An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

of Grace Marr not to go to the church social without her,

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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.

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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. 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

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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 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.

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“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.

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Chapter 18

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

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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