The Greatest Works of Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser

wasn’t that then she always wanted me to be with her, so I couldn’t go anywhere by myself. You know how it is, Mamma. Two girls can’t go with one young man.”

      “Yes, I know how it is, Bob.” Her mother laughed a little, then added: “Who is he?”

      “It’s Mr. Griffiths, Mother,” she added, after a moment’s hesitation, a sense of the exceptional nature of her contact as contrasted with this very plain world here passing like a 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 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 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 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, Gifs 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 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.”

      “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.