An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

trouble to go through with from now on. And later, she

would have to explain to her parents this whole mysterious

proceeding, which covered her present disappearance and

marriage, if Clyde really did marry her now. But she must

insist upon that—and soon—in Utica, perhaps—certainly at

the very next place they went to—and get a copy of her

marriage certificate, too, and keep it for her own as well as

the baby’s sake. He could get a divorce as he pleased after

that. She would still be Mrs. Griffiths. And Clyde’s baby and

hers would be a Griffiths, too. That was something.

(How beautiful the little river was. It reminded her of the

Mohawk and the walks she and he had taken last summer

when they first met. Oh, last summer! And now this!)

And they would settle somewhere—in one or two rooms, no

doubt. Where, she wondered—in what town or city? How

far away from Lycurgus or Biltz—the farther from Biltz the

better, although she would like to see her mother and father

again, and soon—as soon as she safely could. But what

matter, as long as they were going away together and she

was to be married?

Had he noticed her blue suit and little brown hat? And had

he thought she looked at all attractive compared to those

rich girls with whom he was always running? She must be

very tactful—not irritate him in any way. But—oh, the happy

life they could have if only—if only he cared for her a little—

just a little …

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And then Utica, and on a quiet street Clyde catching up with

Roberta, his expression a mixture of innocent geniality and

good-will, tempered by worry and opposition, which was

really a mask for the fear of the deed that he himself was

contemplating—his power to execute it—the consequences

in case he failed.

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Chapter 47

AND then, as planned that night between them—a trip to

Grass Lake the next morning in separate cars, but which,

upon their arrival and to his surprise, proved to be so much

more briskly tenanted than he anticipated. He was very

much disturbed and frightened by the evidence of so much

active life up here. For he had fancied this, as well as Big

Bittern, would be all but deserted. Yet here now, as both

could see, it was the summer seat and gathering place of

some small religious organization or group—the

Winebrennarians of Pennsylvania—as it proved with a

tabernacle and numerous cottages across the lake from the

station. And Roberta at once exclaiming:

“Now, there, isn’t that cute? Why couldn’t we be married

over there by the minister of that church?”

And Clyde, puzzled and shaken by this sudden and highly

unsatisfactory development, at once announced: “Why, sure

—Ill go over after a bit and see,” yet his mind busy with

schemes for circumventing her. He would take her out in a

boat after registering and getting settled and remain too

long. Or should a peculiarly remote and unobserved spot be

found … but no, there were too many people here. The lake

was not large enough, and probably not very deep. It was

black or dark like tar, and sentineled to the east and north

by tall, dark pines—the serried spears of armed and

watchful giants, as they now seemed to him—ogres almost

—so gloomy, suspicious and fantastically erratic was his

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own mood in regard to all this. But still there were too many

people—as many as ten on the lake.

The weirdness of it

The difficulty.

But whisper:—one could not walk from here through any

woods to Three Mile Bay. Oh, no. That was all of thirty

miles to the south now. And besides this lake was less

lonely—probably continually observed by members of this

religious group. Oh, no—he must say—he must say—but

what—could he say? That he had inquired, and that no

license could be procured here? Or that the minister was

away, or that he required certain identifications which he did

not have—or—or, well, well—anything that would serve to

still Roberta until such hour to-morrow, as the train south

from here left for Big Bittern and Sharon, where, of course,

they would surely be married.

Why should she be so insistent? And why, anyhow, and

except for her crass determination to force him in this way,

should he be compelled to track here and there with her—

every hour—every minute of which was torture—an

unending mental crucifixion really, when, if he were but rid

of her! Oh, Sondra, Sondra, if but now from your high

estate, you might bend down and aid me. No more lies! No

more suffering! No more misery of any kind!

But instead, more lies. A long and aimless and pestilential

search for water-lilies, which because of his own restless

mood, bored Roberta as much as it did him. For why, she

was now thinking to herself as they rowed about, this

indifference to this marriage possibility, which could have

been arranged before now and given this outing the dream

quality it would and should have had, if only—if only he had

arranged for everything in Utica, even as she had wanted.

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But this waiting—evasion—and so like Clyde, his

vacillating, indefinite, uncertain mood, always. She was

beginning to wonder now as to his intentions again—

whether really and truly he did intend to marry her as he

had promised. Tomorrow, or the next day at most, would

show. So why worry now?

And then the next day at noon, Gun Lodge and Big Bittern

itself and Clyde climbing down from the train at Gun Lodge

and escorting Roberta to the waiting bus, the while he

assured her that since they were coming back this way, it

would be best if she were to leave her bag here, while he,

because of his camera as well as the lunch done up at

Grass Lake and crowded into his suitcase, would take his

own with him, because they would lunch on the lake. But on

reaching the bus, he was dismayed by the fact that the

driver was the same guide whom he had heard talk at Big

Bittern. What if it should prove now that this guide had seen

and remembered him! Would he not at least recall the

handsome Finchley car—Bertine and Stuart on the front

seat—himself and Sondra at the back—Grant and that

Harley Baggott talking to him outside?

At once that cold perspiration that had marked his more

nervous and terrified moods for weeks past, now burst forth

on his face and hands. Of what had he been thinking,

anyhow? How planning? In God’s name, how expect to

carry a thing like this through, if he were going to think so

poorly? It was like his failing to wear his cap from Lycurgus

to Utica, or at least getting it out of his bag before he tried to

buy that straw hat; it was like not buying the straw hat

before he went to Utica at all.

Yet the guide did not remember him, thank God! On the

contrary he inquired rather curiously, and as of a total

stranger: “Goin’ over to the lodge at Big Bittern? First time

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up here?” And Clyde, enormously relieved and yet really

tremulous, replied: “Yes,” and then in his nervous

excitement asked: “Many people over there to-day?” a

question which the moment he had propounded it, seemed

almost insane. Why, why, of all questions, should he ask

that? Oh, God, would his silly, self-destructive mistakes

never cease?

So troubled was he indeed, now, that he scarcely heard the

guide’s reply, or, if at all, as a voice speaking from a long

way off. “Not so many. About seven or eight, I guess. We

did have about thirty over the Fourth, but most o’ them went

down yesterday.”

The stillness of these pines lining this damp yellow road

along which they were traveling; the cool and the silence;

the dark shadows and purple and gray depths and nooks in

them, even at high noon. If one were slipping away at night

or by day, who would encounter one here? A blue-jay far in

the depths somewhere uttered its metallic shriek; a field

sparrow, tremulous upon some distant twig, filled the silver

shadows with its perfect song. And Roberta, as this heavy,

covered bus crossed rill and thin stream, and then rough

wooden bridges here and there, commented on the clarity

and sparkle of the water: “Isn’t that wonderful in there? Do

you hear the tinkling of that water, Clyde? Oh, the

freshness of this air!”

And yet she was going to die so soon!

God!

But supposing now, at Big Bittern—the lodge and boat-

house there—there were many people. Or that the lake, per-

adventure, was literally dotted with those that were there—

all fishermen and all fishing here and there, each one