An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

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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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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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