An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

come, although I don’t suppose you do, you could. I’d

like to see you and talk to you again if you care to,

before we start. It all seems so funny to me, Clyde,

having these clothes made and wishing to see you so

much and yet knowing that you would rather not do

this. And yet I hope you are satisfied now that you have

succeeded in making me leave Lycurgus and come up

here and are having what you call a good time. Are

they so very much better than the ones we used to

have last summer when we went about to the lakes

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and everywhere? But whatever they are, Clyde, surely

you can afford to do this for me without feeling too bad.

I know it seems hard to you now, but you don’t want to

forget either that if I was like some that I know, I might

and would ask more. But as I told you I’m not like that

and never could be. If you don’t really want me after

you have helped me out like I said, you can go.

Please write me, Clyde, a long, cheery letter, even

though you don’t want to, and tell me all about how you

have not thought of me once since I’ve been away or

missed me at all—you used to, you know, and how you

don’t want me to come back and you can’t possibly

come up before two weeks from Saturday if then.

Oh, dear, I don’t mean the horrid things I write, but I’m

so blue and tired and lonely that I can’t help it at times.

I need some one to talk to—not just any one here,

because they don’t understand, and I can’t tell anybody.

But there, I said I wouldn’t be blue or gloomy or cross

and yet I haven’t done so very well this time, have I?

But I promise to do better next time—tomorrow or next

day, because it relieves me to write to you, Clyde. And

won’t you please write me just a few words to cheer me

up while I’m waiting, whether you mean it or not, I need

it so. And you will come, of course. I’ll be so happy and

grateful and try not to bother you too much in any way.

Your lonely

BERT

And it was the contrast presented by these two scenes

which finally determined for him the fact that he would

never marry Roberta—never—nor even go to her at Biltz, or

let her come back to him here, if he could avoid that. For

would not his going, or her return, put a period to all the

joys that so recently in connection with Sondra had come to

him here—make it impossible for him to be with Sondra at

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Twelfth Lake this summer—make it impossible for him to

run away with and marry her? In God’s name was there no

way? No outlet from this horrible difficulty which now

confronted him?

And in a fit of despair, having found the letters in his room

on his return from work one warm evening in June, he now

threw himself upon his bed and fairly groaned. The misery

of this! The horror of his almost insoluble problem! Was

there no way by which she could be persuaded to go away

—and stay—remain at home, maybe for a while longer,

while he sent her ten dollars a week, or twelve, even—a full

half of all his salary? Or could she go to some neighboring

town—Fonda, Gloversville, Schenectady—she was not so

far gone but what she could take care of herself well

enough as yet, and rent a room and remain there quietly

until the fatal time, when she could go to some doctor or

nurse? He might help her to find some one like that when

the time came, if only she would be willing not to mention

his name.

But this business of making him come to Biltz, or meeting

her somewhere, and that within two weeks or less. He

would not, he would not. He would do something desperate

if she tried to make him do that—run away—or—maybe go

up to Twelfth Lake before it should be time for him to go to

Biltz, or before she would think it was time, and then

persuade Sondra if he could—but oh, what a wild, wild

chance was that—to run away with and marry him, even if

she wasn’t quite eighteen—and then—and then—being

married, and her family not being able to divorce them, and

Roberta not being able to find him, either, but only to

complain—well, couldn’t he deny it—say that it was not so—

that he had never had any relationship, other than that

which any department head might have with any girl

working for him. He had not been introduced to the Gilpins,

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nor had he gone with Roberta to see that Dr. Glenn near

Gloversville, and she had told him at the time, she had not

mentioned his name.

But the nerve of trying to deny it!

The courage it would take.

The courage to try to face Roberta when, as he knew, her

steady, accusing, horrified, innocent blue eyes would be

about as difficult to face as anything in all the world. And

could he do that? Had he the courage? And would it all

work out satisfactorily if he did? Would Sondra believe him

—once she heard?

But just the same in pursuance of this idea, whether finally

he executed it or not, even though he went to Twelfth Lake,

he must write Sondra a letter saying that he was coming.

And this he did at once, writing her passionately and

yearningly. At the same time he decided not to write

Roberta at all. Maybe call her on long distance, since she

had recently told him that there was a neighbor near-by

who had a telephone, and if for any reason he needed to

reach her, he could use that. For writing her in regard to all

this, even in the most guarded way, would place in her

hands, and at this time, exactly the type of evidence in

regard to this relationship which she would most need, and

especially when he was so determined not to marry her.

The trickery of all this! It was low and shabby, no doubt. Yet

if only Roberta had agreed to be a little reasonable with

him, he would never have dreamed of indulging in any such

low and tricky plan as this. But, oh, Sondra! Sondra! And

the great estate that she had described, lying along the

west shore of Twelfth Lake. How beautiful that must be! He

could not help it! He must act and plan as he was doing! He

must!

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And forthwith he arose and went to mail the letter to

Sondra. And then while out, having purchased an evening

paper and hoping via the local news of all whom he knew,

to divert his mind for the time being, there, upon the first

page of the Times-Union of Albany, was an item which read:

ACCIDENTAL DOUBLE TRAGEDY AT PASS LAKE—

UPTURNED CANOE AND FLOATING HATS REVEAL

PROBABLE LOSS OF TWO LIVES AT RESORT

NEAR PITTSFIELD—UNIDENTIFIED BODY OF GIRL

RECOVERED—THAT OF COMPANION STILL

MISSING

Because of his own great interest in canoeing, and indeed

in any form of water life, as well as his own particular skill

when it came to rowing, swimming, diving, he now read

with interest:

Pancoast, Mass., June 7th…. What proved to be a fatal

boat ride for two, apparently, was taken here day

before yesterday by an unidentified man and girl who

came presumably from Pittsfield to spend the day at

Pass Lake, which is fourteen miles north of this place.

Tuesday morning a man and a girl, who said to Thomas

Lucas, who conducts the Casino Lunch and Boat

House there, that they were from Pittsfield, rented a

small row-boat about ten o’clock in the morning and

with a basket, presumably containing lunch, departed

for the northern end of the lake. At seven o’clock last

evening, when they did not return, Mr. Lucas, in

company with his son Jeffrey, made a tour of the lake in

his motor boat and discovered the row-boat upside

down in the shallows near the north shore, but no trace

of the occupants. Thinking at the time that it might be

another instance of renters having decamped in order

to avoid payment, he returned the boat to his own dock.

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But this morning, doubtful as to whether or not an

accident had occurred, he and his assistant, Fred

Walsh, together with his son, made a second tour of

the north shore and finally came upon the hats of both

the girl and the man floating among some rushes near

the shore. At once a dredging party was organized, and