good boy, Clyde.”
She turned and looked up into his eyes to see what if any
effect this baby-worded cajolery was having, and Clyde did
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his best to brighten, of course. But even so, and in the face
of all this amazingly wonderful love on her part for him, the
specter of Roberta and all that she represented now in
connection with all this, was ever before him—her state, her
very recent edict in regard to it, the obvious impossibility of
doing anything now but go away with her.
Why—rather than let himself in for a thing like that—would
it not be better, and even though he lost Sondra once and
for all, for him to decamp as in the instance of the slain
child in Kansas City—and be heard of nevermore here. But
then he would lose Sondra, his connections here, and his
uncle—this world! The loss! The loss! The misery of once
more drifting about here and there; of being compelled to
write his mother once more concerning certain things about
his flight, which some one writing from here might explain to
her afterwards—and so much more damagingly. And the
thoughts concerning him on the part of his relatives! And of
late he had been writing his mother that he was doing so
well. What was it about his life that made things like this
happen to him? Was this what his life was to be like?
Running away from one situation and another just to start
all over somewhere else—perhaps only to be compelled to
flee from something worse. No, he could not run away
again. He must face it and solve it in some way. He must!
God!
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Chapter 41
THE fifth of June arriving, the Finchleys departed as Sondra
had indicated, but not without a most urgent request from
her that he be prepared to come to the Cranstons’ either
the second or third week-end following—she to advise him
definitely later—a departure which so affected Clyde that he
could scarcely think what to do with himself in her absence,
depressed as he was by the tangle which Roberta’s
condition presented. And exactly at this time also, Roberta’s
fears and demands had become so urgent that it was really
no longer possible for him to assure her that if she would
but wait a little while longer, he would be prepared to act in
her behalf. Plead as he might, her case, as she saw it, was
at last critical and no longer to be trifled with in any way.
Her figure, as she insisted (although this was largely
imaginative on her part), had altered to such an extent that
it would not be possible for her longer to conceal it, and all
those who worked with her at the factory were soon bound
to know. She could no longer work or sleep with any comfort
—she must not stay here any more. She was having
preliminary pains—purely imaginary ones in her case. He
must marry her now, as he had indicated he would, and
leave with her at once—for some place—any place, really—
near or far—so long as she was extricated from this present
terrible danger. And she would agree, as she now all but
pleaded, to let him go his way again as soon as their child
was born—truly—and would not ask any more of him ever—
ever. But now, this very week—not later than the fifteenth at
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the latest—he must arrange to see her through with this as
he had promised.
But this meant that he would be leaving with her before
ever he should have visited Sondra at Twelfth Lake at all,
and without ever seeing her any more really. And, besides,
as he so well knew, he had not saved the sum necessary to
make possible the new venture on which she was insisting.
In vain it was that Roberta now explained that she had
saved over a hundred, and they could make use of that
once they were married or to help in connection with
whatever expenses might be incurred in getting to wherever
he should decide they were going. All that he would see or
feel was that this meant the loss of everything to him, and
that he would have to go away with her to some relatively
near-by place and get work at anything he could, in order to
support her as best he might. But the misery of such a
change! The loss of all his splendid dreams. And yet,
racking his brains, he could think of nothing better than that
she should quit and go home for the time being, since as he
now argued, and most shrewdly, as he thought, he needed
a few more weeks to prepare for the change which was
upon them both. For, in spite of all his efforts, as he now
falsely asserted, he had not been able to save as much as
he had hoped. He needed at least three or four more weeks
in which to complete the sum, which he had been looking
upon as advisable in the face of this meditated change.
Was not she herself guessing, as he knew, that it could not
be less than a hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars—
quite large sums in her eyes—whereas, above his current
salary, Clyde had no more than forty dollars and was
dreaming of using that and whatever else he might secure
in the interim to meet such expenses as might be incurred
in the anticipated visit to Twelfth Lake.
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But to further support his evasive suggestion that she now
return to her home for a short period, he added that she
would want to fix herself up a little, wouldn’t she? She
couldn’t go away on a trip like this, which involved marriage
and a change of social contacts in every way, without some
improvements in her wardrobe. Why not take her hundred
dollars or a part of it anyhow and use it for that? So
desperate was his state that he even suggested that. And
Roberta, who, in the face of her own uncertainty up to this
time as to what was to become of her had not ventured to
prepare or purchase anything relating either to a trousseau
or layette, now began to think that whatever the ulterior
purpose of his suggestion, which like all the others was
connected with delay, it might not be unwise even now if
she did take a fortnight or three weeks, and with the
assistance of an inexpensive and yet tolerable dressmaker,
who had aided her sister at times, make at least one or two
suitable dresses—a flowered gray taffeta afternoon dress,
such as she had once seen in a movie, in which, should
Clyde keep his word, she could be married. To match this
pleasing little costume, she planned to add a chic little gray
silk hat—poke-shaped, with pink or scarlet cherries nestled
up under the brim, together with a neat little blue serge
traveling suit, which, with brown shoes and a brown hat,
would make her as smart as any bride. The fact that such
preparations as these meant additional delay and expense,
or that Clyde might not marry her after all, or that this
proposed marriage from the point of view of both was the
tarnished and discolored thing that it was, was still not
sufficient to take from the thought of marriage as an event,
or sacrament even, that proper color and romance with
which it was invested in her eyes and from which, even
under such an unsatisfactory set of circumstances as these,
it could not be divorced. And, strangely enough, in spite of
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all the troubled and strained relations that had developed
between them, she still saw Clyde in much the same light in
which she had seen him at first. He was a Griffiths, a youth
of genuine social, if not financial distinction, one whom all
the girls in her position, as well as many of those far above
her, would be delighted to be connected with in this way—
that is, via marriage. He might be objecting to marrying her,
but he was a person of consequence, just the same. And
one with whom, if he would but trouble to care for her a
little, she could be perfectly happy. And at any rate, once he
had loved her. And it was said of men—some men, anyway
(so she had heard her mother and others say) that once a
child was presented to them, it made a great difference in
their attitude toward the mother, sometimes. They came to
like the mother, too. Anyhow for a little while—a very little
while—if what she had agreed to were strictly observed,
she would have him with her to assist her through this great
crisis—to give his name to her child—to aid her until she