An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

it was so plain from his restless, troubled manner that

Smillie did not believe him. Quite obviously he considered

his not having aided Roberta as dastardly—a thin excuse

for letting her die.

And so, too weary and disheartened to lie more, finally

ceasing. And Smillie, too sorry and disturbed to wish to

catechize or confuse him further, fidgeting and fumbling

and finally declaring: “Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to be going

now, Clyde. The roads are pretty bad between here and

Sharon. But I’ve been mighty glad to hear your side of it.

And I’ll present it to your uncle just as you have told it to

me. But in the meantime, if I were you, I wouldn’t do any

more talking than I could help—not until you hear further

from me. I was instructed to find an attorney up here to

handle this case for you, if I could, but since it’s late and Mr.

Brookhart, our chief counsel, will be back to-morrow, I think

I’ll just wait until I can talk to him. So if you’ll take my

advice, you’ll just not say anything until you hear from him

or me. Either he’ll come or he’ll send some one—he’ll bring

a letter from me, whoever he is, and then he’ll advise you.”

And with this parting admonition, leaving Clyde to his

thoughts and himself feeling no least doubt of his guilt and

that nothing less than the Griffiths’ millions, if so they chose

to spend them, could save him from a fate which was no

doubt due him.

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Chapter 13

AND then on the following morning Samuel Griffiths, with

his own son Gilbert standing by, in the large drawing room

of their Wykeagy Avenue mansion, listening to Smillie’s

report of his conference with Clyde and Mason. And Smillie

reporting all he had heard and seen. And with Gilbert

Griffiths, unbelievably shaken and infuriated by all this,

exclaiming at one point:

“Why, the little devil! The little beast! But what did I tell you,

Dad? Didn’t I warn you against bringing him on?”

And Samuel Griffiths after meditating on this reference to

his earlier sympathetic folly now giving Gilbert a most

suggestive and intensely troubled look, which said: Are we

here to discuss the folly of my original, if foolish, good

intentions, or the present crisis? And Gilbert thinking: The

murderer! And that wretched little show-off, Sondra

Finchley, trying to make something of him in order to spite

me, Gilbert, principally, and so getting herself smirched.

The little fool! But it served her right. She would get her

share of this now. Only it would cause him and his father

and all of them infinite trouble also. For was this not an

ineradicable stain which was likely to defile all—himself, his

fiancee, Bella, Myra, his parents—and perhaps cost them

their position here in Lycurgus society? The tragedy! Maybe

an execution! And in this family!

Yet Samuel Griffiths, on his part, going back in his mind to

all that had occurred since Clyde had arrived in Lycurgus.

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His being left to work in that basement at first and ignored

by the family. Left to his own devices for fully eight months.

Might not that have been at least a contributing cause to all

this horror? And then being put over all those girls! Was not

that a mistake? He could see all this now clearly, although

by no means condoning Clyde’s deed in any way—far from

it. The wretchedness of such a mind as that—the

ungoverned and carnal desires! The uncontrollable brutality

of seducing that girl and then because of Sondra—the

pleasant, agreeable little Sondra—plotting to get rid of her!

And now in jail, and offering no better explanation of all the

amazing circumstances, as reported by Smillie, than that he

had not intended to kill her at all—had not even plotted to

do so—that the wind had blown his hat off! How impossibly

weak! And with no suitable explanation for the two hats, or

the missing suit, or of not going to the aid of the drowning

girl And those unexplained marks on her face. How strongly

all these things pointed to his guilt.

“For God’s sake,” exclaimed Gilbert, “hasn’t he anything

better than that to offer, the little fool!” And Smillie replied

that that was all he could get him to say, and that Mr.

Mason was absolutely and quite dispassionately convinced

of his guilt. “Dreadful! Dreadful!” put in Samuel. “I really

can’t grasp it yet. I can’t! It doesn’t seem possible that any

one of my blood could be guilty of such a thing!” And then

getting up and walking the floor in real and crushing

distress and fear. His family! Gilbert and his future! Bella,

with all her ambitions and dreams! And Sondra! And

Finchley!

He clinched his hands. He knitted his brows and tightened

his lips. He looked at Smillie, who, immaculate and sleek,

showed nevertheless the immense strain that was on him,

shaking his head dismally whenever Griffiths looked at him.

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And then after nearly an hour and a half more of such

questioning and requestioning as to the possibility of some

other interpretation than the data furnished by Smillie would

permit, Griffiths, senior, pausing and declaring: “Well, it

does look bad, I must say. Still, in the face of what you tell

me, I can’t find it in me to condemn completely without

more knowledge than we have here. There may be some

other facts not as yet come to light—he won’t talk, you say,

about most things—some little details we don’t know about

—some slight excuse of some kind—for without that this

does appear to be a most atrocious crime. Has Mr. Brook-

hart got in from Boston?”

“Yes, sir, he’s here,” replied Gilbert. “He telephoned Mr.

Smillie.”

Well, have him come out here at two this afternoon to see

me. I’m too tired to talk more about this right now. Tell him

all that you have told me, Smillie. And then come back here

with him at two. It may be that he will have some

suggestion to make that will be of value to us, although just

what I can’t see. Only one thing I want to say—I hope he

isn’t guilty. And I want every proper step taken to discover

whether he is or not, and if not, to defend him to the limit of

the law. But no more than that. No trying to save anybody

who is guilty of such a thing as this—no, no, no!—not even

if he is my nephew! Not me! I’m not that kind of a man!

Trouble or no trouble—disgrace or no disgrace—I’ll do what

I can to help him if he’s innocent—if there’s even the

faintest reason for believing so. But guilty? No! Never! If

this boy is really guilty, he’ll have to take the consequences.

Not a dollar—not a penny—of my money will I devote to

any one who could be guilty of such a crime, even if he is

my nephew!”

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And turning and slowly and heavily moving toward the rear

staircase, while Smillie, wide-eyed, gazed after him in awe.

The power of him! The decision of him! The fairness of him

in such a deadly crisis! And Gilbert equally impressed, also

sitting and staring. His father was a man, really. He might

be cruelly wounded and distressed, but, unlike himself, he

was neither petty nor revengeful.

And next Mr. Darrah Brookhart, a large, well-dressed, well-

fed, ponderous and cautious corporation lawyer, with one

eye half concealed by a drooping lid and his stomach rather

protuberant, giving one the impression of being mentally if

not exactly physically suspended, balloon-wise, in some

highly rarefied atmosphere where he was moved easily

hither and yon by the lightest breath of previous legal

interpretations or decisions of any kind. In the absence of

additional facts, the guilt of Clyde (to him) seemed obvious.

Or, waiving that, as he saw it after carefully listening to

Smillie’s recounting of all the suspicious and incriminating

circumstances, he would think it very difficult to construct an

even partially satisfactory defense, unless there were some

facts favoring Clyde which had not thus far appeared.

Those two hats, that bag—his slipping away like that.

Those letters. But he would prefer to read them. For upon

the face of the data so far, unquestionably public sentiment

would be all against Clyde and in favor of the dead girl and

her poverty and her class, a situation which made a

favorable verdict in such a backwoods county seat as

Bridgeburg almost impossible. For Clyde, although himself

poor, was the nephew of a rich man and hitherto in good

standing in Lycurgus society. That would most certainly

tend to prejudice country-born people against him. It would

probably be better to ask for a change of venue so as to

nullify the force of such a prejudice.

An American Tragedy