An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser (whitelam books .TXT) 📖

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. Someone 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 Finchiey, 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