An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

single bundle, in order to have them laundered, other odds

and ends he had worn that day. And, as he did so, terribly,

sickeningly conscious of the mystery and drama as well as

the pathos of his life—all he had contacted since his arrival

in the east, how little he had in his youth. How little he had

now, really. The spaciousness and grandeur of this room as

contrasted with the one he occupied in Lycurgus. The

strangeness of his being here at all after yesterday. The

blue waters of this bright lake without as contrasted with the

darker ones of Big Bittern. And on the green-sward that

reached from this bright, strong, rambling house, with its

wide veranda and striped awnings to the shore of the lake

itself, Stuart Finchley and Violet Taylor, together with Frank

Harriet and Wynette Phant, in the smartest of sport clothes,

playing tennis, while Bertine and Harley Baggott lolled in the

shade of a striped marquee swing.

And, he himself, after bathing and dressing, assuming a

jocular air although his nerves remained tense and his

mood apprehensive. And then descending to where Sondra

and Burchard Taylor and Jill Trumbull were laughing over

some amusing experiences in connection with motor-

boating the day before. Jill Trumbull called to him as he

came out: “Hello, Clyde! Been playing hookey or what? I

haven’t seen you in I don’t know when.” And he, after

smiling wistfully at Sondra, craving as never before her

sympathy as well as her affection, drawing himself up on

the railing of the veranda and replying, as smoothly as he

could: “Been working over at Albany since Tuesday. Hot

down there. It’s certainly fine to be up here to-day. Who’s all

up?” And Jill Trumbull, smiling: “Oh, nearly every one, I

guess. I saw Vanda over at the Randalls’ yesterday. And

Scott wrote Bertine he was coming to the Point next

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Tuesday. It looks to me as though no one was going over

to Greenwood much this year.” And then a long and intense

discussion as to why Greenwood was no longer what it had

been. And then Sondra exclaiming: “That reminds me! I

have to phone Bella to-day. She promised to come up to

that horse show over at Bristol week after next, sure.” And

then more talk of horses and dogs. And Clyde, listening

intently in his anxiety to seem an integral part of it all, yet

brooding on all that so desperately concerned him. Those

three men. Roberta. Maybe they had found her body by now

—who could tell, yet saying to himself—why so fearsome?

Was it likely that in that depth of water—fifty feet maybe, for

all he knew—that they would find her? Or that they could

ever identify him with Clifford Golden or Carl Graham? How

could they? Hadn’t he really and truly covered his tracks

except for those three men? Those three men! He shivered,

as with cold, in spite of himself.

And then Sondra, sensing a note of depression about him.

(She had determined from his obvious lack of equipment on

his first visit that perhaps the want of money was at the

bottom of his present mood, and so proposed later this day

to extract seventy-five dollars from her purse and force that

upon him in order that at no point where petty expenditures

should be required, should he feel the least bit

embarrassed during his stay this time.) And after a few

moments, thinking of the short golf course, with its variety

of concealing hazards for unseen kisses and embraces,

she now jumped up with: “Who’s for a mixed foursome?

Come on, Jill, Clyde, Burch! I’ll bet Clyde and I can turn in a

lower card than you two can!”

“I’ll take that!” exclaimed Burchard Taylor, rising and

straightening his yellow and blue striped sweater, “even if I

didn’t get in until four this morning. How about you, Jilly? If

you want to make that for the lunches, Sonny, I’ll take it.”

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And at once Clyde wincing and chilling, for he was thinking

of the miserable twenty-five dollars left him from all his

recent ghastly adventures. And a lunch for four here would

cost not less than eight or ten dollars! Perhaps more. At the

same time, Sondra, noting his expression, exclaimed:

“That’s a go!” and drawing near to Clyde tapped him gently

with her toe, exclaiming: “But I have to change. I’ll be right

down. In the meantime, Clyde, I’ll tell you what you do—go

and find Andrew and tell him to get the clubs, will you? We

can go over in your boat, can’t we, Burchy?” And Clyde,

hurrying to find Andrew, and thinking of the probable cost of

the lunch if he and Sondra were defeated, but being caught

up with by Sondra and seized by the arm. “Wait a minute,

honey, I’ll be right back.” Then dashing up the steps to her

room, and in a moment down again, a handful of bills she

had reserved shut tightly in her little fist: “Here, darling,

quick!” she whispered, taking hold of one of Clyde’s coat

pockets and putting the money into it. “Ssh! Not a word,

now! Hurry! It’s to pay for the lunch in case we lose, and

some other things. I’ll tell you afterwards. Oh, but I do love

you, baby boy!” And then, her warm, brown eyes fixed on

him for a moment in profound admiration, dashing up the

stairs again, from where she called: “Don’t stand there, silly!

Get the golf clubs! The golf clubs!” And she was gone.

And Clyde, feeling his pocket and realizing that she had

given him much—plenty, no doubt, for all of his needs while

here, as well as to escape if need be. And exclaiming to

himself: “Darling!”“Baby girl!” His beautiful, warm, generous

Sondra! She loved him so—truly loved him. But if ever she

should find out! Oh, God! And yet all for her, if she only

knew. All for her! And then finding Andrew and returning

with him carrying the bags.

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And here was Sondra again, dancing down in a smart

green knitted sports costume. And Jill in a new cap and

blouse which made her look like a jockey, laughing at

Burchard who was at the wheel of the boat. And Sondra

calling back to Bertine and Harley Baggott in the swing as

she was passing: “Hey, fellows! You won’t come, eh?”

“Where?”

“Casino Golf Club.”

“Oh, too far. See you after lunch on the beach, though.”

And then Burchard shooting the boat out in the lake with a

whir that set it bounding like a porpoise—and Clyde gazing

half in a dream, half delight and hope and the other half a

cloud of shadow and terror, with arrest and death, maybe,

stalking close behind. For in spite of all his preliminary

planning, he was beginning to feel that he had made a

mistake in openly coming out of the wood this morning. And

yet had it not been best, since the only alternative was that

of remaining there by day and coming out at night and

following the shore road on foot to Sharon? That would

have required two or three days. And Sondra, anxious as

well as curious about the delay, might have telephoned to

Lycurgus, thereby raising some question in regard to him

which might have proved dangerous later might it not?

But here now, this bright day, with seemingly no cares of

any kind, for these others at least, however dark and bleak

his own background might be. And Sondra, all gayety

because of his presence, now jumping up, her bright scarf

held aloft in one hand like a pennant, and exclaiming

foolishly and gayly: “Cleopatra sailing to meet—to meet—

who was it she was sailing to meet, anyhow?”

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“Charlie Chaplin,” volunteered Taylor, at the same time

proceeding to ricochet the boat as roughly and erratically as

possible in order to make her lose her balance.

“Oh, you silly!” returned Sondra, spreading her feet

sufficiently apart to maintain her equilibrium, and adding for

the benefit of Burchard: “No, you don’t either, Burchy,” then

continuing: “Cleopatra sailing, a-a-oh, I know, aquaplaning,”

and throwing her head back and her arms wide, while the

boat continued to jump and lurch like a frightened horse.

“See if you can upset me now, Burchy,” she called.

And Burchard, throwing the boat from side to side as swiftly

as he dared, with Jill Trumbull, anxious for her own safety,

calling: “Oh, say, what do you want to do? Drown us all?” at

which Clyde winced and blanched as though struck.

At once he felt sick, weak. He had never imagined that it

was going to be like this; that he was going to suffer so. He

had imagined that it was all going to be different. And yet

here he was, blanching at every accidental and unintended