An American Tragedy

particular hat salesman in Utica who had sold Clyde the hat. For Burton
Burleigh being interviewed while in Utica, and his picture published along
with one of Clyde, this salesman chanced to see it and recalling him at once
made haste to communicate with Mason, with the result that his testimony,
properly typewritten and sworn to, was carried away by Mason.
And, in addition, the country girl who had been on the steamer "Cygnus"
and who had noticed Clyde, wrote Mason that she remembered him wearing
a straw hat, also his leaving the boat at Sharon, a bit of evidence which most
fully confirmed that of the captain of the boat and caused Mason to feel that
Providence or Fate was working with him. And last, but most important of
all to him, there came a communication from a woman residing in Bedford,
Pennsylvania, who announced that during the week of July third to tenth, she
and her husband had been camping on the east shore of Big Bittern, near the
southern end of the lake. And while rowing on the lake on the afternoon of
July eighth, at about six o'clock, she had heard a cry which sounded like that
of a woman or girl in distress—a plaintive, mournful cry. It was very faint

---

and had seemed to come from beyond the island which was to the south and
west of the bay in which they were fishing.
Mason now proposed to remain absolutely silent regarding this
information, and that about the camera and films and the data regarding
Clyde's offense in Kansas City, until nearer the day of trial, or during the trial
itself, when it would be impossible for the defense to attempt either to refute
or ameliorate it in any way.
As for Belknap and Jephson, apart from drilling Clyde in the matter of his
general denial based on his change of heart once he had arrived at Grass
Lake, and the explanation of the two hats and the bag, they could not see that
there was much to do. True, there was the suit thrown in Fourth Lake near the
Cranstons', but after much trolling on the part of a seemingly casual
fisherman, that was brought up, cleaned and pressed, and now hung in a
locked closet in the Belknap and Jephson office. Also, there was the camera
at Big Bittern, dived for but never found by them—a circumstance which led
Jephson to conclude that Mason must have it, and so caused him to decide
that he would refer to it at the earliest possible opportunity at the trial. But as
for Clyde striking her with it, even accidentally, well, it was decided at that
time at least, to contend that he had not—although after exhuming Roberta's
body at Biltz it had been found that the marks on her face, even at this date,
did correspond in some degree to the size and shape of the camera.
For, in the first place, they were exceedingly dubious of Clyde as a
witness. Would he or would he not, in telling of how it all happened, be
sufficiently direct or forceful and sincere to convince any jury that he had so
struck her without intending to strike her? For on that, marks or no marks,
would depend whether the jury was going to believe him. And if it did not
believe that he struck her accidentally, then a verdict of guilty, of course.
And so they prepared to await the coming of the trial, only working
betimes and in so far as they dared, to obtain testimony or evidence as to
Clyde's previous good character, but being blocked to a degree by the fact
that in Lycurgus, while pretending to be a model youth outwardly, he had
privately been conducting himself otherwise, and that in Kansas City his first
commercial efforts had resulted in such a scandal.
However, one of the most difficult matters in connection with Clyde and
his incarceration here, as Belknap and Jephson as well as the prosecution
saw it, was the fact that thus far not one single member of his own or his
uncle's family had come forward to champion him. And to no one save

---

Belknap and Jephson had he admitted where his parents were. Yet would it
not be necessary, as both Belknap and Jephson argued from time to time, if
any case at all were to be made out for him, to have his mother or father, or at
least a sister or a brother, come forward to say a good word for him?
Otherwise, Clyde might appear to be a pariah, one who had been from the
first a drifter and a waster and was now purposely being avoided by all who
knew him.
For this reason, at their conference with Darrah Brookhart they had
inquired after Clyde's parents and had learned that in so far as the Griffiths of
Lycurgus were concerned, there lay a deep objection to bringing on any
member of this western branch of the family. There was, as he explained, a
great social gap between them, which it would not please the Lycurgus
Griffiths to have exploited here. Besides, who could say but that once
Clyde's parents were notified or discovered by the yellow press, they might
not lend themselves to exploitation. Both Samuel and Gilbert Griffiths, as
Brookhart now informed Belknap, had suggested that it was best, if Clyde
did not object, to keeping his immediate relatives in the background. In fact,
on this, in some measure at least, was likely to depend the extent of their
financial aid to Clyde.
Clyde was in accord with this wish of the Griffiths, although no one who
talked with him sufficiently or heard him express how sorry he was on his
mother's account that all this had happened, could doubt the quality of the
blood and emotional tie that held him and his mother together. The complete
truth was that his present attitude toward her was a mixture of fear and shame
because of the manner in which she was likely to view his predicament—his
moral if not his social failure. Would she be willing to believe the story
prepared by Belknap and Jephson as to his change of heart? But even apart
from that, to have her come here now and look at him through these bars
when he was so disgraced—to be compelled to face her and talk to her day
after day! Her clear, inquiring, tortured eyes! Her doubt as to his innocence,
since he could feel that even Belknap and Jephson, in spite of all their plans
for him, were still a little dubious as to that unintentional blow of his. They
did not really believe it, and they might tell her that. And would his religious,
God-fearing, crime-abhorring mother be more credulous than they?
Being asked again what he thought ought to be done about his parents, he
replied that he did not believe he could face his mother yet—it would do no
good and would only torture both.

---

And fortunately, as he saw it, apparently no word of all that had befallen
him had yet reached his parents in Denver. Because of their peculiar
religious and moral beliefs, all copies of worldly and degenerate daily
papers were consistently excluded from their home and Mission. And the
Lycurgus Griffiths had had no desire to inform them.
Yet one night, at about the time that Belknap and Jephson were most
seriously debating the absence of his parents and what, if anything, should be
done about it, Esta, who some time after Clyde had arrived in Lycurgus had
married and was living in the southeast portion of Denver, chanced to read in
The Rocky Mountain News—and this just subsequent to Clyde's indictment
by the Grand Jury at Bridgeburg:
"BOY SLAYER OF WORKING GIRL INDICTED
"Bridgeburg, N. Y., Aug. 6: A special Grand Jury appointed by
Governor Stouderback, of this state, to sit in the case of Clyde Griffiths,
the nephew of the wealthy collar manufacturer of the same name, of
Lycurgus, New York, recently charged with the killing of Miss Roberta
Alden, of Biltz, New York, at Big Bittern Lake in the Adirondacks on
July 8th last, to-day returned an indictment charging murder in the first
degree.
"Subsequent to the indictment, Griffiths, who in spite of almost
overwhelming evidence, has persisted in asserting that the alleged
crime was an accident, and who, accompanied by his counsel, Alvin
Belknap, and Reuben Jephson, of this city, was arraigned before
Supreme Court Justice Oberwaltzer, pleaded not guilty. He was
remanded for trial, which was set for October 15th.
"Young Griffiths, who is only twenty-two years of age, and up to the day
of his arrest a respected member of Lycurgus smart society, is alleged to
have stunned and then drowned his working-girl sweetheart, whom he
had wronged and then planned to desert in favor of a richer girl. The
lawyers in this case have been retained by his wealthy uncle of
Lycurgus, who has hitherto remained aloof. But apart from this, it is
locally asserted, no relative has come forward to aid in his defense."

---

Esta forthwith made a hurried departure for her mother's home. Despite the
directness and clarity of this she was not willing to believe it was Clyde.
Still there was the damning force of geography and names—the rich Lycurgus
Griffiths, the absence of his own relatives.
As quickly as the local street car would carry her, she now presented
herself at the combined lodging house and mission known as the "Star of
Hope," in Bildwell Street, which was scarcely better than that formerly
maintained in Kansas City. For while it provided a number of rooms for
wayfarers at twenty-five cents a night, and was supposed to be self-
supporting, it entailed much work with hardly any more profit. Besides, by
now, both Frank and Julia, who long before this had become irked by the
drab world in which they found themselves, had earnestly sought to free
themselves of it, leaving the burden of the mission work on their father and
mother. Julia, now nineteen, was cashiering for a local downtown restaurant,
and Frank, nearing seventeen, had but recently found work in a fruit and
vegetable commission house. In fact, the only child about the place by day
was little Russell, the illegitimate son of Esta—now between three and four
years of age, and most reservedly fictionalized by his grandparents as an
orphan whom they had adopted in Kansas City. He was a dark-haired child,
in some ways resembling Clyde, who, even at this early age, as Clyde had
been before him, was being instructed in those fundamental verities which
had irritated Clyde in his own childhood.
At the time that Esta, now a decidedly subdued and reserved wife, entered,
Mrs. Griffiths was busy sweeping and dusting and making up beds. But on
sight of her daughter at this unusual hour approaching, and with blanched
cheeks signaling her to come inside the door of a vacant room, Mrs. Griffiths,
who, because of years of difficulties of various kinds, was more or less
accustomed to scenes such as this, now paused in wonder, the swiftly
beclouding mist of apprehension shining in her eyes. What new misery or ill
was this? For decidedly Esta's weak gray eyes and manner indicated
distress. And in her hand was folded a paper, which she opened and after
giving her mother a most solicitous look, pointed to the item, toward which
Mrs. Griffiths now directed her look. But what was this?
"Boy slayer of working-girl sweetheart indicted."
"Charged with the killing of Miss Roberta Alden at Big Bittern Lake in

---

the Adirondacks on July 8 last."
"Returned indictment charging murder in the first degree."
"In spite of almost overwhelming circumstantial evidence."
"Pleaded not guilty."
"Remanded for trial."
"Set for October 15."
"Stunned and drowned his working-girl sweetheart."
"No relative has come forward."
It was thus that her eye and her mind automatically selected the most
essential lines. And then as swiftly going over them again.
"Clyde Griffiths, nephew of the wealthy collar manufacturer of
Lycurgus, New York."
Clyde—her son! And only recently—but no, over a month ago—(and they
had been worrying a little as to that, she and Asa, because he had not—) July
8th! And it was now August 11th! Then—yes! But not her son! Impossible!
Clyde the murderer of a girl who was his sweetheart! But he was not like
that! He had written to her how he was getting along—the head of a large
department, with a future. But of no girl. But now! And yet that other little
girl there in Kansas City. Merciful God! And the Griffiths, of Lycurgus, her
husband's brother, knowing of this and not writing! Ashamed, disgusted, no
doubt. Indifferent. But no, he had hired two lawyers. Yet the horror! Asa! Her
other children! What the papers would say! This mission! They would have
to give it up and go somewhere else again. Yet was he guilty or not guilty?
She must know that before judging or thinking. This paper said he had
pleaded not guilty. Oh, that wretched, worldly, showy hotel in Kansas City!
Those other bad boys! Those two years in which he wandered here and there,
not writing, passing as Harry Tenet. Doing what? Learning what?

---

She paused, full of that intense misery and terror which no faith in the
revealed and comforting verities of God and mercy and salvation which she
was always proclaiming, could for the moment fend against. Her boy! Her
Clyde! In jail, accused of murder! She must wire! She must write! She must
go, maybe. But how to get the money! What to do when she got there. How to
get the courage—the faith—to endure it. Yet again, neither Asa nor Frank nor
Julia must know. Asa, with his protesting and yet somehow careworn faith,
his weak eyes and weakening body. And must Frank and Julia, now just
starting out in life, be saddled with this? Marked thus?
Merciful God! Would her troubles never end?
She turned, her big, work-worn hands trembling slightly, shaking the paper
she held, while Esta, who sympathized greatly with her mother these days
because of all she had been compelled to endure, stood by. She looked so
tired at times, and now to be racked by this! Yet, as she knew, her mother
was the strongest in the family—so erect, so square-shouldered, defiant—a
veritable soul pilot in her cross-grained, uniformed way.
"Mamma, I just can't believe it can be Clyde," was all Esta could say now.
"It just can't be, can it?"
But Mrs. Griffiths merely continued to stare at that ominous headline, then
swiftly ran her gray-blue eyes over the room. Her broad face was blanched
and dignified by an enormous strain and an enormous pain. Her erring,
misguided, no doubt unfortunate, son, with all his wild dreams of getting on
and up, was in danger of death, of being electrocuted for a crime—for
murder! He had killed some one—a poor working-girl, the paper said.
"Ssh!" she whispered, putting one finger to her own lips as a sign. "He"
(indicating Asa) "must not know yet, anyhow. We must wire first, or write.
You can have the answers come to you, maybe. I will give you the money. But
I must sit down somewhere now for a minute. I feel a little weak. I'll sit here.
Let me have the Bible."
On the small dresser was a Gideon Bible, which, sitting on the edge of the
commonplace iron bed, she now opened instinctively at Psalms 3 and 4.
"Lord, how are they increased that trouble."
"Hear me, when I call, O God of my righteousness."
And then reading on silently, even placidly apparently, through 6, 8, 10,
13, 23, 91, while Esta stood by in silent amazement and misery.
"Oh, Mamma, I just can't believe it. Oh, this is too terrible!" But Mrs.
Griffiths read on. It was as if, and in spite of all this, she had been able to

---

retreat into some still, silent place, where, for the time being at least, no evil
human ill could reach her. Then at last, quite calmly closing the book, and
rising, she went on:
"Now, we must think out what to say and who to send that telegram to—I
mean to Clyde, of course—at that place, wherever it is— Bridgeburg," she
added, looking at the paper, and then interpolating from the Bible—"By
terrible things in righteousness wilt thou answer us, O God!" "Or, maybe,
those two lawyers—their names are there. I'm afraid to wire Asa's brother
for fear he'll wire back to him." (Then: 'Thou art my bulwark and my
strength. In Thee will I trust.') "But I suppose they would give it to him if we
sent it care of that judge or those lawyers, don't you think? But it would be
better if we could send it to him direct, I suppose. ('He leadeth me by the still
waters.') Just say that I have read about him and still have faith and love for
him, but he is to tell me the truth and what to do. If he needs money we will
have to see what we can do, I suppose. ('He restoreth my soul.')"
And then, despite her sudden peace of the moment, she once more began
wringing her large, rough hands. "Oh, it can't be true. Oh, dear, no! After all,
he is my son. We all love him and have faith. We must say that. God will
deliver him. Watch and pray. Have faith. Under his wings shalt thou trust."
She was so beside herself that she scarcely knew what she was saying.
And Esta, at her side, was saying: "Yes, Mamma! Oh, of course! Yes, I will! I
know he'll get it all right." But she, too, was saying to herself: "My God! My
God! What could be worse than this—to be accused of murder! But, of
course, it can't be true. It can't be true. If he should hear!" (She was thinking
of her husband.) "And after Russell, too. And Clyde's trouble there in Kansas
City. Poor Mamma. She has so much trouble."
Together, after a time, and avoiding Asa who was in an adjoining room
helping with the cleaning, the two made their way to the general mission
room below, where was silence and many placards which proclaimed the
charity, the wisdom, and the sustaining righteousness of God.

---

18
Chapter
The telegram, worded in the spirit just described, was forthwith despatched
care of Belknap and Jephson, who immediately counseled Clyde what to
reply—that all was well with him; that he had the best of advice and would
need no financial aid. Also that until his lawyers advised it, it would be best
if no member of the family troubled to appear, since everything that could
possibly be done to aid him was already being done. At the same time they
wrote Mrs. Griffiths, assuring her of their interest in Clyde and advising her
to let matters rest as they were for the present.
Despite the fact that the Griffiths were thus restrained from appearing in
the east, neither Belknap nor Jephson were averse to some news of the
existence, whereabouts, faith and sympathy of Clyde's most immediate
relatives creeping into the newspapers, since the latter were so persistent in
referring to his isolation. And in this connection they were aided by the fact
that his mother's telegram on being received in Bridgeburg was at once read
by individuals who were particularly interested in the case and by them
whispered to the public and the press, with the result that in Denver the
family was at once sought out and interviewed. And shortly after, there was
circulated in all the papers east and west a more or less complete account of
the present state of Clyde's family, the nature of the mission conducted by
them, as well as their narrow and highly individualistic religious beliefs and
actions, even the statement that often in his early youth Clyde had been taken
into the streets to sing and pray—a revelation which shocked Lycurgus and
Twelfth Lake society about as much as it did him.
At the same time, Mrs. Griffiths, being an honest woman and whole-
heartedly sincere in her faith and in the good of her work, did not hesitate to
relate to reporter after reporter who called, all the details of the missionary
work of her husband and herself in Denver and elsewhere. Also that neither
Clyde nor any of the other children had ever enjoyed the opportunities that
come to most. However, her boy, whatever the present charge might be, was
not innately bad, and she could not believe that he was guilty of any such

---

crime. It was all an unfortunate and accidental combination of circumstances
which he would explain at the trial. However, whatever foolish thing he
might have done, it was all to be attributed to an unfortunate accident which
broke up the mission work in Kansas City a few years before and compelled
the removal of the family from there to Denver, leaving Clyde to make his
way alone. And it was because of advice from her that he had written her
husband's rich brother in Lycurgus, which led to his going there—a series of
statements which caused Clyde in his cell to tingle with a kind of prideful
misery and resentment and forced him to write his mother and complain. Why
need she always talk so much about the past and the work that she and his
father were connected with, when she knew that he had never liked it and
resented going on the streets? Many people didn't see it as she and his father
did, particularly his uncle and cousin and all those rich people he had come
to know, and who were able to make their way in so different and much more
brilliant fashion. And now, as he said to himself, Sondra would most
certainly read this—all that he had hoped to conceal.
Yet even in the face of all this, because of so much sincerity and force in
his mother, he could not help but think of her with affection and respect, and
because of her sure and unfailing love for him, with emotion. For in answer
to his letter she wrote that she was sorry if she had hurt his feelings or
injured him in any way. But must not the truth be shown always? The ways of
God were for the best and surely no harm could spring from service in His
cause. He must not ask her to lie. But if he said the word, she would so
gladly attempt to raise the necessary money and come to his aid—sit in his
cell and plan with him—holding his hands—but as Clyde so well knew and
thought at this time and which caused him to decide that she must not come
yet—demanding of him the truth— with those clear, steady blue eyes of hers
looking into his own. He could not stand that now.
For, frowning directly before him, like a huge and basalt headland above a
troubled and angry sea, was the trial itself, with all that it implied—the
fierce assault of Mason which he could only confront, for the most part, with
the lies framed for him by Jephson and Belknap. For, although he was
constantly seeking to salve his conscience with the thought that at the last
moment he had not had the courage to strike Roberta, nevertheless this other
story was so terribly difficult for him to present and defend—a fact which
both Belknap and Jephson realized and which caused the latter to appear

---

most frequently at Clyde's cell door with the greeting: "Well, how's tricks to-
day?"
The peculiarly rusty and disheveled and indifferently tailored character of
Jephson's suits! The worn and disarranged effect of his dark brown soft hat,
pulled low over his eyes! His long, bony, knotty hands, suggesting somehow
an enormous tensile strength. And the hard, small blue eyes filled with a
shrewd, determined cunning and courage, with which he was seeking to
inoculate Clyde, and which somehow did inoculate him!
"Any more preachers around to-day? Any more country girls or Mason's
boys?" For during this time, because of the enormous interest aroused by the
pitiable death of Roberta, as well as the evidence of her rich and beautiful
rival, Clyde was being visited by every type of shallow crime-or-sex-
curious country bumpkin lawyer, doctor, merchant, yokel evangelist or
minister, all friends or acquaintances of one or another of the officials of the
city, and who, standing before his cell door betimes, and at the most
unexpected moments, and after surveying him with curious, or resentful, or
horrified eyes, asked such questions as: "Do you pray, brother? Do you get
right down on your knees and pray?" (Clyde was reminded of his mother and
father at such times.) Had he made his peace with God? Did he actually deny
that he had killed Roberta Alden? In the case of three country girls: "Would
you mind telling us the name of the girl you are supposed to be in love with,
and where she is now? We won't tell any one. Will she appear at the trial?"
Questions which Clyde could do no more than ignore, or if not, answer as
equivocally or evasively or indifferently as possible. For although he was
inclined to resent them, still was he not being constantly instructed by both
Belknap and Jephson that for the good of his own cause he must try to appear
genial and civil and optimistic? Then there came also newspaper men, or
women, accompanied by artists or photographers, to interview and make
studies of him. But with these, for the most part and on the advice of Belknap
and Jephson he refused to communicate or said only what he was told to say.
"You can talk all you want," suggested Jephson, genially, "so long as you
don't say anything. And the stiff upper lip, you know. And the smile that won't
come off, see? Not failing to go over that list, are you?" (He had provided
Clyde with a long list of possible questions which no doubt would be asked
him on the stand and which he was to answer according to answers
typewritten beneath them, or to suggest something better. They all related to
the trip to Big Bittern, his reason for the extra hat, his change of heart— why,

---

when, where.) "That's your litany, you know." And then he might light a
cigarette without ever offering one to Clyde, since for the sake of a reputation
for sobriety he was not to smoke here.
And for a time, after each visit, Clyde finding himself believing that he
could and would do exactly as Jephson had said—walk briskly and smartly
into court—bear up against every one, every eye, even that of Mason himself
—forget that he was afraid of him, even when on the witness stand—forget
all the terror of those many facts in Mason's possession, which he was to
explain with this list of answers—forget Roberta and her last cry, and all the
heartache and misery that went with the loss of Sondra and her bright world.
Yet, with the night having once more fallen, or the day dragging on with
only the lean and bearded Kraut or the sly and evasive Sissel, or both,
hanging about, or coming to the door to say, "Howdy!" or to discuss
something that had occurred in town, or to play chess, or checkers, Clyde
growing more and more moody and deciding, maybe, that there was no real
hope for him after all. For how alone he was, except for his attorneys and
mother and brother and sisters! Never a word from Sondra, of course. For
along with her recovery to some extent from her original shock and horror,
she was now thinking somewhat differently of him—that after all it was for
love of her, perhaps, that he had slain Roberta and made himself the pariah
and victim that he now was. Yet, because of the immense prejudice and
horror expressed by the world, she was by no means able to think of
venturing to send him a word. Was he not a murderer? And in addition, that
miserable western family of his, pictured as street preachers, and he, too,—
or as a singing and praying boy from a mission! Yet occasionally returning in
thought, and this quite in spite of herself, to his eager, unreasoning and
seemingly consuming enthusiasm for her. (How deeply he must have cared to
venture upon so deadly a deed!) And hence wondering whether at some time,
once this case was less violently before the public eye, it might not be
possible to communicate with him in some guarded and unsigned way, just to
let him know, perhaps, that because of his great love for her she desired him
to know that he was not entirely forgotten. Yet as instantly deciding, no, no—
her parents—if they should learn—or guess—or the public, or her one-time
associates. Not now, oh, not now at least. Maybe later if he were set free—
or—or—convicted—she couldn't tell. Yet suffering heartaches for the most