However, as both Roberta and Clyde soon found, after several weeks in
which they met here and there, such spots as could be conveniently
reached by interurban lines, there were still drawbacks and the
principal of these related to the attitude of both Roberta and Clyde in
regard to this room, and what, if any, use of it was to be made by them
jointly. For in spite of the fact that thus far Clyde had never openly
agreed with himself that his intentions in relation to Roberta were in
any way different to those normally entertained by any youth toward
any girl for whom he had a conventional social regard, still, now that
she had moved into this room, there was that ineradicable and possibly
censurable, yet very human and almost unescapable, desire for something
more--the possibility of greater and greater intimacy with and control
of Roberta and her thoughts and actions in everything so that in the
end she would be entirely his. But how _his_? By way of marriage and
the ordinary conventional and durable existence which thereafter must
ordinarily ensue? He had never said so to himself thus far. For in
flirting with her or any girl of a lesser social position than that of
the Griffiths here (Sondra Finchley, Bertine Cranston, for instance)
he would not--and that largely due to the attitude of his newly-found
relatives, their very high position in this city--have deemed marriage
advisable. And what would they think if they should come to know? For
socially, as he saw himself now, if not before coming here, he was
supposed to be above the type of Roberta and should of course profit by
that notion. Besides there were all those that knew him here, at least
to speak to. On the other hand, because of the very marked pull that
her temperament had for him, he had not been able to say for the time
being that she was not worthy of him or that he might not be happy in
case it were possible or advisable for him to marry her.
And there was another thing now that tended to complicate matters.
And that was that fall with its chilling winds and frosty nights was
drawing near. Already it was near October first and most of those
out-of-door resorts which, up to the middle of September at least, had
provided diversion, and that at a fairly safe distance from Lycurgus,
were already closed for the season. And dancing, except in the halls
of the near-by cities and which, because of a mood of hers in regard to
them, were unacceptable, was also for the time being done away with.
As for the churches, moving pictures, and restaurants of Lycurgus, how
under the circumstances, owing to Clyde's position here, could they be
seen in them? They could not, as both reasoned between them. And so
now, while her movements were unrestrained, there was no place to go
unless by some readjustment of their relations he might be permitted to
call on her at the Gilpins'. But that, as he knew, she would not think
of and, at first, neither had he the courage to suggest it.
However they were at a street-end one early October night about six
weeks after she had moved to her new room. The stars were sharp. The
air cool. The leaves were beginning to turn. Roberta had returned to a
three-quarter green-and-cream-striped winter coat that she wore at this
season of the year. Her hat was brown, trimmed with brown leather and
of a design that became her. There had been kisses over and over--that
same fever that had been dominating them continuously since first they
met--only more pronounced if anything.
"It's getting cold, isn't it?" It was Clyde who spoke. And it was
eleven o'clock and chill.
"Yes, I should say it is. I'll soon have to get a heavier coat."
"I don't see how we are to do from now on, do you? There's no place to
go any more much, and it won't be very pleasant walking the streets
this way every night. You don't suppose we could fix it so I could call
on you at the Gilpins' once in a while, do you? It isn't the same there
now as it was at the Newtons'."
"Oh, I know, but then they use their sitting room every night nearly
until ten-thirty or eleven. And besides their two girls are in and out
all hours up to twelve, anyhow, and they're in there often. I don't
see how I can. Besides, I thought you said you didn't want to have any
one see you with me that way, and if you came there I couldn't help
introducing you."
"Oh, but I don't mean just that way," replied Clyde audaciously and yet
with the feeling that Roberta was much too squeamish and that it was
high time she was taking a somewhat more liberal attitude toward him
if she cared for him as much as she appeared to: "Why wouldn't it be
all right for me to stop in for a little while? They wouldn't need to
know, would they?" He took out his watch and discovered with the aid of
a match that it was eleven-thirty. He showed the time to her. "There
wouldn't be anybody there now, would there?"
She shook her head in opposition. The thought not only terrified but
sickened her. Clyde was getting very bold to even suggest anything like
that. Besides this suggestion embodied in itself all the secret fears
and compelling moods which hitherto, although actual in herself, she
was still unwilling to face. There was something sinful, low, dreadful
about it. She would not. That was one thing sure. At the same time
within her was that overmastering urge of repressed and feared desire
now knocking loudly for recognition.
"No, no, I can't let you do that. It wouldn't be right. I don't want
to. Some one might see us. Somebody might know you." For the moment
the moral repulsion was so great that unconsciously she endeavored to
relinquish herself from his embrace.
Clyde sensed how deep was this sudden revolt. All the more was he
flagellated by the desire for possession of that which now he half
feared to be unobtainable. A dozen seductive excuses sprang to his
lips. "Oh, who would be likely to see us anyhow, at this time of night?
There isn't any one around. Why shouldn't we go there for a few moments
if we want to? No one would be likely to hear us. We needn't talk so
loud. There isn't any one on the street, even. Let's walk by the house
and see if anybody is up."
Since hitherto she had not permitted him to come within half a block of
the house, her protest was not only nervous but vigorous. Nevertheless
on this occasion Clyde was proving a little rebellious and Roberta,
standing somewhat in awe of him as her superior, as well as her lover,
was unable to prevent their walking within a few feet of the house
where they stopped. Except for a barking dog there was not a sound to
be heard anywhere. And in the house no light was visible.
"See, there's no one up," protested Clyde reassuringly. "Why shouldn't
we go in for a little while if we want to? Who will know? We needn't
make any noise. Besides, what is wrong with it? Other people do it. It
isn't such a terrible thing for a girl to take a fellow to her room if
she wants to for a little while."
"Oh, isn't it? Well, maybe not in your set. But I know what's right and
I don't think that's right and I won't do it."
At once, as she said this, Roberta's heart gave a pained and weakening
throb, for in saying so much she had exhibited more individuality and
defiance than ever he had seen or that she fancied herself capable of
in connection with him. It terrified her not a little. Perhaps he would
not like her so much now if she were going to talk like that.
His mood darkened immediately. Why did she want to act so? She was
too cautious, too afraid of anything that spelled a little life or
pleasure. Other girls were not like that,--Rita, those girls at the
factory. She pretended to love him. She did not object to his holding
her in his arms and kissing her under a tree at the end of the street.
But when it came to anything slightly more private or intimate, she
could not bring herself to agree. What kind of a girl was she, anyhow?
What was the use of pursuing her? Was this to be another case of
Hortense Briggs with all her wiles and evasions? Of course Roberta was
in no wise like her, but still she was so stubborn.
Although she could not see his face she knew he was angry and quite for
the first time in this way.
"All right, then, if you don't want to, you don't have to," came his
words and with decidedly a cold ring to them. "There are other places
I can go. I notice you never want to do anything I want to do, though.
I'd like to know how you think we're to do. We can't walk the streets
every night." His tone was gloomy and foreboding--more contentious and
bitter than at any time ever between them. And his references to other
places shocked and frightened Roberta--so much so that instantly almost
her own mood changed. Those other girls in his own world that no doubt
he saw from time to time! Those other girls at the factory who were
always trying to make eyes at him! She had seen them trying, and often.
That Ruza Nikoforitch--as coarse as she was, but pretty, too. And that
Flora Brandt! And Martha Bordaloue--ugh! To think that any one as nice
as he should be pursued by such wretches as those. However, because
of that, she was fearful lest he would think her too difficult--some
one without the experience or daring to which he, in his superior
world, was accustomed, and so turn to one of those. Then she would lose
him. The thought terrified her. Immediately from one of defiance her
attitude changed to one of pleading persuasion.
"Oh, please, Clyde, don't be mad with me now, will you? You know that
I would if I could. I can't do anything like that here. Can't you see?
You know that. Why, they'd be sure to find out. And how would you feel
if some one were to see us or recognize you?" In a pleading way she
put one hand on his arm, then about his waist and he could feel that
in spite of her sharp opposition the moment before, she was very much
concerned--painfully so. "Please don't ask me to," she added in a
begging tone.
"Well, what did you want to leave the Newtons for then?" he asked
sullenly. "I can't see where else we can go now if you won't let me
come to see you once in a while. We can't go any place else."
The thought gave Roberta pause. Plainly this relationship was not to be
held within conventional lines. At the same time she did not see how
she could possibly comply. It was too unconventional--too unmoral--bad.
"I thought we took it," she said weakly and placatively, "just so that
we could go places on Saturday and Sunday."
"But where can we go Saturday and Sunday now? Everything's closed."
Again Roberta was checked by these unanswerable complexities which
beleaguered them both and she exclaimed futilely, "Oh, I wish I knew
what to do."
"Oh, it would be easy enough if you wanted to do it, but that's always
the way with you, you don't want to."
She stood there, the night wind shaking the drying whispering leaves.
Distinctly the problem in connection with him that she had been fearing
this long while was upon her. Could she possibly, with all the right
instruction that she had had, now do as he suggested. She was pulled
and swayed by contending forces within herself, strong and urgent in
either case. In the one instance, however painful it was to her moral
and social mood, she was moved to comply--in another to reject once
and for all, any such, as she saw it, bold and unnatural suggestion.
Nevertheless, in spite of the latter and because of her compelling
affection she could not do other than deal tenderly and pleadingly with
him.
"I can't, Clyde, I can't. I would if I could but I can't. It wouldn't
be right. I would if I could make myself, but I can't." She looked up
into his face, a pale oval in the dark, trying to see if he would not
see, sympathize, be moved in her favor. However, irritated by this
plainly definite refusal, he was not now to be moved. All this, as he
saw it, smacked of that long series of defeats which had accompanied
his attentions to Hortense Briggs. He was not going to stand for
anything now like that, you bet. If this was the way she was going to
act, well, let her act so--but not with him. He could get plenty of
girls now--lots of them--who would treat him better than this.
At once, and with an irritated shrug of the shoulders, as she now saw,
he turned and started to leave her, saying as he did so, "Oh, that's
all right, if that's the way you feel about it." And Roberta dumfounded
and terrified, stood there.
"Please don't go, Clyde. Please don't leave me," she exclaimed
suddenly and pathetically, her defiance and courage undergoing a deep
and sad change. "I don't want you to. I love you so, Clyde. I would if
I could. You know that."
"Oh, yes, I know, but you needn't tell me that" (it was his experience
with Hortense and Rita that was prompting him to this attitude). With
a twist he released his body from her arm and started walking briskly
down the street in the dark.
And Roberta, stricken by this sudden development which was so painful
to both, called, "Clyde!" And then ran after him a little way, eager
that he should pause and let her plead with him more. But he did not
return. Instead he went briskly on. And for the moment it was all she
could do to keep from following him and by sheer force, if need be,
restrain him. Her Clyde! And she started running in his direction a
little, but as suddenly stopped, checked for the moment by the begging,
pleading, compromising attitude in which she, for the first time, found
herself. For on the one hand all her conventional training was now
urging her to stand firm--not to belittle herself in this way--whereas
on the other, all her desires for love, understanding, companionship,
urged her to run after him before it was too late, and he was gone. His
beautiful face, his beautiful hands. His eyes. And still the receding
echo of his feet. And yet so binding were the conventions which had
been urged upon her up to this time that, though suffering horribly, a
balance between the two forces was struck, and she paused, feeling that
she could neither go forward nor stand still--understand or endure this
sudden rift in their wonderful friendship.
Pain constricted her heart and whitened her lips. She stood there
numb and silent--unable to voice anything, even the name Clyde which
persistently arose as a call in her throat. Instead she was merely
thinking, "Oh, Clyde, please don't go, Clyde. Oh, please don't go." And
he was already out of hearing, walking briskly and grimly on, the click
and echo of his receding steps falling less and less clearly on her
suffering ears.
It was the first flashing, blinding, bleeding stab of love for her.