An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

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