An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser (librera reader txt) 📗

feet away and I knew that I couldn’t get her into that. And then I decided that if I wanted to save myself I had better swim ashore.”

And once there, as he now narrated, it suddenly occurred to him how peculiar and suspicious were all the circumstances surrounding his present position. He suddenly realized, as he now said, how had the whole thing looked from the beginning. The false registering. The fact his bag was there⁠—hers not. Besides, to return now meant that he would have to explain and it would become generally known⁠—and everything connected with his life would go⁠—Miss X, his work, his social position⁠—all⁠—whereas, if he said nothing (and here it was, and for the first time, as he now swore, that this thought occurred to him), it might be assumed that he too had drowned. In view of this fact and that any physical help he might now give her would not restore her to life, and that acknowledgment would mean only trouble for him and shame for her, he decided to say nothing. And so, to remove all traces, he had taken off his clothes and wrung them out and wrapped them for packing as best he could. Next, having left the tripod on shore with his bag, he decided to hide that, and did. His first straw hat, the one without the lining (but about which absent lining he now declared he knew nothing), had been lost with the overturning of the boat, and so now he had put on the extra one he had with him, although he also had a cap which he might have worn. (He usually carried an extra hat on a trip because so often, it seemed, something happened to one.) Then he had ventured to walk south through the woods toward a railroad which he thought cut through the woods in that direction. He had not known of any automobile road through there then, and as for making for the Cranstons so directly, he confessed quite simply that he would naturally have gone there. They were his friends and he wanted to get off somewhere where he could think about this terrible thing that had descended upon him so suddenly out of a clear sky.

And then having testified to so much⁠—and no more appearing to occur either to Jephson or himself⁠—the former after a pause now turned and said, most distinctly and yet somehow quietly:

“Now, Clyde, you have taken a solemn oath before this jury, this judge, all these people here, and above all your God, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You realize what that means, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“You swear before God that you did not strike Roberta Alden in that boat?”

“I swear. I did not.”

“Or throw her into the lake?”

“I swear it. I did not.”

“Or willfully or willingly in any way attempt to upset that boat or in any other fashion bring about the death that she suffered?”

“I swear it!” cried Clyde, emphatically and emotionally.

“You swear that it was an accident⁠—unpremeditated and undesigned by you?”

“I do,” lied Clyde, who felt that in fighting for his life he was telling a part of the truth, for that accident was unpremeditated and undesigned. It had not been as he had planned and he could swear to that.

And then Jephson, running one of his large strong hands over his face and looking blandly and nonchalantly around upon the court and jury, the while he compressed his thin lips into a long and meaningful line, announced: “The prosecution may take the witness.”

XXV

The mood of Mason throughout the entire direct examination was that of a restless harrier anxious to be off at the heels of its prey⁠—of a foxhound within the last leap of its kill. A keen and surging desire to shatter this testimony, to show it to be from start to finish the tissue of lies that in part at least it was, now animated him. And no sooner had Jephson concluded than he leaped up and confronted Clyde, who, seeing him blazing with this desire to undo him, felt as though he was about to be physically attacked.

“Griffiths, you had that camera in your hand at the time she came toward you in the boat?”

“Yes, sir.”

“She stumbled and fell and you accidentally struck her with it?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose in your truthful and honest way you remember telling me there in the woods on the shore of Big Bittern that you never had a camera?”

“Yes, sir⁠—I remember that.”

“And that was a lie, of course?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And told with all the fervor and force that you are now telling this other lie?”

“I’m not lying. I’ve explained why I said that.”

“You’ve explained why you said that! You’ve explained why you said that! And because you lied there you expect to be believed here, do you?”

Belknap rose to object, but Jephson pulled him down.

“Well, this is the truth, just the same.”

“And no power under heaven could make you tell another lie here, of course⁠—not a strong desire to save yourself from the electric chair?”

Clyde blanched and quivered slightly; he blinked his red, tired eyelids. “Well, I might, maybe, but not under oath, I don’t think.”

“You don’t think! Oh, I see. Lie all you want wherever you are⁠—and at any time⁠—and under any circumstances⁠—except when you’re on trial for murder!”

“No, sir. It isn’t that. But what I just said is so.”

“And you swear on the Bible, do you, that you experienced a change of heart?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That Miss Alden was very sad and that was what moved you to experience this change of heart?”

“Yes, sir. That’s how it was.”

“Well, now, Griffiths, when she was up there in the country and waiting for you⁠—she wrote you all those letters there, did she not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You received one on an average of every two days, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you knew she was lonely and miserable there, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir⁠—but then I’ve explained⁠—”

“Oh, you’ve explained! You