she was distressed beyond all words, but on the third day announced
to him in a note that she was again going to see the doctor near
Gloversville that evening, regardless of his previous refusal--so
great was her need--and also asking Clyde whether he would
accompany her--a request which, since he had not succeeded in doing
anything, and although he had an engagement with Sondra, he
instantly acceded to--feeling it to be of greater importance than
anything else. He must excuse himself to Sondra on the ground of
work.
And accordingly this second trip was made, a long and nervous
conversation between himself and Roberta on the way resulting in
nothing more than some explanations as to why thus far he had not
been able to achieve anything, plus certain encomiums addressed to
her concerning her courage in acting for herself in this way.
Yet the doctor again would not and did not act. After waiting
nearly an hour for his return from somewhere, she was merely
permitted to tell him of her unchanged state and her destroying
fears in regard to herself, but with no hint from him that he could
be induced to act as indeed he could act. It was against his
prejudices and ethics.
And so once more Roberta returned, this time not crying, actually
too sad to cry, choked with the weight of her impending danger and
the anticipatory fears and miseries that attended it.
And Clyde, hearing of this defeat, was at last reduced to a
nervous, gloomy silence, absolutely devoid of a helpful suggestion.
He could not think what to say and was chiefly fearful lest Roberta
now make some demand with which socially or economically he could
not comply. However, in regard to this she said little on the way
home. Instead she sat and stared out of the window--thinking of
her defenseless predicament that was becoming more real and
terrible to her hourly. By way of excuse she pleaded that she had
a headache. She wanted to be alone--only to think more--to try to
work out a solution. She must work out some way. That she knew.
But what? How? What could she do? How could she possibly escape?
She felt like a cornered animal fighting for its life with all odds
against it, and she thought of a thousand remote and entirely
impossible avenues of escape, only to return to the one and only
safe and sound solution that she really felt should be possible--
and that was marriage. And why not? Hadn't she given him all, and
that against her better judgment? Hadn't he overpersuaded her?
Who was he anyway to so cast her aside? For decidedly at times,
and especially since this latest crisis had developed, his manner,
because of Sondra and the Griffiths and what he felt to be the
fatal effect of all this on his dreams here, was sufficient to make
plain that love was decidedly dead, and that he was not thinking
nearly so much of the meaning of her state to her, as he was of its
import to him, the injury that was most certain to accrue to him.
And when this did not completely terrify her, as mostly it did, it
served to irritate and slowly develop the conclusion that in such a
desperate state as this, she was justified in asking more than
ordinarily she would have dreamed of asking, marriage itself, since
there was no other door. And why not? Wasn't her life as good as
his? And hadn't he joined his to hers, voluntarily? Then, why
shouldn't he strive to help her now--or, failing that, make this
final sacrifice which was the only one by which she could be
rescued apparently. For who were all the society people with whom
he was concerned anyhow? And why should he ask her in such a
crisis to sacrifice herself, her future and good name, just because
of his interest in them? They had never done anything very much
for him, certainly not as much as had she. And, just because he
was wearying now, after persuading her to do his bidding--was that
any reason why now, in this crisis, he should be permitted to
desert her? After all, wouldn't all of these society people in
whom he was so much interested feel that whatever his relationship
to them, she would be justified in taking the course which she
might be compelled to take?
She brooded on this much, more especially on the return from this
second attempt to induce Dr. Glenn to help her. In fact, at
moments, her face took on a defiant, determined look which was
seemingly new to her, but which only developed suddenly under such
pressure. Her jaw became a trifle set. She had made a decision.
He would have to marry her. She must make him if there were no
other way out of this. She must--she must. Think of her home, her
mother, Grace Marr, the Newtons, all who knew her in fact--the
terror and pain and shame with which this would sear all those in
any way identified with her--her father, brothers, sisters.
Impossible! Impossible! It must not and could not be! Impossible.
It might seem a little severe to her, even now, to have to insist on
this, considering all the emphasis Clyde had hitherto laid upon his
prospects here. But how, how else was she to do?
Accordingly the next day, and not a little to his surprise, since
for so many hours the night before they had been together, Clyde
received another note telling him that he must come again that
night. She had something to say to him, and there was something in
the tone of the note that seemed to indicate or suggest a kind of
defiance of a refusal of any kind, hitherto absent in any of her
communications to him. And at once the thought that this
situation, unless cleared away, was certain to prove disastrous, so
weighed upon him that he could not but put the best face possible
on it and consent to go and hear what it was that she had to offer
in the way of a solution--or--on the other hand, of what she had to
complain.
Going to her room at a late hour, he found her in what seemed to
him a more composed frame of mind than at any time since this
difficulty had appeared, a state which surprised him a little,
since he had expected to find her in tears. But now, if anything,
she appeared more complacent, her nervous thoughts as to how to
bring about a satisfactory conclusion for herself having called
into play a native shrewdness which was now seeking to exercise
itself.
And so directly before announcing what was in her mind, she began
by asking: "You haven't found out about another doctor, have you,
Clyde, or thought of anything?"
"No, I haven't, Bert," he replied most dismally and wearisomely,
his own mental tether-length having been strained to the breaking
point. "I've been trying to, as you know, but it's so darn hard to
find any one who isn't afraid to monkey with a case like this.
Honest, to tell the truth, Bert, I'm about stumped. I don't know
what we are going to do unless you can think of something. You
haven't thought or heard of any one else you could go to, have
you?" For, during the conversation that had immediately followed
her first visit to the doctor, he had hinted to her that by
striking up a fairly intimate relationship with one of the foreign
family girls, she might by degrees extract some information there
which would be of use to both. But Roberta was not of a
temperament that permitted of any such facile friendships, and
nothing had come of it.
However, his stating that he was "stumped" now gave her the
opportunity she was really desiring, to present the proposition
which she felt to be unavoidable and not longer to be delayed. Yet
being fearful of how Clyde would react, she hesitated as to the
form in which she would present it, and, after shaking her head and
manifesting a nervousness which was real enough, she finally said:
"Well, I'll tell you, Clyde. I've been thinking about it and I
don't see any way out of it unless--unless you, well, marry me.
It's two months now, you know, and unless we get married right
away, everybody'll know, won't they?"
Her manner as she said this was a mixture of outward courage born
out of her conviction that she was in the right and an inward
uncertainty about Clyde's attitude, which was all the more fused by
a sudden look of surprise, resentment, uncertainty and fear that
now transformation-wise played over his countenance; a variation
and play which, if it indicated anything definite, indicated that
she was seeking to inflict an unwarranted injury on him. For since
he had been drawing closer and closer to Sondra, his hopes had
heightened so intensely that, hearkening to this demand on the part
of Roberta now, his brow wrinkled and his manner changed from one
of comparatively affable, if nervous, consideration to that of
mingled fear, opposition as well as determination to evade drastic
consequence. For this would spell complete ruin for him, the loss
of Sondra, his job, his social hopes and ambitions in connection
with the Griffiths--all--a thought which sickened and at the same
time caused him to hesitate about how to proceed. But he would
not! he would not! He would not do this! Never! Never!!
Never!!!
Yet after a moment he exclaimed equivocally: "Well, gee, that's
all right, too, Bert, for you, because that fixes everything
without any trouble at all. But what about me? You don't want to
forget that that isn't going to be easy for me, the way things are
now. You know I haven't any money. All I have is my job. And
besides, the family don't know anything about you yet--not a thing.
And if it should suddenly come out now that we've been going
together all this time, and that this has happened, and that I was
going to have to get married right away, well, gee, they'll know
I've been fooling 'em and they're sure to get sore. And then what?
They might even fire me."
He paused to see what effect this explanation would have, but
noting the somewhat dubious expression which of late characterized
Roberta's face whenever he began excusing himself, he added
hopefully and evasively, seeking by any trick that he could to
delay this sudden issue: "Besides, I'm not so sure that I can't
find a doctor yet, either. I haven't had much luck so far, but
that's not saying that I won't. And there's a little time yet,
isn't there? Sure there is. It's all right up to three months
anyway." (He had since had a letter from Ratterer who had
commented on this fact.) "And I did hear something the other day
of a doctor over in Albany who might do it. Anyway, I thought I'd
go over and see before I said anything about him."
His manner, when he said this, was so equivocal that Roberta could
tell he was merely lying to gain time. There was no doctor in
Albany. Besides it was so plain that he resented her suggestion
and was only thinking of some way of escaping it. And she knew
well enough that at no time had he said directly that he would
marry her. And while she might urge, in the last analysis she
could not force him to do anything. He might just go away alone,
as he had once said in connection with inadvertently losing his job
because of her. And how much greater might not his impulse in that
direction now be, if this world here in which he was so much
interested were taken away from him, and he were to face the
necessity of taking her and a child, too. It made her more
cautious and caused her to modify her first impulse to speak out
definitely and forcefully, however great her necessity might be.
And so disturbed was he by the panorama of the bright world of
which Sondra was the center and which was now at stake, that he
could scarcely think clearly. Should he lose all this for such a
world as he and Roberta could provide for themselves--a small home--
a baby, such a routine work-a-day life as taking care of her and a
baby on such a salary as he could earn, and from which most likely
he would never again be freed! God! A sense of nausea seized him.
He could not and would not do this. And yet, as he now saw, all
his dreams could be so easily tumbled about his ears by her and
because of one false step on his part. It made him cautious and
for the first time in his life caused tact and cunning to visualize
itself as a profound necessity.
And at the same time, Clyde was sensing inwardly and somewhat
shamefacedly all of this profound change in himself.
But Roberta was saying: "Oh, I know, Clyde, but you yourself said
just now that you were stumped, didn't you? And every day that
goes by just makes it so much the worse for me, if we're not going
to be able to get a doctor. You can't get married and have a child
born within a few months--you know that. Every one in the world
would know. Besides I have myself to consider as well as you, you
know. And the baby, too." (At the mere mention of a coming child
Clyde winced and recoiled as though he had been slapped. She noted
it.) "I just must do one of two things right away, Clyde--get
married or get out of this and you don't seem to be able to get me
out of it, do you? If you're so afraid of what your uncle might
think or do in case we get married," she added nervously and yet
suavely, "why couldn't we get married right away and then keep it a
secret for a while--as long as we could, or as long as you thought
we ought to," she added shrewdly. "Meanwhile I could go home and
tell my parents about it--that I am married, but that it must be
kept a secret for a while. Then when the time came, when things
got so bad that we couldn't stay here any longer without telling,
why we could either go away somewhere, if we wanted to--that is, if
you didn't want your uncle to know, or we could just announce that
we were married some time ago. Lots of young couples do that
nowadays. And as for getting along," she went on, noting a sudden
dour shadow that passed over Clyde's face like a cloud, "why we
could always find something to do--I know I could, anyhow, once the
baby is born."
When first she began to speak, Clyde had seated himself on the edge
of the bed, listening nervously and dubiously to all she had to
offer. However, when she came to that part which related to
marriage and going away, he got up--an irresistible impulse to move
overcoming him. And when she concluded with the commonplace
suggestion of going to work as soon as the baby was born, he looked
at her with little less than panic in his eyes. To think of
marrying and being in a position where it would be necessary to do
that, when with a little luck and without interference from her, he
might marry Sondra.
"Oh, yes, that's all right for you, Bert. That fixes everything up
for you, but how about me? Why, gee whiz, I've only got started
here now as it is, and if I have to pack up and get out, and I
would have to, if ever they found out about this, why I don't know
what I'd do. I haven't any business or trade that I could turn my
hand to. It might go hard with both of us. Besides my uncle gave
me this chance because I begged him to, and if I walked off now he
never would do anything for me."
In his excitement he was forgetting that at one time and another in
the past he had indicated to Roberta that the state of his own
parents was not wholly unprosperous and that if things did not go
just to his liking here, he could return west and perhaps find
something to do out there. And it was some general recollection of
this that now caused her to ask: "Couldn't we go out to Denver or
something like that? Wouldn't your father be willing to help you
get something for a time, anyhow?"
Her tone was very soft and pleading, an attempt to make Clyde feel
that things could not be as bad as he was imagining. But the mere
mention of his father in connection with all this--the assumption
that he, of all people, might prove an escape from drudgery for
them both, was a little too much. It showed how dreadfully
incomplete was her understanding of his true position in this
world. Worse, she was looking for help from that quarter. And,
not finding it, later might possibly reproach him for that--who
could tell--for his lies in connection with it. It made so very
clear now the necessity for frustrating, if possible, and that at
once, any tendency toward this idea of marriage. It could not be--
ever.
And yet how was he to oppose this idea with safety, since she felt
that she had this claim on him--how say to her openly and coldly
that he could not and would not marry her? And unless he did so
now she might think it would be fair and legitimate enough for her
to compel him to do so. She might even feel privileged to go to
his uncle--his cousin (he could see Gilbert's cold eyes) and expose
him! And then destruction! Ruin! The end of all his dreams in
connection with Sondra and everything else here. But all he could
think of saying now was: "But I can't do this, Bert, not now,
anyway," a remark which at once caused Roberta to assume that the
idea of marriage, as she had interjected it here, was not one
which, under the circumstances, he had the courage to oppose--his
saying, "not now, anyway." Yet even as she was thinking this, he
went swiftly on with: "Besides I don't want to get married so
soon. It means too much to me at this time. In the first place
I'm not old enough and I haven't got anything to get married on.
And I can't leave here. I couldn't do half as well anywhere else.
You don't realize what this chance means to me. My father's all
right, but he couldn't do what my uncle could and he wouldn't. You
don't know or you wouldn't ask me to do this."
He paused, his face a picture of puzzled fear and opposition. He
was not unlike a harried animal, deftly pursued by hunter and
hound. But Roberta, imagining that his total defection had been
caused by the social side of Lycurgus as opposed to her own low
state and not because of the superior lure of any particular girl,
now retorted resentfully, although she desired not to appear so:
"Oh, yes, I know well enough why you can't leave. It isn't your
position here, though, half as much as it is those society people
you are always running around with. I know. You don't care for me
any more, Clyde, that's it, and you don't want to give these other
people up for me. I know that's it and nothing else. But just the
same it wasn't so very long ago that you did, although you don't
seem to remember it now." Her cheeks burned and her eyes flamed as
she said this. She paused a moment while he gazed at her wondering
about the outcome of all this. "But you can't leave me to make out
any way I can, just the same, because I won't be left this way,
Clyde. I can't! I can't! I tell you." She grew tense and
staccato, "It means too much to me. I don't know how to do alone
and I, besides, have no one to turn to but you and you must help
me. I've got to get out of this, that's all, Clyde, I've got to.
I'm not going to be left to face my people and everybody without
any help or marriage or anything." As she said this, her eyes
turned appealingly and yet savagely toward him and she emphasized
it all with her hands, which she clinched and unclinched in a
dramatic way. "And if you can't help me out in the way you
thought," she went on most agonizedly as Clyde could see, "then
you've got to help me out in this other, that's all. At least
until I can do for myself I just won't be left. I don't ask you to
marry me forever," she now added, the thought that if by presenting
this demand in some modified form, she could induce Clyde to marry
her, it might be possible afterwards that his feeling toward her
would change to a much more kindly one. "You can leave me after a
while if you want to. After I'm out of this. I can't prevent you
from doing that and I wouldn't want to if I could. But you can't
leave me now. You can't. You can't! Besides," she added, "I
didn't want to get myself in this position and I wouldn't have, but
for you. But you made me and made me let you come in here. And
now you want to leave me to shift for myself, just because you
think you won't be able to go in society any more, if they find out
about me."
She paused, the strain of this contest proving almost too much for
her tired nerves. At the same time she began to sob nervously and
yet not violently--a marked effort at self-restraint and recovery
marking her every gesture. And after a moment or two in which both
stood there, he gazing dumbly and wondering what else he was to say
in answer to all this, she struggling and finally managing to
recover her poise, she added: "Oh, what is it about me that's so
different to what I was a couple of months ago, Clyde? Will you
tell me that? I'd like to know. What is it that has caused you to
change so? Up to Christmas, almost, you were as nice to me as any
human being could be. You were with me nearly all the time you
had, and since then I've scarcely had an evening that I didn't beg
for. Who is it? What is it? Some other girl, or what, I'd like
to know--that Sondra Finchley or Bertine Cranston, or who?"
Her eyes as she said this were a study. For even to this hour, as
Clyde could now see to his satisfaction, since he feared the effect
on Roberta of definite and absolute knowledge concerning Sondra,
she had no specific suspicion, let alone positive knowledge
concerning any girl. And coward-wise, in the face of her present
predicament and her assumed and threatened claims on him, he was
afraid to say what or who the real cause of this change was.
Instead he merely replied and almost unmoved by her sorrow, since
he no longer really cared for her: "Oh, you're all wrong, Bert.
You don't see what the trouble is. It's my future here--if I leave
here I certainly will never find such an opportunity. And if I
have to marry in this way or leave here it will all go flooey. I
want to wait and get some place first before I marry, see--save
some money and if I do this I won't have a chance and you won't
either," he added feebly, forgetting for the moment that up to this
time he had been indicating rather clearly that he did not want to
have anything more to do with her in any way.
"Besides," he continued, "if you could only find some one, or if
you would go away by yourself somewhere for a while, Bert, and go
through with this alone, I could send you the money to do it on, I
know. I could have it between now and the time you had to go."
His face, as he said this, and as Roberta clearly saw, mirrored the
complete and resourceless collapse of all his recent plans in
regard to her. And she, realizing that his indifference to her had
reached the point where he could thus dispose of her and their
prospective baby in this casual and really heartless manner, was
not only angered in part, but at the same time frightened by the
meaning of it all.
"Oh, Clyde," she now exclaimed boldly and with more courage and
defiance than at any time since she had known him, "how you have
changed! And how hard you can be. To want me to go off all by
myself and just to save you--so you can stay here and get along and
marry some one here when I am out of the way and you don't have to
bother about me any more. Well, I won't do it. It's not fair.
And I won't, that's all. I won't. And that's all there is to it.
You can get some one to get me out of this or you can marry me and
come away with me, at least long enough for me to have the baby and
place myself right before my people and every one else that knows
me. I don't care if you leave me afterwards, because I see now
that you really don't care for me any more, and if that's the way
you feel, I don't want you any more than you want me. But just the
same, you must help me now--you must. But, oh, dear," she began
whimpering again, and yet only slightly and bitterly. "To think
that all our love for each other should have come to this--that I
am asked to go away by myself--all alone--with no one--while you
stay here, oh, dear! oh, dear! And with a baby on my hands
afterwards. And no husband."
She clinched her hands and shook her head bleakly. Clyde,
realizing well enough that his proposition certainly was cold and
indifferent but, in the face of his intense desire for Sondra, the
best or at least safest that he could devise, now stood there
unable for the moment to think of anything more to say.
And although there was some other discussion to the same effect,
the conclusion of this very difficult hour was that Clyde had
another week or two at best in which to see if he could find a
physician or any one who would assist him. After that--well after
that the implied, if not openly expressed, threat which lay at the
bottom of this was, unless so extricated and speedily, that he
would have to marry her, if not permanently, then at least
temporarily, but legally just the same, until once again she was
able to look after herself--a threat which was as crushing and
humiliating to Roberta as it was torturing to him.
Chapter 39
Opposing views such as these, especially where no real skill to
meet such a situation existed, could only spell greater difficulty
and even eventual disaster unless chance in some form should aid.
And chance did not aid. And the presence of Roberta in the factory
was something that would not permit him to dismiss it from his
mind. If only he could persuade her to leave and go somewhere else
to live and work so that he should not always see her, he might
then think more calmly. For with her asking continuously, by her
presence if no more, what he intended to do, it was impossible for
him to think. And the fact that he no longer cared for her as he
had, tended to reduce his normal consideration of what was her due.
He was too infatuated with, and hence disarranged by his thoughts
of Sondra.
For in the very teeth of this grave dilemma he continued to pursue
the enticing dream in connection with Sondra--the dark situation in
connection with Roberta seeming no more at moments than a dark
cloud which shadowed this other. And hence nightly, or as often as
the exigencies of his still unbroken connection with Roberta would
permit, he was availing himself of such opportunities as his
flourishing connections now afforded. Now, and to his great pride
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