strange is the libido of the race--brought about the reenactment of
the infernal or celestial command laid upon Adam and his breed:
"Thy desire shall be to thy mate."
But there was this to be said in connection with the relationship
between these two, that no time, owing to the inexperience of
Clyde, as well as Roberta, had there been any adequate understanding
or use of more than the simplest, and for the most part
unsatisfactory, contraceptive devices. About the middle of
February, and, interestingly enough, at about the time when Clyde,
because of the continuing favor of Sondra, had about reached the
point where he was determined once and for all to end, not only this
physical, but all other connection with Roberta, she on her part was
beginning to see clearly that, in spite of his temporizing and her
own incurable infatuation for him, pursuit of him by her was futile
and that it would be more to the satisfaction of her pride, if not
to the ease of her heart, if she were to leave here and in some
other place seek some financial help that would permit her to
live and still help her parents and forget him if she could.
Unfortunately for this, she was compelled, to her dismay and terror,
to enter the factory one morning, just about this time, her face a
symbol of even graver and more terrifying doubts and fears than any
that had hitherto assailed her. For now, in addition to her own
troubled conclusions in regard to Clyde, there had sprung up over
night the dark and constraining fear that even this might not now
be possible, for the present at least. For because of her own and
Clyde's temporizing over his and her sentimentality and her
unconquerable affection for him, she now, at a time when it was most
inimical for both, found herself pregnant.
Ever since she had yielded to his blandishments, she had counted
the days and always had been able to congratulate herself that all
was well. But forty-eight hours since the always exactly
calculated time had now passed, and there had been no sign. And
for four days preceding this Clyde had not even been near her. And
his attitude at the factory was more remote and indifferent than
ever.
And now, this!
And she had no one but him to whom she might turn. And he was in
this estranged and indifferent mood.
Because of her fright, induced by the fear that with or without
Clyde's aid she might not easily be extricated from her threatened
predicament, she could see her home, her mother, her relatives, all
who knew her, and their thoughts in case anything like this should
befall her. For of the opinion of society in general and what
other people might say, Roberta stood in extreme terror. The
stigma of unsanctioned concupiscence! The shame of illegitimacy
for a child! It was bad enough, as she had always thought,
listening to girls and women talk of life and marriage and adultery
and the miseries that had befallen girls who had yielded to men and
subsequently been deserted, for a woman when she was safely married
and sustained by the love and strength of a man--such love, for
instance, as her brother-in-law Gabel brought to her sister Agnes,
and her father to her mother in the first years, no doubt--and
Clyde to her when he had so feverishly declared that he loved her.
But now--now!
She could not permit any thoughts in regard to his recent or
present attitude to delay her. Regardless of either, he must help
her. She did not know what else to do under such circumstances--
which way to turn. And no doubt Clyde did. At any rate he had
said once that he would stand by her in case anything happened.
And although, because at first, even on the third day on reaching
the factory, she imagined that she might be exaggerating the danger
and that it was perhaps some physical flaw or lapse that might
still overcome itself, still by late afternoon no evidence of any
change coming to her, she began to be a prey to the most nameless
terrors. What little courage she had mustered up to this time
began to waver and break. She was all alone, unless he came to her
now. And she was in need of advice and good counsel--loving
counsel. Oh, Clyde! Clyde! If he would only not be so
indifferent to her! He must not be! Something must be done, and
right away--quick--else--Great Heavens, what a terrible thing this
could easily come to be!
At once she stopped her work between four and five in the afternoon
and hurried to the dressing-room. And there she penned a note--
hurried, hysterical--a scrawl.
"CLYDE--I must see you to-night, sure, SURE. You mustn't fail me.
I have something to tell you. Please come as soon after work as
possible, or meet me anywhere. I'm not angry or mad about
anything. But I must see you to-night, SURE. Please say right
away where.
"ROBERTA."
And he, sensing a new and strange and quite terrified note in all
this the moment he read it, at once looked over his shoulder at her
and, seeing her face so white and drawn, signaled that he would
meet her. For judging by her face the thing she had to tell must
be of the utmost importance to her, else why this tensity and
excitement on her part. And although he had another engagement
later, as he now troublesomely recalled, at the Starks for dinner,
still it was necessary to do this first. Yet, what was it anyhow?
Was anybody dead or hurt or what--her mother or father or brother
or sister?
At five-thirty, he made his way to the appointed place, wondering
what it could be that could make her so pale and concerned. Yet at
the same time saying to himself that if this other dream in regard
to Sondra were to come true he must not let himself be reentangled
by any great or moving sympathy--must maintain his new poise and
distance so that Roberta could see that he no longer cared for her
as he had. Reaching the appointed place at six o'clock, he found
her leaning disconsolately against a tree in the shadow. She
looked distraught, despondent.
"Why, what's the matter, Bert? What are you so frightened about?
What's happened?"
Even his obviously dwindling affection was restimulated by her
quite visible need of help.
"Oh, Clyde," she said at last, "I hardly know how to tell you.
It's so terrible for me if it's so." Her voice, tense and yet low,
was in itself a clear proof of her anguish and uncertainty.
"Why, what is it, Bert? Why don't you tell me?" he reiterated,
briskly and yet cautiously, essaying an air of detached assurance
which he could not quite manage in this instance. "What's wrong?
What are you so excited about? You're all trembly."
Because of the fact that never before in all his life had he been
confronted by any such predicament as this, it did not even now
occur to him just what the true difficulty could be. At the same
time, being rather estranged and hence embarrassed by his recent
treatment of her, he was puzzled as to just what attitude to assume
in a situation where obviously something was wrong. Being
sensitive to conventional or moral stimuli as he still was, he
could not quite achieve a discreditable thing, even where his own
highest ambitions were involved, without a measure of regret or at
least shame. Also he was so anxious to keep his dinner engagement
and not to be further involved that his manner was impatient. It
did not escape Roberta.
"You know, Clyde," she pleaded, both earnestly and eagerly, the
very difficulty of her state encouraging her to be bold and
demanding, "you said if anything went wrong you'd help me."
At once, because of those recent few and, as he now saw them,
foolish visits to her room, on which occasions because of some
remaining sentiment and desire on the part of both he had been
betrayed into sporadic and decidedly unwise physical relations with
her, he now realized what the difficulty was. And that it was a
severe, compelling, dangerous difficulty, if it were true. Also
that he was to blame and that here was a real predicament that must
be overcome, and that quickly, unless a still greater danger was to
be faced. Yet, simultaneously, his very recent and yet decidedly
compelling indifference dictating, he was almost ready now to assume
that this might be little more than a ruse or lovelorn device or bit
of strategy intended to retain or reenlist his interest in spite of
himself--a thought which he was only in part ready to harbor. Her
manner was too dejected and despairing. And with the first dim
realization of how disastrous such a complication as this might
prove to be in his case, he began to be somewhat more alarmed than
irritated. So much so that he exclaimed:
"Yes, but how do you know that there is anything wrong? You can't
be sure so soon as all this, can you? How can you? You'll
probably be all right to-morrow, won't you?" At the same time his
voice was beginning to suggest the uncertainty that he felt.
"Oh, no, I don't think so, Clyde. I wish I did. It's two whole
days, and it's never been that way before."
Her manner as she said this was so obviously dejected and self-
commiserating that at once he was compelled to dismiss the thought
of intrigue. At the same time, unwilling to face so discouraging a
fact so soon, he added: "Oh, well, that might not mean anything,
either. Girls go longer than two days, don't they?"
The tone, implying as it did uncertainty and non-sophistication
even, which previously had not appeared characteristic of him, was
sufficient to alarm Roberta to the point where she exclaimed: "Oh,
no, I don't think so. Anyhow, it would be terrible, wouldn't it,
if something were wrong? What do you suppose I ought to do? Don't
you know something I can take?"
At once Clyde, who had been so brisk and urgent in establishing
this relationship and had given Roberta the impression that he was
a sophisticated and masterful youth who knew much more of life than
ever she could hope to know, and to whom all such dangers and
difficulties as were implied in the relationship could be left with
impunity, was at a loss what to do. Actually, as he himself now
realized, he was as sparingly informed in regard to the mysteries
of sex and the possible complications attending upon such a
situation as any youth of his years could well be. True, before
coming here he had browsed about Kansas City and Chicago with such
worldly-wise mentors of the hotel bell-boy world as Ratterer,
Higby, Hegglund and others and had listened to much of their
gossiping and boasting. But their knowledge, for all their
boasting, as he now half guessed, must have related to girls who
were as careless and uninformed as themselves. And beyond those
again, although he was by no means so clearly aware of that fact
now, lay little more than those rumored specifics and preventatives
of such quack doctors and shady druggists and chemists as dealt
with intelligences of the Hegglund and Ratterer order. But even
so, where were such things to be obtained in a small city like
Lycurgus? Since dropping Dillard he had no intimates let alone
trustworthy friends who could be depended on to help in such a
crisis.
The best he could think of for the moment was to visit some local
or near-by druggist who might, for a price, provide him with some
worth-while prescription or information. But for how much? And
what were the dangers in connection with such a proceeding? Did
they talk? Did they ask questions? Did they tell any one else
about such inquiries or needs? He looked so much like Gilbert
Griffiths, who was so well known in Lycurgus that any one
recognizing him as Gilbert might begin to talk of him in that way
and so bring about trouble.
And this terrible situation arising now--when in connection with
Sondra, things had advanced to the point where she was now secretly
permitting him to kiss her, and, more pleasing still, exhibiting
little evidences of her affection and good will in the form of
presents of ties, a gold pencil, a box of most attractive
handkerchiefs, all delivered to his door in his absence with a
little card with her initials, which had caused him to feel sure
that his future in connection with her was of greater and greater
promise. So much so that even marriage, assuming that her family
might not prove too inimical and that her infatuation and diplomacy
endured, might not be beyond the bounds of possibility. He could
not be sure, of course. Her true intentions and affections so far
were veiled behind a tantalizing evasiveness which made her all the
more desirable. Yet it was these things that had been causing him
to feel that he must now, and speedily, extract himself as
gracefully and unirritatingly as possible from his intimacy with
Roberta.
For that reason, therefore, he now announced, with pretended
assurance: "Well, I wouldn't worry about it any more to-night if I
were you. You may be all right yet, you know. You can't be sure.
Anyhow, I'll have to have a little time until I can see what I can
do. I think I can get something for you. But I wish you wouldn't
get so excited."
At the same time he was far from feeling as secure as he sounded.
In fact he was very much shaken. His original determination to
have as little to do with her as possible, was now complicated by
the fact that he was confronted by a predicament that spelled real
danger to himself, unless by some argument or assertion he could
absolve himself of any responsibility in connection with this--a
possibility which, in view of the fact that Roberta still worked
for him, that he had written her some notes, and that any least
word from her would precipitate an inquiry which would prove fatal
to him, was sufficient to cause him to feel that he must assist her
speedily and without a breath of information as to all this leaking
out in any direction. At the same time it is only fair to say that
because of all that had been between them, he did not object to
assisting her in any way that he could. But in the event that he
could not (it was so that his thoughts raced forward to an entirely
possible inimical conclusion to all this) well, then--well, then--
might it not be possible at least--some fellows, if not himself
would--to deny that he had held any such relationship with her and
so escape. That possibly might be one way out--if only he were not
as treacherously surrounded as he was here.
But the most troublesome thing in connection with all this was the
thought that he knew of nothing that would really avail in such a
case, other than a doctor. Also that that probably meant money,
time, danger--just what did it mean? He would see her in the
morning, and if she weren't all right by then he would act.
And Roberta, for the first time forsaken in this rather casual and
indifferent way, and in such a crisis as this, returned to her room
with her thoughts and fears, more stricken and agonized than ever
before she had been in all her life.
Chapter 34
But the resources of Clyde, in such a situation as this, were slim.
For, apart from Liggett, Whiggam, and a few minor though decidedly
pleasant and yet rather remote department heads, all of whom were
now looking on him as a distinctly superior person who could
scarcely be approached too familiarly in connection with anything,
there was no one to whom he could appeal. In so far as the social
group to which he was now so eagerly attaching himself was
concerned, it would have been absurd for him to attempt, however
slyly, to extract any information there. For while the youths of
this world at least were dashing here and there, and because of
their looks, taste and means indulging themselves in phases of
libertinism--the proper wild oats of youth--such as he and others
like himself could not have dreamed of affording, still so far was
he from any real intimacy with any of these that he would not have
dreamed of approaching them for helpful information.
His sanest thought, which occurred to him almost immediately after
leaving Roberta, was that instead of inquiring of any druggist or
doctor or person in Lycurgus--more particularly any doctor, since
the entire medical profession here, as elsewhere, appeared to him
as remote, cold, unsympathetic and likely very expensive and
unfriendly to such an immoral adventure as this--was to go to some
near-by city, preferably Schenectady, since it was larger and as
near as any, and there inquire what, if anything, could be obtained
to help in such a situation as this. For he must find something.
At the same time, the necessity for decision and prompt action was
so great that even on his way to the Starks', and without knowing
any drug or prescription to ask for, he resolved to go to
Schenectady the next night. Only that meant, as he later reasoned,
that a whole day must elapse before anything could be done for
Roberta, and that, in her eyes, as well as his own, would be
leaving her open to the danger that any delay at all involved.
Therefore, he decided to act at once, if he could; excuse himself
to the Starks and then make the trip to Schenectady on the
interurban before the drug-stores over there should close. But
once there--what? How face the local druggist or clerk--and ask
for what? His mind was troubled with hard, abrasive thoughts as to
what the druggist might think, look or say. If only Ratterer or
Hegglund were here! They would know, of course, and be glad to
help him. Or Higby, even. But here he was now, all alone, for
Roberta knew nothing at all. There must be something though, of
course. If not, if he failed there, he would return and write
Ratterer in Chicago, only in order to keep himself out of this as
much as possible he would say that he was writing for a friend.
Once in Schenectady, since no one knew him there, of course he
might say (the thought came to him as an inspiration) that he was a
newly married man--why not? He was old enough to be one, and that
his wife, and that in the face of inability to care for a child
now, was "past her time" (he recalled a phrase that he had once
heard Higby use), and that he wanted something that would permit
her to escape from that state. What was so wrong with that as an
idea? A young married couple might be in just such a predicament.
And possibly the druggist would, or should be stirred to a little
sympathy by such a state and might be glad to tell him of
something. Why not? That would be no real crime. To be sure, one
and another might refuse, but a third might not. And then he would
be rid of this. And then never again, without knowing a lot more
than he did now, would he let himself drift into any such
predicament as this. Never! It was too dreadful.
He betook himself to the Stark house very nervous and growing more
so every moment. So much so that, the dinner being eaten, he
finally declared as early as nine-thirty that at the last moment at
the factory a very troublesome report, covering a whole month's
activities, had been requested of him. And since it was not
anything he could do at the office, he was compelled to return to
his room and make it out there--a bit of energetic and ambitious
commercialism, as the Starks saw it, worthy of their admiration and
sympathy. And in consequence he was excused.
But arrived at Schenectady, he had barely time to look around a
little before the last car for Lycurgus should be leaving. His
nerve began to fail him. Did he look enough like a young married
man to convince any one that he was one? Besides were not such
preventatives considered very wrong--even by druggists?
Walking up and down the one very long Main Street still brightly
lighted at this hour, looking now in one drug-store window and
another, he decided for different reasons that each particular one
was not the one. In one, as he saw at a glance, stood a stout,
sober, smooth-shaven man of fifty whose bespectacled eyes and iron
gray hair seemed to indicate to Clyde's mind that he would be most
certain to deny such a youthful applicant as himself--refuse to
believe that he was married--or to admit that he had any such
remedy, and suspect him of illicit relations with some young,
unmarried girl into the bargain. He looked so sober, God-fearing,
ultra-respectable and conventional. No, it would not do to apply
to him. He had not the courage to enter and face such a person.
In another drug-store he observed a small, shriveled and yet dapper
and shrewd-looking man of perhaps thirty-five, who appeared to him
at the time as satisfactory enough, only, as he could see from the
front, he was being briskly assisted by a young woman of not more
than twenty or twenty-five. And assuming that she would approach
him instead of the man--an embarrassing and impossible situation--
or if the man waited on him, was it not probable that she would
hear? In consequence he gave up that place, and a third, a fourth,
and a fifth, for varying and yet equally cogent reasons--customers
inside, a girl and a boy at a soda fountain in front, an owner
posed near the door and surveying Clyde as he looked in and thus
disconcerting him before he had time to consider whether he should
enter or not.
Finally, however, after having abandoned so many, he decided that
he must act or return defeated, his time and carfare wasted.
Returning to one of the lesser stores in a side street, in which a
moment before he had observed an undersized chemist idling about,
he entered, and summoning all the bravado he could muster, began:
"I want to know something. I want to know if you know of anything--
well, you see, it's this way--I'm just married and my wife is past
her time and I can't afford to have any children now if I can help
it. Is there anything a person can get that will get her out of
it?"
His manner was brisk and confidential enough, although tinged with
nervousness and the inner conviction that the druggist must guess
that he was lying. At the same time, although he did not know it,
he was talking to a confirmed religionist of the Methodist group
who did not believe in interfering with the motives or impulses of
nature. Any such trifling was against the laws of God and he
carried nothing in stock that would in any way interfere with the
ways of the Creator. At the same time he was too good a merchant
to wish to alienate a possible future customer, and so he now said:
"I'm sorry, young man, but I'm afraid I can't help you in this
case. I haven't a thing of that kind in stock here--never handle
anything of that kind because I don't believe in 'em. It may be,
though, that some of the other stores here in town carry something
of the sort. I wouldn't be able to tell you." His manner as he
spoke was solemn, the convinced and earnest tone and look of the
moralist who knows that he is right.
And at once Clyde gathered, and fairly enough in this instance,
that this man was reproachful. It reduced to a much smaller
quantity the little confidence with which he had begun his quest.
And yet, since the dealer had not directly reproached him and had
even said that it might be possible that some of the other
druggists carried such a thing, he took heart after a few moments,
and after a brief fit of pacing here and there in which he looked
through one window and another, he finally espied a seventh dealer
alone. He entered, and after repeating his first explanation he
was informed, very secretively and yet casually, by the thin, dark,
casuistic person who waited on him--not the owner in this instance--
that there was such a remedy. Yes. Did he wish a box? That
(because Clyde asked the price) would be six dollars--a staggering
sum to the salaried inquirer. However, since the expenditure
seemed unescapable--to find anything at all a great relief--he at
once announced that he would take it, and the clerk, bringing him
something which he hinted ought to prove "effectual" and wrapping
it up, he paid and went out.
And then actually so relieved was he, so great had been the strain
up to this moment, that he could have danced for joy. Then there
was a cure, and it would work, of course. The excessive and even
outrageous price seemed to indicate as much. And under the
circumstances, might he not even consider that sum moderate, seeing
that he was being let off so easily? However, he forgot to inquire
as to whether there was any additional information or special
direction that might prove valuable, and instead, with the package
in his pocket, some central and detached portion of the ego within
himself congratulating him upon his luck and undaunted efficiency
in such a crisis as this, he at once returned to Lycurgus, where he
proceeded to Roberta's room.
And she, like himself, impressed by his success in having secured
something which both he and she had feared did not exist, or if it
did, might prove difficult to procure, felt enormously relieved.
In fact, she was reimpressed by his ability and efficiency,
qualities with which, up to this time at least, she had endowed
him. Also that he was more generous and considerate than under the
circumstances she feared he would be. At least he was not coldly
abandoning her to fate, as previously in her terror she had
imagined that he might. And this fact, even in the face of his
previous indifference, was sufficient to soften her mood in regard
to him. So with a kind of ebullience, based on fattened hope
resting on the pills, she undid the package and read the
directions, assuring him the while of her gratitude and that she
would not forget how good he had been to her in this instance. At
the same time, even as she untied the package, the thought came to
her--supposing they would not work? Then what? And how would she
go about arranging with Clyde as to that? However, for the time
being, as she now reasoned, she must be satisfied and grateful for
this, and at once took one of the pills.
But once her expressions of gratefulness had been offered and Clyde
sensed that these same might possibly be looked upon as overtures
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