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

Griffiths⁠—all he had known. But finding these unsubstantiated mind visions a little too much, he finally got up and throwing off his clothes climbed into his iron cot.

“Convicted! Convicted!” And that meant that he must die! God! But how blessed to be able to conceal his face upon a pillow and not let anyone see⁠—however accurately they might guess!

XXVII

The dreary aftermath of a great contest and a great failure, with the general public from coast to coast⁠—in view of this stern local interpretation of the tragedy⁠—firmly convinced that Clyde was guilty and, as heralded by the newspapers everywhere, that he had been properly convicted. The pathos of that poor little murdered country girl! Her sad letters! How she must have suffered! That weak defense! Even the Griffiths of Denver were so shaken by the evidence as the trial had progressed that they scarcely dared read the papers openly⁠—one to the other⁠—but, for the most part, read of it separately and alone, whispering together afterwards of the damning, awful deluge of circumstantial evidence. Yet, after reading Belknap’s speech and Clyde’s own testimony, this little family group that had struggled along together for so long coming to believe in their own son and brother in spite of all they had previously read against him. And because of this⁠—during the trial as well as afterwards⁠—writing him cheerful and hopeful letters, based frequently on letters from him in which he insisted over and over again that he was not guilty. Yet once convicted, and out of the depths of his despair wiring his mother as he did⁠—and the papers confirming it⁠—absolute consternation in the Griffiths family. For was not this proof? Or, was it? All the papers seemed to think so. And they rushed reporters to Mrs. Griffiths, who, together with her little brood, had sought refuge from the unbearable publicity in a remote part of Denver entirely removed from the mission world. A venal moving-van company had revealed her address.

And now this American witness to the rule of God upon earth, sitting in a chair in her shabby, nondescript apartment, hard-pressed for the very means to sustain herself⁠—degraded by the milling forces of life and the fell and brutal blows of chance⁠—yet serene in her trust⁠—and declaring: “I cannot think this morning. I seem numb and things look strange to me. My boy found guilty of murder! But I am his mother and I am not convinced of his guilt by any means! He has written me that he is not guilty and I believe him. And to whom should he turn with the truth and for trust if not to me? But there is He who sees all things and who knows.”

At the same time there was so much in the long stream of evidence, as well as Clyde’s first folly in Kansas City, that had caused her to wonder⁠—and fear. Why was he unable to explain that folder? Why couldn’t he have gone to the girl’s aid when he could swim so well? And why did he proceed so swiftly to the mysterious Miss X⁠—whoever she was? Oh, surely, surely, surely, she was not going to be compelled, in spite of all her faith, to believe that her eldest⁠—the most ambitious and hopeful, if restless, of all of her children, was guilty of such a crime! No! She could not doubt him⁠—even now. Under the merciful direction of a living God, was it not evil in a mother to believe evil of a child, however dread his erring ways might seem? In the silence of the different rooms of the mission, before she had been compelled to remove from there because of curious and troublesome visitors, had she not stood many times in the center of one of those miserable rooms while sweeping and dusting, free from the eye of any observer⁠—her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her strong, brown face molded in homely and yet convinced and earnest lines⁠—a figure out of the early Biblical days of her six-thousand-year-old world⁠—and earnestly directing her thoughts to that imaginary throne which she saw as occupied by the living, giant mind and body of the living God⁠—her Creator. And praying by the quarter and the half hour that she be given strength and understanding and guidance to know of her son’s innocence or guilt⁠—and if innocent that this searing burden of suffering be lifted from him and her and all those dear to him and her⁠—or if guilty, she be shown how to do⁠—how to endure the while he be shown how to wash from his immortal soul forever the horror of the thing he had done⁠—make himself once more, if possible, white before the Lord.

“Thou art mighty, O God, and there is none beside Thee. Behold, to Thee all things are possible. In Thy favor is Life. Have mercy, O God. Though his sins be as scarlet, make him white as snow. Though they be red like crimson, make them as wool.”

Yet in her then⁠—and as she prayed⁠—was the wisdom of Eve in regard to the daughters of Eve. That girl whom Clyde was alleged to have slain⁠—what about her? Had she not sinned too? And was she not older than Clyde? The papers said so. Examining the letters, line by line, she was moved by their pathos and was intensely and pathetically grieved for the misery that had befallen the Aldens. Nevertheless, as a mother and woman full of the wisdom of ancient Eve, she saw how Roberta herself must have consented⁠—how the lure of her must have aided in the weakening and the betrayal of her son. A strong, good girl would not have consented⁠—could not have. How many confessions about this same thing had she not heard in the mission and at street meetings? And might it not be said in Clyde’s favor⁠—as in the very beginning of life in the Garden of Eden⁠—“the woman tempted me”?

Truly⁠—and because of that⁠—

“His mercy endureth forever,” she