An American Tragedy

occur." There was the dark and evil thought about which he must not,He must
not think. He must not. And yet—and yet… He was an excellent swimmer
and could swim ashore, no doubt—whatever the distance. Whereas Roberta,
as he knew from swimming with her at one beach and another the previous
summer, could not swim. And then—and then—well and then, unless he
chose to help her, of course…
As he thought, and for the time, sitting in the lamplight of his own room
between nine-thirty and ten at night, a strange and disturbing creepiness as to
flesh and hair and finger-tips assailed him. The wonder and the horror of
such a thought! And presented to him by this paper in this way. Wasn't that
strange? Besides, up in that lake country to which he was now going to
Sondra, were many, many lakes about everywhere—were there not? Scores
up there where Sondra was. Or so she had said. And Roberta loved the out-
of-doors and the water so—although she could not swim—could not swim—
could not swim. And they or at least he was going where lakes were, or they
might, might they not—and if not, why not? since both had talked of some
Fourth of July resort in their planning, their final departure—he and Roberta.
But, no! no! The mere thought of an accident such as that in connection
with her, however much he might wish to be rid of her— was sinful, dark and
terrible! He must not let his mind run on any such things for even a moment. It

---

was too wrong—too vile—too terrible! Oh, dreadful thought! To think it
should have come to him! And at this time of all times—when she was
demanding that he go away with her!
Death!
Murder!
The murder of Roberta!
But to escape her of course—this unreasonable, unshakable, unchangeable
demand of hers! Already he was quite cold, quite damp—with the mere
thought of it. And now—when—when—! But he must not think of that! The
death of that unborn child, too!!
But how could any one even think of doing any such thing with calculation
—deliberately? And yet—many people were drowned like that—boys and
girls—men and women—here and there—everywhere the world over in the
summer time. To be sure, he would not want anything like that to happen to
Roberta. And especially at this time. He was not that kind of a person,
whatever else he was. He was not. He was not. He was not. The mere
thought now caused a damp perspiration to form on his hands and face. He
was not that kind of a person. Decent, sane people did not think of such
things. And so he would not either—from this hour on.
In a tremulous state of dissatisfaction with himself—that any such grisly
thought should have dared to obtrude itself upon him in this way—he got up
and lit the lamp—re-read this disconcerting item in as cold and reprobative
way as he could achieve, feeling that in so doing he was putting anything at
which it hinted far from him once and for all. Then, having done so, he
dressed and went out of the house for a walk—up Wykeagy Avenue, along
Central Avenue, out Oak, and then back on Spruce and to Central again—
feeling that he was walking away from the insinuating thought or suggestion
that had so troubled him up to now. And after a time, feeling better, freer,
more natural, more human, as he so much wished to feel—he returned to his
room, once more to sleep, with the feeling that he had actually succeeded in
eliminating completely a most insidious and horrible visitation. He must
never think of it again! He must never think of it again. He must never, never,
never think of it— never.
And then falling into a nervous, feverish doze soon thereafter, he found
himself dreaming of a savage black dog that was trying to bite him. Having
escaped from the fangs of the creature by waking in terror, he once more fell
asleep. But now he was in some very strange and gloomy place, a wood or a

---

cave or narrow canyon between deep hills, from which a path, fairly
promising at first, seemed to lead. But soon the path, as he progressed along
it, became narrower and narrower and darker, and finally disappeared
entirely. And then, turning to see if he could not get back as he had come,
there directly behind him were arrayed an entangled mass of snakes that at
first looked more like a pile of brush. But above it waved the menacing
heads of at least a score of reptiles, forked tongues and agate eyes. And in
front now, as he turned swiftly, a horned and savage animal—huge, it was—
its heavy tread crushing the brush—blocked the path in that direction. And
then, horrified and crying out in hopeless desperation, once more he awoke
—not to sleep again that night.

---

43
Chapter
Yet a thought such as that of the lake, connected as it was with the
predicament by which he was being faced, and shrink from it though he
might, was not to be dismissed as easily as he desired. Born as it was of its
accidental relation to this personal problem that was shaking and troubling
and all but disarranging his own none-too-forceful mind, this smooth,
seemingly blameless, if dreadful, blotting out of two lives at Pass Lake, had
its weight. That girl's body—as some peculiar force in his own brain now
still compelled him to think—being found, but the man's not. In that
interesting fact—and this quite in spite of himself—lurked a suggestion that
insisted upon obtruding itself on his mind—to wit, that it might be possible
that the man's body was not in that lake at all. For, since evil-minded people
did occasionally desire to get rid of other people, might it not be possible
that that man had gone there with that girl in order to get rid of her? A very
smooth and devilish trick, of course, but one which, in this instance at least,
seemed to have succeeded admirably.
But as for him accepting such an evil suggestion and acting upon it…
never! Yet here was his own problem growing hourly more desperate, since
every day, or at least every other day, brought him either letters from Roberta
or a note from Sondra—their respective missives maintaining the same
relative contrast between ease and misery, gayety of mood and the
somberness of defeat and uncertainty.
To Roberta, since he would not write her, he was telephoning briefly and
in as non-committal a manner as possible. How was she? He was so glad to
hear from her and to know that she was out in the country and at home, where
it must be much nicer than in the factory here in this weather. Everything was
going smoothly, of course, and except for a sudden rush of orders which
made it rather hard these last two days, all was as before. He was doing his
best to save a certain amount of money for a certain project about which she
knew, but otherwise he was not worrying about anything—and she must not.
He had not written before because of the work, and could not write much—

---

there were so many things to do—but he missed seeing her in her old place,
and was looking forward to seeing her again soon. If she were coming down
toward Lycurgus as she said, and really thought it important to see him, well,
that could be arranged, maybe—but was it necessary right now? He was so
very busy and expected to see her later, of course.
But at the same time he was writing Sondra that assuredly on the
eighteenth, and the week-end following, if possible, he would be with her.
So, by virtue of such mental prestidigitation and tergiversation, inspired
and animated as it was by his desire for Sondra, his inability to face the facts
in connection with Roberta, he achieved the much-coveted privilege of again
seeing her, over one week-end at least, and in such a setting as never before
in his life had he been privileged to witness.
For as he came down to the public dock at Sharon, adjoining the veranda
of the inn at the foot of Twelfth Lake, he was met by Bertine and her brother
as well as Sondra, who, in Grant's launch, had motored down the Chain to
pick him up. The bright blue waters of the Indian Chain. The tall, dark, spear
pines that sentineled the shores on either side and gave to the waters at the
west a band of black shadow where the trees were mirrored so clearly. The
small and large, white and pink and green and brown lodges on every hand,
with their boathouses. Pavilions by the shore. An occasional slender pier
reaching out from some spacious and at times stately summer lodge, such as
those now owned by the Cranstons, Finchleys and others. The green and blue
canoes and launches. The gay hotel and pavilion at Pine Point already
smartly attended by the early arrivals here! And then the pier and boathouse
of the Cranston Lodge itself, with two Russian wolfhounds recently acquired
by Bertine lying on the grass near the shore, apparently awaiting her return,
and a servant John, one of a half dozen who attended the family here, waiting
to take the single bag of Clyde, his tennis racquet and golf sticks. But most of
all he was impressed by the large rambling and yet smartly-designed house,
with its bright geranium-bordered walks, its wide, brown, wicker-studded
veranda commanding a beautiful view of the lake; the cars and personalities
of the various guests, who in golf, tennis or lounging clothes were to be seen
idling here and there.
At Bertine's request, John at once showed him to a spacious room
overlooking the lake, where it was his privilege now to bathe and change for
tennis with Sondra, Bertine and Grant. After dinner, as explained by Sondra,
who was over at Bertine's for the occasion, he was to come over with

---

Bertine and Grant to the Casino, where he would be introduced to such as all
here knew. There was to be dancing. To-morrow, in the morning early, before
breakfast, if he chose—he should ride with her and Bertine and Stuart along
a wonderful woodland trail through the forests to the west which led to
Inspiration Point and a more distant view of the lake. And, as he now
learned, except for a few such paths as this, the forest was trackless for forty
miles. Without a compass or guide, as he was told, one might wander to one's
death even—so evasive were directions to those who did not know. And
after breakfast and a swim she and Bertine and Nina Temple would
demonstrate their new skill with Sondra's aquaplane. After that, lunch, tennis,
or golf, a trip to the Casino for tea. After dinner at the lodge of the
Brookshaws of Utica across the lake, there was to be dancing.
Within an hour after his arrival, as Clyde could see, the program for the
week-end was already full. But that he and Sondra would contrive not only
moments but possibly hours together he well knew. And then he would see
what new delight, in connection with her many-faceted temperament, the
wonderful occasion would provide. To him, in spite of the dour burden of
Roberta, which for this one week-end at least he could lay aside, it was as
though he were in Paradise.
And on the tennis grounds of the Cranstons, it seemed as though never
before had Sondra, attired in a short, severe white tennis skirt and blouse,
with a yellow-and-green dotted handkerchief tied about her hair, seemed so
gay, graceful and happy. The smile that was upon her lips! The gay, laughing
light of promise that was in her eyes whenever she glanced at him! And now
and then, in running to serve him, it was as though she were poised bird-like
in flight— her racquet arm high, a single toe seeming barely to touch the
ground, her head thrown back, her lips parted and smiling always. And in
calling twenty love, thirty love, forty love, it was always with a laughing
accent on the word love, which at once thrilled and saddened him, as he saw,
and rejoiced in from one point of view, she was his to take, if only he were
free to take her now. But this other black barrier which he himself had built!
And then this scene, where a bright sun poured a flood of crystal light upon
a greensward that stretched from tall pines to the silver rippling waters of a
lake. And off shore in a half dozen different directions the bright white sails
of small boats—the white and green and yellow splashes of color, where
canoes paddled by idling lovers were passing in the sun! Summertime—

---

leisure— warmth—color—ease—beauty—love—all that he had dreamed of
the summer before, when he was so very much alone.
At moments it seemed to Clyde that he would reel from very joy of the
certain fulfillment of a great desire, that was all but immediately within his
control; at other times (the thought of Roberta sweeping down upon him as an
icy wind), as though nothing could be more sad, terrible, numbing to the
dreams of beauty, love and happiness than this which now threatened him.
That terrible item about the lake and those two people drowned! The
probability that in spite of his wild plan within a week, or two or three at
most, he would have to leave all this forever. And then of a sudden he would
wake to realize that he was fumbling or playing badly—that Bertine or
Sondra or Grant was calling: "Oh, Clyde, what are you thinking of, anyhow?"
And from the darkest depths of his heart he would have answered, had he
spoken, "Roberta."
At the Brookshaws', again that evening, a smart company of friends of
Sondra's, Bertine's and others. On the dance floor a reencounter with Sondra,
all smiles, for she was pretending for the benefit of others here—her mother
and father in particular—that she had not seen Clyde before—did not even
know that he was here.
"You up here? That's great. Over at the Cranstons'? Oh, isn't that dandy?
Right next door to us. Well, we'll see a lot of each other, what? How about a
canter to-morrow before seven? Bertine and I go nearly every day. And we'll
have a picnic tomorrow, if nothing interferes, canoeing and motoring. Don't
worry about not riding well. I'll get Bertine to let you have Jerry—he's just a
sheep. And you don't need to worry about togs, either. Grant has scads of
things. I'll dance the next two dances with others, but you sit out the third one
with me, will you? I know a peach of a place outside on the balcony."
She was off with fingers extended but with a "we-understand-each-other"
look in her eye. And outside in the shadow later she pulled his face to hers
when no one was looking and kissed him eagerly, and, before the evening
was over, they had managed, by strolling along a path which led away from
the house along the lake shore, to embrace under the moon.
"Sondra so glad Clydie here. Misses him so much." She smoothed his hair
as he kissed her, and Clyde, bethinking him of the shadow which lay so
darkly between them, crushed her feverishly, desperately. "Oh, my darling
baby girl," he exclaimed. "My beautiful, beautiful Sondra! If you only knew

---

how much I love you! If you only knew! I wish I could tell you all. I wish I
could."
But he could not now—or ever. He would never dare to speak to her of
even so much as a phase of the black barrier that now lay between them. For,
with her training, the standards of love and marriage that had been set for her,
she would never understand, never be willing to make so great a sacrifice for
love, as much as she loved him. And he would be left, abandoned on the
instant, and with what horror in her eyes!
Yet looking into his eyes, his face white and tense, and the glow of the
moon above making small white electric sparks in his eyes, she exclaimed as
he gripped her tightly: "Does he love Sondra so much? Oh, sweetie boy!
Sondra loves him, too." She seized his head between her hands and held it
tight, kissing him swiftly and ardently a dozen times. "And Sondra won't give
her Clydie up either. She won't. You just wait and see! It doesn't matter what
happens now. It may not be so very easy, but she won't." Then as suddenly
and practically, as so often was her way, she exclaimed: "But we must go
now, right away. No, not another kiss now. No, no, Sondra says no, now.
They'll be missing us." And straightening up and pulling him by the arm she
hurried him back to the house in time to meet Palmer Thurston, who was
looking for her.
The next morning, true to her promise, there was the canter to Inspiration
Point, and that before seven—Bertine and Sondra in bright red riding coats
and white breeches and black boots, their hair unbound and loose to the
wind, and riding briskly on before for the most part; then racing back to
where he was. Or Sondra halloing gayly for him to come on, or the two of
them laughing and chatting a hundred yards ahead in some concealed chapel
of the aisled trees where he could not see them. And because of the interest
which Sondra was so obviously manifesting in him these days—an interest
which Bertine herself had begun to feel might end in marriage, if no family
complications arose to interfere—she, Bertine, was all smiles, the very soul
of cordiality, winsomely insisting that he should come up and stay for the
summer and she would chaperon them both so that no one would have a
chance to complain. And Clyde thrilling, and yet brooding too—by turns—
occasionally—and in spite of himself drifting back to the thought that the item
in the paper had inspired—and yet fighting it— trying to shut it out entirely.
And then at one point, Sondra, turning down a steep path which led to a
stony and moss-lipped spring between the dark trees, called to Clyde to

---

"Come on down. Jerry knows the way. He won't slip. Come and get a drink.
If you do, you'll come back again soon—so they say."
And once he was down and had dismounted to drink, she exclaimed: "I've
been wanting to tell you something. You should have seen Mamma's face last
night when she heard you were up here. She can't be sure that I had anything
to do with it, of course, because she thinks that Bertine likes you, too. I made
her think that. But just the same she suspects that I had a hand in it, I guess,
and she doesn't quite like it. But she can't say anything more than she has
before. And I had a talk with Bertine just now and she's agreed to stick by me
and help me all she can. But we'll have to be even more careful than ever
now, because I think if Mamma got too suspicious I don't know what she
might do—want us to leave here, even now maybe, just so I couldn't see you.
You know she feels that I shouldn't be interested in any one yet except some
one she likes. You know how it is. She's that way with Stuart, too. But if
you'll take care not to show that you care for me so much whenever we're
around any one of our crowd, I don't think she'll do anything—not now,
anyhow. Later on, in the fall, when we're back in Lycurgus, things will be
different. I'll be of age then, and I'm going to see what I can do. I never loved
any one before, but I do love you, and, well, I won't give you up, that's all. I
won't. And they can't make me, either!"
She stamped her foot and struck her boot, the while the two horses looked
idly and vacantly about. And Clyde, enthused and astonished by this second
definite declaration in his behalf, as well as fired by the thought that now, if
ever, he might suggest the elopement and marriage and so rid himself of the
sword that hung so threateningly above him, now gazed at Sondra, his eyes
filled with a nervous hope and a nervous fear. For she might refuse, and
change, too, shocked by the suddenness of his suggestion. And he had no
money and no place in mind where they might go either, in case she accepted
his proposal. But she had, perhaps, or she might have. And having once
consented, might she not help him? Of course. At any rate, he felt that he must
speak, leaving luck or ill luck to the future.
And so he said: "Why couldn't you run away with me now, Sondra,
darling? It's so long until fall and I want you so much. Why couldn't we? Your
mother's not likely to want to let you marry me then, anyhow. But if we went
away now, she couldn't help herself, could she? And afterwards, in a few
months or so, you could write her and then she wouldn't mind. Why couldn't

---

we, Sondra?" His voice was very pleading, his eyes full of a sad dread of
refusal— and of the future that lay unprotected behind that.
And by now so caught was she by the tremor with which his mood
invested him, that she paused—not really shocked by the suggestion at all—
but decidedly moved, as well as flattered by the thought that she was able to
evoke in Clyde so eager and headlong a passion. He was so impetuous—so
blazing now with a flame of her own creating, as she felt, yet which she was
incapable of feeling as much as he, as she knew—such a flame as she had
never seen in him or any one else before. And would it not be wonderful if
she could run away with him now—secretly—to Canada or New York or
Boston, or anywhere? The excitement her elopement would create here and
elsewhere—in Lycurgus, Albany, Utica! The talk and feeling in her own
family as well as elsewhere! And Gilbert would be related to her in spite of
him—and the Griffiths, too, whom her mother and father so much admired.
For a moment there was written in her eyes the desire and the
determination almost, to do as he suggested—run away—make a great lark of
this, her intense and true love. For, once married, what could her parents do?
And was not Clyde worthy of her and them, too? Of course—even though
nearly all in her set fancied that he was not quite all he should be, just
because he didn't have as much money as they had. But he would have—
would he not—after he was married to her—and get as good a place in her
father's business as Gil Griffiths had in his father's?
Yet a moment later, thinking of her life here and what her going off in such
a way would mean to her father and mother just then—in the very beginning
of the summer season—as well as how it would disrupt her own plans and
cause her mother to feel especially angry, and perhaps even to bring about the
dissolution of the marriage on the ground that she was not of age, she paused
—that gay light of adventure replaced by a marked trace of the practical and
the material that so persistently characterized her. What difference would a
few months make, anyhow? It might, and no doubt would, save Clyde from
being separated from her forever, whereas their present course might insure
their separation.
Accordingly she now shook her head in a certain, positive and yet
affectionate way, which by now Clyde had come to know spelled defeat—the
most painful and irremediable defeat that had yet come to him in connection
with all this. She would not go! Then he was lost—lost—and she to him
forever maybe. Oh, God! For while her face softened with a tenderness

---

which was not usually there—even when she was most moved emotionally—
she said: "I would, honey, if I did not think it best not to, now. It's too soon.
Mamma isn't going to do anything right now. I know she isn't. Besides she has
made all her plans to do a lot of entertaining here this summer, and for my