An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser (librera reader txt) 📗

denied everything, although at once on being provided counsel he had confided to his attorneys the true facts of the case.

And so, too, with the missing suit, which because it was wet and muddy he had done up in a bundle in the woods and after reaching the Cranstons’ had deposited it behind some stones there, intending to return and secure it and have it dry-cleaned. But on being introduced to Mr. Belknap and Mr. Jephson he had at once told both and they had secured it and had it cleaned for him.

“But now, Clyde, in regard to your plans and your being out on that lake in the first place⁠—let’s hear about that now.”

And then⁠—quite as Jephson had outlined it to Belknap, came the story of how he and Roberta had reached Utica and afterwards Grass Lake. And yet no plan. He intended, if worst came to worst, to tell her of his great love for Miss X and appeal to her sympathy and understanding to set him free at the same time that he offered to do anything that he could for her. If she refused he intended to defy her and leave Lycurgus, if necessary, and give up everything.

“But when I saw her at Fonda, and later in Utica, looking as tired and worried as she was,” and here Clyde was endeavoring to give the ring of sincerity to words carefully supplied him, “and sort of helpless, I began to feel sorry for her again.”

“Yes, and then what?”

“Well, I wasn’t quite so sure whether in case she refused to let me off I could go through with leaving her.”

“Well, what did you decide then?”

“Not anything just then. I listened to what she had to say and I tried to tell her how hard it was going to be for me to do anything much, even if I did go away with her. I only had fifty dollars.”

“Yes?”

“And then she began to cry, and I decided I couldn’t talk to her any more about it there. She was too rundown and nervous. So I asked her if there wasn’t any place she would like to go to for a day or two to brace herself up a little,” went on Clyde, only here on account of the blackness of the lie he was telling he twisted and swallowed in the weak, stigmatic way that was his whenever he was attempting something which was beyond him⁠—any untruth or a feat of skill⁠—and then added: “And she said yes, maybe to one of those lakes up in the Adirondacks⁠—it didn’t make much difference which one⁠—if we could afford it. And when I told her, mostly because of the way she was feeling, that I thought we could⁠—”

“Then you really only went up there on her account?”

“Yes, sir, only on account of her.”

“I see. Go on.”

“Well, then she said if I would go downstairs or somewhere and get some folders we might be able to find a place up there somewhere where it wasn’t so expensive.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, and then what?”

“Well, we looked them over and we finally hit on Grass Lake.”

“Who did? The two of you⁠—or she?”

“Well, she took one folder and I took another, and in hers she found an ad about an inn up there where two people could stay for twenty-one dollars a week, or five dollars a day for the two. And I thought we couldn’t do much better than that for one day.”

“Was one day all you intended to stay?”

“No, sir. Not if she wanted to stay longer. My idea at first was that we might stay one or two days or three. I couldn’t tell⁠—whatever time it took me to talk things out with her and make her understand and see where I stood.”

“I see. And then⁠ ⁠… ?”

“Well, then we went up to Grass Lake the next morning.”

“In separate cars still?”

“Yes, sir⁠—in separate cars.”

“And when you got there?”

“Why, we registered.”

“How?”

“Clifford Graham and wife.”

“Still afraid someone would know who you were?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you try to disguise your handwriting in any way?”

“Yes, sir⁠—a little.”

“But just why did you always use your own initials⁠—C. G.?”

“Well, I thought that the initials on my bag should be the same as the initials on the register, and still not be my name either.”

“I see. Clever in one sense, not so clever in another⁠—just half clever, which is the worst of all.” At this Mason half rose in his seat as though to object, but evidently changing his mind, sank slowly back again. And once more Jephson’s right eye swiftly and inquiringly swept the jury to his right. “Well, did you finally explain to her that you wanted to be done with it all as you had planned⁠—or did you not?”

“I wanted to talk to her about it just after we got there if I could⁠—the next morning, anyhow⁠—but just as soon as we got off up there and got settled she kept saying to me that if I would only marry her then⁠—that she would not want to stay married long⁠—that she was so sick and worried and felt so bad⁠—that all she wanted to do was to get through and give the baby a name, and after that she would go away and let me go my way, too.”

“And then?”

“Well, and then⁠—then we went out on the lake⁠—”

“Which lake, Clyde?”

“Why, Grass Lake. We went out for a row after we got there.”

“Right away? In the afternoon?”

“Yes, sir. She wanted to go. And then while we were out there rowing around⁠—” (He paused.)

“She got to crying again, and she seemed so much up against it and looked so sick and so worried that I decided that after all she was right and I was wrong⁠—that it wouldn’t be right, on account of the baby and all, not to marry her, and so I thought I had better do it.”

“I see. A change of heart. And did you tell her that then and there?”

“No, sir.”

“And why not? Weren’t you satisfied with