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

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?

XLIV

And 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 today. 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. 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 today, 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 tonight, so