And they will, too.
Now you wait and see.
She won’t give him up ever — ever!”
And Clyde, realizing that he had not one moving argument wherewith to confront her, really — not one that might not cause her to think strangely and suspiciously of his intense anxiety, and that this, because of Roberta’s demand, and unless — unless — well — unless Roberta let him go it all spelled defeat for him, now looked gloomily and even desperately upon her face.
The beauty of her!
The completeness of this world!
And yet not to be allowed to possess her or it, ever.
And Roberta with her demand and his promise in the immediate background!
And no way of escape save by flight!
God!
At this point it was that a nervous and almost deranged look — never so definite or powerful at any time before in his life — the border- line look between reason and unreason, no less — so powerful that the quality of it was even noticeable to Sondra — came into his eyes.
He looked sick, broken, unbelievably despairing.
So much so that she exclaimed,
“Why, what is it, Clyde, dearie — you look so — oh, I can’t say just how — forlorn or — Does he love me so much?
And can’t he wait just three or four months?
But, oh, yes he can, too.
It isn’t as bad as he thinks.
He’ll be with me most of the time — the lovekins will.
And when he isn’t, Sondra’ll write him every day — every day.”
“But, Sondra! Sondra! If I could just tell you.
If you knew how much it were going to mean to me —”
He paused here, for as he could see at this point, into the expression of Sondra came a practical inquiry as to what it was that made it so urgent for her to leave with him at once.
And immediately, on his part, Clyde sensing how enormous was the hold of this world on her — how integral a part of it she was — and how, by merely too much insistence here and now, he might so easily cause her to doubt the wisdom of her primary craze for him, was moved to desist, sure that if he spoke it would lead her to questioning him in such a way as might cause her to change — or at least to modify her enthusiasm to the point where even the dream of the fall might vanish.
And so, instead of explaining further why he needed a decision on her part, he merely desisted, saying:
“It’s because I need you so much now, dear — all of the time.
That’s it, just that.
It seems at times as though I could never be away from you another minute any more.
Oh, I’m so hungry for you all of the time.”
And yet Sondra, flattered as she was by this hunger, and reciprocating it in part at least, merely repeated the various things she had said before.
They must wait.
All would come out all right in the fall.
And Clyde, quite numb because of his defeat, yet unable to forego or deny the delight of being with her now, did his best to recover his mood — and think, think, think that in some way — somehow — maybe via that plan of that boat or in some other way!
But what other way?
But no, no, no — not that.
He was not a murderer and never could be.
He was not a murderer — never — never — never.
And yet this loss.
This impending disaster.
This impending disaster.
How to avoid that and win to Sondra after all.
How, how, how? ? Chapter 44
A nd then on his return to Lycurgus early Monday morning, the following letter from Roberta,
DEAR CLYDE:
My dear, I have often heard the saying, “it never rains but it pours,” but I never knew what it meant until to-day.
About the first person I saw this morning was Mr. Wilcox, a neighbor of ours, who came to say that Mrs. Anse would not be out today on account of some work she had to do for Mrs. Dinwiddie in Biltz, although when she left yesterday everything had been prepared for her so that I could help her a little with the sewing and so hurry things up a bit.
And now she won’t be here until tomorrow.
Next word came that Mother’s sister, Mrs. Nichols, is very ill and Mother had to go over to her house at Baker’s Pond, which is about twelve miles east of here, Tom driving her, although he ought to be here to help father with all the work that there is to do about the farm.
And I don’t know if Mother will be able to get back before Sunday.
If I were better and didn’t have all this work of my own on my hands I would have to go too, I suppose, although Mother insists not.
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 tonight for a sort of June moon-party, with ice cream and cake to be made by Emily and Mother and myself.