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

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 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 he 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 as well as suspicion on him, assuredly, if anyone 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 someone 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 hour and a half⁠—or two hours at the most⁠—the Cranston lodge at Sharon, whereas by walking he would not arrive until tomorrow⁠—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