But now, poor dear, she has to do a lot of telephoning over Mr. Wilcox’s phone, which we share, in order to put it off until some day next week, if possible.
And she’s just heartsick and gloomy, of course.
As for myself, I’m trying to keep a stiff upper lip, as the saying is.
But it’s pretty hard, dear, I’ll tell you.
For so far I have only had three small telephone talks with you, saying that you didn’t think you would have the necessary money before July fifth.
And to put the finishing touches on it, as I only learned to-day, Mamma and Papa have about decided to go to my Uncle Charlie’s in Hamilton for over the fourth (from the fourth to the fifteenth) and take me with them, unless I decide to return to Lycurgus, while Tom and Emily visit with my sister at Homer.
But, dear, I can’t do that, as you know.
I’m too sick and worried.
Last night I vomited dreadful and have been half dead on my feet all day, and I am just about crazy tonight.
Dear, what can we do?
Can’t you come for me before July third, which will be the time they will be going? You will have to come for me before then, really, because I just can’t go up there with them.
It’s fifty miles from here.
I could say I would go up there with them if only you would be sure to come for me before they start.
But I must be absolutely sure that you are coming — absolutely.
Clyde, I have done nothing but cry since I got here.
If you were only here I wouldn’t feel so badly.
I do try to be brave, dear, but how can I help thinking at times that you will never come for me when you haven’t written me one single note and have only talked to me three times since I’ve been up here.
But then I say to myself you couldn’t be so mean as that, and especially since you have promised.
Oh, you will come, won’t you?
Everything worries me so now, Clyde, for some reason and I’m so frightened, dear.
I think of last summer and then this one, and all my dreams.
It won’t make any real difference to you about your coming a few days sooner than you intended, will it, dear?
Even if we have to get along on a little less.
I know that we can.
I can be very saving and economical.
I will try to have my dresses made by then. If not, I will do with what I have and finish them later.
And I will try and be brave, dear, and not annoy you much, if only you will come.
You must, you know, Clyde.
It can’t be any other way, although for your sake now I wish it could.
Please, please, Clyde, write and tell me that you will be here at the end of the time that you said.
I worry so and get so lonesome off here all by myself.
I will come straight back to you if you don’t come by the time you said.
I know you will not like me to say this, but, Clyde, I can’t stay here and that’s all there is to it.
And I can’t go away with Mamma and Papa either, so there is only one way out.
I don’t believe I will sleep a wink to-night, so please write me and in your letter tell me over and over not to worry about your not coming for me.
If you could only come to-day, dear, or this week-end, I wouldn’t feel so blue.
But nearly two weeks more!
Every one is in bed and the house is still, so I will stop.
But please write me, dear, right away, or if you won’t do that call me up sure to-morrow, because I just can’t rest one single minute until I do hear from you.
Your miserable ROBERTA.
P. S.: This is a horrid letter, but I just can’t write a better one.
I’m so blue.
But the day this letter arrived in Lycurgus Clyde was not there to answer it at once.
And because of that, Roberta being in the darkest and most hysterical mood and thought, sat down on Saturday afternoon and, half-convinced as she was that he might already have departed for some distant point without any word to her, almost shrieked or screamed, if one were to properly characterize the mood that animated the following:
Biltz, Saturday, June 14th.
MY DEAR CLYDE:
I am writing to tell you that I am coming back to Lycurgus.
I simply can’t stay here any longer.
Mamma worries and wonders why I cry so much, and I am just about sick.
I know I promised to stay until the 25th or 26th, but then you said you would write me, but you never have — only an occasional telephone message when I am almost crazy.