An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser (i can read book club .TXT) 📕

into this country as yet. They’re talkin’ of cuttin’ one through to Long Lake sometime, but so far it’s mostly talk. But from most of these other lakes around here, there’s no road at all, not that an automobile could make. Just trails and there’s not even a decent camp on some o’ ’em. You have to bring your own outfit. But Ellis and me was over to Gun Lake last summer⁠—that’s thirty miles west o’ here and we had to walk every inch of the way and carry our packs. But, oh, say, the fishin’ and moose and deer come right down to the shore in places to drink. See ’em as plain as that stump across the lake.”

And Clyde remembered that, along with the others, he had carried away the impression that for solitude and charm⁠—or at least mystery⁠—this region could scarcely be matched. And to think it was all so comparatively near Lycurgus⁠—not more than a hundred miles by road; not more than seventy by rail, as he eventually came to know.

But now once more in Lycurgus and back in his room after just explaining to Roberta, as he had, he once more encountered on his writing desk, the identical paper containing the item concerning the tragedy at Pass Lake. And in spite of himself, his eye once more followed nervously and yet unwaveringly to the last word all the suggestive and provocative details. The uncomplicated and apparently easy way in which the lost couple had first arrived at the boathouse; the commonplace and entirely unsuspicious way in which they had hired a boat and set forth for a row; the manner in which they had disappeared to the north end; and then the upturned boat, the floating oars and hats near the shore. He stood reading in the still strong evening light. Outside the windows were the dark boughs of the fir tree of which he had thought the preceding day and which now suggested all those firs and pines about the shores of Big Bittern.

But, good God! What was he thinking of anyhow? He, Clyde Griffiths! The nephew of Samuel Griffiths! What was “getting into” him? Murder! That’s what it was. This terrible item⁠—this devil’s accident or machination that was constantly putting it before him! A most horrible crime, and one for which they electrocuted people if they were caught. Besides, he could not murder anybody⁠—not Roberta, anyhow. Oh, no! Surely not after all that had been between them. And yet⁠—this other world!⁠—Sondra⁠—which he was certain to lose now unless he acted in some way⁠—

His hands shook, his eyelids twitched⁠—then his hair at the roots tingled and over his body ran chill nervous titillations in waves. Murder! Or upsetting a boat at any rate in deep water, which of course might happen anywhere, and by accident, as at Pass Lake. And Roberta could not swim. He knew that. But she might save herself at that⁠—scream⁠—cling to the boat⁠—and then⁠—if there were any to hear⁠—and she told afterwards! An icy perspiration now sprang to his forehead; his lips trembled and suddenly his throat felt parched and dry. To prevent a thing like that he would have to⁠—to⁠—but no⁠—he was not like that. He could not do a thing like that⁠—hit anyone⁠—a girl⁠—Roberta⁠—and when drowning or struggling. Oh, no, no⁠—no such thing as that! Impossible.

He took his straw hat and went out, almost before anyone heard him think, as he would have phrased it to himself, such horrible, terrible thoughts. He could not and would not think them from now on. He was no such person. And yet⁠—and yet⁠—these thoughts. The solution⁠—if he wanted one. The way to stay here⁠—not leave⁠—marry Sondra⁠—be rid of Roberta and all⁠—all⁠—for the price of a little courage or daring. But no!

He walked and walked⁠—away from Lycurgus⁠—out on a road to the southeast which passed through a poor and decidedly unfrequented rural section, and so left him alone to think⁠—or, as he felt, not to be heard in his thinking.

Day was fading into dark. Lamps were beginning to glow in the cottages here and there. Trees in groups in fields or along the road were beginning to blur or smokily blend. And although it was warm⁠—the air lifeless and lethargic⁠—he walked fast, thinking, and perspiring as he did so, as though he were seeking to outwalk and outthink or divert some inner self that preferred to be still and think.

That gloomy, lonely lake up there!

That island to the south!

Who would see?

Who could hear?

That station at Gun Lodge with a bus running to it at this season of the year. (Ah, he remembered that, did he? The deuce!) A terrible thing, to remember a thing like that in connection with such a thought as this! But if he were going to think of such a thing as this at all, he had better think well⁠—he could tell himself that⁠—or stop thinking about it now⁠—once and forever⁠—forever. But Sondra! Roberta! If ever he were caught⁠—electrocuted! And yet the actual misery of his present state. The difficulty! The danger of losing Sondra. And yet, murder⁠—

He wiped his hot and wet face, and paused and gazed at a group of trees across a field which somehow reminded him of the trees of⁠ ⁠… well⁠ ⁠… he didn’t like this road. It was getting too dark out here. He had better turn and go back. But that road at the south and leading to Three Mile Bay and Greys Lake⁠—if one chose to go that way⁠—to Sharon and the Cranston Lodge⁠—whither he would be going afterwards if he did go that way. God! Big Bittern⁠—the trees along there after dark would be like that⁠—blurred and gloomy. It would have to be toward evening, of course. No one would think of trying to⁠ ⁠… well⁠ ⁠… in the morning, when there was so much light. Only a fool would do that. But at night, toward dusk, as it was now, or a little later. But, damn it, he would not listen to