her. This was in an old brick house in Elm Street occupied by an
upholsterer and his wife and two daughters, one a local milliner
and another still in school. The room offered was on the ground
floor to the right of a small front porch and overlooking the
street. A door off this same porch gave into a living room which
separated this room from the other parts of the house and permitted
ingress and egress without contact with any other portion of the
house. And since she was still moved to meet Clyde clandestinely
this as she now saw was important.
Besides, as she gathered from her one conversation with Mrs.
Gilpin, the mother of this family, the character of this home was
neither so strict nor inquisitive as that of the Newtons. Mrs.
Gilpin was large, passive, cleanly, not so very alert and about
fifty. She informed Roberta that as a rule she didn't care to take
boarders or roomers at all, since the family had sufficient means
to go on. However, since the family scarcely ever used the front
room, which was rather set off from the remainder of the house, and
since her husband did not object, she had made up her mind to rent
it. And again she preferred some one who worked like Roberta--a
girl, not a man--and one who would be glad to have her breakfast
and dinner along with her family. Since she asked no questions as
to her family or connections, merely looking at her interestedly
and seeming to be favorably impressed by her appearance, Roberta
gathered that here were no such standards as prevailed at the
Newtons.
And yet what qualms in connection with the thought of moving thus.
For about this entire clandestine procedure there hung, as she saw
it, a sense of something untoward and even sinful, and then on top
of it all, quarreling and then breaking with Grace Marr, her one
girl friend here thus far, and the Newtons on account of it, when,
as she well knew, it was entirely due to Grace that she was here at
all. Supposing her parents or her sister in Homer should hear
about this through some one whom Grace knew and think strangely of
her going off by herself in Lycurgus in this way? Was it right?
Was it possible that she could do things like this--and so soon
after her coming here? She was beginning to feel as though her
hitherto impeccable standards were crumbling.
And yet there was Clyde now. Could she give him up?
After many emotional aches she decided that she could not. And
accordingly after paying a deposit and arranging to occupy the room
within the next few days, she returned to her work and after dinner
the same evening announced to Mrs. Newton that she was going to
move. Her premeditated explanation was that recently she had been
thinking of having her younger brother and sister come and live
with her and since one or both were likely to come soon, she
thought it best to prepare for them.
And the Newtons, as well as Grace, feeling that this was all due to
the new connections which Roberta had recently been making and
which were tending to alienate her from Grace, were now content to
see her go. Plainly she was beginning to indulge in a type of
adventure of which they could not approve. Also it was plain that
she was not going to prove as useful to Grace as they had at first
imagined. Possibly she knew what she was doing. But more likely
she was being led astray by notions of a good time not consistent
with the reserved life led by her at Trippetts Mills.
And Roberta herself, once having made this move and settled herself
in this new atmosphere (apart from the fact that it gave her much
greater freedom in connection with Clyde) was dubious as to her
present course. Perhaps--perhaps--she had moved hastily and in
anger and might be sorry. Still she had done it now, and it could
not be helped. So she proposed to try it for a while.
To salve her own conscience more than anything else, she at once
wrote her mother and her sister a very plausible version of why she
had been compelled to leave the Newtons. Grace had grown too
possessive, domineering and selfish. It had become unendurable.
However, her mother need not worry. She was satisfactorily placed.
She had a room to herself and could now entertain Tom and Emily or
her mother or Agnes, in case they should ever visit her here. And
she would be able to introduce them to the Gilpins whom she
proceeded to describe.
Nevertheless, her underlying thought in connection with all this,
in so far as Clyde and his great passion for her was concerned--
and hers for him--was that she was indeed trifling with fire and
perhaps social disgrace into the bargain. For, although consciously
at this time she was scarcely willing to face the fact that this
room--its geometric position in relation to the rest of the house--
had been of the greatest import to her at the time she first saw it,
yet subconsciously she knew it well enough. The course she was
pursuing was dangerous--that she knew. And yet how, as she now so
often asked herself at moments when she was confronted by some
desire which ran counter to her sense of practicability and social
morality, was she to do?
Chapter 20
However, as both Roberta and Clyde soon found, after several weeks
in which they met here and there, such spots as could be
conveniently reached by interurban lines, there were still
drawbacks and the principal of these related to the attitude of
both Roberta and Clyde in regard to this room, and what, if any,
use of it was to be made by them jointly. For in spite of the fact
that thus far Clyde had never openly agreed with himself that his
intentions in relation to Roberta were in any way different to
those normally entertained by any youth toward any girl for whom he
had a conventional social regard, still, now that she had moved
into this room, there was that ineradicable and possibly
censurable, yet very human and almost unescapable, desire for
something more--the possibility of greater and greater intimacy
with and control of Roberta and her thoughts and actions in
everything so that in the end she would be entirely his. But how
HIS? By way of marriage and the ordinary conventional and durable
existence which thereafter must ordinarily ensue? He had never
said so to himself thus far. For in flirting with her or any girl
of a lesser social position than that of the Griffiths here (Sondra
Finchley, Bertine Cranston, for instance) he would not--and that
largely due to the attitude of his newly-found relatives, their
very high position in this city--have deemed marriage advisable.
And what would they think if they should come to know? For
socially, as he saw himself now, if not before coming here, he was
supposed to be above the type of Roberta and should of course
profit by that notion. Besides there were all those that knew him
here, at least to speak to. On the other hand, because of the very
marked pull that her temperament had for him, he had not been able
to say for the time being that she was not worthy of him or that he
might not be happy in case it were possible or advisable for him to
marry her.
And there was another thing now that tended to complicate matters.
And that was that fall with its chilling winds and frosty nights
was drawing near. Already it was near October first and most of
those out-of-door resorts which, up to the middle of September at
least, had provided diversion, and that at a fairly safe distance
from Lycurgus, were already closed for the season. And dancing,
except in the halls of the near-by cities and which, because of a
mood of hers in regard to them, were unacceptable, was also for the
time being done away with. As for the churches, moving pictures,
and restaurants of Lycurgus, how under the circumstances, owing to
Clyde's position here, could they be seen in them? They could not,
as both reasoned between them. And so now, while her movements
were unrestrained, there was no place to go unless by some
readjustment of their relations he might be permitted to call on
her at the Gilpins'. But that, as he knew, she would not think of
and, at first, neither had he the courage to suggest it.
However they were at a street-end one early October night about six
weeks after she had moved to her new room. The stars were sharp.
The air cool. The leaves were beginning to turn. Roberta had
returned to a three-quarter green-and-cream-striped winter coat
that she wore at this season of the year. Her hat was brown,
trimmed with brown leather and of a design that became her. There
had been kisses over and over--that same fever that had been
dominating them continuously since first they met--only more
pronounced if anything.
"It's getting cold, isn't it?" It was Clyde who spoke. And it was
eleven o'clock and chill.
"Yes, I should say it is. I'll soon have to get a heavier coat."
"I don't see how we are to do from now on, do you? There's no
place to go any more much, and it won't be very pleasant walking
the streets this way every night. You don't suppose we could fix
it so I could call on you at the Gilpins' once in a while, do you?
It isn't the same there now as it was at the Newtons'."
"Oh, I know, but then they use their sitting room every night
nearly until ten-thirty or eleven. And besides their two girls are
in and out all hours up to twelve, anyhow, and they're in there
often. I don't see how I can. Besides, I thought you said you
didn't want to have any one see you with me that way, and if you
came there I couldn't help introducing you."
"Oh, but I don't mean just that way," replied Clyde audaciously and
yet with the feeling that Roberta was much too squeamish and that
it was high time she was taking a somewhat more liberal attitude
toward him if she cared for him as much as she appeared to: "Why
wouldn't it be all right for me to stop in for a little while?
They wouldn't need to know, would they?" He took out his watch and
discovered with the aid of a match that it was eleven-thirty. He
showed the time to her. "There wouldn't be anybody there now,
would there?"
She shook her head in opposition. The thought not only terrified
but sickened her. Clyde was getting very bold to even suggest
anything like that. Besides this suggestion embodied in itself all
the secret fears and compelling moods which hitherto, although
actual in herself, she was still unwilling to face. There was
something sinful, low, dreadful about it. She would not. That was
one thing sure. At the same time within her was that overmastering
urge of repressed and feared desire now knocking loudly for
recognition.
"No, no, I can't let you do that. It wouldn't be right. I don't
want to. Some one might see us. Somebody might know you." For
the moment the moral repulsion was so great that unconsciously she
endeavored to relinquish herself from his embrace.
Clyde sensed how deep was this sudden revolt. All the more was he
flagellated by the desire for possession of that which now he half
feared to be unobtainable. A dozen seductive excuses sprang to his
lips. "Oh, who would be likely to see us anyhow, at this time of
night? There isn't any one around. Why shouldn't we go there for
a few moments if we want to? No one would be likely to hear us.
We needn't talk so loud. There isn't any one on the street, even.
Let's walk by the house and see if anybody is up."
Since hitherto she had not permitted him to come within half a
block of the house, her protest was not only nervous but vigorous.
Nevertheless on this occasion Clyde was proving a little rebellious
and Roberta, standing somewhat in awe of him as her superior, as
well as her lover, was unable to prevent their walking within a few
feet of the house where they stopped. Except for a barking dog
there was not a sound to be heard anywhere. And in the house no
light was visible.
"See, there's no one up," protested Clyde reassuringly. "Why
shouldn't we go in for a little while if we want to? Who will
know? We needn't make any noise. Besides, what is wrong with it?
Other people do it. It isn't such a terrible thing for a girl to
take a fellow to her room if she wants to for a little while."
"Oh, isn't it? Well, maybe not in your set. But I know what's
right and I don't think that's right and I won't do it."
At once, as she said this, Roberta's heart gave a pained and
weakening throb, for in saying so much she had exhibited more
individuality and defiance than ever he had seen or that she
fancied herself capable of in connection with him. It terrified
her not a little. Perhaps he would not like her so much now if she
were going to talk like that.
His mood darkened immediately. Why did she want to act so? She
was too cautious, too afraid of anything that spelled a little life
or pleasure. Other girls were not like that,--Rita, those girls at
the factory. She pretended to love him. She did not object to his
holding her in his arms and kissing her under a tree at the end of
the street. But when it came to anything slightly more private or
intimate, she could not bring herself to agree. What kind of a
girl was she, anyhow? What was the use of pursuing her? Was this
to be another case of Hortense Briggs with all her wiles and
evasions? Of course Roberta was in no wise like her, but still she
was so stubborn.
Although she could not see his face she knew he was angry and quite
for the first time in this way.
"All right, then, if you don't want to, you don't have to," came
his words and with decidedly a cold ring to them. "There are
others places I can go. I notice you never want to do anything I
want to do, though. I'd like to know how you think we're to do.
We can't walk the streets every night." His tone was gloomy and
foreboding--more contentious and bitter than at any time ever
between them. And his references to other places shocked and
frightened Roberta--so much so that instantly almost her own mood
changed. Those other girls in his own world that no doubt he saw
from time to time! Those other girls at the factory who were
always trying to make eyes at him! She had seen them trying, and
often. That Ruza Nikoforitch--as coarse as she was, but pretty,
too. And that Flora Brandt! And Martha Bordaloue--ugh! To think
that any one as nice as he should be pursued by such wretches as
those. However, because of that, she was fearful lest he would
think her too difficult--some one without the experience or daring
to which he, in his superior world, was accustomed, and so turn to
one of those. Then she would lose him. The thought terrified her.
Immediately from one of defiance her attitude changed to one of
pleading persuasion.
"Oh, please, Clyde, don't be mad with me now, will you? You know
that I would if I could. I can't do anything like that here.
Can't you see? You know that. Why, they'd be sure to find out.
And how would you feel if some one were to see us or recognize
you?" In a pleading way she put one hand on his arm, then about
his waist and he could feel that in spite of her sharp opposition
the moment before, she was very much concerned--painfully so.
"Please don't ask me to," she added in a begging tone.
"Well, what did you want to leave the Newtons for then?" he asked
sullenly. "I can't see where else we can go now if you won't let
me come to see you once in a while. We can't go any place else."
The thought gave Roberta pause. Plainly this relationship was not
to be held within conventional lines. At the same time she did not
see how she could possibly comply. It was too unconventional--too
unmoral--bad.
"I thought we took it," she said weakly and placatively, "just so
that we could go places on Saturday and Sunday."
"But where can we go Saturday and Sunday now? Everything's
closed."
Again Roberta was checked by these unanswerable complexities which
beleaguered them both and she exclaimed futilely, "Oh, I wish I
knew what to do."
"Oh, it would be easy enough if you wanted to do it, but that's
always the way with you, you don't want to."
She stood there, the night wind shaking the drying whispering
leaves. Distinctly the problem in connection with him that she had
been fearing this long while was upon her. Could she possibly,
with all the right instruction that she had had, now do as he
suggested. She was pulled and swayed by contending forces within
herself, strong and urgent in either case. In the one instance,
however painful it was to her moral and social mood, she was moved
to comply--in another to reject once and for all, any such, as she
saw it, bold and unnatural suggestion. Nevertheless, in spite of
the latter and because of her compelling affection she could not do
other than deal tenderly and pleadingly with him.
"I can't, Clyde, I can't. I would if I could but I can't. It
wouldn't be right. I would if I could make myself, but I can't."
She looked up into his face, a pale oval in the dark, trying to see
if he would not see, sympathize, be moved in her favor. However,
irritated by this plainly definite refusal, he was not now to be
moved. All this, as he saw it, smacked of that long series of
defeats which had accompanied his attentions to Hortense Briggs.
He was not going to stand for anything now like that, you bet. If
this was the way she was going to act, well let her act so--but not
with him. He could get plenty of girls now--lots of them--who
would treat him better than this.
At once, and with an irritated shrug of the shoulders, as she now
saw, he turned and started to leave her, saying as he did so, "Oh,
that's all right, if that's the way you feel about it." And
Roberta dumfounded and terrified, stood there.
"Please don't, go, Clyde. Please don't leave me," she exclaimed
suddenly and pathetically, her defiance and courage undergoing a
deep and sad change. "I don't want you to. I love you so, Clyde.
I would if I could. You know that."
"Oh, yes, I know, but you needn't tell me that" (it was his
experience with Hortense and Rita that was prompting him to this
attitude). With a twist he released his body from her arm and
started walking briskly down the street in the dark.
And Roberta, stricken by this sudden development which was so
painful to both, called, "Clyde!" And then ran after him a little
way, eager that he should pause and let her plead with him more.
But he did not return. Instead he went briskly on. And for the
moment it was all she could do to keep from following him and by
sheer force, if need be, restrain him. Her Clyde! And she started
running in his direction a little, but as suddenly stopped, checked
for the moment by the begging, pleading, compromising attitude in
which she, for the first time, found herself. For on the one hand
all her conventional training was now urging her to stand firm--not
to belittle herself in this way--whereas on the other, all her
desires for love, understanding, companionship, urged her to run
after him before it was too late, and he was gone. His beautiful
face, his beautiful hands. His eyes. And still the receding echo
of his feet. And yet so binding were the conventions which had
been urged upon her up to this time that, though suffering
horribly, a balance between the two forces was struck, and she
paused, feeling that she could neither go forward nor stand still--
understand or endure this sudden rift in their wonderful
friendship.
Pain constricted her heart and whitened her lips. She stood there
numb and silent--unable to voice anything, even the name Clyde
which persistently arose as a call in her throat. Instead she was
merely thinking, "Oh, Clyde, please don't go, Clyde. Oh, please
don't go." And he was already out of hearing, walking briskly and
grimly on, the click and echo of his receding steps falling less
and less clearly on her suffering ears.
It was the first flashing, blinding, bleeding stab of love for her.
Chapter 21
The state of Roberta's mind for that night is not easily to be
described. For here was true and poignant love, and in youth true
and poignant love is difficult to withstand. Besides it was
coupled with the most stirring and grandiose illusions in regard to
Clyde's local material and social condition--illusions which had
little to do with anything he had done to build up, but were based
rather on conjecture and gossip over which he had no control. And
her own home, as well as her personal situation was so unfortunate--
no promise of any kind save in his direction. And here she was
quarreling with him--sending him away angry. On the other hand was
he not beginning to push too ardently toward those troublesome and
no doubt dreadful liberties and familiarities which her morally
trained conscience would not permit her to look upon as right? How
was she to do now? What to say?
Now it was that she said to herself in the dark of her room, after
having slowly and thoughtfully undressed and noiselessly crept into
the large, old-fashioned bed. "No, I won't do that. I mustn't. I
can't. I will be a bad girl if I do. I should not do that for him
even though he does want me to, and should threaten to leave me
forever in case I refuse. He should be ashamed to ask me." And at
the very same moment, or the next, she would be asking herself what
else under the circumstances they were to do. For most certainly
Clyde was at least partially correct in his contention that they
had scarcely anywhere else they could go and not be recognized.
How unfair was that rule of the company. And no doubt apart from
that rule, the Griffiths would think it beneath him to be troubling
with her, as would no doubt the Newtons and the Gilpins for that
matter, if they should hear and know who he was. And if this
information came to their knowledge it would injure him and her.
And she would not do anything that would injure him--never.
One thing that occurred to her at this point was that she should
get a place somewhere else so that this problem should be solved--
a problem which at the moment seemed to have little to do with the
more immediate and intimate one of desiring to enter her room. But
that would mean that she would not see him any more all day long--
only at night. And then not every night by any means. And that
caused her to lay aside this thought of seeking another place.
At the same time as she now meditated the dawn would come to-morrow
and there would be Clyde at the factory. And supposing that he
should not speak to her nor she to him. Impossible! Ridiculous!
Terrible! The mere thought brought her to a sitting posture in
bed, where distractedly a vision of Clyde looking indifferently and
coldly upon her came to her.
On the instant she was on her feet and had turned on the one
incandescent globe which dangled from the center of the room. She
went to the mirror hanging above the old walnut dresser in the
corner and stared at herself. Already she imagined she could see
dark rings under her eyes. She felt numb and cold and now shook
her head in a helpless and distracted way. He couldn't be that
mean. He couldn't be that cruel to her now--could he? Oh, if he
but knew how difficult--how impossible was the thing he was asking
of her! Oh, if the day would only come so that she could see his
face again! Oh, if it were only another night so that she could
take his hands in hers--his arm--feel his arms about her.
"Clyde, Clyde," she exclaimed half aloud, "you wouldn't do that to
me, would you--you couldn't."
She crossed to an old, faded and somewhat decrepit overstuffed
chair which stood in the center of the room beside a small table
whereon lay some nondescript books and magazines--the Saturday
Evening Post, Munsey's, the Popular Science Monthly, Bebe's Garden
Seeds, and to escape most distracting and searing thoughts, sat
down, her chin in her hands, her elbows planted on her knees. But
the painful thoughts continuing and a sense of chill overtaking
her, she took a comforter off the bed and folded it about her, then
opened the seed catalogue--only to throw it down.
"No, no, no, he couldn't do that to me, he wouldn't." She must not
let him. Why, he had told her over and over that he was crazy
about her--madly in love with her. They had been to all these
wonderful places together.
And now, without any real consciousness of her movements, she was
moving from the chair to the edge of the bed, sitting with elbows
on knees and chin in hands; or she was before the mirror or peering
restlessly out into the dark to see if there were any trace of day.
And at six, and six-thirty when the light was just breaking and it
was nearing time to dress, she was still up--in the chair, on the
edge of the bed, in the corner before the mirror.
But she had reached but one definite conclusion and that was that
in some way she must arrange not to have Clyde leave her. That
must not be. There must be something that she could say or do that
would cause him to love her still--even if, even if--well, even if
she must let him stop in here or somewhere from time to time--some
other room in some other rooming house maybe, where she could
arrange in some way beforehand--say that he was her brother or
something.
But the mood that dominated Clyde was of a different nature. To
have understood it correctly, the full measure and obstinacy and
sullen contentiousness that had suddenly generated, one would have
had to return to Kansas City and the period in which he had been so
futilely dancing attendance upon Hortense Briggs. Also his having
been compelled to give up Rita,--yet to no end. For, although the
present conditions and situation were different, and he had no
moral authority wherewith to charge Roberta with any such unfair
treatment as Hortense had meted out to him, still there was this
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