An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

hour and a half—or two hours at the most—the Cranston

lodge at Sharon, whereas by walking he would not arrive

until to-morrow,—was not that unwise, more dangerous?

Besides, he had promised Sondra and Bertine that he

would be there Tuesday. And here it was Friday! Again, by

tomorrow, might not a hue and cry be on—his description

sent here and there—whereas this morning—well, how

could Roberta have been found as yet? No, no. Better this

way. For who knew him here—or could identify him as yet

with either Carl Graham or Clifford Golden. Best go this way,

—speedily, before anything else in connection with her

developed. Yes, yes. And finally, the clock-hands pointing

to eight-ten, making his way out, his heart beating heavily

as he did so.

At the foot of this street was the launch which steamed from

here to Sharon. And as he loitered he observed the bus

from Raquette Lake approaching. It now occurred to him, if

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he encountered any one he knew on the steamer dock or

boat, could he not say that he was fresh from Raquette

Lake, where Sondra, as well as Bertine, had many friends,

or in case they themselves came down on the boat, that he

had been there the day before. What matter whose name

or lodge he mentioned—an invented one, if need be.

And so, at last, making his way to the boat and boarding it.

And later at Sharon, leaving it again and without, as he

thought, appearing to attract any particular attention at

either end. For, although there were some eleven

passengers, all strangers to him, still no one other than a

young country girl in a blue dress and a white straw hat,

whom he guessed to be from this vicinity, appeared to pay

any particular attention to him. And her glances were

admiring rather than otherwise, although sufficient, because

of his keen desire for secrecy, to cause him to retire to the

rear of the boat, whereas the others appeared to prefer the

forward deck. And once in Sharon, knowing that the

majority were making for the railway station to catch the first

morning train down, he followed briskly in their wake, only

to turn into the nearest lunch-room in order to break the

trail, as he hoped. For although he had walked the long

distance from Big Bittern to Three Mile Bay, and previously

had rowed all afternoon, and merely made a pretense of

eating the lunch which Roberta had prepared at Grass

Lake, still even now he was not hungry. Then seeing a few

passengers approaching from the station, yet none whom

he knew, he joined these again as though just coming to

the inn and launch from the train.

For at this time there had come to him the thought that this

south train from Albany, as well as Utica being due here at

this hour, it was only natural that he should seem to come

on that. Pretending first, therefore, to be going to the

station, yet stopping en route to telephone Bertine and

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Sondra that he was here, and being assured that a car

rather than a launch would be sent for him, he explained

that he would be waiting on the west veranda of the inn. En

route also he stopped at a news stand for a morning paper,

although he knew there could be nothing in it as yet. And

he had barely crossed to the veranda of the inn and seated

himself before the Cranston car approached.

And in response to the greeting of the Cranston family

chauffeur, whom he knew well, and who smiled most

welcomingly, he was now able to achieve a seemingly easy

and genial smile, though still inwardly troubled by his great

dread. For no doubt by now, as he persistently argued with

himself, the three men whom he had met had reached Big

Bittern. And by now both Roberta and he must assuredly

have been missed, and maybe, who knows, the upturned

boat with his hat and her veil discovered! If so, might they

not have already reported that they had seen such a man

as himself, carrying a bag, and making his way to the south

in the night? And, if so, would not that, regardless of

whether the body was found or not, cause them to become

dubious as to whether a double drowning had occurred?

And supposing by some strange chance her body should

come to the surface? Then what? And might there not be a

mark left by that hard blow he had given her? If so, would

they not suspect murder, and his body not coming up and

those men describing the man they had seen, would not

Clifford Golden or Carl Graham be suspected of murder?

But neither Clifford Golden nor Carl Graham were Clyde

Griffiths by any means. And they could not possibly identify

Clyde Griffiths—with either Clifford Golden or Carl Graham.

For had he not taken every precaution, even searching

through Roberta’s bag and purse there at Grass Lake while

at his request after breakfast she had gone back to see

about the lunch? Had he not? True, he had found those two

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letters from that girl, Theresa Bouser, addressed to Roberta

at Biltz, and he had destroyed them before ever leaving for

Gun Lodge. And as for that toilet set in its original case,

with the label “Whitely-Lycurgus” on it, while it was true that

he had been compelled to leave that, still might not any one

—Mrs. Clifford Golden, or Mrs. Carl Graham—have bought

that in Whitely’s, and so without the possibility of its being

traced to him? Assuredly. And as for her clothes, even

assuming that they did go to prove her identity, would it not

be assumed, by her parents as well as others, that she had

gone on this trip with a strange man by the name of Golden

or Graham, and would they not want that hushed up without

further ado? At any rate, he would hope for the best—keep

up his nerve, put on a strong, pleasant, cheerful front here,

so that no one would think of him as the one, since he had

not actually killed her, anyhow.

Here he was in this fine car. And Sondra, as well as

Bertine, waiting for him. He would have to say that he was

just up from Albany—had been on some errand over there

for his uncle which had taken all of this time since Tuesday.

And while he should be blissfully happy with Sondra, still

here were all of those dreadful things of which now all of

the time he would be compelled to think. The danger that in

some inadvertent way he had not quite covered all the

tracks that might lead to him. And if he had not! Exposure!

Arrest! Perhaps a hasty and unjust conviction—

punishment, even! Unless he was able to explain about that

accidental blow. The end of all his dreams in connection

with Sondra—Lycurgus—the great life that he had hoped

for himself. But could he explain as to that? Could he? God!

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Chapter 7

FROM Friday morning until the following Tuesday noon,

moving amid such scenes as previously had so exhilarated

and enthralled him, Clyde was now compelled to suffer the

most frightful fears and dreads. For, although met by

Sondra, as well as Bertine, at the door of the Cranston

lodge, and shown by them to the room he was to occupy,

he could not help but contrast every present delight here

with the danger of his immediate and complete destruction.

As he had entered, Sondra had poutingly whispered, so

that Bertine might not hear: “Baddie! Staying down there a

whole week when you might have been up here. And

Sondra planning everything for you! You ought to have a

good spanking. I was going to call up to-day to see where

you were.” Yet at the same time her eyes conveying the

infatuation that now dominated her.

And he, in spite of his troubled thoughts achieving a gay

smile,—for once in her presence even the terror of

Roberta’s death, his own present danger appeared to

dwindle. If only all went well, now,—nothing were traced to

him! A clear path! A marvelous future! Her beauty! Her

love! Her wealth. And yet, after being ushered to his room,

his bag having been carried in before him, at once

becoming nervous as to the suit. It was damp and wrinkled.

He must hide it on one of the upper shelves of a closet,

maybe. And the moment he was alone and the door locked,

taking it out, wet and wrinkled, the mud of the shores of Big

Bittern still about the legs—yet deciding perhaps not—

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perhaps he had better keep it locked in his bag until night

when he could better decide what to do. Yet tying up in a