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
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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.
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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!
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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?”
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“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