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 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 since. "He was so very friendly I was
beginning to think he was struck on you."
"Oh, what nonsense!" Roberta replied shrewdly, and a bit alarmed. "Why,
he wouldn't look at me. Besides, there's a rule of the company that
doesn't permit him to, as long as I work there."
This last, more than anything else, served to allay Grace's notions in
regard to Clyde and Roberta, for she was of that conventional turn of
mind which would scarcely permit her to think of any one infringing
upon a company rule. Nevertheless Roberta was nervous lest Grace should
be associating her and Clyde in her mind in some clandestine way,
and she decided to be doubly cautious in regard to Clyde--to feign a
distance she did not feel.
But all this was preliminary to troubles and strains and fears which
had nothing to do with what had gone before, but took their rise from
difficulties which sprang up immediately afterwards. For once she had
come to this complete emotional understanding with Clyde, she saw no
way of meeting him except in this very clandestine way and that so very
rarely and uncertainly that she could not say when there was likely to
be another meeting.
"You see, it's this way," she explained to Clyde when, a few evenings
later, she had managed to steal out for an hour and they walked from
the region at the end of Taylor Street down to the Mohawk, where were
some open fields and a low bank rising above the pleasant river. "The
Newtons never go any place much without inviting me. And even if they
didn't, Grace'd never go unless I went along. It's just because we were
together so much in Trippetts Mills that she feels that way, as though
I were a part of the family. But now it's different, and yet I don't
see how I am going to get out of it so soon. I don't know where to say
I'm going or whom I am going with."
"I know that, honey," he replied softly and sweetly. "That's all true
enough. But how is that going to help us now? You can't expect me to
get along with just looking at you in the factory, either, can you?"
He gazed at her so solemnly and yearningly that she was moved by her
sympathy for him, and in order to assuage his depression added: "No,
I don't want you to do that, dear. You know I don't. But what am I to
do?" She laid a soft and pleading hand on the back of one of Clyde's
thin, long and nervous ones.
"I'll tell you what, though," she went on after a period of
reflection, "I have a sister living in Homer, New York. That's about
thirty-five miles north of here. I might say I was going up there some
Saturday afternoon or Sunday. She's been writing me to come up, but I
hadn't thought of it before. But I might go--that is--I might----"
"Oh, why not do that?" exclaimed Clyde eagerly. "That's fine! A good
idea!"
"Let me see," she added, ignoring his exclamation. "If I remember right
you have to go to Fonda first, then change cars there. But I could
leave here any time on the trolley and there are only two trains a day
from Fonda, one at two, and one at seven on Saturday. So I might leave
here any time before two, you see, and then if I didn't make the two
o'clock train, it would be all right, wouldn't it? I could go on the
seven. And you could be over there, or meet me on the way, just so no
one here saw us. Then I could go on and you could come back. I could
arrange that with Agnes, I'm sure. I would have to write her."
"How about all the time between then and now, though?" he queried
peevishly. "It's a long time till then, you know."
"Well, I'll have to see what I can think of, but I'm not sure, dear.
I'll have to see. And you think too. But I ought to be going back now,"
she added nervously. She at once arose, causing Clyde to rise, too, and
consult his watch, thereby discovering that it was already near ten.
"But what about us!" he continued persistently. "Why couldn't you
pretend next Sunday that you're going to some other church than yours
and meet me somewhere instead? Would they have to know?"
At once Clyde noted Roberta's face darken slightly, for here he was
encroaching upon something that was still too closely identified with
her early youth and convictions to permit infringement.
"Hump, uh," she replied quite solemnly. "I wouldn't want to do that. I
wouldn't feel right about it. And it wouldn't be right, either."
Immediately Clyde sensed that he was treading on dangerous ground and
withdrew the suggestion because he did not care to offend or frighten
her in any way. "Oh, well. Just as you say. I only thought since you
don't seem to be able to think of any other way."
"No, no, dear," she pleaded softly, because she noted that he felt that
she might be offended. "It's all right, only I wouldn't want to do
that. I couldn't."
Clyde shook his head. A recollection of his own youthful inhibitions
caused him to feel that perhaps it was not right for him to have
suggested it.
They returned in the direction of Taylor Street without, apart from the
proposed trip to Fonda, either having hit upon any definite solution.
Instead, after kissing her again and again and just before letting her
go, the best he could suggest was that both were to try and think of
some way by which they could meet before, if possible. And she, after
throwing her arms about his neck for a moment, ran east along Taylor
Street, her little figure swaying in the moonlight.
However, apart from another evening meeting which was made possible by
Roberta's announcing a second engagement with Mrs. Braley, there was no
other encounter until the following Saturday when Roberta departed for
Fonda. And Clyde, having ascertained the exact hour, left by the car
ahead, and joined Roberta at the first station west. From that point on
until evening, when she was compelled to take the seven o'clock train,
they were unspeakably happy together, loitering near the little city
comparatively strange to both.
For outside of Fonda a few miles they came to a pleasure park called
Starlight where, in addition to a few clap-trap pleasure concessions
such as a ring of captive aeroplanes, a Ferris wheel, a merry-go-round,
an old mill and a dance floor, was a small lake with boats. It was
after its fashion an idyllic spot with a little band-stand out on an
island near the center of the lake and on the shore a grave and captive
bear in a cage. Since coming to Lycurgus Roberta had not ventured to
visit any of the rougher resorts near there, which were very much like
this, only much more strident. On sight of this both exclaimed: "Oh,
look!" And Clyde added at once: "Let's get off here, will you--shall
we? What do you say? We're almost to Fonda anyhow. And we can have more
fun here."
At once they climbed down. And having disposed of her bag for the
time being, he led the way first to the stand of a man who sold
frankfurters. Then, since the merry-go-round was in full blast, nothing
would do but that Roberta should ride with him. And in the gayest of
moods, they climbed on, and he placed her on a zebra, and then stood
close in order that he might keep his arm about her, and both try to
catch the brass ring. And as commonplace and noisy and gaudy as it all
was, the fact that at last he had her all to himself unseen, and she
him, was sufficient to evoke in both a kind of ecstasy which was all
out of proportion to the fragile, gimcrack scene. Round and round they
spun on the noisy, grinding machine, surveying now a few idle pleasure
seekers who were in boats upon the lake, now some who were flying round
in the gaudy green and white captive aeroplanes or turning upward and
then down in the suspended cages of the Ferris wheel.
Both looked at the woods and sky beyond the lake; the idlers and
dancers in the dancing pavilion dreaming and thrilling, and then
suddenly Clyde asked: "You dance, don't you, Roberta?"
"Why, no, I don't," she replied, a little sadly, for at the very moment
she had been looking at the happy dancers rather ruefully and thinking
how unfortunate it was that she had never been allowed to dance.
It might not be right or nice, perhaps--her own church said it was
not--but still, now that they were here and in love like this--these
others looked so gay and happy--a pretty medley of colors moving round
and round in the green and brown frame--it did not seem so bad to her.
Why shouldn't people dance, anyway? Girls like herself and boys like
Clyde? Her younger brother and sister, in spite of the views of her
parents, were already declaring that when the opportunity offered, they
were going to learn.
"Oh, isn't that too bad!" he exclaimed, thinking how delightful it
would be to hold Roberta in his arms. "We could have such fun now if
you could. I could teach you in a few minutes if you wanted me to."
"I don't know about that," she replied quizzically, her eyes showing
that his suggestion appealed to her. "I'm not so clever that way.
And you know dancing isn't considered so very nice in my part of the
country. And my church doesn't approve of it, either. And I know my
parents wouldn't like me to."
"Oh, shucks," replied Clyde foolishly and gayly, "what nonsense,
Roberta. Why, everybody dances these days or nearly everybody. How can
you think there's anything wrong with it?"
"Oh, I know," replied Roberta oddly and quaintly, "maybe they do in
your set. I know most of those factory girls do, of course. And I
suppose where you have money and position, everything's right. But with
a girl like me, it's different. I don't suppose your parents were as
strict as mine, either."
"Oh, weren't they, though?" laughed Clyde who had not failed to catch
the "your set"; also the "where you have money and position."
"Well, that's all you know about it," he went on. "They were as
strict as yours and stricter, I'll bet. But I danced just the same.
Why, there's no harm in it, Roberta. Come on, let me teach you. It's
wonderful, really. Won't you, dearest?"
He put his arm around her and looked into her eyes and she half
relented, quite weakened by her desire for him.
Just then the merry-go-round stopped and without any plan or suggestion
they seemed instinctively to drift to the side of the pavilion where
the dancers--not many but avid--were moving briskly around. Fox-trots
and one-steps were being supplied by an orchestrelle of considerable
size. At a turnstile, all the remaining portions of the pavilion
being screened in, a pretty concessionaire was sitting and taking
tickets--ten cents per dance per couple. But the color and the music
and the motions of the dancers gliding rhythmically here and there
quite seized upon both Clyde and Roberta.
The orchestrelle stopped and the dancers were coming out. But no sooner
were they out than five-cent admission checks were once more sold for
the new dance.
"I don't believe I can," pleaded Roberta, as Clyde led her to the
ticket-stile. "I'm afraid I'm too awkward, maybe. I never danced, you
know."
"You awkward, Roberta," he exclaimed. "Oh, how crazy. Why, you're as
graceful and pretty as you can be. You'll see. You'll be a wonderful
dancer."
Already he had paid the coin and they were inside.
Carried away by a bravado which was three-fourths her conception of
him as a member of the Lycurgus upper crust and possessor of means and
position, he led the way into a corner and began at once to illustrate
the respective movements. They were not difficult and for a girl of
Roberta's natural grace and zest, easy. Once the music started and
Clyde drew her to him, she fell into the positions and steps without
effort, and they moved rhythmically and instinctively together. It was
the delightful sensation of being held by him and guided here and there
that so appealed to her--the wonderful rhythm of his body coinciding
with hers.
"Oh, you darling," he whispered. "Aren't you the dandy little dancer,
though. You've caught on already. If you aren't the wonderful kid. I
can hardly believe it."
They went about the floor once more, then a third time, before the
music stopped and by the time it did, Roberta was lost in a sense of
delight such as had never come to her before. To think she had been
dancing! And it should be so wonderful! And with Clyde! He was so slim,
graceful--quite the handsomest of any of the young men on the floor,
she thought. And he, in turn, was now thinking that never had he known
any one as sweet as Roberta. She was so gay and winsome and yielding.
She would not try to work him for anything. And as for Sondra Finchley,
well, she had ignored him and he might as well dismiss her from his
mind--and yet even here, and with Roberta, he could not quite forget
her.
At five-thirty when the orchestrelle was silenced for lack of customers
and a sign reading "Next Concert 7.30" hung up, they were still
dancing. After that they went for an ice-cream soda, then for something
to eat, and by then, so swiftly had sped the time, it was necessary to
take the very next car for the depot at Fonda.
As they neared this terminal, both Clyde and Roberta were full of
schemes as to how they were to arrange for to-morrow. For Roberta would
be coming back then and if she could arrange to leave her sister's a
little early Sunday he could come over from Lycurgus to meet her. They
could linger around Fonda until eleven at least, when the last train
south from Homer was due. And pretending she had arrived on that they
could then, assuming there was no one whom they knew on the Lycurgus
car, journey to that city.
And as arranged so they met. And in the dark outlying streets of
that city, walked and talked and planned, and Roberta told Clyde
something--though not much--of her home life at Biltz.
But the great thing, apart from their love for each other and its
immediate expression in kisses and embraces, was the how and where of
further contacts. They must find some way, only, really, as Roberta
saw it, she must be the one to find the way, and that soon. For
while Clyde was obviously very impatient and eager to be with her
as much as possible, still he did not appear to be very ready with
suggestions--available ones.
But that, as she also saw, was not easy. For the possibility of another
visit to her sister in Homer or her parents in Biltz was not even to be
considered under a month. And apart from them what other excuses were
there? New friends at the factory--the post-office--the library--the Y.
W. C. A.--all suggestions of Clyde's at the moment. But these spelled
but an hour or two together at best, and Clyde was thinking of other
week-ends like this. And there were so few remaining summer week-ends.