Sonda just loves that song.
But she has to dress now.
More to-morrow, baddie boy.
And when Bertine writes, answer right away.
See all ‘ose dots?
Kisses.
Big and little ones.
All for baddie boy.
And wite Sonda every day and she’ll write ‘oo.
More kisses.
To which Clyde responded eagerly and in kind in the same hour.
But almost the same mail, at least the same day, brought the following letter from Roberta.
Biltz, June 10th.
DEAR CLYDE:
I am nearly ready for bed, but I will write you a few lines.
I had such a tiresome journey coming up that I was nearly sick.
In the first place I didn’t want to come much (alone) as you know.
I feel too upset and uncertain about everything, although I try not to feel so now that we have our plan and you are going to come for me as you said.
(At this point, while nearly sickened by the thought of the wretched country world in which she lived, still, because of Roberta’s unfortunate and unavoidable relation to it, he now experienced one of his old time twinges of remorse and pity in regard to her.
For after all, this was not her fault.
She had so little to look forward to — nothing but her work or a commonplace marriage.
For the first time in many days, really, and in the absence of both, he was able to think clearly — and to sympathize deeply, if gloomily.
For the remainder of the letter read:)
But it’s very nice here now.
The trees are so beautifully green and the flowers in bloom.
I can hear the bees in the orchard whenever I go near the south windows.
On the way up instead of coming straight home I decided to stop at Homer to see my sister and brother-in-law, since I am not so sure now when I shall see them again, if ever, for I am resolved that they shall see me respectable, or never at all any more.
You mustn’t think I mean anything hard or mean by this.
I am just sad.
They have such a cute little home there, Clyde — pretty furniture, a victrola and all, and Agnes is so very happy with Fred.
I hope she always will be.
I couldn’t help thinking of what a dear place we might have had, if only my dreams had come true.
And nearly all the time I was there Fred kept teasing me as to why I don’t get married, until I said,
“Oh, well, Fred, you mustn’t be too sure that I won’t one of these days.
All good things come to him who waits, you know.”
“Yes, unless you just turn out to be a waiter,” was the way he hit me back.
But I was truly glad to see mother again, Clyde.
She’s so loving and patient and helpful.
The sweetest, dearest mother that ever, ever was.
And I just hate to hurt her in any way.
And Tom and Emily, too.
They have had friends here every evening since I’ve been here — and they want me to join in, but I hardly feel well enough now to do all the things they want me to do — play cards and games — dance.
(At this point Clyde could not help emphasizing in his own mind the shabby home world of which she was a part and which so recently he had seen — that rickety house! those toppling chimneys! Her uncouth father.
And that in contrast to such a letter as this other from Sondra.)
Father and mother and Tom and Emily just seem to hang around and try to do things for me.
And I feel remorseful when I think how they would feel if they knew, for, of course, I have to pretend that it is work that makes me feel so tired and depressed as I am sometimes.
Mother keeps saying that I must stay a long time or quit entirely and rest and get well again, but she just don’t know of course — poor dear.
If she did!
I can’t tell you how that makes me feel sometimes, Clyde.
Oh, dear!