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

And then the next day at noon, Gun Lodge and Big Bittern itself and Clyde climbing down from the train at Gun Lodge and escorting Roberta to the waiting bus, the while he assured her that since they were coming back this way, it would be best if she were to leave her bag here, while he, because of his camera as well as the lunch done up at Grass Lake and crowded into his suitcase, would take his own with him, because they would lunch on the lake. But on reaching the bus, he was dismayed by the fact that the driver was the same guide whom he had heard talk at Big Bittern. What if it should prove now that this guide had seen and remembered him! Would he not at least recall the handsome Finchley car⁠—Bertine and Stuart on the front seat⁠—himself and Sondra at the back⁠—Grant and that Harley Baggott talking to him outside?

At once that cold perspiration that had marked his more nervous and terrified moods for weeks past, now burst forth on his face and hands. Of what had he been thinking, anyhow? How planning? In God’s name, how expect to carry a thing like this through, if he were going to think so poorly? It was like his failing to wear his cap from Lycurgus to Utica, or at least getting it out of his bag before he tried to buy that straw hat; it was like not buying the straw hat before he went to Utica at all.

Yet the guide did not remember him, thank God! On the contrary he inquired rather curiously, and as of a total stranger: “Goin’ over to the lodge at Big Bittern? First time up here?” And Clyde, enormously relieved and yet really tremulous, replied: “Yes,” and then in his nervous excitement asked: “Many people over there today?” a question which the moment he had propounded it, seemed almost insane. Why, why, of all questions, should he ask that? Oh, God, would his silly, self-destructive mistakes never cease?

So troubled was he indeed, now, that he scarcely heard the guide’s reply, or, if at all, as a voice speaking from a long way off. “Not so many. About seven or eight, I guess. We did have about thirty over the Fourth, but most o’ them went down yesterday.”

The stillness of these pines lining this damp yellow road along which they were traveling; the cool and the silence; the dark shadows and purple and gray depths and nooks in them, even at high noon. If one were slipping away at night or by day, who would encounter one here? A blue-jay far in the depths somewhere uttered its metallic shriek; a field sparrow, tremulous upon some distant twig, filled the silver shadows with its perfect song. And Roberta, as this heavy, covered bus crossed rill and thin stream, and then rough wooden bridges here and there, commented on the clarity and sparkle of the water: “Isn’t that wonderful in there? Do you hear the tinkling of that water, Clyde? Oh, the freshness of this air!”

And yet she was going to die so soon!

God!

But supposing now, at Big Bittern⁠—the lodge and boathouse there⁠—there were many people. Or that the lake, peradventure, was literally dotted with those that were there⁠—all fishermen and all fishing here and there, each one separate and alone⁠—no privacy or a deserted spot 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 today, 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—tomorrow 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 tonight⁠—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! 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 someone 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