Next, Emily and Tom, thinking all is going so well with
me and that I might enjoy it, were having four girls and
four boys come here to-night for a sort of June moon-
party, with ice cream and cake to be made by Emily
and Mother and myself. But now, poor dear, she has to
do a lot of telephoning over Mr. Wilcox’s phone, which
we share, in order to put it off until some day next
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week, if possible. And she’s just heartsick and gloomy,
of course.
As for myself, I’m trying to keep a stiff upper lip, as the
saying is. But it’s pretty hard, dear, I’ll tell you. For so
far I have only had three small telephone talks with you,
saying that you didn’t think you would have the
necessary money before July fifth. And to put the
finishing touches on it, as I only learned to-day,
Mamma and Papa have about decided to go to my
Uncle Charlie’s in Hamilton for over the fourth (from the
fourth to the fifteenth) and take me with them, unless I
decide to return to Lycurgus, while Tom and Emily visit
with my sister at Homer. But, dear, I can’t do that, as
you know. I’m too sick and worried. Last night I vomited
dreadful and have been half dead on my feet all day,
and I am just about crazy to-night.
Dear, what can we do? Can’t you come for me before
July third, which will be the time they will be going? You
will have to come for me before then, really, because I
just can’t go up there with them. It’s fifty miles from
here. I could say I would go up there with them if only
you would be sure to come for me before they start. But
I must be absolutely sure that you are coming—
absolutely.
Clyde, I have done nothing but cry since I got here. If
you were only here I wouldn’t feel so badly. I do try to
be brave, dear, but how can I help thinking at times that
you will never come for me when you haven’t written
me one single note and have only talked to me three
times since I’ve been up here. But then I say to myself
you couldn’t be so mean as that, and especially since
you have promised. Oh, you will come, won’t you?
Everything worries me so now, Clyde, for some reason
and I’m so frightened, dear. I think of last summer and
then this one, and all my dreams. It won’t make any
real difference to you about your coming a few days
sooner than you intended, will it, dear? Even if we have
to get along on a little less. I know that we can. I can be
very saving and economical. I will try to have my
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dresses made by then. If not, I will do with what I have
and finish them later. And I will try and be brave, dear,
and not annoy you much, if only you will come. You
must, you know, Clyde. It can’t be any other way,
although for your sake now I wish it could.
Please, please, Clyde, write and tell me that you will be
here at the end of the time that you said. I worry so and
get so lonesome off here all by myself. I will come
straight back to you if you don’t come by the time you
said. I know you will not like me to say this, but, Clyde, I
can’t stay here and that’s all there is to it. And I can’t go
away with Mamma and Papa either, so there is only
one way out. I don’t believe I will sleep a wink to-night,
so please write me and in your letter tell me over and
over not to worry about your not coming for me. If you
could only come to-day, dear, or this week-end, I
wouldn’t feel so blue. But nearly two weeks more!
Every one is in bed and the house is still, so I will stop.
But please write me, dear, right away, or if you won’t
do that call me up sure to-morrow, because I just can’t
rest one single minute until I do hear from you.
Your miserable ROBERTA.
P. S.: This is a horrid letter, but I just can’t write a better
one. I’m so blue.
But the day this letter arrived in Lycurgus Clyde was not
there to answer it at once. And because of that, Roberta
being in the darkest and most hysterical mood and thought,
sat down on Saturday afternoon and, half-convinced as she
was that he might already have departed for some distant
point without any word to her, almost shrieked or screamed,
if one were to properly characterize the mood that animated
the following:
Biltz, Saturday, June 14th.
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668
MY DEAR CLYDE:
I am writing to tell you that I am coming back to
Lycurgus. I simply can’t stay here any longer. Mamma
worries and wonders why I cry so much, and I am just
about sick. I know I promised to stay until the 25th or
26th, but then you said you would write me, but you
never have—only an occasional telephone message
when I am almost crazy. I woke up this morning and
couldn’t help crying right away and this afternoon my
headache is dreadful.
I’m so afraid you won’t come and I’m so frightened,
dear. Please come and take me away some place,
anywhere, so I can get out of here and not worry like I
do. I’m so afraid in the state that I’m in that Papa and
Mamma may make me tell the whole affair or that they
will find it out for themselves.
Oh, Clyde, you will never know. You have said you
would come, and sometimes I just know you will. But at
other times I get to thinking about other things and I’m
just as certain you won’t, especially when you don’t
write or telephone. I wish you would write and say that
you will come just so I can stand to stay here. Just as
soon as you get this, I wish you would write me and tell
me the exact day you can come—not later than the
first, really, because I know I cannot stand to stay here
any longer than then. Clyde, there isn’t a girl in the
whole world as miserable as I am, and you have made
me so. But I don’t mean that, either, dear. You were
good to me once, and you are now, offering to come for
me. And if you will come right away I will be so grateful.
And when you read this, if you think I am unreasonable,
please do not mind it, Clyde, but just think I am crazy
with grief and worry and that I just don’t know what to
do. Please write me, Clyde. If you only knew how I
need a word.
ROBERTA.
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669
This letter, coupled as it was with a threat to come to
Lycurgus, was sufficient to induce in Clyde a state not
unlike Roberta’s. To think that he had no additional, let
alone plausible, excuse to offer Roberta whereby she could
be induced to delay her final and imperative demand. He
racked his brains. He must not write her any long and self-
incriminating letters. That would be foolish in the face of his
determination not to marry her. Besides his mood at the
moment, so fresh from the arms and kisses of Sondra, was
not for anything like that. He could not, even if he would.
At the same time, something must be done at once, as he
could see, in order to allay her apparently desperate mood.
And ten minutes after he had finished reading the last of
these two letters, he was attempting to reach Roberta over
the telephone. And finally getting her after a troublesome
and impatient half-hour, he heard her voice, thin and rather
querulous as it seemed to him at first, but really only
because of a poor connection, saying: “Hello, Clyde, hello.
Oh, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been terribly nervous. Did
you get my two letters? I was just about to leave here in the
morning if I didn’t hear from you by then. I just couldn’t
stand not to hear anything. Where have you been, dear?
Did you read what I said about my parents going away?
That’s true. Why don’t you write, Clyde, or call me up
anyhow? What about what I said in my letter about the
third? Will you be sure and come then? Or shall I meet you
somewhere? I’ve been so nervous the last three or four
days, but now that I hear you again, maybe I’ll be able to
quiet down some. But I do wish you would write me a note