An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

good boy, Clyde.”

She turned and looked up into his eyes to see what if any

effect this baby-worded cajolery was having, and Clyde did

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his best to brighten, of course. But even so, and in the face

of all this amazingly wonderful love on her part for him, the

specter of Roberta and all that she represented now in

connection with all this, was ever before him—her state, her

very recent edict in regard to it, the obvious impossibility of

doing anything now but go away with her.

Why—rather than let himself in for a thing like that—would

it not be better, and even though he lost Sondra once and

for all, for him to decamp as in the instance of the slain

child in Kansas City—and be heard of nevermore here. But

then he would lose Sondra, his connections here, and his

uncle—this world! The loss! The loss! The misery of once

more drifting about here and there; of being compelled to

write his mother once more concerning certain things about

his flight, which some one writing from here might explain to

her afterwards—and so much more damagingly. And the

thoughts concerning him on the part of his relatives! And of

late he had been writing his mother that he was doing so

well. What was it about his life that made things like this

happen to him? Was this what his life was to be like?

Running away from one situation and another just to start

all over somewhere else—perhaps only to be compelled to

flee from something worse. No, he could not run away

again. He must face it and solve it in some way. He must!

God!

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Chapter 41

THE fifth of June arriving, the Finchleys departed as Sondra

had indicated, but not without a most urgent request from

her that he be prepared to come to the Cranstons’ either

the second or third week-end following—she to advise him

definitely later—a departure which so affected Clyde that he

could scarcely think what to do with himself in her absence,

depressed as he was by the tangle which Roberta’s

condition presented. And exactly at this time also, Roberta’s

fears and demands had become so urgent that it was really

no longer possible for him to assure her that if she would

but wait a little while longer, he would be prepared to act in

her behalf. Plead as he might, her case, as she saw it, was

at last critical and no longer to be trifled with in any way.

Her figure, as she insisted (although this was largely

imaginative on her part), had altered to such an extent that

it would not be possible for her longer to conceal it, and all

those who worked with her at the factory were soon bound

to know. She could no longer work or sleep with any comfort

—she must not stay here any more. She was having

preliminary pains—purely imaginary ones in her case. He

must marry her now, as he had indicated he would, and

leave with her at once—for some place—any place, really—

near or far—so long as she was extricated from this present

terrible danger. And she would agree, as she now all but

pleaded, to let him go his way again as soon as their child

was born—truly—and would not ask any more of him ever—

ever. But now, this very week—not later than the fifteenth at

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the latest—he must arrange to see her through with this as

he had promised.

But this meant that he would be leaving with her before

ever he should have visited Sondra at Twelfth Lake at all,

and without ever seeing her any more really. And, besides,

as he so well knew, he had not saved the sum necessary to

make possible the new venture on which she was insisting.

In vain it was that Roberta now explained that she had

saved over a hundred, and they could make use of that

once they were married or to help in connection with

whatever expenses might be incurred in getting to wherever

he should decide they were going. All that he would see or

feel was that this meant the loss of everything to him, and

that he would have to go away with her to some relatively

near-by place and get work at anything he could, in order to

support her as best he might. But the misery of such a

change! The loss of all his splendid dreams. And yet,

racking his brains, he could think of nothing better than that

she should quit and go home for the time being, since as he

now argued, and most shrewdly, as he thought, he needed

a few more weeks to prepare for the change which was

upon them both. For, in spite of all his efforts, as he now

falsely asserted, he had not been able to save as much as

he had hoped. He needed at least three or four more weeks

in which to complete the sum, which he had been looking

upon as advisable in the face of this meditated change.

Was not she herself guessing, as he knew, that it could not

be less than a hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars—

quite large sums in her eyes—whereas, above his current

salary, Clyde had no more than forty dollars and was

dreaming of using that and whatever else he might secure

in the interim to meet such expenses as might be incurred

in the anticipated visit to Twelfth Lake.

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But to further support his evasive suggestion that she now

return to her home for a short period, he added that she

would want to fix herself up a little, wouldn’t she? She

couldn’t go away on a trip like this, which involved marriage

and a change of social contacts in every way, without some

improvements in her wardrobe. Why not take her hundred

dollars or a part of it anyhow and use it for that? So

desperate was his state that he even suggested that. And

Roberta, who, in the face of her own uncertainty up to this

time as to what was to become of her had not ventured to

prepare or purchase anything relating either to a trousseau

or layette, now began to think that whatever the ulterior

purpose of his suggestion, which like all the others was

connected with delay, it might not be unwise even now if

she did take a fortnight or three weeks, and with the

assistance of an inexpensive and yet tolerable dressmaker,

who had aided her sister at times, make at least one or two

suitable dresses—a flowered gray taffeta afternoon dress,

such as she had once seen in a movie, in which, should

Clyde keep his word, she could be married. To match this

pleasing little costume, she planned to add a chic little gray

silk hat—poke-shaped, with pink or scarlet cherries nestled

up under the brim, together with a neat little blue serge

traveling suit, which, with brown shoes and a brown hat,

would make her as smart as any bride. The fact that such

preparations as these meant additional delay and expense,

or that Clyde might not marry her after all, or that this

proposed marriage from the point of view of both was the

tarnished and discolored thing that it was, was still not

sufficient to take from the thought of marriage as an event,

or sacrament even, that proper color and romance with

which it was invested in her eyes and from which, even

under such an unsatisfactory set of circumstances as these,

it could not be divorced. And, strangely enough, in spite of

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all the troubled and strained relations that had developed

between them, she still saw Clyde in much the same light in

which she had seen him at first. He was a Griffiths, a youth

of genuine social, if not financial distinction, one whom all

the girls in her position, as well as many of those far above

her, would be delighted to be connected with in this way—

that is, via marriage. He might be objecting to marrying her,

but he was a person of consequence, just the same. And

one with whom, if he would but trouble to care for her a

little, she could be perfectly happy. And at any rate, once he

had loved her. And it was said of men—some men, anyway

(so she had heard her mother and others say) that once a

child was presented to them, it made a great difference in

their attitude toward the mother, sometimes. They came to

like the mother, too. Anyhow for a little while—a very little

while—if what she had agreed to were strictly observed,

she would have him with her to assist her through this great

crisis—to give his name to her child—to aid her until she