An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

those who, like himself, were successful.

Having arrived in Lycurgus about twenty-five years before

with some capital and a determination to invest in a new

collar enterprise which had been proposed to him, he had

succeeded thereafter beyond his wildest expectations. And

naturally he was vain about it. His family at this time—

twenty-five years later—unquestionably occupied one of the

best, as well as the most tastefully constructed residences

in Lycurgus. They were also esteemed as among the few

best families of this region—being, if not the oldest, at least

among the most conservative, respectable and successful

in Lycurgus. His two younger children, if not the eldest,

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were much to the front socially in the younger and gayer set

and so far nothing had happened to weaken or darken his

prestige.

On returning from Chicago on this particular day, after

having concluded several agreements there which spelled

trade harmony and prosperity for at least one year, he was

inclined to feel very much at ease and on good terms with

the world. Nothing had occurred to mar his trip. In his

absence the Griffiths Collar and Shirt Company had gone

on as though he had been present. Trade orders at the

moment were large.

Now as he entered his own door he threw down a heavy

bag and fashionably made coat and turned to see what he

rather expected—Bella hurrying toward him. Indeed she

was his pet, the most pleasing and different and artistic

thing, as he saw it, that all his years had brought to him—

youth, health, gayety, intelligence and affection—all in the

shape of a pretty daughter.

“Oh, Daddy,” she called most sweetly and enticingly as she

saw him enter. “Is that you?”

“Yes. At least it feels a little like me at the present moment.

How’s my baby girl?” And he opened his arms and received

the bounding form of his last born. “There’s a good, strong,

healthy girl, I’ll say,” he announced as he withdrew his

affectionate lips from hers. “And how’s the bad girl been

behaving herself since I left? No fibbing this time.”

“Oh, just fine, Daddy. You can ask any one. I couldn’t be

better.”

“And your mother?”

“She’s all right, Daddy. She’s up in her room. I don’t think

she heard you come in.”

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“And Myra? Is she back from Albany yet?”

“Yes. She’s in her room. I heard her playing just now. I just

got in myself a little while ago.”

“Ay, hai. Gadding about again. I know you.” He held up a

genial forefinger, warningly, while Bella swung onto one of

his arms and kept pace with him up the stairs to the floor

above.

“Oh, no, I wasn’t either, now,” she cooed shrewdly and

sweetly. “Just see how you pick on me, Daddy. I was only

over with Sondra for a little while. And what do you think,

Daddy? They’re going to give up the place at Greenwood

and build a big handsome bungalow up on Twelfth Lake

right away. And Mr. Finchley’s going to buy a big electric

launch for Stuart and they’re going to live up there next

summer, maybe all the time, from May until October. And

so are the Cranstons, maybe.

“Mr. Griffiths, long used to his younger daughter’s wiles,

was interested at the moment not so much by the thought

that she wished to convey—that Twelfth Lake was more

desirable, socially than Greenwood—as he was by the fact

that the Finchleys were able to make this sudden and

rather heavy expenditure for social reasons only.

Instead of answering Bella he went on upstairs and into his

wife’s room. He kissed Mrs. Griffiths, looked in upon Myra,

who came to the door to embrace him, and spoke of the

successful nature of the trip. One could see by the way he

embraced his wife that there was an agreeable

understanding between them—no disharmony—by the way

he greeted Myra that if he did not exactly sympathize with

her temperament and point of view, at least he included her

within the largess of his affection.

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As they were talking Mrs. Truesdale announced that dinner

was ready, and Gilbert, having completed his toilet, now

entered.

“I say, Dad,” he called, “I have an interesting thing I want to

see you about in the morning. Can I?”

“All right, I’ll be there. Come in about noon.”

“Come on all, or the dinner will be getting cold,”

admonished Mrs. Griffiths earnestly, and forthwith Gilbert

turned and went down, followed by Griffiths, who still had

Bella on his arm. And after him came Mrs. Griffiths and

Myra, who now emerged from her room and joined them.

Once seated at the table, the family forthwith began

discussing topics of current local interest. For Bella, who

was the family’s chief source of gossip, gathering the most

of it from the Snedeker School, through which all the social

news appeared to percolate most swiftly, suddenly

announced: “What do you think, Mamma? Rosetta

Nicholson, that niece of Mrs. Disston Nicholson, who was

over here last summer from Albany—you know, she came

over the night of the Alumnae Garden Party on our lawn—

you remember—the young girl with the yellow hair and

squinty blue eyes—her father owns that big wholesale

grocery over there—well, she’s engaged to that Herbert

Tickham of Utica, who was visiting Mrs. Lambert last

summer. You don’t remember him, but I do. He was tall and

dark and sorta awkward, and awfully pale, but very

handsome—oh, a regular movie hero.”

“There you go, Mrs. Griffiths,” interjected Gilbert shrewdly

and cynically to his mother. “A delegation from the Misses

Snedeker’s Select School sneaks off to the movies to brush

up on heroes from time to time.”

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Griffiths senior suddenly observed: “I had a curious

experience in Chicago this time, something I think the rest

of you will be interested in.” He was thinking of an

accidental encounter two days before in Chicago between

himself and the eldest son, as it proved to be, of his

younger brother Asa. Also of a conclusion he had come to

in regard to him.

“Oh, what is it, Daddy?” pleaded Bella at once. “Do tell me

about it.”

“Spin the big news, Dad,” added Gilbert, who, because of

the favor of his father, felt very free and close to him always.

“Well, while I was in Chicago at the Union League Club, I

met a young man who is related to us, a cousin of you three

children, by the way, the eldest son of my brother Asa, who

is out in Denver now, I understand. I haven’t seen or heard

from him in thirty years.” He paused and mused dubiously.

“Not the one who is a preacher somewhere, Daddy?”

inquired Bella, looking up.

“Yes, the preacher. At least I understand he was for a while

after he left home. But his son tells me he has given that up

now. He’s connected with something in Denver—a hotel, I

think.”

“But what’s his son like?” interrogated Bella, who only knew

such well groomed and ostensibly conservative youths and

men as her present social status and supervision permitted,

and in consequence was intensely interested. The son of a

western hotel proprietor!

“A cousin? How old is he?” asked Gilbert instantly, curious

as to his character and situation and ability.

“Well, he’s a very interesting young man, I think,” continued

Griffiths tentatively and somewhat dubiously, since up to

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this hour he had not truly made up his mind about Clyde.

“He’s quite good-looking and well-mannered, too—about

your own age, I should say, Gil, and looks a lot like you—

very much so—same eyes and mouth and chin.” He looked

at his son examiningly. “He’s a little bit taller, if anything,

and looks a little thinner, though I don’t believe he really is.”

At the thought of a cousin who looked like him—possibly as

attractive in every way as himself—and bearing his own

name, Gilbert chilled and bristled slightly. For here in

Lycurgus, up to this time, he was well and favourably

known as the only son and heir presumptive to the

managerial control of his father’s business, and to at least a

third of the estate, if not more. And now, if by any chance it

should come to light that there was a relative, a cousin of

his own years and one who looked and acted like him, even

—he bridled at the thought. Forthwith (a psychic reaction

which he did not understand and could not very well

control) he decided that he did not like him—could not like

him.

“What’s he doing now?” he asked in a curt and rather sour

tone, though he attempted to avoid the latter element in his

voice.

“Well, he hasn’t much of a job, I must say,” smiled Samuel

Griffiths, meditatively. “He’s only a bell-hop in the Union

League Club in Chicago, at present, but a very pleasant