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

which bore the names of the roomers pasted upon them. Since he knew that the southeast front room upstairs contained Esta, he proceeded there and knocked. And true enough, a light footstep responded within, and presently, after some little delay which seemed to suggest some quick preparation within, the door opened slightly and Esta peeped out⁠—quizzically at first, then with a little cry of astonishment and some confusion. For, as inquiry and caution disappeared, she realized that she was looking at Clyde. At once she opened the door wide.

“Why, Clyde,” she called. “How did you come to find me? I was just thinking of you.”

Clyde at once put his arms around her and kissed her. At the same time he realized, and with a slight sense of shock and dissatisfaction, that she was considerably changed. She was thinner⁠—paler⁠—her eyes almost sunken, and not any better dressed than when he had seen her last. She appeared nervous and depressed. One of the first thoughts that came to him now was where her husband was. Why wasn’t he here? What had become of him? As he looked about and at her, he noticed that Esta’s look was one of confusion and uncertainty, not unmixed with a little satisfaction at seeing him. Her mouth was partly open because of a desire to smile and to welcome him, but her eyes showed that she was contending with a problem.

“I didn’t expect you here,” she added, quickly, the moment he released her. “You didn’t see⁠—” Then she paused, catching herself at the brink of some information which evidently she didn’t wish to impart.

“Yes, I did, too⁠—I saw Ma,” he replied. “That’s how I came to know you were here. I saw her coming out just now and I saw you up here through the window.” (He did not care to confess that he had been following and watching his mother for an hour.) “But when did you get back?” he went on. “It’s a wonder you wouldn’t let the rest of us know something about you. Gee, you’re a dandy, you are⁠—going away and staying months and never letting any one of us know anything. You might have written me a little something, anyhow. We always got along pretty well, didn’t we?”

His glance was quizzical, curious, imperative. She, for her part, felt recessive and thence evasive⁠—uncertain, quite, what to think or say or tell.

She uttered: “I couldn’t think who it might be. No one comes here. But, my, how nice you look, Clyde. You’ve got such nice clothes, now. And you’re getting taller. Mamma was telling me you are working at the Green-Davidson.”

She looked at him admiringly and he was properly impressed by her notice of him. At the same time he could not get his mind off her condition. He could not cease looking at her face, her eyes, her thin-fat body. And as he looked at her waist and her gaunt face, he came to a very keen realization that all was not well with her. She was going to have a child. And hence the thought recurred to him⁠—where was her husband⁠—or at any rate, the man she had eloped with. Her original note, according to her mother, had said that she was going to get married. Yet now he sensed quite clearly that she was not married. She was deserted, left in this miserable room here alone. He saw it, felt it, understood it.

And he thought at once that this was typical of all that seemed to occur in his family. Here he was just getting a start, trying to be somebody and get along in the world and have a good time. And here was Esta, after her first venture in the direction of doing something for herself, coming to such a finish as this. It made him a little sick and resentful.

“How long have you been back, Esta?” he repeated dubiously, scarcely knowing just what to say now, for now that he was here and she was as she was he began to scent expense, trouble, distress and to wish almost that he had not been so curious. Why need he have been? It could only mean that he must help.

“Oh, not so very long, Clyde. About a month, now, I guess. Not more than that.”

“I thought so. I saw you up on Eleventh near Baltimore about a month ago, didn’t I? Sure I did,” he added a little less joyously⁠—a change that Esta noted. At the same time she nodded her head affirmatively. “I knew I did. I told Ma so at the time, but she didn’t seem to think so. She wasn’t as surprised as I thought she would be, though. I know why, now. She acted as though she didn’t want me to tell her about it either. But I knew I wasn’t wrong.” He stared at Esta oddly, quite proud of his prescience in this case. He paused though, not knowing quite what else to say and wondering whether what he had just said was of any sense or import. It didn’t seem to suggest any real aid for her.

And she, not quite knowing how to pass over the nature of her condition, or to confess it, either, was puzzled what to say. Something had to be done. For Clyde could see for himself that her predicament was dreadful. She could scarcely bear the look of his inquiring eyes. And more to extricate herself than her mother, she finally observed, “Poor Mamma. You mustn’t think it strange of her, Clyde. She doesn’t know what to do, you see, really. It’s all my fault, of course. If I hadn’t run away, I wouldn’t have caused her all this trouble. She has so little to do with and she’s always had such a hard time.” She turned her back to him suddenly, and her shoulders began to tremble and her sides to heave. She put her hands to her face and bent her head low⁠—and then he