An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

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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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