the other, all her desires for love, understanding,
companionship, urged her to run after him before it was too
late, and he was gone. His beautiful face, his beautiful
hands. His eyes. And still the receding echo of his feet. And
yet so binding were the conventions which had been urged
upon her up to this time that, though suffering horribly, a
balance between the two forces was struck, and she
paused, feeling that she could neither go forward nor stand
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still—understand or endure this sudden rift in their
wonderful friendship.
Pain constricted her heart and whitened her lips. She stood
there numb and silent—unable to voice anything, even the
name Clyde which persistently arose as a call in her throat.
Instead she was merely thinking, “Oh, Clyde, please don’t
go, Clyde. Oh, please don’t go.” And he was already out of
hearing, walking briskly and grimly on, the click and echo of
his receding steps falling less and less clearly on her
suffering ears.
It was the first flashing, blinding, bleeding stab of love for
her.
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Chapter 21
THE state of Roberta’s mind for that night is not easily to be
described. For here was true and poignant love, and in
youth true and poignant love is difficult to withstand.
Besides it was coupled with the most stirring and grandiose
illusions in regard to Clyde’s local material and social
condition—illusions which had little to do with anything he
had done to build up, but were based rather on conjecture
and gossip over which he had no control. And her own
home, as well as her personal situation was so unfortunate
—no promise of any kind save in his direction. And here
she was quarreling with him—sending him away angry. On
the other hand was he not beginning to push too ardently
toward those troublesome and no doubt dreadful liberties
and familiarities which her morally trained conscience would
not permit her to look upon as right? How was she to do
now? What to say?
Now it was that she said to herself in the dark of her room,
after having slowly and thoughtfully undressed and
noiselessly crept into the large, old-fashioned bed. “No, I
won’t do that. I mustn’t. I can’t. I will be a bad girl if I do. I
should not do that for him even though he does want me to,
and should threaten to leave me forever in case I refuse.
He should be ashamed to ask me.” And at the very same
moment, or the next, she would be asking herself what else
under the circumstances they were to do. For most certainly
Clyde was at least partially correct in his contention that
they had scarcely anywhere else they could go and not be
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recognized. How unfair was that rule of the company. And
no doubt apart from that rule, the Griffiths would think it
beneath him to be troubling with her, as would no doubt the
Newtons and the Gilpins for that matter, if they should hear
and know who he was. And if this information came to their
knowledge it would injure him and her. And she would not
do anything that would injure him—never.
One thing that occurred to her at this point was that she
should get a place somewhere else so that this problem
should be solved—a problem which at the moment seemed
to have little to do with the more immediate and intimate
one of desiring to enter her room. But that would mean that
she would not see him any more all day long—only at night.
And then not every night by any means. And that caused
her to lay aside this thought of seeking another place.
At the same time as she now meditated the dawn would
come to-morrow and there would be Clyde at the factory.
And supposing that he should not speak to her nor she to
him. Impossible! Ridiculous! Terrible! The mere thought
brought her to a sitting posture in bed, where distractedly a
vision of Clyde looking indifferently and coldly upon her
came to her.
On the instant she was on her feet and had turned on the
one incandescent globe which dangled from the center of
the room. She went to the mirror hanging above the old
walnut dresser in the corner and stared at herself. Already
she imagined she could see dark rings under her eyes. She
felt numb and cold and now shook her head in a helpless
and distracted way. He couldn’t be that mean. He couldn’t
be that cruel to her now—could he? Oh, if he but knew how
difficult—how impossible was the thing he was asking of
her! Oh, if the day would only come so that she could see
his face again! Oh, if it were only another night so that she
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could take his hands in hers—his arm—feel his arms about
her.
“Clyde, Clyde,” she exclaimed half aloud, “you wouldn’t do
that to me, would you—you couldn’t.”
She crossed to an old, faded and somewhat decrepit over-
stuffed chair which stood in the center of the room beside a
small table whereon lay some nondescript books and
magazines—the Saturday Evening Post, Munsey’s, the
Popular Science Monthly, Bebe’s Garden Seeds, and to
escape most distracting and searing thoughts, sat down,
her chin in her hands, her elbows planted on her knees. But
the painful thoughts continuing and a sense of chill
overtaking her, she took a comforter off the bed and folded
it about her, then opened the seed catalogue—only to
throw it down.
“No, no, no, he couldn’t do that to me, he wouldn’t.” She
must not let him. Why, he had told her over and over that
he was crazy about her—madly in love with her. They had
been to all these wonderful places together.
And now, without any real consciousness of her
movements, she was moving from the chair to the edge of
the bed, sitting with elbows on knees and chin in hands; or
she was before the mirror or peering restlessly out into the
dark to see if there were any trace of day. And at six, and
sixthirty when the light was just breaking and it was nearing
time to dress, she was still up—in the chair, on the edge of
the bed, in the corner before the mirror.
But she had reached but one definite conclusion and that
was that in some way she must arrange not to have Clyde
leave her. That must not be. There must be something that
she could say or do that would cause him to love her still—
even if, even if—well, even if she must let him stop in here
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or somewhere from time to time—some other room in some
other rooming house maybe, where she could arrange in
some way beforehand—say that he was her brother or
something.
But the mood that dominated Clyde was of a different
nature. To have understood it correctly, the full measure
and obstinacy and sullen contentiousness that had
suddenly generated, one would have had to return to
Kansas City and the period in which he had been so futilely
dancing attendance upon Hortense Briggs. Also his having
been compelled to give up Rita,—yet to no end. For,
although the present conditions and situation were different,
and he had no moral authority wherewith to charge Roberta
with any such unfair treatment as Hortense had meted out
to him, still there was this other fact that girls—all of them—
were obviously stubborn and self-preservative, always
setting themselves apart from and even above the average
man and so wishing to compel him to do a lot of things for
them without their wishing to do anything in return. And had
not Ratterer always told him that in so far as girls were
concerned he was more or less of a fool—too easy—too
eager to show his hand and let them know that he was
struck on them. Whereas, as Ratterer had explained, Clyde
possessed the looks—the “goods”—and why should he
always be trailing after girls unless they wanted him very
much. And this thought and compliment had impressed him
very much at that time. Only because of the fiascos in
connection with Hortense and Rita he was more earnest
now. Yet here he was again in danger of repeating or
bringing upon himself what had befallen him in the case of
Hortense and Rita.
At the same time he was not without the self-incriminating
thought that in seeking this, most distinctly he was driving
toward a relationship which was not legitimate and that
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would prove dangerous in the future. For, as he now darkly
and vaguely thought, if he sought a relationship which her
prejudices and her training would not permit her to look
upon as anything but evil, was he not thereby establishing