An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser (whitelam books .TXT) 📖

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.

XXI

The state of Roberta’s mind for that night is not easily to be described. For here was true and poignant love, and in youth true and poignant love is difficult to withstand. Besides it was coupled with the most stirring and grandiose illusions in regard to Clyde’s local material and social condition⁠—illusions which had little to do with anything he had done to build up, but were based rather on conjecture and gossip over which he had no control. And her own home, as well as her personal situation was so unfortunate⁠—no promise of any kind save in his direction. And here she was quarreling with him⁠—sending him away angry. On the other hand was he not beginning to push too ardently toward those troublesome and no doubt dreadful liberties and familiarities which her morally trained conscience would not permit her to look upon as right? How was she to do now? What to say?

Now it was that she said to herself in the dark of her room, after having slowly and thoughtfully undressed and noiselessly crept into the large, old-fashioned bed. “No, I won’t do that. I mustn’t. I can’t. I will be a bad girl if I do. I should not do that for him even though he does want me to, and should threaten to leave me forever in case I refuse. He should be ashamed to ask me.” And at the very same moment, or the next, she would be asking herself what else under the circumstances they were to do. For most certainly Clyde was at least partially correct in his contention that they had scarcely anywhere else they could go and not be recognized. How unfair was that rule of the company. And no doubt apart from that rule, the Griffiths would think it beneath him to be troubling with her, as would no doubt the Newtons and the Gilpins for that matter, if they should hear and know who he was. And if this information came to their knowledge it would injure him and her. And she would not do anything that would injure him⁠—never.

One thing that occurred to her at this point was that she should get a place somewhere else so that this problem should be solved⁠—a problem which at the moment seemed to have little to do with the more immediate and intimate one of desiring to enter her room. But that would mean that she would not see him any more all day long⁠—only at night. And then not every night by any means. And that caused her to lay aside this thought of seeking another place.

At the same time as she now meditated the dawn would come tomorrow and there would be Clyde at the factory. And supposing that he should not speak to her nor she to him. Impossible! Ridiculous! Terrible! The mere thought brought her to a sitting posture in bed, where distractedly a vision of Clyde looking indifferently and coldly upon her came to her.

On the instant she was on her feet and had turned on the one incandescent globe which dangled from the center of the room. She went to the mirror hanging above the old walnut dresser in the corner and stared at herself. Already she imagined she could see dark rings under her eyes. She felt numb and cold and now shook her head in a helpless and distracted way. He couldn’t be that mean. He couldn’t be that cruel to her now⁠—could he? Oh, if he but knew how difficult⁠—how impossible was the thing he was asking of her! Oh, if the day would only come so that she could see his face again! Oh, if it were only another night so that she could take his hands in hers⁠—his arm⁠—feel his arms about her.

“Clyde, Clyde,” she exclaimed half aloud, “you wouldn’t do that to me, would you⁠—you couldn’t.”

She crossed to an old, faded and somewhat decrepit overstuffed chair which stood in the center of the room beside a small table whereon lay some nondescript books and magazines⁠—the Saturday Evening Post, Munsey’s, the Popular Science Monthly, Bebe’s Garden Seeds, and to escape most distracting and searing thoughts, sat down, her chin in her hands, her elbows planted on her knees. But the painful thoughts continuing and a sense of chill overtaking her, she took a comforter off the bed and folded it about her, then opened the seed catalogue⁠—only to throw it down.

“No, no, no, he couldn’t do that to me, he wouldn’t.” She must not let him. Why, he had told her over and over that he was crazy about her⁠—madly in love with her. They had been to all these wonderful places together.

And now, without any real consciousness of her movements, she was moving from the chair to the edge