An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

separate and alone—no privacy or a deserted spot

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anywhere. And how strange he had not thought of that.

This lake was probably not nearly as deserted as he had

imagined, or would not be to-day, any more than Grass

Lake had proved. And then what?

Well, flight then—flight—and let it go at that. This strain was

too much—hell—he would die, thinking thoughts like these.

How could he have dreamed to better his fortunes by any

so wild and brutal a scheme as this anyhow—to kill and

then run away—or rather to kill and pretend that he and she

had drowned—while he—the real murderer—slipped away

to life and happiness. What a horrible plan! And yet how

else? How? Had he not come all, this way to do this? And

was he going to turn back now?

And all this time Roberta at his side was imagining that she

was not going to anything but marriage—to-morrow

morning sure; and now only to the passing pleasure of

seeing this beautiful lake of which he had been talking—

talking, as though it were something more important and

delectable than any that had as yet been in her or his life for

that matter.

But now the guide was speaking again, and to him: “You’re

not mindin’ to stay over, I suppose. I see you left the young

lady’s bag over there.” He nodded in the direction of Gun

Lodge.

“No, we’re going on down to-night—on that 8:10. You take

people over to that?”

“Oh, sure.”

“They said you did—at Grass Lake.”

But now why should he have added that reference to Grass

Lake, for that showed that he and Roberta had been there

before coming here. But this fool with his reference to “the

young lady’s bag”! And leaving it at Gun Lodge. The Devil!

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Why shouldn’t he mind his own business? Or why should

he have decided that he and Roberta were not married? Or

had he so decided? At any rate, why such a question when

they were carrying two bags and he had brought one?

Strange! The effrontery! How should he know or guess or

what? But what harm could it do—married or unmarried? If

she were not found—“married or unmarried” would make

no difference, would it? And if she were, and it was

discovered that she was not married, would that not prove

that she was off with some one else? Of course! So why

worry over that now?

And Roberta asking: “Are there any hotels or boarding

houses on the lake besides this one we’re going to?”

“Not a one, miss, outside o’ the inn that we’re goin’ to.

There was a crowd of young fellers and girls campin’ over

on the east shore, yisterday, I believe, about a mile from

the inn—but whether they’re there now or not, I dunno. Ain’t

seen none of ’em to-day.”

A crowd of young fellows and girls! For God’s sake! And

might not they now be out on the water—all of them—

rowing—or sailing—or what? And he here with her! Maybe

some of them from Twelfth Lake! Just as he and Sondra

and Harriet and Stuart and Bertine had come up two weeks

before—some of them friends of the Cranstons, Harriets,

Finchleys or others who had come up here to play and who

would remember him, of course. And again, then, there

must be a road to the east of this lake. And all this

knowledge and their presence there now might make this

trip of his useless. Such silly plotting! Such pointless

planning as this—when at least he might have taken more

time—chosen a lake still farther away and should have—

only so tortured had he been for these last many days, that

he could scarcely think how to think. Well, all he could do

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now was to go and see. If there were many he must think of

some way to row to some real lonely spot or maybe turn

and return to Grass Lake—or where? Oh, what could or

would he do—if there were many over here?

But just then a long aisle of green trees giving out at the far

end as he now recalled upon a square of lawn, and the lake

itself, the little inn with its pillared verandah, facing the dark

blue waters of Big Bittern. And that low, small red-roofed

boathouse to the right on the water that he had seen before

when he was here. And Roberta exclaiming on sight, “Oh, it

is pretty, isn’t it—just beautiful.” And Clyde surveying that

dark, low island in the distance, to the south, and seeing

but few people about—none on the lake itself—exclaiming

nervously, “Yes, it is, you bet.” But feeling half choked as he

said it.

And now the host of the inn himself appearing and

approaching—a medium-sized, red-faced, broad-

shouldered man who was saying most intriguingly, “Staying

over for a few days?”

But Clyde, irritated by this new development and after

paying the guide a dollar, replying crustily and irritably, “No,

no—just came over for the afternoon. We’re going on down

to-night.”

“You’ll be staying over for dinner then, I suppose? The train

doesn’t leave till eight-fifteen.”

“Oh, yes—that’s so. Sure. Yes, well, in that case, we will.”…

For, of course, Roberta on her honeymoon—the day before

her wedding and on a trip like this, would be expecting her

dinner. Damn this stocky, red-faced fool, anyway.

“Well, then, I’ll just take your bag and you can register. Your

wife’ll probably be wanting to freshen up a bit anyway.”

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He led the way, bag in hand, although Clyde’s greatest

desire was to snatch it from him. For he had not expected

to register here—nor leave his bag either. And would not.

He would recapture it and hire a boat. But on top of that,

being compelled “for the register’s sake,” as Boniface

phrased it, to sign Clifford Golden and wife—before he

could take his bag again.

And then to add to the nervousness and confusion

engendered by all this, thoughts as to what additional

developments or persons, even, he might encounter before

leaving on his climacteric errand—Roberta announcing that

because of the heat and the fact that they were coming

back to dinner, she would leave her hat and coat—a hat in

which he had already seen the label of Braunstein in

Lycurgus—and which at the time caused him to meditate as

to the wisdom of leaving or extracting it. But he had decided

that perhaps afterwards—afterwards—if he should really do

this—it might not make any difference whether it was there

or not. Was she not likely to be identified anyhow, if found,

and if not found, who was to know who she was?

In a confused and turbulent state mentally, scarcely

realizing the clarity or import of any particular thought or

movement or act now, he took up his bag and led the way

to the boathouse platform. And then, after dropping the bag

into the boat, asking of the boathouse keeper if he knew

where the best views were, that he wanted to photograph

them. And this done—the meaningless explanation over,

assisting Roberta (an almost nebulous figure, she now

seemed, stepping down into an insubstantial row-boat upon

a purely ideational lake), he now stepped in after her,

seating himself in the center and taking the oars.

The quiet, glassy, iridescent surface of this lake that now to

both seemed, not so much like water as oil—like molten

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glass that, of enormous bulk and weight, resting upon the

substantial earth so very far below. And the lightness and

freshness and intoxication of the gentle air blowing here

and there, yet scarcely rippling the surface of the lake. And

the softness and furry thickness of the tall pines about the

shore. Everywhere pines—tall and spearlike. And above

them the humped backs of the dark and distant

Adirondacks beyond. Not a rower to be seen. Not a house

or cabin. He sought to distinguish the camp of which the

guide had spoken. He could not. He sought to distinguish

the voices of those who might be there—or any voices. Yet,

except for the lock-lock of his own oars as he rowed and

the voice of the boathouse keeper and the guide in

converse two hundred, three hundred, five hundred, a

thousand feet behind, there was no sound.

“Isn’t it still and peaceful?” It was Roberta talking. “It seems

to be so restful here. I think it’s beautiful, truly, so much

more beautiful than that other lake. These trees are so tall,

aren’t they? And those mountains. I was thinking all the

way over how cool and silent that road was, even if it was a

little rough.”

“Did you talk to any one in the inn there just now?”

“Why, no; what makes you ask?”

“Oh, I thought you might have run into some one. There

don’t seem to be very many people up here to-day, though,