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
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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!”
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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 shall 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
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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.
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Chapter 18
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
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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
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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