yet which she was incapable of feeling as much as he, as
she knew—such a flame as she had never seen in him or
any one else before. And would it not be wonderful if she
could run away with him now—secretly—to Canada or New
York or Boston, or anywhere? The excitement her
elopement would create here and elsewhere—in Lycurgus,
Albany, Utica! The talk and feeling in her own family as well
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as elsewhere! And Gilbert would be related to her in spite of
him—and the Griffiths, too, whom her mother and father so
much admired.
For a moment there was written in her eyes the desire and
the determination almost, to do as he suggested—run away
—make a great lark of this, her intense and true love. For,
once married, what could her parents do? And was not
Clyde worthy of her and them, too? Of course—even
though nearly all in her set fancied that he was not quite all
he should be, just because he didn’t have as much money
as they had. But he would have—would he not—after he
was married to her—and get as good a place in her father’s
business as Gil Griffiths had in his father’s?
Yet a moment later, thinking of her life here and what her
going off in such a way would mean to her father and
mother just then—in the very beginning of the summer
season—as well as how it would disrupt her own plans and
cause her mother to feel especially angry, and perhaps
even to bring about the dissolution of the marriage on the
ground that she was not of age, she paused—that gay light
of adventure replaced by a marked trace of the practical
and the material that so persistently characterized her.
What difference would a few months make, anyhow? It
might, and no doubt would, save Clyde from being
separated from her forever, whereas their present course
might insure their separation.
Accordingly she now shook her head in a certain, positive
and yet affectionate way, which by now Clyde had come to
know spelled defeat—the most painful and irremediable
defeat that had yet come to him in connection with all this.
She would not go! Then he was lost—lost—and she to him
forever maybe. Oh, God! For while her face softened with a
tenderness which was not usually there—even when she
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was most moved emotionally—she said: “I would, honey, if
I did not think it best not to, now. It’s too soon. Mamma isn’t
going to do anything right now. I know she isn’t. Besides
she has made all her plans to do a lot of entertaining here
this summer, and for my particular benefit. She wants me to
be nice to—well, you know who I mean. And I can be,
without doing anything to interfere with us in any way, I’m
sure—so long as I don’t do anything to really frighten her.”
She paused to smile a reassuring smile. “But you can come
up here as often as you choose, don’t you see, and she and
these others won’t think anything of it, because you won’t
be our guest, don’t you see? I’ve fixed all that with Bertine.
And that means that we can see each other all summer
long up here, just about as much as we want to, don’t you
see? Then in the fall, when I come back, and if I find that I
can’t make her be nice to you at all, or consider our being
engaged, why, I will run away with you. Yes, I will, darling—
really and truly.”
Darling! The fall!
She stopped, her eyes showing a very shrewd conception
of all the practical difficulties before them, while she took
both of his hands in hers and looked up into his face. Then,
impulsively and conclusively, she threw both arms about his
neck and, pulling his head down, kissed him.
“Can’t you see, dearie? Please don’t look so sad, darling.
Sondra loves her Clyde so much. And she’ll do anything
and everything to make things come out right. Yes, she will.
And they will, too. Now you wait and see. She won’t give
him up ever—ever!”
And Clyde, realizing that he had not one moving argument
wherewith to confront her, really—not one that might not
cause her to think strangely and suspiciously of his intense
anxiety, and that this, because of Roberta’s demand, and
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unless—unless—well—, unless Roberta let him go it all
spelled defeat for him, now looked gloomily and even
desperately upon her face. The beauty of her! The
completeness of this world! And yet not to be allowed to
possess her or it, ever. And Roberta with her demand and
his promise in the immediate background! And no way of
escape save by flight! God!
At this point it was that a nervous and almost deranged look
—never so definite or powerful at any time before in his life
—the border-line look between reason and unreason, no
less—so powerful that the quality of it was even noticeable
to Sondra—came into his eyes. He looked sick, broken,
unbelievably despairing. So much so that she exclaimed,
“Why, what is it, Clyde, dearie—you look so—oh, I can’t say
just how—forlorn or— Does he love me so much? And
can’t he wait just three or four months? But, oh, yes he can,
too. It isn’t as bad as he thinks. He’ll be with me most of the
time—the lovekins will. And when he isn’t, Sondra’ll write
him every day—every day.”
“But, Sondra! Sondra! If I could just tell you. If you knew
how much it were going to mean to me—”
He paused here, for as he could see at this point, into the
expression of Sondra came a practical inquiry as to what it
was that made it so urgent for her to leave with him at
once. And immediately, on his part, Clyde sensing how
enormous was the hold of this world on her—how integral a
part of it she was—and how, by merely too much insistence
here and now, he might so easily cause her to doubt the
wisdom of her primary craze for him, was moved to desist,
sure that if he spoke it would lead her to questioning him in
such a way as might cause her to change—or at least to
modify her enthusiasm to the point where even the dream
of the fall might vanish.
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And so, instead of explaining further why he needed a
decision on her part, he merely desisted, saying: “It’s
because I need you so much now, dear—all of the time.
That’s it, just that. It seems at times as though I could never
be away from you another minute any more. Oh, I’m so
hungry for you all of the time.”
And yet Sondra, flattered as she was by this hunger, and
reciprocating it in part at least, merely repeated the various
things she had said before. They must wait. All would come
out all right in the fall. And Clyde, quite numb because of
his defeat, yet unable to forego or deny the delight of being
with her now, did his best to recover his mood—and think,
think, think that in some way—somehow—maybe via that
plan of that boat or in some other way!
But what other way?
But no, no, no—not that. He was not a murderer and never
could be. He was not a murderer—never—never—never.
And yet this loss.
This impending disaster.
This impending disaster.
How to avoid that and win to Sondra after all.
How, how, how?
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Chapter 44
AND then on his return to Lycurgus early Monday morning,
the following letter from Roberta,
DEAR CLYDE:
My dear, I have often heard the saying, “it never rains
but it pours,” but I never knew what it meant until to-
day. About the first person I saw this morning was Mr.
Wilcox, a neighbor of ours, who came to say that Mrs.
Anse would not be out to-day on account of some work
she had to do for Mrs. Dinwiddie in Biltz, although when
she left yesterday everything had been prepared for her
so that I could help her a little with the sewing and so
hurry things up a bit. And now she won’t be here until
to-morrow. Next word came that Mother’s sister, Mrs.
Nichols, is very ill and Mother had to go over to her
house at Baker’s Pond, which is about twelve miles
east of here, Tom driving her, although he ought to be
here to help father with all the work that there is to do about the farm. And I don’t know if Mother will be able
to get back before Sunday. If I were better and didn’t
have all this work of my own on my hands I would have
to go too, I suppose, although Mother insists not.