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

“If ye have faith, so much as the grain of a mustard seed,” she quoted to herself⁠—and now, in the face of these importuning reporters added: “Did my son kill her? That is the question. Nothing else matters in the eyes of our Maker,” and she looked at the sophisticated, callous youths with the look of one who was sure that her God would make them understand. And even so they were impressed by her profound sincerity and faith. “Whether or not the jury has found him guilty or innocent is neither here nor there in the eyes of Him who holds the stars in the hollow of His hand. The jury’s finding is of men. It is of the earth’s earthy. I have read his lawyer’s plea. My son himself has told me in his letters that he is not guilty. I believe my son. I am convinced that he is innocent.”

And Asa in another corner of the room, saying little. Because of his lack of comprehension of the actualities as well as his lack of experience of the stern and motivating forces of passion, he was unable to grasp even a tithe of the meaning of this. He had never understood Clyde or his lacks or his feverish imaginings, so he said, and preferred not to discuss him.

“But,” continued Mrs. Griffiths, “at no time have I shielded Clyde in his sin against Roberta Alden. He did wrong, but she did wrong too in not resisting him. There can be no compromising with sin in anyone. And though my heart goes out in sympathy and love to the bleeding heart of her dear mother and father who have suffered so, still we must not fail to see that this sin was mutual and that the world should know and judge accordingly. Not that I want to shield him,” she repeated. “He should have remembered the teachings of his youth.” And here her lips compressed in a sad and somewhat critical misery. “But I have read her letters too. And I feel that but for them, the prosecuting attorney would have no real case against my son. He used them to work on the emotions of the jury.” She got up, tried as by fire, and exclaimed, tensely and beautifully: “But he is my son! He has just been convicted. I must think as a mother how to help him, however I feel as to his sin.” She gripped her hands together, and even the reporters were touched by her misery. “I must go to him! I should have gone before. I see it now.” She paused, discovering herself to be addressing her inmost agony, need, fear, to these public ears and voices, which might in no wise understand or care.

“Some people wonder,” now interrupted one of these same⁠—a most practical and emotionally calloused youth of Clyde’s own age⁠—“why you weren’t there during the trial. Didn’t you have the money to go?”

“I had no money,” she replied simply. “Not enough, anyhow. And besides, they advised me not to come⁠—that they did not need me. But now⁠—now I must go⁠—in some way⁠—I must find out how.” She went to a small shabby desk, which was a part of the sparse and colorless equipment of the room. “You boys are going downtown,” she said. “Would one of you send a telegram for me if I give you the money?”

“Sure!” exclaimed the one who had asked her the rudest question. “Give it to me. You don’t need any money. I’ll have the paper send it.” Also, as he thought, he would write it up, or in, as part of his story.

She seated herself at the yellow and scratched desk and after finding a small pad and pen, she wrote: “Clyde⁠—Trust in God. All things are possible to Him. Appeal at once. Read Psalm 51. Another trial will prove your innocence. We will come to you soon. Father and Mother.”

“Perhaps I had just better give you the money,” she added, nervously, wondering whether it would be well to permit a newspaper to pay for this and wondering at the same time if Clyde’s uncle would be willing to pay for an appeal. It might cost a great deal. Then she added: “It’s rather long.”

“Oh, don’t bother about that!” exclaimed another of the trio, who was anxious to read the telegram. “Write all you want. We’ll see that it goes.”

“I want a copy of that,” added the third, in a sharp and uncompromising tone, seeing that the first reporter was proceeding to take and pocket the message. “This isn’t private. I get it from you or her⁠—now!”

And at this, number one, in order to avoid a scene, which Mrs. Griffiths, in her slow way, was beginning to sense, extracted the slip from his pocket and turned it over to the others, who there and then proceeded to copy it.

At the same time that this was going on, the Griffiths of Lycurgus, having been consulted as to the wisdom and cost of a new trial, disclosed themselves as by no means interested, let alone convinced, that an appeal⁠—at least at their expense⁠—was justified. The torture and socially⁠—if not commercially⁠—destroying force of all this⁠—every hour of it a Golgotha! Bella and her social future, to say nothing of Gilbert and his⁠—completely overcast and charred by this awful public picture of the plot and crime that one of their immediate blood had conceived and executed! Samuel Griffiths himself, as well as his wife, fairly macerated by this blasting flash from his well-intentioned, though seemingly impractical and nonsensical good deed. Had not a long, practical struggle with life taught him that sentiment in business was folly? Up to the hour he had met Clyde he had never allowed it to influence him in any way. But his mistaken notion that his youngest brother had been unfairly dealt with by their father! And now this! This! His wife and daughter compelled