his manner changed from one of comparatively affable, if
nervous, consideration to that of mingled fear, opposition as
well as determination to evade drastic consequence. For
this would spell complete ruin for him, the loss of Sondra,
his job, his social hopes and ambitions in connection with
the Griffiths—all—a thought which sickened and at the
same time caused him to hesitate about how to proceed.
But he would not! he would not! He would not do this!
Never! Never!! Never!!!
Yet after a moment he exclaimed equivocally: “Well, gee,
that’s all right, too, Bert, for you, because that fixes
everything without any trouble at all. But what about me?
You don’t want to forget that that isn’t going to be easy for
me, the way things are now. You know I haven’t any
money. All I have is my job. And besides, the family don’t
know anything about you yet—not a thing. And if it should
suddenly come out now that we’ve been going together all
this time, and that this has happened, and that I was going
to have to get married right away, well, gee, they’ll know
I’ve been fooling ’em and they’re sure to get sore. And then
what? They might even fire me.”
He paused to see what effect this explanation would have,
but noting the somewhat dubious expression which of late
characterized Roberta’s face whenever he began excusing
himself, he added hopefully and evasively, seeking by any
trick that he could to delay this sudden issue: “Besides, I’m
not so sure that I can’t find a doctor yet, either. I haven’t
had much luck so far, but that’s not saying that I won’t. And
there’s a little time yet, isn’t there? Sure there is. It’s all right
up to three months anyway.” (He had since had a letter
from Ratterer who had commented on this fact.) “And I did
hear something the other day of a doctor over in Albany
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who might do it. Anyway, I thought I’d go over and see
before I said anything about him.”
His manner, when he said this, was so equivocal that Ro
berta could tell he was merely lying to gain time. There was
no doctor in Albany. Besides it was so plain that he
resented her suggestion and was only thinking of some way
of escaping it. And she knew well enough that at no time
had he said directly that he would marry her. And while she
might urge, in the last analysis she could not force him to
do anything. He might just go away alone, as he had once
said in connection with inadvertently losing his job because
of her. And how much greater might not his impulse in that
direction now be, if this world here in which he was so
much interested were taken away from him, and he were to
face the necessity of taking. her and a child, too. It made
her more cautious and caused her to modify her first
impulse to speak out definitely and forcefully, however great
her necessity might be. And so disturbed was he by the
panorama of the bright world of which Sondra was the
center and which was now at stake, that he could scarcely
think clearly. Should he lose all this for such a world as he
and Roberta could provide for themselves—a small home—
a baby, such a routine work-a-day life as taking care of her
and a baby on such a salary as he could earn, and from
which most likely he would never again be freed! God! A
sense of nausea seized him. He could not and would not do
this. And yet, as he now saw, all his dreams could be so
easily tumbled about his ears by her and because of one
false step on his part. It made him cautious and for the first
time in his life caused tact and cunning to visualize itself as
a profound necessity.
And at the same time, Clyde was sensing inwardly and
somewhat shamefacedly all of this profound change in
himself.
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But Roberta was saying: “Oh, I know, Clyde, but you
yourself said just now that you were stumped, didn’t you?
And every day that goes by just makes it so much the
worse for me, if we’re not going to be able to get a doctor.
You can’t get married and have a child born within a few
months—you know that. Every one in the world would
know. Besides I have myself to consider as well as you, you
know. And the baby, too.” (At the mere mention of a coming
child Clyde winced and recoiled as though he had been
slapped. She noted it.) “I just must do one of two things
right away, Clyde—get married or get out of this and you
don’t seem to be able to get me out of it, do you? If you’re
so afraid of what your uncle might think or do in case we
get married,” she added nervously and yet suavely, “why
couldn’t we get married right away and then keep it a secret
for a while—as long as we could, or as long as you thought
we ought to,” she added shrewdly. “Meanwhile I could go
home and tell my parents about it—that I am married, but
that it must be kept a secret for a while. Then when the
time came, when things got so bad that we couldn’t stay
here any longer without telling, why we could either go
away somewhere, if we wanted to—that is, if you didn’t
want your uncle to know, or we could just announce that we
were married some time ago. Lots of young couples do that
nowadays. And as for getting along,” she went on, noting a
sudden dour shadow that passed over Clyde’s face like a
cloud, “why we could always find something to do—I know I
could, anyhow, once the baby is born.”
When first she began to speak, Clyde had seated himself
on the edge of the bed, listening nervously and dubiously to
all she had to offer. However, when she came to that part
which related to marriage and going away, he got up—an
irresistible impulse to move overcoming him. And when she
concluded with the commonplace suggestion of going to
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work as soon as the baby was born, he looked at her with
little less than panic in his eyes. To think of marrying and
being in a position where it would be necessary to do that,
when with a little luck and without interference from her, he
might marry Sondra.
“Oh, yes, that’s all right for you, Bert. That fixes everything
up for you, but how about me? Why, gee whiz, I’ve only got
started here now as it is, and if I have to pack up and get
out, and I would have to, if ever they found out about this,
why I don’t know what I’d do. I haven’t any business or
trade that I could turn my hand to. It might go hard with both
of us. Besides my uncle gave me this chance because I
begged him to, and if I walked off now he never would do
anything for me.”
In his excitement he was forgetting that at one time and
another in the past he had indicated to Roberta that the
state of his own parents was not wholly unprosperous and
that if things did not go just to his liking here, he could
return west and perhaps find something to do out there.
And it was some general recollection of this that now
caused her to ask: “Couldn’t we go out to Denver or
something like that? Wouldn’t your father be willing to help
you get something for a time, anyhow?”
Her tone was very soft and pleading, an attempt to make
Clyde feel that things could not be as bad as he was
imagining. But the mere mention of his father in connection
with all this—the assumption that he, of all people, might
prove an escape from drudgery for them both, was a little
too much. It showed how dreadfully incomplete was her
understanding of his true position in this world. Worse, she
was looking for help from that quarter. And, not finding it,
later might possibly reproach him for that—who could tell—
for his lies in connection with it. It made so very clear now
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the necessity for frustrating, if possible, and that at once,
any tendency toward this idea of marriage. It could not be—
ever.
And yet how was he to oppose this idea with safety, since
she felt that she had this claim on him—how say to her
openly and coldly that he could not and would not marry
her? And unless he did so now she might think it would be
fair and legitimate enough for her to compel him to do so.