An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

indifferent public officials to Bridgeburg.

“If there is a God,” he exclaimed excitedly, “He will not let

such a scoundrel as this go unpunished! Oh, no, He will

not! ‘I have yet to see,’” he suddenly quoted, “‘the children

of the righteous forsaken or their seed begging for bread.’”

At the same time, a quivering compulsion for action

dominating him, he added: “I must talk to my wife about this

right away. Oh, yes, I must. No, no, you wait here. I must

tell her first, and alone. I’ll be back. I’ll be back. You just

wait here. I know it will kill her. But she must know about

this. Maybe she can tell us who this is and then we can

catch him before he manages to get too far away. But, oh,

my poor girl! My poor, dear Roberta! My good, kind, faithful

daughter!”

And so, talking in a maundering manner, his eyes and face

betraying an only half-sane misery, he turned, the

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shambling, automaton-like motions of his angular figure

now directing him to a lean-to, where, as he knew, Mrs.

Alden was preparing some extra dishes for the next day,

which was Sunday. But once there he paused in the

doorway without the courage to approach further, a man

expressing in himself all the pathos of helpless humanity in

the face of the relentless and inexplicable and indifferent

forces of Life!

Mrs. Alden turned, and at the sight of his strained

expression, dropped her own hands lifelessly, the message

of his eyes as instantly putting to flight the simple, weary

and yet peaceful contemplation in her own.

“Titus! For goodness’ sake! Whatever is the matter?”

Lifted hands, half-open mouth, an eerie, eccentric and

uncalculated tensing and then widening of the eyelids, and

then the word: “Roberta!”

“What about her? What about her? Titus—what about her?”

Silence. More of those nervous twitchings of the mouth,

eyes, hands. Then …“Dead! She’s been—been drowned!”

followed by his complete collapse on a bench that stood

just inside the door. And Mrs. Alden, staring for a moment,

at first not quite comprehending, then fully realizing, sinking

heavily and without a word to the floor. And Titus, looking at

her and nodding his head as if to say: “Quite right. So

should it be. Momentary escape for her from the

contemplation of this horrible fact.” And then slowly rising,

going to her and kneeling beside her, straightening her out.

Then as slowly going out to the door and around to the front

of the house where Orville Mason was seated on the

broken front steps, contemplating speculatively along with

the afternoon sun in the west the misery that this lorn and

incompetent farmer was conveying to his wife. And wishing

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for the moment that it might be otherwise—that no such

case, however profitable to himself, had arisen.

But now, at sight of Titus Alden, he jumped up and

preceded the skeleton-like figure into the lean-to. And

finding Mrs. Alden, as small as her daughter nearly, and

limp and still, he gathered her into his strong arms and

carried her through the dining-room into the living-room,

where stood an antiquated lounge, on which he laid her.

And there, feeling for her pulse, and then hurrying for some

water, while he looked for some one—a son, daughter,

neighbor, any one. But not seeing any one, hurrying back

with the water to dash a little of it on her face and hands.

“Is there a doctor anywhere near here?” He was addressing

Titus, who was now kneeling by his wife.

“In Biltz—yes—Dr. Crane.”

“Have you—has any one around here a telephone?”

“Mr. Wilcox.” He pointed in the direction of the Wilcox’s,

whose telephone Roberta had so recently used.

“Just watch her. I’ll be back.”

Forthwith he was out of the house and away to call Crane

or any other doctor, and then as swiftly returning with Mrs.

Wilcox and her daughter. And then waiting, waiting, until

first neighbors arrived and then eventually Dr. Crane, with

whom he consulted as to the advisability of discussing with

Mrs. Alden yet this day the unescapable mystery which had

brought him here. And Dr. Crane, very much impressed by

Mr. Mason’s solemn, legal manner, admitting that it might

even be best.

And at last Mrs. Alden treated with heroin and crooned and

mourned over by all present, being brought to the stage

where it was possible, slowly and with much

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encouragement, to hear in the first place what the

extenuating circumstances were; next being questioned

concerning the identity of the cryptic individual referred to in

Roberta’s letter. The only person whom Mrs. Alden could

recall as ever having been mentioned by Roberta as paying

particular attention to her, and that but once the Christmas

before, was Clyde Griffiths, the nephew of the wealthy

Samuel Griffiths, of Lycurgus, and the manager of the

department in which Roberta worked.

But this in itself, as Mason and the Aldens themselves at

once felt, was something which assuredly could not be

taken to mean that the nephew of so great a man could be

accused of the murder of Roberta. Wealth! Position!

Indeed, in the face of such an accusation Mason was

inclined to pause and consider. For the social difference

between this man and this girl from his point of view

seemed great. At that, it might be so. Why not? Was it not

likely that a youth of such a secure position would possibly

more than another, since she was so attractive as Heit had

said, be the one to be paying casual and secret attention to

a girl like Roberta? Did she not work in his uncle’s factory?

And was she not poor? Besides, as Fred Heit had already

explained, whoever it was that this girl was with at the time

of her death, she had not hesitated to cohabit with him

before marriage. And was that not part and parcel of a rich

and sophisticated youth’s attitude toward a poor girl? By

reason of his own early buffetings at the mood of chance

and established prosperity the idea appealed to him

intensely. The wretched rich! The indifferent rich! And here

were her mother and father obviously believing most firmly

in her innocence and virtue.

Further questioning of Mrs. Alden only brought out the fact

that she had never seen this particular youth, and had

never even heard of any other. The only additional data that

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either she or her husband could furnish was that during her

last home-coming of a month Roberta had not been feeling

at all well—drooped about the house and rested a good

deal. Also that she had written a number of letters which

she had given to the postman or placed in the delivery box

at the road-crossing below. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Alden

knew to whom they were addressed, although the postman

would be likely to know, as Mason quickly thought. Also,

during this period, she had been busy making some

dresses, at least four. And during the latter part of her stay,

she had been the recipient of a number of telephone calls—

from a certain Mr. Baker, as Titus had heard Mr. Wilcox

say. Also, on departing, she had taken only such baggage

as she had brought with her—her small trunk and her bag.

The trunk she had checked herself at the station, but just

where, other than Lycurgus, Titus could not say.

But now, suddenly, since he was attaching considerable

importance to the name Baker, there popped into Mason’s

mind: “Clifford Golden! Carl Graham! Clyde Griffiths!” and

at once the identity of the intitials as well as the related

euphony of the names gave him pause. An astounding

coincidence truly, if this same Clyde Griffiths had nothing to

do with this crime! Immediately he was anxious to go direct

to the mailman and question him.

But since Titus Alden was important not only as a witness in

identifying Roberta’s body and the contents of the suitcase

left by her at Gun Lodge but also to persuade the postman

to talk freely, he now asked him to dress and accompany

him, assuring him that he would allow him to return to-

morrow.

After cautioning Mrs. Alden to talk to no one in regard to

this, he now proceeded to the post office to question the

mailman. That individual when found, recalled, upon

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inquiry, and in the presence of Titus who stood like a

galvanized corpse by the side of the district attorney, that

not only had there been a few letters—no less than twelve

or fifteen even—handed him by Roberta, during her recent

stay here, but that all of them had been addressed to some

one in Lycurgus by the name of—let him see—Clyde

Griffiths—no less—care of General Delivery there.

Forthwith, the district attorney proceeded with him to a local

notary’s office where a deposition was made, after which he