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
An American Tragedy
510
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
An American Tragedy
511
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
An American Tragedy
512
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
An American Tragedy
513
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.”
An American Tragedy
514
“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