could once more establish herself in some way.
For the time being, therefore, and with no more plan than
this, although with great misgivings and nervous qualms,
since, as she could see, Clyde was decidedly indifferent,
she rested on this. And it was in this mood that five days
later, and after Roberta had written to her parents that she
was coming home for two weeks at least, to get a dress or
two made and to rest a little, because she was not feeling
very well, that Clyde saw her off for her home in Biltz, riding
with her as far as Fonda. But in so far as he was
concerned, and since he had really no definite or workable
idea, it seemed important to him that only silence, silence
was the great and all essential thing now, so that, even
under the impending edge of the knife of disaster, he might
be able to think more, and more, and more, without being
compelled to do anything, and without momentarily being
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tortured by the thought that Roberta, in some nervous or
moody or frantic state, would say or do something which,
assuming that he should hit upon some helpful thought or
plan in connection with Sondra, would prevent him from
executing it.
And about the same time, Sondra was writing him gay
notes from Twelfth Lake as to what he might expect upon
his arrival a little later. Blue water—white sails—tennis—golf
—horseback riding—driving. She had it all arranged with
Bertine, as she said. And kisses—kisses—kisses!
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Chapter 42
TWO letters, which arrived at this time and simultaneously,
but accentuated the difficulty of all this.
Pine Point Landing, June 10th
CLYDE MYDIE:
How is my pheet phing? All whytie? It’s just glorious up
here. Lots of people already here and more coming
every day. The Casino and golf course over at Pine
Point are open and lots of people about. I can hear
Stuart and Grant with their launches going up toward
Gray’s Inlet now. You must hurry and come up, dear.
It’s too nice for words. Green roads to gallop through,
and swimming and dancing at the Casino every
afternoon at four. Just back from a wonderful gallop on
Dickey and going again after luncheon to mail these
letters. Bertine says she’ll write you a letter to-day or
tomorrow good for any week-end or any old time, so
when Sonda says come, you come, you hear, else
Sonda whip hard. You baddie, good boy.
Is he working hard in the baddie old factory? Sonda
wisses he was here wiss her instead. We’d ride and
drive and swim and dance. Don’t forget your tennis
racquet and golf clubs. There’s a dandy course on the
Casino grounds.
This morning when I was riding a bird flew right up
under Dickey’s heels. It scared him so that he bolted,
and Sonda got all switched and scwatched. Isn’t Clydie
sorry for his Sonda?
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She is writing lots of notes to-day. After lunch and the
ride to catch the down mail, Sonda and Bertine and
Nina going to the Casino. Don’t you wish you were
going to be there? We could dance to “Taudy.” Sonda
just loves that song. But she has to dress now. More to-
morrow, baddie boy. And when Bertine writes, answer
right away. See all ‘ose dots? Kisses. Big and little
ones. All for baddie boy. And wite Sonda every day and
she’ll write ‘oo.
More kisses.
To which Clyde responded eagerly and in kind in the same
hour. But almost the same mail, at least the same day,
brought the following letter from Roberta.
Biltz, June 10th.
DEAR CLYDE:
I am nearly ready for bed, but I will write you a few
lines. I had such a tiresome journey coming up that I
was nearly sick. In the first place I didn’t want to come
much (alone) as you know. I feel too upset and
uncertain about everything, although I try not to feel so
now that we have our plan and you are going to come
for me as you said.
(At this point, while nearly sickened by the thought of
the wretched country world in which she lived, still,
because of Roberta’s unfortunate and unavoidable
relation to it, he now experienced one of his old time
twinges of remorse and pity in regard to her. For after
all, this was not her fault. She had so little to look
forward to—nothing but her work or a commonplace
marriage. For the first time in many days, really, and in
the absence of both, he was able to think clearly—and
to sympathize deeply, if gloomily. For the remainder of
the letter read:)
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But it’s very nice here now. The trees are so beautifully
green and the flowers in bloom. I can hear the bees in
the orchard whenever I go near the south windows. On
the way up instead of coming straight home I decided
to stop at Homer to see my sister and brother-in-law,
since I am not so sure now when I shall see them
again, if ever, for I am resolved that they shall see me
respectable, or never at all any more. You mustn’t think
I mean anything hard or mean by this. I am just sad.
They have such a cute little home there, Clyde—pretty
furniture, a victrola and all, and Agnes is so very happy
with Fred. I hope she always will be. I couldn’t help
thinking of what a dear place we might have had, if only
my dreams had come true. And nearly all the time I
was there Fred kept teasing me as to why I don’t get
married, until I said, “Oh, well, Fred, you mustn’t be too
sure that I won’t one of these days. All good things
come to him who waits, you know.”“Yes, unless you
just turn out to be a waiter,” was the way he hit me
back.
But I was truly glad to see mother again, Clyde. She’s
so loving and patient and helpful. The sweetest,
dearest mother that ever, ever was. And I just hate to
hurt her in any way. And Tom and Emily, too. They
have had friends here every evening since I’ve been
here—and they want me to join in, but I hardly feel well
enough now to do all the things they want me to do—
play cards and games—dance.
(At this point Clyde could not help emphasizing in his
own mind the shabby home world of which she was a
part and which so recently he had seen—that rickety
house! those toppling chimneys! Her uncouth father.
And that in contrast to such a letter as this other from
Sondra.)
Father and mother and Tom and Emily just seem to
hang around and try to do things for me. And I feel
remorseful when I think how they would feel if they
knew, for, of course, I have to pretend that it is work
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642
that makes me feel so tired and depressed as I am
sometimes. Mother keeps saying that I must stay a
long time or quit entirely and rest and get well again,
but she just don’t know of course—poor dear. If she
did! I can’t tell you how that makes me feel sometimes,
Clyde. Oh, dear!
But there, I mustn’t put my sad feelings over on you
either. I don’t want to, as I told you, if you will only come
and get me as we’ve agreed. And I won’t be like that
either, Clyde. I’m not that way all the time now. I’ve
started to get ready and do all the things it’ll take to do
in three weeks and that’s enough to keep my mind off
everything but work. But you will come for me, won’t
you, dear? You won’t disappoint me any more and
make me suffer this time like you have so far, for, oh,
how long it has been now—ever since I was here
before at Christmas time, really. But you were truly nice
to me. I promise not to be a burden on you, for I know
you don’t really care for me any more and so I don’t
care much what happens now, so long as I get out of
this. But I truly promise not to be a burden on you.
Oh, dear, don’t mind this blot. I just don’t seem to be
able to control myself these days like I once could.
But as for what I came for. The family think they are
clothes for a party down in Lycurgus and that I must be
having a wonderful time. Well, it’s better that way than
the other. I may have to come as far as Fonda to get
some things, if I don’t send Mrs. Anse, the dressmaker,
and if so, and if you wanted to see me again before you