An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

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

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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

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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

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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

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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.”

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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