wishing to irritate him too much.
“But didn’t I just tell you, honey, I didn’t expect to be so late.
I thought the thing would all be over by six, anyhow.”
“Yes—well—anyhow—I know—but still—”
Her face wore a puzzled, troubled, nervous look, in which
was mingled fear, sorrow, depression, distrust, a trace of
resentment and a trace of despair, all of which, coloring and
animating her eyes, which were now fixed on him in round
orblike solemnity, caused him to suffer from a sense of
having misused and demeaned her not a little. And
because her eyes seemed to advertise this, he flushed a
dark red flush that colored deeply his naturally very pale
cheeks. But without appearing to notice this or lay any
stress on it in any way at the time, Roberta added after a
moment: “I notice that The Star mentioned that Gloversville
party Sunday, but it didn’t say anything about your cousins
being over there. Were they?”
For the first time in all her questioning of him, she asked
this as though she might possibly doubt him—a
An American Tragedy
530
development which Clyde had scarcely anticipated in
connection with her up to this time, and more than anything
else, it troubled and irritated him.
“Of course they were,” he replied falsely. “Why do you want
to ask a thing like that when I told you they were?”
“Well, dear, I don’t mean anything by it. I only wanted to
know. But I did notice that it mentioned all those other
people from Lycurgus that you are always talking about,
Sondra Finchley, Bertine Cranston. You know you never
mentioned anybody but the Trumbulls.”
Her tone tended to make him bristle and grow cross, as she
saw.
“Yes, I saw that, too, but it ain’t so. If they were there, I
didn’t see them. The papers don’t always get everything
right.” In spite of a certain crossness and irritation at being
trapped in this fashion, his manner did not carry conviction,
and he knew it. And he began to resent the fact that she
should question him so. Why should she? Wasn’t he of
sufficient importance to move in this new world without her
holding him back in this way?
Instead of denying or reproaching him further, she merely
looked at him, her expression one of injured wistfulness.
She did not believe him now entirely and she did not utterly
disbelieve him. A part of what he said was probably true.
More important was it that he should care for her enough
not to want to lie to her or to treat her badly. But how was
that to be effected if he did not want to be kind or truthful?
She moved back from him a few steps and with a gesture
of helplessness said: “Oh, Clyde, you don’t have to story to
me. Don’t you know that? I wouldn’t care where you went if
you would just tell me beforehand and not leave me like
this all alone on Christmas night. It’s just that that hurts so.”
An American Tragedy
531
“But I’m not storying to you, Bert,” he reiterated crossly. “I
can’t help how things look even if the paper did say so. The
Griffiths were over there, and I can prove it. I got around
here as soon as I could to-day. What do you want to get so
mad about all at once? I’ve told you how things are. I can’t
do just as I want to here. They call me up at the last minute
and want me to go. And I just can’t get out of it. What’s the
use of being so mad about it?”
He stared defiantly while Roberta, checkmated in this
general way, was at a loss as to how to proceed. The item
about New Year’s Eve was in her mind, but she felt that it
might not be wise to say anything more now. More
poignantly than ever now she was identifying him with that
gay life of which he, but not she, was a part. And yet she
hesitated even now to let him know how sharp were the
twinges of jealousy that were beginning to assail her. They
had such a good time in that fine world—he and those he
knew—and she had so little. And besides, now he was
always talking about that Sondra Finchley and that Bertine
Cranston, or the papers were. Was it in either of those that
he was most interested?
“Do you like that Miss Finchley very much?” she suddenly
asked, looking up at him in the shadow, her desire to obtain
some slight satisfaction—some little light on all this trouble—
still torturing her.
At once Clyde sensed the importance of the question—a
suggestion of partially suppressed interest and jealousy and
helplessness, more in her voice even than in the way she
looked. There was something so soft, coaxing and sad
about her voice at times, especially when she was most
depressed. At the same time he was slightly taken back by
the shrewd or telepathic way in which she appeared to fix
on Sondra. Immediately he felt that she should not know—
An American Tragedy
532
that it would irritate her. At the same time, vanity in regard
to his general position here, which hourly was becoming
more secure apparently, caused him to say:
“Oh, I like her some, sure. She’s very pretty, and a dandy
dancer. And she has lots of money and dresses well.” He
was about to add that outside of that Sondra appealed to
him in no other way, when Roberta, sensing something of
the true interest he felt in this girl perhaps and the wide gulf
that lay between herself and all his world, suddenly
exclaimed: “Yes, and who wouldn’t, with all the money she
has? If I had as much money as that, I could too.”
And to his astonishment and dismay even, at this point her
voice grew suddenly vibrant and then broke, as on a sob.
And as he could both see and feel, she was deeply hurt—
terribly and painfully hurt—heartsore and jealous; and at
once, although his first impulse was to grow angry and
defiant again, his mood as suddenly softened. For it now
pained him not a little to think that some one of whom he
had once been so continuously fond up to this time should
be made to suffer through jealousy of him, for he himself
well knew the pangs of jealousy in connection with
Hortense. He could for some reason almost see himself in
Roberta’s place. And for this reason, if no other, he now
said, and quite softly: “Oh, now, Bert, as though I couldn’t
tell you about her or any one else without your getting mad
about it! I didn’t mean that I was especially interested in
her. I was just telling you what I thought you wanted to
know because you asked me if I liked her, that’s all.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” replied Roberta, standing tensely and
nervously before him, her face white, her hands suddenly
clenched, and looking up at him dubiously and yet
pleadingly. “But they’ve got everything. You know they
have. And I haven’t got anything, really. And it’s so hard for
An American Tragedy
533
me to keep up my end and against all of them, too, and
with all they have.” Her voice shook, and she ceased
talking, her eyes filling and her lips beginning to quiver. And
as swiftly she concealed her face with her hands and turned
away, her shoulders shaking as she did so. Indeed her
body was now torn for the moment by the most desperate
and convulsive sobs, so much so that Clyde, perplexed and
astonished and deeply moved by this sudden display of a
pent-up and powerful emotion, as suddenly was himself
moved deeply. For obviously this was no trick or histrionic
bit intended to influence him, but rather a sudden and
overwhelming vision of herself, as he himself could sense,
as a rather lorn and isolated girl without friends or prospects
as opposed to those others in whom he was now so
interested and who had so much more—everything in fact.
For behind her in her vision lay all the lorn and detached
years that had marred her youth, now so vivid because of
her recent visit. She was really intensely moved—
overwhelmingly and helplessly.
And now from the very bottom of her heart she exclaimed:
“If I’d ever had a chance like some girls—if I’d ever been
anywhere or seen anything! But just to be brought up in the
country and without any money or clothes or anything—and
nobody to show you. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh!”
The moment she said these things she was actually
ashamed of having made so weak and self-condemnatory
a confession, since that was what really was troubling him
in connection with her, no doubt.
“Oh, Roberta, darling,” he said instantly and tenderly,