An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser (whitelam books .TXT) 📖

Having seen her secure her ticket, he now went to get his own, and then, with another knowing look in her direction, which said that everything was now all right, he returned to the eastern end of the platform, while she returned to her position at the forward end.

(Why was that old man in that old brown winter suit and hat and carrying that bird cage in a brown paper looking at him so? Could he sense anything? Did he know him? Had he ever worked in Lycurgus or seen him before?)

He was going to buy a second straw hat in Utica today⁠—he must remember that⁠—a straw hat with a Utica label, which he would wear instead of his present one. Then, when she was not looking, he would put the old one in his bag with his other things. That was why he would have to leave her for a little while after they reached Utica⁠—at the depot or library or somewhere⁠—perhaps as was his first plan, take her to some small hotel somewhere and register as Mr. and Mrs. Carl Graham or Clifford Golden or Gehring (there was a girl in the factory by that name) so if they were ever traced in any way, it would be assumed that she had gone away with some man of that name.

(That whistle of a train afar off. It must be coming now. His watch said twelve-twenty-seven.)

And again he must decide what his manner toward her in Utica must be⁠—whether very cordial or the opposite. For over the telephone, of course, he had talked very soft and genial-like because he had to. Perhaps it would be best to keep that up, otherwise she might become angry or suspicious or stubborn and that would make it hard.

(Would that train never get here?)

At the same time it was going to be very hard on him to be so very pleasant when, after all, she was driving him as she was⁠—expecting him to do all that she was asking him to do and yet be nice to her. Damn! And yet if he weren’t?⁠—Supposing she should sense something of his thoughts in connection with this⁠—really refuse to go through with it this way and spoil his plans.

(If only his knees and hands wouldn’t tremble so at times.)

But no, how was she to be able to detect anything of that kind, when he himself had not quite made up his mind as to whether he would be able to go through with it or not? He only knew he was not going away with her, and that was all there was to that. He might not upset the boat, as he had decided on the day before, but just the same he was not going away with her.

But here now was the train. And there was Roberta lifting her bag. Was it too heavy for her in her present state? It probably was. Well, too bad. It was very hot today, too. At any rate he would help her with it later, when they were where no one could see them. She was looking toward him to be sure he was getting on⁠—so like her these days, in her suspicious, doubtful mood in regard to him. But here was a seat in the rear of the car on the shady side, too. That was not so bad. He would settle himself comfortably and look out. For just outside Fonda, a mile or two beyond, was that same Mohawk that ran through Lycurgus and past the factory, and along the banks of which the year before, he and Roberta had walked about this time. But the memory of that being far from pleasant now, he turned his eyes to a paper he had bought, and behind which he could shield himself as much as possible, while he once more began to observe the details of the more inward scene which now so much more concerned him⁠—the nature of the lake country around Big Bittern, which ever since that final important conversation with Roberta over the telephone, had been interesting him more than any other geography of the world.

For on Friday, after the conversation, he had stopped in at the Lycurgus House and secured three different folders relating to hotels, lodges, inns and other camps in the more remote region beyond Big Bittern and Long Lake. (If only there were some way to get to one of those completely deserted lakes described by that guide at Big Bittern⁠—only, perhaps, there might not be any rowboats on any of these lakes at all!) And again on Saturday, had he not secured four more circulars from the rack at the depot (they were in his pocket now)? Had they not proved how many small lakes and inns there were along this same railroad, which ran north to Big Bittern, to which he and Roberta might resort for a day or two if she would⁠—a night, anyhow, before going to Big Bittern and Grass Lake⁠—had he not noted that in particular⁠—a beautiful lake it had said⁠—near the station, and with at least three attractive lodges or country home inns where two could stay for as low as twenty dollars a week. That meant that two could stay for one night surely for as little as five dollars. It must be so surely⁠—and so he was going to say to her, as he had already planned these several days, that she needed a little rest before going away to a strange place. That it would not cost very much⁠—about fifteen dollars for fares and all, so the circulars said⁠—if they went to Grass Lake for a night⁠—this same night after reaching Utica⁠—or on the morrow, anyhow. And he would have to picture it all to her as a sort of honeymoon journey⁠—a little pleasant outing⁠—before getting married. And it would not do to succumb to any plan of hers to get married before they did this⁠—that