The first effect of the doctor's decision was to shock and terrify
them both--Roberta and Clyde--beyond measure. For apparently now here
was illegitimacy and disgrace for Roberta. Exposure and destruction
for Clyde. And this had been their one solution seemingly. Then, by
degrees, for Clyde at least, there was a slight lifting of the heavy
pall. Perhaps, after all, as the doctor had suggested--and once she
had recovered her senses sufficiently to talk, she had told him--the
end had not been reached. There was the bare possibility, as suggested
by the druggist, Short and the doctor, that she might be mistaken.
And this, while not producing a happy reaction in her, had the
unsatisfactory result of inducing in Clyde a lethargy based more than
anything else on the ever-haunting fear of inability to cope with this
situation as well as the certainty of social exposure in case he did
not which caused him, instead of struggling all the more desperately,
to defer further immediate action. For, such was his nature that,
although he realized clearly the probable tragic consequences if he did
not act, still it was so hard to think to whom else to apply to without
danger to himself. To think that the doctor had "turned her down," as
he phrased it, and that Short's advice should have been worth as little
as that!
But apart from nervous thoughts as to whom to turn to next, no
particular individual occurred to him before the two weeks were gone,
or after. It was so hard to just ask anywhere. One just couldn't do
it. Besides, of whom could he ask now? Of whom? These things took
time, didn't they? Yet in the meantime, the days going by, both he
and Roberta had ample time to consider what, if any, steps they must
take--the one in regard to the other--in case no medical or surgical
solution was found. For Roberta, while urging and urging, if not so
much by words as by expression and mood at her work, was determined
that she must not be left to fight this out alone--she could not be.
On the other hand, as she could see, Clyde did nothing. For apart
from what he had already attempted to do, he was absolutely at a loss
how to proceed. He had no intimates and in consequence he could only
think of presenting the problem as an imaginary one to one individual
and another here or there in the hope of extracting some helpful
information. At the same time, and as impractical and evasive as it may
seem, there was the call of that diverting world of which Sondra was a
part, evenings and Sundays, when, in spite of Roberta's wretched state
and mood, he was called to go here and there, and did, because in so
doing he was actually relieving his own mind of the dread specter of
disaster that was almost constantly before it. If only he could get
her out of this! If only he could. But how, without money, intimates,
a more familiar understanding of the medical or if not that exactly,
then the sub rosa world of sexual free-masonry which some at times--the
bell-hops of the Green-Davidson, for instance, seemed to understand.
He had written to Ratterer, of course, but there had been no answer,
since Ratterer had removed to Florida and as yet Clyde's letter had
not reached him. And locally all those he knew best were either
connected with the factory or society--individuals on the one hand
too inexperienced or dangerous, or on the other hand, too remote and
dangerous, since he was not sufficiently intimate with any of them as
yet to command their true confidence and secrecy.
At the same time he must do something--he could not just rest and
drift. Assuredly Roberta could not long permit him to do that--faced
as she was by exposure. And so from time to time he actually racked
himself--seized upon straws and what would have been looked upon by
most as forlorn chances. Thus, for instance, an associate foreman,
chancing to reminisce one day concerning a certain girl in his
department who had "gotten in trouble" and had been compelled to leave,
he had been given the opportunity to inquire what he thought such a
girl did in case she could not afford or did not want to have a child.
But this particular foreman, being as uninformed as himself, merely
observed that she probably had to see a doctor if she knew one or "go
through with it"--which left Clyde exactly where he was. On another
occasion, in connection with a conversation in a barber shop relating
to a local case reported in _The Star_ where a girl was suing a local
ne'er-do-well for breach of promise, the remark was made that she would
"never have sued that guy, you bet, unless she had to." Whereupon Clyde
seized the opportunity to remark hopefully, "But wouldn't you think
that she could find some way of getting out of trouble without marrying
a fellow she didn't like?"
"Well, that's not so easy as you may think, particularly around here,"
elucidated the wiseacre who was trimming his hair. "In the first place
it's agin' the law. And next it takes a lotta money. An' in case you
ain't got it, well, money makes the mare go, you know." He snip-snipped
with his scissors while Clyde, confronted by his own problem, meditated
on how true it was. If he had a lot of money--even a few hundred
dollars--he might take it now and possibly persuade her--who could
tell--to go somewhere by herself and have an operation performed.
Yet each day, as on the one before, he was saying to himself that he
must find some one. And Roberta was saying to herself that she too
must act--must not really depend on Clyde any longer if he were going
to act so. One could not trifle or compromise with a terror of this
kind. It was a cruel imposition on her. It must be that Clyde did not
realize how terribly this affected her and even him. For certainly, if
he were not going to help her out of it, as he had distinctly said he
would do at first, then decidedly she could not be expected to weather
the subsequent storm alone. Never, never, never! For, after all, as
Roberta saw it, Clyde was a man--he had a good position--it was not he,
but she, who was in this treacherous position and unable to extricate
herself alone.
And beginning with the second day after the second period, when she
discovered for once and all that her worst suspicions were true, she
not only emphasized the fact in every way that she could that she was
distressed beyond all words, but on the third day announced to him in a
note that she was again going to see the doctor near Gloversville that
evening, regardless of his previous refusal--so great was her need--and
also asking Clyde whether he would accompany her--a request which,
since he had not succeeded in doing anything, and although he had an
engagement with Sondra, he instantly acceded to--feeling it to be of
greater importance than anything else. He must excuse himself to Sondra
on the ground of work.
And accordingly this second trip was made, a long and nervous
conversation between himself and Roberta on the way resulting in
nothing more than some explanations as to why thus far he had not been
able to achieve anything, plus certain encomiums addressed to her
concerning her courage in acting for herself in this way.
Yet the doctor again would not and did not act. After waiting nearly
an hour for his return from somewhere, she was merely permitted to
tell him of her unchanged state and her destroying fears in regard to
herself, but with no hint from him that he could be induced to act as
indeed he could act. It was against his prejudices and ethics.
And so once more Roberta returned, this time not crying, actually too
sad to cry, choked with the weight of her impending danger and the
anticipatory fears and miseries that attended it.
And Clyde, hearing of this defeat, was at last reduced to a nervous,
gloomy silence, absolutely devoid of a helpful suggestion. He could
not think what to say and was chiefly fearful lest Roberta now make
some demand with which socially or economically he could not comply.
However, in regard to this she said little on the way home. Instead
she sat and stared out of the window--thinking of her defenseless
predicament that was becoming more real and terrible to her hourly.
By way of excuse she pleaded that she had a headache. She wanted to
be alone--only to think more--to try to work out a solution. She must
work out some way. That she knew. But what? How? What could she do? How
could she possibly escape? She felt like a cornered animal fighting
for its life with all odds against it, and she thought of a thousand
remote and entirely impossible avenues of escape, only to return to
the one and only safe and sound solution that she really felt should
be possible--and that was marriage. And why not? Hadn't she given him
all, and that against her better judgment? Hadn't he overpersuaded
her? Who was he anyway to so cast her aside? For decidedly at times,
and especially since this latest crisis had developed, his manner,
because of Sondra and the Griffiths and what he felt to be the fatal
effect of all this on his dreams here, was sufficient to make plain
that love was decidedly dead, and that he was not thinking nearly so
much of the meaning of her state to her, as he was of its import to
him, the injury that was most certain to accrue to him. And when this
did not completely terrify her, as mostly it did, it served to irritate
and slowly develop the conclusion that in such a desperate state as
this, she was justified in asking more than ordinarily she would have
dreamed of asking, marriage itself, since there was no other door. And
why not? Wasn't her life as good as his? And hadn't he joined his to
hers, voluntarily? Then, why shouldn't he strive to help her now--or,
failing that, make this final sacrifice which was the only one by which
she could be rescued apparently. For who were all the society people
with whom he was concerned anyhow? And why should he ask her in such a
crisis to sacrifice herself, her future and good name, just because of
his interest in them? They had never done anything very much for him,
certainly not as much as had she. And, just because he was wearying
now, after persuading her to do his bidding--was that any reason why
now, in this crisis, he should be permitted to desert her? After all,
wouldn't all of these society people in whom he was so much interested
feel that whatever his relationship to them, she would be justified in
taking the course which she might be compelled to take?
She brooded on this much, more especially on the return from this
second attempt to induce Dr. Glenn to help her. In fact, at moments,
her face took on a defiant, determined look which was seemingly new to
her, but which only developed suddenly under such pressure. Her jaw
became a trifle set. She had made a decision. He would have to marry
her. She must make him if there were no other way out of this. She
must--she must. Think of her home, her mother, Grace Marr, the Newtons,
all who knew her in fact--the terror and pain and shame with which
this would sear all those in any way identified with her--her father,
brothers, sisters. Impossible! Impossible! It must not and could not
be! Impossible. It might seem a little severe to her, even now, to have
to insist on this, considering all the emphasis Clyde had hitherto laid
upon his prospects here. But how, how else was she to do?
Accordingly the next day, and not a little to his surprise, since for
so many hours the night before they had been together, Clyde received
another note telling him that he must come again that night. She had
something to say to him, and there was something in the tone of the
note that seemed to indicate or suggest a kind of defiance of a refusal
of any kind, hitherto absent in any of her communications to him. And
at once the thought that this situation, unless cleared away, was
certain to prove disastrous, so weighed upon him that he could not but
put the best face possible on it and consent to go and hear what it was
that she had to offer in the way of a solution--or--on the other hand,
of what she had to complain.
Going to her room at a late hour, he found her in what seemed to him
a more composed frame of mind than at any time since this difficulty
had appeared, a state which surprised him a little, since he had
expected to find her in tears. But now, if anything, she appeared
more complacent, her nervous thoughts as to how to bring about a
satisfactory conclusion for herself having called into play a native
shrewdness which was now seeking to exercise itself.
And so directly before announcing what was in her mind, she began by
asking: "You haven't found out about another doctor, have you, Clyde,
or thought of anything?"
"No, I haven't, Bert," he replied most dismally and wearisomely, his
own mental tether-length having been strained to the breaking point.
"I've been trying to, as you know, but it's so darn hard to find any
one who isn't afraid to monkey with a case like this. Honest, to tell
the truth, Bert, I'm about stumped. I don't know what we are going to
do unless you can think of something. You haven't thought or heard of
any one else you could go to, have you?" For, during the conversation
that had immediately followed her first visit to the doctor, he had
hinted to her that by striking up a fairly intimate relationship with
one of the foreign family girls, she might by degrees extract some
information there which would be of use to both. But Roberta was not
of a temperament that permitted of any such facile friendships, and
nothing had come of it.
However, his stating that he was "stumped" now gave her the opportunity
she was really desiring, to present the proposition which she felt to
be unavoidable and not longer to be delayed. Yet being fearful of how
Clyde would react, she hesitated as to the form in which she would
present it, and, after shaking her head and manifesting a nervousness
which was real enough, she finally said: "Well, I'll tell you,
Clyde. I've been thinking about it and I don't see any way out of it
unless--unless you, well, marry me. It's two months now, you know, and
unless we get married right away, everybody'll know, won't they?"
Her manner as she said this was a mixture of outward courage born
out of her conviction that she was in the right and an inward
uncertainty about Clyde's attitude, which was all the more fused by
a sudden look of surprise, resentment, uncertainty and fear that now
transformation-wise played over his countenance; a variation and play
which, if it indicated anything definite, indicated that she was
seeking to inflict an unwarranted injury on him. For since he had
been drawing closer and closer to Sondra, his hopes had heightened so
intensely that, hearkening to this demand on the part of Roberta now,
his brow wrinkled and his manner changed from one of comparatively
affable, if nervous, consideration to that of mingled fear, opposition
as well as determination to evade drastic consequence. For this would
spell complete ruin for him, the loss of Sondra, his job, his social
hopes and ambitions in connection with the Griffiths--all--a thought
which sickened and at the same time caused him to hesitate about how to
proceed. But he would not! he would not! He would not do this! Never!
Never!! Never!!!
Yet after a moment he exclaimed equivocally: "Well, gee, that's all
right, too, Bert, for you, because that fixes everything without any
trouble at all. But what about me? You don't want to forget that that
isn't going to be easy for me, the way things are now. You know I
haven't any money. All I have is my job. And besides, the family don't
know anything about you yet--not a thing. And if it should suddenly
come out now that we've been going together all this time, and that
this has happened, and that I was going to have to get married right
away, well, gee, they'll know I've been fooling 'em and they're sure to
get sore. And then what? They might even fire me."
He paused to see what effect this explanation would have, but noting
the somewhat dubious expression which of late characterized Roberta's
face whenever he began excusing himself, he added hopefully and
evasively, seeking by any trick that he could to delay this sudden
issue: "Besides, I'm not so sure that I can't find a doctor yet,
either. I haven't had much luck so far, but that's not saying that I
won't. And there's a little time yet, isn't there? Sure there is. It's
all right up to three months anyway." (He had since had a letter from
Ratterer who had commented on this fact.) "And I did hear something the
other day of a doctor over in Albany who might do it. Anyway, I thought
I'd go over and see before I said anything about him."
His manner, when he said this, was so equivocal that Roberta could
tell he was merely lying to gain time. There was no doctor in Albany.
Besides it was so plain that he resented her suggestion and was
only thinking of some way of escaping it. And she knew well enough
that at no time had he said directly that he would marry her. And
while she might urge, in the last analysis she could not force him
to do anything. He might just go away alone, as he had once said in
connection with inadvertently losing his job because of her. And how
much greater might not his impulse in that direction now be, if this
world here in which he was so much interested were taken away from him,
and he were to face the necessity of taking her and a child, too. It
made her more cautious and caused her to modify her first impulse to
speak out definitely and forcefully, however great her necessity might
be. And so disturbed was he by the panorama of the bright world of
which Sondra was the center and which was now at stake, that he could
scarcely think clearly. Should he lose all this for such a world as he
and Roberta could provide for themselves--a small home--a baby, such
a routine work-a-day life as taking care of her and a baby on such a
salary as he could earn, and from which most likely he would never
again be freed! God! A sense of nausea seized him. He could not and
would not do this. And yet, as he now saw, all his dreams could be so
easily tumbled about his ears by her and because of one false step
on his part. It made him cautious and for the first time in his life
caused tact and cunning to visualize itself as a profound necessity.
And at the same time, Clyde was sensing inwardly and somewhat
shamefacedly all of this profound change in himself.
But Roberta was saying: "Oh, I know, Clyde, but you yourself said just
now that you were stumped, didn't you? And every day that goes by just
makes it so much the worse for me, if we're not going to be able to
get a doctor. You can't get married and have a child born within a few
months--you know that. Every one in the world would know. Besides I
have myself to consider as well as you, you know. And the baby, too."
(At the mere mention of a coming child Clyde winced and recoiled as
though he had been slapped. She noted it.) "I just must do one of two
things right away, Clyde--get married or get out of this and you don't
seem to be able to get me out of it, do you? If you're so afraid of
what your uncle might think or do in case we get married," she added
nervously and yet suavely, "why couldn't we get married right away and
then keep it a secret for a while--as long as we could, or as long as
you thought we ought to," she added shrewdly. "Meanwhile I could go
home and tell my parents about it--that I am married, but that it must
be kept a secret for a while. Then when the time came, when things got
so bad that we couldn't stay here any longer without telling, why we
could either go away somewhere, if we wanted to--that is, if you didn't
want your uncle to know, or we could just announce that we were married
some time ago. Lots of young couples do that nowadays. And as for
getting along," she went on, noting a sudden dour shadow that passed
over Clyde's face like a cloud, "why we could always find something to
do--I know I could, anyhow, once the baby is born."
When first she began to speak, Clyde had seated himself on the edge of
the bed, listening nervously and dubiously to all she had to offer.
However, when she came to that part which related to marriage and going
away, he got up--an irresistible impulse to move overcoming him. And
when she concluded with the commonplace suggestion of going to work
as soon as the baby was born, he looked at her with little less than
panic in his eyes. To think of marrying and being in a position where
it would be necessary to do that, when with a little luck and without
interference from her, he might marry Sondra.
"Oh, yes, that's all right for you, Bert. That fixes everything up for
you, but how about me? Why, gee whiz, I've only got started here now as
it is, and if I have to pack up and get out, and I would have to, if
ever they found out about this, why I don't know what I'd do. I haven't
any business or trade that I could turn my hand to. It might go hard
with both of us. Besides my uncle gave me this chance because I begged
him to, and if I walked off now he never would do anything for me."
In his excitement he was forgetting that at one time and another in
the past he had indicated to Roberta that the state of his own parents
was not wholly unprosperous and that if things did not go just to his
liking here, he could return west and perhaps find something to do out
there. And it was some general recollection of this that now caused her
to ask: "Couldn't we go out to Denver or something like that? Wouldn't
your father be willing to help you get something for a time, anyhow?"
Her tone was very soft and pleading, an attempt to make Clyde feel that
things could not be as bad as he was imagining. But the mere mention of
his father in connection with all this--the assumption that he, of all
people, might prove an escape from drudgery for them both, was a little
too much. It showed how dreadfully incomplete was her understanding
of his true position in this world. Worse, she was looking for help
from that quarter. And, not finding it, later might possibly reproach
him for that--who could tell--for his lies in connection with it. It
made so very clear now the necessity for frustrating, if possible, and
that at once, any tendency toward this idea of marriage. It could not
be--ever.
And yet how was he to oppose this idea with safety, since she felt
that she had this claim on him--how say to her openly and coldly that
he could not and would not marry her? And unless he did so now she
might think it would be fair and legitimate enough for her to compel
him to do so. She might even feel privileged to go to his uncle--his
cousin (he could see Gilbert's cold eyes) and expose him! And then
destruction! Ruin! The end of all his dreams in connection with
Sondra and everything else here. But all he could think of saying now
was: "But I can't do this, Bert, not now, anyway," a remark which at
once caused Roberta to assume that the idea of marriage, as she had
interjected it here, was not one which, under the circumstances, he had
the courage to oppose--his saying, "not now, anyway." Yet even as she
was thinking this, he went swiftly on with: "Besides I don't want to
get married so soon. It means too much to me at this time. In the first
place I'm not old enough and I haven't got anything to get married on.
And I can't leave here. I couldn't do half as well anywhere else. You
don't realize what this chance means to me. My father's all right, but
he couldn't do what my uncle could and he wouldn't. You don't know or
you wouldn't ask me to do this."
He paused, his face a picture of puzzled fear and opposition. He was
not unlike a harried animal, deftly pursued by hunter and hound. But
Roberta, imagining that his total defection had been caused by the
social side of Lycurgus as opposed to her own low state and not because
of the superior lure of any particular girl, now retorted resentfully,
although she desired not to appear so: "Oh, yes, I know well enough why
you can't leave. It isn't your position here, though, half as much as
it is those society people you are always running around with. I know.
You don't care for me any more, Clyde, that's it, and you don't want to
give these other people up for me. I know that's it and nothing else.
But just the same it wasn't so very long ago that you did, although you
don't seem to remember it now." Her cheeks burned and her eyes flamed
as she said this. She paused a moment while he gazed at her wondering
about the outcome of all this. "But you can't leave me to make out any
way I can, just the same, because I won't be left this way, Clyde. I
can't! I can't! I tell you." She grew tense and staccato, "It means
too much to me. I don't know how to do alone and I, besides, have no
one to turn to but you and you must help me. I've got to get out of
this, that's all, Clyde, I've got to. I'm not going to be left to face
my people and everybody without any help or marriage or anything." As
she said this, her eyes turned appealingly and yet savagely toward
him and she emphasized it all with her hands, which she clinched and
unclinched in a dramatic way. "And if you can't help me out in the way
you thought," she went on most agonizedly as Clyde could see, "then
you've got to help me out in this other, that's all. At least until I
can do for myself. I just won't be left. I don't ask you to marry me
forever," she now added, the thought that if by presenting this demand
in some modified form, she could induce Clyde to marry her, it might be
possible afterwards that his feeling toward her would change to a much
more kindly one. "You can leave me after a while if you want to. After
I'm out of this. I can't prevent you from doing that and I wouldn't
want to if I could. But you can't leave me now. You can't. You can't!
Besides," she added, "I didn't want to get myself in this position and
I wouldn't have, but for you. But you made me and made me let you come
in here. And now you want to leave me to shift for myself, just because
you think you won't be able to go in society any more, if they find out
about me."
She paused, the strain of this contest proving almost too much for her
tired nerves. At the same time she began to sob nervously and yet not
violently--a marked effort at self-restraint and recovery marking her
every gesture. And after a moment or two in which both stood there, he
gazing dumbly and wondering what else he was to say in answer to all
this, she struggling and finally managing to recover her poise, she
added: "Oh, what is it about me that's so different to what I was a
couple of months ago, Clyde? Will you tell me that? I'd like to know.
What is it that has caused you to change so? Up to Christmas, almost,
you were as nice to me as any human being could be. You were with
me nearly all the time you had, and since then I've scarcely had an
evening that I didn't beg for. Who is it? What is it? Some other girl,
or what, I'd like to know--that Sondra Finchley or Bertine Cranston, or
who?"
Her eyes as she said this were a study. For even to this hour, as
Clyde could now see to his satisfaction, since he feared the effect
on Roberta of definite and absolute knowledge concerning Sondra, she
had no specific suspicion, let alone positive knowledge concerning any
girl. And coward-wise, in the face of her present predicament and her
assumed and threatened claims on him, he was afraid to say what or
who the real cause of this change was. Instead he merely replied and
almost unmoved by her sorrow, since he no longer really cared for her:
"Oh, you're all wrong, Bert. You don't see what the trouble is. It's
my future here--if I leave here I certainly will never find such an
opportunity. And if I have to marry in this way or leave here it will
all go flooey. I want to wait and get some place first before I marry,
see--save some money and if I do this I won't have a chance and you
won't either," he added feebly, forgetting for the moment that up to
this time he had been indicating rather clearly that he did not want to
have anything more to do with her in any way.
"Besides," he continued, "if you could only find some one, or if you
would go away by yourself somewhere for a while, Bert, and go through
with this alone, I could send you the money to do it on, I know. I
could have it between now and the time you had to go."
His face, as he said this, and as Roberta clearly saw, mirrored the
complete and resourceless collapse of all his recent plans in regard to
her. And she, realizing that his indifference to her had reached the
point where he could thus dispose of her and their prospective baby in
this casual and really heartless manner, was not only angered in part,
but at the same time frightened by the meaning of it all.
"Oh, Clyde," she now exclaimed boldly and with more courage and
defiance than at any time since she had known him, "how you have
changed! And how hard you can be. To want me to go off all by myself
and just to save you--so you can stay here and get along and marry
some one here when I am out of the way and you don't have to bother
about me any more. Well, I won't do it. It's not fair. And I won't,
that's all. I won't. And that's all there is to it. You can get some
one to get me out of this or you can marry me and come away with me,
at least long enough for me to have the baby and place myself right
before my people and every one else that knows me. I don't care if you
leave me afterwards, because I see now that you really don't care for
me any more, and if that's the way you feel, I don't want you any more
than you want me. But just the same, you must help me now--you must.
But, oh, dear," she began whimpering again, and yet only slightly and
bitterly. "To think that all our love for each other should have come
to this--that I am asked to go away by myself--all alone--with no
one--while you stay here, oh, dear! oh, dear! And with a baby on my
hands afterwards. And no husband."
She clinched her hands and shook her head bleakly. Clyde, realizing
well enough that his proposition certainly was cold and indifferent
but, in the face of his intense desire for Sondra, the best or at least
safest that he could devise, now stood there unable for the moment to
think of anything more to say.
And although there was some other discussion to the same effect, the
conclusion of this very difficult hour was that Clyde had another week
or two at best in which to see if he could find a physician or any one
who would assist him. After that--well after that the implied, if not
openly expressed, threat which lay at the bottom of this was, unless
so extricated and speedily, that he would have to marry her, if not
permanently, then at least temporarily, but legally just the same,
until once again she was able to look after herself--a threat which was
as crushing and humiliating to Roberta as it was torturing to him.
* * * * *
[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]
* * * * *
BOOKS BY
THEODORE DREISER
SISTER CARRIE
JENNIE GERHARDT
THE FINANCIER
THE TITAN
A TRAVELER AT FORTY
A HOOSIER HOLIDAY
PLAYS OF THE NATURAL AND SUPERNATURAL
THE HAND OF THE POTTER
FREE AND OTHER STORIES
TWELVE MEN
HEY RUB-A-DUB-DUB
A BOOK ABOUT MYSELF
THE COLOR OF A GREAT CITY
THE "GENIUS"
AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY