Monday afternoon and evening, looking at things and
gathering some flowers. And then she came over and put
her arms around me and said: ‘I wish I were a little girl
again, Mamma, and that you would take me in your arms
and rock me like you used to.’ And I said, ‘Why, Roberta,
what makes you so sad to-night, anyhow?” And she said,
‘Oh, nothing. You know I’m going back in the morning. And
somehow I feel a little foolish about it to-night.’ And to think
that it was this trip that was in her mind. I suppose she had
a premonition that all would not work out as she had
planned. And to think he struck my little girl, she who never
could harm anything, not even a fly.” And here, in spite of
herself, and with the saddened Titus in the background, she
began to cry silently.
But from the Griffiths and other members of this local social
world, complete and almost unbreakable silence. For in so
far as Samuel Griffiths was concerned, it was impossible for
him at first either to grasp or believe that Clyde could be
capable of such a deed. What! That bland and rather timid
and decidedly gentlemanly youth, as he saw him, charged
with murder? Being rather far from Lycurgus at the time—
Upper Saranac—where he was reached with difficulty by
Gilbert,—he was almost unprepared to think, let alone act.
Why, how impossible! There must be some mistake here.
They must have confused Clyde with some one else.
Nevertheless, Gilbert proceeding to explain that it was
unquestionably true, since the girl had worked in the factory
under Clyde, and the district attorney at Bridgeburg with
whom he had already been in communication had assured
him that he was in possession of letters which the dead girl
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had written to Clyde and that Clyde did not attempt to deny
them.
“Very well, then,” countered Samuel. “Don’t act hastily, and
above all, don’t talk to anyone outside of Smillie or Gotboy
until I see you. Where’s Brookhart?”—referring to Darrah
Brookhart, of counsel for Griffiths & Company.
“He’s in Boston to-day,” returned his son. “I think he told me
last Friday that he wouldn’t be back here until Monday or
Tuesday.”
“Well, wire him that I want him to return at once.
Incidentally, have Smillie see if he can arrange with the
editors of The Star and Beacon down there to suspend any
comment until I get back. I’ll be down in the morning. Also
tell him to get in the car and run up there” (Bridgeburg) “to-
day if he can. I must know from first hand all there is to
know. Have him see Clyde if he can, also this district
attorney, and bring down any news that he can get. And all
the newspapers. I want to see for myself what has been
published.”
And at approximately the same time, in the home of the
Finchleys on Fourth Lake, Sondra herself, after forty-eight
hours of most macerating thoughts spent brooding on the
astounding climax which had put a period to all her girlish
fancies in regard to Clyde, deciding at last to confess all to
her father, to whom she was more drawn than to her
mother. And accordingly approaching him in the library,
where usually he sat after dinner, reading or considering his
various affairs. But having come within earshot of him,
beginning to sob, for truly she was stricken in the matter of
her love for Clyde, as well as her various vanities and
illusions in regard to her own high position, the scandal that
was about to fall on her and her family. Oh, what would her
mother say now, after all her warnings? And her father?
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853
And Gilbert Griffiths and his affianced bride? And the
Cranstons, who except for her influence over Bertine, would
never have been drawn into this intimacy with Clyde?
Her sobs arresting her father’s attention, he at once paused
to look up, the meaning of this quite beyond him. Yet
instantly sensing something very dreadful, gathering her up
in his arms, and consolingly murmuring: “There, there! For
heaven’s sake, what’s happened to my little girl now?
Who’s done what and why?” And then, with a decidedly
amazed and shaken expression, listening to a complete
confession of all that had occurred thus far—the first
meeting with Clyde, her interest in him, the attitude of the
Griffiths, her letters, her love, and then this—this awful
accusation and arrest. And if it were true! And her name
were used, and her daddy’s! And once more she fell to
weeping as though her heart would break, yet knowing full
well that in the end she would have her father’s sympathy
and forgiveness, whatever his subsequent suffering and
mood.
And at once Finchley, accustomed to peace and order and
tact and sense in his own home, looking at his daughter in
an astounded and critical and yet not uncharitable way, and
exclaiming: “Well, well, of all things! Well, I’ll be damned! I
am amazed, my dear! I am astounded! This is a little too
much, I must say. Accused of murder! And with letters of
yours in your own handwriting, you say, in his possession,
or in the hands of this district attorney, for all we know by
now. Tst! Tst! Tst! Damned foolish, Sondra, damned
foolish! Your mother has been talking to me for months
about this, and you know I was taking your word for it
against hers. And now see what’s happened! Why couldn’t
you have told me or listened to her? Why couldn’t you have
talked all this over with me before going so far? I thought
we understood each other, you and I. Your mother and I
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854
have always acted for your own good, haven’t we? You
know that. Besides, I certainly thought you had better
sense. Really, I did. But a murder case, and you connected
with it! My God!”
He got up, a handsome blond man in carefully made
clothes, and paced the floor, snapping his fingers irritably,
while Sondra continued to weep. Suddenly, ceasing his
walking, he turned again toward her and resumed with:
“But, there, there! There’s no use crying over it. Crying isn’t
going to fix it. Of course, we may be able to live it down in
some way. I don’t know. I don’t know. I can’t guess what
effect this is likely to have on you personally. But one thing
is sure. We do want to know something about those letters.”
And forthwith, and while Sondra wept on, he proceeded first
to call his wife in order to explain the nature of the blow—a
social blow that was to lurk in her memory as a shadow for
the rest of her years—and next to call up Legare Atterbury,
lawyer, state senator, chairman of the Republican State
Central Committee and his own private counsel for years
past, to whom he explained the amazing difficulty in which
his daughter now found herself. Also to inquire what was
the most advisable thing to be done.
“Well, let me see,” came from Atterbury, “I wouldn’t worry
very much if I were you, Mr. Finchley. I think I can do
something to straighten this out for you before any real
public damage is done. Now, let me see. Who is the district
attorney of Cataraqui County, anyhow? I’ll have to look that
up and get in touch with him and call you back. But never
mind, I promise you I’ll be able to do something—keep the
letters out of the papers, anyhow. Maybe out of the trial—
I’m not sure—but I am sure I can fix it so that her name will
not be mentioned, so don’t worry.”
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And then Atterbury in turn calling up Mason, whose name
he found in his lawyers’ directory, and at once arranging for
a conference with him, since Mason seemed to think that
the letters were most vital to his case, although he was so
much overawed by Atterbury’s voice that he was quick to
explain that by no means had he planned as yet to use
publicly the name of Sondra or the letters either, but rather
to reserve their actuality for the private inspection of the
grand jury, unless Clyde should choose to confess and
avoid a trial.
But Atterbury, after referring back to Finchley and finding
him opposed to any use of the letters whatsoever, or
Sondra’s name either, assuring him that on the morrow or
the day after he would himself proceed to Bridgeburg with
some plans and political information which might cause
Mason to think twice before he so much as considered
referring to Sondra in any public way.
And then after due consideration by the Finchley family, it
was decided that at once, and without explanation or
apology to any one, Mrs. Finchley, Stuart and Sondra