And then, one November evening as Clyde was walking along Wykeagy
Avenue, just west of Central, a portion of the locally celebrated
avenue which, ever since he had moved to Mrs. Peyton's he was
accustomed to traverse to and from his work, one thing did occur which
in so far as he and the Griffiths were concerned was destined to
bring about a chain of events which none of them could possibly have
foreseen. At the time there was in his heart and mind that singing
which is the inheritance of youth and ambition and which the dying of
the old year, instead of depressing, seemed but to emphasize. He had
a good position. He was respected here. Over and above his room and
board he had not less than fifteen dollars a week to spend on himself
and Roberta, an income which, while it did not parallel that which had
been derived from the Green-Davidson or the Union League, was still
not so involved with family miseries in the one place or personal
loneliness in the other. And he had Roberta secretly devoted to him.
And the Griffiths, thank goodness, did not and should not know anything
of that, though just how in case of a difficulty it was to be avoided,
he was not even troubling to think. His was a disposition which did not
tend to load itself with more than the most immediate cares.
And although the Griffiths and their friends had not chosen to
recognize him socially, still more and more all others who were not
connected with local society and who knew of him, did. Only this very
day, because the spring before he had been made a room-chief, perhaps,
and Samuel Griffiths had recently paused and talked with him, no less
an important personage than Mr. Rudolph Smillie, one of the several
active vice-presidents, had asked him most cordially and casually
whether he played golf, and if so, when spring came again, whether he
might not be interested to join the Amoskeag, one of the two really
important golf clubs within a half dozen miles of the city. Now, what
could that mean, if not that Mr. Smillie was beginning to see him
as a social possibility, and that he as well as many others about
the factory, were becoming aware of him as some one who was of some
importance to the Griffiths, if not the factory.
This thought, together with one other--that once more after dinner
he was to see Roberta and in her room as early as eleven o'clock or
even earlier--cheered him and caused him to step along most briskly
and gayly. For, since having indulged in this secret adventure so
many times, both were unconsciously becoming bolder. Not having been
detected to date, they were of the notion that it was possible they
might not be. Or if they were Clyde might be introduced as her brother
or cousin for the moment, anyhow, in order to avoid immediate scandal.
Later, to avoid danger of comment or subsequent detection, as both
had agreed after some discussion, Roberta might have to move to some
other place where the same routine was to be repeated. But that would
be easy, or at least better than no freedom of contact. And with that
Roberta had been compelled to agree.
However, on this occasion there came a contact and an interruption
which set his thoughts careening in an entirely different direction.
Reaching the first of the more important houses of Wykeagy Avenue,
although he had not the slightest idea who lived there, he was gazing
interestedly at the high wrought-iron fence, as well as the kempt
lawn within, dimly illuminated by street lamps, and upon the surface
of which he could detect many heaps of freshly fallen brown leaves
being shaken and rolled by a winnowing and gamboling wind. It was all
so starkly severe, placid, reserved, beautiful, as he saw it, that he
was quite stirred by the dignity and richness of it. And as he neared
the central gate, above which two lights were burning, making a circle
of light about it, a closed car of great size and solidity stopped
directly in front of it. And the chauffeur stepping down and opening
the door, Clyde instantly recognized Sondra Finchley leaning forward in
the car.
"Go around to the side entrance, David, and tell Miriam that I can't
wait for her because I'm going over to the Trumbulls for dinner, but
that I'll be back by nine. If she's not there, leave this note and
hurry, will you?" The voice and manner were of that imperious and yet
pleasing mode which had so intrigued him the spring before.
At the same time seeing, as she thought, Gilbert Griffiths approaching
along the sidewalk, she called, "Oh, hello. Walking to-night? If you
want to wait a minute, you can ride out with me. I've just sent David
in with a note. He won't be long."
Now Sondra Finchley, despite the fact that she was interested in Bella
and the Griffiths' wealth and prestige in general was by no means
as well pleased with Gilbert. He had been indifferent to her in the
beginning when she had tried to cultivate him and he had remained so.
He had wounded her pride. And to her, who was overflowing with vanity
and self-conceit, this was the last offense, and she could not forgive
him. She could not and would not brook the slightest trace of ego in
another, and most especially the vain, cold, self-centered person of
Bella's brother. He had too fine an opinion of himself, as she saw it,
was one who was too bursting with vanity to be of service to anyone.
"Hmp! That stick." It was so that she invariably thought of him. "Who
does he think he is anyhow? He certainly does think he's a lot around
here. You'd think he was a Rockefeller or a Morgan. And for my part I
can't see where he's a bit interesting--any more. I like Bella. I think
she's lovely. But that smarty. I guess he would like to have a girl
wait on him. Well, not for me." Such in the main were the comments made
by Sondra upon such reported acts and words of Gilbert as were brought
to her by others.
And for his part, Gilbert, hearing of the gyrations, airs, and
aspirations of Sondra from Bella from time to time, was accustomed to
remark: "What, that little snip! Who does she think she is anyhow? If
ever there was a conceited little nut!..."
However, so tightly were the social lines of Lycurgus drawn, so few
the truly eligibles, that it was almost necessary and compulsory upon
those "in" to make the best of such others as were "in." And so it was
that she now greeted Gilbert as she thought. And as she moved over
slightly from the door to make room for him, Clyde almost petrified
by this unexpected recognition, and quite shaken out of his pose and
self-contemplation, not being sure whether he had heard aright, now
approached, his manner the epitome almost of a self-ingratiating
and somewhat affectionate and wistful dog of high breeding and fine
temperament.
"Oh, good evening," he exclaimed, removing his cap and bowing. "How are
you?" while his mind was registering that this truly was the beautiful,
the exquisite Sondra whom months before he had met at his uncle's, and
concerning whose social activities during the preceding summer he had
been reading in the papers. And now here she was as lovely as ever,
seated in this beautiful car and addressing him, apparently. However,
Sondra on the instant realizing that she had made a mistake and that
it was not Gilbert, was quite embarrassed and uncertain for the
moment just how to extricate herself from a situation which was a bit
ticklish, to say the least.
"Oh, pardon me, you're Mr. Clyde Griffiths, I see now. It's my mistake.
I thought you were Gilbert. I couldn't quite make you out in the
light." She had for the moment an embarrassed and fidgety and halting
manner, which Clyde noticed and which he saw implied that she had made
a mistake that was not entirely flattering to him nor satisfactory to
her. And this in turn caused him to become confused and anxious to
retire.
"Oh, pardon me. But that's all right. I didn't mean to intrude. I
thought...." He flushed and stepped back really troubled.
But now Sondra, seeing at once that Clyde was if anything much more
attractive than his cousin and far more diffident, and obviously
greatly impressed by her charms as well as her social state, unbent
sufficiently to say with a charming smile: "But that's all right. Won't
you get in, please, and let me take you where you are going. Oh, I wish
you would. I will be so glad to take you."
For there was that in Clyde's manner the instant he learned that it was
due to a mistake that he had been recognized which caused even her to
understand that he was hurt, abashed and disappointed. His eyes took
on a hurt look and there was a wavering, apologetic, sorrowful smile
playing about his lips.
"Why, yes, of course," he said jerkily, "that is, if you want me to.
I understand how it was. That's all right. But you needn't mind, if
you don't wish to. I thought...." He had half turned to go, but was
so drawn by her that he could scarcely tear himself away before she
repeated: "Oh, do come, get in, Mr. Griffiths. I'll be so glad if you
will. It won't take David a moment to take you wherever you are going,
I'm sure. And I am sorry about the other, really I am. I didn't mean,
you know, that just because you weren't Gilbert Griffiths--"
He paused and in a bewildered manner stepped forward and entering the
car, slipped into the seat beside her. And she, interested by his
personality, at once began to look at him, feeling glad that it was he
now instead of Gilbert. In order the better to see and again reveal
her devastating charms, as she saw them, to Clyde, she now switched on
the roof light. And the chauffeur returning, she asked Clyde where he
wished to go--an address which he gave reluctantly enough, since it was
so different from the street in which she resided. As the car sped on,
he was animated by a feverish desire to make some use of this brief
occasion which might cause her to think favorably of him--perhaps, who
knows--lead to some faint desire on her part to contact him again at
some time or other. He was so truly eager to be of her world.
"It's certainly nice of you to take me up this way," he now turned to
her and observed, smiling. "I didn't think it was my cousin you meant
or I wouldn't have come up as I did."
"Oh, that's all right. Don't mention it," replied Sondra archly with
a kind of sicky sweetness in her voice. Her original impression of
him as she now felt, had been by no means so vivid. "It's my mistake,
not yours. But I'm glad I made it now, anyhow," she added most
definitely and with an engaging smile. "I think I'd rather pick you
up than I would Gil, anyhow. We don't get along any too well, he and
I. We quarrel a lot whenever we do meet anywhere." She smiled, having
completely recovered from her momentary embarrassment, and now leaned
back after the best princess fashion, her glance examining Clyde's
very regular features with interest. He had such soft smiling eyes
she thought. And after all, as she now reasoned, he was Bella's and
Gilbert's cousin, and looked prosperous.
"Well, that's too bad," he said stiffly, and with a very awkward and
weak attempt at being self-confident and even high-spirited in her
presence.
"Oh, it doesn't amount to anything, really. We just quarrel, that's
all, once in a while."
She saw that he was nervous and bashful and decidedly unresourceful in
her presence and it pleased her to think that she could thus befuddle
and embarrass him so much. "Are you still working for your uncle?"
"Oh, yes," replied Clyde quickly, as though it would make an enormous
difference to her if he were not. "I have charge of a department over
there now."
"Oh, really, I didn't know. I haven't seen you at all, since that one
time, you know. You don't get time to go about much, I suppose." She
looked at him wisely, as much as to say, "Your relatives aren't so very
much interested in you," but really liking him now, she said instead,
"You have been in the city all summer, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes," replied Clyde quite simply and winningly. "I have to be,
you know. It's the work that keeps me here. But I've seen your name in
the papers often, and read about your riding and tennis contests and I
saw you in that flower parade last June, too. I certainly thought you
looked beautiful, like an angel almost."
There was an admiring, pleading light in his eyes which now quite
charmed her. What a pleasing young man--so different to Gilbert. And
to think he should be so plainly and hopelessly smitten, and when
she could take no more than a passing interest in him. It made her
feel sorry, a little, and hence kindly toward him. Besides what would
Gilbert think if only he knew that his cousin was so completely reduced
by her--how angry he would be--he, who so plainly thought her a snip?
It would serve him just right if Clyde were taken up by some one and
made more of than he (Gilbert) ever could hope to be. The thought had a
most pleasing tang for her.
However, at this point, unfortunately, the car turned in before Mrs.
Peyton's door and stopped. The adventure for Clyde and for her was
seemingly over.
"That's awfully nice of you to say that. I won't forget that." She
smiled archly as, the chauffeur opening the door, Clyde stepped
down, his own nerves taut because of the grandeur and import of this
encounter. "So this is where you live. Do you expect to be in Lycurgus
all winter?"
"Oh, yes. I'm quite sure of it. I hope to be anyhow," he added, quite
yearningly, his eyes expressing his meaning completely.
"Well, perhaps, then I'll see you again somewhere, some time. I hope
so, anyhow."
She nodded and gave him her fingers and the most fetching and wreathy
of smiles, and he, eager to the point of folly, added: "Oh, so do I."
"Good night! Good night!" she called as the car sprang away, and Clyde,
looking after it, wondered if he would ever see her again so closely
and intimately as here. To think that he should have met her again in
this way! And she had proved so very different from that first time
when, as he distinctly recalled, she took no interest in him at all.
He turned hopefully and a little wistfully toward his own door.
And Sondra, ... why was it, she pondered, as the motor car sped on its
way, that the Griffiths were apparently not much interested in him?