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

so very unfriendly to her. To be sure, it was hard on him, making him leave Lycurgus in this way, and when he might be enjoying himself as he wished to. But on the other hand, here was she⁠—and there was no other way for her to be. She must be very genial and yet not put herself forward too much or in his way. And yet she must not be too receding or weak, either, for, after all, Clyde was the one who had placed her in this position. And it was only fair, and little enough for him to do. She would have a baby to look after in the future, and all that trouble to go through with from now on. And later, she would have to explain to her parents this whole mysterious proceeding, which covered her present disappearance and marriage, if Clyde really did marry her now. But she must insist upon that⁠—and soon⁠—in Utica, perhaps⁠—certainly at the very next place they went to⁠—and get a copy of her marriage certificate, too, and keep it for her own as well as the baby’s sake. He could get a divorce as he pleased after that. She would still be Mrs. Griffiths. And Clyde’s baby and hers would be a Griffiths, too. That was something.

(How beautiful the little river was. It reminded her of the Mohawk and the walks she and he had taken last summer when they first met. Oh, last summer! And now this!)

And they would settle somewhere⁠—in one or two rooms, no doubt. Where, she wondered⁠—in what town or city? How far away from Lycurgus or Biltz⁠—the farther from Biltz the better, although she would like to see her mother and father again, and soon⁠—as soon as she safely could. But what matter, as long as they were going away together and she was to be married?

Had he noticed her blue suit and little brown hat? And had he thought she looked at all attractive compared to those rich girls with whom he was always running? She must be very tactful⁠—not irritate him in any way. But⁠—oh, the happy life they could have if only⁠—if only he cared for her a little⁠—just a little⁠ ⁠…

And then Utica, and on a quiet street Clyde catching up with Roberta, his expression a mixture of innocent geniality and goodwill, tempered by worry and opposition, which was really a mask for the fear of the deed that he himself was contemplating⁠—his power to execute it⁠—the consequences in case he failed.

XLVII

And then, as planned that night between them⁠—a trip to Grass Lake the next morning in separate cars, but which, upon their arrival and to his surprise, proved to be so much more briskly tenanted than he anticipated. He was very much disturbed and frightened by the evidence of so much active life up here. For he had fancied this, as well as Big Bittern, would be all but deserted. Yet here now, as both could see, it was the summer seat and gathering place of some small religious organization or group⁠—the Winebrennarians of Pennsylvania⁠—as it proved with a tabernacle and numerous cottages across the lake from the station. And Roberta at once exclaiming:

“Now, there, isn’t that cute? Why couldn’t we be married over there by the minister of that church?”

And Clyde, puzzled and shaken by this sudden and highly unsatisfactory development, at once announced: “Why, sure⁠—I’ll go over after a bit and see,” yet his mind busy with schemes for circumventing her. He would take her out in a boat after registering and getting settled and remain too long. Or should a peculiarly remote and unobserved spot be found⁠ ⁠… but no, there were too many people here. The lake was not large enough, and probably not very deep. It was black or dark like tar, and sentineled to the east and north by tall, dark pines⁠—the serried spears of armed and watchful giants, as they now seemed to him⁠—ogres almost⁠—so gloomy, suspicious and fantastically erratic was his own mood in regard to all this. But still there were too many people⁠—as many as ten on the lake.

The weirdness of it.

The difficulty.

But whisper:⁠—one could not walk from here through any woods to Three Mile Bay. Oh, no. That was all of thirty miles to the south now. And besides this lake was less lonely⁠—probably continually observed by members of this religious group. Oh, no⁠—he must say⁠—he must say⁠—but what⁠—could he say? That he had inquired, and that no license could be procured here? Or that the minister was away, or that he required certain identifications which he did not have⁠—or⁠—or, well, well⁠—anything that would serve to still Roberta until such hour tomorrow, as the train south from here left for Big Bittern and Sharon, where, of course, they would surely be married.

Why should she be so insistent? And why, anyhow, and except for her crass determination to force him in this way, should he be compelled to track here and there with her⁠—every hour⁠—every minute of which was torture⁠—an unending mental crucifixion really, when, if he were but rid of her! Oh, Sondra, Sondra, if but now from your high estate, you might bend down and aid me. No more lies! No more suffering! No more misery of any kind!

But instead, more lies. A long and aimless and pestilential search for water-lilies, which because of his own restless mood, bored Roberta as much as it did him. For why, she was now thinking to herself as they rowed about, this indifference to this marriage possibility, which could have been arranged before now and given this outing the dream quality it would and should have had, if only⁠—if only he had arranged for everything in Utica, even as she had wanted. But this waiting⁠—evasion⁠—and so like Clyde, his vacillating, indefinite, uncertain mood, always. She was beginning to wonder now as to his intentions again⁠—whether really and truly he did intend to marry her as he had promised.