all but immediately within his control; at other times (the
thought of Roberta sweeping down upon him as an icy
wind), as though nothing could be more sad, terrible,
numbing to the dreams of beauty, love and happiness than
this which now threatened him. That terrible item about the
lake and those two people drowned! The probability that in
spite of his wild plan within a week, or two or three at most,
he would have to leave all this forever. And then of a
sudden he would wake to realize that he was fumbling or
playing badly—that Bertine or Sondra or Grant was calling:
“Oh, Clyde, what are you thinking of, anyhow?” And from
the darkest depths of his heart he would have answered,
had he spoken, “Roberta.”
At the Brookshaws’, again that evening, a smart company
of friends of Sondra’s, Bertine’s and others. On the dance
floor a reëncounter with Sondra, all smiles, for she was
pretending for the benefit of others here—her mother and
father in particular—that she had not seen Clyde before—
did not even know that he was here.
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“You up here? That’s great. Over at the Cranstons’? Oh,
isn’t that dandy? Right next door to us. Well, well see a lot
of each other, what? How about a canter to-morrow before
seven? Bertine and I go nearly every day. And we’ll have a
picnic to-morrow, if nothing interferes, canoeing and
motoring. Don’t worry about not riding well. I’ll get Bertine to
let you have Jerry—he’s just a sheep. And you don’t need
to worry about togs, either. Grant has scads of things. I’ll
dance the next two dances with others, but you sit out the
third one with me, will you? I know a peach of a place
outside on the balcony.”
She was off with fingers extended but with a “we-
understand-each-other” look in her eye. And outside in the
shadow later she pulled his face to hers when no one was
looking and kissed him eagerly, and, before the evening
was over, they had managed, by strolling along a path
which led away from the house along the lake shore, to
embrace under the moon.
“Sondra so glad Clydie here. Misses him so much.” She
smoothed his hair as he kissed her, and Clyde, bethinking
him of the shadow which lay so darkly between them,
crushed her feverishly, desperately., “Oh, my darling baby
girl,” he exclaimed. “My beautiful, beautiful Sondra! If you
only knew how much I love you! If you only knew! I wish I
could tell you all. I wish I could.”
But he could not now—or ever. He would never dare to
speak to her of even so much as a phase of the black
barrier that now lay between them. For, with her training,
the standards of love and marriage that had been set for
her, she would never understand, never be willing to make
so great a sacrifice for love, as much as she loved him. And
he would be left, abandoned on the instant, and with what
horror in her eyes!
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Yet looking into his eyes, his face white and tense, and the
glow of the moon above making small white electric sparks
in his eyes, she exclaimed as he gripped her tightly: “Does
he love Sondra so much? Oh, sweetie boy! Sondra loves
him, too.” She seized his head between her hands and held
it tight, kissing him swiftly and ardently a dozen times. “And
Sondra won’t give her Clydie up either. She won’t. You just
wait and see! It doesn’t matter what happens now. It may
not be so very easy, but she won’t.” Then as suddenly and
practically, as so often was her way, she exclaimed: “But
we must go now, right away. No, not another kiss now. No,
no, Sondra says no, now. They’ll be missing us.” And
straightening up and pulling him by the arm she hurried him
back to the house in time to meet Palmer Thurston, who
was looking for her.
The next morning, true to her promise, there was the canter
to Inspiration Point, and that before seven—Bertine and
Sondra in bright red riding coats and white breeches and
black boots, their hair unbound and loose to the wind, and
riding briskly on before for the most part; then racing back
to where he was. Or Sondra halloing gayly for him to come
on, or the two of them laughing and chatting a hundred
yards ahead in some concealed chapel of the aisled trees
where he could not see them. And because of the interest
which Sondra was so obviously manifesting in him these
days—an interest which Bertine herself had begun to feel
might end in marriage, if no family complications arose to
interfere—she, Bertine, was all smiles, the very soul of
cordiality, winsomely insisting that he should come up and
stay for the summer and she would chaperon them both so
that no one would have a chance to complain. And Clyde
thrilling, and yet brooding too—by turns—occasionally—and
in spite of himself drifting back to the thought that the item
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in the paper had inspired—and yet fighting it—trying to shut
it out entirely.
And then at one point, Sondra, turning down a steep path
which led to a stony and moss-lipped spring between the
dark trees, called to Clyde to “Come on down. Jerry knows
the way. He won’t slip. Come and get a drink. If you do,
you’ll come back again soon—so they say.”
And once he was down and had dismounted to drink, she
exclaimed: “I’ve been wanting to tell you something. You
should have seen Mamma’s face last night when she heard
you were up here. She can’t be sure that I had anything to
do with it, of course, because she thinks that Bertine likes
you, too. I made her think that. But just the same she
suspects that I had a hand in it, I guess, and she doesn’t
quite like it. But she can’t say anything more than she has
before. And I had a talk with Bertine just now and she’s
agreed to stick by me and help me all she can. But we’ll
have to be even more careful than ever now, because I
think if Mamma got too suspicious I don’t know what she
might do—want us to leave here, even now maybe, just so
I couldn’t see you. You know she feels that I shouldn’t be
interested in any one yet except some one she likes. You
know how it is. She’s that way with Stuart, too. But if you’ll
take care not to show that you care for me so much
whenever we’re around any one of our crowd, I don’t think
she’ll do anything—not now, anyhow. Later on, in the fall,
when we’re back in Lycurgus, things will be different. I’ll be
of age then, and I’m going to see what I can do. I never
loved any one before, but I do love you, and, well, I won’t
give you up, that’s all. I won’t. And they can’t make me,
either!”
She stamped her foot and struck her boot, the while the two
horses looked idly and vacantly about. And Clyde, enthused
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and astonished by this second definite declaration in his
behalf, as well as fired by the thought that now, if ever, he
might suggest the elopement and marriage and so rid
himself of the sword that hung so threateningly above him,
now gazed at Sondra, his eyes filled with a nervous hope
and a nervous fear. For she might refuse, and change, too,
shocked by the suddenness of his suggestion. And he had
no money and no place in mind where they might go either,
in case she accepted his proposal. But she had, perhaps,
or she might have. And having once consented, might she
not help him? Of course. At any rate, he felt that he must
speak, leaving luck or ill luck to the future.
And so he said: “Why couldn’t you run away with me now,
Sondra, darling? It’s so long until fall and I want you so
much. Why couldn’t we? Your mother’s not likely to want to
let you marry me then, anyhow. But if we went away now,
she couldn’t help herself, could she? And afterwards, in a
few months or so, you could write her and then she
wouldn’t mind. Why couldn’t we, Sondra?” His voice was
very pleading, his eyes full of a sad dread of refusal—and
of the future that lay unprotected behind that.
And by now so caught was she by the tremor with which his
mood invested him, that she paused—not really shocked by
the suggestion at all—but decidedly moved, as well as
flattered by the thought that she was able to evoke in Clyde
so eager and headlong a passion. He was so impetuous—
so blazing now with a flame of her own creating, as she felt,