in some form a claim on her part to some consideration
from him in the future which it might not be so easy for him
to ignore? For after all he was the aggressor—not she. And
because of this, and whatever might follow in connection
with it, might not she be in a position to demand more from
him than he might be willing to give? For was it his intention
to marry her? In the back of his mind there lurked
something which even now assured him that he would
never desire to marry her—could not in the face of his high
family connections here. Therefore should he proceed to
demand—or should he not? And if he did, could he avoid
that which would preclude any claim in the future?
He did not thus so distinctly voice his inmost feelings to
himself, but relatively of such was their nature. Yet so great
was the temperamental and physical enticement of Roberta
that in spite of a warning nudge or mood that seemed to
hint that it was dangerous for him to persist in his demand,
he kept saying to himself that unless she would permit him
to her room, he would not have anything more to do with
her, the desire for her being all but overpowering.
This contest which every primary union between the sexes,
whether with or without marriage implies, was fought out
the next day in the factory. And yet without a word on either
side. For Clyde, although he considered himself to be
deeply in love with Roberta, was still not so deeply involved
but that a naturally selfish and ambitious and seeking
disposition would in this instance stand its ground and
master any impulse. And he was determined to take the
attitude of one who had been injured and was determined
not to be friends any more or yield in any way unless some
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concession on her part, such as would appease him, was
made.
And in consequence he came into the stamping department
that morning with the face and air of one who was vastly
preoccupied with matters which had little, if anything, to do
with what had occurred the night before. Yet, being far from
certain that this attitude on his part was likely to lead to
anything but defeat, he was inwardly depressed and awry.
For, after all, the sight of Roberta, freshly arrived, and
although pale and distrait, as charming and energetic as
ever, was not calculated to assure him of any immediate or
even ultimate victory. And knowing her as well as he
thought he did, by now, he was but weakly sustained by the
thought that she might yield.
He looked at her repeatedly when she was not looking. And
when in turn she looked at him repeatedly, but only at first
when he was not looking, later when she felt satisfied that
his eyes, whether directly bent on her or not, must be
encompassing her, still no trace of recognition could she
extract. And now to her bitter disappointment, not only did
he choose to ignore her, but quite for the first time since
they had been so interested in each other, he professed to
pay, if not exactly conspicuous at least noticeable and
intentional attention to those other girls who were always so
interested in him and who always, as she had been
constantly imagining, were but waiting for any slight
overture on his part, to yield themselves to him in any way
that he might dictate.
Now he was looking over the shoulder of Ruza Nikoforitch,
her plump face with its snub nose and weak chin turned
engagingly toward him, and he commenting on something
not particularly connected with the work in hand apparently,
for both were idly smiling. Again, in a little while, he was by
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the side of Martha Bordaloue, her plump French shoulders
and arms bare to the pits next to his. And for all her fleshy
solidity and decidedly foreign flavor, there was still enough
about her which most men would like. And with her Clyde
was attempting to jest, too.
And later it was Flora Brandt, the very sensuous and not
unpleasing American girl whom Roberta had seen Clyde
cultivating from time to time. Yet, even so, she had never
been willing to believe that he might become interested in
any of these. Not Clyde, surely.
And yet he could not see her at all now—could not find time
to say a single word, although all these pleasant words and
gay looks for all these others. Oh, how bitter! Oh, how
cruel! And how utterly she despised those other girls with
their oglings and their open attempts to take him from her.
Oh, how terrible. Surely he must be very opposed to her
now—otherwise he could not do this, and especially after all
that had been between them—the love—the kisses.
The hours dragged for both, and with as much poignance
for Clyde as for Roberta. For his was a feverish, urgent
disposition where his dreams were concerned, and could ill
brook the delay or disappointments that are the chief and
outstanding characteristics of the ambitions of men,
whatever their nature. He was tortured hourly by the
thought that he was to lose Roberta or that to win her back
he would have to succumb to her wishes.
And on her part she was torn, not so much by the question
as to whether she would have to yield in this matter (for by
now that was almost the least of her worries), but whether,
once so yielding, Clyde would be satisfied with just some
form of guarded social contact in the room—or not. And so
continue on the strength of that to be friends with her. For
more than this she would not grant—never. And yet—this
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suspense. The misery of his indifference. She could
scarcely endure it from minute to minute, let alone from
hour to hour, and finally in an agony of dissatisfaction with
herself at having brought all this on herself, she retired to
the rest room at about three in the afternoon and there with
the aid of a piece of paper found on the floor and a small bit
of pencil which she had, she composed a brief note:
“Please, Clyde, don’t be mad at me, will you? Please
don’t. Please look at me and speak to me, won’t you?
I’m so sorry about last night, really I am—terribly. And I
must see you to-night at the end of Elm Street at 8:30 if
you can, will you? I have something to tell you. Please
do come. And please do look at me and tell me you
will, even though you are angry. You won’t be sorry. I
love you so. You know I do.
“Your sorrowful,
“ROBERTA.”
And in the spirit of one who is in agonized search for an
opiate, she folded up the paper and returning to the room,
drew close to Clyde’s desk. He was before it at the time,
bent over some slips. And quickly as she passed she
dropped the paper between his hands. He looked up
instantly, his dark eyes still hard at the moment with the
mingled pain and unrest and dissatisfaction and
determination that had been upon him all day, and noting
Roberta’s retreating figure as well as the note, he at once
relaxed, a wave of puzzled satisfaction as well as delight
instantly filled him. He opened it and read. And as instantly
his body was suffused with a warm and yet very weakening
ray.
And Roberta in turn, having reached her table and paused
to note if by any chance any one had observed her, now
looked cautiously about, a strained and nervous look in her
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442
eyes. But seeing Clyde looking directly at her, his eyes filled
with a conquering and yet yielding light and a smile upon
his lips, and his head nodding a happy assent, she as
suddenly experienced a dizzying sensation, as though her
hitherto constricted blood, detained by a constricted heart
and constricted nerves, were as suddenly set free. And all
the dry marshes and cracked and parched banks of her soul
—the dry rivulets and streams and lakes of misery that
seemed to dot her being—were as instantly flooded with
this rich upwelling force of life and love.
He would meet her. They would meet to-night. He would
put his arms abound her and kiss her as before. She would
be able to look in his eyes. They would not quarrel any more
—oh, never if she could help it.
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Chapter 22
THE wonder and, delight of a new and more intimate form
of contact, of protest gainsaid, of scruples overcome! Days,
when both, having struggled in vain against the greater
intimacy which each knew that the other was desirous of
yielding to, and eventually so yielding, looked forward to the