An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

—if not death—lay in the opposite direction. He would have

to make the best of this terrible situation—make the best of

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this plan that had ended so strangely and somewhat

exculpatorily for him.

And yet these woods! This approaching night. The eerie

loneliness and danger of it all now. How now to do, what to

say, if met by any one. He was so confused—mentally and

nervously sick. The crackle of a twig and he leaped forward

as a hare.

And in this state it was that, after having recovered his bag

and changed his clothes, wringing out his wet suit and

attempting to dry it, then packing it in his bag under some

dry twigs and pine-needles and burying the tripod beneath

a rotting log, that he plunged into the woods after night had

fallen. Yet meditating more and more on his very strange

and perilous position. For supposing, just as he had

unintentionally struck at her, and they had fallen into the

water and she uttered those piercing and appealing cries,

there had been some one on the shore—some one

watching—one of those strong, hardy men whom he had

seen loitering about during the day and who might even at

this moment be sounding a local alarm that would bring a

score of such men to the work of hunting for him this very

night! A man hunt! And they would take him back and no

one would ever believe that he had not intentionally struck

her! They might even lynch him before he could so much

as secure a fair trial. It was possible. It had been done. A

rope around his neck. Or shot down in these woods,

maybe. And without an opportunity to explain how it had all

come about—how harried and tortured he had been by her

for so long. They would never understand that.

And so thinking he hurried faster and faster—as fast as

strong and serried and brambly young firs and dead

branches that cracked most ominously at times would

permit, thinking always as he went that the road to Three

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Mile Bay must be to his right hand, the moon to his left

when it should rise.

But, God, what was that?

Oh, that terrible sound!

Like a whimpering, screeching spirit in this dark!

There!

What was it?

He dropped his bag and in a cold sweat sunk down,

crouching behind a tall, thick tree, rigid and motionless with

fear.

That sound!

But only a screech-owl! He had heard it several weeks

before at the Cranston lodge. But here! In this wood! This

dark! He must be getting on and out of here. There was no

doubt of that. He must not be thinking such horrible, fearful

thoughts, or he would not be able to keep up his strength or

courage at all.

But that look in the eyes of Roberta! That last appealing

look! God! He could not keep from seeing it! Her mournful,

terrible screams! Could he not cease from hearing them—

until he got out of here anyhow?

Had she understood, when he struck her, that it was not

intentional—a mere gesture of anger and protest? Did she

know that now, wherever she was—in the bottom of the lake

—or here in the dark of these woods beside him, mayhap?

Ghosts! Hers. But he must get out of this—out of this! He

must—and yet the safety of these woods, too. He must not

be too brash in stepping out into any road, either.

Pedestrians! People in search of him, maybe! But did

people really live after death? Were there ghosts? And did

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they know the truth? Then she must know—but how he

plotted before that, too. And what would she think of that!

And was she here now reproachfully and gloomily pursuing

him with mistaken accusations, as true as it might be that

he had intended to kill her at first? He had! He had! And

that was the great sin, of course. Even though he had not

killed her, yet something had done it for him! That was true.

But ghosts—God—spirits that might pursue you after they

were dead, seeking to expose and punish you—seeking to

set people on your track, maybe! Who could tell? His

mother had confessed to him and Frank and Esta and Julia

that she believed in ghosts.

And then at last the moon, after three such hours of

stumbling, listening, waiting, perspiring, trembling. No one

in sight now, thank God! And the stars overhead—bright

and yet soft, as at Pine Point where Sondra was. If she

could see him now, slipping away from Roberta dead in that

lake, his own hat upon the waters there! If she could have

heard Roberta’s cries! How strange, that never, never,

never would he be able to tell her that because of her, her

beauty, his passion for her and all that she had come to

mean to him, he had been able to … to … to … well,

attempt this terrible thing—kill a girl whom once he had

loved. And all his life he would have this with him, now,—

this thought! He would never be able to shake it off—never,

never, never. And he had not thought of that, before. It was

a terrible thing in its way, just that, wasn’t it?

But then suddenly there in the dark, at about eleven

o’clock, as he afterwards guessed, the water having

stopped his watch, and after he had reached the highroad

to the west—and walked a mile or two,—those three men,

quick, like ghosts coming out of the shadow of the woods.

He thought at first that having seen him at the moment be

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had struck Roberta or the moment afterward, they had now

come to take him. The sweating horror of that moment! And

that boy who had held up the light the better to see his face.

And no doubt he had evinced most suspicious fear and

perturbation, since at the moment he was most deeply

brooding on all that had happened, terrorized really by the

thought that somehow, in some way, he had left some clue

that might lead directly to him. And he did jump back,

feeling that these were men sent to seize him. But at that

moment, the foremost, a tall, bony man, without appearing

to be more than amused at his obvious cowardice, had

called, “Howdy, stranger!” while the youngest, without

appearing to be suspicious at all, had stepped forward and

then turned up the light. And it was then that he had begun

to understand that they were just countrymen or guides—

not a posse in pursuit of him—and that if he were calm and

civil they would have no least suspicion that he was the

murderer that he was.

But afterward he had said to himself—“But they will

remember me, walking along this lonely road at this hour

with this bag, won’t they?” And so at once he had decided

that he must hurry—hurry—and not be seen by any others

anywhere there.

Then, hours later and just as the moon was lowering toward

the west, a sickly yellow pallor overspreading the woods

and making the night even more wretched and wearisome,

he had come to Three Mile Bay itself—a small collection of

native and summer cottages nestling at the northernmost

end of what was known as the Indian Chain. And in it, as he

could see from a bend in the road, a few pale lights still

twinkling. Stores. Houses. Street lamps. But all dim in the

pale light—so dim and eerie to him. One thing was plain—

at this hour and dressed as he was and with his bag in

hand, he could not enter there. That would be to fix curiosity

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as well as suspicion on him, assuredly, if any one was still

about. And as the launch that ran between this place and

Sharon, from whence he would proceed to Pine Point, did

not leave until eight-thirty, he must hide away in the

meantime and make himself as presentable as possible.

And accordingly re-entering a thicket of pines that

descended to the very borders of the town, there to wait

until morning, being able to tell by a small clock-face which

showed upon the sides of a small church tower, when the

hour for emerging had arrived. But, in the interim debating,

—“Was it wise so to do?” For who might not be here to wait

for him? Those three men—or some one else who might

have seen?—Or an officer, notified from somewhere else.

Yet deciding after a time that it was best to go just the

same. For to stalk along in the woods west of this lake—

and by night rather than day—seeing that by day he might

be seen, and when by taking this boat he could reach in an