An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser [209]
At once she stopped her work between four and five in the afternoon and hurried to the dressing-room. And there she penned a note— hurried, hysterical—a scrawl.
“CLYDE—I must see you tonight, sure, SURE. You mustn’t fail me. I have something to tell you. Please come as soon after work as possible, or meet me anywhere. I’m not angry or mad about anything. But I must see you tonight, SURE. Please say right away where.
“ROBERTA.”
And he, sensing a new and strange and quite terrified note in all this the moment he read it, at once looked over his shoulder at her and, seeing her face so white and drawn, signaled that he would meet her. For judging by her face the thing she had to tell must be of the utmost importance to her, else why this tensity and excitement on her part. And although he had another engagement later, as he now troublesomely recalled, at the Starks for dinner, still it was necessary to do this first. Yet, what was it anyhow? Was anybody dead or hurt or what—her mother or father or brother or sister?
At five-thirty, he made his way to the appointed place, wondering what it could be that could make her so pale and concerned. Yet at the same time saying to himself that if this other dream in regard to Sondra were to come true he must not let himself be reentangled by any great or moving sympathy—must maintain his new poise and distance so that Roberta could see that he no longer cared for her as he had. Reaching the appointed place at six o’clock, he found her leaning disconsolately against a tree in the shadow. She looked distraught, despondent.
“Why, what’s the matter, Bert? What are you so frightened about? What’s happened?”
Even his obviously dwindling affection was restimulated by her quite visible need of help.
“Oh, Clyde,” she said at last, “I hardly know how to tell you. It’s so terrible for me if it’s so.” Her voice, tense and yet low, was in itself a clear proof of her anguish and uncertainty.
“Why, what is it, Bert? Why don’t you tell me?” he reiterated, briskly and yet cautiously, essaying an air of detached assurance which he could not quite manage in this instance. “What’s wrong? What are you so excited about? You’re all trembly.”
Because of the fact that never before in all his life had he been confronted by any such predicament as this, it did not even now occur to him just what the true difficulty could be. At the same time, being rather estranged and hence embarrassed by his recent treatment of her, he was puzzled as to just what attitude to assume in a situation where obviously something was wrong. Being sensitive to conventional or moral stimuli as he still was, he could not quite achieve a discreditable thing, even where his own highest ambitions were involved, without a measure of regret or at least shame. Also he was so anxious to keep his dinner engagement and not to be further involved that his manner was impatient. It did not escape Roberta.
“You know, Clyde,” she pleaded, both earnestly and eagerly, the very difficulty of her state encouraging her to be bold and demanding, “you said if anything went wrong you’d help me.”
At once, because of those recent few and, as he now saw them, foolish visits to her room, on which occasions because of some remaining sentiment and desire on the part of both he had been betrayed into sporadic and decidedly unwise physical relations with her, he now realized what the difficulty was. And that it was a severe, compelling, dangerous difficulty, if it were true. Also that he was to blame and that here was a real predicament that must be overcome, and that quickly, unless a still greater danger was to be faced. Yet, simultaneously, his very recent and yet decidedly compelling indifference dictating, he was almost ready now to assume that this might be little more than a ruse or lovelorn device or bit of strategy intended to retain or reenlist his interest in spite of himself