An American Tragedy (115 page)

And so, too, with the missing suit, which because it was wet and muddy he had done up in a bundle in the woods and after reaching the Cranstons’ had deposited it behind some stones there, intending to return and secure it and have it dry-cleaned. But on being introduced to Mr. Belknap and Mr. Jephson he had at once told both and they had secured it and had it cleaned for him.

“But now, Clyde, in regard to your plans and your being out on that lake in the first place—let’s hear about that now.”

And then—quite as Jephson had outlined it to Belknap, came the story of how he and Roberta had reached Utica and afterwards Grass Lake. And yet no plan. He intended, if worst came to worst, to tell her of his great love for Miss X and appeal to her sympathy and understanding to set him free at the same time that he offered to do anything that he could for her. If she refused he intended to defy her and leave Lycurgus, if necessary, and give up everything.

“But when I saw her at Fonda, and later in Utica, looking as tired and worried as she was,” and here Clyde was endeavoring to give the ring of sincerity to words carefully supplied him, “and sort of helpless, I began to feel sorry for her again.”

“Yes, and then what?”

“Well, I wasn’t quite so sure whether in case she refused to let me off I could go through with leaving her.”

“Well, what did you decide then?”

“Not anything just then. I listened to what she had to say and I tried to tell her how hard it was going to be for me to do anything much, even if I did go away with her. I only had fifty dollars.”

“Yes?”

“And then she began to cry, and I decided I couldn’t talk to her any more about it there. She was too run-down and nervous. So I asked her if there wasn’t any place she would like to go to for a day or two to brace herself up a little,” went on Clyde, only here on account of the blackness of the lie he was telling he twisted and swallowed in the weak, stigmatic way that was his whenever he was attempting something which was beyond him—any untruth or a feat of skill—and then added: “And she said yes, maybe to one of those lakes up in the Adirondacks—it didn’t make much difference which one—if we could afford it. And when I told her, mostly because of the way she was feeling, that I thought we could——”

“Then you really only went up there on her account?”

“Yes, sir, only on account of her.”

“I see. Go on.”

“Well, then she said if I would go downstairs or somewhere and get some folders we might be able to find a place up there somewhere where it wasn’t so expensive.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, and then what?”

“Well, we looked them over and we finally hit on Grass Lake.”

“Who did? The two of you—or she?”

“Well, she took one folder and I took another, and in hers she found an ad about an inn up there where two people could stay for twenty-one dollars a week, or five dollars a day for the two. And I thought we couldn’t do much better than that for one day.”

“Was one day all you intended to stay?”

“No, sir. Not if she wanted to stay longer. My idea at first was that we might stay one or two days or three. I couldn’t tell—whatever time it took me to talk things out with her and make her understand and see where I stood.”

“I see. And then . . . ?”

“Well, then we went up to Grass Lake the next morning.”

“In separate cars still?”

“Yes, sir—in separate cars.”

“And when you got there?”

“Why, we registered.”

“How?”

“Clifford Graham and wife.”

“Still afraid some one would know who you were?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you try to disguise your handwriting in any way?”

“Yes, sir—a little.”

“But just why did you always use your own initials—C. G.?”

“Well, I thought that the initials on my bag should be the same as the initials on the register, and still not be my name either.”

“I see. Clever in one sense, not so clever in another—just half clever, which is the worst of all.” At this Mason half rose in his seat as though to object, but evidently changing his mind, sank slowly back again. And once more Jephson’s right eye swiftly and inquiringly swept the jury to his right. “Well, did you finally explain to her that you wanted to be done with it all as you had planned—or did you not?”

“I wanted to talk to her about it just after we got there if I could—the next morning, anyhow—but just as soon as we got off up there and got settled she kept saying to me that if I would only marry her then—that she would not want to stay married long—that she was so sick and worried and felt so bad—that all she wanted to do was to get through and give the baby a name, and after that she would go away and let me go my way, too.”

“And then?”

“Well, and then—then we went out on the lake——”

“Which lake, Clyde?”

“Why, Grass Lake. We went out for a row after we got there.”

“Right away? In the afternoon?”

“Yes, sir. She wanted to go. And then while we were out there rowing around——” (He paused.)

“She got to crying again, and she seemed so much up against it and looked so sick and so worried that I decided that after all she was right and I was wrong—that it wouldn’t be right, on account of the baby and all, not to marry her, and so I thought I had better do it.”

“I see. A change of heart. And did you tell her that then and there?”

“No, sir.”

“And why not? Weren’t you satisfied with the trouble you had caused her so far?”

“Yes, sir. But you see just as I was going to talk to her at that time I got to thinking of all the things I had been thinking before I came up.”

“What, for instance?”

“Why, Miss X and my life in Lycurgus, and what we’d be up against in case we did go away this way.”

“Yes.”

“And . . . well . . . and then I couldn’t just tell her then—not that day, anyhow.”

“Well, when did you tell her then?”

“Well, I told her not to cry any more—that I thought maybe it would be all right if she gave me twenty-four hours more to think things all out—that maybe we’d be able to settle on something.”

“And then?”

“Well, then she said after a while that she didn’t care for Grass Lake. She wished we would go away from there.”

“
She
did?”

“Yes. And then we got out the maps again and I asked a fellow at the hotel there if he knew about the lakes up there. And he said of all the lakes around there Big Bittern was the most beautiful. I had seen it once, and I told Roberta about it and what the man said, and then she asked why didn’t we go there.”

“And is that why you went there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No other reason?”

“No, sir—none—except that it was back, or south, and we were going that way anyhow.”

“I see. And that was Thursday, July eighth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, now, Clyde, as you have seen, it has been charged here that you took Miss Alden to and out on that lake with the sole and premeditated intent of killing her—murdering her—finding some unobserved and quiet spot and then first striking her with your camera, or an oar, or club, or stone maybe, and then drowning her. Now, what have you to say to that? Is that true, or isn’t it?”

“No, sir! It’s not true!” returned Clyde, clearly and emphatically. “I never went there of my own accord in the first place, and I only went there because she didn’t like Grass Lake.” And here, because he had been sinking down in his chair, he pulled himself up and looked at the jury and the audience with what measure of strength and conviction he could summon—as previously he had been told to do. At the same time he added: “And I wanted to please her in any way that I could so that she might be a little more cheerful.”

“Were you still as sorry for her on this Thursday as you had been the day before?”

“Yes, sir—more, I think.”

“And had you definitely made up your mind by then as to what you wanted to do?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, and just what was that?”

“Well, I had decided to play as fair as I could. I had been thinking about it all night, and I realized how badly she would feel and I too if I didn’t do the right thing by her—because she had said three or four times that if I didn’t she would kill herself. And I had made up my mind that morning that whatever else happened that day, I was going to straighten the whole thing out.”

“This was at Grass Lake. You were still in the hotel on Thursday morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you were going to tell her just what?”

“Well, that I knew that I hadn’t treated her quite right and that I was sorry—besides, that her offer was fair enough, and that if after what I was going to tell her she still wanted me, I would go away with her and marry her. But that I had to tell her first the real reason for my changing as I had—that I had been and still was in love with another girl and that I couldn’t help it—that probably whether I married her or not——”

“Miss Alden you mean?”

“Yes, sir—that I would always go on loving this other girl, because I just couldn’t get her out of my mind. But just the same, if that didn’t make any difference to her, that I would marry her even if I couldn’t love her any more as I once did. That was all.”

“But what about Miss X?”

“Well, I had thought about her too, but I thought she was better off and could stand it easier. Besides, I thought perhaps Roberta would let me go and we could just go on being friends and I would help her all I could.”

“Had you decided just where you would marry her?”

“No, sir. But I knew there were plenty of towns below Big Bittern and Grass Lake.”

“But were you going to do that without one single word to Miss X beforehand?”

“Well, no, sir—not exactly. I figured that if Roberta wouldn’t let me off but didn’t mind my leaving her for a few days, I would go down to where Miss X lived and tell her, and then come back. But if she objected to that, why then I was going to write Miss X a letter and explain how it was and then go on and get married to Roberta.”

“I see. But, Clyde, among other bits of testimony here, there was that letter found in Miss Alden’s coat pocket—the one written on Grass Lake Inn stationery and addressed to her mother, in which she told her that she was about to be married. Had you already told her up there at Grass Lake that morning that you were going to marry her for sure?”

“No, sir. Not exactly, but I did say on getting up that day that it was the deciding day for us and that she was going to be able to decide for herself whether she wanted me to marry her or not.”

“Oh, I see. So that’s it,” smiled Jephson, as though greatly relieved. (And Mason and Newcomb and Burleigh and State Senator Redmond all listening with the profoundest attention, now exclaimed,
sotto voce
and almost in unison: “Of all the bunk!”)

“Well, now we come to the trip itself. You have heard the testimony here and the dark motive and plotting that has been attributed to every move in connection with it. Now I want you to tell it in your own way. It has been testified here that you took both bags—yours and hers—up there with you but that you left hers at Gun Lodge when you got there and took your own out on the lake in that boat with you. Now just why did you do that? Please speak so that all of the jurymen can hear you.”

“Well, the reason for that was,” and here once more his throat became so dry that he could scarcely speak, “we didn’t know whether we could get any lunch at Big Bittern, so we decided to take some things along with us from Grass Lake. Her bag was packed full of things, but there was room in mine. Besides, it had my camera with the tripod outside. So I decided to leave hers and take mine.”

“
You
decided?”

“Well, I asked her what she thought and she said she thought that was best.”

“Where was it you asked her that?”

“On the train coming down.”

“And did you know then that you were coming back to Gun Lodge after going out on the lake?”

“Yes, sir, I did. We had to. There was no other road. They told us that at Grass Lake.”

“And in riding over to Big Bittern—do you recall the testimony of the driver who drove you over—that you were ‘very nervous’ and that you asked him whether there were many people over that day?”

“I recall it, yes, sir, but I wasn’t nervous at all. I may have asked about the people, but I can’t see anything wrong with that. It seems to me that any one might ask that.”

“And so it seems to me,” echoed Jephson. “Then what happened after you registered at Big Bittern Inn and got into that boat and went out on the lake with Miss Alden? Were you or she especially preoccupied or nervous or in any state different from that of any ordinary person who goes out on a lake to row? Were you particularly happy or particularly gloomy, or what?”

“Well, I don’t think I was especially gloomy—no, sir. I was thinking of all I was going to tell her, of course, and of what was before me either way she decided. I wasn’t exactly gay, I guess, but I thought it would be all right whichever way things went. I had decided that I was willing to marry her.”

“And how about her? Was she quite cheerful?”

“Well—yes, sir. She seemed to feel much happier for some reason.”

“And what did you talk about?”

“Oh, about the lake first—how beautiful it was and where we would have our lunch when we were ready for it. And then we rowed along the west shore looking for water lilies. She was so happy that I hated to bring up anything just then, and so we just kept on rowing until about two, when we stopped for lunch.”

“Just where was that? Just get up and trace on the map with that pointer there just where you did go and how long you stopped and for what.”

And so Clyde, pointer in hand and standing before the large map of the lake and region which particularly concerned this tragedy, now tracing in detail the long row along the shore, a group of trees, which, after having lunch, they had rowed to see—a beautiful bed of water lilies which they had lingered over—each point at which they had stopped, until reaching Moon Cove at about five in the afternoon, they had been so entranced by its beauty that they had merely sat and gazed, as he said. Afterwards, in order that he might take some pictures, they had gone ashore in the woods nearby—he all the while preparing himself to tell Roberta of Miss X and ask her for her final decision. And then having left the bag on shore for a few moments while they rowed out and took some snapshots in the boat, they had drifted in the calm of the water and the stillness and beauty until finally he had gathered sufficient courage to tell her what was in his heart. And at first, as he now said, Roberta seemed greatly startled and depressed and began crying a little, saying that perhaps it was best for her not to live any longer—she felt so miserable. But, afterwards, when he had impressed on her the fact that he was really sorry and perfectly willing to make amends, she had suddenly changed and begun to grow more cheerful, and then of a sudden, in a burst of tenderness and gratefulness—he could not say exactly—she had jumped up and tried to come to him. Her arms were outstretched and she moved as if to throw herself at his feet or into his lap. But just then, her foot, or her dress, had caught and she had stumbled. And he—camera in hand—(a last minute decision or legal precaution on the part of Jephson)—had risen instinctively to try to catch her and stop her fall. Perhaps—he would not be able to say here—her face or hand had struck the camera. At any rate, the next moment, before he quite understood how it all happened, and without time for thought or action on his part or hers, both were in the water and the boat, which had overturned, seemed to have struck Roberta, for she seemed to be stunned.