Biltz and the fungoid farm land after Clyde and Lycurgus was depressing
enough to Roberta, for all there was too closely identified with
deprivations and repressions which discolor the normal emotions
centering about old scenes.
As she stepped down from the train at the drab and aged chalet which
did service for a station, she observed her father in the same old
winter overcoat he had worn for a dozen years, waiting for her with the
old family conveyance, a decrepit but still whole buggy and a horse as
bony and weary as himself. He had, as she had always thought, the look
of a tired and defeated man. His face brightened when he saw Roberta,
for she had always been his favorite child, and he chatted quite
cheerfully as she climbed in alongside of him and they turned around
and started toward the road that led to the farmhouse, a rough and
winding affair of dirt at a time when excellent automobile roads were a
commonplace elsewhere.
As they rode along Roberta found herself checking off mentally every
tree, curve, landmark with which she had been familiar. But with no
happy thoughts. It was all too drab. The farm itself, coupled with the
chronic illness and inefficiency of Titus and the inability of the
youngest boy Tom or her mother to help much, was as big a burden as
ever. A mortgage of $2000 that had been placed on it years before had
never been paid off, the north chimney was still impaired, the steps
were sagging even more than ever and the walls and fences and outlying
buildings were no different--save to be made picturesque now by the
snows of winter covering them. Even the furniture remained the same
jumble that it had always been. And there were her mother and younger
sister and brother, who knew nothing of her true relationship to
Clyde--a mere name his here--and assuming that she was whole-heartedly
delighted to be back with them once more. Yet because of what she knew
of her own life and Clyde's uncertain attitude toward her, she was now,
if anything, more depressed than before.
Indeed, the fact that despite her seeming recent success she had really
compromised herself in such a way that unless through marriage with
Clyde she was able to readjust herself to the moral level which her
parents understood and approved, she, instead of being the emissary
of a slowly and modestly improving social condition for all, might
be looked upon as one who had reduced it to a lower level still--its
destroyer--was sufficient to depress and reduce her even more. A very
depressing and searing thought.
Worse and more painful still was the thought in connection with
all this that, by reason of the illusions which from the first had
dominated her in connection with Clyde, she had not been able to
make a confidant of her mother or any one else in regard to him. For
she was dubious as to whether her mother would not consider that her
aspirations were a bit high. And she might ask questions in regard
to him and herself which might prove embarrassing. At the same time,
unless she had some confidant in whom she could truly trust, all her
troublesome doubts in regard to herself and Clyde must remain a secret.
After talking for a few moments with Tom and Emily, she went into the
kitchen where her mother was busy with various Christmas preparations.
Her thought was to pave the way with some observations of her own in
regard to the farm here and her life at Lycurgus, but as she entered,
her mother looked up to say: "How does it feel, Bob, to come back to
the country? I suppose it all looks rather poor compared to Lycurgus,"
she added a little wistfully.
Roberta could tell from the tone of her mother's voice and the rather
admiring look she cast upon her that she was thinking of her as one
who had vastly improved her state. At once she went over to her and,
putting her arms about her affectionately, exclaimed: "Oh, mamma,
wherever you are is just the nicest place. Don't you know that?"
For answer her mother merely looked at her with affectionate and
well-wishing eyes and patted her on the back. "Well, Bobbie," she
added, quietly, "you know how you are about me."
Something in her mother's voice which epitomized the long years of
affectionate understanding between them--an understanding based, not
only on a mutual desire for each other's happiness, but a complete
frankness in regard to all emotions and moods which had hitherto
dominated both--touched her almost to the point of tears. Her throat
tightened and her eyes moistened, although she sought to overcome any
show of emotion whatsoever. She longed to tell her everything. At the
same time the compelling passion she retained for Clyde, as well as the
fact that she had compromised herself as she had, now showed her that
she had erected a barrier which could not easily be torn down. The
conventions of this local world were much too strong--even where her
mother was concerned.
She hesitated a moment, wishing that she could quickly and clearly
present to her mother the problem that was weighing upon her and
receive her sympathy, if not help. But instead she merely said: "Oh,
I wish you could have been with me all the time in Lycurgus, mamma.
Maybe--" She paused, realizing that she had been on the verge of
speaking without due caution. Her thought was that with her mother near
at hand she might have been able to have resisted Clyde's insistent
desires.
"Yes, I suppose you do miss me," her mother went on, "but it's better
for you, don't you think? You know how it is over here, and you like
your work. You do like your work, don't you?"
"Oh, the work is nice enough. I like that part of it. It's been so
nice to be able to help here a little, but it's not so nice living all
alone."
"Why did you leave the Newtons, Bob? Was Grace so disagreeable? I
should have thought she would have been company for you."
"Oh, she was at first," replied Roberta. "Only she didn't have any men
friends of her own, and she was awfully jealous of anybody that paid
the least attention to me. I couldn't go anywhere but she had to go
along, or if it 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, Gif's
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. Although her sister was not as attractive
as she, and Fred Gabel was not such a man as at any stage in her
life Roberta could have imagined herself interested in, still, after
her troublesome thoughts in regard to Clyde, the sight of Agnes
emotionally and materially content and at ease in the small security
which matrimony and her none-too-efficient husband provided, was
sufficient to rouse in her that flapping, doubtful mood that had been
assailing her since the previous morning. Was it not better, she
thought, to be married to a man even as inefficient and unattractive
but steadfast as Fred Gabel, than to occupy the anomalous position
in which she now found herself in her relations with Clyde? For here
was Gabel now talking briskly of the improvements that had come to
himself and Agnes during the year in which they had been married. In
that time he had been able to resign his position as teacher in Homer
and take over on shares the management of a small book and stationery
store whose principal contributory features were a toy department and
soda fountain. They had been doing a good business. Agnes, if all went
well, would be able to buy a mission parlor suite by next summer. Fred
had already bought her a phonograph for Christmas. In proof of their
well-being, they had brought satisfactory remembrances for all of the
Aldens.
But Gabel had with him a copy of the Lycurgus _Star_, and at breakfast,
which because of the visitors this morning was unusually late, was
reading the news of that city, for in Lycurgus was located the
wholesale house from which he secured a portion of his stock.
"Well, I see things are going full blast in your town, Bob," he
observed. "_The Star_ here says the Griffiths Company have got an order
for 120,000 collars from the Buffalo trade alone. They must be just
coining money over there."
"There's always plenty to do in my department, I know that," replied
Roberta, briskly. "We never seem to have any the less to do whether
business is good or bad. I guess it must be good all the time."
"Pretty soft for those people. They don't have to worry about anything.
Some one was telling me they're going to build a new factory in Ilion
to manufacture shirts alone. Heard anything about that down there?"
"Why, no, I haven't. Maybe it's some other company."
"By the way, what's the name of that young man you said was the head of
your department? Wasn't he a Griffiths, too?" he asked briskly, turning
to the editorial page, which also carried news of local Lycurgus
society.
"Yes, his name is Griffiths--Clyde Griffiths. Why?"
"I think I saw his name in here a minute ago. I just wanted to see if
it ain't the same fellow. Sure, here you are. Ain't this the one?" He
passed the paper to Roberta with his finger on an item which read:
"Miss Vanda Steele, of Gloversville, was hostess at an informal
dance held at her home in that city Friday night, at which were
present several prominent members of Lycurgus society, among them
the Misses Sondra Finchley, Bertine Cranston, Jill and Gertrude
Trumbull and Perley Haynes, and Messrs. Clyde Griffiths, Frank
Harriet, Tracy Trumbull, Grant Cranston and Scott Nicholson. The
party, as is usual whenever the younger group assembles, did not
break up until late, the Lycurgus members motoring back just before
dawn. It is already rumored that most of this group will gather at
the Ellerslies', in Schenectady, New Year's Eve for another event
of this same gay nature."
"He seems to be quite a fellow over there," Gabel remarked, even as
Roberta was reading.
The first thing that occurred to Roberta on reading this item was that
it appeared to have little, if anything, to do with the group which
Clyde had said was present. In the first place there was no mention
of Myra or Bella Griffiths. On the other hand, all those names with
which, because of recent frequent references on the part of Clyde, she
was becoming most familiar were recorded as present. Sondra Finchley,
Bertine Cranston, the Trumbull girls, Perley Haynes. He had said it
had not been very interesting, and here it was spoken of as gay and he
himself was listed for another engagement of the same character New
Year's Eve, when, as a matter of fact, she had been counting on being
with him. He had not even mentioned this New Year's engagement. And
perhaps he would now make some last minute excuse for that, as he had
for the previous Friday evening. Oh, dear! What did all this mean,
anyhow!
Immediately what little romantic glamour this Christmas homecoming
had held for her was dissipated. She began to wonder whether Clyde
really cared for her as he had pretended. The dark state to which her
incurable passion for him had brought her now pained her terribly. For
without him and marriage and a home and children, and a reasonable
place in such a local world as she was accustomed to, what was there
for a girl like her in the world? And apart from his own continuing
affection for her--if it was really continuing, what assurance had she,
in the face of such incidents as these, that he would not eventually
desert her? And if this were true, here was her future, in so far
as marriage with any one else was concerned, compromised or made
impossible, maybe, and with no reliance to be placed on him.
She fell absolutely silent. And although Gabel inquired: "That's the
fellow, isn't it?" she arose without answering and said: "Excuse me,
please, a moment. I want to get something out of my bag," and hurried
once more to her former room upstairs. Once there she sat down on the
bed, and, resting her chin in her hands, a habit when troublesome or
necessary thoughts controlled her, gazed at the floor.
Where was Clyde now?
What one, if any, of those girls did he take to the Steele party? Was
he very much interested in her? Until this very day, because of Clyde's
unbroken devotion to her, she had not even troubled to think there
could be any other girl to whom his attentions could mean anything.
But now--now!
She got up and walked to the window and looked out on that same orchard
where as a girl so many times she had been thrilled by the beauty of
life. The scene was miserably bleak and bare. The thin, icy arms of
the trees--the gray, swaying twigs--a lone, rustling leaf somewhere.
And snow. And wretched outbuildings in need of repair. And Clyde
becoming indifferent to her. And the thought now came to her swiftly
and urgently that she must not stay here any longer than she could
help--not even this day, if possible. She must return to Lycurgus and
be near Clyde, if no more than to persuade him to his old affection
for her, or if not that, then by her presence to prevent him from
devoting himself too wholly to these others. Decidedly, to go away like
this, even for the holidays, was not good. In her absence he might
desert her completely for another girl, and if so, then would it not
be her fault? At once she pondered as to what excuse she could make
in order to return this day. But realizing that in view of all these
preliminary preparations this would seem inexplicably unreasonable, to
her mother most of all, she decided to endure it as she had planned
until Christmas afternoon, then to return, never to leave for so long a
period again.
But ad interim, all her thoughts were on how and in what way she could
make more sure, if at all, of Clyde's continued interest and social
and emotional support, as well as marriage in the future. Supposing
he had lied to her, how could she influence him, if at all, not to do
so again? How to make him feel that lying between them was not right?
How to make herself securely first in his heart against the dreams
engendered by the possible charms of another?
How?