An American Tragedy

part), had altered to such an extent that it would not be possible for her
longer to conceal it, and all those who worked with her at the factory were
soon bound to know. She could no longer work or sleep with any comfort—
she must not stay here any more. She was having preliminary pains—purely
imaginary ones in her case. He must marry her now, as he had indicated he
would, and leave with her at once—for some place—any place, really—near
or far—so long as she was extricated from this present terrible danger. And
she would agree, as she now all but pleaded, to let him go his way again as
soon as their child was born—truly—and would not ask any more of him
ever—ever. But now, this very week—not later than the fifteenth at the latest
—he must arrange to see her through with this as he had promised.
But this meant that he would be leaving with her before ever he should
have visited Sondra at Twelfth Lake at all, and without ever seeing her any
more really. And, besides, as he so well knew, he had not saved the sum
necessary to make possible the new venture on which she was insisting. In
vain it was that Roberta now explained that she had saved over a hundred,
and they could make use of that once they were married or to help in
connection with whatever expenses might be incurred in getting to wherever
he should decide they were going. All that he would see or feel was that this

---

meant the loss of everything to him, and that he would have to go away with
her to some relatively near-by place and get work at anything he could, in
order to support her as best he might. But the misery of such a change! The
loss of all his splendid dreams. And yet, racking his brains, he could think of
nothing better than that she should quit and go home for the time being, since
as he now argued, and most shrewdly, as he thought, he needed a few more
weeks to prepare for the change which was upon them both. For, in spite of
all his efforts, as he now falsely asserted, he had not been able to save as
much as he had hoped. He needed at least three or four more weeks in which
to complete the sum, which he had been looking upon as advisable in the face
of this meditated change. Was not she herself guessing, as he knew, that it
could not be less than a hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars—quite
large sums in her eyes—whereas, above his current salary, Clyde had no
more than forty dollars and was dreaming of using that and whatever else he
might secure in the interim to meet such expenses as might be incurred in the
anticipated visit to Twelfth Lake.
But to further support his evasive suggestion that she now return to her
home for a short period, he added that she would want to fix herself up a
little, wouldn't she? She couldn't go away on a trip like this, which involved
marriage and a change of social contacts in every way, without some
improvements in her wardrobe. Why not take her hundred dollars or a part of
it anyhow and use it for that? So desperate was his state that he even
suggested that. And Roberta, who, in the face of her own uncertainty up to
this time as to what was to become of her had not ventured to prepare or
purchase anything relating either to a trousseau or layette, now began to think
that whatever the ulterior purpose of his suggestion, which like all the others
was connected with delay, it might not be unwise even now if she did take a
fortnight or three weeks, and with the assistance of an inexpensive and yet
tolerable dressmaker, who had aided her sister at times, make at least one or
two suitable dresses—a flowered gray taffeta afternoon dress, such as she
had once seen in a movie, in which, should Clyde keep his word, she could
be married. To match this pleasing little costume, she planned to add a chic
little gray silk hat—poke-shaped, with pink or scarlet cherries nestled up
under the brim, together with a neat little blue serge traveling suit, which,
with brown shoes and a brown hat, would make her as smart as any bride.
The fact that such preparations as these meant additional delay and expense,
or that Clyde might not marry her after all, or that this proposed marriage

---

from the point of view of both was the tarnished and discolored thing that it
was, was still not sufficient to take from the thought of marriage as an event,
or sacrament even, that proper color and romance with which it was invested
in her eyes and from which, even under such an unsatisfactory set of
circumstances as these, it could not be divorced. And, strangely enough, in
spite of all the troubled and strained relations that had developed between
them, she still saw Clyde in much the same light in which she had seen him at
first. He was a Griffiths, a youth of genuine social, if not financial
distinction, one whom all the girls in her position, as well as many of those
far above her, would be delighted to be connected with in this way—that is,
via marriage. He might be objecting to marrying her, but he was a person of
consequence, just the same. And one with whom, if he would but trouble to
care for her a little, she could be perfectly happy. And at any rate, once he
had loved her. And it was said of men— some men, anyway (so she had
heard her mother and others say) that once a child was presented to them, it
made a great difference in their attitude toward the mother, sometimes. They
came to like the mother, too. Anyhow for a little while—a very little while—
if what she had agreed to were strictly observed, she would have him with
her to assist her through this great crisis—to give his name to her child—to
aid her until she could once more establish herself in some way.
For the time being, therefore, and with no more plan than this, although
with great misgivings and nervous qualms, since, as she could see, Clyde
was decidedly indifferent, she rested on this. And it was in this mood that
five days later, and after Roberta had written to her parents that she was
coming home for two weeks at least, to get a dress or two made and to rest a
little, because she was not feeling very well, that Clyde saw her off for her
home in Biltz, riding with her as far as Fonda. But in so far as he was
concerned, and since he had really no definite or workable idea, it seemed
important to him that only silence, silence was the great and all essential
thing now, so that, even under the impending edge of the knife of disaster, he
might be able to think more, and more, and more, without being compelled to
do anything, and without momentarily being tortured by the thought that
Roberta, in some nervous or moody or frantic state, would say or do
something which, assuming that he should hit upon some helpful thought or
plan in connection with Sondra, would prevent him from executing it.
And about the same time, Sondra was writing him gay notes from Twelfth
Lake as to what he might expect upon his arrival a little later. Blue water—

---

white sails—tennis—golf-horseback riding— driving. She had it all
arranged with Bertine, as she said. And kisses—kisses—kisses!

---

42
Chapter
Two letters, which arrived at this time and simultaneously, but accentuated
the difficulty of all this.
Pine Point Landing, June 10th
CLYDE MYDIE:
How is my pheet phing? All whytie? It's just glorious up here. Lots of
people already here and more coming every day. The Casino and golf
course over at Pine Point are open and lots of people about. I can hear
Stuart and Grant with their launches going up toward Gray's Inlet now.
You must hurry and come up, dear. It's too nice for words. Green roads
to gallop through, and swimming and dancing at the Casino every
afternoon at four. Just back from a wonderful gallop on Dickey and
going again after luncheon to mail these letters. Bertine says she'll write
you a letter to-day or tomorrow good for any week-end or any old time,
so when Sonda says come, you come, you hear, else Sonda whip hard.
You baddie, good boy.
Is he working hard in the baddie old factory? Sonda wisses he was here
wiss her instead. We'd ride and drive and swim and dance. Don't forget
your tennis racquet and golf clubs. There's a dandy course on the Casino
grounds.
This morning when I was riding a bird flew right up under Dickey's
heels. It scared him so that he bolted, and Sonda got all switched and
scwatched. Isn't Clydie sorry for his Sonda?
She is writing lots of notes to-day. After lunch and the ride to catch the
down mail, Sonda and Bertine and Nina going to the Casino. Don't you

---

wish you were going to be there? We could dance to "Taudy." Sonda
just loves that song. But she has to dress now. More to-morrow, baddie
boy. And when Bertine writes, answer right away. See all 'ose dots?
Kisses. Big and little ones. All for baddie boy. And wite Sonda every
day and she'll write 'oo.
More kisses.
To which Clyde responded eagerly and in kind in the same hour. But
almost the same mail, at least the same day, brought the following letter from
Roberta.
Biltz, June 10th.
DEAR CLYDE:
I am nearly ready for bed, but I will write you a few lines. I had such a
tiresome journey coming up that I was nearly sick. In the first place I
didn't want to come much (alone) as you know. I feel too upset and
uncertain about everything, although I try not to feel so now that we have
our plan and you are going to come for me as you said.
(At this point, while nearly sickened by the thought of the wretched country
world in which she lived, still, because of Roberta's unfortunate and
unavoidable relation to it, he now experienced one of his old time twinges of
remorse and pity in regard to her. For after all, this was not her fault. She had
so little to look forward to—nothing but her work or a commonplace
marriage. For the first time in many days, really, and in the absence of both,
he was able to think clearly—and to sympathize deeply, if gloomily. For the
remainder of the letter read:)
But it's very nice here now. The trees are so beautifully green and the
flowers in bloom. I can hear the bees in the orchard whenever I go near
the south windows. On the way up instead of coming straight home I
decided to stop at Homer to see my sister and brother-in-law, since I am
not so sure now when I shall see them again, if ever, for I am resolved
that they shall see me respectable, or never at all any more. You mustn't
think I mean anything hard or mean by this. I am just sad. They have such

---

a cute little home there, Clyde—pretty furniture, a victrola and all, and
Agnes is so very happy with Fred. I hope she always will be. I couldn't
help thinking of what a dear place we might have had, if only my dreams
had come true. And nearly all the time I was there Fred kept teasing me
as to why I don't get married, until I said, "Oh, well, Fred, you mustn't
be too sure that I won't one of these days. All good things come to him
who waits, you know." "Yes, unless you just turn out to be a waiter,"
was the way he hit me back.
But I was truly glad to see mother again, Clyde. She's so loving and
patient and helpful. The sweetest, dearest mother that ever, ever was.
And I just hate to hurt her in any way. And Tom and Emily, too. They
have had friends here every evening since I've been here—and they
want me to join in, but I hardly feel well enough now to do all the things
they want me to do—play cards and games—dance.
(At this point Clyde could not help emphasizing in his own mind the
shabby home world of which she was a part and which so recently he had
seen—that rickety house! those toppling chimneys! Her uncouth father. And
that in contrast to such a letter as this other from Sondra.)
Father and mother and Tom and Emily just seem to hang around and try
to do things for me. And I feel remorseful when I think how they would
feel if they knew, for, of course, I have to pretend that it is work that
makes me feel so tired and depressed as I am sometimes. Mother keeps
saying that I must stay a long time or quit entirely and rest and get well
again, but she just don't know of course—poor dear. If she did! I can't
tell you how that makes me feel sometimes, Clyde. Oh, dear!
But there, I mustn't put my sad feelings over on you either. I don't want
to, as I told you, if you will only come and get me as we've agreed. And
I won't be like that either, Clyde. I'm not that way all the time now. I've
started to get ready and do all the things it'll take to do in three weeks
and that's enough to keep my mind off everything but work. But you will
come for me, won't you, dear? You won't disappoint me any more and
make me suffer this time like you have so far, for, oh, how long it has
been now—ever since I was here before at Christmas time, really. But

---

you were truly nice to me. I promise not to be a burden on you, for I
know you don't really care for me any more and so I don't care much
what happens now, so long as I get out of this. But I truly promise not to
be a burden on you.
Oh, dear, don't mind this blot. I just don't seem to be able to control
myself these days like I once could.
But as for what I came for. The family think they are clothes for a party
down in Lycurgus and that I must be having a wonderful time. Well, it's
better that way than the other. I may have to come as far as Fonda to get
some things, if I don't send Mrs. Anse, the dressmaker, and if so, and if
you wanted to see me again before you come, although I don't suppose
you do, you could. I'd like to see you and talk to you again if you care to,
before we start. It all seems so funny to me, Clyde, having these clothes
made and wishing to see you so much and yet knowing that you would
rather not do this. And yet I hope you are satisfied now that you have
succeeded in making me leave Lycurgus and come up here and are
having what you call a good time. Are they so very much better than the
ones we used to have last summer when we went about to the lakes and
everywhere? But whatever they are, Clyde, surely you can afford to do
this for me without feeling too bad. I know it seems hard to you now, but
you don't want to forget either that if I was like some that I know, I might
and would ask more. But as I told you I'm not like that and never could
be. If you don't really want me after you have helped me out like I said,
you can go.
Please write me, Clyde, a long, cheery letter, even though you don't
want to, and tell me all about how you have not thought of me once since
I've been away or missed me at all—you used to, you know, and how
you don't want me to come back and you can't possibly come up before
two weeks from Saturday if then.
Oh, dear, I don't mean the horrid things I write, but I'm so blue and tired
and lonely that I can't help it at times. I need some one to talk to—not
just any one here, because they don't understand, and I can't tell
anybody.

---

But there, I said I wouldn't be blue or gloomy or cross and yet I haven't
done so very well this time, have I? But I promise to do better next time
—tomorrow or next day, because it relieves me to write to you, Clyde.
And won't you please write me just a few words to cheer me up while
I'm waiting, whether you mean it or not, I need it so. And you will come,
of course. I'll be so happy and grateful and try not to bother you too
much in any way.
Your lonely
BERT
And it was the contrast presented by these two scenes which finally
determined for him the fact that he would never marry Roberta— never—nor
even go to her at Biltz, or let her come back to him here, if he could avoid
that. For would not his going, or her return, put a period to all the joys that so
recently in connection with Sondra had come to him here—make it
impossible for him to be with Sondra at Twelfth Lake this summer—make it
impossible for him to run away with and marry her? In God's name was there
no way? No outlet from this horrible difficulty which now confronted him?
And in a fit of despair, having found the letters in his room on his return
from work one warm evening in June, he now threw himself upon his bed and
fairly groaned. The misery of this! The horror of his almost insoluble
problem! Was there no way by which she could be persuaded to go away—
and stay—remain at home, maybe for a while longer, while he sent her ten
dollars a week, or twelve, even—a full half of all his salary? Or could she
go to some neighboring town—Fonda, Gloversville, Schenectady—she was
not so far gone but what she could take care of herself well enough as yet,
and rent a room and remain there quietly until the fatal time, when she could
go to some doctor or nurse? He might help her to find some one like that
when the time came, if only she would be willing not to mention his name.
But this business of making him come to Biltz, or meeting her somewhere,
and that within two weeks or less. He would not, he would not. He would do
something desperate if she tried to make him do that—run away—or—maybe
go up to Twelfth Lake before it should be time for him to go to Biltz, or
before she would think it was time, and then persuade Sondra if he could—

---

but oh, what a wild, wild chance was that—to run away with and marry him,
even if she wasn't quite eighteen—and then—and then—being married, and
her family not being able to divorce them, and Roberta not being able to find
him, either, but only to complain—well, couldn't he deny it—say that it was
not so—that he had never had any relationship, other than that which any
department head might have with any girl working for him. He had not been
introduced to the Gilpins, nor had he gone with Roberta to see that Dr. Glenn
near Gloversville, and she had told him at the time, she had not mentioned his
name.
But the nerve of trying to deny it!
The courage it would take.
The courage to try to face Roberta when, as he knew, her steady, accusing,
horrified, innocent, blue eyes would be about as difficult to face as anything
in all the world. And could he do that? Had he the courage? And would it all
work out satisfactorily if he did? Would Sondra believe him—once she
heard?
But just the same in pursuance of this idea, whether finally he executed it
or not, even though he went to Twelfth Lake, he must write Sondra a letter
saying that he was coming. And this he did at once, writing her passionately
and yearningly. At the same time he decided not to write Roberta at all.
Maybe call her on long distance, since she had recently told him that there
was a neighbor near-by who had a telephone, and if for any reason he needed
to reach her, he could use that. For writing her in regard to all this, even in
the most guarded way, would place in her hands, and at this time, exactly the
type of evidence in regard to this relationship which she would most need,
and especially when he was so determined not to marry her. The trickery of
all this! It was low and shabby, no doubt. Yet if only Roberta had agreed to
be a little reasonable with him, he would never have dreamed of indulging in
any such low and tricky plan as this. But, oh, Sondra! Sondra! And the great
estate that she had described, lying along the west shore of Twelfth Lake.
How beautiful that must be! He could not help it! He must act and plan as he
was doing! He must!
And forthwith he arose and went to mail the letter to Sondra. And then
while out, having purchased an evening paper and hoping via the local news
of all whom he knew, to divert his mind for the time being, there, upon the
first page of the Times-Union of Albany, was an item which read:

---

ACCIDENTAL DOUBLE TRAGEDY AT PASS LAKE—UPTURNED
CANOE AND FLOATING HATS REVEAL PROBABLE LOSS OF
TWO LIVES AT RESORT NEAR PITTSFIELD— UNIDENTIFIED
BODY OF GIRL RECOVERED—THAT OF COMPANION STILL
MISSING
Because of his own great interest in canoeing, and indeed in any form of
water life, as well as his own particular skill when it came to rowing,
swimming, diving, he now read with interest:
Pancoast, Mass., June 7th… What proved to be a fatal boat ride for two,
apparently, was taken here day before yesterday by an unidentified man
and girl who came presumably from Pittsfield to spend the day at Pass
Lake, which is fourteen miles north of this place.
Tuesday morning a man and a girl, who said to Thomas Lucas, who
conducts the Casino Lunch and Boat House there, that they were from
Pittsfield, rented a small row-boat about ten o'clock in the morning and
with a basket, presumably containing lunch, departed for the northern
end of the lake. At seven o'clock last evening, when they did not return,
Mr. Lucas, in company with his son Jeffrey, made a tour of the lake in
his motor boat and discovered the row-boat upside down in the
shallows near the north shore, but no trace of the occupants. Thinking at
the time that it might be another instance of renters having decamped in
order to avoid payment, he returned the boat to his own dock.
But this morning, doubtful as to whether or not an accident had
occurred, he and his assistant, Fred Walsh, together with his son, made a
second tour of the north shore and finally came upon the hats of both the
girl and the man floating among some rushes near the shore. At once a
dredging party was organized, and by three o'clock to-day the body of
the girl, concerning whom nothing is known here, other than that she
came here with her companion, was brought up and turned over to the
authorities. That of the man has not yet been found. The water in the
immediate vicinity of the accident in some places being over thirty feet
deep, it is not certain whether the trolling and dredging will yield the
other body or not. In the case of a similar accident which took place

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here some fifteen years ago, neither body was ever recovered.
To the lining of the small jacket which the girl wore was sewed the tag
of a Pittsfield dealer. Also in her shoe lining was stamped the name of
Jacobs of this same city. But other than these there was no evidence as
to her identity. It is assumed by the authorities here that if she carried a
bag of any kind it lies at the bottom of the lake.
The man is recalled as being tall, dark, about thirty-five years of age,
and wore a light green suit and straw hat with a white and blue band.
The girl appears to be not more than twenty-five, five feet five inches
tall, and weighs 130 pounds. She wore her hair, which was long and
dark brown, in braids about her forehead. On her left middle finger is a
small gold ring with an amethyst setting. The police of Pittsfield and
other cities in this vicinity have been notified, but as yet no word as to
her identity has been received.
This item, commonplace enough in the usual grist of summer accidents,
interested Clyde only slightly. It seemed odd, of course, that a girl and a man
should arrive at a small lake anywhere, and setting forth in a small boat in
broad daylight thus lose their lives. Also it was odd that afterwards no one
should be able to identify either of them. And yet here it was. The man had
disappeared for good. He threw the paper down, little concerned at first, and
turned to other things—the problem that was confronting him really—how he
was to do. But later—and because of that, and as he was putting out the light
before getting into bed, and still thinking of the complicated problem which
his own life here presented, he was struck by the thought (what devil's
whisper?— what evil hint of an evil spirit?)—supposing that he and Roberta
— no, say he and Sondra—(no, Sondra could swim so well, and so could he)
—he and Roberta were in a small boat somewhere and it should capsize at
the very time, say, of this dreadful complication which was so harassing him?
What an escape? What a relief from a gigantic and by now really destroying
problem! On the other hand— hold—not so fast!—for could a man even think
of such a solution in connection with so difficult a problem as his without
committing a crime in his heart, really—a horrible, terrible crime? He must
not even think of such a thing. It was wrong—wrong—terribly wrong. And
yet, supposing,—by accident, of course—such a thing as this did occur? That

---

would be the end, then, wouldn't it, of all his troubles in connection with
Roberta? No more terror as to her—no more fear and heartache even as to
Sondra. A noiseless, pathless, quarrelless solution of all his present
difficulties, and only joy before him forever. Just an accidental,
unpremeditated drowning—and then the glorious future which would be his!
But the mere thinking of such a thing in connection with Roberta at this
time—(why was it that his mind persisted in identifying her with it?) was
terrible, and he must not, he must not, allow such a thought to enter his mind.
Never, never, never! He must not. It was horrible! Terrible! A thought of
murder, no less! Murder?!!! Yet so wrought up had he been, and still was, by
the letter which Roberta had written him, as contrasted with the one from
Sondra—so delightful and enticing was the picture of her life and his as she
now described it, that he could not for the life of him quite expel that other
and seemingly easy and so natural a solution of all his problem—if only such
an accident could occur to him and Roberta. For after all he was not planning
any crime, was he? Was he not merely thinking of an accident that, had it
occurred or could it but occur in his case… Ah—but that "could it but