptuousness of most of these figures,
dull and unromantic as might be the brains that directed them,
interested him for the time being. After all, here was beauty of a
gross, fleshy character, revealed and purchasable. And there were no
difficulties of mood or inhibitions to overcome in connection with any
of these girls. One of them, a quite pretty brunette in a black and red
costume, with a band of red ribbon across her forehead, seemed to be
decidedly at home with Higby, for already she was dancing with him in
the back room to a jazz melody most irrationally hammered out upon the
piano.
And Ratterer, to Clyde's surprise, was already seated upon one of the
gilt chairs and upon his knees was lounging a tall young girl with very
light hair and blue eyes. And she was smoking a cigarette and tapping
her gold slippers to the melody of the piano. It was really quite an
amazing and Aladdin-like scene to him. And here was Hegglund, before
whom was standing a German or Scandinavian type, plump and pretty,
her arms akimbo and her feet wide apart. And she was asking--with an
upward swell of the voice, as Clyde could hear: "You make love to me
to-night?" But Hegglund, apparently not very much taken with these
overtures, calmly shook his head, after which she went on to Kinsella.
And even as he was looking and thinking, a quite attractive blonde girl
of not less than twenty-four, but who seemed younger to Clyde, drew up
a chair beside him and seating herself, said: "Don't you dance?" He
shook his head nervously. "Want me to show you?"
"Oh, I wouldn't want to try here," he said.
"Oh, it's easy," she continued. "Come on!" But since he would not,
though he was rather pleased with her for being agreeable to him, she
added: "Well, how about something to drink then?"
"Sure," he agreed, gallantly, and forthwith she signaled the young
negress who had returned as waitress, and in a moment a small table was
put before them and a bottle of whisky with soda on the side--a sight
that so astonished and troubled Clyde that he could scarcely speak. He
had forty dollars in his pocket, and the cost of drinks here, as he
had heard from the others, would not be less than two dollars each,
but even so, think of him buying drinks for such a woman at such a
price! And his mother and sisters and brother at home with scarcely
the means to make ends meet. And yet he bought and paid for several,
feeling all the while that he had let himself in for a terrifying bit
of extravagance, if not an orgy, but now that he was here, he must go
through with it.
And besides, as he now saw, this girl was really pretty. She had on
a Delft blue evening gown of velvet, with slippers and stockings to
match. In her ears were blue earrings and her neck and shoulders
and arms were plump and smooth. The most disturbing thing about her
was that her bodice was cut very low--he dared scarcely look at her
there--and her cheeks and lips were painted--most assuredly the marks
of the scarlet woman. Yet she did not seem very aggressive, in fact
quite human, and she kept looking rather interestedly at his deep and
dark and nervous eyes.
"You work over at the Green-Davidson, too, don't you?" she asked.
"Yes," replied Clyde, trying to appear as if all this were not new to
him--as if he had been often in just such a place as this, amid such
scenes. "How did you know?"
"Oh, I know Oscar Hegglund," she replied. "He comes around here once in
a while. Is he a friend of yours?"
"Yes. That is, he works over at the hotel with me."
"But you haven't been here before."
"No," said Clyde, swiftly, and yet with a trace of inquiry in his own
mood. Why should she say he hadn't been here before?
"I thought you hadn't. I've seen most of these other boys before, but
I never saw you. You haven't been working over at the hotel very long,
have you?"
"No," said Clyde, a little irritated by this, his eyebrows and the skin
of his forehead rising and falling as he talked--a form of contraction
and expansion that went on involuntarily whenever he was nervous or
thought deeply. "What of it?"
"Oh, nothing. I just knew you hadn't. You don't look very much like
these other boys--you look different." She smiled oddly and rather
ingratiatingly, a smile and a mood which Clyde failed to interpret.
"How different?" he inquired, solemnly and contentiously, taking up a
glass and drinking from it.
"I'll bet you one thing," she went on, ignoring his inquiry entirely.
"You don't care for girls like me very much, do you?"
"Oh, yes, I do, too," he said, evasively.
"Oh, no, you don't either. I can tell. But I like you just the same.
I like your eyes. You're not like those other fellows. You're more
refined, kinda. I can tell. You don't look like them."
"Oh, I don't know," replied Clyde, very much pleased and flattered, his
forehead wrinkling and clearing as before. This girl was certainly not
as bad as he thought, maybe. She was more intelligent--a little more
refined than the others. Her costume was not so gross. And she hadn't
thrown herself upon him as had these others upon Hegglund, Higby,
Kinsella and Ratterer. Nearly all of the group by now were seated upon
chairs or divans about the room and upon their knees were girls. And in
front of every couple was a little table with a bottle of whisky upon
it.
"Look who's drinking whisky!" called Kinsella to such of the others as
would pay any attention to him, glancing in Clyde's direction.
"Well, you needn't be afraid of me," went on the girl, while Clyde
glanced at her arms and neck, at her too much revealed bosom, which
quite chilled and yet enticed him. "I haven't been so very long in this
business. And I wouldn't be here now if it hadn't been for all the
bad luck I've had. I'd rather live at home with my family if I could,
only they wouldn't have me, now." She looked rather solemnly at the
floor, thinking mainly of the little inexperienced dunce Clyde was--so
raw and green. Also of the money she had seen him take out of his
pocket--plainly quite a sum. Also how really good-looking he was, not
handsome or vigorous, but pleasing. And he was thinking at the instant
of Esta, as to where she had gone or was now. What might have befallen
her--who could say? What might have been done to her? Had this girl, by
any chance, ever had any such unfortunate experience as she had had? He
felt a growing, if somewhat grandiose, sympathy, and looked at her as
much as to say: "You poor thing." Yet for the moment he would not trust
himself to say anything or make any further inquiry.
"You fellows who come into a place like this always think so hard of
everybody. I know how you are. But we're not as bad as you think."
Clyde's brows knit and smoothed again. Perhaps she was not as bad as he
thought. She was a low woman, no doubt--evil but pretty. In fact, as
he looked about the room from time to time, none of the girls appealed
to him more. And she thought him better than these other boys--more
refined--she had detected that. The compliment stuck. Presently she was
filling his glass for him and urging him to drink with her. Another
group of young men arrived about then--and other girls coming out of
the mysterious portals at the rear to greet them--Hegglund and Ratterer
and Kinsella and Higby, as he saw, mysteriously disappeared up that
back stairs that was heavily curtained from the general room. And as
these others came in, this girl invited him to come and sit upon a
divan in the back room where the lights were dimmer.
And now, seated here, she had drawn very close to him and touched
his hands and finally linking an arm in his and pressing close to
him, inquired if he didn't want to see how pretty some of the rooms
on the second floor were furnished. And seeing that he was quite
alone now--not one of all the group with whom he had come around to
observe him--and that this girl seemed to lean to him warmly and
sympathetically, he allowed himself to be led up that curtained back
stair and into a small pink and blue furnished room, while he kept
saying to himself that this was an outrageous and dangerous proceeding
on his part, and that it might well end in misery for him. He might
contract some dreadful disease. She might charge him more than he
could afford. He was afraid of her--himself--everything, really--quite
nervous and almost dumb with his several fears and qualms. And yet he
went, and, the door locked behind him, this interestingly well-rounded
and graceful Venus turned the moment they were within and held him to
her, then calmly, and before a tall mirror which revealed her fully to
herself and him, began to disrobe....
CHAPTER XI
The effect of this adventure on Clyde was such as might have been
expected in connection with one so new and strange to such a world
as this. In spite of all that deep and urgent curiosity and desire
that had eventually led him to that place and caused him to yield,
still, because of the moral precepts with which he had so long been
familiar, and also because of the nervous esthetic inhibitions which
were characteristic of him, he could not but look back upon all this as
decidedly degrading and sinful. His parents were probably right when
they preached that this was all low and shameful. And yet this whole
adventure and the world in which it was laid, once it was all over,
was lit with a kind of gross, pagan beauty or vulgar charm for him.
And until other and more interesting things had partially effaced it,
he could not help thinking back upon it with considerable interest and
pleasure, even.
In addition he kept telling himself that now, having as much money as
he was making, he could go and do about as he pleased. He need not go
there any more if he did not want to, but he could go to other places
that might not be as low, maybe--more refined. He wouldn't want to
go with a crowd like that again. He would rather have just one girl
somewhere if he could find her--a girl such as those with whom he
had seen Sieberling and Doyle associate. And so, despite all of his
troublesome thoughts of the night before, he was thus won quickly over
to this new source of pleasure if not its primary setting. He must find
a free pagan girl of his own somewhere if he could, like Doyle, and
spend his money on her. And he could scarcely wait until opportunity
should provide him with the means of gratifying himself in this way.
But more interesting and more to his purpose at the time was the fact
that both Hegglund and Ratterer, in spite of, or possibly because
of, a secret sense of superiority which they detected in Clyde, were
inclined to look upon him with no little interest and to court him
and to include him among all their thoughts of affairs and pleasures.
Indeed, shortly after this first adventure, Ratterer invited him to
come to his home, where, as Clyde most quickly came to see, was a life
very different from his own. At the Griffiths all was so solemn and
reserved, the still moods of those who feel the pressure of dogma
and conviction. In Ratterer's home, the reverse of this was nearly
true. The mother and sister with whom he lived, while not without some
moral although no particular religious convictions, were inclined to
view life with a great deal of generosity or, as a moralist would have
seen it, laxity. There had never been any keen moral or characterful
direction there at all. And so it was that Ratterer and his sister
Louise, who was two years younger than himself, now did about as they
pleased, and without thinking very much about it. But his sister
chanced to be shrewd or individual enough not to wish to cast herself
away on just any one.
The interesting part of all this was that Clyde, in spite of a certain
strain of refinement which caused him to look askance at most of this,
was still fascinated by the crude picture of life and liberty which
it offered. Among such as these, at least, he could go, do, be as he
had never gone or done or been before. And particularly was he pleased
and enlightened--or rather dubiously liberated--in connection with
his nervousness and uncertainty in regard to his charm or fascination
for girls of his own years. For up to this very time, and in spite
of his recent first visit to the erotic temple to which Hegglund and
the others had led him, he was still convinced that he had no skill
with or charm where girls were concerned. Their mere proximity or
approach was sufficient to cause him to recede mentally, to chill or
palpitate nervously, and to lose what little natural skill he had for
conversation or poised banter such as other youths possessed. But now,
in his visits to the home of Ratterer, as he soon discovered, he was
to have ample opportunity to test whether this shyness and uncertainty
could be overcome.
For it was a center for the friends of Ratterer and his sister, who
were more or less of one mood in regard to life. Dancing, card-playing,
love-making rather open and unashamed, went on there. Indeed, up to
this time, Clyde would not have imagined that a parent like Mrs.
Ratterer could have been as lackadaisical or indifferent as she was,
apparently, to conduct and morals generally. He would not have imagined
that any mother would have countenanced the easy camaraderie that
existed between the sexes in Mrs. Ratterer's home.
And very soon, because of several cordial invitations which were
extended to him by Ratterer, he found himself part and parcel of this
group--a group which from one point of view--the ideas held by its
members, the rather wretched English they spoke--he looked down upon.
From another point of view--the freedom they possessed, the zest with
which they managed to contrive social activities and exchanges--he was
drawn to them. Because, for the first time, these permitted him, if he
chose, to have a girl of his own, if only he could summon the courage.
And this, owing to the well-meant ministrations of Ratterer and his
sister and their friends, he soon sought to accomplish. Indeed the
thing began on the occasion of his first visit to the Ratterers.
Louise Ratterer worked in a dry-goods store and often came home a
little late for dinner. On this occasion she did not appear until
seven, and the eating of the family meal was postponed accordingly.
In the meantime, two girl friends of Louise arrived to consult her
in connection with something, and finding her delayed, and Ratterer
and Clyde there, they made themselves at home, rather impressed and
interested by Clyde and his new finery. For he, at once girl-hungry
and girl-shy, held himself nervously aloof, a manifestation which
they mistook for a conviction of superiority on his part. And in
consequence, arrested by this, they determined to show how really
interesting they were--vamp him--no less. And he found their crude
briskness and effrontery very appealing--so much so that he was soon
taken by the charms of one, a certain Hortense Briggs, who, like
Louise, was nothing more than a crude shop girl in one of the large
stores, but pretty and dark and self-appreciative. And yet from the
first, he realized that she was not a little coarse and vulgar--a very
long way removed from the type of girl he had been imagining in his
dreams that he would like to have.
"Oh, hasn't she come in yet?" announced Hortense, on first being
admitted by Ratterer and seeing Clyde near one of the front windows,
looking out. "Isn't that too bad? Well, we'll just have to wait a
little bit if you don't mind"--this last with a switch and a swagger
that plainly said, who would mind having us around? And forthwith she
began to primp and admire herself before a mirror which surmounted
an ocher-colored mantelpiece that graced a fireless grate in the
dining-room. And her friend, Greta Miller, added: "Oh, dear, yes. I
hope you won't make us go before she comes. We didn't come to eat. We
thought your dinner would be all over by now."
"Where do you get that stuff--'put you out'?" replied Ratterer
cynically. "As though anybody could drive you two outa here if you
didn't want to go. Sit down and play the victrola or do anything you
like. Dinner'll soon be ready and Louise'll be here any minute." He
returned to the dining-room to look at a paper which he had been
reading, after pausing to introduce Clyde. And the latter, because of
the looks and the airs of these two, felt suddenly as though he had
been cast adrift upon a chartless sea in an open boat.
"Oh, don't say eat to me!" exclaimed Greta Miller, who was surveying
Clyde calmly as though she were debating with herself whether he
was worth-while game or not, and deciding that he was: "With all
the ice-cream and cake and pie and sandwiches we'll have to eat yet
to-night. We was just going to warn Louise not to fill up too much.
Kittie Keane's givin' a birthday party, you know, Tom, and she'll have
a big cake an' everythin'. You're comin' down, ain't you, afterwards?"
she concluded, with a thought of Clyde and his possible companionship
in mind.
"I wasn't thinkin' of it," calmly observed Ratterer. "Me and Clyde was
thinkin' of goin' to a show after dinner."
"Oh, how foolish," put in Hortense Briggs, more to attract attention to
herself and take it away from Greta than anything else. She was still
in front of the mirror, but turned now to cast a fetching smile on all,
particularly Clyde, for whom she fancied her friend might be angling,
"When you could come along and dance. I call that silly."
"Sure, dancing is all you three ever think of--you and Louise,"
retorted Ratterer. "It's a wonder you don't give yourselves a rest once
in a while. I'm on my feet all day an' I like to sit down once in a
while." He could be most matter-of-fact at times.
"Oh, don't say sit down to me," commented Greta Miller, with a lofty
smile and a gliding, dancing motion of her left foot, "with all the
dates we got ahead of us this week. Oh, gee!" Her eyes and eyebrows
went up and she clasped her hands dramatically before her. "It's just
terrible, all the dancin' we gotta do yet this winter, don't we,
Hortense? Thursday night and Friday night and Saturday and Sunday
nights." She counted on her fingers most archly. "Oh, gee! It is
terrible, really." She gave Clyde an appealing, sympathy-seeking smile.
"Guess where we were the other night, Tom. Louise and Ralph Thorpe and
Hortense and Bert Gettler, me and Willie Bassick--out to Pegrain's
on Webster Avenue. Oh, an' you oughta seen the crowd out there. Sam
Shaffer and Tillie Burns was there. And we danced until four in the
morning. I thought my knees would break. I ain't been so tired in I
don't know when."
"Oh, gee!" broke in Hortense, seizing her turn and lifting her arms
dramatically. "I thought I never would get to work the next morning.
I could just barely see the customers moving around. And, wasn't my
mother fussy! Gee! She hasn't gotten over it yet. She don't mind so
much about Saturdays and Sundays, but all these week nights and when I
have to get up the next morning at seven--gee--how she can pick!"
"An' I don't blame her, either," commented Mrs. Ratterer, who was just
then entering with a plate of potatoes and some bread. "You two'll get
sick and Louise, too, if you don't get more rest. I keep tellin' her
she won't be able to keep her place or stand it if she don't get more
sleep. But she don't pay no more attention to me than Tom does, and
that's just none at all."
"Oh, well, you can't expect a fellow in my line to get in early,
always, Ma," was all Ratterer said. And Hortense Briggs added: "Gee,
I'd die if I had to stay in one night. You gotta have a little fun when
you work all day."
What an easy household, thought Clyde. How liberal and indifferent.
And the sexy, gay way in which these two girls posed about. And their
parents thought nothing of it, evidently. If only he could have a girl
as pretty as this Hortense Briggs, with her small, sensuous mouth and
her bright hard eyes.
"To bed twice a week early is all I need," announced Greta Miller
archly. "My father thinks I'm crazy, but more'n that would do me harm."
She laughed jestingly, and Clyde, in spite of the "we was'es" and "I
seen's," was most vividly impressed. Here was youth and geniality and
freedom and love of life.
And just then the front door opened and in hurried Louise Ratterer, a
medium-sized, trim, vigorous little girl in a red-lined cape and a soft
blue felt hat pulled over her eyes. Unlike her brother, she was brisk
and vigorous and more lithe and as pretty as either of these others.
"Oh, look who's here!" she exclaimed. "You two birds beat me home,
didnja? Well, I got stuck to-night on account of some mix-up in my
sales-book. And I had to go up to the cashier's office. You bet it
wasn't my fault, though. They got my writin' wrong," then noting Clyde
for the first time, she announced: "I bet I know who this is--Mr.
Griffiths. Tom's talked about you a lot. I wondered why he didn't bring
you around here before." And Clyde, very much flattered, mumbled that
he wished he had.
But the two visitors, after conferring with Louise in a small front
bedroom to which they all retired, reappeared presently and because
of strenuous invitations, which were really not needed, decided to
remain. And Clyde, because of their presence, was now intensely wrought
up and alert--eager to make a pleasing impression and to be received
upon terms of friendship here. And these three girls, finding him
attractive, were anxious to be agreeable to him, so much so that for
the first time in his life they put him at his ease with the opposite
sex and caused him to find his tongue.
"We was just going to warn you not to eat so much," laughed Greta
Miller, turning to Louise, "and now, see, we are all trying to eat
again." She laughed heartily. "And they'll have pies and cakes and
everythin' at Kittie's."
"Oh, gee, and we're supposed to dance, too, on top of all this. Well,
heaven help me, is all I have to say," put in Hortense.
The peculiar sweetness of her mouth, as he saw it, as well as the
way she crinkled it when she smiled, caused Clyde to be quite
beside himself with admiration and pleasure. She looked quite
delightful--wonderful to him. Indeed her effect on him made him swallow
quickly and half choke on the coffee he had just taken. He laughed and
felt irrepressibly gay.
At that moment she turned on him and said: "See, what I've done to him
now."
"Oh, that ain't all you've done to me," exclaimed Clyde, suddenly
being seized with an inspiration and a flow of thought and courage. Of
a sudden, because of her effect on him, he felt bold and courageous,
albeit a little foolish and added, "Say, I'm gettin' kinda woozy with
all the pretty faces I see around here."
"Oh, gee, you don't want to give yourself away that quick around here,
Clyde," cautioned Ratterer, genially. "These highbinders'll be after
you to make you take 'em wherever they want to go. You better not begin
that way." And, sure enough, Louise Ratterer, not to be abashed by
what her brother had just said, observed: "You dance, don't you, Mr.
Griffiths?"
"No, I don't," replied Clyde, suddenly brought back to reality by this
inquiry and regretting most violently the handicap this was likely to
prove in this group. "But you bet I wish I did now," he added gallantly
and almost appealingly, looking first at Hortense and then at Greta
Miller and Louise. But all pretended not to notice his preference,
although Hortense titillated with her triumph. She was not convinced
that she was so greatly taken with him, but it was something to triumph
thus easily and handsomely over these others. And the others felt
it. "Ain't that too bad?" she commented, a little indifferently and
superiorly now that she realized that she was his preference. "You
might come along with us, you and Tom, if you did. There's goin' to be
mostly dancing at Kittie's."
Clyde began to feel and look crushed at once. To think that this girl,
to whom of all those here he was most drawn, could dismiss him and his
dreams and desires thus easily, and all because he couldn't dance.
And his accursed home training was responsible for all this. He felt
broken and cheated. What a boob he must seem not to be able to dance.
And Louise Ratterer looked a little puzzled and indifferent, too. But
Greta Miller, whom he liked less than Hortense, came to his rescue
with: "Oh, it ain't so hard to learn. I could show you in a few minutes
after dinner if you wanted to. It's only a few steps you have to know.
And then you could go, anyhow, if you wanted to."
Clyde was grateful and said so--determined to learn here or elsewhere
at the first opportunity. Why hadn't he gone to a dancing school before
this, he asked himself. But the thing that pained him most was the
seeming indifference of Hortense now that he had made it clear that he
liked her. Perhaps it was that Bert Gettler, previously mentioned, with
whom she had gone to the dance, who was making it impossible for him to
interest her. So he was always to be a failure this way. Oh, gee!
But the moment the dinner was over and while the others were still
talking, the first to put on a dance record and come over with hands
extended was Hortense, who was determined not to be outdone by her
rival in this way. She was not particularly interested or fascinated
by Clyde, at least not to the extent of troubling about him as Greta
did. But if her friend was going to attempt a conquest in this manner,
was it not just as well to forestall her? And so, while Clyde misread
her change of attitude to the extent of thinking that she liked him
better than he had thought, she took him by the hands, thinking at the
same time that he was too bashful. However, placing his right arm about
her waist, his other clasped in hers at her shoulder, she directed his
attention to her feet and his and began to illustrate the few primary
movements of the dance. But so eager and grateful was he--almost
intense and ridiculous--she did not like him very much, thought him a
little unsophisticated and too young. At the same time, there was a
charm about him which caused her to wish to assist him. And soon he
was moving about with her quite easily--and afterwards with Greta and
then Louise, but wishing always it was Hortense. And finally he was
pronounced sufficiently skillful to go, if he would.
And now the thought of being near her, being able to dance with her
again, drew him so greatly that, despite the fact that three youths,
among them that same Bert Gettler, appeared on the scene to escort
them, and although he and Ratterer had previously agreed to go to a
theater together, he could not help showing how much he would prefer to
follow these others--so much so that Ratterer finally agreed to abandon
the theater idea. And soon they were off, Clyde grieving that he could
not walk with Hortense, who was with Gettler, and hating his rival
because of this; but still attempting to be civil to Louise and Greta,
who bestowed sufficient attention on him to make him feel at ease.
Ratterer, having noticed his extreme preference and being alone with
him for a moment, said: "You better not get too stuck on that Hortense
Briggs. I don't think she's on the level with anybody. She's got that
fellow Gettler and others. She'll only work you an' you might not get
anything, either."
But Clyde, in spite of this honest and well-meant caution, was not to
be dissuaded. On sight, and because of the witchery of a smile, the
magic and vigor of motion and youth, he was completely infatuated and
would have given or done anything for an additional smile or glance
or hand pressure. And that despite the fact that he was dealing with
a girl who no more knew her own mind than a moth, and who was just
reaching the stage where she was finding it convenient and profitable
to use boys of her own years or a little older for whatever pleasures
or clothes she desired.
* * * * *
The party proved nothing more than one of those ebullitions of the
youthful mating period. The house of Kittie Keane was little more than
a cottage in a poor street under bare December trees. But to Clyde,
because of the passion for a pretty face that was suddenly lit in him,
it had the color and the form and gayety of romance itself. And the
young girls and boys that he met there--girls and boys of the Ratterer,
Hegglund, Hortense stripe--were still of the very substance and texture
of that energy, ease and forwardness which he would have given his soul
to possess. And curiously enough, in spite of a certain nervousness on
his part, he was by reason of his new companions made an integral part
of the gayeties.
And on this occasion, he was destined to view a type of girl and
youth in action such as previously it had not been his fortune or
misfortune, as you will, to see. There was, for instance, a type of
sensual dancing which Louise and Hortense and Greta indulged in with
the greatest nonchalance and assurance. At the same time, many of these
youths carried whisky in a hip flask, from which they not only drank
themselves, but gave others to drink--boys and girls indiscriminately.
And the general hilarity for this reason being not a little added
to, they fell into more intimate relations--spooning with one and
another--Hortense and Louise and Greta included. Also to quarreling at
times. And it appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary, as Clyde saw,
for one youth or another to embrace a girl behind a door, to hold her
on his lap in a chair in some secluded corner, to lie with her on a
sofa, whispering intimate and unquestionably welcome things to her. And
although at no time did he espy Hortense doing this--still, as he saw,
she did not hesitate to sit on the laps of various boys or to whisper
with rivals behind doors. And this for a time so discouraged and at the
same time incensed him that he felt he could not and would not have
anything more to do with her--she was too cheap, vulgar, inconsiderate.
At the same time, having partaken of the various drinks offered him--so
as not to seem less worldly wise than the others--until brought to a
state of courage and daring not ordinarily characteristic of him, he
ventured to half plead with and at the same time half reproach her for
her too lax conduct.
"You're a flirt, you are. You don't care who you jolly, do you?" This
as they were dancing together after one o'clock to the music of a youth
named Wilkens, at the none too toneful piano. She was attempting to
show him a new step in a genial and yet coquettish way, and with an
amused, sensuous look.
"What do you mean, flirt? I don't get you."
"Oh, don't you?" replied Clyde, a little crossly and still attempting
to conceal his real mood by a deceptive smile. "I've heard about you.
You jolly 'em all."
"Oh, do I?" she replied quite irritably. "Well, I haven't tried to
jolly you very much, have I?"
"Well, now, don't get mad," he half pleaded and half scolded, fearing,
perhaps, that he had ventured too far and might lose her entirely now.
"I don't mean anything by it. You don't deny that you let a lot of
these fellows make love to you. They seem to like you, anyway."
"Oh, well, of course they like me, I guess. I can't help that, can I?"
"Well, I'll tell you one thing," he blurted boastfully and
passionately. "I could spend a lot more on you than they could. I got
it." He had been thinking only the moment before of fifty-five dollars
in bills that snuggled comfortably in his pocket.
"Oh, I don't know," she retorted, not a little intrigued by this cash
offer, as it were, and at the same time not a little set up in her mood
by the fact that she could thus inflame nearly all youths in this way.
She was really a little silly, very light-headed, who was infatuated
by her own charms and looked in every mirror, admiring her eyes, her
hair, her neck, her hands, her figure, and practising a peculiarly
fetching smile.
At the same time, she was not unaffected by the fact that Clyde was not
a little attractive to look upon, although so very green. She liked to
tease such beginners. He was a bit of a fool, as she saw him. But he
was connected with the Green-Davidson, and he was well-dressed, and no
doubt he had all the money he said and would spend it on her. Some of
those whom she liked best did not have much money to spend.
"Lots of fellows with money would like to spend it on me." She tossed
her head and flicked her eyes and repeated her coyest smile.
At once Clyde's countenance darkened. The witchery of her look was too
much for him. The skin of his forehead crinkled and then smoothed out.
His eyes burned lustfully and bitterly, his old resentment of life and
deprivation showing. No doubt all she said was true. There were others
who had more and would spend more. He was boasting and being ridiculous
and she was laughing at him.
After a moment, he added, weakly, "I guess that's right, too. But they
couldn't want you more than I do."
The uncalculated honesty of it flattered her not a little. He wasn't
so bad after all. They were gracefully gliding about as the music
continued.
"Oh, well, I don't flirt everywhere like I do here. These fellows and
girls all know each other. We're always going around together. You
mustn't mind what you see here."
She was lying artfully, but it was soothing to him none the less. "Gee,
I'd give anything if you'd only be nice to me," he pleaded, desperately
and yet ecstatically. "I never saw a girl I'd rather have than you.
You're swell. I'm crazy about you. Why won't you come out to dinner
with me and let me take you to a show afterwards? Don't you want to do
that, to-morrow night or Sunday? Those are my two nights off. I work
other nights."
She hesitated at first, for even now she was not so sure that she
wished to continue this contact. There was Gettler, to say nothing
of several others, all jealous and attentive. Even though he spent
money on her, she might not wish to bother with him. He was already
too eager and he might become troublesome. At the same time, the
natural coquetry of her nature would not permit her to relinquish him.
He might fall into the hands of Greta or Louise. In consequence she
finally arranged a meeting for the following Tuesday. But he could
not come to the house, or take her home to-night--on account of her
escort, Mr. Gettler. But on the following Tuesday, at six-thirty, near
the Green-Davidson. And he assured her that they would dine first at
Frissell's, and then see "The Corsair," a musical comedy at Libby's,
only two blocks away.
CHAPTER XII
Now trivial as this contact may seem to some, it was of the utmost
significance to Clyde. Up to this he had never seen a girl with so much
charm who would deign to look at him, or so he imagined. And now he had
found one, and she was pretty and actually interested sufficiently to
accompany him to dinner and to a show. It was true, perhaps, that she
was a flirt, and not really sincere with any one, and that maybe at
first he could not expect her to center her attentions on him, but who
knew--who could tell?
And true to her promise on the following Tuesday she met him at the
corner of 14th Street and Wyandotte, near the Green-Davidson. And so
excited and flattered and enraptured was he that he could scarcely
arrange his jumbled thoughts and emotions in any seemly way. But
to show that he was worthy of her, he had made an almost exotic
toilet--hair pomaded, a butterfly tie, new silk muffler and silk socks
to emphasize his bright brown shoes, purchased especially for the
occasion.
But once he had reëncountered Hortense, whether all this was of any
import to her he could not tell. For, after all, it was her own
appearance, not his, that interested her. And what was more--a trick
with her--she chose to keep him waiting until nearly seven o'clock, a
delay which brought about in him the deepest dejection of spirit for
the time being. For supposing, after all, in the interval, she had
decided that she did not care for him and did not wish to see him any
more. Well, then he would have to do without her, of course. But that
would prove that he was not interesting to a girl as pretty as she was,
despite all the nice clothes he was now able to wear and the money he
could spend. He was determined that, girl or no girl, he would not have
one who was not pretty. Ratterer and Hegglund did not seem to mind
whether the girl they knew was attractive or not, but with him it was a
passion. The thought of being content with one not so attractive almost
nauseated him.
And yet here he was now, on the street corner in the dark--the flare of
many signs and lights about, hundreds of pedestrians hurrying hither
and thither, the thought of pleasurable intentions and engagements
written upon the faces of many--and he, he alone, might have to turn
and go somewhere else--eat alone, go to a theater alone, go home alone,
and then to work again in the morning. He had just about concluded that
he was a failure when out of the crowd, a little distance away, emerged
the face and figure of Hortense. She was smartly dressed in a black
velvet jacket with a reddish brown collar and cuffs, and a bulgy, round
tam of the same material with a red leather buckle on the side. And
her cheeks and lips were rouged a little. And her eyes sparkled. And
as usual she gave herself all the airs of one very well content with
herself.
"Oh, hello, I'm late, ain't I? I couldn't help it. You see, I forgot I
had another appointment with a fella, a friend of mine--gee, a peach
of a boy, too, and it was only at six I remembered that I had the two
dates. Well, I was in a mess then. So I had to do something about one
of you. I was just about to call you up and make a date for another
night, only I remembered you wouldn't be at your place after six. Tom
never is. And Charlie always is in his place till six-thirty, anyhow,
sometimes later, and he's a peach of a fella that way--never grouchy or
nothing. And he was goin' to take me to the theater and to dinner, too.
He has charge of the cigar stand over here at the Orphia. So I called
him up. Well, he didn't like it so very much. But I told him I'd make
it another night. Now, aintcha glad? Dontcha think I'm pretty nice to
you, disappointin' a good-lookin' fella like Charlie for you?"
She had caught a glimpse of the disturbed and jealous and yet fearsome
look in Clyde's eyes as she talked of another. And the thought of
making him jealous was a delight to her. She realized that he was very
much smitten with her. So she tossed her head and smiled, falling into
step with him as he moved up the street.
"You bet it was nice of you to come," he forced himself to say, even
though the reference to Charlie as a "peach of a fella" seemed to
affect his throat and his heart at the same time. What chance had he
to hold a girl who was so pretty and self-willed? "Gee, you look swell
to-night," he went on, forcing himself to talk and surprising himself
a little with his ability to do so. "I like the way that hat looks on
you, and your coat too." He looked directly at her, his eyes lit with
admiration, an eager yearning filling them. He would have liked to have
kissed her--her pretty mouth--only he did not dare here, or anywhere as
yet.
"I don't wonder you have to turn down engagements. You're pretty
enough. Don't you want some roses to wear?" They were passing a flower
store at the moment and the sight of them put the thought of the gift
in his mind. He had heard Hegglund say that women liked fellows who did
things for them.
"Oh, sure, I would like some roses," she replied, turning into the
place. "Or maybe some of those violets. They look pretty. They go
better with this jacket, I think."
She was pleased to think that Clyde was sporty enough to think of
flowers. Also that he was saying such nice things about her. At the
same time she was convinced that he was a boy who had had little, if
anything, to do with girls. And she preferred youths and men who were
more experienced, not so easily flattered by her--not so easy to hold.
Yet she could not help thinking that Clyde was a better type of boy
or man than she was accustomed to--more refined. And for that reason,
in spite of his gaucheness (in her eyes) she was inclined to tolerate
him--to see how he would do.
"Well, these are pretty nifty," she exclaimed, picking up a rather
large bouquet of violets and pinning them on. "I think I'll wear
these." And while Clyde paid for them, she posed before the mirror,
adjusting them to her taste. At last, being satisfied as to their
effect, she turned and exclaimed, "Well, I'm ready," and took him by
the arm.
Clyde, being not a little overawed by her spirit and mannerisms,
was at a loss what else to say for the moment, but he need not have
worried--her chief interest in life was herself.
"Gee, I tell you I had a swift week of it last week. Out every night
until three. An' Sunday until nearly morning. My, that was some rough
party I was to last night, all right. Ever been down to Burkett's at
Gifford's Ferry? Oh, a nifty place, all right, right over the Big Blue
at 39th. Dancing in summer and you can skate outside when it's frozen
in winter or dance on the ice. An' the niftiest little orchestra."
Clyde watched the play of her mouth and the brightness of her eyes and
the swiftness of her gestures without thinking so much of what she
said--very little.
"Wallace Trone was along with us--gee, he's a scream of a kid--and
afterwards when we was sittin' down to eat ice cream, he went out in
the kitchen and blacked up an' put on a waiter's apron and coat and
then comes back and serves us. That's one funny boy. An' he did all
sorts of funny stuff with the dishes and spoons." Clyde sighed because
he was by no means as gifted as the gifted Trone.
"An' then, Monday morning, when we all got back it was nearly four,
and I had to get up again at seven. I was all in. I coulda chucked
my job, and I woulda, only for the nice people down at the store and
Mr. Beck. He's the head of my department, you know, and say, how I do
plague that poor man. I sure am hard on that store. One day I comes
in late after lunch; one of the other girls punched the clock for me
with my key, see, and he was out in the hall and he saw her, and he
says to me afterwards, about two in the afternoon, 'Say look here, Miss
Briggs' (he always calls me Miss Briggs, 'cause I won't let him call me
nothing else. He'd try to get fresh if I did), 'that loanin' that key
stuff don't go. Cut that stuff out now. This ain't no Follies.' I had
to laugh. He does get so sore at times at all of us. But I put him in
his place just the same. He's kinda soft on me, you know--he wouldn't
fire me for worlds, not him. So I says to him, 'See here, Mr. Beck, you
can't talk to me in any such style as that. I'm not in the habit of
comin' late often. An' wot's more, this ain't the only place I can work
in K.C. If I can't be late once in a while without hearin' about it,
you can just send up for my time, that's all, see.' I wasn't goin' to
let him get away with that stuff. And just as I thought, he weakened.
All he says was, 'Well, just the same, I'm warnin' you. Next time maybe
Mr. Tierney'll see you an' then you'll get a chance to try some other
store, all right.' He knew he was bluffing and that I did, too. I had
to laugh. An' I saw him laughin' with Mr. Scott about two minutes
later. But, gee, I certainly do pull some raw stuff around there at
times."
By then she and Clyde, with scarcely a word on his part, and much to
his ease and relief, had reached Frissell's. And for the first time
in his life he had the satisfaction of escorting a girl to a table in
such a place. Now he really was beginning to have a few experiences
worthy of the name. He was quite on edge with the romance of it.
Because of her very high estimate of herself, her very emphatic picture
of herself as one who was intimate with so many youths and girls who
were having a good time, he felt that up to this hour he had not
lived at all. Swiftly he thought of the different things she had told
him--Burkett's on the Big Blue, skating and dancing on the ice--Charlie
Trone--the young tobacco clerk with whom she had had the engagement
for to-night--Mr. Beck at the store who was so struck on her that he
couldn't bring himself to fire her. And as he saw her order whatever
she liked, without any thought of his purse, he contemplated quickly
her face, figure, the shape of her hands, so suggestive always of the
delicacy or roundness of the arm, the swell of her bust, already very
pronounced, the curve of her eyebrows, the rounded appeal of her
smooth cheeks and chin. There was something also about the tone of her
voice, unctuous, smooth, which somehow appealed to and disturbed him.
To him it was delicious. Gee, if he could only have such a girl all for
himself!
And in here, as without, she clattered on about herself, not at all
impressed, apparently, by the fact that she was dining here, a place
that to him had seemed quite remarkable. When she was not looking at
herself in a mirror, she was studying the bill of fare and deciding
what she liked--lamb with mint jelly--no omelette, no beef--oh, yes,
filet of mignon with mushrooms. She finally compromised on that with
celery and cauliflower. And she would like a cocktail. Oh, yes, Clyde
had heard Hegglund say that no meal was worth anything without a few
drinks, so now he had mildly suggested a cocktail. And having secured
that and a second, she seemed warmer and gayer and more gossipy than
ever.
But all the while, as Clyde noticed, her attitude in so far as he was
concerned was rather distant--impersonal. If for so much as a moment,
he ventured to veer the conversation ever so slightly to themselves,
his deep personal interest in her, whether she was really very deeply
concerned about any other youth, she threw him off by announcing that
she liked all the boys, really. They were all so lovely--so nice to
her. They had to be. When they weren't, she didn't have anything more
to do with them. She "tied a can to them," as she once expressed it.
Her quick eyes clicked and she tossed her head defiantly.
And Clyde was captivated by all this. Her gestures, her poses, moues
and attitudes were sensuous and suggestive. She seemed to like to
tease, promise, lay herself open to certain charges and conclusions
and then to withhold and pretend that there was nothing to all of
this--that she was very unconscious of anything save the most reserved
thoughts in regard to herself. In the main, Clyde was thrilled and
nourished by this mere proximity to her. It was torture, and yet a
sweet kind of torture. He was full of the most tantalizing thoughts
about how wonderful it would be if only he were permitted to hold her
close, kiss her mouth, bite her, even. To cover her mouth with his! To
smother her with kisses! To crush and pet her pretty figure! She would
look at him at moments with deliberate, swimming eyes, and he actually
felt a little sick and weak--almost nauseated. His one dream was that
by some process, either of charm or money, he could make himself
interesting to her.
And yet after going with her to the theater and taking her home
again, he could not see that he had made any noticeable progress. For
throughout the performance of "The Corsair" at Libby's, Hortense, who,
because of her uncertain interest in him was really interested in the
play, talked of nothing but similar shows she had seen, as well as of
actors and actresses and what she thought of them, and what particular
youth had taken her. And Clyde, instead of leading her in wit and
defiance and matching her experiences with his own, was compelled to
content himself with approving of her.
And all the time she was thinking that she had made another real
conquest. And because she was no longer virtuous, and she was
convinced that he had some little money to spend, and could be made
to spend it on her, she conceived the notion of being sufficiently
agreeable--nothing more--to hold him, keep him attentive, if possible,
while at the same time she went her own way, enjoying herself as much
as possible with others and getting Clyde to buy and do such things
for her as might fill gaps--when she was not sufficiently or amusingly
enough engaged elsewhere.
CHAPTER XIII
For a period of four months at least this was exactly the way it
worked out. After meeting her in this fashion, he was devoting not
an inconsiderable portion of his free time to attempting to interest
her to the point where she would take as much interest in him as she
appeared to take in others. At the same time he could not tell whether
she could be made to entertain a singular affection for any one. Nor
could he believe that there was only an innocent camaraderie involved
in all this. Yet she was so enticing that he was deliriously moved
by the thought that if his worst suspicions were true, she might
ultimately favor him. So captivated was he by this savor of sensuality
and varietism that was about her, the stigmata of desire manifest in
her gestures, moods, voice, the way she dressed, that he could not
think of relinquishing her.
Rather, he foolishly ran after her. And seeing this, she put him off,
at times evaded him, compelled him to content himself with little more
than the crumbs of her company, while at the same time favoring him
with descriptions or pictures of other activities and contacts which
made him feel as though he could no longer endure to merely trail her
in this fashion. It was then he would announce to himself in anger that
he was not going to see her any more. She was no good to him, really.
But on seeing her again, a cold indifference in everything she said and
did, his courage failed him and he could not think of severing the tie.
She was not at all backward at the same time in speaking of things that
she needed or would like to have--little things, at first--a new powder
puff, a lip stick, a box of powder or a bottle of perfume. Later, and
without having yielded anything more to Clyde than a few elusive and
evasive endearments--intimate and languorous reclinings in his arms
which promised much but always came to nothing--she made so bold as
to indicate to him at different times and in different ways, purses,
blouses, slippers, stockings, a hat, which she would like to buy if
only she had the money. And he, in order to hold her favor and properly
ingratiate himself, proceeded to buy them, though at times and because
of some other developments in connection with his family, it pressed
him hard to do so. And yet, as he was beginning to see toward the end
of the fourth month, he was apparently little farther advanced in her
favor than he had been in the beginning. In short, he was conducting
a feverish and almost painful pursuit without any definite promise of
reward.
* * * * *
In the meantime, in so far as his home ties went, the irritations and
the depressions which were almost inextricably involved with membership
in the Griffiths family were not different from what they had ever
been. For, following the disappearance of Esta, there had settled a
period of dejection which still endured. Only, in so far as Clyde was
concerned, it was complicated with a mystery which was tantalizing and
something more--irritating; for when it came to anything which related
to sex in the Griffiths family, no parents could possibly have been
more squeamish.
And especially did this apply to the mystery which had now surrounded
Esta for some time. She had gone. She had not returned. And so far
as Clyde and the others knew, no word of any kind had been received
from her. However, Clyde had noted that after the first few weeks
of her absence, during which time both his mother and father had
been most intensely wrought up and troubled, worrying greatly as to
her whereabouts and why she did not write, suddenly they had ceased
their worries, and had become very much more resigned--at least not
so tortured by a situation that previously had seemed to offer no
hope whatsoever. He could not explain it. It was quite noticeable,
and yet nothing was said. And then one day a little later, Clyde had
occasion to note that his mother was in communication with some one by
mail--something rare for her. For so few were her social or business
connections that she rarely received or wrote a letter.
One day, however, very shortly after he had connected himself with
the Green-Davidson, he had come in rather earlier than usual in the
afternoon and found his mother bending over a letter which evidently
had just arrived and which appeared to interest her greatly. Also it
seemed to be connected with something which required concealment.
For, on seeing him, she stopped reading at once, and, flustered and
apparently nervous, arose and put the letter away without commenting
in any way upon what she had been reading. But Clyde for some reason,
intuition perhaps, had the thought that it might be from Esta. He
was not sure. And he was too far away to detect the character of the
handwriting. But whatever it was, his mother said nothing afterwards
concerning it. She looked as though she did not want him to inquire,
and so reserved were their relations that he would not have thought of
inquiring. He merely wondered, and then dismissed it partially, but not
entirely, from his mind.
A month or five weeks after this, and just about the time that he was
becoming comparatively well-schooled in his work at the Green-Davidson,
and was beginning to interest himself in Hortense Briggs, his mother
came to him one afternoon with a very peculiar proposition for her.
Without explaining what it was for, or indicating directly that now she
felt that he might be in a better position to help her, she called him
into the mission hall when he came in from work and, looking at him
rather fixedly and nervously for her, said: "You wouldn't know, Clyde,
would you, how I could raise a hundred dollars right away?"
Clyde was so astonished that he could scarcely believe his ears, for
only a few weeks before the mere mention of any sum above four or five
dollars in connection with him would have been preposterous. His mother
knew that. Yet here she was asking him and apparently assuming that
he might be able to assist her in this way. And rightly, for both his
clothes and his general air had indicated a period of better days for
him.
At the same time his first thought was, of course, that she had
observed his clothes and goings-on and was convinced that he was
deceiving her about the amount he earned. And in part this was
true, only so changed was Clyde's manner of late, that his mother
had been compelled to take a very different attitude toward him and
was beginning to be not a little dubious as to her further control
over him. Recently, or since he had secured this latest place, for
some reason he had seemed to her to have grown wiser, more assured,
less dubious of himself, inclined to go his own way and keep his own
counsel. And while this had troubled her not a little in one sense, it
rather pleased her in another. For to see Clyde, who had always seemed
because of his sensitiveness and unrest so much of a problem to her,
developing in this very interesting way was something; though at times,
and in view of his very recent finery, she had been wondering and
troubled as to the nature of the company he might be keeping. But since
his hours were so long and so absorbing, and whatever money he made
appeared to be going into clothes, she felt that she had no real reason
to complain. Her one other thought was that perhaps he was beginning to
act a little selfish--to think too much of his own comfort--and yet in
the face of his long deprivations she could not very well begrudge him
any temporary pleasure, either.
Clyde, not being sure of her real attitude, merely looked at her and
exclaimed: "Why, where would I get a hundred dollars, Ma?" He had
visions of his new-found source of wealth being dissipated by such
unheard of and inexplicable demands as this, and distress and distrust
at once showed on his countenance.
"I didn't expect that you could get it all for me," Mrs. Griffiths
suggested tactfully. "I have a plan to raise the most of it, I think.
But I did want you to help me try to think how I would raise the rest.
I didn't want to go to your father with this if I could help it, and
you're getting old enough now to be of some help." She looked at Clyde
approvingly and interestedly enough. "Your father is such a poor hand
at business," she went on, "and he gets so worried at times."
She passed a large and weary hand over her face and Clyde was moved by
her predicament, whatever it was. At the same time, apart from whether
he was willing to part with so much or not, or had it to give, he was
decidedly curious about what all this was for. A hundred dollars! Gee
whiz!
After a moment or two, his mother added: "I'll tell you what I've been
thinking. I must have a hundred dollars, but I can't tell you for what
now, you nor any one, and you mustn't ask me. There's an old gold watch
of your father's in my desk and a solid gold ring and pin of mine.
Those things ought to be worth twenty-five dollars at least, if they
were sold or pawned. Then there is that set of solid silver knives and
forks and that silver platter and pitcher in there"--Clyde knew the
keepsakes well--"that platter alone is worth twenty-five dollars. I
believe they ought to bring at least twenty or twenty-five together. I
was thinking if I could get you to go to some good pawnshop with them
down near where you work, and then if you would let me have five more a
week for a while" (Clyde's countenance fell)--"I could get a friend of
mine--Mr. Murch who comes here, you know--to advance me enough to make
up the hundred, and then I could pay him back out of what you pay me. I
have about ten dollars myself."
She looked at Clyde as much as to say: "Now, surely, you won't desert
me in my hour of trouble," and Clyde relaxed, in spite of the fact that
he had been counting upon using quite all that he earned for himself.
In fact, he agreed to take the trinkets to the pawnshop, and to advance
her five more for the time being until the difference between whatever
the trinkets brought and one hundred dollars was made up. And yet in
spite of himself, he could not help resenting this extra strain, for it
had only been a very short time that he had been earning so much. And
here was his mother demanding more and more, as he saw it--ten dollars
a week now. Always something wrong, thought Clyde, always something
needed, and with no assurance that there would not be more such demands
later.
He took the trinkets, carried them to the most presentable pawnshop he
could find, and being offered forty-five dollars for the lot, took it.
This, with his mother's ten, would make fifty-five, and with forty-five
she could borrow from Mr. Murch, would make a hundred. Only now, as he
saw, it would mean that for nine weeks he would have to give her ten
dollars instead of five. And that, in view of his present aspirations
to dress, live and enjoy himself in a way entirely different from what
he previously considered necessary, was by no means a pleasure to
contemplate. Nevertheless he decided to do it. After all he owed his
mother something. She had made many sacrifices for him and the others
in days past and he could not afford to be too selfish. It was not
decent.
But the most enduring thought that now came to him was that if his
mother and father were going to look to him for financial aid, they
should be willing to show him more consideration than had previously
been shown him. For one thing he ought to be allowed to come and go
with more freedom, in so far as his night hours were concerned. And
at the same time he was clothing himself and eating his meals at the
hotel, and that was no small item, as he saw it.
However, there was another problem that had soon arisen and it
was this. Not so long after the matter of the hundred dollars,
he encountered his mother in Montrose Street, one of the poorest
streets which ran north from Bickel, and which consisted entirely
of two unbroken lines of wooden houses and two-story flats and many
unfurnished apartments. Even the Griffiths, poor as they were, would
have felt themselves demeaned by the thought of having to dwell in such
a street. His mother was coming down the front steps of one of the
less tatterdemalion houses of this row, a lower front window of which
carried a very conspicuous card which read "Furnished Rooms." And then,
without turning or seeing Clyde across the street, she proceeded to
another house a few doors away, which also carried a furnished rooms
card and, after surveying the exterior interestedly, mounted the steps
and rang the bell.
Clyde's first impression was that she was seeking the whereabouts of
some individual in whom she was interested and of whose address she
was not certain. But crossing over to her at about the moment the
proprietress of the house put her head out of the door, he heard his
mother say: "You have a room for rent?" "Yes." "Has it a bath?" "No,
but there's a bath on the second floor." "How much is it a week?" "Four
dollars." "Could I see it?" "Yes, just step in."
Mrs. Griffiths appeared to hesitate while Clyde stood below, not
twenty-five feet away, and looked up at her, waiting for her to turn
and recognize him. But she stepped in without turning. And Clyde gazed
after her curiously, for while it was by no means inconceivable that
his mother might be looking for a room for some one, yet why should
she be looking for it in this street when as a rule she usually dealt
with the Salvation Army or the Young Women's Christian Association. His
first impulse was to wait and inquire of her what she was doing here,
but being interested in several errands of his own, he went on.
That night, returning to his own home to dress and seeing his mother in
the kitchen, he said to her: "I saw you this morning, Ma, in Montrose
Street."
"Yes," his mother replied, after a moment, but not before he had
noticed that she had started suddenly as though taken aback by this
information. She was paring potatoes and looked at him curiously.
"Well, what of it?" she added, calmly, but flushing just the same--a
thing decidedly unusual in connection with her where he was concerned.
Indeed, that start of surprise interested and arrested Clyde. "You were
going into a house there--looking for a furnished room, I guess."
"Yes, I was," replied Mrs. Griffiths, simply enough now. "I need a room
for some one who is sick and hasn't much money, but it's not so easy
to find either." She turned away as though she were not disposed to
discuss this any more, and Clyde, while sensing her mood, apparently,
could not resist adding: "Gee, that's not much of a street to have a
room in." His new work at the Green-Davidson had already caused him to
think differently of how one should live--any one. She did not answer
him and he went to his room to change his clothes.
A month or so after this, coming east on Missouri Avenue late one
evening, he again saw his mother in the near distance coming west. In
the light of one of the small stores which ranged in a row on this
street, he saw that she was carrying a rather heavy old-fashioned bag,
which had long been about the house but had never been much used by
any one. On sight of him approaching (as he afterwards decided) she
had stopped suddenly and turned into a hallway of a three-story brick
apartment building, and when he came up to it, he found the outside
door was shut. He opened it, and saw a flight of steps dimly lit, up
which she might have gone. However, he did not trouble to investigate,
for he was uncertain, once he reached this place, whether she had gone
in to call on some one or not, it had all happened so quickly. But
waiting at the next corner, he finally saw her come out again. And then
to his increasing curiosity, she appeared to look cautiously about
before proceeding as before. It was this that caused him to think that
she must have been endeavoring to conceal herself from him. But why?
His first impulse was to turn and follow her, so interested was he by
her strange movements. But he decided later that if she did not want
him to know what she was doing, perhaps it was best that he should not.
At the same time he was made intensely curious by this evasive gesture.
Why should his mother not wish him to see her carrying a bag anywhere?
Evasion and concealment formed no part of her real disposition (so
different from his own). Almost instantly his mind proceeded to join
this coincidence with the time he had seen her descending the steps of
the rooming house in Montrose Street, together with the business of the
letter he had found her reading, and the money she had been compelled
to raise--the hundred dollars. Where could she be going? What was she
hiding?
He speculated on all this, but he could not decide whether it had any
definite connection with him or any member of the family until about a
week later, when, passing along Eleventh near Baltimore, he thought he
saw Esta, or at least a girl so much like her that she would be taken
for her anywhere. She had the same height, and she was moving along
as Esta used to walk. Only, now he thought as he saw her, she looked
older. Yet, so quickly had she come and gone in the mass of people that
he had not been able to make sure. It was only a glance, but on the
strength of it, he had turned and sought to catch up with her, but upon
reaching the spot she was gone. So convinced was he, however, that he
had seen her that he went straight home, and, encountering his mother
in the mission, announced that he was positive he had seen Esta. She
must be back in Kansas City again. He could have sworn to it. He had
seen her near Eleventh and Baltimore, or thought he had. Had his mother
heard anything from her?
And then curiously enough he observed that his mother's manner was not
exactly what he thought it should have been under the circumstances.
His own attitude had been one of commingled astonishment, pleasure,
curiosity and sympathy because of the sudden disappearance and now
sudden reappearance of Esta. Could it be that his mother had used that
hundred dollars to bring her back? The thought had come to him--why
or from where, he could not say. He wondered. But if so, why had she
not returned to her home, at least to notify the family of her presence
here?
He expected his mother would be as astonished and puzzled as he
was--quick and curious for details. Instead, she appeared to him to be
obviously confused and taken aback by this information, as though she
was hearing about something that she already knew and was puzzled as to
just what her attitude should be.
"Oh, did you? Where? Just now, you say? At Eleventh and Baltimore?
Well, isn't that strange? I must speak to Asa about this. It's strange
that she wouldn't come here if she is back." Her eyes, as he saw,
instead of looking astonished, looked puzzled, disturbed. Her mouth,
always the case when she was a little embarrassed and disconcerted,
worked oddly--not only the lips but the jaw itself.
"Well, well," she added, after a pause. "That is strange. Perhaps it
was just some one who looked like her."
But Clyde, watching her out of the corner of his eye, could not believe
that she was as astonished as she pretended. And, thereafter, Asa
coming in, and Clyde not having as yet departed for the hotel, he
heard them discussing the matter in some strangely inattentive and
unillumined way, as if it was not quite as startling as it had seemed
to him. And for some time he was not called in to explain what he had
seen.
And then, as if purposely to solve this mystery for him, he encountered
his mother one day passing along Spruce Street, this time carrying a
small basket on her arm. She had, as he had noticed of late, taken
to going out regularly mornings and afternoons or evenings. On this
occasion, and long before she had had an opportunity to see him, he
had discerned her peculiarly heavy figure draped in the old brown coat
which she always wore, and had turned into Myrkel Street and waited
for her to pass, a convenient news stand offering him shelter. Once
she had passed, he dropped behind her, allowing her to precede him
by half a block. And at Dalrymple, she crossed to Beaudry, which was
really a continuation of Spruce, but not so ugly. The houses were quite
old--quondam residences of an earlier day, but now turned into boarding
and rooming houses. Into one of these he saw her enter and disappear,
but before doing so she looked inquiringly about her.
After she had entered, Clyde approached the house and studied it with
great interest. What was his mother doing in there? Who was it she was
going to see? He could scarcely have explained his intense curiosity
to himself, and yet, since having thought that he had seen Esta on the
street, he had an unconvinced feeling that it might have something
to do with her. There were the letters, the one hundred dollars, the
furnished room in Montrose Street.
Diagonally across the way from the house in Beaudry Street there was
a large-trunked tree, leafless now in the winter wind, and near it
a telegraph pole, close enough to make a joint shadow with it. And
behind these he was able to stand unseen, and from this vantage point
to observe the several windows, side and front and ground and second
floor. Through one of the front windows above, he saw his mother moving
about as though she were quite at home there. And a moment later, to
his astonishment he saw Esta come to one of the two windows and put a
package down on the sill. She appeared to have on only a light dressing
gown or a wrap drawn about her shoulders. He was not mistaken this
time. He actually started as he realized that it was she, also that his
mother was in there with her. And yet what had she done that she must
come back and hide away in this manner? Had her husband, the man she
had run away with, deserted her?
He was so intensely curious that he decided to wait a while outside
here to see if his mother might not come out, and then he himself would
call on Esta. He wanted so much to see her again--to know what this
mystery was all about. He waited, thinking how he had always liked Esta
and how strange it was that she should be here, hiding away in this
mysterious way.
After an hour, his mother came out, her basket apparently empty,
for she held it lightly in her hand. And just as before, she looked
cautiously about her, her face wearing that same stolid and yet
care-stamped expression which it always wore these days--a cross
between an uplifting faith and a troublesome doubt.
Clyde watched her as she proceeded to walk south on Beaudry Street
toward the Mission. After she was well out of sight, he turned and
entered the house. Inside, as he had surmised, he found a collection
of furnished rooms, name plates some of which bore the names of the
roomers pasted upon them. Since he knew that the southeast front room
upstairs contained Esta, he proceeded there and knocked. And true
enough, a light footstep responded within, and presently, after some
little delay which seemed to suggest some quick preparation within, the
door opened slightly and Esta peeped out--quizzically at first, then
with a little cry of astonishment and some confusion. For, as inquiry
and caution disappeared, she realized that she was looking at Clyde. At
once she opened the door wide.
"Why, Clyde," she called. "How did you come to find me? I was just
thinking of you."
Clyde at once put his arms around her and kissed her. At the same time
he realized, and with a slight sense of shock and dissatisfaction, that
she was considerably changed. She was thinner--paler--her eyes almost
sunken, and not any better dressed than when he had seen her last. She
appeared nervous and depressed. One of the first thoughts that came
to him now was where her husband was. Why wasn't he here? What had
become of him? As he looked about and at her, he noticed that Esta's
look was one of confusion and uncertainty, not unmixed with a little
satisfaction at seeing him. Her mouth was partly open because of a
desire to smile and to welcome him, but her eyes showed that she was
contending with a problem.
"I didn't expect you here," she added, quickly, the moment he released
her. "You didn't see--" Then she paused, catching herself at the brink
of some information which evidently she didn't wish to impart.
"Yes, I did, too--I saw Ma," he replied. "That's how I came to know you
were here. I saw her coming out just now and I saw you up here through
the window." (He did not care to confess that he had been following and
watching his mother for an hour.) "But when did you get back?" he went
on. "It's a wonder you wouldn't let the rest of us know something about
you. Gee, you're a dandy, you are--going away and staying months and
never letting any one of us know anything. You might have written me a
little something, anyhow. We always got along pretty well, didn't we?"
His glance was quizzical, curious, imperative. She, for her part, felt
recessive and thence evasive--uncertain, quite, what to think or say or
tell.
She uttered: "I couldn't think who it might be. No one comes here.
But, my, how nice you look, Clyde. You've got such nice clothes, now.
And you're getting taller. Mamma was telling me you are working at the
Green-Davidson."
She looked at him admiringly and he was properly impressed by her
notice of him. At the same time he could not get his mind off her
condition. He could not cease looking at her face, her eyes, her
thin-fat body. And as he looked at her waist and her gaunt face, he
came to a very keen realization that all was not well with her. She was
going to have a child. And hence the thought recurred to him--where was
her husband--or at any rate, the man she had eloped with. Her original
note, according to her mother, had said that she was going to get
married. Yet now he sensed quite clearly that she was not married. She
was deserted, left in this miserable room here alone. He saw it, felt
it, understood it.
And he thought at once that this was typical of all that seemed to
occur in his family. Here he was just getting a start, trying to be
somebody and get along in the world and have a good time. And here was
Esta, after her first venture in the direction of doing something for
herself, coming to such a finish as this. It made him a little sick and
resentful.
"How long have you been back, Esta?" he repeated dubiously, scarcely
knowing just what to say now, for now that he was here and she was as
she was he began to scent expense, trouble, distress and to wish almost
that he had not been so curious. Why need he have been? It could only
mean that he must help.
"Oh, not so very long, Clyde. About a month, now, I guess. Not more
than that."
"I thought so. I saw you up on Eleventh near Baltimore about a month
ago, didn't I? Sure I did," he added a little less joyously--a change
that Esta noted. At the same time she nodded her head affirmatively.
"I knew I did. I told Ma so at the time, but she didn't seem to think
so. She wasn't as surprised as I thought she would be, though. I know
why, now. She acted as though she didn't want me to tell her about it
either. But I knew I wasn't wrong." He stared at Esta oddly, quite
proud of his prescience in this case. He paused though, not knowing
quite what else to say and wondering whether what he had just said was
of any sense or import. It didn't seem to suggest any real aid for her.
And she, not quite knowing how to pass over the nature of her
condition, or to confess it, either, was puzzled what to say. Something
had to be done. For Clyde could see for himself that her predicament
was dreadful. She could scarcely bear the look of his inquiring eyes.
And more to extricate herself than her mother, she finally observed,
"Poor Mamma. You mustn't think it strange of her, Clyde. She doesn't
know what to do, you see, really. It's all my fault, of course. If
I hadn't run away, I wouldn't have caused her all this trouble. She
has so little to do with and she's always had such a hard time." She
turned her back to him suddenly, and her shoulders began to tremble and
her sides to heave. She put her hands to her face and bent her head
low--and then he knew that she was silently crying.
"Oh, come now, sis," exclaimed Clyde, drawing near to her instantly and
feeling intensely sorry for her at the moment. "What's the matter? What
do you want to cry for? Didn't that man that you went away with marry
you?"
She shook her head negatively and sobbed the more. And in that instant
there came to Clyde the real psychological as well as sociological
and biological import of his sister's condition. She was in trouble,
pregnant--and with no money and no husband. That was why his mother had
been looking for a room. That was why she had tried to borrow a hundred
dollars from him. She was ashamed of Esta and her condition. She was
ashamed of not only what people outside the family would think, but of
what he and Julia and Frank might think--the effect of Esta's condition
upon them perhaps--because it was not right, unmoral, as people saw it.
And for that reason she had been trying to conceal it, telling stories
about it--a most amazing and difficult thing for her, no doubt. And
yet, because of poor luck, she hadn't succeeded very well.
And now he was again confused and puzzled, not only by his sister's
condition and what it meant to him and the other members of the family
here in Kansas City, but also by his mother's disturbed and somewhat
unmoral attitude in regard to deception in this instance. She had
evaded if not actually deceived him in regard to all this, for she knew
Esta was here all the time. At the same time he was not inclined to be
too unsympathetic in that respect toward her--far from it. For such
deception in such an instance had to be, no doubt, even where people
were as religious and truthful as his mother, or so he thought. You
couldn't just let people know. He certainly wouldn't want to let people
know about Esta, if he could help it. What would they think? What would
they say about her and him? Wasn't the general state of his family low
enough, as it was? And so, now he stood, staring and puzzled the while
Esta cried. And she realizing that he was puzzled and ashamed, because
of her, cried the more.
"Gee, that is tough," said Clyde, troubled, and yet fairly sympathetic
after a time. "You wouldn't have run away with him unless you cared
for him though--would you?" (He was thinking of himself and Hortense
Briggs.) "I'm sorry for you, Ess. Sure, I am, but it won't do you any
good to cry about it now, will it? There's lots of other fellows in the
world beside him. You'll come out of it all right."
"Oh, I know," sobbed Esta, "but I've been so foolish. And I've had
such a hard time. And now I've brought all this trouble on Mamma and
all of you." She choked and hushed a moment. "He went off and left
me in a hotel in Pittsburgh without any money," she added. "And if
it hadn't been for Mamma, I don't know what I would have done. She
sent me a hundred dollars when I wrote her. I worked for a while in a
restaurant--as long as I could. I didn't want to write home and say
that he had left me. I was ashamed to. But I didn't know what else to
do there toward the last, when I began feeling so bad."
She began to cry again; and Clyde, realizing all that his mother had
done and sought to do to assist her, felt almost as sorry now for his
mother as he did for Esta--more so, for Esta had her mother to look
after her and his mother had almost no one to help her.
"I can't work yet, because I won't be able to for a while," she went
on. "And Mamma doesn't want me to come home now because she doesn't
want Julia or Frank or you to know. And that's right, too, I know. Of
course it is. And she hasn't got anything and I haven't. And I get so
lonely here, sometimes." Her eyes filled and she began to choke again.
"And I've been so foolish."
And Clyde felt for the moment as though he could cry too. For life was
so strange, so hard at times. See how it had treated him all these
years. He had had nothing until recently and always wanted to run away.
But Esta had done so, and see what had befallen her. And somehow he
recalled her between the tall walls of the big buildings here in the
business district, sitting at his father's little street organ and
singing and looking so innocent and good. Gee, life was tough. What a
rough world it was anyhow. How queer things went!
He looked at her and the room, and finally, telling her that she
wouldn't be left alone, and that he would come again, only she mustn't
tell his mother he had been there, and that if she needed anything she
could call on him although he wasn't making so very much, either--and
then went out. And then, walking toward the hotel to go to work, he
kept dwelling on the thought of how miserable it all was--how sorry
he was that he had followed his mother, for then he might not have
known. But even so, it would have come out. His mother could not have
concealed it from him indefinitely. She would have asked for more money
eventually maybe. But what a dog that man was to go off and leave his
sister in a big strange city without a dime. He puzzled, thinking now
of the girl who had been deserted in the Green-Davidson some months
before with a room and board bill unpaid. And how comic it had seemed
to him and the other boys at the time--highly colored with a sensual
interest in it.
But this, well, this was his own sister. A man had thought so little of
his sister as that. And yet, try as he would, he could no longer think
that it was as terrible as when he heard her crying in the room. Here
was this brisk, bright city about him running with people and effort,
and this gay hotel in which he worked. That was not so bad. Besides
there was his own love affair, Hortense, and pleasures. There must be
some way out for Esta. She would get well again and be all right. But
to think of his being part of a family that was always so poor and
so little thought of that things like this could happen to it--one
thing and another--like street preaching, not being able to pay the
rent at times, his father selling rugs and clocks for a living on the
streets--Esta running away and coming to an end like this. Gee!
CHAPTER XIV
The result of all this on Clyde was to cause him to think more
specifically on the problem of the sexes than he ever had before, and
by no means in any orthodox way. For while he condemned his sister's
lover for thus ruthlessly deserting her, still he was not willing to
hold her entirely blameless by any means. She had gone off with him. As
he now learned from her, he had been in the city for a week the year
before she ran away with him, and it was then that he had introduced
himself to her. The following year when he returned for two weeks, it
was she who looked him up, or so Clyde suspected, at any rate. And in
view of his own interest in and mood regarding Hortense Briggs, it was
not for him to say that there was anything wrong with the sex relation
in itself.
Rather, as he saw it now, the difficulty lay, not in the deed itself,
but in the consequences which followed upon not thinking or not
knowing. For had Esta known more of the man in whom she was interested,
more of what such a relationship with him meant, she would not be in
her present pathetic plight. Certainly such girls as Hortense Briggs,
Greta and Louise, would never have allowed themselves to be put in any
such position as Esta. Or would they? They were too shrewd. And by
contrast with them in his mind, at least at this time, she suffered.
She ought, as he saw it, to have been able to manage better. And so, by
degrees, his attitude toward her hardened in some measure, though his
feeling was not one of indifference either.
But the one influence that was affecting and troubling and changing
him now was his infatuation for Hortense Briggs--than which no more
agitating influence could have come to a youth of his years and
temperament. She seemed, after his few contacts with her, to be really
the perfect realization of all that he had previously wished for in
a girl. She was so bright, vain, engaging, and so truly pretty. Her
eyes, as they seemed to him, had a kind of dancing fire in them. She
had a most entrancing way of pursing and parting her lips and at the
same time looking straightly and indifferently before her, as though
she were not thinking of him, which to him was both flame and fever.
It caused him, actually, to feel weak and dizzy, at times, cruelly
seared in his veins with minute and wriggling threads of fire, and
this could only be described as conscious lust, a torturesome and yet
unescapable thing which yet in her case he was unable to prosecute
beyond embracing and kissing, a form of reserve and respect in regard
to her which she really resented in the very youths in whom she sought
to inspire it. The type of boy for whom she really cared and was always
seeking was one who could sweep away all such psuedo-ingenuousness and
superiorities in her and force her, even against herself, to yield to
him.
In fact she was constantly wavering between actual like and dislike
of him. And in consequence, he was in constant doubt as to where he
stood, a state which was very much relished by her and yet which was
never permitted to become so fixed in his mind as to cause him to
give her up entirely. After some party or dinner or theater to which
she had permitted him to take her, and throughout which he had been
particularly tactful--not too assertive--she could be as yielding and
enticing in her mood as the most ambitious lover would have liked.
And this might last until the evening was nearly over, when suddenly,
and at her own door or the room or house of some girl with whom she
was spending the night, she would turn, and without rhyme or reason,
endeavor to dismiss him with a mere handclasp or a thinly flavored
embrace or kiss. At such times, if Clyde was foolish enough to endeavor
to force her to yield the favors he craved, she would turn on him with
the fury of a spiteful cat, would tear herself away, developing for
the moment, seemingly, an intense mood of opposition which she could
scarcely have explained to herself. Its chief mental content appeared
to be one of opposition to being compelled by him to do anything. And,
because of his infatuation and his weak overtures due to his inordinate
fear of losing her, he would be forced to depart, usually in a dark and
despondent mood.
But so keen was her attraction for him that he could not long remain
away, but must be going about to where most likely he would encounter
her. Indeed, for the most part these days, and in spite of the peculiar
climax which had eventuated in connection with Esta, he lived in a
keen, sweet and sensual dream in regard to her. If only she would
really come to care for him. At night, in his bed at home, he would lie
and think of her--her face--the expressions of her mouth and eyes, the
lines of her figure, the motions of her body in walking or dancing--and
she would flicker before him as upon a screen. In his dreams, he found
her deliciously near him, pressing against him--her delightful body
all his--and then in the moment of crisis, when seemingly she was
about to yield herself to him completely, he would awake to find her
vanished--an illusion only.
Yet there were several things in connection with her which seemed to
bode success for him. In the first place, like himself, she was part
of a poor family--the daughter of a machinist and his wife, who up
to this very time had achieved little more than a bare living. From
her childhood she had had nothing, only such gew-gaws and fripperies
as she could secure for herself by her wits. And so low had been her
social state until very recently that she had not been able to come in
contact with anything better than butcher and baker boys--the rather
commonplace urchins and small job aspirants of her vicinity. Yet even
here she had early realized that she could and should capitalize her
looks and charm--and had. Not a few of these had even gone so far as to
steal in order to get money to entertain her.
After reaching the age where she was old enough to go to work, and
thus coming in contact with the type of boy and man in whom she
was now interested, she was beginning to see that without yielding
herself too much, but in acting discreetly, she could win a more
interesting equipment than she had before. Only, so truly sensual and
pleasure-loving was she that she was by no means always willing to
divorce her self-advantages from her pleasures. On the contrary, she
was often troubled by a desire to like those whom she sought to use,
and per contra, not to obligate herself to those whom she could not
like.
In Clyde's case, liking him but a little, she still could not resist
the desire to use him. She liked his willingness to buy her any little
thing in which she appeared interested--a bag, a scarf, a purse, a
pair of gloves--anything that she could reasonably ask or take without
obligating herself too much. And yet from the first, in her smart,
tricky way, she realized that unless she could bring herself to yield
to him--at some time or other offer him the definite reward which she
knew he craved--she could not hold him indefinitely.
One thought that stirred her more than anything else was that the way
Clyde appeared to be willing to spend his money on her she might easily
get some quite expensive things from him--a pretty and rather expensive
dress, perhaps, or a hat, or even a fur coat such as was then being
shown and worn in the city, to say nothing of gold earrings, or a wrist
watch, all of which she was constantly and enviously eyeing in the
different shop windows.
One day not so long after Clyde's discovery of his sister Esta,
Hortense, walking along Baltimore Street near its junction with
Fifteenth--the smartest portion of the shopping section of the city--at
the noon hour--with Doris Trine, another shop girl in her department
store, saw in the window of one of the smaller and less exclusive fur
stores of the city, a fur jacket of beaver that to her, viewed from
the eye-point of her own particular build, coloring and temperament,
was exactly what she needed to strengthen mightily her very limited
personal wardrobe. It was not such an expensive coat, worth possibly a
hundred dollars--but fashioned in such an individual way as to cause
her to imagine that, once invested with it, her own physical charm
would register more than it ever had.
Moved by this thought, she paused and exclaimed: "Oh, isn't that just
the classiest, darlingest little coat you ever saw! Oh, do look at
those sleeves, Doris." She clutched her companion violently by the arm.
"Lookit the collar. And the lining! And those pockets! Oh, dear!" She
fairly vibrated with the intensity of her approval and delight. "Oh,
isn't that just too sweet for words? And the very kind of coat I've
been thinking of since I don't know when. Oh, you pitty sing!" she
exclaimed, affectedly, thinking all at once as much of her own pose
before the window and its effect on the passer-by as of the coat before
her. "Oh, if I could only have 'oo."
She clapped her hands admiringly, while Isadore Rubenstein, the elderly
son of the proprietor, who was standing somewhat out of the range
of her gaze at the moment, noted the gesture and her enthusiasm and
decided forthwith that the coat must be worth at least twenty-five
or fifty dollars more to her, anyhow, in case she inquired for it.
The firm had been offering it at one hundred. "Oh, ha!" he grunted.
But being of a sensual and somewhat romantic turn, he also speculated
to himself rather definitely as to the probable trading value,
affectionally speaking, of such a coat. What, say, would the poverty
and vanity of such a pretty girl as this cause her to yield for such a
coat?
In the meantime, however, Hortense, having gloated as long as her
noontime hour would permit, had gone away, still dreaming and satiating
her flaming vanity by thinking of how devastating she would look in
such a coat. But she had not stopped to ask the price. Hence, the next
day, feeling that she must look at it once more, she returned, only
this time alone, and yet with no idea of being able to purchase it
herself. On the contrary, she was only vaguely revolving the problem of
how, assuming that the coat was sufficiently low in price, she could
get it. At the moment she could think of no one. But seeing the coat
once more, and also seeing Mr. Rubenstein, Jr., inside eyeing her in a
most propitiatory and genial manner, she finally ventured in.
"You like the coat, eh?" was Rubenstein's ingratiating comment as she
opened the door. "Well, that shows you have good taste, I'll say.
That's one of the nobbiest little coats we've ever had to show in
this store yet. A real beauty, that. And how it would look on such a
beautiful girl as you!" He took it out of the window and held it up.
"I seen you when you was looking at it yesterday." A gleam of greedy
admiration was in his eye.
And noting this, and feeling that a remote and yet not wholly
unfriendly air would win her more consideration and courtesy than a
more intimate one, Hortense merely said, "Yes?"
"Yes, indeed. And I said right away, there's a girl that knows a really
swell coat when she sees it."
The flattering unction soothed, in spite of herself.
"Look at that! Look at that!" went on Mr. Rubenstein, turning the coat
about and holding it before her. "Where in Kansas City will you find
anything to equal that to-day? Look at this silk lining here--genuine
Mallinson silk--and these slant pockets. And the buttons. You think
those things don't make a different-looking coat? There ain't another
one like it in Kansas City to-day--not one. And there won't be. We
designed it ourselves and we never repeat our models. We protect our
customers. But come back here." (He led the way to a triple mirror at
the back.) "It takes the right person to wear a coat like this--to get
the best effect out of it. Let me try it on you."
And by the artificial light Hortense was now privileged to see how
really fetching she did look in it. She cocked her head and twisted and
turned and buried one small ear in the fur, while Mr. Rubenstein stood
by, eyeing her with not a little admiration and almost rubbing his
hands.
"There now," he continued. "Look at that. What do you say to that, eh?
Didn't I tell you it was the very thing for you? A find for you. A
pick-up. You'll never get another coat like that in this city. If you
do, I'll make you a present of this one." He came very near, extending
his plump hands, palms up.
"Well, I must say it does look smart on me," commented Hortense, her
vainglorious soul yearning for it. "I can wear anything like this,
though." She twisted and turned the more, forgetting him entirely and
the effect her interest would have on his cost price. Then she added:
"How much is it?"
"Well, it's really a two-hundred-dollar coat," began Mr. Rubenstein
artfully. Then noting a shadow of relinquishment pass swiftly over
Hortense's face, he added quickly: "That sounds like a lot of money,
but of course we don't ask so much for it down here. One hundred and
fifty is our price. But if that coat was at Jarek's, that's what you'd
pay for it and more. We haven't got the location here and we don't have
to pay the high rents. But it's worth every cent of two hundred."
"Why, I think that's a terrible price to ask for it, just awful,"
exclaimed Hortense sadly, beginning to remove the coat. She was feeling
as though life were depriving her of nearly all that was worth while.
"Why, at Biggs and Becks, they have lots of three-quarter mink and
beaver coats for that much, and classy styles, too."
"Maybe, maybe. But not that coat," insisted Mr. Rubenstein stubbornly.
"Just look at it again. Look at the collar. You mean to say you can
find a coat like that up there? If you can, I'll buy the coat for you
and sell it to you again for a hundred dollars. Actually, this is a
special coat. It's copied from one of the smartest coats that was in
New York last summer before the season opened. It has class. You won't
find no coat like this coat."
"Oh, well, just the same, a hundred and fifty dollars is more than I
can pay," commented Hortense dolefully, at the same time slipping on
her old broadcloth jacket with the fur collar and cuffs, and edging
toward the door.
"Wait! You like the coat?" wisely observed Mr. Rubenstein, after
deciding that even a hundred dollars was too much for her purse,
unless it could be supplemented by some man's. "It's really a
two-hundred-dollar coat. I'm telling you that straight. Our regular
price is one hundred and fifty. But if you could bring me a hundred and
twenty-five dollars, since you want it so much, well, I'll let you have
it for that. And that's like finding it. A stunning-looking girl like
you oughtn't to have no trouble in finding a dozen fellows who would be
glad to buy that coat and give it to you. I know I would, if I thought
you would be nice to me."
He beamed ingratiatingly up at her, and Hortense, sensing the nature
of the overture and resenting it--from him--drew back slightly. At the
same time she was not wholly displeased by the compliment involved. But
she was not coarse enough, as yet, to feel that just any one should
be allowed to give her anything. Indeed not. It must be some one she
liked, or at least some one that was enslaved by her.
And yet, even as Mr. Rubenstein spoke, and for some time afterwards,
her mind began running upon possible individuals--favorites--who, by
the necromancy of her charm for them, might be induced to procure this
coat for her. Charlie Wilkens for instance--he of the Orphia cigar
store--who was most certainly devoted to her after his fashion, but a
fashion, however, which did not suggest that he might do much for her
without getting a good deal in return.
And then there was Robert Kain, another youth--very tall, very
cheerful and very ambitious in regard to her, who was connected with
one of the local electric company's branch offices, but his position
was not sufficiently lucrative--a mere entry clerk. Also he was too
saving--always talking about his future.
And again, there was Bert Gettler, the youth who had escorted her to
the dance the night Clyde first met her, but who was little more than a
giddy-headed dancing soul, one not to be relied upon in a crisis like
this. He was only a shoe salesman, probably twenty dollars a week, and
most careful with his pennies.
But there was Clyde Griffiths, the person who seemed to have real
money and to be willing to spend it on her freely. So ran her thoughts
swiftly at the time. But could she now, she asked herself, offhand,
inveigle him into making such an expensive present as this? She had
not favored him so very much--had for the most part treated him
indifferently. Hence she was not sure, by any means. Nevertheless as
she stood there, debating the cost and the beauty of the coat, the
thought of Clyde kept running through her mind. And all the while Mr.
Rubenstein stood looking at her, vaguely sensing, after his fashion,
the nature of the problem that was confronting her.
"Well, little girl," he finally observed, "I see you'd like to have
this coat, all right, and I'd like to have you have it, too. And
now I'll tell you what I'll do, and better than that I can't do,
and wouldn't for nobody else--not a person in this city. Bring me a
hundred and fifteen dollars any time within the next few days--Monday
or Wednesday or Friday, if the coat is still here, and you can have
it. I'll do even better. I'll save it for you. How's that? Until next
Wednesday or Friday. More'n that no one would do for you, now, would
they?"
He smirked and shrugged his shoulders and acted as though he were
indeed doing her a great favor. And Hortense, going away, felt that
if only--only she could take that coat at one hundred and fifteen
dollars, she would be capturing a marvelous bargain. Also that she
would be the smartest-dressed girl in Kansas City beyond the shadow
of a doubt. If only she could in some way get a hundred and fifteen
dollars before next Wednesday, or Friday.
CHAPTER XV
As Hortense well knew Clyde was pressing more and more hungrily toward
that ultimate condescension on her part, which, though she would never
have admitted it to him, was the privilege of two others. They were
never together any more without his insisting upon the real depth of
her regard for him. Why was it, if she cared for him the least bit,
that she refused to do this, that or the other--would not let him kiss
her as much as he wished, would not let him hold her in his arms as
much as he would like. She was always keeping dates with other fellows
and breaking them or refusing to make them with him. What was her exact
relationship toward these others? Did she really care more for them
than she did for him? In fact, they were never together anywhere but
what this problem of union was uppermost--and but thinly veiled.
And she liked to think that he was suffering from repressed desire for
her all of the time; that she tortured him, and that the power to allay
his suffering lay wholly in her--a sadistic trait which had for its
soil Clyde's own masochistic yearning for her.
However, in the face of her desire for the coat, his stature and
interest for her were beginning to increase. In spite of the fact that
only the morning before she had informed Clyde, with quite a flourish,
that she could not possibly see him until the following Monday--that
all her intervening nights were taken--nevertheless, the problem of the
coat looming up before her, she now most eagerly planned to contrive an
immediate engagement with him without appearing too eager. For by then
she had definitely decided to endeavor to persuade him, if possible,
to buy the coat for her. Only, of course, she would have to alter her
conduct toward him radically. She would have to be much sweeter--more
enticing. Although she did not actually say to herself that now she
might even be willing to yield herself to him, still basically that was
what was in her mind.
For quite a little while she was unable to think how to proceed. How
was she to see him this day, or the next at the very latest? How should
she go about putting before him the need of this gift, or loan, as she
finally worded it to herself? She might hint that he could loan her
enough to buy the coat and that later she would pay him back by degrees
(yet once in possession of the coat she well knew that that necessity
would never confront her). Or, if he did not have so much money on
hand at one time, she could suggest that she might arrange with Mr.
Rubenstein for a series of time payments which could be met by Clyde.
In this connection her mind suddenly turned and began to consider how
she could flatter and cajole Mr. Rubenstein into letting her have the
coat on easy terms. She recalled that he had said he would be glad to
buy the coat for her if he thought she would be nice to him.
Her first scheme in connection with all this was to suggest to Louise
Ratterer to invite her brother, Clyde and a third youth by the name of
Scull, who was dancing attendance upon Louise, to come to a certain
dance hall that very evening to which she was already planning to go
with the more favored cigar clerk. Only now she intended to break that
engagement and appear alone with Louise and Greta and announce that her
proposed partner was ill. That would give her an opportunity to leave
early with Clyde and with him walk past the Rubenstein store.
But having the temperament of a spider that spins a web for flies, she
foresaw that this might involve the possibility of Louise's explaining
to Clyde or Ratterer that it was Hortense who had instigated the
party. It might even bring up some accidental mention of the coat on
the part of Clyde to Louise later, which, as she felt, would never do.
She did not care to let her friends know how she provided for herself.
In consequence, she decided that it would not do for her to appeal to
Louise nor to Greta in this fashion.
And she was actually beginning to worry as to how to bring about this
encounter, when Clyde, who chanced to be in the vicinity on his way
home from work, walked into the store where she was working. He was
seeking for a date on the following Sunday. And to his intense delight,
Hortense greeted him most cordially with a most engaging smile and
a wave of the hand. She was busy at the moment with a customer. She
soon finished, however, and drawing near, and keeping one eye on her
floor-walker who resented callers, exclaimed: "I was just thinking
about you. You wasn't thinking about me, was you? Trade last." Then she
added, sotto voce, "Don't act like you are talking to me. I see our
floor-walker over there."
Arrested by the unusual sweetness in her voice, to say nothing of
the warm smile with which she greeted him, Clyde was enlivened and
heartened at once. "Was I thinking of you?" he returned gayly. "Do I
ever think of any one else? Say! Ratterer says I've got you on the
brain."
"Oh, him," replied Hortense, pouting spitefully and scornfully, for
Ratterer, strangely enough, was one whom she did not interest very
much, and this she knew. "He thinks he's so smart," she added. "I know
a lotta girls don't like him."
"Oh, Tom's all right," pleaded Clyde, loyally. "That's just his way of
talking. He likes you."
"Oh, no, he don't, either," replied Hortense. "But I don't want to talk
about him. Whatcha doin' around six o'clock to-night?"
"Oh, gee!" exclaimed Clyde disappointedly. "You don't mean to say you
got to-night free, have you? Well, ain't that tough? I thought you were
all dated up. I got to work!" He actually sighed, so depressed was he
by the thought that she might be willing to spend the evening with him
and he not able to avail himself of the opportunity, while Hortense,
noting his intense disappointment, was pleased.
"Well, I gotta date, but I don't want to keep it," she went on with a
contemptuous gathering of the lips. "I don't have to break it. I would
though if you was free." Clyde's heart began to beat rapidly with
delight.
"Gee, I wish I didn't have to work now," he went on, looking at her.
"You're sure you couldn't make it to-morrow night? I'm off then. And
I was just coming up here to ask you if you didn't want to go for an
automobile ride next Sunday afternoon, maybe. A friend of Hegglund's
got a car--a Packard--and Sunday we're all off. And he wanted me to
get a bunch to run out to Excelsior Springs. He's a nice fellow" (this
because Hortense showed signs of not being so very much interested).
"You don't know him very well, but he is. But say, I can talk to you
about that later. How about to-morrow night? I'm off then."
Hortense, who, because of the hovering floor-walker, was pretending to
show Clyde some handkerchiefs, was now thinking how unfortunate that
a whole twenty-four hours must intervene before she could bring him
to view the coat with her--and so have an opportunity to begin her
machinations. At the same time she pretended that the proposed meeting
for the next night was a very difficult thing to bring about--more
difficult than he could possibly appreciate. She even pretended to be
somewhat uncertain as to whether she wanted to do it.
"Just pretend you're examining these handkerchiefs here," she
continued, fearing the floor-walker might interrupt. "I gotta nother
date for then," she continued thoughtfully, "and I don't know whether
I can break it or not. Let me see." She feigned deep thought. "Well, I
guess I can," she said finally. "I'll try, anyhow. Just for this once.
You be here at Fifteenth and Main at 6.15--no, 6.30's the best you can
do, ain't it?--and I'll see if I can't get there. I won't promise, but
I'll see and I think I can make it. Is that all right?" She gave him
one of her sweetest smiles and Clyde was quite beside himself with
satisfaction. To think that she would break a date for him, at last.
Her eyes were warm with favor and her mouth wreathed with a smile.
"Surest thing you know," he exclaimed, voicing the slang of the hotel
boys. "You bet I'll be there. Will you do me a favor?"
"What is it?" she asked cautiously.
"Wear that little black hat with the red ribbon under your chin, will
you? You look so cute in that."
"Oh, you," she laughed. It was so easy to kid Clyde. "Yes, I'll wear
it," she added. "But you gotta go now. Here comes that old fish. I
know he's going to kick. But I don't care. Six-thirty, eh? So long."
She turned to give her attention to a new customer, an old lady who
had been patiently waiting to inquire if she could tell her where the
muslins were sold. And Clyde, tingling with pleasure because of this
unexpected delight vouchsafed him, made his way most elatedly to the
nearest exit.
He was not made unduly curious because of this sudden favor, and
the next evening, promptly at six-thirty, and in the glow of the
overhanging arc-lights showering their glistening radiance like rain,
she appeared. As he noted, at once, she had worn the hat he liked. Also
she was enticingly ebullient and friendly, more so than at any time he
had known her. Before he had time to say that she looked pretty, or how
pleased he was because she wore that hat, she began:
"Some favorite you're gettin' to be, _I'll say_, when _I'll_ break an
engagement and then wear an old hat I don't like just to please you.
How do I get that way is what I'd like to know."
He beamed as though he had won a great victory. Could it be that at
last he might be becoming a favorite with her?
"If you only knew how cute you look in that hat, Hortense, you wouldn't
knock it," he urged admiringly. "You don't know how sweet you do look."
"Oh, ho. In this old thing?" she scoffed. "You certainly are easily
pleased, I'll say."
"An' your eyes are just like soft, black velvet," he persisted eagerly.
"They're wonderful." He was thinking of an alcove in the Green-Davidson
hung with black velvet.
"Gee, you certainly have got 'em to-night," she laughed teasingly.
"I'll have to do something about you." Then, before he could make any
reply to this, she went off into an entirely fictional account of how,
having had a previous engagement with a certain alleged young society
man--Tom Keary by name--who was dogging her steps these days in order
to get her to dine and dance, she had only this evening decided to
"ditch" him, preferring Clyde, of course, for this occasion, anyhow.
And she had called Keary up and told him that she could not see him
to-night--called it all off, as it were. But just the same, on coming
out of the employee's entrance, who should she see there waiting for
her but this same Tom Keary, dressed to perfection in a bright gray
raglan and spats, and with his closed sedan, too. And he would have
taken her to the Green-Davidson, if she had wanted to go. He was a
real sport. But she didn't. Not to-night, anyhow. Yet, if she had not
contrived to avoid him, he would have delayed her. But she espied him
first and ran the other way.
"And you should have just seen my little feet twinkle up Sargent and
around the corner into Bailey Place," was the way she narcissistically
painted her flight. And so infatuated was Clyde by this picture of
herself and the wonderful Keary that he accepted all of her petty
fabrications as truth.
And then, as they were walking in the direction of Gaspie's, a
restaurant in Wyandotte near Tenth which quite lately he had learned
was much better than Frissell's, Hortense took occasion to pause and
look in a number of windows, saying as she did so that she certainly
did wish that she could find a little coat that was becoming to
her--that the one she had on was getting worn and that she must have
another soon--a predicament which caused Clyde to wonder at the time
whether she was suggesting to him that he get her one. Also whether it
might not advance his cause with her if he were to buy her a little
jacket, since she needed it.
But Rubenstein's coming into view on this same side of the street, its
display window properly illuminated and the coat in full view, Hortense
paused as she had planned.
"Oh, do look at that darling little coat there," she began,
ecstatically, as though freshly arrested by the beauty of it, her whole
manner suggesting a first and unspoiled impression. "Oh, isn't that the
dearest, sweetest, cutest little thing you ever did see?" she went on,
her histrionic powers growing with her desire for it. "Oh, just look
at the collar, and those sleeves and those pockets. Aren't they the
snappiest things you ever saw? Couldn't I just warm my little hands in
those?" She glanced at Clyde out of the tail of her eye to see if he
was being properly impressed.
And he, aroused by her intense interest, surveyed the coat with not
a little curiosity. Unquestionably it was a pretty coat--very. But,
gee, what would a coat like that cost, anyhow? Could it be that she
was trying to interest him in the merits of a coat like that in order
that he might get it for her? Why, it must be a two-hundred-dollar coat
at least. He had no idea as to the value of such things, anyhow. He
certainly couldn't afford a coat like that. And especially at this time
when his mother was taking a good portion of his extra cash for Esta.
And yet something in her manner seemed to bring it to him that that
was exactly what she was thinking. It chilled and almost numbed him at
first.
And yet, as he now told himself sadly, if Hortense wanted it, she could
most certainly find some one who would get it for her--that young Tom
Keary, for instance, whom she had just been describing. And, worse
luck, she was just that kind of a girl. And if he could not get it for
her, some one else could and she would despise him for not being able
to do such things for her.
To his intense dismay and dissatisfaction she exclaimed: "Oh, what
wouldn't I give for a coat like that!" She had not intended at the
moment to put the matter so bluntly, for she wanted to convey the
thought that was deepest in her mind to Clyde tactfully.
And Clyde, inexperienced as he was, and not subtle by any means, was
nevertheless quite able to gather the meaning of that. It meant--it
meant--for the moment he was not quite willing to formulate to himself
what it did mean. And now--now--if only he had the price of that coat.
He could feel that she was thinking of some one certain way to get the
coat. And yet how was he to manage it? How? If he could only arrange
to get this coat for her--if he only could promise her that he would
get it for her by a certain date, say, if it didn't cost too much, then
what? Did he have the courage to suggest to her to-night, or to-morrow,
say, after he had learned the price of the coat, that if she would--why
then--why then, well, he would get her the coat or anything else she
really wanted. Only he must be sure that she was not really fooling him
as she was always doing in smaller ways. He wouldn't stand for getting
her the coat and then get nothing in return--never!
As he thought of it, he actually thrilled and trembled beside her. And
she, standing there and looking at the coat, was thinking that unless
he had sense enough now to get her this thing and to get what she
meant--how she intended to pay for it--well then, this was the last. He
need not think she was going to fool around with any one who couldn't
or wouldn't do that much for her. Never.
They resumed their walk toward Gaspie's. And throughout the dinner, she
talked of little else--how attractive the coat was, how wonderful it
would look on her.
"Believe me," she said at one point, defiantly, feeling that Clyde was
perhaps uncertain at the moment about his ability to buy it for her,
"I'm going to find some way to get that coat. I think, maybe, that
Rubenstein store would let me have it on time if I were to go in there
and see him about it, make a big enough payment down. Another girl out
of our store got a coat that way once," she lied promptly, hoping thus
to induce Clyde to assist her with it. But Clyde, disturbed by the fear
of some extraordinary cost in connection with it, hesitated to say just
what he would do. He could not even guess the price of such a thing--it
might cost two or three hundred, even--and he feared to obligate
himself to do something which later he might not be able to do.
"You don't know what they might want for that, do you?" he asked,
nervously, at the same time thinking if he made any cash gift to her
at this time without some guarantee on her part, what right would he
have to expect anything more in return than he had ever received? He
knew how she cajoled him into getting things for her and then would not
even let him kiss her. He flushed and churned a little internally with
resentment at the thought of how she seemed to feel that she could play
fast and loose with him. And yet, as he now recalled, she had just said
she would do anything for any one who would get that coat for her--or
nearly that.
"No-o," she hesitated at first, for the moment troubled as to whether
to give the exact price or something higher. For if she asked for time,
Mr. Rubenstein might want more. And yet if she said much more, Clyde
might not want to help her. "But I know it wouldn't be more than a
hundred and twenty-five. I wouldn't pay more than that for it."
Clyde heaved a sigh of relief. After all, it wasn't two or three
hundred. He began to think now that if she could arrange to make any
reasonable down payment--say, fifty or sixty dollars--he might manage
to bring it together within the next two or three weeks anyhow. But if
the whole hundred and twenty-five were demanded at once, Hortense would
have to wait, and besides he would have to know whether he was to be
rewarded or not--definitely.
"That's a good idea, Hortense," he exclaimed without, however,
indicating in any way why it appealed to him so much. "Why don't you do
that? Why don't you find out first what they want for it, and how much
they want down? Maybe I could help you with it."
"Oh, won't that be just too wonderful!" Hortense clapped her hands.
"Oh, will you? Oh, won't that be just dandy? Now I just know I can get
that coat. I just know they'll let me have it, if I talk to them right."
She was, as Clyde saw and feared, quite forgetting the fact that he
was the one who was making the coat possible, and now it would be just
as he thought. The fact that he was paying for it would be taken for
granted.
But a moment later, observing his glum face, she added: "Oh, aren't
you the sweetest, dearest thing, to help me in this way. You just
bet I won't forget this either. You just wait and see. You won't be
sorry. Now you just wait." Her eyes fairly snapped with gayety and even
generosity toward him.
He might be easy and young, but he wasn't mean, and she would reward
him, too, she now decided. Just as soon as she got the coat, which
must be in a week or two at the latest, she was going to be very nice
to him--do something for him. And to emphasize her own thoughts and
convey to him what she really meant, she allowed her eyes to grow
soft and swimming and to dwell on him promisingly--a bit of romantic
acting which caused him to become weak and nervous. The gusto of her
favor frightened him even a little, for it suggested, as he fancied,
a disturbing vitality which he might not be able to match. He felt a
little weak before her now--a little cowardly--in the face of what he
assumed her real affection might mean.
Nevertheless, he now announced that if the coat did not cost more than
one hundred and twenty-five dollars, that sum to be broken into one
payment of twenty-five dollars down and two additional sums of fifty
dollars each, he could manage it. And she on her part replied that
she was going the very next day to see about it. Mr. Rubenstein might
be induced to let her have it at once on the payment of twenty-five
dollars down; if not that, then at the end of the second week, when
nearly all would be paid.
And then in real gratitude to Clyde she whispered to him, coming out
of the restaurant and purring like a cat, that she would never forget
this and that he would see--and that she would wear it for him the
very first time. If he were not working they might go somewhere to
dinner. Or, if not that, then she would have it surely in time for the
day of the proposed automobile ride which he, or rather Hegglund, had
suggested for the following Sunday, but which might be postponed.
She suggested that they go to a certain dance hall, and there she clung
to him in the dances in a suggestive way and afterwards hinted of a
mood which made Clyde a little quivery and erratic.
He finally went home, dreaming of the day, satisfied that he would have
no trouble in bringing together the first payment, if it were so much
as fifty, even. For now, under the spur of this promise, he proposed to
borrow as much as twenty-five from either Ratterer or Hegglund, and to
repay it after the coat was paid for.
But, ah, the beautiful Hortense. The charm of her, the enormous,
compelling, weakening delight. And to think that at last, and soon,
she was to be his. It was, plainly, of such stuff as dreams are made
of--the unbelievable become real.
CHAPTER XVI
True to her promise, the following day Hortense returned to Mr.
Rubenstein, and with all the cunning of her nature placed before him,
with many reservations, the nature of the dilemma which confronted her.
Could she, by any chance, have the coat for one hundred and fifteen
dollars on an easy payment plan? Mr. Rubenstein's head forthwith began
to wag a solemn negative. This was not an easy payment store. If he
wanted to do business that way he could charge two hundred for the coat
and easily get it.
"But I could pay as much as fifty dollars when I took the coat," argued
Hortense.
"Very good. But who is to guarantee that I get the other sixty-five,
and when?"
"Next week twenty-five, and the week after that twenty-five and the
week after that fifteen."
"Of course. But supposin' the next day after you take the coat an
automobile runs you down and kills you. Then what? How do I get my
money?"
Now that was a poser. And there was really no way that she could prove
that any one would pay for the coat. And before that there would have
to be all the bother of making out a contract, and getting some really
responsible person--a banker, say--to endorse it. No, no, this was not
an easy payment house. This was a cash house. That was why the coat was
offered to her at one hundred and fifteen, but not a dollar less. Not a
dollar.
Mr. Rubenstein sighed and talked on. And finally Hortense asked him if
she could give him seventy-five dollars cash in hand, the other forty
to be paid in one week's time. Would he let her have the coat then--to
take home with her?
"But a week--a week--what is a week then?" argued Mr. Rubenstein. "If
you can bring me seventy-five next week or to-morrow, and forty more
in another week or ten days, why not wait a week and bring the whole
hundred and fifteen? Then the coat is yours and no bother. Leave the
coat. Come back to-morrow and pay me twenty-five or thirty dollars on
account and I take the coat out of the window and lock it up for you.
No one can even see it then. In another week bring me the balance or in
two weeks. Then it is yours." Mr. Rubenstein explained the process as
though it were a difficult matter to grasp.
But the argument once made was sound enough. It really left Hortense
little to argue about. At the same time it reduced her spirit not a
little. To think of not being able to take it now. And yet, once out
of the place, her vigor revived. For, after all, the time fixed would
soon pass and if Clyde performed his part of the agreement promptly,
the coat would be hers. The important thing now was to make him give
her twenty-five or thirty dollars wherewith to bind this wonderful
agreement. Only now, because of the fact that she felt that she needed
a new hat to go with the coat, she decided to say that it cost one
hundred and twenty-five instead of one hundred and fifteen.
And once this conclusion was put before Clyde, he saw it as a very
reasonable arrangement--all things considered--quite a respite from the
feeling of strain that had settled upon him after his last conversation
with Hortense. For, after all, he had not seen how he was to raise more
than thirty-five dollars this first week anyhow. The following week
would be somewhat easier, for then, as he told himself, he proposed to
borrow twenty or twenty-five from Ratterer if he could, which, joined
with the twenty or twenty-five which his tips would bring him, would
be quite sufficient to meet the second payment. The week following
he proposed to borrow at least ten or fifteen from Hegglund--maybe
more--and if that did not make up the required amount to pawn his watch
for fifteen dollars, the watch he had bought for himself a few months
before. It ought to bring that at least; it cost fifty.
But, he now thought, there was Esta in her wretched room awaiting
the most unhappy result of her one romance. How was she to make out,
he asked himself, even in the face of the fact that he feared to be
included in the financial problem which Esta as well as the family
presented. His father was not now, and never had been, of any real
financial service to his mother. And yet, if the problem were on this
account to be shifted to him, how would he make out? Why need his
father always peddle clocks and rugs and preach on the streets? Why
couldn't his mother and father give up the mission idea, anyhow?
But, as he knew, the situation was not to be solved without his aid.
And the proof of it came toward the end of the second week of his
arrangement with Hortense, when, with fifty dollars in his pocket,
which he was planning to turn over to her on the following Sunday, his
mother, looking into his bedroom where he was dressing, said: "I'd
like to see you for a minute, Clyde, before you go out." He noted she
was very grave as she said this. As a matter of fact, for several days
past, he had been sensing that she was undergoing a strain of some
kind. At the same time he had been thinking all this while that with
his own resources hypothecated as they were, he could do nothing. Or,
if he did it meant the loss of Hortense. He dared not.
And yet what reasonable excuse could he give his mother for not helping
her a little, considering especially the clothes he wore, and the
manner in which he had been running here and there, always giving
the excuse of working, but probably not deceiving her as much as he
thought. To be sure, only two months before, he had obligated himself
to pay her ten dollars a week more for five weeks, and had. But that
only proved to her very likely that he had so much extra to give, even
though he had tried to make it clear at the time that he was pinching
himself to do it. And yet, however much he chose to waver in her favor,
he could not, with his desire for Hortense directly confronting him.
He went out into the living-room after a time, and as usual his mother
at once led the way to one of the benches in the mission--a cheerless,
cold room these days.
"I didn't think I'd have to speak to you about this, Clyde, but I don't
see any other way out of it. I haven't any one but you to depend upon
now that you're getting to be a man. But you must promise not to tell
any of the others--Frank or Julia or your father. I don't want them to
know. But Esta's back here in Kansas City and in trouble, and I don't
know quite what to do about her. I have so very little money to do
with, and your father's not very much of a help to me any more."
She passed a weary, reflective hand across her forehead and Clyde knew
what was coming. His first thought was to pretend that he did not know
that Esta was in the city, since he had been pretending this way for
so long. But now, suddenly, in the face of his mother's confession and
the need of pretended surprise on his part, if he were to keep up the
fiction, he said, "Yes, I know."
"You know?" queried his mother, surprised.
"Yes, I know," Clyde repeated. "I saw you going in that house in
Beaudry Street one morning as I was going along there," he announced
calmly enough now. "And I saw Esta looking out of the window
afterwards, too. So I went in after you left."
"How long ago was that?" she asked, more to gain time than anything
else.
"Oh, about five or six weeks ago, I think. I been around to see her a
coupla times since then, only Esta didn't want me to say anything about
that either."
"Tst! Tst! Tst!" clicked Mrs. Griffiths, with her tongue. "Then you
know what the trouble is."
"Yes," replied Clyde.
"Well, what is to be will be," she said resignedly. "You haven't
mentioned it to Frank or Julia, have you?"
"No," replied Clyde, thoughtfully, thinking of what a failure his
mother had made of her attempt to be secretive. She was no one to
deceive any one, or his father, either. He thought himself far, far
shrewder.
"Well, you mustn't," cautioned his mother solemnly. "It isn't best for
them to know, I think. It's bad enough as it is this way," she added
with a kind of wry twist to her mouth, the while Clyde thought of
himself and Hortense.
"And to think," she added, after a moment, her eyes filling with a
sad, all-enveloping gray mist, "she should have brought all this on
herself and on us. And when we have so little to do with, as it is. And
after all the instruction she has had--the training. 'The way of the
transgressor----'"
She shook her head and put her two large hands together and gripped
them firmly, while Clyde stared, thinking of the situation and all that
it might mean to him.
She sat there, quite reduced and bewildered by her own peculiar part
in all this. She had been as deceiving as any one, really. And here
was Clyde, now, fully informed as to her falsehoods and strategy,
and herself looking foolish and untrue. But had she not been trying
to save him from all this--him and the others? And he was old enough
to understand that now. Yet she now proceeded to explain why, and to
say how dreadful she felt it all to be. At the same time, as she also
explained, now she was compelled to come to him for aid in connection
with it.
"Esta's about to be very sick," she went on suddenly and stiffly, not
being able, or at least willing, apparently, to look at Clyde as she
said it, and yet determined to be as frank as possible. "She'll need
a doctor very shortly and some one to be with her all the time when
I'm not there. I must get money somewhere--at least fifty dollars. You
couldn't get me that much in some way, from some of your young men
friends, could you, just a loan for a few weeks? You could pay it back,
you know, soon, if you would. You wouldn't need to pay me anything for
your room until you had."
She looked at Clyde so tensely, so urgently, that he felt quite
shaken by the force and the cogency of the request. And before he
could add anything to the nervous gloom which shadowed her face, she
added: "That other money was for her, you know, to bring her back here
after her--her"--she hesitated over the appropriate word but finally
added--"husband left her there in Pittsburgh. I suppose she told you
that."
"Yes, she did," replied Clyde, heavily and sadly. For after all, Esta's
condition was plainly critical, which was something that he had not
stopped to meditate on before.
"Gee, Ma," he exclaimed, the thought of the fifty dollars in his pocket
and its intended destination troubling him considerably--the very sum
his mother was seeking. "I don't know whether I can do that or not.
I don't know any of the boys down there well enough for that. And
they don't make any more than I do, either. I might borrow a little
something, but it won't look very good." He choked and swallowed a
little, for lying to his mother in this way was not easy. In fact,
he had never had occasion to lie in connection with anything so
trying--and so despicably. For here was fifty dollars in his pocket at
the moment, with Hortense on the one hand and his mother and sister
on the other, and the money would solve his mother's problem as fully
as it would Hortense's, and more respectably. How terrible it was not
to help her. How could he refuse her, really? Nervously he licked his
lips and passed a hand over his brow, for a nervous moisture had broken
out upon his face. He felt strained and mean and incompetent under the
circumstances.
"And you haven't any money of your own right now that you could let me
have, have you?" his mother half pleaded. For there were a number of
things in connection with Esta's condition which required immediate
cash and she had so little.
"No, I haven't, Ma," he said, looking at his mother shame-facedly, for
a moment, then away, and if it had not been that she herself was so
distrait, she might have seen the falsehood on his face. As it was, he
suffered a pang of commingled self-commiseration and self-contempt,
based on the distress he felt for his mother. He could not bring
himself to think of losing Hortense. He must have her. And yet his
mother looked so lone and so resourceless. It was shameful. He was low,
really mean. Might he not, later, be punished for a thing like this?
He tried to think of some other way--some way of getting a little money
over and above the fifty that might help. If only he had a little more
time--a few weeks longer. If only Hortense had not brought up this coat
idea just now.
"I'll tell you what I might do," he went on, quite foolishly and dully
the while his mother gave vent to a helpless "Tst! Tst! Tst!" "Will
five dollars do you any good?"
"Well, it will be something, anyhow," she replied. "I can use it."
"Well, I can let you have that much," he said, thinking to replace it
out of his next week's tips and trust to better luck throughout the
week. "And I'll see what I can do next week. I might let you have ten
then. I can't say for sure. I had to borrow some of that other money I
gave you, and I haven't got through paying for that yet, and if I come
around trying to get more, they'll think--well, you know how it is."
His mother sighed, thinking of the misery of having to fall back on
her one son thus far. And just when he was trying to get a start, too.
What would he think of all this in after years? What would he think of
her--of Esta--the family? For, for all his ambition and courage and
desire to be out and doing, Clyde always struck her as one who was
not any too powerful physically or rock-ribbed morally or mentally.
So far as his nerves and emotions were concerned, at times he seemed
to take after his father more than he did after her. And for the most
part it was so easy to excite him--to cause him to show tenseness
and strain--as though he were not so very well fitted for either.
And it was she, because of Esta and her husband and their joint and
unfortunate lives, that was and had been heaping the greater part of
this strain on him.
"Well, if you can't, you can't," she said. "I must try and think of
some other way." But she saw no clear way at the moment.
CHAPTER XVII
In connection with the automobile ride suggested and arranged for the
following Sunday by Hegglund through his chauffeur friend, a change of
plan was announced. The car--an expensive Packard, no less--could not
be had for that day, but must be used by this Thursday or Friday, or
not at all. For, as had been previously explained to all, but not with
the strictest adherence to the truth, the car belonged to a certain Mr.
Kimbark, an elderly and very wealthy man who at the time was traveling
in Asia. Also, what was not true was that this particular youth was not
Mr. Kimbark's chauffeur at all, but rather the rakish, ne'er-do-well
son of Sparser, the superintendent of one of Mr. Kimbark's stock farms.
This son being anxious to pose as something more than the son of a
superintendent of a farm, and as an occasional watchman, having access
to the cars, had decided to take the very finest of them and ride in it.
It was Hegglund who proposed that he and his hotel friends be included
on some interesting trip. But since the general invitation had been
given, word had come that within the next few weeks Mr. Kimbark was
likely to return. And because of this, Willard Sparser had decided at
once that it might be best not to use the car any more. He might be
taken unawares, perhaps, by Mr. Kimbark's unexpected arrival. Laying
this difficulty before Hegglund, who was eager for the trip, the
latter had scouted the idea. Why not use it once more anyhow? He had
stirred up the interest of all of his friends in this and now hated to
disappoint them. The following Friday, between noon and six o'clock,
was fixed upon as the day. And since Hortense had changed in her plans
she now decided to accompany Clyde, who had been invited, of course.
But as Hegglund had explained to Ratterer and Higby since it was being
used without the owner's consent, they must meet rather far out--the
men in one of the quiet streets near Seventeenth and West Prospect,
from which point they could proceed to a meeting place more convenient
for the girls, namely, Twentieth and Washington. From thence they would
speed via the west Parkway and the Hannibal Bridge north and east
to Harlem, North Kansas City, Minaville and so through Liberty and
Moseby to Excelsior Springs. Their chief objective there was a little
inn--the Wigwam--a mile or two this side of Excelsior which was open
the year round. It was really a combination of restaurant and dancing
parlor and hotel. A Victrola and Wurlitzer player-piano furnished the
necessary music. Such groups as this were not infrequent, and Hegglund
as well as Higby, who had been there on several occasions, described
it as dandy. The food was good and the road to it excellent. There was
a little river just below it where in the summer time at least there
was rowing and fishing. In winter some people skated when there was
ice. To be sure, at this time--January--the road was heavily packed
with snow, but easy to get over, and the scenery fine. There was a
little lake not so far from Excelsior, at this time of year also frozen
over, and according to Hegglund, who was always unduly imaginative and
high-spirited, they might go there and skate.
"Will you listen to who's talkin' about skatin' on a trip like this?"
commented Ratterer, rather cynically, for to his way of thinking this
was no occasion for any such side athletics, but for love-making
exclusively.
"Aw, hell, can't a fellow have a funny idea even widout bein' roasted
for it?" retorted the author of the idea.
The only one, apart from Sparser, who suffered any qualms in connection
with all this was Clyde himself. For to him, from the first, the fact
that the car to be used did not belong to Sparser, but to his employer,
was disturbing, almost irritatingly so. He did not like the idea of
taking anything that belonged to any one else, even for temporary use.
Something might happen. They might be found out.
"Don't you think it's dangerous for us to be going out in this car?"
he asked of Ratterer a few days before the trip and when he fully
understood the nature of the source of the car.
"Oh, I don't know," replied Ratterer, who being accustomed to such
ideas and devices as this was not much disturbed by them. "I'm not
taking the car and you're not, are you? If he wants to take it, that's
his lookout, ain't it? If he wants me to go, I'll go. Why wouldn't I?
All I want is to be brought back here on time. That's the only thing
that would ever worry me."
And Higby, coming up at the moment, had voiced exactly the same
sentiments. Yet Clyde remained troubled. It might not work out right;
he might lose his job through a thing like this. But so fascinated was
he by the thought of riding in such a fine car with Hortense and with
all these other girls and boys that he could not resist the temptation
to go.
Immediately after noon on the Friday of this particular week the
several participants of the outing were gathered at the points agreed
upon. Hegglund, Ratterer, Higby and Clyde at Eighteenth and West
Prospect near the railroad yards. Maida Axelrod, Hegglund's girl,
Lucille Nickolas, a friend of Ratterer's, and Tina Kogel, a friend of
Higby's, also Laura Sipe, another girl who was brought by Tina Kogel to
be introduced to Sparser for the occasion, at Twentieth and Washington.
Only since Hortense had sent word at the last moment to Clyde that she
had to go out to her house for something, and that they were to run
out to Forty-ninth and Genesee, where she lived, they did so, but not
without grumbling.
The day, a late January one, was inclined to be smoky with lowering
clouds, especially within the environs of Kansas City. It even
threatened snow at times--a most interesting and picturesque prospect
to those within. They liked it.
"Oh, gee, I hope it does," Tina Kogel exclaimed when some one commented
on the possibility, and Lucille Nickolas added: "Oh, I just love to see
it snow at times." Along the West Bluff Road, Washington and Second
Streets, they finally made their way across the Hannibal Bridge to
Harlem, and from thence along the winding and hill-sentineled river
road to Randolph Heights and Minaville. And beyond that came Moseby and
Liberty, to and through which the road bed was better, with interesting
glimpses of small homesteads and the bleak snow-covered hills of
January.
Clyde, who for all his years in Kansas City had never ventured much
beyond Kansas City, Kansas, on the west or the primitive and natural
woods of Swope Parks on the east, nor farther along the Kansas or
Missouri Rivers than Argentine on the one side and Randolph Heights on
the other, was quite fascinated by the idea of travel which appeared
to be suggested by all this--distant travel. It was all so different
from his ordinary routine. And on this occasion Hortense was inclined
to be very genial and friendly. She snuggled down beside him on the
seat, and when he, noting that the others had already drawn their
girls to them in affectionate embraces, put his arm about her and drew
her to him, she made no particular protest. Instead she looked up and
said: "I'll have to take my hat off, I guess." The others laughed.
There was something about her quick, crisp way which was amusing at
times. Besides she had done her hair in a new way which made her look
decidedly prettier, and she was anxious to have the others see it.
"Can we dance anywhere out here?" she called to the others, without
looking around.
"Surest thing you know," said Higby, who by now had persuaded Tina
Kogel to take her hat off and was holding her close. "They got a
player-piano and a Victrola out there. If I'd 'a' thought, I'd 'a'
brought my cornet. I can play Dixie on that."
The car was speeding at breakneck pace over a snowy white road and
between white fields. In fact, Sparser, considering himself a master of
car manipulation as well as the real owner of it for the moment, was
attempting to see how fast he could go on such a road.
Dark vignettes of woods went by to right and left. Fields away,
sentinel hills rose and fell like waves. A wide-armed scarecrow
fluttering in the wind, its tall decayed hat awry, stood near at hand
in one place. And from near it a flock of crows rose and winged direct
toward a distant wood lightly penciled against a foreground of snow.
In the front seat sat Sparser, guiding the car beside Laura Sipe with
the air of one to whom such a magnificent car was a commonplace thing.
He was really more interested in Hortense, yet felt it incumbent on
him, for the time being, anyhow, to show some attention to Laura Sipe.
And not to be outdone in gallantry by the others, he now put one arm
about Laura Sipe while he guided the car with the other, a feat which
troubled Clyde, who was still dubious about the wisdom of taking the
car at all. They might all be wrecked by such fast driving. Hortense
was only interested by the fact that Sparser had obviously manifested
his interest in her; that he had to pay some attention to Laura Sipe
whether he wanted to or not. And when she saw him pull her to him and
asked her grandly if she had done much automobiling about Kansas City,
she merely smiled to herself.
But Ratterer, noting the move, nudged Lucille Nickolas, and she in turn
nudged Higby, in order to attract his attention to the affectional
development ahead.
"Getting comfortable up front there, Willard?" called Ratterer,
genially, in order to make friends with him.
"I'll say I am," replied Sparser, gayly and without turning. "How about
you, girlie?"
"Oh, I'm all right," Laura Sipe replied.
But Clyde was thinking that of all the girls present none was really so
pretty as Hortense--not nearly. She had come garbed in a red and black
dress with a very dark red poke bonnet to match. And on her left cheek,
just below her small rouged mouth, she had pasted a minute square of
black court plaster in imitation of some picture beauty she had seen.
In fact, before the outing began, she had been determined to outshine
all the others present, and distinctly she was now feeling that she
was succeeding. And Clyde, for himself, was agreeing with her.
"You're the cutest thing here," whispered Clyde, hugging her fondly.
"Gee, but you can pour on the molasses, kid, when you want to," she
called out loud, and the others laughed. And Clyde flushed slightly.
Beyond Minaville about six miles the car came to a bend in a hollow
where there was a country store and here Hegglund, Higby and Ratterer
got out to fetch candy, cigarettes and ice cream cones and ginger
ale. And after that came Liberty, and then several miles this side of
Excelsior Springs, they sighted the Wigwam which was nothing more than
an old two-story farmhouse snuggled against a rise of ground behind
it. There was, however, adjoining it on one side a newer and larger
one-story addition consisting of the dining-room, the dance floor, and
concealed by a partition at one end, a bar. An open fire flickered
cheerfully here in a large fireplace. Down in a hollow across the road
might be seen the Benton River or creek, now frozen solid.
"There's your river," called Higby cheerfully as he helped Tina Kogel
out of the car, for he was already very much warmed by several drinks
he had taken en route. They all paused for a moment to admire the
stream, winding away among the trees. "I wanted dis bunch to bring dere
skates and go down dere," sighed Hegglund, "but dey wouldn't. Well,
dat's all right."
By then Lucille Nickolas, seeing a flicker of flame reflected in one of
the small windows of the inn, called, "Oh, see, they gotta fire."
The car was parked, and they all trooped into the inn, and at once
Higby briskly went over and started the large, noisy, clattery, tinny
Nickelodeon with a nickel. And to rival him, and for a prank, Hegglund
ran to the victrola which stood in one corner and put on a record of
"The Grizzly Bear," which he found lying there.
At the first sounds of this strain, which they all knew, Tina Kogel
called: "Oh, let's all dance to that, will you? Can't you stop that
other old thing?" she added.
"Sure, after it runs down," explained Ratterer, laughingly. "The only
way to stop that thing is not to feed it any nickels."
But now a waiter coming in, Higby began to inquire what everybody
wanted. And in the meantime, to show off her charms, Hortense had taken
the center of the floor and was attempting to imitate a grizzly bear
walking on its hind legs, which she could do amusingly enough--quite
gracefully. And Sparser, seeing her alone in the center of the floor
and anxious to interest her now, followed her and tried to imitate her
motions from behind. Finding him clever at it, and anxious to dance,
she finally abandoned the imitation and giving him her arms went
one-stepping about the room most vividly. At once, Clyde, who was by no
means as good a dancer, became jealous--painfully so. In his eagerness
for her, it seemed unfair to him that he should be deserted by her so
early--at the very beginning of things. But she, becoming interested
in Sparser, who seemed more worldly-wise, paid no attention at all to
Clyde for the time being, but went dancing with her new conquest, his
rhythmic skill seeming charmingly to match her own. And then, not to
be out of it, the others at once chose partners, Hegglund dancing with
Maida, Ratterer with Lucille and Higby with Tina Kogel. This left Laura
Sipe for Clyde, who did not like her very much. She was not as perfect
as she might be--a plump, pudgy-faced girl with inadequate sensual blue
eyes--and Clyde, lacking any exceptional skill, they danced nothing but
the conventional one-step while the others were dipping and lurching
and spinning.
In a kind of sick fury, Clyde noticed that Sparser, who was still
with Hortense, was by now holding her close and looking straight into
her eyes. And she was permitting him. It gave him a feeling of lead
at the pit of his stomach. Was it possible she was beginning to like
this young upstart who had this car? And she had promised to like him
for the present. It brought to him a sense of her fickleness--the
probability of her real indifference to him. He wanted to do
something--stop dancing and get her away from Sparser, but there was no
use until this particular record ran out.
And then, just at the end of this, the waiter returned with a tray and
put down cocktails, ginger ale and sandwiches upon three small tables
which had been joined together. All but Sparser and Hortense quit
and came toward it--a fact which Clyde was quick to note. She was a
heartless flirt! She really did not care for him after all. And after
making him think that she did, so recently--and getting him to help her
with that coat. She could go to the devil now. He would show her. And
he waiting for her! Wasn't that the limit? Yet, finally, seeing that
the others were gathering about the tables, which had been placed near
the fire, Hortense and Sparser ceased dancing and approached. Clyde was
white and glum. He stood to one side, seemingly indifferent. And Laura
Sipe, who had already noted his rage and understood the reason now
moved away from him to join Tina Kogel, to whom she explained why he
was so angry.
And then noting his glumness, Hortense came over, executing a phase of
the "Grizzly" as she did so.
"Gee, wasn't that swell?" she began. "Gee, how I do love to dance to
music like that!"
"Sure, it's swell for you," returned Clyde, burning with envy and
disappointment.
"Why, what's the trouble?" she asked, in a low and almost injured tone,
pretending not to guess, yet knowing quite well why he was angry. "You
don't mean to say that you're mad because I danced with him first, do
you? Oh, how silly! Why didn't you come over then and dance with me? I
couldn't refuse to dance with him when he was right there, could I?"
"Oh, no, of course, you couldn't," replied Clyde sarcastically, and in
a low, tense tone, for he, no more than Hortense, wanted the others to
hear. "But you didn't have to fall all over him and dream in his eyes,
either, did you?" He was fairly blazing. "You needn't say you didn't,
because I saw you."
At this she glanced at him oddly, realizing not only the sharpness of
his mood, but that this was the first time he had shown so much daring
in connection with her. It must be that he was getting to feel too sure
of her. She was showing him too much attention. At the same time she
realized that this was not the time to show him that she did not care
for him as much as she would like to have him believe, since she wanted
the coat, already agreed upon.
"Oh, gee, well, ain't that the limit?" she replied angrily, yet more
because she was irritated by the fact that what he said was true than
anything else. "If you aren't the grouch. Well, I can't help it, if
you're going to be as jealous as that. I didn't do anything but dance
with him just a little. I didn't think you'd be mad." She moved as if
to turn away, but realizing that there was an understanding between
them, and that he must be placated if things were to go on, she drew
him by his coat lapels out of the range of the hearing of the others,
who were already looking and listening, and began.
"Now, see here, you. Don't go acting like this. I didn't mean anything
by what I did. Honest, I didn't. Anyhow, everybody dances like that
now. And nobody means anything by it. Aren't you goin' to let me be
nice to you like I said, or are you?"
And now she looked him coaxingly and winsomely and calculatingly
straight in the eye, as though he were the one person among all
these present whom she really did like. And deliberately, and of a
purpose, she made a pursy, sensuous mouth--the kind she could make--and
practised a play of the lips that caused them to seem to want to kiss
him--a mouth that tempted him to distraction.
"All right," he said, looking at her weakly and yieldingly. "I suppose
I am a fool, but I saw what you did, all right. You know I'm crazy
about you, Hortense--just wild! I can't help it. I wish I could
sometimes. I wish I wouldn't be such a fool." And he looked at her and
was sad. And she, realizing her power over him and how easy it was to
bring him around, replied: "Oh, you--you don't, either. I'll kiss you
after a while, when the others aren't looking if you'll be good." At
the same time she was conscious of the fact that Sparser's eyes were
upon her. Also that he was intensely drawn to her and that she liked
him more than any one she had recently encountered.
CHAPTER XVIII
The climax of the afternoon was reached, however, when after several
more dances and drinks, the small river and its possibilities was again
brought to the attention of all by Hegglund, who, looking out of one
of the windows, suddenly exclaimed: "What's de matter wit de ice down
dere? Look at de swell ice. I dare dis crowd to go down dere and slide."
They were off pell-mell--Ratterer and Tina Kogel, running hand in hand,
Sparser and Lucille Nickolas, with whom he had just been dancing, Higby
and Laura Sipe, whom he was finding interesting enough for a change,
and Clyde and Hortense. But once on the ice, which was nothing more
than a narrow, winding stream, blown clean in places by the wind, and
curving among thickets of leafless trees, the company were more like
young satyrs and nymphs of an older day. They ran here and there,
slipping and sliding--Higby, Lucille and Maida immediately falling
down, but scrambling to their feet with bursts of laughter.
And Hortense, aided by Clyde at first, minced here and there. But
soon she began to run and slide, squealing in pretended fear. And
now, not only Sparser but Higby, and this in spite of Clyde, began to
show Hortense attention. They joined her in sliding, ran after her
and pretended to try to trip her up, but caught her as she fell. And
Sparser, taking her by the hand, dragged her, seemingly in spite of
herself and the others, far upstream and about a curve where they could
not be seen. Determined not to show further watchfulness or jealousy
Clyde remained behind. But he could not help feeling that Sparser might
be taking this occasion to make a date, even to kiss her. She was not
incapable of letting him, even though she might pretend to him that she
did not want him to. It was agonizing.
In spite of himself, he began to tingle with helpless pain--to begin
to wish that he could see them. But Hegglund, having called every
one to join hands and crack the whip, he took the hand of Lucille
Nickolas, who was holding on to Hegglund's, and gave his other free
hand to Maida Axelrod, who in turn gave her free hand to Ratterer. And
Higby and Laura Sipe were about to make up the tail when Sparser and
Hortense came gliding back--he holding her by the hand. And they now
tacked on at the foot. Then Hegglund and the others began running and
doubling back and forth until all beyond Maida had fallen and let go.
And, as Clyde noted, Hortense and Sparser, in falling, skidded and
rolled against each other to the edge of the shore where were snow and
leaves and twigs. And Hortense's skirts, becoming awry in some way,
moved up to above her knees. But instead of showing any embarrassment,
as Clyde thought and wished she might, she sat there for a few moments
without shame and even laughing heartily--and Sparser with her and
still holding her hand. And Laura Sipe, having fallen in such a way as
to trip Higby, who had fallen across her, they also lay there laughing
and yet in a most suggestive position, as Clyde thought. He noted, too,
that Laura Sipe's skirts had been worked above her knees. And Sparser,
now sitting up, was pointing to her pretty legs and laughing loudly,
showing most of his teeth. And all the others were emitting peals and
squeals of laughter.
"Hang it all!" thought Clyde. "Why the deuce does he always have to be
hanging about her? Why didn't he bring a girl of his own if he wanted
to have a good time? What right have they got to go where they can't
be seen? And she thinks I think she means nothing by all this. She
never laughs that heartily with me, you bet. What does she think I am
that she can put that stuff over on me, anyhow?" He glowered darkly
for the moment, but in spite of his thoughts the line or whip was soon
re-formed and this time with Lucille Nickolas still holding his hand.
Sparser and Hortense at the tail end again. But Hegglund, unconscious
of the mood of Clyde and thinking only of the sport, called: "Better
let some one else take de end dere, hadn'tcha?" And feeling the
fairness of this, Ratterer and Maida Axelrod and Clyde and Lucille
Nickolas now moved down with Higby and Laura Sipe and Hortense and
Sparser above them. Only, as Clyde noted, Hortense still held Sparser
by the hand, yet she moved just above him and took his hand, he being
to the right, with Sparser next above to her left, holding her other
hand firmly, which infuriated Clyde. Why couldn't he stick to Laura
Sipe, the girl brought out here for him? And Hortense was encouraging
him.
He was very sad, and he felt so angry and bitter that he could scarcely
play the game. He wanted to stop and quarrel with Sparser. But so brisk
and eager was Hegglund that they were off before he could even think of
doing so.
And then, try as he would, to keep his balance in the face of this,
he and Lucille and Ratterer and Maida Axelrod were thrown down and
spun around on the ice like curling irons. And Hortense, letting go of
him at the right moment, seemed to prefer deliberately to hang on to
Sparser. Entangled with these others, Clyde and they spun across forty
feet of smooth, green ice and piled against a snow bank. At the finish,
as he found, Lucille Nickolas was lying across his knees face down in
such a spanking position that he was compelled to laugh. And Maida
Axelrod was on her back, next to Ratterer, her legs straight up in the
air; on purpose he thought. She was too coarse and bold for him. And
there followed, of course, squeals and guffaws of delight--so loud that
they could be heard for half a mile. Hegglund, intensely susceptible
to humor at all times, doubled to the knees, slapped his thighs and
bawled. And Sparser opened his big mouth and chortled and grimaced
until he was scarlet. So infectious was the result that for the time
being Clyde forgot his jealousy. He too looked and laughed. But Clyde's
mood had not changed really. He still felt that she wasn't playing fair.
At the end of all this playing Lucille Nickolas and Tina Kogel being
tired, dropped out. And Hortense, also. Clyde at once left the group to
join her. Ratterer then followed Lucille. Then the others separating,
Hegglund pushed Maida Axelrod before him down stream out of sight
around a bend. Higby, seemingly taking his cue from this, pulled Tina
Kogel up stream, and Ratterer and Lucille, seeming to see something of
interest, struck into a thicket, laughing and talking as they went.
Even Sparser and Laura, left to themselves, now wandered off, leaving
Clyde and Hortense alone.
And then, as these two wandered toward a fallen log which here
paralleled the stream, she sat down. But Clyde, smarting from his
fancied wounds, stood silent for the time being, while she, sensing as
much, took him by the belt of his coat and began to pull at him.
"Giddap, horsey," she played. "Giddap. My horsey has to skate me now on
the ice."
Clyde looked at her glumly, glowering mentally, and not to be diverted
so easily from the ills which he felt to be his.
"Whadd'ye wanta let that fellow Sparser always hang around you for?"
he demanded. "I saw you going up the creek there with him a while ago.
What did he say to you up there?"
"He didn't say anything."
"Oh, no, of course not," he replied cynically and bitterly. "And maybe
he didn't kiss you, either."
"I should say not," she replied definitely and spitefully, "I'd like to
know what you think I am, anyhow. I don't let people kiss me the first
time they see me, smarty, and I want you to know it. I didn't let you,
did I?"
"Oh, that's all right, too," answered Clyde; "but you didn't like me as
well as you do him, either."
"Oh, didn't I? Well, maybe I didn't, but what right have you to say I
like him, anyhow. I'd like to know if I can't have a little fun without
you watching me all the time. You make me tired, that's what; you do."
She was quite angry now because of the proprietary air he appeared to
be assuming.
And now Clyde, repulsed and somewhat shaken by this sudden counter on
her part, decided on the instant that perhaps it might be best for him
to modify his tone. After all, she had never said that she had really
cared for him, even in the face of the implied promise she had made him.
"Oh, well," he observed glumly after a moment, and not without a little
of sadness in his tone, "I know one thing. If I let on that I cared for
any one as much as you say you do for me at times, I wouldn't want to
flirt around with others like you are doing out here."
"Oh, wouldn't you?"
"No, I wouldn't."
"Well, who's flirting anyhow, I'd like to know?"
"You are."
"I'm not either, and I wish you'd just go away and let me alone if
you can't do anything else but quarrel with me. Just because I danced
with him up there in the restaurant, is no reason for you to think I'm
flirting. Oh, you make me tired, that's what you do."
"Do I?"
"Yes, you do."
"Well, maybe I better go off and not bother you any more at all then,"
he returned, a trace of his mother's courage welling up in him.
"Well, maybe you had, if that's the way you're going to feel about me
all the time," she answered, and kicked viciously with her toes at the
ice. But Clyde was beginning to feel that he could not possibly go
through with this--that after all he was too eager about her--too much
at her feet. He began to weaken and gaze nervously at her. And she,
thinking of her coat again, decided to be civil.
"You didn't look in his eyes, did you?" he asked weakly, his thoughts
going back to her dancing with Sparser.
"When?"
"When you were dancing with him?"
"No, I didn't, not that I know of, anyhow. But supposing I did. What of
it? I didn't mean anything by it. Gee, criminy, can't a person look in
anybody's eyes if they want to?"
"In the way you looked in his? Not if you claim to like anybody else, I
say." And the skin of Clyde's forehead lifted and sank, and his eyelids
narrowed. Hortense merely clicked impatiently and indignantly with her
tongue.
"Tst! Tst! Tst! If you ain't the limit!"
"And a while ago back there on the ice," went on Clyde determinedly and
yet pathetically. "When you came back from up there, instead of coming
up to where I was you went to the foot of the line with him. I saw you.
And you held his hand, too, all the way back. And then when you fell
down, you had to sit there with him holding your hand. I'd like to know
what you call that if it ain't flirting. What else is it? I'll bet he
thinks it is, all right."
"Well, I wasn't flirting with him just the same and I don't care what
you say. But if you want to have it that way, have it that way. I can't
stop you. You're so darn jealous you don't want to let anybody else do
anything, that's all the matter with you. How else can you play on the
ice if you don't hold hands, I'd like to know? Gee, criminy! What about
you and that Lucille Nickolas? I saw her laying across your lap and
you laughing. And I didn't think anything of that. What do you want me
to do--come out here and sit around like a bump on a log?--follow you
around like a tail? Or you follow me? What-a-yuh think I am anyhow? A
nut?"
She was being ragged by Clyde, as she thought, and she didn't like it.
She was thinking of Sparser who was really more appealing to her at the
time than Clyde. He was more materialistic, less romantic, more direct.
He turned and, taking off his cap, rubbed his head gloomily while
Hortense, looking at him, thought first of him and then of Sparser.
Sparser was more manly, not so much of a crybaby. He wouldn't stand
around and complain this way, you bet. He'd probably leave her for
good, have nothing more to do with her. Yet Clyde, after his fashion,
was interesting and useful. Who else would do for her what he had? And
at any rate, he was not trying to force her to go off with him now as
these others had gone and as she had feared he might try to do--ahead
of her plan and wish. This quarrel was obviating that.
"Now, see here," she said after a time, having decided that it was best
to assuage him and that it was not so hard to manage him after all.
"Are we goin' t' fight all the time, Clyde? What's the use, anyhow?
Whatja want me to come out here for if you just want to fight with me
all the time? I wouldn't have come if I'd 'a' thought you were going to
do that all day."
She turned and kicked at the ice with the minute toe of her shoes,
and Clyde, always taken by her charm again, put his arms about her,
and crushed her to him, at the same time fumbling at her breasts and
putting his lips to hers and endeavoring to hold and fondle her.
But now, because of her suddenly developed liking for Sparser, and
partially because of her present mood towards Clyde, she broke away,
a dissatisfaction with herself and him troubling her. Why should she
let him force her to do anything she did not feel like doing, just
now, anyhow, she now asked herself. She hadn't agreed to be as nice to
him to-day as he might wish. Not yet. At any rate just now she did not
want to be handled in this way by him, and she would not, regardless of
what he might do. And Clyde, sensing by now what the true state of her
mind in regard to him must be, stepped back and yet continued to gaze
gloomily and hungrily at her. And she in turn merely stared at him.
"I thought you said you liked me," he demanded almost savagely now,
realizing that his dreams of a happy outing this day were fading into
nothing.
"Well, I do when you're nice," she replied, sly and evasively, seeking
some way to avoid complication in connection with her original promises
to him.
"Yes, you do," he grumbled. "I see how you do. Why, here we are out
here now and you won't even let me touch you. I'd like to know what you
meant by all that you said, anyhow."
"Well, what did I say?" she countered, merely to gain time.
"As though you didn't know."
"Oh, well. But that wasn't to be right away, either, was it? I thought
we said"--she paused dubiously.
"I know what you said," he went on. "But I notice now that you don't
like me an' that's all there is to it. What difference would it make if
you really cared for me whether you were nice to me now or next week or
the week after? Gee whiz, you'd think it was something that depended on
what I did for you, not whether you cared for me." In his pain he was
quite intense and courageous.
"That's not so!" she snapped, angrily and bitterly, irritated by the
truth of what he said. "And I wish you wouldn't say that to me,
either. I don't care anything about the old coat now, if you want to
know it. And you can just have your old money back, too, I don't want
it. And you can just let me alone from now on, too," she added. "I'll
get all the coats I want without any help from you." At this, she
turned and walked away.
But Clyde, now anxious to mollify her as usual, ran after her. "Don't
go, Hortense," he pleaded. "Wait a minute. I didn't mean that either,
honest I didn't. I'm crazy about you. Honest I am. Can't you see that?
Oh, gee, don't go now. I'm not giving you the money to get something
for it. You can have it for nothing if you want it that way. There
ain't anybody else in the world like you to me, and there never has
been. You can have the money for all I care, all of it. I don't want it
back. But, gee, I did think you liked me a little. Don't you care for
me at all, Hortense?" He looked cowed and frightened, and she, sensing
her mastery over him, relented a little.
"Of course I do," she announced. "But just the same, that don't mean
that you can treat me any old way, either. You don't seem to understand
that a girl can't do everything you want her to do just when you want
her to do it."
"Just what do you mean by that?" asked Clyde, not quite sensing just
what she did mean. "I don't get you."
"Oh, yes, you do, too." She could not believe that he did not know.
"Oh, I guess I know what you're talkin' about. I know what you're going
to say now," he went on disappointedly. "That's that old stuff they all
pull. I know."
He was now reciting almost verbatim the words and intonations even
of the other boys at the hotel--Higby, Ratterer, Eddie Doyle--who,
having narrated the nature of such situations to him, and how girls
occasionally lied out of pressing dilemmas in this way, had made
perfectly clear to him what was meant. And Hortense knew now that he
did know.
"Gee, but you're mean," she said in an assumed hurt way. "A person can
never tell you anything or expect you to believe it. Just the same,
it's true, whether you believe it or not."
"Oh, I know how you are," he replied, sadly yet a little loftily, as
though this were an old situation to him. "You don't like me, that's
all. I see that now, all right."
"Gee, but you're mean," she persisted, affecting an injured air. "It's
the God's truth. Believe me or not, I swear it. Honest it is."
Clyde stood there. In the face of this small trick there was really
nothing much to say as he saw it. He could not force her to do
anything. If she wanted to lie and pretend, he would have to pretend
to believe her. And yet a great sadness settled down upon him. He was
not to win her after all--that was plain. He turned, and she, being
convinced that he felt that she was lying now, felt it incumbent upon
herself to do something about it--to win him around to her again.
"Please, Clyde, please," she began now, most artfully, "I mean that.
Really, I do. Won't you believe me? But I will next week, sure. Honest,
I will. Won't you believe that? I meant everything I said when I said
it. Honest, I did. I do like you--a lot. Won't you believe that,
too--please?"
And Clyde, thrilled from head to toe by this latest phase of her
artistry, agreed that he would. And once more he began to smile and
recover his gayety. And by the time they reached the car, to which they
were all called a few minutes after by Hegglund, because of the time,
and he had held her hand and kissed her often, he was quite convinced
that the dream he had been dreaming was as certain of fulfillment as
anything could be. Oh, the glory of it when it should come true!
CHAPTER XIX
For the major portion of the return trip to Kansas City, there was
nothing to mar the very agreeable illusion under which Clyde rested.
He sat beside Hortense, who leaned her head against his shoulder. And
although Sparser, who had waited for the others to step in before
taking the wheel, had squeezed her arm and received an answering and
promising look, Clyde had not seen that.
But the hour being late and the admonitions of Hegglund, Ratterer and
Higby being all for speed, and the mood of Sparser, because of the
looks bestowed upon him by Hortense, being the gayest and most drunken,
it was not long before the outlying lamps of the environs began to
show. For the car was rushed along the road at break-neck speed. At
one point, however, where one of the eastern trunk lines approached
the city, there was a long and unexpected and disturbing wait at a
grade crossing where two freight trains met and passed. Farther in,
at North Kansas City, it began to snow, great soft slushy flakes,
feathering down and coating the road surface with a slippery layer of
mud which required more caution than had been thus far displayed. It
was then half past five. Ordinarily, an additional eight minutes at
high speed would have served to bring the car within a block or two
of the hotel. But now, with another delay near Hannibal Bridge owing
to grade crossing, it was twenty minutes to six before the bridge was
crossed and Wyandotte Street reached. And already all four of these
youths had lost all sense of the delight of the trip and the pleasure
the companionship of these girls had given them. For already they were
worrying as to the probability of their reaching the hotel in time. The
smug and martinetish figure of Mr. Squires loomed before them all.
"Gee, if we don't do better than this," observed Ratterer to Higby, who
was nervously fumbling with his watch, "we're not goin' to make it.
We'll hardly have time, as it is, to change."
Clyde, hearing him, exclaimed: "Oh, crickets! I wish we could hurry a
little. Gee, I wish now we hadn't come to-day. It'll be tough if we
don't get there on time."
And Hortense, noting his sudden tenseness and unrest, added: "Don't you
think you'll make it all right?"
"Not this way," he said. But Hegglund, who had been studying the flaked
air outside, a world that seemed dotted with falling bits of cotton,
called: "Eh, dere Willard. We certainly gotta do better dan dis. It
means de razoo for us if we don't get dere on time."
And Higby, for once stirred out of a gambler-like effrontery and calm,
added: "We'll walk the plank all right unless we can put up some good
yarn. Can't anybody think of anything?" As for Clyde, he merely sighed
nervously.
And then, as though to torture them the more, an unexpected crush
of vehicles appeared at nearly every intersection. And Sparser, who
was irritated by this particular predicament, was contemplating with
impatience the warning hand of a traffic policeman, which, at the
intersection of Ninth and Wyandotte, had been raised against him.
"There goes his mit again," he exclaimed. "What can I do about that! I
might turn over to Washington, but I don't know whether we'll save any
time by going over there."
A full minute passed before he was signaled to go forward. Then swiftly
he swung the car to the right and three blocks over into Washington
Street.
But here the conditions were no better. Two heavy lines of traffic
moved in opposite directions. And at each succeeding corner several
precious moments were lost as the cross-traffic went by. Then the car
would tear on to the next corner, weaving its way in and out as best it
could.
At Fifteenth and Washington, Clyde exclaimed to Ratterer: "How would it
do if we got out at Seventeenth and walked over?"
"You won't save any time if I can turn over there," called Sparser. "I
can get over there quicker than you can."
He crowded the other cars for every inch of available space. At
Sixteenth and Washington, seeing what he considered a fairly clear
block to the left, he turned the car and tore along that thoroughfare
to as far as Wyandotte once more. Just as he neared the corner and was
about to turn at high speed, swinging in close to the curb to do so, a
little girl of about nine, who was running toward the crossing, jumped
directly in front of the moving machine. And because there was no
opportunity given him to turn and avoid her, she was struck and dragged
a number of feet before the machine could be halted. At the same time,
there arose piercing screams from at least half a dozen women, and
shouts from as many men who had witnessed the accident.
Instantly they all rushed toward the child, who had been thrown
under and passed over by the wheels. And Sparser, looking out and
seeing them gathering about the fallen figure, was seized with an
uninterpretable mental panic which conjured up the police, jail, his
father, the owner of the car, severe punishment in many forms. And
though by now all the others in the car were up and giving vent to
anguished exclamations such as "Oh, God! He hit a little girl"; "Oh,
gee, he's killed a kid!" "Oh, mercy!" "Oh, Lord!" "Oh, heavens, what'll
we do now?" he turned and exclaimed: "Jesus, the cops! I gotta get outa
this with this car."
And, without consulting the others, who were still half standing, but
almost speechless with fear, he shot the lever into first, second and
then high, and giving the engine all the gas it would endure, sped with
it to the next corner beyond.
But there, as at the other corners in this vicinity, a policeman was
stationed, and having already seen some commotion at the corner west
of him, had already started to leave his post in order to ascertain
what it was. As he did so, cries of "Stop that car"--"Stop that
car"--reached his ears. And a man, running toward the sedan from the
scene of the accident, pointed to it, and called: "Stop that car, stop
that car. They've killed a child."
Then gathering what was meant, he turned toward the car, putting his
police whistle to his mouth as he did so. But Sparser, having by this
time heard the cries and seen the policeman leaving, dashed swiftly
past him into Seventeenth Street, along which he sped at almost forty
miles an hour, grazing the hub of a truck in one instance, scraping the
fender of an automobile in another, and missing by inches and quarter
inches vehicles or pedestrians, while those behind him in the car were
for the most part sitting bolt upright and tense, their eyes wide,
their hands clenched, their faces and lips set--or, as in the case of
Hortense and Lucille Nickolas and Tina Kogel, giving voice to repeated,
"Oh, Gods!" "Oh, what's going to happen now?"
But the police and those who had started to pursue were not to be
outdone so quickly. Unable to make out the license plate number and
seeing from the first motions of the car that it had no intention
of stopping, the officer blew a loud and long blast on his police
whistle. And the policeman at the next corner seeing the car speed by
and realizing what it meant, blew on his whistle, then stopped, and
springing on the running board of a passing touring car ordered it to
give chase. And at this, seeing what was amiss or awind, three other
cars, driven by adventurous spirits, joined in the chase, all honking
loudly as they came.
But the Packard had far more speed in it than any of its pursuers,
and although for the first few blocks of the pursuit there were cries
of "Stop that car!" "Stop that car!" still, owing to the much greater
speed of the car, these soon died away, giving place to the long wild
shrieks of distant horns in full cry.
Sparser by now having won a fair lead and realizing that a straight
course was the least baffling to pursue, turned swiftly into McGee, a
comparatively quiet thoroughfare along which he tore for a few blocks
to the wide and winding Gillham Parkway, whose course was southward.
But having followed that at terrific speed for a short distance, he
again--at Thirty-first--decided to turn--the houses in the distance
confusing him and the suburban country to the north seeming to offer
the best opportunity for evading his pursuers. And so now he swung
the car to the left into that thoroughfare, his thought here being
that amid these comparatively quiet streets it was possible to wind
in and out and so shake off pursuit--at least long enough to drop his
passengers somewhere and return the car to the garage.
And this he would have been able to do had it not been for the fact
that in turning into one of the more outlying streets of this region,
where there were scarcely any houses and no pedestrians visible, he
decided to turn off his lights, the better to conceal the whereabouts
of the car. Then, still speeding east, north, and east and south by
turns, he finally dashed into one street where, after a few hundred
feet, the pavement suddenly ended. But because another cross street
was visible a hundred feet or so further on, and he imagined that by
turning into that he might find a paved thoroughfare again, he sped on
and then swung sharply to the left, only to crash roughly into a pile
of paving stones left by a contractor who was preparing to pave the
way. In the absence of the lights he had failed to distinguish this.
And diagonally opposite to these, lengthwise of a prospective sidewalk,
had been laid a pile of lumber for a house.
Striking the edge of the paving stones at high speed, he caromed, and
all but upsetting the car, made directly for the lumber pile opposite,
into which he crashed. Only instead of striking it head on, the car
struck one end, causing it to give way and spread out, but only
sufficiently to permit the right wheels to mount high upon it and so
throw the car completely over onto its left side in the grass and snow
beyond the walk. Then there, amid a crash of glass and the impacts of
their own bodies, the occupants were thrown down in a heap, forward and
to the left.
What happened afterwards was more or less of a mystery and a matter of
confusion, not only to Clyde, but to all the others. For Sparser and
Laura Sipe, being in front, were dashed against the wind-shield and the
roof and knocked senseless, Sparser, having his shoulder, hip and left
knee wrenched in such a way as to make it necessary to let him lie in
the car as he was until an ambulance arrived. He could not possibly
be lifted out through the door, which was in the roof as the car now
lay. And in the second seat, Clyde, being nearest the door to the left
and next to him Hortense, Lucille Nickolas and Ratterer, was pinioned
under and yet not crushed by their combined weights. For Hortense in
falling had been thrown completely over him on her side against the
roof, which was now the left wall. And Lucille, next above her, fell
in such a way as to lie across Clyde's shoulders only, while Ratterer,
now topmost of the four, had, in falling, been thrown over the seat in
front of him. But grasping the steering wheel in front of him as he
fell, the same having been wrenched from Sparser's hands, he had broken
his fall in part by clinging to it. But even so, his face and hands
were cut and bruised and his shoulder, arm and hip slightly wrenched,
yet not sufficiently to prevent his being of assistance to the others.
For at once, realizing the plight of the others as well as his own, and
stirred by their screams, Ratterer was moved to draw himself up and
out through the top or side door which he now succeeded in opening,
scrambling over the others to reach it.
Once out, he climbed upon the chassis beam of the toppled car, and,
reaching down, caught hold of the struggling and moaning Lucille, who
like the others was trying to climb up but could not. And exerting all
his strength and exclaiming, "Be still, now, honey, I gotcha. You're
all right, I'll getcha out," he lifted her to a sitting position on
the side of the door, then down in the snow, where he placed her and
where she sat crying and feeling her arms and her head. And after her
he helped Hortense, her left cheek and forehead and both hands badly
bruised and bleeding, but not seriously, although she did not know that
at the time. She was whimpering and shivering and shaking--a nervous
chill having succeeded the dazed and almost unconscious state which had
followed the first crash.
At that moment, Clyde, lifting his bewildered head above the side door
of the car, his left cheek, shoulder and arm bruised, but not otherwise
injured, was thinking that he too must get out of this as quickly as
possible. A child had been killed; a car stolen and wrecked; his job
was most certainly lost; the police were in pursuit and might even
find them there at any minute. And below him in the car was Sparser,
prone where he fell, but already being looked to by Ratterer. And
beside him Laura Sipe, also unconscious. He felt called upon to do
something--to assist Ratterer, who was reaching down and trying to
lay hold of Laura Sipe without injuring her. But so confused were his
thoughts that he would have stood there without helping any one had
it not been for Ratterer, who called most irritably, "Give us a hand
here, Clyde, will you? Let's see if we can get her out. She's fainted."
And Clyde, turning now instead of trying to climb out, began to seek
to lift her from within, standing on the broken glass window of the
side beneath his feet and attempting to draw her body back and up off
the body of Sparser. But this was not possible. She was too limp--too
heavy. He could only draw her back--off the body of Sparser--and then
let her rest there, between the second and first seats on the car's
side.
But, meanwhile, at the back, Hegglund, being nearest the top and only
slightly stunned, had managed to reach the door nearest him and throw
it back. Thus, by reason of his athletic body, he was able to draw
himself up and out, saying as he did so: "Oh, Jesus, what a finish! Oh,
Christ, dis is de limit! Oh, Jesus, we better beat it outa dis before
de cops git here."
At the same time, however, seeing the others below him and hearing
their cries, he could not contemplate anything so desperate as
desertion. Instead, once out, he turned and making out Maida below him,
exclaimed: "Here, for Christ's sake, gimme your hand. We gotta get
outa dis, and dam quick, I tell ya." Then turning from Maida, who for
the moment was feeling her wounded and aching head, he mounted the top
chassis beam again and, reaching down, caught hold of Tina Kogel, who,
only stunned, was trying to push herself to a sitting position while
resting heavily on top of Higby. But he, relieved of the weight of the
others, was already kneeling, and feeling his head and face with his
hands.
"Gimme your hand, Dave," called Hegglund. "Hurry! For Christ's sake!
We ain't got no time to lose around here. Are ya hurt? Christ, we
gotta git outa here, I tellya. I see a guy comin' acrost dere now an'
I doughno wedder he's a cop or not." He started to lay hold of Higby's
left hand, but as he did so Higby repulsed him.
"Huh, uh," he exclaimed. "Don't pull. I'm all right I'll get out by
myself. Help the others." And standing up, his head above the level of
the door, he began to look about within the car for something on which
to place his foot. The back cushion having fallen out and forward, he
got his foot on that and raised himself up to the door level on which
he sat and drew out his leg. Then looking about, and seeing Hegglund
attempting to assist Ratterer and Clyde with Sparser, he went to their
aid.
Outside, some odd and confusing incidents had already occurred. For
Hortense, who had been lifted out before Clyde, and had suddenly begun
to feel her face, had as suddenly realized that her left cheek and
forehead were not only scraped but bleeding. And being seized by the
notion that her beauty might have been permanently marred by this
accident, she was at once thrown into a state of selfish panic which
caused her to become completely oblivious, not only to the misery and
injury of the others, but to the danger of discovery by the police,
the injury to the child, the wreck of this expensive car--in fact
everything but herself and the probability or possibility that her
beauty had been destroyed. She began to whimper on the instant and
wave her hands up and down. "Oh, goodness, goodness, goodness!" she
exclaimed desperately. "Oh, how dreadful! Oh, how terrible! Oh, my
face is all cut." And feeling an urgent compulsion to do something
about it, she suddenly set off (and that without a word to any one and
while Clyde was still inside helping Ratterer) south along 35th Street,
toward the city where were lights and more populated streets. Her one
thought was to reach her own home as speedily as possible in order that
she might be able to do something for herself.
Of Clyde, Sparser, Ratterer and the other girls--she really thought
nothing. What were they now? It was only intermittently and between
thoughts of her marred beauty that she could even bring herself to
think of the injured child--the horror of which, as well as the pursuit
by the police, maybe, the fact that the car did not belong to Sparser
or that it was wrecked, and that they were all liable to arrest in
consequence, affecting her but slightly. Her one thought in regard to
Clyde was that he was the one who had invited her to this ill-fated
journey--hence that he was to blame, really. Those beastly boys--to
think they should have gotten her into this and then didn't have brains
enough to manage better.
The other girls, apart from Laura Sipe, were not seriously injured--any
of them. They were more frightened than anything else, but now that
this had happened they were in a panic, lest they be overtaken by the
police, arrested, exposed and punished. And accordingly they stood
about, exclaiming, "Oh, gee, hurry, can't you? Oh, dear, we ought all
of us to get away from here. Oh, it's all so terrible." Until at last
Hegglund exclaimed: "For Christ's sake, keep quiet, cantcha? We're
doin' de best we can, cantcha see? You'll have de cops down on us in a
minute as it is."
And then, as if in answer to his comment, a lone suburbanite who lived
some four blocks from the scene across the fields and who, hearing the
crash and the cries in the night, had ambled across to see what the
trouble was, now drew near and stood curiously looking at the stricken
group and the car.
"Had an accident, eh?" he exclaimed, genially enough. "Any one badly
hurt? Gee, that's too bad. And that's a swell car, too. Can I help any?"
Clyde, hearing him talk and looking out and not seeing Hortense
anywhere, and not being able to do more for Sparser than stretch
him in the bottom of the car, glanced agonizingly about. For the
thought of the police and their certain pursuit was strong upon him.
He must get out of this. He must not be caught here. Think of what
would happen to him if he were caught--how he would be disgraced and
punished probably--all his fine world stripped from him before he could
say a word really. His mother would hear--Mr. Squires--everybody.
Most certainly he would go to jail. Oh, how terrible that thought
was--grinding really like a macerating wheel to his flesh. They could
do nothing more for Sparser, and they only laid themselves open to
being caught by lingering. So asking, "Where'd Miss Briggs go?" he
now began to climb out, then started looking about the dark and snowy
fields for her. His thought was that he would first assist her to
wherever she might desire to go.
But just then in the distance was heard the horns and the hum of at
least two motorcycles speeding swiftly in the direction of this very
spot. For already the wife of the suburbanite, on hearing the crash and
the cries in the distance, had telephoned the police that an accident
had occurred here. And now the suburbanite was explaining: "That's
them. I told the wife to telephone for an ambulance." And hearing
this, all these others now began to run, for they all realized what
that meant. And in addition, looking across the fields one could see
the lights of these approaching machines. They reached Thirty-first
and Cleveland together. Then one turned south toward this very spot,
along Cleveland Avenue. And the other continued east on Thirty-first,
reconnoitering for the accident.
"Beat it, for God's sake, all of youse," whispered Hegglund,
excitedly. "Scatter!" And forthwith, seizing Maida Axelrod by the hand,
he started to run east along Thirty-fifth Street, in which the car then
lay--toward the outlying eastern suburbs. But after a moment, deciding
that that would not do either, that it would be too easy to pursue him
along a street, he cut northeast, directly across the open fields and
away from the city.
And now, Clyde, as suddenly sensing what capture would mean--how all
his fine thoughts of pleasure would most certainly end in disgrace
and probably prison, began running also. Only in his case, instead
of following Hegglund or any of the others, he turned south along
Cleveland Avenue toward the southern limits of the city. But like
Hegglund, realizing that that meant an easy avenue of pursuit for any
one who chose to follow, he too took to the open fields. Only instead
of running away from the city as before, he now turned southwest and
ran toward those streets which lay to the south of Fortieth. Only much
open space being before him before he should reach them, and a clump of
bushes showing in the near distance, and the light of the motorcycle
already sweeping the road behind him, he ran to that and for the moment
dropped behind it.
Only Sparser and Laura Sipe were left within the car, she at that
moment beginning to recover consciousness. And the visiting stranger,
much astounded, was left standing outside.
"Why, the very idea!" he suddenly said to himself. "They must have
stolen that car. It couldn't have belonged to them at all."
And just then the first motorcycle reaching the scene, Clyde from his
not too distant hiding place was able to overhear. "Well, you didn't
get away with it after all, did you? You thought you were pretty slick,
but you didn't make it. You're the one we want, and what's become of
the rest of the gang, eh? Where are they, eh?"
And hearing the suburbanite declare quite definitely that he had
nothing to do with it, that the real occupants of the car had but
then run away and might yet be caught if the police wished, Clyde,
who was still within earshot of what was being said, began crawling
upon his hands and knees at first in the snow south, south and west,
always toward some of those distant streets which, lamplit and faintly
glowing, he saw to the southwest of him, and among which presently,
if he were not captured, he hoped to hide--to lose himself and so
escape--if the fates were only kind--the misery and the punishment
and the unending dissatisfaction and disappointment which now, most
definitely, it all represented to him.
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER I
The home of Samuel Griffiths in Lycurgus, New York, a city of some
twenty-five thousand inhabitants midway between Utica and Albany.
Near the dinner hour and by degrees the family assembling for its
customary meal. On this occasion the preparations were of a more
elaborate nature than usual, owing to the fact that for the past four
days Mr. Samuel Griffiths, the husband and father, had been absent
attending a conference of shirt and collar manufacturers in Chicago,
price-cutting by upstart rivals in the west having necessitated
compromise and adjustment by those who manufactured in the east. He was
but now returned and had telephoned earlier in the afternoon that he
had arrived, and was going to his office in the factory where he would
remain until dinner time.
Being long accustomed to the ways of a practical and convinced man
who believed in himself and considered his judgment and his decision
sound--almost final--for the most part, anyhow, Mrs. Griffiths thought
nothing of this. He would appear and greet her in due order.
Knowing that he preferred leg of lamb above many other things, after
due word with Mrs. Truesdale, her homely but useful housekeeper, she
ordered lamb. And the appropriate vegetables and dessert having been
decided upon, she gave herself over to thoughts of her eldest daughter
Myra, who, having graduated from Smith College several years before,
was still unmarried. And the reason for this, as Mrs. Griffiths well
understood, though she was never quite willing to admit it openly, was
that Myra was not very good looking. Her nose was too long, her eyes
too close-set, her chin not sufficiently rounded to give her a girlish
and pleasing appearance. For the most part she seemed too thoughtful
and studious--as a rule not interested in the ordinary social life of
that city. Neither did she possess that savoir faire, let alone that
peculiar appeal for men, that characterized some girls even when they
were not pretty. As her mother saw it, she was really too critical and
too intellectual, having a mind that was rather above the world in
which she found herself.
Brought up amid comparative luxury, without having to worry about any
of the rough details of making a living, she had been confronted,
nevertheless, by the difficulties of making her own way in the matter
of social favor and love--two objectives which, without beauty or
charm, were about as difficult as the attaining to extreme wealth by
a beggar. And the fact that for twelve years now--ever since she had
been fourteen--she had seen the lives of other youths and maidens in
this small world in which she moved passing gayly enough, while hers
was more or less confined to reading, music, the business of keeping
as neatly and attractively arrayed as possible, and of going to visit
friends in the hope of possibly encountering somewhere, somehow, the
one temperament who would be interested in her, had saddened, if not
exactly soured her. And that despite the fact that the material comfort
of her parents and herself was exceptional.
Just now she had gone through her mother's room to her own, looking as
though she were not very much interested in anything. Her mother had
been trying to think of something to suggest that would take her out of
herself, when the younger daughter, Bella, fresh from a passing visit
to the home of the Finchleys, wealthy neighbors where she had stopped
on her way from the Snedeker School, burst in upon her.
Contrasted with her sister, who was tall and dark and rather sallow,
Bella, though shorter, was far more gracefully and vigorously formed.
She had thick brown--almost black--hair, a brown and olive complexion
tinted with red, and eyes brown and genial, that blazed with an
eager, seeking light. In addition to her sound and lithe physique,
she possessed vitality and animation. Her arms and legs were graceful
and active. Plainly she was given to liking things as she found
them--enjoying life as it was--and hence, unlike her sister, she
was unusually attractive to men and boys--to men and women, old and
young--a fact which her mother and father well knew. No danger of any
lack of marriage offers for her when the time came. As her mother saw
it, too many youths and men were already buzzing around, and so posing
the question of a proper husband for her. Already she had displayed a
tendency to become thick and fast friends, not only with the scions
of the older and more conservative families who constituted the
ultra-respectable element of the city, but also, and this was more to
her mother's distaste, with the sons and daughters of some of those
later and hence socially less important families of the region--the
sons and daughters of manufacturers of bacon, canning jars, vacuum
cleaners, wooden and wicker ware, and typewriters, who constituted a
solid enough financial element in the city, but who made up what might
be considered the "fast set" in the local life.
In Mrs. Griffith's opinion, there was too much dancing, cabareting,
automobiling to one city and another, without due social supervision.
Yet, as a contrast to her sister, Myra, what a relief. It was only from
the point of view of proper surveillance, or until she was safely and
religiously married, that Mrs. Griffiths troubled or even objected to
most of her present contacts and yearnings and gayeties. She desired to
protect her.
"Now, where have you been?" she demanded, as her daughter burst into
the room, throwing down her books and drawing near to the open fire
that burned there.
"Just think, Mamma," began Bella most unconcernedly and almost
irrelevantly. "The Finchleys are going to give up their place out at
Greenwood Lake this coming summer and go up to Twelfth Lake near Pine
Point. They're going to build a new bungalow up there. And Sondra says
that this time it's going to be right down at the water's edge--not
away from it, as it is out here. And they're going to have a great
big verandah with a hardwood floor. And a boathouse big enough for
a thirty-foot electric launch that Mr. Finchley is going to buy for
Stuart. Won't that be wonderful? And she says that if you will let me,
that I can come up there for all summer long, or for as long as I like.
And Gil, too, if he will. It's just across the lake from the Emery
Lodge, you know, and the East Gate Hotel. And the Phants' place, you
know, the Phants of Utica, is just below theirs near Sharon. Isn't that
just wonderful? Won't that be great? I wish you and Dad would make up
your minds to build up there now sometime, Mamma. It looks to me now as
though nearly everybody that's worth anything down here is moving up
there."
She talked so fast and swung about so, looking now at the open fire
burning in the grate, then out of the two high windows that commanded
the front lawn and a full view of Wykeagy Avenue, lit by the electric
lights in the winter dusk, that her mother had no opportunity to insert
any comment until this was over. However, she managed to observe: "Yes?
Well, what about the Anthonys and the Nicholsons and the Taylors? I
haven't heard of their leaving Greenwood yet."
"Oh, I know, not the Anthonys or the Nicholsons or the Taylors. Who
expects them to move? They're too old fashioned. They're not the kind
that would move anywhere, are they? No one thinks they are. Just the
same Greenwood isn't like Twelfth Lake. You know that yourself. And all
the people that are anybody down on the South Shore are going up there
for sure. The Cranstons next year, Sondra says. And after that, I bet
the Harriets will go, too."
"The Cranstons and the Harriets and the Finchleys and Sondra,"
commented her mother, half amused and half irritated. "The Cranstons
and you and Bertine and Sondra--that's all I hear these days." For the
Cranstons, and the Finchleys, despite a certain amount of local success
in connection with this newer and faster set, were, much more than
any of the others, the subject of considerable unfavorable comment.
They were the people who, having moved the Cranston Wickwire Company
from Albany, and the Finchley Electric Sweeper from Buffalo, and built
large factories on the south bank of the Mohawk River, to say nothing
of new and grandiose houses in Wykeagy Avenue and summer cottages at
Greenwood, some twenty miles north-west, were setting a rather showy,
and hence disagreeable, pace to all of the wealthy residents of this
region. They were given to wearing the smartest clothes, to the latest
novelties in cars and entertainments, and constituted a problem to
those who with less means considered their position and their equipment
about as fixed and interesting and attractive as such things might
well be. The Cranstons and the Finchleys were in the main a thorn in
the flesh of the remainder of the élite of Lycurgus--too showy and too
aggressive.
"How often have I told you that I don't want you to have so much to
do with Bertine or that Letta Harriet or her brother either? They're
too forward. They run around and talk and show off too much. And
your father feels the same as I do in regard to them. As for Sondra
Finchley, if she expects to go with Bertine and you, too, then you're
not going to go with her either much longer. Besides I'm not sure
that your father approves of your going anywhere without some one
to accompany you. You're not old enough yet. And as for your going
to Twelfth Lake to the Finchleys, well, unless we all go together,
there'll be no going there, either." And now Mrs. Griffiths, who leaned
more to the manner and tactics of the older, if not less affluent
families, stared complainingly at her daughter.
Nevertheless Bella was no more abashed than she was irritated by this.
On the contrary she knew her mother and knew that she was fond of
her; also that she was intrigued by her physical charm as well as her
assured local social success as much as was her father, who considered
her perfection itself and could be swayed by her least, as well as her
much practised, smile.
"Not old enough, not old enough," commented Bella reproachfully. "Will
you listen? I'll be eighteen in July. I'd like to know when you and
Papa are going to think I'm old enough to go anywhere without you both.
Wherever you two go, I have to go, and wherever I want to go, you two
have to go, too."
"Bella," censured her mother. Then after a moment's silence, in which
her daughter stood there impatiently, she added, "Of course, what
else would you have us do? When you are twenty-one or two, if you are
not married by then, it will be time enough to think of going off
by yourself. But at your age, you shouldn't be thinking of any such
thing." Bella cocked her pretty head, for at the moment the side door
down stairs was thrown open, and Gilbert Griffiths, the only son of
this family and who very much in face and build, if not in manner
or lack of force, resembled Clyde, his western cousin, entered and
ascended.
He was at this time a vigorous, self-centered and vain youth of
twenty-three who, in contrast with his two sisters, seemed much sterner
and far more practical. Also, probably much more intelligent and
aggressive in a business way--a field in which neither of the two girls
took the slightest interest. He was brisk in manner and impatient.
He considered that his social position was perfectly secure, and was
utterly scornful of anything but commercial success. Yet despite this
he was really deeply interested in the movements of the local society,
of which he considered himself and his family the most important part.
Always conscious of the dignity and social standing of his family
in this community, he regulated his action and speech accordingly.
Ordinarily he struck the passing observer as rather sharp and arrogant,
neither as youthful or as playful as his years might have warranted.
Still he was young, attractive and interesting. He had a sharp, if
not brilliant, tongue in his head--a gift at times for making crisp
and cynical remarks. On account of his family and position he was
considered also the most desirable of all the young eligible bachelors
in Lycurgus. Nevertheless he was so much interested in himself that he
scarcely found room in his cosmos for a keen and really intelligent
understanding of anyone else.
Hearing him ascend from below and enter his room, which was at the rear
of the house next to hers, Bella at once left her mother's room, and
coming to the door, called: "Oh, Gil, can I come in?"
"Sure." He was whistling briskly and already, in view of some
entertainment somewhere, preparing to change to evening clothes.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere, for dinner. To the Wynants afterwards."
"Oh, Constance to be sure."
"No, not Constance, to be sure. Where do you get that stuff?"
"As though I didn't know."
"Lay off. Is that what you came in here for?"
"No, that isn't what I came in here for. What do you think? The
Finchleys are going to build a place up at Twelfth Lake next summer,
right on the lake, next to the Phants, and Mr. Finchley's going to buy
Stuart a thirty-foot launch and build a boathouse with a sun-parlor
right over the water to hold it. Won't that be swell, huh?"
"Don't say 'swell.' And don't say 'huh.' Can't you learn to cut out the
slang? You talk like a factory girl. Is that all they teach you over at
that school?"
"Listen to who's talking about cutting out slang. How about yourself?
You set a fine example around here, I notice."
"Well, I'm five years older than you are. Besides I'm a man. You don't
notice Myra using any of that stuff."
"Oh, Myra. But don't let's talk about that. Only think of that new
house they're going to build and the fine time they're going to have up
there next summer. Don't you wish we could move up there, too? We could
if we wanted to--if only Papa and Mamma would agree to it."
"Oh, I don't know that it would be so wonderful," replied her brother,
who was really very much interested just the same. "There are other
places besides Twelfth Lake."
"Who said there weren't? But not for the people that we know around
here. Where else do the best people from Albany and Utica go but there
now, I'd like to know. It's going to become a regular center, Sondra
says, with all the finest houses along the west shore. Just the same,
the Cranstons, the Lamberts and the Harriets are going to move up there
pretty soon, too," Bella added most definitely and defiantly. "That
won't leave so many out at Greenwood Lake, nor the very best people,
either, even if the Anthonys and Nicholsons do stay here."
"Who says the Cranstons are going up there?" asked Gilbert, now very
much interested.
"Why, Sondra!"
"Who told her?"
"Bertine."
"Gee, they're getting gayer and gayer," commented her brother oddly and
a little enviously. "Pretty soon Lycurgus'll be too small to hold 'em."
He jerked at a bow tie he was attempting to center and grimaced oddly
as his tight neck-band pinched him slightly.
For although Gilbert had recently entered into the collar and shirt
industry with his father as general supervisor of manufacturing, and
with every prospect of managing and controlling the entire business
eventually, still he was jealous of young Grant Cranston, a youth of
his own age, very appealing and attractive physically, who was really
more daring with and more attractive to the girls of the younger set.
Cranston seemed to be satisfied that it was possible to combine a
certain amount of social pleasure with working for his father with
which Gilbert did not agree. In fact, young Griffiths would have
preferred, had it been possible, so to charge young Cranston with
looseness, only thus far the latter had managed to keep himself well
within the bounds of sobriety. And the Cranston Wickwire Company was
plainly forging ahead as one of the leading industries of Lycurgus.
"Well," he added, after a moment, "they're spreading out faster than I
would if I had their business. They're not the richest people in the
world, either." Just the same he was thinking that, unlike himself and
his parents, the Cranstons were really more daring if not socially more
avid of life. He envied them.
"And what's more," added Bella interestedly, "the Finchleys are to
have a dance floor over the boathouse. And Sondra says that Stuart
was hoping that you would come up there and spend a lot of time this
summer."
"Oh, did he?" replied Gilbert, a little enviously and sarcastically.
"You mean he said he was hoping you would come up and spend a lot of
time. I'll be working this summer."
"He didn't say anything of the kind, smarty. Besides it wouldn't hurt
us any if we did go up there. There's nothing much out at Greenwood any
more that I can see. A lot of old hen parties."
"Is that so? Mother would like to hear that."
"And you'll tell her, of course."
"Oh, no, I won't either. But I don't think we're going to follow the
Finchleys or the Cranstons up to Twelfth Lake just yet, either. You can
go up there if you want, if Dad'll let you."
Just then the lower door clicked again, and Bella, forgetting her
quarrel with her brother, ran down to greet her father.
CHAPTER II
The head of the Lycurgus branch of the Griffiths, as contrasted with
the father of the Kansas City family, was most arresting. Unlike his
shorter and more confused brother of the Door of Hope, whom he had
not even seen for thirty years, he was a little above the average in
height, very well-knit, although comparatively slender, shrewd of eye,
and incisive both as to manner and speech. Long used to contending for
himself, and having come by effort as well as results to know that he
was above the average in acumen and commercial ability, he was inclined
at times to be a bit intolerant of those who were not. He was not
ungenerous or unpleasant in manner, but always striving to maintain a
calm and judicial air. And he told himself by way of excuse for his
mannerisms that he was merely accepting himself at the value that
others placed upon him and all those who, like himself, were successful.
Having arrived in Lycurgus about twenty-five years before with some
capital and a determination to invest in a new collar enterprise which
had been proposed to him, he had succeeded thereafter beyond his
wildest expectations. And naturally he was vain about it. His family
at this time--twenty-five years later--unquestionably occupied one
of the best, as well as the most tastefully constructed residences
in Lycurgus. They were also esteemed as among the few best families
of this region--being, if not the oldest, at least among the most
conservative, respectable and successful in Lycurgus. His two younger
children, if not the eldest, were much to the front socially in the
younger and gayer set and so far nothing had happened to weaken or
darken his prestige.
On returning from Chicago on this particular day, after having
concluded several agreements there which spelled trade harmony and
prosperity for at least one year, he was inclined to feel very much at
ease and on good terms with the world. Nothing had occurred to mar his
trip. In his absence the Griffiths Collar and Shirt Company had gone on
as though he had been present. Trade orders at the moment were large.
Now as he entered his own door he threw down a heavy bag and
fashionably made coat and turned to see what he rather expected--Bella
hurrying toward him. Indeed she was his pet, the most pleasing and
different and artistic thing, as he saw it, that all his years had
brought to him--youth, health, gayety, intelligence and affection--all
in the shape of a pretty daughter.
"Oh, Daddy," she called most sweetly and enticingly as she saw him
enter. "Is that you?"
"Yes. At least it feels a little like me at the present moment. How's
my baby girl?" And he opened his arms and received the bounding form
of his last born. "There's a good, strong, healthy girl, I'll say," he
announced as he withdrew his affectionate lips from hers. "And how's
the bad girl been behaving herself since I left? No fibbing this time."
"Oh, just fine, Daddy. You can ask any one. I couldn't be better."
"And your mother?"
"She's all right, Daddy. She's up in her room. I don't think she heard
you come in."
"And Myra? Is she back from Albany yet?"
"Yes. She's in her room. I heard her playing just now. I just got in
myself a little while ago."
"Ay, hai. Gadding about again. I know you." He held up a genial
forefinger, warningly, while Bella swung onto one of his arms and kept
pace with him up the stairs to the floor above.
"Oh, no, I wasn't either, now," she cooed shrewdly and sweetly. "Just
see how you pick on me, Daddy. I was only over with Sondra for a little
while. And what do you think, Daddy? They're going to give up the place
at Greenwood and build a big handsome bungalow up on Twelfth Lake right
away. And Mr. Finchley's going to buy a big electric launch for Stuart
and they're going to live up there next summer, maybe all the time,
from May until October. And so are the Cranstons, maybe."
Mr. Griffiths, long used to his younger daughter's wiles, was
interested at the moment not so much by the thought that she wished
to convey--that Twelfth Lake was more desirable socially than
Greenwood--as he was by the fact that the Finchleys were able to make
this sudden and rather heavy expenditure for social reasons only.
Instead of answering Bella he went on upstairs and into his wife's
room. He kissed Mrs. Griffiths, looked in upon Myra, who came to
the door to embrace him, and spoke of the successful nature of the
trip. One could see by the way he embraced his wife that there was an
agreeable understanding between them--no disharmony--by the way he
greeted Myra that if he did not exactly sympathize with her temperament
and point of view, at least he included her within the largess of his
affection.
As they were talking Mrs. Truesdale announced that dinner was ready,
and Gilbert, having completed his toilet, now entered.
"I say, Dad," he called, "I have an interesting thing I want to see you
about in the morning. Can I?"
"All right, I'll be there. Come in about noon."
"Come on all, or the dinner will be getting cold," admonished Mrs.
Griffiths earnestly, and forthwith Gilbert turned and went down,
followed by Griffiths, who still had Bella on his arm. And after him
came Mrs. Griffiths and Myra, who now emerged from her room and joined
them.
Once seated at the table, the family forthwith began discussing topics
of current local interest. For Bella, who was the family's chief
source of gossip, gathering the most of it from the Snedeker School,
through which all the social news appeared to percolate most swiftly,
suddenly announced: "What do you think, Mamma? Rosetta Nicholson, that
niece of Mrs. Disston Nicholson, who was over here last summer from
Albany--you know, she came over the night of the Alumnæ Garden Party on
our lawn--you remember--the young girl with the yellow hair and squinty
blue eyes--her father owns that big wholesale grocery over there--well,
she's engaged to that Herbert Tickham of Utica, who was visiting Mrs.
Lambert last summer. You don't remember him, but I do. He was tall and
dark and sorta awkward, and awfully pale, but very handsome--oh, a
regular movie hero."
"There you go, Mrs. Griffiths," interjected Gilbert shrewdly and
cynically to his mother. "A delegation from the Misses Snedeker's
Select School sneaks off to the movies to brush up on heroes from time
to time."
Griffiths senior suddenly observed: "I had a curious experience in
Chicago this time, something I think the rest of you will be interested
in." He was thinking of an accidental encounter two days before in
Chicago between himself and the eldest son, as it proved to be, of his
younger brother Asa. Also of a conclusion he had come to in regard to
him.
"Oh, what is it, Daddy?" pleaded Bella at once. "Do tell me about it."
"Spin the big news, Dad," added Gilbert, who, because of the favor of
his father, felt very free and close to him always.
"Well, while I was in Chicago at the Union League Club, I met a young
man who is related to us, a cousin of you three children, by the
way, the eldest son of my brother Asa, who is out in Denver now, I
understand. I haven't seen or heard from him in thirty years." He
paused and mused dubiously.
"Not the one who is a preacher somewhere, Daddy?" inquired Bella,
looking up.
"Yes, the preacher. At least I understand he was for a while after
he left home. But his son tells me he has given that up now. He's
connected with something in Denver--a hotel, I think."
"But what's his son like?" interrogated Bella, who only knew such well
groomed and ostensibly conservative youths and men as her present
social status and supervision permitted, and in consequence was
intensely interested. The son of a western hotel proprietor!
"A cousin? How old is he?" asked Gilbert instantly, curious as to his
character and situation and ability.
"Well, he's a very interesting young man, I think," continued Griffiths
tentatively and somewhat dubiously, since up to this hour he had not
truly made up his mind about Clyde. "He's quite good-looking and
well-mannered, too--about your own age, I should say, Gil, and looks a
lot like you--very much so--same eyes and mouth and chin." He looked at
his son examiningly. "He's a little bit taller, if anything, and looks
a little thinner, though I don't believe he really is."
At the thought of a cousin who looked like him--possibly as attractive
in every way as himself--and bearing his own name, Gilbert chilled
and bristled slightly. For here in Lycurgus, up to this time, he was
well and favorably known as the only son and heir presumptive to the
managerial control of his father's business, and to at least a third of
the estate, if not more. And now, if by any chance it should come to
light that there was a relative, a cousin of his own years and one who
looked and acted like him, even--he bridled at the thought. Forthwith
(a psychic reaction which he did not understand and could not very well
control) he decided that he did not like him--could not like him.
"What's he doing now?" he asked in a curt and rather sour tone, though
he attempted to avoid the latter element in his voice.
"Well, he hasn't much of a job, I must say," smiled Samuel Griffiths,
meditatively. "He's only a bell-hop in the Union League Club in
Chicago, at present, but a very pleasant and gentlemanly sort of a boy,
I will say. I was quite taken with him. In fact, because he told me
there wasn't much opportunity for advancement where he was, and that
he would like to get into something where there was more chance to do
something and be somebody, I told him that if he wanted to come on here
and try his luck with us, we might do a little something for him--give
him a chance to show what he could do, at least."
He had not intended to set forth at once the fact that he became
interested in his nephew to this extent, but--rather to wait and thrash
it out at different times with both his wife and son, but the occasion
having seemed to offer itself, he had spoken. And now that he had, he
felt rather glad of it, for because Clyde so much resembled Gilbert he
did want to do a little something for him.
But Gilbert bristled and chilled, the while Bella and Myra, if not Mrs.
Griffiths, who favored her only son in everything--even to preferring
him to be without a blood relation or other rival of any kind, rather
warmed to the idea. A cousin who was a Griffiths and good-looking and
about Gilbert's age--and who, as their father reported, was rather
pleasant and well mannered--that pleased Bella and Myra while Mrs.
Griffiths, noting Gilbert's face darken, was not so moved. He would not
like him. But out of respect for her husband's authority and general
ability in all things, she now remained silent. But not so, Bella.
"Oh, you're going to give him a place, are you, Dad?" she commented.
"That's interesting. I hope he's better-looking than the rest of our
cousins."
"Bella," chided Mrs. Griffiths, while Myra, recalling a gauche uncle
and cousin who had come on from Vermont several years before to visit
them a few days, smiled wisely. At the same time Gilbert, deeply
irritated, was mentally fighting against the idea. He could not see it
at all. "Of course we're not turning away applicants who want to come
in and learn the business right along now, as it is," he said sharply.
"Oh, I know," replied his father, "but not cousins and nephews exactly.
Besides he looks very intelligent and ambitious to me. It wouldn't do
any great harm if we let at least one of our relatives come here and
show what he can do. I can't see why we shouldn't employ him as well as
another."
"I don't believe Gil likes the idea of any other fellow in Lycurgus
having the same name and looking like him," suggested Bella, slyly, and
with a certain touch of malice due to the fact that her brother was
always criticizing her.
"Oh, what rot!" Gilbert snapped irritably. "Why don't you make a
sensible remark once in a while? What do I care whether he has the same
name or not--or looks like me, either?" His expression at the moment
was particularly sour.
"Gilbert!" pleaded his mother, reprovingly, "How can you talk so? And
to your sister, too?"
"Well, I don't want to do anything in connection with this young man if
it's going to cause any hard feelings here," went on Griffiths senior.
"All I know is that his father was never very practical and I doubt if
Clyde has ever had a real chance." (His son winced at this friendly and
familiar use of his cousin's first name.) "My only idea in bringing him
on here was to give him a start. I haven't the faintest idea whether
he would make good or not. He might and again he might not. If he
didn't--" He threw up one hand as much as to say, "If he doesn't, we
will have to toss him aside, of course."
"Well, I think that's very kind of you, father," observed Mrs.
Griffiths, pleasantly and diplomatically. "I hope he proves
satisfactory."
"And there's another thing," added Griffiths wisely and sententiously.
"I don't expect this young man, so long as he is in my employ and just
because he's a nephew of mine, to be treated differently to any other
employee in the factory. He's coming here to work--not play. And while
he is here, trying, I don't expect any of you to pay him any social
attention--not the slightest. He's not the sort of boy anyhow, that
would want to put himself on us--at least he didn't impress me that
way, and he wouldn't be coming down here with any notion that he was
to be placed on an equal footing with any of us. That would be silly.
Later on, if he proves that he is really worth while, able to take care
of himself, knows his place and keeps it, and any of you wanted to show
him any little attention, well, then it will be time enough to see, but
not before then."
By then, the maid, Amanda, assistant to Mrs. Truesdale, was taking
away the dinner plates and preparing to serve the dessert. But as Mr.
Griffiths rarely ate dessert, and usually chose this period, unless
company was present, to look after certain stock and banking matters
which he kept in a small desk in the library, he now pushed back his
chair, arose, excusing himself to his family, and walked into the
library adjoining. The others remained.
"I would like to see what he's like, wouldn't you?" Myra asked her
mother.
"Yes. And I do hope he measures up to all of your father's
expectations. He will not feel right if he doesn't."
"I can't get this," observed Gilbert, "bringing people on now when we
can hardly take care of those we have. And besides, imagine what the
bunch around here will say if they find out that our cousin was only a
bell-hop before coming here!"
"Oh, well, they won't have to know that, will they?" said Myra.
"Oh, won't they? Well, what's to prevent him from speaking about
it--unless we tell him not to--or some one coming along who has seen
him there." His eyes snapped viciously. "At any rate, I hope he
doesn't. It certainly wouldn't do us any good around here."
And Bella added, "I hope he's not as dull as Uncle Allen's two boys.
They're the most uninteresting boys I ever did see."
"Bella," cautioned her mother once more.
CHAPTER III
The Clyde whom Samuel Griffiths described as having met at the Union
League Club in Chicago, was a somewhat modified version of the one who
had fled from Kansas City three years before. He was now twenty, a
little taller and more firmly but scarcely any more robustly built, and
considerably more experienced, of course. For since leaving his home
and work in Kansas City and coming in contact with some rough usage in
the world--humble tasks, wretched rooms, no intimates to speak of, plus
the compulsion to make his own way as best he might--he had developed
a kind of self-reliance and smoothness of address such as one would
scarcely have credited him with three years before. There was about
him now, although he was not nearly so smartly dressed as when he left
Kansas City, a kind of conscious gentility of manner which pleased,
even though it did not at first arrest attention. Also, and this was
considerably different from the Clyde who had crept away from Kansas
City in a box car, he had much more of an air of caution and reserve.
For ever since he had fled from Kansas City, and by one humble
device and another forced to make his way, he had been coming to the
conclusion that on himself alone depended his future. His family, as
he now definitely sensed, could do nothing for him. They were too
impractical and too poor--his mother, father, Esta, all of them.
At the same time, in spite of all their difficulties, he could not now
help but feel drawn to them, his mother in particular, and the old
home life that had surrounded him as a boy--his brother and sisters,
Esta included, since she, too, as he now saw it, had been brought no
lower than he by circumstances over which she probably had no more
control. And often, his thoughts and mood had gone back with a definite
and disconcerting pang because of the way in which he had treated his
mother as well as the way in which his career in Kansas City had been
suddenly interrupted--his loss of Hortense Briggs--a severe blow; the
troubles that had come to him since; the trouble that must have come to
his mother and Esta because of him.
On reaching St. Louis two days later after his flight, and after
having been most painfully bundled out into the snow a hundred miles
from Kansas City in the gray of a winter morning, and at the same
time relieved of his watch and overcoat by two brakemen who had found
him hiding in the car, he had picked up a Kansas City paper--_The
Star_--only to realize that his worst fear in regard to all that had
occurred had come true. For there, under a two-column head, and with
fully a column and a half of reading matter below, was the full story
of all that had happened: a little girl, the eleven-year-old daughter
of a well-to-do Kansas City family, knocked down and almost instantly
killed--she had died an hour later; Sparser and Miss Sipe in a hospital
and under arrest at the same time, guarded by a policeman sitting in
the hospital awaiting their recovery; a splendid car very seriously
damaged; Sparser's father, in the absence of the owner of the car for
whom he worked, at once incensed and made terribly unhappy by the folly
and seeming criminality and recklessness of his son.
But what was worse, the unfortunate Sparser had already been charged
with larceny and homicide, and wishing, no doubt, to minimize his own
share in this grave catastrophe, had not only revealed the names of all
who were with him in the car--the youths in particular and their hotel
address--but had charged that they along with him were equally guilty,
since they had urged him to make speed at the time and against his
will--a claim, which was true enough, as Clyde knew. And Mr. Squires,
on being interviewed at the hotel, had furnished the police and the
newspapers with the names of their parents and their home addresses.
This last was the sharpest blow of all. For there followed disturbing
pictures of how their respective parents or relatives had taken it on
being informed of their sins. Mrs. Ratterer, Tom's mother, had cried
and declared her boy was a good boy, and had not meant to do any harm,
she was sure. And Mrs. Hegglund--Oscar's devoted but aged mother--had
said that there was not a more honest or generous soul and that he must
have been drinking. And at his own home--_The Star_ had described his
mother as standing, pale, very startled and very distressed, clasping
and unclasping her hands and looking as though she were scarcely able
to grasp what was meant, unwilling to believe that her son had been one
of the party and assuring all that he would most certainly return soon
and explain all, and that there must be some mistake.
However, he had not returned. Nor had he heard anything more after
that. For, owing to his fear of the police, as well as of his
mother--her sorrowful, hopeless eyes, he had not written for months,
and then a letter to his mother only to say that he was well and that
she must not worry. He gave neither name nor address. Later, after that
he had wandered on, essaying one small job and another, in St. Louis,
Peoria, Chicago, Milwaukee--dishwashing in a restaurant, soda-clerking
in a small outlying drug-store, attempting to learn to be a shoe clerk,
a grocer's clerk, and what not; and being discharged and laid off
and quitting because he did not like it. He had sent her ten dollars
once--another time five, having, as he felt, that much to spare. After
nearly a year and a half he had decided that the search must have
lessened, his own part in the crime being forgotten, possibly, or by
then not deemed sufficiently important to pursue--and when he was
once more making a moderate living as the driver of a delivery wagon
in Chicago, a job that paid him fifteen dollars a week, he resolved
that he would write his mother, because now he could say that he had
a decent place and had conducted himself respectably for a long time,
although not under his own name.
And so at that time, living in a hall bedroom on the West Side of
Chicago--Paulina Street--he had written his mother the following letter:
DEAR MOTHER:
Are you still in Kansas City? I wish you would write and tell me. I
would so like to hear from you again and to write you again, too,
if you really want me to. Honestly I do, Ma. I have been so lonely
here. Only be careful and don't let any one know where I am yet. It
won't do any good and might do a lot of harm just when I am trying
so hard to get a start again. I didn't do anything wrong that time,
myself. Really I didn't, although the papers said so--just went
along. But I was afraid they would punish me for something that I
didn't do. I just couldn't come back then. I wasn't to blame and
then I was afraid of what you and father might think. But they
invited me, Ma. I didn't tell him to go any faster or to take that
car like he said. He took it himself and invited me and the others
to go along. Maybe we were all to blame for running down that
little girl, but we didn't mean to. None of us. And I have been so
terribly sorry ever since. Think of all the trouble I have caused
you! And just at the time when you most needed me. Gee! Mother, I
hope you can forgive me. Can you?
I keep wondering how you are. And Esta and Julia and Frank and
Father. I wish I knew where you are and what you are doing. You
know how I feel about you, don't you, Ma? I've got a lot more sense
now, anyhow, I see things different than I used to. I want to do
something in this world. I want to be successful. I only have a
fair place now, not as good as I had in K. C., but fair, and not
in the same line. But I want something better, though I don't want
to go back in the hotel business either if I can help it. It's not
so very good for a young man like me--too high-flying, I guess.
You see I know a lot more than I did back there. They like me all
right where I am, but I got to get on in this world. Besides I am
not really making more than my expenses here now, just my room and
board and clothes, but I am trying to save a little in order to get
into some line where I can work up and learn something. A person
has to have a line of some kind these days. I see that now.
Won't you write me and tell me how you all are and what you are
doing? I'd like to know. Give my love to Frank and Julia and Father
and Esta, if they are all still there. I love you just the same and
I guess you care for me a little, anyhow, don't you? I won't sign
my real name, because it may be dangerous yet (I haven't been using
it since I left K. C.) But I'll give you my other one, which I'm
going to leave off pretty soon and take up my old one. Wish I could
do it now, but I'm afraid to yet. You can address me, if you will,
as
HARRY TENET,
General Delivery, Chicago.
I'll call for it in a few days. I sign this way so as not to cause
you or me any more trouble, see? But as soon as I feel more sure
that this other thing has blown over, I'll use my own name again,
sure.
Lovingly,
YOUR SON.
He drew a line where his real name should be and underneath wrote "you
know" and mailed the letter.
Following that, because his mother had been anxious about him all this
time and wondering where he was, he soon received a letter, postmarked
Denver, which surprised him very much, for he had expected to hear from
her as still in Kansas City.
DEAR SON:
I was surprised and so glad to get my boy's letter and to know that
you were alive and safe. I had hoped and prayed so that you would
return to the straight and narrow path--the only path that will
ever lead you to success and happiness of any kind, and that God
would let me hear from you as safe and well and working somewhere
and doing well. And now he has rewarded my prayers. I knew he
would. Blessed be His holy name.
Not that I blame you altogether for all that terrible trouble you
got into and bringing so much suffering and disgrace on yourself
and us--for well I know how the devil tempts and pursues all of
us mortals and particularly just such a child as you. Oh, my son,
if you only knew how you must be on your guard to avoid these
pitfalls. And you have such a long road ahead of you. Will you
be ever watchful and try always to cling to the teachings of our
Savior that your mother has always tried to impress upon the minds
and hearts of all you dear children? Will you stop and listen to
the voice of our Lord that is ever with us, guiding our footsteps
safely up the rocky path that leads to a heaven more beautiful
than we can ever imagine here? Promise me, my child, that you will
hold fast to all your early teachings and always bear in mind
that "right is might," and my boy, never, never, take a drink of
any kind no matter who offers it to you. There is where the devil
reigns in all his glory and is ever ready to triumph over the weak
one. Remember always what I have told you so often "Strong drink
is raging and wine is a mocker," and it is my earnest prayer that
these words will ring in your ears every time you are tempted--for
I am sure now that that was perhaps the real cause of that terrible
accident.
I suffered terribly over that, Clyde, and just at the time when I
had such a dreadful ordeal to face with Esta. I almost lost her.
She had such an awful time. The poor child paid dearly for her
sin. We had to go in debt so deep and it took so long to work it
out--but finally we did and now things are not as bad as they were,
quite.
As you see, we are now in Denver. We have a mission of our own here
now with housing quarters for all of us. Besides we have a few
rooms to rent which Esta, and you know she is now Mrs. Nixon, of
course, takes care of. She has a fine little boy who reminds your
father and me of you so much when you were a baby. He does little
things that are you all over again so many times that we almost
feel that you are with us again--as you were. It is comforting,
too, sometimes.
Frank and Julie have grown so and are quite a help to me. Frank has
a paper route and earns a little money which helps. Esta wants to
keep them in school just as long as we can.
Your father is not very well, but of course, he is getting older,
and he does the best he can.
I am awful glad, Clyde, that you are trying so hard to better
yourself in every way and last night your father was saying again
that your uncle, Samuel Griffiths, of Lycurgus, is so rich and
successful and I thought that maybe if you wrote him and asked him
to give you something there so that you could learn the business,
perhaps he would. I don't see why he wouldn't. After all you are
his nephew. You know he has a great collar business there in
Lycurgus and he is very rich, so they say. Why don't you write him
and see? Somehow I feel that perhaps he would find a place for you
and then you would have something sure to work for. Let me know if
you do and what he says.
I want to hear from you often, Clyde. Please write and let us know
all about you and how you are getting along. Won't you? Of course
we love you as much as ever, and will do our best always to try to
guide you right. We want you to succeed more than you know, but we
also want you to be a good boy, and live a clean, righteous life,
for, my son, what matter it if a man gaineth the whole world and
loseth his own soul?
Write your mother, Clyde, and bear in mind that her love is always
with you--guiding you--pleading with you to do right in the name of
the Lord.
Affectionately,
MOTHER.
And so it was that Clyde had begun to think of his uncle Samuel and his
great business long before he encountered him. He had also experienced
an enormous relief in learning that his parents were no longer in the
same financial difficulties they were when he left, and safely housed
in a hotel, or at least a lodging house, probably connected with this
new mission.
Then two months after he had received his mother's first letter and
while he was deciding almost every day that he must do something, and
that forthwith, he chanced one day to deliver to the Union League Club
on Jackson Boulevard a package of ties and handkerchiefs which some
visitor to Chicago had purchased at the store, for which he worked.
Upon entering, who should he come in contact with but Ratterer in the
uniform of a club employee. He was in charge of inquiry and packages at
the door. Although neither he nor Ratterer quite grasped immediately
the fact that they were confronting one another again, after a moment
Ratterer had exclaimed: "Clyde!" And then, seizing him by an arm, he
added enthusiastically and yet cautiously in a very low tone: "Well, of
all things! The devil! Whaddya know? Put 'er there. Where do you come
from anyhow?" And Clyde, equally excited, exclaimed, "Well, by jing, if
it ain't Tom. Whaddya know? You working here?"
Ratterer, who (like Clyde) had for the moment quite forgotten the
troublesome secret which lay between them, added: "That's right. Surest
thing you know. Been here for nearly a year, now." Then with a sudden
pull at Clyde's arm, as much as to say, "Silence!" he drew Clyde to
one side, out of the hearing of the youth to whom he had been talking
as Clyde came in, and added: "Ssh! I'm working here under my own name,
but I'd rather not let 'em know I'm from K. C., see. I'm supposed to be
from Cleveland."
And with that he once more pressed Clyde's arm genially and looked him
over. And Clyde, equally moved, added: "Sure. That's all right. I'm
glad you were able to connect. My name's Tenet, Harry Tenet. Don't
forget that." And both were radiantly happy because of old times' sake.
But Ratterer, noticing Clyde's delivery uniform, observed: "Driving a
delivery, eh? Gee, that's funny. You driving a delivery. Imagine. That
kills me. What do you want to do that for?" Then seeing from Clyde's
expression that his reference to his present position might not be the
most pleasing thing in the world, since Clyde at once observed: "Well,
I've been up against it, sorta," he added: "But say, I want to see you.
Where are you living?" (Clyde told him.) "That's all right. I get off
here at six. Why not drop around after you're through work. Or, I'll
tell you--suppose we meet at--well, how about Henrici's on Randolph
Street? Is that all right? At seven, say. I get off at six and I can be
over there by then if you can."
Clyde, who was happy to the point of ecstasy in meeting Ratterer again,
nodded a cheerful assent.
He boarded his wagon and continued his deliveries, yet for the rest of
the afternoon his mind was on this approaching meeting with Ratterer.
And at five-thirty he hurried to his barn and then to his boarding
house on the west side, where he donned his street clothes, then
hastened to Henrici's. He had not been standing on the corner a minute
before Ratterer appeared, very genial and friendly and dressed, if
anything, more neatly than ever.
"Gee, it's good to have a look at you, old socks!" he began. "Do you
know you're the only one of that bunch that I've seen since I left K.
C.? That's right. My sister wrote me after we left home that no one
seemed to know what became of either Higby or Heggie, or you, either.
They sent that fellow Sparser up for a year--did you hear that? Tough,
eh? But not so much for killing the little girl, but for taking the
car and running it without a license and not stopping when signaled.
That's what they got him for. But say,"--he lowered his voice most
significantly at this point, "We'da got that if they'd got us. Oh, gee,
I was scared. And run?" And once more he began to laugh, but rather
hysterically at that. "What a wallop, eh? An' us leavin' him and that
girl in the car. Oh, say. Tough, what? Just what else could a fellow
do, though? No need of all of us going up, eh? What was her name? Laura
Sipe. An' you cut out before I saw you, even. And that little Briggs
girl of yours did, too. Did you go home with her?"
Clyde shook his head negatively.
"I should say I didn't," he exclaimed.
"Well, where did you go then?" he asked.
Clyde told him. And after he had set forth a full picture of his own
wayfarings, Ratterer returned with: "Gee, you didn't know that that
little Briggs girl left with a guy from out there for New York right
after that, did you? Some fellow who worked in a cigar store, so
Louise told me. She saw her afterwards just before she left with a new
fur coat and all." (Clyde winced sadly.) "Gee, but you were a sucker
to fool around with her. She didn't care for you or nobody. But you
was pretty much gone on her, I guess, eh?" And he grinned at Clyde
amusedly, and chucked him under the arm, in his old teasing way.
But in regard to himself, he proceeded to unfold a tale of only modest
adventure, which was very different from the one Clyde had narrated, a
tale which had less of nerves and worry and more of a sturdy courage
and faith in his own luck and possibilities. And finally he had "caught
on" to this, because, as he phrased it, "you can always get something
in Chi."
And here he had been ever since--"very quiet, of course," but no one
had ever said a word to him.
And forthwith, he began to explain that just at present there wasn't
anything in the Union League, but that he would talk to Mr. Haley who
was superintendent of the club--and that if Clyde wanted to, and Mr.
Haley knew of anything, he would try and find out if there was an
opening anywhere, or likely to be, and if so, Clyde could slip into it.
"But can that worry stuff," he said to Clyde toward the end of the
evening. "It don't get you nothing."
And then only two days after this most encouraging conversation, and
while Clyde was still debating whether he would resign his job, resume
his true name and canvass the various hotels in search of work, a
note came to his room, brought by one of the bell-boys of the Union
League which read: "See Mr. Lightall at the Great Northern before noon
to-morrow. There's a vacancy over there. It ain't the very best, but
it'll get you something better later."
And accordingly Clyde, after telephoning his department manager that he
was ill and would not be able to work that day, made his way to this
hotel in his very best clothes. And on the strength of what references
he could give, was allowed to go to work; and much to his relief
under his own name. Also, to his gratification, his salary was fixed
at twenty dollars a month, meals included. But the tips, as he now
learned, aggregated not more than ten a week--yet that, counting meals
was far more than he was now getting as he comforted himself; and so
much easier work, even if it did take him back into the old line, where
he still feared to be seen and arrested.
It was not so very long after this--not more than three months--before
a vacancy occurred in the Union League staff. Ratterer, having
some time before established himself as day assistant to the club
staff captain, and being on good terms with him, was able to say
to the latter that he knew exactly the man for the place--Clyde
Griffiths--then employed at the Great Northern. And accordingly, Clyde
was sent for, and being carefully coached beforehand by Ratterer as to
how to approach his new superior, and what to say, he was given the
place.
And here, very different from the Great Northern and superior from
a social and material point of view, as Clyde saw it, to even the
Green-Davidson, he was able once more to view at close range a type
of life that most affected, unfortunately, his bump of position and
distinction. For to this club from day to day came or went such a
company of seemingly mentally and socially worldly elect as he had
never seen anywhere before, the self-integrated and self-centered from
not only all of the states of his native land but from all countries
and continents. American politicians from the north, south, east,
west--the principal politicians and bosses, or alleged statesmen of
their particular regions--surgeons, scientists, arrived physicians,
generals, literary and social figures, not only from America but from
the world over.
Here also, a fact which impressed and even startled his sense of
curiosity and awe, even--there was no faintest trace of that sex
element which had characterized most of the phases of life to be
seen in the Green-Davidson, and more recently the Great Northern. In
fact, in so far as he could remember, had seemed to run through and
motivate nearly, if not quite all of the phases of life that he had
thus far contacted. But here was no sex--no trace of it. No women were
admitted to this club. These various distinguished individuals came and
went, singly as a rule, and with the noiseless vigor and reserve that
characterizes the ultra successful. They often ate alone, conferred in
pairs and groups, noiselessly--read their papers or books, or went here
and there in swiftly driven automobiles--but for the most part seemed
to be unaware of, or at least unaffected by, that element of passion
which, to his immature mind up to this time, had seemed to propel and
disarrange so many things in those lesser worlds with which up to now
he had been identified.
Probably one could not attain to or retain one's place in so remarkable
a world as this unless one were indifferent to sex, a disgraceful
passion, of course. And hence in the presence or under the eyes of such
people one had to act and seem as though such thoughts as from time to
time swayed one were far from one's mind.
After he had worked here a little while, under the influence of this
organization and various personalities who came here, he had taken on
a most gentlemanly and reserved air. When he was within the precincts
of the club itself, he felt himself different from what he really
was--more subdued, less romantic, more practical, certain that if he
tried now, imitated the soberer people of the world, and those only,
that some day he might succeed, if not greatly, at least much better
than he had thus far. And who knows? What if he worked very steadily
and made only the right sort of contacts and conducted himself with
the greatest care here, one of these very remarkable men whom he saw
entering or departing from here might take a fancy to him and offer him
a connection with something important somewhere, such as he had never
had before, and that might lift him into a world such as he had never
known.
For to say the truth, Clyde had a soul that was not destined to grow
up. He lacked decidedly that mental clarity and inner directing
application that in so many permits them to sort out from the facts
and avenues of life the particular thing or things that make for their
direct advancement.
CHAPTER IV
However, as he now fancied, it was because he lacked an education that
he had done so poorly. Because of those various moves from city to city
in his early youth, he had never been permitted to collect such a sum
of practical training in any field as would permit him, so he thought,
to aspire to the great worlds of which these men appeared to be a part.
Yet his soul now yearned for this. The people who lived in fine houses,
who stopped at great hotels, and had men like Mr. Squires, and the
manager of the bell-hops here, to wait on them and arrange for their
comfort. And he was still a bell-hop. And close to twenty-one. At times
it made him very sad. He wished and wished that he could get into some
work where he could rise and be somebody--not always remain a bell-hop,
as at times he feared he might.
About the time that he reached this conclusion in regard to himself and
was meditating on some way to improve and safeguard his future, his
uncle, Samuel Griffiths, arrived in Chicago. And having connections
here which made a card to this club an obvious civility, he came
directly to it and for several days was about the place conferring with
individuals who came to see him, or hurrying to and fro to meet people
and visit concerns whom he deemed it important to see.
And it was not an hour after he arrived before Ratterer, who had charge
of the pegboard at the door by day and who had but a moment before
finished posting the name of this uncle on the board, signaled to
Clyde, who came over.
"Didn't you say you had an uncle or something by the name of Griffiths
in the collar business somewhere in New York State?"
"Sure," replied Clyde. "Samuel Griffiths. He has a big collar factory
in Lycurgus. That's his ad you see in all the papers and that's his
fire sign over there on Michigan Avenue."
"Would you know him if you saw him?"
"No," replied Clyde. "I never saw him in all my life."
"I'll bet anything it's the same fellow," commented Ratterer,
consulting a small registry slip that had been handed him. "Looka
here--Samuel Griffiths, Lycurgus, N. Y. That's probably the same guy,
eh?"
"Surest thing you know," added Clyde, very much interested and even
excited, for this was the identical uncle about whom he had been
thinking so long.
"He just went through here a few minutes ago," went on Ratterer. "Devoy
took his bags up to K. Swell-looking man, too. You better keep your
eye open and take a look at him when he comes down again. Maybe it's
your uncle. He's only medium tall and kinda thin. Wears a small gray
mustache and a pearl gray hat. Good-lookin'. I'll point him out to you.
If it is your uncle you better shine up to him. Maybe he'll do somepin'
for you--give you a collar or two," he added, laughing.
Clyde laughed too as though he very much appreciated this joke,
although in reality he was flustered. His uncle Samuel! And in this
club! Well, then this was his opportunity to introduce himself to his
uncle. He had intended writing him before ever he secured this place,
but now he was here in this club and might speak to him if he chose.
But hold! What would his uncle think of him, supposing he chose to
introduce himself? For he was a bell-boy again and acting in that
capacity in this club. What, for instance, might be his uncle's
attitude toward boys who worked as bell-boys, particularly at
his--Clyde's--years. For he was over twenty now, and getting to be
pretty old for a bell-boy, that is, if one ever intended to be anything
else. A man of his wealth and high position might look on bell-hopping
as menial, particularly bell-boys who chanced to be related to him. He
might not wish to have anything to do with him--might not even wish him
to address him in any way. It was in this state that he remained for
fully twenty-four hours after he knew that his uncle had arrived at
this club.
The following afternoon, however, after he had seen him at least
half a dozen times and had been able to formulate the most agreeable
impressions of him, since his uncle appeared to be so very quick,
alert, incisive--so very different from his father in every way, and
so rich and respected by every one here--he began to wonder, to fear
even at times, whether he was going to let this remarkable opportunity
slip. For after all, his uncle did not look to him to be at all
unkindly--quite the reverse--very pleasant. And when, at the suggestion
of Ratterer, he had gone to his uncle's room to secure a letter which
was to be sent by special messenger, his uncle had scarcely looked at
him, but instead had handed him the letter and half a dollar. "See that
a boy takes that right away and keep the money for yourself," he had
remarked.
Clyde's excitement was so great at the moment that he wondered that his
uncle did not guess that he was his nephew. But plainly he did not. And
he went away a little crestfallen.
Later some half dozen letters for his uncle having been put in the
key-box, Ratterer called Clyde's attention to them. "If you want to run
in on him again, here's your chance. Take those up to him. He's in his
room, I think." And Clyde, after some hesitation, had finally taken the
letters and gone to his uncle's suite once more.
His uncle was writing at the time and merely called: "Come!" Then
Clyde, entering and smiling rather enigmatically, observed: "Here's
some mail for you, Mr. Griffiths."
"Thank you very much, my son," replied his uncle and proceeded to
finger his vest pocket for change. But Clyde, seizing this opportunity,
exclaimed: "Oh, no, I don't want anything for that." And then before
his uncle could say anything more, although he proceeded to hold out
some silver to him, he added: "I believe I'm related to you, Mr.
Griffiths. You're Mr. Samuel Griffiths of the Griffiths Collar Company
of Lycurgus, aren't you?"
"Yes, I have a little something to do with it, I believe. Who are you?"
returned his uncle, looking at him sharply.
"My name's Clyde Griffiths. My father, Asa Griffiths, is your brother,
I believe."
At the mention of this particular brother, who, to the knowledge of all
the members of this family, was distinctly not a success materially,
the face of Samuel Griffiths clouded the least trifle. For the mention
of Asa brought rather unpleasingly before him the stocky and decidedly
not well-groomed figure of his younger brother, whom he had not seen
in so many years. His most recent distinct picture of him was as a
young man of about Clyde's age about his father's house near Bertwick,
Vermont. But how different! Clyde's father was then short, fat and
poorly knit mentally as well as physically--oleaginous and a bit mushy,
as it were. His chin was not firm, his eyes a pale watery blue, and his
hair frizzled. Whereas this son of his was neat, alert, good-looking
and seemingly well-mannered and intelligent, as most bell-hops were
inclined to be as he noted. And he liked him.
However, Samuel Griffiths, who along with his elder brother Allen had
inherited the bulk of his father's moderate property, and this because
of Joseph Griffiths' prejudice against his youngest son, had always
felt that perhaps an injustice had been done Asa. For Asa, not having
proved very practical or intelligent, his father had first attempted
to drive and then later ignore him, and finally had turned him out at
about Clyde's age, and had afterward left the bulk of his property,
some thirty thousand dollars, to these two elder brothers, share and
share alike--willing Asa but a petty thousand.
It was this thought in connection with this younger brother that now
caused him to stare at Clyde rather curiously. For Clyde, as he could
see, was in no way like the younger brother who had been harried from
his father's home so many years before. Rather he was more like his
own son, Gilbert, whom, as he now saw he resembled. Also in spite of
all of Clyde's fears he was obviously impressed by the fact that he
should have any kind of place in this interesting club. For to Samuel
Griffiths, who was more than less confined to the limited activities
and environment of Lycurgus, the character and standing of this
particular club was to be respected. And those young men who served the
guests of such an institution as this, were, in the main, possessed
of efficient and unobtrusive manners. Therefore to see Clyde standing
before him in his neat gray and black uniform and with the air of one
whose social manners at least were excellent, caused him to think
favorably of him.
"You don't tell me!" he exclaimed interestedly. "So you're Asa's son.
I do declare! Well, now, this is a surprise. You see I haven't seen
or heard from your father in at least--well, say, twenty-five or six
years, anyhow. The last time I did hear from him he was living in Grand
Rapids, Michigan, I think, or here. He isn't here now, I presume."
"Oh, no, sir," replied Clyde, who was glad to be able to say this. "The
family live in Denver. I'm here all alone."
"Your father and mother are living, I presume."
"Yes, sir. They're both alive."
"Still connected with religious work, is he--your father?"
"Well, yes, sir," answered Clyde, a little dubiously, for he was still
convinced that the form of religious work his father essayed was of all
forms the poorest and most inconsequential socially. "Only the church
he has now," he went on, "has a lodging house connected with it. About
forty rooms, I believe. He and my mother run that and the mission too."
"Oh, I see."
He was so anxious to make a better impression on his uncle than the
situation seemed to warrant that he was quite willing to exaggerate a
little.
"Well, I'm glad they're doing so well," continued Samuel Griffiths,
rather impressed with the trim and vigorous appearance of Clyde. "You
like this kind of work, I suppose?"
"Well, not exactly. No, Mr. Griffiths, I don't," replied Clyde quickly,
alive at once to the possibilities of this query. "It pays well enough.
But I don't like the way you have to make the money you get here. It
isn't my idea of a salary at all. But I got in this because I didn't
have a chance to study any particular work or get in with some company
where there was a real chance to work up and make something of myself.
My mother wanted me to write you once and ask whether there was any
chance in your company for me to begin and work up, but I was afraid
maybe that you might not like that exactly, and so I never did."
He paused, smiling, and yet with an inquiring look in his eye.
His uncle looked solemnly at him for a moment, pleased by his looks
and his general manner of approach in this instance, and then replied:
"Well, that is very interesting. You should have written, if you wanted
to----" Then, as was his custom in all matters, he cautiously paused.
Clyde noted that he was hesitating to encourage him.
"I don't suppose there is anything in your company that you would let
me do?" he ventured boldly, after a moment.
Samuel Griffiths merely stared at him thoughtfully. He liked and he did
not like this direct request. However, Clyde appeared at least a very
adaptable person for the purpose. He seemed bright and ambitious--so
much like his own son, and he might readily fit into some department as
head or assistant under his son, once he had acquired a knowledge of
the various manufacturing processes. At any rate he might let him try
it. There could be no real harm in that. Besides, there was his younger
brother, to whom, perhaps, both he and his older brother Allen owed
some form of obligation, if not exactly restitution.
"Well," he said, after a moment, "that is something I would have to
think over a little. I wouldn't be able to say, offhand, whether there
is or not. We wouldn't be able to pay you as much as you make here to
begin with," he warned.
"Oh, that's all right," exclaimed Clyde, who was far more fascinated by
the thought of connecting himself with his uncle than anything else. "I
wouldn't expect very much until I was able to earn it, of course."
"Besides, it might be that you would find that you didn't like the
collar business once you got into it, or we might find we didn't like
you. Not every one is suited to it by a long way."
"Well, all you'd have to do then would be to discharge me," assured
Clyde. "I've always thought I would be, though, ever since I heard of
you and your big company."
This last remark pleased Samuel Griffiths. Plainly he and his
achievements had stood in the nature of an ideal to this youth.
"Very well," he said. "I won't be able to give any more time to this
now. But I'll be here for a day or two more, anyhow, and I'll think it
over. It may be that I will be able to do something for you. I can't
say now." And he turned quite abruptly to his letters.
And Clyde, feeling that he had made as good an impression as could be
expected under the circumstances and that something might come of it,
thanked him profusely and beat a hasty retreat.
The next day, having thought it over and deciding that Clyde, because
of his briskness and intelligence, was likely to prove as useful as
another, Samuel Griffiths, after due deliberation as to the situation
at home, informed Clyde that in case any small opening in the home
factory occurred he would be glad to notify him. But he would not even
go so far as to guarantee him that an opening would immediately be
forthcoming. He must wait.
Accordingly Clyde was left to speculate as to how soon, if ever, a
place in his uncle's factory would be made for him.
In the meanwhile Samuel Griffiths had returned to Lycurgus. And after a
later conference with his son, he decided that Clyde might be inducted
into the very bottom of the business at least--the basement of the
Griffiths plant, where the shrinking of all fabrics used in connection
with the manufacture of collars was brought about, and where beginners
in this industry who really desired to acquire the technique of it were
placed, for it was his idea that Clyde by degrees was to be taught the
business from top to bottom. And since he must support himself in some
form not absolutely incompatible with the standing of the Griffiths
family here in Lycurgus, it was decided to pay him the munificent sum
of fifteen dollars to begin.
For while Samuel Griffiths, as well as his son Gilbert, realized that
this was small pay (not for an ordinary apprentice but for Clyde, since
he was a relative) yet so inclined were both toward the practical
rather than the charitable in connection with all those who worked
for them, that the nearer the beginner in this factory was to the
clear mark of necessity and compulsion, the better. Neither could
tolerate the socialistic theory relative to capitalistic exploitation.
As both saw it, there had to be higher and higher social orders
to which the lower social classes could aspire. One had to have
castes. One was foolishly interfering with and disrupting necessary
and unavoidable social standards when one tried to unduly favor any
one--even a relative. It was necessary when dealing with the classes
and intelligences below one, commercially or financially, to handle
them according to the standards to which they were accustomed. And the
best of these standards were those which held these lower individuals
to a clear realization of how difficult it was to come by money--to an
understanding of how very necessary it was for all who were engaged in
what both considered the only really important constructive work of the
world--that of material manufacture--to understand how very essential
it was to be drilled, and that sharply and systematically, in all the
details and processes which comprise that constructive work. And so
to become inured to a narrow and abstemious life in so doing. It was
good for their characters. It informed and strengthened the minds and
spirits of those who were destined to rise. And those who were not
should be kept right where they were.
Accordingly, about a week after that, the nature of Clyde's work having
been finally decided upon, a letter was dispatched to him to Chicago
by Samuel Griffiths himself in which he set forth that if he chose he
might present himself any time now within the next few weeks. But he
must give due notice in writing of at least ten days in advance of his
appearance in order that he might be properly arranged for. And upon
his arrival he was to seek out Mr. Gilbert Griffiths at the office of
the mill, who would look after him.
And upon receipt of this Clyde was very much thrilled and at once wrote
to his mother that he had actually secured a place with his uncle and
was going to Lycurgus. Also that he was going to try to achieve a real
success now. Whereupon she wrote him a long letter, urging him to
be, oh, so careful of his conduct and associates. Bad companionship
was at the root of nearly all of the errors and failures that befell
an ambitious youth such as he. If he would only avoid evil-minded or
foolish and headstrong boys and girls, all would be well. It was so
easy for a young man of his looks and character to be led astray by an
evil woman. He had seen what had befallen him in Kansas City. But now
he was still young and he was going to work for a man who was very rich
and who could do so much for him, if he would. And he was to write her
frequently as to the outcome of his efforts here.
And so, after having notified his uncle as he had requested, Clyde
finally took his departure for Lycurgus. But on his arrival there,
since his original notification from his uncle had called for no
special hour at which to call at the factory, he did not go at once,
but instead sought out the one important hotel of Lycurgus, the
Lycurgus House.
Then finding himself with ample time on his hands, and very curious
about the character of this city in which he was to work, and his
uncle's position in it, he set forth to look it over, his thought
being that once he reported and began work he might not soon have the
time again. He now ambled out into Central Avenue, the very heart
of Lycurgus, which in this section was crossed by several business
streets, which together with Central Avenue for a few blocks on either
side, appeared to constitute the business center--all there was to the
life and gayety of Lycurgus.
CHAPTER V
But once in this and walking about, how different it all seemed to
the world to which so recently he had been accustomed. For here, as
he had thus far seen, all was on a so much smaller scale. The depot,
from which only a half hour before he had stepped down, was so small
and dull, untroubled, as he could plainly see, by much traffic. And
the factory section which lay opposite the small city--across the
Mohawk--was little more than a red and gray assemblage of buildings
with here and there a smokestack projecting upward, and connected
with the city by two bridges--a half dozen blocks apart--one of them
directly at this depot, a wide traffic bridge across which traveled a
car-line following the curves of Central Avenue, dotted here and there
with stores and small homes.
But Central Avenue was quite alive with traffic, pedestrians and
automobiles. Opposite diagonally from the hotel, which contained a
series of wide plate-glass windows, behind which were many chairs
interspersed with palms and pillars, was the dry-goods emporium of
Stark and Company, a considerable affair, four stories in height, and
of white brick, and at least a hundred feet long, the various windows
of which seemed bright and interesting, crowded with as smart models as
might be seen anywhere. Also there were other large concerns, a second
hotel, various automobile showrooms, a moving picture theater.
He found himself ambling on and on until suddenly he was out of the
business district again and in touch with a wide and tree-shaded
thoroughfare of residences, the houses of which, each and every
one, appeared to possess more room space, lawn space, general ease
and repose and dignity even than any with which he had ever been in
contact. In short, as he sensed it from this brief inspection of its
very central portion, it seemed a very exceptional, if small city
street--rich, luxurious even. So many imposing wrought-iron fences,
flower-bordered walks, grouped trees and bushes, expensive and handsome
automobiles either beneath porte-cochères within or speeding along
the broad thoroughfare without. And in some neighboring shops--those
nearest Central Avenue and the business heart where this wide and
handsome thoroughfare began, were to be seen such expensive-looking
and apparently smart displays of the things that might well interest
people of means and comfort--motors, jewels, lingerie, leather goods
and furniture.
But where now did his uncle and his family live? In which house? What
street? Was it larger and finer than any of these he had seen in this
street?
He must return at once, he decided, and report to his uncle. He must
look up the factory address, probably in that region beyond the river,
and go over there and see him. What would he say, how act, what would
his uncle set him to doing? What would his cousin Gilbert be like?
What would he be likely to think of him? In his last letter his uncle
had mentioned his son Gilbert. He retraced his steps along Central
Avenue to the depot and found himself quickly before the walls of the
very large concern he was seeking. It was of red brick, six stories
high--almost a thousand feet long. It was nearly all windows--at least
that portion which had been most recently added and which was devoted
to collars. An older section, as Clyde later learned, was connected
with the newer building by various bridges. And the south walls of
both these two structures, being built at the water's edge, paralleled
the Mohawk. There were also, as he now found, various entrances along
River Street, a hundred feet or more apart--and each one, guarded by
an employee in uniform--entrances numbered one, two and three--which
were labeled "for employees only"--an entrance numbered four which read
"office"--and entrances five and six appeared to be devoted to freight
receipts and shipments.
Clyde made his way to the office portion and finding no one to hinder
him, passed through two sets of swinging doors and found himself in
the presence of a telephone girl seated at a telephone desk behind
a railing, in which was set a small gate--the only entrance to the
main office apparently. And this she guarded. She was short, fat,
thirty-five and unattractive.
"Well?" she called as Clyde appeared.
"I want to see Mr. Gilbert Griffiths," Clyde began a little nervously.
"What about?"
"Well, you see, I'm his cousin. Clyde Griffiths is my name. I have a
letter here from my uncle, Mr. Samuel Griffiths. He'll see me, I think."
As he laid the letter before her, he noticed that her quite severe
and decidedly indifferent expression changed and became not so much
friendly as awed. For obviously she was very much impressed not only
by the information but his looks, and began to examine him slyly and
curiously.
"I'll see if he's in," she replied much more civilly, and plugging at
the same time a switch which led to Mr. Gilbert Griffiths' private
office. Word coming back to her apparently that Mr. Gilbert Griffiths
was busy at the moment and could not be disturbed, she called back:
"It's Mr. Gilbert's cousin, Mr. Clyde Griffiths. He has a letter from
Mr. Samuel Griffiths." Then she said to Clyde: "Won't you sit down? I'm
sure Mr. Gilbert Griffiths will see you in a moment. He's busy just
now."
And Clyde, noting the unusual deference paid him--a form of deference
that never in his life before had been offered him--was strangely
moved by it. To think that he should be a full cousin to this wealthy
and influential family! This enormous factory! So long and wide and
high--as he had seen--six stories. And walking along the opposite side
of the river just now, he had seen through several open windows whole
rooms full of girls and women hard at work. And he had been thrilled
in spite of himself. For somehow the high red walls of the building
suggested energy and very material success, a type of success that was
almost without flaw, as he saw it.
He looked at the gray plaster walls of this outer waiting chamber--at
some lettering on the inner door which read: "The Griffiths Collar
& Shirt Company, Inc. Samuel Griffiths, Pres. Gilbert Griffiths,
Sec'y."--and wondered what it was all like inside--what Gilbert
Griffiths would be like--cold or genial, friendly or unfriendly.
And then, as he sat there meditating, the woman suddenly turned to him
and observed: "You can go in now. Mr. Gilbert Griffiths' office is at
the extreme rear of this floor, over toward the river. Any one of the
clerks inside will show you."
She half rose as if to open the door for him, but Clyde, sensing the
intent, brushed by her. "That's all right. Thanks," he said most
warmly, and opening the glass-plated door he gazed upon a room housing
many over a hundred employees--chiefly young men and young women. And
all were apparently intent on their duties before them. Most of them
had green shades over their eyes. Quite all of them had on short alpaca
office coats or sleeve protectors over their shirt sleeves. Nearly all
of the young women wore clean and attractive gingham dresses or office
slips. And all about this central space, which was partitionless and
supported by round white columns, were offices labeled with the names
of the various minor officials and executives of the company--Mr.
Smillie, Mr. Latch, Mr. Gotboy, Mr. Burkey.
Since the telephone girl had said that Mr. Gilbert Griffiths was at
the extreme rear, Clyde, without much hesitation, made his way along
the railed-off aisle to that quarter, where upon a half-open door he
read: "Mr. Gilbert Griffiths, Sec'y." He paused, uncertain whether to
walk in or not, and then proceeded to tap. At once a sharp, penetrating
voice called: "Come," and he entered and faced a youth who looked,
if anything, smaller and a little older and certainly much colder
and shrewder than himself--such a youth, in short, as Clyde would
have liked to imagine himself to be--trained in an executive sense,
apparently authoritative and efficient. He was dressed, as Clyde noted
at once, in a bright gray suit of a very pronounced pattern, for it
was once more approaching spring. His hair, of a lighter shade than
Clyde's, was brushed and glazed most smoothly back from his temples
and forehead, and his eyes, which Clyde, from the moment he had opened
the door had felt drilling him, were of a clear, liquid, grayish-green
blue. He had on a pair of large horn-rimmed glasses which he wore at
his desk only, and the eyes that peered through them went over Clyde
swiftly and notatively, from his shoes to the round brown felt hat
which he carried in his hand.
"You're my cousin, I believe," he commented, rather icily, as Clyde
came forward and stopped--a thin and certainly not very favorable smile
playing about his lips.
"Yes, I am," replied Clyde, reduced and confused by this calm and
rather freezing reception. On the instant, as he now saw, he could not
possibly have the same regard and esteem for this cousin, as he could
and did have for his uncle, whose very great ability had erected this
important industry. Rather, deep down in himself he felt that this
young man, an heir and nothing more to this great industry, was taking
to himself airs and superiorities which, but for his father's skill
before him, would not have been possible.
At the same time so groundless and insignificant were his claims to
any consideration here, and so grateful was he for anything that might
be done for him, that he felt heavily obligated already and tried to
smile his best and most ingratiating smile. Yet Gilbert Griffiths at
once appeared to take this as a bit of presumption which ought not to
be tolerated in a mere cousin, and particularly one who was seeking a
favor of him and his father.
However, since his father had troubled to interest himself in him and
had given him no alternative, he continued his wry smile and mental
examination, the while he said: "We thought you would be showing up
to-day or to-morrow. Did you have a pleasant trip?"
"Oh, yes, very," replied Clyde, a little confused by this inquiry.
"So you think you'd like to learn something about the manufacture
of collars, do you?" Tone and manner were infiltrated by the utmost
condescension.
"I would certainly like to learn something that would give me a chance
to work up, have some future in it," replied Clyde, genially and with a
desire to placate his young cousin as much as possible.
"Well, my father was telling me of his talk with you in Chicago. From
what he told me I gather that you haven't had much practical experience
of any kind. You don't know how to keep books, do you?"
"No, I don't," replied Clyde a little regretfully.
"And you're not a stenographer or anything like that?"
"No, sir, I'm not."
Most sharply, as Clyde said this, he felt that he was dreadfully
lacking in every training. And now Gilbert Griffiths looked at him as
though he were rather a hopeless proposition indeed from the viewpoint
of this concern.
"Well, the best thing to do with you, I think," he went on, as though
before this his father had not indicated to him exactly what was to be
done in this case, "is to start you in the shrinking room. That's where
the manufacturing end of this business begins, and you might as well be
learning that from the ground up. Afterwards, when we see how you do
down there, we can tell a little better what to do with you. If you had
any office training it might be possible to use you up here." (Clyde's
face fell at this and Gilbert noticed it. It pleased him.) "But it's
just as well to learn the practical side of the business, whatever
you do," he added rather coldly, not that he desired to comfort Clyde
any but merely to be saying it as a fact. And seeing that Clyde said
nothing, he continued: "The best thing, I presume, before you try to do
anything around here is for you to get settled somewhere. You haven't
taken a room anywhere yet, have you?"
"No, I just came in on the noon train," replied Clyde. "I was a little
dirty and so I just went up to the hotel to brush up a little. I
thought I'd look for a place afterwards."
"Well, that's right. Only don't look for any place. I'll have our
superintendent see that you're directed to a good boarding house. He
knows more about the town than you do." His thought here was that
after all Clyde was a full cousin and that it wouldn't do to have him
live just anywhere. At the same time he was greatly concerned lest
Clyde get the notion that the family was very much concerned as to
where he did live, which most certainly it was _not_, as he saw it.
His final feeling was that he could easily place and control Clyde in
such a way as to make him not very important to any one in any way--his
father, the family, all the people who worked here.
He reached for a button on his desk and pressed it. A trim girl, very
severe and reserved in a green gingham dress, appeared.
"Ask Mr. Whiggam to come here."
She disappeared and presently there entered a medium-sized and
nervous, yet moderately stout, man who looked as though he were
under a great strain. He was about forty years of age--repressed and
noncommittal--and looked curiously and suspiciously about as though
wondering what new trouble impended. His head, as Clyde at once
noticed, appeared chronically to incline forward, while at the same
time he lifted his eyes as though actually he would prefer not to look
up.
"Whiggam," began young Griffiths authoritatively, "this is Clyde
Griffiths, a cousin of ours. You remember I spoke to you about him."
"Yes, sir."
"Well, he's to be put in the shrinking department for the present.
You can show him what he's to do. Afterwards you had better have Mrs.
Braley show him where he can get a room." (All this had been talked
over and fixed upon the week before by Gilbert and Whiggam, but now he
gave it the ring of an original suggestion.) "And you'd better give his
name in to the timekeeper as beginning to-morrow morning, see?"
"Yes, sir," bowed Whiggam deferentially. "Is that all?"
"Yes, that's all," concluded Gilbert smartly. "You go with Whiggam, Mr.
Griffiths. He'll tell you what to do."
Whiggam turned. "If you'll just come with me, Mr. Griffiths," he
observed deferentially, as Clyde could see--and that for all of his
cousin's apparently condescending attitude--and marched out with Clyde
at his heels. And young Gilbert as briskly turned to his own desk, but
at the same time shaking his head. His feeling at the moment was that
mentally Clyde was not above a good bell-boy in a city hotel probably.
Else why should he come on here in this way. "I wonder what he thinks
he's going to do here," he continued to think, "where he thinks he's
going to get?"
And Clyde, as he followed Mr. Whiggam, was thinking what a wonderful
place Mr. Gilbert Griffiths enjoyed. No doubt he came and went as he
chose--arrived at the office late, departed early, and somewhere in
this very interesting city dwelt with his parents and sisters in a very
fine house--of course. And yet here he was--Gilbert's own cousin, and
the nephew of his wealthy uncle, being escorted to work in a very minor
department of this great concern.
Nevertheless, once they were out of the sight and hearing of Mr.
Gilbert Griffiths, he was somewhat diverted from this mood by the
sights and sounds of the great manufactory itself. For here on this
very same floor, but beyond the immense office room through which he
had passed, was another much larger room filled with rows of bins,
facing aisles not more than five feet wide, and containing, as Clyde
could see, enormous quantities of collars boxed in small paper boxes,
according to sizes. These bins were either being refilled by stock boys
who brought more boxed collars from the boxing room in large wooden
trucks, or were being as rapidly emptied by order clerks who, trundling
small box trucks in front of them, were filling orders from duplicate
check lists which they carried in their hands.
"Never worked in a collar factory before, Mr. Griffiths, I presume?"
commented Mr. Whiggam with somewhat more spirit, once he was out of the
presence of Gilbert Griffiths. Clyde noticed at once the Mr. Griffiths.
"Oh, no," he replied quickly. "I never worked at anything like this
before."
"Expect to learn all about the manufacturing end of the game in the
course of time, though, I suppose." He was walking briskly along one of
the long aisles as he spoke, but Clyde noticed that he shot sly glances
in every direction.
"I'd like to," he answered.
"Well, there's a little more to it than some people think, although you
often hear there isn't very much to learn." He opened another door,
crossed a gloomy hall and entered still another room which, filled with
bins as was the other, was piled high in every bin with bolts of white
cloth.
"You might as well know a little about this as long as you're going to
begin in the shrinking room. This is the stuff from which the collars
are cut, the collars and the lining. They are called webs. Each of
these bolts is a web. We take these down in the basement and shrink
them because they can't be used this way. If they are, the collars
would shrink after they were cut. But you'll see. We tub them and then
dry them afterwards."
He marched solemnly on and Clyde sensed once more that this man was
not looking upon him as an ordinary employee by any means. His _Mr._
Griffiths, his supposition to the effect that Clyde was to learn
all about the manufacturing end of the business, as well as his
condescension in explaining about these webs of cloth, had already
convinced Clyde that he was looked upon as one to whom some slight
homage at least must be paid.
He followed Mr. Whiggam, curious as to the significance of this, and
soon found himself in an enormous basement which had been reached by
descending a flight of steps at the end of a third hall. Here, by the
help of four long rows of incandescent lamps, he discerned row after
row of porcelain tubs or troughs, lengthwise of the room, and end to
end, which reached from one exterior wall to the other. And in these,
under steaming hot water apparently, were any quantity of those same
webs he had just seen upstairs, soaking. And near-by, north and south
of these tubs, and paralleling them for the length of this room, all
of a hundred and fifty feet in length, were enormous drying racks or
moving skeleton platforms, boxed, top and bottom and sides, with hot
steam pipes, between which on rolls, but festooned in such a fashion
as to take advantage of these pipes, above, below and on either side,
were more of these webs, but unwound and wet and draped as described,
yet moving along slowly on these rolls from the east end of the room
to the west. This movement, as Clyde could see, was accompanied by an
enormous rattle and clatter of ratchet arms which automatically shook
and moved these lengths of cloth forward from east to west. And as they
moved they dried, and were then automatically re-wound at the west end
of these racks into bolt form once more upon a wooden spool and then
lifted off by a youth whose duty it was to "take" from these moving
platforms. One youth, as Clyde saw, "took" from two of these tracks
at the west end, while at the east end another youth of about his own
years "fed." That is, he took bolts of this now partially shrunk yet
still wet cloth and attaching one end of it to some moving hooks, saw
that it slowly and properly unwound and fed itself over the drying
racks for the entire length of these tracks. As fast as it had gone the
way of all webs, another was attached.
Between each two rows of tubs in the center of the room were enormous
whirling separators or dryers, into which these webs of cloth, as they
came from the tubs in which they had been shrinking for twenty-four
hours, were piled and as much water as possible centrifugally extracted
before they were spread out on the drying racks.
Primarily little more than this mere physical aspect of the room was
grasped by Clyde--its noise, its heat, its steam, the energy with which
a dozen men and boys were busying themselves with various processes.
They were, without exception, clothed only in armless undershirts, a
pair of old trousers belted in at the waist, and with canvas-topped and
rubber-soled sneakers on their bare feet. The water and the general
dampness and the heat of the room seemed obviously to necessitate some
such dressing as this.
"This is the shrinking room," observed Mr. Whiggam, as they entered.
"It isn't as nice as some of the others, but it's where the
manufacturing process begins. Kemerer!" he called.
A short, stocky, full-chested man, with a pale, full face and white,
strong-looking arms, dressed in a pair of dirty and wrinkled trousers
and an armless flannel shirt, now appeared. Like Whiggam in the
presence of Gilbert, he appeared to be very much overawed in the
presence of Whiggam.
"This is Clyde Griffiths, the cousin of Gilbert Griffiths. I spoke to
you about him last week, you remember?"
"Yes, sir."
"He's to begin down here. He'll show up in the morning."
"Yes, sir."
"Better put his name down on your check list. He'll begin at the usual
hour."
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Whiggam, as Clyde noticed, held his head higher and spoke more
directly and authoritatively than at any time so far. He seemed to be
master, not underling, now.
"Seven-thirty is the time every one goes to work here in the morning,"
went on Mr. Whiggam to Clyde informatively, "but they all ring in a
little earlier--about seven-twenty or so, so as to have time to change
their clothes and get to the machines.
"Now, if you want to," he added, "Mr. Kemerer can show you what you'll
have to do to-morrow before you leave to-day. It might save a little
time. Or, you can leave it until then if you want to. It don't make
any difference to me. Only, if you'll come back to the telephone girl
at the main entrance about five-thirty I'll have Mrs. Braley there for
you. She's to show you about your room, I believe. I won't be there
myself, but you just ask the telephone girl for her. She'll know." He
turned and added, "Well, I'll leave you now."
He lowered his head and started to go away just as Clyde began. "Well,
I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Whiggam." Instead of answering, he
waved one fishy hand slightly upward and was gone--down between the
tubs toward the west door. And at once Mr. Kemerer--still nervous and
overawed apparently--began.
"Oh, that's all right about what you have to do, Mr. Griffiths.
I'll just let you bring down webs on the floor above to begin with
to-morrow. But if you've got any old clothes, you'd better put 'em on.
A suit like that wouldn't last long here." He eyed Clyde's very neat,
if inexpensive suit, in an odd way. His manner, quite like that of
Mr. Whiggam before him, was a mixture of uncertainty and a very small
authority here in Clyde's case--of extreme respect and yet some private
doubt, which only time might resolve. Obviously it was no small thing
to be a Griffiths here, even if one were a cousin and possibly not as
welcome to one's powerful relatives as one might be.
At first sight, and considering what his general dreams in connection
with this industry were, Clyde was inclined to rebel. For the type of
youth and man he saw here were in his estimation and at first glance
rather below the type of individuals he hoped to find here--individuals
neither so intelligent nor alert as those employed by the Union League
and the Green-Davidson by a long distance. And still worse he felt them
to be much more subdued and sly and ignorant--mere clocks, really.
And their eyes, as he entered with Mr. Whiggam, while they pretended
not to be looking, were very well aware, as Clyde could feel, of all
that was going on. Indeed, he and Mr. Whiggam were the center of
all their secret looks. At the same time, their spare and practical
manner of dressing struck dead at one blow any thought of refinement
in connection with the work in here. How unfortunate that his lack of
training would not permit his being put to office work or something
like that upstairs.
He walked with Mr. Kemerer, who troubled to say that these were the
tubs in which the webs were shrunk over night--these the centrifugal
dryers--these the rack dryers. Then he was told that he could go. And
by then it was only three o'clock.
He made his way out of the nearest door and once outside he
congratulated himself on being connected with this great company, while
at the same time wondering whether he was going to prove satisfactory
to Mr. Kemerer and Mr. Whiggam. Supposing he didn't. Or supposing he
couldn't stand all this? It was pretty rough. Well, if worst came to
worst, as he now thought, he could go back to Chicago, or on to New
York, maybe, and get work.
But why hadn't Samuel Griffiths had the graciousness to receive and
welcome him? Why had that young Gilbert Griffiths smiled so cynically?
And what sort of a woman was this Mrs. Braley? Had he done wisely to
come on here? Would this family do anything for him now that he was
here?
It was thus that, strolling west along River Street on which were
a number of other kinds of factories, and then north through a few
other streets that held more factories--tinware, wickwire, a big
vacuum carpet cleaning plant, a rug manufacturing company, and the
like--that he came finally upon a miserable slum, the like of which,
small as it was, he had not seen outside of Chicago or Kansas City. He
was so irritated and depressed by the poverty and social angularity
and crudeness of it--all spelling but one thing, social misery, to
him--that he at once retraced his steps and recrossing the Mohawk by
a bridge farther west soon found himself in an area which was very
different indeed--a region once more of just such homes as he had been
admiring before he left for the factory. And walking still farther
south, he came upon that same wide and tree-lined avenue--which he had
seen before--the exterior appearance of which alone identified it as
the principal residence thoroughfare of Lycurgus. It was so very broad
and well-paved and lined by such an arresting company of houses. At
once he was very much alive to the personnel of this street, for it
came to him immediately that it must be in this street very likely that
his uncle Samuel lived. The houses were nearly all of French, Italian
or English design, and excellent period copies at that, although he did
not know it.
Impressed by their beauty and spaciousness, however, he walked along,
now looking at one and another, and wondering which, if any, of these
was occupied by his uncle, and deeply impressed by the significance of
so much wealth. How superior and condescending his cousin Gilbert must
feel, walking out of some such place as this in the morning.
Then pausing before one which, because of trees, walks, newly-groomed
if bloomless flower beds, a large garage at the rear, a large fountain
to the left of the house as he faced it, in the center of which was
a boy holding a swan in his arms, and to the right of the house one
lone cast iron stag pursued by some cast iron dogs, he felt especially
impelled to admire, and charmed by the dignity of this place, which
was a modified form of old English, he now inquired of a stranger who
was passing--a middle-aged man of a rather shabby working type, "Whose
house is that, mister?" and the man replied: "Why, that's Samuel
Griffiths' residence. He's the man who owns the big collar factory over
the river."
At once Clyde straightened up, as though dashed with cold water. His
uncle's! His residence! Then that was one of his automobiles standing
before the garage at the rear there. And there was another visible
through the open door of the garage.
Indeed in his immature and really psychically unilluminated mind it
suddenly evoked a mood which was as of roses, perfumes, lights and
music. The beauty! The ease! What member of his own immediate family
had ever even dreamed that his uncle lived thus! The grandeur! And
his own parents so wretched--so poor, preaching on the streets of
Kansas City and no doubt Denver. Conducting a mission! And although
thus far no single member of this family other than his chill cousin
had troubled to meet him, and that at the factory only, and although
he had been so indifferently assigned to the menial type of work that
he had, still he was elated and uplifted. For, after all, was he not
a Griffiths, a full cousin as well as a full nephew to the two very
important men who lived here, and now working for them in some capacity
at least? And must not that spell a future of some sort, better than
any he had known as yet? For consider who the Griffiths were here, as
opposed to "who" the Griffiths were in Kansas City, say--or Denver. The
enormous difference! A thing to be as carefully concealed as possible.
At the same time, he was immediately reduced again, for supposing
the Griffiths here--his uncle or his cousin or some friend or agent
of theirs--should now investigate his parents and his past? Heavens!
The matter of that slain child in Kansas City! His parents' miserable
makeshift life! Esta! At once his face fell, his dreams being so
thickly clouded over. If they should guess! If they should sense!
Oh, the devil--who was he anyway? And what did he really amount to?
What could he hope for from such a great world as this really, once
they knew why he had troubled to come here?
A little disgusted and depressed he turned to retrace his steps, for
all at once he felt himself very much of a nobody.
CHAPTER VI
The room which Clyde secured this same day with the aid of Mrs. Braley,
was in Thorpe Street, a thoroughfare enormously removed in quality
if not in distance from that in which his uncle resided. Indeed the
difference was sufficient to decidedly qualify his mounting notions of
himself as one who, after all, was connected with him. The commonplace
brown or gray or tan colored houses, rather smoked or decayed which
fronted it--the leafless and winter harried trees which in spite of
smoke and dust seemed to give promise of the newer life so near at
hand--the leaves and flowers of May. Yet as he walked into it with
Mrs. Braley, many drab and commonplace figures of men and girls, and
elderly spinsters resembling Mrs. Braley in kind, were making their
way home from the several factories beyond the river. And at the door
Mrs. Braley and himself were received by a none-too-polished woman
in a clean gingham apron over a dark brown dress, who led the way to
a second floor room, not too small or uncomfortably furnished--which
she assured him he could have for four dollars without board or seven
and one-half dollars with--a proposition which, seeing that he was
advised by Mrs. Braley that this was somewhat better than he would
get in most places for the same amount, he decided to take. And here,
after thanking Mrs. Braley, he decided to remain--later sitting down
to dinner with a small group of milltown store and factory employees,
such as partially he had been accustomed to in Paulina Street in
Chicago, before moving to the better atmosphere of the Union League.
And after dinner he made his way out into the principal thoroughfares
of Lycurgus, only to observe such a crowd of nondescript mill-workers
as, judging these streets by day, he would not have fancied swarmed
here by night--girls and boys, men and women of various nationalities,
and types--Americans, Poles, Hungarians, French, English--and for the
most part--if not entirely touched with a peculiar something--ignorance
or thickness of mind or body, or with a certain lack of taste and
alertness or daring, which seemed to mark them one and all as of the
basement world which he had seen only this afternoon. Yet in some
streets and stores, particularly those nearer Wykeagy Avenue, a better
type of girl and young man who might have been and no doubt were of the
various office groups of the different companies over the river--neat
and active.
And Clyde, walking to and fro, from eight until ten, when as though
by pre-arrangement, the crowd in the more congested streets seemed
suddenly to fade away, leaving them quite vacant. And throughout this
time contrasting it all with Chicago and Kansas City. (What would
Ratterer think if he could see him now--his uncle's great house and
factory?) And perhaps because of its smallness, liking it--the Lycurgus
Hotel, neat and bright and with a brisk local life seeming to center
about it. And the post-office and a handsomely spired church, together
with an old and interesting graveyard, cheek by jowl with an automobile
salesroom. And a new moving picture theater just around the corner
in a side street. And various boys and girls, men and women, walking
here and there, some of them flirting as Clyde could see. And with a
suggestion somehow hovering over it all of hope and zest and youth--the
hope and zest and youth that is at the bottom of all the constructive
energy of the world everywhere. And finally returning to his room in
Thorpe Street with the conclusion that he did like the place and would
like to stay here. That beautiful Wykeagy Avenue! His uncle's great
factory! The many pretty and eager girls he had seen hurrying to and
fro!
* * * * *
In the meantime, in so far as Gilbert Griffiths was concerned, and
in the absence of his father, who was in New York at the time (a
fact which Clyde did not know and of which Gilbert did not trouble
to inform him) he had conveyed to his mother and sisters that he had
met Clyde, and if he were not the dullest, certainly he was not the
most interesting person in the world, either. Encountering Myra, as he
first entered at five-thirty, the same day that Clyde had appeared, he
troubled to observe: "Well, that Chicago cousin of ours blew in to-day."
"Yes!" commented Myra, "What's he like?" The fact that her father had
described Clyde as gentlemanly and intelligent had interested her,
although knowing Lycurgus and the nature of the mill life here and its
opportunities for those who worked in factories such as her father
owned, she had wondered why Clyde had bothered to come.
"Well, I can't see that he's so much," replied Gilbert. "He's fairly
intelligent and not bad-looking, but he admits that he's never had any
business training of any kind. He's like all those young fellows who
work for hotels. He thinks clothes are the whole thing, I guess. He
had on a light brown suit and a brown tie and hat to match and brown
shoes. His tie was too bright and he had on one of those bright pink
striped shirts like they used to wear three or four years ago. Besides
his clothes aren't cut right. I didn't want to say anything because
he's just come on, and we don't know whether he'll hold out or not.
But if he does, and he's going to pose around as a relative of ours,
he'd better tone down, or I'd advise the governor to have a few words
with him. Outside of that I guess he'll do well enough in one of the
departments after a while, as foreman or something. He might even be
made into a salesman later on, I suppose. But what he sees in all that
to make it worth while to come here is more than I can guess. As a
matter of fact, I don't think the governor made it clear to him just
how few the chances are here for any one who isn't really a wizard or
something."
He stood with his back to the large open fireplace.
"Oh, well, you know what Mother was saying the other day about his
father. She thinks Daddy feels that he's never had a chance in some
way. He'll probably do something for him whether he wants to keep him
in the mill or not. She told me that she thought that Dad felt that his
father hadn't been treated just right by their father."
Myra paused, and Gilbert, who had had this same hint from his mother
before now, chose to ignore the implication of it.
"Oh, well, it's not my funeral," he went on. "If the governor wants
to keep him on here whether he's fitted for anything special or not,
that's his look-out. Only he's the one that's always talking about
efficiency in every department and cutting and keeping out dead timber."
Meeting his mother and Bella later, he volunteered the same news and
much the same ideas. Mrs. Griffiths sighed; for after all, in a place
like Lycurgus and established as they were, any one related to them and
having their name ought to be most circumspect and have careful manners
and taste and judgment. It was not wise for her husband to bring on any
one who was not all of that and more.
On the other hand, Bella was by no means satisfied with the accuracy
of her brother's picture of Clyde. She did not know Clyde, but she did
know Gilbert, and as she knew he could decide very swiftly that this or
that person was lacking in almost every way, when, as a matter of fact,
they might not be at all as she saw it.
"Oh, well," she finally observed, after hearing Gilbert comment on
more of Clyde's peculiarities at dinner, "if Daddy wants him, I presume
he'll keep him, or do something with him eventually." At which Gilbert
winced internally for this was a direct slap at his assumed authority
in the mill under his father, which authority he was eager to make more
and more effective in every direction, as his younger sister well knew.
In the meanwhile on the following morning, Clyde, returning to the
mill, found that the name, or appearance, or both perhaps--his
resemblance to Mr. Gilbert Griffiths--was of some peculiar advantage
to him which he could not quite sufficiently estimate at present For
on reaching number one entrance, the doorman on guard there looked as
though startled.
"Oh, you're Mr. Clyde Griffiths?" he queried. "You're goin' to work
under Mr. Kemerer? Yes, I know. Well, that man there will have your
key," and he pointed to a stodgy, stuffy old man whom later Clyde
came to know as "Old Jeff," the time-clock guard, who, at a stand
farther along this same hall, furnished and reclaimed all keys between
seven-thirty and seven-forty.
When Clyde approached him and said: "My name's Clyde Griffiths and I'm
to work downstairs with Mr. Kemerer," he too started and then said:
"Sure, that's right. Yes, sir. Here you are, Mr. Griffiths. Mr. Kemerer
spoke to me about you yesterday. Number seventy-one is to be yours. I'm
giving you Mr. Duveny's old key." When Clyde had gone down the stairs
into the shrinking department, he turned to the doorman who had drawn
near and exclaimed: "Don't it beat all how much that fellow looks like
Mr. Gilbert Griffiths? Why, he's almost his spittin' image. What is he,
do you suppose, a brother or a cousin, or what?"
"Don't ask me," replied the doorman. "I never saw him before. But he's
certainly related to the family all right. When I seen him first, I
thought it was Mr. Gilbert. I was just about to tip my hat to him when
I saw it wasn't."
And in the shrinking room when he entered, as on the day before, he
found Kemerer as respectful and evasive as ever. For, like Whiggam
before him, Kemerer had not as yet been able to decide what Clyde's
true position with this company was likely to be. For, as Whiggam had
informed Kemerer the day before, Mr. Gilbert had said no least thing
which tended to make Mr. Whiggam believe that things were to be made
especially easy for him, nor yet hard, either. On the contrary, Mr.
Gilbert had said: "He's to be treated like all the other employees as
to time and work. No different." Yet in introducing Clyde he had said:
"This is my cousin, and he's going to try to learn this business,"
which would indicate that as time went on Clyde was to be transferred
from department to department until he had surveyed the entire
manufacturing end of the business.
Whiggam, for this reason, after Clyde had gone, whispered to Kemerer as
well as to several others, that Clyde might readily prove to be some
one who was a protégé of the chief--and therefore they determined to
"watch their step," at least until they knew what his standing here was
to be. And Clyde, noticing this, was quite set up by it, for he could
not help but feel that this in itself, and apart from whatever his
cousin Gilbert might either think or wish to do, might easily presage
some favor on the part of his uncle that might lead to some good for
him. So when Kemerer proceeded to explain to him that he was not to
think that the work was so very hard or that there was so very much to
do for the present, Clyde took it with a slight air of condescension.
And in consequence Kemerer was all the more respectful.
"Just hang up your hat and coat over there in one of those lockers,"
he proceeded mildly and ingratiatingly even. "Then you can take one of
those crate trucks back there and go up to the next floor and bring
down some webs. They'll show you where to get them."
The days that followed were diverting and yet troublesome enough to
Clyde, who to begin with was puzzled and disturbed at times by the
peculiar social and workaday worlds and position in which he found
himself. For one thing, those by whom now he found himself immediately
surrounded at the factory were not such individuals as he would
ordinarily select for companions--far below bell-boys or drivers or
clerks anywhere. They were, one and all, as he could now clearly see,
meaty or stodgy mentally and physically. They wore such clothes as only
the most common laborers would wear--such clothes as are usually worn
by those who count their personal appearance among the least of their
troubles--their work and their heavy material existence being all. In
addition, not knowing just what Clyde was, or what his coming might
mean to their separate and individual positions, they were inclined to
be dubious and suspicious.
After a week or two, however, coming to understand that Clyde was a
nephew of the president, a cousin of the secretary of the company, and
hence not likely to remain here long in any menial capacity, they grew
more friendly, but inclined in the face of the sense of subserviency
which this inspired in them, to become jealous and suspicious of him in
another way. For, after all, Clyde was not one of them, and under such
circumstances could not be. He might smile and be civil enough--yet
he would always be in touch with those who were above them, would he
not--or so they thought. He was, as they saw it, part of the rich and
superior class and every poor man knew what that meant. The poor must
stand together everywhere.
For his part, however, and sitting about for the first few days in
this particular room eating his lunch, he wondered how these men could
interest themselves in what were to him such dull and uninteresting
items--the quality of the cloth that was coming down in the webs--some
minute flaws in the matter of weight or weave--the last twenty webs
hadn't looked so closely shrunk as the preceding sixteen; or the
Cranston Wickwire Company was not carrying as many men as it had the
month before--or the Anthony Woodenware Company had posted a notice
that the Saturday half-holiday would not begin before June first this
year as opposed to the middle of May last year. They all appeared to be
lost in the humdrum and routine of their work.
In consequence his mind went back to happier scenes. He wished
at times he were back in Chicago or Kansas City. He thought of
Ratterer, Hegglund, Higby, Louise Ratterer, Larry Doyle, Mr. Squires,
Hortense--all of the young and thoughtless company of which he had been
a part, and wondered what they were doing. What had become of Hortense?
She had got that fur coat after all--probably from that cigar clerk and
then had gone away with him after she had protested so much feeling
for him--the little beast. After she had gotten all that money out of
him. The mere thought of her and all that she might have meant to him
if things had not turned as they had, made him a little sick at times.
To whom was she being nice now? How had she found things since leaving
Kansas City? And what would she think if she saw him here now or knew
of his present high connections? Gee! That would cool her a little. But
she would not think much of his present position. That was sure. But
she might respect him more if she could see his uncle and his cousin
and this factory and their big house. It would be like her then to try
to be nice to him. Well, he would show her, if he ever ran into her
again--snub her, of course, as no doubt he very well could by then.
CHAPTER VII
In so far as his life at Mrs. Cuppy's went, he was not so very happily
placed there, either. For that was but a commonplace rooming and
boarding house, which drew to it, at best, such conservative mill and
business types as looked on work and their wages, and the notions
of the middle class religious world of Lycurgus as most essential
to the order and well being of the world. From the point of view of
entertainment or gayety, it was in the main a very dull place.
At the same time, because of the presence of one Walter Dillard--a
brainless sprig who had recently come here from Fonda, it was not
wholly devoid of interest for Clyde. The latter--a youth of about
Clyde's own age and equally ambitious socially--but without Clyde's
tact or discrimination anent the governing facts of life, was connected
with the men's furnishing department of Stark and Company. He was
spry, avid, attractive enough physically, with very light hair, a very
light and feeble mustache, and the delicate airs and ways of a small
town Beau Brummell. Never having had any social standing or the use of
any means whatsoever--his father having been a small town dry goods
merchant before him, who had failed--he was, because of some atavistic
spur or filip in his own blood, most anxious to attain some sort of
social position.
But failing that so far, he was interested in and envious of those
who had it--much more so than Clyde, even. The glory and activity of
the leading families of this particular city had enormous weight with
him--the Nicholsons, the Starks, the Harriets, Griffiths, Finchleys,
et cetera. And learning a few days after Clyde's arrival of his
somewhat left-handed connection with this world, he was most definitely
interested. What? A Griffiths! The nephew of the rich Samuel Griffiths
of Lycurgus! And in this boarding house! Beside him at this table! At
once his interest rose to where he decided that he must cultivate this
stranger as speedily as possible. Here was a real social opportunity
knocking at his very door--a connecting link to one of the very best
families! And besides was he not young, attractive and probably
ambitious like himself--a fellow to play around with if one could? He
proceeded at once to make overtures to Clyde. It seemed almost too good
to be true.
In consequence he was quick to suggest a walk, the fact that there
was a certain movie just on at the Mohawk, which was excellent--very
snappy. Didn't Clyde want to go? And because of his neatness,
smartness--a touch of something that was far from humdrum or the heavy
practicality of the mill and the remainder of this boarding house
world, Clyde was inclined to fall in with him.
But, as he now thought, here were his great relatives and he must watch
his step here. Who knew but that he might be making a great mistake
in holding such free and easy contacts as this. The Griffiths--as
well as the entire world of which they were a part--as he guessed
from the general manner of all those who even contacted him, must be
very removed from the commonalty here. More by instinct than reason,
he was inclined to stand off and look very superior--more so since
those, including this very youth on whom he practised this seemed to
respect him the more. And although upon eager--and even--after its
fashion, supplicating request, he now went with this youth--still he
went cautiously. And his aloof and condescending manner Dillard at once
translated as "class" and "connection." And to think he had met him in
this dull, dubby boarding house here. And on his arrival--at the very
inception of his career here.
And so his manner was that of the sycophant--although he had a better
position and was earning more money than Clyde was at this time,
twenty-two dollars a week.
"I suppose you'll be spending a good deal of your time with your
relatives and friends here," he volunteered on the occasion of their
first walk together, and after he had extracted as much information as
Clyde cared to impart, which was almost nothing, while he volunteered
a few, most decidedly furbished bits from his own history. His father
owned a dry goods store _now_. He had come over here to study other
methods, et cetera. He had an uncle here--connected with Stark and
Company. He had met a few--not so many as yet--nice people here, since
he hadn't been here so very long himself--four months all told.
But Clyde's relatives!
"Say, your uncle must be worth over a million, isn't he? They say he
is. Those houses in Wykeagy Avenue are certainly the cats'. You won't
see anything finer in Albany or Utica or Rochester either. Are you
Samuel Griffiths' own nephew? You don't say! Well, that'll certainly
mean a lot to you here. I wish I had a connection like that. You bet
I'd make it count."
He beamed on Clyde eagerly and hopefully, and through him Clyde sensed
even more how really important this blood relation was. Only think how
much it meant to this strange youth.
"Oh, I don't know," replied Clyde dubiously, and yet very much
flattered by this assumption of intimacy. "I came on to learn the
collar business, you know. Not to play about very much. My uncle wants
me to stick to that, pretty much."
"Sure, sure. I know how that is," replied Dillard, "that's the way my
uncle feels about me, too. He wants me to stick close to the work here
and not play about very much. He's the buyer for Stark and Company, you
know. But still a man can't work all the time, either. He's got to have
a little fun."
"Yes, that's right," said Clyde--for the first time in his life a
little condescendingly.
They walked along in silence for a few moments. Then:
"Do you dance?"
"Yes," answered Clyde.
"Well, so do I. There are a lot of cheap dance halls around here,
but I never go to any of those. You can't do it and keep in with the
nice people. This is an awfully close town that way, they say. The
best people won't have anything to do with you unless you go with the
right crowd. It's the same way up at Fonda. You have to 'belong' or
you can't go out anywhere at all. And that's right, I guess. But still
there are a lot of nice girls here that a fellow can go with--girls of
right nice families--not in society, of course--but still, they're not
talked about, see. And they're not so slow, either. Pretty hot stuff,
some of them. And you don't have to marry any of 'em, either." Clyde
began to think of him as perhaps a little too lusty for this new life
here, maybe. At the same time he liked him some. "By the way," went on
Dillard, "what are you doing next Sunday afternoon?"
"Well, nothing in particular, that I know of just now," replied Clyde,
sensing a new problem here. "I don't know just what I may have to do by
then, but I don't know of anything now."
"Well, how'd you like to come with me, if you're not too busy. I've
come to know quite a few girls since I've been here. Nice ones. I
can take you out and introduce you to my uncle's family, if you
like. They're nice people. And afterwards--I know two girls we can
go and see--peaches. One of 'em did work in the store, but she don't
now--she's not doing anything now. The other is her pal. They have a
victrola and they can dance. I know it isn't the thing to dance here on
Sundays but no one need know anything about that. The girls' parents
don't mind. Afterwards we might take 'em to a movie or something--if
you want to--not any of those things down near the mill district but
one of the better ones--see?"
There formulated itself in Clyde's mind the question as to what, in
regard to just such proposals as this, his course here was to be. In
Chicago, and recently--because of what happened in Kansas City--he had
sought to be as retiring and cautious as possible. For--after that and
while connected with the club, he had been taken with the fancy of
trying to live up to the ideals with which the seemingly stern face
of that institution had inspired him--conservatism--hard work--saving
one's money--looking neat and gentlemanly. It was such an Eveless
paradise, that.
In spite of his quiet surroundings here, however, the very air of the
city seemed to suggest some such relaxation as this youth was now
suggesting--a form of diversion that was probably innocent enough but
still connected with girls and their entertainment--there were so many
of them here, as he could see. These streets, after dinner, here, were
so alive with good-looking girls, and young men, too. But what might
his new found relatives think of him in case he was seen stepping
about in the manner and spirit which this youth's suggestions seemed
to imply? Hadn't he just said that this was an awfully close town and
that everybody knew nearly everything about everybody else? He paused
in doubt. He must decide now. And then, being lonely and hungry for
companionship, he replied: "Yes,--well--I think that's all right." But
he added a little dubiously: "Of course my relatives here----"
"Oh, sure, that's all right," replied Dillard smartly. "You have to
be careful, of course. Well, so do I." If he could only go around
with a Griffiths, even if he was new around here and didn't know many
people--wouldn't it reflect a lot of credit on him? It most certainly
would--did already, as he saw it.
And forthwith he offered to buy Clyde some cigarettes--a soda--anything
he liked. But Clyde, still feeling very strange and uncertain, excused
himself, after a time, because this youth with his complacent worship
of society and position, annoyed him a little, and made his way back
to his room. He had promised his mother a letter and he thought he had
better go back and write it, and incidentally to think a little on the
wisdom of this new contact.
CHAPTER VIII
Nevertheless, the next day being a Saturday and a half holiday the year
round in this concern, Mr. Whiggam came through with the pay envelopes.
"Here you are, Mr. Griffiths," he said, as though he were especially
impressed with Clyde's position.
Clyde, taking it, was rather pleased with this mistering, and going
back toward his locker, promptly tore it open and pocketed the money.
After that, taking his hat and coat, he wandered off in the direction
of his room, where he had his lunch. But, being very lonely, and
Dillard not being present because he had to work, he decided upon a
trolley ride to Gloversville, which was a city of some twenty thousand
inhabitants and reported to be as active, if not as beautiful, as
Lycurgus. And that trip amused and interested him because it took him
into a city very different from Lycurgus in its social texture.
But the next day--Sunday--he spent idly in Lycurgus, wandering about
by himself. For, as it turned out, Dillard was compelled to return to
Fonda for some reason and could not fulfill the Sunday understanding.
Encountering Clyde, however, on Monday evening, he announced that on
the following Wednesday evening, in the basement of the Diggby Avenue
Congregational Church, there was to be held a social with refreshments.
And according to young Dillard, at least this promised to prove worth
while.
"We can just go out there," was the way he put it to Clyde, "and buzz
the girls a little. I want you to meet my uncle and aunt. They're nice
people all right. And so are the girls. They're no slouches. Then we
can edge out afterwards, about ten, see, and go around to either Zella
or Rita's place. Rita has more good records over at her place, but
Zella has the nicest place to dance. By the way, you didn't chance to
bring along your dress suit with you, did you?" he inquired. For having
already inspected Clyde's room, which was above his own on the third
floor, in Clyde's absence and having discovered that he had only a
dress suit case and no trunk, and apparently no dress suit anywhere,
he had decided that in spite of Clyde's father conducting a hotel and
Clyde having worked in the Union League Club in Chicago, he must be
very indifferent to social equipment. Or, if not, must be endeavoring
to make his own way on some character-building plan without help from
any one. This was not to his liking, exactly. A man should never
neglect these social essentials. Nevertheless, Clyde was a Griffiths
and that was enough to cause him to overlook nearly anything, for the
present anyhow.
"No, I didn't," replied Clyde, who was not exactly sure as to the value
of this adventure--even yet--in spite of his own loneliness,--"but I
intend to get one." He had already thought since coming here of his
lack in this respect, and was thinking of taking at least thirty-five
of his more recently hard-earned savings and indulging in a suit of
this kind.
Dillard buzzed on about the fact that while Zella Shuman's family
wasn't rich--they owned the house they lived in--still she went with
a lot of nice girls here, too. So did Rita Dickerman. Zella's father
owned a little cottage upon Eckert Lake, near Fonda. When next summer
came--and with it the holidays and pleasant week-ends, he and Clyde,
supposing that Clyde liked Rita, might go up there some time for a
visit, for Rita and Zella were inseparable almost. And they were
pretty, too. "Zella's dark and Rita's light," he added enthusiastically.
Clyde was interested by the fact that the girls were pretty and that
out of a clear sky and in the face of his present loneliness, he was
being made so much of by this Dillard. But, was it wise for him to
become very much involved with him? That was the question--for, after
all, he really knew nothing of him. And he gathered from Dillard's
manner, his flighty enthusiasm for the occasion, that he was far more
interested in the girls as girls--a certain freedom or concealed
looseness that characterized them--than he was in the social phase of
the world which they represented. And wasn't that what brought about
his downfall in Kansas City? Here in Lycurgus, of all places, he was
least likely to forget it--aspiring to something better as he now did.
None-the-less, at eight-thirty on the following Wednesday evening--they
were off, Clyde full of eager anticipation. And by nine o'clock
they were in the midst of one of those semi-religious, semi-social
and semi-emotional church affairs, the object of which was to raise
money for the church--the general service of which was to furnish an
occasion for gossip among the elders, criticism and a certain amount of
enthusiastic, if disguised courtship and flirtation among the younger
members. There were booths for the sale of quite everything from
pies, cakes and ice cream to laces, dolls and knickknacks of every
description, supplied by the members and parted with for the benefit
of the church. The Reverend Peter Isreals, the minister, and his wife
were present. Also Dillard's uncle and aunt, a pair of brisk and yet
uninteresting people whom Clyde could sense were of no importance
socially here. They were too genial and altogether social in the
specific neighborhood sense, although Grover Wilson, being a buyer for
Stark and Company, endeavored to assume a serious and important air at
times.
He was an undersized and stocky man who did not seem to know how to
dress very well or could not afford it. In contrast to his nephew's
almost immaculate garb, his own suit was far from perfect-fitting.
It was unpressed and slightly soiled. And his tie the same. He had
a habit of rubbing his hands in a clerkly fashion, of wrinkling his
brows and scratching the back of his head at times, as though something
he was about to say had cost him great thought and was of the utmost
importance. Whereas, nothing that he uttered, as even Clyde could see,
was of the slightest importance.
And so, too, with the stout and large Mrs. Wilson, who stood beside
him while he was attempting to rise to the importance of Clyde. She
merely beamed a fatty beam. She was almost ponderous, and pink, with a
tendency to a double chin. She smiled and smiled, largely because she
was naturally genial and on her good behavior here, but incidentally
because Clyde was who he was. For as Clyde himself could see, Walter
Dillard had lost no time in impressing his relatives with the fact that
he was a Griffiths. Also that he had encountered and made a friend of
him and that he was now chaperoning him locally.
"Walter has been telling us that you have just come on here to work
for your uncle. You're at Mrs. Cuppy's now, I understand. I don't know
her but I've always heard she keeps such a nice, refined place. Mr.
Parsley, who lives here with her, used to go to school with me. But I
don't see much of him any more. Did you meet him yet?"
"No, I didn't," said Clyde in return.
"Well, you know, we expected you last Sunday to dinner, only Walter had
to go home. But you must come soon. Any time at all. I would love to
have you." She beamed and her small grayish brown eyes twinkled.
Clyde could see that because of the fame of his uncle he was looked
upon as a social find, really. And so it was with the remainder of this
company, old and young--the Rev. Peter Isreals and his wife; Mr. Micah
Bumpus, a local vendor of printing inks, and his wife and son; Mr.
and Mrs. Maximilian Pick, Mr. Pick being a wholesale and retail dealer
in hay, grain and feed; Mr. Witness, a florist, and Mrs. Throop, a
local real estate dealer. All knew Samuel Griffiths and his family by
reputation and it seemed not a little interesting and strange to all
of them that Clyde, a real nephew of so rich a man, should be here in
their midst. The only trouble with this was that Clyde's manner was
very soft and not as impressive as it should be--not so aggressive and
contemptuous. And most of them were of that type of mind that respects
insolence even where it pretends to condemn it.
In so far as the young girls were concerned, it was even more
noticeable. For Dillard was making this important relationship of
Clyde's perfectly plain to every one. "This is Clyde Griffiths, the
nephew of Samuel Griffiths, Mr. Gilbert Griffiths' cousin, you know.
He's just come on here to study the collar business in his uncle's
factory." And Clyde, who realized how shallow was this pretense, was
still not a little pleased and impressed by the effect of it all. This
Dillard's effrontery. The brassy way in which, because of Clyde, he
presumed to patronize these people. On this occasion, he kept guiding
Clyde here and there, refusing for the most part to leave him alone for
an instant. In fact he was determined that all whom he knew and liked
among these girls and young men should know who and what Clyde was
and that he was presenting him. Also that those whom he did not like
should see as little of him as possible--not be introduced at all. "She
don't amount to anything. Her father only keeps a small garage here.
I wouldn't bother with her if I were you." Or, "He isn't much around
here. Just a clerk in our store." At the same time, in regard to some
others, he was all smiles and compliments, or at worst apologetic for
their social lacks.
And then he was introduced to Zella Shuman and Rita Dickerman, who, for
reasons of their own, not the least among which was a desire to appear
a little wise and more sophisticated than the others here, came a
little late. And it was true, as Clyde was to find out soon afterwards,
that they were different, too--less simple and restricted than quite
all of the girls whom Dillard had thus far introduced him to. They
were not as sound religiously and morally as were these others. And
as even Clyde noted on meeting them, they were as keen for as close
an approach to pagan pleasure without admitting it to themselves, as
it was possible to be and not be marked for what they were. And in
consequence, there was something in their manner, the very spirit of
the introduction, which struck him as different from the tone of the
rest of this church group--not exactly morally or religiously unhealthy
but rather much freer, less repressed, less reserved than were these
others.
"Oh, so you're Mr. Clyde Griffiths," observed Zella Shuman. "My, you
look a lot like your cousin, don't you? I see him driving down Central
Avenue ever so often. Walter has been telling us all about you. Do you
like Lycurgus?"
The way she said "Walter," together with something intimate and
possessive in the tone of her voice, caused Clyde to feel at once that
she must feel rather closer to and freer with Dillard than he himself
had indicated. A small scarlet bow of velvet ribbon at her throat, two
small garnet earrings in her ears, a very trim and tight-fitting black
dress, with a heavily flounced skirt, seemed to indicate that she was
not opposed to showing her figure, and prized it, a mood which except
for a demure and rather retiring poise which she affected, would most
certainly have excited comment in such a place as this.
Rita Dickerman, on the other hand, was lush and blonde, with pink
cheeks, light chestnut hair, and bluish gray eyes. Lacking the
aggressive smartness that characterized Zella Shuman, she still
radiated a certain something which to Clyde seemed to harmonize with
the liberal if secret mood of her friend. Her manner, as Clyde could
see, while much less suggestive of masked bravado was yielding and
to him designedly so, as well as naturally provocative. It had been
arranged that she was to intrigue him. Very much fascinated by Zella
Shuman and in tow of her, they were inseparable. And when Clyde was
introduced to her, she beamed upon him in a melting and sensuous way
which troubled him not a little. For here in Lycurgus, as he was
telling himself at the time, he must be very careful with whom he
became familiar. And yet, unfortunately, as in the case of Hortense
Briggs, she evoked thoughts of intimacy, however unproblematic or
distant, which troubled him. But he must be careful. It was just such
a free attitude as this suggested by Dillard as well as these girls'
manners that had gotten him into trouble before.
"Now we'll just have a little ice cream and cake," suggested Dillard,
after the few preliminary remarks were over, "and then we can get out
of here. You two had better go around together and hand out a few
hellos. Then we can meet at the ice cream booth. After that, if you say
so, we'll leave, eh? What do you say?"
He looked at Zella Shuman as much as to say: "You know what is the best
thing to do," and she smiled and replied:
"That's right. We can't leave right away. I see my cousin Mary over
there. And Mother. And Fred Bruckner. Rita and I'll just go around by
ourselves for a while and then we'll meet you, see." And Rita Dickerman
forthwith bestowed upon Clyde an intimate and possessive smile.
After about twenty minutes of drifting and browsing, Dillard received
some signal from Zella, and he and Clyde paused near the ice cream
booth with its chairs in the center of the room. In a few moments they
were casually joined by Zella and Rita, with whom they had some ice
cream and cake. And then, being free of all obligations and as some of
the others were beginning to depart, Dillard observed: "Let's beat it.
We can go over to your place, can't we?"
"Sure, sure," whispered Zella, and together they made their way to the
coat room. Clyde was still so dubious as to the wisdom of all this
that he was inclined to be a little silent. He did not know whether
he was fascinated by Rita or not. But once out in the street out of
view of the church and the homing amusement seekers, he and Rita found
themselves together, Zella and Dillard having walked on ahead. And
although Clyde had taken her arm, as he thought fit, she maneuvered it
free and laid a warm and caressing hand on his elbow. And she nudged
quite close to him, shoulder to shoulder, and half leaning on him,
began pattering of the life of Lycurgus.
There was something very furry and caressing about her voice now. Clyde
liked it. There was something heavy and languorous about her body,
a kind of ray or electron that intrigued and lured him in spite of
himself. He felt that he would like to caress her arm and might if he
wished--that he might even put his arm around her waist, and so soon.
Yet here he was, a Griffiths, he was shrewd enough to think--a Lycurgus
Griffiths--and that was what now made a difference--that made all those
girls at this church social seem so much more interested in him and so
friendly. Yet in spite of this thought, he did squeeze her arm ever so
slightly and without reproach or comment from her.
And once in the Shuman home, which was a large old-fashioned square
frame house with a square cupola, very retired among some trees and a
lawn, they made themselves at home in a general living room which was
much more handsomely furnished than any home with which Clyde had been
identified heretofore. Dillard at once began sorting the records, with
which he seemed most familiar, and to pull two rather large rugs out of
the way, revealing a smooth, hardwood floor.
"There's one thing about this house and these trees and these
soft-toned needles," he commented for Clyde's benefit, of course, since
he was still under the impression that Clyde might be and probably was
a very shrewd person who was watching his every move here. "You can't
hear a note of this victrola out in the street, can you, Zell? Nor
upstairs, either, really, not with the soft needles. We've played it
down here and danced to it several times, until three and four in the
morning and they didn't even know it upstairs, did they, Zell?"
"That's right. But then Father's a little hard of hearing. And Mother
don't hear anything, either, when she gets in her room and gets to
reading. But it is hard to hear at that."
"Why, do people object so to dancing here?" asked Clyde.
"Oh, they don't--not the factory people--not at all," put in Dillard,
"but most of the church people do. My uncle and aunt do. And nearly
everyone else we met at the church to-night, except Zell and Rita." He
gave them a most approving and encouraging glance. "And they're too
broadminded to let a little thing like that bother them. Ain't that
right, Zell?"
This young girl, who was very much fascinated by him, laughed and
nodded, "You bet, that's right. I can't see any harm in it."
"Nor me, either," put in Rita, "nor my father and mother. Only they
don't like to say anything about it or make me feel that they want me
to do too much of it."
Dillard by then had started a piece entitled "Brown Eyes" and
immediately Clyde and Rita and Dillard and Zella began to dance, and
Clyde found himself insensibly drifting into a kind of intimacy with
this girl which boded he could scarcely say what. She danced so warmly
and enthusiastically--a kind of weaving and swaying motion which
suggested all sorts of repressed enthusiasms. And her lips were at once
wreathed with a kind of lyric smile which suggested a kind of hunger
for this thing. And she was very pretty, more so dancing and smiling
than at any other time.
"She is delicious," thought Clyde, "even if she is a little soft. Any
fellow would do almost as well as me, but she likes me because she
thinks I'm somebody." And almost at the same moment she observed:
"Isn't it just too gorgeous? And you're such a good dancer, Mr.
Griffiths."
"Oh, no," he replied, smiling into her eyes, "you're the one that's the
dancer. I can dance because you're dancing with me."
He could feel now that her arms were large and soft, her bosom full for
one so young. Exhilarated by dancing, she was quite intoxicating, her
gestures almost provoking.
"Now we'll put on 'The Love Boat,'" called Dillard the moment "Brown
Eyes" was ended, "and you and Zella can dance together and Rita and I
will have a spin, eh, Rita?"
He was so fascinated by his own skill as a dancer, however, as well
as his natural joy in the art, that he could scarcely wait to begin
another, but must take Rita by the arms before putting on another
record, gliding here and there, doing steps and executing figures which
Clyde could not possibly achieve and which at once established Dillard
as the superior dancer. Then, having done so, he called to Clyde to put
on "The Love Boat."
But as Clyde could see, after dancing with Zella once, this was
planned to be a happy companionship of two mutually mated couples who
would not interfere with each other in any way, but rather would aid
each other in their various schemes to enjoy one another's society.
For while Zella danced with Clyde, and danced well and talked to him
much, all the while he could feel that she was interested in Dillard
and Dillard only and would prefer to be with him. For, after a few
dances, and while he and Rita lounged on a settee and talked, Zella and
Dillard left the room to go to the kitchen for a drink. Only, as Clyde
observed, they stayed much longer than any single drink would have
required.
And similarly, during this interval, it seemed as though it was
intended even, by Rita, that he and she should draw closer to
one another. For, finding the conversation on the settee lagging
for a moment, she got up and apropos of nothing--no music and no
words--motioned to him to dance some more with her. She had danced
certain steps with Dillard which she pretended to show Clyde. But
because of their nature, these brought her and Clyde into closer
contact than before--very much so. And standing so close together and
showing Clyde by elbow and arm how to do, her face and cheek came very
close to him--too much for his own strength of will and purpose. He
pressed his cheek to hers and she turned smiling and encouraging eyes
upon him. On the instant, his self-possession was gone and he kissed
her lips. And then again--and again. And instead of withdrawing them,
as he thought she might, she let him--remained just as she was in order
that he might kiss her more.
And suddenly now, as he felt this yielding of her warm body so close to
him, and the pressure of her lips in response to his own, he realized
that he had let himself in for a relationship which might not be so
very easy to modify or escape. Also that it would be a very difficult
thing for him to resist, since he now liked her and obviously she liked
him.
CHAPTER IX
Apart from the momentary thrill and zest of this, the effect was to
throw Clyde, as before, speculatively back upon the problem of his
proper course here. For here was this girl, and she was approaching him
in this direct and suggestive way. And so soon after telling himself
and his mother that his course was to be so different here--no such
approaches or relationships as had brought on his downfall in Kansas
City. And yet--and yet----
He was sorely tempted now, for in his contact with Rita he had the
feeling that she was expecting him to suggest a further step--and soon.
But just how and where? Not in connection with this large, strange
house. There were other rooms apart from the kitchen to which Dillard
and Zella had ostensibly departed. But even so, such a relationship
once established! What then? Would he not be expected to continue it,
or let himself in for possible complications in case he did not? He
danced with and fondled her in a daring and aggressive fashion, yet
thinking as he did so, "But this is not what I should be doing either,
is it? This is Lycurgus. I am a Griffiths, here. I know how these
people feel toward me--their parents even. Do I really care for her?
Is there not something about her quick and easy availability which,
if not exactly dangerous in so far as my future here is concerned, is
not quite satisfactory,--too quickly intimate?" He was experiencing a
sensation not unrelated to his mood in connection with the lupanar in
Kansas City--attracted and yet repulsed. He could do no more than kiss
and fondle her here in a somewhat restrained way until at last Dillard
and Zella returned, whereupon the same degree of intimacy was no longer
possible.
A clock somewhere striking two, it suddenly occurred to Rita that she
must be going--her parents would object to her staying out so late.
And since Dillard gave no evidence of deserting Zella, it followed, of
course, that Clyde was to see her home, a pleasure that now had been
allayed by a vague suggestion of disappointment or failure on the part
of both. He had not risen to her expectations, he thought. Obviously he
lacked the courage yet to follow up the proffer of her favors, was the
way she explained it to herself.
At her own door, not so far distant, and after a conversation which
was still tinctured with intimations of some future occasions which
might prove more favorable,--her attitude was decidedly encouraging,
even here. They parted, but with Clyde still saying to himself that
this new relationship was developing much too swiftly. He was not sure
that he should undertake a relationship such as this here--so soon,
anyhow. Where now were all his fine decisions made before coming here?
What was he going to decide? And yet because of the sensual warmth and
magnetism of Rita, he was irritated by his resolution and his inability
to proceed as he otherwise might.
Two things which eventually decided him in regard to this came
quite close together. One related to the attitude of the Griffiths
themselves, which, apart from that of Gilbert, was not one of
opposition or complete indifference, so much as it was a failure on the
part of Samuel Griffiths in the first instance and the others largely
because of him to grasp the rather anomalous, if not exactly lonely
position in which Clyde would find himself here unless the family chose
to show him at least some little courtesy or advise him cordially from
time to time. Yet Samuel Griffiths, being always very much pressed for
time, had scarcely given Clyde a thought during the first month, at
least. He was here, properly placed, as he heard, would be properly
looked after in the future,--what more, just now, at least?
And so for all of five weeks before any action of any kind was taken,
and with Gilbert Griffiths comforted thereby, Clyde was allowed to
drift along in his basement world wondering what was being intended in
connection with himself. The attitude of others, including Dillard and
these girls, finally made his position here seem strange.
However, about a month after Clyde had arrived, and principally because
Gilbert seemed so content to say nothing regarding him, the elder
Griffiths inquired one day:
"Well, what about your cousin? How's he doing by now?" And Gilbert,
only a little worried as to what this might bode, replied, "Oh, he's
all right. I started him off in the shrinking room. Is that all right?"
"Yes, I think so. That's as good a place as any for him to begin, I
believe. But what do you think of him by now?"
"Oh," answered Gilbert very conservatively and decidedly
independently--a trait for which his father had always admired
him--"Not so much. He's all right, I guess. He may work out. But
he doesn't strike me as a fellow who would ever make much of a stir
in this game. He hasn't had much of an education of any kind, you
know. Any one can see that. Besides, he's not so very aggressive or
energetic-looking. Too soft, I think. Still I don't want to knock him.
He may be all right. You like him and I may be wrong. But I can't help
but think that his real idea in coming here is that you'll do more for
him than you would for someone else, just because he is related to you."
"Oh, you think he does. Well, if he does, he's wrong." But at the same
time, he added, and that with a bantering smile: "He may not be as
impractical as you think, though. He hasn't been here long enough for
us to really tell, has he? He didn't strike me that way in Chicago.
Besides there are a lot of little corners into which he might fit,
aren't there, without any great waste, even if he isn't the most
talented fellow in the world? If he's content to take a small job in
life, that's his business. I can't prevent that. But at any rate, I
don't want him sent away yet, anyhow, and I don't want him put on piece
work. It wouldn't look right. After all, he is related to us. Just let
him drift along for a little while and see what he does for himself."
"All right, governor," replied his son, who was hoping that his father
would absent-mindedly let him stay where he was--in the lowest of all
the positions the factory had to offer.
But, now, and to his dissatisfaction, Samuel Griffiths proceeded to
add, "We'll have to have him out to the house for dinner pretty soon,
won't we? I have thought of that but I haven't been able to attend to
it before. I should have spoken to Mother about it before this. He
hasn't been out yet, has he?"
"No, sir, not that I know of," replied Gilbert dourly. He did not like
this at all, but was too tactful to show his opposition just here.
"We've been waiting for you to say something about it, I suppose."
"Very well," went on Samuel, "you'd better find out where he's stopping
and have him out. Next Sunday wouldn't be a bad time, if we haven't
anything else on." Noting a flicker of doubt or disapproval in his
son's eyes, he added: "After all, Gil, he's my nephew and your cousin,
and we can't afford to ignore him entirely. That wouldn't be right, you
know, either. You'd better speak to your mother to-night, or I will,
and arrange it." He closed the drawer of a desk in which he had been
looking for certain papers, got up and took down his hat and coat and
left the office.
In consequence of this discussion, an invitation was sent to Clyde
for the following Sunday at six-thirty to appear and participate
in a Griffiths family meal. On Sunday at one-thirty was served the
important family dinner to which usually was invited one or another
of the various local or visiting friends of the family. At six-thirty
nearly all of these guests had departed, and sometimes one or two of
the Griffiths themselves, the cold collation served being partaken of
by Mr. and Mrs. Griffiths and Myra--Bella and Gilbert usually having
appointments elsewhere.
On this occasion, however, as Mrs. Griffiths and Myra and Bella
decided in conference, they would all be present with the exception of
Gilbert, who, because of his opposition as well as another appointment,
explained that he would stop in for only a moment before leaving. Thus
Clyde as Gilbert was pleased to note would be received and entertained
without the likelihood of contacts, introductions and explanations to
such of their more important connections who might chance to stop in
during the afternoon. They would also have an opportunity to study him
for themselves and see what they really did think without committing
themselves in any way.
But in the meantime in connection with Dillard, Rita and Zella there
had been a development which, because of the problem it had posed, was
to be affected by this very decision on the part of the Griffiths.
For following the evening at the Shuman home, and because, in spite
of Clyde's hesitation at the time, all three including Rita herself,
were still convinced that he must or would be smitten with her charms,
there had been various hints, as well as finally a direct invitation
or proposition on the part of Dillard to the effect that because of
the camaraderie which had been established between himself and Clyde
and these two girls, they make a week-end trip somewhere--preferably
to Utica or Albany. The girls would go, of course. He could fix that
through Zella with Rita for Clyde if he had any doubts or fears as
to whether it could be negotiated or not. "You know she likes you.
Zell was telling me the other day that she said she thought you were
the candy. Some ladies' man, eh?" And he nudged Clyde genially and
intimately,--a proceeding in this newer and grander world in which
he now found himself,--and considering who he was here, was not as
appealing to Clyde as it otherwise might have been. These fellows who
were so pushing where they thought a fellow amounted to something more
than they did! He could tell.
At the same time, the proposition he was now offering--as thrilling
and intriguing as it might be from one point of view--was likely to
cause him endless trouble--was it not? In the first place he had no
money--only fifteen dollars a week here so far--and if he was going
to be expected to indulge in such expensive outings as these, why, of
course, he could not manage. Car-fare, meals, a hotel bill, maybe an
automobile ride for two. And after that he would be in close contact
with this Rita whom he scarcely knew. And might she not take it on
herself to become intimate here in Lycurgus, maybe--expect him to call
on her regularly--and go places--and then--well, gee--supposing the
Griffiths--his cousin Gilbert, heard of or saw this. Hadn't Zella said
that she saw him often on the street here and there in Lycurgus? And
wouldn't they be likely to encounter him somewhere--sometime--when they
were all together? And wouldn't that fix him as being intimate with
just another store clerk like Dillard who didn't amount to so much
after all? It might even mean the end of his career here! Who could
tell what it might lead to?
He coughed and made various excuses. Just now he had a lot of work
to do. Besides--a venture like that--he would have to see first. His
relatives, you know. Besides next Sunday and the Sunday after, some
extra work in connection with the factory was going to hold him in
Lycurgus. After that time he would see. Actually, in his wavering
way--and various disturbing thoughts as to Rita's charm returning to
him at moments, he was wondering if it was not desirable--his other
decision to the contrary notwithstanding, to skimp himself as much as
possible over two or three weeks and so go anyhow. He had been saving
something toward a new dress suit and collapsible silk hat. Might he
not use some of that--even though he knew the plan to be all wrong?
The fair, plump, sensuous Rita!
But then, not at that very moment--but in the interim following, the
invitation from the Griffiths. Returning from his work one evening very
tired and still cogitating this gay adventure proposed by Dillard, he
found lying on the table in his room a note written on very heavy and
handsome paper which had been delivered by one of the servants of the
Griffiths in his absence. It was all the more arresting to him because
on the flap of the envelope was embossed in high relief the initials
"E. G." He at once tore it open and eagerly read:
"MY DEAR NEPHEW:
"Since your arrival my husband has been away most of the time,
and although we have wished to have you with us before, we have
thought it best to await his leisure. He is freer now and we will
be very glad if you can find it convenient to come to supper with
us at six o'clock next Sunday. We dine very informally--just
ourselves--so in case you can or cannot come, you need not bother
to write or telephone. And you need not dress for this occasion
either. But come if you can. We will be happy to see you.
"Sincerely, your aunt,
"ELIZABETH GRIFFITHS."
On reading this Clyde, who, during all this silence and the prosecution
of a task in the shrinking room which was so eminently distasteful to
him, was being more and more weighed upon by the thought that possibly,
after all, this quest of his was going to prove a vain one and that
he was going to be excluded from any real contact with his great
relatives, was most romantically and hence impractically heartened.
For only see--here was this grandiose letter with its "very happy to
see you," which seemed to indicate that perhaps, after all, they did
not think so badly of him. Mr. Samuel Griffiths had been away all the
time. That was it. Now he would get to see his aunt and cousins and
the inside of that great house. It must be very wonderful. They might
even take him up after this--who could tell? But how remarkable that he
should be taken up now, just when he had about decided that they would
not.
And forthwith his interest in, as well as his weakness for, Rita, if
not Zella and Dillard began to evaporate. What! Mix with people so far
below him--a Griffiths--in the social scale here and at the cost of
endangering his connection with that important family. Never! It was a
great mistake. Didn't this letter coming just at this time prove it?
And fortunately--(how fortunately!)--he had had the good sense not to
let himself in for anything as yet. And so now, without much trouble,
and because, most likely from now on it would prove necessary for him
so to do he could gradually eliminate himself from this contact with
Dillard--move away from Mrs. Cuppy's--if necessary, or say that his
uncle had cautioned him--anything, but not go with this crowd any
more, just the same. It wouldn't do. It would endanger his prospects
in connection with this new development. And instead of troubling over
Rita and Utica now, he began to formulate for himself once more the
essential nature of the private life of the Griffiths, the fascinating
places they must go, the interesting people with whom they must be in
contact. And at once he began to think of the need of a dress suit, or
at least a tuxedo and trousers. Accordingly the next morning, he gained
permission from Mr. Kemerer to leave at eleven and not return before
one, and in that time he managed to find coat, trousers and a pair of
patent leather shoes, as well as a white silk muffler for the money he
had already saved. And so arrayed he felt himself safe. He must make a
good impression.
And for the entire time between then and Sunday evening, instead of
thinking of Rita or Dillard or Zella any more, he was thinking of this
opportunity. Plainly it was an event to be admitted to the presence of
such magnificence.
The only drawback to all this, as he well sensed now, was this same
Gilbert Griffiths, who surveyed him always whenever he met him anywhere
with such hard, cold eyes. He might be there, and then he would
probably assume that superior attitude, to make him feel his inferior
position, if he could--and Clyde had the weakness at times of admitting
to himself that he could. And no doubt, if he (Clyde) sought to carry
himself with too much of an air in the presence of this family,
Gilbert most likely would seek to take it out of him in some way later
in connection with the work in the factory. He might see to it, for
instance, that his father heard only unfavorable things about him. And,
of course, if he were retained in this wretched shrinking room, and
given no show of any kind, how could he expect to get anywhere or be
anybody? It was just his luck that on arriving here he should find this
same Gilbert looking almost like him and being so opposed to him for
obviously no reason at all.
However, despite all his doubts, he decided to make the best of this
opportunity, and accordingly on Sunday evening at six set out for the
Griffiths' residence, his nerves decidedly taut because of the ordeal
before him. And when he reached the main gate, a large, arched wrought
iron affair which gave in on a wide, winding, brick walk which led to
the front entrance, he lifted the heavy latch which held the large
iron gates in place, with almost a quaking sense of adventure. And
as he approached along the walk, he felt as though he might well be
the object of observant and critical eyes. Perhaps Mr. Samuel or Mr.
Gilbert Griffiths or one or the other of the two sisters was looking at
him now from one of those heavily curtained windows. On the lower floor
several lights glowed with a soft and inviting radiance.
This mood, however, was brief. For soon the door was opened by
a servant who took his coat and invited him into the very large
living room, which was very impressive. To Clyde, even after the
Green-Davidson and the Union League, it seemed a very beautiful room.
It contained so many handsome pieces of furniture and such rich rugs
and hangings. A fire burned in the large, high fireplace before
which was circled a number of divans and chairs. There were lamps, a
tall clock, a great table. No one was in the room at the moment, but
presently as Clyde fidgeted and looked about he heard a rustling of
silk to the rear, where a great staircase descended from the rooms
above. And from there he saw Mrs. Griffiths approaching him, a bland
and angular and faded-looking woman. But her walk was brisk, her manner
courteous, if non-committal, as was her custom always, and after a
few moments of conversation he found himself peaceful and fairly
comfortable in her presence.
"My nephew, I believe," she smiled.
"Yes," replied Clyde simply, and because of his nervousness, with
unusual dignity. "I am Clyde Griffiths."
"I'm very glad to see you and to welcome you to our home," began Mrs.
Griffiths with a certain amount of aplomb which years of contact with
the local high world had given her at last. "And my children will be,
too, of course. Bella is not here just now or Gilbert, either, but then
they will be soon, I believe. My husband is resting, but I heard him
stirring just now, and he'll be down in a moment. Won't you sit here?"
She motioned to a large divan between them. "We dine nearly always
alone here together on Sunday evening, so I thought it would be nice if
you came just to be alone with us. How do you like Lycurgus now?"
She arranged herself on one of the large divans before the fire and
Clyde rather awkwardly seated himself at a respectful distance from her.
"Oh, I like it very much," he observed, exerting himself to be
congenial and to smile. "Of course I haven't seen so very much of it
yet, but what I have I like. This street is one of the nicest I have
ever seen anywhere," he added enthusiastically. "The houses are so
large and the grounds so beautiful."
"Yes, we here in Lycurgus pride ourselves on Wykeagy Avenue," smiled
Mrs. Griffiths, who took no end of satisfaction in the grace and rank
of her own home in this street. She and her husband had been so long
climbing up to it. "Every one who sees it seems to feel the same way
about it. It was laid out many years ago when Lycurgus was just a
village. It is only within the last fifteen years that it has come to
be as handsome as it is now.
"But you must tell me something about your mother and father. I
never met either of them, you know, though, of course, I have heard
my husband speak of them often--that is, of his brother, anyhow,"
she corrected. "I don't believe he ever met your mother. How is your
father?"
"Oh, he's quite well," replied Clyde, simply. "And Mother, too. They're
living in Denver now. We did live for a while in Kansas City, but for
the last three years they've been out there. I had a letter from Mother
only the other day. She says everything is all right."
"Then you keep up a correspondence with her, do you? That's nice." She
smiled, for by now she had become interested by and, on the whole,
rather taken with Clyde's appearance. He looked so neat and generally
presentable, so much like her own son that she was a little startled
at first and intrigued on that score. If anything, Clyde was taller,
better built and hence better looking, only she would never have been
willing to admit that. For to her Gilbert, although he was intolerant
and contemptuous even to her at times, simulating an affection which
was as much a custom as a reality, was still a dynamic and aggressive
person putting himself and his conclusions before everyone else.
Whereas Clyde was more soft and vague and fumbling. Her son's force
must be due to the innate ability of her husband as well as the
strain of some relatives in her own line who had not been unlike
Gilbert, while Clyde probably drew his lesser force from the personal
unimportance of his parents.
But having settled this problem in her son's favor, Mrs. Griffiths was
about to ask after his sisters and brothers, when they were interrupted
by Samuel Griffiths who now approached. Measuring Clyde, who had risen,
very sharply once more, and finding him very satisfactory in appearance
at least, he observed: "Well, so here you are, eh? They've placed you,
I believe, without my ever seeing you."
"Yes, sir," replied Clyde, very deferentially and half bowing in the
presence of so great a man.
"Well, that's all right. Sit down! Sit down! I'm very glad they did. I
hear you're working down in the shrinking room at present. Not exactly
a pleasant place, but not such a bad place to begin, either--at the
bottom. The best people start there sometimes." He smiled and added: "I
was out of the city when you came on or I would have seen you."
"Yes, sir," replied Clyde, who had not ventured to seat himself again
until Mr. Griffiths had sunk into a very large stuffed chair near the
divan. And the latter, now that he saw Clyde in an ordinary Tuxedo with
a smart pleated shirt and black tie, as opposed to the club uniform in
which he had last seen him in Chicago, was inclined to think him even
more attractive than before--not quite as negligible and unimportant
as his son Gilbert had made out. Still, not being dead to the need of
force and energy in business and sensing that Clyde was undoubtedly
lacking in these qualities, he did now wish that Clyde had more vigor
and vim in him. It would reflect more handsomely on the Griffiths end
of the family and please his son more, maybe.
"Like it where you are now?" he observed condescendingly.
"Well, yes, sir, that is, I wouldn't say that I like it exactly,"
replied Clyde quite honestly. "But I don't mind it. It's as good as any
other way to begin, I suppose." The thought in his mind at the moment
was that he would like to impress on his uncle that he was cut out for
something better. And the fact that his cousin Gilbert was not present
at the moment gave him the courage to say it.
"Well, that's the proper spirit," commented Samuel Griffiths, pleased.
"It isn't the most pleasant part of the process, I will admit, but it's
one of the most essential things to know, to begin with. And it takes a
little time, of course, to get anywhere in any business these days."
From this Clyde wondered how long he was to be left in that dim world
below stairs.
But while he was thinking this Myra came forward, curious about him
and what he would be like, and very pleased to see that he was not as
uninteresting as Gilbert had painted him. There was something, as she
now saw, about Clyde's eyes--nervous and somewhat furtive and appealing
or seeking--that at once interested her, and reminded her, perhaps,
since she was not much of a success socially either, of something in
herself.
"Your cousin, Clyde Griffiths, Myra," observed Samuel rather casually,
as Clyde arose. "My daughter Myra," he added, to Clyde. "This is the
young man I've been telling you about."
Clyde bowed and then took the cool and not very vital hand that Myra
extended to him, but feeling it just the same to be more friendly and
considerate than the welcome of the others.
"Well, I hope you'll like it, now that you're here," she began,
genially. "We all like Lycurgus, only after Chicago I suppose it will
not mean so very much to you." She smiled and Clyde, feeling very
formal and stiff in the presence of all these very superior relatives,
now returned a stiff "thank you," and was just about to seat himself
when the outer door opened and Gilbert Griffiths strode in. The
whirring of a motor had preceded this--a motor that had stopped outside
the large east side entrance. "Just a minute, Dolge," he called to
some one outside. "I won't be long." Then turning to the family, he
added: "Excuse me, folks, I'll be back in a minute." He dashed up the
rear stairs, only to return after a time and confront Clyde, if not the
others, with that same rather icy and inconsiderate air that had so far
troubled him at the factory. He was wearing a light, belted motoring
coat of a very pronounced stripe, and a dark leather cap and gauntlets
which gave him almost a military air. After nodding to Clyde rather
stiffly, and adding, "How do you do," he laid a patronizing hand on
his father's shoulder and observed: "Hi, Dad. Hello, Mother. Sorry I
can't be with you to-night. But I just came over from Amsterdam with
Dolge and Eustis to get Constance and Jacqueline. There's some doings
over at the Bridgeman's. But I'll be back again before morning. Or at
the office, anyhow. Everything all right with you, Mr. Griffiths?" he
observed to his father.
"Yes, I have nothing to complain of," returned his father. "But it
seems to me you're making a pretty long night of it, aren't you?"
"Oh, I don't mean that," returned his son, ignoring Clyde entirely. "I
just mean that if I can't get back by two, I'll stay over, that's all,
see." He tapped his father genially on the shoulder again.
"I hope you're not driving that car as fast as usual," complained his
mother. "It's not safe at all."
"Fifteen miles an hour, Mother. Fifteen miles an hour. I know the
rules." He smiled loftily.
Clyde did not fail to notice the tone of condescension and authority
that went with all this. Plainly here, as at the factory, he was a
person who had to be reckoned with. Apart from his father, perhaps,
there was no one here to whom he offered any reverence. What a superior
attitude, thought Clyde!
How wonderful it must be to be a son who, without having had to earn
all this, could still be so much, take oneself so seriously, exercise
so much command and authority. It might be, as it plainly was, that
this youth was very superior and indifferent in tone toward him. But
think of being such a youth, having so much power at one's command!
CHAPTER X
At this point a maid announced that supper was served and instantly
Gilbert took his departure. At the same time the family arose and Mrs.
Griffiths asked the maid: "Has Bella telephoned yet?"
"No, ma'am," replied the servant, "not yet."
"Well, have Mrs. Truesdale call up the Finchleys and see if she's
there. You tell her I said that she is to come home at once."
The maid departed for a moment while the group proceeded to the dining
room, which lay to the west of the stairs at the rear. Again, as Clyde
saw, this was another splendidly furnished room done in a very light
brown, with a long center table of carved walnut, evidently used only
for special occasions. It was surrounded by high-backed chairs and
lighted by candelabras set at even spaces upon it. In a lower ceilinged
and yet ample circular alcove beyond this, looking out on the garden to
the south, was a smaller table set for six. It was in this alcove that
they were to dine, a different thing from what Clyde had expected for
some reason.
Seated in a very placid fashion, he found himself answering questions
principally as to his own family, the nature of its life, past and
present; how old was his father now? His mother? What had been the
places of their residence before moving to Denver? How many brothers
and sisters had he? How old was his older sister, Esta? What did she
do? And the others? Did his father like managing a hotel? What had been
the nature of his father's work in Kansas City? How long had the family
lived there?
Clyde was not a little troubled and embarrassed by this chain of
questions which flowed rather heavily and solemnly from Samuel
Griffiths or his wife. And from Clyde's hesitating replies, especially
in regard to the nature of the family life in Kansas City, both
gathered that he was embarrassed and troubled by some of the questions.
They laid it to the extreme poverty of their relatives, of course. For
having asked, "I suppose you began your hotel work in Kansas City,
didn't you, after you left school?" Clyde blushed deeply, bethinking
himself of the incident of the stolen car and of how little real
schooling he had had. Most certainly he did not like the thought of
having himself identified with hotel life in Kansas City, and more
especially the Green-Davidson.
But fortunately at this moment, the door opened and Bella entered,
accompanied by two girls such as Clyde would have assumed at once
belonged to this world. How different to Rita and Zella with whom
his thought so recently had been disturbedly concerned. He did not
know Bella, of course, until she proceeded most familiarly to address
her family. But the others--one was Sondra Finchley, so frequently
referred to by Bella and her mother--as smart and vain and sweet a
girl as Clyde had ever laid his eyes upon--so different to any he
had ever known and so superior. She was dressed in a close-fitting
tailored suit which followed her form exactly and which was enhanced
by a small dark leather hat, pulled fetchingly low over her eyes. A
leather belt of the same color encircled her neck. By a leather leash
she led a French bull and over one arm carried a most striking coat of
black and gray checks--not too pronounced and yet having the effect
of a man's modish overcoat. To Clyde's eyes she was the most adorable
feminine thing he had seen in all his days. Indeed her effect on him
was electric--thrilling--arousing in him a curiously stinging sense of
what it was to want and not to have--to wish to win and yet to feel,
almost agonizingly, that he was destined not even to win a glance from
her. It tortured and flustered him. At one moment he had a keen desire
to close his eyes and shut her out--at another to look only at her
constantly--so truly was he captivated.
Yet, whether she saw him or not, she gave no sign at first, exclaiming
to her dog: "Now, Bissell, if you're not going to behave, I'm going to
take you out and tie you out there. Oh, I don't believe I can stay a
moment if he won't behave better than this." He had seen a family cat
and was tugging to get near her.
Beside her was another girl whom Clyde did not fancy nearly so much,
and yet who, after her fashion, was as smart as Sondra and perhaps as
alluring to some. She was blonde--tow-headed--with clear almond-shaped,
greenish-gray eyes, a small, graceful, catlike figure, and a slinky
feline manner. At once, on entering, she sidled across the room to the
end of the table where Mrs. Griffiths sat and leaning over her at once
began to purr.
"Oh, how are you, Mrs. Griffiths? I'm so glad to see you again. It's
been some time since I've been over here, hasn't it? But then Mother
and I have been away. She and Grant are over at Albany to-day. And I
just picked up Bella and Sondra here at the Lamberts'. You're just
having a quiet little supper by yourselves, aren't you? How are you,
Myra?" she called, and reaching over Mrs. Griffiths' shoulder touched
Myra quite casually on the arm, as though it were more a matter of form
than anything else.
In the meantime Bella, who next to Sondra seemed to Clyde decidedly
the most charming of the three, was exclaiming: "Oh, I'm late. Sorry,
Mamma and Daddy. Won't that do this time?" Then noting Clyde, and as
though for the first time, although he had risen as they entered and
was still standing, she paused in semi-mock modesty as did the others.
And Clyde, over-sensitive to just such airs and material distinctions,
was fairly tremulous with a sense of his own inadequacy, as he waited
to be introduced. For to him, youth and beauty in such a station as
this represented the ultimate triumph of the female. His weakness for
Hortense Briggs, to say nothing of Rita, who was not so attractive as
either of these, illustrated the effect of trim femininity on him,
regardless of merit.
"Bella," observed Samuel Griffiths, heavily, noting Clyde still
standing, "your cousin, Clyde."
"Oh, yes," replied Bella, observing that Clyde looked exceedingly like
Gilbert. "How are you? Mother has been saying that you were coming to
call one of these days." She extended a finger or two, then turned
toward her friends. "My friends, Miss Finchley and Miss Cranston, Mr.
Griffiths."
The two girls bowed, each in the most stiff and formal manner, at the
same time studying Clyde most carefully and rather directly, "Well, he
does look like Gil a lot, doesn't he?" whispered Sondra to Bertine, who
had drawn near to her. And Bertine replied: "I never saw anything like
it. He's really better-looking, isn't he--a lot?"
Sondra nodded, pleased to note in the first instance that he was
somewhat better-looking than Bella's brother, whom she did not
like--next that he was obviously stricken with her, which was her
due, as she invariably decided in connection with youths thus smitten
with her. But having thus decided, and seeing that his glance was
persistently and helplessly drawn to her, she concluded that she need
pay no more attention to him, for the present anyway. He was too easy.
But now Mrs. Griffiths, who had not anticipated this visitation and was
a little irritated with Bella for introducing her friends at this time
since it at once raised the question of Clyde's social position here,
observed: "Hadn't you two better lay off your coats and sit down? I'll
just have Nadine lay extra plates at this end. Bella, you can sit next
to your father."
"Oh, no, not at all," and "No, indeed, we're just on our way home
ourselves. I can't stay a minute," came from Sondra and Bertine. But
now that they were here and Clyde had proved to be as attractive as he
was, they were perversely interested to see what, if any, social flare
there was to him. Gilbert Griffiths, as both knew, was far from being
popular in some quarters--their own in particular, however much they
might like Bella. He was, for two such self-centered beauties as these,
too aggressive, self-willed and contemptuous at times. Whereas Clyde,
if one were to judge by his looks, at least was much more malleable.
And if it were to prove now that he was of equal station, or that the
Griffiths thought so, decidedly he would be available locally, would he
not? At any rate, it would be interesting to know whether he was rich.
But this thought was almost instantly satisfied by Mrs. Griffiths, who
observed rather definitely and intentionally to Bertine: "Mr. Griffiths
is a nephew of ours from the West who has come on to see if he can make
a place for himself in my husband's factory. He's a young man who has
to make his own way in the world and my husband has been kind enough to
give him an opportunity."
Clyde flushed, since obviously this was a notice to him that his social
position here was decidedly below that of the Griffiths or these girls.
At the same time, as he also noticed, the look of Bertine Cranston,
who was only interested in youths of means and position, changed from
one of curiosity to marked indifference. On the other hand, Sondra
Finchley, by no means so practical as her friend, though of a superior
station in her set, since she was so very attractive and her parents
possessed of even more means--re-surveyed Clyde with one thought
written rather plainly on her face, that it was too bad. He really was
so attractive.
At the same time Samuel Griffiths, having a peculiar fondness for
Sondra, if not Bertine, whom Mrs. Griffiths also disliked as being too
tricky and sly, was calling to her: "Here, Sondra, tie up your dog to
one of the dining-room chairs and come and sit by me. Throw your coat
over that chair. Here's room for you." He motioned to her to come.
"But I can't, Uncle Samuel!" called Sondra, familiarly and showily and
yet somehow sweetly, seeking to ingratiate herself by this affected
relationship. "We're late now. Besides Bissell won't behave. Bertine
and I are just on our way home, truly."
"Oh, yes, Papa," put in Bella, quickly, "Bertine's horse ran a nail in
his foot yesterday and is going lame to-day. And neither Grant nor his
father is home. She wants to know if you know anything that's good for
it."
"Which foot is it?" inquired Griffiths, interested, while Clyde
continued to survey Sondra as best he might. She was so delicious, he
thought--her nose so tiny and tilted--her upper lip arched so roguishly
upward toward her nose.
"It's the left fore. I was riding out on the East Kingston road
yesterday afternoon. Jerry threw a shoe and must have picked up a
splinter, but John doesn't seem to be able to find it."
"Did you ride him much with the nail, do you think?"
"About eight miles--all the way back."
"Well, you had better have John put on some liniment and a bandage and
call a veterinary. He'll come around all right, I'm sure."
The group showed no signs of leaving and Clyde, left quite to himself
for the moment, was thinking what an easy, delightful world this must
be--this local society. For here they were without a care, apparently,
between any of them. All their talk was of houses being built, horses
they were riding, friends they had met, places they were going to,
things they were going to do. And there was Gilbert, who had left
only a little while before--motoring somewhere with a group of young
men. And Bella, his cousin, trifling around with these girls in the
beautiful homes of this street, while he was shunted away in a small
third-floor room at Mrs. Cuppy's with no place to go. And with only
fifteen dollars a week to live on. And in the morning he would be
working in the basement again, while these girls were rising to more
pleasure. And out in Denver were his parents with their small lodging
house and mission, which he dared not even describe accurately here.
Suddenly the two girls declaring they must go, they took themselves
off. And he and the Griffiths were once more left to themselves--he
with the feeling that he was very much out of place and neglected here,
since Samuel Griffiths and his wife and Bella, anyhow, if not Myra,
seemed to be feeling that he was merely being permitted to look into
a world to which he did not belong; also, that because of his poverty
it would be impossible to fit him into--however much he might dream
of associating with three such wonderful girls as these. And at once
he felt sad--very--his eyes and his mood darkening so much that not
only Samuel Griffiths, but his wife as well as Myra noticed it. If he
could enter upon this world, find some way. But of the group it was
only Myra, not any of the others, who sensed that in all likelihood he
was lonely and depressed. And in consequence as all were rising and
returning to the large living room (Samuel chiding Bella for her habit
of keeping her family waiting) it was Myra who drew near to Clyde to
say: "I think after you've been here a little while you'll probably
like Lycurgus better than you do now, even. There are quite a number of
interesting places to go and see around here--lakes and the Adirondacks
are just north of here, about seventy miles. And when the summer comes
and we get settled at Greenwood, I'm sure Father and Mother will like
you to come up there once in a while."
She was by no means sure that this was true, but under the
circumstances, whether it was or not, she felt like saying it to Clyde.
And thereafter, since he felt more comfortable with her, he talked with
her as much as he could without neglecting either Bella or the family,
until about half-past nine, when, suddenly feeling very much out of
place and alone, he arose saying that he must go, that he had to get up
early in the morning. And as he did so, Samuel Griffiths walked with
him to the front door and let him out. But he, too, by now, as had
Myra before him, feeling that Clyde was rather attractive and yet, for
reasons of poverty, likely to be neglected from now on, not only by his
family, but by himself as well, observed most pleasantly, and, as he
hoped, compensatively: "It's rather nice out, isn't it? Wykeagy Avenue
hasn't begun to show what it can do yet because the spring isn't quite
here. But in a few weeks," and he looked up most inquiringly at the sky
and sniffed the late April air, "we must have you out. All the trees
and flowers will be in bloom then and you can see how really nice it
is. Good-night."
He smiled and put a very cordial note into his voice, and once more
Clyde felt that, whatever Gilbert Griffiths' attitude might be, most
certainly his father was not wholly indifferent to him.
CHAPTER XI
The days lapsed and, although no further word came from the Griffiths,
Clyde was still inclined to exaggerate the importance of this one
contact and to dream from time to time of delightful meetings with
those girls and how wonderful if a love affair with one of them might
eventuate for him. The beauty of that world in which they moved. The
luxury and charm as opposed to this of which he was a part. Dillard!
Rita! Tush! They were really dead for him. He aspired to this other or
nothing as he saw it now and proceeded to prove as distant to Dillard
as possible, an attitude which by degrees tended to alienate that
youth entirely for he saw in Clyde a snob which potentially he was
if he could have but won to what he desired. However, as he began to
see afterwards, time passed and he was left to work until, depressed
by the routine, meager pay and commonplace shrinking-room contacts,
he began to think not so much of returning to Rita or Dillard,--he
could not quite think of them now with any satisfaction, but of giving
up this venture here and returning to Chicago or going to New York,
where he was sure that he could connect himself with some hotel if
need be. But then, as if to revive his courage and confirm his earlier
dreams, a thing happened which caused him to think that certainly he
was beginning to rise in the estimation of the Griffiths--father and
son--whether they troubled to entertain him socially or not. For it
chanced that one Saturday in spring, Samuel Griffiths decided to make a
complete tour of inspection of the factory with Joshua Whiggam at his
elbow. Reaching the shrinking department about noon, he observed for
the first time with some dismay, Clyde in his undershirt and trousers
working at the feeding end of two of the shrinking racks, his nephew
having by this time acquired the necessary skill to "feed" as well
as "take." And recalling how very neat and generally presentable he
had appeared at his house but a few weeks before, he was decidedly
disturbed by the contrast. For one thing he had felt about Clyde, both
in Chicago and here at his home, was that he had presented a neat and
pleasing appearance. And he, almost as much as his son, was jealous,
not only of the name, but the general social appearance of the
Griffiths before the employees of this factory as well as the community
at large. And the sight of Clyde here, looking so much like Gilbert
and in an armless shirt and trousers working among these men, tended
to impress upon him more sharply than at any time before the fact that
Clyde was his nephew, and that he ought not to be compelled to continue
at this very menial form of work any longer. To the other employees it
might appear that he was unduly indifferent to the meaning of such a
relationship.
Without, however, saying a word to Whiggam or anyone else at the time,
he waited until his son returned on Monday morning, from a trip that he
had taken out of town, when he called him into his office and observed:
"I made a tour of the factory Saturday and found young Clyde still down
in the shrinking room."
"What of it, Dad?" replied his son, curiously interested as to why his
father should at this time wish to mention Clyde in this special way.
"Other people before him have worked down there and it hasn't hurt
them."
"All true enough, but they weren't nephews of mine. And they didn't
look as much like you as he does"--a comment which irritated Gilbert
greatly. "It won't do, I tell you. It doesn't look quite right to me,
and I'm afraid it won't look right to other people here who see how
much he looks like you and know that he is your cousin and my nephew. I
didn't realize that at first, because I haven't been down there, but I
don't think it wise to keep him down there any longer doing that kind
of thing. It won't do. We'll have to make a change, switch him around
somewhere else where he won't look like that."
His eyes darkened and his brow wrinkled. The impression that Clyde made
in his old clothes and with beads of sweat standing out on his forehead
had not been pleasant.
"But I'll tell you how it is, Dad," Gilbert persisted, anxious and
determined because of his innate opposition to Clyde to keep him there
if possible. "I'm not so sure that I can find just the right place for
him now anywhere else--at least not without moving someone else who has
been here a long time and worked hard to get there. He hasn't had any
training in anything so far, but just what he's doing."
"Don't know or don't care anything about that," replied Griffiths
senior, feeling that his son was a little jealous and in consequence
disposed to be unfair to Clyde. "That's no place for him and I won't
have him there any longer. He's been there long enough. And I can't
afford to have the name of any of this family come to mean anything
but just what it does around here now--reserve and ability and energy
and good judgment. It's not good for the business. And anything less
than that is a liability. You get me, don't you?"
"Yes, I get you all right, governor."
"Well, then, do as I say. Get hold of Whiggam and figure out some other
place for him around here, and not as piece worker or a hand either.
It was a mistake to put him down there in the first place. There must
be some little place in one of the departments where he can be fitted
in as the head of something, first or second or third assistant to
some one, and where he can wear a decent suit of clothes and look like
somebody. And, if necessary, let him go home on full pay until you find
something for him. But I want him changed. By the way, how much is he
being paid now?"
"About fifteen, I think," replied Gilbert blandly.
"Not enough, if he's to make the right sort of an appearance here.
Better make it twenty-five. It's more than he's worth, I know, but it
can't be helped now. He has to have enough to live on while he's here,
and from now on, I'd rather pay him that than have any one think we
were not treating him right."
"All right, all right, governor. Please don't be cross about it,
will you?" pleaded Gilbert, noting his father's irritation. "I'm not
entirely to blame. You agreed to it in the first place when I suggested
it, didn't you? But I guess you're right at that. Just leave it to me.
I'll find a decent place for him," and turning, he proceeded in search
of Whiggam, although at the same time thinking how he was to effect
all this without permitting Clyde to get the notion that he was at all
important here--to make him feel that this was being done as a favor to
him and not for any reasons of merit in connection with himself.
And at once, Whiggam appearing, he, after a very diplomatic approach on
the part of Gilbert, racked his brains, scratched his head, went away
and returned after a time to say that the only thing he could think
of, since Clyde was obviously lacking in technical training, was that
of assistant to Mr. Liggett, who was foreman in charge of five big
stitching rooms on the fifth floor, but who had under him one small and
very special, though by no means technical, department which required
the separate supervision of either an assistant forelady or man.
This was the stamping room--a separate chamber at the west end of the
stitching floor, where were received daily from the cutting room above
from seventy-five to one hundred thousand dozen unstitched collars of
different brands and sizes. And here they were stamped by a group
of girls according to the slips or directions attached to them with
the size and brand of the collar. The sole business of the assistant
foreman in charge here, as Gilbert well knew, after maintaining
due decorum and order, was to see that this stamping process went
uninterruptedly forward. Also that after the seventy-five to one
hundred thousand dozen collars were duly stamped and transmitted to the
stitchers, who were just outside in the larger room, to see that they
were duly credited in a book of entry. And that the number of dozens
stamped by each girl was duly recorded in order that her pay should
correspond with her services.
For this purpose a little desk and various entry books, according to
size and brand, were kept here. Also the cutters' slips, as taken from
the bundles by the stampers were eventually delivered to this assistant
in lots of a dozen or more and filed on spindles. It was really nothing
more than a small clerkship, at times in the past held by young men or
girls or old men or middle-aged women, according to the exigencies of
the life of the place.
The thing that Whiggam feared in connection with Clyde and which he was
quick to point out to Gilbert on this occasion was that because of his
inexperience and youth Clyde might not, at first, prove as urgent and
insistent a master of this department as the work there required. There
were nothing but young girls there--some of them quite attractive.
Also was it wise to place a young man of Clyde's years and looks among
so many girls? For, being susceptible, as he might well be at that
age, he might prove too easy--not stern enough. The girls might take
advantage of him. If so, it wouldn't be possible to keep him there
very long. Still there was this temporary vacancy, and it was the only
one in the whole factory at the moment. Why not, for the time being,
send him upstairs for a tryout? It might not be long before either Mr.
Liggett or himself would know of something else or whether or not he
was suited for the work up there. In that case it would be easy to make
a re-transfer.
Accordingly, about three in the afternoon of this same Monday, Clyde
was sent for and after being made to wait for some fifteen minutes, as
was Gilbert's method, he was admitted to the austere presence.
"Well, how are you getting along down where you are now?" asked Gilbert
coldly and inquisitorially. And Clyde, who invariably experienced a
depression whenever he came anywhere near his cousin, replied, with a
poorly forced smile, "Oh, just about the same, Mr. Griffiths. I can't
complain. I like it well enough. I'm learning a little something, I
guess."
"You guess?"
"Well, I know I've learned a few things, of course," added Clyde,
flushing slightly and feeling down deep within himself a keen
resentment at the same time that he achieved a half-ingratiating and
half-apologetic smile.
"Well, that's a little better. A man could hardly be down there as long
as you've been and not know whether he had learned anything or not."
Then deciding that he was being too severe, perhaps, he modified his
tone slightly, and added: "But that's not why I sent for you. There's
another matter I want to talk to you about. Tell me, did you ever have
charge of any people or any other person than yourself, at any time in
your life?"
"I don't believe I quite understand," replied Clyde, who, because
he was a little nervous and flustered, had not quite registered the
question accurately.
"I mean have you ever had any people work under you--been given a few
people to direct in some department somewhere? Been a foreman or an
assistant foreman in charge of anything?"
"No, sir, I never have," answered Clyde, but so nervous that he
almost stuttered. For Gilbert's tone was very severe and cold--highly
contemptuous. At the same time, now that the nature of the question
was plain, its implication came to him. In spite of his cousin's
severity, his ill manner toward him, still he could see his employers
were thinking of making a foreman of him--putting him in charge of
somebody--people. They must be! At once his ears and fingers began
to titillate--the roots of his hair to tingle: "But I've seen how
it's done in clubs and hotels," he added at once. "And I think I
might manage if I were given a trial." His cheeks were now highly
colored--his eyes crystal clear.
"Not the same thing. Not the same thing," insisted Gilbert sharply.
"Seeing and doing are two entirely different things. A person without
any experience can think a lot, but when it comes to doing, he's not
there. Anyhow, this is one business that requires people who do know."
He stared at Clyde critically and quizzically while Clyde, feeling that
he must be wrong in his notion that something was going to be done for
him, began to quiet himself. His cheeks resumed their normal pallor and
the light died from his eyes.
"Yes, sir, I guess that's true, too," he commented.
"But you don't need to guess in this case," insisted Gilbert. "You
know. That's the trouble with people who don't know. They're always
guessing."
The truth was that Gilbert was so irritated to think that he must now
make a place for his cousin, and that despite his having done nothing
at all to deserve it, that he could scarcely conceal the spleen that
now colored his mood.
"You're right, I know," said Clyde placatingly, for he was still hoping
for this hinted-at promotion.
"Well, the fact is," went on Gilbert, "I might have placed you in
the accounting end of the business when you first came if you had
been technically equipped for it." (The phrase "technically equipped"
overawed and terrorized Clyde, for he scarcely understood what that
meant.) "As it was," went on Gilbert, nonchalantly, "we had to do the
best we could for you. We knew it was not very pleasant down there, but
we couldn't do anything more for you at the time." He drummed on his
desk with his fingers. "But the reason I called you up here to-day is
this. I want to discuss with you a temporary vacancy that has occurred
in one of our departments upstairs and which we are wondering--my
father and I--whether you might be able to fill." Clyde's spirits rose
amazingly. "Both my father and I," he went on, "have been thinking for
some little time that we would like to do a little something for you,
but as I say, your lack of practical training of any kind makes it very
difficult for both of us. You haven't had either a commercial or a
trade education of any kind, and that makes it doubly hard." He paused
long enough to allow that to sink in--give Clyde the feeling that he
was an interloper indeed. "Still," he added after a moment, "so long as
we have seen fit to bring you on here, we have decided to give you a
tryout at something better than you are doing. It won't do to let you
stay down there indefinitely. Now, let me tell you a little something
about what I have in mind," and he proceeded to explain the nature of
the work on the fifth floor.
And when after a time Whiggam was sent for and appeared and had
acknowledged Clyde's salutation, he observed: "Whiggam, I've just been
telling my cousin here about our conversation this morning and what I
told you about our plan to try him out as the head of that department.
So if you'll just take him up to Mr. Liggett and have him or some one
explain the nature of the work up there, I'll be obliged to you." He
turned to his desk. "After that you can send him back to me," he added.
"I want to talk to him again."
Then he arose and dismissed them both with an air, and Whiggam, still
somewhat dubious as to the experiment, but now very anxious to be
pleasant to Clyde since he could not tell what he might become, led
the way to Mr. Liggett's floor. And there, amid a thunderous hum of
machines, Clyde was led to the extreme west of the building and into a
much smaller department which was merely railed off from the greater
chamber by a low fence. Here were about twenty-five girls and their
assistants with baskets, who apparently were doing their best to cope
with a constant stream of unstitched collar bundles which fell through
several chutes from the floor above.
And now at once, after being introduced to Mr. Liggett, he was escorted
to a small railed-off desk at which sat a short, plump girl of about
his own years, not so very attractive, who arose as they approached.
"This is Miss Todd," began Whiggam. "She's been in charge for about
ten days now in the absence of Mrs. Angier. And what I want you to do
now, Miss Todd, is to explain to Mr. Griffiths here just as quickly and
clearly as you can what it is you do here. And then later in the day
when he comes up here, I want you to help him to keep track of things
until he sees just what is wanted and can do it himself. You'll do
that, won't you?"
"Why, certainly, Mr. Whiggam. I'll be only too glad to," complied Miss
Todd, and at once she began to take down the books of records and to
show Clyde how the entry and discharge records were kept--also later
how the stamping was done--how the basket girls took the descending
bundles from the chutes and distributed them evenly according to the
needs of the stamper and how later, as fast as they were stamped, other
basket girls carried them to the stitchers outside. And Clyde, very
much interested, felt that he could do it, only among so many women on
a floor like this he felt very strange. There were so very, very many
women--hundreds of them--stretching far and away between white walls
and white columns to the eastern end of the building. And tall windows
that reached from floor to ceiling let in a veritable flood of light.
These girls were not all pretty. He saw them out of the tail of his eye
as first Miss Todd and later Whiggam, and even Liggett, volunteered to
impress points on him.
"The important thing," explained Whiggam after a time, "is to see that
there is no mistake as to the number of thousands of dozens of collars
that come down here and are stamped, and also that there's no delay
in stamping them and getting them out to the stitchers. Also that the
records of these girls' work is kept accurately so that there won't be
any mistakes as to their time."
At last Clyde saw what was required of him and the conditions under
which he was about to work and said so. He was very nervous but quickly
decided that if this girl could do the work, he could. And because
Liggett and Whiggam, interested by his relationship to Gilbert,
appeared very friendly and persisted in delaying here, saying that
there was nothing he could not manage they were sure, he returned
after a time with Whiggam to Gilbert who, on seeing him enter, at once
observed: "Well, what's the answer? Yes or no. Do you think you can do
it or do you think you can't?"
"Well, I know that I can do it," replied Clyde with a great deal of
courage for him, yet with the private feeling that he might not make
good unless fortune favored him some even now. There were so many
things to be taken into consideration--the favor of those above as well
as about him--and would they always favor him?
"Very good, then. Just be seated for a moment," went on Gilbert. "I
want to talk to you some more in connection with that work up there. It
looks easy to you, does it?"
"No, I can't say that it looks exactly easy," replied Clyde, strained
and a little pale, for because of his inexperience he felt the thing
to be a great opportunity--one that would require all his skill and
courage to maintain. "Just the same I think I can do it. In fact I know
I can and I'd like to try."
"Well, now, that sounds a little better," replied Gilbert crisply and
more graciously. "And now I want to tell you something more about it. I
don't suppose you ever thought there was a floor with that many women
on it, did you?"
"No, sir, I didn't," replied Clyde. "I knew they were somewhere in the
building, but I didn't know just where."
"Exactly," went on Gilbert. "This plant is practically operated by
women from cellar to roof. In the manufacturing department, I venture
to say there are ten women to every man. On that account every one in
whom we entrust any responsibility around here must be known to us as
to their moral and religious character. If you weren't related to us,
and if we didn't feel that because of that we knew a little something
about you, we wouldn't think of putting you up there or anywhere in
this factory over anybody until we did know. But don't think because
you're related to us that we won't hold you strictly to account for
everything that goes on up there and for your conduct. We will, and
all the more so because you are related to us. You understand that, do
you? And why--the meaning of the Griffiths name here?"
"Yes, sir," replied Clyde.
"Very well, then," went on Gilbert. "Before we place any one here in
any position of authority, we have to be absolutely sure that they're
going to behave themselves as gentlemen always--that the women who are
working here are going to receive civil treatment always. If a young
man, or an old one for that matter, comes in here at any time and
imagines that because there are women here he's going to be allowed to
play about and neglect his work and flirt or cut up, that fellow is
doomed to a short stay here. The men and women who work for us have got
to feel that they are employees first, last and all the time--and they
have to carry that attitude out into the street with them. And unless
they do it, and we hear anything about it, that man or woman is done
for so far as we are concerned. We don't want 'em and we won't have
'em. And once we're through with 'em, we're through with 'em."
He paused and stared at Clyde as much as to say: "Now I hope I have
made myself clear. Also that we will never have any trouble in so far
as you are concerned."
And Clyde replied: "Yes, I understand. I think that's right. In fact I
know that's the way it has to be."
"And ought to be," added Gilbert.
"And ought to be," echoed Clyde.
At the same time he was wondering whether it was really true as Gilbert
said. Had he not heard the mill girls already spoken about in a
slighting way? Yet consciously at the moment he did not connect himself
in thought with any of these girls upstairs. His present mood was that,
because of his abnormal interest in girls, it would be better if he had
nothing to do with them at all, never spoke to any of them, kept a very
distant and cold attitude, such as Gilbert was holding toward him. It
must be so, at least if he wished to keep his place here. And he was
now determined to keep it and to conduct himself always as his cousin
wished.
"Well, now, then," went on Gilbert as if to supplement Clyde's thoughts
in this respect, "what I want to know of you is, if I trouble to put
you in that department, even temporarily, can I trust you to keep a
level head on your shoulders and go about your work conscientiously and
not have your head turned or disturbed by the fact that you're working
among a lot of women and girls?"
"Yes, sir, I know you can," replied Clyde very much impressed by his
cousin's succinct demand, although, after Rita, a little dubious.
"If I can't, now is the time to say so," persisted Gilbert. "By blood
you're a member of this family. And to our help here, and especially in
a position of this kind, you represent us. We can't have anything come
up in connection with you at any time around here that won't be just
right. So I want you to be on your guard and watch your step from now
on. Not the least thing must occur in connection with you that any one
can comment on unfavorably. You understand, do you?"
"Yes, sir," replied Clyde most solemnly. "I understand that. I'll
conduct myself properly or I'll get out." And he was thinking seriously
at the moment that he could and would. The large number of girls and
women upstairs seemed very remote and of no consequence just then.
"Very good. Now, I'll tell you what else I want you to do. I want you
to knock off for the day and go home and sleep on this and think it
over well. Then come back in the morning and go to work up there, if
you still feel the same. Your salary from now on will be twenty-five
dollars, and I want you to dress neat and clean so that you will be an
example to the other men who have charge of departments."
He arose coldly and distantly, but Clyde, very much encouraged and
enthused by the sudden jump in salary, as well as the admonition in
regard to dressing well, felt so grateful toward his cousin that he
longed to be friendly with him. To be sure, he was hard and cold and
vain, but still he must think something of him, and his uncle too, or
they would not choose to do all this for him and so speedily. And if
ever he were able to make friends with him, win his way into his good
graces, think how prosperously he would be placed here, what commercial
and social honors might not come to him?
So elated was he at the moment that he bustled out of the great plant
with a jaunty stride, resolved among other things that from now on,
come what might, and as a test of himself in regard to life and work,
he was going to be all that his uncle and cousin obviously expected of
him--cool, cold even, and if necessary severe, where these women or
girls of this department were concerned. No more relations with Dillard
or Rita or anybody like that for the present anyhow.
CHAPTER XII
The import of twenty-five dollars a week! Of being the head of a
department employing twenty-five girls! Of wearing a good suit of
clothes again! Sitting at an official desk in a corner commanding
a charming river view and feeling that at last, after almost two
months in that menial department below stairs, he was a figure of
some consequence in this enormous institution! And because of his
relationship and new dignity, Whiggam, as well as Liggett, hovering
about with advice and genial and helpful comments from time to
time. And some of the managers of the other departments including
several from the front office--an auditor and an advertising man
occasionally pausing in passing to say hello. And the details of the
work sufficiently mastered to permit him to look about him from time
to time, taking an interest in the factory as a whole, its processes
and supplies, such as where the great volume of linen and cotton came
from, how it was cut in an enormous cutting room above this one,
holding hundreds of experienced cutters receiving very high wages; how
there was an employment bureau for recruiting help, a company doctor,
a company hospital, a special dining room in the main building, where
the officials of the company were allowed to dine--but no others--and
that he, being an accredited department head could now lunch with
those others in that special restaurant if he chose and could afford
to. Also he soon learned that several miles out from Lycurgus, on the
Mohawk, near a hamlet called Van Troup, was an inter-factory country
club, to which most of the department heads of the various factories
about belonged, but, alas, as he also learned, Griffiths and Company
did not really favor their officials mixing with those of any other
company, and for that reason few of them did. Yet he, being a member
of the family, as Liggett once said to him, could probably do as he
chose as to that. But he decided, because of the strong warnings of
Gilbert, as well as his high blood relations with this family, that
he had better remain as aloof as possible. And so smiling and being
as genial as possible to all, nevertheless for the most part, and in
order to avoid Dillard and others of his ilk, and although he was much
more lonely than otherwise he would have been, returning to his room or
the public squares of this and near-by cities on Saturday and Sunday
afternoons, and even, since he thought this might please his uncle and
cousin and so raise him in their esteem, beginning to attend one of the
principal Presbyterian churches--the Second or High Street Church, to
which on occasion, as he had already learned, the Griffiths themselves
were accustomed to resort. Yet without ever coming in contact with them
in person, since from June to September they spent their week-ends at
Greenwood Lake, to which most of the society life of this region as yet
resorted.
In fact the summer life of Lycurgus, in so far as its society was
concerned, was very dull. Nothing in particular ever eventuated then
in the city, although previous to this, in May, there had been various
affairs in connection with the Griffiths and their friends which Clyde
had either read about or saw at a distance--a graduation reception and
dance at the Snedeker School, a lawn fête upon the Griffiths' grounds,
with a striped marquee tent on one part of the lawn and Chinese
lanterns hung in among the trees. Clyde had observed this quite by
accident one evening as he was walking alone about the city. It raised
many a curious and eager thought in regard to this family, its high
station and his relation to it. But having placed him comfortably in
a small official position which was not arduous, the Griffiths now
proceeded to dismiss him from their minds. He was doing well enough,
and they would see something more of him later, perhaps.
And then a little later he read in the Lycurgus _Star_ that there was
to be staged on June twentieth the annual inter-city automobile floral
parade and contest (Fonda, Gloversville, Amsterdam and Schenectady),
which this year was to be held in Lycurgus and which was the last
local social affair of any consequence, as _The Star_ phrased it,
before the annual hegira to the lakes and mountains of those who were
able to depart for such places. And the names of Bella, Bertine and
Sondra, to say nothing of Gilbert, were mentioned as contestants or
defendants of the fair name of Lycurgus. And since this occurred on a
Saturday afternoon, Clyde, dressed in his best, yet decidedly wishing
to obscure himself as an ordinary spectator, was able to see once more
the girl who had so infatuated him on sight, obviously breasting a
white rose-surfaced stream and guiding her craft with a paddle covered
with yellow daffodils--a floral representation of some Indian legend in
connection with the Mohawk River. With her dark hair filleted Indian
fashion with a yellow feather and brown-eyed susans, she was arresting
enough not only to capture a prize, but to recapture Clyde's fancy. How
marvelous to be of that world.
In the same parade he had seen Gilbert Griffiths accompanied by a very
attractive girl chauffeuring one of four floats representing the four
seasons. And while the one he drove was winter, with this local society
girl posed in ermine with white roses for snow all about, directly
behind came another float, which presented Bella Griffiths as spring,
swathed in filmy draperies and crouching beside a waterfall of dark
violets. The effect was quite striking and threw Clyde into a mood in
regard to love, youth and romance which was delicious and yet very
painful to him. Perhaps he should have retained Rita, after all.
In the meantime he was living on as before, only more spaciously in so
far as his own thoughts were concerned. For his first thought after
receiving this larger allowance was that he had better leave Mrs.
Cuppy's and secure a better room in some private home which, if less
advantageously situated for him, would be in a better street. It took
him out of all contact with Dillard. And now, since his uncle had
promoted him, some representative of his or Gilbert's might wish to
stop by to see him about something. And what would one such think if he
found him living in a small room such as he now occupied?
Ten days after his salary was raised, therefore, and because of the
import of his name, he found it possible to obtain a room in one of the
better houses and streets--Jefferson Avenue, which paralleled Wykeagy
Avenue, only a few blocks farther out. It was the home of a widow whose
husband had been a mill manager and who let out two rooms without board
in order to be able to maintain this home, which was above the average
for one of such position in Lycurgus. And Mrs. Peyton, having long been
a resident of the city and knowing much about the Griffiths, recognized
not only the name but the resemblance of Clyde to Gilbert. And being
intensely interested by this, as well as his general appearance, she at
once offered him an exceptional room for so little as five dollars a
week, which he took at once.
In connection with his work at the factory, however, and in spite of
the fact that he had made such drastic resolutions in regard to the
help who were beneath him, still it was not always possible for him
to keep his mind on the mere mechanical routine of the work or off
of this company of girls as girls, since at least a few of them were
attractive. For it was summer--late June. And over all the factory,
especially around two, three and four in the afternoon, when the
endless repetition of the work seemed to pall on all, a practical
indifference not remote from languor and in some instances sensuality,
seemed to creep over the place. There were so many women and girls of
so many different types and moods. And here they were so remote from
men or idle pleasure in any form, all alone with just him, really.
Again the air within the place was nearly always heavy and physically
relaxing, and through the many open windows that reached from floor
to ceiling could be seen the Mohawk swirling and rippling, its banks
carpeted with green grass and in places shaded by trees. Always it
seemed to hint of pleasures which might be found by idling along its
shores. And since these workers were employed so mechanically as to
leave their minds free to roam from one thought of pleasure to another,
they were for the most part thinking of themselves always and what they
would do, assuming that they were not here chained to this routine.
And because their moods were so brisk and passionate, they were often
prone to fix on the nearest object. And since Clyde was almost always
the only male present--and in these days in his best clothes--they
were inclined to fix on him. They were, indeed, full of all sorts of
fantastic notions in regard to his private relations with the Griffiths
and their like, where he lived and how, whom in the way of a girl he
might be interested in. And he, in turn, when not too constrained by
the memory of what Gilbert Griffiths had said to him, was inclined to
think of them--certain girls in particular--with thoughts that bordered
on the sensual. For, in spite of the wishes of the Griffiths Company,
and the discarded Rita or perhaps because of her, he found himself
becoming interested in three different girls here. They were of a
pagan and pleasure-loving turn--this trio--and they thought Clyde very
handsome. Ruza Nikoforitch--a Russian-American girl--big and blonde
and animal, with swimming brown eyes, a snub fat nose and chin, was
very much drawn to him. Only, such was the manner with which he carried
himself always, that she scarcely dared to let herself think so. For
to her, with his hair so smoothly parted, torsoed in a bright-striped
shirt, the sleeves of which in this weather were rolled to the elbows,
he seemed almost too perfect to be real. She admired his clean, brown
polished shoes, his brightly buckled black leather belt, and the loose
four-in-hand tie he wore.
Again there was Martha Bordaloue, a stocky, brisk Canadian-French girl
of trim, if rotund, figure and ankles, hair of a reddish gold and eyes
of greenish blue with puffy pink cheeks and hands that were plump and
yet small. Ignorant and pagan, she saw in Clyde some one whom, even
for so much as an hour, assuming that he would, she would welcome--and
that most eagerly. At the same time, being feline and savage, she hated
all or any who even so much as presumed to attempt to interest him,
and despised Ruza for that reason. For as she could see Ruza tried to
nudge or lean against Clyde whenever he came sufficiently near. At the
same time she herself sought by every single device known to her--her
shirtwaist left open to below the borders of her white breast, her
outer skirt lifted trimly above her calves when working, her plump
round arms displayed to the shoulders to show him that physically at
least she was worth his time. And the sly sighs and languorous looks
when he was near, which caused Ruza to exclaim one day: "That French
cat! He should look at her!" And because of Clyde she had an intense
desire to strike her.
And yet again there was the stocky and yet gay Flora Brandt, a
decidedly low class American type of coarse and yet enticing features,
black hair, large, swimming and heavily-lashed black eyes, a snub
nose and full and sensuous and yet pretty lips, and a vigorous and
not ungraceful body, who, from day to day, once he had been there a
little while, had continued to look at him as if to say--"What! You
don't think I'm attractive?" And with a look which said: "How can you
continue to ignore me? There are lots of fellows who would be delighted
to have your chance, I can tell you."
And, in connection with these three, the thought came to him after a
time that since they were so different, more common as he thought, less
well-guarded and less sharply interested in the conventional aspects
of their contacts, it might be possible and that without detection on
the part of any one for him to play with one or another of them--or
all three in turn if his interest should eventually carry him so
far--without being found out, particularly if beforehand he chose to
impress on them the fact that he was condescending when he noticed them
at all. Most certainly, if he could judge by their actions, they would
willingly reward him by letting him have his way with them somewhere,
and think nothing of it afterward if he chose to ignore them, as he
must to keep his position here. Nevertheless, having given his word
as he had to Gilbert Griffiths, he was still in no mood to break it.
These were merely thoughts which from time to time were aroused in him
by a situation which for him was difficult in the extreme. His was a
disposition easily and often intensely inflamed by the chemistry of sex
and the formula of beauty. He could not easily withstand the appeal,
let alone the call, of sex. And by the actions and approaches of each
in turn he was surely tempted at times, especially in these warm and
languorous summer days, with no place to go and no single intimate to
commune with. From time to time he could not resist drawing near to
these very girls who were most bent on tempting him, although in the
face of their looks and nudges, not very successfully concealed at
times, he maintained an aloofness and an assumed indifference which was
quite remarkable for him.
But just about this time there was a rush of orders, which
necessitated, as both Whiggam and Liggett advised, Clyde taking on a
few extra "try-out" girls who were willing to work for the very little
they could earn at the current piece work rate until they had mastered
the technique, when of course they would be able to earn more. There
were many such who applied at the employment branch of the main office
on the ground floor. In slack times all applications were rejected or
the sign hung up "No Help Wanted."
And since Clyde was relatively new to this work, and thus far had
neither hired nor discharged any one, it was agreed between Whiggam
and Liggett that all the help thus sent up should first be examined
by Liggett, who was looking for extra stitchers also. And in case any
were found who promised to be satisfactory as stampers, they were to be
turned over to Clyde with the suggestion that he try them. Only before
bringing any one back to Clyde, Liggett was very careful to explain
that in connection with this temporary hiring and discharging there was
a system. One must not ever give a new employee, however well they did,
the feeling that they were doing anything but moderately well until
their capacity had been thoroughly tested. It interfered with their
proper development as piece workers, the greatest results that could be
obtained by any one person. Also one might freely take on as many girls
as were needed to meet any such situation, and then, once the rush was
over, as freely drop them--unless, occasionally, a very speedy worker
was found among the novices. In that case it was always advisable to
try to retain such a person, either by displacing a less satisfactory
person or transferring some one from some other department, to make
room for new blood and new energy.
The next day, after this notice of a rush, back came four girls at
different times and escorted always by Liggett, who in each instance
explained to Clyde: "Here's a girl who might do for you. Miss Tyndal
is her name. You might give her a try-out." Or, "You might see
if this girl will be of any use to you." And Clyde, after he had
questioned them as to where they had worked, what the nature of the
general working experiences were, and whether they lived at home here
in Lycurgus or alone (the bachelor girl was not much wanted by the
factory) would explain the nature of the work and pay, and then call
Miss Todd, who in her turn would first take them to the rest room
where were lockers for their coats, and then to one of the tables where
they would be shown what the process was. And later it was Miss Todd's
and Clyde's business to discover how well they were getting on and
whether it was worth while to retain them or not.
Up to this time, apart from the girls to whom he was so definitely
drawn, Clyde was not so very favorably impressed with the type of girl
who was working here. For the most part, as he saw them, they were of a
heavy and rather unintelligent company, and he had been thinking that
smarter-looking girls might possibly be secured. Why not? Were there
none in Lycurgus in the factory world? So many of these had fat hands,
broad faces, heavy legs and ankles. Some of them even spoke with an
accent, being Poles or the children of Poles, living in that slum north
of the mill. And they were all concerned with catching a "feller,"
going to some dancing place with him afterwards, and little more.
Also, Clyde had noticed that the American types who were here were
of a decidedly different texture, thinner, more nervous and for the
most part more angular, and with a general reserve due to prejudices,
racial, moral and religious, which would not permit them to mingle with
these others or with any men, apparently.
But among the extras or try-outs that were brought to him during this
and several succeeding days, finally came one who interested Clyde more
than any girl whom he had seen here so far. She was, as he decided on
sight, more intelligent and pleasing--more spiritual--though apparently
not less vigorous, if more gracefully proportioned. As a matter of
fact, as he saw her at first, she appeared to him to possess a charm
which no one else in this room had, a certain wistfulness and wonder
combined with a kind of self-reliant courage and determination which
marked her at once as one possessed of will and conviction to a degree.
Nevertheless, as she said, she was inexperienced in this kind of work,
and highly uncertain as to whether she would prove of service here or
anywhere.
Her name was Roberta Alden, and, as she at once explained, previous to
this she had been working in a small hosiery factory in a town called
Trippetts Mills fifty miles north of Lycurgus. She had on a small brown
hat that did not look any too new, and was pulled low over a face that
was small and regular and pretty and that was haloed by bright, light
brown hair. Her eyes were of a translucent gray blue. Her little suit
was commonplace, and her shoes were not so very new-looking and quite
solidly-soled. She looked practical and serious and yet so bright and
clean and willing and possessed of so much hope and vigor that along
with Liggett, who had first talked with her, he was at once taken with
her. Distinctly she was above the average of the girls in this room.
And he could not help wondering about her as he talked to her, for she
seemed so tense, a little troubled as to the outcome of this interview,
as though this was a very great adventure for her.
She explained that up to this time she had been living with her parents
near a town called Biltz, but was now living with friends here. She
talked so honestly and simply that Clyde was very much moved by her,
and for this reason wished to help her. At the same time he wondered if
she were not really above the type of work she was seeking. Her eyes
were so round and blue and intelligent--her lips and nose and ears and
hands so small and pleasing.
"You're going to live in Lycurgus, then, if you can get work here?" he
said, more to be talking to her than anything else.
"Yes," she said, looking at him most directly and frankly.
"And the name again?" He took down a record pad.
"Roberta Alden."
"And your address here?"
"228 Taylor Street."
"I don't even know where that is myself," he informed her because he
liked talking to her. "I haven't been here so very long, you see." He
wondered just why afterwards he had chosen to tell her as much about
himself so swiftly. Then he added: "I don't know whether Mr. Liggett
has told you all about the work here. But it's piece work, you know,
stamping collars. I'll show you if you'll just step over here," and he
led the way to a near-by table where the stampers were. After letting
her observe how it was done, and without calling Miss Todd, he picked
up one of the collars and proceeded to explain all that had been
previously explained to him.
At the same time, because of the intentness with which she observed
him and his gestures, the seriousness with which she appeared to take
all that he said, he felt a little nervous and embarrassed. There was
something quite searching and penetrating about her glance. After he
had explained once more what the bundle rate was, and how much some
made and how little others, and she had agreed that she would like to
try, he called Miss Todd, who took her to the locker room to hang up
her hat and coat. Then presently he saw her returning, a fluff of light
hair about her forehead, her cheeks slightly flushed, her eyes very
intent and serious. And as advised by Miss Todd, he saw her turn back
her sleeves, revealing a pretty pair of fore-arms. Then she fell to,
and by her gestures Clyde guessed that she would prove both speedy and
accurate. For she seemed most anxious to obtain and keep this place.
After she had worked a little while, he went to her side and watched
her as she picked up and stamped the collars piled beside her and threw
them to one side. Also the speed and accuracy with which she did it.
Then, because for a second she turned and looked at him, giving him an
innocent and yet cheerful and courageous smile, he smiled back, most
pleased.
"Well, I guess you'll make out all right," he ventured to say, since
he could not help feeling that she would. And instantly, for a second
only, she turned and smiled again. And Clyde, in spite of himself, was
quite thrilled. He liked her on the instant, but because of his own
station here, of course, as he now decided, as well as his promise to
Gilbert, he must be careful about being congenial with any of the help
in this room--even as charming a girl as this. It would not do. He had
been guarding himself in connection with the others and must with her
too, a thing which seemed a little strange to him then, for he was very
much drawn to her. She was so pretty and cute. Yet she was a working
girl, as he remembered now, too--a factory girl, as Gilbert would say,
and he was her superior. But she _was_ so pretty and cute.
Instantly he went on to others who had been put on this same day, and
finally coming to Miss Todd asked her to report pretty soon on how Miss
Alden was getting along--that he wanted to know.
But at the same time that he had addressed Roberta, and she had smiled
back at him, Ruza Nikoforitch, who was working two tables away, nudged
the girl working next her, and without any one noting it, first winked,
then indicated with a slight movement of the head both Clyde and
Roberta. Her friend was to watch them. And after Clyde had gone away
and Roberta was working as before, she leaned over and whispered: "He
says she'll do already." Then she lifted her eyebrows and compressed
her lips. And her friend replied, so softly that no one could hear
her: "Pretty quick, eh? And he didn't seem to see any one else at all
before."
Then the twain smiled most wisely, a choice bit between them. Ruza
Nikoforitch was jealous.
CHAPTER XIII
The reasons why a girl of Roberta's type should be seeking employment
with Griffiths and Company at this time and in this capacity are of
some point. For, somewhat after the fashion of Clyde in relation
to his family and his life, she too considered her life a great
disappointment. She was the daughter of Titus Alden, a farmer--of near
Biltz, a small town in Mimico County, some fifty miles north. And from
her youth up she had seen little but poverty. Her father--the youngest
of three sons of Ephraim Alden, a farmer in this region before him--was
so unsuccessful that at forty-eight he was still living in a house
which, though old and much in need of repair at the time his father
willed it to him, was now bordering upon a state of dilapidation. The
house itself, while primarily a charming example of that excellent
taste which produced those delightful gabled homes which embellish
the average New England town and street, had been by now so reduced
for want of paint, shingles, and certain flags which had once made a
winding walk from a road gate to the front door, that it presented
a decidedly melancholy aspect to the world, as though it might be
coughing and saying: "Well, things are none too satisfactory with me."
The interior of the house corresponded with the exterior. The floor
boards and stair boards were loose and creaked most eerily at times.
Some of the windows had shades--some did not. Furniture of both an
earlier and a later date, but all in a somewhat decayed condition,
intermingled and furnished it in some nondescript manner which need
hardly be described.
As for the parents of Roberta, they were excellent examples of that
native type of Americanism which resists facts and reveres illusion.
Titus Alden was one of that vast company of individuals who are born,
pass through and die out of the world without ever quite getting any
one thing straight. They appear, blunder, and end in a fog. Like his
two brothers, both older and almost as nebulous, Titus was a farmer
solely because his father had been a farmer. And he was here on this
farm because it had been willed to him and because it was easier to
stay here and try to work this than it was to go elsewhere. He was a
Republican because his father before him was a Republican and because
this county was Republican. It never occurred to him to be otherwise.
And, as in the case of his politics and his religion, he had borrowed
all his notions of what was right and wrong from those about him. A
single, serious, intelligent or rightly informing book had never been
read by any member of this family--not one. But they were nevertheless
excellent, as conventions, morals and religions go--honest, upright,
God-fearing and respectable.
In so far as the daughter of these parents was concerned, and in
the face of natural gifts which fitted her for something better
than this world from which she derived, she was still, in part, at
least, a reflection of the religious and moral notions there and
then prevailing,--the views of the local ministers and the laity in
general. At the same time, because of a warm, imaginative, sensuous
temperament, she was filled--once she reached fifteen and sixteen--with
the world-old dream of all of Eve's daughters from the homeliest to the
fairest--that her beauty or charm might some day and ere long smite
bewitchingly and so irresistibly the soul of a given man or men.
So it was that although throughout her infancy and girlhood she was
compelled to hear of and share a depriving and toilsome poverty, still,
because of her innate imagination, she was always thinking of something
better. Maybe, some day, who knew, a larger city like Albany or Utica!
A newer and greater life.
And then what dreams! And in the orchard of a spring day later, between
her fourteenth and eighteenth years when the early May sun was making
pink lamps of every aged tree and the ground was pinkly carpeted
with the falling and odorous petals, she would stand and breathe and
sometimes laugh, or even sigh, her arms upreached or thrown wide to
life. To be alive! To have youth and the world before one. To think of
the eyes and the smile of some youth of the region who by the merest
chance had passed her and looked, and who might never look again, but
who, nevertheless, in so doing, had stirred her young soul to dreams.
None the less she was shy, and hence recessive--afraid of men,
especially the more ordinary types common to this region. And these
in turn, repulsed by her shyness and refinement, tended to recede
from her, for all of her physical charm, which was too delicate for
this region. Nevertheless, at the age of sixteen, having repaired to
Biltz in order to work in Appleman's Dry Goods Store for five dollars
a week, she saw many young men who attracted her. But here because of
her mood in regard to her family's position, as well as the fact that
to her inexperienced eyes they appeared so much better placed than
herself, she was convinced that they would not be interested in her.
And here again it was her own mood that succeeded in alienating them
almost completely. Nevertheless she remained working for Mr. Appleman
until she was between eighteen and nineteen, all the while sensing that
she was really doing nothing for herself because she was too closely
identified with her home and her family, who appeared to need her.
And then about this time, an almost revolutionary thing for this
part of the world occurred. For because of the cheapness of labor in
such an extremely rural section, a small hosiery plant was built at
Trippetts Mills. And though Roberta, because of the views and standards
that prevailed hereabout, had somehow conceived of this type of work
as beneath her, still she was fascinated by the reports of the high
wages to be paid. Accordingly she repaired to Trippetts Mills, where,
boarding at the house of a neighbor who had previously lived in Biltz,
and returning home every Saturday afternoon, she planned to bring
together the means for some further form of practical education--a
course at a business college at Homer or Lycurgus or somewhere which
might fit her for something better--bookkeeping or stenography.
And in connection with this dream and this attempted saving two
years went by. And in the meanwhile, although she earned more money
(eventually twelve dollars a week), still, because various members of
her family required so many little things and she desired to alleviate
to a degree the privations of these others from which she suffered,
nearly all that she earned went to them.
And again here, as at Biltz, most of the youths of the town who were
better suited to her intellectually and temperamentally--still looked
upon the mere factory type as beneath them in many ways. And although
Roberta was far from being that type, still having associated herself
with them she was inclined to absorb some of their psychology in regard
to themselves. Indeed by then she was fairly well satisfied that no one
of these here in whom she was interested would be interested in her--at
least not with any legitimate intentions.
And then two things occurred which caused her to think, not only
seriously of marriage, but of her own future, whether she married or
not. For her sister, Agnes, now twenty, and three years her junior,
having recently reëncountered a young school-master who some time
before had conducted the district school near the Alden farm, and
finding him more to her taste now than when she had been in school,
had decided to marry him. And this meant, as Roberta saw it, that she
was about to take on the appearance of a spinster unless she married
soon. Yet she did not quite see what was to be done until the hosiery
factory at Trippetts Mills suddenly closed, never to reopen. And then,
in order to assist her mother, as well as help with her sister's
wedding, she returned to Biltz.
But then there came a third thing which decidedly affected her dreams
and plans. Grace Marr, a girl whom she had met at Trippetts Mills,
had gone to Lycurgus and after a few weeks there had managed to
connect herself with the Finchley Vacuum Cleaner Company at a salary
of fifteen dollars a week and at once wrote to Roberta telling her of
the opportunities that were then present in Lycurgus. For in passing
the Griffiths Company, which she did daily, she had seen a large
sign posted over the east employment door reading "Girls Wanted."
And inquiry revealed the fact that girls at this company were always
started at nine or ten dollars, quickly taught some one of the various
phases of piece work and then, once they were proficient, were
frequently able to earn as much as from fourteen to sixteen dollars,
according to their skill. And since board and room were only consuming
seven of what she earned, she was delighted to communicate to Roberta,
whom she liked very much, that she might come and room with her if she
wished.
Roberta, having reached the place where she felt that she could no
longer endure farm life but must act for herself once more, finally
arranged with her mother to leave in order that she might help her more
directly with her wages.
But once in Lycurgus and employed by Clyde, her life, after the first
flush of self-interest which a change so great implied for her, was not
so much more enlarged socially or materially either, for that matter,
over what it had been in Biltz and Trippetts Mills. For, despite the
genial intimacy of Grace Marr--a girl not nearly as attractive as
Roberta, and who, because of Roberta's charm and for the most part
affected gayety, counted on her to provide a cheer and companionship
which otherwise she would have lacked--still the world into which she
was inducted here was scarcely any more liberal or diversified than
that from which she sprang.
For, to begin with, the Newtons, sister and brother-in-law of Grace
Marr, with whom she lived, and who, despite the fact that they were not
unkindly, proved to be, almost more so than were the types with whom,
either in Biltz or Trippetts Mills, she had been in constant contact,
the most ordinary small town mill workers--religious and narrow to a
degree. George Newton, as every one could see and feel, was a pleasant
if not very emotional or romantic person who took his various small
plans in regard to himself and his future as of the utmost importance.
Primarily he was saving what little cash he could out of the wages he
earned as threadman in the Cranston Wickwire factory to enable him to
embark upon some business for which he thought himself fitted. And to
this end, and to further enhance his meager savings, he had joined
with his wife in the scheme of taking over an old house in Taylor
Street which permitted the renting of enough rooms to carry the rent
and in addition to supply the food for the family and five boarders,
counting their labor and worries in the process as nothing. And on the
other hand, Grace Marr, as well as Newton's wife, Mary, were of that
type that here as elsewhere find the bulk of their social satisfaction
in such small matters as relate to the organization of a small home,
the establishing of its import and integrity in a petty and highly
conventional neighborhood and the contemplation of life and conduct
through the lens furnished by a purely sectarian creed.
And so, once part and parcel of this particular household, Roberta
found after a time, that it, if not Lycurgus, was narrow and
restricted--not wholly unlike the various narrow and restricted homes
at Biltz. And these lines, according to the Newtons and their like,
to be strictly observed. No good could come of breaking them. If you
were a factory employee you should accommodate yourself to the world
and customs of the better sort of Christian factory employees. Every
day therefore--and that not so very long after she had arrived--she
found herself up and making the best of a not very satisfactory
breakfast in the Newton dining room, which was usually shared by Grace
and two other girls of nearly their own age--Opal Feliss and Olive
Pope--who were connected with the Cranston Wickwire Company. Also by
a young electrician by the name of Fred Shurlock, who worked for the
City Lighting Plant. And immediately after breakfast joining a long
procession that day after day at this hour made for the mills across
the river. For just outside her own door she invariably met with a
company of factory girls and women, boys and men, of the same relative
ages, to say nothing of many old and weary-looking women who looked
more like wraiths than human beings, who had issued from the various
streets and houses of this vicinity. And as the crowd, because of the
general inpour into it from various streets, thickened at Central
Avenue, there was much ogling of the prettier girls by a certain type
of factory man, who, not knowing any of them, still sought, as Roberta
saw it, unlicensed contacts and even worse. Yet there was much giggling
and simpering on the part of girls of a certain type who were by no
means as severe as most of those she had known elsewhere. Shocking!
And at night the same throng, re-forming at the mills, crossing the
bridge at the depot and returning as it had come. And Roberta, because
of her social and moral training and mood, and in spite of her decided
looks and charm and strong desires, feeling alone and neglected. Oh,
how sad to see the world so gay and she so lonely. And it was always
after six when she reached home. And after dinner there was really
nothing much of anything to do unless she and Grace attended one or
another of the moving picture theaters or she could bring herself to
consent to join the Newtons and Grace at a meeting of the Methodist
Church.
None the less once part and parcel of this household and working for
Clyde she was delighted with the change. This big city. This fine
Central Avenue with its stores and moving picture theaters. These great
mills. And again this Mr. Griffiths, so young, attractive, smiling and
interested in her.
CHAPTER XIV
In the same way Clyde, on encountering her, was greatly stirred. Since
the abortive contact with Dillard, Rita and Zella, and afterwards the
seemingly meaningless invitation to the Griffiths with its introduction
to and yet only passing glimpse of such personages as Bella, Sondra
Finchley and Bertine Cranston, he was lonely indeed. That high world!
But plainly he was not to be allowed to share in it. And yet because
of his vain hope in connection with it, he had chosen to cut himself
off in this way. And to what end? Was he not if anything more lonely
than ever? Mrs. Peyton! Going to and from his work but merely nodding
to people or talking casually--or however sociably with one or another
of the storekeepers along Central Avenue who chose to hail him--or
even some of the factory girls here in whom he was not interested or
with whom he did not dare to develop a friendship. What was that? Just
nothing really. And yet as an offset to all this, of course, was he not
a Griffiths and so entitled to their respect and reverence even on this
account? What a situation really! What to do!
And at the same time, this Roberta Alden, once she was placed here
in this fashion and becoming more familiar with local conditions,
as well as the standing of Clyde, his charm, his evasive and yet
sensible interest in her, was becoming troubled as to her state too.
For once part and parcel of this local home she had joined she was
becoming conscious of various local taboos and restrictions which
made it seem likely that never at any time here would it be possible
to express an interest in Clyde of any one above her officially. For
there was a local taboo in regard to factory girls aspiring toward or
allowing themselves to become interested in their official superiors.
Religious, moral and reserved girls didn't do it. And again, as she
soon discovered, the lines of demarcation and stratification between
the rich and the poor in Lycurgus was as sharp as though cut by a knife
or divided by a high wall. And another taboo in regard to all the
foreign family girls and men,--ignorant, low, immoral, un-American! One
should--above all--have nothing to do with them.
But among these people as she could see--the religious and moral,
lower middle-class group to which she and all of her intimates
belonged--dancing or local adventurous gayety, such as walking the
streets or going to a moving picture theater--was also taboo. And yet
she, herself, at this time, was becoming interested in dancing. Worse
than this, the various young men and girls of the particular church
which she and Grace Marr attended at first, were not inclined to see
Roberta or Grace as equals, since they, for the most part, were members
of older and more successful families of the town. And so it was that
after a very few weeks of attendance of church affairs and services,
they were about where they had been when they started--conventional and
acceptable, but without the amount of entertainment and diversion which
was normally reaching those who were of their same church but better
placed.
And so it was that Roberta, after encountering Clyde and sensing the
superior world in which she imagined he moved, and being so taken
with the charm of his personality, was seized with the very virus of
ambition and unrest that afflicted him. And every day that she went to
the factory now she could not help but feel that his eyes were upon her
in a quiet, seeking and yet doubtful way. Yet she also felt that he was
too uncertain as to what she would think of any overture that he might
make in her direction to risk a repulse or any offensive interpretation
on her part. And yet at times, after the first two weeks of her stay
here, she wishing that he would speak to her--that he would make some
beginning--at other times that he must not dare--that it would be
dreadful and impossible. The other girls there would see at once. And
since they all plainly felt that he was too good or too remote for
them, they would at once note that he was making an exception in her
case and would put their own interpretation on it. And she knew the
type of a girl who worked in the Griffiths stamping room would put but
one interpretation on it,--that of looseness.
At the same time in so far as Clyde and his leaning toward her was
concerned there was that rule laid down by Gilbert. And although,
because of it, he had hitherto appeared not to notice or to give any
more attention to one girl than another, still, once Roberta arrived,
he was almost unconsciously inclined to drift by her table and pause in
her vicinity to see how she was progressing. And, as he saw from the
first, she was a quick and intelligent worker, soon mastering without
much advice of any kind all the tricks of the work, and thereafter
earning about as much as any of the others--fifteen dollars a week.
And her manner was always that of one who enjoyed it and was happy to
have the privilege of working here. And pleased to have him pay any
little attention to her.
At the same time he noted to his surprise and especially since to him
she seemed so refined and different, a certain exuberance and gayety
that was not only emotional, but in a delicate poetic way, sensual.
Also that despite her difference and reserve she was able to make
friends with and seemed to be able to understand the viewpoint of most
of the foreign girls who were essentially so different from her. For,
listening to her discuss the work here, first with Lena Schlict, Hoda
Petkanas, Angelina Pitti and some others who soon chose to speak to
her, he reached the conclusion that she was not nearly so conventional
or standoffish as most of the other American girls. And yet she did not
appear to lose their respect either.
Thus, one noontime, coming back from the office lunch downstairs
a little earlier than usual, he found her and several of the
foreign-family girls, as well as four of the American girls,
surrounding Polish Mary, one of the gayest and roughest of the
foreign-family girls, who was explaining in rather a high key how a
certain "feller" whom she had met the night before had given her a
beaded bag, and for what purpose.
"I should go with heem to be his sweetheart," she announced with a
flourish, the while she waved the bag before the interested group.
"And I say, I tack heem an' think on heem. Pretty nice bag, eh?" she
added, holding it aloft and turning it about. "Tell me," she added with
provoking and yet probably only mock serious eyes and waving the bag
toward Roberta, "what shall I do with heem? Keep heem an' go with heem
to be his sweetheart or give heem back? I like heem pretty much, that
bag, you bet."
And although, according to the laws of her upbringing, as Clyde
suspected, Roberta should have been shocked by all this, she was not,
as he noticed--far from it. If one might have judged from her face, she
was very much amused.
Instantly she replied with a gay smile: "Well, it all depends on how
handsome he is, Mary. If he's very attractive, I think I'd string him
along for a while, anyhow, and keep the bag as long as I could."
"Oh, but he no wait," declared Mary archly, and with plainly a keen
sense of the riskiness of the situation, the while she winked at Clyde
who had drawn near. "I got to give heem bag or be sweetheart to-night,
and so swell bag I never can buy myself." She eyed the bag archly and
roguishly, her own nose crinkling with the humor of the situation.
"What I do then?"
"Gee, this is pretty strong stuff for a little country girl like Miss
Alden. She won't like this, maybe," thought Clyde to himself.
However, Roberta, as he now saw, appeared to be equal to the situation,
for she pretended to be troubled. "Gee, you are in a fix," she
commented. "I don't know what you'll do now." She opened her eyes wide
and pretended to be greatly concerned. However, as Clyde could see, she
was merely acting, but carrying it off very well.
And frizzled-haired Dutch Lena now leaned over to say: "I take it and
him too, you bet, if you don't want him. Where is he? I got no feller
now." She reached over as if to take the bag from Mary, who as quickly
withdrew it. And there were squeals of delight from nearly all the
girls in the room, who were amused by this eccentric horseplay. Even
Roberta laughed loudly, a fact which Clyde noted with pleasure, for he
liked all this rough humor, considering it mere innocent play.
"Well, maybe you're right, Lena," he heard her add just as the whistle
blew and the hundreds of sewing machines in the next room began to hum.
"A good man isn't to be found every day." Her blue eyes were twinkling
and her lips, which were most temptingly modeled, were parted in a
broad smile. There was much banter and more bluff in what she said
than anything else, as Clyde could see, but he felt that she was not
nearly as narrow as he had feared. She was human and gay and tolerant
and good-natured. There was decidedly a very liberal measure of play
in her. And in spite of the fact that her clothes were poor, the same
little round brown hat and blue cloth dress that she had worn on first
coming to work here, she was prettier than anyone else. And she never
needed to paint her lips and cheeks like the foreign girls, whose faces
at times looked like pink-frosted cakes. And how pretty were her arms
and neck--plump and gracefully designed! And there was a certain grace
and abandon about her as she threw herself into her work as though
she really enjoyed it. As she worked fast during the hottest portions
of the day, there would gather on her upper lip and chin and forehead
little beads of perspiration which she was always pausing in her work
to touch with her handkerchief, while to him, like jewels, they seemed
only to enhance her charm.
Wonderful days, these, now for Clyde. For once more and here, where
he could be near her the long day through, he had a girl whom he
could study and admire and by degrees proceed to crave with all of the
desire of which he seemed to be capable--and with which he had craved
Hortense Briggs--only with more satisfaction, since as he saw it she
was simpler, more kindly and respectable. And though for quite a while
at first Roberta appeared or pretended to be quite indifferent to or
unconscious of him, still from the very first this was not true. She
was only troubled as to the appropriate attitude for her. The beauty
of his face and hands--the blackness and softness of his hair, the
darkness and melancholy and lure of his eyes. He was attractive--oh,
very. Beautiful, really, to her.
And then one day shortly thereafter, Gilbert Griffiths walking through
here and stopping to talk to Clyde, she was led to imagine by this that
Clyde was really much more of a figure socially and financially than
she had previously thought. For just as Gilbert was approaching, Lena
Schlict, who was working beside her, leaned over to say: "Here comes
Mr. Gilbert Griffiths. His father owns this whole factory and when he
dies, he'll get it, they say. And he's his cousin," she added, nodding
toward Clyde. "They look a lot alike, don't they?"
"Yes, they do," replied Roberta, slyly studying not only Clyde but
Gilbert, "only I think Mr. Clyde Griffiths is a little nicer looking,
don't you?"
Hoda Petkanas, sitting on the other side of Roberta and overhearing
this last remark, laughed. "That's what every one here thinks. He's not
stuck up like that Mr. Gilbert Griffiths, either."
"Is he rich, too?" inquired Roberta, thinking of Clyde.
"I don't know. They say not," she pursed her lips dubiously, herself
rather interested in Clyde along with the others. "He worked down in
the shrinking room before he came up here. He was just working by the
day, I guess. But he only came on here a little while ago to learn the
business. Maybe he won't work in here much longer."
Roberta was suddenly troubled by this last remark. She had not been
thinking, or so she had been trying to tell herself, of Clyde in any
romantic way, and yet the thought that he might suddenly go at any
moment, never to be seen by her any more, disturbed her now. He was so
youthful, so brisk, so attractive. And so interested in her, too. Yes,
that was plain. It was wrong to think that he would be interested in
her--or to try to attract him by any least gesture of hers, since he
was so important a person here--far above her.
For, true to her complex, the moment she heard that Clyde was so
highly connected and might even have money, she was not so sure that
he could have any legitimate interest in her. For was she not a poor
working girl? And was he not a very rich man's nephew? He would not
marry her, of course. And what other legitimate thing would he want
with her? She must be on her guard in regard to him.
CHAPTER XV
The thoughts of Clyde at this time in regard to Roberta and his general
situation in Lycurgus were for the most part confused and disturbing.
For had not Gilbert warned him against associating with the help here?
On the other hand, in so far as his actual daily life was concerned,
his condition was socially the same as before. Apart from the fact
that his move to Mrs. Peyton's had taken him into a better street and
neighborhood, he was really not so well off as he had been at Mrs.
Cuppy's. For there at least he had been in touch with those young
people who would have been diverting enough had he felt that it would
have been wise to indulge them. But now, aside from a bachelor brother
who was as old as Mrs. Peyton herself, and a son thirty--slim and
reserved, who was connected with one of the Lycurgus banks--he saw no
one who could or would trouble to entertain him. Like the others with
whom he came in contact, they thought him possessed of relationships
which would make it unnecessary and even a bit presumptuous for them to
suggest ways and means of entertaining him.
On the other hand, while Roberta was not of that high world to which he
now aspired, still there was that about her which enticed him beyond
measure. Day after day and because so much alone, and furthermore
because of so strong a chemic or temperamental pull that was so
definitely asserting itself, he could no longer keep his eyes off
her--or she hers from him. There were evasive and yet strained and
feverish eye-flashes between them. And after one such in his case--a
quick and furtive glance on her part at times--by no means intended to
be seen by him, he found himself weak and then feverish. Her pretty
mouth, her lovely big eyes, her radiant and yet so often shy and
evasive smile. And, oh, she had such pretty arms--such a trim, lithe,
sentient, quick figure and movements. If he only dared be friendly with
her--venture to talk with and then see her somewhere afterwards--if she
only would and if he only dared.
Confusion. Aspiration. Hours of burning and yearning. For indeed he
was not only puzzled but irritated by the anomalous and paradoxical
contrasts which his life here presented--loneliness and wistfulness as
against the fact that it was being generally assumed by such as knew
him that be was rather pleasantly and interestingly employed socially.
Therefore in order to enjoy himself in some way befitting his present
rank, and to keep out of the sight of those who were imagining that
he was being so much more handsomely entertained than he was, he had
been more recently, on Saturday afternoons and Sundays, making idle
sightseeing trips to Gloversville, Fonda, Amsterdam and other places,
as well as Gray and Crum Lakes, where there were boats, beaches
and bathhouses, with bathing suits for rent. And there, because he
was always thinking that if by chance he should be taken up by the
Griffiths, he would need as many social accomplishments as possible,
and by reason of encountering a man who took a fancy to him and who
could both swim and dive, he learned to do both exceedingly well. But
canoeing fascinated him really. He was pleased by the picturesque and
summery appearance he made in an outing shirt and canvas shoes paddling
about Crum Lake in one of the bright red or green or blue canoes that
were leased by the hour. And at such times these summer scenes appeared
to possess an airy, fairy quality, especially with a summer cloud or
two hanging high above in the blue. And so his mind indulged itself in
day dreams as to how it would feel to be a member of one of the wealthy
groups that frequented the more noted resorts of the north--Racquette
Lake--Schroon Lake--Lake George and Champlain--dance, golf, tennis,
canoe with those who could afford to go to such places--the rich of
Lycurgus.
But it was about this time that Roberta with her friend Grace found
Crum Lake and had decided on it, with the approval of Mr. and Mrs.
Newton, as one of the best and most reserved of all the smaller
watering places about here. And so it was that they, too, were already
given to riding out to the pavilion on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon,
and once there following the west shore along which ran a well-worn
footpath which led to clumps of trees, underneath which they sat
and looked at the water, for neither could row a boat or swim. Also
there were wild flowers and berry bushes to be plundered. And from
certain marshy spots, to be reached by venturing out for a score of
feet or more, it was possible to reach and take white lilies with
their delicate yellow hearts. They were decidedly tempting and on two
occasions already the marauders had brought Mrs. Newton large armfuls
of blooms from the fields and shore line here.
On the third Sunday afternoon in July, Clyde, as lonely and rebellious
as ever, was paddling about in a dark blue canoe along the south bank
of the lake about a mile and a half from the boathouse. His coat
and hat were off, and in a seeking and half resentful mood he was
imagining vain things in regard to the type of life he would really
like to lead. At different points on the lake in canoes, or their more
clumsy companions, the rowboats, were boys and girls, men and women.
And over the water occasionally would come their laughter or bits of
their conversation. And in the distance would be other canoes and other
dreamers, happily in love, as Clyde invariably decided, that being to
him the sharpest contrast to his own lorn state.
At any rate, the sight of any other youth thus romantically engaged
with his girl was sufficient to set dissonantly jangling the repressed
and protesting libido of his nature. And this would cause his mind to
paint another picture in which, had fortune favored him in the first
place by birth, he would now be in some canoe on Schroon or Racquette
or Champlain Lake with Sondra Finchley or some such girl, paddling and
looking at the shores of a scene more distingué than this. Or might he
not be riding or playing tennis, or in the evening dancing or racing
from place to place in some high-powered car, Sondra by his side? He
felt so out of it, so lonely and restless and tortured by all that he
saw here, for everywhere that he looked he seemed to see love, romance,
contentment. What to do? Where to go? He could not go on alone like
this forever. He was too miserable.
In memory as well as mood his mind went back to the few gay happy days
he had enjoyed in Kansas City before that dreadful accident--Ratterer,
Hegglund, Higby, Tina Kogel, Hortense, Ratterer's sister Louise--in
short, the gay company of which he was just beginning to be a part
when that terrible accident had occurred. And next to Dillard, Rita,
Zella,--a companionship that would have been better than this,
certainly. Were the Griffiths never going to do any more for him than
this? Had he only come here to be sneered at by his cousin, pushed
aside, or rather completely ignored by all the bright company of which
the children of his rich uncle were a part? And so plainly, from so
many interesting incidents, even now in this dead summertime, he could
see how privileged and relaxed and apparently decidedly happy were
those of that circle. Notices in the local papers almost every day as
to their coming and going here and there, the large and expensive cars
of Samuel as well as Gilbert Griffiths parked outside the main office
entrance on such days as they were in Lycurgus--an occasional group
of young society figures to be seen before the grill of the Lycurgus
Hotel, or before one of the fine homes in Wykeagy Avenue, some one
having returned to the city for an hour or a night.
And in the factory itself, whenever either was there--Gilbert or
Samuel--in the smartest of summer clothes and attended by either
Messrs. Smillie, Latch, Gotboy or Burkey, all high officials of the
company, making a most austere and even regal round of the immense
plant and consulting with or listening to the reports of the various
minor department heads. And yet here was he--a full cousin to this same
Gilbert, a nephew to this distinguished Samuel--being left to drift and
pine by himself, and for no other reason than, as he could now clearly
see, he was not good enough. His father was not as able as this, his
great uncle--his mother (might Heaven keep her) not as distinguished or
as experienced as his cold, superior, indifferent aunt. Might it not be
best to leave? Had he not made a foolish move, after all, in coming on
here? What, if anything, did these high relatives ever intend to do for
him?
In loneliness and resentment and disappointment, his mind now wandered
from the Griffiths and their world, and particularly that beautiful
Sondra Finchley, whom he recalled with a keen and biting thrill, to
Roberta and the world which she as well as he was occupying here. For
although a poor factory girl, she was still so much more attractive
than any of these other girls with whom he was every day in contact.
How unfair and ridiculous for the Griffiths to insist that a man in
his position should not associate with a girl such as Roberta, for
instance, and just because she worked in the mill. He might not even
make friends with her and bring her to some such lake as this or visit
her in her little home on account of that. And yet he could not go with
others more worthy of him, perhaps, for lack of means or contacts. And
besides she was so attractive--very--and especially enticing to him. He
could see her now as she worked with her swift, graceful movements at
her machine. Her shapely arms and hands, her smooth skin and her bright
eyes as she smiled up at him. And his thoughts were played over by
exactly the same emotions that swept him so regularly at the factory.
For poor or not--a working girl by misfortune only--he could see how
he could be very happy with her if only he did not need to marry her.
For now his ambitions toward marriage had been firmly magnetized by the
world to which the Griffiths belonged. And yet his desires were most
colorfully inflamed by her. If only he might venture to talk to her
more--to walk home with her some day from the mill--to bring her out
here to this lake on a Saturday or Sunday, and row about--just to idle
and dream with her.
He rounded a point studded with a clump of trees and bushes and
covering a shallow where were scores of water lilies afloat, their
large leaves resting flat upon the still water of the lake. And on the
bank to the left was a girl standing and looking at them. She had her
hat off and one hand to her eyes for she was facing the sun and was
looking down in the water. Her lips were parted in careless inquiry.
She was very pretty, he thought, as he paused in his paddling to look
at her. The sleeves of a pale blue waist came only to her elbows. And
a darker blue skirt of flannel reconveyed to him the trimness of her
figure. It wasn't Roberta! It couldn't be! Yes, it was!
Almost before he had decided, he was quite beside her, some twenty
feet from the shore, and was looking up at her, his face lit by the
radiance of one who had suddenly, and beyond his belief, realized a
dream. And as though he were a pleasant apparition suddenly evoked out
of nothing and nowhere, a poetic effort taking form out of smoke or
vibrant energy, she in turn stood staring down at him, her lips unable
to resist the wavy line of beauty that a happy mood always brought to
them.
"My, Miss Alden! It is you, isn't it?" he called. "I was wondering
whether it was. I couldn't be sure from out there."
"Why, yes it is," she laughed, puzzled, and again just the least bit
abashed by the reality of him. For in spite of her obvious pleasure
at seeing him again, only thinly repressed for the first moment or
two, she was on the instant beginning to be troubled by her thoughts
in regard to him--the difficulties that contact with him seemed to
prognosticate. For this meant contact and friendship, maybe, and she
was no longer in any mood to resist him, whatever people might think.
And yet here was her friend, Grace Marr. Would she want her to know of
Clyde and her interest in him? She was troubled. And yet she could not
resist smiling and looking at him in a frank and welcoming way. She had
been thinking of him so much and wishing for him in some happy, secure,
commendable way. And now here he was. And there could be nothing more
innocent than his presence here--nor hers.
"Just out for a walk?" he forced himself to say, although, because
of his delight and his fear of her really, he felt not a little
embarrassed now that she was directly before him. At the same time he
added, recalling that she had been looking so intently at the water:
"You want some of these water lilies? Is that what you're looking for?"
"Uh, huh," she replied, still smiling and looking directly at him, for
the sight of his dark hair blown by the wind, the pale blue outing
shirt he wore open at the neck, his sleeves rolled up and the yellow
paddle held by him above the handsome blue boat, quite thrilled her.
If only she could win such a youth for her very own self--just hers
and no one else's in the whole world. It seemed as though this would
be paradise--that if she could have him she would never want anything
else in all the world. And here at her very feet he sat now in this
bright canoe on this clear July afternoon in this summery world--so new
and pleasing to her. And now he was laughing up at her so directly and
admiringly. Her girl friend was far in the rear somewhere looking for
daisies. Could she? Should she?
"I was seeing if there was any way to get out to any of them," she
continued a little nervously, a tremor almost revealing itself in her
voice. "I haven't seen any before just here on this side."
"I'll get you all you want," he exclaimed briskly and gayly. "You just
stay where you are. I'll bring them." But then, bethinking him of how
much more lovely it would be if she were to get in with him, he added:
"But see here--why don't you get in here with me? There's plenty of
room and I can take you anywhere you want to go. There's lots nicer
lilies up the lake here a little way and on the other side too. I saw
hundreds of them over there just beyond that island."
Roberta looked. And as she did, another canoe paddled by, holding a
youth of about Clyde's years and a girl no older than herself. She
wore a white dress and a pink hat and the canoe was green. And far
across the water at the point of the very island about which Clyde
was talking was another canoe--bright yellow with a boy and a girl in
that. She was thinking she would like to get in without her companion,
if possible--with her, if need be. She wanted so much to have him all
to herself. If she had only come out here alone. For if Grace Marr
were included, she would know and later talk, maybe, or think, if she
heard anything else in regard to them ever. And yet if she did not,
there was the fear that he might not like her any more--might even come
to dislike her or give up being interested in her, and that would be
dreadful.
She stood staring and thinking, and Clyde, troubled and pained by her
doubt on this occasion and his own loneliness and desire for her,
suddenly called: "Oh, please don't say no. Just get in, won't you?
You'll like it. I want you to. Then we can find all the lilies you
want. I can let you out anywhere you want to get out--in ten minutes if
you want to."
She marked the "I want you to." It soothed and strengthened her. He had
no desire to take any advantage of her as she could see.
"But I have my friend with me here," she exclaimed almost sadly and
dubiously, for she still wanted to go alone--never in her life had she
wanted any one less than Grace Marr at this moment. Why had she brought
her? She wasn't so very pretty and Clyde might not like her, and that
might spoil the occasion. "Besides," she added almost in the same
breath and with many thoughts fighting her, "maybe I'd better not. Is
it safe?"
"Oh, yes, but maybe you better had," laughed Clyde seeing that she was
yielding. "It's perfectly safe," he added eagerly. Then maneuvering the
canoe next to the bank, which was a foot above the water, and laying
hold of a root to hold it still, he said: "Of course you won't be in
any danger. Call your friend then, if you want to, and I'll row the
two of you. There's room for two and there are lots of water lilies
everywhere over there." He nodded toward the east side of the lake.
Roberta could no longer resist and seized an overhanging branch by
which to steady herself. At the same time she began to call: "Oh,
Gray-ace! Gray-ace! Where are you?" for she had at last decided that it
was best to include her.
A far-off voice as quickly answered: "Hello-o! What do you want?"
"Come up here. Come on. I got something I want to tell you."
"Oh, no, you come on down here. The daisies are just wonderful."
"No, you come on up here. There's some one here that wants to take
us boating." She intended to call this loudly, but somehow her voice
failed and her friend went on gathering flowers. Roberta frowned. She
did not know just what to do. "Oh, very well, then," she suddenly
decided, and straightening up added: "We can row down to where she is,
I guess."
And Clyde, delighted, exclaimed: "Oh, that's just fine. Sure. Do get
in. We'll pick these here first and then if she hasn't come, I'll
paddle down nearer to where she is. Just step square in the center and
that will balance it."
He was leaning back and looking up at her and Roberta was looking
nervously and yet warmly into his eyes. Actually it was as though she
were suddenly diffused with joy, enveloped in a rosy mist.
She balanced one foot. "Will it be perfectly safe?"
"Sure, sure," emphasized Clyde. "I'll hold it safe. Just take hold of
that branch there and steady yourself by that." He held the boat very
still as she stepped. Then, as the canoe careened slightly to one side,
she dropped to the cushioned seat with a little cry. It was like that
of a baby to Clyde.
"It's all right," he reassured her. "Just sit in the center there. It
won't tip over. Gee, but this is funny. I can't make it out quite. You
know just as I was coming around that point I was thinking of you--how
maybe you might like to come out to a place like this sometime. And now
here you are and here I am, and it all happened just like that." He
waved his hand and snapped his fingers.
And Roberta, fascinated by this confession and yet a little frightened
by it, added: "Is that so?" She was thinking of her own thoughts in
regard to him.
"Yes, and what's more," added Clyde, "I've been thinking of you all
day, really. That's the truth. I was wishing I might see you somewhere
this morning and bring you out here."
"Oh, now, Mr. Griffiths. You know you don't mean that," pleaded
Roberta, fearful lest this sudden contact should take too intimate and
sentimental a turn too quickly. She scarcely liked that because she was
afraid of him and herself, and now she looked at him, trying to appear
a little cold or at least disinterested, but it was a very weak effort.
"That's the truth, though, just the same," insisted Clyde.
"Well, I think it is beautiful myself," admitted Roberta. "I've been
out here, too, several times now. My friend and I." Clyde was once more
delighted. She was smiling now and full of wonder.
"Oh, have you?" he exclaimed, and there was more talk as to why he
liked to come out and how he had learned to swim here. "And to think I
turned in here and there you were on the bank, looking at those water
lilies. Wasn't that queer? I almost fell out of the boat. I don't think
I ever saw you look as pretty as you did just now standing there."
"Oh, now, Mr. Griffiths," again pleaded Roberta cautiously. "You
mustn't begin that way. I'll be afraid you're a dreadful flatterer.
I'll have to think you are if you say anything like that so quickly."
Clyde once more gazed at her weakly, and she smiled because she thought
he was more handsome than ever. But what would he think, she added to
herself, if she were to tell him that just before he came around that
point she was thinking of him too, and wishing that he were there with
her, and not Grace. And how they might sit and talk, and hold hands
perhaps. He might even put his arms around her waist, and she might
let him. That would be terrible, as some people here would see it, she
knew. And it would never do for him to know that--never. That would be
too intimate--too bold. But just the same it was so. Yet what would
these people here in Lycurgus think of her and him now if they should
see her, letting him paddle her about in this canoe! He a factory
manager and she an employee in his department. The conclusion! The
scandal, maybe, even. And yet Grace Marr was along--or soon would be.
And she could explain to her--surely. He was out rowing and knew her,
and why shouldn't he help her get some lilies if he wanted to? It was
almost unavoidable--this present situation, wasn't it?
Already Clyde had maneuvered the canoe around so that they were now
among the water lilies. And as he talked, having laid his paddle aside,
he had been reaching over and pulling them up, tossing them with their
long, wet stems at her feet as she lay reclining in the seat, one
hand over the side of the canoe in the water, as she had seen other
girls holding theirs. And for the moment her thoughts were allayed and
modified by the beauty of his head and arms and the tousled hair that
now fell over his eyes. How handsome he was!
CHAPTER XVI
The outcome of that afternoon was so wonderful for both that for days
thereafter neither could cease thinking about it or marveling that
anything so romantic and charming should have brought them together so
intimately when both were considering that it was not wise for either
to know the other any better than employee and superior.
After a few moments of badinage in the boat in which he had talked
about the beauty of the lilies and how glad he was to get them for
her, they picked up her friend, Grace, and eventually returned to the
boathouse.
Once on the land again there developed not a little hesitation on
her part as well as his as to how farther to proceed, for they were
confronted by the problem of returning into Lycurgus together. As
Roberta saw it, it would not look right and might create talk. And on
his part, he was thinking of Gilbert and other people he knew. The
trouble that might come of it. What Gilbert would say if he did hear.
And so both he and she, as well as Grace, were dubious on the instant
about the wisdom of riding back together. Grace's own reputation, as
well as the fact that she knew Clyde was not interested in her, piqued
her. And Roberta, realizing this from her manner, said: "What do you
think we had better do, excuse ourselves?"
At once Roberta tried to think just how they could extricate themselves
gracefully without offending Clyde. Personally she was so enchanted
that had she been alone she would have preferred to have ridden back
with him. But with Grace here and in this cautious mood, never. She
must think up some excuse.
And at the same time, Clyde was wondering just how he was to do
now--ride in with them and brazenly face the possibility of being seen
by some one who might carry the news to Gilbert Griffiths or evade
doing so on some pretext or other. He could think of none, however,
and was about to turn and accompany them to the car when the young
electrician, Shurlock, who lived in the Newton household and who had
been on the balcony of the pavilion, hailed them. He was with a friend
who had a small car, and they were ready to return to the city.
"Well, here's luck," he exclaimed. "How are you, Miss Alden? How do you
do, Miss Marr? You two don't happen to be going our way, do you? If
you are, we can take you in with us."
Not only Roberta but Clyde heard. And at once she was about to say
that, since it was a little late and she and Grace were scheduled to
attend church services with the Newtons, it would be more convenient
for them to return this way. She was, however, half hoping that
Shurlock would invite Clyde and that he would accept. But on his doing
so, Clyde instantly refused. He explained that he had decided to stay
out a little while longer. And so Roberta left him with a look that
conveyed clearly enough the gratitude and delight she felt. They had
had such a good time. And he in turn, in spite of many qualms as to the
wisdom of all this, fell to brooding on how sad it was that just he and
Roberta might not have remained here for hours longer. And immediately
after they had gone, he returned to the city alone.
The next morning he was keener than ever to see Roberta again. And
although the peculiarly exposed nature of the work at the factory made
it impossible for him to demonstrate his feelings, still by the swift
and admiring and seeking smiles that played over his face and blazed
in his eyes, she knew that he was as enthusiastic, if not more so, as
on the night before. And on her part, although she felt that a crisis
of some sort was impending, and in spite of the necessity of a form
of secrecy which she resented, she could not refrain from giving him
a warm and quite yielding glance in return. The wonder of his being
interested in her! The wonder and the thrill!
Clyde decided at once that his attentions were still welcome. Also
that he might risk saying something to her, supposing that a suitable
opportunity offered. And so, after waiting an hour and seeing two
fellow workers leave from either side of her, he seized the occasion
to drift near and to pick up one of the collars she had just stamped,
saying, as though talking about that: "I was awfully sorry to have to
leave you last night. I wish we were out there again to-day instead of
here, just you and me, don't you?"
Roberta turned, conscious that now was the time to decide whether
she would encourage or discourage any attention on his part. At the
same time she was almost faintingly eager to accept his attentions
regardless of the problem in connection with them. His eyes! His hair!
His hands! And then instead of rebuking or chilling him in any way,
she only looked, but with eyes too weak and melting to mean anything
less than yielding and uncertainty. Clyde saw that she was hopelessly
and helplessly drawn to him, as indeed he was to her. On the instant
he was resolved to say something more, when he could, as to where they
could meet when no one was along, for it was plain that she was no more
anxious to be observed than he was. He well knew more sharply to-day
than ever before that he was treading on dangerous ground.
He began to make mistakes in his calculations, to feel that, with her
so near him, he was by no means concentrating on the various tasks
before him. She was too enticing, too compelling in so many ways to
him. There was something so warm and gay and welcome about her that he
felt that if he could persuade her to love him he would be among the
most fortunate of men. Yet there was that rule, and although on the
lake the day before he had been deciding that his position here was by
no means as satisfactory as it should be, still with Roberta in it, as
now it seemed she well might be, would it not be much more delightful
for him to stay? Could he not, for the time being at least, endure the
further indifference of the Griffiths? And who knows, might they not
yet become interested in him as a suitable social figure if only he did
nothing to offend them? And yet here he was attempting to do exactly
the thing he had been forbidden to do. What kind of an injunction was
this, anyhow, wherewith Gilbert had enjoined him? If he could come
to some understanding with her, perhaps she would meet him in some
clandestine way and thus obviate all possibility of criticism.
It was thus that Clyde, seated at his desk or walking about, was
thinking. For now his mind, even in the face of his duties, was almost
entirely engaged by her, and he could think of nothing else. He had
decided to suggest that they meet for the first time, if she would, in
a small park which was just west of the first outlying resort on the
Mohawk. But throughout the day, so close to each other did the girls
work, he had no opportunity to communicate with her. Indeed noontime
came and he went below to his lunch, returning a little early in the
hope of finding her sufficiently detached to permit him to whisper that
he wished to see her somewhere. But she was surrounded by others at the
time and so the entire afternoon went by without a single opportunity.
However, as he was going out, he bethought him that if he should chance
to meet her alone somewhere in the street, he would venture to speak
to her. For she wanted him to--that he knew, regardless of what she
might say at any time. And he must find some way that would appear
as accidental and hence as innocent to her as to others. But as the
whistle blew and she left the building she was joined by another girl,
and he was left to think of some other way.
That same evening, however, instead of lingering about the Peyton
house or going to a moving picture theater, as he so often did now, or
walking alone somewhere in order to allay his unrest and loneliness, he
chose now instead to seek out the home of Roberta on Taylor Street. It
was not a pleasing house, as he now decided, not nearly so attractive
as Mrs. Cuppy's or the house in which he now dwelt. It was too old
and brown, the neighborhood too nondescript, if conservative. But the
lights in different rooms glowing at this early hour gave it a friendly
and genial look. And the few trees in front were pleasant. What was
Roberta doing now? Why couldn't she have waited for him in the factory?
Why couldn't she sense now that he was outside and come out? He wished
intensely that in some way he could make her feel that he was out here,
and so cause her to come out. But she didn't. On the contrary, he
observed Mr. Shurlock issue forth and disappear toward Central Avenue.
And, after that, pedestrian after pedestrian making their way out of
different houses along the street and toward Central, which caused him
to walk briskly about the block in order to avoid being seen. At the
same time he sighed often, because it was such a fine night--a full
moon rising about nine-thirty and hanging heavy and yellow over the
chimney tops. He was so lonely.
But at ten, the moon becoming too bright, and no Roberta appearing,
he decided to leave. It was not wise to be hanging about here. But
the night being so fine he resented the thought of his room and
instead walked up and down Wykeagy Avenue, looking at the fine houses
there--his uncle Samuel's among them. Now, all their occupants were
away at their summer places. The houses were dark. And Sondra Finchley
and Bertine Cranston and all that company--what were they doing on a
night like this? Where dancing? Where speeding? Where loving? It was so
hard to be poor, not to have money and position and to be able to do in
life exactly as you wished.
And the next morning, more eager than usual, he was out of Mrs.
Peyton's by six-forty-five, anxious to find some way of renewing his
attentions to Roberta. For there was that crowd of factory workers that
proceeded north along Central Avenue. And she would be a unit in it,
of course, at about 7.10. But his trip to the factory was fruitless.
For, after swallowing a cup of coffee at one of the small restaurants
near the post-office and walking the length of Central Avenue toward
the mill, and pausing at a cigar store to see if Roberta should by
any chance come along alone, he was rewarded by the sight of her with
Grace Marr again. What a wretched, crazy world this was, he at once
decided, and how difficult it was in this miserable town for anyone to
meet anyone else alone. Everyone, nearly, knew everyone else. Besides,
Roberta knew that he was trying to get a chance to talk to her. Why
shouldn't she walk alone then? He had looked at her enough yesterday.
And yet here she was walking with Grace Marr and appeared seemingly
contented. What was the matter with her anyhow?
By the time he reached the factory he was very sour. But the sight of
Roberta taking her place at her bench and tossing him a genial "good
morning" with a cheerful smile, caused him to feel better and that all
was not lost.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon and a lull due to the afternoon
heat, the fag of steadily continued work, and the flare of reflected
light from the river outside was over all. The tap, tap, tap of
metal stamps upon scores of collars at once--nearly always slightly
audible above the hum and whirr of the sewing machines beyond was,
if anything, weaker than usual. And there was Ruza Nikoforitch, Hoda
Petkanas, Martha Bordaloue, Angelina Pitti and Lena Schlict, all
joining in a song called "Sweethearts" which some one had started. And
Roberta, perpetually conscious of Clyde's eyes, as well as his mood,
was thinking how long it would be before he would come around with
some word in regard to something. For she wished him to--and because
of his whispered words of the day before, she was sure that it would
not be long, because he would not be able to resist it. His eyes the
night before had told her that. Yet because of the impediments of this
situation she knew that he must be having a difficult time thinking of
any way by which he could say anything to her. And still at certain
moments she was glad, for there were such moments when she felt she
needed the security which the presence of so many girls gave her.
And as she thought of all this, stamping at her desk along with the
others, she suddenly discovered that a bundle of collars which she had
already stamped as sixteens were not of that size but smaller. She
looked at it quickly and nervously, then decided that there was but one
thing to do--lay the bundle aside and await comment from one of the
foremen, including Clyde, or take it directly to him now--really the
better way, because it prevented any of the foremen seeing it before
he did. That was what all the girls did when they made mistakes of any
kind. And all trained girls were supposed to catch all possible errors
of that kind.
And yet now and in the face of all her very urgent desires she
hesitated, for this would take her direct to Clyde and give him the
opportunity he was seeking. But, more terrifying, it was giving her
the opportunity she was seeking. She wavered between loyalty to Clyde
as a superintendent, loyalty to her old conventions as opposed to her
new and dominating desire and her repressed wish to have Clyde speak to
her--then went over with the bundle and laid it on his desk. But her
hands, as she did so, trembled. Her face was white--her throat taut. At
the moment, as it chanced, he was almost vainly trying to calculate the
scores of the different girls from the stubs laid before him, and was
having a hard time of it because his mind was not on what he was doing.
And then he looked up. And there was Roberta bending toward him. His
nerves became very taut, his throat and lips dry, for here and now was
his opportunity. And, as he could see, Roberta was almost suffocating
from the strain which her daring and self-deception was putting upon
her nerves and heart.
"There's been a distake" (she meant to say mistake) "in regard to this
bundle upstairs," she began. "I didn't notice it either until I'd
stamped nearly all of them. They're fifteen-and-a-half and I've stamped
nearly all of them sixteen. I'm sorry."
Clyde noticed, as she said this, that she was trying to smile a little
and appear calm, but her cheeks were quite blanched and her hand,
particularly the one that held the bundle, trembled. On the instant
he realized that although loyalty and order were bringing her with
this mistake to him, still there was more than that to it. In a weak,
frightened, and yet love-driven way, she was courting him, giving
him the opportunity he was seeking, wishing him to take advantage
of it. And he, embarrassed and shaken for the moment by this sudden
visitation, was still heartened and hardened into a kind of effrontery
and gallantry such as he had not felt as yet in regard to her. She was
seeking him--that was plain. She was interested, and clever enough
to make the occasion which permitted him to speak. Wonderful! The
sweetness of her daring.
"Oh, that's all right," he said, pretending a courage and a daring in
regard to her which he did not feel even now. "I'll just send them down
to the wash room and then we'll see if we can't restamp them. It's not
our mistake, really."
He smiled most warmly and she met his look with a repressed smile
of her own, already turning and fearing that she had manifested too
clearly what had brought her.
"But don't go," he added quickly. "I want to ask you something. I've
been trying to get a word with you ever since Sunday. I want you to
meet me somewhere, will you? There's a rule here that says a head
of a department can't have anything to do with a girl who works for
him--outside I mean. But I want you to see me just the same, won't you?
You know," and he smiled winsomely and coaxingly into her eyes, "I've
been just nearly crazy over you ever since you came in here and Sunday
made it worse. And now I'm not going to let any old rule come between
me and you, if I can help it. Will you?"
"Oh, I don't know whether I can do that or not," replied Roberta,
who, now that she had succeeded in accomplishing what she had wished,
was becoming terrorized by her own daring. She began looking around
nervously and feeling that every eye in the room must be upon her. "I
live with Mr. and Mrs. Newton, my friend's sister and brother-in-law,
you know, and they're very strict. It isn't the same as if--" She was
going to add "I was home" but Clyde interrupted her.
"Oh, now please don't say no, will you? Please don't. I want to see
you. I don't want to cause you any trouble, that's all. Otherwise I'd
be glad to come round to your house. You know how it is."
"Oh, no, you mustn't do that," cautioned Roberta. "Not yet anyhow."
She was so confused that quite unconsciously she was giving Clyde to
understand that she was expecting him to come around some time later.
"Well," smiled Clyde, who could see that she was yielding in part.
"We could just walk out near the end of some street here--that street
you live in, if you wish. There are no houses out there. Or there's a
little park--Mohawk--just west of Dreamland on the Mohawk Street line.
It's right on the river. You might come out there. I could meet you
where the car stops. Will you do that?"
"Oh, I'd be afraid to do that I think--go so far, I mean. I never did
anything like that before." She looked so innocent and frank as she
said this that Clyde was quite carried away by the sweetness of her.
And to think he was making a clandestine appointment with her. "I'm
almost afraid to go anywhere here alone, you know. People talk so here,
they say, and some one would be sure to see me. But----"
"Yes, but what?"
"I'm afraid I'm staying too long at your desk here, don't you think?"
She actually gasped as she said it. And Clyde realizing the openness of
it, although there was really nothing very unusual about it, now spoke
quickly and forcefully.
"Well, then, how about the end of that street you live in? Couldn't you
come down there for just a little while to-night--a half hour or so,
maybe?"
"Oh, I couldn't make it to-night, I think--not so soon. I'll have to
see first, you know. Arrange, that is. But another day." She was so
excited and troubled by this great adventure of hers that her face,
like Clyde's at times, changed from a half smile to a half frown
without her realizing that it was registering these changes.
"Well, then, how about Wednesday night at eight-thirty or nine?
Couldn't you do that? Please, now."
Roberta considered most sweetly, nervously. Clyde was enormously
fascinated by her manner at the moment, for she looked around,
conscious, or so she seemed, that she was being observed and that her
stay here for a first visit was very long.
"I suppose I'd better be going back to my work now," she replied
without really answering him.
"Wait a minute," pled Clyde. "We haven't fixed on the time for
Wednesday. Aren't you going to meet me? Make it nine or eight-thirty,
or any time you want to. I'll be there waiting for you after eight if
you wish. Will you?"
"All right, then, say eight-thirty or between eight-thirty and nine, if
I can. Is that all right? I'll come if I can, you know, and if anything
does happen I'll tell you the next morning, you see." She flushed and
then looked around once more, a foolish, flustered look, then hurried
back to her bench, fairly tingling from head to toe, and looking as
guilty as though she had been caught red-handed in some dreadful crime.
And Clyde at his desk was almost choking with excitement. The wonder of
her agreeing, of his talking to her like that, of her venturing to make
a date with him at all here in Lycurgus, where he was so well-known!
Thrilling!
For her part, she was thinking how wonderful it would be just to walk
and talk with him in the moonlight, to feel the pressure of his arm and
hear his soft appealing voice.
CHAPTER XVII
It was quite dark when Roberta stole out on Wednesday night to meet
Clyde. But before that what qualms and meditations in the face of her
willingness and her agreement to do so. For not only was it difficult
for her to overcome her own mental scruples within, but in addition
there was all the trouble in connection with the commonplace and
religious and narrow atmosphere in which she found herself imbedded
at the Newtons. For since coming here she had scarcely gone anywhere
without Grace Marr. Besides on this occasion--a thing she had forgotten
in talking to Clyde--she had agreed to go with the Newtons and Grace to
the Gideon Baptist Church, where a Wednesday prayer meeting was to be
followed by a social with games, cake, tea and ice cream.
In consequence she was troubled severely as to how to manage, until it
came back to her that a day or two before Mr. Liggett, in noting how
rapid and efficient she was, had observed that at any time she wanted
to learn one phase of the stitching operations going on in the next
room, he would have her taken in hand by Mrs. Braley, who would teach
her. And now that Clyde's invitation and this church affair fell on the
same night, she decided to say that she had an appointment with Mrs.
Braley at her home. Only, as she also decided, she would wait until
just before dinner Wednesday and then say that Mrs. Braley had invited
her to come to her house. Then she could see Clyde. And by the time the
Newtons and Grace returned she could be back. Oh, how it would feel to
have him talk to her--say again as he did in the boat that he never had
seen any one look so pretty as she did standing on the bank and looking
for water lilies. Many, many thoughts--vague, dreadful, colorful, came
to her--how and where they might go--be--do--from now on, if only she
could arrange to be friends with him without harm to her or him. If
need be, she now decided, she could resign from the factory and get
a place somewhere else--a change which would absolve Clyde from any
responsibility in regard to her.
There was, however, another mental as well as emotional phase in
regard to all this and that related to her clothes. For since coming
to Lycurgus she had learned that the more intelligent girls here
dressed better than did those about Biltz and Trippetts Mills. At the
same time she had been sending a fair portion of her money to her
mother--sufficient to have equipped her exceptionally well, as she
now realized, had she retained it. But now that Clyde was swaying her
so greatly she was troubled about her looks, and on the evening after
her conversation with him at the mill, she had gone through her small
wardrobe, fixing upon a soft blue hat which Clyde had not yet seen,
together with a checkered blue and white flannel skirt and a pair of
white canvas shoes purchased the previous summer at Biltz. Her plan was
to wait until the Newtons and Grace had departed for church and then
swiftly dress and leave.
At eight-thirty, when night had finally fallen, she went east along
Taylor to Central Avenue, then by a circuitous route made her way west
again to the trysting place. And Clyde was already there. Against an
old wooden fence that enclosed a five-acre cornfield, he was leaning
and looking back toward the interesting little city, the lights in so
many of the homes of which were aglow through the trees. The air was
laden with spices--the mingled fragrance of many grasses and flowers.
There was a light wind stirring in the long swords of the corn at his
back--in the leaves of the trees overhead. And there were stars--the
big dipper and the little dipper and the milky way--sidereal phenomena
which his mother had pointed out to him long ago.
And he was thinking how different was his position here to what it had
been in Kansas City. There he had been so nervous in regard to Hortense
Briggs or any girl, really--afraid almost to say a word to any of them.
Whereas here, and especially since he had had charge of this stamping
room, he had seemed to become aware of the fact that he was more
attractive than he had ever thought he was before. Also that the girls
were attracted to him and that he was not so much afraid of them. The
eyes of Roberta herself showed him this day how much she was drawn to
him. She was his girl. And when she came, he would put his arms around
her and kiss her. And she would not be able to resist him.
He stood listening, dreaming and watching, the rustling corn behind him
stirring an old recollection in him, when suddenly he saw her coming.
She looked trim and brisk and yet nervous, and paused at the street end
and looked about like a frightened and cautious animal. At once Clyde
hurried forward toward her and called softly: "Hello. Gee, it's nice to
have you meet me. Did you have any trouble?" He was thinking how much
more pleasing she was than either Hortense Briggs or Rita Dickerman,
the one so calculating, the other so sensually free and indiscriminate.
"Did I have any trouble? Oh, didn't I though?" And at once she plunged
into a full and picturesque account, not only of the mistake in regard
to the Newtons' church night and her engagement with them, but of a
determination on the part of Grace Marr not to go to the church social
without her, and how she had to fib, oh, so terribly, about going over
to Mrs. Braley's to learn to stitch--a Liggett-Roberta development
of which Clyde had heard nothing so far and concerning which he was
intensely curious, because at once it raised the thought that already
Liggett might be intending to remove her from under his care. He
proceeded to question her about that before he would let her go on with
her story, an interest which Roberta noticed and because of which she
was very pleased.
"But I can't stay very long, you know," she explained briskly and
warmly at the first opportunity, the while Clyde laid hold of her arm
and turned toward the river, which was to the north and untenanted this
far out. "The Baptist Church socials never last much beyond ten-thirty
or eleven, and they'll be back soon. So I'll have to manage to be back
before they are."
Then she gave many reasons why it would be unwise for her to be out
after ten, reasons which annoyed yet convinced Clyde by their wisdom.
He had been hoping to keep her out longer. But seeing that the time
was to be brief, he was all the keener for a closer contact with her
now, and fell to complimenting her on her pretty hat and cape and
how becoming they were. At once he tried putting his arm about her
waist, but feeling this to be a too swift advance she removed his
arm, or tried to, saying in the softest and most coaxing voice "Now,
now--that's not nice, is it? Can't you just hold my arm or let me
hold yours?" But he noted, once she persuaded him to disengage her
waist, she took his arm in a clinging, snuggling embrace and measured
her stride to his. On the instant he was thinking how natural and
unaffected her manner was now that the ice between them had been broken.
And how she went on babbling! She liked Lycurgus, only she thought it
was the most religious town she had ever been in--worse than Biltz or
Trippetts Mills that way. And then she had to explain to Clyde what
Biltz and Trippetts Mills were like--and her home--a very little, for
she did not care to talk about that. And then back to the Newtons and
Grace Marr and how they watched her every move. Clyde was thinking as
she talked how different she was from Hortense Briggs or Rita, or any
other girl he had ever known--so much more simple and confiding--not
in any way mushy as was Rita, or brash or vain or pretentious, as was
Hortense, and yet really as pretty and so much sweeter. He could not
help thinking if she were smartly dressed how sweet she would be. And
again he was wondering what she would think of him and his attitude
toward Hortense in contrast to his attitude toward her now, if she knew.
"You know," he said at the very first opportunity, "I've been trying to
talk to you ever since you came to work at the factory but you see how
very watchful every one is. They're the limit. They told me when I came
up there that I mustn't interest myself in any girl working there and
so I tried not to. But I just couldn't help this, could I?" He squeezed
her arm affectionately, then stopped suddenly and, disengaging his arm
from hers, put both his about her. "You know, Roberta, I'm crazy about
you. I really am. I think you're the dearest, sweetest thing. Oh, say!
Do you mind my telling you? Ever since you showed up there, I haven't
been able to sleep, nearly. That's the truth--honest it is. I think
and think of you. You've got such nice eyes and hair. To-night you
look just too cute--lovely, I think. Oh, Roberta," suddenly he caught
her face between his two hands and kissed her, before really she could
evade him. Then having done this he held her while she resisted him,
although it was almost impossible for her to do so. Instead she felt
as though she wanted to put her arms around him or have him hold her
tight, and this mood in regard to him and herself puzzled and troubled
her. It was awful. What would people think--say--if they knew? She was
a bad girl, really, and yet she wanted to be this way--near him--now as
never before.
"Oh, you mustn't, Mr. Griffiths," she pleaded. "You really mustn't, you
know. Please. Some one might see us. I think I hear some one coming.
Please, now." She looked about quite frightened, apparently, while
Clyde laughed ecstatically. Life had presented him a delicious sweet at
last. "You know I never did anything like this before," she went on.
"Honest, I didn't. Please. It's only because you said----"
Clyde was pressing her close, not saying anything in reply--his pale
face and dark hungry eyes held very close to hers. He kissed her again
and again despite her protests, her little mouth and chin and cheeks
seeming too beautiful--too irresistible--then murmured pleadingly, for
he was too overcome to speak vigorously.
"Oh, Roberta, dearest, please, please, say that you love me. Please
do! I know that you do, Roberta. I can tell. Please, tell me now. I'm
so crazy about you. We have so little time."
He kissed her again upon the cheek and mouth, and suddenly he felt her
relax. She stood quite still and unresisting in his arms. He felt a
wonder of something--he could not tell what. All of a sudden he felt
tears upon her face, her head sunk to his shoulder, and then he heard
her say: "Yes, yes, yes. I do love you. Yes, yes. I do. I do."
There was a sob--half of misery, half of delight--in her voice and
Clyde caught that. He was so touched by her honesty and simplicity that
tears sprang to his own eyes. "It's all right, Roberta. It's all right.
Please don't cry. Oh, I think you're so sweet. I do. I do, Roberta."
He looked up and before him in the east over the low roofs of the city
was the thinnest, yellowest topmost arc of the rising July moon. It
seemed at the moment as though life had given him all--all--that he
could possibly ask of it.
CHAPTER XVIII
The culmination of this meeting was but the prelude, as both Clyde
and Roberta realized, to a series of contacts and rejoicings which
were to extend over an indefinite period. They had found love. They
were deliciously happy, whatever the problems attending its present
realization might be. But the ways and means of continuing with it were
a different matter. For not only was her connection with the Newtons
a bar to any normal procedure in so far as Clyde was concerned, but
Grace Marr herself offered a distinct and separate problem. Far more
than Roberta she was chained, not only by the defect of poor looks,
but by the narrow teachings and domestic training of her early social
and religious life. Yet she wanted to be gay and free, too. And in
Roberta, who, while gay and boastful at times, was still well within
the conventions that chained Grace, she imagined that she saw one who
was not so bound. And so it was that she clung to her closely and as
Roberta saw it a little wearisomely. She imagined that they could
exchange ideas and jests and confidences in regard to the love life and
their respective dreams without injury to each other. And to date this
was her one solace in an otherwise gray world.
But Roberta, even before the arrival of Clyde in her life, did not
want to be so clung to. It was a bore. And afterwards she developed an
inhibition in regard to him where Grace was concerned. For she not only
knew that Grace would resent this sudden desertion, but also that she
had no desire to face out within herself the sudden and revolutionary
moods which now possessed her. Having at once met and loved him, she
was afraid to think what, if anything, she proposed to permit herself
to do in regard to him. Were not such contacts between the classes
banned here? She knew they were. Hence she did not care to talk about
him at all.
In consequence on Monday evening following the Sunday on the lake when
Grace had inquired most gayly and familiarly after Clyde, Roberta had
as instantly decided not to appear nearly as interested in him as Grace
might already be imagining. Accordingly, she said little other than
that he was very pleasant to her and had inquired after Grace, a remark
which caused the latter to eye her slyly and to wonder if she were
really telling what had happened since. "He was so very friendly I was
beginning to think he was struck on you."
"Oh, what nonsense!" Roberta replied shrewdly, and a bit alarmed. "Why,
he wouldn't look at me. Besides, there's a rule of the company that
doesn't permit him to, as long as I work there."
This last, more than anything else, served to allay Grace's notions in
regard to Clyde and Roberta, for she was of that conventional turn of
mind which would scarcely permit her to think of any one infringing
upon a company rule. Nevertheless Roberta was nervous lest Grace should
be associating her and Clyde in her mind in some clandestine way,
and she decided to be doubly cautious in regard to Clyde--to feign a
distance she did not feel.
But all this was preliminary to troubles and strains and fears which
had nothing to do with what had gone before, but took their rise from
difficulties which sprang up immediately afterwards. For once she had
come to this complete emotional understanding with Clyde, she saw no
way of meeting him except in this very clandestine way and that so very
rarely and uncertainly that she could not say when there was likely to
be another meeting.
"You see, it's this way," she explained to Clyde when, a few evenings
later, she had managed to steal out for an hour and they walked from
the region at the end of Taylor Street down to the Mohawk, where were
some open fields and a low bank rising above the pleasant river. "The
Newtons never go any place much without inviting me. And even if they
didn't, Grace'd never go unless I went along. It's just because we were
together so much in Trippetts Mills that she feels that way, as though
I were a part of the family. But now it's different, and yet I don't
see how I am going to get out of it so soon. I don't know where to say
I'm going or whom I am going with."
"I know that, honey," he replied softly and sweetly. "That's all true
enough. But how is that going to help us now? You can't expect me to
get along with just looking at you in the factory, either, can you?"
He gazed at her so solemnly and yearningly that she was moved by her
sympathy for him, and in order to assuage his depression added: "No,
I don't want you to do that, dear. You know I don't. But what am I to
do?" She laid a soft and pleading hand on the back of one of Clyde's
thin, long and nervous ones.
"I'll tell you what, though," she went on after a period of
reflection, "I have a sister living in Homer, New York. That's about
thirty-five miles north of here. I might say I was going up there some
Saturday afternoon or Sunday. She's been writing me to come up, but I
hadn't thought of it before. But I might go--that is--I might----"
"Oh, why not do that?" exclaimed Clyde eagerly. "That's fine! A good
idea!"
"Let me see," she added, ignoring his exclamation. "If I remember right
you have to go to Fonda first, then change cars there. But I could
leave here any time on the trolley and there are only two trains a day
from Fonda, one at two, and one at seven on Saturday. So I might leave
here any time before two, you see, and then if I didn't make the two
o'clock train, it would be all right, wouldn't it? I could go on the
seven. And you could be over there, or meet me on the way, just so no
one here saw us. Then I could go on and you could come back. I could
arrange that with Agnes, I'm sure. I would have to write her."
"How about all the time between then and now, though?" he queried
peevishly. "It's a long time till then, you know."
"Well, I'll have to see what I can think of, but I'm not sure, dear.
I'll have to see. And you think too. But I ought to be going back now,"
she added nervously. She at once arose, causing Clyde to rise, too, and
consult his watch, thereby discovering that it was already near ten.
"But what about us!" he continued persistently. "Why couldn't you
pretend next Sunday that you're going to some other church than yours
and meet me somewhere instead? Would they have to know?"
At once Clyde noted Roberta's face darken slightly, for here he was
encroaching upon something that was still too closely identified with
her early youth and convictions to permit infringement.
"Hump, uh," she replied quite solemnly. "I wouldn't want to do that. I
wouldn't feel right about it. And it wouldn't be right, either."
Immediately Clyde sensed that he was treading on dangerous ground and
withdrew the suggestion because he did not care to offend or frighten
her in any way. "Oh, well. Just as you say. I only thought since you
don't seem to be able to think of any other way."
"No, no, dear," she pleaded softly, because she noted that he felt that
she might be offended. "It's all right, only I wouldn't want to do
that. I couldn't."
Clyde shook his head. A recollection of his own youthful inhibitions
caused him to feel that perhaps it was not right for him to have
suggested it.
They returned in the direction of Taylor Street without, apart from the
proposed trip to Fonda, either having hit upon any definite solution.
Instead, after kissing her again and again and just before letting her
go, the best he could suggest was that both were to try and think of
some way by which they could meet before, if possible. And she, after
throwing her arms about his neck for a moment, ran east along Taylor
Street, her little figure swaying in the moonlight.
However, apart from another evening meeting which was made possible by
Roberta's announcing a second engagement with Mrs. Braley, there was no
other encounter until the following Saturday when Roberta departed for
Fonda. And Clyde, having ascertained the exact hour, left by the car
ahead, and joined Roberta at the first station west. From that point on
until evening, when she was compelled to take the seven o'clock train,
they were unspeakably happy together, loitering near the little city
comparatively strange to both.
For outside of Fonda a few miles they came to a pleasure park called
Starlight where, in addition to a few clap-trap pleasure concessions
such as a ring of captive aeroplanes, a Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round,
an old mill and a dance floor, was a small lake with boats. It was
after its fashion an idyllic spot with a little band-stand out on an
island near the center of the lake and on the shore a grave and captive
bear in a cage. Since coming to Lycurgus Roberta had not ventured to
visit any of the rougher resorts near there, which were very much like
this, only much more strident. On sight of this both exclaimed: "Oh,
look!" And Clyde added at once: "Let's get off here, will you--shall
we? What do you say? We're almost to Fonda anyhow. And we can have more
fun here."
At once they climbed down. And having disposed of her bag for the
time being, he led the way first to the stand of a man who sold
frankfurters. Then, since the merry-go-round was in full blast, nothing
would do but that Roberta should ride with him. And in the gayest of
moods, they climbed on, and he placed her on a zebra, and then stood
close in order that he might keep his arm about her, and both try to
catch the brass ring. And as commonplace and noisy and gaudy as it all
was, the fact that at last he had her all to himself unseen, and she
him, was sufficient to evoke in both a kind of ecstasy which was all
out of proportion to the fragile, gimcrack scene. Round and round they
spun on the noisy, grinding machine, surveying now a few idle pleasure
seekers who were in boats upon the lake, now some who were flying round
in the gaudy green and white captive aeroplanes or turning upward and
then down in the suspended cages of the Ferris wheel.
Both looked at the woods and sky beyond the lake; the idlers and
dancers in the dancing pavilion dreaming and thrilling, and then
suddenly Clyde asked: "You dance, don't you, Roberta?"
"Why, no, I don't," she replied, a little sadly, for at the very moment
she had been looking at the happy dancers rather ruefully and thinking
how unfortunate it was that she had never been allowed to dance.
It might not be right or nice, perhaps--her own church said it was
not--but still, now that they were here and in love like this--these
others looked so gay and happy--a pretty medley of colors moving round
and round in the green and brown frame--it did not seem so bad to her.
Why shouldn't people dance, anyway? Girls like herself and boys like
Clyde? Her younger brother and sister, in spite of the views of her
parents, were already declaring that when the opportunity offered, they
were going to learn.
"Oh, isn't that too bad!" he exclaimed, thinking how delightful it
would be to hold Roberta in his arms. "We could have such fun now if
you could. I could teach you in a few minutes if you wanted me to."
"I don't know about that," she replied quizzically, her eyes showing
that his suggestion appealed to her. "I'm not so clever that way.
And you know dancing isn't considered so very nice in my part of the
country. And my church doesn't approve of it, either. And I know my
parents wouldn't like me to."
"Oh, shucks," replied Clyde foolishly and gayly, "what nonsense,
Roberta. Why, everybody dances these days or nearly everybody. How can
you think there's anything wrong with it?"
"Oh, I know," replied Roberta oddly and quaintly, "maybe they do in
your set. I know most of those factory girls do, of course. And I
suppose where you have money and position, everything's right. But with
a girl like me, it's different. I don't suppose your parents were as
strict as mine, either."
"Oh, weren't they, though?" laughed Clyde who had not failed to catch
the "your set"; also the "where you have money and position."
"Well, that's all you know about it," he went on. "They were as
strict as yours and stricter, I'll bet. But I danced just the same.
Why, there's no harm in it, Roberta. Come on, let me teach you. It's
wonderful, really. Won't you, dearest?"
He put his arm around her and looked into her eyes and she half
relented, quite weakened by her desire for him.
Just then the merry-go-round stopped and without any plan or suggestion
they seemed instinctively to drift to the side of the pavilion where
the dancers--not many but avid--were moving briskly around. Fox-trots
and one-steps were being supplied by an orchestrelle of considerable
size. At a turnstile, all the remaining portions of the pavilion
being screened in, a pretty concessionaire was sitting and taking
tickets--ten cents per dance per couple. But the color and the music
and the motions of the dancers gliding rhythmically here and there
quite seized upon both Clyde and Roberta.
The orchestrelle stopped and the dancers were coming out. But no sooner
were they out than five-cent admission checks were once more sold for
the new dance.
"I don't believe I can," pleaded Roberta, as Clyde led her to the
ticket-stile. "I'm afraid I'm too awkward, maybe. I never danced, you
know."
"You awkward, Roberta," he exclaimed. "Oh, how crazy. Why, you're as
graceful and pretty as you can be. You'll see. You'll be a wonderful
dancer."
Already he had paid the coin and they were inside.
Carried away by a bravado which was three-fourths her conception of
him as a member of the Lycurgus upper crust and possessor of means and
position, he led the way into a corner and began at once to illustrate
the respective movements. They were not difficult and for a girl of
Roberta's natural grace and zest, easy. Once the music started and
Clyde drew her to him, she fell into the positions and steps without
effort, and they moved rhythmically and instinctively together. It was
the delightful sensation of being held by him and guided here and there
that so appealed to her--the wonderful rhythm of his body coinciding
with hers.
"Oh, you darling," he whispered. "Aren't you the dandy little dancer,
though. You've caught on already. If you aren't the wonderful kid. I
can hardly believe it."
They went about the floor once more, then a third time, before the
music stopped and by the time it did, Roberta was lost in a sense of
delight such as had never come to her before. To think she had been
dancing! And it should be so wonderful! And with Clyde! He was so slim,
graceful--quite the handsomest of any of the young men on the floor,
she thought. And he, in turn, was now thinking that never had he known
any one as sweet as Roberta. She was so gay and winsome and yielding.
She would not try to work him for anything. And as for Sondra Finchley,
well, she had ignored him and he might as well dismiss her from his
mind--and yet even here, and with Roberta, he could not quite forget
her.
At five-thirty when the orchestrelle was silenced for lack of customers
and a sign reading "Next Concert 7.30" hung up, they were still
dancing. After that they went for an ice-cream soda, then for something
to eat, and by then, so swiftly had sped the time, it was necessary to
take the very next car for the depot at Fonda.
As they neared this terminal, both Clyde and Roberta were full of
schemes as to how they were to arrange for to-morrow. For Roberta would
be coming back then and if she could arrange to leave her sister's a
little early Sunday he could come over from Lycurgus to meet her. They
could linger around Fonda until eleven at least, when the last train
south from Homer was due. And pretending she had arrived on that they
could then, assuming there was no one whom they knew on the Lycurgus
car, journey to that city.
And as arranged so they met. And in the dark outlying streets of
that city, walked and talked and planned, and Roberta told Clyde
something--though not much--of her home life at Biltz.
But the great thing, apart from their love for each other and its
immediate expression in kisses and embraces, was the how and where of
further contacts. They must find some way, only, really, as Roberta
saw it, she must be the one to find the way, and that soon. For
while Clyde was obviously very impatient and eager to be with her
as much as possible, still he did not appear to be very ready with
suggestions--available ones.
But that, as she also saw, was not easy. For the possibility of another
visit to her sister in Homer or her parents in Biltz was not even to be
considered under a month. And apart from them what other excuses were
there? New friends at the factory--the post-office--the library--the Y.
W. C. A.--all suggestions of Clyde's at the moment. But these spelled
but an hour or two together at best, and Clyde was thinking of other
week-ends like this. And there were so few remaining summer week-ends.
CHAPTER XIX
The return of Roberta and Clyde, as well as their outing together,
was quite unobserved, as they thought. On the car from Fonda they
recognized no one. And at the Newtons' Grace was already in bed. She
merely awakened sufficiently to ask a few questions about the trip--and
those were casual and indifferent. How was Roberta's sister? Had she
stayed all day in Homer or had she gone to Biltz or Trippetts Mills?
(Roberta explained that she had remained at her sister's.) She herself
must be going up pretty soon to see her parents at Trippetts Mills.
Then she fell asleep.
But at dinner the next night the Misses Opal Feliss and Olive Pope, who
had been kept from the breakfast table by a too late return from Fonda
and the very region in which Roberta had spent Saturday afternoon,
now seated themselves and at once, as Roberta entered, interjected a
few genial and well-meant but, in so far as Roberta was concerned,
decidedly troubling observations.
"Oh, there you are! Look who's back from Starlight Park. Howja like the
dancing over there, Miss Alden? We saw you, but you didn't see us." And
before Roberta had time to think what to reply, Miss Feliss had added:
"We tried to get your eye, but you couldn't see any one but him, I
guess. I'll say you dance swell."
At once Roberta, who had never been on very intimate terms with
either of these girls and who had neither the effrontery nor the wit
to extricate herself from so swift and complete and so unexpected
an exposure, flushed. She was all but speechless and merely stared,
bethinking her at once that she had explained to Grace that she was
at her sister's all day. And opposite sat Grace, looking directly at
her, her lips slightly parted as though she would exclaim: "Well, of
all things! And dancing! A man!" And at the head of the table, George
Newton, thin and meticulous and curious, his sharp eyes and nose and
pointed chin now turned in her direction.
But on the instant, realizing that she must say something, Roberta
replied: "Oh, yes, that's so. I did go over there for a little while.
Some friends of my sister's were coming over and I went with them."
She was about to add, "We didn't stay very long," but stopped herself.
For at that moment a certain fighting quality which she had inherited
from her mother, and which had asserted itself in the case of Grace
before this, now came to her rescue. After all, why shouldn't she be at
Starlight Park if she chose? And what right had the Newtons or Grace or
anyone else to question her for that matter? She was paying her way.
Nevertheless, as she realized, she had been caught in a deliberate lie
and all because she lived here and was constantly being questioned
and looked after in regard to her very least move. Miss Pope added
curiously, "I don't suppose he's a Lycurgus boy. I don't remember ever
seeing him around here."
"No, he isn't from here," returned Roberta shortly and coldly, for
by now she was fairly quivering with the realization that she had
been caught in a falsehood before Grace. Also that Grace would resent
intensely this social secrecy and desertion of her. At once she felt
as though she would like to get up from the table and leave and never
return. But instead she did her best to compose herself, and now gave
the two girls with whom she had never been familiar, a steady look.
At the same time she looked at Grace and Mr. Newton with defiance.
If anything more were said she proposed to give a fictitious name or
two--friends of her brother-in-law in Homer, or better yet to refuse to
give any information whatsoever. Why should she?
Nevertheless, as she learned later that evening, she was not to be
spared the refusing of it. Grace, coming to their room immediately
afterward, reproached her with: "I thought you said you stayed out at
your sister's all the time you were gone?"
"Well, what if I did say it?" replied Roberta defiantly and even
bitterly, but without a word in extenuation, for her thought was now
that unquestionably Grace was pretending to catechize her on moral
grounds, whereas in reality the real source of her anger and pique was
that Roberta was slipping away from and hence neglecting her.
"Well, you don't have to lie to me in order to go anywhere or see
anybody without me in the future. I don't want to go with you. And
what's more I don't want to know where you go or who you go with. But
I do wish you wouldn't tell me one thing and then have George and Mary
find out that it ain't so, and that you're just trying to slip away
from me or that I'm lying to them in order to protect myself. I don't
want you to put me in that position."
She was very hurt and sad and contentious and Roberta could see for
herself that there was no way out of this trying situation other than
to move. Grace was a leech--a hanger-on. She had no life of her own and
could contrive none. As long as she was anywhere near her she would
want to devote herself to her--to share her every thought and mood
with her. And yet if she told her about Clyde she would be shocked and
critical and would unquestionably eventually turn on her or even expose
her. So she merely replied: "Oh, well, have it that way if you want to.
I don't care. I don't propose to tell anything unless I choose to."
And at once Grace conceived the notion that Roberta did not like her
any more and would have nothing to do with her. She arose immediately
and walked out of the room--her head very high and her spine very
stiff. And Roberta, realizing that she had made an enemy of her, now
wished that she was out of here. They were all too narrow here anyway.
They would never understand or tolerate this clandestine relationship
with Clyde--so necessary to him apparently, as he had explained--so
troublesome and even disgraceful to her from one point of view, and yet
so precious. She did love him, so very, very much. And she must now
find some way to protect herself and him--move to another room.
But that in this instance required almost more courage and decision
than she could muster. The anomalous and unprotected nature of a
room where one was not known. The look of it. Subsequent explanation
to her mother and sister maybe. Yet to remain here after this was
all but impossible, too, for the attitude of Grace as well as the
Newtons--particularly Mrs. Newton, Grace's sister--was that of the
early Puritans or Friends who had caught a "brother" or "sister" in a
great sin. She was dancing--and secretly! There was the presence of
that young man not quite adequately explained by her trip home, to
say nothing of her presence at Starlight Park. Besides, in Roberta's
mind was the thought that under such definite espionage as must
now follow, to say nothing of the unhappy and dictatorial attitude
of Grace, she would have small chance to be with Clyde as much as
she now most intensely desired. And accordingly, after two days of
unhappy thought and then a conference with Clyde who was all for her
immediate independence in a new room where she would not be known or
spied upon, she proceeded to take an hour or two off; and having fixed
upon the southeast section of the city as one most likely to be free
from contact with either the Newtons or those whom thus far she had
encountered at the Newtons', she inquired there, and after little more
than an hour's search found one place which pleased her. This was in an
old brick house in Elm Street occupied by an upholsterer and his wife
and two daughters, one a local milliner and another still in school.
The room offered was on the ground floor to the right of a small front
porch and overlooking the street. A door off this same porch gave into
a living room which separated this room from the other parts of the
house and permitted ingress and egress without contact with any other
portion of the house. And since she was still moved to meet Clyde
clandestinely this as she now saw was important.
Besides, as she gathered from her one conversation with Mrs. Gilpin,
the mother of this family, the character of this home was neither so
strict nor inquisitive as that of the Newtons. Mrs. Gilpin was large,
passive, cleanly, not so very alert and about fifty. She informed
Roberta that as a rule she didn't care to take boarders or roomers at
all, since the family had sufficient means to go on. However, since the
family scarcely ever used the front room, which was rather set off from
the remainder of the house, and since her husband did not object, she
had made up her mind to rent it. And again she preferred some one who
worked like Roberta--a girl, not a man--and one who would be glad to
have her breakfast and dinner along with her family. Since she asked
no questions as to her family or connections, merely looking at her
interestedly and seeming to be favorably impressed by her appearance,
Roberta gathered that here were no such standards as prevailed at the
Newtons.
And yet what qualms in connection with the thought of moving thus. For
about this entire clandestine procedure there hung, as she saw it, a
sense of something untoward and even sinful, and then on top of it all,
quarreling and then breaking with Grace Marr, her one girl friend here
thus far, and the Newtons on account of it, when, as she well knew,
it was entirely due to Grace that she was here at all. Supposing her
parents or her sister in Homer should hear about this through some one
whom Grace knew and think strangely of her going off by herself in
Lycurgus in this way? Was it right? Was it possible that she could do
things like this--and so soon after her coming here? She was beginning
to feel as though her hitherto impeccable standards were crumbling.
And yet there was Clyde now. Could she give him up?
After many emotional aches she decided that she could not. And
accordingly after paying a deposit and arranging to occupy the room
within the next few days, she returned to her work and after dinner
the same evening announced to Mrs. Newton that she was going to move.
Her premeditated explanation was that recently she had been thinking of
having her younger brother and sister come and live with her and since
one or both were likely to come soon, she thought it best to prepare
for them.
And the Newtons, as well as Grace, feeling that this was all due to the
new connections which Roberta had recently been making and which were
tending to alienate her from Grace, were now content to see her go.
Plainly she was beginning to indulge in a type of adventure of which
they could not approve. Also it was plain that she was not going to
prove as useful to Grace as they had at first imagined. Possibly she
knew what she was doing. But more likely she was being led astray by
notions of a good time not consistent with the reserved life led by her
at Trippetts Mills.
And Roberta herself, once having made this move and settled herself in
this new atmosphere (apart from the fact that it gave her much greater
freedom in connection with Clyde) was dubious as to her present course.
Perhaps--perhaps--she had moved hastily and in anger and might be
sorry. Still she had done it now, and it could not be helped. So she
proposed to try it for a while.
To salve her own conscience more than anything else, she at once wrote
her mother and her sister a very plausible version of why she had
been compelled to leave the Newtons. Grace had grown too possessive,
domineering and selfish. It had become unendurable. However, her mother
need not worry. She was satisfactorily placed. She had a room to
herself and could now entertain Tom and Emily or her mother or Agnes,
in case they should ever visit her here. And she would be able to
introduce them to the Gilpins whom she proceeded to describe.
Nevertheless, her underlying thought in connection with all this, in
so far as Clyde and his great passion for her was concerned--and hers
for him--was that she was indeed trifling with fire and perhaps social
disgrace into the bargain. For, although consciously at this time she
was scarcely willing to face the fact that this room--its geometric
position in relation to the rest of the house--had been of the greatest
import to her at the time she first saw it, yet subconsciously she knew
it well enough. The course she was pursuing was dangerous--that she
knew. And yet how, as she now so often asked herself at moments when
she was confronted by some desire which ran counter to her sense of
practicability and social morality, was she to do?
CHAPTER XX
However, as both Roberta and Clyde soon found, after several weeks in
which they met here and there, such spots as could be conveniently
reached by interurban lines, there were still drawbacks and the
principal of these related to the attitude of both Roberta and Clyde in
regard to this room, and what, if any, use of it was to be made by them
jointly. For in spite of the fact that thus far Clyde had never openly
agreed with himself that his intentions in relation to Roberta were in
any way different to those normally entertained by any youth toward
any girl for whom he had a conventional social regard, still, now that
she had moved into this room, there was that ineradicable and possibly
censurable, yet very human and almost unescapable, desire for something
more--the possibility of greater and greater intimacy with and control
of Roberta and her thoughts and actions in everything so that in the
end she would be entirely his. But how _his_? By way of marriage and
the ordinary conventional and durable existence which thereafter must
ordinarily ensue? He had never said so to himself thus far. For in
flirting with her or any girl of a lesser social position than that of
the Griffiths here (Sondra Finchley, Bertine Cranston, for instance)
he would not--and that largely due to the attitude of his newly-found
relatives, their very high position in this city--have deemed marriage
advisable. And what would they think if they should come to know? For
socially, as he saw himself now, if not before coming here, he was
supposed to be above the type of Roberta and should of course profit by
that notion. Besides there were all those that knew him here, at least
to speak to. On the other hand, because of the very marked pull that
her temperament had for him, he had not been able to say for the time
being that she was not worthy of him or that he might not be happy in
case it were possible or advisable for him to marry her.
And there was another thing now that tended to complicate matters.
And that was that fall with its chilling winds and frosty nights was
drawing near. Already it was near October first and most of those
out-of-door resorts which, up to the middle of September at least, had
provided diversion, and that at a fairly safe distance from Lycurgus,
were already closed for the season. And dancing, except in the halls
of the near-by cities and which, because of a mood of hers in regard to
them, were unacceptable, was also for the time being done away with.
As for the churches, moving pictures, and restaurants of Lycurgus, how
under the circumstances, owing to Clyde's position here, could they be
seen in them? They could not, as both reasoned between them. And so
now, while her movements were unrestrained, there was no place to go
unless by some readjustment of their relations he might be permitted to
call on her at the Gilpins'. But that, as he knew, she would not think
of and, at first, neither had he the courage to suggest it.
However they were at a street-end one early October night about six
weeks after she had moved to her new room. The stars were sharp. The
air cool. The leaves were beginning to turn. Roberta had returned to a
three-quarter green-and-cream-striped winter coat that she wore at this
season of the year. Her hat was brown, trimmed with brown leather and
of a design that became her. There had been kisses over and over--that
same fever that had been dominating them continuously since first they
met--only more pronounced if anything.
"It's getting cold, isn't it?" It was Clyde who spoke. And it was
eleven o'clock and chill.
"Yes, I should say it is. I'll soon have to get a heavier coat."
"I don't see how we are to do from now on, do you? There's no place to
go any more much, and it won't be very pleasant walking the streets
this way every night. You don't suppose we could fix it so I could call
on you at the Gilpins' once in a while, do you? It isn't the same there
now as it was at the Newtons'."
"Oh, I know, but then they use their sitting room every night nearly
until ten-thirty or eleven. And besides their two girls are in and out
all hours up to twelve, anyhow, and they're in there often. I don't
see how I can. Besides, I thought you said you didn't want to have any
one see you with me that way, and if you came there I couldn't help
introducing you."
"Oh, but I don't mean just that way," replied Clyde audaciously and yet
with the feeling that Roberta was much too squeamish and that it was
high time she was taking a somewhat more liberal attitude toward him
if she cared for him as much as she appeared to: "Why wouldn't it be
all right for me to stop in for a little while? They wouldn't need to
know, would they?" He took out his watch and discovered with the aid of
a match that it was eleven-thirty. He showed the time to her. "There
wouldn't be anybody there now, would there?"
She shook her head in opposition. The thought not only terrified but
sickened her. Clyde was getting very bold to even suggest anything like
that. Besides this suggestion embodied in itself all the secret fears
and compelling moods which hitherto, although actual in herself, she
was still unwilling to face. There was something sinful, low, dreadful
about it. She would not. That was one thing sure. At the same time
within her was that overmastering urge of repressed and feared desire
now knocking loudly for recognition.
"No, no, I can't let you do that. It wouldn't be right. I don't want
to. Some one might see us. Somebody might know you." For the moment
the moral repulsion was so great that unconsciously she endeavored to
relinquish herself from his embrace.
Clyde sensed how deep was this sudden revolt. All the more was he
flagellated by the desire for possession of that which now he half
feared to be unobtainable. A dozen seductive excuses sprang to his
lips. "Oh, who would be likely to see us anyhow, at this time of night?
There isn't any one around. Why shouldn't we go there for a few moments
if we want to? No one would be likely to hear us. We needn't talk so
loud. There isn't any one on the street, even. Let's walk by the house
and see if anybody is up."
Since hitherto she had not permitted him to come within half a block of
the house, her protest was not only nervous but vigorous. Nevertheless
on this occasion Clyde was proving a little rebellious and Roberta,
standing somewhat in awe of him as her superior, as well as her lover,
was unable to prevent their walking within a few feet of the house
where they stopped. Except for a barking dog there was not a sound to
be heard anywhere. And in the house no light was visible.
"See, there's no one up," protested Clyde reassuringly. "Why shouldn't
we go in for a little while if we want to? Who will know? We needn't
make any noise. Besides, what is wrong with it? Other people do it. It
isn't such a terrible thing for a girl to take a fellow to her room if
she wants to for a little while."
"Oh, isn't it? Well, maybe not in your set. But I know what's right and
I don't think that's right and I won't do it."
At once, as she said this, Roberta's heart gave a pained and weakening
throb, for in saying so much she had exhibited more individuality and
defiance than ever he had seen or that she fancied herself capable of
in connection with him. It terrified her not a little. Perhaps he would
not like her so much now if she were going to talk like that.
His mood darkened immediately. Why did she want to act so? She was
too cautious, too afraid of anything that spelled a little life or
pleasure. Other girls were not like that,--Rita, those girls at the
factory. She pretended to love him. She did not object to his holding
her in his arms and kissing her under a tree at the end of the street.
But when it came to anything slightly more private or intimate, she
could not bring herself to agree. What kind of a girl was she, anyhow?
What was the use of pursuing her? Was this to be another case of
Hortense Briggs with all her wiles and evasions? Of course Roberta was
in no wise like her, but still she was so stubborn.
Although she could not see his face she knew he was angry and quite for
the first time in this way.
"All right, then, if you don't want to, you don't have to," came his
words and with decidedly a cold ring to them. "There are other places
I can go. I notice you never want to do anything I want to do, though.
I'd like to know how you think we're to do. We can't walk the streets
every night." His tone was gloomy and foreboding--more contentious and
bitter than at any time ever between them. And his references to other
places shocked and frightened Roberta--so much so that instantly almost
her own mood changed. Those other girls in his own world that no doubt
he saw from time to time! Those other girls at the factory who were
always trying to make eyes at him! She had seen them trying, and often.
That Ruza Nikoforitch--as coarse as she was, but pretty, too. And that
Flora Brandt! And Martha Bordaloue--ugh! To think that any one as nice
as he should be pursued by such wretches as those. However, because
of that, she was fearful lest he would think her too difficult--some
one without the experience or daring to which he, in his superior
world, was accustomed, and so turn to one of those. Then she would lose
him. The thought terrified her. Immediately from one of defiance her
attitude changed to one of pleading persuasion.
"Oh, please, Clyde, don't be mad with me now, will you? You know that
I would if I could. I can't do anything like that here. Can't you see?
You know that. Why, they'd be sure to find out. And how would you feel
if some one were to see us or recognize you?" In a pleading way she
put one hand on his arm, then about his waist and he could feel that
in spite of her sharp opposition the moment before, she was very much
concerned--painfully so. "Please don't ask me to," she added in a
begging tone.
"Well, what did you want to leave the Newtons for then?" he asked
sullenly. "I can't see where else we can go now if you won't let me
come to see you once in a while. We can't go any place else."
The thought gave Roberta pause. Plainly this relationship was not to be
held within conventional lines. At the same time she did not see how
she could possibly comply. It was too unconventional--too unmoral--bad.
"I thought we took it," she said weakly and placatively, "just so that
we could go places on Saturday and Sunday."
"But where can we go Saturday and Sunday now? Everything's closed."
Again Roberta was checked by these unanswerable complexities which
beleaguered them both and she exclaimed futilely, "Oh, I wish I knew
what to do."
"Oh, it would be easy enough if you wanted to do it, but that's always
the way with you, you don't want to."
She stood there, the night wind shaking the drying whispering leaves.
Distinctly the problem in connection with him that she had been fearing
this long while was upon her. Could she possibly, with all the right
instruction that she had had, now do as he suggested. She was pulled
and swayed by contending forces within herself, strong and urgent in
either case. In the one instance, however painful it was to her moral
and social mood, she was moved to comply--in another to reject once
and for all, any such, as she saw it, bold and unnatural suggestion.
Nevertheless, in spite of the latter and because of her compelling
affection she could not do other than deal tenderly and pleadingly with
him.
"I can't, Clyde, I can't. I would if I could but I can't. It wouldn't
be right. I would if I could make myself, but I can't." She looked up
into his face, a pale oval in the dark, trying to see if he would not
see, sympathize, be moved in her favor. However, irritated by this
plainly definite refusal, he was not now to be moved. All this, as he
saw it, smacked of that long series of defeats which had accompanied
his attentions to Hortense Briggs. He was not going to stand for
anything now like that, you bet. If this was the way she was going to
act, well, let her act so--but not with him. He could get plenty of
girls now--lots of them--who would treat him better than this.
At once, and with an irritated shrug of the shoulders, as she now saw,
he turned and started to leave her, saying as he did so, "Oh, that's
all right, if that's the way you feel about it." And Roberta dumfounded
and terrified, stood there.
"Please don't go, Clyde. Please don't leave me," she exclaimed
suddenly and pathetically, her defiance and courage undergoing a deep
and sad change. "I don't want you to. I love you so, Clyde. I would if
I could. You know that."
"Oh, yes, I know, but you needn't tell me that" (it was his experience
with Hortense and Rita that was prompting him to this attitude). With
a twist he released his body from her arm and started walking briskly
down the street in the dark.
And Roberta, stricken by this sudden development which was so painful
to both, called, "Clyde!" And then ran after him a little way, eager
that he should pause and let her plead with him more. But he did not
return. Instead he went briskly on. And for the moment it was all she
could do to keep from following him and by sheer force, if need be,
restrain him. Her Clyde! And she started running in his direction a
little, but as suddenly stopped, checked for the moment by the begging,
pleading, compromising attitude in which she, for the first time, found
herself. For on the one hand all her conventional training was now
urging her to stand firm--not to belittle herself in this way--whereas
on the other, all her desires for love, understanding, companionship,
urged her to run after him before it was too late, and he was gone. His
beautiful face, his beautiful hands. His eyes. And still the receding
echo of his feet. And yet so binding were the conventions which had
been urged upon her up to this time that, though suffering horribly, a
balance between the two forces was struck, and she paused, feeling that
she could neither go forward nor stand still--understand or endure this
sudden rift in their wonderful friendship.
Pain constricted her heart and whitened her lips. She stood there
numb and silent--unable to voice anything, even the name Clyde which
persistently arose as a call in her throat. Instead she was merely
thinking, "Oh, Clyde, please don't go, Clyde. Oh, please don't go." And
he was already out of hearing, walking briskly and grimly on, the click
and echo of his receding steps falling less and less clearly on her
suffering ears.
It was the first flashing, blinding, bleeding stab of love for her.
CHAPTER XXI
The state of Roberta's mind for that night is not easily to be
described. For here was true and poignant love, and in youth true and
poignant love is difficult to withstand. Besides it was coupled with
the most stirring and grandiose illusions in regard to Clyde's local
material and social condition--illusions which had little to do with
anything he had done to build up, but were based rather on conjecture
and gossip over which he had no control. And her own home, as well
as her personal situation was so unfortunate--no promise of any kind
save in his direction. And here she was quarreling with him--sending
him away angry. On the other hand was he not beginning to push too
ardently toward those troublesome and no doubt dreadful liberties and
familiarities which her morally trained conscience would not permit her
to look upon as right? How was she to do now? What to say?
Now it was that she said to herself in the dark of her room, after
having slowly and thoughtfully undressed and noiselessly crept into
the large, old-fashioned bed. "No, I won't do that. I mustn't. I
can't. I will be a bad girl if I do. I should not do that for him even
though he does want me to, and should threaten to leave me forever in
case I refuse. He should be ashamed to ask me." And at the very same
moment, or the next, she would be asking herself what else under the
circumstances they were to do. For most certainly Clyde was at least
partially correct in his contention that they had scarcely anywhere
else they could go and not be recognized. How unfair was that rule of
the company. And no doubt apart from that rule, the Griffiths would
think it beneath him to be troubling with her, as would no doubt the
Newtons and the Gilpins for that matter, if they should hear and know
who he was. And if this information came to their knowledge it would
injure him and her. And she would not do anything that would injure
him--never.
One thing that occurred to her at this point was that she should get a
place somewhere else so that this problem should be solved--a problem
which at the moment seemed to have little to do with the more immediate
and intimate one of desiring to enter her room. But that would mean
that she would not see him any more all day long--only at night. And
then not every night by any means. And that caused her to lay aside
this thought of seeking another place.
At the same time as she now meditated the dawn would come to-morrow and
there would be Clyde at the factory. And supposing that he should not
speak to her nor she to him. Impossible! Ridiculous! Terrible! The mere
thought brought her to a sitting posture in bed, where distractedly a
vision of Clyde looking indifferently and coldly upon her came to her.
On the instant she was on her feet and had turned on the one
incandescent globe which dangled from the center of the room. She went
to the mirror hanging above the old walnut dresser in the corner and
stared at herself. Already she imagined she could see dark rings under
her eyes. She felt numb and cold and now shook her head in a helpless
and distracted way. He couldn't be that mean. He couldn't be that cruel
to her now--could he? Oh, if he but knew how difficult--how impossible
was the thing he was asking of her! Oh, if the day would only come so
that she could see his face again! Oh, if it were only another night so
that she could take his hands in hers--his arm--feel his arms about her.
"Clyde, Clyde," she exclaimed half aloud, "you wouldn't do that to me,
would you--you couldn't."
She crossed to an old, faded and somewhat decrepit over-stuffed chair
which stood in the center of the room beside a small table whereon lay
some nondescript books and magazines--the _Saturday Evening Post_,
_Munsey's_, the _Popular Science Monthly_, _Bebe's Garden Seeds_,
and to escape most distracting and searing thoughts, sat down, her
chin in her hands, her elbows planted on her knees. But the painful
thoughts continuing and a sense of chill overtaking her, she took a
comforter off the bed and folded it about her, then opened the seed
catalogue--only to throw it down.
"No, no, no, he couldn't do that to me, he wouldn't." She must not
let him. Why, he had told her over and over that he was crazy about
her--madly in love with her. They had been to all these wonderful
places together.
And now, without any real consciousness of her movements, she was
moving from the chair to the edge of the bed, sitting with elbows
on knees and chin in hands; or she was before the mirror or peering
restlessly out into the dark to see if there were any trace of day.
And at six, and six-thirty when the light was just breaking and it was
nearing time to dress, she was still up--in the chair, on the edge of
the bed, in the corner before the mirror.
But she had reached but one definite conclusion and that was that in
some way she must arrange not to have Clyde leave her. That must not
be. There must be something that she could say or do that would cause
him to love her still--even if, even if--well, even if she must let
him stop in here or somewhere from time to time--some other room in
some other rooming house maybe, where she could arrange in some way
beforehand--say that he was her brother or something.
But the mood that dominated Clyde was of a different nature. To have
understood it correctly, the full measure and obstinacy and sullen
contentiousness that had suddenly generated, one would have had to
return to Kansas City and the period in which he had been so futilely
dancing attendance upon Hortense Briggs. Also his having been compelled
to give up Rita,--yet to no end. For, although the present conditions
and situation were different, and he had no moral authority wherewith
to charge Roberta with any such unfair treatment as Hortense had
meted out to him, still there was this other fact that girls--all of
them--were obviously stubborn and self-preservative, always setting
themselves apart from and even above the average man and so wishing to
compel him to do a lot of things for them without their wishing to do
anything in return. And had not Ratterer always told him that in so far
as girls were concerned he was more or less of a fool--too easy--too
eager to show his hand and let them know that he was struck on them.
Whereas, as Ratterer had explained, Clyde possessed the looks--the
"goods"--and why should he always be trailing after girls unless they
wanted him very much. And this thought and compliment had impressed him
very much at that time. Only because of the fiascos in connection with
Hortense and Rita he was more earnest now. Yet here he was again in
danger of repeating or bringing upon himself what had befallen him in
the case of Hortense and Rita.
At the same time he was not without the self-incriminating thought that
in seeking this, most distinctly he was driving toward a relationship
which was not legitimate and that would prove dangerous in the future.
For, as he now darkly and vaguely thought, if he sought a relationship
which her prejudices and her training would not permit her to look upon
as anything but evil, was he not thereby establishing in some form a
claim on her part to some consideration from him in the future which
it might not be so easy for him to ignore? For after all he was the
aggressor--not she. And because of this, and whatever might follow in
connection with it, might not she be in a position to demand more from
him than he might be willing to give? For was it his intention to marry
her? In the back of his mind there lurked something which even now
assured him that he would never desire to marry her--could not in the
face of his high family connections here. Therefore should he proceed
to demand--or should he not? And if he did, could he avoid that which
would preclude any claim in the future?
He did not thus so distinctly voice his inmost feelings to himself, but
relatively of such was their nature. Yet so great was the temperamental
and physical enticement of Roberta that in spite of a warning nudge or
mood that seemed to hint that it was dangerous for him to persist in
his demand, he kept saying to himself that unless she would permit him
to her room, he would not have anything more to do with her, the desire
for her being all but overpowering.
This contest which every primary union between the sexes, whether
with or without marriage implies, was fought out the next day in the
factory. And yet without a word on either side. For Clyde, although he
considered himself to be deeply in love with Roberta, was still not so
deeply involved but that a naturally selfish and ambitious and seeking
disposition would in this instance stand its ground and master any
impulse. And he was determined to take the attitude of one who had been
injured and was determined not to be friends any more or yield in any
way unless some concession on her part, such as would appease him, was
made.
And in consequence he came into the stamping department that morning
with the face and air of one who was vastly preoccupied with matters
which had little, if anything, to do with what had occurred the night
before. Yet, being far from certain that this attitude on his part
was likely to lead to anything but defeat, he was inwardly depressed
and awry. For, after all, the sight of Roberta, freshly arrived, and
although pale and distrait, as charming and energetic as ever, was not
calculated to assure him of any immediate or even ultimate victory. And
knowing her as well as he thought he did, by now, he was but weakly
sustained by the thought that she might yield.
He looked at her repeatedly when she was not looking. And when in
turn she looked at him repeatedly, but only at first when he was not
looking, later when she felt satisfied that his eyes, whether directly
bent on her or not, must be encompassing her, still no trace of
recognition could she extract. And now to her bitter disappointment,
not only did he choose to ignore her, but quite for the first time
since they had been so interested in each other, he professed to
pay, if not exactly conspicuous at least noticeable and intentional
attention to those other girls who were always so interested in him and
who always, as she had been constantly imagining, were but waiting for
any slight overture on his part, to yield themselves to him in any way
that he might dictate.
Now he was looking over the shoulder of Ruza Nikoforitch, her plump
face with its snub nose and weak chin turned engagingly toward him, and
he commenting on something not particularly connected with the work in
hand apparently, for both were idly smiling. Again, in a little while,
he was by the side of Martha Bordaloue, her plump French shoulders and
arms bare to the pits next to his. And for all her fleshly solidity and
decidedly foreign flavor, there was still enough about her which most
men would like. And with her Clyde was attempting to jest, too.
And later it was Flora Brandt, the very sensuous and not unpleasing
American girl whom Roberta had seen Clyde cultivating from time to
time. Yet, even so, she had never been willing to believe that he might
become interested in any of these. Not Clyde, surely.
And yet he could not see her at all now--could not find time to say
a single word, although all these pleasant words and gay looks for
all these others. Oh, how bitter! Oh, how cruel! And how utterly she
despised those other girls with their oglings and their open attempts
to take him from her. Oh, how terrible. Surely he must be very opposed
to her now--otherwise he could not do this, and especially after all
that had been between them--the love--the kisses.
The hours dragged for both, and with as much poignance for Clyde as for
Roberta. For his was a feverish, urgent disposition where his dreams
were concerned, and could ill brook the delay or disappointments that
are the chief and outstanding characteristics of the ambitions of men,
whatever their nature. He was tortured hourly by the thought that he
was to lose Roberta or that to win her back he would have to succumb to
her wishes.
And on her part she was torn, not so much by the question as to whether
she would have to yield in this matter (for by now that was almost the
least of her worries), but whether, once so yielding, Clyde would be
satisfied with just some form of guarded social contact in the room--or
not. And so continue on the strength of that to be friends with her.
For more than this she would not grant--never. And yet--this suspense.
The misery of his indifference. She could scarcely endure it from
minute to minute, let alone from hour to hour, and finally in an agony
of dissatisfaction with herself at having brought all this on herself,
she retired to the rest room at about three in the afternoon and there
with the aid of a piece of paper found on the floor and a small bit of
pencil which she had, she composed a brief note:
"Please, Clyde, don't be mad at me, will you? Please don't. Please
look at me and speak to me, won't you? I'm so sorry about last
night, really I am--terribly. And I must see you to-night at the
end of Elm Street at 8.30 if you can, will you? I have something to
tell you. Please do come. And please do look at me and tell me you
will, even though you are angry. You won't be sorry. I love you so.
You know I do.
"Your sorrowful,
"ROBERTA."
And in the spirit of one who is in agonized search for an opiate, she
folded up the paper and returning to the room, drew close to Clyde's
desk. He was before it at the time, bent over some slips. And quickly
as she passed she dropped the paper between his hands. He looked up
instantly, his dark eyes still hard at the moment with the mingled pain
and unrest and dissatisfaction and determination that had been upon him
all day, and noting Roberta's retreating figure as well as the note,
he at once relaxed, a wave of puzzled satisfaction as well as delight
instantly filling them. He opened it and read. And as instantly his
body was suffused with a warm and yet very weakening ray.
And Roberta in turn, having reached her table and paused to note
if by any chance any one had observed her, now looked cautiously
about, a strained and nervous look in her eyes. But seeing Clyde
looking directly at her, his eyes filled with a conquering and yet
yielding light and a smile upon his lips, and his head nodding a happy
assent, she as suddenly experienced a dizzying sensation, as though
her hitherto constricted blood, detained by a constricted heart and
constricted nerves, were as suddenly set free. And all the dry marshes
and cracked and parched banks of her soul--the dry rivulets and streams
and lakes of misery that seemed to dot her being--were as instantly
flooded with this rich upwelling force of life and love.
He would meet her. They would meet to-night. He would put his arms
around her and kiss her as before. She would be able to look in his
eyes. They would not quarrel any more--oh, never if she could help it.
CHAPTER XXII
The wonder and delight of a new and more intimate form of contact,
of protest gainsaid, of scruples overcome! Days, when both, having
struggled in vain against the greater intimacy which each knew that
the other was desirous of yielding to, and eventually so yielding,
looked forward to the approaching night with an eagerness which was
as a fever embodying a fear. For with what qualms--what protests on
the part of Roberta; what determination, yet not without a sense of
evil--seduction--betrayal, on the part of Clyde. Yet the thing once
done, a wild convulsive pleasure motivating both. Yet, not without,
before all this, an exaction on the part of Roberta to the effect that
never--come what might (the natural consequences of so wild an intimacy
strong in her thoughts) would he desert her, since without his aid she
would be helpless. Yet, with no direct statement as to marriage. And
he, so completely overcome and swayed by his desire, thoughtlessly
protesting that he never would--never. She might depend on that, at
least, although even then there was no thought in his mind of marriage.
He would not do that. Yet nights and nights--all scruples for the
time being abandoned, and however much by day Roberta might brood and
condemn herself--when each yielded to the other completely. And dreamed
thereafter, recklessly and wildly, of the joy of it--wishing from
day to day for the time being that the long day might end--that the
concealing, rewarding feverish night were at hand.
And Clyde feeling, and not unlike Roberta, who was firmly and even
painfully convinced of it, that this was sin--deadly, mortal--since
both his mother and father had so often emphasized that--the
seducer--adulterer--who preys outside the sacred precincts of marriage.
And Roberta, peering nervously into the blank future, wondering
what--how, in any case, by any chance, Clyde should change, or fail
her. Yet the night returning, her mood once more veering, and she as
well as he hurrying to meet somewhere--only later, in the silence of
the middle night, to slip into this unlighted room which was proving so
much more of a Paradise than either might ever know again--so wild and
unrecapturable is the fever of youth.
And--at times--and despite all his other doubts and fears, Clyde,
because of this sudden abandonment by Roberta of herself to his
desires, feeling for the first time, really, in all his feverish
years, that at last he was a man of the world--one who was truly
beginning to know women. And so taking to himself an air or manner
that said as plainly as might have any words--"Behold I am no longer
the inexperienced, neglected simpleton of but a few weeks ago, but an
individual of import now--some one who knows something about life.
What have any of these strutting young men, and gay, coaxing, flirting
girls all about me, that I have not? And if I chose--were less loyal
than I am--what might I not do?" And this was proving to him that the
notion which Hortense Briggs, to say nothing of the more recent fiasco
in connection with Rita had tended to build up in his mind, i.e.,--that
he was either unsuccessful or ill-fated where girls were concerned was
false. He was after all and despite various failures and inhibitions a
youth of the Don Juan or Lothario stripe.
And if now Roberta was obviously willing to sacrifice herself for him
in this fashion, must there not be others?
And this, in spite of the present indifference of the Griffiths, caused
him to walk with even more of an air than had hitherto characterized
him. Even though neither they nor any of those connected with them
recognized him, still he looked at himself in his mirror from time
to time with an assurance and admiration which before this he had
never possessed. For now Roberta, feeling that her future was really
dependent on his will and whim, had set herself to flatter him almost
constantly, to be as obliging and convenient to him as possible.
Indeed, according to her notion of the proper order of life, she was
now his and his only, as much as any wife is ever to a husband, to do
with as he wished.
And for a time therefore, Clyde forgot his rather neglected state here
and was content to devote himself to her without thinking much of the
future. The one thing that did trouble him at times was the thought
that possibly, in connection with the original fear she had expressed
to him, something might go wrong, which, considering her exclusive
devotion to him, might prove embarrassing. At the same time he did not
trouble to speculate too deeply as to that. He had Roberta now. These
relations, in so far as either of them could see, or guess, were a dark
secret. The pleasures of this left-handed honeymoon, were at full tide.
And the remaining brisk and often sunshiny and warm November and first
December days passed--as in a dream, really--an ecstatic paradise
of sorts in the very center of a humdrum conventional and petty and
underpaid work-a-day world.
In the meantime the Griffiths had been away from the city since the
middle of June and ever since their departure Clyde had been meditating
upon them and all they represented in his life and that of the city.
Their great house closed and silent, except for gardeners and an
occasional chauffeur or servant visible as he walked from time to time
past the place, was the same as a shrine to him, nearly--the symbol
of that height to which by some turn of fate he might still hope
to attain. For he had never quite been able to expel from his mind
the thought that his future must in some way be identified with the
grandeur that was here laid out before him.
Yet so far as the movements of the Griffiths family and their social
peers outside Lycurgus were concerned, he knew little other than that
which from time to time he had read in the society columns of the two
local papers which almost obsequiously pictured the comings and goings
of all those who were connected with the more important families of
the city. At times, after reading these accounts he had pictured to
himself, even when he was off somewhere with Roberta at some unheralded
resort, Gilbert Griffiths racing in his big car, Bella, Bertine and
Sondra dancing, canoeing in the moonlight, playing tennis, riding at
some of the smart resorts where they were reported to be. The thing had
had a bite and ache for him that was almost unendurable and had lit up
for him at times and with overwhelming clarity this connection of his
with Roberta. For after all, who was she? A factory girl! The daughter
of parents who lived and worked on a farm and one who was compelled to
work for her own living. Whereas he--he--if fortune would but favor him
a little--! Was this to be the end of all his dreams in connection with
his perspective superior life here?
So it was that at moments and in his darker moods, and especially after
she had abandoned herself to him, his thoughts ran. She was not of
his station, really--at least not of that of the Griffiths to which
still he most eagerly aspired. Yet at the same time, whatever the mood
generated by such items as he read in _The Star_, he would still return
to Roberta, picturing her, since the other mood which had drawn him to
her had by no means palled as yet, as delightful, precious, exceedingly
worth-while from the point of view of beauty, pleasure, sweetness--the
attributes and charms which best identify any object of delight.
But the Griffiths and their friends having returned to the city, and
Lycurgus once more taken on that brisk, industrial and social mood
which invariably characterized it for at least seven months in the
year, he was again, and even more vigorously than before, intrigued
by it. The beauty of the various houses along Wykeagy Avenue and its
immediate tributaries! The unusual and intriguing sense of movement and
life there so much in evidence. Oh, if he were but of it!
CHAPTER XXIII
And then, one November evening as Clyde was walking along Wykeagy
Avenue, just west of Central, a portion of the locally celebrated
avenue which, ever since he had moved to Mrs. Peyton's he was
accustomed to traverse to and from his work, one thing did occur which
in so far as he and the Griffiths were concerned was destined to
bring about a chain of events which none of them could possibly have
foreseen. At the time there was in his heart and mind that singing
which is the inheritance of youth and ambition and which the dying of
the old year, instead of depressing, seemed but to emphasize. He had
a good position. He was respected here. Over and above his room and
board he had not less than fifteen dollars a week to spend on himself
and Roberta, an income which, while it did not parallel that which had
been derived from the Green-Davidson or the Union League, was still
not so involved with family miseries in the one place or personal
loneliness in the other. And he had Roberta secretly devoted to him.
And the Griffiths, thank goodness, did not and should not know anything
of that, though just how in case of a difficulty it was to be avoided,
he was not even troubling to think. His was a disposition which did not
tend to load itself with more than the most immediate cares.
And although the Griffiths and their friends had not chosen to
recognize him socially, still more and more all others who were not
connected with local society and who knew of him, did. Only this very
day, because the spring before he had been made a room-chief, perhaps,
and Samuel Griffiths had recently paused and talked with him, no less
an important personage than Mr. Rudolph Smillie, one of the several
active vice-presidents, had asked him most cordially and casually
whether he played golf, and if so, when spring came again, whether he
might not be interested to join the Amoskeag, one of the two really
important golf clubs within a half dozen miles of the city. Now, what
could that mean, if not that Mr. Smillie was beginning to see him
as a social possibility, and that he as well as many others about
the factory, were becoming aware of him as some one who was of some
importance to the Griffiths, if not the factory.
This thought, together with one other--that once more after dinner
he was to see Roberta and in her room as early as eleven o'clock or
even earlier--cheered him and caused him to step along most briskly
and gayly. For, since having indulged in this secret adventure so
many times, both were unconsciously becoming bolder. Not having been
detected to date, they were of the notion that it was possible they
might not be. Or if they were Clyde might be introduced as her brother
or cousin for the moment, anyhow, in order to avoid immediate scandal.
Later, to avoid danger of comment or subsequent detection, as both
had agreed after some discussion, Roberta might have to move to some
other place where the same routine was to be repeated. But that would
be easy, or at least better than no freedom of contact. And with that
Roberta had been compelled to agree.
However, on this occasion there came a contact and an interruption
which set his thoughts careening in an entirely different direction.
Reaching the first of the more important houses of Wykeagy Avenue,
although he had not the slightest idea who lived there, he was gazing
interestedly at the high wrought-iron fence, as well as the kempt
lawn within, dimly illuminated by street lamps, and upon the surface
of which he could detect many heaps of freshly fallen brown leaves
being shaken and rolled by a winnowing and gamboling wind. It was all
so starkly severe, placid, reserved, beautiful, as he saw it, that he
was quite stirred by the dignity and richness of it. And as he neared
the central gate, above which two lights were burning, making a circle
of light about it, a closed car of great size and solidity stopped
directly in front of it. And the chauffeur stepping down and opening
the door, Clyde instantly recognized Sondra Finchley leaning forward in
the car.
"Go around to the side entrance, David, and tell Miriam that I can't
wait for her because I'm going over to the Trumbulls for dinner, but
that I'll be back by nine. If she's not there, leave this note and
hurry, will you?" The voice and manner were of that imperious and yet
pleasing mode which had so intrigued him the spring before.
At the same time seeing, as she thought, Gilbert Griffiths approaching
along the sidewalk, she called, "Oh, hello. Walking to-night? If you
want to wait a minute, you can ride out with me. I've just sent David
in with a note. He won't be long."
Now Sondra Finchley, despite the fact that she was interested in Bella
and the Griffiths' wealth and prestige in general was by no means
as well pleased with Gilbert. He had been indifferent to her in the
beginning when she had tried to cultivate him and he had remained so.
He had wounded her pride. And to her, who was overflowing with vanity
and self-conceit, this was the last offense, and she could not forgive
him. She could not and would not brook the slightest trace of ego in
another, and most especially the vain, cold, self-centered person of
Bella's brother. He had too fine an opinion of himself, as she saw it,
was one who was too bursting with vanity to be of service to anyone.
"Hmp! That stick." It was so that she invariably thought of him. "Who
does he think he is anyhow? He certainly does think he's a lot around
here. You'd think he was a Rockefeller or a Morgan. And for my part I
can't see where he's a bit interesting--any more. I like Bella. I think
she's lovely. But that smarty. I guess he would like to have a girl
wait on him. Well, not for me." Such in the main were the comments made
by Sondra upon such reported acts and words of Gilbert as were brought
to her by others.
And for his part, Gilbert, hearing of the gyrations, airs, and
aspirations of Sondra from Bella from time to time, was accustomed to
remark: "What, that little snip! Who does she think she is anyhow? If
ever there was a conceited little nut!..."
However, so tightly were the social lines of Lycurgus drawn, so few
the truly eligibles, that it was almost necessary and compulsory upon
those "in" to make the best of such others as were "in." And so it was
that she now greeted Gilbert as she thought. And as she moved over
slightly from the door to make room for him, Clyde almost petrified
by this unexpected recognition, and quite shaken out of his pose and
self-contemplation, not being sure whether he had heard aright, now
approached, his manner the epitome almost of a self-ingratiating
and somewhat affectionate and wistful dog of high breeding and fine
temperament.
"Oh, good evening," he exclaimed, removing his cap and bowing. "How are
you?" while his mind was registering that this truly was the beautiful,
the exquisite Sondra whom months before he had met at his uncle's, and
concerning whose social activities during the preceding summer he had
been reading in the papers. And now here she was as lovely as ever,
seated in this beautiful car and addressing him, apparently. However,
Sondra on the instant realizing that she had made a mistake and that
it was not Gilbert, was quite embarrassed and uncertain for the
moment just how to extricate herself from a situation which was a bit
ticklish, to say the least.
"Oh, pardon me, you're Mr. Clyde Griffiths, I see now. It's my mistake.
I thought you were Gilbert. I couldn't quite make you out in the
light." She had for the moment an embarrassed and fidgety and halting
manner, which Clyde noticed and which he saw implied that she had made
a mistake that was not entirely flattering to him nor satisfactory to
her. And this in turn caused him to become confused and anxious to
retire.
"Oh, pardon me. But that's all right. I didn't mean to intrude. I
thought...." He flushed and stepped back really troubled.
But now Sondra, seeing at once that Clyde was if anything much more
attractive than his cousin and far more diffident, and obviously
greatly impressed by her charms as well as her social state, unbent
sufficiently to say with a charming smile: "But that's all right. Won't
you get in, please, and let me take you where you are going. Oh, I wish
you would. I will be so glad to take you."
For there was that in Clyde's manner the instant he learned that it was
due to a mistake that he had been recognized which caused even her to
understand that he was hurt, abashed and disappointed. His eyes took
on a hurt look and there was a wavering, apologetic, sorrowful smile
playing about his lips.
"Why, yes, of course," he said jerkily, "that is, if you want me to.
I understand how it was. That's all right. But you needn't mind, if
you don't wish to. I thought...." He had half turned to go, but was
so drawn by her that he could scarcely tear himself away before she
repeated: "Oh, do come, get in, Mr. Griffiths. I'll be so glad if you
will. It won't take David a moment to take you wherever you are going,
I'm sure. And I am sorry about the other, really I am. I didn't mean,
you know, that just because you weren't Gilbert Griffiths--"
He paused and in a bewildered manner stepped forward and entering the
car, slipped into the seat beside her. And she, interested by his
personality, at once began to look at him, feeling glad that it was he
now instead of Gilbert. In order the better to see and again reveal
her devastating charms, as she saw them, to Clyde, she now switched on
the roof light. And the chauffeur returning, she asked Clyde where he
wished to go--an address which he gave reluctantly enough, since it was
so different from the street in which she resided. As the car sped on,
he was animated by a feverish desire to make some use of this brief
occasion which might cause her to think favorably of him--perhaps, who
knows--lead to some faint desire on her part to contact him again at
some time or other. He was so truly eager to be of her world.
"It's certainly nice of you to take me up this way," he now turned to
her and observed, smiling. "I didn't think it was my cousin you meant
or I wouldn't have come up as I did."
"Oh, that's all right. Don't mention it," replied Sondra archly with
a kind of sicky sweetness in her voice. Her original impression of
him as she now felt, had been by no means so vivid. "It's my mistake,
not yours. But I'm glad I made it now, anyhow," she added most
definitely and with an engaging smile. "I think I'd rather pick you
up than I would Gil, anyhow. We don't get along any too well, he and
I. We quarrel a lot whenever we do meet anywhere." She smiled, having
completely recovered from her momentary embarrassment, and now leaned
back after the best princess fashion, her glance examining Clyde's
very regular features with interest. He had such soft smiling eyes
she thought. And after all, as she now reasoned, he was Bella's and
Gilbert's cousin, and looked prosperous.
"Well, that's too bad," he said stiffly, and with a very awkward and
weak attempt at being self-confident and even high-spirited in her
presence.
"Oh, it doesn't amount to anything, really. We just quarrel, that's
all, once in a while."
She saw that he was nervous and bashful and decidedly unresourceful in
her presence and it pleased her to think that she could thus befuddle
and embarrass him so much. "Are you still working for your uncle?"
"Oh, yes," replied Clyde quickly, as though it would make an enormous
difference to her if he were not. "I have charge of a department over
there now."
"Oh, really, I didn't know. I haven't seen you at all, since that one
time, you know. You don't get time to go about much, I suppose." She
looked at him wisely, as much as to say, "Your relatives aren't so very
much interested in you," but really liking him now, she said instead,
"You have been in the city all summer, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes," replied Clyde quite simply and winningly. "I have to be,
you know. It's the work that keeps me here. But I've seen your name in
the papers often, and read about your riding and tennis contests and I
saw you in that flower parade last June, too. I certainly thought you
looked beautiful, like an angel almost."
There was an admiring, pleading light in his eyes which now quite
charmed her. What a pleasing young man--so different to Gilbert. And
to think he should be so plainly and hopelessly smitten, and when
she could take no more than a passing interest in him. It made her
feel sorry, a little, and hence kindly toward him. Besides what would
Gilbert think if only he knew that his cousin was so completely reduced
by her--how angry he would be--he, who so plainly thought her a snip?
It would serve him just right if Clyde were taken up by some one and
made more of than he (Gilbert) ever could hope to be. The thought had a
most pleasing tang for her.
However, at this point, unfortunately, the car turned in before Mrs.
Peyton's door and stopped. The adventure for Clyde and for her was
seemingly over.
"That's awfully nice of you to say that. I won't forget that." She
smiled archly as, the chauffeur opening the door, Clyde stepped
down, his own nerves taut because of the grandeur and import of this
encounter. "So this is where you live. Do you expect to be in Lycurgus
all winter?"
"Oh, yes. I'm quite sure of it. I hope to be anyhow," he added, quite
yearningly, his eyes expressing his meaning completely.
"Well, perhaps, then I'll see you again somewhere, some time. I hope
so, anyhow."
She nodded and gave him her fingers and the most fetching and wreathy
of smiles, and he, eager to the point of folly, added: "Oh, so do I."
"Good night! Good night!" she called as the car sprang away, and Clyde,
looking after it, wondered if he would ever see her again so closely
and intimately as here. To think that he should have met her again in
this way! And she had proved so very different from that first time
when, as he distinctly recalled, she took no interest in him at all.
He turned hopefully and a little wistfully toward his own door.
And Sondra, ... why was it, she pondered, as the motor car sped on its
way, that the Griffiths were apparently not much interested in him?
CHAPTER XXIV
The effect of this so casual contact was really disrupting in more
senses than one. For now in spite of his comfort in and satisfaction
with Roberta, once more and in this positive and to him entrancing
way, was posed the whole question of his social possibilities here.
And that strangely enough by the one girl of this upper level who had
most materialized and magnified for him the meaning of that upper level
itself. The beautiful Sondra Finchley! Her lovely face, smart clothes,
gay and superior demeanor! If only at the time he had first encountered
her he had managed to interest her. Or could now.
The fact that his relations with Roberta were what they were now was
not of sufficient import or weight to offset the temperamental or
imaginative pull of such a girl as Sondra and all that she represented.
Just to think the Wimblinger Finchley Electric Sweeper Company was
one of the largest manufacturing concerns here. Its tall walls and
stacks made a part of the striking sky line across the Mohawk. And
the Finchley residence in Wykeagy Avenue, near that of the Griffiths,
was one of the most impressive among that distinguished row of houses
which had come with the latest and most discriminating architectural
taste here--Italian Renaissance--cream hued marble and Dutchess County
Sandstone combined. And the Finchleys were among the most discussed of
families here.
Ah, to know this perfect girl more intimately! To be looked upon by
her with favor,--made, by reason of that favor, a part of that fine
world to which she belonged. Was he not a Griffiths--as good looking
as Gilbert Griffiths any day? And as attractive if he only had as
much money--or a part of it even. To be able to dress in the Gilbert
Griffiths' fashion; to ride around in one of the handsome cars he
sported! Then, you bet, a girl like this would be delighted to notice
him,--mayhap, who knows, even fall in love with him. Analschar and the
tray of glasses. But now, as he gloomily thought, he could only hope,
hope, hope.
The devil! He would not go around to Roberta's this evening. He would
trump up some excuse--tell her in the morning that he had been called
upon by his uncle or cousin to do some work. He could not and would
not go, feeling as he did just now.
So much for the effect of wealth, beauty, the peculiar social state to
which he most aspired, on a temperament that was as fluid and unstable
as water.
On the other hand, later, thinking over her contact with Clyde, Sondra
was definitely taken with what may only be described as his charm for
her, all the more definite in this case since it represented a direct
opposite to all that his cousin offered by way of offense. His clothes
and his manner, as well as a remark he had dropped, to the effect that
he was connected with the company in some official capacity, seemed to
indicate that he might be better placed than she had imagined. Yet she
also recalled that although she had been about with Bella all summer
and had encountered Gilbert, Myra and their parents from time to time,
there had never been a word about Clyde. Indeed all the information
she had gathered concerning him was that originally furnished by Mrs.
Griffiths, who had said that he was a poor nephew whom her husband had
brought on from the west in order to help in some way. Yet now, as she
viewed Clyde on this occasion, he did not seem so utterly unimportant
or poverty-stricken by any means--quite interesting and rather smart
and very attractive, and obviously anxious to be taken seriously by a
girl like herself, as she could see. And this coming from Gilbert's
cousin--a Griffiths--was flattering.
Arriving at the Trumbulls, a family which centered about one Douglas
Trumbull, a prosperous lawyer and widower and speculator of this
region, who, by reason of his children as well as his own good manners
and legal subtlety, had managed to ingratiate himself into the best
circles of Lycurgus society, she suddenly confided to Jill Trumbull,
the elder of the lawyer's two daughters: "You know I had a funny
experience to-day." And she proceeded to relate all that had occurred
in detail. Afterward at dinner, Jill having appeared to find it most
fascinating, she again repeated it to Gertrude and Tracy, the younger
daughter and only son of the Trumbull family.
"Oh, yes," observed Tracy Trumbull, a law student in his father's
office, "I've seen that fellow, I bet, three or four times on Central
Avenue. He looks a lot like Gil, doesn't he? Only not so swagger. I've
nodded to him two or three times this summer because I thought he was
Gil for the moment."
"Oh, I've seen him, too," commented Gertrude Trumbull. "He wears a
cap and a belted coat like Gilbert Griffiths, sometimes, doesn't he?
Arabella Stark pointed him out to me once and then Jill and I saw him
passing Stark's once on a Saturday afternoon. He is better looking than
Gil, any day, I think."
This confirmed Sondra in her own thoughts in regard to Clyde and now
she added: "Bertine Cranston and I met him one evening last spring at
the Griffiths. We thought he was too bashful, then. But I wish you
could see him now--he's positively handsome, with the softest eyes and
the nicest smile."
"Oh, now, Sondra," commented Jill Trumbull, who, apart from Bertine
and Bella, was as close to Sondra as any girl here, having been one of
her classmates at the Snedeker School, "I know some one who would be
jealous if he could hear you say that."
"And wouldn't Gil Griffiths like to hear that his cousin's better
looking than he is?" chimed in Tracy Trumbull. "Oh, say--"
"Oh, he," sniffed Sondra irritably. "He thinks he's so much. I'll bet
anything it's because of him that the Griffiths won't have anything
to do with their cousin. I'm sure of it, now that I think of it.
Bella would, of course, because I heard her say last spring that she
thought he was good-looking. And Myra wouldn't do anything to hurt
anybody. What a lark if some of us were to take him up some time and
begin inviting him here and there--once in a while, you know--just
for fun, to see how he would do. And how the Griffiths would take it.
I know well enough it would be all right with Mr. Griffiths and Myra
and Bella, but Gil I'll bet would be as peeved as anything. I couldn't
do it myself very well, because I'm so close to Bella, but I know who
could and they couldn't say a thing." She paused, thinking of Bertine
Cranston and how she disliked Gil and Mrs. Griffiths. "I wonder if he
dances or rides or plays tennis or anything like that?" She stopped
and meditated amusedly, the while the others studied her. And Jill
Trumbull, a restless, eager girl like herself, without so much of her
looks or flare, however, observed: "It would be a prank, wouldn't it?
Do you suppose the Griffiths really would dislike it very much?"
"What's the difference if they did?" went on Sondra. "They couldn't do
anything more than ignore him, could they? And who would care about
that, I'd like to know. Not the people who invited him."
"Go on, you fellows, stir up a local scrap, will you?" put in Tracy
Trumbull. "I'll bet anything that's what comes of it in the end. Gil
Griffiths won't like it, you can gamble on that. I wouldn't if I were
in his position. If you want to stir up a lot of feeling here, go to
it, but I'll lay a bet that's what it comes to."
Now Sondra Finchley's nature was of just such a turn that a thought
of this kind was most appealing to her. However, as interesting as
the idea was to her at the time, nothing definite might have come of
it, had it not been that subsequent to this conversation and several
others held with Bertine Cranston, Jill Trumbull, Patricia Anthony,
and Arabella Stark, the news of this adventure, together with some
comments as to himself, finally came to the ears of Gilbert Griffiths,
yet only via Constance Wynant to whom, as local gossips would have it,
he was prospectively engaged. And Constance, hoping that Gilbert would
marry her eventually, was herself irritated by the report that Sondra
had chosen to interest herself in Clyde, and then, for no sane reason,
as she saw it, proclaim that he was more attractive than Gilbert. So,
as much to relieve herself as to lay some plan of avenging herself
upon Sondra, if possible, she conveyed the whole matter in turn to
Gilbert, who at once proceeded to make various cutting references to
Clyde and Sondra. And these carried back to Sondra, along with certain
embellishments by Constance, had the desired effect. It served to
awaken in her the keenest desire for retaliation. For if she chose she
certainly could be nice to Clyde, and have others be nice to him, too.
And that would mean perhaps that Gilbert would find himself faced by
a social rival of sorts--his own cousin, too, who, even though he was
poor, might come to be liked better. What a lark! At the very same
time there came to her a way by which she might most easily introduce
Clyde, and yet without seeming so to do, and without any great harm to
herself, if it did not terminate as she wished.
For in Lycurgus among the younger members of those smarter families
whose children had been to the Snedeker School, existed a rather
illusory and casual dinner and dance club called the "Now and Then." It
had no definite organization, officers or abode. Any one, who, because
of class and social connections was eligible and chose to belong, could
call a meeting of other members to give a dinner or dance or tea in
their homes.
And how simple, thought Sondra in browsing around for a suitable
vehicle by which to introduce Clyde, if some one other than herself
who belonged could be induced to get up something and then at her
suggestion invite Clyde. How easy, say, for Jill Trumbull to give
a dinner and dance to the "Now and Thens," to which Clyde might be
invited. And by this ruse she would thus be able to see him again and
find out just how much he did interest her and what he was like.
Accordingly a small dinner for this club and its friends was announced
for the first Thursday in December, Jill Trumbull to be the hostess.
To it were to be invited Sondra and her brother, Stuart, Tracy and
Gertrude Trumbull, Arabella Stark, Bertine and her brother, and some
others from Utica and Gloversville as well. And Clyde. But in order to
safeguard Clyde against any chance of failure or even invidious comment
of any kind, not only she but Bertine and Jill and Gertrude were to be
attentive to and considerate of him. They were to see that his dance
program was complete and that neither at dinner nor on the dance floor
was he to be left to himself, but was to be passed on most artfully
from one to the other until the evening should be over. For, by reason
of that, others might come to be interested in him, which would not
only take the thorn from the thought that Sondra alone, of all the
better people of Lycurgus, had been friendly to him, but would sharpen
the point of this development for Gilbert, if not for Bella and the
other members of the Griffiths family.
And in accordance with this plan, so it was done.
And so it was that Clyde, returning from the factory one early December
evening about two weeks after his encounter with Sondra, was surprised
by the sight of a cream-colored note leaning against the mirror of his
dresser. It was addressed in a large, scrawly and unfamiliar hand.
He picked it up and turned it over without being able in any way to
fix upon the source. On the back were the initials B.T. or J.T., he
could not decide which, so elaborately intertwined was the engraved
penmanship. He tore it open and drew out a card which read:
_The Now and Then Club
Will Hold Its First
Winter Dinner Dance
At the Home of
Douglas Trumbull
135 Wykeagy Ave.
On Thursday, December 4
You Are Cordially Invited
Will You Kindly Reply to Miss Jill Trumbull?_
On the back of this, though, in the same scrawly hand that graced the
envelope was written: "Dear Mr. Griffiths: Thought you might like to
come. It will be quite informal. And I'm sure you'll like it. If so,
will you let Jill Trumbull know? Sondra Finchley."
Quite amazed and thrilled, Clyde stood and stared. For ever since that
second contact with her, he had been more definitely fascinated than
at any time before by the dream that somehow, in some way, he was to
be lifted from the lowly state in which he now dwelt. He was, as he
now saw it, really too good for the commonplace world by which he was
environed. And now here was this--a social invitation issued by the
"Now and Then Club," of which, even though he had never heard of it,
must be something, since it was sponsored by such exceptional people.
And on the back of it, was there not the writing of Sondra herself? How
marvelous, really!
So astonished was he that he could scarcely contain himself for joy,
but now on the instant must walk to and fro, looking at himself in the
mirror, washing his hands and face, then deciding that his tie was not
just right, perhaps, and changing to another--thinking forward to what
he should wear and back upon how Sondra had looked at him on that last
occasion. And how she had smiled. At the same time he could not help
wondering even at this moment of what Roberta would think, if now, by
some extra optical power of observation she could note his present
joy in connection with this note. For plainly, and because he was no
longer governed by the conventional notions of his parents, he had been
allowing himself to drift into a position in regard to her which would
certainly spell torture to her in case she should discover the nature
of his present mood, a thought which puzzled him not a little, but did
not serve to modify his thoughts in regard to Sondra in the least.
That wonderful girl!
That beauty!
That world of wealth and social position she lived in!
At the same time so innately pagan and unconventional were his thoughts
in regard to all this that he could now ask himself, and that seriously
enough, why should he not be allowed to direct his thoughts toward her
and away from Roberta, since at the moment Sondra supplied the keener
thought of delight. Roberta could not know about this. She could not
see into his mind, could she--become aware of any such extra experience
as this unless he told her. And most assuredly he did not intend to
tell her. And what harm, he now asked himself, was there in a poor
youth like himself aspiring to such heights? Other youths as poor as
himself had married girls as rich as Sondra.
For in spite of all that had occurred between him and Roberta he had
not, as he now clearly recalled, given her his word that he would marry
her except under one condition. And such a condition, especially with
the knowledge that he had all too clearly acquired in Kansas City, was
not likely to happen as he thought.
And Sondra, now that she had thus suddenly burst upon him again in this
way was the same as a fever to his fancy. This goddess in her shrine of
gilt and tinsel so utterly enticing to him, had deigned to remember him
in this open and direct way and to suggest that he be invited. And no
doubt she, herself, was going to be there, a thought which thrilled him
beyond measure.
And what would not Gilbert and the Griffiths think if they were to hear
of his going to this affair now, as they surely would? Or meet him
later at some other party to which Sondra might invite him? Think of
that! Would it irritate or please them? Make them think less or more of
him? For, after all, this certainly was not of his doing. Was he not
properly invited by people of their own station here in Lycurgus whom
most certainly they were compelled to respect? And by no device of his,
either--sheer accident--the facts concerning which would most certainly
not reflect on him as pushing. As lacking as he was in some of the
finer shades of mental discrimination, a sly and ironic pleasure lay in
the thought that now Gilbert and the Griffiths might be compelled to
countenance him whether they would or not--invite him to their home,
even. For, if these others did, how could they avoid it, really? Oh,
joy! And that in the face of Gilbert's high contempt for him. He fairly
chuckled as he thought of it, feeling that however much Gilbert might
resent it, neither his uncle nor Myra were likely to, and that hence he
would be fairly safe from any secret desire on the part of Gilbert to
revenge himself on him for this.
But how wonderful this invitation! Why that intriguing scribble of
Sondra's unless she was interested in him some? Why? The thought was
so thrilling that Clyde could scarcely eat his dinner that night. He
took up the card and kissed the handwriting. And instead of going to
see Roberta as usual, he decided as before on first reëncountering her,
to walk a bit, then return to his room, and retire early. And on the
morrow as before he could make some excuse--say that he had been over
to the Griffiths' home, or some one of the heads of the factory, in
order to listen to an explanation in regard to something in connection
with the work, since there were often such conferences. For, in the
face of this, he did not care to see or talk to Roberta this night.
He could not. The other thought--that of Sondra and her interest in
him--was too enticing.
CHAPTER XXV
But in the interim, in connection with his relations with Roberta
no least reference to Sondra, although, even when near her in the
factory or her room, he could not keep his thoughts from wandering
away to where Sondra in her imaginary high social world might be.
The while Roberta, at moments only sensing a drift and remoteness
in his thought and attitude which had nothing to do with her, was
wondering what it was that of late was beginning to occupy him
so completely. And he, in his turn, when she was not looking was
thinking--supposing?--supposing--(since she had troubled to recall
herself to him), that he could interest a girl like Sondra in him? What
then of Roberta? What? And in the face of this intimate relation that
had now been established between them? (Goodness! The deuce!) And that
he did care for her (yes, he did), although now--basking in the direct
rays of this newer luminary--he could scarcely see Roberta any longer,
so strong were the actinic rays of this other. Was he all wrong? Was it
evil to be like this? His mother would say so! And his father too--and
perhaps everybody who thought right about life--Sondra Finchley,
maybe--the Griffiths--all.
And yet! And yet! It was snowing the first light snow of the year
as Clyde, arrayed in a new collapsible silk hat and white silk
muffler, both suggested by a friendly haberdasher--Orrin Short, with
whom recently he had come in contact here--and a new silk umbrella
wherewith to protect himself from the snow, made his way toward the
very interesting, if not so very imposing residence of the Trumbulls
on Wykeagy Avenue. It was quaint, low and rambling, and the lights
beaming from within upon the many drawn blinds gave it a Christmas-card
effect. And before it, even at the prompt hour at which he arrived,
were ranged a half dozen handsome cars of various builds and colors.
The sight of them, sprinkled on tops, running boards and fenders with
the fresh, flaky snow, gave him a keen sense of a deficiency that was
not likely soon to be remedied in his case--the want of ample means
wherewith to equip himself with such a necessity as that. And inside as
he approached the door he could hear voices, laughter and conversation
commingled.
A tall, thin servant relieved him of his hat, coat and umbrella and
he found himself face to face with Jill Trumbull, who apparently was
on the look-out for him--a smooth, curly-haired blonde girl, not too
thrillingly pretty, but brisk and smart, in white satin with arms and
shoulders bare and rhinestones banded around her forehead.
"No trouble to tell who you are," she said gayly, approaching and
giving Clyde her hand. "I'm Jill Trumbull. Miss Finchley hasn't come
yet. But I can do the honors just as well, I guess. Come right in where
the rest of us are."
She led the way into a series of connecting rooms that seemed to join
each other at right angles, adding as she went, "You do look an awful
lot like Gil Griffiths, don't you?"
"Do I?" smiled Clyde simply and courageously and very much flattered by
the comparison.
The ceilings were low. Pretty lamps behind painted shades hugged
dark walls. Open fires in two connecting rooms cast a rosy glow upon
cushioned and comfortable furniture. There were pictures, books,
objects of art.
"Here, Tracy, you do the announcing, will you?" she called. "My
brother, Tracy Trumbull, Mr. Griffiths. Mr. Clyde Griffiths,
everybody," she added, surveying the company in general which in turn
fixed varying eyes upon him, while Tracy Trumbull took him by the hand.
Clyde, suffering from a sense of being studied, nevertheless achieved a
warm smile. At the same time he realized that for the moment at least
conversation had stopped. "Don't all stop talking on my account," he
ventured, with a smile, which caused most of those present to conceive
of him as at his ease and resourceful. At the same time Tracy added:
"I'm not going to do any man-to-man introduction stuff. We'll stand
right here and point 'em out. That's my sister, Gertrude, over there
talking to Scott Nicholson." Clyde noted that a small, dark girl
dressed in pink with a pretty and yet saucy and piquant face, nodded
to him. And beside her a very de rigueur youth of fine physique and
pink complexion nodded jerkily. "Howja do." And a few feet from them
near a deep window stood a tall and yet graceful girl of dark and by no
means ravishing features talking to a broad-shouldered and deep-chested
youth of less than her height, who were proclaimed to be Arabella Stark
and Frank Harriet. "They're arguing over a recent Cornell-Syracuse
foot-ball game ... Burchard Taylor and Miss Phant of Utica," he went
on almost too swiftly for Clyde to assemble any mental notes. "Perley
Haynes and Miss Vanda Steele ... well, I guess that's all as yet. Oh,
no, here come Grant and Nina Temple." Clyde paused and gazed as a tall
and somewhat dandified-looking youth, sharp of face and with murky gray
eyes, steered a trim, young, plump girl in fawn gray and with a light
chestnut braid of hair laid carefully above her forehead, into the
middle of the room.
"Hello, Jill. Hello, Vanda. Hello, Wynette." In the midst of these
greetings on his part, Clyde was presented to these two, neither of
whom seemed to pay much attention to him. "Didn't think we'd make it,"
went on young Cranston speaking to all at once. "Nina didn't want to
come, but I promised Bertine and Jill or I wouldn't have, either. We
were up at the Bagley's. Guess who's up there, Scott. Van Peterson and
Rhoda Hull. They're just over for the day."
"You don't say," called Scott Nicholson, a determined and self-centered
looking individual. Clyde was arrested by the very definite sense of
social security and ease that seemed to reside in everybody. "Why
didn't you bring 'em along? I'd like to see Rhoda again and Van, too."
"Couldn't. They have to go back early, they say. They may stop in later
for a minute. Gee, isn't dinner served yet? I expected to sit right
down."
"These lawyers! Don't you know they don't eat often?" commented Frank
Harriet, who was a short, but broad-chested and smiling youth, very
agreeable, very good-looking and with even, white teeth. Clyde liked
him.
"Well, whether they do or not, we do, or out I go. Did you hear who
is being touted for stroke next year over at Cornell?" This college
chatter relating to Cornell and shared by Harriet, Cranston and others,
Clyde could not understand. He had scarcely heard of the various
colleges with which this group was all too familiar. At the same time
he was wise enough to sense the defect and steer clear of any questions
or conversations which might relate to them. However, because of this,
he at once felt out of it. These people were better informed than he
was--had been to colleges. Perhaps he had better claim that he had been
to some school. In Kansas City he had heard of the State University of
Kansas--not so very far from there. Also the University of Missouri.
And in Chicago of the University of Chicago. Could he say that he had
been to one of those--that Kansas one, for a little while, anyway?
On the instant he proposed to claim it, if asked, and then look up
afterwards what, if anything, he was supposed to know about it--what,
for instance, he might have studied. He had heard of mathematics
somewhere. Why not that?
But these people, as he could see, were too much interested in
themselves to pay much attention to him now. He might be a Griffiths
and important to some outside, but here not so much--a matter of
course, as it were. And because Tracy Trumbull for the moment had
turned to say something to Wynette Phant, he felt quite alone, beached
and helpless and with no one to talk to. But just then the small, dark
girl, Gertrude, came over to him.
"The crowd's a little late in getting together. It always is. If we
said eight, they'd come at eight-thirty or nine. Isn't that always the
way?"
"It certainly is," replied Clyde gratefully, endeavoring to appear as
brisk and as much at ease as possible.
"I'm Gertrude Trumbull," she repeated. "The sister of the good-looking
Jill," a cynical and yet amused smile played about her mouth and eyes.
"You nodded to me, but you don't know me. Just the same we've been
hearing a lot about you." She teased in an attempt to trouble Clyde a
little, if possible. "A mysterious Griffiths here in Lycurgus whom no
one seems to have met. I saw you once in Central Avenue, though. You
were going into Rich's candy store. You didn't know that, though. Do
you like candy?"
"Oh, yes, I like candy. Why?" asked Clyde on the instant feeling teased
and disturbed, since the girl for whom he was buying the candy was
Roberta. At the same time he could not help feeling slightly more at
ease with this girl than with some others, for although cynical and not
so attractive, her manner was genial and she now spelled escape from
isolation and hence diffidence.
"You're probably just saying that," she laughed, a bantering look in
her eyes. "More likely you were buying it for some girl. You have a
girl, haven't you?"
"Why--" Clyde paused for the fraction of a second because as she asked
this Roberta came into his mind and the query, "Had any one ever seen
him with Roberta?" flitted through his brain. Also thinking at the same
time, what a bold, teasing, intelligent girl this was, different from
any that thus far he had known. Yet quite without more pause he added:
"No, I haven't. What makes you ask that?"
As he said this there came to him the thought of what Roberta would
think if she could hear him. "But what a question," he continued a
little nervously now. "You like to tease, don't you?"
"Who, me? Oh, no. I wouldn't do anything like that. But I'm sure you
have just the same. I like to ask questions sometimes, just to see
what people will say when they don't want you to know what they really
think." She beamed into Clyde's eyes amusedly and defiantly. "But I
know you have a girl just the same. All good-looking fellows have."
"Oh, am I good-looking?" he beamed nervously, amused and yet pleased.
"Who said so?"
"As though you didn't know. Well, different people. I for one. And
Sondra Finchley thinks you're good-looking, too. She's only interested
in men who are. So does my sister Jill, for that matter. And she only
likes men who are good-looking. I'm different because I'm not so
good-looking myself." She blinked cynically and teasingly into his
eyes, which caused him to feel oddly out of place, not able to cope
with such a girl at all, at the same time very much flattered and
amused. "But don't you think you're better looking than your cousin,"
she went on sharply and even commandingly. "Some people think you are."
Although a little staggered and yet flattered by this question which
propounded what he might have liked to believe, and although intrigued
by this girl's interest in him, still Clyde would not have dreamed
of venturing any such assertion even though he had believed it. Too
vividly it brought the aggressive and determined and even at times
revengeful-looking features of Gilbert before him, who, stirred by such
a report as this, would not hesitate to pay him out.
"Why I don't think anything of the kind," he laughed. "Honest, I don't.
Of course I don't."
"Oh, well, then maybe you don't, but you are just the same. But that
won't help you much either, unless you have money--that is, if you want
to run with people who have." She looked up at him and added quite
blandly. "People like money even more than they do looks."
What a sharp girl this was, he thought, and what a hard, cold
statement. It cut him not a little, even though she had not intended
that it should.
But just then Sondra herself entered with some youth whom Clyde did not
know--a tall, gangling, but very smartly-dressed individual. And after
them, along with others, Bertine and Stuart Finchley.
"Here she is now," added Gertrude a little spitefully, for she resented
the fact that Sondra was so much better-looking than either she or her
sister, and that she had expressed an interest in Clyde. "She'll be
looking to see if you notice how pretty she looks, so don't disappoint
her."
The impact of this remark, a reflection of the exact truth, was not
necessary to cause Clyde to gaze attentively, and even eagerly. For
apart from her local position and means and taste in dress and manners,
Sondra was of the exact order and spirit that most intrigued him--a
somewhat refined (and because of means and position showered upon her)
less savage, although scarcely less self-centered, Hortense Briggs. She
was, in her small, intense way, a seeking Aphrodite, eager to prove to
any who were sufficiently attractive the destroying power of her charm,
while at the same time retaining her own personality and individuality
free of any entangling alliance or compromise. However, for varying
reasons which she could not quite explain to herself, Clyde appealed
to her. He might not be anything socially or financially, but he was
interesting to her.
Hence she was now keen, first to see if he were present, next to be
sure that he gained no hint that she had seen him first, and lastly to
act as grandly as possible for his benefit--a Hortensian procedure and
type of thought that was exactly the thing best calculated to impress
him. He gazed and there she was--tripping here and there in a filmy
chiffon dance frock, shaded from palest yellow to deepest orange, which
most enhanced her dark eyes and hair. And having exchanged a dozen or
more "Oh, Hellos," and references with one and another to this, that
and the other local event, she at last condescended to evince awareness
of his proximity.
"Oh, here you are. You decided to come after all. I wasn't sure whether
you would think it worth while. You've been introduced to everybody, of
course?" She looked around as much as to say, that if he had not been
she would proceed to serve him in this way. The others, not so very
much impressed by Clyde, were still not a little interested by the fact
that she seemed so interested in him.
"Yes, I met nearly everybody, I think."
"Except Freddie Sells. He came in with me just now. Here you are,
Freddie," she called to a tall and slender youth, smooth of cheek
and obviously becurled as to hair, who now came over and in his
closely-fitting dress coat looked down on Clyde about as a spring
rooster might look down on a sparrow.
"This is Clyde Griffiths, I was telling you about, Fred," she began
briskly. "Doesn't he look a lot like Gilbert?"
"Why, you do at that," exclaimed this amiable person, who seemed to be
slightly troubled with weak eyes since he bent close. "I hear you're a
cousin of Gil's. I know him well. We went through Princeton together.
I used to be over here before I joined the General Electric over at
Schenectady. But I'm around a good bit yet. You're connected with the
factory, I suppose."
"Yes, I am," said Clyde, who, before a youth of obviously so much more
training and schooling than he possessed, felt not a little reduced.
He began to fear that this individual would try to talk to him about
things which he could not understand, things concerning which, having
had no consecutive training of any kind, he had never been technically
informed.
"In charge of some department, I suppose?"
"Yes, I am," said Clyde, cautiously and nervously.
"You know," went on Mr. Sells, briskly and interestingly, being of a
commercial as well as technical turn, "I've always wondered just what,
outside of money, there is to the collar business. Gil and I used to
argue about that when we were down at college. He used to try to tell
me that there was some social importance to making and distributing
collars, giving polish and manner to people who wouldn't otherwise have
them, if it weren't for cheap collars. I think he musta read that in a
book somewhere. I always laughed at him."
Clyde was about to attempt an answer, although already beyond his
depth in regard to this. "Social importance." Just what did he mean
by that--some deep, scientific information that he had acquired at
college. He was saved a non-committal or totally uninformed answer
by Sondra who, without thought or knowledge of the difficulty which
was then and there before him, exclaimed: "Oh, no arguments, Freddie.
That's not interesting. Besides I want him to meet my brother and
Bertine. You remember Miss Cranston. She was with me at your uncle's
last spring."
Clyde turned, while Fred made the best of the rebuff by merely looking
at Sondra, whom he admired so very much.
"Yes, of course," Clyde began, for he had been studying these two along
with others. To him, apart from Sondra, Bertine seemed exceedingly
attractive, though quite beyond his understanding also. Being involved,
insincere and sly, she merely evoked in him a troubled sense of
ineffectiveness, and hence uncertainty, in so far as her particular
world was concerned--no more.
"Oh, how do you do? It's nice to see you again," she drawled, the while
her greenish-gray eyes went over him in a smiling and yet indifferent
and quizzical way. She thought him attractive, but not nearly as shrewd
and hard as she would have preferred him to be. "You've been terribly
busy with your work, I suppose. But now that you've come out once, I
suppose we'll see more of you here and there."
"Well, I hope so," he replied, showing his even teeth.
Her eyes seemed to be saying that she did not believe what she was
saying and that he did not either, but that it was necessary, possibly
amusing, to say something of the sort.
And a related, though somewhat modified, version of this same type of
treatment was accorded him by Stuart, Sondra's brother.
"Oh, how do you do. Glad to know you. My sister has just been telling
me about you. Going to stay in Lycurgus long? Hope you do. We'll run
into one another once in a while then, I suppose."
Clyde was by no means so sure, but he admired the easy, shallow way in
which Stuart laughed and showed his even white teeth--a quick, genial,
indifferent laugh. Also the way in which he turned and laid hold of
Wynette Phant's white arm as she passed. "Wait a minute, Wyn. I want
to ask you something." He was gone--into another room--bending close
to her and talking fast. And Clyde had noticed that his clothes were
perfectly cut.
What a gay world, he thought. What a brisk world. And just then Jill
Trumbull began calling, "Come on, people. It's not my fault. The cook's
mad about something and you're all late anyhow. We'll get it over with
and then dance, eh?"
"You can sit between me and Miss Trumbull when she gets the rest of us
seated," assured Sondra. "Won't that be nice? And now you may take me
in."
She slipped a white arm under Clyde's and he felt as though he were
slowly but surely being transported to paradise.
CHAPTER XXVI
The dinner itself was chatter about a jumble of places, personalities,
plans, most of which had nothing to do with anything that Clyde had
personally contacted here. However, by reason of his own charm, he soon
managed to overcome the sense of strangeness and hence indifference
in some quarters, more particularly the young women of the group who
were interested by the fact that Sondra Finchley liked him. And Jill
Trumbull, sitting beside him, wanted to know where he came from, what
his own home life and connections were like, why he had decided to come
to Lycurgus, questions which, interjected as they were between silly
banter concerning different girls and their beaus, gave Clyde pause.
He did not feel that he could admit the truth in connection with his
family at all. So he announced that his father conducted a hotel in
Denver--not so very large, but still a hotel. Also that he had come
to Lycurgus because his uncle had suggested to him in Chicago that he
come to learn the collar business. He was not sure that he was wholly
interested in it or that he would continue indefinitely unless it
proved worth while; rather he was trying to find out what it might mean
to his future, a remark which caused Sondra, who was also listening,
as well as Jill, to whom it was addressed, to consider that in spite
of all rumors attributed to Gilbert, Clyde must possess some means and
position to which, in case he did not do so well here, he could return.
This in itself was important, not only to Sondra and Jill, but to all
the others. For, despite his looks and charm and family connections
here, the thought that he was a mere nobody, seeking, as Constance
Wynant had reported, to attach himself to his cousin's family, was
disquieting. One couldn't ever be anything much more than friendly
with a moneyless clerk or pensioner, whatever his family connections,
whereas if he had a little money and some local station elsewhere, the
situation was entirely different.
And now Sondra, relieved by this and the fact that he was proving more
acceptable than she had imagined he would, was inclined to make more of
him than she otherwise would have done.
"Are you going to let me dance with you after dinner?" was one of the
first things he said to her, infringing on a genial smile given him in
the midst of clatter concerning an approaching dance somewhere.
"Why, yes, of course, if you want me to," she replied, coquettishly,
seeking to intrigue him into further romanticisms in regard to her.
"Just one?"
"How many do you want? There are a dozen boys here, you know. Did you
get a program when you came in?"
"I didn't see any."
"Never mind. After dinner you can get one. And you may put me down
for three and eight. That will leave you room for others." She smiled
bewitchingly. "You have to be nice to everybody, you know."
"Yes, I know." He was still looking at her. "But ever since I saw you
at my uncle's last April, I've been wishing I might see you again. I
always look for your name in the papers."
He looked at her seekingly and questioningly and in spite of herself,
Sondra was captivated by this naïve confession. Plainly he could not
afford to go where or do what she did, but still he would trouble to
follow her name and movements in print. She could not resist the desire
to make something more of this.
"Oh, do you?" she added. "Isn't that nice? But what do you read about
me?"
"That you were at Twelfth and Greenwood Lakes and up at Sharon for
the swimming contests. I saw where you went up to Paul Smith's, too.
The papers here seemed to think you were interested in some one from
Schroon Lake and that you might be going to marry him."
"Oh, did they? How silly. The papers here always say such silly
things." Her tone implied that he might be intruding. He looked
embarrassed. This softened her and after a moment she took up the
conversation in the former vein.
"Do you like to ride?" she asked sweetly and placatively.
"I never have. You know I never had much chance at that, but I always
thought I could if I tried."
"Of course, it's not hard. If you took a lesson or two you could, and,"
she added in a somewhat lower tone, "we might go for a canter sometime.
There are lots of horses in our stable that you would like, I'm sure."
Clyde's hair-roots tingled anticipatorily. He was actually being
invited by Sondra to ride with her sometime and he could use one of her
horses into the bargain.
"Oh, I would love that," he said. "That would be wonderful."
The crowd was getting up from the table. Scarcely any one was
interested in the dinner, because a chamber orchestra of four having
arrived, the strains of a preliminary fox trot were already issuing
from the adjacent living room--a long, wide affair from which all
obstructing furniture with the exception of wall chairs had been
removed.
"You had better see about your program and your dance before all the
others are gone," cautioned Sondra.
"Yes, I will right away," said Clyde, "but is two all I get with you?"
"Well, make it three, five and eight then, in the first half." She
waved him gaily away and he hurried for a dance card.
The dances were all of the eager fox-trotting type of the period with
interpolations and variations according to the moods and temperaments
of the individual dancers. Having danced so much with Roberta during
the preceding month, Clyde was in excellent form and keyed to the
breaking point by the thought that at last he was in social and even
affectional contact with a girl as wonderful as Sondra.
And although wishing to seem courteous and interested in others with
whom he was dancing, he was almost dizzied by passing contemplations
of Sondra. She swayed so droopily and dreamily in the embrace of Grant
Cranston, the while without seeming to, looking in his direction when
he was near, permitting him to sense how graceful and romantic and
poetic was her attitude toward all things--what a flower of life she
really was. And Nina Temple, with whom he was now dancing for his
benefit, just then observed: "She is graceful, isn't she?"
"Who?" asked Clyde, pretending an innocence he could not physically
verify, for his cheek and forehead flushed. "I don't know who you mean."
"Don't you? Then what are you blushing for?"
He had realized that he was blushing. And that his attempted escape was
ridiculous. He turned, but just then the music stopped and the dancers
drifted away to their chairs. Sondra moved off with Grant Cranston and
Clyde led Nina toward a cushioned seat in a window in the library.
And in connection with Bertine with whom he next danced, he found
himself slightly flustered by the cool, cynical aloofness with which
she accepted and entertained his attention. Her chief interest in Clyde
was the fact that Sondra appeared to find him interesting.
"You do dance well, don't you? I suppose you must have done a lot of
dancing before you came here--in Chicago, wasn't it, or where?"
She talked slowly and indifferently.
"I was in Chicago before I came here, but I didn't do so very much
dancing. I had to work." He was thinking how such girls as she had
everything, as contrasted with girls like Roberta, who had nothing. And
yet, as he now felt in this instance, he liked Roberta better. She was
sweeter and warmer and kinder--not so cold.
When the music started again with the sonorous melancholy of a single
saxophone interjected at times, Sondra came over to him and placed her
right hand in his left and allowed him to put his arm about her waist,
an easy, genial and unembarrassed approach which, in the midst of
Clyde's dream of her, was thrilling.
And then in her coquettish and artful way she smiled up in his eyes, a
bland, deceptive and yet seemingly promising smile, which caused his
heart to beat faster and his throat to tighten. Some delicate perfume
that she was using thrilled in his nostrils as might have the fragrance
of spring.
"Having a good time?"
"Yes--looking at you."
"When there are so many other nice girls to look at?"
"Oh, there are no other girls as nice as you."
"And I dance better than any other girl, and I'm much the best-looking
of any other girl here. Now--I've said it all for you. Now what are you
going to say?"
She looked up at him teasingly, and Clyde realizing that he had a very
different type to Roberta to deal with, was puzzled and flushed.
"I see," he said, seriously. "Every fellow tells you that, so you don't
want me to."
"Oh, no, not every fellow." Sondra was at once intrigued and checkmated
by the simplicity of his retort. "There are lots of people who don't
think I'm very pretty."
"Oh, don't they, though?" he returned quite gayly, for at once he saw
that she was not making fun of him. And yet he was almost afraid to
venture another compliment. Instead he cast about for something else
to say, and going back to the conversation at the table concerning
riding and tennis, he now asked: "You like everything out-of-doors and
athletic, don't you?"
"Oh, do I?" was her quick and enthusiastic response. "There isn't
anything I like as much, really. I'm just crazy about riding, tennis,
swimming, motor-boating, aqua-planing. You swim, don't you?"
"Oh, sure," said Clyde, grandly.
"Do you play tennis?"
"Well, I've just taken it up," he said, fearing to admit that he did
not play at all.
"Oh, I just love tennis. We might play sometime together."
Clyde's spirits were completely restored by this. And tripping as
lightly as dawn to the mournful strains of a popular love song, she
went right on. "Bella Griffiths and Stuart and Grant and I play fine
doubles. We won nearly all the finals at Greenwood and Twelfth Lake
last summer. And when it comes to aqua-planing and high diving you just
ought to see me. We have the swiftest motor-boat up at Twelfth Lake
now--Stuart has. It can do sixty miles an hour."
At once Clyde realized that he had hit upon the one subject that not
only fascinated, but even excited her. For not only did it involve
outdoor exercise, in which obviously she reveled, but also the power
to triumph and so achieve laurels in such phases of sport as most
interested those with whom she was socially connected. And lastly,
although this was something which he did not so clearly realize until
later, she was fairly dizzied by the opportunity all this provided
for frequent changes of costume and hence social show, which was the
one thing above all others that did interest her. How she looked in a
bathing suit--a riding or tennis or dancing or automobile costume!
They danced on together, thrilled for the moment at least, by this
mutual recognition of the identity and reality of this interest each
felt for the other--a certain momentary warmth or enthusiasm which
took the form of genial and seeking glances into each other's eyes,
hints on the part of Sondra that, assuming that Clyde could fit himself
athletically, financially and in other ways for such a world as this,
it might be possible that he would be invited here and there by her;
broad and for the moment self-deluding notions on his part that such
could and would be the case, while in reality just below the surface of
his outward or seeming conviction and assurance ran a deeper current
of self-distrust which showed as a decidedly eager and yet slightly
mournful light in his eye, a certain vigor and assurance in his voice,
which was nevertheless touched, had she been able to define it, with
something that was not assurance by any means.
"Oh, the dance is done," he said sadly.
"Let's try to make them encore," she said, applauding. The orchestra
struck up a lively tune and they glided off together once more, dipping
and swaying here and there--harmoniously abandoning themselves to the
rhythm of the music--like two small chips being tossed about on a rough
but friendly sea.
"Oh, I'm so glad to be with you again--to be dancing with you. It's so
wonderful ... Sondra."
"But you mustn't call me that, you know. You don't know me well enough."
"I mean Miss Finchley. But you're not going to be mad at me again, are
you?"
His face was very pale and sad again.
She noticed it.
"No. Was I mad at you? I wasn't really. I like you ... some ... when
you're not sentimental."
The music stopped. The light tripping feet became walking ones.
"I'd like to see if it's still snowing outside, wouldn't you?" It was
Sondra asking.
"Oh, yes. Let's go."
Through the moving couples they hurried out a side-door to a world that
was covered thick with soft, cottony, silent snow. The air was filled
with it silently eddying down.
CHAPTER XXVII
The ensuing December days brought to Clyde some pleasing and yet
complicating and disturbing developments. For Sondra Finchley, having
found him so agreeable an admirer of hers, was from the first inclined
neither to forget nor neglect him. But, occupying the rather prominent
social position which she did, she was at first rather dubious as
to how to proceed. For Clyde was too poor and decidedly too much
ignored by the Griffiths themselves, even, for her to risk any marked
manifestation of interest in him.
And now, in addition to the primary motivating reason for all this--her
desire to irritate Gilbert by being friends with his cousin--there
was another. She liked him. His charm and his reverence for her and
her station flattered and intrigued her. For hers was a temperament
which required adulation in about the measure which Clyde provided
it--sincere and romantic adulation. And at the very same time he
represented physical as well as mental attributes which were agreeable
to her--amorousness without the courage at the time, anyhow, to annoy
her too much; reverence which yet included her as a very human being; a
mental and physical animation which quite matched and companioned her
own.
Hence it was decidedly a troublesome thought with Sondra how she
was to proceed with Clyde without attracting too much attention and
unfavorable comment to herself--a thought which kept her sly little
brain going at nights after she had retired. However, those who had met
him at the Trumbulls' were so much impressed by her interest in him
that evening and the fact that he had proved so pleasing and affable,
they in turn, the girls particularly, were satisfied that he was
eligible enough.
And in consequence, two weeks later, Clyde, searching for inexpensive
Christmas presents in Stark's for his mother, father, sisters, brother
and Roberta, and encountering Jill Trumbull doing a little belated
shopping herself, was invited by her to attend a pre-Christmas dance
that was to be given the next night by Vanda Steele at her home in
Gloversville. Jill herself was going with Frank Harriet and she was not
sure but that Sondra Finchley would be there. Another engagement of
some kind appeared to be in the way, but still she was intending to
come if she could. But her sister Gertrude would be glad to have him
escort her--a very polite way of arranging for Gertrude. Besides, as
she knew, if Sondra heard that Clyde was to be there, this might induce
her to desert her other engagement.
"Tracy will be glad to stop for you in time," she went on, "or--" she
hesitated--"perhaps you'd like to come over for dinner with us before
we go. It'll be just the family, but we'd be delighted to have you. The
dancing doesn't begin till eleven."
The dance was for Friday night, and on that night Clyde had arranged
to be with Roberta because on the following day she was leaving for
a three-day-over-Christmas holiday visit to her parents--the longest
stretch of time thus far she had spent away from him. And because,
apart from his knowledge she had arranged to present him with a new
fountain pen and eversharp pencil, she had been most anxious that he
should spend this last evening with her, a fact which she had impressed
upon him. And he, on his part, had intended to make use of this last
evening to surprise her with a white-and-black toilet set.
But now, so thrilled was he at the possibility of a reëncounter with
Sondra, he decided that he would cancel this last evening engagement
with Roberta, although not without some misgivings as to the difficulty
as well as the decency of it. For despite the fact that he was now
so lured by Sondra, nevertheless he was still deeply interested in
Roberta and he did not like to grieve her in this way. She would look
so disappointed, as he knew. Yet at the same time so flattered and
enthused was he by this sudden, if tardy, social development that
he could not now think of refusing Jill. What? Neglect to visit the
Steeles in Gloversville and in company with the Trumbulls and without
any help from the Griffiths, either? It might be disloyal, cruel,
treacherous to Roberta, but was he not likely to meet Sondra?
In consequence he announced that he would go, but immediately
afterwards decided that he must go round and explain to Roberta, make
some suitable excuse--that the Griffiths, for instance, had invited
him for dinner. That would be sufficiently overawing and compelling to
her. But upon arriving, and finding her out, he decided to explain the
following morning at the factory--by note, if necessary. To make up
for it he decided he might promise to accompany her as far as Fonda on
Saturday and give her her present then.
But on Friday morning at the factory, instead of explaining to her
with the seriousness and even emotional dissatisfaction which would
have governed him before, he now whispered: "I have to break that
engagement to-night, honey. Been invited to my uncle's, and I have to
go. And I'm not sure that I can get around afterwards. I'll try if I
get through in time. But I'll see you on the Fonda car to-morrow if I
don't. I've got something I want to give you, so don't feel too bad.
Just got word this morning or I'd have let you know. You're not going
to feel bad, are you?" He looked at her as gloomily as possible in
order to express his own sorrow over this.
But Roberta, her presents and her happy last evening with him put aside
in this casual way, and for the first time, too, in this fashion,
shook her head negatively, as if to say "Oh, no," but her spirits were
heavily depressed and she fell to wondering what this sudden desertion
of her at this time might portend. For, up to this time, Clyde had
been attentiveness itself, concealing his recent contact with Sondra
behind a veil of pretended, unmodified affection which had, as yet,
been sufficient to deceive her. It might be true, as he said, that
an unescapable invitation had come up which necessitated all this.
But, oh, the happy evening she had planned! And now they would not
be together again for three whole days. She grieved dubiously at the
factory and in her room afterwards, thinking that Clyde might at least
have suggested coming around to her room late, after his uncle's dinner
in order that she might give him the presents. But his eventual excuse
made this day was that the dinner was likely to last too late. He could
not be sure. They had talked of going somewhere else afterwards.
But meanwhile Clyde, having gone to the Trumbulls', and later to the
Steeles', was flattered and reassured by a series of developments such
as a month before he would not have dreamed of anticipating. For at the
Steeles' he was promptly introduced to a score of personalities there
who, finding him chaperoned by the Trumbulls and learning that he was a
Griffiths, as promptly invited him to affairs of their own--or hinted
at events that were to come to which he might be invited, so that at
the close he found himself with cordial invitations to attend a New
Year's dance at the Vandams' in Gloversville, as well as a dinner and
dance that was to be given Christmas Eve by the Harriets in Lycurgus,
an affair to which Gilbert and his sister Bella, as well as Sondra,
Bertine and others were invited.
And lastly, there was Sondra herself appearing on the scene at about
midnight in company with Scott Nicholson, Freddie Sells and Bertine,
at first pretending to be wholly unaware of his presence, yet deigning
at last to greet him with an, "Oh, hello, I didn't expect to find you
here." She was draped most alluringly in a deep red Spanish shawl.
But Clyde could sense from the first that she was quite aware of his
presence, and at the first available opportunity he drew near to her
and asked yearningly, "Aren't you going to dance with me at all?"
"Why, of course, if you want me to. I thought maybe you had forgotten
me by now," she said mockingly.
"As though I'd be likely to forget you. The only reason I'm here
to-night is because I thought I might see you again. I haven't thought
of any one or anything else since I saw you last."
Indeed so infatuated was he with her ways and airs, that instead of
being irritated by her pretended indifference, he was all the more
attracted. And he now achieved an intensity which to her was quite
compelling. His eyelids narrowed and his eyes lit with a blazing desire
which was quite disturbing to see.
"My, but you can say the nicest things in the nicest way when you want
to." She was toying with a large Spanish comb in her hair for the
moment and smiling. "And you say them just as though you meant them."
"Do you mean to say that you don't believe me, Sondra," he inquired
almost feverishly, this second use of her name thrilling her now
as much as it did him. Although inclined to frown on so marked a
presumption in his case, she let it pass because it was pleasing to her.
"Oh, yes, I do. Of course," she said a little dubiously, and for the
first time nervously, where he was concerned. She was beginning to find
it a little hard to decipher her proper line of conduct in connection
with him, whether to repress him more or less. "But you must say now
what dance you want. I see some one coming for me." And she held her
small program up to him archly and intriguingly. "You may have the
eleventh. That's the next after this."
"Is that all?"
"Well, and the fourteenth, then, greedy," she laughed into Clyde's
eyes, a laughing look which quite enslaved him.
Subsequently learning from Frank Harriet in the course of a dance that
Clyde had been invited to his house for Christmas Eve, as well as that
Jessica Phant had invited him to Utica for New Year's Eve, she at once
conceived of him as slated for real success and decided that he was
likely to prove less of a social burden than she had feared. He was
charming--there was no doubt of it. And he was so devoted to her. In
consequence, as she now decided, it might be entirely possible that
some of these other girls, seeing him recognized by some of the best
people here and elsewhere, would become sufficiently interested, or
drawn to him even, to wish to overcome his devotion to her. Being of a
vain and presumptuous disposition herself, she decided that that should
not be. Hence, in the course of her second dance with Clyde, she said:
"You've been invited to the Harriets' for Christmas Eve, haven't you?"
"Yes, and I owe it all to you, too," he exclaimed warmly. "Are you
going to be there?"
"Oh, I'm awfully sorry. I am invited and I wish now that I was going.
But you know I arranged some time ago to go over to Albany and then up
to Saratoga for the holidays. I'm going to-morrow, but I'll be back
before New Year's. Some friends of Freddie's are giving a big affair
over in Schenectady New Year's Eve, though. And your cousin Bella and
my brother Stuart and Grant and Bertine are going. If you'd like to,
you might go along with us over there."
She had been about to say "me," but had changed it to "us." She was
thinking that this would certainly demonstrate her control over him to
all those others, seeing that it nullified Miss Phant's invitation. And
at once Clyde accepted, and with delight, since it would bring him in
contact with her again.
At the same time he was astonished and almost aghast over the fact that
in this casual and yet very intimate and definite way she was planning
for him to reëncounter Bella, who would at once carry the news of his
going with her and these others to her family. And what would not
that spell, seeing that even as yet the Griffiths had not invited him
anywhere--not even for Christmas? For although the fact of Clyde having
been picked up by Sondra in her car as well as later, that he had been
invited to the Now and Then, had come to their ears, still nothing had
been done. Gilbert Griffiths was wroth, his father and mother puzzled
as to their proper course but remaining inactive nonetheless.
But the group, according to Sondra, might remain in Schenectady until
the following morning, a fact which she did not trouble to explain
to Clyde at first. And by now he had forgotten that Roberta, having
returned from her long stay at Biltz by then, and having been deserted
by him over Christmas, would most assuredly be expecting him to spend
New Year's Eve with her. That was a complication which was to dawn
later. Now he only saw bliss in Sondra's thought of him and at once
eagerly and enthusiastically agreed.
"But you know," she said cautiously, "you mustn't pay so very much
attention to me over there or here or anywhere or think anything of it,
if I don't to you. I may not be able to see so very much of you if you
do. I'll tell you about that sometime. You see my father and mother are
funny people. And so are some of my friends here. But if you'll just be
nice and sort of indifferent--you know--I may be able to see quite a
little of you this winter yet. Do you see?"
Thrilled beyond words by this confession, which came because of his
too ardent approaches as he well knew, he looked at her eagerly and
searchingly.
"But you care for me a little, then, don't you?" he half-demanded,
half-pleaded, his eyes lit with that alluring light which so fascinated
her. And cautious and yet attracted, swayed sensually and emotionally
and yet dubious as to the wisdom of her course, Sondra replied: "Well,
I'll tell you. I do and I don't. That is, I can't tell yet. I like you
a lot. Sometimes I think I like you more than others. You see we don't
know each other very well yet. But you'll come with me to Schenectady,
though, won't you?"
"Oh, will I?"
"I'll write you more about that, or call you up. You have a telephone,
haven't you?"
He gave her the number.
"And if by any chance there's any change or I have to break the
engagement, don't think anything of it. I'll see you later--somewhere,
sure." She smiled and Clyde felt as though he were choking. The mere
thought of her being so frank with him, and saying that she cared for
him a lot, at times, was sufficient to cause him to almost reel with
joy. To think that this beautiful girl was so anxious to include him
in her life if she could--this wonderful girl who was surrounded by so
many friends and admirers from which she could take her pick.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Six-thirty the following morning. And Clyde, after but a single hour's
rest after his return from Gloversville, rising, his mind full of mixed
and troubled thoughts as to how to readjust his affairs in connection
with Roberta. She was going to Biltz to-day. He had promised to go as
far as Fonda. But now he did not want to go. Of course he would have to
concoct some excuse. But what?
Fortunately the day before he had heard Whiggam tell Liggett there was
to be a meeting of department heads after closing hours in Smillie's
office to-day, and that he was to be there. Nothing was said to Clyde,
since his department was included in Liggett's, but now he decided that
he could offer this as a reason and accordingly, about an hour before
noon, he dropped a note on her desk which read:
"HONEY: Awfully sorry, but just told that I have to be at a meeting
of department heads downstairs at three. That means I can't go to
Fonda with you, but will drop around to the room for a few minutes
right after closing. Have something I want to give you, so be sure
and wait. But don't feel too bad. It can't be helped. See you sure
when you come back Wednesday.
"CLYDE."
At first, since she could not read it at once, Roberta was pleased
because she imagined it contained some further favorable word about the
afternoon. But on opening it in the ladies' rest room a few minutes
afterwards, her face fell. Coupled as this was with the disappointment
of the preceding evening, when Clyde had failed to appear, together
with his manner of the morning which to her had seemed self-absorbed,
if not exactly distant, she began to wonder what it was that was
bringing about this sudden change. Perhaps he could not avoid attending
a meeting any more than he could avoid going to his uncle's when he was
asked. But the day before, following his word to her that he could not
be with her that evening, his manner was gayer, less sober, than his
supposed affection in the face of her departure would warrant. After
all he had known before that she was to be gone for three days. He also
knew that nothing weighed on her more than being absent from him any
length of time.
At once her mood from one of hopefulness changed to one of deep
depression--the blues. Life was always doing things like this to her.
Here it was--two days before Christmas, and now she would have to go to
Biltz, where there was nothing much but such cheer as she could bring,
and all by herself, and after scarcely a moment with him. She returned
to her bench, her face showing all the unhappiness that had suddenly
overtaken her. Her manner was listless and her movements indifferent--a
change which Clyde noticed; but still, because of his sudden and
desperate feeling for Sondra, he could not now bring himself to repent.
At one, the giant whistles of some of the neighboring factories
sounding the Saturday closing hours, both he and Roberta betook
themselves separately to her room. And he was thinking to himself as
he went what to say now. What to do? How in the face of this suddenly
frosted and blanched affection to pretend an interest he did not
feel--how, indeed, continue with a relationship which now, as alive
and vigorous as it might have been as little as fifteen days before,
appeared exceedingly anemic and colorless. It would not do to say or
indicate in any way that he did not care for her any more--for that
would be so decidedly cruel and might cause Roberta to say what? Do
what? And on the other hand, neither would it do, in the face of his
longings and prospects in the direction of Sondra to continue in a
type of approach and declaration that was not true or sound and that
could only tend to maintain things as they were. Impossible! Besides,
at the first hint of reciprocal love on the part of Sondra, would he
not be anxious and determined to desert Roberta if he could? And why
not? As contrasted with one of Sondra's position and beauty, what had
Roberta really to offer him? And would it be fair in one of her station
and considering the connections and the possibilities that Sondra
offered, for her to demand or assume that he should continue a deep
and undivided interest in her as opposed to this other? That would not
really be fair, would it?
It was thus that he continued to speculate while Roberta, preceding him
to her room, was asking herself what was this now that had so suddenly
come upon her--over Clyde--this sudden indifference, this willingness
to break a pre-Christmas date, and when she was about to leave for home
and not to see him for three days and over Christmas, too, to make him
not wish to ride with her even so far as Fonda. He might say that
it was that meeting, but was it? She could have waited until four if
necessary, but something in his manner had precluded that--something
distant and evasive. Oh, what did this all mean? And, so soon after
the establishing of this intimacy, which at first and up to now at
least had seemed to be drawing them indivisibly together. Did it spell
a change--danger to or the end even of their wonderful love dream?
Oh, dear! And she had given him so much and now his loyalty meant
everything--her future--her life.
She stood in her room pondering this new problem as Clyde arrived, his
Christmas package under his arm, but still fixed in his determination
to modify his present relationship with Roberta, if he could--yet,
at the same time anxious to put as inconsequential a face on the
proceeding as possible.
"Gee, I'm awfully sorry about this, Bert," he began briskly, his manner
a mixture of attempted gayety, sympathy and uncertainty. "I hadn't an
idea until about a couple of hours ago that they were going to have
this meeting. But you know how it is. You just can't get out of a thing
like this. You're not going to feel too bad, are you?" For already,
from her expression at the factory as well as here, he had gathered
that her mood was of the darkest. "I'm glad I got the chance to bring
this around to you, though," he added, handing the gift to her. "I
meant to bring it around last night only that other business came up.
Gee, I'm sorry about the whole thing. Really, I am."
Delighted as she might have been the night before if this gift had been
given to her, Roberta now put the box on the table, all the zest that
might have been joined with it completely banished.
"Did you have a good time last night, dear?" she queried, curious as to
the outcome of the event that had robbed her of him.
"Oh, pretty good," returned Clyde, anxious to put as deceptive a face
as possible on the night that had meant so much to him and spelled so
much danger to her. "I thought I was just going over to my uncle's for
dinner like I told you. But after I got there I found that what they
really wanted me for was to escort Bella and Myra over to some doings
in Gloversville. There's a rich family over there, the Steeles--big
glove people, you know. Well, anyhow, they were giving a dance and they
wanted me to take them over because Gil couldn't go. But it wasn't so
very interesting. I was glad when it was all over." He used the names
Bella, Myra and Gilbert as though they were long and assured intimates
of his--an intimacy which invariably impressed Roberta greatly.
"You didn't get through in time then to come around here, did you?"
"No, I didn't, 'cause I had to wait for the bunch to come back. I just
couldn't get away. But aren't you going to open your present?" he
added, anxious to divert her thoughts from this desertion which he knew
was preying on her mind.
She began to untie the ribbon that bound his gift, at the same time
that her mind was riveted by the possibilities of the party which he
had felt called upon to mention. What girls beside Bella and Myra had
been there? Was there by any chance any girl outside of herself in whom
he might have become recently interested? He was always talking about
Sondra Finchley, Bertine Cranston and Jill Trumbull. Were they, by any
chance, at this party?
"Who all were over there beside your cousins?" she suddenly asked.
"Oh, a lot of people that you don't know. Twenty or thirty from
different places around here."
"Any others from Lycurgus beside your cousins?" she persisted.
"Oh, a few. We picked up Jill Trumbull and her sister, because Bella
wanted to. Arabella Stark and Perley Haynes were already over there
when we got there." He made no mention of Sondra or any of the others
who so interested him.
But because of the manner in saying it--something in the tone of his
voice and flick of his eyes, the answer did not satisfy Roberta. She
was really intensely troubled by this new development, but did not feel
that under the circumstances it was wise to importune Clyde too much.
He might resent it. After all he had always been identified with this
world since ever she had known him. And she did not want him to feel
that she was attempting to assert any claims over him, though such was
her true desire.
"I wanted so much to be with you last night to give you your present,"
she returned instead, as much to divert her own thoughts as to appeal
to his regard for her. Clyde sensed the sorrow in her voice and as of
old it appealed to him, only now he could not and would not let it take
hold of him as much as otherwise it might have.
"But you know how that was, Bert," he replied, with almost an air of
bravado. "I just told you."
"I know," she replied sadly and attempting to conceal the true mood
that was dominating her. At the same time she was removing the paper
and opening the lid to the case that contained her toilet set. And
once opened, her mood changed slightly because never before had she
possessed anything so valuable or original. "Oh, this is beautiful,
isn't it?" she exclaimed, interested for the moment in spite of
herself. "I didn't expect anything like this. My two little presents
won't seem like very much now."
She crossed over at once to get her gifts. Yet Clyde could see that
although his gift was exceptional, still it was not sufficient to
overcome the depression which his indifference had brought upon her.
His continued love was far more vital than any present.
"You like it, do you?" he asked, eagerly hoping against hope that it
would serve to divert her.
"Of course, dear," she replied, looking at it interestedly. "But mine
won't seem so much," she added gloomily, and not a little depressed by
the general outcome of all her plans. "But they'll be useful to you and
you'll always have them near you, next your heart, where I want them to
be."
She handed over the small box which contained the metal ever-sharp
pencil and the silver ornamented fountain pen she had chosen for him
because she fancied they would be useful to him in his work at the
factory. Two weeks before he would have taken her in his arms and
sought to console her for the misery he was now causing her. But now he
merely stood there wondering how, without seeming too distant, he could
assuage her and yet not enter upon the customary demonstrations. And in
order so to do he burst into enthusiastic and yet somehow hollow words
in regard to her present to him.
"Oh, gee, these are swell, honey, and just what I need. You certainly
couldn't have given me anything that would come in handier. I can
use them all the time." He appeared to examine them with the utmost
pleasure and afterwards fastened them in his pocket ready for use.
Also, because for the moment she was before him so downcast and
wistful, epitomizing really all the lure of the old relationship, he
put his arms around her and kissed her. She was winsome, no doubt of
it. And then when she threw her arms around his neck and burst into
tears, he held her close, saying that there was no cause for all this
and that she would be back Wednesday and all would be as before. At the
same time he was thinking that this was not true, and how strange that
was--seeing that only so recently he had cared for her so much. It was
amazing how another girl could divert him in this way. And yet so it
was. And although she might be thinking that he was still caring for
her as he did before, he was not and never would again. And because of
this he felt really sorry for her.
Something of this latest mood in him reached Roberta now, even as she
listened to his words and felt his caresses. They failed to convey
sincerity. His manner was too restless, his embraces too apathetic, his
tone without real tenderness. Further proof as to this was added when,
after a moment or two, he sought to disengage himself and looked at his
watch, saying, "I guess I'll have to be going now, honey. It's twenty
of three now and that meeting is for three. I wish I could ride over
with you, but I'll see you when you get back."
He bent down to kiss her but with Roberta sensing once and for all,
this time, that his mood in regard to her was different, colder. He
was interested and kind, but his thoughts were elsewhere--and at this
particular season of the year, too--of all times. She tried to gather
her strength and her self-respect together and did, in part--saying
rather coolly, and determinedly toward the last: "Well, I don't want
you to be late, Clyde. You better hurry. But I don't want to stay over
there either later than Christmas night. Do you suppose if I come back
early Christmas afternoon, you will come over here at all? I don't want
to be late Wednesday for work."
"Why, sure, of course, honey, I'll be around," replied Clyde genially
and even whole-heartedly, seeing that he had nothing else scheduled,
that he knew of, for then, and would not so soon and boldly seek to
evade her in this fashion. "What time do you expect to get in?"
The hour was to be eight and he decided that for that occasion, anyhow,
a reunion would be acceptable. He drew out his watch again and saying,
"I'll have to be going now, though," moved toward the door.
Nervous as to the significance of all this and concerned about the
future, she now went over to him and seizing his coat lapels and
looking into his eyes, half-pleaded and half-demanded: "Now, this
is sure for Christmas night, is it, Clyde? You won't make any other
engagement this time, will you?"
"Oh, don't worry. You know me. You know I couldn't help that other,
honey. But I'll be on hand Tuesday, sure," he returned. And kissing
her, he hurried out, feeling, perhaps, that he was not acting as wisely
as he should, but not seeing clearly how otherwise he was to do. A man
couldn't break off with a girl as he was trying to do, or at least
might want to, without exercising some little tact or diplomacy, could
he? There was no sense in that nor any real skill, was there? There
must be some other and better way than that, surely. At the same time
his thoughts were already running forward to Sondra and New Year's Eve.
He was going with her to Schenectady to a party and then he would have
a chance to judge whether she was caring for him as much as she had
seemed to the night before.
After he had gone, Roberta turned in a rather lorn and weary way and
looked out the window after him, wondering as to what her future with
him was to be, if at all? Supposing now, for any reason, he should
cease caring for her. She had given him so much. And her future was now
dependent upon him, his continued regard. Was he going to get tired
of her now--not want to see her any more? Oh, how terrible that would
be. What would she--what could she do then? If only she had not given
herself to him, yielded so easily and so soon upon his demand.
She gazed out of her window at the bare snow-powdered branches of the
trees outside and sighed. The holidays! And going away like this. Oh!
Besides he was so high placed in this local society. And there were so
many things brighter and better than she could offer calling him.
She shook her head dubiously, surveyed her face in the mirror, put
together the few presents and belongings which she was taking with her
to her home, and departed.
CHAPTER XXIX
Biltz and the fungoid farm land after Clyde and Lycurgus was depressing
enough to Roberta, for all there was too closely identified with
deprivations and repressions which discolor the normal emotions
centering about old scenes.
As she stepped down from the train at the drab and aged chalet which
did service for a station, she observed her father in the same old
winter overcoat he had worn for a dozen years, waiting for her with the
old family conveyance, a decrepit but still whole buggy and a horse as
bony and weary as himself. He had, as she had always thought, the look
of a tired and defeated man. His face brightened when he saw Roberta,
for she had always been his favorite child, and he chatted quite
cheerfully as she climbed in alongside of him and they turned around
and started toward the road that led to the farmhouse, a rough and
winding affair of dirt at a time when excellent automobile roads were a
commonplace elsewhere.
As they rode along Roberta found herself checking off mentally every
tree, curve, landmark with which she had been familiar. But with no
happy thoughts. It was all too drab. The farm itself, coupled with the
chronic illness and inefficiency of Titus and the inability of the
youngest boy Tom or her mother to help much, was as big a burden as
ever. A mortgage of $2000 that had been placed on it years before had
never been paid off, the north chimney was still impaired, the steps
were sagging even more than ever and the walls and fences and outlying
buildings were no different--save to be made picturesque now by the
snows of winter covering them. Even the furniture remained the same
jumble that it had always been. And there were her mother and younger
sister and brother, who knew nothing of her true relationship to
Clyde--a mere name his here--and assuming that she was whole-heartedly
delighted to be back with them once more. Yet because of what she knew
of her own life and Clyde's uncertain attitude toward her, she was now,
if anything, more depressed than before.
Indeed, the fact that despite her seeming recent success she had really
compromised herself in such a way that unless through marriage with
Clyde she was able to readjust herself to the moral level which her
parents understood and approved, she, instead of being the emissary
of a slowly and modestly improving social condition for all, might
be looked upon as one who had reduced it to a lower level still--its
destroyer--was sufficient to depress and reduce her even more. A very
depressing and searing thought.
Worse and more painful still was the thought in connection with
all this that, by reason of the illusions which from the first had
dominated her in connection with Clyde, she had not been able to
make a confidant of her mother or any one else in regard to him. For
she was dubious as to whether her mother would not consider that her
aspirations were a bit high. And she might ask questions in regard
to him and herself which might prove embarrassing. At the same time,
unless she had some confidant in whom she could truly trust, all her
troublesome doubts in regard to herself and Clyde must remain a secret.
After talking for a few moments with Tom and Emily, she went into the
kitchen where her mother was busy with various Christmas preparations.
Her thought was to pave the way with some observations of her own in
regard to the farm here and her life at Lycurgus, but as she entered,
her mother looked up to say: "How does it feel, Bob, to come back to
the country? I suppose it all looks rather poor compared to Lycurgus,"
she added a little wistfully.
Roberta could tell from the tone of her mother's voice and the rather
admiring look she cast upon her that she was thinking of her as one
who had vastly improved her state. At once she went over to her and,
putting her arms about her affectionately, exclaimed: "Oh, mamma,
wherever you are is just the nicest place. Don't you know that?"
For answer her mother merely looked at her with affectionate and
well-wishing eyes and patted her on the back. "Well, Bobbie," she
added, quietly, "you know how you are about me."
Something in her mother's voice which epitomized the long years of
affectionate understanding between them--an understanding based, not
only on a mutual desire for each other's happiness, but a complete
frankness in regard to all emotions and moods which had hitherto
dominated both--touched her almost to the point of tears. Her throat
tightened and her eyes moistened, although she sought to overcome any
show of emotion whatsoever. She longed to tell her everything. At the
same time the compelling passion she retained for Clyde, as well as the
fact that she had compromised herself as she had, now showed her that
she had erected a barrier which could not easily be torn down. The
conventions of this local world were much too strong--even where her
mother was concerned.
She hesitated a moment, wishing that she could quickly and clearly
present to her mother the problem that was weighing upon her and
receive her sympathy, if not help. But instead she merely said: "Oh,
I wish you could have been with me all the time in Lycurgus, mamma.
Maybe--" She paused, realizing that she had been on the verge of
speaking without due caution. Her thought was that with her mother near
at hand she might have been able to have resisted Clyde's insistent
desires.
"Yes, I suppose you do miss me," her mother went on, "but it's better
for you, don't you think? You know how it is over here, and you like
your work. You do like your work, don't you?"
"Oh, the work is nice enough. I like that part of it. It's been so
nice to be able to help here a little, but it's not so nice living all
alone."
"Why did you leave the Newtons, Bob? Was Grace so disagreeable? I
should have thought she would have been company for you."
"Oh, she was at first," replied Roberta. "Only she didn't have any men
friends of her own, and she was awfully jealous of anybody that paid
the least attention to me. I couldn't go anywhere but she had to go
along, or if it wasn't that then she always wanted me to be with her,
so I couldn't go anywhere by myself. You know how it is, mamma. Two
girls can't go with one young man."
"Yes, I know how it is, Bob." Her mother laughed a little, then added:
"Who is he?"
"It's Mr. Griffiths, mother," she added, after a moment's hesitation, a
sense of the exceptional nature of her contact as contrasted with this
very plain world here passing like a light across her eyes. For all her
fears, even the bare possibility of joining her life with Clyde's was
marvelous. "But I don't want you to mention his name to anybody yet,"
she added. "He doesn't want me to. His relatives are so very rich, you
know. They own the company--that is, his uncle does. But there's a rule
there about any one who works for the company--any one in charge of a
department. I mean not having anything to do with any of the girls. And
he wouldn't with any of the others. But he likes me--and I like him,
and it's different with us. Besides I'm going to resign pretty soon
and get a place somewhere else, I think, and then it won't make any
difference. I can tell anybody, and so can he."
Roberta was thinking now that, in the face of her recent treatment
at the hands of Clyde, as well as because of the way in which she
had given herself to him without due precaution as to her ultimate
rehabilitation via marriage, that perhaps this was not exactly true.
He might not--a vague, almost formless, fear this, as yet--want her to
tell anybody now--ever. And unless he were going to continue to love
her and marry her, she might not want any one to know of it, either.
The wretched, shameful, difficult position in which she had placed
herself by all this.
On the other hand, Mrs. Alden, learning thus casually of the odd
and seemingly clandestine nature of this relationship, was not only
troubled but puzzled, so concerned was she for Roberta's happiness.
For, although, as she now said to herself, Roberta was such a good,
pure and careful girl--the best and most unselfish and wisest of all
her children--still might it not be possible--? But, no, no one was
likely to either easily or safely compromise or betray Roberta. She was
too conservative and good, and so now she added: "A relative of the
owner, you say--the Mr. Samuel Griffiths you wrote about?"
"Yes, Mamma. He's his nephew."
"The young man at the factory?" her mother asked, at the same time
wondering just how Roberta had come to attract a man of Clyde's
position, for, from the very first she had made it plain that he was
a member of the family who owned the factory. This in itself was a
troublesome fact. The traditional result of such relationships, common
the world over, naturally caused her to be intensely fearful of just
such an association as Roberta seemed to be making. Nevertheless
she was not at all convinced that a girl of Roberta's looks and
practicality would not be able to negotiate an association of the sort
without harm to herself.
"Yes," Roberta replied simply.
"What's he like, Bob?"
"Oh, awfully nice. So good-looking, and he's been so nice to me. I
don't think the place would be as nice as it is except that he is so
refined, he keeps those factory girls in their place. He's a nephew of
the president of the company, you see, and the girls just naturally
have to respect him."
"Well, that _is_ nice, isn't it? I think it's so much better to work
for refined people than just anybody. I know you didn't think so much
of the work over at Trippetts Mills. Does he come to see you often,
Bob?"
"Well, yes, pretty often," Roberta replied, flushing slightly, for she
realized that she could not be entirely frank with her mother.
Mrs. Alden, looking up at the moment, noticed this, and, mistaking it
for embarrassment, asked teasingly: "You like him, don't you?"
"Yes, I do, mother," Roberta replied, simply and honestly.
"What about him? Does he like you?"
Roberta crossed to the kitchen window. Below it at the base of the
slope which led to the springhouse, and the one most productive field
of the farm, were ranged all the dilapidated buildings which more than
anything else about the place bespoke the meager material condition to
which the family had fallen. In fact, during the last ten years these
things had become symbols of inefficiency and lack. Somehow at this
moment, bleak and covered with snow, they identified themselves in her
mind as the antithesis of all to which her imagination aspired. And,
not strangely either, the last was identified with Clyde. Somberness
as opposed to happiness--success in love or failure in love. Assuming
that he truly loved her now and would take her away from all this,
then possibly the bleakness of it all for her and her mother would
be broken. But assuming that he did not, then all the results of her
yearning, but possibly mistaken, dreams would be not only upon her own
head, but upon those of these others, her mother's first. She troubled
what to say, but finally observed: "Well, he says he does."
"Do you think he intends to marry you?" Mrs. Alden asked, timidly and
hopefully, because of all her children her heart and hopes rested most
with Roberta.
"Well, I'll tell you, Mamma...." The sentence was not finished, for
just then Emily, hurrying in from the front door, called: "Oh, Gif's
here. He came in an automobile. Somebody drove him over, I guess, and
he's got four or five big bundles."
And immediately after came Tom with the elder brother, who, in a new
overcoat, the first result of his career with the General Electric
Company in Schenectady, greeted his mother affectionately, and after
her, Roberta.
"Why, Gifford," his mother exclaimed. "We didn't expect you until the
nine o'clock. How did you get here so soon?"
"Well, I didn't think I would be. I ran into Mr. Rearick down in
Schenectady and he wanted to know if I didn't want to drive back with
him. I see old Pop Myers over at Trippetts Mills has got the second
story to his house at last, Bob," he turned and added to Roberta: "I
suppose it'll be another year before he gets the roof on."
"I suppose so," replied Roberta, who knew the old Trippetts Mills
character well. In the meantime she had relieved him of his coat and
packages which, piled on the dining-room table, were being curiously
eyed by Emily.
"Hands off, Em!" called Gifford to his little sister. "Nothing doing
with those until Christmas morning. Has anybody cut a Christmas tree
yet? That was my job last year."
"It still is, Gifford," his mother replied. "I told Tom to wait until
you came, 'cause you always get such a good one."
And just then through the kitchen door Titus entered, bearing
an armload of wood, his gaunt face and angular elbows and knees
contributing a sharp contrast to the comparative hopefulness of the
younger generation. Roberta noticed it as he stood smiling upon his
son, and, because she was so eager for something better than ever had
been to come to all, now went over to her father and put her arms
around him. "I know something Santy has brought my Dad that he'll
like." It was a dark red plaid mackinaw that she was sure would keep
him warm while executing his chores about the house, and she was
anxious for Christmas morning to come so that he could see it.
She then went to get an apron in order to help her mother with the
evening meal. No additional moment for complete privacy occurring, the
opportunity to say more concerning that which both were so interested
in--the subject of Clyde--did not come up again for several hours,
after which length of time she found occasion to say: "Yes, but you
mustn't ever say anything to anybody yet. I told him I wouldn't tell,
and you mustn't."
"No, I won't, dear. But I was just wondering. But I suppose you know
what you're doing. You're old enough now to take care of yourself, Bob,
aren't you?"
"Yes, I am, Ma. And you mustn't worry about me, dear," she added,
seeing a shadow, not of distrust but worry, passing over her beloved
mother's face. How careful she must be not to cause her to worry when
she had so much else to think about here on the farm.
Sunday morning brought the Gabels with full news of their social and
material progress in Homer. Although her sister was not as attractive
as she, and Fred Gabel was not such a man as at any stage in her
life Roberta could have imagined herself interested in, still, after
her troublesome thoughts in regard to Clyde, the sight of Agnes
emotionally and materially content and at ease in the small security
which matrimony and her none-too-efficient husband provided, was
sufficient to rouse in her that flapping, doubtful mood that had been
assailing her since the previous morning. Was it not better, she
thought, to be married to a man even as inefficient and unattractive
but steadfast as Fred Gabel, than to occupy the anomalous position
in which she now found herself in her relations with Clyde? For here
was Gabel now talking briskly of the improvements that had come to
himself and Agnes during the year in which they had been married. In
that time he had been able to resign his position as teacher in Homer
and take over on shares the management of a small book and stationery
store whose principal contributory features were a toy department and
soda fountain. They had been doing a good business. Agnes, if all went
well, would be able to buy a mission parlor suite by next summer. Fred
had already bought her a phonograph for Christmas. In proof of their
well-being, they had brought satisfactory remembrances for all of the
Aldens.
But Gabel had with him a copy of the Lycurgus _Star_, and at breakfast,
which because of the visitors this morning was unusually late, was
reading the news of that city, for in Lycurgus was located the
wholesale house from which he secured a portion of his stock.
"Well, I see things are going full blast in your town, Bob," he
observed. "_The Star_ here says the Griffiths Company have got an order
for 120,000 collars from the Buffalo trade alone. They must be just
coining money over there."
"There's always plenty to do in my department, I know that," replied
Roberta, briskly. "We never seem to have any the less to do whether
business is good or bad. I guess it must be good all the time."
"Pretty soft for those people. They don't have to worry about anything.
Some one was telling me they're going to build a new factory in Ilion
to manufacture shirts alone. Heard anything about that down there?"
"Why, no, I haven't. Maybe it's some other company."
"By the way, what's the name of that young man you said was the head of
your department? Wasn't he a Griffiths, too?" he asked briskly, turning
to the editorial page, which also carried news of local Lycurgus
society.
"Yes, his name is Griffiths--Clyde Griffiths. Why?"
"I think I saw his name in here a minute ago. I just wanted to see if
it ain't the same fellow. Sure, here you are. Ain't this the one?" He
passed the paper to Roberta with his finger on an item which read:
"Miss Vanda Steele, of Gloversville, was hostess at an informal
dance held at her home in that city Friday night, at which were
present several prominent members of Lycurgus society, among them
the Misses Sondra Finchley, Bertine Cranston, Jill and Gertrude
Trumbull and Perley Haynes, and Messrs. Clyde Griffiths, Frank
Harriet, Tracy Trumbull, Grant Cranston and Scott Nicholson. The
party, as is usual whenever the younger group assembles, did not
break up until late, the Lycurgus members motoring back just before
dawn. It is already rumored that most of this group will gather at
the Ellerslies', in Schenectady, New Year's Eve for another event
of this same gay nature."
"He seems to be quite a fellow over there," Gabel remarked, even as
Roberta was reading.
The first thing that occurred to Roberta on reading this item was that
it appeared to have little, if anything, to do with the group which
Clyde had said was present. In the first place there was no mention
of Myra or Bella Griffiths. On the other hand, all those names with
which, because of recent frequent references on the part of Clyde, she
was becoming most familiar were recorded as present. Sondra Finchley,
Bertine Cranston, the Trumbull girls, Perley Haynes. He had said it
had not been very interesting, and here it was spoken of as gay and he
himself was listed for another engagement of the same character New
Year's Eve, when, as a matter of fact, she had been counting on being
with him. He had not even mentioned this New Year's engagement. And
perhaps he would now make some last minute excuse for that, as he had
for the previous Friday evening. Oh, dear! What did all this mean,
anyhow!
Immediately what little romantic glamour this Christmas homecoming
had held for her was dissipated. She began to wonder whether Clyde
really cared for her as he had pretended. The dark state to which her
incurable passion for him had brought her now pained her terribly. For
without him and marriage and a home and children, and a reasonable
place in such a local world as she was accustomed to, what was there
for a girl like her in the world? And apart from his own continuing
affection for her--if it was really continuing, what assurance had she,
in the face of such incidents as these, that he would not eventually
desert her? And if this were true, here was her future, in so far
as marriage with any one else was concerned, compromised or made
impossible, maybe, and with no reliance to be placed on him.
She fell absolutely silent. And although Gabel inquired: "That's the
fellow, isn't it?" she arose without answering and said: "Excuse me,
please, a moment. I want to get something out of my bag," and hurried
once more to her former room upstairs. Once there she sat down on the
bed, and, resting her chin in her hands, a habit when troublesome or
necessary thoughts controlled her, gazed at the floor.
Where was Clyde now?
What one, if any, of those girls did he take to the Steele party? Was
he very much interested in her? Until this very day, because of Clyde's
unbroken devotion to her, she had not even troubled to think there
could be any other girl to whom his attentions could mean anything.
But now--now!
She got up and walked to the window and looked out on that same orchard
where as a girl so many times she had been thrilled by the beauty of
life. The scene was miserably bleak and bare. The thin, icy arms of
the trees--the gray, swaying twigs--a lone, rustling leaf somewhere.
And snow. And wretched outbuildings in need of repair. And Clyde
becoming indifferent to her. And the thought now came to her swiftly
and urgently that she must not stay here any longer than she could
help--not even this day, if possible. She must return to Lycurgus and
be near Clyde, if no more than to persuade him to his old affection
for her, or if not that, then by her presence to prevent him from
devoting himself too wholly to these others. Decidedly, to go away like
this, even for the holidays, was not good. In her absence he might
desert her completely for another girl, and if so, then would it not
be her fault? At once she pondered as to what excuse she could make
in order to return this day. But realizing that in view of all these
preliminary preparations this would seem inexplicably unreasonable, to
her mother most of all, she decided to endure it as she had planned
until Christmas afternoon, then to return, never to leave for so long a
period again.
But ad interim, all her thoughts were on how and in what way she could
make more sure, if at all, of Clyde's continued interest and social
and emotional support, as well as marriage in the future. Supposing
he had lied to her, how could she influence him, if at all, not to do
so again? How to make him feel that lying between them was not right?
How to make herself securely first in his heart against the dreams
engendered by the possible charms of another?
How?
CHAPTER XXX
But Roberta's return to Lycurgus and her room at the Gilpins' Christmas
night brought no sign of Clyde nor any word of explanation. For
in connection with the Griffiths in the meantime there had been a
development relating to all this which, could she or Clyde have known,
would have interested both not a little. For subsequent to the Steele
dance that same item read by Roberta fell under the eyes of Gilbert. He
was seated at the breakfast table the Sunday morning after the party,
and was about to sip from a cup of coffee when he encountered it. On
the instant his teeth snapped about as a man might snap his watch lid,
and instead of drinking he put his cup down and examined the item with
more care. Other than his mother there was no one at the table or in
the room with him, but knowing that she, more than any of the others,
shared his views in regard to Clyde, he now passed the paper over to
her.
"Look at who's breaking into society now, will you?" he admonished
sharply and sarcastically, his eyes radiating the hard and contemptuous
opposition he felt. "We'll be having him up here next!"
"Who?" inquired Mrs. Griffiths, as she took the paper and examined
the item calmly and judicially, yet not without a little of outwardly
suppressed surprise when she saw the name. For although the fact of
Clyde's having been picked up by Sondra in her car sometime before
and later been invited to dinner at the Trumbulls', had been conveyed
to the family sometime before, still a society notice in _The Star_
was different. "Now I wonder how it was that he came to be invited to
that?" meditated Mrs. Griffiths who was always conscious of her son's
mood in regard to all this.
"Now, who would do it but that little Finchley snip, the little smart
aleck?" snapped Gilbert. "She's got the idea from somewhere--from Bella
for all I know--that we don't care to have anything to do with him,
and she thinks this is a clever way to hit back at me for some of the
things I've done to her, or that she thinks I've done. At any rate, she
thinks I don't like her, and that's right, I don't. And Bella knows it,
too. And that goes for that little Cranston show-off, too. They're
both always running around with her. They're a set of show-offs and
wasters, the whole bunch, and that goes for their brothers, too--Grant
Cranston and Stew Finchley--and if something don't go wrong with one
or another of that bunch one of these days, I miss my guess. You mark
my word! They don't do a thing, the whole lot of them, from one year's
end to the other but play around and dance and run here and there, as
though there wasn't anything else in the world for them to do. And why
you and Dad let Bella run with 'em as much as she does is more than I
can see."
To this his mother protested. It was not possible for her to entirely
estrange Bella from one portion of this local social group and direct
her definitely toward the homes of certain others. They all mingled too
freely. And she was getting along in years and had a mind of her own.
Just the same his mother's apology and especially in the face of the
publication of this item by no means lessened Gilbert's opposition to
Clyde's social ambitions and opportunities. What! That poor little
moneyless cousin of his who had committed first the unpardonable
offense of looking like him and, second, of coming here to Lycurgus and
fixing himself on this very superior family. And after he had shown him
all too plainly, and from the first, that he personally did not like
him, did not want him, and if left to himself would never for so much
as a moment endure him.
"He hasn't any money," he declared finally and very bitterly to his
mother, "and he's hanging on here by the skin of his teeth as it is.
And what for? If he is taken up by these people, what can he do? He
certainly hasn't the money to do as they do, and he can't get it. And
if he could, his job here wouldn't let him go anywhere much, unless
some one troubled to pay his way. And how he is going to do his work
and run with that crowd is more than I know. That bunch is on the go
all the time."
Actually he was wondering whether Clyde would be included from now on,
and if so, what was to be done about it. If he were to be taken up in
this way, how was he, or the family, either, to escape from being civil
to him? For obviously, as earlier and subsequent developments proved,
his father did not choose to send him away.
Indeed, subsequent to this conversation, Mrs. Griffiths had laid the
paper, together with a version of Gilbert's views before her husband
at this same breakfast table. But he, true to his previous mood in
regard to Clyde, was not inclined to share his son's opinion. On
the contrary, he seemed, as Mrs. Griffiths saw it, to look upon the
development recorded by the item as a justification in part of his own
original estimate of Clyde.
"I must say," he began, after listening to his wife to the end, "I
can't see what's wrong with his going to a party now and then, or being
invited here and there even if he hasn't any money. It looks more like
a compliment to him and to us than anything else. I know how Gil feels
about him. But it rather looks to me as though Clyde's just a little
better than Gil thinks he is. At any rate, I can't and I wouldn't want
to do anything about it. I've asked him to come down here, and the
least I can do is to give him an opportunity to better himself. He
seems to be doing his work all right. Besides, how would it look if I
didn't?"
And later, because of some additional remarks on the part of Gilbert to
his mother, he added: "I'd certainly rather have him going with some of
the better people than some of the worse ones--that's one thing sure.
He's neat and polite and from all I hear at the factory does his work
well enough. As a matter of fact, I think it would have been better if
we had invited him up to the lake last summer for a few days anyhow,
as I suggested. As it is now, if we don't do something pretty soon, it
will look as though we think he isn't good enough for us when the other
people here seem to think he is. If you'll take my advice, you'll have
him up here for Christmas or New Year's, anyhow, just to show that we
don't think any less of him than our friends do."
This suggestion, once transferred to Gilbert by his mother, caused
him to exclaim: "Well, I'll be hanged! All right, only don't think
I'm going to lay myself out to be civil to him. It's a wonder, if
father thinks he's so able, that he don't make a real position for him
somewhere."
Just the same, nothing might have come of this had it not been that
Bella, returning from Albany this same day, learned via contacts
and telephone talks with Sondra and Bertine of the developments in
connection with Clyde. Also that he had been invited to accompany them
to the New Year's Eve dance at the Ellerslies' in Schenectady, Bella
having been previously scheduled to make a part of this group before
Clyde was thought of.
This sudden development, reported by Bella to her mother, was of
sufficient import to cause Mrs. Griffiths as well as Samuel, if
not Gilbert, later to decide to make the best of a situation which
obviously was being forced upon them and themselves invite Clyde for
dinner--Christmas day--a sedate affair to which many others were bid.
For this as they now decided would serve to make plain to all and at
once that Clyde was not being as wholly ignored as some might imagine.
It was the only reasonable thing to do at this late date. And Gilbert,
on hearing this, and realizing that in this instance he was checkmated,
exclaimed sourly: "Oh, all right. Invite him if you want to--if that's
the way you and Dad feel about it. I don't see any real necessity for
it even now. But you fix it to suit yourself. Constance and I are going
over to Utica for the afternoon, anyhow, so I couldn't be there even if
I wanted to."
He was thinking of what an outrageous thing it was that a girl whom he
disliked as much as he did Sondra could thus via her determination and
plottings thrust his own cousin on him and he be unable to prevent it.
And what a beggar Clyde must be to attempt to attach himself in this
way when he knew that he was not wanted! What sort of a youth was he,
anyhow?
And so it was that on Monday morning Clyde had received another letter
from the Griffiths, this time signed by Myra, asking him to have
dinner with them at two o'clock Christmas day. But, since this at that
time did not seem to interfere with his meeting Roberta Christmas
night at eight, he merely gave himself over to extreme rejoicing in
regard to it all now, and at last he was nearly as well placed here,
socially, as any one. For although he had no money, see how he was
being received--and by the Griffiths, too--among all the others. And
Sondra taking so great an interest in him, actually talking and acting
as though she might be ready to fall in love. And Gilbert checkmated by
his social popularity. What would you say to that? It testified, as he
saw it now, that at least his relatives had not forgotten him or that,
because of his recent success in other directions, they were finding it
necessary to be civil to him--a thought that was the same as the bays
of victory to a contestant. He viewed it with as much pleasure almost
as though there had never been any hiatus at all.
CHAPTER XXXI
Unfortunately, however, the Christmas dinner at the Griffiths', which
included the Starks and their daughter Arabella, Mr. and Mrs. Wynant,
who in the absence of their daughter Constance with Gilbert were dining
with the Griffiths, the Arnolds, Anthonys, Harriets, Taylors and
others of note in Lycurgus, so impressed and even overawed Clyde that
although five o'clock came and then six, he was incapable of breaking
away or thinking clearly and compellingly of his obligation to Roberta.
Even when, slightly before six, the greater portion of those who had
been thus cheerfully entertained began rising and making their bows
and departing (and when he, too, should have been doing the same and
thinking of his appointment with Roberta), being accosted by Violet
Taylor, who was part of the younger group, and who now began talking
of some additional festivities to be held that same evening at the
Anthonys', and who added most urgently, "You're coming with us, aren't
you? Sure you are," he at once acquiesced, although his earlier promise
to Roberta forced the remembrance that she was probably already back
and expecting him. But still he had time even now, didn't he?
Yet, once at the Anthonys', and talking and dancing with various girls,
the obligation faded. But at nine he began worrying a little. For by
this time she must be in her room and wondering what had become of him
and his promise. And on Christmas night, too. And after she had been
away three days.
Inwardly he grew more and more restless and troubled, the while
outwardly he maintained that same high spirit that characterized him
throughout the afternoon. Fortunately for his own mood, this same
group, having danced and frolicked every night for the past week until
almost nervously exhausted, it now unanimously and unconsciously
yielded to weariness and at eleven thirty, broke up. And after having
escorted Bella Griffiths to her door, Clyde hurried around to Elm
Street to see if by any chance Roberta was still awake.
As he neared the Gilpins' he perceived through the snow-covered bushes
and trees the glow of her single lamp. And for the time being, troubled
as to what he should say--how excuse himself for this inexplicable
lapse--he paused near one of the large trees that bordered the street,
debating with himself as to just what he would say. Would he insist
that he had again been to the Griffiths', or where? For according
to his previous story he had only been there the Friday before. In
the months before when he had no social contacts, but was merely
romanticizing in regard to them, the untruths he found himself telling
her caused him no twinges of any kind. They were not real and took
up no actual portion of his time, nor did they interfere with any of
his desired contacts with her. But now in the face of the actuality
and the fact that these new contacts meant everything to his future,
as he saw it, he hesitated. His quick conclusion was to explain his
absence this evening by a second invitation which had come later, also
by asseverating that the Griffiths being potentially in charge of his
material welfare, it was becoming more and more of a duty rather than
an idle, evasive pleasure to desert her in this way at their command.
Could he help it? And with this half-truth permanently fixed in his
mind, he crossed the snow and gently tapped at her window.
At once the light was extinguished and a moment later the curtain
lifted. Then Roberta, who had been mournfully brooding, opened the door
and admitted him, having previously lit a candle as was her custom in
order to avoid detection as much as possible, and at once he began in a
whisper:
"Gee, but this society business here is getting to be the dizzy thing,
honey. I never saw such a town as this. Once you go with these people
one place to do one thing, they always have something else they want
you to do. They're on the go all the time. When I went there Friday
(he was referring to his lie about having gone to the Griffiths'), I
thought that would be the last until after the holidays, but yesterday,
and just when I was planning to go somewhere else, I got a note saying
they expected me to come there again to-day for dinner sure."
"And to-day when I thought the dinner would begin at two," he continued
to explain, "and end in time for me to be around here by eight like I
said, it didn't start until three and only broke up a few minutes ago.
Isn't that the limit? And I just couldn't get away for the last four
hours. How've you been, honey? Did you have a good time? I hope so. Did
they like the present I gave you?"
He rattled off these questions, to which she made brief and decidedly
terse replies, all the time looking at him as much as to say, "Oh,
Clyde, how can you treat me like this?"
But Clyde was so much interested in his own alibi, and how to convince
Roberta of the truth of it, that neither before nor after slipping
off his coat, muffler and gloves and smoothing back his hair, did
he look at her directly, or even tenderly, or indeed do anything to
demonstrate to her that he was truly delighted to see her again. On the
contrary, he was so fidgety and in part flustered that despite his past
professions and actions she could feel that apart from being moderately
glad to see her again he was more concerned about himself and his own
partially explained defection than he was about her. And although after
a few moments he took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers,
still, as on Saturday, she could feel that he was only partially united
to her in spirit. Other things--the affairs that had kept him from her
on Friday and to-night--were disturbing his thoughts and hers.
She looked at him, not exactly believing and yet not entirely wishing
to disbelieve him. He might have been at the Griffiths', as he said,
and they might have detained him. And yet he might not have, either.
For she could not help recalling that on the previous Saturday he had
said he had been there Friday and the paper on the other hand had
stated that he was in Gloversville. But if she questioned him in regard
to these things now, would he not get angry and lie to her still more?
For after all she could not help thinking that apart from his love for
her she had no real claim on him. But she could not possibly imagine
that he could change so quickly.
"So that was why you didn't come to-night, was it?" she asked, with
more spirit and irritation than she had ever used with him before. "I
thought you told me sure you wouldn't let anything interfere," she went
on, a little heavily.
"Well, so I did," he admitted. "And I wouldn't have either, except
for the letter I got. You know I wouldn't let any one but my uncle
interfere, but I couldn't turn them down when they asked me to
come there on Christmas day. It's too important. It wouldn't look
right, would it, especially when you weren't going to be here in the
afternoon?"
The manner and tone in which he said this conveyed to Roberta more
clearly than anything that he had ever said before how significant
he considered this connection with his relatives to be and how
unimportant anything she might value in regard to this relationship
was to him. It came to her now that in spite of all his enthusiasm and
demonstrativeness in the first stages of this affair, possibly she was
much more trivial in his estimation than she had seemed to herself. And
that meant that her dreams and sacrifices thus far had been in vain.
She became frightened.
"Well, anyhow," she went on dubiously in the face of this, "don't you
think you might have left a note here, Clyde, so I would have got it
when I got in?" She asked this mildly, not wishing to irritate him too
much.
"But didn't I just tell you, honey, I didn't expect to be so late. I
thought the thing would all be over by six, anyhow."
"Yes--well--anyhow--I know--but still--"
Her face wore a puzzled, troubled, nervous look, in which was mingled
fear, sorrow, depression, distrust, a trace of resentment and a trace
of despair, all of which, coloring and animating her eyes, which were
now fixed on him in round orblike solemnity, caused him to suffer
from a sense of having misused and demeaned her not a little. And
because her eyes seemed to advertise this, he flushed a dark red
flush that colored deeply his naturally very pale cheeks. But without
appearing to notice this or lay any stress on it in any way at the
time, Roberta added after a moment: "I notice that _The Star_ mentioned
that Gloversville party Sunday, but it didn't say anything about your
cousins being over there. Were they?"
For the first time in all her questioning of him, she asked this as
though she might possibly doubt him--a development which Clyde had
scarcely anticipated in connection with her up to this time, and more
than anything else, it troubled and irritated him.
"Of course they were," he replied falsely. "Why do you want to ask a
thing like that when I told you they were?"
"Well, dear, I don't mean anything by it. I only wanted to know. But I
did notice that it mentioned all those other people from Lycurgus that
you are always talking about, Sondra Finchley, Bertine Cranston. You
know you never mentioned anybody but the Trumbulls."
Her tone tended to make him bristle and grow cross, as she saw.
"Yes, I saw that, too, but it ain't so. If they were there, I didn't
see them. The papers don't always get everything right." In spite of a
certain crossness and irritation at being trapped in this fashion, his
manner did not carry conviction, and he knew it. And he began to resent
the fact that she should question him so. Why should she? Wasn't he of
sufficient importance to move in this new world without her holding him
back in this way?
Instead of denying or reproaching him further, she merely looked at
him, her expression one of injured wistfulness. She did not believe him
now entirely and she did not utterly disbelieve him. A part of what
he said was probably true. More important was it that he should care
for her enough not to want to lie to her or to treat her badly. But
how was that to be effected if he did not want to be kind or truthful?
She moved back from him a few steps and with a gesture of helplessness
said: "Oh, Clyde, you don't have to story to me. Don't you know that? I
wouldn't care where you went if you would just tell me beforehand and
not leave me like this all alone on Christmas night. It's just that
that hurts so."
"But I'm not storying to you, Bert," he reiterated crossly. "I can't
help how things look even if the paper did say so. The Griffiths were
over there, and I can prove it. I got around here as soon as I could
to-day. What do you want to get so mad about all at once? I've told
you how things are. I can't do just as I want to here. They call me up
at the last minute and want me to go. And I just can't get out of it.
What's the use of being so mad about it?"
He stared defiantly while Roberta, checkmated in this general way, was
at a loss as to how to proceed. The item about New Year's Eve was in
her mind, but she felt that it might not be wise to say anything more
now. More poignantly than ever now she was identifying him with that
gay life of which he, but not she, was a part. And yet she hesitated
even now to let him know how sharp were the twinges of jealousy that
were beginning to assail her. They had such a good time in that fine
world--he and those he knew--and she had so little. And besides, now
he was always talking about that Sondra Finchley and that Bertine
Cranston, or the papers were. Was it in either of those that he was
most interested?
"Do you like that Miss Finchley very much?" she suddenly asked,
looking up at him in the shadow, her desire to obtain some slight
satisfaction--some little light on all this trouble--still torturing
her.
At once Clyde sensed the importance of the question--a suggestion of
partially suppressed interest and jealousy and helplessness, more in
her voice even than in the way she looked. There was something so soft,
coaxing and sad about her voice at times, especially when she was most
depressed. At the same time he was slightly taken back by the shrewd or
telepathic way in which she appeared to fix on Sondra. Immediately he
felt that she should not know--that it would irritate her. At the same
time, vanity in regard to his general position here, which hourly was
becoming more secure apparently, caused him to say:
"Oh, I like her some, sure. She's very pretty, and a dandy dancer.
And she has lots of money and dresses well." He was about to add that
outside of that Sondra appealed to him in no other way, when Roberta,
sensing something of the true interest he felt in this girl perhaps
and the wide gulf that lay between herself and all his world, suddenly
exclaimed: "Yes, and who wouldn't, with all the money she has? If I had
as much money as that, I could too."
And to his astonishment and dismay even, at this point her voice grew
suddenly vibrant and then broke, as on a sob. And as he could both see
and feel, she was deeply hurt--terribly and painfully hurt--heartsore
and jealous; and at once, although his first impulse was to grow angry
and defiant again, his mood as suddenly softened. For it now pained
him not a little to think that some one of whom he had once been so
continuously fond up to this time should be made to suffer through
jealousy of him, for he himself well knew the pangs of jealousy in
connection with Hortense. He could for some reason almost see himself
in Roberta's place. And for this reason, if no other, he now said, and
quite softly: "Oh, now, Bert, as though I couldn't tell you about her
or any one else without your getting mad about it! I didn't mean that I
was especially interested in her. I was just telling you what I thought
you wanted to know because you asked me if I liked her, that's all."
"Oh, yes, I know," replied Roberta, standing tensely and nervously
before him, her face white, her hands suddenly clenched, and looking
up at him dubiously and yet pleadingly. "But they've got everything.
You know they have. And I haven't got anything, really. And it's so
hard for me to keep up my end and against all of them, too, and with
all they have." Her voice shook, and she ceased talking, her eyes
filling and her lips beginning to quiver. And as swiftly she concealed
her face with her hands and turned away, her shoulders shaking as
she did so. Indeed her body was now torn for the moment by the most
desperate and convulsive sobs, so much so that Clyde, perplexed and
astonished and deeply moved by this sudden display of a pent-up and
powerful emotion, as suddenly was himself moved deeply. For obviously
this was no trick or histrionic bit intended to influence him, but
rather a sudden and overwhelming vision of herself, as he himself
could sense, as a rather lorn and isolated girl without friends or
prospects as opposed to those others in whom he was now so interested
and who had so much more--everything in fact. For behind her in her
vision lay all the lorn and detached years that had marred her youth,
now so vivid because of her recent visit. She was really intensely
moved--overwhelmingly and helplessly.
And now from the very bottom of her heart she exclaimed: "If I'd
ever had a chance like some girls--if I'd ever been anywhere or seen
anything! But just to be brought up in the country and without any
money or clothes or anything--and nobody to show you. Oh, oh, oh, oh,
oh!"
The moment she said these things she was actually ashamed of having
made so weak and self-condemnatory a confession, since that was what
really was troubling him in connection with her, no doubt.
"Oh, Roberta, darling," he said instantly and tenderly, putting his
arms around her, genuinely moved by his own dereliction. "You mustn't
cry like that, dearest. You mustn't. I didn't mean to hurt you, honest
I didn't. Truly, I didn't, dear. I know you've had a hard time, honey.
I know how you feel, and how you've been up against things in one way
and another. Sure I do, Bert, and you mustn't cry, dearest. I love you
just the same. Truly I do, and I always will. I'm sorry if I've hurt
you, honest I am. I couldn't help it to-night if I didn't come, honest,
or last Friday either. Why, it just wasn't possible. But I won't be so
mean like that any more, if I can help it. Honest I won't. You're the
sweetest, dearest girl. And you've got such lovely hair and eyes, and
such a pretty little figure. Honest you have, Bert. And you can dance
too, as pretty as anybody. And you look just as nice, honest you do,
dear. Won't you stop now, honey? Please do. I'm so sorry, honey, if
I've hurt you in any way."
There was about Clyde at times a certain strain of tenderness, evoked
by experiences, disappointments, and hardships in his own life, which
came out to one and another, almost any other, under such circumstances
as these. At such times he had a soft and melting voice. His manner
was as tender and gentle almost as that of a mother with a baby. It
drew a girl like Roberta intensely to him. At the same time, such
emotion in him, though vivid, was of brief duration. It was like the
rush and flutter of a summer storm--soon come and soon gone. Yet in
this instance it was sufficient to cause Roberta to feel that he fully
understood and sympathized with her and perhaps liked her all the
better for it. Things were not so bad for the moment, anyhow. She had
him and his love and sympathy to a very marked degree at any rate, and
because of this and her very great comfort in it, and his soothing
words, she began to dry her eyes, to say that she was sorry to think
that she was such a cry-baby and that she hoped he would forgive her,
because in crying she had wet the bosom of his spotless white shirt
with her tears. And she would not do it any more if Clyde would just
forgive her this once--the while, touched by a passion he scarcely
believed was buried in her in any such volume, he now continued to kiss
her hands, cheeks, and finally her lips.
And between these pettings and coaxings and kissings it was that he
reaffirmed to her, most foolishly and falsely in this instance (since
he was really caring for Sondra in a way which, while different, was
just as vital--perhaps even more so), that he regarded her as first,
last and most in his heart, always--a statement which caused her to
feel that perhaps after all she might have misjudged him. Also that her
position, if anything, was more secure, if not more wonderful than ever
it had been before--far superior to that of these other girls who might
see him socially perhaps, but who did not have him to love them in this
wonderful way.
CHAPTER XXXII
Clyde now was actually part and parcel of this local winter social
scene. The Griffiths having introduced him to their friends and
connections, it followed as a matter of course that he would be
received in most homes here. But in this very limited world, where
quite every one who was anything at all knew every one else, the
state of one's purse was as much, and in some instances even more,
considered than one's social connections. For these local families of
distinction were convinced that not only one's family but one's wealth
was the be-all and end-all of every happy union meant to include social
security. And in consequence, while considering Clyde as one who was
unquestionably eligible socially, still, because it had been whispered
about that his means were very slender, they were not inclined to
look upon him as one who might aspire to marriage with any of their
daughters. Hence, while they were to the fore with invitations, still
in so far as their own children and connections were concerned they
were also to the fore with precautionary hints as to the inadvisability
of too numerous contacts with him.
However, the mood of Sondra and her group being friendly toward him,
and the observations and comments of their friends and parents not as
yet too definite, Clyde continued to receive invitations to the one
type of gathering that most interested him--that which began and ended
with dancing. And although his purse was short, he got on well enough.
For once Sondra had interested herself in him, it was not long before
she began to realize what his financial state was and was concerned
to make his friendship for her at least as inexpensive as possible.
And because of this attitude on her part, which in turn was conveyed
to Bertine, Grant Cranston and others, it became possible on most
occasions for Clyde, especially when the affair was local, to go here
and there without the expenditure of any money. Even when the affair
was at any point beyond Lycurgus and he consented to go, the car of
another was delegated to pick him up.
Frequently after the New Year's Eve trip to Schenectady, which proved
to be an outing of real import to both Clyde and Sondra--seeing that
on that occasion she drew nearer to him affectionally than ever
before--it was Sondra herself who chose to pick him up in her car.
He had actually succeeded in impressing her, and in a way that most
flattered her vanity at the same time that it appealed to the finest
trait in her--a warm desire to have some one, some youth like Clyde,
who was at once attractive and of good social station, dependent
upon her. She knew that her parents would not countenance an affair
between her and Clyde because of his poverty. She had originally not
contemplated any, though now she found herself wishing that something
of the kind might be.
However, no opportunity for further intimacies occurred until one night
about two weeks after the New Year's Eve party. They were returning
from a similar affair at Amsterdam, and after Bella Griffiths and Grant
and Bertine Cranston had been driven to their respective homes, Stuart
Finchley had called back: "Now we'll take you home, Griffiths." At once
Sondra, swayed by the delight of contact with Clyde and not willing to
end it so soon, said: "If you want to come over to our place, I'll make
some hot chocolate before you go home. Would you like that?"
"Oh, sure I would," Clyde had answered gayly.
"Here goes then," called Stuart, turning the car toward the Finchley
home. "But as for me, I'm going to turn in. It's way after three now."
"That's a good brother. Your beauty sleep, you know," replied Sondra.
And having turned the car into the garage, the three made their way
through the rear entrance into the kitchen. Her brother having left
them, Sondra asked Clyde to be seated at a servants' table while she
brought the ingredients. But he, impressed by this culinary equipment,
the like of which he had never seen before, gazed about wondering at
the wealth and security which could sustain it.
"My, this is a big kitchen, isn't it?" he remarked. "What a lot of
things you have here to cook with, haven't you?"
And she, realizing from this that he had not been accustomed to
equipment of this order before coming to Lycurgus and hence was all the
more easily to be impressed, replied: "Oh, I don't know. Aren't all
kitchens as big as this?"
Clyde, thinking of the poverty he knew, and assuming from this that
she was scarcely aware of anything less than this, was all the more
overawed by the plethora of the world to which she belonged. What
means! Only to think of being married to such a girl, when all such
as this would become an everyday state. One would have a cook and
servants, a great house and car, no one to work for, and only orders
to give, a thought which impressed him greatly. It made her various
self-conscious gestures and posings all the more entrancing. And she,
sensing the import of all this to Clyde, was inclined to exaggerate her
own inseparable connection with it. To him, more than any one else,
as she now saw, she shone as a star, a paragon of luxury and social
supremacy.
Having prepared the chocolate in a commonplace aluminum pan, to further
impress him she sought out a heavily chased silver service which was in
another room. She poured the chocolate into a highly ornamented urn and
then carried it to the table and put it down before him. Then swinging
herself up beside him, she said: "Now, isn't this chummy? I just love
to get out in the kitchen like this, but I can only do it when the
cook's out. He won't let any one near the place when he's here."
"Oh, is that so?" asked Clyde, who was quite unaware of the ways
of cooks in connection with private homes--an inquiry which quite
convinced Sondra that there must have been little if any real means in
the world from which he sprang. Nevertheless, because he had come to
mean so much to her, she was by no means inclined to turn back. And
so when he finally exclaimed: "Isn't it wonderful to be together like
this, Sondra? Just think, I hardly got a chance to say a word to you
all evening, alone," she replied, without in any way being irritated
by the familiarity, "You think so? I'm glad you do," and smiled in a
slightly supercilious though affectionate way.
And at the sight of her now in her white satin and crystal evening
gown, her slippered feet swinging so intimately near, a faint perfume
radiating to his nostrils, he was stirred. In fact, his imagination
in regard to her was really inflamed. Youth, beauty, wealth such as
this--what would it not mean? And she, feeling the intensity of his
admiration and infected in part at least by the enchantment and fervor
that was so definitely dominating him, was swayed to the point where
she was seeing him as one for whom she could care--very much. Weren't
his eyes bright and dark--very liquid and eager? And his hair! It
looked so enticing, lying low upon his white forehead. She wished that
she could touch it now--smooth it with her hands and touch his cheeks.
And his hands--they were thin and sensitive and graceful. Like Roberta,
and Hortense and Rita before her, she noticed them.
But he was silent now with a tightly restrained silence which he was
afraid to liberate in words. For he was thinking: "Oh, if only I
could say to her how beautiful I really think she is. If I could just
put my arms around her and kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her, and
have her kiss me in the same way." And strangely, considering his
first approaches toward Roberta, the thought was without lust, just
the desire to constrain and fondle a perfect object. Indeed, his eyes
fairly radiated this desire and intensity. And while she noted this and
was in part made dubious by it, since it was the thing in Clyde she
most feared--still she was intrigued by it to the extent of wishing to
know its further meaning.
And so she now said, teasingly: "Was there anything very important you
wanted to say?"
"I'd like to say a lot of things to you, Sondra, if you would only let
me," he returned eagerly. "But you told me not to."
"Oh, so I did. Well, I meant that, too. I'm glad you mind so well."
There was a provoking smile upon her lips and she looked at him as much
as to say: "But you don't really believe I meant all of that, do you?"
Overcome by the suggestion of her eyes, Clyde got up and, taking both
her hands in his and looking directly into her eyes, said: "You didn't
mean all of it, then, did you, Sondra? Not all of it, anyhow. Oh, I
wish I could tell you all that I am thinking." His eyes spoke, and now
sharply conscious again of how easy it was to inflame him, and yet
anxious to permit him to proceed as he wished, she leaned back from
him and said, "Oh, yes, I'm sure I did. You take almost everything too
seriously, don't you?" But at the same time, and in spite of herself,
her expression relaxed and she once more smiled.
"I can't help it, Sondra. I can't! I can't!" he began, eagerly and
almost vehemently. "You don't know what effect you have on me. You're
so beautiful. Oh, you are. You know you are. I think about you all the
time. Really I do, Sondra. You've made me just crazy about you, so much
so that I can hardly sleep for thinking about you. Gee, I'm wild! I
never go anywhere or see you any place but what I think of you all the
time afterward. Even to-night when I saw you dancing with all those
fellows I could hardly stand it. I just wanted you to be dancing with
me--no one else. You've got such beautiful eyes, Sondra, and such a
lovely mouth and chin, and such a wonderful smile."
He lifted his hands as though to caress her gently, yet holding them
back, and at the same time dreamed into her eyes as might a devotee
into those of a saint, then suddenly put his arms about her and drew
her close to him. She, thrilled and in part seduced by his words,
instead of resisting as definitely as she would have in any other case,
now gazed at him, fascinated by his enthusiasms. She was so trapped
and entranced by his passion for her that it seemed to her now as
though she might care for him as much as he wished. Very, very much,
if she only dared. He, too, was beautiful and alluring to her. He,
too, was really wonderful, even if he were poor--so much more intense
and dynamic than any of these other youths that she knew here. Would
it not be wonderful if, her parents and her state permitting, she
could share with him completely such a mood as this? Simultaneously
the thought came to her that should her parents know of this it might
not be possible for her to continue this relationship in any form, let
alone to develop it or enjoy it in the future. Yet regardless of this
thought now, which arrested and stilled her for a moment, she continued
to yearn toward him. Her eyes were warm and tender--her lips wreathed
with a gracious smile.
"I'm sure I oughtn't to let you say all these things to me. I know I
shouldn't," she protested weakly, yet looking at him affectionately.
"It isn't the right thing to do, I know, but still--"
"Why not? Why isn't it right, Sondra? Why mayn't I when I care for you
so much?" His eyes became clouded with sadness, and she, noting it,
exclaimed: "Oh, well," then paused, "I--I--" She was about to add,
"Don't think they would ever let us go on with it," but instead she
only replied, "I guess I don't know you well enough."
"Oh, Sondra, when I love you so much and I'm so crazy about you! Don't
you care at all like I care for you?"
Because of the uncertainty expressed by her, his eyes were now seeking,
frightened, sad. The combination had an intense appeal for her. She
merely looked at him dubiously, wondering what could be the result of
such an infatuation as this. And he, noting the wavering something in
her own eyes, pulled her closer and kissed her. Instead of resenting it
she lay for a moment willingly, joyously, in his arms, then suddenly
sat up, the thought of what she was permitting him to do--kiss her in
this way--and what it must mean to him, causing her on the instant
to recover all her poise. "I think you'd better go now," she said
definitely, yet not unkindly. "Don't you?"
And Clyde, who himself had been surprised and afterwards a little
startled, and hence reduced by his own boldness, now pleaded rather
weakly, and yet submissively. "Angry?"
And she, in turn sensing his submissiveness, that of the slave for the
master, and in part liking and in part resenting it, since like Roberta
and Hortense, even she preferred to be mastered rather than to master,
shook her head negatively and a little sadly.
"It's very late," was all she said, and smiled tenderly.
And Clyde, realizing that for some reason he must not say more, had not
the courage or persistence or the background to go further with her
now, went for his coat and, looking sadly but obediently back at her,
departed.
CHAPTER XXXIII
One of the things that Roberta soon found was that her intuitive
notions in regard to all this were not without speedy substantiation.
For exactly as before, though with the usual insistence afterward that
there was no real help for it, there continued to be these same last
moment changes of plan and unannounced absences. And although she
complained at times, or pleaded, or merely contented herself with quite
silent and not always obvious "blues," still these same affected no
real modification or improvement. For Clyde was now hopelessly enamored
of Sondra and by no means to be changed, or moved even, by anything in
connection with Roberta. Sondra was too wonderful!
At the same time because she was there all of the working hours of each
day in the same room with him, he could not fail instinctively to feel
some of the thoughts that employed her mind--such dark, sad, despairing
thoughts. And these seized upon him at times as definitely and
poignantly as though they were voices of accusation or complaint--so
much so that he could not help but suggest by way of amelioration that
he would like to see her and that he was coming around that night
if she were going to be home. And so distrait was she, and still so
infatuated with him, that she could not resist admitting that she
wanted him to come. And once there, the psychic personality of the past
as well as of the room itself was not without its persuasion and hence
emotional compulsion.
But most foolishly anticipating, as he now did, a future more
substantial than the general local circumstances warranted, he was more
concerned than ever lest his present relationship to Roberta should in
any way prove inimical to all this. Supposing that Sondra at some time,
in some way, should find out concerning Roberta? How fatal that would
be! Or that Roberta should become aware of his devotion to Sondra and
so develop an active resentment which should carry her to the length
of denouncing or exposing him. For subsequent to the New Year's Eve
engagement, he was all too frequently appearing at the factory of a
morning with explanatory statements that because of some invitation
from the Griffiths, Harriets, or others, he would not be able to keep
an engagement with her that night, for instance, that he had made a
day or two before. And later, on three different occasions, because
Sondra had called for him in her car, he had departed without a word,
trusting to what might come to him the next day in the way of an excuse
to smooth the matter over.
Yet anomalous, if not exactly unprecedented as it may seem, this
condition of mingled sympathy and opposition gave rise at last to
the feeling in him that come what might he must find some method of
severing this tie, even though it lacerated Roberta to the point
of death (Why should he care? He had never told her that he would
marry her.) or endangered his own position here in case she were not
satisfied to release him as voicelessly as he wished. At other times
it caused him to feel that indeed he was a sly and shameless and cruel
person who had taken undue advantage of a girl who, left to herself,
would never have troubled with him. And this latter mood, in spite of
slights and lies and thinly excused neglects and absences at times in
the face of the most definite agreements--so strange is the libido of
the race--brought about the reënactment of the infernal or celestial
command laid upon Adam and his breed: "Thy desire shall be to thy mate."
But there was this to be said in connection with the relationship
between these two, that at no time, owing to the inexperience of Clyde,
as well as Roberta, had there been any adequate understanding or use
of more than the simplest, and for the most part unsatisfactory,
contraceptive devices. About the middle of February, and, interestingly
enough, at about the time when Clyde, because of the continuing favor
of Sondra, had about reached the point where he was determined once and
for all to end, not only this physical, but all other connection with
Roberta, she on her part was beginning to see clearly that, in spite
of his temporizing and her own incurable infatuation for him, pursuit
of him by her was futile and that it would be more to the satisfaction
of her pride, if not to the ease of her heart, if she were to leave
here and in some other place seek some financial help that would permit
her to live and still help her parents and forget him if she could.
Unfortunately for this, she was compelled, to her dismay and terror, to
enter the factory one morning, just about this time, her face a symbol
of even graver and more terrifying doubts and fears than any that
had hitherto assailed her. For now, in addition to her own troubled
conclusions in regard to Clyde, there had sprung up over night the dark
and constraining fear that even this might not now be possible, for the
present at least. For because of her own and Clyde's temporizing over
his and her sentimentality and her unconquerable affection for him,
she now, at a time when it was most inimical for both, found herself
pregnant.
Ever since she had yielded to his blandishments, she had counted the
days and always had been able to congratulate herself that all was
well. But forty-eight hours since the always exactly calculated time
had now passed, and there had been no sign. And for four days preceding
this Clyde had not even been near her. And his attitude at the factory
was more remote and indifferent than ever.
And now, this!
And she had no one but him to whom she might turn. And he was in this
estranged and indifferent mood.
Because of her fright, induced by the fear that with or without
Clyde's aid she might not easily be extricated from her threatened
predicament, she could see her home, her mother, her relatives, all who
knew her, and their thoughts in case anything like this should befall
her. For of the opinion of society in general and what other people
might say, Roberta stood in extreme terror. The stigma of unsanctioned
concupiscence! The shame of illegitimacy for a child! It was bad
enough, as she had always thought, listening to girls and women talk of
life and marriage and adultery and the miseries that had befallen girls
who had yielded to men and subsequently been deserted, for a woman
when she was safely married and sustained by the love and strength of
a man--such love, for instance, as her brother-in-law Gabel brought
to her sister Agnes, and her father to her mother in the first years,
no doubt--and Clyde to her when he had so feverishly declared that he
loved her.
But now--now!
She could not permit any thoughts in regard to his recent or present
attitude to delay her. Regardless of either, he must help her. She did
not know what else to do under such circumstances--which way to turn.
And no doubt Clyde did. At any rate he had said once that he would
stand by her in case anything happened. And although, because at first,
even on the third day on reaching the factory, she imagined that she
might be exaggerating the danger and that it was perhaps some physical
flaw or lapse that might still overcome itself, still by late afternoon
no evidence of any change coming to her, she began to be a prey to the
most nameless terrors. What little courage she had mustered up to this
time began to waver and break. She was all alone, unless he came to her
now. And she was in need of advice and good counsel--loving counsel.
Oh, Clyde! Clyde! If he would only not be so indifferent to her! He
must not be! Something must be done, and right away--quick--else--
Great Heavens, what a terrible thing this could easily come to be!
At once she stopped her work between four and five in the afternoon and
hurried to the dressing-room. And there she penned a note--hurried,
hysterical--a scrawl.
"CLYDE--I must see you to-night, sure, _sure_. You mustn't fail me.
I have something to tell you. Please come as soon after work as
possible, or meet me anywhere. I'm not angry or mad about anything.
But I must see you to-night, _sure_. Please say right away where.
ROBERTA."
And he, sensing a new and strange and quite terrified note in all this
the moment he read it, at once looked over his shoulder at her and,
seeing her face so white and drawn, signaled that he would meet her.
For judging by her face the thing she had to tell must be of the utmost
importance to her, else why this tensity and excitement on her part.
And although he had another engagement later, as he now troublesomely
recalled, at the Starks for dinner, still it was necessary to do this
first. Yet, what was it anyhow? Was anybody dead or hurt or what--her
mother or father or brother or sister?
At five-thirty, he made his way to the appointed place, wondering what
it could be that could make her so pale and concerned. Yet at the same
time saying to himself that if this other dream in regard to Sondra
were to come true he must not let himself be reëntangled by any great
or moving sympathy--must maintain his new poise and distance so that
Roberta could see that he no longer cared for her as he had. Reaching
the appointed place at six o'clock, he found her leaning disconsolately
against a tree in the shadow. She looked distraught, despondent.
"Why, what's the matter, Bert? What are you so frightened about? What's
happened?"
Even his obviously dwindling affection was restimulated by her quite
visible need of help.
"Oh, Clyde," she said at last, "I hardly know how to tell you. It's
so terrible for me if it's so." Her voice, tense and yet low, was in
itself a clear proof of her anguish and uncertainty.
"Why, what is it, Bert? Why don't you tell me?" he reiterated, briskly
and yet cautiously, essaying an air of detached assurance which he
could not quite manage in this instance. "What's wrong? What are you so
excited about? You're all trembly."
Because of the fact that never before in all his life had he been
confronted by any such predicament as this, it did not even now occur
to him just what the true difficulty could be. At the same time, being
rather estranged and hence embarrassed by his recent treatment of her,
he was puzzled as to just what attitude to assume in a situation where
obviously something was wrong. Being sensitive to conventional or moral
stimuli as he still was, he could not quite achieve a discreditable
thing, even where his own highest ambitions were involved, without a
measure of regret or at least shame. Also he was so anxious to keep his
dinner engagement and not to be further involved that his manner was
impatient. It did not escape Roberta.
"You know, Clyde," she pleaded, both earnestly and eagerly, the very
difficulty of her state encouraging her to be bold and demanding, "you
said if anything went wrong you'd help me."
At once, because of those recent few and, as he now saw them, foolish
visits to her room, on which occasions because of some remaining
sentiment and desire on the part of both he had been betrayed into
sporadic and decidedly unwise physical relations with her, he
now realized what the difficulty was. And that it was a severe,
compelling, dangerous difficulty, if it were true. Also that he was
to blame and that here was a real predicament that must be overcome,
and that quickly, unless a still greater danger was to be faced.
Yet, simultaneously, his very recent and yet decidedly compelling
indifference dictating, he was almost ready now to assume that this
might be little more than a ruse or lovelorn device or bit of strategy
intended to retain or reënlist his interest in spite of himself--a
thought which he was only in part ready to harbor. Her manner was too
dejected and despairing. And with the first dim realization of how
disastrous such a complication as this might prove to be in his case,
he began to be somewhat more alarmed than irritated. So much so that he
exclaimed:
"Yes, but how do you know that there is anything wrong? You can't be
sure so soon as all this, can you? How can you? You'll probably be all
right to-morrow, won't you?" At the same time his voice was beginning
to suggest the uncertainty that he felt.
"Oh, no, I don't think so, Clyde. I wish I did. It's two whole days,
and it's never been that way before."
Her manner as she said this was so obviously dejected and
self-commiserating that at once he was compelled to dismiss the thought
of intrigue. At the same time, unwilling to face so discouraging a fact
so soon, he added: "Oh, well, that might not mean anything, either.
Girls go longer than two days, don't they?"
The tone, implying as it did uncertainty and non-sophistication even,
which previously had not appeared characteristic of him, was sufficient
to alarm Roberta to the point where she exclaimed: "Oh, no, I don't
think so. Anyhow, it would be terrible, wouldn't it, if something were
wrong? What do you suppose I ought to do? Don't you know something I
can take?"
At once Clyde, who had been so brisk and urgent in establishing this
relationship and had given Roberta the impression that he was a
sophisticated and masterful youth who knew much more of life than ever
she could hope to know, and to whom all such dangers and difficulties
as were implied in the relationship could be left with impunity,
was at a loss what to do. Actually, as he himself now realized, he
was as sparingly informed in regard to the mysteries of sex and the
possible complications attending upon such a situation as any youth
of his years could well be. True, before coming here he had browsed
about Kansas City and Chicago with such worldly-wise mentors of the
hotel bell-boy world as Ratterer, Higby, Hegglund and others and had
listened to much of their gossiping and boasting. But their knowledge,
for all their boasting, as he now half guessed, must have related to
girls who were as careless and uninformed as themselves. And beyond
those again, although he was by no means so clearly aware of that fact
now, lay little more than those rumored specifics and preventatives
of such quack doctors and shady druggists and chemists as dealt with
intelligences of the Hegglund and Ratterer order. But even so, where
were such things to be obtained in a small city like Lycurgus? Since
dropping Dillard he had no intimates let alone trustworthy friends who
could be depended on to help in such a crisis.
The best he could think of for the moment was to visit some local
or near-by druggist who might, for a price, provide him with some
worth-while prescription or information. But for how much? And what
were the dangers in connection with such a proceeding? Did they talk?
Did they ask questions? Did they tell any one else about such inquiries
or needs? He looked so much like Gilbert Griffiths, who was so well
known in Lycurgus that any one recognizing him as Gilbert might begin
to talk of him in that way and so bring about trouble.
And this terrible situation arising now--when in connection with
Sondra, things had advanced to the point where she was now secretly
permitting him to kiss her, and, more pleasing still, exhibiting little
evidences of her affection and good will in the form of presents
of ties, a gold pencil, a box of most attractive handkerchiefs,
all delivered to his door in his absence with a little card with
her initials, which had caused him to feel sure that his future in
connection with her was of greater and greater promise. So much so that
even marriage, assuming that her family might not prove too inimical
and that her infatuation and diplomacy endured, might not be beyond
the bounds of possibility. He could not be sure, of course. Her true
intentions and affection so far were veiled behind a tantalizing
evasiveness which made her all the more desirable. Yet it was these
things that had been causing him to feel that he must now, and
speedily, extract himself as gracefully and unirritatingly as possible
from his intimacy with Roberta.
For that reason, therefore, he now announced, with pretended assurance:
"Well, I wouldn't worry about it any more to-night if I were you. You
may be all right yet, you know. You can't be sure. Anyhow, I'll have
to have a little time until I can see what I can do. I think I can get
something for you. But I wish you wouldn't get so excited."
At the same time he was far from feeling as secure as he sounded. In
fact he was very much shaken. His original determination to have as
little to do with her as possible, was now complicated by the fact that
he was confronted by a predicament that spelled real danger to himself,
unless by some argument or assertion he could absolve himself of any
responsibility in connection with this--a possibility which, in view
of the fact that Roberta still worked for him, that he had written
her some notes, and that any least word from her would precipitate
an inquiry which would prove fatal to him, was sufficient to cause
him to feel that he must assist her speedily and without a breath of
information as to all this leaking out in any direction. At the same
time it is only fair to say that because of all that had been between
them, he did not object to assisting her in any way that he could.
But in the event that he could not (it was so that his thoughts raced
forward to an entirely possible inimical conclusion to all this) well,
then--well, then--might it not be possible at least--some fellows, if
not himself would--to deny that he had held any such relationship with
her and so escape. That possibly might be one way out--if only he were
not as treacherously surrounded as he was here.
But the most troublesome thing in connection with all this was the
thought that he knew of nothing that would really avail in such a
case, other than a doctor. Also that that probably meant money, time,
danger--just what did it mean? He would see her in the morning, and if
she weren't all right by then he would act.
And Roberta, for the first time forsaken in this rather casual and
indifferent way, and in such a crisis as this, returned to her room
with her thoughts and fears, more stricken and agonized than ever
before she had been in all her life.
CHAPTER XXXIV
But the resources of Clyde, in such a situation as this, were slim.
For, apart from Liggett, Whiggam, and a few minor though decidedly
pleasant and yet rather remote department heads, all of whom were now
looking on him as a distinctly superior person who could scarcely be
approached too familiarly in connection with anything, there was no
one to whom he could appeal. In so far as the social group to which
he was now so eagerly attaching himself was concerned, it would
have been absurd for him to attempt, however slyly, to extract any
information there. For while the youths of this world at least were
dashing here and there, and because of their looks, taste and means
indulging themselves in phases of libertinism--the proper wild oats
of youth--such as he and others like himself could not have dreamed
of affording, still so far was he from any real intimacy with any of
these that he would not have dreamed of approaching them for helpful
information.
His sanest thought, which occurred to him almost immediately after
leaving Roberta, was that instead of inquiring of any druggist or
doctor or person in Lycurgus--more particularly any doctor, since
the entire medical profession here, as elsewhere, appeared to him as
remote, cold, unsympathetic and likely very expensive and unfriendly
to such an immoral adventure as this--was to go to some near-by city,
preferably Schenectady, since it was larger and as near as any, and
there inquire what, if anything, could be obtained to help in such a
situation as this. For he must find something.
At the same time, the necessity for decision and prompt action was so
great that even on his way to the Starks', and without knowing any
drug or prescription to ask for, he resolved to go to Schenectady the
next night. Only that meant, as he later reasoned, that a whole day
must elapse before anything could be done for Roberta, and that, in
her eyes, as well as his own, would be leaving her open to the danger
that any delay at all involved. Therefore, he decided to act at once,
if he could; excuse himself to the Starks and then make the trip to
Schenectady on the interurban before the drug-stores over there should
close. But once there--what? How face the local druggist or clerk--and
ask for what? His mind was troubled with hard, abrasive thoughts as
to what the druggist might think, look or say. If only Ratterer or
Hegglund were here! They would know, of course, and be glad to help
him. Or Higby, even. But here he was now, all alone, for Roberta knew
nothing at all. There must be something though, of course. If not, if
he failed there, he would return and write Ratterer in Chicago, only in
order to keep himself out of this as much as possible he would say that
he was writing for a friend.
Once in Schenectady, since no one knew him there, of course he might
say (the thought came to him as an inspiration) that he was a newly
married man--why not? He was old enough to be one, and that his wife,
and that in the face of inability to care for a child now, was "past
her time" (he recalled a phrase that he had once heard Higby use), and
that he wanted something that would permit her to escape from that
state. What was so wrong with that as an idea? A young married couple
might be in just such a predicament. And possibly the druggist would,
or should be stirred to a little sympathy by such a state and might be
glad to tell him of something. Why not? That would be no real crime.
To be sure, one and another might refuse, but a third might not. And
then he would be rid of this. And then never again, without knowing
a lot more than he did now, would he let himself drift into any such
predicament as this. Never! It was too dreadful.
He betook himself to the Stark house very nervous and growing more
so every moment. So much so that, the dinner being eaten, he finally
declared as early as nine-thirty that at the last moment at the factory
a very troublesome report, covering a whole month's activities, had
been requested of him. And since it was not anything he could do at the
office, he was compelled to return to his room and make it out there--a
bit of energetic and ambitious commercialism, as the Starks saw it,
worthy of their admiration and sympathy. And in consequence he was
excused.
But arrived at Schenectady, he had barely time to look around a little
before the last car for Lycurgus should be leaving. His nerve began to
fail him. Did he look enough like a young married man to convince any
one that he was one? Besides were not such preventatives considered
very wrong--even by druggists?
Walking up and down the one very long Main Street still brightly
lighted at this hour, looking now in one drug-store window and
another, he decided for different reasons that each particular one
was not the one. In one, as he saw at a glance, stood a stout, sober,
smooth-shaven man of fifty whose bespectacled eyes and iron gray hair
seemed to indicate to Clyde's mind that he would be most certain to
deny such a youthful applicant as himself--refuse to believe that he
was married--or to admit that he had any such remedy, and suspect him
of illicit relations with some young, unmarried girl into the bargain.
He looked so sober, God-fearing, ultra-respectable and conventional.
No, it would not do to apply to him. He had not the courage to enter
and face such a person.
In another drug-store he observed a small, shriveled and yet dapper and
shrewd-looking man of perhaps thirty-five, who appeared to him at the
time as satisfactory enough, only, as he could see from the front, he
was being briskly assisted by a young woman of not more than twenty or
twenty-five. And assuming that she would approach him instead of the
man--an embarrassing and impossible situation--or if the man waited on
him, was it not probable that she would hear? In consequence he gave
up that place, and a third, a fourth, and a fifth, for varying and yet
equally cogent reasons--customers inside, a girl and a boy at a soda
fountain in front, an owner posed near the door and surveying Clyde as
he looked in and thus disconcerting him before he had time to consider
whether he should enter or not.
Finally, however, after having abandoned so many, he decided that he
must act or return defeated, his time and carfare wasted. Returning to
one of the lesser stores in a side street, in which a moment before
he had observed an undersized chemist idling about, he entered, and
summoning all the bravado he could muster, began: "I want to know
something. I want to know if you know of anything--well, you see, it's
this way--I'm just married and my wife is past her time and I can't
afford to have any children now if I can help it. Is there anything a
person can get that will get her out of it?"
His manner was brisk and confidential enough, although tinged with
nervousness and the inner conviction that the druggist must guess that
he was lying. At the same time, although he did not know it, he was
talking to a confirmed religionist of the Methodist group who did not
believe in interfering with the motives or impulses of nature. Any such
trifling was against the laws of God and he carried nothing in stock
that would in any way interfere with the ways of the Creator. At the
same time he was too good a merchant to wish to alienate a possible
future customer, and so he now said: "I'm sorry, young man, but I'm
afraid I can't help you in this case. I haven't a thing of that kind in
stock here--never handle anything of that kind because I don't believe
in 'em. It may be, though, that some of the other stores here in town
carry something of the sort. I wouldn't be able to tell you." His
manner as he spoke was solemn, the convinced and earnest tone and look
of the moralist who knows that he is right.
And at once Clyde gathered, and fairly enough in this instance, that
this man was reproachful. It reduced to a much smaller quantity the
little confidence with which he had begun his quest. And yet, since the
dealer had not directly reproached him and had even said that it might
be possible that some of the other druggists carried such a thing, he
took heart after a few moments, and after a brief fit of pacing here
and there in which he looked through one window and another, he finally
espied a seventh dealer alone. He entered, and after repeating his
first explanation he was informed, very secretively and yet casually,
by the thin, dark, casuistic person who waited on him--not the owner
in this instance--that there was such a remedy. Yes. Did he wish a
box? That (because Clyde asked the price) would be six dollars--a
staggering sum to the salaried inquirer. However, since the expenditure
seemed unescapable--to find anything at all a great relief--he at once
announced that he would take it, and the clerk, bringing him something
which he hinted ought to prove "effectual" and wrapping it up, he paid
and went out.
And then actually so relieved was he, so great had been the strain up
to this moment, that he could have danced for joy. Then there was a
cure, and it would work, of course. The excessive and even outrageous
price seemed to indicate as much. And under the circumstances, might he
not even consider that sum moderate, seeing that he was being let off
so easily? However, he forgot to inquire as to whether there was any
additional information or special directions that might prove valuable,
and instead, with the package in his pocket, some central and detached
portion of the ego within himself congratulating him upon his luck and
undaunted efficiency in such a crisis as this, he at once returned to
Lycurgus, where he proceeded to Roberta's room.
And she, like himself, impressed by his success in having secured
something which both he and she had feared did not exist, or if it
did, might prove difficult to procure, felt enormously relieved. In
fact, she was reimpressed by his ability and efficiency, qualities
with which, up to this time at least, she had endowed him. Also that
he was more generous and considerate than under the circumstances she
feared he would be. At least he was not coldly abandoning her to fate,
as previously in her terror she had imagined that he might. And this
fact, even in the face of his previous indifference, was sufficient to
soften her mood in regard to him. So with a kind of ebullience, based
on fattened hope resting on the pills, she undid the package and read
the directions, assuring him the while of her gratitude and that she
would not forget how _good_ he had been to her in this instance. At
the same time, even as she untied the package, the thought came to
her--supposing they would not work? Then what? And how would she go
about arranging with Clyde as to that? However, for the time being, as
she now reasoned, she must be satisfied and grateful for this, and at
once took one of the pills.
But once her expressions of gratefulness had been offered and Clyde
sensed that these same might possibly be looked upon as overtures to
a new intimacy between them, he fell back upon the attitude that for
days past had characterized him at the factory. Under no circumstances
must he lend himself to any additional blandishments or languishments
in this field. And if this drug proved effectual, as he most earnestly
hoped, it must be the last of any save the most accidental and casual
contacts. For there was too much danger, as this particular crisis had
proved--too much to be lost on his side--everything, in short--nothing
but worry and trouble and expense.
In consequence he retreated to his former reserve. "Well, you'll be all
right now, eh? Anyhow, let's hope so, huh? It says to take one every
two hours for eight or ten hours. And if you're just a little sick, it
says it doesn't make any difference. You may have to knock off a day or
two at the factory, but you won't mind that, will you, if it gets you
out of this? I'll come around to-morrow night and see how you are, if
you don't show up any time to-morrow."
He laughed genially, the while Roberta gazed at him, unable to
associate his present casual attitude with his former passion and
deep solicitude. His former passion! And now this! And yet, under the
circumstances, being truly grateful, she now smiled cordially and he
the same. Yet, seeing him go out, the door close, and no endearing
demonstrations of any kind having been exchanged between them, she
returned to her bed, shaking her head dubiously. For, supposing that
this remedy did not work after all? And he continued in this same
casual and remote attitude toward her? Then what? For unless this
remedy proved effectual, he might still be so indifferent that he might
not want to help her long--or would he? Could he do that, really? He
was the one who had brought her to this difficulty, and against her
will, and he had so definitely assured her that nothing would happen.
And now she must lie here alone and worry, not a single person to turn
to, except him, and he was leaving her for others with the assurance
that she would be all right. And he had caused it all! Was that quite
right?
"Oh, Clyde! Clyde!"
CHAPTER XXXV
But the remedy he purchased failed to work. And because of nausea and
his advice she had not gone to the factory, but lay about worrying.
But, no saving result appearing, she began to take two pills every hour
instead of one--eager at any cost to escape the fate which seemingly
had overtaken her. And this made her exceedingly sick--so much so that
when Clyde arrived at six-thirty he was really moved by her deathly
white face, drawn cheeks and large and nervous eyes, the pupils of
which were unduly dilated. Obviously she was facing a crisis, and
because of him, and, while it frightened, at the same time it made him
sorry for her. Still, so confused and perplexed was he by the problem
which her unchanged state presented to him that his mind now leaped
forward to the various phases and eventualities of such a failure
as this. The need of additional advice or service of some physician
somewhere! But where and how and who? And besides, as he now asked
himself, where was he to obtain the money in any such event?
Plainly in view of no other inspiration it was necessary for him to
return to the druggist at once and there inquire if there was anything
else--some other drug or some other thing that one might do. Or if not
that, then some low-priced shady doctor somewhere, who, for a small
fee, or a promise of payments on time, would help in this case.
Yet even though this other matter was so important--tragic
almost---once outside his spirits lifted slightly. For he now recalled
that he had an appointment with Sondra at the Cranstons', where at nine
he and she, along with a number of others, were to meet and play about
as usual--a party. Yet once at the Cranstons', and despite the keen
allurement of Sondra, he could not keep his mind off Roberta's state,
which rose before him as a specter. Supposing now any one of those whom
he found gathered here--Nadine Harriet, Perley Haynes, Violet Taylor,
Jill Trumbull, Bella, Bertine, and Sondra, should gain the least
inkling of the scene he had just witnessed? In spite of Sondra at the
piano throwing him a welcoming smile over her shoulder as he entered,
his thoughts were on Roberta. He must go around there again after this
was over, to see how she was and so relieve his own mind in case she
were better. In case she was not, he must write to Ratterer at once for
advice.
In spite of his distress he was trying to appear as gay and unconcerned
as ever--dancing first with Perley Haynes and then with Nadine and
finally, while waiting for a chance to dance with Sondra, he approached
a group who were trying to help Vanda Steele solve a new scenery
puzzle and asserted that he could read messages written on paper and
sealed in envelopes (the old serial letter trick which he had found
explained in an ancient book of parlor tricks discovered on a shelf
at the Peytons'). It had been his plan to use it before in order to
give himself an air of ease and cleverness, but to-night he was using
it to take his mind off the greater problem that was weighing on him.
And, although with the aid of Nadine Harriet, whom he took into his
confidence, he succeeded in thoroughly mystifying the others, still his
mind was not quite on it. Roberta was always there. Supposing something
should really be wrong with her and he could not get her out of it. She
might even expect him to marry her, so fearful was she of her parents
and people. What would he do then? He would lose the beautiful Sondra
and she might even come to know how and why he had lost her. But that
would be wild of Roberta to expect him to do that. He would not do it.
He could not do it.
One thing was certain. He must get her out of this. He must! But how?
How?
And although at twelve o'clock Sondra signaled that she was ready to
go and that if he chose he might accompany her to her door (and even
stop in for a few moments) and although once there, in the shade of a
pergola which ornamented the front gate, she had allowed him to kiss
her and told him that she was beginning to think he was the nicest ever
and that the following spring when the family moved to Twelfth Lake
she was going to see if she couldn't think of some way by which she
could arrange to have him there over week-ends, still, because of this
pressing problem in connection with Roberta, Clyde was so worried that
he was not able to completely enjoy this new and to him exquisitely
thrilling demonstration of affection on her part--this new and amazing
social and emotional victory of his.
He must send that letter to Ratterer to-night. But before that he must
return to Roberta as he had promised and find out if she was better.
And after that he must go over to Schenectady in the morning, sure,
to see the druggist over there. For something must be done about this
unless she were better to-night.
And so, with Sondra's kisses thrilling on his lips, he left her to go
to Roberta, whose white face and troubled eyes told him as he entered
her room that no change had taken place. If anything she was worse and
more distressed than before, the larger dosage having weakened her to
the point of positive illness. However, as she said, nothing mattered
if only she could get out of this--that she would almost be willing
to die rather than face the consequences. And Clyde, realizing what
she meant and being so sincerely concerned for himself, appeared in
part distressed for her. However, his previous indifference and the
manner in which he had walked off and left her alone this very evening
prevented her from feeling that there was any abiding concern in him
for her now. And this grieved her terribly. For she sensed now that he
did not really care for her any more, even though now he was saying
that she mustn't worry and that it was likely that if these didn't work
he would get something else that would; that he was going back to the
druggist at Schenectady the first thing in the morning to see if there
wasn't something else that he could suggest.
But the Gilpins had no telephone, and since he never ventured to call
at her room during the day and he never permitted her to call him at
Mrs. Peyton's, his plan in this instance was to pass by the following
morning before work. If she were all right, the two front shades would
be raised to the top; if not, then lowered to the center. In that case
he would depart for Schenectady at once, telephoning Mr. Liggett that
he had some outside duties to perform.
Just the same, both were terribly depressed and fearful as to what this
should mean for each of them. Clyde could not quite assure himself
that, in the event that Roberta was not extricated, he would be able
to escape without indemnifying her in some form which might not mean
just temporary efforts to aid her, but something more--marriage,
possibly--since already she had reminded him that he had promised to
see her through. But what had he really meant by that at the time that
he said it, he now asked himself. Not marriage, most certainly, since
his thought was not that he had ever wanted to marry her, but rather
just to play with her happily in love, although, as he well knew, she
had no such conception of his eager mood at that time. He was compelled
to admit to himself that she had probably thought his intentions were
more serious or she would not have submitted to him at all.
But reaching home, and after writing and mailing the letter to
Ratterer, Clyde passed a troubled night. Next morning he paid a visit
to the druggist at Schenectady, the curtains of Roberta's windows
having been lowered to the center when he passed. But on this occasion
the latter had no additional aid to offer other than the advisability
of a hot and hence weakening bath, which he had failed to mention in
the first instance. Also some wearying form of physical exercise. But
noting Clyde's troubled expression and judging that the situation was
causing him great worry, he observed: "Of course, the fact that your
wife has skipped a month doesn't mean that there is anything seriously
wrong, you know. Women do that sometimes. Anyhow, you can't ever be
sure until the second month has passed. Any doctor will tell you that.
If she's nervous, let her try something like this. But even if it fails
to work, you can't be positive. She might be all right next month just
the same."
Thinly cheered by this information, Clyde was about to depart, for
Roberta might be wrong. He and she might be worrying needlessly.
Still--he was brought up with a round turn as he thought of it--there
might be real danger, and waiting until the end of the second period
would only mean that a whole month had elapsed and nothing helpful
accomplished--a freezing thought. In consequence he now observed: "In
case things don't come right, you don't happen to know of a doctor she
could go to, do you? This is rather a serious business for both of us,
and I'd like to get her out of it if I could."
Something about the way in which Clyde said this--his extreme
nervousness as well as his willingness to indulge in a form of
malpractice which the pharmacist by some logic all his own considered
very different from just swallowing a preparation intended to achieve
the same result--caused him to look suspiciously at Clyde, the thought
stirring in his brain that very likely after all Clyde was not married,
also that this was one of those youthful affairs which spelled license
and future difficulty for some unsophisticated girl. Hence his mood now
changed, and instead of being willing to assist, he now said coolly:
"Well, there may be a doctor around here, but if so I don't know. And I
wouldn't undertake to send any one to a doctor like that. It's against
the law. It would certainly go hard with any doctor around here who
was caught doing that sort of thing. That's not to say, though, that
you aren't at liberty to look around for yourself, if you want to,"
he added gravely, giving Clyde a suspicious and examining glance, and
deciding it were best if he had nothing further to do with such a
person.
Clyde therefore returned to Roberta with the same prescription renewed,
although she had most decidedly protested that, since the first box
had not worked, it was useless to get more. But since he insisted, she
was willing to try the drug the new way, although the argument that a
cold or nerves was the possible cause was only sufficient to convince
her that Clyde was at the end of his resources in so far as she was
concerned, or if not that, he was far from being alive to the import of
this both to herself and to him. And supposing this new treatment did
not work, then what? Was he going to stop now and let the thing rest
there?
Yet so peculiar was Clyde's nature that in the face of his fears
in regard to his future, and because it was far from pleasant to
be harried in this way and an infringement on his other interests,
the assurance that the delay of a month might not prove fatal was
sufficient to cause him to be willing to wait, and that rather
indifferently, for that length of time. Roberta might be wrong. She
might be making all this trouble for nothing. He must see how she felt
after she had tried this new way.
But the treatment failed. Despite the fact that in her distress Roberta
returned to the factory in order to weary herself, until all the girls
in the department assured her that she must be ill--that she should
not be working when she looked and plainly felt so bad--still nothing
came of it. And the fact that Clyde could dream of falling back on the
assurance of the druggist that a first month's lapse was of no import
only aggravated and frightened her the more.
The truth was that in this crisis he was as interesting an illustration
of the enormous handicaps imposed by ignorance, youth, poverty and fear
as one could have found. Technically he did not even know the meaning
of the word "midwife," or the nature of the services performed by her.
(And there were three here in Lycurgus at this time in the foreign
family section.) Again, he had been in Lycurgus so short a time, and
apart from the young society men and Dillard whom he had cut, and the
various department heads at the factory, he knew no one--an occasional
barber, haberdasher, cigar dealer and the like, the majority of whom,
as he saw them, were either too dull or too ignorant for his purpose.
One thing, however, which caused him to pause before ever he decided
to look up a physician was the problem of who was to approach him
and how. To go himself was simply out of the question. In the first
place, he looked too much like Gilbert Griffiths, who was decidedly
too well-known here and for whom he might be mistaken. Next, it was
unquestionable that, being as well-dressed as he was, the physician
would want to charge him more, maybe, than he could afford and ask him
all sorts of embarrassing questions, whereas if it could be arranged
through some one else--the details explained before ever Roberta was
sent--Why not Roberta herself! Why not? She looked so simple and
innocent and unassuming and appealing at all times. And in such a
situation as this, as depressed and downcast as she was, well.... For
after all, as he now casuistically argued with himself, it was she and
not he who was facing the immediate problem which had to be solved.
And again, as it now came to him, would she not be able to get it done
cheaper? For looking as she did now, so distrait--If only he could get
her to say that she had been deserted by some young man, whose name she
would refuse to divulge, of course, well, what physician seeing a girl
like her alone and in such a state--no one to look after her--would
refuse her? It might even be that he would help her out for nothing.
Who could tell? And that would leave him clear of it all.
And in consequence he now approached Roberta, intending to prepare her
for the suggestion that, assuming that he could provide a physician
and the nature of his position being what it was, she must speak for
herself. But before he had spoken she at once inquired of him as
to what, if anything, more he had heard or done. Wasn't some other
remedy sold somewhere? And this giving him the opportunity he desired,
he explained: "Well, I've asked around and looked into most of the
drug-stores and they tell me if this one won't work that none will.
That leaves me sorta stumped now, unless you're willing to go and see
a doctor. But the trouble with that is they're hard to find--the ones
who'll do anything and keep their mouths shut. I've talked with several
fellows without saying who it's for, of course, but it ain't so easy to
get one around here, because they are all too much afraid. It's against
the law, you see. But what I want to know now is, supposing I find a
doctor who would do it, will you have the nerve to go and see him and
tell him what the trouble is? That's what I want to know."
She looked at him dazedly, not quite grasping that he was hinting
that she was to go entirely alone, but rather assuming that of course
he meant to go with her. Then, her mind concentrating nervously upon
the necessity of facing a doctor in his company, she first exclaimed:
"Oh, dear, isn't it terrible to think of us having to go to a doctor
in this way? Then he'll know all about us, won't he? And besides it's
dangerous, isn't it, although I don't suppose it could be much worse
than those old pills." She went off into more intimate inquiries as to
what was done and how, but Clyde could not enlighten her.
"Oh, don't be getting nervous over that now," he said. "It isn't
anything that's going to hurt you, I know. Besides we'll be lucky if we
find some one to do it. What I want to know is if I do find a doctor,
will you be willing to go to him alone?" She started as if struck, but
unabashed now he went on, "As things stand with me here, I can't go
with you, that's sure. I'm too well known around here, and besides I
look too much like Gilbert and he's known to everybody. If I should be
mistaken for him, or be taken for his cousin or relative, well, then
the jig's up."
His eyes were not only an epitome of how wretched he would feel were
he exposed to all Lycurgus for what he was, but also in them lurked
a shadow of the shabby rôle he was attempting to play in connection
with her--in hiding thus completely behind her necessity. And yet so
tortured was he by the fear of what was about to befall him in case
he did not succeed in so doing, that he was now prepared, whatever
Roberta might think or say, to stand his ground. But Roberta, sensing
only the fact that he was thinking of sending her alone, now exclaimed
incredulously: "Not alone, Clyde! Oh, no, I couldn't do that! Oh,
dear, no! Why, I'd be frightened to death. Oh, dear, no. Why, I'd be
so frightened I wouldn't know what to do. Just think how I'd feel,
trying to explain to him alone. I just couldn't do that. Besides, how
would I know what to say--how to begin? You'll just have to go with
me at first, that's all, and explain, or I never can go--I don't care
what happens." Her eyes were round and excited and her face, while
registering all the depression and fear that had recently been there,
was transfigured by definite opposition.
But Clyde was not to be shaken either.
"You know how it is with me here, Bert. I can't go, and that's all
there is to it. Why, supposing I were seen--supposing some one should
recognize me? What then? You know how much I've been going around
here since I've been here. Why, it's crazy to think that I could go.
Besides, it will be a lot easier for you than for me. No doctor's going
to think anything much of your coming to him, especially if you're
alone. He'll just think you're some one who's got in trouble and with
no one to help you. But if I go, and it should be any one who knows
anything about the Griffiths, there'd be the deuce to pay. Right off
he'd think I was stuffed with money. Besides, if I didn't do just what
he wanted me to do afterwards, he could go to my uncle, or my cousin,
and then, good-night! That would be the end of me. And if I lost my
place here now, and with no money and that kind of a scandal connected
with me, where do you suppose I would be after that, or you either? I
certainly couldn't look after you then. And then what would you do? I
should think you'd wake up and see what a tough proposition this is. My
name can't be pulled into this without trouble for both of us. It's got
to be kept out, that's all, and the only way for me to keep it out is
for me to stay away from any doctor. Besides, he'd feel a lot sorrier
for you than he would for me. You can't tell me!"
His eyes were distressed and determined, and, as Roberta could gather
from his manner, a certain hardness, or at least defiance, the result
of fright, showed in every gesture. He was determined to protect
his own name, come what might--a fact which, because of her own
acquiescence up to this time, still carried great weight with her.
"Oh, dear! dear!" she exclaimed, nervously and sadly now, the growing
and drastic terror of the situation dawning upon her, "I don't see
how we are to do then. I really don't. For I can't do that and that's
all there is to it. It's all so hard--so terrible. I'd feel too much
ashamed and frightened to ever go alone."
But even as she said this she began to feel that she might, and even
would, go alone, if must be. For what else was there to do? And how
was she to compel him, in the face of his own fears and dangers, to
jeopardize his position here? He began once more, in self-defense more
than from any other motive:
"Besides, unless this thing isn't going to cost very much, I don't see
how I'm going to get by with it anyhow, Bert. I really don't. I don't
make so very much, you know--only twenty-five dollars up to now."
(Necessity was at last compelling him to speak frankly with Roberta.)
"And I haven't saved anything--not a cent. And you know why as well as
I do. We spent the most of it together. Besides if I go and he thought
I had money, he might want to charge me more than I could possibly
dig up. But if you go and just tell him how things are--and that you
haven't got anything--if you'd only say I'd run away or something,
see--"
He paused because, as he said it, he saw a flicker of shame, contempt,
despair at being connected with anything so cheap and shabby, pass
over Roberta's face. And yet in spite of this sly and yet muddy
tergiversation on his part--so great is the compelling and enlightening
power of necessity--she could still see that there was some point to
his argument. He might be trying to use her as a foil, a mask, behind
which he, and she too for that matter, was attempting to hide. But just
the same, shameful as it was, here were the stark, bald headlands of
fact, and at their base the thrashing, destroying waves of necessity.
She heard him say: "You wouldn't have to give your right name, you
know, or where you came from. I don't intend to pick out any doctor
right around here, see. Then, if you'd tell him you didn't have much
money--just your weekly salary--"
She sat down weakly to think, the while this persuasive trickery
proceeded from him--the import of most of his argument going straight
home. For as false and morally meretricious as this whole plan was,
still, as she could see for herself, her own as well as Clyde's
situation was desperate. And as honest and punctilious as she might
ordinarily be in the matter of truth-telling and honest-dealing,
plainly this was one of those whirling tempests of fact and reality in
which the ordinary charts and compasses of moral measurement were for
the time being of small use.
And so, insisting then that they go to some doctor far away, Utica
or Albany, maybe--but still admitting by this that she would go--the
conversation was dropped. And he having triumphed in the matter of
excepting his own personality from this, took heart to the extent, at
least, of thinking that at once now, by some hook or crook, he must
find a doctor to whom he could send her. Then his terrible troubles in
connection with all this would be over. And after that she could go her
way, as surely she must; then, seeing that he would have done all that
he could for her he would go his to the glorious dénouement that lay
directly before him in case only this were adjusted.
CHAPTER XXXVI
Nevertheless hours and even days, and finally a week and then ten days,
passed without any word from him as to the whereabouts of a doctor to
whom she could go. For although having said so much to her he still did
not know to whom to apply. And each hour and day as great a menace to
him as to her. And her looks as well as her inquiries registering how
intense and vital and even clamorous at moments was her own distress.
Also he was harried almost to the point of nervous collapse by his own
inability to think of any speedy and sure way by which she might be
aided. Where did a physician live to whom he might send her with some
assurance of relief for her, and how was he to find out about him?
After a time, however, in running over all the names of those he knew,
he finally struck upon a forlorn hope in the guise of Orrin Short,
the young man conducting the one small "gents' furnishing store" in
Lycurgus which catered more or less exclusively to the rich youths
of the city--a youth of about his own years and proclivities, as
Clyde had guessed, who ever since he had been here had been useful to
him in the matter of tips as to dress and style in general. Indeed,
as Clyde had for some time noted, Short was a brisk, inquiring and
tactful person, who, in addition to being quite attractive personally
to girls, was also always most courteous to his patrons, particularly
to those whom he considered above him in the social scale, and among
these was Clyde. For having discovered that Clyde was related to the
Griffiths, this same Short had sought, as a means for his own general
advancement in other directions, to scrape as much of a genial and
intimate relationship with him as possible, only, as Clyde saw it, and
in view of the general attitude of his very high relatives, it had not,
up to this time at least, been possible for him to consider any such
intimacy seriously. And yet, finding Short so very affable and helpful
in general, he was not above reaching at least an easy and genial
surface relationship with him, which Short appeared to accept in good
part. Indeed, as at first, his manner remained seeking and not a little
sycophantic at times. And so it was that among all those with whom he
could be said to be in either intimate or casual contact, Short was
about the only one who offered even a chance for an inquiry which might
prove productive of some helpful information.
In consequence, in passing Short's place each evening and morning,
once he thought of him in this light, he made it a point to nod and
smile in a most friendly manner, until at least three days had gone
by. And then, feeling that he had paved the way as much as his present
predicament would permit, he stopped in, not at all sure that on this
first occasion he would be able to broach the dangerous subject. The
tale he had fixed upon to tell Short was that he had been approached
by a young working-man in the factory, newly-married, who, threatened
with an heir and not being able to afford one as yet, had appealed to
him for information as to where he might now find a doctor to help
him. The only interesting additions which Clyde proposed to make to
this were that the young man, being very poor and timid and not so
very intelligent, was not able to speak or do much for himself. Also
that he, Clyde, being better informed, although so new locally as not
to be able to direct him to any physician (an after-thought intended
to put the idea into Short's mind that he himself was never helpless
and so not likely ever to want such advice for himself), had already
advised the young man of a temporary remedy. But unfortunately, so his
story was to run, this had already failed to work. Hence something more
certain--a physician, no less--was necessary. And Short, having been
here longer, and, as he had heard him explain, hailing previously from
Gloversville, it was quite certain, as Clyde now argued with himself,
that he would know of at least one--or should. But in order to divert
suspicion from himself he was going to add that of course he probably
could get news of some one in his own set, only, the situation being so
unusual (any reference to any such thing in his own world being likely
to set his own group talking), he preferred to ask some one like Short,
who as a favor would keep it quiet.
As it chanced on this occasion, Short himself, owing to his having done
a very fair day's business, was in an exceedingly jovial frame of mind.
And Clyde having entered, to buy a pair of socks, perhaps, he began:
"Well, it's good to see you again, Mr. Griffiths. How are you? I was
just thinking it's about time you stopped in and let me show you some
of the things I got in since you were here before. How are things with
the Griffiths Company anyhow?"
Short's manner, always brisk, was on this occasion doubly reassuring,
since he liked Clyde, only now the latter was so intensely keyed up by
the daring of his own project that he could scarcely bring himself to
carry the thing off with the air he would have liked to have employed.
Nevertheless, being in the store and so, seemingly, committed to the
project, he now began: "Oh, pretty fair. Can't kick a bit. I always
have all I can do, you know." At the same time he began nervously
fingering some ties hung upon movable nickeled rods. But before he
had wasted a moment on these, Mr. Short, turning and spreading some
boxes of very special ties from a shelf behind him on the glass case,
remarked: "Never mind looking at those, Mr. Griffiths. Look at these.
These are what I want to show you and they won't cost _you_ any more.
Just got 'em in from New York this morning." He picked up several
bundles of six each, the very latest, as he explained. "See anything
else like this anywhere around here yet? I'll say you haven't." He eyed
Clyde smilingly, the while he wished sincerely that such a young man,
so well connected, yet not rich like the others, would be friends with
him. It would place him here.
Clyde, fingering the offerings and guessing that what Short was saying
was true, was now so troubled and confused in his own mind that he
could scarcely think and speak as planned. "Very nice, sure," he said,
turning them over, feeling that at another time he would have been
pleased to possess at least two. "I think maybe I'll take this one,
anyhow, and this one, too." He drew out two and held them up, while
he was thinking how to broach the so much more important matter that
had brought him here. For why should he be troubling to buy ties,
dilly-dallying in this way, when all he wanted to ask Short about
was this other matter? Yet how hard it was now--how very hard. And
yet he really must, although perhaps not so abruptly. He would look
around a little more at first in order to allay suspicion--ask about
some socks. Only why should he be doing that, since he did not need
anything, Sondra only recently having presented him with a dozen
handkerchiefs, some collars, ties and socks. Nevertheless every time
he decided to speak he felt a sort of sinking sensation at the pit of
his stomach, a fear that he could not or would not carry the thing off
with the necessary ease and conviction. It was all so questionable and
treacherous--so likely to lead to exposure and disgrace in some way. He
would probably not be able to bring himself to speak to Short to-night.
And yet, as he argued with himself, how could the occasion ever be more
satisfactory?
Short, in the meantime having gone to the rear of the store and now
returning, with a most engaging and even sycophantic smile on his face,
began with: "Saw you last Tuesday evening about nine o'clock going into
the Finchleys' place, didn't I? Beautiful house and grounds they have
there."
Clyde saw that Short really was impressed by his social station here.
There was a wealth of admiration mingled with a touch of servility. And
at once, because of this, he took heart, since he realized that with
such an attitude dominating the other, whatever he might say would be
colored in part at least by his admirer's awe and respect. And after
examining the socks and deciding that one pair at least would soften
the difficulty of his demand, he added: "Oh, by the way, before I
forget it. There's something I've been wanting to ask you about. Maybe
you can tell me what I want to know. One of the boys at the factory--a
young fellow who hasn't been married very long--about four months now,
I guess--is in a little trouble on account of his wife." He paused,
because of his uncertainty as to whether he could succeed with this
now or not, seeing that Short's expression changed ever so slightly.
And yet, having gone so far, he did not know how to recede. So now he
laughed nervously and then added: "I don't know why they always come
to me with their troubles, but I guess they think I ought to know all
about these things." (He laughed again.) "Only I'm about as new and
green here as anybody and so I'm kinda stumped. But you've been here
longer than I have, I guess, and so I thought I might ask you."
His manner as he said this was as nonchalant as he could make it, the
while he decided now that this was a mistake--that Short would most
certainly think him a fool or queer. Yet Short, taken back by the
nature of the query, which he sensed as odd coming from Clyde to him
(he had noted Clyde's sudden restraint and slight nervousness), was
still so pleased to think that even in connection with so ticklish a
thing as this, he should be made the recipient of his confidence, that
he instantly recovered his former poise and affability, and replied:
"Why, sure, if it's anything I can help you with, Mr. Griffiths, I'll
be only too glad to. Go ahead, what is it?"
"Well, it's this way," began Clyde, not a little revived by the other's
hearty response, yet lowering his voice in order to give the dreadful
subject its proper medium of obscurity, as it were. "His wife's already
two months gone and he can't afford a kid yet and he doesn't know how
to get rid of it. I told him last month when he first came to me to
try a certain medicine that usually works"--this to impress Short with
his own personal wisdom and resourcefulness in such situations and
hence by implication to clear his own skirts, as it were--"But I guess
he didn't handle it right. Anyhow he's all worked up about it now and
wants to see some doctor who could do something for her, you see. Only
I don't know anybody here myself. Haven't been here long enough. If it
were Kansas City or Chicago now," he interpolated securely, "I'd know
what to do. I know three or four doctors out there." (To impress Short
he attempted a wise smile.) "But down here it's different. And if I
started asking around in my crowd and it ever got back to my relatives,
they wouldn't understand. But I thought if you knew of any one you
wouldn't mind telling me. I wouldn't really bother myself, only I'm
sorry for this fellow."
He paused, his face, largely because of the helpful and interested
expression on Short's, expressing more confidence than when he had
begun. And although Short was still surprised he was more than pleased
to be as helpful as he could.
"You say it's been two months now."
"Yes."
"And the stuff you suggested didn't work, eh?"
"No."
"She's tried it again this month, has she?"
"Yes."
"Well, that is bad, sure enough. I guess she's in bad all right. The
trouble with this place is that I haven't been here so very long
either, Mr. Griffiths. I only bought this place about a year and a half
ago. Now, if I were over in Gloversville--" He paused for a moment,
as though, like Clyde, he too were dubious of the wisdom of entering
upon details of this kind, but after a few seconds continued: "You see
a thing like that's not so easy, wherever you are. Doctors are always
afraid of getting in trouble. I did hear once of a case over there,
though, where a girl went to a doctor--a fellow who lived a couple
miles out. But she was of pretty good family too, and the fellow who
took her to him was pretty well-known about there. So I don't know
whether this doctor would do anything for a stranger, although he might
at that. But I know that sort of thing is going on all the time, so
you might try. If you wanta send this fellow to him, tell him not to
mention me or let on who sent him, 'cause I'm pretty well-known around
there and I wouldn't want to be mixed up in it in case anything went
wrong, you see. You know how it is."
And Clyde, in turn, replied gratefully: "Oh, sure, he'll understand
all right. I'll tell him not to mention any names." And getting the
doctor's name, he extracted a pencil and notebook from his pocket in
order to be sure that the important information should not escape him.
Short, sensing his relief, was inclined to wonder whether there was
a working-man, or whether it was not Clyde himself who was in this
scrape. Why should he be speaking for a young working-man at the
factory? Just the same, he was glad to be of service, though at the
same time he was thinking what a bit of local news this would be,
assuming that any time in the future he should choose to retail it.
Also that Clyde, unless he was truly playing about with some girl here
who was in trouble, was foolish to be helping anybody else in this
way--particularly a working-man. You bet he wouldn't.
Nevertheless he repeated the name, with the initials, and the exact
neighborhood, as near as he could remember, giving the car stop and
a description of the house. Clyde, having obtained what he desired,
now thanked him, and then went out while the haberdasher looked after
him genially and a little suspiciously. These rich young bloods, he
thought. That's a funny request for a fellow like that to make of me.
You'd think with all the people he knows and runs with here he'd know
some one who would tip him off quicker than I could. Still, maybe,
it's just because of them that he is afraid to ask around here. You
don't know who he might have got in trouble--that young Finchley
girl herself, even. You never can tell. I see him around with her
occasionally, and she's gay enough. But, gee, wouldn't that be the....
CHAPTER XXXVII
The information thus gained was a relief, but only partially so. For
both Clyde and Roberta there was no real relief now until this problem
should be definitely solved. And although within a few moments after he
had obtained it, he appeared and explained that at last he had secured
the name of some one who might help her, still there was yet the
serious business of heartening her for the task of seeing the doctor
alone, also for the story that was to exculpate him and at the same
time win for her sufficient sympathy to cause the doctor to make the
charge for his service merely nominal.
But now, instead of protesting as at first he feared that she might,
Roberta was moved to acquiesce. So many things in Clyde's attitude
since Christmas had so shocked her that she was bewildered and without
a plan other than to extricate herself as best she might without any
scandal attaching to her or him and then going her own way--pathetic
and abrasive though it might be. For since he did not appear to care
for her any more and plainly desired to be rid of her, she was in no
mood to compel him to do other than he wished. Let him go. She could
make her own way. She had, and she could too, without him, if only she
could get out of this. Yet, as she said this to herself, however, and
a sense of the full significance of it all came to her, the happy days
that would never be again, she put her hands to her eyes and brushed
away uncontrollable tears. To think that all that was should come to
this.
Yet when he called the same evening after visiting Short, his manner
redolent of a fairly worth-while achievement, she merely said, after
listening to his explanation in as receptive a manner as she could:
"Do you know just where this is, Clyde? Can we get there on the car
without much trouble, or will we have to walk a long way?" And after
he had explained that it was but a little way out of Gloversville, in
the suburbs really, an interurban stop being but a quarter of a mile
from the house, she had added: "Is he home at night, or will we have
to go in the daytime? It would be so much better if we could go at
night. There'd be so much less danger of any one seeing us." And being
assured that he was, as Clyde had learned from Short, she went on: "But
do you know is he old or young? I'd feel so much easier and safer if he
were old. I don't like young doctors. We've always had an old doctor up
home and I feel so much easier talking to some one like him."
Clyde did not know. He had not thought to inquire, but to reassure her
he ventured that he was middle-aged--which chanced to be the fact.
The following evening the two of them departed, but separately as
usual, for Fonda, where it was necessary to change cars. And once
within the approximate precincts of the physician's residence, they
stepped down and made their way along a road, which in this mid-state
winter weather was still covered with old and dry-packed snow. It
offered a comparatively smooth floor for their quick steps. For in
these days there was no longer that lingering intimacy which formerly
would have characterized both. In those other and so recent days, as
Roberta was constantly thinking, he would have been only too glad in
such a place as this, if not on such an occasion, to drag his steps,
put an arm about her waist, and talk about nothing at all--the night,
the work at the factory, Mr. Liggett, his uncle, the current movies,
some place they were planning to go, something they would love to do
together if they could. But now.... And on this particular occasion,
when most of all, and if ever, she needed the full strength of his
devotion and support! Yet now, as she could see, he was most nervously
concerned as to whether, going alone in this way, she was going to
get scared and "back out"; whether she was going to think to say the
right thing at the right time and convince the doctor that he must do
something for her, and for a nominal fee.
"Well, Bert, how about you? All right? You're not going to get cold
feet now, are you? Gee, I hope not because this is going to be a good
chance to get this thing done and over with. And it isn't like you
were going to some one who hadn't done anything like this before, you
know, because this fellow has. I got that straight. All you have to do
now, is to say, well, you know, that you're in trouble, see, and that
you don't know how you're going to get out of it unless he'll help you
in some way, because you haven't any friends here you can go to. And
besides, as things are, you couldn't go to 'em if you wanted to. They'd
tell on you, see. Then if he asks where I am or who I am, you just say
that I was a fellow here--but that I've gone--give any name you want
to, but that I've gone, and you don't know where I've gone to--run
away, see. Then you'd better say, too, that you wouldn't have come to
him only that you heard of another case in which he helped some one
else--that a girl told you, see. Only you don't want to let on that
you're paid much, I mean,--because if you do he may want to make the
bill more than I can pay, see, unless he'll give us a few months in
which to do it, or something like that, you see."
Clyde was so nervous and so full of the necessity of charging Roberta
with sufficient energy and courage to go through with this and succeed,
now that he had brought her this far along with it, that he scarcely
realized how inadequate and trivial, even, in so far as her predicament
and the doctor's mood and temperament were concerned, his various
instructions and bits of inexperienced advice were. And she on her
part was not only thinking how easy it was for him to stand back and
make suggestions, while she was confronted with the necessity of going
forward, and that alone, but also that he was really thinking more of
himself than he was of her--some way to make her get herself out of it
inexpensively and without any real trouble to him.
At the same time, even here and now, in spite of all this, she was
still decidedly drawn to him--his white face, his thin hands, nervous
manner. And although she knew he talked to encourage her to do what he
had not the courage or skill to do himself, she was not angry. Rather,
she was merely saying to herself in this crisis that although he
advised so freely she was not going to pay attention to him--much. What
she was going to say was not that she was deserted, for that seemed too
much of a disagreeable and self-incriminating remark for her to make
concerning herself, but rather that she was married and that she and
her young husband were too poor to have a baby as yet--the same story
Clyde had told the druggist in Schenectady, as she recalled. For after
all, what did he know about how she felt? And he was not going with her
to make it easier for her.
Yet dominated by the purely feminine instinct to cling to some one for
support, she now turned to Clyde, taking hold of his hands and standing
quite still, wishing that he would hold and pet her and tell her that
it was all right and that she must not be afraid. And although he no
longer cared for her, now in the face of this involuntary evidence of
her former trust in him, he released both hands and putting his arms
about her, the more to encourage her than anything else, observed:
"Come on now, Bert. Gee, you can't act like this, you know. You don't
want to lose your nerve now that we're here, do you? It won't be so
hard once you get there. I know it won't. All you got to do is to go
up and ring the bell, see, and when he comes, or whoever comes, just
say you want to see the doctor alone, see. Then he'll understand it's
something private and it'll be easier."
He went on with more advice of the same kind, and she, realizing from
his lack of spontaneous enthusiasm for her at this moment how desperate
was her state, drew herself together as vigorously as she could, and
saying: "Well, wait here, then, will you? Don't go very far away, will
you? I may be right back," hurried along in the shadow through the gate
and up a walk which led to the front door.
In answer to her ring the door was opened by one of those exteriorly
as well as mentally sober, small-town practitioners who, Clyde's and
Short's notion to the contrary notwithstanding, was the typical and
fairly conservative physician of the countryside--solemn, cautious,
moral, semi-religious to a degree, holding some views which he
considered liberal and others which a fairly liberal person would have
considered narrow and stubborn into the bargain. Yet because of the
ignorance and stupidity of so many of those about him, he was able
to consider himself at least fairly learned. In constant touch with
all phases of ignorance and dereliction as well as sobriety, energy,
conservatism, success and the like, he was more inclined, where fact
appeared to nullify his early conclusions in regard to many things,
to suspend judgment between the alleged claims of heaven and hell and
leave it there suspended and undisturbed. Physically he was short,
stocky, bullet-headed and yet interestingly-featured, with quick gray
eyes and a pleasant mouth and smile. His short iron-gray hair was worn
"bangs" fashion, a bit of rural vanity. And his arms and hands, the
latter fat and pudgy, yet sensitive, hung limply at his sides. He was
fifty-eight, married, the father of three children, one of them a son
already studying medicine in order to succeed to his father's practice.
After showing Roberta into a littered and commonplace waiting room and
asking her to remain until he had finished his dinner, he presently
appeared in the door of an equally commonplace inner room, or office,
where were his desk, two chairs, some medical instruments, books
and apparently an ante-chamber containing other medical things, and
motioned her to a chair. And because of his grayness, solidity,
stolidity, as well as an odd habit he had of blinking his eyes, Roberta
was not a little over-awed, though by no means so unfavorably impressed
as she had feared she might be. At least he was old and he seemed
intelligent and conservative, if not exactly sympathetic or warm in
his manner. And after looking at her curiously a moment, as though
seeking to recognize some one of the immediate vicinity, he began:
"Well, now who is this, please? And what can I do for you?" His voice
was low and quite reassuring--a fact for which Roberta was deeply
grateful.
At the same time, startled by the fact that at last she had reached the
place and the moment when, if ever, she must say the degrading truth
about herself, she merely sat there, her eyes first upon him, then upon
the floor, her fingers beginning to toy with the handle of the small
bag she carried.
"You see, well," she began, earnestly and nervously, her whole manner
suddenly betraying the terrific strain under which she was laboring.
"I came ... I came ... that is ... I don't know whether I can tell you
about myself or not. I thought I could just before I came in, but now
that I am here and I see you ..." She paused and moved back in her
chair as though to rise, at the same time that she added: "Oh, dear,
how very dreadful it all is. I'm so nervous and...."
"Well, now, my dear," he resumed, pleasantly and reassuringly,
impressed by her attractive and yet sober appearance and wondering for
the moment what could have upset so clean, modest and sedate-looking a
girl, and hence not a little amused by her "now that I see you,"--"Just
what is there about me 'now that you see me,'" he repeated after her,
"that so frightens you? I am only a country doctor, you know, and I
hope I'm not as dreadful as you seem to think. You can be sure that you
can tell me anything you wish--anything at all about yourself--and you
needn't be afraid. If there's anything I can do for you, I'll do it."
He was decidedly pleasant, as she now thought, and yet so sober and
reserved and probably conventional withal that what she was holding in
mind to tell him would probably shock him not a little--and then what?
Would he do anything for her? And if he would, how was she to arrange
about money, for that certainly would be a point in connection with
all this? If only Clyde or some one were here to speak for her. And
yet she must speak now that she was here. She could not leave without.
Once more she moved and twisted, seizing nervously on a large button
of her coat to turn between her thumb and forefinger, and then went on
chokingly.
"But this is ... this is ... well, something different, you know, maybe
not what you think.... I ... I ... well...."
Again she paused, unable to proceed, shading from white to red and
back as she spoke. And because of the troubled modesty of her approach,
as well as a certain clarity of eye, whiteness of forehead, sobriety
of manner and dress, the doctor could scarcely bring himself to think
for a moment that this was anything other than one of those morbid
exhibitions of innocence, or rather inexperience, in connection with
everything relating to the human body--so characteristic of the young
and unsophisticated in some instances. And so he was about to repeat
his customary formula in such cases that all could be told to him
without fear or hesitation, whatever it might be, when a secondary
thought, based on Roberta's charm and vigor, as well as her own thought
waves attacking his cerebral receptive centers, caused him to decide
that he might be wrong. After all, why might not this be another of
those troublesome youthful cases in which possibly immorality and
illegitimacy was involved. She was so young, healthy and attractive,
besides, they were always cropping up, these cases,--in connection
with the most respectable-looking girls at times. And invariably they
spelled trouble and distress for doctors. And, for various reasons
connected with his own temperament, which was retiring and recessive,
as well as the nature of this local social world, he disliked and
hesitated to even trifle with them. They were illegal, dangerous,
involved little or no pay as a rule, and the sentiment of this local
world was all against them as he knew. Besides he personally was more
or less irritated by these young scamps of boys and girls who were so
free to exercise the normal functions of their natures in the first
instance, but so ready to refuse the social obligations which went
with them--marriage afterwards. And so, although in several cases in
the past ten years where family and other neighborhood and religious
considerations had made it seem quite advisable, he had assisted in
extricating from the consequences of their folly several young girls
of good family who had fallen from grace and could not otherwise be
rescued, still he was opposed to aiding, either by his own countenance
or skill, any lapses or tangles not heavily sponsored by others. It
was too dangerous. Ordinarily it was his custom to advise immediate
and unconditional marriage. Or, where that was not possible, the
perpetrator of the infamy having decamped, it was his general and
self-consciously sanctioned practice to have nothing at all to do with
the matter. It was too dangerous and ethically and socially wrong and
criminal into the bargain.
In consequence he now looked at Roberta in an extremely sober manner.
By no means, he now said to himself, must he allow himself to become
emotionally or otherwise involved here. And so in order to help himself
as well as her to attain and maintain a balance which would permit of
both extricating themselves without too much trouble, he drew toward
him his black leather case record book and, opening it, said: "Now,
let's see if we can't find out what the trouble is here. What is your
name?"
"Ruth Howard. Mrs. Howard," replied Roberta nervously and tensely, at
once fixing upon a name which Clyde had suggested for her use. And now,
interestingly enough, at mention of the fact that she was married, he
breathed easier. But why the tears then? What reason could a young
married woman have for being so intensely shy and nervous?
"And your husband's first name?" he went on.
As simple as the question was, and as easy as it should have been to
answer, Roberta nevertheless hesitated before she could bring herself
to say: "Gifford," her older brother's name.
"You live around here, I presume?"
"In Fonda."
"Yes. And how old are you?"
"Twenty-two."
"How long have you been married?"
This inquiry being so intimately connected with the problem before her,
she again hesitated before saying, "Let me see--three months."
At once Dr. Glenn became dubious again, though he gave her no sign.
Her hesitancy arrested him. Why the uncertainty? He was wondering now
again whether he was dealing with a truthful girl or whether his first
suspicions were being substantiated. In consequence he now asked:
"Well, now what seems to be the trouble, Mrs. Howard? You need have no
hesitancy in telling me--none whatsoever. I am used to such things year
in and out, whatever they are. That is my business, listening to the
troubles of people."
"Well," began Roberta, nervously once more, this terrible confession
drying her throat and thickening her tongue almost, while once more she
turned the same button of her coat and gazed at the floor. "It's like
this ... You see ... my husband hasn't much money ... and I have to
work to help out with expenses and neither of us make so very much."
(She was astonishing herself with her own shameful power to lie in this
instance--she, who had always hated to lie.) "So ... of course ... we
can't afford to ... to have ... well, any ... children, you see, so
soon, anyhow, and ..."
She paused, her breath catching, and really unable to proceed further
with this wholesale lying.
The doctor realizing from this, as he thought, what the true problem
was--that she was a newly-married girl who was probably faced by just
such a problem as she was attempting to outline--yet not wishing to
enter upon any form of malpractice and at the same time not wishing to
appear too discouraging to a young couple just starting out in life,
gazed at her somewhat more sympathetically, the decidedly unfortunate
predicament of these young people, as well as her appropriate modesty
in the face of such a conventionally delicate situation, appealing to
him. It was too bad. Young people these days did have a rather hard
time of it, getting started in some cases, anyhow. And they were no
doubt faced by some pressing financial situations. Nearly all young
people were. Nevertheless, this business of a contraceptal operation or
interference with the normal or God-arranged life processes, well, that
was a ticklish and unnatural business at best which he wanted as little
as possible to do with. Besides, young, healthy people, even though
poor, when they undertook marriage, knew what they were about. And it
was not impossible for them to work, the husband anyhow, and hence
manage in some way.
And now straightening himself around in his chair very soberly and
authoritatively, he began: "I think I understand what you want to say
to me, Mrs. Howard. But I'm also wondering if you have considered what
a very serious and dangerous thing it is you have in mind. But," he
added, suddenly, another thought as to whether his own reputation in
this community was in any way being tarnished by rumor of anything he
had done in the past coming to him, "just how did you happen to come to
me, anyhow?"
Something about the tone of his voice, the manner in which he asked
the question--the caution of it as well as the possibly impending
resentment in case it should turn out that any one suspected him of
a practice of this sort--caused Roberta to hesitate and to feel that
any statement to the effect that she had heard of or been sent by any
one else--Clyde to the contrary notwithstanding--might be dangerous.
Perhaps she had better not say that she had been sent by any one. He
might resent it as an insult to his character as a reputable physician.
A budding instinct for diplomacy helped her in this instance, and she
replied: "I've noticed your sign in passing several times and I've
heard different people say you were a good doctor."
His uncertainty allayed, he now continued: "In the first place, the
thing you want done is something my conscience would not permit me
to advise. I understand, of course, that you consider it necessary.
You and your husband are both young and you probably haven't very
much money to go on, and you both feel that an interruption of this
kind will be a great strain in every way. And no doubt it will be.
Still, as I see it, marriage is a very sacred thing, and children are
a blessing--not a curse. And when you went to the altar three months
ago you were probably not unaware that you might have to face just
such a situation as this. All young married people are, I think."
("The altar," thought Roberta sadly. If only it were so.) "Now I know
that the tendency of the day in some quarters is very much in this
direction, I am sorry to say. There are those who feel it quite all
right if they can shirk the normal responsibilities in such cases as to
perform these operations, but it's very dangerous, Mrs. Howard, very
dangerous legally and ethically as well as medically very wrong. Many
women who seek to escape childbirth die in this way. Besides it is a
prison offense for any doctor to assist them, whether there are bad
consequences or not. You know that, I suppose. At any rate, I, for one,
am heartily opposed to this sort of thing from every point of view. The
only excuse I have ever been able to see for it is when the life of the
mother, for instance, depends upon such an operation. Not otherwise.
And in such cases the medical profession is in accord. But in this
instance I'm sure the situation isn't one which warrants anything like
that. You seem to me to be a strong, healthy girl. Motherhood should
hold no serious consequences for you. And as for money reasons, don't
you really think now that if you just go ahead and have this baby,
you and your husband would find means of getting along? You say your
husband is an electrician?"
"Yes," replied Roberta, nervously, not a little overawed and subdued by
his solemn moralizing.
"Well, now, there you are," he went on. "That's not such an
unprofitable profession. At least all electricians charge enough. And
when you consider, as you must, how serious a thing you are thinking of
doing, that you are actually planning to destroy a young life that has
as good a right to its existence as you have to yours ..." he paused in
order to let the substance of what he was saying sink in--"well, then,
I think you might feel called upon to stop and consider--both you and
your husband. Besides," he added, in a diplomatic and more fatherly and
even intriguing tone of voice, "I think that once you have it it will
more than make up to you both for whatever little hardship its coming
will bring you. Tell me," he added curiously at this point, "does your
husband know of this? Or is this just some plan of yours to save him
and yourself from too much hardship?" He almost beamed cheerfully as,
fancying he had captured Roberta in some purely nervous and feminine
economy as well as dread, he decided that if so he could easily extract
her from her present mood. And she, sensing his present drift and
feeling that one lie more or less could neither help nor harm her,
replied quickly: "He knows."
"Well, then," he went on, slightly reduced by the fact that his surmise
was incorrect, but none the less resolved to dissuade her and him,
too: "I think you two should really consider very seriously before you
go any further in this matter. I know when young people first face a
situation like this they always look on the darkest side of it, but it
doesn't always work out that way. I know my wife and I did with our
first child. But we got along. And if you will only stop now and talk
it over, you'll see it in a different light, I'm sure. And then you
won't have your conscience to deal with afterwards, either." He ceased,
feeling reasonably sure that he had dispelled the fear, as well as the
determination that had brought Roberta to him--that, being a sensible,
ordinary wife, she would now desist of course--think nothing more of
her plan and leave.
But instead of either acquiescing cheerfully or rising to go, as he
thought she might, she gave him a wide-eyed terrified look and then
as instantly burst into tears. For the total effect of his address
had been to first revive more clearly than ever the normal social or
conventional aspect of the situation which all along she was attempting
to shut out from her thoughts and which, under ordinary circumstances,
assuming that she was really married, was exactly the attitude she
would have taken. But now the realization that her problem was not to
be solved at all, by this man at least, caused her to be seized with
what might best be described as morbid panic.
Suddenly beginning to open and shut her fingers and at the same time
beating her knees, while her face contorted itself with pain and
terror, she exclaimed: "But you don't understand, doctor, you don't
understand! I _have_ to get out of this in some way! I have to. It
isn't like I told you at all. I'm not married. I haven't any husband
at all. But, oh, you don't know what this means to me. My family! My
father! My mother! I can't tell you. But I must get out of it. I must!
I must! Oh, you don't know, you don't know! I must! I must!" She began
to rock backward and forward, at the same time swaying from side to
side as in a trance.
And Glenn, surprised and startled by this sudden demonstration as well
as emotionally affected, and yet at the same time advised thereby that
his original surmise had been correct, and hence that Roberta had been
lying, as well as that if he wished to keep himself out of this he must
now assume a firm and even heartless attitude, asked solemnly: "You are
not married, you say?"
For answer now Roberta merely shook her head negatively and continued
to cry. And at last gathering the full import of her situation, Dr.
Glenn got up, his face a study of troubled and yet conservative caution
and sympathy. But without saying anything at first he merely looked
at her as she wept. Later he added: "Well, well, this is too bad. I'm
sorry." But fearing to commit himself in any way, he merely paused,
adding after a time soothingly and dubiously: "You mustn't cry. That
won't help you any." He then paused again, still determined not to have
anything to do with this case. Yet a bit curious as to the true nature
of the story he finally asked: "Well, then where is the young man who
is the cause of your trouble? Is he here?"
Still too overcome by shame and despair to speak, Roberta merely shook
her head negatively.
"But he knows that you're in trouble, doesn't he?"
"Yes," replied Roberta faintly.
"And he won't marry you?"
"He's gone away."
"Oh, I see. The young scamp! And don't you know where he's gone?"
"No," lied Roberta, weakly.
"How long has it been since he left you?"
"About a week now." Once more she lied.
"And you don't know where he is?"
"No."
"How long has it been since you were sick?"
"Over two weeks now," sobbed Roberta.
"And before that you have always been regular?"
"Yes."
"Well, in the first place," his tone was more comfortable and pleasant
than before--he seemed to be snatching at a plausible excuse for
extricating himself from a case which promised little other than danger
and difficulty, "this may not be as serious as you think. I know
you're probably very much frightened, but it's not unusual for women
to miss a period. At any rate, without an examination it wouldn't be
possible to be sure, and even if you were, the most advisable thing
would be to wait another two weeks. You may find then that there is
nothing wrong. I wouldn't be surprised if you did. You seem to be
oversensitive and nervous and that sometimes brings about delays of
this kind--mere nervousness. At any rate, if you'll take my advice,
whatever you do, you'll not do anything now but just go home and wait
until you're really sure. For even if anything were to be done, it
wouldn't be advisable for you to do anything before then."
"But I've already taken some pills and they haven't helped me," pleaded
Roberta.
"What were they?" asked Glenn interestedly, and, after he had learned,
merely commented: "Oh, those. Well, they wouldn't be likely to be of
any real service to you, if you were pregnant. But I still suggest that
you wait, and if you find you pass your second period, then it will be
time enough to act, although I earnestly advise you, even then, to do
nothing if you can help it, because I consider it wrong to interfere
with nature in this way. It would be much better, if you would arrange
to have the child and take care of it. Then you wouldn't have the
additional sin of destroying a life upon your conscience."
He was very grave and felt very righteous as he said this. But Roberta,
faced by terrors which he did not appear to be able to grasp, merely
exclaimed, and as dramatically as before: "But I can't do that, doctor,
I tell you! I can't. I can't! You don't understand. Oh, I don't know
what I shall do unless I find some way out of this. I don't! I don't! I
don't!"
She shook her head and clenched her fingers and rocked to and fro while
Glenn, impressed by her own terrors, the pity of the folly which, as he
saw it, had led her to this dreadful pass, yet professionally alienated
by a type of case that spelled nothing but difficulty for him stood
determinedly before her and added: "As I told you before, Miss--"
(he paused) "Howard, if that is your name, I am seriously opposed to
operations of this kind, just as I am to the folly that brings girls
and young men to the point where they seem to think they are necessary.
A physician may not interfere in a case of this kind unless he is
willing to spend ten years in prison, and I think that law is fair
enough. Not that I don't realize how painful your present situation
appears to you. But there are always those who are willing to help a
girl in your state, providing she doesn't wish to do something which
is morally and legally wrong. And so the very best advice I can give
you now is that you do nothing at all now or at any time. Better go
home and see your parents and confess. It will be much better--much
better, I assure you. Not nearly as hard as you think or as wicked as
this other way. Don't forget there is a life there--a human--if it is
really as you think. A human life which you are seeking to end and that
I cannot help you to do. I really cannot. There may be doctors--I know
there are--men here and there who take their professional ethics a
little less seriously than I do; but I cannot let myself become one of
them. I am sorry--very.
"So now the best I can say is--go home to your parents and tell them.
It may look hard now but you are going to feel better about it in the
long run. If it will make you or them feel any better about it, let
them come and talk to me. I will try and make them see that this is not
the worst thing in the world, either. But as for doing what you want--I
am very, very sorry, but I cannot. My conscience will not permit me."
He paused and gazed at her sympathetically, yet with a determined and
concluded look in his eye. And Roberta, dumbfounded by this sudden
termination of all her hopes in connection with him and realizing at
last that not only had she been misled by Clyde's information in regard
to this doctor, but that her technical as well as emotional plea had
failed, now walked unsteadily to the door, the terrors of the future
crowding thick upon her. And once outside in the dark, after the doctor
had most courteously and ruefully closed the door behind her, she
paused to lean against a tree that was there--her nervous and physical
strength all but failing her. He had refused to help her. He had
refused to help her. And now what?
CHAPTER XXXVIII
The first effect of the doctor's decision was to shock and terrify
them both--Roberta and Clyde--beyond measure. For apparently now here
was illegitimacy and disgrace for Roberta. Exposure and destruction
for Clyde. And this had been their one solution seemingly. Then, by
degrees, for Clyde at least, there was a slight lifting of the heavy
pall. Perhaps, after all, as the doctor had suggested--and once she
had recovered her senses sufficiently to talk, she had told him--the
end had not been reached. There was the bare possibility, as suggested
by the druggist, Short and the doctor, that she might be mistaken.
And this, while not producing a happy reaction in her, had the
unsatisfactory result of inducing in Clyde a lethargy based more than
anything else on the ever-haunting fear of inability to cope with this
situation as well as the certainty of social exposure in case he did
not which caused him, instead of struggling all the more desperately,
to defer further immediate action. For, such was his nature that,
although he realized clearly the probable tragic consequences if he did
not act, still it was so hard to think to whom else to apply to without
danger to himself. To think that the doctor had "turned her down," as
he phrased it, and that Short's advice should have been worth as little
as that!
But apart from nervous thoughts as to whom to turn to next, no
particular individual occurred to him before the two weeks were gone,
or after. It was so hard to just ask anywhere. One just couldn't do
it. Besides, of whom could he ask now? Of whom? These things took
time, didn't they? Yet in the meantime, the days going by, both he
and Roberta had ample time to consider what, if any, steps they must
take--the one in regard to the other--in case no medical or surgical
solution was found. For Roberta, while urging and urging, if not so
much by words as by expression and mood at her work, was determined
that she must not be left to fight this out alone--she could not be.
On the other hand, as she could see, Clyde did nothing. For apart
from what he had already attempted to do, he was absolutely at a loss
how to proceed. He had no intimates and in consequence he could only
think of presenting the problem as an imaginary one to one individual
and another here or there in the hope of extracting some helpful
information. At the same time, and as impractical and evasive as it may
seem, there was the call of that diverting world of which Sondra was a
part, evenings and Sundays, when, in spite of Roberta's wretched state
and mood, he was called to go here and there, and did, because in so
doing he was actually relieving his own mind of the dread specter of
disaster that was almost constantly before it. If only he could get
her out of this! If only he could. But how, without money, intimates,
a more familiar understanding of the medical or if not that exactly,
then the sub rosa world of sexual free-masonry which some at times--the
bell-hops of the Green-Davidson, for instance, seemed to understand.
He had written to Ratterer, of course, but there had been no answer,
since Ratterer had removed to Florida and as yet Clyde's letter had
not reached him. And locally all those he knew best were either
connected with the factory or society--individuals on the one hand
too inexperienced or dangerous, or on the other hand, too remote and
dangerous, since he was not sufficiently intimate with any of them as
yet to command their true confidence and secrecy.
At the same time he must do something--he could not just rest and
drift. Assuredly Roberta could not long permit him to do that--faced
as she was by exposure. And so from time to time he actually racked
himself--seized upon straws and what would have been looked upon by
most as forlorn chances. Thus, for instance, an associate foreman,
chancing to reminisce one day concerning a certain girl in his
department who had "gotten in trouble" and had been compelled to leave,
he had been given the opportunity to inquire what he thought such a
girl did in case she could not afford or did not want to have a child.
But this particular foreman, being as uninformed as himself, merely
observed that she probably had to see a doctor if she knew one or "go
through with it"--which left Clyde exactly where he was. On another
occasion, in connection with a conversation in a barber shop relating
to a local case reported in _The Star_ where a girl was suing a local
ne'er-do-well for breach of promise, the remark was made that she would
"never have sued that guy, you bet, unless she had to." Whereupon Clyde
seized the opportunity to remark hopefully, "But wouldn't you think
that she could find some way of getting out of trouble without marrying
a fellow she didn't like?"
"Well, that's not so easy as you may think, particularly around here,"
elucidated the wiseacre who was trimming his hair. "In the first place
it's agin' the law. And next it takes a lotta money. An' in case you
ain't got it, well, money makes the mare go, you know." He snip-snipped
with his scissors while Clyde, confronted by his own problem, meditated
on how true it was. If he had a lot of money--even a few hundred
dollars--he might take it now and possibly persuade her--who could
tell--to go somewhere by herself and have an operation performed.
Yet each day, as on the one before, he was saying to himself that he
must find some one. And Roberta was saying to herself that she too
must act--must not really depend on Clyde any longer if he were going
to act so. One could not trifle or compromise with a terror of this
kind. It was a cruel imposition on her. It must be that Clyde did not
realize how terribly this affected her and even him. For certainly, if
he were not going to help her out of it, as he had distinctly said he
would do at first, then decidedly she could not be expected to weather
the subsequent storm alone. Never, never, never! For, after all, as
Roberta saw it, Clyde was a man--he had a good position--it was not he,
but she, who was in this treacherous position and unable to extricate
herself alone.
And beginning with the second day after the second period, when she
discovered for once and all that her worst suspicions were true, she
not only emphasized the fact in every way that she could that she was
distressed beyond all words, but on the third day announced to him in a
note that she was again going to see the doctor near Gloversville that
evening, regardless of his previous refusal--so great was her need--and
also asking Clyde whether he would accompany her--a request which,
since he had not succeeded in doing anything, and although he had an
engagement with Sondra, he instantly acceded to--feeling it to be of
greater importance than anything else. He must excuse himself to Sondra
on the ground of work.
And accordingly this second trip was made, a long and nervous
conversation between himself and Roberta on the way resulting in
nothing more than some explanations as to why thus far he had not been
able to achieve anything, plus certain encomiums addressed to her
concerning her courage in acting for herself in this way.
Yet the doctor again would not and did not act. After waiting nearly
an hour for his return from somewhere, she was merely permitted to
tell him of her unchanged state and her destroying fears in regard to
herself, but with no hint from him that he could be induced to act as
indeed he could act. It was against his prejudices and ethics.
And so once more Roberta returned, this time not crying, actually too
sad to cry, choked with the weight of her impending danger and the
anticipatory fears and miseries that attended it.
And Clyde, hearing of this defeat, was at last reduced to a nervous,
gloomy silence, absolutely devoid of a helpful suggestion. He could
not think what to say and was chiefly fearful lest Roberta now make
some demand with which socially or economically he could not comply.
However, in regard to this she said little on the way home. Instead
she sat and stared out of the window--thinking of her defenseless
predicament that was becoming more real and terrible to her hourly.
By way of excuse she pleaded that she had a headache. She wanted to
be alone--only to think more--to try to work out a solution. She must
work out some way. That she knew. But what? How? What could she do? How
could she possibly escape? She felt like a cornered animal fighting
for its life with all odds against it, and she thought of a thousand
remote and entirely impossible avenues of escape, only to return to
the one and only safe and sound solution that she really felt should
be possible--and that was marriage. And why not? Hadn't she given him
all, and that against her better judgment? Hadn't he overpersuaded
her? Who was he anyway to so cast her aside? For decidedly at times,
and especially since this latest crisis had developed, his manner,
because of Sondra and the Griffiths and what he felt to be the fatal
effect of all this on his dreams here, was sufficient to make plain
that love was decidedly dead, and that he was not thinking nearly so
much of the meaning of her state to her, as he was of its import to
him, the injury that was most certain to accrue to him. And when this
did not completely terrify her, as mostly it did, it served to irritate
and slowly develop the conclusion that in such a desperate state as
this, she was justified in asking more than ordinarily she would have
dreamed of asking, marriage itself, since there was no other door. And
why not? Wasn't her life as good as his? And hadn't he joined his to
hers, voluntarily? Then, why shouldn't he strive to help her now--or,
failing that, make this final sacrifice which was the only one by which
she could be rescued apparently. For who were all the society people
with whom he was concerned anyhow? And why should he ask her in such a
crisis to sacrifice herself, her future and good name, just because of
his interest in them? They had never done anything very much for him,
certainly not as much as had she. And, just because he was wearying
now, after persuading her to do his bidding--was that any reason why
now, in this crisis, he should be permitted to desert her? After all,
wouldn't all of these society people in whom he was so much interested
feel that whatever his relationship to them, she would be justified in
taking the course which she might be compelled to take?
She brooded on this much, more especially on the return from this
second attempt to induce Dr. Glenn to help her. In fact, at moments,
her face took on a defiant, determined look which was seemingly new to
her, but which only developed suddenly under such pressure. Her jaw
became a trifle set. She had made a decision. He would have to marry
her. She must make him if there were no other way out of this. She
must--she must. Think of her home, her mother, Grace Marr, the Newtons,
all who knew her in fact--the terror and pain and shame with which
this would sear all those in any way identified with her--her father,
brothers, sisters. Impossible! Impossible! It must not and could not
be! Impossible. It might seem a little severe to her, even now, to have
to insist on this, considering all the emphasis Clyde had hitherto laid
upon his prospects here. But how, how else was she to do?
Accordingly the next day, and not a little to his surprise, since for
so many hours the night before they had been together, Clyde received
another note telling him that he must come again that night. She had
something to say to him, and there was something in the tone of the
note that seemed to indicate or suggest a kind of defiance of a refusal
of any kind, hitherto absent in any of her communications to him. And
at once the thought that this situation, unless cleared away, was
certain to prove disastrous, so weighed upon him that he could not but
put the best face possible on it and consent to go and hear what it was
that she had to offer in the way of a solution--or--on the other hand,
of what she had to complain.
Going to her room at a late hour, he found her in what seemed to him
a more composed frame of mind than at any time since this difficulty
had appeared, a state which surprised him a little, since he had
expected to find her in tears. But now, if anything, she appeared
more complacent, her nervous thoughts as to how to bring about a
satisfactory conclusion for herself having called into play a native
shrewdness which was now seeking to exercise itself.
And so directly before announcing what was in her mind, she began by
asking: "You haven't found out about another doctor, have you, Clyde,
or thought of anything?"
"No, I haven't, Bert," he replied most dismally and wearisomely, his
own mental tether-length having been strained to the breaking point.
"I've been trying to, as you know, but it's so darn hard to find any
one who isn't afraid to monkey with a case like this. Honest, to tell
the truth, Bert, I'm about stumped. I don't know what we are going to
do unless you can think of something. You haven't thought or heard of
any one else you could go to, have you?" For, during the conversation
that had immediately followed her first visit to the doctor, he had
hinted to her that by striking up a fairly intimate relationship with
one of the foreign family girls, she might by degrees extract some
information there which would be of use to both. But Roberta was not
of a temperament that permitted of any such facile friendships, and
nothing had come of it.
However, his stating that he was "stumped" now gave her the opportunity
she was really desiring, to present the proposition which she felt to
be unavoidable and not longer to be delayed. Yet being fearful of how
Clyde would react, she hesitated as to the form in which she would
present it, and, after shaking her head and manifesting a nervousness
which was real enough, she finally said: "Well, I'll tell you,
Clyde. I've been thinking about it and I don't see any way out of it
unless--unless you, well, marry me. It's two months now, you know, and
unless we get married right away, everybody'll know, won't they?"
Her manner as she said this was a mixture of outward courage born
out of her conviction that she was in the right and an inward
uncertainty about Clyde's attitude, which was all the more fused by
a sudden look of surprise, resentment, uncertainty and fear that now
transformation-wise played over his countenance; a variation and play
which, if it indicated anything definite, indicated that she was
seeking to inflict an unwarranted injury on him. For since he had
been drawing closer and closer to Sondra, his hopes had heightened so
intensely that, hearkening to this demand on the part of Roberta now,
his brow wrinkled and his manner changed from one of comparatively
affable, if nervous, consideration to that of mingled fear, opposition
as well as determination to evade drastic consequence. For this would
spell complete ruin for him, the loss of Sondra, his job, his social
hopes and ambitions in connection with the Griffiths--all--a thought
which sickened and at the same time caused him to hesitate about how to
proceed. But he would not! he would not! He would not do this! Never!
Never!! Never!!!
Yet after a moment he exclaimed equivocally: "Well, gee, that's all
right, too, Bert, for you, because that fixes everything without any
trouble at all. But what about me? You don't want to forget that that
isn't going to be easy for me, the way things are now. You know I
haven't any money. All I have is my job. And besides, the family don't
know anything about you yet--not a thing. And if it should suddenly
come out now that we've been going together all this time, and that
this has happened, and that I was going to have to get married right
away, well, gee, they'll know I've been fooling 'em and they're sure to
get sore. And then what? They might even fire me."
He paused to see what effect this explanation would have, but noting
the somewhat dubious expression which of late characterized Roberta's
face whenever he began excusing himself, he added hopefully and
evasively, seeking by any trick that he could to delay this sudden
issue: "Besides, I'm not so sure that I can't find a doctor yet,
either. I haven't had much luck so far, but that's not saying that I
won't. And there's a little time yet, isn't there? Sure there is. It's
all right up to three months anyway." (He had since had a letter from
Ratterer who had commented on this fact.) "And I did hear something the
other day of a doctor over in Albany who might do it. Anyway, I thought
I'd go over and see before I said anything about him."
His manner, when he said this, was so equivocal that Roberta could
tell he was merely lying to gain time. There was no doctor in Albany.
Besides it was so plain that he resented her suggestion and was
only thinking of some way of escaping it. And she knew well enough
that at no time had he said directly that he would marry her. And
while she might urge, in the last analysis she could not force him
to do anything. He might just go away alone, as he had once said in
connection with inadvertently losing his job because of her. And how
much greater might not his impulse in that direction now be, if this
world here in which he was so much interested were taken away from him,
and he were to face the necessity of taking her and a child, too. It
made her more cautious and caused her to modify her first impulse to
speak out definitely and forcefully, however great her necessity might
be. And so disturbed was he by the panorama of the bright world of
which Sondra was the center and which was now at stake, that he could
scarcely think clearly. Should he lose all this for such a world as he
and Roberta could provide for themselves--a small home--a baby, such
a routine work-a-day life as taking care of her and a baby on such a
salary as he could earn, and from which most likely he would never
again be freed! God! A sense of nausea seized him. He could not and
would not do this. And yet, as he now saw, all his dreams could be so
easily tumbled about his ears by her and because of one false step
on his part. It made him cautious and for the first time in his life
caused tact and cunning to visualize itself as a profound necessity.
And at the same time, Clyde was sensing inwardly and somewhat
shamefacedly all of this profound change in himself.
But Roberta was saying: "Oh, I know, Clyde, but you yourself said just
now that you were stumped, didn't you? And every day that goes by just
makes it so much the worse for me, if we're not going to be able to
get a doctor. You can't get married and have a child born within a few
months--you know that. Every one in the world would know. Besides I
have myself to consider as well as you, you know. And the baby, too."
(At the mere mention of a coming child Clyde winced and recoiled as
though he had been slapped. She noted it.) "I just must do one of two
things right away, Clyde--get married or get out of this and you don't
seem to be able to get me out of it, do you? If you're so afraid of
what your uncle might think or do in case we get married," she added
nervously and yet suavely, "why couldn't we get married right away and
then keep it a secret for a while--as long as we could, or as long as
you thought we ought to," she added shrewdly. "Meanwhile I could go
home and tell my parents about it--that I am married, but that it must
be kept a secret for a while. Then when the time came, when things got
so bad that we couldn't stay here any longer without telling, why we
could either go away somewhere, if we wanted to--that is, if you didn't
want your uncle to know, or we could just announce that we were married
some time ago. Lots of young couples do that nowadays. And as for
getting along," she went on, noting a sudden dour shadow that passed
over Clyde's face like a cloud, "why we could always find something to
do--I know I could, anyhow, once the baby is born."
When first she began to speak, Clyde had seated himself on the edge of
the bed, listening nervously and dubiously to all she had to offer.
However, when she came to that part which related to marriage and going
away, he got up--an irresistible impulse to move overcoming him. And
when she concluded with the commonplace suggestion of going to work
as soon as the baby was born, he looked at her with little less than
panic in his eyes. To think of marrying and being in a position where
it would be necessary to do that, when with a little luck and without
interference from her, he might marry Sondra.
"Oh, yes, that's all right for you, Bert. That fixes everything up for
you, but how about me? Why, gee whiz, I've only got started here now as
it is, and if I have to pack up and get out, and I would have to, if
ever they found out about this, why I don't know what I'd do. I haven't
any business or trade that I could turn my hand to. It might go hard
with both of us. Besides my uncle gave me this chance because I begged
him to, and if I walked off now he never would do anything for me."
In his excitement he was forgetting that at one time and another in
the past he had indicated to Roberta that the state of his own parents
was not wholly unprosperous and that if things did not go just to his
liking here, he could return west and perhaps find something to do out
there. And it was some general recollection of this that now caused her
to ask: "Couldn't we go out to Denver or something like that? Wouldn't
your father be willing to help you get something for a time, anyhow?"
Her tone was very soft and pleading, an attempt to make Clyde feel that
things could not be as bad as he was imagining. But the mere mention of
his father in connection with all this--the assumption that he, of all
people, might prove an escape from drudgery for them both, was a little
too much. It showed how dreadfully incomplete was her understanding
of his true position in this world. Worse, she was looking for help
from that quarter. And, not finding it, later might possibly reproach
him for that--who could tell--for his lies in connection with it. It
made so very clear now the necessity for frustrating, if possible, and
that at once, any tendency toward this idea of marriage. It could not
be--ever.
And yet how was he to oppose this idea with safety, since she felt
that she had this claim on him--how say to her openly and coldly that
he could not and would not marry her? And unless he did so now she
might think it would be fair and legitimate enough for her to compel
him to do so. She might even feel privileged to go to his uncle--his
cousin (he could see Gilbert's cold eyes) and expose him! And then
destruction! Ruin! The end of all his dreams in connection with
Sondra and everything else here. But all he could think of saying now
was: "But I can't do this, Bert, not now, anyway," a remark which at
once caused Roberta to assume that the idea of marriage, as she had
interjected it here, was not one which, under the circumstances, he had
the courage to oppose--his saying, "not now, anyway." Yet even as she
was thinking this, he went swiftly on with: "Besides I don't want to
get married so soon. It means too much to me at this time. In the first
place I'm not old enough and I haven't got anything to get married on.
And I can't leave here. I couldn't do half as well anywhere else. You
don't realize what this chance means to me. My father's all right, but
he couldn't do what my uncle could and he wouldn't. You don't know or
you wouldn't ask me to do this."
He paused, his face a picture of puzzled fear and opposition. He was
not unlike a harried animal, deftly pursued by hunter and hound. But
Roberta, imagining that his total defection had been caused by the
social side of Lycurgus as opposed to her own low state and not because
of the superior lure of any particular girl, now retorted resentfully,
although she desired not to appear so: "Oh, yes, I know well enough why
you can't leave. It isn't your position here, though, half as much as
it is those society people you are always running around with. I know.
You don't care for me any more, Clyde, that's it, and you don't want to
give these other people up for me. I know that's it and nothing else.
But just the same it wasn't so very long ago that you did, although you
don't seem to remember it now." Her cheeks burned and her eyes flamed
as she said this. She paused a moment while he gazed at her wondering
about the outcome of all this. "But you can't leave me to make out any
way I can, just the same, because I won't be left this way, Clyde. I
can't! I can't! I tell you." She grew tense and staccato, "It means
too much to me. I don't know how to do alone and I, besides, have no
one to turn to but you and you must help me. I've got to get out of
this, that's all, Clyde, I've got to. I'm not going to be left to face
my people and everybody without any help or marriage or anything." As
she said this, her eyes turned appealingly and yet savagely toward
him and she emphasized it all with her hands, which she clinched and
unclinched in a dramatic way. "And if you can't help me out in the way
you thought," she went on most agonizedly as Clyde could see, "then
you've got to help me out in this other, that's all. At least until I
can do for myself. I just won't be left. I don't ask you to marry me
forever," she now added, the thought that if by presenting this demand
in some modified form, she could induce Clyde to marry her, it might be
possible afterwards that his feeling toward her would change to a much
more kindly one. "You can leave me after a while if you want to. After
I'm out of this. I can't prevent you from doing that and I wouldn't
want to if I could. But you can't leave me now. You can't. You can't!
Besides," she added, "I didn't want to get myself in this position and
I wouldn't have, but for you. But you made me and made me let you come
in here. And now you want to leave me to shift for myself, just because
you think you won't be able to go in society any more, if they find out
about me."
She paused, the strain of this contest proving almost too much for her
tired nerves. At the same time she began to sob nervously and yet not
violently--a marked effort at self-restraint and recovery marking her
every gesture. And after a moment or two in which both stood there, he
gazing dumbly and wondering what else he was to say in answer to all
this, she struggling and finally managing to recover her poise, she
added: "Oh, what is it about me that's so different to what I was a
couple of months ago, Clyde? Will you tell me that? I'd like to know.
What is it that has caused you to change so? Up to Christmas, almost,
you were as nice to me as any human being could be. You were with
me nearly all the time you had, and since then I've scarcely had an
evening that I didn't beg for. Who is it? What is it? Some other girl,
or what, I'd like to know--that Sondra Finchley or Bertine Cranston, or
who?"
Her eyes as she said this were a study. For even to this hour, as
Clyde could now see to his satisfaction, since he feared the effect
on Roberta of definite and absolute knowledge concerning Sondra, she
had no specific suspicion, let alone positive knowledge concerning any
girl. And coward-wise, in the face of her present predicament and her
assumed and threatened claims on him, he was afraid to say what or
who the real cause of this change was. Instead he merely replied and
almost unmoved by her sorrow, since he no longer really cared for her:
"Oh, you're all wrong, Bert. You don't see what the trouble is. It's
my future here--if I leave here I certainly will never find such an
opportunity. And if I have to marry in this way or leave here it will
all go flooey. I want to wait and get some place first before I marry,
see--save some money and if I do this I won't have a chance and you
won't either," he added feebly, forgetting for the moment that up to
this time he had been indicating rather clearly that he did not want to
have anything more to do with her in any way.
"Besides," he continued, "if you could only find some one, or if you
would go away by yourself somewhere for a while, Bert, and go through
with this alone, I could send you the money to do it on, I know. I
could have it between now and the time you had to go."
His face, as he said this, and as Roberta clearly saw, mirrored the
complete and resourceless collapse of all his recent plans in regard to
her. And she, realizing that his indifference to her had reached the
point where he could thus dispose of her and their prospective baby in
this casual and really heartless manner, was not only angered in part,
but at the same time frightened by the meaning of it all.
"Oh, Clyde," she now exclaimed boldly and with more courage and
defiance than at any time since she had known him, "how you have
changed! And how hard you can be. To want me to go off all by myself
and just to save you--so you can stay here and get along and marry
some one here when I am out of the way and you don't have to bother
about me any more. Well, I won't do it. It's not fair. And I won't,
that's all. I won't. And that's all there is to it. You can get some
one to get me out of this or you can marry me and come away with me,
at least long enough for me to have the baby and place myself right
before my people and every one else that knows me. I don't care if you
leave me afterwards, because I see now that you really don't care for
me any more, and if that's the way you feel, I don't want you any more
than you want me. But just the same, you must help me now--you must.
But, oh, dear," she began whimpering again, and yet only slightly and
bitterly. "To think that all our love for each other should have come
to this--that I am asked to go away by myself--all alone--with no
one--while you stay here, oh, dear! oh, dear! And with a baby on my
hands afterwards. And no husband."
She clinched her hands and shook her head bleakly. Clyde, realizing
well enough that his proposition certainly was cold and indifferent
but, in the face of his intense desire for Sondra, the best or at least
safest that he could devise, now stood there unable for the moment to
think of anything more to say.
And although there was some other discussion to the same effect, the
conclusion of this very difficult hour was that Clyde had another week
or two at best in which to see if he could find a physician or any one
who would assist him. After that--well after that the implied, if not
openly expressed, threat which lay at the bottom of this was, unless
so extricated and speedily, that he would have to marry her, if not
permanently, then at least temporarily, but legally just the same,
until once again she was able to look after herself--a threat which was
as crushing and humiliating to Roberta as it was torturing to him.
* * * * *
[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]
* * * * *
BOOKS BY
THEODORE DREISER
SISTER CARRIE
JENNIE GERHARDT
THE FINANCIER
THE TITAN
A TRAVELER AT FORTY
A HOOSIER HOLIDAY
PLAYS OF THE NATURAL AND SUPERNATURAL
THE HAND OF THE POTTER
FREE AND OTHER STORIES
TWELVE MEN
HEY RUB-A-DUB-DUB
A BOOK ABOUT MYSELF
THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY
THE "GENIUS"
AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY
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