An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

recoiled and turned away.

“Proceed,” growled Oberwaltzer, sullenly.

“Now, Clyde,” resumed Jephson anew, as calm as though

he had just lit and thrown away a match. “You say your

salary was twenty-five dollars and you had these various

expenses. Had you, up to this time, been able to put aside

any money for a rainy day?”

“No, sir—not much—not any, really.”

“Well, then, supposing some doctor to whom Miss Alden

had applied had been willing to assist her and wanted—say

a hundred dollars or so—were you ready to furnish that?”

“No, sir—not right off, that is.”

“Did she have any money of her own that you know of?”

“None that I know of—no, sir.”

“Well, how did you intend to help her then?”

“Well, I thought if either she or I found any one and he

would wait and let me pay for it on time, that I could save

and pay it that way, maybe.”

“I see. You were perfectly willing to do that, were you?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“You told her so, did you?”

“Yes, sir. She knew that.”

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“Well, when neither you nor she could find any one to help

her, then what? What did you do next?”

“Well, then she wanted me to marry her.”

“Right away?”

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

“And what did you say to that?”

“I told her I just couldn’t then. I didn’t have any money to get

married on. And besides if I did and didn’t go away

somewhere, at least until the baby was born, everybody

would find out and I couldn’t have stayed there anyhow.

And she couldn’t either.”

“And why not?”

“Well, there were my relatives. They wouldn’t have wanted

to keep me any more, or her either, I guess.”

“I see. They wouldn’t have considered you fit for the work

you were doing, or her either. Is that it?”

“I thought so, anyhow,” replied Clyde.

“And then what?”

“Well, even if I had wanted to go away with her and marry

her, I didn’t have enough money to do that and she didn’t

either. I would have had to give up my place and gone and

found another somewhere before I could let her come.

Besides that, I didn’t know any place where I could go and

earn as much as I did there.”

“How about hotel work? Couldn’t you have gone back to

that?”

“Well, maybe—if I had an introduction of some kind. But I

didn’t want to go back to that.”

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“And why not?”

“Well, I didn’t like it so much any more—not that kind of life.”

“But you didn’t mean that you didn’t want to do anything at

all, did you? That wasn’t your attitude, was it?”

“Oh, no, sir. That wasn’t it. I told her right away if she would

go away for a while—while she had her baby—and let me

stay on there in Lycurgus, that I would try to live on less and

give her all I could save until she was all right again.”

“But not marry her?”

“No, sir, I didn’t feel that I could do that then.”

“And what did she say to that?”

“She wouldn’t do it. She said she couldn’t and wouldn’t go

through with it unless I would marry her.”

“I see. Then and there?”

“Well, yes—pretty soon, anyhow. She was willing to wait a

little while, but she wouldn’t go away unless I would marry

her.”

“And did you tell her that you didn’t care for her any more?”

“Well, nearly—yes, sir.”

“What do you mean by ‘nearly’?”

“Well, that I didn’t want to. Besides, she knew I didn’t care

for her any more. She said so herself.”

“To you, at that time?”

“Yes, sir. Lots of times.”

“Well, yes, that’s true—it was in all of those letters of hers

that were readhere. But when she refused so flatly, what

did you do then?”

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“Well, I didn’t know what to do. But I thought maybe if I

could get her to go up to her home for a while, while I tried

and saved what I could—well … maybe … once she was

up there and saw how much I didn’t want to marry her

——” (Clyde paused and fumbled at his lips. This lying was

hard.)

“Yes, go on. And remember, the truth, however ashamed of

it you may be, is better than any lie.”

“And maybe when she was a little more frightened and not

so determined——”

“Weren’t you frightened, too?”

“Yes, sir, I was.”

“Well, go on.”

“That then—well—maybe if I offered her all that I had been

able to save up to then—you see I thought maybe I might

be able to borrow some from some one too—that she might

be willing to go away and not make me marry her—just live

somewhere and let me help her.”

“I see. But she wouldn’t agree to that?”

“Well, no—not to my not marrying her, no—but to going up

there for a month, yes. I couldn’t get her to say that she

would let me off.”

“But did you at that or any other time before or subsequent

to that say that you would come up there and marry her?”

“No, sir. I never did.”

“Just what did you say then?”

“I said that … as soon as I could get the money,” stuttered

Clyde at this point, so nervous and shamed was he, “I

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would come for her in about a month and we could go away

somewhere until—until—well, until she was out of that.”

“But you did not tell her that you would marry her?”

“No, sir. I did not.”

“But she wanted you to, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had you any notion that she could force you so to do at

that time—marry her against your will, I mean?”

“No, sir, I didn’t. Not if I could help it. My plan was to wait as

long as I could and save all the money I could and then

when the time came just refuse and give her all the money

that I had and help her all I could from then on.”

“But you know,” proceeded Jephson, most suavely and

diplomatically at this point, “there are various references in

these letters here which Miss Alden wrote you”—and he

reached over and from the district attorney’s table picked up

the original letters of Roberta and weighed them solemnly

in his hand—“to a plan which you two had in connection

with this trip—or at least that she seemed to think you had.

Now, exactly what was that plan? She distinctly refers to it,

if I recall aright, as ‘our plan.’”

“I know that,” replied Clyde—since for two months now he,

along with Belknap and Jephson, had discussed this

particular question. “But the only plan I know of”—and here

he did his best to look frank and be convincing—“was the

one I offered over and over.”

“And what was that?”

“Why, that she go away and take a room somewhere and

let me help her and come over and see her once in a while.”

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“Well, no, you’re wrong there,” returned Jephson, slyly.

“That isn’t and couldn’t be the plan she had in mind. She

says in one of these letters that she knows it will be hard on

you to have to go away and stay so long, or until she is out

of this thing, but that it can’t be helped.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Clyde, quickly and exactly as he had

been told to do, “but that was her plan, not mine. She kept

saying to me most of the time that that was what she

wanted me to do, and that I would have to do it. She told

me that over the telephone several times, and I may have

said all right, all right, not meaning that I agreed with her

entirely but that I wanted to talk with her about it some more

later.”

“I see. And so that’s what you think—that she meant one

thing and you meant another.”

“Well, I know I never agreed to her plan—exactly. That is, I

never did any more than just to ask her to wait and not do

anything until I could get money enough together to come

up there and talk to her some more and get her to go away

—the way I suggested.”

“But if she wouldn’t accede to your plan, then what?”

“Well, then I was going to tell her about Miss X, and beg her

to let me go.”

“And if she still wouldn’t?”

“Well, then I thought I might run away, but I didn’t like to

think about that very much.”

“You know, Clyde, of course, that some here are of the

opinion that there was a plot on your part which originated

in your mind about this time to conceal your identity and